It was several days before Watson was back on his feet; the snow had begun to clear, and Dr Mortimer had returned, bringing with him Perkins, as soon as the road was passable, to retrieve his trap. He has been shocked to hear of the events that had taken place that night, and had redressed Watson's wounded arm, though Watson had refused all offers of a sling. He was still pale and drawn, with the early symptoms of a pretty nasty cold, but Holmes could wait no longer. Over dinner one evening, he addressed his audience; Watson, Sir Henry, and Dr Mortimer.
"Gentlemen, I believe that I have deduced the nature of our assailant, though his identity remains unclear to me," he announced, after they had finished their meal, "I shall speak plainly, Sir Henry; you have been the victim of a very creative, if rather dull-witted, conman."
"I'd be grateful Mr Holmes, if you would tell us your discoveries," the American replied, leaning forward with interest.
"The man we seek is approximately five feet and eleven inches tall – that much, I deduced from the length of his stride from footprints in the dust in the loft, and those in the snow the night he took flight. He is athletic, and strong – that much is evidenced by his ability to climb across window ledges, and up onto the roof to manipulate his puppet, making it appear to float at your window, lengthening or shortening the wire depending on the height of the window. He does not smoke, but he drinks somewhat – the bed linen in the loft smelt distinctly of alcohol, no doubt supplied to him by the poor maid..."
Holmes paced the room as he continued; "He is an able horseman, and is probably a successful con-artist; I would say that he has previously devised similar schemes to scare wealthy people from their homes, allowing him to rob them at his leisure. He is educated - it is likely that he is a doctor, or at least has some medical knowledge - and he is creative. He is violent, and may even have killed before, although he detests confrontation; even though you were wounded, Watson, he preferred to run from you on the moor, rather than risk a fight with you. He has disguised himself as Stapleton, despite being slightly too short. He intended to scare you with his puppet, and, if that did not work, he would appear to you as Jack Stapleton to scare you…"
"It would probably have worked," Sir Henry shuddered, "why, though?"
"Purely for financial gain," Holmes replied, "he would scare you from your home, and then either rob it or, had you fled the country completely, he might have posed as a relative or forged title deeds in his own name, to take over your estate. I would surmise that until now he has limited himself to lesser targets, but he recently found out about your misfortunate incident with Stapleton and the hound… most likely through the news reports. Watson has yet to romanticise and serialise the incident for his faithful Strand magazine readers."
"Holmes," Watson said, warningly.
Holmes dipped an apologetic smile, and continued; "I suspect that our man believes that Watson is dead and that we are none the wiser as to his identity. I also believe that he has done his research; he managed to mock up a skeleton in similar appearance to Beryl Stapleton…"
"That poor woman," Sir Henry murmured, mournfully, as Watson nodded in downcast agreement.
"Indeed," Holmes inclined his head slightly, "but it also means that we can locate his base of operation."
"Really?" Dr Mortimer was incredulous, "Then where is he?"
However, Watson had been following Holmes's train of thought. Holmes glanced across at his companion, and nodded, as Watson replied; "He's at Merripit House."
~*~