the murderer, of course, our florid-faced fellow with square toes. That ring meant a great deal to him. He was prepared to risk capture by returning for it last night. According to my notion, he dropped it while stooping over Drebber’s body, and did not miss it at the time. After leaving the house, he discovered his loss and retraced his steps in the desperate hope of finding the ring. When he reached the empty house, he discovered that the police were already there due to his own folly of leaving the candle burning. He had to pretend to be drunk in order to allay suspicions. Luckily for him he encountered the brilliant Constable Race.” Holmes chuckled.
“And you think that he will look in the paper this evening in the hope that someone has advertised its find.”
“Indeed I do. He will be so overjoyed that the fellow will never suspect a trap.”
“A trap,” I repeated, with some alarm.
“Why, yes. We’ll have him cornered and have the truth out of him in a jiffy.” He opened a drawer and withdrew a pistol. “Have you arms?”
“I have my old service revolver and a few cartridges.”
“You had better clean it and load it. He will be a desperate man; and though I shall take him unawares, it is as well to be ready for anything.”
I went to my bedroom and followed his advice, although I dreaded the idea of having to use the weapon. I had thought that I had left those days behind. But, I reasoned, if I was to be a close companion of a private detective, there would no doubt be moments of danger, and it was necessary that I should be prepared. With that thought in mind, I carried out my task with alacrity.
When I returned with my pistol, I found Holmes scraping upon his violin. He ignored me for some moments and then put his instrument aside.
“My fiddle would be much better for new strings,” he remarked. “Put the pistol in your pocket. When the fellow comes, speak to him in a normal fashion. Don’t frighten him by staring at him too much or acting oddly. Then leave the rest to me.”
“It is seven o’clock now,” I said, glancing at my watch.
“Yes. He will probably be here in a few minutes. He will want to be certain to be the first to make the claim. Open the door slightly. That will do. Now put the key on the inside. Thank you.”
Holmes had begun speaking in a hushed staccato fashion and his face was slightly flushed. His cool reserve was evaporating as the excitement and potential danger we were about to face began to take hold. Nervously, he snatched a book up from the mantelpiece. ‘This is a queer old tome I picked up at a stall yesterday —
I nodded politely. I knew he was attempting to divert his mind with idle intellectual conversation, but the tone of his voice clearly indicated that he was failing.
“On the flyleaf, in very faded ink, is written
He held the book out for me to see, and his hand was shaking.
“I wonder who William Whyte was,” he continued, returning the book to the mantelpiece. “Some pragmatical seventeenth-century lawyer, I suppose. His writing has a legal twist about it.”
He was interrupted by a sudden jangling of our doorbell downstairs.
“I’ve instructed Mrs Hudson to send all callers up,” he whispered, moving to the door.
“Does Doctor Watson live here?” asked a clear voice from below.
We heard Mrs Hudson’s injunction to the stranger to come up to our rooms, and then heard his heavy tread upon the stair. Shortly after, there was a knock at our door.
“Come in,” I called.
At my summons, our visitor entered. I had to steel myself from giving a cry of surprise, for here standing before us was the man whom Sherlock Holmes had described to us in detail that morning in Lauriston Gardens. Dressed in the shabby garb of a cab-driver, our visitor was over six feet tall, with a florid visage and wearing scuffed and muddy square-toed boots.
Holmes flashed me a look of triumph.
The stranger glanced between the two of us.
“Which one of you is Watson — the one who found the ring?”
I stepped forward. “I am Doctor Watson.”
The man stepped towards me and shook my hand warmly. “I can’t thank you enough, sir. That ring means the world to me.”
I was somewhat taken aback by his effusion, and momentarily felt lost for words, but Holmes intervened.
“My name is Holmes and I am acting in conjunction with my friend here. And you are...?”
“Hawkins... Edward Hawkins.”
“Really?” said Holmes. “Well, Mr Hawkins, you must realise that we cannot just hand the ring over to any Tom, Dick or Hawkins who comes along to claim that it is his. We must have some proof of ownership.”
Hawkins eyes narrowed. “Proof? And how may I provide that?”
Holmes smiled. “Come, come. We do not doubt you, Mr... Hawkins, but perhaps you could describe the circumstances concerning the loss and to whom the ring really belongs?”
“
“Well, it is a
Hawkins nodded awkwardly. It was clear that he had not anticipated such an interrogation when retrieving the ring.
“Watson, be so good as to pour our visitor a sherry, and you, sir, take a seat by the fire while you tell us your tale.”
I did as I was bidden while Hawkins, with a shambling reluctance, sat where Holmes had indicated. Holmes passed the sherry to him, which he gulped down in one go.
“Now, sir, how did you come by your loss?”
“I don’t rightly know. I’d been drinking in the White Hart last night, and probably had too much for my own good, and I reckon as I was making my way home it must have fallen out of my pocket.”
“But why were you carrying your wife’s wedding-ring in the first place?” I asked, as Holmes manoeuvred his way behind our visitor’s chair.
Hawkins stared distractedly for a moment and then, heaving a sigh, he began to present his explanation.
“It is a keepsake, gentlemen. My wife is dead this many a year, and that ring is all I have to remind me of her.”
“Very good, very good!” crowed Holmes sarcastically. “Close to the truth — but I am afraid, not close enough.”
Hawkins began to rise from the chair, but Holmes came up behind him and clapped the pistol to the side of his head.
“Sit down, sir,” he said. “Now, let’s do away with all these fairy-stories, shall we? Watson, let me introduce you to Mr Jefferson Hope, the murderer of Enoch Drebber.”
FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN WALKER
“Who the devil are you?” Hope’s face was suffused with anger, but he remained seated, his hands grasping the edge of the chair until his knuckles shone white.
“My name is Sherlock Holmes. It will mean nothing to you.”
“Are you the police?”
“No. Iam an unofficial consulting detective. In this instance Iam working for the police, but above all Iam interested in justice.”
“Justice! Pah! There ain’t no justice in this world. If there was, I wouldn’t have had the need to come after Drebber and Stangerson.”
