Sherlock Holmes was in a melancholy and philosophic mood that
morning. His alert practical nature was subject to such reactions.
"Did you see him?" he asked.
"You mean the old fellow who has just gone out?"
"Precisely."
"Yes, I met him at the door."
"What did you think of him?"
"A pathetic, futile, broken creature."
"Exactly, Watson. Pathetic and futile. But is not all life pathetic
and futile? Is not his story a microcosm of the whole? We reach. We grasp.
And what is left in our hands at the end? A shadow. Or worse than a shadow
-– misery."
"Is he one of your clients?"
"Well, I suppose I may call him so. He has been sent on by the Yard.
Just as medical men occasionally send their incurables to a quack. They
argue that they can do nothing more, and that whatever happens the patient
can be no worse than he is."
"What is the matter?"
Holmes took a rather soiled card from the table. "Josiah Amberley. He
says he was junior partner of Brickfall and Amberley, who are
manufacturers of artistic materials. You will see their names upon
paint-boxes. He made his little pile, retired from business at the age of
sixty-one, bought a house at Lewisham. and settled down to rest after a
life of ceaseless grind. One would think his future was tolerably
assured."
"Yes, indeed."
Holmes glanced over some notes which he had scribbled upon the back
of an envelope.
"Retired in 1896, Watson. Early in 1897 he married a woman twenty
years younger than himself –– a good-looking woman, too. if the photograph
does not flatter. A competence, a wife, leisure –– it seemed a straight
road which lay before him. And yet within two years he is, as you have
seen, as broken and miserable a creature as crawls beneath the sun."
"But what has happened?"
"The old story, Watson. A treacherous friend and a fickle wife. It
would appear that Amberley has one hobby in life, and it is chess. Not far
from him at Lewisham there lives a young doctor who is also a
chess-player. I have noted his name as Dr. Ray Ernest. Ernest was
frequently in the house, and an intimacy between him and Mrs. Amberley was
a natural sequence, for you must admit that our unfortunate client has few
outward graces, whatever his inner virtues may be. The couple went off
together last week –– destination untraced. What is more, the faithless
spouse carried off the old man's deed-box as her personal luggage with a
good part of his life's savings within. Can we find the lady? Can we save
the money? A commonplace problem so far as it has developed, and yet a
vital one for Josiah Amberley."
"What will you do about it?"
"Well, the immediate question, my dear Watson, happens to be, What
will you do? –– if you will be good enough to understudy me. You know that
I am preoccupied with this case of the two Coptic Patriarchs, which should
come to a head to-day. I really have not time to go out to Lewisham, and
yet evidence taken on the spot has a special value. The old fellow was
quite insistent that I should go, but I explained my difficulty. He is
prepared to meet a representative."
"By all means," I answered. "I confess I don't see that I can be of
much service, but I am willing to do my best." And so it was that on a
summer afternoon I set forth to Lewisham, little dreaming that within a
week the affair in which I was engaging would be the eager debate of all
England.
It was late that evening before I returned to Baker Street and gave
an account of my mission. Holmes lay with his gaunt figure stretched in
his deep chair, his pipe curling forth slow wreaths of acrid tobacco,
while his eyelids drooped over his eyes so lazily that he might almost
have been asleep were it not that at any halt or questionable passage of
my narrative they half lifted, and two gray eyes, as bright and keen as
rapiers, transfixed me with their searching glance.
"The Haven is the name of Mr. Josiah Amberley's house," I explained.
"I think it would interest you, Holmes. It is like some penurious
patrician who has sunk into the company of his inferiors. You know that
particular quarter, the monotonous brick streets, the weary suburban
highways. Right in the middle of them, a little island of ancient culture
and comfort, lies this old home, surrounded by a high sun-baked wall
mottled with lichens and topped with moss, the sort of wall –-"
"Cut out the poetry, Watson," said Holmes severely. "I note that it
was a high brick wall."
"Exactly. I should not have known which was The Haven had I not asked
a lounger who was smoking in the street. I have a reason for mentioning
him. He was a tall, dark, heavily moustached, rather military-looking man.
He nodded in answer to my inquiry and gave me a curiously questioning
glance, which came back to my memory a little later.
"I had hardly entered the gateway before I saw Mr. Amberley coming
down the drive. I only had a glimpse of him this morning, and he certainly
gave me the impression of a strange creature, but when I saw him in full
light his appearance was even more abnormal."
