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"I wish I was sure," replied the inspector. "'Tis the matter of Ramsey Michael."

  At the sideboard, replenishing my drink, I heard Holmes' glass come in contact with the desktop forcibly. As I turned at this unusual sound, I found the sleuth regarding MacDonald intently.

  "The so-called art critic," said the sleuth. "What problem involves him?"

  "Ah then, you haven't heard. He was shot to death this very evening."

  "Good heavens!" I exclaimed involuntarily, though I did not know the man referred to.

  Something was bothering Holmes, but his laconic comment was unrevealing. "The gentleman was not popular. Do we face one of those cases devoid of clues?"

  "Few needed," said MacDonald somewhat bitterly. "We have one suspect and what looks like an airtight case. And yet there's something about it that doesn't sit comfortable." He glanced at me shamefaced, then centered on Holmes again. "You'll make sport of me for saying it, but the taste isn't right."

  Holmes was gazing at the inspector with added respect. "After a lengthy career in the field of criminology, it would be strange indeed if you did not possess a distinct feel for such matters. My congratulations, Mr. Mac. Now do tell us of the affair and what specifically wrinkles your nose with doubt."

  MacDonald had a wary look, as if suspecting that he was being twitted, but the great consulting detective was completely serious so the Aberdonian plunged into his tale.

  "Michael's body was found by his butler at six this evening in the upstairs study of his home on Belgrave Square. A bullet from an Adams .450 revolver caught him right between the eyes and was lodged in his brain. Death was instantaneous."

  "You established the make and caliber of the murder weapon with admirable promptness," commented Holmes.

  "And without difficulty, since the gun was on the floor of the room." MacDonald exhibited a sly smile. "Before you ask, we did check the weapon for fingerprints, and there were none."

  "None at all, or none that could be identified?"

  "The gun had been wiped clean." At a nod from Holmes, the inspector continued. "Besides Michael, there were three other occupants of the house. Herndon, the butler, and his wife, Matilda, who is cook-housekeeper. Also a Miss Vanessa Claremont, who was Michael's ward."

  "Something was nagging at me and now I have it," I ventured. "Miss Claremont is a patient of Dr. Vernier. He has spoken to me of her." Inasmuch as the inspector and Holmes were regarding me with considerable interest, I continued. "Miss Claremont is but twenty-three and suffers from pernicious anemia. Vernier has her on a special diet fortified with liver, but the case bothers him. She weighs but seven stone and is a frail reed indeed."

  MacDonald had a sour look about his mouth. "I'm told that Michael did not treat the poor thing at all well. Perhaps that has colored my thinking. But let me conclude this strange tale," he said with a sigh.

  "Michael was not outside his house the entire day. The mansion itself has a bearing on the case. It contains art objects of considerable value and is something of a fortress. Bars on all the windows and secure locks on stout doors. It was the habit of the household to make sure everything was bolted up come nightfall."

  "Shortly after five this time of year." Holmes' eyes were dreamy with thought.

  MacDonald nodded in agreement. "It was the sound of the firearm that alarmed the butler, Herndon. He came from the servants' quarters on the run to find Vanessa Claremont on the stairs leading to the upstairs study. She said that she had been in her ground-floor quarters when she heard the shot and had started up instinctively but had become frightened."

  "Whereas she might well have fired the gun and started down, for all the butler knew," suggested Holmes.

  "Indeed, sir. In any case, Herndon discovered the body and raced downstairs to summon a constable. Rushing by Miss Claremont, he shouted that the master was dead, at which point she fainted. Fortunately there was an officer close by on the Square and he returned with the butler. Herndon and his wife revived Miss Claremont while the constable notified the Yard and there you are."

  The inspector leaned back in his chair as if relieved to have gotten the main narrative out of the way. He knew that pertinent questions would be asked.

  Holmes was regarding the dancing flames in the hearth fire thoughtfully. "You said there was but one suspect and a seemingly airtight case. Let me see. The house was securely locked about an hour before the fatal shot. I assume that is confirmed by direct testimony?"

