The following stories take place in July 1889, several months before Sherlock Holmes and I were commissioned to investigate the death of Charles Baskerville. It must be said that during this time, I still believed in phantoms and entertained less earthly solutions to the problems I am about to share with you.
Holmes and I hadn't established fixed days for me to arrive at Baker Street, our old residence. It was always something of a gamble because the detective could just as easily be out conducting investigations, presumably in disguise, in the harbor or the East End, where he spent so much time. In such cases, the good old Mrs. Hudson proved to be a pleasant conversationalist and an excellent cook, and I refrained from prioritizing one over the other. However, on that Tuesday, as I settled into my comfortable chair and was soon served by the good housekeeper, I couldn't have wished to be anywhere else. The woman had spared no expense on the roast beef, and I confessed that, on this occasion, I was glad for Holmes' absence. A demanding day at my practice had left my appetite at an all-time high. So I polished off my plate and thanked the housekeeper for her effort.
Downstairs, I heard the front door opening, and shortly thereafter, a harried Sherlock Holmes appeared before us. His first glance landed on me, then on Mrs. Hudson and the empty plate.
"Ah, I see you've already fed the good doctor. I hope you've left something for me, Watson."
I cleared my throat. While Mrs. Hudson still had her hands on her hips, I tried to defuse the situation.
"Holmes, I must insist! You can't blame anyone if you never announce your arrivals and departures. How is the good lady supposed to schedule her day accordingly?"
Holmes rolled his eyes and removed his street attire.
"It doesn't surprise me at all that you still don't understand or have entirely forgotten the work of a detective. Spontaneity and quick action are essential to this profession," he lectured.
Mrs. Hudson sighed.
"All right, I'll just prepare a few sandwiches. For you as well, Doctor?"
At first, I didn't want to appear rude, but then I felt there was still some room in my stomach. I agreed, and the housekeeper went to the kitchen.
"Watson, since you're here, why don't you accompany me to my office," the detective suggested. I got up and followed him into his chambers, where more than one case had its origins. There, we settled in, and Holmes poured us both a glass of Scotch. Then his gaze fell upon the large standing clock at the end of the room.
"Are you expecting someone, Holmes?" I inquired. After a few seconds, he nodded.
Indeed, a client has an appointment at 7 o'clock. He should be arriving soon."
I asked if I should leave, but Holmes declined. Shortly after Mrs. Hudson had supplied us with sandwiches, the bell rang, and the good lady attended to the guest. We set aside our meal and waited for the visitor's arrival in Holmes' office. A hesitant knock followed, and then the detective asked the person to come in. A somewhat plump, well-dressed man entered and surveyed us alternately.
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" he asked uncertainly. My detective stood up and invited him to sit down. Our guest followed and settled into the empty chair next to me.
"Sherlock Holmes, this is my colleague and chronicler, Dr. Watson. You don't mind if he joins our conversation, do you?" he inquired. The guest shook his head.
"Whatever you think is best, Mr. Holmes." His finely twirled mustache seemed to bob with almost every word, or so it seemed to me.
"So, what can I do for a director of the Clark & Hall Stock House?" he asked. Our guest began to respond, but he paused.
"Excuse me... did I mention my profession in my letter?" he seemed suddenly puzzled.
My friend shook his head. "No, you omitted that. But it wasn't necessary. Based on your clothing, which is designed to stand out from the others, it's not difficult to see that you are a successful businessman. Your finely combed hair and your meticulously maintained beard also fit this image. You occupy a high position and wish to make an impression not only on clients but also on subordinates. Nevertheless, the tips of your clothes show some wear, which suggests that although you work in an office, you don't just sit at a desk. Your shoes, on the other hand, show less of this wear, indicating that a broker handles your necessary errands for you. In addition to your wristwatch, I see a pocket watch chain protruding from your breast pocket. This indicates that you are always prepared to know the exact time. Which is essential, considering the fixed hours of this business."
Our guest nodded vigorously. "Yes, that's correct. But how did you know it was Clark & Hall? I could work for any other stock company just as well," he admitted.
Holmes dismissed that. "I gathered that from your letter. It was sent from Evergrand Street, and Clark & Hall is the only stock company in this district," he added, explaining.
Our guest nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, you are absolutely correct. My name is Joseph Kensington, and I am a director at Clark & Hall. I had hoped that you could provide me with advice and perhaps assistance in a matter," he revealed.
My friend nodded and asked the man to begin with his story. The man reached into his coat pocket and handed us a photograph. I leaned in a little closer and recognized an older gentleman with a friendly face.
