It had been hot and decidedly uncomfortable for a fortnight, so it was with some relief when the skies that afternoon began to look foreboding. With a weather front moving in, the temperatures began to drop rather precipitously as the winds began to blow with fierceness. It was in October of 1897. Holmes and I had spent a rather unproductive day.

He had arisen rather before his time, and had stepped outside for some air as our rooms were stifling and smoke-filled. I had stayed abed until rather late. Mrs. Hudson had fed us, but there remained nothing on our dockets for the day, and even the concert halls seemed uninteresting, so the day was spent looking through the papers, having pipes and becoming morose.

So the change in temperature and weather was a relief to us. The rain began softly, but as the winds continued to rise in the afternoon, the drops soon were pelting against the windows and strangely making our nerves somewhat on edge.

Holmes had asked Mrs. Hudson to have the afternoon papers sent up and he was beginning to look through them, when the bell rang. Mrs. Hudson came in with a telegram from Inspector Gregson. It was short and Holmes scanned it quickly as then read aloud,

“Mr. Holmes. Am in Croxley at home of Peter Fenwick. He is quite horrifically dead. Am coming this evening. Gregson.”

“Well, Watson, “That’s it. What do you make of it? Strange isn’t it?”

My first thought was the strange phrase “horrifically dead.”

“What,” I asked Holmes, “does he mean by that?”

Holmes retorted, “It could mean his face was distorted in death because of pain, or some injury which caused it. But you’re correct in that it is an unusual phrase to use in a telegram.”

“Well,” I said, “Perhaps we’ll know what was meant if in fact he’s soon to arrive.” It was now past six o’clock and now the rain was coming in driven sheets. The wind was howling, and to have to face the prospects of a “horrific” death seemed strangely appropriate.

Holmes asked, “Fenwick, Peter. Do we have anything in the Index, Watson?”

The name itself seemed unfamiliar, as did the area of Croxley, though I knew it to be to the north and west. As I handed him the Index, I began looking at the rail schedule to determine where it might be.

As I was looking in the timetable, Holmes suddenly exclaimed, “Jove, Watson. We have a most interesting incident here in the Index. It’s about Mr. Edgar Fenwick, brother of Mr. Peter Fenwick. It appears Mr. Edgar Fenwick and his brother, Peter, are co-owners of some mills in Wales, near Chepstow. Mr. Edgar Fenwick was involved in some nasty business involving young girls for rather immoral purposes. Let me see, yes, it was back in 1893. Seems his conviction, of some sort of moral turpitude, was quite unusual for one of his class. But before his imprisonment, he was found suspiciously drowned at one of the ponds on his estate in Berks, outside of Croxley. That’s next to his brother Peter’s estate, where it appears he was found yesterday 'horrifically' dead. It will be good to hear from Gregson and learn more of the circumstances. The papers had only the sketchiest of details.”

“Ah, yes,” I said. “And there’s the bell. Perhaps it’s Gregson now.”

But I was mistaken, for a younger woman, whose face and demeanor were seldom seen near our quarters, stepped in with Mrs. Hudson. She immediately said, “Mr. Holmes?” as she looked quizzically at the two of us.

Deciding he was Holmes, she went on dramatically, “He deserved it. I didn’t do it, but would’ve if I’d had the chance. He was a devil, Mr. Holmes, like his brother. They used me and left me with no where to go . . . well, you see me before you, but I wasn’t always so. John said they would bring the matter to you. I just had to tell somebody. I’ve got to go, but should you want me, send Wiggins. My name’s Molly, down near the piers.”

And with that she was gone. Now we were more anxious than ever to hear from Gregson. It was shortly after the hour struck eight that Gregson was shown up to our rooms.

He arrived after Molly’s rather startling visitation, and our repast. We were sitting down for a cigar and brandy, when Gregson had made his appearance. Holmes was not involved in anything of a significant nature, although there were one or two minor affairs, but he was quite ready to become involved and I sensed he welcomed Gregson’s intrusion.

“My dear Mr. Holmes,” were Gregson’s first words as he brushed by Mrs. Hudson. “My dear Mr. Holmes, it is baffling, utterly baffling, yet there must be something in it! Don’t you think so?”

Had Gregson not been so harried and stirred, he might have noticed the wry expression that momentarily flitted across Holmes’ face.

“Gregson, I hardly know how to answer you since you’ve not told us anything about the case, if it is such, and we’ve seen the newspapers this evening they have had little if anything in the way of details. Please sit down, and Mrs. Hudson, perhaps you would be so good as to bring him a snifter of the restorative?” said Holmes.

"Well, right,” said Gregson. “I’ve been out at Croxley all of this day trying to make some sense of it, but it baffles me, Mr. Holmes. It baffles me.”

With some exasperation creeping in to his voice, Holmes pressed and said, “But what is it you find so baffling? Ah, Mrs. Hudson, yes. Thank you. Gregson, perhaps you can take a moment, collect your thoughts and give us the entire story.”

“Indeed,” he began again. “The Yard received word early that a tragic event has occurred out at Croxley, beyond Harrow. Mr. Peter Fenwick was discovered this morning in his library dead, but a grotesque death, or so it appears. He was sitting in his chair behind his desk, and he was dead, but there was an evil, perhaps that is not the correct word, but a chilling almost grin on his face. I can still see it. It was like his face was frozen with it.”

Holmes interjected, “One moment, Gregson. Just what was the cause of his death?”

“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it, Mr. Holmes? There was no blood, or sign of an injury, but assuredly he was dead . . . and with such an strange expression.”

“Tell us more, Gregson.”

“Well, his widow, India, and Mr. Fenwick’s spinster sister, Iona, discovered the body in the morning,” Gregson explained.

He continued, “There had been a dinner party the night before with two guests, Mr. Langford Hyl, business partner of the deceased and Mr. Arthur Ranstad, friend of the deceased. Both had some association with Mr. Fenwick’s mills in Wales. They had dined late and their conversation had run even later into the evening. Mr. Fenwick suggested they stay the night as it was quite late. After they retired, Mr. Fenwick told his wife he had some matters to look over before he, himself, retired.”

This time I interjected, “But, Gregson, surely there is more to the tale.” By this time I had quickly paged through some of the papers myself and discovered the story. One of them mentioned that Mr. Ranstad had been keeping company with Mr. Fenwick’s sister, Iona.”

“Yes, quite true,” said Gregson. “Fenwick and Ranstad had been friends for some time, but it was only recently that Ranstad had begun to show interest in the Miss Fenwick.”

“And how did that seem to Mr. Fenwick?” Holmes asked.

“He evidently had some concern. Though Mr. Fenwick’s widow and sister were quite naturally upset over his death, I somehow felt their grief was rather shallow actually. Mr. Holmes, would you take the time go to Croxley at the earliest convenience? The Fenwick estate, Hagswell, it just beyond and there is a comfortable inn at hand.”

“Well, Watson. We have nothing pressing, do we? Could you join me in this trip? Perhaps grabbing an extra collar would be recommended. Gregson, we’ll meet you at the station tomorrow morning. It is rather late tonight. Now, is there anything with Fenwick that seems to involve itself, by chance, with his brother Edgar’s conviction and subsequent death?”

“Ah, yes, said Gregson. “Yes, they would seem to be connected, though perhaps not directly. I’ll see you at the station within the hour of the morning's first train departure and give you some of the details as I know them."

Proceed to Part Two