“It makes no sense. None of this makes sense.”

“I know, Watson. I know. You’ve been mumbling those words ever since we left the Four Willows.” Holmes said testily as he unlocked the door of our lodgings.

“Does it to you?” I asked, stung. “Five women are murdered...”

“And one man. Be precise.”

“And one man,” I shot back. “Murdered by this ‘Vincent’, whoever he is, and Anastasia Visovich, whatever she is. You cannot deny that she is deeply implicated.”

“I do not deny it. But let’s not argue it out in the street. Come upstairs before you wake all London.”

Dejected and angry, I trudged up the seventeen steps to our sitting room in Holmes wake. Holmes dropped into his chair by the fireplace. I moodily fingered the letters Mrs Hudson had left upon the table. In my mind, I relived the look of disgust on Eideard’s face as he took in the corpses of the two women dangling from his tree, and the sneer in the old man’s voice as he excoriated my mute friend, “It is all too plain that your inflated reputation for solving crimes rests more on Doctor Watson’s imagination and narrative skill than in your puny abilities, Mister Detective Holmes.” Even more bitterly, I recalled Amberson’s half-mocking, half-pitying expression, his silence more eloquent than the recriminations of the others.

Absently picking up one of the letters, I flung myself with a groan into the chair opposite. I glanced at my companion’s bowed head. His pale, weary face with it’s heavy lidded eyes cooled my angry blood as surely as ice relieves the pain of a burn.

“Holmes, I know your worth far better than they.” He did not look up. I sighed. “I know you will solve this horrifying case; but I must confess my despair. Six of the finest pianists in Europe, murdered one by one, and we had done nothing – nothing! - to prevent or to avenge their deaths.”

“Do not concern yourself with my feelings, old friend. I swear we will bring justice down upon their assassins.” He drew out a crumpled paper from beneath his chair and smoothed it over his knees. “Who is Vincent? Who is the third murderer? And why are they murdering the great pianists of Europe?”

He glanced at me. “They’ve all been lying to us, Watson. Amberson. Eideard. Vasovich. Lying poorly. Deliberately lying poorly. But why?

“Miss, or Mrs., Vasovich is indeed involved up to her pretty neck, Watson, but why did she trail such blatantly red herrings across our trail? She deliberately burned her hands on the scalding teapot, then she deliberately tried to hide them, in order to draw our attention to the marks of a recently removed ring – presumably a wedding band.”

“Why did she burn her hands, Holmes? So that she would not reveal that she is not a pianst?”

“But she is a pianist, Watson. This competition is restricted to the fifteen finest pianists in Europe. Eideard is an active music impresario and Eideard controlled the selection of applicants. He knows she is a pianist. It is his business to know.”

“So why did she says she is a cellist?”

“That is our business to discover. Perhaps she is both. She offered a lot of information. The information that both the suspect chocolate and cigar boxes were in the music room when she arrived at the Four Willows. That she had been the first musician to arrive. The first, Watson. Mark that. She was here before Mr. Peschilka, Mlle. Lacroix and Miss Filiberto, the first three victims, came. And she offered the information that Brunton had shown her into the music room.”

“But why is that significant? Brunton is the butler.”

“Why did he not show her into the lounge, the usual place for the guests to gather before entering the dining room?” Holmes stroked his chin. His eyes had taken on an introspective look. “Hmm. I wonder if the musical message was conveniently lying nearby, with the chocolate box and the other clues. Why were those incriminating sheets of music found near Miss Filiberto’s body? Did she suspect a message in Morse? If not, why did she snatch them up in her flight? If so, why didn’t her murderer retrieve them? Or was it the murderer who brought them, not Miss Filiberto? Did her murderer want the police to find them? Were they even in the room? If Eideard gathered up all that was connected with his daughter, why did he leave her ransom note behind?

And Brunton. He’s far too well dressed for a butler. He held the tray when Miss Vascovich laid hands on the hot teapot. Does he hold the key as well? What part does he play in all this?”

Holmes gazed at a spot over my head. I knew better than to disturb his contemplations. Opening my letter, I discovered it to be from my friend Sir Henry Baskerville, whose life Holmes had saved from his murderous cousin. Interesting as his missives are, I read it with less than my usual attention. My mind constantly went back to the case at hand. My heart bled for Holmes. He seemed to be groping along a dark tunnel. The coal black hound lurking in the fog of the Baskerville legend was not so voracious for human flesh as seemed the unknown assassins lurking in the shadows of Jerren Eideard’s walled estate.

I wondered if Holmes thought there was something sinister in the tea. Amberson had acted uncommonly sleepy. Why would such an active young man need to take an afternoon nap? Because he had spent that afternoon hanging two women from a tree? Or because he had been drugged to sleep? Why had Eideard allowed him, an American, to compete in his contest? Only European pianists had competed in the past. Was it as a favour to Stockton, whose playing he admired, yet which he had judged inferior to that of others? Why should he do Stockton a favour? Why did Amberson and Stockton impose it upon him? According to Amberson’s account, Eideard had been surly to him. Was the young cowboy lying to incriminate the old man?”

My friend roused himself. I was not surprised that he had followed my train of thought, although I am perplexed to this day how he deduced it.

“A very good question indeed, Watson. Why did Amberson lie so transparently to me? He knew my reputation from reading your tales. Like Eideard, he may have thought you exaggerated my abilities; but you have always shown me to be thorough and meticulous in my methods. He knew, or he is a very poor reader, that I would subject his cigar to my tests. He knew that I knew about his family’s wealth. His promoters do not keep it secret. He is a fine musician, but he is quite aware that being the son of Andrew Cartwright Amberson, the Wyoming cattle and railroad king, adds cachet to his ‘publicity value’. He wears his father’s wealth as proudly as he wears his western hat. Besides that, rich, handsome bachelors are always the fodder for gossip; although with a dozen siblings and a father who breeds his young wives like rabbits, John Amberson stands to inherit very little. So why did he shy at my inquiry about any business or personal connection between his father and Eideard?”

