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.
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 cocksure, 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?"
