We had returned to Baker Street, and Holmes and I were having tea and relaxing after our journey, sitting together in front of the fire while Holmes copied and scratched out musical staff on bits of paper. The discarded sheets, rolled into balls and scattered about the room, had drawn a decidedly martyred look from Mrs. Hudson as she'd brought in our tea.

"Have we any clues at all, Holmes? Except for that music there don't seem to be any, and who knows what it means? Perhaps it's just an exercise in difficult playing. The only thing I noticed out of the ordinary was that Mr. Eideard had no piano in his study. Seems rather odd for a man who'd been on the concert stage."

"There must have been a piano somewhere, Watson, since the contestants had to practice. In a house that size there must be a music room or perhaps even a little theater tucked away somewhere. Of course Mr. Eideard himself does not play any more, which accounts for the absence of the instrument in his study."

"Really, Holmes, how do you know that he doesn't play?"

"Did you really not notice his hands, Watson? And you a doctor! They were gnarled and knotty, so arthritic that it would be impossible for him to pick out even a scale except with great difficulty. I suspect he must be in great pain much of the time, which might account for his surly attitude. Even so, he was exceptionally rude, wasn't he?"

"Yet he is very generous with payment to the winner, and treats all the contestants lavishly while they stay with him."

"True, Watson. Or so he has in the past. It might be useful to know when his disease first began to cause him discomfort. I've a job for you, Watson. I want you to stay at the inn near the Four Willows and spend some time in the bar there. It's the only place where the servants can conveniently go on their time off. You might try to become friendly with the butler or one of the footman and find out how long Eideard has been suffering from arthritis." I merely nodded my agreement.

Holmes flung down one more bit of wadded-up paper and began to stride about the room. "You know, Watson, there's something very odd about this case. The last of the victims was drowned, the second the shot in the back, and the first was poisoned with a box of chocolates, of which, according to Inspector Mayburn, Peshlika was notoriously fond. All such very different forms of murder, aren't they?" Holmes reached the end of the room and turned again, chin down and brow furrowed.

"Watson, come here to the window!" Holmes pacing had ended at the curtains. "Another of the contestants is here!"

"It seems to be a man in an American cowboy hat, Holmes, but how can you tell he's a pianist. Surely you can't see his spatulate finger ends from here."

"No Watson, I can't, but I do recognize him as the rising American artist John Amberson, whose concert I attended at the Albert Hall last month. I believe he's coming to see me."

Proceed to Part Five