The Wall Lake Mystery

Chapter 11: Another Death in Wall Lake

I was awakened the next morning with a firm shake of my shoulders. I snapped awake, prepared to defend against a threat, and saw Holmes standing over me. "I received word from Dr. Mauer that Silas Albright is dead."

"Dead?" I repeated. A sudden image of Mr. Blomberg, a silhouette framed by the light of his doorway, pointing his shotgun at Albright flashed into my mind.

"Quite so," Holmes replied. "Now come, Watson, we must move quickly, before Sheriff Sweet and Marshall Reagan trample the scene like a herd of buffalo."

With a groan, I hauled myself out of bed.

"Hurry, Watson, this may be our first substantial lead in either case."

I growled a rude reply which Holmes did not hear; he was already out of my room.

I dressed in a flurry of seconds and found myself ten minutes later in the back of a wagon driven by Dr. Mauer, blinking away sleep and torn between anticipation, dread, and regret that I would be forgoing breakfast.

Our destination was the Boyer River, nearly two miles west of town. The area was heavily wooded and the river, narrow in this region, was largely frozen over. Sheriff Sweet, Marshall Reagan, and Fr. Albright were already there.

Sweet was the first to approach us. "Thought you'd like to see this, Holmes, and that I might as well get your invasion out of the way, as you're sure to find out about this sooner or later."

"A wise decision," Holmes replied. "Where is the unfortunate Mr. Albright?"

Sweet led us into the grove of trees nearest us, and against a large oak lay the handsome scoundrel we had seen the night before, lying dead in the snow, the massive trunk and snowy ground flecked with frozen blood and gore. A gun was in his hand and his face was nearly unrecognisable. It was a gruesome sight.

Marshall Reagan spoke in an unsteady voice. "I—I think this note rather speaks for itself. The Sheriff found it in the dead man's pocket." He held a folded paper in his hand and did not look at the body in the snow.

"Which pocket?" Holmes asked.

"Lower coat pocket, our right and his left."

Holmes held out a thickly gloved hand and Reagan set the note in his palm. He unfolded it and began to read, brow furrowing as his eyes scanned down the page. When he was through, he handed it to me. "Cheap ink, cheaper paper, written under emotional stress while he was still indoors."

I nodded and read the missive.

To whom it may concern,

I'm not proud of who I am or what I've done. I wish I could start over, but I'd only make the same mistakes again. I'm a disgrace to my family and my town, and the woman I love will not have me. I don't want to be a burden to anyone any longer.

Silas Albright

When I had finished reading, I looked up to see Holmes was already carefully examining the area around the body. I made eye contact with Dr. Mauer. "May I?"

"A second opinion never hurts," he replied.

I knelt to the ground and examined the unfortunate man.

"He's been dead some hours now," I said. Between the cold air and rigor mortis, Albright was the definition of stone cold. "Bullet shattered the temporal bone above the left ear. Death was instantaneous."

Holmes nodded, lifting up Albright's right arm and examining the elbow with his magnifying glass. I glanced to Dr. Mauer, who nodded as well.

A thought struck me, and I stepped toward Marshall Reagan, who was some distance away, speaking quietly with the Sheriff. They stopped immediately when I approached.