Prompt from Wordwielder – Snowed In

AN: This one took a WHOLE lot longer than I intended. I hope you enjoy it.

The Case at Castlebridge

The 9th of December 1895 in the Scottish Highlands was as bleak and cold a winter's day as any I have known. On the 7th, Holmes received a request to assist in what was believed to be the murder of a member of one of the oldest and wealthiest clans in the district. Having had little to do of interest since November when he had done such a masterful job on what I call The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans, Holmes was quite willing to lend his aid. I naturally agreed to accompany him and the next morning we arrived in the small village of Castlebridge.

By that time, the snowstorm we had been warned of had become much more severe than predicted and a blanket of white some eight or ten inches deep covered the village and surrounding valley. At some point in the predawn hours, sleet had come down, adding a crust of ice to the deep snow. As we stepped onto the platform at the local station so many large, heavy flakes were falling it was impossible to see more than thirty feet in any direction. Regardless, Holmes and I were met by a constable and conducted to a very comfortable inn called The Three Rams where we were provided rooms. From there, the constable took us by sleigh to a grim old pile some three miles outside of the village where the supposed murder had occurred.

Holmes conducted a very thorough investigation with Inspector Wilson of the county constabulary at his elbow the entire time. Wilson was all but certain he had a murder on his hands. Holmes disagreed and took pains to prove it was nothing more than a very unfortunate accident, the result of an elderly great grandmother slipping on a patch of ice while searching for her cat. Finally convinced, Inspector Wilson thanked us and we were conducted back to The Three Rams with hopes of returning to London by the following evening.

I was comfortably ensconced beside the fire in the parlor reading a copy of Shakespeare's plays when Holmes stepped in scowling and loading his pipe.

"Confound this snow!" he grumbled. "A wasted trip, Watson. Now I must languish here for at least another day."

"Another day?" I asked. "Don't tell me the trains are out of service."

"At least another day, Watson," said he and took the chair across from me. He sighed and shook his head ruefully. "Being cooped up like this is what rankles the most."

I nodded in agreement. At least in London there was the chance of getting out to my club for a game or two of billiards.

"I should have brought my violin," Holmes complained and settled back in his chair. Too many times, I have seen him thus. With nothing to keep his great mind occupied, his thoughts race like an out of control machine. I knew any conciliatory comments I might make would only exacerbate the situation, so I remained companionably silent.

I do not know how much time passed with me reading and Holmes brooding before Inspector Wilson visited the inn. He was still shaking the snow from his Inverness coat when the innkeeper brought him to us.

"Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, hello again," said the inspector. We greeted him and invited him join us beside the fire. "No thank you, gentlemen. I have come to ask your assistance on a new matter of some small importance."

"A new mystery?" asked Holmes, eyes suddenly bright and alert.

"Aye. What I call a sewing box affair, if you get my meaning, sir. Everything we need is inside." Inspector Wilson shuffled his feet and looked ill at ease. "I confess I'm embarrassed to ask your aid in light of the original reason I called upon you, Mr. Holmes. Only, you see, I cannot send for assistance from my headquarters due to the situation with the trains. It's only twenty miles by road, but in this weather even a hearty man might freeze to death. Worse still, the longer I delay an investigation, the more likely it is the thief will escape."

"Thief?" said Holmes. I noted a smile curl the corner of his mouth. "Perhaps you will tell me all about it, Inspector."

The innkeeper had by then drawn another chair up to the fire and Wilson settled into it somewhat reluctantly.

"Very well and thank you, Mr. Holmes," he began and drew out a notepad from an inner pocket, to which he referred. "Staying at the Applethorn Hotel on High Street is one Mrs. Temperance Bridewell and her daughter, Elizabeth. They stopped in Castlebridge to visit old friends while on their way to a family gathering. Mrs. Bridewell is a widow and fairly well off. As with everyone else, she is delayed here by the storm. This was nothing more than an inconvenience until she woke this morning to find a pair of diamond earrings, a sapphire brooch and a diamond and ruby ring missing from her jewelry box. I asked when last she had seen them and she said it was the evening of the seventh. Two nights ago. She said she put them in her jewelry box before she went to bed. Yesterday she and her daughter visited with her friend. This morning she had expected to depart on the 8:45 and so began packing what few things she had taken out of her luggage. That was when she noticed the items missing."

