"We have just had a little run-round in the boat," he explained, as they stepped ashore.
"And?" said MacGlevin.
"The case is now complete."
We returned to Kilbuie to find the hotel in tumult. Luggage of all kinds was heaped up in confusion in the entrance-hall, so that we had to shuffle sideways to get past.
Doctor Oliphant ran up to us as we entered, his face a picture of agitation.
"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded of MacPherson in a shrill voice. "It is absolutely vital that I reach home this evening. I have an important lecture to deliver in Edinburgh tomorrow night, and I must have a day to prepare my notes. The coach is not here, and when I inquire why not, I am
informed that it is held by order of the police!" His voice rose to a breathless cry. "This is an outrage! You have no right to detain a public coach! If it does not leave soon, we shall miss the connecting train!"
Murdoch MacLeod stepped forward, wringing his hands with anxiety.
"What is going on?" he queried in a hopeless voice. "Can you explain, Constable?"
"This is highly irregular," said Hamish Morton. "They tell us the coach cannot leave, but my wife and I must be back in Glasgow tonight, and Mrs Baird Duthie, too, is anxious to be away. Should we make our own arrangements?"
MacPherson pulled an enormous watch out of his pocket, and consulted it for a moment.
"You'll all get where you're going," he said shortly. "If you would just step through into the dining-room for a moment – "
The hotel servants were setting the tables for lunch, and looked up in surprise as we all filed in and arranged ourselves as best we could, here and there about the room. Old Mrs Baird Duthie was the last to shuffle in, Angus Johnstone supporting her elbow. His brother brought a chair forward for her and relieved her of her stick, and she sat down heavily. All eyes were on Sherlock Holmes, who stood patiently until everyone was settled, his hands behind his back.
"Now," said he at length. "A serious and ingenious crime has been committed. The famous MacGlevin Buckle has been stolen from the museum on the Island of Uffa. It must be returned to its rightful owner." He glanced at MacGlevin, who was standing with his arms folded by the doorway, a brooding expression on his face.
"It is, of course, most unfortunate," said Doctor Oliphant; "but what is it to us?"
"The buckle is in this hotel," returned Holmes. "Constable MacPherson and his deputed officers therefore propose to search the building until they find it."
There were loud groans about the room.
"Why, man, that could take days!" said Angus Johnstone.
"Let us make a start, then," said Homes. "beginning with that." His long thin finger indicated the small leather and canvas satchel which hung from Mrs Morton's shoulder.
"But this contains only my painting and sketching things," said she, rising to her feet, the expression on her face a mixture of surprise and indignation.
"Will you open it, Madam, or shall I?" inquired MacPherson.
Reluctantly, she lowered the little bag to the floor, and began to unfasten the straps. "This is an absurd waste of time," said she, as she tipped the contents of the bag onto the carpet. I craned forward to see. There were numerous tubes of paint, several brushes and pencils tied up in a ribbon, a palette, a pad of paper, and a very dirty rag, stained with every colour of the rainbow.
"Kindly unfold that cloth," said Holmes.
"It is dirty," said she. "It is only the rag I wipe my paintbrushes on. I shall soil my gloves – "
Even as she was speaking, Holmes leaned quickly down and unfolded the screwed-up cloth. There in the middle of the multicoloured wrapping, lay a large and ornate silver buckle. There were gasps all round the room, and, in that split second of quiet, Hamish Morton suddenly shot from his seat and bolted for the door. He had his hand on the door-knob, but MacGlevin, too, was quick, and grabbed him in a smothering embrace.
"You fool!" cried Mrs Morton to her husband, in a harsh voice. " 'Let's leave Glasgow,' you said. 'Let's get away and lie low for a while'! But you just couldn't resist this, could you! And now see what you have done!"
It was startling to hear the violent tones of the woman's voice, and almost made my hair stand on end. Her husband, held tightly in the bear-like grip of the Laird of Uffa, made no response. Next instant, my blood ran cold, for with a quick, darting movement, her hand had dipped into her reticule and re-emerged gripping an evil-looking little revolver.
"Stand aside, all of you!" she said in a cold, clear voice, as she pointed the gun menacingly, from one person to another. "This pistol is loaded, and I am quite prepared to use it."
I saw Holmes catch the eye of Fergus Johnstone, then he spoke. "Mrs Morton," said he. For a fraction of a second, she turned her head, and in that instant, in a blur of movement, the gun was dashed from her hand. Fergus Johnstone, who had been standing a little to the side of her, had brought down the old lady's walking-stick on her wrist with a loud crack. Mrs
Morton cried wildly with pain, and clutched her wrist, and Holmes stepped forward quickly and picked up the gun. In a minute MacPherson had whistled up his special constables and the prisoners had been taken away. Then MacGlevin stepped forward to where his precious heirloom still lay on the paint-smeared rag. With an air of reverence, he picked it up. As he did so, there came a further surprise, for there lying beneath it was an exquisite little silver clasp, set with creamy pearls.
"Mrs Formartine's brooch!" cried MacLeod, almost beside himself with joy.
Some two hours later, after lunch, we were all seated in the drawing-room of the hotel. The Mortons were safely under guard at the local police station, awaiting an escort to take them to Inverness. Doctor Oliphant and Mrs Baird Duthie had long since departed, and the Loch Echil Hotel had returned to an atmosphere of normality.
"I cannot thank you enough," said Alexander Grice Paterson to Holmes. "Without your intervention, I dread to think what might have become of us."
"I regret I was a little heated," said MacGlevin in a sheepish tone, holding out his hand to the man he had accused. "I just couldna' think how anyone could've taken it but you."
"That is all right," said the other, accepting MacGlevin's hand. "Let's forgive and forget. What I'd like to know is how you got to the bottom of the matter so quickly, Mr Holmes."
"It was not difficult. I will give you a full explanation when Constable… Ah! MacPherson! We were just speaking of you."
"Please excuse the delay, Gentlemen," said the policeman briskly. "I have had a busy time of it. I wired details of the Mortons down to Glasgow, and I have their reply here. We've landed bigger fish than we realized, Mr Holmes! They're fairly certain that the man calling himself Hamish Morton is in fact Charlie Henderson, wanted in connection with the Blythswood Square burglary, earlier this year – "
"- in which the thieves got away with works of art worth thousands," interjected Holmes, "and left the owner of the house seriously injured. I recall it very well."
"And the woman, who has used so many names in her career that it's hard to keep track of her, is wanted under the name of Mary Monteith, for a long series of frauds and forgeries. Apparently she has real artistic gifts, but she's used them only in the cause of crime. She's suspected of being behind some of the most brilliant art forgeries of the last dozen years."
"Well, I never!" ejaculated Grice Paterson. "But come, Mr Holmes, tell us how you got on to them."
"My interest was first aroused," said Holmes after a moment, "by Morton's report of his boating accident. He declared that all his fishing equipment had sunk without trace, yet when I had seen it the previous evening in this very room, I had observed, without giving it any special attention, that his rod was of the sort which is fitted with a large cork handle. It seemed unlikely that such a rod should have sunk. It might, of course, have become entangled with some other equipment, and been dragged down by it, but Morton merely said it had sunk. It seemed to me that he was lying, but I could not think why, unless he merely wished to swindle the hotel out of a few pounds by way of compensation. It was a petty matter, and I gave it little more thought.