I realized, in a cursory glance over my other accounts, that I did neither Mr. Sherlock Holmes nor Miss Emily Chrane justice in my descriptions of them. The depictions were accurate, of course, but done very matter-of-factly. By most standards, Holmes was a dashing man with exquisite manners. He lacked nothing in appearance or stature and was, in my own opinion, very handsome, although his face, haggard by deduction and the trials he subjected himself to in the name of deduction, made him appear years older than his actual age.
Emily, too, was very attractive. Her features were delicate and well placed. Her hair was raven-black with dancing elusive streaks of blue; nevertheless, I did not much care for the manner in which she styled it. I am certain that it was the best possible manner in which a woman could style her hair according to the laws of physics, yet I thought it too severe. Emily was most plain in every manner, but especially in dress, seldom wearing any colour far removed from black, and never adorning herself with embellishments or jewels of any sort. She was a trifle taller and thinner than I cared for in a lady, but she suited Holmes well. Her slimness was the perfect complement to his own slender form. She was shapely, for such a thin woman, and I had I not been married and thought still that she was not, I could have fallen very deeply in love with her.
The year 1899 saw more than a few cases on which the trio of Holmes, Emily and myself worked jointly. In January of that year, I arrived home from my tobacconist's to find a telegram from Emily:
Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come all the same.
E. G. C.
So I left once again for Baker Street immediately, and, upon arriving, found Holmes and Emily engrossed in a game of chess. They were proceeding to put one another in check at regular intervals.
"Watson," Holmes said as I entered, not looking up from the game, "the case began with a letter I received yesterday: you may wish to read it. It is in the usual place." One of Holmes' many unusual habits was to attach his unanswered correspondence to the middle of the hearth with a jackknife. He pointed behind his back with his thumb, as I proceeded to the hearth to retrieve the letter. A golden, jewel-encrusted stiletto replaced the humble jackknife. It was a most extraordinary weapon, and I could not help commenting upon it.
"This knife is amazing!" I cried.
"I imagined it would wrench such an exclamation from you," said he. "It is an antique and belonged to one of the oldest families of Europe. It has a sordid past, however: several of the male heirs of this household, whose name I am not at liberty to disclose, proceeded to employ this weapon in the murder -- sacrifice is a more fitting term -- of their wives after they had borne male offspring. It was something of a macabre family tradition. I have before told you of the grim deeds that can be shielded by a noble family's crest. Over the past few centuries, that very stiletto quietly caused the death of many of the most beautiful and resolute women ever to grace the Continent. I must also say that it very nearly had the honor of piercing my heart. It would have done so, had Emily not been standing by with her derringer. With the kind and grateful permission of the surviving matriarch, I retained possession of it. Should we outlive the family's lineage, publication of the account may be possible."
"You were almost killed?" I gasped.
"Being almost killed, Watson," said he calmly, "is an inevitable facet of the detective's profession. Preventing the 'almost' from disappearing from that phrase presents the only difficulty in the situation. I agree with the Lorenzinis in that fearing death is no way to live a life. This letter you are about to read came by the afternoon post." In attempting to remove the letter, I nearly dropped all of the others into the roaring fire. "Careful, Watson," said Holmes without turning. Emily looked up and grinned at me. I thought that the chess game would continue in its present stalemate, affording me time to read the entirety of the letter unhurriedly. Alas, not so.
"Check and mate!" Emily cried, standing. Holmes simply stared at the board in disbelief.
"That was a bold move! You've been practicing," he growled as she rubbed her hands in felicity.
"I had the opportunity to study with one of the best master's in Scotland," she stated.
"Well, Watson," said Holmes, leaning back in his chair, "what do you make of it?"
"I am not sure," said I. I had read only enough to obtain the basic gist of the note: a woman named Sandra Purcell was to call in a quarter of an hour to consult Holmes upon the matter of the death of her sister Elizabeth. "I've read something of this in the papers, Holmes. They call Elizabeth Purcell's death a suicide."
"Never trust the papers, John," said Emily coolly. "They arrive at their theories with the help of Scotland Yard and, as we all know, in the more complex cases, the Yard is usually wrong."
"She is a cautious woman," said I, when I had read the letter fully.
"What makes you say that, Watson?"
