THE ADVENTURE OF THE NORWOOD BUILDER

Arthur Conan Doyle

"From the point of view of the criminal expert," said Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, "London has become a singularly uninteresting city since the
death of the late lamented Professor Moriarty."

"I can hardly think that you would find many decent citizens to agree
with you," I answered.

"Well, well, I must not be selfish," said he, with a smile, as he

pushed back his chair from the breakfast-table. "The community is
certainly the gainer, and no one the loser, save the poor out-of-work
specialist, whose occupation has gone. With that man in the field
one's morning paper presented infinite possibilities. Often it was
only the smallest trace, Watson, the faintest indication, and yet it
was enough to tell me that the great malignant brain was there, as
the gentlest tremors of the edges of the web remind one of the foul
spider which lurks in the centre. Petty thefts, wanton assaults,
purposeless outrage--to the man who held the clue all could be worked
into one connected whole. To the scientific student of the higher
criminal world no capital in Europe offered the advantages which
London then possessed. But now--" He shrugged his shoulders in
humorous deprecation of the state of things which he had himself done
so much to produce.

At the time of which I speak Holmes had been back for some months,
and I, at his request, had sold my practice and returned to share the
old quarters in Baker Street. A young doctor, named Verner, had
purchased my small Kensington practice, and given with astonishingly
little demur the highest price that I ventured to ask--an incident
which only explained itself some years later when I found that Verner
was a distant relation of Holmes's, and that it was my friend who had
really found the money.

Our months of partnership had not been so uneventful as he had

stated, for I find, on looking over my notes, that this period
includes the case of the papers of Ex-President Murillo, and also the
shocking affair of the Dutch steamship Friesland, which so nearly
cost us both our lives. His cold and proud nature was always averse,
however, to anything in the shape of public applause, and he bound me
in the most stringent terms to say no further word of himself, his
methods, or his successes--a prohibition which, as I have explained,
has only now been removed.

Mr. Sherlock Holmes was leaning back in his chair after his whimsical
protest, and was unfolding his morning paper in a leisurely fashion,
when our attention was arrested by a tremendous ring at the bell,
followed immediately by a hollow drumming sound, as if someone were
beating on the outer door with his fist. As it opened there came a
tumultuous rush into the hall, rapid feet clattered up the stair, and
an instant later a wild-eyed and frantic young man, pale,
dishevelled, and palpitating, burst into the room. He looked from one
to the other of us, and under our gaze of inquiry he became conscious
that some apology was needed for this unceremonious entry.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," he cried. "You mustn't blame me. I am nearly
mad. Mr. Holmes, I am the unhappy John Hector McFarlane."

He made the announcement as if the name alone would explain both his
visit and its manner; but I could see by my companion's unresponsive
face that it meant no more to him than to me.

"Have a cigarette, Mr. McFarlane," said he, pushing his case across.
"I am sure that with your symptoms my friend Dr. Watson here would
prescribe a sedative. The weather has been so very warm these last
few days. Now, if you feel a little more composed, I should be glad
if you would sit down in that chair and tell us very slowly and
quietly who you are and what it is that you want. You mentioned your
name as if I should recognise it, but I assure you that, beyond the
obvious facts that you are a bachelor, a solicitor, a Freemason, and
an asthmatic, I know nothing whatever about you."

Familiar as I was with my friend's methods, it was not difficult for

me to follow his deductions, and to observe the untidiness of attire,
the sheaf of legal papers, the watch-charm, and the breathing which
had prompted them. Our client, however, stared in amazement.

"Yes, I am all that, Mr. Holmes, and in addition I am the most

unfortunate man at this moment in London. For Heaven's sake don't
abandon me, Mr. Holmes! If they come to arrest me before I have
finished my story, make them give me time so that I may tell you the
whole truth. I could go to jail happy if I knew that you were working
for me outside."

"Arrest you!" said Holmes. "This is really most grati--most

interesting. On what charge do you expect to be arrested?"

"Upon the charge of murdering Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of Lower Norwood."

