Читать книгу The Great Detective: His Further Adventures - Marvin Kaye - Страница 6

THE MYSTERY OF OGHAM MANOR, by Stan Trybulski

I had been away from our lodgings for several days, setting up my new surgery on the High Street in Putney, and on my return I found a noticeably thinner and unshaven Holmes packing his small travel valise.

“Aha, my missing colleague. I was about to conclude I would not have the pleasure of your assistance.”

“You are working on a new case, I take it.” I knew that my old friend had been in need of money recently, for he had been spending inordinate sums on matters of which I disapprove so strongly that I am not disposed to discuss them here. That he had been fasting did not disturb me for I was quite used to this manifestation of his periods of intense intellectual activity, but that his cat-like fastidiousness concerning personal hygiene had apparently been abandoned placed me on my guard.

“Yes, one that will be quite lucrative and may also prove to be a professional challenge.” There was a strange glow in his eyes and I feared he had slipped back into the grip of the demons that once had so fearfully possessed him before he underwent what his brother Mycroft called “the cure.”

I sat down in my wing chair and studied him carefully as he continued packing. There had been a time in his career, and not so long ago, that only the challenge to his superb intellect would have mattered. I decided not to chide him and sensing the opportunity for another good story that I could submit to a new American magazine, I only said, “Well, are you going to tell me about it?”

“I have been retained by the Anglo-Hibernian Life Assurance Company, Ltd., of Galway, Ireland, to ascertain if the shooting accident of a businessman Ethelbert Wolkner on his Dorset estate three days ago was an accident or suicide.”

“This doesn’t seem to be your type of case; it should be a simple forensic decision by the local coroner.”

My good friend snapped his valise shut. “Ah, yes, a forensic decision to be sure. But simple? That, I am afraid, will be quite another matter. For only last month, Anglo-Hibernian insured the life of the late Mr. Wolkner for the tidy sum of £75,000. A sum they are not anxious to pay out if they can avoid it.” He stared at me, his eyes almost feverish. “You had better get packing, Watson; with your knowledge of gunshot wounds from your Army days in the Hindu Kush, I am sure you may be able to render valuable assistance to the dear country doctor. And to my clients, of course.”

“How on earth did this Irish insurance company come to retain you?” As I asked this question, my eyes drifted around the room but stopped when they fell on two empty cut glass tumblers resting on Holmes’ laboratory table. The glasses contained a small residue of brown liquid on their interiors and next to them stood a nearly full bottle of Jameson’s whiskey.

Holmes smiled. “Very observant, old chum. Yes, I have had company and not long ago. Perhaps your packing can wait a bit. Sit down and rest while I tell you a little story.” He walked over to the table and poured some of the whiskey into the glasses and handed me one. I sat in my favorite wingback chair and waited.

My colleague sat opposite me and raised his glass in salute. “You have been as good a companion as any man could ask for. Both trusted colleague and friend. So let us first drink together.” He quickly swallowed the whiskey in his glass while I sipped mine. I waited while he refilled his glass.

He took another large swallow and stared at me, his eyes still feverish. “I have been mysterious for good reasons about the years I spent in hiding after my confrontation with Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls, but I can tell you this much, that I spent several of those years near Galway, on the tiny island of Inis Oírr, studying the Erse language and literature. It was there that I met a Mr. Sean Carroll, President of Anglo-Hibernian.”

“Why, dear friend, even after all these years, you continue to amaze me. Erse? Why on earth Erse?”

Holmes poured some more of the whiskey into my tumbler and then filled his glass half full. I had never seen him drink like this, yet I held my tongue lest he mistake any comment as a reprimand and cease to recount what might just be the best story of our career together.

“Why on earth not? To study one of the world’s most noble languages, of course. All the while hiding in Moriarty’s back yard, where he would never think to look for me.” He drank some more of the whiskey.

“But how on earth did you wind up in Ireland?”

“When I fell into the Reichenbach Falls, carrying Moriarty with me, I must have hit my head on a rock. When I came around, I could barely see, for blood from a cut had seeped down my brow and into my eyes. I found myself in the water at the base of the falls, with one arm draped over a fallen branch and Moriarty nowhere to be found. I hoped the fiend had drowned, but I could not take the chance that he was still alive. So I had to go into hiding.

“With my free arm, I maneuvered myself and the log through the roiling water to the bank where I climbed up into the forest. Finding the necessary ferns and plants, I managed to staunch the bleeding and dull the pain.

“Fearful of falling asleep and being surprised by Moriarty or his henchmen, as soon as my clothes were sufficiently dry, I made my way to Zurich. After a quick meal of sausage, potato salad, and a pichet of a young white wine, I felt restored and paid a visit to a small, very discreet private bank where I kept a secret account. Upon giving the agreed pass code to the clerk, I was ushered into the vault where I took from my private safe box a substantial amount of pounds, francs, marks, and dollars, along with several passports, a handful of diamonds, and a dozen or so small gold bars. Enough wealth to take me to South America where I would live very comfortably while continuing my study of exotic poisons.

“After leaving my bank, I went by train to Locarno, where I spent a week recuperating at a lakeside hotel. Thus refreshed and fit enough for a long journey, I crossed the border into Italy. My plan was to take a steamer from Genoa to Brazil, but in order to make sure that I was not being followed by Moriarty or his assassins, I spent several weeks traveling around Italy. I moved through Venice, Padua, Siena, Rome, doubling back and forth, using the different identities my passports provided. It was in Florence that I chanced upon the opportunity of a lifetime. The opportunity to purchase a rare Amati violin.”

He walked over to his wardrobe closet and took out his battered violin case and tapped it. “This violin.”

“You mean that old instrument you are constantly fiddling on is an Amati?”

He nodded and if I had not known better, I would have sworn that his face had flushed slightly with embarrassment.

“Let us say that this is just another little secret between us. An indulgence that cost me much of the money I had intended for my new life as Senhor Gustavo Peres of Salvador, Brazil. Still, I had other passports in other names and other interests that would take me to other countries. If I could not slip half a world away from Moriarty, why not then hide in his own garden? So I made my way to Galway, this time as Gerard Murphy, and on the Aran Island of Inis Oírr, I hid away while all the world believed Sherlock Holmes was dead.

“Yet, it wasn’t enough to just burrow on that tiny rock in the Atlantic, monkishly pouring through ancient tomes. I had to complete my identity as Murphy. And reclusiveness among that small band of clannish people would only raise suspicion. I could not afford wagging tongues. So every few weeks, like the other islanders, I would take the ferry to Galway to buy provisions and books and read the newspapers. I had to watch out for any diabolical crimes that would indicate Moriarty had resurfaced.”

“God, Holmes, you could have contacted me, your old friend who always helped you.”

“I could not take the chance, for I feared that Moriarty, if he had also survived the fall at Reichenbach, was having you watched. Besides, I had my studies, not only was I reading ancient Erse, but I was writing poetry in that most wonderful tongue.” As he spoke, for the first time I saw true emotion on his face. Wistfulness, at least.

