The Helverton Inheritance

by David Marcum

On that particular Saturday in October 1883, I nearly reached a crisis. Looking around those rooms that I had shared with Sherlock Holmes for over two-and-three-quarters of a year, I was hard-pressed to find either a single object of my own that wasn’t covered or crowded or obscured by some criminal relic, and there wasn’t a single empty space upon which to lay an additional item of my own, should I have desired to do so.

Perhaps my frustration was not wholly due to the overwhelming state of the sitting room that I had just entered upon that brassy afternoon. I had recently concluded one of several tedious consecutive days as a locum for a doctor on holiday from his practice near St. Pancras Station, and I was facing another bleak week of the same until his return. Every physician’s office cultivates a certain ambiance, as the French so aptly put it, and the professional abode of Dr. Weaver was singularly constructed to weary a man’s soul, consisting of plain and rather dark rooms without windows, frequent train-related rumblings - some obvious and others almost below one’s awareness, except for an unsettled feeling in one’s bones from arrivals and departures at the nearby station - and most of all a set of patients who were decidedly unfriendly toward this poor doctor who had agreed to treat them while their regular physician was pursuing his own likely prurient interests along the French coast.

It was with a day of this experience as my foundational basis that I returned to Baker Street in the mid-afternoon, with only the desire to put my feet up at the fire, sip a generous restorative, and lose myself in a novel of high adventure set upon the sea. Instead, I opened the door to find the sitting room especially avalanched, if that may be used as a word, under mounds of paper, stacked hither and yon across the path to my chair, which itself held a stack of books so high and skewed that I feared its imminent collapse into the fire.

Oblivious to what he had caused, for it could only have been caused by him, was my friend Sherlock Holmes, curled into his own chair opposite my own, some sort of document held close before his face, catching the last of the afternoon light from the west-facing window behind him. He looked far younger at that moment than his twenty-nine years and I, only about a year-and-a-half older then he, suddenly felt like a middle-aged parent who had returned home to find that a sheepish little Johnny or Mary had spent the afternoon making mud pies upon the carpets.

Even as I planted my feet, afraid to try and cross that battlefield of papers before me and preparing to roar at my flatmate, he looked up with that enthusiasm of old, while waving the document this way and that.

“Morgan’s palimpsest!” he cried. “I’ve cracked it! We only need to journey out to Hornchurch, and then a little pick-and-shovel work should set the matter right as quick as the greyhound’s mouth, to borrow a bit from the Bard.”

I had been prepared to list grievances, and they were still on my tongue, but they turned to ashes and, with a sigh, I let them run away. Instead, I counted to three and then stated, “That’s good news for Morgan, then. Have you let him know?”

“Not yet. I only just now understood the puzzle in the moments before you arrived. I have spent the afternoon...” He trailed off, looking around the room at the dunes and drifts of paper. Having been there upon previous occasions when he discovered a trail and set off where it would take him, I knew how such a mess of stacked books and scattered documents could occur. When Holmes perceived a connection, he would search and shift and sort while following the elusive fact until he found the way to the next, and so on. Only after the prey had been run to earth, so to speak, would the fever slowly dissipate, and he would peer around, as he was doing now, realizing just what his quest had wrought.

He smiled ruefully, set the palimpsest aside on his little octagonal table, uncurled from the chair, and leapt to his feet. “My dear fellow,” he said, taking a few steps to my chair and effortlessly lifting a nearly three-foot stack of volumes before pivoting with them toward our dining table. “I do apologize.” Setting the books down upon the tabletop, he ran his hands from bottom to top to align them, and then made his way to the sideboard. “A brandy, perhaps? Or no. I should think a whisky will do.” He began to pour while I was left to navigate through the papers on the floor.

So after only a minor delay, I was finally ensconced in my chair, a fine old friend that I had bought from a used furniture dealer in nearby Dorset Street within a day of first moving to Baker Street. I tried not to sigh audibly with satisfaction, a reaction made more tempting as I received my curative beverage. In the meantime, Holmes turned his attention to the herding of his papers, gradually combining and collapsing the stacks until they were replaced from whence they had come, even as he explained the process that had led to his understanding of the message on the document that Morgan had brought ‘round only that morning - a solution that would mean rescue from penury to the gruff old man and his two worthy granddaughters.

I only half-listened, wondering how I would get out of a planned day at Doctor Weaver’s practice in order to accompany Holmes to Hornchurch, to participate in what could only be described as a treasure hunt. It was a bit awkward, asking someone else to serve as a locum for me, while I was already acting as locum, but I’d done it before. It crossed my mind, as it sometimes did, that someday, when my health was finally as good as it was going to get and I found a full-time practice of my own, I would have to discover a way to force myself to stay there every day, facing the same progression of tedious illnesses that would shuffle in and wander out of my premises with the monotonous regularity of a ticking clock. I took a sip of good whisky to chase away the thought, and that is when the doorbell rang.

Holmes glanced up from the midst of his task, a familiar gleam in his eye. We heard the sound of conversation below as Mrs. Hudson answered the door, and then steady footsteps climbing the stairs. Holmes just had time to put the substantial stack of papers in his hand upon a desk - my desk - and straighten his dressing gown. Then, following a knock at the sitting room door and, with Holmes’s bid to enter, we were faced by a stranger, a young man in his mid-twenties, not much younger than Holmes or me.

I stood while Holmes spoke a greeting, directing the distraught-looking fellow to the basket chair directly facing the fire. I questioned whether he would join us in a whisky, perhaps, or something else. He declined and, with all of us seated, he began to speak.

“Thank you for the gracious welcome, gentlemen.” He looked from one of us to the other. “I apologize for arriving without an appointment. I was returning to town, following the events of last night, and I fear that I allowed myself to become indiscreet upon the train, as I felt the need to discuss what happened with someone. Fortunately, I found myself sharing a compartment with a policeman returning to London from some business of his own, and he suggested that you might be able to shed a bit of light upon my dilemma.”

