"Holmes, you really must stop reading this trash."
"The Illustrated Police News? True, it is caters to sensationalism, but it is how the masses gets their news. It's even read to illiterate factory labourers while they work. As such, reading this tabloid is an indispensable part of my work. What article are you reading, Watson? Is it about sea monsters? Ghosts?"
"No, this time a man has spontaneously burst into flames."
"And as a medical doctor, you don't believe in this possibility."
"No, it is a belief for the uneducated or the writers of fiction."
"Watson, would you mind reading the article aloud?"
This is the article which I read to him:
On Saturday night, William Augustus Gates IV,
the wealthy investor, was seen by two witnesses to explode in
flames. The witnesses were his long-time butler, Wilson Hammer,
and Walter C. Graham, who was visiting Mr. Gates on business.
Mr. Gates, age 76, was sitting in his chair in the library of
his house in Pall Mall discussing his account with Mr. Graham,
when Gates, who was almost an invalid, suddenly jumped out of
his chair screaming, with his body engulfed in flames. He took
a few steps and fell forward. Hammer, who had just entered the
library to serve his master with a drink, acted quickly to put
out the flames by pouring water from a nearby vase onto the body,
and smothering the remaining flames on the surrounding carpet
and armchair with a table cloth. Although these heroic efforts
almost certainly saved the library and the house from being burned
to the ground, Gates was already dead, his body badly charred.
Police have investigated the scene but can not explain the fire.
When asked whether the body spontaneously combusted, a local constable
said "We have not ruled anything out." An inquest is
to be held next week.
While I was reading, Holmes had pulled down and opened up his huge reference book of biographies. Holmes summarized his findings, "It appears that many people will not be disappointed in hearing this news. Mr. Gates made most of his money at the expense of others by renovating the London slums. While this policy is popular among the rich and the elected officials, it has only served to displace the multitudes and line the pockets of wealthy men. He was also a ruthless businessman. Yet, I would not expect foul play. Why murder an invalid in what must surely be his last years of life? On the other hand, I agree with you that the Police News' explanation of spontaneous combustion seems highly improbable. As you are a medical man, I imagine that you would relish having the opportunity to investigate a potential case of spontaneous combustion first-hand."
"Are you proposing that we investigate this case?"
"Yes, why not? The incident is only two days
old, barely enough time for the ashes to cool, and this promises
to be far more interesting than my current cases."
It was easy for us to locate the exact location of the incident. Holmes had previously assisted the constable who was on scene, so we soon gained access to the premises. The first member of the household we met was Hammer, the butler. Hammer was not a young man, perhaps in his early sixties. He was tall and gaunt with sparse, silvery hair. Despite his age, he seemed in remarkably good health and moved with a smooth, easy grace that I, with my wound from a Jezail bullet, would find difficult to match. I could envision him performing the heroics described in the article. Yet, something about his nature seemed odd under the circumstances. Holmes noticed it too. "You seem in unusually good spirits," said Holmes. The expression on Hammer's face lost its friendly smile with which he had greeted us and momentarily assumed a solemn look that the wrinkles on his face conformed to more naturally. It did not last for long, for a smile soon creeped back.
"Yes, I suppose I am. You must think me callous, but the last thirty years in Mr. Gates's employment have not been easy. When this ordeal is over, my wife and I plan to retire to a small country cottage near our children to peacefully live out the rest of our days. You cannot hold that against me, can you?"
"I suppose not. Why did you not do so earlier?"
"I would have, but Mr. Gates would not have it. He has promised us a pension that will enable us to live comfortably, but only when he was good and ready. Unfortunately, he was never good and ready. Only last week he said 'I'm seventy-six years old, and I have at least ten years left of hard work in me!' This statement had my wife, who is the head cook, burst out in tears when I told her. If Mr. Gates has kept his word, then we will be mentioned in his will."
"Are you implying that you are not sure you are in his will?"
"Unfortunately, when you deal with Mr. Gates, you often come up short."
