A/N: Thanks, Rosi, for the encouragement!

Chapter Four

~~o~~

We set out for the estate of the late and peculiar Mr. Henry Matthews once Holmes had notified the local police that he was involved in the investigation and I had sent the wire he'd specified to Miss Hastings. Holmes had kept his message brief, a compliment to the young naturalist he had deemed bright enough to make the proper inferences from the somewhat cryptic message.

Request your presence tomorrow morning, nine-thirty, police morgue.
Measurement of bite wound possible.

S. Holmes.

Not surprisingly, the great house we were to visit was located well outside of any truly populated area, and its grounds backed up to the reaches of the great Wildmoor Heath, an area of desolate but beautiful bog and woodland located between Crowthorne, Sandhurst and Owlsmoor. The large stone edifice appeared to be well over one hundred years old, handsomely done, and adorned with a peculiar if not picturesque railed rooftop platform surrounding the house's chimneys and a central cupola, which had obviously been added to the home much more recently. It was evident that one could access this area on the roof through the cupola and thence view a great expanse of the surrounding countryside in all directions.

Along the drive to the front of the house was a small apple orchard already bearing early fruit, and at the rear of the house was the small but tidy-looking stable Lestrade had informed us about. A stately oak tree grew on each the north and south sides of the house; I could tell as we pulled up the drive that Holmes had taken this all in and likely even more.

"A very private location," he commented off-handedly as we left our cab and walked up to the front door. Twenty seconds after we knocked, the door was answered by an austere-looking, middle aged woman with steel grey hair pulled back tightly from her face, making her stern features appear even more severe.

"Mrs. Clayton, I presume?" Holmes asked, giving her his most cordial smile.

"Yes," she replied hesitantly, clearly regarding us both with some measure of trepidation.

Holmes handed her his card. "My name is Sherlock Holmes, Mrs. Clayton, and I am here in cooperation with Scotland Yard concerning the matter of your employer's death. This gentleman," he said, indicating me, "is my associate, Dr. Watson."

I could see from the look that crossed the housekeeper's face that even in the most secluded corner of Owlsmoor my companion's name and reputation were well known.

"Sherlock Holmes!" she gasped in surprise at the identity of the man upon the doorstep. "Come in, come in, please, sir."

Mrs. Clayton graciously led us to a small but comfortable sitting room and asked that we be seated. Despite the fact that her former employer had not often entertained guests, she was an accomplished hostess, and quickly managed to wangle out of us that we had not eaten since our early breakfast. While Holmes was anxious to begin his interview of the housekeeper and his inspections of the house and the grounds, it was apparent that no such undertaking was going to commence unless Mrs. Clayton saw we were fed first, and fed well.

When at last Mrs. Clayton was satisfied that she had been suitably hospitable, and Holmes had gently protested her offer of another apple tart, she finally sat herself in the chair across from us and smoothed out her apron.

"I imagine you want to ask me questions about the night of the shooting," she said sullenly, apparently settling herself in preparation for some manner of unpleasant interrogation.

Holmes gave the woman a charming smile to put her at ease before he spoke. "Just a few about your employer, Mrs. Clayton," he said gently, "and then there are several points about Tuesday night that I would like to clarify. It shouldn't take long."

"What can I tell you, Mr. Holmes?" the housekeeper asked.

"How long had you worked for Mr. Matthews before he died?"

"Near three years, Mr. Holmes, since not long after he bought the house."

"I see, and in the time that you worked for Mr. Matthews, have there been any additions or renovations to the house?"

"No, sir. Nothing more than a bit of plaster or paint here and there."

"The widow's walk is quite out of place with the style of this old house, Mrs. Clayton, and rather new at that," Holmes added, waiting to see the housekeeper's reaction.

"I don't doubt that, Mr. Holmes, but it had been added to the house before I was taken on," the woman before us replied. "Mr. Matthews had it built immediately after purchasing the estate."

"Curious," Holmes replied. "And how does one access the platform, Mrs. Clayton?"

"I don't rightly know, sir," the housekeeper replied. "I never thought to ask, and he never made it a point to tell me. He paid me well to mind my own business, you see, and a job well-paid is a job well done in my book."

"Yes, certainly," Holmes replied, looking somewhat distant. "And was Mr. Matthews a man of regular habits, Mrs. Clayton?"

"Oh, yes, quite regular. Peculiar, perhaps, but regular," she replied. "Not that there was anything wrong with him, really," she added quickly, perhaps out of fear of speaking any ill of the dead.

"Oh, but who among us doesn't have his peculiarities, Mrs. Clayton?" Holmes said with a congenial smile.