"Is she missing anything else?" asked Holmes.

"She says not," Inspector Wilson replied, double checking his notes. "It's odd, because there are two necklaces and three other pair of earrings still in her jewelry box."

"Are there other guests at the hotel and are any of them missing anything?" I asked.

"Aside from the lady and her daughter, there are two men, Doctor," said the inspector. He turned the page on his notepad and read, "Mr. Wilbur North and Mr. Clive Wells. Mr. North is a salesman. Works for a company in Sheffield. Company makes tools of every sort. Things like billhooks, shovels, hammers, spanners, etcetera. Mr. Wells is a student. He certainly looks like one. Second hand suit and all. Bookish enough. Says he got on the wrong train and seems very concerned he may run out of money if he has to stay another night. Neither of them is missing anything."

"Mrs. Bridewell did not simply misplace the items?" asked Holmes.

"She is convinced she did not. Her daughter says she saw her put the ring and the earrings in the jewelry box. Did not mention the brooch." Wilson shook his head regretfully. "As for who might have taken them, I've known Mr. and Mrs. Stewart for seven or eight years and they're as honest as they come. Besides, it makes their hotel look bad. A theft, I mean. Bad for their reputation if news of this gets around. Mrs. Stewart called on me as soon as Mrs. Bridewell complained."

"Servants?" I asked.

"Their son, Thomas," he said and shook his head. "Lad of fourteen. I can't see him stealing anything. What would he do with expensive jewelry? Why would he damage his parents' reputation? There's also a maid. Cleans and serves in the dining room. Name of Fenella Brown. A friendly girl. Always humming to herself. Mr. Stewart likes her. Mrs. Stewart, less so. Says the girl is lazy, but I don't see it. Fenella's been with them for three years, I think. So far as I know, she's never been in any trouble of any sort. Not any real trouble."

"Meaning what, Inspector?" Holmes asked.

"Ran off with a young soldier." Wilson smiled indulgently. "Mind, I wouldn't want my daughter doing it, but I'm not so old I don't remember being young. Young people do foolish things."

"She obviously returned," I said.

"Aye. Word is that the soldier's sergeant caught wind of the lass and sent her home with a flea in her ear. Made the private send a letter to her parents apologizing."

"I think, Inspector, we had better have a look at the scene of the crime," Holmes said, rising. "If you will wait while Watson and I get our coats and hats, we will be with you shortly."

What would on a clear day have been a ten-minute walk took a little more than twenty due to the deep snow. Our boots sank into drifts fully up to our knees at some points. The wind was sharp as a knife, driving needles of sleet into our cheeks. I can say for myself that I was heartily glad to reach the Applethorn Hotel, a three-story affair of grey stone with dark slate shingles mantled in white. We were let in by a red-faced woman of perhaps thirty in a white woolen shawl. Her expression spoke of distress and worry. It did not look natural on her, though. I felt certain she was normally a happy soul and it was the theft that troubled her.

"Come in, gentlemen," she said, holding the door against the wind. "Come to the parlor. There's tea waiting. Warm you up. Sit next the fire and drive off the chill. Oh, don't worry about your boots. Stone floors care naught for wet. We'll mop it up."

"Thank you, Mrs. Stewart," Inspector Wilson said, doffing his hat as soon as the door was closed. "This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and this other gentleman is Dr. John Watson. They're the men from London I told you about."

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" asked a youthful, feminine voice from around the corner. An instant later a blonde-haired young lady of perhaps sixteen years appeared, blue eyes wide with interest and an open-mouthed smile on her face. "Are you really Sherlock Holmes? I've read every one of your stories!"

