The Bickstone Lodge Affair

A Novella

Chapter I – The Mystery in the Woods

“You realise, Watson, that it would be injudicious to reveal the full story of our little adventure at Stoke Moran for some years yet?” Sherlock Holmes looked up from his task of pasting cuttings into what he liked to call his common-place book.

“Little adventure!” I echoed, wiping my pen before laying it down. “Scarcely a little adventure by any standards. Apart from the appalling danger to Miss Stoner and ourselves, there was also the death of the lady’s stepfather into the bargain.”

“Dr. Grimesby Roylott is no loss to the world,” he said severely, “and I assure you my conscience troubles me not at all on that score.”

“Nevertheless, I fear your actions would find little favour in official quarters, however justifiable you may consider them.”

“Precisely, my dear fellow, and that is why the business must remain between ourselves for the present.” My companion gave me a mischievous smile. “Bear in mind, Watson, you too played a not inconsiderable part in the matter and would most surely be regarded as an active accessory both before and after the event. However, those footsteps on the stairs can belong only to Lestrade, so I suggest we change the subject. Come in, Lestrade,” he called, not waiting for the knock.

The inspector entered, his ferrety features set in a look of wary amusement as he laid his hat on a small table.

“I’ll not play your game, Mr. Holmes. Even you cannot see through solid oak doors, so you must have seen me coming up the street. Good morning, Doctor.” He turned to me, thus missing the sardonic gleam in my friend’s eye.

“Sit down, Lestrade,” said the latter with a quiet chuckle. “No doubt you have at last arrested Dixon, the night watchman, for the Lambeth murder?”

“How the deuce do you know that?” said the detective, a note of resentment in his voice. “It is but a half-hour since I clapped the darbies on the villain.”

“You look well pleased with yourself,” replied Holmes. “Besides, it was obvious from the outset that he killed the woman. He maintained he had made his rounds every hour. The body was in full view of the gateway where she had been strangled three hours earlier, yet it was left to a passing labourer on his way to work to report it.”

“That’s all very well, Mr. Holmes,” growled Lestrade. “You have only to theorise, but we have to produce hard facts in court.”

“The facts spoke for themselves,” Holmes said dismissively. “However, you got there in the end. What of the Highgate affair? Is that settled?”

“Gregson is blundering about on that,” said Lestrade with a snort.

“Tell him to direct his attention to a short left-handed man who has a smattering of Latin,” said Holmes. “There is no need to mention my name.”

The inspector’s dark eyes looked out suspiciously from under his beetling brows. “You would not be having me on, Mr. Holmes?”

“Come, Lestrade, you know me better than that,” said Holmes blandly.

“There you are, Inspector,” I cried. “A chance for you to score off Gregson.” I broke off as Holmes directed a frown in my direction.

“A glass of beer, Lestrade?” offered my companion.

“Not now, thank you all the same. I must get back to the Yard to make out the charges against Dixon.” Lestrade got to his feet and recovered his hat. “I only dropped in as I was close by, seeing as we had not rubbed shoulders lately.” He hesitated on the threshold as though he would speak further, then with a shake of his narrow head he took his departure.

The street door slammed and Holmes returned to his paste-brush and cuttings, ignoring the look of annoyance that I directed at him and it was left to me to break the silence.

“Really, Holmes,” I expostulated. “I think it too bad of you to mislead poor Lestrade in so blatant a manner.”

“Mislead? I do not follow,” He looked up blankly. “In what way did I mislead the fellow?”

“Why, that piffle about a short left-handed man with some knowledge of Latin. You know nothing of the Highgate case apart from what you have gleaned from the newspapers.”

“You think not?”

“You have not been within a mile of Highgate these past three days. In fact, your only excursion outside these rooms was yesterday when we went to Bradley’s for our tobacco.”

“And what else occurred during our perambulations?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” I replied promptly. “Oh, you bought a box of matches from that shifty looking pedlar on the corner of George Street, although why you could not have done that at Bradley’s, I do not know.”

“That shifty looking pedlar happens to be one of my most reliable sources of information,” he said. “It was he who told me that Bossy Simons was trying to dispose of a number of enamelled miniatures.”

“Bossy Simons? Who the devil is he?”

“Just a petty thief who seems to have ideas above his station. He began life as a schoolmaster, but when a few sovereigns vanished from the headmaster’s study, that career came to an end. Since then he has become a veritable magpie, but this time he has over-reached himself.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Those miniatures are worth several thousands of pounds, and I know for a fact that a certain big organisation had them marked down. If Bossy is not taken up quickly, he is liable to find himself with two broken legs or worse. He will be much safer in one of Her Majesty’s excellent prisons than if he is on the loose.”

“And he is short-statured, left-handed, and has some Latin,” I said. “But why not give Lestrade a name rather than an oblique hint?”

“It maintains my reputation,” my friend replied smugly. “Confound it, man, they cannot expect me to do all their work for them. Perhaps Mr. Abel Vineberg may now have the sense to take more stringent precautions against a break-in than he has hitherto. Some folk positively invite a visit from the criminal fraternity.”

My companion rose to his feet to prowl aimlessly around our sitting room. I recognised the signs. His restless nature craved the stimulation and excitement of a challenge to his amazing powers and, without that, he became fretful and edgy, liable to outbursts of impatience. As I watched him, I again had the fleeting notion that he used some form of narcotic to curb his boundless energy, and again I dismissed the thought as unworthy.

Surely one of his intellect would not risk blunting his razor-sharp brain in so dangerous manner, and I berated myself for my suspicions. I returned to my notes, re-reading them to pick up the thread. From the corner of my eye I saw Holmes go to the window embrasure, where he remained to stare abstractedly down into the street.

“Watson!” His sharp tone brought my head up with a jerk. “We have a visitor.”

The faint jangle of the doorbell came to confirm his words, followed after a brief interval by Mrs. Hudson’s firm tread on the stairs and a knock on the door which I answered.

“A Miss Celia Winsett asking for Mr. Holmes,” announced the good lady.

“Show her up, please, Mrs. Hudson,” I said on a confirmatory nod from Holmes, who rubbed his hands in anticipation.

The lady was young, no more than twenty-five years of age, with keen intelligent eyes set in an oval face that was pale with worry. She looked from one to the other of us as if unsure whom to address.

“Come in, Madam. I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my trusted friend and colleague, Dr. Watson.” He swept a pile of mutilated newspapers from the basket chair and waved a hand. “Pray be seated and tell us what drove you to walk to a railway station so early in the morning following after a sleepless night.”

“Is it so apparent, Mr. Holmes?” she said with a wan smile as she sat.

“To me it is,” said my companion, returning her smile. “The faint traces of leaf-mould in the welt of your boot, the smudge of soot on your glove that came from opening a carriage door, together with a weariness of feature all speak for themselves. Watson, be so good as to ask Mrs. Hudson to bring some refreshment. Miss Winsett has not broken her fast.”

He sat back, refusing to allow her to speak until we were all provided with steaming cups of coffee and a rack of buttered toast was placed on the low table beside our visitor’s chair. Some of the colour returned to her face as she smiled her gratitude.

“Now, Miss Winsett,” said Holmes, “how may we be of service to you?”

She smoothed her dress over her knees and spoke somewhat diffidently.

“It is hard to know where to begin, Mr. Holmes. I do not wish to take up too much of your valuable time, and yet – ” She hesitated and turned her soft brown eyes from Holmes to where I sat with a notebook poised on my knee.

“My time is at your disposal,” my companion said encouragingly. “Tell me about yourself and permit me to decide what is relevant. Better too much information than too little.”

“So be it,” she nodded. “I was born in France of a French mother and an English father, and lived in Paris until the age of twelve. Both my parents died of cholera during the siege of 1870, and I was brought to England by my uncle, James Winsett, who stood as my guardian until his death in 1878.”

I made a murmur of sympathy, but Holmes remained impassive as the lady continued.

“I had become engaged to Lieutenant Philip Martin of the Royal Artillery. We intended to marry in the autumn of ‘78, but my uncle’s death caused us to delay our plans. Before new arrangements could be made, he was suddenly posted to India.” There was a catch in her voice and a look of ineffable sadness came over her features. “I never saw him again. He was killed within a few weeks of arriving in Bombay.”

Even my cold-natured companion was moved by this pitiful recital and he spoke with unusual gentleness. “You have borne much, Madam. It must be painful to relate such a catalogue of misfortune.”

“It was a bad time for me,” she admitted. “However, I resolved to put the past behind me, although not forget it, and I came to terms with myself. My uncle had left me an annuity of two-hundred pounds a year, but I was not content to live in idleness until I became soured and self-pitying. Due to my parentage, I speak French and English with equal facility, so I was able to obtain a post as reader and translator for a well-known publishing house. I was living in lodgings in London, but it was ever my desire to move to the country. Shortly after last Christmas, I obtained the lease of a cottage near the village of Bickstone, which is close to Bromley.”

Miss Winsett paused, her features becoming animated. “Oh, it was so lovely, gentlemen,” she cried. “All I had ever dreamed of, set quietly amid woods and glades, yet still within easy reach of London for the few occasions that demanded my presence here. It is on the estate of Sir Charles Listel, who resides at Bickstone Lodge, and the rent is extremely moderate. I counted myself fortunate in finding it, and the past three months have been some of the happiest I have known in recent years.”

Her tone became suddenly angry. “That is, until last Tuesday.”

Holmes leaned forward, his eyes alert as they scanned our visitor’s face. “Something occurred to upset this idyllic scene?” he prompted.

“Indeed it did. You may dismiss it as the fears of a lonely woman, but I am certain in my own mind that something mysterious is going on.”

“I do not think you are of a nervous disposition, Madam,” Holmes replied. “Tell me what disturbs you.”

“Thank you for that, Mr. Holmes.” She looked up at the mantelpiece and smiled. “Please smoke if you so wish, gentlemen. My uncle was an inveterate consumer of Navy plug, and the aroma will bring back happy memories for me.”

“Thank you, it will be of help.” Holmes uncoiled his thin frame from his chair to select one of his least foul pipes, which he began to stuff with the rank black shag that he favoured. I took my own pipe and pouch from the table, and out of consideration for our fair client went to open a window.

“Now, pray continue your story,” said Holmes.

She nodded. “Last Tuesday evening, I had completed the reading of an especially tedious manuscript in the most atrocious handwriting. I decided to take a stroll through the woods to clear my head, as I often do. I must have been out for about half-an-hour or so, and dusk was falling as I made my way home. Within a hundred yards of my gate, I was startled by some disturbance deep in the woods. It sounded for all the world as if a large animal was thrashing around. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the noise ceased. I listened for a while, but there was nothing more.”

“A fox?” I suggested.

Miss Winsett shook her head vigorously. “No fox could have made that amount of noise, Doctor,” she said firmly. “At last I went on my way and, as I reached my gate, I met Sir Charles’s gamekeeper, Harper. A surly, ill-mannered man with hardly a civil word for anyone,” she added, her distaste apparent. “I told him what I had heard, thinking he would also have heard it, but he denied all knowledge and dismissed the matter most rudely, muttering about nervy women who saw danger in every shadow. I became angry and said if he had so little concern for his master’s property, I would speak to Sir Charles myself. On that he grudgingly agreed to look around and walked way.”

“You had no doubts?” asked Holmes.

“None. I am not given to imagining things.”

“Of course not. Proceed.”

“I was still angry when I awoke the next morning, so after breakfast I retraced my steps to where I had heard the noise. A short distance off the path I found the ground scuffed and the undergrowth flattened as if a heavy object had been dragged through the bushes into a denser part of the wood. I penetrated as far as I could, but found nothing. I gave up then, having ample work to do, and dismissed the matter from my mind.”

“That was Wednesday,” Holmes said musingly. “Something has since arisen to give you further concern?”

“Indeed it has, or I would not be troubling you,” she said. “On that same night as I was preparing for bed, I looked out of the window and saw lights moving about in the wood. My immediate thought was of poachers, but they could hope for nothing more than a few rabbits, and that was Harper’s business, not mine, so I went to bed.”

“You heard nothing during the night?”

She shook her head. “In the morning – that was yesterday – I had to go into Bickstone village to the post office, and my curiosity getting the better of me, I again examined the site of Tuesday’s disturbance, and this time I met up with Harper. He appeared agitated on seeing me, and in his usual uncouth way warned me against leaving the footpath, as he had set snares and also was liable to use his shotgun at any sudden movement. I did not deign to argue with him and continued on my way, angry rather than concerned – that is, until last night.”

Miss Winsett paused, a frown creasing her forehead, while we waited in silence for her to resume.

“It was in the early hours of this morning,” she went on. “Well before dawn, I was awakened by noises that convinced me that someone was trying to enter the cottage by the front door.”

“Great Heavens!” I exclaimed. “You must have been terrified!”

“Frightened, Dr. Watson, yes, but not paralysed. I struck a match to light my bedside lamp and almost at once the noise stopped. My clock told me it was a few minutes to four, and of course, there was no prospect of further sleep, so I dressed and made a pot of tea. I examined the windows and both front and back doors but they were all secure. Then my eye caught something lying on the mat inside the front door. It was this.” She reached for her bag and from its depths she produced a small ivory box and held it out. “Those marks are blood, Mr. Holmes,” she said tremulously. “They were still sticky when I found it!”

“You have remarkable strength of character, Miss Winsett,” said my colleague as she laid the box on his outstretched palm. “Have you opened this?”

“I could not bring myself to do so,” she said with a shudder. “There and then I resolved to seek your advice, having heard accounts of your perspicacity from an old friend of mine, Alice Charpentier. As soon as was reasonable I put on my coat and set out for Bromley to get the first available train. Not without some trepidation,” she added with a nervous laugh, “I opened my door and looked round carefully before going out, and there on the tiles of the porch was the print of a man’s boot. It only strengthened my resolve, and here I am. What does it mean?”

Chapter II: An Ivory Box

Sherlock Holmes began to refill his pipe, his whole attitude suggesting that this was the most important task in the world. I watched him keenly, for even after more than two years of living in close proximity to him, I had learned never to anticipate the workings of his agile mind. He clamped the amber stem between his lips and struck a Vesta on the iron fender, and not until his head was wreathed in a haze of pungent smoke did he speak again.

“Tell me, Miss Winsett, why have you come to me rather than to your local police?”

“Local police?” She gave a short laugh. “In view of Harper’s unhelpful manner, I had little hope that Constable Old would prove at all encouraging, especially as he and Harper are close friends.”

“A not-unusual situation between gamekeeper and policeman,” observed Holmes. “All the same, I take your point.” He picked up the small box from where he had laid it on the table and began to examine it carefully with his magnifying glass, muttering beneath his breath as he did so.

“Ivory,” he proclaimed at last. “Beautifully made, but of a most peculiar design. A snuff-box, perhaps, but rather large for that.” He raised it to his nose and sniffed. “No, it has never held snuff or tobacco, so what can it be? Those stains are indubitably blood, but whose?” He held it out to me. “Tell me what you make of it. Then see if you can open it,”

At first sight, it appeared to be not a box but a solid piece of ivory, and it wasn’t until I inspected it under the glass that I perceived the faint lines that defined the lid. I turned it over and over, admiring the smooth symmetrical surfaces, but failing to see how it could be opened, I shook my head.

“As you remarked, a fine piece of workmanship,” I said as I gave it back to him. “I have seen similar things in India, but nothing so meticulously made as this. Can it be opened, do you think?”

“It was intended to be, Watson, therefore it can be. The thing is to find the trick.” He studied it for a few seconds then squeezed it length-wise in his hand, but to no effect. Turning it through ninety degrees he repeated the action, with the same lack of result. Next his long fingers gripped it at either end and he went through the motions of breaking a biscuit, and this time he was rewarded with the faintest of clicks.

“Eureka!” he cried triumphantly.

Our visitor and I craned forward expectantly while Holmes, his puckish sense of humour showing in the curve of his thin lips, kept us waiting for interminable seconds. Relenting at last, he probed gently with his thumb-nail until the lid was fully raised. I could not see the inside of the box, but the sharp intake of my friend’s breath was enough to tell that whatever it contained it held some significance for him.

“Come on, Holmes!” I said impatiently. “Do not keep us in suspense. What is in there?”

He continued to stare into the interior of the box as it lay in the palm of his hand, the warmth from which caused a delicate musty fragrance to pervade our nostrils. His dark brows were drawn together in intense concentration. Then he looked up with a grim smile.

“A message,” he said. “But for whom? Quickly, Watson – the paper-knife.”

Containing my impatience I went over to fetch the thin stiletto that Holmes kept as a souvenir of one of his earlier cases. The name “Ricoletti” was engraved on the bone handle, but apart from a casual reference, he had never confided any of the details to me.

Taking the knife, he fished delicately in the mysterious box, and then with a sigh withdrew a small piece of paper, holding it gingerly by one corner between his acid-stained finger and thumb. It was perhaps two inches in length and half of that across, and from where I stood by his shoulder, I could just distinguish some faint writing.

“What is it, Mr. Holmes?” Miss Winsett’s curiosity matched my own, and sensing it, Holmes relented and flashed her a quick smile. “Forgive me, Madam,” he said contritely. “I’m afraid my courtesy has been overtaken by the problem with which you have presented me. Pray excuse me and tell me if this scrap means anything to you. Do not touch it, I beg of you.”

He laid the oblong of paper on the small table at her elbow, and she twisted in her chair to look at it. I craned my neck for a better view and managed to discern the faint scrawl.

“‘Tell C. Har’” I read aloud, my mystification reflected in my tone. “What the deuce does it mean?”

“Miss Winsett?” Holmes regarded her keenly.

“I do not understand,” said she. “Is it some kind of a puzzle?”

“Indeed it is,” Holmes replied. “However, I do not think it is so intentionally. It was delivered to you, so for the present and in the absence of other information, we will assume that it was intended to convey something to you. The bloodstains on the box and on its contents are significant.”

“Is it human blood?” I inquired. “Miss Winsett has spoken of the likelihood of poachers in the Bickstone woods, so a rabbit – ”

“I have considered it, Watson,” Holmes interrupted somewhat acidly. “I shall apply such tests as may elucidate the matter, but I have little hope of a definitive result. At the same time, I think it very unlikely that whoever chose such a bizarre way of delivering a message to the lady would be concerned with the dissection of a harmless wild animal. The writing was done under stress on a piece torn from a newspaper. Most papers leave a part-column blank to accommodate late items that reach them after the page has been made up. It was written with a blunt hard-lead pencil – note the slight tear where the tip has penetrated – and by a semi-literate hand.” My friend bent a keen look at me. “Come, Watson, you know my methods. What more can we deduce?”

“Very little, I fear,” said I, shaking my head. “If your reasoning is correct, I would suggest that someone is hoping that Miss Winsett will understand the meaning and convey a warning to ‘C. Har’ whomever that may be. That someone is possibly injured and, unable to approach her in person, has chosen this strange way to contact her.”

“Capital, my dear fellow!” chuckled Holmes. “You prove an apt pupil.” His tone became more serious. “However, I fear that Miss Winsett could be in danger were it realised that our unknown messenger had been successful in having any kind of communication with her, and therefore she must be on her guard at all times.”

The young lady’s eyes flashed defiantly, and her words made it plain that her beauty was matched by her courage.

“Have no fear on my account, Mr. Holmes,” she cried. “I am not one of your vapid misses to swoon at a hint of danger. As a young girl, I lived through the Siege of Paris and I am not easily intimidated. Tell me what I must do to get to the bottom of this business and I will do it.”

I looked my admiration at this show of spirit, but my friend’s demeanour was grave when he spoke.

“Be that as it may, Madam,” he said. “I doubt not your resolution nor your bravery, but I pray you not to be foolhardy. There are several unexplained factors in this chain of events and I need time to disentangle them. For the present, my advice to you is to stay away from your cottage and from the immediate vicinity of Bickstone.” He stopped her protests with a peremptory gesture before getting to his feet to walk over to the window. “I must think,” he muttered.

For several minutes he stood motionless, apparently staring blankly at the window. Our visitor and I exchanged glances and waited in silence. Suddenly his spare frame stiffened and he spun round on his heel, his eyes sparkling.

“Miss Winsett,” he said crisply, “have you any reason to believe that you were followed here this morning?”

She shook her head in bewilderment. “The thought never crossed my mind. Who would wish to do so?”

“Perhaps you can enlighten me,” he replied. “Come to the window, please, but have a care not to show yourself.” He steered her gently so that she could see through a chink in the curtains. “There – that man wearing a brown billy-cock who lurks in the doorway of the draper’s shop opposite. Wait, he will look up shortly.”

I followed to stand behind the lady and looked over her shoulder. At first I saw nothing. Then as two potential customers made to enter the shop, a bulky figure detached itself from the shadows and came into full view. Celia Winsett’s hand flew to her mouth and she gave a little cry of astonishment.

“Why, that is Samuel Harper!” she gasped, “The gamekeeper of whom I spoke. What does it mean, Mr. .Holmes? Why should he follow me?”

“That is what we must find out.” My companion led her back to her chair. “Meanwhile, my advice that you should stay away from your cottage is justified. Have you a friend who would welcome your unannounced company for a few days?”

“You seriously believe me to be in some peril?”

“I would be less than honest if I denied it,” Holmes said gravely. “I beg you, Miss Winsett be guided by me.”

She bit her lip before slowly nodding her agreement. “Very well, Mr. Holmes. As much as I resent hiding myself away, I must put myself in your hands. I have an old school friend living at Lewisham. She has recently married an officer of the Orient Steamship Line and, her husband being on a voyage, she will doubtless be glad of my company.

“Excellent. It now remains for us to remove our Mr. Harper whilst you make your exit unobserved.” He cocked an eyebrow in my direction. “Watson, old fellow, if I can draw him off, will you escort Miss Winsett to her friend’s address?”

I cast an appreciative look at our client and nodded vigorously. “It will give me the greatest pleasure,” I replied. “How do you propose to fox him?”

Instead of answering he turned to the lady, his eyes glinting at the prospect of action. “Stand up, please,” he said brusquely.

Clearly perplexed, she did as he commanded without demur. Holmes looked her up and down then gently turned her round, examining her as if she was an exhibit in a museum. His inspection complete, he gave a nod and, without further speech, he vanished into his bedroom, leaving the lady to stare at me with a flush of embarrassment staining her pretty cheeks.

“What is he doing, Dr. Watson?” she asked in a bewildered voice. “I felt like a slave on the auction block.”

“He meant no discourtesy,” I said pacifically. “I am afraid his brain works too quickly for we lesser mortals to stay with him. Once he gets his teeth into a problem, all else is forgotten. Rest assured that his every move has a good reason behind it.”

She nodded and resumed her seat while I made my way to the window to look down into the street. Our watcher was still there, and I had the leisure to study the coarse brutal features that cast furtive looks at our door. He was well-built with an upright carriage and, following my friends precepts, I deduced that some part of his life had been spent in military service, although his present attire indicated a more rustic way of life. I was still assessing him when Holmes’s voice drew my attention.

“Well, Watson, will it pass if not too closely scrutinised?”

I turned to find the figure of a woman standing in the doorway of my friend’s bedroom, and it took me several seconds to realise that it was Holmes in one of his incomparable disguises. He wore a grey costume very similar to that worn by Miss Winsett and a light brown wig was surmounted by a small hat with an attached veil that partially covered his beaky nose. Our client stared at him in dumbstruck amazement and half-rose from her chair.

“Great Heavens above, Holmes!” I chuckled. “I would not be averse to dining out with you myself.”

“This is no time for flippancy,” he said coldly. “I take it your answer is in the affirmative?” I nodded. “Good,” he continued. “This is what we must do. Have Mrs. Hudson send for a cab – a four-wheeler. When it arrives, you will escort me down to it and instruct the driver to take me to London Bridge Station at a leisurely pace. Once you are satisfied that our man has taken the bait and followed me, you will secure another cab and take Miss Winsett to Lewisham with all despatch. I can rely on you to be certain you are not followed. Once there, Madam, you will not leave the house unless escorted by Dr. Watson or myself. By that, I mean you must ignore any letters or telegrams telling you otherwise. Is that clear?”

“Quite clear, Mr. Holmes,” she replied. “But what am I to tell Emily – Mrs. Footer?”

Holmes considered this for a moment before speaking. “Is she a trustworthy and sensible person? Good, then tell her as much as you think is necessary, but impress on her the need for complete secrecy, even to the extent of denying your presence there. Should Watson or myself call for you, the name we will use is Verner, Ignore any other. Watson, the cab.” Five minutes later I escorted the disguised Holmes to the growler that stood at our door. Then, leaving the door open a fraction, I watched it drive slowly away. To my great satisfaction, I saw our sinister observer secure a passing hansom and set off in pursuit of the four-wheeler and disappear in the direction of Marylebone Road. I rushed upstairs and, grabbing my hat and stick, with scant ceremony hustled Miss Winsett down and into a hansom that had just discharged its fare close by. I kept a wary eye out, but by the time we had reached the City, I was confident that no one was on our trail, and then did my best to take my pretty companion’s mind off of her troubles.

An hour later we stopped at a pleasant villa in a tree-lined avenue between Lewisham and Lee. Mrs. Footer was a blue-eyed fluffy-haired woman of similar age to her visitor, and expressed delight at the prospect of company while her husband was far from home.

She ushered us in, complaining that time hung heavily on her hands, although my professional eye told me that it would not be many months before she would have more than enough to keep her busy. I adjudged her to be sensible and level-headed, so staying only long enough to repeat in her presence the instructions issued by Holmes, I left the two old friends together. I made my way back to Baker Street, taking the train from Lewisham to Charing Cross, thence on by cab.

I arrived to find Holmes in his old blue dressing-gown, ensconced in his deep armchair, the air thick with smoke from the old and oily clay pipe that he favoured when mulling over a problem. On my entrance he glanced up, laying his pipe to one side.

“The lady is safely hidden?”

“As far as I can be sure,” I nodded. “I saw no signs of us being followed, and Mrs. Footer seems a reliable woman with no overt curiosity.

I seated myself opposite him. “How went it with you?”

He threw back his head and laughed aloud. “Oh, Watson, would that you had been with me! I led our man a fine dance. As soon as I was sure I had him on my tail, I told the driver I had changed my mind and wished to go to Waterloo. Once there I said I meant Charing Cross, so with much grumbling about women who did not know what they meant he crossed the river again. Fortunately the Strand was in its usual state of congestion, and I seized the chance to abandon the cab in the confusion. Giving the driver a sovereign, I told him to continue to Charing Cross Station and wait there five minutes before going about his business. Then, concealing myself in a doorway near the Savoy, I watched my pursuer go by. It only remained for me to return here where I have spent the past hour trying to make some sense of this business.”

“Do you think Harper will make his way back here when he realises he has been fooled?”

My friend shrugged. “I care not so long as Miss Winsett is out of his reach. What do you make of it?”

All the way back from Lewisham I had been cudgelling my brains for an explanation, but to little avail. Now, with Holmes’s keen eye transfixing me, I realised how fruitless had been my cogitations and I gave a sigh of exasperation.

“Well,” I began cautiously, “I can only surmise that our pretty client is in possession of some information that is important enough for the fellow to trail her to our doorstep,”

“Or he thinks she has,” Holmes put in.

“True,” I agreed. “Is it possible that she has not told us everything? Is she concealing something?”

“I believe she has told us the truth in so far as she knows it, but we must not overlook the possibility that she has omitted some detail, the significance of which she is not aware. However, in my view it all revolves around this.” He reached out to tap the ivory box left behind by the lady and which still reposed on the table. “Find the reason for its being delivered to the cottage and we have one end of the thread.”

“And how are we to do that?” I asked doubtfully.

“Why, the answer must lie at Bickstone, so it is to there we must go.”

He broke off and turned his head, frowning at the sounds of loud voices followed by a heavy tread on the stairs. “Stand by, Watson,” he growled.

“This may be our Mr. Harper.”

I had but half-risen from my chair when the door burst open to reveal the figure of a youngish sun-tanned man thrusting his way past an outraged and protesting Mrs. Hudson. It was certainly not the villainous-looking Harper and I strode forward to confront him.

“Who the devil are you?” I demanded. “What is the meaning of this intrusion?”

The man stared wildly around the room. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” he cried. “Which of you is he?”

“I am Sherlock Holmes,” said my friend sternly. He had not moved from his chair. “By what right do you burst in on me so rudely? Have a care, sir! I am not to be trifled with.”

“Mr. Holmes, hear me, I beseech you!” said the man urgently. “I have come seven-thousand miles, and I believe only you can avert a terrible wrong and help to bring a vicious killer to his just punishment.”

“I am a busy man,” Holmes replied. “However, I will spare you five minutes to make your point, then I shall decide whether to hear more or advise you to take your problem elsewhere, Mr. – ?”

“Carmody. Miles Carmody. I have no friends in London, nor indeed in England, and knowing your reputation, I have come to plead with you. It is over four weeks since I left South Africa, and I may yet be too late.”

At the mention of South Africa, Holmes showed a flicker of interest and he waved our importunate caller to a chair. “Very well, Mr. Miles Carmody,” he said. “You have five minutes of my attention. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, you are not to blame.”

Muttering her indignation, our landlady retreated to the nether regions, leaving our agitated visitor facing Holmes across the hearth-rug.

I took my seat and studied him closely. I saw a well-set-up man of some thirty years with the deeply bronzed features of one who has spent decades in the tropics and whose clear eyes were accustomed to gazing out over vast distances. His clothes, although well-made and expensive, were obviously of colonial cut, and his accent had that peculiar twang that was some way between Cockney and North American.

“Well, sir,” snapped Holmes. “Time passes, so please state your business.”

Miles Carmody took a breath, then he plunged into his story, speaking rapidly as though afraid he would be dismissed before he had finished. I placed my notebook on my knee to make those notes which my friend averred were of so much value to him, but which in reality served me better when I came to chronicle his achievements.

Chapter III – Death in the Veld

“As I said, Mr. Holmes, my name is Miles Carmody,” the man began. “Most of my life has been spent in South Africa, chiefly in Natal. I have been a hunter and a prospector, and Lady Luck has enabled me to acquire a not-inconsiderable fortune – this in association with a very close friend.” He leaned forward, fastening his gaze firmly on Holmes. “Tell me, sir, does the name Listel mean anything to you?”

I watched my friend’s face, but it remained impassive. “I have heard it mentioned,” he replied. “Proceed, I pray you.”

Carmody’s expression darkened, then he recovered to go on with his story.

“My associate was Alistair Listel, the son of Sir Frederick Listel who, in addition to his own African interests, owned a modest estate not far from Bromley, which I believe is in Kent. Two years ago Alistair went up-country, having heard of a promising find of diamonds up in the Drakensberg. He never returned from that safari and has not been seen since.”

