Mike Ashley - The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures

"Is a piece of lead shot of some kind," said Constable MacPherson in a thoughtful voice "and there's little opportunity for shooting rabbits in here, Mr MacGlevin!"

Holmes laughed. "There is no more to be seen here," said he. "Let us now examine the exterior of the building."

We followed him outside, and round to the back. Where the single-storey wing joined the rear wall of the tower at a right angle, there was a soft patch of muddy ground, to which Holmes devoted his attention.

"I reap the benefits of investigating a crime in such an unfrequented spot," said he, in good spirits. "There are some wonderfully clear prints here. Your shoe size, Mr Grice Paterson?"

"Seven."

"I thought as much. And your son's will be something similar. These prints are too large to be yours, and too small to be Mr MacGlevin's.Your servant, Mr MacGlevin?"

"Wattie? A tiny fellow, as you saw, with feet to match."

"Which eliminates him also, then. It rained heavily on Wednesday night, so these prints must have been made yesterday.You did not have any visitors?"

"I never open my house to visitors on a Thursday."

"Then these are the prints of the thief."

We all pressed forward to see. A clear impression of a right foot, the toe pointing into the angle of the building, was crossed by another, slightly deeper print of the same shoe, the toe pointing away from the wall.

"He has climbed the building here," said Holmes. "The deeper print was made when he jumped back down. Might this be where you saw your ghostly figure last night, Mr Grice Paterson?"

"It could very well have been," replied the lawyer. "It crossed the path from somewhere near here towards the ruins over there."

"What figure is this?" demanded MacGlevin.

"We thought we saw something," Grice Paterson returned, "but did not mention it lest you thought us foolish."

MacGlevin snorted, but made no comment.

While they were speaking, Holmes had been examining the wall closely. Presently his hand found a projecting stone some way above his head, and he managed to haul himself up. He quickly clambered over the gutter and onto the shallow-pitched roof of the museum wing, where he moved carefully along the slates, examining each skylight in turn.

"Oh, this is pointless!" said MacGlevin, who was becoming impatient once more. "Even if someone did climb up there, the sky-lights don't open, the panes of glass are too small for anyone to pass through, and they're all barred on the inside, anyway."

"Nevertheless," Holmes called back in an agreeable tone, "someone has recently been tampering with this one. The lead strip round the edge has been bent back, the putty chipped away, and the nails… Ah!" He had been looking behind him, down the roof to the guttering. Now he carefully reached down and plucked from the gutter a small sliver of something metallic, which he held up between his finger and thumb and examined closely. "If you would be so good as to join me," he called to MacPherson, "I should be most obliged."

The sky had been growing darker for some time, and MacGlevin, Grice Paterson and I hurried for shelter as there came a sudden downpour of rain, leaving Holmes and MacPherson in conversation upon the roof. The shower soon blew over, and twenty minutes later, after a cup of tea, we went back out to find that the clouds had parted and the sun was shining. Holmes and MacPherson were nowhere to be seen, and we were wondering what had become of them, when there came a shout from below, and we turned to see a small rowing-boat approaching the little harbour below the castle, with Holmes and Macpherson in it. The policeman was pulling sturdily on the oars, while Homes sat in the stern, placidly smoking his pipe.

"We have just had a little run-round in the boat," he explained, as they stepped ashore.

"And?" said MacGlevin.

"The case is now complete."

We returned to Kilbuie to find the hotel in tumult. Luggage of all kinds was heaped up in confusion in the entrance-hall, so that we had to shuffle sideways to get past.

Doctor Oliphant ran up to us as we entered, his face a picture of agitation.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded of MacPherson in a shrill voice. "It is absolutely vital that I reach home this evening. I have an important lecture to deliver in Edinburgh tomorrow night, and I must have a day to prepare my notes. The coach is not here, and when I inquire why not, I am

informed that it is held by order of the police!" His voice rose to a breathless cry. "This is an outrage! You have no right to detain a public coach! If it does not leave soon, we shall miss the connecting train!"

Murdoch MacLeod stepped forward, wringing his hands with anxiety.

"What is going on?" he queried in a hopeless voice. "Can you explain, Constable?"

"This is highly irregular," said Hamish Morton. "They tell us the coach cannot leave, but my wife and I must be back in Glasgow tonight, and Mrs Baird Duthie, too, is anxious to be away. Should we make our own arrangements?"

MacPherson pulled an enormous watch out of his pocket, and consulted it for a moment.

"You'll all get where you're going," he said shortly. "If you would just step through into the dining-room for a moment – "

The hotel servants were setting the tables for lunch, and looked up in surprise as we all filed in and arranged ourselves as best we could, here and there about the room. Old Mrs Baird Duthie was the last to shuffle in, Angus Johnstone supporting her elbow. His brother brought a chair forward for her and relieved her of her stick, and she sat down heavily. All eyes were on Sherlock Holmes, who stood patiently until everyone was settled, his hands behind his back.

"Now," said he at length. "A serious and ingenious crime has been committed. The famous MacGlevin Buckle has been stolen from the museum on the Island of Uffa. It must be returned to its rightful owner." He glanced at MacGlevin, who was standing with his arms folded by the doorway, a brooding expression on his face.

"It is, of course, most unfortunate," said Doctor Oliphant; "but what is it to us?"

"The buckle is in this hotel," returned Holmes. "Constable MacPherson and his deputed officers therefore propose to search the building until they find it."

There were loud groans about the room.

"Why, man, that could take days!" said Angus Johnstone.

"Let us make a start, then," said Homes. "beginning with that." His long thin finger indicated the small leather and canvas satchel which hung from Mrs Morton's shoulder.

"But this contains only my painting and sketching things," said she, rising to her feet, the expression on her face a mixture of surprise and indignation.

"Will you open it, Madam, or shall I?" inquired MacPherson.

Reluctantly, she lowered the little bag to the floor, and began to unfasten the straps. "This is an absurd waste of time," said she, as she tipped the contents of the bag onto the carpet. I craned forward to see. There were numerous tubes of paint, several brushes and pencils tied up in a ribbon, a palette, a pad of paper, and a very dirty rag, stained with every colour of the rainbow.

"Kindly unfold that cloth," said Holmes.

"It is dirty," said she. "It is only the rag I wipe my paintbrushes on. I shall soil my gloves – "

Even as she was speaking, Holmes leaned quickly down and unfolded the screwed-up cloth. There in the middle of the multicoloured wrapping, lay a large and ornate silver buckle. There were gasps all round the room, and, in that split second of quiet, Hamish Morton suddenly shot from his seat and bolted for the door. He had his hand on the door-knob, but MacGlevin, too, was quick, and grabbed him in a smothering embrace.

"You fool!" cried Mrs Morton to her husband, in a harsh voice. " 'Let's leave Glasgow,' you said. 'Let's get away and lie low for a while'! But you just couldn't resist this, could you! And now see what you have done!"