The Adventure of the Second Stain: Part Two

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Welcome to Sherlock Holmes Short Stories.

I'm Hugh Bonneville, and from the Noiser Podcast Network, this is The Adventure of the Second Stain, Part 2.

Last time, two illustrious visitors arrived in Baker Street, the Prime Minister of Britain and his Secretary of European Affairs, Lord Trelawney Hope.

Just that morning, a highly sensitive letter from a foreign leader had vanished from Hope's dispatch box, a document so explosive that its publication threatened to plunge all of Europe into war.

Even the police couldn't be informed of its theft for fear of the scandal reaching the newspapers.

Holmes quickly deduced that the letter must have been taken between 7.30 and 11.30 the previous evening.

and likely passed directly to one of London's three most notorious spies.

The great detective immediately zeroed in on one Eduardo Lucas, but was then shocked to learn that Lucas was dead, murdered the night before in his Westminster home.

But before the pair could go and investigate, Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope, the European Secretary's wife, arrived unexpectedly at Baker Street, desperate to know the contents of the missing document her husband refused to discuss.

Holmes expressed some suspicion as to her motivations.

Then, Holmes left Watson and headed to the scene of the crime, hoping to find answers before Europe becomes engulfed in war.

All that day and the next and the next, Holmes was in a mood which his friends would call taciturn and others morose.

He ran out and ran in, smoked incessantly, played snatches on his violin, sank into reveries, devoured sandwiches at irregular hours, and hardly answered the casual questions which I put to him.

It was evident to me that things were not going well with him or his quest.

He would say nothing of the case, and it was from the papers that I learned the particulars of the inquest and the arrest with the subsequent release of John Mitten, the valet of the deceased.

The coroner's jury brought in the obvious willful murder, but the parties remained as unknown as ever.

No motive was suggested.

The room was full of articles of value, but none had been taken.

The dead man's papers had not been tampered with.

They were carefully examined and showed that he was a keen student of international politics, an indefatigable gossip, a remarkable linguist, and an untiring letter writer.

He had been on intimate terms with the leading politicians of several countries, but nothing sensational was discovered among the documents which filled his drawers.

As to his relations with women, they appeared to have been promiscuous but superficial.

He had many acquaintances among them, but few friends, and no one whom he loved.

His habits were regular, his conduct inoffensive.

His death was an absolute mystery, and likely to remain so.

As to the arrest of John Mitten, the valet, it was a counsel of despair as an alternative to absolute inaction.

But no case could be sustained against him.

He had visited friends in Hammersmith that night.

The alibi was complete.

It is true that he started home at an hour which should have brought him to Westminster before the time when the crime was discovered, but his own explanation that he had walked part of the way seemed probable enough in view of the fineness of the night.

He had actually arrived at twelve o'clock, and appeared to be overwhelmed by the unexpected tragedy.

He had always been on good terms with his master.

Several of the dead man's possessions, notably a small case of razors, had been found in the valet's boxes, but he explained that they had been presents from the deceased.

and the housekeeper was able to corroborate the story.

Mitten had been in Lucas's employment for three years.

It was noticeable that Lucas did not take Mitten on the continent with him.

Sometimes he visited Paris for three months on end, but Mitten was left in charge of the Godolphin Street house.

As to the housekeeper, she had heard nothing on the night of the crime.

If her master had a visitor, he had himself admitted him.

So, for three mornings the mystery remained, so far as I could follow it in the papers.

If Holmes knew more, he kept his own counsel.

But, as he told me that Inspector Lestrade had taken him into his confidence in the case, I knew that he was in close touch with every development.

Upon the fourth day, there appeared a long telegram from Paris, which seemed to solve the whole question.

A discovery has just been made by the Parisian police, said the Daily Telegraph, which raises the veil which hung round the tragic fate of Mr.

Eduardo Lucas, who met his death by violence last Monday night at Godolphin Street, Westminster.

Our readers will remember that the deceased gentleman was found stabbed in his room, and that some suspicion attached to his valet, but that the case broke down on an alibi.

Yesterday, a lady who has been known as Madame Henri Fournet, occupying a small villa in the Rue Austerlitz, was reported to the authorities by her servants as being insane.

An examination showed she had indeed developed mania of a dangerous and permanent form.

On inquiry, the police have discovered that Madame Henri Fournet only returned from a journey to London on Tuesday last, and there is evidence to connect her with the crime at Westminster.