“And this policeman was...?” asked Holmes.

“I believe he said that his name was Youghal, if I’m recalling it correctly.”

Holmes nodded. “Indeed. He is an inspector, and quite competent, in his own way.” Turning to me, Holmes said, “He must be returning from that business in Exbourne. No doubt we’ll receive a report shortly.”

Holmes then gave our visitor an appraising glance, and I knew that he was seeing quite a bit that I’d likely miss. However, as I’d studied my friend’s methods for a while now, I could recognize some of the more obvious things, including the fact that the man in our basket chair was a left-handed bachelor with a penchant for lime hair cream, someone with an office job requiring that he do a great deal of writing, perhaps in a law office, and with a nervous disposition.

Holmes said, “Watson, in addition to what you will have just observed, you might avoid making the leap to identifying his professional position as that of a law clerk, based upon the legal-looking paper peeking from his pocket. In fact, I can see that he actually works in the book publishing trade - although in the dreary business side - and that those documents you see instead relate to the matter at hand. Additionally, his nervousness is not typical, for his nails are newly chewed to the quick, and not those of someone who has an ongoing need to pursue that habit. Finally, he has had a rough night. The stains on not only your shoes, sir, but your suit from shoulders to feet indicate that you have spent some time, probably unplanned, in the woods.”

The young man appeared surprised for just a moment, and then smiled. “The inspector said to expect as much,” he said. He glanced at his fingertips. “You are correct about being outside and in the trees. And I am not normally nervous. But the events of last night were certainly enough to knock me off my regular perch.”

“Pray, enlighten us then, Mr....?”

“Hayden. Jerrold Hayden.”

Holmes nodded, and the man began his tale. “I’ve only just returned on the train from Exeter. I should have been back sooner, but there was a track fire along the way. I walked straight from Paddington to speak with you, Mr. Holmes, and I-”

Holmes held up a hand. “You were returning specifically from Exeter, Mr. Hayden, or one of the surrounding areas?”

“Ah. I’m sorry. From Exeter, and before that just west of Chudleigh, in Devonshire. Near the River Teign.”

“Yes, I know the place,” replied Holmes. “I was able to be of some service to the family at Hams Barton, back in ’78. As I recall, that area you mention is just a mile or three northeast of where I visited.”

“As you say, Mr. Holmes. Before I went down, I did a bit of research on the countryside, and I recall reading of that place.”

“And why were you in that location?”

“I had been notified that I am the heir to a house and some land there.”

“Indeed. Was this expected? I perceive that it may have been a surprise.”

“Oh, I was very much surprised. I received a confidential letter on Tuesday, informing me that I had been located by a firm of West Country solicitors, seeking individuals that had been named in the will of one Clark Helverton, in order to dispose of his estate.”

“Sent to your place of employment.”

“That’s right. How did you know?”

“From the address on the legal papers protruding from your pocket, care of the publishing firm where you are employed. You say that you had no previous knowledge of this man, Helverton?”

“You are correct. I’d never heard of him before. According to the letter, he had married my great-aunt, late in her life, and as he had no close relatives of his own, he had willed the house and land to his wife’s heirs. It turns out that she also had no other remaining family but myself. I should mention that I have no personal memory of this great-aunt, as she had drifted beyond the sphere of my own family long before I was born.”

“And you have no brothers, sisters, or cousins who might have also benefited from this unexpected windfall?”

“I do not. My father, who was apparently my great-aunt’s only other relation, died when I was but a small child, and my late mother never remarried. I am an only child, and apparently my great-aunt - as far as I ever knew - had never married before Mr. Helverton. Thus, she had no children, and therefore my father had no cousins on that side of the family. Therefore, I am the end of that particular branch. And this was confirmed by the solicitor’s representative.”

Holmes leaned back. “Perhaps you need to tell me more about the circumstances.”

“But don’t you need to know what happened at the house last night? I can-”

Holmes smiled and shook his head. “All in good time, Mr. Hayden. Lay the proper groundwork. Surely your own experiences in the book publishing profession have taught you the importance of assembling of each element in the proper order.”

Hayden nodded, took a deep breath. I again offered a tot of whisky, but he thanked me and declined.

“As I said, I received a letter early this week from the firm of Stoddard and Stoddard, of Exeter, informing me that I was the heir to the property.”

“May I see the letter?”

“Certainly.” Hayden retrieved the previously mentioned letter from his pocket and handed it to Holmes. “After the events of last night, I was reading it on the train, and I had also showed it to the police inspector. As you can see, it rather specifically describes the nature of the inheritance, the research showing I am the only remaining heir, how I was located, and also the suggested arrangements for journeying to the West Country this weekend.”

Holmes turned the sheet this way and that before reading it. “Curious,” said he after a moment. “The paper and letterhead appear to be rather aged, based upon the spotting. I see that the writer, one Ethan Stoddard, had already determined that you are unmarried, and he suggested that you keep the matter secret, even from your employers.”

“That is true. As he wrote, the story of the discovery of a long-lost heir might be of interest to the press, and would bring undue attention upon the matter.”

“And did you keep it secret?”

“I did. I obtained leave from my employers on Friday, yesterday that is, without telling them why, and traveled down to Exeter by the late morning train, whereupon I made my way to the law offices, as suggested in the letter.”

“And what of the Stoddards? I confess that, while my knowledge is not extensive upon the subject, I did have reason a few years ago to learn a bit about the legal firms of that part of the world, and I don’t recall them.”

“I gathered from my visit to their offices that they are a rather small concern, dealing with just a few old and established clients. I must say that I found them to be quite humble indeed. There was no clerk, and the offices are on a side street beside a haberdasher’s shop. They had a feeling of neglect - an excess of dust about the place and so on, if you follow me.”

“I do, indeed, Mr. Hayden. Did you have the sense that the firm had been in that location for a while, or had moved there quite recently?”

