Mystery | Fiction | Thriller

The Adventure of the Lonely Alehouse

A Sherlock Holmes story.

While recording the hundreds of cases that Holmes partook in between the years ’82 and ’05, I have never encountered the reluctance of the scribe. Every case that came before me seemed to be accompanied by faces attempting, in varying degrees of success, to conceal an excruciatingly stricken wit, therefore, I could not help but feel it my duty to at least put their experiences to the pen. This was a common feature of the problems submitted to my friend, as he served as the last court of appeal in the profession hallowed by him. His personal opinions on these cases were, however, quite disparate. It is a measured estimation of mine that he rejected two thirds of all the cases submitted to him in his heyday. The sieve of Holmes’ fancy was one of the finest, and the number of cases that never fell on my ears easily surpass those that did. In fear of doing an injustice to my companion I would, however, say that a lot of these cases found successful conclusions without or with minimal expenditure from him.

In the selection of his cases, Holmes got opportunities in varying degrees, to display the singular powers of observation and deduction which he possessed. While some provided avenues for the clear-cut reasoning and deductions that he so cherished, some involved forays into less elegant methods of resolution and adventures that he would consider ultimately incidental to his interests. The prostrations and exultations of his fellow men would hold as little interest to him as the texture of the chalk cliffs of Dover would to a railway stockbroker. However, now and then a case would come up which would carry a weight of human peril which would cause even him to acknowledge the existence of his fellow mortals. There were also those circumstances where the adventure would be of such a dark and sinister nature, that it would be impossible to describe it without the proper explanation of all the attributes that surrounded and supplemented it. The account that follows here is of that category of Holmes’ cases. Looking back, it seems quite ironic that such a horrible sequence of events should be delivered to us from the words of a comely lady.

Looking up the dates, I recall now that it was the month of September of the year ’90. I had called upon Holmes on a Saturday morning to see how my friend was faring. My marriage had seen our comradeship at Baker Street come to an end, and I had been engulfed by the commitments of domestic life and medical practice. Upon this occasion, I found him deeply engrossed in a corner of the room amidst the clutter of his chemical practice. Without disturbing him, I took a seat. Back at Baker Street, I might as well have been back in my bachelor days. There was a peculiar effect that Holmes pronounced on his surroundings, particularly his place of dwelling, and look about me as I would, I could see nothing in the room to indicate the progress of the years that the world outside had certainly suffered. In a short while, a sudden pungent smell filled the room, indicating a culmination of my friend’s chemical endeavor. He was pleased at this development, and turned a grinning face towards me as he greeted me warmly. We talked for some time about my married life, he had never much curiosity for the road not taken, but I suspect that it had increased of late, because that road had lured away his sole companion and friend, and listening to the vexations of marital life afforded him some contentment in the form of silent vindication.

“Tell me, Watson”, said Holmes. “What does it speak of the personality of a woman, who takes up the duties of the husband, in addition to her filial ones?”

“Quite to her credit”, I returned. “I would say such an enterprising woman is of a rare sort. Mary herself has only the spectator’s interest in my practice.” I added with a chuckle. “She has been quicker at deferring patients to our neighbor in my absence than perhaps would please me.”

“A not altogether imprudent approach, Watson”, replied Holmes. “But tell me, what does it speak of a husband that plies such a trade, that it requires the labors of his spouse, more than his own?”

“I’m afraid it does not speak very well of him. I have, of course, some knowledge of such households, and it is often an indication of hard times. You might remember the case of Isa Whitney, and his opium addiction. Those were hard times for Kate, and she would often have to act the master of her own as well as his affairs.”

“Ah yes, how could I forget. Our meeting at the Bar of Gold is one of the most remarkable ones, even in my experience”, he continued. “However, I am not speaking of neglect in the face of addiction. I must express such a man as has deserted his affairs whilst not displaying any signs of substance abuse.”

“You mean someone who willingly puts his wife at the head of his trade? I confess, I cannot say that I have heard of such a household.”

“I have no doubt”, continued Holmes, “that such a dysfunctional household would not long have ailed in the light of yours and Mary’s benevolent acquaintanceship. However, when it is set upon me to resolve matters of filial neglect, I face waters unnavigated. Just this morning, I received a letter by the special post from Mrs. Matilda Sutherland, expressing fears over her husband’s health and her family’s future in ways which can only be done by women, that is to say, from everything but the actual words.”

Holmes passed a letter to me and it read thus.

Mrs. Matilda Sutherland

Prinny Hall, The Lonely Alehouse

Aldworth, Berkshire

Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esq.

221 B Baker Street

London

Dear Mr. Holmes

I am coming to London tomorrow morning with the express purpose of consulting you regarding some developments that have beleaguered our establishment recently. My husband, Mr. Graham Sutherland, and I, operate the Prinny Hall Inn near Aldworth. Due to some unforeseen circumstances, he will not be able to join me in your consultation, but I will put up the shutters for the day. Please forgive me for seeming so severe, I pray that you will be at your dwelling at 10 am.

Yours sincerely

Matilda Sutherland

“Mrs. Sutherland is a woman of remarkable self-mastery, as should be evident from the way she has measured her words”, said Holmes. “Of course, the developments she wishes to consult me on are in no way recent by occurrence, notice the numerous smudges on the right half of the sheet and the fine layer of dust on the face, indicating where she placed her palm on it multiple times, and that it lay open on the writing desk for some days before being written. Well, then you have the fairly obvious fact that it has been sent through special post, which would mean that she wrote it late last night, indicating that her hesitation was finally vanquished by some sudden occasion. With all this information, and a lady in necessity of assistance, I do not think that it would be to our credit to disregard her appeal. It is a stroke of good fortune that you are with me today, Watson, for your genial persona would quicker put a woman at ease than the fragrance of my chemical apparatus. Yes, you are right, please throw the window open.”

Shortly after the appointed time conveyed by the note, its author followed. To say that Mrs. Matilda Sutherland had all the features which make a woman attractive would have been no great appraisal, and yet there is nothing about her that I remember nearly as clearly as her eyes. Those nervous, neurotic green eyes would flicker incessantly, a chink in the mask that afforded a glimpse to the fear within, in a face that otherwise had been made up to conceal it well. Holmes rose and took away her bonnet and shawl, and with his easy courtesy seated her on the basket chair beside the fire. She wore a somber but fashionable green pelisse jacket and silver silk gloves. Her lips parted in the effort of a smile as Holmes introduced me as his friend and colleague, ensuring her of complete discretion.