“And then there were the Saturday nights. When the weather wasn’t foul, I would take a fishing boat to a little village called Doolin and go to O’Connor’s Pub and fiddle.” He opened up his violin case and took out his prized Amati. “With this, dear fellow. The one thing I brought to Ireland with me.”

“You mean you played Irish reels and such with that magnificent instrument? Suppose it had become damaged?”

“Not I, old friend, for Sherlock Holmes no longer existed. It was Gerard Murphy, bearded and speaking Erse like a true son of County Clare or Galway that drank his pint of stout and dram of whiskey by a roaring fire and much to the delight of everyone, especially myself, fiddled away while the wind and rain howled outside. I was a new man, in body, soul, and identity. For Gerard Murphy was no longer just a name on one of the passports I carried with me when I escaped into Italy. He was a hard-fiddling, hard-drinking Irishman who could compose a poem in Erse as quickly as he could recite an old one.” He emitted a deep sigh.

“But alas, even old bearded Murph is no more. The reasons for my reemergence as Holmes are well known to you and I shan’t waste time going over them. Suffice it to say that an end had come to the happiest period of my life.”

A thin smile suddenly crept over his lips and disappeared so quickly that I wasn’t sure that I had actually seen it. He picked up the Amati and expertly rosined his bow and struck off such a jolly tune that I wanted to get up and dance. When he finished, he set the instrument lovingly back in its case, poured another dram and continued.

“It was during a night of fiddling at O’Connor’s that I first met Sean Carroll. He was also a fiddler and while we were playing he kept glancing at my Amati. ‘That’s a strange fiddle, Gerard,’ he said when we were done playing. ‘Perhaps it is more suited for the London Symphony.’ He then explained to me that he owned an insurance company and was well-versed in the value of rare musical instruments, and that he knew the violin was quite valuable but did not know its provenance. When I whispered that it was an Amati, he asked to play it. ‘Just a little,’ he said, and I let him. He swore he would tell no one and in that island of deep secrets I and my violin became just one more.”

“So he never knew who you were? Then how did he contact you?”

“Dear friend, have you never heard of newspapers? Or magazines? Such as the Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine in which you tirelessly promote my cases. Do they not have photographs and etchings of me for the entire world to see?”

“But you said you were wearing a beard in Ireland.”

“That little subterfuge was only meant for the villagers on Inis Oírr, it would never fool a clever man like Sean Carroll, nor was it meant too.” Holmes looked at the clock on the mantle and suddenly stood up. “You had better get packing, our train leaves from Paddington in thirty minutes. I’ll fill you in on the rest of the story during the trip.” He looked quickly around, jammed the cork back into the whiskey bottle and unsnapping his valise, placed it inside.

“The night could be cold,” he said. I did not argue with him.

* * * *

We were only five minutes out of Paddington when my colleague opened his valise and produced the bottle of Jameson and the two cut-glass tumblers. He half-filled one of the glasses and handed it to me, then half-filled the other.

“A gift from Mr. Carroll,” he said, raising his glass in salute. “Up the Irish.” He drank.

“If you say so.” I sipped my whiskey.

“And so I do.” A thin smile crossed his lips. “Now, are you ready for the rest of the story?” Without waiting for my answer he reached into an inner pocket of his coat and withdrew his pipe and a pouch of tobacco. When he filled the pipe and stoked its flame with a few hearty puffs, he sat back and began to relate what can only be described as a very strange tale.

“About two months ago Mr. Carroll, while in London on business, was approached at his hotel by a rather tall man with a clipped military moustache named Cyrus Murdoch. Murdoch introduced himself as the president of the Lombard Street Associates, an investment firm based in Geneva, Switzerland, but with substantial interests in Great Britain. It seems that Murdoch’s firm wanted to insure the life of the late Mr. Wolkner, the head of their London branch. When Mr. O’Connor said that the premium on a £75,000 policy would be quite high, this man Murdoch did not even blanch.”

“And you found that suspicious?”

“Not at all, dear fellow. It appears the insured Wolkner was worth every farthing of the premium. From London, he directed much of the Lombard Street firm’s overseas investments, which are quite substantial. A grand cru vineyard in Bordeaux; trading in world currencies; gold and diamond mines in Rhodesia and South Africa, among others. He was making a lot of money for the firm.

“Moreover, Mr. Wolkner was the second son of the Earl of Putney, and as such mingled among the highest circles of the realm. Many high personages became clients of the Lombard Street Associates, which is why, as Murdoch explained to Mr. Carroll, the insurance policy on Wolkner had to be initiated very discreetly, and engaging a Galway-based firm was more appropriate to maintain secrecy.”

“Perhaps we should speak to this Murdoch fellow?”

“So we shall—when the time is ripe. For now, let us speak to the good country doctor and the grieving widow and view the scene of the tragedy.”

“The grieving widow?”

“Yes, dear fellow, the widow. Did I forget to mention her? I really must be getting on in years. A woman who is said to have considerable charm...or charms, as one might put it. At least in days past. The mistress of Ogham Manor.”

“Ogham Manor? That is a strange name for an estate.”

“I imagine it draws its name from the Ogham stones which can be found throughout Cornwall and Devon. Apparently they are also present in Dorset.”

“What on earth are Ogham stones?”

“Pillars, dear fellow. Pillars carved with an ancient Erse alphabet called Ogham. In the dawn of our British civilization warlike Irish tribes rampaged through Wales and then invaded southwest England. They marked the borders of their conquests with these pillars.”

As Holmes talked, I took out my pen and paper and wrote as if I was back in Cambridge, listening to my history tutor.

The story that Holmes related to me on the train made me forget the trip and before I knew it we had reached Dorchester, where my good friend had already reserved a hansom cab to take us the ten or so miles further into the hinterland.

“This is wild lonesome country for the south of England,” I said as the cab took us through a maze of narrow lanes that were bordered by high hedges that separated the properties of the small holders from each other. The bleak solitude placed me on edge after the hustle and bustle of London.

Holmes nodded.

“It is a place for deep meditation and contemplation.”

* * * *

The home of Dr. Sedgecombe was outside the village of Beaminster, set back from a lane even more narrow and twisted than the ones we had just driven over. A large farmhouse whose ancient stone and timber appeared to be badly in need of repair, it was surrounded by high hedges and an iron gate stood guard over the drive. We found the gate unlocked and open and Holmes told the driver to go directly to the house. There was a small open carriage on one side of the drive, its horse tethered to a stone hitching post. A man, apparently the driver, was lounging against a tree. Our driver eased our hansom cab next to the carriage and got out and opened the door for us.

Alighting from the cab, Holmes told the driver to wait and we then walked up to the front door. With a surprising vigor Holmes seized the iron knocker and slammed it against the frame several times. Even as the sound still echoed, the door opened and a woman, her head covered in a veil, rushed past us, bumping into me in the process. She entered the open carriage and waved the driver forward. Behind us in the doorway stood a slightly-stooped man. His face was ruddy as that of a country gentleman and adorned with a thick walrus moustache.

