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"What
else can you tell us, Bennett?" asked
Holmes.

"Well,
sir, the maid and cook had left at seven,
and
a number of people saw them crossing the
town
square at that time. They both have families
who
testified that they returned home at their
regular
time and stayed there the entire night."

"So,"
said the great detective, "the murdered
man
was alone and someone, anyone, could have
entered
the house."

"For
a fact," agreed Bennett. "We don't lock
doors
in Shaw since crime, as such, really doesn't
exist.
Oh, occasionally a couple of sheep are miss
ing
but they always turn up. After payday, a few of
our
local cutups drain the bottle too deep and I
have
to make motions like a policeman, but that's
about
the whole of it. Until now," he added.

"But
it was not always thus," prompted Holmes.

"Well,
sir, now we go back a ways, long before my
time.
It was in the days of Monks Holes and the
religious
wars, and this was not the peaceful
countryside
it is now. Ezariah Trelawney was
childless
and adopted Charles, who was a foundl
ing.
There is another resident, Horace Ledbetter,
who
has a farm on the outskirts. He is the last of his
family
as well. He has a niece, Agnes Bisbee, who
lives
with him, but she is the daughter of his dead
wife's
sister and no blood kin. The local feed-and-grain store belongs to
Vincent Staley, who never
did marry.
'Tis said he has some relatives in
Lancashire,
but I don't know that for a fact. But it is
a
fact that at one time all three of the families were
large
ones and owned a lot of the land in these
parts.
It is hard to put a finger on what started it
all.
Some say that one of the Staleys was a wild lad
with
a taste for liquor and an eye for the lassies. He
was
supposed to have been riding through the
countryside
and come upon one of the Ledbetter
girls
and had his way with her. The next thing was
the
Staley estate was attacked in force by the
Ledbetters
and it was a pitching battle with a lot of bodies that never rose
again. How the Trelawneys
got into it is
a mite vague. One story is that the
oldest
Trelawney tried to make peace between the two families and was cut
down by mistake. Whatever the reasons, the three families went
after each
other with a vengeance. 'Twas
like one of those
Scottish feuds one
hears of that went on so long
that the
original cause is unknown."

Holmes'
lips were forming a comment when I
advanced
an opinion.
"Possibly, you are
referring to the Sutherland-
Mackaye
feud, which continued for seven hundred
years.
However, the cause is known. The two clans
went
to war due to an argument as to which one
had
been appointed by the king to defend the north
against
the Dane. This local bloodletting sounds
more
like the Hatfield-McCoy affair, which oc
curred
in the southern United States. Or perhaps
the
Lincoln County war, which was in the Ameri
can
West." I noted that both Bennett and Holmes
were
staring at me in surprise as I amended my last
statement.
"No, the Lincoln County cattle war was
of
far shorter duration than the conflict you de
scribe.
However, it did produce William Bonney,
known
as Billy the Kid."

Holmes'
eyes seemed almost glazed. "Watson, I
never
dreamed you were such a fount of wisdom
regarding
feuds and family strife."

"Well
. . .
I
.
. .
it just happened to be a sub
ject
that interested me at one time," I stammered,
somewhat
embarrassed.

"Obviously,"
commented Constable Bennett. "In
any
case, the Trelawneys and the Ledbetters and
the
Staleys had a real go at it and the war
continued
from father to son. When law finally
came,
it was not a case of their drawing swords on
sight,
but there were a lot of disappearances and unusual deaths. Finally,
they whittled each other down so much there was not enough left to
fight. But it is a fact that Ezariah Trelawney, Horace
Ledbetter,
and Vincent Staley hated each other
from
childhood and their feeling did not mellow
with
the coming of age."

"What
a strange saga!" I said.

"But
definitely connected with the death of
Ezariah
Trelawney. It gives us two potential suspects with more motive for
murder than many
assassins might have,"
was Holmes' comment.

Chapter
3

The
Blue-Eyed Dog

HOLMES
SEEMED content with the preliminary
review
of facts. He rose, restlessly. Gone was the
quiet
thinker and logician of Baker Street, and
instead
there was the great detective intent on the chase. His eyes shone
with a steely glitter and his
whole body
seemed to cry for action.

"The
hour is late, but is it possible for us to
examine
the Trelawney house now?"

"I
was hoping you would suggest it," answered Bennett. "I have
been staying there to make sure that sensation-seekers don't disturb
the premises."