"You've often said it is the usual practice of women who live in the vicinity to simply call and not notify in advance." Holmes nodded. "She lives close, yet she wrote anyhow to make certain you knew of her impending visit, so that you would be sure to be here. This is a very cautious action."
"That is a marvelous deduction, Watson! I had not even thought of that, but you do seem to dwell on human nature more than I. Miss Purcell obviously believes that her sister was incapable of suicide, which is the usual case, and she wants us to prove the police wrong. Here she is now." There were footsteps outside the door. Mrs. Hudson opened the door, and there was, looming behind her, a short, plump woman. Miss Purcell had a pallid, sorrowful face and her eyes, though somewhat hidden behind thick spectacles, darted nervously about the room. Holmes leapt to the door and ushered her inside. "Miss Sandra Purcell?" he asked, taking her by the elbow and helping her into a chair. She concurred and he added, after introducing Emily and myself, "You are a seamstress in a factory, are you not?"
"How did you know that?" she gaped.
"I observed a pin-cushion strapped to your left wrist. The fact that it was not removed when you left your sewing to call on us shows that you were in a rush. If you owned your own shop, you could come and go at will. If you worked for another seamstress, she would most likely have let you have all the time you needed. A supervisor in a sewing factory, however, would not care one whit about your sister's death. His only concern would be that you were not doing your share of daily work, so it is doubtful you would get leave for more than an hour to come here. That was the purpose of the letter you sent -- to make absolutely certain that you would not miss us. As your time is undoubtedly brief, so how we may serve you?"
"My sister Elizabeth has died."
"Yes, you told us that in your letter, but you do not think it was a suicide?"
"I did not mention the nature of her death in the note. How did you know it?"
"The newspapers," Holmes returned, with a glance in my direction, "said it was a suicide. You do not believe that, or you would not be here asking my assistance. You and your sister, I assume, were close?"
"Very. Close enough that I know she would not -- could not -- take her own life."
"Of course not," said Holmes, patting her arm sympathetically. "How did your sister make her living?"
"She was an artist."
"Was her career ebbing?" Emily inquired.
"On the contrary, Miss Chrane, it was just picking up. She was beginning to become something of a big name in the world of art. Her paintings were selling well, and she had just taken a villa in Kent with some of her profits."
"Was she the kind who could not handle the pressures of success?" I asked.
"Excellent question, Watson!" Holmes interrupted.
"If she felt pressured," Miss Purcell answered, "she did not show it, Doctor. She seemed to everyone to be having a wonderful time."
"She seemed to have no problems? Nothing was plaguing her?" Holmes asked.
"Nothing at all," Miss Purcell replied.
"Pray, tell us about the circumstances leading up to her death," said he.
"Two nights ago, I had just finished my work at the factory, and I was on my way to her house. She had sent word earlier requesting my presence."
"What was it concerning?" Emily asked.
Miss Purcell hesitated. "A . . . problem . . . she had been having."
"What sort of problem?" Holmes queried.
"Must I really explain it? It is terribly embarrassing for me."
"We are trying to help you, Miss Purcell. You can trust us implicitly: we will not divulge you secrets. Sub rosa, if you wish it. An explanation on this point may give us a clue as to your sister's death." The woman had been quite on edge, yet Holmes' chivalrous manner effortlessly put her at ease. He had an undeniable talent for calming women, almost as remarkable as his talent for upsetting them.
"She was involved with a man," Miss Purcell replied.
"And this man's intentions were not honorable?" Holmes asked.
"They were not, for he was already married: she was his mistress."
"And what prompted her to request you presence?" Emily inquired. "What had gone awry in their relations?"
"He told her that the novelty had worn off it."
"And your sister was saddened by this and sought your comfort?" Holmes queried.
"No, Mr. Holmes, she was envenomed and wanted me to aid her in plotting an act of malevolence."
"Ah, a vengeful spirit! However, might her anger," he persisted, "have turned itself into grief?"
Elizabeth knew well how to separate her emotions, even when we were young children. There was no sadness in her about this matter; she was about to end the affair herself. I believe she was merely jealous because he had done it first. Her anger would neither yield to nor become dejection."
"Very well," Holmes answered, with a chuckle. He appeared amazed by the woman's description of her spirited sister. "What did you plan?"
