I have oft wondered about my friend's mercurial moods, as he could swing from child-like excitement to sorrowful mourning within a matter of hours. He found the world both incredibly interesting and unbearably dull at the same time. As such, he retreated into his own head, refining and reorganizing various pieces of information and trivia to better help with future cases.
His self-examination was interrupted, however, by the appearance of Inspector Lestrade, one of Scotland Yard's most competent policeman. His presence here, however, indicated that something was happening that was beyond even his abilities.
"I gather you have been out of London," said Sherlock absent-mindedly, barely acknowledging the inspector. "And that whatever case you need help with can only be taking place around Kent, presumably in the countryside. Quite an important case as well, by the looks of it."
"By Jove," I said, once again being amazed by my friend's deductive reasoning. "However did you work that out?"
"The water on his boots," said Sherlock. "London has been somewhat dry today, but the inspector's shoes are damp. But, his clothing is not, meaning he can't have been rained upon. The inspector isn't one to go splashing about in puddles, nor one to wade in rivers. As such, it's sensible to presume he walked through snow. He was unprepared for this journey, however, as his boots are not as sturdy as boots one would tend to use when walking through the snow. Therefore, he must have been summoned there this morning, and wasn't prepared for the conditions. But, given that he has come straight here and not changed his boots, the matter must be serious, and require our urgent attention."
"How do you know I came from Kent?" asked Lestrade.
"That is the only area within the reasonable distance that has had snow recently," said Sherlock. "I read it in the papers."
"Of course," I said, slightly amused at how simple it all was when laid out in such a neat pattern.
"Well you are summoned," said Lestrade but, noticing Sherlock's somewhat sour gaze, rephrased his sentence. "You are requested," he repeated, "to come to the Little's Farm at once. The owner is a fan of your work, and has asked for you personally."
"A fan of Watson's work, I think," said Sherlock. "My friend here does like to be somewhat hyperbolic with the truth. Nevertheless, I've been meaning to get out of London for a little bit. Come along, Watson! If we hurry, we might be able to catch the midday express."
The sight that greeted us when we finally made it to the Little's Farm was grim indeed. A barefooted body, hanging from the tree, swaying gently in the wind. The farm owner's son, for no explicable reason, had decided to end his life prematurely. It was a tragedy, but not one that seemed to be something that required my friend's attention.
"It wasn't suicide" said Samuel Little firmly, as he lead the three of us into the paddock. "My son wouldn't do that."
"The evidence does indicate otherwise," said Lestrade, feeling sympathy for the old man.
"Is there any reason why your son would feel compelled to take his own life?" I asked, hoping to have light shred on the situation.
"No," said the farmer with fierce certainty. "He was a good lad, a God-fearing soul, and he would never do anything as foolish as this."
The conversation was momentarily silenced as we reached the tree. Lestrade moved to untie the rope and let the corpse down, but Sherlock put up his hand to halt him. Instead Sherlock slowly but purposefully circled the tree, checking its roots, and the snow around it. Only when had he completed a full rotation that he nodded and allowed the body to be lowered down.
"Your assessment, doctor?" asked Sherlock, once again showing his confidence in my abilities. I turned to look at the corpse. It was clear that the cause of death was strangulation, and yet...
"Hmm," I said, more to myself than anyone else. It was a somewhat involuntary response, but a habit I had picked up from Sherlock, whenever I felt that the narrative I was weaving in my head didn't correspond to what I was seeing in front of me.
"Yes?" said Sherlock eagerly, recognizing that same look in my eye that he often had.
"Well the cause is death is definitely strangulation," I said. "But the rope burns aren't consistent with that of a hanged man."
"Quite correct doctor," beamed Sherlock, turning to Samuel. "I must say sir, you were right in your assessment. Your son did not commit suicide. He was murdered."
"Murdered!" roared the farmer in anger and grief, with the look of a man willing to fight the devil himself for committing such a heinous act.
"Yes, he was murdered by his partner," said Sherlock sadly. "Clearly they didn't want to split the loot."
"Partner?" asked Lestrade in confusion. "Loot?"
"Shall I reconstruct the events for you?" asked Sherlock. "First, we must look at these hoof-prints." He beckoned to the hoof-prints around the tree, imprinted in the snow.
"What about them?" asked Samuel.