"Elizabeth!" snapped an older woman's voice from somewhere behind the girl.

"Mother! It's Mr. Holmes!" cried the girl.

"Come back here this instant!" snapped the older woman whom I assumed must be Mrs. Bridewell, which meant the girl before us had to be her daughter, Elizabeth.

"Indeed, Miss Bridewell, I am Sherlock Holmes," said my friend.

The pronouncement of her name had a remarkable effect on the young lady. She stared open-mouthed, if anything, more astonished than before.

"How did you know my name?" she asked, awed. "Was it my clothes? Something about my shoes or my hair?"

Holmes closed his eyes and I felt the need to turn my face away a moment so as not to humiliate the lass by laughing.

"Miss Bridewell, I simply knew that a mother and daughter are guests here," Holmes explained patiently.

"Oh." Elizabeth looked crestfallen.

"Elizabeth, come now," said the mother from around the corner. "Allow the gentlemen to come in here where it is warm."

Sulkily, the girl marched back around the corner and we followed. The parlor was nicely appointed with comfortable chairs, a settee and a large fireplace. Arranged around the room were the guests. Mrs. Bridewell, a stately woman of forty-odd, sat beside the fireplace with a man roughly my age who had to be Mr. North sat across from her. Elizabeth took a seat on the settee and looking out of the window onto High Street was a young man I took to be in his early twenties who had to be Mr. Wells. Inspector Wilson had described him exactly. Though quite handsome and clean-shaven, his clothes were not tailored. They were of good quality, bordering on expensive, yet clearly not meant for him. The final occupant of the room was Constable McCracken, whom we had previously met.

"Thomas, take the gentlemen's coats," Mrs. Stewart called as she hurriedly poured tea for us. A lad wearing an apron soon appeared and carried our coats out of the parlor and Mrs. Stewart handed us steaming cups. "Can I fetch you anything else, gentlemen?"

"No thank you, ma'am," Inspector Wilson said, holding his cup in both hands to drive off the considerable cold. He then turned and made introductions, announcing that Holmes had agreed to assist in recovering the stolen jewelry. Murmurs went around the room, each expressing varying degrees of support.

"It's that maid, if you ask me," grumbled Mrs. Bridewell testily. "I do not understand why she has not been arrested already and made to tell us where my jewels are."

Mr. North looked uncomfortable and Mr. Wells rolled his eyes, looking skeptically amused. Elizabeth seemed to ignore her mother and smiled at Mr. Wells.

"I explained earlier that there is nothing that says one or another person has taken your property, ma'am," Inspector Wilson explained tiredly.

"I think, Inspector, I would prefer to examine the guest rooms before I ask any questions," Holmes said, preempting a general discussion. "Also, everyone should remain here. It is warm and comfortable. A good place to be on such a winter's day."

"I would rather be in my room studying," Mr. Wells said mildly. "I have exams after the holiday."

"When I finish with your rooms, perhaps you can get back to your studies, Mr. Wells," said Holmes. "What subjects do you study, by the way?"

"Philosophy and literature. I plan to be a writer," replied Wells with a tight smile and a glance at Elizabeth who grinned eagerly. "Perhaps Dr. Watson could spare some time later. I would appreciate advice on getting published."

"When there is time, certainly," I agreed. "Always willing to provide guidance where I can."

"This way, gentlemen," Inspector Wilson said, digging a ring of keys from his pocket. As we ascended to the first floor, he explained, "I gathered them all in the parlor before I left to get you. I made sure to lock the doors, so nothing has been touched since."

"A wise precaution," Holmes approved. "Did you gather them all at once?"

"Singly. Spoke to each briefly in their rooms, hoping one or the other would have seen the jewelry. Neither man saw the items before or after Mrs. Bridewell visited her friend," Wilson said. Going to the first door on the left, he said, "This is Mrs. Bridewell's room. Hotel's only suite."