"She did not really need my help. By the time I had reached her home, she had contrived everything."
"Did she discuss her intent?" Emily inquired.
"She did not, though I am not certain that I would have wanted to know. It was, however, most likely only a prank. She said only that she would have a bit of her own back. When I left her, she was in devilishly high spirits, and, by morning, she was dead."
"What time did you leave her?" Holmes asked.
"Half past eight."
"And what was the estimated time of death?" he queried.
"The police reckoned a quarter of twelve."
"Has a thorough autopsy been performed yet?" Emily inquired.
"No, Miss Chrane, but one is scheduled for this afternoon, at my insistence."
Holmes noted both times on his shirt cuff as Emily posed her question, then stood and began to pace, hands thrust deeply in his pockets.
"You are most assuredly correct, Miss Purcell -- it does not make sense. If your sister did indeed take her own life, what could have happened in a mere three and one quarter hours to depress her to the point of suicide?" He asked this last question as if of the air, so none of us attempted an answer. "Why, exactly," Holmes asked, extending his arms, "do the police think that it was suicide?"
"Because, Mr. Holmes," the woman answered, "my sister was found hanging by her neck from a rope."
"That does seem most final," Holmes replied with a morose nod. Emily, I noticed, looked puzzled. "How did your sister notify you that she wanted to see you?" Holmes queried.
"I had a note from her that was delivered to me at the factory. As soon as I'd finished my work for the day, I made for her house directly."
"Well," Holmes said, after a moment's contemplation, "I believe that we should do the same. Miss Purcell, you must undoubtedly return to the factory, but I should be surprised if we do not have some good news for you after your workday has ended."
The late Miss Purcell's home, a large airy villa in Kent, was situated behind a succession of large trees that might have been lovely in the spring, but were at the present time bare of leaves. They resembled skeletons reaching for the sky. The house, by contrast, was quite lovely.
"Holmes, this house puzzles me," said I.
"Why is that?" he asked.
"This," I replied, "is a beautiful, expensive home. Notice the skillful architecture."
"Franz, I believe," Emily interjected.
"And the expensive building materials," I continued. "The late Miss Purcell was apparently quite well-to-do . . ."
"I see what you're getting at, old man," said he. "You wonder why the one sister has an elegant, costly home, while the other makes a meager living as a seamstress in a factory. Well, Watson, if Elizabeth Purcell were indeed the vengeful spirit that her sister describes, if would not be too far a leap to also characterize her as exceedingly selfish. In my experience, the two traits often accompany one another. So I imagine that she was too self-centered to entertain thoughts of helping to provide a better life for her less fortunate sister. And Sandra Purcell, as we have all noticed, is too full of the 'milk of human kindness' to think ill of her sister."
The inspector in charge, we discovered as we entered the studio of the late Miss Purcell's home, was a man by the name of Bartholomew Jenkins, just promoted from detective sergeant. He had light red hair and a darker red beard, with many freckles scattered about on his pallid skin. I myself am not one who is inclined to stereotypes, yet the saying about red-headed temperaments, in his case, proved to be true. He was quite the odd-looking man, with a massive head too large for his frail wispy body, and a neck that was little more than bulge of flesh protruding over his collar. He addressed us in a deep, but hollow, voice.
"Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson and Miss Chrane, I believe? I have been warned about the three of you." Holmes and Emily smiled at this, which only seemed to perturb the poor fellow more. "What, if I may be so bold, are you doing at my crime scene?"
"We are acting on the part of Miss Sandra Purcell," Holmes replied distractedly, as he and Emily eyed the room and its contents carefully, "the deceased's sister. She believes that there is more to this affair than meets the police's eyes."
"On what does she base this assumption?"
"On her knowledge of her sister's character, of course, and her state of mind a few hours preceding the murder."
"Murder?" said he, with more than a little skepticism.
"Murder," Holmes said flatly. "Since she has requested an autopsy, as the victim's nearest relative, I, as her agent in this matter, would like my friend, Dr. Watson -- who is a fully qualified surgeon -- to be allowed to assist."
"Very well, then," said Jenkins.
"Before we go, however," Holmes added, "apart from the body, has anything been moved?"
