It is on the long, dark evenings of winter when I feel most keenly both the loss of my dear wife Mary and nostalgia for the many adventures in which I took part with my friend, Sherlock Holmes. It has become my habit, therefore, to take down one of our old casebooks and pore over the contents, reliving as well as I can, those sometimes sordid adventures and dark mysteries that form the centerpiece of my life and of our work together.
Holmes resented my retellings of those adventures I had published and often made a point to tell me so. “Too romantic, Watson,” he said. But he also understood that, to a point, it was my narration of the adventures, even to the extent that I changed certain names or details, which brought us the many clients over the years and made his fame—and the remunerative benefits to my friend, regardless of how often he claimed otherwise—that much greater.
Of course, there were those adventures which, not even with his permission, could I publish, at least until those involved had been in the grave for some time. Now, as I compile what will be my final memoirs of that time in our lives, it is safer for me to at last tell one of the tales that, had it been made public sooner, would have drawn Sherlock Holmes into scandal and even infamy. Worst of all, it might have ruined the public's appreciation for his formidable and unerring intellect for which he had cultivated such a pervasive reputation.
Always the man of action, Holmes never once caused anyone any real or lasting harm, except by bringing them to the Crown’s justice and making them the beneficiary of Her Majesty's gallows. There were physical altercations and events where, had I not been carrying my trusty service revolver, we might have faced considerable injury or death.
"The Napoleon of Crime” had murder in mind for Holmes, when, as I believed then, both Holmes and Moriarty plummeted over the Reichenbach Falls. Such a fall could only have been considered murder, since it had the necessary premeditation to earn that verdict. After I learned that he survived, three years later, my friend never once said that he pushed Moriarty, only that the professor fell while they grappled. Holmes only survived a similar fate by clinging to the cliff face. Any question that Moriarty's intent was to kill Holmes, however, was erased when Moriarty’s men, placed along the shelf of the falls, dropped rocks intending to dislodge him as he scrambled back up the precipice.
It has been argued in the papers and magazines that allowing Moriarty to fall to his death at the falls rises to the level of a justified murder. It is possible that, to the extent that he considered it necessary to rid the world of Moriarty's evil influence, Holmes might agree, but he never once in all our time after that day said so.
The only time that Sherlock Holmes positively acted to save a life by taking one has remained locked away until now and I still feel some trepidation about whether it is safe to bring it to light. All involved are long dead, even that great lady for whose benefit Holmes acted. But I remind myself that Holmes is long out of his former occupation, and to this day, he quietly writes his books and farms bees on the Sussex Downs.
If he has read any of the subsequent adventures I have published in recent years, he has not mentioned it to me in our sparse correspondence.
He will perhaps not mind me adding this dark—maybe the darkest, with exception to the case of the Hound—to my memoirs, which will be the final casebook of our exploits.
The revised version of this story, it must be added here, had several titles that I applied, each somehow less appealing than the last. The one attached here is perhaps the most appropriate, if a little too direct, as it may give away the mystery before the story is told. I have drawn a line through several others, including “The Adventure of Lady Marvis May”, and “The Adventure of the Changed Lady”. “His Only Bullet” would have worked as well, though, as I have stated above, it may have drawn Sherlock Holmes into a festering swamp far deeper than the one he stepped into in the great Grimpen Mire, to retrieve Sir Henry Baskerville’s stolen black boot. What follows is the final draft of that story.
-JHW, London 1927
It was the autumn of 1906. Fog lay heavy over London, and my friend, Sherlock Holmes was in his chair by the fire, smoking his clay pipe, his knees drawn up under his chin, his eyes far away and unfocused. In our long association, I had learned his many idiosyncrasies and postures, from his deep and incurable need for puzzles, mysteries, and problems to solve, to the yawning gulfs of depression in between cases that thrust my friend into a black reaction. In those moments, Holmes grew languorous, unmoored from his strict fastidiousness, usually to be found lying on the settee, barely conscious. At those times, much against my medical advice, he would retrieve from his locked desk drawer the small black leather case with the syringe and the solution of cocaine or morphia, which I think he believed eased the burden of his great mind yearning for work.
