THE COMPLETE SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE ADVENTURE OF THE NORWOOD BUILDER
"FROM the point of view of the criminal expert," said Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
"London has become a singularly uninteresting city since the death of the late
lamented Professor Moriarty."
"I can hardly think that you would find many decent citizens to agree
with you," I answered.
"Well, well, I must not be selfish," said he, with a smile, as he pushed
back his chair from the breakfast-table. "The community is certainly the
gainer, and no one the loser, save the poor out-of-work specialist, whose
occupation has gone. With that man in the field, one's morning paper
presented infinite possibilities. Often it was only the smallest trace,
Watson, the faintest indication, and yet it was enough to tell me that the
great malignant brain was there, as the gentlest tremors of the edges of the
web remind one of the foul spider which lurks in the centre. Petty thefts,
wanton assaults, purposeless outrage--to the man who held the clue all could
be worked into one connected whole. To the scientific student of the higher
criminal world, no capital in Europe offered the advantages which London then
possessed. But now-- --" He shrugged his shoulders in humorous deprecation
of the state of things which he had himself done so much to produce.
At the time of which I speak, Holmes had been back for some months, and I
at his request had sold my practice and returned to share the old quarters in
Baker Street. A young doctor, named Verner, had purchased my small Kensington
practice, and given with astonishingly little demur the highest price that I
ventured to ask--an incident which only explained itself some years later,
when I found that Verner was a distant relation of Holmes, and that it was my
friend who had really found the money.
Our months of partnership had not been so uneventful as he had stated,
for I find, on looking over my notes, that this period includes the case of
the papers of ex-President Murillo, and also the shocking affair of the Dutch
steamship Friesland, which so nearly cost us both our lives. His cold and
proud nature was always averse, however, from anything in the shape of public
applause, and he bound me in the most stringent terms to say no further word
of himself, his methods, or his successes--a prohibition which, as I have
explained, has only now been removed.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes was leaning back in his chair after his whimsical
protest, and was unfolding his morning paper in a leisurely fashion, when our
attention was arrested by a tremendous ring at the bell, followed immediately
by a hollow drumming sound, as if someone were beating on the outer door with
his fist. As it opened there came a tumultuous rush into the hall, rapid feet
clattered up the stair, and an instant later a wild-eyed and frantic young
man, pale, dishevelled, and palpitating, burst into the room. He looked from
one to the other of us, and under our gaze of inquiry he became conscious that
some apology was needed for this unceremonious entry.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," he cried. "You mustn't blame me. I am nearly
mad. Mr. Holmes, I am the unhappy John Hector McFarlane."
He made the announcement as if the name alone would explain both his
visit and its manner, but I could see, by my companion's unresponsive face,
that it meant no more to him than to me.
"Have a cigarette, Mr. McFarlane," said he, pushing his case across. "I
am sure that, with your symptoms, my friend Dr. Watson here would prescribe a
sedative. The weather has been so very warm these last few days. Now, if you
feel a little more composed, I should be glad if you would sit down in that
chair, and tell us very slowly and quietly who you are, and what it is that
you want. You mentioned your name, as if I should recognize it, but I assure
you that, beyond the obvious facts that you are a bachelor, a solicitor, a
Freemason, and an asthmatic, I know nothing whatever about you."
Familiar as I was with my friend's methods, it was not difficult for me
to follow his deductions, and to observe the untidiness of attire, the sheaf
of legal papers, the watch-charm, and the breathing which had prompted them.
Our client, however, stared in amazement.
"Yes, I am all that, Mr. Holmes; and, in addition, I am the most
unfortunate man at this moment in London. For heaven's sake, don't abandon
me, Mr. Holmes! If they come to arrest me before I have finished my story,
make them give me time, so that I may tell you the whole truth. I could go to
jail happy if I knew that you were working for me outside."
"Arrest you!" said Holmes. "This is really most grati--most interesting.
On what charge do you expect to be arrested?"
"Upon the charge of murdering Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of Lower Norwood."
My companion's expressive face showed a sympathy which was not, I am
afraid, entirely unmixed with satisfaction.
"Dear me," said he, "it was only this moment at breakfast that I was
saying to my friend, Dr. Watson, that sensational cases had disappeared out of
our papers."
Our visitor stretched forward a quivering hand and picked up the Daily
Telegraph, which still lay upon Holmes's knee.
"If you had looked at it, sir, you would have seen at a glance what the
errand is on which I have come to you this morning. I feel as if my name and
my misfortune must be in every man's mouth." He turned it over to expose the
central page. "Here it is, and with your permission I will read it to you.
Listen to this, Mr. Holmes. The headlines are: 'Mysterious Affair at Lower
Norwood. Disappearance of a Well Known Builder. Suspicion of Murder and
Arson. A Clue to the Criminal.' That is the clue which they are already
following, Mr. Holmes, and I know that it leads infallibly to me. I have been
followed from London Bridge Station, and I am sure that they are only waiting
for the warrant to arrest me. It will break my mother's heart--it will break
her heart!" He wrung his hands in an agony of apprehension, and swayed
backward and forward in his chair.
I looked with interest upon this man, who was accused of being the
perpetrator of a crime of violence. He was flaxen-haired and handsome, in a
washed-out negative fashion, with frightened blue eyes, and a clean-shaven
face, with a weak, sensitive mouth. His age may have been about twenty-seven,
his dress and bearing that of a gentleman. From the pocket of his light
summer overcoat protruded the bundle of indorsed papers which proclaimed his
profession.