“He went alone?” asked Holmes. “No guides or porters?”

“He intended to pick them up in Ladysmith. I had planned to accompany him but went down with a bout of malaria. Alistair decided to push on and assemble our party in Ladysmith, and I was to follow as soon as I was strong enough to do so. He took with him his servant, William Knowles, and an old Kaffir tracker named Ulombo. It was two weeks ere I was fit enough to travel, and then I set off with a party of settlers who were heading for the Orange Free State. It was a slow trek, as you may imagine, and I fully expected to find Listel waiting impatiently for me at Ladysmith. Imagine my consternation when told that he had never reached the town and nothing had been heard of him!”

By now Holmes was showing a keen interest in Carmody’s story, and his former impatience had completely evaporated.

“You intrigue me, Mr. Miles Carmody,” he said. “Forgive my earlier ill humour and continue at your own pace. Did you follow the same route as your partner would have done?”

“Almost, but with one deviation: Old Jan Pienaar, the trek master, wished to visit a relation some ten miles west of Colenso, so we made a loop across the veld. I follow your train of thought, Mr. Holmes, and my own reasoning was on the same lines: Had any misfortune befallen Listel, we might have come across him on the way, unless it was on the stretch we had by-passed. We left the trail about seven miles short of Colenso and rejoined it some nine miles above.”

“So you decided to search that section?”

“That was my intention,” Carmody said in a sombre tone. “I set out at first light the next morning with a spare pony, and had covered but five miles when my attention was attracted to a horde of vultures circling the sky off to my right. Fearing the worst, I galloped off and, about a furlong into the scrub, I came upon Listel’s servant Knowles lying under a thorn bush. He was near to death and indeed, would have expired within hours had I not chanced upon him. He was in a parlous state, having been beaten and stabbed several times, and his right leg was broken. From his appearance, I knew he had been without food or water for several days. I did what I could for him, and by some miracle the brave fellow recovered sufficiently to give me the gist of what had happened. It was a ghastly story, even the little he was able to tell before lapsing into delirium, and as soon as the heat had gone from the day, I slung across my spare mount and got him back to Ladysmith where he could be cared for properly. Two days later he was able to tell me the full story, and when I heard it my blood boiled.” He stopped and clenched his fists, too affected to go on.

“A brandy, Mr. Carmody?” asked Holmes. “Or perhaps a cup of tea?”

“Tea will be fine. I am not a day-time drinker, despite what you may have heard about we rough Colonials.”

I summoned Mrs. Hudson and requested a tray. Then, while we waited, we all charged our pipes, allowing our visitor to compose himself.

“I’m afraid I have been remiss, sir,” said Holmes from behind a blue haze. “This gentleman is my good friend Dr. Watson, without whom I would be lost. He serves to keep my feet firmly on the ground.”

Carmody and I exchanged nods while I poured the tea, and once settled my companion urged our caller to resume his narrative.

“It transpired,” said the latter, “that soon after leaving Colenso, Listel’s small party had been set upon by a marauding band of Basutos. The Kaffir guide had been killed and Listel and Knowles carried off, for what reason never became clear. After three days travelling the band split into two parties, Knowles being taken by one half and his master by the other. That party that had Knowles used him as a slave, meting out vicious punishments for no reason and giving him barely enough food to keep body and soul together.”

“But he escaped?” I put in eagerly. “Or was he just turned loose?”

“He escaped,” said Carmody, a note of respect in his voice. “In spite of his wretched state, he retained enough strength to creep away when the gang of ruffians were all drunk on that beastly beer they brew, He had no idea where he was or how long had elapsed since his capture, his sole aim being to get away. Some instinct must have led him in the right direction, but by ill-luck he fell into a gully, thus breaking his leg. He had resigned himself to death when I came upon him, and but for that chance would not have survived another night. What made the whole business more terrible was the fact that Knowles was of the firm belief that one of the raiding party was a white man.”

“Great Heavens above!” I cried. “Was it true?”

“True enough,” said the South African bitterly. “My inquiries turned up the fact that a renegade soldier who had been dishonourably discharged for looting and ill-treatment of the Kaffirs had taken to the bush and assembled a group of natives to prey on travellers who were weaker than themselves. However, once Knowles was out of danger, I organized patrols to search for Listel and bring these brutes to justice. Although we did catch some of the gang, it was not those who had taken my partner. Knowles’ evidence was enough to hang those we caught, but nothing could be got from them about the remainder, except that the renegade white man had abandoned them. He was never heard of again, and it was the general belief that he had either perished in the bush or had got away from the country undetected. Gentlemen, I swear to you that should I ever meet up with Samuel Harper, I shall strangle him with my bare hands!”

For once I saw Sherlock Holmes caught off balance. His dark eyebrows shot up and his mouth dropped open while I nearly fell from my chair in amazement. I was rendered speechless, but before I could order my whirling brain Holmes had recovered and resumed his habitual expression of austere attention.

“This matter becomes more interesting by the minute,” he murmured. “I think I am ahead of you, Mr. Miles Carmody. You are here in pursuit of this despicable renegade whom you know as Samuel Harper. I am right, am I not?”

“Indeed you are, sir, but you have not heard what put me on his trail.”

“Then I beg of you, tell me more.”

Carmody continued, his voice hard and bitter as he took up his story again. “Once I had done all that could be done, I returned to Durban, having lost all enthusiasm for my original project. Knowles, fully recovered, willingly entered my service and it was our unhappy duty to tell Sir Frederick the details of events leading up to the sad fate of his only child. He took it hard and aged ten years in as many weeks. I gave him what comfort I could, but from then on he was a broken man.”

“He lived in Natal, then?” Holmes interjected.

“Not exactly. He had divided his time equally between his estate in England and his business interests in South Africa, but fallowing the death of Alistair, he had no inclination to return to the old country. In the ensuing months he and I became very close, so much so that I believed he came to look on me as a substitute for his dead son, and I learned a lot about his family circumstances. With Alistair’s death, the heir to the baronetcy was Sir Frederick’s younger brother Charles. They had been estranged for upwards of thirty years, having quarrelled bitterly over the woman who became Alistair’s mother. They had both paid her court, but Frederick had won her, and from then on they had neither met nor communicated in any way. All Alistair’s adult life had been spent in Natal, and I am not even sure that he knew that his uncle existed.

“I hinted to Sir Frederick that in the circumstances it seemed absurd that this feud should continue, and one day he confided to me that he would instruct his solicitors to attempt a reconciliation.” He paused dramatically. “Mr. Holmes, that was never to be, for within days of this news, he was foully done to death in an alley-way in Durban.”

“Good God!” I cried. “What a terrible coincidence. Father and son both murdered within months of each other!”

Miles Carmody’s mouth was set in a grim line. “Coincidence, Doctor? So I believed then, but I no longer think so, and neither will you when you hear of the subsequent events.”

Holmes rubbed his hands. “This is interesting indeed,” he said. “I pray you, sir, do not keep us in suspense.”

“As I related,” our visitor went on, “I had retained Knowles in my service, and a week after Sir Frederick’s murder he came to me in a state of extreme agitation. He had been shopping in town and stopping for a drink in a bar. He had seen a man with a hunting rifle that Knowles swore was Alistair’s. The man had vanished before Knowles could accost him, and he had hurried to me with the story. I questioned him closely but he was adamant, saying he had handled the weapon often enough to know its every line and contour. There was no trace of the man in town, but we did find out from the bar owner that his name was Hartley and he came in from time to time. I used every means at my disposal and a lot of money besides to get a line on him, but to no avail.”

“How long ago was this?” Holmes asked.

“A year or more, and as time passed my hopes diminished. Then last February I was in Pietermaritzburg on business when Hartley’s name cropped up. It seemed he had been disposing of an inordinate amount of gold and diamonds, to an extent that forced the close circle of dealers to buy them for fear of the market collapsing. I need not tell you, gentlemen, that when my inquiries indicated he had headed back to Durban, I dropped everything and set off in hot pursuit. Alas, once more I lost him, and although he was known to have been in the town, to all intents and purposes he had dropped out of sight.”

“So you have never actually set eyes on him?” said Holmes. “You could have passed him by in the street without recognizing him?”

“That is so, although I have had some very good descriptions of him, and Knowles certainly knows him.”

“Then what brought you to England and to me?”

“That came about by a flash of inspiration on the part of Knowles. He had scraped an acquaintance with a clerk in the Union Steamship office, and by a little judicious bribery, Knowles had been able to get a sight of the passages booked over the last month.”

“And Hartley’s name was there!” I cried, but Carmody shook his head.

“No, Dr. Watson, it was not, but another name was. There was a cabin booked on the Trojan in the name of Sir Alistair Listel!”

Our visitor paused to see the effect of his announcement on us. On my part, for the second time in the space of half-an-hour I was dumbfounded.

I looked desperately at Holmes, but he had his head laid back and his eyes closed, a faint smile playing around the corners of his mouth.

“Do you not see?” said Carmody eagerly. “An impostor on his way to England to claim the Listel estates and title!”

“Possibly,” murmured my colleague. “On the other hand, could it be that Alistair Listel had not perished as you believed?”

“Balderdash, and you know it!” exploded the South African, “Why would he conceal himself from both his father and me if he were still alive? Even had he escaped his captors after his father’s murder, why not proclaim himself?”

“I could advance several reasons,” Holmes said. “However, your theory of an impostor is the most tenable, so we will proceed on those lines. I assume you set off hot-foot after this putative Sir Alistair?”

“Not immediately,” Carmody admitted. “I was obliged to settle my affairs and could obtain no passage to England until the Natal liner Limpopo sailed twelve days later. In the meantime Knowles – bright fellow that he is – had continued his perusal of the sailing lists and by mistake had picked up one for 1881, and whose name do you think he came across?”

“Samuel Harper’s,” Holmes replied instantly.

“You are right, sir.” Carmody sounded disappointed that his bombshell had proved a damp squib. “August ‘81 – an open berth for Samuel Harper, seven guineas. I was convinced that there was a connection between Harper and the man calling himself Alistair Listel whom I believed to be Hartley, and by Jove, I was right!” Holmes remained silent and presently our visitor continued.

“Knowles and I left Durban on the Limpopo, but we were nearly two weeks behind our quarry when we landed, and I at once despatched Knowles to this Bickstone Place to get the lie of the land. Remember, it was he who could identify Hartley positively, and I deemed it wiser to ascertain that he in fact meant to go ahead with the imposture. I took rooms in the Brecon Hotel, just off Chancery Lane, receiving daily reports from Knowles proving that both Harper and Hartley were in the vicinity of Bickstone, Harper in fact being employed as a gamekeeper by Sir Charles.”

Holmes gave a puzzled frown. “Why have you come to me if you know this much?” he said. “Surely you are in a position to refute any claim by Hartley to be Sir Frederick’s son and heir? Knowles was Listel’s personal servant and can identify Harper as the renegade who attacked him and Listel, so what do you want of me?”

“The situation has changed,” Carmody replied. “Knowles has been sending me daily intelligence of his observations, and even when there was nothing to report he would still telegraph. Now I am worried, for I have had no word from him since Tuesday and I fear for his safety. I hesitate to reveal my presence for obvious reasons. Therefore I seek your aid and advice. Help me, Mr. Holmes, I beg of you. You may set your fee and I will gladly meet it twice over. See?” He took from his pocket a leather purse and poured a shower of bright new sovereigns on to the low table beside him. Despite my friend’s austere nature he had a healthy respect for money, having in the past known the want of it. At the same time, it would not influence him to engage in a case that held no interest for him, although he had no reservations about accepting what he regarded as his just dues.

“My charges, Mr. Carmody, are determined by the intricacies and dangers of any matter to which I apply myself,” he said. “Put your money away and we will come to an equitable arrangement on the successful resolution of your problem.” He spoke to me over his shoulder. “Be a good chap, Watson, and see if our watchdog has returned.” I went to the window and squinted through the crack in the curtains to scan the street below.

“All clear, Holmes,” I reported, resuming my seat. “He must have given up for the time being.”

“Good.” Holmes turned back to the South African. “Your case, sir, is a complex one, not least because it impinges on another matter that has been brought to my attention. I must ask you one or two questions and I expect straight answers.”

“I have nothing to hide, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I have been open with you thus far and shall continue to be so. Ask away and I will answer frankly.”

“Then tell me, Mr. Carmody,” said my companion, fixing his sharp eyes on the other’s face, “do you know or have you heard of a Miss Celia Winsett?”

Miles Carmody shook his head blankly. “No. The name means nothing to me whatsoever. Should it? Who is she?”

“She is a very attractive young person in her middle-twenties with brown hair, grey eyes, and a forceful personality.”

“She sounds most delightful, Mr. Holmes, but no, I have no acquaintances at all in England. I am sure I would recall such a charming young lady had I the good fortune to meet her.”

Holmes got to his feet and went over to the dining table where, from under the tea-cosy, he produced the ivory box left by Kiss Winsett. He whipped round with it in the palm of his hand and thrust it under the eyes of the startled Carmody.

“And this, sir: Does this mean anything to you?”

Chapter IV – Bickstone Lodge

Miles Carmody’s features took on an ashen hue and his eyes bulged from his head. He stared at the object lying in Holmes’s palm as though mesmerised. After some seconds he looked up at the thin face looming over him and his expression changed to one of furious anger. He would have stood up, but Holmes restrained him with a sinewy hand planted firmly in the middle of the chest. Carmody struggled vainly for a few seconds, then he spoke in a harsh grating voice.

“How came you by that?” he almost snarled. “What is it doing in your possession? I demand to know what game you’re playing!”

“Then you do recognize it?” said Holmes quietly. “Fear not, I shall conceal nothing from you if you will but tell me what it is and from whence it came. Trust me, sir, I beg you.”

For a time Carmody’s eyes alternated between the ivory box and my friend’s face. Then his anger died away to be replaced by an expression of sadness.

“It seems that for the moment I must trust you, Mr. Holmes,” he said in a jerky voice. “I believe you to be an honourable man – but I warn you, I am a bad man to cross.”

“I do not take kindly to threats,” replied Holmes, a hint of steel in his voice. “However, I will make allowances for the shock I have sprung on you and assure you of my continued good will. Come now, tell me about this curious artefact and why it gives you so much concern.”

Still retaining the box in his hand, he sat down and waited for the other man to speak, watching him closely the while.

“That box,” said Carmody in a low strained voice, “I last saw two years ago in the possession of Alistair Listel. It was given to him by an old Zulu whom Listel had saved from slavers. It still goes on, you know,” he added, and Holmes nodded for him to continue.

“I believe the native used it to carry a magic charm,” went on the South African. “Of course, it was only the box he gave to Listel, not the charm. There is quite a trick in getting it open.”

“So I discovered,” said Holmes with a smile.

“Was there anything inside it?”

Without comment Holmes passed him the scrap of stained paper.

“Well, Mr. Carmody?” he said after a few seconds.

“I think this may have been written by Knowles,” said Carmody, his face set in grim lines. “How the box came into his hands I can only surmise, for I am certain he did not have it before.” His voice grew animated. “Then my friend and partner may still be alive!”

“Do not pin your hopes on it,” said Holmes bleakly. “It could have been taken from him at the time of his kidnapping and Knowles recovered it from – ” He stopped and raised an eyebrow.

“Harper!” cried the other. “Knowles has found Harper! By God, I have him at last!” He sprang to his feet to stride wildly around the room, his eyes blazing. “He must be at Bickstone, so there is no time to be lost if we are to apprehend him.” He came to a halt in front of Holmes, frowning darkly. “You have still not explained how the box came into your possession, Mr. Holmes. Has Knowles been in touch with you?”

“No. I had not heard the name until it came from your lips. If you will but calm yourself and sit down, I’ll redeem my promise to tell you as much as I’m able. Ah, that’s better,” Holmes took three cigars from the coal scuttle and handed one each to Carmody and me before settling back in his chair with a contemplative expression.

“I find that your business runs parallel to that of another client,” he began. “Averse as I am to discussing the confidential matters of another, I feel that in this case I’m justified in doing so in the interests of you both.” He blew a smoke ring from his cigar and watched it dissolve above his head. Then, choosing his words carefully, he outlined the story told earlier by Miss Celia Winsett and the steps we had taken to ensure her continued safety. Carmody looked grim when he heard Samuel Harper’s name and his involvement, but he remained silent until Holmes had completed his story.

“Where is this courageous lady now?” he asked, but Holmes shook his head.

“Only the good Doctor and myself know that, and for the present it must remain so. As for Knowles, I believe he may by now be beyond human aid.”

“You mean – ?”

“I fear such to be the case. By your account, we’re dealing with desperate and ruthless men, and with at least two murders to their credit, they wouldn’t stop at one more to achieve their ends. All the same, Watson and I will proceed immediately to Bickstone, for that is where it all pivots.”

“I shall come with you,” said Carmody. “I can identify Harper, and most probably Hartley also.”

“No, that will not be wise.” Holmes shook his head. “As you can recognize them, so can they you. Both Watson and I know Harper, but it remains to be established if he and John Hartley are actually in league. My advice to you, Mr. Miles Carmody, is that you go back to your hotel and await the outcome of our investigations at Bickstone.”

“You want me to sit around in idleness, not knowing what’s going on?”

“For the moment, yes,” Holmes replied firmly. You have sought my help, and I must be allowed to follow my own methods. Should your presence be necessary, I need to know where I may find without undue delay.”

Our client’s mouth was set in rebellious lines. Then, with a deep sigh, he spread his hands in resignation. “As you say, Mr. Holmes, I have come to you for aid and I would be foolish not to abide by your advice, When may I expect to hear from you?”

“I shall telegraph you twice daily,” said Holmes. “At ten o’clock in the morning and at three in the afternoon. Any instructions from me must be obeyed to the letter, and should you not hear from Watson or myself on two successive occasions, you will then contact Scotland Yard and tell them the whole story. My name will ensure the attention of one of the leading inspectors – Gregson, Lestrade, or Peter Jones. Now, Dr. Watson and I will set off for Bickstone, but you, Mr. Carmody, will wait here until darkness falls before leaving as unobtrusively as possible. With luck your visit here isn’t known, and we will hope to keep it so. Come, Watson – the game’s afoot!”

Within twenty minutes we were on our way to catch our train to Bromley, the nearest station to Bickstone. From my association with Holmes, I had become used to these sudden journeys and always kept a Gladstone bag ready-packed for any such eventuality. The evening was mild, but I wore my ulster and was comforted by the drag of my old service revolver tugging against my right-hand pocket. I knew that Holmes had his small pocket pistol, and we both had the weighted sticks that had served us so well on more than one occasion.

“Do you believe Knowles to be dead?” I asked as we rattled down the City road.

“I fear so,” replied my companion, rousing himself from his reverie. “If he had come on the trail of Hartley and had been recognized, I would not give a pinch of snuff for his chances. I would like to be proved wrong, but it would be against all reason.”

“But what is Miss Winsett’s part in it? I see no connection between her and the deaths of the Listels. And why was the box left with her?”

“That was purely fortuitous,” said Holmes. “My present theory is that Harper stole it from the younger Listel at the time of his capture and presumed murder. By some means Knowles obtained possession of it but, being unable to get away undetected and being at his last gasp, he thrust it through the letter-box of the cottage.”

“What would that achieve?” I objected. “The lady could know nothing of its significance and may well have retained it as an amusing ornament.”

“Knowles was determined that anything was better than letting Harper recover it. The fact that Miss Winsett brought it to us was sheer chance that stemmed from her frightening experiences and Harper’s aggressive and surly attitude towards her.”

I pondered on this for the rest of our journey to London Bridge, referring to the notes I had made of our interviews with Miss Winsett and Miles Carmody. Once installed in our carriage, Holmes rested his back against the cushion, the fingers of his right hand drumming idly on his tweed-clad knee and a curved cherry-wood pipe drooping from his mouth. We had passed through the sooty cramped dwellings and reeking factories of Bermondsey before he spoke, breaking into my train of thought as though I uttered them aloud.

“Of course I distrust coincidences, Watson” he said. “All the same, I have never denied their existence, and the fact that Miss Winsett and Mr. Carmody should appear in our rooms within a few hours of one another is surely coincidence.”

“You believe their stories, then?”

“Until I hear anything to change my opinion. The fact that Harper should trail the lady to London points to his having at least a suspicion that Knowles could have communicated with her in some way.”

“But he wasn’t certain enough to make a direct approach to her.”

Holmes gave an impatient grunt, “If all we have been told is true, he is probably under orders from Hartley to draw the minimum of attention to themselves – especially if they are unaware that Carmody is in the country.”

“‘If all we have been told is true’?” I echoed, but Holmes had withdrawn into himself, and not another word did I have from him until the train deposited us at Bromley.

“What now?” I asked as we stood on the station forecourt.

“Firstly we take rooms at yonder inn.” He pointed with his stick at a modest building almost facing the station. “Then we will seek out Sir Charles Listel. I fancy a direct approach will best serve our ends. I think it too soon for any impostor to have made a move, bearing in mind the uncertainty surrounding Knowles’s actions.”

“To be quite honest, I fail to see that such a ploy succeeding,” I said dubiously. “Sir Charles is not going to accept such a proposition without the most exhaustive inquiries. Carmody can vouch that Hartley is an impostor, and even had Carmody not come to England, investigations in Natal would reveal the truth.”

Holmes shot me a keen glance. “Your perspicacity does you credit, my dear Watson!” he said. “If your reasoning is correct, and I have no quarrel with it, then we must fish in deeper waters.” He pushed open the door of the inn and we found ourselves in a clean but unpretentious bar lounge.

“Good evening, gentlemen. What is your pleasure?”

The speaker was a huge ruddy-faced man who looked up from the newspaper spread before him. Well over six feet in height, he had shoulders as wide as the proverbial barn door, and though now running to fat, I saw him as the archetypal front row forward, barging his way to the try line and shrugging off the opposition by sheer weight and speed.

“A glass of beer each for my friend and myself.” Holmes leaned against the bar. “Also rooms for us both, if you have them.”

“No problem there, sir.” Two tankards of nut-brown ale were placed before us. “Will you be staying long?”

“It depends on how long our business takes,” said my companion, his tone carefully non-committal.

“You’ll be down from London about this here, then?” A massive forefinger stabbed at the newspaper. “Terrible thing, to be sure.”

He turned the paper towards us and we both stared at the place indicated. It was a bare report in the stop press column of a man’s body found partly concealed in a copse on the outskirts of Bickstone Village. The item was but half-a-dozen lines long and gave no other details, other than it had been found by a man walking his dog.

“How long since you had this paper?” Holmes demanded sharply of the landlord, for such I presumed him to be.

“Why, sir, not above three minutes afore you gents walked in,” the man replied. “Old Joe Collins, him as collects ‘em off the train, he always drops one in for me afore he takes ‘em round the town.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “I see, sir,” he whispered huskily. “No need to say more, and Bert Davis knows how to keep mum. Have to in this trade. Now, gents, your rooms.”

The accommodation was simple but clean, and no sooner had Davis’s footsteps taken him back to the bar than Holmes slipped into my room, shutting the door behind him.

“What do you make of it?”

“That the unknown victim is probably Knowles.” My colleague nodded and I went on thoughtfully. “That newspaper must have come on the same train as did we. By the smudging of the print, I deduce that it was a very late item and the papers were bundled up hot from the press. We must have been on the train before the news was on the streets.”

“My own reasoning precisely, but does it aid us?”

“Only by confirming your theory that Knowles has been done away with, if indeed it is he.”

Holmes nodded and gave a wry smile. “I know what you’re thinking, old chap. I’m ignoring my own precepts and speculating without solid facts, and by Jove, you are right! All the same, I’m keeping an open mind until I have a firmer foundation on which to work.” He became his usual brisk self. “Come, let us introduce ourselves to Sir Charles Listel and see what transpires.”

A word with Davis procured for us the use of a mud-stained trap and a bored-looking nag. Holmes took the reins and we trotted steadily through the lanes in the direction indicated by the landlord. With the trees now in full leaf and the angle of the sun casting dappled shadows across our path, a more tranquil scene would be hard to imagine, yet my companion, his teeth clamped firmly on the stem of his pipe, seemed oblivious to his surroundings. It wasn’t until we had passed through the stone pillars marking the entrance to the Bickstone Lodge estate that he spoke.

“A more pleasing aspect than the Manor House at Stoke Moran, Watson?” he remarked as the building came into our view, and indeed, his comment had my heartfelt agreement.

The house was a square solid edifice, severely functional yet clean-lined with none of the extravagant ornamentation seen in so many of our country houses, the builder having resisted any temptation to add towers and turrets or any other flamboyant features. The main entrance was centrally placed with four large windows on either side, while the two upper storeys were geometric in their precision under a slated roof with dormer windows, giving on to what I took to be the servants’ quarters.

With its mellow brickwork and freshly painted woodwork, the place had a look of permanence and stability that seemed timeless.

We approached the door by a broad flight of steps and Holmes applied himself to the bell-pull, being rewarded by a faint peal from within. The door was shortly opened by an elderly butler to whom Holmes presented his card and asked to see Sir Charles Listel on urgent and confidential business. We were shown into a spacious hall hung with pictures and trophies from Africa, but were not left long to admire them.

“Sir Charles will see you in the smoking room,” announced the aged retainer. “This way please, gentlemen.”

In the smoking room, a well set-up man was standing in front of a screened fireplace, and he advanced to greet us with hand outstretched.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you are indeed welcome!” he said warmly. “And this can only be Dr. Watson – I’ve seen you mentioned in the newspapers in connection with Mr. Holmes’s investigations. Again welcome!”

His grip was firm and dry, and I found myself looking into a strong-featured face that met my gaze frankly and openly. His hair was thick and dark with a sprinkling of grey, as was the small neatly trimmed beard and moustache. His eyes were on a level with my own, and when he smiled, it was to reveal a set of strong white teeth.

“Be seated, gentlemen.” He waved us to deep leather armchairs. “I know of you by repute, but little thought I should have the privilege of meeting you. How may I be of assistance?” He came forward with a box of Havana’s, and Holmes directed his whole attention to ensuring that his cigar was burning evenly before he spoke.

“Sir Charles, this is a delicate matter, and I fear that what I have to say may prove painful to you. For that I apologise in advance. However, certain information has been laid before me which cannot be ignored and which it is my duty to pass on to you.”

“A moment, Mr. Holmes,” the baronet interjected. “Is this likely to take long? Ah, I see by your expression that it will. I am about to dine and would take as a favour if you would join me. My housekeeper is liable to take umbrage if her routine is disturbed.”

I was gratified that Holmes accepted the offer. We had eaten only cold meats during the day, and although I had known my colleague to go days on end with no more than a few sips of water, my own constitution demanded regular sustenance if it was to function properly.

Our host rang for the butler and gave the necessary instructions, then took his place in a chair facing us while he waited for an explanation of our presence.

“Do you know a Miss Celia Winsett?” Holmes asked abruptly.

Sir Charles was taken aback by this sudden question and gave a puzzled frown.

“I am acquainted with the lady,” he replied. “It would be an exaggeration to claim that I know her. She is the tenant of one of my cottages, but that was arranged through a business friend. I understand she is in the employment of a well-known publishing house and she has impeccable references. I have never met her formally, although we exchange civilities should we pass in the village. I trust I have given her no offence or cause for complaint.”

“On the contrary, sir, she speaks most highly of you. Unfortunately she has recently had some disturbing experiences and was driven to me for advice.” Holmes went on to relate the story told by Miss Winsett, omitting to say that the man Harper had apparently followed her to London that very morning and making no reference to the steps we had taken to protect her. As he finished Sir Charles gave an exclamation of annoyance.

“This is monstrous!” he cried, “I shall convey my personal apologies to the young lady and rest assured that Harper will account for his attitude.”

“Miss Winsett has decided to remain in London for the present,” said Holmes. “I take it you have no clue as to what lies behind these strange events?”

The baronet shook his head, but before he could speak the butler came in to announce that dinner was served and we were conducted to a small dining room in which the lamps were already lit.

No more was said until we were seated at a circular dining table and the first course had been place before us by a pretty maid, and we were left to ourselves.

“Now, Mr. Holmes, you asked if I could account for the strange events that have befallen Miss Winsett, and I can truthfully answer no.”

“This ivory box means nothing to you?”

“Could it be a token from a bashful suitor?

“Bloodstained and with a cryptic message enclosed?” Holmes asked ironically. “Pardon me if I do not treat your suggestion seriously, but I believe the lady’s problems arise from a matter much closer to you.”

“To me?” Sir Charles looked incredulous. “You are surely mistaken in that. I have already told you that my acquaintance with her is of the slightest.”

“Nevertheless, it is so and brings me to my previous statement that what I have to say may be painful to you.”

The maid entered to remove our dishes and replace them with others.

Holmes resumed when the door closed on her.

“It concerns your late brother and his son.”

Our host blanched and his knife and fork fell on to his plate with a clatter. For several seconds he seemed paralysed with shock. Then he recovered to give Holmes a perplexed and angry look.

“Mr. Holmes,” he said slowly, “I trust I am a tolerant and reasonable man, but I find your manner in the worst possible taste. Are you hinting that there was some connection between my poor dead brother and this lady? Confound you, sir, I demand an immediate explanation!”

My friend sighed. “And you shall have it, Sir Charles. I have already apologised and I have no wish to reopen old wounds. I hold the view that crime should not be allowed to go unpunished, and as both of your kinsmen were apparently murdered. I am sure you feel the same way.”

“Indeed I do!” cried the baronet. “But surely the answer must lie in Africa and not here?”

“We shall see. May I go on? I understand there was a coolness between yourself and the late Sir Frederick. Is that not so?”

“It is, and God forgive me the fault was mine alone.” Sir Charles plucked at his beard in considerable agitation, his eyes sad.

“Would it grieve you to speak of it?”

“Can you suppose otherwise?” said the other bitterly. “What good can come of it now?”

“It may lead to the murderers being brought to justice,” said Holmes sternly. “I am on their trail, and I believe I already have one of them under my hand. I need more facts, and only I can judge what is relevant and what is not. Will you speak, sir?”

Sir Charles appeared to ruminate, and when the maid came to change our dishes, he dismissed he curtly with orders that he was not to be disturbed until he rang.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, if it will serve to bring those brutal miscreants to retribution I will speak, much as it pains me to do so. Come, gentlemen. Let us repair to the smoking room. It is a long story.” He threw down his napkin and opened the door for us to pass through.

Chapter V – A Family Feud

We were settled in the deep chairs, a decanter of brandy and a box of the finest Havana cigars on a table within our reach, when Sir Charles Listel commenced to talk of the events that led up to the quarrel with his brother. At first his voice was low and hesitant, but soon it seemed that he was finding some relief in speaking of it and he rapidly gained confidence.

