"Women!" exclaimed Holmes as soon as we were a tactful distance from the house. "I say, Watson, English ladies might be prone to emotional outbursts, but at least they have the good sense not to throw their arms about unsuspecting gentlemen!"
I attempted to stifle my laughter but failed entirely.
"Your lack of sympathy disappoints me rather," said Holmes, though the twinkle in his eye told me he was in a jesting humour now. "I daresay you would feel differently if you were the one accosted in that manner."
"'Accosted in that manner,'" I laughed. "It may have been far from proper, but she was embracing you, not attacking you."
Holmes sniffed. "You cannot convince me of that."
I changed the subject. "It is good that Miss Hallstrom has confided in us at last. There have been too many unnecessary mysteries in this case; we still don't know what Mrs. Blomberg was hiding our first day here."
Holmes nodded. "I do not expect she will confide in us, barring a similar crisis. But we have made significant progress today. Recall what Miss Hallstrom said about the man on the train."
I frowned. "You think it was the killer, 'Cleaver' Wright?"
"Yes," Holmes replied. "And do you recall the initials on the letters we found in Albright's fireplace?"
"J.C.W., were they not?"
"Indeed," said Holmes. "Jesse Cleveland Wright."
"Could it be a mere coincidence?" I asked.
"It is possible," Holmes conceded, "though not so probable. But do you not see, Watson? We have a thread now that links all three mysteries: Mr. Wright's handkerchief at the Blomberg's the night after the robbery, Wright seen on the train with Mr. Hieman hours before his death, and missives signed with Wright's initials found in Albright's fireplace, one of which lured him to his death."
In that instant, it was as though Holmes had cast a brilliant light over all that was dim and mysterious in these cases. The revelation stunned me into a silence which neither of us broke for some minutes. I inwardly rejoiced that we had made so much progress.
"It is indeed good that the lady confided in us," Holmes said at length. "Though she has now given us two courses of action, and I am uncertain which is the wiser."
"What are they?" I asked.
"We shall go to the train station," Holmes replied. "But from there, we must decide if we are to seek for someone who can recall seeing where Wright and his companion departed the train that night, or if we are to take the train to Fletcher and cease the blackmail of Miss Meyer."
I frowned. "I propose we go first to Fletcher, so we arrive early enough to avoid interrupting her dinner, and fulfil our promise to remove this weight from Miss Hallstrom's young shoulders."
Holmes shook his head. "We have three days yet until Miss Hallstrom is ruined. But we have a lead on Wright now, and while he roams free, the people here are not safe."
I had to concede to that argument.
We arrived soon at the station, and Holmes began chatting amicably with the young gentleman behind the counter. With little difficulty, Holmes had shifted the conversation to the subject of the strange goings-on of Wall Lake of late.
"It all sounds real strange to me!" said the man. "And I'm glad it's there and not here, though I'd feel different if I was there and not here, I s'pose. And from the talk here, Bill O'Brian might've been the last to see Deputy Hieman alive—a sad deal, that."
"Goodness!" said Holmes. "How terrible. Is this O'Brien a colleague of yours?"
"Mhmm," the man replied. "Just a few years my senior. He gets to take the train back and forth sometimes instead of being stuck behind this counter."
"The line between Sac City and Wall Lake?"
"Oh, they'll have him on as far as Carnarvon, then take the next train back from there. Not a bad gig, but you gotta pay your dues to the dirt first, eh?"
"Certainly," Holmes replied with a chuckle. "This Bill wouldn't happen to be around this afternoon, by any chance?"
The man frowned, seeming to suspect Holmes had some purpose in mind.
My friend slipped a coin onto the counter.
The young man looked at it in disgust. "Get your dirty bribe out of my sight. We don't deal that way around here. Who are you then? Some journalist, here to stick your big nose into our business so you can write up some drivel for a newspaper?"
Holmes kept his composure. "My name is Sherlock Holmes and I am a detective investigating the circumstances of Mr. Hieman's tragic death."
"Why didn't you say so?" he exclaimed. "No—no, keep your money, if I can help, I will. Name's Fred Roger, by the way."
"Glad to make your acquaintance," said Holmes, slipping the coin back into his pocket and shaking the young man's hand. "Now, this man O'Brien, do you know where I might find him?"
"Just north of here, if all is on schedule," Roger replied. "I can check on when he's set to stop back here, though."
"Thank you," Holmes replied.
The young man ducked behind the counter and rifled through some papers there. A moment later, he sprang back up. "You gentlemen are in luck! He works the evening shift behind the counter. It's past a quarter to four now, and he'll be here at a quarter past."
"Excellent!" Holmes replied. "We shall sit and wait, then."
Sit and wait we did, but it was warm enough inside the station and I filled the time by expanding upon my notes. Already this case seemed of interest enough to chronicle for the Strand.
At length, the train arrived, and Bill O'Brien stepped off it. Roger briefly explained the situation to his evening replacement before departing for the night.
"Good evening, gentlemen," said O'Brien, whose Irish lilt was more pronounced than most of the inhabitants of the region, save perhaps William Kelly.
"Quite so," Holmes replied. "I understand you were on the same train as Mr. Hieman the evening before his death."
He nodded. "I saw him get on here and get off at Wall Lake, and I reckon that's about the last anybody saw of the poor fella."
"Did you happen to notice with whom Mr. Hieman was seated or to whom he spoke?"
O'Brien frowned. "Two men," he said. "I didn't know 'em."
"Do you recall where they exited the train?"
He nodded. "That was the odd thing about it. I could've sworn they got on in Sac City, then took the train all the way down to Carnarvon and didn't get off again till Sac City, which doesn't make a lick of sense. I chalked it up to exhaustion and confusion; common enough among out-of-town folks on the evening trains."
"Do you know in which direction they departed?"
"West," O'Brien replied. "Only noticed because there are few houses that side of the station."
"Did anyone else go in that direction?" Holmes asked.
O'Brien thought for a long moment. "Just one fella, but he lives that way."
"Excellent," said Holmes. "What is his name? Perhaps he saw where they went."
O'Brien looked doubtful. "He's Old Man Martin. His Christian name is Cliff, I think, but I can't swear to it, and I doubt he could swear to anything he sees, on account of his poor vision."
"Still," Holmes pressed, "Could you tell me where I might find him?"
O'Brien gave us the man's address and directions to it. Holmes and I thanked him and went off in search of this Mr. Martin.