I followed Holmes out the door, no less confused than Mrs. Blomberg. "What on earth was that?" I asked.
"She is concealing something from us, friend Watson. Recall how she could recount to us everything in detail except the topics of dinner conversation, which she stopped herself from sharing.
"Perhaps she thought it unimportant," I suggested.
"No, no; even if she had, she would have been more specific than 'local gossip'. Something was being discussed that she desires to keep concealed. I have no doubt she is a skilled actress upon the stage, but every player has his—or in this instance, her—tell."
"I think you are mixing your metaphors," I said with a grin, but Holmes was already lost in his own thoughts.
We had walked perhaps fifty yards when I heard footsteps behind us. I looked over my shoulder and saw what might have been a furtive shape slipping into the shadows, but may have also been a squirrel. It was too dark to tell. A sudden anxiety crept over me, and I could not shake the feeling we were being followed, as unfounded as it seemed. I was loath to break Holmes' train of thought, but he had already noticed the noise.
"Have no fear, Watson," Holmes whispered. "I am well-armed, should our pursuer have intentions of doing us harm."
It was not simply paranoia. I was not sure if I felt better or worse about the situation.
We arrived at the inn without incident, but that was not the last we heard of our mysterious pursuer.
————
I was eager to stay in the light, warmth, and safety of the inn, but Holmes had other plans. I had just enough time to consume a hearty supper—much to my relief; such occasions were rather too rare while on Holmes' cases—before we set off to meet with our next client: young Anderson.
It was dark indeed when we arrived at the little farmhouse at the edge of town. It was small, but by no means squalid, and we sat before the fire in the sitting and dining room with reasonable comfort to speak with our client.
Ernest Anderson was a young man, nineteen years of age, I later learned, with a ruddy face, a shock of unruly ginger hair, and the most open, honest features one is likely to see in the face of another.
"Good evening to you, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson," he said quietly, looking with uncertainty between us.
"Sherlock Holmes, at your service," Holmes said.
"And I am Dr. Watson." I smiled warmly, hoping to put the young man more at ease.
"Pleasure to meet you both," said Anderson. "I don't mean to be rude, but could you keep your voices soft? My littlest siblings have gone to bed and it'll be easier on all of us if they stay that way."
"Of course, Mr. Anderson," said Holmes in a lower tone.
Anderson gave a smile. "No need to be so formal. I'll answer to Anderson or Ernie." He clasped his hands together. "Now, where do I begin?"
Holmes leaned forward, fixing our client with an intent gaze. "Tell us everything you know for certain about Mr. Hieman's actions on the day preceding his death, and any events previous that may have some connection to it."
Anderson shook his head. "Any way I figure, it all came out of the blue. But I know it was no accident."
"Provide me with enough information to prove it."
I fished my notebook and a pencil from the depths of a coat pocket.
Anderson paused to collect his thoughts, a troubled look sinking into his fresh face. "Hugh mentioned in passing a few days before that he intended to meet his fiancée, Lena Hallstrom, that day. When he did so before, he would always take the earliest train out of town and return by one of the latest ones. I've checked the train schedules to be sure, and this means he was leaving town by eight and would have arrived in Sac City around a quarter to nine. The last train back from Sac City leaves at half-past eleven, but it's likely Hugh returned by the ten-fifteen, in which case he would have arrived back at the Wall Lake station at eleven. His house is a five-minute walk from the station, and Mrs. Pattison, who lives down the street from Hugh, swears she saw Hugh out her window at eleven exactly, headed toward home. She says he was walking quickly, but it was a powerful cold night, so she didn't think it was odd, or see anything that seemed amiss.
"When they found his body in the morning—" Anderson's voice began to shake.
I offered to pour him a brandy, but he declined.
Anderson swallowed hard, face now white as a sheet and continued. "I was coming into town that morning—needed a couple new horseshoes—and heard shouts coming from near Hugh's home. They live above their little store on Main Street. I elbowed past the confused folks starting to gather, wondering who my unfortunate friend might have invited over that would have died in the night. Call me a fool, but I didn't think for a moment it could be Hugh. I barged into the shop—"
Personally, I had a difficult time picturing the timid and lanky Anderson "barging" anywhere.