“It all began more than thirty-two years ago,” he said reflectively. “I was little more than a boy at the time, some months short of my twentieth birthday. We were a happy family consisting of my father, my older brother Frederick, and myself. The only cloud had been the death of my mother some three years before these lamentable events occurred, although I knew it to be a happy release from her suffering.”

“Was this your home?” my colleague interjected.

“Yes. It was built by my grandfather during the Regency and, as you may imagine, it was even more rural than it is now. During my boyhood and youth I saw it grow, but now I fear that ere long it will become no more than a suburb of the octopus London.” He sighed. “But to continue…”

“A frequent guest under our roof was a Mr. McNeil and his only daughter Agnes. She was about my age and when we were children, we were as brother and sister. Frederick, four years my senior, treated us with an amused tolerance, but with the passing years I found myself regarding her in a rather different light, and by the time of which I speak I was hopelessly in love with her.

“One weekend Agnes and I were left alone, our fathers and Frederick being closeted together in the study. I found the courage to declare my feelings for her in the hope that they would be reciprocated.” He paused and reached out for the decanter to recharge his glass before going on.

“Gentlemen, she laughed at me,” he said with intensity. “Oh, not unkindly, but rather as a parent or nurse humouring a child. I began to plead my cause, but she stopped me quickly and took my hand. ‘Dear Charles,’ said she, ‘I beg of you, say no more. I love you dearly, but only as a brother.’ And with that she ran from the room, leaving me hurt and bewildered, not able to understand that I had been rejected.

“I went into the garden, miserable and wretched, but soon, with the capacity for self-delusion so often possessed by the young, I told myself that I had been over-hasty, frightening her with my sudden declaration, and decided that all was not lost and that I must proceed more gently. It was at that point that Frederick came upon me and seized my hands to spin me around in a crazy dance.

“‘Congratulate me, Brother!’ he cried. ‘I am the happiest man in the whole world! Agnes and I are to be married!’

“I was thunderstruck, unable speak to from shock. It was though I had been stabbed in the heart, and I could only stare helplessly at Frederick as he prattled on joyously, oblivious to my hurt. ‘I have been with our father and Mr. McNeil to discuss the arrangements, and you, dear Charles, are the first to know. Oh, what a party we shall have to announce it to the world!’

“It was then that he saw the expression on my face and looked at me askance. ‘Surely you had not entertained hopes in that direction?’ he gasped. ‘Oh, Charles, Agnes and I have had an understanding this twelve months past, and have but waited until now to make it official. You must have seen it.’ He placed his hand on my shoulder but I threw it off, beside myself with rage. I found my voice at last, ranting and raving like a madman. I called him the foulest of names and would not be silenced, until at length he was stung to reply. How long the quarrel went on I do not know, but eventually our father came upon us and I turned my bile upon him. I will not go into details of what I said, but it culminated with my father banishing me from the house. Next morning I went away, never to see my father or brother again.”

“Good Lord!” I gasped. “What a tragic story!”

The baronet nodded grimly. “All the Listels suffer from a stiff-necked pride, and none of us would attempt to heal the breach. In spite of all, my father made me a generous allowance, and when he died five years later, he had made provision for me in his will.”

“Your pride did not preclude you from accepting his bounty,” Holmes observed somewhat maliciously.

“I regarded it as no more than my due,” Sir Charles replied, ignoring my colleague’s aspersion. “By then I was making my name in the City as a stockbroker, but so bitter was I still that I did not attend my father’s funeral. I had heard that Agnes had died in giving birth to a son in South Africa, and that further fuelled my resentment of Frederick. I knew a lot about his affairs, several of my clients having shares in his many companies, and I knew that he spent as much time in Natal as he did here at Bickstone. Over the last ten years, his son had taken an increasing part in their business interests, but Frederick seemed content to stay in Africa for long periods.”

“You never met your nephew?” Holmes inquired.

“Never. To the best of my knowledge he was only in England as a child, and that but briefly. However, four or five years ago, at the time of the Zulu Wars, I found my thoughts dwelling for long periods on my brother and his son. Age mellows one, Mr. Holmes, and I saw the futility of bearing a grudge all those years, but fearful of a rebuff, I was reluctant to take the first step,” His voice broke. “Now it is too late.”

Holmes and I exchanged glances and he gave me a quick nod.

“If it is any consolation to you, Sir Charles,” I said gently, “your brother had the same thoughts, but, alas, his murder intervened before he could translate his intentions into deeds.”

The baronet bowed his head. “God bless you for telling me that, Dr. Watson. How futile are the words ‘It might have been’ when it is too late.” He suddenly looked up, suspicion lurking behind his eyes. “How came you by such knowledge?” he demanded. “I have been patient over-long with your personal probing into my intimate affairs, and I think I am due an explanation.”

“And you shall have one, sir!” cried Holmes. “Answer me but one more question and I shall reveal the purpose of my interest in your affairs.”

Sir Charles studied my friend’s face, then gave a tight-lipped nod of assent. “Ask away, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “I know of your high standing in official quarters, and I doubt that this is impertinence on your part.”

Holmes inclined his head at the compliment and leaned forward.

“Then tell me this, Sir Charles: Have you any reason to suppose that your nephew did not perish at the time of his kidnapping? That he is still alive and consequently the rightful holder of your title and estates?”

Sir Charles Listel stared at us open-mouthed, his face white as chalk. He struggled to rise from his chair before the effort proved too much for him. Then he slumped back as though he had received a mortal blow. At last he found the strength to speak in a cracked and choking voice.

“What say you, sir?” he stuttered, “Who has conceived such a fantastic tale? Have you heard this with your own ears? By God, Mr. Holmes, if I thought it to be so, I would be the first to rejoice that, though my poor brother is no more, his son has somehow survived. I beg of you, if you know such to be the case, tell me now!”

His distress was such that my medical instincts came to the surface and I hurried forward with a glass of brandy which I held to his lips. The glass rattled against his teeth as he took a gulp, but presently the colour returned to his cheeks and he sat upright in his chair.

“Well, sir,” he demanded, “what have you to say?”

“Very little for your comfort, Sir Charles,” replied my companion quietly. “I know little more of your nephew’s fate than has been reported. However, I have received intelligence that a man purporting to be Alistair Listel has arrived in this country from South Africa, but regrettably I have had no opportunity to verify the report. I deemed it advisable to apprise you of events thus far. Crimes have been committed, and I fear that murder has taken place very close to here within the past few hours – and maybe you yourself could be at risk.”

Our host had recovered himself and he stood up to look down at us with a steely look in his eyes which was returned by Holmes.

“No more of this circumlocution, Mr. Holmes,” he said brusquely. “The time has come for plain speaking, and for you to enlighten me as to the meaning of all this.”

“Willingly, Sir Charles.” Holmes began to fill his pipe, speaking with great deliberation as he did so. “Much of what I have to say has been told to me by others and does not arise from my own observations. Therefore I cannot yet vouch for its truth. Some three hours after Miss Celia Winsett had brought me her strange story this morning, I had another visitor who told me an equally bizarre tale that seemed to have some connection with the lady’s narrative.” He applied a light to his pipe and went on, “Tell me, sir, do you know a Mr. Miles Carmody?”

“No, the name means nothing to me.”

“What of John Hartley? No? William Knowles?”

“I have heard none of these names,” the baronet said curtly. “For the love of Heaven man, can you not string two sentences together without a lot of questions and queries?”

“Questions are the tools of my trade,” replied Holmes. “However, I recognize your impatience and will ask no more for the moment.” With that he went on to relate clearly and concisely the story we had heard from Carmody, interrupted now and then by exclamations of shock and anger from Sir Charles as the tale unfolded. As my friend finished, our host’s complexion had taken on a choleric hue and he was almost incoherent in his rage.

“Are you asking me to believe that my man Harper is responsible for the abduction and death of my nephew?” he stuttered. “That he had the cold-blooded effrontery to come to this country and shelter under my roof with that on his conscience?”

“I am merely repeating what I was told,” said Holmes. “I am inclined to wait until my investigations bear some fruit before I take any precipitate steps,”

“Precipitate steps indeed! I will have Harper apprehended this very instant.” He looked up sharply. “You spoke of a murder having taken place recently near here. Is that to be laid to Harper’s account also? Good God, why are we sitting here while that fiend is at large?”

“He will keep,” said Holmes tersely as the furious man paced back and forth. “He will not abscond having ventured so much, and I do not believe he is a principal. Do you know of his movements today?”

“He asked for the day off to attend to some private business. Where he went I do not know, but I assume he has returned by now.”

“He was in London this morning – that I do know – and he was very interested in Miss Winsett’s movements until Watson and I muddied the trail. More immediately, there is the danger to yourself of which I spoke. Remember the ivory box delivered to Miss Winsett? If Carmody’s account is to be accepted, it formerly belonged to your nephew and was last in the possession of his man Knowles. The latter, in fear of his life, passed it on to the lady to prevent it falling into hands of his pursuers, and in the hope that it would foil their plans. If Harper knew that, he would attempt to recover it from her – hence his observation of her.”

The baronet ceased his pacing. “If what you say is true, Mr. Holmes, I see little danger to myself. Surely it is in the interests of these villains for me to remain unharmed? Another death in the Listel family must certainly attract comment if nothing more, and that would not be to their advantage.”

“That is so, Sir Charles, as far as it goes, but I repeat, all I have related is hearsay, and until I ascertain and sift the facts, I would prefer that you remain on your guard at all times.”

“Forewarned is forearmed,” the baronet said stoutly. “What do you propose?”

“First of all, I should be interested to hear how it was you came to employ Samuel Harper in the first place,” said Holmes, “By all accounts he is a most unsavoury character, even if we believe only Miss Winsett’s story of her experiences, which I have no reason to doubt,”

Our host frowned. “I admit I have never found the man particularly attractive, but I have nothing against the way he performs his duties. Never did I suspect him to be as depraved as you say he is. He turned up here about a year back, apparently down and out and begging of the chance to earn a few shillings. This was soon after I had been told of the deaths of my brother and nephew and the fact of my inheritance, which brought me no joy whatsoever. I was in the lowest of spirits and had just come here at the insistence of the estate’s solicitors to take possession, although my heart was sad with futile regrets for the past.”

He hesitated, then braced himself to continue. “Harper told me he was an old soldier down on his luck and, although he was evasive about his antecedents, I gave him a few odd jobs which he carried out in a satisfactory if sullen manner. Remember, my brother spent an increasingly large part of his time in South Africa and retained few permanent staff here. As I came to terms with my situation, I began to take my responsibilities more seriously and organize the estate to the best advantage.”

Once again he paused and fixed us with a stern eye. “Let it be understood, gentlemen, I had become a very wealthy man through my own efforts, and although my succession to the title and estates almost doubled my financial holdings, a very large sum was needed to restore Bickstone to what it had been in my father’s time. I think I can boast that I have almost achieved that ambition,” he added with satisfaction.

“So you allowed Harper to assume the position he now holds?” Holmes interjected.

“I needed a gamekeeper and he seemed to fill the bill, so why not?”

“Excuse my intrusion, Sir Charles,” I put in. “What happens to the estate after you pass on? Have you no heirs?”

“An interesting point, Dr. Watson. My personal fortune is mine to dispose of as I will, but the Bickstone Estate is another matter. Let me explain, but I beg you to respect certain confidences that may not meet with your approval.”

“We need only to know of matters affecting this present inquiry,” Holmes replied. “Anything else you choose to say will be treated with the utmost discretion by the doctor and myself.”

“I wish to make my position quite clear,” Sir Charles said. “The Bickstone Estate is entailed and may not be broken up or sold without recourse to complicated legal proceedings, which I do not doubt would only benefit the vultures of the law. The attorneys for the estate believe there to be a distant cousin in line of succession, but have so far been unable to trace him. I understand that should that remain the case, then on my death the title lapses and the estate goes to the Crown. Therefore, great care has been taken to separate my personal fortune from that which has descended to me through recent unhappy events, I have never married but, not having lived the life of a monk, I do have reason to make certain financial provisions for the future. You are both men of the world, so need I say more?”

“I am sure we understand,” Holmes nodded.

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Now how will you proceed?”

“Nothing more is to be achieved tonight, so Watson and I will return to Bromley. You, Sir Charles, must give no hint that you have been made aware of anything untoward. We are staying at The Green Dragon by Bromley Station, and tomorrow I shall seek information of the man whose body was found today. I shall also attempt to learn what I can of this fellow Hartley whose name has cropped up. On no account must you allow Harper to know that you are in any way suspicious of him. Can you avoid him?”

Sir Charles considered this carefully before answering. “It will be difficult if I am here, but I think I have a solution,” he said at last. “I frequently go up to London and spend a couple of nights at my club, so if I depart early in the morning, there is little chance of my running into him. He has a small cottage on the far side of the grounds and seldom approaches the house. He is not liked by the indoor servants, and if I have any instructions for him I usually seek him out. In all honesty, he needs little supervision in his duties.”

“Then let that be your course,” nodded Holmes. “I shall be in touch with you at your club, which is – ?”

“The New Lyceum, just off Pall Mall.”

“I know it,” said my companion. He rose to his feet. “Speak to no one of the matter and wait to hear from me. I give my word that your confidences are safe with both Watson and myself.”

The baronet himself saw us to the door and out to where our nag was chomping patiently in the nose-bag that I had slipped over his head on our arrival.

It was well past ten o’clock when we reached The Green Dragon. A buzz of conversation came from the tap room, but Bert Davis came through to the lounge at once, leaving a young woman to see to the needs of the bar.

“Back again, gents?” greeted the landlord. “Can I get you anything?”

“Not for me, thank you,” said Holmes. “I shall retire immediately, but we would appreciate an early breakfast.”

“As early as you like, sir. Will seven o’clock suit?”

“Admirably. Goodnight, Mr. Davis. Coming up?” This last to me.

“I think I shall have a nightcap first and see you in the morning,” I replied. “A large Scotch, please landlord, and one for yourself.”

Davis lingered over the drinks, obviously willing himself to say something. Eventually he leaned over the bar and spoke in a hoarse whisper.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I don’t think I have your names. Not that I’m curious, mind you, but – ”

I moved my head closer to his. “For the moment, Mr. Davis, we must remain incognito,” I said meaningly, and his brow furrowed. “It is better that no mention is made of our identities or the reason for our presence here. One word in the wrong ear could hamper our investigations, as I am sure you will understand – not that we think you untrustworthy, but for the time being that is how it must be.” He nodded and winked but seemed satisfied with my confidence, and twenty minutes later I climbed the stairs, pausing outside Holmes’s room. No sound came from within so I took myself off to my much needed rest, falling asleep the moment my head touched the pillow.

Chapter VI – Inspector Arnold

I was awakened by a persistent hammering on my door, and my blurred senses took some little while to remind me where I was.

“Yes, what is it?” I called, sitting up to knuckle the sleep from my eyes.

“Half-past-six, sir.” It was the landlord’s gruff tones. “Hot water outside and breakfast in half-an-hour.” I heard him deliver the same message at the adjacent door, then the creak of the stairs as his bulk returned to the nether regions. I went to collect my jug and on impulse knocked on my friend’s door, being answered by a querulous invitation to enter. The room was thick with tobacco smoke and Holmes was sitting on the bed, his knees drawn up under his chin and his oily old clay pipe in his mouth. His coat had been thrown carelessly on to the floor, but otherwise he was fully dressed, even down to his boots, and it was evident that he had spent the night in this attitude.

“Come along!” I cried, flinging open the window to dispel the foul atmosphere. “It was you who demanded an early breakfast, and your shaving water is cooling rapidly.”

He stared vacantly at me for several seconds before swinging his legs on to the floor. Then with that sudden change of mood peculiar to him, he gave me a broad grin.

“Then move yourself, man!” he cried. “Let us not keep mine host waiting. Pass me the jug, there’s a good fellow,”

I had barely completed my toilet when Holmes came bounding into my room looking as fresh as if he had slept the clock round. As I finished dressing, I told him of the landlord’s curiosity regarding our identities and the steps I had taken to avoid a direct answer.

“Capital,” he said approvingly. “Nevertheless, I fear our names have become too familiar to the masses to be hidden for long.”

“I would point out that our appearances in the press have gone a long way to enhancing your reputation,” I reminded him tartly. “You will concede that your services have been much in demand since the Jefferson Hope case was brought to the public’s attention. Why, only two years ago you were virtually living from hand-to-mouth, while now – ”

“Fair comment, my friend,” he laughed. “I’ll not deny the truth of it. Come, I find the aroma of frying bacon irresistible, and I would not have the estimable Davis offended by our tardiness.”

The morning sun was already warming the streets of the little country town as we made our way towards the police station, Holmes twirling his stick and whistling blithely as though a walk in the spring sunshine was his only concern. Our objective lay at the top of the hill close by the market-place, and I saved my breath to allow me to keep up with my companion’s lengthy stride. Inside the station, which was decorated in institutional brown and green, we were confronted by a stolid-looking sergeant seated behind a desk. He looked up from the ledger in which he was writing, his eyes keen as he tried to gauge our relative importance and status. He decided that we merited his respectful attention.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said in a deep bass voice. “May I be of help?”

“Good morning, Sergeant.” Holmes was at his most suave. “We would like to speak to the senior officer in charge.”

The sergeant bit the end of his pencil then scratched his head with it. “That’ll be Inspector Arnold, sir, what with Chief Inspector Lewis being laid up with a busted leg. Mr. Arnold not being in yet, perhaps you could tell me all about it.”

“With all due respect, Sergeant, I can only speak to your inspector,” said Holmes firmly. “I am sure you’re an excellent officer, but this is a matter of prime importance.”

The man behind the desk frowned. “Wait if you will, sir, but Inspector Arnold is a busy man and won’t be best pleased if his time is wasted.”

“I do not waste anyone’s time,” retorted Holmes icily. “I need to see your inspector, and see him I will.”

“As you wish, sir.” The sergeant remained respectful, but his voice held an aggrieved note. “It’s just that he likes me to sort the wheat from the chaff, if you take my meaning.” Once again he scrutinised us carefully as if to confirm his first assessment of us. “There’s a waiting room through here, gents, so you can make yourselves comfortable until the Guv’nor arrives.”

We were led along a passage into an austere room furnished with a scrubbed wooden table and several hard wooden chairs.

“What names shall I give, sirs?

“That too is for the inspectors ears alone,” replied Holmes. “I would remind you that it is urgent that we see him at the first opportunity, and I’m sure he will forgive any failure on your part to protect him from a couple of importunate strangers. What’s your name, Sergeant? I should like Mr. Arnold to be aware that you did your duty in a polite and respectful manner.”

“Mower, sir. Sergeant George Mower. I’ll tell him you’re here the moment he arrives.” He gave us one last look before shutting the door and clumping back to his desk.

We lit our pipes and made the best of the uncomfortable chairs, but a bare five minutes elapsed before the door was again opened by a stocky man in the uniform of an inspector. He paused on the threshold and eyed us curiously. He was beardless but sported a fine flowing moustache and side-whiskers, with sharp intelligent eyes beneath thick bushy brows.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said presently. “I’m Inspector Arnold. Mower tells me you will speak to no one but myself and refused to give your names or any indication of your business.”

“Close the door, please, Inspector,” said Holmes in a low voice. “No blame attaches to the sergeant. He acted most properly and, I might add, sensibly”

Arnold stepped into the room, kicking the door to with his heel. He removed his cap and laid it carefully on the table, frowning slightly as he did so.

“Have we met?” he asked in a puzzled tone. “Your face seems familiar, yet I cannot place it.”

“You may have seen us in the company of Gregson or Lestrade of Scotland Yard,” replied Holmes. “Do you know either of them?”

“Gregson I know slightly, and Lestrade is an old colleague of mine. We served together in ‘M’ Division more than ten years back.” Arnold’s face cleared and he snapped his fingers. “I have it! You are Mr. Sher – ” He broke off as my companion raised a warning finger to his lips.

“Yes, Inspector,” said the latter quietly. “I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my close friend and confidant, Dr. Watson. For the moment, I want our presence here to be known to as few people as possible, although it might later suit my purpose to be recognized.”

“It must be a matter of some import that brings you here.” Inspector Arnold picked up his cap. “Come to my room where we may be more comfortable and private.” We followed him to an office containing two desks and he took the one nearer the door, signalling us to draw up a couple of chairs facing him.

“Sergeant Mower tells me that the Chief Inspector is absent with some injury,” Holmes remarked conversationally.

Arnold looked up with an ironic gleam in his eye and gave a tight smile. “Yes, he came a cropper with the local hounds some weeks ago and seems to taking a while to recover.” His tone hinted that little love was lost between the two senior officers and Arnold would not be unduly concerned if his superior took a year to return to duty. “Without being rude, gentlemen,” he went on, “I must ask you to be brief. I have to attend an inquest at ten-fifteen, and our respected coroner is not noted for his patience with delays.”

“I understand, Inspector,” smiled Holmes. “May I assume that the inquest is on the body found yesterday near Bickstone?”

“That is so. Do you have some knowledge of the matter? Do you know who he is?”

“Not with certainty, but I have reason to think he may be one William Knowles, recently arrived in this country from South Africa.”

“You can identify him?” the inspector said hopefully.

Holmes shook his head. “To the best of my belief, we have never set eyes on the man. However,” he said swiftly as Arnold’s face fell, “I would be interested in seeing the body. There may be more to this than a simple murder, but I must beg you not to press me for any more specific details at present. You have my promise that I will tell you more when the time is ripe.”

Inspector Arnold stroked his moustache thoughtfully before giving a slow nod. “I have heard you do nothing without good cause, Mr. Holmes. What do you want of me?”

“I would like Watson and myself to view the body before the inquest. Is that possible?”

“The mortuary is but a short step from here.”

“Good. Will the coroner adjourn the inquest if you ask him to?”

“I can find a reason, and Mr. Noakes and I work well together.”

“Good,” said Holmes, rubbing his hands, “That will give you more freedom to carry out your investigations. Now, Inspector, can you tell me anything about a Samuel Harper? He is employed by Sir Charles Listel as a gamekeeper on the Bickstone Estate.”

“I know the fellow.” The inspector tugged at his side-whiskers. “He came close to being charged with the assault of an innocent walker who was on a public footpath running through the Bickstone lands. Sir Charles managed to smooth things over, but I distrust the man. I’ve had occasion to speak to the local constable about his over-familiarity with Harper. I say, you don’t suppose that he is concerned in this murder?”

Holmes ignored the question and the gleam of hope died in the other’s eye. “Have you come across the name John Hartley in the past week or so?” he asked.

“Not I, but Sergeant Mower may know it. Not much gets past him.”

“What of Miss Celia Winsett? She leases a cottage on the Listel land.”

“A most charming young lady.” Arnold brushed his moustache with the back of his forefinger and his eyes sparkled. “Were I but ten years younger, I – ” He pulled himself up short and flushed with embarrassment.

“Forgive me, gentlemen. I was carried away by thoughts improper to an old married man. Yes, I have a nodding acquaintance with the lady. I have travelled from London with her on two or three occasions after she discovered my identity. She said she preferred to travel in company rather than in a ladies-only compartment with what she described as a lot of old frumps.” He grinned as he recalled it. “She professed to enjoy the smell of tobacco smoke, and I suspect she is not averse to the occasional cigarette herself in the privacy of her cottage. A very modern and independent young woman, if I may say so – but surely she cannot be involved in this fellow’s death?”

Holmes shook his head vigorously. “There is a connection, but there are no grounds for assuming she had any part whatsoever in it other than the proximity of her dwelling. In fact, it’s possible that she’s in danger from the same source.”

The inspector sat bolt upright in his chair and looked sternly at us.

“I must remind you, gentlemen, that if you have knowledge of this or any other crime, it is your duty to reveal it to the authorities. I know you have been of help to Inspector Lestrade in the past, but I’m also aware that he has been made to look a fool at times, and I have no intention of being held up to ridicule in my own district.”

“Whenever Lestrade has made a fool of himself, he has required no assistance from me,” Holmes replied with some irony. “Be easy, Inspector. When I have hard facts I will tell you, but what I suspect is not evidence and is of no use to you. Dr. Watson will confirm that I work in collaboration with the official force, not as a rival, but I must be permitted to proceed in my own fashion. Do I make myself clear?”

The policeman took this in with narrowed eyes. Then he suddenly relaxed and gave a rueful chuckle. Leaning across the desk, he held out his hand to Holmes who took it with a thin smile,

“It seems I have little choice in the matter unless I clap you both in a cell,” said Arnold, “and that will get us nowhere. Take your own steps, and I wish you luck.”

“I make my own luck,” replied Holmes briefly. “Tell me, Inspector: Is Sir Charles Listel well regarded in the area?”

“Very highly esteemed in the short while he has been here. We see far more of him than of Sir Frederick, who preceded him. A tragic business, all the same. Are you familiar with the details?”

“We spoke to Sir Charles yesterday and he told us the whole story. I know Sir Frederick was murdered in South Africa, but was there ever any doubt about the fate of his son, Sir Charles’s nephew, who would have inherited?”

“None that I ever heard,” said Arnold, frowning. “I understand his death was accepted by the Natal authorities and by his father.”

“A somewhat hasty acceptance, surely,” said Holmes. “His body was never found, was it?”

“They probably have their own ideas of doing things in the colonies.” The inspector dismissed the subject airily. “Now, sirs, if you want to go to the mortuary, we must go now, but if you cannot positively identify the man, our cause is not advanced.”

“We shall see. Lead on, Inspector.”

Before we left the station, Holmes delayed to speak to Sergeant Mower, who still sat at the front desk with his pencil and ledger.

“The inspector tells me you are a pretty sharp sort of fellow, Sergeant,” said Holmes with a note of flattery in his tone. “You miss very little of what goes on around here, I gather.”

“That’s my job, sir,” rumbled the sergeant. “I like to show myself when I can get away from this desk. There’s nothing like the sight of a uniform to make the bad lads think twice before getting up to mischief.”

“Quite so, and you will know of any strangers who come on the scene without any apparent reason?” Mower nodded smugly and my companion went on. “Have seen or heard of a man calling himself John Hartley in the past week?”

“No sir, I have not. The only stranger around here is a man staying at The Limes. That’s a small private hotel just down the London Road on two beat.”

“Have you spoken to him?”

“Seen him the once, sir, but only to wish him a good morning as he came out of The Limes last Tuesday.”

“Then you had a good look at him? Describe him.”

“Youngish, about your age, sir. Clean-shaven and walking with a slight limp. Darkish features, as if he’d spent a lot of time outdoors, but at a guess I’d say he had a beard at one time.” The sergeant wrinkled his brow as he thought back. “I know this sounds queer, sir, but I know I have never set eyes on him before, yet somehow he seemed familiar, although for the life of me I can’t say why.”

“But you do not know his name?”

“No, but I can soon find out if you want, sir.” Our reception by Inspector Arnold had evidently impressed Sergeant Mower.

“No,” said Holmes quickly. “Make no inquiries, I beg of you. I would rather find out who he is in my own time. You are remarkably observant, Sergeant Mower and should go far. Come, gentlemen – time presses.”

We turned to the door and from the corner of my eye I observed Holmes to unobtrusively slip a half-sovereign on to the desk.

“A good man, Inspector,” my colleague remarked as we made our way to the mortuary. “You are lucky to have him.”

“Indeed I am,” Arnold agreed warmly. “I sometimes think the station would fall apart if we lost him. Unfortunately for us, his pension is due in another two years.”

We reached the mortuary in less than five minutes. It was a drab brick building flanked on one side by a derelict chapel and on the other by a cab-yard. The wicket door was opened by a rotund red-faced man of indeterminate years who looked completely misplaced in his macabre surroundings.

“Good morning, Jolly,” said Arnold, “We want to have a peep at that poor fellow who was brought in yesterday.”

“He ain’t moved,” replied the incongruously named attendant, a note of ghoulish humour in his voice. “Found out who he is, Inspector?”

“Not yet, but another examination may give us something we have overlooked. These gentlemen are here to give an opinion.”

Chapter VII – The Inquest is Adjourned

The smell of disinfectant inside the mortuary took me back to my days as a student in the dissecting rooms at Barts, although this was somewhat primitive by the standards of the great London teaching hospitals. Arnold must have sensed my thoughts and gave me a wry smile. “I fear our town is outgrowing its needs,” he remarked apologetically. “Both the government and the local authorities are reluctant to put money into any project that does not give visible prominence to their devotion to civic pride. Why, even my own service is starved of anything more than the bare essentials to enable us to function at a minimum level.”

He broke off and clamped his mouth firmly shut, as though fearful of allowing his feelings to run away with him.

“You speak truly,” said Holmes. “A police constable’s pay is a mere pittance, yet he must be seen to be an honest and upright citizen setting an example to the community he serves – as indeed most of them are, We must look at our system of policing to get away from the old notion of mere thief-takers and watchmen to make it a profession that carries status. That will only come about by engaging educated and intelligent men who are attracted by a career that offers scope and advancement and with pay commensurate with their abilities.”

The inspector shot my friend a sideways glance and shrugged. “Would that it were so, Mr. Holmes, but I fear that it will be many years before that comes about. Meanwhile, an educated policeman is an embarrassment to his colleagues and superiors alike.”

I detected an underlying bitterness in his words and gauged that he was speaking from experience. On the other hand, I knew that education and intelligence did not always go hand-in-hand, a view that was strongly shared by Sherlock Holmes.

We came to a halt by one of the pitiful heaps that lay covered by a coarse sheet, and on a muttered word from Holmes the inspector bade the attendant leave us, which he did so with a barely concealed air of resentment.

“Do the honours, please, Watson,” my friend said tonelessly. “This is your province.”

I uncovered the still form and we looked down on the naked corpse of a man of middle years with greying short-cropped hair and features that had long been exposed to a fierce tropical sun. The body was lean but well-nourished and strong, with whip-cord muscles and no surplus flesh.

I ran my eye slowly over him, noting the unmistakable marks of two old bullet wounds, one on the right shoulder, the second on the upper part of the left thigh. Both had been the subject of the roughest of surgery, such as had been called upon to provide in the heat of battle. The left leg had at one time been broken at the shin and had been badly set, from which I deduced he would have carried a marked limp. The hands showed signs of recent lacerations, and two of the fingers on the right were broken and stuck out at an awkward angle.

On turning him over, I saw that the back of the skull was a pulpy mess that could only have been caused by a number of savage and vicious blows, any one of which would have proved fatal. His right shoulder showed the exit wound of the bullet that had entered from the front, and his back was a mass of striations such as might come from the claws of a large and savage animal.