"Do many people feel that way?"
"I'd say most people who have dealt with him."
"Can you take us to the library and show us what happened?"
"Certainly." Mr. Hammer took our hats and coats and hung them up. He then led us down a cavernous hallway, past some curved stairs that led to a landing and the upstairs rooms. At the third doorway down, Mr. Hammer took out some keys and unlocked the door, explaining that the police requested the door to be locked and the contents of the room to be untouched until their investigation was completed in a couple more days.
"Please explain to me in your own words what happened." Holmes requested.
"I have already told the police everything. Mr. Gates was conducting business in his library as usual. He walked with great difficulty, so he conducted his business at home. It took him a half an hour each night to walk up the stairs to his bedroom, which is only directly above. He was a stubborn, proud man and refused to have his bedroom moved to the bottom floor. He used to say 'What is the use of having a second floor if I can't use it!' As if he used it anyway! He spent each day in only the library and the bedroom. He even had his breakfast in bed and lunch and dinner down here.
"He could have an elevator installed. Surely he could afford it." I interposed.
"He was also tight with his money." Mr. Hammer replied. "His excuse was that the walk between the library and the bedroom was all the exercise he got."
"Pray, continue with your story," my companion said.
"As I was saying, Mr. Gates was conducting business in his library. That evening, a rather ill-tempered man was visiting. He apparently owed Mr. Gates quite a bit of money, and was here to request an extension. Mr. Gates, however, was planning to foreclose and take over his business.
"I escorted Mr. Graham to the library and sat him down in the normal visitor's chair, over there across the coffee table from Mr. Gates's armchair. I then left the room and returned to the kitchen to await his ring. About a quarter hour later, he rang. This is normally the signal for me to escort his visitor to the door, but this time Mr. Gates complained of being hot and sent me to fetch some scotch. Mr. Gates could out-drink a man thirty years younger, despite his health problems and despite the warnings from his doctor and his son. I left the room, went to the bar, which is in the next room and returned with the scotch within the minute. I could hear Mr. Gates and Mr. Graham continue their discussion. By the time I had returned, the discussion had turned ugly. Not wishing to interfere, I waited at the door.
"Mr. Graham had begun to raise his voice. 'You are a terrible, spiteful man. I curse you!' I swear, that is what he said. 'I curse you.' No sooner were those words out of his mouth than Mr. Gates gave out a yell. He stood up as quick as I have ever seen him and took a step forward. In a moment, his whole back was on fire, as was his armchair.
"Mr. Graham and I stood, aghast, dumbfounded. It took me a moment or two to grasp what was taking place. By that time, Mr. Gates was on the floor, still on fire, but not moving. I dropped the silver tray and scotch that I was carrying and ran for the side table next to Mr. Gates's armchair and picked up the vase there. I threw out the flowers and poured the water onto the flames. It did not put them out completely, so I took the tablecloth from the side table and smothered the flames. After I had the fire out on Mr. Gates and the carpet, I helped Mr. Graham with the armchair. Mr. Graham had woken from his stupor and had taken off his jacket and used it to pound out the flames on the armchair.
"As you can see, the fire had spread. With the old furniture and books, we were lucky to put it out and save the house from burning down. Unfortunately, we were too slow to save Mr. Gates."
"Amazing" was all I was able to say.
"What did you do after putting the fire out?" Holmes asked.
"My wife had run into the room. I yelled at her to go for the police and the fire brigade. I then helped Mr. Graham out of the room, onto a chair in the hallway, where he wept like a baby, saying 'I didn't mean it! I didn't mean it!' We stayed in the hallway waiting for the police to arrive. It took them the better part of an hour. A journal reporter even beat them here."
"What did you tell him?"
"Pretty much what I just told you. He asked me how I thought the fire started. I told him about Dickens's Bleak House, which my wife and I had borrowed from Mr. Gates's library about a year ago. In it, the wicked Krook bursts into flames. Spontaneous combustion it's called. It was divine retribution for all his sins. Mr. Gates has over fifty years of sins to pay for. When Mr. Graham cursed Mr. Gates, God must have been listening."