“Oh, quite a while, Mr. Holmes. I see what you are getting at, but it is a real firm, and not a quickly rented room with the intent to fool me. The sign on the wall by the front door was ancient looking and well established, and there were various certificates and photographs on the walls that testified to the long-standing presence of Stoddard and Stoddard in that area. In fact, one of the framed documents near the entryway had become crooked upon the wall, perhaps from someone brushing against it or from the vibrations of the nearby closing door, and a less-faded patch matching that object was revealed, running alongside the frame. Clearly, it had hung there for a long time. The document itself was quite faded as well.”

Holmes clapped his hands. “An observant man after our own hearts, Watson!” he cried. “Clearly then, that evidence, coupled with the age of the paper, establishes their legitimacy. Do go on, Mr. Hayden. What about this Ethan Stoddard, who summoned you to Exeter?”

“He is a young fellow, about our age I would think. He apologized for the condition of the office, explaining that the original Stoddard and Stoddard had been his two uncles. One died years ago, and the other only recently became incapacitated due to apoplexy. His prognosis is not good, and Ethan, himself a lawyer, moved down from London just a few weeks earlier to take over the practice.

“We made conversation for a bit, about living in Exeter versus London and so forth, before turning to specifics, and that was when he told me that the firm had been established long ago to manage the affairs of just a few well-placed clients with interests in and around Exeter - including this Clark Helverton. A week or so ago, just after Mr. Ethan Stoddard came down to assume his new duties, he received a letter informing him of Mr. Helverton’s death in New York.

“Although the old man had left England years before, he’d maintained ownership of the house near Chudleigh, out along the river, and it was this that he’d willed to any relatives of my great-aunt. In fact, in this particular case, managing the care of the old house - maintenance, taxes, and so on - was really the only thing that Stoddard and Stoddard ever did for Mr. Helverton, as the rest of his affairs were handled in America. Ethan Stoddard informed me that for a long time, the house had been rented, but sadly it has stood empty for a number of years, partly due to the decline of the elder Stoddard who ran the firm - he had been lax in finding a new tenant. As I mentioned, Ethan Stoddard’s researches had revealed that I was the only heir to this particular bequest, and thus he had summoned me down to get a look at my inheritance.

“He gave me a look at both the letter from America, and the old documents from the Stoddard files - letters with instructions, previous rental records, and so on. It was confusing but seemed to be legitimate.”

“Did you see the envelope for the recent letter from the United States?”

“I did. It had an American stamp and a recent post mark.”

“Excellent. Pray continue.”

“After making sure that I had eaten on the train, Mr. Stoddard suggested that we depart. He had a small dog-cart rented and waiting around the corner, and we set out. It was an amiable enough trip as we traveled west, the miles rolling away and the weather much like today. We wandered down ever smaller and narrower roads until we finally crossed the river and reached a ragged drive, turning and winding out of sight between two mossy pillars.

“As we proceeded down the overgrown lane, covered with fallen leaves and identifiable as a roadway only by its relative straightness and slight elevation from the surrounding woods, I had my first view of the house. It’s a rambling structure, just two stories tall with an attic, but quite wide, with a sheltered landing that surrounded it on several sides. It looked incongruous there, like something I’ve seen in photographs of homes in the American South. The dark grounds, choked with black-trunked trees and wild abandoned shrubbery, slope down toward the river, and there is the suggestion that the scene should have swags of the Spanish Moss that grows in America, hanging from the trees.

“The house itself is in great disrepair. It is of a light-colored stone, but stained with mildew. Mounds of leaves and other detritus from the surrounding trees have piled along the foundation, and I could see a number of dead limbs protruding from over the edge of the roof high above us, remaining where they had fallen, possibly years earlier. We approached the front side of the house, as indicated by the imposing door centered there and the nearly obscured walkway approaching it from the drive. It has a heavy black door, quite wide. All of the window shutters were closed, but some were hanging loose from their hinges, and one was knocking against the wall in the slight breeze from the river. There are a number of dormer windows lined across the attic, and they are just high enough to catch some of the rare sunlight that penetrates the thick canopy of the trees, which themselves seemed fancifully to me as if they were somehow angry at having been disturbed from their long and ponderous isolation.”

I glanced at Holmes, and I saw his mouth purse slightly. If I had been relating these events, he would have long before snapped something to the effect of sticking to the facts, or “Cut the poetry, Watson.” However, he was striving to remain polite, and I for one appreciated the sense of the place that Hayden was constructing.

Our visitor, however, was not unaware of Holmes’s reaction, and he strove to come back to the point. “It was then, looking at the overwhelming neglect of the house and grounds, that I began to have further questions, and just a few qualms, about whether this inheritance would actually be of any benefit to me. I hadn’t really thought much about what to do before that point. Mr. Stoddard had explained that there was a small cash income associated with the house for its upkeep, but otherwise there would be no additional inheritance forthcoming.

“I was aware from our conversation that there was a bit of land along with the building, and when I saw the house and its condition, I began to calculate whether any buyer might be found to take this heap off my hands, in the condition in which it stood. It was fairly certain that the funds that Mr. Stoddard had described for upkeep were probably just enough to pay the taxes, and possibly hire someone to check the place a few times per year to ascertain that it hadn’t burned. There was no way that I could fund a full restoration on my own, and I have grave doubts that I could find employment in that area, allowing me to abandon my current profession, move down from London, and set myself up as some sort of country squire.

“After we stopped, we walked a bit here and there, while I obtained different views of the house. It was in the same state of neglect upon all sides, and I suppose that my despair was becoming obvious, as Mr. Stoddard tried to cheer me up, saying that he was certain things would work out. He neglected, however, to specify exactly how that might be accomplished.

“Finally we arrived at the front door, which he opened with an age-stained key. We stepped inside, and if our eyes hadn’t already been accustomed to the tree-darkened approach to the house, we wouldn’t have been able to see the interior at all. As it was, I could dimly make out the hallway and stairs in front of us, and various doorways on either side. However, the smell of neglect was enough to bring tears to our eyes, and any view that had been initially obtained was quickly lost.