“A distressed patient. I apologize for her rudeness,” he said.

Holmes introduced himself, and explained that we had been retained by the Anglo-Hibernian Insurance Co. to investigate the death of Mr. Wolkner. “Merely routine,” my colleague added.

“Oh,” said Dr. Sedgecombe, surprise evident in his voice. “I shouldn’t have thought that Wolkner would be insured for a large enough sum to warrant an inquiry.”

“You consider him to be financially improvident, doctor?”

“No, it’s just that here in the Dorset countryside, I’ve found the people to be of plain state, regardless of their economic status, not given to valuing themselves in high monetary terms.”

“He was insured by his firm, Lombard Street Associates, who indeed did place his monetary value rather highly. By the way, doctor, have you heard of Lombard Street Associates?”

The latter shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I’ve relegated myself to a simple country practice in semi-retirement. I’ve not spent much time in those types of circles.”

“Really? I take it then that you are not from Dorset, that you have had a practice elsewhere?”

“Yes, I had a surgery in Leeds, but as I grew older, I decided to sell the practice and relocate to Dorset. I find the weather more hospitable than in the north and the countryside rather peaceful.”

Holmes nodded. “Were you the attending physician for Mr. Wolkner?”

“No, I only met the deceased, I’m afraid, after he was deceased. As the nearest physician to Ogham Manor, the Dorset constabulary asked me to examine the body and give the coroner my opinion.”

“Was there any possibility of suicide?”

Dr. Sedgecombe laughed. “By shotgun? There was no way he could have pointed the gun at his head and pulled the trigger, his arms were far too short.”

“What if he had used his feet?” I interjected.

“Of course, it could be possible, but he would have had to have had the most practiced toes I’ve ever seen. Moreover, his boots were on when he was found.”

Holmes took his pipe out of his coat and rubbed it in his hands. He placed the unfilled pipe in his mouth and looked the doctor straight in the face. “Was there any evidence of foul play?”

“None that I saw. The body was found lying next to a fallen log, and Wolkner’s hunting breeches and one elbow of his jacket were covered with damp soil. It was obvious that he had tripped over the log and fell, the shotgun accidentally discharging.”

Holmes took the pipe out of his mouth. “One or both barrels?”

“One. Good Lord, that was enough.”

“Who found the body?”

“The old housekeeper, Essie O’Brien. Mrs. Wolkner had sent her to the shoot to fetch her husband as it was getting on tea time. Even though they were residing in the country by themselves, she insisted they continue the proper social formalities.”

“And just what did the O’Brien woman do next?”

“I gather from what Mrs. Wolkner told me that she ran, or rather hobbled, straight back to the manor house to inform her mistress of the accident.”

“And the way you saw him was the same way the housekeeper found him?”

“That’s what she told me.”

“Could there have been any other cause of death?”

“With half his head blown off? Not bloody likely. Excuse the expression, but it is rather appropriate. My dear Mr. Holmes, I hardly think so.”

“He was definitely shot then?”

“There was a spent shell in one of the barrels of the shotgun, a faint smell of gunpowder and more than a dozen pellets imbedded in what was left of his face and skull. Yes, he was definitely shot.”

“Could he have suffered a heart attack? Or perhaps there was medication in his system?”

“Perhaps, but that would not have changed my conclusions. He died of massive brain trauma and hemorrhaging. But death was instantaneous.”

“And were there no other visible injuries to his body?”

“Nary a one,” said Dr. Sedgecombe, his voice turning cold. “If there had been, I would certainly have included them in my report to the coroner. Now gentleman, if you will excuse me, I have to ready my surgery. There are patient visiting hours this afternoon.”

“Yes, doctor, we do not wish to detain you any further.” Holmes’s voice had turned quiet. “But I do have one more question. Did you conduct an autopsy?”

“Absolutely not. He had a widow in a grievous state and with the cause of death so evident, I saw no need.” The doctor’s face suddenly flushed. “Now, good day.” He angrily shut the door.

As we walked back to our carriage, Holmes asked. “What do you make of our Dr. Sedgecombe?”

“As a physician, I can understand his attitude. After all, you seemed to be questioning not only his medical conclusion but also his professional judgment.”

“Perhaps with good cause.”

I said nothing further on the matter, for I knew Holmes’s intellect and deductive reasoning in past cases had proved me wrong much too often. Nevertheless, I still felt discomfited by the assault on a medical colleague’s integrity.

When we arrived at Ogham Manor, we were greeted by an elderly woman whom I took to be the housekeeper, Essie O’Brien. Holmes handed her his card and the letter of inquiry from the insurance company and asked to see Mrs. Wolkner. She led us to the library, a large room just off the entrance hall, and whose walls were adorned with various hunting weapons as well as book cases. There was a desk and chair facing the window and a large Chesterfield sofa facing a fireplace. The housekeeper left to inform her mistress of our presence. Instead of sitting while waiting, I inspected a set of hunting rifles affixed to one wall in a crossed position, while my colleague amused himself over some books.

We did not have long to wait for Mrs. Wolkner. She soon appeared at the library door, her presence announced by the housekeeper. I turned from the gun rack to see a woman of late middle age but still somewhat attractive, with long white hair done into two thick braids that hung all the way down her back. She wore a long black dress that showed off what appeared to be a handsome figure, but what my medical experience had taught had more to do with the abilities of her undergarments and the tailoring of her clothes than the bounties of nature.

“Mr. Holmes?” Her voice had a quaver that I put down to her emotional condition, for she was twisting a handkerchief with her hands.

My colleague suddenly turned away from the bookcase and faced her. “Mrs. Wolkner.” He approached and gently seized her hand with a gallantry that was most unusual for him. “This is my colleague, Dr. John Watson. I am so sorry that we have to disturb you in this time of bereavement.”

She looked briefly at me and dabbed at reddened eyes with the handkerchief. “Mr. Holmes, these business matters are a terrible imposition, but if you must.... Well, let us sit then.”

Holmes led her to the large Chesterfield sofa and sat next to her, still holding her hand.

“I don’t quite understand, Mr. Holmes. I had no idea my poor dear husband had ever taken out insurance on his life.”

Holmes patted her hand. “Indeed, he did not. He was insured by his firm, Lombard Street Associates. Were you not aware?”

She shook her head. “My poor dear Bertie never discussed business matters with me.” She dabbed at her eyes again. “Well, if the policy does not concern me, Mr. Holmes, cannot this matter wait until I at least place poor Bertie in his final resting place?”

“I fear not, dear lady. But it may not be necessary to disturb you much further. We would need to speak to your housekeeper, Essie O’Brien, of course, as she was the one who discovered your unfortunate husband.”

“Yes, of course, I’ll send her to you straight away.”

“And the place where this tragic event occurred. We will have to inspect that, as well.”

“He maintained a private shoot adjacent to the manor’s woods. He and some other gentlemen from his firm owned it jointly. He loved to shoot, ever since his Oxford days. He said it helped reduce his stutter.”