“Well, Doctor, what do we have?” asked Holmes when I straightened up. “Just the facts, please.”

I recounted my findings as succinctly as possible, with Holmes nodding slowly as I spoke.

“Age?” he said when I had finished.

“Between forty and forty-five, not more. Without a full examination, I estimate the time of death at not less than twenty-four and not more than thirty-six hours ago.”

“He was found just before half-past seven yesterday morning,” put in Inspector Arnold. “The blood was still sticky then, so you are well within those limits.”

“The cause of death is obvious,” I said. “Those blows to the head were given with unbelievable ferocity, and the skull is too badly shattered to make any attempt at guessing at the weapon used.”

As I was speaking, Holmes had begun his own inspection of the corpse, going over it inch by inch with his ubiquitous magnifying glass, every now and then muttering to himself, and once or twice giving vent to a muted cry of discovery. He paid close attention to the hands, whipping out his pocket-knife to scrape some fragments from under the nails, placing his finds in separate envelopes which he stowed carefully in his pocket.

Inspector Arnold watched him with eager eyes, and when Holmes had finished he looked at him expectantly.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, can you put a name to the unfortunate fellow?”

Holmes returned his look, “I have never seen him before now,” he said evasively. “No doubt his clothes have been scrutinised to no avail? Good. Still, I should like to see them for myself,”

“If you think it will be of any use, but I can assure you there is nothing to be gleaned from them.” The inspector sounded put-out that Holmes should cover the same ground as he had, but all the same he went to have a word with the mortuary-keeper, who very shortly came over with a paper sack.

Holmes extracted the garments one by one, subjecting each to a searching inspection under his glass. Beginning with the coarse serge trousers he turned the pockets inside out, paying particular attention to the seams before following the same procedure with the jacket. From each he shook out some dust into the little envelopes which he invariably carried about his person. The collar of the coat and of the flannel shirt were stiff with dried blood, and my friend’s lips compressed into a thin line at this evidence of the savagery of the attack. The remainder of the clothing yielded nothing, although Holmes seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time over the shoes, albeit without further comment.

At last he signified that he had finished and we moved away to a small cubby-hole situated in a corner near the door. There was a grubby table littered with empty beer-bottles and scraps of food which Arnold viewed with fastidious disgust, and a solitary dirt-encrusted chair that we all ignored.

“Nothing has been removed, Inspector?” asked Holmes, his hands thrust deep into his pockets.

“Nothing but a few coins which I have locked away in my desk at the station. They amount to four-shillings-and-five-pence, along with a coin that I have not identified.” The policeman stroked his moustache again, apparently a favourite gesture of his. “So your inspection has not been productive after all, Mr. Holmes?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” my friend replied cheerfully. “The poor fellow, obviously a stranger to this country, had probably arrived within the past couple of weeks with a companion, but they have been at some pains not to have been seen together. His killer is also from abroad but has been here longer. He is a powerful man, some six feet tall, now bearded, but most likely clean-shaven during his time in the army. A man of violent temper, stupid, but possessing a modicum of low cunning. Beyond that I hesitate to go.”

Inspector Arnold flushed a deep brick-red as he stared angrily at Holmes. “Are you laughing at me?” he demanded with suppressed fury. “That sounds like a lot of mumbo-jumbo to me, and I warn you, this is not a matter to be treated lightly. This is murder.”

“Let me assure you, Mr. Arnold, I am not laughing at you, and I do not treat these matters lightly. There is yet much to be discovered, but I have taken you into my confidence thus far and, when I have ascertained the truth, you will be presented with all the facts necessary to clear up this dreadful affair.” Holmes laid a placatory hand on the other’s arm.

“Come, Inspector, surely my word is to be relied on?”

The policeman spread his hands in a helpless fashion, then straightened his shoulders. “Very well, sir,” he said reluctantly. “I shall place my trust in you. Do still want the inquest to be adjourned?”

“It will be best. However, Watson and I will attend, as I think our presence here, if known, may cause our quarry to make an ill-judged move. Where are the proceedings to take place?”

“In the billiards room at The Golden Fleece.” Arnold pulled out his watch. “It is but a step from the police station, and I have some papers to collect on the way. Will you accompany me?”

“I have a small matter to attend to,” Holmes, replied. “We will meet you there, and if you can arrange that we have seats for us to one side where we may see and be seen it, will be of help.”

We left the building and its gruesome inhabitants, the inspector to return to his office and Holmes and myself to walk in a leisurely manner down the road to the post office. My companion was humming quietly to himself, an air which I recognized as one he played frequently upon his fiddle when feeling particularly pleased with himself. I shot him an exasperated look.

“Really,” I expostulated, “you are the most annoying of persons when the mood takes you!”

He paused in mid-stride to look quizzically at me.

“What offence have I been guilty of now, Watson?” he asked mockingly.

“Why, all that rubbish describing the killer to Arnold,” I said. “We both know that you gave him an obvious description of Harper, yet you were vain enough to let the poor man believe that you had deduced it all from your inspection of the body. It was no more than the trick of a music-hall mind-reader.”

“So it was, old chap,” he agreed equably. “All the same, it will go some way to reinforcing my credibility when the facts are known. Come, Doctor, you must allow me my little vanities, and you well know that I am no charlatan.” He walked on and I hurried to catch up with him.

“Why not just denounce the villain and let Arnold gather in him and his accomplice?”

“What real evidence have we? None at all. And his accomplice. Who is he? Do we know?”

“Surely it is the stranger at the hotel of whom the sergeant spoke?”

“Ah, the mysterious stranger who is just waiting to present himself as the rightful heir to the Listel estates and the title.” He turned into the post office, a small frown creasing his brow. “I wonder, Watson. I wonder. However, it is time to telegraph Mr. Miles Carmody to reassure him of our efforts on his behalf. Hold my stick, there’s a good fellow.”

He went to the counter where, taking a sheaf of telegraph forms, he wrote not one telegram but three. I watched in silence, somewhat put out by his refusal to confide in me, but aware from past experience that no question of mine would be answered when this airy mood was upon him.

“Now, Watson,” he said as we came out into the sunlight, “I see a cosy little tearoom across the road, and we have just time to indulge before the inquest opens. I wish our arrival to be observed by as many people as possible. Incidentally, I shall be returning to London by the first available train after the proceedings, but I intend to be back some time in the afternoon.” He handed me a telegraph form. “Should I be late, you will despatch this to Carmody at a quarter-to-three. Also, you could spend a profitable hour looking at the scene where the body was found. There will be little to find after all the feet that will have milled around, but you know my methods and may spot anything that has escaped the melee.”

“You may count on me,” I said confidently, gratified by this evidence of his trust in me. “I suppose you don’t care to tell me why you find it necessary to go up to town?”

“Not at the present. It is something that I should have thought of before we left. I fear I have been remiss.” He dabbed a spot of cream from his lips and grinned boyishly across the table at me. “I say, Watson, these cream buns are excellent. You must try one.”

When we arrived at The Golden Fleece, we found Arnold waiting expectantly by the door of the billiard room, where he led us to a couple of wooden chairs placed close to the table from where the coroner would conduct his business.

“I think this will suit, Mr. Holmes,” Arnold said in a low voice. “You can observe the whole room from here and cannot fail to be seen yourselves. I spoke to Mr. Noakes, the coroner, and he is happy to accede to my request for a week’s adjournment.”

“Thank you, Inspector.” Holmes rubbed his hands together briskly. “By then you will have the culprit under your hand, unless I am much adrift.”

While they were talking, I let my eyes wander around the assembly. Most of them were the usual run of sensation-seekers one encounters on these occasions, and whose hopes were doomed to disappointment this time.

Directly facing us was a mournful looking fellow with a notebook on his knee whom I took to be a reporter from the local newspaper. Facing the coroner’s table sat a grey-haired man who appeared filled with a nervous self-importance, and next to him was a round-faced perspiring constable. Some way to the side was a bushy-whiskered man nursing a silk hat and a Gladstone bag, whom I at once identified as of my own calling.

Almost immediately the coroner entered. We all stood, then sat like so many puppets on a single string and the official waited for the shuffling to cease before opening the proceedings. He was a thin dry stick of a man, the most prominent and prosperous of the local solicitors as Arnold had confided to us, and he went about his task in a brisk and business-like manner.

The red-faced constable was the first witness to be called, identifying himself as James Old. He stated that at half-past-seven o’clock, he had been summoned by Mr. Henry Miskin to a hedgerow on the boundaries of the Bickstone Estate where a dead body lay in a shallow depression. He had remained at the scene, sending Mr. Miskin to fetch a doctor and Inspector Arnold. No, there were no signs of life, and the body had lain there for several hours.

Next to be called was the grey-haired man, Henry Miskin. He described how he had been walking his dog in the early hours of the morning when the animal had shown signs of excitement, dashing to-and-fro and barking loudly.

“Most unusual, sir,” said Miskin, prepared to make the most of his moment. “Walks along beside me as good as gold with never a murmur. Why, only the other day – ”

“Yes, yes,” put in the coroner, somewhat testily. “Just keep to the point, please, Mr. Miskin,”

Somewhat affronted, Miskin told of running to fetch the constable, who was in the middle of his breakfast, and together they returned to the body. Old had then sent the witness to fetch Dr. Stephens and Inspector Arnold.

“Do you frequently take that path?” asked the coroner.

“Night and morning without fail, sir,” replied Miskin. “Bruno likes to have a set routine.”

“Had the body been there the previous night, you would have expected the dog to be attracted to it?”

“Most certainly, sir.”

“Thank you Mr. Miskin.” The coroner dismissed him and called Dr. James Stephens.

The doctor was brief and to the point. He had been called to view the deceased at twenty-past-eight on Friday morning. He judged death to have taken place seven to ten hours previously, and it was due to multiple fractures to the back of the skull. He was not qualified to give an opinion as to whether the death had taken place there or elsewhere, but the corpse had lain there for at least five hours,

“Hypostasis,” I whispered to Holmes, who nodded impatiently.

Dr. Stephens was saying that there was no other apparent cause of death other than that stated, but without a post-mortem examination he could not swear to it. “Thank you, Dr. Stephens.” The coroner made a note. “You are a busy man and I will detain you no longer.” He looked over his spectacles.

“Inspector Arnold, I believe you wish to make a statement?”

“Yes, sir.” The inspector got to his feet. “This is a case of wilful murder, and I request an adjournment of one week to allow further inquiries to be made. You may feel, sir, that should my request be granted, that on resumption it will be necessary to sit with a jury.”

“You expect to name a suspect then, Mr. Arnold?”

“I have every hope of so doing, sir.”

“Very well. This inquest is adjourned for seven days from now.”

As we stood to allow the coroner to leave, I was aware that Holmes’s attention was fixed on the exit. I followed his gaze but saw nothing unusual, and before I could speak, Inspector Arnold bustled up to us.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, I’ve done as you asked, but why put things off for another week? That description you gave me fits Samuel Harper like a glove, so why not pull him in now?”

“Proof, Inspector, proof,” Holmes replied. “Why was the man killed? With whom did he struggle before he was killed? Who held him captive and allowed him to escape? No, there are many questions to be answered, not least who is the killer’s accomplice?”

While my friend was speaking, Arnold’s face mirrored his perplexity and he was left shaking his head doubtfully.

“I have a deep suspicion that you are not telling me all you know, sir. No mention has been made of the unhappy victim being held prisoner or of an accomplice.” Arnold’s expression hardened. “I think you are creating mysteries where none exist. Why not see it as the sordid crime that it is and which unfortunately occurs only too often?”

“If that were all, do you think I would be concerning myself with it?” snapped Holmes. “I assure you, Inspector, there are many more calls upon me than a mere wayside killing that a village constable could solve between breakfast and lunch.”

The policeman flushed angrily and Holmes relented.

“Forgive me, Inspector,” he said contritely. “That was discourteous of me, but take my word that there are more important issues at stake than you may imagine. Yes, I have held back certain matters from you, but only in the interests of the confidentiality that my clients have a right to demand. The outcome will bring you credit, although the full facts may never be made public for some years, if ever. Now, I have much to do, as has the good Watson, but remember I am working with you and not against you.”

Somewhat mollified, the inspector pursed his lips and, although he was plainly still dissatisfied at being kept in the dark by my colleague, he took his leave of us affably enough.

Holmes and I walked briskly down the hill to the railway station and I waited in the booking hall while he purchased a ticket.

“Wait for me at The Green Dragon,” he said, tucking the ticket into his watch-pocket. “I hope to be back late afternoon or early evening, depending on how quickly I can find the people I want. Take good care of yourself while at the murder scene, and make sure our names are known to our good landlord. The more people hear of us, the more likely it is that things will happen” His head went up like a gun-dog’s. “By Jove, Watson, I do believe I hear a train approaching.” With a wave of his stick he sprinted onto the platform, leaving me with several unasked questions on the tip of my tongue. Giving a mental shrug, I crossed the road to The Green Dragon, thankful that Holmes’s restless nature was not urging me to my task on an empty stomach.

Chapter VIII – In Bickstone Woods

As I stepped out of The Green Dragon, I heard the chimes of a distant church clock signalling midday. Over my cheese and beer, the landlord had made a rough sketch of the route I should take to the place where Knowles’ body – for I was convinced that it was he – had been found, and I had also discovered that the same path would lead me to Miss Celia Winsett’s cottage.

“The other gentleman off on his own, sir?” Bert Davis had asked diffidently, thus giving me a chance to reveal our true identities.

“That is so,” I said. “Mr. Holmes and I each have our own inquiries to pursue. He found it necessary to return to Baker Street, but I expect him back later this afternoon.”

“Mr. Holmes? Baker Street?” The landlord’s jaw dropped and his eyes widened. “Not the Mr. Holmes? Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” I nodded and he went on. “Then you’ll be Dr. Watson that has been in the newspapers!” Again I nodded and he gave a broad grin. “You played for Blackheath if I remember right.”

“You do,” I replied, “but that was a while back. However, it seems useless to hide it now, as we have already been recognized by several people in the town.”

“Well, all I can say is I’m flummoxed and proud to have you under my roof.” Davis wagged his head and went to attend to the other bar, leaving me in no doubt that our presence would soon be common knowledge, exactly as Holmes wished.

The weather remained fine with the scent of hawthorn blossom in the air. My pipe was drawing sweetly and I strode out blithely, swinging my stick and humming softly to myself. It was hard to contemplate that so sordid a crime had been committed in this lovely countryside, yet the fact remained, proving once more how truly Holmes had spoken on several occasions when he declared that the rural scene often held more hidden evil than the worst slums of our great cities.

The sun was warm on my back, and I slowed my pace to an easy stroll, breathing deeply of the fragrant air. In less than half-an-hour, I reached the point where I had to leave the road and climb a low stile on to a path that led through the Bickstone woods. Now I proceeded more slowly still, my eyes searching for the shallow ditch or depression where the body had been found. Presently I came to a small break beside the track that gave evidence of the passage of many boots. The ferns were trampled and broken and the grass flattened. I stopped to survey the scene before leaving the path, telling myself that this was what Holmes would have done. Two or three minutes of silent contemplation yielded nothing and I stepped gingerly from the path. The ditch, such as it was, was about three yards in, more like a shallow gully, but so many feet had milled around that I was convinced that even my hawk-eyed colleague would have found little to encourage him.

I began to cast about in a wider circle, probing amongst the bushes with my stick, but all to no avail. I started to lose all hope of finding anything and was about to give up when my sleeve snagged on a bramble bush. With a muttered curse, I laid down my stick and knelt to free myself. Carefully lifting the offending branch, I began to withdraw my arm when my eye lit upon a small brown object lying on the dead leaves beneath the bush. Had I not been kneeling I would have missed it, for it was almost the same colour as the mould on which it lay. I reached out to retrieve it, but inadvertently allowed a thorn to rasp across the back of my hand, leaving a long red laceration. In my excitement I took little heed of the sharp pain and squatted on my haunches to examine my find.

It was a pouch of soft leather, some six or seven inches in length, rolled and secured by a thong of the same material. I undid the tie to unroll the pouch, my eyes lighting up in triumph on perceiving the initials “W.K.” on the inner flap, obviously burnt on with a hot iron in the same fashion that American ranchers brand their cattle. The inside held a few crumbs of tobacco that gave off a distinctive aroma when I sniffed at them. Confident that Holmes, with his encyclopaedic knowledge of the weed would quickly place its origin, I rerolled the pouch. Wrapping it in my handkerchief, I tucked it away in an inside pocket.

Much heartened by my discovery, I licked the few droplets of blood from the back of my hand and renewed my search, finding nothing more but a scrap of paper already yellowing from exposure. I looked at it for a moment, then recalling Holmes’s dictum that the insignificant trifles often yielded vital information, I slipped it into my pocket book and straightened my aching back.

I resumed my walk with the feeling that my time had not been wasted and that I had justified my friend’s faith in me. I was now in no doubt at all that the dead man was William Knowles, and his proximity to Miss Winsett’s cottage gave substance to the idea that it was he who had put the ivory box through her door in a final despairing effort to keep it from the hands of his enemies.

But who were his enemies? Miles Carmody? His story was plausible enough, yet Holmes had hinted at one stage that he was not completely ready to accept it at face value. Miss Winsett? Unthinkable. She was merely an innocent bystander who happened to be living near the centre of these events, and her credentials could easily be checked. I remembered Holmes’s precept that by eliminating the impossible, whatever remained, however improbable, must be the truth. I smiled to myself. That young lady was certainly eliminated from our inquiries.

There remained Samuel Harper and John Hartley. The latter might be the stranger at The Limes of whom Sergeant Mower had spoken, but who was John Hartley? The name had fallen glibly enough from Carmody’s lips, but no one else to whom we had spoken admitted knowing of him, and only the South African’s account assigned to Harper the villainous role he was reputed to be playing. That Harper was an uncouth oaf, surly and aggressive, there seemed to be a general agreement. My own glimpse of him lurking in Baker Street had not predisposed me in his favour, but did his spying on Celia Winsett make him a murderer?

I stopped and leaned against a tree to jot down my deductions in my notebook:

1. On the evidence of the tobacco pouch, the dead man was William Knowles.
2. He had put the ivory box through Miss Winsett’s letter box.
3. Harper had followed the lady to London hoping to recover the box.
4. Ergo, Harper had killed Knowles, but not finding the box on him, had reasoned that Miss Winsett had obtained possession of it without being aware of its significance.

At that point I gave up and continued on my way. I still had no answer to the question of John Hartley’s identity or whereabouts, and neither had I any real confirmation of the truth of what Carmody had told us, even though his distress on seeing the ivory box had been real enough.

Perhaps Holmes would be able to supply the answers on his return from whatever errand had taken him to London.

Thus cogitating, my steps brought me to a fork in the path. I knew from the rough map drawn by Davis that to the left the track continued on to join the main road that ran from Bromley towards Sevenoaks, while the right branch led to Miss Winsett’s cottage and thence on to Bickstone Lodge. I took the way to the right, my thoughts still revolving in my head. The trees were now more closely set and I was thankful for their shade to keep the sun from my back. It was a lovely setting if one hankered for the quiet country scene, but I was a confirmed town dweller, happiest in the hustle-and-bustle, smells, and cries that made London with all its drawbacks the most fascinating city in the world.

I paused, reaching for my handkerchief to wipe my perspiring brow, and then recalled using it to wrap the pouch I had retrieved from the bushes. I resorted to flicking away the beads with my forefinger before going on at a slower pace, my stick sloped over my shoulder.

I was brought up short by a figure stepping from behind a tree to stand squarely in my path. I recognized him at once as Harper, and at close quarters he looked even more unprepossessing and brutal than when I had seen him from a distance in Baker Street.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he growled threateningly. He held a single-barrelled shotgun across his arm, its muzzle a black menacing ring that seemed to peer at me like a malevolent eye. I am not by nature of a timid or cowardly nature, but I am not ashamed to admit to a certain amount of trepidation in the situation that presented itself at that moment. Nevertheless, I put a brave face on it and glared back at him in what I hoped was righteous indignation.

“What the deuce is it to you?” I snapped back, pleased to hear my voice firm and strong. “Lower that gun immediately before you have an accident with it!”

He leered at me, revealing a set of broken and discoloured teeth.

“Accident?” He gave what might pass as a laugh. “There’ll be no accidents if you go back the way you came. You’re on Listel land and I’m Sir Charles’s keeper. You’re trespassing, so get yourself gone!” The gun waved jerkily and, despite my inner qualms, I had time to note that although his finger was on the trigger the hammer was not cocked.

“You are talking rubbish, my man,” I said, taking heart that I was not likely to be shot by accident. “This path is a right of way to the cottage of a friend of mine and I intend to go there. Step aside at once or Sir Charles shall hear of your conduct before this night is out.”

“Sir Charles ain’t at home, cully,” he sneered. “No more is your lady friend at the cottage, so you might as well be off.” His eyes narrowed in a scowl. “I know you,” he went on. “You’re the lackey of that interfering know-all, Sherlock Holmes. Watson, ain’t it?”

I bristled with anger at his contemptuous tone and set my jaw pugnaciously. “I am Dr. Watson,” I said through gritted teeth. “I also have the honour to be the friend and colleague of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who proved too clever for you yesterday. Now, once more I say, stand aside and let me proceed. It is none of your business if Miss Winsett is at home or not.”

I took a pace forward, one eye on his right thumb as it hovered over the trigger of the shotgun. Harper’s face suffused with rage and I saw his knuckle whiten as he prepared to cock the piece. The barrel swung towards me and my own anger overlaid any fear that I might have.

My stick still lay across my shoulder and with a sudden violent movement I slashed it down heavily on the fingers of his left hand where they grasped the weapon.

He gave a howl of agony and the gun fell to the ground where I placed my foot firmly on it, while Harper nursed his bruised fingers and uttered a string of foul obscenities. For some seconds we faced each other, mutual hatred flowing between us like an electric spark. Then, with astonishing speed for one of his bulk, he swooped to pick up the gun. By now my blood had reached boiling point and, with equal rapidity, I brought my knee up to catch him fairly on the side of the jaw. Like a released spring he came upright, then his eyes glazed over and he toppled slowly backwards like a felled tree to lay unconscious on his back.

I stared down at him, amazed at my primitive response and finding myself shaking with the reaction. As I grew calmer my medical instincts prevailed, and I knelt down to assure myself that he had sustained no serious injury. A quick examination put my mind at rest, he being in no worse case than I had often found myself when I had played for Blackheath in my student days. His jaw would be a tender reminder of me for a couple of days, and the fingers of his left hand were bruised and bleeding from my blow with the stick. I felt no pity for him nor regret for my actions, telling myself that it was quite likely that before long he would receive his just deserts at the hands of the public hangman.

I rolled him on to his side so that he would not swallow his tongue and then turned my attention to the fowling-piece. Breaking it open, I extracted the cartridge and threw it into the undergrowth before taking the gun by the barrel and smashing it against a convenient tree until the mechanism was beyond repair by even the most expert gunsmith. Finally I hurled the now useless weapon as far as I could into the trees and, with a last glance at the still torpid Harper, I went jauntily on my way.

Five minutes brought me to a point where the trees had been cut back and the cottage stood before me. It was a low, graceful stone edifice, no mere labourer’s dwelling, but a place that had probably been intended as a summer retreat for the family at the Lodge. It had a small paved area surrounding it, with miniature flower-beds and rockeries set in, and the whole was enclosed by a white paling fence. In all a pretty and charming sight, enhanced in no small degree by the gay chintz curtains that hung at the square windows on either side of the brightly painted green door.

Miss Winsett, I decided, was a young woman of considerable good taste.

Moderating my pace, I began a slow circling of the building, staying outside the fence and casting the occasional wary eye over my shoulder against the chance that Harper had recovered quickly enough to follow me.

The fence continued unbroken until I came to a gate that led up to the back door, beside which stood a large water-butt painted the same pleasing shade as front and back doors. The path I had followed to the cottage continued beyond the rear. It was overgrown and little used, eventually disappearing into a rough meadow or paddock which sloped gently away into the distant woods, above which I could glimpse the chimneys of Bickstone Lodge. Charming as the place was, I decided it was too isolated and lonely for my gregarious nature, but Celia Winsett obviously thought otherwise or she would not live here.

Completing my patrol, I found myself once more at the front of the cottage. Lifting the gate-latch with my stick, I went cautiously up the flagged path towards the door. My eyes swivelled from side to side, looking for signs of recent intrusion, but all seemed well. I tested the front door and found it secure, as was the back, and the windows showed no indication of attempted forced entry. I reluctantly came to the conclusion that I would find nothing of any use to our investigation and turned back to the gate.

I was about to pass through when my eye caught something that pulled me up in my tracks. There on the white gate-post, some eighteen inches above the lower hinge, was a darker patch. I knelt to get a closer view and found it to be a bloody palm-print, extending round the wood to become four fingers, as though the owner had tried to pull himself along. I studied the marks intently. Then, without touching them, I set my hand at the same angle and came to the conclusion that whoever had made the print had been trying to drag himself out through the gate.

I took out my notebook to make a careful sketch of the print. Remembering Celia Winsett’s account of how the box had come into her possession, I had no doubt that the marks had been left by the man who now reposed in the Bromley Mortuary and whom I was now certain was the unfortunate Knowles.

Getting stiffly to my feet, I scanned the scene again, anxious to miss nothing that might be of help, but look as I might I saw nothing – or observed nothing, as my colleague would have it.

Setting off at last, I looked at my watch and realised that I would have to step out smartly in order to get off the telegram to Carmody by a quarter-to-three. I felt well pleased with my afternoon’s achievements, not least by the encounter with Harper and its’ satisfying outcome. On coming to the scene of the fracas he had gone, no doubt to lick his wounds and call down all kinds of curses on my head.

When I reached the town, it was crowded with Saturday afternoon shoppers, and I realised that Sir Charles Listel’s prognosis for its future was well on the way to being fulfilled. It was but a half-hour by the excellent train service from central London, and with the streets of the capital becomingly increasingly clogged with traffic, it was as easy for a business man to travel here as it was to go by cab or omnibus to Islington or Holloway, with a finer prospect at the end of the journey.

I despatched the wire and then strolled slowly back down the hill towards the station and The Green Dragon. I went up to my room to ruminate on the results of my excursion. The encounter with Harper was entirely unforeseen and, although it had done little to advance our inquiries, it at least confirmed that he had some reason for not desiring our presence near the scene of the murder, and by extension Miss Winsett’s cottage.

At the same time, if he was but a hired thug, his reaction might force his principle into the open, whomever he was. Was he the mysterious John Hartley of whom no one had heard except for Miles Carmody? Time would tell, I said to myself, and turned my attention to my finds.

I took my handkerchief from my pocket and, laying it on the dressing table, undid it carefully to expose the leather pouch. For some minutes I stared at it, but in the end I was no farther forward than before. I was chary of handling it overmuch before Holmes could see it, having experienced his wrath when my blundering had destroyed evidence that was only apparent to him. I extracted the scrap of paper from my pocket-book and set it beside the pouch. It was no bigger than the piece that had been in the ivory box and of the same texture. I felt sure that one had been torn from the other, but as Holmes had the original, I had no way of comparing them. I tore the sketch of the handprint from my book and added it to my other trophies. Then, with a sense of achievement, I removed my boots and lay down on the bed. The old wound in my shoulder, a relic of the battle of Maiwand, was playing up and I closed my eyes in an effort to ignore it.

I must have succeeded, for my next recollection was of being shaken by the arm, and I opened my eyes to find Holmes looking down at me.

“Oh, you’re back,” I mumbled blearily and he nodded gravely,

“Your deductive powers grow apace, Watson. Yes, here I am, and while I have been chasing over half of London, here are you plunged in swinish slumber,”

“Here, steady on,” I protested as I struggled into a sitting position. “I have been far from idle, as you shall hear.”

“Then you must tell me all about it,” he said, resting his hand on my shoulder. “Apart from the fact that you have been on your hands and knees in the Bickstone woods, found a particularly spiteful bramble, and collected some memorabilia to show me, I can only hazard a guess at your activities.” I looked at the scratch on my hand, the blood now congealed, and the stains of leaf-mould on my knees and nodded sagely.

“However,” he was saying, “as the good Mrs. Davis has laid out an inviting tea for us, your story must wait. I shall relate my part as we eat.”

I got to my feet and followed him down the stairs to the parlour where a table was spread with a tempting selection of jam and fresh-baked scones that set my mouth watering.

For a quarter-of-an-hour, he spoke of anything but the matter in hand, waxing lyrical over the efficient running of the South-Eastern Railway, and going on to expound on the great social changes wrought by the harnessing of steam locomotion.

“Reflect, Watson,” he said, helping himself to a spoonful of jam. “In our parents’ youth, it would have taken days – sometimes weeks – to make a journey that we accomplish in a few hours. If that is so in our small island, think of the benefits it has brought to the vast spaces of the American continent,”

“That may be true as far as it goes,” I replied. “Consider the less-beneficial effects. Think of the pollution of the air we breathe from all those reeking funnels, and the scars on the countryside where the iron road has sliced through once-green fields.”

“Your argument is a sound one, but all progress demands a price, and if we are not prepared to pay it, then we stand still.” Holmes drained his cup and sat back, clearly in no mood for a lengthy debate. “Now to business.” From his pocket he brought out a pipe and held it up. “I bought this in Bradley’s this afternoon. It cost me half-a-guinea, but I could not resist it and I shall begin to break it in as I talk.”

Chapter IX – The Mystery Deepens

Very soon the room was filled with a blue haze, the pungent fumes of Holmes’s black shag, leavened to some small extent by the sweeter aroma from the Arcadia mixture which had replaced the “Ships” that I had once favoured. I waited patiently for my friend to begin his story.

“When I left the train at London Bridge,” he said, having ensured that his pipe was burning evenly, “I went directly to Baker Street where, despite my protests, Mrs. Hudson insisted that I put myself outside a good plate of cold beef. To keep the good lady happy, I made short work of it before setting out to find Wiggins and his motley crew.”

He referred to the band of street Arabs whom he called his “Baker Street Irregulars”, and whose services he commissioned when he required fast and accurate information from the darker recesses of the underworld.

“They can go anywhere and hear everything when the mere sight of an official looking person seals people’s lips,” he had once said. “All they need is organizing.”

“I found Wiggins in his usual haunts behind Euston Station,” Holmes went on. “I sent him to the Brecon Hotel off Chancery Lane, where Miles Carmody is lodged, I myself following in a hansom. I cudgelled my brains for a means of giving Wiggins a sight of Carmody, but soon after arriving at the hotel the problem resolved itself. My man came out of the hotel and took a passing four-wheeler, and I clearly heard him tell the jarvey to take him to Trafalgar Square. Wiggins had my orders, and from now on our South African friend will not make a move unremarked by Wiggins or one of his minions.”