"We must use what time we have," said Holmes. "Watson, would you have
the kindness to take the paper and to read the paragraph in question?"
Underneath the vigorous headlines which our client had quoted, I read the
following suggestive narrative:
"Late last night, or early this morning, an incident occurred
at Lower Norwood which points, it is feared, to a serious crime. Mr.
Jonas Oldacre is a well known resident of that suburb, where he has
carried on his business as a builder for many years. Mr. Oldacre is
a bachelor, fifty-two years of age, and lives in Deep Dene House, at
the Sydenham end of the road of that name. He has had the
reputation of being a man of eccentric habits, secretive and
retiring. For some years he has practically withdrawn from the
business, in which he is said to have massed considerable wealth. A
small timber-yard still exists, however, at the back of the house,
and last night, about twelve o'clock, an alarm was given that one of
the stacks was on fire. The engines were soon upon the spot, but
the dry wood burned with great fury, and it was impossible to arrest
the conflagration until the stack had been entirely consumed. Up to
this point the incident bore the appearance of an ordinary accident,
but fresh indications seem to point to serious crime. Surprise was
expressed at the absence of the master of the establishment from the
scene of the fire, and an inquiry followed, which showed that he had
disappeared from the house. An examination of his room revealed
that the bed had not been slept in, that a safe which stood in it
was open, that a number of important papers were scattered about the
room, and finally, that there were signs of a murderous struggle,
slight traces of blood being found within the room, and an oaken
walking-stick, which also showed stains of blood upon the handle. It
is known that Mr. Jonas Oldacre had received a late visitor in his
bedroom upon that night, and the stick found has been identified as
the property of this person, who is a young London solicitor named
John Hector McFarlane, junior partner of Graham and McFarlane, of
426 Gresham Buildings, E. C. The police believe that they have
evidence in their possession which supplies a very convincing motive
for the crime, and altogether it cannot be doubted that sensational
developments will follow.
"LATER.--It is rumoured as we go to press that Mr. John Hector
McFarlane has actually been arrested on the charge of the murder of
Mr. Jonas Oldacre. It is at least certain that a warrant has been
issued. There have been further and sinister developments in the
investigation at Norwood. Besides the signs of a struggle in the
room of the unfortunate builder it is now known that the French
windows of his bedroom (which is on the ground floor) were found to
be open, that there were marks as if some bulky object had been
dragged across to the wood-pile, and, finally, it is asserted that
charred remains have been found among the charcoal ashes of the
fire. The police theory is that a most sensational crime has been
committed, that the victim was clubbed to death in his own bedroom,
his papers rifled, and his dead body dragged across to the
wood-stack, which was then ignited so as to hide all traces of the
crime. The conduct of the criminal investigation has been left in
the experienced hands of Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, who
is following up the clues with his accustomed energy and sagacity."
Sherlock Holmes listened with closed eyes and fingertips together to this
remarkable account.
"The case has certainly some points of interest," said he, in his languid
fashion. "May I ask, in the first place, Mr. McFarlane, how it is that you
are still at liberty, since there appears to be enough evidence to justify
your arrest?"
"I live at Torrington Lodge, Blackheath, with my parents, Mr. Holmes, but
last night, having to do business very late with Mr. Jonas Oldacre, I stayed
at an hotel in Norwood, and came to my business from there. I knew nothing of
this affair until I was in the train, when I read what you have just heard. I
at once saw the horrible danger of my position, and I hurried to put the case
into your hands. I have no doubt that I should have been arrested either at
my city office or at my home. A man followed me from London Bridge Station,
and I have no doubt-- -- Great heaven! what is that?"
It was a clang of the bell, followed instantly by heavy steps upon the
stair. A moment later, our old friend Lestrade appeared in the doorway. Over
his shoulder I caught a glimpse of one or two uniformed policemen outside.
"Mr. John Hector McFarlane?" said Lestrade.
Our unfortunate client rose with a ghastly face.
"I arrest you for the wilful murder of Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of Lower
Norwood."
McFarlane turned to us with a gesture of despair, and sank into his chair
once more like one who is crushed.
"One moment, Lestrade," said Holmes. "Half an hour more or less can make
no difference to you, and the gentleman was about to give us an account of
this very interesting affair, which might aid us in clearing it up."
"I think there will be no difficulty in clearing it up," said Lestrade,
grimly.
"None the less, with your permission, I should be much interested to hear
his account."
"Well, Mr. Holmes, it is difficult for me to refuse you anything, for you
have been of use to the force once or twice in the past, and we owe you a good
turn at Scotland Yard," said Lestrade. "At the same time I must remain with
my prisoner, and I am bound to warn him that anything he may say will appear
in evidence against him."
"I wish nothing better," said our client. "All I ask is that you should
hear and recognize the absolute truth."
Lestrade looked at his watch. "I'll give you half an hour," said he.
"I must explain first," said McFarlane, "that I knew nothing of Mr. Jonas
Oldacre. His name was familiar to me, for many years ago my parents were
acquainted with him, but they drifted apart. I was very much surprised,
therefore, when yesterday, about three o'clock in the afternoon, he walked
into my office in the city. But I was still more astonished when he told me
the object of his visit. He had in his hand several sheets of a notebook,
covered with scribbled writing--here they are--and he laid them on my table.
