Sherlock Holmes and the Norwood Builder

"For an expert in crime," said Mr. Sherlock Holmes, "London is a very uninteresting city nowadays.”

Holmes was sitting back in his chair and was opening his morning paper, when there was a ring at the bell. As the door opened, a wild-eyed young man, pale and untidy, hurried into the room. He looked from one to the other of us, and spoke:

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," he cried. "You mustn't be angry with me. I am nearly mad. Mr. Holmes, I am the unhappy John Hector McFarlane."

He expected us to know his name, but we had no idea who he was.

"Sit down in that chair and tell us very slowly and quietly who you are and what you want. You mentioned your name like we should know it, but we know nothing about you," Holmes said.

"Mr. Holmes, I am the unluckiest man in London. Help me, Mr. Holmes! If they come to arrest me before I finish my story, make them give me time so that I can tell you the whole truth. I could go to jail happy, if I knew that you were working for me."

"Arrest you!" said Holmes. "This is interesting. Why will they arrest you?"

"For murdering Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of Norwood."

"Oh dear," Holmes said; "Just now, I was saying to my friend, Dr. Watson, that there were no interesting cases in the papers."

Our visitor picked up the paper on Holmes's knee.

"If you look at it, sir, you’ll see why I’ve come to you this morning. Everyone must be talking about me." He turned to the middle page. "Here it is. I will read it to you. Listen, Mr. Holmes. The headlines are: 'Mystery at Norwood. Murder of Well-known Builder.' They have followed me from London Bridge Station this morning, and I am sure that they are waiting to arrest me. It will break my mother's heart – it will break her heart!"

I looked at this man with interest. He was blonde-haired and handsome in a washed-out way, with frightened blue eyes. His age was about twenty-seven and he dressed like a gentleman.

"We must use the time we have," said Holmes. "Watson, take the paper and read me the paragraph."

Under the headlines was the following story:

"Late last night or early this morning, an incident happened at Norwood which points to a serious crime. Mr. Jonas Oldacre lives in that suburb, where he has been a builder for many years. Mr. Oldacre is single, fifty-two years of age, and lives in Deep Dene House. He is a secretive man who does not go out often. For some years he has done little or no business, but he is very wealthy. At the back of the house, however, there is still a small area for wood and last night, about twelve o'clock, there was a fire. The French windows of his bedroom (which is on the ground floor) were open and there were marks as if something heavy was pulled across to the wood. The fire engines were soon there but the dry wood burnt and it was impossible to stop the fire. It seemed like an ordinary accident, but new information seems to point to serious crime. Nobody saw Mr. Oldacre at the fire because he disappeared from the house. Nobody had slept in his bed, his safe was open, a number of important papers were thrown around the room and, finally, there were signs of a fight. There was a little blood in the room and a walking stick, also with blood on it. The police have found burnt body parts in the fire.

“It is known that Mr. Jonas Oldacre had a late visitor in his bedroom that night and the stick belongs to this man, a young London lawyer named John Hector McFarlane. The police believe they have some papers which are a motive for the crime.

“Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, is heading the case with his usual energy and intelligence.”

Sherlock Holmes listened with closed eyes.

"The case certainly has some interesting points," said he, slowly. "Can I ask, in the first place, Mr. McFarlane, how you are still free, because it seems there is enough evidence to arrest you?"

"I live at Blackheath, with my parents, Mr. Holmes. But last night, because I had business very late with Mr. Jonas Oldacre, I stayed at a hotel in Norwood. I knew nothing of this case until I was on the train, when I read what you have just heard. I saw the horrible danger of my position immediately and I hurried to put the case into your hands. I have no doubt the police wanted to arrest me either at my office or at my home. A man followed me from London Bridge Station..., oh, what is that noise?"

It was the bell, followed immediately by steps on the stairs. A moment later, our old friend Inspector Lestrade stood at the door. Over his shoulder I saw one or two uniformed policemen outside.

"Mr. John Hector McFarlane?" said Lestrade. “I arrest you for the murder of Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of Norwood."

McFarlane looked hopeless.

"One moment, Lestrade," said Holmes. "Half an hour more or less can make no difference to you, and the gentleman was going to tell us about this very interesting case, which might help us to solve it."

