The Return of Sherlock Holmes
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