“You may speak before Dr. Watson as you would before me”, he said. “He has been my helper in solving many a predicament and his presence today is a great stroke of luck.”

“Thank you”, she replied. “Forgive me for having been so overbearing. I assure you; I would have never acted this way but for last night. Oh, I have endured for so long!”

“Please madam”, said Holmes. “Do not burden yourself unnecessarily. Tell us, in what way can we assist you?”

“It’s Graham, Mr. Holmes!”, cried Mrs. Sutherland. “There is something very wrong with him. He is not himself, how could he do such a thing, oh, I am not myself…”. Holmes leapt to her as her frame collapsed on one side of the chair. I immediately went to the cabinet and brought out some brandy in hot water. With some drops of water and sips of the spirit, we roused Mrs. Sutherland, planted three cushions around her and managed to pull her upright. Her nerves were quite strained, but the drink managed to produce some warmth in her face. After many expostulations and consolations, she was able to regain her composure and sat straight with fingers clasped and arms resting on her lap.

“Now, Mrs. Sutherland”, continued Holmes, “I instruct you to be completely at ease, and narrate your story in as complete a fashion as you can from beginning to end, omitting no detail that you think is of value. The better you can describe it to me, the swifter I can help resolve your plight. Now, I am all ears.” With this, Holmes sank back in his own chair, closed his eyes and put his fingertips together, as calm as a windless bay. The sight of him encouraged the young lady, and she began to narrate her account in a low voice.

“I married Graham five years ago”, she spoke, “in that time we have had two children, baby Beth and young Timothy. We lived in Birmingham all those years as a small but respectable household. Graham was a junior clerk at John Marston & Co. and had an income of 50 pounds and I did some needle work on the side and brought in 10 shillings a week; we managed to get by with a decent income for a working-class family. However, six months ago, disaster struck when Graham’s firm decided to close their office and leave him unemployed. By God’s good grace, an opportunity fell into our lap around the same time. Graham’s uncle, Mr. Bradley Openshaw, had passed away tragically in a riding accident. He was a bachelor, and the owner of the Prinny Hall Inn, which he had left to Graham’s name. It had been built by his grandfather during the Regency but it had languished for years in neglect, Mr. Openshaw had set it up decently in the past years, and with a fresh set of hands, it could soon become the most thriving prospect in that country. We were certain of it, Mr. Holmes, without a shadow of doubt, that this was a godsend. It was getting time for Timothy’s education, and with the new income, we could send him to the choicest of schools. To say that we rejoiced at this development would be putting it lightly, all our grief and fear of being penniless vanished and we looked forward with eagerness to our retirement in the country.

“It was in the month of June that we were finally able to conclude our affairs in Birmingham and move to Berkshire. We reached Paddington in the early morning and started off for Aldworth by carriage. I still remember the serene look on Timothy’s face pressed against the window pane as he saw the brick and cement landscape melt away into the rolling hills and wooded pastures of the countryside. In our hearts too, we felt glad, and I would fill my lungs with the luscious scent of the beeches and elms each time we got down. It was the last time I saw Graham at peace, expectant and hopeful, oh, how the days have gone ill for us since!” Mrs. Sutherland took a pause to compose herself, then continued. “It was late in the evening by the time we began to ascend the country to Aldworth. The air was chill and in the light of the carriage lantern, I could see that the road had given way to gravel, as we travelled onwards and upwards. The country was dark around us, and the seclusion of our establishment was fully realized by me now. Every now and then, we would catch the light of a faraway homestead from between the trees that dotted either side of the path. It was with some disappointment that I noticed that there were no households near us, which could only mean that we would have to run to the village for every little thing, and that was at least an hour away by horse. But I had made up my mind to spend the ensuing weeks travelling up and down the country roads, taking stock of each path, by-lane and shortcut that I could catch a glimpse of. The Inn has a caretaker, Hans, who lives in the lodge, and could help with that. The Hall, you see, is located on the road that connects Oxford to Reading, however, it does not lie on the main highway, so we do not get the regular traffic. Given its proximity to Aldworth, we get a lot of daytime business from commuters between Berkshire and the towns. As for the Hall, it lies adjacent to the road at a bend with thick woods on the back and front. It is a fairly sized property; we have two floors and a cellar, a total of five rooms to accommodate guests apart from the two that we ourselves occupy, a parlor, a common area and grounds.

“Now, Mr. Holmes, I will tell you about how we fared in the weeks following the commencement of our new establishment. The first two weeks went by without much trouble, we settled in and prepared the Hall for its reopening. There were several renovations and improvements that we ascertained were necessary and overdue for the smooth functioning of the establishment. Among these, the drainage pipes which led from the house across the gardens, the beer vats in the cellar which had molded and rendered completely unusable and the kitchen garden that had fallen into a state of overgrowth and disrepair. Of a day, we went into town to conduct the necessary inquiries and place orders for the overhauls that needed to be done. I could not help but notice then, Mr. Holmes, that something was not quite right with Graham. His way of speaking or actions would not betray much to an outsider, but for his wife, there was no doubt that some misgiving had crept into his heart. I talked to him about it, but he would disregard all my considerations in his cavalier manner, and in an instant return to his easy-going self-assured way. But the next day, there would be the same signs of gloom on his face again, and we would end up engaged in this game of roulette once more. I dismissed it at that time as a spell of homesickness or indecision, oh how wrong I had been, I should have trusted my intuition. I knew there was something amiss all along!