“We lit a couple of lamps, standing conveniently beside the door and apparently left by the irregular caretaker, and began to explore. I was happy to see that the place still benefited from the quite solid construction of the previous century. The floors were sound, and amazingly, there was no sign of leakage on the upstairs ceilings or down the walls. I quickly became confused at the upstairs layout, and was glad to find my way back down to the entry hall.

“I felt that I had seen all that there was to see, when I was shocked to find Mr. Stoddard standing in the entry way, holding a basket and telling me that he must leave, as night was approaching, and that he had brought enough food to see me through until morning. I recalled then that I had seen that same basket in the dog-cart, but I had paid it no mind.

“‘Whatever can you mean?’ I cried, for it was plain that he meant that I should remain there while he planned to depart.

“He apologized, saying that he thought he had mentioned that - although I knew that he had not. ‘A requirement of the will,’ he explained. ‘Mr. Helverton stated that you must take possession of the house immediately, or it will be auctioned, with the proceeds turned over to a charity. I have consulted with my uncle,’ he added, ‘and we felt that some leniency in the interpretation of the document allows for you to claim the house by simply spending one night here to serve as your tenancy. Afterwards, you can declare your intent to return, an event which can be delayed indefinitely.’

“He said it all so matter-of-factly that I didn’t see a way to disagree. I pointed out that, in spite of his basket of food and drink, there was nowhere for me to sleep. He seemed to think that easily solved, and led me to a side room, where the furniture was covered, and pulled a dusty sheet from a deep chair. Then, with the comment that it was getting dark and that he would be back for me in the morning, he bustled outside, ignoring my ill-formed arguments against remaining there. He pressed the old key into my hand-” and with that, Hayden pulled it from his waistcoat and handed it to Holmes, who looked at it and then placed it on the table beside him - “telling me not to lose it, as it was the only one. Then, with a warning to stay indoors, he stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind him.

“I immediately followed Stoddard to the door, opening it to see him already jumping blithely back into the dog-cart. With a wave, he turned the horse smartly and was gone.

“As you can imagine, I was stunned at how quickly this had occurred. I had gone from the despair of seeing the condition of the house and grounds to being abandoned there in the space of a few short minutes. After a time, while I stood in the doorway and considered simply trying to walk back to town, pondering that I would simply have to follow each smaller road to a larger, I realized that I hadn’t paid attention to the turnings. I could certainly get out to the mossy pillars that marked the edge of the estate, but after that, I might end up walking farther from Chudleigh, and as Mr. Stoddard had pointed out, night was coming. Of course, I could always throw myself on the mercy of a neighboring farmer, provided I came across a house in my wanderings, but I couldn’t even be sure of that.

“In the end, I decided I must stay. I picked up the basket and set it onto a nearby table. Opening it, I saw that it was filled with a generous supply of food - various tins and jars, a cold woodcock, a few bottles of water, and another of wine. I never eat a heavy meal in the evening, and, feeling neither hungry nor thirsty, I decided to explore the house a bit more. Taking up the lantern, I began a more systematic evaluation of the place. Some of the furniture was actually quite nice, when one ignored the dust. Upstairs, I was able to work out the initially confusing arrangement of the rooms, and I even went up to the attic, which was filled with additional old furniture, as well as numerous boxes and trunks. I heard the rustle of mice, which was not surprising, but everything seemed to be salvageable, and I was curious about what might be found amongst all the abandoned items, and frankly, how much I could get for it.

“I went back downstairs and made a light snack of some of the basket’s contents. There was much more than I could eat, and I confess that I didn’t open the wine, as I am a teetotaler. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was actually a bit later than I had thought. I considered pulling one of the dusty books off a shelf in the room in which I’d eaten, but first I decided that I wanted to get a breath of fresh air.

“Disregarding Mr. Stoddard’s warning to stay inside, I stepped out onto the porch and pulled the door shut behind me. I’d left the lantern in the side room, not wanting to spoil my night vision, and I noticed that the heavy drapes in that room, combined with the closed shutters, prevented any of that light from leaking outside.

“Although it is October, it hasn’t been cool yet, and the leaves on the trees are still quite thick, and just starting to turn. The moon was shining out on the river, and I took a few steps that way, the better to get a view of that romantic aspect. I stood for a few moments, inhaling deeply, and then, realizing that my eyes had adjusted quite a bit, I moved laterally along the river, staying an even distance away from the house. I was very quiet, without really intending to be, but it was fortunate, as it may have saved my life.

“I had come past the far end of the house, the river behind me, when I saw a movement near one of the abandoned outbuildings that we’d passed earlier. I’ve read that in darkness, one’s peripheral vision is stronger at sensing motion than if one stares directly at an object, so I paused in the shadow of a thick tree trunk and generally cast my vision in that direction without looking too hard, if you catch my meaning. I was rewarded, as I saw the movement once again. It was a man, and he was moving slowly toward the front door of the house.

“A feeling of terror swept over me as I recalled the warning that Mr. Stoddard had made before he left, advising me to stay inside. What had he known? Was there some sinister association with this house that made living here dangerous? I was willing to believe it, when the man that I watched passed through a bar of moonlight, and I realized that it was Mr. Stoddard himself.

“With a sense of relief, I was about to hail him when I saw that his hands were not empty. In one, he appeared to hold something very much resembling a gun, and in the other - and upon this point there could be no mistake - he carried a hatchet.

“I watched as he progressed, thinking at first that he was hunting whatever the danger was that permeated these woods. But then I realized that he paid no attention to anything around him. He was focused on the front door, which he approached in a most stealthy manner, as if the enemy were within instead of without. At that point, I understood with vivid clarity that he was not protecting me, but attempting to reach me.