Consisting of a small sitting room with a fireplace and a larger bedchamber, the suite was as comfortably appoint as the parlor downstairs. Holmes paused just inside the door to scan the room, taking in all its furnishings in a single, slow glance. He moved to do the same with the bedchamber.

"Does Miss Elizabeth share this room with her mother, Inspector?" he asked.

"She does."

"This is the jewelry box?" Holmes indicated a simple but handsome cherry wood box atop the vanity in the corner of the bedchamber.

"It is." Wilson pulled out his notepad, examined a page and said, "She kept it in the top drawer of the vanity, which has a lock. I examined the lock, Mr. Holmes. I does not appear to have been forced. I am not sure Mrs. Bridewell actually locked it, but she insists she did. Elizabeth said she was sure it was locked but when I asked if she had checked it herself, she admitted she had not and became less certain."

Holmes used his powerful glass to examine the lock, opened the drawer to look at its edges and then inserted the corner of his handkerchief into the keyhole. When he drew it out, I saw him smile.

"Not forced, Inspector," said he, stepping over to where the inspector and I stood. "See these flakes of brass? Very fine and not many, but a clear indication someone used picklocks to open it."

"A nice trick, that," Wilson said approvingly. "The handkerchief, I mean, sir. I'll have to remember that."

"A dampened piece of foolscap also works, though not as well," said Holmes. "Better to use oil, but water will usually do."

Holmes proceeded to examine the door locks in the same manner but the result was less conclusive. These locks were of iron and the inspector had used the key, which likely spoiled any evidence, so Holmes explained.

"We can safely assume, though, that whoever picked the lock on the vanity would be capable of picking the lock on the door," he said. "We can see the thief did not come in by the windows. A good deal of snow is built up."

"I discounted that mode of entry, Mr. Holmes," said Inspector Wilson. "Unlikely a man would want to climb that wall with so much ice and wind. Slip and break his neck."

I nodded agreement and Holmes led us back into the hallway. Inspector Wilson unlocked the door across from Mrs. Bridewell's and we entered the apartment. A large bed occupied the middle of the room, a comfortable wingback chair sat beside the small fireplace and a dresser sat in one corner beside a window that looked out on the back garden. On the floor beside the dresser stood a large suitcase and something like a cross between a Gladstone bag and a leather duffel.

"Mr. North's room," pronounced Inspector Wilson.

Again, Holmes paused to examine the room, eyes roving from point to point, finally settling on the odd piece of luggage. Going to it, he made to pick it up, but it was considerably heavier than a bag that size should have been. With a chuckle and a grunt, he hefted it onto the foot of the bed.

"Mr. North's sample case, I believe," said Holmes and set about undoing the buckles that held it closed.

The case was a marvel! It looked to contain most anything a tradesman might want. It seemed the only thing absent was an anvil.

"The man must be stout as a cob pony!" remarked Inspector Wilson.

"Good Lord," said I, stepping up next to Holmes. "Does he carry the company's entire catalogue with him?"

"Billhook, hammers, spanners," Holmes trailed off, extending his hand to a small compartment stitched into the leather lining. He opened it and out slipped several leather cases. "Hello. What have we here?"

Holmes passed me a case and took one himself, opening it. I opened mine and frowned.

"Watchmaker's tools?" I said, displaying the contents to the inspector. He nodded.

"And these are for locksmiths," Holmes said, showing us a collection of picklocks. "Very fine examples, I must say." He held one close to his eyes and read, "Waldorf, Statler and Henson. I shall remember these if I need to replace my current set."

"Picklocks?" Wilson growled almost disbelievingly.

"Worse," said Holmes, his expression pinched. "Used picklocks."

"Seems Mr. North has questions to answer," I said.

"Right." Inspector Wilson turned for the door, but Holmes called him back urgently.

"Inspector, let us avoid a false start," said Holmes.

