Harrogate is a delightful town, a criss-cross of busy streets and thoroughfares surrounded by an interlocking grid of cultivated grassland called "The Two Hundred Acres" or, more commonly, "The Stray", which we had seen in all of its early-morning, mist-enshrouded finery as we approached the station.
A brisk walk ensued and we arrived at the police station as a distant clock chimed ten, to be greeted by a tall, burly, uniformed sergeant whose face displayed a florid expression and the most singularly inquisitive eyes.
"Now then, gentlemen," he boomed, "and what can we be doing for you this fine morning?"
It transpired that my friend had telegraphed Inspector Gerald John Makinson the previous afternoon, informing him of our intended arrival time. "So you're Mr Sherlock Holmes, then?" the officer enquired.
Holmes set down his bag on the station steps, removed the glove from his right hand and held it out. "I am he," he said.
The officer gave, I thought, a somewhat forced smile and shook the proffered hand once. "And you must be Mr Watson," he said turning to me.
"I am, indeed, Doctor Watson," I said, accepting the hand. The shake was as brusque as his manner.
"I'm Sergeant Hewitt. Come on inside," he said, lifting both of our overnight bags. "There's a fresh pot of tea made and it'll take but a minute to do you some toast. Inspector Makinson will be along presently. Perhaps you'd be kind enough to wait in here, gentlemen," he said, ushering us into a small, square room ringed by chairs around a circular table. He rested our bags on one of the chairs and proceeded to help us off with our coats and hats, which he then placed on a hatstand next to a blazing fire. "Tea'll be along in a minute. Will you be having toast?"
"That would be most welcome," Holmes said.
"Right then, toast it -" The sound of a door banging outside interrupted him and he turned to see who had just entered. "Ah," he said, turning back to us, "Inspector Makinson has arrived. I'll be back presently."
Hewitt stepped back to permit entrance to a short gentleman with quite the most bristling moustache I have ever seen. The man removed his bowler and nodded to the officer who backed out and closed the door gently behind him. "Good morning, gentlemen," he said offering his hand which, ungloved, was freezing cold to the touch. "Gerald Makinson."
We made our introductions and took seats by the fire.
"Mr Holmes, it's a great pleasure to meet you again, sir," Makinson began as he rubbed his hands together vigorously in front of the flames, "though we might've hoped for more pleasant circumstances."
"While Patience may well be a card game from which I have derived some considerable pleasure," Holmes responded with a thin smile, "it is not, I fear, my strongest suit. I wonder if you might give us some indication of your situation. If I am not mistaken there had been further developments in the case even as we were travelling here from London."
"Quite so, quite so. Well, it's like this, gentlemen.
"Almost two weeks ago – the second of November, to be precise – the body of Terence Wetherall, one of the town's most
prominent landlords, was discovered by one of his tenants. Murdered."
The Inspector imbued the last word with an almost absurd theatrical flourish and I had to stifle a smile, thankfully unobserved.
"What was the manner of his death?" Holmes enquired.
"He'd been strangled. No instrument was found but the nature of the marks around his neck suggests some kind of rope or string. We found traces of coarse hair in the wound. But the worst thing was the man's heart had been removed."
"Good Lord!" I ventured.
"Quite, Doctor Watson, his chest had been slit open and the unfortunate organ torn out. It was a messy affair, I can tell you," he added. "There was no indication of careful surgical procedure – we've had a local surgeon examine the wound and it appears that the heart was just pulled out. His chest looked like a pack of wild dogs had been at it…"
"Suspects?"
The Inspector shook his head. "Mr Wetherall was extremely well-liked as far as we can make out. His wife – sorry: widow – knew of no reason why anyone would wish him harm. And certainly she knows of no one who would conceivably wish to defile his body in such a way."
"I wonder if we might see the body," I said.
"Of course, Doctor. You can see them all."
I glanced across at Holmes who tented his fingers in front of his face and carefully studied the tips. "Do continue, Inspector."
At that moment, Sergeant Hewitt reappeared with a tray containing a teapot, three cups and saucers, a small jug of milk, a large plate of buttered toast, a small phial of marmalade and one of honey, and three side plates. It was a meal which, despite its simplicity, was a sight for weary eyes. We set to pouring tea and helping ourselves to the toast, and Inspector Makinson resumed his story.
"A few days later, 7 November, a farmer was brutally slain in the nearby village of Hampsthwaite. Shotgun-blasted in the back of the head, point blank range. He'd gone outside to check his livestock – something he did every evening at the same time – and the killer must've been waiting."
The Inspector took a sip of tea and returned the cup to his saucer.
"And, once again, the heart of the unfortunate victim had been removed, though this time the damage to the body was less.
"The third slaying was last week, the eleventh, and this was maybe the most heinous of them all. A young woman, Gertrude Ridge, a schoolteacher in the town, was reported missing on the morning of the tenth when she didn't appear at school. She was discovered on the embankment by the side of the railway line… or, should I say, some of her was discovered."
Holmes leaned forward. "Some, you say?"
The Inspector nodded gravely and reached for his cup of tea. "Only the torso was found – it was identified by her clothes. Both legs, both arms and the unfortunate girl's head were missing."
"But her heart?" I said.
"Her torso was intact, Doctor Watson. And we've since found both legs, the head and one of the arms."
"Where were these limbs found, Inspector?" Holmes enquired.
"A little way along the embankment, in the bushes."
"Were they close together?"
Inspector Makinson frowned. "Yes, yes I believe they were." "And the embankment has been thoroughly searched?"
"In both directions, and with a toothcomb, Mr Holmes. The other arm wasn't there."
Holmes lifted his coffee and stared into the swirling liquid. "And now you have another murder, I take it."
Makinson nodded and twirled his moustache. "Yes, a fourth body was reported in the early hours of this morning to a Bobby on the beat. Down a small alleyway alongside the market buildings in the town square. Another shotgun blast, this time in the face at point blank range. Took most of his head with it, it did. We identified the corpse from what we found in his pockets. William Fitzhue Crosby, the manager of our local branch of Daleside Bank."
"And the man's heart?" I enquired.
"Ripped out like the first two."
"Who reported the body?" asked Holmes.
"An old cleaner woman for the market buildings. She lives
there all the time. She heard the shot, looked out of her windows and saw the body."
I watched my friend drain his cup and return it to the tray before him. He settled back into his seat and glanced first at me and then at the Inspector.
"Tell me, Inspector," he said at last. "How much disturbance had there been around the teacher's body?"
Gerald Makinson frowned. "Disturbance?"
I recognized a touch of impatience in the way my friend waved his hand. "Blood, Inspector. How much blood was there on the ground?"
"Very little, Mr Holmes. But our doctor tells me that once the heart was removed there wouldn't be much blood loss. The girl's clothes were soaked, mind you."