Hope you enjoy the next few chapters :)

I'd like to dedicate this chapter to:

Bones-n-Books: Thank you honey :) I'm very glad that you're enjoying the story.

Streetdog: Glad you thought it was worth the wait :) and here's the update you wanted.

: Greetings to Spain from the UK :) I'm hoping to continue writing stories for the 'Sherlock Holmes and Luanna Watson' series though that depends on both my job and my readers. If they wish it to happen, I shall do it :D

I walked down to the station with them, and then wandered through the streets of the little town, finally returning to the hotel, where I lay upon the sofa and tried to interest myself in a yellow-backed novel. The puny plot of the story was so thin, however, when compared to the deep mystery through which we were groping, and I found my attention wander so continually from the action to the fact, that I at last flung it across the room and gave myself up entirely to a consideration of the events of the day.

Supposing that this unhappy young man's story were absolutely true, then what hellish thing, what absolutely unforeseen and extraordinary calamity could have occurred between the time when he parted from his father, and the moment when, drawn back by his screams, he rushed into the glade?

It was something terrible and deadly.

What could it be?

Might not the nature of the injuries reveal something to my medical instincts?

I rang the bell and called for the weekly county paper, which contained a verbatim account of the inquest. In the surgeon's deposition it was stated that the posterior third of the left parietal bone and the left half of the occipital bone had been shattered by a heavy blow from a blunt weapon. I marked the spot upon my own head. Clearly such a blow must have been struck from behind. That was to some extent in favour of the accused, as when seen quarrelling he was face to face with his father. Still, it did not go for very much, for the older man might have turned his back before the blow fell. Still, it might be worthwhile to call Holmes' attention to it. Then there was the peculiar dying reference to a rat.

What could that mean?

It could not be delirium.

A man dying from a sudden blow does not commonly become delirious. No, it was more likely to be an attempt to explain how he met his fate.

But what could it indicate?

I cudgelled my brains to find some possible explanation. And then the incident of the grey cloth seen by young McCarthy. If that were true the murderer must have dropped some part of his dress, presumably his overcoat, in his flight, and must have had the hardihood to return and to carry it away at the instant when the son was kneeling with his back turned not a dozen paces off. What a tissue of mysteries and improbabilities the whole thing was!

I did not wonder at Lestrade's opinion, and yet I had so much faith in Sherlock Holmes' insight that I could not lose hope as long as every fresh fact seemed to strengthen his conviction of young McCarthy's innocence.

It was late before Sherlock Holmes returned. However, it was only him and my sister who had returned, for Lestrade was staying in lodgings in the town.

"The glass still keeps very high," he remarked as he sat down. "It is of importance that it should not rain before we are able to go over the ground. On the other hand, a man should be at his very best and keenest for such nice work as that, and I did not wish to do it when fagged by a long journey. We have seen young McCarthy."

"And what did you learn from him?"

"Nothing." My sister murmured tiredly, her eyes seeming heavy as she fought to keep them open.

"Could he throw no light?"

"None at all. I was inclined to think at one time that he knew who had done it and was screening him or her, but I am convinced now that he is as puzzled as everyone else. He is not a very quick-witted youth, though comely to look at and, I should think, sound at heart." He told me, his arm slipping around my sister's waist in order to pull her closer to his side when she began to sway slightly from exhaustion. Once there, she placed her head on his arm and allowed her eyes to flutter shut though her eyes flickered beneath her eyelids, a sign she was still paying attention to our conversation.

"I cannot admire his taste," I remarked, "if it is indeed a fact that he was averse to a marriage with so charming a young lady as this Miss Turner."

"Ah, thereby hangs a rather painful tale. This fellow is madly, insanely, in love with her, but some two years ago, when he was only a lad, and before he really knew her, for she had been away five years at a boarding-school, what does the idiot do but get into the clutches of a barmaid in Bristol and marry her at a registry office? No one knows a word of the matter, but you can imagine how maddening it must be to him to be upbraided for not doing what he would give his very eyes to do, but what he knows to be absolutely impossible. It was sheer frenzy of this sort which made him throw his hands up into the air when his father, at their last interview, was goading him on to propose to Miss Turner. On the other hand, he had no means of supporting himself, and his father, who was by all accounts a very hard man, would have thrown him over utterly had he known the truth. It was with his barmaid wife that he had spent the last three days in Bristol, and his father did not know where he was. Mark that point. It is of importance. Good has come out of evil, however, for the barmaid, finding from the papers that he is in serious trouble and likely to be hanged, has thrown him over utterly and has written to him to say that she has a husband already in the Bermuda Dockyard, so that there is really no tie between them."

"Personally... I think tha' that bit o' news has consoled young McCart'y fo' all tha' he ha' suffered." My sister slurred tiredly, nuzzling her nose into Sherlock's coat, causing him to chuckle quietly at her.

"But if he is innocent, who has done it?"

"Ah! who? I would call your attention very particularly to two points. One is that the murdered man had an appointment with someone at the pool, and that the someone could not have been his son, for his son was away, and he did not know when he would return. The second is that the murdered man was heard to cry 'Cooee!' before he knew that his son had returned. Those are the crucial points upon which the case depends. And now let us talk about George Meredith, if you please, and we shall leave all minor matters until tomorrow for now, I must get your sister to bed before she begins to drool upon my coat."

"I do't drool!" she protest sleepily, fighting to open her eyes however that failed miserably. Smiling once again, Sherlock easily scooped her into his arms then began walking in the direction of our room, gently rocking her as they went. As I followed, I could hear snippets of their soft conversation but didn't pay them any attention.

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