A comparison of photographs has proved conclusively that Monsieur Henri Fournet and Eduardo Lucas were really one and the same person, and that the deceased had, for some reason, lived a double life in London and Paris.

Madame Fournet, who is of Creole origin, is of an extremely excitable nature and has suffered in the past from attacks of jealousy, which have amounted to frenzy.

It is conjectured that it was in one of these that she committed the terrible crime which has caused such a sensation in London.

Her movements upon the Monday night have not yet been traced, but it is undoubted that a woman answering to her description attracted much attention at Charing Cross Station on Tuesday morning by the wildness of her appearance and the violence of her gestures.

It is probable, therefore, that the crime was either committed when insane or that its immediate effect was to drive the unhappy woman out of her mind.

At present, she is unable to give any coherent account of the past, and the doctors hold out no hopes of the re-establishment of her reason.

There is evidence that a woman who might have been Madame Fournet was seen for some hours upon Monday night watching the house in Godolphin Street.

What do you think of that, Holmes?

I had read the account aloud to him while he finished his breakfast.

My dear Watson, said he, as he rose from the table and paced up and down the room, you are most long-suffering, but if I have told you nothing in the last three days, it is because there is nothing to tell.

Even now, this report from Paris does not help us much.

Well, surely it is final as regards the man's death.

The man's death is a mere incident, a trivial episode in comparison with our real task, which is to trace this document and save a European catastrophe.

Only one important thing has happened in the last three days, and that is that nothing has happened.

I get reports almost hourly from the Government, and it is certain that nowhere in Europe is there any sign of trouble.

Now, if this letter were loose no, it can't be loose.

But if it isn't loose, where can it be?

Who has it?

Why is it held back?

That's the question that beats in my brain like a hammer.

Was it, indeed, a coincidence that Lucas should meet his death on the night when the letter disappeared?

Did the letter even reach him?

If so, why is it not among his papers?

Did this mad wife of his carry it off with her?

If so, is it in her house in Paris?

How could I search for it without the French police having their suspicions aroused?

It is a case, my dear Watson, where the law is as dangerous to us as the criminals are.

Every man's hand is against us, and yet the interests at stake are colossal.

Should I bring it to a successful conclusion, it will certainly represent the crowning glory of my career.

Ah, here is my latest from the front.

He glanced hurriedly at the note which had been handed in.

Hello?

Lestrade seems to have observed something of interest.

Put on your hat, Watson, and we will stroll down together to Westminster.

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It was my first visit to the scene of the crime, a high, dingy, narrow-chested house, prim, formal, and solid, like the century which gave it birth.

Lestrade's bulldog features gazed out at us from the front window, and he greeted us warmly when a big constable had opened the door and let us in.

The room into which we were shown was that in which the crime had been committed, but no trace of it now remained save an ugly, irregular stain upon the carpet.

This carpet was a small square rug in the centre of the room, surrounded by a broad expanse of beautiful old-fashioned wood flooring in square blocks, highly polished.

Over the fireplace was a magnificent trophy of weapons, one of which had been used on that tragic night.

In the window was a sumptuous writing-desk, and every detail of the apartment, the pictures, the rugs, and the hangings, all pointed to a taste which was luxurious to the verge of effeminacy.

Seen the Paris news?

asked Lestrade.

Holmes nodded.

Our French friends seem to have touched the spot this time.

No doubt it's just as they say.

She knocked at the door, surprise visit, I guess, for he kept his life in watertight compartments.

He let her in, couldn't keep her in the street.

She told him how she had traced him, reproached him.

One thing led to another, and then with that dagger so handy, the end soon came.

It wasn't all done in an instant, though, for these chairs were all swept over yonder, and he had one one in his hand as if he'd tried to hold her off with it we've got it all clear as if we had seen it

holmes raised his eyebrows and yet you have sent for me

oh yes that's another matter a mere trifle but the sort of thing you take an interest in queer you know and what you might call freakish

It has nothing to do with the main fact, can't have, on the face of it.

What is it, then?

Well, you know, after a crime of this sort, we are very careful to keep things in their position.

Nothing has been moved.

Officer in charge here day and night.

This morning, as the man was buried and the investigation over, so far as this room is concerned, we thought we could tidy up a bit.

This carpet.

