Once Hilton Cubitt had gone, my friend rushed to the table. He spread out all the pieces of paper and then focused intensely on the dancing men. For two hours, he filled sheet after sheet of his notepad with figures and letters. He was so absorbed that he completely forgot I was there.

Sometimes, when he made progress, he sang and whistled while he worked; other times, when he was stuck, he would sit in silence, frowning at the symbols as if trying to understand them.

Finally, he jumped up from his chair with a cry of triumph and walked around the room rubbing his hands together. Then he wrote a long message.

“If this brings the answer I expect, Watson,” he said, “then you’ll have another interesting case to write about. I hope the answer will come tomorrow, and then we can go to Norfolk and explain the whole mystery to our friend.”

But the answer to the message didn’t come the next day or the day after that, and my friend grew more and more impatient. On the evening of the second day, a letter arrived from Hilton Cubitt. He had found more dancing men written on the pedestal of the sundial. After reading the message for a few minutes, Holmes let out a gasp of surprise and dismay.

“We have to go to Norfolk right away!” he exclaimed. “Is there a train to North Walsham tonight?”

“The last one just left,” I said after checking the timetable.

“Then we must take the first one tomorrow morning.”

Our landlady Mrs. Hudson came in with a telegram—the long-awaited reply to the one Holmes had sent.

“Just as I thought,” said Holmes after reading it. He looked more anxious than I had ever seen him. “This makes it even more important that we tell Mr. Cubitt about the situation, as he has no idea of the danger he’s in.”

As it turned out, Holmes was correct. I wish we had caught that earlier train and prevented the tragic end of this story.

The next morning, as soon as we got off the train at North Walsham, the station master hurried toward us.

“I suppose you're the detectives from London going to Ridling Thorpe Manor?” he said breathlessly.

A look of fear crossed Holmes's face. “Why do you ask?” he said.

“Or maybe you’re the doctors? Mrs. Cubitt isn't dead—or at least wasn't when I last heard. You might still be able to save her, even if it’s just for the trial.”

“We’re heading to Ridling Thorpe Manor,” said Holmes, “but we haven’t heard anything about what’s happened there.”

“It’s a terrible situation,” said the station master. “Mrs. Cubitt shot her husband and then herself, according to the servants. He’s dead, and she’s barely clinging to life. It’s shocking! And to think the Cubitts are one of the oldest and most respected families in Norfolk.”

Without a word, Holmes hurried to a waiting carriage. During the drive to Ridling Thorpe, he remained silent. The beautiful Norfolk countryside meant nothing to him. I had rarely seen him so despondent.

Finally, we arrived at Ridling Thorpe Manor, a lovely old house made of brick and timber, standing tall among a cluster of trees. As we approached the front door, we passed by the sundial on the lawn and the toolshed where the strange messages had appeared.

Inspector Martin of the Norfolk Police had just gotten down from his dogcart when we arrived. He was a small man with sharp, attentive eyes. When he heard my companion's name, he was astonished. “Mr. Holmes, the crime only happened at three this morning. How did you hear about it in London and get here so quickly?”

“Mr. Cubitt was my client,” explained Holmes. “I had a feeling there might be trouble and came hoping to prevent it.”

“Then you must have information that we don't,” said Martin. “From what I know, they were a very loving couple.”

“So you don’t know about the dancing men,” said Holmes, confusing the inspector. “Well, since we couldn't prevent this tragedy, let's at least make sure justice is served. Will you work with me on this?”

“I'd be honored to, Mr. Holmes,” said the inspector.

A constable welcomed us inside. With him was the local doctor, an elderly man with white hair who had just come down from Mrs. Cubitt’s room. The doctor said her injuries were serious but likely not fatal. The bullet had hit her skull, and it would take some time before she woke up.

Inspector Martin asked if the doctor thought she shot herself or if someone else shot her. The doctor wasn’t sure but said the bullet was fired from very close range.

The constable reported that he found only one gun in the room—a six-chambered revolver—and two bullets had been fired. Mr. Cubitt had been shot in the heart. He might have shot her and then himself, or she could have been the shooter, as the gun was found on the floor between them.

“Has Mr. Cubitt been moved?” asked Holmes.