"Do you see any cows around here?" asked Sherlock. He was right. Despite it being a cow paddock, none of them had seemed to be near the tree. They were instead huddled near the barn for warmth.
"Also, look at the width," said Sherlock, dropping down next to one set. "This gait clearly doesn't match that of an average cow. They're much too short and uneven. A cow would create a steady pattern, but here we have differing lengths and smudges. Also, there seems to be two sets of prints towards this tree, but only one set away. So unless the cow vanished, how do you explain the extra hoof-prints? Tell me sir," he said, suddenly swinging towards Samuel, "do you shoe horses?"
"Yes?" said Samuel, not understanding where it was going.
"I thought so,' said Sherlock. "Also notice how the corpse isn't wearing any shoes. It seems odd that someone would come all the way out here through the snow without proper footwear, even if they were planning to commit suicide. The discomfort alone might dissuade the man. However, where are the footprints to show the trek out here? But even if we presume he was planning to kill himself, the bruises around the neck are all wrong."
Sherlock indicated to the neck, pointing to the bruises in particular.
"When a man is hanged the bruises always slope upwards, as the head is lifted away from the body. But these bruises are angled down instead, almost as if someone stood on the man's back and pulled backwards. Likewise this knot isn't a hangman's noose, but instead a lasso. While it's possible that the victim here tied it himself, the victim's thrashing could have caused it to slip, but we don't see any evidence of that. Still, an effective way of murdering the man, you must agree. It also means they wouldn't have to split the treasure."
"What treasure?" I asked, struggling to keep up with my friend's rapid speech.
"The treasure hidden in the base of this tree," said Sherlock. "See how the dirt has been dug up here and replaced. I gather it must have been a chest of sorts, one that required two men to pull it out, hence the rope. However one man betrayed the other, and here we are."
"I'm still lost," said Lestrade honestly. "What exactly happened?"
"Oh I'm so sorry," said Sherlock, realizing that he'd once again skipped several steps. As such, he replayed his story, slower and more detail this time.
According to him, late last night, two men walked to this tree in order to retrieve something. To avoid having any footprints they created specially made shoes designed to mimic those of a cow's hoof, some high heel of sorts. They arrived and dug up the treasure, but couldn't pull it out due to the tree having grown over it. As such, they tied a rope around it and successfully managed to pull it out, throwing the dirt haphazardly back over the hole to try and cover their tracks. However, the man's partner decided to take the opportunity to take out his partner, throwing the noose over the man's neck and pushing him to the ground, standing on his back and choking him till the man died. He then hung the body over the tree to make it look like a suicide, taking the shoes off the victim so no one worked out how they got there.
"Which leads to just one question," said Sherlock at the end. "Who was this man with, and why did he decide to murder him?"
"Mister James Determan?" the inspector asked, as we walked into the barn. The man warming his hands by his fire didn't say much, merely nodding slightly to show that this was the correct assumption.
"You work for Mister Little?" continued Lestrade, a question repeated by another small nod.
"I was wondering if you knew what happened to his son?" concluded Lestrade, this time waiting for a verbal response.
"The boy hung himself," said James grimly. "A tragic circumstance, for sure."
"Indeed," said Lestrade, getting out his trusty notebook and pencil. "I don't suppose you can give us an idea as to why he might have committed such a terrible act."
"Don't touch that!" the blacksmith said sharply, eyes fierce and wild like a savage dog. Sherlock's hand continued to hover over a small metal pot with a lid on it, carefully watching the other man.
"It's still cooling down," explained Determan. "You touch that, and you'd burn the skin off your hands."
"Thanks for the warning," said Sherlock, lowering his hand, focusing back on the man. "Tell me, are you by chance related to Arthur Determan?"
"He is my brother, yes," said James cautiously.
"I thought so," replied Sherlock. "The family resemblance gave it away. Have you been in contact with your brother recently?"
"He and I exchange the odd letter. It's difficult, given his... circumstances."
"His brother is in jail," explained Sherlock. "Jewellery thief. He stole several precious stones from the upper echelons of London society, including the famous Sri Lankan sapphire. It was never recovered."
"I wouldn't know what you're talking about," said James. "I only talked to my brother for estate matters, what with him being released soon. Other than that, he and I don't have that much in common."
