The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

The North Walk Mystery

Violent murder will always excite both horror and fascination in the public mind. When the victim of the crime is a well-known public figure, the case becomes a sensation and leaves little space in the newspapers of the day for any other subject. Such was the mysterious death of Sir Gilbert Cheshire Q.C., senior bencher of the Inner Temple and the most eminent criminal lawyer of his day. But the matter never came to trial and those involved were reluctant to discuss it, so that despite the many newspaper columns devoted to it at the time, and the countless number of articles written since, there are some facts in connection with the case which have never been fully reported and I have even seen it described as an ‘unsolved mystery’. Having been privileged to be present during the investigation of the crime, I can state categorically that this description is false and it is my hope that the following account will clear the matter up once and for all.

It was a dark evening, late in the year. The morning had provided a brief glimpse of watery sunshine, but the weather had taken a turn for the worse about lunch-time and a dense fog had rolled across the city, filling every street and alley-way with its thick, greasy coils. I was glad on such an evening to be in the warm seclusion of our sitting-room, where a fire blazed merrily in the grate.

Sherlock Holmes had been seated at the table for several hours, occupied in pasting newspaper extracts into his commonplace books and carefully cross-indexing each entry. Eventually, as the clock was striking nine, he put down his pasting-brush with a weary sigh, stood up from the table and stretched himself.

‘So,’ said he after a moment, turning to me, as he rubbed his hands together before the fire; ‘you have seen your friend, Anstruther, and he has told you that he is postponing his holiday until the spring.’

‘He hopes for better weather then,’ I replied. ‘But I do not recall mentioning the matter to you, Holmes.’

‘Indeed you did not, Watson, but it is clear, nonetheless.’

‘I cannot imagine how that can be, for he only informed me of his decision this afternoon – unless, of course, you heard it from someone else.’

Holmes chuckled. ‘I have not left these rooms all day,’ said he. ‘Fortunately, the materials for a simple little deduction lie conveniently upon the table by your elbow.’

I glanced at the table. An empty glass, a saucer, my pipe and a book I had been reading were all I could see there. My face must have betrayed the puzzlement I felt, for my friend chuckled anew.

‘In the saucer is the end of a cigar,’ said he, ‘and by the side of it lies your old copy of Clarendon’s History of the Great Rebellion. To anyone familiar with your habits, the inference is plain.’

‘I cannot see it.’

‘No? You went out at lunch-time and returned a while later, smoking a Havana cigar. You do not generally permit yourself such extravagance, save on your visits to the American Bar at the Criterion, and you do not frequent the Criterion these days, save to meet your friend, Anstruther. I therefore feel on reasonably safe ground in inferring that such was your occupation this lunch-time. You mentioned to me some time ago that he had received an invitation to stay with relations of his near Hastings, either later this month, or in the spring, and you had agreed that, in that event, you would attend to his medical duties for a week, as you did for a few days earlier this year. Today is the twenty-sixth: the last week-end of the month is almost upon us and thus the last likely opportunity for Anstruther to begin his holiday. When you returned today, however, you gave no sign of any impending change in your circumstances, nor of any preparations for imminent medical duties. Unlike the previous occasion when Anstruther called upon your professional assistance, you did not immerse yourself in your old medical text-books, but in your old friend, Clarendon, in whose company you proceeded to fall asleep. I could only conclude, then, that your assistance was not, for the present, required and that Anstruther had postponed his visit to the Sussex coast until the spring.’

‘How perfectly obvious!’ said I. ‘I believe I was still half asleep when you spoke to me, Holmes; otherwise I am sure I should not have found your remark so surprising.’

‘No doubt,’ said he, sounding a little irritated. ‘If so, you are not alone. One might suppose the whole of London to be half asleep, so few have been the calls upon my time in recent days! It is certainly a dull, stale and unprofitable life we lead at present!’ He stepped to the window and drew aside the curtain. Filthy brown drops glistened on the outside of the window-pane. ‘See, Watson, how the fog creeps about the houses and smothers the street lamps! What opportunity for criminal pursuits such conditions present! What a lack-lustre crew our modern criminals must be if they fail to take advantage of it!’

‘I doubt if your professional appreciation of the opportunities would be shared by many of your fellow-citizens!’ I had responded with a chuckle, when he held up his hand.

‘Here is someone, and in a tearing hurry, too,’ said he sharply, as the muffled clatter of hooves came to my ears. ‘Perhaps our services will be required at last. Yes, by George!’ he cried, as the cab rattled to a halt outside our door. ‘But, wait! The cab is empty! Ah, the jarvey himself springs down, with a letter in his hand! Your boots and your heaviest overcoat, Watson! Unless I am much mistaken, villainy has at last shaken off its torpor and walks abroad in the fog!’

There came a sharp ring at the door-bell as he spoke and moments later the landlady brought in a letter addressed to Sherlock Holmes. He tore open the buff envelope, glanced at the single sheet it had contained, then passed it to me and I read the following:

‘No reply, Mrs Hudson,’ said Holmes in response to the landlady’s query. ‘We shall take the cab which brought the note.’

A moment later we were ready to leave, when my friend abruptly stopped in the open doorway of our room and stepped back quickly to the long shelf which held the reference volumes he had compiled over the years. He took a volume from the shelf, thumbed through it for a few moments, then tossed it aside and took down another. He turned the pages over rapidly, until with a cry of satisfaction he brought the book across to show me.

‘Look at this, Watson! It is as I thought!’ said he, pointing to a yellowing paragraph cut from the Standard and dated ten years previously. It was headed ‘EMINENT BENCHER MURDERED IN TEMPLE’ and ran as follows:

The murder of Sir John Hawkesworth Q.C., upon the evening before last, at the North Walk Chambers, Inner Temple, seems likely to prove as perplexing as it is shocking. Sir John, one of the most senior benchers of the Inner Temple, and a man as personally popular as he was professionally respected, was bludgeoned to death upon his own doorstep, by an unknown assailant. His door-key was still in his grasp and it is conjectured that he was on the point of entering his chambers when the assault took place, which perhaps indicates that the assailant had been waiting there for him to return. This would increase the likelihood of the criminal’s presence having been witnessed, were it not that the recent very foggy conditions have made it difficult for anyone to see even those who wish to be seen. Who the assailant is, and what the motive for such a terrible crime might be, no one can suggest; and we can only hope that some clue to the matter will quickly be discovered.

‘In fact, nothing ever was discovered,’ Holmes remarked as I finished reading, ‘and the case remains open to this day. It was before my own practice was established, but I recall it very well.’

Beneath the extract from the Standard was a second item, cut from the Pall Mall Gazette of the following evening:

A correspondent, Dr J. Gibbon of South Norwood, writes to inform us that the spot upon which the shocking murder of Sir John Hawkesworth took place has witnessed once before the spilling of blood. Almost six hundred years ago, on a similarly foggy night in 1285, when the property was still in the hands of the Knights Templar from whom the area takes its name, one Edmund of Essex was found fatally stabbed in the North Walk. Officially, the crime remained a mystery and the spot upon which it occurred was said to have been cursed since ancient times; although most modern authorities concur in regarding the Grand Commander of the Order himself as responsible for at least instigating, if not indeed perpetrating the terrible deed, it being common knowledge at the time that the two men had quarrelled. It was the increasing frequency of such scandals which led to a decline in the reputation of the Knights Templar and, eventually, to the suppression of the Order altogether, less than thirty years later.