"I have, of course, studied it, and yet I should be interested to
have your impression," said Holmes.
"He seemed to me like a man who was literally bowed down by care. His
back was curved as though he carried a heavy burden. Yet he was not the
weakling that I had at first imagined, for his shoulders and chest have
the framework of a giant, though his figure tapers away into a pair of
spindled legs."
"Left shoe wrinkled, right one smooth."
"I did not observe that."
"No, you wouldn't. I spotted his artificial limb. But proceed."
"I was struck by the snaky locks of grizzled hair which curled from
under his old straw hat, and his face with its fierce, eager expression
and the deeply lined features."
"Very good, Watson. What did he say?"
"He began pouring out the story of his grievances. We walked down the
drive together, and of course I took a good look round. I have never seen
a worse-kept place. The garden was all running to seed, giving me an
impression of wild neglect in which the plants had been allowed to find
the way of Nature rather than of art. How any decent woman could have
tolerated such a state of things, I don't know. The house, too, was
slatternly to the last degree, but the poor man seemed himself to be aware
of it and to be trying to remedy it, for a great pot of green paint stood
in the centre of the hall, and he was carrying a thick brush in his left
hand. He had been working on the woodwork.
"He took me into his dingy sanctum, and we had a long chat. Of
course, he was disappointed that you had not come yourself. 'I hardly
expected,' he said, 'that so humble an individual as myself, especially
after my heavy financial loss, could obtain the complete attention of so
famous a man as Mr. Sherlock Holmes.'
"I assured him that the financial question did not arise. 'No of
course, it is art for art's sake with him,' said he, 'but even on the
artistic side of crime he might have found something here to study. And
human nature, Dr. Watson –– the black ingratitude of it all! When did I
ever refuse one of her requests? Was ever a woman so pampered? And that
young man –– he might have been my own son. He had the run of my house.
And yet see how they have treated me! Oh, Dr. Watson, it is a dreadful,
dreadful world!'
"That was the burden of his song for an hour or more. He had, it
seems, no suspicion of an intrigue. They lived alone save for a woman who
comes in by the day and leaves every evening at six. On that particular
evening old Amberley, wishing to give his wife a treat, had taken two
upper circle seats at the Haymarket Theatre. At the last moment she had
complained of a headache and had refused to go. He had gone alone. There
seemed to be no doubt about the fact, for he produced the unused ticket
which he had taken for his wife."
"That is remarkable –– most remarkable," said Holmes, whose interest
in the case seemed to be rising. "Pray continue, Watson. I find your
narrative most arresting. Did you personally examine this ticket? You did
not, perchance, take the number?"
"It so happens that I did," I answered with some pride. "It chanced
to be my old school number, thirty-one, and so is stuck in my head."
"Excellent, Watson! His seat, then, was either thirty or thirty-two."
"Quite so," I answered with some mystification. "And on B row."
"That is most satisfactory. What else did he tell you?"
"He showed me his strong-room, as he called it. It really is a
strong-room –– like a bank –– with iron door and shutter –– burglar-proof,
as he claimed. However, the woman seems to have had a duplicate key, and
between them they had carried off some seven thousand pounds' worth of
cash and securities."
"Securities! How could they dispose of those?"
"He said that he had given the police a list and that he hoped they
would be unsaleable. He had got back from the theatre about midnight and
found the place plundered, the door and window open, and the fugitives
gone. There was no letter or message, nor has he heard a word since. He at
once gave the alarm to the police."
Holmes brooded for some minutes.
"You say he was painting. What was he painting?"
"Well, he was painting the passage. But he had already painted the
door and woodwork of this room I spoke of."
"Does it not strike you as a strange occupation in the
circumstances?"
" 'One must do something to ease an aching heart.' That was his own
explanation. It was eccentric, no doubt, but he is clearly an eccentric
man. He tore up one of his wife's photographs in my presence –– tore it up
furiously in a tempest of passion. 'I never wish to see her damned face
again,' he shrieked."
"Anything more, Watson?"
"Yes, one thing which struck me more than anything else. I had driven
to the Blackheath Station and had caught my train there when, just as it
was starting, I saw a man dart into the carriage next to my own. You know
that I have a quick eye for faces, Holmes. It was undoubtedly the tall,
dark man whom I had addressed in the street. I saw him once more at London
Bridge, and then I lost him in the crowd. But I am convinced that he was
following me."