"This is Benjamin Fitzroy, an important functionary of our stock company," he explained. I leaned back while Holmes examined the picture more closely.
"And what is the issue with this man?" I asked, addressing Kensington. He hesitated for a moment.
"Well... he is dead," he specified.
"Yes, that could be called a problem. Although it always depends on the circumstances. How exactly did the man die?" Holmes inquired. Kensington took a deep breath.
"It was a month ago. He and other guests visited my mansion in Sheffield. We were holding a celebration due to a successful deal. It was already dark when Fitzroy ventured out again, supposedly to get some fresh air. Some time later, another person, an employee of our company, checked on him and found him dead in the garden. He was bleeding heavily from the head, and it seemed as though he had hit his head on a stone protruding from the ground," he began his story.
"That sounds like an ordinary accident," I had to admit. Kensington fidgeted nervously.
"Yes, that's what the police thought when they were called a little later," he explained. Holmes handed the photograph back to him.
"And how can I help you in this matter?" he asked. The client sighed.
"It's just that... I have doubts that it really was an accident. For one, Fitzroy had never fallen despite his advanced age. He was quite fit for his age. Additionally, it seems strange to me that he would fall on the only protruding stone in the garden. And also... how should I put it... the employee who found him believed she saw another person," he confessed.
Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Another person? And yet the police classified the case as an accident?" he asked skeptically. Kensington shrugged.
"Her statement... was somewhat confused. You see, we had all been drinking that evening. In addition, it was already dark outside. And her description of the person... how should I say... wasn't very credible."
I inquired as to what he meant exactly, but he seemed to struggle to provide an answer.
"Mr. Holmes, if you are interested in my case, I have a suggestion. We will hold another celebration this weekend. To remember Fitzroy and to discuss how his death might harm the company. I would also like to invite you. This would give you the opportunity to speak with all the attendees in person."
My friend inquired whether the guests were the same people who were present at the previous celebration. The client confirmed this, and Holmes agreed. After the financial details were settled, Kensington shook our hands and thanked us for our prompt assistance. Then he took his leave, leaving us alone.
"What do you think of this, Watson?" he asked me after taking a bite of his sandwich.
I did the same and thought simultaneously. "It could be that he doesn't want to accept the death of his friend and is seeking a purpose behind it. On the other hand, Fitzroy could just as well have been pushed. Both scenarios seem plausible to me."
My friend agreed.
"For this reason, I'd like you to accompany me this weekend. You don't have any prior commitments, do you?"
I had secretly expected this question. My practice was closed, and my wife was visiting relatives. So I agreed to Holmes's request, and we arranged to meet at a specific time at the train station.
I had almost overslept that day, were it not for the loud noises of street children playing outside my bedroom window. I quickly got up and got dressed. I took out my smaller suitcase from the closet, as we would probably spend only the weekend in Sheffield. I arrived at the station, travel-ready, where Holmes was already waiting for me. I recognized his disapproving look, but he didn't mention my tardiness. I stored our suitcases on the train and immersed myself in the newspaper until we arrived at Sheffield-North Station.
There, we recognized a young man, well-dressed, with glasses and a sign bearing our names. He introduced himself as Robert Leeds, Kensington's personal assistant. He organized the carriage that would take us to the stock trader's mansion.
We got out of the carriage, and Leeds took care of our luggage. "I will take them to your quarters. You can inspect them right away if you wish," he explained.
Holmes, however, requested to speak with Mr. Kensington immediately, and the assistant nodded. He led us inside and pointed to the door of the lounge. As he went up the stairs, the door opened, and our client welcomed us warmly. "Mr. Holmes! Thank you for coming. Please come in," he invited us inside.
The lounge was larger than expected, and there were already several guests. Kensington assigned us a place, and the others also became aware of us. "May I introduce? This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, as well as his colleague, Dr. Watson. I have already announced the two gentlemen," he introduced us.
The guests, two men and two women, didn't quite seem to know what Kensington expected of them.
"Joe, what exactly do you expect? Fitzroy's death was an accident, as the police confirmed," said a younger, attractive man with a glass of champagne in his hand. Kensington introduced him as David Chesterton, an investor and his personal golfing friend.
Holmes cleared his throat. "Well, concerning the police, I have found that due to motivation and overwork, not every judgment should be accepted immediately. I fully agree. In addition, it was said that another person was seen with the deceased, wasn't it?" I asked.
Immediately, the expressions of the guests changed noticeably. I could see distress and uncertainty on their faces, most clearly on one of the ladies.