"'Here is my will,' said he. 'I want you, Mr. McFarlane, to cast it into
proper legal shape. I will sit here while you do so.'
"I set myself to copy it, and you can imagine my astonishment when I
found that, with some reservations, he had left all his property to me. He
was a strange little ferret-like man, with white eyelashes, and when I looked
up at him I found his keen gray eyes fixed upon me with an amused expression.
I could hardly believe my own senses as I read the terms of the will; but he
explained that he was a bachelor with hardly any living relation, that he had
known my parents in his youth, and that he had always heard of me as a very
deserving young man, and was assured that his money would be in worthy hands.
Of course, I could only stammer out my thanks. The will was duly finished,
signed, and witnessed by my clerk. This is it on the blue paper, and these
slips, as I have explained, are the rough draft. Mr. Jonas Oldacre then
informed me that there were a number of documents--building leases,
title-deeds, mortgages, scrip, and so forth--which it was necessary that I
should see and understand. He said that his mind would not be easy until the
whole thing was settled, and he begged me to come out to his house at Norwood
that night, bringing the will with me, and to arrange matters. 'Remember, my
boy, not one word to your parents about the affair until everything is
settled. We will keep it as a little surprise for them.' He was very
insistent upon this point, and made me promise it faithfully.
"You can imagine, Mr. Holmes, that I was not in a humour to refuse him
anything that he might ask. He was my benefactor, and all my desire was to
carry out his wishes in every particular. I sent a telegram home, therefore,
to say that I had important business on hand, and that it was impossible for
me to say how late I might be. Mr. Oldacre had told me that he would like me
to have supper with him at nine, as he might not be home before that hour. I
had some difficulty in finding his house, however, and it was nearly half-past
before I reached it. I found him-- --"
"One moment!" said Holmes. "Who opened the door?"
"A middle-aged woman, who was, I suppose, his housekeeper."
"And it was she, I presume, who mentioned your name?"
"Exactly," said McFarlane.
"Pray proceed."
McFarlane wiped his damp brow, and then continued his narrative:
"I was shown by this woman into a sitting-room, where a frugal supper was
laid out. Afterwards, Mr. Jonas Oldacre led me into his bedroom, in which
there stood a heavy safe. This he opened and took out a mass of documents,
which we went over together. It was between eleven and twelve when we
finished. He remarked that we must not disturb the housekeeper. He showed me
out through his own French window, which had been open all this time."
"Was the blind down?" asked Holmes.
"I will not be sure, but I believe that it was only half down. Yes, I
remember how he pulled it up in order to swing open the window. I could not
find my stick, and he said, 'Never mind, my boy, I shall see a good deal of
you now, I hope, and I will keep your stick until you come back to claim it.'
I left him there, the safe open, and the papers made up in packets upon the
table. It was so late that I could not get back to Blackheath, so I spent the
night at the Anerley Arms, and I knew nothing more until I read of this
horrible affair in the morning."
"Anything more that you would like to ask, Mr. Holmes?" said Lestrade,
whose eyebrows had gone up once or twice during this remarkable explanation.
"Not until I have been to Blackheath."
"You mean to Norwood," said Lestrade.
"Oh, yes, no doubt that is what I must have meant," said Holmes, with his
enigmatical smile. Lestrade had learned by more experiences than he would
care to acknowledge that that razor-like brain could cut through that which
was impenetrable to him. I saw him look curiously at my companion.
"I think I should like to have a word with you presently, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes," said he. "Now, Mr. McFarlane, two of my constables are at the door,
and there is a four-wheeler waiting." The wretched young man arose, and with
a last beseeching glance at us walked from the room. The officers conducted
him to the cab, but Lestrade remained.
Holmes had picked up the pages which formed the rough draft of the will,
and was looking at them with the keenest interest upon his face.
"There are some points about that document, Lestrade, are there not?"
said he, pushing them over.
The official looked at them with a puzzled expression.
"I can read the first few lines, and these in the middle of the second
page, and one or two at the end. Those are as clear as print," said he, "but
the writing in between is very bad, and there are three places where I cannot
read it at all."
"What do you make of that?" said Holmes.
"Well, what do you make of it?"
"That it was written in a train. The good writing represents stations,
the bad writing movement, and the very bad writing passing over points. A
scientific expert would pronounce at once that this was drawn up on a suburban
line, since nowhere save in the immediate vicinity of a great city could there
be so quick a succession of points. Granting that his whole journey was
occupied in drawing up the will, then the train was an express, only stopping
once between Norwood and London Bridge."
Lestrade began to laugh.
"You are too many for me when you begin to get on your theories, Mr.
Holmes," said he. "How does this bear on the case?"
"Well, it corroborates the young man's story to the extent that the will
was drawn up by Jonas Oldacre in his journey yesterday. It is curious--is it
not?--that a man should draw up so important a document in so haphazard a
fashion. It suggests that he did not think it was going to be of much
practical importance. If a man drew up a will which he did not intend ever to
be effective, he might do it so."
"Well, he drew up his own death warrant at the same time," said Lestrade.
"Oh, you think so?"
"Don't you?"
"Well, it is quite possible, but the case is not clear to me yet."