“You hold doubts about Carmody, then?” I asked. “I thought such might be the case from your earlier comments.”

“I admit to some perplexity,” said my companion. “His story hangs together, yet for the life of me I cannot fathom why he should bring it to us, unless he wants some chestnuts pulled from the fire without burning his own fingers.”

I nodded my comprehension and Holmes continued.

“My next move was to call on Sir Charles Listel at his club. I thought it politic to keep him informed of such events as could be disclosed, but he is an impatient man and insists that come what may he will return to Bickstone Lodge by Monday afternoon at the latest. I made no attempt to dissuade him, but I obtained his written permission that we should be allowed to make free of his grounds as I saw fit.” He waved a sheet of paper. “Our passport to the Bickstone Estate should our presence be called into question.” He shot me a keen look. “Watson, you are smirking. What is so amusing, pray?”

“All in good time,” I said. “Carry on with your story.”

He studied me for some seconds then continued. “I returned to Baker Street for a few items that I might need and, as an afterthought, I took the liberty of bringing you a change of linen and another suit, which is just as well, having seen the state of your clothing.”

“Which is hardly surprising in the circumstances,” I pointed out, but he was already going on with his narrative.

“I then went on to Lewisham to assure myself of Miss Winsett’s welfare – not that I think her to be in any danger now that she has told us all she knows. She is quite content to remain with her friend Mrs. Footer for a few days more, but she has given me her keys and permission to enter the cottage, the latter again in writing.” Another sheet of notepaper joined the first. “In return, I promised to forward to her any correspondence to her friend’s address in order that her work does not fall behind. By now the afternoon was well advanced, so I made my way to Catford, from where I caught a slow train, arriving here to find you lazing your time away on the bed.”

“Which was well deserved, as you shall shortly hear,” I retorted. “It seems that my time has been spent more productively than yours.”

“We shall see.” He knocked the ashes from his pipe and inspected it judicially. “You know, I believe this is going to turn into a fine smoke eventually.” A rap on the door preceded the entrance of the landlord, an envelope held in his hand and a look of concern on his battered features.

“A telegram for you, Mr. Holmes,” he said awkwardly. “The girl took it in shortly after the doctor went out. She put it on a shelf and I didn’t hear of it until a few minutes ago, or you’d have had it when you came in. Fact is, sir, she didn’t know your name.”

Holmes took the envelope and tore it open, scanning the contents quickly. “No harm done this time,” he said. “In future, make sure that any messages are given to me or to Dr. Watson at the earliest possible moment. Now, Mr. Davis, about dinner tonight: Can you feed us, or would you prefer us to seek sustenance elsewhere?”

Davis rubbed his chin thoughtfully before answering. “Well, sir,” he said, “we usually only have commercials and the like here. I reckon you’d feel more at home at The Golden Fleece. Not that my missus ain’t a good plain cook,” he added defensively.

“I am sure your good lady has no shortcomings in the kitchen, Mr. Davis, as your own well-nourished frame testifies. Nevertheless, we shall take your advice and see if our presence causes any stir in the town.”

He stopped the man on the threshold. “Tell me, do you have many strangers in your house?”

“Quite a few, sir. Being opposite the station is pretty good for business. Folks tend to come in after a journey, or to while away a few minutes before their train goes. Then there’s the commercial gents who I might see once a month or once in six months, according to their line.”

“No one who has seemed out of the ordinary? You must be able to pick out the odd ones in your trade.”

The landlord’s face brightened. “Well, now you come to mention it, Mr. Holmes, there was one queer cove nine or ten days back. Let me see. It wasn’t the Thursday, as that’s market day and you get all sorts in here then and don’t take much notice. No, must have been Wednesday. At first I thought he might be a gypsy or tinker with his dark skin and funny way of talking, but he was civil enough, so I served him.”

“He asked no questions?”

“He ordered his drink – whisky, if I remember a’right – then asked where he could buy a map of the district. I sent him to Traylors, that big stationer’s halfway up the High Street, so he drinks up and goes.”

“I see.” Holmes gave the landlord a nod of dismissal and got to his feet. “Come, Watson, I am agog to hear your story and you are impatient to tell it, and while you do so, you can change out of those disreputable clothes into something more in keeping with the class of establishment in which we shall be dining.”

We ascended the stairs and Holmes went to his own room to return with the old carpet-bag he utilised to carry around the clothing and materials he used when adopting any of his many disguises. He opened it to lay out the apparel he had brought for me. Then pulling up the bedside chair, he straddled it to lean on the back with his chin on his fists.

“Now, Doctor, come clean, as our American cousins would have it, and leave nothing untold.”

His aquiline features were turned towards me as I began my narration, and taking him at his word I went into minute detail, even to the extent of describing each twist and turn of the path I had followed until I had found the place where the body had been discovered.

“You were correct in assuming that it had had many feet over it,” I said. “I doubt if even you could have found much indication of the sequence of events. However, I persevered, and it was while I was grubbing about in the brambles that I found that.” I pointed to the soft leather pouch on my dressing table. “I handled it as little as possible, knowing your methods, and beyond finding those burnt-on initials and a few crumbs of tobacco inside, I have left it to you.”

He gave me an appreciative look and went over to stare down at the pouch, his whole body still except for the flickering of his eyes as he scanned the innocent looking object. Presently he produced his lens and began a more intense scrutiny, still not putting out his hand to touch it.

His lips moved silently and an occasional grunt was his only audible reaction, and to hide my impatience I began to remove my boots before divesting myself of my coat and collar.

Holmes pulled the chair up to the dressing table. Then, with his silver pencil-case, he turned over the pouch and began his examination anew. Finally he picked it up, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger before holding it to his nose. He tipped the few grains of tobacco onto the dressing table top and, with his pencil-case, he carefully heaped them together into a small pile.

“Well, Watson, what have you made of it?” He raised his eyes to look at my reflection in the mirror. “You must have had some thoughts on the thing.”

“Of course I have,” I said peevishly. “I am not a gun-dog to fetch and carry a stick for his master, but as I said, I left the detailed examination to you.”

“I meant no offence,” he replied pacifically, turning to face me. “I sometimes feel you have too little faith in your own acumen and I’m honestly interested in your opinion. Let me hear it, I pray you.”

“Very well,” I smiled at his genuine regret at having ruffled my feelings, but so often had his brilliant mind made my own plodding efforts appear puerile that I had become over-sensitive to his remarks.

“The way I see it is this,” I went on. “The position of the pouch in the bushes tells us that it could not have been kicked there by accident. Ergo, it was meant to be concealed – either as a clue, or to keep it from the hands of the killer, and perhaps both. When we examined the body at the mortuary, I observed that among the other injuries, the back of one hand bore scratches such as I sustained when I retrieved the pouch.” I held my hand out. “Therefore we may assume that the dead man put it there.”

“Bravo! Excellent reasoning, Watson. Proceed.”

“The initials, ‘W.K.’ fit the man that Carmody called ‘William Knowles’. For the lack anyone else to hang the initials on, we can take the risk of ascribing the ownership to Knowles and that name to the corpse – that is, until we learn otherwise,” I added hastily, knowing my friend’s abhorrence of guesswork unsupported by hard facts.

“A reasonable hypothesis. Go on.”

“The pouch is hand-made from a single piece of leather, with the side seams closely stitched and treated with some resinous substance to inhibit the ingress of air and the consequent drying out of the tobacco. That is all I deduced. The tobacco crumbs I leave to your more specialized knowledge.”

Holmes beamed at me and clapped me on the shoulder. “Admirable,” he chuckled. “You excel yourself, Watson. You have left little unobserved, and have put the correct interpretation on your observations.” He picked up the pouch again. “The leather is exceptionally soft and supple, so I suggest it comes from the skin of some species of antelope in which South Africa abounds. As for the tobacco, that is my special province, as you so rightly say.” He bent over the little heap and sniffed delicately.

“A pity we have so little to work on, but I detect the distinctive aroma of the weed cultivated in the north of the Transvaal and favoured by the Dutch settlers. It is beginning to find its way on to the European market, but I fear it will never pose a threat to the Virginia plantations. However, let us make the ultimate test.”

Pulling out his new pipe he scooped the small pile into the bowl. Then, tamping it down carefully, he struck a match. Dry as it was, the tobacco was gone in a couple of puffs, leaving a slightly sweetish odour hanging in the air. Holmes tapped the ash on to the marble top of the washstand to study it with his glass before sweeping it into his hand and disposing of it through the open window without comment.

He turned back to me with raised eyebrows and I pointed to the scrap of paper with a brief explanation.

“How close to the pouch was it?”

“Within four feet, but it appeared to have been discarded rather than concealed. It may have been torn from the same piece that was in the box, but you can compare them.”

This he was already doing, nodding absently to himself. “They match perfectly and there is a small trace of blood where it was held to be torn. It tells us little, but you did well to bring it. I take it you then went on to Miss Winsett’s abode?”

“Indeed I did, but not without incident,” I chuckled. I went on to tell of my meeting with Harper and its outcome, erring not at all on the side of modesty. If the truth be told, I found the recollection a satisfying leg-up, and I went into every detail with relish so that by the end of the story, Holmes was laughing immoderately.

“My dear fellow!” he gasped, wiping his eyes. “I constantly find myself amazed by your unexpected limits. I have never doubted your courage, but to find in you the talents of a street brawler is a fresh facet of your nature.”

I grinned back at him. “Oh, there is little difference between a street brawl and what goes on in a loose ruck on the rugby field. Of course,” I said in a more serious vein, “I suppose you realise that we have come out into the open and nailed our colours to the mast?”

“As I intended, although I did not see it so picturesquely as you put it. Carry on, but do restrain your sense of the dramatic or we will never get our dinner.”

The remainder of my afternoon’s activities was quickly told, with Holmes displaying a keen interest in my sketch of the blood-stained palm print, measuring with his pocket ruler and questioning me closely on its precise position and angle.

“It seems I must congratulate you, Doctor,” he said as he straightened up. “Not only on the results of your labours, but on the inferences drawn by you. You are more valuable than a whole troop of Lestrades and Gregsons, and if I sometimes chaff you, it is only because of the deep respect and affection I have formed for you over the past two years.”

I experienced a warm glow at this spontaneous tribute, for it was seldom that Holmes’s austere nature allowed him to express any emotion. At times he seemed nothing more than a disembodied brain, and it was indeed a rare occasion that he revealed his more human side.

“I think I know your moods by now,” I said in an attempt to hide my embarrassment. “How are we to proceed?”

“Our immediate objective is dinner,” he replied, “Tomorrow we will retrace your steps, and as I have Miss Winsett’s keys and her permission to enter her cottage, we will see if, in her agitation, she overlooked any small matter that may assist us. Oh, by the way – this telegram is from the Union Steamship Company’s office in London.” He smoothed out the form he had crumpled in his pocket. “I asked if the name of Alistair Listel appeared on the passenger list of the Trojan sailing from Durban on the relevant date. It did, but curiously the berth was never taken.”

I plucked at my moustache as I absorbed this. “So if Carmody was being truthful, he came on a wild goose chase. Even had Hartley been the one to make the reservation, he had a change of heart before the time came for him to sail.”

“That could be one explanation, but if so why was Knowles killed? If Hartley decided not to go ahead with the imposture, why should Harper take a hand?”

“Because Knowles recognised him and might expose him to Sir Charles?”

“A possibility, but I think there is more to it. Giving Carmody any benefit of the doubts I have expressed puts a different aspect on the whole matter. But make no mistake, Watson – the truth will be uncovered one way or another.” He smiled grimly. “That was guaranteed the moment I interested myself in the case.”

He left me to marvel at his supreme belief in his own powers, a belief that owed not a little to a streak of vanity that made him singularly reticent about the few cases where he had been at fault or where the official force had beaten him to a solution. It was that same vanity which professed distaste for my own attempts to bring his genius to the attention of a wider public. “Melodramatic scribblings that would not be out of place in the yellow press,” he had once described my wishes, averring that I would be better employed in showing his work as an exercise in observation and logic.

Half-an-hour later, we descended the stairs and made our way out through the lounge. A group of four men looking like well-to-do farmers fell silent as we passed, and eight curious eyes followed our progress until the door closed behind us. It was evident that our identities were now known to the patrons of The Green Dragon, and it would not be long ere the news spread farther afield.

I observed as much to Holmes and he signified his agreement.

“As I hope it will. There is nothing like putting a ferret down a hole to bring a rabbit into the open.”

“Maybe,” I retorted. “I also recall that in India they tied a kid in the open to tempt a tiger. I hope we get the rabbit and not the tiger.”

“I think Harper caught his tiger this afternoon,” he chuckled, and I could not help but join in his merriment. It being Saturday night, the dining room of The Golden Fleece was busy with the more prosperous citizens of Bromley and their comfortable wives as they enjoyed a brief respite from the business of making money. When asked if we had reserved a table, Holmes assumed his most authoritative manner, which resulted in a table being quickly available, the head waiter snapping his fingers to bring us immediate attention. My companion looked over the menu and treated me to a sardonic wink,

We had not reached the point of making our choice when I glanced up in time to see Inspector Arnold come through the door. He was alone and out of uniform, and when I drew him to Holmes’s notice, the latter caught Arnold’s eye and waved a hand.

“By yourself, Mr. Arnold? Then why not join us? Your company will be most welcome.”

“Why, thank you, gentlemen,” the inspector accepted with alacrity. “My wife and daughter are on a visit to my mother-in-law in Essex and I was not relishing a solitary meal.”

A chair was brought and he took his seat, his presence creating even more attention from the waiter. Through the soup and main course the talk was of the weather and the current political situation, but it was over an excellent sherry trifle that Arnold turned to me with a note of mock reproof on his voice.

“Well, Doctor, what is it I hear of you engaging in fisticuffs with our local worthies?”

“You have long ears, Inspector,” I said cautiously.

He waved a deprecatory hand. “Please, not Inspector tonight,” he said. “I merely made an observation – but yes, I do make it my business to know what goes on in the district. It would astound you to know how quickly news reaches me.”

“What have you heard, Mr. Arnold?” Holmes was deceptively casual.

“Only that a certain gamekeeper was, and probably still is, swearing to have revenge on the good Doctor. He is said to have a nasty bruise on the jaw and a bandage on the fingers of one hand. Do you wish to comment, Dr. Watson? Just across this table.”

I shrugged. “It was a minor incident,” I replied. “I took exception to being threatened with a shotgun while on a public footpath and I fear I acted instinctively.”

Arnold chuckled. “I think my instincts would have erred more on the side of caution. Do you intend to press charges?”

I shot a quick glance at Holmes, thinking it might suit his purpose to have Harper removed from circulation for a while. He gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head and answered for me.

“No,” he said grimly. “When Harper is charged, it will have to be for something more serious. Watson is well able to take care of himself, as I have good reason to know.” He signalled the waiter, and soon we repaired to the smoking room with coffee, brandy, and three excellent cigars. “Are you on duty tomorrow?” he asked as we sat down.

“Yes. With Chief Inspector Lewis incapacitated, I have a lot on my shoulders. Do you have something in mind?”

My companion drew on his cigar before replying. “I take it you keep some sort of eye on the hotels and boarding establishments in the area? Occasional visits to ensure they keep within the law and are not harbouring undesirable characters?”

“As I said, I make it my business to be fully informed, and either Sergeant Mower or I make irregular calls at such places.”

Holmes leaned forward. “Would it excite comment if you were to make such a visit on a Sunday?”

Arnold fingered his moustache. “Probably, but I could put forward a plausible reason for so doing. What have you up your sleeve?”

“A look at The Limes where Mower observed the stranger, but we will discuss it tomorrow.” Holmes changed the subject and the talk became general.

The rest of the evening passed in convivial fashion, Arnold plainly thankful to delay his return to an empty house. He proved an entertaining companion and an excellent raconteur as he reminisced on his twenty and more years in the police service. One particular case in which he had been involved provoked lively discussion between him and Holmes, It had become known as the Penge Starvation Case and had received a lot of publicity some six years earlier, and Arnold’s account proved of great interest to Holmes and myself. The whole case had hinged on conflicting medical evidence which the judge had ignored in his address to the Jury. The prisoners, although sentenced to hang, had been reprieved and were now serving life sentences.

“In my view, they were lucky to escape the rope,” Arnold asserted. “It was one of the most callous and deliberate crimes in my experience. One can understand without condoning a murder committed in the heat of the moment, but to systematically starve a helpless woman to death needs a special kind of inhumanity.”

“Did not the defence suggest that death was primarily due to chronic consumption?” Holmes put in and our guest reluctantly agreed.

“A problem that we increasingly face is the advance of medical knowledge,” went on my colleague. “We must ask ourselves if it is now in the realm of reason to expect twelve ordinary men chosen at random to listen to and comprehend all the medical and scientific jargon currently produced in our courts. How can they agree when the experts cannot?”

The discussion swung back and forth and a bottle of very fine port circulated until a discreet cough from the smoking room waiter hinted to us that our departure would not be unwelcome and, on looking ‘round, we saw that we were the last patrons of the public rooms, We arranged to meet Arnold at the police station after lunch, and with expressions of mutual regard we went our respective ways.

Chapter X – A Close Shave

“You know, Watson,” said Holmes as we sat at breakfast on the Sunday morning, “I do believe Inspector Arnold is wasted in this quiet backwater.” He speared the last sausage in the dish and transferred it to his plate. “With the right mentor, he could be a leading light of the Scotland Yard Detective Branch.”

“Gregson and Lestrade would not like to hear you say so,” I replied, securing a rasher of bacon for myself, “Neither would Peter Jones.”

“Good men, all within their limits – but with little imagination and too set in their ways. Arnold has a lively mind and is not afraid to use it.”

“Perhaps he is content to remain where he is and wait to fill Chief Inspector Lewis’s shoes,” I said. “I gathered from our talk over dinner that Lewis is contemplating retirement, and Arnold will not be too unhappy if he goes.”

Holmes wiped his lips with his napkin and got to his feet. “You are probably right, but it is none of our concern. Come along, there’s a good chap. The sun is shining, and I look forward to a little gentle exercise in the Bickstone woods. You have your pistol?”

I patted my pocket. “After yesterday’s little incident, I shall not venture in that direction without it.” I wolfed down the last of my breakfast and followed my colleague out to the front of The Green Dragon, where we paused to get our pipes going.

“What do you intend?” I asked as we set off.

“To retrace your steps of yesterday. We now have carte blanche to enter any part of the Listel preserves, as well as Miss Winsett’s abode.” He gave a thin-lipped smile. “It will be interesting to find out if friend Harper is prepared for another joust, or whether he is still licking his wounds after your assault.”

“Have a care,” I admonished him. “He is a dangerous and unpredictable character, and I’m convinced that it is he who is responsible for the deaths of Knowles and the two Listels.”

“Knowles almost certainly, but the Listels? We have only Carmody’s word on that, and I have yet to make up my mind about that gentleman.”

“Speaking of Carmody,” I asked, “will he not be expecting to hear from you? Ten o’clock and three was the arrangement.”

“And so he will. That was taken care of while I was in London. I am not without acquaintances who can produce and deliver a telegram from any point of the compass I require.”

“Society must be thankful you are on the side of the law,” I reflected. “Heaven help us all should you ever turn to crime.”

We walked in silence until we came to the point where we had to leave the road and cross the stile onto the woodland path. As the trees closed in, I kept a wary eye open for any sign of a vengeful Harper lurking in the shadows, but we came to our first objective without incident.

I pointed out the place and Holmes nodded. As I expected, he stood to survey the scene before entering the brush, humming tunelessly under his breath. After a while he walked a few steps along the path before, to my surprise, he crossed to the other side. Again his eyes swept back and forth. Then, with a muffled cry, he dropped on to all fours to examine the ground at close quarters. Pulling out his lens, he began to crawl slowly into the bushes, muttering incomprehensively all the while. When I made to follow him he spoke irritably over his shoulder.

“Remain where you are. I take it you did not look over here on your previous visit?”

“Of course not,” I said huffily. “The body was over there.”

“I am aware of that,” he replied, looking up at me. “Think back, man. Dr. Stephens estimated death as having occurred seven to ten hours before he examined the body. He also guessed that it had lain there for some five hours, but would not commit himself to saying that death had taken place at that spot.”

“You should not blame him for being cautious,” I protested, rising to the defence of my profession. “Many a doctor has been criticised for making a perfectly reasonable diagnosis that has, by some freak, turned out to be wrong.”

“I am not blaming him,” said Holmes testily. “Had he said differently, I would have distrusted him at once. As it is, we can build a theory with no preconceived notions. Now, remain as you are until I call you.”

He turned his back on me and began a crouching shuffle into the undergrowth until he was lost to my view. For upwards of five minutes I remained fretting at the spot where he had vanished, becoming more and more baffled as the seconds ticked by. At last I could contain myself no longer and called to him softly.

“Holmes, what are you up to?” There was no response so I tried again, this time raising my voice. “Holmes, for Heaven’s sake!”

“What is it?”

His voice came from behind me, and, spinning around, I found him almost at my shoulder, rumpled and dishevelled with traces of twigs and leaves adhering to his clothing. His face had a grin of gleeful triumph spread across it.

“Really,” I said angrily, “this is no time to be playing games. What the deuce have you been up to?”

“Looking for the truth, and finding it.”

“You mean – ?”

“Yes, the place where the murder took place.” His wiry fingers dug into my upper arm. “Follow me, but with care, if you please.”

He took me back some twenty yards, then with another word of caution he pushed his way into the bushes, I followed silently, taking pains to place my feet in his own steps, until we reached a less-overgrown area.

He stopped abruptly so that I almost cannoned into him.

“Now, what do you see?” he asked, pointing to a spot six or seven feet to his left.

I looked to where he pointed, and after half-a-minute I could see a discernible flattening of the undergrowth, the broken branches already beginning to wither.

“Now continue,” my colleague was saying. “From this point we can see that some sort of struggle has taken place. And look, beneath that bush, is a dark stain that can only be blood. I have taken a specimen.” He patted his pocket. “However, there is no doubt in my mind that this is the spot where the man we believe to be Knowles had his final encounter.”

He took me by the sleeve and moved on, treading as delicately as a cat, and I could see clearly that a heavy and bulky abject had been dragged through the gorse and ferns. The trail took us to where Holmes had first wormed his way in, and we emerged on to the path somewhat the worse for wear,

“Well, are you convinced?” He straightened up and brushed the leaves and bracken from his clothes,

“It seems probable,” I agreed slowly. “I may appear dense, but if Knowles was attacked there, why drag him over to where he was found? That was a far better place of concealment than that shallow gully.”

“A valid point,” Holmes admitted. “I think I have a plausible explanation, all the same. Look, here is where he was pulled out of the brush, and here,” he crossed to the other side, “is where he was dragged to his final resting place. Despite all the boots that have milled around, it is still possible to see the flattening of the grass.”

“That could have happened when the police removed the body,” I demurred .

“Rubbish.” Holmes sounded impatient. “See where the blades lie close to the bushes where few feet have trodden? My reasoning is that Knowles had concealed himself on the other side, but had been tracked down by his killer.”

“Harper,” I interjected.

“If you like. The killer, in a fit of ungovernable rage, savagely bludgeoned his victim, but bear in mind it was dark. He needed to find the ivory box that might be an incriminating clue as to what was going on, so the body was dragged into the open.”

“And when the search was fruitless, rather than return the body to the thicker brush, Harper took him over here to where there was an easier ingress.”

“Precisely.”

“It could be so. When he failed to find the box, Harper followed Miss Winsett to London in the belief that it had been passed on to her.”

“That is my reasoning, but I’m willing to listen to any constructive objections you may have.” Holmes raised an interrogative eyebrow. I turned it over in my mind, then snapped my fingers as a thought came to me. “Why should Harper think that Miss Winsett had the box?”

“You examined the body. What did you make of the injuries other than those that proved fatal?”

I thought back to the scene in the mortuary.

“The broken fingers could have come about by his trying to protect his head,” I said slowly. “Some of the other abrasions may have been caused when he was dragged through the bushes, but there were some that had been inflicted at least twenty-four hours before death. Where does that lead us?”

“It leads us to the theory that he had been held under duress in an effort to make him reveal the whereabouts of the box. Suppose he had escaped but, being so hotly pursued, he had but little time to recover it from where it was concealed. He saw the cottage and pushed the box through the letter slit before making a last desperate bid for freedom, but was caught and met his end there.” Holmes pointed with his stick.

“If you are correct, the next thing is to find where he was held,” I said, but Holmes shook his head dismissively.

“I think I know that, but one thing at a time. Do you wait here while I see if there is any more to be learnt at the spot where the body was found. Not that I don’t trust your diligence, old chap, but you know my methods. Check and double check.”

I knew my friend to well to take no umbrage at his going over the same ground as I already had, admitting that his perception was far keener than mine. Meanwhile I waited and pondered, slowly piecing together that which he had so swiftly comprehended. In our early association I had regarded him as something of an egotist demonstrating his superiority over more pedestrian intellects, but gradually I had come to recognize the near infallibility of his keenly-honed mind.

“My congratulations, Watson.” He reappeared, a look of approval on his usually austere features. “You missed very little, and that little is of no great moment.”

“What was the little?” I asked good-humouredly, too pleased with my own deductions to feel any chagrin at having overlooked what my friend considered a trifle.

He extended his hand, palm up, to show a small brass button bearing an embossed crest. It was obviously from a military uniform, but the design was unfamiliar to me and I shook my head.

Holmes took out his magnifying glass and handed it to me together with the button. Under the lens I could make out the crude representation of an animal that I took to be some species of antelope, while around the circumference was the legend “Natal M.R.”

“Little enough in itself,” my colleague was saying. “It merely goes to reinforce the South African connection if we need it. Now, my dear fellow, I can see you have been chewing over the situation. What conclusions have you drawn?”

I returned the glass and button to him and began to fill my pipe, wondering if I was going to bring forward objections that Holmes would quickly demolish. I decided to begin on what I considered safer ground.

“First of all,” I began, “I think if Knowles was held captive, it is reasonable to assume it was by Harper. Therefore, it was probably in the latter’s cottage. Bear in mind Sir Charles told us he lives on the far side of the estate and is shunned by the other servants. Sir Charles also said that on the few occasions he needs to speak to Harper, he searches him out in the woods or waits until he comes up to the Lodge.”

“Well reasoned, Watson. Continue.”

Thus encouraged I went on with more confidence.

“What we need to do is to get Harper safely out of the way, and then search his cottage for more evidence.”

“Breaking and entering,” said Holmes slyly. “Have you no respect for the law?” He gave a thin smile. “I have been pursuing the same idea, but we shall see. However, you have something to add, have you not?”

“Yes. If, as you maintain, Knowles was killed on the other side of the path and his body dragged over to this side, how do you account for the tobacco pouch being hidden under the bushes? Surely Harper would not have put it there?”

“Most unlikely, but think back: Did I ever say that Knowles was killed over there?”

My mouth fell open in astonishment. “You certainly implied so,” I said, trying to recall his actual words. “You led me to believe that you had found the spot where the assault took place before the body was removed to where that fellow Miskin found it.”

“Just so, but you examined the body. Are you positive that the wounds to the head must have been immediately fatal?”

Holmes took out his pipe and began thumbing tobacco into the bowl as he looked quizzically at me. “Come, Watson,” he urged. “Your considered professional opinion.”

I opened my mouth to speak, and then changed my mind. I gnawed at my moustache and thought back to yesterday’s scene in the mortuary. Again I saw the pitiable remains of what had once been a live human being and the terrible injuries that had brought that life to an end. I recalled my hospital days when the victims of accident or assault had been brought to in comparable condition, some to expire under the surgeon’s knife and others to by some miracle to survive. How many remained alive because of, or in spite of, our attentions was problematical, but it was my firm belief that the will to live played a great part in the cases of those who lived.

I met Holmes’s eye squarely and shook my head.

“No, I cannot say with complete certainty that he could not have clung to life for a short while if some great need had driven him. The human animal is seldom prepared to accept defeat in the struggle for survival, however inevitable it is in the end.”

“Thank you,” Holmes said quietly. “I think as you do, but it is good to have your experience to back my views.”

“Then you think that Knowles may have regained consciousness long enough to conceal the pouch as a pointer to his identity? Why was it left on his person?”

“Because Harper, if he was the assailant, was looking for the ivory box and ignored all else. Let us go. There is nothing more for us here.”

We walked on to where the path branched off, and had taken but a few paces along the right-hand fork when a loud voice hailed us from behind.

“One moment, gentleman. May I have a word?”

We turned to see a figure in blue approaching us, and I recognized him as the Constable Old who had given evidence at the previous day’s inquest. He was breathing heavily, and when he reached us he removed his helmet to mop the perspiration from his face with a large spotted handkerchief.

“Good morning, Constable,” said Holmes. “P.C. Old, is it not?”

“That’s right, sir.” Old replaced his helmet. “You’ll be Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this gent is Dr. Watson. I saw you at the inquest yesterday.”

Holmes nodded and we waited for the constable to go on.

“May I ask your business here?” inquired the latter.

“Why?” Holmes’s tone was cold and forbidding.

“Well, sir, I suppose you know you are on Sir Charles Listel’s land, and that is trespassing.”

“Nonsense,” snapped my colleague. “This footpath is a public right of way and may be used by anyone.”

The constable’s face went a deeper red. “That’s as may be, sir, but you wasn’t on the path a hundred yards back. I saw you coming out of the bushes.”

“Quite so, and if you keep watch you may well see us do so again,” said Holmes. “Dr. Watson and I have written permission from Sir Charles to come and go as we please on any part of his land.”

Old looked nonplussed but went on doggedly. “In that case, why didn’t this gentleman say so yesterday instead of assaulting Sir Charles’s keeper who was only doing his job?”

“For the same reason that I would resist anyone who threatened me with a gun in a public place,” I declared. “Has Harper made an official complaint to you?”

“Well, not exactly, sir, but I heard all about it.” The policeman began to shuffle his feet and his eyes wavered. “A savage attack, as I understand.”

“Then let him bring charges,” said Holmes contemptuously. “For your information, Old, we are now going on to the cottage leased by Miss Winsett, who has also given us permission to enter. If you have any further doubts, I recommend that you consult Inspector Arnold and obtain his views.” He stepped forward and tapped Old on the chest. “A word of advice, Constable: Be very careful with whom you make friends. Your career could be in jeopardy should you choose the wrong people. Now if there is nothing more, we will be on our way, and should you see Harper before we do, which I don’t doubt you will, you may tell him of the situation. Come, Watson, time presses and we have much to do.”

