Sherlock Holmes and the Treasure Train

"You mentioned, Holmes, how well the robbery had been planned. Does that not indicate a knowledge of the terrain and of railway procedure?"

"A shrewd thrust, that last part."

"Not too revealing, however. Any number of people could have a working knowledge of the B & N."

"'Twould not suffice. It was a special train that was attacked and it ran on a schedule created for it. Normal procedure had little to do with the bullion carrier."

He had me there and I thought furiously. "Isn't a key problem the means by which the thieves got on the train? A lot of thought had gone into preventing just that from happening."

"Considering that our problem involves a train, I will resist the impulse to say that you are on the right track, old fellow."

Encouraged, a thought came to me. "Let us assume that the riflemen guards were not part and parcel of the plot."

"I'll accept that."

"Then once the freight achieved running speed, it would seem more than difficult to get aboard."

"Agreed."

"Then the thieves rode with it from the start."

"Not an unwieldy theory at all. Really, Watson, you have developed the ratiocinating mind through our long association."

This being rare praise indeed from Holmes, I plunged ahead. "Is there not an expression common in America, 'riding the rods'?"

"Relates to traveling hobos."

"Quite. Could not the two men you picture have been hidden under the boxcar before the engine assumed motion?"

"A possibility. How they would manage to crawl from their place of concealment and gain the roof eludes me, but the inventiveness of the homo sapiens is limitless."

"The only other thought that comes to mind is that the thieves hid themselves within the boxcar, but that idea is self-defeating as they would have been unable to get out of the securely locked carrier."

"Your first thought is the one that will bear investigation, good fellow."

At this point Mrs. Hudson made her presence known. It was time for dinner. This was the day of a most important social gathering, the meeting of the Marylebone Sewing Circle. While the event did not warrant a squib in the Evening Chronicle, it was dear to our landlady's heart. To make amends for her absence from the premises, Mrs. Hudson fairly outdid herself. We were served consommé Marie Stuart and filets de sole Carlton. Then we had thick mutton chops, their ends curled around a broiled kidney and affixed with a toothpick. This led my mind to the subject of claret and I brought forth a bottle of Château Lafitte '68, which I had been saving. By the time we dealt with a toothsome soufflé aux pêches à 1'Orientale, the evening, in my mind, was a merry occasion indeed.

Following our repast, it was my thought to peruse an article in the latest Lancet, but I soon found myself nodding over the medical journal. With apologies to Holmes, I soon made my way to bed and promptly fell into a deep sleep. On this night, with a nod no doubt to the Château Lafitte, bottled on the estate, I had no dreams of great trains hurtling through the night to their doom. The next thing I knew there was a shaking of my shoulder. As my eyes reluctantly blinked open, I beheld Sherlock Holmes leaning over my bed with a half smile on his lips. It was a new day.

"Come, old chap, if you would be part of the opening act of this drama we have become entangled in."

Despite a delightful lassitude, the coldness of the room and the floorboards, and the reticence of protesting bones to assume motion, I mumbled something to my intimate friend and made haste to perform my morning ablutions and struggle into clothes. In our sitting room, the smell of Holmes' pipe was everywhere. I gave it scant heed as I eagerly seized the cup of coffee he poured from the great silver urn and then applied myself to that mainstay of the empire, a stout English breakfast. The sleuth might have been up all night for all I knew, though I noted no clues as to the presence of others. As I wolfed kippers and eggs, he was going over a sheaf of papers that had the appearance of a business report.

When I poured myself a second cup of coffee and ignited a morning cigarette, Holmes tossed the document on the desk surface and joined me.

"My brother is a most meticulous man," he commented, "and despite his bulk, fast-moving. I cabled him last night for a report on recent transactions on the gold market, and early this morning a complete dossier came to our doorstep. I sometimes wonder when he sleeps."

"A thought that has bothered me at times relative to you," I replied, downing the last of my repast.

"The normal human requires sleep to oil the mechanism and food to fuel it, old friend," stated Holmes. "A thinking machine does not operate in that fashion."

Holmes often declared that he was a walking brain, since thinking was his sole reason for being, and I humored him by pretending acceptance. The fact that he was a superb fencer and the finest amateur boxer I had ever seen prompted me to adopt a different view, though I was the first to agree that he wasn't normal.

He did not seem disposed to divulge any results of the past evening, so I posed an obvious question. "What move do you plan now?"

"We meet with that Ledger chap at the B & N freight yard in half an hour, Watson. The gold train is there, and possibly we will find clues, to buttress your theory of robbers 'riding the rods'."

It was an overcast day and a chill wind faced us as we hailed a hansom and made for the freight yards. The vicinity we sought had the bleak, forlorn look exhibited by portions of London in the early morn. Holmes seemed to know exactly where we were to go. When we alighted from our conveyance, he set off at a brisk pace that I struggled to match. Richard Ledger was awaiting our arrival beside the office of the freight dispatcher. His thin face had the bronze cast of one oft exposed to the sun and there were deep circles under his bright eyes, which were a peculiar shade of light blue. His manner toward Holmes was most deferential, but then he had worked for the Kimberly people and the diamond syndicate was not known to hire dullards.

"The train is over here, Mr. Holmes," he said after suitable greetings. Assuming that Holmes' prime interest was in the carrier, he turned and walked through the maze of intersecting roadbeds, and we found ourselves beside an engine and two boxcars on a short section of rail that Ledger referred to as a hold track.

Claymore Frisbee's description of the bullion carrier had been accurate, and I noted nothing that I had not expected to see. While Holmes and Ledger conversed beside one boxcar, I walked around the train, intent on an investigation of my own. Atop the boxcar nearest the engine was the specially constructed fortified position looking rather like a pillbox. It seemed small for four riflemen, but I was interested in the line of sight afforded by the slots in the armor plating of its sides. It did not take long to establish that the marksmen could cover everything save for a thirty-five-degree arc centered at the rear of the second boxcar. The rifle roost, for want of a better term, would have suggested the turret of the U.S. Navy's monitor-type vessel had it been round rather than square. I bent down to survey the undercarriage of the boxcars and found myself regarding Ledger and Holmes on the other side of the track.

"It could have been done, Watson," said Holmes. Then he threw a quick remark at Ledger. "A theory of my associate." The sleuth's intense eyes returned to me. "They might have secured themselves by the rear wheels, though it would have been a perilous and most uncomfortable journey. But what about their equipment? The smoke bombs, hammer and cold chisel and small arms as well, in case the plan went awry?"

I nodded in agreement with his words and hastened around the rear of the train to rejoin the sleuth and the security man. When I arrived on their side, Holmes had evidently explained my thought to Ledger.

"Impossible, Mr. Holmes," Ledger was saying. "Before the gold shipment took off, I went over the undercarriages and the boxcar interiors myself. The train left here with no one aboard save the engineer and firemen and my guards." As Holmes nodded and I drew up by the two, Ledger continued: "The riflemen were all bonded and of good reputation. Two are formerly of the Lincolnshire Regiment."

"I know," said Holmes, and I later wondered at this remark. "We'd best have a look at the roofs, for that's where the mischief started."