"I think there will be no difficulty solving it," said Lestrade.

"But, if you agree, I would like to hear his story."

"Well, Mr. Holmes, it’s difficult for me to refuse because you have been very useful to the police force once or twice in the past," said Lestrade. "At the same time I must stay with my prisoner."

"That is fine," said McFarlane. "All I ask is that you hear the absolute truth."

Lestrade looked at his watch. "I'll give you half an hour," said he.

"I must explain first," said McFarlane, "that I knew nothing about Mr. Jonas Oldacre. I knew his name because many years ago my parents knew him, but they lost contact. I was very surprised, therefore, when yesterday about three o'clock in the afternoon, he walked into my office in London. But I was astonished when he told me why he was there. He had in his hand a notebook, covered with untidy writing. Here it is" – and he put it on the table.

"'Here is my will,' he said. 'I want you, McFarlane, to make it into a legal document. I’ll sit here while you do it.'

"I started to copy it and you can imagine my astonishment when I found that he was going to leave all his money to me. He was a strange little man, with white eyelashes, and when I looked up at him I found his grey eyes fixed on me. He explained that he was unmarried, that he had known my parents when he was young and that he had always heard of me as a very hard-working young man. So, his money would be in good hands. Of course, I could only thank him. I finished the will and signed it. This is it on the blue paper, and these pages are the ones Mr. Oldacre gave me. He then told me that there were a number of documents which I should see and understand. He asked me to come to his house at Norwood that night, bringing the will with me, to arrange matters.

"Remember, my boy, not one word to your parents about this until everything is finished. We will keep it a little surprise for them."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes, I was not going to refuse him anything. I sent a telegram home, therefore, to say that I had important business and it was impossible to say how late I might be. Mr. Oldacre told me he’d like to have supper with me at nine. I had some difficulty finding his house, however, and it was nearly half-past before I reached it. I found him..."

"One moment!" said Holmes. "Who opened the door?"

"A middle-aged woman – his housekeeper. She showed me into a living-room. Afterwards Mr. Oldacre took me into his bedroom, where there was a heavy safe. He opened this and took out a lot of documents, which we went over together. It was between eleven and twelve when we finished. He said that we must not disturb the housekeeper. He showed me out through his French window, which had been open all this time."

"Was the curtain open?" asked Holmes.

"I can’t be sure, but I believe it was only half open. I couldn’t find my stick and he said, 'Never mind, my boy; I‘ll see a lot of you now, I hope, and I’ll keep your stick until you come back.' I left him there, the safe open, and the papers on the table. It was so late that I couldn’t get back to Blackheath, so I spent the night at a hotel, and I knew nothing more until I read about this horrible business in the morning."

"Anything more you would like to ask, Mr. Holmes?" said Lestrade.

"Not until I’ve been to Blackheath."

"You mean to Norwood," said Lestrade.

"Oh, yes; no doubt that is what I meant," said Holmes, with his smile.

"I think I’d like to have a word with you, Mr. Holmes," said he. "Now, Mr. McFarlane, two of my police officers are at the door." The unhappy young man walked from the room, but Lestrade remained.

Holmes had picked up the pages which were the rough copy of the will and was looking at them with interest on his face.

"There are some points about that document, Lestrade, aren’t there?"

Lestrade looked puzzled. "I can read the first few lines and those in the middle of the second page, and one or two at the end. Those are very clear, but the writing in between is very bad, and there are three places where I can’t read it at all."

"What do you understand from that?" said Holmes.

"Well, what do YOU make of it?"

"That it was written on a train; the good writing was done at stations, the bad writing when the train was moving."

Lestrade began to laugh. "You’re too clever for me with your theories, Mr. Holmes," said he. "But why is that important to the case?"

"It’s strange – isn’t it? – that a man should write an important document so badly. It suggests he did not think it was going to be important. If a man made a will which he didn’t plan ever to use, he might do it like this. The case isn’t clear yet."