You see, it is not fastened down, only just laid there.

We had occasion to raise it.

We found.

Yes, you found.

Holmes's face grew tense with anxiety.

Well, I'm sure you would never guess in a hundred years what we did find.

You see that stain on the carpet?

Well, a great deal must have soaked through, must it not?

Undoubtedly it must.

Well, you will be surprised to hear that there is no stain on the white woodwork to correspond.

No stain?

But there must.

Yes, so you would say.

But the fact remains that there isn't.

He took the corner of the carpet in his hand and, turning it over, he showed that it was indeed as he said.

But the underside is as stained as the upper.

It must have left a mark.

Lestrade chuckled with delight at having puzzled the famous expert.

Now I'll show you the explanation.

There is a second stain, but it does not correspond with the other.

See for yourself.

As he spoke he turned over another portion of the carpet, and there, sure enough, was a great crimson spill upon the square white facing of the old-fashioned floor.

What do you make of that, mister Holmes?

Why, it is simple enough.

The two stains did correspond, but the carpet has been turned round.

As it was square and unfastened, it was easily done.

The official police don't need you, Mr.

Holmes, to tell them that the carpet must have been turned round.

That's clear enough, for the stains lie above each other, if you lay it over this way.

But what I want to know is who shifted the carpet and why?

I could see from Holmes's rigid face that he was vibrating with inward excitement.

Look here, Lestrade, said he, has that constable in the passage been in charge of the place all the time?

Yes, he has.

Well, take my advice.

Examine him carefully.

Don't do it before us.

We'll wait here.

You take him into the back room.

You'll be more likely to get a confession out of him alone.

Ask him how he dared to admit people and leave them alone in this room.

Don't ask him if he has done it.

Take it for granted.

Tell him you know someone has been here.

Press him.

Tell him that a full confession is his only chance of forgiveness.

Do exactly what I tell you.

By George, if he knows, I'll have it out of him, cried Lestrade.

He darted into the hall, and a few moments later, his bullying voice sounded from the back room.

Now, Watson, now!

cried Holmes with frenzied eagerness.

All the demoniacal force of the man masked behind that listless manner burst out in a paroxysm of energy.

He tore the rug from the floor and in an instant was down on his hands and knees clawing at each of the squares of wood beneath it.

One turned sideways as he dug his nails into the edge of it.

It hinged back like the lid of a box.

A small black cavity opened beneath it.

Holmes plunged his eager hand into it and drew it out with a bitter snarl of anger and disappointment.

It was empty.

Quick, Watson, quick, get it back again.

The wooden lid was replaced, and the rug had only just been drawn straight when Lestrade's voice was heard in the passage.

He found Holmes leaning languidly against the mantelpiece, resigned and patient, endeavoring to conceal his irrepressible yawns.

Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr.

Holmes.

I can see that you are bored to death with the whole affair.

Well, he has confessed all right.

Come in here, Macpherson.

Let these gentlemen hear of your most inexcusable conduct.

The big constable, very hot and penitent, sidled into the room.

I meant no harm, sir, I'm sure.

The young woman came to the door last evening, mistook the house she did, and then we got talking.

It's lonesome when you're on duty here all day.

Well, what happened then?

She wanted to see where the crime was done, had read about it in the papers, she said.

She was a very respectable, well-spoken young woman, sir, and I saw no harm in letting her have a peep.

When she saw that mark on the carpet, down she dropped on the floor and lay as if she were dead.

I ran to the back and got some water, but I could not bring her to.

Then I went round the corner to the ivy plant for some brandy, and by the time I brought it back, the young woman had recovered and was off,

ashamed of herself, I dare say, and dared not face me.

How about moving that rug?

Well, sir, it was a bit rumpled, certainly, when I came back.

You see, she fell on it, and it lies on a polished floor with nothing to keep it in place.

I straightened it out afterwards.

It's a lesson to you that you can't deceive me, Constable McPherson, said Lestrade with dignity.

No doubt you thought that your breach of duty could never be discovered.

And yet a mere glance at that rug was enough to convince me that someone had been admitted to the room.

It's lucky for you, my man, that nothing is missing.

I'm sorry to have called you down over such a petty business, Mr.

Holmes, but I thought the point of the second stain not corresponding with the first would interest you.

Certainly, it was most interesting.

Has this woman only been here once, Constable?

Yes, sir, only once.