Holmes thanked Mr. Wilson Hammer, and requested that Hammer and I stay where we were while he took a look around. The body, of course, had been removed, but he took over an hour to investigate every inch of the library. He looked like a man possessed, full of energy and vitality, but he moved deliberately. Like a cat sneaking up on its prey, he would be on all fours examining the carpet with his glass, or on his tiptoes to avoid something that was apparent only to his eyes. He analyzed the library's collection of books, occasionally taking out a volume or two. He looked at the side table, the carpet, the bell rope, the armchair, the visitor's chair, the coffee table, the glasses, the carpet near the door, the silver tray, and everything else, no matter how insignificant it appeared to be. By the chimes of the hallway's grandfather clock, I could tell that he took half an hour to examine the armchair and the nearby carpet by themselves. By now, I was used to these displays, but Mr. Hammer was mystified. When his investigation was completed, Holmes asked Mr. Hammer some more questions.
"There are three makes of tobacco ashes in this room. I assume Mr. Gates was smoking one of the cigars from the case on the side table. Mr. Graham was smoking a cigarette. Were they smoking at the time of the fire? Who was the third person?"
"Yes, they were smoking that evening. Mr. Gates put his cigar out when he complained about being hot. Mr. Graham was still smoking. I don't know of any third person. Maybe Mr. Graham was smoking two different brands."
"The visitor's chair is not as well maintained as Mr. Gate's armchair."
"Yes, you're right Sir. It was all part of Mr. Gate's plan to gain a competitive edge during negotiations. His chair is taller than the visitor's chair, that gave him an imposing appearance despite his age. His chair is regal while the visitor's chair is plain, to give him the look of authority. His chair is comfortable, being regularly restuffed and restored by his son about twice a year. The visitor's chair is bumpy, with minimal padding, designed to make long meetings uncomfortable for them."
"The copy of Dickens's Bleak House is missing."
"Is it? That is strange. I remember returning it when my wife and I finished it. Mr. Gates's didn't mind our borrowing the books, but he was very particular about our returning them."
"Thank you for your assistance. Come Watson,
I believe we have learnt all there is to know here. I would like
to talk with our friend the constable."
The constable was outside the front door, smoking a cigarette. "A strange case, Mr. Holmes," he said.
"Yes, what do the police make of it? Surely you don't believe that spontaneous combustion is responsible?"
"No, Mr. Holmes. It seems quite clear that Mr. Graham had the motive and opportunity. We just haven't been able to figure out how. The body was being examined by the coroner yesterday, and we are awaiting his report. We have told Graham not to leave the area, but we have not arrested him yet."
"That's good. I suggest that you don't. Watson,
I'd appreciate your professional opinion about his burns. Shall
we visit the coroner?"
The sky was overcast, clouds throwing a dark shadow over the already bleak London. Our hansom made its way down a crowded, muddy street towards the coroner's office. Holmes and I sat in silence for most of the trip, both in deep thought. I was going through the case in my mind, but felt no closer to the real solution. The police were right that Mr. Graham had both the motive and the opportunity, but so did Mr. Hammer and his wife. On the other hand, this could have been an accident. Ash from Mr. Gates's cigar could have caught the armchair on fire, possibly fueled by some spilled liquor. I told Holmes of my theories.
"Watson, it is to your credit that you have not jumped to any conclusions when others have done so. My examination of the library has uncovered some facts that were overlooked by the police. I am convinced it was murder, but the motive escapes me."
I tried to have Holmes expand on his statement, but
he would not say more, and we were soon at our destination. Once
inside the building, the coroner's office was easily found, one
merely followed the strong stench of formaldehyde. There we found
the coroner, who informed us that he had completed the autopsy
the evening before, and that he came to the conclusion that Mr.
