More Strange Events

Lestrade was not long in coming.

“I am disappointed, Mr. Holmes, that you did not inform me of this meeting,” he said when he had heard our account. “With enough men forming a cordon, we could have taken this man Rendt.”

“That is doubtful, Inspector. He has demonstrated extraordinary cunning. There was no reason why he should have expected any disturbance to his rendezvous with this lady, yet he had evidently foreseen it.”

Lestrade nodded. “At least now we have a description of this man.”

“For what it is worth, yes. His skill at disguise is considerable.”

Two constables, sent by the Inspector to arrest the bodyguards, returned. Lestrade glanced at them and the taller of the two shook his head.

“I would have been surprised if they were not gone by now,” Holmes said.

“The lady, you say, was a client of yours?”

“She consulted me on an apparently unrelated set of circumstances.”

I noted that Holmes stuck to his resolution not to involve Miss Carpenter, even after her death. He could have seen no advantage in doing so.

“What were the circumstances?”

“She complained of ‘manifestations’ in her home.”

Lestrade gave a short laugh. “Ghosts, you mean? Well, Mr. Holmes, I don’t doubt that you get all sorts of queer types asking for your help. At the Yard, we only deal in facts. We like a flesh-and-blood prisoner to give to the court.”

“Quite so. I see that you have completed your examination, and here comes the pathologist’s wagon to take away this poor girl’s body.”

We watched as the attendants lifted the covered form. One of them calmed a restless horse as the cart was loaded. Lestrade dismissed the constables and the three of us stood together on the blood-smeared pavement.

“There is no reason to remain here,” I observed.

“None,” said Holmes. “I can see nothing more that will help us.”

Lestrade nodded his head in agreement, and we made our way back to Tottenham Court Road.

“Did I mention,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone, “that we have solved the mystery of those Gorgon’s head visiting cards?”

“I cannot recall that you did.” Holmes replied.

“It was quite simple, as it turned out. There was no foreign connection after all, but a constable noticed that a similar sign had appeared on a building on his beat in Coldharbour Lane. We cleared the place out, it was a club of opium smokers and gamblers who were fighting among themselves when we arrived, but I was surprised to find impoverished members of some fine families there.”

“You have done well, Lestrade.”

“We also found a body, a man called Oswald Millicent.”

It became clear to me, at that moment, how efficient Rendt was at plying his murderous trade. Every person, man or woman that we knew to have crossed his path in the course of this affair had been silenced to ensure that no trail remained to follow. Both Millicent and Miss Carpenter had been instrumental in his plans, their purpose being to convey information, false or otherwise, to Rendt’s pursuers. I concluded that in all our previous adventures, we had seldom been confronted with a more cold-blooded and merciless adversary and, recalling Holmes’ grim expression on the discovery of Miss Carpenter’s body, I knew that these were his thoughts also.

As far as I could see, there was no reason to doubt the truthfulness or accuracy of the information furnished by Millicent during his visit to Baker Street. Clearly, like many such men, Rendt’s arrogance allowed him to broadcast his intentions ahead, confident that no opposition could thwart him. What steps Holmes would take now I could not guess, but his remarkable powers had led us through much impassable territory in the past.

“This man was murdered?” Holmes asked.

“Oh yes, we found him at the club in a dirty back room. That place was cavernous, with most of it unoccupied. He was strangled with an old scarf.”

“Have you discovered why anyone should have done this?”

Lestrade shrugged. “Who knows, Mr. Holmes? All I can say is that we are satisfied that none of his companions had a hand in it. There seems to be one of those killers about who picks his victims wherever the mood takes him. Mr. Quill and his daughter, then Millicent and this young lady. I’ll lay odds it’s the same man. I do wish you’d told us, we might have had an end to all this.”

It occurred to me that the Inspector’s conclusion that one person was responsible was his only sound thinking on the matter. He had not explored the possibility of the killings having a common purpose, nor that the method might be significant. Not for the first time, I understood why Holmes was reluctant to share his information.

