“I recall now,” said Mrs Hartley Lessingham, “that about that same time – not the same night, but it might have been the next one – I heard the carriage coming very late in the evening, when it was already pitch black. I thought that my husband was coming to persecute me further, but no one entered the mill. Instead, after a while I heard Legbourne Legge’s voice and, I believe, my husband’s, from somewhere outside. Then came the sound of digging in that little wood out there. This carried on for some time, then, eventually, I heard the sound of the carriage leaving again.”

Holmes shook his head, his features grave. “Then we can only conclude that somewhere in that little wood is the last resting place of the unfortunate Mr Theakston. I am sorry to speak of these things so bluntly, Harriet,” he continued, addressing the girl, “but we cannot avoid the truth.”

“I understand,” said she, biting her lip.

“I promise you that I will do my utmost to bring these wicked people to justice.”

“If the matter is as you surmise,” said Mrs Hartley Lessingham, “Mr Theakston’s blood may not be the first they have upon their hands. When first I was held captive here, my gaoler was a man called Meadowcroft, who had at one time been in charge of the mill, although he was a dreadful drunk. But one night I heard a terrific quarrel down by the riverbank, between, as far as I could tell, Meadowcroft and my husband. What it was about, I do not know – perhaps Meadowcroft was trying to blackmail my husband over my presence here – but it ended with the sound of a violent struggle, and then a scream from Meadowcroft. After that evening, I never saw him again, and did not know what had become of him.”

“He was found in the river,” said Miss Borrow. “Everyone thought he had just fallen in and drowned.”

“There!” cried Holmes as, with a final powerful blow, he managed at last to force the hinge of the manacle apart. “When you are ready, madam, we can depart. But what is that?” cried he, as the unmistakable sound of honking and gabbling, and the heavy beat of a thousand wings, came to our ears. “Something has put the geese up again!”

“I cannot see,” said I, looking from the window. “Something has certainly startled them, but the view is obscured by the wood. No, wait! There are horses coming! It is a carriage!”

I craned from the window as the carriage drew up in front of the mill. “It is Hartley Lessingham!” I cried.

“Let us take a look at this outside staircase,” said Holmes, sliding back the bolts and opening the door in the far wall. “It looks a little precarious, does it not?” said he as I joined him there. Outside the door was a small, splintering, rotten-looking wooden platform, from which a very long, dilapidated stair led down, in stages, to the stone embankment of the river far below, by the great mill-wheel.

“For myself, I would risk it,” said I, “but we cannot ask Mrs Hartley Lessingham and the children to descend that way.”

“I agree,” said Holmes. “We must therefore stay and meet Hartley Lessingham face to face in here.”

We turned back to the room as there came the sound of rapid footsteps on the stair. Then, for a moment, they stopped, and I heard a man’s voice, harsh and angry. “Get out of my way, you stupid woman!” he shouted. This was followed by a cry of fear and the sound of someone falling heavily down the stairs. Moments later, Hartley Lessingham burst into the room, brandishing a stout black walking stick, followed by Miss Rogerson and Captain Legbourne Legge. The children cried out with terror at the sight of him and clung to the side of their aunt, who had pressed herself back against the wall. I could not wonder at their alarm, for Hartley Lessingham was indeed a fearsome sight, well over six feet tall, and as broad as an ox. For a moment, this gigantic figure stood in silence, surveying us all, his features twisted and purple with rage.

“That’s the man!” cried Miss Rogerson all at once in a shrill voice, pointing her finger at me. “He was with the girl in London; I’m sure of it!”

“You!” said Hartley Lessingham in a thunderous tone, approaching me. “How dare you trespass upon my property! You are this person, Sherlock Holmes, I take it,” he continued, reading from a card in his hand and spitting the name out with fiery venom.

“No, he isn’t,” interjected Holmes in a calm voice. “I am.”

“Oh?” said Hartley Lessingham, turning to Holmes and advancing upon him menacingly. “So you are responsible for this impudent intrusion into my private affairs?”

“If you wish to put it that way, then, yes, I am.”

“You impertinent scoundrel!” cried Hartley Lessingham, tearing up Holmes’s card and casting the pieces to the floor. “You scum! I didn’t like the look of you when I saw you earlier! I should have run you off the estate there and then, you infernal, interfering busybody!”

“Well, we all have regrets from time to time,” remarked Holmes in a careless tone.

“You dare to trifle with me?” thundered Hartley Lessingham. “You who are nothing but the dirt beneath my feet?”

“Dirt I may be, but at least I haven’t imprisoned my own wife and vilely abused children who were left in my care.”

“I’ll teach you to meddle in my affairs!” cried Hartley Lessingham in a menacing tone. He took his black stick in both hands, there came a sharp click, and from within the stick he drew forth a long, deadly-looking steel rapier.

I heard Holmes murmur my name, caught his eye for a split second, and saw it dart to a pile of short wooden staves that lay by my feet. Perceiving at once his meaning, I had, in another split second, stooped, picked up one of the staves, which was about three feet in length, and tossed it across to him. He snatched it from the air with his right hand, although his eye never for an instant left his adversary, who was advancing menacingly upon him, making slashes in the air with his rapier. Slowly and warily, the two men circled each other, their weapons held on guard. Without taking my eyes off them, I picked up another of the staves. What might happen in the desperate contest before me, I could not envisage, but I feared for my friend’s safety and held my stave ready to intervene the moment it appeared necessary.

I saw Hartley Lessingham’s eyes flicker in my direction, and he had evidently seen me pick up the stave, for he called to Legbourne Legge without turning his head. “Get your pistols, Legge! We’ll sort out these damned vermin once and for all!” At this, Legbourne Legge turned and hurried from the room, and I heard the rapid clatter of his footsteps down the stair.

My mind raced as I debated with myself the best course of action. I could position myself to the side of the doorway and strike at Legbourne Legge as he returned, and thus perhaps knock the pistol from his grasp, but Miss Rogerson might warn him that I was waiting for him. Perhaps, then, I should go to meet him on the stair, but then my own position would be too exposed and I should lose the element of surprise. Besides, if I left the room, I should not be able to help Holmes, and the children and their aunt would be left unguarded. Even as I considered the question, Hartley Lessingham made a slashing cut at Holmes. The latter managed to parry it with his stick, but then came another and another, as Holmes was slowly forced backwards towards the corner of the room. Upon Hartley Lessingham’s face was an expression of murderous hatred, and it was clear that we could expect no quarter from such a man. I could not possibly leave my post: I should just have to deal with Legbourne Legge as best I could when he returned.

The fight before me was becoming increasingly desperate. Back and forth went Holmes and his opponent, thrusting and parrying, slashing and blocking. Holmes had managed to extricate himself from the corner with a brief sally, but had been forced back again against the wall, and it was evident that Hartley Lessingham was slowly but surely gaining the upper hand and closing in, awaiting that split-second of a chance when his opponent’s guard would drop, and he could make the thrust which would end the struggle. Holmes, as I knew, was an expert at singlestick, and had taken part in competitions both at single-stick and fencing during his college days, but armed only with a stout stick against this gigantic, powerful opponent, who was clearly an accomplished swordsman, I doubted if he could resist for much longer.