The Wall Lake Mystery

Chapter 35: The Return of Sherlock Holmes

It was dark when I awoke to a loud tapping noise. My side and head ached, and the noise exacerbated the latter pain, but I found myself leaping to my feet and grabbing my revolver from the nightstand, blinking away sleep and squinting through the darkness. The tapping repeated, and I whirled round to see a face at the window. My heart leapt into my throat, then I recognised Holmes. I lay the revolver back down and rushed to the window. I made to tug it open. It stuck, and I realised it was locked. Feeling like a fool, I twisted the handle to unlock it and tugged again. It still did not move.

Holmes knocked on the window again and made a horizontal gesture near the base of the window. I crouched down and saw that a thin layer of ice was preventing its opening. I snatched up a penknife and stuck the blade beneath the window, stabbing at and sliding through what ice I could reach. Then I tried once more to open the blasted thing. I yanked upward with a mighty effort, and the window sprang open. Snow and ice landed on my feet and a blast of cold wind assailed my chest and face. I held out a hand and helped Holmes clamber inside and slammed the window closed.

We stood for a moment, panting. Then Holmes gave a violent shiver. I hastened to the grate and prodded the dying coals back into action and added a couple small logs to the fire while Holmes removed his frozen outerwear and pushed two chairs nearer to the fire. A yellow flame licked the base of the smaller log, and soon both logs began to burn in earnest. Holmes moved a chair even closer to the fire, sat, and held out his hands. He shivered again. I snatched the thickest afghan at hand, draped it over his shoulders, and seated myself next to him.

"I did it," he said. His tone was flat and his voice gruff from disuse.

Though my head was throbbing, and I felt sapped of all energy, I sat quietly and waited for him to elaborate.

"Bill Brogden is going to find himself in trouble come morning, I fear," said Holmes. "I found a small bag containing a large quantity of jewellery and a note signed 'P.T.C.' I left it just inside the front door of the jail-house for Sheriff Sweet to find in the morning." A small smile played upon his weary features. "I have no doubt the boy will be prepared to confess all he knows, once faced with the prospect of spending time in a cell next to Cleaver Wright."

I nodded. "If that fails to scare him straight, an hour spent in said cell would likely do the trick."

"The unfortunate news is that, as I feared, our hard-earned evidence is nowhere to be found," Holmes continued. "There was no sign of it with Brogden, which is as I expected, and nothing at the abandoned house on the edge of town, where we found Wright. P.T.C. or Crowe, whoever he is, is intelligent enough to have done away with it by now. And there was no sign of Mrs. Blomberg's heirloom diamond necklace, so it seems that it, and however many others, have been turned to smaller gems at the hands of young Brogden." He paused a moment. "Unless Hieman got possession of it, of course. We do not yet know how much of the bounty he talked them into handing over, or where it will be found."

"But P.T.C. is counting on us finding it," I added. "Do you suppose we will?"

Holmes shrugged. "It is not my top priority, but I have not forgotten it."

"At least some of her riches have been recovered," I replied, swallowing a yawn. "Do you suppose the smaller pieces will be with Crowe, when we find him?"

Holmes nodded. "Even if there are others involved of whom we yet know nothing, and I have every reason to doubt this idea, Crowe is the ringleader. If we find him, we shall find more of Mrs. Blomberg's collection."

Despite my best efforts, I gave a wide yawn. "Sorry," I muttered.

Holmes glanced at his watch. "Well, old chap, if you start now, you ought to be able to squeeze in three hours before the sun rises."

"Are you well enough to retire to your room?" I asked.

Holmes stood. "Yes, yes, Doctor," he replied, shedding the afghan and draping it over the back of his chair. "There is nothing wrong with me that a warm fire and a few good hours of sleep can't put to rights." He strode across the room.

"Sleep well, then," I said.

"Likewise," Holmes replied and closed the door softly behind him.

He had not apologised for his earlier conduct. Though it would have surprised me if he had, I was disappointed that he had made no reference to it at all. The smallest indication that I could resume assisting with this case would have been sufficient, I mused as I returned to bed. But Holmes had succeeded tonight; I would not allow myself to lose sight of this in the midst of my sleep-addled thoughts. Many of Mrs. Blomberg's jewels had been recovered and the killer of Hugh Hieman was sitting in jail, with the ringleader ever nearer to joining him. Justice would win out, even if I could have no hand in it. I smiled at this thought and fell fast asleep.

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I awoke the next morning to bright sunlight and a splitting headache. I reached for the nightstand and fumbled to pick up my watch. It was ten minutes to eight; Holmes must not have much need of me this morning. I rolled over and shielded my eyes, prepared to return to much-needed sleep, but something seemed a little off.

Perhaps it was the utter silence: I could hear no voices in the hall or nearby rooms, nor could I hear wind outside. Or perhaps it was something deeper. Whatever the cause, I could not return to sleep. Inexplicable anxiety bore down on me and I crawled out of bed to prepare for the day, adding a quick painkiller to my routine in hopes that it would render the headache bearable. In ten minutes, I was knocking at Holmes' door. There was no answer. I tried the handle: locked.

He must have gone out, then. I returned to my room to see if he had left a note to that effect, but there was none to be found. It was then that I remembered his harsh words from the previous afternoon, and my heart sank a little. Even so, I continued my search. The inn dining room was largely abandoned, but there was a fellow puffing a cigar and reading a newspaper in one corner, and the innkeeper's wife was washing tables nearer the door. Neither had seen Holmes. I felt strangely unsettled.

I donned my winter things and headed out into the cold, unsure where I was going but certain I would find Holmes. I walked for several blocks but saw no one. The distant sound of a choir drifted toward me on the wind. It was Sunday morning, I remembered. That would explain the absence of the townsfolk, but not of Holmes. Without a better direction, I turned my feet toward the sound of singing. Around the corner stood the Catholic church, a small, wooden structure with a single stained-glass window and a makeshift cross nailed to the roof. The song ceased, and as I drew near, the doors opened and parishioners poured onto the snow-covered lawn, some talking or laughing, others heading directly towards home. I searched the crowd for a familiar face. After a long moment, I spotted Lawler and waved.

Lawler waved back and rushed over to me. His expression was grim. "I'm sorry about what happened to Holmes. Is there anything I can do to help?"

My blood turned cold. "What happened? Where is he?"

Lawler's jaw dropped. "Sheriff didn't tell you? Well, there goes my last shred of faith in humanity," he growled.

"Lawler," I snapped. "What happened to Holmes?"

"He's been arrested!"