“It first happened after we had been at the Inn for some weeks. In the night, we turn out all the lamps in the house but we leave two burning at the entrance and one at the postern gate. I had a restless sleep and found myself suddenly awake in the wee hours of the morning. Well, it just so happens Mr. Holmes, that the bedside window in our room opens towards the postern gate on the edge wall at the back of the house, and I was lying on my side staring out at it from between a parting of the curtains, when I saw a figure crossing the gate from one side to the other. Unmistakably, it was the figure of a man, and not some animal. Now, sir, I would tell you that our Inn is the only domestic establishment for five miles all around. Apart from the woods, the pastures, the downs and the cliffs, there is not a single human settlement that I know of, so you can imagine my surprise at seeing someone at our gate late at night. It took me a while to compose myself from that sight, but I convinced myself that it could be a traveler abroad overnight, looking for a stay. Imagine my surprise then sir, when I turned around to wake Graham and I saw that his bed was empty! My head spun with confusion, and I was at a loss of knowing what to do. Should I go out to see if there was a customer looking for a house? Should I stay and wait for Graham to return? Had he, perhaps, already seen the gentleman outside and left to meet him? I could not comprehend the meaning of it, and I just lay there turning one uncomfortable thought over for another. I looked out of the window to see if the man was still there, but now I could see no living being outside. It was a moonless night, and everything around the house was in complete darkness, so unless someone approached the gate, there was really no way to see them. I lay the rest of the night in a state of perplexity and vacillation, all vestige of sleep driven from my mind. Each minute I expected Graham to return and answer my questions, and each minute that he delayed increased my agitation and contorted my questions in a hundred ways. I do not even remember what hour it was, Mr. Holmes, but the sky had certainly begun to turn silver, when the door opened and Graham entered the room. I sat up in an instant to speak a thousand words, and in that second, Mr. Holmes, my heart sank and my voice left me. I had never seen that look on Graham’s face before, Mr. Holmes. His face was white and ears red. If someone else had stood there instead of Graham, it would have been so much better. Even so, before me stood Graham’s ghost, not Graham. There was fear in his eyes, Mr. Holmes, and guilt. I opened my lips to speak, I tried to reach out with my hand, but my lips couldn’t move, and my hand was frozen. His eyes conveyed to me a fear, that no words of his could ever corroborate.

““Dear, why are you up so early?”, he asked. His face half turned from me.”

““Graham, there was someone at the gate, in the night. I wanted to tell you”, I said.”

““Oh, indeed”, he spoke, never meeting my eyes. “There are travelers on this road in the night, I am sure.””

““Graham dear, where were you?””

““Oh, I could not get much sleep”, he said. “I was working on the kitchen cupboards and writing a letter to brother Quincey. Really, dear, I feel the drowsiness on me now. I think I will sleep till breakfast. Pray do not wake me.””

“Nothing more did I dare ask him, so final did his words sound and the effect his countenance produce on me that night. He did not wake for breakfast. And it was several hours into the day when he emerged from the room, and without any word headed out. I found it very peculiar, but I was kept busy the entire day to think much of it. In the evening when he got back, I went out to him in the stables as he was tethering the horse, and asked him in earnest the meaning of his actions. He refused all of my reproaches, Mr. Holmes, and accused me of making a fuss out of nothing. He insisted that he had been penning a letter to Quincey all night, and had gone into town to post it. He rebutted me in such strong terms, sir, that I was quite flushed. I had never seen him behave in this way before, and I could not get over it.

“Well, sir, now I will tell you of the second occurrence that befell us, and if you think that the first one was indeed a woman’s fuss, then you would not do so upon hearing this. It was a month after we had opened, I had woken up and was putting up for the day’s business, when I saw a note on a half sheet of paper stuck to the door, it gave me the fright of my life — I must have shrieked — for both the servants and the caretaker were around me before I knew what had happened. Well, here it is sir, and you shall be the judge now if my complaints are a woman’s fuss.” She drew from her purse and handed over a sheet of coarse yellowish paper on which the following words had been scrawled in a rough hand:

November the 21st

Cedar Suite. Their blood is in your hands.

Craig’s Knoll, 31st, midnight, be there alone or else….

“When Graham set his eyes on this message, his face turned a sickly hue and he flew into a fit of rage. I followed him inside and demanded him to tell me all about this secret doom that had befell us, but he would keep turning the other way, slamming the wall or stomping the ground in bouts of anger. I told him that I would send Hans for the police, at this, he grabbed me by the wrist and implored me with such words as stupefied me.

““No need to bring in the police, dear”, said he, “This is a joke, a misunderstanding, and the police would never listen to us. They do not have time to spare for such trivial jests as can be played by any country boy with a whim for some mischief. Calm yourself, dear, and if it really means much to you, I will go myself and report this matter.””

“With this, he got on the horse and departed for the town. I was left dumbstruck in the hallway with the horrible message in my hands. I turned around to face our rooms, and as I saw the letters printed in black on the brass metal plates on the doors, an even greater horror struck me. Cedar Suite was the name of one of our rooms, the one Timothy and Elizabeth slept in! I would have fainted then and there had the servant girl not caught me and taken me in. I immediately communicated the situation to the household, telling them to be on guard and report any miscreants on the road after sundown. A part of me hoped that this was harmless tomfoolery, but then I remembered the mysterious man in the night and Graham’s disinclination to speak of it, and doubt filled my heart. There was no circumstance by which I was taking a wager on the health of my children, and I sent a letter to my cousin in London, asking her if it would be alright to leave the children with her for a while. Graham got back after reporting the incident to the police station at Aldworth, and was confident that no further trouble would arise. The inspector there had assured that a constable would be on the road at night, on the lookout for any suspicious folk. As for the message itself, we were both dumbfounded as to what it meant. Hans told us that Craig’s Knoll was a jagged hill some distance to the north east of the Inn, apart from that, he was unable to make heads or tails of the message, and so we left it at that, with neither of us mentioning the ominous missive again. It has lain buried beneath the labors of everyday chores and I had forgotten about it, until I decided to visit you here and conjectured that it may be of assistance.

“It is this last incident that fills me with despair, Mr. Holmes, I need help, but I know not where to look for it. After a few days, we had moved on with our lives and put behind us the sinister message as a joke, but in my mind, it was ever present as the foreshadowing of some doom. As the days got closer to the end of the month, I began to have trouble sleeping, and would be woken at night by the slightest disturbance. On Thursday night, my sleep was particularly light, and just a few hours after going to bed I found myself awake. Beside me, Graham’s place was empty. The night was particularly still that day, and sounds carried in the air quite easily. A faint light shone from under our door, and I distinctly heard the sound of the front door opening and closing, then came the sound of footsteps, and the light vanished from beneath the door. Dark misgivings crept into my heart, sir, and I braved myself to get out of bed and turn the handle of the door. Once out, I went straight to the children’s room, and only when I had seen them both lying side by side on the bed, sleeping soundly, did I heave a sigh of relief. My next instinct was to light a candle and head outside. I scanned the yard and went all the way to the outer gate; the night was cold yet clear, and there was nothing to be seen on the road in either direction. I then went in, locked the door and slept the rest of the night at the foot of Timothy and Beth’s bed.

