Chapter 20: Footprints

Holmes picked up the letter and brought it close to his nose to sniff, then promptly placed it back down. He then took a clear glass bottle filled with liquid nearby, opened it, and sniffed. "Don't overthink it. The liquid here is clearly not tears, but water mixed with a special perfume, so whoever picks up the letter can still catch its scent."

Billy: …Quite the trick.

At that moment, Billy stepped closer and finally read the letter’s content. It was unbearably sorrowful and heart-wrenching, expressing a deep reluctance to part with Mr. Hughes, yet also an understanding of why he had severed ties with her.

The letter contained no other useful information. After scanning it, Billy shifted his attention elsewhere.

Holmes had already placed the perfumed liquid back on the table and deftly unlocked a drawer.

Billy clearly heard the startled exclamation of the maid peeking in from outside the door, evidently aware that the drawer’s contents were not meant for outsiders.

Holmes pulled out several stacks of letters, and Billy noticed the senders were not just Mr. Hughes and the Mr. Hatton they had met today.

Judging by the order and the aging marks on the paper, many of these letters were written recently.

It seemed this lady had quite a few lovers, Billy thought.

Holmes quickly opened each envelope and examined the letters inside, his reading speed brisk enough to scan through all the letters in the drawer in no time.

“These are letters from the people she has been seeing recently,” Holmes said, “excluding Mr. Hughes, who has already broken up with her, and including Mr. Hatton, there are five in total. The letters all sound sweet and loving, as if none of them realized she was seeing others at the same time.” Holmes carefully returned the letters to their envelopes and rummaged through the drawer further.

Billy watched as Holmes pulled out a notebook. Opening it, he immediately spotted a meticulously detailed schedule.

Billy couldn’t help but admire the woman’s cunning. No wonder she had never been caught—she was a master of time management and planning, spacing out her meetings with each lover to avoid any slip-ups.

But how had Mr. Hatton discovered she had other lovers?

Holmes reached the latest page and said, “According to her schedule, as long as nothing unexpected happens, it’s impossible for anyone to find out. But clearly, something unexpected has occurred.”

Although he said this, Holmes did not rush to question Mr. Hatton but kept searching the study.

Billy also searched around, trusting his instincts, but found no further clues.

Eventually, the two left the study and, led by the maid, went to the kitchen.

Holmes’s expression showed no sign of new discoveries.

“List everything this lady has eaten since yesterday morning and have it all sent for toxicology testing,” Holmes instructed the maid.

The maid nodded quickly, and a policeman promptly handed her pen and paper.

“Besides the lovers who regularly visit this lady, did anyone else come to see her the day before yesterday? For instance, Mr. Hughes’s brother?”

Faced with Holmes’s sudden question, the maid hesitated briefly, recalling, before shaking her head firmly. “No, absolutely no one named Hughes came to visit. Madam didn’t go out that day either.”

It seemed Henry Hughes never actually arrived here. Was it that he refused to deliver the letter to his brother, or did something else happen along the way?

Holmes turned to the officer nearby. “What about Mr. Hatton?”

“He’s outside, refusing to come in no matter what.”

Seeing his lover suddenly dead before him, and in such a gruesome state, must have left an indelible psychological scar, Billy thought.

Holmes raised an eyebrow and strode quickly outside.

As Holmes’s assistant, Billy followed immediately, eager to learn how Hatton had uncovered the problem.

Soon, they found Mr. Hatton surrounded by police—a young man in his twenties, plain-looking but evidently well-off judging by his attire.

His face still bore traces of panic as he argued with the officers, insisting he wasn’t the murderer, only upset because he had discovered his lover was seeing others.

“Mr. Hatton, how did you find out this lady had other lovers?”

Startled by Holmes’s sudden question, Hatton eyed him suspiciously until a policeman explained that this was the famous detective Holmes. Then, relief spread across Hatton’s face as he grasped Holmes’s hand firmly. “Detective, you must prove my innocence. I’ll pay whatever it takes to show I didn’t kill her!”

“Mr. Hatton, I’m asking where you found evidence of her infidelity. As for who the murderer is—that requires further investigation.”

Hatton’s smile immediately faded at Holmes’s reply, but under the police’s watchful eyes and Holmes’s sharp gaze, he reluctantly said, “I found letters from other lovers!”

He grew angry as he pulled out the letter from his pocket. “At first, when I saw Catherine’s name on it, I thought it was a coincidence. But when I opened it and read the contents, I understood immediately—while dating me, Catherine was seeing another man!”

Holmes took the letter from him without hesitation. Billy leaned in to read.

The handwriting matched that of Mr. Hughes’s letters found in Catherine’s study. The content was much as Holmes had suspected: besides cloying sweet nothings, there were pleas for Catherine not to end their relationship. The earlier letter was clearly just a formality.

Holmes merely glanced over the letter before returning it to its envelope and then focused intently on the envelope itself.

Billy noticed faint traces of dirt and some green stains.

But Hatton’s neat appearance and clean fingers left Billy wondering how the letter had come to be so soiled.

“Where did you get this letter?” Billy asked.

“From the forest over there. I was planning a lovely day with Catherine, but this morning, while picking flowers, I found this letter in the bushes!” Hatton said angrily.

Holmes ignored his outburst and grabbed Hatton’s arm, pulling him along. “Take me to the place where you found the letter.”

“Will you prove my innocence if I do?” Hatton resisted, but being a pampered young man unused to physical exertion, he was no match for the strong Holmes and was dragged along.

“As long as you didn’t actually kill her, I will.”

Hatton promptly summoned his coachman and led Holmes and Billy to where he had found the letter.

Billy looked out the carriage window and saw police following—a natural precaution, since no matter what Holmes said, Hatton was still a suspect.

This was the typical attitude police held toward detectives: they admired Holmes’s brilliant deductions and wanted him to solve the case quickly, yet remained skeptical, eager to verify his reasoning themselves.

After all, humans make mistakes—even Holmes—and if the police caught any flaws, it would be their chance for glory.

Because the forest was nearby, they arrived quickly.

Hatton jumped down from the carriage and said as they walked, “Catherine loved the flowers here, so whenever I passed by, I’d pick some for her. This morning was no different—I was gathering flowers just here when I found the letter among the blossoms.”

They stopped, and sure enough, there was a patch of flowers with some broken petals scattered about, though these were already wilting.

Billy clearly saw footprints around the flowers, roughly the same size as Hatton’s.

Further away, in the soft earth, a trail of other footprints led deeper into the forest.

Just then, the police arrived and nearly stepped on those prints, unaware of their significance.

Holmes’s face darkened with anger as he shouted, “Stop! Step back! Don’t you see the footprints? Were you never trained for duty?”

It was the first time Billy had seen Holmes angry; even Hatton was startled.

The officers, silenced by the rebuke, scrambled back several paces while Holmes strode to the footprints and crouched down to measure them carefully with a ruler.

Billy followed closely, measuring another set of prints.

A formula naturally sprang to his mind, allowing him to estimate the owner’s height from the print length.

“About six feet tall, slender build,” Billy said instinctively.

Holmes looked at Billy with approval. “The prints you measured likely belong to Henry Hughes. The ones I measured correspond to heights of 5.5 feet and 6.2 feet respectively.”