Ledger led us to the rear coupling between the two boxcars and we carefully mounted an iron ladder. On the top of the second boxcar, which had held the gold, Holmes went to his knees to survey the roof with his ever-present pocket glass. I noted that he paid special attention to the right aft section above the sliding door in the car's side. I began to pose a question, but he shrugged and then his long legs took him forward on the roof to the edge and he leaped from there to the first boxcar with Ledger agilely following. I contented myself with climbing down the ladder we had mounted and up the matching one to the top of the adjacent car. A more dignified approach and more fitting for an overweight middle-aged general practitioner. I had no desire to secure the services of a fellow physician for treatment of a break or contusions.

Close to, the gun emplacement revealed nothing that I had not noted from a distance and Holmes seemed to be paying it scant attention. He was inspecting the top of the boxcar and gestured for Ledger to join him on the forward end nearest the engine.

He had risen and was pointing toward a streak of white paint running across the boxcar roof. "Was this marking in some way connected with your security measures?" he asked.

The youngish man shook his head. "Mr. Chasseur originally had a rectangular area marked in paint as the position of the guard house. I indicated to him that the line of fire would be improved if it was built farther back, to which he agreed. Evidently, the man who was to paint out the line only completed a part of his job. We were in a bit of a rush to get the train ready, you know."

Holmes accepted this without question, but I noted that he positioned one heel on the mark and strode back past the armor-plated cubicle to the end of the boxcar. Holmes could suit his stride to an exact three feet and I knew he was measuring a distance, though for what reason I could not fathom. Nothing else about the train claimed his attention, so we descended to the ground, where Holmes evidenced a considerable interest in our guide.

"How long were you with the diamond people?" he asked.

"Three years. The mines are not as they once were, which made my duties easier. They are now walled compounds with more guards per acre than a military base. Getting in and out is about as easy as getting close to the Crown jewels. To mount a raid would take a trained military unit and a sizeable one at that. Therefore the main duty, in addition to maintaining an alert guard force, was inspection of the native diggers when they periodically left the compound to rejoin their tribes in the interior. It's all been rather worked out by formula. Prior to departure, an enema is used to make sure a diamond doesn't go out in someone's intestines. Anyone leaving is stripped to the buff and doctor-inspected, the interior of his mouth as well."

"Necessary, I suppose," commented Holmes. "What brought you back to England?"

"A friend of Mr. Chasseur is a major shareholder in Kimberly and must have given me a spanking recommendation. The B & N had some problem with warehouse thefts and I was offered my present position. Jumped at it, I might add. Africa is all very well, but the boredom of the job was getting to me."

"I can imagine. Where did the robbery take place?" asked Holmes, suddenly shifting subjects.

"Outside of Brent. A small village almost due north of Colchester."

We were back by the dispatcher's now, and as Holmes thanked Ledger for his trouble, a thought burst upon me. "I say, we've rather dismissed the idea of the thieves being aboard the special when it pulled out. But I noted a blind spot at the rear of the train. Might they not have somehow overhauled the train as it was leaving the yards?"

Again it was Ledger who supplied the cold water. "The special was routed on the main line," said the security man.

"To be red-balled through," added Holmes.

"Exactly." There was a small smile on Ledger's tight mouth, as though in recognition of Holmes' familiarity with railroad jargon. "Along with a group of trusted employees, I was right here to watch her off, and she'd gained considerable speed by the time she was out of our sight. They got to her beyond the yards, Dr. Watson, or a whole group of us had better have our eyes checked."

"Certainly not necessary in your case," said Holmes, and I noted that Ledger shot him a quick glance. The comment did seem cryptic at first, but then Ledger was relatively young and one could assume that his eyes were keen. "You did not decide to go with the bullion, and I have wondered why." Holmes' voice had hardened slightly.

"Mr. Chasseur had an appointment with the people at the London, Tilbury and Southend Railroad. After that, we were to go together by express to Yarmouth to be present when the gold was loaded aboard a channel boat."

He paused for a moment with a wry expression. "The news of the robbery reached us before we left, so the trip to Yarmouth had no meaning. My employer rather left this matter in my hands and I've let him down for fair. If there's anything I can do to help in your insurance investigation, please call on me."

Noting Holmes' sudden and sharp glance, he elaborated quickly. "I know where the request for me to meet you here came from, sir. It's not hard to judge what rekindled your interest in this matter."

Holmes seemed kindly disposed toward Ledger's frankness. At least he did until we had regained a hansom and were clattered back toward Baker Street. "What did you think of him?" he queried.

"Seemed forthright enough. After seeing the special freight, can't say I'd fault his plan for guarding it either."

There was a twinkle in Holmes' eyes. "The former lieutenant in the Grenadiers was not guilty of falsehood," he said.

"What then? Something is amiss or you would not be discussing him."

"You know me too well, old friend. We had visitors after you were abed last night. I learned that there is another facet to Ledger's career that he did not choose to mention—his feats of marksmanship."

"We'd already heard of that from two sources."

"But not of Alvidon Chasseur's involvement with the Wellington Gun Club."

I was regarding Holmes blankly, and bless him for not letting the matter drop, an annoying habit he had on occasion. "Industrial tycoons are not rushing down to Sussex or similar country areas for long weekends as in times gone by. Pressure of business, you know. With foxhunting and grouse-shooting on the wane, they have found release for competitive spirits and an interest in ordinance by forming gun clubs, where target shooting occupies the members. The clubs all have rifle teams and they compete in a league, which may explain the number of former members of Her Majesty's forces being employed by big business."

"Ahhh," I said. "Now I understand your remark about the man's vision."

"Ledger's reputation assures us that he has the eyes of an eagle."

"And a position was created for the shootist so that he could represent the Wellington Gun Club," I continued, feeling on firm ground.

"He's qualified in his job, I'm sure," replied Holmes, "but his offer of employment was certainly based in part on his marksman abilities. The Wellington Club has the champion rifle team of greater London and will defend their title in the near future against the Bagatelle Club, sponsored by Lord Balmoral. It might be fitting if we attended that match, Watson."

I did not have much time to consider this matter since we had returned to our chambers and Holmes was occupied reading cablegrams and several letters delivered to our door. He then wrote out answers and casually informed me that he would be off to Essex by the afternoon train and would appreciate my company if I felt so disposed. As he summoned Billy to deliver his queries and instructions to the cable office, I thought again how the sleuth had shunned the installation of a telephone in our quarters. In matters of criminal investigation, Holmes was ultramodern and I'm sure his many innovations must have influenced Sir Bernard Spilsbury, the forensic medicine genius, in later years. Why Holmes did not choose to use Mr. Bell's greatest invention I could not guess, though its absence never seemed to hamper one of his investigations.

The village of Brent being in Essex, the sleuth was going to visit the scene of the crime, and nothing would keep me away from that. It was apparent that whilst I had been the slug-a-bed the previous night, my friend had used the time to good advantage. From long experience, I knew I would just have to wait to find out what else he had learned.

Chapter 6

End of Track with Dandy Jack

WE REACHED Brent on a local and, to my surprise, found a four-wheeler plus driver awaiting our arrival. Holmes approached the conveyance with confidence.

"You would be Dandy Jack," he said to the driver.

"Not by that name in these parts, sir," responded the man, saluting briefly with his whip. His broad face was creased by a toothy grin.

"And my name is not Sherlock Holmes," responded the sleuth, "nor is this gentleman with me Dr. Watson."

