The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures - Mike Ashley [80]
We followed MacGlevin inside, and through to the museum, which occupied half of the single-storey wing, and which appeared as impregnable as a fortress. The walls were of stone, immensely thick, and hung all about with swords and shields, maps, paintings and tartans. High up along the left-hand wall was a row of windows, and in the sloping roof above was a series of small sky-lights, all of which had black iron bars across. The windows had all been fastened on the inside for the previous two days, the laird informed us, the sky-lights did not open at all, and there was no other door than the one through which we had entered, from the living-quarters of the house. Scattered about the room were several tables and cases containing exhibits, and in the middle stood a white-painted wooden pedestal, about a foot square and four feet high. Atop this was a red velvet cushion, depressed slightly in the middle. This was the usual resting-place of the MacGlevin Buckle, from which it had mysteriously disappeared.
Directing us to stand back, Holmes examined the cushion, the pedestal and the area round about with minute care, occasionally murmuring to himself. As he did so, there was a glint in his eye and an energy in his manner which it thrilled me to see. Like a weary hound who gets the scent of the chase in his nostrils, Holmes’s keen, incisive nature had been kindled afresh by the task before him, and had quite thrown off the lassitude of former days. Grice Paterson caught my eye, raised his eyebrow questioningly, and seemed about to speak, but I shook my head and put my finger to my lips.
“The buckle was not fastened to the cushion in any way?” queried Holmes of MacGlevin. “No? But it appears that something was, for there is a little tear in the surface, as if something has been forcibly ripped from it.” MacGlevin stepped forward to see, and declared that he had not noticed such a tear before.
Holmes was down on his hands and knees when he uttered a little cry of satisfaction as he picked something up from the floor, a couple of feet to the side of the pedestal. He continued his search for a while, without finding anything else, and presently he stood up and held out his hand. Upon the palm lay a tiny grey sphere of metal, little more than an eighth of an inch in diameter.
MacGlevin shook his head dismissively, and shrugged his shoulders. “It must have fallen from someone’s pocket,” he suggested. “I cannot see that it is of any significance. Why, any of my visitors might have dropped it!”
Holmes gave a little chuckle. “Really, Mr MacGlevin,” said he; “if you wish your buckle to be returned to you, you would do well not to dismiss the evidence so quickly. This interesting little sphere – ”
“Is a piece of lead shot of some kind,” said Constable MacPherson in a thoughtful voice “and there’s little opportunity for shooting rabbits in here, Mr MacGlevin!”
Holmes laughed. “There is no more to be seen here,” said he. “Let us now examine the exterior of the building.”
We followed him outside, and round to the back. Where the single-storey wing joined the rear wall of the tower at a right angle, there was a soft patch of muddy ground, to which Holmes devoted his attention.
“I reap the benefits of investigating a crime in such an unfrequented spot,” said he, in good spirits. “There are some wonderfully clear prints here. Your shoe size, Mr Grice Paterson?”
“Seven.”
“I thought as much. And your son’s will be something similar. These prints