"No, Doctor. Not another... person. A... monster," she said hesitantly. The man beside her sighed resignedly.
"Mrs. McLean, please, drop this story. Especially the ladies and gentlemen should not be interested in this," he whispered to her. Holmes, however, raised his hand.
"I cannot agree with that, Mr..."
The man turned to the detective. "Thomas Brown. I write for the financial section of the Times. Perhaps you've already read my name."
My friend nodded. "Mr. Brown, I would like to hear the lady's account. Mrs. McLean, did you say?" he inquired, addressing the woman.
She nodded weakly. "Yes, Rebecca McLean. I work as a lawyer for Clark & Hall. I... found poor Mr. Fitzroy in the garden on that evening. May God rest his soul. Especially... after that event."
While the other guests turned their heads away, the other woman soothingly placed a hand on her shoulder. Kensington introduced her as Sarah Evans, the company's accountant.
"Of what event do you speak?" I tried to steer the conversation forward.
Mrs. McLean needed a moment before continuing. "The devil! It was the devil who took poor Mr. Fitzroy!"
A murmur spread through the room. Kensington sighed. "Well... that's why I wanted you to personally hear the story," he said to us.
Holmes remained perfectly calm. "What exactly do you mean by 'the devil'?" he inquired.
Mrs. McLean hesitated. "When I went into the garden... Mr. Fitzroy wasn't the first thing I noticed. There... he was! A figure, brightly illuminated."
I furrowed my brow. "Someone with a candle in their hand, do you mean?" The woman immediately shook her head. "Not a candle, Doctor. His... skull! Where his head should be... there was a large flame rising! His head... was burning! Do you understand?" None of the attendees dared to respond, and Holmes remained silent.
"The... shock! The shock of finding the body must have led to this delusion!" Kensington immediately concluded. "I know what I saw," the poor Mrs. McLean whispered.
Holmes stood up. "What did the figure you believed you saw do?" he asked. Some of the guests regarded him skeptically, and I probably did too.
"He... fled. Into the woods behind the garden," the lawyer reported.
The detective nodded and inquired about the nature of the woods, calling over his assistant, who could provide a more detailed answer. "Leeds, how about you prepare the buffet now?" he instructed his assistant. Leeds immediately complied and started the work. Our client then invited us to follow him. We walked down a short corridor and found ourselves in a study. Our guest seemed uncertain and leaned on his desk.
"I'm sorry. Poor Mrs. McLean was so shocked that she just imagined all of it," he said.
Holmes glanced out into the garden. "Did she? We'll see."
I expressed my surprise at my friend's comment. "Holmes, just between us, you don't really believe in a demon as the perpetrator, do you?" I whispered to him.
My friend didn't show any signs of agreement. "It was probably the shock or the alcohol that led the witness to imagine such things," I added.
Holmes pursed his lips. "But why a figure with a flaming skull? Why Jack O'Lantern?" he grumbled.
I sighed. "You made that comparison!"
Holmes nodded and then turned. We returned to the lounge, where Robert Leeds had already set up the buffet. I tried to hold back since we were here in our professional role and not as guests. Only after some rolls and fruits had been consumed did I also venture to the rich buffet.
The atmosphere was still somber, as this gathering was also a memorial for the late Mr. Fitzroy. Kensington convinced his friend Chesterton to play a piece on his violin. He prepared himself to play but had to unpack his violin first. We agreed to meet back in the lounge in half an hour, which gave Holmes and me the opportunity to unpack our bags. We inspected the rooms where we were accommodated and were quite satisfied. It had been some time since I stayed in the countryside and enjoyed such fresh air.
Holmes walked in and asked if I lacked anything. I answered in the negative and was in the process of sorting my underwear.
"Have you finished unpacking already?" I inquired. Holmes nodded casually. "Don't forget, our stay here won't be long. Also..." he began but stopped.
He moved closer to the window and glanced outside. I asked if something had caught his attention.
"Well, Mr. Brown seems to be done with his packing as well," he replied. I walked up to him and looked out. It was already dark, so I didn't immediately spot Mr. Brown. On the second glance, I recognized him walking through the garden, frequently looking around anxiously.
"Where could he be heading at night?" I wondered. Holmes shrugged. "The garden is hard to see at night, but if I were to guess, I would focus on the spot where Mr. Fitzroy died."
I raised an eyebrow. What could the journalist have to do there? Especially at this time? Did he want to pay his respects to Mr. Fitzroy? Then my friend suddenly became alert.
