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gestured toward a wall of the barn. Holmes crossed to the indicated spot and
secured a stave of seasoned wood, which
he studied care fully. "This,
gentlemen," he continued, "will prove to
be the murder weapon which did away with Ezariah
Trelawney. The series of events seems clear.
Impelled by blind rage, Vincent Staley stole into
the Trelawney house and murdered his enemy. He
felt that suspicion would fall on Ledbetter here, as
well as himself, but when the authorities moved against
young Charles, his plans went awry. Therefore, he left the
anonymous message at your door, Bennett,
where he knew you would find it, and then came
out here with the murder weapon. He was in the
process of concealing the weapon in Ledbetter's barn
where it could be found without too much difficulty. However, being
surprised in the act, he sprang upon
Ledbetter with intent to kill."
    Holmes
turned his attention to the farmer. "The
fact that you have made a clean breast of the
matter will carry considerable weight in court, my good man. While
you do have the death of another human
being to weigh on your conscience, the
fact remains that Vincent Staley could have faced
the same fate from the law, though by different
means."

    Chapter
4
    The
Matter of the Missing Gold
    ON
OUR RETURN trip from bucolic Shaw, Holmes was
in excellent spirits, standard at the satisfactory conclusion
of a minor case, and especially true if the
solution was a rapid one. When a matter dragged
on, my friend felt it a slur on his reputa tion
and indulged in self-castigation for not having solved
the puzzle sooner. As I have noted on more than
one occasion, the life of a perfectionist is seldom
tranquil. The matter of Ezariah Trelawney and
the blood feud that had festered for so long in Herefordshire was
patterned to his liking. A clear set of
facts, an appearance on the scene followed by a
rapid and satisfactory solution.
    I
was not prompted to share Holmes' carefree attitude, since the
Trelawney affair ranked in my mind as
the third in a row in which financial remu neration
had not played a part. Not that our life or the machine that my
friend had painstakingly constructed would be sore pressed. Holmes
could secure an assignment—and at
a dazzling fee—in a trice, but
such was not his way. He relished the complete
freedom to pick and choose among the problems
that invariably beat a path to his door. Still, his expenses were
enormous. In addition to our quarters,
presided over by the ever-patient Mrs. Hudson,
there were at least four other domiciles he maintained
around London, as a convenience in assuming
various identities he had established. Five,
if the house next door was included, since he owned
it—and a most rewarding investment it had proven
in one instance in particular. Then there was
the staff at 221 B Baker Street as well as various
specialists, mainly from the shadowland of the
lawless, that he kept on retainers. If that were not enough, my
intimate friend was known as an easy
mark for some wayward soul attempting to rejoin
the honest segment of society. Though his generosity
in this respect was sharp-toothed. Woe be
it to the former transgressor if he chose to revert to
his previous way of life, for the specter of Holmes would
be upon him like a mastiff on a hare.
    It
crossed my mind that I might curtail my wagers
on equines that I fancied and make some moves
toward reactivating my dwindling medical practice. The patients that
still clung to me were a loyal group, but their ranks had been
depleted. It occurred to me that I could well appeal to a more youthful group. Though my friend was
most fre quently pictured in the
deerstalker and Inverness that he wore on our Shaw excursion, he was
really a bit of a dandy. With his thin, whipcord frame enhanced by a
tail coat and topper, we could have made something of a dashing pair
had I possessed the strength of
character to minimize my consump tion
of Mrs. Hudson's excellent fare or withstand the
blandishments