Lestrade left us and we boarded a four-wheeler to return to Baker Street. Holmes rode with his head upon his chest, looking especially morose.

“Holmes,” I began after observing him for several minutes, “are you blaming yourself for Miss Carpenter’s death?”

“I was within a hand’s breadth of preventing it.”

“You could not have foreseen the bodyguards.”

“But I should have!” he exclaimed with surprising force. “This man is far from my equal, yet I have failed miserably to apprehend him, or prevent him adding to his victims.”

“You have said that he is competent, and knows his trade.”

He shrugged. “He is young, and I am older. Perhaps my powers are declining.”

“I have seen nothing to suggest that.”

Little more was said until we sat once again at the dinner-table. Mrs. Hudson produced a beef stew which did much to dispel the chilliness we had brought in with us. I was enjoying a thick slice of apple pie as dessert, which Holmes had declined, when he turned from gazing through the window at the approaching darkness to look at me suddenly.

“Watson, what can you recall of Rendt? Try to think back to the moment you first saw him.”

I pondered over this, searching my mind. “He was tall and dark, quite a handsome man. His skin appeared without blemish and his moustache had been well clipped. The dark hair showing beneath his hat was streaked with grey. His movements especially were efficient, gliding, almost cat-like...”

“Enough!” Holmes cried. “Your impression agrees with mine in every way. I never get your measure, Watson, for you have developed an acute technique of observation.” He stopped abruptly, and I swear that I had never before seen such despair in his face. “But I have been so blind! We have staggered from step to step in this investigation, when I should have seen the true nature of it from the first.”

“My dear fellow! What can you mean?”

“Now, I must go,” he said hurriedly. “I truly regret abandoning you again to spend the evening alone, but this must be settled tonight. I cannot say when I will return.”

“Holmes, have you forgotten that I am to visit Dr. Penrose and his wife, this evening? They are hosting a small gathering of local medical men.”

He went very still. “You realise, doctor, that we are still under threat?”

“I shall keep my pistol with me.”

“It would be as well. I had quite let your appointment slip my mind. Enjoy your evening then, my good fellow, and tomorrow we may both awaken as more enlightened men.”

With that, before I could rise from my chair, he had snatched up his coat and hat and left. I heard him descend the stairs rapidly and the front door slammed, barely a moment before I heard him hail a cab.

***

My evening with Penrose and the others was pleasant enough. Mrs. Penrose left our group after some small conversation, upon which were tired to the library with cigars and an excellent brandy to discuss old cases and new developments. The time passed quickly, but despite the cordial atmosphere I was not sorry when it was over, for Holmes and the quest he had embarked upon tonight had filled my mind constantly.

As I alighted from the hansom in Baker Street, I looked up and saw my friend’s shadow cross the curtain. Once inside, I took the stairs quickly, anxious to learn all that he had discovered. I was not disappointed.

“Ah, Watson.” My friend rose from his armchair. “I have learned much tonight. More about this affair has become clear and, unless you are too tired, we will discuss it.” He uncorked a bottle of port and offered it to me.

“No thank you, Holmes. I have drunk enough, for one night.”

“Wise fellow.” He put down the bottle without pouring. “Come and sit before this most welcome fire, and I will begin.”

I took off my top hat and hung it on the stand with my cape. Taking the other armchair, I rubbed my hands together, leaning towards the flames.

“Firstly, did you encounter an attacker, at any time?” he asked me.

“None.”

“And you noticed no one following?”

“Not at all.”

“Not even the man I set to watch you?”

“My dear Holmes, I am not a child.”

“No, indeed, but we are dealing with a ruthless enemy who has stated his intention to kill us, for whatever reason. When I left earlier, I delayed long enough to send a telegram to Barker, whom you may remember from the affair involving Josiah Amberley. It was he who has kept an eye on you this evening, to allay my fears.”

I let my annoyance pass. “I suppose I should be grateful for your concern.”

He looked faintly relieved. “We have both escaped our enemy’s attentions, this night.”