“Early next morning, I was woken by Graham, who was surprised to find me in the children’s room.

““Dear, are you alright? Have you been keeping up at night?”, he asked.”

““I was worried for the children, Graham!”, I returned, coming suddenly to my senses. “I woke to find you gone, where were you now? Why do you not tell me what is going on? Had you gone — oh — please don’t say that you had gone in answer to that horrible message!”

““Gracious, dear! Have I not told you to forget about that?”, he answered. “Why are you still despairing over such a frivolous affair! There is no danger to our children! Do you think I would allow such a thing to pass?”

““Oh Graham!” I fell into his arms and cried. He held me close and spoke such words as would comfort me. I swooned with fatigue, he led me to the bed and put me to sleep, with such instructions as not to stir till I was completely rested. Rest I did, but when I awoke, I was again consumed by the questions which Graham had left unanswered. I resolved to get to the truth of the matter by making my own inquiries, and therefore in the evening, I secretly saddled my mare in the stable and kept my riding boots under the bed before sleeping, along with a darkroom lantern. If I caught Graham escaping on another nightly expedition, I would follow him and see for myself the cause that had entreated so much secrecy. Yesterday night, Graham looked reserved, and seemed particularly reluctant of conversation during dinner. I tucked in the children and then we retired at ten. My preparations were not in vain, for, sure enough, a little after the midnight hour, my sleep was disturbed by his dressing and departing from the room. I lost no time in donning my riding skirt, jacket and boots. I lit the lantern, went to the door and turned the handle, but it had been locked without. Such a thing could hardly successfully imprison me, however, and I tried the window, which opened surely and I hopped out into the garden. I made my way around into the stable with the lantern shut, and saw Graham leading his horse out. In the light of his lamp, I was able to discern the shape of a spade and a mattock projecting from his saddlebag. He led him out on the road and departed in the direction opposite to the village, that is, to the north-west. I was quick in mounting and following him, and had gained the road in a couple of minutes. With half a mile of canter, I was able to spy his lantern in between the bends of the road. I was afraid of showing my own light, for he could easily spot it if he turned around, but fortunately the night was moonlit, and the road and woods were basked in a pale glow, so even without the light, I was able to keep track fairly well.

“After half an hour of riding, he turned aside from the road onto a forest path, which progressed in several twists and turns into the heart of the wood. This path led into a clearing which served as the grounds of a churchyard and cemetery. The chapel loomed on the farther end, dark against the moonlight, throwing lengthy shadows before it. The cemetery was approached by a path leading from it, as well as a path that led from a gate in the yard wall, and was fenced in by a ring of trees. On this gate, I saw two horses tethered, of which one was clearly Graham’s. I tethered my mare on the bark of a tree nearby and entered the churchyard, following the path to the cemetery. I dropped beside the trees in the shadows, for I could see Graham in the farther end of the cemetery, with another person in his company. They both stood in front of a line of graves, and a large black sack lay at their feet. To my horror, Mr. Holmes, they started digging one of the graves. It frightens me even now, what I saw yesterday, and I say this to you with a thousand apprehensions against the commendation of your discretion. Do not condemn him, Mr. Holmes, he has fallen into some great misfortune. Graham is not evil at heart, he would hurt no one in the world! What the reason for his actions are I cannot tell, but I assure you on my honor that he is innocent! Save him, sir! Now you know why I could not go to the police! Oh, forgive me, I have not fulfilled my part yet. As I saw this horrendous sight, I must have fainted, for I remember opening my eyes upon the roots of a yew. I must have lain there for hours, for when I rose and saw within, there was no sign of Graham or his companion. The night had grown cold, and my muscles were cramped and joints sore. I remember not why, but I walked across the lawn to the grave, and as my eyes set upon the name on the tombstone, I would have screamed. It was the grave of Bradley Openshaw, Graham’s uncle and benefactor! My head spun and I ran from that horrible sight, wishing I had never seen it, wishing I had never followed Graham, and was instead asleep at the Inn. What would I have given, for it all to have been a dream? How I flew to my mare and returned to the Hall I do not remember; I only recollect Graham’s horse still being absent from the stable. I sat down at the table in a daze, wrote my letter to you, dispatched it by Hans in the early morning, and came to you. I have not had a night’s rest for two days, and I reckon not until all my fears are quelled and Graham is restored to honor in my heart. I lay it all before you, Mr. Holmes, please, save us from disaster, and you will have my gratitude for as long as I am alive!”

Silence returned to the room as Mrs. Sutherland concluded her narrative. The weight of her earnest entreaties seemed to hang in the air even after her speech had ended and I found myself admiring her tenacity, for keeping her wits where lesser men would have been immobilized. I cast my eyes down in pity, however, knowing only too well the ends such tales convey. Holmes opened his eyes. For a few moments, he stared into the fire, then turning around to Mrs. Sutherland, he spoke.

“Your account is interesting, Mrs. Sutherland. I am glad that you decided to consult me, for it seems to me that there are employments multiple and reputations numerous that hang by the strength of a thread in this matter. As for your fears, let me assure you that I am a consulting detective, not the police, and I will act in your interest as far as the frontiers of justice permit, for, that is the only chalk-line that society must tend to, unless humanity be degenerated into a child’s plaything. You have excelled greatly in the comprehensiveness of your narrative, pray answer some questions of mine, concluding which, I will pronounce our interview a success. First, what do you know of the nature of the demise of Mr. Bradley Openshaw?”

“I had never met Graham’s uncle, but it is known to me that he was fond of riding and shooting. His death occurred all of a sudden, in an accident, and his body along with that of his horse was found at the bottom of a cliff not very far from the Hall. This happened in December of last year. Graham had gone to attend the funeral, and I remember it because it cast a gloom over us before Christmas, and I recall asking Graham if he would be able to return before the Eve.”

“What inheritance did the late Mr. Openshaw leave your husband?”

“The ownership of Prinny Hall, as well as his entire income which amounted to some 300 pounds a year.”

“Meaning that Mr. Sutherland was his sole heir?”

“Yes. He had a sister to whom he left nothing, since his will purported that the inheritance descend to the nearest male relative.”

“In what way did Mr. Sutherland receive news of his uncle’s demise and his legacy?”, asked Holmes.

“Through Mr. Openshaw’s lawyer”, she replied.

“May I have his name and address?”