  MacDonald nodded. "As was the custom, Herndon checked all the doors and windows shortly after five. Miss Claremont confirms this, since she was cleaning downstairs at the time." Since Holmes made no comment, the inspector continued. "Actually, Miss Claremont was little better than a maid in the establishment. She is the niece of Michael's deceased wife, and the art critic took her in because of a proviso in Mrs. Michael's will. But he did not relish the arrangement and made no effort to conceal his feelings."

  "No love lost between the two." Holmes resumed his musings. "I assume the shot that alerted the household was the one that killed Michael."

  "We had a pathologist on the scene in short order," replied the inspector. "Just as a matter of procedure, since the corpse was still bleeding when the constable got there. He was shot at six for a fact."

  "Your prime suspect is obviously the ward, Vanessa Claremont," stated Holmes. "Motive must point the finger of guilt."

  "Indeed, sir. Neither Herndon, the butler, nor his wife had reason to wish their master dead. On the other hand, Miss Claremont stands to inherit Michael's estate. If she evades the gallows for his murder, that is." The Scot was shaking his head.

  "Miss Claremont had both motive and opportunity. You are still dissatisfied?"

  "Aye, sir. 'Tis the feel."

  "I agree completely," was Sherlock Holmes' surprising response.

  I rose from my chair with a groan. "So it's off to the scene of the crime, is it? I could wish murders would occur during more clement weather."

  My confrere chuckled. "Do resume your seat, old fellow, unless you wish to replenish Mr. Mac's glass. I have no intention of going forth on this night. We shall consider the problem in comfortable surroundings."

  "Will you, now?" MacDonald seemed ruffled, but his manner mellowed when I forced a refill on him along with a cigar.

  "More questions, of course," stated Holmes. "Ramsey Michael went through the motions of being a busy man and he did not stray from his domicile during the day. I assume there were visitors?"

  "Three." The inspector referred to his official notebook. "At one in the afternoon Mr. Ezra Hinshaw consulted with Michael about a lecture at the Tate Museum. He transacted his business rapidly and left in short order. At three, a Vicar Bisbee arrived in hopes of securing a donation for a local charity. Whether Michael complied or not I haven't learned, but the vicar is well known in those parts. He is somewhat deaf and quite nearsighted."

  "We can rule out Bisbee for obvious reasons," remarked Holmes.

  Aside from the vicar's line of work, I could divine no obvious reasons but withheld comment on the matter.

  "Around four-thirty, one Cedric Folks visited Michael. Bit of a ne'er-do-well, that one. Orbits 'round the edge of society as a painter of sorts. Attended Sandhurst but left under something of a cloud. Haven't run him down yet but evidently his visit to Michael was connected with the art world. Folks was not expected at the establishment and Herndon was reluctant to admit him. Folks asked the butler to tell his master that he brought a message from Shadrach."

  "Now that's interesting," said Holmes. "Sounds a bit like a code. I assume Michael agreed to see the fellow?"

  "He instructed the butler to show Folks up to his first-story study. The artist left shortly before five, slamming the front door forcibly. This sound brought the butler into the hall. Michael appeared at the head of the stairs and directed the servant to secure the doors carefully. Herndon told me that Michael appeared angry. It was the last time he saw the art critic alive."

  "Did
the butler make any other comment about this incident?"

  MacDonald's brow furrowed in thought. "Simply that he went through his regular procedure of shooting the bolts on the front door and then checking the windows. Wait a wee bit," the inspector added. "He did say he heard horses' hooves outside and saw Folks' hansom depart."

  Holmes rubbed his hands with satisfaction. "Now, as the butler went about his regular task, Michael returned to his upstairs study I assume?"

  "Yes, sir. As the butler completed his security tour, Miss Claremont went to her room on the ground floor. She engaged in needlework, but her door was open. She stated that neither Herndon nor his wife came from the servant quarters before the shot was fired. Because of the layout of the house, they would have had to pass her door."

  I was intrigued by this. "The prime suspect gives the servants a foolproof alibi. She might better have kept silent on the matter."

  "Incontestable alibis arouse my suspicions," remarked Holmes. "But it is no matter since I have learned what I wish to know. Gentlemen, a prima facie case for your consideration."