"Watson! Do you see that?"
The seriousness on my friend's face puzzled me. I then followed his gaze. I saw something bright approaching Mr. Brown. "Is someone else there? With a candle... no, a lantern?" I tried to analyze the situation.
"Do you see it? Does it seem to you that the lantern is being carried by someone?" Holmes' voice sounded louder than usual. I had to agree with him. It appeared as though a floating lantern was approaching the journalist. No, underneath, the body structure of a person was definitely visible. Furthermore, it seemed the journalist hadn't noticed it, as he had his back to it.
Holmes suddenly threw the window open and shouted outside.
"Mr. Brown! Behind you!" he wanted to warn the man. Brown looked up at us but didn't seem to understand.
What happened next would haunt me in my dreams forever. The bright figure behind him appeared to lift something and swiftly bring it down. Mr. Brown screamed and crashed to the ground.
"Quick, Watson! Do you have your revolver with you?" the detective urged.
I shook my head. "No! I assumed we were just investigating a typical accident. There was no mention of a demon from hell!"
Holmes made disapproving sounds and started moving. I followed him in rapid strides, and downstairs, we met Mr. Kensington, his assistant Leeds, Mrs. McLean, Mr. Chesterton, and Ms. Evans.
"What's going on?" a frightened Ms. Evans asked.
"Mr. Kensington, do you have any weapons in the house?" the detective inquired immediately. Our client denied it; he hadn't needed weapons in his house.
Holmes cursed and then rushed out of the house. We followed him closely. We hurried to the spot where Brown had been attacked. There was no trace of the bright figure anymore. Leeds had lit a candle, providing us with a little more light alongside the moonlight. Brown lay flat on his stomach, his back covered in multiple cuts. The wounds bled terribly, and I immediately knelt down. While Holmes examined the ground, he instructed me to tend to the man. He, however, ventured into the adjacent forest.
"Holmes, where are you going? It's madness to do this in complete darkness!" I called out to him but couldn't stop him.
So, I tended to the man before me. I turned Brown over and checked his pulse. There was nothing more I could do. The rapid blood loss had led to his death in a very short time.
"Mr. Brown! Is he..." Chesterton stammered, and I nodded.
Mrs. McLean let out a scream. "It was him! The man with the flaming head!"
Robert Leeds had to support her; she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. The horror was also etched on Brown's face, and I didn't want to imagine his struggle with death. I instructed Chesterton and Leeds to help me carry the poor man into the house. The others had already gone ahead and opened the door for us. There, we carried Brown into an empty room and covered his body for the time being. Then, everyone gathered in the lounge, and their eyes rested on me. Certain expectations seemed to accompany their gaze, which I was not able to fulfill. Finally, I asked everyone to remain calm, as I couldn't think of any better advice. Kensington stepped out briefly and returned with a bottle of whiskey. Everyone, including me, eagerly accepted a glass.
"I... apologize for doubting your words," Kensington turned to McLean.
She remained silent. At that moment, the door suddenly opened, and we looked at it in alarm. It wasn't the demon, but Sherlock Holmes, who joined us, out of breath.
"Holmes! What happened?" I wanted to know immediately.
He took a moment and also asked for a sip of whiskey. "Nothing, my dear doctor. Nothing. Even I cannot read tracks in absolute darkness. His murderer has escaped. He's someone who knows these woods very well," he explained.
I considered it reckless that he had taken on the pursuit unarmed, but I remained silent.
"Who... what has killed poor Mr. Brown out there?" Ms. Evans almost whispered.
"Jack O'Lantern..." I murmured, but received a reproachful look from Holmes.
"That legendary creature? It must be a bad joke!" Chesterton interjected.
Holmes shook his head. "I'm afraid not. The doctor and I both saw it. Just as in the stories Mrs. McLean told."
"I... saw it too," Leeds spoke up, and we turned to him.
"From the kitchen, I believe. I could see Brown from the window. Behind him... was that figure. A man, with his head on fire. Like a lantern. He struck Brown down," he explained.
My friend looked at me expectantly. "Based on the injuries, I suspect an axe. The cuts on Brown's back were deep and powerful. He probably fell to the ground after the first blow. Then... this monster struck him several times until he was dead."
Describing this barbaric manner of death was difficult for me.
"I would never have believed that there were such monsters for real," Kensington said monotonously.
Holmes stood up. "A monster, yes. A supernatural being? Probably not," he was convinced that there must be some explanation for the haunting.
"Mr. Leeds, how long would it take to walk to the train station from here and send a telegram to the police?" he asked the assistant.
