The Wall Lake Mystery

Chapter 18: Something Burning

I gasped. "Then whose revolver was in his hand?"

Holmes clapped his hands and rubbed them together. "Precisely! I flipped through his records for the past seven years, and he purchased the revolver later sold to this Whitney fellow nearly four years ago. If he did own another firearm, he must have purchased it before that time, and it seems strange that he would sell a newer handgun and keep an older one. In that case, he might have sold one of lesser value and still paid the rent. Therefore, I think it more likely this was his sole handgun."

I nodded. It added up too well; even Sheriff Sweet could not deny it now.

Holmes had his magnifying glass out now and had dropped to all fours. I retreated to the doorway to watch his progress, brain still reeling. Someone had gone to great lengths to make Albright's murder appear to be a suicide; only for good reason would someone leave their firearm in such a position, for they would never get it back. Two faked suicides and a jewel robbery. What a lot of trouble this little town had seen in a short time!

Holmes stood with an irritated grunt, bringing me out of my reverie. "Nothing more to be gained here, I think. Though we have already learned much more than I had hoped."

I could not disagree with that assessment.

Holmes carefully moved the scraps of paper on the table to an envelope, holding it gingerly by the edges. I imagined it was useless to hope the papers' condition would not worsen between here and the inn, but even so, our discoveries left us in high spirits as we left the little flat. Not even the threatening grey clouds or the biting wind could dampen our spirits that morning; we were hot upon the scent of our quarry, and gaining ground.

I'd eaten some breakfast and was returning to my room when I smelled smoke. Dashing the last few steps down the hall, I threw open Holmes' door to see him kneeling before the grate.

He started at the sound of the door opening. "Watson!" he snapped as he whirled around. "Are you incapable of knocking?"

"I smelled smoke," I said. "I thought I could knock after I made sure you weren't being consumed by flames."

"Well, I am clearly in no imminent danger of burning to death, am I?" said Holmes dryly.

I wordlessly took a step back and rapped my knuckles on the still open door.

Holmes sighed and collapsed into a chair. "Someday, Watson, your pawky strain of humour shall push me over the edge into insanity."

"Not before you kill yourself with one of your experiments," I replied, crossing the room and throwing open the window. "What is it you're doing, anyway?"

"Experimenting with a couple methods of recovering burned paper to at least some slight degree. But in order to test these methods, I need to burn a few messages."

"I hope you are close to done with that step, lest the fire brigade arrive and the good innkeeper send us packing."

Holmes chuckled, but I was really not in a joking mood.

Neither was Holmes a minute later when the innkeeper's wife arrived and gave him a dressing down that rivalled the worst I'd seen delivered by Mrs. Hudson. By the time she stalked out of the room, the detective's gaunt cheeks were as red as the embers in the hearth. His chagrin turned to anger as soon as the woman was out of earshot, and for the sake of my safety and sanity, I beat a hasty retreat behind her.

————

It was hours till lunchtime, but the dining area seemed a safer place to be than next door to Holmes while he was in such an unpleasant mood. I occupied my time reading every local newspaper the innkeeper could provide me, with vague hopes that I would find some clue. I decided to read the past two month's issues of the Wall Lake Chronicle, Odebolt Reporter, Fletcher Courier, and Sac Sun, but after three hours and no results, my patience was beginning to flag. Even so, I did not notice that a middle-aged woman had seated herself across from me until she spoke.

"Dr. Watson, isn't it?" said she.

I started, but quickly regained my composure, noting that my doctor's bag was nearly in the way of walking and tucked it under the table with my foot. "Yes, I am."

"You aren't going to find anything in there," said she, nodding towards the newspaper in my hand.

I frowned. "I'm not certain I take your meaning."

She chuckled. "You're one of the English detectives, aren't you?"

"Well, my friend Sherlock Holmes is the detective," I replied frankly. "I'm a medical man, by training, but I assist him at times."

"Same difference." She waved an airy hand. "If you want to know what there is to know about the happenings around here, you best head down to the U.S. Postal Office on Boyer Street, between 1st and 2nd, and have a chat with Nancy Lou Pattison, postmaster's wife."

"Thank you," I said, though I doubted I would take her advice.

"It's a shame about poor Lena Hallstrom," the woman continued. Her words were sympathetic, but her tone was icy. "Her breaking off the engagement, and then Hugh dying all of a sudden."

"Surely you are not suggesting—" I began.

"Shh!" said she and lowered her voice. "Who can say? But if anybody in town knows what's happening from here to Sac City and back, it's Nancy Lou. Pay her a visit instead of reading this garbage—and tell her Maggie Wilcox sent you."

"Yes, thank you, madam," I said.

"Oh, don't thank me yet, but I'm sure you'll want to later," she chirped, scooting off the chair and rising to her feet. "Good meeting you, Dr. Watson," said she.

"Likewise, Ms. Wilcox," I replied, struggling to keep my tone free of exasperation. There was no chance of my following her advice, I thought.