“You believe that Rendt will again attempt to kill you, or both of us, after his recent escape?”

“I am certain that we are still in danger, though not from Rendt. He does not exist.”

“My dear fellow,” I said, confused, “are you quite well? Did we not chase him today in Tottenham Court Road? Has he not murdered Mr. Quill and his daughter, Miss Carpenter, and now Oswald Millicent? Holmes, what is happening?”

“We have been chasing phantoms.”

A full minute of silence must have passed, before I spoke. Above all, I was afraid that the strain of the past few years had taken a terrible toll on my friend’s health. Many times I had recognised the onset of nervous exhaustion, but my cautions went unheeded.

Finally, I sat back in my chair, clinging to the hope that I had simply misunderstood.

“Holmes, I would be grateful if you would explain yourself.”

“Gladly. I will begin by asking if you are familiar with the career of Miss Gloriana Roland.”

“The actress?”

“The same. Tonight I visited her in her dressing room at the Imperial Theatre.”

“I had no idea that you knew her.”

“It was before your time, Watson.” A wistful smile crossed his features. “A trifling case of unjust accusation. I was successful in proving Miss Roland innocent of the theft of some pearls, and in directing the official force to the real thief. She had yet to achieve fame in those days, of course.”

“But how is she involved with our present case?”

“As a consultant, you could say. Back then, I dismissed her fears of being unable to meet my fee, but remembered her promise to furnish information, should she be in a position to do so in the future.”

“And she did this, tonight?”

“Indeed. She was extremely glad to renew our acquaintance, and when I suggested a set of characteristics to fit to a name in her profession, she gave me an answer at once. I asked if she had ever performed with a tall woman, dark skinned, with flamboyant tastes and great skill with make-up and disguise. Someone who would probably have exhibited a violent or bitter disposition and considerable strength.”

I leaned towards him, fascinated. “Did you receive a name?”

“Most Certainly. It was the one I expected.”

My friend’s flair for the dramatic can be irritating, at times.

“Then tell me, Holmes! I cried impatiently.

“It was Miss Hannah Styles. Does not much fall into place, now?”

I shook my head, no wiser. “I have never met the lady.”

“Ah, but you have. Indeed we both have, and recently. She is now Mrs. Hannah McLyall.”

“Mrs. McLyall was an actress?”

“Until she met her husband. I suspected as much from her bohemian mode of dress and some aspects of her living room. She left me with a feeling of disquiet, which increased with her visit here the following morning. I wish heartily that I had paid more attention to it.”

“But how is she involved?” Then a memory rushed into my mind. “Of course, the late Mr. Millicent mentioned that Rendt used “an agent” who was a woman.”

“That was part of the fabrication that was presented to us. Mrs. McLyall is not Rendt’s agent, she is Rendt.”

I tried to hide my surprise, at this impossible assertion. “My dear fellow,” I said patiently, “you must know that this cannot be. Consider what we know of Rendt, and you must see that no woman could perform such actions.”

Holmes nodded. “This was my impression, at first. After some consideration of Miss Roland’s revelations, I listed my doubts and dispelled them one by one. If you can raise further objections...”

“The duel with Millicent,” I said at once.

“Mrs. McLyall”s husband, who was a rogue in his own right, a swindler, blackmailer and robber, taught her to be an expert shot.”

“She appeared as a constable to Mrs. Hudson, and as a man to Miss Carpenter on at least two occasions.”

“I have already mentioned Miss Roland’s comments on her former colleague’s ability to transform herself. In fact, her most famous act was called ‘The Mistress of Disguise’. When I described Rendt’s actions and appearance, Miss Roland did not hesitate to agree with my supposition.”

“Great heavens!” I exclaimed. “Then it was Mrs. McLyall who murdered Mr. Quill, Patricia Quill, Miss Carpenter and Millicent?”

“And probably others, for she is possessed of an irrational and vengeful nature. It becomes clear then, that some of Mr. Millicent’s confessions were fictitious. Not all, I fancy, since the most convincing lies are surrounded by truth. Mrs. McLyall held him in her power and sent him to us to throw us off the track.”

