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I. A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA
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The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
|
I.
To Sherlock Holmes she is always _the_ woman. I have seldom heard him
mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and
predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion
akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly,
were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. He
was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that
the world has seen, but as a lover he would have placed himself in a
false position. He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe
and a sneer. They were admirable things for the observer—excellent for
drawing the veil from men’s motives and actions. But for the trained
reasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely
adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might
throw a doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensitive
instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not
be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his. And
yet there was but one woman to him, and that woman was the late Irene
Adler, of dubious and questionable memory.
I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us away
from each other. My own complete happiness, and the home-centred
interests which rise up around the man who first finds himself master
of his own establishment, were sufficient to absorb all my attention,
while Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole Bohemian
soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among his old
books, and alternating from week to week between cocaine and ambition,
the drowsiness of the drug, and the fierce energy of his own keen
nature. He was still, as ever, deeply attracted by the study of crime,
and occupied his immense faculties and extraordinary powers of
observation in following out those clues, and clearing up those
mysteries which had been abandoned as hopeless by the official police.
From time to time I heard some vague account of his doings: of his
summons to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murder, of his clearing up
of the singular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at Trincomalee, and
finally of the mission which he had accomplished so delicately and
successfully for the reigning family of Holland. Beyond these signs of
his activity, however, which I merely shared with all the readers of
the daily press, I knew little of my former friend and companion.
One night—it was on the twentieth of March, 1888—I was returning from a
journey to a patient (for I had now returned to civil practice), when
my way led me through Baker Street. As I passed the well-remembered
door, which must always be associated in my mind with my wooing, and
with the dark incidents of the Study in Scarlet, I was seized with a
keen desire to see Holmes again, and to know how he was employing his
extraordinary powers. His rooms were brilliantly lit, and, even as I
looked up, I saw his tall, spare figure pass twice in a dark silhouette
against the blind. He was pacing the room swiftly, eagerly, with his
head sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped behind him. To me, who
knew his every mood and habit, his attitude and manner told their own
story. He was at work again. He had risen out of his drug-created
dreams and was hot upon the scent of some new problem. I rang the bell
and was shown up to the chamber which had formerly been in part my own.
His manner was not effusive. It seldom was; but he was glad, I think,
to see me. With hardly a word spoken, but with a kindly eye, he waved
me to an armchair, threw across his case of cigars, and indicated a
spirit case and a gasogene in the corner. Then he stood before the fire
and looked me over in his singular introspective fashion.
“Wedlock suits you,” he remarked. “I think, Watson, that you have put
on seven and a half pounds since I saw you.”
“Seven!” I answered.
“Indeed, I should have thought a little more. Just a trifle more, I
fancy, Watson. And in practice again, I observe. You did not tell me
that you intended to go into harness.”
“Then, how do you know?”
“I see it, I deduce it. How do I know that you have been getting
yourself very wet lately, and that you have a most clumsy and careless
servant girl?”
“My dear Holmes,” said I, “this is too much. You would certainly have
been burned, had you lived a few centuries ago. It is true that I had a
country walk on Thursday and came home in a dreadful mess, but as I
have changed my clothes I can’t imagine how you deduce it. As to Mary
Jane, she is incorrigible, and my wife has given her notice, but there,
again, I fail to see how you work it out.”
He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long, nervous hands together.
“It is simplicity itself,” said he; “my eyes tell me that on the inside
of your left shoe, just where the firelight strikes it, the leather is
scored by six almost parallel cuts. Obviously they have been caused by
someone who has very carelessly scraped round the edges of the sole in
order to remove crusted mud from it. Hence, you see, my double
deduction that you had been out in vile weather, and that you had a
particularly malignant boot-slitting specimen of the London slavey. As
to your practice, if a gentleman walks into my rooms smelling of
iodoform, with a black mark of nitrate of silver upon his right
forefinger, and a bulge on the right side of his top-hat to show where
he has secreted his stethoscope, I must be dull, indeed, if I do not
pronounce him to be an active member of the medical profession.”
I could not help laughing at the ease with which he explained his
process of deduction. “When I hear you give your reasons,” I remarked,
“the thing always appears to me to be so ridiculously simple that I
could easily do it myself, though at each successive instance of your
reasoning I am baffled until you explain your process. And yet I
believe that my eyes are as good as yours.”
“Quite so,” he answered, lighting a cigarette, and throwing himself
down into an armchair. “You see, but you do not observe. The
distinction is clear. For example, you have frequently seen the steps
which lead up from the hall to this room.”
“Frequently.”
“How often?”
“Well, some hundreds of times.”
“Then how many are there?”
“How many? I don’t know.”
“Quite so! You have not observed. And yet you have seen. That is just
my point. Now, I know that there are seventeen steps, because I have
both seen and observed. By the way, since you are interested in these
little problems, and since you are good enough to chronicle one or two
of my trifling experiences, you may be interested in this.” He threw
over a sheet of thick, pink-tinted notepaper which had been lying open
upon the table. “It came by the last post,” said he. “Read it aloud.”
The note was undated, and without either signature or address.
“There will call upon you to-night, at a quarter to eight o’clock,” it
said, “a gentleman who desires to consult you upon a matter of the very
deepest moment. Your recent services to one of the royal houses of
Europe have shown that you are one who may safely be trusted with
matters which are of an importance which can hardly be exaggerated.
This account of you we have from all quarters received. Be in your
chamber then at that hour, and do not take it amiss if your visitor
wear a mask.”
“This is indeed a mystery,” I remarked. “What do you imagine that it
means?”
“I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorise before one has
data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of
theories to suit facts. But the note itself. What do you deduce from
it?”
I carefully examined the writing, and the paper upon which it was
written.
“The man who wrote it was presumably well to do,” I remarked,
endeavouring to imitate my companion’s processes. “Such paper could not
be bought under half a crown a packet. It is peculiarly strong and
stiff.”
“Peculiar—that is the very word,” said Holmes. “It is not an English
paper at all. Hold it up to the light.”
I did so, and saw a large “E” with a small “g,” a “P,” and a large “G”
with a small “t” woven into the texture of the paper.
“What do you make of that?” asked Holmes.
“The name of the maker, no doubt; or his monogram, rather.”
“Not at all. The ‘G’ with the small ‘t’ stands for ‘Gesellschaft,’
which is the German for ‘Company.’ It is a customary contraction like
our ‘Co.’ ‘P,’ of course, stands for ‘Papier.’ Now for the ‘Eg.’ Let us
glance at our Continental Gazetteer.” He took down a heavy brown volume
from his shelves. “Eglow, Eglonitz—here we are, Egria. It is in a
German-speaking country—in Bohemia, not far from Carlsbad. ‘Remarkable
as being the scene of the death of Wallenstein, and for its numerous
glass-factories and paper-mills.’ Ha, ha, my boy, what do you make of
that?” His eyes sparkled, and he sent up a great blue triumphant cloud
from his cigarette.
“The paper was made in Bohemia,” I said.
“Precisely. And the man who wrote the note is a German. Do you note the
peculiar construction of the sentence—‘This account of you we have from
all quarters received.’ A Frenchman or Russian could not have written
that. It is the German who is so uncourteous to his verbs. It only
remains, therefore, to discover what is wanted by this German who
writes upon Bohemian paper and prefers wearing a mask to showing his
face. And here he comes, if I am not mistaken, to resolve all our
doubts.”
As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses’ hoofs and grating
wheels against the curb, followed by a sharp pull at the bell. Holmes
whistled.
“A pair, by the sound,” said he. “Yes,” he continued, glancing out of
the window. “A nice little brougham and a pair of beauties. A hundred
and fifty guineas apiece. There’s money in this case, Watson, if there
is nothing else.”
“I think that I had better go, Holmes.”
“Not a bit, Doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without my Boswell.
And this promises to be interesting. It would be a pity to miss it.”
“But your client—”
“Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here he comes.
Sit down in that armchair, Doctor, and give us your best attention.”
A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs and in the
passage, paused immediately outside the door. Then there was a loud and
authoritative tap.
“Come in!” said Holmes.
A man entered who could hardly have been less than six feet six inches
in height, with the chest and limbs of a Hercules. His dress was rich
with a richness which would, in England, be looked upon as akin to bad
taste. Heavy bands of astrakhan were slashed across the sleeves and
fronts of his double-breasted coat, while the deep blue cloak which was
thrown over his shoulders was lined with flame-coloured silk and
secured at the neck with a brooch which consisted of a single flaming
beryl. Boots which extended halfway up his calves, and which were
trimmed at the tops with rich brown fur, completed the impression of
barbaric opulence which was suggested by his whole appearance. He
carried a broad-brimmed hat in his hand, while he wore across the upper
part of his face, extending down past the cheekbones, a black vizard
mask, which he had apparently adjusted that very moment, for his hand
was still raised to it as he entered. From the lower part of the face
he appeared to be a man of strong character, with a thick, hanging lip,
and a long, straight chin suggestive of resolution pushed to the length
of obstinacy.
“You had my note?” he asked with a deep harsh voice and a strongly
marked German accent. “I told you that I would call.” He looked from
one to the other of us, as if uncertain which to address.
“Pray take a seat,” said Holmes. “This is my friend and colleague, Dr.
Watson, who is occasionally good enough to help me in my cases. Whom
have I the honour to address?”
“You may address me as the Count Von Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman. I
understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honour and
discretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the most extreme
importance. If not, I should much prefer to communicate with you
alone.”
I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me back into
my chair. “It is both, or none,” said he. “You may say before this
gentleman anything which you may say to me.”
The Count shrugged his broad shoulders. “Then I must begin,” said he,
“by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years; at the end of
that time the matter will be of no importance. At present it is not too
much to say that it is of such weight it may have an influence upon
European history.”
“I promise,” said Holmes.
“And I.”
“You will excuse this mask,” continued our strange visitor. “The august
person who employs me wishes his agent to be unknown to you, and I may
confess at once that the title by which I have just called myself is
not exactly my own.”
“I was aware of it,” said Holmes dryly.
“The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every precaution has to
be taken to quench what might grow to be an immense scandal and
seriously compromise one of the reigning families of Europe. To speak
plainly, the matter implicates the great House of Ormstein, hereditary
kings of Bohemia.”
“I was also aware of that,” murmured Holmes, settling himself down in
his armchair and closing his eyes.
Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the languid,
lounging figure of the man who had been no doubt depicted to him as the
most incisive reasoner and most energetic agent in Europe. Holmes
slowly reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at his gigantic client.
“If your Majesty would condescend to state your case,” he remarked, “I
should be better able to advise you.”
The man sprang from his chair and paced up and down the room in
uncontrollable agitation. Then, with a gesture of desperation, he tore
the mask from his face and hurled it upon the ground. “You are right,”
he cried; “I am the King. Why should I attempt to conceal it?”
“Why, indeed?” murmured Holmes. “Your Majesty had not spoken before I
was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von
Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and hereditary King of
Bohemia.”
“But you can understand,” said our strange visitor, sitting down once
more and passing his hand over his high white forehead, “you can
understand that I am not accustomed to doing such business in my own
person. Yet the matter was so delicate that I could not confide it to
an agent without putting myself in his power. I have come _incognito_
from Prague for the purpose of consulting you.”
“Then, pray consult,” said Holmes, shutting his eyes once more.
“The facts are briefly these: Some five years ago, during a lengthy
visit to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the well-known adventuress,
Irene Adler. The name is no doubt familiar to you.”
“Kindly look her up in my index, Doctor,” murmured Holmes without
opening his eyes. For many years he had adopted a system of docketing
all paragraphs concerning men and things, so that it was difficult to
name a subject or a person on which he could not at once furnish
information. In this case I found her biography sandwiched in between
that of a Hebrew rabbi and that of a staff-commander who had written a
monograph upon the deep-sea fishes.
“Let me see!” said Holmes. “Hum! Born in New Jersey in the year 1858.
Contralto—hum! La Scala, hum! Prima donna Imperial Opera of Warsaw—yes!
Retired from operatic stage—ha! Living in London—quite so! Your
Majesty, as I understand, became entangled with this young person,
wrote her some compromising letters, and is now desirous of getting
those letters back.”
“Precisely so. But how—”
“Was there a secret marriage?”
“None.”
“No legal papers or certificates?”
“None.”
“Then I fail to follow your Majesty. If this young person should
produce her letters for blackmailing or other purposes, how is she to
prove their authenticity?”
“There is the writing.”
“Pooh, pooh! Forgery.”
“My private note-paper.”
“Stolen.”
“My own seal.”
“Imitated.”
“My photograph.”
“Bought.”
“We were both in the photograph.”
“Oh, dear! That is very bad! Your Majesty has indeed committed an
indiscretion.”
“I was mad—insane.”
“You have compromised yourself seriously.”
“I was only Crown Prince then. I was young. I am but thirty now.”
“It must be recovered.”
“We have tried and failed.”
“Your Majesty must pay. It must be bought.”
“She will not sell.”
“Stolen, then.”
“Five attempts have been made. Twice burglars in my pay ransacked her
house. Once we diverted her luggage when she travelled. Twice she has
been waylaid. There has been no result.”
“No sign of it?”
“Absolutely none.”
Holmes laughed. “It is quite a pretty little problem,” said he.
“But a very serious one to me,” returned the King reproachfully.
“Very, indeed. And what does she propose to do with the photograph?”
“To ruin me.”
“But how?”
“I am about to be married.”
“So I have heard.”
“To Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen, second daughter of the King of
Scandinavia. You may know the strict principles of her family. She is
herself the very soul of delicacy. A shadow of a doubt as to my conduct
would bring the matter to an end.”
“And Irene Adler?”
“Threatens to send them the photograph. And she will do it. I know that
she will do it. You do not know her, but she has a soul of steel. She
has the face of the most beautiful of women, and the mind of the most
resolute of men. Rather than I should marry another woman, there are no
lengths to which she would not go—none.”
“You are sure that she has not sent it yet?”
“I am sure.”
“And why?”
“Because she has said that she would send it on the day when the
betrothal was publicly proclaimed. That will be next Monday.”
“Oh, then we have three days yet,” said Holmes with a yawn. “That is
very fortunate, as I have one or two matters of importance to look into
just at present. Your Majesty will, of course, stay in London for the
present?”
“Certainly. You will find me at the Langham under the name of the Count
Von Kramm.”
“Then I shall drop you a line to let you know how we progress.”
“Pray do so. I shall be all anxiety.”
“Then, as to money?”
“You have _carte blanche_.”
“Absolutely?”
“I tell you that I would give one of the provinces of my kingdom to
have that photograph.”
“And for present expenses?”
The King took a heavy chamois leather bag from under his cloak and laid
it on the table.
“There are three hundred pounds in gold and seven hundred in notes,” he
said.
Holmes scribbled a receipt upon a sheet of his note-book and handed it
to him.
“And Mademoiselle’s address?” he asked.
“Is Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John’s Wood.”
Holmes took a note of it. “One other question,” said he. “Was the
photograph a cabinet?”
“It was.”
“Then, good-night, your Majesty, and I trust that we shall soon have
some good news for you. And good-night, Watson,” he added, as the
wheels of the royal brougham rolled down the street. “If you will be
good enough to call to-morrow afternoon at three o’clock I should like
to chat this little matter over with you.”
|
i_a_scandal_in_bohemia
|
II. THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE
|
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
|
I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the
autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation with a very
stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair. With an
apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when Holmes pulled
me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind me.
“You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson,” he
said cordially.
“I was afraid that you were engaged.”
“So I am. Very much so.”
“Then I can wait in the next room.”
“Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper
in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will
be of the utmost use to me in yours also.”
The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of
greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small
fat-encircled eyes.
“Try the settee,” said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and putting
his fingertips together, as was his custom when in judicial moods. “I
know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and
outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life. You have
shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has prompted you to
chronicle, and, if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish
so many of my own little adventures.”
“Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me,” I
observed.
“You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went
into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that
for strange effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to life
itself, which is always far more daring than any effort of the
imagination.”
“A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting.”
“You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round to my view, for
otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you until your
reason breaks down under them and acknowledges me to be right. Now, Mr.
Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call upon me this morning,
and to begin a narrative which promises to be one of the most singular
which I have listened to for some time. You have heard me remark that
the strangest and most unique things are very often connected not with
the larger but with the smaller crimes, and occasionally, indeed, where
there is room for doubt whether any positive crime has been committed.
As far as I have heard, it is impossible for me to say whether the
present case is an instance of crime or not, but the course of events
is certainly among the most singular that I have ever listened to.
Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have the great kindness to recommence
your narrative. I ask you not merely because my friend Dr. Watson has
not heard the opening part but also because the peculiar nature of the
story makes me anxious to have every possible detail from your lips. As
a rule, when I have heard some slight indication of the course of
events, I am able to guide myself by the thousands of other similar
cases which occur to my memory. In the present instance I am forced to
admit that the facts are, to the best of my belief, unique.”
The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of some
little pride and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the inside
pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the advertisement column,
with his head thrust forward and the paper flattened out upon his knee,
I took a good look at the man and endeavoured, after the fashion of my
companion, to read the indications which might be presented by his
dress or appearance.
I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our visitor bore
every mark of being an average commonplace British tradesman, obese,
pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy grey shepherd’s check trousers,
a not over-clean black frock-coat, unbuttoned in the front, and a drab
waistcoat with a heavy brassy Albert chain, and a square pierced bit of
metal dangling down as an ornament. A frayed top-hat and a faded brown
overcoat with a wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair beside him.
Altogether, look as I would, there was nothing remarkable about the man
save his blazing red head, and the expression of extreme chagrin and
discontent upon his features.
Sherlock Holmes’ quick eye took in my occupation, and he shook his head
with a smile as he noticed my questioning glances. “Beyond the obvious
facts that he has at some time done manual labour, that he takes snuff,
that he is a Freemason, that he has been in China, and that he has done
a considerable amount of writing lately, I can deduce nothing else.”
Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger upon the
paper, but his eyes upon my companion.
“How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that, Mr. Holmes?”
he asked. “How did you know, for example, that I did manual labour.
It’s as true as gospel, for I began as a ship’s carpenter.”
“Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size larger than
your left. You have worked with it, and the muscles are more
developed.”
“Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?”
“I won’t insult your intelligence by telling you how I read that,
especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order, you use
an arc-and-compass breastpin.”
“Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?”
“What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny for five
inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the elbow where you
rest it upon the desk?”
“Well, but China?”
“The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your right wrist
could only have been done in China. I have made a small study of tattoo
marks and have even contributed to the literature of the subject. That
trick of staining the fishes’ scales of a delicate pink is quite
peculiar to China. When, in addition, I see a Chinese coin hanging from
your watch-chain, the matter becomes even more simple.”
Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. “Well, I never!” said he. “I thought
at first that you had done something clever, but I see that there was
nothing in it after all.”
“I begin to think, Watson,” said Holmes, “that I make a mistake in
explaining. ‘_Omne ignotum pro magnifico_,’ you know, and my poor
little reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I am so
candid. Can you not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?”
“Yes, I have got it now,” he answered with his thick red finger planted
halfway down the column. “Here it is. This is what began it all. You
just read it for yourself, sir.”
I took the paper from him and read as follows:
“TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE: On account of the bequest of the late
Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U.S.A., there is now another
vacancy open which entitles a member of the League to a salary of £ 4 a
week for purely nominal services. All red-headed men who are sound in
body and mind and above the age of twenty-one years, are eligible.
Apply in person on Monday, at eleven o’clock, to Duncan Ross, at the
offices of the League, 7 Pope’s Court, Fleet Street.”
“What on earth does this mean?” I ejaculated after I had twice read
over the extraordinary announcement.
Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit when in
high spirits. “It is a little off the beaten track, isn’t it?” said he.
“And now, Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch and tell us all about
yourself, your household, and the effect which this advertisement had
upon your fortunes. You will first make a note, Doctor, of the paper
and the date.”
“It is _The Morning Chronicle_ of April 27, 1890. Just two months ago.”
“Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?”
“Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,”
said Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead; “I have a small pawnbroker’s
business at Coburg Square, near the City. It’s not a very large affair,
and of late years it has not done more than just give me a living. I
used to be able to keep two assistants, but now I only keep one; and I
would have a job to pay him but that he is willing to come for half
wages so as to learn the business.”
“What is the name of this obliging youth?” asked Sherlock Holmes.
“His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he’s not such a youth, either. It’s
hard to say his age. I should not wish a smarter assistant, Mr. Holmes;
and I know very well that he could better himself and earn twice what I
am able to give him. But, after all, if he is satisfied, why should I
put ideas in his head?”
“Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having an _employé_ who comes
under the full market price. It is not a common experience among
employers in this age. I don’t know that your assistant is not as
remarkable as your advertisement.”
“Oh, he has his faults, too,” said Mr. Wilson. “Never was such a fellow
for photography. Snapping away with a camera when he ought to be
improving his mind, and then diving down into the cellar like a rabbit
into its hole to develop his pictures. That is his main fault, but on
the whole he’s a good worker. There’s no vice in him.”
“He is still with you, I presume?”
“Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of simple cooking
and keeps the place clean—that’s all I have in the house, for I am a
widower and never had any family. We live very quietly, sir, the three
of us; and we keep a roof over our heads and pay our debts, if we do
nothing more.
“The first thing that put us out was that advertisement. Spaulding, he
came down into the office just this day eight weeks, with this very
paper in his hand, and he says:
“‘I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed man.’
“‘Why that?’ I asks.
“‘Why,’ says he, ‘here’s another vacancy on the League of the
Red-headed Men. It’s worth quite a little fortune to any man who gets
it, and I understand that there are more vacancies than there are men,
so that the trustees are at their wits’ end what to do with the money.
If my hair would only change colour, here’s a nice little crib all
ready for me to step into.’
“‘Why, what is it, then?’ I asked. You see, Mr. Holmes, I am a very
stay-at-home man, and as my business came to me instead of my having to
go to it, I was often weeks on end without putting my foot over the
door-mat. In that way I didn’t know much of what was going on outside,
and I was always glad of a bit of news.
“‘Have you never heard of the League of the Red-headed Men?’ he asked
with his eyes open.
“‘Never.’
“‘Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself for one of the
vacancies.’
“‘And what are they worth?’ I asked.
“‘Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is slight, and it
need not interfere very much with one’s other occupations.’
“Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my ears, for the
business has not been over good for some years, and an extra couple of
hundred would have been very handy.
“‘Tell me all about it,’ said I.
“‘Well,’ said he, showing me the advertisement, ‘you can see for
yourself that the League has a vacancy, and there is the address where
you should apply for particulars. As far as I can make out, the League
was founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins, who was very
peculiar in his ways. He was himself red-headed, and he had a great
sympathy for all red-headed men; so, when he died, it was found that he
had left his enormous fortune in the hands of trustees, with
instructions to apply the interest to the providing of easy berths to
men whose hair is of that colour. From all I hear it is splendid pay
and very little to do.’
“‘But,’ said I, ‘there would be millions of red-headed men who would
apply.’
“‘Not so many as you might think,’ he answered. ‘You see it is really
confined to Londoners, and to grown men. This American had started from
London when he was young, and he wanted to do the old town a good turn.
Then, again, I have heard it is no use your applying if your hair is
light red, or dark red, or anything but real bright, blazing, fiery
red. Now, if you cared to apply, Mr. Wilson, you would just walk in;
but perhaps it would hardly be worth your while to put yourself out of
the way for the sake of a few hundred pounds.’
“Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves, that my
hair is of a very full and rich tint, so that it seemed to me that if
there was to be any competition in the matter I stood as good a chance
as any man that I had ever met. Vincent Spaulding seemed to know so
much about it that I thought he might prove useful, so I just ordered
him to put up the shutters for the day and to come right away with me.
He was very willing to have a holiday, so we shut the business up and
started off for the address that was given us in the advertisement.
“I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes. From
north, south, east, and west every man who had a shade of red in his
hair had tramped into the city to answer the advertisement. Fleet
Street was choked with red-headed folk, and Pope’s Court looked like a
coster’s orange barrow. I should not have thought there were so many in
the whole country as were brought together by that single
advertisement. Every shade of colour they were—straw, lemon, orange,
brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but, as Spaulding said, there were
not many who had the real vivid flame-coloured tint. When I saw how
many were waiting, I would have given it up in despair; but Spaulding
would not hear of it. How he did it I could not imagine, but he pushed
and pulled and butted until he got me through the crowd, and right up
to the steps which led to the office. There was a double stream upon
the stair, some going up in hope, and some coming back dejected; but we
wedged in as well as we could and soon found ourselves in the office.”
“Your experience has been a most entertaining one,” remarked Holmes as
his client paused and refreshed his memory with a huge pinch of snuff.
“Pray continue your very interesting statement.”
“There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs and a
deal table, behind which sat a small man with a head that was even
redder than mine. He said a few words to each candidate as he came up,
and then he always managed to find some fault in them which would
disqualify them. Getting a vacancy did not seem to be such a very easy
matter, after all. However, when our turn came the little man was much
more favourable to me than to any of the others, and he closed the door
as we entered, so that he might have a private word with us.
“‘This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,’ said my assistant, ‘and he is willing to
fill a vacancy in the League.’
“‘And he is admirably suited for it,’ the other answered. ‘He has every
requirement. I cannot recall when I have seen anything so fine.’ He
took a step backward, cocked his head on one side, and gazed at my hair
until I felt quite bashful. Then suddenly he plunged forward, wrung my
hand, and congratulated me warmly on my success.
“‘It would be injustice to hesitate,’ said he. ‘You will, however, I am
sure, excuse me for taking an obvious precaution.’ With that he seized
my hair in both his hands, and tugged until I yelled with the pain.
‘There is water in your eyes,’ said he as he released me. ‘I perceive
that all is as it should be. But we have to be careful, for we have
twice been deceived by wigs and once by paint. I could tell you tales
of cobbler’s wax which would disgust you with human nature.’ He stepped
over to the window and shouted through it at the top of his voice that
the vacancy was filled. A groan of disappointment came up from below,
and the folk all trooped away in different directions until there was
not a red-head to be seen except my own and that of the manager.
“‘My name,’ said he, ‘is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am myself one of the
pensioners upon the fund left by our noble benefactor. Are you a
married man, Mr. Wilson? Have you a family?’
“I answered that I had not.
“His face fell immediately.
“‘Dear me!’ he said gravely, ‘that is very serious indeed! I am sorry
to hear you say that. The fund was, of course, for the propagation and
spread of the red-heads as well as for their maintenance. It is
exceedingly unfortunate that you should be a bachelor.’
“My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that I was not
to have the vacancy after all; but after thinking it over for a few
minutes he said that it would be all right.
“‘In the case of another,’ said he, ‘the objection might be fatal, but
we must stretch a point in favour of a man with such a head of hair as
yours. When shall you be able to enter upon your new duties?’
“‘Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business already,’ said I.
“‘Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!’ said Vincent Spaulding. ‘I
should be able to look after that for you.’
“‘What would be the hours?’ I asked.
“‘Ten to two.’
“Now a pawnbroker’s business is mostly done of an evening, Mr. Holmes,
especially Thursday and Friday evening, which is just before pay-day;
so it would suit me very well to earn a little in the mornings.
Besides, I knew that my assistant was a good man, and that he would see
to anything that turned up.
“‘That would suit me very well,’ said I. ‘And the pay?’
“‘Is £ 4 a week.’
“‘And the work?’
“‘Is purely nominal.’
“‘What do you call purely nominal?’
“‘Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the building, the
whole time. If you leave, you forfeit your whole position forever. The
will is very clear upon that point. You don’t comply with the
conditions if you budge from the office during that time.’
“‘It’s only four hours a day, and I should not think of leaving,’ said
I.
“‘No excuse will avail,’ said Mr. Duncan Ross; ‘neither sickness nor
business nor anything else. There you must stay, or you lose your
billet.’
“‘And the work?’
“‘Is to copy out the _Encyclopædia Britannica_. There is the first
volume of it in that press. You must find your own ink, pens, and
blotting-paper, but we provide this table and chair. Will you be ready
to-morrow?’
“‘Certainly,’ I answered.
“‘Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me congratulate you once
more on the important position which you have been fortunate enough to
gain.’ He bowed me out of the room and I went home with my assistant,
hardly knowing what to say or do, I was so pleased at my own good
fortune.
“Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I was in low
spirits again; for I had quite persuaded myself that the whole affair
must be some great hoax or fraud, though what its object might be I
could not imagine. It seemed altogether past belief that anyone could
make such a will, or that they would pay such a sum for doing anything
so simple as copying out the _Encyclopædia Britannica_. Vincent
Spaulding did what he could to cheer me up, but by bedtime I had
reasoned myself out of the whole thing. However, in the morning I
determined to have a look at it anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle of
ink, and with a quill-pen, and seven sheets of foolscap paper, I
started off for Pope’s Court.
“Well, to my surprise and delight, everything was as right as possible.
The table was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross was there to
see that I got fairly to work. He started me off upon the letter A, and
then he left me; but he would drop in from time to time to see that all
was right with me. At two o’clock he bade me good-day, complimented me
upon the amount that I had written, and locked the door of the office
after me.
“This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday the manager
came in and planked down four golden sovereigns for my week’s work. It
was the same next week, and the same the week after. Every morning I
was there at ten, and every afternoon I left at two. By degrees Mr.
Duncan Ross took to coming in only once of a morning, and then, after a
time, he did not come in at all. Still, of course, I never dared to
leave the room for an instant, for I was not sure when he might come,
and the billet was such a good one, and suited me so well, that I would
not risk the loss of it.
“Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about Abbots and
Archery and Armour and Architecture and Attica, and hoped with
diligence that I might get on to the B’s before very long. It cost me
something in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly filled a shelf with my
writings. And then suddenly the whole business came to an end.”
“To an end?”
“Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my work as usual
at ten o’clock, but the door was shut and locked, with a little square
of cardboard hammered on to the middle of the panel with a tack. Here
it is, and you can read for yourself.”
He held up a piece of white cardboard about the size of a sheet of
note-paper. It read in this fashion:
“THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE IS DISSOLVED. October 9, 1890.”
Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and the rueful
face behind it, until the comical side of the affair so completely
overtopped every other consideration that we both burst out into a roar
of laughter.
“I cannot see that there is anything very funny,” cried our client,
flushing up to the roots of his flaming head. “If you can do nothing
better than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere.”
“No, no,” cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from which he
had half risen. “I really wouldn’t miss your case for the world. It is
most refreshingly unusual. But there is, if you will excuse my saying
so, something just a little funny about it. Pray what steps did you
take when you found the card upon the door?”
“I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then I called at the
offices round, but none of them seemed to know anything about it.
Finally, I went to the landlord, who is an accountant living on the
ground floor, and I asked him if he could tell me what had become of
the Red-headed League. He said that he had never heard of any such
body. Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He answered that the
name was new to him.
“‘Well,’ said I, ‘the gentleman at No. 4.’
“‘What, the red-headed man?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘Oh,’ said he, ‘his name was William Morris. He was a solicitor and
was using my room as a temporary convenience until his new premises
were ready. He moved out yesterday.’
“‘Where could I find him?’
“‘Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, 17 King
Edward Street, near St. Paul’s.’
“I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it was a
manufactory of artificial knee-caps, and no one in it had ever heard of
either Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross.”
“And what did you do then?” asked Holmes.
“I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice of my
assistant. But he could not help me in any way. He could only say that
if I waited I should hear by post. But that was not quite good enough,
Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose such a place without a struggle, so,
as I had heard that you were good enough to give advice to poor folk
who were in need of it, I came right away to you.”
“And you did very wisely,” said Holmes. “Your case is an exceedingly
remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into it. From what you
have told me I think that it is possible that graver issues hang from
it than might at first sight appear.”
“Grave enough!” said Mr. Jabez Wilson. “Why, I have lost four pound a
week.”
“As far as you are personally concerned,” remarked Holmes, “I do not
see that you have any grievance against this extraordinary league. On
the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by some £ 30, to say
nothing of the minute knowledge which you have gained on every subject
which comes under the letter A. You have lost nothing by them.”
“No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they are, and what
their object was in playing this prank—if it was a prank—upon me. It
was a pretty expensive joke for them, for it cost them two and thirty
pounds.”
“We shall endeavour to clear up these points for you. And, first, one
or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours who first called
your attention to the advertisement—how long had he been with you?”
“About a month then.”
“How did he come?”
“In answer to an advertisement.”
“Was he the only applicant?”
“No, I had a dozen.”
“Why did you pick him?”
“Because he was handy and would come cheap.”
“At half wages, in fact.”
“Yes.”
“What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?”
“Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his face,
though he’s not short of thirty. Has a white splash of acid upon his
forehead.”
Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. “I thought as
much,” said he. “Have you ever observed that his ears are pierced for
earrings?”
“Yes, sir. He told me that a gipsy had done it for him when he was a
lad.”
“Hum!” said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. “He is still with
you?”
“Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him.”
“And has your business been attended to in your absence?”
“Nothing to complain of, sir. There’s never very much to do of a
morning.”
“That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an opinion upon
the subject in the course of a day or two. To-day is Saturday, and I
hope that by Monday we may come to a conclusion.”
“Well, Watson,” said Holmes when our visitor had left us, “what do you
make of it all?”
“I make nothing of it,” I answered frankly. “It is a most mysterious
business.”
“As a rule,” said Holmes, “the more bizarre a thing is the less
mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless crimes
which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the most
difficult to identify. But I must be prompt over this matter.”
“What are you going to do, then?” I asked.
“To smoke,” he answered. “It is quite a three pipe problem, and I beg
that you won’t speak to me for fifty minutes.” He curled himself up in
his chair, with his thin knees drawn up to his hawk-like nose, and
there he sat with his eyes closed and his black clay pipe thrusting out
like the bill of some strange bird. I had come to the conclusion that
he had dropped asleep, and indeed was nodding myself, when he suddenly
sprang out of his chair with the gesture of a man who has made up his
mind and put his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.
“Sarasate plays at the St. James’s Hall this afternoon,” he remarked.
“What do you think, Watson? Could your patients spare you for a few
hours?”
“I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very absorbing.”
“Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the City first, and
we can have some lunch on the way. I observe that there is a good deal
of German music on the programme, which is rather more to my taste than
Italian or French. It is introspective, and I want to introspect. Come
along!”
We travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a short walk
took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the singular story which we
had listened to in the morning. It was a poky, little, shabby-genteel
place, where four lines of dingy two-storied brick houses looked out
into a small railed-in enclosure, where a lawn of weedy grass and a few
clumps of faded laurel bushes made a hard fight against a smoke-laden
and uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls and a brown board with
“JABEZ WILSON” in white letters, upon a corner house, announced the
place where our red-headed client carried on his business. Sherlock
Holmes stopped in front of it with his head on one side and looked it
all over, with his eyes shining brightly between puckered lids. Then he
walked slowly up the street, and then down again to the corner, still
looking keenly at the houses. Finally he returned to the pawnbroker’s,
and, having thumped vigorously upon the pavement with his stick two or
three times, he went up to the door and knocked. It was instantly
opened by a bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to
step in.
“Thank you,” said Holmes, “I only wished to ask you how you would go
from here to the Strand.”
“Third right, fourth left,” answered the assistant promptly, closing
the door.
“Smart fellow, that,” observed Holmes as we walked away. “He is, in my
judgment, the fourth smartest man in London, and for daring I am not
sure that he has not a claim to be third. I have known something of him
before.”
“Evidently,” said I, “Mr. Wilson’s assistant counts for a good deal in
this mystery of the Red-headed League. I am sure that you inquired your
way merely in order that you might see him.”
“Not him.”
“What then?”
“The knees of his trousers.”
“And what did you see?”
“What I expected to see.”
“Why did you beat the pavement?”
“My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We are
spies in an enemy’s country. We know something of Saxe-Coburg Square.
Let us now explore the parts which lie behind it.”
The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the corner from
the retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a contrast to it as
the front of a picture does to the back. It was one of the main
arteries which conveyed the traffic of the City to the north and west.
The roadway was blocked with the immense stream of commerce flowing in
a double tide inward and outward, while the footpaths were black with
the hurrying swarm of pedestrians. It was difficult to realise as we
looked at the line of fine shops and stately business premises that
they really abutted on the other side upon the faded and stagnant
square which we had just quitted.
“Let me see,” said Holmes, standing at the corner and glancing along
the line, “I should like just to remember the order of the houses here.
It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of London. There is
Mortimer’s, the tobacconist, the little newspaper shop, the Coburg
branch of the City and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian Restaurant, and
McFarlane’s carriage-building depot. That carries us right on to the
other block. And now, Doctor, we’ve done our work, so it’s time we had
some play. A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land,
where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony, and there are no
red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums.”
My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only a very
capable performer but a composer of no ordinary merit. All the
afternoon he sat in the stalls wrapped in the most perfect happiness,
gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to the music, while his
gently smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes were as unlike those
of Holmes the sleuth-hound, Holmes the relentless, keen-witted,
ready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible to conceive. In his
singular character the dual nature alternately asserted itself, and his
extreme exactness and astuteness represented, as I have often thought,
the reaction against the poetic and contemplative mood which
occasionally predominated in him. The swing of his nature took him from
extreme languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, he was never
so truly formidable as when, for days on end, he had been lounging in
his armchair amid his improvisations and his black-letter editions.
Then it was that the lust of the chase would suddenly come upon him,
and that his brilliant reasoning power would rise to the level of
intuition, until those who were unacquainted with his methods would
look askance at him as on a man whose knowledge was not that of other
mortals. When I saw him that afternoon so enwrapped in the music at St.
James’s Hall I felt that an evil time might be coming upon those whom
he had set himself to hunt down.
“You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor,” he remarked as we emerged.
“Yes, it would be as well.”
“And I have some business to do which will take some hours. This
business at Coburg Square is serious.”
“Why serious?”
“A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason to
believe that we shall be in time to stop it. But to-day being Saturday
rather complicates matters. I shall want your help to-night.”
“At what time?”
“Ten will be early enough.”
“I shall be at Baker Street at ten.”
“Very well. And, I say, Doctor, there may be some little danger, so
kindly put your army revolver in your pocket.” He waved his hand,
turned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant among the crowd.
I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours, but I was always
oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my dealings with Sherlock
Holmes. Here I had heard what he had heard, I had seen what he had
seen, and yet from his words it was evident that he saw clearly not
only what had happened but what was about to happen, while to me the
whole business was still confused and grotesque. As I drove home to my
house in Kensington I thought over it all, from the extraordinary story
of the red-headed copier of the _Encyclopædia_ down to the visit to
Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous words with which he had parted from
me. What was this nocturnal expedition, and why should I go armed?
Where were we going, and what were we to do? I had the hint from Holmes
that this smooth-faced pawnbroker’s assistant was a formidable man—a
man who might play a deep game. I tried to puzzle it out, but gave it
up in despair and set the matter aside until night should bring an
explanation.
It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made my way
across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two
hansoms were standing at the door, and as I entered the passage I heard
the sound of voices from above. On entering his room, I found Holmes in
animated conversation with two men, one of whom I recognised as Peter
Jones, the official police agent, while the other was a long, thin,
sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat and oppressively respectable
frock-coat.
“Ha! Our party is complete,” said Holmes, buttoning up his pea-jacket
and taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack. “Watson, I think you
know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr.
Merryweather, who is to be our companion in to-night’s adventure.”
“We’re hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see,” said Jones in his
consequential way. “Our friend here is a wonderful man for starting a
chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him to do the running down.”
“I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase,”
observed Mr. Merryweather gloomily.
“You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir,” said the
police agent loftily. “He has his own little methods, which are, if he
won’t mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical and fantastic,
but he has the makings of a detective in him. It is not too much to say
that once or twice, as in that business of the Sholto murder and the
Agra treasure, he has been more nearly correct than the official
force.”
“Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right,” said the stranger with
deference. “Still, I confess that I miss my rubber. It is the first
Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I have not had my
rubber.”
“I think you will find,” said Sherlock Holmes, “that you will play for
a higher stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and that the play
will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will be
some £ 30,000; and for you, Jones, it will be the man upon whom you
wish to lay your hands.”
“John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He’s a young man,
Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession, and I would
rather have my bracelets on him than on any criminal in London. He’s a
remarkable man, is young John Clay. His grandfather was a royal duke,
and he himself has been to Eton and Oxford. His brain is as cunning as
his fingers, and though we meet signs of him at every turn, we never
know where to find the man himself. He’ll crack a crib in Scotland one
week, and be raising money to build an orphanage in Cornwall the next.
I’ve been on his track for years and have never set eyes on him yet.”
“I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night. I’ve
had one or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I agree with
you that he is at the head of his profession. It is past ten, however,
and quite time that we started. If you two will take the first hansom,
Watson and I will follow in the second.”
Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive and
lay back in the cab humming the tunes which he had heard in the
afternoon. We rattled through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit streets
until we emerged into Farrington Street.
“We are close there now,” my friend remarked. “This fellow Merryweather
is a bank director, and personally interested in the matter. I thought
it as well to have Jones with us also. He is not a bad fellow, though
an absolute imbecile in his profession. He has one positive virtue. He
is as brave as a bulldog and as tenacious as a lobster if he gets his
claws upon anyone. Here we are, and they are waiting for us.”
We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had found
ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and, following the
guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a narrow passage and
through a side door, which he opened for us. Within there was a small
corridor, which ended in a very massive iron gate. This also was
opened, and led down a flight of winding stone steps, which terminated
at another formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped to light a
lantern, and then conducted us down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and
so, after opening a third door, into a huge vault or cellar, which was
piled all round with crates and massive boxes.
“You are not very vulnerable from above,” Holmes remarked as he held up
the lantern and gazed about him.
“Nor from below,” said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon the
flags which lined the floor. “Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow!” he
remarked, looking up in surprise.
“I must really ask you to be a little more quiet!” said Holmes
severely. “You have already imperilled the whole success of our
expedition. Might I beg that you would have the goodness to sit down
upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?”
The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a very
injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his knees upon
the floor and, with the lantern and a magnifying lens, began to examine
minutely the cracks between the stones. A few seconds sufficed to
satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again and put his glass in his
pocket.
“We have at least an hour before us,” he remarked, “for they can hardly
take any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed. Then they
will not lose a minute, for the sooner they do their work the longer
time they will have for their escape. We are at present, Doctor—as no
doubt you have divined—in the cellar of the City branch of one of the
principal London banks. Mr. Merryweather is the chairman of directors,
and he will explain to you that there are reasons why the more daring
criminals of London should take a considerable interest in this cellar
at present.”
“It is our French gold,” whispered the director. “We have had several
warnings that an attempt might be made upon it.”
“Your French gold?”
“Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our resources and
borrowed for that purpose 30,000 napoleons from the Bank of France. It
has become known that we have never had occasion to unpack the money,
and that it is still lying in our cellar. The crate upon which I sit
contains 2,000 napoleons packed between layers of lead foil. Our
reserve of bullion is much larger at present than is usually kept in a
single branch office, and the directors have had misgivings upon the
subject.”
“Which were very well justified,” observed Holmes. “And now it is time
that we arranged our little plans. I expect that within an hour matters
will come to a head. In the meantime Mr. Merryweather, we must put the
screen over that dark lantern.”
“And sit in the dark?”
“I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket, and I
thought that, as we were a _partie carrée_, you might have your rubber
after all. But I see that the enemy’s preparations have gone so far
that we cannot risk the presence of a light. And, first of all, we must
choose our positions. These are daring men, and though we shall take
them at a disadvantage, they may do us some harm unless we are careful.
I shall stand behind this crate, and do you conceal yourselves behind
those. Then, when I flash a light upon them, close in swiftly. If they
fire, Watson, have no compunction about shooting them down.”
I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden case behind
which I crouched. Holmes shot the slide across the front of his lantern
and left us in pitch darkness—such an absolute darkness as I have never
before experienced. The smell of hot metal remained to assure us that
the light was still there, ready to flash out at a moment’s notice. To
me, with my nerves worked up to a pitch of expectancy, there was
something depressing and subduing in the sudden gloom, and in the cold
dank air of the vault.
“They have but one retreat,” whispered Holmes. “That is back through
the house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you have done what I
asked you, Jones?”
“I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door.”
“Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be silent and
wait.”
What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it was but an
hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the night must have
almost gone, and the dawn be breaking above us. My limbs were weary and
stiff, for I feared to change my position; yet my nerves were worked up
to the highest pitch of tension, and my hearing was so acute that I
could not only hear the gentle breathing of my companions, but I could
distinguish the deeper, heavier in-breath of the bulky Jones from the
thin, sighing note of the bank director. From my position I could look
over the case in the direction of the floor. Suddenly my eyes caught
the glint of a light.
At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then it
lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then, without any
warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand appeared, a white,
almost womanly hand, which felt about in the centre of the little area
of light. For a minute or more the hand, with its writhing fingers,
protruded out of the floor. Then it was withdrawn as suddenly as it
appeared, and all was dark again save the single lurid spark which
marked a chink between the stones.
Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a rending, tearing
sound, one of the broad, white stones turned over upon its side and
left a square, gaping hole, through which streamed the light of a
lantern. Over the edge there peeped a clean-cut, boyish face, which
looked keenly about it, and then, with a hand on either side of the
aperture, drew itself shoulder-high and waist-high, until one knee
rested upon the edge. In another instant he stood at the side of the
hole and was hauling after him a companion, lithe and small like
himself, with a pale face and a shock of very red hair.
“It’s all clear,” he whispered. “Have you the chisel and the bags?
Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, and I’ll swing for it!”
Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the collar.
The other dived down the hole, and I heard the sound of rending cloth
as Jones clutched at his skirts. The light flashed upon the barrel of a
revolver, but Holmes’ hunting crop came down on the man’s wrist, and
the pistol clinked upon the stone floor.
“It’s no use, John Clay,” said Holmes blandly. “You have no chance at
all.”
“So I see,” the other answered with the utmost coolness. “I fancy that
my pal is all right, though I see you have got his coat-tails.”
“There are three men waiting for him at the door,” said Holmes.
“Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing very completely. I must
compliment you.”
“And I you,” Holmes answered. “Your red-headed idea was very new and
effective.”
“You’ll see your pal again presently,” said Jones. “He’s quicker at
climbing down holes than I am. Just hold out while I fix the derbies.”
“I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands,” remarked our
prisoner as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists. “You may not be
aware that I have royal blood in my veins. Have the goodness, also,
when you address me always to say ‘sir’ and ‘please.’”
“All right,” said Jones with a stare and a snigger. “Well, would you
please, sir, march upstairs, where we can get a cab to carry your
Highness to the police-station?”
“That is better,” said John Clay serenely. He made a sweeping bow to
the three of us and walked quietly off in the custody of the detective.
“Really, Mr. Holmes,” said Mr. Merryweather as we followed them from
the cellar, “I do not know how the bank can thank you or repay you.
There is no doubt that you have detected and defeated in the most
complete manner one of the most determined attempts at bank robbery
that have ever come within my experience.”
“I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr. John
Clay,” said Holmes. “I have been at some small expense over this
matter, which I shall expect the bank to refund, but beyond that I am
amply repaid by having had an experience which is in many ways unique,
and by hearing the very remarkable narrative of the Red-headed League.”
“You see, Watson,” he explained in the early hours of the morning as we
sat over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street, “it was perfectly
obvious from the first that the only possible object of this rather
fantastic business of the advertisement of the League, and the copying
of the _Encyclopædia_, must be to get this not over-bright pawnbroker
out of the way for a number of hours every day. It was a curious way of
managing it, but, really, it would be difficult to suggest a better.
The method was no doubt suggested to Clay’s ingenious mind by the
colour of his accomplice’s hair. The £ 4 a week was a lure which must
draw him, and what was it to them, who were playing for thousands? They
put in the advertisement, one rogue has the temporary office, the other
rogue incites the man to apply for it, and together they manage to
secure his absence every morning in the week. From the time that I
heard of the assistant having come for half wages, it was obvious to me
that he had some strong motive for securing the situation.”
“But how could you guess what the motive was?”
“Had there been women in the house, I should have suspected a mere
vulgar intrigue. That, however, was out of the question. The man’s
business was a small one, and there was nothing in his house which
could account for such elaborate preparations, and such an expenditure
as they were at. It must, then, be something out of the house. What
could it be? I thought of the assistant’s fondness for photography, and
his trick of vanishing into the cellar. The cellar! There was the end
of this tangled clue. Then I made inquiries as to this mysterious
assistant and found that I had to deal with one of the coolest and most
daring criminals in London. He was doing something in the
cellar—something which took many hours a day for months on end. What
could it be, once more? I could think of nothing save that he was
running a tunnel to some other building.
“So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action. I
surprised you by beating upon the pavement with my stick. I was
ascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or behind. It
was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the assistant
answered it. We have had some skirmishes, but we had never set eyes
upon each other before. I hardly looked at his face. His knees were
what I wished to see. You must yourself have remarked how worn,
wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke of those hours of
burrowing. The only remaining point was what they were burrowing for. I
walked round the corner, saw the City and Suburban Bank abutted on our
friend’s premises, and felt that I had solved my problem. When you
drove home after the concert I called upon Scotland Yard and upon the
chairman of the bank directors, with the result that you have seen.”
“And how could you tell that they would make their attempt to-night?” I
asked.
“Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign that they
cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson’s presence—in other words, that
they had completed their tunnel. But it was essential that they should
use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the bullion might be
removed. Saturday would suit them better than any other day, as it
would give them two days for their escape. For all these reasons I
expected them to come to-night.”
“You reasoned it out beautifully,” I exclaimed in unfeigned admiration.
“It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings true.”
“It saved me from ennui,” he answered, yawning. “Alas! I already feel
it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort to escape
from the commonplaces of existence. These little problems help me to do
so.”
“And you are a benefactor of the race,” said I.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, perhaps, after all, it is of some
little use,” he remarked. “‘_L’homme c’est rien—l’œuvre c’est tout_,’
as Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand.”
|
ii_the_red_headed_league
|
III. A CASE OF IDENTITY
|
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
|
“My dear fellow,” said Sherlock Holmes as we sat on either side of the
fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, “life is infinitely stranger than
anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to
conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of existence. If
we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great
city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the queer things which
are going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the
cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events, working through
generations, and leading to the most _outré_ results, it would make all
fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale
and unprofitable.”
“And yet I am not convinced of it,” I answered. “The cases which come
to light in the papers are, as a rule, bald enough, and vulgar enough.
We have in our police reports realism pushed to its extreme limits, and
yet the result is, it must be confessed, neither fascinating nor
artistic.”
“A certain selection and discretion must be used in producing a
realistic effect,” remarked Holmes. “This is wanting in the police
report, where more stress is laid, perhaps, upon the platitudes of the
magistrate than upon the details, which to an observer contain the
vital essence of the whole matter. Depend upon it, there is nothing so
unnatural as the commonplace.”
I smiled and shook my head. “I can quite understand your thinking so,”
I said. “Of course, in your position of unofficial adviser and helper
to everybody who is absolutely puzzled, throughout three continents,
you are brought in contact with all that is strange and bizarre. But
here”—I picked up the morning paper from the ground—“let us put it to a
practical test. Here is the first heading upon which I come. ‘A
husband’s cruelty to his wife.’ There is half a column of print, but I
know without reading it that it is all perfectly familiar to me. There
is, of course, the other woman, the drink, the push, the blow, the
bruise, the sympathetic sister or landlady. The crudest of writers
could invent nothing more crude.”
“Indeed, your example is an unfortunate one for your argument,” said
Holmes, taking the paper and glancing his eye down it. “This is the
Dundas separation case, and, as it happens, I was engaged in clearing
up some small points in connection with it. The husband was a
teetotaler, there was no other woman, and the conduct complained of was
that he had drifted into the habit of winding up every meal by taking
out his false teeth and hurling them at his wife, which, you will
allow, is not an action likely to occur to the imagination of the
average story-teller. Take a pinch of snuff, Doctor, and acknowledge
that I have scored over you in your example.”
He held out his snuffbox of old gold, with a great amethyst in the
centre of the lid. Its splendour was in such contrast to his homely
ways and simple life that I could not help commenting upon it.
“Ah,” said he, “I forgot that I had not seen you for some weeks. It is
a little souvenir from the King of Bohemia in return for my assistance
in the case of the Irene Adler papers.”
“And the ring?” I asked, glancing at a remarkable brilliant which
sparkled upon his finger.
“It was from the reigning family of Holland, though the matter in which
I served them was of such delicacy that I cannot confide it even to
you, who have been good enough to chronicle one or two of my little
problems.”
“And have you any on hand just now?” I asked with interest.
“Some ten or twelve, but none which present any feature of interest.
They are important, you understand, without being interesting. Indeed,
I have found that it is usually in unimportant matters that there is a
field for the observation, and for the quick analysis of cause and
effect which gives the charm to an investigation. The larger crimes are
apt to be the simpler, for the bigger the crime the more obvious, as a
rule, is the motive. In these cases, save for one rather intricate
matter which has been referred to me from Marseilles, there is nothing
which presents any features of interest. It is possible, however, that
I may have something better before very many minutes are over, for this
is one of my clients, or I am much mistaken.”
He had risen from his chair and was standing between the parted blinds
gazing down into the dull neutral-tinted London street. Looking over
his shoulder, I saw that on the pavement opposite there stood a large
woman with a heavy fur boa round her neck, and a large curling red
feather in a broad-brimmed hat which was tilted in a coquettish Duchess
of Devonshire fashion over her ear. From under this great panoply she
peeped up in a nervous, hesitating fashion at our windows, while her
body oscillated backward and forward, and her fingers fidgeted with her
glove buttons. Suddenly, with a plunge, as of the swimmer who leaves
the bank, she hurried across the road, and we heard the sharp clang of
the bell.
“I have seen those symptoms before,” said Holmes, throwing his
cigarette into the fire. “Oscillation upon the pavement always means an
_affaire de cœur_. She would like advice, but is not sure that the
matter is not too delicate for communication. And yet even here we may
discriminate. When a woman has been seriously wronged by a man she no
longer oscillates, and the usual symptom is a broken bell wire. Here we
may take it that there is a love matter, but that the maiden is not so
much angry as perplexed, or grieved. But here she comes in person to
resolve our doubts.”
As he spoke there was a tap at the door, and the boy in buttons entered
to announce Miss Mary Sutherland, while the lady herself loomed behind
his small black figure like a full-sailed merchant-man behind a tiny
pilot boat. Sherlock Holmes welcomed her with the easy courtesy for
which he was remarkable, and, having closed the door and bowed her into
an armchair, he looked her over in the minute and yet abstracted
fashion which was peculiar to him.
“Do you not find,” he said, “that with your short sight it is a little
trying to do so much typewriting?”
“I did at first,” she answered, “but now I know where the letters are
without looking.” Then, suddenly realising the full purport of his
words, she gave a violent start and looked up, with fear and
astonishment upon her broad, good-humoured face. “You’ve heard about
me, Mr. Holmes,” she cried, “else how could you know all that?”
“Never mind,” said Holmes, laughing; “it is my business to know things.
Perhaps I have trained myself to see what others overlook. If not, why
should you come to consult me?”
“I came to you, sir, because I heard of you from Mrs. Etherege, whose
husband you found so easy when the police and everyone had given him up
for dead. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish you would do as much for me. I’m not
rich, but still I have a hundred a year in my own right, besides the
little that I make by the machine, and I would give it all to know what
has become of Mr. Hosmer Angel.”
“Why did you come away to consult me in such a hurry?” asked Sherlock
Holmes, with his finger-tips together and his eyes to the ceiling.
Again a startled look came over the somewhat vacuous face of Miss Mary
Sutherland. “Yes, I did bang out of the house,” she said, “for it made
me angry to see the easy way in which Mr. Windibank—that is, my
father—took it all. He would not go to the police, and he would not go
to you, and so at last, as he would do nothing and kept on saying that
there was no harm done, it made me mad, and I just on with my things
and came right away to you.”
“Your father,” said Holmes, “your stepfather, surely, since the name is
different.”
“Yes, my stepfather. I call him father, though it sounds funny, too,
for he is only five years and two months older than myself.”
“And your mother is alive?”
“Oh, yes, mother is alive and well. I wasn’t best pleased, Mr. Holmes,
when she married again so soon after father’s death, and a man who was
nearly fifteen years younger than herself. Father was a plumber in the
Tottenham Court Road, and he left a tidy business behind him, which
mother carried on with Mr. Hardy, the foreman; but when Mr. Windibank
came he made her sell the business, for he was very superior, being a
traveller in wines. They got £ 4700 for the goodwill and interest,
which wasn’t near as much as father could have got if he had been
alive.”
I had expected to see Sherlock Holmes impatient under this rambling and
inconsequential narrative, but, on the contrary, he had listened with
the greatest concentration of attention.
“Your own little income,” he asked, “does it come out of the business?”
“Oh, no, sir. It is quite separate and was left me by my uncle Ned in
Auckland. It is in New Zealand stock, paying 4½ per cent. Two thousand
five hundred pounds was the amount, but I can only touch the interest.”
“You interest me extremely,” said Holmes. “And since you draw so large
a sum as a hundred a year, with what you earn into the bargain, you no
doubt travel a little and indulge yourself in every way. I believe that
a single lady can get on very nicely upon an income of about £ 60.”
“I could do with much less than that, Mr. Holmes, but you understand
that as long as I live at home I don’t wish to be a burden to them, and
so they have the use of the money just while I am staying with them. Of
course, that is only just for the time. Mr. Windibank draws my interest
every quarter and pays it over to mother, and I find that I can do
pretty well with what I earn at typewriting. It brings me twopence a
sheet, and I can often do from fifteen to twenty sheets in a day.”
“You have made your position very clear to me,” said Holmes. “This is
my friend, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before
myself. Kindly tell us now all about your connection with Mr. Hosmer
Angel.”
A flush stole over Miss Sutherland’s face, and she picked nervously at
the fringe of her jacket. “I met him first at the gasfitters’ ball,”
she said. “They used to send father tickets when he was alive, and then
afterwards they remembered us, and sent them to mother. Mr. Windibank
did not wish us to go. He never did wish us to go anywhere. He would
get quite mad if I wanted so much as to join a Sunday-school treat. But
this time I was set on going, and I would go; for what right had he to
prevent? He said the folk were not fit for us to know, when all
father’s friends were to be there. And he said that I had nothing fit
to wear, when I had my purple plush that I had never so much as taken
out of the drawer. At last, when nothing else would do, he went off to
France upon the business of the firm, but we went, mother and I, with
Mr. Hardy, who used to be our foreman, and it was there I met Mr.
Hosmer Angel.”
“I suppose,” said Holmes, “that when Mr. Windibank came back from
France he was very annoyed at your having gone to the ball.”
“Oh, well, he was very good about it. He laughed, I remember, and
shrugged his shoulders, and said there was no use denying anything to a
woman, for she would have her way.”
“I see. Then at the gasfitters’ ball you met, as I understand, a
gentleman called Mr. Hosmer Angel.”
“Yes, sir. I met him that night, and he called next day to ask if we
had got home all safe, and after that we met him—that is to say, Mr.
Holmes, I met him twice for walks, but after that father came back
again, and Mr. Hosmer Angel could not come to the house any more.”
“No?”
“Well, you know father didn’t like anything of the sort. He wouldn’t
have any visitors if he could help it, and he used to say that a woman
should be happy in her own family circle. But then, as I used to say to
mother, a woman wants her own circle to begin with, and I had not got
mine yet.”
“But how about Mr. Hosmer Angel? Did he make no attempt to see you?”
“Well, father was going off to France again in a week, and Hosmer wrote
and said that it would be safer and better not to see each other until
he had gone. We could write in the meantime, and he used to write every
day. I took the letters in in the morning, so there was no need for
father to know.”
“Were you engaged to the gentleman at this time?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. We were engaged after the first walk that we
took. Hosmer—Mr. Angel—was a cashier in an office in Leadenhall
Street—and—”
“What office?”
“That’s the worst of it, Mr. Holmes, I don’t know.”
“Where did he live, then?”
“He slept on the premises.”
“And you don’t know his address?”
“No—except that it was Leadenhall Street.”
“Where did you address your letters, then?”
“To the Leadenhall Street Post Office, to be left till called for. He
said that if they were sent to the office he would be chaffed by all
the other clerks about having letters from a lady, so I offered to
typewrite them, like he did his, but he wouldn’t have that, for he said
that when I wrote them they seemed to come from me, but when they were
typewritten he always felt that the machine had come between us. That
will just show you how fond he was of me, Mr. Holmes, and the little
things that he would think of.”
“It was most suggestive,” said Holmes. “It has long been an axiom of
mine that the little things are infinitely the most important. Can you
remember any other little things about Mr. Hosmer Angel?”
“He was a very shy man, Mr. Holmes. He would rather walk with me in the
evening than in the daylight, for he said that he hated to be
conspicuous. Very retiring and gentlemanly he was. Even his voice was
gentle. He’d had the quinsy and swollen glands when he was young, he
told me, and it had left him with a weak throat, and a hesitating,
whispering fashion of speech. He was always well dressed, very neat and
plain, but his eyes were weak, just as mine are, and he wore tinted
glasses against the glare.”
“Well, and what happened when Mr. Windibank, your stepfather, returned
to France?”
“Mr. Hosmer Angel came to the house again and proposed that we should
marry before father came back. He was in dreadful earnest and made me
swear, with my hands on the Testament, that whatever happened I would
always be true to him. Mother said he was quite right to make me swear,
and that it was a sign of his passion. Mother was all in his favour
from the first and was even fonder of him than I was. Then, when they
talked of marrying within the week, I began to ask about father; but
they both said never to mind about father, but just to tell him
afterwards, and mother said she would make it all right with him. I
didn’t quite like that, Mr. Holmes. It seemed funny that I should ask
his leave, as he was only a few years older than me; but I didn’t want
to do anything on the sly, so I wrote to father at Bordeaux, where the
company has its French offices, but the letter came back to me on the
very morning of the wedding.”
“It missed him, then?”
“Yes, sir; for he had started to England just before it arrived.”
“Ha! that was unfortunate. Your wedding was arranged, then, for the
Friday. Was it to be in church?”
“Yes, sir, but very quietly. It was to be at St. Saviour’s, near King’s
Cross, and we were to have breakfast afterwards at the St. Pancras
Hotel. Hosmer came for us in a hansom, but as there were two of us he
put us both into it and stepped himself into a four-wheeler, which
happened to be the only other cab in the street. We got to the church
first, and when the four-wheeler drove up we waited for him to step
out, but he never did, and when the cabman got down from the box and
looked there was no one there! The cabman said that he could not
imagine what had become of him, for he had seen him get in with his own
eyes. That was last Friday, Mr. Holmes, and I have never seen or heard
anything since then to throw any light upon what became of him.”
“It seems to me that you have been very shamefully treated,” said
Holmes.
“Oh, no, sir! He was too good and kind to leave me so. Why, all the
morning he was saying to me that, whatever happened, I was to be true;
and that even if something quite unforeseen occurred to separate us, I
was always to remember that I was pledged to him, and that he would
claim his pledge sooner or later. It seemed strange talk for a
wedding-morning, but what has happened since gives a meaning to it.”
“Most certainly it does. Your own opinion is, then, that some
unforeseen catastrophe has occurred to him?”
“Yes, sir. I believe that he foresaw some danger, or else he would not
have talked so. And then I think that what he foresaw happened.”
“But you have no notion as to what it could have been?”
“None.”
“One more question. How did your mother take the matter?”
“She was angry, and said that I was never to speak of the matter
again.”
“And your father? Did you tell him?”
“Yes; and he seemed to think, with me, that something had happened, and
that I should hear of Hosmer again. As he said, what interest could
anyone have in bringing me to the doors of the church, and then leaving
me? Now, if he had borrowed my money, or if he had married me and got
my money settled on him, there might be some reason, but Hosmer was
very independent about money and never would look at a shilling of
mine. And yet, what could have happened? And why could he not write?
Oh, it drives me half-mad to think of it, and I can’t sleep a wink at
night.” She pulled a little handkerchief out of her muff and began to
sob heavily into it.
“I shall glance into the case for you,” said Holmes, rising, “and I
have no doubt that we shall reach some definite result. Let the weight
of the matter rest upon me now, and do not let your mind dwell upon it
further. Above all, try to let Mr. Hosmer Angel vanish from your
memory, as he has done from your life.”
“Then you don’t think I’ll see him again?”
“I fear not.”
“Then what has happened to him?”
“You will leave that question in my hands. I should like an accurate
description of him and any letters of his which you can spare.”
“I advertised for him in last Saturday’s _Chronicle_,” said she. “Here
is the slip and here are four letters from him.”
“Thank you. And your address?”
“No. 31 Lyon Place, Camberwell.”
“Mr. Angel’s address you never had, I understand. Where is your
father’s place of business?”
“He travels for Westhouse & Marbank, the great claret importers of
Fenchurch Street.”
“Thank you. You have made your statement very clearly. You will leave
the papers here, and remember the advice which I have given you. Let
the whole incident be a sealed book, and do not allow it to affect your
life.”
“You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot do that. I shall be true
to Hosmer. He shall find me ready when he comes back.”
For all the preposterous hat and the vacuous face, there was something
noble in the simple faith of our visitor which compelled our respect.
She laid her little bundle of papers upon the table and went her way,
with a promise to come again whenever she might be summoned.
Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes with his fingertips still
pressed together, his legs stretched out in front of him, and his gaze
directed upward to the ceiling. Then he took down from the rack the old
and oily clay pipe, which was to him as a counsellor, and, having lit
it, he leaned back in his chair, with the thick blue cloud-wreaths
spinning up from him, and a look of infinite languor in his face.
“Quite an interesting study, that maiden,” he observed. “I found her
more interesting than her little problem, which, by the way, is rather
a trite one. You will find parallel cases, if you consult my index, in
Andover in ’77, and there was something of the sort at The Hague last
year. Old as is the idea, however, there were one or two details which
were new to me. But the maiden herself was most instructive.”
“You appeared to read a good deal upon her which was quite invisible to
me,” I remarked.
“Not invisible but unnoticed, Watson. You did not know where to look,
and so you missed all that was important. I can never bring you to
realise the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness of thumb-nails,
or the great issues that may hang from a boot-lace. Now, what did you
gather from that woman’s appearance? Describe it.”
“Well, she had a slate-coloured, broad-brimmed straw hat, with a
feather of a brickish red. Her jacket was black, with black beads sewn
upon it, and a fringe of little black jet ornaments. Her dress was
brown, rather darker than coffee colour, with a little purple plush at
the neck and sleeves. Her gloves were greyish and were worn through at
the right forefinger. Her boots I didn’t observe. She had small round,
hanging gold earrings, and a general air of being fairly well-to-do in
a vulgar, comfortable, easy-going way.”
Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly together and chuckled.
“’Pon my word, Watson, you are coming along wonderfully. You have
really done very well indeed. It is true that you have missed
everything of importance, but you have hit upon the method, and you
have a quick eye for colour. Never trust to general impressions, my
boy, but concentrate yourself upon details. My first glance is always
at a woman’s sleeve. In a man it is perhaps better first to take the
knee of the trouser. As you observe, this woman had plush upon her
sleeves, which is a most useful material for showing traces. The double
line a little above the wrist, where the typewritist presses against
the table, was beautifully defined. The sewing-machine, of the hand
type, leaves a similar mark, but only on the left arm, and on the side
of it farthest from the thumb, instead of being right across the
broadest part, as this was. I then glanced at her face, and, observing
the dint of a pince-nez at either side of her nose, I ventured a remark
upon short sight and typewriting, which seemed to surprise her.”
“It surprised me.”
“But, surely, it was obvious. I was then much surprised and interested
on glancing down to observe that, though the boots which she was
wearing were not unlike each other, they were really odd ones; the one
having a slightly decorated toe-cap, and the other a plain one. One was
buttoned only in the two lower buttons out of five, and the other at
the first, third, and fifth. Now, when you see that a young lady,
otherwise neatly dressed, has come away from home with odd boots,
half-buttoned, it is no great deduction to say that she came away in a
hurry.”
“And what else?” I asked, keenly interested, as I always was, by my
friend’s incisive reasoning.
“I noted, in passing, that she had written a note before leaving home
but after being fully dressed. You observed that her right glove was
torn at the forefinger, but you did not apparently see that both glove
and finger were stained with violet ink. She had written in a hurry and
dipped her pen too deep. It must have been this morning, or the mark
would not remain clear upon the finger. All this is amusing, though
rather elementary, but I must go back to business, Watson. Would you
mind reading me the advertised description of Mr. Hosmer Angel?”
I held the little printed slip to the light. “Missing,” it said, “on
the morning of the fourteenth, a gentleman named Hosmer Angel. About
five ft. seven in. in height; strongly built, sallow complexion, black
hair, a little bald in the centre, bushy, black side-whiskers and
moustache; tinted glasses, slight infirmity of speech. Was dressed,
when last seen, in black frock-coat faced with silk, black waistcoat,
gold Albert chain, and grey Harris tweed trousers, with brown gaiters
over elastic-sided boots. Known to have been employed in an office in
Leadenhall Street. Anybody bringing,” &c, &c.
“That will do,” said Holmes. “As to the letters,” he continued,
glancing over them, “they are very commonplace. Absolutely no clue in
them to Mr. Angel, save that he quotes Balzac once. There is one
remarkable point, however, which will no doubt strike you.”
“They are typewritten,” I remarked.
“Not only that, but the signature is typewritten. Look at the neat
little ‘Hosmer Angel’ at the bottom. There is a date, you see, but no
superscription except Leadenhall Street, which is rather vague. The
point about the signature is very suggestive—in fact, we may call it
conclusive.”
“Of what?”
“My dear fellow, is it possible you do not see how strongly it bears
upon the case?”
“I cannot say that I do unless it were that he wished to be able to
deny his signature if an action for breach of promise were instituted.”
“No, that was not the point. However, I shall write two letters, which
should settle the matter. One is to a firm in the City, the other is to
the young lady’s stepfather, Mr. Windibank, asking him whether he could
meet us here at six o’clock to-morrow evening. It is just as well that
we should do business with the male relatives. And now, Doctor, we can
do nothing until the answers to those letters come, so we may put our
little problem upon the shelf for the interim.”
I had had so many reasons to believe in my friend’s subtle powers of
reasoning and extraordinary energy in action that I felt that he must
have some solid grounds for the assured and easy demeanour with which
he treated the singular mystery which he had been called upon to
fathom. Once only had I known him to fail, in the case of the King of
Bohemia and of the Irene Adler photograph; but when I looked back to
the weird business of the Sign of Four, and the extraordinary
circumstances connected with the Study in Scarlet, I felt that it would
be a strange tangle indeed which he could not unravel.
I left him then, still puffing at his black clay pipe, with the
conviction that when I came again on the next evening I would find that
he held in his hands all the clues which would lead up to the identity
of the disappearing bridegroom of Miss Mary Sutherland.
A professional case of great gravity was engaging my own attention at
the time, and the whole of next day I was busy at the bedside of the
sufferer. It was not until close upon six o’clock that I found myself
free and was able to spring into a hansom and drive to Baker Street,
half afraid that I might be too late to assist at the _dénouement_ of
the little mystery. I found Sherlock Holmes alone, however, half
asleep, with his long, thin form curled up in the recesses of his
armchair. A formidable array of bottles and test-tubes, with the
pungent cleanly smell of hydrochloric acid, told me that he had spent
his day in the chemical work which was so dear to him.
“Well, have you solved it?” I asked as I entered.
“Yes. It was the bisulphate of baryta.”
“No, no, the mystery!” I cried.
“Oh, that! I thought of the salt that I have been working upon. There
was never any mystery in the matter, though, as I said yesterday, some
of the details are of interest. The only drawback is that there is no
law, I fear, that can touch the scoundrel.”
“Who was he, then, and what was his object in deserting Miss
Sutherland?”
The question was hardly out of my mouth, and Holmes had not yet opened
his lips to reply, when we heard a heavy footfall in the passage and a
tap at the door.
“This is the girl’s stepfather, Mr. James Windibank,” said Holmes. “He
has written to me to say that he would be here at six. Come in!”
The man who entered was a sturdy, middle-sized fellow, some thirty
years of age, clean-shaven, and sallow-skinned, with a bland,
insinuating manner, and a pair of wonderfully sharp and penetrating
grey eyes. He shot a questioning glance at each of us, placed his shiny
top-hat upon the sideboard, and with a slight bow sidled down into the
nearest chair.
“Good-evening, Mr. James Windibank,” said Holmes. “I think that this
typewritten letter is from you, in which you made an appointment with
me for six o’clock?”
“Yes, sir. I am afraid that I am a little late, but I am not quite my
own master, you know. I am sorry that Miss Sutherland has troubled you
about this little matter, for I think it is far better not to wash
linen of the sort in public. It was quite against my wishes that she
came, but she is a very excitable, impulsive girl, as you may have
noticed, and she is not easily controlled when she has made up her mind
on a point. Of course, I did not mind you so much, as you are not
connected with the official police, but it is not pleasant to have a
family misfortune like this noised abroad. Besides, it is a useless
expense, for how could you possibly find this Hosmer Angel?”
“On the contrary,” said Holmes quietly; “I have every reason to believe
that I will succeed in discovering Mr. Hosmer Angel.”
Mr. Windibank gave a violent start and dropped his gloves. “I am
delighted to hear it,” he said.
“It is a curious thing,” remarked Holmes, “that a typewriter has really
quite as much individuality as a man’s handwriting. Unless they are
quite new, no two of them write exactly alike. Some letters get more
worn than others, and some wear only on one side. Now, you remark in
this note of yours, Mr. Windibank, that in every case there is some
little slurring over of the ‘e,’ and a slight defect in the tail of the
‘r.’ There are fourteen other characteristics, but those are the more
obvious.”
“We do all our correspondence with this machine at the office, and no
doubt it is a little worn,” our visitor answered, glancing keenly at
Holmes with his bright little eyes.
“And now I will show you what is really a very interesting study, Mr.
Windibank,” Holmes continued. “I think of writing another little
monograph some of these days on the typewriter and its relation to
crime. It is a subject to which I have devoted some little attention. I
have here four letters which purport to come from the missing man. They
are all typewritten. In each case, not only are the ‘e’s’ slurred and
the ‘r’s’ tailless, but you will observe, if you care to use my
magnifying lens, that the fourteen other characteristics to which I
have alluded are there as well.”
Mr. Windibank sprang out of his chair and picked up his hat. “I cannot
waste time over this sort of fantastic talk, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “If
you can catch the man, catch him, and let me know when you have done
it.”
“Certainly,” said Holmes, stepping over and turning the key in the
door. “I let you know, then, that I have caught him!”
“What! where?” shouted Mr. Windibank, turning white to his lips and
glancing about him like a rat in a trap.
“Oh, it won’t do—really it won’t,” said Holmes suavely. “There is no
possible getting out of it, Mr. Windibank. It is quite too transparent,
and it was a very bad compliment when you said that it was impossible
for me to solve so simple a question. That’s right! Sit down and let us
talk it over.”
Our visitor collapsed into a chair, with a ghastly face and a glitter
of moisture on his brow. “It—it’s not actionable,” he stammered.
“I am very much afraid that it is not. But between ourselves,
Windibank, it was as cruel and selfish and heartless a trick in a petty
way as ever came before me. Now, let me just run over the course of
events, and you will contradict me if I go wrong.”
The man sat huddled up in his chair, with his head sunk upon his
breast, like one who is utterly crushed. Holmes stuck his feet up on
the corner of the mantelpiece and, leaning back with his hands in his
pockets, began talking, rather to himself, as it seemed, than to us.
“The man married a woman very much older than himself for her money,”
said he, “and he enjoyed the use of the money of the daughter as long
as she lived with them. It was a considerable sum, for people in their
position, and the loss of it would have made a serious difference. It
was worth an effort to preserve it. The daughter was of a good, amiable
disposition, but affectionate and warm-hearted in her ways, so that it
was evident that with her fair personal advantages, and her little
income, she would not be allowed to remain single long. Now her
marriage would mean, of course, the loss of a hundred a year, so what
does her stepfather do to prevent it? He takes the obvious course of
keeping her at home and forbidding her to seek the company of people of
her own age. But soon he found that that would not answer forever. She
became restive, insisted upon her rights, and finally announced her
positive intention of going to a certain ball. What does her clever
stepfather do then? He conceives an idea more creditable to his head
than to his heart. With the connivance and assistance of his wife he
disguised himself, covered those keen eyes with tinted glasses, masked
the face with a moustache and a pair of bushy whiskers, sunk that clear
voice into an insinuating whisper, and doubly secure on account of the
girl’s short sight, he appears as Mr. Hosmer Angel, and keeps off other
lovers by making love himself.”
“It was only a joke at first,” groaned our visitor. “We never thought
that she would have been so carried away.”
“Very likely not. However that may be, the young lady was very
decidedly carried away, and, having quite made up her mind that her
stepfather was in France, the suspicion of treachery never for an
instant entered her mind. She was flattered by the gentleman’s
attentions, and the effect was increased by the loudly expressed
admiration of her mother. Then Mr. Angel began to call, for it was
obvious that the matter should be pushed as far as it would go if a
real effect were to be produced. There were meetings, and an
engagement, which would finally secure the girl’s affections from
turning towards anyone else. But the deception could not be kept up
forever. These pretended journeys to France were rather cumbrous. The
thing to do was clearly to bring the business to an end in such a
dramatic manner that it would leave a permanent impression upon the
young lady’s mind and prevent her from looking upon any other suitor
for some time to come. Hence those vows of fidelity exacted upon a
Testament, and hence also the allusions to a possibility of something
happening on the very morning of the wedding. James Windibank wished
Miss Sutherland to be so bound to Hosmer Angel, and so uncertain as to
his fate, that for ten years to come, at any rate, she would not listen
to another man. As far as the church door he brought her, and then, as
he could go no farther, he conveniently vanished away by the old trick
of stepping in at one door of a four-wheeler and out at the other. I
think that was the chain of events, Mr. Windibank!”
Our visitor had recovered something of his assurance while Holmes had
been talking, and he rose from his chair now with a cold sneer upon his
pale face.
“It may be so, or it may not, Mr. Holmes,” said he, “but if you are so
very sharp you ought to be sharp enough to know that it is you who are
breaking the law now, and not me. I have done nothing actionable from
the first, but as long as you keep that door locked you lay yourself
open to an action for assault and illegal constraint.”
“The law cannot, as you say, touch you,” said Holmes, unlocking and
throwing open the door, “yet there never was a man who deserved
punishment more. If the young lady has a brother or a friend, he ought
to lay a whip across your shoulders. By Jove!” he continued, flushing
up at the sight of the bitter sneer upon the man’s face, “it is not
part of my duties to my client, but here’s a hunting crop handy, and I
think I shall just treat myself to—” He took two swift steps to the
whip, but before he could grasp it there was a wild clatter of steps
upon the stairs, the heavy hall door banged, and from the window we
could see Mr. James Windibank running at the top of his speed down the
road.
“There’s a cold-blooded scoundrel!” said Holmes, laughing, as he threw
himself down into his chair once more. “That fellow will rise from
crime to crime until he does something very bad, and ends on a gallows.
The case has, in some respects, been not entirely devoid of interest.”
“I cannot now entirely see all the steps of your reasoning,” I
remarked.
“Well, of course it was obvious from the first that this Mr. Hosmer
Angel must have some strong object for his curious conduct, and it was
equally clear that the only man who really profited by the incident, as
far as we could see, was the stepfather. Then the fact that the two men
were never together, but that the one always appeared when the other
was away, was suggestive. So were the tinted spectacles and the curious
voice, which both hinted at a disguise, as did the bushy whiskers. My
suspicions were all confirmed by his peculiar action in typewriting his
signature, which, of course, inferred that his handwriting was so
familiar to her that she would recognise even the smallest sample of
it. You see all these isolated facts, together with many minor ones,
all pointed in the same direction.”
“And how did you verify them?”
“Having once spotted my man, it was easy to get corroboration. I knew
the firm for which this man worked. Having taken the printed
description. I eliminated everything from it which could be the result
of a disguise—the whiskers, the glasses, the voice, and I sent it to
the firm, with a request that they would inform me whether it answered
to the description of any of their travellers. I had already noticed
the peculiarities of the typewriter, and I wrote to the man himself at
his business address asking him if he would come here. As I expected,
his reply was typewritten and revealed the same trivial but
characteristic defects. The same post brought me a letter from
Westhouse & Marbank, of Fenchurch Street, to say that the description
tallied in every respect with that of their employé, James Windibank.
_Voilà tout_!”
“And Miss Sutherland?”
“If I tell her she will not believe me. You may remember the old
Persian saying, ‘There is danger for him who taketh the tiger cub, and
danger also for whoso snatches a delusion from a woman.’ There is as
much sense in Hafiz as in Horace, and as much knowledge of the world.”
|
iii_a_case_of_identity
|
IV. THE BOSCOMBE VALLEY MYSTERY
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The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
|
We were seated at breakfast one morning, my wife and I, when the maid
brought in a telegram. It was from Sherlock Holmes and ran in this way:
“Have you a couple of days to spare? Have just been wired for from the
west of England in connection with Boscombe Valley tragedy. Shall be
glad if you will come with me. Air and scenery perfect. Leave
Paddington by the 11:15.”
“What do you say, dear?” said my wife, looking across at me. “Will you
go?”
“I really don’t know what to say. I have a fairly long list at
present.”
“Oh, Anstruther would do your work for you. You have been looking a
little pale lately. I think that the change would do you good, and you
are always so interested in Mr. Sherlock Holmes’ cases.”
“I should be ungrateful if I were not, seeing what I gained through one
of them,” I answered. “But if I am to go, I must pack at once, for I
have only half an hour.”
My experience of camp life in Afghanistan had at least had the effect
of making me a prompt and ready traveller. My wants were few and
simple, so that in less than the time stated I was in a cab with my
valise, rattling away to Paddington Station. Sherlock Holmes was pacing
up and down the platform, his tall, gaunt figure made even gaunter and
taller by his long grey travelling-cloak and close-fitting cloth cap.
“It is really very good of you to come, Watson,” said he. “It makes a
considerable difference to me, having someone with me on whom I can
thoroughly rely. Local aid is always either worthless or else biassed.
If you will keep the two corner seats I shall get the tickets.”
We had the carriage to ourselves save for an immense litter of papers
which Holmes had brought with him. Among these he rummaged and read,
with intervals of note-taking and of meditation, until we were past
Reading. Then he suddenly rolled them all into a gigantic ball and
tossed them up onto the rack.
“Have you heard anything of the case?” he asked.
“Not a word. I have not seen a paper for some days.”
“The London press has not had very full accounts. I have just been
looking through all the recent papers in order to master the
particulars. It seems, from what I gather, to be one of those simple
cases which are so extremely difficult.”
“That sounds a little paradoxical.”
“But it is profoundly true. Singularity is almost invariably a clue.
The more featureless and commonplace a crime is, the more difficult it
is to bring it home. In this case, however, they have established a
very serious case against the son of the murdered man.”
“It is a murder, then?”
“Well, it is conjectured to be so. I shall take nothing for granted
until I have the opportunity of looking personally into it. I will
explain the state of things to you, as far as I have been able to
understand it, in a very few words.
“Boscombe Valley is a country district not very far from Ross, in
Herefordshire. The largest landed proprietor in that part is a Mr. John
Turner, who made his money in Australia and returned some years ago to
the old country. One of the farms which he held, that of Hatherley, was
let to Mr. Charles McCarthy, who was also an ex-Australian. The men had
known each other in the colonies, so that it was not unnatural that
when they came to settle down they should do so as near each other as
possible. Turner was apparently the richer man, so McCarthy became his
tenant but still remained, it seems, upon terms of perfect equality, as
they were frequently together. McCarthy had one son, a lad of eighteen,
and Turner had an only daughter of the same age, but neither of them
had wives living. They appear to have avoided the society of the
neighbouring English families and to have led retired lives, though
both the McCarthys were fond of sport and were frequently seen at the
race-meetings of the neighbourhood. McCarthy kept two servants—a man
and a girl. Turner had a considerable household, some half-dozen at the
least. That is as much as I have been able to gather about the
families. Now for the facts.
“On June 3rd, that is, on Monday last, McCarthy left his house at
Hatherley about three in the afternoon and walked down to the Boscombe
Pool, which is a small lake formed by the spreading out of the stream
which runs down the Boscombe Valley. He had been out with his
serving-man in the morning at Ross, and he had told the man that he
must hurry, as he had an appointment of importance to keep at three.
From that appointment he never came back alive.
“From Hatherley Farmhouse to the Boscombe Pool is a quarter of a mile,
and two people saw him as he passed over this ground. One was an old
woman, whose name is not mentioned, and the other was William Crowder,
a game-keeper in the employ of Mr. Turner. Both these witnesses depose
that Mr. McCarthy was walking alone. The game-keeper adds that within a
few minutes of his seeing Mr. McCarthy pass he had seen his son, Mr.
James McCarthy, going the same way with a gun under his arm. To the
best of his belief, the father was actually in sight at the time, and
the son was following him. He thought no more of the matter until he
heard in the evening of the tragedy that had occurred.
“The two McCarthys were seen after the time when William Crowder, the
game-keeper, lost sight of them. The Boscombe Pool is thickly wooded
round, with just a fringe of grass and of reeds round the edge. A girl
of fourteen, Patience Moran, who is the daughter of the lodge-keeper of
the Boscombe Valley estate, was in one of the woods picking flowers.
She states that while she was there she saw, at the border of the wood
and close by the lake, Mr. McCarthy and his son, and that they appeared
to be having a violent quarrel. She heard Mr. McCarthy the elder using
very strong language to his son, and she saw the latter raise up his
hand as if to strike his father. She was so frightened by their
violence that she ran away and told her mother when she reached home
that she had left the two McCarthys quarrelling near Boscombe Pool, and
that she was afraid that they were going to fight. She had hardly said
the words when young Mr. McCarthy came running up to the lodge to say
that he had found his father dead in the wood, and to ask for the help
of the lodge-keeper. He was much excited, without either his gun or his
hat, and his right hand and sleeve were observed to be stained with
fresh blood. On following him they found the dead body stretched out
upon the grass beside the pool. The head had been beaten in by repeated
blows of some heavy and blunt weapon. The injuries were such as might
very well have been inflicted by the butt-end of his son’s gun, which
was found lying on the grass within a few paces of the body. Under
these circumstances the young man was instantly arrested, and a verdict
of ‘wilful murder’ having been returned at the inquest on Tuesday, he
was on Wednesday brought before the magistrates at Ross, who have
referred the case to the next Assizes. Those are the main facts of the
case as they came out before the coroner and the police-court.”
“I could hardly imagine a more damning case,” I remarked. “If ever
circumstantial evidence pointed to a criminal it does so here.”
“Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing,” answered Holmes
thoughtfully. “It may seem to point very straight to one thing, but if
you shift your own point of view a little, you may find it pointing in
an equally uncompromising manner to something entirely different. It
must be confessed, however, that the case looks exceedingly grave
against the young man, and it is very possible that he is indeed the
culprit. There are several people in the neighbourhood, however, and
among them Miss Turner, the daughter of the neighbouring landowner, who
believe in his innocence, and who have retained Lestrade, whom you may
recollect in connection with the Study in Scarlet, to work out the case
in his interest. Lestrade, being rather puzzled, has referred the case
to me, and hence it is that two middle-aged gentlemen are flying
westward at fifty miles an hour instead of quietly digesting their
breakfasts at home.”
“I am afraid,” said I, “that the facts are so obvious that you will
find little credit to be gained out of this case.”
“There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact,” he answered,
laughing. “Besides, we may chance to hit upon some other obvious facts
which may have been by no means obvious to Mr. Lestrade. You know me
too well to think that I am boasting when I say that I shall either
confirm or destroy his theory by means which he is quite incapable of
employing, or even of understanding. To take the first example to hand,
I very clearly perceive that in your bedroom the window is upon the
right-hand side, and yet I question whether Mr. Lestrade would have
noted even so self-evident a thing as that.”
“How on earth—”
“My dear fellow, I know you well. I know the military neatness which
characterises you. You shave every morning, and in this season you
shave by the sunlight; but since your shaving is less and less complete
as we get farther back on the left side, until it becomes positively
slovenly as we get round the angle of the jaw, it is surely very clear
that that side is less illuminated than the other. I could not imagine
a man of your habits looking at himself in an equal light and being
satisfied with such a result. I only quote this as a trivial example of
observation and inference. Therein lies my _métier_, and it is just
possible that it may be of some service in the investigation which lies
before us. There are one or two minor points which were brought out in
the inquest, and which are worth considering.”
“What are they?”
“It appears that his arrest did not take place at once, but after the
return to Hatherley Farm. On the inspector of constabulary informing
him that he was a prisoner, he remarked that he was not surprised to
hear it, and that it was no more than his deserts. This observation of
his had the natural effect of removing any traces of doubt which might
have remained in the minds of the coroner’s jury.”
“It was a confession,” I ejaculated.
“No, for it was followed by a protestation of innocence.”
“Coming on the top of such a damning series of events, it was at least
a most suspicious remark.”
“On the contrary,” said Holmes, “it is the brightest rift which I can
at present see in the clouds. However innocent he might be, he could
not be such an absolute imbecile as not to see that the circumstances
were very black against him. Had he appeared surprised at his own
arrest, or feigned indignation at it, I should have looked upon it as
highly suspicious, because such surprise or anger would not be natural
under the circumstances, and yet might appear to be the best policy to
a scheming man. His frank acceptance of the situation marks him as
either an innocent man, or else as a man of considerable self-restraint
and firmness. As to his remark about his deserts, it was also not
unnatural if you consider that he stood beside the dead body of his
father, and that there is no doubt that he had that very day so far
forgotten his filial duty as to bandy words with him, and even,
according to the little girl whose evidence is so important, to raise
his hand as if to strike him. The self-reproach and contrition which
are displayed in his remark appear to me to be the signs of a healthy
mind rather than of a guilty one.”
I shook my head. “Many men have been hanged on far slighter evidence,”
I remarked.
“So they have. And many men have been wrongfully hanged.”
“What is the young man’s own account of the matter?”
“It is, I am afraid, not very encouraging to his supporters, though
there are one or two points in it which are suggestive. You will find
it here, and may read it for yourself.”
He picked out from his bundle a copy of the local Herefordshire paper,
and having turned down the sheet he pointed out the paragraph in which
the unfortunate young man had given his own statement of what had
occurred. I settled myself down in the corner of the carriage and read
it very carefully. It ran in this way:
“Mr. James McCarthy, the only son of the deceased, was then called and
gave evidence as follows: ‘I had been away from home for three days at
Bristol, and had only just returned upon the morning of last Monday,
the 3rd. My father was absent from home at the time of my arrival, and
I was informed by the maid that he had driven over to Ross with John
Cobb, the groom. Shortly after my return I heard the wheels of his trap
in the yard, and, looking out of my window, I saw him get out and walk
rapidly out of the yard, though I was not aware in which direction he
was going. I then took my gun and strolled out in the direction of the
Boscombe Pool, with the intention of visiting the rabbit warren which
is upon the other side. On my way I saw William Crowder, the
game-keeper, as he had stated in his evidence; but he is mistaken in
thinking that I was following my father. I had no idea that he was in
front of me. When about a hundred yards from the pool I heard a cry of
“Cooee!” which was a usual signal between my father and myself. I then
hurried forward, and found him standing by the pool. He appeared to be
much surprised at seeing me and asked me rather roughly what I was
doing there. A conversation ensued which led to high words and almost
to blows, for my father was a man of a very violent temper. Seeing that
his passion was becoming ungovernable, I left him and returned towards
Hatherley Farm. I had not gone more than 150 yards, however, when I
heard a hideous outcry behind me, which caused me to run back again. I
found my father expiring upon the ground, with his head terribly
injured. I dropped my gun and held him in my arms, but he almost
instantly expired. I knelt beside him for some minutes, and then made
my way to Mr. Turner’s lodge-keeper, his house being the nearest, to
ask for assistance. I saw no one near my father when I returned, and I
have no idea how he came by his injuries. He was not a popular man,
being somewhat cold and forbidding in his manners, but he had, as far
as I know, no active enemies. I know nothing further of the matter.’
“The Coroner: Did your father make any statement to you before he died?
“Witness: He mumbled a few words, but I could only catch some allusion
to a rat.
“The Coroner: What did you understand by that?
“Witness: It conveyed no meaning to me. I thought that he was
delirious.
“The Coroner: What was the point upon which you and your father had
this final quarrel?
“Witness: I should prefer not to answer.
“The Coroner: I am afraid that I must press it.
“Witness: It is really impossible for me to tell you. I can assure you
that it has nothing to do with the sad tragedy which followed.
“The Coroner: That is for the court to decide. I need not point out to
you that your refusal to answer will prejudice your case considerably
in any future proceedings which may arise.
“Witness: I must still refuse.
“The Coroner: I understand that the cry of ‘Cooee’ was a common signal
between you and your father?
“Witness: It was.
“The Coroner: How was it, then, that he uttered it before he saw you,
and before he even knew that you had returned from Bristol?
“Witness (with considerable confusion): I do not know.
“A Juryman: Did you see nothing which aroused your suspicions when you
returned on hearing the cry and found your father fatally injured?
“Witness: Nothing definite.
“The Coroner: What do you mean?
“Witness: I was so disturbed and excited as I rushed out into the open,
that I could think of nothing except of my father. Yet I have a vague
impression that as I ran forward something lay upon the ground to the
left of me. It seemed to me to be something grey in colour, a coat of
some sort, or a plaid perhaps. When I rose from my father I looked
round for it, but it was gone.
“‘Do you mean that it disappeared before you went for help?’
“‘Yes, it was gone.’
“‘You cannot say what it was?’
“‘No, I had a feeling something was there.’
“‘How far from the body?’
“‘A dozen yards or so.’
“‘And how far from the edge of the wood?’
“‘About the same.’
“‘Then if it was removed it was while you were within a dozen yards of
it?’
“‘Yes, but with my back towards it.’
“This concluded the examination of the witness.”
“I see,” said I as I glanced down the column, “that the coroner in his
concluding remarks was rather severe upon young McCarthy. He calls
attention, and with reason, to the discrepancy about his father having
signalled to him before seeing him, also to his refusal to give details
of his conversation with his father, and his singular account of his
father’s dying words. They are all, as he remarks, very much against
the son.”
Holmes laughed softly to himself and stretched himself out upon the
cushioned seat. “Both you and the coroner have been at some pains,”
said he, “to single out the very strongest points in the young man’s
favour. Don’t you see that you alternately give him credit for having
too much imagination and too little? Too little, if he could not invent
a cause of quarrel which would give him the sympathy of the jury; too
much, if he evolved from his own inner consciousness anything so
_outré_ as a dying reference to a rat, and the incident of the
vanishing cloth. No, sir, I shall approach this case from the point of
view that what this young man says is true, and we shall see whither
that hypothesis will lead us. And now here is my pocket Petrarch, and
not another word shall I say of this case until we are on the scene of
action. We lunch at Swindon, and I see that we shall be there in twenty
minutes.”
It was nearly four o’clock when we at last, after passing through the
beautiful Stroud Valley, and over the broad gleaming Severn, found
ourselves at the pretty little country-town of Ross. A lean,
ferret-like man, furtive and sly-looking, was waiting for us upon the
platform. In spite of the light brown dustcoat and leather-leggings
which he wore in deference to his rustic surroundings, I had no
difficulty in recognising Lestrade, of Scotland Yard. With him we drove
to the Hereford Arms where a room had already been engaged for us.
