It was the third Monday of January 1894 when Mrs Frith of Notting Hill brought to Baker Street a will, a confession, and a great unhappiness.
"My husband died at Christmas, Mr Holmes. The will was drawn up by Mr Pickering of Lincoln's Inn last March; I attended the signing as I am told one must. Now the will is read and the substance of three thousand pounds is left to a cousin I have never met. The young clerk who attended the signing has come forward of his own accord and confessed to having forged my husband's hand at his employer's instruction. The case is to be heard in Magistrates' Court on Wednesday and the boy will go to gaol for it. But, sir — I cannot believe that he is the man."
We walked across to Lincoln's Inn through a clear morning. A flower-seller's barrow stood at the gate as we passed, the woman calling violets in a tuneful sing-song; she was missing a front upper-left tooth and gave us a sharp, unhurried glance. Mr Pickering's chambers were upon the second stair, panelled in oak, and the clerk in question — a slight, anxious young man named Mr Crewe — was at his desk awaiting our examination.