"What goes in one ear comes out t'other, sir. That way it don't come out the mouth."

During this singular conversation, Holmes and I entered the carriage, which swayed back slightly as our posteriors found the straw-stuffed cushions. The driver's whip flicked lightly on the rump of a sturdy bay and we were off. Holmes offered no directions nor did the driver seem to require any.

In contrast to the city, a limpid sun tried to brighten the rural scene and succeeded in part, though the air was crisp and cold. In London, with the moisture of the Thames close by, I would have thought it raw, but not so in the dry and clear air of the countryside. Leaving the buildings of the village of Brent was a matter of a moment, and as we were setting a brisk pace, it was not long before I spied a ribbon of rails in the distance.

"Now if you was that amacheur peeler wot you mentioned," said the driver, "you might be interested in the spur line where they hit the bullion train. People hereabout are talking 'bout nothin' else, the robbery bein' the biggest thing wot's happened in Brent, you see."

"It does seem the place to be for a casual visitor," said Holmes. "I take it the rails ahead are on a straightaway and the roadbed follows an upgrade in that direction." Holmes was indicating to our right, where the rails curved around the base of a small hill.

Dandy Jack turned to view us and his face again was transformed by a grin. It changed a weathered and potentially grim visage dramatically. "Right, sir."

"How far up the grade is the bridge?"

Since no such feat of engineering was visible as yet, I well understood the expression of surprise on Jack's face.

"You've been here before," he said with sudden understanding.

"Never to my knowledge," replied Holmes.

"Then 'owd' you know . . ." Our driver's voice dwindled out and he shot another glance over his shoulder. There was a shrewd look in his eye. "Guess you're as good as they say, all right. There is a bridge, sir, as you shall shortly see. I take it that's what you're interested in."

"For the moment." The matter dropped there. I felt prompted to inquire of Holmes but chose to follow the driver's example. My friend would have probably responded with one of his pet phrases like, "It had to be, old fellow," which seemed to explain everything to him but was of scant use to me.

Dandy Jack guided his four-wheeler in a zigzag course through country lanes and soon we were riding adjacent to the rails and around the curve. Ahead loomed a vehicular bridge necessitated by a main road stretching south to Colchester, I assumed.

When we reached that point in the lane closest to the bridge, our driver reined in the bay and helped us down from our seats. Holmes requested Dandy Jack to accompany us, and he secured the horse's reins to a tree and caught up quick enough as we made our way across pastureland to the bridge. Holmes followed the roadbed under the overpass, his eyes surveying the span above us, and then we were on the other side. My friend seemed to be measuring the distance from the tracks to the top of the overpass and then he cast his eye around the open ground surrounding us on both sides. In the season this portion was tilled and for this reason Holmes spied what he was looking for. It was a straight length of wood that was quite dead and tapered at one end. Formerly a beanpole, no doubt, that had been thrown aside because of the brittleness of the old wood. Evidently it would serve Holmes' purpose, for he secured it and brought it to the point of the roadbed directly under the edge of the overpass. Measuring with his eyes, he whipped a handkerchief from the pocket of his traveling ulster and tied it to the pole. Needless to say, Dandy Jack and I were regarding him with some mystification.

As he righted the pole under the bridge, he did offer an explanation. "From here to the handkerchief represents the height of the boxcar from the ground."

"What about the armored cubicle?" I exclaimed, with a sudden idea as to what he was about.

"That does not figure in my calculations." Holmes indicated for Dandy Jack to hold the pole in the position he had placed it and stepped back, his eye swiveling from the handkerchief to the top of the bridge. "Hmmmm, about seven feet to the under portion of the span and another five feet to the parapet of the bridge. A bit more distance than I had figured, but it could be done."

Positioning himself directly underneath the edge of the bridge, he marched down the track with his measured stride for a short distance. He then stopped, turned, and gazed at the top of the bridge, nodding in seeming satisfaction. Returning, Holmes gestured for Dandy Jack to lower the pole, and he retrieved his handkerchief from it.

"Is that the shortest way to the bridge?" he asked, indicating a sharp slope to the south of the tracks.

Openmouthed, our driver nodded.

"But a moment, gentlemen, and I will rejoin you," said the sleuth, making for the hillside. As he swarmed up the incline with no apparent difficulty, Dandy Jack sidled over toward me, all the while watching Holmes' figure with a somewhat alarmed expression.

"'E don't say much, does 'e?"

"On the contrary, he can be quite loquacious," I replied with, I fear, the smugness of one dealing with a familiar subject. "It's just that he's a bit hard to understand," I added.

"That I can believe," the man growled.

"It is all very plain to him," I exclaimed somewhat defensively.

Dandy Jack's grin came to the rescue of his bafflement. "'Tis glad I am, sir, that it's plain to someone."

This seemed to cover the subject and we remained silent until Holmes returned shortly thereafter. I noted, with envy, that he was not even breathing deeply.

"Back to the carriage, lads," he ordered, and there was a pleased expression on his usually inscrutable features. Dandy Jack and I followed the sleuth's long strides. When we reached the four-wheeler, Holmes had a question. "How close can you get us to the spur line?"

"Iffen I goes 'round by the old mine, I can drive right to the end of it," was Dandy Jack's reply.

"Capital. The junction of the feeder line with the main track has little to tell us," said Holmes.

"First time I knew rail track could tell me anythin'," said Jack, and promptly lapsed into silence. I sensed there was something about Holmes that made him nervous.

Our route involved a number of turns and the gentle curves that country roads are prone to have, and I completely lost any sense of direction. When we arrived at a cleared area with several boarded-up and dilapidated wooden buildings, a rail bed that ended at a sizeable pile of boulders relocated my directional bug. The spur line went in a straight northeast direction, placing the main line in my mind. The clearing had been hewn from a heavily timbered area, and already second growth was making a considerable showing. A small hill close to the end of tracks was studded with rocky outcroppings and there was a sizeable opening in its side, now shielded by loose rock. This had to be the abandoned tin mine.

While Holmes was busy scrutinizing the ground around the termination point of the spur line, I walked closer to the mine entrance. It seemed that wooden supports within had finally given up the ghost. Action of rain and weather had resulted in a cave-in at the mouth of the digging. A small boy might have worked his way within, but I certainly could not, nor did I wish to, for another shifting of the hillside might have entombed me. I was glad to rejoin Holmes, who had straightened from the semi-crouch in which he had been inspecting the area. Words were unnecessary. His manner told me that any clue that might have been seduced by his uncanny powers of observation into a thin thread of revelation and thence into fabric for a garment of truth had been taken or trampled by the heavy-footed minions of the law who preceded us to this spot.

Never at a loss in finding other avenues of investigation, Holmes brought his attention to bear on Dandy Jack, he being the expert on the locale. "The boxcar was found right at the end of track?" he asked that worthy.

An affirmative nod was the reply.

"An uncanny bit of figuring," said the sleuth, and then chose to confide in our driver. "The boxcar with the gold was separated from the rest of the train on the upgrade. Gravity caused it to roll backward, picking up enough speed to carry it to the spur line and then right here. How far would you say?" he asked, regarding Dandy Jack intently.