“The planned assassinations?”

“All meant to mislead us. The murders we attributed to Rendt were in fact committed by Mrs. McLyall. She fostered and financed that ridiculous society, no doubt from her late husband’s accumulated dishonest profits, because she saw the possibilities of having those low-living men under her control. The fact that she had outcasts from rich and powerful families crawling at her feet, craving for opium or strong drink, must have amused her. Behind the façade their purpose was to undertake trivial tasks such as Millicent was given. In this way the risk of her capture was lessened, also.”

“But why, Holmes? What is the purpose of all this?”

He shrugged. “At first I was unsure. I surmised that the instinct to kill is in her blood, for she is from Gypsy stock and I know something of the tribe. They are cut-throats that have pillaged their way across France and Spain, before reaching these shores.”

“She cannot help herself, do you think?”

“I rejected that possibility, after a while. I could not see how she could profit, and so I rejected that as her purpose also. The remaining option, passion, is more likely, since everything about her manner and appearance proclaims that she is a passionate woman and according to Miss Roland, also quite mad on occasion. Nevertheless, I was convinced that there is method in her crimes. On my way back from the theatre I stopped the cab at a late-opening telegraph office to send a message to Lestrade. We should hear from him in the morning, when I should be able to answer your question.”

My thoughts were in chaos as I lay in my bed. I heard no sound from Holmes’ room, save the familiar creak as his weight was lowered onto the mattress. I repeatedly asked myself if we had at last discovered the truth. Or for once, could Holmes’ deductions be at fault? That a woman could be responsible for four hideous murders and, he said, possibly more, was almost inconceivable. Yet I knew that there were historical precedents, and that Holmes had never trusted women because, as he had once explained “of their very nature.” I could never quite agree with him, because my trust for my dear Mary, now lost to me, was without end or limitation. In the midst of these considerations I must have fallen asleep, for it seemed that no time had passed before I was awakened by a loud rapping on my bedroom door and Holmes’ call to action.

“Rise, Watson, we have work to do. I have already received word from Lestrade.”

I shook off my weariness. Mrs. Hudson had not yet brought hot water, presumably because she was preparing an early breakfast, but after a cold and uncomfortable shave I presented myself fully dressed quite soon.

My friend sat at the breakfast table much as usual, his appearance already attended to. A plate of bacon and eggs stood before him, and the toast rack was full.

“Help yourself, Watson, I have kept your breakfast hot for you.” He removed the lid and I emptied the serving dish onto my plate. “We leave for South Brixton the moment our coffee cups are empty. Lestrade is up early today. He will meet us there.”

The telegram and its yellow envelope had been tossed aside, and Holmes seemed pleased by its contents. I took out my watch. It was not yet seven o’clock.

“The Inspector agrees with your theory, then?”

“He has had his suspicions, apparently. At any rate, my suppositions were not objectionable to him. He is bringing two constables.”

“It seems too much, five of us for the capture of one woman.”

“Not for a woman with such a history as this one. I am fairly certain that I can point Lestrade in the right direction after this, to the solving of several other killings.”

“I confess, Holmes, that when we met the woman, I would never have thought this of her.”

He laughed shortly, as we rose from the table. “She is, or was, an actress, with female cunning on her side. Also many of the most successful criminals hide beneath a shell of innocence or respectability, as we have seen before now.”

At this early hour traffic was light. We passed a four-wheeler, several hansoms and a landau that raced from the opposite direction, but for most of the journey the streets were clear.

Holmes glanced at me, and commented: “Remember, Watson, it is Sunday morning.”

“My dear Holmes!”

“From your expression as your eyes followed the scant traffic, it was not difficult to define your thoughts.”

Before I could reply, the cab swung into Atlantic Road. Beyond the line of trees I could see ahead a police wagon waiting near Mrs. McLyall’s house, in front of the iron gates. A constable held the horse’s head, while another peered into the bushes between two villas on the opposite side of the road.