"Quite right, and some of us more than others," I added with a meaningful sideways glance at Holmes while I sipped my tea, which I'm sure he noted but chose to ignore.

"Mr. Matthews was retired from the sea?" Holmes asked her next.

"Yes, he was, Mr. Holmes, and for quite some time."

"Dr. Watson and I have already ascertained that your employer was not enlisted in the navy. Do you know what it was he did; was he a merchant marine perhaps?"

Mrs. Clayton opened her mouth to answer us and then a slight frown crossed her face. "I suppose I don't rightly know, Mr. Holmes. I knew he was a retired sea-captain –I never thought to ask him more than that, I'm afraid."

"He never spoke of his business?" Holmes pressed her gently.

The housekeeper shrugged and appeared earnestly at a loss. "Rarely, sir. Occasionally commented that he had been in nautical acquisitions and redistribution, but I never heard a word of what it was he shipped."

"I see," said Holmes. "Are there any other particulars of his past that he made mention of?"

"Very few, sir. A private individual he was, except on the nights when he took to indulging in rum, maybe once a fortnight; sometimes at the Rose and Crown locally, sometimes off to London for a day or two. Rum'd loosen his tongue on those occasions, Mr. Holmes, although not as much as you might expect. It was then that he might indulge in telling tales of his adventures at sea –more often at the pubs than with me, but just the same, that was all I ever heard of his past."

Holmes nodded, and I could tell he was categorizing and filing facts away systematically in that mental vault of his. "Did Mr. Matthews ever mention where it was he sailed, Mrs. Clayton?"

"Oh, yes, anywhere and everywhere," she replied, "but if you're asking me for specifics...well, after three years of those stories they all sort of run together, if you know what I mean, Mr. Holmes."

"Quite," Holmes replied, taking a sip of his tea. "I was also wondering if you might tell me something of Mr. Matthews's acquaintances."

"I would if I could –never saw any of them more than once or twice," the housekeeper said with a sigh.

"Did he have any visitors the night he was shot?"

"No, none, sir."

"Any companions of the female persuasion?" Holmes asked next.

"No." The woman shook her head and almost appeared sad as she answered.

"None at all?" I asked, sensing as Holmes apparently did, that there was more information to be had than would seem from her one word reply.

Mrs. Clayton looked decidedly uncomfortable for a moment and then seemed to compose herself. "You'll have to forgive me, Mr. Holmes. I've been accustomed for three years to keeping Mr. Matthews's business to myself, but I suppose there's no harm in telling you what I know now that he's dead."

"None at all, Mrs. Clayton, none at all," Holmes said reassuringly. "Our goal is not to obtain your employer's personal information for anything other than to facilitate our investigation."

The woman nodded and then heaved another resigned sign. "I always suspected Mr. Matthews to suffer from a broken heart, Mr. Holmes. Although I can't rightly tell you all the details, it seems as though there was but one great love in the man's life, and that she'd run off with another man. Devastated he was, and rarely, when he was in his cups, he'd mutter about revenge and getting her back. That's really all I can tell you."

"Tragic," Holmes commented sympathetically. "Might Mr. Matthews have ever mentioned the lady's name?"

Mrs. Clayton mulled the question over for a long moment and was just beginning to shake her head in negation when her eyes lit up. "You know, I think that once when he was particularly far along, he did mention her name. I do believe her name was Pearl, Mr. Holmes."

"Thank you, Mrs. Clayton," Holmes said, rising from his chair. "May we impose upon you further and have a look about Mr. Matthews's rooms?"

"Of course, although I'm sure that those fellows from Scotland Yard could tell you all you need to know; they've been over the upstairs with a fine tooth comb."

"Just the same, I should prefer to see the scene of the crime myself, Mrs. Clayton," Holmes replied, giving her a charming smile and patting his belly, "despite the fact that I may now find it more difficult to climb the stairs than I might have a short while ago."

Pleased with Holmes's offhand compliment of her cooking, Mrs. Clayton led the way to the private rooms of Henry Matthews.

Once again, the late Henry Matthews surprised me, for I had not been expecting what it was we would find in his personal rooms. When Mrs. Clayton led us in it felt like we were stepping into a museum. Clearly she had been correct when she had commented that her employer had sailed anywhere and everywhere, for there was the evidence: a collection of furniture and art and expensive trinkets that clearly had their origins in every corner of the globe.

The sitting room, large, handsome despite the mismatched furniture, and dominated by a large stone fireplace, nonetheless had a decidedly nautical feel about it, and somewhat that of an armoury. For in addition to the paintings and wall hangings that covered the first three walls, the space along each side of the fireplace and over the top of it was covered with a large collection of antique swords, clearly also from the far-flung reaches of Matthews's travels.

