Chapter 3

Mr.
Jonas Oldacre is a well-known resident of that suburb, where he
has carried on his business as a builder for many years. Mr.
Oldacre is a bachelor, fifty-two years of age, and lives in Deep
Dene House, at the Sydenham end of the road of that name. He has
had the reputation of being a man of eccentric habits, secretive
and retiring. For some years he has practically withdrawn from
the business, in which he is said to have massed considerable
wealth. A small timber-yard still exists, however, at the back of
the house, and last night, about twelve o’clock, an alarm was
given that one of the stacks was on fire. The engines were soon
upon the spot, but the dry wood burned with great fury, and it
was impossible to arrest the conflagration until the stack had
been entirely consumed. Up to this point the incident bore the
appearance of an ordinary accident, but fresh indications seem to
point to serious crime. Surprise was expressed at the absence of
the master of the establishment from the scene of the fire, and
an inquiry followed, which showed that he had disappeared from
the house. An examination of his room revealed that the bed had
not been slept in, that a safe which stood in it was open, that a
number of important papers were scattered about the room, and
finally, that there were signs of a murderous struggle, slight
traces of blood being found within the room, and an oaken
walking-stick, which also showed stains of blood upon the handle.
It is known that Mr. Jonas Oldacre had received a late visitor in
his bedroom upon that night, and the stick found has been
identified as the property of this person, who is a young London
solicitor named John Hector McFarlane, junior partner of Graham
and McFarlane, of 426, Gresham Buildings, E.C. The police believe
that they have evidence in their possession which supplies a very
convincing motive for the crime, and altogether it cannot be
doubted that sensational developments will follow.
“LATER.—It is rumoured as we go to press that Mr. John Hector
McFarlane has actually been arrested on the charge of the
murder of Mr. Jonas Oldacre. It is at least certain that a
warrant has been issued. There have been further and sinister
developments in the investigation at Norwood. Besides the
signs of a struggle in the room of the unfortunate builder it
is now known that the French windows of his bedroom (which is
on the ground floor) were found to be open, that there were
marks as if some bulky object had been dragged across to the
wood-pile, and, finally, it is asserted that charred remains
have been found among the charcoal ashes of the fire. The
police theory is that a most sensational crime has been
committed, that the victim was clubbed to death in his own
bedroom, his papers rifled, and his dead body dragged across
to the wood-stack, which was then ignited so as to hide all
traces of the crime. The conduct of the criminal
investigation has been left in the experienced hands of
Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, who is following up the
clues with his accustomed energy and sagacity.”

Sherlock Holmes listened with closed eyes and fingertips together
to this remarkable account.

“The case has certainly some points of interest,” said he, in his
languid fashion. “May I ask, in the first place, Mr. McFarlane,
how it is that you are still at liberty, since there appears to
be enough evidence to justify your arrest?”

“I live at Torrington Lodge, Blackheath, with my parents, Mr.
Holmes, but last night, having to do business very late with Mr.
Jonas Oldacre, I stayed at an hotel in Norwood, and came to my
business from there. I knew nothing of this affair until I was in
the train, when I read what you have just heard. I at once saw
the horrible danger of my position, and I hurried to put the case
into your hands. I have no doubt that I should have been arrested
either at my city office or at my home. A man followed me from
London Bridge Station, and I have no doubt—Great heaven! what is
that?”

It was a clang of the bell, followed instantly by heavy steps
upon the stair. A moment later, our old friend Lestrade appeared
in the doorway. Over his shoulder I caught a glimpse of one or
two uniformed policemen outside.

“Mr. John Hector McFarlane?” said Lestrade.

Our unfortunate client rose with a ghastly face.

“I arrest you for the wilful murder of Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of
Lower Norwood.”

McFarlane turned to us with a gesture of despair, and sank into
his chair once more like one who is crushed.

“One moment, Lestrade,” said Holmes. “Half an hour more or less
can make no difference to you, and the gentleman was about to
give us an account of this very interesting affair, which might
aid us in clearing it up.”

“I think there will be no difficulty in clearing it up,” said
Lestrade, grimly.

“None the less, with your permission, I should be much interested
to hear his account.”

“Well, Mr. Holmes, it is difficult for me to refuse you anything,
for you have been of use to the force once or twice in the past,
and we owe you a good turn at Scotland Yard,” said Lestrade. “At
the same time I must remain with my prisoner, and I am bound to
warn him that anything he may say will appear in evidence against
him.”

“I wish nothing better,” said our client. “All I ask is that you
should hear and recognize the absolute truth.”

Lestrade looked at his watch. “I’ll give you half an hour,” said
he.