“Nothing was moved except the lady, since they couldn't leave her lying wounded on the floor,” said the constable.

“Who called for help?”

“Saunders, the housemaid, and Mrs. King, the cook. The doctor and I arrived around four o'clock.”

We gathered in the old hall of Ridling Thorpe to hear the two women tell their story. Holmes's eyes showed a determined focus. I knew he would put all his efforts into seeking justice for the client he couldn't save.

The women woke up to the sound of two gunshots, one after the other. Mrs. King hurried to Miss Saunders's room, and together they went downstairs. They found the study door open with a candle burning. Their master was lying on the floor, face down, and they could tell he was dead. Mrs. Cubitt was near the window, injured and bleeding from her head. She couldn't speak, but she was breathing. The room smelled of smoke and gunpowder. The window was shut and locked from inside. Both women were certain of that. They called for help and then, with assistance, moved Mrs. Cubitt to her room.

Neither woman had ever seen Mr. and Mrs. Cubitt argue. They always seemed very devoted. When Inspector Martin asked, they confirmed that all the doors were locked from inside, and no one could have left the house.

Holmes asked when they first smelled the gunpowder, and they said they smelled it as soon as they left their rooms on the top floor.

"Remember that detail," Holmes told the inspector.

After the servants gave their testimony, we went to examine the study. It was a small room, filled with books, with a window overlooking the garden.

Mr. Cubitt's body lay on the floor. He was in his nightclothes, and the bullet had struck his heart, causing instant death.

"Have you found the bullet that injured Mrs. Cubitt?" Holmes asked the doctor.

The doctor shook his head. "That will need a serious operation."

"In that case, a third bullet was fired in this room," said Holmes.

We all looked at him in surprise.

"Why do you say that?" asked Inspector Martin. "The women heard two gunshots. One hit Mr. Cubitt, the other injured Mrs. Cubitt, and there are only two empty chambers in the revolver."

Holmes pointed to a small hole in the window frame.

"By George!" exclaimed the inspector. "How did you notice that?"

"Because I was looking for it," said Holmes.

"You're right, sir," said the constable, examining the hole. "A third shot was fired, which means a third person was there. But who? And how did they escape?"

"That's the puzzle we need to solve," said Holmes. "You remember, Inspector, the servants said they smelled gunpowder as soon as they left their rooms. That told me that when the shots were fired, both the door and window of the study must have been open, creating a draft. That was the only way the smell could spread so quickly through the house. However, both the door and window were only open for a very short time."

"How do you know that?"

"Because the candle was still burning when the women entered."

"Genius!" exclaimed Inspector Martin.

"Once I knew the window was open, I concluded that a third person was involved, standing outside and firing through it," Holmes explained. "I looked for a bullet shot in their direction and found the hole in the ..."

He paused as something else caught his eye: a lady's handbag on the study table. Holmes opened it and found a wad of fifty-pound notes. "This will be important evidence in any trial," he said, handing the bag and money to the constable.

“We need to figure out how this third bullet was fired,” said the inspector.

"Agreed," said Holmes. "Constable, could you call in Mrs. King?"

The cook arrived shortly after.

"You mentioned, Mrs. King, that you were awakened by a loud gunshot," said Holmes. "Was it louder than the second one?"

"Well, sir, it woke me up from my sleep, so it's hard to tell, but it did seem very loud."

"Could it have been two shots fired at once?"

"I'm not sure, sir."

Holmes nodded. "Inspector, I believe we've learned all we can from this room. Shall we go and see what fresh evidence the garden has to offer?"

There was a flower bed beneath the study window. As we approached it, we were shocked to see that the flowers were trampled, and there were large footprints in the soft soil, likely from a man.

Holmes searched among the grass and leaves like a dog searching for a bone. Then, with a triumphant cry, he picked up a small brass cylinder. "Here, as I expected, is the spent cartridge of the third bullet. Inspector Martin, I believe our case is now nearly complete."

The inspector looked amazed. "Who do you suspect?" he asked.

"I'll explain that later," said Holmes. "There's no time for lengthy explanations now."

"As you wish, Mr. Holmes. As long as we catch the culprit."

"Rest assured, Inspector, I'll soon be able to tell you the full story of what happened here last night, and the culprit will be revealed.