Our interview with Mrs. Hieman was brief enough we would not be expected at the Blomberg's for another hour. I pointed this out to Holmes as we slogged through the snowy street.
"Let us call upon Father John Albright and see what we can learn about his brother Silas."
After returning to the inn and seeking directions from the innkeeper, we made our way toward St. Joseph's Church and the priest's little home next door. Upon arriving, Holmes knocked at the door and it was opened some seconds later by the man himself. Fr. Albright was a corpulent man with twinkling eyes and red hair streaked with grey. He gave the overall impression of a middle-aged Father Christmas who woke up one morning, shaved his beard and donned a priest's collar.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen. What may I do for you?" he asked.
"I am Sherlock Holmes and this is Doctor Watson," Holmes replied. "I have a couple of questions about your brother, Silas, in connection with the Hiemans and the Blombergs."
The priest looked surprised for a moment but invited us in readily enough. Soon we were seated in a tiny but comfortable sitting room with a blazing hearth.
Holmes leaned back in his chair. "Please answer all questions as completely and honestly as you are able."
Fr. Albright nodded.
"Describe your relationship with your brother. Do you see him often?"
Albright shrugged. "Wall Lake is a small town; I see nearly everyone often. But Silas does not seek me out."
"Do you know of any relations between Silas and a woman?" Holmes asked.
"He went with Lena Hallstrom a couple years ago, and more recently with Alice Harrison, Clara Blomberg's youngest sister."
Holmes cocked an eyebrow. "That is of interest."
"I have no idea if they are still seeing one another or not; I've heard rumours both ways."
"I see. Do you have any other siblings?"
"We did, but no longer. Our sister died a child and my father and three of my brothers all served the United States in that horrible bloodbath twenty years ago, and none of them survived their injuries."
I felt a sympathetic pang, thinking of my time in the Afghan War and the needless pain and death.
"I was in seminary when the war began," Fr. Albright continued, "and completed my training in '62, then returned to my mother and Silas—who was only a lad of eleven, then."
A mental calculation told me Silas was five and thirty now.
"What do you know about the state of your brother's finances?"
"As much as my neighbours, I expect. Rumour and speculation."
"Tell me what you have heard and would believe," Holmes pressed.
"I will readily believe that he does not have what he should for money, but some of that may be that Lawler is borrowing some for his inventions."
"Lawler?" asked Holmes.
"Silas works with Patrick Lawler in Wall Lake's woodworking and cabinet shop," the priest explained. They do fine work. Some folks from Fletcher, Carnarvon, and even Sac City buy there instead of locally. They do everything from cabinets to benches and chairs to tables and coffins. There's always work for them. But Lawler is dead set on building these machines." Fr. Albright frowned and shook his head. "That's all he does, when he's not at work, church, or in the tavern."
"I see," said Holmes. "Do you believe your brother would be willing to spy on others for money?"
"Undoubtedly," Fr. Albright replied with a wry smile. "He's been doing that for free for years."
"That is all I have to ask you." Holmes stood.
"Well," said the priest as he and I followed suit, "if there's anything else, don't hesitate to drop by. You are always welcome here."
"Thank you," Holmes replied.
————
It was time to head for the Blombergs. The air was still, though cold, so I did not mind the long walk. We were perhaps halfway there when Holmes gently nudged me and nodded to his left. I looked in that direction and there was Silas Albright, watching us from between two houses.
"This is getting old," I whispered. "Shall we confront him?"
"We have proof of nothing, yet," Holmes replied. "We must wait, for now."
I nodded and spent the remainder of our journey uncomfortably aware of that feeling someone was watching, because I knew it was not my imagination.
Amy, the maid, greeted us at the Blomberg's door, and we were ushered in and led to the table. Mr. and Mrs. Blomberg entered a moment later.
Having exchanged the greetings politeness dictates, we seated ourselves.
"Have you learned anything helpful yet?" asked the husband eagerly.
"Some," Holmes replied. "I am endeavouring to learn more as we speak."
"Of course!" said Mr. Blomberg. "Ask what you will; I am an open book."
Holmes reclined in his chair. "You are a banker, correct?"
"Yes."
"How are your own finances?"
"Fairly good," he replied stiffly.
Mrs. Blomberg looked uncomfortable.
"Are you acquainted with Silas Albright," Holmes asked.
"Yes, we are," the husband replied slowly as the girl brought out our food: roasted pork and mashed potatoes. "I know him on sight, and have spoken to him before, but I have no particular reason to do so most of the time, and I would not consider him a friend."
Holmes turned to Mrs. Blomberg. "Would you?"
Her lovely face contorted with disgust. "No."
"What of your sisters?"
Something flashed in the lady's eyes for a moment, but it was gone as soon as it appeared. "Don't be ridiculous; they all have more self-respect than that."