Leeds thought for a moment. "Perhaps an hour, two to go there and back. Should I... go right away?" he asked, clearly frightened.
My friend shook his head. "No, that would be far too dangerous at night. When dawn breaks, yes, then someone should accompany you. But for now, we will stay in the house."
Ms. Evans swallowed. "With a corpse next door... and a bloodthirsty monster lurking outside?" She couldn't believe it.
Mrs. McLean placed a hand on her shoulder. "We don't have any other choice."
The participants looked disheartened at the moment.
"Mr. Kensington, please try to find anything that might serve as a weapon. And I want all doors locked," Holmes instructed the homeowner.
Kensington nodded and promised to do his best.
Then I pulled Holmes aside. "Holmes, do you think the killer could strike again?" I whispered to him.
My friend didn't respond.
"I have no idea, my dear friend. I lack the evidence for a more accurate assessment. But for now, I'd like to take a closer look at poor Mr. Brown. Can you arrange that for me?" he asked.
I nodded, of course, and led Holmes into the room where we had brought the body.
The detective pulled back the sheet we had used for the cover and examined the dead man. He agreed with me about the axe but couldn't gather any further information. We locked the door on our way out and returned to the others.
Mr. Chesterton was brandishing his golf club, likely the best weapon he could find. Assistant Leeds had armed himself with a knife, but the way he held it, I feared he might injure himself or others. The two women were sitting exhausted on the sofa, watching the proceedings. Kensington returned with two oil lamps. The extra light would help ease the horror a little.
Holmes took one of them and looked outside. "Watson, would you accompany me?" he inquired.
I looked at him, startled. "You don't mean to go searching for Jack again, do you?"
To my relief, Holmes shook his head. "No, that would certainly be futile. I just want to take a closer look at the crime scene," he specified.
I nodded gratefully and stood by his side. Holmes instructed those present not to leave the building and to lock the door behind him. He promised he wouldn't be long.
Holmes asked the guests not to leave the building and to lock the doors behind him. He promised he wouldn't be long. I debated whether it was better to stay with the frightened people but didn't want to leave Holmes alone. I knew he was capable of defending himself, but I didn't want to leave him to face a supernatural figure on his own.
We left the mansion and walked into the garden. As we reached the spot, we could already see a large bloodstain. Holmes knelt down and examined the area. Brown had not seen his attacker coming.
"Strange. The woods are quite a distance from the crime scene. Even though he had his back turned, he should have seen the figure emerging from the woods," Holmes noted.
I couldn't contribute much to this observation since I had noticed Jack first.
"Did you see him emerging from the woods?" Holmes asked me.
I shook my head. "No, it was as if he had only appeared a few meters behind Mr. Brown. It was as if he had... ignited his head only then," I muttered.
I couldn't imagine how something like that was possible. Even a small flame would cause significant burns. If the murderer had set himself on fire, he would have died before Brown. And escaping afterward would have been impossible.
My friend continued to investigate the ground and eventually found something that he placed in his pocket. I wanted to take a closer look at it, but he had already risen and told me to follow him. We returned to the house and knocked on the door. It took a moment before Leeds opened it. He checked twice to make sure it was really us standing outside. We entered and returned to the lounge, where everyone was waiting, curious about what we had discovered. Holmes was about to speak when he paused.
"One moment, I don't see Ms. Evans here. You didn't all stay together?" he inquired.
Kensington cleared his throat. "Most of the time, yes, but Ms. Evans started crying, so Mrs. McLean accompanied her to the bathroom."
Holmes asked if he knew where the bathroom was, and Kensington pointed in a direction. We made our way there and had just reached the bathroom when we all jumped in shock. A piercing scream rang out, unmistakably Ms. Evans's. We rushed inside. She lay on the floor, her face turned towards the ceiling. Her chest was covered in blood, and multiple cuts had taken her life. A few meters behind her, a door stood open, leading into the darkness.
Holmes leaped over the body and ran outside. I tried to help the poor woman, but, as with Mr. Brown, my fears were confirmed; there was no saving her. So, I joined Holmes outside, who I found in the backyard. He was scanning the surroundings.
He had lost sight of the murderer once again. We returned to the house where the shock of the guests was even more profound than before. Holmes bent over the body and examined it. Once he was done, he gave me permission to cover it.
"Mr. Kensington, I gave you instructions to lock all the doors. Did you forget to lock the back door?" Holmes asked.
