The Wall Lake Mystery

Chapter 14: Investigation Continued

I had yet to speak with the neighbours across the street from the Blombergs, so I began my trek back into town, hoping I would find some new information from them. It was just beginning to snow. The home proved to be occupied by a widow who was an aunt to Clara Blomberg. I was eager to learn something helpful from the woman's past, or about her brother, but I found myself soon disappointed. The only matter of interest was that Clara and her sisters were mentioned numerous times by the woman, the brother was mentioned only once and even then, not by name. It also seemed curious that she, who lived literally a stone's throw from Clara Blomberg, would not be present at a small family reunion there. Unsure of how to approach the question, I tried several angles, one of which urged her to the heart of the matter.

"Albert was always so selfish," she said. "I love all my nieces and nephews, but then he fell into that bad lot of friends as a young man, and there was that scandal in Sac City, well, I couldn't stand the sight of him!"

"You have not spoken to him in some time, then?"

"No indeed," said she. "And neither did my husband, God rest his soul."

"What of his relationship with his sisters?" I asked, quietly taking my notebook from my coat and readying my pencil.

"Oh, they think he's reformed and all, but—what's that you're doing, son?" With more speed than I thought possible, she was peering over my shoulder at what I had written.

A.H.'s sisters believe reformed;

"Holmes wishes for me to take notes, no harm intended," I said. "Now, what was it you were saying?"

Satisfied that I was indeed doing what I said, the woman seated herself once more and continued. "They believe Albert's reformed, but I know a bad apple when I see one. He's just like his father. My sister never should've married him!"

It was with difficulty that I managed to excuse myself and bid her good day. She clearly did not have company often enough, but while I pitied her, the afternoon was slipping away rapidly and I had one more task remaining before I could report back to Holmes.

————

It was still snowing when I set off again. My next stop was the practice of Dr. Mauer. I had been there just yesterday, but this time I noticed the surrounding businesses. His practice was nestled conveniently yet morbidly next to the undertaker's and Lawler and Albright's woodworking shop.

A middle-aged woman answered the door when I knocked: Mrs. Mauer, and she led me to Dr. Mauer's lower examining room, where he had moments before completed his post-mortem examination of Albright.

"I'm afraid I've little to say," said Dr. Mauer, rinsing the dead man's blood from his hands and drying them on a stained cloth.

He led me back out of the little room and into a cramped waiting room and sat down. I followed suit.

Dr. Mauer continued, "The cause of death was indeed the bullet, though there was some bruising to the arms and chest that I believe to have occurred before death, but not by a large margin."

"Indications of a struggle, I suppose."

"Possibly," Dr. Mauer replied. "The state of the body is my expertise, anything beyond that is your area, not mine."

"Mostly Holmes' area," I said.

"And yet it is yours as well," said Dr. Mauer.

I shrugged.

Dr. Mauer sighed and seated himself in a chair. "Lawler will have to build the coffin this time. It was always Albright who used to do them...now, instead, he'll be in one. I don't know if that's irony, or..." He trailed off and shook his head.

I wanted to say something reassuring, but the words died on my lips. Instead, I bade farewell to the doctor and with a heavy heart, made my way back to the inn.

Though I eagerly anticipated learning of Holmes' findings, the conversations I'd had today cast a dark cloud over my excitement. This town had seen suffering, and while we could not fix it, we would at least seek justice.

When I entered the inn, I expected to see if Holmes was in his room, and if not, to wait for him to return. This proved unnecessary: Holmes was seated at a table near the door, a half-empty bowl of stew before him. He gestured for me to join him.

"I would apologise for keeping you waiting," I said with a grin, "but you appear to have wasted no time in partaking of our host's board."

Holmes laughed aloud. "I seem to have taken over your usual role."

"Quite so," I replied as I seated myself across from him. "You appear to be in a good humour. Was your day well spent?"

Holmes was delayed in answering by the innkeeper's daughter, who asked if I wanted any food. My friend asked for coffee and I ordered a stew—Holmes' meal smelled delicious—and then bade Holmes answer my question.

"More or less well spent," he said, leaning back in his chair. "I learned a good deal, but I am uncertain how much of it will be relevant to this case."

"That's rather how I feel about it as well," I replied. "I've learned a good deal of gossip about the Blomberg family, especially, though I don't know how helpful any of it will prove."

"You took notes," said Holmes.

I nodded, handing him my notebook. "Even of those things that did not seem overly relevant. If there is one thing I have learned in our five year association, it is that I cannot take too many notes."

"Hm," Holmes replied, flipping through the pages. "It would be nice if they were more organised, or if I could decipher your handwriting."

"I suppose your notes are clearer, then?" I challenged.

Holmes pulled out his own notebook and showed me how each page was labelled by date, case, and persons to whom he was speaking, and I had to admit that his handwriting was a tad neater than mine. It was not by a wide margin, however.

I steered the conversation away from note-taking before he could outdo me in any other capacity. "What did you learn of interest?" I asked.

"Only a few points," he replied. "First, that Hieman was the only one to leave the train on its Wall Lake stop; most departed at Fletcher or stayed on till Carnarvon. One of the others on the train that night was a Wall Lake resident, so I took the opportunity to speak with him. This man is the local blacksmith, Abbet by name, and he saw Hieman speaking with two men he did not recognise. One was perhaps thirty and bald, with a round face. Abbet believed the other to be ill, as he wore a thick enough hat and muffler that his face was hidden, and he shivered more than was normal on such a mild night."

"Interesting," said I, making mental note of these descriptions. "Perhaps he was suffering from a fever, or some nefarious degenerative disease."

"Perhaps, though at the moment, we have too little material to suggest much of anything about that matter. But that is not even the half of it," Holmes continued, leaning forward and lowering his voice. "Abbet also saw—" He paused as the serving girl brought me my soup and Holmes' coffee, and as soon as she was out of earshot, he continued. "Abbet saw Lena Hallstrom on the train that night, Watson."

I raised an eyebrow. "After breaking off the engagement, she followed him?"

"Indeed," Holmes replied. "And it appears she was trying to follow him without being noticed herself, for she wore a bonnet that hid her face from most angles and kept a scarf about her neck and jaw. Our witness told me he never saw the two so much as look at one another, which he found odd, as he knew they were engaged."

"Now that is interesting," I replied thoughtfully.

"It may be nothing," said Holmes. "Abbet claims Miss Hallstrom departed the train at Fletcher, so perhaps her presence on the train was not as relevant as it at first seems. But all the same, we must pay this young woman a visit."

"I quite agree," I replied.

"Good," said Holmes, laying a pair of train tickets upon the table. "We shall take the late afternoon train into Sac City."