"The man has picklocks, Mr. Holmes, and you yourself showed that the lock on the vanity had been picked," Wilson said truculently.

"Yes, yes, but when we hear hoof beats, we never think of zebras," said Holmes.

"Zebras?" the inspector demanded. I confess, I could not see what Holmes meant either.

"I mean that just because a conclusion seems obvious, does not mean it is correct." Holmes drew the billhook from the case and held it in the light. "What do you see?"

"A billhook," I said.

"Watson," Holmes chided and I looked more closely.

"The blade is twelve inches or so," I said. "The handle is ash wood, I think. Well oiled. Likely to keep it in good condition."

"A handy tool," Inspector Wilson said. "I use one like it in my garden."

Holmes cleared his throat and pointed to a place on the blade where the color was somewhat brighter than the rest. The inspector and I exchanged looks then looked to Holmes.

"Gentlemen, this blade has been used," he said patiently. "This discoloration is caused when the blade chops into a piece of wood. The wood polishes the steel, you see." Holmes returned the billhook to the case and came out with one of the ballpeen hammers. "Note how the face of this hammer is pristine, yet here, here and here are minor dents. Again, this tool has been used." He returned the hammer to the case and came out with a monkey wrench. "Yes! Note the nicks in the faces of the jaws."

"North is not selling used tools, is he, Holmes?" I asked.

"These are his demonstration models, Watson." Holmes picked up the picklocks and examined them. "Small scrapes but only on the larger picks. Very likely he demonstrates the quality of his company's products to prospective customers. A wise practice in a competitive field."

The inspector and I had to agree, though Wilson pointed out that the evidence did not eliminate Mr. North as a suspect.

"I agree," said Holmes. "Let us have a look at Mr. Wells' room. Perhaps we can eliminate him and thus get closer to the truth."

Wells' room was nearly identical to Mr. North's. The furnishings were different but arranged in the same places. Mr. Wells' window also looked out onto the back garden. The key difference was that Mr. Wells had only one small suitcase and half a dozen books held together with a leather strap. I was amused when I saw a copy of Shakespeare's plays sandwiched between 'A Tale of Two Cities' and 'Hendricks's Encyclopedia of the Americas'. Holmes went to these books and quickly undid the strap before flicking through each tome.

"Interesting," said he.

"What is?" I asked.

"I was only thinking that curriculums must have changed since I was in school, Watson. Shakespeare, yes, but Hendricks's Encyclopedia? And this one seems a text on horse breeding."

"Perhaps he intends to travel," I suggested.

"Perhaps," said Holmes and set the books aside. Picking up the small suitcase, he laid it on the bed and bent to have a closer look. "G. W. McClintock."

"McClintock?" Wilson asked and had a look for himself. "As I said. He is a student. Second hand clothes and a second hand bag to carry them in."

"You think so?" Holmes asked and opened the suitcase. Inside were all the usual things one might expect a gentleman to have on a short journey. Holmes carefully went through everything, going so far as to open a powder case and sift its contents with his finger.

"Anything?" I asked.

"Not the jewels, Watson." Holmes returned everything to its proper place, closed the suitcase and frowned at it. "Odd that a student would have clothing of such good quality and yet it is not tailored, is it not Inspector?"

"Hs suit is of good quality," agreed Wilson in a musing tone and made a note in his pad. "I wonder who this G. W. McClintock is and if he knows his bag is missing."

"Likely blames it on a porter," Holmes said. He turned and cast his gaze about again, rubbing his chin with an index finger. His gaze suddenly sharpened and he stepped over to the window, looking at the floor. "Stone floors care naught for wet as Mrs. Stewart observed. Wood floors, however, do."

"What do you mean, sir?" Wilson went to look at what Holmes had seen. "Aye. It's damp. Room's fairly warm so it can't have been there too long, else it would have dried."

"Not from the basin," I said. "Too far for a spill."