"Not clear? Well, if that isn't clear, what could be? Here’s a young man who learns suddenly that when an older man dies, he will get a fortune. What does he do? He says nothing to anyone, but he arranges to go out to see the man that night; he waits until the only other person in the house is in bed, and then – alone in the man's room – he murders him and burns his body. The bloodstains in the room and on the stick are very small. He imagined his crime was bloodless and hoped the fire would destroy the body. Isn’t all this obvious?"

"Lestrade, isn’t it too obvious?" said Holmes. "Put yourself in this young man’s place. Would you choose the same night as the will was made to murder him? Doesn’t it seem dangerous to you? Again, would you choose a time when a servant knows you’re in the house? And, finally, would you try so hard to burn the body but leave your walking stick as a sign that you were the criminal? Lestrade, all this is very unlikely."

"About the stick, Mr. Holmes, you know as well as I do that a criminal is often nervous and does things which a cool man avoids. He was afraid to go back to the room. Give me any other theory that explains all the facts!"

"I could easily give you half a dozen," said Holmes. "Here, for example, is one. The older man is showing documents and a passing tramp sees them through the window because the curtain is half open. The lawyer leaves. The tramp goes in! He gets the stick, which he sees there, kills Oldacre, and leaves after burning the body."

"Why should the tramp burn the body?"

"Why should McFarlane?"

"To hide some evidence. And why didn’t the tramp take anything?" Lestrade shook his head. "Well, Mr. Holmes, you can look for your tramp, and while you’re finding him, we’ll hold our man. The future will show who is right. Just notice this point, Mr. Holmes: none of the papers was removed, and that the prisoner is the one man who had no reason for removing them, because he was going to get all of them anyway."

My friend seemed surprised by this: "I only want to point out that there are other theories possible. As you say, the future will decide. Good morning!"

When the police officer left, my friend got up and prepared for the day's work happily.

"I’m going to Blackheath, Watson," he said.

"And why not Norwood?"

"Because we have in this case one strange thing coming after another. The police are making the mistake of concentrating on the second, because it is actually criminal. But it is clear to me that the logical way is to begin with the first one – the strange and sudden will. I don't think you can help me. There is no danger. I hope that when I see you in the evening I can report that I’ve helped our unlucky youngster."

It was late when my friend returned, and I could see immediately that the high hopes of the morning were gone. For an hour, he played on his violin. At last he threw it down and told me about his day.

"It's all going wrong, Watson – as wrong as it can go. I said nothing to Lestrade, but I believe that for once he’s right and I’m wrong.”

"Did you go to Blackheath?"

"Yes, Watson, I went there, and I found very quickly that Oldacre was a dreadful man. The father was looking for his son and was not at home. The mother, of course, said it was impossible that her son would kill anyone. But she showed no surprise or regret over Oldacre’s death. In fact, she spoke of him with such anger that she was helping the police’s case against her son because, of course, if her son heard her speak of the man like that, he’d hate him.

"'You knew him when you were young?' I asked.

"'Yes, I knew him well; in fact, I was going to marry him. But, thank God, I married a better, but poorer, man. I heard a shocking story about his cruelty and I left him.' She looked for something and soon found a photograph of a woman, defaced and cut with a knife.

'That is my own photograph,' she said. 'He sent it to me on my wedding morning.'

"'Well,' said I, 'he has forgiven you now, since he has left all his money to your son.'

"'We want nothing from Jonas Oldacre, dead or alive. There is a God in Heaven, Mr. Holmes, and that same God will show in His own time that my son did nothing wrong.'

"In the end, I went to Norwood. Deep Dene House, where Oldacre lived, is a big modern villa in a large garden. There were some police officers there and they had spent the morning trying to find the dead body in the fire. They found some parts and also Oldacre’s watch. All I could see in the garden was that somebody had pulled something heavy to the part where he kept his wood.

"I went into the bedroom and looked there too. The bloodstains were very small but fresh. There’s no doubt the stick was McFarlane’s. He says so. I could see both men’s foot marks on the carpet, but none from a third person.

"Finally, I tried the housekeeper. Mrs. Lexington is her name, a dark, silent person. She could tell us something if she wanted. But she said nothing. Yes, she’d opened the door to Mr. McFarlane at half-past nine. She had gone to bed an hour later. Her room’s at the other end of the house and she could hear nothing. Mr. McFarlane left his hat and stick in the hall. She woke up because of the fire. Her poor employer was certainly murdered. Did he have enemies? Well, everyone has enemies, but Oldacre only met people to do business.