“I have ordered a carriage,” said Lestrade as we sat over a cup of tea.
“I knew your energetic nature, and that you would not be happy until
you had been on the scene of the crime.”
“It was very nice and complimentary of you,” Holmes answered. “It is
entirely a question of barometric pressure.”
Lestrade looked startled. “I do not quite follow,” he said.
“How is the glass? Twenty-nine, I see. No wind, and not a cloud in the
sky. I have a caseful of cigarettes here which need smoking, and the
sofa is very much superior to the usual country hotel abomination. I do
not think that it is probable that I shall use the carriage to-night.”
Lestrade laughed indulgently. “You have, no doubt, already formed your
conclusions from the newspapers,” he said. “The case is as plain as a
pikestaff, and the more one goes into it the plainer it becomes. Still,
of course, one can’t refuse a lady, and such a very positive one, too.
She has heard of you, and would have your opinion, though I repeatedly
told her that there was nothing which you could do which I had not
already done. Why, bless my soul! here is her carriage at the door.”
He had hardly spoken before there rushed into the room one of the most
lovely young women that I have ever seen in my life. Her violet eyes
shining, her lips parted, a pink flush upon her cheeks, all thought of
her natural reserve lost in her overpowering excitement and concern.
“Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!” she cried, glancing from one to the other of
us, and finally, with a woman’s quick intuition, fastening upon my
companion, “I am so glad that you have come. I have driven down to tell
you so. I know that James didn’t do it. I know it, and I want you to
start upon your work knowing it, too. Never let yourself doubt upon
that point. We have known each other since we were little children, and
I know his faults as no one else does; but he is too tender-hearted to
hurt a fly. Such a charge is absurd to anyone who really knows him.”
“I hope we may clear him, Miss Turner,” said Sherlock Holmes. “You may
rely upon my doing all that I can.”
“But you have read the evidence. You have formed some conclusion? Do
you not see some loophole, some flaw? Do you not yourself think that he
is innocent?”
“I think that it is very probable.”
“There, now!” she cried, throwing back her head and looking defiantly
at Lestrade. “You hear! He gives me hopes.”
Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. “I am afraid that my colleague has
been a little quick in forming his conclusions,” he said.
“But he is right. Oh! I know that he is right. James never did it. And
about his quarrel with his father, I am sure that the reason why he
would not speak about it to the coroner was because I was concerned in
it.”
“In what way?” asked Holmes.
“It is no time for me to hide anything. James and his father had many
disagreements about me. Mr. McCarthy was very anxious that there should
be a marriage between us. James and I have always loved each other as
brother and sister; but of course he is young and has seen very little
of life yet, and—and—well, he naturally did not wish to do anything
like that yet. So there were quarrels, and this, I am sure, was one of
them.”
“And your father?” asked Holmes. “Was he in favour of such a union?”
“No, he was averse to it also. No one but Mr. McCarthy was in favour of
it.” A quick blush passed over her fresh young face as Holmes shot one
of his keen, questioning glances at her.
“Thank you for this information,” said he. “May I see your father if I
call to-morrow?”
“I am afraid the doctor won’t allow it.”
“The doctor?”
“Yes, have you not heard? Poor father has never been strong for years
back, but this has broken him down completely. He has taken to his bed,
and Dr. Willows says that he is a wreck and that his nervous system is
shattered. Mr. McCarthy was the only man alive who had known dad in the
old days in Victoria.”
“Ha! In Victoria! That is important.”
“Yes, at the mines.”
“Quite so; at the gold-mines, where, as I understand, Mr. Turner made
his money.”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Thank you, Miss Turner. You have been of material assistance to me.”
“You will tell me if you have any news to-morrow. No doubt you will go
to the prison to see James. Oh, if you do, Mr. Holmes, do tell him that
I know him to be innocent.”
“I will, Miss Turner.”
“I must go home now, for dad is very ill, and he misses me so if I
leave him. Good-bye, and God help you in your undertaking.” She hurried
from the room as impulsively as she had entered, and we heard the
wheels of her carriage rattle off down the street.
“I am ashamed of you, Holmes,” said Lestrade with dignity after a few
minutes’ silence. “Why should you raise up hopes which you are bound to
disappoint? I am not over-tender of heart, but I call it cruel.”
“I think that I see my way to clearing James McCarthy,” said Holmes.
“Have you an order to see him in prison?”
“Yes, but only for you and me.”
“Then I shall reconsider my resolution about going out. We have still
time to take a train to Hereford and see him to-night?”
“Ample.”
“Then let us do so. Watson, I fear that you will find it very slow, but
I shall only be away a couple of hours.”
I walked down to the station with them, and then wandered through the
streets of the little town, finally returning to the hotel, where I lay
upon the sofa and tried to interest myself in a yellow-backed novel.
The puny plot of the story was so thin, however, when compared to the
deep mystery through which we were groping, and I found my attention
wander so continually from the action to the fact, that I at last flung
it across the room and gave myself up entirely to a consideration of
the events of the day. Supposing that this unhappy young man’s story
were absolutely true, then what hellish thing, what absolutely
unforeseen and extraordinary calamity could have occurred between the
time when he parted from his father, and the moment when, drawn back by
his screams, he rushed into the glade? It was something terrible and
deadly. What could it be? Might not the nature of the injuries reveal
something to my medical instincts? I rang the bell and called for the
weekly county paper, which contained a verbatim account of the inquest.
In the surgeon’s deposition it was stated that the posterior third of
the left parietal bone and the left half of the occipital bone had been
shattered by a heavy blow from a blunt weapon. I marked the spot upon
my own head. Clearly such a blow must have been struck from behind.
That was to some extent in favour of the accused, as when seen
quarrelling he was face to face with his father. Still, it did not go
for very much, for the older man might have turned his back before the
blow fell. Still, it might be worth while to call Holmes’ attention to
it. Then there was the peculiar dying reference to a rat. What could
that mean? It could not be delirium. A man dying from a sudden blow
does not commonly become delirious. No, it was more likely to be an
attempt to explain how he met his fate. But what could it indicate? I
cudgelled my brains to find some possible explanation. And then the
incident of the grey cloth seen by young McCarthy. If that were true
the murderer must have dropped some part of his dress, presumably his
overcoat, in his flight, and must have had the hardihood to return and
to carry it away at the instant when the son was kneeling with his back
turned not a dozen paces off. What a tissue of mysteries and
improbabilities the whole thing was! I did not wonder at Lestrade’s
opinion, and yet I had so much faith in Sherlock Holmes’ insight that I
could not lose hope as long as every fresh fact seemed to strengthen
his conviction of young McCarthy’s innocence.
It was late before Sherlock Holmes returned. He came back alone, for
Lestrade was staying in lodgings in the town.
“The glass still keeps very high,” he remarked as he sat down. “It is
of importance that it should not rain before we are able to go over the
ground. On the other hand, a man should be at his very best and keenest
for such nice work as that, and I did not wish to do it when fagged by
a long journey. I have seen young McCarthy.”
“And what did you learn from him?”
“Nothing.”
“Could he throw no light?”
“None at all. I was inclined to think at one time that he knew who had
done it and was screening him or her, but I am convinced now that he is
as puzzled as everyone else. He is not a very quick-witted youth,
though comely to look at and, I should think, sound at heart.”
“I cannot admire his taste,” I remarked, “if it is indeed a fact that
he was averse to a marriage with so charming a young lady as this Miss
Turner.”
“Ah, thereby hangs a rather painful tale. This fellow is madly,
insanely, in love with her, but some two years ago, when he was only a
lad, and before he really knew her, for she had been away five years at
a boarding-school, what does the idiot do but get into the clutches of
a barmaid in Bristol and marry her at a registry office? No one knows a
word of the matter, but you can imagine how maddening it must be to him
to be upbraided for not doing what he would give his very eyes to do,
but what he knows to be absolutely impossible. It was sheer frenzy of
this sort which made him throw his hands up into the air when his
father, at their last interview, was goading him on to propose to Miss
Turner. On the other hand, he had no means of supporting himself, and
his father, who was by all accounts a very hard man, would have thrown
him over utterly had he known the truth. It was with his barmaid wife
that he had spent the last three days in Bristol, and his father did
not know where he was. Mark that point. It is of importance. Good has
come out of evil, however, for the barmaid, finding from the papers
that he is in serious trouble and likely to be hanged, has thrown him
over utterly and has written to him to say that she has a husband
already in the Bermuda Dockyard, so that there is really no tie between
them. I think that that bit of news has consoled young McCarthy for all
that he has suffered.”
“But if he is innocent, who has done it?”
“Ah! who? I would call your attention very particularly to two points.
One is that the murdered man had an appointment with someone at the
pool, and that the someone could not have been his son, for his son was
away, and he did not know when he would return. The second is that the
murdered man was heard to cry ‘Cooee!’ before he knew that his son had
returned. Those are the crucial points upon which the case depends. And
now let us talk about George Meredith, if you please, and we shall
leave all minor matters until to-morrow.”
There was no rain, as Holmes had foretold, and the morning broke bright
and cloudless. At nine o’clock Lestrade called for us with the
carriage, and we set off for Hatherley Farm and the Boscombe Pool.
“There is serious news this morning,” Lestrade observed. “It is said
that Mr. Turner, of the Hall, is so ill that his life is despaired of.”
“An elderly man, I presume?” said Holmes.
“About sixty; but his constitution has been shattered by his life
abroad, and he has been in failing health for some time. This business
has had a very bad effect upon him. He was an old friend of McCarthy’s,
and, I may add, a great benefactor to him, for I have learned that he
gave him Hatherley Farm rent free.”
“Indeed! That is interesting,” said Holmes.
“Oh, yes! In a hundred other ways he has helped him. Everybody about
here speaks of his kindness to him.”
“Really! Does it not strike you as a little singular that this
McCarthy, who appears to have had little of his own, and to have been
under such obligations to Turner, should still talk of marrying his son
to Turner’s daughter, who is, presumably, heiress to the estate, and
that in such a very cocksure manner, as if it were merely a case of a
proposal and all else would follow? It is the more strange, since we
know that Turner himself was averse to the idea. The daughter told us
as much. Do you not deduce something from that?”
“We have got to the deductions and the inferences,” said Lestrade,
winking at me. “I find it hard enough to tackle facts, Holmes, without
flying away after theories and fancies.”
“You are right,” said Holmes demurely; “you do find it very hard to
tackle the facts.”
“Anyhow, I have grasped one fact which you seem to find it difficult to
get hold of,” replied Lestrade with some warmth.
“And that is—”
“That McCarthy senior met his death from McCarthy junior and that all
theories to the contrary are the merest moonshine.”
“Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog,” said Holmes, laughing.
“But I am very much mistaken if this is not Hatherley Farm upon the
left.”
“Yes, that is it.” It was a widespread, comfortable-looking building,
two-storied, slate-roofed, with great yellow blotches of lichen upon
the grey walls. The drawn blinds and the smokeless chimneys, however,
gave it a stricken look, as though the weight of this horror still lay
heavy upon it. We called at the door, when the maid, at Holmes’
request, showed us the boots which her master wore at the time of his
death, and also a pair of the son’s, though not the pair which he had
then had. Having measured these very carefully from seven or eight
different points, Holmes desired to be led to the court-yard, from
which we all followed the winding track which led to Boscombe Pool.
Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot upon such a scent as
this. Men who had only known the quiet thinker and logician of Baker
Street would have failed to recognise him. His face flushed and
darkened. His brows were drawn into two hard black lines, while his
eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter. His face was
bent downward, his shoulders bowed, his lips compressed, and the veins
stood out like whipcord in his long, sinewy neck. His nostrils seemed
to dilate with a purely animal lust for the chase, and his mind was so
absolutely concentrated upon the matter before him that a question or
remark fell unheeded upon his ears, or, at the most, only provoked a
quick, impatient snarl in reply. Swiftly and silently he made his way
along the track which ran through the meadows, and so by way of the
woods to the Boscombe Pool. It was damp, marshy ground, as is all that
district, and there were marks of many feet, both upon the path and
amid the short grass which bounded it on either side. Sometimes Holmes
would hurry on, sometimes stop dead, and once he made quite a little
detour into the meadow. Lestrade and I walked behind him, the detective
indifferent and contemptuous, while I watched my friend with the
interest which sprang from the conviction that every one of his actions
was directed towards a definite end.
The Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed-girt sheet of water some
fifty yards across, is situated at the boundary between the Hatherley
Farm and the private park of the wealthy Mr. Turner. Above the woods
which lined it upon the farther side we could see the red, jutting
pinnacles which marked the site of the rich landowner’s dwelling. On
the Hatherley side of the pool the woods grew very thick, and there was
a narrow belt of sodden grass twenty paces across between the edge of
the trees and the reeds which lined the lake. Lestrade showed us the
exact spot at which the body had been found, and, indeed, so moist was
the ground, that I could plainly see the traces which had been left by
the fall of the stricken man. To Holmes, as I could see by his eager
face and peering eyes, very many other things were to be read upon the
trampled grass. He ran round, like a dog who is picking up a scent, and
then turned upon my companion.
“What did you go into the pool for?” he asked.
“I fished about with a rake. I thought there might be some weapon or
other trace. But how on earth—”
“Oh, tut, tut! I have no time! That left foot of yours with its inward
twist is all over the place. A mole could trace it, and there it
vanishes among the reeds. Oh, how simple it would all have been had I
been here before they came like a herd of buffalo and wallowed all over
it. Here is where the party with the lodge-keeper came, and they have
covered all tracks for six or eight feet round the body. But here are
three separate tracks of the same feet.” He drew out a lens and lay
down upon his waterproof to have a better view, talking all the time
rather to himself than to us. “These are young McCarthy’s feet. Twice
he was walking, and once he ran swiftly, so that the soles are deeply
marked and the heels hardly visible. That bears out his story. He ran
when he saw his father on the ground. Then here are the father’s feet
as he paced up and down. What is this, then? It is the butt-end of the
gun as the son stood listening. And this? Ha, ha! What have we here?
Tiptoes! tiptoes! Square, too, quite unusual boots! They come, they go,
they come again—of course that was for the cloak. Now where did they
come from?” He ran up and down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the
track until we were well within the edge of the wood and under the
shadow of a great beech, the largest tree in the neighbourhood. Holmes
traced his way to the farther side of this and lay down once more upon
his face with a little cry of satisfaction. For a long time he remained
there, turning over the leaves and dried sticks, gathering up what
seemed to me to be dust into an envelope and examining with his lens
not only the ground but even the bark of the tree as far as he could
reach. A jagged stone was lying among the moss, and this also he
carefully examined and retained. Then he followed a pathway through the
wood until he came to the high road, where all traces were lost.
“It has been a case of considerable interest,” he remarked, returning
to his natural manner. “I fancy that this grey house on the right must
be the lodge. I think that I will go in and have a word with Moran, and
perhaps write a little note. Having done that, we may drive back to our
luncheon. You may walk to the cab, and I shall be with you presently.”
It was about ten minutes before we regained our cab and drove back into
Ross, Holmes still carrying with him the stone which he had picked up
in the wood.
“This may interest you, Lestrade,” he remarked, holding it out. “The
murder was done with it.”
“I see no marks.”
“There are none.”
“How do you know, then?”
“The grass was growing under it. It had only lain there a few days.
There was no sign of a place whence it had been taken. It corresponds
with the injuries. There is no sign of any other weapon.”
“And the murderer?”
“Is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right leg, wears
thick-soled shooting-boots and a grey cloak, smokes Indian cigars, uses
a cigar-holder, and carries a blunt pen-knife in his pocket. There are
several other indications, but these may be enough to aid us in our
search.”
Lestrade laughed. “I am afraid that I am still a sceptic,” he said.
“Theories are all very well, but we have to deal with a hard-headed
British jury.”
“_Nous verrons_,” answered Holmes calmly. “You work your own method,
and I shall work mine. I shall be busy this afternoon, and shall
probably return to London by the evening train.”
“And leave your case unfinished?”
“No, finished.”
“But the mystery?”
“It is solved.”
“Who was the criminal, then?”
“The gentleman I describe.”
“But who is he?”
“Surely it would not be difficult to find out. This is not such a
populous neighbourhood.”
Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. “I am a practical man,” he said, “and
I really cannot undertake to go about the country looking for a
left-handed gentleman with a game leg. I should become the
laughing-stock of Scotland Yard.”
“All right,” said Holmes quietly. “I have given you the chance. Here
are your lodgings. Good-bye. I shall drop you a line before I leave.”
Having left Lestrade at his rooms, we drove to our hotel, where we
found lunch upon the table. Holmes was silent and buried in thought
with a pained expression upon his face, as one who finds himself in a
perplexing position.
“Look here, Watson,” he said when the cloth was cleared “just sit down
in this chair and let me preach to you for a little. I don’t know quite
what to do, and I should value your advice. Light a cigar and let me
expound.”
“Pray do so.”
“Well, now, in considering this case there are two points about young
McCarthy’s narrative which struck us both instantly, although they
impressed me in his favour and you against him. One was the fact that
his father should, according to his account, cry ‘Cooee!’ before seeing
him. The other was his singular dying reference to a rat. He mumbled
several words, you understand, but that was all that caught the son’s
ear. Now from this double point our research must commence, and we will
begin it by presuming that what the lad says is absolutely true.”
“What of this ‘Cooee!’ then?”
“Well, obviously it could not have been meant for the son. The son, as
far as he knew, was in Bristol. It was mere chance that he was within
earshot. The ‘Cooee!’ was meant to attract the attention of whoever it
was that he had the appointment with. But ‘Cooee’ is a distinctly
Australian cry, and one which is used between Australians. There is a
strong presumption that the person whom McCarthy expected to meet him
at Boscombe Pool was someone who had been in Australia.”
“What of the rat, then?”
Sherlock Holmes took a folded paper from his pocket and flattened it
out on the table. “This is a map of the Colony of Victoria,” he said.
“I wired to Bristol for it last night.” He put his hand over part of
the map. “What do you read?”
“ARAT,” I read.
“And now?” He raised his hand.
“BALLARAT.”
“Quite so. That was the word the man uttered, and of which his son only
caught the last two syllables. He was trying to utter the name of his
murderer. So and so, of Ballarat.”
“It is wonderful!” I exclaimed.
“It is obvious. And now, you see, I had narrowed the field down
considerably. The possession of a grey garment was a third point which,
granting the son’s statement to be correct, was a certainty. We have
come now out of mere vagueness to the definite conception of an
Australian from Ballarat with a grey cloak.”
“Certainly.”
“And one who was at home in the district, for the pool can only be
approached by the farm or by the estate, where strangers could hardly
wander.”
“Quite so.”
“Then comes our expedition of to-day. By an examination of the ground I
gained the trifling details which I gave to that imbecile Lestrade, as
to the personality of the criminal.”
“But how did you gain them?”
“You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of trifles.”
“His height I know that you might roughly judge from the length of his
stride. His boots, too, might be told from their traces.”
“Yes, they were peculiar boots.”
“But his lameness?”
“The impression of his right foot was always less distinct than his
left. He put less weight upon it. Why? Because he limped—he was lame.”
“But his left-handedness.”
“You were yourself struck by the nature of the injury as recorded by
the surgeon at the inquest. The blow was struck from immediately
behind, and yet was upon the left side. Now, how can that be unless it
were by a left-handed man? He had stood behind that tree during the
interview between the father and son. He had even smoked there. I found
the ash of a cigar, which my special knowledge of tobacco ashes enables
me to pronounce as an Indian cigar. I have, as you know, devoted some
attention to this, and written a little monograph on the ashes of 140
different varieties of pipe, cigar, and cigarette tobacco. Having found
the ash, I then looked round and discovered the stump among the moss
where he had tossed it. It was an Indian cigar, of the variety which
are rolled in Rotterdam.”
“And the cigar-holder?”
“I could see that the end had not been in his mouth. Therefore he used
a holder. The tip had been cut off, not bitten off, but the cut was not
a clean one, so I deduced a blunt pen-knife.”
“Holmes,” I said, “you have drawn a net round this man from which he
cannot escape, and you have saved an innocent human life as truly as if
you had cut the cord which was hanging him. I see the direction in
which all this points. The culprit is—”
“Mr. John Turner,” cried the hotel waiter, opening the door of our
sitting-room, and ushering in a visitor.
The man who entered was a strange and impressive figure. His slow,
limping step and bowed shoulders gave the appearance of decrepitude,
and yet his hard, deep-lined, craggy features, and his enormous limbs
showed that he was possessed of unusual strength of body and of
character. His tangled beard, grizzled hair, and outstanding, drooping
eyebrows combined to give an air of dignity and power to his
appearance, but his face was of an ashen white, while his lips and the
corners of his nostrils were tinged with a shade of blue. It was clear
to me at a glance that he was in the grip of some deadly and chronic
disease.
“Pray sit down on the sofa,” said Holmes gently. “You had my note?”
“Yes, the lodge-keeper brought it up. You said that you wished to see
me here to avoid scandal.”
“I thought people would talk if I went to the Hall.”
“And why did you wish to see me?” He looked across at my companion with
despair in his weary eyes, as though his question was already answered.
“Yes,” said Holmes, answering the look rather than the words. “It is
so. I know all about McCarthy.”
The old man sank his face in his hands. “God help me!” he cried. “But I
would not have let the young man come to harm. I give you my word that
I would have spoken out if it went against him at the Assizes.”
“I am glad to hear you say so,” said Holmes gravely.
“I would have spoken now had it not been for my dear girl. It would
break her heart—it will break her heart when she hears that I am
arrested.”
“It may not come to that,” said Holmes.
“What?”
“I am no official agent. I understand that it was your daughter who
required my presence here, and I am acting in her interests. Young
McCarthy must be got off, however.”
“I am a dying man,” said old Turner. “I have had diabetes for years. My
doctor says it is a question whether I shall live a month. Yet I would
rather die under my own roof than in a gaol.”
Holmes rose and sat down at the table with his pen in his hand and a
bundle of paper before him. “Just tell us the truth,” he said. “I shall
jot down the facts. You will sign it, and Watson here can witness it.
Then I could produce your confession at the last extremity to save
young McCarthy. I promise you that I shall not use it unless it is
absolutely needed.”
“It’s as well,” said the old man; “it’s a question whether I shall live
to the Assizes, so it matters little to me, but I should wish to spare
Alice the shock. And now I will make the thing clear to you; it has
been a long time in the acting, but will not take me long to tell.
“You didn’t know this dead man, McCarthy. He was a devil incarnate. I
tell you that. God keep you out of the clutches of such a man as he.
His grip has been upon me these twenty years, and he has blasted my
life. I’ll tell you first how I came to be in his power.
“It was in the early ’60’s at the diggings. I was a young chap then,
hot-blooded and reckless, ready to turn my hand at anything; I got
among bad companions, took to drink, had no luck with my claim, took to
the bush, and in a word became what you would call over here a highway
robber. There were six of us, and we had a wild, free life of it,
sticking up a station from time to time, or stopping the wagons on the
road to the diggings. Black Jack of Ballarat was the name I went under,
and our party is still remembered in the colony as the Ballarat Gang.
“One day a gold convoy came down from Ballarat to Melbourne, and we lay
in wait for it and attacked it. There were six troopers and six of us,
so it was a close thing, but we emptied four of their saddles at the
first volley. Three of our boys were killed, however, before we got the
swag. I put my pistol to the head of the wagon-driver, who was this
very man McCarthy. I wish to the Lord that I had shot him then, but I
spared him, though I saw his wicked little eyes fixed on my face, as
though to remember every feature. We got away with the gold, became
wealthy men, and made our way over to England without being suspected.
There I parted from my old pals and determined to settle down to a
quiet and respectable life. I bought this estate, which chanced to be
in the market, and I set myself to do a little good with my money, to
make up for the way in which I had earned it. I married, too, and
though my wife died young she left me my dear little Alice. Even when
she was just a baby her wee hand seemed to lead me down the right path
as nothing else had ever done. In a word, I turned over a new leaf and
did my best to make up for the past. All was going well when McCarthy
laid his grip upon me.
“I had gone up to town about an investment, and I met him in Regent
Street with hardly a coat to his back or a boot to his foot.
“‘Here we are, Jack,’ says he, touching me on the arm; ‘we’ll be as
good as a family to you. There’s two of us, me and my son, and you can
have the keeping of us. If you don’t—it’s a fine, law-abiding country
is England, and there’s always a policeman within hail.’
“Well, down they came to the west country, there was no shaking them
off, and there they have lived rent free on my best land ever since.
There was no rest for me, no peace, no forgetfulness; turn where I
would, there was his cunning, grinning face at my elbow. It grew worse
as Alice grew up, for he soon saw I was more afraid of her knowing my
past than of the police. Whatever he wanted he must have, and whatever
it was I gave him without question, land, money, houses, until at last
he asked a thing which I could not give. He asked for Alice.
“His son, you see, had grown up, and so had my girl, and as I was known
to be in weak health, it seemed a fine stroke to him that his lad
should step into the whole property. But there I was firm. I would not
have his cursed stock mixed with mine; not that I had any dislike to
the lad, but his blood was in him, and that was enough. I stood firm.
McCarthy threatened. I braved him to do his worst. We were to meet at
the pool midway between our houses to talk it over.
“When I went down there I found him talking with his son, so I smoked a
cigar and waited behind a tree until he should be alone. But as I
listened to his talk all that was black and bitter in me seemed to come
uppermost. He was urging his son to marry my daughter with as little
regard for what she might think as if she were a slut from off the
streets. It drove me mad to think that I and all that I held most dear
should be in the power of such a man as this. Could I not snap the
bond? I was already a dying and a desperate man. Though clear of mind
and fairly strong of limb, I knew that my own fate was sealed. But my
memory and my girl! Both could be saved if I could but silence that
foul tongue. I did it, Mr. Holmes. I would do it again. Deeply as I
have sinned, I have led a life of martyrdom to atone for it. But that
my girl should be entangled in the same meshes which held me was more
than I could suffer. I struck him down with no more compunction than if
he had been some foul and venomous beast. His cry brought back his son;
but I had gained the cover of the wood, though I was forced to go back
to fetch the cloak which I had dropped in my flight. That is the true
story, gentlemen, of all that occurred.”
“Well, it is not for me to judge you,” said Holmes as the old man
signed the statement which had been drawn out. “I pray that we may
never be exposed to such a temptation.”
“I pray not, sir. And what do you intend to do?”
“In view of your health, nothing. You are yourself aware that you will
soon have to answer for your deed at a higher court than the Assizes. I
will keep your confession, and if McCarthy is condemned I shall be
forced to use it. If not, it shall never be seen by mortal eye; and
your secret, whether you be alive or dead, shall be safe with us.”
“Farewell, then,” said the old man solemnly. “Your own deathbeds, when
they come, will be the easier for the thought of the peace which you
have given to mine.” Tottering and shaking in all his giant frame, he
stumbled slowly from the room.
“God help us!” said Holmes after a long silence. “Why does fate play
such tricks with poor, helpless worms? I never hear of such a case as
this that I do not think of Baxter’s words, and say, ‘There, but for
the grace of God, goes Sherlock Holmes.’”
James McCarthy was acquitted at the Assizes on the strength of a number
of objections which had been drawn out by Holmes and submitted to the
defending counsel. Old Turner lived for seven months after our
interview, but he is now dead; and there is every prospect that the son
and daughter may come to live happily together in ignorance of the
black cloud which rests upon their past.
|
iv_the_boscombe_valley_mystery
|
V. THE FIVE ORANGE PIPS
|
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
|
When I glance over my notes and records of the Sherlock Holmes cases
between the years ’82 and ’90, I am faced by so many which present
strange and interesting features that it is no easy matter to know
which to choose and which to leave. Some, however, have already gained
publicity through the papers, and others have not offered a field for
those peculiar qualities which my friend possessed in so high a degree,
and which it is the object of these papers to illustrate. Some, too,
have baffled his analytical skill, and would be, as narratives,
beginnings without an ending, while others have been but partially
cleared up, and have their explanations founded rather upon conjecture
and surmise than on that absolute logical proof which was so dear to
him. There is, however, one of these last which was so remarkable in
its details and so startling in its results that I am tempted to give
some account of it in spite of the fact that there are points in
connection with it which never have been, and probably never will be,
entirely cleared up.
The year ’87 furnished us with a long series of cases of greater or
less interest, of which I retain the records. Among my headings under
this one twelve months I find an account of the adventure of the
Paradol Chamber, of the Amateur Mendicant Society, who held a luxurious
club in the lower vault of a furniture warehouse, of the facts
connected with the loss of the British barque _Sophy Anderson_, of the
singular adventures of the Grice Patersons in the island of Uffa, and
finally of the Camberwell poisoning case. In the latter, as may be
remembered, Sherlock Holmes was able, by winding up the dead man’s
watch, to prove that it had been wound up two hours before, and that
therefore the deceased had gone to bed within that time—a deduction
which was of the greatest importance in clearing up the case. All these
I may sketch out at some future date, but none of them present such
singular features as the strange train of circumstances which I have
now taken up my pen to describe.
It was in the latter days of September, and the equinoctial gales had
set in with exceptional violence. All day the wind had screamed and the
rain had beaten against the windows, so that even here in the heart of
great, hand-made London we were forced to raise our minds for the
instant from the routine of life and to recognise the presence of those
great elemental forces which shriek at mankind through the bars of his
civilisation, like untamed beasts in a cage. As evening drew in, the
storm grew higher and louder, and the wind cried and sobbed like a
child in the chimney. Sherlock Holmes sat moodily at one side of the
fireplace cross-indexing his records of crime, while I at the other was
deep in one of Clark Russell’s fine sea-stories until the howl of the
gale from without seemed to blend with the text, and the splash of the
rain to lengthen out into the long swash of the sea waves. My wife was
on a visit to her mother’s, and for a few days I was a dweller once
more in my old quarters at Baker Street.
“Why,” said I, glancing up at my companion, “that was surely the bell.
Who could come to-night? Some friend of yours, perhaps?”
“Except yourself I have none,” he answered. “I do not encourage
visitors.”
“A client, then?”
“If so, it is a serious case. Nothing less would bring a man out on
such a day and at such an hour. But I take it that it is more likely to
be some crony of the landlady’s.”
Sherlock Holmes was wrong in his conjecture, however, for there came a
step in the passage and a tapping at the door. He stretched out his
long arm to turn the lamp away from himself and towards the vacant
chair upon which a newcomer must sit.
“Come in!” said he.
The man who entered was young, some two-and-twenty at the outside,
well-groomed and trimly clad, with something of refinement and delicacy
in his bearing. The streaming umbrella which he held in his hand, and
his long shining waterproof told of the fierce weather through which he
had come. He looked about him anxiously in the glare of the lamp, and I
could see that his face was pale and his eyes heavy, like those of a
man who is weighed down with some great anxiety.
“I owe you an apology,” he said, raising his golden pince-nez to his
eyes. “I trust that I am not intruding. I fear that I have brought some
traces of the storm and rain into your snug chamber.”
“Give me your coat and umbrella,” said Holmes. “They may rest here on
the hook and will be dry presently. You have come up from the
south-west, I see.”
“Yes, from Horsham.”
“That clay and chalk mixture which I see upon your toe caps is quite
distinctive.”
“I have come for advice.”
“That is easily got.”
“And help.”
“That is not always so easy.”
“I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I heard from Major Prendergast how
you saved him in the Tankerville Club scandal.”
“Ah, of course. He was wrongfully accused of cheating at cards.”
“He said that you could solve anything.”
“He said too much.”
“That you are never beaten.”
“I have been beaten four times—three times by men, and once by a
woman.”
“But what is that compared with the number of your successes?”
“It is true that I have been generally successful.”
“Then you may be so with me.”
“I beg that you will draw your chair up to the fire and favour me with
some details as to your case.”
“It is no ordinary one.”
“None of those which come to me are. I am the last court of appeal.”
“And yet I question, sir, whether, in all your experience, you have
ever listened to a more mysterious and inexplicable chain of events
than those which have happened in my own family.”
“You fill me with interest,” said Holmes. “Pray give us the essential
facts from the commencement, and I can afterwards question you as to
those details which seem to me to be most important.”
The young man pulled his chair up and pushed his wet feet out towards
the blaze.
“My name,” said he, “is John Openshaw, but my own affairs have, as far
as I can understand, little to do with this awful business. It is a
hereditary matter; so in order to give you an idea of the facts, I must
go back to the commencement of the affair.
“You must know that my grandfather had two sons—my uncle Elias and my
father Joseph. My father had a small factory at Coventry, which he
enlarged at the time of the invention of bicycling. He was a patentee
of the Openshaw unbreakable tire, and his business met with such
success that he was able to sell it and to retire upon a handsome
competence.
“My uncle Elias emigrated to America when he was a young man and became
a planter in Florida, where he was reported to have done very well. At
the time of the war he fought in Jackson’s army, and afterwards under
Hood, where he rose to be a colonel. When Lee laid down his arms my
uncle returned to his plantation, where he remained for three or four
years. About 1869 or 1870 he came back to Europe and took a small
estate in Sussex, near Horsham. He had made a very considerable fortune
in the States, and his reason for leaving them was his aversion to the
negroes, and his dislike of the Republican policy in extending the
franchise to them. He was a singular man, fierce and quick-tempered,
very foul-mouthed when he was angry, and of a most retiring
disposition. During all the years that he lived at Horsham, I doubt if
ever he set foot in the town. He had a garden and two or three fields
round his house, and there he would take his exercise, though very
often for weeks on end he would never leave his room. He drank a great
deal of brandy and smoked very heavily, but he would see no society and
did not want any friends, not even his own brother.
“He didn’t mind me; in fact, he took a fancy to me, for at the time
when he saw me first I was a youngster of twelve or so. This would be
in the year 1878, after he had been eight or nine years in England. He
begged my father to let me live with him and he was very kind to me in
his way. When he was sober he used to be fond of playing backgammon and
draughts with me, and he would make me his representative both with the
servants and with the tradespeople, so that by the time that I was
sixteen I was quite master of the house. I kept all the keys and could
go where I liked and do what I liked, so long as I did not disturb him
in his privacy. There was one singular exception, however, for he had a
single room, a lumber-room up among the attics, which was invariably
locked, and which he would never permit either me or anyone else to
enter. With a boy’s curiosity I have peeped through the keyhole, but I
was never able to see more than such a collection of old trunks and
bundles as would be expected in such a room.
“One day—it was in March, 1883—a letter with a foreign stamp lay upon
the table in front of the colonel’s plate. It was not a common thing
for him to receive letters, for his bills were all paid in ready money,
and he had no friends of any sort. ‘From India!’ said he as he took it
up, ‘Pondicherry postmark! What can this be?’ Opening it hurriedly, out
there jumped five little dried orange pips, which pattered down upon
his plate. I began to laugh at this, but the laugh was struck from my
lips at the sight of his face. His lip had fallen, his eyes were
protruding, his skin the colour of putty, and he glared at the envelope
which he still held in his trembling hand, ‘K. K. K.!’ he shrieked, and
then, ‘My God, my God, my sins have overtaken me!’
“‘What is it, uncle?’ I cried.
“‘Death,’ said he, and rising from the table he retired to his room,
leaving me palpitating with horror. I took up the envelope and saw
scrawled in red ink upon the inner flap, just above the gum, the letter
K three times repeated. There was nothing else save the five dried
pips. What could be the reason of his overpowering terror? I left the
breakfast-table, and as I ascended the stair I met him coming down with
an old rusty key, which must have belonged to the attic, in one hand,
and a small brass box, like a cashbox, in the other.
“‘They may do what they like, but I’ll checkmate them still,’ said he
with an oath. ‘Tell Mary that I shall want a fire in my room to-day,
and send down to Fordham, the Horsham lawyer.’
“I did as he ordered, and when the lawyer arrived I was asked to step
up to the room. The fire was burning brightly, and in the grate there
was a mass of black, fluffy ashes, as of burned paper, while the brass
box stood open and empty beside it. As I glanced at the box I noticed,
with a start, that upon the lid was printed the treble K which I had
read in the morning upon the envelope.
“‘I wish you, John,’ said my uncle, ‘to witness my will. I leave my
estate, with all its advantages and all its disadvantages, to my
brother, your father, whence it will, no doubt, descend to you. If you
can enjoy it in peace, well and good! If you find you cannot, take my
advice, my boy, and leave it to your deadliest enemy. I am sorry to
give you such a two-edged thing, but I can’t say what turn things are
going to take. Kindly sign the paper where Mr. Fordham shows you.’
“I signed the paper as directed, and the lawyer took it away with him.
The singular incident made, as you may think, the deepest impression
upon me, and I pondered over it and turned it every way in my mind
without being able to make anything of it. Yet I could not shake off
the vague feeling of dread which it left behind, though the sensation
grew less keen as the weeks passed and nothing happened to disturb the
usual routine of our lives. I could see a change in my uncle, however.
He drank more than ever, and he was less inclined for any sort of
society. Most of his time he would spend in his room, with the door
locked upon the inside, but sometimes he would emerge in a sort of
drunken frenzy and would burst out of the house and tear about the
garden with a revolver in his hand, screaming out that he was afraid of
no man, and that he was not to be cooped up, like a sheep in a pen, by
man or devil. When these hot fits were over, however, he would rush
tumultuously in at the door and lock and bar it behind him, like a man
who can brazen it out no longer against the terror which lies at the
roots of his soul. At such times I have seen his face, even on a cold
day, glisten with moisture, as though it were new raised from a basin.
“Well, to come to an end of the matter, Mr. Holmes, and not to abuse
your patience, there came a night when he made one of those drunken
sallies from which he never came back. We found him, when we went to
search for him, face downward in a little green-scummed pool, which lay
at the foot of the garden. There was no sign of any violence, and the
water was but two feet deep, so that the jury, having regard to his
known eccentricity, brought in a verdict of ‘suicide.’ But I, who knew
how he winced from the very thought of death, had much ado to persuade
myself that he had gone out of his way to meet it. The matter passed,
however, and my father entered into possession of the estate, and of
some £ 14,000, which lay to his credit at the bank.”
“One moment,” Holmes interposed, “your statement is, I foresee, one of
the most remarkable to which I have ever listened. Let me have the date
of the reception by your uncle of the letter, and the date of his
supposed suicide.”
“The letter arrived on March 10, 1883. His death was seven weeks later,
upon the night of May 2nd.”
“Thank you. Pray proceed.”
“When my father took over the Horsham property, he, at my request, made
a careful examination of the attic, which had been always locked up. We
found the brass box there, although its contents had been destroyed. On
the inside of the cover was a paper label, with the initials of K. K.
K. repeated upon it, and ‘Letters, memoranda, receipts, and a register’
written beneath. These, we presume, indicated the nature of the papers
which had been destroyed by Colonel Openshaw. For the rest, there was
nothing of much importance in the attic save a great many scattered
papers and note-books bearing upon my uncle’s life in America. Some of
them were of the war time and showed that he had done his duty well and
had borne the repute of a brave soldier. Others were of a date during
the reconstruction of the Southern states, and were mostly concerned
with politics, for he had evidently taken a strong part in opposing the
carpet-bag politicians who had been sent down from the North.
“Well, it was the beginning of ’84 when my father came to live at
Horsham, and all went as well as possible with us until the January of
’85. On the fourth day after the new year I heard my father give a
sharp cry of surprise as we sat together at the breakfast-table. There
he was, sitting with a newly opened envelope in one hand and five dried
orange pips in the outstretched palm of the other one. He had always
laughed at what he called my cock-and-bull story about the colonel, but
he looked very scared and puzzled now that the same thing had come upon
himself.
“‘Why, what on earth does this mean, John?’ he stammered.
“My heart had turned to lead. ‘It is K. K. K.,’ said I.
“He looked inside the envelope. ‘So it is,’ he cried. ‘Here are the
very letters. But what is this written above them?’
“‘Put the papers on the sundial,’ I read, peeping over his shoulder.
“‘What papers? What sundial?’ he asked.
“‘The sundial in the garden. There is no other,’ said I; ‘but the
papers must be those that are destroyed.’
“‘Pooh!’ said he, gripping hard at his courage. ‘We are in a civilised
land here, and we can’t have tomfoolery of this kind. Where does the
thing come from?’
“‘From Dundee,’ I answered, glancing at the postmark.
“‘Some preposterous practical joke,’ said he. ‘What have I to do with
sundials and papers? I shall take no notice of such nonsense.’
“‘I should certainly speak to the police,’ I said.
“‘And be laughed at for my pains. Nothing of the sort.’
“‘Then let me do so?’
“‘No, I forbid you. I won’t have a fuss made about such nonsense.’
“It was in vain to argue with him, for he was a very obstinate man. I
went about, however, with a heart which was full of forebodings.
“On the third day after the coming of the letter my father went from
home to visit an old friend of his, Major Freebody, who is in command
of one of the forts upon Portsdown Hill. I was glad that he should go,
for it seemed to me that he was farther from danger when he was away
from home. In that, however, I was in error. Upon the second day of his
absence I received a telegram from the major, imploring me to come at
once. My father had fallen over one of the deep chalk-pits which abound
in the neighbourhood, and was lying senseless, with a shattered skull.
I hurried to him, but he passed away without having ever recovered his
consciousness. He had, as it appears, been returning from Fareham in
the twilight, and as the country was unknown to him, and the chalk-pit
unfenced, the jury had no hesitation in bringing in a verdict of ‘death
from accidental causes.’ Carefully as I examined every fact connected
with his death, I was unable to find anything which could suggest the
idea of murder. There were no signs of violence, no footmarks, no
robbery, no record of strangers having been seen upon the roads. And
yet I need not tell you that my mind was far from at ease, and that I
was well-nigh certain that some foul plot had been woven round him.
“In this sinister way I came into my inheritance. You will ask me why I
did not dispose of it? I answer, because I was well convinced that our
troubles were in some way dependent upon an incident in my uncle’s
life, and that the danger would be as pressing in one house as in
another.
“It was in January, ’85, that my poor father met his end, and two years
and eight months have elapsed since then. During that time I have lived
happily at Horsham, and I had begun to hope that this curse had passed
away from the family, and that it had ended with the last generation. I
had begun to take comfort too soon, however; yesterday morning the blow
fell in the very shape in which it had come upon my father.”
The young man took from his waistcoat a crumpled envelope, and turning
to the table he shook out upon it five little dried orange pips.
“This is the envelope,” he continued. “The postmark is London—eastern
division. Within are the very words which were upon my father’s last
message: ‘K. K. K.’; and then ‘Put the papers on the sundial.’”
“What have you done?” asked Holmes.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“To tell the truth”—he sank his face into his thin, white hands—“I have
felt helpless. I have felt like one of those poor rabbits when the
snake is writhing towards it. I seem to be in the grasp of some
resistless, inexorable evil, which no foresight and no precautions can
guard against.”
“Tut! tut!” cried Sherlock Holmes. “You must act, man, or you are lost.
Nothing but energy can save you. This is no time for despair.”
“I have seen the police.”
“Ah!”
“But they listened to my story with a smile. I am convinced that the
inspector has formed the opinion that the letters are all practical
jokes, and that the deaths of my relations were really accidents, as
the jury stated, and were not to be connected with the warnings.”
Holmes shook his clenched hands in the air. “Incredible imbecility!” he
cried.
“They have, however, allowed me a policeman, who may remain in the
house with me.”
“Has he come with you to-night?”
“No. His orders were to stay in the house.”
Again Holmes raved in the air.
“Why did you come to me?” he said, “and, above all, why did you not
come at once?”
“I did not know. It was only to-day that I spoke to Major Prendergast
about my troubles and was advised by him to come to you.”
“It is really two days since you had the letter. We should have acted
before this. You have no further evidence, I suppose, than that which
you have placed before us—no suggestive detail which might help us?”
“There is one thing,” said John Openshaw. He rummaged in his coat
pocket, and, drawing out a piece of discoloured, blue-tinted paper, he
laid it out upon the table. “I have some remembrance,” said he, “that
on the day when my uncle burned the papers I observed that the small,
unburned margins which lay amid the ashes were of this particular
colour. I found this single sheet upon the floor of his room, and I am
inclined to think that it may be one of the papers which has, perhaps,
fluttered out from among the others, and in that way has escaped
destruction. Beyond the mention of pips, I do not see that it helps us
much. I think myself that it is a page from some private diary. The
writing is undoubtedly my uncle’s.”
Holmes moved the lamp, and we both bent over the sheet of paper, which
showed by its ragged edge that it had indeed been torn from a book. It
was headed, “March, 1869,” and beneath were the following enigmatical
notices:
“4th. Hudson came. Same old platform.
“7th. Set the pips on McCauley, Paramore, and John Swain of St.
Augustine.
“9th. McCauley cleared.
“10th. John Swain cleared.
“12th. Visited Paramore. All well.”
“Thank you!” said Holmes, folding up the paper and returning it to our
visitor. “And now you must on no account lose another instant. We
cannot spare time even to discuss what you have told me. You must get
home instantly and act.”
“What shall I do?”
“There is but one thing to do. It must be done at once. You must put
this piece of paper which you have shown us into the brass box which
you have described. You must also put in a note to say that all the
other papers were burned by your uncle, and that this is the only one
which remains. You must assert that in such words as will carry
conviction with them. Having done this, you must at once put the box
out upon the sundial, as directed. Do you understand?”
“Entirely.”
“Do not think of revenge, or anything of the sort, at present. I think
that we may gain that by means of the law; but we have our web to
weave, while theirs is already woven. The first consideration is to
remove the pressing danger which threatens you. The second is to clear
up the mystery and to punish the guilty parties.”
“I thank you,” said the young man, rising and pulling on his overcoat.
“You have given me fresh life and hope. I shall certainly do as you
advise.”
“Do not lose an instant. And, above all, take care of yourself in the
meanwhile, for I do not think that there can be a doubt that you are
threatened by a very real and imminent danger. How do you go back?”
“By train from Waterloo.”
“It is not yet nine. The streets will be crowded, so I trust that you
may be in safety. And yet you cannot guard yourself too closely.”
“I am armed.”
“That is well. To-morrow I shall set to work upon your case.”
“I shall see you at Horsham, then?”
“No, your secret lies in London. It is there that I shall seek it.”
“Then I shall call upon you in a day, or in two days, with news as to
the box and the papers. I shall take your advice in every particular.”
He shook hands with us and took his leave. Outside the wind still
screamed and the rain splashed and pattered against the windows. This
strange, wild story seemed to have come to us from amid the mad
elements—blown in upon us like a sheet of sea-weed in a gale—and now to
have been reabsorbed by them once more.
Sherlock Holmes sat for some time in silence, with his head sunk
forward and his eyes bent upon the red glow of the fire. Then he lit
his pipe, and leaning back in his chair he watched the blue smoke-rings
as they chased each other up to the ceiling.
“I think, Watson,” he remarked at last, “that of all our cases we have
had none more fantastic than this.”
“Save, perhaps, the Sign of Four.”
“Well, yes. Save, perhaps, that. And yet this John Openshaw seems to me
to be walking amid even greater perils than did the Sholtos.”
“But have you,” I asked, “formed any definite conception as to what
these perils are?”
“There can be no question as to their nature,” he answered.
“Then what are they? Who is this K. K. K., and why does he pursue this
unhappy family?”
Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes and placed his elbows upon the arms of
his chair, with his finger-tips together. “The ideal reasoner,” he
remarked, “would, when he had once been shown a single fact in all its
bearings, deduce from it not only all the chain of events which led up
to it but also all the results which would follow from it. As Cuvier
could correctly describe a whole animal by the contemplation of a
single bone, so the observer who has thoroughly understood one link in
a series of incidents should be able to accurately state all the other
ones, both before and after. We have not yet grasped the results which
the reason alone can attain to. Problems may be solved in the study
which have baffled all those who have sought a solution by the aid of
their senses. To carry the art, however, to its highest pitch, it is
necessary that the reasoner should be able to utilise all the facts
which have come to his knowledge; and this in itself implies, as you
will readily see, a possession of all knowledge, which, even in these
days of free education and encyclopædias, is a somewhat rare
accomplishment. It is not so impossible, however, that a man should
possess all knowledge which is likely to be useful to him in his work,
and this I have endeavoured in my case to do. If I remember rightly,
you on one occasion, in the early days of our friendship, defined my
limits in a very precise fashion.”
“Yes,” I answered, laughing. “It was a singular document. Philosophy,
astronomy, and politics were marked at zero, I remember. Botany
variable, geology profound as regards the mud-stains from any region
within fifty miles of town, chemistry eccentric, anatomy unsystematic,
sensational literature and crime records unique, violin-player, boxer,
swordsman, lawyer, and self-poisoner by cocaine and tobacco. Those, I
think, were the main points of my analysis.”
Holmes grinned at the last item. “Well,” he said, “I say now, as I said
then, that a man should keep his little brain-attic stocked with all
the furniture that he is likely to use, and the rest he can put away in
the lumber-room of his library, where he can get it if he wants it.
Now, for such a case as the one which has been submitted to us
to-night, we need certainly to muster all our resources. Kindly hand me
down the letter K of the _American Encyclopædia_ which stands upon the
shelf beside you. Thank you. Now let us consider the situation and see
what may be deduced from it. In the first place, we may start with a
strong presumption that Colonel Openshaw had some very strong reason
for leaving America. Men at his time of life do not change all their
habits and exchange willingly the charming climate of Florida for the
lonely life of an English provincial town. His extreme love of solitude
in England suggests the idea that he was in fear of someone or
something, so we may assume as a working hypothesis that it was fear of
someone or something which drove him from America. As to what it was he
feared, we can only deduce that by considering the formidable letters
which were received by himself and his successors. Did you remark the
postmarks of those letters?”
“The first was from Pondicherry, the second from Dundee, and the third
from London.”
“From East London. What do you deduce from that?”
“They are all seaports. That the writer was on board of a ship.”
“Excellent. We have already a clue. There can be no doubt that the
probability—the strong probability—is that the writer was on board of a
ship. And now let us consider another point. In the case of
Pondicherry, seven weeks elapsed between the threat and its fulfilment,
in Dundee it was only some three or four days. Does that suggest
anything?”
“A greater distance to travel.”
“But the letter had also a greater distance to come.”
“Then I do not see the point.”
“There is at least a presumption that the vessel in which the man or
men are is a sailing-ship. It looks as if they always send their
singular warning or token before them when starting upon their mission.
You see how quickly the deed followed the sign when it came from
Dundee. If they had come from Pondicherry in a steamer they would have
arrived almost as soon as their letter. But, as a matter of fact, seven
weeks elapsed. I think that those seven weeks represented the
difference between the mail-boat which brought the letter and the
sailing vessel which brought the writer.”
“It is possible.”
“More than that. It is probable. And now you see the deadly urgency of
this new case, and why I urged young Openshaw to caution. The blow has
always fallen at the end of the time which it would take the senders to
travel the distance. But this one comes from London, and therefore we
cannot count upon delay.”
“Good God!” I cried. “What can it mean, this relentless persecution?”
“The papers which Openshaw carried are obviously of vital importance to
the person or persons in the sailing-ship. I think that it is quite
clear that there must be more than one of them. A single man could not
have carried out two deaths in such a way as to deceive a coroner’s
jury. There must have been several in it, and they must have been men
of resource and determination. Their papers they mean to have, be the
holder of them who it may. In this way you see K. K. K. ceases to be
the initials of an individual and becomes the badge of a society.”
“But of what society?”
“Have you never—” said Sherlock Holmes, bending forward and sinking his
voice—“have you never heard of the Ku Klux Klan?”
“I never have.”
Holmes turned over the leaves of the book upon his knee. “Here it is,”
said he presently:
“‘Ku Klux Klan. A name derived from the fanciful resemblance to the
sound produced by cocking a rifle. This terrible secret society was
formed by some ex-Confederate soldiers in the Southern states after the
Civil War, and it rapidly formed local branches in different parts of
the country, notably in Tennessee, Louisiana, the Carolinas, Georgia,
and Florida. Its power was used for political purposes, principally for
the terrorising of the negro voters and the murdering and driving from
the country of those who were opposed to its views. Its outrages were
usually preceded by a warning sent to the marked man in some fantastic
but generally recognised shape—a sprig of oak-leaves in some parts,
melon seeds or orange pips in others. On receiving this the victim
might either openly abjure his former ways, or might fly from the
country. If he braved the matter out, death would unfailingly come upon
him, and usually in some strange and unforeseen manner. So perfect was
the organisation of the society, and so systematic its methods, that
there is hardly a case upon record where any man succeeded in braving
it with impunity, or in which any of its outrages were traced home to
the perpetrators. For some years the organisation flourished in spite
of the efforts of the United States government and of the better
classes of the community in the South. Eventually, in the year 1869,
the movement rather suddenly collapsed, although there have been
sporadic outbreaks of the same sort since that date.’
“You will observe,” said Holmes, laying down the volume, “that the
sudden breaking up of the society was coincident with the disappearance
of Openshaw from America with their papers. It may well have been cause
and effect. It is no wonder that he and his family have some of the
more implacable spirits upon their track. You can understand that this
register and diary may implicate some of the first men in the South,
and that there may be many who will not sleep easy at night until it is
recovered.”
“Then the page we have seen—”
“Is such as we might expect. It ran, if I remember right, ‘sent the
pips to A, B, and C’—that is, sent the society’s warning to them. Then
there are successive entries that A and B cleared, or left the country,
and finally that C was visited, with, I fear, a sinister result for C.
Well, I think, Doctor, that we may let some light into this dark place,
and I believe that the only chance young Openshaw has in the meantime
is to do what I have told him. There is nothing more to be said or to
be done to-night, so hand me over my violin and let us try to forget
for half an hour the miserable weather and the still more miserable
ways of our fellow men.”
It had cleared in the morning, and the sun was shining with a subdued
brightness through the dim veil which hangs over the great city.
Sherlock Holmes was already at breakfast when I came down.
“You will excuse me for not waiting for you,” said he; “I have, I
foresee, a very busy day before me in looking into this case of young
Openshaw’s.”
“What steps will you take?” I asked.
“It will very much depend upon the results of my first inquiries. I may
have to go down to Horsham, after all.”
“You will not go there first?”
“No, I shall commence with the City. Just ring the bell and the maid
will bring up your coffee.”
As I waited, I lifted the unopened newspaper from the table and glanced
my eye over it. It rested upon a heading which sent a chill to my
heart.
“Holmes,” I cried, “you are too late.”
“Ah!” said he, laying down his cup, “I feared as much. How was it
done?” He spoke calmly, but I could see that he was deeply moved.
“My eye caught the name of Openshaw, and the heading ‘Tragedy Near
Waterloo Bridge.’ Here is the account:
“‘Between nine and ten last night Police-Constable Cook, of the H
Division, on duty near Waterloo Bridge, heard a cry for help and a
splash in the water. The night, however, was extremely dark and stormy,
so that, in spite of the help of several passers-by, it was quite
impossible to effect a rescue. The alarm, however, was given, and, by
the aid of the water-police, the body was eventually recovered. It
proved to be that of a young gentleman whose name, as it appears from
an envelope which was found in his pocket, was John Openshaw, and whose
residence is near Horsham. It is conjectured that he may have been
hurrying down to catch the last train from Waterloo Station, and that
in his haste and the extreme darkness he missed his path and walked
over the edge of one of the small landing-places for river steamboats.
The body exhibited no traces of violence, and there can be no doubt
that the deceased had been the victim of an unfortunate accident, which
should have the effect of calling the attention of the authorities to
the condition of the riverside landing-stages.’”
We sat in silence for some minutes, Holmes more depressed and shaken
than I had ever seen him.
“That hurts my pride, Watson,” he said at last. “It is a petty feeling,
no doubt, but it hurts my pride. It becomes a personal matter with me
now, and, if God sends me health, I shall set my hand upon this gang.
That he should come to me for help, and that I should send him away to
his death—!” He sprang from his chair and paced about the room in
uncontrollable agitation, with a flush upon his sallow cheeks and a
nervous clasping and unclasping of his long thin hands.
“They must be cunning devils,” he exclaimed at last. “How could they
have decoyed him down there? The Embankment is not on the direct line
to the station. The bridge, no doubt, was too crowded, even on such a
night, for their purpose. Well, Watson, we shall see who will win in
the long run. I am going out now!”
“To the police?”
“No; I shall be my own police. When I have spun the web they may take
the flies, but not before.”
All day I was engaged in my professional work, and it was late in the
evening before I returned to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes had not come
back yet. It was nearly ten o’clock before he entered, looking pale and
worn. He walked up to the sideboard, and tearing a piece from the loaf
he devoured it voraciously, washing it down with a long draught of
water.
“You are hungry,” I remarked.
“Starving. It had escaped my memory. I have had nothing since
breakfast.”
“Nothing?”
“Not a bite. I had no time to think of it.”
“And how have you succeeded?”
“Well.”
“You have a clue?”
“I have them in the hollow of my hand. Young Openshaw shall not long
remain unavenged. Why, Watson, let us put their own devilish trade-mark
upon them. It is well thought of!”
“What do you mean?”
He took an orange from the cupboard, and tearing it to pieces he
squeezed out the pips upon the table. Of these he took five and thrust
them into an envelope. On the inside of the flap he wrote “S. H. for J.
O.” Then he sealed it and addressed it to “Captain James Calhoun,
Barque _Lone Star_, Savannah, Georgia.”
“That will await him when he enters port,” said he, chuckling. “It may
give him a sleepless night. He will find it as sure a precursor of his
fate as Openshaw did before him.”
“And who is this Captain Calhoun?”
“The leader of the gang. I shall have the others, but he first.”
“How did you trace it, then?”
He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, all covered with dates
and names.
“I have spent the whole day,” said he, “over Lloyd’s registers and
files of the old papers, following the future career of every vessel
which touched at Pondicherry in January and February in ’83. There were
thirty-six ships of fair tonnage which were reported there during those
months. Of these, one, the _Lone Star_, instantly attracted my
attention, since, although it was reported as having cleared from
London, the name is that which is given to one of the states of the
Union.”
“Texas, I think.”
“I was not and am not sure which; but I knew that the ship must have an
American origin.”
“What then?”
“I searched the Dundee records, and when I found that the barque _Lone
Star_ was there in January, ’85, my suspicion became a certainty. I
then inquired as to the vessels which lay at present in the port of
London.”
“Yes?”
“The _Lone Star_ had arrived here last week. I went down to the Albert
Dock and found that she had been taken down the river by the early tide
this morning, homeward bound to Savannah. I wired to Gravesend and
learned that she had passed some time ago, and as the wind is easterly
I have no doubt that she is now past the Goodwins and not very far from
the Isle of Wight.”
“What will you do, then?”
“Oh, I have my hand upon him. He and the two mates, are as I learn, the
only native-born Americans in the ship. The others are Finns and
Germans. I know, also, that they were all three away from the ship last
night. I had it from the stevedore who has been loading their cargo. By
the time that their sailing-ship reaches Savannah the mail-boat will
have carried this letter, and the cable will have informed the police
of Savannah that these three gentlemen are badly wanted here upon a
charge of murder.”
There is ever a flaw, however, in the best laid of human plans, and the
murderers of John Openshaw were never to receive the orange pips which
would show them that another, as cunning and as resolute as themselves,
was upon their track. Very long and very severe were the equinoctial
gales that year. We waited long for news of the _Lone Star_ of
Savannah, but none ever reached us. We did at last hear that somewhere
far out in the Atlantic a shattered stern-post of a boat was seen
swinging in the trough of a wave, with the letters “L. S.” carved upon
it, and that is all which we shall ever know of the fate of the _Lone
Star_.
|
v_the_five_orange_pips
|
VI. THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP
|
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
|
Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal of the
Theological College of St. George’s, was much addicted to opium. The
habit grew upon him, as I understand, from some foolish freak when he
was at college; for having read De Quincey’s description of his dreams
and sensations, he had drenched his tobacco with laudanum in an attempt
to produce the same effects. He found, as so many more have done, that
the practice is easier to attain than to get rid of, and for many years
he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object of mingled horror and
pity to his friends and relatives. I can see him now, with yellow,
pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point pupils, all huddled in a
chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble man.
One night—it was in June, ’89—there came a ring to my bell, about the
hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at the clock. I sat up
in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work down in her lap and made
a little face of disappointment.
“A patient!” said she. “You’ll have to go out.”
I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.
We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps upon
the linoleum. Our own door flew open, and a lady, clad in some
dark-coloured stuff, with a black veil, entered the room.
“You will excuse my calling so late,” she began, and then, suddenly
losing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms about my
wife’s neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder. “Oh, I’m in such trouble!”
she cried; “I do so want a little help.”
“Why,” said my wife, pulling up her veil, “it is Kate Whitney. How you
startled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were when you came in.”
“I didn’t know what to do, so I came straight to you.” That was always
the way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birds to a
lighthouse.
“It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wine and
water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or should you
rather that I sent James off to bed?”
“Oh, no, no! I want the doctor’s advice and help, too. It’s about Isa.
He has not been home for two days. I am so frightened about him!”
It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her husband’s
trouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend and school
companion. We soothed and comforted her by such words as we could find.
Did she know where her husband was? Was it possible that we could bring
him back to her?
It seems that it was. She had the surest information that of late he
had, when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in the farthest
east of the City. Hitherto his orgies had always been confined to one
day, and he had come back, twitching and shattered, in the evening. But
now the spell had been upon him eight-and-forty hours, and he lay
there, doubtless among the dregs of the docks, breathing in the poison
or sleeping off the effects. There he was to be found, she was sure of
it, at the Bar of Gold, in Upper Swandam Lane. But what was she to do?
How could she, a young and timid woman, make her way into such a place
and pluck her husband out from among the ruffians who surrounded him?
There was the case, and of course there was but one way out of it.
Might I not escort her to this place? And then, as a second thought,
why should she come at all? I was Isa Whitney’s medical adviser, and as
such I had influence over him. I could manage it better if I were
alone. I promised her on my word that I would send him home in a cab
within two hours if he were indeed at the address which she had given
me. And so in ten minutes I had left my armchair and cheery
sitting-room behind me, and was speeding eastward in a hansom on a
strange errand, as it seemed to me at the time, though the future only
could show how strange it was to be.
But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my adventure.
Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the high wharves
which line the north side of the river to the east of London Bridge.
Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approached by a steep flight of
steps leading down to a black gap like the mouth of a cave, I found the
den of which I was in search. Ordering my cab to wait, I passed down
the steps, worn hollow in the centre by the ceaseless tread of drunken
feet; and by the light of a flickering oil-lamp above the door I found
the latch and made my way into a long, low room, thick and heavy with
the brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden berths, like the
forecastle of an emigrant ship.
Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying in
strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown
back, and chins pointing upward, with here and there a dark,
lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of the black shadows
there glimmered little red circles of light, now bright, now faint, as
the burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls of the metal pipes. The
most lay silent, but some muttered to themselves, and others talked
together in a strange, low, monotonous voice, their conversation coming
in gushes, and then suddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling
out his own thoughts and paying little heed to the words of his
neighbour. At the farther end was a small brazier of burning charcoal,
beside which on a three-legged wooden stool there sat a tall, thin old
man, with his jaw resting upon his two fists, and his elbows upon his
knees, staring into the fire.
As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe for
me and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth.
“Thank you. I have not come to stay,” said I. “There is a friend of
mine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him.”
There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and peering
through the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and unkempt, staring
out at me.
“My God! It’s Watson,” said he. He was in a pitiable state of reaction,
with every nerve in a twitter. “I say, Watson, what o’clock is it?”
“Nearly eleven.”
“Of what day?”
“Of Friday, June 19th.”
“Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What d’you
want to frighten a chap for?” He sank his face onto his arms and began
to sob in a high treble key.
“I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting this two
days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself!”
“So I am. But you’ve got mixed, Watson, for I have only been here a few
hours, three pipes, four pipes—I forget how many. But I’ll go home with
you. I wouldn’t frighten Kate—poor little Kate. Give me your hand! Have
you a cab?”
“Yes, I have one waiting.”
“Then I shall go in it. But I must owe something. Find what I owe,
Watson. I am all off colour. I can do nothing for myself.”
I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of sleepers,
holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug,
and looking about for the manager. As I passed the tall man who sat by
the brazier I felt a sudden pluck at my skirt, and a low voice
whispered, “Walk past me, and then look back at me.” The words fell
quite distinctly upon my ear. I glanced down. They could only have come
from the old man at my side, and yet he sat now as absorbed as ever,
very thin, very wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling down
from between his knees, as though it had dropped in sheer lassitude
from his fingers. I took two steps forward and looked back. It took all
my self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a cry of
astonishment. He had turned his back so that none could see him but I.
His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the dull eyes had
regained their fire, and there, sitting by the fire and grinning at my
surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He made a slight motion
to me to approach him, and instantly, as he turned his face half round
to the company once more, subsided into a doddering, loose-lipped
senility.
“Holmes!” I whispered, “what on earth are you doing in this den?”
“As low as you can,” he answered; “I have excellent ears. If you would
have the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friend of yours I
should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with you.”
“I have a cab outside.”
“Then pray send him home in it. You may safely trust him, for he
appears to be too limp to get into any mischief. I should recommend you
also to send a note by the cabman to your wife to say that you have
thrown in your lot with me. If you will wait outside, I shall be with
you in five minutes.”
It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes’ requests, for they
were always so exceedingly definite, and put forward with such a quiet
air of mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitney was once confined in
the cab my mission was practically accomplished; and for the rest, I
could not wish anything better than to be associated with my friend in
one of those singular adventures which were the normal condition of his
existence. In a few minutes I had written my note, paid Whitney’s bill,
led him out to the cab, and seen him driven through the darkness. In a
very short time a decrepit figure had emerged from the opium den, and I
was walking down the street with Sherlock Holmes. For two streets he
shuffled along with a bent back and an uncertain foot. Then, glancing
quickly round, he straightened himself out and burst into a hearty fit
of laughter.
“I suppose, Watson,” said he, “that you imagine that I have added
opium-smoking to cocaine injections, and all the other little
weaknesses on which you have favoured me with your medical views.”
“I was certainly surprised to find you there.”
“But not more so than I to find you.”
“I came to find a friend.”
“And I to find an enemy.”
“An enemy?”
“Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural prey.
Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable inquiry, and I
have hoped to find a clue in the incoherent ramblings of these sots, as
I have done before now. Had I been recognised in that den my life would
not have been worth an hour’s purchase; for I have used it before now
for my own purposes, and the rascally Lascar who runs it has sworn to
have vengeance upon me. There is a trap-door at the back of that
building, near the corner of Paul’s Wharf, which could tell some
strange tales of what has passed through it upon the moonless nights.”
“What! You do not mean bodies?”
“Ay, bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if we had £ 1000 for every
poor devil who has been done to death in that den. It is the vilest
murder-trap on the whole riverside, and I fear that Neville St. Clair
has entered it never to leave it more. But our trap should be here.” He
put his two forefingers between his teeth and whistled shrilly—a signal
which was answered by a similar whistle from the distance, followed
shortly by the rattle of wheels and the clink of horses’ hoofs.
“Now, Watson,” said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart dashed up through the
gloom, throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow light from its side
lanterns. “You’ll come with me, won’t you?”
“If I can be of use.”
“Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use; and a chronicler still more so.
My room at The Cedars is a double-bedded one.”
“The Cedars?”
“Yes; that is Mr. St. Clair’s house. I am staying there while I conduct
the inquiry.”
“Where is it, then?”
“Near Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive before us.”
“But I am all in the dark.”
“Of course you are. You’ll know all about it presently. Jump up here.
All right, John; we shall not need you. Here’s half a crown. Look out
for me to-morrow, about eleven. Give her her head. So long, then!”
He flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed away through the
endless succession of sombre and deserted streets, which widened
gradually, until we were flying across a broad balustraded bridge, with
the murky river flowing sluggishly beneath us. Beyond lay another dull
wilderness of bricks and mortar, its silence broken only by the heavy,
regular footfall of the policeman, or the songs and shouts of some
belated party of revellers. A dull wrack was drifting slowly across the
sky, and a star or two twinkled dimly here and there through the rifts
of the clouds. Holmes drove in silence, with his head sunk upon his
breast, and the air of a man who is lost in thought, while I sat beside
him, curious to learn what this new quest might be which seemed to tax
his powers so sorely, and yet afraid to break in upon the current of
his thoughts. We had driven several miles, and were beginning to get to
the fringe of the belt of suburban villas, when he shook himself,
shrugged his shoulders, and lit up his pipe with the air of a man who
has satisfied himself that he is acting for the best.
“You have a grand gift of silence, Watson,” said he. “It makes you
quite invaluable as a companion. ’Pon my word, it is a great thing for
me to have someone to talk to, for my own thoughts are not
over-pleasant. I was wondering what I should say to this dear little
woman to-night when she meets me at the door.”
“You forget that I know nothing about it.”
“I shall just have time to tell you the facts of the case before we get
to Lee. It seems absurdly simple, and yet, somehow I can get nothing to
go upon. There’s plenty of thread, no doubt, but I can’t get the end of
it into my hand. Now, I’ll state the case clearly and concisely to you,
Watson, and maybe you can see a spark where all is dark to me.”
“Proceed, then.”
“Some years ago—to be definite, in May, 1884—there came to Lee a
gentleman, Neville St. Clair by name, who appeared to have plenty of
money. He took a large villa, laid out the grounds very nicely, and
lived generally in good style. By degrees he made friends in the
neighbourhood, and in 1887 he married the daughter of a local brewer,
by whom he now has two children. He had no occupation, but was
interested in several companies and went into town as a rule in the
morning, returning by the 5:14 from Cannon Street every night. Mr. St.
Clair is now thirty-seven years of age, is a man of temperate habits, a
good husband, a very affectionate father, and a man who is popular with
all who know him. I may add that his whole debts at the present moment,
as far as we have been able to ascertain, amount to £ 88 10_s_., while
he has £ 220 standing to his credit in the Capital and Counties Bank.
There is no reason, therefore, to think that money troubles have been
weighing upon his mind.
“Last Monday Mr. Neville St. Clair went into town rather earlier than
usual, remarking before he started that he had two important
commissions to perform, and that he would bring his little boy home a
box of bricks. Now, by the merest chance, his wife received a telegram
upon this same Monday, very shortly after his departure, to the effect
that a small parcel of considerable value which she had been expecting
was waiting for her at the offices of the Aberdeen Shipping Company.
Now, if you are well up in your London, you will know that the office
of the company is in Fresno Street, which branches out of Upper Swandam
Lane, where you found me to-night. Mrs. St. Clair had her lunch,
started for the City, did some shopping, proceeded to the company’s
office, got her packet, and found herself at exactly 4:35 walking
through Swandam Lane on her way back to the station. Have you followed
me so far?”
“It is very clear.”
“If you remember, Monday was an exceedingly hot day, and Mrs. St. Clair
walked slowly, glancing about in the hope of seeing a cab, as she did
not like the neighbourhood in which she found herself. While she was
walking in this way down Swandam Lane, she suddenly heard an
ejaculation or cry, and was struck cold to see her husband looking down
at her and, as it seemed to her, beckoning to her from a second-floor
window. The window was open, and she distinctly saw his face, which she
describes as being terribly agitated. He waved his hands frantically to
her, and then vanished from the window so suddenly that it seemed to
her that he had been plucked back by some irresistible force from
behind. One singular point which struck her quick feminine eye was that
although he wore some dark coat, such as he had started to town in, he
had on neither collar nor necktie.
“Convinced that something was amiss with him, she rushed down the
steps—for the house was none other than the opium den in which you
found me to-night—and running through the front room she attempted to
ascend the stairs which led to the first floor. At the foot of the
stairs, however, she met this Lascar scoundrel of whom I have spoken,
who thrust her back and, aided by a Dane, who acts as assistant there,
pushed her out into the street. Filled with the most maddening doubts
and fears, she rushed down the lane and, by rare good-fortune, met in
Fresno Street a number of constables with an inspector, all on their
way to their beat. The inspector and two men accompanied her back, and
in spite of the continued resistance of the proprietor, they made their
way to the room in which Mr. St. Clair had last been seen. There was no
sign of him there. In fact, in the whole of that floor there was no one
to be found save a crippled wretch of hideous aspect, who, it seems,
made his home there. Both he and the Lascar stoutly swore that no one
else had been in the front room during the afternoon. So determined was
their denial that the inspector was staggered, and had almost come to
believe that Mrs. St. Clair had been deluded when, with a cry, she
sprang at a small deal box which lay upon the table and tore the lid
from it. Out there fell a cascade of children’s bricks. It was the toy
which he had promised to bring home.
“This discovery, and the evident confusion which the cripple showed,
made the inspector realise that the matter was serious. The rooms were
carefully examined, and results all pointed to an abominable crime. The
front room was plainly furnished as a sitting-room and led into a small
bedroom, which looked out upon the back of one of the wharves. Between
the wharf and the bedroom window is a narrow strip, which is dry at low
tide but is covered at high tide with at least four and a half feet of
water. The bedroom window was a broad one and opened from below. On
examination traces of blood were to be seen upon the windowsill, and
several scattered drops were visible upon the wooden floor of the
bedroom. Thrust away behind a curtain in the front room were all the
clothes of Mr. Neville St. Clair, with the exception of his coat. His
boots, his socks, his hat, and his watch—all were there. There were no
signs of violence upon any of these garments, and there were no other
traces of Mr. Neville St. Clair. Out of the window he must apparently
have gone for no other exit could be discovered, and the ominous
bloodstains upon the sill gave little promise that he could save
himself by swimming, for the tide was at its very highest at the moment
of the tragedy.
“And now as to the villains who seemed to be immediately implicated in
the matter. The Lascar was known to be a man of the vilest antecedents,
but as, by Mrs. St. Clair’s story, he was known to have been at the
foot of the stair within a very few seconds of her husband’s appearance
at the window, he could hardly have been more than an accessory to the
crime. His defence was one of absolute ignorance, and he protested that
he had no knowledge as to the doings of Hugh Boone, his lodger, and
that he could not account in any way for the presence of the missing
gentleman’s clothes.
“So much for the Lascar manager. Now for the sinister cripple who lives
upon the second floor of the opium den, and who was certainly the last
human being whose eyes rested upon Neville St. Clair. His name is Hugh
Boone, and his hideous face is one which is familiar to every man who
goes much to the City. He is a professional beggar, though in order to
avoid the police regulations he pretends to a small trade in wax
vestas. Some little distance down Threadneedle Street, upon the
left-hand side, there is, as you may have remarked, a small angle in
the wall. Here it is that this creature takes his daily seat,
cross-legged with his tiny stock of matches on his lap, and as he is a
piteous spectacle a small rain of charity descends into the greasy
leather cap which lies upon the pavement beside him. I have watched the
fellow more than once before ever I thought of making his professional
acquaintance, and I have been surprised at the harvest which he has
reaped in a short time. His appearance, you see, is so remarkable that
no one can pass him without observing him. A shock of orange hair, a
pale face disfigured by a horrible scar, which, by its contraction, has
turned up the outer edge of his upper lip, a bulldog chin, and a pair
of very penetrating dark eyes, which present a singular contrast to the
colour of his hair, all mark him out from amid the common crowd of
mendicants and so, too, does his wit, for he is ever ready with a reply
to any piece of chaff which may be thrown at him by the passers-by.
This is the man whom we now learn to have been the lodger at the opium
den, and to have been the last man to see the gentleman of whom we are
in quest.”
“But a cripple!” said I. “What could he have done single-handed against
a man in the prime of life?”
“He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a limp; but in other
respects he appears to be a powerful and well-nurtured man. Surely your
medical experience would tell you, Watson, that weakness in one limb is
often compensated for by exceptional strength in the others.”
“Pray continue your narrative.”
“Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon the window,
and she was escorted home in a cab by the police, as her presence could
be of no help to them in their investigations. Inspector Barton, who
had charge of the case, made a very careful examination of the
premises, but without finding anything which threw any light upon the
matter. One mistake had been made in not arresting Boone instantly, as
he was allowed some few minutes during which he might have communicated
with his friend the Lascar, but this fault was soon remedied, and he
was seized and searched, without anything being found which could
incriminate him. There were, it is true, some blood-stains upon his
right shirt-sleeve, but he pointed to his ring-finger, which had been
cut near the nail, and explained that the bleeding came from there,
adding that he had been to the window not long before, and that the
stains which had been observed there came doubtless from the same
source. He denied strenuously having ever seen Mr. Neville St. Clair
and swore that the presence of the clothes in his room was as much a
mystery to him as to the police. As to Mrs. St. Clair’s assertion that
she had actually seen her husband at the window, he declared that she
must have been either mad or dreaming. He was removed, loudly
protesting, to the police-station, while the inspector remained upon
the premises in the hope that the ebbing tide might afford some fresh
clue.
“And it did, though they hardly found upon the mud-bank what they had
feared to find. It was Neville St. Clair’s coat, and not Neville St.
Clair, which lay uncovered as the tide receded. And what do you think
they found in the pockets?”
“I cannot imagine.”
“No, I don’t think you would guess. Every pocket stuffed with pennies
and half-pennies—421 pennies and 270 half-pennies. It was no wonder
that it had not been swept away by the tide. But a human body is a
different matter. There is a fierce eddy between the wharf and the
house. It seemed likely enough that the weighted coat had remained when
the stripped body had been sucked away into the river.”
“But I understand that all the other clothes were found in the room.
Would the body be dressed in a coat alone?”
“No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously enough. Suppose that
this man Boone had thrust Neville St. Clair through the window, there
is no human eye which could have seen the deed. What would he do then?
It would of course instantly strike him that he must get rid of the
tell-tale garments. He would seize the coat, then, and be in the act of
throwing it out, when it would occur to him that it would swim and not
sink. He has little time, for he has heard the scuffle downstairs when
the wife tried to force her way up, and perhaps he has already heard
from his Lascar confederate that the police are hurrying up the street.
There is not an instant to be lost. He rushes to some secret hoard,
where he has accumulated the fruits of his beggary, and he stuffs all
the coins upon which he can lay his hands into the pockets to make sure
of the coat’s sinking. He throws it out, and would have done the same
with the other garments had not he heard the rush of steps below, and
only just had time to close the window when the police appeared.”
“It certainly sounds feasible.”
“Well, we will take it as a working hypothesis for want of a better.
Boone, as I have told you, was arrested and taken to the station, but
it could not be shown that there had ever before been anything against
him. He had for years been known as a professional beggar, but his life
appeared to have been a very quiet and innocent one. There the matter
stands at present, and the questions which have to be solved—what
Neville St. Clair was doing in the opium den, what happened to him when
there, where is he now, and what Hugh Boone had to do with his
disappearance—are all as far from a solution as ever. I confess that I
cannot recall any case within my experience which looked at the first
glance so simple and yet which presented such difficulties.”
While Sherlock Holmes had been detailing this singular series of
events, we had been whirling through the outskirts of the great town
until the last straggling houses had been left behind, and we rattled
along with a country hedge upon either side of us. Just as he finished,
however, we drove through two scattered villages, where a few lights
still glimmered in the windows.
“We are on the outskirts of Lee,” said my companion. “We have touched
on three English counties in our short drive, starting in Middlesex,
passing over an angle of Surrey, and ending in Kent. See that light
among the trees? That is The Cedars, and beside that lamp sits a woman
whose anxious ears have already, I have little doubt, caught the clink
of our horse’s feet.”
“But why are you not conducting the case from Baker Street?” I asked.
“Because there are many inquiries which must be made out here. Mrs. St.
Clair has most kindly put two rooms at my disposal, and you may rest
assured that she will have nothing but a welcome for my friend and
colleague. I hate to meet her, Watson, when I have no news of her
husband. Here we are. Whoa, there, whoa!”
We had pulled up in front of a large villa which stood within its own
grounds. A stable-boy had run out to the horse’s head, and springing
down, I followed Holmes up the small, winding gravel-drive which led to
the house. As we approached, the door flew open, and a little blonde
woman stood in the opening, clad in some sort of light mousseline de
soie, with a touch of fluffy pink chiffon at her neck and wrists. She
stood with her figure outlined against the flood of light, one hand
upon the door, one half-raised in her eagerness, her body slightly
bent, her head and face protruded, with eager eyes and parted lips, a
standing question.
“Well?” she cried, “well?” And then, seeing that there were two of us,
she gave a cry of hope which sank into a groan as she saw that my
companion shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.
“No good news?”
“None.”
“No bad?”
“No.”
“Thank God for that. But come in. You must be weary, for you have had a
long day.”
“This is my friend, Dr. Watson. He has been of most vital use to me in
several of my cases, and a lucky chance has made it possible for me to
bring him out and associate him with this investigation.”
“I am delighted to see you,” said she, pressing my hand warmly. “You
will, I am sure, forgive anything that may be wanting in our
arrangements, when you consider the blow which has come so suddenly
upon us.”
“My dear madam,” said I, “I am an old campaigner, and if I were not I
can very well see that no apology is needed. If I can be of any
assistance, either to you or to my friend here, I shall be indeed
happy.”
“Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said the lady as we entered a well-lit
dining-room, upon the table of which a cold supper had been laid out,
“I should very much like to ask you one or two plain questions, to
which I beg that you will give a plain answer.”
“Certainly, madam.”
“Do not trouble about my feelings. I am not hysterical, nor given to
fainting. I simply wish to hear your real, real opinion.”
“Upon what point?”
“In your heart of hearts, do you think that Neville is alive?”
Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by the question. “Frankly,
now!” she repeated, standing upon the rug and looking keenly down at
him as he leaned back in a basket-chair.
“Frankly, then, madam, I do not.”
“You think that he is dead?”
“I do.”
“Murdered?”
“I don’t say that. Perhaps.”
“And on what day did he meet his death?”
“On Monday.”
“Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be good enough to explain how it is
that I have received a letter from him to-day.”
Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he had been galvanised.
“What!” he roared.
“Yes, to-day.” She stood smiling, holding up a little slip of paper in
the air.
“May I see it?”
“Certainly.”
He snatched it from her in his eagerness, and smoothing it out upon the
table he drew over the lamp and examined it intently. I had left my
chair and was gazing at it over his shoulder. The envelope was a very
coarse one and was stamped with the Gravesend postmark and with the
date of that very day, or rather of the day before, for it was
considerably after midnight.
“Coarse writing,” murmured Holmes. “Surely this is not your husband’s
writing, madam.”
“No, but the enclosure is.”
“I perceive also that whoever addressed the envelope had to go and
inquire as to the address.”
“How can you tell that?”
“The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink, which has dried itself.
The rest is of the greyish colour, which shows that blotting-paper has
been used. If it had been written straight off, and then blotted, none
would be of a deep black shade. This man has written the name, and
there has then been a pause before he wrote the address, which can only
mean that he was not familiar with it. It is, of course, a trifle, but
there is nothing so important as trifles. Let us now see the letter.
Ha! there has been an enclosure here!”
“Yes, there was a ring. His signet-ring.”
“And you are sure that this is your husband’s hand?”
“One of his hands.”
“One?”
“His hand when he wrote hurriedly. It is very unlike his usual writing,
and yet I know it well.”
“‘Dearest do not be frightened. All will come well. There is a huge
error which it may take some little time to rectify. Wait in
patience.—NEVILLE.’ Written in pencil upon the fly-leaf of a book,
octavo size, no water-mark. Hum! Posted to-day in Gravesend by a man
with a dirty thumb. Ha! And the flap has been gummed, if I am not very
much in error, by a person who had been chewing tobacco. And you have
no doubt that it is your husband’s hand, madam?”
“None. Neville wrote those words.”
“And they were posted to-day at Gravesend. Well, Mrs. St. Clair, the
clouds lighten, though I should not venture to say that the danger is
over.”
“But he must be alive, Mr. Holmes.”
“Unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the wrong scent. The
ring, after all, proves nothing. It may have been taken from him.”
“No, no; it is, it is his very own writing!”
“Very well. It may, however, have been written on Monday and only
posted to-day.”
“That is possible.”
“If so, much may have happened between.”
“Oh, you must not discourage me, Mr. Holmes. I know that all is well
with him. There is so keen a sympathy between us that I should know if
evil came upon him. On the very day that I saw him last he cut himself
in the bedroom, and yet I in the dining-room rushed upstairs instantly
with the utmost certainty that something had happened. Do you think
that I would respond to such a trifle and yet be ignorant of his
death?”
“I have seen too much not to know that the impression of a woman may be
more valuable than the conclusion of an analytical reasoner. And in
this letter you certainly have a very strong piece of evidence to
corroborate your view. But if your husband is alive and able to write
letters, why should he remain away from you?”
“I cannot imagine. It is unthinkable.”
“And on Monday he made no remarks before leaving you?”
“No.”
“And you were surprised to see him in Swandam Lane?”
“Very much so.”
“Was the window open?”
“Yes.”
“Then he might have called to you?”
“He might.”
“He only, as I understand, gave an inarticulate cry?”
“Yes.”
“A call for help, you thought?”
“Yes. He waved his hands.”
“But it might have been a cry of surprise. Astonishment at the
unexpected sight of you might cause him to throw up his hands?”
“It is possible.”
“And you thought he was pulled back?”
“He disappeared so suddenly.”
“He might have leaped back. You did not see anyone else in the room?”
“No, but this horrible man confessed to having been there, and the
Lascar was at the foot of the stairs.”
“Quite so. Your husband, as far as you could see, had his ordinary
clothes on?”
“But without his collar or tie. I distinctly saw his bare throat.”
“Had he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?”
“Never.”
“Had he ever showed any signs of having taken opium?”
“Never.”
“Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the principal points about which
I wished to be absolutely clear. We shall now have a little supper and
then retire, for we may have a very busy day to-morrow.”
A large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placed at our
disposal, and I was quickly between the sheets, for I was weary after
my night of adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man, however, who, when he
had an unsolved problem upon his mind, would go for days, and even for
a week, without rest, turning it over, rearranging his facts, looking
at it from every point of view until he had either fathomed it or
convinced himself that his data were insufficient. It was soon evident
to me that he was now preparing for an all-night sitting. He took off
his coat and waistcoat, put on a large blue dressing-gown, and then
wandered about the room collecting pillows from his bed and cushions
from the sofa and armchairs. With these he constructed a sort of
Eastern divan, upon which he perched himself cross-legged, with an
ounce of shag tobacco and a box of matches laid out in front of him. In
the dim light of the lamp I saw him sitting there, an old briar pipe
between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon the corner of the
ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from him, silent, motionless, with
the light shining upon his strong-set aquiline features. So he sat as I
dropped off to sleep, and so he sat when a sudden ejaculation caused me
to wake up, and I found the summer sun shining into the apartment. The
pipe was still between his lips, the smoke still curled upward, and the
room was full of a dense tobacco haze, but nothing remained of the heap
of shag which I had seen upon the previous night.
“Awake, Watson?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Game for a morning drive?”
“Certainly.”
“Then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know where the stable-boy
sleeps, and we shall soon have the trap out.” He chuckled to himself as
he spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he seemed a different man to the
sombre thinker of the previous night.
As I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that no one was
stirring. It was twenty-five minutes past four. I had hardly finished
when Holmes returned with the news that the boy was putting in the
horse.
“I want to test a little theory of mine,” said he, pulling on his
boots. “I think, Watson, that you are now standing in the presence of
one of the most absolute fools in Europe. I deserve to be kicked from
here to Charing Cross. But I think I have the key of the affair now.”
“And where is it?” I asked, smiling.
“In the bathroom,” he answered. “Oh, yes, I am not joking,” he
continued, seeing my look of incredulity. “I have just been there, and
I have taken it out, and I have got it in this Gladstone bag. Come on,
my boy, and we shall see whether it will not fit the lock.”
We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible, and out into the
bright morning sunshine. In the road stood our horse and trap, with the
half-clad stable-boy waiting at the head. We both sprang in, and away
we dashed down the London Road. A few country carts were stirring,
bearing in vegetables to the metropolis, but the lines of villas on
either side were as silent and lifeless as some city in a dream.
“It has been in some points a singular case,” said Holmes, flicking the
horse on into a gallop. “I confess that I have been as blind as a mole,
but it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at all.”
In town the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepily from
their windows as we drove through the streets of the Surrey side.
Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed over the river, and
dashing up Wellington Street wheeled sharply to the right and found
ourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock Holmes was well known to the force,
and the two constables at the door saluted him. One of them held the
horse’s head while the other led us in.
“Who is on duty?” asked Holmes.
“Inspector Bradstreet, sir.”
“Ah, Bradstreet, how are you?” A tall, stout official had come down the
stone-flagged passage, in a peaked cap and frogged jacket. “I wish to
have a quiet word with you, Bradstreet.”
“Certainly, Mr. Holmes. Step into my room here.”
It was a small, office-like room, with a huge ledger upon the table,
and a telephone projecting from the wall. The inspector sat down at his
desk.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?”
“I called about that beggarman, Boone—the one who was charged with
being concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee.”
“Yes. He was brought up and remanded for further inquiries.”
“So I heard. You have him here?”
“In the cells.”
“Is he quiet?”
“Oh, he gives no trouble. But he is a dirty scoundrel.”
“Dirty?”
“Yes, it is all we can do to make him wash his hands, and his face is
as black as a tinker’s. Well, when once his case has been settled, he
will have a regular prison bath; and I think, if you saw him, you would
agree with me that he needed it.”
“I should like to see him very much.”
“Would you? That is easily done. Come this way. You can leave your
bag.”
“No, I think that I’ll take it.”
“Very good. Come this way, if you please.” He led us down a passage,
opened a barred door, passed down a winding stair, and brought us to a
whitewashed corridor with a line of doors on each side.
“The third on the right is his,” said the inspector. “Here it is!” He
quietly shot back a panel in the upper part of the door and glanced
through.
“He is asleep,” said he. “You can see him very well.”
We both put our eyes to the grating. The prisoner lay with his face
towards us, in a very deep sleep, breathing slowly and heavily. He was
a middle-sized man, coarsely clad as became his calling, with a
coloured shirt protruding through the rent in his tattered coat. He
was, as the inspector had said, extremely dirty, but the grime which
covered his face could not conceal its repulsive ugliness. A broad
wheal from an old scar ran right across it from eye to chin, and by its
contraction had turned up one side of the upper lip, so that three
teeth were exposed in a perpetual snarl. A shock of very bright red
hair grew low over his eyes and forehead.
“He’s a beauty, isn’t he?” said the inspector.
“He certainly needs a wash,” remarked Holmes. “I had an idea that he
might, and I took the liberty of bringing the tools with me.” He opened
the Gladstone bag as he spoke, and took out, to my astonishment, a very
large bath-sponge.
“He! he! You are a funny one,” chuckled the inspector.
“Now, if you will have the great goodness to open that door very
quietly, we will soon make him cut a much more respectable figure.”
“Well, I don’t know why not,” said the inspector. “He doesn’t look a
credit to the Bow Street cells, does he?” He slipped his key into the
lock, and we all very quietly entered the cell. The sleeper half
turned, and then settled down once more into a deep slumber. Holmes
stooped to the water-jug, moistened his sponge, and then rubbed it
twice vigorously across and down the prisoner’s face.
“Let me introduce you,” he shouted, “to Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee,
in the county of Kent.”
Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The man’s face peeled off
under the sponge like the bark from a tree. Gone was the coarse brown
tint! Gone, too, was the horrid scar which had seamed it across, and
the twisted lip which had given the repulsive sneer to the face! A
twitch brought away the tangled red hair, and there, sitting up in his
bed, was a pale, sad-faced, refined-looking man, black-haired and
smooth-skinned, rubbing his eyes and staring about him with sleepy
bewilderment. Then suddenly realising the exposure, he broke into a
scream and threw himself down with his face to the pillow.
“Great heavens!” cried the inspector, “it is, indeed, the missing man.
I know him from the photograph.”
The prisoner turned with the reckless air of a man who abandons himself
to his destiny. “Be it so,” said he. “And pray what am I charged with?”
“With making away with Mr. Neville St.— Oh, come, you can’t be charged
with that unless they make a case of attempted suicide of it,” said the
inspector with a grin. “Well, I have been twenty-seven years in the
force, but this really takes the cake.”
“If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair, then it is obvious that no crime has
been committed, and that, therefore, I am illegally detained.”
“No crime, but a very great error has been committed,” said Holmes.
“You would have done better to have trusted your wife.”
“It was not the wife; it was the children,” groaned the prisoner. “God
help me, I would not have them ashamed of their father. My God! What an
exposure! What can I do?”
Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the couch and patted him kindly
on the shoulder.
“If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up,” said he,
“of course you can hardly avoid publicity. On the other hand, if you
convince the police authorities that there is no possible case against
you, I do not know that there is any reason that the details should
find their way into the papers. Inspector Bradstreet would, I am sure,
make notes upon anything which you might tell us and submit it to the
proper authorities. The case would then never go into court at all.”
“God bless you!” cried the prisoner passionately. “I would have endured
imprisonment, ay, even execution, rather than have left my miserable
secret as a family blot to my children.
“You are the first who have ever heard my story. My father was a
schoolmaster in Chesterfield, where I received an excellent education.
I travelled in my youth, took to the stage, and finally became a
reporter on an evening paper in London. One day my editor wished to
have a series of articles upon begging in the metropolis, and I
volunteered to supply them. There was the point from which all my
adventures started. It was only by trying begging as an amateur that I
could get the facts upon which to base my articles. When an actor I
had, of course, learned all the secrets of making up, and had been
famous in the green-room for my skill. I took advantage now of my
attainments. I painted my face, and to make myself as pitiable as
possible I made a good scar and fixed one side of my lip in a twist by
the aid of a small slip of flesh-coloured plaster. Then with a red head
of hair, and an appropriate dress, I took my station in the business
part of the city, ostensibly as a match-seller but really as a beggar.
For seven hours I plied my trade, and when I returned home in the
evening I found to my surprise that I had received no less than 26_s_.
4_d_.
“I wrote my articles and thought little more of the matter until, some
time later, I backed a bill for a friend and had a writ served upon me
for £ 25. I was at my wit’s end where to get the money, but a sudden
idea came to me. I begged a fortnight’s grace from the creditor, asked
for a holiday from my employers, and spent the time in begging in the
City under my disguise. In ten days I had the money and had paid the
debt.
“Well, you can imagine how hard it was to settle down to arduous work
at £ 2 a week when I knew that I could earn as much in a day by
smearing my face with a little paint, laying my cap on the ground, and
sitting still. It was a long fight between my pride and the money, but
the dollars won at last, and I threw up reporting and sat day after day
in the corner which I had first chosen, inspiring pity by my ghastly
face and filling my pockets with coppers. Only one man knew my secret.
He was the keeper of a low den in which I used to lodge in Swandam
Lane, where I could every morning emerge as a squalid beggar and in the
evenings transform myself into a well-dressed man about town. This
fellow, a Lascar, was well paid by me for his rooms, so that I knew
that my secret was safe in his possession.
“Well, very soon I found that I was saving considerable sums of money.
I do not mean that any beggar in the streets of London could earn £ 700
a year—which is less than my average takings—but I had exceptional
advantages in my power of making up, and also in a facility of
repartee, which improved by practice and made me quite a recognised
character in the City. All day a stream of pennies, varied by silver,
poured in upon me, and it was a very bad day in which I failed to take
£ 2.
