to his animals). He was a widower who lost his beloved wife not more than five years ago, after which he sought seclusion. But, while many men who find themselves in similar circumstances turn to drink in an effort to quell their sorrows, Harris indulged himself with cakes, tarts, scones, pies, cookies, and eclairs. All of which came naturally to him, as his profession was that of a master baker. Since his wife’s death, he has had no other romance in his life. He was a compulsive man, whose outward anger masked his inner emotional pain.”
“How could you possibly know all that, Holmes?” I asked, stunned.
“The circumference of the arm indicated his girth, and from there one has only to gauge the proportions of the body and reconstruct it exponentially, much the way a naturalist, who specializes in palaeontology does, when unearthing a new dinosaur bone. The hair colour is evident by small follicles that are still intact. The dark complexion indicates someone who has spent much time in the sun. The fourth finger on the left hand has a lighter colour around the third knuckle, obviously from the impression of a wedding band which was only removed within the last few days. If that wasn’t enough to declare his eternal love, the tattoo of the intertwining vines, a popular image symbolizing such everlasting devotion, removes all doubt.
“As for his weight being a product of his own overindulgence, the illustration above the vines is that of a loaf of bread. A tattoo proclaiming one’s profession is not uncommon, especially among certain classes. His anguish and compulsion is evident by the condition of his fingernails. They have been bitten, a nasty habit, which would suggest that he was alone, as few women would put up with such unhygienic and socially unacceptable behaviour in their man.”
“Astounding,” I said.
“At the risk of repeating myself, Watson, it’s really quite elementary. However, having said that, these photographs raise more questions than they answer. Would you care to speculate on what sort of instrument could have been used to sever this man’s arm?”
“Other than perhaps having been caught in the gears of some large factory machine, of which I am unfamiliar, and even then, I’m frankly at a loss to explain the odd uneven nature of the cut. It appears unlikely that even a surgeon’s knife could have achieved these results.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“It’s not often we agree on something.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Watson, your observations are invaluable.”
I looked out the window as the countryside went by and thought about poor Mr Harris.
* * * *
A few hours later we arrived at Harbourton, and were met at the station by Lestrade and the local constable, a dour looking man called Dunbar. We were escorted to a carriage, then driven through the sleepy little village into the hills beyond. A quarter hour later we turned onto a secluded road and stopped at a cottage, which we were informed belonged to Edmund Collier, the man in custody. The door to the cottage was opened by a beautiful woman of no more than twenty years with pitch black hair.
“Mr Sherlock Holmes, I presume,” she said, curtsying, as if she were greeting a visiting noble. “I am Katherine Collins.”
“Miss Collier,” said Holmes, “this is my friend and associate, Dr Watson. I take it that you are already acquainted with Inspector Lestrade and Constable Dunbar.”
“Yes,” she said, looking none too happy.
We stepped into the living room, and Holmes walked over to a painting that hung above the mantle—a portrait of a gaunt, frail man in his sixties dressed in a plain, white shirt and dark trousers.
“Your father,” said Holmes.
“Yes,” said Miss Collier, “he traded with a local painter for a sculpture he’d made of the man. A portrait for a portrait.”
“You contend that on the night of the murder you were here?” said Holmes.
“Yes,” said Miss Collier, “I was with my father the entire night. When we heard the news the next day from the constable, it came as a complete shock to us both.”
“Is it possible that your father could have gone outside that night without you perceiving him?” asked Holmes.
“No, Mr Holmes. Even if I had not seen him, I certainly would have heard him leave, since I have the room next to his and am a very light sleeper. In addition, the floorboards groan, and the doors and windows squeak when opened. Though, as I understand it, whoever did perpetrate this heinous act would have needed more than a few minutes to do it.”
“Quite so,” said Holmes, “may we look around?”
“Of course,” replied the girl.
I accompanied Holmes through the house’s few rooms, each of which contained wooden sculptures. Most of them were busts, or small figurines. In a shed behind the house, we found a workroom with a table on which rested a number of saws of various sizes, as well as hammers, axes, and other craftsman’s tools.
From there, we went outside and saw a horse and cart. Here, Holmes knelt down and examined the cart’s wheels. After a moment or two, he stood up and met the gazes of Lestrade and Dunbar, who were standing a few feet away, watching us.
Katherine Collins went over to Holmes and said, “Is there any hope for my father?”
“If you’re asking me if I believe that he murdered Mr Harris, the answer is no.”
“That’s preposterous,” said Lestrade.
“We have the right man,” said Dunbar, “of that you can be certain.”
“When it comes to crime, nothing is certain, except uncertainty,” said Holmes. “ Keep your spirits up, young lady. I expect to bring you good news soon.”
* * * *
On the trip up the road in Dunbar’s carriage, I wondered if Holmes should have been so optimistic. I’d seen nothing that cast doubt on the official version of the case, let alone that would point to Edmund Collier’s innocence. But once Holmes had an idea in his mind, there was no talking him out of it. My concern was for Miss Collier. I didn’t want her to have unrealistic expectations, and as a result, subsequently be disappointed.
In five minutes time we stopped in front of another cottage. This one was bigger than the previous one, and the grass in front of it a bit overgrown.
“We’ve preserved the scene,” said Lestrade, as we walked up the path to the front door, “for what it’s worth.”
Holmes turned to Lestrade seemingly unamused. Dunbar unlocked the door, and we went inside.
The living room was simply furnished with a wooden table and a few chairs. On a cabinet were some framed photographs of a fat man—presumably Harris—with a plump woman—presumably his late wife.
A search of the pantry turned up tins of dried fruit, chocolate, and some jars of jam. On a counter were a stale loaf of bread and a few traditional Cornish pasties which, judging by the smell, had gone bad.
Then we went outside and walked to the barn, which was empty. On the ground in front of it, were the blood stains that Lestrade had mentioned in his letter. Holmes examined them, then gave his attention to a horseless cart that stood nearby. As he had done at the previous cottage, he inspected the cart’s wheels then seemed to take notice of a small wren that had landed on a nearby log. The bird was eating a worm.
Holmes then walked to some shrubs not far from the barn and examined them. I turned to Lestrade and Dunbar, who were watching the proceedings with what I took to be expressions of extreme boredom.
“And the prisoner,” said Holmes, returning from his foray into the bushes, and directing his attention to the two lawmen, “may I speak with him?”
“By all means, Mr Holmes,” said Dunbar, smugly, “if it’ll hasten your departure from our midst, you’re welcome to have a brief chat with him.”