As Holmes dismissed the hansom, Lestrade came out to meet us. The little detective looked as if he had not slept well.

“You were right, Mr. Holmes,” he admitted, “but we at the Yard were close behind. She’s gone, that woman, but we will find her.”

The three of us walked up to the house, the constables remaining outside the gates.

Holmes indicated the door, which had been left ajar. “You have made your examination, Inspector?”

Lestrade nodded. “There is little there, to tell us where she is now. The only things of note are the body of the maidservant and a long dark wig. My constables discovered a tunnel leading from the kitchen under the road into a sewer. The manhole is among the bushes opposite.”

So now the shooting at Holmes and myself as we left Mrs. McLyall after our first meeting, was explained. She must have run along the tunnel in time to position herself before we reached the gates. The passing coach, it seemed, was incidental.

“You have discovered exactly the things that I expected, Lestrade,” my friend said.

Lestrade glanced at me, half-smiling. He suspected, I know, that Holmes was sometimes wise after the event. I had been with my friend too long to share that view.

Holmes ignored the look. “If you have finished, I will go in.”

“I have seen all that I need to see,” Lestrade said. “The coroner’s cart will be here presently, to collect the maid’s body.”

We entered the house. The room where we had interviewed Mrs. McLyall was as before, a dreadful variation being the strangled body of the maidservant sprawled across the couch.

“Dead about twelve hours, Watson?”

I knelt close to the corpse, noting the condition of the skin and other signs of deterioration. “That would be a reasonable estimation.”

“It seems likely that Mrs. McLyall made her escape directly after her return from our little altercation yesterday.”

He said no more until he had sunk to the floor to make a close examination of the carpet with his lens. After a while he arose and made measurements of the walls. He stood in the middle of the room, appearing to calculate for a moment before commencing to rap on the walls at intervals of about two feet.

“Aha, as I thought!”

At a hollow-sounding point near the fireplace he stopped abruptly, ceasing to knock with his knuckles but continuing with his stick until a dull metallic sound, like the releasing of a spring-latch, was immediately followed by a section of wall sliding to one side. We peered into the vestibule that was revealed, and Holmes lit an oil lamp from a side-table.

“Of course,” he said as we both entered, “there had to be a place for her to store and adopt her disguises.”

I looked past him into the shadowy niche that the lamp revealed to us. I saw a dressing-table, such as is used by stage performers, with lamps near the mirror. Several wig-stands, with hair in different styles and colours stood in a row. I noticed that they were mostly male wigs, along with a selection of moustaches. The tall open wardrobe occupying almost all of one wall contained morning suits, evening clothes and country wear, with appropriate hats upon a shelf. The faint perfumed smell was explained by the abundance of theatrical makeup arranged on a small table in jars and bottles.

“She was well-equipped,” Holmes observed as we retreated.

“She learned, I imagine, from her years in the theatre.”

“From her husband, also. He was no stranger to the ways of the criminal underworld.”

Holmes left the room, halting me with a gesture as I made to follow. I heard his movements in the parlour, the kitchen and in the rooms above. He returned presently dusting down his coat with his hands.

“I think I hear the coroner’s cart drawing up outside. There is nothing more to be learned here, I think, so we will join the good Inspector and let the men get on with their work. Come, Watson.”

With that he turned and we made our way back through the hall-way. Two men in leather aprons passed us as we walked out and along the path, and Lestrade stood near the gates.

“Did you check every room, Inspector?” Holmes asked.

Lestrade looked at him curiously. “All of them, Mr. Holmes. We have overlooked nothing.”

“I think there may be a little more to it.” My friend inclined his head towards the house. Lestrade did not question, but turned thoughtfully and hurried back inside.

Holmes and I passed through the gates, and into the street. There was no hansom in sight, so we set off back the way we had come at a brisk pace.

“Lestrade should be looking for a tall, fair-haired man with a handlebar moustache, dressed as a workman but wearing ordinary boots,” he remarked. “She will certainly not appear to be a woman.”