"Not clear? Well, if that isn't clear, what could be clear? Here is a
young man who learns suddenly that, if a certain older man dies, he will
succeed to a fortune. What does he do? He says nothing to anyone, but he
arranges that he shall go out on some pretext to see his client that night.
He waits until the only other person in the house is in bed, and then in the
solitude of a man's room he murders him, burns his body in the wood-pile, and
departs to a neighbouring hotel. The blood-stains in the room and also on the
stick are very slight. It is probable that he imagined his crime to be a
bloodless one, and hoped that if the body were consumed it would hide all
traces of the method of his death--traces which, for some reason, must have
pointed to him. Is not all this obvious?"
"It strikes me, my good Lestrade, as being just a trifle too obvious,"
said Holmes. "You do not add imagination to your other great qualities, but
if you could for one moment put yourself in the place of this young man, would
you choose the very night after the will had been made to commit your crime?
Would it not seem dangerous to you to make so very close a relation between
the two incidents? Again, would you choose an occasion when you are known to
be in the house, when a servant has let you in? And, finally, would you take
the great pains to conceal the body, and yet leave your own stick as a sign
that you were the criminal? Confess, Lestrade, that all this is very
unlikely."
"As to the stick, Mr. Holmes, you know as well as I do that a criminal is
often flurried, and does such things, which a cool man would avoid. He was
very likely afraid to go back to the room. Give me another theory that would
fit the facts."
"I could very easily give you half a dozen," said Holmes. "Here, for
example, is a very possible and even probable one. I make you a free present
of it. The older man is showing documents which are of evident value. A
passing tramp sees them through the window, the blind of which is only half
down. Exit the solicitor. Enter the tramp! He seizes a stick, which he
observes there, kills Oldacre, and departs after burning the body."
"Why should the tramp burn the body?"
"For the matter of that, why should McFarlane?"
"To hide some evidence."
"Possibly the tramp wanted to hide that any murder at all had been
committed."
"And why did the tramp take nothing?"
"Because they were papers that he could not negotiate."
Lestrade shook his head, though it seemed to me that his manner was less
absolutely assured than before.
"Well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you may look for your tramp, and while you
are finding him we will hold on to our man. The future will show which is
right. Just notice this point, Mr. Holmes: that so far as we know, none of
the papers were removed, and that the prisoner is the one man in the world who
had no reason for removing them, since he was heir-at-law, and would come into
them in any case."
My friend seemed struck by this remark.
"I don't mean to deny that the evidence is in some ways very strongly in
favour of your theory," said he. "I only wish to point out that there are
other theories possible. As you say, the future will decide. Good-morning!
I dare say that in the course of the day I shall drop in at Norwood and see
how you are getting on."
When the detective departed, my friend rose and made his preparations for
the day's work with the alert air of a man who has a congenial task before
him.
"My first movement, Watson," said he, as he bustled into his frockcoat,
"must, as I said, be in the direction of Blackheath."
"And why not Norwood?"
"Because we have in this case one singular incident coming close to the
heels of another singular incident. The police are making the mistake of
concentrating their attention upon the second, because it happens to be the
one which is actually criminal. But it is evident to me that the logical way
to approach the case is to begin by trying to throw some light upon the first
incident--the curious will, so suddenly made, and to so unexpected an heir.
It may do something to simplify what followed. No, my dear fellow, I don't
think you can help me. There is no prospect of danger, or I should not dream
of stirring out without you. I trust that when I see you in the evening, I
will be able to report that I have been able to do something for this
unfortunate youngster, who has thrown himself upon my protection."
It was late when my friend returned, and I could see, by a glance at his
haggard and anxious face, that the high hopes with which he had started had
not been fulfilled. For an hour he droned away upon his violin, endeavouring
to soothe his own ruffled spirits. At last he flung down the instrument, and
plunged into a detailed account of his misadventures.
"It's all going wrong, Watson--all as wrong as it can go. I kept a bold
face before Lestrade, but, upon my soul, I believe that for once the fellow is
on the right track and we are on the wrong. All my instincts are one way, and
all the facts are the other, and I much fear that British juries have not yet
attained that pitch of intelligence when they will give the preference to my
theories over Lestrade's facts."
"Did you go to Blackheath?"
"Yes, Watson, I went there, and I found very quickly that the late
lamented Oldacre was a pretty considerable blackguard. The father was away in
search of his son. The mother was at home--a little, fluffy, blue-eyed
person, in a tremor of fear and indignation. Of course, she would not admit
even the possibility of his guilt. But she would not express either surprise
or regret over the fate of Oldacre. On the contrary, she spoke of him with
such bitterness that she was unconsciously considerably strengthening the case
of the police for, of course, if her son had heard her speak of the man in
this fashion, it would predispose him towards hatred and violence. 'He was
more like a malignant and cunning ape than a human being,' said she, 'and he
always was, ever since he was a young man.'
"'You knew him at that time?' said I.
"'Yes, I knew him well, in fact, he was an old suitor of mine. Thank
heaven that I had the sense to turn away from him and to marry a better, if
poorer, man. I was engaged to him, Mr. Holmes, when I heard a shocking story
of how he had turned a cat loose in an aviary, and I was so horrified at his
brutal cruelty that I would have nothing more to do with him.' She rummaged
in a bureau, and presently she produced a photograph of a woman, shamefully
defaced and mutilated with a knife. 'That is my own photograph,' she said.