We left the discomfited P.C. Old to stare after us as we continued until we turned a bend in the path when Holmes gave vent to a bark of laughter.

“I wonder what Harper makes of that?” he chuckled. “He was lurking in the bushes and could hear every word.”

“Do you think he has Old in his pocket?” I asked.

“Not exactly. I think they could be on friendly terms and our not-too-bright constable is inclined to believe any yarn that Harper may concoct, but I cannot see him conniving at any illegal or felonious acts. No, Watson, Old is honest enough, and unless he does something particularly stupid, he will remain a village constable for the rest of his time.”

The cottage came into view and Holmes approached to within twenty yards before pausing to take in the general scene. I repeated the details of my previous day’s actions, my companion nodding absently as I spoke.

“Apart from the gate-post, you saw no signs of blood elsewhere? The door or letter-flap, for example?”

“None apparent, but Miss Winsett may have well removed any that were there.”

“Or someone else did?” Holmes knelt to examine the post through his lens. “Yes, Watson, it was as you deduced.” He straightened up. “You are an excellent draughtsman. Your sketch is well-nigh perfect.”

“I spent many a long hour in the dissecting rooms and at anatomy classes,” I reminded-him, as I followed him to the door which he examined, together with the step. Next he took a key-ring from his pocket and inserted one of the three keys into the lock, pushing the door open just sufficiently for us to squeeze through. His sensitive nostrils flared and he stooped to retrieve the few items of mail lying on the mat.

“It seems the inspector assessed the young lady accurately,” he remarked as he shuffled through the letters. “I detect the faint smell of tobacco smoke in the air – a mixture of Turkish and Egyptian, if I am not at fault. I cannot conceive that she is in the habit of entertaining gentlemen friends. Therefore, it is she herself who enjoys a cigarette. A small enough vice in an independent young woman.”

“What do you hope to find here?” I asked curiously.

“Probably nothing, but I shall look, just the same.”

The first door he opened turned out to be the bedroom and I felt distinctly uncomfortable at such an intrusion. Holmes must have felt the same, for after a cursory glance he shut the door and went on to the kitchen with its gleaming pots and pans and black-leaded stove.

Nothing there attracted his interest, and we crossed the passage to find ourselves in a surprisingly spacious drawing room which ran from front to back of the house. A solid oak writing desk was placed under the south-facing rear window with ink-stand, pens and blotting-paper set neatly on the leather top. None of the five drawers was locked and Holmes opened each in turn. Three were empty, while the others held only items of stationery which he took out, replacing them in the same order after confirming that there was nothing of importance among them. There was little else to be seen, apart from a half-dozen books in English and French that were obviously connected with the lady’s work as a publisher’s reader. Holmes took them all down, shaking them to see if anything was hidden in the pages, again drawing a blank. The grate was empty except for some crumpled sheets of crepe paper which Holmes, with his usual attention to detail, rummaged through. On a small table by a high-backed chair sat a sandalwood box, and on lifting the lid I found it to hold both Turkish and Egyptian cigarettes, thus confirming my companion’s surmise.

“No more than I expected,” he said as he replaced the crepe paper and gave the room a final sweeping glance before heading for the door. “Still, it pays to explore all avenues.”

He stood in the passage-way while I looked round to see that all was left as we had found it. As I turned to the desk, I looked out of the window to the expanse of rough meadow beyond. To the right was a small copse or spinney, and my eye was attracted by a single flash of light, as though the sun’s rays had been reflected from a bright object. For some seconds I concentrated my gaze, but the flash wasn’t repeated and I told myself I had been mistaken. Closing the door behind me I went to join my colleague, whom I found fitting a key into the lock of the back door.

“If we hasten, we shall be in time for a bite to eat before we meet Arnold.” He swung the door open. “You are never at your best on an empty stomach.”

I was looking over his shoulder with the spinney directly in my line of vision, and again I caught the glint of reflected light, but this time accompanied by a blurred movement. For a split second I was paralysed. Then with a warning yell, I launched myself at Holmes to seize him by the waist and hurl him to the floor. Almost simultaneously there was a dull thud above us, followed by a sharp report that I knew could only be a rifle shot, a familiar sound during my time on the North-West Frontier.

We sprawled in an untidy heap on the floor, my heart going like a trip-hammer. Then Holmes disentangled himself to crawl a few feet along the passage with me close behind him. Levering himself to one elbow, he took a couple of deep breaths.

“I hope you treat your patients with more respect than you do your friends,” he said whimsically. Then in a more sober tone: “I find myself in your debt once more, Watson. You are not harmed, old chap?”

I flexed my muscles and found that, apart from a slight stiffness from the old wound in my shoulder, I was sound in wind and limb.

“Nothing to cry over, but do not give me too much credit. I acted wholly from instinct.” I stretched out a leg to push the door shut with my foot, and then we both climbed to our feet.

“Harper?” I hazarded, only to find I was addressing Holmes’s back.

He was looking along the passage, his head moving from side to side, and I guessed him to be searching for signs of what could only be the bullet that had so nearly found its mark in one of us. He looked over his shoulder at me, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Harper? No, I think not. He would not take such a risk after hearing our talk with Old. Even that obtuse fellow would be capable of adding two and two together should one of us be found dead or wounded.”

“Then whom do you suspect?”

“The elusive John Hartley is a name that springs readily to mind.”

“If he exists,” I replied doubtfully. Then, struck by a sudden thought, I went on eagerly: “I say – could not he and Carmody could be the same person?”

“It has crossed my mind, but do you think he would have pointed us towards Hartley were they one and the same? Mark my words, Watson, there is someone behind this who thinks we are getting too close and wants us out of the way. I shall find him, whatever name he is hiding under. Now, tell me what caused your sudden flurry of activity.”

“Little enough.” I described what I had seen, indicating the position of the copse in relation to the cottage. “What I saw must have registered subconsciously, for I have no clear picture in my mind.”

“So if the shot was fired from the trees, it would have passed at an angle from right to left, ending up on the right-hand side of the passage as we face the front door. Fired by an expert marksman it would have found a billet about – ” He spun round and pointed. “There!”

He took a couple of paces and stabbed a finger at the frame of the bedroom door, and sure enough there was a white scar on the woodwork at head height. Closer inspection revealed a hole in the angle where the door frame met the plaster of the wall. Holmes took out his pocket-knife and began probing and after a minute he withdrew the blade gently, and with it a misshapen lump of metal which dropped into his hand.

“One of us had a narrow escape, Watson,” he said sombrely. “It is too badly damaged to tell us much, but I think it came from a high-powered hunting rifle with an optical sight. As heavy as an elephant gun, but lethal to a smaller animal. The bullet is nickel-jacketed, with more penetration than a conventional one.” He dropped it into his pocket.

“Now to keep our appointment with Inspector Arnold. I doubt that our unknown friend is lying in ambush. He will be long gone, and if as I suspect he is a skilled hunter, he will have left no tracks for us to follow. Coming, Watson?”

Chapter XI – A Stroke of Luck

At the police station, we were met with awed respect by Sergeant Mower, he clearly having been apprised of my companion’s identity, and suitably impressed. The inspector greeted us with a smile.

“A most entertaining evening, gentlemen,” he enthused. “I cannot recall when I last enjoyed myself so much.”

“We were glad of your company,” Holmes replied. “It refreshes the mind to banish all immediate problems and bend it solely to pleasure.”

“But the problems remain, Mr. Holmes. Sergeant Mower has told me things that may prove of interest to you. Will you hear him?”

At my friend’s acquiescence Mower was sent for, and after a slight delay while he deputised a constable to take his place at the desk, he came into the office to stand woodenly before us with his eyes fixed on a point somewhere above our heads.

Arnold set the ball rolling. “Sergeant, repeat to these gentlemen what you told me earlier.”

Mower gave a cough and began to speak in stilted tones. “Following on our conversation of yesterday,” he said in a monotone, “I instituted inquiries regarding the gentleman of what we spoke who has been residing at The Limes for the past week or so. I remembered your injunction not to make formal investigations and therefore – ”

“Oh, come now, Sergeant,” Holmes cut in. “You are not in court now. Just relax and say what you have to say in your own words,”

Mower’s eyes slid sideways to his superior who gave a nod of encouragement. Something like a smile showed briefly on the sergeant’s broad features and he leant forward confidentially.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, sir, I know you didn’t want no proper inquiries made, but there’s a lot to be picked up over a pint of beer and a game of dominoes, if you take my meaning.”

“Such as stories of respectable medical practitioners who involve themselves in brawls in the countryside,” said Holmes solemnly.

“I heard that from Jim Old,” Mower said with a sheepish grin. “I had to pass it on to the inspector just in case there was a formal complaint,”

He drew his brows down and frowned at me. “Take my tip, Doctor, and keep away from them there woods when you’re alone.”

“No cause for worry,” said Holmes lightly. “Watson and I have been that way this morning and cleared things up with P.C. Old. If we find the good doctor’s body peppered with duck-shot, we shall know where to look for the culprit.”

“Thank you, Holmes,” I grunted. “A great consolation to me, I’m sure. Please go on, Sergeant.”

“Well, sirs, I happened to hear that the party you are interested in turned up at The Limes a week last Friday and asked for a room. He had next to no baggage, but pulls out a purse-full of gold and pays for two weeks in advance. Mr. Curnow, him what owns the place, ain’t the sort to turn away good money, if you know what I mean, so he lets him have a room. It seems he’s no trouble – keeps to his room, and only goes out on the odd occasion, usually after dinner.”

“How the deuce did you learn all this without making inquiries?” asked Holmes with an air of amusement.

“Well, sir, Sid Friar, him as works as gardener at The Limes, he comes into The Crown for his pint and a yarn. Then old Ma Brown what does the rough work there, she’s chummy with my missus, and her tongue flaps like a flag in a gale.”

“Mrs. Brown’s or your wife’s?” Holmes put in facetiously.

“Both of ‘em,” the sergeant replied gloomily. “Anyway, there’s Sid’s eldest girl, her what got into trouble with a soldier from Woolwich – she’s a kind of chamber-maid up there, so it’s only a matter of keeping your ears open and your mouth shut to pick up things. Anyhow, that’s the sum of it, gentlemen, for what it’s worth.”

Holmes gave a dry chuckle. “A veritable network of secret agents, and all of them ignorant of their functions.”

“Local knowledge, Mr. Holmes,” Arnold said smugly. “That is what makes for good policing. Now, if you are ready, shall we go?”

Our steps took us about half-a-mile out of town towards London, past the Beckenham turn until Bromley Hill began its descent to Catford and the outer fringes of the metropolis. The Limes, when we reached it, was on our left, a large house shielded from casual eyes by a row of the trees from which it derived its name. A freshly painted board had been erected at the entrance to the carriage drive, proclaiming the name in large gilt letters and the legend “A.J. Curnow, Prop.” in smaller script below. The drive was clean and freshly raked, and the whole aspect spoke of a warm but dignified establishment.

Inside the entrance was a small reception area, and Arnold’s ringing of the bell on the desk brought forth a short stout man from behind a glass-panelled door. His bright button eyes widened as they fell on the inspector and his smile was more one of query than of welcome.

“Why, Inspector Arnold,” he said tentatively. “What brings you here on a Sunday afternoon? Not trouble, I hope?”

“Not for you, Mr. Curnow, and I apologise for disturbing you at this time, but with Mr. Lewis absent, I must fit my in duties as best I may. As Mr. W.S. Gilbert so recently reminded us, a policeman’s lot is not a happy one.” He became confidential. “You will have heard of the dreadful affair in Bickstone Woods, no doubt?”

“Who has not?” replied Curnow. “But what has it to do with me? This is a most respectable establishment and – ”

“Of course, sir,” Arnold interjected smoothly. “It is not suggested otherwise, but inquiries must be made. My problem lies in that we have been unable to identify the victim or find from whence he came.”

“Very sad, I’m sure, Inspector, but how does it concern me?” Curnow looked puzzled as he put the question.

“Well, sir, I have to ask if any of your residents are unaccounted for, or have left suddenly within the past two or three days?”

The little man puffed up like a turkey-cock and spoke pompously.

“Most certainly not! This is a genteel establishment and I do not have the kind of clientele who would choose to behave so.”

“I do not suppose the victim chose to have himself murdered,” Holmes put in drily, and received a frown from Curnow.

“I do not know who you are, sir,” said the latter firmly, “but I do not believe that respectable people go around getting themselves murdered, least of all in a lonely wood.”

“Then we must pray that you are not set upon by footpads one of these dark nights,” said Holmes icily. “That would surely impair your reputation for respectability. As for who I am, my name is Sherlock Holmes and this other gentleman is Dr. John Watson. Inspector Arnold will vouch for our respectability.”

Curnow’s plump features sagged and his eyes turned helplessly towards Arnold, who hid his amusement at the foregoing exchange.

“Mr. Holmes has an interest in the matter, sir,” said the inspector in a tone intended to soothe the hotelier’s ruffled feelings. “As he is unfamiliar with the district, I invited him to accompany me on my routine inquiries.”

“We merely wish to ascertain if anyone is missing, or if any strangers have recently sought your hospitality,” added Holmes.

Curnow bit his lip and spoke with some diffidence. “As Inspector Arnold knows, most of my guests are long term residents. It is seldom that casual travellers seek accommodation here. Two or three over the past six months, if that.”

“But is it not a fact that one such visitor came to you recently and is still here?” Holmes insisted.

It was like drawing teeth, but Curnow at length nodded reluctantly. “A Mr. Martin took a room last Friday week. He is still here, so he cannot be the unidentified man of whom you speak. He is of impeccable behaviour, gentlemen, I assure you, despite being from foreign parts.”

“A foreigner, say you?” Arnold seized on the word eagerly. “What kind of foreigner?”

“You misunderstand me, Inspector. I did not mean a foreigner in that sense, but he is some sort of Colonial who has lived abroad and has a desire to see the old country. That much he confided to me.”

“He is here now?” asked Holmes. “On the premises?”

“Indeed. He came down to breakfast at nine o’clock, then retired to the smoking room with the Sunday papers until lunch. I believe he is now in the sun-lounge.”

“Then he has not set foot outside all day?” said my colleague.

“Most certainly not. I served him coffee with my own hands at eleven and he lunched with Colonel Milton, discussing the respective merits of the Mauser and Martini-Henry rifles – not a subject I regard as suitable for the Sabbath,” Curnow concluded primly.

“Well, that’s that,” said Inspector Arnold. “I hope we haven’t put you to too much inconvenience, sir, but we now know that our body is not that of your Mr. Martin.”

“Am I being discussed?”

We turned to find a broad-shouldered man standing in an open doorway.

He was around thirty years of age with tanned features and penetrating blue eyes that held us in an unwavering stare. Curnow gave us a look of reproach and made to speak, but Holmes stepped forward to take charge of the situation.

“Mr. Martin?” My friend gave one of the charming smiles he could produce on occasion, but the other seemed impervious to it.

“That’s my name,” he said coldly. “Henry Martin. Who are you?”

“I am Sherlock Holmes, and I’m trying to help Inspector Arnold put a name to an unfortunate fellow who has been foully done to death near here on Friday. Finding you to be safe and well, it seems we must look elsewhere.”

“Why should you think it was me?” asked Martin.

“Well, sir,” Arnold put in, “I have had no missing person reported to me, so must therefore assume that the victim was a stranger to the area. As Mr. Curnow has assured us of your well-being, we need trouble him nor you further.” He turned to the exit. “Good day to you, sir, and to you, Mr. Curnow. Are you coming, Mr. Holmes? Doctor?”

“A moment, please.” Martin stepped forward. “Should you not identify your man, what will become of him?”

“Why, sir, a pauper’s grave, and quickly, seeing as how warm the weather is,” replied Arnold. “What else?”

“What else indeed?” muttered Martin. Then with a violent movement, he swung away through the door behind him.

Holmes was in an uncommunicative mood as we retraced our steps, giving monosyllabic responses to any attempt by Arnold to engage him in conversation. It wasn’t until the inspector had bidden us a subdued farewell and turned into the police station that my companion showed any sign of animation.

“Well, Doctor, what do you make of our Mr. Martin?” he asked as we made our way down the hill.

I shook my head. “I don’t think it can be coincidence that another Colonial could appear on the scene,” I said. “Nevertheless, if Curnow is to be believed, it wasn’t Martin who used us as target practice earlier.”

“Quite so. Therefore we must look farther afield. But make no mistake, Watson: Friend Martin is deeply involved. Did you observe him at the inquest yesterday? No? He was there, and not out of idle curiosity. He also displayed an inordinate interest in the final destination of the man we have called Knowles. I wonder why?”

“Look here,” I said. “Surely the simplest way of settling if it is Knowles or not is by having Carmody down to take a look at him. After all, it was he who sent the man down here.”

“I have considered that, but I still admit to some perplexity about the part Carmody is playing in the whole scheme of things.”

We had come within sight of our hostelry and Holmes took me by the elbow to steer me cross the road towards the station. A solitary four-wheeler stood on the forecourt, the cabbie leaning against the wheel and puffing at a short clay pipe. He straightened up at our approach and set his billy-cock firmly on his head.

“Sorry, Guv’nor,” he said. “Can’t take you nowhere until after the Lunnon train’s been and gorn.”

“We can wait,” Holmes said carelessly, “Meanwhile, perhaps you can answer a couple of questions.” A coin changed hands, “Is this your regular stand?”

“More or less. Weekdays there’s three or four of us, but Sundays is diff’rent. Not so many trains, see, so me and the others take it in turn to hang about.”

“Last Wednesday week, can you remember that far back?”

“All depends, dunnit, Guv? What are you after?”

“A man came off a train and went over the road for a drink. He was a dark-featured, gypsy type of fellow. Did you see him?”

The cabbie knocked out his pipe on the palm of his hand and nodded.

“I seed him, Mister. He come out and stood looking about, and I was going to ask if he wanted a cab when he goes across to Bert Davis’s. I wouldn’t’ve taken no notice, but ten minutes later he comes out and hails me. Ah, that’s mighty civil of you, sir.” He took the tobacco pouch that Holmes held out and began to fill his pipe.

“Where did he want to go?” asked my colleague.

“He didn’t seem to know. First off he made me stop at Traylor’s up the High Street. Then he kept me hanging about while he looked at a map he’d bought. Next he tells me to take him to Shortlands where he got out, and that’s the last I see of him.”

“Did he have any luggage?”

“One case plastered all over with labels what he’d left in the station when he went over the road. He sent me in for it when he picked me up, and mighty heavy it was, I can tell yer.” The cabbie scratched his ear. “He had a funny way of talking, but I couldn’t place where he come from.”

He cocked his head to one side in a listening attitude. “That’ll be the train now. Don’t suppose there’ll be anyone on it for me, but I dursn’t not be here.

As it happened there was only one passenger who alighted, and he a guard coming off duty.

“Wasting your time, Jack,” he said to the cabbie. “No one’s travelling today,” He strode off swinging his lantern, his red and green flags tucked under his arm.

“All right for him. He gets his money if the train’s empty,” The driver spat on the cobbles and looked hopefully at Holmes and me. “Was you wanting to go somewhere, gents?”

“You can take us to Shortlands and show us where you set down this man.” Holmes paused with a foot on the step of the cab. “What kind of place is it?”

“Nothing special. A few folk have moved there from Lunnon, and there’s some talk of a railway station.”

“Hotels?”

“Depends what you call hotels. Couple of pubs, but they ain’t much cop. You don’t want to stay there, Guv.”

Holmes climbed in and I took my place facing him. The cushions were old and cracked but the interior of the cab was clean and well-swept, the owner evidently taking great pride in what gave him his uncertain living. The horse, although somewhat elderly, was well-fed and groomed, with the harness brightly polished.

During the fifteen minute journey, my companion withdrew into himself, his stick supporting his chin on his hands, I knew better than to break his train of thought and gazed idly out of the window as we descended a steep hill, the dwellings becoming more scattered as we left the town behind. We came to a halt beside a railway embankment.

“This is it, gents,” said the jarvey as he opened the door. “I dunno what the bloke did. He just stood there with his case until I went.”

“Then we shall do likewise.” Holmes handed the man a half-sovereign.

“You’ll have to shanks it back, sir,” the man warned us. “You ain’t likely to get a cab from here.”

“That’s all right,” Holmes replied cheerfully. “My friend can do with the exercise. He carries overmuch weight.”

“Thank you,” I said peevishly as the four-wheeler retreated towards the town. “That was quite slanderous and uncalled for.”

I found myself addressing his back, for already he was crossing the road to a small cottage that seemed to perform the functions of general store and post office. As was to be expected on a Sunday, the door was firmly locked, but Holmes made his way round the side of the building with me at his heels. We came upon a small, neatly kept garden where an elderly rosy-cheeked woman looked up sharply from her chair as we came into her view.

“Good afternoon, Madam.” Holmes removed his hat.

“If you want anything from the shop, you must wait until tomorrow,” the woman said uncompromisingly. “This is the Lord’s Day, and I’ll not break it for you nor anyone else.” She folded her hands on her lap, clearly not prepared to argue the point.

“Neither would we ask you to,” Holmes replied with warmth. “I merely wish to inquire if there is an hotel or boarding establishment nearby. I understand an acquaintance of ours has come to stay in the district, but we are unable to trace him.”

“Nothing of the sort round here,” said the woman, shaking her head. “Only two beer-houses, and they don’t take visitors.” She fixed us with bright, intelligent eyes. “There was a stranger come in a few days back asking the same thing, but where he went I can’t say.”

“Dark featured, with an outlandish way of speaking?”

The woman nodded, “That’s right, but I’ve not seen him since. Reckon he must have gone on to Bromley or Beckenham.”

“Then we must look elsewhere,” said Holmes in a disappointed voice. “I apologise for intruding on you, Madam.”

We retraced our steps to the road, where my colleague stood frowning in deep concentration.

“What now?” I asked after some minutes had passed. “We seem to have drawn a blank here.”

“The trail has gone cold, I fear,” he said despondently. “How do we proceed? Is it likely we should be more successful in Beckenham, or shall we enlist Inspector Arnold in our search? If only Wiggins and his cohorts were here! They would root out our man in no time.”

“But they are in London and we are here,” I pointed out. “Either we go on to Beckenham, where I doubt we will find much, or we return to Bromley and set Arnold to work. Unless,” I added with heavy-handed irony, “you intend to camp out here for the night.”

Holmes stared at me, his eyes gleaming, then his shoulders began to shake with silent laughter.

“Oh, Watson!” He clapped me on the back. “You are priceless, a veritable jewel! Where would I be without you?”

I looked at him in bewilderment, quite at a loss to comprehend his sudden change of mood,

“What have I said now?” I asked. “Really, you are the most infuriating of fellows at times.”

“What have you said? Why, my dear chap, you have gone straight to the nub of the whole problem.” He seized my arm and literally dragged me to the side of the road. “Reason it out,” he said excitedly. “For whom are we looking?”

“Why, John Hartley, if he exists.”

“And what do we know of him?”

“Only what we have heard from Carmody, if we credit all he told us.”

“Give him the benefit of the doubt for the time being. Well?”

I thought back and assembled my thoughts in sequence. “Let me see,” I said slowly. “Hartley is from Natal, alleged to have some connection with the deaths of the two Listels, and has journeyed to England to pose as the younger Listel. He is probably in league with Harper, and one or both is responsible for murdering Knowles.”

“Excellent, Watson, excellent. Now – ”

“Wait a minute,” I interjected. “Surely Hartley will be unable to proceed with the imposture while Carmody is here to denounce him? Unless the latter is also in league with him.”

“Would Carmody have come to us in that case? No, that hare won’t run. Go back to what you said at the beginning: Hartley is from South Africa and has probably led the same sort of life as Listel, Carmody, Knowles, and Harper.”

“Where does that get us?” I asked, mystified.

Holmes made no direct answer, but looked up at the sky appraisingly.

“This weather is really most delightful,” he mused. “Do you know we have had no rain for over two weeks and still the glass remains high.” My exasperation began to show, but Holmes ignored it and gave me a keen look.

“I imagine that in your campaigning days,” he remarked, “you spent many a night in the open with only the stars for cover.”

“Frequently,” I replied tersely. “Some less comfortable than others,” My mouth fell open as I began to get the drift of his apparently inconsequential chatter. “By Jove, are you suggesting that our man is sleeping rough?” I gasped.

“Why not? A man likely to be skilled in bush-craft would have little difficulty in remaining unobserved, should he so wish.”

“He would need food,” I pointed out. “Unless he had an accomplice – Of course! Harper!”

“Quite so.”

“You are not proposing to ask Harper where we should look? It would take as long to scour the open countryside as it would to investigate the hotels in the neighbourhood.”

Holmes nodded absently, then his head jerked up and a low whistle escaped his lips.

“Watson, I do believe the gods smile on us! Behold, a rustic Wiggins, as I live and breathe!”

I followed the direction of his gaze, and trudging along the dusty road I saw a boy of some eleven or twelve years, attired in a coat several sizes too large and a pair of out-at-knees knickerbockers. One hand was tucked inside the coat with the other holding it firmly together, and as he drew nearer it was obvious that beneath the coat he had something concealed.

He saw us standing by the roadside and his steps slowed, but he still, came on, eying us warily as he did. Holmes crossed the road to intercept him and he made to dodge, but Holmes grasped him firmly by the scruff of the neck.

“Steady on, boy. We mean you no harm, and that rabbit beneath your coat is no concern of ours.”

The lad wriggled vainly for a few seconds before succumbing sullenly to the inevitable. He looked up suspiciously at my colleague, but something in Holmes’s voice seemed to reassure him.

“I ain’t done nuffing,” he said truculently. “I come across it lying in the road, see.”

“I’m sure you did, and I said it’s of no interest me.” With his free hand Holmes dipped into his pocket and brought out a shilling. “Here, take it,” he urged. “There will be a couple more if you answer a few questions.”

The boy reached out a grubby hand and snatched the coin, his eyes now alert and confident. “Wotcher want to know?” he said.

Holmes released his hold and smiled thinly. “You live around here? Good. Then I expect you know all the woods here.”

The urchin nodded. “It’s nearly all Listel land – him up at the big house.”

“You mean Sir Charles? He hasn’t been here long, has he?”

“‘Bout a year. Old Sir Frederick, he didn’t mind us taking the odd rabbit or hare, but he weren’t here much. Since the new bloke came, he’s put in that there ‘Arper, so we dursn’t get seen. Shoot you as soon as look at you, he would.”

“But you chance your arm now and then, I bet.”

The lad gave a broad wink, and Holmes chuckled as he went on casually.

“Have you seen anyone strange in the woods? Someone who should not be there?”

“There’s been a bloke lurking there this past week gorn, but I dunno if he shouldn’t be there seeing as how ‘Arper’s pretty thick with him.” The boy’s eyes filled with new suspicions. ‘“Ere, you ain’t crushers, are you?”

Holmes relieved his fears by taking out a florin which immediately vanished into the ragged garments.

“Anyfing else you want to know, Guv?”

“Would you show us where this man is hiding?”

“Come orf it, mate. Take you two old blokes in there in daylight? Why, you’d be like a couple of bulls charging about. ‘Arper’d be on to us in five minutes. I’ll tell you how to find it, if you like.”

“Well,” sighed Holmes, “I suppose that must do.” He pulled a map from his pocket and opened it out, “We are here.” He jabbed his finger at the spot. “Now where is this fellow hiding?”

The expression on the grubby face told us that the map meant nothing to the boy, but on being pressed he gave clear directions which Holmes followed on the map, marking the key points with a pencil.

“That seems plain enough.” The map was refolded, “Now, you will say nothing to anyone about speaking to us. Do you understand?”

“Trust me, Squire. I ‘ope you does that ‘Arper good and proper.”

Another florin appeared and followed its predecessor in the blink of an eye. “Thanks, Guv. You’re a toff.”

Holmes watched the ragged figure out of sight before turning back to me. “A well-spent five shillings,” he said. “I do believe we are nearing a solution to this tangled affair.”

“Are we going after them now?” I asked eagerly.

“Not immediately. I must give the matter careful thought before finally proceeding. I wouldn’t want to blunder at this stage. In any case, we need the cover of darkness for our movements.”

I gave a sigh of resignation. “Once again, you have lost me. I thought that if we found Hartley and connected him with Harper and the murder of Knowles, we would be home and dried. It seems you have other ideas.”

“You are right, up to a point, but there are wider matters to be taken into consideration. I must be certain of my facts.” He took my arm and smiled. “Now, old friend, are you prepared for the climb back to town?”

Chapter XII – Death in the Night

On our return to The Green Dragon, Holmes shut himself in his room, ignoring all my entreaties to come down for the dinner prepared for us by Mrs. Davis. I gave up at last and, excusing his absence to the good lady, I made the most of an excellent meal. Later I took a solitary walk, racking my brains for a clue to the workings of my colleague’s mind, but all to no avail. Apart from his brief visit to London, of which he had given a full account, I had seen and heard all that he had, yet I was still floundering when he seemed to have most of the threads in his grasp.

I reviewed the present extent of my knowledge. It was almost certain that Harper or Hartley, perhaps both, had disposed of Knowles. Holmes had apparently dismissed his earlier reservations over the story told by Carmody, while Celia Winsett entered into it not at all. If, as Holmes appeared to think, the mysterious man in the woods was Hartley, then who was Martin, the latest guest at The Limes? His whole appearance and mode of speech marked him as from the Colonies, and it was surely more than coincidence that so many of the protagonists in our drama were from the far-flung outposts of Empire.

Harper and Hartley were both branded as miscreants by Carmody, but unless one or the other could be made to talk, no proof existed. Not that the lack of legal proof would deter Holmes if he was convinced of their guilt. He was not beyond manufacturing evidence if the occasion demanded it, or even of taking the law into his own hands.

I turned back to our lodgings, determined to tackle Holmes at once. On the landing, my hand was raised to rap on his door when it was flung open violently and my colleague faced me with a scowl on his face.

“Where the deuce have you been?” he demanded. “I’ve been waiting these twenty minutes for you to show up.”

“Really – ” I said in an injured tone, but he cut in impatiently.

“Not now. Get your hat and stick and come back here. It might be wise to slip your revolver into your pocket.”

I was back in under a minute. His room was thick with tobacco smoke, a sure sign that he had spent the intervening hours in concentrated thought. He was in a state of nervous tension, and from my familiarity with his moods, I guessed that he had not only found all his answers, but had a clear plan of action designed to bring about what he would regard as a final result.

He had his map spread open on the bed, and he beckoned me across to look over his shoulder.

“See, we are here.” He pointed with the stem of his pipe. “This is the path we took to Miss Winsett’s cottage, and here is Bickstone Lodge.”

I followed the direction of his pipe-stem and nodded.

