The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes (23 page)

be glad of a word with the butler."

While we waited, Holmes strolled to the window and, with his hands behind his back and

his chin sunk upon his breast, stared out over the empty landscape. Lestrade, who had returned

to his desk, chewed the end of his pen and watched him curiously.

"Ah, Morstead," said Holmes, as the butler entered. "Doubtless you are anxious to do

everything possible to assist Mr. Longton, and I wish you to understand that we are here

with the same purpose."

The man looked nervously from Lestrade to Holmes.

"Come, now," my friend continued. "I am sure that you can help us. For instance,

perhaps you can recall whether the squire received any letters by yesterday's post."

"There was a letter, sir, yes."

"Ah! Can you tell me more?"

"I'm afraid not, sir. It bore the local postmark and seemed a very ordinary cheap envelope

such as they use hereabouts. But I was surprised—" the man hesitated for a moment.

"Yes, something surprised you. Something, perhaps, in the squire's manner?" asked

Holmes quietly.

"Yes, sir, that's it. As soon as I gave it to him, he opened it and as he read there came a

look in his face that made me glad to get out of the room. When I returned later, the squire

had gone out and there were bits of burnt paper smouldering in the grate."

Holmes rubbed his hands together. "Your assistance is invaluable, Morstead," said he.

"Now, think carefully. Six months ago, as you probably know, your master sold some land.

You cannot, of course, recall a similar letter at about that time?"

"No, sir."

"Naturally not. Thank you, Morstead, I think that is all."

Something in his voice made me glance at Holmes and I was amazed at the change in

him. His eyes gleamed with excitement and a touch of colour showed in his cheeks.

"Sit down, Watson," he cried. "Over there on the trestle." Then, whipping his lens from

his pocket, he commenced his examination.

I watched him enthralled. The blood-stains, the fireplace, the mantelpiece, the very floor

itself were subjected to a careful and methodical scrutiny as Holmes crawled about on his

hands and knees, his long, thin nose within a few inches of the parquet and the lens in his

hands catching an occasional sparkle from the light of the dying sun.

A Persian rug lay in the centre of the room and, on reaching the edge of this, I saw him

stiffen suddenly.

"You should have observed this, Lestrade," he said softly. "There are faint traces of a

foot-mark here."

"What of it, Mr. Holmes?" grinned Lestrade, with a wink at me. "Plenty of people have

passed over that rug."

"But it has not rained for days. The boot which made this mark was slightly moist, and I

need not tell you that there is something in this room which would easily account for that.

Hullo, what have we here?"

Holmes had scraped something from the mat and was closely examining it through his

lens. Lestrade and I joined him.

"Well, what is it?"

Without a word, Holmes passed him the lens and held out his hand.

"Dust," announced Lestrade, peering through the glass.

"Pine-wood dust," replied Holmes quietly. "The fine grain is unmistakable. You will note

that I scraped it from the traces of the boot-mark."

"Really, Holmes," I cried. "I cannot see—"

My friend looked at me with a gleaming eye. "Come, Watson," said he, "we will stretch our

legs as far as the stables."

In the cobbled yard, we came on a groom drawing water from a pump. I have remarked

before that Holmes possessed a gift for putting the working classes at their ease and, after

exchanging a few words, the man lost so much of his Sussex reserve that when my friend

threw out the suggestion that it might be difficult to name which of the horses had been used

by his master on the previous night, the information was instantly forthcoming.

"It was Ranger, sir," volunteered the groom. "Here in this stall. You'd like to see her

hoofs? Well, why not. There you are, and you can scrape away with your knife to your heart's

content and not a stone will you find."

Holmes, after closely examining a fragment of earth which he had taken from the horse's

hoof, placed it carefully in an envelope and, pressing a half-sovereign into the groom's hand,

strode out of the yard.

"Well, Watson, it only remains for us to collect our hats and sticks before returning to our

inn," he announced briskly. "Ah, Lestrade," he continued, as the Scotland Yard man

appeared in the front door. "I would draw your attention to the fireplace chair."

"But there is no fireplace chair."

"That is why I draw your attention to it. Come, Watson, there is nothing further to be

learned here tonight."

The evening passed pleasantly enough, though I was somewhat irritated with Holmes who,

while refusing to answer any of my questions on the grounds that they could be better

answered on the morrow, encouraged our landlord to converse on local topics which could

hold no interest whatever for strangers like ourselves.

When I awoke the next morning I was surprised to learn that my friend had breakfasted

and gone out some two hours earlier. I was concluding my own breakfast when he strolled

in, looking invigorated for his exercise in the open air.

"Where have you been?" I enquired.

"Following the example of the early bird, Watson," he chuckled. "If you have finished,

then let us drive to Foulkes Rath and pick up Lestrade. There are times when he has his

definite uses."

Half an hour later saw us once more at the old mansion. Lestrade, who greeted us rather

surlily, stared at my companion in amazement.

"But why a walk on the moors, Mr. Holmes?" he snapped. "What bee has got into

your bonnet this time?"

Holmes's face was very stern, as he turned away. "Very well," said he. "I had hoped to

give you the undivided credit of capturing the murderer of Squire Addleton."

Lestrade caught my companion by the arm. "Man, are you serious?" he demanded. "But the

evidence! Every single fact points clearly to—"

Sherlock Holmes raised his stick and pointed silently down the long slope of fields and

heather to the distant wooded valley.

"There," he said quietly.