‘The North Walk of the Inner Temple certainly has a sinister history,’ said Holmes; ‘and now Stoddard reports another ‘‘savage and puzzling crime’’ there! Come! Let us waste no more time!’

In a moment we were in the hansom and rattling through the fog.

‘You remember Inspector Stoddard?’ queried my friend, as we passed down Regent Street.

I nodded. Stoddard was one of the senior detectives of the City Police.

‘I have been able to help him once or twice recently,’ continued Holmes, ‘and he promised, in return, to keep me informed of any interesting case which came his way. This must be a serious matter indeed, for him to call us out at this hour and on such a night!’

In the Strand, Holmes called instructions to the driver and we drew to a halt opposite the entrance to a narrow lane. Some distance ahead of us, a police-constable stood on duty by a gateway and before him, motionless upon the pavement, was a large group of people, forming a strange tableau in the drifting fog.

‘It is murder, by the size of the crowd,’ remarked Holmes as we stepped from the cab. ‘Come, let us slip in this way.’

I followed him down the dark, dripping lane, where the muffled ring of our feet upon the wet cobbles was the only sound to be heard. Our route took us by narrow alleys, round abrupt and unlit corners, and through small, hidden courtyards. The fog was even denser here than elsewhere and quite a degree colder, as it rolled across the Temple Gardens from the river and brought the chill reek of the Thames to our nostrils. We could see scarcely five paces ahead of us, but Holmes pressed forward without pause through the murk and I hurried after him. Though I knew we were passing among the jumble of old brick buildings which make up this ancient lawyers’ quarter, so dense was the fog, that save for the occasional fitful glimmer of a lamp in an upstairs window, I could make out nothing at all of our surroundings.

Abruptly Holmes turned to the left, into a narrow alley-way between two tall buildings. On the right, a door stood open wide, casting a bright rectangle of light across the dark alley.

‘The North Walk,’ remarked my companion.

Just inside the brightly lit doorway stood a tall, thin man with black hair and moustache, whom I recognised as Inspector Stoddard. He was in conversation with a rough-looking man of medium build, with close-cropped ginger hair and beard. The policeman stepped forward as we approached and greeted us warmly.

‘I am very glad you were able to come,’ said he, in an agitated voice. ‘Sir Gilbert Cheshire has been murdered. This is Mr Thomas Mason, the gate-keeper of the Fleet Street Gate,’ he continued, indicating the man by his side, ‘who first brought news of the tragedy to the police station. He was also one of the last people to see Sir Gilbert alive in his chambers, when he brought in some coal at about twenty to seven; although Sir Gilbert was seen later by several of his colleagues in the dining-hall, where he dined as usual between seven and eight.’

‘The attack occurred on his return from dinner, then?’ queried Holmes.

‘Exactly. I can give you the essential details in a few sentences, Mr Holmes. That will be all for the present, Mason. I’ll call you if we have any further questions. Poor fellow!’ Stoddard remarked, when Mason had vanished into the fog. ‘He is terribly affected by what has happened.’

‘He appears an unlikely character to find in this quarter,’ observed Holmes.

‘There is a story there,’ Stoddard responded as he led us into the building. ‘He was once on trial himself, about fifteen years ago, accused of murdering his wife. He might have found himself on the gallows, but Gilbert Cheshire was the defence counsel and got him acquitted. Since then he’s been as devoted as a dog to him. It was Sir Gilbert who found him the fairly undemanding post of gate-keeper and general factotum, about eight years ago, when he was down on his luck.’

We followed the policeman into a room on the left of the hallway. All the lamps were lit and revealed a shocking scene. In the centre of the square, book-lined room was a large desk, and behind this, in a chair, was the lifeless body of a large, broad-chested man. His head was tilted back, so that his thick, wiry black beard thrust upwards and his eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. On the left side of his neck was a savage wound, which appeared to have bled profusely, and the front of his garments were thick with blood, which was still wet and glistened in the glare of the lamps. The surface of the desk was strewn with bundles of papers, tied up with red tape. Lying amongst them was a large, brass-bound cash-box, its lid hanging open. Beyond the desk, two uniformed policemen were examining the floor by the fireplace.

Stoddard consulted his note-book. ‘As you’re probably aware,’ he began, ‘King’s Bench Walk, where many of the barristers of the Inner Temple have their chambers, is just round the corner. This is the only set of chambers with its entrance on this side. Sir Gilbert Cheshire has been head of chambers for ten years, since the death of the previous head. He has two junior colleagues here and two clerks – I have already sent messages to them all. The other two barristers share the office directly across the corridor from this one, the clerks’ office is along the corridor to the rear. Upstairs, there are two rooms, Sir Gilbert’s private study and his bedroom, for these chambers were also his residence.

‘As far as I have been able to learn, the others all left for home at the usual time, after which Sir Gilbert was working here alone. He went over to the dining-hall as usual, at about ten to seven – dinner is at seven – but did not linger over his brandy and cigar, as was his habit, but excused himself on grounds of work as soon as the plates were cleared from the table and was back here by eight o’clock. At around quarter past eight, a barrister by the name of Philip Ormerod, who has chambers in King’s Bench Walk, was passing the end of the alley outside – the North Walk – on his way to Fleet Street, to get a cab home, when he saw the door standing open and light streaming out. Moments before that, he had heard the sound of running footsteps in the fog, somewhere ahead of him. Concerned that something might be amiss, he had a look in and saw it as you see it now. In a few moments, he had run to the Fleet Street gatehouse, which is only a short distance, and sent the gate-keeper round to Bridewell Place Police Station to get a constable. They communicated with Snow Hill Station, where I happened to be, and I was here within fifteen minutes.’

‘There is no sign of a forced entry at the front door,’ remarked Holmes.

The policeman nodded. ‘It seems probable that the murderer rang at the bell and was admitted by Sir Gilbert himself. The chambers would, of course, have been locked up while he was away at the dining-hall. The only people with a front-door key, other than Sir Gilbert himself, are the two other barristers, the chief clerk and the gate-keeper, who is responsible for attending to the fires and the like. There is much of value here and, of course, many of these papers are of the most confidential nature.’

‘From your information it appears that Sir Gilbert was attacked very soon after his return from the dining-hall,’ remarked Holmes. ‘It is possible that someone was waiting for him outside these chambers and entered at the same time as he did. Was he quite dead when this man Ormerod found him?’

Stoddard hesitated before replying. ‘May I enquire, Mr Holmes, if you recall the Hawkesworth case?’ he responded at length, an odd expression on his face.

‘Very clearly.’

‘Then you will understand,’ said Stoddard, ‘that Sir John Hawkesworth, who was Sir Gilbert Cheshire’s immediate predecessor as head of these chambers, was also murdered. He was bludgeoned to death on just such a night as this, exactly ten years ago. He was attacked as he stood on the front-door step of these very chambers. His assailant was never discovered. I was a young officer at the time and was not directly involved with the case, but of course I knew all about it, for it was the single topic of conversation for some considerable time. There was much talk then, in certain parts of the press, of an ancient curse which was said to lie upon this part of the Inner Temple and of how a man murdered many centuries ago returned from time to time to exact vengeance for his own death. Now, I’m not, as you know, much taken with such stories generally, but it is not the sort of thing you forget. I suppose I have not thought about it now for seven or eight years, but this business tonight has brought it afresh to my mind.’