Gates's aged heart gave out as a result of the shock caused by
the fire. Based on the condition of his heart, the coroner thought
Mr. Gates was lucky to have survived to see old age and surely
had at most a few months more left to live. He said that the fire
could not have been caused by spontaneous human combustion, because
the burns covered the exterior of the legs and the back, and did
not involve incineration of the bones or the interior of the body
as documented in true cases of human combustion. He showed us
the dressing gown worn by Mr. Gates at the time of his death.
It was badly burned down the back to the bottom. The front and
the sleeves were untouched by fire and you could see the original
mouse colouring. Unfortunately, the body was not available for
us to examine first hand. The family of Mr. Gates exercised some
of the power that comes to families with money and was able to
arrange with the coroner's superior that Mr. Gates's body would
be buried earlier in the day in a private ceremony at his son's
church. Having already completed the autopsy, and not suspecting
foul play, the coroner saw no reason to challenge his superior.
Holmes was quite disturbed by this turn of events. He insisted
on being given the addresses of the church and the Gates's family,
saying that he would need the body exhumed. Afraid that he made
a ghastly mistake, the coroner obliged. The church was located
in Sussex, and the elder of Mr. Gates's two sons was the vicar.
We took an early train to the Sussex church the next day . The morning sunshine cast shadows across the rolling hills resulting in a sharp contrast between darkness and light. Within the hour, the sun would rise to make my perception of the same scenery very different, removing some of the freshness that the morning brings and replacing it with clarity.
Similarly, if you looked at the current case at different angles or at different times, your perception of what was likely to have transpired would have shifted. The police suspected one man, myself another, and the coroner none. Somehow, Holmes seemed to see and understand the whole scenery, as if looking down from above at familiar territory. To Holmes, there was nothing new under the sun.
Upon our arrival at the station, it was only a short walk to the church where we met the vicar, a kindly gentleman of fifty. His father was already buried near the church. The vicar's younger brother and his family had also attended the funeral, and were now staying nearby at the house of the vicar's son. After giving my condolences, I sank into the background and wondered how Holmes would approach the subject about exhuming his father.
"It is unusual that a son of such a wealthy man chooses to become a vicar of a small country church." Holmes said bluntly.
Vicar Gates did not take offense, and gave a far-away laugh. "I was young and idealistic when I chose this path. I did not approve of how my father obtained his wealth. I was determined to make a difference and help some of the poor souls who he displaced. It took me years to learn that the world was not just black and white, but many shades of gray. I no longer resent my father, or his money. Yet I am set in my ways, and have a comfortable life here, and have no wish to change it."
"But you will not refuse your inheritance?"
"No, there is much of God's work to be done. I will put some money aside for my son and his family, but the rest will go towards the church, the community, and charity. His money, which was obtained partially through the misfortune of others, will make a full circle and help those most in need. As I said, the world is gray. When my father renovated the slums, he destroyed the homes of the poor, the drunk, the unfortunate, the crooks, good and evil alike. At the same time, he gave jobs to those who would help themselves. Furthermore, my father has invested his money well. My share of the inheritance will go a long way towards helping the destitute get back on their feet again. In some respects, a net good may have occurred by ensuring that the money will not be wasted on drink or other vices."
"When did you last visit your father?"
"Only a few weeks ago. My son and I visited him every six months or so."
"Did your father enjoy your visits?"
"Yes, though it may not appear to be so to an outsider. He would spend his time complaining bitterly about wasting my life away, while I would lecture him about how much good his money could do. He would say that I could do that with his money when he was gone. I truly believe that he wanted to benefit others with his money, but his stubborn pride would not allow him to admit it."
"Does your son understand the situation?"
"Oh, I explained it to him when he moved nearby a couple of years ago and we went to visit my father together for the first time."
"Did your son get along with your father?"