“Certainly”, Holmes pushed a paper and pen towards her, and she jotted down the address. “He is a London practitioner, Mr. Lloyd Weston.”

“There must be great affinity between your husband and his uncle”, said Holmes. “Seeing the generous nature of inheritance that he left him.”

“I do not recall Graham mentioning his uncle to a great extent”, she replied. “However, he had lived for a year with him at the age of 17, which was the source of their intimacy.”

“But they must have interacted when Mr. Openshaw named him his heir?”, asked Holmes.

“Oh no, Mr. Holmes”, she replied. “You see, we only came to know of his will after his death. And upon speaking to Mr. Weston, it became known to us that Mr. Openshaw had made the will just a week prior.”

“That the will was put into action in such a short span, is certainly an interesting point”, Holmes observed, then continued his inquiries. “You mentioned discerning a change in Mr. Sutherland’s disposition a few days into entering his inheritance. Is there anything particular that caused this?”

“I had given much thought to the reason for his distress but to no avail, Mr. Holmes”, replied Mrs. Sutherland with effort. “However, an incident comes to my mind which was particularly odd. It was well the first which brought to my attention a departure in Graham’s spirits. Of a day, there arrived at our Inn the workers from the metal workshop in town, to work upon the beer vats in the cellar. No sooner had they unpacked that Graham burst out of the door with loud protestations and announced that their services were not required and that we had no need for repair in our vats. This obviously led to a huge confusion, and the whole situation was so absurd, and Graham’s ardent refusal to let them in so incredulous, that it left a lasting impression upon my mind.”

“And did Mr. Sutherland give any justification for his actions?”, asked Holmes.

“Well, he said that the season was not right, and that the draymen would see our weekly needs fulfilled in a much more profitable way”, she answered.

“A sad day for the connoisseurs of Prinny Hall’s malt”, said Holmes. “And where is this procured beer kept?”

“We have two barrels in the pantry”, replied Mrs. Sutherland, with mild surprise. “From whence we conveniently serve at the counter.”

“And how often do you have to replenish your supply?”

“Generally, twice a week; once, if it’s slow.”

“Thank you for recalling this piece of information”, continued Holmes. “Now, does the date of November the 21st, as mentioned in the message, beckon you anything?”

“No, sir”

“The other date, that is, the 31st, is tomorrow. Has your husband given you any indication of preparing to meet the invitation, apart from these secret nightly expeditions?”

“He has not said anything to me, sir, but his bearing grows worse each day, it is filling me with dread, this evil that awaits us!”, she cried.

“Do you know if Mr. Sutherland has any enemies?”, asked Holmes with emphasis. “Any piece of information that can shed light on the identity of the person you saw yesterday, or the author of the note?”

“I cannot imagine Graham having a single enemy, Mr. Holmes”, replied Mrs. Sutherland. “He is well bred, law-abiding and honorable. If there is one fault with him, then it is ambition. For the sake of our family, he has ill-used himself much. But as for your other question, I found this note crumpled in the waste-paper basket one day. It is Graham’s hand, and is not addressed to anyone, but perhaps it can help you.”

She handed him a sheet of paper smoothed over but still bearing many creases. It ran thus:

For Heaven’s sake, do not be so impertinent! Sell it, smash it or burn it, I care not. I only wish to be free of it, but I am not letting you touch it till you dispose of them. Leave us in peace! Do not call, I will come myself.

“Allow me to keep this, for now”, said Holmes. “It seems to be most suggestive. Does it convey any meaning to you?”

“None that could perhaps benefit you, Mr. Holmes”, she replied. “But to me, this only shows that Graham has somehow fallen into a villainous trap. Whether this danger has followed from Birmingham or caught hold of him in Berkshire, God only knows!”

“Despair not, Mrs. Sutherland”, said Holmes, in his most consoling voice. “I have resolved to take up your case, and I venture to say that before the fateful hour described in the poster, we will have some material advice for you and your husband. If I deem it necessary, we might impose upon your hospitality and stay tomorrow night at your Inn. However, I can assure you that by the second sunrise from now, your family will be free from the clutches of this dreadful affair once and for all.”

Holmes’ assurances produced such an effect on the lady’s countenance, that for a few moments, her face glowed with the light of her rich complexion and annexed much of its natural beauty from the cloud of fear that had hung over her upon her entrance. With many bows, turnarounds and assiduous invitations, she took Holmes’ departure at the door, following which, he sauntered over to the window to see her cart taper off down the street and then resumed his chair beside the fire, with the ominous message on the yellow sheet of paper in his hand.

“This message, Watson,” he said presently, “serves as the sole physical testament to the dark affair that surrounds our erstwhile guest, apart from the solicitous remonstrations that cannot be disregarded, this is the only souvenir of our lady’s distress, and, the most direct piece of evidence to be got. Pray, give me your observations on it.”

I took the sheet of paper from his hand and examined it.

“The paper is thick and coarse, as might be seen at the feet of a street hawker. The writing itself is capitalized and rough, and can hardly betray any delicacy on part of the writer. The letters, it would seem to me, were written with some crude implement, perhaps chalk or a stick of graphite.”

“And what of the message itself?”

“Coarse and direct, much like the author. He threatens their children, and demands an interview. Ransom, perhaps?”

“Perhaps, Watson”, said Holmes. “But, is that all you can see? What of the first date, the 21st of November? Does that not suggest something to you?”

“I cannot see what it could mean”, I returned. “Is it the date of writing?”

“In the interest of practicality, I think we can rule out the chances of this message being delivered before being written, or, that the author chose a year’s delay in it’s being delivered.”

“Then, is it an ultimatum?”

“More likely. But most likely, neither. See, Watson, the curious way of writing displayed in this message. On the face of it, it might appear as a threat letter, however, upon close inspection, it seems that it may carry meaning more profound, to someone whom it is addressed to. The purpose of writing this date at the top might be to draw attention to the significance of it. Next, notice the second line, which says: Cedar Suite. Their blood is in your hands. Now, is that the vernacular that you would use to threaten someone’s life?”

“Well, in of itself, it would seem to suggest guilt, rather than murderous intent.”

“Précisément”, returned Holmes. “And so, you see, the general impression that our lady perceived from the message seems to be easily dispelled upon closer inspection, and a meaning altogether different seems to be suggested.”

