The Great Detective: His Further Adventures. Marvin Kaye

for the doors to the garden before Holmes could reach the pistol. She turned back and glared at us, her eyes dark pools of hate. “I’ll have my revenge, Mr. Sherlock Holmes; we’ll meet again.” Then she disappeared through the doors.

      “Holmes, she’s getting away.”

      “Let her go, Watson, I have what we need. The law will soon catch up to her.”

      * * * *

      Such was the sad case of Ethelbert Wolkner of Ogham Manor, Dorset. How Holmes used his prodigious mental talents of deductive reasoning to discern the plot by the dead man’s wife, the erstwhile baroness Portia von Schritter zu Adelberg and her true identity as the “Black Widow of Virginia,” and the complicity of her paramour, Dr. Sedgecombe, was revealed to me on the train ride back to London.

      “The clues were all there, Watson, as many as the stars in the sky, but you had to look up to see them.”

      “When did you first deduce that Mr. Wolkner’s death was the result of murder?”

      “When we first arrived at Dr. Sedgecombe’s farmhouse. I deduced it from mere observation. You should have done the same.”

      “Observation. Just what was I supposed to have observed?”

      “Do you not remember the description of Murdoch that was given to me by Mr. Carroll of the Anglo-Hibernian Insurance Company?”

      “Of course, a tall, pale-faced man with erect posture and a military moustache. What has that got to do with Dr. Sedgecombe?”

      “That is exactly the question I would expect from someone as inobservant as you apparently were. Old chum, Dr. Sedgecombe was stooped with a ruddy face covered by a walrus moustache, was he not?”

      I nodded agreement while taking notes.

      “Imagine if he stood erect and his face was not ruddy from the country air, and the walrus moustache was trimmed to an officer’s measurement. What would you see?”

      “Why, Murdoch, of course.”

      “And what about the state of the farmhouse? Surely you noticed that?”

      “It was badly in need of repair.”

      “And what did you deduce from that observation?”

      I stopped writing. “I must confess, Holmes, that I had not deduced anything.”

      “And now?”

      “That Sedgecombe either did not have the funds to make the repairs, or that he had no plans to stay long at the farm and would leave the repairs to the next owner.”

      “Excellent. A day late but an excellent deduction. For as Inspector Gregson’s inquiries in Leeds had proved, Sedgecombe had impoverished himself through gambling and had to sell his surgery to cover his losses. A rundown farmhouse in Dorset was all he could afford. Now let us progress to his patient, the woman who so rudely bumped into you as she hurried away from the farmhouse.”

      “What about her?”

      “Did not the doctor say that he had patient hours later that afternoon? So why was she there? And who was she?”

      “You mean she was the Baroness Portia, I mean Mrs. Wolkner?”

      “Yes, and the driver was Throbble. While I was investigating last night for the safe, I also looked into the carriage house and spied the very same carriage that was outside Sedgecombe’s place. And that Throbble was driving his mistress on his day off led me to deduce that their relationship was something more than mistress and gardener.”

      “And did not Essie say that Sedgecombe had been treating the woman for the ‘vapors?’ Yet, he swore he had never met her husband until the man’s death. Moreover, I suspect that if we question Essie further, we will learn that the ‘vapors’ only came about after Sedgecombe moved to Dorset.

      “Furthermore, one who was observant would have seen that while Mrs. Wolkner was dabbing at her reddened eyes with her handkerchief, there were no tears.”

      I took this as a reprimand by Holmes concerning my talents of observation, but I was so impressed by his deductive reasoning that I could only urge him to continue.

      “These clues were enough to raise my suspicions, so I had Morrell confirm them with his inquiries in Geneva. Meanwhile I was consumed with deciphering the Ogham inscription on the wooden pillar in the spinney. Remember, you commented that the slashes were rather crude. That was because they were right-hand writing done by a left-handed man. And that could have been none other than poor Mr. Wolkner.

      “And then there was the hunting. One never hunts grouse in mid-summer. It just isn’t done, old boy. No, Wolkner was going back to his Ogham pole. Topping that off, there were clothes in the cabin. It was you, Watson, who clued me while remaining clueless yourself.”

      “However do you mean?” I asked without looking up for I was scribbling my notes as fast as I could.

      “The size of the green loden hunting jacket, of course. A Bavarian style, I might add. You commented how small it was. That was because it did not belong to Wolkner, but rather to his wife, the Baroness Portia. And from that one could deduce that she was knowledgeable about hunting and weaponry. Yes, dear fellow, once the clues marked the trail, I only had to follow it.”

      “And what will become of Essie? At her age, it will be hard to place her in service elsewhere.”

      “I believe that when I inform Mr. Carroll of the valuable service she rendered and the money we have saved the Anglo-Hibernian Insurance Co., there will undoubtedly be a generous stipend to be paid, and perhaps a small cottage on the coast.”

      “And then you could go and fiddle for her by the firelight.” I laughed at my little joke.

      “Perhaps I shall, Watson. Perhaps I shall.”

1. In another story, Be Good or Begone, I related how Irene Adler died trying to save Sherlock Holmes from being poisoned in New York by Professor Moriarty.