Ugh. I didn't think I'd ever get this done. Between homework, finals, holidays, and baby-sitting, there hasn't been much time to do much more than sleep my free-time away, and I think it shows in this pathetic excuse for a chapter.

Disclaimer: The unfortunately dim Constable Walters is mine, but you folks are welcome to have him.


Chapter 11

Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard was, to put it mildly, furious. He knew Sherlock Holmes was brilliant with tricky cases and capable of unraveling the most difficult problems, but at that moment he would have liked nothing better than to choke the consulting detective with his bare hands.

"I asked you to catch this man, not dawdle around and let him kill again!"

Holmes stared back at the irate inspector, completely unfazed.

"Lestrade, you really should consider calming down a little. As Dr. Watson could testify, prolonged excitement inevitably leads to an increased risk of heart failure. Furthermore, it might enable you to give more precise directions. This is not Regent's Park; this is Regent's Park Estate. There is a considerable difference. Fortunately, Clarkie was able to point me in the right direction. Where's the body?"

Lestrade turned beet red at Holmes's words, but grudgingly pointed to the front steps of a building. The unfortunate victim had landed face down by the door. A constable who looked, in Holmes's opinion, too young to be working on the force stood guard by the scene of the crime and straightened up nervously when the detective came to inspect the corpse.

"Name?"

"Toby Walters, sir."

"The body," Holmes clarified.

"Oh. Norton, I believe, sir. Albert Norton."

"Any witnesses?"

"No, sir. None that we know of. The housekeeper found him."

"Married?"

"No, sir. Not yet."

"Not yet?" How could he possibly— Oh, good grief! Was there no end to the stupidity of some people?

"The body," he clarified again.

"Oh. Yes, sir. I believe he is."

Holmes ignored the constable and proceeded to examine ill-fated Albert Norton. Once again, the formula had changed. This man was in his early thirties and had died of apparent strangulation by a noose. None of his personal effects appeared to have been stolen, but he did have a spade painted on the forehead. Holmes turned the coat pockets out and was rewarded with a playing card. As he placed it in his own pocket, he caught sight of Norton's right ring finger. Now that was interesting.

"Constable."

"Sir?"

"Are you aware that this man is missing a ring from his right hand?"

"No, sir."

"Make a note of it. Do the staff know if any valuables are missing?"

"Not that I'm aware of, sir."

Is there anything you're aware of?

"Find out. I'll interview the wife now."

Holmes brushed past Constable Walters without waiting for a response and entered the house. It was the typical home of a prosperous government official, and unbearable clean. For someone like Holmes, it was almost nauseating. He pushed the thought aside and strode purposefully into the parlor where the wife waited, only to have Constable Walters dart by him like an over-eager puppy.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes would like to ask you a few questions, ma'am, if that is all right."

The woman rose to greet them.

"Yes, of course. Thank you, constable." She dismissed him with a flick of her hand, suggesting that, like Holmes, she was less than impressed with the young officer's abilities. As Walters scurried back to his post, Mrs. Norton returned to her seat. Holmes took the chair opposite her.

"Mrs. Norton," he began, getting straight to the point, "am I correct to assume your husband was financially well-off?"

"Yes. My husband's salary was quite substantial."

"Did he have any enemies that you know of?"

"Well," she said slowly, choosing her words carefully, "when one is working in the upper branches of government, I'm sure there are always parties who bear grudges. Whether or not there were any such people as far as my husband is involved, I could not say."

"Did your husband ever show any signs indicating blackmail?"

"No. He would never stoop so low as to blackmailing another person, and if someone had been blackmailing him, he certainly never said anything."

"What of the possibility of a personal grudge?"

"No," she said resolutely, "absolutely not. Albert wasn't the type to engage in petty feuds."

Holmes considered her words. He stood.

"Mrs. Norton, I have one other question."

"Go on," she whispered, keeping her eyes on her lap.

"Was your husband a Mason?"

The lady looked up at him, thoroughly startled.

"Yes. Yes, he was. He never spoke much of it, but I knew."

"I see. Thank you, Mrs. Norton."

As Holmes entered the foyer, he became aware of Constable Walters arguing with Joe Morris on the front step.

"I'm sorry, sir, but you cannot go inside."

"Lookee here, son, I'm workin' this case, too."

"I understand, sir, but Mr. Holmes is busy. You cannot bother him."