‘I am aware of the story,’ said Holmes, a trace of impatience in his voice, ‘and was struck by the fact that little had been heard of it before Sir John Hawkesworth’s murder. I do not think we should permit our thoughts to become confused by ancient history, Stoddard.’

‘Of course not, Mr Holmes,’ the policeman returned, ‘but I thought I had best mention the matter to you. In most ways this appears a brutal but unremarkable crime and I should not have sent for you were it not that it has a couple of unusual features. The eminence of the victim, for one thing—’

‘The victim’s station in life is not in itself of any interest to me,’ interrupted Holmes. ‘What was the other unusual feature?’

‘When Mr Ormerod entered these chambers and discovered what had happened,’ Stoddard explained, ‘he thought at first that Sir Gilbert Cheshire was dead. But as he mastered his horror, he heard a slight murmur escape the poor man’s lips. He raised Sir Gilbert’s head a little and bent closer to listen. He says that Sir Gilbert coughed and spluttered a little, then murmured “It was he—” followed by more coughing and attempts to speak, then “—Sir John Hawkesworth.” A moment later, all life had passed from him.’

Stoddard pursed his lips and regarded Holmes with a querying look, as if wondering what the other would make of this strange information.

‘What a very singular pronouncement!’ said Holmes at length. ‘Is Mr Ormerod absolutely certain on the point?’

‘He says he would take his oath on the matter.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘I sent him home in a cab. He was very badly shaken up, as you can imagine. I have his address – Montpelier Square, in Knightsbridge – if we need to speak to him again.’

Holmes nodded. ‘You are not aware of any other Hawkesworth?’ he queried. ‘No brother or cousin of the late Sir John, who might bear the same name?’

‘None but the man murdered ten years ago. His nephew, oddly enough, is a member of these same chambers, but his name is not Hawkesworth, but Lewis. He is the son of Sir John Hawkesworth’s sister, who married Sir George Lewis, the well-known society solicitor. He is here now, in the other office.’

Holmes’s features expressed surprise.

‘He must have answered your summons with great dispatch,’ he remarked.

‘I had no need to summon him, Mr Holmes. He was here before we were. Just after Sir Gilbert breathed his last, but before Ormerod had left the room to summon help, in walked Mr Lewis through the front door of the chambers.’

‘I understood that everyone had left some hours previously,’ said Holmes. ‘What is his explanation for his reappearance?’

‘He left just before six o’clock,’ said Stoddard, ‘had a bite to eat in a tavern in Fleet Street and set out on foot to pay a call on a friend of his who lives at Brixton. This friend turned out not to be at home, however, so Lewis walked all the way back to town again and was on his way back to his lodgings in Bedford Place, near Bloomsbury Square, when he passed this way and saw the door open.’

‘It is a dreary evening on which to undertake such long walks,’ remarked Holmes. ‘He might have saved himself trouble by taking a train back from Brixton to, say, Ludgate Hill station, and arrived back in town somewhat earlier.’

‘He says he felt in need of physical exercise. Do you wish to speak to him now, Mr Holmes?’

‘His testimony will keep for a few moments,’ returned Holmes. ‘I should prefer to have a look round while evidence of the crime is still fresh.’

He took off his overcoat, laid it carefully over the back of a chair and began a methodical examination of the fatal chamber. For some time, he examined closely the dead man, the desk and the chairs, then squatted down to examine the carpet. After a few minutes, he rose to his feet and stood a moment, his chin in his hand.

‘The artery has been severed,’ he remarked at length. ‘There are two chairs behind the desk, the second of which was moved to its present position beside that of the dead man from its usual place at the far side of the room. There is one clear impression of a footprint and traces of several others, not so complete. As they all appear to have been made after a copious amount of blood had flowed, they were probably made by Mr Ormerod. As he has now gone home, however, and taken his shoes with him, we are unable to confirm the matter.’

Stoddard conceded the point in an apologetic tone. ‘I had thought we had learnt all we could from Mr Ormerod,’ he said. ‘It is fairly certain they are his prints, though,’ he added. ‘As I see it, the assailant was probably on the far side of the desk from Sir Gilbert and leaned across it to stab him. From the position of the wound, it is clear he is right-handed.’

Holmes did not reply at once, but regarded the dead man and his desk in silence for a minute, as if picturing to himself what had occurred earlier. Then he came round to the front of the desk. ‘And yet,’ said he, ‘the desk is a broad one, from front to back. I am not convinced that an average man could reach across it sufficiently to inflict the wound.’ He picked up a pencil from a tray on top of the desk, then leaned across the desk-top and attempted to touch the side of the dead man’s head with it, but fell short by a good nine inches. ‘Unless you are prepared to put out the description of a seven-foot giant, or a man whose arms are four feet long,’ he remarked, ‘I think we must reject the theory.’

‘But the dead man’s chair is now pushed back a little from the desk,’ Stoddard persisted. ‘It is also the sort of chair which turns on its base and he has turned it so that he is sideways on to the desk. If it were tight up to the desk, and facing forwards, you might be able to reach him.’

‘The chair may have swivelled round as he was attacked,’ Holmes returned, ‘but it was not pushed back then, or since, for there is blood all around the foot of the chair legs, but none beneath them. The base of the chair has not moved since before the attack took place.’

‘What do you suggest, then?’

‘That the assailant was on the same side of the desk as his victim.

What is this cash-box, I wonder? Hum! Two or three drops of blood inside, so it was open before the attack took place. Nothing in it now but a few cheques, made out to Sir Gilbert Cheshire.’

‘All the money has gone,’ said Stoddard. ‘That is evidently the motive for the crime. This is the account-book which relates to the cash-box,’ he continued, lifting a ledger from the desk. ‘I found it in the clerks’ office.’

‘The last entry in the book indicates a credit balance of eighteen pounds, twelve and seven,’ said Holmes, ‘so that is the amount which should be in the box. Hum! It does not seem a very large sum for which to commit murder.’

‘I have known murder committed for less.’

‘That is true. Let us now examine the corridor outside.’

We followed Holmes out into the hallway, where he crouched down and examined the floor closely. A long strip of coconut matting was laid along the length of the corridor. After a moment, he took out his lens and examined a dark smudge more closely.

‘It is blood,’ said he; ‘no doubt left by the passage of Mr Ormerod’s shoe. There is little else visible on this coarse matting. Halloa! What is this?’ Carefully, he picked up a small object which had lain on the bare floor, just to the left of the matting, almost tucked under the edge. He held it out on the palm of his hand and I saw that it was the charred stump of a match.

Stoddard had bent down with interest as Holmes had spoken, but now he straightened up, an expression of disappointment on his features. ‘Someone has used it to light the gas,’ said he in a dismissive tone.

‘But there is no gas-jet near this spot,’ returned Holmes, his eyes darting round the walls of the corridor. ‘There is one near the front door and one at the very back, just outside the door to the clerks’ office, but not just here.’ He turned his attention to the floor once more, his nose scarcely an inch above the matting, as he moved from side to side, like a dog casting about for a scent. In a moment he uttered a low cry of triumph.

‘What is it, Holmes?’ I queried, leaning forward to see what had aroused his interest.