"No, Mr. Holmes. The room is just as we found it, except for the body. We took Miss Purcell to the morgue, but you can see the rope hanging from that beam. That's where she hung herself."
"That remains to be seen," Holmes countered, and having police approval, we set off to the morgue to observe the examination of the body. After we arrived, a few snips of "red tape" ensued, but soon the examination was underway. Holmes and Emily watched carefully, and Emily took notes. The cause of death, as the coroner concluded, was a broken neck. I disagreed, for her larynx was pulverized, indicating strangulation. I also had it officially included as a matter of police record that she had skin tissue and blood under her fingernails, which indicated a struggle.
We returned to the artist's home to find the surviving Miss Purcell present. She was almost as anxious to hear the results of the autopsy as we were to relate them. "The skin under her nails," I began, "isn't quite enough in itself to rule out suicide, but coupled with the fact that her larynx was crushed, it is." Jenkins looked incredulously at me, but Holmes continued the explanation notwithstanding.
"The murderer hung her from the beam," said Holmes, "to make it look like a suicide, but the hanging was most likely post-mortem. He then tidied the room, clearing away all signs of the previous struggle. The only thing he left untidy was the overturned table, to again make it appear that Miss Purcell had kicked it out from under herself, or stepped off the edge and knock it over as she swung from her gallows."
"It was a good thing that you chanced to look at her hands, Doctor," Miss Purcell chimed.
"It wasn't chance," I replied. "It is standard procedure. A person's hands can reveal many things about them."
"What else could you see?" the Inspector asked, doubtfully.
"I could infer," I continued, "that Miss Purcell was a nervous woman, left-handed, and had very likely been painting the night she died."
"And how, pray, did you determine all that?" he asked.
"Her left hand was more muscularly developed, and had more paint on it, light blue in color. In fact, she only had paint on the thumb of her right hand, where she grasped the pallet. Also, she bit her nails, which shows that she was nervous."
"Excellent, Watson!" Holmes was obviously bursting with pride. Holmes and Emily were not close enough to the body to have observed these details, or I am certain they would have come to the same, or perhaps even more, conclusions. Although they were unessential to the case, I was proud of myself for having made note of them.
"Still," Jenkins said, "you cannot imply that Miss Purcell was murdered simply because she had a row with someone."
"Well, when coupled with the fact that she was not tall enough to secure the rope to the beam, it becomes conclusive." Emily sat the table upright, and climbed atop it, where she was under the beam from which the rope still hung. "How tall did the coroner measure the body to be, John?"
I pulled out my notebook, in which Emily transcribed the particulars of the autopsy. "Five feet, seven and one quarter inches," said I.
"Well," Emily continued, "I am five feet, nine inches, and I cannot reach the beam, much less tie off a rope." She extended her arms overhead and, even on the tips of her toes, her fingers were still a foot from the beam.
"She could have thrown the rope over and tied the knot," Jenkins said.
"I would be inclined to agree if there were long ends of rope on either side of the knot. The tail of this knot is short . . . " Her voice trailed off because she seemed to be concentrating on something she could see better than we from her lofty vantage point. "Sherlock, would you be so good as to bring me a chair and your glass?" Holmes retrieved a chair from the other side of the room. He brought it to the table, and before placing it on the tabletop, ran his fingers over some scuffs in the varnish.
"These scratches indicate that a chair has perched on this table before," said Holmes.
Emily climbed up on the chair, and then began to inspect the beam with Holmes' magnifying glass. "This beam, Inspector, also appears to have blood on it, as does the rope."
"Let me see that!" he cried. Emily climbed down to give him access. When he had confirmed that it was indeed blood, he immediately dismissed it. "She got the blood up there herself when she tied the rope."
"She did not have blood on her hands," I protested, "only under the nails."
"She could have gotten a little of it on there. Perhaps it was all wiped off onto the rope. She stood on the chair, tied the rope to the beam, then got off the chair and kicked the table out from under herself."
"Then the table was overturned, and the chair landed upright -- seven feet away?" Holmes added.
"No, I suppose not." Jenkins replied.
"So, who put the chair back?" Emily asked.
"The murderer," Jenkins replied, nodding.
"Precisely!" said Emily. "Now we just have to determine who that might be."