Who was she?

I don't know the name, sir.

Was answering an advertisement about typewriting and came to the wrong number.

Very pleasant, genteel young woman, sir.

Tall, handsome?

Yes, sir.

She was a well-grown young woman.

I suppose you might say she was handsome, perhaps.

Some would say she was very handsome.

Oh, officer, do let me have a peep.

Says she.

She had pretty coaxing ways, as you might say, and I thought there was no harm in letting her just put her head through the door.

How was she dressed?

Quiet, sir, a long mantle down to her feet.

What time was it?

It was just growing dusk at the time.

They were lighting the lamps as I came back with the brandy.

Very good, said Holmes.

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As we left the house, Lestrade remained in the front room while the repentant constable opened the door to let us out.

Holmes turned on the step and held up something in his hand.

The constable stared intently.

Good Lord, sir, he cried, with amazement on his face.

Holmes put his finger on his lips, replaced his hand in his breast pocket, and burst out laughing as we turned down the street.

Excellent, said he.

Come, friend Watson, the curtain rings up for the last act.

You will be relieved to hear that there will be no war, that the right honourable Trelawney Hope will suffer no setback in his brilliant career, that the indiscreet sovereign will receive no punishment for his indiscretion, that the Prime Minister will have no European complication to deal with, and that, with a little tact and management upon our part, nobody will be a penny the worse for what might have been a very ugly incident.

My mind filled with admiration for this extraordinary man.

You have solved it, I cried.

Hardly that, Watson.

There are some points which are as dark as ever, but we have so much that it will be our own fault if we cannot get the rest.

We will go straight to Whitehall Terrace and bring the matter to a head.

When we arrived at the residence of the European Secretary, it was for Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope that Sherlock Sherlock Holmes inquired.

We were shown into the morning-room.

Mr.

Holmes,

this is surely most unfair and ungenerous upon your part.

I desired, as I have explained, to keep my visit to you a secret, lest my husband should think that I was intruding into his affairs, and yet you compromise me by coming here and so showing that there are business relations between us.

Unfortunately, madam, I had no possible alternative.

I have been commissioned to recover this immensely important paper.

I must therefore ask you, madam, to be kind enough to place it in my hands.

The lady sprang to her feet, with the colour all dashed in an instant from her beautiful face.

Her eyes glazed, she tottered.

I thought that she would faint.

Then, with a grand effort, she rallied from the shock, and a supreme astonishment and indignation chased every other expression from her features.

You

insult me, Mr.

Holmes.

Come, come, madam, it is useless.

Give up the letter.

She darted to the bell.

The butler shall show you out.

Do not ring, Lady Hilda.

If you do, then all my earnest efforts to avoid a scandal will be frustrated.

Give up the letter, and all will be set right.

If you will work with me, I can arrange everything.

If you work against me, I must expose you.

She stood grandly defiant, a queenly figure, her eyes fixed upon his, as if she would read his very soul.

Her hand was on the bell, but she had forborne to ring it.

You are trying to frighten me.

It is not a very manly thing, Mr.

Holmes, to come here and browbeat a woman.

You say that you know something.

What is it that you know?

Pray sit down, madam.

You will hurt yourself there if you fall.

I will not speak until you sit down.

Thank you.

I give you five minutes, Mr.

Holmes.

One is enough, Lady Hilda.

I know of your visit to Eduardo Lucas, of your giving him this document, of your ingenious return to the room last night, and of the manner in which you took the letter from the hiding place under the carpet.

She stared at him with an ashen face and gulped twice before she could speak.

You are mad, Mr.

Holmes.

You are mad, she cried at last.

He drew a small piece of cardboard from his pocket.

It was the face of a woman cut out of a portrait.

I have carried this because I thought it might be useful, said he.

The policeman has recognised it.

She gave a gasp, and her head dropped back in the chair.

Come, Lady Hilda, you have the letter.

The matter may still be adjusted.

I have no desire to bring trouble to you.

My duty ends when I have returned the lost letter to your husband.

Take my advice and be frank with me.

It is your only chance.

Her courage was admirable.

Even now she would not own defeat.

I tell you again, Mr.

Holmes, that you are under some absurd illusion.

Holmes rose from his chair.

I am sorry for you, Lady Hilda.

I have done my best for you.

I can see that it is all in vain.

He rang the bell.