"Good half mile." Drawn into the recreation, the man contributed another thought after a moment. "If the freight carrier was goin' a mite fast, those rocks would have stopped it." He indicated the boulders I had noted earlier. "Though I don't recall a mention of one end bein' bunged in. There's a slight downgrade in the spur line, which you've noticed."

Holmes indicated that he had.

"They could ha' levered her here had they wished. A coupla stout timbers would ha' done it."

"And stout backs." My friend seemed dissatisfied. "But why when they could just as well have driven the wagon to wherever it stopped? It was a wagon, wasn't it?"

His keen eyes had never left Dandy Jack.

"Aye. Iron-tired wheels. The tracks was plain when the railroad police and Constable Sindelar got here from Brent."

"You heard about it." Holmes' statement had the overtones of a question.

"I come later to 'ave a peek. 'Twas but one wagon, two horses."

"It was a heavy load. All right, Jack, what would you have done with half a million in gold ingots?"

"Different from them, it would have been. A wagonload of hay outward-bound in one direction. Some feed bags in another. The safest of the lot, a load of manure, taking a third route."

"With gold ingots riding under the loads," said the sleuth, nodding as if in agreement with this idea. "Might they not have done that? Divided the booty further along the line?" Holmes then suggested.

Dandy Jack's denial was firm. "There was not that much traffic at the time. I know pretty much everybody hereabout. Iffen it was outsiders, somebody would have noticed them."

"There were no locals involved. You're sure of that?"

"Very sure, Mr. Holmes." This was the only time Dandy Jack used my friend's name and a flicker in his guarded eyes showed that he regretted it. There was no reaction from my friend at this breech of etiquette. Rather, he seemed prepared to accept Dandy Jack's statement.

"Then how did they do it with but one wagon?"

Our driver shrugged. "'Tis a point that's puzzled me."

"From a professional standpoint," said Holmes dryly.

Suddenly the sleuth whirled and set out toward the main line, his long strides eating up distance. Dandy Jack and I looked at each other for a moment questioningly, and then I shrugged and followed in Holmes' footsteps with our driver by my side. My judgment of distance is faulty, but it seemed like less than a quarter of a mile hike to the main line, where we found Holmes inspecting the junction point with his magnifying glass. Arising, he brushed off his knees. A look at Dandy Jack evidently carried a message and the man secured a metal bar from a wooden box beside the track. Using it, he activated the switching mechanism and I noted the iron tracks shift. Holmes reached down with a finger and straightened to rub it against his thumb.

"Well oiled, but they would do that."

"The man positioned here, you mean, after the gold train went by," I exclaimed.

"Or before, for that matter." The sleuth's attitude was casual and he seemed to have lost interest in the matter.

Our walk back to the four-wheeler was made in silence. I had nothing to say nor had Dandy Jack, who had recovered his grin. Holmes was deep in thought, his hands clasped behind his back and his aquiline face chin-down on his chest. In the conveyance, Dandy Jack headed back to Brent since there were no orders to do otherwise.

As we approached the small village and its station, Holmes summoned himself from his reverie. "I would appreciate your thinking more on how that wagonload of gold was removed with no one the wiser. In daylight too, for the authorities found the boxcar before night fell."

Dandy Jack indicated that he would give the matter due consideration, but there was little enthusiasm in his manner. Why our driver should be expected to come up with an answer eluded me. At the station, Holmes passed some bills to Dandy Jack, who did not bother to count them before shoving them into a pocket with a gesture of acknowledgment that could have doubled for thanks.

As he stood on the platform and waved us goodbye, did I detect an expression of relief on his weathered face?

On the train, I viewed Holmes with purpose. I had allowed him a lengthy period for meditation, and enough was enough. Questions were bubbling on my lips. I never had the chance to ask them; Holmes divined my thoughts.

"Dandy Jack has led a not-uneventful life, and it was fortunate for our purposes that he was on the scene." Holmes removed his ostrich-skin pouch and fueled his short-stemmed briar. "For that matter, the sleepy village of Brent has seen more exciting times. It was once the halfway house for a thriving business." My mouth opened with the obvious question, but Holmes continued: "A ring of brandy smugglers got their contraband cargo this far and then sent it in various directions, much in the manner that Dandy Jack mentioned."

"He was, then, a part of the ring?"

"Very good at his job, too."

"How do you know of this, Holmes?"

"I broke the ring."

"Ah, then you knew Jack."

"Only by reputation. There was a falling out among the thieves. The matter of greed you mentioned previously. There were two casualties, which did not sit well with one member of the gang. I was able to contact him, by post actually, using a code name. We transacted some business, always by the mails. The entire gang was captured, including a customs official in Yarmouth."

"But they didn't all go to jail," I said with a wise smile, which his answer erased.

"Actually, they did. However, one of the gang escaped after a brief period in a certain penal institution. He's never been found."

Holmes puffed on his pipe for a considerable moment, his eyes harkening back to times gone by. Then he continued in a low tone of voice which, on occasion, served as a tocsin for a confidential matter of importance. "Dandy Jack is a singular name and rather hard to forget. Old friend, we'd best forget it just the same."

During our return to London, I viewed our countryside investigation in a new light. Small wonder that our unusual driver had considered the matter of the stolen gold with a professional interest. If a smuggler—who must have worked in collusion with some of the local inhabitants at one time—did not know how the stolen gold was removed, then who would?

Chapter 7

The Leaden Intruder

THAT EVENING, our dinner at 221 B Baker Street was a quiet one. I was touched by the faith Holmes had evidenced by his revelation on the homebound train and did not wish to plague him with further questions. Many of my queries through the years must have smacked of the inane to him. He frequently displayed irritation when others could not match the mercurial speed of his intellect, but exhibited a singular patience with me. On more than one occasion he had stated that I possessed an intuitive ability to center on a key fact, as though gravitated to the missing piece of a mosaic he was attempting to piece together. His words were sweet music and I invariably glowed when recalling them, but there was the lurking suspicion that he might have strained a point or two in this respect. He invariably referred to our investigation and the problems that we must solve in a manner so convincing that the words were universally accepted, fortunately for me. Had anyone dared to question Mr. Sherlock Holmes or looked closely at the façade of our equal contributions to case-solving that he had created, they might have burst out laughing. When I allowed my mind to dwell on this, there was the recurring thought that Holmes could have hypnotized himself into actually believing that I was an indispensable cog in the machinery that he had created. An active weapon like Slim Gilligan or, perish the thought, the awesome and frightening Wakefield Orloff.

Holmes seemed preoccupied and, as he so often did when involved in thought, busied himself in his chemical corner. When he was intent on beakers and retorts, conversation was impossible. I decided to bide my time relative to certain matters that still puzzled me about our afternoon expedition. I was attempting, without too much success, to collect and sort notes on a case history that I hoped to make available to my readers, going through the usual exasperation involved in locating certain information and assembling it in the proper order. My friend had a vial full of a dark liquid bubbling furiously. He removed the candle beneath it and placed it on the desk. Holmes was turning back toward his apparatus when the upper pane of one of our bay windows was shattered. There was a booming sound, the candle was abruptly halved, and there was a resounding thud in the far side of the room. I sat transfixed, staring at the reduced candle, convinced that I had felt a disturbance in the air in front of my face, which may or may not have been true. Then I was galvanized into action.