In answer, he pointed with his long thin forefinger to a small, circular greasy mark on the matting, perhaps three-quarters of an inch across.

‘Oh, it’s just an old smear of tallow, dropped from a candle,’ said Stoddard dismissively.

‘On the contrary,’ said Holmes in a severe tone; ‘it is a very fresh smear. See how it shines in the light!’ He took out his lens again and bent very low to the floor. ‘There is not the slightest trace of dust upon its surface. In this foul weather and with the fires smoking away all day,’ he continued, gently passing his finger over the surface of the tallow, ‘this splash could not remain in this state for more than a couple of hours.’

‘You may be right,’ said Stoddard without interest. ‘I think I shall see how my men are getting on.’

Holmes did not reply, but continued his careful examination of the corridor, for all the world like some gaunt bloodhound on the trail. A few feet further on, he stopped once more, his brow furrowed with intense concentration and called me over.

‘Look at this, Watson,’ said he. ‘The candle has dripped again. See how the shape is different.’

‘It is more oval than the previous mark,’ I observed, crouching down.

‘Precisely. What does that tell us?’

‘That the candle from which it fell was moving,’ I suggested.

‘Precisely, the long axis of the splash giving the direction of travel. At the first mark, the candle had just been lit and was stationary. At this point, however, whoever was holding it was moving along the corridor, towards the rear of the chambers.’ He crawled a little further along the corridor, to the point at which a carpeted flight of stairs led off to the left. ‘See if you can find any tallow on the staircase,’ said he; ‘I shall carry on to the end of the corridor.’

I did as he asked and examined each step carefully. The stair-carpet was dark, with an intricate pattern upon it, which made my task the more difficult, but in a few moments, I had discovered a very small blob upon the fourth stair, near the right-hand edge of the carpet. I called to my companion.

‘There is nothing more to be seen in the corridor,’ said he, as he examined with his lens the drip I had found. ‘Another oval,’ he remarked after a moment, ‘but this time, there is also a tiny pin-head of the same substance towards the back of the step. Here, take a look, Watson! The extra drop indicates that the splash occurred when the candle was being carried up the stair rather than down it, and suggests that it was moving at a slightly faster rate than before. Evidently our friend with the candle went upstairs, so let us follow in his footsteps!’

At the top of the staircase was a narrow, dark landing. Holmes struck a match. Immediately ahead of us was a blank wall, on which hung a large painting depicting a full-rigged man-of-war of Nelson’s day. To left and right were doors, both closed. Beside the left-hand door was a gas-jet, which Holmes lit and turned up. The door to the right was locked, but that on the left opened easily and, as it did so, I saw that the wood of the door-jamb was splintered. Holmes bent down and examined this and the edge of the door.

‘Forced open with a flat metal rod,’ he murmured, ‘the end of which was about an inch across. Another drop of tallow on the floor,’ he continued, pointing to a spot slightly to the right of the doorway. ‘Circular this time, indicating that the candle was motionless.’

‘No doubt the candle was placed upon the floor while the door was being forced open,’ I suggested, but my companion shook his head.

‘It is an isolated little gout and perfectly circular,’ said he, ‘which indicates that it dripped from some height. The candle was still being held.’

We pushed the door wide open and entered.

‘This chamber is evidently the private study to which Stoddard referred,’ Holmes observed, as he struck another match and lit the gas which was immediately behind the door. It was a large room, perhaps fifteen feet across from the doorway to the wall opposite, but nearer twenty-five feet from right to left. To the right, by the fireplace, stood tall bookcases and, to the left, a number of tables, cupboards and bureaux. Holmes lit a lamp which stood upon a small writing-table and made a circuit of the chamber with the lamp in his hand, eventually stopping before a large, double-fronted cupboard.

‘These doors have been forced, too,’ said he, ‘with the same implement as before; and on the floor to the right is another little gout of tallow.’ Carefully, he opened the cupboard-doors. The interior consisted entirely of narrow shelves, all stuffed tight with papers. ‘There does not appear to be anything of value in here,’ he remarked, ‘and yet our intruder has directed all his energies to this one cupboard – none of the other bureaux shows any sign of his attentions.’

‘There is no obvious sign that anything has been removed,’ I observed. ‘Perhaps the damage to the doors was done some time ago.’

Holmes shook his head. ‘Where the wood by the lock is splintered, the exposed surfaces are pale and freshly revealed. This cupboard was certainly the focus of the intruder’s interest.’ He pulled a few papers from the shelves at random and examined them. ‘Personal documents,’ said he at length; ‘old receipts and accounts, private correspondence, letters from Hoare and Co, the bankers in Fleet Street, all jumbled together. It does not appear that the precise habits of mind for which Sir Gilbert Cheshire’s professional life was noted were applied with such rigour to his personal affairs. These documents are in a very disordered state!’

In this cold-blooded, detached and business-like manner, my companion sifted carefully through the documents for some time. For my own part, I could not but think of the man so recently and hideously murdered in the room below us, and feel a distinct sense of unease at rifling so freely through his private papers.

‘There is nothing of interest here,’ said Holmes at length, ‘and no obvious reason why anyone should be so keen to gain access to this cupboard.’

He pushed back the last bundle of papers and stood in thoughtful silence for several minutes, until there came the sound of a footstep on the stair and a moment later Inspector Stoddard entered the room.

‘Ah! There you are, gentlemen!’ said he. ‘I thought you would wish to know that Mr Oliver Brown, the deputy head of chambers, has now arrived, as has Elijah Smith, the chief clerk. The junior clerk, Peter Russell, will not be coming. He has been ill all week and has spent the past four days in bed, attended by a doctor.’ Stoddard paused a moment, then added in a lower tone: ‘I must also tell you that there has been another odd development. Mr Justice Nellington has just called in with some surprising information.’

‘Nellington the High Court judge?’

‘Indeed, Mr Holmes. He says that he was passing these chambers at about five past eight and heard raised voices. He paused for a moment and as he did so he heard a loud voice say “I have returned!”’

‘Nothing else?’

‘He says he is a little hard of hearing and, besides, he did not linger, as he was already late for an appointment at Lord Justice Beningfield’s lodgings, in Mitre Court. He has been there all evening and heard only a short while ago of the tragedy which has occurred here.’

‘How very curious!’ said I, as my friend shook his head, his brow furrowed with thought.

‘Yes – if one can credit it,’ remarked the policeman, in a doubtful tone. ‘Might I enquire what has brought you up here, gentlemen?’

Holmes described briefly the trail of tallow, and the forced doors to which it had led us, and Stoddard nodded his head.

‘That’s one for you, Mr Holmes!’ said he. ‘I had had a glance up the staircase of course, but did not notice the damaged door, and so did not believe that the intruder had ever been up here. Still, the fact that someone has been rooting around for anything he might find accords with what I had already decided about the matter.’

‘Which is?’

‘That the assault was made by some low ruffian on the prowl in the fog, who just chanced to pick on these chambers, perhaps because he saw Sir Gilbert entering. No doubt Sir Gilbert offered resistance and received the fatal wound in the struggle. Between you and me, gentlemen, unless we’re fortunate enough to light upon some tell-tale clue, which I doubt, or hear something from one of our informers, I don’t think we have much chance of ever bringing the crime home. These random burglaries are the very devil to solve!’