“As I grew richer I grew more ambitious, took a house in the country,
and eventually married, without anyone having a suspicion as to my real
occupation. My dear wife knew that I had business in the City. She
little knew what.
“Last Monday I had finished for the day and was dressing in my room
above the opium den when I looked out of my window and saw, to my
horror and astonishment, that my wife was standing in the street, with
her eyes fixed full upon me. I gave a cry of surprise, threw up my arms
to cover my face, and, rushing to my confidant, the Lascar, entreated
him to prevent anyone from coming up to me. I heard her voice
downstairs, but I knew that she could not ascend. Swiftly I threw off
my clothes, pulled on those of a beggar, and put on my pigments and
wig. Even a wife’s eyes could not pierce so complete a disguise. But
then it occurred to me that there might be a search in the room, and
that the clothes might betray me. I threw open the window, reopening by
my violence a small cut which I had inflicted upon myself in the
bedroom that morning. Then I seized my coat, which was weighted by the
coppers which I had just transferred to it from the leather bag in
which I carried my takings. I hurled it out of the window, and it
disappeared into the Thames. The other clothes would have followed, but
at that moment there was a rush of constables up the stair, and a few
minutes after I found, rather, I confess, to my relief, that instead of
being identified as Mr. Neville St. Clair, I was arrested as his
murderer.
“I do not know that there is anything else for me to explain. I was
determined to preserve my disguise as long as possible, and hence my
preference for a dirty face. Knowing that my wife would be terribly
anxious, I slipped off my ring and confided it to the Lascar at a
moment when no constable was watching me, together with a hurried
scrawl, telling her that she had no cause to fear.”
“That note only reached her yesterday,” said Holmes.
“Good God! What a week she must have spent!”
“The police have watched this Lascar,” said Inspector Bradstreet, “and
I can quite understand that he might find it difficult to post a letter
unobserved. Probably he handed it to some sailor customer of his, who
forgot all about it for some days.”
“That was it,” said Holmes, nodding approvingly; “I have no doubt of
it. But have you never been prosecuted for begging?”
“Many times; but what was a fine to me?”
“It must stop here, however,” said Bradstreet. “If the police are to
hush this thing up, there must be no more of Hugh Boone.”
“I have sworn it by the most solemn oaths which a man can take.”
“In that case I think that it is probable that no further steps may be
taken. But if you are found again, then all must come out. I am sure,
Mr. Holmes, that we are very much indebted to you for having cleared
the matter up. I wish I knew how you reach your results.”
“I reached this one,” said my friend, “by sitting upon five pillows and
consuming an ounce of shag. I think, Watson, that if we drive to Baker
Street we shall just be in time for breakfast.”
|
vi_the_man_with_the_twisted_lip
|
VII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE CARBUNCLE
|
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
|
I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second morning
after Christmas, with the intention of wishing him the compliments of
the season. He was lounging upon the sofa in a purple dressing-gown, a
pipe-rack within his reach upon the right, and a pile of crumpled
morning papers, evidently newly studied, near at hand. Beside the couch
was a wooden chair, and on the angle of the back hung a very seedy and
disreputable hard-felt hat, much the worse for wear, and cracked in
several places. A lens and a forceps lying upon the seat of the chair
suggested that the hat had been suspended in this manner for the
purpose of examination.
“You are engaged,” said I; “perhaps I interrupt you.”
“Not at all. I am glad to have a friend with whom I can discuss my
results. The matter is a perfectly trivial one”—he jerked his thumb in
the direction of the old hat—“but there are points in connection with
it which are not entirely devoid of interest and even of instruction.”
I seated myself in his armchair and warmed my hands before his
crackling fire, for a sharp frost had set in, and the windows were
thick with the ice crystals. “I suppose,” I remarked, “that, homely as
it looks, this thing has some deadly story linked on to it—that it is
the clue which will guide you in the solution of some mystery and the
punishment of some crime.”
“No, no. No crime,” said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. “Only one of those
whimsical little incidents which will happen when you have four million
human beings all jostling each other within the space of a few square
miles. Amid the action and reaction of so dense a swarm of humanity,
every possible combination of events may be expected to take place, and
many a little problem will be presented which may be striking and
bizarre without being criminal. We have already had experience of
such.”
“So much so,” I remarked, “that of the last six cases which I have
added to my notes, three have been entirely free of any legal crime.”
“Precisely. You allude to my attempt to recover the Irene Adler papers,
to the singular case of Miss Mary Sutherland, and to the adventure of
the man with the twisted lip. Well, I have no doubt that this small
matter will fall into the same innocent category. You know Peterson,
the commissionaire?”
“Yes.”
“It is to him that this trophy belongs.”
“It is his hat.”
“No, no, he found it. Its owner is unknown. I beg that you will look
upon it not as a battered billycock but as an intellectual problem.
And, first, as to how it came here. It arrived upon Christmas morning,
in company with a good fat goose, which is, I have no doubt, roasting
at this moment in front of Peterson’s fire. The facts are these: about
four o’clock on Christmas morning, Peterson, who, as you know, is a
very honest fellow, was returning from some small jollification and was
making his way homeward down Tottenham Court Road. In front of him he
saw, in the gaslight, a tallish man, walking with a slight stagger, and
carrying a white goose slung over his shoulder. As he reached the
corner of Goodge Street, a row broke out between this stranger and a
little knot of roughs. One of the latter knocked off the man’s hat, on
which he raised his stick to defend himself and, swinging it over his
head, smashed the shop window behind him. Peterson had rushed forward
to protect the stranger from his assailants; but the man, shocked at
having broken the window, and seeing an official-looking person in
uniform rushing towards him, dropped his goose, took to his heels, and
vanished amid the labyrinth of small streets which lie at the back of
Tottenham Court Road. The roughs had also fled at the appearance of
Peterson, so that he was left in possession of the field of battle, and
also of the spoils of victory in the shape of this battered hat and a
most unimpeachable Christmas goose.”
“Which surely he restored to their owner?”
“My dear fellow, there lies the problem. It is true that ‘For Mrs.
Henry Baker’ was printed upon a small card which was tied to the bird’s
left leg, and it is also true that the initials ‘H. B.’ are legible
upon the lining of this hat, but as there are some thousands of Bakers,
and some hundreds of Henry Bakers in this city of ours, it is not easy
to restore lost property to any one of them.”
“What, then, did Peterson do?”
“He brought round both hat and goose to me on Christmas morning,
knowing that even the smallest problems are of interest to me. The
goose we retained until this morning, when there were signs that, in
spite of the slight frost, it would be well that it should be eaten
without unnecessary delay. Its finder has carried it off, therefore, to
fulfil the ultimate destiny of a goose, while I continue to retain the
hat of the unknown gentleman who lost his Christmas dinner.”
“Did he not advertise?”
“No.”
“Then, what clue could you have as to his identity?”
“Only as much as we can deduce.”
“From his hat?”
“Precisely.”
“But you are joking. What can you gather from this old battered felt?”
“Here is my lens. You know my methods. What can you gather yourself as
to the individuality of the man who has worn this article?”
I took the tattered object in my hands and turned it over rather
ruefully. It was a very ordinary black hat of the usual round shape,
hard and much the worse for wear. The lining had been of red silk, but
was a good deal discoloured. There was no maker’s name; but, as Holmes
had remarked, the initials “H. B.” were scrawled upon one side. It was
pierced in the brim for a hat-securer, but the elastic was missing. For
the rest, it was cracked, exceedingly dusty, and spotted in several
places, although there seemed to have been some attempt to hide the
discoloured patches by smearing them with ink.
“I can see nothing,” said I, handing it back to my friend.
“On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail, however, to
reason from what you see. You are too timid in drawing your
inferences.”
“Then, pray tell me what it is that you can infer from this hat?”
He picked it up and gazed at it in the peculiar introspective fashion
which was characteristic of him. “It is perhaps less suggestive than it
might have been,” he remarked, “and yet there are a few inferences
which are very distinct, and a few others which represent at least a
strong balance of probability. That the man was highly intellectual is
of course obvious upon the face of it, and also that he was fairly
well-to-do within the last three years, although he has now fallen upon
evil days. He had foresight, but has less now than formerly, pointing
to a moral retrogression, which, when taken with the decline of his
fortunes, seems to indicate some evil influence, probably drink, at
work upon him. This may account also for the obvious fact that his wife
has ceased to love him.”
“My dear Holmes!”
“He has, however, retained some degree of self-respect,” he continued,
disregarding my remonstrance. “He is a man who leads a sedentary life,
goes out little, is out of training entirely, is middle-aged, has
grizzled hair which he has had cut within the last few days, and which
he anoints with lime-cream. These are the more patent facts which are
to be deduced from his hat. Also, by the way, that it is extremely
improbable that he has gas laid on in his house.”
“You are certainly joking, Holmes.”
“Not in the least. Is it possible that even now, when I give you these
results, you are unable to see how they are attained?”
“I have no doubt that I am very stupid, but I must confess that I am
unable to follow you. For example, how did you deduce that this man was
intellectual?”
For answer Holmes clapped the hat upon his head. It came right over the
forehead and settled upon the bridge of his nose. “It is a question of
cubic capacity,” said he; “a man with so large a brain must have
something in it.”
“The decline of his fortunes, then?”
“This hat is three years old. These flat brims curled at the edge came
in then. It is a hat of the very best quality. Look at the band of
ribbed silk and the excellent lining. If this man could afford to buy
so expensive a hat three years ago, and has had no hat since, then he
has assuredly gone down in the world.”
“Well, that is clear enough, certainly. But how about the foresight and
the moral retrogression?”
Sherlock Holmes laughed. “Here is the foresight,” said he putting his
finger upon the little disc and loop of the hat-securer. “They are
never sold upon hats. If this man ordered one, it is a sign of a
certain amount of foresight, since he went out of his way to take this
precaution against the wind. But since we see that he has broken the
elastic and has not troubled to replace it, it is obvious that he has
less foresight now than formerly, which is a distinct proof of a
weakening nature. On the other hand, he has endeavoured to conceal some
of these stains upon the felt by daubing them with ink, which is a sign
that he has not entirely lost his self-respect.”
“Your reasoning is certainly plausible.”
“The further points, that he is middle-aged, that his hair is grizzled,
that it has been recently cut, and that he uses lime-cream, are all to
be gathered from a close examination of the lower part of the lining.
The lens discloses a large number of hair-ends, clean cut by the
scissors of the barber. They all appear to be adhesive, and there is a
distinct odour of lime-cream. This dust, you will observe, is not the
gritty, grey dust of the street but the fluffy brown dust of the house,
showing that it has been hung up indoors most of the time, while the
marks of moisture upon the inside are proof positive that the wearer
perspired very freely, and could therefore, hardly be in the best of
training.”
“But his wife—you said that she had ceased to love him.”
“This hat has not been brushed for weeks. When I see you, my dear
Watson, with a week’s accumulation of dust upon your hat, and when your
wife allows you to go out in such a state, I shall fear that you also
have been unfortunate enough to lose your wife’s affection.”
“But he might be a bachelor.”
“Nay, he was bringing home the goose as a peace-offering to his wife.
Remember the card upon the bird’s leg.”
“You have an answer to everything. But how on earth do you deduce that
the gas is not laid on in his house?”
“One tallow stain, or even two, might come by chance; but when I see no
less than five, I think that there can be little doubt that the
individual must be brought into frequent contact with burning
tallow—walks upstairs at night probably with his hat in one hand and a
guttering candle in the other. Anyhow, he never got tallow-stains from
a gas-jet. Are you satisfied?”
“Well, it is very ingenious,” said I, laughing; “but since, as you said
just now, there has been no crime committed, and no harm done save the
loss of a goose, all this seems to be rather a waste of energy.”
Sherlock Holmes had opened his mouth to reply, when the door flew open,
and Peterson, the commissionaire, rushed into the apartment with
flushed cheeks and the face of a man who is dazed with astonishment.
“The goose, Mr. Holmes! The goose, sir!” he gasped.
“Eh? What of it, then? Has it returned to life and flapped off through
the kitchen window?” Holmes twisted himself round upon the sofa to get
a fairer view of the man’s excited face.
“See here, sir! See what my wife found in its crop!” He held out his
hand and displayed upon the centre of the palm a brilliantly
scintillating blue stone, rather smaller than a bean in size, but of
such purity and radiance that it twinkled like an electric point in the
dark hollow of his hand.
Sherlock Holmes sat up with a whistle. “By Jove, Peterson!” said he,
“this is treasure trove indeed. I suppose you know what you have got?”
“A diamond, sir? A precious stone. It cuts into glass as though it were
putty.”
“It’s more than a precious stone. It is _the_ precious stone.”
“Not the Countess of Morcar’s blue carbuncle!” I ejaculated.
“Precisely so. I ought to know its size and shape, seeing that I have
read the advertisement about it in _The Times_ every day lately. It is
absolutely unique, and its value can only be conjectured, but the
reward offered of £ 1000 is certainly not within a twentieth part of
the market price.”
“A thousand pounds! Great Lord of mercy!” The commissionaire plumped
down into a chair and stared from one to the other of us.
“That is the reward, and I have reason to know that there are
sentimental considerations in the background which would induce the
Countess to part with half her fortune if she could but recover the
gem.”
“It was lost, if I remember aright, at the Hotel Cosmopolitan,” I
remarked.
“Precisely so, on December 22nd, just five days ago. John Horner, a
plumber, was accused of having abstracted it from the lady’s
jewel-case. The evidence against him was so strong that the case has
been referred to the Assizes. I have some account of the matter here, I
believe.” He rummaged amid his newspapers, glancing over the dates,
until at last he smoothed one out, doubled it over, and read the
following paragraph:
“Hotel Cosmopolitan Jewel Robbery. John Horner, 26, plumber, was
brought up upon the charge of having upon the 22nd inst., abstracted
from the jewel-case of the Countess of Morcar the valuable gem known as
the blue carbuncle. James Ryder, upper-attendant at the hotel, gave his
evidence to the effect that he had shown Horner up to the dressing-room
of the Countess of Morcar upon the day of the robbery in order that he
might solder the second bar of the grate, which was loose. He had
remained with Horner some little time, but had finally been called
away. On returning, he found that Horner had disappeared, that the
bureau had been forced open, and that the small morocco casket in
which, as it afterwards transpired, the Countess was accustomed to keep
her jewel, was lying empty upon the dressing-table. Ryder instantly
gave the alarm, and Horner was arrested the same evening; but the stone
could not be found either upon his person or in his rooms. Catherine
Cusack, maid to the Countess, deposed to having heard Ryder’s cry of
dismay on discovering the robbery, and to having rushed into the room,
where she found matters as described by the last witness. Inspector
Bradstreet, B division, gave evidence as to the arrest of Horner, who
struggled frantically, and protested his innocence in the strongest
terms. Evidence of a previous conviction for robbery having been given
against the prisoner, the magistrate refused to deal summarily with the
offence, but referred it to the Assizes. Horner, who had shown signs of
intense emotion during the proceedings, fainted away at the conclusion
and was carried out of court.”
“Hum! So much for the police-court,” said Holmes thoughtfully, tossing
aside the paper. “The question for us now to solve is the sequence of
events leading from a rifled jewel-case at one end to the crop of a
goose in Tottenham Court Road at the other. You see, Watson, our little
deductions have suddenly assumed a much more important and less
innocent aspect. Here is the stone; the stone came from the goose, and
the goose came from Mr. Henry Baker, the gentleman with the bad hat and
all the other characteristics with which I have bored you. So now we
must set ourselves very seriously to finding this gentleman and
ascertaining what part he has played in this little mystery. To do
this, we must try the simplest means first, and these lie undoubtedly
in an advertisement in all the evening papers. If this fail, I shall
have recourse to other methods.”
“What will you say?”
“Give me a pencil and that slip of paper. Now, then: ‘Found at the
corner of Goodge Street, a goose and a black felt hat. Mr. Henry Baker
can have the same by applying at 6:30 this evening at 221B, Baker
Street.’ That is clear and concise.”
“Very. But will he see it?”
“Well, he is sure to keep an eye on the papers, since, to a poor man,
the loss was a heavy one. He was clearly so scared by his mischance in
breaking the window and by the approach of Peterson that he thought of
nothing but flight, but since then he must have bitterly regretted the
impulse which caused him to drop his bird. Then, again, the
introduction of his name will cause him to see it, for everyone who
knows him will direct his attention to it. Here you are, Peterson, run
down to the advertising agency and have this put in the evening
papers.”
“In which, sir?”
“Oh, in the _Globe_, _Star_, _Pall Mall_, _St. James’s Gazette_,
_Evening News_, _Standard_, _Echo_, and any others that occur to you.”
“Very well, sir. And this stone?”
“Ah, yes, I shall keep the stone. Thank you. And, I say, Peterson, just
buy a goose on your way back and leave it here with me, for we must
have one to give to this gentleman in place of the one which your
family is now devouring.”
When the commissionaire had gone, Holmes took up the stone and held it
against the light. “It’s a bonny thing,” said he. “Just see how it
glints and sparkles. Of course it is a nucleus and focus of crime.
Every good stone is. They are the devil’s pet baits. In the larger and
older jewels every facet may stand for a bloody deed. This stone is not
yet twenty years old. It was found in the banks of the Amoy River in
southern China and is remarkable in having every characteristic of the
carbuncle, save that it is blue in shade instead of ruby red. In spite
of its youth, it has already a sinister history. There have been two
murders, a vitriol-throwing, a suicide, and several robberies brought
about for the sake of this forty-grain weight of crystallised charcoal.
Who would think that so pretty a toy would be a purveyor to the gallows
and the prison? I’ll lock it up in my strong box now and drop a line to
the Countess to say that we have it.”
“Do you think that this man Horner is innocent?”
“I cannot tell.”
“Well, then, do you imagine that this other one, Henry Baker, had
anything to do with the matter?”
“It is, I think, much more likely that Henry Baker is an absolutely
innocent man, who had no idea that the bird which he was carrying was
of considerably more value than if it were made of solid gold. That,
however, I shall determine by a very simple test if we have an answer
to our advertisement.”
“And you can do nothing until then?”
“Nothing.”
“In that case I shall continue my professional round. But I shall come
back in the evening at the hour you have mentioned, for I should like
to see the solution of so tangled a business.”
“Very glad to see you. I dine at seven. There is a woodcock, I believe.
By the way, in view of recent occurrences, perhaps I ought to ask Mrs.
Hudson to examine its crop.”
I had been delayed at a case, and it was a little after half-past six
when I found myself in Baker Street once more. As I approached the
house I saw a tall man in a Scotch bonnet with a coat which was
buttoned up to his chin waiting outside in the bright semicircle which
was thrown from the fanlight. Just as I arrived the door was opened,
and we were shown up together to Holmes’ room.
“Mr. Henry Baker, I believe,” said he, rising from his armchair and
greeting his visitor with the easy air of geniality which he could so
readily assume. “Pray take this chair by the fire, Mr. Baker. It is a
cold night, and I observe that your circulation is more adapted for
summer than for winter. Ah, Watson, you have just come at the right
time. Is that your hat, Mr. Baker?”
“Yes, sir, that is undoubtedly my hat.”
He was a large man with rounded shoulders, a massive head, and a broad,
intelligent face, sloping down to a pointed beard of grizzled brown. A
touch of red in nose and cheeks, with a slight tremor of his extended
hand, recalled Holmes’ surmise as to his habits. His rusty black
frock-coat was buttoned right up in front, with the collar turned up,
and his lank wrists protruded from his sleeves without a sign of cuff
or shirt. He spoke in a slow staccato fashion, choosing his words with
care, and gave the impression generally of a man of learning and
letters who had had ill-usage at the hands of fortune.
“We have retained these things for some days,” said Holmes, “because we
expected to see an advertisement from you giving your address. I am at
a loss to know now why you did not advertise.”
Our visitor gave a rather shamefaced laugh. “Shillings have not been so
plentiful with me as they once were,” he remarked. “I had no doubt that
the gang of roughs who assaulted me had carried off both my hat and the
bird. I did not care to spend more money in a hopeless attempt at
recovering them.”
“Very naturally. By the way, about the bird, we were compelled to eat
it.”
“To eat it!” Our visitor half rose from his chair in his excitement.
“Yes, it would have been of no use to anyone had we not done so. But I
presume that this other goose upon the sideboard, which is about the
same weight and perfectly fresh, will answer your purpose equally
well?”
“Oh, certainly, certainly,” answered Mr. Baker with a sigh of relief.
“Of course, we still have the feathers, legs, crop, and so on of your
own bird, so if you wish—”
The man burst into a hearty laugh. “They might be useful to me as
relics of my adventure,” said he, “but beyond that I can hardly see
what use the _disjecta membra_ of my late acquaintance are going to be
to me. No, sir, I think that, with your permission, I will confine my
attentions to the excellent bird which I perceive upon the sideboard.”
Sherlock Holmes glanced sharply across at me with a slight shrug of his
shoulders.
“There is your hat, then, and there your bird,” said he. “By the way,
would it bore you to tell me where you got the other one from? I am
somewhat of a fowl fancier, and I have seldom seen a better grown
goose.”
“Certainly, sir,” said Baker, who had risen and tucked his newly gained
property under his arm. “There are a few of us who frequent the Alpha
Inn, near the Museum—we are to be found in the Museum itself during the
day, you understand. This year our good host, Windigate by name,
instituted a goose club, by which, on consideration of some few pence
every week, we were each to receive a bird at Christmas. My pence were
duly paid, and the rest is familiar to you. I am much indebted to you,
sir, for a Scotch bonnet is fitted neither to my years nor my gravity.”
With a comical pomposity of manner he bowed solemnly to both of us and
strode off upon his way.
“So much for Mr. Henry Baker,” said Holmes when he had closed the door
behind him. “It is quite certain that he knows nothing whatever about
the matter. Are you hungry, Watson?”
“Not particularly.”
“Then I suggest that we turn our dinner into a supper and follow up
this clue while it is still hot.”
“By all means.”
It was a bitter night, so we drew on our ulsters and wrapped cravats
about our throats. Outside, the stars were shining coldly in a
cloudless sky, and the breath of the passers-by blew out into smoke
like so many pistol shots. Our footfalls rang out crisply and loudly as
we swung through the doctors’ quarter, Wimpole Street, Harley Street,
and so through Wigmore Street into Oxford Street. In a quarter of an
hour we were in Bloomsbury at the Alpha Inn, which is a small
public-house at the corner of one of the streets which runs down into
Holborn. Holmes pushed open the door of the private bar and ordered two
glasses of beer from the ruddy-faced, white-aproned landlord.
“Your beer should be excellent if it is as good as your geese,” said
he.
“My geese!” The man seemed surprised.
“Yes. I was speaking only half an hour ago to Mr. Henry Baker, who was
a member of your goose club.”
“Ah! yes, I see. But you see, sir, them’s not _our_ geese.”
“Indeed! Whose, then?”
“Well, I got the two dozen from a salesman in Covent Garden.”
“Indeed? I know some of them. Which was it?”
“Breckinridge is his name.”
“Ah! I don’t know him. Well, here’s your good health landlord, and
prosperity to your house. Good-night.”
“Now for Mr. Breckinridge,” he continued, buttoning up his coat as we
came out into the frosty air. “Remember, Watson that though we have so
homely a thing as a goose at one end of this chain, we have at the
other a man who will certainly get seven years’ penal servitude unless
we can establish his innocence. It is possible that our inquiry may but
confirm his guilt; but, in any case, we have a line of investigation
which has been missed by the police, and which a singular chance has
placed in our hands. Let us follow it out to the bitter end. Faces to
the south, then, and quick march!”
We passed across Holborn, down Endell Street, and so through a zigzag
of slums to Covent Garden Market. One of the largest stalls bore the
name of Breckinridge upon it, and the proprietor a horsey-looking man,
with a sharp face and trim side-whiskers was helping a boy to put up
the shutters.
“Good-evening. It’s a cold night,” said Holmes.
The salesman nodded and shot a questioning glance at my companion.
“Sold out of geese, I see,” continued Holmes, pointing at the bare
slabs of marble.
“Let you have five hundred to-morrow morning.”
“That’s no good.”
“Well, there are some on the stall with the gas-flare.”
“Ah, but I was recommended to you.”
“Who by?”
“The landlord of the Alpha.”
“Oh, yes; I sent him a couple of dozen.”
“Fine birds they were, too. Now where did you get them from?”
To my surprise the question provoked a burst of anger from the
salesman.
“Now, then, mister,” said he, with his head cocked and his arms akimbo,
“what are you driving at? Let’s have it straight, now.”
“It is straight enough. I should like to know who sold you the geese
which you supplied to the Alpha.”
“Well then, I shan’t tell you. So now!”
“Oh, it is a matter of no importance; but I don’t know why you should
be so warm over such a trifle.”
“Warm! You’d be as warm, maybe, if you were as pestered as I am. When I
pay good money for a good article there should be an end of the
business; but it’s ‘Where are the geese?’ and ‘Who did you sell the
geese to?’ and ‘What will you take for the geese?’ One would think they
were the only geese in the world, to hear the fuss that is made over
them.”
“Well, I have no connection with any other people who have been making
inquiries,” said Holmes carelessly. “If you won’t tell us the bet is
off, that is all. But I’m always ready to back my opinion on a matter
of fowls, and I have a fiver on it that the bird I ate is country
bred.”
“Well, then, you’ve lost your fiver, for it’s town bred,” snapped the
salesman.
“It’s nothing of the kind.”
“I say it is.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“D’you think you know more about fowls than I, who have handled them
ever since I was a nipper? I tell you, all those birds that went to the
Alpha were town bred.”
“You’ll never persuade me to believe that.”
“Will you bet, then?”
“It’s merely taking your money, for I know that I am right. But I’ll
have a sovereign on with you, just to teach you not to be obstinate.”
The salesman chuckled grimly. “Bring me the books, Bill,” said he.
The small boy brought round a small thin volume and a great
greasy-backed one, laying them out together beneath the hanging lamp.
“Now then, Mr. Cocksure,” said the salesman, “I thought that I was out
of geese, but before I finish you’ll find that there is still one left
in my shop. You see this little book?”
“Well?”
“That’s the list of the folk from whom I buy. D’you see? Well, then,
here on this page are the country folk, and the numbers after their
names are where their accounts are in the big ledger. Now, then! You
see this other page in red ink? Well, that is a list of my town
suppliers. Now, look at that third name. Just read it out to me.”
“Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road—249,” read Holmes.
“Quite so. Now turn that up in the ledger.”
Holmes turned to the page indicated. “Here you are, ‘Mrs. Oakshott,
117, Brixton Road, egg and poultry supplier.’”
“Now, then, what’s the last entry?”
“‘December 22nd. Twenty-four geese at 7_s_. 6_d_.’”
“Quite so. There you are. And underneath?”
“‘Sold to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha, at 12_s_.’”
“What have you to say now?”
Sherlock Holmes looked deeply chagrined. He drew a sovereign from his
pocket and threw it down upon the slab, turning away with the air of a
man whose disgust is too deep for words. A few yards off he stopped
under a lamp-post and laughed in the hearty, noiseless fashion which
was peculiar to him.
“When you see a man with whiskers of that cut and the ‘Pink ’un’
protruding out of his pocket, you can always draw him by a bet,” said
he. “I daresay that if I had put £ 100 down in front of him, that man
would not have given me such complete information as was drawn from him
by the idea that he was doing me on a wager. Well, Watson, we are, I
fancy, nearing the end of our quest, and the only point which remains
to be determined is whether we should go on to this Mrs. Oakshott
to-night, or whether we should reserve it for to-morrow. It is clear
from what that surly fellow said that there are others besides
ourselves who are anxious about the matter, and I should—”
His remarks were suddenly cut short by a loud hubbub which broke out
from the stall which we had just left. Turning round we saw a little
rat-faced fellow standing in the centre of the circle of yellow light
which was thrown by the swinging lamp, while Breckinridge, the
salesman, framed in the door of his stall, was shaking his fists
fiercely at the cringing figure.
“I’ve had enough of you and your geese,” he shouted. “I wish you were
all at the devil together. If you come pestering me any more with your
silly talk I’ll set the dog at you. You bring Mrs. Oakshott here and
I’ll answer her, but what have you to do with it? Did I buy the geese
off you?”
“No; but one of them was mine all the same,” whined the little man.
“Well, then, ask Mrs. Oakshott for it.”
“She told me to ask you.”
“Well, you can ask the King of Proosia, for all I care. I’ve had enough
of it. Get out of this!” He rushed fiercely forward, and the inquirer
flitted away into the darkness.
“Ha! this may save us a visit to Brixton Road,” whispered Holmes. “Come
with me, and we will see what is to be made of this fellow.” Striding
through the scattered knots of people who lounged round the flaring
stalls, my companion speedily overtook the little man and touched him
upon the shoulder. He sprang round, and I could see in the gas-light
that every vestige of colour had been driven from his face.
“Who are you, then? What do you want?” he asked in a quavering voice.
“You will excuse me,” said Holmes blandly, “but I could not help
overhearing the questions which you put to the salesman just now. I
think that I could be of assistance to you.”
“You? Who are you? How could you know anything of the matter?”
“My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other
people don’t know.”
“But you can know nothing of this?”
“Excuse me, I know everything of it. You are endeavouring to trace some
geese which were sold by Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton Road, to a salesman
named Breckinridge, by him in turn to Mr. Windigate, of the Alpha, and
by him to his club, of which Mr. Henry Baker is a member.”
“Oh, sir, you are the very man whom I have longed to meet,” cried the
little fellow with outstretched hands and quivering fingers. “I can
hardly explain to you how interested I am in this matter.”
Sherlock Holmes hailed a four-wheeler which was passing. “In that case
we had better discuss it in a cosy room rather than in this wind-swept
market-place,” said he. “But pray tell me, before we go farther, who it
is that I have the pleasure of assisting.”
The man hesitated for an instant. “My name is John Robinson,” he
answered with a sidelong glance.
“No, no; the real name,” said Holmes sweetly. “It is always awkward
doing business with an alias.”
A flush sprang to the white cheeks of the stranger. “Well then,” said
he, “my real name is James Ryder.”
“Precisely so. Head attendant at the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Pray step into
the cab, and I shall soon be able to tell you everything which you
would wish to know.”
The little man stood glancing from one to the other of us with
half-frightened, half-hopeful eyes, as one who is not sure whether he
is on the verge of a windfall or of a catastrophe. Then he stepped into
the cab, and in half an hour we were back in the sitting-room at Baker
Street. Nothing had been said during our drive, but the high, thin
breathing of our new companion, and the claspings and unclaspings of
his hands, spoke of the nervous tension within him.
“Here we are!” said Holmes cheerily as we filed into the room. “The
fire looks very seasonable in this weather. You look cold, Mr. Ryder.
Pray take the basket-chair. I will just put on my slippers before we
settle this little matter of yours. Now, then! You want to know what
became of those geese?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Or rather, I fancy, of that goose. It was one bird, I imagine in which
you were interested—white, with a black bar across the tail.”
Ryder quivered with emotion. “Oh, sir,” he cried, “can you tell me
where it went to?”
“It came here.”
“Here?”
“Yes, and a most remarkable bird it proved. I don’t wonder that you
should take an interest in it. It laid an egg after it was dead—the
bonniest, brightest little blue egg that ever was seen. I have it here
in my museum.”
Our visitor staggered to his feet and clutched the mantelpiece with his
right hand. Holmes unlocked his strong-box and held up the blue
carbuncle, which shone out like a star, with a cold, brilliant,
many-pointed radiance. Ryder stood glaring with a drawn face, uncertain
whether to claim or to disown it.
“The game’s up, Ryder,” said Holmes quietly. “Hold up, man, or you’ll
be into the fire! Give him an arm back into his chair, Watson. He’s not
got blood enough to go in for felony with impunity. Give him a dash of
brandy. So! Now he looks a little more human. What a shrimp it is, to
be sure!”
For a moment he had staggered and nearly fallen, but the brandy brought
a tinge of colour into his cheeks, and he sat staring with frightened
eyes at his accuser.
“I have almost every link in my hands, and all the proofs which I could
possibly need, so there is little which you need tell me. Still, that
little may as well be cleared up to make the case complete. You had
heard, Ryder, of this blue stone of the Countess of Morcar’s?”
“It was Catherine Cusack who told me of it,” said he in a crackling
voice.
“I see—her ladyship’s waiting-maid. Well, the temptation of sudden
wealth so easily acquired was too much for you, as it has been for
better men before you; but you were not very scrupulous in the means
you used. It seems to me, Ryder, that there is the making of a very
pretty villain in you. You knew that this man Horner, the plumber, had
been concerned in some such matter before, and that suspicion would
rest the more readily upon him. What did you do, then? You made some
small job in my lady’s room—you and your confederate Cusack—and you
managed that he should be the man sent for. Then, when he had left, you
rifled the jewel-case, raised the alarm, and had this unfortunate man
arrested. You then—”
Ryder threw himself down suddenly upon the rug and clutched at my
companion’s knees. “For God’s sake, have mercy!” he shrieked. “Think of
my father! Of my mother! It would break their hearts. I never went
wrong before! I never will again. I swear it. I’ll swear it on a Bible.
Oh, don’t bring it into court! For Christ’s sake, don’t!”
“Get back into your chair!” said Holmes sternly. “It is very well to
cringe and crawl now, but you thought little enough of this poor Horner
in the dock for a crime of which he knew nothing.”
“I will fly, Mr. Holmes. I will leave the country, sir. Then the charge
against him will break down.”
“Hum! We will talk about that. And now let us hear a true account of
the next act. How came the stone into the goose, and how came the goose
into the open market? Tell us the truth, for there lies your only hope
of safety.”
Ryder passed his tongue over his parched lips. “I will tell you it just
as it happened, sir,” said he. “When Horner had been arrested, it
seemed to me that it would be best for me to get away with the stone at
once, for I did not know at what moment the police might not take it
into their heads to search me and my room. There was no place about the
hotel where it would be safe. I went out, as if on some commission, and
I made for my sister’s house. She had married a man named Oakshott, and
lived in Brixton Road, where she fattened fowls for the market. All the
way there every man I met seemed to me to be a policeman or a
detective; and, for all that it was a cold night, the sweat was pouring
down my face before I came to the Brixton Road. My sister asked me what
was the matter, and why I was so pale; but I told her that I had been
upset by the jewel robbery at the hotel. Then I went into the back yard
and smoked a pipe and wondered what it would be best to do.
“I had a friend once called Maudsley, who went to the bad, and has just
been serving his time in Pentonville. One day he had met me, and fell
into talk about the ways of thieves, and how they could get rid of what
they stole. I knew that he would be true to me, for I knew one or two
things about him; so I made up my mind to go right on to Kilburn, where
he lived, and take him into my confidence. He would show me how to turn
the stone into money. But how to get to him in safety? I thought of the
agonies I had gone through in coming from the hotel. I might at any
moment be seized and searched, and there would be the stone in my
waistcoat pocket. I was leaning against the wall at the time and
looking at the geese which were waddling about round my feet, and
suddenly an idea came into my head which showed me how I could beat the
best detective that ever lived.
“My sister had told me some weeks before that I might have the pick of
her geese for a Christmas present, and I knew that she was always as
good as her word. I would take my goose now, and in it I would carry my
stone to Kilburn. There was a little shed in the yard, and behind this
I drove one of the birds—a fine big one, white, with a barred tail. I
caught it, and prying its bill open, I thrust the stone down its throat
as far as my finger could reach. The bird gave a gulp, and I felt the
stone pass along its gullet and down into its crop. But the creature
flapped and struggled, and out came my sister to know what was the
matter. As I turned to speak to her the brute broke loose and fluttered
off among the others.
“‘Whatever were you doing with that bird, Jem?’ says she.
“‘Well,’ said I, ‘you said you’d give me one for Christmas, and I was
feeling which was the fattest.’
“‘Oh,’ says she, ‘we’ve set yours aside for you—Jem’s bird, we call it.
It’s the big white one over yonder. There’s twenty-six of them, which
makes one for you, and one for us, and two dozen for the market.’
“‘Thank you, Maggie,’ says I; ‘but if it is all the same to you, I’d
rather have that one I was handling just now.’
“‘The other is a good three pound heavier,’ said she, ‘and we fattened
it expressly for you.’
“‘Never mind. I’ll have the other, and I’ll take it now,’ said I.
“‘Oh, just as you like,’ said she, a little huffed. ‘Which is it you
want, then?’
“‘That white one with the barred tail, right in the middle of the
flock.’
“‘Oh, very well. Kill it and take it with you.’
“Well, I did what she said, Mr. Holmes, and I carried the bird all the
way to Kilburn. I told my pal what I had done, for he was a man that it
was easy to tell a thing like that to. He laughed until he choked, and
we got a knife and opened the goose. My heart turned to water, for
there was no sign of the stone, and I knew that some terrible mistake
had occurred. I left the bird, rushed back to my sister’s, and hurried
into the back yard. There was not a bird to be seen there.
“‘Where are they all, Maggie?’ I cried.
“‘Gone to the dealer’s, Jem.’
“‘Which dealer’s?’
“‘Breckinridge, of Covent Garden.’
“‘But was there another with a barred tail?’ I asked, ‘the same as the
one I chose?’
“‘Yes, Jem; there were two barred-tailed ones, and I could never tell
them apart.’
“Well, then, of course I saw it all, and I ran off as hard as my feet
would carry me to this man Breckinridge; but he had sold the lot at
once, and not one word would he tell me as to where they had gone. You
heard him yourselves to-night. Well, he has always answered me like
that. My sister thinks that I am going mad. Sometimes I think that I am
myself. And now—and now I am myself a branded thief, without ever
having touched the wealth for which I sold my character. God help me!
God help me!” He burst into convulsive sobbing, with his face buried in
his hands.
There was a long silence, broken only by his heavy breathing and by the
measured tapping of Sherlock Holmes’ finger-tips upon the edge of the
table. Then my friend rose and threw open the door.
“Get out!” said he.
“What, sir! Oh, Heaven bless you!”
“No more words. Get out!”
And no more words were needed. There was a rush, a clatter upon the
stairs, the bang of a door, and the crisp rattle of running footfalls
from the street.
“After all, Watson,” said Holmes, reaching up his hand for his clay
pipe, “I am not retained by the police to supply their deficiencies. If
Horner were in danger it would be another thing; but this fellow will
not appear against him, and the case must collapse. I suppose that I am
commuting a felony, but it is just possible that I am saving a soul.
This fellow will not go wrong again; he is too terribly frightened.
Send him to gaol now, and you make him a gaol-bird for life. Besides,
it is the season of forgiveness. Chance has put in our way a most
singular and whimsical problem, and its solution is its own reward. If
you will have the goodness to touch the bell, Doctor, we will begin
another investigation, in which, also a bird will be the chief
feature.”
|
vii_the_adventure_of_the_blue_carbuncle
|
VIII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND
|
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
|
On glancing over my notes of the seventy odd cases in which I have
during the last eight years studied the methods of my friend Sherlock
Holmes, I find many tragic, some comic, a large number merely strange,
but none commonplace; for, working as he did rather for the love of his
art than for the acquirement of wealth, he refused to associate himself
with any investigation which did not tend towards the unusual, and even
the fantastic. Of all these varied cases, however, I cannot recall any
which presented more singular features than that which was associated
with the well-known Surrey family of the Roylotts of Stoke Moran. The
events in question occurred in the early days of my association with
Holmes, when we were sharing rooms as bachelors in Baker Street. It is
possible that I might have placed them upon record before, but a
promise of secrecy was made at the time, from which I have only been
freed during the last month by the untimely death of the lady to whom
the pledge was given. It is perhaps as well that the facts should now
come to light, for I have reasons to know that there are widespread
rumours as to the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott which tend to make the
matter even more terrible than the truth.
It was early in April in the year ’83 that I woke one morning to find
Sherlock Holmes standing, fully dressed, by the side of my bed. He was
a late riser, as a rule, and as the clock on the mantelpiece showed me
that it was only a quarter-past seven, I blinked up at him in some
surprise, and perhaps just a little resentment, for I was myself
regular in my habits.
“Very sorry to knock you up, Watson,” said he, “but it’s the common lot
this morning. Mrs. Hudson has been knocked up, she retorted upon me,
and I on you.”
“What is it, then—a fire?”
“No; a client. It seems that a young lady has arrived in a considerable
state of excitement, who insists upon seeing me. She is waiting now in
the sitting-room. Now, when young ladies wander about the metropolis at
this hour of the morning, and knock sleepy people up out of their beds,
I presume that it is something very pressing which they have to
communicate. Should it prove to be an interesting case, you would, I am
sure, wish to follow it from the outset. I thought, at any rate, that I
should call you and give you the chance.”
“My dear fellow, I would not miss it for anything.”
I had no keener pleasure than in following Holmes in his professional
investigations, and in admiring the rapid deductions, as swift as
intuitions, and yet always founded on a logical basis with which he
unravelled the problems which were submitted to him. I rapidly threw on
my clothes and was ready in a few minutes to accompany my friend down
to the sitting-room. A lady dressed in black and heavily veiled, who
had been sitting in the window, rose as we entered.
“Good-morning, madam,” said Holmes cheerily. “My name is Sherlock
Holmes. This is my intimate friend and associate, Dr. Watson, before
whom you can speak as freely as before myself. Ha! I am glad to see
that Mrs. Hudson has had the good sense to light the fire. Pray draw up
to it, and I shall order you a cup of hot coffee, for I observe that
you are shivering.”
“It is not cold which makes me shiver,” said the woman in a low voice,
changing her seat as requested.
“What, then?”
“It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror.” She raised her veil as she
spoke, and we could see that she was indeed in a pitiable state of
agitation, her face all drawn and grey, with restless frightened eyes,
like those of some hunted animal. Her features and figure were those of
a woman of thirty, but her hair was shot with premature grey, and her
expression was weary and haggard. Sherlock Holmes ran her over with one
of his quick, all-comprehensive glances.
“You must not fear,” said he soothingly, bending forward and patting
her forearm. “We shall soon set matters right, I have no doubt. You
have come in by train this morning, I see.”
“You know me, then?”
“No, but I observe the second half of a return ticket in the palm of
your left glove. You must have started early, and yet you had a good
drive in a dog-cart, along heavy roads, before you reached the
station.”
The lady gave a violent start and stared in bewilderment at my
companion.
“There is no mystery, my dear madam,” said he, smiling. “The left arm
of your jacket is spattered with mud in no less than seven places. The
marks are perfectly fresh. There is no vehicle save a dog-cart which
throws up mud in that way, and then only when you sit on the left-hand
side of the driver.”
“Whatever your reasons may be, you are perfectly correct,” said she. “I
started from home before six, reached Leatherhead at twenty past, and
came in by the first train to Waterloo. Sir, I can stand this strain no
longer; I shall go mad if it continues. I have no one to turn to—none,
save only one, who cares for me, and he, poor fellow, can be of little
aid. I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes; I have heard of you from Mrs.
Farintosh, whom you helped in the hour of her sore need. It was from
her that I had your address. Oh, sir, do you not think that you could
help me, too, and at least throw a little light through the dense
darkness which surrounds me? At present it is out of my power to reward
you for your services, but in a month or six weeks I shall be married,
with the control of my own income, and then at least you shall not find
me ungrateful.”
Holmes turned to his desk and, unlocking it, drew out a small
case-book, which he consulted.
“Farintosh,” said he. “Ah yes, I recall the case; it was concerned with
an opal tiara. I think it was before your time, Watson. I can only say,
madam, that I shall be happy to devote the same care to your case as I
did to that of your friend. As to reward, my profession is its own
reward; but you are at liberty to defray whatever expenses I may be put
to, at the time which suits you best. And now I beg that you will lay
before us everything that may help us in forming an opinion upon the
matter.”
“Alas!” replied our visitor, “the very horror of my situation lies in
the fact that my fears are so vague, and my suspicions depend so
entirely upon small points, which might seem trivial to another, that
even he to whom of all others I have a right to look for help and
advice looks upon all that I tell him about it as the fancies of a
nervous woman. He does not say so, but I can read it from his soothing
answers and averted eyes. But I have heard, Mr. Holmes, that you can
see deeply into the manifold wickedness of the human heart. You may
advise me how to walk amid the dangers which encompass me.”
“I am all attention, madam.”
“My name is Helen Stoner, and I am living with my stepfather, who is
the last survivor of one of the oldest Saxon families in England, the
Roylotts of Stoke Moran, on the western border of Surrey.”
Holmes nodded his head. “The name is familiar to me,” said he.
“The family was at one time among the richest in England, and the
estates extended over the borders into Berkshire in the north, and
Hampshire in the west. In the last century, however, four successive
heirs were of a dissolute and wasteful disposition, and the family ruin
was eventually completed by a gambler in the days of the Regency.
Nothing was left save a few acres of ground, and the
two-hundred-year-old house, which is itself crushed under a heavy
mortgage. The last squire dragged out his existence there, living the
horrible life of an aristocratic pauper; but his only son, my
stepfather, seeing that he must adapt himself to the new conditions,
obtained an advance from a relative, which enabled him to take a
medical degree and went out to Calcutta, where, by his professional
skill and his force of character, he established a large practice. In a
fit of anger, however, caused by some robberies which had been
perpetrated in the house, he beat his native butler to death and
narrowly escaped a capital sentence. As it was, he suffered a long term
of imprisonment and afterwards returned to England a morose and
disappointed man.
“When Dr. Roylott was in India he married my mother, Mrs. Stoner, the
young widow of Major-General Stoner, of the Bengal Artillery. My sister
Julia and I were twins, and we were only two years old at the time of
my mother’s re-marriage. She had a considerable sum of money—not less
than £ 1000 a year—and this she bequeathed to Dr. Roylott entirely
while we resided with him, with a provision that a certain annual sum
should be allowed to each of us in the event of our marriage. Shortly
after our return to England my mother died—she was killed eight years
ago in a railway accident near Crewe. Dr. Roylott then abandoned his
attempts to establish himself in practice in London and took us to live
with him in the old ancestral house at Stoke Moran. The money which my
mother had left was enough for all our wants, and there seemed to be no
obstacle to our happiness.
“But a terrible change came over our stepfather about this time.
Instead of making friends and exchanging visits with our neighbours,
who had at first been overjoyed to see a Roylott of Stoke Moran back in
the old family seat, he shut himself up in his house and seldom came
out save to indulge in ferocious quarrels with whoever might cross his
path. Violence of temper approaching to mania has been hereditary in
the men of the family, and in my stepfather’s case it had, I believe,
been intensified by his long residence in the tropics. A series of
disgraceful brawls took place, two of which ended in the police-court,
until at last he became the terror of the village, and the folks would
fly at his approach, for he is a man of immense strength, and
absolutely uncontrollable in his anger.
“Last week he hurled the local blacksmith over a parapet into a stream,
and it was only by paying over all the money which I could gather
together that I was able to avert another public exposure. He had no
friends at all save the wandering gipsies, and he would give these
vagabonds leave to encamp upon the few acres of bramble-covered land
which represent the family estate, and would accept in return the
hospitality of their tents, wandering away with them sometimes for
weeks on end. He has a passion also for Indian animals, which are sent
over to him by a correspondent, and he has at this moment a cheetah and
a baboon, which wander freely over his grounds and are feared by the
villagers almost as much as their master.
“You can imagine from what I say that my poor sister Julia and I had no
great pleasure in our lives. No servant would stay with us, and for a
long time we did all the work of the house. She was but thirty at the
time of her death, and yet her hair had already begun to whiten, even
as mine has.”
“Your sister is dead, then?”
“She died just two years ago, and it is of her death that I wish to
speak to you. You can understand that, living the life which I have
described, we were little likely to see anyone of our own age and
position. We had, however, an aunt, my mother’s maiden sister, Miss
Honoria Westphail, who lives near Harrow, and we were occasionally
allowed to pay short visits at this lady’s house. Julia went there at
Christmas two years ago, and met there a half-pay major of marines, to
whom she became engaged. My stepfather learned of the engagement when
my sister returned and offered no objection to the marriage; but within
a fortnight of the day which had been fixed for the wedding, the
terrible event occurred which has deprived me of my only companion.”
Sherlock Holmes had been leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed
and his head sunk in a cushion, but he half opened his lids now and
glanced across at his visitor.
“Pray be precise as to details,” said he.
“It is easy for me to be so, for every event of that dreadful time is
seared into my memory. The manor-house is, as I have already said, very
old, and only one wing is now inhabited. The bedrooms in this wing are
on the ground floor, the sitting-rooms being in the central block of
the buildings. Of these bedrooms the first is Dr. Roylott’s, the second
my sister’s, and the third my own. There is no communication between
them, but they all open out into the same corridor. Do I make myself
plain?”
“Perfectly so.”
“The windows of the three rooms open out upon the lawn. That fatal
night Dr. Roylott had gone to his room early, though we knew that he
had not retired to rest, for my sister was troubled by the smell of the
strong Indian cigars which it was his custom to smoke. She left her
room, therefore, and came into mine, where she sat for some time,
chatting about her approaching wedding. At eleven o’clock she rose to
leave me, but she paused at the door and looked back.
“‘Tell me, Helen,’ said she, ‘have you ever heard anyone whistle in the
dead of the night?’
“‘Never,’ said I.
“‘I suppose that you could not possibly whistle, yourself, in your
sleep?’
“‘Certainly not. But why?’
“‘Because during the last few nights I have always, about three in the
morning, heard a low, clear whistle. I am a light sleeper, and it has
awakened me. I cannot tell where it came from—perhaps from the next
room, perhaps from the lawn. I thought that I would just ask you
whether you had heard it.’
“‘No, I have not. It must be those wretched gipsies in the plantation.’
“‘Very likely. And yet if it were on the lawn, I wonder that you did
not hear it also.’
“‘Ah, but I sleep more heavily than you.’
“‘Well, it is of no great consequence, at any rate.’ She smiled back at
me, closed my door, and a few moments later I heard her key turn in the
lock.”
“Indeed,” said Holmes. “Was it your custom always to lock yourselves in
at night?”
“Always.”
“And why?”
“I think that I mentioned to you that the Doctor kept a cheetah and a
baboon. We had no feeling of security unless our doors were locked.”
“Quite so. Pray proceed with your statement.”
“I could not sleep that night. A vague feeling of impending misfortune
impressed me. My sister and I, you will recollect, were twins, and you
know how subtle are the links which bind two souls which are so closely
allied. It was a wild night. The wind was howling outside, and the rain
was beating and splashing against the windows. Suddenly, amid all the
hubbub of the gale, there burst forth the wild scream of a terrified
woman. I knew that it was my sister’s voice. I sprang from my bed,
wrapped a shawl round me, and rushed into the corridor. As I opened my
door I seemed to hear a low whistle, such as my sister described, and a
few moments later a clanging sound, as if a mass of metal had fallen.
As I ran down the passage, my sister’s door was unlocked, and revolved
slowly upon its hinges. I stared at it horror-stricken, not knowing
what was about to issue from it. By the light of the corridor-lamp I
saw my sister appear at the opening, her face blanched with terror, her
hands groping for help, her whole figure swaying to and fro like that
of a drunkard. I ran to her and threw my arms round her, but at that
moment her knees seemed to give way and she fell to the ground. She
writhed as one who is in terrible pain, and her limbs were dreadfully
convulsed. At first I thought that she had not recognised me, but as I
bent over her she suddenly shrieked out in a voice which I shall never
forget, ‘Oh, my God! Helen! It was the band! The speckled band!’ There
was something else which she would fain have said, and she stabbed with
her finger into the air in the direction of the Doctor’s room, but a
fresh convulsion seized her and choked her words. I rushed out, calling
loudly for my stepfather, and I met him hastening from his room in his
dressing-gown. When he reached my sister’s side she was unconscious,
and though he poured brandy down her throat and sent for medical aid
from the village, all efforts were in vain, for she slowly sank and
died without having recovered her consciousness. Such was the dreadful
end of my beloved sister.”
“One moment,” said Holmes, “are you sure about this whistle and
metallic sound? Could you swear to it?”
“That was what the county coroner asked me at the inquiry. It is my
strong impression that I heard it, and yet, among the crash of the gale
and the creaking of an old house, I may possibly have been deceived.”
“Was your sister dressed?”
“No, she was in her night-dress. In her right hand was found the
charred stump of a match, and in her left a match-box.”
“Showing that she had struck a light and looked about her when the
alarm took place. That is important. And what conclusions did the
coroner come to?”
“He investigated the case with great care, for Dr. Roylott’s conduct
had long been notorious in the county, but he was unable to find any
satisfactory cause of death. My evidence showed that the door had been
fastened upon the inner side, and the windows were blocked by
old-fashioned shutters with broad iron bars, which were secured every
night. The walls were carefully sounded, and were shown to be quite
solid all round, and the flooring was also thoroughly examined, with
the same result. The chimney is wide, but is barred up by four large
staples. It is certain, therefore, that my sister was quite alone when
she met her end. Besides, there were no marks of any violence upon
her.”
“How about poison?”
“The doctors examined her for it, but without success.”
“What do you think that this unfortunate lady died of, then?”
“It is my belief that she died of pure fear and nervous shock, though
what it was that frightened her I cannot imagine.”
“Were there gipsies in the plantation at the time?”
“Yes, there are nearly always some there.”
“Ah, and what did you gather from this allusion to a band—a speckled
band?”
“Sometimes I have thought that it was merely the wild talk of delirium,
sometimes that it may have referred to some band of people, perhaps to
these very gipsies in the plantation. I do not know whether the spotted
handkerchiefs which so many of them wear over their heads might have
suggested the strange adjective which she used.”
Holmes shook his head like a man who is far from being satisfied.
“These are very deep waters,” said he; “pray go on with your
narrative.”
“Two years have passed since then, and my life has been until lately
lonelier than ever. A month ago, however, a dear friend, whom I have
known for many years, has done me the honour to ask my hand in
marriage. His name is Armitage—Percy Armitage—the second son of Mr.
Armitage, of Crane Water, near Reading. My stepfather has offered no
opposition to the match, and we are to be married in the course of the
spring. Two days ago some repairs were started in the west wing of the
building, and my bedroom wall has been pierced, so that I have had to
move into the chamber in which my sister died, and to sleep in the very
bed in which she slept. Imagine, then, my thrill of terror when last
night, as I lay awake, thinking over her terrible fate, I suddenly
heard in the silence of the night the low whistle which had been the
herald of her own death. I sprang up and lit the lamp, but nothing was
to be seen in the room. I was too shaken to go to bed again, however,
so I dressed, and as soon as it was daylight I slipped down, got a
dog-cart at the Crown Inn, which is opposite, and drove to Leatherhead,
from whence I have come on this morning with the one object of seeing
you and asking your advice.”
“You have done wisely,” said my friend. “But have you told me all?”
“Yes, all.”
“Miss Roylott, you have not. You are screening your stepfather.”
“Why, what do you mean?”
For answer Holmes pushed back the frill of black lace which fringed the
hand that lay upon our visitor’s knee. Five little livid spots, the
marks of four fingers and a thumb, were printed upon the white wrist.
“You have been cruelly used,” said Holmes.
The lady coloured deeply and covered over her injured wrist. “He is a
hard man,” she said, “and perhaps he hardly knows his own strength.”
There was a long silence, during which Holmes leaned his chin upon his
hands and stared into the crackling fire.
“This is a very deep business,” he said at last. “There are a thousand
details which I should desire to know before I decide upon our course
of action. Yet we have not a moment to lose. If we were to come to
Stoke Moran to-day, would it be possible for us to see over these rooms
without the knowledge of your stepfather?”
“As it happens, he spoke of coming into town to-day upon some most
important business. It is probable that he will be away all day, and
that there would be nothing to disturb you. We have a housekeeper now,
but she is old and foolish, and I could easily get her out of the way.”
“Excellent. You are not averse to this trip, Watson?”
“By no means.”
“Then we shall both come. What are you going to do yourself?”
“I have one or two things which I would wish to do now that I am in
town. But I shall return by the twelve o’clock train, so as to be there
in time for your coming.”
“And you may expect us early in the afternoon. I have myself some small
business matters to attend to. Will you not wait and breakfast?”
“No, I must go. My heart is lightened already since I have confided my
trouble to you. I shall look forward to seeing you again this
afternoon.” She dropped her thick black veil over her face and glided
from the room.
“And what do you think of it all, Watson?” asked Sherlock Holmes,
leaning back in his chair.
“It seems to me to be a most dark and sinister business.”
“Dark enough and sinister enough.”
“Yet if the lady is correct in saying that the flooring and walls are
sound, and that the door, window, and chimney are impassable, then her
sister must have been undoubtedly alone when she met her mysterious
end.”
“What becomes, then, of these nocturnal whistles, and what of the very
peculiar words of the dying woman?”
“I cannot think.”
“When you combine the ideas of whistles at night, the presence of a
band of gipsies who are on intimate terms with this old doctor, the
fact that we have every reason to believe that the doctor has an
interest in preventing his stepdaughter’s marriage, the dying allusion
to a band, and, finally, the fact that Miss Helen Stoner heard a
metallic clang, which might have been caused by one of those metal bars
that secured the shutters falling back into its place, I think that
there is good ground to think that the mystery may be cleared along
those lines.”
“But what, then, did the gipsies do?”
“I cannot imagine.”
“I see many objections to any such theory.”
“And so do I. It is precisely for that reason that we are going to
Stoke Moran this day. I want to see whether the objections are fatal,
or if they may be explained away. But what in the name of the devil!”
The ejaculation had been drawn from my companion by the fact that our
door had been suddenly dashed open, and that a huge man had framed
himself in the aperture. His costume was a peculiar mixture of the
professional and of the agricultural, having a black top-hat, a long
frock-coat, and a pair of high gaiters, with a hunting-crop swinging in
his hand. So tall was he that his hat actually brushed the cross bar of
the doorway, and his breadth seemed to span it across from side to
side. A large face, seared with a thousand wrinkles, burned yellow with
the sun, and marked with every evil passion, was turned from one to the
other of us, while his deep-set, bile-shot eyes, and his high, thin,
fleshless nose, gave him somewhat the resemblance to a fierce old bird
of prey.
“Which of you is Holmes?” asked this apparition.
“My name, sir; but you have the advantage of me,” said my companion
quietly.
“I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran.”
“Indeed, Doctor,” said Holmes blandly. “Pray take a seat.”
“I will do nothing of the kind. My stepdaughter has been here. I have
traced her. What has she been saying to you?”
“It is a little cold for the time of the year,” said Holmes.
“What has she been saying to you?” screamed the old man furiously.
“But I have heard that the crocuses promise well,” continued my
companion imperturbably.
“Ha! You put me off, do you?” said our new visitor, taking a step
forward and shaking his hunting-crop. “I know you, you scoundrel! I
have heard of you before. You are Holmes, the meddler.”
My friend smiled.
“Holmes, the busybody!”
His smile broadened.
“Holmes, the Scotland Yard Jack-in-office!”
Holmes chuckled heartily. “Your conversation is most entertaining,”
said he. “When you go out close the door, for there is a decided
draught.”
“I will go when I have had my say. Don’t you dare to meddle with my
affairs. I know that Miss Stoner has been here. I traced her! I am a
dangerous man to fall foul of! See here.” He stepped swiftly forward,
seized the poker, and bent it into a curve with his huge brown hands.
“See that you keep yourself out of my grip,” he snarled, and hurling
the twisted poker into the fireplace he strode out of the room.
“He seems a very amiable person,” said Holmes, laughing. “I am not
quite so bulky, but if he had remained I might have shown him that my
grip was not much more feeble than his own.” As he spoke he picked up
the steel poker and, with a sudden effort, straightened it out again.
“Fancy his having the insolence to confound me with the official
detective force! This incident gives zest to our investigation,
however, and I only trust that our little friend will not suffer from
her imprudence in allowing this brute to trace her. And now, Watson, we
shall order breakfast, and afterwards I shall walk down to Doctors’
Commons, where I hope to get some data which may help us in this
matter.”
It was nearly one o’clock when Sherlock Holmes returned from his
excursion. He held in his hand a sheet of blue paper, scrawled over
with notes and figures.
“I have seen the will of the deceased wife,” said he. “To determine its
exact meaning I have been obliged to work out the present prices of the
investments with which it is concerned. The total income, which at the
time of the wife’s death was little short of £ 1,100, is now, through
the fall in agricultural prices, not more than £ 750. Each daughter can
claim an income of £ 250, in case of marriage. It is evident,
therefore, that if both girls had married, this beauty would have had a
mere pittance, while even one of them would cripple him to a very
serious extent. My morning’s work has not been wasted, since it has
proved that he has the very strongest motives for standing in the way
of anything of the sort. And now, Watson, this is too serious for
dawdling, especially as the old man is aware that we are interesting
ourselves in his affairs; so if you are ready, we shall call a cab and
drive to Waterloo. I should be very much obliged if you would slip your
revolver into your pocket. An Eley’s No. 2 is an excellent argument
with gentlemen who can twist steel pokers into knots. That and a
tooth-brush are, I think, all that we need.”
At Waterloo we were fortunate in catching a train for Leatherhead,
where we hired a trap at the station inn and drove for four or five
miles through the lovely Surrey lanes. It was a perfect day, with a
bright sun and a few fleecy clouds in the heavens. The trees and
wayside hedges were just throwing out their first green shoots, and the
air was full of the pleasant smell of the moist earth. To me at least
there was a strange contrast between the sweet promise of the spring
and this sinister quest upon which we were engaged. My companion sat in
the front of the trap, his arms folded, his hat pulled down over his
eyes, and his chin sunk upon his breast, buried in the deepest thought.
Suddenly, however, he started, tapped me on the shoulder, and pointed
over the meadows.
“Look there!” said he.
A heavily timbered park stretched up in a gentle slope, thickening into
a grove at the highest point. From amid the branches there jutted out
the grey gables and high roof-tree of a very old mansion.
“Stoke Moran?” said he.
“Yes, sir, that be the house of Dr. Grimesby Roylott,” remarked the
driver.
“There is some building going on there,” said Holmes; “that is where we
are going.”
“There’s the village,” said the driver, pointing to a cluster of roofs
some distance to the left; “but if you want to get to the house, you’ll
find it shorter to get over this stile, and so by the footpath over the
fields. There it is, where the lady is walking.”
“And the lady, I fancy, is Miss Stoner,” observed Holmes, shading his
eyes. “Yes, I think we had better do as you suggest.”
We got off, paid our fare, and the trap rattled back on its way to
Leatherhead.
“I thought it as well,” said Holmes as we climbed the stile, “that this
fellow should think we had come here as architects, or on some definite
business. It may stop his gossip. Good-afternoon, Miss Stoner. You see
that we have been as good as our word.”
Our client of the morning had hurried forward to meet us with a face
which spoke her joy. “I have been waiting so eagerly for you,” she
cried, shaking hands with us warmly. “All has turned out splendidly.
Dr. Roylott has gone to town, and it is unlikely that he will be back
before evening.”
“We have had the pleasure of making the Doctor’s acquaintance,” said
Holmes, and in a few words he sketched out what had occurred. Miss
Stoner turned white to the lips as she listened.
“Good heavens!” she cried, “he has followed me, then.”
“So it appears.”
“He is so cunning that I never know when I am safe from him. What will
he say when he returns?”
“He must guard himself, for he may find that there is someone more
cunning than himself upon his track. You must lock yourself up from him
to-night. If he is violent, we shall take you away to your aunt’s at
Harrow. Now, we must make the best use of our time, so kindly take us
at once to the rooms which we are to examine.”
The building was of grey, lichen-blotched stone, with a high central
portion and two curving wings, like the claws of a crab, thrown out on
each side. In one of these wings the windows were broken and blocked
with wooden boards, while the roof was partly caved in, a picture of
ruin. The central portion was in little better repair, but the
right-hand block was comparatively modern, and the blinds in the
windows, with the blue smoke curling up from the chimneys, showed that
this was where the family resided. Some scaffolding had been erected
against the end wall, and the stone-work had been broken into, but
there were no signs of any workmen at the moment of our visit. Holmes
walked slowly up and down the ill-trimmed lawn and examined with deep
attention the outsides of the windows.
“This, I take it, belongs to the room in which you used to sleep, the
centre one to your sister’s, and the one next to the main building to
Dr. Roylott’s chamber?”
“Exactly so. But I am now sleeping in the middle one.”
“Pending the alterations, as I understand. By the way, there does not
seem to be any very pressing need for repairs at that end wall.”
“There were none. I believe that it was an excuse to move me from my
room.”
“Ah! that is suggestive. Now, on the other side of this narrow wing
runs the corridor from which these three rooms open. There are windows
in it, of course?”
“Yes, but very small ones. Too narrow for anyone to pass through.”
“As you both locked your doors at night, your rooms were unapproachable
from that side. Now, would you have the kindness to go into your room
and bar your shutters?”
Miss Stoner did so, and Holmes, after a careful examination through the
open window, endeavoured in every way to force the shutter open, but
without success. There was no slit through which a knife could be
passed to raise the bar. Then with his lens he tested the hinges, but
they were of solid iron, built firmly into the massive masonry. “Hum!”
said he, scratching his chin in some perplexity, “my theory certainly
presents some difficulties. No one could pass these shutters if they
were bolted. Well, we shall see if the inside throws any light upon the
matter.”
A small side door led into the whitewashed corridor from which the
three bedrooms opened. Holmes refused to examine the third chamber, so
we passed at once to the second, that in which Miss Stoner was now
sleeping, and in which her sister had met with her fate. It was a
homely little room, with a low ceiling and a gaping fireplace, after
the fashion of old country-houses. A brown chest of drawers stood in
one corner, a narrow white-counterpaned bed in another, and a
dressing-table on the left-hand side of the window. These articles,
with two small wicker-work chairs, made up all the furniture in the
room save for a square of Wilton carpet in the centre. The boards round
and the panelling of the walls were of brown, worm-eaten oak, so old
and discoloured that it may have dated from the original building of
the house. Holmes drew one of the chairs into a corner and sat silent,
while his eyes travelled round and round and up and down, taking in
every detail of the apartment.
“Where does that bell communicate with?” he asked at last pointing to a
thick bell-rope which hung down beside the bed, the tassel actually
lying upon the pillow.
“It goes to the housekeeper’s room.”
“It looks newer than the other things?”
“Yes, it was only put there a couple of years ago.”
“Your sister asked for it, I suppose?”
“No, I never heard of her using it. We used always to get what we
wanted for ourselves.”
“Indeed, it seemed unnecessary to put so nice a bell-pull there. You
will excuse me for a few minutes while I satisfy myself as to this
floor.” He threw himself down upon his face with his lens in his hand
and crawled swiftly backward and forward, examining minutely the cracks
between the boards. Then he did the same with the wood-work with which
the chamber was panelled. Finally he walked over to the bed and spent
some time in staring at it and in running his eye up and down the wall.
Finally he took the bell-rope in his hand and gave it a brisk tug.
“Why, it’s a dummy,” said he.
“Won’t it ring?”
“No, it is not even attached to a wire. This is very interesting. You
can see now that it is fastened to a hook just above where the little
opening for the ventilator is.”
“How very absurd! I never noticed that before.”
“Very strange!” muttered Holmes, pulling at the rope. “There are one or
two very singular points about this room. For example, what a fool a
builder must be to open a ventilator into another room, when, with the
same trouble, he might have communicated with the outside air!”
“That is also quite modern,” said the lady.
“Done about the same time as the bell-rope?” remarked Holmes.
“Yes, there were several little changes carried out about that time.”
“They seem to have been of a most interesting character—dummy
bell-ropes, and ventilators which do not ventilate. With your
permission, Miss Stoner, we shall now carry our researches into the
inner apartment.”
Dr. Grimesby Roylott’s chamber was larger than that of his
step-daughter, but was as plainly furnished. A camp-bed, a small wooden
shelf full of books, mostly of a technical character, an armchair
beside the bed, a plain wooden chair against the wall, a round table,
and a large iron safe were the principal things which met the eye.
Holmes walked slowly round and examined each and all of them with the
keenest interest.
“What’s in here?” he asked, tapping the safe.
“My stepfather’s business papers.”
“Oh! you have seen inside, then?”
“Only once, some years ago. I remember that it was full of papers.”
“There isn’t a cat in it, for example?”
“No. What a strange idea!”
“Well, look at this!” He took up a small saucer of milk which stood on
the top of it.
“No; we don’t keep a cat. But there is a cheetah and a baboon.”
“Ah, yes, of course! Well, a cheetah is just a big cat, and yet a
saucer of milk does not go very far in satisfying its wants, I daresay.
There is one point which I should wish to determine.” He squatted down
in front of the wooden chair and examined the seat of it with the
greatest attention.
“Thank you. That is quite settled,” said he, rising and putting his
lens in his pocket. “Hullo! Here is something interesting!”
The object which had caught his eye was a small dog lash hung on one
corner of the bed. The lash, however, was curled upon itself and tied
so as to make a loop of whipcord.
“What do you make of that, Watson?”
“It’s a common enough lash. But I don’t know why it should be tied.”
“That is not quite so common, is it? Ah, me! it’s a wicked world, and
when a clever man turns his brains to crime it is the worst of all. I
think that I have seen enough now, Miss Stoner, and with your
permission we shall walk out upon the lawn.”
I had never seen my friend’s face so grim or his brow so dark as it was
when we turned from the scene of this investigation. We had walked
several times up and down the lawn, neither Miss Stoner nor myself
liking to break in upon his thoughts before he roused himself from his
reverie.
“It is very essential, Miss Stoner,” said he, “that you should
absolutely follow my advice in every respect.”
“I shall most certainly do so.”
“The matter is too serious for any hesitation. Your life may depend
upon your compliance.”
“I assure you that I am in your hands.”
“In the first place, both my friend and I must spend the night in your
room.”
Both Miss Stoner and I gazed at him in astonishment.
“Yes, it must be so. Let me explain. I believe that that is the village
inn over there?”
“Yes, that is the Crown.”
“Very good. Your windows would be visible from there?”
“Certainly.”
“You must confine yourself to your room, on pretence of a headache,
when your stepfather comes back. Then when you hear him retire for the
night, you must open the shutters of your window, undo the hasp, put
your lamp there as a signal to us, and then withdraw quietly with
everything which you are likely to want into the room which you used to
occupy. I have no doubt that, in spite of the repairs, you could manage
there for one night.”
“Oh, yes, easily.”
“The rest you will leave in our hands.”
“But what will you do?”
“We shall spend the night in your room, and we shall investigate the
cause of this noise which has disturbed you.”
“I believe, Mr. Holmes, that you have already made up your mind,” said
Miss Stoner, laying her hand upon my companion’s sleeve.
“Perhaps I have.”
“Then, for pity’s sake, tell me what was the cause of my sister’s
death.”
“I should prefer to have clearer proofs before I speak.”
“You can at least tell me whether my own thought is correct, and if she
died from some sudden fright.”
“No, I do not think so. I think that there was probably some more
tangible cause. And now, Miss Stoner, we must leave you for if Dr.
Roylott returned and saw us our journey would be in vain. Good-bye, and
be brave, for if you will do what I have told you, you may rest assured
that we shall soon drive away the dangers that threaten you.”
Sherlock Holmes and I had no difficulty in engaging a bedroom and
sitting-room at the Crown Inn. They were on the upper floor, and from
our window we could command a view of the avenue gate, and of the
inhabited wing of Stoke Moran Manor House. At dusk we saw Dr. Grimesby
Roylott drive past, his huge form looming up beside the little figure
of the lad who drove him. The boy had some slight difficulty in undoing
the heavy iron gates, and we heard the hoarse roar of the Doctor’s
voice and saw the fury with which he shook his clinched fists at him.
The trap drove on, and a few minutes later we saw a sudden light spring
up among the trees as the lamp was lit in one of the sitting-rooms.
“Do you know, Watson,” said Holmes as we sat together in the gathering
darkness, “I have really some scruples as to taking you to-night. There
is a distinct element of danger.”
“Can I be of assistance?”
“Your presence might be invaluable.”
“Then I shall certainly come.”
“It is very kind of you.”
“You speak of danger. You have evidently seen more in these rooms than
was visible to me.”
“No, but I fancy that I may have deduced a little more. I imagine that
you saw all that I did.”
“I saw nothing remarkable save the bell-rope, and what purpose that
could answer I confess is more than I can imagine.”
“You saw the ventilator, too?”
“Yes, but I do not think that it is such a very unusual thing to have a
small opening between two rooms. It was so small that a rat could
hardly pass through.”
“I knew that we should find a ventilator before ever we came to Stoke
Moran.”
“My dear Holmes!”
“Oh, yes, I did. You remember in her statement she said that her sister
could smell Dr. Roylott’s cigar. Now, of course that suggested at once
that there must be a communication between the two rooms. It could only
be a small one, or it would have been remarked upon at the coroner’s
inquiry. I deduced a ventilator.”
“But what harm can there be in that?”
“Well, there is at least a curious coincidence of dates. A ventilator
is made, a cord is hung, and a lady who sleeps in the bed dies. Does
not that strike you?”
“I cannot as yet see any connection.”
“Did you observe anything very peculiar about that bed?”
“No.”
“It was clamped to the floor. Did you ever see a bed fastened like that
before?”
“I cannot say that I have.”
“The lady could not move her bed. It must always be in the same
relative position to the ventilator and to the rope—or so we may call
it, since it was clearly never meant for a bell-pull.”
“Holmes,” I cried, “I seem to see dimly what you are hinting at. We are
only just in time to prevent some subtle and horrible crime.”
“Subtle enough and horrible enough. When a doctor does go wrong he is
the first of criminals. He has nerve and he has knowledge. Palmer and
Pritchard were among the heads of their profession. This man strikes
even deeper, but I think, Watson, that we shall be able to strike
deeper still. But we shall have horrors enough before the night is
over; for goodness’ sake let us have a quiet pipe and turn our minds
for a few hours to something more cheerful.”
About nine o’clock the light among the trees was extinguished, and all
was dark in the direction of the Manor House. Two hours passed slowly
away, and then, suddenly, just at the stroke of eleven, a single bright
light shone out right in front of us.
“That is our signal,” said Holmes, springing to his feet; “it comes
from the middle window.”
As we passed out he exchanged a few words with the landlord, explaining
that we were going on a late visit to an acquaintance, and that it was
possible that we might spend the night there. A moment later we were
out on the dark road, a chill wind blowing in our faces, and one yellow
light twinkling in front of us through the gloom to guide us on our
sombre errand.
There was little difficulty in entering the grounds, for unrepaired
breaches gaped in the old park wall. Making our way among the trees, we
reached the lawn, crossed it, and were about to enter through the
window when out from a clump of laurel bushes there darted what seemed
to be a hideous and distorted child, who threw itself upon the grass
with writhing limbs and then ran swiftly across the lawn into the
darkness.
“My God!” I whispered; “did you see it?”
Holmes was for the moment as startled as I. His hand closed like a vice
upon my wrist in his agitation. Then he broke into a low laugh and put
his lips to my ear.
“It is a nice household,” he murmured. “That is the baboon.”
I had forgotten the strange pets which the Doctor affected. There was a
cheetah, too; perhaps we might find it upon our shoulders at any
moment. I confess that I felt easier in my mind when, after following
Holmes’ example and slipping off my shoes, I found myself inside the
bedroom. My companion noiselessly closed the shutters, moved the lamp
onto the table, and cast his eyes round the room. All was as we had
seen it in the daytime. Then creeping up to me and making a trumpet of
his hand, he whispered into my ear again so gently that it was all that
I could do to distinguish the words:
“The least sound would be fatal to our plans.”
I nodded to show that I had heard.
“We must sit without light. He would see it through the ventilator.”
I nodded again.
“Do not go asleep; your very life may depend upon it. Have your pistol
ready in case we should need it. I will sit on the side of the bed, and
you in that chair.”
I took out my revolver and laid it on the corner of the table.
Holmes had brought up a long thin cane, and this he placed upon the bed
beside him. By it he laid the box of matches and the stump of a candle.
Then he turned down the lamp, and we were left in darkness.
How shall I ever forget that dreadful vigil? I could not hear a sound,
not even the drawing of a breath, and yet I knew that my companion sat
open-eyed, within a few feet of me, in the same state of nervous
tension in which I was myself. The shutters cut off the least ray of
light, and we waited in absolute darkness.
From outside came the occasional cry of a night-bird, and once at our
very window a long drawn catlike whine, which told us that the cheetah
was indeed at liberty. Far away we could hear the deep tones of the
parish clock, which boomed out every quarter of an hour. How long they
seemed, those quarters! Twelve struck, and one and two and three, and
still we sat waiting silently for whatever might befall.
Suddenly there was the momentary gleam of a light up in the direction
of the ventilator, which vanished immediately, but was succeeded by a
strong smell of burning oil and heated metal. Someone in the next room
had lit a dark-lantern. I heard a gentle sound of movement, and then
all was silent once more, though the smell grew stronger. For half an
hour I sat with straining ears. Then suddenly another sound became
audible—a very gentle, soothing sound, like that of a small jet of
steam escaping continually from a kettle. The instant that we heard it,
Holmes sprang from the bed, struck a match, and lashed furiously with
his cane at the bell-pull.
“You see it, Watson?” he yelled. “You see it?”
But I saw nothing. At the moment when Holmes struck the light I heard a
low, clear whistle, but the sudden glare flashing into my weary eyes
made it impossible for me to tell what it was at which my friend lashed
so savagely. I could, however, see that his face was deadly pale and
filled with horror and loathing. He had ceased to strike and was gazing
up at the ventilator when suddenly there broke from the silence of the
night the most horrible cry to which I have ever listened. It swelled
up louder and louder, a hoarse yell of pain and fear and anger all
mingled in the one dreadful shriek. They say that away down in the
village, and even in the distant parsonage, that cry raised the
sleepers from their beds. It struck cold to our hearts, and I stood
gazing at Holmes, and he at me, until the last echoes of it had died
away into the silence from which it rose.
“What can it mean?” I gasped.
“It means that it is all over,” Holmes answered. “And perhaps, after
all, it is for the best. Take your pistol, and we will enter Dr.
Roylott’s room.”
With a grave face he lit the lamp and led the way down the corridor.
Twice he struck at the chamber door without any reply from within. Then
he turned the handle and entered, I at his heels, with the cocked
pistol in my hand.
It was a singular sight which met our eyes. On the table stood a
dark-lantern with the shutter half open, throwing a brilliant beam of
light upon the iron safe, the door of which was ajar. Beside this
table, on the wooden chair, sat Dr. Grimesby Roylott clad in a long
grey dressing-gown, his bare ankles protruding beneath, and his feet
thrust into red heelless Turkish slippers. Across his lap lay the short
stock with the long lash which we had noticed during the day. His chin
was cocked upward and his eyes were fixed in a dreadful, rigid stare at
the corner of the ceiling. Round his brow he had a peculiar yellow
band, with brownish speckles, which seemed to be bound tightly round
his head. As we entered he made neither sound nor motion.
“The band! the speckled band!” whispered Holmes.
I took a step forward. In an instant his strange headgear began to
move, and there reared itself from among his hair the squat
diamond-shaped head and puffed neck of a loathsome serpent.
“It is a swamp adder!” cried Holmes; “the deadliest snake in India. He
has died within ten seconds of being bitten. Violence does, in truth,
recoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls into the pit which he
digs for another. Let us thrust this creature back into its den, and we
can then remove Miss Stoner to some place of shelter and let the county
police know what has happened.”
As he spoke he drew the dog-whip swiftly from the dead man’s lap, and
throwing the noose round the reptile’s neck he drew it from its horrid
perch and, carrying it at arm’s length, threw it into the iron safe,
which he closed upon it.
Such are the true facts of the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke
Moran. It is not necessary that I should prolong a narrative which has
already run to too great a length by telling how we broke the sad news
to the terrified girl, how we conveyed her by the morning train to the
care of her good aunt at Harrow, of how the slow process of official
inquiry came to the conclusion that the doctor met his fate while
indiscreetly playing with a dangerous pet. The little which I had yet
to learn of the case was told me by Sherlock Holmes as we travelled
back next day.
“I had,” said he, “come to an entirely erroneous conclusion which
shows, my dear Watson, how dangerous it always is to reason from
insufficient data. The presence of the gipsies, and the use of the word
‘band,’ which was used by the poor girl, no doubt, to explain the
appearance which she had caught a hurried glimpse of by the light of
her match, were sufficient to put me upon an entirely wrong scent. I
can only claim the merit that I instantly reconsidered my position
when, however, it became clear to me that whatever danger threatened an
occupant of the room could not come either from the window or the door.
My attention was speedily drawn, as I have already remarked to you, to
this ventilator, and to the bell-rope which hung down to the bed. The
discovery that this was a dummy, and that the bed was clamped to the
floor, instantly gave rise to the suspicion that the rope was there as
a bridge for something passing through the hole and coming to the bed.
The idea of a snake instantly occurred to me, and when I coupled it
with my knowledge that the doctor was furnished with a supply of
creatures from India, I felt that I was probably on the right track.
The idea of using a form of poison which could not possibly be
discovered by any chemical test was just such a one as would occur to a
clever and ruthless man who had had an Eastern training. The rapidity
with which such a poison would take effect would also, from his point
of view, be an advantage. It would be a sharp-eyed coroner, indeed, who
could distinguish the two little dark punctures which would show where
the poison fangs had done their work. Then I thought of the whistle. Of
course he must recall the snake before the morning light revealed it to
the victim. He had trained it, probably by the use of the milk which we
saw, to return to him when summoned. He would put it through this
ventilator at the hour that he thought best, with the certainty that it
would crawl down the rope and land on the bed. It might or might not
bite the occupant, perhaps she might escape every night for a week, but
sooner or later she must fall a victim.
“I had come to these conclusions before ever I had entered his room. An
inspection of his chair showed me that he had been in the habit of
standing on it, which of course would be necessary in order that he
should reach the ventilator. The sight of the safe, the saucer of milk,
and the loop of whipcord were enough to finally dispel any doubts which
may have remained. The metallic clang heard by Miss Stoner was
obviously caused by her stepfather hastily closing the door of his safe
upon its terrible occupant. Having once made up my mind, you know the
steps which I took in order to put the matter to the proof. I heard the
creature hiss as I have no doubt that you did also, and I instantly lit
the light and attacked it.”
“With the result of driving it through the ventilator.”
“And also with the result of causing it to turn upon its master at the
other side. Some of the blows of my cane came home and roused its
snakish temper, so that it flew upon the first person it saw. In this
way I am no doubt indirectly responsible for Dr. Grimesby Roylott’s
death, and I cannot say that it is likely to weigh very heavily upon my
conscience.”
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viii_the_adventure_of_the_speckled_band
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IX. THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENGINEER’S THUMB
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The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
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Of all the problems which have been submitted to my friend, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes, for solution during the years of our intimacy, there
were only two which I was the means of introducing to his notice—that
of Mr. Hatherley’s thumb, and that of Colonel Warburton’s madness. Of
these the latter may have afforded a finer field for an acute and
original observer, but the other was so strange in its inception and so
dramatic in its details that it may be the more worthy of being placed
upon record, even if it gave my friend fewer openings for those
deductive methods of reasoning by which he achieved such remarkable
results. The story has, I believe, been told more than once in the
newspapers, but, like all such narratives, its effect is much less
striking when set forth _en bloc_ in a single half-column of print than
when the facts slowly evolve before your own eyes, and the mystery
clears gradually away as each new discovery furnishes a step which
leads on to the complete truth. At the time the circumstances made a
deep impression upon me, and the lapse of two years has hardly served
to weaken the effect.
It was in the summer of ’89, not long after my marriage, that the
events occurred which I am now about to summarise. I had returned to
civil practice and had finally abandoned Holmes in his Baker Street
rooms, although I continually visited him and occasionally even
persuaded him to forgo his Bohemian habits so far as to come and visit
us. My practice had steadily increased, and as I happened to live at no
very great distance from Paddington Station, I got a few patients from
among the officials. One of these, whom I had cured of a painful and
lingering disease, was never weary of advertising my virtues and of
endeavouring to send me on every sufferer over whom he might have any
influence.
One morning, at a little before seven o’clock, I was awakened by the
maid tapping at the door to announce that two men had come from
Paddington and were waiting in the consulting-room. I dressed
hurriedly, for I knew by experience that railway cases were seldom
trivial, and hastened downstairs. As I descended, my old ally, the
guard, came out of the room and closed the door tightly behind him.
“I’ve got him here,” he whispered, jerking his thumb over his shoulder;
“he’s all right.”
“What is it, then?” I asked, for his manner suggested that it was some
strange creature which he had caged up in my room.
“It’s a new patient,” he whispered. “I thought I’d bring him round
myself; then he couldn’t slip away. There he is, all safe and sound. I
must go now, Doctor; I have my dooties, just the same as you.” And off
he went, this trusty tout, without even giving me time to thank him.
I entered my consulting-room and found a gentleman seated by the table.
He was quietly dressed in a suit of heather tweed with a soft cloth cap
which he had laid down upon my books. Round one of his hands he had a
handkerchief wrapped, which was mottled all over with bloodstains. He
was young, not more than five-and-twenty, I should say, with a strong,
masculine face; but he was exceedingly pale and gave me the impression
of a man who was suffering from some strong agitation, which it took
all his strength of mind to control.
“I am sorry to knock you up so early, Doctor,” said he, “but I have had
a very serious accident during the night. I came in by train this
morning, and on inquiring at Paddington as to where I might find a
doctor, a worthy fellow very kindly escorted me here. I gave the maid a
card, but I see that she has left it upon the side-table.”
I took it up and glanced at it. “Mr. Victor Hatherley, hydraulic
engineer, 16A, Victoria Street (3rd floor).” That was the name, style,
and abode of my morning visitor. “I regret that I have kept you
waiting,” said I, sitting down in my library-chair. “You are fresh from
a night journey, I understand, which is in itself a monotonous
occupation.”
“Oh, my night could not be called monotonous,” said he, and laughed. He
laughed very heartily, with a high, ringing note, leaning back in his
chair and shaking his sides. All my medical instincts rose up against
that laugh.
“Stop it!” I cried; “pull yourself together!” and I poured out some
water from a caraffe.
It was useless, however. He was off in one of those hysterical
outbursts which come upon a strong nature when some great crisis is
over and gone. Presently he came to himself once more, very weary and
pale-looking.
“I have been making a fool of myself,” he gasped.
“Not at all. Drink this.” I dashed some brandy into the water, and the
colour began to come back to his bloodless cheeks.
“That’s better!” said he. “And now, Doctor, perhaps you would kindly
attend to my thumb, or rather to the place where my thumb used to be.”
He unwound the handkerchief and held out his hand. It gave even my
hardened nerves a shudder to look at it. There were four protruding
fingers and a horrid red, spongy surface where the thumb should have
been. It had been hacked or torn right out from the roots.
“Good heavens!” I cried, “this is a terrible injury. It must have bled
considerably.”
“Yes, it did. I fainted when it was done, and I think that I must have
been senseless for a long time. When I came to I found that it was
still bleeding, so I tied one end of my handkerchief very tightly round
the wrist and braced it up with a twig.”
“Excellent! You should have been a surgeon.”
“It is a question of hydraulics, you see, and came within my own
province.”
“This has been done,” said I, examining the wound, “by a very heavy and
sharp instrument.”
“A thing like a cleaver,” said he.
“An accident, I presume?”
“By no means.”
“What! a murderous attack?”
“Very murderous indeed.”
“You horrify me.”
I sponged the wound, cleaned it, dressed it, and finally covered it
over with cotton wadding and carbolised bandages. He lay back without
wincing, though he bit his lip from time to time.
“How is that?” I asked when I had finished.
“Capital! Between your brandy and your bandage, I feel a new man. I was
very weak, but I have had a good deal to go through.”
“Perhaps you had better not speak of the matter. It is evidently trying
to your nerves.”
“Oh, no, not now. I shall have to tell my tale to the police; but,
between ourselves, if it were not for the convincing evidence of this
wound of mine, I should be surprised if they believed my statement, for
it is a very extraordinary one, and I have not much in the way of proof
with which to back it up; and, even if they believe me, the clues which
I can give them are so vague that it is a question whether justice will
be done.”
“Ha!” cried I, “if it is anything in the nature of a problem which you
desire to see solved, I should strongly recommend you to come to my
friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, before you go to the official police.”
“Oh, I have heard of that fellow,” answered my visitor, “and I should
be very glad if he would take the matter up, though of course I must
use the official police as well. Would you give me an introduction to
him?”
“I’ll do better. I’ll take you round to him myself.”
“I should be immensely obliged to you.”
“We’ll call a cab and go together. We shall just be in time to have a
little breakfast with him. Do you feel equal to it?”
“Yes; I shall not feel easy until I have told my story.”
“Then my servant will call a cab, and I shall be with you in an
instant.” I rushed upstairs, explained the matter shortly to my wife,
and in five minutes was inside a hansom, driving with my new
acquaintance to Baker Street.
Sherlock Holmes was, as I expected, lounging about his sitting-room in
his dressing-gown, reading the agony column of _The Times_ and smoking
his before-breakfast pipe, which was composed of all the plugs and
dottles left from his smokes of the day before, all carefully dried and
collected on the corner of the mantelpiece. He received us in his
quietly genial fashion, ordered fresh rashers and eggs, and joined us
in a hearty meal. When it was concluded he settled our new acquaintance
upon the sofa, placed a pillow beneath his head, and laid a glass of
brandy and water within his reach.
“It is easy to see that your experience has been no common one, Mr.
Hatherley,” said he. “Pray, lie down there and make yourself absolutely
at home. Tell us what you can, but stop when you are tired and keep up
your strength with a little stimulant.”
“Thank you,” said my patient, “but I have felt another man since the
doctor bandaged me, and I think that your breakfast has completed the
cure. I shall take up as little of your valuable time as possible, so I
shall start at once upon my peculiar experiences.”
Holmes sat in his big armchair with the weary, heavy-lidded expression
which veiled his keen and eager nature, while I sat opposite to him,
and we listened in silence to the strange story which our visitor
detailed to us.
“You must know,” said he, “that I am an orphan and a bachelor, residing
alone in lodgings in London. By profession I am a hydraulic engineer,
and I have had considerable experience of my work during the seven
years that I was apprenticed to Venner & Matheson, the well-known firm,
of Greenwich. Two years ago, having served my time, and having also
come into a fair sum of money through my poor father’s death, I
determined to start in business for myself and took professional
chambers in Victoria Street.
“I suppose that everyone finds his first independent start in business
a dreary experience. To me it has been exceptionally so. During two
years I have had three consultations and one small job, and that is
absolutely all that my profession has brought me. My gross takings
amount to £ 27 10_s_. Every day, from nine in the morning until four in
the afternoon, I waited in my little den, until at last my heart began
to sink, and I came to believe that I should never have any practice at
all.
“Yesterday, however, just as I was thinking of leaving the office, my
clerk entered to say there was a gentleman waiting who wished to see me
upon business. He brought up a card, too, with the name of ‘Colonel
Lysander Stark’ engraved upon it. Close at his heels came the colonel
himself, a man rather over the middle size, but of an exceeding
thinness. I do not think that I have ever seen so thin a man. His whole
face sharpened away into nose and chin, and the skin of his cheeks was
drawn quite tense over his outstanding bones. Yet this emaciation
seemed to be his natural habit, and due to no disease, for his eye was
bright, his step brisk, and his bearing assured. He was plainly but
neatly dressed, and his age, I should judge, would be nearer forty than
thirty.
“‘Mr. Hatherley?’ said he, with something of a German accent. ‘You have
been recommended to me, Mr. Hatherley, as being a man who is not only
proficient in his profession but is also discreet and capable of
preserving a secret.’
“I bowed, feeling as flattered as any young man would at such an
address. ‘May I ask who it was who gave me so good a character?’
“‘Well, perhaps it is better that I should not tell you that just at
this moment. I have it from the same source that you are both an orphan
and a bachelor and are residing alone in London.’
“‘That is quite correct,’ I answered; ‘but you will excuse me if I say
that I cannot see how all this bears upon my professional
qualifications. I understand that it was on a professional matter that
you wished to speak to me?’
“‘Undoubtedly so. But you will find that all I say is really to the
point. I have a professional commission for you, but absolute secrecy
is quite essential—absolute secrecy, you understand, and of course we
may expect that more from a man who is alone than from one who lives in
the bosom of his family.’
“‘If I promise to keep a secret,’ said I, ‘you may absolutely depend
upon my doing so.’
“He looked very hard at me as I spoke, and it seemed to me that I had
never seen so suspicious and questioning an eye.
“‘Do you promise, then?’ said he at last.
“‘Yes, I promise.’
“‘Absolute and complete silence before, during, and after? No reference
to the matter at all, either in word or writing?’
“‘I have already given you my word.’
“‘Very good.’ He suddenly sprang up, and darting like lightning across
the room he flung open the door. The passage outside was empty.
“‘That’s all right,’ said he, coming back. ‘I know that clerks are
sometimes curious as to their master’s affairs. Now we can talk in
safety.’ He drew up his chair very close to mine and began to stare at
me again with the same questioning and thoughtful look.
“A feeling of repulsion, and of something akin to fear had begun to
rise within me at the strange antics of this fleshless man. Even my
dread of losing a client could not restrain me from showing my
impatience.
“‘I beg that you will state your business, sir,’ said I; ‘my time is of
value.’ Heaven forgive me for that last sentence, but the words came to
my lips.
“‘How would fifty guineas for a night’s work suit you?’ he asked.
“‘Most admirably.’
“‘I say a night’s work, but an hour’s would be nearer the mark. I
simply want your opinion about a hydraulic stamping machine which has
got out of gear. If you show us what is wrong we shall soon set it
right ourselves. What do you think of such a commission as that?’
“‘The work appears to be light and the pay munificent.’
“‘Precisely so. We shall want you to come to-night by the last train.’
“‘Where to?’
“‘To Eyford, in Berkshire. It is a little place near the borders of
Oxfordshire, and within seven miles of Reading. There is a train from
Paddington which would bring you there at about 11:15.’
“‘Very good.’
“‘I shall come down in a carriage to meet you.’
“‘There is a drive, then?’
“‘Yes, our little place is quite out in the country. It is a good seven
miles from Eyford Station.’
“‘Then we can hardly get there before midnight. I suppose there would
be no chance of a train back. I should be compelled to stop the night.’
“‘Yes, we could easily give you a shake-down.’
“‘That is very awkward. Could I not come at some more convenient hour?’
“‘We have judged it best that you should come late. It is to recompense
you for any inconvenience that we are paying to you, a young and
unknown man, a fee which would buy an opinion from the very heads of
your profession. Still, of course, if you would like to draw out of the
business, there is plenty of time to do so.’
“I thought of the fifty guineas, and of how very useful they would be
to me. ‘Not at all,’ said I, ‘I shall be very happy to accommodate
myself to your wishes. I should like, however, to understand a little
more clearly what it is that you wish me to do.’
“‘Quite so. It is very natural that the pledge of secrecy which we have
exacted from you should have aroused your curiosity. I have no wish to
commit you to anything without your having it all laid before you. I
suppose that we are absolutely safe from eavesdroppers?’
“‘Entirely.’
“‘Then the matter stands thus. You are probably aware that
fuller’s-earth is a valuable product, and that it is only found in one
or two places in England?’