The butler entered.

Is Mr.

Trelawney Hope at home?

He will be home, sir, at a quarter to one.

Holmes glanced at his watch.

Still a quarter of an hour, said he.

Very good.

I shall wait.

The butler had hardly closed the door behind him when Lady Hilda was down on her knees at Holmes's feet, her hands outstretched, her beautiful face upturned and wet with her tears.

Oh

spare me, mister Holmes, spare me, she pleaded in a frenzy of supplication.

For heaven's sake, don't tell him I love him so I would not bring one shadow on his life, and this I know would break his noble heart.

Holmes raised the lady.

I am thankful, madam, that you have come to your senses, even at this last moment.

There is not an instant to lose.

Where is the letter?

She darted across to a writing-desk, unlocked it, and drew out a long blue envelope.

Here it is, Mr.

Holmes.

Would to heaven I had never seen it!

How can we return it?

Holmes muttered.

Quick, quick, we must think of some way.

Where is the dispatch-box?

Still in his bedroom.

What a stroke of luck.

Quick, madam, bring it here.

A moment later, she had appeared with a red flat box in her hand.

How did you open it before?

You have a duplicate key?

Yes, of course you have.

Open it.

From out of her bosom, Lady Hilda had drawn a small key.

The box flew open.

It was stuffed with papers.

Holmes thrust the blue envelope deep down into the heart of them between the leaves of some other document.

The box was shut, locked, and returned to the bedroom.

Now we are ready for him, said Holmes.

We have still ten minutes.

I am going far to screen you, Lady Hilda.

In return, you will spend the time in telling me frankly the real meaning of this extraordinary affair.

mister Holmes,

I will tell you everything,

cried the lady.

Oh, mister Holmes, I would cut off my right hand before I gave him a moment of sorrow.

There is no woman in all London who loves her husband as I do and yet if he knew how I have acted, how I have been been compelled to act, he would never forgive me.

For his own honor stands so high that he could not forget or pardon a lapse in another.

Help me, Mr.

Holmes.

My happiness, his happiness.

Our very lives are at stake.

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Quick, madam.

The time grows short.

It was a letter of mine mr holmes an indiscreet letter written before my marriage a foolish letter a letter of an impulsive loving girl

i meant no harm and yet he would have thought it criminal had he read that letter his confidence would have been forever destroyed it is years since i wrote it

I had thought that the whole matter was forgotten.

Then at last I heard from from this man, Lucas,

that it had passed into his hands and that he would lay it before my husband.

I implored his mercy.

He said that he would return my letter if I would bring him a certain document which he described in my husband's dispatch box.

He had some spy in the office who had told him of its existence.

He assured me that no harm could come to my husband.

Put yourself in my position, Mr.

Holmes.

What was I to do?

Take your husband into your confidence.

I could not, Mr.

Holmes.

I could not.

On the one side seemed certain ruin.

On the other, terrible as it seemed to take my husband's paper, still in a matter of politics I could not understand the consequences, while in a matter of love and trust they were only too clear to me.

I did it, Mr.

Holmes.

I took an impression of his key.

This man, Lucas, furnished a duplicate.

I opened his dispatch box, took the paper, and conveyed it to Godolphin Street.

What happened there, madam?

I tapped at the door as agreed.

Lucas opened it.

I followed him into his room, leaving the hall door ajar behind me, for I feared to be alone with the man.

I remember that there was a woman outside as I entered.

Our business was soon done.

He had my letter on his desk.

I handed him the document.

He gave me the letter.

At this instant, there was a sound at the door.

There were steps in the passage.

Lucas quickly turned back the drugget, thrust the document into some hiding place there, and covered it over.

What happened after that is like some fearful dream.

I have a vision of a dark, frantic face, of a woman's voice which screamed in French,

My waiting is not in vain.

At last, at last, I have found you with her.

There was a savage struggle.

I saw him with a chair in his hand.

A knife gleamed in hers.

I rushed from the horrible scene, ran from the house, and only next morning in the paper did I learn the dreadful result.

That night I was happy, for I had my letter, and I had not seen yet what the future would bring.

It was the next morning that I realized that I had only exchanged one trouble for another.

My husband's anguish at the loss of his paper went to my heart.

I could hardly prevent myself from there and then kneeling down at his feet and telling him what I had done, but that again would mean a confession of the past.