‘My view of the matter is somewhat different,’ Holmes interrupted in a serious tone. ‘You say that the evidence of the intruder’s presence in this room accords with the view you had already formed. I should have thought it would alter it.’

‘A little, perhaps,’ Stoddard conceded.

‘I should say it alters matters entirely,’ Holmes persisted.

‘The intruder was obviously a cool hand,’ Stoddard began, in a hesitant voice, evidently unsure what the other was driving at, ‘to come up here, ransacking the place, when his victim was lying downstairs!’

Holmes shook his head vehemently.

‘It will not do, Stoddard!’ said he in an emphatic tone. ‘How does your theory explain Sir Gilbert’s dying words, to which you drew my attention, and the words overheard by Mr Justice Nellington?’

‘I mentioned Sir Gilbert’s words to you because they were curious, Mr Holmes, but it is obvious that his mind was wandering in delirium and the words are probably of no significance whatever. As to what Mr Justice Nellington says he overheard, I think it very likely that he was simply mistaken. He himself admitted that his hearing is poor. But what, then, may I ask, is your own view of the matter?’

‘I should prefer to reserve my opinion for a few more minutes,’ replied Holmes. ‘It is an interesting case, Stoddard, with some features which may be unique, and I am grateful that you called us in. It is well worth leaving one’s fireside for! Let us now go down and hear what the other members of the chambers have to say, and then perhaps we can shed some light upon this most unusual mystery.’

The clerks’ office, at the rear of the chambers, contained one large desk in the middle of the room, and a smaller one to the side, with a great number of cupboards and cabinets stacked tightly round the walls. In this room, Holmes and I seated ourselves and a moment later Stoddard entered, accompanied by a tall, portly man, about forty years of age, with thinning hair and a small moustache, whom he introduced as Mr Oliver Brown.

He had left the chambers at about half past six, he informed us, at which time nothing was amiss and there was nothing to indicate that the evening would prove to be at all out of the ordinary. Sir Gilbert Cheshire had been sitting at his desk, reading through a brief, when he bade him good night. No visitors had been expected in the evening, so far as he was aware. After leaving the Temple, he had walked along the Strand to Rule’s restaurant, in Maiden Lane, where he had dined alone, leaving shortly before eight o’clock. He had then walked on towards Charing Cross, where he had picked up a cab in the street and driven directly home to his house in Half Moon Street, off Piccadilly.

Holmes then asked him if Sir Gilbert Cheshire had shown any apprehension of danger recently, but he shook his head at this suggestion.

‘Not at all,’ said he, ‘although any such apprehension might not have been apparent, for Sir Gilbert was not one to display emotion at any time. He was a very close man. I have never known him appear either happy or unhappy. He simply pursued his own unswerving course through life.’

‘You and he were not on terms of personal friendship?’ enquired Holmes after a moment.

‘Our relations were purely professional,’ the other replied, with a shake of the head. ‘I do not believe that Sir Gilbert was ever on terms of personal friendship, as you put it, with anyone. There were a couple of men with whom he would sometimes smoke a cigar after dinner, but that, to the best of my knowledge, was the extent of his social recreation. It was not popularity he desired, but professional success and his desire for that was unbounded. It was for that reason that I was confident, when he assumed the headship of these chambers, ten years ago, that our practice would quickly recover from the tragedy of Sir John Hawkesworth’s death. Sir Gilbert was very highly regarded at that time, professionally speaking, and had always had very great ambitions. It had been apparent to me for years that he greatly desired the headship and also to become a bencher of the Temple. He and Sir John had quarrelled frequently, for it was his opinion, often forcibly expressed, that Sir John was deliberately holding him back, by reserving all the most attractive briefs for himself.’

‘And your opinion?’ queried Holmes.

‘I did not agree, but I kept my thoughts to myself, for I was the junior at the time and my opinion would not have been welcomed. Sir John Hawkesworth was a fine man, as highly regarded for his personal qualities as for his professional excellence. He was always extremely kind and encouraging to me and I cannot believe he would ever have acted meanly to a subordinate. His whole character forbade such a thought. Since his death, however, our chambers have acquired a reputation for grim efficiency. “North Walk Chambers will win your case for you”, people say, “but do not expect to be much cheered by the experience”.’

‘Presumably, you will now become leading counsel in these chambers,’ observed Holmes.

The barrister hesitated a moment before replying. ‘I am not at all sure that I want the position,’ said he at length. ‘There seems a curse upon the place. No man, surely, would be eager to remain upon the scene of such terrible and inexplicable bloodshed?’

‘Did such thoughts ever trouble Sir Gilbert Cheshire?’ queried Holmes.

‘He never once spoke of Sir John’s murder to me,’ replied Brown, ‘and I cannot therefore say what his thoughts upon the matter may have been. As he was such a cold and unemotional man, it may be that he was quite unmoved by thoughts which would have troubled other men.’

Stoddard accompanied Brown back to his office, to fetch the junior barrister, and we sat in silence for some minutes. My friend’s brow was furrowed with thought, and it was clear from the fleeting expressions which chased each other across his features that his swift and agile brain was sifting and re-sifting the evidence, and weighing and re-weighing the facts, to find an arrangement which would balance the scales of probability to his satisfaction.

For myself, I confess that the dark events which had occurred seemed like something from an evil dream and I was still shocked by the horror of the scene in Sir Gilbert Cheshire’s chamber. For such a tragedy to have befallen the North Walk chambers once was a most terrible misfortune, but for such a thing to have occurred a second time seemed incomprehensible. My thoughts were interrupted by a remark from my companion.

‘You realise, of course,’ said he in a quiet voice, ‘that Mr Brown could have left his restaurant at, say, ten to eight, walked back here and murdered Sir Gilbert at five past eight, retraced his steps to the other end of the Strand and picked up a cab there, as he says.’

‘Holmes!’ I cried. ‘You surely cannot be serious!’

‘I merely point out the possibility, Watson. In this fog, much can happen and be observed by no one.’

‘But the empty cash-box? Surely therein lies the motive for this terrible crime?’

‘I think not, Watson. These are deeper waters than was at first apparent.’

Stoddard returned before I could question my companion further, accompanied by a young man of about seven and twenty, introduced to us as Stephen Lewis, junior counsel of the chambers. He was a tall, remarkably thin man, with dark hair and a clean-shaven face, which was as white as paper. It was apparent from the nervousness of his manner and the tremor in his voice as he spoke that he was in a state of some considerable agitation. He took a silver cigarette-case from his pocket as he sat down, extracted a cigarette and lit it.

‘Such a terrible thing to have happened,’ said he after a moment, ‘and to such an eminent and highly respected man.’

‘Indeed,’ responded Holmes in a sympathetic tone. ‘I understand, however, that for all his professional eminence, Sir Gilbert was not an especially popular man.’

‘That can scarcely be denied,’ replied Lewis after a moment’s hesitation, in a cautious tone. ‘He was known by many people, but intimate with none. I know of no one who considered himself a particular friend of his. He conducted his relations with people at arm’s length, so to speak.’

‘Was there, then, anyone who might be considered an enemy?’

‘None that I am aware of. He had occasionally received abuse from criminals whom he had failed to save, but nothing of the sort recently. For several weeks – almost all the Michaelmas term, in fact – we have been appearing for the defence in the Brockwell Heath Case, which finally reached its conclusion on Tuesday, and in which we were completely successful. One might imagine that that would be a cause for celebration, but Sir Gilbert’s mood appeared unaffected. His character was saturnine and dark at the best of times, but recently he had seemed in an even darker mood than usual, and for the past couple of days he had been as limp as a rag and unable to concentrate on the next brief.’

