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 gray 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 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 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 Oldacres 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 gray 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-gray 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.”