Unfortunately, after Jenkins became convinced that a murder had indeed taken place, he began to savagely interrogate Sandra Purcell. Not that he thought she was the murderer, but just to ascertain information about possible suspects. He did so in a callused, unsympathetic manner, considering that the poor woman had just lost her only sister. Had he been a physician, I should have said he had a deplorable bedside manner. As it was, I can only call it severely lacking in sensitivity. Miss Purcell became hysterical during Jenkin's browbeating, and Holmes demanded that we be allowed to take the woman home. Jenkins complied gracefully, almost guiltily, and we departed for her home in Camden Town. We stayed a while to comfort her. I made her tea and, after she had regained her composure, we tried to speak to her.
"I hate to have to ask you this again, Miss Purcell," said Holmes, "but how close were you and your sister? Forgive my repetition, but it seems that you are our only link as to motives and suspects, and -- like a drowning man -- we must grasp at whatever we can."
"I understand completely, Mr. Holmes," said she daubing her eyes with her handkerchief, "and there is no need to apologize. Elizabeth and I were exceptionally close: she told me everything that happened in her life. We were more than sisters -- we were the best of friends."
"Can you then shed some light on who might have wanted her dead?" I said, sitting beside her, placing a sympathetic hand on her back. "Did she have any enemies?"
"No, she did not, but she had no friends, either, apart from me. She kept to herself much too much. The only reason she and I were friends is because, as her older sister, she had known me all of her life."
"Tell us about the man with whom she was involved," Holmes requested. "His name, address and profession?"
"Harris Stuart, No. 55 Chelsea Street. He is a rich man, I believe: independently wealthy."
"And you say that he ended the affair, and this annoyed your sister?" Emily asked.
"Yes. Elizabeth could be quite petty at times," she replied.
"Well, I think that is all the information we shall need tonight," said Holmes. "We shall see you at your sister's villa tomorrow." Holmes and Emily rose, and I followed suit.
"The best thing for you to do now, Miss Purcell," said I, "is to try to put the whole thing out of your mind for the time being, and to get some rest."
"I have not slept a wink since the whole affair began," she answered.
"Do try," said I. "Doctor's orders." Donning my hat, I followed Holmes and Emily out the door.
We returned to Baker Street shortly thereafter, and not much was said for the rest of the evening. We dined in silence, or I should say, I dined in silence, for neither Holmes nor Emily touched a bite that lay before them. They merely sat in quiet contemplation of the events of the day. It did not concern me that they did not talk about the case with me, for I was only the untrained observer. I was troubled, however, by the fact that they did not discuss it among themselves. Yet, as they have often said, their thoughts run along the same lines, so their separate hypothesis would probably be strikingly similar. Or perhaps, I thought, they had it solved already.
When we arrived at the scene the next day, there was quite a little activity, more than would normally be expected from the second day of a routine "suicide" investigation. As we entered, Holmes greeted Sandra Purcell and then asked for the inspector.
"What's all this, then, Jenkins?" he inquired.
"It seems, Mr. Holmes," said he, "that there was a break-in during the night."
"With what purpose?" I asked.
"It was most likely just someone wanting to see the scene of the crime," Jenkins replied. "Such an occurrence is more common that we like to let the public know. Nothing appears to be missing."
Emily, I noticed, had walked to one side of the room, examining some paintings. She turned to Holmes, and made a very slight nod.
"Quite right, Inspector! Well, since we put you on the right track yesterday, we shall get out from underfoot. There is nothing more we can do here save getting in your way. Miss Purcell, would you mind accompanying us?"
I was a bit taken aback at Holmes concluding our investigation so abruptly. I looked at him pleadingly for an explanation. With his face turned away from Inspector Jenkins, he mouthed quite clearly, "Outside."
"What is going on, Holmes?" I asked when we were out of earshot.
"I think that it's time that we visit Mr. Harris Stuart of no. 55 Chelsea Street," said he, boarding our four-wheeler.
"What on earth for?" I asked.
"To ascertain whether or not he has the missing painting," Emily answered. "If so, he is most assuredly our murderer."
"What missing painting?" I was confounded, as usual.
"The painting was of a landscape," she stated. "The sky was what she was working on the night she died -- remember the blue paint on her hands? It was barely dry, still tacky, but it was in a frame, nevertheless. And it was not there in the villa today."
