Watson. Very wrong.”
Holmes thrust his grimy handkerchief into his pocket, and we returned to the house in silence.
Slowly we retraced our steps through the corridors. As we turned a corner, Holmes suddenly cried out and fell to his knees.
“Light, Watson!”
I held the lamp near. Nose almost to the floorboards, Holmes extended a finger and delicately brushed a small spot of white powder at the edge of the cocoa-nut matting. It glinted in the light.
“Holmes, is that glass?”
“Yes, Watson!” He raised his face, eyes shining with excitement. “I have been a fool, and you may remind me of the fact whenever I become enamoured of my own genius. In this matter we are now in complete agreement: the Dowager Duchess of Penfield is innocent of this crime.”
“You are truly convinced of her innocence because of a dusting of powdered glass?” I cried. “But how?”
“Through the application of logic, my dear fellow.” Rising, Holmes snatched the lamp from my hands and scrutinized the corridor. “Ah!”
Lamp held high, he strode down the hall until he reached a corner. Bending low, he examined another small spot on the matting.
“More glass?” I asked, frowning. “How can this be significant?”
He glanced up at me. “Where have we recently encountered a quantity of such glass?”
“In the drawing room where the emeralds were displayed.”
“This pulverised glass is the very same glass used in the jewels’s display case.”
“Can you be certain it is that particular glass? Perhaps a servant broke a goblet or bottle, and a shard was crushed underfoot.”
“You may remember the monograph I wrote on the chemical composition of varieties of glass as evidenced through the spectrum, Watson. This is not crystal, nor common pressed glass, nor is it the glass generally used for window-panes. It displays the identical colour signature as the crushed remains of the case.”
We followed the faint traces of powdered glass through the house. His gaze fixed upon the floor, Holmes cast about with the lamp, as if he were a modern-day Diogenes. Passing servants looked upon us with confusion, but none dared interrupt.
“What have you found?” I asked as he bent over at the back of an odd little alcove.
He straightened, his keen eyes glinting in the lamplight, and raised his arm. A length of heavy, dark fabric cascaded from his hand.
“It is a cloak,” he replied, folding it over his arm. “With a hood.”
“Perhaps a servant dropped it,” I said, although my assertion sounded feeble even to my ears.
“Perhaps. But does its presence here not suggest another possibility?”
I frowned. “Not to me. The cloak cannot be germane to the problem at hand, for this niche does not lead anywhere. Look about you; there are no doors or windows, nor even a cupboard where the thief could hide.”
Holmes turned and started back the way we had come. “Watson, recall the words of our colleague, Mr Athelney Jones. We must deal with facts.”
I trailed behind him. “Even if those facts are meaningless as a whole?”
“Ah, but are they truly meaningless?” He glanced back at me over his shoulder. “Come, Watson. You know my methods; use them. There is only one way to assemble these facts into a meaningful pattern.”
He stopped before the baize door leading to the receiving room and set down the lamp. I folded my arms. “What does the evidence reveal to you?”
“Why, everything,” Holmes replied lightly, as he opened the door.
“Everything? Including the name of the thief?”
“Everything, Watson. Including the names of the thieves.” He walked into the receiving room, the door swinging closed behind him.
“Wait, Holmes!” I dashed through the door. “Thieves?”
Much to my aggravation, Holmes refused to say more. Instead of answering my questions, he sent a young constable for Mr Athelney Jones.
Before Jones arrived, I heard a quiet cough at my shoulder and turned.
Carolus bowed. “I beg your pardon, Doctor.”
“Yes?”
“Her Grace requests your presence.”
“Certainly.”
I excused myself and followed Carolus to the chamber where the dowager duchess rested. Sheppington still sat by her side.
“At last!” he cried, leaping to his feet.
Denbeigh ceased pacing and looked at me expectantly.
“My mother wishes—” began Denbeigh, breaking off when Her Grace raised her hand.
“Thank you for responding so promptly, Doctor,” she said. “Has Mr Holmes any solution to the mysterious events surrounding the theft of the emeralds that will clear me of suspicion?”
I sat beside her in the chair vacated by the viscount.
“You understand I cannot speak for Holmes,” I said. “Rest assured, however, that his investigations will soon be concluded, and they are leading in an entirely different direction.”
“I should hope so!” Denbeigh said, posture rigid.
“I am glad to hear it.” She sighed, and for an instant I glimpsed the deeply troubled woman beneath the public persona. The moment passed quickly as she exerted her iron will and continued: “I am certain that I have recovered sufficiently to return home, yet agree with Maurice and Hilary that it would be prudent to request your opinion before venturing forth.”
“Very sensible,” I replied. My examination was of necessity superficial, and when I had finished, I released her wrist with a smile. “You are a remarkable woman.”
She laughed. “You forgot to add ‘for my age,’ Doctor.”
“For a woman of any age,” I asserted and helped her to rise.
Although her step was firm and her carriage erect, she leaned heavily upon me as we slowly walked down the corridor, followed closely by Denbeigh and Sheppington.
We gained the receiving room, where Holmes, no longer carrying the cloak, stood deep in conference with Jones. Carolus listened at a respectful distance.
“A moment, Doctor,” she said, releasing my arm. “Mr Holmes, I believe you have made progress in your investigation?”
“I have indeed,” said Holmes. “If you will permit me to detain you for a few minutes, I would like to demonstrate how