"Holmes, we are being fired upon," I cried, dropping from the desk chair to the floor and making for the window on all fours with the intent of drawing the blind.

"Calm yourself, old fellow," said the sleuth in a casual tone as though asking for a dinner roll.

To my consternation, he made for the door to our chambers with no attempt of concealment.

I lunged back toward him with the half-formed idea of pulling him to the floor so that he would not make such a splendid target, but he was already at our outer portal and had it open.

"Billy," he called, "please inform Mrs. Hudson that naught is amiss. A slight miscalculation in one of my chemical experiments was the cause of the disturbance."

I assumed that the page boy acknowledged this request and made for our landlady's domain. I was, again, scurrying toward the window and had managed to close the drapes by the time Holmes reentered our quarters from the landing.

"Please, Watson, do not be so concerned."

I fear my reply was made with some heat. "Bullets flying through the air and you . . ."

"A bullet," he interrupted. "Fired with no intent of doing us harm."

The sleuth retrieved the upper portion of the candle from the floor. "Remarkable piece of shooting. Had the marksman fired at a human target, one of us would now be dead."

His eyes went upward and, to my horror, he crossed to the window, pulling the blind partially aside to view the shattered pane of glass. "See the angle of the shot," he said, indicating upward.

"For God's sake, Holmes, close that drape." I had flattened myself against the wall between the windows. "You may be interested in plotting a trajectory, but I'll have no part of your madness."

He did let the material fall back into place and there was concern in his large eyes as he viewed me, frozen in my protected position. "Good fellow, the crash of a rifle bullet, fired from an elongated barrel I suspect, is a jarring note on a quiet evening at home. Let me repeat that the man behind the gun did not have blood in his eye."

As he spoke he was tracing an imaginary line from the window to the candle, which took him to a point in our floorboards where he squatted, after securing the clasp knife from the mantelpiece.

"Anyone who could sever that candle so neatly could have found either of us with ease had he so wished."

He rose to his feet at this point, displaying a misshapen piece of lead triumphantly. "I shall inspect this carefully, but other matters claim our attention." He was at the desk now, in the chair I had vacated so precipitously but a short while before, scrawling on foolscap. I could not remain pressed against the wall forever. Drawing a deep breath, I crossed to the settee, casting a nervous glance back at the window through which the whisper of death had entered our sitting room.

"Forgive me if I seem unduly concerned," I began, and there was a liberal touch of irony in my voice.

"Reasonable, of course," he stated with an airy wave of one hand. "Old fellow, the shot was fired from a height. Note the point of entry through the window."

"I'll take your word for it."

"The bullet did not come from across the street or down the block, but from a more distant point. Despite the high-velocity weapon used, the marksman had to allow for a curvature of flight and yet he was able to hit the candle, a slight miscalculation on his part?"

"Miscalculation?" I echoed in an alarmed tone.

"He meant to hit the wick, you see. What a dramatic message that would have been."

"Message? Now see here, Holmes . . ."

"The bullet was just that, Watson, and delivered with more speed and, indeed, impact that a cable or letter. 'See here, Sherlock Holmes, you are but mortal and can be snuffed out as easily as this candle.'"

This gave me pause, for now I understood Holmes' line of thinking. Whilst I mused, the sleuth took the messages he had scrawled and went again to the landing to call Billy. More cables, I thought, and then another idea hit me. There was nothing on my friend's schedule at the moment save the matter of the treasure train. As near as I could figure, we had learned precious little about it up to this point. Yet someone was sufficiently concerned about the investigation to indulge in a striking gesture indeed. I resolved to try and ferret out the missing pieces that Holmes must be privy to but I was not.

Upon his return, I took a stern stand. "See here, Holmes, I can find no flaw in your reasoning."

"I'm relieved about that," was his dry reply. There was a twinkle in his eyes, but I did not allow it to deter me.

"You must have learned something today and I'm blessed if I can see what it was."

"Because of the warning, you mean. Good thinking."

The sleuth's eyes wandered to the window again and back to the floor from which he had extracted the spent slug. "We must instigate some repairs, Watson, without Mrs. Hudson's knowledge. If the matter of the shot in the night ever becomes known to the dear woman, I fear her sleep will be disturbed for weeks to come."

"The case, Holmes!" I sputtered with exasperation.

"Ledger showed us the special freight this morning. Did something strike you?"

I shook my head.

"It did me, but then I was looking for corroborative evidence for a theory I had already evolved. Let us accept two basic assumptions and progress from there. First, Ledger was not lying to us. Since we can so easily check his words, it would not seem reasonable for him to fabricate. Therefore, the robbers did not gain access to the train in the freight yards. Two, the guards on the freight were trustworthy. We shall certainly confirm this, but if they were involved in the theft, no mystery exists."

As Holmes secured his clay pipe from the mantel, I muttered that his assumptions seemed, almost certainly, correct.

"All right," he continued. "The robbery occurred during the trip, in the area of the village of Brent. Considering the speed of the freight and the position of the riflemen guarding it, there was no way the thieves could have gotten on the train save from above."

Holmes' careful investigation of the bridge outside of Brent had alerted me to this and I merely nodded.

"A simple arithmetic calculation proves it. We secured the distance from the parapet of the bridge to the top of the freight car."

"You estimated that at twelve feet."

Holmes continued through a cloud of smoke. "Let us assume two men dropped from the bridge to the train top. It was a moving target and they had to land at just the right spot to shove the smoke bombs into the armored cubicle before the guards recovered their wits and started shooting. They couldn't just jump at the spot they hoped to land. They had to lead their target, as the expression goes."

I must have been regarding Holmes blankly, for he explained further.

"Consider the shot just fired through the window, Watson. The marksman didn't aim at the candle, but above it—to allow for the effect of gravity on the bullet. In a similar manner, the train robbers had to anticipate their leap to the moving freight car."

"A moment," I said with a sudden thought. "The white paint on the forward part of the railroad car."

Holmes exhibited that small-boy look of delight that was reserved for those moments when I chimed in with his thinking. "Exactly. Now we have a formula. The distance they dropped, the rate of descent of a falling object, the speed of the train. I paced off the distance from the paint mark to the rear of the freight car with due consideration for where I thought the robbers landed. My calculations are rough, but I am satisfied that the white line was their signal to leap from the bridge."

"You were looking for something like that since you'd already decided that they had come from above." I made haste to add what was for me a rather inspired bit of reasoning. "Oft-times you have noted that whenever all else proves impossible, what remains must be true. They had to come from above, no other direction being possible."

"Watson, you never fail to amaze me." He was joshing, of course, but I was so enthused that I did not let it faze me until a second thought cast doubts, as second thoughts so often do.

"Your recreation is up to your highest standards, Holmes, but dashed if I see where it has been revealing."

"Don't you? Give it a try, old fellow."

I certainly did and suddenly, somewhat to my surprise, a thought struck me. "Why, of course. Whoever robbed the train had to have access to the freight cars well in advance."

"Right, Watson. Ledger said that Alvidon Chasseur was responsible for the paint mark and, in the rush, it was not completely removed. I inspected it rather closely and don't choose to agree with him."

"One moment," I exclaimed, trying to sort out my mixed up thoughts. "Chasseur had a rectangle painted as a guide to the construction of the armored cubicle . . . then it was decided to alter its position and the mark was partially painted out."