"Marvelous!" Miss Purcell chimed.
"Holmes," said I, "what do you mean keeping the information about the painting and Stuart from the police. This won't go down well, you know, hiding evidence."
"I will disclose all to the police in the fullness of time," he replied. "Besides, I am not hiding anything that they could not have discovered on their own, were they so inclined."
"I suppose your right," I replied. "I do believe they will survive it." Holmes grinned.
"Miss Purcell," interrupted Emily, "what do you know of Harris Stuart's character?"
"Only what my sister has told me," said she. "My impressions of him, from Elizabeth's descriptions, were that they were very much two peas in a pod."
"So, I would imagine that he is a vengeful spirit also?" Holmes asked.
"It would seem so," said our client. "According to Elizabeth, they appeared to be perfectly suited. Possibly even soul-mates."
"If what you say it true," I asked, "why were they both determined to end the affair?"
"I believe it is possible, Doctor, for two people to be too much alike."
"Is it possible," Holmes inquired, "that he was vengeful enough to murder her if threatened with blackmail or a scandal?"
"I do not know, Mr. Holmes," Miss Purcell said. "All I know of him is second hand. I really could not speculate."
"Ah, forgive me," said Holmes. "I was wondering aloud, not asking you to conjecture on the matter."
When we arrived shortly thereafter at our destination, the butler informed that Mr. Stuart was not at home at the moment, but he said he would inform Mrs. Stuart of our presence. As we were shown into the drawing room, Emily pointed out the painting, which was displayed imprudently on the wall.
"Who better to know the man's character than his wife?" said Holmes. Mrs. Stuart, an elegantly dressed, quite handsome woman, joined us shortly. We explained the situation candidly. Oddly enough, the accusation that her husband might be a murderer did not seem to surprise Mrs. Stuart in the least.
"Do you believe that he is capable of murdering his former lover?" Holmes asked.
"Quite frankly, Mr. Holmes, I do," she calmly replied. "My husband, you see, is a deplorable man. He has no respect for anyone or anything. Nothing is sacred to him, save that of his blessed reputation: he would go to uncanny lengths to protect his social standing. I see that you marvel at my lack of surprise at learning of his mistress, as well. None of them astonished me."
" 'Them'?" asked Holmes.
"Harris has had many lovers over the years, but most of them were well kept, and quite discreet. I was grateful for his affairs. They kept him away, and left much less time in which to torment me."
"I do not mean to pry," I interjected, "but why did you marry such a man?"
"He was a charmer, Dr. Watson, and I a wealthy young woman. I did not know his true nature when we married. He needed a wife to meet social expectations, the richer the better, so he used me for his own purposes as he used any other person who could meet some need of his. I will help you in any way I can, you will undoubtedly be shocked to learn, because I would not at all be upset at seeing my husband hang."
"Well, thank you, Mrs. Stuart. I have never known the wife of the accused to be such a beneficial ally!" said Holmes. "And when do you expect your husband to return?"
"In less than two hours," said she.
"Then we shall return in one hour," my friend replied, "with the police."
Upon returning to the late Miss Purcell's home, we enlightened Inspector Jenkins, who was more than happy to accompany us the Chelsea Street. We were waiting in the drawing room when Mr. Harris Stuart returned. He was strikingly handsome, a suave-looking man with charcoal hair, Celtic features, and black, cold, unfeeling eyes, not unlike those of a shark. He was of a solid, muscular build and was, I would estimate, almost six feet in height. He wore a burgundy smoking jacket and a black neckerchief. The kerchief itself was quite the fashion, but his was worn unusually high about the neck. I surmised that this was to conceal the fresh scratch wounds. When Inspector Jenkins announced that he was under arrest for the murder of Elizabeth Purcell, his shark-eyes filled with rage.
"What are you talking about?" he protested. Jenkins repeated the charged, to which he replied, "This is preposterous! I've never met the woman."
"Deception is not an option, I'm afraid," said Holmes. "Miss Sandra Purcell has told us of your involvement with the deceased."
"Then it's her word against mine," he maintained. "I tell you I know no one by that name."
"You had better own it, Harris," his wife said. "I've already told them all about you. You are only making yourself look foolish."
