The Wall Lake Mystery

Chapter 2: A Frigid Welcome

Two days after receiving our clients' letters, Holmes and I were aboard a ship bound for America, set to arrive in New York in eight days. My time in the army had allowed me to travel, but only to the hot and bloody plains of Afghanistan, and my budget had constrained me to a 200-mile radius since then. As such, I was excited to see the States. Holmes was also excited, I think, though he never said so outright. I believe, that like me, he had never crossed the Atlantic before.

While on board the ship, I managed to convince Holmes to join me in a few rounds of billiards and fencing, the former of which I won with ease and the latter I lost more miserably than I care to admit. We were rather enjoying ourselves by the end of the journey though Holmes' mind rarely left his impending case, and eight days was enough time away from dry land for us both to miss it.

We reached New York City's upper bay at ten, and the mid-morning sun set the waves glittering as our ship entered the harbour. The cloudless sky, shining sea, and unfamiliar city spread before us made for a truly splendid sight, though it was almost too cold to appreciate it.

To my disappointment, we saw little of New York City, as we had barely enough time to retrieve our luggage and trade our pounds for dollars before we were due at Grand Central Terminal to catch the late morning train to Chicago. It stopped few times en route, and travelled at a rapid clip, bringing us to the Windy City late the next evening. Last minute hotel accommodations were found more quickly and easily than I had hoped; luckily, Holmes and I were too exhausted to mind the cramped space and dubious cleanliness of the place.

Early the next morning, we traded the New York Central line for the Chicago and Northwestern Line. This train carried us due west over rolling hills and rivers, past villages and farmland interspersed with small cities, these latter reaping the benefits of the ever-expanding railway system. Our locomotive chugged steadily through the Illinois cities of Proviso, Geneva, and Nelson, and crossed the great Mississippi into Iowa's Clinton, then on through Belle Plaine, Ames, Caroll, and finally north to Carnarvon and a touch west again to Wall Lake itself.

Wall Lake was a small yet bustling community of perhaps three hundred and fifty, counting the nearest farms. It was a young community, with its quick growth attributed to the railroad lines bringing supplies and settlers, especially overcrowded Americans in the eastern states and immigrants from Germany and Ireland.

As eager as I was to explore this new place, Holmes decided to drop off our luggage at the inn and take the train another forty-five minutes to Sac City and speak with Sheriff Sweet. The time passed more slowly, but soon we came over a rise and I could see a cluster of buildings amid the snowy fields. As the county seat, I thought the town would be larger than its neighbour to the south, but Wall Lake's proximity to a railway direct from Chicago ensured this was not the case. Sac City could, however, boast having the only Sheriff, only jailhouse, and only fairgrounds in the county.

After asking directions of a lad in the street, we found ourselves outside the little jailhouse. Holmes knocked on the door.

"It's open," called a voice from within.

Holmes turned the squeaky knob, and I followed him inside, glad for the warmth. We stood in an office with a little fireplace, a littler window and two desks. Behind the larger desk sat a broad-shouldered man with white hair and a thick moustache, a cigar stuck between his teeth.

"Sheriff Charley Sweet," he said, rising and shaking Holmes' hand and then mine. His name seemed to me to be a misnomer; when Holmes stated our names and business, the Sheriff fixed us both with a steely gaze. He sat again and gestured to a couple of stools against the wall. Holmes and I retrieved them and seated ourselves as well.

The Sheriff removed the cigar from his mouth and turned it over in his hands. "I suppose I don't have much choice if two of my people have consulted you, Mr. Holmes, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. Clear?"

"Yes, quite so," replied Holmes, unruffled by the Sheriff's manner. "When the time comes, I hope this does not mean you will avoid sharing knowledge you already possess of these recent events."

"We'll see," Sheriff Sweet grunted, and puffed on the cigar.

"I have only a small question at present," said Holmes. "How might we reach the Blomberg residence before dusk?"

"Take a carriage," Sweet replied. "Most boys 'round here know where everybody lives and they'll get you there all right."

"Excellent," Holmes replied, rising. "We shall not intrude on your hospitality any longer." He started for the door.

I followed.

"Sheriff," said Holmes, stopping with his hand on the knob.

Sweet glanced up from the papers on his desk

"I am not in the habit of robbing local authorities of their credit in the solution of cases. On the contrary—I do my utmost to keep my name out of the matter."

"Great," the Sheriff replied, returning to the paperwork. "The detective Des Moines sent—young thing; claims he's twenty-one, but this kid doesn't look a day over seventeen—he'll want all the credit anyhow."

Holmes gave a soft snort. "The young ones always do."

"Well, good day, you two," said Sheriff Sweet. "I expect we'll meet again sooner than we care to."

"Until then," Holmes replied.

We retreated to the chilly street. Holmes quickly sought out a man to drive us to Wall Lake. We rode in silence for perhaps ten minutes before my friend spoke.

"What did you make of him, Watson?" he asked.

I shrugged. "Quite unenthusiastic about our presence here."

"Quite." Holmes lapsed into thoughtful silence.

I half considered asking him if he'd managed to deduce anything else about the Sheriff, but based on Holmes' distant expression, he was in no mood to answer—that is, if he heard me at all.