The Norwood Mystery by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Part 5
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Chapter 5 | Who is Mr Cornelius?
It was early evening when Holmes arrived back at 221B Baker Street. Mrs Hudson opened the door to him and he followed her upstairs. Watson was waiting for him in their rooms.
‘Holmes!’ he cried. ‘At last! Where have you been? I was worried.’
‘No need to worry, Watson,’ Holmes replied. ‘I’ve been to Blackheath and also to Norwood.’
‘You must tell me everything,’ said Watson, who was very excited.
‘Later,’ answered Holmes. ‘First I must think some more.’
‘But Holmes . . . !’ Watson shouted angrily.
Holmes held up a hand.
‘I must think, Watson,’ Holmes said again. He walked to the corner of the room and picked up his violin. Mrs Hudson left the room, shaking her head. Watson angrily started to read a book while Holmes began to play the violin.
He played for more than an hour, his eyes closed. Watson knew that his friend was thinking deeply. He had to wait until Holmes was ready to tell him about his visits to Blackheath and Norwood.
At last Holmes put his violin on the table and sat down. ‘Watson,’ he said, ‘it has been a strange day. I have spoken to Mr McFarlane’s mother and Mr Oldacre’s housekeeper, a Mrs Lexington, and still I don’t know what really happened at Deep Dene House last night. Perhaps our Mr McFarlane isn’t innocent after all, but an evil murderer.’
‘Do you really think that, Holmes?’ asked Watson.
‘No, Watson, I don’t,’ Holmes answered. ‘I still think he’s innocent. But, as Inspector Lestrade tells us, he had a good motive for killing Jonas Oldacre and he was at Deep Dene House yesterday evening.’
‘What did you learn from his mother, Holmes?’ said Watson.
‘I learned something very interesting,’ replied Holmes. ‘I learned that Oldacre once asked her to marry him.’
‘Really?’
‘Really,’ said Holmes. ‘And he was very unhappy when she said no to him. He was so angry that he sent her a photograph of herself which was slashed with a knife across her face. Mrs McFarlane was a very beautiful young woman, Watson. It isn’t difficult to understand why the builder was so hurt when she married another man, a man with no money. The photograph arrived on the day that she married John McFarlane’s father.’
‘Oh dear!’ said Watson. ‘So Oldacre was unlucky in love.’
‘Yes,’ Holmes agreed. ‘But it is strange that he wanted to leave everything that he had to Mrs McFarlane’s son. Very strange.’
‘Was Mrs McFarlane surprised?’ asked Watson.
“I want nothing from Mr Jonas Oldacre,” she said,’ Holmes replied, ‘“and my son wants nothing from him. I am happy that he is dead.” I understand how she feels, Watson. She’s a good woman, I am sure, too good for Mr Jonas Oldacre.’
‘Did she tell you more about him?’
‘No, nothing more,’ said Holmes. ‘Next I travelled to Norwood, to Deep Dene House, to see for myself the place where the builder met his death. It’s a big, modern house with a large garden. There are a lot of trees.’
‘So Oldacre was a very rich man,’ Watson suggested.
‘He had a large house and a large garden,’ Holmes replied, ‘but he wasn’t so rich after all. I saw his bank book.’ Here Holmes opened the cigarette box on the table and took out a cigarette. He gave his friend a short time to think about his words before he lit it.
‘I see,’ said Watson at last.
‘Do you?’ asked Holmes. ‘I’m not sure I see yet. But I must go on with my story. As I said, Oldacre’s house was large and modern, and next to it was the famous timber yard.’ He took out his notebook and opened it on the table in front of him. ‘Here, Watson, I drew a plan of it.’
Watson got up and walked across the room to stand behind Holmes and look at the plan.
‘You see,’ Holmes went on, ‘this is the Sydenham Road, here is Deep Dene House and this is the timber yard. On the left are the French windows which open into the builder’s bedroom. As you can see, it’s possible to look into the bedroom from the road.’
‘Is that important, Holmes?’ asked Watson.
‘I don’t know,’ Holmes replied. ‘Possibly. Inspector Lestrade wasn’t at Norwood this afternoon, but I met his sergeant, a man called Judd. He, of course, was quite sure that our Mr McFarlane is a murderer. The police found some buttons in the ashes in the timber yard, you see, and these buttons were buttons from Oldacre’s trousers. And so, says Sergeant Judd, the builder is dead, and so McFarlane is a murderer.’
‘This doesn’t look good, Holmes,’ said Watson.
‘No,’ Holmes agreed. ‘Our young friend is in deep trouble here, I’m afraid. But we must not give up hope, Watson. I searched the garden after talking to Sergeant Judd, but I found nothing. Then I went into the house. First I searched the builder’s bedroom. The bloodstains on the walls were fresh, and I saw Oldacre’s footprints on the floor, together with John McFarlane’s. But there were no others. I looked at the papers from the safe, which were on the table, but I’m sure that some of the papers were not there. I couldn’t find the deeds to the house anywhere.’
‘Where do you think they are, Holmes?’ asked Watson.
‘I don’t know. But I’m sure that our young friend didn’t take them. He had no reason to steal the deeds if Oldacre wanted to leave his house and money to him. Well, Watson, next I spoke to the builder’s housekeeper, Mrs Lexington. A small, quiet woman, she never looked at me once when she was talking to me. I am sure that she knows much more than she wanted to tell me. She agreed that she answered the front door to John McFarlane at nine thirty yesterday evening. She went to bed at ten thirty – her bedroom is at the other end of the house – and fell asleep. She woke up later and smelled smoke from the fire. She got up and searched everywhere for Oldacre, but she couldn’t find him. Of course, she thinks that this is because he was dead, murdered.’
‘What did she say about the builder?’ asked Watson.
Holmes held up his hand. A good man, she told me. He had enemies, of course, as everyone has enemies, but his life at Norwood was a quiet one. Nobody wanted him dead – only his murderer, our friend McFarlane. He has evil eyes, she tells me, Watson.’
‘Evil eyes?’ Watson replied. ‘Was the woman mad?’
‘Not mad, Watson,’ said Holmes, ‘but also not very helpful. Mrs Lexington told me very little. As I said, I am sure that she knows more.’
‘Did you find out nothing at Norwood that could help McFarlane?’ asked Watson.
Holmes looked thoughtful. ‘Possibly,’ he said at last. ‘You remember I said that I saw Oldacre’s bank book and that it showed that he was not as rich as everybody thought?’
Watson nodded.
‘Well,’ Holmes went on, ‘when I looked at his chequebook I found that he wrote a lot of cheques to someone called Mr Cornelius. These were cheques for a lot of money. Who is this Mr Cornelius, Watson? And why did our builder pay him so much money? That is what I want to know.’
‘This could help our young friend and prove to Lestrade that he is not a murderer, that he is innocent,’ cried Watson, excited by Holmes’ news.
‘Perhaps, Watson,’ Holmes agreed. ‘But for now we have nothing more while Lestrade has McFarlane’s visit to Oldacre, the buttons from the builder’s trousers in the ashes in the timber yard and Mrs Lexington’s story. I must say, Watson, I do not feel hopeful.’
Holmes put out his cigarette and picked up his violin again. Watson ate dinner alone that night and went to bed early. Holmes did not go to bed at all. He spent the night playing the violin, smoking cigarette after cigarette and thinking about John McFarlane and Jonas Oldacre. In the end, as the sun came up the next morning, he fell asleep in his chair.