“‘I have heard so.’
“‘Some little time ago I bought a small place—a very small place—within
ten miles of Reading. I was fortunate enough to discover that there was
a deposit of fuller’s-earth in one of my fields. On examining it,
however, I found that this deposit was a comparatively small one, and
that it formed a link between two very much larger ones upon the right
and left—both of them, however, in the grounds of my neighbours. These
good people were absolutely ignorant that their land contained that
which was quite as valuable as a gold-mine. Naturally, it was to my
interest to buy their land before they discovered its true value, but
unfortunately I had no capital by which I could do this. I took a few
of my friends into the secret, however, and they suggested that we
should quietly and secretly work our own little deposit and that in
this way we should earn the money which would enable us to buy the
neighbouring fields. This we have now been doing for some time, and in
order to help us in our operations we erected a hydraulic press. This
press, as I have already explained, has got out of order, and we wish
your advice upon the subject. We guard our secret very jealously,
however, and if it once became known that we had hydraulic engineers
coming to our little house, it would soon rouse inquiry, and then, if
the facts came out, it would be good-bye to any chance of getting these
fields and carrying out our plans. That is why I have made you promise
me that you will not tell a human being that you are going to Eyford
to-night. I hope that I make it all plain?’
“‘I quite follow you,’ said I. ‘The only point which I could not quite
understand was what use you could make of a hydraulic press in
excavating fuller’s-earth, which, as I understand, is dug out like
gravel from a pit.’
“‘Ah!’ said he carelessly, ‘we have our own process. We compress the
earth into bricks, so as to remove them without revealing what they
are. But that is a mere detail. I have taken you fully into my
confidence now, Mr. Hatherley, and I have shown you how I trust you.’
He rose as he spoke. ‘I shall expect you, then, at Eyford at 11:15.’
“‘I shall certainly be there.’
“‘And not a word to a soul.’ He looked at me with a last long,
questioning gaze, and then, pressing my hand in a cold, dank grasp, he
hurried from the room.
“Well, when I came to think it all over in cool blood I was very much
astonished, as you may both think, at this sudden commission which had
been intrusted to me. On the one hand, of course, I was glad, for the
fee was at least tenfold what I should have asked had I set a price
upon my own services, and it was possible that this order might lead to
other ones. On the other hand, the face and manner of my patron had
made an unpleasant impression upon me, and I could not think that his
explanation of the fuller’s-earth was sufficient to explain the
necessity for my coming at midnight, and his extreme anxiety lest I
should tell anyone of my errand. However, I threw all fears to the
winds, ate a hearty supper, drove to Paddington, and started off,
having obeyed to the letter the injunction as to holding my tongue.
“At Reading I had to change not only my carriage but my station.
However, I was in time for the last train to Eyford, and I reached the
little dim-lit station after eleven o’clock. I was the only passenger
who got out there, and there was no one upon the platform save a single
sleepy porter with a lantern. As I passed out through the wicket gate,
however, I found my acquaintance of the morning waiting in the shadow
upon the other side. Without a word he grasped my arm and hurried me
into a carriage, the door of which was standing open. He drew up the
windows on either side, tapped on the wood-work, and away we went as
fast as the horse could go.”
“One horse?” interjected Holmes.
“Yes, only one.”
“Did you observe the colour?”
“Yes, I saw it by the side-lights when I was stepping into the
carriage. It was a chestnut.”
“Tired-looking or fresh?”
“Oh, fresh and glossy.”
“Thank you. I am sorry to have interrupted you. Pray continue your most
interesting statement.”
“Away we went then, and we drove for at least an hour. Colonel Lysander
Stark had said that it was only seven miles, but I should think, from
the rate that we seemed to go, and from the time that we took, that it
must have been nearer twelve. He sat at my side in silence all the
time, and I was aware, more than once when I glanced in his direction,
that he was looking at me with great intensity. The country roads seem
to be not very good in that part of the world, for we lurched and
jolted terribly. I tried to look out of the windows to see something of
where we were, but they were made of frosted glass, and I could make
out nothing save the occasional bright blur of a passing light. Now and
then I hazarded some remark to break the monotony of the journey, but
the colonel answered only in monosyllables, and the conversation soon
flagged. At last, however, the bumping of the road was exchanged for
the crisp smoothness of a gravel-drive, and the carriage came to a
stand. Colonel Lysander Stark sprang out, and, as I followed after him,
pulled me swiftly into a porch which gaped in front of us. We stepped,
as it were, right out of the carriage and into the hall, so that I
failed to catch the most fleeting glance of the front of the house. The
instant that I had crossed the threshold the door slammed heavily
behind us, and I heard faintly the rattle of the wheels as the carriage
drove away.
“It was pitch dark inside the house, and the colonel fumbled about
looking for matches and muttering under his breath. Suddenly a door
opened at the other end of the passage, and a long, golden bar of light
shot out in our direction. It grew broader, and a woman appeared with a
lamp in her hand, which she held above her head, pushing her face
forward and peering at us. I could see that she was pretty, and from
the gloss with which the light shone upon her dark dress I knew that it
was a rich material. She spoke a few words in a foreign tongue in a
tone as though asking a question, and when my companion answered in a
gruff monosyllable she gave such a start that the lamp nearly fell from
her hand. Colonel Stark went up to her, whispered something in her ear,
and then, pushing her back into the room from whence she had come, he
walked towards me again with the lamp in his hand.
“‘Perhaps you will have the kindness to wait in this room for a few
minutes,’ said he, throwing open another door. It was a quiet, little,
plainly furnished room, with a round table in the centre, on which
several German books were scattered. Colonel Stark laid down the lamp
on the top of a harmonium beside the door. ‘I shall not keep you
waiting an instant,’ said he, and vanished into the darkness.
“I glanced at the books upon the table, and in spite of my ignorance of
German I could see that two of them were treatises on science, the
others being volumes of poetry. Then I walked across to the window,
hoping that I might catch some glimpse of the country-side, but an oak
shutter, heavily barred, was folded across it. It was a wonderfully
silent house. There was an old clock ticking loudly somewhere in the
passage, but otherwise everything was deadly still. A vague feeling of
uneasiness began to steal over me. Who were these German people, and
what were they doing living in this strange, out-of-the-way place? And
where was the place? I was ten miles or so from Eyford, that was all I
knew, but whether north, south, east, or west I had no idea. For that
matter, Reading, and possibly other large towns, were within that
radius, so the place might not be so secluded, after all. Yet it was
quite certain, from the absolute stillness, that we were in the
country. I paced up and down the room, humming a tune under my breath
to keep up my spirits and feeling that I was thoroughly earning my
fifty-guinea fee.
“Suddenly, without any preliminary sound in the midst of the utter
stillness, the door of my room swung slowly open. The woman was
standing in the aperture, the darkness of the hall behind her, the
yellow light from my lamp beating upon her eager and beautiful face. I
could see at a glance that she was sick with fear, and the sight sent a
chill to my own heart. She held up one shaking finger to warn me to be
silent, and she shot a few whispered words of broken English at me, her
eyes glancing back, like those of a frightened horse, into the gloom
behind her.
“‘I would go,’ said she, trying hard, as it seemed to me, to speak
calmly; ‘I would go. I should not stay here. There is no good for you
to do.’
“‘But, madam,’ said I, ‘I have not yet done what I came for. I cannot
possibly leave until I have seen the machine.’
“‘It is not worth your while to wait,’ she went on. ‘You can pass
through the door; no one hinders.’ And then, seeing that I smiled and
shook my head, she suddenly threw aside her constraint and made a step
forward, with her hands wrung together. ‘For the love of Heaven!’ she
whispered, ‘get away from here before it is too late!’
“But I am somewhat headstrong by nature, and the more ready to engage
in an affair when there is some obstacle in the way. I thought of my
fifty-guinea fee, of my wearisome journey, and of the unpleasant night
which seemed to be before me. Was it all to go for nothing? Why should
I slink away without having carried out my commission, and without the
payment which was my due? This woman might, for all I knew, be a
monomaniac. With a stout bearing, therefore, though her manner had
shaken me more than I cared to confess, I still shook my head and
declared my intention of remaining where I was. She was about to renew
her entreaties when a door slammed overhead, and the sound of several
footsteps was heard upon the stairs. She listened for an instant, threw
up her hands with a despairing gesture, and vanished as suddenly and as
noiselessly as she had come.
“The newcomers were Colonel Lysander Stark and a short thick man with a
chinchilla beard growing out of the creases of his double chin, who was
introduced to me as Mr. Ferguson.
“‘This is my secretary and manager,’ said the colonel. ‘By the way, I
was under the impression that I left this door shut just now. I fear
that you have felt the draught.’
“‘On the contrary,’ said I, ‘I opened the door myself because I felt
the room to be a little close.’
“He shot one of his suspicious looks at me. ‘Perhaps we had better
proceed to business, then,’ said he. ‘Mr. Ferguson and I will take you
up to see the machine.’
“‘I had better put my hat on, I suppose.’
“‘Oh, no, it is in the house.’
“‘What, you dig fuller’s-earth in the house?’
“‘No, no. This is only where we compress it. But never mind that. All
we wish you to do is to examine the machine and to let us know what is
wrong with it.’
“We went upstairs together, the colonel first with the lamp, the fat
manager and I behind him. It was a labyrinth of an old house, with
corridors, passages, narrow winding staircases, and little low doors,
the thresholds of which were hollowed out by the generations who had
crossed them. There were no carpets and no signs of any furniture above
the ground floor, while the plaster was peeling off the walls, and the
damp was breaking through in green, unhealthy blotches. I tried to put
on as unconcerned an air as possible, but I had not forgotten the
warnings of the lady, even though I disregarded them, and I kept a keen
eye upon my two companions. Ferguson appeared to be a morose and silent
man, but I could see from the little that he said that he was at least
a fellow-countryman.
“Colonel Lysander Stark stopped at last before a low door, which he
unlocked. Within was a small, square room, in which the three of us
could hardly get at one time. Ferguson remained outside, and the
colonel ushered me in.
“‘We are now,’ said he, ‘actually within the hydraulic press, and it
would be a particularly unpleasant thing for us if anyone were to turn
it on. The ceiling of this small chamber is really the end of the
descending piston, and it comes down with the force of many tons upon
this metal floor. There are small lateral columns of water outside
which receive the force, and which transmit and multiply it in the
manner which is familiar to you. The machine goes readily enough, but
there is some stiffness in the working of it, and it has lost a little
of its force. Perhaps you will have the goodness to look it over and to
show us how we can set it right.’
“I took the lamp from him, and I examined the machine very thoroughly.
It was indeed a gigantic one, and capable of exercising enormous
pressure. When I passed outside, however, and pressed down the levers
which controlled it, I knew at once by the whishing sound that there
was a slight leakage, which allowed a regurgitation of water through
one of the side cylinders. An examination showed that one of the
india-rubber bands which was round the head of a driving-rod had shrunk
so as not quite to fill the socket along which it worked. This was
clearly the cause of the loss of power, and I pointed it out to my
companions, who followed my remarks very carefully and asked several
practical questions as to how they should proceed to set it right. When
I had made it clear to them, I returned to the main chamber of the
machine and took a good look at it to satisfy my own curiosity. It was
obvious at a glance that the story of the fuller’s-earth was the merest
fabrication, for it would be absurd to suppose that so powerful an
engine could be designed for so inadequate a purpose. The walls were of
wood, but the floor consisted of a large iron trough, and when I came
to examine it I could see a crust of metallic deposit all over it. I
had stooped and was scraping at this to see exactly what it was when I
heard a muttered exclamation in German and saw the cadaverous face of
the colonel looking down at me.
“‘What are you doing there?’ he asked.
“I felt angry at having been tricked by so elaborate a story as that
which he had told me. ‘I was admiring your fuller’s-earth,’ said I; ‘I
think that I should be better able to advise you as to your machine if
I knew what the exact purpose was for which it was used.’
“The instant that I uttered the words I regretted the rashness of my
speech. His face set hard, and a baleful light sprang up in his grey
eyes.
“‘Very well,’ said he, ‘you shall know all about the machine.’ He took
a step backward, slammed the little door, and turned the key in the
lock. I rushed towards it and pulled at the handle, but it was quite
secure, and did not give in the least to my kicks and shoves. ‘Hullo!’
I yelled. ‘Hullo! Colonel! Let me out!’
“And then suddenly in the silence I heard a sound which sent my heart
into my mouth. It was the clank of the levers and the swish of the
leaking cylinder. He had set the engine at work. The lamp still stood
upon the floor where I had placed it when examining the trough. By its
light I saw that the black ceiling was coming down upon me, slowly,
jerkily, but, as none knew better than myself, with a force which must
within a minute grind me to a shapeless pulp. I threw myself,
screaming, against the door, and dragged with my nails at the lock. I
implored the colonel to let me out, but the remorseless clanking of the
levers drowned my cries. The ceiling was only a foot or two above my
head, and with my hand upraised I could feel its hard, rough surface.
Then it flashed through my mind that the pain of my death would depend
very much upon the position in which I met it. If I lay on my face the
weight would come upon my spine, and I shuddered to think of that
dreadful snap. Easier the other way, perhaps; and yet, had I the nerve
to lie and look up at that deadly black shadow wavering down upon me?
Already I was unable to stand erect, when my eye caught something which
brought a gush of hope back to my heart.
“I have said that though the floor and ceiling were of iron, the walls
were of wood. As I gave a last hurried glance around, I saw a thin line
of yellow light between two of the boards, which broadened and
broadened as a small panel was pushed backward. For an instant I could
hardly believe that here was indeed a door which led away from death.
The next instant I threw myself through, and lay half-fainting upon the
other side. The panel had closed again behind me, but the crash of the
lamp, and a few moments afterwards the clang of the two slabs of metal,
told me how narrow had been my escape.
“I was recalled to myself by a frantic plucking at my wrist, and I
found myself lying upon the stone floor of a narrow corridor, while a
woman bent over me and tugged at me with her left hand, while she held
a candle in her right. It was the same good friend whose warning I had
so foolishly rejected.
“‘Come! come!’ she cried breathlessly. ‘They will be here in a moment.
They will see that you are not there. Oh, do not waste the so-precious
time, but come!’
“This time, at least, I did not scorn her advice. I staggered to my
feet and ran with her along the corridor and down a winding stair. The
latter led to another broad passage, and just as we reached it we heard
the sound of running feet and the shouting of two voices, one answering
the other from the floor on which we were and from the one beneath. My
guide stopped and looked about her like one who is at her wit’s end.
Then she threw open a door which led into a bedroom, through the window
of which the moon was shining brightly.
“‘It is your only chance,’ said she. ‘It is high, but it may be that
you can jump it.’
“As she spoke a light sprang into view at the further end of the
passage, and I saw the lean figure of Colonel Lysander Stark rushing
forward with a lantern in one hand and a weapon like a butcher’s
cleaver in the other. I rushed across the bedroom, flung open the
window, and looked out. How quiet and sweet and wholesome the garden
looked in the moonlight, and it could not be more than thirty feet
down. I clambered out upon the sill, but I hesitated to jump until I
should have heard what passed between my saviour and the ruffian who
pursued me. If she were ill-used, then at any risks I was determined to
go back to her assistance. The thought had hardly flashed through my
mind before he was at the door, pushing his way past her; but she threw
her arms round him and tried to hold him back.
“‘Fritz! Fritz!’ she cried in English, ‘remember your promise after the
last time. You said it should not be again. He will be silent! Oh, he
will be silent!’
“‘You are mad, Elise!’ he shouted, struggling to break away from her.
‘You will be the ruin of us. He has seen too much. Let me pass, I say!’
He dashed her to one side, and, rushing to the window, cut at me with
his heavy weapon. I had let myself go, and was hanging by the hands to
the sill, when his blow fell. I was conscious of a dull pain, my grip
loosened, and I fell into the garden below.
“I was shaken but not hurt by the fall; so I picked myself up and
rushed off among the bushes as hard as I could run, for I understood
that I was far from being out of danger yet. Suddenly, however, as I
ran, a deadly dizziness and sickness came over me. I glanced down at my
hand, which was throbbing painfully, and then, for the first time, saw
that my thumb had been cut off and that the blood was pouring from my
wound. I endeavoured to tie my handkerchief round it, but there came a
sudden buzzing in my ears, and next moment I fell in a dead faint among
the rose-bushes.
“How long I remained unconscious I cannot tell. It must have been a
very long time, for the moon had sunk, and a bright morning was
breaking when I came to myself. My clothes were all sodden with dew,
and my coat-sleeve was drenched with blood from my wounded thumb. The
smarting of it recalled in an instant all the particulars of my night’s
adventure, and I sprang to my feet with the feeling that I might hardly
yet be safe from my pursuers. But to my astonishment, when I came to
look round me, neither house nor garden were to be seen. I had been
lying in an angle of the hedge close by the high road, and just a little
lower down was a long building, which proved, upon my approaching it,
to be the very station at which I had arrived upon the previous night.
Were it not for the ugly wound upon my hand, all that had passed during
those dreadful hours might have been an evil dream.
“Half dazed, I went into the station and asked about the morning train.
There would be one to Reading in less than an hour. The same porter was
on duty, I found, as had been there when I arrived. I inquired of him
whether he had ever heard of Colonel Lysander Stark. The name was
strange to him. Had he observed a carriage the night before waiting for
me? No, he had not. Was there a police-station anywhere near? There was
one about three miles off.
“It was too far for me to go, weak and ill as I was. I determined to
wait until I got back to town before telling my story to the police. It
was a little past six when I arrived, so I went first to have my wound
dressed, and then the doctor was kind enough to bring me along here. I
put the case into your hands and shall do exactly what you advise.”
We both sat in silence for some little time after listening to this
extraordinary narrative. Then Sherlock Holmes pulled down from the
shelf one of the ponderous commonplace books in which he placed his
cuttings.
“Here is an advertisement which will interest you,” said he. “It
appeared in all the papers about a year ago. Listen to this: ‘Lost, on
the 9th inst., Mr. Jeremiah Hayling, aged twenty-six, a hydraulic
engineer. Left his lodgings at ten o’clock at night, and has not been
heard of since. Was dressed in,’ etc., etc. Ha! That represents the
last time that the colonel needed to have his machine overhauled, I
fancy.”
“Good heavens!” cried my patient. “Then that explains what the girl
said.”
“Undoubtedly. It is quite clear that the colonel was a cool and
desperate man, who was absolutely determined that nothing should stand
in the way of his little game, like those out-and-out pirates who will
leave no survivor from a captured ship. Well, every moment now is
precious, so if you feel equal to it we shall go down to Scotland Yard
at once as a preliminary to starting for Eyford.”
Some three hours or so afterwards we were all in the train together,
bound from Reading to the little Berkshire village. There were Sherlock
Holmes, the hydraulic engineer, Inspector Bradstreet, of Scotland Yard,
a plain-clothes man, and myself. Bradstreet had spread an ordnance map
of the county out upon the seat and was busy with his compasses drawing
a circle with Eyford for its centre.
“There you are,” said he. “That circle is drawn at a radius of ten
miles from the village. The place we want must be somewhere near that
line. You said ten miles, I think, sir.”
“It was an hour’s good drive.”
“And you think that they brought you back all that way when you were
unconscious?”
“They must have done so. I have a confused memory, too, of having been
lifted and conveyed somewhere.”
“What I cannot understand,” said I, “is why they should have spared you
when they found you lying fainting in the garden. Perhaps the villain
was softened by the woman’s entreaties.”
“I hardly think that likely. I never saw a more inexorable face in my
life.”
“Oh, we shall soon clear up all that,” said Bradstreet. “Well, I have
drawn my circle, and I only wish I knew at what point upon it the folk
that we are in search of are to be found.”
“I think I could lay my finger on it,” said Holmes quietly.
“Really, now!” cried the inspector, “you have formed your opinion!
Come, now, we shall see who agrees with you. I say it is south, for the
country is more deserted there.”
“And I say east,” said my patient.
“I am for west,” remarked the plain-clothes man. “There are several
quiet little villages up there.”
“And I am for north,” said I, “because there are no hills there, and
our friend says that he did not notice the carriage go up any.”
“Come,” cried the inspector, laughing; “it’s a very pretty diversity of
opinion. We have boxed the compass among us. Who do you give your
casting vote to?”
“You are all wrong.”
“But we can’t all be.”
“Oh, yes, you can. This is my point.” He placed his finger in the
centre of the circle. “This is where we shall find them.”
“But the twelve-mile drive?” gasped Hatherley.
“Six out and six back. Nothing simpler. You say yourself that the horse
was fresh and glossy when you got in. How could it be that if it had
gone twelve miles over heavy roads?”
“Indeed, it is a likely ruse enough,” observed Bradstreet thoughtfully.
“Of course there can be no doubt as to the nature of this gang.”
“None at all,” said Holmes. “They are coiners on a large scale, and
have used the machine to form the amalgam which has taken the place of
silver.”
“We have known for some time that a clever gang was at work,” said the
inspector. “They have been turning out half-crowns by the thousand. We
even traced them as far as Reading, but could get no farther, for they
had covered their traces in a way that showed that they were very old
hands. But now, thanks to this lucky chance, I think that we have got
them right enough.”
But the inspector was mistaken, for those criminals were not destined
to fall into the hands of justice. As we rolled into Eyford Station we
saw a gigantic column of smoke which streamed up from behind a small
clump of trees in the neighbourhood and hung like an immense ostrich
feather over the landscape.
“A house on fire?” asked Bradstreet as the train steamed off again on
its way.
“Yes, sir!” said the station-master.
“When did it break out?”
“I hear that it was during the night, sir, but it has got worse, and
the whole place is in a blaze.”
“Whose house is it?”
“Dr. Becher’s.”
“Tell me,” broke in the engineer, “is Dr. Becher a German, very thin,
with a long, sharp nose?”
The station-master laughed heartily. “No, sir, Dr. Becher is an
Englishman, and there isn’t a man in the parish who has a better-lined
waistcoat. But he has a gentleman staying with him, a patient, as I
understand, who is a foreigner, and he looks as if a little good
Berkshire beef would do him no harm.”
The station-master had not finished his speech before we were all
hastening in the direction of the fire. The road topped a low hill, and
there was a great widespread whitewashed building in front of us,
spouting fire at every chink and window, while in the garden in front
three fire-engines were vainly striving to keep the flames under.
“That’s it!” cried Hatherley, in intense excitement. “There is the
gravel-drive, and there are the rose-bushes where I lay. That second
window is the one that I jumped from.”
“Well, at least,” said Holmes, “you have had your revenge upon them.
There can be no question that it was your oil-lamp which, when it was
crushed in the press, set fire to the wooden walls, though no doubt
they were too excited in the chase after you to observe it at the time.
Now keep your eyes open in this crowd for your friends of last night,
though I very much fear that they are a good hundred miles off by now.”
And Holmes’ fears came to be realised, for from that day to this no
word has ever been heard either of the beautiful woman, the sinister
German, or the morose Englishman. Early that morning a peasant had met
a cart containing several people and some very bulky boxes driving
rapidly in the direction of Reading, but there all traces of the
fugitives disappeared, and even Holmes’ ingenuity failed ever to
discover the least clue as to their whereabouts.
The firemen had been much perturbed at the strange arrangements which
they had found within, and still more so by discovering a newly severed
human thumb upon a window-sill of the second floor. About sunset,
however, their efforts were at last successful, and they subdued the
flames, but not before the roof had fallen in, and the whole place been
reduced to such absolute ruin that, save some twisted cylinders and
iron piping, not a trace remained of the machinery which had cost our
unfortunate acquaintance so dearly. Large masses of nickel and of tin
were discovered stored in an out-house, but no coins were to be found,
which may have explained the presence of those bulky boxes which have
been already referred to.
How our hydraulic engineer had been conveyed from the garden to the
spot where he recovered his senses might have remained forever a
mystery were it not for the soft mould, which told us a very plain
tale. He had evidently been carried down by two persons, one of whom
had remarkably small feet and the other unusually large ones. On the
whole, it was most probable that the silent Englishman, being less bold
or less murderous than his companion, had assisted the woman to bear
the unconscious man out of the way of danger.
“Well,” said our engineer ruefully as we took our seats to return once
more to London, “it has been a pretty business for me! I have lost my
thumb and I have lost a fifty-guinea fee, and what have I gained?”
“Experience,” said Holmes, laughing. “Indirectly it may be of value,
you know; you have only to put it into words to gain the reputation of
being excellent company for the remainder of your existence.”
|
ix_the_adventure_of_the_engineer_s_thumb
|
X. THE ADVENTURE OF THE NOBLE BACHELOR
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The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
|
The Lord St. Simon marriage, and its curious termination, have long
ceased to be a subject of interest in those exalted circles in which
the unfortunate bridegroom moves. Fresh scandals have eclipsed it, and
their more piquant details have drawn the gossips away from this
four-year-old drama. As I have reason to believe, however, that the
full facts have never been revealed to the general public, and as my
friend Sherlock Holmes had a considerable share in clearing the matter
up, I feel that no memoir of him would be complete without some little
sketch of this remarkable episode.
It was a few weeks before my own marriage, during the days when I was
still sharing rooms with Holmes in Baker Street, that he came home from
an afternoon stroll to find a letter on the table waiting for him. I
had remained indoors all day, for the weather had taken a sudden turn
to rain, with high autumnal winds, and the jezail bullet which I had
brought back in one of my limbs as a relic of my Afghan campaign
throbbed with dull persistence. With my body in one easy-chair and my
legs upon another, I had surrounded myself with a cloud of newspapers
until at last, saturated with the news of the day, I tossed them all
aside and lay listless, watching the huge crest and monogram upon the
envelope upon the table and wondering lazily who my friend’s noble
correspondent could be.
“Here is a very fashionable epistle,” I remarked as he entered. “Your
morning letters, if I remember right, were from a fish-monger and a
tide-waiter.”
“Yes, my correspondence has certainly the charm of variety,” he
answered, smiling, “and the humbler are usually the more interesting.
This looks like one of those unwelcome social summonses which call upon
a man either to be bored or to lie.”
He broke the seal and glanced over the contents.
“Oh, come, it may prove to be something of interest, after all.”
“Not social, then?”
“No, distinctly professional.”
“And from a noble client?”
“One of the highest in England.”
“My dear fellow, I congratulate you.”
“I assure you, Watson, without affectation, that the status of my
client is a matter of less moment to me than the interest of his case.
It is just possible, however, that that also may not be wanting in this
new investigation. You have been reading the papers diligently of late,
have you not?”
“It looks like it,” said I ruefully, pointing to a huge bundle in the
corner. “I have had nothing else to do.”
“It is fortunate, for you will perhaps be able to post me up. I read
nothing except the criminal news and the agony column. The latter is
always instructive. But if you have followed recent events so closely
you must have read about Lord St. Simon and his wedding?”
“Oh, yes, with the deepest interest.”
“That is well. The letter which I hold in my hand is from Lord St.
Simon. I will read it to you, and in return you must turn over these
papers and let me have whatever bears upon the matter. This is what he
says:
“‘MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES,—Lord Backwater tells me that I may
place implicit reliance upon your judgment and discretion. I have
determined, therefore, to call upon you and to consult you in
reference to the very painful event which has occurred in
connection with my wedding. Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, is
acting already in the matter, but he assures me that he sees no
objection to your co-operation, and that he even thinks that it
might be of some assistance. I will call at four o’clock in the
afternoon, and, should you have any other engagement at that time,
I hope that you will postpone it, as this matter is of paramount
importance. Yours faithfully,
“‘ROBERT ST. SIMON.’
“It is dated from Grosvenor Mansions, written with a quill pen, and the
noble lord has had the misfortune to get a smear of ink upon the outer
side of his right little finger,” remarked Holmes as he folded up the
epistle.
“He says four o’clock. It is three now. He will be here in an hour.”
“Then I have just time, with your assistance, to get clear upon the
subject. Turn over those papers and arrange the extracts in their order
of time, while I take a glance as to who our client is.” He picked a
red-covered volume from a line of books of reference beside the
mantelpiece. “Here he is,” said he, sitting down and flattening it out
upon his knee. “‘Lord Robert Walsingham de Vere St. Simon, second son
of the Duke of Balmoral.’ Hum! ‘Arms: Azure, three caltrops in chief
over a fess sable. Born in 1846.’ He’s forty-one years of age, which is
mature for marriage. Was Under-Secretary for the colonies in a late
administration. The Duke, his father, was at one time Secretary for
Foreign Affairs. They inherit Plantagenet blood by direct descent, and
Tudor on the distaff side. Ha! Well, there is nothing very instructive
in all this. I think that I must turn to you Watson, for something more
solid.”
“I have very little difficulty in finding what I want,” said I, “for
the facts are quite recent, and the matter struck me as remarkable. I
feared to refer them to you, however, as I knew that you had an inquiry
on hand and that you disliked the intrusion of other matters.”
“Oh, you mean the little problem of the Grosvenor Square furniture van.
That is quite cleared up now—though, indeed, it was obvious from the
first. Pray give me the results of your newspaper selections.”
“Here is the first notice which I can find. It is in the personal
column of the _Morning Post_, and dates, as you see, some weeks back:
‘A marriage has been arranged,’ it says, ‘and will, if rumour is
correct, very shortly take place, between Lord Robert St. Simon, second
son of the Duke of Balmoral, and Miss Hatty Doran, the only daughter of
Aloysius Doran. Esq., of San Francisco, Cal., U.S.A.’ That is all.”
“Terse and to the point,” remarked Holmes, stretching his long, thin
legs towards the fire.
“There was a paragraph amplifying this in one of the society papers of
the same week. Ah, here it is: ‘There will soon be a call for
protection in the marriage market, for the present free-trade
principle appears to tell heavily against our home product. One by one
the management of the noble houses of Great Britain is passing into the
hands of our fair cousins from across the Atlantic. An important
addition has been made during the last week to the list of the prizes
which have been borne away by these charming invaders. Lord St. Simon,
who has shown himself for over twenty years proof against the little
god’s arrows, has now definitely announced his approaching marriage
with Miss Hatty Doran, the fascinating daughter of a California
millionaire. Miss Doran, whose graceful figure and striking face
attracted much attention at the Westbury House festivities, is an only
child, and it is currently reported that her dowry will run to
considerably over the six figures, with expectancies for the future. As
it is an open secret that the Duke of Balmoral has been compelled to
sell his pictures within the last few years, and as Lord St. Simon has
no property of his own save the small estate of Birchmoor, it is
obvious that the Californian heiress is not the only gainer by an
alliance which will enable her to make the easy and common transition
from a Republican lady to a British peeress.’”
“Anything else?” asked Holmes, yawning.
“Oh, yes; plenty. Then there is another note in the _Morning Post_ to
say that the marriage would be an absolutely quiet one, that it would
be at St. George’s, Hanover Square, that only half a dozen intimate
friends would be invited, and that the party would return to the
furnished house at Lancaster Gate which has been taken by Mr. Aloysius
Doran. Two days later—that is, on Wednesday last—there is a curt
announcement that the wedding had taken place, and that the honeymoon
would be passed at Lord Backwater’s place, near Petersfield. Those are
all the notices which appeared before the disappearance of the bride.”
“Before the what?” asked Holmes with a start.
“The vanishing of the lady.”
“When did she vanish, then?”
“At the wedding breakfast.”
“Indeed. This is more interesting than it promised to be; quite
dramatic, in fact.”
“Yes; it struck me as being a little out of the common.”
“They often vanish before the ceremony, and occasionally during the
honeymoon; but I cannot call to mind anything quite so prompt as this.
Pray let me have the details.”
“I warn you that they are very incomplete.”
“Perhaps we may make them less so.”
“Such as they are, they are set forth in a single article of a morning
paper of yesterday, which I will read to you. It is headed, ‘Singular
Occurrence at a Fashionable Wedding’:
“‘The family of Lord Robert St. Simon has been thrown into the greatest
consternation by the strange and painful episodes which have taken
place in connection with his wedding. The ceremony, as shortly
announced in the papers of yesterday, occurred on the previous morning;
but it is only now that it has been possible to confirm the strange
rumours which have been so persistently floating about. In spite of the
attempts of the friends to hush the matter up, so much public attention
has now been drawn to it that no good purpose can be served by
affecting to disregard what is a common subject for conversation.
“‘The ceremony, which was performed at St. George’s, Hanover Square,
was a very quiet one, no one being present save the father of the
bride, Mr. Aloysius Doran, the Duchess of Balmoral, Lord Backwater,
Lord Eustace and Lady Clara St. Simon (the younger brother and sister
of the bridegroom), and Lady Alicia Whittington. The whole party
proceeded afterwards to the house of Mr. Aloysius Doran, at Lancaster
Gate, where breakfast had been prepared. It appears that some little
trouble was caused by a woman, whose name has not been ascertained, who
endeavoured to force her way into the house after the bridal party,
alleging that she had some claim upon Lord St. Simon. It was only after
a painful and prolonged scene that she was ejected by the butler and
the footman. The bride, who had fortunately entered the house before
this unpleasant interruption, had sat down to breakfast with the rest,
when she complained of a sudden indisposition and retired to her room.
Her prolonged absence having caused some comment, her father followed
her, but learned from her maid that she had only come up to her chamber
for an instant, caught up an ulster and bonnet, and hurried down to the
passage. One of the footmen declared that he had seen a lady leave the
house thus apparelled, but had refused to credit that it was his
mistress, believing her to be with the company. On ascertaining that
his daughter had disappeared, Mr. Aloysius Doran, in conjunction with
the bridegroom, instantly put themselves in communication with the
police, and very energetic inquiries are being made, which will
probably result in a speedy clearing up of this very singular business.
Up to a late hour last night, however, nothing had transpired as to the
whereabouts of the missing lady. There are rumours of foul play in the
matter, and it is said that the police have caused the arrest of the
woman who had caused the original disturbance, in the belief that, from
jealousy or some other motive, she may have been concerned in the
strange disappearance of the bride.’”
“And is that all?”
“Only one little item in another of the morning papers, but it is a
suggestive one.”
“And it is—”
“That Miss Flora Millar, the lady who had caused the disturbance, has
actually been arrested. It appears that she was formerly a _danseuse_
at the Allegro, and that she has known the bridegroom for some years.
There are no further particulars, and the whole case is in your hands
now—so far as it has been set forth in the public press.”
“And an exceedingly interesting case it appears to be. I would not have
missed it for worlds. But there is a ring at the bell, Watson, and as
the clock makes it a few minutes after four, I have no doubt that this
will prove to be our noble client. Do not dream of going, Watson, for I
very much prefer having a witness, if only as a check to my own
memory.”
“Lord Robert St. Simon,” announced our page-boy, throwing open the
door. A gentleman entered, with a pleasant, cultured face, high-nosed
and pale, with something perhaps of petulance about the mouth, and with
the steady, well-opened eye of a man whose pleasant lot it had ever
been to command and to be obeyed. His manner was brisk, and yet his
general appearance gave an undue impression of age, for he had a slight
forward stoop and a little bend of the knees as he walked. His hair,
too, as he swept off his very curly-brimmed hat, was grizzled round the
edges and thin upon the top. As to his dress, it was careful to the
verge of foppishness, with high collar, black frock-coat, white
waistcoat, yellow gloves, patent-leather shoes, and light-coloured
gaiters. He advanced slowly into the room, turning his head from left
to right, and swinging in his right hand the cord which held his golden
eyeglasses.
“Good-day, Lord St. Simon,” said Holmes, rising and bowing. “Pray take
the basket-chair. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson. Draw up
a little to the fire, and we will talk this matter over.”
“A most painful matter to me, as you can most readily imagine, Mr.
Holmes. I have been cut to the quick. I understand that you have
already managed several delicate cases of this sort, sir, though I
presume that they were hardly from the same class of society.”
“No, I am descending.”
“I beg pardon.”
“My last client of the sort was a king.”
“Oh, really! I had no idea. And which king?”
“The King of Scandinavia.”
“What! Had he lost his wife?”
“You can understand,” said Holmes suavely, “that I extend to the
affairs of my other clients the same secrecy which I promise to you in
yours.”
“Of course! Very right! very right! I’m sure I beg pardon. As to my own
case, I am ready to give you any information which may assist you in
forming an opinion.”
“Thank you. I have already learned all that is in the public prints,
nothing more. I presume that I may take it as correct—this article, for
example, as to the disappearance of the bride.”
Lord St. Simon glanced over it. “Yes, it is correct, as far as it
goes.”
“But it needs a great deal of supplementing before anyone could offer
an opinion. I think that I may arrive at my facts most directly by
questioning you.”
“Pray do so.”
“When did you first meet Miss Hatty Doran?”
“In San Francisco, a year ago.”
“You were travelling in the States?”
“Yes.”
“Did you become engaged then?”
“No.”
“But you were on a friendly footing?”
“I was amused by her society, and she could see that I was amused.”
“Her father is very rich?”
“He is said to be the richest man on the Pacific slope.”
“And how did he make his money?”
“In mining. He had nothing a few years ago. Then he struck gold,
invested it, and came up by leaps and bounds.”
“Now, what is your own impression as to the young lady’s—your wife’s
character?”
The nobleman swung his glasses a little faster and stared down into the
fire. “You see, Mr. Holmes,” said he, “my wife was twenty before her
father became a rich man. During that time she ran free in a mining
camp and wandered through woods or mountains, so that her education has
come from Nature rather than from the schoolmaster. She is what we call
in England a tomboy, with a strong nature, wild and free, unfettered by
any sort of traditions. She is impetuous—volcanic, I was about to say.
She is swift in making up her mind and fearless in carrying out her
resolutions. On the other hand, I would not have given her the name
which I have the honour to bear”—he gave a little stately cough—“had I
not thought her to be at bottom a noble woman. I believe that she is
capable of heroic self-sacrifice and that anything dishonourable would
be repugnant to her.”
“Have you her photograph?”
“I brought this with me.” He opened a locket and showed us the full
face of a very lovely woman. It was not a photograph but an ivory
miniature, and the artist had brought out the full effect of the
lustrous black hair, the large dark eyes, and the exquisite mouth.
Holmes gazed long and earnestly at it. Then he closed the locket and
handed it back to Lord St. Simon.
“The young lady came to London, then, and you renewed your
acquaintance?”
“Yes, her father brought her over for this last London season. I met
her several times, became engaged to her, and have now married her.”
“She brought, I understand, a considerable dowry?”
“A fair dowry. Not more than is usual in my family.”
“And this, of course, remains to you, since the marriage is a _fait
accompli_?”
“I really have made no inquiries on the subject.”
“Very naturally not. Did you see Miss Doran on the day before the
wedding?”
“Yes.”
“Was she in good spirits?”
“Never better. She kept talking of what we should do in our future
lives.”
“Indeed! That is very interesting. And on the morning of the wedding?”
“She was as bright as possible—at least until after the ceremony.”
“And did you observe any change in her then?”
“Well, to tell the truth, I saw then the first signs that I had ever
seen that her temper was just a little sharp. The incident however, was
too trivial to relate and can have no possible bearing upon the case.”
“Pray let us have it, for all that.”
“Oh, it is childish. She dropped her bouquet as we went towards the
vestry. She was passing the front pew at the time, and it fell over
into the pew. There was a moment’s delay, but the gentleman in the pew
handed it up to her again, and it did not appear to be the worse for
the fall. Yet when I spoke to her of the matter, she answered me
abruptly; and in the carriage, on our way home, she seemed absurdly
agitated over this trifling cause.”
“Indeed! You say that there was a gentleman in the pew. Some of the
general public were present, then?”
“Oh, yes. It is impossible to exclude them when the church is open.”
“This gentleman was not one of your wife’s friends?”
“No, no; I call him a gentleman by courtesy, but he was quite a
common-looking person. I hardly noticed his appearance. But really I
think that we are wandering rather far from the point.”
“Lady St. Simon, then, returned from the wedding in a less cheerful
frame of mind than she had gone to it. What did she do on re-entering
her father’s house?”
“I saw her in conversation with her maid.”
“And who is her maid?”
“Alice is her name. She is an American and came from California with
her.”
“A confidential servant?”
“A little too much so. It seemed to me that her mistress allowed her to
take great liberties. Still, of course, in America they look upon these
things in a different way.”
“How long did she speak to this Alice?”
“Oh, a few minutes. I had something else to think of.”
“You did not overhear what they said?”
“Lady St. Simon said something about ‘jumping a claim.’ She was
accustomed to use slang of the kind. I have no idea what she meant.”
“American slang is very expressive sometimes. And what did your wife do
when she finished speaking to her maid?”
“She walked into the breakfast-room.”
“On your arm?”
“No, alone. She was very independent in little matters like that. Then,
after we had sat down for ten minutes or so, she rose hurriedly,
muttered some words of apology, and left the room. She never came
back.”
“But this maid, Alice, as I understand, deposes that she went to her
room, covered her bride’s dress with a long ulster, put on a bonnet,
and went out.”
“Quite so. And she was afterwards seen walking into Hyde Park in
company with Flora Millar, a woman who is now in custody, and who had
already made a disturbance at Mr. Doran’s house that morning.”
“Ah, yes. I should like a few particulars as to this young lady, and
your relations to her.”
Lord St. Simon shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows. “We have
been on a friendly footing for some years—I may say on a _very_
friendly footing. She used to be at the Allegro. I have not treated her
ungenerously, and she had no just cause of complaint against me, but
you know what women are, Mr. Holmes. Flora was a dear little thing, but
exceedingly hot-headed and devotedly attached to me. She wrote me
dreadful letters when she heard that I was about to be married, and, to
tell the truth, the reason why I had the marriage celebrated so quietly
was that I feared lest there might be a scandal in the church. She came
to Mr. Doran’s door just after we returned, and she endeavoured to push
her way in, uttering very abusive expressions towards my wife, and even
threatening her, but I had foreseen the possibility of something of the
sort, and I had two police fellows there in private clothes, who soon
pushed her out again. She was quiet when she saw that there was no good
in making a row.”
“Did your wife hear all this?”
“No, thank goodness, she did not.”
“And she was seen walking with this very woman afterwards?”
“Yes. That is what Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, looks upon as so
serious. It is thought that Flora decoyed my wife out and laid some
terrible trap for her.”
“Well, it is a possible supposition.”
“You think so, too?”
“I did not say a probable one. But you do not yourself look upon this
as likely?”
“I do not think Flora would hurt a fly.”
“Still, jealousy is a strange transformer of characters. Pray what is
your own theory as to what took place?”
“Well, really, I came to seek a theory, not to propound one. I have
given you all the facts. Since you ask me, however, I may say that it
has occurred to me as possible that the excitement of this affair, the
consciousness that she had made so immense a social stride, had the
effect of causing some little nervous disturbance in my wife.”
“In short, that she had become suddenly deranged?”
“Well, really, when I consider that she has turned her back—I will not
say upon me, but upon so much that many have aspired to without
success—I can hardly explain it in any other fashion.”
“Well, certainly that is also a conceivable hypothesis,” said Holmes,
smiling. “And now, Lord St. Simon, I think that I have nearly all my
data. May I ask whether you were seated at the breakfast-table so that
you could see out of the window?”
“We could see the other side of the road and the Park.”
“Quite so. Then I do not think that I need to detain you longer. I
shall communicate with you.”
“Should you be fortunate enough to solve this problem,” said our
client, rising.
“I have solved it.”
“Eh? What was that?”
“I say that I have solved it.”
“Where, then, is my wife?”
“That is a detail which I shall speedily supply.”
Lord St. Simon shook his head. “I am afraid that it will take wiser
heads than yours or mine,” he remarked, and bowing in a stately,
old-fashioned manner he departed.
“It is very good of Lord St. Simon to honour my head by putting it on a
level with his own,” said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. “I think that I
shall have a whisky and soda and a cigar after all this
cross-questioning. I had formed my conclusions as to the case before
our client came into the room.”
“My dear Holmes!”
“I have notes of several similar cases, though none, as I remarked
before, which were quite as prompt. My whole examination served to turn
my conjecture into a certainty. Circumstantial evidence is occasionally
very convincing, as when you find a trout in the milk, to quote
Thoreau’s example.”
“But I have heard all that you have heard.”
“Without, however, the knowledge of pre-existing cases which serves me
so well. There was a parallel instance in Aberdeen some years back, and
something on very much the same lines at Munich the year after the
Franco-Prussian War. It is one of these cases—but, hullo, here is
Lestrade! Good-afternoon, Lestrade! You will find an extra tumbler upon
the sideboard, and there are cigars in the box.”
The official detective was attired in a pea-jacket and cravat, which
gave him a decidedly nautical appearance, and he carried a black canvas
bag in his hand. With a short greeting he seated himself and lit the
cigar which had been offered to him.
“What’s up, then?” asked Holmes with a twinkle in his eye. “You look
dissatisfied.”
“And I feel dissatisfied. It is this infernal St. Simon marriage case.
I can make neither head nor tail of the business.”
“Really! You surprise me.”
“Who ever heard of such a mixed affair? Every clue seems to slip
through my fingers. I have been at work upon it all day.”
“And very wet it seems to have made you,” said Holmes laying his hand
upon the arm of the pea-jacket.
“Yes, I have been dragging the Serpentine.”
“In Heaven’s name, what for?”
“In search of the body of Lady St. Simon.”
Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily.
“Have you dragged the basin of Trafalgar Square fountain?” he asked.
“Why? What do you mean?”
“Because you have just as good a chance of finding this lady in the one
as in the other.”
Lestrade shot an angry glance at my companion. “I suppose you know all
about it,” he snarled.
“Well, I have only just heard the facts, but my mind is made up.”
“Oh, indeed! Then you think that the Serpentine plays no part in the
matter?”
“I think it very unlikely.”
“Then perhaps you will kindly explain how it is that we found this in
it?” He opened his bag as he spoke, and tumbled onto the floor a
wedding-dress of watered silk, a pair of white satin shoes and a
bride’s wreath and veil, all discoloured and soaked in water. “There,”
said he, putting a new wedding-ring upon the top of the pile. “There is
a little nut for you to crack, Master Holmes.”
“Oh, indeed!” said my friend, blowing blue rings into the air. “You
dragged them from the Serpentine?”
“No. They were found floating near the margin by a park-keeper. They
have been identified as her clothes, and it seemed to me that if the
clothes were there the body would not be far off.”
“By the same brilliant reasoning, every man’s body is to be found in
the neighbourhood of his wardrobe. And pray what did you hope to arrive
at through this?”
“At some evidence implicating Flora Millar in the disappearance.”
“I am afraid that you will find it difficult.”
“Are you, indeed, now?” cried Lestrade with some bitterness. “I am
afraid, Holmes, that you are not very practical with your deductions
and your inferences. You have made two blunders in as many minutes.
This dress does implicate Miss Flora Millar.”
“And how?”
“In the dress is a pocket. In the pocket is a card-case. In the
card-case is a note. And here is the very note.” He slapped it down
upon the table in front of him. “Listen to this: ‘You will see me when
all is ready. Come at once. F. H. M.’ Now my theory all along has been
that Lady St. Simon was decoyed away by Flora Millar, and that she,
with confederates, no doubt, was responsible for her disappearance.
Here, signed with her initials, is the very note which was no doubt
quietly slipped into her hand at the door and which lured her within
their reach.”
“Very good, Lestrade,” said Holmes, laughing. “You really are very fine
indeed. Let me see it.” He took up the paper in a listless way, but his
attention instantly became riveted, and he gave a little cry of
satisfaction. “This is indeed important,” said he.
“Ha! you find it so?”
“Extremely so. I congratulate you warmly.”
Lestrade rose in his triumph and bent his head to look. “Why,” he
shrieked, “you’re looking at the wrong side!”
“On the contrary, this is the right side.”
“The right side? You’re mad! Here is the note written in pencil over
here.”
“And over here is what appears to be the fragment of a hotel bill,
which interests me deeply.”
“There’s nothing in it. I looked at it before,” said Lestrade. “‘Oct.
4th, rooms 8_s_., breakfast 2_s_. 6_d_., cocktail 1_s_., lunch 2_s_.
6_d_., glass sherry, 8_d_.’ I see nothing in that.”
“Very likely not. It is most important, all the same. As to the note,
it is important also, or at least the initials are, so I congratulate
you again.”
“I’ve wasted time enough,” said Lestrade, rising. “I believe in hard
work and not in sitting by the fire spinning fine theories. Good-day,
Mr. Holmes, and we shall see which gets to the bottom of the matter
first.” He gathered up the garments, thrust them into the bag, and made
for the door.
“Just one hint to you, Lestrade,” drawled Holmes before his rival
vanished; “I will tell you the true solution of the matter. Lady St.
Simon is a myth. There is not, and there never has been, any such
person.”
Lestrade looked sadly at my companion. Then he turned to me, tapped his
forehead three times, shook his head solemnly, and hurried away.
He had hardly shut the door behind him when Holmes rose to put on his
overcoat. “There is something in what the fellow says about outdoor
work,” he remarked, “so I think, Watson, that I must leave you to your
papers for a little.”
It was after five o’clock when Sherlock Holmes left me, but I had no
time to be lonely, for within an hour there arrived a confectioner’s
man with a very large flat box. This he unpacked with the help of a
youth whom he had brought with him, and presently, to my very great
astonishment, a quite epicurean little cold supper began to be laid out
upon our humble lodging-house mahogany. There were a couple of brace of
cold woodcock, a pheasant, a _pâté de foie gras_ pie with a group of
ancient and cobwebby bottles. Having laid out all these luxuries, my
two visitors vanished away, like the genii of the Arabian Nights, with
no explanation save that the things had been paid for and were ordered
to this address.
Just before nine o’clock Sherlock Holmes stepped briskly into the room.
His features were gravely set, but there was a light in his eye which
made me think that he had not been disappointed in his conclusions.
“They have laid the supper, then,” he said, rubbing his hands.
“You seem to expect company. They have laid for five.”
“Yes, I fancy we may have some company dropping in,” said he. “I am
surprised that Lord St. Simon has not already arrived. Ha! I fancy that
I hear his step now upon the stairs.”
It was indeed our visitor of the afternoon who came bustling in,
dangling his glasses more vigorously than ever, and with a very
perturbed expression upon his aristocratic features.
“My messenger reached you, then?” asked Holmes.
“Yes, and I confess that the contents startled me beyond measure. Have
you good authority for what you say?”
“The best possible.”
Lord St. Simon sank into a chair and passed his hand over his forehead.
“What will the Duke say,” he murmured, “when he hears that one of the
family has been subjected to such humiliation?”
“It is the purest accident. I cannot allow that there is any
humiliation.”
“Ah, you look on these things from another standpoint.”
“I fail to see that anyone is to blame. I can hardly see how the lady
could have acted otherwise, though her abrupt method of doing it was
undoubtedly to be regretted. Having no mother, she had no one to advise
her at such a crisis.”
“It was a slight, sir, a public slight,” said Lord St. Simon, tapping
his fingers upon the table.
“You must make allowance for this poor girl, placed in so unprecedented
a position.”
“I will make no allowance. I am very angry indeed, and I have been
shamefully used.”
“I think that I heard a ring,” said Holmes. “Yes, there are steps on
the landing. If I cannot persuade you to take a lenient view of the
matter, Lord St. Simon, I have brought an advocate here who may be more
successful.” He opened the door and ushered in a lady and gentleman.
“Lord St. Simon,” said he “allow me to introduce you to Mr. and Mrs.
Francis Hay Moulton. The lady, I think, you have already met.”
At the sight of these newcomers our client had sprung from his seat and
stood very erect, with his eyes cast down and his hand thrust into the
breast of his frock-coat, a picture of offended dignity. The lady had
taken a quick step forward and had held out her hand to him, but he
still refused to raise his eyes. It was as well for his resolution,
perhaps, for her pleading face was one which it was hard to resist.
“You’re angry, Robert,” said she. “Well, I guess you have every cause
to be.”
“Pray make no apology to me,” said Lord St. Simon bitterly.
“Oh, yes, I know that I have treated you real bad and that I should
have spoken to you before I went; but I was kind of rattled, and from
the time when I saw Frank here again I just didn’t know what I was
doing or saying. I only wonder I didn’t fall down and do a faint right
there before the altar.”
“Perhaps, Mrs. Moulton, you would like my friend and me to leave the
room while you explain this matter?”
“If I may give an opinion,” remarked the strange gentleman, “we’ve had
just a little too much secrecy over this business already. For my part,
I should like all Europe and America to hear the rights of it.” He was
a small, wiry, sunburnt man, clean-shaven, with a sharp face and alert
manner.
“Then I’ll tell our story right away,” said the lady. “Frank here and I
met in ’84, in McQuire’s camp, near the Rockies, where Pa was working a
claim. We were engaged to each other, Frank and I; but then one day
father struck a rich pocket and made a pile, while poor Frank here had
a claim that petered out and came to nothing. The richer Pa grew the
poorer was Frank; so at last Pa wouldn’t hear of our engagement lasting
any longer, and he took me away to ’Frisco. Frank wouldn’t throw up his
hand, though; so he followed me there, and he saw me without Pa knowing
anything about it. It would only have made him mad to know, so we just
fixed it all up for ourselves. Frank said that he would go and make his
pile, too, and never come back to claim me until he had as much as Pa.
So then I promised to wait for him to the end of time and pledged
myself not to marry anyone else while he lived. ‘Why shouldn’t we be
married right away, then,’ said he, ‘and then I will feel sure of you;
and I won’t claim to be your husband until I come back?’ Well, we
talked it over, and he had fixed it all up so nicely, with a clergyman
all ready in waiting, that we just did it right there; and then Frank
went off to seek his fortune, and I went back to Pa.
“The next I heard of Frank was that he was in Montana, and then he went
prospecting in Arizona, and then I heard of him from New Mexico. After
that came a long newspaper story about how a miners’ camp had been
attacked by Apache Indians, and there was my Frank’s name among the
killed. I fainted dead away, and I was very sick for months after. Pa
thought I had a decline and took me to half the doctors in ’Frisco. Not
a word of news came for a year and more, so that I never doubted that
Frank was really dead. Then Lord St. Simon came to ’Frisco, and we came
to London, and a marriage was arranged, and Pa was very pleased, but I
felt all the time that no man on this earth would ever take the place
in my heart that had been given to my poor Frank.
“Still, if I had married Lord St. Simon, of course I’d have done my
duty by him. We can’t command our love, but we can our actions. I went
to the altar with him with the intention to make him just as good a
wife as it was in me to be. But you may imagine what I felt when, just
as I came to the altar rails, I glanced back and saw Frank standing and
looking at me out of the first pew. I thought it was his ghost at
first; but when I looked again there he was still, with a kind of
question in his eyes, as if to ask me whether I were glad or sorry to
see him. I wonder I didn’t drop. I know that everything was turning
round, and the words of the clergyman were just like the buzz of a bee
in my ear. I didn’t know what to do. Should I stop the service and make
a scene in the church? I glanced at him again, and he seemed to know
what I was thinking, for he raised his finger to his lips to tell me to
be still. Then I saw him scribble on a piece of paper, and I knew that
he was writing me a note. As I passed his pew on the way out I dropped
my bouquet over to him, and he slipped the note into my hand when he
returned me the flowers. It was only a line asking me to join him when
he made the sign to me to do so. Of course I never doubted for a moment
that my first duty was now to him, and I determined to do just whatever
he might direct.
“When I got back I told my maid, who had known him in California, and
had always been his friend. I ordered her to say nothing, but to get a
few things packed and my ulster ready. I know I ought to have spoken to
Lord St. Simon, but it was dreadful hard before his mother and all
those great people. I just made up my mind to run away and explain
afterwards. I hadn’t been at the table ten minutes before I saw Frank
out of the window at the other side of the road. He beckoned to me and
then began walking into the Park. I slipped out, put on my things, and
followed him. Some woman came talking something or other about Lord St.
Simon to me—seemed to me from the little I heard as if he had a little
secret of his own before marriage also—but I managed to get away from
her and soon overtook Frank. We got into a cab together, and away we
drove to some lodgings he had taken in Gordon Square, and that was my
true wedding after all those years of waiting. Frank had been a
prisoner among the Apaches, had escaped, came on to ’Frisco, found that
I had given him up for dead and had gone to England, followed me there,
and had come upon me at last on the very morning of my second wedding.”
“I saw it in a paper,” explained the American. “It gave the name and
the church but not where the lady lived.”
“Then we had a talk as to what we should do, and Frank was all for
openness, but I was so ashamed of it all that I felt as if I should
like to vanish away and never see any of them again—just sending a line
to Pa, perhaps, to show him that I was alive. It was awful to me to
think of all those lords and ladies sitting round that breakfast-table
and waiting for me to come back. So Frank took my wedding-clothes and
things and made a bundle of them, so that I should not be traced, and
dropped them away somewhere where no one could find them. It is likely
that we should have gone on to Paris to-morrow, only that this good
gentleman, Mr. Holmes, came round to us this evening, though how he
found us is more than I can think, and he showed us very clearly and
kindly that I was wrong and that Frank was right, and that we should be
putting ourselves in the wrong if we were so secret. Then he offered to
give us a chance of talking to Lord St. Simon alone, and so we came
right away round to his rooms at once. Now, Robert, you have heard it
all, and I am very sorry if I have given you pain, and I hope that you
do not think very meanly of me.”
Lord St. Simon had by no means relaxed his rigid attitude, but had
listened with a frowning brow and a compressed lip to this long
narrative.
“Excuse me,” he said, “but it is not my custom to discuss my most
intimate personal affairs in this public manner.”
“Then you won’t forgive me? You won’t shake hands before I go?”
“Oh, certainly, if it would give you any pleasure.” He put out his hand
and coldly grasped that which she extended to him.
“I had hoped,” suggested Holmes, “that you would have joined us in a
friendly supper.”
“I think that there you ask a little too much,” responded his Lordship.
“I may be forced to acquiesce in these recent developments, but I can
hardly be expected to make merry over them. I think that with your
permission I will now wish you all a very good-night.” He included us
all in a sweeping bow and stalked out of the room.
“Then I trust that you at least will honour me with your company,” said
Sherlock Holmes. “It is always a joy to meet an American, Mr. Moulton,
for I am one of those who believe that the folly of a monarch and the
blundering of a minister in far-gone years will not prevent our
children from being some day citizens of the same world-wide country
under a flag which shall be a quartering of the Union Jack with the
Stars and Stripes.”
“The case has been an interesting one,” remarked Holmes when our
visitors had left us, “because it serves to show very clearly how
simple the explanation may be of an affair which at first sight seems
to be almost inexplicable. Nothing could be more natural than the
sequence of events as narrated by this lady, and nothing stranger than
the result when viewed, for instance, by Mr. Lestrade of Scotland
Yard.”
“You were not yourself at fault at all, then?”
“From the first, two facts were very obvious to me, the one that the
lady had been quite willing to undergo the wedding ceremony, the other
that she had repented of it within a few minutes of returning home.
Obviously something had occurred during the morning, then, to cause her
to change her mind. What could that something be? She could not have
spoken to anyone when she was out, for she had been in the company of
the bridegroom. Had she seen someone, then? If she had, it must be
someone from America because she had spent so short a time in this
country that she could hardly have allowed anyone to acquire so deep an
influence over her that the mere sight of him would induce her to
change her plans so completely. You see we have already arrived, by a
process of exclusion, at the idea that she might have seen an American.
Then who could this American be, and why should he possess so much
influence over her? It might be a lover; it might be a husband. Her
young womanhood had, I knew, been spent in rough scenes and under
strange conditions. So far I had got before I ever heard Lord St.
Simon’s narrative. When he told us of a man in a pew, of the change in
the bride’s manner, of so transparent a device for obtaining a note as
the dropping of a bouquet, of her resort to her confidential maid, and
of her very significant allusion to claim-jumping—which in miners’
parlance means taking possession of that which another person has a
prior claim to—the whole situation became absolutely clear. She had
gone off with a man, and the man was either a lover or was a previous
husband—the chances being in favour of the latter.”
“And how in the world did you find them?”
“It might have been difficult, but friend Lestrade held information in
his hands the value of which he did not himself know. The initials
were, of course, of the highest importance, but more valuable still was
it to know that within a week he had settled his bill at one of the
most select London hotels.”
“How did you deduce the select?”
“By the select prices. Eight shillings for a bed and eightpence for a
glass of sherry pointed to one of the most expensive hotels. There are
not many in London which charge at that rate. In the second one which I
visited in Northumberland Avenue, I learned by an inspection of the
book that Francis H. Moulton, an American gentleman, had left only the
day before, and on looking over the entries against him, I came upon
the very items which I had seen in the duplicate bill. His letters were
to be forwarded to 226 Gordon Square; so thither I travelled, and being
fortunate enough to find the loving couple at home, I ventured to give
them some paternal advice and to point out to them that it would be
better in every way that they should make their position a little
clearer both to the general public and to Lord St. Simon in particular.
I invited them to meet him here, and, as you see, I made him keep the
appointment.”
“But with no very good result,” I remarked. “His conduct was certainly
not very gracious.”
“Ah, Watson,” said Holmes, smiling, “perhaps you would not be very
gracious either, if, after all the trouble of wooing and wedding, you
found yourself deprived in an instant of wife and of fortune. I think
that we may judge Lord St. Simon very mercifully and thank our stars
that we are never likely to find ourselves in the same position. Draw
your chair up and hand me my violin, for the only problem we have still
to solve is how to while away these bleak autumnal evenings.”
|
x_the_adventure_of_the_noble_bachelor
|
XI. THE ADVENTURE OF THE BERYL CORONET
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The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
|
“Holmes,” said I as I stood one morning in our bow-window looking down
the street, “here is a madman coming along. It seems rather sad that
his relatives should allow him to come out alone.”
My friend rose lazily from his armchair and stood with his hands in the
pockets of his dressing-gown, looking over my shoulder. It was a
bright, crisp February morning, and the snow of the day before still
lay deep upon the ground, shimmering brightly in the wintry sun. Down
the centre of Baker Street it had been ploughed into a brown crumbly
band by the traffic, but at either side and on the heaped-up edges of
the footpaths it still lay as white as when it fell. The grey pavement
had been cleaned and scraped, but was still dangerously slippery, so
that there were fewer passengers than usual. Indeed, from the direction
of the Metropolitan Station no one was coming save the single gentleman
whose eccentric conduct had drawn my attention.
He was a man of about fifty, tall, portly, and imposing, with a
massive, strongly marked face and a commanding figure. He was dressed
in a sombre yet rich style, in black frock-coat, shining hat, neat
brown gaiters, and well-cut pearl-grey trousers. Yet his actions were
in absurd contrast to the dignity of his dress and features, for he was
running hard, with occasional little springs, such as a weary man gives
who is little accustomed to set any tax upon his legs. As he ran he
jerked his hands up and down, waggled his head, and writhed his face
into the most extraordinary contortions.
“What on earth can be the matter with him?” I asked. “He is looking up
at the numbers of the houses.”
“I believe that he is coming here,” said Holmes, rubbing his hands.
“Here?”
“Yes; I rather think he is coming to consult me professionally. I think
that I recognise the symptoms. Ha! did I not tell you?” As he spoke,
the man, puffing and blowing, rushed at our door and pulled at our bell
until the whole house resounded with the clanging.
A few moments later he was in our room, still puffing, still
gesticulating, but with so fixed a look of grief and despair in his
eyes that our smiles were turned in an instant to horror and pity. For
a while he could not get his words out, but swayed his body and plucked
at his hair like one who has been driven to the extreme limits of his
reason. Then, suddenly springing to his feet, he beat his head against
the wall with such force that we both rushed upon him and tore him away
to the centre of the room. Sherlock Holmes pushed him down into the
easy-chair and, sitting beside him, patted his hand and chatted with
him in the easy, soothing tones which he knew so well how to employ.
“You have come to me to tell your story, have you not?” said he. “You
are fatigued with your haste. Pray wait until you have recovered
yourself, and then I shall be most happy to look into any little
problem which you may submit to me.”
The man sat for a minute or more with a heaving chest, fighting against
his emotion. Then he passed his handkerchief over his brow, set his
lips tight, and turned his face towards us.
“No doubt you think me mad?” said he.
“I see that you have had some great trouble,” responded Holmes.
“God knows I have!—a trouble which is enough to unseat my reason, so
sudden and so terrible is it. Public disgrace I might have faced,
although I am a man whose character has never yet borne a stain.
Private affliction also is the lot of every man; but the two coming
together, and in so frightful a form, have been enough to shake my very
soul. Besides, it is not I alone. The very noblest in the land may
suffer unless some way be found out of this horrible affair.”
“Pray compose yourself, sir,” said Holmes, “and let me have a clear
account of who you are and what it is that has befallen you.”
“My name,” answered our visitor, “is probably familiar to your ears. I
am Alexander Holder, of the banking firm of Holder & Stevenson, of
Threadneedle Street.”
The name was indeed well known to us as belonging to the senior partner
in the second largest private banking concern in the City of London.
What could have happened, then, to bring one of the foremost citizens
of London to this most pitiable pass? We waited, all curiosity, until
with another effort he braced himself to tell his story.
“I feel that time is of value,” said he; “that is why I hastened here
when the police inspector suggested that I should secure your
co-operation. I came to Baker Street by the Underground and hurried
from there on foot, for the cabs go slowly through this snow. That is
why I was so out of breath, for I am a man who takes very little
exercise. I feel better now, and I will put the facts before you as
shortly and yet as clearly as I can.
“It is, of course, well known to you that in a successful banking
business as much depends upon our being able to find remunerative
investments for our funds as upon our increasing our connection and the
number of our depositors. One of our most lucrative means of laying out
money is in the shape of loans, where the security is unimpeachable. We
have done a good deal in this direction during the last few years, and
there are many noble families to whom we have advanced large sums upon
the security of their pictures, libraries, or plate.
“Yesterday morning I was seated in my office at the bank when a card
was brought in to me by one of the clerks. I started when I saw the
name, for it was that of none other than—well, perhaps even to you I
had better say no more than that it was a name which is a household
word all over the earth—one of the highest, noblest, most exalted names
in England. I was overwhelmed by the honour and attempted, when he
entered, to say so, but he plunged at once into business with the air
of a man who wishes to hurry quickly through a disagreeable task.
“‘Mr. Holder,’ said he, ‘I have been informed that you are in the habit
of advancing money.’
“‘The firm does so when the security is good.’ I answered.
“‘It is absolutely essential to me,’ said he, ‘that I should have £
50,000 at once. I could, of course, borrow so trifling a sum ten times
over from my friends, but I much prefer to make it a matter of business
and to carry out that business myself. In my position you can readily
understand that it is unwise to place one’s self under obligations.’
“‘For how long, may I ask, do you want this sum?’ I asked.
“‘Next Monday I have a large sum due to me, and I shall then most
certainly repay what you advance, with whatever interest you think it
right to charge. But it is very essential to me that the money should
be paid at once.’
“‘I should be happy to advance it without further parley from my own
private purse,’ said I, ‘were it not that the strain would be rather
more than it could bear. If, on the other hand, I am to do it in the
name of the firm, then in justice to my partner I must insist that,
even in your case, every businesslike precaution should be taken.’
“‘I should much prefer to have it so,’ said he, raising up a square,
black morocco case which he had laid beside his chair. ‘You have
doubtless heard of the Beryl Coronet?’
“‘One of the most precious public possessions of the empire,’ said I.
“‘Precisely.’ He opened the case, and there, imbedded in soft,
flesh-coloured velvet, lay the magnificent piece of jewellery which he
had named. ‘There are thirty-nine enormous beryls,’ said he, ‘and the
price of the gold chasing is incalculable. The lowest estimate would
put the worth of the coronet at double the sum which I have asked. I am
prepared to leave it with you as my security.’
“I took the precious case into my hands and looked in some perplexity
from it to my illustrious client.
“‘You doubt its value?’ he asked.
“‘Not at all. I only doubt—’
“‘The propriety of my leaving it. You may set your mind at rest about
that. I should not dream of doing so were it not absolutely certain
that I should be able in four days to reclaim it. It is a pure matter
of form. Is the security sufficient?’
“‘Ample.’
“‘You understand, Mr. Holder, that I am giving you a strong proof of
the confidence which I have in you, founded upon all that I have heard
of you. I rely upon you not only to be discreet and to refrain from all
gossip upon the matter but, above all, to preserve this coronet with
every possible precaution because I need not say that a great public
scandal would be caused if any harm were to befall it. Any injury to it
would be almost as serious as its complete loss, for there are no
beryls in the world to match these, and it would be impossible to
replace them. I leave it with you, however, with every confidence, and
I shall call for it in person on Monday morning.’
“Seeing that my client was anxious to leave, I said no more but,
calling for my cashier, I ordered him to pay over fifty £ 1000 notes.
When I was alone once more, however, with the precious case lying upon
the table in front of me, I could not but think with some misgivings of
the immense responsibility which it entailed upon me. There could be no
doubt that, as it was a national possession, a horrible scandal would
ensue if any misfortune should occur to it. I already regretted having
ever consented to take charge of it. However, it was too late to alter
the matter now, so I locked it up in my private safe and turned once
more to my work.
“When evening came I felt that it would be an imprudence to leave so
precious a thing in the office behind me. Bankers’ safes had been
forced before now, and why should not mine be? If so, how terrible
would be the position in which I should find myself! I determined,
therefore, that for the next few days I would always carry the case
backward and forward with me, so that it might never be really out of
my reach. With this intention, I called a cab and drove out to my house
at Streatham, carrying the jewel with me. I did not breathe freely
until I had taken it upstairs and locked it in the bureau of my
dressing-room.
“And now a word as to my household, Mr. Holmes, for I wish you to
thoroughly understand the situation. My groom and my page sleep out of
the house, and may be set aside altogether. I have three maid-servants
who have been with me a number of years and whose absolute reliability
is quite above suspicion. Another, Lucy Parr, the second waiting-maid,
has only been in my service a few months. She came with an excellent
character, however, and has always given me satisfaction. She is a very
pretty girl and has attracted admirers who have occasionally hung about
the place. That is the only drawback which we have found to her, but we
believe her to be a thoroughly good girl in every way.
“So much for the servants. My family itself is so small that it will
not take me long to describe it. I am a widower and have an only son,
Arthur. He has been a disappointment to me, Mr. Holmes—a grievous
disappointment. I have no doubt that I am myself to blame. People tell
me that I have spoiled him. Very likely I have. When my dear wife died
I felt that he was all I had to love. I could not bear to see the smile
fade even for a moment from his face. I have never denied him a wish.
Perhaps it would have been better for both of us had I been sterner,
but I meant it for the best.
“It was naturally my intention that he should succeed me in my
business, but he was not of a business turn. He was wild, wayward, and,
to speak the truth, I could not trust him in the handling of large sums
of money. When he was young he became a member of an aristocratic club,
and there, having charming manners, he was soon the intimate of a
number of men with long purses and expensive habits. He learned to play
heavily at cards and to squander money on the turf, until he had again
and again to come to me and implore me to give him an advance upon his
allowance, that he might settle his debts of honour. He tried more than
once to break away from the dangerous company which he was keeping, but
each time the influence of his friend, Sir George Burnwell, was enough
to draw him back again.
“And, indeed, I could not wonder that such a man as Sir George Burnwell
should gain an influence over him, for he has frequently brought him to
my house, and I have found myself that I could hardly resist the
fascination of his manner. He is older than Arthur, a man of the world
to his finger-tips, one who had been everywhere, seen everything, a
brilliant talker, and a man of great personal beauty. Yet when I think
of him in cold blood, far away from the glamour of his presence, I am
convinced from his cynical speech and the look which I have caught in
his eyes that he is one who should be deeply distrusted. So I think,
and so, too, thinks my little Mary, who has a woman’s quick insight
into character.
“And now there is only she to be described. She is my niece; but when
my brother died five years ago and left her alone in the world I
adopted her, and have looked upon her ever since as my daughter. She is
a sunbeam in my house—sweet, loving, beautiful, a wonderful manager and
housekeeper, yet as tender and quiet and gentle as a woman could be.
She is my right hand. I do not know what I could do without her. In
only one matter has she ever gone against my wishes. Twice my boy has
asked her to marry him, for he loves her devotedly, but each time she
has refused him. I think that if anyone could have drawn him into the
right path it would have been she, and that his marriage might have
changed his whole life; but now, alas! it is too late—forever too late!
“Now, Mr. Holmes, you know the people who live under my roof, and I
shall continue with my miserable story.
“When we were taking coffee in the drawing-room that night after
dinner, I told Arthur and Mary my experience, and of the precious
treasure which we had under our roof, suppressing only the name of my
client. Lucy Parr, who had brought in the coffee, had, I am sure, left
the room; but I cannot swear that the door was closed. Mary and Arthur
were much interested and wished to see the famous coronet, but I
thought it better not to disturb it.
“‘Where have you put it?’ asked Arthur.
“‘In my own bureau.’
“‘Well, I hope to goodness the house won’t be burgled during the
night.’ said he.
“‘It is locked up,’ I answered.
“‘Oh, any old key will fit that bureau. When I was a youngster I have
opened it myself with the key of the box-room cupboard.’
“He often had a wild way of talking, so that I thought little of what
he said. He followed me to my room, however, that night with a very
grave face.
“‘Look here, dad,’ said he with his eyes cast down, ‘can you let me
have £ 200?’
“‘No, I cannot!’ I answered sharply. ‘I have been far too generous with
you in money matters.’
“‘You have been very kind,’ said he, ‘but I must have this money, or
else I can never show my face inside the club again.’
“‘And a very good thing, too!’ I cried.
“‘Yes, but you would not have me leave it a dishonoured man,’ said he.
‘I could not bear the disgrace. I must raise the money in some way, and
if you will not let me have it, then I must try other means.’
“I was very angry, for this was the third demand during the month. ‘You
shall not have a farthing from me,’ I cried, on which he bowed and left
the room without another word.
“When he was gone I unlocked my bureau, made sure that my treasure was
safe, and locked it again. Then I started to go round the house to see
that all was secure—a duty which I usually leave to Mary but which I
thought it well to perform myself that night. As I came down the stairs
I saw Mary herself at the side window of the hall, which she closed and
fastened as I approached.
“‘Tell me, dad,’ said she, looking, I thought, a little disturbed, ‘did
you give Lucy, the maid, leave to go out to-night?’
“‘Certainly not.’
“‘She came in just now by the back door. I have no doubt that she has
only been to the side gate to see someone, but I think that it is
hardly safe and should be stopped.’
“‘You must speak to her in the morning, or I will if you prefer it. Are
you sure that everything is fastened?’
“‘Quite sure, dad.’
“‘Then, good-night.’ I kissed her and went up to my bedroom again,
where I was soon asleep.
“I am endeavouring to tell you everything, Mr. Holmes, which may have
any bearing upon the case, but I beg that you will question me upon any
point which I do not make clear.”
“On the contrary, your statement is singularly lucid.”
“I come to a part of my story now in which I should wish to be
particularly so. I am not a very heavy sleeper, and the anxiety in my
mind tended, no doubt, to make me even less so than usual. About two in
the morning, then, I was awakened by some sound in the house. It had
ceased ere I was wide awake, but it had left an impression behind it as
though a window had gently closed somewhere. I lay listening with all
my ears. Suddenly, to my horror, there was a distinct sound of
footsteps moving softly in the next room. I slipped out of bed, all
palpitating with fear, and peeped round the corner of my dressing-room
door.
“‘Arthur!’ I screamed, ‘you villain! you thief! How dare you touch that
coronet?’
“The gas was half up, as I had left it, and my unhappy boy, dressed
only in his shirt and trousers, was standing beside the light, holding
the coronet in his hands. He appeared to be wrenching at it, or bending
it with all his strength. At my cry he dropped it from his grasp and
turned as pale as death. I snatched it up and examined it. One of the
gold corners, with three of the beryls in it, was missing.
“‘You blackguard!’ I shouted, beside myself with rage. ‘You have
destroyed it! You have dishonoured me forever! Where are the jewels
which you have stolen?’
“‘Stolen!’ he cried.
“‘Yes, thief!’ I roared, shaking him by the shoulder.
“‘There are none missing. There cannot be any missing,’ said he.
“‘There are three missing. And you know where they are. Must I call you
a liar as well as a thief? Did I not see you trying to tear off another
piece?’
“‘You have called me names enough,’ said he, ‘I will not stand it any
longer. I shall not say another word about this business, since you
have chosen to insult me. I will leave your house in the morning and
make my own way in the world.’
“‘You shall leave it in the hands of the police!’ I cried half-mad with
grief and rage. ‘I shall have this matter probed to the bottom.’
“‘You shall learn nothing from me,’ said he with a passion such as I
should not have thought was in his nature. ‘If you choose to call the
police, let the police find what they can.’
“By this time the whole house was astir, for I had raised my voice in
my anger. Mary was the first to rush into my room, and, at the sight of
the coronet and of Arthur’s face, she read the whole story and, with a
scream, fell down senseless on the ground. I sent the housemaid for the
police and put the investigation into their hands at once. When the
inspector and a constable entered the house, Arthur, who had stood
sullenly with his arms folded, asked me whether it was my intention to
charge him with theft. I answered that it had ceased to be a private
matter, but had become a public one, since the ruined coronet was
national property. I was determined that the law should have its way in
everything.
“‘At least,’ said he, ‘you will not have me arrested at once. It would
be to your advantage as well as mine if I might leave the house for
five minutes.’
“‘That you may get away, or perhaps that you may conceal what you have
stolen,’ said I. And then, realising the dreadful position in which I
was placed, I implored him to remember that not only my honour but that
of one who was far greater than I was at stake; and that he threatened
to raise a scandal which would convulse the nation. He might avert it
all if he would but tell me what he had done with the three missing
stones.
“‘You may as well face the matter,’ said I; ‘you have been caught in
the act, and no confession could make your guilt more heinous. If you
but make such reparation as is in your power, by telling us where the
beryls are, all shall be forgiven and forgotten.’
“‘Keep your forgiveness for those who ask for it,’ he answered, turning
away from me with a sneer. I saw that he was too hardened for any words
of mine to influence him. There was but one way for it. I called in the
inspector and gave him into custody. A search was made at once not only
of his person but of his room and of every portion of the house where
he could possibly have concealed the gems; but no trace of them could
be found, nor would the wretched boy open his mouth for all our
persuasions and our threats. This morning he was removed to a cell, and
I, after going through all the police formalities, have hurried round
to you to implore you to use your skill in unravelling the matter. The
police have openly confessed that they can at present make nothing of
it. You may go to any expense which you think necessary. I have already
offered a reward of £ 1000. My God, what shall I do! I have lost my
honour, my gems, and my son in one night. Oh, what shall I do!”
He put a hand on either side of his head and rocked himself to and fro,
droning to himself like a child whose grief has got beyond words.
Sherlock Holmes sat silent for some few minutes, with his brows knitted
and his eyes fixed upon the fire.
“Do you receive much company?” he asked.
“None save my partner with his family and an occasional friend of
Arthur’s. Sir George Burnwell has been several times lately. No one
else, I think.”
“Do you go out much in society?”
“Arthur does. Mary and I stay at home. We neither of us care for it.”
“That is unusual in a young girl.”
“She is of a quiet nature. Besides, she is not so very young. She is
four-and-twenty.”
“This matter, from what you say, seems to have been a shock to her
also.”
“Terrible! She is even more affected than I.”
“You have neither of you any doubt as to your son’s guilt?”
“How can we have when I saw him with my own eyes with the coronet in
his hands.”
“I hardly consider that a conclusive proof. Was the remainder of the
coronet at all injured?”
“Yes, it was twisted.”
“Do you not think, then, that he might have been trying to straighten
it?”
“God bless you! You are doing what you can for him and for me. But it
is too heavy a task. What was he doing there at all? If his purpose
were innocent, why did he not say so?”
“Precisely. And if it were guilty, why did he not invent a lie? His
silence appears to me to cut both ways. There are several singular
points about the case. What did the police think of the noise which
awoke you from your sleep?”
“They considered that it might be caused by Arthur’s closing his
bedroom door.”
“A likely story! As if a man bent on felony would slam his door so as
to wake a household. What did they say, then, of the disappearance of
these gems?”
“They are still sounding the planking and probing the furniture in the
hope of finding them.”
“Have they thought of looking outside the house?”
“Yes, they have shown extraordinary energy. The whole garden has
already been minutely examined.”
“Now, my dear sir,” said Holmes, “is it not obvious to you now that
this matter really strikes very much deeper than either you or the
police were at first inclined to think? It appeared to you to be a
simple case; to me it seems exceedingly complex. Consider what is
involved by your theory. You suppose that your son came down from his
bed, went, at great risk, to your dressing-room, opened your bureau,
took out your coronet, broke off by main force a small portion of it,
went off to some other place, concealed three gems out of the
thirty-nine, with such skill that nobody can find them, and then
returned with the other thirty-six into the room in which he exposed
himself to the greatest danger of being discovered. I ask you now, is
such a theory tenable?”
“But what other is there?” cried the banker with a gesture of despair.
“If his motives were innocent, why does he not explain them?”
“It is our task to find that out,” replied Holmes; “so now, if you
please, Mr. Holder, we will set off for Streatham together, and devote
an hour to glancing a little more closely into details.”
My friend insisted upon my accompanying them in their expedition, which
I was eager enough to do, for my curiosity and sympathy were deeply
stirred by the story to which we had listened. I confess that the guilt
of the banker’s son appeared to me to be as obvious as it did to his
unhappy father, but still I had such faith in Holmes’ judgment that I
felt that there must be some grounds for hope as long as he was
dissatisfied with the accepted explanation. He hardly spoke a word the
whole way out to the southern suburb, but sat with his chin upon his
breast and his hat drawn over his eyes, sunk in the deepest thought.
Our client appeared to have taken fresh heart at the little glimpse of
hope which had been presented to him, and he even broke into a
desultory chat with me over his business affairs. A short railway
journey and a shorter walk brought us to Fairbank, the modest residence
of the great financier.
Fairbank was a good-sized square house of white stone, standing back a
little from the road. A double carriage-sweep, with a snow-clad lawn,
stretched down in front to two large iron gates which closed the
entrance. On the right side was a small wooden thicket, which led into
a narrow path between two neat hedges stretching from the road to the
kitchen door, and forming the tradesmen’s entrance. On the left ran a
lane which led to the stables, and was not itself within the grounds at
all, being a public, though little used, thoroughfare. Holmes left us
standing at the door and walked slowly all round the house, across the
front, down the tradesmen’s path, and so round by the garden behind
into the stable lane. So long was he that Mr. Holder and I went into
the dining-room and waited by the fire until he should return. We were
sitting there in silence when the door opened and a young lady came in.
She was rather above the middle height, slim, with dark hair and eyes,
which seemed the darker against the absolute pallor of her skin. I do
not think that I have ever seen such deadly paleness in a woman’s face.
Her lips, too, were bloodless, but her eyes were flushed with crying.
As she swept silently into the room she impressed me with a greater
sense of grief than the banker had done in the morning, and it was the
more striking in her as she was evidently a woman of strong character,
with immense capacity for self-restraint. Disregarding my presence, she
went straight to her uncle and passed her hand over his head with a
sweet womanly caress.
“You have given orders that Arthur should be liberated, have you not,
dad?” she asked.
“No, no, my girl, the matter must be probed to the bottom.”
“But I am so sure that he is innocent. You know what woman’s instincts
are. I know that he has done no harm and that you will be sorry for
having acted so harshly.”
“Why is he silent, then, if he is innocent?”
“Who knows? Perhaps because he was so angry that you should suspect
him.”
“How could I help suspecting him, when I actually saw him with the
coronet in his hand?”
“Oh, but he had only picked it up to look at it. Oh, do, do take my
word for it that he is innocent. Let the matter drop and say no more.
It is so dreadful to think of our dear Arthur in prison!”
“I shall never let it drop until the gems are found—never, Mary! Your
affection for Arthur blinds you as to the awful consequences to me. Far
from hushing the thing up, I have brought a gentleman down from London
to inquire more deeply into it.”
“This gentleman?” she asked, facing round to me.
“No, his friend. He wished us to leave him alone. He is round in the
stable lane now.”
“The stable lane?” She raised her dark eyebrows. “What can he hope to
find there? Ah! this, I suppose, is he. I trust, sir, that you will
succeed in proving, what I feel sure is the truth, that my cousin
Arthur is innocent of this crime.”
“I fully share your opinion, and I trust, with you, that we may prove
it,” returned Holmes, going back to the mat to knock the snow from his
shoes. “I believe I have the honour of addressing Miss Mary Holder.
Might I ask you a question or two?”
“Pray do, sir, if it may help to clear this horrible affair up.”
“You heard nothing yourself last night?”
“Nothing, until my uncle here began to speak loudly. I heard that, and
I came down.”
“You shut up the windows and doors the night before. Did you fasten all
the windows?”
“Yes.”
“Were they all fastened this morning?”
“Yes.”
“You have a maid who has a sweetheart? I think that you remarked to
your uncle last night that she had been out to see him?”
“Yes, and she was the girl who waited in the drawing-room, and who may
have heard uncle’s remarks about the coronet.”
“I see. You infer that she may have gone out to tell her sweetheart,
and that the two may have planned the robbery.”
“But what is the good of all these vague theories,” cried the banker
impatiently, “when I have told you that I saw Arthur with the coronet
in his hands?”
“Wait a little, Mr. Holder. We must come back to that. About this girl,
Miss Holder. You saw her return by the kitchen door, I presume?”
“Yes; when I went to see if the door was fastened for the night I met
her slipping in. I saw the man, too, in the gloom.”
“Do you know him?”
“Oh, yes! he is the greengrocer who brings our vegetables round. His
name is Francis Prosper.”
“He stood,” said Holmes, “to the left of the door—that is to say,
farther up the path than is necessary to reach the door?”
“Yes, he did.”
“And he is a man with a wooden leg?”
Something like fear sprang up in the young lady’s expressive black
eyes. “Why, you are like a magician,” said she. “How do you know that?”
She smiled, but there was no answering smile in Holmes’ thin, eager
face.
“I should be very glad now to go upstairs,” said he. “I shall probably
wish to go over the outside of the house again. Perhaps I had better
take a look at the lower windows before I go up.”
He walked swiftly round from one to the other, pausing only at the
large one which looked from the hall onto the stable lane. This he
opened and made a very careful examination of the sill with his
powerful magnifying lens. “Now we shall go upstairs,” said he at last.
The banker’s dressing-room was a plainly furnished little chamber, with
a grey carpet, a large bureau, and a long mirror. Holmes went to the
bureau first and looked hard at the lock.
“Which key was used to open it?” he asked.
“That which my son himself indicated—that of the cupboard of the
lumber-room.”
“Have you it here?”
“That is it on the dressing-table.”
Sherlock Holmes took it up and opened the bureau.
“It is a noiseless lock,” said he. “It is no wonder that it did not
wake you. This case, I presume, contains the coronet. We must have a
look at it.” He opened the case, and taking out the diadem he laid it
upon the table. It was a magnificent specimen of the jeweller’s art,
and the thirty-six stones were the finest that I have ever seen. At one
side of the coronet was a cracked edge, where a corner holding three
gems had been torn away.
“Now, Mr. Holder,” said Holmes, “here is the corner which corresponds
to that which has been so unfortunately lost. Might I beg that you will
break it off.”
The banker recoiled in horror. “I should not dream of trying,” said he.
“Then I will.” Holmes suddenly bent his strength upon it, but without
result. “I feel it give a little,” said he; “but, though I am
exceptionally strong in the fingers, it would take me all my time to
break it. An ordinary man could not do it. Now, what do you think would
happen if I did break it, Mr. Holder? There would be a noise like a
pistol shot. Do you tell me that all this happened within a few yards
of your bed and that you heard nothing of it?”
“I do not know what to think. It is all dark to me.”
“But perhaps it may grow lighter as we go. What do you think, Miss
Holder?”
“I confess that I still share my uncle’s perplexity.”
“Your son had no shoes or slippers on when you saw him?”
“He had nothing on save only his trousers and shirt.”
“Thank you. We have certainly been favoured with extraordinary luck
during this inquiry, and it will be entirely our own fault if we do not
succeed in clearing the matter up. With your permission, Mr. Holder, I
shall now continue my investigations outside.”
He went alone, at his own request, for he explained that any
unnecessary footmarks might make his task more difficult. For an hour
or more he was at work, returning at last with his feet heavy with snow
and his features as inscrutable as ever.
“I think that I have seen now all that there is to see, Mr. Holder,”
said he; “I can serve you best by returning to my rooms.”
“But the gems, Mr. Holmes. Where are they?”
“I cannot tell.”
The banker wrung his hands. “I shall never see them again!” he cried.
“And my son? You give me hopes?”
“My opinion is in no way altered.”
“Then, for God’s sake, what was this dark business which was acted in
my house last night?”
“If you can call upon me at my Baker Street rooms to-morrow morning
between nine and ten I shall be happy to do what I can to make it
clearer. I understand that you give me _carte blanche_ to act for you,
provided only that I get back the gems, and that you place no limit on
the sum I may draw.”
“I would give my fortune to have them back.”
“Very good. I shall look into the matter between this and then.
Good-bye; it is just possible that I may have to come over here again
before evening.”
It was obvious to me that my companion’s mind was now made up about the
case, although what his conclusions were was more than I could even
dimly imagine. Several times during our homeward journey I endeavoured
to sound him upon the point, but he always glided away to some other
topic, until at last I gave it over in despair. It was not yet three
when we found ourselves in our rooms once more. He hurried to his
chamber and was down again in a few minutes dressed as a common loafer.
With his collar turned up, his shiny, seedy coat, his red cravat, and
his worn boots, he was a perfect sample of the class.
“I think that this should do,” said he, glancing into the glass above
the fireplace. “I only wish that you could come with me, Watson, but I
fear that it won’t do. I may be on the trail in this matter, or I may
be following a will-o’-the-wisp, but I shall soon know which it is. I
hope that I may be back in a few hours.” He cut a slice of beef from
the joint upon the sideboard, sandwiched it between two rounds of
bread, and thrusting this rude meal into his pocket he started off upon
his expedition.
I had just finished my tea when he returned, evidently in excellent
spirits, swinging an old elastic-sided boot in his hand. He chucked it
down into a corner and helped himself to a cup of tea.
“I only looked in as I passed,” said he. “I am going right on.”
“Where to?”
“Oh, to the other side of the West End. It may be some time before I
get back. Don’t wait up for me in case I should be late.”
“How are you getting on?”
“Oh, so so. Nothing to complain of. I have been out to Streatham since
I saw you last, but I did not call at the house. It is a very sweet
little problem, and I would not have missed it for a good deal.
However, I must not sit gossiping here, but must get these disreputable
clothes off and return to my highly respectable self.”
I could see by his manner that he had stronger reasons for satisfaction
than his words alone would imply. His eyes twinkled, and there was even
a touch of colour upon his sallow cheeks. He hastened upstairs, and a
few minutes later I heard the slam of the hall door, which told me that
he was off once more upon his congenial hunt.
I waited until midnight, but there was no sign of his return, so I
retired to my room. It was no uncommon thing for him to be away for
days and nights on end when he was hot upon a scent, so that his
lateness caused me no surprise. I do not know at what hour he came in,
but when I came down to breakfast in the morning there he was with a
cup of coffee in one hand and the paper in the other, as fresh and trim
as possible.
“You will excuse my beginning without you, Watson,” said he, “but you
remember that our client has rather an early appointment this morning.”
“Why, it is after nine now,” I answered. “I should not be surprised if
that were he. I thought I heard a ring.”
It was, indeed, our friend the financier. I was shocked by the change
which had come over him, for his face which was naturally of a broad
and massive mould, was now pinched and fallen in, while his hair seemed
to me at least a shade whiter. He entered with a weariness and lethargy
which was even more painful than his violence of the morning before,
and he dropped heavily into the armchair which I pushed forward for
him.
“I do not know what I have done to be so severely tried,” said he.
“Only two days ago I was a happy and prosperous man, without a care in
the world. Now I am left to a lonely and dishonoured age. One sorrow
comes close upon the heels of another. My niece, Mary, has deserted
me.”
“Deserted you?”
“Yes. Her bed this morning had not been slept in, her room was empty,
and a note for me lay upon the hall table. I had said to her last
night, in sorrow and not in anger, that if she had married my boy all
might have been well with him. Perhaps it was thoughtless of me to say
so. It is to that remark that she refers in this note:
“‘MY DEAREST UNCLE,—I feel that I have brought trouble upon you,
and that if I had acted differently this terrible misfortune might
never have occurred. I cannot, with this thought in my mind, ever
again be happy under your roof, and I feel that I must leave you
forever. Do not worry about my future, for that is provided for;
and, above all, do not search for me, for it will be fruitless
labour and an ill-service to me. In life or in death, I am ever
your loving,
“‘MARY.’
“What could she mean by that note, Mr. Holmes? Do you think it points
to suicide?”
“No, no, nothing of the kind. It is perhaps the best possible solution.
I trust, Mr. Holder, that you are nearing the end of your troubles.”
“Ha! You say so! You have heard something, Mr. Holmes; you have learned
something! Where are the gems?”
“You would not think £ 1000 apiece an excessive sum for them?”
“I would pay ten.”
“That would be unnecessary. Three thousand will cover the matter. And
there is a little reward, I fancy. Have you your cheque-book? Here is a
pen. Better make it out for £ 4000.”
With a dazed face the banker made out the required check. Holmes walked
over to his desk, took out a little triangular piece of gold with three
gems in it, and threw it down upon the table.
With a shriek of joy our client clutched it up.
“You have it!” he gasped. “I am saved! I am saved!”
The reaction of joy was as passionate as his grief had been, and he
hugged his recovered gems to his bosom.
“There is one other thing you owe, Mr. Holder,” said Sherlock Holmes
rather sternly.
“Owe!” He caught up a pen. “Name the sum, and I will pay it.”
“No, the debt is not to me. You owe a very humble apology to that noble
lad, your son, who has carried himself in this matter as I should be
proud to see my own son do, should I ever chance to have one.”
“Then it was not Arthur who took them?”
“I told you yesterday, and I repeat to-day, that it was not.”
“You are sure of it! Then let us hurry to him at once to let him know
that the truth is known.”
“He knows it already. When I had cleared it all up I had an interview
with him, and finding that he would not tell me the story, I told it to
him, on which he had to confess that I was right and to add the very
few details which were not yet quite clear to me. Your news of this
morning, however, may open his lips.”
“For Heaven’s sake, tell me, then, what is this extraordinary mystery!”
“I will do so, and I will show you the steps by which I reached it. And
let me say to you, first, that which it is hardest for me to say and
for you to hear: there has been an understanding between Sir George
Burnwell and your niece Mary. They have now fled together.”
“My Mary? Impossible!”
“It is unfortunately more than possible; it is certain. Neither you nor
your son knew the true character of this man when you admitted him into
your family circle. He is one of the most dangerous men in England—a
ruined gambler, an absolutely desperate villain, a man without heart or
conscience. Your niece knew nothing of such men. When he breathed his
vows to her, as he had done to a hundred before her, she flattered
herself that she alone had touched his heart. The devil knows best what
he said, but at least she became his tool and was in the habit of
seeing him nearly every evening.”
“I cannot, and I will not, believe it!” cried the banker with an ashen
face.