Holmes extracted his clay pipe out of the stand, lit it with matches from the table and sank back in his chair, eyes angled straight at the ceiling. His methods of meditation, while unconventional, were the most efficacious that I had seen in my life, and he could persist for hours in intense states of concentration, on the sustenance of coffee or tobacco alone. Indeed, it has seemed to me before that what ordinary people class as nourishment for the body, Holmes classed crime. It was necessary for his subsistence, to have his physical and mental faculties bent on a case, to gorge it from inside out like a starving tramp would a roast grouse, then recline and encore. And thus, I have often tolled the death knell on the schemes and plots of his unfortunate adversaries, for what mind could rival his own? What mystery could resist unraveling at the hands of this man, who consumed them with gluttony? Even now, as I saw him meditate, I knew that he was sorting through the statement of the lady, docketing the points of importance, reviewing the statements from various angles and immersing himself in the sea of his imagination, that would draw conclusions and observations from her own narrative, that she would otherwise have been unable to infer. After a long silence, he let out an exclamation, and sat upright.

“Was there anything curious you found in Mrs. Sutherland’s account, Watson?”, he said to me, with a playful smile on his face.

“I confess, it was all curiosity to me”, I replied.

“Tut-tut, that will not do”, he continued. “I will do you an assistance, I will call your attention, specifically, to her experience on the night of the day before yesterday.”

“The day she found her husband absent from home”, I said, straining to recall the order of events that I had listened to a while ago. “She found herself in a precarious situation, and spent the night at her children’s feet. That is all I recall.”

“Yes, but there is more, much more to it than that”, continued Holmes. “I will describe the scene to you, so that you can have a better understanding of it. I remember clearly, she said that she woke to some noise outside her room, there was a candle burning which showed underneath her door, the outer door opened, footsteps sounded, and the light vanished. Now, what does that convey to you?”

“That her husband left the Inn”, I replied.

“I give you one more attempt”, said Holmes. “Now recall, when she went outside, she saw no sign of any man on the road. Then, she went back in, locked the door, and slept in her children’s room. In the morning, however, it was her husband that found her and woke her up. How came he in, if the door was locked?”

“Then, he did not leave the house, rather let someone in!”, I ejaculated, tying the strings together.

“Indeed Watson”, said Holmes. “It does not take much to see that the lady was much mistaken in her fear. She thought that he had left, but in that case the footsteps should have sounded before the door, not after.”

“But then if he were inside, why did the light vanish and how could she miss him?”, I asked.

“Because he was out of sight”, replied Holmes. “In a place where she did not look, and the light went with him.”

“Do you mean that he was hidden?”, I asked.

“Not necessarily hidden”, answered Holmes. “No more hidden than I should pronounce you, were I in Kensington one day with the object of visiting you, and found myself ignorant of your address. You see, it did not occur to Mrs. Sutherland that he was in the premises, but from the particulars of her account, there is no qualm in supposing that he was. That he let someone in, is also strongly supported. What remains to be known is where he was, with whom he was and what was their employment?”

Holmes scribbled a note, got up and put on his cap and coat. At the threshold with his hand upon the handle, he turned around and said, “Never accept an eyewitness’ account to be factually intact, there are a few inquiries regarding the Sutherlands that I think I shall conduct on my own. Watson, if you would oblige me by coming down by 4 pm tomorrow, I fancy that I may have some guests over that would provide an excellent evening of conversation.” I assured him that I would, and we both departed our ways.

I dispatched my patients early the next day and by 4pm, I was at the step of Baker Street. I entered to find Holmes sitting by the fireside smoking a cigar, and tea laid out on the table.

“You are right on time, Watson”, said Holmes. “Our guests have not yet arrived. I am not certain if one of them will humor my invitation, but the other, must certainly come. In the meanwhile, I think we could enjoy discussing the conclusions of the curious case of yesterday.”

“It has been on my mind all day, I confess”, I said, sitting down and accepting a cigar. “What a mess of a situation.”

“Indulge me, Watson, by telling me your opinion of it”, he said.

“I grieve for the lady, for it seems that her husband has fallen from grace”, I said. “Probably got himself entangled with ruffians, wound up with more debt than he could pay, tried to escape from it, but the villains pursued and are now blackmailing him.”

“Dear, Watson”, said Holmes, shaking his head. “This will never do, your hypothesis fails to accommodate too many factors, for it to be labelled even near decent. For once, if he was pursued into Berkshire by his creditors, why should they adopt such a roundabout way of harassing him as asking him to come to a certain hill on a certain night? It also fails to explain the mystery of the man with whom Mr. Sutherland was seen — or observed — twice. Finally, why should it prompt him to go digging graves in the middle of the night?”

“What is your theory, then?”, I asked.

“I need none, the mystery is solved”, replied Holmes.

“Solved!”, I ejaculated, looking at him in surprise.

“Well, not in the legal sense of course”, he said, shrugging his shoulders. “The particulars of the case yet elude me, but as concerns the mystery, it is solved. There are a handful of cases in my records that display features of similarity to this one, and on the whole if one’s study of crime in the past century is wide, there remains almost no feature here which can be described as unremittingly unique. The men change, the venues change, the times change, but the crime remains the same.”

“Holmes, surely you gained an advantage over me in the past day”, I protested.

“A general impression of the truth had already struck me, when the lady completed her narrative”, said Holmes. “But there were two inquiries of some success that I conducted yesterday, that I will now tell you of. First, I went down to the telegram office and sent off a wire to John Marston & Co. of Birmingham. They never closed their offices, therefore, Mr. Sutherland’s reason for the loss of his position was a lie. Did you not find it odd, Watson, that an inheritance so hefty should come his way on the very hour of his misfortune? It was one of the first suggestive points that struck me in the lady’s narrative. Second, I visited Mr. Lloyd Weston at Bond Street, and inquired after his late client, Bradley Openshaw. There I learned a few instructive details, Openshaw dealt with him exclusively over mail, he had never actually met the fellow. His will had been delivered to him in this way, over mail, with the terms and signatures laid out, only wanting Weston’s, a week before his tragic death. In the letter that carried his will, it was mentioned that all further correspondence was to be addressed to the Aldworth Post Office, to be left till called for.”

“How strange!”, I remarked.

“Strange, yet instructive”, returned Holmes. “But it opened the avenue for a little experiment of mine, which I did not dally in conducting. What the result will be, we shall know before the day is over.”