“He stepped to the doorway and fumbled for a moment before producing what could only be a key - another key, in spite of his recent statement that the one he had left for me was the only one. I tapped my own pocket to assure myself that it was still with me. He bent to the door, but with a barely audible sound of surprise, he discovered that his efforts had been unnecessary, as I’d left it unlocked. He opened it, so very slowly, and then slipped silently inside.

“I realized with a shock that I’d come down to that part of the world without informing anyone, upon this man’s instructions, and that the only person in the entire world who knew that I was there was now approaching where he thought I waited, carrying both a gun and a hatchet. I didn’t understand anything about what might be in back of all of this, but it didn’t matter. All I knew then was that I needed to be somewhere else.

“Creeping along the river, staying in the trees so the moonlight wouldn’t show me, I made my way back to the other side of the house, and the narrow lane leading out to the road. I could imagine Stoddard, finding the lantern and the basket, and wondering where I was. He would explore the house, trying to locate me, but eventually he’d realize that I wasn’t there, and then he would look elsewhere. Seeing as how he’d approached the house without a light, I suspected that he wouldn’t use one when he searched the grounds, and every step I took was with the terror that he would step out in front of me, a shadow only identified by the shine of moonlight on the gun and the blade.

“I may have sobbed with relief when, about halfway up the lane, I came upon his dog-cart, tied to a small tree. I’d loosened it and hurried the horse up the road before I even had time to think what I was doing. I reached the pillars at the main road, turned the way that seemed familiar, and kept going. Here in the open, with the moon high in the sky, the route was clear. Wherever there was a road that was wider than before, and seemed to be in the direction of Exeter, I took it. Soon I was on the main road, which I recognized, and I finally reached the outskirts of Exeter, where I found an inn of middle quality. I obtained a room, and asked that they stable the horse, with the instruction that it not be left where it could be seen. No doubt they were a bit suspicious, especially as I had no bags with me. I was fearful that the innkeeper was friends with Stoddard, would recognize the dog-cart, and somehow get word to the man, leading him to show up in the middle of the night. I don’t think I slept a wink, hearing every creak and settlement in the old building.

“In the morning, I silently departed, leaving the cart, and wandered in a stealthy manner until I found a cab. I was then deposited at St. David’s Station. It was still a bit before the London train, so I had a bite of breakfast in the Great Western Hotel, where I watched the doorway in fear and trusted no one, not even the old man dozing at a nearby table. My face, reflected in the mirror on the nearby wall, was ghastly. Finally it was time for my train and I departed. Along the way, I relaxed enough to fall into casual conversation with the man in my compartment and, upon learning his profession, told him my story. He suggested that it was odd, and while no crime had actually been committed, it might be something upon which you could advise me. Thus, here I am.” And he spread his hands as if to demonstrate that, indeed, he was actually sitting in our basket chair.

I had felt a thrill of terror as he described the events of the previous evening, the dark and sinister isolation of the abandoned house, the moonlight and the river and the looming trees, and the sudden identification of the man who had invited him there, holding instruments of murder, moving silently toward where our visitor was thought to be innocently waiting...

“The wine!” I cried.

Jerrold Hayden looked surprised and confused, but Holmes nodded. “Very good, Watson. My thoughts exactly.”

“I’m sorry, but...” said Hayden.

“I believe that Watson has worked out that, if you had chosen to drink the wine list night, you might have soon found yourself sleepy, or at least in such a fog as to be unable to defend yourself, making your end - for that is what we will suppose was planned by Mr. Stoddard - to be that much easier.”

“You mean that the wine was drugged?”

“Possibly. He could have used a hypodermic needle to add something to the contents through the cork.”

“Then why not the food or the water?”

“Any number of reasons. Perhaps what he used would have been noticeable when used in that fashion. Perhaps some of the food was drugged. Did you sample all of it?”

“I did not. I simply opened one of the potted meat tins and ate it with crackers.”

“Of course. Both items are purchased unopened. Your lack of appetite may have saved you. Was the water sealed?”

“Yes, with a metal cap. No cork.” He looked uncomfortable. “So you agree that there is something sinister about this business?”

“On the face of it, how could we not?” replied Holmes. “And yet, you say the documents, and the office itself, were legitimate enough.” He leaned forward. “I will investigate this matter, although today being Saturday complicates things a bit. Do you have somewhere to stay, in order to avoid going home?”

“I... I can get a room at a hotel, if you recommend it.”

“I do. When you are established, send word around as to where you can be reached. I cannot stress enough that you should avoid your lodgings. Where are they, by the way?”

Hayden provided an address near Moxon Street. Holmes noted it on his cuff, and then stood, indicating that the interview was over. A bit puzzled at this abrupt shift, Hayden rose as well, thanking us and moving toward the door. In moments he was gone, and Holmes was consulting one of his reference books. Then, with a snap, he shut it and replaced it on the bookcase.

“Stoddard and Stoddard is indeed an actual firm.”

“Was there a doubt? I thought that the description of the old office, the framed documents, and so on, was enough to convince you.”

“Confirmation, especially when it is so easily obtained, should never be ignored.”

I shifted, as if to stand. “Shall I make arrangements to go with you down to Exeter?”

He smiled. “This cake isn’t quite baked yet, Watson. I’m afraid that you might need to plan on substituting for Dr. Weaver for just a bit longer.” He shed his dressing gown, pulled on a coat, and reached for his Inverness and fore-and-aft cap, which he wore in both town and country, indifferent to convention. “I shall likely miss supper.” And then he was gone.

I did not see him that night, but he returned the next evening, looking rather worn. As usual, he didn’t provide any information as to his activities since his departure on Saturday. He glanced at Hayden’s temporary address, delivered to our door the previous night, and wrote a message, which he handed to our page boy. Then, hungrily attacking the remains of the cold dinner provided by Mrs. Hudson, he asked if I could make myself available for a journey to Exeter the next day. I confirmed it, frankly happy to be free and rescued from my obligation to Dr. Weaver’s grim practice, and set about making arrangements with a young physician of my acquaintance who had taken over my duties in the past. While I was doing so, Holmes said goodnight and retreated to his room.