“I must explain first,” said McFarlane, “that I knew nothing of
Mr. Jonas Oldacre. His name was familiar to me, for many years
ago my parents were acquainted with him, but they drifted apart.
I was very much surprised therefore, when yesterday, about three
o’clock in the afternoon, he walked into my office in the city.
But I was still more astonished when he told me the object of his
visit. He had in his hand several sheets of a notebook, covered
with scribbled writing—here they are—and he laid them on my
table.

“‘Here is my will,’ said he. ‘I want you, Mr. McFarlane, to cast
it into proper legal shape. I will sit here while you do so.’

“I set myself to copy it, and you can imagine my astonishment
when I found that, with some reservations, he had left all his
property to me. He was a strange little ferret-like man, with
white eyelashes, and when I looked up at him I found his keen
grey eyes fixed upon me with an amused expression. I could hardly
believe my own as I read the terms of the will; but he explained
that he was a bachelor with hardly any living relation, that he
had known my parents in his youth, and that he had always heard
of me as a very deserving young man, and was assured that his
money would be in worthy hands. Of course, I could only stammer
out my thanks. The will was duly finished, signed, and witnessed
by my clerk. This is it on the blue paper, and these slips, as I
have explained, are the rough draft. Mr. Jonas Oldacre then
informed me that there were a number of documents—building
leases, title-deeds, mortgages, scrip, and so forth—which it was
necessary that I should see and understand. He said that his mind
would not be easy until the whole thing was settled, and he
begged me to come out to his house at Norwood that night,
bringing the will with me, and to arrange matters. ‘Remember, my
boy, not one word to your parents about the affair until
everything is settled. We will keep it as a little surprise for
them.’ He was very insistent upon this point, and made me promise
it faithfully.

“You can imagine, Mr. Holmes, that I was not in a humour to
refuse him anything that he might ask. He was my benefactor, and
all my desire was to carry out his wishes in every particular. I
sent a telegram home, therefore, to say that I had important
business on hand, and that it was impossible for me to say how
late I might be. Mr. Oldacre had told me that he would like me to
have supper with him at nine, as he might not be home before that
hour. I had some difficulty in finding his house, however, and it
was nearly half-past before I reached it. I found him——”

“One moment!” said Holmes. “Who opened the door?”

“A middle-aged woman, who was, I suppose, his housekeeper.”

“And it was she, I presume, who mentioned your name?”

“Exactly,” said McFarlane.

“Pray proceed.”

McFarlane wiped his damp brow, and then continued his narrative:

“I was shown by this woman into a sitting-room, where a frugal
supper was laid out. Afterwards, Mr. Jonas Oldacre led me into
his bedroom, in which there stood a heavy safe. This he opened
and took out a mass of documents, which we went over together. It
was between eleven and twelve when we finished. He remarked that
we must not disturb the housekeeper. He showed me out through his
own French window, which had been open all this time.”

“Was the blind down?” asked Holmes.

“I will not be sure, but I believe that it was only half down.
Yes, I remember how he pulled it up in order to swing open the
window. I could not find my stick, and he said, ‘Never mind, my
boy, I shall see a good deal of you now, I hope, and I will keep
your stick until you come back to claim it.’ I left him there,
the safe open, and the papers made up in packets upon the table.
It was so late that I could not get back to Blackheath, so I
spent the night at the Anerley Arms, and I knew nothing more
until I read of this horrible affair in the morning.”

“Anything more that you would like to ask, Mr. Holmes?” said
Lestrade, whose eyebrows had gone up once or twice during this
remarkable explanation.

“Not until I have been to Blackheath.”

“You mean to Norwood,” said Lestrade.

“Oh, yes, no doubt that is what I must have meant,” said Holmes,
with his enigmatical smile. Lestrade had learned by more
experiences than he would care to acknowledge that that brain
could cut through that which was impenetrable to him. I saw him
look curiously at my companion.

“I think I should like to have a word with you presently, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes,” said he. “Now, Mr. McFarlane, two of my
constables are at the door, and there is a four-wheeler waiting.”
The wretched young man arose, and with a last beseeching glance
at us walked from the room. The officers conducted him to the
cab, but Lestrade remained.

Holmes had picked up the pages which formed the rough draft of
the will, and was looking at them with the keenest interest upon
his face.

“There are some points about that document, Lestrade, are there
not?” said he, pushing them over.

The official looked at them with a puzzled expression.

“I can read the first few lines and these in the middle of the
second page, and one or two at the end. Those are as clear as
print,” said he, “but the writing in between is very bad, and
there are three places where I cannot read it at all.”