As I have had occasion to state previously, when a problem lay before Sherlock Holmes, he was as keen as a taut wire, his mind focused on every detail. The posture of the man before me illustrated the disturbing beginnings of indolence and boredom, but not yet that of the drug. It was the posture of the Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective, uncoiling just after applying the methods he developed over years of solving the most troubling and baffling mysteries that I have set before the public.
We were fresh from the Billingsly-Drummond case, where Holmes had saved an ancient family heirloom from the grasp of the greedy criminal known as George Nebbin bent on stealing it for the legendary gold bars supposedly hidden within. For the first time in many months, no case lay before him. I knew that if my friend did not have another case soon, he would lapse back into the arms of his soporific drug use, but there was time and the season of the year proved a very excellent soil for the seed of crime to spring up, only to be plucked by the assiduous hand of Sherlock Holmes.
“Pray sit by the fire” said Holmes as I entered our rooms at 221 B, Baker Street. “There is fresh coffee in the pot. Add a little brandy to warm you, Doctor. We wouldn’t want you to catch cold.”
Holmes turned and placed his fingertips together, elbows on the arms of the chair, his clear eyes gazing at me with a stern and searching expression that I had seen countless times before.
“I perceive that you have been out in the rain without your umbrella, Watson. Who won the debate?”
“But, how...?” I stammered, astonished. “My dear Holmes,” I cried, “How could you know that? My coat is dry!”
“I perceive you had a considerable soaking,” he said.
“But, it hasn’t rained for hours, Holmes,” I said. “I’ve dried off long before now. How could you surmise such a thing, after the fact?”
“Observation, Watson. I never guess or surmise.”
“I still do not see—,” I began.
“It is simplicity itself, my good doctor. I perceive your coat and hat, which you have hung by the fireplace, are damp at the edges. A man who has been standing in the rain, naturally would still be wet when he arrives home even after many hours. A man who has been in the rain, but has dried, will fail to notice that the hem of his coat and the edge of his hat remain damp, for here the stitched fabric is thickest and takes the longest to dry.”
“But the debate,” said I.
“Why, Watson, why else would a man of your resource brave foul weather if not to stand amidst the mob for a political debate?”
“Well, yes, but ...”
“Yesterday, after reading a long article in the Times, you remarked that you had Featherby down for a rogue and a knave for his opinions against the landed gentry, but that you liked Linkhouse no better. You will recall that I made no profession of my own opinion, save to quote Pericles on the matter.
“The Times, which you left lying in an untidy pile upon the seat of your chair, showed a headline with a debate held today rain or shine at Speakers’ Corner in Hyde Park. Naturally, you braved the weather and the crowds and were no doubt roped into rousing civil discourse by our many neighbors, and thus you went off to your club to continue the debate on your own terms, before returning here. Thus, you were standing in the rain at the debate without your umbrella, but you dried somewhat at your club.”
“Holmes, you amaze me!”
“My dear Watson! It is the simplest matter of assembling the data into a chain of causes. The sun was shining when you departed this morning, and your umbrella has been here at Baker Street all day in the stand by the door.”
“I confess I have behaved rather clumsily.”
“Nonsense, Watson. We have not yet developed that science for forecasting what the weather will do. Any honest Englishman will bring his umbrella with him when the autumn weather shows its caprice, but it is hardly more than a venial sin to leave it in the stand when the sun shines in the morning.
“There! How have I done?”
“Right at every turn, Holmes! Indeed, I was standing in the rain to see the debate at Hyde Park. I did not go to my club, but to a public house to have a pint of bitters with a few of the gentlemen from the debate. Perhaps I did overstay and dried somewhat there.”
“Not at your club, eh? That’s bad! You see, Watson, how dangerous it is to make any assumption based upon previous behavior.”