“Holmes, will you not conduct this case from Berkshire?”, I asked. “The lady was much galvanized by the prospect that you would.”

“Because she thinks it is a security for me to be there”, replied Holmes. “But she doesn’t know what I know. The danger, after all, is not over her husband or children. But hear, Watson, I think our first guest is arrived, it is the husband, no less.”

The bell rang, and after a series of footsteps, the door opened to admit a man in his late twenties. Mr. Sutherland was of medium height, clean shaven, smartly dressed, and with a face that was yet naïve in concealing the prevailing emotions of within. His cheeks were colored with indignation of the sort that a man carries in deficit of reasonable motivation, but which failed to diminish the dark patches under his eyes that spoke clearly of his sleepless nights. He took a few steps forward, drew a note from his inner coat pocket and slapped it on the table.

“I come sir, against my better reason, for to answer a summons of such uncivil nature is an insult in of itself”, he spoke. “Pray tell me which of you is Sherlock Holmes, and why is it that you have demanded an audience with me on such unscrupulous terms.”

“I am he, Mr. Sutherland”, said Holmes, rising, “and this is Dr. Watson, my colleague. I ask your forgiveness, if I gave offense in my letter to you. Let me assure you that my desire is nothing but your benefit, please take a seat and have a cup of tea, and I will explain the reason for my impertinence.” Graham Sutherland took the seat, but refused the cup of tea. “For the benefit of Dr. Watson, I will provide some context; in my letter to you, I expressed that I was the owner of Smith & Sons, that I had a signed contract entailing my workers to overhaul and refurbish the beer vats in the Prinny Hall Inn, which would involve inspection, removal, excavation and installation in the general area of the cellar, and that a cancellation of this contract could not be made to effect without a payment of 50 pounds or your visit to 221 B Baker Street, the firm headquarters, by 4 pm latest, today.”

“That is correct”, said Mr. Sutherland, in contempt. “And I demand an explanation to this absurd policy! Am I to be forced into these overhauls under my own roof? Will your men lay siege on me otherwise? What is the purpose of calling me here? I have not time to spare so please be quick.”

“Mr. Sutherland”, continued Holmes. “I am not the owner of Smith & Sons.”

“Then who is?”, he demanded.

“No one”, replied Holmes. “There is no such firm.”

“What!”, he cried in disbelief and stood up.

“Indeed, sir”, said Holmes. “Forgive me, but the letter was a pure fabrication of mine, intended only to harness your attention and secure an interview with you, for a purpose that is much more critical than the beer vats in your cellar. It relates to your late uncle, Bradley Openshaw, and his legacy.”

Graham Sutherland’s expression changed from one of injured contempt to subdued surprise. “What of it?”, he asked.

“Pray, resume your seat, sir. Now, through a client that shall remain nameless, I have been employed to investigate some circumstances revolving around Prinny Hall and its past. The revelations that have come forth are of a dark and incriminating nature, but it is my client’s fastidious request, to avoid public scandal and reach a resolution forthwith, which I believe may be in your power and that of another, to achieve.”

Little drops of perspiration began to appear on Graham Sutherland’s forehead, and his expression remained that of baffled distrust, a momentary pause ensued, and a flash of indecision appeared in his eyes, but then, clouded over by propriety, it was replaced by a resolution of indifference. “I did not come here expecting the attendance of a courteous man, but to be dealt with in such desultory fashion confirms my faith that it was a folly. I declare this interview concluded.”

“Wait, sir!”, cried Holmes, to the surprise of us both. “I perceive my other guest to have arrived. It is most fortunate, for I believe his presence will gain me your greater trust!” With this, Holmes sprang to the door and stood on the inside. We heard footsteps coming up the stairs and a rap on the door. Holmes pulled it open to admit a man, very rough looking, with unkempt hair and beard, reptilian eyes and flat nostrils. He walked with a heavy leather booted step, and stood staring at us, with his narrow eyes from underneath the brim of his hat, in a sweeping tailcoat. As soon as his eyes rested on our guest, they widened with surprise and his mouth dropped open, as if involuntarily. “You!”, he exclaimed. I looked over adjacent to me and saw Graham Sutherland staring with similar features, face turned white as a sheet of paper, unable to speak a word. “Gentlemen,” announced Holmes, from behind the man, “Mr. Bradley Openshaw!”. The man, with a quick turn, poised himself to fly out of the door he had entered, when Holmes clapped a revolver to the back of his head. “Not so fast, Openshaw, do not deprive us of your company so hastily.” Beside me, Graham Sutherland collapsed into his chair, with a loud groan, “It is done, oh lord, it is done!”.

It was as curious an assembly as I had ever seen in Baker Street, the four of us sitting around the fire, Openshaw and his nephew the middle two, Holmes and I on the sides. Holmes sat near Openshaw, revolver on the mantelpiece besides, and I next to Sutherland, who had buried his face in his palms and looked like a man defeated.

“Now, gentlemen”, Holmes broke the silence, “I am sure there is no misconception regarding the positions that you occupy currently. That I know enough to blow your operation, you can verify by the fact that you are assembled here, therefore, my recommendation to you is, that you come abreast of your actions in a final statement, here and now, post which, I shall decide the best course of action, in the interest of justice, and that of my client. Do not think of misleading me or glancing over any facts, for I assure you that I have enough evidence to land you in prison cells. Take it as a token of my fidelity, that you are not already thence.”

“It is over, Uncle”, groaned Sutherland from between his palms. “Balthazar spoke!”

“He would not”, said Openshaw, from set teeth.

“Why not?”, cried Sutherland. “Did I not warn you from the beginning? Why would your code forbid him to hire a mercenary, if not the police? Speak now, as this gentleman commands, or I shall do it. Better it be you, for you are the reason for all this misery!”

Openshaw stared into the fire with his black eyes, face chiseled in a grimace, which reminded me somehow of a wild animal trapped in a corner, and made me hesitant of being at ease.

“Since you have taken it upon yourself, to meddle in affairs foreign to you, I would have you know the truth”, he said in a voice somewhere between a hiss and a growl. “I know not how much Balthazar spilled you — yes, for who else could it be — but hark, I will tell you now, my heart is no blacker than his. And then we shall see how your jingle-purse jury decides.