My companion's expressive face showed a sympathy which was not, I am

afraid, entirely unmixed with satisfaction.

"Dear me," said he; "it was only this moment at breakfast that I was
saying to my friend, Dr. Watson, that sensational cases had
disappeared out of our papers."

Our visitor stretched forward a quivering hand and picked up the

Daily Telegraph, which still lay upon Holmes's knee.

"If you had looked at it, sir, you would have seen at a glance what
the errand is on which I have come to you this morning. I feel as if
my name and my misfortune must be in every man's mouth." He turned it
over to expose the central page. "Here it is, and with your
permission I will read it to you. Listen to this, Mr. Holmes. The
head-lines are: 'Mysterious Affair at Lower Norwood. Disappearance of
a Well-known Builder. Suspicion of Murder and Arson. A Clue to the
Criminal.' That is the clue which they are already following, Mr.
Holmes, and I know that it leads infallibly to me. I have been
followed from London Bridge Station, and I am sure that they are only
waiting for the warrant to arrest me. It will break my mother's
heart--it will break her heart!" He wrung his hands in an agony of
apprehension, and swayed backwards and forwards in his chair.
I looked with interest upon this man, who was accused of being the
perpetrator of a crime of violence. He was flaxen-haired and handsome
in a washed-out negative fashion, with frightened blue eyes and a
clean-shaven face, with a weak, sensitive mouth. His age may have
been about twenty-seven; his dress and bearing that of a gentleman.
From the pocket of his light summer overcoat protruded the bundle of
endorsed papers which proclaimed his profession.

"We must use what time we have," said Holmes. "Watson, would you have
the kindness to take the paper and to read me the paragraph in
question?"

Underneath the vigorous head-lines which our client had quoted I read
the following suggestive narrative:--

"Late last night, or early this morning, an incident occurred at

Lower Norwood which points, it is feared, to a serious crime. Mr.
Jonas Oldacre is a well-known resident of that suburb, where he has
carried on his business as a builder for many years. Mr. Oldacre is a
bachelor, fifty-two years of age, and lives in Deep Dene House, at
the Sydenham end of the road of that name. He has had the reputation
of being a man of eccentric habits, secretive and retiring. For some
years he has practically withdrawn from the business, in which he is
said to have amassed considerable wealth. A small timber-yard still
exists, however, at the back of the house, and last night, about
twelve o'clock, an alarm was given that one of the stacks was on
fire. The engines were soon upon the spot, but the dry wood burned
with great fury, and it was impossible to arrest the conflagration
until the stack had been entirely consumed. Up to this point the
incident bore the appearance of an ordinary accident, but fresh
indications seem to point to serious crime. Surprise was expressed at
the absence of the master of the establishment from the scene of the
fire, and an inquiry followed, which showed that he had disappeared
from the house. An examination of his room revealed that the bed had
not been slept in, that a safe which stood in it was open, that a
number of important papers were scattered about the room, and,
finally, that there were signs of a murderous struggle, slight traces
of blood being found within the room, and an oaken walking-stick,
which also showed stains of blood upon the handle. It is known that
Mr. Jonas Oldacre had received a late visitor in his bedroom upon
that night, and the stick found has been identified as the property
of this person, who is a young London solicitor named John Hector
McFarlane, junior partner of Graham and McFarlane, of 426, Gresham
Buildings, E.C. The police believe that they have evidence in their
possession which supplies a very convincing motive for the crime, and
altogether it cannot be doubted that sensational developments will
follow.
"Later.--It is rumoured as we go to press that Mr. John Hector
McFarlane has actually been arrested on the charge of the murder of
Mr. Jonas Oldacre. It is at least certain that a warrant has been
issued. There have been further and sinister developments in the
investigation at Norwood. Besides the signs of a struggle in the room
of the unfortunate builder it is now known that the French windows of
his bedroom (which is on the ground floor) were found to be open,
that there were marks as if some bulky object had been dragged across
to the wood-pile, and, finally, it is asserted that charred remains
have been found among the charcoal ashes of the fire. The police
theory is that a most sensational crime has been committed, that the
victim was clubbed to death in his own bedroom, his papers rifled,
and his dead body dragged across to the wood-stack, which was then
ignited so as to hide all traces of the crime. The conduct of the
criminal investigation has been left in the experienced hands of
Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, who is following up the clues
with his accustomed energy and sagacity."