The vicar smiled, "Very well. When John and I visited my father two years ago, John was the one who noticed the worn condition of my father's favourite armchair. John, who is quite handy with his hands, offered to reupholster and restuff the chair. This pleased my father to no end. John even offered to fix up the visitor's chair, but my father wouldn't have it because he thought it might give him a competitive advantage." The vicar chuckled. "Anyway, when we visited him again six months later, the chair's pillow needed restuffing again. My father practically lives in that chair, you see."
"Only the pillow needed restuffing?"
"Last time, three weeks ago, my son noticed several burns in the chair's upholstery caused by my father's cigar smoking and John took the whole chair. John returned it only a few days later, knowing how my father needs that chair. Although my father hated my nagging, I always tried hard to convince him to cut down or stop smoking. He was always stubborn. I suppose that my father's smoking was the death of him, but not the way I had expected."
"You also have a younger brother?"
"Yes, Francis is five years my junior. He takes after my father much more and is a successful businessman. He'll take over much of my father's business now."
"You or your son won't be involved in the business?"
"No."
"I'd really like to meet the rest of your family. Could you give me directions to your son's house?"
"Certainly, it's not far."
We dropped by a local public house for some lunch. There Holmes was able to establish a rapport with the locals and I entertained myself by reading a newspaper. Eventually, Holmes joined me and we spoke.
"Holmes, you didn't ask to have the body exhumed. Are you going to ask the vicar's brother or son instead?"
"No. I never really intended to have the body exhumed. Besides, my case is now almost complete."
"Do you still think it was murder?"
"Yes, a most ingenious one if my theory proves
correct. I should be able to confirm it this afternoon."
Holmes and I walked to the farmland estates of Jonathan Gates, but instead of walking up the driveway, Holmes took me along the edge of the property until we were in a wooded area in back of the house. We climbed over a fence and Holmes led me to a severely burnt structure that Holmes explained had been Jonathan Gates's workshop and storage room. The workshop was about 20 feet by 10 feet. The foundation of the workshop was stone, as was the first three or so feet of the walls, but the rest of the walls and the roof were wooden. The walls of the structure were still standing, but not very stable. Some of the roof had caved in. Holmes took me to the only entranceway. He put on some black leather gloves and studied the door, its frame and the nearby wall.
"I was able to find out about the fire at the public house. You can find out almost anything when you know how to go about it. Several of the neighbours helped prevent the fire from spreading. The fire was supposed to have started from a kerosene lamp hanging near the doorway. Here is the remains of the lamp on the floor below where it had once hung, but you can see quite clearly that the fire did not originate here."
"How?" I asked. "The whole building is in complete ruins."
"Look at how the wood was charred near the door and its surrounding frame. It has rolling blisters caused by a rapidly burning fire. The fire was already very strong by the time it had reached the door." He cut out a piece of wood with a pocket knife. "See the wood did not have time to char deeply, and there is a strong contrast between the charred and uncharred area. What we need to do is trace this pattern backwards until we find the place where the fire had time to fester."
I followed him to the back of the workplace, which was apparently used as a storage area for a variety of gardening and woodwork utensils and goods. He stopped near the back wall. "See here?" His finger traced a V-shaped pattern along the stone on the wall that was caused by smoke. "This must have been the low-point of the fire and the fire's point of origin." He took out his pocket-knife and cut the wood above the wall. The wood was charred all the way through. Holmes dug through the badly burned material on the floor until he found what he was looking for.
"What is it?"
"A rug. It was the source of the fire."
"How? Did the flame from the kerosene lamp somehow cause it to catch ablaze?"
"No. The police news was right." Holmes
smiled mysteriously and I knew he wasn't going to tell me more.
We now retraced our steps and went up the driveway like respectable gentlemen. We knocked on the door and a servant answered. She led us to a sun-lit sitting room and went to fetch Jonathan Gates. I sat down and looked at the colourful garden outside the window. Holmes, who does not usually take interest in such things, went to the bookcase, but before he had a chance to choose a book, Mr. Gates made his appearance. He was a stout, healthy man of thirty with a gentle face and a nervous smile.