“What do you make of that?” said Holmes.

“Well, what do _you_ make of it?”

“That it was written in a train. The good writing represents
stations, the bad writing movement, and the very bad writing
passing over points. A scientific expert would pronounce at once
that this was drawn up on a suburban line, since nowhere save in
the immediate vicinity of a great city could there be so quick a
succession of points. Granting that his whole journey was
occupied in drawing up the will, then the train was an express,
only stopping once between Norwood and London Bridge.”

Lestrade began to laugh.

“You are too many for me when you begin to get on your theories,
Mr. Holmes,” said he. “How does this bear on the case?”

“Well, it corroborates the young man’s story to the extent that
the will was drawn up by Jonas Oldacre in his journey yesterday.
It is curious—is it not?—that a man should draw up so important a
document in so haphazard a fashion. It suggests that he did not
think it was going to be of much practical importance. If a man
drew up a will which he did not intend ever to be effective, he
might do it so.”

“Well, he drew up his own death warrant at the same time,” said
Lestrade.

“Oh, you think so?”

“Don’t you?”

“Well, it is quite possible, but the case is not clear to me
yet.”

“Not clear? Well, if that isn’t clear, what _could_ be clearer?
Here is a young man who learns suddenly that, if a certain older
man dies, he will succeed to a fortune. What does he do? He says
nothing to anyone, but he arranges that he shall go out on some
pretext to see his client that night. He waits until the only
other person in the house is in bed, and then in the solitude of
a man’s room he murders him, burns his body in the wood-pile, and
departs to a neighbouring hotel. The blood-stains in the room and
also on the stick are very slight. It is probable that he
imagined his crime to be a bloodless one, and hoped that if the
body were consumed it would hide all traces of the method of his
death—traces which, for some reason, must have pointed to him. Is
not all this obvious?”

“It strikes me, my good Lestrade, as being just a trifle too
obvious,” said Holmes. “You do not add imagination to your other
great qualities, but if you could for one moment put yourself in
the place of this young man, would you choose the very night
after the will had been made to commit your crime? Would it not
seem dangerous to you to make so very close a relation between
the two incidents? Again, would you choose an occasion when you
are known to be in the house, when a servant has let you in? And,
finally, would you take the great pains to conceal the body, and
yet leave your own stick as a sign that you were the criminal?
Confess, Lestrade, that all this is very unlikely.”

“As to the stick, Mr. Holmes, you know as well as I do that a
criminal is often flurried, and does such things, which a cool
man would avoid. He was very likely afraid to go back to the
room. Give me another theory that would fit the facts.”

“I could very easily give you half a dozen,” said Holmes. “Here
for example, is a very possible and even probable one. I make you
a free present of it. The older man is showing documents which
are of evident value. A passing tramp sees them through the
window, the blind of which is only half down. Exit the solicitor.
Enter the tramp! He seizes a stick, which he observes there,
kills Oldacre, and departs after burning the body.”

“Why should the tramp burn the body?”

“For the matter of that, why should McFarlane?”

“To hide some evidence.”

“Possibly the tramp wanted to hide that any murder at all had
been committed.”

“And why did the tramp take nothing?”

“Because they were papers that he could not negotiate.”

Lestrade shook his head, though it seemed to me that his manner
was less absolutely assured than before.

“Well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you may look for your tramp, and
while you are finding him we will hold on to our man. The future
will show which is right. Just notice this point, Mr. Holmes:
that so far as we know, none of the papers were removed, and that
the prisoner is the one man in the world who had no reason for
removing them, since he was heir-at-law, and would come into them
in any case.”

My friend seemed struck by this remark.

“I don’t mean to deny that the evidence is in some ways very
strongly in favour of your theory,” said he. “I only wish to
point out that there are other theories possible. As you say, the
future will decide. Good-morning! I dare say that in the course
of the day I shall drop in at Norwood and see how you are getting
on.”

When the detective departed, my friend rose and made his
preparations for the day’s work with the alert air of a man who
has a congenial task before him.

“My first movement Watson,” said he, as he bustled into his
frockcoat, “must, as I said, be in the direction of Blackheath.”

“And why not Norwood?”

“Because we have in this case one singular incident coming close
to the heels of another singular incident. The police are making
the mistake of concentrating their attention upon the second,
because it happens to be the one which is actually criminal. But
it is evident to me that the logical way to approach the case is
to begin by trying to throw some light upon the first
incident—the curious will, so suddenly made, and to so unexpected
an heir. It may do something to simplify what followed. No, my
dear fellow, I don’t think you can help me. There is no prospect
of danger, or I should not dream of stirring out without you. I
trust that when I see you in the evening, I will be able to
report that I have been able to do something for this unfortunate
youngster, who has thrown himself upon my protection.”