"Listen, whippersnapper, I got a job to do, an' you're keepin' me from doin' it. Now, move over an' let me in. If Mr. Holmes is questionin' somebody, I gotta hear 'em, too."

"I'm sorry, sir, but I cannot—"

"I'm finished," Holmes strode forward, cutting him off. "Excuse me, constable."

Constable Walters quickly moved aside to allow the detective out.

"Yes, sir. Oh, and sir, the rest of the staff have been questioned. They insist nothing is missing and they know nothing about the ring, sir."

"Thank you, constable. Good day."

Walters nodded eagerly as Holmes left, calling out, "You're welcome, sir. Good day, sir."

Morris followed, chuckling to himself.

"A friend of yours?" he asked the moment they were out of earshot. Holmes gave a derisive snort.

"Not hardly. Just another over-zealous admirer of my work who was hired by Lestrade for some inexplicable reason. If I didn't know better, I'd say he did it on purpose."

"I once had to work with a fella in the St. Louis police," Morris reminisced. "For some reason, the chief had it out for us Pinkertons and he told the ol' boy to make it as hard on me as possible. I reckon folks in uniform just assume private citizens are less smart. Soon's I realized what the kid was doin', I led him on a merry little dance and sent him off in the other direction while I got the evidence I needed. Boy nearly got fired over it, but I reckon if an officer don't know the difference between Clinton Street and Clintock Street, he don't need to be on the force."

Holmes studied the old man from the corner of his eye as he spoke. Like his two compatriots, he seemed to be a contradiction. At first glance, he appeared to be a typical, uneducated old cowpoke. But an uneducated old cowpoke would never have been hired by Allan Pinkerton. It was time to shed some light on the subject.

"Mr. Morris, forgive my forwardness, but there is one point I'm still not quite clear on. How does a Wyoming ranch hand end up working as a part-time inquiry agent for the United States government?"

Morris gave a short bark of laughter.

"Ain't the usual course of events, is it? I was a Texas Ranger before I was a ranch hand, y'see. I joined up with them in 1845 and was with them for thirty years except for the three years I left during the War Between the States. Afterwards, I came back and worked with John Armstrong, mostly, helpin' him catch outlaws."

Holmes's quick brain did the math.

"Then you must have worked on the John Hardin case."

"Yep. That's how I got to workin' for Ruth's uncle. Hardin was a wily rascal and Amos was already a pretty well-respected Pinkerton, so they brought him in to help with the investigations. We'd met before at Pea Ridge and again at Iuka by some quirk of Fate and after hearin' things 'bout him after the War, I was happy to work with him. Saved my life twice during the whole ordeal. Amos Henley's nothin' if he ain't loyal. S'where Ruth gets it from, prob'ly. Girl's just like him, I swear, but I'm ramblin'. After the Hardin job, I'd planned to retire and Amos offered to take me on as a hand. I took him up on it and went to Wyoming and spent the next ten years or so either punchin' cattle or punchin' thugs."

Holmes listened in his typical fashion: Eyes straight ahead, never looking at the speaker, and apparently not paying attention, yet capturing and filing away ever detail for further reference and contemplation. This revelation of Morris's filled in several pieces to the puzzle that was Ruth Henley. It wasn't Holmes's nature to openly question a man on subjects he could research later, but Morris was here in front of him. The detective might as well use the resources given to him. There was one question in particular he was burning to have answered.

"What sort of education has Miss Henley had?"

"'Bout as much as a person can get livin' out on a ranch in a pretty much lawless territory," Morris told him. "Ruth's a smart girl, real smart. Smarter'n most girls are at her age. Every time we're working in a town or a city, she always finds time to look through their libraries. Judges the quality of a place by how good their library is. Reads all kinds of stuff 'n knows how to look things up for us. Book-smart, I guess is what you'd call her. Book-smart and a solid rock of common sense in most things, but she never stayed in school long. She'd go for a few weeks, but then she'd get tired with it 'n start sneakin' off 'n playin' hooky. Her folks finally realized the best thing to do was school her at home."

"She didn't complete her primary education?"

"Nope. It weren't too long after Lewis and Miss Opal passed that her Aunt Marjorie tried to step in and sent her off to some boarding school back East. It didn't work out and she came home. I don't think she's ever quite got over it."

"The aunt or Miss Henley?"

Morris considered, and then laughed.

"Both," he declared.