"Are you the Mr. Sherlock Holmes who I have read about? I'm honoured, but what brings you out here?"
Holmes ignored his question, and shut the double doors of the sitting room. "Is your uncle here?"
"No, he is out for the day, but he will return this evening. Can I help you with anything?"
"Yes, you can explain why you murdered your grandfather."
Mr. Gates looked shocked. "Murdered him? What do you mean? I haven't seen him for weeks, and he died only a few days ago. I've been here ever since I last saw him."
"Maybe I can refresh your memory. I know all about it. You got the idea about six months ago when you borrowed the Dickens book that Mr. Hammer recommended. Here it is on your bookshelf. This book sparked something in you, so to speak, and you started thinking about spontaneous combustion. Living in the country, you have probably heard of wet haystacks that have suddenly caught on fire. You looked into the phenomenon more. Partly through experimentation, you found that a tightly bound rug, soaked in linseed oil, and insulated could also spontaneously combust. However, you found out the hard way that the time to combust is unpredictable. In fact, you thought your experiment a failure and you left it hidden in your workshop where it eventually caught fire."
Jonathan Gates was now flustered and his forehead glistened with moisture. "How could you know that! I never mentioned anything to anybody! Nobody knew."
"You didn't have to tell me. It was as plain as if it were written on the wall. When you visited your grandfather a few weeks ago, you made sure that you took the chair back with you. The first time you reupholstered, you did it out of the goodness in your heart. This time you had murder on your mind. Not only did you restuff the pillows and reupholster the armchair, but you also added an extra layer on the hollow portion on the bottom of the chair. This layer could not be observed unless you examined the bottom of the chair and remove the false bottom, as I did when I tried to discover the source of the fire. There I found the tightly bound, insulated material that you had soaked in linseed oil, which is easily available in large quantities in this area. You didn't know when it would catch on fire, but you were confident that you would be long gone. It was a fairly safe bet that your grandfather would be killed. During the day, he was sitting on a ticking time bomb, and at night, he slept right on top of it. Being an invalid, and considering the speed that the library would catch on fire, your grandfather was unlikely to escape. Mr. Hammer slept downstairs and had an easy escape route. Knowing how Mr. Hammer felt about your father, you thought it unlikely that he would risk his life to save him in a burning inferno. Would you care that I go on? Or shall we fetch the police now?"
Gates collapsed into a chair. "You can fetch the police if you want. It actually will be a relief as these last few weeks have been a living hell for me. Would you like to know my side of the story?"
"Proceed."
"Your facts are correct, as far as they go. What you don't explain is the pain and suffering my grandfather has caused in this world. Even on the day of his death, he was the ruin of a hard-working, honest man whose ignorance he took advantage of. That man's professional reputation, and probably his family life, would be beyond repair. I have known men to have killed themselves in similar situations.
"My father is a good man, and can no longer see the evil that is still going on. He, himself, considers his father's money to be blood money, and will not keep a penny of it. He tried hard to influence his father, and to have him repent, but it only served to irritate the old man. Six months ago, when I had last visited him, my father and grandfather engaged in a bitter war of words, and my grandfather threatened to remove him from his will."
I interrupted, "But surely your father explained to you that these were just shallow threats and that your grandfather intended your father to redistribute his wealth to charities."
"My father does not know the true situation. My grandfather's health had intermittently been in poor health, and during those times, he was also short tempered and did not see my father's point of view. He did not see the benefit of giving back all the money that he spent his whole life to accumulate. On the other hand, my uncle thought much like my grandfather. My grandfather intended that my uncle take over his business and that my father would get most of his more fluid investments. My grandfather thought it safe to have a little insurance in case my father's preaching turned out to be true. My father was to get three fifths of his fluid assets, myself one fifth, and my uncle one fifth. In monetary terms though, my father was to receive the much smaller share of the inheritance compared to my uncle.