“Ah, yes, his stutter. I understand he acquired that due to his childhood nurse trying to ‘cure’ him of left-handedness.”

“Yes, but he still wrote left-handed although he shot with his right, and all she gave him in return was that horrible stutter. When it would reach the point that it interfered with his work, he would go off to the shoot. There’s a small hunting lodge, really just a cabin, where he could be alone. Sometimes he would even stay overnight if he wanted to hunt early in the morning.”

“May we see it?”

“Of course, Mr. Holmes. I’ll get you the key. And Essie will show you the way.”

Holmes waited until she left the room and then asked, “What do you make of her?”

“An aging beauty.”

“Well, we’re all getting on in years, old boy. What I meant was, how did you assess her psychological state?”

“She seems to be keeping a stiff upper lip over the death of her husband.”

“Yes, she does seem so.”

Our conversation was interrupted when the old lady appeared at the library door. “You wanted to see me, sir?” Her question was directed at Holmes.

“Ah, Mrs. O’Brien. Your mistress said you would direct us to the shooting cabin. And I would like to ask you a few questions on the way.”

“It’s Miss O’Brien, sir, I’ve never married.” Despite her age, the housekeeper spoke with a firmness of voice that indicated that she was still not only of sound mind but of body.

“Tell me, good woman, other than yourself who else is in service at the manor?”

“Only Throbble, the gardener. He’s a little dimwitted, but he manages to muddle through his chores.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t seen him here.”

“You won’t, it’s his day off. Is there anything else?”

Holmes smiled at her. “No, you’ve been very helpful.”

“Please follow me then.”

Outside, Holmes went over to our driver and spoke a few words, and then scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to the man. He rejoined us and the old woman led the way. She moved at such a brisk pace that I, with my war wound still aggravating my leg, had some difficulty keeping up. As we passed out through the main gate, she pointed at the stone columns that stood on each side of the drive, silent and sturdy as if they were sentinels. Strange markings that appeared to be horizontal and angular slashes were cut into them.

“Ogham stones, sir,” she said, quickly blessing herself. “You will see another, a larger one, by the cabin. I believe Mr. Wolkner understood them; that was why he had the cabin built there.”

“And you, Miss O’Brien? Can you make anything out of them?”

“I fear not, sir. They may have something to do with ancient Erse, that’s all I know.” She started walking through the fields and we followed. After about a quarter mile, she stopped and pointed at a spinney in the distance. “You’ll find the cabin there, Mr. Holmes. At the edge of the spinney. I’ll return to my duties now.”

“Your duties can wait. I need you to show me exactly where you found the body.” Holmes gripped her elbow and gently urged her forward but she shrugged him off and retreated a few steps.

“I can’t, sir, it’s too horrible. Please don’t make me.”

“I’m afraid I must. You found the body and your presence at the scene is absolutely necessary.” His voice had turned cold as ice and hard as steel.

“Heavens, Holmes,” I said. “She has already described all this to the Dorset constables.”

“That would be like you describing Isaac Newton’s laws of motion to a cat.”

And quick as a cat, he bounded alongside the poor woman and seized her arm. “Now come along, Miss O’Brien, there is nothing to fear.” It was clear, however, that she feared plenty, whether imagined or real. Yet she held herself erect and took a step down the path.

“Very well then. But I certainly have no need of an Englishman to guide me.”

As we walked, Holmes continued to question the woman, his voice and manner no longer hard but casual.

“Did Mr. Wolkner hunt often?”

“Many mornings in the spring and fall. Often he would stay overnight in the cabin so he could be out at the crack of dawn.”

“But this is midsummer?”

“Yes, sir, but he said he had spotted some grouse the other day while walking in the fields.”

When we neared the spinney, I saw a large cabin with a porch that looked out over the meadows and some low rolling hills beyond. Next to the cabin was a thick pillar about five feet high with carved markings like the Ogham stones back at the manor.

“Where was the body when you found it?”

“Over there.” Miss O’Brien pointed at the edge of the spinney where there were some downed trees. Holmes set out towards them, the woman following behind him. I brought up the rear in case she tried to run off. After a hundred or so paces, we reached one of the fallen trees.

“There,” she said. “On the other side of that log was where the body lay.” She made no move toward the spot. Holmes again gripped her elbow and prodded her forward until they were standing in front of the log.

“How did you come to find him?”

“My mistress sent me to fetch him for tea.”

“Yes, yes, we know that. But how did come to find him in this exact spot?” As he asked the question, Holmes was not looking at the woman but instead was gazing intently into the spinney.

“I called for him but there was no answer. I went into the cabin but it was empty, so I walked into the fields and called again. There was no one, not even a bird. I walked all the way around the edge of the meadow and as I made my way back toward the spinney, I almost tripped over him.”

“Was he face up or face down?”

“Face down.”

“And where was his head and where were his feet?”

“His feet were by the log and his head was pointing toward the meadow.”

“And his shotgun?”

“Lying on the ground, next to his right arm.”

“Did you touch the body?”

She shook her head.

“Then how did you know he was dead?”

She shuddered but said nothing.

Holmes turned his gaze away from the trees and looked directly at her for a long moment. “What did you do next?”

“I ran back to the manor and told my mistress.”

“Told her what, exactly?”

“That Mr. Wolkner, her husband, was dead.”

“How did she react?”

“She had one of her fainting spells.”

“I take it she was not in good health?”

“On, no, she is really quite fit for her age, if you know what I mean. It’s just that she’s given to what she call the ‘vapors.’ She would often collapse and gasp for breath when she became overexcited.”

“Poor woman,” I said. “Is she under medical care?”

“Dr. Sedgecombe treats her.”

Holmes smiled thinly at her. “I have no further questions at this time, thank you, but I will trouble you for the key to the cabin.”

She reached into the pocket of her dress and produced a sturdy brass key and handed it to him. Without saying another word, she turned and starting walking back in the direction from which we came. She had gone only a few steps when she stopped and turned once again toward us.

“It was the blood, sir. There was so much of it everywhere. On the grass, on the log, on poor Mr. Wolkner. That’s how I knew he was dead.” She turned again and walked away.

Holmes nodded at her receding figure and walked up the steps to the cabin door and unlocked it. Inside, we found a large room with a stone fireplace and a few chairs and a small dining table. There were smaller rooms on either side of the large room. One was fitted as a kitchen with a stove, a wash basin, a counter, and some cupboards. The other room contained a large bed.

“Seems like something out of one of those American wild west dime novels, podnuh,” I said to Holmes, trying to make a small joke.

“Very much so. What do you make of those?” He pointed to a wall with a series of hooks from which a conglomeration of clothes hung. There was an army uniform with unpolished buttons hanging from one hook. Army boots and a pair of Wellingtons were beneath it on the floor.

“Sloppy soldiering,” I said.

“Not at all, dear friend. There were not to be worn at tattoo but for hunting. If the buttons were polished, their brightness would scare away the birds.”