I did not believe her, but Holmes did not press the issue.
"Your brother, then?"
"I highly doubt it," replied Mrs. Blomberg with a chuckle. "Albert has little patience for men with more ego than character. And he has not lived here for so long now that I doubt he considers anyone here an overly close friend."
"How busy does your brother keep?" Holmes asked.
"Fairly so," she replied. "It depends on where he is employed."
"Would he be able to pay another visit here by next week?"
She frowned. "I imagine it would be inconvenient, but not impossible."
"Then request that he do so." Holmes' tone brooked no argument.
"There is no way he could be involved in a plot," she protested.
"He may possess some information without realising it," said Holmes. I noted the diplomacy of this response and its swift effectiveness.
"Oh," Mrs. Blomberg said. "That is not inconceivable, I suppose. I will send a message to him tomorrow."
Holmes spoke little for the rest of the meal, despite Mr. Blomberg's blatant attempts to glean information from him. The food was excellent, and even Holmes ate his fill. I suspect he did so more as an excuse for his silence than a desire to eat, but the result was the same. His reticence left me to carry on the bulk of the conversing, which I did not mind. There was only a slight undercurrent of tension, the source of which was revealed near the end of the meal.
I spoke with the Blombergs of a variety of things, but while the conversation often danced around the topic of poor Hugh's strange death, I volunteered no information. I glanced several times to Holmes, but he continued to stare out of the window, lost in his thoughts.
"Mr. Holmes." Mr. Blomberg addressed my friend with firm directness.
Holmes snapped to attention.
"Is it true that you are also investigating the death of Hugh Hieman?"
"It is," Holmes replied.
"In whose interest?"
"I am acting for Ernest Anderson."
Mr. Blomberg's eyes narrowed. "I see."
"This concerns you." Holmes' brow furrowed. "Why?"
Mrs. Blomberg spoke up before her husband could reply. "He only wants to ensure your full attention is on our case," she said, a hint of accusation in her tone.
"I assure you," Holmes replied coolly, "I have worked on as many as four cases simultaneously and brought them all to successful conclusions."
"But cases as inscrutable as this?" The husband pressed.
"Some more so," Holmes replied, rising from the table. "Come, Watson, I believe it is time we cease to impose upon the Blombergs' hospitality."
I thanked our hosts for supper and bid them a kind farewell before hurrying after Holmes to the door and into the winter night.
"Watson! Observe!" said Holmes, drawing my attention to a particular rock in the Blomberg's drive, then whispered, "Silas Albright is following us yet again, but this time he appears to be armed."
"Firearm?" I whispered.
Holmes gave a curt nod, and I was glad I had mine.
We rose to our full heights. Sure enough, Albright stood at the corner of the house.
"Ignore him for now," Holmes breathed, "but keep your revolver handy."
I was on the point of making some reply when the Blomberg's door flew open behind us and I heard the sound of a shotgun being cocked. Mr. Blomberg stood framed in the light of the doorway, gun in hand, and shouted toward our hidden observer. "You there! Albright! Get your sorry ass over here and tell me what you're doing on my property."
Albright muttered something rude under his breath and ambled toward the house. Holmes and I stood, watching.
"Hurry up, it's too cold for this nonsense," Blomberg growled.
Albright stepped quickly to the house, his puffs of breath illuminated by the lights inside the home.
"Well?" Blomberg closed the door behind him and crossed his arms.
"I was curious," Albright replied coolly. "It's not every day a famous detective comes to town."
"In whose interests were you curious?" Blomberg pressed.
Albright narrowed his eyes defiantly. "Nobody but me told me to see what was happening here."
"Sure, sure," Blomberg scoffed. "Get off my property."
Silas Albright straightened to his full height, staring down James Blomberg with such open fury I was amazed the latter could stand it. "I know what this is about," Albright seethed, and with that, the handsome man turned on his heel and stalked into the night.
Mr. Blomberg turned to us. "Sorry about that, gentlemen. I didn't want a lout like him squatting on my land."
"Of course not," Holmes replied, outwardly cool, but I could see in his eyes as we left that he was troubled.
The night was cold, but not windy. Even so, we walked quickly back to the inn.
Holmes did not speak until we arrived. "I don't like it, Watson." He stood with his hand on the handle of his door and spoke in a low voice.
I was silent, waiting for him to continue.
"I fear Mr. Blomberg's reproach may have an adverse impact upon our proceedings."
"How so?" I asked.
Holmes shook his head. "I do not know. My instincts tell me so."
We both had learned to trust Holmes' instincts over the years—they were as good as that of any woman I had ever met—and even I had a bad feeling about what was transpiring around us.
Holmes turned the handle of his door and opened it. "I suspect there will be some new development by morning." With that, he disappeared into his room.
Sherlock Holmes was correct, but neither of us foresaw what shape the development would take.