บทที่ บทที่ 2 · 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, disheveled, 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

grey eyes fixed upon me with an amused expression. I could hardly

believe my own 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 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 clearer?

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

had 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 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

today.”

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 of 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 grey 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-grey 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.”

Adventure 3.