I also saw a patched woolen loden hunting jacket, its bright green long faded from use.

“What do you deduce from the hunting jacket, dear fellow?”

“That our late Mr. Wolkner was not a man to spend money unnecessarily. It looks like something one would find at the old clothes market on Gloucester Street.”

“Quite so. Anything else?”

“I hadn’t thought he was that smallish,” I said, noting the jacket’s size.

“Precisely.” He took his pipe out and filled it. “I want to sit outside for a while and calculate. Would you be good enough, old boy, to rummage around and see if there’s any tea and put a kettle on?”

While I ransacked the cupboards. Holmes dragged one of the chairs out onto the porch. When I brought him his tea, his pipe was lit and he was lost in thought. Without saying a word, I set the cup down next to him and went back inside and poured myself a cup. I had brought a recent treatise on gunshot wounds and blood poisoning to read on the train, but the tale Holmes related was so fascinating, I had left the little monograph untouched. Sitting in one of the chairs, I now pulled out the treatise and began to read. Some time had passed, I knew not how much for I had become as lost in thought as my colleague, before I noted his presence back inside the cabin.

“Watson, I have considered much here and there is still much more to consider. I think I’ll have a short lie down.” He walked into the bedroom and closed the door behind him. By the time he awoke, the afternoon had grown late and we immediately set off for the manor. When we reached the house, it was almost dusk. Our driver and the hansom cab were nowhere to be found.

Anger flooded through me. “Good lord, Holmes, how on earth are we to get back to Dorchester? And our luggage? It is gone. What are we to do?”

My colleague appeared unperturbed by the matter but I persisted. “Perhaps someone in the village can drive us? Let us ask Mrs. Wolkner.”

Essie answered the door and ushered us in. I saw our bags resting on the floor and immediately felt relieved. “Look Holmes, our bags. Perhaps the driver has not left us after all?”

“I’m afraid not, sir,” Essie said to me. “When I returned from the cabin, the driver and the cab were gone. Only the bags were there, sitting on the ground, so I brought them inside.”

“Thank you, dear woman,” I said to her. “But how are we to get back to Dorchester? Is there anyone in the village who can drive us?” As I asked the question, Mrs. Wolkner came down the stairs, hobbling slightly and assisted by a splendid looking brass-topped walking stick.

“I am afraid it’s too late to return to Dorchester. You will not find a coachman willing to navigate these treacherous country lanes at night. But there are guest rooms here at the manor, and it would not be an inconvenience to put you up. In the morning, I will send Essie into the village to find someone to drive you.”

Holmes gave a little bow to the woman. “That is very kind of you, Mrs. Wolkner, but the hunting cabin will be sufficient. There is a fireplace and wood outside.”

“Very well, Mr. Holmes. I will have Essie pack some food for you and prepare a lantern, for the walk at night is not easy.” She gestured at her ankle. “As you see, a turned ankle can happen anywhere.”

Holmes smiled thinly. “Yes, I do see. Thank you, you are most generous with your hospitality.”

* * * *

“That blasted coachman.” Anger had flooded me because of the situation he placed us in. Mrs. Wolkner was right. Even though the path was clear and we had trod it only an hour or so ago, the walk was dangerous in the pitch black night. And carrying our luggage and the basket of food made it even more dicey.

“Now, dear fellow, is that anyway for a physician of your stature to speak?”

“If you twist your ankle like Mrs. Wolkner, ask me that question again.”

My anger was soon tempered, however, by the delicious food Essie had prepared for us. In the basket was a roast chicken, boiled potatoes, and a wedge of Stilton cheese, two bottles of beer and a bottle of port. While I set out the dishes, Holmes prepared a fire and we ate and drank as fine a meal as Mrs. Hudson had ever prepared for us at our lodgings.

Afterwards, I made tea and Holmes poured the last of the Jameson into our cups and we drank.

“What do you make of Mrs. Wolkner?” he asked after a long stretch of silence.

“You already asked me that.”

“No, I mean her state when we saw her tonight.”

“She seemed to be holding up well; nerves calm considering the death of her husband and now the injury to her ankle. I must say, that was an exquisite walking stick she was using. I have never seen one like it. With a brass top. Oriental, I gather?”

“Quite so. Teak with Buddhist carvings, but its head is gold-plated.”

“Fascinating.”

“I agree, Watson, I agree. Fascinating.” Holmes finished the last of his tea and Jameson and stood. “I think I will take a walk outside and look at the Ogham stone.”

“It’s a shame that Essie O’Brien doesn’t understand them. For your curiosity about them seems rather high.”

“Not to worry, Watson. For during my self-exile on Inis Oírr I met the most wonderful and delightful intellect I had ever come across, an erudite monk named Brother Kenneth who, when in his cups, wrote the most lovely Erse poetry. There were many the stormy nights when Brother Kenneth and I sat by the fire with cups of hot tea and Jameson and discussed Ogham and the Ogham stones. Not only did my knowledge of that ancient language expand, but by delving into the mysteries of the Ogham Stones, I was able to satisfy my ongoing interest in codes and ciphers. And the Ogham Stones proved to be the most difficult ciphers of my career. Yet, as I expected, I eventually cracked them. I certainly shall have no trouble understanding this one.”

Holmes went out and I stoked the fire and finished the monograph before retiring. I awoke the next morning to a steady drumbeat of rain on the roof and the comforting sound of the kettle on. Holmes was already up and had shaved and was pouring our tea. He drank his tea quickly, oblivious to the heat, and stood. Seizing an umbrella that was by the door, he thrust the portal open and looked outside.

He then turned back to me. “The rain is bearable. Finish your tea, old boy, and come take a walk with me. I have something to show you and I would like your opinion about it.”

“My opinion? Is it a medical matter?”

“Not in the least. Nevertheless, any conclusions you draw may prove to be invaluable.”

Always ready to render assistance to my colleague, I followed him out the cabin door, and hunching up next to him under the umbrella we headed toward the spinney. Once inside the grove, Holmes shut the umbrella and plunging ahead, used it to poke back the branches in our path. We soon reached a small clearing where in the center stood a wooden pole.

“What do you make of that?” he asked me.

I walked over to the pole and examined it. It had long perpendicular striations carved into it, and there were horizontal and slanted slashes running through the striations and from their sides.

“It looks like an Ogham stone, but the pillar is made of wood and the cuts are recent.”

“Excellent observations. Anything else?”

“It is crudely carved.”

“Jolly good observation.”

“What does it say?”

The thin smile reappeared on his face. “Like the stone pillar, it contains a message. But this message is gibberish.”

“Gibberish? Why on earth would someone carve gibberish in the middle of a Dorset spinney?”

“Let me give you a rudimentary explication of Ogham, dear fellow. The alphabet is based on the twenty trees that were sacred to the ancient Irish druids. Each slash or combination of slashes stands for one of the Ogham alphabet. Now let us return to the cabin, for I wish to have another cup of tea and wait.”

“Wait? Good lord, Holmes, wait for what?”

