1 A Sad Tale

THE RIGATE SQUIRES.

Chapter 1 A Sad Tale Sherlock Holmes was ill. The great detective had been pushing himself much too hard lately. For two solid months he'd been busy on his latest case, working for over fifteen hours a day, and it had taken its toll on his health. As his doctor and closest friend, I ordered him to take a break. It was April in the year 1887, and I believed a week of spring sunshine in the countryside might do him the world of good. My old friend Colonel Hayter had bought a house near Reigate in Surrey and had said we were welcome to visit at any time. This, I decided, was the perfect moment to take him up on his offer. Holmes, luckily, didn't take too much persuading, and on the morning of April 25, we set out from our Baker Street home for Waterloo Station. By mid-afternoon, we had arrived at the colonel's house.

After dinner, while Holmes lounged on the sofa, the colonel showed me his collection of weapons—relics of the Afghan War where the two of us had met. "By the way," he said suddenly, "I think I'll take one of these pistols upstairs with me tonight in case we have a break-in." "A break-in?" I exclaimed. "Indeed! We had an incident not far from here last Monday. Burglars broke into the house of a local businessman named Acton. They didn't do much damage, but these fellows are still at large and one can't be too careful."

Holmes, who I assumed was asleep, cocked one eye open. "Did they leave any clues?" he asked. "Not as far as I know," said Hayter. "It was a very minor burglary, not worthy of your attention, Mr. Holmes. The thieves ransacked the library. They turned the place upside down, breaking open drawers and pulling things off shelves. All they took was a book, two candlesticks, a paperweight, a small clock, and a ball of string." "What an odd mix of items!" I exclaimed. "Clearly they grabbed the first things they could lay their hands on," said Hayter.

"The local police ought to draw some conclusions from that list," Holmes said, sitting up a little straighter on his sofa. "Why, it seems obvious to me that..." I held up a warning finger. "You're here to rest, my dear fellow. I forbid you to get drawn into another problem in your current state." Holmes shrugged his shoulders and sighed, and talk drifted onto less dangerous subjects. Yet my efforts to make this a relaxing trip were in vain, for peaceful Reigate suddenly became a major crime spot. The next morning, we were eating breakfast when Hayter's butler rushed in

looking pale. "Have you heard the news, sir?" he gasped. "At the Cunninghams'?" "Another burglary?" enquired the colonel, his coffee cup in mid air. "Murder, sir!" The colonel whistled. "By Jove! Who's been killed then, the father or the son?" "Neither, sir. It was William, their coachman. Shot through the heart, sir." "Who shot him?" "The burglar, sir. Then he was off like a shot and got clean away. He'd just broken through the