The Eccentric Painter (A Sherlock Holmes Uncovered Tale) Page 4

  “You are correct, Mr. Holmes,” said she, between short sobs. “I have seen Harold insensible with drink many times since my arrival. I could not accede to a match with such a man.”

  “With all this in mind, I think it likely that your uncle told Harold that he intended to split the inheritance between you two, in light of your engagement to Nigel, and he may even have threatened to disinherit Harold should he not leave his dissolute ways behind him. This was a future for which Harold was unprepared and it pushed him to commit this crime. Afterwards, the enormity of it may have weighed upon his conscience, and driven him to a sickbed. At any rate, the estate will now be yours, Miss Livingstone; and the credit for the case will go to you, Savage.”

  “But, Mr. Holmes, I had little to do with it,” protested Savage.

  “Nonsense,” said Holmes. “Another Inspector might have denied me a free hand, in which case, the mystery might not have been solved. I want no credit.”

  “Very well, Mr. Holmes, although it does not seem proper; but as you wish.”

  Holmes seemed prepared to leave. Miss Livingstone stood up and briefly embraced the taciturn detective, and I thought I saw a bit of color come into the cheeks of my friend.

  “Mr. Holmes,” said she. “I do not know how I can repay you. Finding Harold to be a murderer is devastating, but at least the terrible dread of not knowing is lifted. Even if the estate is mine, I do not see how I can live here with the memory of my poor uncle at every threshold.”

  “My dear, fill the hall with new memories. I understand that a houseful of children drives away bad memories. That is my advice.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” said Nigel. “We will make this a happy home again. Our children will grow strong in the country air.”

  “I am certain you are correct, Mr. Livingstone,” said Holmes. “But as for myself, I am only at home in a city of four million souls. Come, Watson, our rooms on Baker Street await.

  The End