‘Do you know anything of the death of your uncle, Sir John Hawkesworth?’ queried Holmes after a moment.

‘Very little,’ Lewis replied, shaking his head. ‘I was a mere schoolboy when it occurred, away at Rugby. I know no more of it than anyone might who read his newspaper. The accepted theory, I understand, was that Sir John was assaulted by a thief, who had intended to take his door-key and use it to gain entry to these chambers, but who fled upon realising that his attack, intended to incapacitate his victim, had in fact killed him.’

‘And yet, the assault was an exceptionally ferocious one, as I recall,’ remarked Holmes, ‘Sir John being bludgeoned again and again, in a manner suggesting that the assailant intended more than merely to temporarily incapacitate him.’

‘Then it is inexplicable.’

‘You have heard, I take it, that Sir Gilbert’s last words were “It was he – Sir John Hawkesworth”?’

‘Indeed. That, too, is inexplicable.’

‘What, if I may ask, brought you back through the Temple this evening, Mr Lewis? I understand that you were walking back from Brixton, to your lodgings in Bedford Place. But surely a more direct route would have taken you across Waterloo Bridge and up Bow Street?’

‘That is true,’ the other conceded; ‘but, as you correctly perceive, I made a detour. I was disappointed at missing my friend and determined to seek out another, a fellow-barrister, who has chambers in King’s Bench Walk. Alas, he was absent, too. I therefore resigned myself to a solitary evening and set off, finally, for home. But my way from King’s Bench Walk to the Fleet Street gateway brought me past the end of the North Walk, and when I saw the door of our own chambers standing wide open, and the light streaming out of it, I hurried to determine the reason.’

‘You suspected something amiss?’

‘Very definitely. I knew Sir Gilbert to be a most careful man. He would no more leave his front door open at night than he would leave his purse at the foot of Nelson’s Column.’

‘And you can shed no light on what has happened?’

‘None whatever.’

Elijah Smith, the chief clerk, was next shown in. He was a medium-sized man of about fifty, with a pale, clean-shaven face and a nervous manner. He informed us that there were just two keys to the cash-box, one kept by him and the other on Sir Gilbert Cheshire’s watch-chain. He also confirmed that the amount of money missing was as stated in the ledger which Stoddard had shown us.

‘Is there any reason why Sir Gilbert should have been looking in the cash-box this evening?’ enquired Holmes.

‘None whatever, sir. He always left all such matters to me. Every Friday morning I take round to the bank any cheques received during the week and any cash which is surplus to our immediate requirements.’

‘At what time did you last speak to your employer?’

‘Just as I was leaving, sir; shortly after half past five. His manner was exactly as usual.’

‘And you have not seen him since?’

‘No, sir. I ate at home with the family, then went round about seven o’clock to see my brother, who lives a short distance away, in Clerkenwell, and was there until the police-constable called.’

After Smith and Stoddard had left us, Holmes sat a while in silent thought. Then he stood up abruptly, as if having reached a decision, and took a few sheets of blank foolscap from the desk.

‘Come,’ said he. ‘Let us see if we cannot make more definite progress.’

‘Do you see any likelihood of ever apprehending the criminal?’ I asked.

‘I have hopes,’ said he. ‘It rather depends on the statements I shall now take, in the other office.’

In the hallway we met Inspector Stoddard who had just come in through the front door of the chambers.

‘I have had another word with Mason, the gate-keeper,’ said he. ‘He says he remembers now that he saw someone he did not recognise, loitering in King’s Bench Walk at about half past four, just as it was getting dark; but as that way through the Temple is used by all manner of people simply as a short-cut from the Strand to Blackfriars Bridge, he did not think it worth mentioning before.’

‘That is interesting,’ said Holmes. ‘Would you be so good as to ask Mason to step across here, Stoddard?’

The junior barristers’ office was similar in size to Sir Gilbert Cheshire’s, but of a somewhat more cluttered appearance. The fire had been banked up and blazed fiercely in the grate, so that the room was free of the dank, chill atmosphere that pervaded the rest of the chambers. Oliver Brown sat at his desk, a brandy glass in his hand, staring gloomily across the room, and did not look up as we entered. Stephen Lewis was sitting beside the hearth, his head in his hands. The chief clerk, Elijah Smith, was perched on the edge of a chair beside the window, a nervous expression on his face.

‘Do you think that we might be permitted to leave soon?’ Brown enquired of us. ‘It’s getting very late and I can’t think that there is anything more we can tell you.’

‘Very shortly,’ returned my companion. ‘If you would just be so good as to sign a formal statement, as to when you last saw Sir Gilbert Cheshire alive and your subsequent whereabouts this evening.’

Stoddard had entered as he spoke, accompanied by the ginger-haired gate-keeper.

‘There is no need—’ began the policeman, but Holmes interrupted him.

‘As you say, Inspector, there is no need to wait until tomorrow. We may as well get it over with now and then we shall not need to trouble anyone further. You say you left these chambers at half past six,’ he continued, addressing Brown, ‘at which time Sir Gilbert was alive and well, walked to Rule’s, where you passed an hour, and then took a cab home.’

‘That is correct,’ the other replied.

‘Would you mind signing this paper to that effect, then?’ said Holmes, who had scribbled a few lines on one of his sheets of foolscap.

Brown took the sheet from him with a suspicious narrowing of the eyes. ‘I do not understand the purpose of this,’ said he, glancing at what Holmes had written, and making no move to pick up a pen, ‘nor what you suppose its legal status might be.’

‘Its legal status,’ returned Holmes, ‘is simply that it is a statement of the facts, according to you and, as such, you can scarcely object to signing it.’

The other man grunted and, with a show of reluctance, took a pen and signed the paper with a flourish. Holmes then repeated his questions to Lewis, who also signed the paper. He then turned to the chief clerk, scribbled down a couple of lines and passed across the sheet, which Elijah Smith signed slowly and carefully.

‘Now, Mr Mason,’ Holmes continued, turning to the gate-keeper: ‘You last saw Sir Gilbert Cheshire alive at about twenty to seven, I understand.’

‘That’s right; when I brought in some coal and raked the grates out.’

‘And you did not see him again?’

‘No, sir, I didn’t. I met a friend of mine in the Cock, just afore seven, and was there till twenty to eight, when I came home.’

‘Very well. If you will just sign this?’

Mason appended his signature to the few lines which Holmes had written and returned the paper to him. Brown drained his glass, set it down on the desk-top and wiped his moustache.

‘Will that be all?’ said he in a weary voice.

‘We have finished here now,’ said Stoddard. ‘My men can find no clue, so we may as well lock up, Mr Holmes, and let these gentlemen get off home. We can do no more tonight.’

‘I would wish to give you my view of the matter first,’ said Holmes, in a tone which commanded attention.

‘Very well,’ responded the policeman. The others, who had stood up and begun to put on their coats, sat back down again, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and resignation.

‘This brutal and shocking crime,’ began Holmes, ‘appeared at first to be the work of an unknown assailant, someone to whom Sir Gilbert Cheshire had probably opened the door himself and who had then, at the point of his knife, forced Sir Gilbert to open the cash-box, and had, in the course of a struggle, inflicted the wound which killed him.’