Somehow, Holmes wasn't surprised. Ruth Henley sounded about as compatible with boarding school as water did with oil. What did surprise him was the fact that Ruth seemed to value learning, despite her distrust of the more formal settings, enough to educate herself, albeit in a non-traditional sense. That certainly explained her resourcefulness.

As Holmes considered the events of the past few days and made connections in his head, he found that he did not like they way they were leading. He suddenly heard Watson voicing his misgivings about involving a girl in such a sordid affair, and he could only hope that her ingenuity would be enough for her in the turmoil to come.


Ruth had waited patiently in the police station while Watson met with Inspector Gregson as per Holmes's instruction. Afterwards, the two had hailed a cab to go to Charlie's boarding house, which they now stood outside of. Even in the sunlight, the place looked as dismal as ever. Ruth strode boldly up to the door, knocked, and stepped back to wait. She started to knock again, but jumped back when the door creaked open and someone peered out at them through the crack.

"Mrs. Dodd?" she asked apprehensively.

The crack widened. The landlady looked Ruth and Watson over with a gimlet eye.

"Yes. Who are you?"

"I'm Ruth, Charles Henley's sister. Charlie's in the hospital and he asked me to come get some of his things for him."

Mrs. Dodd's eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"Mr. Henley never said anything about having a sister. He only mentioned a brother."

"That'd be Travis. You've met him, actually. He was here yesterday with my brother and Dr. Watson." Seeing that the landlady was scrutinizing her face, Ruth gave her most winning smile and added, "Travis and I are twins."

"Hmph. Very well, I suppose you may go up." She opened the door all the way to allow them in, taking a key from her apron pocket and handing it to Ruth. "First door on the left. You have ten minutes. A moment longer and I'll escort you out."

"I assure you, ma'am, ten minutes is more than sufficient."

Mrs. Dodd sniffed haughtily and retreated to her parlor. The moment the landlady's back was turned, Ruth's smile melted into a grimace.

"Jiminy Christmas, I didn't think that old buzzard was ever gonna leave."

"You're very good at convincing others you're something you're not," Watson observed as they started up the stairs.

"Comes with the territory. When you spend all your time around adults, you learn the ground rules quickly. And if you don't learn them, you learn how to act like you've learned them."

"Ground rules?"

"Say 'yes, ma'am' and 'no, sir' and be respectful to everyone, even if you think they don't deserve it," she explained. "Never tell a man you're better with a knife than they are, even if it's the truth. Don't speak out of turn, there's nothing like a Smith & Wesson for shutting someone up, and no matter what nonsense comes out of her mouth, Aunt Marge is always right. This must be it." She paused in front of a door and began fiddling with the key. The lock unlatched, but Ruth found herself fighting to get it open. She finally managed to shove the uncooperative door free. It swung open on creaky hinges, but Ruth remained motionless in the doorway.

The room had been completely ransacked.

Papers were flung everywhere and books were strewn about. A potted plant was tipped on its side; the pot itself was cracked, and dirt littered the floor. The cushions had been removed from the sofa and armchairs, stuffing lying around them. A small cupboard in the corner had been opened and rummaged through, its door hanging crazily by one hinge. A chair in the corner had been overturned.

Ruth entered the room, side-stepping a broken coffee table. Watson followed her.

"What happened here?"

"Well, I know Charlie and Joe are both bachelors, but neither of them are this sloppy, so I'd say it's a pretty safe bet that Davis or one of his cronies is behind it."

"What were they after?"

"Incriminating evidence. Charlie's notes. He wanted to see how much we know. I'll bet he didn't get far."

"I wouldn't be so confident," Watson said, looking around the room. "This place is ruined."

Ruth pushed her way through the mess, making a path to the desk at the far end of the room.

"It's still here," she said as she opened the top drawer. She pulled out a Bible with a grin. "It's the one place crooks never think to look." She opened the cover and flipped through it. "All still in one piece. I gotta hand it to Charlie; he's nothing if not devious."

"Your brother defaced a Bible to conceal his notes?"

"No!" Ruth looked at him affronted. "We Americans may be utter heathens in your eyes, but we're not blasphemous. The cover fell off and most of the pages were lost. Charlie simply replaced the insides and rebound it." She thumbed through the pages once more before placing it in her satchel and turning around. "We'd better go before that old witch decides to take after us with her broom."

Watson couldn't agree more.