The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes

against the chair top, his eyes were closed and only a thin, quick spiral of smoke rising from his clay pipe hinted at the activity of the mind behind that impassive aquiline mask. A moment later, he had sprung to his feet.

'A breath of Ashdown air will certainly do you no harm, Watson,' he said briskly. 'Mr. Vincent, my friend and I are very much at your disposal.'

It was mid-afternoon when we alighted from the train at the wayside station of Forest Row. Mr. Vincent had telegraphed our reservations at the Green Man, an old-weald-stone inn which appeared to be the only building of any consequence in the little hamlet. The air was permeated with the scent of the woodlands clothing the low, rounded Sussex hills that hemmed us in on every side, and as I contemplated that green smiling landscape it seemed to me that the tragedy of Foulkes Rath took on a grimmer, darker shade through the very serenity of the pastoral surroundings amid which it had been enacted. Though it was evident that the worthy lawyer shared my feelings, Sherlock Holmes was completely absorbed in his own thoughts, and took no part in our conversation save for a remark that the station-master was unhappily married and had recently changed the position of his shaving- mirror.

Hiring a fly at the inn, we set out on the three-mile journey that lay between the village and the manor- house, and as our road wound its way up the wooded slopes of Pippinford Hill, we caught occasional glimpses of a sombre, heather-covered ridge where the edge of the great Ashdown moors loomed against the sky-line.

We had topped the hill and I was absorbed in the wonderful view of the moorland rolling away and away to the faint blue distances of the Sussex Downs when Mr. Vincent touched my arm and pointed ahead.

'Foulkes Rath,' he said.

On a crest of the moor stood a gaunt, rambling house of grey stone flanked by a line of stables. A series of fields running from the very walls of the ancient mansion merged into a wilderness of yellow gorse and heather ending in a deep wooded valley from whence arose a pencil of smoke and the high distant droning of a steam- saw.

'The Ashdown Timber Mills,' volunteered Mr. Vin­cent. 'Those woods lie beyond the boundary of the estate and there is not another neighbour within three miles. But here we are, Mr. Holmes, and a sorry welcome it is to the manor-house of Foulkes Rath.'

At the sound of our wheels upon the drive an elderly manservant had appeared at the beetle-browed Tudor doorway and now, on catching sight of our companion, he hurried forward with an exclamation of relief.

'Thank God you've come, sir,' he cried. 'Mrs. Longton—'

'She has returned?' interposed Mr. Vincent.  'Poor lady, I will go to her at once.'

'Sergeant Clare is here, sir, and—er—a person from the London police.'

'Very well, Morstead.'

'One moment,' said Holmes. 'Has your master's body been moved?'

'He has been laid in the gun-room, sir.'

'I trust that nothing else has been disturbed?' Holmes demanded sharply.

The man's eyes turned slowly towards the dark arch of the doorway. 'No, sir,' he muttered. 'It's all as it was!'

A small vestibule in which Morstead relieved us of our hats and sticks led us into the inner hall. It was a great stone-built chamber with a groined roof and a line of nar­row pointed windows emblazoned with stained-glass shields through which the sunlight, now waning towards evening, mottled the oaken floor with vivid patches of vert, gules and azure. A short, thin man who was busy writing at a desk glanced up at our entrance and sprang to his feet with a flush of indignation upon his sharp-featured countenance.

'How's this, Mr. Holmes,' he cried. 'There's no scope here for the exercise of your talents.'

'I have no doubt that you are right, Lestrade,' replied my friend carelessly. 'Nevertheless, there have been occasions when—'

'—when luck has favoured the theorist, eh, Mr. Holmes? Ah, Dr. Watson. And might I enquire who this is, if the question may be forgiven in a police-officer?'

'This is Mr. Vincent, who is legal advisor to the Addleton family,' I replied. 'It was he who requested the services of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.'

'Oh, he did, did he!' snapped Inspector Lestrade, with a baleful glance at the little lawyer. 'Well, it's too late now for any of Mr. Holmes's fine theories. We have our man. Good day, gentlemen.'

'Just a moment, Lestrade,' said Holmes sternly. 'You've made mistakes in the past, and it is not impos­sible that you may make them in the future. In this case, if you have the right man, and I must confess that up to now I believe that you have, then you have nothing to lose in my confirmation. On the other hand—'

'Ah, it's always 'on the other hand.' However—' Lestrade added grudgingly, 'I do not see that you can do any harm. If you want to waste your own time, Mr. Holmes, that's your business. Yes, Dr. Watson, it's a nasty sight, isn't it?'

I had followed Sherlock Holmes to the fireplace at the far end of the room only to recoil before the spectacle that met my eyes. Across the oak floor stretched a great black stain of partly congealed blood while the hearth and fireplace and even the nearby wainscotting were hideously dappled with gouts and splashes of crimson.

Mr. Vincent, white to the lips, turned away and col­lapsed into a chair.

'Stand back, Watson,' Holmes enjoined abruptly. 'I take it, Lestrade, that there were no footprints on—' he gestured towards that dreadful floor.

'Just one, Mr. Holmes,' replied Lestrade with a bitter smile, 'and it fitted Mr. Percy Longton's bedroom- slipper.'

'Ah, it would seem that you are learning. By the way, what of the accused man's dressing-gown?'

'Well, what of it?'

'The walls, Lestrade, the walls! Surely the blood-spattered front of Longton's robe goes far towards completing your case.'

'Now that you mention it, the sleeves were blood-soaked.'

'Tut, that is natural enough, considering that he helped to raise the dying man's head. There is little to be gained from the sleeves. You have the dressing-gown there?'

The Scotland Yard man rummaged in a Gladstone bag and drew out a grey woollen robe.

'This is it.'

'H'm. Stains on the sleeves and hem. Not even a mark on the front. Curious but, alas, inconclusive. And this is the weapon?'

Lestrade had drawn from his bag a most fearsome object. It was a short-hafted axe made entirely of steel with a broad crescent-edge blade and a narrow neck.

'This is certainly a very ancient specimen,' said Holmes, examining the blade through his lens. 'Incidentally, where was the wound inflicted?'

'The whole top of Squire Addleton's skull was cleft like a rotten apple,' answered Lestrade. 'Indeed, it was a miracle that he regained consciousness even for a mo­ment. An unfortunate miracle for Mr. Longton,' he added.

'He named him, I understand.'

'Well, he gasped out something about 'Longtom,' which was near enough to the mark for a dying man.'

'Quite so. But whom have we here? No, madam, not a step nearer, I beg! This fireplace is no sight for a woman.'

A slim, graceful girl, clad in the deepest mourning, had rushed into the room. Her dark eyes shone with almost fevered brilliance in the whiteness of her face and her hands were clasped before her in an agony of distress.

'Save him!' she cried wildly. 'He is innocent, I swear it! Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, save my husband!'

I do not think that any of us, even Lestrade, remained unmoved.

'I will do whatever lies in my power, madam,' said Holmes gently. 'Now tell me about your husband.'

'He is the kindest of men.'

'Quite so. But I mean physically. For instance, would you say that he was taller than Squire Addleton?'

Mrs. Longton looked at Holmes in amazement. 'Good heavens, no,' she cried. 'Why, the squire was over six feet tall.'

'Ah. Now, Mr. Vincent, perhaps you can inform me when it was that Squire Addleton first began to sell por­ tions of the estate?'