'He sent it to me in that state, with his curse, upon my wedding morning.'
"'Well,' said I, 'at least he has forgiven you now, since he has left all
his property to your son.'
"'Neither my son nor I want anything from Jonas Oldacre, dead or alive!'
she cried, with a proper spirit. 'There is a God in heaven, Mr. Holmes, and
that same God who has punished that wicked man will show, in His own good
time, that my son's hands are guiltless of his blood.'
"Well, I tried one or two leads, but could get at nothing which would
help our hypothesis, and several points which would make against it. I gave
it up at last, and off I went to Norwood.
"This place, Deep Dene House, is a big modern villa of staring brick,
standing back in its own grounds, with a laurel-clumped lawn in front of it.
To the right and some distance back from the road was the timber-yard which
had been the scene of the fire. Here's a rough plan on a leaf of my notebook.
This window on the left is the one which opens into Oldacre's room. You can
look into it from the road, you see. That is about the only bit of
consolation I have had to-day. Lestrade was not there, but his head constable
did the honours. They had just found a great treasure-trove. They had spent
the morning raking among the ashes of the burned wood-pile, and besides the
charred organic remains they had secured several discoloured metal discs. I
examined them with care, and there was no doubt that they were trouser
buttons. I even distinguished that one of them was marked with the name of
'Hyams,' who was Oldacre's tailor. I then worked the lawn very carefully for
signs and traces, but this drought has made everything as hard as iron.
Nothing was to be seen save that some body or bundle had been dragged through
a low privet hedge which is in a line with the wood-pile. All that, of
course, fits in with the official theory. I crawled about the lawn with an
August sun on my back, but I got up at the end of an hour no wiser than
before.
"Well, after this fiasco I went into the bedroom and examined that also.
The blood-stains were very slight, mere smears and discolourations, but
undoubtedly fresh. The stick had been removed, but there also the marks were
slight. There is no doubt about the stick belonging to our client. He admits
it. Footmarks of both men could be made out on the carpet, but none of any
third person, which again is a trick for the other side. They were piling up
their score all the time and we were at a standstill.
"Only one little gleam of hope did I get--and yet it amounted to nothing.
I examined the contents of the safe, most of which had been taken out and left
on the table. The papers had been made up into sealed envelopes, one or two
of which had been opened by the police. They were not, so far as I could
judge, of any great value, nor did the bank-book show that Mr. Oldacre was in
such very affluent circumstances. But it seemed to me that all the papers
were not there. There were allusions to some deeds--possibly the more
valuable--which I could not find. This, of course, if we could definitely
prove it, would turn Lestrade's argument against himself; for who would steal
a thing if he knew that he would shortly inherit it?
"Finally, having drawn every other cover and picked up no scent, I tried
my luck with the housekeeper. Mrs. Lexington is her name--a little, dark,
silent person, with suspicious and sidelong eyes. She could tell us something
if she would--I am convinced of it. But she was as close as wax. Yes, she
had let Mr. McFarlane in at half-past nine. She wished her hand had withered
before she had done so. She had gone to bed at half-past ten. Her room was
at the other end of the house, and she could hear nothing of what passed. Mr.
McFarlane had left his hat, and to the best of her belief his stick, in the
hall. She had been awakened by the alarm of fire. Her poor, dear master had
certainly been murdered. Had he any enemies? Well, every man had enemies,
but Mr. Oldacre kept himself very much to himself, and only met people in the
way of business. She had seen the buttons, and was sure that they belonged to
the clothes which he had worn last night. The wood-pile was very dry, for it
had not rained for a month. It burned like tinder, and by the time she
reached the spot, nothing could be seen but flames. She and all the firemen
smelled the burned flesh from inside it. She knew nothing of the papers, nor
of Mr. Oldacre's private affairs.
"So, my dear Watson, there's my report of a failure. And yet--and yet--"
he clenched his thin hands in a paroxysm of conviction--"I know it's all
wrong. I feel it in my bones. There is something that has not come out, and
that housekeeper knows it. There was a sort of sulky defiance in her eyes,
which only goes with guilty knowledge. However, there's no good talking any
more about it, Watson; but unless some lucky chance comes our way I fear that
the Norwood Disappearance Case will not figure in that chronicle of our
successes which I foresee that a patient public will sooner or later have to
endure."
"Surely," said I, "the man's appearance would go far with any jury?"
"That is a dangerous argument, my dear Watson. You remember that
terrible murderer, Bert Stevens, who wanted us to get him off in '87? Was
there ever a more mild-mannered, Sunday-school young man?"
"It is true."
"Unless we succeed in establishing an alternative theory, this man is
lost. You can hardly find a flaw in the case which can now be presented
against him, and all further investigation has served to strengthen it. By
the way, there is one curious little point about those papers which may serve
us as the starting-point for an inquiry. On looking over the bank-book I
found that the low state of the balance was principally due to large checks
which have been made out during the last year to Mr. Cornelius. I confess
that I should be interested to know who this Mr. Cornelius may be with whom a
retired builder has had such very large transactions. Is it possible that he
has had a hand in the affair? Cornelius might be a broker, but we have found
no scrip to correspond with these large payments. Failing any other
indication, my researches must now take the direction of an inquiry at the
bank for the gentleman who has cashed these checks. But I fear, my dear
fellow, that our case will end ingloriously by Lestrade hanging our client,
which will certainly be a triumph for Scotland Yard."