I had no sooner taken my seat and poured a cup of coffee, when we heard the rattle of footsteps coming up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson ushered a large, red-faced woman into our room; to consult with Holmes. I stood to leave, but he stopped me.
“Stay, I beg you, Watson,” said he. “No doubt you will find our visitor of some interest. Come in, Madam!”
The woman’s clothes were neat, if threadbare, but her countenance had such hard features and bearing that I was sure she had seen many years of service, perhaps as a cook. Holmes leapt up with agile steps and ushered our visitor to the basket chair by the fireplace. In a flash, he was back in his chair, his eyes alight with keen interest, though his features otherwise betrayed no clue of his excitement.
Holmes said, “This is my friend, Doctor Watson, pray have no fear to say anything in his presence which you would relay to me. You may, as I have done for many years, trust him implicitly. How may we aid you?”
“Mr. Holmes, sir,” she said. “My name is Elizabeth Davies. I am the cook for Lady Charlotte Maye at Willow Downs, near Surrey. Oh, she’s a wonderful lady, she is, Mr. Holmes. A more just, kind and beautiful woman could not draw breath in all of England, sir.”
“Her worth is commended in your compliments, Madam. Pray continue.” My friend said this with all the solicitousness of a chivalric knight. For a man of such mighty intelligence and hard, inscrutable ways, Holmes was always the keenest gentlemen when speaking with women.
“Her husband was killed in the last Afghan war, Mr. Holmes, and she keeps the house all by herself, sir, with only me and the governess, Mrs. Billings, to help with her children.”
The woman took a kerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her red eyes.
“It’s been hard, Mr. Holmes. Her husband was a brave man, but he was not very wealthy despite the family rank and title. There have been hard months, but the lady is smart and fierce, and she made things work, though we were often on short commons, I made certain the children ate.
“Myself and the governess, Mr. Holmes, we took it upon ourselves to have a meeting with the lady and get her to seek help from her father in Yorkshire, but the old man never approved of the marriage, and the lady was too proud by half to seek his help. Oh, he is an odious man, if you’ll forgive me for saying it, sir. And the lady felt it very keenly that she could not turn to her own family for help.”
“And what of her husband's father,” Holmes asked, “Could she not seek aid from him?”
“The lady’s father-in-law, Sir Michael Maye, is a cruel, hard man, sir. He sent a messenger more than once to the door to tell the lady that he would stop all her late husband’s monies, if she did not quit the house and take her children away. We tried to convince her to stay on, that it was only bluster, but she had made up her mind finally to go and ask help from her people in Yorkshire. They have a great country house, Mr. Holmes, and her uncle is a good man, though under the sway of her father. She made plans to travel north, but Sir Michael caught wind of it, and then catastrophe struck the house at Willow Downs, Mr. Holmes.”
Again, the woman paused to blot tears from her red eyes.
“It is just too terrible. The only grace is that the children are all away at school now, and so are not home to see the terrible change that has taken our dear lady from us.
“When I am not preparing meals, Mr. Holmes, I help with cleaning and a few odd tasks around the house. It was a fortnight ago, now, sir, when Lady Maye made up her mind to ask her lord uncle for help. She made arrangements with the neighbor’s groom to send her in a trap to Waterloo Station and then on to Yorkshire. The night before, I heard a terrible sound, sir, and I went down to see if what I thought was true, Mr. Holmes.”
“What did you think madam?” Holmes asked.
“Why sir, that Sir Michael had sent ruffians to force her out in the middle of the night, sir. We had no doubt that something was coming of that sort. But whatever it was, this was far worse.”
“Pray continue, Mrs. Davies.”
“When I got to the lady’s room, sir, I saw such a sight that I thought never to see in my whole life. The lady, sir, was unconscious and laying in her nightclothes upon a chaise and the French doors of her room were open. It was a ruffianly evening, sir, and I rushed to close the doors for fear that she would take ill. When I turned around, the lady was standing. It was her face, sir, and her voice, but the words that came out of her dear lips, Mr. Holmes. I nearly fainted when I heard her speak, and my father was a sailor sir and knew a word or two when his steam was up.”
