Chapter 5; "I am Mr Martin Rison!"

Lydia stalked cat-like through the shadowy passage way. It was the dead of night and pools of moonlight bathed the hard mahogany floors at regular intervals creating grotesque strips of luminosity. She swung open the huge oaken door in front of her, careful not to make too much noise, and revealed a darkened room. Every wall of it was lined with massive, dusty books. You could tell just by looking at them that they were the types of texts to have miniscule words and double columns on every page. Lydia however was far from intimidated, and with a matter of fact expression predominating her thin face she approached a shelf and began to clamber up it. The climb was not strictly necessary, there was a ladder, but she had decided its usage would cause more trouble and vexation than it was worth, and the book she wanted wasn't that high. Groping with outstretched fingers she stroked its spine. She could feel the tips of the embossed title, "Hydrochloric Acid and related experiments!

By Dr Y.Writethis (?)" Lydia had been longing to leaf through its pages and engross herself in its information for nearly a month now, here was her chance! Desperately she grabbed at it again when suddenly the sleeve of her nightgown caught on one of the supporting screws. The structure bean to creak. She gasped then leapt back from her perch and backed out of the shadow of the ominous shelf. Then in an instant it gave way and tipping forward, hundereds of books began to cascade to the ground, pages flying everywhere. She screamed helplessly, the descent seemed to last an eternity but finally a resounding thump and the splintering of dry wood indicated that the shelf had collapsed. Lydia gulped, she could already hear running footsteps. She was in big trouble this time!

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The hansom bearing Holmes, Watson, a reluctant Norwood and a bandaged Winters had drawn up beside a small house on a reasonably respectable street. The four men dismounted and after paying the cabmen congregated on the front door step of, "Number four Streetroad Lane."

"Err… shall I knock?" asked the doctor. The others assented and stood back. Watson was about to take the knocker when the door was flung open by a towering, haggard old man; "It took you longer to find me than I had expected!"

He led them into a small but comfortably furnished living room, and motioned for them to sit on four large chairs. They sat for a moment in silence then he spoke; "I am Mr Martin Rison!"

"Why in the devils name are you so keen to be convicted?" cried a baffled Norwood, "According to Mr Holmes you murdered my ex-employer, that is an offence punishable by hanging!"

The man chuckled; "And when I am? I don't have long left to live in any case! Perhaps you wish to know why I killed him?"

"I imagine I could probably tell you!" drawled Holmes.

Rison laughed; "Go right ahead!"

"Very well. Your late wife, originally a miss Angels, was heiress to vast expanses of wealth and land. She moved from England to India at twenty in the year of our Lord 1858. She then later that year, married a certain Frederick Rison, who was incidentally your brother. They were happily joined in this fashion, although childless, until 1865 when his untimely death was proclaimed an accident. Mrs Olivia Frederick Rison then shortly went on to become Mrs Olivia Jason Ire in 1866. This man was in fact the recently deceased. They had one child, Miss Lydia Ire, born in 1873. Now, in 1886 Mrs Ire reported her second husband to have killed her first after he told her so in a drunken ramble. However Jason committed "suicide" before he could be arrested. Both mother and daughter believing him dead collected their fortune and returned to England. At almost precisely the same time you moved up from Africa and after making a pleasant acquaintance with Mrs Ire at a garden party you agreed to marry. Not long afterward she informed you of your brothers killer and so begins your hate of Jason Ire. Both of you thought him dead and so you had no suspicions when he arrived posing as a gardener! He then from this convenient point in the household killed Lydia, hid her body, it has not yet been discovered, and framed you. In 1889 you are convicted and hanged… or so we think. Your wife and her volumous amount of riches manage to buy you an escape via a persuadable guard and another criminal made up to resemble yourself! You went into hiding and Mrs Rison then wrote her will. However our incognito Mr Ire overheard and after tracking down the sole heir to the estate kills him and takes his place. This last process was made considerably easier by the act that he was a hermit and therefore few people had seen anything of him for most of his life. Then in 1892 Mrs Rison sadly passed away from natural causes leaving her fortune to the thrice murderer Ire. He inherited it and henceforth his features were plastered across the paper. You had seen his photograph countless times before and so had no difficulty in recognising him despite his age! Bent on revenge you decide to end his life and although you bide your time last week an opportunity arrived. So during his stroll round the grounds you advanced gun in hand. However upon seeing a supposedly hanged man walk Mr Jason Ire had a heart attack and died. You run from the crime scene and after disposing your superfluous gun in the bushes make your way back here!" Holmes let the last few syllables roll of his tongue obviously pleased with himself, "Tea anyone?"

Two of the five of the men sat in silent shock for a few moments, astounded at both Holmes's extraordinary deductive ability and the equally remarkable facts of the case. Finally the detective spoke, obviously feeling some sort of explanation for his extraordinary results was in order, "It was quite elementary really. Yesterday I spent an hour or so buried in Scotland yards records. But of course I couldn't have done it without two significant discoveries from our good inspector!" He smiled over at Winters, who grinned back at him thankfully. Norwood who had been desperately been trying to take in the cases slightly farfetched nature at last managed to speak: "Well, I don't quite know what to do… I mean even in the eyes of the law Ire deserved all he got…"

"Do not worry," Rison intervened; "I shall pay you any compensation you may require, my late wife furnished me with a very satisfactory amount of money before I went into "hiding"!"

Norwood's face lit up immediately, "Oh thank you sir, I really do appreciate it!"

It was half an hour later and Holmes, Winters, Watson and Norwood were taking a cab back to Scotland Yard. The latter two had been expecting a quiet trip but suddenly the detective who had spent the last twenty minutes in intense contemplation, spoke, ""Winters…" he paused as if unsure what to say and then continued, "If you ever want to… leave the force, you're quite welcome to assist me on my… err little problems!"

The inspector gasped, "Really? Oh well, maybe, I don't know how my career will progress, Oh damn! I mean I'll take it into consideration!"

Holmes chuckled and Watson attempted to suppress his indignation.