The Wall Lake Mystery

Chapter 5: A Scrap of Cloth

Dr. Mauer frowned. "To the robbery at the Blombergs? If there's a connection, I have yet to see it."

"That is my job," replied Holmes. "Now, let us proceed to the Hieman's residence."

I picked up my doctor's bag while Dr. Mauer donned his winter things, and he led us across the street to a similar building with a sign proclaiming "Hieman Shoes, Boots and Belts" on a wooden sign above the door.

The door was answered by a petite woman approaching middle age. She had a kind, round face and tired circles under each eye.

"Good morning, Doctor, we're not quite ready to sell any shoes—" She faltered when she saw Holmes and me standing behind Dr. Mauer, and her expression darkened. "You are the London detectives?"

"I do apologise," said Holmes, "but I'm afraid I must examine your dining room and back garden."

"Of course," she said stiffly, and led us through a small shoe shop and up a back staircase to a room with a table, several chairs, a small hearth, and all matter of shoe paraphernalia lying about.

Holmes had to duck to avoid hitting his head on the low ceilings.

"The whiskey was there, on the table." Mrs. Hieman pointed to a spot a foot from the edge of the table nearest the window.

"Might I borrow the bottle, to test it for poison?" Holmes inquired.

I glanced to Dr. Mauer, who shrugged as if to say, "No offense taken."

"Of course," said Mrs. Hieman. "It's downstairs, but I'll bring it to you before you leave."

Dr. Mauer spoke. "It is safest to be thorough."

"In which chair did your son usually sit?" Holmes asked.

Mrs. Hieman pointed to the chair parallel to the window, well in reach of a bottle, if one sat where the whiskey had that fateful night.

I looked up from the little chair to the bay window next to it. I could practically see the scene playing out in my mind: the young man, drinking sorrowfully for a time, then rising to gaze upon the night sky. Perhaps he threw the window open to breathe some fresh air, or to better see the moon... Then the killer, like a thief in the night, gave the poor inebriated soul that push over the edge of the sill, the push over the edge of life, stealing it, and leaving only death and grief in his wake. I looked away.

Holmes already had his magnifying glass out and was carefully examining the edge of the table, the chair, and the windowsill each in turn. He frowned. "Perhaps a look outdoors will prove more fruitful."

Before Holmes finished his sentence, a boy of perhaps five or six crept into the room.

"Mom?" he said, glancing nervously between us all.

"It's all right, Henry," said Mrs. Hieman with a tired smile.

Dr. Mauer broke in. "We can see ourselves outside. Take care."

"Thank you, Doctor," she replied, scooping the boy into her arms; though he was nearly too old for such a gesture, it seemed to calm him.

The back garden was accessible from a door near the base of the stairs. It was small and unfenced, with a line for hanging laundry and a patch of dirt that would transform into a vegetable garden come spring, but little else. It had snowed since the fall of Hugh Hieman from the window, but Dr. Mauer showed us where the snow could be brushed aside and blood appeared on some rough stones near the house, as well as a few splatters on the back wall itself.

"Why all of the rocks?" I asked.

"The children collect them from nearby creeks and ponds," replied Dr. Mauer. "I suppose it's something to do in the summer and something to look at in the winter."