"A couple of months ago, I was in London and happened to meet my grandfather's attorney at a public house. He had had a little too much to drink, and let down his guard. He told me that my grandfather was contemplating practically cutting my father out of the will in favor of my uncle. Recently, my uncle spent a lot of time with my grandfather and convinced him that he needed the fluid assets to keep his businesses running smoothly and even expand them. My uncle reminded my grandfather of my father's low opinion of his life's work. It was the first time my uncle had so strongly stated his point of view, which was much like my grandfather's, and it was not hard to convince him. I learnt that my grandfather intended to inform my father of his decision the next time we visited, and nothing would be signed until then."
Jonathan Gates paused a moment to catch his breath before continuing.
"You were right that I was fascinated with the process of spontaneous combustion, but it was not until that time that I thought about using it against my grandfather. My father strongly felt that giving his father's ill-earned money to charity would somehow prove to be salvation for my grandfather. It would have broken my father's heart to not have this happen. I also thought about how much good this money could do. I could not let my uncle, who I detest, do this to my father. I am not an evil man, and I swear I have never had such thoughts before. Thinking about the situation kept me up every night until it was time for our biannual visit.
"When my father and I met my grandfather, I could tell that the solicitor was telling the truth and that my grandfather was planning to change the will. However, I was successful in making it very difficult for my grandfather to bring up the subject. I made such a fuss over him and his armchair, that it was quite impossible for them to get into any discussion at all. We left with a promise to return the chair later in the week. I had hinted that my father would return the chair himself so that my grandfather would be content with postponing his news until then. However, I returned the chair by myself, and again hinted that my father would be visiting him shortly.
"I didn't know whether the armchair would catch fire. In fact, I thought it unlikely. I honestly felt that it was now in God's hands, and that He alone would decide what was the correct fate for my grandfather. Fate proved to be against my grandfather."
Jonathan Gates looked up, his story completed. His whole body seemed deflated, and his shoulders drooped. I could not say anything. This afternoon's events unfolded so quickly that it was difficult to fully comprehend. Holmes apparently felt similarly. He was sitting down on a chair, elbows on his knees, his hands were clasped with his chin resting on his thumb and his forefingers extended, touching the tip of his nose. There he sat, staring blankly for several minutes. The whole room was quiet, each of us lost in thought.
It was Holmes who moved first. He unraveled himself and stood up. He paced the room back and forth.
"Mr. Gates, you have put me in an unenviable position. In many respects, your fate in this world lies in my hands. I could go to the police, and once again your grandfather's money will prove the ruin of honest, hard-working families, this time being yourself and your father and mother. If I don't go to the police, it is unlikely that you would be caught. Your fate in the world beyond this, is in His hands. Yet, this terrible act cannot go unpunished."
"I understand."
"If you were to agree to ensure that all the money you inherit is given to charity, and that none of the money inherited by your father directly or indirectly comes to you, I will consider you on probation and I will stay quiet. However, your probation will be a tough and long one, so you must live a quiet, peaceful life on this earth. I will leave the final judgment to Him."
Mr. Gates was relieved. "You are most generous. I agree to all of your terms."
"Good. However, I speak only for myself. Watson,
do you agree?"
"I do."
"Then it is decided. We expect to be reading
about your donations soon. Good day."
On the train back to London, the evening sun was casting shadows on the hills. Holmes stared at them as he talked to me. "The world is not black and white. We made a difficult decision, but I believe it to be the right one. Even if I went to the police, and Jonathan Gates were brought to trial, it is unlikely that a jury would convict him. The evidence used against him is too circumstantial, he could deny making his confession, and he was too removed from the crime scene. The jury's sympathy would also lie with him, especially with his grandfather so near his natural death. Furthermore, much of the money that his father would inherit would inevitably be spent to line the pockets of solicitors to defend his son instead of going to those more in need. Yes, the world is indeed gray."
Holmes continued to look contemplatively at the hills.
After some time, he turned his head, smiled slyly at me, and said,
"You can mark this down as my most unusual armchair mystery."
He then returned his gaze to the hills. We finished the trip in
silence.
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