Holmes had already swept the room with his hawk-like gaze, and stood in front of the fireplace, peering with interest at the weapon that held the place of honour over the mantel. It was a sturdy blade that had obviously been finely crafted, and the guard fanned out in a form very reminiscent of a shell. Although not as ornate or as expensive as several of the others mounted about the room, it clearly had been its owner's favourite.

"An elegant weapon," Holmes commented softly, and then continued to circle the room in silence, scrutinizing the mantel, the two windows and the carpet. He turned to Mrs. Clayton. "You found your employer lying here, no doubt?" he asked, pointing to a section of the carpet in front of the fireplace. "Feet toward the window and head away from it?"

Mrs. Clayton looked astonished. "Yes, but how did you know which way he was lying, Mr. Holmes?"

"The blood from his head wound," Holmes replied, resuming his examination of the room.

"But there isn't any left!" the housekeeper replied with a trace of defensiveness. "I saw to it myself once Inspector Lestrade said I could clean the carpet."

"And a commendable job you have done too, my dear lady, for here," Holmes replied pleasantly, indicating an area in front of the hearth, "is where you obviously scrubbed the rug most industriously."

Sure enough, once pointed out, the area where the carpet fibres had been more abraded than the rest of the rug was quite apparent.

"The windows and doors were all secured, I take it, with no sign of forced entry?" Holmes continued on without waiting for the housekeeper to comment on his previous observation.

Mrs. Clayton nodded, still dumbstruck by watching Holmes in action. I could readily sympathize with her sense of wonder, for I had been privy to seeing him work on many a case by that time, and still there were times when I too was struck silent in amazement at the conclusions he could draw from the subtlest clue.

"I wonder, Mrs. Clayton," Holmes said, suddenly breaking off from his inspection of the windows and turning abruptly, "if I might have a look about the outside of the house and the grounds?"

"Certainly, Mr. Holmes," she said, and she guided us back to the main floor.

My companion, not completely unexpectedly, bade me stay in the company of the housekeeper while he searched about outside in his curious but effective fashion, and we chatted while we walked from room to room, observing him from the windows as he circled the house, scrutinizing the outside of the building, the grass, the lay of the land, and footprints that had been made about the area. The look of disgust he wore when he at last straightened up from his hunched examination said all that he couldn't tell me from the other side of the glass I peered through: most of the useful footprints or other marks had already long been obliterated by the exuberant and thorough if not fruitless searching by Scotland Yard.

He stood there on the north side of the house for the longest time, hands in his pockets and head bowed in meditative silence, until at last I noted the subtlest change in his posture as his gaze fell on something at his feet, and he tipped his head a little in inquisitive contemplation of whatever he had seen.

"He's found something," Mrs. Clayton observed in awe, and we both pressed our noses closer to the glass to watch Holmes kneel and retrieve what appeared to be a large clump of greenish sod.

I could see by the intense look in his eyes when they left his hand and met mine through the glass, that not only had he found something, but that he had found something, meaning once again, that which he deemed of utmost interest. Before I could manage to open the window to ask him what he had discovered, Holmes's gaze had travelled up the side of the house we were all on, he had moved to plaster his back against the wall, and then marched off deliberately in the direction of the oak that stood guard over the north side of the house nearby. The next thing Mrs. Clayton and I knew, Holmes had set down the clump of sod, kicked off his shoes, shrugged himself out of his jacket and weskit and laid them neatly on the grass, and gazing once overhead to judge the distance, launched his tall frame off the ground to grab the lowest branch and drag himself up into the tree.

Mrs. Clayton looked askance at me without daring to say a word.

"I can assure you this is quite usual," I informed her in the most confident tone I could manage. I'm not sure the reassuring smile I gave her was convincing enough though, as I myself wondered just what it was Holmes hoped to discover as he climbed higher into the oak. By the time he'd got thirty feet above the ground and was nearly hidden in the dense summer foliage of the oak, I have to admit that I was beginning to fret about his safety, and decided to hurry outside lest he should fall.

"I say, Holmes," I called up, "don't you think that's a bit too high?"

"Not at all, Watson!" he called down with barely-suppressed excitement. "It's just high enough!"

"Still, you're making me quite anxious, old fellow. What say you very carefully head back down to earth?" I shouted up through the leaves.

Holmes did as I suggested, but only because it was likely he had ascertained all the information the tree had to yield and not due to my request; a few moments later he was dangling from the lowest branch once more, and let himself drop neatly to his feet next to me.

"Blast!" he exclaimed, hopping around for a moment as he retrieved from the bottom of his stocking'd foot what appeared to be one of the early acorns that had begun falling so late in August. I waited patiently for him to re-dress, and then was carried along in the wake he left behind as he strode briskly for the house once more.