‘That must be so,’ observed Brown, nodding.

‘However,’ Holmes continued, ‘our investigation of the premises has revealed a number of features which cast doubt on such an interpretation. In the first place, there is no evidence of a struggle having taken place. In the second, it is apparent that the intruder lit a candle in the hallway and passed upstairs with it, where he forced entry to Sir Gilbert’s private study and broke open a cupboard there, containing personal documents and records.’

There was a murmur of interest at this information and then a silence fell upon the chamber once more, as Holmes continued:

‘Once Sir Gilbert had returned from the dining-hall, all the gas would be lit – as indeed was the case when Mr Ormerod passed and saw the open door – and it would therefore have been perfectly pointless for anyone to have lit a candle. Nor, once the downstairs gas was lit, need the intruder have feared that lighting the upstairs gas-jets would increase the chances of his being detected. It seems clear, then, that the intruder lit his candle when there was no other illumination in the chambers, that is to say, before Sir Gilbert returned from dinner. No doubt he lit a candle in order to keep the light to a minimum and hoped to have finished what he was doing before Sir Gilbert returned. But it follows from this, that he was not admitted to the premises by Sir Gilbert, but admitted himself, there being no one else here at the time. It further follows from this that the intruder had his own key, for the door would certainly have been locked.’

There was an odd stillness in the chamber, as those present absorbed this information. Each must have realised, as did I, that the four men who possessed a key to the North Walk Chambers were all together in the room at that moment.

‘Now,’ continued Holmes, ‘we know that Sir Gilbert left the dining-hall a little earlier than was his habit, in order to return here to work. We may suppose, then, that the intruder, believing himself to have time in hand, was surprised when he heard the unlocking of the front door. He must have extinguished his candle, descended to the ground floor and, in his turn, surprised Sir Gilbert in his office. We do not know what Sir Gilbert’s reaction was, but it is clear that he knew the intruder, for a second chair was moved behind the desk and placed beside his own: it does not seem likely that a stranger, threatening Sir Gilbert with a knife, would have troubled to procure a chair for himself. The two men evidently sat in discussion for some time. The fact that the cash-box was open before the attack took place suggests that money came into this discussion. What happened next we cannot say for certain, but it seems likely that there was a disagreement, as a result of which the intruder inflicted the fatal wound upon Sir Gilbert.

‘The evidence of the wound itself is in my view inconclusive as to whether the assailant was right-handed or left-handed, although I incline to the latter. The evidence of the tallow which dripped from the candle, however, indicates clearly that the man who held it is left-handed. A man may generally carry a candle in the right or left hand with indifference, but if he has work to do – especially work which involves the application of force, such as the bursting open of a door, or a cupboard – he will always pass the candle to his weaker hand. For most people, who are right-handed, this will be the left hand, but tonight’s intruder held the candle in his right hand, while forcing the locks with a metal rod held in his left. He is therefore, beyond a shadow of a doubt, left-handed. Having conducted a little handwriting experiment, I am now in a position to state that there is only one man who both possesses a key to these chambers and who is left-handed.’

As Sherlock Holmes spoke these last words, he turned to Thomas Mason, the gate-keeper, whose face had assumed the colour of putty.

‘It’s a lie!’ cried he in a hoarse voice, springing unsteadily to his feet. ‘I was never in here!’

‘In that case,’ said Holmes, ‘you can have no objection to a search being made of your quarters.’

‘You’ve no right to do that!’ retorted Mason, in a loud, strident voice.

‘We’ll see about that!’ Stoddard interrupted. ‘Thomas Mason: I am arresting you on suspicion of having been involved in the death of Sir Gilbert Cheshire. You will accompany me to your lodgings where a search will be undertaken for evidence.’

The inspector and two constables escorted their prisoner from the chambers, leaving the three others in a dazed state, their features displaying the shock and amazement they clearly felt. Sherlock Holmes lit his pipe and sat smoking in silence for several minutes, his brow furrowed with thought.

‘It may be that the right man has been arrested,’ said Brown at length; ‘but the whole affair is still dark to me. I have a feeling that we do not yet know all that there is to know of the matter. Can you enlighten us any further, Mr Holmes? Do you believe there was any meaning in Sir Gilbert’s dying words, or was the poor fellow simply raving?’

‘Sir Gilbert’s words,’ Holmes replied, ‘as reported by Mr Ormerod, began, if you recall, “It was he”, and ended with “Sir John Hawkesworth”, with a gap of a few moments in between, during which he struggled for breath. I suspect that in those words Sir Gilbert was attempting to name his murderer.’

‘But that is madness!’ cried Brown. ‘Sir John was himself murdered ten years ago.’

‘Quite so. I therefore suggest that a phrase is missing from the sentence, which Sir Gilbert was unable to articulate. The likeliest candidate is something such as “the man that murdered”, so that the whole sentence would be “It was he: the man that murdered Sir John Hawkesworth”.’

‘Good Lord!’ cried Lewis.

‘However,’ continued Holmes, ‘if it was Sir Gilbert’s intention to identify his assailant in this way, it follows that he himself was aware of who had murdered his predecessor. This raises the question as to how he knew this with such certainty and, if he did, why he had never made public his knowledge.’

‘It could be that Mason informed him this very evening that he was the murderer of Sir John,’ I suggested.

‘Yes, that is possible, Watson, but on the whole I incline to the view that Sir Gilbert already knew the truth behind Sir John’s death, had known about it, in fact, for ten years.’

‘I find that suggestion quite incredible,’ said Brown in a tone of disbelief.

‘No doubt,’ said Holmes. ‘Nevertheless, the indications are there. In the first place,’ he continued, in his precise, methodical manner, like a specialist delivering a lecture, ‘it is well known that fifteen years ago, Sir Gilbert secured Mason’s acquittal on a charge of murder. Presumably Mason felt some gratitude for this. But then we hear that, about eight years ago, Sir Gilbert, actuated by sympathy at Mason’s plight, secured him a distinctly undemanding post as gate-keeper here. There seems something wrong with this: Sir Gilbert was not known for any great degree of sympathy; and the favour seems the wrong way about. It is as if there is some link missing from the chain of cause and effect, as we have it at present.’

‘Just what are you suggesting?’ said Brown sharply.

Before Holmes could reply, the door opened and Inspector Stoddard entered. He informed us that the search of Mason’s quarters had revealed a large sharp knife, its blade caked in blood, and a long thin chisel, both wrapped in a blood-stained shirt, and hidden under a sink. An amount of money exactly matching that missing from the cash-box had also been found, in a canvas bag inside a coal-scuttle. Mason had offered no resistance to the search and had shown no surprise when the above articles had been discovered, but had made one surprising request, that he be allowed to make a statement to the gentlemen awaiting his return in the North Walk Chambers.

‘I am sure we should have no objection to that proposal, if you do not,’ said Holmes.

‘Very well, then,’ said Stoddard. ‘I have already cautioned the prisoner that anything which he chooses to say in his statement may be given against him in court.’