Initially confused, then almost offended, the host denied it. "No, Mr. Holmes! I swear on everything dear to me, I locked that door too."
Holmes inquired about the key, and Kensington confirmed he didn't have it; the keys were kept in the entrance hall.
"He wouldn't have been able to enter the house without a key," Holmes muttered.
Mr. Chesterton stepped forward. "So what? It doesn't matter now! Two of our friends are dead! And there's a monster out there just waiting to take another one of us!"
Holmes nodded. "That's why we'll spend the remaining night together. At daybreak, Watson and I will personally go to the train station to telegraph Scotland Yard."
"Do you think this creature only strikes at night?" Leeds inquired.
Holmes couldn't answer that question. However, it was clear that we needed to organize help as quickly as possible. We had no firearms for defense, and we couldn't face a deranged ax murderer.
After moving Ms. Evans to the same room as Mr. Brown, we regrouped in the lounge. The rest of the night was relatively quiet, considering the circumstances.
As the first signs of daylight appeared, Holmes put on his coat and told me to do the same. He assured the guests that he would lock up and wait for our return. I confessed that I was relieved to finally leave this nightmarish place. Additionally, the daylight gave me a sense of security.
We exited the driveway and walked down the path, which we had taken with the horse-drawn carriage the day before. After we had left the estate behind a curve, Holmes stopped abruptly.
"What's wrong? Shouldn't we hurry and walk to the train station as quickly as possible?" I questioned.
My friend shook his head. "No, Doctor, we won't be going to the train station. We just need the others to think so," he explained to me.
I looked at the detective hesitantly. "Then what are we planning to do?" I asked, even though I could guess the answer.
Holmes left the path and headed towards the woods. I followed him and protested, "Holmes, this can't be serious!"
However, the master detective appeared quite resolute. "During the day, it's much easier to find the murderer's hiding place."
I reminded him that I hadn't packed my Webley, but that didn't seem to dissuade him. "Then we need to be discreet and surprise him. Take the axe and make some noise to get his attention. I'll sneak up from behind," he instructed.
I was about to voice my concerns when Holmes didn't respond and simply started moving. I followed him, questioning our purpose in all of this. Suddenly, Holmes stopped and pointed to the ground. "Take a look at these tracks, Watson. They're fresh, no more than a few hours old. This is our man."
We continued, our senses on high alert. Occasionally, we heard the rustling of wildlife or the distant call of an owl.
Finally, we approached a clearing, and something metallic caught my eye – some kind of container. "Holmes! Is that..." I began to whisper, and he finished my sentence, "Yes, a circus wagon, just as I suspected."
We moved closer and examined the wagon more closely. My friend drew my attention to a tree stump where an axe was embedded. Even without the blood-red hue, I could undoubtedly tell it was the murder weapon.
"Watson, we must disarm the fellow first and then surprise him. Take the axe and then make yourself known. I'll approach from behind," he directed.
I was about to voice concerns, but Holmes was already in motion. I followed suit and approached the tree stump. Hesitatingly, I pulled the axe out – a weapon that had caused so much harm.
I had just removed it when the door of the circus wagon swung open, and a lanky, pale man stared at me in surprise. Neither he nor I could react for several seconds.
Then he began to lunge at me. I attempted to defend myself with the axe, but the man was undoubtedly more agile. He was younger and dodged my swings. Eventually, he managed to wrest the axe from my grip. He raised it to strike me, and I could only save myself by dropping to the ground. However, this only granted me a brief reprieve.
The man stood over me and swung the axe down, just as he had done the previous night. My final moments had arrived.
But then a shadow appeared behind him and delivered a well-placed kick to his shin. The man groaned and dropped the axe. I scrambled towards it and pulled it out of his reach. Holmes was trying to subdue the man, but he was not ready to give up quickly. He grabbed my friend and attempted to strangle him. I made an attempt to assist but was hindered by my fall. Eventually, Holmes managed to deliver a well-aimed kick to the man's stomach. He grabbed the man's right arm, twisted around, and pulled the man towards him. Leaning down, he threw the man to the ground using his weight, a technique I recalled from one of Holmes' stories – "Baritsu."
The man was on the ground and didn't seem like he would be getting up anytime soon.
"Watson, can you make it to the circus wagon? We need something to restrain him," my friend called out to me.
I nodded and fought to my feet. Then I hobbled to the wagon, its door left ajar. Inside, it smelled unpleasant, and it was chaotic. I spotted it on a narrow table – Jack's face, a metallic helmet with only two eye holes, which were grotesquely stretched out, revealing a horrifying, faceless visage. It was pitch-black, as if it had bathed in hellfire.