"No doubt! No doubt!" said Holmes. "A tall, dark, heavily moustached
man, you say, with gray-tinted sun-glasses?"
"Holmes, you are a wizard. I did not say so, but he had gray-tinted
sun-glasses."
"And a Masonic tie-pin?"
"Holmes!"
"Quite simple, my dear Watson. But let us get down to what is
practical. I must admit to you that the case, which seemed to me to be so
absurdly simple as to be hardly worth my notice, is rapidly assuming a
very different aspect. It is true that though in your mission you have
missed everything of importance, yet even those things which have obtruded
themselves upon your notice give rise to serious thought."
"What have I missed?"
"Don't be hurt, my dear fellow. You know that I am quite impersonal.
No one else would have done better. Some possibly not so well. But clearly
you have missed some vital points. What is the opinion of the neighbours
about this man Amberley and his wife? That surely is of importance. What
of Dr. Ernest? Was he the gay Lothario one would expect? With your natural
advantages, Watson, every lady is your helper and accomplice. What about
the girl at the post-office, or the wife of the greengrocer? I can picture
you whispering soft nothings with the young lady at the Blue Anchor, and
receiving hard somethings in exchange. All this you have left undone."
"It can still be done."
"It has been done. Thanks to the telephone and the help of the Yard,
I can usually get my essentials without leaving this room. As a matter of
fact, my information confirms the man's story. He has the local repute of
being a miser as well as a harsh and exacting husband. That he had a large
sum of money in that strong-room of his is certain. So also is it that
young Dr. Ernest, an unmarried man, played chess with Amberley, and
probably played the fool with his wife. All this seems plain sailing, and
one would think that there was no more to be said –– and yet! –– and yet!"
"Where lies the difficulty?"
"In my imagination, perhaps. Well, leave it there, Watson. Let us
escape from this weary workaday world by the side door of music. Carina
sings to-night at the Albert Hall, and we still have time to dress, dine,
and enjoy."
In the morning I was up betimes, but some toast crumbs and two empty
eggshells told me that my companion was earlier still. I found a scribbled
note upon the table.
DEAR WATSON:
There are one or two points of contact which I should
wish to establish with Mr. Josiah Amberley. When I have
done so we can dismiss the case –– or not. I would only ask
you to be on hand about three o'clock, as I conceive it possible that I may want you.
S.H.
I saw nothing of Holmes all day, but at the hour named he returned,
grave, preoccupied, and aloof. At such times it was wiser to leave him to
himself.
"Has Amberley been here yet?"
"No."
"Ah! I am expecting him."
He was not disappointed, for presently the old fellow arrived with a
very worried and puzzled expression upon his austere face.
"I've had a telegram, Mr. Holmes. I can make nothing of it." He
handed it over, and Holmes read it aloud.
"Come at once without fail. Can give you information as to your recent loss.
"ELMAN.
"The Vicarage.
"Dispatched at 2:10 from Little Purlington," said Holmes. "Little
Purlington is in Essex, I believe, not far from Frinton. Well, of course
you will start at once. This is evidently from a responsible person, the
vicar of the place. Where is my Crockford? Yes, here we have him: 'J. C.
Elman, M. A., Living of Moosmoor cum Little Purlington.' Look up the
trains, Watson."
"There is one at 5:20 from Liverpool Street."
"Excellent. You had best go with him, Watson. He may need help or
advice. Clearly we have come to a crisis in this affair."
But our client seemed by no means eager to start.
"It's perfectly absurd, Mr. Holmes," he said. "What can this man
possibly know of what has occurred? It is waste of time and money."
"He would not have telegraphed to you if he did not know something.
Wire at once that you are coming."
"I don't think I shall go."
Holmes assumed his sternest aspect.
"It would make the worst possible impression both on the police and
upon myself, Mr. Amberley, if when so obvious a clue arose you should
refuse to follow it up. We should feel that you were not really in earnest
in this investigation."
Our client seemed horrified at the suggestion.
"Why, of course I shall go if you look at it in that way," said he.
"On the face of it, it seems absurd to suppose that this parson knows
anything, but if you think –-"
"I do think," said Holmes with emphasis, and so we were launched upon
our journey. Holmes took me aside before we left the room and gave me one
word of counsel, which showed that he considered the matter to be of
importance. "Whatever you do, see that he really does go," said he.