I came to you that morning in order to understand the full enormity of my offence.

From the instant that I grasped it, my whole mind was turned to the one thought of getting back my husband's paper.

It must still be where Lucas had placed it, for it was concealed before this dreadful woman entered the room.

If it had not been for her coming, I should not have known where his hiding-place was.

How was I to get into the room?

For two days I watched the place, but the door was never left open.

Last night, I made a last attempt.

What I did and how I succeeded, you have already learned.

I brought the paper back with me and thought of destroying it, since I could see no way of returning it without confessing my guilt to my husband.

Heavens!

I hear his step upon the stair.

The European Secretary burst excitedly into the room.

Any news, Mr Holmes?

Any news?

he cried.

I have some hopes.

Thank heaven His face became radiant.

The Prime Minister is lunching with me.

May he share your hopes?

He has nerves of steel, and yet I know that he has hardly slept since this terrible event.

Jacobs, will you ask the Prime Minister to come up?

As to you, dear, I fear that this is a matter of politics.

We will join you in a few minutes in the dining-room.

The Prime Minister's manner was subdued, but I could see by the gleam of his eyes and the twitchings of his bony hands that he shared the excitement of his young colleague.

I understand that you have something to report, Mr.

Holmes.

A purely negative as yet, my friend answered.

I have inquired at every point where it might be, and I am sure that there is no danger to be apprehended.

But that is not enough, Mr.

Holmes.

We cannot live for ever on such a volcano.

We must have something definite.

I am in the hopes of getting it.

That is why I am here.

The more I think of the matter, the more convinced I am that the letter has never left this house.

Mr.

Holmes?

If it had, it would certainly have been public by now.

But why should any one take it in order to keep it in this house?

I am not convinced that any one did take it.

Then how could it leave the dispatch-box?

I am not convinced that it ever did leave the dispatch-box.

Mr Holmes, this joking is very ill-timed.

You have my assurance that it left the box.

Have you examined the box since Tuesday morning?

No,

it was not necessary.

You may conceivably have overlooked it.

Impossible, I say.

But I am not convinced of it.

I have known such things to happen.

I presume there are other papers there.

Well, it may have got mixed with them.

It was on the top.

Someone may have shaken the box and displaced it.

No, no, I had everything out.

Surely it is easily decided, Hope, said the Premier.

Let us have the dispatch-box brought in.

The secretary rang the bell.

Jacobs, bring down my dispatch box.

This is a farcical waste of time, but still, if nothing else will satisfy you, it shall be done.

Thank you, Jacobs.

Put it here.

I have always had the key on my watch-chain.

Here are the papers you see.

Letter from Lord Merrow, report from Sir Charles Hardy, memorandum from Belgrade, note on the Russo-German grain taxes, letter from Madrid, note from Lord Flowers.

Good

heavens!

What is this?

Lord Bellinger, Lord Bellinger!

The Premier snatched the blue envelope from his hand.

Yes, it is it, and the letter is intact.

Hope, I congratulate you.

Thank you.

Thank you.

What a weight from my heart.

But this is inconceivable, impossible.

Mr.

Holmes, you are a wizard, a sorcerer.

How did you know it was there?

Because I knew it was nowhere else.

I cannot believe my eyes.

He ran wildly to the door.

Where is my wife?

I must tell her that all is well.

Hilda!

Hilda!

We heard his voice on the stairs.

The Premier looked at Holmes with twinkling eyes.

Come, sir, said he, there is more in this than meets the eye.

How came the letter back in the box?

Holmes turned away, smiling from the keen scrutiny of those wonderful eyes.

We also have our diplomatic secrets, said he,

and picking up his hat, he turned to the door.

Next time on Sherlock Holmes short stories, Holmes and Watson navigate their way through a twisted maze of family secrets and betrayal in The Adventure of the Copper Beaches.

When a young governess is offered a suspiciously high salary for a seemingly simple position, she turns to Holmes for advice.

Her employer's strange demands to cut her hair short, wear a specific blue dress, and sit by the drawing room window at certain times of day, suggest to Holmes that something sinister lies behind the offer.

As the case unfolds, Holmes and Watson are drawn to a sprawling Hampshire estate whose respectable exterior hides a deadly secret.

In this case, nothing is quite what it seems.

But will the great detective see beyond the facade before an innocent life is lost?

Find out

next time.

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