“So you went to Jenkin’s Clump?” persisted Holmes.

“Yes,” responded Blogg at length. “There weren’t nobody there.”

“And then?” queried Holmes, as the young man fell silent once more.

“Sarah came, and a man came down the other path.”

“Did they see you?”

“No, sir. I was behind a tree.”

“And then?”

“Sarah said something, then he got hold of her and she shouted a lot, then he hit her and she stopped shouting. Then he pushed her in the water.”

“And then?”

“I went to have a look. He saw me and said, ‘What are you doing here, Blogg?’ and I said, ‘Nothing, sir.’ Then he said, ‘Sarah’s had a fit. You mustn’t say anything or they’ll think you killed her. You keep quiet and don’t say a word, and I’ll not tell them I saw you here. But if you say anything, I’ll tell them you killed her.’ So I had to keep quiet.”

“I see,” said Holmes. “I think we all understand. Now, Noah, the man you saw in the woods that day with Sarah, do you see him in this room now?”

The young man’s expression was one of utmost terror, and he did not raise his eyes from the floor.

“You have nothing to fear,” said Holmes in a voice that was kindly but firm, “but you must tell the truth, Noah. Is that man here now?”

“Yes,” mumbled Blogg, “it’s him.”

Slowly, then, he raised his hand and pointed his finger at Colonel Reid’s secretary, William Northcote.

“What nonsense!” cried the secretary. “This is an outrage! How dare you say such things, Blogg!” Then he turned to Holmes. “I don’t know how you have persuaded this simpleton to lie in this way,” said he in a bitter tone, “but you will not get away with it!”

“It won’t do, Northcote,” returned Holmes, shaking his head. “These displays of outrage and remorse ring equally hollow. You murdered Sarah Dickens and forged the note that was found by the pool, to throw suspicion onto John Reid. You also placed one of his cufflinks, which you had found or stolen, into a pocket of the dead girl’s dress, to make the public suspicions against him even stronger. You then destroyed his father’s letters to him and sent him substitute letters of your own creation, to prevent his responding to the rumours, which you yourself had caused.”

The secretary attempted to laugh, but it was a hoarse, harsh cry that escaped his lips. “Why should I kill Sarah Dickens?” he cried. “Why, she did not interest me at all!”

“No,” said Holmes. “I agree. She did not interest you. Rather, she was a danger to you. She knew something about you that you did not wish anyone else to know.”

“And what was that, pray?” demanded Northcote in a sneering tone.

“That you had been making free with Colonel Reid’s private papers, forging his signature and helping yourself to his money.”

What happened next remains as little more than a blur in my memory. I have mentioned that upon the desk in the centre of the room was a very large globe. Now, with a sudden lunge, Northcote grasped this globe with both hands, lifted it from its stand and hurled it across the room to where we stood. There were cries, Miss Blythe-Headley screamed, and in the same instant the secretary dashed out through the French windows, into the garden. For a split second we all remained transfixed by this sudden eruption of violence, then, with a pitiful cry and an expression of the utmost agony upon his features, Colonel Reid collapsed to the floor like a rag doll.

“Good God!” cried his son in alarm.

“He has had a seizure!” I cried. “Stand back!” Quickly, I bent down and examined the limp, prostrate figure. His haggard face was a dull grey colour and his lips had turned purple. For a moment I feared that he was beyond all human help, but as I loosened his collar and desperately examined him for signs of life, there came the faintest of breaths from his dry lips. “Is there a fire lit in his bedroom?” I asked his son.

“There’s one laid ready,” replied he. “We’ll put a match to it at once.”

“Then help me carry him to his bed. We must keep him warm and make him as comfortable as possible.”

“Northcote will be getting away!” cried someone behind me as we carried the old man from the room and turned up the stairs.

“He will not get far,” I heard Holmes respond. “I have sentries posted in the garden for just such an eventuality.”

It was some time before I was able to return to the library. I had done all I could for Colonel Reid, sent his servant for the family physician and left him in the care of his son and the housekeeper. As I rejoined the company downstairs, they were discussing the apprehension of Northcote. I gathered that he had been brought back to the library, and that Holmes had instructed that he be taken at once to the constable in Topley Cross, with a message of explanation which Holmes himself had written.

“So,” said Admiral Blythe-Headley, “you expected North-cote to flee in this way?”

“I thought it not unlikely,” returned Holmes. “My sentries, as you saw, were Jack Blogg, father of Noah, and John Dickens, brother of the dead girl. He naturally has an interest in seeing the truth established, and justice done. He is employed at Topley Grange, I understand, Admiral.”

“That is so. He assists his father on their own farm in the mornings and works in our gardens in the afternoons. We employ several of the local smallholders in this way at various times of the year. They are by far the best workers, we have found.”

“It was Dickens that damaged your garden bench.”

“What!” cried the admiral. “The blackguard! He will never work for me again!”

Holmes held up his hand. “Do not rush to decisions, I pray you,” said he. “This whole business has been marked by overhasty judgements, almost all of which have been proved wrong. You must understand that Dickens has been sorely afflicted by his sister’s death. He may appear a somewhat rude and unpolished young man, but he has a good heart, and had, I believe, a deep and genuine affection for his sister. I am sure he no more feels the sentiments he carved into your woodwork than would Captain Reid himself, whom you previously accused of it. But on the day last week that Reid visited Topley Grange, Dickens was working in the gardens, and was incensed that this man whom he regarded as morally responsible for his sister’s death should, as he saw it, be renewing his social round as if nothing were amiss. Consumed with rage, he determined to do all he could to further wound Reid’s standing in the district. He correctly judged that if he damaged the bench in the way he did, Reid would be blamed for it.”

“How did you discover that Dickens was responsible?” I asked.

“Mr Yarrow had mentioned to us that Dickens had been employed at Topley Grange on the day of his sister’s death, and I thought it likely that he was still so employed. If so, it seemed a distinct possibility to me that he was responsible for the damage, for I was already convinced that it was he that sent the white feather to Reid.”

“Why so?” I asked

“The yard at Hawthorn Farm, as you no doubt observed, is littered with white duck feathers that are precisely the same as the feather Reid received. In addition, a blank sheet had been torn from the girl’s exercise book, as you yourself remarked, Watson, and this, as I observed, exactly corresponded to the sheet that enclosed the feather, marked with the initials S. D.”

“How came Dickens, a man so full of hatred for Captain Reid, to be your ally?” asked Mary Blythe-Headley in puzzlement. “I should have expected his attitude to you to have been one only of hostility.”

“And so it was, when we spoke to him yesterday, as Dr Watson will confirm. But when I called to see him very early this morning, before he had left the house, I was armed with the knowledge – or conviction, at least – that it was he who had sent the anonymous letter to Reid and damaged the bench, by both of which actions, I assured him, he had laid himself open to criminal proceedings. By this threat I secured his attention and, little by little, managed to convince him that the deep hostility he held towards my client was quite misplaced. It was steep, steep work, I can assure you, but in the end I succeeded. I think you will find, Admiral, that Dickens will henceforth prove to be an honest worker, and if you can forgive him his one lapse, will never again damage your property.”