Mrs. Clayton watched Holmes dash past and up the stairs again, me in close pursuit, but I could not answer the questioning look she gave me, for I had no answers yet to give her.

Once again we entered Matthews's study; Holmes quickly made his way to the north wall, which faced the great tree nearby, and held up one long-fingered hand in front of him, his eyes closed in great concentration.

"Ah! There," he said, turning immediately to his left and the end of the mantel. "There is a draft which does not come from the windows, Watson, and it comes in the direction of that wall. Here is where we shall find the passage to the roof."

With that he made a detailed inspection of the mantel, and suddenly cried out, "Ha!" He pressed his fingers up under the corner he had been examining, and with a click of a latch and a creak of a door, a section of the wall north of the fireplace swung inward about three inches. With a look that said I should follow, he made his way into the passage and up the narrow stairs that ended in the cupola on the roof, the French doors of which opened out onto the platform.

While I expected him to examine the widow's walk with all his acute attention to detail, Holmes surprised me by rushing quickly to the north side of the platform and dropping to one knee to examine the railing there. Abruptly he pounded a fist lightly against the rail, apparently in a gesture of triumph, and he quickly gained his feet.

"There you are, Watson!" he said, his keen eyes alight with excitement as he pointed to the rail. There, about four or five inches apart, were two gouges deep enough to have not only scratched the white paint, but to have sunk a slight ways into the wood of the rail.

"Remarkable," I commented facetiously. "What the deuce does that," I asked, pointing at the mark, "have to do with anything?"

"Everything, my dear Watson," Holmes replied with a grin, taking me by the arm and leading me back to the door. "In fact, it makes it even more essential that we obtain Miss Hastings's assistance in this matter as soon as possible; would that I had asked her for eight-thirty instead."

Seeing the vacant look that I must have been wearing when we re-entered Matthews's study, Holmes laughed and took me by the arm once more.

"Come along, my dearest fellow, and I shall explain it all to you over a pint of the Rose and Crown's finest," he said, just as someone rang the bell.

"Curious that Matthews should have so few visitors, and yet here is one now," Holmes remarked as we descended the stairs once more. By the time we reached the bottom, Mrs. Clayton was just closing the door, a look of exasperation upon her face.

"Trouble?" Holmes asked her.

"No, it's nothing, just that little waif who's been showing up here each week lately. Apparently the word hadn't reached him that Mr. Matthews is dead," she answered. We all peered out the window at the diminutive figure of a young lad with red hair disappearing at a brisk run down the drive.

"Why is it that he's been showing up here, Mrs. Clayton?" Holmes asked her.

"I can't rightly say, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Matthews would speak with the boy in his study for all of three or four minutes and then send him on his way again, only to meet with him the same the next week; it's almost as if he were making some report."

"That," Holmes said suddenly, "is a very astute observation, Mrs. Clayton, but have you any idea what it was the boy might have been reporting?"

"Again, no. I'm sorry, sir, but I don't," the housekeeper replied, apparently disappointed to not be of further service. "I wish I could help you more."

"No matter, no matter," Holmes said very kindly to her. "You have been of great assistance already, my dear lady, and it shall be a good long while before either Dr. Watson or myself sample an apple tart as fine as yours."

Mrs. Clayton blushed a little at the compliment from Sherlock Holmes. "Well, it was a favourite of the master, and so I got a lot of practice with it," she replied demurely.

"Thank you once again for your hospitality," I said as Holmes and I made our way through the door.

"Still..." Holmes said, pausing thoughtfully and then turning to address the housekeeper once more from the stoop, "I wonder if I might ask just one more question of you, Mrs. Clayton?"

"Certainly, sir."

"How long, approximately, would you say that young lad has been coming to report to Mr. Matthews?"

Mrs. Clayton answered straight away. "Why, about five weeks, Mr. Holmes."

The look Holmes shot me told me not to comment, and we both thanked her again and headed for our cab, which Holmes had instructed to wait.

"Five weeks puts us at the date the proclamation for the admiral's birthday celebration was issued," I said once we were ensconced in our cab and headed for the Rose and Crown in Sandhurst.

"Well done, Watson!" Holmes replied, sitting across from me as we rattled the short distance toward town.

"But just what is it that the boy was coming to report to Henry Matthews?" I asked.

"I believe, my dear doctor, the arrival or lack thereof, of the man who was to be Matthews's murderer," Holmes replied. "But here is the Rose and Crown; let us sample the local offerings and see what else we can learn."

I knew that by local offerings he meant more than ale, and I followed Sherlock Holmes into the tavern for the next chapter in our adventure.