Mike Ashley - The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures

"Of course, sir, of course. Well, my maid, Robinson, called me at seven o'clock this morning, rather earlier than usual, and she was in a most agitated state. Rather than trust to her somewhat incoherent account, I went myself directly to my study, where I found that the safe door stood open and that the study window was broken. Here, plainly, the miscreant had gained entrance, inserting his hand through the broken pane and unlocking the casement. I observed also a double line of footsteps running across the bare, damp earth from the high garden wall, and returning thither."

This case presents some curious features," remarked Sherlock Holmes, glancing intently at our client. "Are we to understand that your study overlooks bare ground?"

Staunton permitted himself a pained chuckle. "No doubt it seems odd to you, sir," said he, "but the matter is simply explained: the ground has been prepared for the laying of a new lawn, and the turves have not yet been laid. A fortunate thing, as I am sure you will agree, sir! Most fortunate, for now we have the clearest clues to the thief's means of entrance and egress.

Naturally, I have left strict instructions that the footsteps are to be left untouched."

"Naturally," agreed Sherlock Holmes. "Very well, Mr Staunton. I think that we had better come at once and investigate the scene of the crime. Watson, will you call a cab?"

On the short journey to Hampstead, we learned that our client was a bachelor, living quietly with the immediate household of a maid, a cook and a single manservant. He kept no dog, for he disliked the creatures, and his only recreation was to play cards twice a week – for money, he admitted with candour with a cousin, a retired gunsmith named George Cresswell, who lived at Mill Hill. Under Holmes's determined questioning, he further confessed that although none of his servants knew of his remarkable purchase he had mentioned it to his cousin. "But you may dismiss any suspicion of George," said he, "for he remarked only that I ought to deposit the cup in a bank-vault as soon as possible. Besides, sir, my cousin would have no cause to steal from me. I should tell you that as a result of our card-playing I am in his debt for a tidy sum."

At The Elms, which struck me as a large house to be run by a staff of only three, we were first shown the windows of the upper rooms where the servants slept and then led to the far side of the building, where the crime had been committed. It was plain that if the burglar were sufficiently quiet the servants need have heard nothing. Staunton himself admitted to being a very heavy sleeper.

Holmes made a minute examination of the very clear footsteps that ran, just as we had been told, directly from the high garden wall to the study window and back. The damp earth had preserved the impressions wonderfully, and since no one had had occasion to trespass upon this smooth, bare patch there were no other prints to be seen.

"Our burglar could hardly have left plainer traces if he had intended to," remarked Holmes to me. "There are two very singular features here, however. For instance, it would appear that our man let himself down from the wall with commendable delicacy, for there is no indication that he jumped, and we look in vain for the marks of a ladder. Hum – size ten boots, new or recently soled. A long stride. Just so! Mr Staunton, describe your cousin, if you please."

Our client looked up hastily from a self-conscious glance at his own small feet. "Really, sir!" said he. "I fail to… Oh, very well! George Cresswell is a large and strong man, quite as tall as yourself, Mr Holmes. He is fifty-four years of age, with thick hair, still dark brown, a heavy brown moustache and – er somewhat faded blue eyes. And – oh, dear! Yes, I do believe that he takes a size ten in boots."

"Quite so," replied my friend. "Now, let us turn our attention to the study. Ha! This window has been broken in a most professional manner, with the noise muffled by a sheet of strong paper smeared with treacle. Well, well. And what shall we find in the room itself?"

The furniture of the study, itself of much interest, held an eclectic accumulation of antiques, witness to Henry Staunton's abiding pursuit. On the thick carpet were muddy patches leading from the window to the opposite wall, where the door of the safe stood open, just as our client had described it. There was little to be learned from the safe, even by such an expert as Sherlock Holmes. We could descry faint smears that might have been made by gloved fingers, and the lock was quite undamaged, indicating that it had been opened with a key. To my friend's questions, Mr Staunton admitted reluctantly that George Cresswell might have had the opportunity within the past few weeks to take an impression of the safe key. Plainly the thought distressed him, for he seemed truly fond of his cousin, but it was clear to me that the evidence grew ever stronger against the retired gunsmith.

Shortly afterwards, Holmes and I left The Elms, with assurances of that we should certainly pursue the case. My friend was manifestly unsatisfied with his investigation so far, and I in my turn recalled an earlier remark of his that had puzzled me. "You suggested," said I, "that there was yet another odd feature about the footsteps in the garden. What was it?"

He looked at me in his singular, introspective fashion. "You did not notice it? Why, it was simply that at no point did the steps returning from the house overlap those made in going to the house."

While I pondered up this, he continued, "My next move must be to call upon Mr George Cresswell – I have his address – and I think that I shall go alone. Time may be of importance now."

I returned to Baker Street to find our old friend Mr Lestrade of Scotland Yard waiting in our sitting room, positively bursting with news. "It's the Freeling case, Doctor," he explained. "You'll remember that the man escaped from Chelmsford Prison a couple of weeks ago? Well, we think that we've found him. I put it like that because the man we have is very dead and savagely mutilated."

I recalled the case well. Esme Freeling was a smooth, elegant and dangerous man who preyed upon the weak. He was a proven card-sharp, a known blackmailer and a suspected murderer. Holmes had been responsible in part for his arrest and incarceration, and would certainly wish to know of this strange and brutal conclusion to a wicked career.

"It's not a nice thing, Dr Watson," said Lestrade. "The man's face has been quite burned off with acid. Horrible, it is. He was killed by a savage blow to the head, and then… Well, there's not enough of his face left to identify him, but all the rest fits. He's a big man, muscles well developed from rowing, thick brown hair. We found him, of all places, in Highgate Cemetery, behind one of the tombs. But here's an odd thing, now – every single label had been removed from his clothes! Well, perhaps he was going about incognito, but it seems he couldn't escape his fate."

Declaring that he would wait until Holmes returned, Lestrade accepted a cigar from me, and we sat in companionable silence until Holmes entered the room, grim-faced, with the news that George Cresswell had not been seen for nearly two days. "Our client wished to keep this matter confidential," he remarked, "but it seems that we shall have to call in the police after all."

Upon hearing Lestrade's information, he shrugged his thin shoulders and said, "Then let us go and see the last of the Freeling case."

I had seen many unpleasant sights during my time as an Army Surgeon, but nothing quite as grisly as that which lay on a white marble slab in the mortuary at Highgate. Yet to Sherlock Holmes this hideous and pitiful object was not the mutilated shell of a fellow man but merely an object of professional study. Gently he raised the dead head and carefully scrutinized the great bruises at the base of the skull. Then, after a brief glance at the raw wound that had once been a human face, he turned his attention to the muscular