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 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."





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