“Here is the spot where the putative Hartley is skulking, so if we cut across here, we can be there within half-an-hour. Do you follow?”

I studied carefully the route he had traced. “You think we can trust that boy? Suppose we encounter Harper on our way?”

“The boy I believe,” said Holmes. “As for Harper, I imagine we can deal with him between us. In fact, I would welcome a passage of arms with that scoundrel.”

“Then we go now?”

“At once. The moon will be up shortly, and sufficient to light our way without leaving us unduly exposed. Take those two out of the game and I’m confident that tomorrow will see the whole matter resolved.”

“I would have thought that if they are taken,” I observed, “the matter will be ended tonight.”

“We shall see,” Holmes said enigmatically. “Are you ready?”

We made our way quietly down the stairs and let ourselves out of the back door, unseen by the landlord or his wife. Holmes stepped out confidently in the direction he had memorised from the map, and soon we were following a faint but definite path through the woods, the silence disturbed only by the rustlings of nocturnal creatures in the undergrowth and the occasional cry as one fell victim to a predator.

Not a word passed between us until, after what I judged to be twenty minutes, Holmes stopped suddenly and gave a warning hiss. He raised his arm and pointed. Following his finger I discerned a faint yellow glow some two-hundred yards ahead, and my companion’s teeth gleamed in the nascent moonlight as he gave a triumphant grin.

“Wait,” he breathed. “Be prepared for anything.”

His injunction was superfluous. I already had my hand in my pocket, the walnut butt of my old service revolver nestling reassuringly in my palm. I edged my way forward behind Holmes, each step being carefully tested before I dared to trust my full weight on it. The time seemed interminable before we were in a position to make out any details, but at last we were able to crouch in the shadow of a large beech tree to take stock of the situation.

I saw that the yellow glow came from what looked like a dark-lantern set on the ground by the glowing embers of a small fire, the smoke from which drifted down-wind to us. I could see a figure moving back and forth between us and the light, seemingly watching and pacing with some impatience. Long minutes crept by. Then, from the darkness of the woods, a man appeared. I had no difficulty in recognizing the burly form of Harper as he came into the circle of light and came to a halt facing the other slighter figure.

They immediately began what looked to be some kind of altercation, their words coming to us as a dull indistinguishable murmur. The voices rose and fell, and a sign from Holmes took us closer by another ten yards, now creeping along on our hands and knees like hunters stalking their prey.

Now we could hear what was being said and it was Harper who was leading forth belligerently, a shotgun held loosely by his side.

“No, Mr. Hartley,” he was saying angrily. “You listen to me. For near on two years, I’ve danced to your tune and done all you’ve said. What have I had out of it? Nowt but a few mouldy quid you’ve thrown my way when it suited you. I was me what spotted Knowles and put him away, and it’s my neck what’ll feel the rope if we come unstuck.”

“We will not come unstuck if you keep your head,” came the lighter tones of the man we now knew was Hartley. “As soon as I get my hands on Bickstone, we will both be on Easy Street, but don’t get too greedy. You are the one that did for young Listel, and there are still questions being asked about that in Natal.”

“With Knowles shut up,” Harper sneered, “who knows anything?”

“I do, and you will do well to remember it.”

“Who did for the old man? That wasn’t me, I was out of the country at the time. Don’t you threaten me, Mr. Clever Hartley.”

Both men had raised their voices, and now Harper took a step back and raised his arm to level the shotgun at the other.

“Stop being a fool, Harper.” There was a note of steel Hartley’s voice, but no hint of fear. “We’re both in this together, but you’ll do well to remember Frederick Listel. I can well do without you, but what are you without me? Nothing! If I put you away now, it would not make the slightest difference to my plans.”

He half-turned and I felt Holmes’s hand grip my forearm as he began to rise to his feet, but events overtook any move that we could make.

I saw Hartley spin round, a pistol in his hand painting directly at Harper. There was an explosion of noise, and the sharper crack of the pistol sounding above the double boom of the shotgun. There was a commotion in the undergrowth and trees as the sleeping wild-life of the woods registered its protest at the invasion of its domain. Then I had my revolver out and was stumbling after Holmes who was already halfway to the scene. A terrible sight greeted our eyes. Harper had fallen into the fire, but even as Holmes dragged him clear, the black hole in the centre of his forehead was enough to tell me he was already dead. I turned quickly to where Hartley lay, uttering a cry of horror as the faceless apparition swam into view. He had caught the full blast of both barrels full in the face and, with all my medical training and my experiences in Afghanistan, I still felt sickened by what I now saw. All that remained was a bloody mask, and my hand, still clutching my revolver, hung limply at my side.

Even Holmes was shaken and momentarily lost for words as his eyes took it all in.

For about thirty seconds he remained frozen, then he recovered to turn a bleak look in my direction.

“There is work to be done,” he said through gritted teeth. “Pull yourself together.” He took out his watch and studied it. “It wants ten minutes to midnight. Make a note of the time. No, wait. Call it midnight – that will give us a little leeway to arrange matters. There is no doubt that these two are dead, but please pronounce it officially.”

I came out of my trance and did his bidding, but it was a perfunctory task that needed no medical skill. I stood up and grunted confirmation.

Holmes picked up the dark lantern and with cold deliberation began to search through Hartley’s pockets, returning some items and putting others to one side. He turned to Harper and repeated the procedure, this time retaining but one small piece of paper. He rose to his feet and looked down at the still forms, the faint silvery moonlight that penetrated the trees adding a dimension of unreality to the ghastly scene.

“They died as they lived,” said Holmes as he turned away. “Violently and sordidly, and I cannot feel any pity for them. However, it’s left to us to see they have left nothing that will embarrass innocent parties.”

He swept the beam of the lantern around and it wavered before coming to rest on a dark opening in the thickest of the bushes. My straining eyes picked out a natural arbour formed by the hawthorns and, ducking my head, I followed my colleague inside.

There was a bed of dry bracken with a ragged blanket lying in an untidy heap on it, while on the floor was a tin plate with the remains of a meal and a stub of candle in a chipped saucer. My eye was drawn to a tapered green canvas case leaning against the back of the shelter.

Holmes had already seen it and he picked it up, unlacing it to reveal a superbly made hunting rifle. It was similar to those I had seen in the possession of regular army officers in India who, in between spells of active duty, enjoyed the thrills and pleasures of the chase.

“But for your quickness, this might well have done for one of us this morning,” my companion remarked, now back to his normal self. “I take it you feel no sense of bereavement over the demise of this pair?”

“Only in so much that I would have preferred to see them dangling on the end of a rope,” I retorted. “The way they went was too clean.”

“But final, and with less chance of unwanted facts becoming public.”

In the dim light of the lantern my expression told Holmes that I was lost, and he patted my shoulder gently.

“Bear with me. I promise I shall place the whole business in its proper perspective tomorrow. There is no more for us here, so we had better inform the police without delay, like good citizens.”

We moved out into the open, and after a look around him he continued.

“Do you think you can find your way to the police station? I doubt that Arnold will be on duty, but whomever is will know where to find him,”

“It will take the better part of two hours to rouse out Arnold and get back here,” I pointed out. “Will you be all right alone?”

“Of course,” he said impatiently. “It will give me time to ensure that all is as it should be. Off you go, there’s a good chap.”

“One of these days you will go too far,” I said over my shoulder as I set off, his chuckle following me into the gloom.

The moon was obscured by the time I reached the police station. The sergeant at the desk was unknown to me, but on my giving my name, it was obvious that the news of Holmes’s and my involvement in local affairs had been relayed to him.

“Mr. Arnold has left instructions that you and Mr. Holmes be given any help you need, sir, but I don’t know what I can do at this time of the morning.” He glance significantly at the clock which stood at a quarter-to-one. “There’s only me and one constable in the station.”

“Then you can send him to fetch Inspector Arnold,” I retorted. “You’ll be in hot water if you delay, that I promise.” The sergeant bent a resentful look on me, but at length he turned to the door behind him and called out. A sleepy looking constable stuck his head through, yawning and scratching his head.

“Straighten yourself up, Miller,” the sergeant growled. “Get round to Inspector Arnold’s house and tell him Dr. Watson wants him urgent. And get a move on,” he added.

“What, at this time of the morning?” said the astonished constable. “He’ll bite my head off.”

“He’ll do more than that if you waste time!” I snapped. “You can tell him that Mr. Holmes is waiting with two dead men in Bickstone Woods, and I’m here to show him the place.”

Both policemen stared open-mouthed at me, and I felt myself struggling with my already frayed temper. Then the constable vanished like a startled rabbit, fumbling to fasten the neck of his tunic as he went. He was soon back, helmeted and flushed of face as he scuttled out of the station.

My mood was not such that I could remain still, and I went out into the night air where I paced to-and-fro, puffing furiously at my pipe.

Arnold arrived much quicker than I anticipated, his bearing as alert as ever despite the lateness of the hour.

“What the devil is going on, Doctor?” he snapped as soon as we met. “What’s all this about dead bodies in the woods?”

I gave him the bare facts, thankful that he didn’t ask any questions whose answers might conflict with any version that Holmes might have to give him. When I had finished he gave a curt nod, and I thought I caught a sardonic gleam in his eye.

“I sent Miller for Sergeant Mower,” he said. “As soon as he arrives we can go. I’ll get a couple of lanterns to take with us.”

He vanished into the station. His back was barely turned before the sergeant came puffing up, his tunic not yet buttoned and his night-shirt stuffed into his trousers.

“What’s the panic, Doctor?” he panted. “Miller gave me some story about dead bodies in the woods and me being wanted here.”

“True enough, Sergeant, but Inspector Arnold is here to tell you all about it.” As I spoke the inspector came down the steps and we set off on our errand, Arnold telling Sergeant Mower even less than I had thought fit to impart.

We entered the woods, now completely shrouded in darkness with the disappearance of the moon, our only light the bobbing rays of the bullseye lanterns carried by the two policemen. There being no need for caution now, we made rapid progress traversing the same ground as Holmes and I had covered earlier. I was relieved that my sense of direction hadn’t failed me, and we came upon Holmes seated on a tree-stump puffing contentedly at his pipe.

“A pretty kettle of fish,” the inspector said as soon as we were within earshot of my companion. “How did this come about?”

He stopped to survey the scene, his expression thunderous in the glow of the lanterns.

“None of our doing, Inspector,” replied Holmes as he stood up. “No doubt Watson has sketched in the outlines?”

“Only in so far as you arrived to find these two quarrelling, but I want to know how it was you were so conveniently here.”

“Let us say on information received,” Holmes said easily. “Of course, you recognize Harper,” he indicated his body. “This other character goes by the name of John Hartley.”

“Confound it all, Mr. Holmes!” cried the inspector. “I know of your reputation and I have a lot of respect for you, but if you had knowledge of criminal activities, it was your plain duty to inform the police.”

“Is it a crime for a man to camp out at night?” asked Holmes with a touch of sarcasm. “After all, he may have had permission from the land owner or his agent. I heard that a man that I believed to be Hartley was here, and Watson and I came along to find out if it was so.”

“Why?” Arnold asked bluntly.

“Because I had this Hartley connected with Harper in your murder case. What we overheard tonight confirmed it, but this happened before either of us could intervene.”

“You had better tell me all about it,” sighed the inspector.

“It’s a long story, but I shall make it as brief as possible,” said Holmes. “I also have the interests of my client to consider. As you will have gathered, I came here in connection with the Listel family. A client of mine was uneasy about the death of Sir Frederick and the abduction and presumed death of his son and heir Alistair Listel. This fellow Harper had been named as one of the kidnappers of the younger Listel, and by a strange quirk of fate I learned from another client that he was employed by Sir Charles.”

“The other client being Miss Winsett,” put in Arnold.

Holmes continued without denying or confirming this. “By various means, I have ascertained that your murder victim is one William Knowles, the former servant of Alistair Listel. Knowles came to England in pursuit of Harper.”

“With the intention of taking the law into his own hands?” hazarded Arnold. “Why was this Hartley on the scene?”

“That is where it becomes complicated. He was the brains behind the events in Natal, and came to team up with Harper. With Harper established on the estate, I think they were waiting for the opportunity to enter the Lodge and loot it for all it was worth.”

Even to me this sounded feeble enough, and Inspector Arnold narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but already Holmes was pressing on.

“When Knowles turned up thirsting for vengeance, this unsavoury pair had to silence him or be exposed for what they were.”

“But why did Knowles not go to the police?” asked the inspector.

“As you rightly guessed, he intended to deal with them himself, and anyway, how much credence would you have given his story?”

“It might have saved his life. We would have investigated and alerted Sir Charles to the possibility. It would depend on how convincing Knowles was.”

“Knowles didn’t think that way. He had suffered at the hands of Harper and Hartley and believed they had killed both Listels. Bear in mind his Colonial background, where justice tends to be of a more rough and ready kind than we’re accustomed to.”

Holmes went on to relate how we had come upon the two men engaged in what was their fatal altercation, carefully avoiding any mention of what had brought us here in the dead of night.

To me the whole story was a flimsy fabrication, and I could tell that Arnold was not overly impressed. To his credit, he outwardly accepted Holmes’s version, no doubt happy to be in a position to close the files on three violent killings in as many days.

No mention was made of the rifle, and it was no longer in Hartley’s lair when Arnold and Kower gave it their attention. The first signs of dawn were appearing before the latter was sent off to fetch reinforcements, and five minutes later Holmes suggested that our presence was unnecessary.

“You may go, gentlemen,” the policeman nodded. “Dr. Watson is ready to certify that these two are dead, I take it?”

“Yes, of course,” I said. “Even to placing the time of death as a minute or two either side of midnight.”

“Then I shall ask you to call at the station later to make formal statements. Shall we say noon? There is also the matter of identification. Harper presents no problems – he is well known – but we still have nothing definite on those you have supposed to be Knowles and Hartley.”

“That will all become clear later,” said Holmes firmly. He turned away before any more questions could be posed. “Come, Watson. Breakfast is calling.”

He made off in a direction different from that by which we had come, and as soon as Arnold was lost to view he darted into the scrub to come out clutching the green canvas rifle-case.

“Holmes!” I protested. “What are you up to now?”

He unlaced the case and brought out the weapon, holding it out to me stock first.

“What do you see, Watson?” he asked softly.

I looked at the weapon and in the growing light I could distinguish on the butt a circular brass plate. Looking more closely, I made out the initials ‘A.L.’ stamped on it, and I stared up at Holmes’s grim face.

“‘A.L.’” I muttered. “Alistair Listel?”

“Undoubtedly. This is probably what put Knowles on to Hartley in Durban, if you recall Carmody’s account of things. It must be returned to its rightful owner.”

“Who – oh, I see. You intend to give it to Sir Charles, as he was the heir to the title. It will be a fine gesture and much appreciated.” Holmes replaced the rifle in its case. Then, with a rare display of affection, he put his arm around my shoulders.

“Watson, my friend, we have had a long night. Do you feel up to carrying on for a little longer? I want to go through Harper’s cottage to make sure he has nothing that could give rise to awkward questions.”

I couldn’t refuse and followed gamely in his footsteps. He seemed to know exactly where he was heading, and less than fifteen minutes later we came in sight of a low stone building. The door was locked, but burst open when Holmes applied a shoulder to it to admit us to the single room.

There was little in the way of furniture. A narrow bed in one corner, a plain wooden table and chair, and a minimum of cutlery and crockery. A thorough search, which included stripping the bed to its bare frame and lifting the coarse matting on the floor, produced nothing more than a pair of pistols with ammunition for them, along with a box of shotgun cartridges. Holmes went through the pockets of the clothing hanging behind the door, coming up with a leather purse that held half-a-dozen sovereigns. This he returned, and then stood in the centre of the room for one final scrutiny.

“Nothing,” he said in a satisfied tone. “I think we can now go ahead to finish this intricate matter. Forgive me if I remain reticent for the next few hours, but you know my methods.”

“I know you love mystifying me, but I really cannot see what else remains. I’m still puzzled by your remark to Arnold regarding the identification of Hartley and Knowles. Don’t underestimate that officer. He has a fine brain and a lot of common-sense to go with it.”

“I quite agree, but he also wants to have his door-step clear of any unsolved crimes. Now come along – there are still things to be done and breakfast to be eaten.”

He ushered me out of the cottage and wedged the door shut, and then struck an unerring path that eventually brought us to the road leading to the town. Despite my importunings he refused to say another word on the matter, and at last I gave up and retreated into an offended silence.

Chapter XIII – The Mist Clears

When we reached The Green Dragon, a bleary-eyed Davis was rolling empty casks into the yard for collection by the brewer’s dray-man. He looked his surprise at our dishevelled appearance, but diplomatically made no comment beyond asking if we wanted breakfast at once.

“Give us time to clean up, Landlord,” said Holmes as we made for the stairs. “Then you may dish up the biggest meal you can put together.”

“Twenty minutes, sir,” grinned Davis, “The missus has the stove going, and the girl has just come in with a trug of morning mushrooms.”

Shaved and with fresh linen, I felt a lot better, and the laden plates set before us were quickly wiped clean. My companion still avoided any mention of the events of the night and I held my impatience in check, well aware that any questions of mine would be met with silence or evasions. Holmes would speak when he was ready, and not before.

We took our pipes to the benches in the front porch, where Holmes sat with a vacant look on his face, only the curling puffs of smoke from his pipe giving any hint of life. Somewhere in the distance a clock struck eight. I stood up to look down at my colleague.

“If you don’t want to talk,” I said, “I shall stretch out on the bed for a couple of hours.”

He looked up absently and gave a jerk of his head. “You carry on. I have a few arrangements to make before we see Arnold.”

He too rose to his feet and without another word set off towards the town, leaving me to stare at his retreating back. I shook my head in frustration and went up to my room. The sleepless night followed by the hearty breakfast induced a feeling of lassitude and, removing my boots, I settled down on the bed.

The next thing I knew was being shaken awake by Holmes, and I opened my eyes to see him looking down at me with a sardonic grin.

“Half-past-eleven o’clock,” he was saying. “Straighten yourself up, and I’ll meet you below,”

I splashed water on my face. Then, collecting my hat and stick, I went down to where Holmes awaited me. I expected that we would go straight to meet Inspector Arnold, but instead Holmes took me by the arm to steer me across the road to the railway station where he purchased platform tickets for us.

“What are we doing here?” I asked patiently. “We are due at the police station at midday.”

“Plenty of time,” he replied. “There is a train from London at eleven forty-four, and if Mr. Miles Carmody has heeded me, he will be on it. When he arrives, please back me up in all I say, and for goodness’ sake, do not add anything to my story.”

“Have I lost your trust?” I said bitterly. “You revel in keeping me in the dark, yet expect me to blindly follow your every whim.”

“I’m sorry.” He sounded genuinely regretful. “Had you been awake mid-morning, I could have told you more. As it is, time is short.”

“As you say,” I said resignedly. “No doubt you will condescend to explain in your own good time.”

A whistle and a plume of smoke in the distance heralded the train’s imminent arrival and it clanked to a halt within seconds of its appointed time. A bare handful of passengers alighted, Carmody among them.

“Go and secure a cab before they are all taken.” Holmes went forward to greet the South African while I went resentfully to do his bidding.

The first cab on the rank was driven by our old friend of the previous day. He acknowledged me with a finger to the brim of his hat.

‘“Morning, Guv. Where to this time?”

“Probably the police station,” I said shortly, unable to hide my chagrin at my friend’s cavalier treatment of me. “My colleague is meeting someone from the train. He will tell you.”

Presently Holmes and Carmody came out, the former talking animatedly and the other listening with an angry frown. They remained on the forecourt for another minute, and then Holmes ushered Carmody into the cab.

“Police station, Driver, but slowly please.” Holmes waved me in ahead of him and took his place next to me facing our client, who gave me a brief nod of recognition before turning his attention back to Holmes.

“So Knowles is definitely dead.” Carmody’s voice was angry and bitter.

“I’m afraid so. He was dead even before you approached me about the matter. If it is any consolation to you, sir, his killer has already paid the price, along with his accomplice.”

“Harper? Hartley? You have accounted for them?”

“Not I, Mr. Carmody. They disagreed and shot one another twelve hours since.”

“Then my friend and his father too are avenged. Would that I had not involved poor Knowles in this and brought him to his end.” Carmody stared blankly into space for a while. “One thing I would like to know, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “Why have you brought me here so urgently?”

“Three reasons. First, Inspector Arnold, the senior police officer, has two bodies that need identifying officially. Knowles, of course, presents no problem, as you were close to him. The other man is Hartley, whom no one seems to know. That is where your help is needed.”

“I fail to see what I can do.” Carmody frowned, “Surely you haven’t forgotten that I stated categorically that I would not recognize the man if he passed me in the street.”

“Quite so, but Arnold does not know that, does he? Believe me, sir, it would save a lot of unwelcome questions if you could swear to his identity.”

“Unwelcome questions? Unwelcome to whom?”

“That will become clear when we have crossed this bridge,” replied Holmes. “I told you there were three reasons for bringing you here, and I ask you to trust me as we move on one step at a time. Will you do so?”

As he finished speaking, our conveyance pulled up at the police station and he fixed Carmody with compelling eyes.

The latter returned the look, then jerked his head in assent.

“Very well, Mr. Holmes,” he said curtly. “You must have some valid reason for asking me to perjure myself, but I shall expect a full and convincing explanation before very long.”

“You shall have it. Harper can be sworn to by any number of people here, so do not concern yourself with him. Just identify Knowles and Hartley and we can make the next step. Now, I’m sure Inspector Arnold is waiting with some impatience, so let us attend him.”

We were taken at once to the inspector’s office, where Arnold looked curiously at Carmody.

Holmes performed the introductions. “Inspector Arnold, this is my client, Mr. Miles Carmody, a former associate of Sir Frederick and Alistair Listel. He has come at my behest to identify the bodies of William Knowles and John Hartley, both of whom he knew in South Africa.”

“That is most gratifying, Mr. Carmody. May I ask your relationship to the two deceased?”

“Knowles was formerly the servant of my friend, Alistair Listel. I took him into my service following the disappearance of my partner. I’m fully convinced that the other man, Hartley, was the murderer of Sir Frederick.”

“Convinced?” said Arnold, “You had no proof?”

“I was getting close to the truth. That was my reason for engaging Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

I caught a smile on my friend’s face at this plausible half-truth, which the inspector accepted at its face value.

“Well, sir, that will certainly tidy things up for me. First, though, I must take a statement from Mr. Holmes regarding the events of last night. You will bear with me? Paperwork is the bane of official policing.” We disposed ourselves around the room and Holmes repeated his version of what he had said in the woods. Arnold took it down in a flowing hand and at the end he read it back. Holmes, agreeing to its correctness, affixed his signature to the pages. Then Arnold turned his attention to me.

“Do you have anything to add, Doctor?”

“Nothing,” I replied. “Holmes and I were together the whole time and I saw all that he did.”

Inspector Arnold, ignoring the ambiguity of my words, gathered his papers together. “Then the one statement will be enough,” he said. “Mr. Carmody, I must now ask you to accompany me to the mortuary to perform your sad task. Are you prepared?”

“That’s why I am here. Shall we proceed?”

Holmes and I waited outside as Carmody and Arnold went into the drab building, and as soon as we were alone I rounded angrily on my companion.

“How much longer am I to be kept dangling?” I demanded. “This secrecy is becoming intolerable. I might just as well return to London if you do not see fit to confide in me.”

“And leave the final outcome to your imagination?” he retorted mockingly. “No, Watson, I want you with me when the last act is played out, if only to see my downfall should I be wrong.”

“Last act? Wrong in what?”

“We shall see. Not another word, I beg you. Here is the inspector.”

The other two joined us on the pavement, Carmody wearing a look of savage anger, while Arnold looked both satisfied and relieved.

“Well, gentlemen, that is enough for me to complete my report,” said the latter. “I must warn you, Mr. Holmes, and you, Doctor, that I shall require you to give evidence at the inquest on Hartley and Harper tomorrow morning.” He turned to Carmody. “You, sir, I need to attend the resumed inquest on William Knowles, which is set for next Saturday.”

For a moment Carmody looked rebellious, then he nodded slowly.

“If it must be, Inspector. I shall be staying to see that poor Knowles has a proper funeral. That is the least I can do for a man for whose death I must bear a great responsibility.”

“Then I will bid you good day, gentlemen. Eleven o’clock at The Golden Fleece, Mr. Holmes, and for you Mr. Carmody, the same time and venue on Saturday. Do not hesitate to call on me if I can help you in any way.”

Arnold touched his cap and turned away, leaving us to our own devices.

Carmody watched him out of sight before speaking.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, as I must remain here, I should be thinking of accommodation. What do you suggest?”

“It can be arranged,” Holmes replied. “First, I must enlighten you as to the other two reasons for bringing you here. Will you consent to a meeting with the heir to the Bickstone Estates?”

Carmody nodded. “I think I owe it to him. As you know, Sir Frederick had intended to effect a reconciliation with his brother, but fate decreed otherwise. Sir Charles is a worthy successor?”

“Sir Charles is a fine, upright gentleman,” Holmes said gravely. “He too was anxious to heal the breach and was devastated by the deaths of his brother and nephew. He did not seek the title, but has put his heart and soul into the well-being of Bickstone. He has become highly regarded in the short while he has been here, and without wishing to give offence, I believe he pays more attention to the estate than did his predecessor.”

“He is here now?”

“No. In the light of what you told me on Friday, I advised him to spend the week-end at his club. With Harper on the scene and Hartley somewhere in the background, I deemed it prudent. However, I believe he returns today, but before seeing him I would introduce you to someone else. Do you know a Henry Martin?”

“I am acquainted with no one in this country. Why?”

“I think Mr. Martin may be of interest to you, and you may find it instructive to meet him, even though the name is unfamiliar.”

Carmody looked unenthusiastic, then gave a careless shrug.

“Very well. Having sought your advice, I should be foolish not to accept it. Where is this Martin?”

“Ten minutes’ brisk walk will see us to where he lodges.”

“Then lead on.”

We bent our steps in the direction of The Limes. During our walk, my brain had been churning over and over, and I began to get a glimmering of what Holmes intended. The whole notion, if true, was so fantastic that I stopped in my tracks.

“Good God!” I cried.

Holmes swung round to direct a minatory glare at me as I remained frozen to the spot, getting to grips with what I suspected.

“Come along, Watson,” he snapped. “This is no time for one of your flashes of inspiration.”

I returned his glare and forced myself to fall in step with them, my mind in a whirl as I thought out the implications of what would happen if what I guessed proved to be right. For the remainder of the walk, Holmes kept up a constant flow of small-talk, presumably to preclude any further comment from me.

We found the pompous Curnow shepherding the first guests into lunch, and at our entrance he came forward with an inquisitive look.

“I gave Mr. Martin your message and he is expecting you, Mr. Holmes,” he said. He was obviously curious as to what was happening, but received no satisfaction from my companion.

“Thank you, Mr. Curnow,” replied the latter. “If you tell us the number of his room, we will announce ourselves. We are not to be disturbed under any pretext whatsoever. Is that clear?”

The little man pursed his lips, giving a reluctant nod. “Very well. I’ll see to it. Mr. Martin’s room is Number Seven, first floor rear.” He turned away and forced a smile for the benefit of an elderly lady who had appeared at his elbow, leaving us to ascend the stairs ahead.

We found the room and, at a sign from Holmes, I rapped smartly on the panel of the door.

“Come in. It is unlocked.” The voice was muffled by the woodwork.

Holmes threw open the door and preceded us in.

“A visitor for you, Mr. Martin.”

Over my friend’s shoulder, I could see Martin standing beside the window, his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets. He looked up at us carelessly. Then, as I advanced into the room with Carmody at my heels, his jaw dropped.

Carmody had stopped abruptly, and I saw Holmes’s face relax into an expression of triumph mixed with relief as Martin bounded forward with arms outstretched.

“Miles, by all that’s wonderful!” he cried. “However did you find me here?”

Carmody stood paralysed, his features showing disbelief and shock as Martin came towards him. His lips worked soundlessly as he attempted to speak, and when the words came in was in a hoarse croak.

“Alistair! Oh, my God! It’s impossible!” He literally choked on the words and reached out to grasp my shoulder for support. “Can this be true?”

Chapter XIV – The Long Pursuit

I gently eased Carmody into the room and shut the door. It was during our walk from the mortuary to The Limes that it had begun to dawn on me that Martin was not all that he seemed, and Holmes’s mysterious and reticent behaviour had implanted the idea that Henry Martin might be the supposedly dead Alistair Listel. The sheer audacity of such an imposture was well-nigh incredible, for surely there was someone in the small community would have recognized him. The idea had buzzed around in my head, but we had reached The Limes before I could put my theories into any coherent order.

My amazement was tempered by a sense of gratification that I had gone some way towards untangling the strands, albeit somewhat late in the day, and I had no doubt that Holmes would explain his chain of reasoning in his own good time. Meanwhile our attention was on the two South Africans.

Carmody pulled himself together and reached out to take the other by both hands, and for the best part of a minute they contemplated each other in silence. Both had been unprepared for the meeting, but whereas Martin, as I continued to think of him, was surprised and delighted to see his erstwhile partner, the latter was dazed and uncomprehending.

“Yes, it is I, Miles. Not a ghost.” The words were accompanied by a wry smile. “But I do not understand your presence here, or even in this country.”

“I could say the same.” Carmody’s voice was unsteady, but he was regaining control of himself. “What does it mean, Alistair? Why have you led everyone, even your closest friends, to believe you dead? What was the object?”

“A long and involved story, Miles, and in some respects I have let my thirst for revenge bring sorrow and tragedy to those closest to me. One thing I must make absolutely plain, both to you and to these gentlemen: Alistair Listel is dead, and subject to any reasons for him being restored to life, will remain so. I am Henry Martin, a diamond merchant and prospector from the Transvaal – or South African Republic, as it is becoming known.

“But why? Surely you have come here to claim your rightful title and place in society?”

“Title? Society? Bah! What is there here that I do not have already? Could you, Miles, live in this cramped and confined country, beset by artificial laws and conventions? No, I see by your expression you could not even contemplate it.”

“Then what brought you here if not for that purpose?”

“I think I have an inkling,” Holmes interpolated, pushing himself away from the door-jamb against which he had been leaning. “If Mr. – er – Martin is willing to talk before strangers, it will be instructive to hear how far my deductions were accurate.”

“And how it was you could live here without being recognized,” I added.

“Your question is easily answered, Dr. Watson,” said the man who was now Martin with a laugh. “I spent very little of my life at Bickstone, and none at all since reaching adulthood. In fact, this is the first occasion I have been in England for upwards of sixteen years. As a further precaution, I have kept out of the public gaze as much as possible without appearing furtive, although I think Mr. Holmes spotted me at the inquest on poor Knowles last Saturday.”