"You murdered Miss Purcell two nights ago at her villa in Kent," said Jenkins.
"I was home all evening," said he. He looked to his wife for corroboration.
"I will not be your alibi," said Mrs. Stuart. "You left home at ten o'clock, after you thought I had gone to sleep."
"You are lying!" he yelled, and drew back his hand to strike his wife across the face.
Holmes caught the man's fist in midair, and wrestled him to the floor, pinning his arms behind his back. "We'll have no more of this," he cried as Jenkins produced handcuffs, and clamped them on Stuart's wrists. Once he was secured, Holmes picked him up by the restraints, causing him more than a little unnecessary discomfort. "One thing I cannot abide is a man who would strike his wife!" Holmes snapped as he threw the man down on the sofa. Stuart glared at us all, but especially at his wife. Holmes alit on another sofa opposite him, and lit a cigarette.
"What gave me away?" Stuart growled.
"She was not tall enough to tie the rope without the aid of a chair," said Holmes, "which you inadvertently replaced in your haste to tidy the room before your departure."
"Also, she had skin under her fingernails," said I, removing his neckerchief, "corresponding to these wounds on your neck."
"Now," said Holmes, "what did she have on you that she was evidently hiding in that painting?"
"How did you know she was hiding something in the painting?" Miss Purcell asked.
"Because it was framed before it dried," said he. "Why was she in such a rush to frame a painting that the she would not allow it enough time to dry? She had to hide something before someone arrived."
"Why not hide it in one of the other paintings?" I asked.
"The other paintings were already sold," said Emily, "so they would not do. She needed to hide it in a painting that she could keep. Now, what was in it, Mr. Stuart?"
"I had reason to believe it contained photographs of myself with Miss Purcell," said he. "I had forgotten that they were ever taken, but she reminded me of that fact when I ended the affair, and told me I would have to pay to reclaim them. I had gone there that night, in fact, to make the transaction, but she demanded twice the price we previously agreed upon."
"How much was she asking?" Holmes inquired.
"A thousand pounds," Stuart replied. Holmes whistled. "She claimed that she had hidden the photographs well, and that I would not find them. I lost my temper, and we fought. I strangled her, while she dealt with me thus." He pointed to the scratches on his neck. "I strung her up to make it look as if she had taken her own life, then I turned my attentions toward the photographs. I searched high and low for them, but could find nothing. It was not until the next morning that I discovered the paint on my shirt collar, and I realized that something painted blue must conceal the photographs. I resolved to return the next night, to seek out what it was. I found that the landscape painting was not completely dry, so I took it, and made away as quickly as possible. I assumed the site of a suicide would not be heavily guarded, and, to my relief, it was not."
"Why not simply destroy the frame, and make off with the contents?" I asked.
"That would call more attention to the painting, Watson," said Holmes. "Remember the Six Napoleons? That was the last thing he wanted to do."
"I could not be sure that the painting contained the photographs," said Stuart, "but I deemed it safer to wait until the mess had blown over to investigate the contents. After all, Elizabeth Purcell would not be blackmailing anyone soon, and with the police thinking it was a suicide, they would not be looking for a suspect, so any photographs I missed were not likely to become evidence against me."
"Well, now it looks as though you will swing," said Jenkins, "for what was only an attempt to prevent a scandal. I cannot see how, in your mind, a human life was worth less than your social standing."
"She was nothing in this world," he answered as Jenkins began to lead him out.
"Perhaps to you," replied Sandra Purcell, "but to some, she was everything!"
Stuart's trial was quick, and Miss Purcell was grateful the matter was concluded. Also grateful was Mrs. Stuart. She called on us the week following the execution, dressed tastefully, although I am certain not genuinely, in mourning. Her heartfelt thanks shone through the disguise of a grieving widow, and her beaming smile radiated catharsis.
"Harris was and abominable man," said she. "To him, people were nothing more than livestock, a potential gain, though I knew his treachery would catch up to him one day. Thanks to you, Mr. Holmes, I have been emancipated from the prison that was my marriage not only with my sanity, but with also most of my wealth still intact. I am like Harris in one respect: I am concerned with my reputation, hence my appearance of mourning, while at heart I am rejoicing. Good things, as it were, do come to those who wait, or at least to those who endure."