“And Eideard? What lies has he told?”

“How did he recognise that the music laid on his doorstep was a ransom note in Morse code? A communication in any code or cipher is successfully transmittable only when the receiver knows that the message is in that code or cipher and when he knows the key.”

“Eideard could have easily looked up the code in the Encyclopaedia, as I saw you do, Holmes.”

“Yes Watson, but how did Eideard know that the message was in Morse and not in another code – perhaps one based on the placement of the notes, rather than on their length? How did the sender know that Eideard would know the message was in Morse code? And why was the message even encoded? The demand, what we know of it, was straightforward enough.”

“Perhaps it was to keep it from the servants’ gossip? After all, these scoundrels don’t want it known that their man was declared winner because they had abducted the judge’s daughter.”

Holmes pursed his lips, then slowly nodded. “Very good, Watson. Perhaps there is something to your strictures after all. Perhaps my use of narcotics and my irregular habits have slowed my wits.

“But these murders make no sense. I postulated, and Eideard confirmed, that the unknowns intended to kill the pianists and his daughter if he did not award his prize to the man of their choice. But how can he award the prize to this ‘brother’ unless he knows who the ‘brother’ is? He denies that he knows his identity; but he must know. The unknowns would have told him. If they did not tell him in the coded message, then they surmise that he already knows. And how can he award the prize when the formal competition has not commenced? When it cannot commence because the murders prevent it from taking place. The ‘brother’, and probably another confederate, is within the household. He has, or they have, observed all that their reclusive host has gone through. So why murder the pianists when the murders themselves hinder the stated objective?

“And why did Eideard say he removed almost all that reminded him of his daughter into his own suite of rooms? He owns the entire house. Memories of his daughter lurk in every room. Why gather all her belongings into his keeping? Was it all? Where is her bed? The curtains on her bedchamber windows? The saddle of her horse?”

I laughed despite myself. “Holmes! Surely you are being far-fetched!”

He smiled in return. “Not by much, my dear Watson. Mr Jerren Eideard is hiding something within his bedroom. It could be indeed connected with his daughter, if indeed that anonymous bust represents a daughter. It is probably something from his study. That study looked too pristine. He’s in mortal terror of one guest at least finding it, else why does he keep it, and himself, locked within? That guest is probably Amberson, the last minute substitute for Stockton.

“Now, my longsuffering friend. I have kept you from reading your own missive.” He waved a gentle hand at my letter. “Tell me how our friend Sir Henry Baskerville is faring. Has he bagged his moose?”

His smile broadened at my look of surprise. “I am glad, after my poor showing in this case so far, that I still have the power to amaze you.”

“Was it the Canadian stamp on the envelope?”

“And Sir Henry’s distinctive handwriting. That hook of a serif on his m’s, h’s and w’s, not to mention every other letter that is not an ovoid.”

I returned my friend’s smile. “He’s hunting Massey money, not moose, this time. The Canadian farm implements czars are interested in his scheme to turn his holdings in Saskatchewan into an ‘experimental farm’. You know how enthusiastic Sir Henry is.”

Holmes chuckled. “Yes. Sometimes he is too keen to bring the world ‘up to date’. I remember how the Dartmoor folk complained about his electrification of Baskerville Hall.”

“Well, Baskerville Hall was too gloomy. Mrs. Barrymore approved though. She said the electric range and refrigeration make cooking a joy, even though she did not care for the noise of the generator. Sir Henry says if the Canadian government backs his ‘experimental farm’, everyone concerned will benefit immeasurably. The Massey-Harris Company can test their new products under scientific controls. The Canadian government can develop a heartier strain of wheat, which would not only boost the economy but also bring in the revenue from new western settlement.”

“Rather rough on the Indians and the bison herds though. Sir Henry will get the rents?”

“Of course. He wants to be Canada’s version of Andrew Cartwright Amberson.” Smiling indulgently, I perused the letter further. “He intends to invest in macaroni next.”

“Macaroni? From that new strain of wheat, I presume.”

I rubbed my tired eyes and squinted at the paper. “Sorry, Holmes. ‘Marconi.’ Signor Marconi’s new wireless telegraph company. Sir Henry is quite excited about its possibilities, especially for communicating at sea. He predicts it will save hundreds of lives – even capture criminals if they should escape overseas. He commends it to your notice.”

Holmes leaned back. A thoughtful look stole over him. “Well, our friend has his uncle’s Midas touch. Tell him I’ll consider it.”

Then he sat up. “Wireless telegraph,” he murmured. “Railway telegraphs. Morse code. Yes. That piece fits perfectly. Do the other pieces?”

He bolted from his chair and grabbed his hat and coat. “Quick, Watson! Scan that letter again! Tell me where Sir Henry and his friends are now!”

I hastily did so. “In Ottawa, lobbying their government, I daresay. Or back in Toronto. Maybe even in Regina. I don’t know, Holmes! Why is it suddenly so important?”

“Remember I told you at the start of this case that Eideard did not make his fortune at the piano? I need every scrap of information we can get about Andrew and John Amberson’s business relationships. Every bit of gossip in the City. Every bit that Sir Henry and the Massey family have heard in America. I know there is a connection. There must be and we must find it!”

He tossed my coat into my lap. “Come, Watson! Come! We have cables and telegrams to send! Pray God we lose no more time and no more lives!”