Edward Hopkins’ home appeared to have been abandoned for some time. Crabtree lifted a worn sign that had fallen into the tall grass and stood it back upright in the dirt. Sunrise Pond it read, with an arrow pointing around back of the house. The porch beams had begun to rot, and the door had been left unlocked.

Detective Murdoch opened it slowly with a loud creak to reveal furniture tossed about, the carpets thick with dirt.

“Whoever Edward Hopkins is, he doesn’t live here anymore,” Crabtree commented.

“Yes,” Murdoch agreed, “but someone has been here.”

“Probably youngsters, sir. They’re prone to this sort of thing at that age. I know I was.”

The plaster of the walls has been removed all along the lower third of the walls, ripped in many places to reveal the wooden beams behind it and left scattered on the ground. The damage continues throughout the entirety of the home.

In the living room they find more dust and damage; a complete set of the works of Arthur Conan Doyle tossed haphazardly off a shelf; children’s toys, all broken; a heap of mail scattered on an old roll-top desk. “Sir, some of this mail goes back ten years,” Crabtree noted. “And most of it has been opened.”

On top sat an empty envelope from the Bank of Toronto.

“Here’s another piece from the Bank, sir,” Crabtree said helpfully. The letter had been sticking out from the very bottom of the messy pile, its logo just barely visible.

Circle the letter A.