Sherlock Holmes listened with closed eyes and finger-tips together to

this remarkable account.

"The case has certainly some points of interest," said he, in his
languid fashion. "May I ask, in the first place, Mr. McFarlane, how
it is that you are still at liberty, since there appears to be enough
evidence to justify your arrest?"

"I live at Torrington Lodge, Blackheath, with my parents, Mr. Holmes;

but last night, having to do business very late with Mr. Jonas
Oldacre, I stayed at an hotel in Norwood, and came to my business
from there. I knew nothing of this affair until I was in the train,
when I read what you have just heard. I at once saw the horrible
danger of my position, and I hurried to put the case into your hands.
I have no doubt that I should have been arrested either at my City
office or at my home. A man followed me from London Bridge Station,
and I have no doubt--Great Heaven, what is that?"

It was a clang of the bell, followed instantly by heavy steps upon

the stair. A moment later our old friend Lestrade appeared in the
doorway. Over his shoulder I caught a glimpse of one or two uniformed
policemen outside.

"Mr. John Hector McFarlane?" said Lestrade.

Our unfortunate client rose with a ghastly face.

"I arrest you for the wilful murder of Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of Lower
Norwood."

McFarlane turned to us with a gesture of despair, and sank into his

chair once more like one who is crushed.

"One moment, Lestrade," said Holmes. "Half an hour more or less can
make no difference to you, and the gentleman was about to give us an
account of this very interesting affair, which might aid us in
clearing it up."

"I think there will be no difficulty in clearing it up," said

Lestrade, grimly.

"None the less, with your permission, I should be much interested to

hear his account."

"Well, Mr. Holmes, it is difficult for me to refuse you anything, for

you have been of use to the force once or twice in the past, and we
owe you a good turn at Scotland Yard," said Lestrade. "At the same
time I must remain with my prisoner, and I am bound to warn him that
anything he may say will appear in evidence against him."

"I wish nothing better," said our client. "All I ask is that you
should hear and recognise the absolute truth."
Lestrade looked at his watch. "I'll give you half an hour," said he.

"I must explain first," said McFarlane, "that I knew nothing of Mr.
Jonas Oldacre. His name was familiar to me, for many years ago my
parents were acquainted with him, but they drifted apart. I was very
much surprised, therefore, when yesterday, about three o'clock in the
afternoon, he walked into my office in the City. But I was still more
astonished when he told me the object of his visit. He had in his
hand several sheets of a note-book, covered with scribbled
writing--here they are--and he laid them on my table.

"'Here is my will,' said he. 'I want you, Mr. McFarlane, to cast it
into proper legal shape. I will sit here while you do so.'

"I set myself to copy it, and you can imagine my astonishment when I
found that, with some reservations, he had left all his property to
me. He was a strange little, ferret-like man, with white eyelashes,
and when I looked up at him I found his keen grey eyes fixed upon me
with an amused expression. I could hardly believe my own senses as I
read the terms of the will; but he explained that he was a bachelor
with hardly any living relation, that he had known my parents in his
youth, and that he had always heard of me as a very deserving young
man, and was assured that his money would be in worthy hands. Of
course, I could only stammer out my thanks. The will was duly
finished, signed, and witnessed by my clerk. This is it on the blue
paper, and these slips, as I have explained, are the rough draft. Mr.
Jonas Oldacre then informed me that there were a number of
documents--building leases, title-deeds, mortgages, scrip, and so
forth--which it was necessary that I should see and understand. He
said that his mind would not be easy until the whole thing was
settled, and he begged me to come out to his house at Norwood that
night, bringing the will with me, and to arrange matters. 'Remember,
my boy, not one word to your parents about the affair until
everything is settled. We will keep it as a little surprise for
them.' He was very insistent upon this point, and made me promise it
faithfully.