And so on Monday, I found myself on the late morning Great Western Railway train out of Paddington, in the company of my friend, along with Jerrold Hayden and Inspector Youghal of Scotland Yard.

The inspector had a jovial smile, and seemed to appreciate being included. “I knew that you could make something out of this, Mr. Holmes. I knew it as soon as Mr. Hayden here told me his story.”

“I’m still in the dark,” said Hayden. “Am I to understand that you know the circumstances behind the events of last Friday night?”

I wished to know the details as well. Fortunately, Holmes began to explain.

“On Saturday, after you departed, Mr. Hayden, I found a location from which to observe your rooms. I soon learned that I was not alone.”

“Stoddard?” asked our client with shock.

Holmes nodded. “If your Mr. Stoddard is about five feet, eight inches tall, with broad shoulders and a squarish head, blonde hair cut rather longish in back, and a habit of standing with one foot flat and the other leg bent and resting upon a pointed toe.”

“Yes, that sounds like him. He did that several times while we were talking last Friday.”

“He wasn’t there when I arrived, but showed up soon after, finding a place in a doorway across the street. He stayed for several hours before giving up, shifting back and forth impatiently but never trying to enter the building. He kept watch up and down the street, becoming more alert whenever someone approached.”

“And he didn’t see you?” asked Hayden.

Youghal laughed, and Holmes smiled. “He did not, for I did not wish to be seen.” Then, the smile dropped away and he continued. “Eventually, he gave up and made his way to a small nearby hotel - fortunately, not the same one where you chose to stay! When he was in for the night, I arranged to have the place watched in my absence, and made myself useful elsewhere.”

I was certain that assistance had been provided by those lads, and sometimes lasses, who made up Holmes’s Irregular force. They were always willing to help, and the promise of payment was only part of the attraction. Their respect for Holmes, who valued them when often no one else did, made them very loyal allies indeed.

“I caught the late train to Exeter,” Holmes said. “I had wired ahead to arrange an appointment with Fenton Stoddard, the surviving partner, and Ethan Stoddard’s uncle. Although it was quite late by then, I felt that the matter would progress with a greater chance of success if I was able to make my investigation while Ethan, or so I believed the man I had observed to be, was still in London. Upon arrival at St. David’s Station, I made my way to the home of Fenton Stoddard, who had waited up for me. I had revealed just enough in my message to rouse his concern. I didn’t want to specify too much in my wire before I had ascertained that he wasn’t in on the plot.”

“Holmes,” I said. “You were taking a chance. If the uncle was involved in this affair, you were placing yourself in the same position that Mr. Hayden had just a day or so earlier - traveling to Exeter and walking into the lion’s den without letting anyone know where you had gone!”

Holmes smiled. “I took the precaution of arranging for covering fire, so to speak. You may recall that Thad Flatcher lives in Exeter. He and his brother met me at the station, and both of them waited hidden outside of Stoddard’s home to see what would happen, and if I reappeared - which I did.”

My thoughts flashed instantly to the man to whom Holmes was referring. If not for my friend’s assistance, young Thad would have been hanged in late ’81 for a crime he didn’t commit, wherein the theft of an ancient Devonshire Charter, and the hidden message it contained, had played such an unfortunate part in the brutal and unnecessary murder of old Dr. Chambers by the wicked Pennington Gang.

“After offering refreshments,” continued Holmes, “the elder Stoddard clearly wished to know more of my assertions, as I had only wired that there was a matter of grave and confidential concern regarding his practice. Now, in his presence, I related your entire narrative, Mr. Hayden, along with showing him the letter you received last Tuesday. Needless to say, he was shocked, and I was convinced of his sincerity - but only to a certain degree. After all, while he might only be discovering the plot as I related it, he might still see some personal benefit to it and make a move of his own to support it. Therefore, I remained wary.

“Following his initial reaction, he shook his head sadly, as if it wasn’t so great a surprise after all. ‘Ethan has always been a wrong ’un,’ he explained. ‘He is my sister’s boy. She married a man with a temper who died young. He had a way of believing that the world owed him something, and he passed it on to Ethan. When I became ill a few weeks ago, Ethan came down to help, although he was never put in any kind of permanent position, as he implied to your client. I should have known better.’

“Old Mr. Stoddard called to his servant, asking for his coat and for the carriage to be made ready. I was careful to note that at no time did he have a chance to write or pass a message, verbal or otherwise, to anyone that might be relayed to Ethan Stoddard in London. This did much to build my trust of him. Outside, he was helped into the carriage, and I joined him, surreptitiously signaling to Thad that he should follow, in case there was still some move to be made against me.

“My fears were groundless. We arrived at the Stoddard office and made a systematic search. All of the papers relating to Clark Helverton’s estate were easily found on Ethan Stoddard’s desk, and his uncle’s examination of them revealed something both surprising and obvious.” His gaze focused specifically upon our client. “Mr. Hayden, the details of the Helverton estate, and the amount apportioned to you as the only designated heir, was very much misrepresented by Ethan Stoddard. You did in fact inherit the remote house and grounds located along the River Teign, as described. But additionally, you are the sole recipient, upon providing proof of your identity in person to the Helverton legal representatives in New York, of a fortune totaling nearly a million pounds.”

This startling statement was followed by silence from all parties, with only the steady thrum of our westward train, or the occasional London-bound roaring past on the adjacent track, providing any intrusive noise. Hayden opened and closed his mouth, swallowing several times, and once his eyes widened as a thought occurred to him. He started to speak, but Youghal interrupted with a prosaic summary.

“And so this Ethan Stoddard has some plan to steal the inheritance.”