“Not what, Watson, whom!”

When we reached the cabin, there was a folded note pressed into the door. Holmes snatched it and began to read. “Aha. We must return to the manor house immediately. There is no time to lose lest we allow the murderer of Mr. Wolkner to escape.”

“Murder? How...when did you deduce his death was a murder?”

“I will explain later. Did you bring your service revolver?”

“It is in my bag.”

“Good. Fetch it and follow me. Quickly now.” Holmes pushed open the umbrella and set off down the path toward the manor house.

“But the umbrella...,” I yelled after him for he had left me with nothing to protect myself from cold drizzle. But he did not stop and soon he disappeared from view. I went into the cabin and retrieved the Colt. I tried to catch up but it was no use with my bad leg. By the time I reached the manor house, the front door was open and I plunged through it without knocking. I could hear voices in the library, and I slid open the door to find my colleague and Mrs. Wolkner, sitting and leaning on her walking stick, being served tea by Essie.

“Ah, Watson, Just in time. I was about to relate an interesting tale to our hostess, and it should interest you as well.”

“Won’t you join us for tea, doctor? I am sure you are as interested in what Mr. Holmes has to say as I am.”

I sat and waited while Essie poured my tea. When she had finished Holmes began.

“My story starts two decades ago in America. It is a tale that should curdle the blood of any decent human being. A story about a vivacious young woman. A woman who wanted and expected everything that a life of leisure could give her. She was an actress. No, not the kind that appears on the stage to delight audiences. For this woman’s stage was the boudoir, and her audience consisted of rich young men, sons of successful Southern planters. Have you ever heard of Miss Annabelle Portia Perkins?”

I shook my head for I hadn’t the foggiest notion who he was talking about.

“Perhaps you might remember her by the infamous name her notoriety bestowed upon her. The Black Widow of Virginia. Does that jog your memory, Watson?”

“Yes, I do remember something about a woman called that, but that was some years ago, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, many years ago. This actress of the bedchamber managed to win the heart of Eustice Broyhurst, the scion of a rich Virginia tobacco company. As Annabelle Broyhurst, she became the toast of Southern society. And then her young husband tragically died, shooting himself for reasons no one could quite fathom at the time. There were rumors that there had been a scandal involving his wife, and soon she was referred to as the Black Widow. There was also talk of prosecuting her for the man’s death, but his family was said to have hushed it up, paying her a substantial sum to leave the country.

“In Paris, as the story goes, Annabelle dropped her first name and called herself Portia. After squandering her fortune on a series of handsome but rather vapid young paramours, she left the City of Lights for Nice on the Riviera, where she met an elderly Bavarian aristocrat, Otto, Freiherr von Schritter zu Adelberg. It was not long before she had also drawn him to her evil bosom. In a matter of weeks she was the Baroness Portia von Schritter zu Adelberg and the mistress of his family’s vast estate and castle. That marriage, like her first, did not last long and also ended in tragedy. It seems the good old Freiherr, perhaps after indulging in a little too much schnapps, stumbled over a log while out hunting in the woods and accidently shot himself.”

“Incredible. What a coincidence. Both husbands killed.”

Holmes suddenly sprung to his feet. “Coincidence? Watson, your naivety amazes me. Having witnessed my tragic affair with the woman, have you learned nothing about the wiles and cunning of the female species?” His voice was wrought with emotion.

I knew Holmes was talking about Irene Adler, the only woman he had ever loved and who had betrayed him, only to later seek him out in New York and give her life to save his.1 Because of the pain and anguish he felt, he could never say her name, and would only call her “the woman.”

“I’m sorry, dear fellow. I didn’t mean to upset you. Please sit back down and continue.”

“It seems that the old Freiherr had a son, a cavalry officer who was a favorite of the Kaiser. Given the feudal laws of primogeniture and the Kaiser’s influence, the estate went entirely to the young man. He apparently kept his stepmother around for a temporary dalliance, but then quickly tiring of her, he sent her packing with little more than the clothes on her back. But the story doesn’t end there, old chum. No, Watson, the baroness Portia was not going to allow herself to be consigned to the Hades of jaded beauty, to be dismissed from society, sent away with only a trollop’s pourboire. It was at the spa in Baden that she came upon the late Mr. Wolkner, second son to the Earl of Putney, whom she took to be wealthy enough for her to ignore his pronounced stutter.”

Holmes looked over at Mrs. Wolkner and smiled thinly. “Have I related the story correctly?”

“It is your story, Mr. Holmes, so I shall let you tell it without comment for now.”

“It seems my trusted colleague Morrell has wired me from Switzerland with some interesting news.”

“Morrell? You mean that scruffy little bootblack who used to shine shoes outside the Theatre Royal in Haymarket until he earned the price of a standing-room ticket? That Morrell?”

“Exactly, dear friend. That Morrell who became the most talented and trusted of my Baker Street Irregulars and who carried out some of the most daring feats in that capacity. The lad I sent up to Sydney Sussex, where he did a double first in Classical Languages and in Modern History.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“Who, upon leaving Oxford, was no longer the humble drudge of his childhood and became employed by The Crown in matters as sensitive as those that I had tasked him with.”

I sat back in my chair.

“And who along with my brother Mycroft is also a stalwart member of the Diogenes club. Upon my instructions yesterday, our coachman took the train to London and went to the club and left a note for Morrell. A note in which I asked the man to make a very urgent and specific inquiry for me. Mycroft, for whom Morrell also undertakes sensitive matters, made sure that the message was wired immediately to Geneva. I have the reply right here.” He smiled thinly once more and withdrew the folded piece of paper that had been jammed in the cabin door.

“What does it say?” My curiosity was now at a fevered pitch.

The smile disappeared from his face. “Perhaps Mrs. Wolkner can tell you?”

“I’m sure I have no idea,” she said, her voice tense.

“Very well then; I shall enlighten you.” He turned back to me. “As you know, the Lombard Street Associates is a Swiss-based firm. I asked Morrell to make inquiries through his contacts in the Swiss government and find out who the owner was.”

“You mean the owner was not that man Murdoch?”

“Murdoch was only a pawn in this evil scheme. To be used and disposed of when no longer needed.”

“But used by whom?”

“The mastermind who controls Lombard Street Associates.”

“Who?” I cried. “Who?”

He put the folded piece of paper back in his pocket. “I shall come to that in a while, but for now I would like to turn your attention to the mystery of the Oghams. Remember the gibberish on the wooden pillar? Well, it took me almost an hour before I realized that it wasn’t just gibberish, after all. Not if you looked at the message as numbers instead of an alphabet. After another hour, I had deciphered enough to discern that I now possessed the combination to a safe and the pass code to a bank account. A pass code not unlike the one to my safe box in Zurich. I walked back to the manor while it was still dark, slipped inside and found the safe behind this bookcase.”