"Should he break away or return, get to the nearest telephone exchange and
send the single word 'Bolted.' I will arrange here that it shall reach me
wherever I am."
Little Purlington is not an easy place to reach, for it is on a
branch line. My remembrance of the journey is not a pleasant one, for the
weather was hot, the train slow, and my companion sullen and silent,
hardly talking at all save to make an occasional sardonic remark as to the
futility of our proceedings. When we at last reached the little station it
was a two-mile drive before we came to the Vicarage, where a big, solemn,
rather pompous clergyman received us in his study. Our telegram lay before
him.
"Well, gentlemen," he asked, "what can I do for you?"
"We came," I explained, "in answer to your wire."
"My wire! I sent no wire."
"I mean the wire which you sent to Mr. Josiah Amberley about his wife
and his money."
"If this is a joke, sir, it is a very questionable one," said the
vicar angrily. "I have never heard of the gentleman you name, and I have
not sent a wire to anyone."
Our client and I looked at each other in amazement.
"Perhaps there is some mistake," said I; "are there perhaps two
vicarages? Here is the wire itself, signed Elman and dated from the
Vicarage."
"There is only one vicarage, sir, and only one vicar, and this wire
is a scandalous forgery, the origin of which shall certainly be
investigated by the police. Meanwhile, I can see no possible object in
prolonging this interview."
So Mr. Amberley and I found ourselves on the roadside in what seemed
to me to be the most primitive village in England. We made for the
telegraph office, but it was already closed. There was a telephone,
however, at the little Railway Arms, and by it I got into touch with
Holmes, who shared in our amazement at the result of our journey.
"Most singular!" said the distant voice. "Most remarkable! I much
fear, my dear Watson, that there is no return train to-night. I have
unwittingly condemned you to the horrors of a country inn. However, there
is always Nature, Watson –– Nature and Josiah Amberley –– you can be in
close commune with both." I heard his dry chuckle as he turned away.
It was soon apparent to me that my companion's reputation as a miser
was not undeserved. He had grumbled at the expense of the journey, had
insisted upon travelling third-class, and was now clamorous in his
objections to the hotel bill. Next morning, when we did at last arrive in
London, it was hard to say which of us was in the worse humour.
"You had best take Baker Street as we pass," said I. "Mr. Holmes may
have some fresh instructions."
"If they are not worth more than the last ones they are not of much
use," said Amberley with a malevolent scowl. None the less, he kept me
company. I had already warned Holmes by telegram of the hour of our
arrival, but we found a message waiting that he was at Lewisham and would
expect us there. That was a surprise, but an even greater one was to find
that he was not alone in the sitting-room of our client. A stern-looking,
impassive man sat beside him, a dark man with gray-tinted glasses and a
large Masonic pin projecting from his tie.
"This is my friend Mr. Barker," said Holmes. "He has been interesting
himself also in your business, Mr. Josiah Amberley, though we have been
working independently. But we both have the same question to ask you!"
Mr. Amberley sat down heavily. He sensed impending danger. I read it
in his straining eyes and his twitching features.
"What is the question, Mr. Holmes?"
"Only this: What did you do with the bodies?"
The man sprang to his feet with a hoarse scream. He clawed into the
air with his bony hands. His mouth was open, and for the instant he looked
like some horrible bird of prey. In a flash we got a glimpse of the real
Josiah Amberley, a misshapen demon with a soul as distorted as his body.
As he fell back into his chair he clapped his hand to his lips as if to
stifle a cough. Holmes sprang at his throat like a tiger and twisted his
face towards the ground. A white pellet fell from between his gasping
lips.
"No short cuts, Josiah Amberley. Things must be done decently and in
order. What about it, Barker?"
"I have a cab at the door," said our taciturn companion.
"It is only a few hundred yards to the station. We will go together.
You can stay here, Watson. I shall be back within half an hour."
The old colourman had the strength of a lion in that great trunk of
his, but he was helpless in the hands of the two experienced man-handlers.
Wriggling and twisting he was dragged to the waiting cab, and I was left
to my solitary vigil in the ill-omened house. In less time than he had
named, however, Holmes was back, in company with a smart young police
inspector.
"I've left Barker to look after the formalities," said Holmes. "You
had not met Barker, Watson. He is my hated rival upon the Surrey shore.
