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'Life in London is not what it was,' said Sherlock Holmes to Dr Watson. They were sitting at the breakfast table in their Baker Street rooms one morning in the summer of 1894. Holmes was smoking a cigarette and Watson was reading the newspaper.
'True, Holmes,' said the doctor. 'For most people life is much better now.'
'But for me, Watson, life is not so interesting,' explained Holmes. 'I loved to read the newspaper, hoping to find some news of an interesting crime for me to
investigate
or a dangerous criminal for me to catch. Where are all those clever
criminals
these days?' He smiled
sadly
.
'Sometimes I don't understand you, Holmes,' said Watson. 'I like living a quiet life myself.'
Holmes did not reply, but opened his newspaper in a lazy way and started to read. Suddenly they heard a loud
knock
at the street door downstairs. They heard the knock again and again. Mrs Hudson, the
housekeeper
, ran to open the door and a wild, excited young man fell into the
hall
. He pushed the poor housekeeper out of his way and ran up the stairs.
'Who are you, sir?' asked Watson. 'And what do you want?'
The young man looked at Watson, then at Holmes, and started to explain.
'I'm sorry, Mr Holmes, I'm sorry,' he said. 'Please don't be angry. I feel so afraid, Mr Holmes.'
Holmes asked the young man to come into the room and told him to sit down.
'Have a cigarette,' he said, 'and tell us who you are and why you have come here.'
The man took a cigarette from the box on the table, and Watson lit it for him. After some minutes he stopped shaking and spoke.
'My name is John McFarlane,' he began. Neither Holmes nor Watson knew the name.
'And?' asked Holmes.
'And,' replied McFarlane, starting to shake again, 'I am in terrible
trouble
. You must help me, Mr Holmes. The police want to
arrest
me and send me to prison. And I have done nothing, Mr Holmes, nothing.'
'Interesting,' said Holmes, 'very interesting. Don't you agree, Watson?'
Watson saw that his friend was excited by this
mystery
, and wanted to know more.
'Mr McFarlane,' Holmes went on, 'why do the police want to arrest you? What have you done?'
'Nothing. I told you, I've done nothing. But they think that I murdered a man called Jonas Oldacre, a
builder
who lives
–
who lived
–
in South London, at Norwood.'
Holmes lit another cigarette. 'I'm very sorry to hear this, Mr McFarlane. Please tell us your story.'
McFarlane saw Watson's newspaper on the breakfast table and opened it.
'It's here,' he said, 'in today's newspaper. The story of the murder of Jonas Oldacre. I'll read it to you. Terrible crime at Norwood: Murder of well-known builder. The police are sure that I am the man who killed him. They've followed me here from the station and are waiting to arrest me. This news will kill my poor old mother, Mr Holmes, it will kill her.'
McFarlane was still shaking and smoking his cigarette. Watson looked at him in an interested way. McFarlane was a goodlooking young man with bright blue eyes and long hair, but he looked very afraid. He was about twenty-seven years old and Watson could see that he came from a good family.
'If the police are following you,' said Holmes, 'we must work quickly. Mr McFarlane, please have another cigarette. Watson, could you take the newspaper and read us the story?'
Watson opened the newspaper and started to read.
Sherlock Holmes listened carefully, his eyes closed, as Watson read the story from the morning newspaper.
Late last night, or early this morning, a terrible crime took place at Norwood in South London. Mr Jonas Oldacre has lived at Norwood and has worked there as a builder for many years. He is fifty-two years old, unmarried, and he lives in Deep Dene House on the Sydenham Road. The people of Norwood know Mr Oldacre as an unusual man. He does not often leave his house, but his business has made him very rich. There is a small
timber yard
behind his house and last night, at about midnight, a man who was out walking saw that some of the wood there was on fire. He immediately called the
fire brigade
, who arrived soon after. The wood was very dry and burned quickly, so it was impossible to
put out
the fire. The fire brigade were surprised when Mr Oldacre did not come out of the house, and two of their officers went inside to look for him. But Mr Oldacre was not in the house. In the bedroom the two men found an open
safe
, which was empty. There were papers on the floor and
bloodstains
on the walls. The men also found a bloodstained
walking stick
in the room. This stick belongs to Mr John McFarlane, who visited Mr Oldacre at his home yesterday evening. The police are sure that they know the
motive
for the crime and are looking for Mr McFarlane. They will arrest him when they find him. At Norwood, police now say that Mr Oldacre's bedroom windows on the ground floor of the house were open. They have found some burnt
remains
, possibly of a body, in the fire in the timber yard. The police think that there has been a murder. They say that the criminal killed the builder in his bedroom, then pulled his dead body into the garden and burned it in the timber yard. Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard is the policeman who is investigating this most terrible crime.
'This is very interesting,' he said at last. 'Can I ask, Mr McFarlane, why the police have not already arrested you? I understand from the newspaper that they are sure you murdered Mr Oldacre.'
'I live at Torrington Lodge, Blackheath, with my mother and father, Mr Holmes, but last night, after my business with Mr Oldacre, I stayed in a hotel at Norwood and went to work from there this morning. I knew nothing about this crime until I was on the train, when I read the story in the newspaper. I understood immediately that I was in terrible trouble, so when my train arrived at the station I ran to Baker Street to see you, Mr Holmes, and to tell you that I am not a criminal. I did not murder Mr Jonas Oldacre. The police, I'm sure, were waiting for me at work and also at my father's house at Blackheath. A man followed me here from the station and – '
Suddenly there was another knock at the street door. Then they heard men on the stairs, and Inspector Lestrade entered the room with two other policemen.
'Are you Mr John McFarlane?' he asked.
The young man stood up, his face white.
'I am,' he said.
Lestrade gave him a long look. 'John McFarlane, I am arresting you for the murder of Mr Jonas Oldacre, the builder, of Norwood, South London.'