  The very manner in which he leaned back in his chair told the story. The calm theorist of Baker Street was ready with another tour de force.

  "Daily study of the journals makes one privy to seemingly odd incidents which prove helpful in solving puzzles. Cedric Folks is attempting a career in art and had a showing recently. In covering the event, Michael stated in print that the painter was obviously trying to emulate the French Impressionist Pissarro, but that his paintings created naught but a false impression. This acid critique elicited much ribald laughter in art circles, and Folks, I must assume, became livid with rage. Recall his stormy departure from the presence of the art critic. You did mention that he slammed the outer door loudly."

  The Scot, his eyes intent on Holmes, nodded briefly.

  "Now, Mr. Mac, regarding the upstairs study where Michael met his end. It is sizeable?"

  "More than thirty feet in length."

  "And the door to the study is adjacent to the staircase?"

  "How did you know that?"

  "To fit my reconstruction, it had to be."

  I thought my friend's smile was somewhat smug but quelled the thought, being on tenterhooks for the denouement.

  Holmes resumed his summation. "Three members of the household, not counting the corpse, and three visitors during the day. The man from the museum and the vicar can be ruled out, surely, for complete lack of motive, not to mention means. But Cedric Folks, the irate artist, had motive. Of the others, the servants are given an alibi by Vanessa Claremont. She had motive. They did not. Miss Claremont has an alibi."

  "If she does, I canna see it."

  "Come now! A frail young woman shoots Michael with a .450 Adams revolver? I doubt she could even manage the trigger pull of such a heavy-caliber weapon. But to expect her to fire it with the accuracy of a marksman over a distance of thirty feet is asking the impossible."

  "Could she not have been close to Michael when she shot him?" MacDonald was far from convinced.

  "Had Miss Claremont been near the victim, the bullet would have torn through his head. You said it was lodged in his brain. Come, come, Inspector; we are speaking of a heavy piece of ordinance with high muzzle velocity."

  MacDonald shot me a sheepish look. "He's right, you know," was his grudging admission.

  "He usually is," I replied.

  "I ruled out your prime suspect promptly," continued Holmes. "When Cedric Folks rushed down the stairs shortly before five, he opened the front door and then slammed it shut without his leaving the house. Instead, he concealed himself within. Behind a convenient sofa, perhaps. The butler, thinking he had left, locked up the house. Outside there was the sound of the departing hansom. When the time seemed right, Folks stole up the stairs, opened the door to the study and, as Michael turned at the sound, he fired from the doorway. He did attend Sandhurst, you said. I'll wager you will learn that he is an excellent shot. Wiping the gun clean, he threw it into the murder room and raced down the stairs to hide below. The body was discovered, the butler rushed outside, and Miss Claremont fainted. At this point Folks escaped from the house unnoticed, though he might have done so later, when the constable arrived and all attention was directed to the first-floor study, where the victim's body lay. There's your case for you, MacDonald, all tied up neatly." The detective directed a smile at me. "And the resolution did not require Watson's braving the elements after all."

  The inspector was shaking his head. "I've a thought that I'm going to look like a fool, but there's one wee matter, Mr. Holmes. If Folks did not leave the house around five, how was it that the hansom that brought him departed?"

  "But that's the whole key to the matter. I can reconstruct what happened but how can you prove it in court? Folks hired the cab and instructed its driver to leave when he slammed the front door. He gave the man a sizeable fee, no doubt. The hansom driver is the tool to force a confession from Folks. Just locate him and you have your witness to the fact that the artist did not leave the Michael mansion at five o'clock."

  At last MacDonald seemed satisfied. "That artist fellow will learn that it doesn't pay to have a temper that matches his hair."

  Holmes' self-satisfied expression vanished. "Let us run that last statement by again, Mr. Mac. You imply that Folks is redheaded?"

  "You don't know him?"

  "Never set eyes on the fellow."

  "Well I suspect there's some Irish in his background, for he is a carrot top and that's a fact."