“What did she say, Mrs. Davies?”
“I couldn’t repeat it here, sir, except to say that she had a total change of heart, Mr. Holmes. She swore that she would sell the house and the children could chance their lot on the streets and she took me to task for keeping her there for the sake of my own employment, Mr. Holmes. I was so taken aback, that I packed my things that very night, to go. It was only Mrs. Billings the governess that spoke a word in season, sir, and kept me from flying into the night with nary a plan for my future.
“She calmed me down, sir, and set me to come to you to ask for help. The days between have been a terrible fight, sir. Lady Maye is a fine woman, and sure I am that she’s suffered some fit under the strain of the events. Twice I tried to speak to her, when she was seeming more peaceable, but in both cases, though she never swore oaths at me again, like that horrible night, sir, she wouldn’t hear any reason to stay.
“Strangest of all, Mr. Holmes, she met with Sir Michael. In fact, sir, she was in conference with him for several hours, and now the house is going back to him and we’re out of a job and the children will lose a home.
“I cannot help but think that if she had just sent word to her uncle, that he might have helped, but she refused to hear of it and then, after the change, she behaved as if she had no notion of what I was saying.”
“Think very carefully, Mrs. Davies,” said Holmes, “was there anything else of note that occurred on the night you found Lady Charlotte so changed?”
“No, Mr. Holmes,” she said, and then there was a most remarkable change in her features. “Now that you mention it, sir, something strange did happen that night, begging your pardon, but the events of that evening put it from my mind.
“It is my habit of an evening to walk the circumference of the wall that surrounds the grounds of the house. The lady and her gardener have overseen the planting of many flowers of rare beauty, and if the weather is fine, I like to walk and admire them. Some evenings, I will bring sandwiches to Mr. Harvey, the gardener, who sees that the gas lamps are lit when he leaves at night, sir.
“I was out walking, Mr. Holmes, the very evening of the night when the lady seemed so changed. I had a basket of sandwiches to bring to Mr. Harvey and I planned to take the long way around the house before turning in.
“To my astonishment, Mr. Holmes, I found that Mr. Harvey wasn't by the front gate, and the gas torches were not turned on and the gate was open. The stables can be seen from the gate and I turned to see if the lights were lit. The stables were dark. I closed the gate and noticed that the gravel had been kicked up so that the gate on one side didn't like to go shut. I had to set the sandwiches down and push with all my might, Mr. Holmes.”
“Did you succeed?”
“Yes, sir. After a bit, I was able to push it to, but I didn't know how to turn on the lamps. I took the sandwiches back to the house, but then I found the lady so changed, I forgot all about the lamps and the gate.”
“Thank you Mrs. Davies. You were quite right to come to me with this problem. Tomorrow, Doctor Watson and I shall come to Willow Downs to see Lady Charlotte Maye and see what we may do to assist her, and by extension, yourself and the governess.”
“Thank you Mr. Holmes, and may God bless you if you can do anything to save her for herself and her children, sir.”
When he had ushered the stout cook out, Homes came back with the light of energy in his eyes. “Watson, we rarely have seen a criminal of so excellent a mind as this Sir Michael Maye.”
“No doubt he would stoop to doing rough work to get a house, but you suspect murder?”
“I have no clues, Watson. We shall see what we can see tomorrow, first thing. Come!” he said, “Let us ring for dinner from Mrs. Hudson and you can tell me of the debates.”
I knew Holmes well enough to know that he had little interest in politics, and he paid hardly any attention to my description of events, save for a cursory nod. After the plates were cleared away, Holmes adopted his usual position in his chair and lit his pipe. I retired sometime later and except to refill his pipe, he had not moved.
Early the next morning, I awoke to find Holmes leaning to wake me. “Come, Watson!” I shaved and dressed as rapidly as I could.