“You deduced that from your inspection of the closet in the hidden room?”

“That, and the fact that her flight was frantic. Why else would she have been so careless as to leave the body of her maid in plain view, and the clothes she wore in Tottenham Court Road strewn about? You may remember that there was a certain order to the arrangement of her disguises, the wigs, beards and moustaches were displayed in categories of style and colour. It was child’s play to discern what was missing. Similarly the workman’s clothes had gone, except for the heavy boots, whereas a full morning suit hung unaccompanied by footwear. Probably the boots would have been a hindrance to her flight and considerably uncomfortable.”

“Do you think the Inspector will realise this?”

A faint smile passed quickly over Holmes’ face. “I will mention it, when we see him next.”

I was about to protest that this could be too late to aid the police investigation, when my friend raised his stick to bring a passing four-wheeler to a halt. As I made to enter with him, he held up a hand.

“No, Watson, I will see you back at Baker Street presently. As Mrs. McLyall is now a fugitive, we are probably no longer under such a great threat. Nevertheless, keep your pistol with you. If you turn at the next corner, I think you will find that a hansom has just dropped its fare. I noticed it approaching, a moment ago.”

With that the four-wheeler swept him away. I heard him call “Scotland Yard” to the driver as the horse broke into a gallop.

***

I had been back in our rooms fully four hours before Holmes returned. However he had spent his time, he looked pleased at the outcome.

“I’m afraid you’ve missed lunch, Holmes, but I will ask Mrs. Hudson to bring...”

“No matter, Watson. I am not hungry and cannot spare the energy for digestion. At last the full circumstances of this case are becoming clear.”

“What have you learned?”

He took off his hat and coat and sat in the armchair at the other side of the fire. “It is fortunate that the Head of Scotland Yard’s Record Department knows me, from my previous visits with Lestrade. He allowed me to examine their files and to see the records of all recent unsolved murders. I was able to connect several of these to our present problem.”

“There is much more in this than there appeared to be at first,” I observed.

“Indeed. For example, I discovered how Mrs. McLyall”s husband met his end.”

“And how was that?” I enquired.

“He was hanged, at Pentonville Prison.”

“For what crime?”

“The murder of a policeman. Jim McLyall was disturbed while attempting to break into a house in Mayfair.”

I considered this, and its implication, while Holmes took up one of his long-stemmed pipes and filled it with the coarse shag he kept in the Persian slipper on the mantelpiece.

“So how does this alter what we know?” I asked him finally.

“There is some truth in Millicent’s explanation of ‘Rendt’s’ motives.” Holmes paused to light his pipe, and blue smoke hid him like a veil until he waved a hand to clear it. “If you recall, he told us that Patricia Quill accidentally overheard a conversation between ‘Rendt’ and Mrs. McLyall. In the light of what we have learned since, it seems obvious that Miss Quill actually saw something that identified Mrs. McLyall as ‘Rendt,’ or at least as the perpetrator of some crime. Miss Quill may not have realised the significance of her discovery, but Mrs. McLyall could not risk exposure. Hence, as Millicent described, the murder of Miss Quill and anyone she could have confided in. This included her father, and because he had visited us, brought about the intended killing of you and myself. For the same reason, that he knew too much, Millicent was eventually murdered also. Possibly an additional reason was that he disobeyed the order to dispose of us. Miss Carpenter was procured in a tavern specifically to lure me to that house. As we know, she met her end after she had fulfilled her purpose.”

“Mrs. McLyall”s maid, too.” I added.

“Indeed. She also would have learned too much about her mistress to be allowed to live. Like the others, her death was merely incidental to the main plan.” He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes for a moment as the smoke filled his lungs. “When you asked me earlier, about the purpose of Mrs. McLyall’s crimes, I could not answer you directly. Now, thanks to Scotland Yard, I believe I can.”

“I do not think that your visit, without his permission, will please Lestrade.”

Holmes laughed shortly. “Perhaps he will view me more charitably when I surrender to him all credit for the capture of Mrs. McLyall.”