But I knew I couldn't be delayed any longer. I searched the circus wagon and finally found it in a drawer – a thick rope that would serve our purpose well. I returned to Holmes, and together, we bound the monster as securely as possible.
"Is... Is this him? Is this the monster?" I whispered, although I knew the question was unnecessary.
Holmes nodded and then stepped past me into the circus wagon. I followed, despite my reluctance to leave the man alone.
Inside, I found Holmes studying the pitch-black helmet Jack had worn. He then examined some newspaper articles he retrieved from the drawers. He studied them intently, and then he spoke, "Janos Szabo." I didn't understand at first, but he continued, "That's Jack's real name. He doesn't look as frightening now, does he?"
I would have disagreed with my friend at this statement but remained silent. Holmes continued to search the area, looking under the table where he found several cans with symbols, most of them skulls. He then rose and signaled for me to leave the wagon.
Outside, we double-checked to ensure that Jack, or rather Janos, hadn't moved from his spot. As a precaution, we locked him inside his circus wagon.
"Holmes, I want you to return to the house and keep an eye on the people there," the detective instructed.
However, I couldn't comply with his request. "Why? The danger is supposed to be over, isn't it?" I couldn't help but question.
I could see from my friend's face that this wasn't the case. "I will head to the train station and inform Scotland Yard. Just tell them you fell, and I sent you back for safety," he urged.
I nodded, as this statement was partially true.
"It's essential that you keep the people there completely at ease. No one should suspect that Szabo has been apprehended, understood?" Holmes emphasized.
I assured him that I would do my best to follow his instructions. He could rely on me. Holmes himself selected a bag into which he placed Jack's helmet and some of the cans, slinging it over his shoulder. Then our paths separated, and I attempted to return to the mansion. However, I became disoriented once, causing a further delay in my return.
Finally, I arrived and knocked on the heavy front door. It took some time for someone to respond, understandably as no one had expected my return. It was more likely that they assumed it was Jack seeking another victim.
Robert Leeds eventually opened the door ajar, and I assured him that everything was all right. He let me in, and the others were astonished when I returned to the lounge. I spun a tale about my injury and how Holmes had continued to the train station without me. I reassured them that he would hurry, and help would arrive soon. The assistant had prepared some coffee, which each of us eagerly drank.
As Holmes had instructed me, I kept a close watch on the people in the house and didn't reveal anything. I made no mention of the fact that the threat had supposedly already been neutralized, with Jack safely locked in his circus wagon until Scotland Yard would set him free.
In the next few hours, very few words were exchanged, and the situation didn't improve much. Finally, a knock rang out, startling everyone in the lounge. I reassured them and told them it was probably Holmes. Leeds and I opened the heavy front door, letting my friend in. The people in the lounge greeted him with anticipation.
"And, Mr. Holmes, do you have any news?" Kensington immediately inquired. But my friend took his time. He placed the heavy bag he had removed from the circus wagon down and rested on the sofa.
"I can assure all of you that the police are already on their way," he reassured the group, seeming to fulfill their expectations.
"Very good! I hope they comb the woods and capture this monster, whether he's human or not," Chesterton exclaimed.
Holmes raised his hands in a placating gesture. "In that regard, I can fully reassure you. That won't be necessary, as Dr. Watson and I have already taken care of it."
Bewildered and shocked looks were directed at my friend. He began to explain, mentioning the circus wagon in the clearing and how we had neutralized Jack – or rather Janos Szabo.
"But... I don't quite understand. Why didn't you tell us this earlier, Dr. Watson?" Kensington asked, puzzled. I looked at Holmes for guidance, and he took over from there.
"I asked the good doctor to do so. After all, the murderer shouldn't make an escape upon hearing that his accomplice had already been captured," he clarified, though this seemed to generate more confusion among the group.
"What murderer? Isn't the murderer this... Zabo, or whatever you called him, right?" Mrs. McLean inquired. Holmes didn't respond immediately.
"As for the murders of Mr. Brown and Ms. Evans, yes, that's correct. But the murder of Mr. Fitzroy had nothing to do with him," he specified.
Mrs. McLean scrutinized him, visibly impatient. "But... I told you that flaming demon was in the garden that night!" she reminded the detective. Holmes, however, shrugged.
"An ordinary lie, nothing more. Isn't that so?" he retorted.
The woman in front of him flinched. Kensington gazed back and forth between the two.
"A lie? Mrs. McLean lied?" he seemed incredulous. Mrs. McLean now stood before my friend.