I do not know how far Sherlock Holmes took any sleep that night, but when
I came down to breakfast I found him pale and harassed, his bright eyes the
brighter for the dark shadows round them. The carpet round his chair was
littered with cigarette-ends and with the early editions of the morning
papers. An open telegram lay upon the table.
"What do you think of this, Watson?" he asked, tossing it across.
It was from Norwood, and ran as follows:
Important fresh evidence to hand. McFarlane's guilt definitely
established. Advise you to abandon case.
LESTRADE.
"This sounds serious," said I.
"It is Lestrade's little cock-a-doodle of victory," Holmes answered, with
a bitter smile. "And yet it may be premature to abandon the case. After all,
important fresh evidence is a two-edged thing, and may possibly cut in a very
different direction to that which Lestrade imagines. Take your breakfast,
Watson, and we will go out together and see what we can do. I feel as if I
shall need your company and your moral support to-day."
My friend had no breakfast himself, for it was one of his peculiarities
that in his more intense moments he would permit himself no food, and I have
known him presume upon his iron strength until he has fainted from pure
inanition. "At present I cannot spare energy and nerve force for digestion,"
he would say in answer to my medical remonstrances. I was not surprised,
therefore, when this morning he left his untouched meal behind him, and
started with me for Norwood. A crowd of morbid sightseers were still gathered
round Deep Dene House, which was just such a suburban villa as I had pictured.
Within the gates Lestrade met us, his face flushed with victory, his manner
grossly triumphant.
"Well, Mr. Holmes, have you proved us to be wrong yet? Have you found
your tramp?" he cried.
"I have formed no conclusion whatever," my companion answered.
"But we formed ours yesterday, and now it proves to be correct, so you
must acknowledge that we have been a little in front of you this time, Mr.
Holmes."
"You certainly have the air of something unusual having occurred," said
Holmes.
Lestrade laughed loudly.
"You don't like being beaten any more than the rest of us do," said he.
"A man can't expect always to have it his own way, can he, Dr. Watson? Step
this way, if you please, gentlemen, and I think I can convince you once for
all that it was John McFarlane who did this crime."
He led us through the passage and out into a dark hall beyond.
"This is where young McFarlane must have come out to get his hat after
the crime was done," said he. "Now look at this." With dramatic suddenness
he struck a match, and by its light exposed a stain of blood upon the
whitewashed wall. As he held the match nearer, I saw that it was more than a
stain. It was the well-marked print of a thumb.
"Look at that with your magnifying glass, Mr. Holmes."
"Yes, I am doing so."
"You are aware that no two thumb-marks are alike?"
"I have heard something of the kind."
"Well, then, will you please compare that print with this wax impression
of young McFarlane's right thumb, taken by my orders this morning?"
As he held the waxen print close to the blood-stain, it did not take a
magnifying glass to see that the two were undoubtedly from the same thumb. It
was evident to me that our unfortunate client was lost.
"That is final," said Lestrade.
"Yes, that is final," I involuntarily echoed.
"It is final," said Holmes.
Something in his tone caught my ear, and I turned to look at him. An
extraordinary change had come over his face. It was writhing with inward
merriment. His two eyes were shining like stars. It seemed to me that he was
making desperate efforts to restrain a convulsive attack of laughter.
"Dear me! Dear me!" he said at last. "Well, now, who would have thought
it? And how deceptive appearances may be, to be sure! Such a nice young man
to look at! It is a lesson to us not to trust our own judgment, is it not,
Lestrade?"
"Yes, some of us are a little too much inclined to be cock-sure, Mr.
Holmes," said Lestrade. The man's insolence was maddening, but we could not
resent it.
"What a providential thing that this young man should press his right
thumb against the wall in taking his hat from the peg! Such a very natural
action, too, if you come to think if it." Holmes was outwardly calm, but his
whole body gave a wriggle of suppressed excitement as he spoke.
"By the way, Lestrade, who made this remarkable discovery?"
"It was the housekeeper, Mrs. Lexington, who drew the night constable's
attention to it."
"Where was the night constable?"
"He remained on guard in the bedroom where the crime was committed, so as
to see that nothing was touched."
"But why didn't the police see this mark yesterday?"
"Well, we had no particular reason to make a careful examination of the
hall. Besides, it's not in a very prominent place, as you see."
"No, no--of course not. I suppose there is no doubt that the mark was
there yesterday?"
Lestrade looked at Holmes as if he thought he was going out of his mind.
I confess that I was myself surprised both at his hilarious manner and at his
rather wild observation.
"I don't know whether you think that McFarlane came out of jail in the
dead of the night in order to strengthen the evidence against himself," said
Lestrade. "I leave it to any expert in the world whether that is not the mark
of his thumb."
"It is unquestionably the mark of his thumb."
"There, that's enough," said Lestrade. "I am a practical man, Mr.
Holmes, and when I have got my evidence I come to my conclusions. If you have
anything to say, you will find me writing my report in the sitting-room."
Holmes had recovered his equanimity, though I still seemed to detect
gleams of amusement in his expression.
"Dear me, this is a very sad development, Watson, is it not?" said he.
"And yet there are singular points about it which hold out some hopes for our
client."
"I am delighted to hear it," said I, heartily. "I was afraid it was all
up with him."
