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's, 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, to 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 recognise 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
head-lines 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 backwards and forwards 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
endorsed 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 me the paragraph in
question?"
Underneath the vigorous head-lines 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 amassed 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 finger-tips 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 recognise 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 note-book, 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 senses as I
read the terms of the will; but he explained that he was a bachelor
