I had been watching my companion seated on the other side of the compartment for close on an hour. He finally tore his gaze away from the rolling vistas and regarded me with a sideways look.
"You wish to offer a penny for my thoughts," said he, surveying with an amused expression.
"I would like to know what makes you so certain the baron's corpus delecti is to be found in the Monroe grounds?"
He rummaged through his inner jacket pocket and came up with the silver cigarette case. It was a recent acquisition, but he would impart no details as to whence it came, except to say that it was given to him in payment for services rendered by an old friend.
"I suppose you would say I know that Lord Monroe has been disposed of somewhere in the grounds of Monroe Manor because I know that it rained early this morning."
"Holmes, must you always be so cheap with the details!"
The sinister smile flickered across his face, and he leisurely set his cigarette alight, taking a full puff from it before deigning to respond.
"You will remember that the Honourable Miss Monroe is to inherit £1,000 if she makes an approved marriage," he began, getting into his stride. "That was seemingly an insignificant detail; logically it does not follow that so small a sum would make her prey to anyone of her standing. But Watson, there was an engagement ring beneath that damp glove."
"An engagement ring! Has she entered into an engagement, then? But to whom?"
"Someone," said Holmes, twisting the cigarette in his long fingers. "Surely, a man to whom £1,000 a year would be a considerable contribution to his purse."
He paused, and considered the burning end of his cigarette, before putting it back between his teeth.
"Notice she did not remove her glove, despite it being wet, because she did not want to reveal the ring beneath. She must have been in Brighton, and had worn the ring there long enough that a contrasting line formed around her finger while the rest of her skin had tanned. She returned to London long before we wired her, for it had rained early that morning."
"She could not go gloveless without the ring and remain inconspicuous, so she decided to wear it anyway, under the gloves.
"You think that she has a lover, and he is responsible for the death of Lord Monroe?"
"It may have been at her behest," said Holmes with a satisfied smile. "It is possible the baron was a bully and a tyrant, and she took her revenge against him. It is also possible that she knows nothing of it, or believes her fiance to be completely innocent."
We deemed it best not to alert the Lady Monroe to our arrival. Holmes immediately took my sleeve and pulled me in the direction of the east wing. It stood beneath a skeleton of scaffolds, but beneath it seemed to be a sound structure.
"Tell me again, Watson, what did the builder say about Lord Monroe's last words to him?"
"He was concerned about the length of time it was taking to complete the repairs to this wing."
"Quite rightly, too. There is little fault in the structure of the wing. But it was the foundations that were in need of reinforcement. Let us see for ourselves."
With his considerable strength, Holmes was able to break the rusted lock to the servant's entrance. He swung the door open and we were met with a great eddy of cement dust. I coughed, and used my hat to wave the air clear of the choking sediment.
Holmes walked forward, unaffected as usual. He looked down at the recently poured concrete beneath his feet. It was uneven in places, with seemingly random patterns scraped into it.
Holmes dropped to his knees in front of the door, his glass in hand. His attention had alighted on a footprint outlined just below the door. It was of a large, narrow type, with a tread too worn to distinguish as belonging to any one individual. Holmes rose up from his examination, covered in a fine grey dust.
"Someone was here, and tread in the concrete while it was still wet," he declared.
"Yes, I can see that."
"It is obviously not unheard of among builders to step in wet concrete, but there is the danger of the cement hardening around one's foot and most make an effort to avoid it."
In two long strides, he was at the other side of the room, kneeling down to look at the wavy, uneven patterns etched into the floor.
"And here, something has been dragged across here. Wheels, a cement mixer. And there, and there. Attempts to obliterate old footprints. But whose?"
Suddenly he was on his feet, his entire attitude that of a fox hound who has just caught the scent; he was frozen, and stood leading with his nose, then without warning, dashed towards the door. "Come, Watson!"
Ten minutes later, we had rounded up the entire building crew and had them all standing on one foot like a row of show horses, one foot held up for inspection. He walked up and down the row twice, examining the treads. He paused at Jonathan Talbot for an instant, and whipped out his magnifying glass. He knelt down in the grass, bent in close, and then rose, brushing the grass from his knees.
"Very well," he said, patting Talbot on the shoulder. The builders collectively relaxed, and muttered as they sauntered away to their various employments.
"Not a one. Perhaps an outside agent," Holmes slipped a churchwarden from his inner pocket, and stuffed a plug of tobacco in it, and leaned in so I could light it with a match. "It is possible, Watson, that Irish Republicans did apprehend him at his home. It is possible that boot print belongs to the only missing individual, Lord Monroe."
He walked a few paces towards the house and smoked contemplatively.
"It is not unheard of for the Fenians to abduct an enemy, and send his appendages back to the family, piecemeal through the post. Frequently with a crucifix attached."
"If they were far abroad, it might have taken this long for the post to reach the Monroe Estate."
"Quite," said Holmes in his most sardonic and acidic voice. I saw a little frustrated huff of smoke escaped him, and he seemed to rock on his heels. Finally he turned to me, and saluted me with his walking stick.
"There is only one thing for it. I am afraid we will have to trouble Ellen Monroe's nerves more than I intimated to the lady of the house."
It may have been my imagination, but I think he was quite pleased at the increasing abstruseness of our pursuit. He ordered and was given the use of the estate's black landau. He stopped to appreciate the twin chestnuts burdened by it, and we swung into the carriage.
"Take us to the inn."
The Royal Falconer Hotel was rustic, but well appointed, and had the modern convenience of a telegraph office. Holmes immediately wrote out a short wire, and handed it off to the page. Then he availed himself of the selections of scotch lined on the sideboard. Lestrade had wired money to pay for our accommodations, and we were given the best possible suite. It included a very large sitting room upholstered in blue silk, and high lighted windows. Holmes had closed the heavy velvet drapes, and had lit a lamp.
The young Miss Monroe entered, her birdlike features illuminated in a way that made her seem, if possible, more fragile. She was quivering head to foot, and she stepped quickly towards Holmes.
"Sir, you have put me in the most awkward position."
Holmes took her hand, and in one deft motion, tore her glove off. A thin, pale golden band encircled her finger, one tiny diamond mounted in it.
Holmes very gently removed the ring, and held it up to the lamp. He then tossed it into the fire, and fixed his penetrating stare back on his client. Her eyes were wide, turned on the red hot trinket.
"Brass and cubic zirconium, Miss Monroe. He wants your money, my dear girl, not your heart."
She looked as if she might cry. "It isn't what you think!"
"I do not believe you," said Holmes, making a circuit of the room before aiming an accusing finger at the young woman. "Nor do I believe that Fenian men were responsible for the death of your father. Everyone else has suggested it, why should you not go along? "
"Father is dead!" she exclaimed, her eyes glossy with shock.
"Undoubtedly. Abducted from the basement of the east wing, or perhaps he met his death there. There was very little evidence. No blood. A single track."
"I shouldn't call it evidence to declare him dead!"
Holmes rounded on her, disgust creeping into his tone. "You are shielding a murderer, Miss Monroe."
She opened her mouth as if to speak, then took a step back. She inclined her head, turned, and fled the room.
"Excellent work, Holmes," said I, getting up to open the drapes. He gave me a withering look, then shrugged his shoulders.
"I have planted the idea in her mind," he said in his clipped tone. "Her trust in him will disappear. In the mean time, I must think on this. I am going for a stroll. Don't wait up."
He blew out the lamp, seized up his hat and cane, and swept out the door.