"I would hardly go so far as to say that, my dear Watson. The fact is
that there is one really serious flaw in this evidence to which our friend
attaches so much importance."
"Indeed, Holmes! What is it?"
"Only this: that I know that that mark was not there when I examined the
hall yesterday. And now, Watson, let us have a little stroll round in the
sunshine."
With a confused brain, but with a heart into which some warmth of hope
was returning, I accompanied my friend in a walk round the garden. Holmes
took each face of the house in turn, and examined it with great interest. He
then led the way inside, and went over the whole building from basement to
attic. Most of the rooms were unfurnished, but none the less Holmes inspected
them all minutely. Finally, on the top corridor, which ran outside three
untenanted bedrooms, he again was seized with a spasm of merriment.
"There are really some very unique features about this case, Watson,"
said he. "I think it is time now that we took our friend Lestrade into our
confidence. He has had his little smile at our expense, and perhaps we may do
as much by him, if my reading of this problem proves to be correct. Yes, yes,
I think I see how we should approach it."
The Scotland Yard inspector was still writing in the parlour when Holmes
interrupted him.
"I understood that you were writing a report of this case," said he.
"So I am."
"Don't you think it may be a little premature? I can't help thinking
that your evidence is not complete."
Lestrade knew my friend too well to disregard his words. He laid down
his pen and looked curiously at him.
"What do you mean, Mr. Holmes?"
"Only that there is an important witness whom you have not seen."
"Can you produce him?"
"I think I can."
"Then do so."
"I will do my best. How many constables have you?"
"There are three within call."
"Excellent!" said Holmes. "May I ask if they are all large, able-bodied
men with powerful voices?"
"I have no doubt they are, though I fail to see what their voices have to
do with it."
"Perhaps I can help you to see that and one or two other things as well,
" said Holmes. "Kindly summon your men, and I will try."
Five minutes later, three policemen had assembled in the hall.
"In the outhouse you will find a considerable quantity of straw," said
Holmes. "I will ask you to carry in two bundles of it. I think it will be of
the greatest assistance in producing the witness whom I require. Thank you
very much. I believe you have some matches in your pocket, Watson. Now, Mr.
Lestrade, I will ask you all to accompany me to the top landing."
As I have said, there was a broad corridor there, which ran outside three
empty bedrooms. At one end of the corridor we were all marshalled by Sherlock
Holmes, the constables grinning and Lestrade staring at my friend with
amazement, expectation, and derision chasing each other across his features.
Holmes stood before us with the air of a conjurer who is performing a trick.
"Would you kindly send one of your constables for two buckets of water?
Put the straw on the floor here, free from the wall on either side. Now I
think that we are all ready."
Lestrade's face had begun to grow red and angry.
"I don't know whether you are playing a game with us, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes," said he. "If you know anything, you can surely say it without all
this tomfoolery."
"I assure you, my good Lestrade, that I have an excellent reason for
everything that I do. You may possibly remember that you chaffed me a little,
some hours ago, when the sun seemed on your side of the hedge, so you must not
grudge me a little pomp and ceremony now. Might I ask you, Watson, to open
that window, and then to put a match to the edge of the straw?"
I did so, and driven by the draught, a coil of gray smoke swirled down
the corridor, while the dry straw crackled and flamed.
"Now we must see if we can find this witness for you, Lestrade. Might I
ask you all to join in the cry of 'Fire!'? Now then; one, two, three-- --"
"Fire!" we all yelled.
"Thank you. I will trouble you once again."
"Fire!"
"Just once more, gentlemen, and all together."
"Fire!" The shout must have rung over Norwood.
It had hardly died away when an amazing thing happened. A door suddenly
flew open out of what appeared to be solid wall at the end of the corridor,
and a little, wizened man darted out of it, like a rabbit out of its burrow.
"Capital!" said Holmes, calmly. "Watson, a bucket of water over the
straw. That will do! Lestrade, allow me to present you with your principal
missing witness, Mr. Jonas Oldacre."
The detective stared at the newcomer with blank amazement. The latter
was blinking in the bright light of the corridor, and peering at us and at the
smouldering fire. It was an odious face--crafty, vicious, malignant, with
shifty, light-gray eyes and white lashes.
"What's this, then?" said Lestrade, at last. "What have you been doing
all this time, eh?"
Oldacre gave an uneasy laugh, shrinking back from the furious red face of
the angry detective.
"I have done no harm."
"No harm? You have done your best to get an innocent man hanged. If it
wasn't for this gentleman here, I am not sure that you would not have
succeeded."
The wretched creature began to whimper.
"I am sure, sir, it was only my practical joke."
"Oh! a joke, was it? You won't find the laugh on your side, I promise
you. Take him down, and keep him in the sitting-room until I come. Mr.
Holmes," he continued, when they had gone, "I could not speak before the
constables, but I don't mind saying, in the presence of Dr. Watson, that this
is the brightest thing that you have done yet, though it is a mystery to me
how you did it. You have saved an innocent man's life, and you have prevented
a very grave scandal, which would have ruined my reputation in the Force."
Holmes smiled, and clapped Lestrade upon the shoulder.
"Instead of being ruined, my good sir, you will find that your reputation
has been enormously enhanced. Just make a few alterations in that report
which you were writing, and they will understand how hard it is to throw dust
in the eyes of Inspector Lestrade."