When you said a tall dark man it was not difficult for me to complete the
picture. He has several good cases to his credit, has he not, Inspector?"
"He has certainly interfered several times," the inspector answered
with reserve.
"His methods are irregular, no doubt, like my own. The irregulars are
useful sometimes, you know. You, for example, with your compulsory warning
about whatever he said being used against him, could never have bluffed
this rascal into what is virtually a confession."
"Perhaps not. But we get there all the same, Mr. Holmes. Don't
imagine that we had not formed our own views of this case, and that we
would not have laid our hands on our man. You will excuse us for feeling
sore when you jump in with methods which we cannot use, and so rob us of
the credit."
"There shall be no such robbery, MacKinnon. I assure you that I
efface myself from now onward, and as to Barker, he has done nothing save
what I told him."
The inspector seemed considerably relieved.
"That is very handsome of you, Mr. Holmes. Praise or blame can matter
little to you, but it is very different to us when the newspapers begin to
ask questions."
"Quite so. But they are pretty sure to ask questions anyhow, so it
would be as well to have answers. What will you say, for example, when the
intelligent and enterprising reporter asks you what the exact points were
which aroused your suspicion, and finally gave you a certain conviction as
to the real facts?"
The inspector looked puzzled.
"We don't seem to have got any real facts yet, Mr. Holmes. You say
that the prisoner, in the presence of three witnesses, practically
confessed by trying to commit suicide, that he had murdered his wife and
her lover. What other facts have you?"
"Have you arranged for a search?"
"There are three constables on their way."
"Then you will soon get the clearest fact of all. The bodies cannot
be far away. Try the cellars and the garden. It should not take long to
dig up the likely places. This house is older than the water-pipes. There
must be a disused well somewhere. Try your luck there."
"But how did you know of it, and how was it done?"
"I'll show you first how it was done, and then I will give the
explanation which is due to you, and even more to my long-suffering friend
here, who has been invaluable throughout. But, first, I would give you an
insight into this man's mentality. It is a very unusual one –– so much so
that I think his destination is more likely to be Broadmoor than the
scaffold. He has, to a high degree, the sort of mind which one associates
with the mediaeval Italian nature rather than with the modern Briton. He
was a miserable miser who made his wife so wretched by his niggardly ways
that she was a ready prey for any adventurer. Such a one came upon the
scene in the person of this chess-playing doctor. Amberley excelled at
chess –– one mark, Watson, of a scheming mind. Like all misers, he was a
jealous man, and his jealousy became a frantic mania. Rightly or wrongly,
he suspected an intrigue. He determined to have his revenge, and he
planned it with diabolical cleverness. Come here!"
Holmes led us along the passage with as much certainty as if he had
lived in the house and halted at the open door of the strong-room.
"Pooh! What an awful smell of paint!" cried the inspector.
"That was our first clue," said Holmes. "You can thank Dr. Watson's
observation for that, though he failed to draw the inference. It set my
foot upon the trail. Why should this man at such a time be filling his
house with strong odours? Obviously, to cover some other smell which he
wisfhed to conceal –– some guilty smell which would suggest suspicions.
Then came the idea of a room such as you see here with iron door and
shutter –– a hermetically sealed room. Put those two facts together, and
whither do they lead? I could only determine that by examining the house
myself. I was already certain that the case was serious, for I had
examined the box-office chart at the Haymarket Theatre –– another of Dr.
Watson's bull's-eyes –– and ascertained that neither B thirty nor
thirty-two of the upper circle had been occupied that night. Therefore,
Amberley had not been to the theatre, and his alibi fell to the ground. He
made a bad slip when he allowed my astute friend to notice the number of
the seat taken for his wife. The question now arose how I might be able to
examine the house. I sent an agent to the most impossible village I could
think of, and summoned my man to it at such an hour that he could not
possibly get back. To prevent any miscarriage, Dr. Watson accompanied him.
The good vicar's name I took, of course, out of my Crockford. Do I make it
all clear to you?"
"It is masterly," said the inspector in an awed voice.
"There being no fear of interruption I proceeded to burgle the house.