“I will tell you, then, what occurred in your house last night. Your
niece, when you had, as she thought, gone to your room, slipped down
and talked to her lover through the window which leads into the stable
lane. His footmarks had pressed right through the snow, so long had he
stood there. She told him of the coronet. His wicked lust for gold
kindled at the news, and he bent her to his will. I have no doubt that
she loved you, but there are women in whom the love of a lover
extinguishes all other loves, and I think that she must have been one.
She had hardly listened to his instructions when she saw you coming
downstairs, on which she closed the window rapidly and told you about
one of the servants’ escapade with her wooden-legged lover, which was
all perfectly true.
“Your boy, Arthur, went to bed after his interview with you but he
slept badly on account of his uneasiness about his club debts. In the
middle of the night he heard a soft tread pass his door, so he rose
and, looking out, was surprised to see his cousin walking very
stealthily along the passage until she disappeared into your
dressing-room. Petrified with astonishment, the lad slipped on some
clothes and waited there in the dark to see what would come of this
strange affair. Presently she emerged from the room again, and in the
light of the passage-lamp your son saw that she carried the precious
coronet in her hands. She passed down the stairs, and he, thrilling
with horror, ran along and slipped behind the curtain near your door,
whence he could see what passed in the hall beneath. He saw her
stealthily open the window, hand out the coronet to someone in the
gloom, and then closing it once more hurry back to her room, passing
quite close to where he stood hid behind the curtain.
“As long as she was on the scene he could not take any action without a
horrible exposure of the woman whom he loved. But the instant that she
was gone he realised how crushing a misfortune this would be for you,
and how all-important it was to set it right. He rushed down, just as
he was, in his bare feet, opened the window, sprang out into the snow,
and ran down the lane, where he could see a dark figure in the
moonlight. Sir George Burnwell tried to get away, but Arthur caught
him, and there was a struggle between them, your lad tugging at one
side of the coronet, and his opponent at the other. In the scuffle,
your son struck Sir George and cut him over the eye. Then something
suddenly snapped, and your son, finding that he had the coronet in his
hands, rushed back, closed the window, ascended to your room, and had
just observed that the coronet had been twisted in the struggle and was
endeavouring to straighten it when you appeared upon the scene.”
“Is it possible?” gasped the banker.
“You then roused his anger by calling him names at a moment when he
felt that he had deserved your warmest thanks. He could not explain the
true state of affairs without betraying one who certainly deserved
little enough consideration at his hands. He took the more chivalrous
view, however, and preserved her secret.”
“And that was why she shrieked and fainted when she saw the coronet,”
cried Mr. Holder. “Oh, my God! what a blind fool I have been! And his
asking to be allowed to go out for five minutes! The dear fellow wanted
to see if the missing piece were at the scene of the struggle. How
cruelly I have misjudged him!”
“When I arrived at the house,” continued Holmes, “I at once went very
carefully round it to observe if there were any traces in the snow
which might help me. I knew that none had fallen since the evening
before, and also that there had been a strong frost to preserve
impressions. I passed along the tradesmen’s path, but found it all
trampled down and indistinguishable. Just beyond it, however, at the
far side of the kitchen door, a woman had stood and talked with a man,
whose round impressions on one side showed that he had a wooden leg. I
could even tell that they had been disturbed, for the woman had run
back swiftly to the door, as was shown by the deep toe and light heel
marks, while Wooden-leg had waited a little, and then had gone away. I
thought at the time that this might be the maid and her sweetheart, of
whom you had already spoken to me, and inquiry showed it was so. I
passed round the garden without seeing anything more than random
tracks, which I took to be the police; but when I got into the stable
lane a very long and complex story was written in the snow in front of
me.
“There was a double line of tracks of a booted man, and a second double
line which I saw with delight belonged to a man with naked feet. I was
at once convinced from what you had told me that the latter was your
son. The first had walked both ways, but the other had run swiftly, and
as his tread was marked in places over the depression of the boot, it
was obvious that he had passed after the other. I followed them up and
found they led to the hall window, where Boots had worn all the snow
away while waiting. Then I walked to the other end, which was a hundred
yards or more down the lane. I saw where Boots had faced round, where
the snow was cut up as though there had been a struggle, and, finally,
where a few drops of blood had fallen, to show me that I was not
mistaken. Boots had then run down the lane, and another little smudge
of blood showed that it was he who had been hurt. When he came to the
high road at the other end, I found that the pavement had been cleared,
so there was an end to that clue.
“On entering the house, however, I examined, as you remember, the sill
and framework of the hall window with my lens, and I could at once see
that someone had passed out. I could distinguish the outline of an
instep where the wet foot had been placed in coming in. I was then
beginning to be able to form an opinion as to what had occurred. A man
had waited outside the window; someone had brought the gems; the deed
had been overseen by your son; he had pursued the thief; had struggled
with him; they had each tugged at the coronet, their united strength
causing injuries which neither alone could have effected. He had
returned with the prize, but had left a fragment in the grasp of his
opponent. So far I was clear. The question now was, who was the man, and
who was it brought him the coronet?
“It is an old maxim of mine that when you have excluded the impossible,
whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Now, I knew
that it was not you who had brought it down, so there only remained
your niece and the maids. But if it were the maids, why should your son
allow himself to be accused in their place? There could be no possible
reason. As he loved his cousin, however, there was an excellent
explanation why he should retain her secret—the more so as the secret
was a disgraceful one. When I remembered that you had seen her at that
window, and how she had fainted on seeing the coronet again, my
conjecture became a certainty.
“And who could it be who was her confederate? A lover evidently, for
who else could outweigh the love and gratitude which she must feel to
you? I knew that you went out little, and that your circle of friends
was a very limited one. But among them was Sir George Burnwell. I had
heard of him before as being a man of evil reputation among women. It
must have been he who wore those boots and retained the missing gems.
Even though he knew that Arthur had discovered him, he might still
flatter himself that he was safe, for the lad could not say a word
without compromising his own family.
“Well, your own good sense will suggest what measures I took next. I
went in the shape of a loafer to Sir George’s house, managed to pick up
an acquaintance with his valet, learned that his master had cut his
head the night before, and, finally, at the expense of six shillings,
made all sure by buying a pair of his cast-off shoes. With these I
journeyed down to Streatham and saw that they exactly fitted the
tracks.”
“I saw an ill-dressed vagabond in the lane yesterday evening,” said Mr.
Holder.
“Precisely. It was I. I found that I had my man, so I came home and
changed my clothes. It was a delicate part which I had to play then,
for I saw that a prosecution must be avoided to avert scandal, and I
knew that so astute a villain would see that our hands were tied in the
matter. I went and saw him. At first, of course, he denied everything.
But when I gave him every particular that had occurred, he tried to
bluster and took down a life-preserver from the wall. I knew my man,
however, and I clapped a pistol to his head before he could strike.
Then he became a little more reasonable. I told him that we would give
him a price for the stones he held—£ 1000 apiece. That brought out the
first signs of grief that he had shown. ‘Why, dash it all!’ said he,
‘I’ve let them go at six hundred for the three!’ I soon managed to get
the address of the receiver who had them, on promising him that there
would be no prosecution. Off I set to him, and after much chaffering I
got our stones at £ 1000 apiece. Then I looked in upon your son, told
him that all was right, and eventually got to my bed about two o’clock,
after what I may call a really hard day’s work.”
“A day which has saved England from a great public scandal,” said the
banker, rising. “Sir, I cannot find words to thank you, but you shall
not find me ungrateful for what you have done. Your skill has indeed
exceeded all that I have heard of it. And now I must fly to my dear boy
to apologise to him for the wrong which I have done him. As to what you
tell me of poor Mary, it goes to my very heart. Not even your skill can
inform me where she is now.”
“I think that we may safely say,” returned Holmes, “that she is
wherever Sir George Burnwell is. It is equally certain, too, that
whatever her sins are, they will soon receive a more than sufficient
punishment.”
|
xi_the_adventure_of_the_beryl_coronet
|
XII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE COPPER BEECHES
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The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
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“To the man who loves art for its own sake,” remarked Sherlock Holmes,
tossing aside the advertisement sheet of _The Daily Telegraph_, “it is
frequently in its least important and lowliest manifestations that the
keenest pleasure is to be derived. It is pleasant to me to observe,
Watson, that you have so far grasped this truth that in these little
records of our cases which you have been good enough to draw up, and, I
am bound to say, occasionally to embellish, you have given prominence
not so much to the many _causes célèbres_ and sensational trials in
which I have figured but rather to those incidents which may have been
trivial in themselves, but which have given room for those faculties of
deduction and of logical synthesis which I have made my special
province.”
“And yet,” said I, smiling, “I cannot quite hold myself absolved from
the charge of sensationalism which has been urged against my records.”
“You have erred, perhaps,” he observed, taking up a glowing cinder with
the tongs and lighting with it the long cherry-wood pipe which was wont
to replace his clay when he was in a disputatious rather than a
meditative mood—“you have erred perhaps in attempting to put colour and
life into each of your statements instead of confining yourself to the
task of placing upon record that severe reasoning from cause to effect
which is really the only notable feature about the thing.”
“It seems to me that I have done you full justice in the matter,” I
remarked with some coldness, for I was repelled by the egotism which I
had more than once observed to be a strong factor in my friend’s
singular character.
“No, it is not selfishness or conceit,” said he, answering, as was his
wont, my thoughts rather than my words. “If I claim full justice for my
art, it is because it is an impersonal thing—a thing beyond myself.
Crime is common. Logic is rare. Therefore it is upon the logic rather
than upon the crime that you should dwell. You have degraded what
should have been a course of lectures into a series of tales.”
It was a cold morning of the early spring, and we sat after breakfast
on either side of a cheery fire in the old room at Baker Street. A
thick fog rolled down between the lines of dun-coloured houses, and the
opposing windows loomed like dark, shapeless blurs through the heavy
yellow wreaths. Our gas was lit and shone on the white cloth and
glimmer of china and metal, for the table had not been cleared yet.
Sherlock Holmes had been silent all the morning, dipping continuously
into the advertisement columns of a succession of papers until at last,
having apparently given up his search, he had emerged in no very sweet
temper to lecture me upon my literary shortcomings.
“At the same time,” he remarked after a pause, during which he had sat
puffing at his long pipe and gazing down into the fire, “you can hardly
be open to a charge of sensationalism, for out of these cases which you
have been so kind as to interest yourself in, a fair proportion do not
treat of crime, in its legal sense, at all. The small matter in which I
endeavoured to help the King of Bohemia, the singular experience of
Miss Mary Sutherland, the problem connected with the man with the
twisted lip, and the incident of the noble bachelor, were all matters
which are outside the pale of the law. But in avoiding the sensational,
I fear that you may have bordered on the trivial.”
“The end may have been so,” I answered, “but the methods I hold to have
been novel and of interest.”
“Pshaw, my dear fellow, what do the public, the great unobservant
public, who could hardly tell a weaver by his tooth or a compositor by
his left thumb, care about the finer shades of analysis and deduction!
But, indeed, if you are trivial, I cannot blame you, for the days of
the great cases are past. Man, or at least criminal man, has lost all
enterprise and originality. As to my own little practice, it seems to
be degenerating into an agency for recovering lost lead pencils and
giving advice to young ladies from boarding-schools. I think that I
have touched bottom at last, however. This note I had this morning
marks my zero-point, I fancy. Read it!” He tossed a crumpled letter
across to me.
It was dated from Montague Place upon the preceding evening, and ran
thus:
“DEAR MR. HOLMES,—I am very anxious to consult you as to whether I
should or should not accept a situation which has been offered to
me as governess. I shall call at half-past ten to-morrow if I do
not inconvenience you. Yours faithfully,
“VIOLET HUNTER.”
“Do you know the young lady?” I asked.
“Not I.”
“It is half-past ten now.”
“Yes, and I have no doubt that is her ring.”
“It may turn out to be of more interest than you think. You remember
that the affair of the blue carbuncle, which appeared to be a mere whim
at first, developed into a serious investigation. It may be so in this
case, also.”
“Well, let us hope so. But our doubts will very soon be solved, for
here, unless I am much mistaken, is the person in question.”
As he spoke the door opened and a young lady entered the room. She was
plainly but neatly dressed, with a bright, quick face, freckled like a
plover’s egg, and with the brisk manner of a woman who has had her own
way to make in the world.
“You will excuse my troubling you, I am sure,” said she, as my
companion rose to greet her, “but I have had a very strange experience,
and as I have no parents or relations of any sort from whom I could ask
advice, I thought that perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me what
I should do.”
“Pray take a seat, Miss Hunter. I shall be happy to do anything that I
can to serve you.”
I could see that Holmes was favourably impressed by the manner and
speech of his new client. He looked her over in his searching fashion,
and then composed himself, with his lids drooping and his finger-tips
together, to listen to her story.
“I have been a governess for five years,” said she, “in the family of
Colonel Spence Munro, but two months ago the colonel received an
appointment at Halifax, in Nova Scotia, and took his children over to
America with him, so that I found myself without a situation. I
advertised, and I answered advertisements, but without success. At last
the little money which I had saved began to run short, and I was at my
wit’s end as to what I should do.
“There is a well-known agency for governesses in the West End called
Westaway’s, and there I used to call about once a week in order to see
whether anything had turned up which might suit me. Westaway was the
name of the founder of the business, but it is really managed by Miss
Stoper. She sits in her own little office, and the ladies who are
seeking employment wait in an anteroom, and are then shown in one by
one, when she consults her ledgers and sees whether she has anything
which would suit them.
“Well, when I called last week I was shown into the little office as
usual, but I found that Miss Stoper was not alone. A prodigiously stout
man with a very smiling face and a great heavy chin which rolled down
in fold upon fold over his throat sat at her elbow with a pair of
glasses on his nose, looking very earnestly at the ladies who entered.
As I came in he gave quite a jump in his chair and turned quickly to
Miss Stoper.
“‘That will do,’ said he; ‘I could not ask for anything better.
Capital! capital!’ He seemed quite enthusiastic and rubbed his hands
together in the most genial fashion. He was such a comfortable-looking
man that it was quite a pleasure to look at him.
“‘You are looking for a situation, miss?’ he asked.
“‘Yes, sir.’
“‘As governess?’
“‘Yes, sir.’
“‘And what salary do you ask?’
“‘I had £ 4 a month in my last place with Colonel Spence Munro.’
“‘Oh, tut, tut! sweating—rank sweating!’ he cried, throwing his fat
hands out into the air like a man who is in a boiling passion. ‘How
could anyone offer so pitiful a sum to a lady with such attractions and
accomplishments?’
“‘My accomplishments, sir, may be less than you imagine,’ said I. ‘A
little French, a little German, music, and drawing—’
“‘Tut, tut!’ he cried. ‘This is all quite beside the question. The
point is, have you or have you not the bearing and deportment of a
lady? There it is in a nutshell. If you have not, you are not fitted
for the rearing of a child who may some day play a considerable part in
the history of the country. But if you have, why, then, how could any
gentleman ask you to condescend to accept anything under the three
figures? Your salary with me, madam, would commence at £ 100 a year.’
“You may imagine, Mr. Holmes, that to me, destitute as I was, such an
offer seemed almost too good to be true. The gentleman, however, seeing
perhaps the look of incredulity upon my face, opened a pocket-book and
took out a note.
“‘It is also my custom,’ said he, smiling in the most pleasant fashion
until his eyes were just two little shining slits amid the white
creases of his face, ‘to advance to my young ladies half their salary
beforehand, so that they may meet any little expenses of their journey
and their wardrobe.’
“It seemed to me that I had never met so fascinating and so thoughtful
a man. As I was already in debt to my tradesmen, the advance was a
great convenience, and yet there was something unnatural about the
whole transaction which made me wish to know a little more before I
quite committed myself.
“‘May I ask where you live, sir?’ said I.
“‘Hampshire. Charming rural place. The Copper Beeches, five miles on
the far side of Winchester. It is the most lovely country, my dear
young lady, and the dearest old country-house.’
“‘And my duties, sir? I should be glad to know what they would be.’
“‘One child—one dear little romper just six years old. Oh, if you could
see him killing cockroaches with a slipper! Smack! smack! smack! Three
gone before you could wink!’ He leaned back in his chair and laughed
his eyes into his head again.
“I was a little startled at the nature of the child’s amusement, but
the father’s laughter made me think that perhaps he was joking.
“‘My sole duties, then,’ I asked, ‘are to take charge of a single
child?’
“‘No, no, not the sole, not the sole, my dear young lady,’ he cried.
‘Your duty would be, as I am sure your good sense would suggest, to
obey any little commands my wife might give, provided always that they
were such commands as a lady might with propriety obey. You see no
difficulty, heh?’
“‘I should be happy to make myself useful.’
“‘Quite so. In dress now, for example. We are faddy people, you
know—faddy but kind-hearted. If you were asked to wear any dress which
we might give you, you would not object to our little whim. Heh?’
“‘No,’ said I, considerably astonished at his words.
“‘Or to sit here, or sit there, that would not be offensive to you?’
“‘Oh, no.’
“‘Or to cut your hair quite short before you come to us?’
“I could hardly believe my ears. As you may observe, Mr. Holmes, my
hair is somewhat luxuriant, and of a rather peculiar tint of chestnut.
It has been considered artistic. I could not dream of sacrificing it in
this offhand fashion.
“‘I am afraid that that is quite impossible,’ said I. He had been
watching me eagerly out of his small eyes, and I could see a shadow
pass over his face as I spoke.
“‘I am afraid that it is quite essential,’ said he. ‘It is a little
fancy of my wife’s, and ladies’ fancies, you know, madam, ladies’
fancies must be consulted. And so you won’t cut your hair?’
“‘No, sir, I really could not,’ I answered firmly.
“‘Ah, very well; then that quite settles the matter. It is a pity,
because in other respects you would really have done very nicely. In
that case, Miss Stoper, I had best inspect a few more of your young
ladies.’
“The manageress had sat all this while busy with her papers without a
word to either of us, but she glanced at me now with so much annoyance
upon her face that I could not help suspecting that she had lost a
handsome commission through my refusal.
“‘Do you desire your name to be kept upon the books?’ she asked.
“‘If you please, Miss Stoper.’
“‘Well, really, it seems rather useless, since you refuse the most
excellent offers in this fashion,’ said she sharply. ‘You can hardly
expect us to exert ourselves to find another such opening for you.
Good-day to you, Miss Hunter.’ She struck a gong upon the table, and I
was shown out by the page.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, when I got back to my lodgings and found little
enough in the cupboard, and two or three bills upon the table, I began
to ask myself whether I had not done a very foolish thing. After all,
if these people had strange fads and expected obedience on the most
extraordinary matters, they were at least ready to pay for their
eccentricity. Very few governesses in England are getting £ 100 a year.
Besides, what use was my hair to me? Many people are improved by
wearing it short and perhaps I should be among the number. Next day I
was inclined to think that I had made a mistake, and by the day after I
was sure of it. I had almost overcome my pride so far as to go back to
the agency and inquire whether the place was still open when I received
this letter from the gentleman himself. I have it here and I will read
it to you:
“‘The Copper Beeches, near Winchester.
“‘DEAR MISS HUNTER,—Miss Stoper has very kindly given me your
address, and I write from here to ask you whether you have
reconsidered your decision. My wife is very anxious that you should
come, for she has been much attracted by my description of you. We
are willing to give £ 30 a quarter, or £ 120 a year, so as to
recompense you for any little inconvenience which our fads may
cause you. They are not very exacting, after all. My wife is fond
of a particular shade of electric blue and would like you to wear
such a dress indoors in the morning. You need not, however, go to
the expense of purchasing one, as we have one belonging to my dear
daughter Alice (now in Philadelphia), which would, I should think,
fit you very well. Then, as to sitting here or there, or amusing
yourself in any manner indicated, that need cause you no
inconvenience. As regards your hair, it is no doubt a pity,
especially as I could not help remarking its beauty during our
short interview, but I am afraid that I must remain firm upon this
point, and I only hope that the increased salary may recompense you
for the loss. Your duties, as far as the child is concerned, are
very light. Now do try to come, and I shall meet you with the
dog-cart at Winchester. Let me know your train. Yours faithfully,
“‘JEPHRO RUCASTLE.’
“That is the letter which I have just received, Mr. Holmes, and my mind
is made up that I will accept it. I thought, however, that before
taking the final step I should like to submit the whole matter to your
consideration.”
“Well, Miss Hunter, if your mind is made up, that settles the
question,” said Holmes, smiling.
“But you would not advise me to refuse?”
“I confess that it is not the situation which I should like to see a
sister of mine apply for.”
“What is the meaning of it all, Mr. Holmes?”
“Ah, I have no data. I cannot tell. Perhaps you have yourself formed
some opinion?”
“Well, there seems to me to be only one possible solution. Mr. Rucastle
seemed to be a very kind, good-natured man. Is it not possible that his
wife is a lunatic, that he desires to keep the matter quiet for fear
she should be taken to an asylum, and that he humours her fancies in
every way in order to prevent an outbreak?”
“That is a possible solution—in fact, as matters stand, it is the most
probable one. But in any case it does not seem to be a nice household
for a young lady.”
“But the money, Mr. Holmes, the money!”
“Well, yes, of course the pay is good—too good. That is what makes me
uneasy. Why should they give you £ 120 a year, when they could have
their pick for £ 40? There must be some strong reason behind.”
“I thought that if I told you the circumstances you would understand
afterwards if I wanted your help. I should feel so much stronger if I
felt that you were at the back of me.”
“Oh, you may carry that feeling away with you. I assure you that your
little problem promises to be the most interesting which has come my
way for some months. There is something distinctly novel about some of
the features. If you should find yourself in doubt or in danger—”
“Danger! What danger do you foresee?”
Holmes shook his head gravely. “It would cease to be a danger if we
could define it,” said he. “But at any time, day or night, a telegram
would bring me down to your help.”
“That is enough.” She rose briskly from her chair with the anxiety all
swept from her face. “I shall go down to Hampshire quite easy in my
mind now. I shall write to Mr. Rucastle at once, sacrifice my poor hair
to-night, and start for Winchester to-morrow.” With a few grateful
words to Holmes she bade us both good-night and bustled off upon her
way.
“At least,” said I as we heard her quick, firm steps descending the
stairs, “she seems to be a young lady who is very well able to take
care of herself.”
“And she would need to be,” said Holmes gravely. “I am much mistaken if
we do not hear from her before many days are past.”
It was not very long before my friend’s prediction was fulfilled. A
fortnight went by, during which I frequently found my thoughts turning
in her direction and wondering what strange side-alley of human
experience this lonely woman had strayed into. The unusual salary, the
curious conditions, the light duties, all pointed to something
abnormal, though whether a fad or a plot, or whether the man were a
philanthropist or a villain, it was quite beyond my powers to
determine. As to Holmes, I observed that he sat frequently for half an
hour on end, with knitted brows and an abstracted air, but he swept the
matter away with a wave of his hand when I mentioned it. “Data! data!
data!” he cried impatiently. “I can’t make bricks without clay.” And
yet he would always wind up by muttering that no sister of his should
ever have accepted such a situation.
The telegram which we eventually received came late one night just as I
was thinking of turning in and Holmes was settling down to one of those
all-night chemical researches which he frequently indulged in, when I
would leave him stooping over a retort and a test-tube at night and
find him in the same position when I came down to breakfast in the
morning. He opened the yellow envelope, and then, glancing at the
message, threw it across to me.
“Just look up the trains in Bradshaw,” said he, and turned back to his
chemical studies.
The summons was a brief and urgent one.
“Please be at the Black Swan Hotel at Winchester at midday to-morrow,”
it said. “Do come! I am at my wit’s end.
“HUNTER.”
“Will you come with me?” asked Holmes, glancing up.
“I should wish to.”
“Just look it up, then.”
“There is a train at half-past nine,” said I, glancing over my
Bradshaw. “It is due at Winchester at 11:30.”
“That will do very nicely. Then perhaps I had better postpone my
analysis of the acetones, as we may need to be at our best in the
morning.”
By eleven o’clock the next day we were well upon our way to the old
English capital. Holmes had been buried in the morning papers all the
way down, but after we had passed the Hampshire border he threw them
down and began to admire the scenery. It was an ideal spring day, a
light blue sky, flecked with little fleecy white clouds drifting across
from west to east. The sun was shining very brightly, and yet there was
an exhilarating nip in the air, which set an edge to a man’s energy.
All over the countryside, away to the rolling hills around Aldershot,
the little red and grey roofs of the farm-steadings peeped out from
amid the light green of the new foliage.
“Are they not fresh and beautiful?” I cried with all the enthusiasm of
a man fresh from the fogs of Baker Street.
But Holmes shook his head gravely.
“Do you know, Watson,” said he, “that it is one of the curses of a mind
with a turn like mine that I must look at everything with reference to
my own special subject. You look at these scattered houses, and you are
impressed by their beauty. I look at them, and the only thought which
comes to me is a feeling of their isolation and of the impunity with
which crime may be committed there.”
“Good heavens!” I cried. “Who would associate crime with these dear old
homesteads?”
“They always fill me with a certain horror. It is my belief, Watson,
founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London
do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and
beautiful countryside.”
“You horrify me!”
“But the reason is very obvious. The pressure of public opinion can do
in the town what the law cannot accomplish. There is no lane so vile
that the scream of a tortured child, or the thud of a drunkard’s blow,
does not beget sympathy and indignation among the neighbours, and then
the whole machinery of justice is ever so close that a word of
complaint can set it going, and there is but a step between the crime
and the dock. But look at these lonely houses, each in its own fields,
filled for the most part with poor ignorant folk who know little of the
law. Think of the deeds of hellish cruelty, the hidden wickedness which
may go on, year in, year out, in such places, and none the wiser. Had
this lady who appeals to us for help gone to live in Winchester, I
should never have had a fear for her. It is the five miles of country
which makes the danger. Still, it is clear that she is not personally
threatened.”
“No. If she can come to Winchester to meet us she can get away.”
“Quite so. She has her freedom.”
“What _can_ be the matter, then? Can you suggest no explanation?”
“I have devised seven separate explanations, each of which would cover
the facts as far as we know them. But which of these is correct can
only be determined by the fresh information which we shall no doubt
find waiting for us. Well, there is the tower of the cathedral, and we
shall soon learn all that Miss Hunter has to tell.”
The Black Swan is an inn of repute in the High Street, at no distance
from the station, and there we found the young lady waiting for us. She
had engaged a sitting-room, and our lunch awaited us upon the table.
“I am so delighted that you have come,” she said earnestly. “It is so
very kind of you both; but indeed I do not know what I should do. Your
advice will be altogether invaluable to me.”
“Pray tell us what has happened to you.”
“I will do so, and I must be quick, for I have promised Mr. Rucastle to
be back before three. I got his leave to come into town this morning,
though he little knew for what purpose.”
“Let us have everything in its due order.” Holmes thrust his long thin
legs out towards the fire and composed himself to listen.
“In the first place, I may say that I have met, on the whole, with no
actual ill-treatment from Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle. It is only fair to
them to say that. But I cannot understand them, and I am not easy in my
mind about them.”
“What can you not understand?”
“Their reasons for their conduct. But you shall have it all just as it
occurred. When I came down, Mr. Rucastle met me here and drove me in
his dog-cart to the Copper Beeches. It is, as he said, beautifully
situated, but it is not beautiful in itself, for it is a large square
block of a house, whitewashed, but all stained and streaked with damp
and bad weather. There are grounds round it, woods on three sides, and
on the fourth a field which slopes down to the Southampton high road,
which curves past about a hundred yards from the front door. This
ground in front belongs to the house, but the woods all round are part
of Lord Southerton’s preserves. A clump of copper beeches immediately
in front of the hall door has given its name to the place.
“I was driven over by my employer, who was as amiable as ever, and was
introduced by him that evening to his wife and the child. There was no
truth, Mr. Holmes, in the conjecture which seemed to us to be probable
in your rooms at Baker Street. Mrs. Rucastle is not mad. I found her to
be a silent, pale-faced woman, much younger than her husband, not more
than thirty, I should think, while he can hardly be less than
forty-five. From their conversation I have gathered that they have been
married about seven years, that he was a widower, and that his only
child by the first wife was the daughter who has gone to Philadelphia.
Mr. Rucastle told me in private that the reason why she had left them
was that she had an unreasoning aversion to her stepmother. As the
daughter could not have been less than twenty, I can quite imagine that
her position must have been uncomfortable with her father’s young wife.
“Mrs. Rucastle seemed to me to be colourless in mind as well as in
feature. She impressed me neither favourably nor the reverse. She was a
nonentity. It was easy to see that she was passionately devoted both to
her husband and to her little son. Her light grey eyes wandered
continually from one to the other, noting every little want and
forestalling it if possible. He was kind to her also in his bluff,
boisterous fashion, and on the whole they seemed to be a happy couple.
And yet she had some secret sorrow, this woman. She would often be lost
in deep thought, with the saddest look upon her face. More than once I
have surprised her in tears. I have thought sometimes that it was the
disposition of her child which weighed upon her mind, for I have never
met so utterly spoiled and so ill-natured a little creature. He is
small for his age, with a head which is quite disproportionately large.
His whole life appears to be spent in an alternation between savage
fits of passion and gloomy intervals of sulking. Giving pain to any
creature weaker than himself seems to be his one idea of amusement, and
he shows quite remarkable talent in planning the capture of mice,
little birds, and insects. But I would rather not talk about the
creature, Mr. Holmes, and, indeed, he has little to do with my story.”
“I am glad of all details,” remarked my friend, “whether they seem to
you to be relevant or not.”
“I shall try not to miss anything of importance. The one unpleasant
thing about the house, which struck me at once, was the appearance and
conduct of the servants. There are only two, a man and his wife.
Toller, for that is his name, is a rough, uncouth man, with grizzled
hair and whiskers, and a perpetual smell of drink. Twice since I have
been with them he has been quite drunk, and yet Mr. Rucastle seemed to
take no notice of it. His wife is a very tall and strong woman with a
sour face, as silent as Mrs. Rucastle and much less amiable. They are a
most unpleasant couple, but fortunately I spend most of my time in the
nursery and my own room, which are next to each other in one corner of
the building.
“For two days after my arrival at the Copper Beeches my life was very
quiet; on the third, Mrs. Rucastle came down just after breakfast and
whispered something to her husband.
“‘Oh, yes,’ said he, turning to me, ‘we are very much obliged to you,
Miss Hunter, for falling in with our whims so far as to cut your hair.
I assure you that it has not detracted in the tiniest iota from your
appearance. We shall now see how the electric-blue dress will become
you. You will find it laid out upon the bed in your room, and if you
would be so good as to put it on we should both be extremely obliged.’
“The dress which I found waiting for me was of a peculiar shade of
blue. It was of excellent material, a sort of beige, but it bore
unmistakable signs of having been worn before. It could not have been a
better fit if I had been measured for it. Both Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle
expressed a delight at the look of it, which seemed quite exaggerated
in its vehemence. They were waiting for me in the drawing-room, which
is a very large room, stretching along the entire front of the house,
with three long windows reaching down to the floor. A chair had been
placed close to the central window, with its back turned towards it. In
this I was asked to sit, and then Mr. Rucastle, walking up and down on
the other side of the room, began to tell me a series of the funniest
stories that I have ever listened to. You cannot imagine how comical he
was, and I laughed until I was quite weary. Mrs. Rucastle, however, who
has evidently no sense of humour, never so much as smiled, but sat with
her hands in her lap, and a sad, anxious look upon her face. After an
hour or so, Mr. Rucastle suddenly remarked that it was time to commence
the duties of the day, and that I might change my dress and go to
little Edward in the nursery.
“Two days later this same performance was gone through under exactly
similar circumstances. Again I changed my dress, again I sat in the
window, and again I laughed very heartily at the funny stories of which
my employer had an immense _répertoire_, and which he told inimitably.
Then he handed me a yellow-backed novel, and moving my chair a little
sideways, that my own shadow might not fall upon the page, he begged me
to read aloud to him. I read for about ten minutes, beginning in the
heart of a chapter, and then suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, he
ordered me to cease and to change my dress.
“You can easily imagine, Mr. Holmes, how curious I became as to what
the meaning of this extraordinary performance could possibly be. They
were always very careful, I observed, to turn my face away from the
window, so that I became consumed with the desire to see what was going
on behind my back. At first it seemed to be impossible, but I soon
devised a means. My hand-mirror had been broken, so a happy thought
seized me, and I concealed a piece of the glass in my handkerchief. On
the next occasion, in the midst of my laughter, I put my handkerchief
up to my eyes, and was able with a little management to see all that
there was behind me. I confess that I was disappointed. There was
nothing. At least that was my first impression. At the second glance,
however, I perceived that there was a man standing in the Southampton
Road, a small bearded man in a grey suit, who seemed to be looking in
my direction. The road is an important highway, and there are usually
people there. This man, however, was leaning against the railings which
bordered our field and was looking earnestly up. I lowered my
handkerchief and glanced at Mrs. Rucastle to find her eyes fixed upon
me with a most searching gaze. She said nothing, but I am convinced
that she had divined that I had a mirror in my hand and had seen what
was behind me. She rose at once.
“‘Jephro,’ said she, ‘there is an impertinent fellow upon the road
there who stares up at Miss Hunter.’
“‘No friend of yours, Miss Hunter?’ he asked.
“‘No, I know no one in these parts.’
“‘Dear me! How very impertinent! Kindly turn round and motion to him to
go away.’
“‘Surely it would be better to take no notice.’
“‘No, no, we should have him loitering here always. Kindly turn round
and wave him away like that.’
“I did as I was told, and at the same instant Mrs. Rucastle drew down
the blind. That was a week ago, and from that time I have not sat again
in the window, nor have I worn the blue dress, nor seen the man in the
road.”
“Pray continue,” said Holmes. “Your narrative promises to be a most
interesting one.”
“You will find it rather disconnected, I fear, and there may prove to
be little relation between the different incidents of which I speak. On
the very first day that I was at the Copper Beeches, Mr. Rucastle took
me to a small outhouse which stands near the kitchen door. As we
approached it I heard the sharp rattling of a chain, and the sound as
of a large animal moving about.
“‘Look in here!’ said Mr. Rucastle, showing me a slit between two
planks. ‘Is he not a beauty?’
“I looked through and was conscious of two glowing eyes, and of a vague
figure huddled up in the darkness.
“‘Don’t be frightened,’ said my employer, laughing at the start which I
had given. ‘It’s only Carlo, my mastiff. I call him mine, but really
old Toller, my groom, is the only man who can do anything with him. We
feed him once a day, and not too much then, so that he is always as
keen as mustard. Toller lets him loose every night, and God help the
trespasser whom he lays his fangs upon. For goodness’ sake don’t you
ever on any pretext set your foot over the threshold at night, for it’s
as much as your life is worth.’
“The warning was no idle one, for two nights later I happened to look
out of my bedroom window about two o’clock in the morning. It was a
beautiful moonlight night, and the lawn in front of the house was
silvered over and almost as bright as day. I was standing, rapt in the
peaceful beauty of the scene, when I was aware that something was
moving under the shadow of the copper beeches. As it emerged into the
moonshine I saw what it was. It was a giant dog, as large as a calf,
tawny tinted, with hanging jowl, black muzzle, and huge projecting
bones. It walked slowly across the lawn and vanished into the shadow
upon the other side. That dreadful sentinel sent a chill to my heart
which I do not think that any burglar could have done.
“And now I have a very strange experience to tell you. I had, as you
know, cut off my hair in London, and I had placed it in a great coil at
the bottom of my trunk. One evening, after the child was in bed, I
began to amuse myself by examining the furniture of my room and by
rearranging my own little things. There was an old chest of drawers in
the room, the two upper ones empty and open, the lower one locked. I
had filled the first two with my linen, and as I had still much to pack
away I was naturally annoyed at not having the use of the third drawer.
It struck me that it might have been fastened by a mere oversight, so I
took out my bunch of keys and tried to open it. The very first key
fitted to perfection, and I drew the drawer open. There was only one
thing in it, but I am sure that you would never guess what it was. It
was my coil of hair.
“I took it up and examined it. It was of the same peculiar tint, and
the same thickness. But then the impossibility of the thing obtruded
itself upon me. How could my hair have been locked in the drawer? With
trembling hands I undid my trunk, turned out the contents, and drew
from the bottom my own hair. I laid the two tresses together, and I
assure you that they were identical. Was it not extraordinary? Puzzle
as I would, I could make nothing at all of what it meant. I returned
the strange hair to the drawer, and I said nothing of the matter to the
Rucastles as I felt that I had put myself in the wrong by opening a
drawer which they had locked.
“I am naturally observant, as you may have remarked, Mr. Holmes, and I
soon had a pretty good plan of the whole house in my head. There was
one wing, however, which appeared not to be inhabited at all. A door
which faced that which led into the quarters of the Tollers opened into
this suite, but it was invariably locked. One day, however, as I
ascended the stair, I met Mr. Rucastle coming out through this door,
his keys in his hand, and a look on his face which made him a very
different person to the round, jovial man to whom I was accustomed. His
cheeks were red, his brow was all crinkled with anger, and the veins
stood out at his temples with passion. He locked the door and hurried
past me without a word or a look.
“This aroused my curiosity, so when I went out for a walk in the
grounds with my charge, I strolled round to the side from which I could
see the windows of this part of the house. There were four of them in a
row, three of which were simply dirty, while the fourth was shuttered
up. They were evidently all deserted. As I strolled up and down,
glancing at them occasionally, Mr. Rucastle came out to me, looking as
merry and jovial as ever.
“‘Ah!’ said he, ‘you must not think me rude if I passed you without a
word, my dear young lady. I was preoccupied with business matters.’
“I assured him that I was not offended. ‘By the way,’ said I, ‘you seem
to have quite a suite of spare rooms up there, and one of them has the
shutters up.’
“He looked surprised and, as it seemed to me, a little startled at my
remark.
“‘Photography is one of my hobbies,’ said he. ‘I have made my dark room
up there. But, dear me! what an observant young lady we have come upon.
Who would have believed it? Who would have ever believed it?’ He spoke
in a jesting tone, but there was no jest in his eyes as he looked at
me. I read suspicion there and annoyance, but no jest.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, from the moment that I understood that there was
something about that suite of rooms which I was not to know, I was all
on fire to go over them. It was not mere curiosity, though I have my
share of that. It was more a feeling of duty—a feeling that some good
might come from my penetrating to this place. They talk of woman’s
instinct; perhaps it was woman’s instinct which gave me that feeling.
At any rate, it was there, and I was keenly on the lookout for any
chance to pass the forbidden door.
“It was only yesterday that the chance came. I may tell you that,
besides Mr. Rucastle, both Toller and his wife find something to do in
these deserted rooms, and I once saw him carrying a large black linen
bag with him through the door. Recently he has been drinking hard, and
yesterday evening he was very drunk; and when I came upstairs there was
the key in the door. I have no doubt at all that he had left it there.
Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle were both downstairs, and the child was with
them, so that I had an admirable opportunity. I turned the key gently
in the lock, opened the door, and slipped through.
“There was a little passage in front of me, unpapered and uncarpeted,
which turned at a right angle at the farther end. Round this corner
were three doors in a line, the first and third of which were open.
They each led into an empty room, dusty and cheerless, with two windows
in the one and one in the other, so thick with dirt that the evening
light glimmered dimly through them. The centre door was closed, and
across the outside of it had been fastened one of the broad bars of an
iron bed, padlocked at one end to a ring in the wall, and fastened at
the other with stout cord. The door itself was locked as well, and the
key was not there. This barricaded door corresponded clearly with the
shuttered window outside, and yet I could see by the glimmer from
beneath it that the room was not in darkness. Evidently there was a
skylight which let in light from above. As I stood in the passage
gazing at the sinister door and wondering what secret it might veil, I
suddenly heard the sound of steps within the room and saw a shadow pass
backward and forward against the little slit of dim light which shone
out from under the door. A mad, unreasoning terror rose up in me at the
sight, Mr. Holmes. My overstrung nerves failed me suddenly, and I
turned and ran—ran as though some dreadful hand were behind me
clutching at the skirt of my dress. I rushed down the passage, through
the door, and straight into the arms of Mr. Rucastle, who was waiting
outside.
“‘So,’ said he, smiling, ‘it was you, then. I thought that it must be
when I saw the door open.’
“‘Oh, I am so frightened!’ I panted.
“‘My dear young lady! my dear young lady!’—you cannot think how
caressing and soothing his manner was—‘and what has frightened you, my
dear young lady?’
“But his voice was just a little too coaxing. He overdid it. I was
keenly on my guard against him.
“‘I was foolish enough to go into the empty wing,’ I answered. ‘But it
is so lonely and eerie in this dim light that I was frightened and ran
out again. Oh, it is so dreadfully still in there!’
“‘Only that?’ said he, looking at me keenly.
“‘Why, what did you think?’ I asked.
“‘Why do you think that I lock this door?’
“‘I am sure that I do not know.’
“‘It is to keep people out who have no business there. Do you see?’ He
was still smiling in the most amiable manner.
“‘I am sure if I had known—’
“‘Well, then, you know now. And if you ever put your foot over that
threshold again’—here in an instant the smile hardened into a grin of
rage, and he glared down at me with the face of a demon—‘I’ll throw you
to the mastiff.’
“I was so terrified that I do not know what I did. I suppose that I
must have rushed past him into my room. I remember nothing until I
found myself lying on my bed trembling all over. Then I thought of you,
Mr. Holmes. I could not live there longer without some advice. I was
frightened of the house, of the man, of the woman, of the servants,
even of the child. They were all horrible to me. If I could only bring
you down all would be well. Of course I might have fled from the house,
but my curiosity was almost as strong as my fears. My mind was soon
made up. I would send you a wire. I put on my hat and cloak, went down
to the office, which is about half a mile from the house, and then
returned, feeling very much easier. A horrible doubt came into my mind
as I approached the door lest the dog might be loose, but I remembered
that Toller had drunk himself into a state of insensibility that
evening, and I knew that he was the only one in the household who had
any influence with the savage creature, or who would venture to set him
free. I slipped in in safety and lay awake half the night in my joy at
the thought of seeing you. I had no difficulty in getting leave to come
into Winchester this morning, but I must be back before three o’clock,
for Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle are going on a visit, and will be away all
the evening, so that I must look after the child. Now I have told you
all my adventures, Mr. Holmes, and I should be very glad if you could
tell me what it all means, and, above all, what I should do.”
Holmes and I had listened spellbound to this extraordinary story. My
friend rose now and paced up and down the room, his hands in his
pockets, and an expression of the most profound gravity upon his face.
“Is Toller still drunk?” he asked.
“Yes. I heard his wife tell Mrs. Rucastle that she could do nothing
with him.”
“That is well. And the Rucastles go out to-night?”
“Yes.”
“Is there a cellar with a good strong lock?”
“Yes, the wine-cellar.”
“You seem to me to have acted all through this matter like a very brave
and sensible girl, Miss Hunter. Do you think that you could perform one
more feat? I should not ask it of you if I did not think you a quite
exceptional woman.”
“I will try. What is it?”
“We shall be at the Copper Beeches by seven o’clock, my friend and I.
The Rucastles will be gone by that time, and Toller will, we hope, be
incapable. There only remains Mrs. Toller, who might give the alarm. If
you could send her into the cellar on some errand, and then turn the
key upon her, you would facilitate matters immensely.”
“I will do it.”
“Excellent! We shall then look thoroughly into the affair. Of course
there is only one feasible explanation. You have been brought there to
personate someone, and the real person is imprisoned in this chamber.
That is obvious. As to who this prisoner is, I have no doubt that it is
the daughter, Miss Alice Rucastle, if I remember right, who was said to
have gone to America. You were chosen, doubtless, as resembling her in
height, figure, and the colour of your hair. Hers had been cut off,
very possibly in some illness through which she has passed, and so, of
course, yours had to be sacrificed also. By a curious chance you came
upon her tresses. The man in the road was undoubtedly some friend of
hers—possibly her _fiancé_—and no doubt, as you wore the girl’s dress
and were so like her, he was convinced from your laughter, whenever he
saw you, and afterwards from your gesture, that Miss Rucastle was
perfectly happy, and that she no longer desired his attentions. The dog
is let loose at night to prevent him from endeavouring to communicate
with her. So much is fairly clear. The most serious point in the case
is the disposition of the child.”
“What on earth has that to do with it?” I ejaculated.
“My dear Watson, you as a medical man are continually gaining light as
to the tendencies of a child by the study of the parents. Don’t you see
that the converse is equally valid. I have frequently gained my first
real insight into the character of parents by studying their children.
This child’s disposition is abnormally cruel, merely for cruelty’s
sake, and whether he derives this from his smiling father, as I should
suspect, or from his mother, it bodes evil for the poor girl who is in
their power.”
“I am sure that you are right, Mr. Holmes,” cried our client. “A
thousand things come back to me which make me certain that you have hit
it. Oh, let us lose not an instant in bringing help to this poor
creature.”
“We must be circumspect, for we are dealing with a very cunning man. We
can do nothing until seven o’clock. At that hour we shall be with you,
and it will not be long before we solve the mystery.”
We were as good as our word, for it was just seven when we reached the
Copper Beeches, having put up our trap at a wayside public-house. The
group of trees, with their dark leaves shining like burnished metal in
the light of the setting sun, were sufficient to mark the house even
had Miss Hunter not been standing smiling on the door-step.
“Have you managed it?” asked Holmes.
A loud thudding noise came from somewhere downstairs. “That is Mrs.
Toller in the cellar,” said she. “Her husband lies snoring on the
kitchen rug. Here are his keys, which are the duplicates of Mr.
Rucastle’s.”
“You have done well indeed!” cried Holmes with enthusiasm. “Now lead
the way, and we shall soon see the end of this black business.”
We passed up the stair, unlocked the door, followed on down a passage,
and found ourselves in front of the barricade which Miss Hunter had
described. Holmes cut the cord and removed the transverse bar. Then he
tried the various keys in the lock, but without success. No sound came
from within, and at the silence Holmes’ face clouded over.
“I trust that we are not too late,” said he. “I think, Miss Hunter,
that we had better go in without you. Now, Watson, put your shoulder to
it, and we shall see whether we cannot make our way in.”
It was an old rickety door and gave at once before our united strength.
Together we rushed into the room. It was empty. There was no furniture
save a little pallet bed, a small table, and a basketful of linen. The
skylight above was open, and the prisoner gone.
“There has been some villainy here,” said Holmes; “this beauty has
guessed Miss Hunter’s intentions and has carried his victim off.”
“But how?”
“Through the skylight. We shall soon see how he managed it.” He swung
himself up onto the roof. “Ah, yes,” he cried, “here’s the end of a
long light ladder against the eaves. That is how he did it.”
“But it is impossible,” said Miss Hunter; “the ladder was not there
when the Rucastles went away.”
“He has come back and done it. I tell you that he is a clever and
dangerous man. I should not be very much surprised if this were he
whose step I hear now upon the stair. I think, Watson, that it would be
as well for you to have your pistol ready.”
The words were hardly out of his mouth before a man appeared at the
door of the room, a very fat and burly man, with a heavy stick in his
hand. Miss Hunter screamed and shrunk against the wall at the sight of
him, but Sherlock Holmes sprang forward and confronted him.
“You villain!” said he, “where’s your daughter?”
The fat man cast his eyes round, and then up at the open skylight.
“It is for me to ask you that,” he shrieked, “you thieves! Spies and
thieves! I have caught you, have I? You are in my power. I’ll serve
you!” He turned and clattered down the stairs as hard as he could go.
“He’s gone for the dog!” cried Miss Hunter.
“I have my revolver,” said I.
“Better close the front door,” cried Holmes, and we all rushed down the
stairs together. We had hardly reached the hall when we heard the
baying of a hound, and then a scream of agony, with a horrible worrying
sound which it was dreadful to listen to. An elderly man with a red
face and shaking limbs came staggering out at a side door.
“My God!” he cried. “Someone has loosed the dog. It’s not been fed for
two days. Quick, quick, or it’ll be too late!”
Holmes and I rushed out and round the angle of the house, with Toller
hurrying behind us. There was the huge famished brute, its black muzzle
buried in Rucastle’s throat, while he writhed and screamed upon the
ground. Running up, I blew its brains out, and it fell over with its
keen white teeth still meeting in the great creases of his neck. With
much labour we separated them and carried him, living but horribly
mangled, into the house. We laid him upon the drawing-room sofa, and
having dispatched the sobered Toller to bear the news to his wife, I
did what I could to relieve his pain. We were all assembled round him
when the door opened, and a tall, gaunt woman entered the room.
“Mrs. Toller!” cried Miss Hunter.
“Yes, miss. Mr. Rucastle let me out when he came back before he went up
to you. Ah, miss, it is a pity you didn’t let me know what you were
planning, for I would have told you that your pains were wasted.”
“Ha!” said Holmes, looking keenly at her. “It is clear that Mrs. Toller
knows more about this matter than anyone else.”
“Yes, sir, I do, and I am ready enough to tell what I know.”
“Then, pray, sit down, and let us hear it for there are several points
on which I must confess that I am still in the dark.”
“I will soon make it clear to you,” said she; “and I’d have done so
before now if I could ha’ got out from the cellar. If there’s
police-court business over this, you’ll remember that I was the one
that stood your friend, and that I was Miss Alice’s friend too.
“She was never happy at home, Miss Alice wasn’t, from the time that her
father married again. She was slighted like and had no say in anything,
but it never really became bad for her until after she met Mr. Fowler
at a friend’s house. As well as I could learn, Miss Alice had rights of
her own by will, but she was so quiet and patient, she was, that she
never said a word about them but just left everything in Mr. Rucastle’s
hands. He knew he was safe with her; but when there was a chance of a
husband coming forward, who would ask for all that the law would give
him, then her father thought it time to put a stop on it. He wanted her
to sign a paper, so that whether she married or not, he could use her
money. When she wouldn’t do it, he kept on worrying her until she got
brain-fever, and for six weeks was at death’s door. Then she got better
at last, all worn to a shadow, and with her beautiful hair cut off; but
that didn’t make no change in her young man, and he stuck to her as
true as man could be.”
“Ah,” said Holmes, “I think that what you have been good enough to tell
us makes the matter fairly clear, and that I can deduce all that
remains. Mr. Rucastle then, I presume, took to this system of
imprisonment?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And brought Miss Hunter down from London in order to get rid of the
disagreeable persistence of Mr. Fowler.”
“That was it, sir.”
“But Mr. Fowler being a persevering man, as a good seaman should be,
blockaded the house, and having met you succeeded by certain arguments,
metallic or otherwise, in convincing you that your interests were the
same as his.”
“Mr. Fowler was a very kind-spoken, free-handed gentleman,” said Mrs.
Toller serenely.
“And in this way he managed that your good man should have no want of
drink, and that a ladder should be ready at the moment when your master
had gone out.”
“You have it, sir, just as it happened.”
“I am sure we owe you an apology, Mrs. Toller,” said Holmes, “for you
have certainly cleared up everything which puzzled us. And here comes
the country surgeon and Mrs. Rucastle, so I think, Watson, that we had
best escort Miss Hunter back to Winchester, as it seems to me that our
_locus standi_ now is rather a questionable one.”
And thus was solved the mystery of the sinister house with the copper
beeches in front of the door. Mr. Rucastle survived, but was always a
broken man, kept alive solely through the care of his devoted wife.
They still live with their old servants, who probably know so much of
Rucastle’s past life that he finds it difficult to part from them. Mr.
Fowler and Miss Rucastle were married, by special license, in
Southampton the day after their flight, and he is now the holder of a
government appointment in the island of Mauritius. As to Miss Violet
Hunter, my friend Holmes, rather to my disappointment, manifested no
further interest in her when once she had ceased to be the centre of
one of his problems, and she is now the head of a private school at
Walsall, where I believe that she has met with considerable success.
|
xii_the_adventure_of_the_copper_beeches
|
I.--The Adventure of the Empty House.
|
The Return of Sherlock Holmes
|
IT was in the spring of the year 1894 that all London was interested,
and the fashionable world dismayed, by the murder of the Honourable
Ronald Adair under most unusual and inexplicable circumstances. The
public has already learned those particulars of the crime which came out
in the police investigation; but a good deal was suppressed upon that
occasion, since the case for the prosecution was so overwhelmingly
strong that it was not necessary to bring forward all the facts. Only
now, at the end of nearly ten years, am I allowed to supply those
missing links which make up the whole of that remarkable chain. The
crime was of interest in itself, but that interest was as nothing to
me compared to the inconceivable sequel, which afforded me the greatest
shock and surprise of any event in my adventurous life. Even now,
after this long interval, I find myself thrilling as I think of it, and
feeling once more that sudden flood of joy, amazement, and incredulity
which utterly submerged my mind. Let me say to that public which has
shown some interest in those glimpses which I have occasionally given
them of the thoughts and actions of a very remarkable man that they
are not to blame me if I have not shared my knowledge with them, for I
should have considered it my first duty to have done so had I not been
barred by a positive prohibition from his own lips, which was only
withdrawn upon the third of last month.
It can be imagined that my close intimacy with Sherlock Holmes had
interested me deeply in crime, and that after his disappearance I never
failed to read with care the various problems which came before
the public, and I even attempted more than once for my own private
satisfaction to employ his methods in their solution, though with
indifferent success. There was none, however, which appealed to me like
this tragedy of Ronald Adair. As I read the evidence at the inquest,
which led up to a verdict of wilful murder against some person or
persons unknown, I realized more clearly than I had ever done the loss
which the community had sustained by the death of Sherlock Holmes. There
were points about this strange business which would, I was sure, have
specially appealed to him, and the efforts of the police would have been
supplemented, or more probably anticipated, by the trained observation
and the alert mind of the first criminal agent in Europe. All day as
I drove upon my round I turned over the case in my mind, and found no
explanation which appeared to me to be adequate. At the risk of telling
a twice-told tale I will recapitulate the facts as they were known to
the public at the conclusion of the inquest.
The Honourable Ronald Adair was the second son of the Earl of Maynooth,
at that time Governor of one of the Australian Colonies. Adair's mother
had returned from Australia to undergo the operation for cataract, and
she, her son Ronald, and her daughter Hilda were living together at
427, Park Lane. The youth moved in the best society, had, so far as was
known, no enemies, and no particular vices. He had been engaged to Miss
Edith Woodley, of Carstairs, but the engagement had been broken off by
mutual consent some months before, and there was no sign that it had
left any very profound feeling behind it. For the rest the man's life
moved in a narrow and conventional circle, for his habits were quiet and
his nature unemotional. Yet it was upon this easy-going young aristocrat
that death came in most strange and unexpected form between the hours of
ten and eleven-twenty on the night of March 30, 1894.
Ronald Adair was fond of cards, playing continually, but never for such
stakes as would hurt him. He was a member of the Baldwin, the Cavendish,
and the Bagatelle card clubs. It was shown that after dinner on the day
of his death he had played a rubber of whist at the latter club. He had
also played there in the afternoon. The evidence of those who had played
with him--Mr. Murray, Sir John Hardy, and Colonel Moran--showed that
the game was whist, and that there was a fairly equal fall of the cards.
Adair might have lost five pounds, but not more. His fortune was a
considerable one, and such a loss could not in any way affect him. He
had played nearly every day at one club or other, but he was a cautious
player, and usually rose a winner. It came out in evidence that in
partnership with Colonel Moran he had actually won as much as four
hundred and twenty pounds in a sitting some weeks before from Godfrey
Milner and Lord Balmoral. So much for his recent history, as it came out
at the inquest.
On the evening of the crime he returned from the club exactly at ten.
His mother and sister were out spending the evening with a relation. The
servant deposed that she heard him enter the front room on the second
floor, generally used as his sitting-room. She had lit a fire there, and
as it smoked she had opened the window. No sound was heard from the room
until eleven-twenty, the hour of the return of Lady Maynooth and her
daughter. Desiring to say good-night, she had attempted to enter her
son's room. The door was locked on the inside, and no answer could be
got to their cries and knocking. Help was obtained and the door forced.
The unfortunate young man was found lying near the table. His head had
been horribly mutilated by an expanding revolver bullet, but no weapon
of any sort was to be found in the room. On the table lay two bank-notes
for ten pounds each and seventeen pounds ten in silver and gold, the
money arranged in little piles of varying amount. There were some
figures also upon a sheet of paper with the names of some club friends
opposite to them, from which it was conjectured that before his death he
was endeavouring to make out his losses or winnings at cards.
A minute examination of the circumstances served only to make the case
more complex. In the first place, no reason could be given why the
young man should have fastened the door upon the inside. There was the
possibility that the murderer had done this and had afterwards escaped
by the window. The drop was at least twenty feet, however, and a bed of
crocuses in full bloom lay beneath. Neither the flowers nor the earth
showed any sign of having been disturbed, nor were there any marks
upon the narrow strip of grass which separated the house from the road.
Apparently, therefore, it was the young man himself who had fastened the
door. But how did he come by his death? No one could have climbed up to
the window without leaving traces. Suppose a man had fired through the
window, it would indeed be a remarkable shot who could with a
revolver inflict so deadly a wound. Again, Park Lane is a frequented
thoroughfare, and there is a cab-stand within a hundred yards of the
house. No one had heard a shot. And yet there was the dead man, and
there the revolver bullet, which had mushroomed out, as soft-nosed
bullets will, and so inflicted a wound which must have caused
instantaneous death. Such were the circumstances of the Park Lane
Mystery, which were further complicated by entire absence of motive,
since, as I have said, young Adair was not known to have any enemy, and
no attempt had been made to remove the money or valuables in the room.
All day I turned these facts over in my mind, endeavouring to hit upon
some theory which could reconcile them all, and to find that line
of least resistance which my poor friend had declared to be the
starting-point of every investigation. I confess that I made little
progress. In the evening I strolled across the Park, and found myself
about six o'clock at the Oxford Street end of Park Lane. A group of
loafers upon the pavements, all staring up at a particular window,
directed me to the house which I had come to see. A tall, thin man with
coloured glasses, whom I strongly suspected of being a plain-clothes
detective, was pointing out some theory of his own, while the others
crowded round to listen to what he said. I got as near him as I could,
but his observations seemed to me to be absurd, so I withdrew again in
some disgust. As I did so I struck against an elderly deformed man,
who had been behind me, and I knocked down several books which he was
carrying. I remember that as I picked them up I observed the title of
one of them, “The Origin of Tree Worship,” and it struck me that the
fellow must be some poor bibliophile who, either as a trade or as a
hobby, was a collector of obscure volumes. I endeavoured to apologize
for the accident, but it was evident that these books which I had so
unfortunately maltreated were very precious objects in the eyes of their
owner. With a snarl of contempt he turned upon his heel, and I saw his
curved back and white side-whiskers disappear among the throng.
My observations of No. 427, Park Lane did little to clear up the problem
in which I was interested. The house was separated from the street by
a low wall and railing, the whole not more than five feet high. It was
perfectly easy, therefore, for anyone to get into the garden, but the
window was entirely inaccessible, since there was no water-pipe or
anything which could help the most active man to climb it. More puzzled
than ever I retraced my steps to Kensington. I had not been in my study
five minutes when the maid entered to say that a person desired to
see me. To my astonishment it was none other than my strange old
book-collector, his sharp, wizened face peering out from a frame of
white hair, and his precious volumes, a dozen of them at least, wedged
under his right arm.
“You're surprised to see me, sir,” said he, in a strange, croaking
voice.
I acknowledged that I was.
“Well, I've a conscience, sir, and when I chanced to see you go into
this house, as I came hobbling after you, I thought to myself, I'll just
step in and see that kind gentleman, and tell him that if I was a bit
gruff in my manner there was not any harm meant, and that I am much
obliged to him for picking up my books.”
“You make too much of a trifle,” said I. “May I ask how you knew who I
was?”
“Well, sir, if it isn't too great a liberty, I am a neighbour of yours,
for you'll find my little bookshop at the corner of Church Street,
and very happy to see you, I am sure. Maybe you collect yourself, sir;
here's 'British Birds,' and 'Catullus,' and 'The Holy War'--a bargain
every one of them. With five volumes you could just fill that gap on
that second shelf. It looks untidy, does it not, sir?”
I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me. When I turned again
Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me across my study table. I rose
to my feet, stared at him for some seconds in utter amazement, and then
it appears that I must have fainted for the first and the last time
in my life. Certainly a grey mist swirled before my eyes, and when it
cleared I found my collar-ends undone and the tingling after-taste of
brandy upon my lips. Holmes was bending over my chair, his flask in his
hand.
“My dear Watson,” said the well-remembered voice, “I owe you a thousand
apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected.”
I gripped him by the arm.
“Holmes!” I cried. “Is it really you? Can it indeed be that you are
alive? Is it possible that you succeeded in climbing out of that awful
abyss?”
“Wait a moment,” said he. “Are you sure that you are really fit to
discuss things? I have given you a serious shock by my unnecessarily
dramatic reappearance.”
“I am all right, but indeed, Holmes, I can hardly believe my eyes. Good
heavens, to think that you--you of all men--should be standing in my
study!” Again I gripped him by the sleeve and felt the thin, sinewy arm
beneath it. “Well, you're not a spirit, anyhow,” said I. “My dear chap,
I am overjoyed to see you. Sit down and tell me how you came alive out
of that dreadful chasm.”
He sat opposite to me and lit a cigarette in his old nonchalant manner.
He was dressed in the seedy frock-coat of the book merchant, but the
rest of that individual lay in a pile of white hair and old books upon
the table. Holmes looked even thinner and keener than of old, but there
was a dead-white tinge in his aquiline face which told me that his life
recently had not been a healthy one.
“I am glad to stretch myself, Watson,” said he. “It is no joke when a
tall man has to take a foot off his stature for several hours on end.
Now, my dear fellow, in the matter of these explanations we have, if
I may ask for your co-operation, a hard and dangerous night's work in
front of us. Perhaps it would be better if I gave you an account of the
whole situation when that work is finished.”
“I am full of curiosity. I should much prefer to hear now.”
“You'll come with me to-night?”
“When you like and where you like.”
“This is indeed like the old days. We shall have time for a mouthful of
dinner before we need go. Well, then, about that chasm. I had no serious
difficulty in getting out of it, for the very simple reason that I never
was in it.”
“You never were in it?”
“No, Watson, I never was in it. My note to you was absolutely genuine.
I had little doubt that I had come to the end of my career when I
perceived the somewhat sinister figure of the late Professor Moriarty
standing upon the narrow pathway which led to safety. I read an
inexorable purpose in his grey eyes. I exchanged some remarks with him,
therefore, and obtained his courteous permission to write the short note
which you afterwards received. I left it with my cigarette-box and my
stick and I walked along the pathway, Moriarty still at my heels. When
I reached the end I stood at bay. He drew no weapon, but he rushed at me
and threw his long arms around me. He knew that his own game was up, and
was only anxious to revenge himself upon me. We tottered together upon
the brink of the fall. I have some knowledge, however, of baritsu, or
the Japanese system of wrestling, which has more than once been very
useful to me. I slipped through his grip, and he with a horrible scream
kicked madly for a few seconds and clawed the air with both his hands.
But for all his efforts he could not get his balance, and over he went.
With my face over the brink I saw him fall for a long way. Then he
struck a rock, bounded off, and splashed into the water.”
I listened with amazement to this explanation, which Holmes delivered
between the puffs of his cigarette.
“But the tracks!” I cried. “I saw with my own eyes that two went down
the path and none returned.”
“It came about in this way. The instant that the Professor had
disappeared it struck me what a really extraordinarily lucky chance Fate
had placed in my way. I knew that Moriarty was not the only man who
had sworn my death. There were at least three others whose desire for
vengeance upon me would only be increased by the death of their leader.
They were all most dangerous men. One or other would certainly get me.
On the other hand, if all the world was convinced that I was dead they
would take liberties, these men, they would lay themselves open, and
sooner or later I could destroy them. Then it would be time for me to
announce that I was still in the land of the living. So rapidly does
the brain act that I believe I had thought this all out before Professor
Moriarty had reached the bottom of the Reichenbach Fall.
“I stood up and examined the rocky wall behind me. In your picturesque
account of the matter, which I read with great interest some months
later, you assert that the wall was sheer. This was not literally
true. A few small footholds presented themselves, and there was some
indication of a ledge. The cliff is so high that to climb it all was
an obvious impossibility, and it was equally impossible to make my way
along the wet path without leaving some tracks. I might, it is true,
have reversed my boots, as I have done on similar occasions, but the
sight of three sets of tracks in one direction would certainly have
suggested a deception. On the whole, then, it was best that I should
risk the climb. It was not a pleasant business, Watson. The fall roared
beneath me. I am not a fanciful person, but I give you my word that
I seemed to hear Moriarty's voice screaming at me out of the abyss. A
mistake would have been fatal. More than once, as tufts of grass came
out in my hand or my foot slipped in the wet notches of the rock, I
thought that I was gone. But I struggled upwards, and at last I reached
a ledge several feet deep and covered with soft green moss, where I
could lie unseen in the most perfect comfort. There I was stretched when
you, my dear Watson, and all your following were investigating in the
most sympathetic and inefficient manner the circumstances of my death.
“At last, when you had all formed your inevitable and totally erroneous
conclusions, you departed for the hotel and I was left alone. I had
imagined that I had reached the end of my adventures, but a very
unexpected occurrence showed me that there were surprises still in store
for me. A huge rock, falling from above, boomed past me, struck the
path, and bounded over into the chasm. For an instant I thought that
it was an accident; but a moment later, looking up, I saw a man's head
against the darkening sky, and another stone struck the very ledge upon
which I was stretched, within a foot of my head. Of course, the meaning
of this was obvious. Moriarty had not been alone. A confederate--and
even that one glance had told me how dangerous a man that confederate
was--had kept guard while the Professor had attacked me. From a
distance, unseen by me, he had been a witness of his friend's death and
of my escape. He had waited, and then, making his way round to the
top of the cliff, he had endeavoured to succeed where his comrade had
failed.
“I did not take long to think about it, Watson. Again I saw that grim
face look over the cliff, and I knew that it was the precursor of
another stone. I scrambled down on to the path. I don't think I could
have done it in cold blood. It was a hundred times more difficult than
getting up. But I had no time to think of the danger, for another stone
sang past me as I hung by my hands from the edge of the ledge. Halfway
down I slipped, but by the blessing of God I landed, torn and bleeding,
upon the path. I took to my heels, did ten miles over the mountains
in the darkness, and a week later I found myself in Florence with the
certainty that no one in the world knew what had become of me.
“I had only one confidant--my brother Mycroft. I owe you many apologies,
my dear Watson, but it was all-important that it should be thought I
was dead, and it is quite certain that you would not have written so
convincing an account of my unhappy end had you not yourself thought
that it was true. Several times during the last three years I have taken
up my pen to write to you, but always I feared lest your affectionate
regard for me should tempt you to some indiscretion which would betray
my secret. For that reason I turned away from you this evening when
you upset my books, for I was in danger at the time, and any show of
surprise and emotion upon your part might have drawn attention to my
identity and led to the most deplorable and irreparable results. As to
Mycroft, I had to confide in him in order to obtain the money which
I needed. The course of events in London did not run so well as I had
hoped, for the trial of the Moriarty gang left two of its most dangerous
members, my own most vindictive enemies, at liberty. I travelled for
two years in Tibet, therefore, and amused myself by visiting Lhassa
and spending some days with the head Llama. You may have read of the
remarkable explorations of a Norwegian named Sigerson, but I am sure
that it never occurred to you that you were receiving news of your
friend. I then passed through Persia, looked in at Mecca, and paid a
short but interesting visit to the Khalifa at Khartoum, the results of
which I have communicated to the Foreign Office. Returning to France I
spent some months in a research into the coal-tar derivatives, which I
conducted in a laboratory at Montpelier, in the South of France. Having
concluded this to my satisfaction, and learning that only one of my
enemies was now left in London, I was about to return when my movements
were hastened by the news of this very remarkable Park Lane Mystery,
which not only appealed to me by its own merits, but which seemed to
offer some most peculiar personal opportunities. I came over at once to
London, called in my own person at Baker Street, threw Mrs. Hudson into
violent hysterics, and found that Mycroft had preserved my rooms and my
papers exactly as they had always been. So it was, my dear Watson, that
at two o'clock to-day I found myself in my old arm-chair in my own old
room, and only wishing that I could have seen my old friend Watson in
the other chair which he has so often adorned.”
Such was the remarkable narrative to which I listened on that April
evening--a narrative which would have been utterly incredible to me had
it not been confirmed by the actual sight of the tall, spare figure and
the keen, eager face, which I had never thought to see again. In some
manner he had learned of my own sad bereavement, and his sympathy was
shown in his manner rather than in his words. “Work is the best antidote
to sorrow, my dear Watson,” said he, “and I have a piece of work for us
both to-night which, if we can bring it to a successful conclusion, will
in itself justify a man's life on this planet.” In vain I begged him
to tell me more. “You will hear and see enough before morning,” he
answered. “We have three years of the past to discuss. Let that suffice
until half-past nine, when we start upon the notable adventure of the
empty house.”
It was indeed like old times when, at that hour, I found myself seated
beside him in a hansom, my revolver in my pocket and the thrill of
adventure in my heart. Holmes was cold and stern and silent. As the
gleam of the street-lamps flashed upon his austere features I saw that
his brows were drawn down in thought and his thin lips compressed. I
knew not what wild beast we were about to hunt down in the dark jungle
of criminal London, but I was well assured from the bearing of this
master huntsman that the adventure was a most grave one, while the
sardonic smile which occasionally broke through his ascetic gloom boded
little good for the object of our quest.
I had imagined that we were bound for Baker Street, but Holmes stopped
the cab at the corner of Cavendish Square. I observed that as he stepped
out he gave a most searching glance to right and left, and at every
subsequent street corner he took the utmost pains to assure that he was
not followed. Our route was certainly a singular one. Holmes's knowledge
of the byways of London was extraordinary, and on this occasion he
passed rapidly, and with an assured step, through a network of mews and
stables the very existence of which I had never known. We emerged at
last into a small road, lined with old, gloomy houses, which led us into
Manchester Street, and so to Blandford Street. Here he turned swiftly
down a narrow passage, passed through a wooden gate into a deserted
yard, and then opened with a key the back door of a house. We entered
together and he closed it behind us.
The place was pitch-dark, but it was evident to me that it was an empty
house. Our feet creaked and crackled over the bare planking, and my
outstretched hand touched a wall from which the paper was hanging in
ribbons. Holmes's cold, thin fingers closed round my wrist and led me
forwards down a long hall, until I dimly saw the murky fanlight over the
door. Here Holmes turned suddenly to the right, and we found ourselves
in a large, square, empty room, heavily shadowed in the corners, but
faintly lit in the centre from the lights of the street beyond. There
was no lamp near and the window was thick with dust, so that we could
only just discern each other's figures within. My companion put his hand
upon my shoulder and his lips close to my ear.
“Do you know where we are?” he whispered.
“Surely that is Baker Street,” I answered, staring through the dim
window.
“Exactly. We are in Camden House, which stands opposite to our own old
quarters.”
“But why are we here?”
“Because it commands so excellent a view of that picturesque pile. Might
I trouble you, my dear Watson, to draw a little nearer to the window,
taking every precaution not to show yourself, and then to look up at our
old rooms--the starting-point of so many of our little adventures? We
will see if my three years of absence have entirely taken away my power
to surprise you.”
I crept forward and looked across at the familiar window. As my eyes
fell upon it I gave a gasp and a cry of amazement. The blind was down
and a strong light was burning in the room. The shadow of a man who
was seated in a chair within was thrown in hard, black outline upon the
luminous screen of the window. There was no mistaking the poise of the
head, the squareness of the shoulders, the sharpness of the features.
The face was turned half-round, and the effect was that of one of
those black silhouettes which our grandparents loved to frame. It was a
perfect reproduction of Holmes. So amazed was I that I threw out my
hand to make sure that the man himself was standing beside me. He was
quivering with silent laughter.
“Well?” said he.
“Good heavens!” I cried. “It is marvellous.”
“I trust that age doth not wither nor custom stale my infinite
variety,'” said he, and I recognised in his voice the joy and pride
which the artist takes in his own creation. “It really is rather like
me, is it not?”
“I should be prepared to swear that it was you.”
“The credit of the execution is due to Monsieur Oscar Meunier, of
Grenoble, who spent some days in doing the moulding. It is a bust in
wax. The rest I arranged myself during my visit to Baker Street this
afternoon.”
“But why?”
“Because, my dear Watson, I had the strongest possible reason for
wishing certain people to think that I was there when I was really
elsewhere.”
“And you thought the rooms were watched?”
“I KNEW that they were watched.”
“By whom?”
“By my old enemies, Watson. By the charming society whose leader lies
in the Reichenbach Fall. You must remember that they knew, and only
they knew, that I was still alive. Sooner or later they believed that I
should come back to my rooms. They watched them continuously, and this
morning they saw me arrive.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I recognised their sentinel when I glanced out of my window. He
is a harmless enough fellow, Parker by name, a garroter by trade, and a
remarkable performer upon the Jew's harp. I cared nothing for him. But
I cared a great deal for the much more formidable person who was behind
him, the bosom friend of Moriarty, the man who dropped the rocks over
the cliff, the most cunning and dangerous criminal in London. That is
the man who is after me to-night, Watson, and that is the man who is
quite unaware that we are after HIM.”
My friend's plans were gradually revealing themselves. From this
convenient retreat the watchers were being watched and the trackers
tracked. That angular shadow up yonder was the bait and we were the
hunters. In silence we stood together in the darkness and watched the
hurrying figures who passed and repassed in front of us. Holmes was
silent and motionless; but I could tell that he was keenly alert, and
that his eyes were fixed intently upon the stream of passers-by. It was
a bleak and boisterous night, and the wind whistled shrilly down the
long street. Many people were moving to and fro, most of them muffled in
their coats and cravats. Once or twice it seemed to me that I had seen
the same figure before, and I especially noticed two men who appeared
to be sheltering themselves from the wind in the doorway of a house
some distance up the street. I tried to draw my companion's attention
to them, but he gave a little ejaculation of impatience and continued
to stare into the street. More than once he fidgeted with his feet and
tapped rapidly with his fingers upon the wall. It was evident to me
that he was becoming uneasy and that his plans were not working out
altogether as he had hoped. At last, as midnight approached and
the street gradually cleared, he paced up and down the room in
uncontrollable agitation. I was about to make some remark to him when
I raised my eyes to the lighted window and again experienced almost as
great a surprise as before. I clutched Holmes's arm and pointed upwards.
“The shadow has moved!” I cried.
It was, indeed, no longer the profile, but the back, which was turned
towards us.
Three years had certainly not smoothed the asperities of his temper or
his impatience with a less active intelligence than his own.
“Of course it has moved,” said he. “Am I such a farcical bungler,
Watson, that I should erect an obvious dummy and expect that some of
the sharpest men in Europe would be deceived by it? We have been in
this room two hours, and Mrs. Hudson has made some change in that figure
eight times, or once in every quarter of an hour. She works it from the
front so that her shadow may never be seen. Ah!” He drew in his breath
with a shrill, excited intake. In the dim light I saw his head thrown
forward, his whole attitude rigid with attention. Outside, the street
was absolutely deserted. Those two men might still be crouching in the
doorway, but I could no longer see them. All was still and dark, save
only that brilliant yellow screen in front of us with the black figure
outlined upon its centre. Again in the utter silence I heard that thin,
sibilant note which spoke of intense suppressed excitement. An instant
later he pulled me back into the blackest corner of the room, and I
felt his warning hand upon my lips. The fingers which clutched me were
quivering. Never had I known my friend more moved, and yet the dark
street still stretched lonely and motionless before us.
But suddenly I was aware of that which his keener senses had already
distinguished. A low, stealthy sound came to my ears, not from the
direction of Baker Street, but from the back of the very house in which
we lay concealed. A door opened and shut. An instant later steps
crept down the passage--steps which were meant to be silent, but which
reverberated harshly through the empty house. Holmes crouched back
against the wall and I did the same, my hand closing upon the handle
of my revolver. Peering through the gloom, I saw the vague outline of a
man, a shade blacker than the blackness of the open door. He stood for
an instant, and then he crept forward, crouching, menacing, into the
room. He was within three yards of us, this sinister figure, and I had
braced myself to meet his spring, before I realized that he had no idea
of our presence. He passed close beside us, stole over to the window,
and very softly and noiselessly raised it for half a foot. As he sank to
the level of this opening the light of the street, no longer dimmed by
the dusty glass, fell full upon his face. The man seemed to be beside
himself with excitement. His two eyes shone like stars and his
features were working convulsively. He was an elderly man, with a thin,
projecting nose, a high, bald forehead, and a huge grizzled moustache.
An opera-hat was pushed to the back of his head, and an evening dress
shirt-front gleamed out through his open overcoat. His face was gaunt
and swarthy, scored with deep, savage lines. In his hand he carried what
appeared to be a stick, but as he laid it down upon the floor it gave
a metallic clang. Then from the pocket of his overcoat he drew a bulky
object, and he busied himself in some task which ended with a loud,
sharp click, as if a spring or bolt had fallen into its place. Still
kneeling upon the floor he bent forward and threw all his weight and
strength upon some lever, with the result that there came a long,
whirling, grinding noise, ending once more in a powerful click. He
straightened himself then, and I saw that what he held in his hand was
a sort of gun, with a curiously misshapen butt. He opened it at the
breech, put something in, and snapped the breech-block. Then, crouching
down, he rested the end of the barrel upon the ledge of the open window,
and I saw his long moustache droop over the stock and his eye gleam as
it peered along the sights. I heard a little sigh of satisfaction as
he cuddled the butt into his shoulder, and saw that amazing target, the
black man on the yellow ground, standing clear at the end of his fore
sight. For an instant he was rigid and motionless. Then his finger
tightened on the trigger. There was a strange, loud whiz and a long,
silvery tinkle of broken glass. At that instant Holmes sprang like a
tiger on to the marksman's back and hurled him flat upon his face. He
was up again in a moment, and with convulsive strength he seized Holmes
by the throat; but I struck him on the head with the butt of my revolver
and he dropped again upon the floor. I fell upon him, and as I held him
my comrade blew a shrill call upon a whistle. There was the clatter of
running feet upon the pavement, and two policemen in uniform, with one
plain-clothes detective, rushed through the front entrance and into the
room.
“That you, Lestrade?” said Holmes.
“Yes, Mr. Holmes. I took the job myself. It's good to see you back in
London, sir.”
“I think you want a little unofficial help. Three undetected murders in
one year won't do, Lestrade. But you handled the Molesey Mystery with
less than your usual--that's to say, you handled it fairly well.”
We had all risen to our feet, our prisoner breathing hard, with a
stalwart constable on each side of him. Already a few loiterers had
begun to collect in the street. Holmes stepped up to the window, closed
it, and dropped the blinds. Lestrade had produced two candles and the
policemen had uncovered their lanterns. I was able at last to have a
good look at our prisoner.
It was a tremendously virile and yet sinister face which was turned
towards us. With the brow of a philosopher above and the jaw of a
sensualist below, the man must have started with great capacities for
good or for evil. But one could not look upon his cruel blue eyes, with
their drooping, cynical lids, or upon the fierce, aggressive nose and
the threatening, deep-lined brow, without reading Nature's plainest
danger-signals. He took no heed of any of us, but his eyes were fixed
upon Holmes's face with an expression in which hatred and amazement were
equally blended. “You fiend!” he kept on muttering. “You clever, clever
fiend!”
“Ah, Colonel!” said Holmes, arranging his rumpled collar; “'journeys end
in lovers' meetings,' as the old play says. I don't think I have had the
pleasure of seeing you since you favoured me with those attentions as I
lay on the ledge above the Reichenbach Fall.”
The Colonel still stared at my friend like a man in a trance. “You
cunning, cunning fiend!” was all that he could say.
“I have not introduced you yet,” said Holmes. “This, gentlemen, is
Colonel Sebastian Moran, once of Her Majesty's Indian Army, and the best
heavy game shot that our Eastern Empire has ever produced. I believe
I am correct, Colonel, in saying that your bag of tigers still remains
unrivalled?”
The fierce old man said nothing, but still glared at my companion; with
his savage eyes and bristling moustache he was wonderfully like a tiger
himself.
“I wonder that my very simple stratagem could deceive so old a shikari,”
said Holmes. “It must be very familiar to you. Have you not tethered a
young kid under a tree, lain above it with your rifle, and waited for
the bait to bring up your tiger? This empty house is my tree and you
are my tiger. You have possibly had other guns in reserve in case there
should be several tigers, or in the unlikely supposition of your own aim
failing you. These,” he pointed around, “are my other guns. The parallel
is exact.”
Colonel Moran sprang forward, with a snarl of rage, but the constables
dragged him back. The fury upon his face was terrible to look at.
“I confess that you had one small surprise for me,” said Holmes. “I did
not anticipate that you would yourself make use of this empty house and
this convenient front window. I had imagined you as operating from the
street, where my friend Lestrade and his merry men were awaiting you.
With that exception all has gone as I expected.”
Colonel Moran turned to the official detective.
“You may or may not have just cause for arresting me,” said he, “but at
least there can be no reason why I should submit to the gibes of this
person. If I am in the hands of the law let things be done in a legal
way.”
“Well, that's reasonable enough,” said Lestrade. “Nothing further you
have to say, Mr. Holmes, before we go?”
Holmes had picked up the powerful air-gun from the floor and was
examining its mechanism.
“An admirable and unique weapon,” said he, “noiseless and of tremendous
power. I knew Von Herder, the blind German mechanic, who constructed it
to the order of the late Professor Moriarty. For years I have been aware
of its existence, though I have never before had the opportunity of
handling it. I commend it very specially to your attention, Lestrade,
and also the bullets which fit it.”
“You can trust us to look after that, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade, as the
whole party moved towards the door. “Anything further to say?”
“Only to ask what charge you intend to prefer?”
“What charge, sir? Why, of course, the attempted murder of Mr. Sherlock
Holmes.”
“Not so, Lestrade. I do not propose to appear in the matter at all. To
you, and to you only, belongs the credit of the remarkable arrest which
you have effected. Yes, Lestrade, I congratulate you! With your usual
happy mixture of cunning and audacity you have got him.”
“Got him! Got whom, Mr. Holmes?”
“The man that the whole force has been seeking in vain--Colonel
Sebastian Moran, who shot the Honourable Ronald Adair with an expanding
bullet from an air-gun through the open window of the second-floor front
of No. 427, Park Lane, upon the 30th of last month. That's the charge,
Lestrade. And now, Watson, if you can endure the draught from a broken
window, I think that half an hour in my study over a cigar may afford
you some profitable amusement.”
Our old chambers had been left unchanged through the supervision of
Mycroft Holmes and the immediate care of Mrs. Hudson. As I entered I
saw, it is true, an unwonted tidiness, but the old landmarks were all
in their place. There were the chemical corner and the acid-stained,
deal-topped table. There upon a shelf was the row of formidable
scrap-books and books of reference which many of our fellow-citizens
would have been so glad to burn. The diagrams, the violin-case, and the
pipe-rack--even the Persian slipper which contained the tobacco--all met
my eyes as I glanced round me. There were two occupants of the room--one
Mrs. Hudson, who beamed upon us both as we entered; the other the
strange dummy which had played so important a part in the evening's
adventures. It was a wax-coloured model of my friend, so admirably done
that it was a perfect facsimile. It stood on a small pedestal table with
an old dressing-gown of Holmes's so draped round it that the illusion
from the street was absolutely perfect.
“I hope you preserved all precautions, Mrs. Hudson?” said Holmes.
“I went to it on my knees, sir, just as you told me.”
“Excellent. You carried the thing out very well. Did you observe where
the bullet went?”
“Yes, sir. I'm afraid it has spoilt your beautiful bust, for it passed
right through the head and flattened itself on the wall. I picked it up
from the carpet. Here it is!”
Holmes held it out to me. “A soft revolver bullet, as you perceive,
Watson. There's genius in that, for who would expect to find such a
thing fired from an air-gun. All right, Mrs. Hudson, I am much obliged
for your assistance. And now, Watson, let me see you in your old seat
once more, for there are several points which I should like to discuss
with you.”
He had thrown off the seedy frock-coat, and now he was the Holmes of old
in the mouse-coloured dressing-gown which he took from his effigy.
“The old shikari's nerves have not lost their steadiness nor his eyes
their keenness,” said he, with a laugh, as he inspected the shattered
forehead of his bust.
“Plumb in the middle of the back of the head and smack through the
brain. He was the best shot in India, and I expect that there are few
better in London. Have you heard the name?”
“No, I have not.”
“Well, well, such is fame! But, then, if I remember aright, you had not
heard the name of Professor James Moriarty, who had one of the great
brains of the century. Just give me down my index of biographies from
the shelf.”
He turned over the pages lazily, leaning back in his chair and blowing
great clouds from his cigar.
“My collection of M's is a fine one,” said he. “Moriarty himself is
enough to make any letter illustrious, and here is Morgan the poisoner,
and Merridew of abominable memory, and Mathews, who knocked out my left
canine in the waiting-room at Charing Cross, and, finally, here is our
friend of to-night.”
He handed over the book, and I read: “MORAN, SEBASTIAN, COLONEL.
Unemployed. Formerly 1st Bengalore Pioneers. Born London, 1840. Son of
Sir Augustus Moran, C.B., once British Minister to Persia. Educated
Eton and Oxford. Served in Jowaki Campaign, Afghan Campaign, Charasiab
(despatches), Sherpur, and Cabul. Author of 'Heavy Game of the Western
Himalayas,' 1881; 'Three Months in the Jungle,' 1884. Address: Conduit
Street. Clubs: The Anglo-Indian, the Tankerville, the Bagatelle Card
Club.”
On the margin was written, in Holmes's precise hand: “The second most
dangerous man in London.”
“This is astonishing,” said I, as I handed back the volume. “The man's
career is that of an honourable soldier.”
“It is true,” Holmes answered. “Up to a certain point he did well. He
was always a man of iron nerve, and the story is still told in India how
he crawled down a drain after a wounded man-eating tiger. There are some
trees, Watson, which grow to a certain height and then suddenly develop
some unsightly eccentricity. You will see it often in humans. I have
a theory that the individual represents in his development the whole
procession of his ancestors, and that such a sudden turn to good or
evil stands for some strong influence which came into the line of his
pedigree. The person becomes, as it were, the epitome of the history of
his own family.”
“It is surely rather fanciful.”
“Well, I don't insist upon it. Whatever the cause, Colonel Moran began
to go wrong. Without any open scandal, he still made India too hot to
hold him. He retired, came to London, and again acquired an evil name.
It was at this time that he was sought out by Professor Moriarty,
to whom for a time he was chief of the staff. Moriarty supplied him
liberally with money and used him only in one or two very high-class
jobs which no ordinary criminal could have undertaken. You may have
some recollection of the death of Mrs. Stewart, of Lauder, in 1887.
Not? Well, I am sure Moran was at the bottom of it; but nothing could
be proved. So cleverly was the Colonel concealed that even when the
Moriarty gang was broken up we could not incriminate him. You remember
at that date, when I called upon you in your rooms, how I put up the
shutters for fear of air-guns? No doubt you thought me fanciful. I knew
exactly what I was doing, for I knew of the existence of this remarkable
gun, and I knew also that one of the best shots in the world would be
behind it. When we were in Switzerland he followed us with Moriarty,
and it was undoubtedly he who gave me that evil five minutes on the
Reichenbach ledge.
“You may think that I read the papers with some attention during my
sojourn in France, on the look-out for any chance of laying him by the
heels. So long as he was free in London my life would really not have
been worth living. Night and day the shadow would have been over me, and
sooner or later his chance must have come. What could I do? I could not
shoot him at sight, or I should myself be in the dock. There was no use
appealing to a magistrate. They cannot interfere on the strength of what
would appear to them to be a wild suspicion. So I could do nothing. But
I watched the criminal news, knowing that sooner or later I should get
him. Then came the death of this Ronald Adair. My chance had come at
last! Knowing what I did, was it not certain that Colonel Moran had done
it? He had played cards with the lad; he had followed him home from the
club; he had shot him through the open window. There was not a doubt of
it. The bullets alone are enough to put his head in a noose. I came
over at once. I was seen by the sentinel, who would, I knew, direct
the Colonel's attention to my presence. He could not fail to connect my
sudden return with his crime and to be terribly alarmed. I was sure that
he would make an attempt to get me out of the way AT ONCE, and would
bring round his murderous weapon for that purpose. I left him an
excellent mark in the window, and, having warned the police that they
might be needed--by the way, Watson, you spotted their presence in that
doorway with unerring accuracy--I took up what seemed to me to be a
judicious post for observation, never dreaming that he would choose the
same spot for his attack. Now, my dear Watson, does anything remain for
me to explain?”
“Yes,” said I. “You have not made it clear what was Colonel Moran's
motive in murdering the Honourable Ronald Adair.”
“Ah! my dear Watson, there we come into those realms of conjecture where
the most logical mind may be at fault. Each may form his own hypothesis
upon the present evidence, and yours is as likely to be correct as
mine.”
“You have formed one, then?”
“I think that it is not difficult to explain the facts. It came out
in evidence that Colonel Moran and young Adair had between them won a
considerable amount of money. Now, Moran undoubtedly played foul--of
that I have long been aware. I believe that on the day of the murder
Adair had discovered that Moran was cheating. Very likely he had spoken
to him privately, and had threatened to expose him unless he voluntarily
resigned his membership of the club and promised not to play cards
again. It is unlikely that a youngster like Adair would at once make a
hideous scandal by exposing a well-known man so much older than himself.
Probably he acted as I suggest. The exclusion from his clubs would mean
ruin to Moran, who lived by his ill-gotten card gains. He therefore
murdered Adair, who at the time was endeavouring to work out how
much money he should himself return, since he could not profit by his
partner's foul play. He locked the door lest the ladies should surprise
him and insist upon knowing what he was doing with these names and
coins. Will it pass?”
“I have no doubt that you have hit upon the truth.”
“It will be verified or disproved at the trial. Meanwhile, come what
may, Colonel Moran will trouble us no more, the famous air-gun of Von
Herder will embellish the Scotland Yard Museum, and once again
Mr. Sherlock Holmes is free to devote his life to examining those
interesting little problems which the complex life of London so
plentifully presents.”
*****
THE STRAND MAGAZINE
Vol. 26 NOVEMBER, 1903
THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.
By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.
|
i_the_adventure_of_the_empty_house
|
II.--The Adventure of the Norwood Builder.
|
The Return of Sherlock Holmes
|
“FROM the point of view of the criminal expert,” said Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, “London has become a singularly uninteresting city since the
death of the late lamented Professor Moriarty.”
“I can hardly think that you would find many decent citizens to agree
with you,” I answered.
“Well, well, I must not be selfish,” said he, with a smile, as he pushed
back his chair from the breakfast-table. “The community is certainly
the gainer, and no one the loser, save the poor out-of-work specialist,
whose occupation has gone. With that man in the field one's morning
paper presented infinite possibilities. Often it was only the smallest
trace, Watson, the faintest indication, and yet it was enough to tell me
that the great malignant brain was there, as the gentlest tremors of
the edges of the web remind one of the foul spider which lurks in the
centre. Petty thefts, wanton assaults, purposeless outrage--to the man
who held the clue all could be worked into one connected whole. To the
scientific student of the higher criminal world no capital in Europe
offered the advantages which London then possessed. But now----” He
shrugged his shoulders in humorous deprecation of the state of things
which he had himself done so much to produce.
At the time of which I speak Holmes had been back for some months, and
I, at his request, had sold my practice and returned to share the old
quarters in Baker Street. A young doctor, named Verner, had purchased my
small Kensington practice, and given with astonishingly little demur the
highest price that I ventured to ask--an incident which only explained
itself some years later when I found that Verner was a distant relation
of Holmes's, and that it was my friend who had really found the money.
Our months of partnership had not been so uneventful as he had stated,
for I find, on looking over my notes, that this period includes the case
of the papers of Ex-President Murillo, and also the shocking affair of
the Dutch steamship FRIESLAND, which so nearly cost us both our lives.
His cold and proud nature was always averse, however, to anything in the
shape of public applause, and he bound me in the most stringent terms
to say no further word of himself, his methods, or his successes--a
prohibition which, as I have explained, has only now been removed.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes was leaning back in his chair after his whimsical
protest, and was unfolding his morning paper in a leisurely fashion,
when our attention was arrested by a tremendous ring at the bell,
followed immediately by a hollow drumming sound, as if someone were
beating on the outer door with his fist. As it opened there came a
tumultuous rush into the hall, rapid feet clattered up the stair, and an
instant later a wild-eyed and frantic young man, pale, dishevelled, and
palpitating, burst into the room. He looked from one to the other of us,
and under our gaze of inquiry he became conscious that some apology was
needed for this unceremonious entry.
“I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes,” he cried. “You mustn't blame me. I am nearly
mad. Mr. Holmes, I am the unhappy John Hector McFarlane.”
He made the announcement as if the name alone would explain both his
visit and its manner; but I could see by my companion's unresponsive
face that it meant no more to him than to me.
“Have a cigarette, Mr. McFarlane,” said he, pushing his case across.
“I am sure that with your symptoms my friend Dr. Watson here would
prescribe a sedative. The weather has been so very warm these last few
days. Now, if you feel a little more composed, I should be glad if you
would sit down in that chair and tell us very slowly and quietly who you
are and what it is that you want. You mentioned your name as if I should
recognise it, but I assure you that, beyond the obvious facts that
you are a bachelor, a solicitor, a Freemason, and an asthmatic, I know
nothing whatever about you.”
Familiar as I was with my friend's methods, it was not difficult for me
to follow his deductions, and to observe the untidiness of attire, the
sheaf of legal papers, the watch-charm, and the breathing which had
prompted them. Our client, however, stared in amazement.
“Yes, I am all that, Mr. Holmes, and in addition I am the most
unfortunate man at this moment in London. For Heaven's sake don't
abandon me, Mr. Holmes! If they come to arrest me before I have finished
my story, make them give me time so that I may tell you the whole
truth. I could go to gaol happy if I knew that you were working for me
outside.”
“Arrest you!” said Holmes. “This is really most grati--most interesting.
On what charge do you expect to be arrested?”
“Upon the charge of murdering Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of Lower Norwood.”
My companion's expressive face showed a sympathy which was not, I am
afraid, entirely unmixed with satisfaction.
“Dear me,” said he; “it was only this moment at breakfast that I was
saying to my friend, Dr. Watson, that sensational cases had disappeared
out of our papers.”
Our visitor stretched forward a quivering hand and picked up the DAILY
TELEGRAPH, which still lay upon Holmes's knee.
“If you had looked at it, sir, you would have seen at a glance what the
errand is on which I have come to you this morning. I feel as if my name
and my misfortune must be in every man's mouth.” He turned it over to
expose the central page. “Here it is, and with your permission I
will read it to you. Listen to this, Mr. Holmes. The head-lines are:
'Mysterious Affair at Lower Norwood. Disappearance of a Well-known
Builder. Suspicion of Murder and Arson. A Clue to the Criminal.' That is
the clue which they are already following, Mr. Holmes, and I know that
it leads infallibly to me. I have been followed from London Bridge
Station, and I am sure that they are only waiting for the warrant to
arrest me. It will break my mother's heart--it will break her heart!”
He wrung his hands in an agony of apprehension, and swayed backwards and
forwards in his chair.
