“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 all
this not 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 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 frock-coat,
“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 black-guard. 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 a 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 note-book. 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 made 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 discolorations, 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 cheques 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 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 cheques. 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.