Burglary has always been an alternative profession had I cared to adopt
it, and I have little doubt that I should have come to the front. Observe
what I found. You see the gas-pipe along the skirting here. Very good. It
rises in the angle of the wall, and there is a tap here in the corner. The
pipe runs out into the strong-room, as you can see, and ends in that
plaster rose in the centre of the ceiling, where it is concealed by the
ornamentation. That end is wide open. At any moment by turning the outside
tap the room could be flooded with gas. With door and shutter closed and
the tap full on I would not give two minutes of conscious sensation to
anyone shut up in that little chamber. By what devilish device he decoyed
them there I do not know, but once inside the door they were at his
mercy."
The inspector examined the pipe with interest. "One of our officers
mentioned the smell of gas," said he, "but of course the window and door
were open then, and the paint –– or some of it –– was already about. He
had begun the work of painting the day before, according to his story. But
what next, Mr. Holmes?"
"Well, then came an incident which was rather unexpected to myself. I
was slipping through the pantry window in the early dawn when I felt a
hand inside my collar, and a voice said: 'Now, you rascal, what are you
doing in there?' When I could twist my head round I looked into the tinted
spectacles of my friend and rival, Mr. Barker. It was a curious
foregathering and set us both smiling. It seems that he had been engaged
by Dr. Ray Ernest's family to make some investigations and had come to the
same conclusion as to foul play. He had watched the house for some days
and had spotted Dr. Watson as one of the obviously suspicious characters
who had called there. He could hardly arrest Watson, but when he saw a man
actually climbing out of the pantry window there came a limit to his
restraint. Of course, I told him how matters stood and we continued the
case together."
"Why him? Why not us?"
"Because it was in my mind to put that little test which answered so
admirably. I fear you would not have gone so far."
The inspector smiled.
"Well, maybe not. I understand that I have your word, Mr. Holmes,
that you step right out of the case now and that you turn all your results
over to us."
"Certainly, that is always my custom."
"Well, in the name of the force I thank you. It seems a clear case,
as you put it, and there can't be much difficulty over the bodies."
"I'll show you a grim little bit of evidence," said Holmes, "and I am
sure Amberley himself never observed it. You'll get results, Inspector, by
always putting yourself in the other fellow's place, and thinking what you
would do yourself. It takes some imagination, but it pays. Now, we will
suppose that you were shut up in this little room, had not two minutes to
live, but wanted to get even with the fiend who was probably mocking at
you from the other side of the door. What would you do?"
"Write a message."
"Exactly. You would like to tell people how you died. No use writing
on paper. That would be seen. If you wrote on the wall someone might rest
upon it. Now, look here! Just above the skirting is scribbled with a
purple indelible pencil: 'We we –-' That's all."
"What do you make of that?"
"Well, it's only a foot above the ground. The poor devil was on the
floor dying when he wrote it. He lost his senses before he could finish."
"He was writing, 'We were murdered.' "
"That's how I read it. If you find an indelible pencil on the body
--"
"We'll look out for it, you may be sure. But those securities?
Clearly there was no robbery at all. And yet he did possess those bonds.
We verified that."
"You may be sure he has them hidden in a safe place. When the whole
elopement had passed into history, he would suddenly discover them and
announce that the guilty couple had relented and sent back the plunder or
had dropped it on the way."
"You certainly seem to have met every difficulty," said the
inspector. "Of course, he was bound to call us in, but why he should have
gone to you I can't understand."
"Pure swank!" Holmes answered. "He felt so clever and so sure of
himself that he imagined no one could touch him. He could say to any
suspicious neighbour, 'Look at the steps I have taken. I have consulted
not only the police but even Sherlock Holmes.' "
The inspector laughed.
"We must forgive you your 'even,' Mr. Holmes," said he "it's as
workmanlike a job as I can remember."
A couple of days later my friend tossed across to me a copy of the
bi-weekly North Surrey Observer. Under a series of flaming headlines,
which began with "The Haven Horror" and ended with "Brilliant Police
Investigation," there was a packed column of print which gave the first
consecutive account of the affair. The concluding paragraph is typical of
the whole. It ran thus:
The remarkable acumen by which Inspector MacKinnon deduced from the
smell of paint that some other smell, that of gas, for example, might
be concealed; the bold deduction that the strong-room might also be
the death-chamber, and the subsequent inquiry which led to the
discovery of the bodies in a disused well, cleverly concealed by a
dog-kennel, should live in the history of crime as a standing example
of the intelligence of our professional detectives.
"Well, well, MacKinnon is a good fellow," said Holmes with a tolerant
smile. "You can file it in our archives, Watson. Some day the true story
may be told."
