He opened the French windows and we followed him into the garden. To the left, near the back of the house, a small single-storey extension protruded from the house wall at right angles. Just above its tiled roof was a small square window.

“As you see,” Ranworth continued, leading us along to the wall of the pantry, “it would not be too difficult to climb onto the pantry roof. Once there, to get into the dressing-room window would be very easy.”

Holmes crouched down and examined the ground by the pantry wall. “There are no marks here,” said he after a moment, rising to his feet.

“I suppose the intruder took special care not to leave any,” responded Ranworth. “I observed earlier, however, that one of the tiles on the pantry roof is cracked,” he continued, directing our attention to the tile in question, “but, of course, it may have been cracked for some time.”

“It does appear rather ancient damage,” remarked Holmes, squinting up at the pantry roof. “The broken edges of the tile are discoloured with age. But, come! It sounds as if the others have arrived. Let us return to the library and proceed with matters.”

In the library we found Holmes’s client, his father, and the secretary, Northcote, standing together in awkward silence.

“Well?” said Colonel Reid to Holmes as we entered through the French windows. “We are all here as you requested. Now let us get this nonsense over with as quickly as possible.”

Before Holmes could reply, there came the sound of a horse and carriage on the drive outside.

“Now what?” cried Colonel Reid irritably. “Who in Heaven’s name is this?” His question was answered a moment later, when the butler opened the door and announced the arrival of Admiral Blythe-Headley, accompanied by his son and daughter. “What!” cried Colonel Reid in a tone of stupefaction.

“This is not a social call, Reid,” said Blythe-Headley loudly, in a tone of distaste, as he strode into the room. “It gives us as little pleasure to be here as I imagine it gives you to see us. But I have been persuaded to come against my will and, I might add, against my better judgement, in order to hear what this gentleman has to relate.” He inclined his head slightly in the direction of Sherlock Holmes, and everyone turned to see what my friend would say.

“I have requested this meeting,” said Holmes after a moment, “to acquaint you all with certain facts.”

“Pah! Facts!” cried Admiral Blythe-Headley with a snort. “What facts, pray?”

“Facts which I have good reason to believe are not known to you,” responded Holmes. “In so doing, it is my hope that I might help to right the most grievous wrong that has been done to Captain Reid.”

Blythe-Headley snorted again, and Colonel Reid sighed in a sceptical manner, but Anthony Blythe-Headley held up his hand.

“One moment,” said he. “Let us hear what Mr Holmes wishes to say. We have already wasted enough time in coming here. Let us not waste further time in prolonging the nonsense!”

“When Captain Reid returned recently from India,” Holmes continued when the room had fallen silent once more, “he was met with a hostility for which he could think of no explanation.”

“Well, he obviously did not think hard enough,” snapped Colonel Reid.

“Over the course of the following days,” Holmes continued, ignoring the interruption, “incidents occurred which he found equally inexplicable. He received a white feather in the post, for instance, and was accused of damaging a garden bench at Topley Grange. Finally, brought to a very low ebb by these unpleasant events, he consulted me. I have therefore spent the last few days conducting a thorough enquiry into the matter, and am now in a position to lay the full facts before my client, and before all those who know him. It will be apparent when I do so that Captain Reid has been the victim of a most serious miscarriage of justice.”

“You are trying our patience,” interjected Anthony Blythe-Headley, taking his watch from his pocket in an ostentatious manner. “You have not yet told us anything we did not already know. Unless you do so within the next three minutes, I for one shall bid you adieu!”

“My enquiries quickly led me to the death in this parish, three years ago, of one Sarah Dickens,” Holmes continued. “Although this matter will be a familiar one to most of you, it was completely unknown to Captain Reid.”

“Humbug!” muttered Colonel Reid.

“It soon became apparent to me that Captain Reid was widely regarded as having treated this girl shamefully. In a fit of melancholy, it was supposed, this girl had taken her own life, or, at least, had been so careless of it that she had lost it accidentally.”

The room had at last fallen silent, as Holmes described the tragedy that had cast such a shadow upon the parish. I stole a glance at the faces of those assembled there, and it was clear that all were recalling the events of three years previously. After a moment, Holmes continued:

“There seemed, despite the verdict of the inquest, to be some doubt as to whether the girl’s death was the result of an accident or suicide. I therefore determined to look into the matter myself and form my own opinion.”

“What possible difference can that make now?” demanded Admiral Blythe-Headley.

“As it has turned out, it makes a great deal of difference,” responded Holmes. He thereupon described in detail the investigations he had conducted at the Willow Pool, the testimony of Mr Yarrow concerning the discovery of the girl’s body and the conclusions he had reached from this information. As he worked his way methodically through his account, a hush fell upon the assembly, and it was evident that all present were impressed by the painstaking care with which he had conducted his investigation.

“So what you are saying,” said Anthony Blythe-Headley at length, as Holmes finished speaking, “is that, in your opinion, it is impossible for the girl’s death to have been an accident?”

“I am morally certain of it.”

“But nor do you believe,” interjected Captain Ranworth, “that her death could have been suicide?”

“That, also, is practically impossible.”

“But what, then, is your opinion?” queried Northcote in a tone of puzzlement.

“There are only three possibilities,” replied Holmes in a dry tone, “and it is an axiom of mine that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however unlikely, must be the truth.”

“Then?”

“Sarah Dickens was murdered.”

“Absurd!” cried someone. “Nonsense!” cried another.

“You may call it absurd if you wish,” responded Holmes in a calm, authoritative voice, “but it is the truth.”

Anthony Blythe-Headley appeared greatly disturbed by what Holmes had said. A variety of emotions passed in rapid succession across his agitated features.

“You are overlooking the note, sir!” cried he at length in a hot tone. “The girl left a note. The inquest did not regard it as a suicide note, but everyone else with half a brain does so. Are you suggesting that the girl composed her note, which clearly implied that her life was not worth living, and then, by chance, encountered someone who obligingly put an end to her life? That would be an absurd coincidence!”

“I agree. I am not suggesting that.”

“Then what? You cannot deny that the note implies that the girl was considering taking her own life!”

“It might imply that, under certain circumstances,” responded Holmes in a calm tone.

“What circumstances, pray?” interrupted the other.

“The circumstance, for a start, that the girl actually wrote the note.”

“What! What do you mean?” demanded the admiral.

“Sarah Dickens did not write the note that was found in Jenkin’s Clump. It is a forgery, left there deliberately by her murderer to throw any enquiries off the true scent.”

There was a general cry of incredulity at this pronouncement.