"Well it was oft rumoured he had a companion who helped him who was never caught."
"You listen here," growled the large, heavily-muscled man, pulling a red hot poker out of the fireplace and holding it in front of him like a sword. "If you're insulating that I'm involved with him in any way-"
"What my friend is trying to say," I said quickly, to avoid any further strife, "that there were matters of the case left unsolved, but that does not mean you were party to them."
James did nothing but growl and throw the poker back into the fire, warming his hands up some more. Seeing the tension cool down, Lestrade continued to question the blacksmith, but my attention was taken by what my colleague was doing.
Once again Sherlock was practising his peculiar habits, looking intensely at the blacksmith's shoes, before moving around the barn carefully.
"For the last time," said James angrily. "I spent the whole night in my cottage, in the warmth. Now if you could kindly get on with your business I can get on with mine."
"We both know that to not be true," said Sherlock from a corner of the room, ankle deep in hay. The three of us turned as the detective, as if by magic, pulled out two pairs of rather unusual shoes. They were high heels of sorts, but clearly designed in such a way to mimic the hoof-prints of a cow.
"I couldn't help but notice how the hay had been disturbed," said Sherlock. "There was a thicker than normal layer found in front of the pile, indicating that someone had moved the hay there before putting it back. I do believe these were what you used last night."
"I've never seen them before in my life," said James.
"Maybe so," said Sherlock, untangling himself from the hay. "But shoes these large can only fit a man whose feet as as unusually big as yours. I have to ask, was it your idea, or his?"
"What are you on about?" snarled James, who had been moving slowly back towards the poker without us being aware.
"It's an ingenious idea, nonetheless. But unfortunately you left a few tell-tale clues. Aside from the shoes, we also have that chest over there." Sherlock nodded to a chest sitting in the corner of the room, something so innocuous that I had completely failed to notice it. "A chest that has recently been broken into rather than unlocked. But why would you keep a chest but not the key? Then there's the family resemblance. It was clear from reviewing the case that there had to be a second person involved, one who could do all the heavy lifting. So then, I asked myself, could this second person have hidden some of the jewels? But if they were going to hide them, they'd have to put them somewhere where no one would think to disturb them. It was then I noticed the tree. Your brother was incarnated fifteen years ago, back when that tree would be only a minor sapling compared to what it is now. It wouldn't be a difficult job to bury some treasure next to it to be dug up at a later date. Especially since Mister Little confirmed that you have lived in this area your entire life."
"Where's your proof?" sneered James, who had gotten a firm grip on the poker while we were distracted from Sherlock.
"Well given how you had to kill your accomplice to stop him from revealing everything, but wouldn't be able to hide the body without drawing suspicion, it makes sense that you could only have hidden the treasure somewhere nearby. Somewhere in this building, in fact. Somewhere-" And with that Sherlock dramatically whipped the lid off the metal pot and, much to the shock of Lestrade and I, thrust his hands into its contents.
"Like this," concluded Sherlock, bringing out his uninjured hand to show a beautiful sapphire. "It was obvious when I walked in. Why would a man feeling the cold such as yourself stand by the fire and not by this much warmer object instead?"
If Mister Determan had a retort, he didn't have a chance to say it. With a roar he brought the poker out of the fire and thrust it in front of him, ready to skewer my friend like a pig. Instinct took over, as I drew my pistol and fired twice. The criminal shuddered, stepping back a few paces, and then fell dead upon the ground.
The three of us looked at the corpse, a mournful expression in Sherlock's face.
"A regretful turn of events," he said sadly, knowing that it had to be done and absolving me of any guilt. "He wouldn't have been in prison that long."
"So he and his brother buried a treasure chest there all those years ago?" asked Lestrade in shock.
"Mmm," mumbled Sherlock, glancing at the sapphire. "An ingenious hiding spot, don't you think? Once Arthur had been released both men could have easily split the fortune and been rich. Clearly James was desperate for the money and had to improvise such a hasty plan."
"Well, thank you Mister Holmes," said Lestrade, holding out a hand to be shaken. "We couldn't have done it without you."
Sherlock instead said nothing, looking off into the distance. Once again, with the case solved, the boredom took him. He had once again brought forth a brilliant deduction to catch a guilty man... but, ultimately, was the cost worth it?