The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures - Mike Ashley [79]
MacGlevin’s face assumed a dark, angry hue, and the veins on his temples stood out like whipcord.
“How dare you refer to the heirloom of my family in those insulting terms!” he roared. “You despicable villain!”
How long this aggressive exchange might have continued, it is difficult to say. Certainly, MacGlevin appeared on the verge of imposing his huge physical presence on the little Edinburgh lawyer. But Constable MacPherson placed his considerable bulk between them, and managed to calm the atmosphere a little.“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he said, “let us discuss the matter like the civilized men we are!”
The facts of the matter were soon told. The Laird of Uffa had last seen his family’s heirloom during the previous afternoon, when he had been re-arranging some of the exhibits in his museum. He had not entered the museum with Mr Grice Paterson and his son, but had given them a lantern and told them to look round by themselves if they wished. They had done so for two or three minutes before rejoining him for a hot toddy. Later he had entered the museum to fetch a book, and had found the buckle gone. It had not been protected from theft in any way, but had lain, uncovered, upon a velvet cushion, atop a small stand. No-one but the Grice Patersons had entered the house all day, and nor were there any signs of a forced entry. The case against the Edinburgh men seemed, then, on circumstantial evidence at least, to be conclusive, although, having conversed with them at length the previous evening, I could not really believe either of them to be guilty of so mean a crime. For their part, they declared that they had not observed the buckle the previous evening, having taken only a cursory glance around the museum.
The impasse was broken in a surprising manner. Sherlock Holmes abruptly pushed back his chair from the breakfast-table and rose to his feet. In a very few words, he introduced himself, and although he had not then achieved the celebrity he was later to enjoy, the name was recognized instantly by several of those there.
“I followed the Maupertuis case in the papers,” said the policeman with respect, but Holmes waved his hand dismissively.
“I think it would be as well to examine the scene of this crime before any arrests are contemplated,” said he, in a voice of quiet authority. “It may well be that the circumstances there will decide the question of guilt or innocence once and for all, and may also suggest some other line of inquiry.”
“Suggest fiddlesticks!” cried MacGlevin in contempt, but Constable MacPherson nodded his head.
“I canna arrest anybody merely on your say-so, Mr MacGlevin,” said he. “This gentleman is correct. We must examine the scene. You will favour us with your assistance, Mr Holmes?”
My friend assented, and MacPherson quickly made his arrangements. Holmes and he had a brief discussion, during which my friend made several specific suggestions, the upshot being that two of the local fishermen who were special constables were to take charge of matters in Kilbuie in our absence, and the Puffin was to be temporarily impounded. Then MacGlevin, MacPherson, the elder Grice Paterson, Holmes and myself set off for the islands in the steam launch, Alba.
The black tower of MacGlevin’s abode loomed above us as we approached Uffa, gaunt and solitary. Beyond it stretched the length of the bleak and featureless island, its surface a mottled dun colour. It was a strange and inhospitable place to make one’s home, and perhaps the most unlikely spot in which my friend had ever investigated a crime. A hundred yards or so to the north were further, smaller islands, the sea breaking in white foam over their jagged rocks, and, perhaps two hundred yards to the south, the nearest point on the mainland, an area of tumbled rocks and tangled shrubs.
MacGlevin brought his little vessel alongside a small and rickety wooden jetty, where his servant, a short, spry elderly man with