appeared in the door, then stared curiously at me and my work.
The owner of the hair, as you can imagine, interested me greatly. I gave him an abrupt greeting, typical of my character, and narrowly avoided dropping a length of paste-sodden paper on him. He commented on the quality of my work. I told him that she was getting what she paid for, that I never claimed to be a paperhanger.
'What are you, then?' he asked.
'Jack of all trades, master of none,' I replied.
He reacted to this bit of originality with a sneer.
'I'd believe that you've mastered none, by the looks of these walls. What are you good at?'
'Ships. Machinery. Automobiles.' This last was after I had seen the grease stains under his nails and the condition of his shoes and trousers.
'Hah. Probably can't even so much as change a tyre.'
'I've changed a few,' I said mildly, and deposited a globule of paste on his shoe.
'Well, you can do another if you like. There's a slow puncture in the car in the drive outside, and I'm in a hurry. You go take it off and see if you can find the hole.'
I obediently laid down my brush and knife and took up the wrenches from the car's toolbox. It was not his automobile, of that I was certain. Too staid, too expensive, too well kept up. I would have given much to hear what was said during the next fifteen minutes, but short of climbing the wall— in broad daylight, without ivy or a convenient rope— and putting my ear to a window, I could not. I found the hole, patched it, and was putting the wheel back in place when he came out again.
'Here, don't tell me you've just started?'
'Oh no, it's all ready to go. Sir, if you'll hand me that pump, I'll finish it.'
As the tyre filled with air, I admired 'his' automobile.
'Is it yours, then?' I asked casually.
'Nah, it's borrowed.'
'I thought it might be. I'd see you in something a touch flashier, somehow, and faster.'
'Oh, this one's pretty fast.'
'Don't look it,' I announced sceptically, so he proceeded to tell me precisely how long it took him to drive from Bath, despite the hay wagons. I whistled appreciatively.
'You must've had to push it hard on the straight patches. A good friend, to let you treat his machine like that.'
'Ah, he'll never know. Some of these old [censored] own these [censored] great hogs and never use them properly. Does a machine good to be stretched a bit.'
'You ought to charge him extra for it,' I jested, and he took the bait.
'Too right, add it to his bill.'
Much laughter and joviality followed and an exchange of opinions regarding pistons, body frames, and the like. (Many blessings, incidentally, were called upon Old Will's grandson for his tutorials in automotive arcana.) He climbed into the luxurious transport that was not his own, and I stuck my head over the passenger side.
'Enjoy your drive back, Mr—'
'Rogers, Jason Rogers.'
'Enjoy the road, Mr Rogers. I hear tell there's a very watchful constabulary round Swindon side, so if you're going through there, you better keep a light foot on it.'
'Thanks for the warning, Basil. Give me a start, my man.'
I obliged, and he slapped the car cruelly into gear and roared off down the way.
So, as you can see, Russell, I am off to Bath, on a somewhat slower but considerably safer means of transport, to look into the possibility of a motorcar-repair establishment run by a Mr Jason Rogers, grandson of Mrs Erica Rogers, a right-handed, black-haired man of about five feet ten inches, thirteen stone, with rounded shoes, who looks the sort to own a brown tweed suit and a workmanlike folding knife. I hope to have some interesting contributions to add to the discussion tomorrow evening.
Now as to the pattern into which this information may fit: As I mentioned, Mrs Rogers is a talkative woman, easily steered into one topic and another, with certain very definite exceptions, when a thick window shade is pulled down behind her eyes and she discovers that it is time to make a pot of tea or check on her aged mother. She is not wildly intelligent, but she is very, very canny, and her suspicions bristle whenever the topics of money (particularly inheritance), grandsons, the education of women, childbearing outside of matrimony, and dogs come up. Which of these areas might concern us, and which are merely extraneous remnants of personal history, is as yet difficult to discern, although some of the subjects are highly suggestive.
Certain oblique statements, gestures, and expressions have caught my interest, buried as they were in the flow of gossip, childhood reminiscences, and explanations of the proper technique by which a job is to be done. I shall not burden you at this point with the details of those conversations, which would exhaust my supplies of paper, lead, and time; however, the following points should be noted:
First and foremost, Mrs Rogers is possessed of a deep mistrust of close family relationships. Her asides about ungrateful siblings and faithless children do not, however, appear to extend to mothers or male grandchildren. Hence my rapid departure by rail.
Second, you noted that she seemed fond of that drivel perpetrated by Watson on the unsuspecting public, yet when I walked into the house, there was not a single thing more demanding of thought than an old copy of Mrs Beeton's cookery book. A spot of gossip with the neighbour's lad (never underestimate the observational powers of an intelligent child, Russell!) revealed that a load of things were carted off a few days ago, including several tea chests filled with books. Which goes to explain ten linear feet of sparsely occupied and recently scrubbed shelves upstairs. Canny, very canny.
Third, you were quite correct about the recent departure of household help. This was in the person of a rather dim child of seventeen years who was perfunctorily dismissed on the day Miss Ruskin left Cambridgeshire, sent home to her family with two weeks' pay and no explanation.
As Pascal says, I have made this letter long because I lacked the time to make it short, but time and paper both are drawing to a rapid close, and I shall have to sprint across town to make the Bath connexion. You might have Billy take this to Mycroft and Lestrade, if he's available.
Take care, wife.
Holmes
Postscript— I had thought to keep the following with me, but perhaps that is not a good idea. If it were found in my possession by the gentlemen I intend to visit, it could be difficult to explain. I do not need to warn you to guard it closely. I found it in a desk drawer in Mrs Rogers's room, inside an envelope which, as can be discerned from the letter itself, was stabbed and gouged repeatedly with an ink pen, leaving pieces of the nib embedded in the paper. The letter was in a prominent spot in the drawer, but it had been returned to its envelope before it was attacked and not removed from the envelope since then. I left the empty envelope behind, lest Mrs Rogers notice its absence. I am quite aware this is not an entirely appropriate means of obtaining police evidence, but really, I could not leave it there. If I have not returned by tomorrow evening, take it with you to Mycroft's and give it to Lestrade.
H.
The letter, in the distinctive strong hand of Dorothy Ruskin, read as follows:
22 November 1920 Jerusalem
Dear Erica,
I hope this letter finds you and Mother well and your son's wife recovering after her fall. My return voyage was as uneventful as possible in this day, and I have returned safely, which is all one can ask for.
Erica, I have given much thought to what I am about to say, and I pray that it will be read in as charitable a mood as it was written. I cannot leave that topic we touched on during my last week with you. I told you that I was worried about your health, but I may not have expressed myself clearly. Erica, there is no longer any reason to feel that mental imbalances are any less deserving of straightforward medical treatment than are physical weaknesses. Even more, perhaps, for the former can easily lead to the latter. Please believe me when I say that I wish the very best for you. You are my sister, my only family, and (to speak honestly) I do not believe that you are yourself.
I know that you feel quite normal, but I could see clearly that you are not. Mental illness is a beast who wanders about inside one, seeking which part he may devour, and that beast is loose inside you now. Please, dear