"You can imagine, Mr. Holmes, that I was not in a humour to refuse
him anything that he might ask. He was my benefactor, and all my
desire was to carry out his wishes in every particular. I sent a
telegram home, therefore, to say that I had important business on
hand, and that it was impossible for me to say how late I might be.
Mr. Oldacre had told me that he would like me to have supper with him
at nine, as he might not be home before that hour. I had some
difficulty in finding his house, however, and it was nearly half-past
before I reached it. I found him--"

"One moment!" said Holmes. "Who opened the door?"

"A middle-aged woman, who was, I suppose, his housekeeper."

"And it was she, I presume, who mentioned your name?"

"Exactly," said McFarlane.

"Pray proceed."

McFarlane wiped his damp brow and then continued his narrative:--
"I was shown by this woman into a sitting-room, where a frugal supper
was laid out. Afterwards Mr. Jonas Oldacre led me into his bedroom,
in which there stood a heavy safe. This he opened and took out a mass
of documents, which we went over together. It was between eleven and
twelve when we finished. He remarked that we must not disturb the
housekeeper. He showed me out through his own French window, which
had been open all this time."

"Was the blind down?" asked Holmes.

"I will not be sure, but I believe that it was only half down. Yes, I
remember how he pulled it up in order to swing open the window. I
could not find my stick, and he said, 'Never mind, my boy; I shall
see a good deal of you now, I hope, and I will keep your stick until
you come back to claim it.' I left him there, the safe open, and the
papers made up in packets upon the table. It was so late that I could
not get back to Blackheath, so I spent the night at the Anerley Arms,
and I knew nothing more until I read of this horrible affair in the
morning."

"Anything more that you would like to ask, Mr. Holmes?" said
Lestrade, whose eyebrows had gone up once or twice during this
remarkable explanation.

"Not until I have been to Blackheath."

"You mean to Norwood," said Lestrade.

"Oh, yes; no doubt that is what I must have meant," said Holmes, with
his enigmatical smile. Lestrade had learned by more experiences than
he would care to acknowledge that that razor-like brain could cut
through that which was impenetrable to him. I saw him look curiously
at my companion.

"I think I should like to have a word with you presently, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes," said he. "Now, Mr. McFarlane, two of my constables
are at the door and there is a four-wheeler waiting." The wretched
young man arose, and with a last beseeching glance at us walked from
the room. The officers conducted him to the cab, but Lestrade
remained.

Holmes had picked up the pages which formed the rough draft of the
will, and was looking at them with the keenest interest upon his
face.

"There are some points about that document, Lestrade, are there not?"
said he, pushing them over.

The official looked at them with a puzzled expression.

"I can read the first few lines, and these in the middle of the
second page, and one or two at the end. Those are as clear as print,"
said he; "but the writing in between is very bad, and there are three
places where I cannot read it at all."

"What do you make of that?" said Holmes.

"Well, what do you make of it?"

"That it was written in a train; the good writing represents
stations, the bad writing movement, and the very bad writing passing
over points. A scientific expert would pronounce at once that this
was drawn up on a suburban line, since nowhere save in the immediate
vicinity of a great city could there be so quick a succession of
points. Granting that his whole journey was occupied in drawing up
the will, then the train was an express, only stopping once between
Norwood and London Bridge."

Lestrade began to laugh.

"You are too many for me when you begin to get on your theories, Mr.
Holmes," said he. "How does this bear on the case?"

"Well, it corroborates the young man's story to the extent that the
will was drawn up by Jonas Oldacre in his journey yesterday. It is
curious--is it not?--that a man should draw up so important a
document in so haphazard a fashion. It suggests that he did not think
it was going to be of much practical importance. If a man drew up a
will which he did not intend ever to be effective he might do it so."

"Well, he drew up his own death-warrant at the same time," said

Lestrade.

"Oh, you think so?"

"Don't you?"

"Well, it is quite possible; but the case is not clear to me yet."