Leaving
the Queens Arms and crossing the town
square,
we found ourselves at the door of a stately
mansion
set well back from the tree-lined street.
No
lights were visible in the small village and the
silence
was broken only by the sound of night
crickets
and the infrequent hoot of a distant owl. As
we
approached the house, our arrival was acknowl
edged
by excited barks.

"Lama,"
said Constable Bennett. "The maid will
keep
the place in trim until there is a disposition of
the
estate and together we try and take care of the
little
tyke."

As
he unlocked and opened the outer portal, a small terrier with a long,
heavy coat rushed out,
continuing to
bark. The little dog sniffed at
Holmes'
boots, and then mine, to learn what he
could.
Evidently, he detected nothing suspicious and preceded us into the
house. As Bennett led me through the large hall toward a side door
Holmes paused to let the dog smell his hand and then took
the
liberty of stroking its long hair. Allowing Lama
to
show him the way, Holmes joined us in the room
where
Ezariah Trelawney had breathed his last.

I
admired the beautiful wood paneling on the
walls
of the study, which must have dated back to the time of Cromwell or
before. Bennett carefully
explained that
nothing had been moved, though
the maid
had insisted on opening the windows and
airing
out the room. Nevertheless, I could still
detect
the acrid odor of the Indian cigars to which
the
deceased was evidently addicted. The study
was
a man's room with hunting trophies adorning
the
walls. An ancient suit of armor was standing in
one
corner.

Holmes
inspected the chair in which Trelawney
had
been sitting, noted the attendant ashtray, and finally seated himself
in the chair. An unusual
affinity seemed
to have sprung up between Lama
and the
great detective. After some urging and a
couple
of suggestive pats on his knee, Holmes was
able
to coax the creature onto his lap, where the
little
fellow made himself quite comfortable and appeared to sleep. Holmes
remained immobile so
as not to disturb
the dog as he offered a suggestion.

"Let
us recreate the crime casting you, Watson,
in
the sinister role of assailant unknown."

"As
you wish, Holmes," I replied, knowing that
the
little games that my friend chose to play
frequently
climaxed in amazing revelations. "What
actions
are called for in your manuscript?"

"You
approach me from the door—stealthily, of
course."
I did so. "Now, I am sitting here, with a
lighted
cigar. I take a puff and place the cigar in the
ashtray,
with my right hand, as presumably, my
left
hand is holding a book."

"The
fallen book was on the left side of the chair,"
interjected
Bennett.

Holmes
continued his fantasy. "Watson, you have
a
wooden weapon in your hand and you deliver a
resounding
whack to the back of my head." In
dumb
show, I followed directions. "Now," con
tinued
Holmes, "I presume that the path of the
blow
that you just delivered would bash me on the
right
side, since you happen to be right-handed."

"You
are correct, Holmes," I agreed.

A
keen glance from Holmes prompted Bennett to
produce
a pocket notebook, which he riffled quickly
and
then read from:
"The right
occipital and parietal bones of the
victim's
skull were shattered by a blow from a
heavy
weapon." He flipped his notebook shut.
"That
was the statement of Dr. Devon Almont," he
continued.

There
was a sardonic smile on the detective's
face.
"And, my dear Bennett, while you made
ref
erence to the Silver Blaze
incident, I rather fancy
that you
considered another matter with which I
was
once occupied. May I hazard the guess that young Charles Trelawney is
left-handed?"

The
constable nodded, a gleam of admiration in his eyes. "I did not
wish to muddle your thought
processes
with my own ideas, but you have arrived
unerringly
at the point that has bothered me."

"I'm
delighted that you are both in agreement," I
said,
with a touch of asperity in my voice. "Would
someone
explain this to me?"

"'Black
Jack of Ballarat,'" quoted Holmes.
"Come
now, Watson, if you were left-handed, would
you
have delivered the same blow that you just did
in
dumb show?"

"Of
course not. How stupid of me." My mind
flashed
back to another time and a baffling mystery
that
had also taken place in rural surroundings.
"But
wait just a minute," I continued, prompted by
another
thought. "If Charles is ruled out as the murderer, we are left
with Horace Ledbetter and
Vincent Staley
as suspects. Would the dog now
dozing in
your lap, Holmes, have allowed either of
them
to enter the house, much less this room, without raising a row?"
I turned to Constable
Bennett. "What
breed of canine is Lama anyway? I
don't
recall ever seeing one like him before."

"Mostly
terrier, I would imagine," was Bennett's
answer.
"A mixed breed."

"Let
me disagree on that point," stated Holmes.