"That's what Ledger said. However, I scraped off some of the white paint. I think the marking was completely painted out."

"Then someone renewed that particular portion to serve as an eye marker for the robbers," I said breathlessly.

My friend nodded. "Again we have evidence of meticulous planning. However, I dwell on the obvious. The robbery succeeded, which speaks well for the ingenuity of its architect if not for his moral code."

Holmes rose from his armchair and walked toward the windows, his chin on his chest. He must have noted my instinctive reaction of alarm, for he reversed his direction and paced in a circle around the center of the room. He had once told me that a coffin would make a superior place to lie in silence and solitude and wrestle with a problem. That was but his mood of the moment, for I knew that many times he liked to think on his feet.

Events did not allow him to wear a furrow in our carpet as he pondered, nor did I expect them to. My friend, no doubt to calm my panic, had made light of our leaden intruder that had come at us from the darkness of the night, but I knew he took it as a personal affront. The thought of counterattack had to be in his mind and I was not surprised when there was the sound of footsteps on the seventeen steps leading to the landing and Billy ushered in the wise-eyed Slim Gilligan, select member of what I chose to call the inside group.

A cloth cap was at a jaunty angle on his head, and an unlit cigarette was tucked behind one ear. A heavy black sweater served as his coat, no surprise since Slim eschewed clothing of a bulky nature because getting in and out of places was his greatest talent. His attire always had a streamlined look, devoid of anything that might catch on a projection or slow him down. His movements had an oily grace and he never seemed rushed, though I knew of only one man who could, when necessary, move faster and that man was not Holmes.

"Evenin', guv. What's on the slate tonight?"

Holmes gestured toward the particles of glass still on the rug by the window. Slim's lips pursed for a brief moment. From him, that was akin to a broad gesture of astonishment from someone else. He cat-footed his way to the window, peering at the shattered pane briefly from the side of the drape as though he knew what he'd find. When he turned back, there was a tightening of his jaw muscles.

"Fired from a distance. Judging from the shards of glass, a smallish bullet, I'd say."

Holmes retrieved the lead slug from the desktop and tossed it to the cracksman, whose unusually long hand swallowed it in midair. He stood turning the lead pellet between his talented fingers for a moment. "Not my line, guv, but I'd say it's foreign make."

"Mauser is my guess," replied Holmes. Those were the first words he'd spoken since the former safecracker had entered the room. With Slim, Holmes seldom had to explain much.

The man's large brown eyes were now on me. "Glad to see you is tip-top, Doc." His jaunty smile was momentary and from habit. His features had a grim quality as he regarded my friend again.

"We can't 'ave this, you know." It was the first time I had actually seen Gilligan angry and one had to look closely to come to that conclusion. He seemed to consider the shot fired at the sacred confines of our dwelling as a personal insult.

"It was a warning, Slim, relative to a matter I'm now involved in," said Holmes soothingly.

Gilligan's manner remained hostile toward persons unknown. "I know you got some ideas, Mr. 'Olmes, but why don't you let Slim take a pass at this?"

Oh dear, I thought, if Holmes allows his number-one lieutenant in the underworld to go unchecked, Limehouse and Soho are due for an uncomfortable time.

"Let's play a different tune, Slim," said the sleuth. "I'll not tolerate Mrs. Hudson or Billy being placed in jeopardy, so Bertie and Tiny are on their way here now."

The muscles in Gilligan's jaw relaxed. The great detective's remark was not the non sequitur it might seem at first glance. He never displayed the slightest concern about his personal safety, but any thought of harm befalling our kindly landlady or loyal page boy filled him with alarm.

Holmes continued. "You might have a word with the boys about what to do and arrange a backup for them."

Gilligan nodded, and I knew the reason for the sudden humor in his eyes. With Burlington Bertie and his brother Tiny on the job, the Coldstream Guards would have a difficult time forcing their way into our domicile.

"Then," said Holmes, "you could take a look around, Slim. It rather had to be a rooftop. The bird has long since flown, but there might be something to find."

"I'll know where to look, guv," was the cracksman's brief reply.

"We want our ears to the ground, and the whisper is gold. Half a million pounds' worth."

Gilligan nodded. "The bullion heist. There's naught in the streets 'bout it save a lot of envious boyos who's wishin' they'd pulled the caper."

"See what you can learn. We'll use the usual contact."

"Righto, guv. Rest easy. Slim's on ta job."

Gilligan was gone. The imagination plays one tricks and mine was stimulated by Slim's reputation as the greatest cracksman of his day, but he never seemed to arrive and depart like normal folk. Rather, he materialized and then vanished in true genie fashion. Whatever his peculiarities, I knew I could enjoy a night's rest without worry. Slim and the boys from Limehouse would throw a net around 221 B Baker Street. Even as exacting a tactician as our former client General Sternways would have been forced to concede that the command post was secure.

Chapter 8

A Message from Shadrach

THE FOLLOWING morning I descended to our sitting room somewhat earlier than usual, spurred no doubt by the new problem that faced the master man-hunter. I had left my friend the night before musing while writing cables that would be sent via Billy the page boy. I doubted that the sleuth had spent the entire night on the matter at hand since, at this point, he had so little to work with.

Holmes was absent, which meant that he had breakfasted early and gone about certain investigations that he wished to pursue alone. Mrs. Hudson informed me that he had left no message, so I decided to brave the outside world myself, there being some matters relative to my practice that required attention.

Visits to the offices of Vernier and Goodbody resulted in certain patient calls that involved more time than I had anticipated. Darkness had fallen when I returned to 221 B Baker Street. A storm was brewing over the great city. Low scud clouds, like celestial dragon boats of ghostly Viking raiders, sailed majestically overhead. Riding in the teeth of a high wind that blew from the direction of Scapa Flow, they were ponderously bypassing London to, no doubt, disgorge their contents on the Cornish coast and Land's End. The air was thick with moisture and I assumed the great metropolis was due for a washing down before the night was over. As I climbed to the door of our first-floor sitting room, it crossed my mind that it was a splendid night to sit by the fire and work on a recent bit of research. It related to the possibility of genetic information being passed from one generation to the next. While the idea had come to me relative to a participant in the Sacred Sword matter, I had clung to it as a possible explanation for some of the amazing abilities of Sherlock Holmes.

When I opened our hall door, I found the fire crackling merrily in the hearth. Holmes was seated at the desk, blowing smoke rings at the ceiling. "Ah, Watson, you precede the rain to our chambers."

"Good thing, too," I muttered, placing my medical bag beside the cane rack and shrugging myself out of my greatcoat. "The night gives every indication of being a rouser."

"A good time to be within." Holmes indicated a cable open on the desk. "Especially with material on hand to feed that ravenous mechanism called the mind."

"Quid novi?" I asked, making for the bottles on our sideboard.

Holmes' eyebrows elevated at my root language query. "The news is considerable," he replied. "With our lines in the water, some pedestrian investigation was called for, hence my early departure this morning. I've interviewed two of the railroad guards on the bullion train. Their statements confirmed our thoughts on the matter. They both recall sounds that alerted them."

"The robbers alighting on the boxcar roof."

"Exactly. But before they could make note of anything, the smoke bombs were inside their vantage point and their recollections ceased to be of any use."