I watched as Holmes walked over to very same bookcase that had intrigued him only the day before. He reached up to a corner and pressed the wood. The panel next to the case slid up to reveal a wall safe. Spinning the combination dial quickly, he yanked the steel door open and withdrew a thick packet of papers that was bound with a red ribbon. Turning toward Mrs. Wolkner, he said, “Shall I read the contents?”

“That will not be necessary.” Using her walking stick as a crutch, she forced herself to her feet and hobbled over to where Holmes was standing.

“You are very clever, Mr. Holmes.”

“What on earth is she talking about? What are those papers that you have?”

“Evidence, Watson. Evidence that Lombard Street Associates is owned and controlled by the Baroness Portia. Who is none other than this evil creature you see standing before me.” He gave a slight bow to Mrs. Wolkner.

She nodded back.

“Baroness?” I cried, looking at the woman. “Good heavens, Holmes, do you mean...?”

“Yes, Watson. She is none other than the Black Widow of Virginia.”

Mrs. Wolkner nodded again. “Please continue.”

“When I said her husband had made a lot of money for the firm, it was the truth. But at the expense of his clients.” He undid the ribbon on the packet of papers and waved the top sheet at me. “It is all here, Watson. How the firm was looted, their clients’ money siphoned off and deposited into a secret bank account in Geneva. An account controlled by this poisonous creature.”

“Do you mean Wolkner stole from his family and friends? But he was from one of the finest of families. A British aristocrat would never commit such foul deeds!”

“No, Watson, Mr. Wolkner did not participate. These crimes were solely the work of his employer. Somehow, he stumbled onto the embezzlements and also learned that he was merely a dupe for the woman he was married to.”

“But why did he keep the papers in his safe?”

“Guilt, Watson. Guilt and love. The two emotions most common to our male species.”

“So he did kill himself?”

“No, dear fellow. The poor man may very well have contemplated it, for he was faced with either handing over the woman he loved to the law or betraying the trust of clients. Either way, he would have been ruined.”

“I don’t understand why he carved the numbers on the wooden Ogham pillar? Who was it to be a code for?”

“No one, Watson. He was not intentionally leaving a clue, only trying to work it out in his mind by writing things down. He was tormented by his moral dilemma and did not know what to do, so he set about writing it out but in a way that he thought no else would stumble upon it.” Holmes stared at Mrs. Wolkner.

“I suspect that the original plan had been for our Black Widow here to disappear, leaving her husband, as the Americans like to say, holding the bag.”

Mrs. Wolkner laughed. “The stuttering fool actually confronted me about the thefts. If he had only left well enough alone, he would be alive today.”

“Yes, his honor and decency of character required that he inform you of what he had learned. Did he plead with you to return the funds to the firm’s accounts? Of course he did. Did you play along with him? Of course you did. But you had no intention of doing any such thing. So the plan had to be changed. Now, the poor man would have to be disposed of. That is where your accomplices came in.”

“You have proof of all this?” I was incredulous, for we had been at Ogham Manor for less than twenty-four hours and Holmes seemed to not only have found a murder where there was none, but to also have solved it.

“Inspector Gregson has Dr. Sedgecombe in custody. His full confession is not necessary, for we have enough evidence to hang him.”

“Gregson? Sedgecombe? How on earth did Gregson become involved? And what evidence?”

“Our valiant coachman also delivered a message to him at Scotland Yard. Gregson then made inquiries about Sedgecombe with his colleagues in Leeds. It seems our country doctor had been forced to sell his surgery to settle some very large gambling debts.” He turned to Mrs. Wolkner. “Sedgecombe was always in need of money, a weakness that someone of your cunning would have seized upon. Am I not correct?”

The woman said nothing.

“Your silence will change nothing. An autopsy will reveal slivers of rock imbedded in Mr. Wolkner’s face. For he was rendered unconscious with a savage blow before being dispatched by a shotgun blast. The force of the pellets tearing through his face would have pushed the rock fragments deep into the bone and pulp. But any good pathologist with a knowledge of war wounds would have found them. My colleague, Dr. Watson, for example.”

“So Dr. Sedgecombe killed Mr. Wolkner?”

“Not at all, dear fellow. Nor did the other accomplice, the slow-witted gardener, Throbble. The murder was left to another.

“Yes, the doctor and Throbble were only pawns whom this evil woman lured into her honey trap and easily convinced to do away with her unsuspecting husband.

“She concocted a story for Throbble. How her husband had discovered that she loved the dimwit, and he was going to have the poor man dismissed from service, beaten, and jailed. There was only one way Throbble could save them. He would have to hit Wolkner with a rock and kill him, she said. It would look like a fall and then he, they, would be safe to continue their affair.

“Of course, she knew better. A face smashed by a rock would never be taken for the result of a fall. So she watched from the cabin as Throbble approached her husband and struck him down. After she sent the dimwit back to the manor, she went over and placed the shotgun’s barrel next to the unconscious man’s face and pulled the trigger.”

He stared down at the woman, a look of distaste spread across his face. “Is that how you killed your first two husbands?”

“Oh, with that twit Eustice, it was suicide all right. I made sure he had plenty of reason. It wasn’t difficult to arrange it so he would come upon me while I was in a compromising position with one of the plantation overseers. I knew he couldn’t handle it emotionally. It was risky, though. He might have killed me as well.” She gave a little laugh.

“As for Otto? I had him teach me everything he knew. He thought it was a lark to have his wife fence. The epée, the saber, the foil, I learned them all. And when I became as good a fencer as he was, I killed the swine.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, it was easy to kill the old fool. While we were hunting one afternoon, I asked if I could use his shotgun instead of mine. So we switched weapons. And then just a push as he stepped over a log while going down a slope and I shot him with his own gun and took mine back. A tragic accident. Everyone agreed.” She gave a venom-filled laugh.

I was shocked by the bitterness of the laugh that came from such a pretty mouth. Even Holmes drew away from her, horror on his face. The woman laughed again. “Don’t be so surprised, Mr. Holmes. After all, Irene Adler played you for the utter fool.”

Rage suddenly flooded into Holmes’s face. I had never seen my colleague so angry. He reached out and grabbed the Black Widow’s braids and twisted them so roughly that the evil wench was forced to her knees.

He yanked on the braids, forcing her face upwards. “If you even utter as much as syllable of her name again, I swear I’ll garrote you with your own hair.”

“You’ll do no such thing.” With a sudden move, she hooked one of his legs with her walking stick and upended him. Springing to her feet, she twirled the stick as if was a baton. “Oh, did I forget to mention that Otto also taught me the art of single stick before he had his accident?”

At the mention of that ancient and noble art of canne de combat, which my colleague was also an aficionado of some repute, I was curious to see if the Black Widow’s prowess with cudgel could best him.

Holmes rolled over on his side several times until he reached the chair where he had rested his umbrella. He snatched it up and held it in front of his face just in time to parry what might have been a lethal blow from the gold-plated head of the walking stick. The Black Widow danced away, and then with a spin of her body she danced forward, thrusting her stick at his groin, only to have him parry it once more.

