Chapter Six

Observation and Deduction

I hurried to catch up to Holmes, who was striding forward at a rapid clip, oblivious to nearly all about us.

I wanted to ask him more about the scrap of green cloth, but I knew when he was in this state he would never hear me, let alone respond. So I followed him gamely onward, wondering if we would return to the inn for some late breakfast, for my stomach was protesting its current state rather loudly.

To my embarrassment, one of my stomach's growls distracted Holmes from his thoughts. For a moment, anger flashed across his features, but then he turned to me, a smile playing across his lips. "We had better find you some food, or I daresay your stomach might climb out of you and eat me!"

I chuckled. "I must confess to being famished. Will you have something?"

Holmes shrugged and turned left, back towards the inn. "I suppose I could partake in something small."

"It would make my job as your physician a bit easier."

Holmes only shook his head.

"Have you deduced anything about that scrap of cloth?" I asked before he could return to his reverie.

"Only that we will find the rest of the tie belongs to a short, muscular American, who is also likely a bachelor and a murderer."

I cast Holmes an inquisitive look, unable to see the connections as he could.

Holmes sighed, his irritation obvious. "Come, Watson! It is absurdly simple."

"For you, perhaps," I replied, opening the inn's front door and following Holmes inside.

"If he was a tall man," said Holmes, lowering his voice as we came within earshot of others, "the tie would not have caught so low upon the house, even if he bent lower than necessary to check Hieman's neck for a pulse."

I nodded, my brain working furiously to connect the others. "That he is the murderer or an accomplice is pretty obvious from the bloodstain and location in which we found it, and he would need to be muscular to throw a man out of a window." When Holmes did not respond, I realised his attention was not on my words but on the scene playing out at the table nearest the kitchen.

A man stood there, speaking in a low voice with the innkeeper.

"It is our shadow from last night," Holmes muttered, his voice barely audible.

I squinted at the man; it had been too dark for me to make out more than the silhouette of the figure, but Holmes' nighttime vision was superior to mine.

As unobtrusively as possible, we made our way across the dining room and into the hall. The men across the room did not seem to notice our presence, but my heart sank a little when I saw the flash of coins exchanging hands.

We had reached the door and headed down the hall towards our rooms.

"I shall have a word with our innkeeper, once his unsavoury acquaintance departs," said Holmes.

"Half a moment." I stopped Holmes before he could enter his room. "How did you know the owner of the tie was an American and a bachelor?"

Holmes pursed his lips with irritation but answered my question regardless. "Even a short man would have to wear a somewhat long tie to snag it so low, and the current American style matches that description. The fact that he is a bachelor is perhaps the most obvious thing about it. It was certainly what came to my mind first."

"Not so with me," I replied, wishing my brains were a little quicker and my eyes more prone to noticing the important facts.

"The colour, Watson!"

"Pardon?"

Holmes shook his head. "No man with a woman in his life would be allowed to wear anything in such a hideous shade of green. The man would hear about how horrid it is until he gives it away or burns it."

Now that I thought back on it, the cloth was a rather putrid shade of green.

Holmes glanced at his watch. "I imagine that chap is gone by now, leaving us free to have breakfast."

We returned to the inn's dining room and parlour and took a seat by the window. I asked the woman for hot breakfast for two while Homes had a quiet word with the innkeeper. My friend arrived at our table within five minutes.

"I had a most interesting little chat," said Holmes, the corners of his mouth twitching as he seated himself across from me. "I daresay I learned more about our sneaking friend than he did about us, without the assistance of coins. Apparently, the innkeeper dislikes conspiracies but is rather hard up for money of late. The sneaking man is Silas Albright, a local woodworker and younger brother to a John Albright, the priest of this parish. The young Albright is careless with his finances and is suspected of cheating at cards. The local impression is that he is the sort of man who will, in the words our estimable innkeeper, 'do damn near anythin' to make a buck.'"

I snorted at Holmes' attempt to mimic the Midwestern American accent.

"Hush, Watson," said Holmes. "I should like to see you do better."

"Anyway," I said. "It is not this Albright fellow we should be worried about, but rather the one who is filling his pockets."

"Precisely," Holmes replied. "Though we should not entirely disregard Albright; he is likely armed, and I should not like to put my life in the hands of a man with no morals of his own to guide him."

"No indeed," I replied. The thought made my stomach turn over, but it righted itself when I saw the innkeeper's wife approaching with two plates of eggs, bacon, and toast. I was too used to not knowing how long it would be until my next meal to give this one up over a vague, potential threat.

Holmes only munched at a small bit of toast, watching thoughtfully out the window. When it became apparent that he had no interest in the eggs or bacon, I scooped them onto my plate.

After a time, Holmes spoke.

"Do not look now, Watson, but I believe we have an uninvited guest."

A moment later, the door of the inn swung open with force and a commanding voice boomed, "Where are Sherlock Holmes and John Watson?"

Holmes sprang to his feet. Dropping the last forkful of egg back onto my plate, I scrambled to do the same.

"We are here," said Holmes coolly, "But it seems you have the advantage of us."

The dining room was silent, all eyes on Holmes, me, and the man striding toward us. I keenly felt the absence of my service revolver, which lay on top of the yet-unpacked suitcase in my room. I made up my mind that this would be the last time I would be caught without a weapon handy.

The man who sought us approached our table. He had a youthful, doughy face set with piercing blue eyes which held a certain mastery in them. Despite his age, it seemed this man was accustomed to being heard and obeyed.

"Marshall Reagan," said the man, "and I—"

"Have come to tell us not to meddle in affairs which are not our concern?" Holmes supplied.

"Well, yes," said Reagan, his confident demeanour somewhat diminished.

Holmes frowned. "Why should you, a police detective on your first case, hailing from several hours away with no intentions of staying long, be the one to deliver this message, when it is Sheriff Sweet who has jurisdiction in this county?"

"How—how do you—" the young Marshall spluttered.

"I have my methods," said Holmes curtly. "Now answer the question."

"Sheriff Sweet is looking into some slight disturbance at the Blomberg home."

"What sort of disturbance?" asked Holmes sharply.

I gripped the handle of my doctor's bag tightly, hoping no one was injured.

"That is none of your—" began Reagan.

"It became my concern the moment I agreed to investigate the burglary of her jewellery," Holmes replied, grey eyes hard as steel as he stared down the much shorter man. He turned to me. "Come, Watson, we are off to the Blombergs. Marshall Reagan is welcome to accompany us if he so chooses."

The poor young man protested for a moment, then thought better of it. "Come with me, then," he growled. "If you are going either way, I should at least like to keep an eye on you two." The Marshall turned on his heel and stalked towards the door.

"Very well," Holmes replied, casting a glance in my direction. There was an amused twinkle in his eye, and I bit my lip to keep from laughing aloud. This young Marshall Reagan now knew that one cannot easily outdo Holmes in wit or ego. I still wished I had my revolver, but it seemed Reagan was unlikely to resort to a Wild West shootout, at least not at the moment.

I wished for my revolver again a minute later; I glanced behind the carriage and saw a lean figure watching our progress from behind a nearby building.