Having failed in this direction, then, and becoming increasingly concerned at the influence that this stranger appeared to be gaining over his aunt, Thorne determined to speak directly to the man upon his next visit, in order to form his own opinion of him. He therefore waited in a carriage in South Audley Street at the hour that Lady Yelverton’s servants believed Quinlivan would call, but his vigil proved fruitless, for the man never came at all that day. Twice this occurred, which made Thorne suspect that it was the presence of the carriage in the street which had deterred him, or that he had been forewarned in some other way. In either event, the implication as to his character was hardly reassuring, and Thorne therefore set about trying to discover anything he could of the man’s antecedents. Despite making enquiries, however, he had, at the time of the tragedy, made no progress in this direction either.

At about this time, Lady Yelverton’s domestic staff noted with alarm that the vehemence of Quinlivan’s manner was increasing with each visit. Lady Yelverton’s footman, Alfred King, a young relative of the housekeeper’s, who had twice lost positions through insolence, took it upon himself to speak to the man one day as he was leaving, informing him in no uncertain terms that he did not think it right that he should “go about shouting and agitating everyone”. Quinlivan responded in what was later described as an offensive and aggressive manner, whereupon the footman, well known for his short temper, struck the older man and knocked him to the floor. What might have happened next could only be conjectured, for at that moment Lady Yelverton herself appeared in the hallway. Informed of what had occurred, she at once gave the footman notice. He left the house the next day, words of bitter recrimination upon his lips.

One week after this incident came the dreadful event that so shocked all who read of it, and brought the name of Lady Yelverton and her quiet house in South Audley Street to national attention. It was a cold Tuesday afternoon, and Quinlivan had called and been shown directly into the drawing room, as usual. No sooner had the door closed behind him than his raised voice was heard, although no words could be discerned. After perhaps a minute, a complete silence descended, then the door of the room was opened abruptly and Quinlivan ran out, shouting angrily and incoherently at a maid, Susan Moore, who was in the hallway outside. She ran to the kitchen in terror, informing the other staff that Mr Quinlivan looked fit to kill someone. Anxious for the safety of her mistress, Mrs Edwards ascended at once to the drawing room. Receiving no answer to her knock, she opened the door and saw to her horror that her mistress lay slumped in her chair, her head and face a mass of blood. Of Quinlivan there was no sign, and it was clear that he had let himself out of the front door, for it stood open onto the street. Dr Illingworth was quickly summoned, and arrived within minutes, but pronounced Lady Yelverton dead almost at once.

This, then, was the crime that had taken place in South Audley Street, as horrific and brutal a murder as could be imagined, made yet more monstrous by the frailty and kindliness of the victim. The cause of death was given as repeated blows from a blunt instrument, possibly a life preserver, and a warrant was at once issued for Quinlivan’s arrest. So universal were the shock and horror with which the crime was regarded that it was thought inconceivable that anyone would shield the criminal, and without such help, it was believed, a man of such distinctive appearance could not evade discovery for long. But the police were soon to learn that Quinlivan’s arrest and prosecution were not to be as straightforward as they had supposed, for several days’ enquiries produced no result, and he appeared to have vanished without trace.

I opened the Standard one morning to read that, acting on information they had received, the police had moved their search from London to Leicester. It was soon evident that their quarry had once again escaped the net, however, for I later read that the search had moved on to other places. Such was the state of the matter, so far as I and other newspaper readers were aware, on the day I ran across Sherlock Holmes in Holborn. It will be appreciated, then, how eager I was not to miss the appointment with Holmes and the police inspector. But Mr Scrimgeour, a slow and careful solicitor of the old school, unaware of the thoughts that were now uppermost in my mind, discoursed in his measured and guarded manner like a lumbering, low-geared piece of machinery, so that an interview of less than an hour seemed to my impatient mind practically interminable.

A church clock was striking three when I at last found myself on the pavement of Cheapside once more. As fast as I could, I hurried past St Paul’s churchyard and round into Ludgate Hill. When I reached the coffee shop, I was relieved to see that Inspector Lanner, whom I knew well, was still there, sitting at a table near the window. Of Holmes, however, there was no sign. In a moment I had joined the policeman, and he was acquainting me with the latest facts in the case.

“Early last Friday morning,” he began, “a Mrs Unwin, who runs a small boarding house near the Midland station in Leicester, reported to the police that one of her temporary lodgers, a man calling himself Varney, seemed to her very like the description of Quinlivan she had read in her newspaper. She had not yet seen him that morning and believed that he was still in bed. The police quickly went round there, but found that his room was empty. Clearly he had left before Mrs Unwin herself had risen. He had spoken the evening before, she said, of taking a train to Hull, so the police at once notified their colleagues there to be on the alert. What they did not know at the time was that on that same morning we had received a letter in London from Quinlivan himself, posted in Leicester on Thursday afternoon. Most of the letter was taken up with protestations of his innocence. But he was convinced, he said, that if he gave himself up he would never receive a fair hearing.”

“I cannot see how he can possibly be innocent,” I remarked. “The matter could scarcely be clearer!”

“His claim,” Lanner explained, “is that someone must have been in the house before him, for he says he found Lady Yelverton dead when he entered her drawing room. It was this, he says, that made him cry out in anguish as he entered, making him appear deranged to the maid.”

“Could it be true?”

Lanner shook his head dubiously. “A window at the back of the drawing room was found to be open,” he replied, “despite the fact that the day was a cold one. It is just possible that someone could have climbed out from there into the back yard, and escaped that way.”

For some minutes I sat pondering the matter in silence.

“What does Holmes make of it all?” I asked at length. “When I saw him earlier, he said that the case was as good as closed, and that he knew Quinlivan’s whereabouts.”

Inspector Lanner appeared surprised at this information.

“All he has said to me,” he replied, “is that we are dealing with a very cunning and resourceful villain.”

“He has certainly managed to give you the slip so far,” I remarked. “Were any further clues found in Leicester?”

The policeman nodded. “Mr Holmes and I travelled down to Leicester on Saturday,” said he. “We examined the room at Unwin’s boarding house, which the man calling himself Varney had occupied, and made one or two discoveries. He had spoken on Thursday evening of taking a train to Hull the next day, but when I examined his room I found a pocket railway timetable under the bed, which had been folded back at the page showing the Glasgow trains. It might have been there a little while, of course, and been missed by the maid who cleaned the room after the previous occupant, but it did make me wonder if the mention of Hull had been a blind, to throw us off the scent if we ever managed to trace him as far as Leicester. We had had no word back from Hull, anyhow, so I at once alerted the Glasgow police. That this man, Varney, was in reality Quinlivan was confirmed, incidentally, by a letter I found in the room, on the floor beneath a chest of drawers, where it had probably slipped down as he was packing. It was a single folded sheet of paper, without an envelope. The writer had not put his address, and the message was a brief one: ‘Dear Matthew,’ it said, ‘you must give yourself up to the police at once. It is the only thing to do. We are convinced of your innocence, but if you remain in hiding, no one will believe you. Heed my advice. Your true friend, Rev B. Arnold.’”