“You consider then, that her arrest will be sufficiently sensational to satisfy the Inspector on that score?”

“I would say so. She is a criminal on a grand scale, especially for a woman. We now know something of her precautions to conceal her identity -- the murders we have just mentioned, and her invention of ‘Rendt.’ Then there is her creation of The One Hundred per Cent Society, which in truth was made up of outcast bluebloods, no doubt known to her from her time in the theatre, selected for their criminal tendencies. Incidentally, I discovered that Zedekiah Furlong, the secretary, qualified because of his past as a racecourse pickpocket, and because of his distant relationship to the family of the Earl of Demridge.”

“A nest of blackguards!” I murmured.

“Quite.” His pipe now empty, he replaced it in the rack after knocking out its contents for tomorrow’s first smoke. “As we surmised, their purpose was to commit incidental crimes on Mrs. McLyall’s behalf, to further lower the risk of her discovery. She did indeed keep them dependent on her by means of feeding their addictions, and probably supplying money. You will remember that, by the repetitious appearance of the cards bearing the Gorgon’s head, she directed us eventually to the Society’s premises so that we would be recognised by Millicent or whoever she intended to send to kill us.”

“But again, Holmes, what was, or is, her objective?”

“Really, Watson, your impatience is sometimes a little overpowering. When I searched the files at Scotland Yard I kept in mind the description of the character of the woman we know as Mrs. McLyall, given to me by Miss Gloriana Roland. It was, as you will recall, that of a restless, insensitive and sometimes unstable woman. I mentioned before that I had suspended any suspicions that these crimes were committed for profit, and so I looked for motives of passion.”

A sudden light dawned. “Has this to do with the death of Mrs. McLyall’s husband?”

“As always, Watson, you reach the correct conclusion when some of the facts are explained to you. It did indeed occur to me that the reason for her actions might be rooted in Jim McLyall’s execution. I studied the official account of the trial. His wife’s conduct in court, a surfeit of emotional demonstrations that resulted in her twice being taken from the room, led me to believe that her feelings for him went far beyond what is normal. She seems to have become obsessed. Add that to Miss Roland’s impressions, and the probable nature of these crimes begins to become apparent.”

“Holmes, are we talking here of revenge?”

“That is what I have come to believe. I suspected it when I realised that the crimes of Jim McLyall, although numerous, were never violent until the last. The killing of the police officer was more or less accidental during a frantic effort to escape. McLyall was not a violent man and, as I expected, the murders began after his death.”

“There were more than we have seen then, as you suspected?”

“And more to come, if we are slow in our work. I have traced the unsolved killings of Margaret Gurney, Simone de Braun, Ann Stiller, George Carmel, Stafford Milton and Genevieve Tafler to the same source. If I tell you that two more have died from natural causes, and that we have four possible murders to prevent if it is within our power, can you not answer your own question about the purpose and victims of Mrs. McLyall”s crimes?”

I thought hastily, as I always did when Holmes explained a line of reasoning that he expected me to finish, not wishing to appear slow or obtuse.

“Counting all that you mention, the dead and the living, produces a total of twelve persons,” I answered after a moment. “A jury, perhaps?”

My friend’s face lit up with approval.

“Bravo, Watson! A jury it is indeed. The twelve, in fact, that condemned Jim McLyall. Now all is clear, is it not?”

I nodded. “His wife blames them for his death and seeks vengeance. But does she believe him to have been unjustly convicted?”

“From what we have learned of Mrs. McLyall’s disposition, it does not speak well for her reason. Again, you will recall that Miss Roland sometimes saw madness there. No, Jim McLyall’s guilt or innocence was irrelevant to his wife. She was deprived of him, and that was enough to tilt the scales towards the murderous course she has adopted.”

“I have seen such ones before,” I said.

Holmes sighed, shaking his head sadly. “I also. She has been overtaken by an extreme form of grief, and seeks to expend herself randomly and without conscience. Her mind is quite unbalanced. We must take care that we, too, are not consumed in her rage.”