"Could the smoke have had a narcotic effect?" I asked suddenly.

Holmes shook his head. "Doubtful. Last night I was attempting to discover what chemical combination might have been used. To no avail, I might add."

"Something else happened then, for you seem well pleased."

"Have I become obvious through the years?" The sleuth indicated the cable I had noted. "A considerable report from our friend John Bennett, constable of Shaw, on the late Ezariah Trelawney."

"Quid pro quo," I said without meaning to.

"My, you are of a scholarly turn this evening," commented Holmes. "A working arrangement between elements of law and order is beneficial, as I'm sure you agree. Bennett has unearthed interesting possibilities." He indicated the letter again. "I'm trying to decipher quid hoc sibi vult." There was a twinkle in his eye and I wished that I had never resorted to the few scraps of Latin patient instructors had pounded into me.

"What does that mean?" I asked registering defeat.

"'What does this mean' is the exact translation, old chap. Bennett's report might mean a lot. When we investigated the death of Ezariah Trelawney, all we knew about his background was his trade, banking."

"Along with the blood feud that played such an important part in the matter."

"Agreed. You do recall that Trelawney's association with the bullion matter decided me on accepting the case?"

"I've wondered about that."

Holmes took a cigarette from the desk container. "I am too much of a pragmatist to dwell on thoughts of a predetermined destiny. However, oft-times fate does enter the picture and I chose to follow its beckoning finger this time."

I placed a whiskey and water on the desk for Holmes and retreated with my own to the armchair beside the fire, my brain awhirl. Despite our long association, I had seldom been able to anticipate his unerring logic, but the years had made me conscious of certain signposts that occasionally pointed me down the right path.

"You think that Trelawney's death is tied up with the bullion matter." I took a sip and then rejected this idea. "But we solved the banker's murder."

"Did we?" questioned Holmes. "We discovered that Vincent Staley attempted to plant the Trelawney murder weapon on Horace Ledbetter. He then attacked Ledbetter and was killed by him. Because of the circumstances, we assumed Staley killed the banker, but that fact was never proven."

"I doubt if it can be now."

"I'm forced to agree with that, Watson. However, Ezariah Trelawney was involved in the shipment of gold to the Credit Lyonnais, so I had Constable Bennett instigate additional inquiries. Trelawney was miserly. As a young man he was with the army in the Crimea." Suddenly the sleuth's keen gaze shifted to the door. Then I heard footfalls on the landing.

"Come in, Billy," said Holmes as there was a gentle knock.

"'Tis Inspector MacDonald, sir," said the page boy from the half-open door.

"Show him up, by all means," replied the detective.

I was amazed at this turn of events. The anticipated storm had broken while Holmes and I had talked and the wind was blowing at near-gale proportions. Wailing gusts served as an eerie chorus for the timpani of rain spattering against the glass of our Baker Street windows.

It was a wet and disheveled Inspector Alec MacDonald who entered our sitting room. As I helped him out of his coat, Holmes stirred up the hearth fire so that it radiated a welcome warmth for the dour Scot. A comfortable chair and an extra tumbler from the sideboard erased MacDonald's scowl, but there was still considerable dissatisfaction on his rough-hewn face as he toasted us both and took a sizeable draft.

Holmes' eyes twinkled as he regarded our visitor. "If we've driven the chill from your bones, old fellow, possibly we can also relieve your inner stress. It is obvious your coming tonight was no idle whim. A troublesome case, perhaps?"

"I wish I was sure," replied the inspector. "'Tis the matter of Ramsey Michael."

At the sideboard, replenishing my drink, I heard Holmes' glass come in contact with the desktop forcibly. As I turned at this unusual sound, I found the sleuth regarding MacDonald intently.

"The so-called art critic," said the sleuth. "What problem involves him?"

"Ah then, you haven't heard. He was shot to death this very evening."

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed involuntarily, though I did not know the man referred to.

Something was bothering Holmes, but his laconic comment was unrevealing. "The gentleman was not popular. Do we face one of those cases devoid of clues?"

"Few needed," said MacDonald somewhat bitterly. "We have one suspect and what looks like an airtight case. And yet there's something about it that doesn't sit comfortable." He glanced at me shamefaced, then centered on Holmes again. "You'll make sport of me for saying it, but the taste isn't right."

Holmes was gazing at the inspector with added respect. "After a lengthy career in the field of criminology, it would be strange indeed if you did not possess a distinct feel for such matters. My congratulations, Mr. Mac. Now do tell us of the affair and what specifically wrinkles your nose with doubt."

MacDonald had a wary look, as if suspecting that he was being twitted, but the great consulting detective was completely serious so the Aberdonian plunged into his tale.

"Michael's body was found by his butler at six this evening in the upstairs study of his home on Belgrave Square. A bullet from an Adams .450 revolver caught him right between the eyes and was lodged in his brain. Death was instantaneous."

"You established the make and caliber of the murder weapon with admirable promptness," commented Holmes.

"And without difficulty, since the gun was on the floor of the room." MacDonald exhibited a sly smile. "Before you ask, we did check the weapon for fingerprints, and there were none."

"None at all, or none that could be identified?"

"The gun had been wiped clean." At a nod from Holmes, the inspector continued. "Besides Michael, there were three other occupants of the house. Herndon, the butler, and his wife, Matilda, who is cook-housekeeper. Also a Miss Vanessa Claremont, who was Michael's ward."

"Something was nagging at me and now I have it," I ventured. "Miss Claremont is a patient of Dr. Vernier. He has spoken to me of her." Inasmuch as the inspector and Holmes were regarding me with considerable interest, I continued. "Miss Claremont is but twenty-three and suffers from pernicious anemia. Vernier has her on a special diet fortified with liver, but the case bothers him. She weighs but seven stone and is a frail reed indeed."

MacDonald had a sour look about his mouth. "I'm told that Michael did not treat the poor thing at all well. Perhaps that has colored my thinking. But let me conclude this strange tale," he said with a sigh.

"Michael was not outside his house the entire day. The mansion itself has a bearing on the case. It contains art objects of considerable value and is something of a fortress. Bars on all the windows and secure locks on stout doors. It was the habit of the household to make sure everything was bolted up come nightfall."

"Shortly after five this time of year." Holmes' eyes were dreamy with thought.

MacDonald nodded in agreement. "It was the sound of the firearm that alarmed the butler, Herndon. He came from the servants' quarters on the run to find Vanessa Claremont on the stairs leading to the upstairs study. She said that she had been in her ground-floor quarters when she heard the shot and had started up instinctively but had become frightened."

"Whereas she might well have fired the gun and started down, for all the butler knew," suggested Holmes.

"Indeed, sir. In any case, Herndon discovered the body and raced downstairs to summon a constable. Rushing by Miss Claremont, he shouted that the master was dead, at which point she fainted. Fortunately there was an officer close by on the Square and he returned with the butler. Herndon and his wife revived Miss Claremont while the constable notified the Yard and there you are."

The inspector leaned back in his chair as if relieved to have gotten the main narrative out of the way. He knew that pertinent questions would be asked.

Holmes was regarding the dancing flames in the hearth fire thoughtfully. "You said there was but one suspect and a seemingly airtight case. Let me see. The house was securely locked about an hour before the fatal shot. I assume that is confirmed by direct testimony?"