"How dare you accuse me like this? Are you trying to paint me as the murderer?" she hissed. Holmes nodded.
"Yes, that's exactly what I'm doing. Or at least as an accomplice to manslaughter. Fitzroy's death was far from planned, and the circumstances set in motion a machinery of dreadful consequences."
I stared at my friend. "You mean... Jack?" Another nod from Holmes.
"In fact. On that evening, there was a dispute between Mrs. McLean and Mr. Fitzroy. He confronted her with something he had discovered. Wasn't that so?" he asked the woman expectantly. However, she preferred to remain silent. "As a result, a journalist and an accountant died. I think it wouldn't be unreasonable to speculate that you embezzled money," he accused her. "From my company?" Kensington said, shocked. Holmes confirmed it. "Fitzroy wanted to confront her that evening. However, both had already had something to drink and were no longer entirely themselves. Mrs. McLean reacted violently and pushed Fitzroy to the ground. She then repeatedly struck his head against the stone protruding from the ground. The bloodstains clearly show that the skull had multiple impacts. Otherwise, the splatters would only indicate in one direction." "And then she told us the tale of Jack O'Lantern?" Chesterton asked. Holmes affirmed. "She panicked. She could have clung to an accident, but she wasn't sure how the police would interpret the condition of the body. Everyone knew she was alone with Fitzroy; they might not have bought the accident story either. So, she created another character. But just creating an unknown man would have been too suspicious. So, she chose a character from a Scottish fable. One that you surely heard often as a child in Scotland. Isn't that right, Mrs. McLean?" The woman's gaze now turned cold and dismissive. "You can't prove any of that. Who says I was the one repeatedly smashing Fitzroy's head against the stone? It could just as well have been Szabo," she argued. Holmes smiled. "Oh, now you can suddenly pronounce your accomplice's name correctly. Interesting." However, Mrs. McLean did not let herself be provoked. "Give up! Your accomplice will testify against you if he even smells a chance to escape the gallows." Next, he opened the bag he had brought and placed the black helmet and the cans on the table. "What you see here are all easily flammable chemicals. Szabo was part of the circus; take a guess at what his specialty was." "Fire," I did him the favor. I was also there when Holmes studied the old newspaper articles. It was clear to me, too, after seeing photographs of Szabo spitting fire or juggling flaming objects. "The helmet is particularly thick so that the heat doesn't immediately affect the skin. The man's clothing also seemed odd to me when we bound him. It is flame-resistant clothing used in heavy industry, for example by welders, to protect against heat and sparks. Szabo always had something to extinguish with him after he had fled into the woods, so he wasn't exposed to the heat for any longer than necessary," Holmes concluded. Mrs. McLean let herself fall on the sofa opposite. "I thought I had found the perfect henchman. I thought he, in particular, could breathe life into my stories." The people present stared at her in horror. "So... is it all true? You killed Fitzroy and also had Brown and Evans killed?" Kensington couldn't believe it. McLean nodded weakly. "What else could I do? Fitzroy caught me after he had a look at the documents. Since Sarah was an accountant, it was only a matter of time for her too. And Brown had been researching irregularities for a while. I had to cover my tracks as well as I could," she justified herself. Holmes sighed contemptuously. "But you failed. Starting with the blood trail and ending with the back door you left open for your accomplice. If you think about it carefully, each crime was only possible with your assistance, so I eventually figured it out. You arranged to meet Brown in the garden and accompanied Ms. Evans to the toilet. You left little hints everywhere, just like Szabo, who left a matchstick at his crime scene. Also, the fact that he ignited his helmet shortly before the crime helped me figure out the trick. Mrs. McLean, you killed three people out of pure greed. I can't imagine anything more despicable," he passed his judgment. Scarcely two hours later, the police arrived and arrested Mrs. McLean. Holmes had to lead her to the clearing where Szabo was still crouching in his circus wagon since they probably wouldn't have found it on their own. It didn't take long before the two culprits were on a train to London, where they would await their just punishment. Already in the afternoon of the same day, we said goodbye to our client, Mr. Kensington, who was still shocked that one of his employees was capable of such cruelty. Holmes told him that his profession attracted greed, to which the man had to agree. Shortly thereafter, we were back on the train to London and could talk about the events. "Admit it, Holmes. For a moment, you really believed in the Devil," I teased. My friend looked out of the window and appeared serious. "Oh, Watson, you know... I honestly do almost every day. However... he always possesses a human form that is revealed to us in the end of each case."