I looked with interest upon this man, who was accused of being the
perpetrator of a crime of violence. He was flaxen-haired and handsome
in a washed-out negative fashion, with frightened blue eyes and a
clean-shaven face, with a weak, sensitive mouth. His age may have been
about twenty-seven; his dress and bearing that of a gentleman. From the
pocket of his light summer overcoat protruded the bundle of endorsed
papers which proclaimed his profession.
“We must use what time we have,” said Holmes. “Watson, would you
have the kindness to take the paper and to read me the paragraph in
question?”
Underneath the vigorous head-lines which our client had quoted I read
the following suggestive narrative:--
Late last night, or early this morning, an incident occurred at Lower
Norwood which points, it is feared, to a serious crime. Mr. Jonas
Oldacre is a well-known resident of that suburb, where he has carried
on his business as a builder for many years. Mr. Oldacre is a bachelor,
fifty-two years of age, and lives in Deep Dene House, at the Sydenham
end of the road of that name. He has had the reputation of being a
man of eccentric habits, secretive and retiring. For some years he has
practically withdrawn from the business, in which he is said to have
amassed considerable wealth. A small timber-yard still exists, however,
at the back of the house, and last night, about twelve o'clock, an alarm
was given that one of the stacks was on fire. The engines were soon upon
the spot, but the dry wood burned with great fury, and it was impossible
to arrest the conflagration until the stack had been entirely consumed.
Up to this point the incident bore the appearance of an ordinary
accident, but fresh indications seem to point to serious crime. Surprise
was expressed at the absence of the master of the establishment from
the scene of the fire, and an inquiry followed, which showed that he had
disappeared from the house. An examination of his room revealed that the
bed had not been slept in, that a safe which stood in it was open,
that a number of important papers were scattered about the room, and,
finally, that there were signs of a murderous struggle, slight traces
of blood being found within the room, and an oaken walking-stick, which
also showed stains of blood upon the handle. It is known that Mr. Jonas
Oldacre had received a late visitor in his bedroom upon that night, and
the stick found has been identified as the property of this person, who
is a young London solicitor named John Hector McFarlane, junior partner
of Graham and McFarlane, of 426, Gresham Buildings, E.C. The police
believe that they have evidence in their possession which supplies
a very convincing motive for the crime, and altogether it cannot be
doubted that sensational developments will follow.
LATER.--It is rumoured as we go to press that Mr. John Hector McFarlane
has actually been arrested on the charge of the murder of Mr. Jonas
Oldacre. It is at least certain that a warrant has been issued. There
have been further and sinister developments in the investigation at
Norwood. Besides the signs of a struggle in the room of the unfortunate
builder it is now known that the French windows of his bedroom (which is
on the ground floor) were found to be open, that there were marks as
if some bulky object had been dragged across to the wood-pile, and,
finally, it is asserted that charred remains have been found among the
charcoal ashes of the fire. The police theory is that a most sensational
crime has been committed, that the victim was clubbed to death in his
own bedroom, his papers rifled, and his dead body dragged across to
the wood-stack, which was then ignited so as to hide all traces of the
crime. The conduct of the criminal investigation has been left in
the experienced hands of Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, who is
following up the clues with his accustomed energy and sagacity.
Sherlock Holmes listened with closed eyes and finger-tips together to
this remarkable account.
“The case has certainly some points of interest,” said he, in his
languid fashion. “May I ask, in the first place, Mr. McFarlane, how
it is that you are still at liberty, since there appears to be enough
evidence to justify your arrest?”
“I live at Torrington Lodge, Blackheath, with my parents, Mr. Holmes;
but last night, having to do business very late with Mr. Jonas Oldacre,
I stayed at an hotel in Norwood, and came to my business from there. I
knew nothing of this affair until I was in the train, when I read what
you have just heard. I at once saw the horrible danger of my position,
and I hurried to put the case into your hands. I have no doubt that I
should have been arrested either at my City office or at my home. A
man followed me from London Bridge Station, and I have no doubt--Great
Heaven, what is that?”
It was a clang of the bell, followed instantly by heavy steps upon the
stair. A moment later our old friend Lestrade appeared in the doorway.
Over his shoulder I caught a glimpse of one or two uniformed policemen
outside.
“Mr. John Hector McFarlane?” said Lestrade.
Our unfortunate client rose with a ghastly face.
“I arrest you for the wilful murder of Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of Lower
Norwood.”
McFarlane turned to us with a gesture of despair, and sank into his
chair once more like one who is crushed.
“One moment, Lestrade,” said Holmes. “Half an hour more or less can make
no difference to you, and the gentleman was about to give us an account
of this very interesting affair, which might aid us in clearing it up.”
“I think there will be no difficulty in clearing it up,” said Lestrade,
grimly.
“None the less, with your permission, I should be much interested to
hear his account.”
“Well, Mr. Holmes, it is difficult for me to refuse you anything, for
you have been of use to the force once or twice in the past, and we owe
you a good turn at Scotland Yard,” said Lestrade. “At the same time I
must remain with my prisoner, and I am bound to warn him that anything
he may say will appear in evidence against him.”
“I wish nothing better,” said our client. “All I ask is that you should
hear and recognise the absolute truth.”
Lestrade looked at his watch. “I'll give you half an hour,” said he.
“I must explain first,” said McFarlane, “that I knew nothing of Mr.
Jonas Oldacre. His name was familiar to me, for many years ago my
parents were acquainted with him, but they drifted apart. I was very
much surprised, therefore, when yesterday, about three o'clock in the
afternoon, he walked into my office in the City. But I was still more
astonished when he told me the object of his visit. He had in his hand
several sheets of a note-book, covered with scribbled writing--here they
are--and he laid them on my table.
“'Here is my will,' said he. 'I want you, Mr. McFarlane, to cast it into
proper legal shape. I will sit here while you do so.'
“I set myself to copy it, and you can imagine my astonishment when I
found that, with some reservations, he had left all his property to me.
He was a strange little, ferret-like man, with white eyelashes, and
when I looked up at him I found his keen grey eyes fixed upon me with
an amused expression. I could hardly believe my own senses as I read the
terms of the will; but he explained that he was a bachelor with hardly
any living relation, that he had known my parents in his youth, and that
he had always heard of me as a very deserving young man, and was assured
that his money would be in worthy hands. Of course, I could only stammer
out my thanks. The will was duly finished, signed, and witnessed by
my clerk. This is it on the blue paper, and these slips, as I have
explained, are the rough draft. Mr. Jonas Oldacre then informed me
that there were a number of documents--building leases, title-deeds,
mortgages, scrip, and so forth--which it was necessary that I should see
and understand. He said that his mind would not be easy until the whole
thing was settled, and he begged me to come out to his house at
Norwood that night, bringing the will with me, and to arrange matters.
'Remember, my boy, not one word to your parents about the affair until
everything is settled. We will keep it as a little surprise for
them.' He was very insistent upon this point, and made me promise it
faithfully.
“You can imagine, Mr. Holmes, that I was not in a humour to refuse him
anything that he might ask. He was my benefactor, and all my desire was
to carry out his wishes in every particular. I sent a telegram home,
therefore, to say that I had important business on hand, and that it was
impossible for me to say how late I might be. Mr. Oldacre had told me
that he would like me to have supper with him at nine, as he might not
be home before that hour. I had some difficulty in finding his house,
however, and it was nearly half-past before I reached it. I found him--”
“One moment!” said Holmes. “Who opened the door?”
“A middle-aged woman, who was, I suppose, his housekeeper.”
“And it was she, I presume, who mentioned your name?”
“Exactly,” said McFarlane.
“Pray proceed.”
McFarlane wiped his damp brow and then continued his narrative:--
“I was shown by this woman into a sitting-room, where a frugal supper
was laid out. Afterwards Mr. Jonas Oldacre led me into his bedroom, in
which there stood a heavy safe. This he opened and took out a mass of
documents, which we went over together. It was between eleven and twelve
when we finished. He remarked that we must not disturb the housekeeper.
He showed me out through his own French window, which had been open all
this time.”
“Was the blind down?” asked Holmes.
“I will not be sure, but I believe that it was only half down. Yes, I
remember how he pulled it up in order to swing open the window. I could
not find my stick, and he said, 'Never mind, my boy; I shall see a good
deal of you now, I hope, and I will keep your stick until you come back
to claim it.' I left him there, the safe open, and the papers made up
in packets upon the table. It was so late that I could not get back to
Blackheath, so I spent the night at the Anerley Arms, and I knew nothing
more until I read of this horrible affair in the morning.”
“Anything more that you would like to ask, Mr. Holmes?” said Lestrade,
whose eyebrows had gone up once or twice during this remarkable
explanation.
“Not until I have been to Blackheath.”
“You mean to Norwood,” said Lestrade.
“Oh, yes; no doubt that is what I must have meant,” said Holmes, with
his enigmatical smile. Lestrade had learned by more experiences than he
would care to acknowledge that that razor-like brain could cut through
that which was impenetrable to him. I saw him look curiously at my
companion.
“I think I should like to have a word with you presently, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes,” said he. “Now, Mr. McFarlane, two of my constables are at the
door and there is a four-wheeler waiting.” The wretched young man
arose, and with a last beseeching glance at us walked from the room. The
officers conducted him to the cab, but Lestrade remained.
Holmes had picked up the pages which formed the rough draft of the will,
and was looking at them with the keenest interest upon his face.
“There are some points about that document, Lestrade, are there not?”
said he, pushing them over.
The official looked at them with a puzzled expression.
“I can read the first few lines, and these in the middle of the second
page, and one or two at the end. Those are as clear as print,” said
he; “but the writing in between is very bad, and there are three places
where I cannot read it at all.”
“What do you make of that?” said Holmes.
“Well, what do YOU make of it?”
“That it was written in a train; the good writing represents stations,
the bad writing movement, and the very bad writing passing over points.
A scientific expert would pronounce at once that this was drawn up on a
suburban line, since nowhere save in the immediate vicinity of a great
city could there be so quick a succession of points. Granting that his
whole journey was occupied in drawing up the will, then the train was an
express, only stopping once between Norwood and London Bridge.”
Lestrade began to laugh.
“You are too many for me when you begin to get on your theories, Mr.
Holmes,” said he. “How does this bear on the case?”
“Well, it corroborates the young man's story to the extent that the
will was drawn up by Jonas Oldacre in his journey yesterday. It is
curious--is it not?--that a man should draw up so important a document
in so haphazard a fashion. It suggests that he did not think it was
going to be of much practical importance. If a man drew up a will which
he did not intend ever to be effective he might do it so.”
“Well, he drew up his own death-warrant at the same time,” said
Lestrade.
“Oh, you think so?”
“Don't you?”
“Well, it is quite possible; but the case is not clear to me yet.”
“Not clear? Well, if that isn't clear, what COULD be clear? Here is a
young man who learns suddenly that if a certain older man dies he will
succeed to a fortune. What does he do? He says nothing to anyone, but
he arranges that he shall go out on some pretext to see his client that
night; he waits until the only other person in the house is in bed, and
then in the solitude of a man's room he murders him, burns his body in
the wood-pile, and departs to a neighbouring hotel. The blood-stains in
the room and also on the stick are very slight. It is probable that he
imagined his crime to be a bloodless one, and hoped that if the
body were consumed it would hide all traces of the method of his
death--traces which for some reason must have pointed to him. Is all
this not obvious?”
“It strikes me, my good Lestrade, as being just a trifle too obvious,”
said Holmes. “You do not add imagination to your other great qualities;
but if you could for one moment put yourself in the place of this young
man, would you choose the very night after the will had been made to
commit your crime? Would it not seem dangerous to you to make so very
close a relation between the two incidents? Again, would you choose an
occasion when you are known to be in the house, when a servant has let
you in? And, finally, would you take the great pains to conceal the
body and yet leave your own stick as a sign that you were the criminal?
Confess, Lestrade, that all this is very unlikely.”
“As to the stick, Mr. Holmes, you know as well as I do that a criminal
is often flurried and does things which a cool man would avoid. He was
very likely afraid to go back to the room. Give me another theory that
would fit the facts.”
“I could very easily give you half-a-dozen,” said Holmes. “Here, for
example, is a very possible and even probable one. I make you a free
present of it. The older man is showing documents which are of evident
value. A passing tramp sees them through the window, the blind of which
is only half down. Exit the solicitor. Enter the tramp! He seizes a
stick, which he observes there, kills Oldacre, and departs after burning
the body.”
“Why should the tramp burn the body?”
“For the matter of that why should McFarlane?”
“To hide some evidence.”
“Possibly the tramp wanted to hide that any murder at all had been
committed.”
“And why did the tramp take nothing?”
“Because they were papers that he could not negotiate.”
Lestrade shook his head, though it seemed to me that his manner was less
absolutely assured than before.
“Well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you may look for your tramp, and while you
are finding him we will hold on to our man. The future will show which
is right. Just notice this point, Mr. Holmes: that so far as we know
none of the papers were removed, and that the prisoner is the one man in
the world who had no reason for removing them, since he was heir-at-law
and would come into them in any case.”
My friend seemed struck by this remark.
“I don't mean to deny that the evidence is in some ways very strongly
in favour of your theory,” said he. “I only wish to point out that there
are other theories possible. As you say, the future will decide. Good
morning! I dare say that in the course of the day I shall drop in at
Norwood and see how you are getting on.”
When the detective departed my friend rose and made his preparations
for the day's work with the alert air of a man who has a congenial task
before him.
“My first movement, Watson,” said he, as he bustled into his frock-coat,
“must, as I said, be in the direction of Blackheath.”
“And why not Norwood?”
“Because we have in this case one singular incident coming close to the
heels of another singular incident. The police are making the mistake of
concentrating their attention upon the second, because it happens to
be the one which is actually criminal. But it is evident to me that the
logical way to approach the case is to begin by trying to throw some
light upon the first incident--the curious will, so suddenly made, and
to so unexpected an heir. It may do something to simplify what followed.
No, my dear fellow, I don't think you can help me. There is no prospect
of danger, or I should not dream of stirring out without you. I trust
that when I see you in the evening I will be able to report that I have
been able to do something for this unfortunate youngster who has thrown
himself upon my protection.”
It was late when my friend returned, and I could see by a glance at his
haggard and anxious face that the high hopes with which he had started
had not been fulfilled. For an hour he droned away upon his violin,
endeavouring to soothe his own ruffled spirits. At last he flung down
the instrument and plunged into a detailed account of his misadventures.
“It's all going wrong, Watson--all as wrong as it can go. I kept a bold
face before Lestrade, but, upon my soul, I believe that for once the
fellow is on the right track and we are on the wrong. All my instincts
are one way and all the facts are the other, and I much fear that
British juries have not yet attained that pitch of intelligence when
they will give the preference to my theories over Lestrade's facts.”
“Did you go to Blackheath?”
“Yes, Watson, I went there, and I found very quickly that the late
lamented Oldacre was a pretty considerable black-guard. The father was
away in search of his son. The mother was at home--a little, fluffy,
blue-eyed person, in a tremor of fear and indignation. Of course, she
would not admit even the possibility of his guilt. But she would not
express either surprise or regret over the fate of Oldacre. On
the contrary, she spoke of him with such bitterness that she was
unconsciously considerably strengthening the case of the police, for,
of course, if her son had heard her speak of the man in this fashion it
would predispose him towards hatred and violence. 'He was more like a
malignant and cunning ape than a human being,' said she, 'and he always
was, ever since he was a young man.'
“'You knew him at that time?' said I.
“'Yes, I knew him well; in fact, he was an old suitor of mine. Thank
Heaven that I had the sense to turn away from him and to marry a better,
if a poorer, man. I was engaged to him, Mr. Holmes, when I heard a
shocking story of how he had turned a cat loose in an aviary, and I was
so horrified at his brutal cruelty that I would have nothing more to
do with him.' She rummaged in a bureau, and presently she produced a
photograph of a woman, shamefully defaced and mutilated with a knife.
'That is my own photograph,' she said. 'He sent it to me in that state,
with his curse, upon my wedding morning.'
“'Well,' said I, 'at least he has forgiven you now, since he has left
all his property to your son.'
“'Neither my son nor I want anything from Jonas Oldacre, dead or alive,'
she cried, with a proper spirit. 'There is a God in Heaven, Mr. Holmes,
and that same God who has punished that wicked man will show in His own
good time that my son's hands are guiltless of his blood.'
“Well, I tried one or two leads, but could get at nothing which would
help our hypothesis, and several points which would make against it. I
gave it up at last and off I went to Norwood.
“This place, Deep Dene House, is a big modern villa of staring brick,
standing back in its own grounds, with a laurel-clumped lawn in front
of it. To the right and some distance back from the road was the
timber-yard which had been the scene of the fire. Here's a rough plan on
a leaf of my note-book. This window on the left is the one which opens
into Oldacre's room. You can look into it from the road, you see. That
is about the only bit of consolation I have had to-day. Lestrade was
not there, but his head constable did the honours. They had just made a
great treasure-trove. They had spent the morning raking among the ashes
of the burned wood-pile, and besides the charred organic remains they
had secured several discoloured metal discs. I examined them with
care, and there was no doubt that they were trouser buttons. I even
distinguished that one of them was marked with the name of 'Hyams,' who
was Oldacre's tailor. I then worked the lawn very carefully for signs
and traces, but this drought has made everything as hard as iron.
Nothing was to be seen save that some body or bundle had been dragged
through a low privet hedge which is in a line with the wood-pile. All
that, of course, fits in with the official theory. I crawled about the
lawn with an August sun on my back, but I got up at the end of an hour
no wiser than before.
“Well, after this fiasco I went into the bedroom and examined that also.
The blood-stains were very slight, mere smears and discolorations, but
undoubtedly fresh. The stick had been removed, but there also the marks
were slight. There is no doubt about the stick belonging to our client.
He admits it. Footmarks of both men could be made out on the carpet,
but none of any third person, which again is a trick for the other
side. They were piling up their score all the time and we were at a
standstill.
“Only one little gleam of hope did I get--and yet it amounted to
nothing. I examined the contents of the safe, most of which had been
taken out and left on the table. The papers had been made up into sealed
envelopes, one or two of which had been opened by the police. They were
not, so far as I could judge, of any great value, nor did the bank-book
show that Mr. Oldacre was in such very affluent circumstances. But it
seemed to me that all the papers were not there. There were allusions to
some deeds--possibly the more valuable--which I could not find. This, of
course, if we could definitely prove it, would turn Lestrade's argument
against himself, for who would steal a thing if he knew that he would
shortly inherit it?
“Finally, having drawn every other cover and picked up no scent, I tried
my luck with the housekeeper. Mrs. Lexington is her name, a little,
dark, silent person, with suspicious and sidelong eyes. She could tell
us something if she would--I am convinced of it. But she was as close as
wax. Yes, she had let Mr. McFarlane in at half-past nine. She wished
her hand had withered before she had done so. She had gone to bed at
half-past ten. Her room was at the other end of the house, and she could
hear nothing of what passed. Mr. McFarlane had left his hat, and to the
best of her belief his stick, in the hall. She had been awakened by the
alarm of fire. Her poor, dear master had certainly been murdered. Had he
any enemies? Well, every man had enemies, but Mr. Oldacre kept himself
very much to himself, and only met people in the way of business. She
had seen the buttons, and was sure that they belonged to the clothes
which he had worn last night. The wood-pile was very dry, for it had not
rained for a month. It burned like tinder, and by the time she reached
the spot nothing could be seen but flames. She and all the firemen
smelled the burned flesh from inside it. She knew nothing of the papers,
nor of Mr. Oldacre's private affairs.
“So, my dear Watson, there's my report of a failure. And yet--and
yet--“--he clenched his thin hands in a paroxysm of conviction--“I KNOW
it's all wrong. I feel it in my bones. There is something that has
not come out, and that housekeeper knows it. There was a sort of sulky
defiance in her eyes, which only goes with guilty knowledge. However,
there's no good talking any more about it, Watson; but unless some lucky
chance comes our way I fear that the Norwood Disappearance Case will not
figure in that chronicle of our successes which I foresee that a patient
public will sooner or later have to endure.”
“Surely,” said I, “the man's appearance would go far with any jury?”
“That is a dangerous argument, my dear Watson. You remember that
terrible murderer, Bert Stevens, who wanted us to get him off in '87?
Was there ever a more mild-mannered, Sunday-school young man?”
“It is true.”
“Unless we succeed in establishing an alternative theory this man is
lost. You can hardly find a flaw in the case which can now be presented
against him, and all further investigation has served to strengthen it.
By the way, there is one curious little point about those papers which
may serve us as the starting-point for an inquiry. On looking over the
bank-book I found that the low state of the balance was principally due
to large cheques which have been made out during the last year to Mr.
Cornelius. I confess that I should be interested to know who this
Mr. Cornelius may be with whom a retired builder has such very large
transactions. Is it possible that he has had a hand in the affair?
Cornelius might be a broker, but we have found no scrip to correspond
with these large payments. Failing any other indication my researches
must now take the direction of an inquiry at the bank for the gentleman
who has cashed these cheques. But I fear, my dear fellow, that our
case will end ingloriously by Lestrade hanging our client, which will
certainly be a triumph for Scotland Yard.”
I do not know how far Sherlock Holmes took any sleep that night, but
when I came down to breakfast I found him pale and harassed, his bright
eyes the brighter for the dark shadows round them. The carpet round his
chair was littered with cigarette-ends and with the early editions of
the morning papers. An open telegram lay upon the table.
“What do you think of this, Watson?” he asked, tossing it across.
It was from Norwood, and ran as follows:--
“IMPORTANT FRESH EVIDENCE TO HAND. MCFARLANE'S GUILT
DEFINITELY ESTABLISHED. ADVISE YOU TO ABANDON CASE.
--LESTRADE.”
“This sounds serious,” said I.
“It is Lestrade's little cock-a-doodle of victory,” Holmes answered,
with a bitter smile. “And yet it may be premature to abandon the case.
After all, important fresh evidence is a two-edged thing, and may
possibly cut in a very different direction to that which Lestrade
imagines. Take your breakfast, Watson, and we will go out together and
see what we can do. I feel as if I shall need your company and your
moral support to-day.”
My friend had no breakfast himself, for it was one of his peculiarities
that in his more intense moments he would permit himself no food, and I
have known him presume upon his iron strength until he has fainted from
pure inanition. “At present I cannot spare energy and nerve force for
digestion,” he would say in answer to my medical remonstrances. I was
not surprised, therefore, when this morning he left his untouched meal
behind him and started with me for Norwood. A crowd of morbid sightseers
were still gathered round Deep Dene House, which was just such a
suburban villa as I had pictured. Within the gates Lestrade met us, his
face flushed with victory, his manner grossly triumphant.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, have you proved us to be wrong yet? Have you found
your tramp?” he cried.
“I have formed no conclusion whatever,” my companion answered.
“But we formed ours yesterday, and now it proves to be correct; so you
must acknowledge that we have been a little in front of you this time,
Mr. Holmes.”
“You certainly have the air of something unusual having occurred,” said
Holmes.
Lestrade laughed loudly.
“You don't like being beaten any more than the rest of us do,” said he.
“A man can't expect always to have it his own way, can he, Dr. Watson?
Step this way, if you please, gentlemen, and I think I can convince you
once for all that it was John McFarlane who did this crime.”
He led us through the passage and out into a dark hall beyond.
“This is where young McFarlane must have come out to get his hat
after the crime was done,” said he. “Now, look at this.” With dramatic
suddenness he struck a match and by its light exposed a stain of blood
upon the whitewashed wall. As he held the match nearer I saw that it was
more than a stain. It was the well-marked print of a thumb.
“Look at that with your magnifying glass, Mr. Holmes.”
“Yes, I am doing so.”
“You are aware that no two thumb marks are alike?”
“I have heard something of the kind.”
“Well, then, will you please compare that print with this wax impression
of young McFarlane's right thumb, taken by my orders this morning?”
As he held the waxen print close to the blood-stain it did not take
a magnifying glass to see that the two were undoubtedly from the same
thumb. It was evident to me that our unfortunate client was lost.
“That is final,” said Lestrade.
“Yes, that is final,” I involuntarily echoed.
“It is final,” said Holmes.
Something in his tone caught my ear, and I turned to look at him. An
extraordinary change had come over his face. It was writhing with inward
merriment. His two eyes were shining like stars. It seemed to me that
he was making desperate efforts to restrain a convulsive attack of
laughter.
“Dear me! Dear me!” he said at last. “Well, now, who would have thought
it? And how deceptive appearances may be, to be sure! Such a nice young
man to look at! It is a lesson to us not to trust our own judgment, is
it not, Lestrade?”
“Yes, some of us are a little too much inclined to be cocksure, Mr.
Holmes,” said Lestrade. The man's insolence was maddening, but we could
not resent it.
“What a providential thing that this young man should press his right
thumb against the wall in taking his hat from the peg! Such a very
natural action, too, if you come to think of it.” Holmes was outwardly
calm, but his whole body gave a wriggle of suppressed excitement as he
spoke. “By the way, Lestrade, who made this remarkable discovery?”
“It was the housekeeper, Mrs. Lexington, who drew the night constable's
attention to it.”
“Where was the night constable?”
“He remained on guard in the bedroom where the crime was committed, so
as to see that nothing was touched.”
“But why didn't the police see this mark yesterday?”
“Well, we had no particular reason to make a careful examination of the
hall. Besides, it's not in a very prominent place, as you see.”
“No, no, of course not. I suppose there is no doubt that the mark was
there yesterday?”
Lestrade looked at Holmes as if he thought he was going out of his mind.
I confess that I was myself surprised both at his hilarious manner and
at his rather wild observation.
“I don't know whether you think that McFarlane came out of gaol in the
dead of the night in order to strengthen the evidence against himself,”
said Lestrade. “I leave it to any expert in the world whether that is
not the mark of his thumb.”
“It is unquestionably the mark of his thumb.”
“There, that's enough,” said Lestrade. “I am a practical man, Mr.
Holmes, and when I have got my evidence I come to my conclusions. If
you have anything to say you will find me writing my report in the
sitting-room.”
Holmes had recovered his equanimity, though I still seemed to detect
gleams of amusement in his expression.
“Dear me, this is a very sad development, Watson, is it not?” said he.
“And yet there are singular points about it which hold out some hopes
for our client.”
“I am delighted to hear it,” said I, heartily. “I was afraid it was all
up with him.”
“I would hardly go so far as to say that, my dear Watson. The fact is
that there is one really serious flaw in this evidence to which our
friend attaches so much importance.”
“Indeed, Holmes! What is it?”
“Only this: that I KNOW that that mark was not there when I examined the
hall yesterday. And now, Watson, let us have a little stroll round in
the sunshine.”
With a confused brain, but with a heart into which some warmth of hope
was returning, I accompanied my friend in a walk round the garden.
Holmes took each face of the house in turn and examined it with great
interest. He then led the way inside and went over the whole building
from basement to attics. Most of the rooms were unfurnished, but
none the less Holmes inspected them all minutely. Finally, on the top
corridor, which ran outside three untenanted bedrooms, he again was
seized with a spasm of merriment.
“There are really some very unique features about this case, Watson,”
said he. “I think it is time now that we took our friend Lestrade into
our confidence. He has had his little smile at our expense, and perhaps
we may do as much by him if my reading of this problem proves to be
correct. Yes, yes; I think I see how we should approach it.”
The Scotland Yard inspector was still writing in the parlour when Holmes
interrupted him.
“I understood that you were writing a report of this case,” said he.
“So I am.”
“Don't you think it may be a little premature? I can't help thinking
that your evidence is not complete.”
Lestrade knew my friend too well to disregard his words. He laid down
his pen and looked curiously at him.
“What do you mean, Mr. Holmes?”
“Only that there is an important witness whom you have not seen.”
“Can you produce him?”
“I think I can.”
“Then do so.”
“I will do my best. How many constables have you?”
“There are three within call.”
“Excellent!” said Holmes. “May I ask if they are all large, able-bodied
men with powerful voices?”
“I have no doubt they are, though I fail to see what their voices have
to do with it.”
“Perhaps I can help you to see that and one or two other things as
well,” said Holmes. “Kindly summon your men, and I will try.”
Five minutes later three policemen had assembled in the hall.
“In the outhouse you will find a considerable quantity of straw,” said
Holmes. “I will ask you to carry in two bundles of it. I think it will
be of the greatest assistance in producing the witness whom I require.
Thank you very much. I believe you have some matches in your pocket,
Watson. Now, Mr. Lestrade, I will ask you all to accompany me to the top
landing.”
As I have said, there was a broad corridor there, which ran outside
three empty bedrooms. At one end of the corridor we were all marshalled
by Sherlock Holmes, the constables grinning and Lestrade staring at
my friend with amazement, expectation, and derision chasing each other
across his features. Holmes stood before us with the air of a conjurer
who is performing a trick.
“Would you kindly send one of your constables for two buckets of water?
Put the straw on the floor here, free from the wall on either side. Now
I think that we are all ready.”
Lestrade's face had begun to grow red and angry.
“I don't know whether you are playing a game with us, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes,” said he. “If you know anything, you can surely say it without
all this tomfoolery.”
“I assure you, my good Lestrade, that I have an excellent reason for
everything that I do. You may possibly remember that you chaffed me a
little some hours ago, when the sun seemed on your side of the hedge, so
you must not grudge me a little pomp and ceremony now. Might I ask you,
Watson, to open that window, and then to put a match to the edge of the
straw?”
I did so, and, driven by the draught, a coil of grey smoke swirled down
the corridor, while the dry straw crackled and flamed.
“Now we must see if we can find this witness for you, Lestrade. Might I
ask you all to join in the cry of 'Fire!'? Now, then; one, two, three--”
“Fire!” we all yelled.
“Thank you. I will trouble you once again.”
“Fire!”
“Just once more, gentlemen, and all together.”
“Fire!” The shout must have rung over Norwood.
It had hardly died away when an amazing thing happened. A door suddenly
flew open out of what appeared to be solid wall at the end of the
corridor, and a little, wizened man darted out of it, like a rabbit out
of its burrow.
“Capital!” said Holmes, calmly. “Watson, a bucket of water over the
straw. That will do! Lestrade, allow me to present you with your
principal missing witness, Mr. Jonas Oldacre.”
The detective stared at the new-comer with blank amazement. The latter
was blinking in the bright light of the corridor, and peering at us
and at the smouldering fire. It was an odious face--crafty, vicious,
malignant, with shifty, light-grey eyes and white eyelashes.
“What's this, then?” said Lestrade at last. “What have you been doing
all this time, eh?”
Oldacre gave an uneasy laugh, shrinking back from the furious red face
of the angry detective.
“I have done no harm.”
“No harm? You have done your best to get an innocent man hanged. If it
wasn't for this gentleman here, I am not sure that you would not have
succeeded.”
The wretched creature began to whimper.
“I am sure, sir, it was only my practical joke.”
“Oh! a joke, was it? You won't find the laugh on your side, I promise
you. Take him down and keep him in the sitting-room until I come. Mr.
Holmes,” he continued, when they had gone, “I could not speak before the
constables, but I don't mind saying, in the presence of Dr. Watson,
that this is the brightest thing that you have done yet, though it is a
mystery to me how you did it. You have saved an innocent man's life,
and you have prevented a very grave scandal, which would have ruined my
reputation in the Force.”
Holmes smiled and clapped Lestrade upon the shoulder.
“Instead of being ruined, my good sir, you will find that your
reputation has been enormously enhanced. Just make a few alterations in
that report which you were writing, and they will understand how hard it
is to throw dust in the eyes of Inspector Lestrade.”
“And you don't want your name to appear?”
“Not at all. The work is its own reward. Perhaps I shall get the credit
also at some distant day when I permit my zealous historian to lay out
his foolscap once more--eh, Watson? Well, now, let us see where this rat
has been lurking.”
A lath-and-plaster partition had been run across the passage six feet
from the end, with a door cunningly concealed in it. It was lit within
by slits under the eaves. A few articles of furniture and a supply of
food and water were within, together with a number of books and papers.
“There's the advantage of being a builder,” said Holmes, as we came
out. “He was able to fix up his own little hiding-place without any
confederate--save, of course, that precious housekeeper of his, whom I
should lose no time in adding to your bag, Lestrade.”
“I'll take your advice. But how did you know of this place, Mr. Holmes?”
“I made up my mind that the fellow was in hiding in the house. When I
paced one corridor and found it six feet shorter than the corresponding
one below, it was pretty clear where he was. I thought he had not the
nerve to lie quiet before an alarm of fire. We could, of course, have
gone in and taken him, but it amused me to make him reveal himself;
besides, I owed you a little mystification, Lestrade, for your chaff in
the morning.”
“Well, sir, you certainly got equal with me on that. But how in the
world did you know that he was in the house at all?”
“The thumb-mark, Lestrade. You said it was final; and so it was, in a
very different sense. I knew it had not been there the day before. I pay
a good deal of attention to matters of detail, as you may have observed,
and I had examined the hall and was sure that the wall was clear.
Therefore, it had been put on during the night.”
“But how?”
“Very simply. When those packets were sealed up, Jonas Oldacre got
McFarlane to secure one of the seals by putting his thumb upon the soft
wax. It would be done so quickly and so naturally that I dare say the
young man himself has no recollection of it. Very likely it just so
happened, and Oldacre had himself no notion of the use he would put it
to. Brooding over the case in that den of his, it suddenly struck him
what absolutely damning evidence he could make against McFarlane by
using that thumb-mark. It was the simplest thing in the world for him to
take a wax impression from the seal, to moisten it in as much blood as
he could get from a pin-prick, and to put the mark upon the wall during
the night, either with his own hand or with that of his housekeeper.
If you examine among those documents which he took with him into
his retreat I will lay you a wager that you find the seal with the
thumb-mark upon it.”
“Wonderful!” said Lestrade. “Wonderful! It's all as clear as crystal, as
you put it. But what is the object of this deep deception, Mr. Holmes?”
It was amusing to me to see how the detective's overbearing manner had
changed suddenly to that of a child asking questions of its teacher.
“Well, I don't think that is very hard to explain. A very deep,
malicious, vindictive person is the gentleman who is now awaiting us
downstairs. You know that he was once refused by McFarlane's mother?
You don't! I told you that you should go to Blackheath first and Norwood
afterwards. Well, this injury, as he would consider it, has rankled
in his wicked, scheming brain, and all his life he has longed for
vengeance, but never seen his chance. During the last year or two things
have gone against him--secret speculation, I think--and he finds himself
in a bad way. He determines to swindle his creditors, and for this
purpose he pays large cheques to a certain Mr. Cornelius, who is, I
imagine, himself under another name. I have not traced these cheques
yet, but I have no doubt that they were banked under that name at some
provincial town where Oldacre from time to time led a double existence.
He intended to change his name altogether, draw this money, and vanish,
starting life again elsewhere.”
“Well, that's likely enough.”
“It would strike him that in disappearing he might throw all pursuit off
his track, and at the same time have an ample and crushing revenge upon
his old sweetheart, if he could give the impression that he had been
murdered by her only child. It was a masterpiece of villainy, and he
carried it out like a master. The idea of the will, which would give
an obvious motive for the crime, the secret visit unknown to his own
parents, the retention of the stick, the blood, and the animal remains
and buttons in the wood-pile, all were admirable. It was a net from
which it seemed to me a few hours ago that there was no possible escape.
But he had not that supreme gift of the artist, the knowledge of when to
stop. He wished to improve that which was already perfect--to draw the
rope tighter yet round the neck of his unfortunate victim--and so
he ruined all. Let us descend, Lestrade. There are just one or two
questions that I would ask him.”
The malignant creature was seated in his own parlour with a policeman
upon each side of him.
“It was a joke, my good sir, a practical joke, nothing more,” he whined
incessantly. “I assure you, sir, that I simply concealed myself in order
to see the effect of my disappearance, and I am sure that you would not
be so unjust as to imagine that I would have allowed any harm to befall
poor young Mr. McFarlane.”
“That's for a jury to decide,” said Lestrade. “Anyhow, we shall have you
on a charge of conspiracy, if not for attempted murder.”
“And you'll probably find that your creditors will impound the banking
account of Mr. Cornelius,” said Holmes.
The little man started and turned his malignant eyes upon my friend.
“I have to thank you for a good deal,” said he. “Perhaps I'll pay my
debt some day.”
Holmes smiled indulgently.
“I fancy that for some few years you will find your time very fully
occupied,” said he. “By the way, what was it you put into the wood-pile
besides your old trousers? A dead dog, or rabbits, or what? You won't
tell? Dear me, how very unkind of you! Well, well, I dare say that a
couple of rabbits would account both for the blood and for the charred
ashes. If ever you write an account, Watson, you can make rabbits serve
your turn.”
*****
THE STRAND MAGAZINE
Vol. 26 DECEMBER, 1903
THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.
By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.
|
ii_the_adventure_of_the_norwood_builder
|
III.--The Adventure of the Dancing Men.
|
The Return of Sherlock Holmes
|
HOLMES had been seated for some hours in silence with his long,
thin back curved over a chemical vessel in which he was brewing a
particularly malodorous product. His head was sunk upon his breast, and
he looked from my point of view like a strange, lank bird, with dull
grey plumage and a black top-knot.
“So, Watson,” said he, suddenly, “you do not propose to invest in South
African securities?”
I gave a start of astonishment. Accustomed as I was to Holmes's curious
faculties, this sudden intrusion into my most intimate thoughts was
utterly inexplicable.
“How on earth do you know that?” I asked.
He wheeled round upon his stool, with a steaming test-tube in his hand
and a gleam of amusement in his deep-set eyes.
“Now, Watson, confess yourself utterly taken aback,” said he.
“I am.”
“I ought to make you sign a paper to that effect.”
“Why?”
“Because in five minutes you will say that it is all so absurdly
simple.”
“I am sure that I shall say nothing of the kind.”
“You see, my dear Watson”--he propped his test-tube in the rack and
began to lecture with the air of a professor addressing his class--“it
is not really difficult to construct a series of inferences, each
dependent upon its predecessor and each simple in itself. If, after
doing so, one simply knocks out all the central inferences and presents
one's audience with the starting-point and the conclusion, one may
produce a startling, though possibly a meretricious, effect. Now, it was
not really difficult, by an inspection of the groove between your left
forefinger and thumb, to feel sure that you did NOT propose to invest
your small capital in the goldfields.”
“I see no connection.”
“Very likely not; but I can quickly show you a close connection. Here
are the missing links of the very simple chain: 1. You had chalk between
your left finger and thumb when you returned from the club last night.
2. You put chalk there when you play billiards to steady the cue. 3. You
never play billiards except with Thurston. 4. You told me four weeks ago
that Thurston had an option on some South African property which would
expire in a month, and which he desired you to share with him. 5. Your
cheque-book is locked in my drawer, and you have not asked for the key.
6. You do not propose to invest your money in this manner.”
“How absurdly simple!” I cried.
“Quite so!” said he, a little nettled. “Every problem becomes very
childish when once it is explained to you. Here is an unexplained one.
See what you can make of that, friend Watson.” He tossed a sheet of
paper upon the table and turned once more to his chemical analysis.
I looked with amazement at the absurd hieroglyphics upon the paper.
“Why, Holmes, it is a child's drawing,” I cried.
“Oh, that's your idea!”
“What else should it be?”
“That is what Mr. Hilton Cubitt, of Riding Thorpe Manor, Norfolk, is
very anxious to know. This little conundrum came by the first post, and
he was to follow by the next train. There's a ring at the bell, Watson.
I should not be very much surprised if this were he.”
A heavy step was heard upon the stairs, and an instant later there
entered a tall, ruddy, clean-shaven gentleman, whose clear eyes and
florid cheeks told of a life led far from the fogs of Baker Street. He
seemed to bring a whiff of his strong, fresh, bracing, east-coast air
with him as he entered. Having shaken hands with each of us, he was
about to sit down when his eye rested upon the paper with the curious
markings, which I had just examined and left upon the table.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, what do you make of these?” he cried. “They told me
that you were fond of queer mysteries, and I don't think you can find a
queerer one than that. I sent the paper on ahead so that you might have
time to study it before I came.”
“It is certainly rather a curious production,” said Holmes. “At first
sight it would appear to be some childish prank. It consists of a number
of absurd little figures dancing across the paper upon which they
are drawn. Why should you attribute any importance to so grotesque an
object?”
“I never should, Mr. Holmes. But my wife does. It is frightening her to
death. She says nothing, but I can see terror in her eyes. That's why I
want to sift the matter to the bottom.”
Holmes held up the paper so that the sunlight shone full upon it. It was
a page torn from a note-book. The markings were done in pencil, and ran
in this way:--
GRAPHIC
Holmes examined it for some time, and then, folding it carefully up, he
placed it in his pocket-book.
“This promises to be a most interesting and unusual case,” said he.
“You gave me a few particulars in your letter, Mr. Hilton Cubitt, but I
should be very much obliged if you would kindly go over it all again for
the benefit of my friend, Dr. Watson.”
“I'm not much of a story-teller,” said our visitor, nervously clasping
and unclasping his great, strong hands. “You'll just ask me anything
that I don't make clear. I'll begin at the time of my marriage last
year; but I want to say first of all that, though I'm not a rich man, my
people have been at Ridling Thorpe for a matter of five centuries, and
there is no better known family in the County of Norfolk. Last year I
came up to London for the Jubilee, and I stopped at a boarding-house in
Russell Square, because Parker, the vicar of our parish, was staying in
it. There was an American young lady there--Patrick was the name--Elsie
Patrick. In some way we became friends, until before my month was up
I was as much in love as a man could be. We were quietly married at
a registry office, and we returned to Norfolk a wedded couple. You'll
think it very mad, Mr. Holmes, that a man of a good old family should
marry a wife in this fashion, knowing nothing of her past or of her
people; but if you saw her and knew her it would help you to understand.
“She was very straight about it, was Elsie. I can't say that she did not
give me every chance of getting out of it if I wished to do so. 'I have
had some very disagreeable associations in my life,' said she; 'I wish
to forget all about them. I would rather never allude to the past, for
it is very painful to me. If you take me, Hilton, you will take a woman
who has nothing that she need be personally ashamed of; but you will
have to be content with my word for it, and to allow me to be silent
as to all that passed up to the time when I became yours. If these
conditions are too hard, then go back to Norfolk and leave me to the
lonely life in which you found me.' It was only the day before our
wedding that she said those very words to me. I told her that I was
content to take her on her own terms, and I have been as good as my
word.
“Well, we have been married now for a year, and very happy we have been.
But about a month ago, at the end of June, I saw for the first time
signs of trouble. One day my wife received a letter from America. I saw
the American stamp. She turned deadly white, read the letter, and threw
it into the fire. She made no allusion to it afterwards, and I made
none, for a promise is a promise; but she has never known an easy hour
from that moment. There is always a look of fear upon her face--a look
as if she were waiting and expecting. She would do better to trust me.
She would find that I was her best friend. But until she speaks I can
say nothing. Mind you, she is a truthful woman, Mr. Holmes, and whatever
trouble there may have been in her past life it has been no fault of
hers. I am only a simple Norfolk squire, but there is not a man in
England who ranks his family honour more highly than I do. She knows it
well, and she knew it well before she married me. She would never bring
any stain upon it--of that I am sure.
“Well, now I come to the queer part of my story. About a week ago--it
was the Tuesday of last week--I found on one of the window-sills a
number of absurd little dancing figures, like these upon the paper. They
were scrawled with chalk. I thought that it was the stable-boy who had
drawn them, but the lad swore he knew nothing about it. Anyhow, they had
come there during the night. I had them washed out, and I only mentioned
the matter to my wife afterwards. To my surprise she took it very
seriously, and begged me if any more came to let her see them. None did
come for a week, and then yesterday morning I found this paper lying on
the sun-dial in the garden. I showed it to Elsie, and down she dropped
in a dead faint. Since then she has looked like a woman in a dream, half
dazed, and with terror always lurking in her eyes. It was then that I
wrote and sent the paper to you, Mr. Holmes. It was not a thing that
I could take to the police, for they would have laughed at me, but you
will tell me what to do. I am not a rich man; but if there is any danger
threatening my little woman I would spend my last copper to shield her.”
He was a fine creature, this man of the old English soil, simple,
straight, and gentle, with his great, earnest blue eyes and broad,
comely face. His love for his wife and his trust in her shone in his
features. Holmes had listened to his story with the utmost attention,
and now he sat for some time in silent thought.
“Don't you think, Mr. Cubitt,” said he, at last, “that your best plan
would be to make a direct appeal to your wife, and to ask her to share
her secret with you?”
Hilton Cubitt shook his massive head.
“A promise is a promise, Mr. Holmes. If Elsie wished to tell me she
would. If not, it is not for me to force her confidence. But I am
justified in taking my own line--and I will.”
“Then I will help you with all my heart. In the first place, have you
heard of any strangers being seen in your neighbourhood?”
“No.”
“I presume that it is a very quiet place. Any fresh face would cause
comment?”
“In the immediate neighbourhood, yes. But we have several small
watering-places not very far away. And the farmers take in lodgers.”
“These hieroglyphics have evidently a meaning. If it is a purely
arbitrary one it may be impossible for us to solve it. If, on the other
hand, it is systematic, I have no doubt that we shall get to the bottom
of it. But this particular sample is so short that I can do nothing, and
the facts which you have brought me are so indefinite that we have no
basis for an investigation. I would suggest that you return to Norfolk,
that you keep a keen look-out, and that you take an exact copy of any
fresh dancing men which may appear. It is a thousand pities that we
have not a reproduction of those which were done in chalk upon the
window-sill. Make a discreet inquiry also as to any strangers in the
neighbourhood. When you have collected some fresh evidence come to me
again. That is the best advice which I can give you, Mr. Hilton Cubitt.
If there are any pressing fresh developments I shall be always ready to
run down and see you in your Norfolk home.”
The interview left Sherlock Holmes very thoughtful, and several times
in the next few days I saw him take his slip of paper from his note-book
and look long and earnestly at the curious figures inscribed upon it. He
made no allusion to the affair, however, until one afternoon a fortnight
or so later. I was going out when he called me back.
“You had better stay here, Watson.”
“Why?”
“Because I had a wire from Hilton Cubitt this morning--you remember
Hilton Cubitt, of the dancing men? He was to reach Liverpool Street at
one-twenty. He may be here at any moment. I gather from his wire that
there have been some new incidents of importance.”
We had not long to wait, for our Norfolk squire came straight from the
station as fast as a hansom could bring him. He was looking worried and
depressed, with tired eyes and a lined forehead.
“It's getting on my nerves, this business, Mr. Holmes,” said he, as he
sank, like a wearied man, into an arm-chair. “It's bad enough to feel
that you are surrounded by unseen, unknown folk, who have some kind of
design upon you; but when, in addition to that, you know that it is just
killing your wife by inches, then it becomes as much as flesh and blood
can endure. She's wearing away under it--just wearing away before my
eyes.”
“Has she said anything yet?”
“No, Mr. Holmes, she has not. And yet there have been times when the
poor girl has wanted to speak, and yet could not quite bring herself
to take the plunge. I have tried to help her; but I dare say I did
it clumsily, and scared her off from it. She has spoken about my old
family, and our reputation in the county, and our pride in our unsullied
honour, and I always felt it was leading to the point; but somehow it
turned off before we got there.”
“But you have found out something for yourself?”
“A good deal, Mr. Holmes. I have several fresh dancing men pictures for
you to examine, and, what is more important, I have seen the fellow.”
“What, the man who draws them?”
“Yes, I saw him at his work. But I will tell you everything in order.
When I got back after my visit to you, the very first thing I saw next
morning was a fresh crop of dancing men. They had been drawn in chalk
upon the black wooden door of the tool-house, which stands beside the
lawn in full view of the front windows. I took an exact copy, and here
it is.” He unfolded a paper and laid it upon the table. Here is a copy
of the hieroglyphics:--
GRAPHIC
“Excellent!” said Holmes. “Excellent! Pray continue.”
“When I had taken the copy I rubbed out the marks; but two mornings
later a fresh inscription had appeared. I have a copy of it here”:--
GRAPHIC
Holmes rubbed his hands and chuckled with delight.
“Our material is rapidly accumulating,” said he.
“Three days later a message was left scrawled upon paper, and placed
under a pebble upon the sun-dial. Here it is. The characters are, as you
see, exactly the same as the last one. After that I determined to lie in
wait; so I got out my revolver and I sat up in my study, which overlooks
the lawn and garden. About two in the morning I was seated by the
window, all being dark save for the moonlight outside, when I heard
steps behind me, and there was my wife in her dressing-gown. She
implored me to come to bed. I told her frankly that I wished to see who
it was who played such absurd tricks upon us. She answered that it was
some senseless practical joke, and that I should not take any notice of
it.
“'If it really annoys you, Hilton, we might go and travel, you and I,
and so avoid this nuisance.'
“'What, be driven out of our own house by a practical joker?' said I.
'Why, we should have the whole county laughing at us.'
“'Well, come to bed,' said she, 'and we can discuss it in the morning.'
“Suddenly, as she spoke, I saw her white face grow whiter yet in the
moonlight, and her hand tightened upon my shoulder. Something was moving
in the shadow of the tool-house. I saw a dark, creeping figure which
crawled round the corner and squatted in front of the door. Seizing my
pistol I was rushing out, when my wife threw her arms round me and held
me with convulsive strength. I tried to throw her off, but she clung to
me most desperately. At last I got clear, but by the time I had opened
the door and reached the house the creature was gone. He had left a
trace of his presence, however, for there on the door was the very same
arrangement of dancing men which had already twice appeared, and which
I have copied on that paper. There was no other sign of the fellow
anywhere, though I ran all over the grounds. And yet the amazing thing
is that he must have been there all the time, for when I examined the
door again in the morning he had scrawled some more of his pictures
under the line which I had already seen.”
“Have you that fresh drawing?”
“Yes; it is very short, but I made a copy of it, and here it is.”
Again he produced a paper. The new dance was in this form:--
GRAPHIC
“Tell me,” said Holmes--and I could see by his eyes that he was much
excited--“was this a mere addition to the first, or did it appear to be
entirely separate?”
“It was on a different panel of the door.”
“Excellent! This is far the most important of all for our purpose. It
fills me with hopes. Now, Mr. Hilton Cubitt, please continue your most
interesting statement.”
“I have nothing more to say, Mr. Holmes, except that I was angry with
my wife that night for having held me back when I might have caught the
skulking rascal. She said that she feared that I might come to harm. For
an instant it had crossed my mind that perhaps what she really feared
was that HE might come to harm, for I could not doubt that she knew who
this man was and what he meant by these strange signals. But there is a
tone in my wife's voice, Mr. Holmes, and a look in her eyes which forbid
doubt, and I am sure that it was indeed my own safety that was in her
mind. There's the whole case, and now I want your advice as to what I
ought to do. My own inclination is to put half-a-dozen of my farm lads
in the shrubbery, and when this fellow comes again to give him such a
hiding that he will leave us in peace for the future.”
“I fear it is too deep a case for such simple remedies,” said Holmes.
“How long can you stay in London?”
“I must go back to-day. I would not leave my wife alone all night for
anything. She is very nervous and begged me to come back.”
“I dare say you are right. But if you could have stopped I might
possibly have been able to return with you in a day or two. Meanwhile
you will leave me these papers, and I think that it is very likely that
I shall be able to pay you a visit shortly and to throw some light upon
your case.”
Sherlock Holmes preserved his calm professional manner until our visitor
had left us, although it was easy for me, who knew him so well, to see
that he was profoundly excited. The moment that Hilton Cubitt's broad
back had disappeared through the door my comrade rushed to the table,
laid out all the slips of paper containing dancing men in front of him,
and threw himself into an intricate and elaborate calculation. For
two hours I watched him as he covered sheet after sheet of paper with
figures and letters, so completely absorbed in his task that he had
evidently forgotten my presence. Sometimes he was making progress and
whistled and sang at his work; sometimes he was puzzled, and would sit
for long spells with a furrowed brow and a vacant eye. Finally he sprang
from his chair with a cry of satisfaction, and walked up and down the
room rubbing his hands together. Then he wrote a long telegram upon a
cable form. “If my answer to this is as I hope, you will have a very
pretty case to add to your collection, Watson,” said he. “I expect that
we shall be able to go down to Norfolk to-morrow, and to take our friend
some very definite news as to the secret of his annoyance.”
I confess that I was filled with curiosity, but I was aware that Holmes
liked to make his disclosures at his own time and in his own way; so I
waited until it should suit him to take me into his confidence.
But there was a delay in that answering telegram, and two days of
impatience followed, during which Holmes pricked up his ears at every
ring of the bell. On the evening of the second there came a letter from
Hilton Cubitt. All was quiet with him, save that a long inscription had
appeared that morning upon the pedestal of the sun-dial. He inclosed a
copy of it, which is here reproduced:--
GRAPHIC
Holmes bent over this grotesque frieze for some minutes, and then
suddenly sprang to his feet with an exclamation of surprise and dismay.
His face was haggard with anxiety.
“We have let this affair go far enough,” said he. “Is there a train to
North Walsham to-night?”
I turned up the time-table. The last had just gone.
“Then we shall breakfast early and take the very first in the morning,”
said Holmes. “Our presence is most urgently needed. Ah! here is our
expected cablegram. One moment, Mrs. Hudson; there may be an answer. No,
that is quite as I expected. This message makes it even more essential
that we should not lose an hour in letting Hilton Cubitt know how
matters stand, for it is a singular and a dangerous web in which our
simple Norfolk squire is entangled.”
So, indeed, it proved, and as I come to the dark conclusion of a story
which had seemed to me to be only childish and bizarre I experience once
again the dismay and horror with which I was filled. Would that I had
some brighter ending to communicate to my readers, but these are the
chronicles of fact, and I must follow to their dark crisis the strange
chain of events which for some days made Ridling Thorpe Manor a
household word through the length and breadth of England.
We had hardly alighted at North Walsham, and mentioned the name of our
destination, when the station-master hurried towards us. “I suppose that
you are the detectives from London?” said he.
A look of annoyance passed over Holmes's face.
“What makes you think such a thing?”
“Because Inspector Martin from Norwich has just passed through. But
maybe you are the surgeons. She's not dead--or wasn't by last accounts.
You may be in time to save her yet--though it be for the gallows.”
Holmes's brow was dark with anxiety.
“We are going to Ridling Thorpe Manor,” said he, “but we have heard
nothing of what has passed there.”
“It's a terrible business,” said the station-master. “They are shot,
both Mr. Hilton Cubitt and his wife. She shot him and then herself--so
the servants say. He's dead and her life is despaired of. Dear, dear,
one of the oldest families in the County of Norfolk, and one of the most
honoured.”
Without a word Holmes hurried to a carriage, and during the long seven
miles' drive he never opened his mouth. Seldom have I seen him so
utterly despondent. He had been uneasy during all our journey from
town, and I had observed that he had turned over the morning papers with
anxious attention; but now this sudden realization of his worst fears
left him in a blank melancholy. He leaned back in his seat, lost in
gloomy speculation. Yet there was much around to interest us, for we
were passing through as singular a country-side as any in England, where
a few scattered cottages represented the population of to-day, while on
every hand enormous square-towered churches bristled up from the flat,
green landscape and told of the glory and prosperity of old East Anglia.
At last the violet rim of the German Ocean appeared over the green edge
of the Norfolk coast, and the driver pointed with his whip to two old
brick and timber gables which projected from a grove of trees. “That's
Ridling Thorpe Manor,” said he.
As we drove up to the porticoed front door I observed in front of
it, beside the tennis lawn, the black tool-house and the pedestalled
sun-dial with which we had such strange associations. A dapper little
man, with a quick, alert manner and a waxed moustache, had just
descended from a high dog-cart. He introduced himself as Inspector
Martin, of the Norfolk Constabulary, and he was considerably astonished
when he heard the name of my companion.
“Why, Mr. Holmes, the crime was only committed at three this morning.
How could you hear of it in London and get to the spot as soon as I?”
“I anticipated it. I came in the hope of preventing it.”
“Then you must have important evidence of which we are ignorant, for
they were said to be a most united couple.”
“I have only the evidence of the dancing men,” said Holmes. “I will
explain the matter to you later. Meanwhile, since it is too late to
prevent this tragedy, I am very anxious that I should use the knowledge
which I possess in order to ensure that justice be done. Will you
associate me in your investigation, or will you prefer that I should act
independently?”
“I should be proud to feel that we were acting together, Mr. Holmes,”
said the inspector, earnestly.
“In that case I should be glad to hear the evidence and to examine the
premises without an instant of unnecessary delay.”
Inspector Martin had the good sense to allow my friend to do things
in his own fashion, and contented himself with carefully noting the
results. The local surgeon, an old, white-haired man, had just come down
from Mrs. Hilton Cubitt's room, and he reported that her injuries were
serious, but not necessarily fatal. The bullet had passed through the
front of her brain, and it would probably be some time before she could
regain consciousness. On the question of whether she had been shot or
had shot herself he would not venture to express any decided opinion.
Certainly the bullet had been discharged at very close quarters. There
was only the one pistol found in the room, two barrels of which had
been emptied. Mr. Hilton Cubitt had been shot through the heart. It was
equally conceivable that he had shot her and then himself, or that
she had been the criminal, for the revolver lay upon the floor midway
between them.
“Has he been moved?” asked Holmes.
“We have moved nothing except the lady. We could not leave her lying
wounded upon the floor.”
“How long have you been here, doctor?”
“Since four o'clock.”
“Anyone else?”
“Yes, the constable here.”
“And you have touched nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“You have acted with great discretion. Who sent for you?”
“The housemaid, Saunders.”
“Was it she who gave the alarm?”
“She and Mrs. King, the cook.”
“Where are they now?”
“In the kitchen, I believe.”
“Then I think we had better hear their story at once.”
The old hall, oak-panelled and high-windowed, had been turned into a
court of investigation. Holmes sat in a great, old-fashioned chair, his
inexorable eyes gleaming out of his haggard face. I could read in them
a set purpose to devote his life to this quest until the client whom he
had failed to save should at last be avenged. The trim Inspector Martin,
the old, grey-headed country doctor, myself, and a stolid village
policeman made up the rest of that strange company.
The two women told their story clearly enough. They had been aroused
from their sleep by the sound of an explosion, which had been followed
a minute later by a second one. They slept in adjoining rooms, and Mrs.
King had rushed in to Saunders. Together they had descended the stairs.
The door of the study was open and a candle was burning upon the table.
Their master lay upon his face in the centre of the room. He was quite
dead. Near the window his wife was crouching, her head leaning against
the wall. She was horribly wounded, and the side of her face was red
with blood. She breathed heavily, but was incapable of saying anything.
The passage, as well as the room, was full of smoke and the smell of
powder. The window was certainly shut and fastened upon the inside. Both
women were positive upon the point. They had at once sent for the
doctor and for the constable. Then, with the aid of the groom and the
stable-boy, they had conveyed their injured mistress to her room. Both
she and her husband had occupied the bed. She was clad in her dress--he
in his dressing-gown, over his night clothes. Nothing had been moved in
the study. So far as they knew there had never been any quarrel between
husband and wife. They had always looked upon them as a very united
couple.
These were the main points of the servants' evidence. In answer to
Inspector Martin they were clear that every door was fastened upon the
inside, and that no one could have escaped from the house. In answer
to Holmes they both remembered that they were conscious of the smell
of powder from the moment that they ran out of their rooms upon the
top floor. “I commend that fact very carefully to your attention,” said
Holmes to his professional colleague. “And now I think that we are in a
position to undertake a thorough examination of the room.”
The study proved to be a small chamber, lined on three sides with books,
and with a writing-table facing an ordinary window, which looked out
upon the garden. Our first attention was given to the body of the
unfortunate squire, whose huge frame lay stretched across the room. His
disordered dress showed that he had been hastily aroused from sleep.
The bullet had been fired at him from the front, and had remained in
his body after penetrating the heart. His death had certainly been
instantaneous and painless. There was no powder-marking either upon his
dressing-gown or on his hands. According to the country surgeon the lady
had stains upon her face, but none upon her hand.
“The absence of the latter means nothing, though its presence may
mean everything,” said Holmes. “Unless the powder from a badly-fitting
cartridge happens to spurt backwards, one may fire many shots without
leaving a sign. I would suggest that Mr. Cubitt's body may now be
removed. I suppose, doctor, you have not recovered the bullet which
wounded the lady?”
“A serious operation will be necessary before that can be done. But
there are still four cartridges in the revolver. Two have been fired and
two wounds inflicted, so that each bullet can be accounted for.”
“So it would seem,” said Holmes. “Perhaps you can account also for the
bullet which has so obviously struck the edge of the window?”
He had turned suddenly, and his long, thin finger was pointing to a hole
which had been drilled right through the lower window-sash about an inch
above the bottom.
“By George!” cried the inspector. “How ever did you see that?”
“Because I looked for it.”
“Wonderful!” said the country doctor. “You are certainly right, sir.
Then a third shot has been fired, and therefore a third person must have
been present. But who could that have been and how could he have got
away?”
“That is the problem which we are now about to solve,” said Sherlock
Holmes. “You remember, Inspector Martin, when the servants said that on
leaving their room they were at once conscious of a smell of powder I
remarked that the point was an extremely important one?”
“Yes, sir; but I confess I did not quite follow you.”
“It suggested that at the time of the firing the window as well as the
door of the room had been open. Otherwise the fumes of powder could not
have been blown so rapidly through the house. A draught in the room was
necessary for that. Both door and window were only open for a very short
time, however.”
“How do you prove that?”
“Because the candle has not guttered.”
“Capital!” cried the inspector. “Capital!”
“Feeling sure that the window had been open at the time of the tragedy
I conceived that there might have been a third person in the affair, who
stood outside this opening and fired through it. Any shot directed at
this person might hit the sash. I looked, and there, sure enough, was
the bullet mark!”
“But how came the window to be shut and fastened?”
“The woman's first instinct would be to shut and fasten the window. But,
halloa! what is this?”
It was a lady's hand-bag which stood upon the study table--a trim little
hand-bag of crocodile-skin and silver. Holmes opened it and turned
the contents out. There were twenty fifty-pound notes of the Bank of
England, held together by an india-rubber band--nothing else.
“This must be preserved, for it will figure in the trial,” said Holmes,
as he handed the bag with its contents to the inspector. “It is now
necessary that we should try to throw some light upon this third bullet,
which has clearly, from the splintering of the wood, been fired from
inside the room. I should like to see Mrs. King, the cook, again. You
said, Mrs. King, that you were awakened by a LOUD explosion. When you
said that, did you mean that it seemed to you to be louder than the
second one?”
“Well, sir, it wakened me from my sleep, and so it is hard to judge. But
it did seem very loud.”
“You don't think that it might have been two shots fired almost at the
same instant?”
“I am sure I couldn't say, sir.”
“I believe that it was undoubtedly so. I rather think, Inspector Martin,
that we have now exhausted all that this room can teach us. If you will
kindly step round with me, we shall see what fresh evidence the garden
has to offer.”
A flower-bed extended up to the study window, and we all broke into an
exclamation as we approached it. The flowers were trampled down, and the
soft soil was imprinted all over with footmarks. Large, masculine feet
they were, with peculiarly long, sharp toes. Holmes hunted about among
the grass and leaves like a retriever after a wounded bird. Then, with
a cry of satisfaction, he bent forward and picked up a little brazen
cylinder.
“I thought so,” said he; “the revolver had an ejector, and here is the
third cartridge. I really think, Inspector Martin, that our case is
almost complete.”
The country inspector's face had shown his intense amazement at the
rapid and masterful progress of Holmes's investigation. At first he
had shown some disposition to assert his own position; but now he was
overcome with admiration and ready to follow without question wherever
Holmes led.
“Whom do you suspect?” he asked.
“I'll go into that later. There are several points in this problem which
I have not been able to explain to you yet. Now that I have got so far
I had best proceed on my own lines, and then clear the whole matter up
once and for all.”
“Just as you wish, Mr. Holmes, so long as we get our man.”
“I have no desire to make mysteries, but it is impossible at the moment
of action to enter into long and complex explanations. I have the
threads of this affair all in my hand. Even if this lady should never
recover consciousness we can still reconstruct the events of last night
and ensure that justice be done. First of all I wish to know whether
there is any inn in this neighbourhood known as 'Elrige's'?”
The servants were cross-questioned, but none of them had heard of such a
place. The stable-boy threw a light upon the matter by remembering that
a farmer of that name lived some miles off in the direction of East
Ruston.
“Is it a lonely farm?”
“Very lonely, sir.”
“Perhaps they have not heard yet of all that happened here during the
night?”
“Maybe not, sir.”
Holmes thought for a little and then a curious smile played over his
face.
“Saddle a horse, my lad,” said he. “I shall wish you to take a note to
Elrige's Farm.”
He took from his pocket the various slips of the dancing men. With these
in front of him he worked for some time at the study-table. Finally he
handed a note to the boy, with directions to put it into the hands
of the person to whom it was addressed, and especially to answer no
questions of any sort which might be put to him. I saw the outside of
the note, addressed in straggling, irregular characters, very unlike
Holmes's usual precise hand. It was consigned to Mr. Abe Slaney,
Elrige's Farm, East Ruston, Norfolk.
“I think, inspector,” Holmes remarked, “that you would do well to
telegraph for an escort, as, if my calculations prove to be correct, you
may have a particularly dangerous prisoner to convey to the county gaol.
The boy who takes this note could no doubt forward your telegram. If
there is an afternoon train to town, Watson, I think we should do well
to take it, as I have a chemical analysis of some interest to finish,
and this investigation draws rapidly to a close.”
When the youth had been dispatched with the note, Sherlock Holmes gave
his instructions to the servants. If any visitor were to call asking for
Mrs. Hilton Cubitt no information should be given as to her condition,
but he was to be shown at once into the drawing-room. He impressed these
points upon them with the utmost earnestness. Finally he led the way
into the drawing-room with the remark that the business was now out of
our hands, and that we must while away the time as best we might until
we could see what was in store for us. The doctor had departed to his
patients, and only the inspector and myself remained.
“I think that I can help you to pass an hour in an interesting and
profitable manner,” said Holmes, drawing his chair up to the table
and spreading out in front of him the various papers upon which were
recorded the antics of the dancing men. “As to you, friend Watson, I owe
you every atonement for having allowed your natural curiosity to remain
so long unsatisfied. To you, inspector, the whole incident may appeal
as a remarkable professional study. I must tell you first of all the
interesting circumstances connected with the previous consultations
which Mr. Hilton Cubitt has had with me in Baker Street.” He then
shortly recapitulated the facts which have already been recorded. “I
have here in front of me these singular productions, at which one
might smile had they not proved themselves to be the fore-runners of
so terrible a tragedy. I am fairly familiar with all forms of secret
writings, and am myself the author of a trifling monograph upon the
subject, in which I analyze one hundred and sixty separate ciphers;
but I confess that this is entirely new to me. The object of those who
invented the system has apparently been to conceal that these characters
convey a message, and to give the idea that they are the mere random
sketches of children.
“Having once recognised, however, that the symbols stood for letters,
and having applied the rules which guide us in all forms of secret
writings, the solution was easy enough. The first message submitted to
me was so short that it was impossible for me to do more than to say
with some confidence that the symbol XXX stood for E. As you are aware,
E is the most common letter in the English alphabet, and it predominates
to so marked an extent that even in a short sentence one would expect
to find it most often. Out of fifteen symbols in the first message four
were the same, so it was reasonable to set this down as E. It is true
that in some cases the figure was bearing a flag and in some cases not,
but it was probable from the way in which the flags were distributed
that they were used to break the sentence up into words. I accepted this
as a hypothesis, and noted that E was represented by XXX.
“But now came the real difficulty of the inquiry. The order of
the English letters after E is by no means well marked, and any
preponderance which may be shown in an average of a printed sheet may be
reversed in a single short sentence. Speaking roughly, T, A, O, I, N, S,
H, R, D, and L are the numerical order in which letters occur; but T,
A, O, and I are very nearly abreast of each other, and it would be an
endless task to try each combination until a meaning was arrived at. I,
therefore, waited for fresh material. In my second interview with Mr.
Hilton Cubitt he was able to give me two other short sentences and one
message, which appeared--since there was no flag--to be a single word.
Here are the symbols. Now, in the single word I have already got the
two E's coming second and fourth in a word of five letters. It might
be 'sever,' or 'lever,' or 'never.' There can be no question that
the latter as a reply to an appeal is far the most probable, and
the circumstances pointed to its being a reply written by the lady.
Accepting it as correct, we are now able to say that the symbols XXX
stand respectively for N, V, and R.
“Even now I was in considerable difficulty, but a happy thought put me
in possession of several other letters. It occurred to me that if these
appeals came, as I expected, from someone who had been intimate with the
lady in her early life, a combination which contained two E's with
three letters between might very well stand for the name 'ELSIE.' On
examination I found that such a combination formed the termination of
the message which was three times repeated. It was certainly some appeal
to 'Elsie.' In this way I had got my L, S, and I. But what appeal could
it be? There were only four letters in the word which preceded 'Elsie,'
and it ended in E. Surely the word must be 'COME.' I tried all other
four letters ending in E, but could find none to fit the case. So now I
was in possession of C, O, and M, and I was in a position to attack the
first message once more, dividing it into words and putting dots for
each symbol which was still unknown. So treated it worked out in this
fashion:--
.M .ERE ..E SL.NE.
“Now the first letter CAN only be A, which is a most useful discovery,
since it occurs no fewer than three times in this short sentence, and
the H is also apparent in the second word. Now it becomes:--
AM HERE A.E SLANE.
Or, filling in the obvious vacancies in the name:--
AM HERE ABE SLANEY.
I had so many letters now that I could proceed with considerable
confidence to the second message, which worked out in this fashion:--
A. ELRI.ES.
Here I could only make sense by putting T and G for the missing letters,
and supposing that the name was that of some house or inn at which the
writer was staying.”
Inspector Martin and I had listened with the utmost interest to the full
and clear account of how my friend had produced results which had led to
so complete a command over our difficulties.
“What did you do then, sir?” asked the inspector.
“I had every reason to suppose that this Abe Slaney was an American,
since Abe is an American contraction, and since a letter from America
had been the starting-point of all the trouble. I had also every cause
to think that there was some criminal secret in the matter. The lady's
allusions to her past and her refusal to take her husband into her
confidence both pointed in that direction. I therefore cabled to my
friend, Wilson Hargreave, of the New York Police Bureau, who has more
than once made use of my knowledge of London crime. I asked him whether
the name of Abe Slaney was known to him. Here is his reply: 'The most
dangerous crook in Chicago.' On the very evening upon which I had his
answer Hilton Cubitt sent me the last message from Slaney. Working with
known letters it took this form:--
ELSIE .RE.ARE TO MEET THY GO.
The addition of a P and a D completed a message which showed me that the
rascal was proceeding from persuasion to threats, and my knowledge of
the crooks of Chicago prepared me to find that he might very rapidly
put his words into action. I at once came to Norfolk with my friend and
colleague, Dr. Watson, but, unhappily, only in time to find that the
worst had already occurred.”
“It is a privilege to be associated with you in the handling of a case,”
said the inspector, warmly. “You will excuse me, however, if I speak
frankly to you. You are only answerable to yourself, but I have to
answer to my superiors. If this Abe Slaney, living at Elrige's, is
indeed the murderer, and if he has made his escape while I am seated
here, I should certainly get into serious trouble.”
“You need not be uneasy. He will not try to escape.”
“How do you know?”
“To fly would be a confession of guilt.”
“Then let us go to arrest him.”
“I expect him here every instant.”
“But why should he come?”
“Because I have written and asked him.”
“But this is incredible, Mr. Holmes! Why should he come because you
have asked him? Would not such a request rather rouse his suspicions and
cause him to fly?”
“I think I have known how to frame the letter,” said Sherlock Holmes.
“In fact, if I am not very much mistaken, here is the gentleman himself
coming up the drive.”
A man was striding up the path which led to the door. He was a tall,
handsome, swarthy fellow, clad in a suit of grey flannel, with a Panama
hat, a bristling black beard, and a great, aggressive hooked nose, and
flourishing a cane as he walked. He swaggered up the path as if the
place belonged to him, and we heard his loud, confident peal at the
bell.
“I think, gentlemen,” said Holmes, quietly, “that we had best take up
our position behind the door. Every precaution is necessary when dealing
with such a fellow. You will need your handcuffs, inspector. You can
leave the talking to me.”
We waited in silence for a minute--one of those minutes which one can
never forget. Then the door opened and the man stepped in. In an instant
Holmes clapped a pistol to his head and Martin slipped the handcuffs
over his wrists. It was all done so swiftly and deftly that the fellow
was helpless before he knew that he was attacked. He glared from one to
the other of us with a pair of blazing black eyes. Then he burst into a
bitter laugh.
“Well, gentlemen, you have the drop on me this time. I seem to have
knocked up against something hard. But I came here in answer to a letter
from Mrs. Hilton Cubitt. Don't tell me that she is in this? Don't tell
me that she helped to set a trap for me?”
“Mrs. Hilton Cubitt was seriously injured and is at death's door.”
The man gave a hoarse cry of grief which rang through the house.
“You're crazy!” he cried, fiercely. “It was he that was hurt, not she.
Who would have hurt little Elsie? I may have threatened her, God forgive
me, but I would not have touched a hair of her pretty head. Take it
back--you! Say that she is not hurt!”
“She was found badly wounded by the side of her dead husband.”
He sank with a deep groan on to the settee and buried his face in his
manacled hands. For five minutes he was silent. Then he raised his face
once more, and spoke with the cold composure of despair.
“I have nothing to hide from you, gentlemen,” said he. “If I shot the
man he had his shot at me, and there's no murder in that. But if you
think I could have hurt that woman, then you don't know either me or
her. I tell you there was never a man in this world loved a woman more
than I loved her. I had a right to her. She was pledged to me years ago.
Who was this Englishman that he should come between us? I tell you that
I had the first right to her, and that I was only claiming my own.”
“She broke away from your influence when she found the man that you
are,” said Holmes, sternly. “She fled from America to avoid you, and she
married an honourable gentleman in England. You dogged her and followed
her and made her life a misery to her in order to induce her to abandon
the husband whom she loved and respected in order to fly with you, whom
she feared and hated. You have ended by bringing about the death of a
noble man and driving his wife to suicide. That is your record in this
business, Mr. Abe Slaney, and you will answer for it to the law.”
“If Elsie dies I care nothing what becomes of me,” said the American.
He opened one of his hands and looked at a note crumpled up in his palm.
“See here, mister,” he cried, with a gleam of suspicion in his eyes,
“you're not trying to scare me over this, are you? If the lady is
hurt as bad as you say, who was it that wrote this note?” He tossed it
forwards on to the table.
“I wrote it to bring you here.”
“You wrote it? There was no one on earth outside the Joint who knew the
secret of the dancing men. How came you to write it?”
“What one man can invent another can discover,” said Holmes. There is
a cab coming to convey you to Norwich, Mr. Slaney. But, meanwhile, you
have time to make some small reparation for the injury you have wrought.
Are you aware that Mrs. Hilton Cubitt has herself lain under grave
suspicion of the murder of her husband, and that it was only my presence
here and the knowledge which I happened to possess which has saved her
from the accusation? The least that you owe her is to make it clear
to the whole world that she was in no way, directly or indirectly,
responsible for his tragic end.”
“I ask nothing better,” said the American. “I guess the very best case I
can make for myself is the absolute naked truth.”
“It is my duty to warn you that it will be used against you,” cried the
inspector, with the magnificent fair-play of the British criminal law.
Slaney shrugged his shoulders.
“I'll chance that,” said he. “First of all, I want you gentlemen to
understand that I have known this lady since she was a child. There were
seven of us in a gang in Chicago, and Elsie's father was the boss of the
Joint. He was a clever man, was old Patrick. It was he who invented that
writing, which would pass as a child's scrawl unless you just happened
to have the key to it. Well, Elsie learned some of our ways; but she
couldn't stand the business, and she had a bit of honest money of her
own, so she gave us all the slip and got away to London. She had been
engaged to me, and she would have married me, I believe, if I had taken
over another profession; but she would have nothing to do with anything
on the cross. It was only after her marriage to this Englishman that I
was able to find out where she was. I wrote to her, but got no answer.
After that I came over, and, as letters were no use, I put my messages
where she could read them.
“Well, I have been here a month now. I lived in that farm, where I had
a room down below, and could get in and out every night, and no one the
wiser. I tried all I could to coax Elsie away. I knew that she read the
messages, for once she wrote an answer under one of them. Then my temper
got the better of me, and I began to threaten her. She sent me a letter
then, imploring me to go away and saying that it would break her heart
if any scandal should come upon her husband. She said that she would
come down when her husband was asleep at three in the morning, and speak
with me through the end window, if I would go away afterwards and leave
her in peace. She came down and brought money with her, trying to bribe
me to go. This made me mad, and I caught her arm and tried to pull
her through the window. At that moment in rushed the husband with his
revolver in his hand. Elsie had sunk down upon the floor, and we were
face to face. I was heeled also, and I held up my gun to scare him off
and let me get away. He fired and missed me. I pulled off almost at the
same instant, and down he dropped. I made away across the garden, and as
I went I heard the window shut behind me. That's God's truth, gentlemen,
every word of it, and I heard no more about it until that lad came
riding up with a note which made me walk in here, like a jay, and give
myself into your hands.”
A cab had driven up whilst the American had been talking. Two uniformed
policemen sat inside. Inspector Martin rose and touched his prisoner on
the shoulder.
“It is time for us to go.”
“Can I see her first?”
“No, she is not conscious. Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I only hope that if ever
again I have an important case I shall have the good fortune to have you
by my side.”
We stood at the window and watched the cab drive away. As I turned back
my eye caught the pellet of paper which the prisoner had tossed upon the
table. It was the note with which Holmes had decoyed him.
“See if you can read it, Watson,” said he, with a smile.
It contained no word, but this little line of dancing men:--
GRAPHIC
“If you use the code which I have explained,” said Holmes, “you will
find that it simply means 'Come here at once.' I was convinced that
it was an invitation which he would not refuse, since he could never
imagine that it could come from anyone but the lady. And so, my dear
Watson, we have ended by turning the dancing men to good when they have
so often been the agents of evil, and I think that I have fulfilled my
promise of giving you something unusual for your note-book. Three-forty
is our train, and I fancy we should be back in Baker Street for dinner.”
Only one word of epilogue. The American, Abe Slaney, was condemned to
death at the winter assizes at Norwich; but his penalty was changed to
penal servitude in consideration of mitigating circumstances, and the
certainty that Hilton Cubitt had fired the first shot. Of Mrs. Hilton
Cubitt I only know that I have heard she recovered entirely, and that
she still remains a widow, devoting her whole life to the care of the
poor and to the administration of her husband's estate.
*****
THE STRAND MAGAZINE
Vol. 27 JANUARY, 1904
THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.
By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.
|
iii_the_adventure_of_the_dancing_men
|
IV.--The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist.
|
The Return of Sherlock Holmes
|
FROM the years 1894 to 1901 inclusive Mr. Sherlock Holmes was a very
busy man. It is safe to say that there was no public case of any
difficulty in which he was not consulted during those eight years, and
there were hundreds of private cases, some of them of the most intricate
and extraordinary character, in which he played a prominent part. Many
startling successes and a few unavoidable failures were the outcome of
this long period of continuous work. As I have preserved very full notes
of all these cases, and was myself personally engaged in many of them,
it may be imagined that it is no easy task to know which I should select
to lay before the public. I shall, however, preserve my former rule, and
give the preference to those cases which derive their interest not so
much from the brutality of the crime as from the ingenuity and dramatic
quality of the solution. For this reason I will now lay before the
reader the facts connected with Miss Violet Smith, the solitary cyclist
of Charlington, and the curious sequel of our investigation, which
culminated in unexpected tragedy. It is true that the circumstances
did not admit of any striking illustration of those powers for which my
friend was famous, but there were some points about the case which made
it stand out in those long records of crime from which I gather the
material for these little narratives.
On referring to my note-book for the year 1895 I find that it was upon
Saturday, the 23rd of April, that we first heard of Miss Violet Smith.
Her visit was, I remember, extremely unwelcome to Holmes, for he was
immersed at the moment in a very abstruse and complicated problem
concerning the peculiar persecution to which John Vincent Harden, the
well-known tobacco millionaire, had been subjected. My friend, who
loved above all things precision and concentration of thought, resented
anything which distracted his attention from the matter in hand. And yet
without a harshness which was foreign to his nature it was impossible
to refuse to listen to the story of the young and beautiful woman, tall,
graceful, and queenly, who presented herself at Baker Street late in the
evening and implored his assistance and advice. It was vain to urge that
his time was already fully occupied, for the young lady had come with
the determination to tell her story, and it was evident that nothing
short of force could get her out of the room until she had done so. With
a resigned air and a somewhat weary smile, Holmes begged the beautiful
intruder to take a seat and to inform us what it was that was troubling
her.
“At least it cannot be your health,” said he, as his keen eyes darted
over her; “so ardent a bicyclist must be full of energy.”
She glanced down in surprise at her own feet, and I observed the slight
roughening of the side of the sole caused by the friction of the edge of
the pedal.
“Yes, I bicycle a good deal, Mr. Holmes, and that has something to do
with my visit to you to-day.”
My friend took the lady's ungloved hand and examined it with as close
an attention and as little sentiment as a scientist would show to a
specimen.
“You will excuse me, I am sure. It is my business,” said he, as he
dropped it. “I nearly fell into the error of supposing that you were
typewriting. Of course, it is obvious that it is music. You observe the
spatulate finger-end, Watson, which is common to both professions? There
is a spirituality about the face, however”--he gently turned it towards
the light--“which the typewriter does not generate. This lady is a
musician.”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes, I teach music.”
“In the country, I presume, from your complexion.”
“Yes, sir; near Farnham, on the borders of Surrey.”
“A beautiful neighbourhood and full of the most interesting
associations. You remember, Watson, that it was near there that we took
Archie Stamford, the forger. Now, Miss Violet, what has happened to you
near Farnham, on the borders of Surrey?”
The young lady, with great clearness and composure, made the following
curious statement:--
“My father is dead, Mr. Holmes. He was James Smith, who conducted the
orchestra at the old Imperial Theatre. My mother and I were left without
a relation in the world except one uncle, Ralph Smith, who went to
Africa twenty-five years ago, and we have never had a word from him
since. When father died we were left very poor, but one day we were
told that there was an advertisement in the TIMES inquiring for our
whereabouts. You can imagine how excited we were, for we thought that
someone had left us a fortune. We went at once to the lawyer whose name
was given in the paper. There we met two gentlemen, Mr. Carruthers and
Mr. Woodley, who were home on a visit from South Africa. They said that
my uncle was a friend of theirs, that he died some months before in
great poverty in Johannesburg, and that he had asked them with his last
breath to hunt up his relations and see that they were in no want. It
seemed strange to us that Uncle Ralph, who took no notice of us when he
was alive, should be so careful to look after us when he was dead; but
Mr. Carruthers explained that the reason was that my uncle had just
heard of the death of his brother, and so felt responsible for our
fate.”
“Excuse me,” said Holmes; “when was this interview?”
“Last December--four months ago.”
“Pray proceed.”
“Mr. Woodley seemed to me to be a most odious person. He was for ever
making eyes at me--a coarse, puffy-faced, red-moustached young man, with
his hair plastered down on each side of his forehead. I thought that he
was perfectly hateful--and I was sure that Cyril would not wish me to
know such a person.”
“Oh, Cyril is his name!” said Holmes, smiling.
The young lady blushed and laughed.
“Yes, Mr. Holmes; Cyril Morton, an electrical engineer, and we hope
to be married at the end of the summer. Dear me, how DID I get talking
about him? What I wished to say was that Mr. Woodley was perfectly
odious, but that Mr. Carruthers, who was a much older man, was more
agreeable. He was a dark, sallow, clean-shaven, silent person; but he
had polite manners and a pleasant smile. He inquired how we were left,
and on finding that we were very poor he suggested that I should come
and teach music to his only daughter, aged ten. I said that I did not
like to leave my mother, on which he suggested that I should go home
to her every week-end, and he offered me a hundred a year, which was
certainly splendid pay. So it ended by my accepting, and I went down
to Chiltern Grange, about six miles from Farnham. Mr. Carruthers was
a widower, but he had engaged a lady-housekeeper, a very respectable,
elderly person, called Mrs. Dixon, to look after his establishment. The
child was a dear, and everything promised well. Mr. Carruthers was very
kind and very musical, and we had most pleasant evenings together. Every
week-end I went home to my mother in town.
“The first flaw in my happiness was the arrival of the red-moustached
Mr. Woodley. He came for a visit of a week, and oh, it seemed three
months to me! He was a dreadful person, a bully to everyone else, but to
me something infinitely worse. He made odious love to me, boasted of his
wealth, said that if I married him I would have the finest diamonds in
London, and finally, when I would have nothing to do with him, he seized
me in his arms one day after dinner--he was hideously strong--and he
swore that he would not let me go until I had kissed him. Mr. Carruthers
came in and tore him off from me, on which he turned upon his own host,
knocking him down and cutting his face open. That was the end of his
visit, as you can imagine. Mr. Carruthers apologized to me next day,
and assured me that I should never be exposed to such an insult again. I
have not seen Mr. Woodley since.
“And now, Mr. Holmes, I come at last to the special thing which has
caused me to ask your advice to-day. You must know that every Saturday
forenoon I ride on my bicycle to Farnham Station in order to get the
12.22 to town. The road from Chiltern Grange is a lonely one, and at
one spot it is particularly so, for it lies for over a mile between
Charlington Heath upon one side and the woods which lie round
Charlington Hall upon the other. You could not find a more lonely tract
of road anywhere, and it is quite rare to meet so much as a cart, or a
peasant, until you reach the high road near Crooksbury Hill. Two
weeks ago I was passing this place when I chanced to look back over my
shoulder, and about two hundred yards behind me I saw a man, also on a
bicycle. He seemed to be a middle-aged man, with a short, dark beard. I
looked back before I reached Farnham, but the man was gone, so I thought
no more about it. But you can imagine how surprised I was, Mr. Holmes,
when on my return on the Monday I saw the same man on the same stretch
of road. My astonishment was increased when the incident occurred again,
exactly as before, on the following Saturday and Monday. He always kept
his distance and did not molest me in any way, but still it certainly
was very odd. I mentioned it to Mr. Carruthers, who seemed interested in
what I said, and told me that he had ordered a horse and trap, so
that in future I should not pass over these lonely roads without some
companion.
“The horse and trap were to have come this week, but for some reason
they were not delivered, and again I had to cycle to the station.
That was this morning. You can think that I looked out when I came to
Charlington Heath, and there, sure enough, was the man, exactly as he
had been the two weeks before. He always kept so far from me that I
could not clearly see his face, but it was certainly someone whom I did
not know. He was dressed in a dark suit with a cloth cap. The only thing
about his face that I could clearly see was his dark beard. To-day I was
not alarmed, but I was filled with curiosity, and I determined to find
out who he was and what he wanted. I slowed down my machine, but he
slowed down his. Then I stopped altogether, but he stopped also. Then
I laid a trap for him. There is a sharp turning of the road, and I
pedalled very quickly round this, and then I stopped and waited. I
expected him to shoot round and pass me before he could stop. But he
never appeared. Then I went back and looked round the corner. I
could see a mile of road, but he was not on it. To make it the more
extraordinary, there was no side road at this point down which he could
have gone.”
Holmes chuckled and rubbed his hands. “This case certainly presents
some features of its own,” said he. “How much time elapsed between your
turning the corner and your discovery that the road was clear?”
“Two or three minutes.”
“Then he could not have retreated down the road, and you say that there
are no side roads?”
“None.”
“Then he certainly took a footpath on one side or the other.”
“It could not have been on the side of the heath or I should have seen
him.”
“So by the process of exclusion we arrive at the fact that he made his
way towards Charlington Hall, which, as I understand, is situated in its
own grounds on one side of the road. Anything else?”
“Nothing, Mr. Holmes, save that I was so perplexed that I felt I should
not be happy until I had seen you and had your advice.”
Holmes sat in silence for some little time.
“Where is the gentleman to whom you are engaged?” he asked, at last.
“He is in the Midland Electrical Company, at Coventry.”
“He would not pay you a surprise visit?”
“Oh, Mr. Holmes! As if I should not know him!”
“Have you had any other admirers?”
“Several before I knew Cyril.”
“And since?”
“There was this dreadful man, Woodley, if you can call him an admirer.”
“No one else?”
Our fair client seemed a little confused.
“Who was he?” asked Holmes.
“Oh, it may be a mere fancy of mine; but it has seemed to me sometimes
that my employer, Mr. Carruthers, takes a great deal of interest in me.
We are thrown rather together. I play his accompaniments in the evening.
He has never said anything. He is a perfect gentleman. But a girl always
knows.”
“Ha!” Holmes looked grave. “What does he do for a living?”
“He is a rich man.”
“No carriages or horses?”
“Well, at least he is fairly well-to-do. But he goes into the City two
or three times a week. He is deeply interested in South African gold
shares.”
“You will let me know any fresh development, Miss Smith. I am very busy
just now, but I will find time to make some inquiries into your case. In
the meantime take no step without letting me know. Good-bye, and I trust
that we shall have nothing but good news from you.”
“It is part of the settled order of Nature that such a girl should have
followers,” said Holmes, as he pulled at his meditative pipe, “but for
choice not on bicycles in lonely country roads. Some secretive lover,
beyond all doubt. But there are curious and suggestive details about the
case, Watson.”
“That he should appear only at that point?”
“Exactly. Our first effort must be to find who are the tenants of
Charlington Hall. Then, again, how about the connection between
Carruthers and Woodley, since they appear to be men of such a different
type? How came they BOTH to be so keen upon looking up Ralph Smith's
relations? One more point. What sort of a MENAGE is it which pays double
the market price for a governess, but does not keep a horse although six
miles from the station? Odd, Watson--very odd!”
“You will go down?”
“No, my dear fellow, YOU will go down. This may be some trifling
intrigue, and I cannot break my other important research for the sake
of it. On Monday you will arrive early at Farnham; you will conceal
yourself near Charlington Heath; you will observe these facts for
yourself, and act as your own judgment advises. Then, having inquired as
to the occupants of the Hall, you will come back to me and report. And
now, Watson, not another word of the matter until we have a few solid
stepping-stones on which we may hope to get across to our solution.”
We had ascertained from the lady that she went down upon the Monday by
the train which leaves Waterloo at 9.50, so I started early and caught
the 9.13. At Farnham Station I had no difficulty in being directed to
Charlington Heath. It was impossible to mistake the scene of the young
lady's adventure, for the road runs between the open heath on one side
and an old yew hedge upon the other, surrounding a park which is studded
with magnificent trees. There was a main gateway of lichen-studded
stone, each side pillar surmounted by mouldering heraldic emblems; but
besides this central carriage drive I observed several points where
there were gaps in the hedge and paths leading through them. The house
was invisible from the road, but the surroundings all spoke of gloom and
decay.
The heath was covered with golden patches of flowering gorse, gleaming
magnificently in the light of the bright spring sunshine. Behind one of
these clumps I took up my position, so as to command both the gateway
of the Hall and a long stretch of the road upon either side. It had been
deserted when I left it, but now I saw a cyclist riding down it from the
opposite direction to that in which I had come. He was clad in a dark
suit, and I saw that he had a black beard. On reaching the end of the
Charlington grounds he sprang from his machine and led it through a gap
in the hedge, disappearing from my view.
A quarter of an hour passed and then a second cyclist appeared. This
time it was the young lady coming from the station. I saw her look
about her as she came to the Charlington hedge. An instant later the man
emerged from his hiding-place, sprang upon his cycle, and followed
her. In all the broad landscape those were the only moving figures, the
graceful girl sitting very straight upon her machine, and the man behind
her bending low over his handle-bar, with a curiously furtive suggestion
in every movement. She looked back at him and slowed her pace. He slowed
also. She stopped. He at once stopped too, keeping two hundred yards
behind her. Her next movement was as unexpected as it was spirited. She
suddenly whisked her wheels round and dashed straight at him! He was as
quick as she, however, and darted off in desperate flight. Presently she
came back up the road again, her head haughtily in the air, not deigning
to take any further notice of her silent attendant. He had turned also,
and still kept his distance until the curve of the road hid them from my
sight.
I remained in my hiding-place, and it was well that I did so, for
presently the man reappeared cycling slowly back. He turned in at the
Hall gates and dismounted from his machine. For some few minutes I could
see him standing among the trees. His hands were raised and he seemed to
be settling his necktie. Then he mounted his cycle and rode away from
me down the drive towards the Hall. I ran across the heath and peered
through the trees. Far away I could catch glimpses of the old grey
building with its bristling Tudor chimneys, but the drive ran through a
dense shrubbery, and I saw no more of my man.
However, it seemed to me that I had done a fairly good morning's work,
and I walked back in high spirits to Farnham. The local house-agent
could tell me nothing about Charlington Hall, and referred me to a
well-known firm in Pall Mall. There I halted on my way home, and met
with courtesy from the representative. No, I could not have Charlington
Hall for the summer. I was just too late. It had been let about a month
ago. Mr. Williamson was the name of the tenant. He was a respectable
elderly gentleman. The polite agent was afraid he could say no more, as
the affairs of his clients were not matters which he could discuss.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes listened with attention to the long report which I
was able to present to him that evening, but it did not elicit that
word of curt praise which I had hoped for and should have valued. On
the contrary, his austere face was even more severe than usual as he
commented upon the things that I had done and the things that I had not.
“Your hiding-place, my dear Watson, was very faulty. You should have
been behind the hedge; then you would have had a close view of this
interesting person. As it is you were some hundreds of yards away, and
can tell me even less than Miss Smith. She thinks she does not know
the man; I am convinced she does. Why, otherwise, should he be so
desperately anxious that she should not get so near him as to see his
features? You describe him as bending over the handle-bar. Concealment
again, you see. You really have done remarkably badly. He returns to
the house and you want to find out who he is. You come to a London
house-agent!”
“What should I have done?” I cried, with some heat.
“Gone to the nearest public-house. That is the centre of country
gossip. They would have told you every name, from the master to the
scullery-maid. Williamson! It conveys nothing to my mind. If he is an
elderly man he is not this active cyclist who sprints away from that
athletic young lady's pursuit. What have we gained by your expedition?
The knowledge that the girl's story is true. I never doubted it. That
there is a connection between the cyclist and the Hall. I never doubted
that either. That the Hall is tenanted by Williamson. Who's the better
for that? Well, well, my dear sir, don't look so depressed. We can do
little more until next Saturday, and in the meantime I may make one or
two inquiries myself.”
Next morning we had a note from Miss Smith, recounting shortly and
accurately the very incidents which I had seen, but the pith of the
letter lay in the postscript:--
“I am sure that you will respect my confidence, Mr. Holmes, when I tell
you that my place here has become difficult owing to the fact that my
employer has proposed marriage to me. I am convinced that his feelings
are most deep and most honourable. At the same time my promise is, of
course, given. He took my refusal very seriously, but also very gently.
You can understand, however, that the situation is a little strained.”
“Our young friend seems to be getting into deep waters,” said Holmes,
thoughtfully, as he finished the letter. “The case certainly presents
more features of interest and more possibility of development than I had
originally thought. I should be none the worse for a quiet, peaceful day
in the country, and I am inclined to run down this afternoon and test
one or two theories which I have formed.”
