The pastor turned around to look for Mr Parker just as the detective was returning. He brought back the newspaper which he had taken with him in his fit of distress.
We lingered for another hour or so conversing politely and then bade the pastor farewell.
We returned home on foot, along the same path past the coast and cemetery.
“I am at somewhat of a loss, Watson,” said Holmes, when I asked him whether he had found anything out of the ordinary in Barlow’s study. “What I saw at the good pastor’s house has raised more questions than furnished answers.”
“What do you mean?”
“The first thing that caught my eye was the pastor’s reaction when he realised that we had seen his previous visitor. Did you see how he grew pale?”
“Indeed, he was not pleased when we mentioned it.”
“I must find out this gentleman’s name,” said Holmes.
“That will not be easy. Barlow will certainly not tell us. Perhaps we could find out by means of the automobile; surely there will not be many of them driving around Surrey!”
“A capital idea, my friend!” said Holmes. “It had occurred to me as well, but I have devised another way to find out more quickly.”
With these words he removed the front page of Barlow’s newspaper from his breast pocket. Apparently he had torn it away when he had disappeared with it into the pastor’s study. “As always, when I need to know something I can consult the daily paper!”
“Is there an article in it about that man?” I inquired.
“Certainly not, but the paper hides the answer we seek,” said the detective smiling. “The ink on the cheque over which the pastor placed this newspaper was wet. You see, the outlines of letters are visible!”
I studied the paper in the places that Holmes indicated. Though practically illegible, in several places you could nevertheless trace the mirrored print of the signature on the cheque and the amount.
“With a magnifying glass, a good light and a little bit of luck we will be able to decipher the signature!”
“So that is why you contrived to enter the house!”
“Yes, and to search Barlow’s study. I had already been in it several times, but always just for a short while, and I had no reason to search it until today. Several things surprised me.”
As usual he kept me in suspense before revealing his findings, but this time I did not urge him. I waited until he spoke, which presently he did.
“The queerest thing was his bookshelf. Barlow has an impressive collection of books and publications about beekeeping, but all of them are brand new. Untouched, unread, and judging by the dust on the shelves, unused. In the desk drawers I also found a bill for a new bee colony, which he ordered about a year ago. It seems that before that he did not have any at all!”
I realised what he was insinuating.
“Nevertheless, he always presented himself as a passionate beekeeper with years of experience. He also helped me resolve a great many problems.”
“Yes, he told me,” I said.
“But now that I think about it, I have never actually seen him in direct contact with bees. I always took his advice, and it always proved sound!”
By the end of the journey Holmes and I had come to the conclusion that the pastor could only have received the advice from a third person and had been merely dissimulating a love of bees. This, of course, could only mean one thing: his friendship with Holmes had been a calculated move. As unpleasant and painful as this thought was, the detective had no doubt.
“It grieves me, but I have encountered far stranger things,” Holmes said coldly. “It reminds me that in this world I can trust only you and my brother.”
Indeed, that evening Mycroft Holmes, about whom the detective spoke so affectionately, sent us a telegram that tested at least one part of this assertion.
III: The Letter Written in Blue Blood
In the letter, which arrived in the afternoon mail, Mycroft insisted that Holmes come to London post-haste. It was impossible to leave that same day, so the detective asked Mrs Hudson to reserve a place on the morning train. He carelessly tossed aside the telegram, saying that he would devote the rest of the evening to examining the letters on the cheque imprint.
While my imagination and curiosity ran wild and I ruminated about what could have prompted the usually reserved Mycroft to write such a feverish telegram, Holmes withdrew and calmly studied the markings and lines of the ink print.
“Are you not even the least bit interested why he wants to see us?” I asked.
“There is doubtlessly a compelling reason, one that involves the search for my killer. I could pace nervously until tomorrow, but that would be to no purpose. I prefer to focus on matters of significance.”
He returned to his work and did not raise his head again until well into the night. I let him be and picked up a book, which I scarcely read. Instead I reviewed the events of the day. I had no doubt that Holmes would get even with the treacherous priest, but now it was imperative that we not frighten him off. One clue was the cheque and the signature of the unknown man, whose involvement in the plot we so far only suspected. Could the cheque have been payment for delivering the deadly tobacco?
Holmes finished his analysis only after midnight. Waverley[10] had just conquered Edinburgh, and his adventures had successfully helped me ward off sleep.
I knew that his work was finished when he set aside the magnifying glass, stretched out and cracked his knuckles. I hated that sound, but he did it unwittingly.
“Did you find what you expected?”
“Only partially.”
He switched off his desk lamp and brought a piece of paper covered in writing to the light of the fire. On it he had copied the lines of the ink print from the pastor’s newspaper in order to decipher the signature.
“The first thing that I discovered, under the assumption that the cheque was indeed a payment for Barlow’s services, is that the market price for my death is two thousand pounds,” said the detective. “That is a rather handsome sum for a retired beekeeper, wouldn’t you say? Some of my contemporaries do not command even a fraction of this price.”
I did not find his dark humour amusing, but he cackled with delight.
“As for the rest, the results are inconclusive.”
“You were unable to determine the name?”
“Not entirely, though I have narrowed the possibilities. The ink print is of poor quality. I dare say, however, that the man’s first name is Robert or Rupert. Do you see, the first letter R is visible, and the second letter must be either o or u.”
He showed me the paper on which he had examined and connected the lines.
“The third letter is illegible, but is clearly followed by an e. The last two letters are without doubt r and t. Alas, it is impossible to decipher more of the first name.”
Indeed, the rest was only some illegible squiggles.
“On the other hand, I am certain that the initial of his middle name is H,” Holmes continued. “The surname then starts with the letter D, the next several letters are unclear, and the last four letters are without a doubt ford.”
“At least this can lead us in the right direction.”
“Certainly. Another clue is that luxurious automobile. Perhaps I can deduct even more from the letters, though of course only trifles.”
“What else besides the man’s name can be determined?”