It was a walk that I will long remember. I am sure that Lestrade had no more idea than I

had of what lay before us as we followed Holmes's tall, spare figure across the meadows and

down the rough sheep track that led into the desolation of the moor. It was a mile or more

before we reached the beginning of the valley and plunged down into the welcome shade of the

pine woods through which the whirring of the steam-saw vibrated like the hum of some

monstrous insect. The air grew redolent with the tang of burning wood and a few minutes later

we found ourselves among the buildings and timber stacks of the Ashdown Timber Mills.

Holmes led the way without hesitation to a hut marked "Manager" and knocked sharply.

There was a moment of waiting, and then the door was flung open.

I have seldom seen a more formidable figure than the man who stood upon the threshold.

He was a giant in stature, with a breadth of shoulders that blocked the doorway and a

matted tangle of red beard that hung down over his chest like the mane of a lion. "What do

you want here?" he growled.

"I presume that I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Thomas Greerly?" asked Holmes

politely.

The man remained silent while he bit off a cud of chewing-tobacco, his eyes roving over us in

a cold, slow stare.

"What if you have?" he said at length.

"Long Tom to your friends, I think," said Holmes quietly. "Well, Mr. Thomas Greerly, it

is no thanks to you that an innocent man is not called upon to pay the penalty for your own

misdeeds."

For a moment the giant stood as though turned to stone and then, with the roar of a wild

beast, he hurled himself on Holmes. I managed to sieze him round the waist and Holmes's

hands were buried deep in that bristling tangle of beard, but it would have gone hard with

us had not Lestrade clapped a pistol to the man's head. At the touch of the cold steel against

his temples, he ceased to struggle and a moment later Holmes had snapped a pair of handcuffs

upon his great knotted wrists.

From the glare in his eyes I thought that Greerly was about to attack us again, but suddenly

he gave a rueful laugh and turned his bearded face towards my friend.

"I don't know who you are, mister," he said, "but it's a fair catch. So, if you'll tell me

how you did it, I'll answer all your questions."

Lestrade stepped forward. "I must warn you—" he began, with the magnanimous fair play

of British justice.

But our prisoner waved his words aside.

"Aye, I killed him," he growled. "I killed Bully Addleton and now that it has come I

reckon that I'll swing with an easy heart. Is that plain enough for you? Well, come inside."

He led the way into the little office and threw himself into his chair while the rest of us

accommodated ourselves as best we might.

"How did you find me, mister?" he demanded carelessly, raising his manacled hands to bite

off a fresh cud of tobacco.

"Fortunately for an innocent man, I discerned certain traces of your presence," said

Holmes in his sternest manner. "I admit that I believed Mr. Percy Longton to be guilty

when first I was asked to look into the matter nor did I perceive any reason to alter my views

when I reached the scene of the crime. It was not long, however, before I found myself faced

with certain details which, though insignificant enough in themselves, threw a new and curious

light on the whole affair. The frightful blow that killed Squire Addleton had spattered blood

over the fireplace and even a part of the wall. Why, then, were there no stains down the front of

the dressing-gown worn by the man who struck that blow? Here was something inconclusive and

yet troublesome.

"Next, I observed that there was no chair in the vicinity of the fireplace where the murdered

man had fallen. He had, therefore, been struck down when standing, not sitting, and yet as

the blow cleft the top of his skull it had been delivered from the same level, if not from above.

When I learned from Mrs. Longton that the squire was over six feet tall, I was left with no

doubt whatever that a serious miscarriage of justice had been committed. But, if not Longton,

then who was the real murderer?

"My enquiries brought to light that a letter had reached the squire that morning, that

apparently he had burned it, and thereafter quarrelled with his nephew by proposing the sale

of a farm. Squire Addleton was a wealthy man. Why, then, these periodic sales which had

first commenced two years previously? The man was being heavily blackmailed."

"A lie, by God!" interrupted Greerly fiercely. "He was paying back what didn't belong to

him, and that's the truth."

"On examining the room," my friend continued. "I found the faint traces of a boot-mark

to which I drew your attention, Lestrade, and as the weather was dry I knew, of course, that

the mark had been made after the crime. The man's boot was moist because he had stepped in

the blood. My lens disclosed traces of some fine powder adhering to this boot-mark and on

closer examination I recognized this powder to be pine sawdust. When I found, pressed into the

dried earth in the hoofs of the squire's horse, a quantity of similar sawdust, I was able to

form a fairly clear picture of the events which had occurred on the night of the crime.

"The squire, who had been subjected to the vehement protests of his nephew over the

proposed sale of some valuable land, instantly mounted his horse after dinner and rode off

into the darkness. Obviously, he intended to speak, perhaps appeal, to someone, and about

midnight that someone comes. He is a man of lofty stature and of a strength sufficiently

formidable to cleave a human skull in a single blow, and the soles of his boots are engrained

with pine-dust. There is a quarrel between the two men, perhaps a refusal to pay, a threat

and, in an instant, the taller man has torn a weapon from the wall and, burying it in his

opponent's skull, rushes out into the night.

"Where, I asked myself, might one expect to find the ground impregnated with wood-dust?

Surely in a sawmill; and there down in the valley below the manor-house lay the Ashdown

Timber Mills.

"It had occurred to me already that the clue to this terrible event might lie in the squire's

earlier life, and therefore, following my usual practice, I spent an instructive evening gossiping

with our landlord in course of which I elicited by an idle question that two years ago an

Australian had been given the post of Manager at the Ashdown Timber Mills on the

personal recommendation of Squire Addleton. When you came out of this hut early this

morning, Greerly, to give your orders for the day's work, I was behind that timber shack. I

saw you, and my case was complete."

The Australian, who had listened to Holmes's account with the closest attention, leaned

back in Ms chair with a bitter smile.

"It's my bad luck they ever sent for you, mister," he said brazenly. "But I'm not the man