"Someone has opened this window," Holmes said and worked the latch to lift the frame. With some little effort, he was able to slide it up. "Eureka! See what I have found!"

There was a wide valley cut into the snow built up on the sill, though it was partly expunged by the falling snow.

"Are you saying someone climbed through this window, Mr. Holmes?" demanded the inspector incredulously.

"Why would anyone open a window on a day like this?" I wondered.

"Why, indeed, Watson."

Holmes leaned out to peer down the side of the building and then looked about the garden below. When he pulled himself back in, his head and shoulders were frosted with snow, and a gleam was in his eye. I hoped he would immediately shut the window. Instead, he brushed the snow carefully out of the valley on the sill, perhaps an inch at a time until he reached the layer of ice formed when the sleet had come down before dawn.

"Undisturbed, Inspector," said he. "Only see these ridges?"

"Aye. The sort made when you rake your fingers through it." The inspector nodded, though he sounded puzzled at the importance of this clue. "Like when you make a snowball."

"Exactly like that. And the crusted ice tells us this was done some time after the sleet fell. Likely this morning. The question is; why would young Wells be making snowballs?" Holmes mused with a knowing expression. "Inspector, let us now go down and speak with the guests."

"Holmes, we have hardly searched these rooms," I objected.

"After questioning the guests, I think our searching will prove more fruitful and very brief, Watson. Inspector, if you please."

The guests were still in the parlor. Miss Elizabeth had joined Wells at the window and the pair seemed to be in quiet, amicable conversation. Mr. North had dozed off and Mrs. Bridewell was paging through a ladies' periodical.

"Ladies, gentlemen," said Inspector Wilson loudly enough to startle Mr. North awake. "Mr. Holmes and I would like to ask a few questions. First, Mr. North, do you know how to pick a lock?"

"What?" North said, blinking in confusion.

"We found picklocks in your case," Inspector Wilson said. "Do you know how to use them?"

"In my case? What were you doing going through my things?"

"This is a police investigation, Mr. North," Wilson said pointedly.

"Oh. Of course." North seemed to gather himself back together and looked shame faced. "I do know how to pick locks, Inspector. I had to learn. You see, it is part of my job. I demonstrate to my customers. Usually, I allow them to use the samples in my bag. Proves the quality of the tools, you understand. The three-pound hammer is my best seller. Very high quality. Excellent craftsmanship."

"Typically, what sort of lock do you demonstrate on?" asked Holmes.

"What sort?" North blinked and straightened in his chair. "Door locks. Sometimes padlocks. Door locks are usually the most handy, though."

"Could you pick something finer than a door lock?" Wilson asked.

"Finer? I have never tried." North rubbed his chin. "I suppose with practice I might."

"You told the inspector that you had not seen the missing jewelry. Is that correct?" asked Holmes.

"It is. I met the lady only last evening. She wore no rings on her fingers that I recall. A wedding band, perhaps. I do not recall."

"My wedding band, of course," Mrs. Bridewell put in, displaying the simple gold band about her finger. She pointed to her ears, saying "Last evening I wore only these silver earrings and matching hairpin."

"You did not sleep with those items, did you, Madame?" asked Holmes.

"Certainly not, Mr. Holmes," scoffed Mrs. Bridewell. "I laid them on the vanity, expecting to wear them on the train today."

"Mr. Wells, you also said you had not seen the missing jewelry," Holmes said.

"I have not," Wells replied. He seemed amused.

"But you must have," said Miss Elizabeth.

Wells blinked at her in surprise.

"On the train," she said and giggled prettily.

"The train?" Wilson asked.

"From London," she said. "Mr. Wells was in such a rush to board. He only got to the platform a moment before the train began moving. I saw him from our carriage window."

"Yes. Which is why I got on the wrong train," Wells said, clearly embarrassed.

There was something queer about that and I said, "You must have gotten on two wrong trains."

"Two?" said he, eyes darting around the room.