  MacDonald had risen from his chair and I helped him on with his topcoat. "You've tied him up in a knot, Mr. Holmes, and I'm grateful," continued the Scot, his normally dour expression erased by grim satisfaction.

  Holmes did not share his enthusiasm. "The third caller at the Michael mansion is your murderer, Mr. Mac, but his identity is still to be proven."

  "Come now, Mr. Holmes. You always were one for dotting the is and crossing the ts but I've got my man, thanks to you."

  Holmes shrugged. "Cedric Folks will certainly have to be questioned, but if there is any problem relative to him, we shall speak again on the matter."

  It was after Inspector MacDonald left that Holmes turned toward me with a lazy smile. "At first glance, this matter seemed bizarre indeed. An outré affair. But it was all quite simple, really."

  Surely his words wrote finis to the matter, but his manner did not.

  "Please don't say elementary," I replied. "You surely solved MacDonald's problem, and mine as well since our departure into the night was not necessary at all."

  "In a short while MacDonald may not be as satisfied with the resolution of the Michael death as he is right now. However, we did exonerate Miss Vanessa Claremont, which was the matter of immediate importance. The so-called Cedric Folks is a sticky wicket, I fear."

  "You say so-called?" My query was automatic, for this had to be the fly in Holmes' ointment.

  "A redheaded man presented himself at the Michael abode and called himself Cedric Folks. I have doubts about his being the irate painter."

  "But why? Folks had a motive for wishing to do Michael in."

  "Agreed. Injured pride and rage, fueled by an artistic temperament, can cause feelings to run high, but not often to the white heat required for murder. Then we have the matter of Trelawney to consider."

  "Surely there is no connection."

  "Possibly not. However young Charles Trelawney was the prime suspect because the stationmaster at Shaw saw him get off the six o'clock special. He testified, as I recall, that there were but two arrivals. Charles and a redheaded stranger."

  "Dear me," I mouthed with a frown. "I'd quite forgotten about that. Do you think the same redheaded man . . ."

  Holmes rose briskly to his feet and began pacing the length of our sitting room. "Let us not jump to assumptions, but just consider this as a possibility. We have two murders, with a redheaded man on the scene of both. Not necessarily the same person, but it does give on
e pause. One way to disguise identity is to alter one's appearance, presenting to the unobservant eye an inconspicuous and false figure. Another is to adopt a striking characteristic."

  "Like red hair," I cried suddenly. "You envision an assassin using a wig so that anyone noting his presence would identify him as being redheaded. Which, of course, he is not," I added, and was rather pleased with my understanding of Holmes' idea.

  "We are in agreement on that last point," said the sleuth, returning to his favorite chair beside the fire.

  "But wait. Holmes, are you not running far afield? Could not the banker Trelawney have been killed by Horace Ledbetter? Mightn't Michael have been shot by the real Cedric Folks in the manner you outlined to MacDonald?"

  "Agreed on both points," replied Holmes with a prompt acceptance that made me suspicious.

  "Yet something got your hackles up," I continued. "Some clue perhaps?" My voice dwindled away as I racked my brains to no avail.

  There was a mischievous twinkle in Holmes' sharp eyes. "The third caller on the departed Michael made a singular statement to the butler, Herndon."

  "A message from Shadrach?" I said, dredging words from my memory. "You suggested a code."

  "Sounds like one." Holmes' relaxed thoughtful mood vanished and his expression sharpened. "But I have played you false, good fellow. I do have certain information that you are not privy to. Evidently MacDonald as well, since he made no mention of it."

  Holmes was gazing into the fireplace. A silence fell between us which I did not break, knowing well that he was considering a theory.

  Finally he spoke and I imagined a trace of approval in his tone, as though his analysis had withstood the tests he placed upon it. "Ramsey Michael on several occasions has flitted on the periphery of investigations that came our way. There was the Bishopegate Jewel Case, for one.* But no matter. The point is that he maintained a considerable establishment, was able to gather a collection of costly objects, and enjoyed a certain reputation as an art critic, an occupation not noteworthy for its direct remuneration."

  *Spelling used by Watson. Was there another Bishopgate case?