The prisoner was brought in then, his wrists manacled together, and, standing before us, made the following voluntary statement. In the interests of clarity, I have made one or two very slight alterations, but otherwise the statement is exactly as Thomas Mason made it to us that night:

‘Yes, I killed Sir Gilbert Cheshire. I see there is no point in denying it now, and I’m not proud of it. But you ought to know that whatever they say about him in the newspapers, and whatever people might think, he weren’t so marvellous, neither.

‘I first met him when I was accused of murdering my wife and he was assigned to defend me. I was in Newgate when he came to see me. “Don’t worry,” says he; “I’ll get you off.” He knew I’d done it, although he never asked me outright. Things was looking black against me and I’d given up thinking about ever getting out; but somehow, in the court, it all came out different. One or two of the witnesses seemed to change their minds about what they were going to say, and Sir Gilbert spoke for such a long time and in such a confusing way, that in the end the jury decided I hadn’t done it after all and I could go free.

‘I was grateful to Sir Gilbert. I didn’t know how he’d done it, but I knew it was him I had to thank for the fact that I wasn’t swinging on the end of a rope. But things wasn’t so rosy with me even if I was free. I was a slater by trade, but now I couldn’t find any work nowhere. The trouble was, a lot of people – all the wife’s relations and half the district – knew that I had done it, really, and they wasn’t likely to employ me, and I couldn’t blame ’em for that. I tried all sorts of different lines, went halfway round the world in a clipper one year, but was still no better off when, about four year on from my trial, I was coming along Carey Street one afternoon, when who should step out of a bookshop in front of me but Sir Gilbert Cheshire.

‘“Hallo, Thomas,” says he, cool as you like. “How are you keeping yourself?”

‘“Not so well as I’d like, sir,” said I. “I haven’t had more than a tanner in my pocket any time in the past four years.”

‘“I’m sorry to hear that, Thomas,” says he, in a thoughtful voice. “You are still grateful for the little favour I did you the other year?” When I said course I was, he says “Then I have a little favour to ask of you in return, Thomas. Be under the Holborn Viaduct at seven o’clock this evening,” says he, “and I’ll tell you what I’d like you to do.” He slipped two bob into my hand then and walked off.

‘When I saw him later, he told me what was in his mind. It seems there was someone standing in his way, professionally speaking, and preventing the light shining on him as he’d like. “If he could be put out of the way for a time,” says Sir Gilbert in that slow cunning way of his, “I might find it convenient. And you might find, Thomas, that there was something in it for you, too.”

‘To make the matter brief: the party’s name was Hawkesworth, Sir Gilbert told me exactly what to do and I done it. He’d given me some money beforehand and told me to lie low for a while afterwards, then come back after a year or so and he’d find me a job. Which I did.

‘That was all ten year ago. Things have been all right since, but I’ve never had much money, and when I asked him, the other week, if he could let me have a bit more, he says I couldn’t have none. Well, I said this and he said that, and it got so we was almost at each other’s throats; and then I said I could stir up plenty of trouble for him if he didn’t do right by me. “Oh? How’s that?” said he in a cool voice; so I told him: I’d saved a note he’d sent to me in connection with the Hawkesworth job, which he’d told me to burn. I’ve always found that when someone tells you to burn something, it generally pays to hang on to it.

‘“That note won’t prove anything,” says he; “I didn’t commit myself in it.”

‘“Perhaps not,” says I, “but it’ll certainly start some rumours off.”

‘“You’ll condemn yourself if you produce that,” says he.

‘“Oh no I won’t, see, ’cause it’s not got my name on it and I’ll send it anonymously to his Honour, the Head of the Bench.”

‘I could see that this had worried him. He bit his lip and thought for a while.

‘“When I saved you from the gallows,” says he in a quiet voice, “some evidence came my way which ended up locked in my private cupboard. If you threaten me, Mason, that evidence will come back out of my cupboard again and you’ll swing for it.”

‘“I know the law,” says I. “I’ve been tried once and found not guilty. I can’t be tried again, whatever you come up with.”

‘At this he laughed. “Dear me!” says he, cackling like a hen. “Dear me, Thomas! You know the law, do you? Well, let me tell you, my man, that I’m the expert, and I tell you that with the evidence I’ve got hidden away, you could be re-charged, with slightly different words on the indictment, and you’d hang as sure as you’re standing here now! If you give me any more trouble, that evidence comes out of my cupboard!” ’

‘That was a lie,’ Brown interrupted. ‘You could not be charged again with the same crime.’

‘Mebbe it was, but it put the wind up me, anyhow. I didn’t say nothing then, but I made my mind up to break into his blessed cupboard one night when he wasn’t there and see if I couldn’t find his precious evidence. I’ve had a bit of a wait for the right time, ’cause the gentlemen have all been working late recently, but tonight looked a fair chance, so in I went. I thought I’d have plenty of time, but – curse my luck – he came back early from his supper and heard me moving about, so I had to go down and face him out. He got a surprise when I walked into his office.

‘“What the devil are you doing here, Mason!” he cried in a loud, unpleasant tone. “I thought I’d seen the last of you for today!”

‘“I have returned,” I shouted back at him, “to find that evidence you’ve got against me.”

‘“What!” says he in an angry voice. “You’ve been in my private rooms? This is the last straw, Mason! It’s time for you and me to part company altogether.”

‘“Give me some money and I’ll go as fast as you like,” says I, as hot as he was.

‘“Very well.” says he; “and then I never want to see you again as long as I live.”

‘He fetched the big cash-box and opened it up with the key on his watch-chain, but there was little enough in it.

‘“I thought there’d be more than this,” says he.

‘“Oh, did you?” says I, thinking he was trying to play a game, with me as the fool. I had my knife out and at his throat before he could move. “You find some more,” says I, “or you won’t leave this room alive.”

‘“You can’t threaten me,” says he, and made a grab at the knife. But quick as he moved, so did I and the knife went straight into his throat. I didn’t mean to do it, but he brought it on himself, and that’s the Gospel truth, if I have to swing for it.’

We all sat in silence as this remarkable and terrible tale ended with these words, and remained in silence after Stoddard had taken his prisoner away. Then Sherlock Holmes stood up, took his hat and coat, and we prepared to leave.

‘Can all this be true?’ said Brown, in a tone of stupefaction.

‘I rather fancy it is,’ said Holmes, ‘and that Sir Gilbert Cheshire learnt too late that he who conceals a serpent within his bosom will at last feel the serpent’s bite himself.’

The following morning’s newspapers had been printed too early to include news of Mason’s arrest, and it was left to the evening papers to apprise their readers of the latest developments. But by then this remarkable case had produced a further surprise, and I remember vividly the shock with which I read the heading in the St James’s Gazette: ‘TEMPLE MURDER: ESCAPE OF CHIEF SUSPECT’. It appeared from the account given beneath this heading that very soon after he had left us the night before, Mason had suddenly broken from the grasp of the policemen who held him, dashed away, and vanished into the dense, swirling fog.

For twenty-four hours he was sought in vain. But late the following night, a police-constable saw a man crossing London Bridge whom he recognised from the description as Mason and gave chase across the bridge. Summoned by the first man’s whistle, a second officer made his way on to the bridge from the Southwark side and Mason, seeing that there was no chance of escape in either direction, threw himself from the parapet of the bridge into the blackness of the river below. The River Police were at once notified and an organised search made, but no trace of the fugitive was discovered.

Three days later, Sherlock Holmes received a letter by the last post which he read and passed to me without comment. It ran as follows: