After Inspector Lestrade departed, Sherlock Holmes made his preparations for the day. He was acting like a man who had a pleasant task ahead of him.
"My first move, Watson," he said as he bustled into his coat, "must be in the direction of McFarlane's parents in Blackheath."
"Why not Norwood, the scene of the crime?" I asked.
"Because in this case we have one strange incident coming right after another strange incident," said Holmes. "The police are concentrating on the second incident—the murder. But it's obvious to me that the way to approach this case is to concentrate on the first incident—the unusual will, which Oldacre made so suddenly and with such an unexpected heir."
"Would you like me to come along?" I asked him.
"No." A smile flickered across his face. "If there were a chance of danger, I wouldn't dream of leaving you behind. But I don't think you can help me here. I trust that by the time I see you this evening, I will have been able to help this unfortunate young man."
It was late when the detective returned to our lodgings. With a glance at his tired and anxious face, I could see that his high hopes for the day had not been fulfilled. For an hour he played his violin, trying to soothe his own ruffled spirits. At last he flung down the instrument and plunged into a detailed account of his misadventures.
"It's all going wrong, Watson, as wrong as it can go. For once in my life, I believe Lestrade is on the right track and we are on the wrong one. All my instincts are on one side, and all the facts are on the other."
"Did you go to Blackheath to see McFarlane's parents?" I asked.
"Yes, and I learned very quickly that the late, lamented Oldacre was quite a scoundrel," replied Holmes.
When Holmes arrived, McFarlane's father was out in search of his son. McFarlane's mother would not admit even the possibility of her son's guilt. But she expressed no regret over Oldacre's fate. On the contrary, she spoke of him with such bitterness that Holmes felt she could have predisposed her son to hate and kill the builder.
"I knew Oldacre when he was a young man," Mrs. McFarlane told Holmes. "In fact, I was engaged to him when I heard a shocking story of how he had turned a cat loose in an aviary, where it could catch and kill the birds. I was so horrified at his brutal cruelty that I would have nothing more to do with him. Thank heaven, I had the sense to marry a better, if poorer, man."
She rummaged in a bureau and soon produced a woman's photograph, horribly defaced and mutilated with a knife.
"This is my own photograph," she said to Holmes. "On my wedding day Oldacre sent it to me like this with his curse."
"Well, at least he has forgiven you now," said Holmes, "since he has left all his property to your son."
"Neither my son nor I want anything from Jonas Oldacre, dead or alive!" she cried.
Holmes could get nothing from Mrs. McFarlane that would help her son's case, so he moved on to Oldacre's house in Norwood. Lestrade had left, but several of his policemen were still there. They had just found something of great interest while raking through the ashes of the fire. Besides the charred remains, they had discovered several discolored metal disks. Holmes examined them with care, and there was no doubt that they were trouser buttons. One of them was even marked with the name of Oldacre's tailor.
"I then went over the lawn very carefully for any footprints or signs of the crime," Holmes said to me. "But the recent drought had made the ground as hard as rock. Nothing was to be seen except that some body or bundle had been dragged to the lumber yard."
Next Holmes went to Oldacre's bedroom, where he examined the bloodstains. The walking stick had been removed, but our client had already admitted it was his. Holmes could see both Oldacre's and McFarlane's footprints on the carpet. There was no sign that anyone else had been present, which did not help McFarlane's case either.
"Couldn't you find anything to benefit our client?" I asked Holmes.
"There was only one little gleam of hope," said Holmes. "I examined the contents of the safe, which had been left on the table. As far as I could tell, the papers were not of any great value. Some of them referred to valuable deeds, but I could not find these deeds. That may work in McFarlane's favor because—to use Lestrade's argument—the heir wouldn't need to steal documents he was going to inherit."
Before he left, Holmes decided to try his luck with the housekeeper, Mrs. Lexington.
"She could tell us something if she wanted to," Holmes said to me. "But she refused to say anything more than necessary."
Yes, she had let McFarlane in the night before. She had gone to bed at half past ten. Her room was at the other end of the house, so she heard nothing of what passed between the two men. She had been awakened by the alarm of fire. Her poor, dear master had certainly been murdered. She had seen the buttons and was sure that they belonged to the clothes that he had worn last night. She knew nothing of the papers nor of Mr. Oldacre's private affairs.
"So, my dear Watson, there's my report of failure," Holmes said. "And yet—and yet—" He clenched his thin hands. "I know something is wrong. I feel it in my bones. There is a detail that has not come out, and that housekeeper knows it. There was a sort of sulky defiance in her eyes, which only goes with a guilty conscience. Oh, there's no use talking about this anymore!"
"Surely you are not giving up?" I asked.
"No, but unless we can establish an alternative theory, McFarlane is lost." Holmes paused. "There was one unusual thing among those papers. Oldacre's bankbook showed that he didn't have much money, a surprising fact given that he was supposed to be a wealthy man. His low bank balance was principally due to large checks that were written in the last year to a Mr. Cornelius."
"I wonder who this Mr. Cornelius is," I said.
"Yes, I will have to investigate the gentleman who cashed those checks," said Holmes. "But I still fear, Watson, that our case will end with Lestrade hanging our client."
I don't know if Holmes managed to sleep that night, but when I came down to breakfast, I found him looking pale and harassed. The carpet around his chair was littered with the early editions of the morning papers. An open telegram lay on the table.
"What do you think of this, Watson?" He tossed the telegram over to me.
It was from Norwood and ran as follows: Important fresh evidence has been discovered. McFarlane's guilt definitely established. Advise you to abandon the case. – Lestrade