"Very good, Watson," purred Holmes. "My colleague is correct, Mr. Wells. The line that serves Castlebridge is a spur line. Primarily it transports goods and livestock to and from market, but carries few passengers. Surely you noticed."

"Very few people boarded when we changed trains," observed Mrs. Bridewell, now turning a suspicious eye upon the young man.

"That's why you joined us, Remember?" Elizabeth said. Her expression had changed from amusement to confusion. "You and I played cards while mother read. Do you not recall?"

"Of course I recall, Miss Elizabeth," said Wells, straightening and frowning at Holmes and the inspector. "What are you two getting at?"

"Zebras," Wilson growled.

"What?" Wells said. The other guests looked equally confused, though I suppressed a grin.

"Mr. Wells," said Holmes in a tone clearly meant to bite. "Why did you throw two snowballs at the shed in the back garden?"

"I did no such thing!" Wells shot back. "Why would I?"

"Precisely the question I asked myself." Holmes steepled his fingers over his breast and paced back and forth twice before fixing his eyes on Wells. "I wondered why anyone would open a window on a day such as this with snow coming down and the wind blowing so hard. I wondered why only the small items had been taken from the jewelry box. Both necklaces, being made of gold, are worth a small fortune. I might not have noticed the irregularity in the snow deposited on your windowsill had you taken a moment to clean up the snow that had fallen into your room when you opened the window. Perhaps you were counting on it melting and the water drying before anyone saw it. Perhaps you had not enough time before the inspector had you come down here. Perhaps you are just not very forward thinking. At any rate, if the constable were to go out to the shed and dig through the snow at the south west corner, I wager he'll discover the jewels in question. Are you willing to bet, Mr. Wells?"

Wells drew himself up indignantly, scowling.

"I am not going to be insulted to my face!" he snapped. "I have studying to do and no wish to participate further in this farce!"

"Tell me something, Mr. Wells," cut in Holmes before the young man could say more. "What place do horses and North America have in a philosophy course?"

"I beg your pardon?" Wells was confused and indignant.

"Do you collect books, perhaps?" asked Holmes.

"Collect books?" Wells looked around the room as if seeking support. He got none.

"Mayhap you sell, books, lad," said Wilson, stepping in front of the young man. "Who is G. W. McClintock?"

"I don't know the man!" snapped Wells.

"Why, then, do you have his bag?" Wilson asked mildly.

Wells could only gap stupidly.

"Constable, take this man in charge and conduct him to Fourth Street. Hold him until I arrive."

"Gladly, sir!" the constable said, snatching Wells by the elbow and dragging him out of the hotel into the cold.

"I think we had better go find that evidence, Mr. Holmes," Inspector Wilson said, a pleased smirk on his face.

With the help of Mr. Stewart and his son, we were able to recover the missing earrings, ring and brooch undamaged. Wells had thrown them from his window some time after Mrs. Bridewell had called for Inspector Wilson and before he arrived, or so Holmes surmised. Why he had not simply tossed them out of his window was a practical matter. Objects as small as the pieces of jewelry would not leave enough of a trace to recover them once more snow fell. Snowballs, though, would leave craters in the snow that would remain visible for hours even with the heavy downfall we were experiencing.

Mrs. Bridewell was very appreciative of getting her jewels back, though she understood there had to be a delay due to them being evidence against Mr. Wells. Regardless, she invited all of us, including Mr. North, to have tea with her and her daughter, after which, we spent an enjoyable afternoon telling stories beside the fire.

In case the reader is interested, Mr. G. W. McClintock was found and was glad to have his suitcase and its contents returned. Wells apparently stole them on the London docks. Curiously, McClintock was actually a wealthy American cattle baron visiting Scotland and his ancestral roots for a wintertime holiday.

AN: If there are typos and other mistakes, I apologize. I'm running way behind on prompts and did not take any time to proof this once I published it. Please message me if you find something glaring so that I can correct it. Thanks.