"—and there was no one there, so I went out through the back door and saw Sheriff Sweet standing with the doctor behind the building. They heard me, must have, and turned to face me, but all I saw was Hugh, on the ground, blood soaking into the snow."
Anderson had gone from too pale to grey in the face, but Holmes was oblivious.
"What is the doctor's name?" asked Holmes.
"Dr. Mauer," said Anderson.
"Pray continue," said Holmes.
I cut in. "Do not feel obliged to give us any more information about the state of your friend when you arrived. I have no doubt Dr. Mauer can provide such information."
Anderson breathed a shaky sigh of relief. "I'll tell you what else I know. In the dining room, there was an open bottle of liquor at the table, and the theory is that he drank himself into a stupor because Lena broke off their engagement, and then fell or threw himself out the bay window."
Holmes' brow furrowed, and I nearly dropped my pencil in shock. Was it possible that the unfortunate man's death was really a case of depressed overindulgence?
Anderson shook his head emphatically. "Hugh was never one to drink too much, even if he was feeling a bit down, and he would never drink alone. There is too much unexplained for this to be an accident." Young Anderson stared hard at Sherlock Holmes, almost daring the detective to contradict him. I could see the lad's growing defiance beneath his meek exterior and was relieved by Holmes' diplomacy in response.
"I draw no conclusions until I am in full possession of the facts," said Holmes. "In the meantime, is there anything else you wish to add?"
Anderson thought for a moment, then replied, "I personally don't think this is relevant to the matter at hand, but some folks around here are suggesting that since Hugh was a little hard up for money, he might have stolen the diamonds from Mrs. Blomberg and sold them."
Holmes muttered, "And then in a sudden fit of remorse, drank himself into an early grave?"
"I agree," said Anderson. "It doesn't add up. Hugh and I have been friends all our lives, and I know he would never wrong a person. He could be a little irregular, even reckless, but nobody could call him selfish, or suspect him to be a crook. For God's sake, Hugh's been the Wall Lake deputy since he was sixteen! Three years after his father died doing the same job. But that didn't stop Hugh from wanting to uphold the law." Anderson's voice shook with grief and fury. "He was a good man and a great friend, and it's not right his being slandered this way."
"Young Anderson," said Holmes softly, "It is my duty to seek truth and ensure justice is served. I am prepared to do everything in my power to put things aright."
Anderson gave a shaky sigh. "Thank you."
"I do have one more question," said Holmes. "Do you know how early it would be convenient to call on Dr. Mauer?"
Anderson frowned. "He's a fairly early riser, so you could probably knock at his door as early as seven and find him awake and ready, but if you're exhausted from travel, there would be no harm in waiting till half-past seven, or closer to eight. It'll be light enough to see without a lantern by then.
Holmes thanked him, and we departed. My friend's bright eyes and keen expression told me he would be awake most of the night and then ensure we were up early enough to knock on Dr. Mauer's door at five minutes to seven.
"It's an interesting little problem, eh, Watson?" said Holmes as we rushed toward the inn and its promise of warmth.
"Indeed," I replied, though my thoughts were more upon the tragedies undergone by more than one in this town.
It must have been evident from my tone, for Holmes' expression softened. "My dear fellow, these troubles will be put to an end as soon as I solve the mysteries behind them, and the sooner you get yourself to bed, the sooner we can pursue that end."
We rounded the corner, and I could see light flooding from the inn's windows. I made short work of the remaining paces, Holmes at my heels, only stopping when the door closed behind us.
"You shall be up all night smoking, I suppose?" I asked.
"I'm afraid so, Doctor," Holmes replied, leading the way to our rooms.
"Well, good night regardless," I said pulling my key out of my pocket.
Holmes returned the nocturnal well-wishing, but his mind was already back on the case. I turned the key to enter the small room in which I would live for a couple of weeks. It was a decided step down from my Baker Street accommodations, but my military career and time with Holmes had put me up in far worse places. I stoked the fire, dragged my cot a few feet closer to it, and collapsed into bed without bothering to unpack.
I did not sleep well. My mind was working too feverishly: Was the death of Deputy Hugh Hieman a tragic accident, suicide, or deliberate murder?