“There were five of us, Balthazar, John Crocker, Ellis Thompson, Shirley Jones and I. We were smugglers with the Blackfoot gang down at Limehouse for 8 years. I quit them 2 years ago when they started getting too big for their britches, and started an honest life running the Hall. Everything went fine at first, I got the place running and started having a near decent business, the margins were small but it was safe and honest, no blundering about and risking the gallows. Then Crocker started to visit, soon after him came Thompson and the rest were not long to follow. I cared not for their snarling jeers, but there was treachery in their eyes, and the devil’s jealousy at seeing me on the square. It began slowly, they would drop by every other week to drink till they were three sheets to the wind, create ruckus and scare folk away. Before I knew it, my business was at their mercy, they would drop by and all the customers would rush out, such was their terror. They would not pay a single coin, and would threaten me like the blackest traitors; there was nothing I could do to get rid of them.

“One night, it was November of last year, they descended upon me like marauders. They had been up the alley with a big one this time, and Balthazar was caught. They hauled in with them a crate about knee high, and they sat around like it was the holy grail. It contained two slabs of Greek marble friezes, belonging to the Elgin Marble set — yes, you heard it right — white stone weighing hundred pounds apiece — a shipment from Sicily — part of the very set that lies in the British Museum, worth more than ten times the sum total of everything they had smuggled in their lives. Balthazar was in the clink, caught on suspicion, and they had to lay low till the heat blew off. I protested in vain; they were on my neck with knives, I was practically a prisoner in my own house. I sent Hans away for a month, put up the signs on the door and settled in for the reign of terror under my own roof. I was a hostage in my own house. Each day we would pass in fear and anticipation, and each night would be a drunken revelry at having survived the day and being a step closer to the fortune of our lives. But they were fools, the lot of them, to think that they could get the best of Openshaw like this. Will you call it murder? Is the slaying of such vile lot a crime in your ken? I know little, but I care less. My mind was always sharp, much sharper than the rest of them, and I saw in their boozing and pillaging, the road to my deliverance. On the night of December, the 13th, I poisoned them, and rid the world of a burden she would be relieved to miss. I had made preparations ere executing my plans, for I knew that on the day they came, Thompson, who had taken up the Cedar Suite as his rooms, had sent a letter to Balthazar, explaining their position in case he ever broke free. I prepared my will and sent it to Weston, then I proceeded to bury Thompson and Jones’ bodies in the cellar, along with the Marbles. For Crocker, I had a special purpose. He was the same build as me and with a disfigured face, no willy-nilly country coroner’s jury could tell him apart from me. I dressed his body in my clothes and sent him over the cliff aside from the Hornton path. The only pang of guilt I felt was at the loss of my horse, but he had started to go lame on the hind foot.

“The success of my plans now depended upon my nephew’s complaisance, for I could get no opportunity to extract the crate from the Inn. There was an ill wind on my side, for Hans returned at the same time, and with him guarding the place, I could not hope to carry out my plans in the least. I knew my nephew well, and he knew about my past. His breed would not allow him to dignify a man like me, but he has the same blood in him, the same desire to turn a pretty penny where he could. I had already promised him the Inn, he had but to take it, the other facts he need not know, except that I would soon be out of the country and leave him at peace. And so, he moved with his family to Berkshire and settled in to run the fort. I would come to the Inn at night and signal to him, and he would give me supplies and such. One day, I told him about the crate in the cellar, and he demanded to know more, so I gave him the whole story as it was, with Thompson and Jones lying side by side to keep it company. This was more than he could take, and he was possessed by a godforsaken fear. I told him I wanted the loot, and I’d be on my way, but he would not have their bodies lying in his cellar, waiting to be discovered sooner or later. Then the devil Balthazar somehow got free, and started blackmailing us. We resolved to move the bodies away from the cellar, where they would not be discovered, dug them out and dumped them in with Crocker at the cemetery.

“Now I have told you all that has passed, what say you? Whatever Balthazar is paying you, I will double it, for I have the Marbles, not he. As for him, you need not take any steps, I will silence him. This matter is between us, always has been, and I recommend you not to interfere where fate has already laid out the tale in stone.”

As Openshaw fell silent, I looked at him with a renewed disgust. Indeed, I felt pity for Sutherland, throwing in his lot with this loathsome fellow was the greatest indiscretion, and one that would lame him for life. Now that the full extent of his crime had been extracted from him, he sat like a snake with his fangs bare, and I regretted not carrying my pistol.

“The judgment of your actions, Openshaw, will come to you sooner or later, whether you seek it or not”, he said. “For my sake, I would recommend you to the police. Already, you have increased your guilt manyfold, by dragging in your innocent nephew into this affair, and any public disclosure will surely blast his reputation to bits. If the objects in the crate are indeed what you describe, then their future to me is assured, for there is only one place they can end up. However, the fate of this young man is yet to be decided, for the sake of your heritage, make your confession to the police and lay no blame on him. In your unprincipled life, let this be an act of redemption. Watson, see if there is a constable on the street -”

In the blink of an eye Openshaw was on his feet with a gun drawn at his hip, but Holmes’ attitude broke no change. He walked backwards a few steps, then turning on his heel, sprinted out the door. Sutherland got up, bowed, and without a word, followed his uncle. I rose to pursue them, but Holmes bade me stop.

“Holmes, is this the best course of action?”, I turned and asked.

“It is a difficult situation, Watson”, he replied. “This young man has committed a mistake by the only fault in his virtue, greed. He knew not what he was getting into, and by the time he was in it, the nets of Openshaw were already around him. As concerns the murders Openshaw committed, one cannot argue that it was more or less their lot, however, I would be more content in seeing him and Balthazar in prison than the Marbles in the British Museum. But I confess, it is impossible to do it without condemning the Sutherlands as well. We must think, Watson, and find another way to deliver justice.”

It was, however, not to be. Strange are the ways of fate, and it is not for man to always reconcile with them. In those times, one can only accept the unfathomable powers of a higher purpose, and move forward with renewed conviction. The papers next week bore an excitable headline describing the discovery of two bodies at the bottom of the ravine next to Craig’s Knoll. One of these bore a bullet wound and both were bloodied beyond recognition from the fall and decay. It was speculated that there had been a brawl, and that both had fallen to their deaths from the precarious ledge of the stony hill of Craig’s Knoll. It must also be remarked that sometime after the new year, the British Museum announced a spectacular addition to the Elgin Marbles. Two slabs of three-foot Greek pilaster, estimated to be from the south-west column of the Parthenon, a brilliant acquisition to an already priceless collection.