“I saw you, but I confess to being uncertain as to who you were. My first thoughts inclined me to the idea that you might be Hartley, but I discarded that very early on.” Holmes gave a short laugh. “At first, both Watson and I had doubts about Mr. Carmody’s account, even to wondering if Hartley really existed. But I digress. Pray continue, Mr. Martin.”

“I think you all deserve an explanation,” said Martin, as I will call him henceforth. “I make one stipulation. Not a word of this will go beyond these four walls. You will see why when I have finished. Is that understood?”

“I can give that assurance on behalf of Watson and myself, with one proviso,” replied Holmes. “Watson shall be allowed to make a record of events for our archives, with all names and places changed so that no outsider can correlate them to actual people. Refuse this and I reserve the right to speculate and to encourage Watson to someday publish the results of my speculations.”

Martin scowled, but after a moment’s thought he gave his grudging assent.

“So be it. I am in your hands and must accept your word.”

He settled back in his chair and produced a case of black cheroots to offer around. Carmody took one, but Holmes and I took out our pipes, and soon the room was filled with the fumes of the differing tobaccos.

I took out my notebook and rested it on my knee, pencil poised to take down the story that Martin was about to tell.

He began slowly, choosing his words with care.

“As I gather Miles has told you, Knowles and I were abducted some two years ago, and when our captors split into separate parties, Knowles very quickly contrived his escape. I was taken to a Kaffir kraal in the Drakensberg and, although closely confined, I was not mistreated physically. Hartley, as I discovered him to be, put in an occasional appearance, probably to pay the natives to keep me there. After a few weeks I tried offering them bribes to release me, but whether for fear of Hartley or of official retribution, I remained a prisoner.

“It was during one of Hartley’s early visits that Harper turned up and the pair of them became involved in a violent argument. I gathered that Harper had brought the news of Knowles’ escape and his reappearance in Durban. I also overheard that one of them intended to bring about the death of my father so that Hartley could come to England posing as me and claim the Listel estates. With Knowles free they were in a dilemma, and I suspect I was only allowed to stay alive until such time as Knowles and my father were out of the way. I reasoned too that Miles, as my close friend and partner, was also a marked man. Remember, gentlemen, all this took place over a period of several months and I could keep only a vague track of time.”

“Why were you not killed at once?” asked Holmes. “That would have been the obvious way forward for the conspirators.”

“That is true, but let me tell this in my own way,” Martin replied. “Hartley’s visits became less and less frequent, and I began to find that the natives bore me no real animosity. In fact, they began to allow me a measure of freedom to wander around the kraal, although closely watching me at all times. Bhoteslana, the chief, spoke some Taal, and he began to hint that he would be glad to have me off his hands but for the fear of punishment if I returned to my own people.”

He broke off to take a corn-cob pipe from his pocket and began to fill it. The rest of us followed suit and I went to throw wide the window to allow some of the fumes to disperse. Eventually Martin took up his tale again.

“The time came when Hartley had failed to show up for some considerable period,” he went on. “By now I had established a degree of trust between myself and Bhoteslana and made a final plea to be released. I promised them complete immunity from pursuit, but pointed out that I knew my servant was free and likely to stir up a hornet’s nest in his search for me. I also planted the idea that Hartley had deserted them and they would see no more of him.

“Came the day when the chief agreed to hold a meeting of his council to decide my fate. I tell you, I was on thorns during their deliberations. The way I saw it, there were four possible outcomes: They could kill me, keep me prisoner, let me go, or the fourth being that Hartley would turn up and persuade them to take one of the first two choices – certainly not the third! Three days dragged by. Then, late at night, Bhoteslana came to me with the news for which I had prayed. I was to be escorted as far as the plains, from whence I could make my way to Ladysmith or wherever suited me. I reiterated my promises of good faith and, at first light, I was taken on my way. I bear old Bhoteslana no ill-will, for on the whole I was not badly treated, and the Kaffirs have little conception of right and wrong as we know it.”

Martin stopped talking to relight his pipe, then sat in silent contemplation as we waited for him to go on.

“But why did you let everyone remain ignorant of your survival?” cried Carmody. “Surely your father and I deserved better than that!”

“You did,” replied Martin. “Especially my father, but I was in no state of mind to think of that. My period of captivity had exceeded eight months, and I was left with only a burning resentment and an overwhelming desire for vengeance that consumed me above all else. To my eternal shame and regret, I did not even warn my father of his peril. I knew he was still alive, but my sole aim was to lay my hands on Hartley and Harper and make them pay for those lost months. During my time as a prisoner I had grown a full set of whiskers, which left untrimmed gave me the appearance of a Boer farmer, and I found I could move about with no fear of recognition except by those who knew me best.

“I soon got on to Harper’s trail and then I lost him, but Hartley was another matter. As soon as I thought myself near him he would turn up fifty or more miles away. I must have scoured half of South Africa to find myself frustrated time and time again – and then the blow fell. The news of my father’s murder reached me in Pretoria, some three weeks after the event, together with a rumour that Harper had left the country. I was stricken with grief and remorse, blaming myself for not giving my father the warning that could have saved his life, and for letting him die in the belief that I was lost to him.

“Soon my grief was supplanted by a fierce rage and an obsessive determination to hunt down these inhuman fiends and deal out my own justice, irrespective of the consequences. To the title and estate I gave little thought, the first being of little moment, and as for the estate – well, Miles will tell you that I already have more money at my disposal than I can ever spend.”

“How did you trace Hartley to England?” Carmody put in.

“Bush telegraph. You, know, the rumours and stories that circulate amongst the hunters and trekkers. Hartley was a figure who flitted about the country, dealing, prospecting, and with a finger in several pies, yet difficult to pin down. No one really knew him, but a lot of people knew of him, and I heard that he had been in Pietermaritzburg realising his assets.

“Just as I did,” said Carmody, “and a fine old stir he caused in the market.”

Martin nodded. “I headed back to Durban and made some judicious inquiries from which I learned that a passage had been booked in the name of Sir Alistair Listel on the S.S. Trojan, which had sailed a day or two earlier. I took the first available ship to England, not knowing then that Miles and Knowles, staunch friends that they proved to be, had been working on the same lines. I reasoned that if the plot was to go forward, the centre of it would be at Bickstone, so I came here to observe events.

“I quickly identified Harper, but his accomplice was as elusive as ever. I was content to wait, believing Miles and Knowles to be in South Africa and knowing there was a breathing space until they had been disposed of.

“I had taken to wandering the woods at night in the hope of catching the two scoundrels together, and had I done so I assure you their lives would not have been worth a moment’s purchase. You can imagine my astonishment when last Tuesday night I ran into Knowles during my search. I had no idea that he and Miles were in the country, and he, convinced of my demise, came near to having a seizure. When I at last persuaded him I was not a ghost, we each told our stories, and he justifiably reproaching me for my secrecy. We arranged to meet the next night and I agreed to his informing Miles of my presence. Alas, I never saw him again, and when I read of a murdered man being found in Bickstone Woods, I knew instinctively that it was he. I was stunned. Should I break my cover and play a lone hand? That was the question I asked myself, and there seemed to be just one answer. On Saturday I attended the opening of the inquest and found that a police inspector, Arnold as he was named, had his head screwed on right and with the resources at his disposal might well discover what I had so far failed to do.

“I noticed that I was being closely observed by a total stranger. That was you, Mr. Holmes, although I didn’t know that until you came here yesterday with Inspector Arnold.” Martin gave a faint smile. “Even in South Africa your reputation is not unknown. Nevertheless, I was in the dark as to your interest, and the thought of Knowles being buried in an unmarked grave caused me considerable anguish. I brooded on the matter, unwilling to reveal my true identity. Then this morning, I received your message asking me to wait in my room for you to call. As you stressed the importance of the meeting I did so, with never a thought as to this outcome. I had been on the point of trying to establish contact with you, Miles, but it seems Mr. Holmes has been one step ahead of me.”

Holmes gave a deprecating wave of his hand. “Would that I had been consulted earlier,” he said. “Your man Knowles might still be alive had it been so.”

“That was something I did not foresee,” Carmody said defensively. “I wanted to get on the track of Hartley, and as Knowles could recognize him and I could not, it seemed the best line to take.”

“No blame attaches to you, Miles,” Martin consoled him, “Had I but trusted my two old friends, both he and my father would have been preserved. However, I have still to hear your account of things. Then I must consider my future position.”

“What is there to consider?” asked Carmody. “It seems plain to me.”

Martin shook his head. “Anything but plain,” he said, “but tell me your story first. Our paths must have crossed several times during our separate pursuits of Hartley. Are those two villains still at large?”

“They are both dead,” said Holmes. “Mr. Carmody has been told all the details and he will bring you up to date.” He rose to his feet and signalled with his eyes for me to do likewise.

“Watson and I will leave you for the time being. You must have much to discuss.” He looked at his watch. “It is approaching the hour of two, so if we return at four o’clock, any remaining matters can be cleared up then. Is that agreeable to you?”

Martin looked across at his friend before nodding. “Four o’clock will be fine. I’m anxious to know how you came to the correct solution, and I shall positively gloat to hear of the end of the murderers of my father and my old servant. I shall also ask some very serious questions of you before I make a final decision, and I believe you to be well-qualified to advise me. Four o’clock it is, then.”

As we passed through the entrance hall, Mr. Curnow looked up from his desk.

“Is Mr. Martin remaining upstairs?” he asked anxiously. “The other gentleman is still with him? What of lunch?”

“Mr. Martin and the other gentleman have discovered they have some common interests,” Holmes replied mendaciously. “No doubt they will send for anything they need, but wait upon a summons.”

The little man shrugged as if washing his hands of the matter, then returned to his ledger as the door closed behind us.

“What now?” I asked. “I would remind you that it is now several hours since we breakfasted, and I for one have quite an appetite. I would also think I deserve some kind of explanation.”

“There is little that you don’t already know,” answered my colleague. “You seemed to have grasped the fact that Martin was in reality the Alistair Listel who was presumed by everyone to be dead. In fact, I was afraid you were about to blurt it out as we approached The Limes.”

“It had only just occurred to me,” I confessed. “You knew much earlier.”

“Not so much. I admit my thoughts had been tending to that theory, but it wasn’t until we found Hartley that I had any degree of certainty.”

“What led you to it in the first place?”

Before he could answer, the clip-clop of hooves and the jingle of harness made us look round to see our old friend the cabbie heading towards us. Holmes waved his stick and the driver looked down at us with a grin.

“Again, gents? Where to this time?”

“Only The Green Dragon.”

“Hop aboard. I was going back to the station.” He was pleased enough to pick up a few extra coppers for a journey he was making anyway.

Despite my impatience, Holmes refused to say any more of the reasoning that had led him to the revelation of Martin’s true identity, and twenty minutes later we had made significant inroads into a succulent steak pie provided by Mrs. Davis.

“Now then,” I said, pushing my plate aside and determined not to be put off any longer. “Can we continue?”

Alas, my hopes were in vain, for at that moment the landlord put his head around the door with an apologetic cough.

“Sorry to intrude on your meal, sirs, but Sir Charles Listel is here and asking for you, Mr. Holmes. I explained you were having a late lunch, but he said he’ll be happy to wait.”

“That’s all right, Davis,” said Holmes. “We’ve finished. Let Mrs. D. clear away, and then you may show him in,”

The baronet, as I still thought of him, came in with a genial smile on his face. “I arrived back an hour ago and Inspector Arnold told me the sorry tale – at least, that part of it he finds it politic to believe – but I suspect there is more to it than you chose to divulge.”

“More than I intend to divulge, Sir Charles,” replied Holmes. “All the same, there are certain facts that you should know, and there is another who has first-hand knowledge of the events in Natal. Cast your mind back to our first meeting last Friday when I spoke of a Miles Carmody who had brought me into the case.”

“Yes, I remember well.”

“Mr. Carmody has travelled down to here and desires to tell you all he can of your relatives. He was on intimate terms with both your brother and your nephew, and feels it would be a courtesy to seek you out.”

“Inspector Arnold told me he was in the town. Is he under this roof?”

“No, he has business of his own to conduct, but with your permission I shall bring him to Bickstone Lodge this evening that he may talk to you with some degree of privacy.”

“Of course you must bring him!” cried Sir Charles. “Come to dinner, all of you. I shall send my carriage to fetch you at seven-thirty, if that is convenient.” He gave a shuddering sigh. “To think that I harboured that murderer for almost a year and yet had no inkling of his real character until you spoke to me on Friday.”

“Perhaps it was as well,” said my colleague. “Had you shown any signs of suspicion, you may have gone the same way as others who stood in the path of that precious pair. Arnold told you that he and his accomplice killed each other during a quarrel last night?”

“Indeed he did, but not how you managed to get on the trail of that other villain.”

“I have my methods, and it doesn’t do to explain them all. As my good friend the doctor knows, if a conjurer reveals his secrets, he receives little credit for his skill,”

Sir Charles looked from one to the other of us before turning away with a rueful laugh.

“Then I must perforce be content with that, sir,” he said. “I wish you a good afternoon and shall look forward to your company tonight.”

Holmes escorted him to the door, and on returning met my scowl with a display of bland innocence.

“Good grief!” I expostulated. “How can you continue to play cat-and-mouse with that gentleman when his whole future may be turned upside down within hours?”

“You think so? We shall see. Meanwhile we must apprise Mr. Carmody of tonight’s arrangements, and before you explode, I assure you all will become clear very soon.”

Fuming with annoyance at his attitude, I followed him out to secure a cab – not our old acquaintance this time – to take us to The Limes, and on the way Holmes gave me a swift resume of his deductions.

“As you already know,” he said, speaking rapidly. “I – or we – quickly agreed that the man murdered on Friday was William Knowles, and his killer was Harper, although we had no firm evidence. I also toyed with the idea that the man calling himself Martin could be Hartley. However, after the attack on us yesterday morning, we had it from Mr. Curnow that Martin had been under his eye almost constantly during the relevant time, so it could not be he. Harper we had already discounted for obvious reasons, so that left Hartley still in the game. Thanks to a chance remark from you and the encounter with the boy we picked up his trail.

“Now we have four South Africans in the picture: Knowles who is dead, Carmody in London, and Harper and Hartley on the loose – so who is Martin? We placed him as being from the colonies, but Carmody did not speak of anyone else being involved, and it was too much to accept him as a casual visitor to the centre of action, so at the expense of a couple of ounces of shag, I decided that he could only be Alistair Listel who, for reasons known only to himself, wished to remain dead.”

“Unbeknown to any of the other participants?” I said doubtfully.

“Certainly until he and Knowles crossed paths that night in the woods. Martin had kept very much to himself without seeming to be furtive, and it was soon after that encounter that Knowles was recognized and taken by one of the plotters, probably Harper. You saw his body, Watson, and know that he had been subjected to inhuman treatment, probably in an attempt to find out what he knew and who else threatened the two villains.”

“Most likely he was kept prisoner in Harper’s cottage,” I put in quickly.

Holmes nodded. “On Thursday night, he contrived to get away, but weakened by his ill-treatment, he stood little chance. With Harper closing in on him, he reached Miss Winsett’s cottage hoping for succour, but too late!”

I envisaged the awful scene in those dark and forbidding woods as Holmes paused dramatically before continuing.

“He could literally feel his hunter breathing down his neck and, in a despairing effort, scribbled that cryptic message on a fragment of paper – ‘Tell C Har’ – ‘Tell Carmody Harper’ – and slipped the box through the letter-slit before making one final attempt to elude his pursuer, but all in vain. Harper caught up with him, and the final outcome we know.”

As I digested this, the cab turned into the driveway of The Limes, and as it crunched to a halt, I sat motionless to contemplate what Holmes had said. There were of necessity several gaps in his reading of events, but I had little doubt that it was reasonably accurate.

“Was Miss Winsett ever in danger?” I asked,

“Only if Harper guessed that Knowles had communicated with her. He may have tried to find out had she remained at Bickstone, but that we shall never know.” He descended from the cab and, throwing a coin to the driver, told him to wait for us.

Curnow was not in evidence and we went straight up to Martin’s room, finding the reunited friends engaged in a mild dispute. It was apparent that Martin was making a point that Carmody found hard to accept, and on our appearance the farmer turned to us immediately.

“Your arrival is opportune, gentlemen,” he said. “Perhaps you can persuade Miles that I know what I am about.”

“If we knew your intentions, we would be better placed to comment,” said Holmes with a faint smile. “Enlighten us, I pray you,”

Carmody stirred restlessly in his chair. “The whole thing is preposterous!” he muttered. “It would suit me very well, but I am sure it is in some way illegal.”

“Nonsense!” cried Martin. “All I am doing is preserving the status quo, and at the same time following my own inclinations. Miles admits that it is a solution that would please him, yet he quibbles over the matter of legality.”

“There are other considerations,” Carmody muttered, but he was silenced by an impatient gesture from my companion.

“Please let me hear Mr. Martin’s proposals,” he said. “I have a fair notion of what he sees as the right course in the interests of all, but I wish to hear it from his own lips.” He sat down uninvited, his long legs stretched out before him and his fingers laced across his waistcoat. “I beg you, sir, proceed.” He laid his head back and, with half-closed eyes, waited for Martin to speak.

The latter waved me to a chair and then took his stance by the window to face all three of us.

“My decision is this,” he stated firmly. “I have made it after much thought and observation and it is irrevocable. No argument shall deflect me from my purpose. Alistair Listel is no more, lost and presumed dead somewhere abroad. The title and estates of Bickstone remain with the rightful holder, Charles Listel, Who loses by it?”

Chapter XV – The Curtain Falls

Henry Martin’s jaw was set in stubborn determination as he glared across the room, ready to defy any attempt to deflect him from his purpose. Carmody, for his part, looked helplessly at Holmes, who sat calmly watching from beneath hooded eyes.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, have you nothing to say?” snapped Martin, breaking the silence that hung in the air.

“What is there to say?” queried my colleague. “If you are set on this course, who am I to dissuade you? Wait – ” he added when Carmody made to protest. “Three points occur to me: What brought you to this decision? Can you rely on Mr. Carmody to dissemble convincingly when he meets Sir Charles, as he almost certainly must? Thirdly, how will you account for yourself on your return to South Africa, which you no doubt intend?” Martin appeared to relax slightly and propped himself against the window-sill, his arms folded on his chest.

“Let me answer those points in the order you asked them,” he said. “I did not go into this lightly, and during the short while I have been here, I have learnt much. I have listened more than I have talked – a word here, a word there has been sufficient to set people off, and a large part of my knowledge has come from Mr. Curnow and Colonel Milton. The latter has been resident here since his retirement from the army some five years ago.

“It was not difficult to introduce my uncle’s name into a conversation, and I gained the impression that he has become a highly respected figure during the year or so he has been at the Lodge. It appears that a number of the older people still remember my grandfather and deplored the fact that my father was more attentive to his African interests than to the Bickstone Estate. Of course, my uncle had spent his youth here, but had been away for upwards of thirty years when he inherited, and was an unknown quantity.” He paused briefly to light a cheroot. “Miles tells me that you gentlemen regard him in a favourable light,” he said. “Is that so?”

Holmes answered for us both. “We have met him only twice, but his reputation in the City and locally is that of a man of probity, as well as being a shrewd business man.”

“And his stewardship of the estate has been to its advantage?”

“In every way.” Holmes picked his words carefully. “At the risk of being disrespectful to the late Sir Frederick, I hear that the estate is now better managed than at any time during the past quarter-century.”

“That I can believe,” said Martin with a wry smile. “My father was ever more the man of affairs than the country squire. He was content to let an agent run the estate with but the occasional visit from him. It was not mismanaged, but it lacked dedicated attention.”

“And you have a similar outlook as did Sir Frederick,” Holmes put in quickly.

“I cannot deny it. Miles and I have been more-than-successful in our many ventures, and I have little or no desire to vegetate in this cramped environment. Of course, on the death of Alistair Listel, all his assets reverted to his partner, but I have sufficient capital at my disposal to buy my way in, should he so desire.”

“That is ridiculous!” cried Carmody. “Why, our capital has appreciated by some twelve-per-cent since your disappearance, and we could resume on the old footing.”

“That is for discussion between you and Harry Martin,” said the latter with a look that showed he thought he had carried the day. “But to get back to what I was saying: I have given my reasons for remaining dead, and as I cannot think that Hartley and Harper will suffer by having my murder charged to their account, neither do I care.”

We all laughed, relieving some of the tension that had built up. Then Martin continued his exposition.

“There is then no doubt that Bickstone will benefit from my uncle’s attentions, and as I indicated, I am wealthy enough not to covet what I have never had. To move on to your second point, Mr. Holmes, I hope and believe that Miles can carry it off. It would have been preferable if he had met my uncle before I was discovered, but we must take the hand we are dealt. I shall depend on you, Miles. Surely you can see that Bickstone will prosper under my uncle’s hand, and I would be miserable were I tied down here. Unless,” he added slowly, “you wish to play a lone hand back in Natal?”

“Never think that!” replied Carmody indignantly. “That was a most unjust thing to say. Nothing would please me more than to resume our old footing, but consider my position. I am not accustomed to falsehood and dissimulation, and I would be fearful of revealing the extent of my knowledge by some slip of the tongue.”

“Nevertheless, you will do it,” Martin said confidently. “That brings us to your third question. On our return to South Africa, I shall not appear in Natal. During my wanderings in pursuit of Hartley, I picked up rumours of rich pickings to be had in Cape Colony to the north of Kimberley. Once Miles has been persuaded to go along with my suggestion of the new partnership, I think we could head that way and do pretty well for ourselves.”

Carmody’s face had taken on a look of resignation as his friend’s confident enthusiasm made itself felt, and I could see his doubts fading away as he saw the prospect of a return to the old familiar life.

“What do you think, Mr. Holmes?” he asked. “Do you believe it to be the right course, and if so, can it really succeed?”

Holmes stroked his sharp nose thoughtfully as he considered his reply.

“I see no objections to Mr. Martin’s scheme in principle,” he said. “Of course, you must understand that yours will be the most difficult role to play. We are bidden to dine at Bickstone Lodge tonight, and it would not surprise me if Sir Charles offers you his hospitality for the remainder of your time here. If you think you can sustain your part then yes, I see no reason why it should not work out.” He turned to Martin. “You are resolved?”

“Indeed I am. Miles will come up trumps, never fear.”

“What is the position in law?” Carmody frowned. “What of the succession after Sir Charles? He is unmarried, with no heirs, and he is no longer a young man.”

“Neither is he old,” Holmes pointed out to nod of agreement from Martin. “It is always possible that his known commitment to Bickstone may well prompt him to seek a suitable wife. That, of course, is speculation pure and simple. If Alistair Listel is to be presumed dead and remains so, the legal position does not arise.”

“Confound you all,” muttered Carmody. “You are driving me willy-nilly into a corner. I would ask nothing better than to be free on the veldt with my old friend and partner, but it goes against the grain to practise this deception.” He looked morosely at Martin and sighed deeply. “Yet if I refuse, it will cause us both grief and possibly future regrets.”

“Then you’ll do it, Miles?” There was urgency in Martin’s tone. “For my sake, and for the good of Bickstone?”

“For your sake and for my own selfish reasons,” replied Carmody. “For Bickstone I really could not give a hang. Yes, I’ll do it for you, Harry Martin, and for our partnership.”

“Stout fellow!” chuckled Martin. “You see, it will not take long for you to adjust to a new companion.”

He went over to clap his friend on the shoulder and wring his hand fervently before turning to Holmes.

“Well, sir, it seems everyone is to be satisfied, but you spoke of dining with Sir Charles this evening?”

“That is so. He is sending his carriage at half-past-seven for Mr. Carmody, together with Watson and myself. Stick to the story you told me on Friday and all will be well. I foresee no problems.”

“Rehearse your story well,” I put in. “Holmes and I will be on hand to field any loose balls.”

“Must I accept his invitation to remain at Bickstone should it be extended?” asked Carmody doubtfully.

“It would be a much appreciated kindness,” said Holmes. “He will want to hear of your life in Africa with his brother and nephew. It is only of today’s events that you need guard your tongue. Meet us at The Green Dragon at seven-thirty. It is directly opposite the railway station.”

“Then it is settled,” said Martin. “Miles, I must trust you to see that Knowles has a proper burial. I shall leave here in the morning.”

“You will not stay for the funeral?” Carmody showed surprise.

“As much as I want to, I think that the circumstances being what they are I should remove myself from the scene. Knowles would understand and approve, I feel sure.”

“Mr. Martin is right,” Holmes interjected. “Despite his long absence, there is always the possibility of someone recognizing him.”

“Then I shall see to it,” said Carmody. “We were well served by the poor fellow, and he suffered much. Leave it to me.”

Holmes and I prepared to depart and Martin came forward to shake us both warmly by the hand.

“Mr. Holmes, Doctor,” he said diffidently. “I can never thank you enough for your help and discretion, but is there some more tangible way of showing my gratitude without causing offence or embarrassment?”

Holmes gave a rich chuckle. “My dear sir, I am a professional in every sense of the word. Call on me at Baker Street before you leave the country and I will present our account. I have in my possession a fine hunting rifle bearing the initials ‘A.L.’ on the stock which I found in Hartley’s hide-out. I am sure it will be of more use where you are going than in this relatively civilized country. It will be easy for me to take it with me tomorrow for you to collect later.”

Despite a limited wardrobe, we made ourselves reasonably presentable for our dinner engagement. Sir Charles Listel was visibly affected on meeting Miles Carmody and was eager to hear all that could be told of the life led by his brother and nephew in Africa.

We dined well that night, with Holmes first giving his account of the affair in an untypically modest manner, Carmody followed with his version, which was virtually the story told to us at our first meeting.

It left the baronet in no doubt that both his relatives had perished in the manner described and Carmody, his course now set, gave no hint of the deception that was being practised.

As forecast, Sir Charles invited Carmody to remain under his roof for the duration of his stay in the area, an invitation which was accepted without demur. On the plea of tiredness, which for my part was genuine enough, Holmes and I were returned to the town well before midnight and I fell into our beds in a state of exhaustion.

The inquests on Tuesday went smoothly, Inspector Arnold no doubt having primed the coroner beforehand, and soon after midday we were seated in a first-class railway carriage on our way back to London and the familiar sights and sounds, not to mention smells, of the Metropolis.

It was the following Monday when Martin and Carmody called on us to announce their imminent return to the Dark Continent. Martin was overjoyed to recover his hunting rifle, stroking the weapon affectionately.

“I must remove those initials,” he said with a laugh. “It could prove awkward if Harry Martin had to explain those away.” He became brisk.

“Now, gentlemen, the reckoning.” Holmes laid a piece of paper before him and the partners studied it for a few seconds before Martin produced a purse of coins.

“I assume that Dr. Watson’s bill will be near enough the same,” he said as he tipped the gold on to the table and began counting. “If I double this, there will be no shortfall?”

I opened my mouth to protest, but a warning glance from Holmes turned my objections into a spluttering cough.

“I do not think Watson and I are likely to fall out over any small items of expenditure,” said my companion with a genial smile. “It has been a pleasure to apply ourselves to your problems, and I know I speak for Watson when I extend our warm wishes for your future ventures.”

I nodded my agreement and soon afterwards the two South Africans left, to vanish forever from our lives.

That same day Miss Celia Winsett put in an appearance. Having read a newspaper account of the shootings at Bickstone, she was anxious to know if it was safe for her to resume the residence of her cottage, her friend’s husband having returned from his latest voyage. She was assured that there was no reason for her to absent herself any longer, and showed evident relief at the prospect of going back to Bickstone.

“That is good news indeed, Mr. Holmes,” she said with a smile. “As fond as I am of Emily I find her preoccupation with her forthcoming happy event a trifle wearing. Now she has her husband home until that occurrence, and I shall be pleased to have my rustic retreat back. Now, I believe I am in your debt, so if you will tell me the sum I shall settle it at once.”

“My dear young lady, your problem was incidental to the matter,” said Holmes. “I have been well recompensed for my efforts, and both Dr. Watson and I are happy that you can revert to your chosen way of life. There is one point I must mention: You will find a small chip in the frame of your bedroom door and a hole in the plaster beside it. I am sure that a word to Sir Charles will see it put to rights.”

The following months were busy ones, and it was mid-September when I realised that the evenings were drawing in and summer was nearly over.

I was breakfasting alone one Monday morning, Holmes still lying abed. I shuffled through the letters by my plate, laying the obvious bills to one side, which left but one missive that seemed worthy of attention. It was a large, square envelope of good quality, postmarked at Bromley. I didn’t recognize the writing and I turned it over in my hands as if willing it to reveal its contents.

It failed to do so, and at last I reached out for a knife to slit open the envelope and extract a single embossed card. I stared blankly at it, allowing the words to register on my bemused brain. As they did so I was aware of a broad smile spreading across my face and I hastily sifted through the pile of mail beside Holmes’s plate, coming up with an identical envelope addressed to him.

Carrying both, I blundered into my colleague’s room with but the most perfunctory of knocks. He was at his wash-stand in his old blue dressing-gown, his face lathered as a preliminary to shaving, and on my precipitate entry he turned with razor poised in mid-air.

“Holmes!” I blurted. “Look here – this is astounding! You will never guess what we have here!”

“Quite so, Watson. I never guess, I deduce.” He turned back to the mirror to continue his interrupted task.

“Then deduce this,” I snorted, nettled by his apparent lack of interest and brandishing the envelopes behind him.

He looked at my reflection in the mirror and drew the razor along the side of his face before turning to me.

“You have not read The Times this morning?” He threw an arm at the pages strewn in disorder beside his bed.

“Only the cricketing column in The Telegraph,” I replied. “What the deuce has that to do with these and your confounded deductions?” I again waved the envelopes at him.

He wiped his razor and plunged his face into the bowl of water before answering, by which time I was almost dancing with impatience.

“My deductions lead me to the conclusion that we are invited to attend the wedding of Sir Charles Listel and Miss Celia Winsett.” He buried his face in a towel. “Had you read The Times this morning, you could not fail to notice the announcement of their engagement – unless of course you had eyes only for the cricket. Those envelopes in your hand are of the kind used for the conveyance of such social messages.”

He patted my shoulder. “Do not look so crestfallen, old fellow. The event and the invitations are just as much a surprise to me. In truth, the whole affair of Bickstone Lodge had quite slipped my memory.”

“We shall go, of course?” I said.

“Unless something turns up to divert us.” He raised an eyebrow. “An interesting thought, Watson, all the same. Perhaps there will be an heir to the title and estate after all, eh?”