Epilogue

When I returned, he sat in a contemplative mood, his knees drawn up und his arms draped around them. I stuffed my pipe and resumed my seat, puffing contentedly.

"Where were we? Ah yes, the question of suspicion. Why Woodnell, then?"

"I had a distinct inkling", Holmes responded calmly. "His wife was what gave him away. He was not worried enough. Can you picture a man madly in love, whose wife has disappeared and who swaggers about his professional accomplishments in front of strangers? No, my friend. First, I was inclined to think that he did not actually care for her, but when my assumption was so vehemently contradicted by Mr. Staunchill and everyone else, and when I saw them together I was sufficiently convinced of their mutual affection. It could be deduced, then, that he did not have to be worried for her, since he knew that she was in no real danger. So, what followed? She was safe – he knew it – they were accomplices. It is as easy as that."

"How very extraordinary", I mused. "Yes, he is an extraordinary man, this Woodnell. A bright fellow, I'm sure…but as you observed, he lacks his wife's thoroughness and theatrical talents."

"He was ever predisposed to be murderer and a cheat", Mr. Holmes said philosophically. "A vain, self-absorbed man…being admired by our peers inspires a strange view of our rights in some of us. Our Dr. Woodnell may have been seduced by the fact that he always reached his aim, and ceased worrying about ways and means. Still, the spark of cruelty was always there – in him."

We sat in silence for a while. Outside, a slight rain had set in, the drops being pressed against our window by the flurry. I went to my desk and started to occupy myself with some of my old notes, and Holmes took up his violin, fiddling it listlessly. The profound melancholia that succeeded most of his concluded cases had already seized him, and I turned my mind inside out, searching something to prevent utter boredom taking possession of him. Yet all I could come up with was a further question.

"I wonder", I said aloud, "whether Mr. Staunchill's assumption about Lord Montgrave is correct."

Holmes replaced his violin on the sofa. "Why, what do you mean?"

"He said the Lord was not actually a rich man. You recall the picture frames being gilded."

Sherlock Holmes sighed. "I have come to the conclusion, my dear friend, that to a lover of the arts, a frame is a matter of secondary or no interest. Lord Montgrave might simply not have cared whether his Constables were framed with gold or with anything else, as long as they remained what they were. Perhaps he thought of these lines of Goethe: Was glänzt, ist für den Augenblick geboren/Das Echte bleibt der Nachwelt unverloren."

I lowered my head, returning to my occupation, but my eyes kept wandering back to him, or rather to the drawer I knew to contain my unreasonable friend's syringe and the seven-per-cent solution. While his life is a constant effort to avoid boredom, mine is an effort to avoid his getting bored, in which endeavor I have so far only partially succeeded.

There you have it! Now, I think, everything has been explained. If you still have questions – out with it!

I thank you lots for reading this story, which I hope you have enjoyed. I enjoyed it loads, thanks to you, guys. And I'm really glad the Baker Street gentlemen have their Mrs. Hudson back, because they really can't do without her. They are dreadfully spoiled.

Perhaps I shall see you someday in another story. Until then – feel hugged!