I found Holmes swathed in a long coat, his hat pulled low and a loaded riding crop in his hand. “Watson, have you your service revolver?”
“Why, yes,” said I.
“Good! Pray keep it at the ready. We have rarely faced so deadly a nemesis."
Holmes hired a hansom and soon we were on our way to Willow Downs, the home of Lady Charlotte Marvis-Maye. The foggy morning air seemed to break once we were out of the confines of the city. Holmes was pensive, coiled and alert. His restless eyes roved the countryside.
Soon, we swept down a winding road with large homes on both sides, many of them surrounded by well-manicured grounds. The house at Willow Downs was large, but, as Mrs. Davies had said, not a true country house. It sat back from the road and was surrounded by a high wall. Holmes paid the driver and told him to wait for us. A great black iron gate in the wall swung open when Holmes pushed on it. In the early morning gloom, not much could be seen, but Holmes went about, stooping and lighting a small pocket lantern, and then wandered inside the gate and pushed it only to see that where the lock would have been, a large hole exposed the inner workings, as though it had been stuffed it with explosives or acid.
There were gas torch lamps in the piers on either side of the gate, but they were not lit and we couldn’t find the valve. “You see the gate lock has been destroyed, Watson, preventing it from being closed.”
“It has iron workings, how could someone have done this without an explosion?”
Holmes bent and took out his lens and inspected the rectangular box mounted by welds onto the bars of the gate.
“He filled the lock mechanism with phosphorus. The odor is quite strong close up.
Holmes proceeded to look at the base of each gate pier, moving the mould with the toe of his boot. “Hello!” he cried, bending and producing a small white piece of heavy paper partially burned.
“The evidence begins to produce a chain, Watson. To gain entrance, he poured the phosphorus into the keyway and lit it using this piece of paper. It burned quite hot, and he moved here to be away from the light of it. In his haste to enter, he dropped the paper and left us an important clue.
“But who could have done such a thing? Surely not the gardener,” I said.
“Let us see if we can meet the fellow. It is likely that his greatest crime was accepting a sovereign to depart early and leave the gas torches off, thereby giving cover to the one who did this.”
We went through the destroyed gate and together walked toward a building to the left of the main house used as stables. Along the way, Holmes went to the sides of the gravel drive and at two points, he cast himself upon the ground, searching with his keen eyes along the border.
At first, there appeared to be no one in the building, but at length, we found a man stretched out on a chair by a small coal fire burning low in a grate. He was not elderly, but he had the weight of some years around his ears and in the lines of his face. He was evidently quite deaf, as it took us both shouting to draw his attention. At last, we managed to alert him to our presence, and with much shouting and gesticulating, managed to convey to the man that we were not burglars.
“Oh, you must be Mr. Holmes! Mrs. Davies told me to expect you!”
Holmes questioned the man closely, but he had no idea of who might have destroyed the gate, nor turned off the gas in the torches on the gate piers. We left by the way we came, and this time followed a swath of mown grass toward the house.
“Our adversary is very clever indeed, Watson. He seems to have anticipated any challenges to his game at every turn. Very well, let us introduce ourselves to Lady Charlotte and see what it is that we may discover.”
We were admitted into the house by the governess, Mrs. Billings, who had been expecting us. She went to wake the lady, who had retired. “She gets most awfully tired by mid-morning, Mr. Holmes,” said the governess. We were shown into a small sitting room, bright with late morning light and soon, Lady Charlotte joined us.
She was a woman of great beauty, or she had been. The trials since the death of her husband had put a shadow of illness upon her features. Her high, proud forehead was creased with worry and strong lines edged the corners of her mouth. It was certain that she was a woman of noble birth, but there was a sharpness both to her eyes and a certain sallow color of her skin that spoke to hard living, extremely unusual except to those long accustomed to the rigors of poverty. More than any of this, however, it was the bright light of madness in her eyes that spoke to a deep weariness of her mortal frame.