Holmes's quiet day in the country had a singular termination, for
he arrived at Baker Street late in the evening with a cut lip and a
discoloured lump upon his forehead, besides a general air of dissipation
which would have made his own person the fitting object of a Scotland
Yard investigation. He was immensely tickled by his own adventures, and
laughed heartily as he recounted them.
“I get so little active exercise that it is always a treat,” said he.
“You are aware that I have some proficiency in the good old British
sport of boxing. Occasionally it is of service. To-day, for example, I
should have come to very ignominious grief without it.”
I begged him to tell me what had occurred.
“I found that country pub which I had already recommended to your
notice, and there I made my discreet inquiries. I was in the bar, and
a garrulous landlord was giving me all that I wanted. Williamson is a
white-bearded man, and he lives alone with a small staff of servants at
the Hall. There is some rumour that he is or has been a clergyman; but
one or two incidents of his short residence at the Hall struck me as
peculiarly unecclesiastical. I have already made some inquiries at a
clerical agency, and they tell me that there WAS a man of that name in
orders whose career has been a singularly dark one. The landlord further
informed me that there are usually week-end visitors--'a warm lot,
sir'--at the Hall, and especially one gentleman with a red moustache,
Mr. Woodley by name, who was always there. We had got as far as this
when who should walk in but the gentleman himself, who had been drinking
his beer in the tap-room and had heard the whole conversation. Who was
I? What did I want? What did I mean by asking questions? He had a fine
flow of language, and his adjectives were very vigorous. He ended a
string of abuse by a vicious back-hander which I failed to entirely
avoid. The next few minutes were delicious. It was a straight left
against a slogging ruffian. I emerged as you see me. Mr. Woodley went
home in a cart. So ended my country trip, and it must be confessed that,
however enjoyable, my day on the Surrey border has not been much more
profitable than your own.”
The Thursday brought us another letter from our client.
“You will not be surprised, Mr. Holmes,” said she, “to hear that I am
leaving Mr. Carruthers's employment. Even the high pay cannot reconcile
me to the discomforts of my situation. On Saturday I come up to town
and I do not intend to return. Mr. Carruthers has got a trap, and so
the dangers of the lonely road, if there ever were any dangers, are now
over.
“As to the special cause of my leaving, it is not merely the strained
situation with Mr. Carruthers, but it is the reappearance of that odious
man, Mr. Woodley. He was always hideous, but he looks more awful
than ever now, for he appears to have had an accident and he is much
disfigured. I saw him out of the window, but I am glad to say I did
not meet him. He had a long talk with Mr. Carruthers, who seemed much
excited afterwards. Woodley must be staying in the neighbourhood, for he
did not sleep here, and yet I caught a glimpse of him again this morning
slinking about in the shrubbery. I would sooner have a savage wild
animal loose about the place. I loathe and fear him more than I can say.
How CAN Mr. Carruthers endure such a creature for a moment? However, all
my troubles will be over on Saturday.”
“So I trust, Watson; so I trust,” said Holmes, gravely. “There is some
deep intrigue going on round that little woman, and it is our duty to
see that no one molests her upon that last journey. I think, Watson,
that we must spare time to run down together on Saturday morning,
and make sure that this curious and inconclusive investigation has no
untoward ending.”
I confess that I had not up to now taken a very serious view of
the case, which had seemed to me rather grotesque and bizarre than
dangerous. That a man should lie in wait for and follow a very handsome
woman is no unheard-of thing, and if he had so little audacity that he
not only dared not address her, but even fled from her approach, he
was not a very formidable assailant. The ruffian Woodley was a very
different person, but, except on one occasion, he had not molested our
client, and now he visited the house of Carruthers without intruding
upon her presence. The man on the bicycle was doubtless a member of
those week-end parties at the Hall of which the publican had spoken; but
who he was or what he wanted was as obscure as ever. It was the severity
of Holmes's manner and the fact that he slipped a revolver into his
pocket before leaving our rooms which impressed me with the feeling that
tragedy might prove to lurk behind this curious train of events.
A rainy night had been followed by a glorious morning, and the
heath-covered country-side with the glowing clumps of flowering gorse
seemed all the more beautiful to eyes which were weary of the duns and
drabs and slate-greys of London. Holmes and I walked along the broad,
sandy road inhaling the fresh morning air, and rejoicing in the music of
the birds and the fresh breath of the spring. From a rise of the road on
the shoulder of Crooksbury Hill we could see the grim Hall bristling
out from amidst the ancient oaks, which, old as they were, were still
younger than the building which they surrounded. Holmes pointed down the
long tract of road which wound, a reddish yellow band, between the brown
of the heath and the budding green of the woods. Far away, a black
dot, we could see a vehicle moving in our direction. Holmes gave an
exclamation of impatience.
“I had given a margin of half an hour,” said he. “If that is her trap
she must be making for the earlier train. I fear, Watson, that she will
be past Charlington before we can possibly meet her.”
From the instant that we passed the rise we could no longer see the
vehicle, but we hastened onwards at such a pace that my sedentary life
began to tell upon me, and I was compelled to fall behind. Holmes,
however, was always in training, for he had inexhaustible stores of
nervous energy upon which to draw. His springy step never slowed until
suddenly, when he was a hundred yards in front of me, he halted, and I
saw him throw up his hand with a gesture of grief and despair. At the
same instant an empty dog-cart, the horse cantering, the reins trailing,
appeared round the curve of the road and rattled swiftly towards us.
“Too late, Watson; too late!” cried Holmes, as I ran panting to his
side. “Fool that I was not to allow for that earlier train! It's
abduction, Watson--abduction! Murder! Heaven knows what! Block the road!
Stop the horse! That's right. Now, jump in, and let us see if I can
repair the consequences of my own blunder.”
We had sprung into the dog-cart, and Holmes, after turning the horse,
gave it a sharp cut with the whip, and we flew back along the road. As
we turned the curve the whole stretch of road between the Hall and the
heath was opened up. I grasped Holmes's arm.
“That's the man!” I gasped.
A solitary cyclist was coming towards us. His head was down and his
shoulders rounded as he put every ounce of energy that he possessed
on to the pedals. He was flying like a racer. Suddenly he raised his
bearded face, saw us close to him, and pulled up, springing from his
machine. That coal-black beard was in singular contrast to the pallor of
his face, and his eyes were as bright as if he had a fever. He stared at
us and at the dog-cart. Then a look of amazement came over his face.
“Halloa! Stop there!” he shouted, holding his bicycle to block our road.
“Where did you get that dog-cart? Pull up, man!” he yelled, drawing a
pistol from his side pocket. “Pull up, I say, or, by George, I'll put a
bullet into your horse.”
Holmes threw the reins into my lap and sprang down from the cart.
“You're the man we want to see. Where is Miss Violet Smith?” he said, in
his quick, clear way.
“That's what I am asking you. You're in her dog-cart. You ought to know
where she is.”
“We met the dog-cart on the road. There was no one in it. We drove back
to help the young lady.”
“Good Lord! Good Lord! what shall I do?” cried the stranger, in an
ecstasy of despair. “They've got her, that hellhound Woodley and the
blackguard parson. Come, man, come, if you really are her friend. Stand
by me and we'll save her, if I have to leave my carcass in Charlington
Wood.”
He ran distractedly, his pistol in his hand, towards a gap in the hedge.
Holmes followed him, and I, leaving the horse grazing beside the road,
followed Holmes.
“This is where they came through,” said he, pointing to the marks of
several feet upon the muddy path. “Halloa! Stop a minute! Who's this in
the bush?”
It was a young fellow about seventeen, dressed like an ostler, with
leather cords and gaiters. He lay upon his back, his knees drawn up, a
terrible cut upon his head. He was insensible, but alive. A glance at
his wound told me that it had not penetrated the bone.
“That's Peter, the groom,” cried the stranger. “He drove her. The beasts
have pulled him off and clubbed him. Let him lie; we can't do him any
good, but we may save her from the worst fate that can befall a woman.”
We ran frantically down the path, which wound among the trees. We had
reached the shrubbery which surrounded the house when Holmes pulled up.
“They didn't go to the house. Here are their marks on the left--here,
beside the laurel bushes! Ah, I said so!”
As he spoke a woman's shrill scream--a scream which vibrated with a
frenzy of horror--burst from the thick green clump of bushes in front of
us. It ended suddenly on its highest note with a choke and a gurgle.
“This way! This way! They are in the bowling alley,” cried the
stranger, darting through the bushes. “Ah, the cowardly dogs! Follow me,
gentlemen! Too late! too late! by the living Jingo!”
We had broken suddenly into a lovely glade of greensward surrounded by
ancient trees. On the farther side of it, under the shadow of a mighty
oak, there stood a singular group of three people. One was a woman, our
client, drooping and faint, a handkerchief round her mouth. Opposite her
stood a brutal, heavy-faced, red-moustached young man, his gaitered legs
parted wide, one arm akimbo, the other waving a riding-crop, his whole
attitude suggestive of triumphant bravado. Between them an elderly,
grey-bearded man, wearing a short surplice over a light tweed suit,
had evidently just completed the wedding service, for he pocketed his
prayer-book as we appeared and slapped the sinister bridegroom upon the
back in jovial congratulation.
“They're married!” I gasped.
“Come on!” cried our guide; “come on!” He rushed across the glade,
Holmes and I at his heels. As we approached, the lady staggered against
the trunk of the tree for support. Williamson, the ex-clergyman, bowed
to us with mock politeness, and the bully Woodley advanced with a shout
of brutal and exultant laughter.
“You can take your beard off, Bob,” said he. “I know you right enough.
Well, you and your pals have just come in time for me to be able to
introduce you to Mrs. Woodley.”
Our guide's answer was a singular one. He snatched off the dark beard
which had disguised him and threw it on the ground, disclosing a long,
sallow, clean-shaven face below it. Then he raised his revolver and
covered the young ruffian, who was advancing upon him with his dangerous
riding-crop swinging in his hand.
“Yes,” said our ally, “I AM Bob Carruthers, and I'll see this woman
righted if I have to swing for it. I told you what I'd do if you
molested her, and, by the Lord, I'll be as good as my word!”
“You're too late. She's my wife!”
“No, she's your widow.”
His revolver cracked, and I saw the blood spurt from the front of
Woodley's waistcoat. He spun round with a scream and fell upon his back,
his hideous red face turning suddenly to a dreadful mottled pallor. The
old man, still clad in his surplice, burst into such a string of foul
oaths as I have never heard, and pulled out a revolver of his own, but
before he could raise it he was looking down the barrel of Holmes's
weapon.
“Enough of this,” said my friend, coldly. “Drop that pistol! Watson,
pick it up! Hold it to his head! Thank you. You, Carruthers, give me
that revolver. We'll have no more violence. Come, hand it over!”
“Who are you, then?”
“My name is Sherlock Holmes.”
“Good Lord!”
“You have heard of me, I see. I will represent the official police until
their arrival. Here, you!” he shouted to a frightened groom who had
appeared at the edge of the glade. “Come here. Take this note as hard as
you can ride to Farnham.” He scribbled a few words upon a leaf from his
note-book. “Give it to the superintendent at the police-station. Until
he comes I must detain you all under my personal custody.”
The strong, masterful personality of Holmes dominated the tragic scene,
and all were equally puppets in his hands. Williamson and Carruthers
found themselves carrying the wounded Woodley into the house, and I gave
my arm to the frightened girl. The injured man was laid on his bed, and
at Holmes's request I examined him. I carried my report to where he sat
in the old tapestry-hung dining-room with his two prisoners before him.
“He will live,” said I.
“What!” cried Carruthers, springing out of his chair. “I'll go upstairs
and finish him first. Do you tell me that that girl, that angel, is to
be tied to Roaring Jack Woodley for life?”
“You need not concern yourself about that,” said Holmes. “There are two
very good reasons why she should under no circumstances be his wife. In
the first place, we are very safe in questioning Mr. Williamson's right
to solemnize a marriage.”
“I have been ordained,” cried the old rascal.
“And also unfrocked.”
“Once a clergyman, always a clergyman.”
“I think not. How about the license?”
“We had a license for the marriage. I have it here in my pocket.”
“Then you got it by a trick. But in any case a forced marriage is no
marriage, but it is a very serious felony, as you will discover before
you have finished. You'll have time to think the point out during the
next ten years or so, unless I am mistaken. As to you, Carruthers, you
would have done better to keep your pistol in your pocket.”
“I begin to think so, Mr. Holmes; but when I thought of all the
precaution I had taken to shield this girl--for I loved her, Mr. Holmes,
and it is the only time that ever I knew what love was--it fairly drove
me mad to think that she was in the power of the greatest brute and
bully in South Africa, a man whose name is a holy terror from Kimberley
to Johannesburg. Why, Mr. Holmes, you'll hardly believe it, but ever
since that girl has been in my employment I never once let her go past
this house, where I knew these rascals were lurking, without following
her on my bicycle just to see that she came to no harm. I kept my
distance from her, and I wore a beard so that she should not recognise
me, for she is a good and high-spirited girl, and she wouldn't have
stayed in my employment long if she had thought that I was following her
about the country roads.”
“Why didn't you tell her of her danger?”
“Because then, again, she would have left me, and I couldn't bear to
face that. Even if she couldn't love me it was a great deal to me just
to see her dainty form about the house, and to hear the sound of her
voice.”
“Well,” said I, “you call that love, Mr. Carruthers, but I should call
it selfishness.”
“Maybe the two things go together. Anyhow, I couldn't let her go.
Besides, with this crowd about, it was well that she should have someone
near to look after her. Then when the cable came I knew they were bound
to make a move.”
“What cable?”
Carruthers took a telegram from his pocket.
“That's it,” said he.
It was short and concise:--
“The old man is dead.”
“Hum!” said Holmes. “I think I see how things worked, and I can
understand how this message would, as you say, bring them to a head. But
while we wait you might tell me what you can.”
The old reprobate with the surplice burst into a volley of bad language.
“By Heaven,” said he, “if you squeal on us, Bob Carruthers, I'll serve
you as you served Jack Woodley. You can bleat about the girl to your
heart's content, for that's your own affair, but if you round on your
pals to this plain-clothes copper it will be the worst day's work that
ever you did.”
“Your reverence need not be excited,” said Holmes, lighting a cigarette.
“The case is clear enough against you, and all I ask is a few details
for my private curiosity. However, if there's any difficulty in your
telling me I'll do the talking, and then you will see how far you have
a chance of holding back your secrets. In the first place, three of you
came from South Africa on this game--you Williamson, you Carruthers, and
Woodley.”
“Lie number one,” said the old man; “I never saw either of them until
two months ago, and I have never been in Africa in my life, so you can
put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr. Busybody Holmes!”
“What he says is true,” said Carruthers.
“Well, well, two of you came over. His reverence is our own home-made
article. You had known Ralph Smith in South Africa. You had reason
to believe he would not live long. You found out that his niece would
inherit his fortune. How's that--eh?”
Carruthers nodded and Williamson swore.
“She was next-of-kin, no doubt, and you were aware that the old fellow
would make no will.”
“Couldn't read or write,” said Carruthers.
“So you came over, the two of you, and hunted up the girl. The idea
was that one of you was to marry her and the other have a share of the
plunder. For some reason Woodley was chosen as the husband. Why was
that?”
“We played cards for her on the voyage. He won.”
“I see. You got the young lady into your service, and there Woodley was
to do the courting. She recognised the drunken brute that he was, and
would have nothing to do with him. Meanwhile, your arrangement was
rather upset by the fact that you had yourself fallen in love with the
lady. You could no longer bear the idea of this ruffian owning her.”
“No, by George, I couldn't!”
“There was a quarrel between you. He left you in a rage, and began to
make his own plans independently of you.”
“It strikes me, Williamson, there isn't very much that we can tell this
gentleman,” cried Carruthers, with a bitter laugh. “Yes, we quarreled,
and he knocked me down. I am level with him on that, anyhow. Then I lost
sight of him. That was when he picked up with this cast padre here. I
found that they had set up house-keeping together at this place on the
line that she had to pass for the station. I kept my eye on her after
that, for I knew there was some devilry in the wind. I saw them from
time to time, for I was anxious to know what they were after. Two days
ago Woodley came up to my house with this cable, which showed that Ralph
Smith was dead. He asked me if I would stand by the bargain. I said I
would not. He asked me if I would marry the girl myself and give him a
share. I said I would willingly do so, but that she would not have me.
He said, 'Let us get her married first, and after a week or two she
may see things a bit different.' I said I would have nothing to do with
violence. So he went off cursing, like the foul-mouthed blackguard that
he was, and swearing that he would have her yet. She was leaving me this
week-end, and I had got a trap to take her to the station, but I was
so uneasy in my mind that I followed her on my bicycle. She had got a
start, however, and before I could catch her the mischief was done. The
first thing I knew about it was when I saw you two gentlemen driving
back in her dog-cart.”
Holmes rose and tossed the end of his cigarette into the grate. “I have
been very obtuse, Watson,” said he. “When in your report you said that
you had seen the cyclist as you thought arrange his necktie in
the shrubbery, that alone should have told me all. However, we may
congratulate ourselves upon a curious and in some respects a unique
case. I perceive three of the county constabulary in the drive, and I am
glad to see that the little ostler is able to keep pace with them; so
it is likely that neither he nor the interesting bridegroom will be
permanently damaged by their morning's adventures. I think, Watson, that
in your medical capacity you might wait upon Miss Smith and tell her
that if she is sufficiently recovered we shall be happy to escort her to
her mother's home. If she is not quite convalescent you will find that
a hint that we were about to telegraph to a young electrician in the
Midlands would probably complete the cure. As to you, Mr. Carruthers, I
think that you have done what you could to make amends for your share in
an evil plot. There is my card, sir, and if my evidence can be of help
to you in your trial it shall be at your disposal.”
In the whirl of our incessant activity it has often been difficult for
me, as the reader has probably observed, to round off my narratives, and
to give those final details which the curious might expect. Each case
has been the prelude to another, and the crisis once over the actors
have passed for ever out of our busy lives. I find, however, a short
note at the end of my manuscripts dealing with this case, in which I
have put it upon record that Miss Violet Smith did indeed inherit a
large fortune, and that she is now the wife of Cyril Morton, the senior
partner of Morton & Kennedy, the famous Westminster electricians.
Williamson and Woodley were both tried for abduction and assault, the
former getting seven years and the latter ten. Of the fate of Carruthers
I have no record, but I am sure that his assault was not viewed very
gravely by the Court, since Woodley had the reputation of being a most
dangerous ruffian, and I think that a few months were sufficient to
satisfy the demands of justice.
*****
THE STRAND MAGAZINE
Vol. 27 FEBRUARY, 1904
THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.
By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.
|
iv_the_adventure_of_the_solitary_cyclist
|
V.--The Adventure of the Priory School.
|
The Return of Sherlock Holmes
|
WE have had some dramatic entrances and exits upon our small stage at
Baker Street, but I cannot recollect anything more sudden and startling
than the first appearance of Thorneycroft Huxtable, M.A., Ph.D., etc.
His card, which seemed too small to carry the weight of his academic
distinctions, preceded him by a few seconds, and then he entered
himself--so large, so pompous, and so dignified that he was the very
embodiment of self-possession and solidity. And yet his first action
when the door had closed behind him was to stagger against the table,
whence he slipped down upon the floor, and there was that majestic
figure prostrate and insensible upon our bearskin hearthrug.
We had sprung to our feet, and for a few moments we stared in silent
amazement at this ponderous piece of wreckage, which told of some sudden
and fatal storm far out on the ocean of life. Then Holmes hurried with
a cushion for his head and I with brandy for his lips. The heavy white
face was seamed with lines of trouble, the hanging pouches under the
closed eyes were leaden in colour, the loose mouth drooped dolorously at
the corners, the rolling chins were unshaven. Collar and shirt bore
the grime of a long journey, and the hair bristled unkempt from the
well-shaped head. It was a sorely-stricken man who lay before us.
“What is it, Watson?” asked Holmes.
“Absolute exhaustion--possibly mere hunger and fatigue,” said I, with my
finger on the thready pulse, where the stream of life trickled thin and
small.
“Return ticket from Mackleton, in the North of England,” said Holmes,
drawing it from the watch-pocket. “It is not twelve o'clock yet. He has
certainly been an early starter.”
The puckered eyelids had begun to quiver, and now a pair of vacant, grey
eyes looked up at us. An instant later the man had scrambled on to his
feet, his face crimson with shame.
“Forgive this weakness, Mr. Holmes; I have been a little overwrought.
Thank you, if I might have a glass of milk and a biscuit I have no doubt
that I should be better. I came personally, Mr. Holmes, in order to
ensure that you would return with me. I feared that no telegram would
convince you of the absolute urgency of the case.”
“When you are quite restored---”
“I am quite well again. I cannot imagine how I came to be so weak. I
wish you, Mr. Holmes, to come to Mackleton with me by the next train.”
My friend shook his head.
“My colleague, Dr. Watson, could tell you that we are very busy at
present. I am retained in this case of the Ferrers Documents, and the
Abergavenny murder is coming up for trial. Only a very important issue
could call me from London at present.”
“Important!” Our visitor threw up his hands. “Have you heard nothing of
the abduction of the only son of the Duke of Holdernesse?”
“What! the late Cabinet Minister?”
“Exactly. We had tried to keep it out of the papers, but there was some
rumour in the GLOBE last night. I thought it might have reached your
ears.”
Holmes shot out his long, thin arm and picked out Volume “H” in his
encyclopaedia of reference.
“'Holdernesse, 6th Duke, K.G., P.C.'--half the alphabet! 'Baron
Beverley, Earl of Carston'--dear me, what a list! 'Lord Lieutenant
of Hallamshire since 1900. Married Edith, daughter of Sir Charles
Appledore, 1888. Heir and only child, Lord Saltire. Owns about two
hundred and fifty thousand acres. Minerals in Lancashire and Wales.
Address: Carlton House Terrace; Holdernesse Hall, Hallamshire; Carston
Castle, Bangor, Wales. Lord of the Admiralty, 1872; Chief Secretary
of State for--' Well, well, this man is certainly one of the greatest
subjects of the Crown!”
“The greatest and perhaps the wealthiest. I am aware, Mr. Holmes, that
you take a very high line in professional matters, and that you are
prepared to work for the work's sake. I may tell you, however, that his
Grace has already intimated that a cheque for five thousand pounds will
be handed over to the person who can tell him where his son is, and
another thousand to him who can name the man, or men, who have taken
him.”
“It is a princely offer,” said Holmes. “Watson, I think that we shall
accompany Dr. Huxtable back to the North of England. And now, Dr.
Huxtable, when you have consumed that milk you will kindly tell me what
has happened, when it happened, how it happened, and, finally, what Dr.
Thorneycroft Huxtable, of the Priory School, near Mackleton, has to do
with the matter, and why he comes three days after an event--the state
of your chin gives the date--to ask for my humble services.”
Our visitor had consumed his milk and biscuits. The light had come back
to his eyes and the colour to his cheeks as he set himself with great
vigour and lucidity to explain the situation.
“I must inform you, gentlemen, that the Priory is a preparatory school,
of which I am the founder and principal. 'Huxtable's Sidelights on
Horace' may possibly recall my name to your memories. The Priory is,
without exception, the best and most select preparatory school
in England. Lord Leverstoke, the Earl of Blackwater, Sir Cathcart
Soames--they all have entrusted their sons to me. But I felt that
my school had reached its zenith when, three weeks ago, the Duke of
Holdernesse sent Mr. James Wilder, his secretary, with the intimation
that young Lord Saltire, ten years old, his only son and heir, was about
to be committed to my charge. Little did I think that this would be the
prelude to the most crushing misfortune of my life.
“On May 1st the boy arrived, that being the beginning of the summer
term. He was a charming youth, and he soon fell into our ways. I may
tell you--I trust that I am not indiscreet, but half-confidences are
absurd in such a case--that he was not entirely happy at home. It is an
open secret that the Duke's married life had not been a peaceful one,
and the matter had ended in a separation by mutual consent, the Duchess
taking up her residence in the South of France. This had occurred very
shortly before, and the boy's sympathies are known to have been strongly
with his mother. He moped after her departure from Holdernesse Hall,
and it was for this reason that the Duke desired to send him to my
establishment. In a fortnight the boy was quite at home with us, and was
apparently absolutely happy.
“He was last seen on the night of May 13th--that is, the night of last
Monday. His room was on the second floor, and was approached through
another larger room in which two boys were sleeping. These boys saw and
heard nothing, so that it is certain that young Saltire did not pass out
that way. His window was open, and there is a stout ivy plant leading to
the ground. We could trace no footmarks below, but it is sure that this
is the only possible exit.
“His absence was discovered at seven o'clock on Tuesday morning. His bed
had been slept in. He had dressed himself fully before going off in his
usual school suit of black Eton jacket and dark grey trousers. There
were no signs that anyone had entered the room, and it is quite certain
that anything in the nature of cries, or a struggle, would have been
heard, since Caunter, the elder boy in the inner room, is a very light
sleeper.
“When Lord Saltire's disappearance was discovered I at once called a
roll of the whole establishment, boys, masters, and servants. It was
then that we ascertained that Lord Saltire had not been alone in his
flight. Heidegger, the German master, was missing. His room was on the
second floor, at the farther end of the building, facing the same way
as Lord Saltire's. His bed had also been slept in; but he had apparently
gone away partly dressed, since his shirt and socks were lying on the
floor. He had undoubtedly let himself down by the ivy, for we could see
the marks of his feet where he had landed on the lawn. His bicycle was
kept in a small shed beside this lawn, and it also was gone.
“He had been with me for two years, and came with the best references;
but he was a silent, morose man, not very popular either with masters
or boys. No trace could be found of the fugitives, and now on Thursday
morning we are as ignorant as we were on Tuesday. Inquiry was, of
course, made at once at Holdernesse Hall. It is only a few miles away,
and we imagined that in some sudden attack of home-sickness he had
gone back to his father; but nothing had been heard of him. The Duke is
greatly agitated--and as to me, you have seen yourselves the state of
nervous prostration to which the suspense and the responsibility have
reduced me. Mr. Holmes, if ever you put forward your full powers, I
implore you to do so now, for never in your life could you have a case
which is more worthy of them.”
Sherlock Holmes had listened with the utmost intentness to the statement
of the unhappy schoolmaster. His drawn brows and the deep furrow
between them showed that he needed no exhortation to concentrate all
his attention upon a problem which, apart from the tremendous interests
involved, must appeal so directly to his love of the complex and the
unusual. He now drew out his note-book and jotted down one or two
memoranda.
“You have been very remiss in not coming to me sooner,” said he,
severely. “You start me on my investigation with a very serious
handicap. It is inconceivable, for example, that this ivy and this lawn
would have yielded nothing to an expert observer.”
“I am not to blame, Mr. Holmes. His Grace was extremely desirous to
avoid all public scandal. He was afraid of his family unhappiness being
dragged before the world. He has a deep horror of anything of the kind.”
“But there has been some official investigation?”
“Yes, sir, and it has proved most disappointing. An apparent clue was
at once obtained, since a boy and a young man were reported to have been
seen leaving a neighbouring station by an early train. Only last night
we had news that the couple had been hunted down in Liverpool, and they
prove to have no connection whatever with the matter in hand. Then it
was that in my despair and disappointment, after a sleepless night, I
came straight to you by the early train.”
“I suppose the local investigation was relaxed while this false clue was
being followed up?”
“It was entirely dropped.”
“So that three days have been wasted. The affair has been most
deplorably handled.”
“I feel it, and admit it.”
“And yet the problem should be capable of ultimate solution. I shall be
very happy to look into it. Have you been able to trace any connection
between the missing boy and this German master?”
“None at all.”
“Was he in the master's class?”
“No; he never exchanged a word with him so far as I know.”
“That is certainly very singular. Had the boy a bicycle?”
“No.”
“Was any other bicycle missing?”
“No.”
“Is that certain?”
“Quite.”
“Well, now, you do not mean to seriously suggest that this German rode
off upon a bicycle in the dead of the night bearing the boy in his
arms?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then what is the theory in your mind?”
“The bicycle may have been a blind. It may have been hidden somewhere
and the pair gone off on foot.”
“Quite so; but it seems rather an absurd blind, does it not? Were there
other bicycles in this shed?”
“Several.”
“Would he not have hidden A COUPLE had he desired to give the idea that
they had gone off upon them?”
“I suppose he would.”
“Of course he would. The blind theory won't do. But the incident is an
admirable starting-point for an investigation. After all, a bicycle
is not an easy thing to conceal or to destroy. One other question. Did
anyone call to see the boy on the day before he disappeared?”
“No.”
“Did he get any letters?”
“Yes; one letter.”
“From whom?”
“From his father.”
“Do you open the boys' letters?”
“No.”
“How do you know it was from the father?”
“The coat of arms was on the envelope, and it was addressed in the
Duke's peculiar stiff hand. Besides, the Duke remembers having written.”
“When had he a letter before that?”
“Not for several days.”
“Had he ever one from France?”
“No; never.
“You see the point of my questions, of course. Either the boy was
carried off by force or he went of his own free will. In the latter case
you would expect that some prompting from outside would be needed to
make so young a lad do such a thing. If he has had no visitors, that
prompting must have come in letters. Hence I try to find out who were
his correspondents.”
“I fear I cannot help you much. His only correspondent, so far as I
know, was his own father.”
“Who wrote to him on the very day of his disappearance. Were the
relations between father and son very friendly?”
“His Grace is never very friendly with anyone. He is completely immersed
in large public questions, and is rather inaccessible to all ordinary
emotions. But he was always kind to the boy in his own way.”
“But the sympathies of the latter were with the mother?”
“Yes.”
“Did he say so?”
“No.”
“The Duke, then?”
“Good heavens, no!”
“Then how could you know?”
“I have had some confidential talks with Mr. James Wilder, his Grace's
secretary. It was he who gave me the information about Lord Saltire's
feelings.”
“I see. By the way, that last letter of the Duke's--was it found in the
boy's room after he was gone?”
“No; he had taken it with him. I think, Mr. Holmes, it is time that we
were leaving for Euston.”
“I will order a four-wheeler. In a quarter of an hour we shall be at
your service. If you are telegraphing home, Mr. Huxtable, it would
be well to allow the people in your neighbourhood to imagine that
the inquiry is still going on in Liverpool, or wherever else that red
herring led your pack. In the meantime I will do a little quiet work at
your own doors, and perhaps the scent is not so cold but that two old
hounds like Watson and myself may get a sniff of it.”
That evening found us in the cold, bracing atmosphere of the Peak
country, in which Dr. Huxtable's famous school is situated. It was
already dark when we reached it. A card was lying on the hall table,
and the butler whispered something to his master, who turned to us with
agitation in every heavy feature.
“The Duke is here,” said he. “The Duke and Mr. Wilder are in the study.
Come, gentlemen, and I will introduce you.”
I was, of course, familiar with the pictures of the famous statesman,
but the man himself was very different from his representation. He was a
tall and stately person, scrupulously dressed, with a drawn, thin face,
and a nose which was grotesquely curved and long. His complexion was
of a dead pallor, which was more startling by contrast with a long,
dwindling beard of vivid red, which flowed down over his white
waistcoat, with his watch-chain gleaming through its fringe. Such was
the stately presence who looked stonily at us from the centre of
Dr. Huxtable's hearthrug. Beside him stood a very young man, whom I
understood to be Wilder, the private secretary. He was small, nervous,
alert, with intelligent, light-blue eyes and mobile features. It was he
who at once, in an incisive and positive tone, opened the conversation.
“I called this morning, Dr. Huxtable, too late to prevent you from
starting for London. I learned that your object was to invite Mr.
Sherlock Holmes to undertake the conduct of this case. His Grace is
surprised, Dr. Huxtable, that you should have taken such a step without
consulting him.”
“When I learned that the police had failed----”
“His Grace is by no means convinced that the police have failed.”
“But surely, Mr. Wilder----”
“You are well aware, Dr. Huxtable, that his Grace is particularly
anxious to avoid all public scandal. He prefers to take as few people as
possible into his confidence.”
“The matter can be easily remedied,” said the brow-beaten doctor; “Mr.
Sherlock Holmes can return to London by the morning train.”
“Hardly that, Doctor, hardly that,” said Holmes, in his blandest voice.
“This northern air is invigorating and pleasant, so I propose to spend a
few days upon your moors, and to occupy my mind as best I may. Whether
I have the shelter of your roof or of the village inn is, of course, for
you to decide.”
I could see that the unfortunate doctor was in the last stage of
indecision, from which he was rescued by the deep, sonorous voice of the
red-bearded Duke, which boomed out like a dinner-gong.
“I agree with Mr. Wilder, Dr. Huxtable, that you would have done wisely
to consult me. But since Mr. Holmes has already been taken into your
confidence, it would indeed be absurd that we should not avail ourselves
of his services. Far from going to the inn, Mr. Holmes, I should be
pleased if you would come and stay with me at Holdernesse Hall.”
“I thank your Grace. For the purposes of my investigation I think that
it would be wiser for me to remain at the scene of the mystery.”
“Just as you like, Mr. Holmes. Any information which Mr. Wilder or I can
give you is, of course, at your disposal.”
“It will probably be necessary for me to see you at the Hall,” said
Holmes. “I would only ask you now, sir, whether you have formed any
explanation in your own mind as to the mysterious disappearance of your
son?”
“No, sir, I have not.”
“Excuse me if I allude to that which is painful to you, but I have no
alternative. Do you think that the Duchess had anything to do with the
matter?”
The great Minister showed perceptible hesitation.
“I do not think so,” he said, at last.
“The other most obvious explanation is that the child has been kidnapped
for the purpose of levying ransom. You have not had any demand of the
sort?”
“No, sir.”
“One more question, your Grace. I understand that you wrote to your son
upon the day when this incident occurred.”
“No; I wrote upon the day before.”
“Exactly. But he received it on that day?”
“Yes.”
“Was there anything in your letter which might have unbalanced him or
induced him to take such a step?”
“No, sir, certainly not.”
“Did you post that letter yourself?”
The nobleman's reply was interrupted by his secretary, who broke in with
some heat.
“His Grace is not in the habit of posting letters himself,” said he.
“This letter was laid with others upon the study table, and I myself put
them in the post-bag.”
“You are sure this one was among them?”
“Yes; I observed it.”
“How many letters did your Grace write that day?”
“Twenty or thirty. I have a large correspondence. But surely this is
somewhat irrelevant?”
“Not entirely,” said Holmes.
“For my own part,” the Duke continued, “I have advised the police to
turn their attention to the South of France. I have already said that I
do not believe that the Duchess would encourage so monstrous an action,
but the lad had the most wrong-headed opinions, and it is possible that
he may have fled to her, aided and abetted by this German. I think, Dr.
Huxtable, that we will now return to the Hall.”
I could see that there were other questions which Holmes would have
wished to put; but the nobleman's abrupt manner showed that the
interview was at an end. It was evident that to his intensely
aristocratic nature this discussion of his intimate family affairs
with a stranger was most abhorrent, and that he feared lest every
fresh question would throw a fiercer light into the discreetly shadowed
corners of his ducal history.
When the nobleman and his secretary had left, my friend flung himself at
once with characteristic eagerness into the investigation.
The boy's chamber was carefully examined, and yielded nothing save the
absolute conviction that it was only through the window that he could
have escaped. The German master's room and effects gave no further clue.
In his case a trailer of ivy had given way under his weight, and we saw
by the light of a lantern the mark on the lawn where his heels had
come down. That one dint in the short green grass was the only material
witness left of this inexplicable nocturnal flight.
Sherlock Holmes left the house alone, and only returned after eleven.
He had obtained a large ordnance map of the neighbourhood, and this
he brought into my room, where he laid it out on the bed, and, having
balanced the lamp in the middle of it, he began to smoke over it, and
occasionally to point out objects of interest with the reeking amber of
his pipe.
“This case grows upon me, Watson,” said he. “There are decidedly some
points of interest in connection with it. In this early stage I want you
to realize those geographical features which may have a good deal to do
with our investigation.
GRAPHIC
“Look at this map. This dark square is the Priory School. I'll put a pin
in it. Now, this line is the main road. You see that it runs east and
west past the school, and you see also that there is no side road for
a mile either way. If these two folk passed away by road it was THIS
road.”
“Exactly.”
“By a singular and happy chance we are able to some extent to check
what passed along this road during the night in question. At this point,
where my pipe is now resting, a country constable was on duty from
twelve to six. It is, as you perceive, the first cross road on the east
side. This man declares that he was not absent from his post for an
instant, and he is positive that neither boy nor man could have gone
that way unseen. I have spoken with this policeman to-night, and he
appears to me to be a perfectly reliable person. That blocks this end.
We have now to deal with the other. There is an inn here, the Red Bull,
the landlady of which was ill. She had sent to Mackleton for a doctor,
but he did not arrive until morning, being absent at another case. The
people at the inn were alert all night, awaiting his coming, and one or
other of them seems to have continually had an eye upon the road. They
declare that no one passed. If their evidence is good, then we are
fortunate enough to be able to block the west, and also to be able to
say that the fugitives did NOT use the road at all.”
“But the bicycle?” I objected.
“Quite so. We will come to the bicycle presently. To continue our
reasoning: if these people did not go by the road, they must have
traversed the country to the north of the house or to the south of the
house. That is certain. Let us weigh the one against the other. On the
south of the house is, as you perceive, a large district of arable land,
cut up into small fields, with stone walls between them. There, I admit
that a bicycle is impossible. We can dismiss the idea. We turn to the
country on the north. Here there lies a grove of trees, marked as the
'Ragged Shaw,' and on the farther side stretches a great rolling moor,
Lower Gill Moor, extending for ten miles and sloping gradually upwards.
Here, at one side of this wilderness, is Holdernesse Hall, ten miles by
road, but only six across the moor. It is a peculiarly desolate plain. A
few moor farmers have small holdings, where they rear sheep and cattle.
Except these, the plover and the curlew are the only inhabitants until
you come to the Chesterfield high road. There is a church there,
you see, a few cottages, and an inn. Beyond that the hills become
precipitous. Surely it is here to the north that our quest must lie.”
“But the bicycle?” I persisted.
“Well, well!” said Holmes, impatiently. “A good cyclist does not need
a high road. The moor is intersected with paths and the moon was at the
full. Halloa! what is this?”
There was an agitated knock at the door, and an instant afterwards Dr.
Huxtable was in the room. In his hand he held a blue cricket-cap, with a
white chevron on the peak.
“At last we have a clue!” he cried. “Thank Heaven! at last we are on the
dear boy's track! It is his cap.”
“Where was it found?”
“In the van of the gipsies who camped on the moor. They left on Tuesday.
To-day the police traced them down and examined their caravan. This was
found.”
“How do they account for it?”
“They shuffled and lied--said that they found it on the moor on Tuesday
morning. They know where he is, the rascals! Thank goodness, they are
all safe under lock and key. Either the fear of the law or the Duke's
purse will certainly get out of them all that they know.”
“So far, so good,” said Holmes, when the doctor had at last left the
room. “It at least bears out the theory that it is on the side of the
Lower Gill Moor that we must hope for results. The police have really
done nothing locally, save the arrest of these gipsies. Look here,
Watson! There is a watercourse across the moor. You see it marked here
in the map. In some parts it widens into a morass. This is particularly
so in the region between Holdernesse Hall and the school. It is vain to
look elsewhere for tracks in this dry weather; but at THAT point there
is certainly a chance of some record being left. I will call you early
to-morrow morning, and you and I will try if we can throw some little
light upon the mystery.”
The day was just breaking when I woke to find the long, thin form of
Holmes by my bedside. He was fully dressed, and had apparently already
been out.
“I have done the lawn and the bicycle shed,” said he. “I have also had a
ramble through the Ragged Shaw. Now, Watson, there is cocoa ready in the
next room. I must beg you to hurry, for we have a great day before us.”
His eyes shone, and his cheek was flushed with the exhilaration of the
master workman who sees his work lie ready before him. A very different
Holmes, this active, alert man, from the introspective and pallid
dreamer of Baker Street. I felt, as I looked upon that supple figure,
alive with nervous energy, that it was indeed a strenuous day that
awaited us.
And yet it opened in the blackest disappointment. With high hopes we
struck across the peaty, russet moor, intersected with a thousand sheep
paths, until we came to the broad, light-green belt which marked the
morass between us and Holdernesse. Certainly, if the lad had gone
homewards, he must have passed this, and he could not pass it without
leaving his traces. But no sign of him or the German could be seen. With
a darkening face my friend strode along the margin, eagerly observant
of every muddy stain upon the mossy surface. Sheep-marks there were
in profusion, and at one place, some miles down, cows had left their
tracks. Nothing more.
“Check number one,” said Holmes, looking gloomily over the rolling
expanse of the moor. “There is another morass down yonder and a narrow
neck between. Halloa! halloa! halloa! what have we here?”
We had come on a small black ribbon of pathway. In the middle of it,
clearly marked on the sodden soil, was the track of a bicycle.
“Hurrah!” I cried. “We have it.”
But Holmes was shaking his head, and his face was puzzled and expectant
rather than joyous.
“A bicycle, certainly, but not THE bicycle,” said he. “I am familiar
with forty-two different impressions left by tyres. This, as you
perceive, is a Dunlop, with a patch upon the outer cover. Heidegger's
tyres were Palmer's, leaving longitudinal stripes. Aveling, the
mathematical master, was sure upon the point. Therefore, it is not
Heidegger's track.”
“The boy's, then?”
“Possibly, if we could prove a bicycle to have been in his possession.
But this we have utterly failed to do. This track, as you perceive, was
made by a rider who was going from the direction of the school.”
“Or towards it?”
“No, no, my dear Watson. The more deeply sunk impression is, of course,
the hind wheel, upon which the weight rests. You perceive several places
where it has passed across and obliterated the more shallow mark of the
front one. It was undoubtedly heading away from the school. It may or
may not be connected with our inquiry, but we will follow it backwards
before we go any farther.”
We did so, and at the end of a few hundred yards lost the tracks as
we emerged from the boggy portion of the moor. Following the path
backwards, we picked out another spot, where a spring trickled across
it. Here, once again, was the mark of the bicycle, though nearly
obliterated by the hoofs of cows. After that there was no sign, but
the path ran right on into Ragged Shaw, the wood which backed on to the
school. From this wood the cycle must have emerged. Holmes sat down on
a boulder and rested his chin in his hands. I had smoked two cigarettes
before he moved.
“Well, well,” said he, at last. “It is, of course, possible that a
cunning man might change the tyre of his bicycle in order to leave
unfamiliar tracks. A criminal who was capable of such a thought is a man
whom I should be proud to do business with. We will leave this question
undecided and hark back to our morass again, for we have left a good
deal unexplored.”
We continued our systematic survey of the edge of the sodden portion
of the moor, and soon our perseverance was gloriously rewarded. Right
across the lower part of the bog lay a miry path. Holmes gave a cry
of delight as he approached it. An impression like a fine bundle of
telegraph wires ran down the centre of it. It was the Palmer tyre.
“Here is Herr Heidegger, sure enough!” cried Holmes, exultantly. “My
reasoning seems to have been pretty sound, Watson.”
“I congratulate you.”
“But we have a long way still to go. Kindly walk clear of the path. Now
let us follow the trail. I fear that it will not lead very far.”
We found, however, as we advanced that this portion of the moor is
intersected with soft patches, and, though we frequently lost sight of
the track, we always succeeded in picking it up once more.
“Do you observe,” said Holmes, “that the rider is now undoubtedly
forcing the pace? There can be no doubt of it. Look at this impression,
where you get both tyres clear. The one is as deep as the other.
That can only mean that the rider is throwing his weight on to the
handle-bar, as a man does when he is sprinting. By Jove! he has had a
fall.”
There was a broad, irregular smudge covering some yards of the track.
Then there were a few footmarks, and the tyre reappeared once more.
“A side-slip,” I suggested.
Holmes held up a crumpled branch of flowering gorse. To my horror I
perceived that the yellow blossoms were all dabbled with crimson. On the
path, too, and among the heather were dark stains of clotted blood.
“Bad!” said Holmes. “Bad! Stand clear, Watson! Not an unnecessary
footstep! What do I read here? He fell wounded, he stood up, he
remounted, he proceeded. But there is no other track. Cattle on this
side path. He was surely not gored by a bull? Impossible! But I see no
traces of anyone else. We must push on, Watson. Surely with stains as
well as the track to guide us he cannot escape us now.”
Our search was not a very long one. The tracks of the tyre began to
curve fantastically upon the wet and shining path. Suddenly, as I
looked ahead, the gleam of metal caught my eye from amid the thick gorse
bushes. Out of them we dragged a bicycle, Palmer-tyred, one pedal bent,
and the whole front of it horribly smeared and slobbered with blood. On
the other side of the bushes a shoe was projecting. We ran round, and
there lay the unfortunate rider. He was a tall man, full bearded, with
spectacles, one glass of which had been knocked out. The cause of his
death was a frightful blow upon the head, which had crushed in part of
his skull. That he could have gone on after receiving such an injury
said much for the vitality and courage of the man. He wore shoes, but
no socks, and his open coat disclosed a night-shirt beneath it. It was
undoubtedly the German master.
Holmes turned the body over reverently, and examined it with great
attention. He then sat in deep thought for a time, and I could see
by his ruffled brow that this grim discovery had not, in his opinion,
advanced us much in our inquiry.
“It is a little difficult to know what to do, Watson,” said he, at last.
“My own inclinations are to push this inquiry on, for we have already
lost so much time that we cannot afford to waste another hour. On the
other hand, we are bound to inform the police of the discovery, and to
see that this poor fellow's body is looked after.”
“I could take a note back.”
“But I need your company and assistance. Wait a bit! There is a fellow
cutting peat up yonder. Bring him over here, and he will guide the
police.”
I brought the peasant across, and Holmes dispatched the frightened man
with a note to Dr. Huxtable.
“Now, Watson,” said he, “we have picked up two clues this morning. One
is the bicycle with the Palmer tyre, and we see what that has led to.
The other is the bicycle with the patched Dunlop. Before we start to
investigate that, let us try to realize what we DO know so as to make
the most of it, and to separate the essential from the accidental.”
“First of all I wish to impress upon you that the boy certainly left of
his own free will. He got down from his window and he went off, either
alone or with someone. That is sure.”
I assented.
“Well, now, let us turn to this unfortunate German master. The boy was
fully dressed when he fled. Therefore, he foresaw what he would do.
But the German went without his socks. He certainly acted on very short
notice.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Why did he go? Because, from his bedroom window, he saw the flight of
the boy. Because he wished to overtake him and bring him back. He seized
his bicycle, pursued the lad, and in pursuing him met his death.”
“So it would seem.”
“Now I come to the critical part of my argument. The natural action of
a man in pursuing a little boy would be to run after him. He would know
that he could overtake him. But the German does not do so. He turns to
his bicycle. I am told that he was an excellent cyclist. He would not do
this if he did not see that the boy had some swift means of escape.”
“The other bicycle.”
“Let us continue our reconstruction. He meets his death five miles
from the school--not by a bullet, mark you, which even a lad might
conceivably discharge, but by a savage blow dealt by a vigorous arm.
The lad, then, HAD a companion in his flight. And the flight was a swift
one, since it took five miles before an expert cyclist could overtake
them. Yet we survey the ground round the scene of the tragedy. What do
we find? A few cattle tracks, nothing more. I took a wide sweep round,
and there is no path within fifty yards. Another cyclist could have
had nothing to do with the actual murder. Nor were there any human
footmarks.”
“Holmes,” I cried, “this is impossible.”
“Admirable!” he said. “A most illuminating remark. It IS impossible as I
state it, and therefore I must in some respect have stated it wrong. Yet
you saw for yourself. Can you suggest any fallacy?”
“He could not have fractured his skull in a fall?”
“In a morass, Watson?”
“I am at my wit's end.”
“Tut, tut; we have solved some worse problems. At least we have plenty
of material, if we can only use it. Come, then, and, having exhausted
the Palmer, let us see what the Dunlop with the patched cover has to
offer us.”
We picked up the track and followed it onwards for some distance; but
soon the moor rose into a long, heather-tufted curve, and we left the
watercourse behind us. No further help from tracks could be hoped for.
At the spot where we saw the last of the Dunlop tyre it might equally
have led to Holdernesse Hall, the stately towers of which rose some
miles to our left, or to a low, grey village which lay in front of us,
and marked the position of the Chesterfield high road.
As we approached the forbidding and squalid inn, with the sign of a
game-cock above the door, Holmes gave a sudden groan and clutched me
by the shoulder to save himself from falling. He had had one of those
violent strains of the ankle which leave a man helpless. With difficulty
he limped up to the door, where a squat, dark, elderly man was smoking a
black clay pipe.
“How are you, Mr. Reuben Hayes?” said Holmes.
“Who are you, and how do you get my name so pat?” the countryman
answered, with a suspicious flash of a pair of cunning eyes.
“Well, it's printed on the board above your head. It's easy to see a man
who is master of his own house. I suppose you haven't such a thing as a
carriage in your stables?”
“No; I have not.”
“I can hardly put my foot to the ground.”
“Don't put it to the ground.”
“But I can't walk.”
“Well, then, hop.”
Mr. Reuben Hayes's manner was far from gracious, but Holmes took it with
admirable good-humour.
“Look here, my man,” said he. “This is really rather an awkward fix for
me. I don't mind how I get on.”
“Neither do I,” said the morose landlord.
“The matter is very important. I would offer you a sovereign for the use
of a bicycle.”
The landlord pricked up his ears.
“Where do you want to go?”
“To Holdernesse Hall.”
“Pals of the Dook, I suppose?” said the landlord, surveying our
mud-stained garments with ironical eyes.
Holmes laughed good-naturedly.
“He'll be glad to see us, anyhow.”
“Why?”
“Because we bring him news of his lost son.”
The landlord gave a very visible start.
“What, you're on his track?”
“He has been heard of in Liverpool. They expect to get him every hour.”
Again a swift change passed over the heavy, unshaven face. His manner
was suddenly genial.
“I've less reason to wish the Dook well than most men,” said he, “for I
was his head coachman once, and cruel bad he treated me. It was him that
sacked me without a character on the word of a lying corn-chandler. But
I'm glad to hear that the young lord was heard of in Liverpool, and I'll
help you to take the news to the Hall.”
“Thank you,” said Holmes. “We'll have some food first. Then you can
bring round the bicycle.”
“I haven't got a bicycle.”
Holmes held up a sovereign.
“I tell you, man, that I haven't got one. I'll let you have two horses
as far as the Hall.”
“Well, well,” said Holmes, “we'll talk about it when we've had something
to eat.”
When we were left alone in the stone-flagged kitchen it was astonishing
how rapidly that sprained ankle recovered. It was nearly nightfall, and
we had eaten nothing since early morning, so that we spent some time
over our meal. Holmes was lost in thought, and once or twice he walked
over to the window and stared earnestly out. It opened on to a squalid
courtyard. In the far corner was a smithy, where a grimy lad was at
work. On the other side were the stables. Holmes had sat down again
after one of these excursions, when he suddenly sprang out of his chair
with a loud exclamation.
“By Heaven, Watson, I believe that I've got it!” he cried. “Yes, yes, it
must be so. Watson, do you remember seeing any cow-tracks to-day?”
“Yes, several.”
“Where?”
“Well, everywhere. They were at the morass, and again on the path, and
again near where poor Heidegger met his death.”
“Exactly. Well, now, Watson, how many cows did you see on the moor?”
“I don't remember seeing any.”
“Strange, Watson, that we should see tracks all along our line, but
never a cow on the whole moor; very strange, Watson, eh?”
“Yes, it is strange.”
“Now, Watson, make an effort; throw your mind back! Can you see those
tracks upon the path?”
“Yes, I can.”
“Can you recall that the tracks were sometimes like that, Watson”--he
arranged a number of bread-crumbs in this fashion--:::::--“and sometimes
like this”--:.:.:.:. --“and occasionally like this”--. '. '. '. “Can you
remember that?”
“No, I cannot.”
“But I can. I could swear to it. However, we will go back at our
leisure and verify it. What a blind beetle I have been not to draw my
conclusion!”
“And what is your conclusion?”
“Only that it is a remarkable cow which walks, canters, and gallops. By
George, Watson, it was no brain of a country publican that thought out
such a blind as that! The coast seems to be clear, save for that lad in
the smithy. Let us slip out and see what we can see.”
There were two rough-haired, unkempt horses in the tumble-down stable.
Holmes raised the hind leg of one of them and laughed aloud.
“Old shoes, but newly shod--old shoes, but new nails. This case deserves
to be a classic. Let us go across to the smithy.”
The lad continued his work without regarding us. I saw Holmes's eye
darting to right and left among the litter of iron and wood which was
scattered about the floor. Suddenly, however, we heard a step behind
us, and there was the landlord, his heavy eyebrows drawn over his savage
eyes, his swarthy features convulsed with passion. He held a short,
metal-headed stick in his hand, and he advanced in so menacing a fashion
that I was right glad to feel the revolver in my pocket.
“You infernal spies!” the man cried. “What are you doing there?”
“Why, Mr. Reuben Hayes,” said Holmes, coolly, “one might think that you
were afraid of our finding something out.”
The man mastered himself with a violent effort, and his grim mouth
loosened into a false laugh, which was more menacing than his frown.
“You're welcome to all you can find out in my smithy,” said he. “But
look here, mister, I don't care for folk poking about my place without
my leave, so the sooner you pay your score and get out of this the
better I shall be pleased.”
“All right, Mr. Hayes--no harm meant,” said Holmes. “We have been having
a look at your horses, but I think I'll walk after all. It's not far, I
believe.”
“Not more than two miles to the Hall gates. That's the road to the
left.” He watched us with sullen eyes until we had left his premises.
We did not go very far along the road, for Holmes stopped the instant
that the curve hid us from the landlord's view.
“We were warm, as the children say, at that inn,” said he. “I seem
to grow colder every step that I take away from it. No, no; I can't
possibly leave it.”
“I am convinced,” said I, “that this Reuben Hayes knows all about it. A
more self-evident villain I never saw.”
“Oh! he impressed you in that way, did he? There are the horses, there
is the smithy. Yes, it is an interesting place, this Fighting Cock. I
think we shall have another look at it in an unobtrusive way.”
A long, sloping hillside, dotted with grey limestone boulders, stretched
behind us. We had turned off the road, and were making our way up
the hill, when, looking in the direction of Holdernesse Hall, I saw a
cyclist coming swiftly along.
“Get down, Watson!” cried Holmes, with a heavy hand upon my shoulder. We
had hardly sunk from view when the man flew past us on the road. Amid
a rolling cloud of dust I caught a glimpse of a pale, agitated face--a
face with horror in every lineament, the mouth open, the eyes staring
wildly in front. It was like some strange caricature of the dapper James
Wilder whom we had seen the night before.
“The Duke's secretary!” cried Holmes. “Come, Watson, let us see what he
does.”
We scrambled from rock to rock until in a few moments we had made
our way to a point from which we could see the front door of the inn.
Wilder's bicycle was leaning against the wall beside it. No one was
moving about the house, nor could we catch a glimpse of any faces at the
windows. Slowly the twilight crept down as the sun sank behind the high
towers of Holdernesse Hall. Then in the gloom we saw the two side-lamps
of a trap light up in the stable yard of the inn, and shortly afterwards
heard the rattle of hoofs, as it wheeled out into the road and tore off
at a furious pace in the direction of Chesterfield.
“What do you make of that, Watson?” Holmes whispered.
“It looks like a flight.”
“A single man in a dog-cart, so far as I could see. Well, it certainly
was not Mr. James Wilder, for there he is at the door.”
A red square of light had sprung out of the darkness. In the middle of
it was the black figure of the secretary, his head advanced, peering out
into the night. It was evident that he was expecting someone. Then at
last there were steps in the road, a second figure was visible for an
instant against the light, the door shut, and all was black once more.
Five minutes later a lamp was lit in a room upon the first floor.
“It seems to be a curious class of custom that is done by the Fighting
Cock,” said Holmes.
“The bar is on the other side.”
“Quite so. These are what one may call the private guests. Now, what in
the world is Mr. James Wilder doing in that den at this hour of night,
and who is the companion who comes to meet him there? Come, Watson,
we must really take a risk and try to investigate this a little more
closely.”
Together we stole down to the road and crept across to the door of the
inn. The bicycle still leaned against the wall. Holmes struck a match
and held it to the back wheel, and I heard him chuckle as the light fell
upon a patched Dunlop tyre. Up above us was the lighted window.
“I must have a peep through that, Watson. If you bend your back and
support yourself upon the wall, I think that I can manage.”
An instant later his feet were on my shoulders. But he was hardly up
before he was down again.
“Come, my friend,” said he, “our day's work has been quite long enough.
I think that we have gathered all that we can. It's a long walk to the
school, and the sooner we get started the better.”
He hardly opened his lips during that weary trudge across the moor, nor
would he enter the school when he reached it, but went on to Mackleton
Station, whence he could send some telegrams. Late at night I heard him
consoling Dr. Huxtable, prostrated by the tragedy of his master's death,
and later still he entered my room as alert and vigorous as he had been
when he started in the morning. “All goes well, my friend,” said he. “I
promise that before to-morrow evening we shall have reached the solution
of the mystery.”
At eleven o'clock next morning my friend and I were walking up the
famous yew avenue of Holdernesse Hall. We were ushered through the
magnificent Elizabethan doorway and into his Grace's study. There we
found Mr. James Wilder, demure and courtly, but with some trace of that
wild terror of the night before still lurking in his furtive eyes and in
his twitching features.
“You have come to see his Grace? I am sorry; but the fact is that the
Duke is far from well. He has been very much upset by the tragic news.
We received a telegram from Dr. Huxtable yesterday afternoon, which told
us of your discovery.”
“I must see the Duke, Mr. Wilder.”
“But he is in his room.”
“Then I must go to his room.”
“I believe he is in his bed.”
“I will see him there.”
Holmes's cold and inexorable manner showed the secretary that it was
useless to argue with him.
“Very good, Mr. Holmes; I will tell him that you are here.”
After half an hour's delay the great nobleman appeared. His face was
more cadaverous than ever, his shoulders had rounded, and he seemed to
me to be an altogether older man than he had been the morning before. He
greeted us with a stately courtesy and seated himself at his desk, his
red beard streaming down on to the table.
“Well, Mr. Holmes?” said he.
But my friend's eyes were fixed upon the secretary, who stood by his
master's chair.
“I think, your Grace, that I could speak more freely in Mr. Wilder's
absence.”
The man turned a shade paler and cast a malignant glance at Holmes.
“If your Grace wishes----”
“Yes, yes; you had better go. Now, Mr. Holmes, what have you to say?”
My friend waited until the door had closed behind the retreating
secretary.
“The fact is, your Grace,” said he, “that my colleague, Dr. Watson, and
myself had an assurance from Dr. Huxtable that a reward had been offered
in this case. I should like to have this confirmed from your own lips.”
“Certainly, Mr. Holmes.”
“It amounted, if I am correctly informed, to five thousand pounds to
anyone who will tell you where your son is?”
“Exactly.”
“And another thousand to the man who will name the person or persons who
keep him in custody?”
“Exactly.”
“Under the latter heading is included, no doubt, not only those who
may have taken him away, but also those who conspire to keep him in his
present position?”
“Yes, yes,” cried the Duke, impatiently. “If you do your work well,
Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you will have no reason to complain of niggardly
treatment.”
My friend rubbed his thin hands together with an appearance of avidity
which was a surprise to me, who knew his frugal tastes.
“I fancy that I see your Grace's cheque-book upon the table,” said he.
“I should be glad if you would make me out a cheque for six thousand
pounds. It would be as well, perhaps, for you to cross it. The Capital
and Counties Bank, Oxford Street branch, are my agents.”
His Grace sat very stern and upright in his chair, and looked stonily at
my friend.
“Is this a joke, Mr. Holmes? It is hardly a subject for pleasantry.”
“Not at all, your Grace. I was never more earnest in my life.”
“What do you mean, then?”
“I mean that I have earned the reward. I know where your son is, and I
know some, at least, of those who are holding him.”
The Duke's beard had turned more aggressively red than ever against his
ghastly white face.
“Where is he?” he gasped.
“He is, or was last night, at the Fighting Cock Inn, about two miles
from your park gate.”
The Duke fell back in his chair.
“And whom do you accuse?”
Sherlock Holmes's answer was an astounding one. He stepped swiftly
forward and touched the Duke upon the shoulder.
“I accuse YOU,” said he. “And now, your Grace, I'll trouble you for that
cheque.”
Never shall I forget the Duke's appearance as he sprang up and clawed
with his hands like one who is sinking into an abyss. Then, with an
extraordinary effort of aristocratic self-command, he sat down and sank
his face in his hands. It was some minutes before he spoke.
“How much do you know?” he asked at last, without raising his head.
“I saw you together last night.”
“Does anyone else besides your friend know?”
“I have spoken to no one.”
The Duke took a pen in his quivering fingers and opened his cheque-book.
“I shall be as good as my word, Mr. Holmes. I am about to write your
cheque, however unwelcome the information which you have gained may be
to me. When the offer was first made I little thought the turn which
events might take. But you and your friend are men of discretion, Mr.
Holmes?”
“I hardly understand your Grace.”
“I must put it plainly, Mr. Holmes. If only you two know of this
incident, there is no reason why it should go any farther. I think
twelve thousand pounds is the sum that I owe you, is it not?”
But Holmes smiled and shook his head.
“I fear, your Grace, that matters can hardly be arranged so easily.
There is the death of this schoolmaster to be accounted for.”
“But James knew nothing of that. You cannot hold him responsible for
that. It was the work of this brutal ruffian whom he had the misfortune
to employ.”
“I must take the view, your Grace, that when a man embarks upon a crime
he is morally guilty of any other crime which may spring from it.”
“Morally, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you are right. But surely not in the eyes
of the law. A man cannot be condemned for a murder at which he was not
present, and which he loathes and abhors as much as you do. The instant
that he heard of it he made a complete confession to me, so filled was
he with horror and remorse. He lost not an hour in breaking entirely
with the murderer. Oh, Mr. Holmes, you must save him--you must save
him! I tell you that you must save him!” The Duke had dropped the last
attempt at self-command, and was pacing the room with a convulsed face
and with his clenched hands raving in the air. At last he mastered
himself and sat down once more at his desk. “I appreciate your conduct
in coming here before you spoke to anyone else,” said he. “At least, we
may take counsel how far we can minimize this hideous scandal.”
“Exactly,” said Holmes. “I think, your Grace, that this can only be done
by absolute and complete frankness between us. I am disposed to help
your Grace to the best of my ability; but in order to do so I must
understand to the last detail how the matter stands. I realize that your
words applied to Mr. James Wilder, and that he is not the murderer.”
“No; the murderer has escaped.”
Sherlock Holmes smiled demurely.
“Your Grace can hardly have heard of any small reputation which I
possess, or you would not imagine that it is so easy to escape me. Mr.
Reuben Hayes was arrested at Chesterfield on my information at eleven
o'clock last night. I had a telegram from the head of the local police
before I left the school this morning.”
The Duke leaned back in his chair and stared with amazement at my
friend.
“You seem to have powers that are hardly human,” said he. “So Reuben
Hayes is taken? I am right glad to hear it, if it will not react upon
the fate of James.”
“Your secretary?”
“No, sir; my son.”
It was Holmes's turn to look astonished.
“I confess that this is entirely new to me, your Grace. I must beg you
to be more explicit.”
“I will conceal nothing from you. I agree with you that complete
frankness, however painful it may be to me, is the best policy in this
desperate situation to which James's folly and jealousy have reduced
us. When I was a very young man, Mr. Holmes, I loved with such a love
as comes only once in a lifetime. I offered the lady marriage, but she
refused it on the grounds that such a match might mar my career. Had she
lived I would certainly never have married anyone else. She died, and
left this one child, whom for her sake I have cherished and cared for.
I could not acknowledge the paternity to the world; but I gave him the
best of educations, and since he came to manhood I have kept him near
my person. He surprised my secret, and has presumed ever since upon the
claim which he has upon me and upon his power of provoking a scandal,
which would be abhorrent to me. His presence had something to do
with the unhappy issue of my marriage. Above all, he hated my young
legitimate heir from the first with a persistent hatred. You may well
ask me why, under these circumstances, I still kept James under my roof.
I answer that it was because I could see his mother's face in his, and
that for her dear sake there was no end to my long-suffering. All her
pretty ways, too--there was not one of them which he could not suggest
and bring back to my memory. I COULD not send him away. But I feared so
much lest he should do Arthur--that is, Lord Saltire--a mischief that I
dispatched him for safety to Dr. Huxtable's school.
“James came into contact with this fellow Hayes because the man was a
tenant of mine, and James acted as agent. The fellow was a rascal from
the beginning; but in some extraordinary way James became intimate with
him. He had always a taste for low company. When James determined
to kidnap Lord Saltire it was of this man's service that he availed
himself. You remember that I wrote to Arthur upon that last day. Well,
James opened the letter and inserted a note asking Arthur to meet him
in a little wood called the Ragged Shaw, which is near to the school.
He used the Duchess's name, and in that way got the boy to come. That
evening James bicycled over--I am telling you what he has himself
confessed to me--and he told Arthur, whom he met in the wood, that his
mother longed to see him, that she was awaiting him on the moor, and
that if he would come back into the wood at midnight he would find a man
with a horse, who would take him to her. Poor Arthur fell into the trap.
He came to the appointment and found this fellow Hayes with a led pony.
Arthur mounted, and they set off together. It appears--though this James
only heard yesterday--that they were pursued, that Hayes struck the
pursuer with his stick, and that the man died of his injuries. Hayes
brought Arthur to his public-house, the Fighting Cock, where he was
confined in an upper room, under the care of Mrs. Hayes, who is a kindly
woman, but entirely under the control of her brutal husband.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, that was the state of affairs when I first saw you
two days ago. I had no more idea of the truth than you. You will ask me
what was James's motive in doing such a deed. I answer that there was
a great deal which was unreasoning and fanatical in the hatred which
he bore my heir. In his view he should himself have been heir of all
my estates, and he deeply resented those social laws which made it
impossible. At the same time he had a definite motive also. He was eager
that I should break the entail, and he was of opinion that it lay in my
power to do so. He intended to make a bargain with me--to restore Arthur
if I would break the entail, and so make it possible for the estate
to be left to him by will. He knew well that I should never willingly
invoke the aid of the police against him. I say that he would have
proposed such a bargain to me, but he did not actually do so, for events
moved too quickly for him, and he had not time to put his plans into
practice.
“What brought all his wicked scheme to wreck was your discovery of this
man Heidegger's dead body. James was seized with horror at the news. It
came to us yesterday as we sat together in this study. Dr. Huxtable had
sent a telegram. James was so overwhelmed with grief and agitation that
my suspicions, which had never been entirely absent, rose instantly to
a certainty, and I taxed him with the deed. He made a complete voluntary
confession. Then he implored me to keep his secret for three days
longer, so as to give his wretched accomplice a chance of saving his
guilty life. I yielded--as I have always yielded--to his prayers, and
instantly James hurried off to the Fighting Cock to warn Hayes and
give him the means of flight. I could not go there by daylight without
provoking comment, but as soon as night fell I hurried off to see my
dear Arthur. I found him safe and well, but horrified beyond expression
by the dreadful deed he had witnessed. In deference to my promise, and
much against my will, I consented to leave him there for three days
under the charge of Mrs. Hayes, since it was evident that it was
impossible to inform the police where he was without telling them also
who was the murderer, and I could not see how that murderer could be
punished without ruin to my unfortunate James. You asked for frankness,
Mr. Holmes, and I have taken you at your word, for I have now told you
everything without an attempt at circumlocution or concealment. Do you
in turn be as frank with me.”
“I will,” said Holmes. “In the first place, your Grace, I am bound to
tell you that you have placed yourself in a most serious position in
the eyes of the law. You have condoned a felony and you have aided the
escape of a murderer; for I cannot doubt that any money which was taken
by James Wilder to aid his accomplice in his flight came from your
Grace's purse.”
The Duke bowed his assent.
“This is indeed a most serious matter. Even more culpable in my opinion,
your Grace, is your attitude towards your younger son. You leave him in
this den for three days.”
“Under solemn promises----”
“What are promises to such people as these? You have no guarantee that
he will not be spirited away again. To humour your guilty elder son
you have exposed your innocent younger son to imminent and unnecessary
danger. It was a most unjustifiable action.”
The proud lord of Holdernesse was not accustomed to be so rated in
his own ducal hall. The blood flushed into his high forehead, but his
conscience held him dumb.
“I will help you, but on one condition only. It is that you ring for the
footman and let me give such orders as I like.”
Without a word the Duke pressed the electric bell. A servant entered.
“You will be glad to hear,” said Holmes, “that your young master is
found. It is the Duke's desire that the carriage shall go at once to the
Fighting Cock Inn to bring Lord Saltire home.
“Now,” said Holmes, when the rejoicing lackey had disappeared, “having
secured the future, we can afford to be more lenient with the past. I am
not in an official position, and there is no reason, so long as the
ends of justice are served, why I should disclose all that I know. As to
Hayes I say nothing. The gallows awaits him, and I would do nothing
to save him from it. What he will divulge I cannot tell, but I have
no doubt that your Grace could make him understand that it is to his
interest to be silent. From the police point of view he will have
kidnapped the boy for the purpose of ransom. If they do not themselves
find it out I see no reason why I should prompt them to take a broader
point of view. I would warn your Grace, however, that the continued
presence of Mr. James Wilder in your household can only lead to
misfortune.”
“I understand that, Mr. Holmes, and it is already settled that he shall
leave me for ever and go to seek his fortune in Australia.”
“In that case, your Grace, since you have yourself stated that any
unhappiness in your married life was caused by his presence, I would
suggest that you make such amends as you can to the Duchess, and
that you try to resume those relations which have been so unhappily
interrupted.”
“That also I have arranged, Mr. Holmes. I wrote to the Duchess this
morning.”
“In that case,” said Holmes, rising, “I think that my friend and I can
congratulate ourselves upon several most happy results from our little
visit to the North. There is one other small point upon which I desire
some light. This fellow Hayes had shod his horses with shoes which
counterfeited the tracks of cows. Was it from Mr. Wilder that he learned
so extraordinary a device?”
The Duke stood in thought for a moment, with a look of intense surprise
on his face. Then he opened a door and showed us into a large room
furnished as a museum. He led the way to a glass case in a corner, and
pointed to the inscription.
“These shoes,” it ran, “were dug up in the moat of Holdernesse Hall.
They are for the use of horses; but they are shaped below with a cloven
foot of iron, so as to throw pursuers off the track. They are supposed
to have belonged to some of the marauding Barons of Holdernesse in the
Middle Ages.”
Holmes opened the case, and moistening his finger he passed it along the
shoe. A thin film of recent mud was left upon his skin.
“Thank you,” said he, as he replaced the glass. “It is the second most
interesting object that I have seen in the North.”
“And the first?”
Holmes folded up his cheque and placed it carefully in his note-book.
“I am a poor man,” said he, as he patted it affectionately and thrust it
into the depths of his inner pocket.
*****
THE STRAND MAGAZINE
Vol. 27 MARCH, 1904
THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.
By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.
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v_the_adventure_of_the_priory_school
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VI.--The Adventure of Black Peter.
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The Return of Sherlock Holmes
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I HAVE never known my friend to be in better form, both mental and
physical, than in the year '95. His increasing fame had brought with it
an immense practice, and I should be guilty of an indiscretion if I
were even to hint at the identity of some of the illustrious clients who
crossed our humble threshold in Baker Street. Holmes, however, like all
great artists, lived for his art's sake, and, save in the case of the
Duke of Holdernesse, I have seldom known him claim any large reward for
his inestimable services. So unworldly was he--or so capricious--that
he frequently refused his help to the powerful and wealthy where the
problem made no appeal to his sympathies, while he would devote weeks of
most intense application to the affairs of some humble client whose case
presented those strange and dramatic qualities which appealed to his
imagination and challenged his ingenuity.
In this memorable year '95 a curious and incongruous succession of cases
had engaged his attention, ranging from his famous investigation of the
sudden death of Cardinal Tosca--an inquiry which was carried out by him
at the express desire of His Holiness the Pope--down to his arrest of
Wilson, the notorious canary-trainer, which removed a plague-spot from
the East-End of London. Close on the heels of these two famous cases
came the tragedy of Woodman's Lee, and the very obscure circumstances
which surrounded the death of Captain Peter Carey. No record of the
doings of Mr. Sherlock Holmes would be complete which did not include
some account of this very unusual affair.
During the first week of July my friend had been absent so often and so
long from our lodgings that I knew he had something on hand. The fact
that several rough-looking men called during that time and inquired for
Captain Basil made me understand that Holmes was working somewhere under
one of the numerous disguises and names with which he concealed his own
formidable identity. He had at least five small refuges in different
parts of London in which he was able to change his personality. He
said nothing of his business to me, and it was not my habit to force a
confidence. The first positive sign which he gave me of the direction
which his investigation was taking was an extraordinary one. He had gone
out before breakfast, and I had sat down to mine, when he strode into
the room, his hat upon his head and a huge barbed-headed spear tucked
like an umbrella under his arm.
“Good gracious, Holmes!” I cried. “You don't mean to say that you have
been walking about London with that thing?”
“I drove to the butcher's and back.”
“The butcher's?”
“And I return with an excellent appetite. There can be no question,
my dear Watson, of the value of exercise before breakfast. But I am
prepared to bet that you will not guess the form that my exercise has
taken.”
“I will not attempt it.”
He chuckled as he poured out the coffee.
“If you could have looked into Allardyce's back shop you would have
seen a dead pig swung from a hook in the ceiling, and a gentleman in
his shirt-sleeves furiously stabbing at it with this weapon. I was that
energetic person, and I have satisfied myself that by no exertion of my
strength can I transfix the pig with a single blow. Perhaps you would
care to try?”
“Not for worlds. But why were you doing this?”
“Because it seemed to me to have an indirect bearing upon the mystery of
Woodman's Lee. Ah, Hopkins, I got your wire last night, and I have been
expecting you. Come and join us.”
Our visitor was an exceedingly alert man, thirty years of age, dressed
in a quiet tweed suit, but retaining the erect bearing of one who was
accustomed to official uniform. I recognised him at once as Stanley
Hopkins, a young police inspector for whose future Holmes had high
hopes, while he in turn professed the admiration and respect of a pupil
for the scientific methods of the famous amateur. Hopkins's brow was
clouded, and he sat down with an air of deep dejection.
“No, thank you, sir. I breakfasted before I came round. I spent the
night in town, for I came up yesterday to report.”
“And what had you to report?”
“Failure, sir; absolute failure.”
“You have made no progress?”
“None.”
“Dear me! I must have a look at the matter.”
“I wish to heavens that you would, Mr. Holmes. It's my first big chance,
and I am at my wit's end. For goodness' sake come down and lend me a
hand.”
“Well, well, it just happens that I have already read all the available
evidence, including the report of the inquest, with some care. By the
way, what do you make of that tobacco-pouch found on the scene of the
crime? Is there no clue there?”
Hopkins looked surprised.
“It was the man's own pouch, sir. His initials were inside it. And it
was of seal-skin--and he an old sealer.”
“But he had no pipe.”
“No, sir, we could find no pipe; indeed, he smoked very little. And yet
he might have kept some tobacco for his friends.”
“No doubt. I only mention it because if I had been handling the case
I should have been inclined to make that the starting-point of my
investigation. However, my friend Dr. Watson knows nothing of this
matter, and I should be none the worse for hearing the sequence of
events once more. Just give us some short sketch of the essentials.”
Stanley Hopkins drew a slip of paper from his pocket.
“I have a few dates here which will give you the career of the dead man,
Captain Peter Carey. He was born in '45--fifty years of age. He was a
most daring and successful seal and whale fisher. In 1883 he commanded
the steam sealer SEA UNICORN, of Dundee. He had then had several
successful voyages in succession, and in the following year, 1884, he
retired. After that he travelled for some years, and finally he bought
a small place called Woodman's Lee, near Forest Row, in Sussex. There he
has lived for six years, and there he died just a week ago to-day.
“There were some most singular points about the man. In ordinary life he
was a strict Puritan--a silent, gloomy fellow. His household consisted
of his wife, his daughter, aged twenty, and two female servants.
These last were continually changing, for it was never a very cheery
situation, and sometimes it became past all bearing. The man was an
intermittent drunkard, and when he had the fit on him he was a perfect
fiend. He has been known to drive his wife and his daughter out of doors
in the middle of the night, and flog them through the park until the
whole village outside the gates was aroused by their screams.
“He was summoned once for a savage assault upon the old vicar, who had
called upon him to remonstrate with him upon his conduct. In short,
Mr. Holmes, you would go far before you found a more dangerous man than
Peter Carey, and I have heard that he bore the same character when he
commanded his ship. He was known in the trade as Black Peter, and the
name was given him, not only on account of his swarthy features and the
colour of his huge beard, but for the humours which were the terror of
all around him. I need not say that he was loathed and avoided by every
one of his neighbours, and that I have not heard one single word of
sorrow about his terrible end.
“You must have read in the account of the inquest about the man's cabin,
Mr. Holmes; but perhaps your friend here has not heard of it. He had
built himself a wooden outhouse--he always called it 'the cabin'--a few
hundred yards from his house, and it was here that he slept every night.
It was a little, single-roomed hut, sixteen feet by ten. He kept the
key in his pocket, made his own bed, cleaned it himself, and allowed no
other foot to cross the threshold. There are small windows on each side,
which were covered by curtains and never opened. One of these windows
was turned towards the high road, and when the light burned in it at
night the folk used to point it out to each other and wonder what Black
Peter was doing in there. That's the window, Mr. Holmes, which gave us
one of the few bits of positive evidence that came out at the inquest.
“You remember that a stonemason, named Slater, walking from Forest Row
about one o'clock in the morning--two days before the murder--stopped
as he passed the grounds and looked at the square of light still shining
among the trees. He swears that the shadow of a man's head turned
sideways was clearly visible on the blind, and that this shadow was
certainly not that of Peter Carey, whom he knew well. It was that of a
bearded man, but the beard was short and bristled forwards in a way
very different from that of the captain. So he says, but he had been two
hours in the public-house, and it is some distance from the road to the
window. Besides, this refers to the Monday, and the crime was done upon
the Wednesday.
“On the Tuesday Peter Carey was in one of his blackest moods, flushed
with drink and as savage as a dangerous wild beast. He roamed about the
house, and the women ran for it when they heard him coming. Late in the
evening he went down to his own hut. About two o'clock the following
morning his daughter, who slept with her window open, heard a most
fearful yell from that direction, but it was no unusual thing for him to
bawl and shout when he was in drink, so no notice was taken. On rising
at seven one of the maids noticed that the door of the hut was open, but
so great was the terror which the man caused that it was midday before
anyone would venture down to see what had become of him. Peeping into
the open door they saw a sight which sent them flying with white faces
into the village. Within an hour I was on the spot and had taken over
the case.
“Well, I have fairly steady nerves, as you know, Mr. Holmes, but I
give you my word that I got a shake when I put my head into that little
house. It was droning like a harmonium with the flies and bluebottles,
and the floor and walls were like a slaughter-house. He had called it a
cabin, and a cabin it was sure enough, for you would have thought that
you were in a ship. There was a bunk at one end, a sea-chest, maps and
charts, a picture of the SEA UNICORN, a line of log-books on a shelf,
all exactly as one would expect to find it in a captain's room. And
there in the middle of it was the man himself, his face twisted like a
lost soul in torment, and his great brindled beard stuck upwards in his
agony. Right through his broad breast a steel harpoon had been driven,
and it had sunk deep into the wood of the wall behind him. He was pinned
like a beetle on a card. Of course, he was quite dead, and had been so
from the instant that he had uttered that last yell of agony.
“I know your methods, sir, and I applied them. Before I permitted
anything to be moved I examined most carefully the ground outside, and
also the floor of the room. There were no footmarks.”
“Meaning that you saw none?”
“I assure you, sir, that there were none.”
“My good Hopkins, I have investigated many crimes, but I have never
yet seen one which was committed by a flying creature. As long as the
criminal remains upon two legs so long must there be some indentation,
some abrasion, some trifling displacement which can be detected by the
scientific searcher. It is incredible that this blood-bespattered room
contained no trace which could have aided us. I understand, however,
from the inquest that there were some objects which you failed to
overlook?”
The young inspector winced at my companion's ironical comments.
“I was a fool not to call you in at the time, Mr. Holmes. However,
that's past praying for now. Yes, there were several objects in the room
which called for special attention. One was the harpoon with which the
deed was committed. It had been snatched down from a rack on the wall.
Two others remained there, and there was a vacant place for the third.
On the stock was engraved 'Ss. SEA UNICORN, Dundee.' This seemed to
establish that the crime had been done in a moment of fury, and that
the murderer had seized the first weapon which came in his way. The fact
that the crime was committed at two in the morning, and yet Peter
Carey was fully dressed, suggested that he had an appointment with the
murderer, which is borne out by the fact that a bottle of rum and two
dirty glasses stood upon the table.”
“Yes,” said Holmes; “I think that both inferences are permissible. Was
there any other spirit but rum in the room?”
“Yes; there was a tantalus containing brandy and whisky on the
sea-chest. It is of no importance to us, however, since the decanters
were full, and it had therefore not been used.”
“For all that its presence has some significance,” said Holmes.
“However, let us hear some more about the objects which do seem to you
to bear upon the case.”
“There was this tobacco-pouch upon the table.”
“What part of the table?”
“It lay in the middle. It was of coarse seal-skin--the straight-haired
skin, with a leather thong to bind it. Inside was 'P.C.' on the flap.
There was half an ounce of strong ship's tobacco in it.”
“Excellent! What more?”
Stanley Hopkins drew from his pocket a drab-covered note-book. The
outside was rough and worn, the leaves discoloured. On the first page
were written the initials “J.H.N.” and the date “1883.” Holmes laid
it on the table and examined it in his minute way, while Hopkins and I
gazed over each shoulder. On the second page were the printed letters
“C.P.R.,” and then came several sheets of numbers. Another heading was
Argentine, another Costa Rica, and another San Paulo, each with pages of
signs and figures after it.
“What do you make of these?” asked Holmes.
“They appear to be lists of Stock Exchange securities. I thought that
'J.H.N.' were the initials of a broker, and that 'C.P.R.' may have been
his client.”
“Try Canadian Pacific Railway,” said Holmes.
Stanley Hopkins swore between his teeth and struck his thigh with his
clenched hand.
“What a fool I have been!” he cried. “Of course, it is as you say. Then
'J.H.N.' are the only initials we have to solve. I have already examined
the old Stock Exchange lists, and I can find no one in 1883 either in
the House or among the outside brokers whose initials correspond with
these. Yet I feel that the clue is the most important one that I hold.
You will admit, Mr. Holmes, that there is a possibility that these
initials are those of the second person who was present--in other words,
of the murderer. I would also urge that the introduction into the case
of a document relating to large masses of valuable securities gives us
for the first time some indication of a motive for the crime.”
Sherlock Holmes's face showed that he was thoroughly taken aback by this
new development.
“I must admit both your points,” said he. “I confess that this
note-book, which did not appear at the inquest, modifies any views which
I may have formed. I had come to a theory of the crime in which I
can find no place for this. Have you endeavoured to trace any of the
securities here mentioned?”
“Inquiries are now being made at the offices, but I fear that the
complete register of the stockholders of these South American concerns
is in South America, and that some weeks must elapse before we can trace
the shares.”
Holmes had been examining the cover of the note-book with his magnifying
lens.
“Surely there is some discolouration here,” said he.
“Yes, sir, it is a blood-stain. I told you that I picked the book off
the floor.”
“Was the blood-stain above or below?”
“On the side next the boards.”
“Which proves, of course, that the book was dropped after the crime was
committed.”
“Exactly, Mr. Holmes. I appreciated that point, and I conjectured that
it was dropped by the murderer in his hurried flight. It lay near the
door.”
“I suppose that none of these securities have been found among the
property of the dead man?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you any reason to suspect robbery?”
“No, sir. Nothing seemed to have been touched.”
“Dear me, it is certainly a very interesting case. Then there was a
knife, was there not?”
“A sheath-knife, still in its sheath. It lay at the feet of the dead
man. Mrs. Carey has identified it as being her husband's property.”
Holmes was lost in thought for some time.
“Well,” said he, at last, “I suppose I shall have to come out and have a
look at it.”
Stanley Hopkins gave a cry of joy.
“Thank you, sir. That will indeed be a weight off my mind.”
Holmes shook his finger at the inspector.
“It would have been an easier task a week ago,” said he. “But even now
my visit may not be entirely fruitless. Watson, if you can spare
the time I should be very glad of your company. If you will call a
four-wheeler, Hopkins, we shall be ready to start for Forest Row in a
quarter of an hour.”
Alighting at the small wayside station, we drove for some miles through
the remains of widespread woods, which were once part of that
great forest which for so long held the Saxon invaders at bay--the
impenetrable “weald,” for sixty years the bulwark of Britain. Vast
sections of it have been cleared, for this is the seat of the first
iron-works of the country, and the trees have been felled to smelt the
ore. Now the richer fields of the North have absorbed the trade, and
nothing save these ravaged groves and great scars in the earth show
the work of the past. Here in a clearing upon the green slope of a hill
stood a long, low stone house, approached by a curving drive running
through the fields. Nearer the road, and surrounded on three sides by
bushes, was a small outhouse, one window and the door facing in our
direction. It was the scene of the murder!
Stanley Hopkins led us first to the house, where he introduced us to a
haggard, grey-haired woman, the widow of the murdered man, whose gaunt
and deep-lined face, with the furtive look of terror in the depths of
her red-rimmed eyes, told of the years of hardship and ill-usage which
she had endured. With her was her daughter, a pale, fair-haired girl,
whose eyes blazed defiantly at us as she told us that she was glad that
her father was dead, and that she blessed the hand which had struck him
down. It was a terrible household that Black Peter Carey had made for
himself, and it was with a sense of relief that we found ourselves in
the sunlight again and making our way along a path which had been worn
across the fields by the feet of the dead man.
The outhouse was the simplest of dwellings, wooden-walled,
shingle-roofed, one window beside the door and one on the farther side.
Stanley Hopkins drew the key from his pocket, and had stooped to the
lock, when he paused with a look of attention and surprise upon his
face.
“Someone has been tampering with it,” he said.
There could be no doubt of the fact. The woodwork was cut and the
scratches showed white through the paint, as if they had been that
instant done. Holmes had been examining the window.
“Someone has tried to force this also. Whoever it was has failed to make
his way in. He must have been a very poor burglar.”
“This is a most extraordinary thing,” said the inspector; “I could swear
that these marks were not here yesterday evening.”
“Some curious person from the village, perhaps,” I suggested.
“Very unlikely. Few of them would dare to set foot in the grounds, far
less try to force their way into the cabin. What do you think of it, Mr.
Holmes?”
“I think that fortune is very kind to us.”
“You mean that the person will come again?”
“It is very probable. He came expecting to find the door open. He tried
to get in with the blade of a very small penknife. He could not manage
it. What would he do?”
“Come again next night with a more useful tool.”
“So I should say. It will be our fault if we are not there to receive
him. Meanwhile, let me see the inside of the cabin.”
The traces of the tragedy had been removed, but the furniture within the
little room still stood as it had been on the night of the crime. For
two hours, with most intense concentration, Holmes examined every object
in turn, but his face showed that his quest was not a successful one.
Once only he paused in his patient investigation.
“Have you taken anything off this shelf, Hopkins?”
“No; I have moved nothing.”
“Something has been taken. There is less dust in this corner of the
shelf than elsewhere. It may have been a book lying on its side. It may
have been a box. Well, well, I can do nothing more. Let us walk in
these beautiful woods, Watson, and give a few hours to the birds and the
flowers. We shall meet you here later, Hopkins, and see if we can come
to closer quarters with the gentleman who has paid this visit in the
night.”
It was past eleven o'clock when we formed our little ambuscade. Hopkins
was for leaving the door of the hut open, but Holmes was of the opinion
that this would rouse the suspicions of the stranger. The lock was a
perfectly simple one, and only a strong blade was needed to push it
back. Holmes also suggested that we should wait, not inside the hut, but
outside it among the bushes which grew round the farther window. In this
way we should be able to watch our man if he struck a light, and see
what his object was in this stealthy nocturnal visit.
It was a long and melancholy vigil, and yet brought with it something of
the thrill which the hunter feels when he lies beside the water pool and
waits for the coming of the thirsty beast of prey. What savage creature
was it which might steal upon us out of the darkness? Was it a fierce
tiger of crime, which could only be taken fighting hard with flashing
fang and claw, or would it prove to be some skulking jackal, dangerous
only to the weak and unguarded?
In absolute silence we crouched amongst the bushes, waiting for whatever
might come. At first the steps of a few belated villagers, or the sound
of voices from the village, lightened our vigil; but one by one these
interruptions died away and an absolute stillness fell upon us, save for
the chimes of the distant church, which told us of the progress of the
night, and for the rustle and whisper of a fine rain falling amid the
foliage which roofed us in.
Half-past two had chimed, and it was the darkest hour which precedes
the dawn, when we all started as a low but sharp click came from the
direction of the gate. Someone had entered the drive. Again there was a
long silence, and I had begun to fear that it was a false alarm, when
a stealthy step was heard upon the other side of the hut, and a moment
later a metallic scraping and clinking. The man was trying to force the
lock! This time his skill was greater or his tool was better, for there
was a sudden snap and the creak of the hinges. Then a match was struck,
and next instant the steady light from a candle filled the interior of
the hut. Through the gauze curtain our eyes were all riveted upon the
scene within.
The nocturnal visitor was a young man, frail and thin, with a black
moustache which intensified the deadly pallor of his face. He could not
have been much above twenty years of age. I have never seen any human
being who appeared to be in such a pitiable fright, for his teeth were
visibly chattering and he was shaking in every limb. He was dressed like
a gentleman, in Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers, with a cloth cap upon
his head. We watched him staring round with frightened eyes. Then he
laid the candle-end upon the table and disappeared from our view into
one of the corners. He returned with a large book, one of the log-books
which formed a line upon the shelves. Leaning on the table he rapidly
turned over the leaves of this volume until he came to the entry which
he sought. Then, with an angry gesture of his clenched hand, he closed
the book, replaced it in the corner, and put out the light. He had
hardly turned to leave the hut when Hopkins's hand was on the fellow's
collar, and I heard his loud gasp of terror as he understood that he
was taken. The candle was re-lit, and there was our wretched captive
shivering and cowering in the grasp of the detective. He sank down upon
the sea-chest, and looked helplessly from one of us to the other.
“Now, my fine fellow,” said Stanley Hopkins, “who are you, and what do
you want here?”
The man pulled himself together and faced us with an effort at
self-composure.
“You are detectives, I suppose?” said he. “You imagine I am connected
with the death of Captain Peter Carey. I assure you that I am innocent.”
“We'll see about that,” said Hopkins. “First of all, what is your name?”
“It is John Hopley Neligan.”
I saw Holmes and Hopkins exchange a quick glance.
“What are you doing here?”
“Can I speak confidentially?”
“No, certainly not.”
“Why should I tell you?”
“If you have no answer it may go badly with you at the trial.”
The young man winced.
“Well, I will tell you,” he said. “Why should I not? And yet I hate to
think of this old scandal gaining a new lease of life. Did you ever hear
of Dawson and Neligan?”
I could see from Hopkins's face that he never had; but Holmes was keenly
interested.
“You mean the West-country bankers,” said he. “They failed for a
million, ruined half the county families of Cornwall, and Neligan
disappeared.”
“Exactly. Neligan was my father.”
At last we were getting something positive, and yet it seemed a long gap
between an absconding banker and Captain Peter Carey pinned against the
wall with one of his own harpoons. We all listened intently to the young
man's words.
“It was my father who was really concerned. Dawson had retired. I was
only ten years of age at the time, but I was old enough to feel the
shame and horror of it all. It has always been said that my father stole
all the securities and fled. It is not true. It was his belief that if
he were given time in which to realize them all would be well and every
creditor paid in full. He started in his little yacht for Norway just
before the warrant was issued for his arrest. I can remember that last
night when he bade farewell to my mother. He left us a list of the
securities he was taking, and he swore that he would come back with his
honour cleared, and that none who had trusted him would suffer. Well,
no word was ever heard from him again. Both the yacht and he vanished
utterly. We believed, my mother and I, that he and it, with the
securities that he had taken with him, were at the bottom of the sea. We
had a faithful friend, however, who is a business man, and it was he who
discovered some time ago that some of the securities which my father
had with him have reappeared on the London market. You can imagine our
amazement. I spent months in trying to trace them, and at last, after
many doublings and difficulties, I discovered that the original seller
had been Captain Peter Carey, the owner of this hut.
“Naturally, I made some inquiries about the man. I found that he had
been in command of a whaler which was due to return from the Arctic seas
at the very time when my father was crossing to Norway. The autumn of
that year was a stormy one, and there was a long succession of southerly
gales. My father's yacht may well have been blown to the north, and
there met by Captain Peter Carey's ship. If that were so, what had
become of my father? In any case, if I could prove from Peter Carey's
evidence how these securities came on the market it would be a proof
that my father had not sold them, and that he had no view to personal
profit when he took them.
“I came down to Sussex with the intention of seeing the captain, but
it was at this moment that his terrible death occurred. I read at the
inquest a description of his cabin, in which it stated that the old
log-books of his vessel were preserved in it. It struck me that if I
could see what occurred in the month of August, 1883, on board the SEA
UNICORN, I might settle the mystery of my father's fate. I tried last
night to get at these log-books, but was unable to open the door.
To-night I tried again, and succeeded; but I find that the pages which
deal with that month have been torn from the book. It was at that moment
I found myself a prisoner in your hands.”
“Is that all?” asked Hopkins.
“Yes, that is all.” His eyes shifted as he said it.
“You have nothing else to tell us?”
He hesitated.
“No; there is nothing.”
“You have not been here before last night?”
“No.”
“Then how do you account for THAT?” cried Hopkins, as he held up the
damning note-book, with the initials of our prisoner on the first leaf
and the blood-stain on the cover.
The wretched man collapsed. He sank his face in his hands and trembled
all over.
“Where did you get it?” he groaned. “I did not know. I thought I had
lost it at the hotel.”
“That is enough,” said Hopkins, sternly. “Whatever else you have to
say you must say in court. You will walk down with me now to the
police-station. Well, Mr. Holmes, I am very much obliged to you and to
your friend for coming down to help me. As it turns out your presence
was unnecessary, and I would have brought the case to this successful
issue without you; but none the less I am very grateful. Rooms have been
reserved for you at the Brambletye Hotel, so we can all walk down to the
village together.”
“Well, Watson, what do you think of it?” asked Holmes, as we travelled
back next morning.
“I can see that you are not satisfied.”
“Oh, yes, my dear Watson, I am perfectly satisfied. At the same
time Stanley Hopkins's methods do not commend themselves to me. I am
disappointed in Stanley Hopkins. I had hoped for better things from him.