“It would seem so,” agreed Holmes. “Fenton Stoddard removed my last doubts of his own character and possible personal interest when he unhesitatingly summoned a local policeman of his acquaintance, making the matter official. He also sent some wires to the attorneys in New York, who could provide confirmatory information, even if it was early Sunday morning.

“Leaving the old man and the policeman to await responses to Stoddard’s wires, Thad Flatcher and I, using the address listed in the Helverton papers found in the file on Ethan Stoddard’s desk, found our way to the abandoned house on the river. It was as described, and the door was unlocked, although I was prepared to use the key that you had provided to me, Mr. Hayden, if we found it otherwise. The food basket provided for you was still there, as the stranded Ethan Stoddard had apparently been unwilling to carry it with him as he made his way back to town without benefit of his dog-cart. I retrieved the unopened wine bottle, as well as some of the food stuffs, and was able to obtain access to a local laboratory, using Fenton Stoddard’s influence. I easily verified that the food was perfectly fine, but the wine bottle contained a possibly toxic amount of chloral hydrate. Close examination revealed the mark of a hypodermic needle through the wax and the bottle’s cork where it had been added.”

“So he did mean to kill me,” muttered Hayden, finding his voice.

“Undoubtedly,” replied Holmes. “To sneak in and shoot you if you were still conscious, or to simply dispose of you if you were fully unconscious or perhaps already dead. The dosage of chloral hydrate added to the wine was quite strong, and would have been undetectable if you had imbibed. The fact that he carried a hatchet lends further terror and grim possibilities to the speculations. Your body might never have been found, as the house and grounds are as lonely and abandoned as you described.”

“Then,” I said, “it was Stoddard’s intention to somehow replace Mr. Hayden and assume the inheritance.”

“That’s how I read it,” said Holmes. “He spoke the truth when explaining how he recently moved to Exeter to help with his uncle’s practice, which seemingly does manage the affairs of just a few well-to-do clients, mostly in England, but a few with American connections. Only a few days after his arrival, as shown by documents on his desk, the information about the extent of Mr. Helverton’s estate appeared - a fact completely unknown to Fenton Stoddard, I might add. These papers explained the true amount of the assets, the identity of the heir, and the conditions for claiming the inheritance - namely, a visit in person to the New York offices handling Helverton’s fortune, with substantiating proofs in hand.

“While Thad Flatcher and I had been to the house, and then the chemical laboratory, Fenton Stoddard had received replies from New York, indicating that they had been told that the heir was found, and would present himself within a few weeks, providing proper documentation of his identity. Specifically, the heir was described to them as appearing very much like Ethan Stoddard, and not like you, Mr. Hayden. You will have observed that you are physically quite different from one another. This description of the heir was backed and certified by the good reputation of Stoddard and Stoddard, who had handled Clark Helverton’s affairs in England for decades, and therefore it would have been completely accepted by the New York lawyers, as they indicated in their wire.

“We’ll know more specifics when he is interrogated, but Ethan Stoddard realized as soon as the first letter arrived from New York that the requirements were just vague enough that he, a young man of the same approximate age, could take Mr. Hayden’s place. However, rather than simply stealing documents that he could use to assume the true heir’s identity, he apparently decided to make sure that any stray loopholes caused by your continued existence, Mr. Hayden, would be closed. He had quickly researched you and found that you were an orphan without living kin. After you were removed-”

“Killed,” interrupted Hayden, with a catch in his voice.

“Yes, killed,” amended Holmes, “with no one of your acquaintance knowing anything about your trip to Exeter, he would have broken into your London rooms, found what he needed to allow him to assume your identity, prepared whatever supporting legal documents that he would need to be sent or carried from England, and then made his way to New York, after convincingly winding up his affairs here. Who could challenge him? He would have sent word to your employer and landlord that you had departed in such a way that your absence would be regretted or resented, but quickly forgotten, and also provided some story to his uncle before he himself left, while preventing the old man from ever learning about the Helverton inheritance.

“He would have sent specific information to the New York offices managing the estate from Stoddard and Stoddard to make sure that nothing else was ever sent to Exeter that might undo his story. He might have even undertaken to use more of the chloral hydrate to remove his old uncle from the picture, effectively closing the Exeter practice completely. It was an opportunity that literally fell into his lap, and he saw that he could manipulate both ends of things without it ever being discovered. He is the sort of crafty person that saw his chance and cobbled his plan together within days. The simple and unpleasant fact that you didn’t drink the wine, Mr. Hayden, was the grit in the machine that saved your life and started the unraveling of his scheme.”

“So what happens now, Mr. Holmes?” asked Youghal. “When I first heard of this on the train last Saturday, there was nothing criminal in what had occurred - yet. Mr. Hayden saw a fellow with a gun and a hatchet sneaking around in the dark, but no attack had actually occurred, and proving intent is sometimes impossible, as you know. Even now, we might make a case of fraud, based on what he told the New York lawyers, but Stoddard can rightly claim that he did find the correct heir, and that he still intended to present Mr. Hayden here at the proper time. Your theories about what he intended cannot be completely proven, and he can blow up any case we might make with legal tricks about making us provide proof.”

“I believe that a bit more will come to light,” replied Holmes cryptically. “When I left for London yesterday, Fenton Stoddard was curiously going over the books at his office, and he seemed to have found something more tangible. Additionally, he’s been in touch with Ethan Stoddard’s former employers in London, and I think they have something to say as well.” Youghal waited, but Holmes didn’t elaborate.

“When we arrive in Exeter,” I said, filling the silence, “we will confront him.”

“Yes,” agreed Holmes. “Ethan returned to Exeter last night, accompanied unknowingly by Wiggins and a few of the other lads. They, along with the Flatcher brothers, have watched him continuously since then. Long before Ethan arrived, Fenton Stoddard returned to his own home with the plan to exaggerate his illness, in the unlikely event that his nephew tries to communicate with him in the meantime. He is genuinely outraged at the breach of trust enacted by his nephew, and he will let us do what is necessary. I expect that Ethan Stoddard is in the office now. We left the Helverton documents as we found them, so that he would not be alerted.”