Her expression was haughty, as she sat, hands clasped firmly on her lap.
“It is no doubt that my servants have taken it upon themselves to seek your aid, Mr. Holmes,” she said sharply. “I did not ask them for their help, nor do I require yours, sir.”
“Madam,” said Holmes, attempting to placate the woman, “We merely wish to spend a few moments looking at the house. You have some pictures here that are of interest to my friend. We were informed by Mrs. Davies of your plight and yet we knew that there was nothing we could do to stop the inevitable.”
Indeed this did seem to ease the tension in the woman’s posture. “You may take your tour of the house, then,” she said, and rising, she left the room. As she did so, she made a strange, deep cackle and I saw Holmes start and then instantly resume his composure.
“Come Watson,” He whispered, “We cannot lose a minute of time!” He leapt to his feet and feigned sounds of admiration for the many paintings along the main floor corridors, he leaned into rooms and scanned and made notes in a small notebook.
When the lady had vanished into the back part of the house, no doubt to remonstrate, or even fire poor Mrs. Davies from service, he instructed me in a hoarse whisper to remain in the corridor and he sprang up the stairs into the gallery. A few moments later, he returned and grabbed my arm, he ushered me to the front door. “Thank you, Lady Charlotte, for your hospitality! No doubt, this will make a fine residence for a deserving family!” So saying, we departed and returned to Baker Street.
I could get nothing from Holmes on the return trip, but upon arrival at Baker street, he stepped into the post office and filled out a telegraph form. Within the hour, the smart, youthful countenance of Stanley Hopkins of Scotland Yard stood before us.
“I came as soon as I got your telegraph, Mr. Holmes,” said the police detective, eager as always to aid the man he so obviously regarded as a mentor.
“Ah, Hopkins. Take this paper and go as quickly as you can to the address written here. Show it to no one. You will need to bring a few other sturdy men to aid you.”
“What’s it all about, Mr. Holmes?”
“All shall be revealed in due time, Hopkins. I must impress upon you: show that address to no one! Return here as quickly as you are able. Mrs. Hudson will be expecting you.
Hopkins left and Homes went to see Mrs. Hudson.
When he came back, he sat down and steepled his fingers together under his chin. Outwardly he appeared calm, but I knew that he was vibrating with nervous excitement.
“What is it, Holmes,” I asked him.
“Truly Watson, we have rarely encountered so devious a mastermind as Sir Michael Maye.”
“But what has he done, other than try to take the home from Lady Charlotte,” I asked.
“You will see, soon enough, Watson. In the meantime, we must be ready in a moment to return to Willow Downs. Keep your service revolver to hand, Watson!”
Within the hour, Stanley Hopkins returned and Holmes went out with him. Soon enough, he returned and, hiring a trap, we were off to Willow Downs again.
The long shadows of evening were beginning to fall and long strands of mist gathered under the trees as we made our way. Holmes kept close the entire journey and yet I confess that I had the sensation that we were traveling into a darker adventure unlike any we had ever faced together before.
As we neared the house, Holmes grabbed my arm and we leapt down and, hiding the trap in some trees by the wayside and tying the horse so it couldn’t be seen from the road, we made our way quietly to the broken gate. Soft and silent as shadows, we huddled against the inner wall and slipped around behind the house. Even as we crossed the back garden, we could see a fine carriage, led by two white and noble horses, approach the gate. Holmes knocked quietly on the kitchen door and there, we were met by Mrs. Billings, the governess, and let into the back part of the house.
With the help of Mrs. Billings, we stationed ourselves in the gloom beneath the great stairs, but with a clear view of the front doors. Even as we settled, the front doors opened and in strode a man of sixty with white hair and mustaches. He was a very robust man, tall and barrel-chested. His face was stern and fierce.
“Margot,” he said, in a deep voice that echoed off of every surface of the house, “come out!” A woman’s voice echoed from high above us. It was sharp and cruel, the voice of Lady Charlotte.