"So, my dear Watson, there's my report. And yet – and yet I KNOW it's all wrong. I feel it. There’s something we don’t know, and that housekeeper knows it too."

"By the way, there is one strange little point about those papers which may help us. Looking at his bank book, I found that there was not much money in his account and that was because he wrote large cheques during the last year to Mr. Cornelius. I want to know who this Mr. Cornelius is. What business can he have with a retired builder? We must now ask at the bank for the gentleman who has cashed these cheques. But I’m afraid that our case will end badly and Lestrade will hang our young McFarlane."

I don’t know how much sleep Holmes got that night, but when I came down to breakfast I found him looking pale. The carpet round his chair was covered with cigarette ends and the morning papers. A telegram lay on the table.

"What do you think of this, Watson?" he asked, throwing it across.

It was from Lestrade:

"IMPORTANT FRESH EVIDENCE. MCFARLANE'S CERTAINLY GUILTY. FORGET THIS CASE. LESTRADE."

"This sounds serious," I said.

"But it’s too early to give up hope. After all, the new evidence may mean something different to what Lestrade imagines. Eat your breakfast, Watson, and we’ll go out together and see what we can do. I’ll need you today."

My friend had no breakfast himself and started with me for Norwood. We met Lestrade there.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, have you found your tramp?" he cried.

"I’ve decided nothing," my friend answered.

"But we decided everything yesterday, and now we know it’s correct, Mr. Holmes."

Lestrade laughed loudly. "A man can't always win, can he, Dr. Watson? Walk this way please, gentlemen, and I think I can convince you John McFarlane murdered Oldacre."

He took us into the dark hall where McFarlane came into the house to meet Oldacre.

"This is where young McFarlane came out to get his hat after the murder," he said. "Now, look at this." He showed us some blood on the wall. I saw that it was more than a stain. It was the print of a thumb.

"Look at that, Mr. Holmes."

"Yes, I am."

"You know that no two thumb marks are alike?"

"I have heard."

"Well, then, look at this print of young McFarlane's right thumb on the will and the stain on the wall."

The two were the same. It was clear that young McFarlane was lost.

"That is final," said Lestrade.

"It’s final," said Holmes.

Something in his voice made me turn to look at him. An extraordinary change had come over his face. He was smiling.

"What a lucky thing that this young man should put his right thumb against the wall! Such a very natural action, too. By the way, Lestrade, who made this discovery?"

"It was the housekeeper, Mrs. Lexington, who showed it to the police officer."

"But why didn't the police see this mark yesterday?"

"Well, we had no reason to look carefully in the hall. Besides, it's not in a very open place, as you see."

"No, no, of course not. I suppose there’s no doubt that the mark was there yesterday?"

Lestrade looked at Holmes as if he thought he was going out of his mind.

"I don't know if you think that McFarlane came out of jail in the middle of the night," said Lestrade. "I leave it to any expert in the world whether that is not the mark of his thumb."

"It is certainly the mark of his thumb."

"There, that's enough," said Lestrade. "I am a practical man, Mr. Holmes, and when I have my evidence, I decide. If you have anything to say, you’ll find me writing my report in the living room."

"This is very sad, Watson, isn’t it?" he said. "But there are some hopeful points. There is one really serious mistake in this evidence."

"Holmes! What is it?"

"Only this: I KNOW that mark was not there when I looked in the hall yesterday. I think it’s time now that we told our friend Lestrade."

The inspector was still writing when Holmes interrupted him.

"I understood that you were writing a report of this case," said he.

"So I am."

"Don't you think it may be a little early?"

Lestrade knew my friend too well not to pay attention. He laid down his pen and looked at him.

"What do you mean, Mr. Holmes?"

"Only that there is an important witness you have not seen."

"Can you show him?"

"I think I can."

"Then do so."

"I will do my best. How many officers have you got here? Can you call your men?"

Five minutes later three policemen were in the hall.