It was late when my friend returned, and I could see, by a glance
at his haggard and anxious face, that the high hopes with which
he had started had not been fulfilled. For an hour he droned away
upon his violin, endeavouring to soothe his own ruffled spirits.
At last he flung down the instrument, and plunged into a detailed
account of his misadventures.

“It’s all going wrong, Watson—all as wrong as it can go. I kept a
bold face before Lestrade, but, upon my soul, I believe that for
once the fellow is on the right track and we are on the wrong.
All my instincts are one way, and all the facts are the other,
and I much fear that British juries have not yet attained that
pitch of intelligence when they will give the preference to my
theories over Lestrade’s facts.”

“Did you go to Blackheath?”

“Yes, Watson, I went there, and I found very quickly that the
late lamented Oldacre was a pretty considerable blackguard. The
father was away in search of his son. The mother was at home—a
little, fluffy, blue-eyed person, in a tremor of fear and
indignation. Of course, she would not admit even the possibility
of his guilt. But she would not express either surprise or regret
over the fate of Oldacre. On the contrary, she spoke of him with
such bitterness that she was unconsciously considerably
strengthening the case of the police for, of course, if her son
had heard her speak of the man in this fashion, it would
predispose him towards hatred and violence. ‘He was more like a
malignant and cunning ape than a human being,’ said she, ‘and he
always was, ever since he was a young man.’

“‘You knew him at that time?’ said I.

“‘Yes, I knew him well, in fact, he was an old suitor of mine.
Thank heaven that I had the sense to turn away from him and to
marry a better, if poorer, man. I was engaged to him, Mr. Holmes,
when I heard a shocking story of how he had turned a cat loose in
an aviary, and I was so horrified at his brutal cruelty that I
would have nothing more to do with him.’ She rummaged in a
bureau, and presently she produced a photograph of a woman,
shamefully defaced and mutilated with a knife. ‘That is my own
photograph,’ she said. ‘He sent it to me in that state, with his
curse, upon my wedding morning.’

“‘Well,’ said I, ‘at least he has forgiven you now, since he has
left all his property to your son.’

“‘Neither my son nor I want anything from Jonas Oldacre, dead or
alive!’ she cried, with a proper spirit. ‘There is a God in
heaven, Mr. Holmes, and that same God who has punished that
wicked man will show, in His own good time, that my son’s hands
are guiltless of his blood.’

“Well, I tried one or two leads, but could get at nothing which
would help our hypothesis, and several points which would make
against it. I gave it up at last and off I went to Norwood.

“This place, Deep Dene House, is a big modern villa of staring
brick, standing back in its own grounds, with a laurel-clumped
lawn in front of it. To the right and some distance back from the
road was the timber-yard which had been the scene of the fire.
Here’s a rough plan on a leaf of my notebook. This window on the
left is the one which opens into Oldacre’s room. You can look
into it from the road, you see. That is about the only bit of
consolation I have had to-day. Lestrade was not there, but his
head constable did the honours. They had just found a great
treasure-trove. They had spent the morning raking among the ashes
of the burned wood-pile, and besides the charred organic remains
they had secured several discoloured metal discs. I examined them
with care, and there was no doubt that they were trouser buttons.
I even distinguished that one of them was marked with the name of
‘Hyams,’ who was Oldacres tailor. I then worked the lawn very
carefully for signs and traces, but this drought has made
everything as hard as iron. Nothing was to be seen save that some
body or bundle had been dragged through a low privet hedge which
is in a line with the wood-pile. All that, of course, fits in
with the official theory. I crawled about the lawn with an August
sun on my back, but I got up at the end of an hour no wiser than
before.

“Well, after this fiasco I went into the bedroom and examined
that also. The blood-stains were very slight, mere smears and
discolourations, but undoubtedly fresh. The stick had been
removed, but there also the marks were slight. There is no doubt
about the stick belonging to our client. He admits it. Footmarks
of both men could be made out on the carpet, but none of any
third person, which again is a trick for the other side. They
were piling up their score all the time and we were at a
standstill.

“Only one little gleam of hope did I get—and yet it amounted to
nothing. I examined the contents of the safe, most of which had
been taken out and left on the table. The papers had been made up
into sealed envelopes, one or two of which had been opened by the
police. They were not, so far as I could judge, of any great
value, nor did the bank-book show that Mr. Oldacre was in such
very affluent circumstances. But it seemed to me that all the
papers were not there. There were allusions to some
deeds—possibly the more valuable—which I could not find. This, of
course, if we could definitely prove it, would turn Lestrade’s
argument against himself, for who would steal a thing if he knew
that he would shortly inherit it?