“Your fool plan has failed,” she said as she came down the stairs. “The cook told that meddling detective.” There was another cawing laugh. She said, "Where is my sister?”
“I have dealt with your sister and I will deal with the detective,” said Sir Michael. “There is only one last thing”. He produced a thick sheaf of papers and placed them on a table in the middle of the corridor. He pulled a tray with a pen to the edge of the table and gestured to the woman. We could see her from behind as she moved toward him.
Holmes whispered in my ear, “We have to time everything perfectly Watson. Too soon and we risk all our plans. Too late, and the lady’s life may be lost! Keep your revolver at the ready.”
The lady approached the table, but even as she did so, the doors were thrust open behind them and in stepped Stanley Hopkins followed by a pale lady, propped up by a plainclothes officer. She had dark circles under her eyes and she could barely walk and yet, by some supreme effort, she moved into the home that was by right, her own.
It was Lady Charlotte, her clothes were torn and her hair was askew, but it was she.
“Now!,” cried Holmes, and we rushed from the shadows into the light.
Sir Michael, seeing the folly of his ruse, pulled from the pocket of his greatcoat a dueling pistol. He aimed it directly at Lady Charlotte. Even as he moved, Holmes seized me by the arm and took my service revolver from my hand. The report of the weapon echoed like thunder in the house. For a moment of horror, I thought we were too late.
But then Sir Michael clutched at his chest and then fell dead to the floor. His own pistol had fired at the same time, but by great fortune, he was struck off his aim and the lead ball missed the lady and the officer she clung to, and struck the great door just to her left.
Lady Charlotte swooned and Stanley Hopkins and his men crowded around her. The air was shattered by horrible laughter. There, by the table, the other woman clutched at her own face and shrieked, her eyes turned up and she fell to the floor in a dead faint.
Holmes let the pistol fall from his hand into mine and thrusting the same hand out, he cried, “Your flask, Doctor. Quickly!” I knelt and, thrusting the flask between the handsome lips of the real Lady Charlotte, poured brandy into her mouth. She soon revived and we helped her to a chair. Mrs. Billings and Mrs Davies came out of the back of the house, their faces white and etched with the horror of the scene, but they tended to their beloved lady. We soon revived the counterfeit lady and Stanley Hopkins ordered that she be brought to Scotland Yard.
“There was nothing for it, Mr. Holmes,” Hopkins said, gently. “You acted faster than any of us and the man meant this lady harm. I will testify to that before a judge on your behalf.”
Winter winds howled around the corners of Baker Street and Holmes was settled in his chair, staring into the fire. I was pasting newspaper clippings into my casebook, when I came across a letter posted from Willow Downs. It was unopened.
“How long have you had this?” I asked and handed the letter to him. “Ah!’ he said and was silent for several moments, before handing it back to me. “You may read it if you wish, Watson.”
“No doubt it is from the Lady Charlotte, wishing to thank you,” I said.
“No doubt you are right,” he said. “It is the strangest thing, Watson, but I do not wish to accept thanks for the deed.”
“It was the right thing to do, Holmes,” I said.
“Perhaps, Watson, but the goal of any true detective must be to prevent crime. I consider it a failure of great proportions that we could not manage things so that Sir Michael would get the justice he deserved.”
“You have never told me what his part was in all this, except to steal Willow Downs.”
“Oh, he was a deeply dangerous mind, Watson, on a level with Professor Moriarty, or Jack Stapleton. No! Make no mistake, here was a man capable of the most evil cruelty if it brought him what he desired.”
“Then he intended murder?”
“As a last resort, yes,” said Holmes. “I believe at some level it pleased him to think that he was ruining the life of a woman who had no husband to protect her. His desire for the house is where that nefarious idea first occurred to him. I have done some research into Sir Michael and discovered that he had a reputation for cruelty.”
“What idea?”
“Why, to switch out the lady for her sister,” Holmes said.
“Her sister? I’m astounded!”