"And you don't want your name to appear?"
"Not at all. The work is its own reward. Perhaps I shall get the credit
also at some distant day, when I permit my zealous historian to lay out his
foolscap once more--eh, Watson? Well, now, let us see where this rat has been
lurking."
A lath-and-plaster partition had been run across the passage six feet
from the end, with a door cunningly concealed in it. It was lit within by
slits under the eaves. A few articles of furniture and a supply of food and
water were within, together with a number of books and papers.
"There's the advantage of being a builder," said Holmes, as we came out.
"He was able to fix up his own little hiding-place without any confederate--
save, of course, that precious housekeeper of his, whom I should lose no time
in adding to your bag, Lestrade."
"I'll take your advice. But how did you know of this place, Mr. Holmes?"
"I made up my mind that the fellow was in hiding in the house. When I
paced one corridor and found it six feet shorter than the corresponding one
below, it was pretty clear where he was. I thought he had not the nerve to
lie quiet before an alarm of fire. We could, of course, have gone in and
taken him, but it amused me to make him reveal himself. Besides, I owed you a
little mystification, Lestrade, for your chaff in the morning."
"Well, sir, you certainly got equal with me on that. But how in the
world did you know that he was in the house at all?"
"The thumb-mark, Lestrade. You said it was final; and so it was, in a
very different sense. I knew it had not been there the day before. I pay a
good deal of attention to matters of detail, as you may have observed, and I
had examined the hall, and was sure that the wall was clear. Therefore, it
had been put on during the night."
"But how?"
"Very simply. When those packets were sealed up, Jonas Oldacre got
McFarlane to secure one of the seals by putting his thumb upon the soft wax.
It would be done so quickly and so naturally, that I daresay the young man
himself has no recollection of it. Very likely it just so happened, and
Oldacre had himself no notion of the use he would put it to. Brooding over
the case in that den of his, it suddenly struck him what absolutely damning
evidence he could make against McFarlane by using that thumb-mark. It was the
simplest thing in the world for him to take a wax impression from the seal, to
moisten it in as much blood as he could get from a pin-prick, and to put the
mark upon the wall during the night, either with his own hand or with that of
his housekeeper. If you examine among those documents which he took with him
into his retreat, I will lay you a wager that you find the seal with the
thumb-mark upon it."
"Wonderful!" said Lestrade. "Wonderful! It's all as clear as crystal,
as you put it. But what is the object of this deep deception, Mr. Holmes?"
It was amusing to me to see how the detective's overbearing manner had
changed suddenly to that of a child asking questions of its teacher.
"Well, I don't think that is very hard to explain. A very deep,
malicious, vindictive person is the gentleman who is now waiting us
downstairs. You know that he was once refused by McFarlane's mother? You
don't! I told you that you should go to Blackheath first and Norwood
afterwards. Well, this injury, as he would consider it, has rankled in his
wicked, scheming brain, and all his life he has longed for vengeance, but
never seen his chance. During the last year or two, things have gone against
him--secret speculation, I think--and he finds himself in a bad way. He
determines to swindle his creditors, and for this purpose he pays large checks
to a certain Mr. Cornelius, who is, I imagine, himself under another name. I
have not traced these checks yet, but I have no doubt that they were banked
under that name at some provincial town where Oldacre from time to time led a
double existence. He intended to change his name altogether, draw this money,
and vanish, starting life again elsewhere."
"Well, that's likely enough."
"It would strike him that in disappearing he might throw all pursuit off
his track, and at the same time have an ample and crushing revenge upon his
old sweetheart, if he could give the impression that he had been murdered by
her only child. It was a masterpiece of villainy, and he carried it out like
a master. The idea of the will, which would give an obvious motive for the
crime, the secret visit unknown to his own parents, the retention of the
stick, the blood, and the animal remains and buttons in the wood-pile, all
were admirable. It was a net from which it seemed to me, a few hours ago,
that there was no possible escape. But he had not that supreme gift of the
artist, the knowledge of when to stop. He wished to improve that which was
already perfect--to draw the rope tighter yet round the neck of his
unfortunate victim--and so he ruined all. Let us descend, Lestrade. There
are just one or two questions that I would ask him."
The malignant creature was seated in his own parlour, with a policeman
upon each side of him.
"It was a joke, my good sir--a practical joke, nothing more," he whined
incessantly. "I assure you, sir, that I simply concealed myself in order to
see the effect of my disappearance, and I am sure that you would not be so
unjust as to imagine that I would have allowed any harm to befall poor young
Mr. McFarlane."
"That's for a jury to decide," said Lestrade. "Anyhow, we shall have you
on a charge of conspiracy, if not for attempted murder."
"And you'll probably find that your creditors will impound the banking
account of Mr. Cornelius," said Holmes.
The little man started, and turned his malignant eyes upon my friend.
"I have to thank you for a good deal," said he. "Perhaps I'll pay my
debt some day."
Holmes smiled indulgently.
"I fancy that, for some few years, you will find your time very fully
occupied," said he. "By the way, what was it you put into the wood-pile
besides your old trousers? A dead dog, or rabbits, or what? You won't tell?
Dear me, how very unkind of you! Well, well, I daresay that a couple of
rabbits would account both for the blood and for the charred ashes. If ever
you write an account, Watson, you can make rabbits serve your turn."