"In the garden you will find a lot of old paper," said Holmes. "Please carry some in. I think it will help in finding the witness. Thank-you very much. I believe you have some matches in your pocket, Watson.

"Would you send one of your officers for two buckets of water? Put the paper on the floor here. Now I think we’re all ready."

Lestrade's face began to grow red and angry.

"I don't know whether you are playing a game with us, Mr. Holmes. If you know anything, you can say it."

"Lestrade, I have an excellent reason for everything that I do. Can I ask you, Watson, to open that window, and then to set fire to the paper? Now we must see if we can find this witness for you, Lestrade. Please, everyone shout: 'Fire!' Now, one, two, three..."

"Fire!" we all shouted.

"Thank you. Once again."

"Fire!"

Then an amazing thing happened. A door suddenly opened out of a solid wall at the end of the hall and a little man ran out of it.

"Watson, a bucket of water over the paper. That will do! Lestrade, here’s the missing witness, Jonas Oldacre."

The detective stared at the newcomer with amazement.

"What's this, then?" said Lestrade at last. "What have you been doing all this time, eh?"

Oldacre gave an uneasy laugh. "I have done nothing wrong."

"Nothing wrong? You’ve done your best to get a man hanged."

"I am sure, sir, it was only a practical joke."

"Oh! a joke, was it? Take him down and keep him in the living room until I come. Mr. Holmes," he continued, when they had gone, "I could not speak in front of the officers, but this is the best thing you have done yet, though it is a mystery to me how you did it. You have saved a man's life and my reputation."

Holmes smiled.

"You will find that your reputation has grown. Just make a few changes in that report you were writing, and they will understand how hard it is to play games with Inspector Lestrade."

"And you don't want your name to appear?"

"No. Here are the details. He made a little room at the end of the hall behind a wall. That's the advantage of being a builder," said Holmes, as we came out. "He was able to fix his own little hiding-place without anybody knowing, except, of course, that housekeeper of his. Arrest her too, Lestrade."

"I'll take your advice. But how did you know of this place, Mr. Holmes?"

"I decided that the man was hiding in the house. When I walked along the hall downstairs, I found it two metres shorter than the one upstairs. It was clear where he was. I thought he couldn’t stay quiet in a fire."

"But how did you know that he was in the house at all?"

"The thumb-mark, Lestrade. You said it was final; and so it was, but in a very different way. I knew it had not been there the day before. I pay a lot of attention to detail and I was sure that the wall was clean. Therefore, someone had put the mark of McFarlane’s thumb there during the night."

"But how?"

"Very simply. If you look among those documents, you will find the wax seal with the thumb-mark on it."

"Wonderful!" said Lestrade. "Wonderful! But why did he do it, Mr. Holmes?"

It was funny to see how the detective's confidence had changed to a child asking questions of its teacher.

"Well, I don't think that’s very hard to explain. Mr. Oldacre is a very deep, nasty person. You know McFarlane's mother refused to marry him? You don't! I told you to go to Blackheath first and Norwood afterwards. Well, he wanted to hurt her. During the last year or two, things have gone badly for him and he has lost a lot of money. He decides to run and, so, he pays large cheques to a Mr. Cornelius, who is, I imagine, Oldacre under another name. He planned to change his name, take out his money from the bank and disappear, starting life again somewhere else."

"He could disappear and, at the same time, hurt his old fiancée, if her only child killed him. It was a masterpiece. The idea of the will, the secret visit, the stick, the blood. There was no possible escape for McFarlane. But he wanted to improve something that was already perfect and so he destroyed everything. Let’s go downstairs, Lestrade. There are just one or two questions I’d like to ask him."

The evil man was sitting in his own living room with a policeman on each side of him.

"It was a joke, sir, a practical joke, nothing more."

"That's for a judge to decide," said Lestrade.

"And you'll probably find Mr. Cornelius’ money is gone too," said Holmes.

The little man turned his evil eyes to my friend.

"I have to thank you for many things," said he. "Perhaps I'll pay you back one day."

Holmes smiled.

"I think that for a few years you’ll find your time very busy," said he. "By the way, what was it in the wood? A dead dog or rabbits or what? You won't tell me?"