Then, as Hartley Lessingham made a series of rapid thrusts, accompanied by blood-curdling cries of triumph, the sound of a horse’s hooves and the rattle of a carriage harness came to my ears. What it meant, I could not tell. I could only guess that Legbourne Legge was leaving, but for what reason, I could not imagine. Next moment, my attention was once more entirely taken up by the deadly fight before me. Holmes had been caught on the hand by his opponent’s rapier, for I saw a streak of blood across his knuckles. Hartley Lessingham evidently saw it, too, for he let out a howl of triumph and tossed his head back, like a wild beast scenting victory. At that precise instant, Holmes launched a sudden counter-attack of his own, and seized the initiative. Right and left went his staff, as he forced his way forward, and Hartley Lessingham attempted to parry. Then he struck a sharp blow on Hartley Lessingham’s sword hand and, in the split second that his opponent’s guard was down, made a straight thrust with his staff with all his might, and caught his opponent full in the face with the end of it.

There came a wild howl of pain from Hartley Lessingham, and as he clutched his face, which was streaming with blood, the sword slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor. In the same moment, Holmes caught him a powerful blow on the side of the head, and he staggered backwards, still holding his face in his hands, until his back was against the wall. There he stood, panting and howling for several minutes, like some wild beast at bay. Then as he began to recover himself, he lowered his hands from his blood-smeared face and looked with baleful venom at Holmes, who had remained all this time in the centre of the room, unmoving.

“You will pay for this,” cried Hartley Lessingham, in a voice that was hoarse and full of fury. “You will pay with your life! Legge!” he cried loudly. “Where is that damned fool? Legge!”

There came the sound of someone bounding up the stairs at a terrific rate, but the man who burst into the room a moment later was not the corpulent Captain Legbourne Legge, but a sturdily built, sandy-haired man. His face seemed vaguely familiar to me, but for several seconds I could not place him. Then, with a jolt of surprise, I realized that he was the man Holmes and I had observed in the cab in Fleet Street the previous day, watching Harriet Borrow.

“Edgar!” cried Mrs Hartley Lessingham. “What on earth—”

“I have long suspected that things were not right in these parts,” said the newcomer, “but I was loath to interfere. I wrote in the spring, but was told by your husband that you had gone away, and that he did not know your whereabouts. Then, just this last week, I received a letter from a gentleman in London, giving me some fresh facts. He seemed to be under the impression, for some reason, that I might know where you were. I decided to make my own enquiries, which I have been doing for several days, until I resolved last night that I would come down and see for myself what was happening here. And I have come, it seems, not a moment too soon!”

“You’re never too soon, Shepherd,” said Hartley Lessingham in a sneering tone. “You’re always too late! You’ve missed all the entertainment! Now get out of my way!”

“Not so fast, Lessingham,” returned Shepherd, holding his ground as Hartley Lessingham made to push past him. “I have some questions for you.”

“What you have is of no interest to me!” said Hartley Lessingham in a supercilious tone, but he stopped as Holmes and I closed in on him with our staves. “You scum!” he cried at us, backing away a little. “Legge!” he called again. “Where the devil are you?”

“Your fat friend is having a little trouble loading his pistol,” said Shepherd. “He can’t help you.”

At this, Miss Rogerson ran from the room, and I heard her shouting down the stairs to Legbourne Legge. Hartley Lessingham backed slowly away from us, his eyes darting this way and that, like a rat in a trap, then, abruptly, he turned and made a bolt for the door in the end wall, snatched it open and, before we could stop him, had dashed out and down the steps outside.

I raced to the doorway and looked down. Hartley Lessingham was already some way down the staircase, which was swaying alarmingly at every footfall. Then he turned and looked up at us, an expression of savage hatred upon his features.

“You will all regret this!” he screamed at the top of his voice, shaking a huge knotted fist at us in wild, uncontrolled rage. But in turning to face us, he had leaned his weight upon the flimsy handrail, and even as he shook his fist, I heard the splintering crack of the rotten wood, and watched with horror as the broken handrail fell away and Hartley Lessingham pitched headlong from the stair. He made a desperate grab for one of the upright poles that had held the handrail, but it snapped clean off in his grasp like a matchstick, and with a terrible scream, he plunged down, down, until he hit the great water-wheel with a sickening thud and lay there like a broken doll. For a moment I stared in horror at this dreadful scene, but even from that distance I could see that he was dead.

I turned as there came the sound of rapid footsteps from behind us. Legbourne Legge dashed into the room, brandishing one of his old-fashioned pistols. He looked from one to the other of us, and as he did so, his mouth fell open in an expression of stupid incomprehension.

“Where the devil is Lessingham?” he demanded of Miss Rogerson, who had followed him into the room.

“It’s all up, Legge,” said Holmes in a voice of authority. “Hartley Lessingham is dead, and you’ll be arrested for the murder of Theakston. We have a witness.”

For a moment Legbourne Legge stood there in silence, a look of indecision upon his fat, flabby face as he pointed his pistol at each of us in turn. Then, in an instant, he abruptly put the pistol up to the side of his head, pulled the trigger and blew his own brains out.

Mrs Hartley Lessingham screamed as Legbourne Legge’s lifeless body slumped to the floor, and the children buried their faces in her skirts. Then, as his blood spread out across the dusty floor, Miss Rogerson uttered a sharp cry and ran from the room and down the stair. With an expression of great weariness, Holmes cast aside his stave and picked up his jacket from where it lay by the wall. Then he stepped forward to usher the others from the room.

“What in the name of Heaven has been happening here?” cried Shepherd, a mixture of bewilderment and horror in his voice.

“Let us first get everyone downstairs and away from here,” responded Holmes as he pulled on his jacket. “I will answer later any questions you may have, Shepherd. For now, let us waste no time in shaking from our feet the dust of this vile and ill-starred place.”

AN INCIDENT IN SOCIETY

DURING THE YEARS I SHARED ROOMS with Sherlock Holmes, the number of those who came to seek his help was perfectly stupendous. From every walk of life they came, so that upon our stair in Baker Street, monarchs, statesmen and noblemen would rub shoulders with tailors, shopkeepers and clerks. As might be supposed, there were, among the many cases that Holmes handled over the years, some which involved those whose names were familiar in every household in the land. In the main, I have passed over such cases when selecting those to be published, lest I lay myself open to a charge of sensationalism. In some, however, the facts were in themselves sufficiently remarkable to warrant publication, and I would be doing my readers a disservice were I to ignore them altogether. An especially memorable such episode occurred one December in the early ’80s. Though the matter was never reported in the papers, it was one that touched upon issues of enormous national importance.

There were at that time, among the many notable members of London Society, two women of very differing reputations and antecedents. The first was the Duchess of Pont, widow of the great statesman whose premature death had been such a grievous loss to the nation. She was renowned for the parties she gave at her house in Belgravia, a singular blend of gaiety and serious discussion, for it was her habit to include among her guests many prominent politicians, writers and diplomats. It was well known that more than one foreign statesman had travelled halfway across Europe simply for the privilege of being present at one of the Duchess of Pont’s parties, and it was said that many political decisions of international importance had had their origins in informal discussions at her house.