“Very often Watson, it is the simplest explanation that is the most logical. Think back to the evening when Mrs. Davies sat before us.”
“I remember it well,” said I.
“Then you will recall that she said that hearing a disturbance in the house, she went to see if Lady Charlotte was well, and found her by an open window, in only her nightgown.”
“Why, yes.”
“What was the sequel?”
“That the lady had changed in her behavior.”
“Excellent, Watson. It was these two clues that first suggested to me the real crime. Mrs. Davies said that Lady Charlotte’s father was ill-disposed to her, but that she had a kindly uncle. I took the liberty of contacting this uncle with the help of a man I know in Yorkshire. It was merely an idea, but there seemed to be little else to explain it.”
“You mean a twin?”
“Precisely, Watson. Somehow, Sir Michael discovered that Lady Charlotte had a sister in Yorkshire who was her exact copy in every way. However, this sister had run afoul of some blaggards and was discovered to be addicted to laudanum. Over the years, she had begun to lose her sanity and the family were obliged to keep her locked away. Sir Michael had heard of this, certainly, when first his son spoke of the young lady and had his spies investigate the family. This is when the seed of an idea first came to him, Watson.
“Then, his son was killed in Afghanistan. He had long desired the house, which was in the lady’s uncle’s gift. He formulated a plan to take the house from her by threat, but when she did not resist, he set to work on a more complicated plan. He sent an emissary to Yorkshire and sprung the lady from her confinement. Over several months, he paid to have her fed and groomed and dressed like her sister. He made it plain to her that the more believable her performance, the more likely she would be to win the home for herself.”
“You don’t mean she believed he was working on her behalf,” I asked.
“Sir Michael, like so many men of criminal intent, was not above lying to gain his desires, Watson. That he intended to kill the sister is clear by his possession of the dueling pistols. Once he had the papers in his possession and thus the house, he intended to stage the affair so that it appeared that Lady Charlotte took her own life.”
“But what of the gate, and the gas torches?”
“That was an obstacle that Sir Michael used to his advantage. He paid the gardener to leave the torches unlit, and no doubt gave a compelling reason. The gardener, being deaf, and having seen Sir Michael regularly over the previous weeks, assumed that the man had some authority and obeyed the command. That left the gate, which was regularly closed and locked at night. Sir Michael used the darkness to pack the lock with phosphorus to melt the internal locking mechanisms and thereby, sneak the Lady’s sister onto the grounds and kidnap the real Lady Charlotte.”
“That leaves how you found out where she was being held,” I said.
“That was less easy, Watson. It seemed too obvious to hide the lady close by. Too many people knew her and Sir Michael could not risk her to be seen by anyone who might otherwise know where she was supposed to be. That showed his calculating mind. But as so often happens with the criminal mind, as the desired object is approached, excitement clouds the rational faculties.
“I believe that he intended to complete the switch by taking the Lady Charlotte to Yorkshire and placing her in confinement where her sister had been, but he never got that far. You will recall, Watson, that I sent an address with Stanley Hopkins and instructed him that no one else must see it. The lad is an admirable police detective, so rare among his professional brethren. I sent him to Sir Michael’s room in the city. He has, by slow degrees, lost much of his fortune through poor investments and gambling and has but one manservant to tend to his needs.”
“That explains his desire for the house,” I said.
“Precisely, Watson. A man in such straits might try a desperate throw.”
“Did his manservant not suspect and try to alert him?”
“There, Watson, I must again give credit to young Hopkins. He lured the man out by false pretense and his men restrained him until they could safely remove the lady. And then the deed was done.”
He sat quietly again and a shadow crossed his face.
“I can only regret that it came to this Watson. So many times, we have faced deadly and desperate men, and yet our wits were enough; wits and action. Alas, that I was overtaken by desperation to save a life, Watson and had to take one in return.”
And then, like has happened so often, Sherlock Holmes closed off his great and inscrutable mind to the case just passed and bent those sharp rational faculties to the next puzzle.
The End