“Isn’t that a risk?” I asked. “If he does think that his plan is coming apart, he might destroy something.”

“Not too risky. He certainly knows nothing for certain except that Mr. Hayden disappeared from the river house on Friday night, along with the dog-cart that he left tied on the road. To his knowledge, Mr. Hayden never returned to his London rooms, and has seemingly vanished. Ethan may panic due to the uncertainty, but I think he’s made of sterner stuff than that, and will wait to see if he has another chance. After all, he’s playing for a very fine prize indeed. And even if he destroys documents in his possession, the information is still available at the New York end, as well as the testimony from those attorneys as to what fraudulent information he has already relayed to them - namely, that the heir has been found, along with a false description. Finally, as I said, the Irregulars and Thad Flatcher are in place if Ethan bolts, and the last wire I had from Exeter, an hour before we departed, reported that he had returned to Exeter yesterday evening - I likely passed him on the up train during my return - and after spending the night in his own rooms, he opened up the offices at eight o’clock this morning, the usual time.”

Youghal nodded. “A workmanlike job as usual, Mr. Holmes. I look forward to speaking to this young scoundrel.”

The inspector’s wish was granted, and the rest is soon told. Holmes had nothing further to report and, refusing to speculate without further data, he smoked his pipe the rest of the journey while Hayden, Youghal, and I discussed the case. Hayden alternated between struggling comprehension of the sudden unexpected fortune and just how close he had come to disaster.

Upon our arrival at St. David’s Station in Exeter, we were met by Wiggins, who informed us that Ethan Stoddard was still at the law practice, where he had been since that morning. Holmes then led us across to the Great Western Hotel, where Hayden had eaten breakfast just two days before. Waiting inside were several people, including a local inspector named Hanks, Thad Flatcher, and a wizened glowering old man, who, as expected, turned out to be Fenton Stoddard. Although his recent illness was apparent, he hobbled toward Holmes with vigor and shook a packet of telegrams. “Just as you thought, Mr. Holmes! It is beyond the theft of the inheritance. I have been nursing a viper to my bosom!”

Holmes quickly read through the flimsy sheets, one after another, before handing them to me. Some were from New York, confirming in greater detail the misleading statements and assertions made by Ethan Stoddard regarding the Helverton heir. There was no doubt that a case of fraud could be clearly proven. Another was from Stoddard’s former employer in London. Unknown to his uncle, the nephew had been let go from his previous position in Lincoln’s Inn Fields for suspected theft just weeks before being summoned to Exeter. “But even worse,” said the old man, holding out a second sheaf of papers, “he has been moving against me here, forging my name to documents, and apparently cleaning out my own accounts before his departure for America.”

Holmes looked at the papers and nodded. “He would have only done this, Mr. Stoddard, if he knew that you would not be around to discover it. Clearly, as I theorized, your death was part of his plan. Doubtless, you would have seemingly died in your sleep, with the story spread that it was a relapse from your recent illness. He would have quietly closed your practice, with the assets already spirited away through his earlier forgeries, and then departed these shores, with no one the wiser, ready to assume Mr. Hayden’s identity. What a pity he turned such a quick-thinking mind to crime.”

With a scowl and a clearing of his throat, Mr. Stoddard signaled that he didn’t share my friend’s somewhat misplaced admiration. Holmes announced that there was no need to put off confronting Ethan Stoddard any longer, and we piled into cabs summoned from the nearby station. Then came the slow ascent up St. David’s Hill, across the Iron Bridge, and eventually left into the High Street, with the Cathedral looming over us just a block away. Parking around the corner from Stoddard’s office, we assembled a short distance from the legal practice, with Holmes and Wiggins providing assistance to the old man.

We approached the doorway by crowding near to the building, so as not to be seen from the windows. The old man had informed us that his nephew was likely at his desk upstairs. From nearby, Thad Flatcher and the Irregulars made themselves known.

After silently entering the ground floor, we gathered out of sight, away from the foot of the stairs, and Fenton Stoddard called out sharply, “Ethan! Come down here!”

Overhead, we heard a chair scrape, followed by a surprised, “Uncle?” Then we heard footsteps cross the room above us and start down the stairs. “I had no idea you were well enough to come into-” He was unable to continue the thought, as his appearance in the room corresponded with both arms being grabbed by the two inspectors, who quickly handcuffed him.

He fought for a moment and then, seeing Jerrold Hayden standing before him, fists clenched at his sides, he sagged in defeat. Later, under the combined questioning of Inspectors Youghal and Hanks, Ethan Stoddard would attempt a half-hearted defense, ignoring the offer of counsel and the initial warning that his statements could be used against him. He only dug himself deeper and deeper, straight into a substantial prison sentence.

The elder Mr. Stoddard, with a combination of unnecessary guilt by mere association to the affair and a lifetime of advising a few select wealthy clients, took Jerrold Hayden under his wing, and in future years, we were to hear of the exponential growth of the original Helverton inheritance, a great deal of which was used to fund charitable activities on both sides of the Atlantic, not the least of which was an orphanage of great renown in a formerly abandoned mansion on the shores of the River Teign.

More immediately satisfying to me upon our return to London was learning of the next day’s arrangements to visit Hornchurch and dig up the treasure identified in Morgan’s palimpsest. I wasted no time in seeking an extension of my physician friend’s services at Dr. Weaver’s practice. Apparently this worked out well for the both of them, as Dr. Weaver, having met a dancer in Cannes, decided to sell the practice post-haste, and for some reason the location appealed to my own temporary locum, who scraped up enough money to buy it.

On the following day, Holmes and I made our way northeast of London to find the treasure. Of course it wasn’t that simple, and before we were finished, I’d had a dunking in an overgrown pond, one man had lost his freedom, and another his sanity. But that is another story...