"Not clear? Well, if that isn't clear, what could be clear? Here is a
young man who learns suddenly that if a certain older man dies he
will succeed to a fortune. What does he do? He says nothing to
anyone, but he arranges that he shall go out on some pretext to see
his client that night; he waits until the only other person in the
house is in bed, and then in the solitude of a man's room he murders
him, burns his body in the wood-pile, and departs to a neighbouring
hotel. The blood-stains in the room and also on the stick are very
slight. It is probable that he imagined his crime to be a bloodless
one, and hoped that if the body were consumed it would hide all
traces of the method of his death--traces which for some reason must
have pointed to him. Is all this not obvious?"

"It strikes me, my good Lestrade, as being just a trifle too

obvious," said Holmes. "You do not add imagination to your other
great qualities; but if you could for one moment put yourself in the
place of this young man, would you choose the very night after the
will had been made to commit your crime? Would it not seem dangerous
to you to make so very close a relation between the two incidents?
Again, would you choose an occasion when you are known to be in the
house, when a servant has let you in? And, finally, would you take
the great pains to conceal the body and yet leave your own stick as a
sign that you were the criminal? Confess, Lestrade, that all this is
very unlikely."

"As to the stick, Mr. Holmes, you know as well as I do that a

criminal is often flurried and does things which a cool man would
avoid. He was very likely afraid to go back to the room. Give me
another theory that would fit the facts."

"I could very easily give you half-a-dozen," said Holmes. "Here, for
example, is a very possible and even probable one. I make you a free
present of it. The older man is showing documents which are of
evident value. A passing tramp sees them through the window, the
blind of which is only half down. Exit the solicitor. Enter the
tramp! He seizes a stick, which he observes there, kills Oldacre, and
departs after burning the body."

"Why should the tramp burn the body?"

"For the matter of that why should McFarlane?"

"To hide some evidence."

"Possibly the tramp wanted to hide that any murder at all had been
committed."

"And why did the tramp take nothing?"

"Because they were papers that he could not negotiate."

Lestrade shook his head, though it seemed to me that his manner was
less absolutely assured than before.

"Well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you may look for your tramp, and while
you are finding him we will hold on to our man. The future will show
which is right. Just notice this point, Mr. Holmes: that so far as we
know none of the papers were removed, and that the prisoner is the
one man in the world who had no reason for removing them, since he
was heir-at-law and would come into them in any case."

My friend seemed struck by this remark.

"I don't mean to deny that the evidence is in some ways very strongly
in favour of your theory," said he. "I only wish to point out that
there are other theories possible. As you say, the future will
decide. Good morning! I dare say that in the course of the day I
shall drop in at Norwood and see how you are getting on."

When the detective departed my friend rose and made his preparations
for the day's work with the alert air of a man who has a congenial
task before him.

"My first movement, Watson," said he, as he bustled into his

frock-coat, "must, as I said, be in the direction of Blackheath."

"And why not Norwood?"

"Because we have in this case one singular incident coming close to

the heels of another singular incident. The police are making the
mistake of concentrating their attention upon the second, because it
happens to be the one which is actually criminal. But it is evident
to me that the logical way to approach the case is to begin by trying
to throw some light upon the first incident--the curious will, so
suddenly made, and to so unexpected an heir. It may do something to
simplify what followed. No, my dear fellow, I don't think you can
help me. There is no prospect of danger, or I should not dream of
stirring out without you. I trust that when I see you in the evening
I will be able to report that I have been able to do something for
this unfortunate youngster who has thrown himself upon my
protection."

It was late when my friend returned, and I could see by a glance at

his haggard and anxious face that the high hopes with which he had
started had not been fulfilled. For an hour he droned away upon his
violin, endeavouring to soothe his own ruffled spirits. At last he
flung down the instrument and plunged into a detailed account of his
misadventures.

"It's all going wrong, Watson--all as wrong as it can go. I kept a

bold face before Lestrade, but, upon my soul, I believe that for once
the fellow is on the right track and we are on the wrong. All my
instincts are one way and all the facts are the other, and I much