MacDonald nodded. "As was the custom, Herndon checked all the doors and windows shortly after five. Miss Claremont confirms this, since she was cleaning downstairs at the time." Since Holmes made no comment, the inspector continued. "Actually, Miss Claremont was little better than a maid in the establishment. She is the niece of Michael's deceased wife, and the art critic took her in because of a proviso in Mrs. Michael's will. But he did not relish the arrangement and made no effort to conceal his feelings."

"No love lost between the two." Holmes resumed his musings. "I assume the shot that alerted the household was the one that killed Michael."

"We had a pathologist on the scene in short order," replied the inspector. "Just as a matter of procedure, since the corpse was still bleeding when the constable got there. He was shot at six for a fact."

"Your prime suspect is obviously the ward, Vanessa Claremont," stated Holmes. "Motive must point the finger of guilt."

"Indeed, sir. Neither Herndon, the butler, nor his wife had reason to wish their master dead. On the other hand, Miss Claremont stands to inherit Michael's estate. If she evades the gallows for his murder, that is." The Scot was shaking his head.

"Miss Claremont had both motive and opportunity. You are still dissatisfied?"

"Aye, sir. 'Tis the feel."

"I agree completely," was Sherlock Holmes' surprising response.

I rose from my chair with a groan. "So it's off to the scene of the crime, is it? I could wish murders would occur during more clement weather."

My confrere chuckled. "Do resume your seat, old fellow, unless you wish to replenish Mr. Mac's glass. I have no intention of going forth on this night. We shall consider the problem in comfortable surroundings."

"Will you, now?" MacDonald seemed ruffled, but his manner mellowed when I forced a refill on him along with a cigar.

"More questions, of course," stated Holmes. "Ramsey Michael went through the motions of being a busy man and he did not stray from his domicile during the day. I assume there were visitors?"

"Three." The inspector referred to his official notebook. "At one in the afternoon Mr. Ezra Hinshaw consulted with Michael about a lecture at the Tate Museum. He transacted his business rapidly and left in short order. At three, a Vicar Bisbee arrived in hopes of securing a donation for a local charity. Whether Michael complied or not I haven't learned, but the vicar is well known in those parts. He is somewhat deaf and quite nearsighted."

"We can rule out Bisbee for obvious reasons," remarked Holmes.

Aside from the vicar's line of work, I could divine no obvious reasons but withheld comment on the matter.

"Around four-thirty, one Cedric Folks visited Michael. Bit of a ne'er-do-well, that one. Orbits 'round the edge of society as a painter of sorts. Attended Sandhurst but left under something of a cloud. Haven't run him down yet but evidently his visit to Michael was connected with the art world. Folks was not expected at the establishment and Herndon was reluctant to admit him. Folks asked the butler to tell his master that he brought a message from Shadrach."

"Now that's interesting," said Holmes. "Sounds a bit like a code. I assume Michael agreed to see the fellow?"

"He instructed the butler to show Folks up to his first-story study. The artist left shortly before five, slamming the front door forcibly. This sound brought the butler into the hall. Michael appeared at the head of the stairs and directed the servant to secure the doors carefully. Herndon told me that Michael appeared angry. It was the last time he saw the art critic alive."

"Did the butler make any other comment about this incident?"

MacDonald's brow furrowed in thought. "Simply that he went through his regular procedure of shooting the bolts on the front door and then checking the windows. Wait a wee bit," the inspector added. "He did say he heard horses' hooves outside and saw Folks' hansom depart."

Holmes rubbed his hands with satisfaction. "Now, as the butler went about his regular task, Michael returned to his upstairs study I assume?"

"Yes, sir. As the butler completed his security tour, Miss Claremont went to her room on the ground floor. She engaged in needlework, but her door was open. She stated that neither Herndon nor his wife came from the servant quarters before the shot was fired. Because of the layout of the house, they would have had to pass her door."

I was intrigued by this. "The prime suspect gives the servants a foolproof alibi. She might better have kept silent on the matter."

"Incontestable alibis arouse my suspicions," remarked Holmes. "But it is no matter since I have learned what I wish to know. Gentlemen, a prima facie case for your consideration."

The very manner in which he leaned back in his chair told the story. The calm theorist of Baker Street was ready with another tour de force.

"Daily study of the journals makes one privy to seemingly odd incidents which prove helpful in solving puzzles. Cedric Folks is attempting a career in art and had a showing recently. In covering the event, Michael stated in print that the painter was obviously trying to emulate the French Impressionist Pissarro, but that his paintings created naught but a false impression. This acid critique elicited much ribald laughter in art circles, and Folks, I must assume, became livid with rage. Recall his stormy departure from the presence of the art critic. You did mention that he slammed the outer door loudly."

The Scot, his eyes intent on Holmes, nodded briefly.

"Now, Mr. Mac, regarding the upstairs study where Michael met his end. It is sizeable?"

"More than thirty feet in length."

"And the door to the study is adjacent to the staircase?"

"How did you know that?"

"To fit my reconstruction, it had to be."

I thought my friend's smile was somewhat smug but quelled the thought, being on tenterhooks for the denouement.

Holmes resumed his summation. "Three members of the household, not counting the corpse, and three visitors during the day. The man from the museum and the vicar can be ruled out, surely, for complete lack of motive, not to mention means. But Cedric Folks, the irate artist, had motive. Of the others, the servants are given an alibi by Vanessa Claremont. She had motive. They did not. Miss Claremont has an alibi."

"If she does, I canna see it."

"Come now! A frail young woman shoots Michael with a .450 Adams revolver? I doubt she could even manage the trigger pull of such a heavy-caliber weapon. But to expect her to fire it with the accuracy of a marksman over a distance of thirty feet is asking the impossible."

"Could she not have been close to Michael when she shot him?" MacDonald was far from convinced.

"Had Miss Claremont been near the victim, the bullet would have torn through his head. You said it was lodged in his brain. Come, come, Inspector; we are speaking of a heavy piece of ordinance with high muzzle velocity."

MacDonald shot me a sheepish look. "He's right, you know," was his grudging admission.

"He usually is," I replied.

"I ruled out your prime suspect promptly," continued Holmes. "When Cedric Folks rushed down the stairs shortly before five, he opened the front door and then slammed it shut without his leaving the house. Instead, he concealed himself within. Behind a convenient sofa, perhaps. The butler, thinking he had left, locked up the house. Outside there was the sound of the departing hansom. When the time seemed right, Folks stole up the stairs, opened the door to the study and, as Michael turned at the sound, he fired from the doorway. He did attend Sandhurst, you said. I'll wager you will learn that he is an excellent shot. Wiping the gun clean, he threw it into the murder room and raced down the stairs to hide below. The body was discovered, the butler rushed outside, and Miss Claremont fainted. At this point Folks escaped from the house unnoticed, though he might have done so later, when the constable arrived and all attention was directed to the first-floor study, where the victim's body lay. There's your case for you, MacDonald, all tied up neatly." The detective directed a smile at me. "And the resolution did not require Watson's braving the elements after all."

The inspector was shaking his head. "I've a thought that I'm going to look like a fool, but there's one wee matter, Mr. Holmes. If Folks did not leave the house around five, how was it that the hansom that brought him departed?"