“Finally, having drawn every other cover and picked up no scent,
I tried my luck with the housekeeper. Mrs. Lexington is her
name—a little, dark, silent person, with suspicious and sidelong
eyes. She could tell us something if she would—I am convinced of
it. But she was as close as wax. Yes, she had let Mr. McFarlane
in at half-past nine. She wished her hand had withered before she
had done so. She had gone to bed at half-past ten. Her room was
at the other end of the house, and she could hear nothing of what
had passed. Mr. McFarlane had left his hat, and to the best of
her belief his stick, in the hall. She had been awakened by the
alarm of fire. Her poor, dear master had certainly been murdered.
Had he any enemies? Well, every man had enemies, but Mr. Oldacre
kept himself very much to himself, and only met people in the way
of business. She had seen the buttons, and was sure that they
belonged to the clothes which he had worn last night. The
wood-pile was very dry, for it had not rained for a month. It
burned like tinder, and by the time she reached the spot, nothing
could be seen but flames. She and all the firemen smelled the
burned flesh from inside it. She knew nothing of the papers, nor
of Mr. Oldacre’s private affairs.

“So, my dear Watson, there’s my report of a failure. And yet—and
yet—” he clenched his thin hands in a paroxysm of conviction—“I
_know_ it’s all wrong. I feel it in my bones. There is something
that has not come out, and that housekeeper knows it. There was a
sort of sulky defiance in her eyes, which only goes with guilty
knowledge. However, there’s no good talking any more about it,
Watson; but unless some lucky chance comes our way I fear that
the Norwood Disappearance Case will not figure in that chronicle
of our successes which I foresee that a patient public will
sooner or later have to endure.”

“Surely,” said I, “the man’s appearance would go far with any
jury?”

“That is a dangerous argument my dear Watson. You remember that
terrible murderer, Bert Stevens, who wanted us to get him off in
’87? Was there ever a more mild-mannered, Sunday-school young
man?”

“It is true.”

“Unless we succeed in establishing an alternative theory, this
man is lost. You can hardly find a flaw in the case which can now
be presented against him, and all further investigation has
served to strengthen it. By the way, there is one curious little
point about those papers which may serve us as the starting-point
for an inquiry. On looking over the bank-book I found that the
low state of the balance was principally due to large checks
which have been made out during the last year to Mr. Cornelius. I
confess that I should be interested to know who this Mr.
Cornelius may be with whom a retired builder has such very large
transactions. Is it possible that he has had a hand in the
affair? Cornelius might be a broker, but we have found no scrip
to correspond with these large payments. Failing any other
indication, my researches must now take the direction of an
inquiry at the bank for the gentleman who has cashed these
checks. But I fear, my dear fellow, that our case will end
ingloriously by Lestrade hanging our client, which will certainly
be a triumph for Scotland Yard.”

I do not know how far Sherlock Holmes took any sleep that night,
but when I came down to breakfast I found him pale and harassed,
his bright eyes the brighter for the dark shadows round them. The
carpet round his chair was littered with cigarette-ends and with
the early editions of the morning papers. An open telegram lay
upon the table.

“What do you think of this, Watson?” he asked, tossing it across.

It was from Norwood, and ran as follows:

Important fresh evidence to hand. McFarlane’s guilt definitely
established. Advise you to abandon case.—LESTRADE.

“This sounds serious,” said I.

“It is Lestrade’s little cock-a-doodle of victory,” Holmes
answered, with a bitter smile. “And yet it may be premature to
abandon the case. After all, important fresh evidence is a
two-edged thing, and may possibly cut in a very different
direction to that which Lestrade imagines. Take your breakfast,
Watson, and we will go out together and see what we can do. I
feel as if I shall need your company and your moral support
today.”

My friend had no breakfast himself, for it was one of his
peculiarities that in his more intense moments he would permit
himself no food, and I have known him presume upon his iron
strength until he has fainted from pure inanition. “At present I
cannot spare energy and nerve force for digestion,” he would say
in answer to my medical remonstrances. I was not surprised,
therefore, when this morning he left his untouched meal behind
him, and started with me for Norwood. A crowd of morbid
sightseers were still gathered round Deep Dene House, which was
just such a suburban villa as I had pictured. Within the gates
Lestrade met us, his face flushed with victory, his manner
grossly triumphant.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, have you proved us to be wrong yet? Have you
found your tramp?” he cried.

“I have formed no conclusion whatever,” my companion answered.