He had not yet been touched but clearly he was on the defensive in this combat. On her toes, the evil woman circled him and then once more thrust the stick toward his manhood. Holmes managed to parry again, only to have her twirl the stick like a baton and bring it down upon the center of the umbrella, which snapped like a twig.

“I have you now, Mr. Holmes. And I assure you, I will make your demise as humiliating and painful as possible.” She thrust once more at his groin, but Holmes managed to deflect most of the blow with a shard of the umbrella. But with a flick of her wrist, she sent the other end, the one with the gold-plated knob, crashing against his left knee. Holmes fell to the floor, trying to ward off further blows with his left arm while jabbing at her with a piece of the umbrella in his right hand.

It was no use. I could see he was tiring and it would be only a matter of time before the Black Widow delivered an incapacitating blow which surely would be followed by others until my colleague was no more.

“Stop!” I cried, taking my service revolver out of my pocket and pointing it at her. With a motion so fluid and so fast that I did not even see it until it was over, she knocked the gun out of my hand, dropped her stick, snatched the gun up and waved back and forth at Holmes and myself.

“One more murder or two, it matters not,” she laughed.

“You’ll never escape,” Holmes said.

“We’ll see.” She turned to the housekeeper. “Essie, fetch my walking stick and go harness the carriage.”

The old woman picked up the stick but did not move further. Finally she spoke. “I knew you were evil the day I first laid eyes on you. But to kill your husband, who was only good to you...?” Essie suddenly lashed out with the walking stick, knocking my pistol out of her evil mistress’s hand. As it clattered to the floor, the Black Widow dove for it. Holmes, just as quickly, rushed toward her and buried his head between her thighs and gripping her buttocks, upended her before she could the reach the weapon. She kept bucking her hips while clawing for the pistol as my colleague pushed his head further between her thighs. Suddenly, with a violent twist, she managed to break free and sprang to her feet.

Holmes was on his hands and knees, gasping for breath, but was now between the killer and the gun. She stood in front of him and laughed. “You think you are very clever, don’t you, trying the French trick on me. Did you really think you were the first man to try and subdue me in the Gallic manner?”

She dashed for the doors to the garden before Holmes could reach the pistol. She turned back and glared at us, her eyes dark pools of hate. “I’ll have my revenge, Mr. Sherlock Holmes; we’ll meet again.” Then she disappeared through the doors.

“Holmes, she’s getting away.”

“Let her go, Watson, I have what we need. The law will soon catch up to her.”

* * * *

Such was the sad case of Ethelbert Wolkner of Ogham Manor, Dorset. How Holmes used his prodigious mental talents of deductive reasoning to discern the plot by the dead man’s wife, the erstwhile baroness Portia von Schritter zu Adelberg and her true identity as the “Black Widow of Virginia,” and the complicity of her paramour, Dr. Sedgecombe, was revealed to me on the train ride back to London.

“The clues were all there, Watson, as many as the stars in the sky, but you had to look up to see them.”

“When did you first deduce that Mr. Wolkner’s death was the result of murder?”

“When we first arrived at Dr. Sedgecombe’s farmhouse. I deduced it from mere observation. You should have done the same.”

“Observation. Just what was I supposed to have observed?”

“Do you not remember the description of Murdoch that was given to me by Mr. Carroll of the Anglo-Hibernian Insurance Company?”

“Of course, a tall, pale-faced man with erect posture and a military moustache. What has that got to do with Dr. Sedgecombe?”

“That is exactly the question I would expect from someone as inobservant as you apparently were. Old chum, Dr. Sedgecombe was stooped with a ruddy face covered by a walrus moustache, was he not?”

I nodded agreement while taking notes.

“Imagine if he stood erect and his face was not ruddy from the country air, and the walrus moustache was trimmed to an officer’s measurement. What would you see?”

“Why, Murdoch, of course.”

“And what about the state of the farmhouse? Surely you noticed that?”

“It was badly in need of repair.”

“And what did you deduce from that observation?”

I stopped writing. “I must confess, Holmes, that I had not deduced anything.”

“And now?”

“That Sedgecombe either did not have the funds to make the repairs, or that he had no plans to stay long at the farm and would leave the repairs to the next owner.”

“Excellent. A day late but an excellent deduction. For as Inspector Gregson’s inquiries in Leeds had proved, Sedgecombe had impoverished himself through gambling and had to sell his surgery to cover his losses. A rundown farmhouse in Dorset was all he could afford. Now let us progress to his patient, the woman who so rudely bumped into you as she hurried away from the farmhouse.”

“What about her?”

“Did not the doctor say that he had patient hours later that afternoon? So why was she there? And who was she?”

“You mean she was the Baroness Portia, I mean Mrs. Wolkner?”

“Yes, and the driver was Throbble. While I was investigating last night for the safe, I also looked into the carriage house and spied the very same carriage that was outside Sedgecombe’s place. And that Throbble was driving his mistress on his day off led me to deduce that their relationship was something more than mistress and gardener.”

“And did not Essie say that Sedgecombe had been treating the woman for the ‘vapors?’ Yet, he swore he had never met her husband until the man’s death. Moreover, I suspect that if we question Essie further, we will learn that the ‘vapors’ only came about after Sedgecombe moved to Dorset.

“Furthermore, one who was observant would have seen that while Mrs. Wolkner was dabbing at her reddened eyes with her handkerchief, there were no tears.”

I took this as a reprimand by Holmes concerning my talents of observation, but I was so impressed by his deductive reasoning that I could only urge him to continue.

“These clues were enough to raise my suspicions, so I had Morrell confirm them with his inquiries in Geneva. Meanwhile I was consumed with deciphering the Ogham inscription on the wooden pillar in the spinney. Remember, you commented that the slashes were rather crude. That was because they were right-hand writing done by a left-handed man. And that could have been none other than poor Mr. Wolkner.

“And then there was the hunting. One never hunts grouse in mid-summer. It just isn’t done, old boy. No, Wolkner was going back to his Ogham pole. Topping that off, there were clothes in the cabin. It was you, Watson, who clued me while remaining clueless yourself.”

“However do you mean?” I asked without looking up for I was scribbling my notes as fast as I could.

“The size of the green loden hunting jacket, of course. A Bavarian style, I might add. You commented how small it was. That was because it did not belong to Wolkner, but rather to his wife, the Baroness Portia. And from that one could deduce that she was knowledgeable about hunting and weaponry. Yes, dear fellow, once the clues marked the trail, I only had to follow it.”

“And what will become of Essie? At her age, it will be hard to place her in service elsewhere.”

“I believe that when I inform Mr. Carroll of the valuable service she rendered and the money we have saved the Anglo-Hibernian Insurance Co., there will undoubtedly be a generous stipend to be paid, and perhaps a small cottage on the coast.”

“And then you could go and fiddle for her by the firelight.” I laughed at my little joke.

“Perhaps I shall, Watson. Perhaps I shall.”

1. In another story, Be Good or Begone, I related how Irene Adler died trying to save Sherlock Holmes from being poisoned in New York by Professor Moriarty.