One should always look for a possible alternative and provide against
it. It is the first rule of criminal investigation.”
“What, then, is the alternative?”
“The line of investigation which I have myself been pursuing. It may
give us nothing. I cannot tell. But at least I shall follow it to the
end.”
Several letters were waiting for Holmes at Baker Street. He snatched
one of them up, opened it, and burst out into a triumphant chuckle of
laughter.
“Excellent, Watson. The alternative develops. Have you telegraph
forms? Just write a couple of messages for me: 'Sumner, Shipping
Agent, Ratcliff Highway. Send three men on, to arrive ten to-morrow
morning.--Basil.' That's my name in those parts. The other is:
'Inspector Stanley Hopkins, 46, Lord Street, Brixton. Come breakfast
to-morrow at nine-thirty. Important. Wire if unable to come.--Sherlock
Holmes.' There, Watson, this infernal case has haunted me for ten days.
I hereby banish it completely from my presence. To-morrow I trust that
we shall hear the last of it for ever.”
Sharp at the hour named Inspector Stanley Hopkins appeared, and we sat
down together to the excellent breakfast which Mrs. Hudson had prepared.
The young detective was in high spirits at his success.
“You really think that your solution must be correct?” asked Holmes.
“I could not imagine a more complete case.”
“It did not seem to me conclusive.”
“You astonish me, Mr. Holmes. What more could one ask for?”
“Does your explanation cover every point?”
“Undoubtedly. I find that young Neligan arrived at the Brambletye Hotel
on the very day of the crime. He came on the pretence of playing golf.
His room was on the ground-floor, and he could get out when he liked.
That very night he went down to Woodman's Lee, saw Peter Carey at
the hut, quarrelled with him, and killed him with the harpoon. Then,
horrified by what he had done, he fled out of the hut, dropping the
note-book which he had brought with him in order to question Peter Carey
about these different securities. You may have observed that some of
them were marked with ticks, and the others--the great majority--were
not. Those which are ticked have been traced on the London market; but
the others presumably were still in the possession of Carey, and young
Neligan, according to his own account, was anxious to recover them in
order to do the right thing by his father's creditors. After his flight
he did not dare to approach the hut again for some time; but at last
he forced himself to do so in order to obtain the information which he
needed. Surely that is all simple and obvious?”
Holmes smiled and shook his head.
“It seems to me to have only one drawback, Hopkins, and that is that it
is intrinsically impossible. Have you tried to drive a harpoon through a
body? No? Tut, tut, my dear sir, you must really pay attention to these
details. My friend Watson could tell you that I spent a whole morning in
that exercise. It is no easy matter, and requires a strong and practised
arm. But this blow was delivered with such violence that the head of the
weapon sank deep into the wall. Do you imagine that this anaemic youth
was capable of so frightful an assault? Is he the man who hobnobbed
in rum and water with Black Peter in the dead of the night? Was it his
profile that was seen on the blind two nights before? No, no, Hopkins;
it is another and a more formidable person for whom we must seek.”
The detective's face had grown longer and longer during Holmes's speech.
His hopes and his ambitions were all crumbling about him. But he would
not abandon his position without a struggle.
“You can't deny that Neligan was present that night, Mr. Holmes. The
book will prove that. I fancy that I have evidence enough to satisfy a
jury, even if you are able to pick a hole in it. Besides, Mr. Holmes,
I have laid my hand upon MY man. As to this terrible person of yours,
where is he?”
“I rather fancy that he is on the stair,” said Holmes, serenely. “I
think, Watson, that you would do well to put that revolver where you can
reach it.” He rose, and laid a written paper upon a side-table. “Now we
are ready,” said he.
There had been some talking in gruff voices outside, and now Mrs. Hudson
opened the door to say that there were three men inquiring for Captain
Basil.
“Show them in one by one,” said Holmes.
The first who entered was a little ribston-pippin of a man, with ruddy
cheeks and fluffy white side-whiskers. Holmes had drawn a letter from
his pocket.
“What name?” he asked.
“James Lancaster.”
“I am sorry, Lancaster, but the berth is full. Here is half a sovereign
for your trouble. Just step into this room and wait there for a few
minutes.”
The second man was a long, dried-up creature, with lank hair and sallow
cheeks. His name was Hugh Pattins. He also received his dismissal, his
half-sovereign, and the order to wait.
The third applicant was a man of remarkable appearance. A fierce
bull-dog face was framed in a tangle of hair and beard, and two bold
dark eyes gleamed behind the cover of thick, tufted, overhung eyebrows.
He saluted and stood sailor-fashion, turning his cap round in his hands.
“Your name?” asked Holmes.
“Patrick Cairns.”
“Harpooner?”
“Yes, sir. Twenty-six voyages.”
“Dundee, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And ready to start with an exploring ship?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What wages?”
“Eight pounds a month.”
“Could you start at once?”
“As soon as I get my kit.”
“Have you your papers?”
“Yes, sir.” He took a sheaf of worn and greasy forms from his pocket.
Holmes glanced over them and returned them.
“You are just the man I want,” said he. “Here's the agreement on the
side-table. If you sign it the whole matter will be settled.”
The seaman lurched across the room and took up the pen.
“Shall I sign here?” he asked, stooping over the table.
Holmes leaned over his shoulder and passed both hands over his neck.
“This will do,” said he.
I heard a click of steel and a bellow like an enraged bull. The next
instant Holmes and the seaman were rolling on the ground together. He
was a man of such gigantic strength that, even with the handcuffs
which Holmes had so deftly fastened upon his wrists, he would have
very quickly overpowered my friend had Hopkins and I not rushed to
his rescue. Only when I pressed the cold muzzle of the revolver to his
temple did he at last understand that resistance was vain. We lashed his
ankles with cord and rose breathless from the struggle.
“I must really apologize, Hopkins,” said Sherlock Holmes; “I fear that
the scrambled eggs are cold. However, you will enjoy the rest of your
breakfast all the better, will you not, for the thought that you have
brought your case to a triumphant conclusion.”
Stanley Hopkins was speechless with amazement.
“I don't know what to say, Mr. Holmes,” he blurted out at last, with a
very red face. “It seems to me that I have been making a fool of
myself from the beginning. I understand now, what I should never have
forgotten, that I am the pupil and you are the master. Even now I
see what you have done, but I don't know how you did it, or what it
signifies.”
“Well, well,” said Holmes, good-humouredly. “We all learn by experience,
and your lesson this time is that you should never lose sight of the
alternative. You were so absorbed in young Neligan that you could not
spare a thought to Patrick Cairns, the true murderer of Peter Carey.”
The hoarse voice of the seaman broke in on our conversation.
“See here, mister,” said he, “I make no complaint of being man-handled
in this fashion, but I would have you call things by their right names.
You say I murdered Peter Carey; I say I KILLED Peter Carey, and there's
all the difference. Maybe you don't believe what I say. Maybe you think
I am just slinging you a yarn.”
“Not at all,” said Holmes. “Let us hear what you have to say.”
“It's soon told, and, by the Lord, every word of it is truth. I knew
Black Peter, and when he pulled out his knife I whipped a harpoon
through him sharp, for I knew that it was him or me. That's how he died.
You can call it murder. Anyhow, I'd as soon die with a rope round my
neck as with Black Peter's knife in my heart.”
“How came you there?” asked Holmes.
“I'll tell it you from the beginning. Just sit me up a little so as I
can speak easy. It was in '83 that it happened--August of that year.
Peter Carey was master of the SEA UNICORN, and I was spare harpooner. We
were coming out of the ice-pack on our way home, with head winds and a
week's southerly gale, when we picked up a little craft that had been
blown north. There was one man on her--a landsman. The crew had thought
she would founder, and had made for the Norwegian coast in the dinghy.
I guess they were all drowned. Well, we took him on board, this man, and
he and the skipper had some long talks in the cabin. All the baggage we
took off with him was one tin box. So far as I know, the man's name was
never mentioned, and on the second night he disappeared as if he had
never been. It was given out that he had either thrown himself overboard
or fallen overboard in the heavy weather that we were having. Only one
man knew what had happened to him, and that was me, for with my own
eyes I saw the skipper tip up his heels and put him over the rail in the
middle watch of a dark night, two days before we sighted the Shetland
lights.
“Well, I kept my knowledge to myself and waited to see what would come
of it. When we got back to Scotland it was easily hushed up, and nobody
asked any questions. A stranger died by an accident, and it was nobody's
business to inquire. Shortly after Peter Carey gave up the sea, and it
was long years before I could find where he was. I guessed that he had
done the deed for the sake of what was in that tin box, and that he
could afford now to pay me well for keeping my mouth shut.
“I found out where he was through a sailor man that had met him
in London, and down I went to squeeze him. The first night he was
reasonable enough, and was ready to give me what would make me free of
the sea for life. We were to fix it all two nights later. When I came
I found him three parts drunk and in a vile temper. We sat down and we
drank and we yarned about old times, but the more he drank the less I
liked the look on his face. I spotted that harpoon upon the wall, and I
thought I might need it before I was through. Then at last he broke
out at me, spitting and cursing, with murder in his eyes and a great
clasp-knife in his hand. He had not time to get it from the sheath
before I had the harpoon through him. Heavens! what a yell he gave; and
his face gets between me and my sleep! I stood there, with his blood
splashing round me, and I waited for a bit; but all was quiet, so I took
heart once more. I looked round, and there was the tin box on a shelf. I
had as much right to it as Peter Carey, anyhow, so I took it with me and
left the hut. Like a fool I left my baccy-pouch upon the table.
“Now I'll tell you the queerest part of the whole story. I had hardly
got outside the hut when I heard someone coming, and I hid among the
bushes. A man came slinking along, went into the hut, gave a cry as if
he had seen a ghost, and legged it as hard as he could run until he was
out of sight. Who he was or what he wanted is more than I can tell.
For my part I walked ten miles, got a train at Tunbridge Wells, and so
reached London, and no one the wiser.
“Well, when I came to examine the box I found there was no money in it,
and nothing but papers that I would not dare to sell. I had lost my hold
on Black Peter, and was stranded in London without a shilling. There was
only my trade left. I saw these advertisements about harpooners and high
wages, so I went to the shipping agents, and they sent me here. That's
all I know, and I say again that if I killed Black Peter the law should
give me thanks, for I saved them the price of a hempen rope.”
“A very clear statement,” said Holmes, rising and lighting his pipe. “I
think, Hopkins, that you should lose no time in conveying your prisoner
to a place of safety. This room is not well adapted for a cell, and Mr.
Patrick Cairns occupies too large a proportion of our carpet.”
“Mr. Holmes,” said Hopkins, “I do not know how to express my gratitude.
Even now I do not understand how you attained this result.”
“Simply by having the good fortune to get the right clue from the
beginning. It is very possible if I had known about this note-book
it might have led away my thoughts, as it did yours. But all I heard
pointed in the one direction. The amazing strength, the skill in the use
of the harpoon, the rum and water, the seal-skin tobacco-pouch, with the
coarse tobacco--all these pointed to a seaman, and one who had been a
whaler. I was convinced that the initials 'P.C.' upon the pouch were a
coincidence, and not those of Peter Carey, since he seldom smoked, and
no pipe was found in his cabin. You remember that I asked whether whisky
and brandy were in the cabin. You said they were. How many landsmen are
there who would drink rum when they could get these other spirits? Yes,
I was certain it was a seaman.”
“And how did you find him?”
“My dear sir, the problem had become a very simple one. If it were
a seaman, it could only be a seaman who had been with him on the SEA
UNICORN. So far as I could learn he had sailed in no other ship. I
spent three days in wiring to Dundee, and at the end of that time I had
ascertained the names of the crew of the SEA UNICORN in 1883. When I
found Patrick Cairns among the harpooners my research was nearing its
end. I argued that the man was probably in London, and that he would
desire to leave the country for a time. I therefore spent some days in
the East-end, devised an Arctic expedition, put forth tempting terms for
harpooners who would serve under Captain Basil--and behold the result!”
“Wonderful!” cried Hopkins. “Wonderful!”
“You must obtain the release of young Neligan as soon as possible,” said
Holmes. “I confess that I think you owe him some apology. The tin box
must be returned to him, but, of course, the securities which Peter
Carey has sold are lost for ever. There's the cab, Hopkins, and you can
remove your man. If you want me for the trial, my address and that of
Watson will be somewhere in Norway--I'll send particulars later.”
*****
THE STRAND MAGAZINE
Vol. 27 APRIL, 1904
THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.
By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.
|
vi_the_adventure_of_black_peter
|
VII.--The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton.
|
The Return of Sherlock Holmes
|
IT is years since the incidents of which I speak took place, and yet it
is with diffidence that I allude to them. For a long time, even with the
utmost discretion and reticence, it would have been impossible to make
the facts public; but now the principal person concerned is beyond the
reach of human law, and with due suppression the story may be told
in such fashion as to injure no one. It records an absolutely unique
experience in the career both of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and of myself. The
reader will excuse me if I conceal the date or any other fact by which
he might trace the actual occurrence.
We had been out for one of our evening rambles, Holmes and I, and had
returned about six o'clock on a cold, frosty winter's evening. As Holmes
turned up the lamp the light fell upon a card on the table. He glanced
at it, and then, with an ejaculation of disgust, threw it on the floor.
I picked it up and read:--
CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON,
APPLEDORE TOWERS,
AGENT. HAMPSTEAD.
“Who is he?” I asked.
“The worst man in London,” Holmes answered, as he sat down and stretched
his legs before the fire. “Is anything on the back of the card?”
I turned it over.
“Will call at 6.30--C.A.M.,” I read.
“Hum! He's about due. Do you feel a creeping, shrinking sensation,
Watson, when you stand before the serpents in the Zoo and see the
slithery, gliding, venomous creatures, with their deadly eyes and
wicked, flattened faces? Well, that's how Milverton impresses me. I've
had to do with fifty murderers in my career, but the worst of them never
gave me the repulsion which I have for this fellow. And yet I can't get
out of doing business with him--indeed, he is here at my invitation.”
“But who is he?”
“I'll tell you, Watson. He is the king of all the blackmailers. Heaven
help the man, and still more the woman, whose secret and reputation come
into the power of Milverton. With a smiling face and a heart of marble
he will squeeze and squeeze until he has drained them dry. The fellow is
a genius in his way, and would have made his mark in some more savoury
trade. His method is as follows: He allows it to be known that he is
prepared to pay very high sums for letters which compromise people of
wealth or position. He receives these wares not only from treacherous
valets or maids, but frequently from genteel ruffians who have gained
the confidence and affection of trusting women. He deals with no niggard
hand. I happen to know that he paid seven hundred pounds to a footman
for a note two lines in length, and that the ruin of a noble family was
the result. Everything which is in the market goes to Milverton, and
there are hundreds in this great city who turn white at his name. No
one knows where his grip may fall, for he is far too rich and far too
cunning to work from hand to mouth. He will hold a card back for years
in order to play it at the moment when the stake is best worth winning.
I have said that he is the worst man in London, and I would ask you how
could one compare the ruffian who in hot blood bludgeons his mate with
this man, who methodically and at his leisure tortures the soul and
wrings the nerves in order to add to his already swollen money-bags?”
I had seldom heard my friend speak with such intensity of feeling.
“But surely,” said I, “the fellow must be within the grasp of the law?”
“Technically, no doubt, but practically not. What would it profit a
woman, for example, to get him a few months' imprisonment if her own
ruin must immediately follow? His victims dare not hit back. If ever he
blackmailed an innocent person, then, indeed, we should have him; but he
is as cunning as the Evil One. No, no; we must find other ways to fight
him.”
“And why is he here?”
“Because an illustrious client has placed her piteous case in my hands.
It is the Lady Eva Brackwell, the most beautiful DEBUTANTE of last
season. She is to be married in a fortnight to the Earl of Dovercourt.
This fiend has several imprudent letters--imprudent, Watson, nothing
worse--which were written to an impecunious young squire in the country.
They would suffice to break off the match. Milverton will send the
letters to the Earl unless a large sum of money is paid him. I have been
commissioned to meet him, and--to make the best terms I can.”
At that instant there was a clatter and a rattle in the street below.
Looking down I saw a stately carriage and pair, the brilliant lamps
gleaming on the glossy haunches of the noble chestnuts. A footman
opened the door, and a small, stout man in a shaggy astrachan overcoat
descended. A minute later he was in the room.
Charles Augustus Milverton was a man of fifty, with a large,
intellectual head, a round, plump, hairless face, a perpetual frozen
smile, and two keen grey eyes, which gleamed brightly from behind broad,
golden-rimmed glasses. There was something of Mr. Pickwick's benevolence
in his appearance, marred only by the insincerity of the fixed smile and
by the hard glitter of those restless and penetrating eyes. His voice
was as smooth and suave as his countenance, as he advanced with a plump
little hand extended, murmuring his regret for having missed us at his
first visit. Holmes disregarded the outstretched hand and looked at him
with a face of granite. Milverton's smile broadened; he shrugged his
shoulders, removed his overcoat, folded it with great deliberation over
the back of a chair, and then took a seat.
“This gentleman?” said he, with a wave in my direction. “Is it discreet?
Is it right?”
“Dr. Watson is my friend and partner.”
“Very good, Mr. Holmes. It is only in your client's interests that I
protested. The matter is so very delicate----”
“Dr. Watson has already heard of it.”
“Then we can proceed to business. You say that you are acting for Lady
Eva. Has she empowered you to accept my terms?”
“What are your terms?”
“Seven thousand pounds.”
“And the alternative?”
“My dear sir, it is painful for me to discuss it; but if the money is
not paid on the 14th there certainly will be no marriage on the 18th.”
His insufferable smile was more complacent than ever.
Holmes thought for a little.
“You appear to me,” he said, at last, “to be taking matters too much for
granted. I am, of course, familiar with the contents of these letters.
My client will certainly do what I may advise. I shall counsel her to
tell her future husband the whole story and to trust to his generosity.”
Milverton chuckled.
“You evidently do not know the Earl,” said he.
From the baffled look upon Holmes's face I could see clearly that he
did.
“What harm is there in the letters?” he asked.
“They are sprightly--very sprightly,” Milverton answered. “The lady
was a charming correspondent. But I can assure you that the Earl of
Dovercourt would fail to appreciate them. However, since you think
otherwise, we will let it rest at that. It is purely a matter of
business. If you think that it is in the best interests of your client
that these letters should be placed in the hands of the Earl, then you
would indeed be foolish to pay so large a sum of money to regain them.”
He rose and seized his astrachan coat.
Holmes was grey with anger and mortification.
“Wait a little,” he said. “You go too fast. We would certainly make
every effort to avoid scandal in so delicate a matter.”
Milverton relapsed into his chair.
“I was sure that you would see it in that light,” he purred.
“At the same time,” Holmes continued, “Lady Eva is not a wealthy
woman. I assure you that two thousand pounds would be a drain upon her
resources, and that the sum you name is utterly beyond her power. I beg,
therefore, that you will moderate your demands, and that you will return
the letters at the price I indicate, which is, I assure you, the highest
that you can get.”
Milverton's smile broadened and his eyes twinkled humorously.
“I am aware that what you say is true about the lady's resources,” said
he. “At the same time, you must admit that the occasion of a lady's
marriage is a very suitable time for her friends and relatives to
make some little effort upon her behalf. They may hesitate as to an
acceptable wedding present. Let me assure them that this little bundle
of letters would give more joy than all the candelabra and butter-dishes
in London.”
“It is impossible,” said Holmes.
“Dear me, dear me, how unfortunate!” cried Milverton, taking out a bulky
pocket-book. “I cannot help thinking that ladies are ill-advised in
not making an effort. Look at this!” He held up a little note with a
coat-of-arms upon the envelope. “That belongs to--well, perhaps it is
hardly fair to tell the name until to-morrow morning. But at that time
it will be in the hands of the lady's husband. And all because she will
not find a beggarly sum which she could get by turning her diamonds
into paste. It IS such a pity. Now, you remember the sudden end of the
engagement between the Honourable Miss Miles and Colonel Dorking? Only
two days before the wedding there was a paragraph in the MORNING POST
to say that it was all off. And why? It is almost incredible, but
the absurd sum of twelve hundred pounds would have settled the whole
question. Is it not pitiful? And here I find you, a man of sense,
boggling about terms when your client's future and honour are at stake.
You surprise me, Mr. Holmes.”
“What I say is true,” Holmes answered. “The money cannot be found.
Surely it is better for you to take the substantial sum which I offer
than to ruin this woman's career, which can profit you in no way?”
“There you make a mistake, Mr. Holmes. An exposure would profit me
indirectly to a considerable extent. I have eight or ten similar cases
maturing. If it was circulated among them that I had made a severe
example of the Lady Eva I should find all of them much more open to
reason. You see my point?”
Holmes sprang from his chair.
“Get behind him, Watson! Don't let him out! Now, sir, let us see the
contents of that note-book.”
Milverton had glided as quick as a rat to the side of the room, and
stood with his back against the wall.
“Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes,” he said, turning the front of his coat and
exhibiting the butt of a large revolver, which projected from the inside
pocket. “I have been expecting you to do something original. This has
been done so often, and what good has ever come from it? I assure you
that I am armed to the teeth, and I am perfectly prepared to use my
weapons, knowing that the law will support me. Besides, your supposition
that I would bring the letters here in a note-book is entirely mistaken.
I would do nothing so foolish. And now, gentlemen, I have one or two
little interviews this evening, and it is a long drive to Hampstead.”
He stepped forward, took up his coat, laid his hand on his revolver, and
turned to the door. I picked up a chair, but Holmes shook his head and
I laid it down again. With bow, a smile, and a twinkle Milverton was out
of the room, and a few moments after we heard the slam of the carriage
door and the rattle of the wheels as he drove away.
Holmes sat motionless by the fire, his hands buried deep in his trouser
pockets, his chin sunk upon his breast, his eyes fixed upon the glowing
embers. For half an hour he was silent and still. Then, with the gesture
of a man who has taken his decision, he sprang to his feet and passed
into his bedroom. A little later a rakish young workman with a goatee
beard and a swagger lit his clay pipe at the lamp before descending into
the street. “I'll be back some time, Watson,” said he, and vanished into
the night. I understood that he had opened his campaign against Charles
Augustus Milverton; but I little dreamed the strange shape which that
campaign was destined to take.
For some days Holmes came and went at all hours in this attire, but
beyond a remark that his time was spent at Hampstead, and that it was
not wasted, I knew nothing of what he was doing. At last, however, on
a wild, tempestuous evening, when the wind screamed and rattled against
the windows, he returned from his last expedition, and having removed
his disguise he sat before the fire and laughed heartily in his silent
inward fashion.
“You would not call me a marrying man, Watson?”
“No, indeed!”
“You'll be interested to hear that I am engaged.”
“My dear fellow! I congrat----”
“To Milverton's housemaid.”
“Good heavens, Holmes!”
“I wanted information, Watson.”
“Surely you have gone too far?”
“It was a most necessary step. I am a plumber with a rising business,
Escott by name. I have walked out with her each evening, and I have
talked with her. Good heavens, those talks! However, I have got all I
wanted. I know Milverton's house as I know the palm of my hand.”
“But the girl, Holmes?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“You can't help it, my dear Watson. You must play your cards as best you
can when such a stake is on the table. However, I rejoice to say that
I have a hated rival who will certainly cut me out the instant that my
back is turned. What a splendid night it is!”
“You like this weather?”
“It suits my purpose. Watson, I mean to burgle Milverton's house
to-night.”
I had a catching of the breath, and my skin went cold at the words,
which were slowly uttered in a tone of concentrated resolution. As a
flash of lightning in the night shows up in an instant every detail of
a wide landscape, so at one glance I seemed to see every possible result
of such an action--the detection, the capture, the honoured career
ending in irreparable failure and disgrace, my friend himself lying at
the mercy of the odious Milverton.
“For Heaven's sake, Holmes, think what you are doing,” I cried.
“My dear fellow, I have given it every consideration. I am never
precipitate in my actions, nor would I adopt so energetic and indeed so
dangerous a course if any other were possible. Let us look at the matter
clearly and fairly. I suppose that you will admit that the action is
morally justifiable, though technically criminal. To burgle his house
is no more than to forcibly take his pocket-book--an action in which you
were prepared to aid me.”
I turned it over in my mind.
“Yes,” I said; “it is morally justifiable so long as our object is to
take no articles save those which are used for an illegal purpose.”
“Exactly. Since it is morally justifiable I have only to consider the
question of personal risk. Surely a gentleman should not lay much stress
upon this when a lady is in most desperate need of his help?”
“You will be in such a false position.”
“Well, that is part of the risk. There is no other possible way of
regaining these letters. The unfortunate lady has not the money, and
there are none of her people in whom she could confide. To-morrow is
the last day of grace, and unless we can get the letters to-night this
villain will be as good as his word and will bring about her ruin. I
must, therefore, abandon my client to her fate or I must play this
last card. Between ourselves, Watson, it's a sporting duel between
this fellow Milverton and me. He had, as you saw, the best of the first
exchanges; but my self-respect and my reputation are concerned to fight
it to a finish.”
“Well, I don't like it; but I suppose it must be,” said I. “When do we
start?”
“You are not coming.”
“Then you are not going,” said I. “I give you my word of honour--and
I never broke it in my life--that I will take a cab straight to the
police-station and give you away unless you let me share this adventure
with you.”
“You can't help me.”
“How do you know that? You can't tell what may happen. Anyway, my
resolution is taken. Other people beside you have self-respect and even
reputations.”
Holmes had looked annoyed, but his brow cleared, and he clapped me on
the shoulder.
“Well, well, my dear fellow, be it so. We have shared the same room
for some years, and it would be amusing if we ended by sharing the
same cell. You know, Watson, I don't mind confessing to you that I have
always had an idea that I would have made a highly efficient criminal.
This is the chance of my lifetime in that direction. See here!” He took
a neat little leather case out of a drawer, and opening it he exhibited
a number of shining instruments. “This is a first-class, up-to-date
burgling kit, with nickel-plated jemmy, diamond-tipped glass-cutter,
adaptable keys, and every modern improvement which the march of
civilization demands. Here, too, is my dark lantern. Everything is in
order. Have you a pair of silent shoes?”
“I have rubber-soled tennis shoes.”
“Excellent. And a mask?”
“I can make a couple out of black silk.”
“I can see that you have a strong natural turn for this sort of thing.
Very good; do you make the masks. We shall have some cold supper before
we start. It is now nine-thirty. At eleven we shall drive as far as
Church Row. It is a quarter of an hour's walk from there to Appledore
Towers. We shall be at work before midnight. Milverton is a heavy
sleeper and retires punctually at ten-thirty. With any luck we should be
back here by two, with the Lady Eva's letters in my pocket.”
Holmes and I put on our dress-clothes, so that we might appear to be two
theatre-goers homeward bound. In Oxford Street we picked up a hansom and
drove to an address in Hampstead. Here we paid off our cab, and with our
great-coats buttoned up, for it was bitterly cold and the wind seemed to
blow through us, we walked along the edge of the Heath.
“It's a business that needs delicate treatment,” said Holmes. “These
documents are contained in a safe in the fellow's study, and the study
is the ante-room of his bed-chamber. On the other hand, like all these
stout, little men who do themselves well, he is a plethoric sleeper.
Agatha--that's my FIANCEE--says it is a joke in the servants' hall that
it's impossible to wake the master. He has a secretary who is devoted to
his interests and never budges from the study all day. That's why we are
going at night. Then he has a beast of a dog which roams the garden. I
met Agatha late the last two evenings, and she locks the brute up so
as to give me a clear run. This is the house, this big one in its own
grounds. Through the gate--now to the right among the laurels. We might
put on our masks here, I think. You see, there is not a glimmer of light
in any of the windows, and everything is working splendidly.”
With our black silk face-coverings, which turned us into two of the most
truculent figures in London, we stole up to the silent, gloomy house.
A sort of tiled veranda extended along one side of it, lined by several
windows and two doors.
“That's his bedroom,” Holmes whispered. “This door opens straight into
the study. It would suit us best, but it is bolted as well as locked,
and we should make too much noise getting in. Come round here. There's a
greenhouse which opens into the drawing-room.”
The place was locked, but Holmes removed a circle of glass and turned
the key from the inside. An instant afterwards he had closed the door
behind us, and we had become felons in the eyes of the law. The thick,
warm air of the conservatory and the rich, choking fragrance of exotic
plants took us by the throat. He seized my hand in the darkness and led
me swiftly past banks of shrubs which brushed against our faces. Holmes
had remarkable powers, carefully cultivated, of seeing in the dark.
Still holding my hand in one of his he opened a door, and I was vaguely
conscious that we had entered a large room in which a cigar had been
smoked not long before. He felt his way among the furniture, opened
another door, and closed it behind us. Putting out my hand I felt
several coats hanging from the wall, and I understood that I was in a
passage. We passed along it, and Holmes very gently opened a door upon
the right-hand side. Something rushed out at us and my heart sprang into
my mouth, but I could have laughed when I realized that it was the cat.
A fire was burning in this new room, and again the air was heavy with
tobacco smoke. Holmes entered on tiptoe, waited for me to follow, and
then very gently closed the door. We were in Milverton's study, and a
PORTIERE at the farther side showed the entrance to his bedroom.
It was a good fire, and the room was illuminated by it. Near the door I
saw the gleam of an electric switch, but it was unnecessary, even if it
had been safe, to turn it on. At one side of the fireplace was a heavy
curtain, which covered the bay window we had seen from outside. On the
other side was the door which communicated with the veranda. A desk
stood in the centre, with a turning chair of shining red leather.
Opposite was a large bookcase, with a marble bust of Athene on the top.
In the corner between the bookcase and the wall there stood a tall green
safe, the firelight flashing back from the polished brass knobs upon its
face. Holmes stole across and looked at it. Then he crept to the door of
the bedroom, and stood with slanting head listening intently. No sound
came from within. Meanwhile it had struck me that it would be wise
to secure our retreat through the outer door, so I examined it. To my
amazement it was neither locked nor bolted! I touched Holmes on the arm,
and he turned his masked face in that direction. I saw him start, and he
was evidently as surprised as I.
“I don't like it,” he whispered, putting his lips to my very ear. “I
can't quite make it out. Anyhow, we have no time to lose.”
“Can I do anything?”
“Yes; stand by the door. If you hear anyone come, bolt it on the inside,
and we can get away as we came. If they come the other way, we can
get through the door if our job is done, or hide behind these window
curtains if it is not. Do you understand?”
I nodded and stood by the door. My first feeling of fear had passed
away, and I thrilled now with a keener zest than I had ever enjoyed when
we were the defenders of the law instead of its defiers. The high object
of our mission, the consciousness that it was unselfish and chivalrous,
the villainous character of our opponent, all added to the sporting
interest of the adventure. Far from feeling guilty, I rejoiced and
exulted in our dangers. With a glow of admiration I watched Holmes
unrolling his case of instruments and choosing his tool with the calm,
scientific accuracy of a surgeon who performs a delicate operation. I
knew that the opening of safes was a particular hobby with him, and I
understood the joy which it gave him to be confronted with this green
and gold monster, the dragon which held in its maw the reputations of
many fair ladies. Turning up the cuffs of his dress-coat--he had placed
his overcoat on a chair--Holmes laid out two drills, a jemmy, and
several skeleton keys. I stood at the centre door with my eyes glancing
at each of the others, ready for any emergency; though, indeed, my plans
were somewhat vague as to what I should do if we were interrupted. For
half an hour Holmes worked with concentrated energy, laying down one
tool, picking up another, handling each with the strength and delicacy
of the trained mechanic. Finally I heard a click, the broad green door
swung open, and inside I had a glimpse of a number of paper packets,
each tied, sealed, and inscribed. Holmes picked one out, but it was hard
to read by the flickering fire, and he drew out his little dark lantern,
for it was too dangerous, with Milverton in the next room, to switch on
the electric light. Suddenly I saw him halt, listen intently, and then
in an instant he had swung the door of the safe to, picked up his
coat, stuffed his tools into the pockets, and darted behind the window
curtain, motioning me to do the same.
It was only when I had joined him there that I heard what had alarmed
his quicker senses. There was a noise somewhere within the house. A door
slammed in the distance. Then a confused, dull murmur broke itself into
the measured thud of heavy footsteps rapidly approaching. They were in
the passage outside the room. They paused at the door. The door opened.
There was a sharp snick as the electric light was turned on. The door
closed once more, and the pungent reek of a strong cigar was borne
to our nostrils. Then the footsteps continued backwards and forwards,
backwards and forwards, within a few yards of us. Finally, there was a
creak from a chair, and the footsteps ceased. Then a key clicked in a
lock and I heard the rustle of papers.
So far I had not dared to look out, but now I gently parted the division
of the curtains in front of me and peeped through. From the pressure
of Holmes's shoulder against mine I knew that he was sharing my
observations. Right in front of us, and almost within our reach, was the
broad, rounded back of Milverton. It was evident that we had entirely
miscalculated his movements, that he had never been to his bedroom,
but that he had been sitting up in some smoking or billiard room in the
farther wing of the house, the windows of which we had not seen. His
broad, grizzled head, with its shining patch of baldness, was in the
immediate foreground of our vision. He was leaning far back in the red
leather chair, his legs outstretched, a long black cigar projecting
at an angle from his mouth. He wore a semi-military smoking jacket,
claret-coloured, with a black velvet collar. In his hand he held a long
legal document, which he was reading in an indolent fashion, blowing
rings of tobacco smoke from his lips as he did so. There was no promise
of a speedy departure in his composed bearing and his comfortable
attitude.
I felt Holmes's hand steal into mine and give me a reassuring shake, as
if to say that the situation was within his powers and that he was
easy in his mind. I was not sure whether he had seen what was only too
obvious from my position, that the door of the safe was imperfectly
closed, and that Milverton might at any moment observe it. In my own
mind I had determined that if I were sure, from the rigidity of his
gaze, that it had caught his eye, I would at once spring out, throw my
great-coat over his head, pinion him, and leave the rest to Holmes. But
Milverton never looked up. He was languidly interested by the papers in
his hand, and page after page was turned as he followed the argument of
the lawyer. At least, I thought, when he has finished the document and
the cigar he will go to his room; but before he had reached the end of
either there came a remarkable development which turned our thoughts
into quite another channel.
Several times I had observed that Milverton looked at his watch, and
once he had risen and sat down again, with a gesture of impatience. The
idea, however, that he might have an appointment at so strange an
hour never occurred to me until a faint sound reached my ears from
the veranda outside. Milverton dropped his papers and sat rigid in his
chair. The sound was repeated, and then there came a gentle tap at the
door. Milverton rose and opened it.
“Well,” said he, curtly, “you are nearly half an hour late.”
So this was the explanation of the unlocked door and of the nocturnal
vigil of Milverton. There was the gentle rustle of a woman's dress. I
had closed the slit between the curtains as Milverton's face had turned
in our direction, but now I ventured very carefully to open it once
more. He had resumed his seat, the cigar still projecting at an insolent
angle from the corner of his mouth. In front of him, in the full glare
of the electric light, there stood a tall, slim, dark woman, a veil over
her face, a mantle drawn round her chin. Her breath came quick and fast,
and every inch of the lithe figure was quivering with strong emotion.
“Well,” said Milverton, “you've made me lose a good night's rest,
my dear. I hope you'll prove worth it. You couldn't come any other
time--eh?”
The woman shook her head.
“Well, if you couldn't you couldn't. If the Countess is a hard mistress
you have your chance to get level with her now. Bless the girl, what are
you shivering about? That's right! Pull yourself together! Now, let us
get down to business.” He took a note from the drawer of his desk. “You
say that you have five letters which compromise the Countess d'Albert.
You want to sell them. I want to buy them. So far so good. It only
remains to fix a price. I should want to inspect the letters, of course.
If they are really good specimens--Great heavens, is it you?”
The woman without a word had raised her veil and dropped the mantle
from her chin. It was a dark, handsome, clear-cut face which confronted
Milverton, a face with a curved nose, strong, dark eyebrows shading
hard, glittering eyes, and a straight, thin-lipped mouth set in a
dangerous smile.
“It is I,” she said; “the woman whose life you have ruined.”
Milverton laughed, but fear vibrated in his voice. “You were so very
obstinate,” said he. “Why did you drive me to such extremities? I
assure you I wouldn't hurt a fly of my own accord, but every man has his
business, and what was I to do? I put the price well within your means.
You would not pay.”
“So you sent the letters to my husband, and he--the noblest gentleman
that ever lived, a man whose boots I was never worthy to lace--he broke
his gallant heart and died. You remember that last night when I came
through that door I begged and prayed you for mercy, and you laughed in
my face as you are trying to laugh now, only your coward heart cannot
keep your lips from twitching? Yes, you never thought to see me here
again, but it was that night which taught me how I could meet you face
to face, and alone. Well, Charles Milverton, what have you to say?”
“Don't imagine that you can bully me,” said he, rising to his feet. “I
have only to raise my voice, and I could call my servants and have you
arrested. But I will make allowance for your natural anger. Leave the
room at once as you came, and I will say no more.”
The woman stood with her hand buried in her bosom, and the same deadly
smile on her thin lips.
“You will ruin no more lives as you ruined mine. You will wring no more
hearts as you wrung mine. I will free the world of a poisonous thing.
Take that, you hound, and that!--and that!--and that!”
She had drawn a little, gleaming revolver, and emptied barrel after
barrel into Milverton's body, the muzzle within two feet of his shirt
front. He shrank away and then fell forward upon the table, coughing
furiously and clawing among the papers. Then he staggered to his feet,
received another shot, and rolled upon the floor. “You've done me,” he
cried, and lay still. The woman looked at him intently and ground her
heel into his upturned face. She looked again, but there was no sound
or movement. I heard a sharp rustle, the night air blew into the heated
room, and the avenger was gone.
No interference upon our part could have saved the man from his fate;
but as the woman poured bullet after bullet into Milverton's shrinking
body I was about to spring out, when I felt Holmes's cold, strong grasp
upon my wrist. I understood the whole argument of that firm, restraining
grip--that it was no affair of ours; that justice had overtaken a
villain; that we had our own duties and our own objects which were not
to be lost sight of. But hardly had the woman rushed from the room when
Holmes, with swift, silent steps, was over at the other door. He turned
the key in the lock. At the same instant we heard voices in the house
and the sound of hurrying feet. The revolver shots had roused the
household. With perfect coolness Holmes slipped across to the safe,
filled his two arms with bundles of letters, and poured them all into
the fire. Again and again he did it, until the safe was empty. Someone
turned the handle and beat upon the outside of the door. Holmes looked
swiftly round. The letter which had been the messenger of death for
Milverton lay, all mottled with his blood, upon the table. Holmes tossed
it in among the blazing papers. Then he drew the key from the outer
door, passed through after me, and locked it on the outside. “This way,
Watson,” said he; “we can scale the garden wall in this direction.”
I could not have believed that an alarm could have spread so swiftly.
Looking back, the huge house was one blaze of light. The front door
was open, and figures were rushing down the drive. The whole garden was
alive with people, and one fellow raised a view-halloa as we emerged
from the veranda and followed hard at our heels. Holmes seemed to know
the ground perfectly, and he threaded his way swiftly among a plantation
of small trees, I close at his heels, and our foremost pursuer panting
behind us. It was a six-foot wall which barred our path, but he sprang
to the top and over. As I did the same I felt the hand of the man behind
me grab at my ankle; but I kicked myself free and scrambled over a
glass-strewn coping. I fell upon my face among some bushes; but Holmes
had me on my feet in an instant, and together we dashed away across the
huge expanse of Hampstead Heath. We had run two miles, I suppose, before
Holmes at last halted and listened intently. All was absolute silence
behind us. We had shaken off our pursuers and were safe.
We had breakfasted and were smoking our morning pipe on the day after
the remarkable experience which I have recorded when Mr. Lestrade, of
Scotland Yard, very solemn and impressive, was ushered into our modest
sitting-room.
“Good morning, Mr. Holmes,” said he; “good morning. May I ask if you are
very busy just now?”
“Not too busy to listen to you.”
“I thought that, perhaps, if you had nothing particular on hand, you
might care to assist us in a most remarkable case which occurred only
last night at Hampstead.”
“Dear me!” said Holmes. “What was that?”
“A murder--a most dramatic and remarkable murder. I know how keen you
are upon these things, and I would take it as a great favour if you
would step down to Appledore Towers and give us the benefit of your
advice. It is no ordinary crime. We have had our eyes upon this Mr.
Milverton for some time, and, between ourselves, he was a bit of a
villain. He is known to have held papers which he used for blackmailing
purposes. These papers have all been burned by the murderers. No article
of value was taken, as it is probable that the criminals were men of
good position, whose sole object was to prevent social exposure.”
“Criminals!” said Holmes. “Plural!”
“Yes, there were two of them. They were, as nearly as possible, captured
red-handed. We have their foot-marks, we have their description; it's
ten to one that we trace them. The first fellow was a bit too active,
but the second was caught by the under-gardener and only got away after
a struggle. He was a middle-sized, strongly-built man--square jaw, thick
neck, moustache, a mask over his eyes.”
“That's rather vague,” said Sherlock Holmes. “Why, it might be a
description of Watson!”
“It's true,” said the inspector, with much amusement. “It might be a
description of Watson.”
“Well, I am afraid I can't help you, Lestrade,” said Holmes. “The fact
is that I knew this fellow Milverton, that I considered him one of the
most dangerous men in London, and that I think there are certain crimes
which the law cannot touch, and which therefore, to some extent, justify
private revenge. No, it's no use arguing. I have made up my mind. My
sympathies are with the criminals rather than with the victim, and I
will not handle this case.”
Holmes had not said one word to me about the tragedy which we had
witnessed, but I observed all the morning that he was in his most
thoughtful mood, and he gave me the impression, from his vacant eyes and
his abstracted manner, of a man who is striving to recall something to
his memory. We were in the middle of our lunch when he suddenly sprang
to his feet. “By Jove, Watson; I've got it!” he cried. “Take your hat!
Come with me!” He hurried at his top speed down Baker Street and along
Oxford Street, until we had almost reached Regent Circus. Here on the
left hand there stands a shop window filled with photographs of the
celebrities and beauties of the day. Holmes's eyes fixed themselves upon
one of them, and following his gaze I saw the picture of a regal and
stately lady in Court dress, with a high diamond tiara upon her noble
head. I looked at that delicately-curved nose, at the marked eyebrows,
at the straight mouth, and the strong little chin beneath it. Then I
caught my breath as I read the time-honoured title of the great nobleman
and statesman whose wife she had been. My eyes met those of Holmes, and
he put his finger to his lips as we turned away from the window.
*****
THE STRAND MAGAZINE
Vol. 27 MAY, 1904
THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.
By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.
|
vii_the_adventure_of_charles_augustus_milverton
|
VIII.--The Adventure of the Six Napoleons.
|
The Return of Sherlock Holmes
|
IT was no very unusual thing for Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, to
look in upon us of an evening, and his visits were welcome to Sherlock
Holmes, for they enabled him to keep in touch with all that was going on
at the police head-quarters. In return for the news which Lestrade would
bring, Holmes was always ready to listen with attention to the
details of any case upon which the detective was engaged, and was able
occasionally, without any active interference, to give some hint or
suggestion drawn from his own vast knowledge and experience.
On this particular evening Lestrade had spoken of the weather and the
newspapers. Then he had fallen silent, puffing thoughtfully at his
cigar. Holmes looked keenly at him.
“Anything remarkable on hand?” he asked.
“Oh, no, Mr. Holmes, nothing very particular.”
“Then tell me about it.”
Lestrade laughed.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, there is no use denying that there IS something on my
mind. And yet it is such an absurd business that I hesitated to
bother you about it. On the other hand, although it is trivial, it is
undoubtedly queer, and I know that you have a taste for all that is out
of the common. But in my opinion it comes more in Dr. Watson's line than
ours.”
“Disease?” said I.
“Madness, anyhow. And a queer madness too! You wouldn't think there was
anyone living at this time of day who had such a hatred of Napoleon the
First that he would break any image of him that he could see.”
Holmes sank back in his chair.
“That's no business of mine,” said he.
“Exactly. That's what I said. But then, when the man commits burglary
in order to break images which are not his own, that brings it away from
the doctor and on to the policeman.”
Holmes sat up again.
“Burglary! This is more interesting. Let me hear the details.”
Lestrade took out his official note-book and refreshed his memory from
its pages.
“The first case reported was four days ago,” said he. “It was at the
shop of Morse Hudson, who has a place for the sale of pictures and
statues in the Kennington Road. The assistant had left the front shop
for an instant when he heard a crash, and hurrying in he found a plaster
bust of Napoleon, which stood with several other works of art upon the
counter, lying shivered into fragments. He rushed out into the road,
but, although several passers-by declared that they had noticed a man
run out of the shop, he could neither see anyone nor could he find any
means of identifying the rascal. It seemed to be one of those senseless
acts of Hooliganism which occur from time to time, and it was reported
to the constable on the beat as such. The plaster cast was not worth
more than a few shillings, and the whole affair appeared to be too
childish for any particular investigation.
“The second case, however, was more serious and also more singular. It
occurred only last night.
“In Kennington Road, and within a few hundred yards of Morse Hudson's
shop, there lives a well-known medical practitioner, named Dr. Barnicot,
who has one of the largest practices upon the south side of the Thames.
His residence and principal consulting-room is at Kennington Road, but
he has a branch surgery and dispensary at Lower Brixton Road, two miles
away. This Dr. Barnicot is an enthusiastic admirer of Napoleon, and his
house is full of books, pictures, and relics of the French Emperor. Some
little time ago he purchased from Morse Hudson two duplicate plaster
casts of the famous head of Napoleon by the French sculptor, Devine. One
of these he placed in his hall in the house at Kennington Road, and the
other on the mantelpiece of the surgery at Lower Brixton. Well, when Dr.
Barnicot came down this morning he was astonished to find that his house
had been burgled during the night, but that nothing had been taken save
the plaster head from the hall. It had been carried out and had been
dashed savagely against the garden wall, under which its splintered
fragments were discovered.”
Holmes rubbed his hands.
“This is certainly very novel,” said he.
“I thought it would please you. But I have not got to the end yet. Dr.
Barnicot was due at his surgery at twelve o'clock, and you can imagine
his amazement when, on arriving there, he found that the window had been
opened in the night, and that the broken pieces of his second bust were
strewn all over the room. It had been smashed to atoms where it stood.
In neither case were there any signs which could give us a clue as to
the criminal or lunatic who had done the mischief. Now, Mr. Holmes, you
have got the facts.”
“They are singular, not to say grotesque,” said Holmes. “May I ask
whether the two busts smashed in Dr. Barnicot's rooms were the exact
duplicates of the one which was destroyed in Morse Hudson's shop?”
“They were taken from the same mould.”
“Such a fact must tell against the theory that the man who breaks them
is influenced by any general hatred of Napoleon. Considering how many
hundreds of statues of the great Emperor must exist in London, it is
too much to suppose such a coincidence as that a promiscuous iconoclast
should chance to begin upon three specimens of the same bust.”
“Well, I thought as you do,” said Lestrade. “On the other hand, this
Morse Hudson is the purveyor of busts in that part of London, and these
three were the only ones which had been in his shop for years. So,
although, as you say, there are many hundreds of statues in London, it
is very probable that these three were the only ones in that district.
Therefore, a local fanatic would begin with them. What do you think, Dr.
Watson?”
“There are no limits to the possibilities of monomania,” I answered.
“There is the condition which the modern French psychologists have
called the 'idee fixe,' which may be trifling in character, and
accompanied by complete sanity in every other way. A man who had read
deeply about Napoleon, or who had possibly received some hereditary
family injury through the great war, might conceivably form such
an 'idee fixe' and under its influence be capable of any fantastic
outrage.”
“That won't do, my dear Watson,” said Holmes, shaking his head; “for no
amount of 'idee fixe' would enable your interesting monomaniac to find
out where these busts were situated.”
“Well, how do YOU explain it?”
“I don't attempt to do so. I would only observe that there is a certain
method in the gentleman's eccentric proceedings. For example, in Dr.
Barnicot's hall, where a sound might arouse the family, the bust was
taken outside before being broken, whereas in the surgery, where there
was less danger of an alarm, it was smashed where it stood. The affair
seems absurdly trifling, and yet I dare call nothing trivial when I
reflect that some of my most classic cases have had the least promising
commencement. You will remember, Watson, how the dreadful business of
the Abernetty family was first brought to my notice by the depth which
the parsley had sunk into the butter upon a hot day. I can't afford,
therefore, to smile at your three broken busts, Lestrade, and I shall
be very much obliged to you if you will let me hear of any fresh
developments of so singular a chain of events.”
The development for which my friend had asked came in a quicker and an
infinitely more tragic form than he could have imagined. I was still
dressing in my bedroom next morning when there was a tap at the door and
Holmes entered, a telegram in his hand. He read it aloud:--
“Come instantly, 131, Pitt Street, Kensington.--Lestrade.”
“What is it, then?” I asked.
“Don't know--may be anything. But I suspect it is the sequel of the
story of the statues. In that case our friend, the image-breaker, has
begun operations in another quarter of London. There's coffee on the
table, Watson, and I have a cab at the door.”
In half an hour we had reached Pitt Street, a quiet little backwater
just beside one of the briskest currents of London life. No. 131 was one
of a row, all flat-chested, respectable, and most unromantic dwellings.
As we drove up we found the railings in front of the house lined by a
curious crowd. Holmes whistled.
“By George! it's attempted murder at the least. Nothing less will hold
the London message-boy. There's a deed of violence indicated in that
fellow's round shoulders and outstretched neck. What's this, Watson? The
top steps swilled down and the other ones dry. Footsteps enough, anyhow!
Well, well, there's Lestrade at the front window, and we shall soon know
all about it.”
The official received us with a very grave face and showed us into a
sitting-room, where an exceedingly unkempt and agitated elderly
man, clad in a flannel dressing-gown, was pacing up and down. He was
introduced to us as the owner of the house--Mr. Horace Harker, of the
Central Press Syndicate.
“It's the Napoleon bust business again,” said Lestrade. “You seemed
interested last night, Mr. Holmes, so I thought perhaps you would be
glad to be present now that the affair has taken a very much graver
turn.”
“What has it turned to, then?”
“To murder. Mr. Harker, will you tell these gentlemen exactly what has
occurred?”
The man in the dressing-gown turned upon us with a most melancholy face.
“It's an extraordinary thing,” said he, “that all my life I have been
collecting other people's news, and now that a real piece of news has
come my own way I am so confused and bothered that I can't put two
words together. If I had come in here as a journalist I should have
interviewed myself and had two columns in every evening paper. As it is
I am giving away valuable copy by telling my story over and over to a
string of different people, and I can make no use of it myself. However,
I've heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and if you'll only explain
this queer business I shall be paid for my trouble in telling you the
story.”
Holmes sat down and listened.
“It all seems to centre round that bust of Napoleon which I bought for
this very room about four months ago. I picked it up cheap from Harding
Brothers, two doors from the High Street Station. A great deal of my
journalistic work is done at night, and I often write until the early
morning. So it was to-day. I was sitting in my den, which is at the back
of the top of the house, about three o'clock, when I was convinced that
I heard some sounds downstairs. I listened, but they were not repeated,
and I concluded that they came from outside. Then suddenly, about five
minutes later, there came a most horrible yell--the most dreadful sound,
Mr. Holmes, that ever I heard. It will ring in my ears as long as I
live. I sat frozen with horror for a minute or two. Then I seized the
poker and went downstairs. When I entered this room I found the window
wide open, and I at once observed that the bust was gone from the
mantelpiece. Why any burglar should take such a thing passes my
understanding, for it was only a plaster cast and of no real value
whatever.
“You can see for yourself that anyone going out through that open window
could reach the front doorstep by taking a long stride. This was clearly
what the burglar had done, so I went round and opened the door. Stepping
out into the dark I nearly fell over a dead man who was lying there. I
ran back for a light, and there was the poor fellow, a great gash in his
throat and the whole place swimming in blood. He lay on his back, his
knees drawn up, and his mouth horribly open. I shall see him in my
dreams. I had just time to blow on my police-whistle, and then I must
have fainted, for I knew nothing more until I found the policeman
standing over me in the hall.”
“Well, who was the murdered man?” asked Holmes.
“There's nothing to show who he was,” said Lestrade. “You shall see the
body at the mortuary, but we have made nothing of it up to now. He is a
tall man, sunburned, very powerful, not more than thirty. He is poorly
dressed, and yet does not appear to be a labourer. A horn-handled clasp
knife was lying in a pool of blood beside him. Whether it was the weapon
which did the deed, or whether it belonged to the dead man, I do not
know. There was no name on his clothing, and nothing in his pockets save
an apple, some string, a shilling map of London, and a photograph. Here
it is.”
It was evidently taken by a snap-shot from a small camera. It
represented an alert, sharp-featured simian man with thick eyebrows, and
a very peculiar projection of the lower part of the face like the muzzle
of a baboon.
“And what became of the bust?” asked Holmes, after a careful study of
this picture.
“We had news of it just before you came. It has been found in the front
garden of an empty house in Campden House Road. It was broken into
fragments. I am going round now to see it. Will you come?”
“Certainly. I must just take one look round.” He examined the carpet and
the window. “The fellow had either very long legs or was a most active
man,” said he. “With an area beneath, it was no mean feat to reach
that window-ledge and open that window. Getting back was comparatively
simple. Are you coming with us to see the remains of your bust, Mr.
Harker?”
The disconsolate journalist had seated himself at a writing-table.
“I must try and make something of it,” said he, “though I have no doubt
that the first editions of the evening papers are out already with
full details. It's like my luck! You remember when the stand fell at
Doncaster? Well, I was the only journalist in the stand, and my journal
the only one that had no account of it, for I was too shaken to write
it. And now I'll be too late with a murder done on my own doorstep.”
As we left the room we heard his pen travelling shrilly over the
foolscap.
The spot where the fragments of the bust had been found was only a
few hundred yards away. For the first time our eyes rested upon this
presentment of the great Emperor, which seemed to raise such frantic
and destructive hatred in the mind of the unknown. It lay scattered in
splintered shards upon the grass. Holmes picked up several of them and
examined them carefully. I was convinced from his intent face and his
purposeful manner that at last he was upon a clue.
“Well?” asked Lestrade.
Holmes shrugged his shoulders.
“We have a long way to go yet,” said he. “And yet--and yet--well, we
have some suggestive facts to act upon. The possession of this trifling
bust was worth more in the eyes of this strange criminal than a human
life. That is one point. Then there is the singular fact that he did not
break it in the house, or immediately outside the house, if to break it
was his sole object.”
“He was rattled and bustled by meeting this other fellow. He hardly knew
what he was doing.”
“Well, that's likely enough. But I wish to call your attention very
particularly to the position of this house in the garden of which the
bust was destroyed.”
Lestrade looked about him.
“It was an empty house, and so he knew that he would not be disturbed in
the garden.”
“Yes, but there is another empty house farther up the street which he
must have passed before he came to this one. Why did he not break it
there, since it is evident that every yard that he carried it increased
the risk of someone meeting him?”
“I give it up,” said Lestrade.
Holmes pointed to the street lamp above our heads.
“He could see what he was doing here and he could not there. That was
his reason.”
“By Jove! that's true,” said the detective. “Now that I come to think of
it, Dr. Barnicot's bust was broken not far from his red lamp. Well, Mr.
Holmes, what are we to do with that fact?”
“To remember it--to docket it. We may come on something later which will
bear upon it. What steps do you propose to take now, Lestrade?”
“The most practical way of getting at it, in my opinion, is to identify
the dead man. There should be no difficulty about that. When we have
found who he is and who his associates are, we should have a good start
in learning what he was doing in Pitt Street last night, and who it was
who met him and killed him on the doorstep of Mr. Horace Harker. Don't
you think so?”
“No doubt; and yet it is not quite the way in which I should approach
the case.”
“What would you do, then?”
“Oh, you must not let me influence you in any way! I suggest that you
go on your line and I on mine. We can compare notes afterwards, and each
will supplement the other.”
“Very good,” said Lestrade.
“If you are going back to Pitt Street you might see Mr. Horace Harker.
Tell him from me that I have quite made up my mind, and that it is
certain that a dangerous homicidal lunatic with Napoleonic delusions was
in his house last night. It will be useful for his article.”
Lestrade stared.
“You don't seriously believe that?”
Holmes smiled.
“Don't I? Well, perhaps I don't. But I am sure that it will interest Mr.
Horace Harker and the subscribers of the Central Press Syndicate.
Now, Watson, I think that we shall find that we have a long and rather
complex day's work before us. I should be glad, Lestrade, if you could
make it convenient to meet us at Baker Street at six o'clock this
evening. Until then I should like to keep this photograph found in the
dead man's pocket. It is possible that I may have to ask your company
and assistance upon a small expedition which will have be undertaken
to-night, if my chain of reasoning should prove to be correct. Until
then, good-bye and good luck!”
Sherlock Holmes and I walked together to the High Street, where he
stopped at the shop of Harding Brothers, whence the bust had been
purchased. A young assistant informed us that Mr. Harding would be
absent until after noon, and that he was himself a newcomer who could
give us no information. Holmes's face showed his disappointment and
annoyance.
“Well, well, we can't expect to have it all our own way, Watson,” he
said, at last. “We must come back in the afternoon if Mr. Harding
will not be here until then. I am, as you have no doubt surmised,
endeavouring to trace these busts to their source, in order to find if
there is not something peculiar which may account for their remarkable
fate. Let us make for Mr. Morse Hudson, of the Kennington Road, and see
if he can throw any light upon the problem.”
A drive of an hour brought us to the picture-dealer's establishment. He
was a small, stout man with a red face and a peppery manner.
“Yes, sir. On my very counter, sir,” said he. “What we pay rates and
taxes for I don't know, when any ruffian can come in and break one's
goods. Yes, sir, it was I who sold Dr. Barnicot his two statues.
Disgraceful, sir! A Nihilist plot, that's what I make it. No one but an
Anarchist would go about breaking statues. Red republicans, that's what
I call 'em. Who did I get the statues from? I don't see what that has to
do with it. Well, if you really want to know, I got them from Gelder
and Co., in Church Street, Stepney. They are a well-known house in the
trade, and have been this twenty years. How many had I? Three--two and
one are three--two of Dr. Barnicot's and one smashed in broad daylight
on my own counter. Do I know that photograph? No, I don't. Yes, I do,
though. Why, it's Beppo. He was a kind of Italian piece-work man, who
made himself useful in the shop. He could carve a bit and gild and
frame, and do odd jobs. The fellow left me last week, and I've heard
nothing of him since. No, I don't know where he came from nor where he
went to. I have nothing against him while he was here. He was gone two
days before the bust was smashed.”
“Well, that's all we could reasonably expect to get from Morse Hudson,”
said Holmes, as we emerged from the shop. “We have this Beppo as a
common factor, both in Kennington and in Kensington, so that is worth a
ten-mile drive. Now, Watson, let us make for Gelder and Co., of Stepney,
the source and origin of busts. I shall be surprised if we don't get
some help down there.”
In rapid succession we passed through the fringe of fashionable London,
hotel London, theatrical London, literary London, commercial London,
and, finally, maritime London, till we came to a riverside city of a
hundred thousand souls, where the tenement houses swelter and reek with
the outcasts of Europe. Here, in a broad thoroughfare, once the abode
of wealthy City merchants, we found the sculpture works for which we
searched. Outside was a considerable yard full of monumental masonry.
Inside was a large room in which fifty workers were carving or moulding.
The manager, a big blond German, received us civilly, and gave a clear
answer to all Holmes's questions. A reference to his books showed that
hundreds of casts had been taken from a marble copy of Devine's head of
Napoleon, but that the three which had been sent to Morse Hudson a year
or so before had been half of a batch of six, the other three being sent
to Harding Brothers, of Kensington. There was no reason why those six
should be different to any of the other casts. He could suggest no
possible cause why anyone should wish to destroy them--in fact, he
laughed at the idea. Their wholesale price was six shillings, but the
retailer would get twelve or more. The cast was taken in two moulds from
each side of the face, and then these two profiles of plaster of Paris
were joined together to make the complete bust. The work was usually
done by Italians in the room we were in. When finished the busts were
put on a table in the passage to dry, and afterwards stored. That was
all he could tell us.
But the production of the photograph had a remarkable effect upon the
manager. His face flushed with anger, and his brows knotted over his
blue Teutonic eyes.
“Ah, the rascal!” he cried. “Yes, indeed, I know him very well. This has
always been a respectable establishment, and the only time that we have
ever had the police in it was over this very fellow. It was more than a
year ago now. He knifed another Italian in the street, and then he came
to the works with the police on his heels, and he was taken here. Beppo
was his name--his second name I never knew. Serve me right for engaging
a man with such a face. But he was a good workman, one of the best.”
“What did he get?”
“The man lived and he got off with a year. I have no doubt he is out
now; but he has not dared to show his nose here. We have a cousin of his
here, and I dare say he could tell you where he is.”
“No, no,” cried Holmes, “not a word to the cousin--not a word, I beg
you. The matter is very important, and the farther I go with it the more
important it seems to grow. When you referred in your ledger to the sale
of those casts I observed that the date was June 3rd of last year. Could
you give me the date when Beppo was arrested?”
“I could tell you roughly by the pay-list,” the manager answered. “Yes,”
he continued, after some turning over of pages, “he was paid last on May
20th.”
“Thank you,” said Holmes. “I don't think that I need intrude upon your
time and patience any more.” With a last word of caution that he should
say nothing as to our researches we turned our faces westward once more.
The afternoon was far advanced before we were able to snatch a hasty
luncheon at a restaurant. A news-bill at the entrance announced
“Kensington Outrage. Murder by a Madman,” and the contents of the paper
showed that Mr. Horace Harker had got his account into print after
all. Two columns were occupied with a highly sensational and flowery
rendering of the whole incident. Holmes propped it against the
cruet-stand and read it while he ate. Once or twice he chuckled.
“This is all right, Watson,” said he. “Listen to this: 'It is
satisfactory to know that there can be no difference of opinion upon
this case, since Mr. Lestrade, one of the most experienced members of
the official force, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the well-known consulting
expert, have each come to the conclusion that the grotesque series of
incidents, which have ended in so tragic a fashion, arise from lunacy
rather than from deliberate crime. No explanation save mental aberration
can cover the facts.' The Press, Watson, is a most valuable institution
if you only know how to use it. And now, if you have quite finished,
we will hark back to Kensington and see what the manager of Harding
Brothers has to say to the matter.”
The founder of that great emporium proved to be a brisk, crisp little
person, very dapper and quick, with a clear head and a ready tongue.
“Yes, sir, I have already read the account in the evening papers. Mr.
Horace Harker is a customer of ours. We supplied him with the bust some
months ago. We ordered three busts of that sort from Gelder and Co., of
Stepney. They are all sold now. To whom? Oh, I dare say by consulting
our sales book we could very easily tell you. Yes, we have the entries
here. One to Mr. Harker, you see, and one to Mr. Josiah Brown, of
Laburnum Lodge, Laburnum Vale, Chiswick, and one to Mr. Sandeford, of
Lower Grove Road, Reading. No, I have never seen this face which you
show me in the photograph. You would hardly forget it, would you, sir,
for I've seldom seen an uglier. Have we any Italians on the staff? Yes,
sir, we have several among our workpeople and cleaners. I dare say
they might get a peep at that sales book if they wanted to. There is no
particular reason for keeping a watch upon that book. Well, well, it's
a very strange business, and I hope that you'll let me know if anything
comes of your inquiries.”
Holmes had taken several notes during Mr. Harding's evidence, and I
could see that he was thoroughly satisfied by the turn which affairs
were taking. He made no remark, however, save that, unless we hurried,
we should be late for our appointment with Lestrade. Sure enough, when
we reached Baker Street the detective was already there, and we found
him pacing up and down in a fever of impatience. His look of importance
showed that his day's work had not been in vain.
“Well?” he asked. “What luck, Mr. Holmes?”
“We have had a very busy day, and not entirely a wasted one,” my friend
explained. “We have seen both the retailers and also the wholesale
manufacturers. I can trace each of the busts now from the beginning.”
“The busts!” cried Lestrade. “Well, well, you have your own methods, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes, and it is not for me to say a word against them, but
I think I have done a better day's work than you. I have identified the
dead man.”
“You don't say so?”
“And found a cause for the crime.”
“Splendid!”
“We have an inspector who makes a specialty of Saffron Hill and the
Italian quarter. Well, this dead man had some Catholic emblem round his
neck, and that, along with his colour, made me think he was from the
South. Inspector Hill knew him the moment he caught sight of him. His
name is Pietro Venucci, from Naples, and he is one of the greatest
cut-throats in London. He is connected with the Mafia, which, as you
know, is a secret political society, enforcing its decrees by murder.
Now you see how the affair begins to clear up. The other fellow is
probably an Italian also, and a member of the Mafia. He has broken
the rules in some fashion. Pietro is set upon his track. Probably the
photograph we found in his pocket is the man himself, so that he may not
knife the wrong person. He dogs the fellow, he sees him enter a house,
he waits outside for him, and in the scuffle he receives his own
death-wound. How is that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”
Holmes clapped his hands approvingly.
“Excellent, Lestrade, excellent!” he cried. “But I didn't quite follow
your explanation of the destruction of the busts.”
“The busts! You never can get those busts out of your head. After all,
that is nothing; petty larceny, six months at the most. It is the murder
that we are really investigating, and I tell you that I am gathering all
the threads into my hands.”
“And the next stage?”
“Is a very simple one. I shall go down with Hill to the Italian quarter,
find the man whose photograph we have got, and arrest him on the charge
of murder. Will you come with us?”
“I think not. I fancy we can attain our end in a simpler way. I can't
say for certain, because it all depends--well, it all depends upon
a factor which is completely outside our control. But I have great
hopes--in fact, the betting is exactly two to one--that if you will come
with us to-night I shall be able to help you to lay him by the heels.”
“In the Italian quarter?”
“No; I fancy Chiswick is an address which is more likely to find him. If
you will come with me to Chiswick to-night, Lestrade, I'll promise to go
to the Italian quarter with you to-morrow, and no harm will be done by
the delay. And now I think that a few hours' sleep would do us all good,
for I do not propose to leave before eleven o'clock, and it is unlikely
that we shall be back before morning. You'll dine with us, Lestrade, and
then you are welcome to the sofa until it is time for us to start. In
the meantime, Watson, I should be glad if you would ring for an express
messenger, for I have a letter to send, and it is important that it
should go at once.”
Holmes spent the evening in rummaging among the files of the old daily
papers with which one of our lumber-rooms was packed. When at last he
descended it was with triumph in his eyes, but he said nothing to
either of us as to the result of his researches. For my own part, I had
followed step by step the methods by which he had traced the various
windings of this complex case, and, though I could not yet perceive the
goal which we would reach, I understood clearly that Holmes expected
this grotesque criminal to make an attempt upon the two remaining busts,
one of which, I remembered, was at Chiswick. No doubt the object of our
journey was to catch him in the very act, and I could not but admire the
cunning with which my friend had inserted a wrong clue in the evening
paper, so as to give the fellow the idea that he could continue his
scheme with impunity. I was not surprised when Holmes suggested that
I should take my revolver with me. He had himself picked up the loaded
hunting-crop which was his favourite weapon.
A four-wheeler was at the door at eleven, and in it we drove to a spot
at the other side of Hammersmith Bridge. Here the cabman was directed to
wait. A short walk brought us to a secluded road fringed with pleasant
houses, each standing in its own grounds. In the light of a street
lamp we read “Laburnum Villa” upon the gate-post of one of them. The
occupants had evidently retired to rest, for all was dark save for a
fanlight over the hall door, which shed a single blurred circle on to
the garden path. The wooden fence which separated the grounds from the
road threw a dense black shadow upon the inner side, and here it was
that we crouched.
“I fear that you'll have a long wait,” Holmes whispered. “We may thank
our stars that it is not raining. I don't think we can even venture to
smoke to pass the time. However, it's a two to one chance that we get
something to pay us for our trouble.”
It proved, however, that our vigil was not to be so long as Holmes had
led us to fear, and it ended in a very sudden and singular fashion. In
an instant, without the least sound to warn us of his coming, the garden
gate swung open, and a lithe, dark figure, as swift and active as an
ape, rushed up the garden path. We saw it whisk past the light thrown
from over the door and disappear against the black shadow of the house.
There was a long pause, during which we held our breath, and then a very
gentle creaking sound came to our ears. The window was being opened. The
noise ceased, and again there was a long silence. The fellow was making
his way into the house. We saw the sudden flash of a dark lantern inside
the room. What he sought was evidently not there, for again we saw the
flash through another blind, and then through another.
“Let us get to the open window. We will nab him as he climbs out,”
Lestrade whispered.
But before we could move the man had emerged again. As he came out into
the glimmering patch of light we saw that he carried something white
under his arm. He looked stealthily all round him. The silence of the
deserted street reassured him. Turning his back upon us he laid down
his burden, and the next instant there was the sound of a sharp tap,
followed by a clatter and rattle. The man was so intent upon what he was
doing that he never heard our steps as we stole across the grass plot.
With the bound of a tiger Holmes was on his back, and an instant later
Lestrade and I had him by either wrist and the handcuffs had been
fastened. As we turned him over I saw a hideous, sallow face, with
writhing, furious features, glaring up at us, and I knew that it was
indeed the man of the photograph whom we had secured.
But it was not our prisoner to whom Holmes was giving his attention.
Squatted on the doorstep, he was engaged in most carefully examining
that which the man had brought from the house. It was a bust of Napoleon
like the one which we had seen that morning, and it had been broken
into similar fragments. Carefully Holmes held each separate shard to
the light, but in no way did it differ from any other shattered piece of
plaster. He had just completed his examination when the hall lights flew
up, the door opened, and the owner of the house, a jovial, rotund figure
in shirt and trousers, presented himself.
“Mr. Josiah Brown, I suppose?” said Holmes.
“Yes, sir; and you, no doubt, are Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I had the note
which you sent by the express messenger, and I did exactly what you told
me. We locked every door on the inside and awaited developments. Well,
I'm very glad to see that you have got the rascal. I hope, gentlemen,
that you will come in and have some refreshment.”
However, Lestrade was anxious to get his man into safe quarters, so
within a few minutes our cab had been summoned and we were all four upon
our way to London. Not a word would our captive say; but he glared at us
from the shadow of his matted hair, and once, when my hand seemed within
his reach, he snapped at it like a hungry wolf. We stayed long enough
at the police-station to learn that a search of his clothing revealed
nothing save a few shillings and a long sheath knife, the handle of
which bore copious traces of recent blood.
“That's all right,” said Lestrade, as we parted. “Hill knows all these
gentry, and he will give a name to him. You'll find that my theory of
the Mafia will work out all right. But I'm sure I am exceedingly obliged
to you, Mr. Holmes, for the workmanlike way in which you laid hands upon
him. I don't quite understand it all yet.”
“I fear it is rather too late an hour for explanations,” said Holmes.
“Besides, there are one or two details which are not finished off, and
it is one of those cases which are worth working out to the very end.
If you will come round once more to my rooms at six o'clock to-morrow I
think I shall be able to show you that even now you have not grasped the
entire meaning of this business, which presents some features which make
it absolutely original in the history of crime. If ever I permit you
to chronicle any more of my little problems, Watson, I foresee that you
will enliven your pages by an account of the singular adventure of the
Napoleonic busts.”
When we met again next evening Lestrade was furnished with much
information concerning our prisoner. His name, it appeared, was Beppo,
second name unknown. He was a well-known ne'er-do-well among the Italian
colony. He had once been a skilful sculptor and had earned an honest
living, but he had taken to evil courses and had twice already been
in gaol--once for a petty theft and once, as we had already heard, for
stabbing a fellow-countryman. He could talk English perfectly well. His
reasons for destroying the busts were still unknown, and he refused to
answer any questions upon the subject; but the police had discovered
that these same busts might very well have been made by his own hands,
since he was engaged in this class of work at the establishment of
Gelder and Co. To all this information, much of which we already knew,
Holmes listened with polite attention; but I, who knew him so well,
could clearly see that his thoughts were elsewhere, and I detected a
mixture of mingled uneasiness and expectation beneath that mask which
he was wont to assume. At last he started in his chair and his eyes
brightened. There had been a ring at the bell. A minute later we heard
steps upon the stairs, and an elderly, red-faced man with grizzled
side-whiskers was ushered in. In his right hand he carried an
old-fashioned carpet-bag, which he placed upon the table.
“Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?”
My friend bowed and smiled. “Mr. Sandeford, of Reading, I suppose?” said
he.
“Yes, sir, I fear that I am a little late; but the trains were awkward.
You wrote to me about a bust that is in my possession.”
“Exactly.”
“I have your letter here. You said, 'I desire to possess a copy of
Devine's Napoleon, and am prepared to pay you ten pounds for the one
which is in your possession.' Is that right?”
“Certainly.”
“I was very much surprised at your letter, for I could not imagine how
you knew that I owned such a thing.”
“Of course you must have been surprised, but the explanation is very
simple. Mr. Harding, of Harding Brothers, said that they had sold you
their last copy, and he gave me your address.”
“Oh, that was it, was it? Did he tell you what I paid for it?”
“No, he did not.”
“Well, I am an honest man, though not a very rich one. I only gave
fifteen shillings for the bust, and I think you ought to know that
before I take ten pounds from you.”
“I am sure the scruple does you honour, Mr. Sandeford. But I have named
that price, so I intend to stick to it.”
“Well, it is very handsome of you, Mr. Holmes. I brought the bust up
with me, as you asked me to do. Here it is!” He opened his bag, and at
last we saw placed upon our table a complete specimen of that bust which
we had already seen more than once in fragments.
Holmes took a paper from his pocket and laid a ten-pound note upon the
table.
“You will kindly sign that paper, Mr. Sandeford, in the presence of
these witnesses. It is simply to say that you transfer every possible
right that you ever had in the bust to me. I am a methodical man, you
see, and you never know what turn events might take afterwards. Thank
you, Mr. Sandeford; here is your money, and I wish you a very good
evening.”
When our visitor had disappeared Sherlock Holmes's movements were such
as to rivet our attention. He began by taking a clean white cloth from
a drawer and laying it over the table. Then he placed his newly-acquired
bust in the centre of the cloth. Finally, he picked up his hunting-crop
and struck Napoleon a sharp blow on the top of the head. The figure
broke into fragments, and Holmes bent eagerly over the shattered
remains. Next instant, with a loud shout of triumph, he held up one
splinter, in which a round, dark object was fixed like a plum in a
pudding.
“Gentlemen,” he cried, “let me introduce you to the famous black pearl
of the Borgias.”
Lestrade and I sat silent for a moment, and then, with a spontaneous
impulse, we both broke out clapping as at the well-wrought crisis of a
play. A flush of colour sprang to Holmes's pale cheeks, and he bowed to
us like the master dramatist who receives the homage of his audience.
It was at such moments that for an instant he ceased to be a reasoning
machine, and betrayed his human love for admiration and applause. The
same singularly proud and reserved nature which turned away with disdain
from popular notoriety was capable of being moved to its depths by
spontaneous wonder and praise from a friend.
“Yes, gentlemen,” said he, “it is the most famous pearl now existing
in the world, and it has been my good fortune, by a connected chain of
inductive reasoning, to trace it from the Prince of Colonna's bedroom at
the Dacre Hotel, where it was lost, to the interior of this, the last of
the six busts of Napoleon which were manufactured by Gelder and Co.,
of Stepney. You will remember, Lestrade, the sensation caused by the
disappearance of this valuable jewel, and the vain efforts of the London
police to recover it. I was myself consulted upon the case; but I was
unable to throw any light upon it. Suspicion fell upon the maid of the
Princess, who was an Italian, and it was proved that she had a brother
in London, but we failed to trace any connection between them. The
maid's name was Lucretia Venucci, and there is no doubt in my mind that
this Pietro who was murdered two nights ago was the brother. I have been
looking up the dates in the old files of the paper, and I find that the
disappearance of the pearl was exactly two days before the arrest of
Beppo for some crime of violence, an event which took place in the
factory of Gelder and Co., at the very moment when these busts were
being made. Now you clearly see the sequence of events, though you see
them, of course, in the inverse order to the way in which they presented
themselves to me. Beppo had the pearl in his possession. He may have
stolen it from Pietro, he may have been Pietro's confederate, he
may have been the go-between of Pietro and his sister. It is of no
consequence to us which is the correct solution.
“The main fact is that he HAD the pearl, and at that moment, when it was
on his person, he was pursued by the police. He made for the factory in
which he worked, and he knew that he had only a few minutes in which to
conceal this enormously valuable prize, which would otherwise be found
on him when he was searched. Six plaster casts of Napoleon were drying
in the passage. One of them was still soft. In an instant Beppo, a
skilful workman, made a small hole in the wet plaster, dropped in the
pearl, and with a few touches covered over the aperture once more. It
was an admirable hiding-place. No one could possibly find it. But Beppo
was condemned to a year's imprisonment, and in the meanwhile his six
busts were scattered over London. He could not tell which contained his
treasure. Only by breaking them could he see. Even shaking would tell
him nothing, for as the plaster was wet it was probable that the pearl
would adhere to it--as, in fact, it has done. Beppo did not despair, and
he conducted his search with considerable ingenuity and perseverance.
Through a cousin who works with Gelder he found out the retail firms who
had bought the busts. He managed to find employment with Morse Hudson,
and in that way tracked down three of them. The pearl was not there.
Then, with the help of some Italian EMPLOYEE, he succeeded in finding out
where the other three busts had gone. The first was at Harker's. There
he was dogged by his confederate, who held Beppo responsible for the
loss of the pearl, and he stabbed him in the scuffle which followed.”
“If he was his confederate why should he carry his photograph?” I asked.
“As a means of tracing him if he wished to inquire about him from any
third person. That was the obvious reason. Well, after the murder
I calculated that Beppo would probably hurry rather than delay his
movements. He would fear that the police would read his secret, and so
he hastened on before they should get ahead of him. Of course, I could
not say that he had not found the pearl in Harker's bust. I had not even
concluded for certain that it was the pearl; but it was evident to me
that he was looking for something, since he carried the bust past
the other houses in order to break it in the garden which had a lamp
overlooking it. Since Harker's bust was one in three the chances were
exactly as I told you, two to one against the pearl being inside it.
There remained two busts, and it was obvious that he would go for the
London one first. I warned the inmates of the house, so as to avoid
a second tragedy, and we went down with the happiest results. By that
time, of course, I knew for certain that it was the Borgia pearl that we
were after. The name of the murdered man linked the one event with the
other. There only remained a single bust--the Reading one--and the pearl
must be there. I bought it in your presence from the owner--and there it
lies.”
We sat in silence for a moment.
“Well,” said Lestrade, “I've seen you handle a good many cases, Mr.
Holmes, but I don't know that I ever knew a more workmanlike one than
that. We're not jealous of you at Scotland Yard. No, sir, we are very
proud of you, and if you come down to-morrow there's not a man, from
the oldest inspector to the youngest constable, who wouldn't be glad to
shake you by the hand.”
“Thank you!” said Holmes. “Thank you!” and as he turned away it seemed
to me that he was more nearly moved by the softer human emotions than I
had ever seen him. A moment later he was the cold and practical thinker
once more. “Put the pearl in the safe, Watson,” said he, “and get out
the papers of the Conk-Singleton forgery case. Good-bye, Lestrade. If
any little problem comes your way I shall be happy, if I can, to give
you a hint or two as to its solution.”
*****
THE STRAND MAGAZINE
Vol. 27 JUNE, 1904
THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.
By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.
|
viii_the_adventure_of_the_six_napoleons
|
IX.--The Adventure of the Three Students.
|
The Return of Sherlock Holmes
|
IT was in the year '95 that a combination of events, into which I need
not enter, caused Mr. Sherlock Holmes and myself to spend some weeks in
one of our great University towns, and it was during this time that the
small but instructive adventure which I am about to relate befell us. It
will be obvious that any details which would help the reader to exactly
identify the college or the criminal would be injudicious and offensive.
So painful a scandal may well be allowed to die out. With due discretion
the incident itself may, however, be described, since it serves to
illustrate some of those qualities for which my friend was remarkable.
I will endeavour in my statement to avoid such terms as would serve
to limit the events to any particular place, or give a clue as to the
people concerned.
We were residing at the time in furnished lodgings close to a library
where Sherlock Holmes was pursuing some laborious researches in early
English charters--researches which led to results so striking that they
may be the subject of one of my future narratives. Here it was that one
evening we received a visit from an acquaintance, Mr. Hilton Soames,
tutor and lecturer at the College of St. Luke's. Mr. Soames was a tall,
spare man, of a nervous and excitable temperament. I had always known
him to be restless in his manner, but on this particular occasion he was
in such a state of uncontrollable agitation that it was clear something
very unusual had occurred.
“I trust, Mr. Holmes, that you can spare me a few hours of your valuable
time. We have had a very painful incident at St. Luke's, and really, but
for the happy chance of your being in the town, I should have been at a
loss what to do.”
“I am very busy just now, and I desire no distractions,” my friend
answered. “I should much prefer that you called in the aid of the
police.”
“No, no, my dear sir; such a course is utterly impossible. When once the
law is evoked it cannot be stayed again, and this is just one of those
cases where, for the credit of the college, it is most essential to
avoid scandal. Your discretion is as well known as your powers, and you
are the one man in the world who can help me. I beg you, Mr. Holmes, to
do what you can.”
My friend's temper had not improved since he had been deprived of the
congenial surroundings of Baker Street. Without his scrap-books, his
chemicals, and his homely untidiness, he was an uncomfortable man. He
shrugged his shoulders in ungracious acquiescence, while our visitor
in hurried words and with much excitable gesticulation poured forth his
story.
“I must explain to you, Mr. Holmes, that to-morrow is the first day
of the examination for the Fortescue Scholarship. I am one of the
examiners. My subject is Greek, and the first of the papers consists of
a large passage of Greek translation which the candidate has not seen.
This passage is printed on the examination paper, and it would naturally
be an immense advantage if the candidate could prepare it in advance.
For this reason great care is taken to keep the paper secret.
“To-day about three o'clock the proofs of this paper arrived from the
printers. The exercise consists of half a chapter of Thucydides. I had
to read it over carefully, as the text must be absolutely correct. At
four-thirty my task was not yet completed. I had, however, promised to
take tea in a friend's rooms, so I left the proof upon my desk. I was
absent rather more than an hour.
“You are aware, Mr. Holmes, that our college doors are double--a green
baize one within and a heavy oak one without. As I approached my outer
door I was amazed to see a key in it. For an instant I imagined that I
had left my own there, but on feeling in my pocket I found that it was
all right. The only duplicate which existed, so far as I knew, was that
which belonged to my servant, Bannister, a man who has looked after my
room for ten years, and whose honesty is absolutely above suspicion. I
found that the key was indeed his, that he had entered my room to know
if I wanted tea, and that he had very carelessly left the key in the
door when he came out. His visit to my room must have been within a very
few minutes of my leaving it. His forgetfulness about the key would
have mattered little upon any other occasion, but on this one day it has
produced the most deplorable consequences.
“The moment I looked at my table I was aware that someone had rummaged
among my papers. The proof was in three long slips. I had left them all
together. Now, I found that one of them was lying on the floor, one was
on the side table near the window, and the third was where I had left
it.”
Holmes stirred for the first time.
“The first page on the floor, the second in the window, the third where
you left it,” said he.
“Exactly, Mr. Holmes. You amaze me. How could you possibly know that?”
“Pray continue your very interesting statement.”
“For an instant I imagined that Bannister had taken the unpardonable
liberty of examining my papers. He denied it, however, with the utmost
earnestness, and I am convinced that he was speaking the truth. The
alternative was that someone passing had observed the key in the door,
had known that I was out, and had entered to look at the papers. A large
sum of money is at stake, for the scholarship is a very valuable one,
and an unscrupulous man might very well run a risk in order to gain an
advantage over his fellows.
“Bannister was very much upset by the incident. He had nearly fainted
when we found that the papers had undoubtedly been tampered with. I gave
him a little brandy and left him collapsed in a chair while I made a
most careful examination of the room. I soon saw that the intruder had
left other traces of his presence besides the rumpled papers. On the
table in the window were several shreds from a pencil which had been
sharpened. A broken tip of lead was lying there also. Evidently the
rascal had copied the paper in a great hurry, had broken his pencil, and
had been compelled to put a fresh point to it.”
“Excellent!” said Holmes, who was recovering his good-humour as his
attention became more engrossed by the case. “Fortune has been your
friend.”
“This was not all. I have a new writing-table with a fine surface of red
leather. I am prepared to swear, and so is Bannister, that it was
smooth and unstained. Now I found a clean cut in it about three inches
long--not a mere scratch, but a positive cut. Not only this, but on
the table I found a small ball of black dough, or clay, with specks
of something which looks like sawdust in it. I am convinced that
these marks were left by the man who rifled the papers. There were no
footmarks and no other evidence as to his identity. I was at my wits'
ends, when suddenly the happy thought occurred to me that you were in
the town, and I came straight round to put the matter into your hands.
Do help me, Mr. Holmes! You see my dilemma. Either I must find the
man or else the examination must be postponed until fresh papers are
prepared, and since this cannot be done without explanation there
will ensue a hideous scandal, which will throw a cloud not only on the
college, but on the University. Above all things I desire to settle the
matter quietly and discreetly.”
“I shall be happy to look into it and to give you such advice as I
can,” said Holmes, rising and putting on his overcoat. “The case is not
entirely devoid of interest. Had anyone visited you in your room after
the papers came to you?”
“Yes; young Daulat Ras, an Indian student who lives on the same stair,
came in to ask me some particulars about the examination.”
“For which he was entered?”
“Yes.”
“And the papers were on your table?”
“To the best of my belief they were rolled up.”
“But might be recognised as proofs?”
“Possibly.”
“No one else in your room?”
“No.”
“Did anyone know that these proofs would be there?”
“No one save the printer.”
“Did this man Bannister know?”
“No, certainly not. No one knew.”
“Where is Bannister now?”
“He was very ill, poor fellow. I left him collapsed in the chair. I was
in such a hurry to come to you.”
“You left your door open?”
“I locked up the papers first.”
“Then it amounts to this, Mr. Soames, that unless the Indian student
recognised the roll as being proofs, the man who tampered with them came
upon them accidentally without knowing that they were there.”
“So it seems to me.”
Holmes gave an enigmatic smile.
“Well,” said he, “let us go round. Not one of your cases,
Watson--mental, not physical. All right; come if you want to. Now, Mr.
Soames--at your disposal!”
The sitting-room of our client opened by a long, low, latticed window on
to the ancient lichen-tinted court of the old college. A Gothic arched
door led to a worn stone staircase. On the ground floor was the tutor's
room. Above were three students, one on each story. It was already
twilight when we reached the scene of our problem. Holmes halted and
looked earnestly at the window. Then he approached it, and, standing on
tiptoe with his neck craned, he looked into the room.
“He must have entered through the door. There is no opening except the
one pane,” said our learned guide.
“Dear me!” said Holmes, and he smiled in a singular way as he glanced at
our companion. “Well, if there is nothing to be learned here we had best
go inside.”
The lecturer unlocked the outer door and ushered us into his room. We
stood at the entrance while Holmes made an examination of the carpet.
“I am afraid there are no signs here,” said he. “One could hardly hope
for any upon so dry a day. Your servant seems to have quite recovered.
You left him in a chair, you say; which chair?”
“By the window there.”
“I see. Near this little table. You can come in now. I have finished
with the carpet. Let us take the little table first. Of course, what has
happened is very clear. The man entered and took the papers, sheet by
sheet, from the central table. He carried them over to the window table,
because from there he could see if you came across the courtyard, and so
could effect an escape.”
“As a matter of fact he could not,” said Soames, “for I entered by the
side door.”
“Ah, that's good! Well, anyhow, that was in his mind. Let me see the
three strips. No finger impressions--no! Well, he carried over this one
first and he copied it. How long would it take him to do that, using
every possible contraction? A quarter of an hour, not less. Then he
tossed it down and seized the next. He was in the midst of that when
your return caused him to make a very hurried retreat--VERY hurried,
since he had not time to replace the papers which would tell you that he
had been there. You were not aware of any hurrying feet on the stair as
you entered the outer door?”
“No, I can't say I was.”
“Well, he wrote so furiously that he broke his pencil, and had, as you
observe, to sharpen it again. This is of interest, Watson. The pencil
was not an ordinary one. It was above the usual size, with a soft lead;
the outer colour was dark blue, the maker's name was printed in silver
lettering, and the piece remaining is only about an inch and a half
long. Look for such a pencil, Mr. Soames, and you have got your man.
When I add that he possesses a large and very blunt knife, you have an
additional aid.”
Mr. Soames was somewhat overwhelmed by this flood of information. “I can
follow the other points,” said he, “but really, in this matter of the
length----”
Holmes held out a small chip with the letters NN and a space of clear
wood after them.
“You see?”
“No, I fear that even now----”
“Watson, I have always done you an injustice. There are others. What
could this NN be? It is at the end of a word. You are aware that Johann
Faber is the most common maker's name. Is it not clear that there is
just as much of the pencil left as usually follows the Johann?” He held
the small table sideways to the electric light. “I was hoping that if
the paper on which he wrote was thin some trace of it might come through
upon this polished surface. No, I see nothing. I don't think there is
anything more to be learned here. Now for the central table. This small
pellet is, I presume, the black, doughy mass you spoke of. Roughly
pyramidal in shape and hollowed out, I perceive. As you say, there
appear to be grains of sawdust in it. Dear me, this is very interesting.
And the cut--a positive tear, I see. It began with a thin scratch and
ended in a jagged hole. I am much indebted to you for directing my
attention to this case, Mr. Soames. Where does that door lead to?”
“To my bedroom.”
“Have you been in it since your adventure?”
“No; I came straight away for you.”
“I should like to have a glance round. What a charming, old-fashioned
room! Perhaps you will kindly wait a minute until I have examined the
floor. No, I see nothing. What about this curtain? You hang your clothes
behind it. If anyone were forced to conceal himself in this room he must
do it there, since the bed is too low and the wardrobe too shallow. No
one there, I suppose?”
As Holmes drew the curtain I was aware, from some little rigidity and
alertness of his attitude, that he was prepared for an emergency. As
a matter of fact the drawn curtain disclosed nothing but three or four
suits of clothes hanging from a line of pegs. Holmes turned away and
stooped suddenly to the floor.
“Halloa! What's this?” said he.
It was a small pyramid of black, putty-like stuff, exactly like the one
upon the table of the study. Holmes held it out on his open palm in the
glare of the electric light.
“Your visitor seems to have left traces in your bedroom as well as in
your sitting-room, Mr. Soames.”
“What could he have wanted there?”
“I think it is clear enough. You came back by an unexpected way, and so
he had no warning until you were at the very door. What could he do?
He caught up everything which would betray him and he rushed into your
bedroom to conceal himself.”
“Good gracious, Mr. Holmes, do you mean to tell me that all the time I
was talking to Bannister in this room we had the man prisoner if we had
only known it?”
“So I read it.”
“Surely there is another alternative, Mr. Holmes. I don't know whether
you observed my bedroom window?”
“Lattice-paned, lead framework, three separate windows, one swinging on
hinge and large enough to admit a man.”
“Exactly. And it looks out on an angle of the courtyard so as to be
partly invisible. The man might have effected his entrance there, left
traces as he passed through the bedroom, and, finally, finding the door
open have escaped that way.”
Holmes shook his head impatiently.
“Let us be practical,” said he. “I understand you to say that there are
three students who use this stair and are in the habit of passing your
door?”
“Yes, there are.”
“And they are all in for this examination?”
“Yes.”
“Have you any reason to suspect any one of them more than the others?”
Soames hesitated.
“It is a very delicate question,” said he. “One hardly likes to throw
suspicion where there are no proofs.”
“Let us hear the suspicions. I will look after the proofs.”
“I will tell you, then, in a few words the character of the three men
who inhabit these rooms. The lower of the three is Gilchrist, a fine
scholar and athlete; plays in the Rugby team and the cricket team for
the college, and got his Blue for the hurdles and the long jump. He is
a fine, manly fellow. His father was the notorious Sir Jabez Gilchrist,
who ruined himself on the turf. My scholar has been left very poor, but
he is hard-working and industrious. He will do well.
“The second floor is inhabited by Daulat Ras, the Indian. He is a quiet,
inscrutable fellow, as most of those Indians are. He is well up in his
work, though his Greek is his weak subject. He is steady and methodical.
“The top floor belongs to Miles McLaren. He is a brilliant fellow when
he chooses to work--one of the brightest intellects of the University,
but he is wayward, dissipated, and unprincipled. He was nearly expelled
over a card scandal in his first year. He has been idling all this term,
and he must look forward with dread to the examination.”
“Then it is he whom you suspect?”
“I dare not go so far as that. But of the three he is perhaps the least
unlikely.”
“Exactly. Now, Mr. Soames, let us have a look at your servant,
Bannister.”
He was a little, white-faced, clean-shaven, grizzly-haired fellow of
fifty. He was still suffering from this sudden disturbance of the quiet
routine of his life. His plump face was twitching with his nervousness,
and his fingers could not keep still.
“We are investigating this unhappy business, Bannister,” said his
master.
“Yes, sir.”
“I understand,” said Holmes, “that you left your key in the door?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was it not very extraordinary that you should do this on the very day
when there were these papers inside?”
“It was most unfortunate, sir. But I have occasionally done the same
thing at other times.”
“When did you enter the room?”
“It was about half-past four. That is Mr. Soames's tea time.”
“How long did you stay?”
“When I saw that he was absent I withdrew at once.”
“Did you look at these papers on the table?”
“No, sir; certainly not.”
“How came you to leave the key in the door?”
“I had the tea-tray in my hand. I thought I would come back for the key.
Then I forgot.”
“Has the outer door a spring lock?”
“No, sir.”
“Then it was open all the time?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anyone in the room could get out?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When Mr. Soames returned and called for you, you were very much
disturbed?”
“Yes, sir. Such a thing has never happened during the many years that I
have been here. I nearly fainted, sir.”
“So I understand. Where were you when you began to feel bad?”
“Where was I, sir? Why, here, near the door.”
“That is singular, because you sat down in that chair over yonder near
the corner. Why did you pass these other chairs?”
“I don't know, sir. It didn't matter to me where I sat.”
“I really don't think he knew much about it, Mr. Holmes. He was looking
very bad--quite ghastly.”
“You stayed here when your master left?”
“Only for a minute or so. Then I locked the door and went to my room.”
“Whom do you suspect?”
“Oh, I would not venture to say, sir. I don't believe there is any
gentleman in this University who is capable of profiting by such an
action. No, sir, I'll not believe it.”
“Thank you; that will do,” said Holmes. “Oh, one more word. You have not
mentioned to any of the three gentlemen whom you attend that anything is
amiss?”
“No, sir; not a word.”
“You haven't seen any of them?”
“No, sir.”
“Very good. Now, Mr. Soames, we will take a walk in the quadrangle, if
you please.”
Three yellow squares of light shone above us in the gathering gloom.
“Your three birds are all in their nests,” said Holmes, looking up.
“Halloa! What's that? One of them seems restless enough.”
It was the Indian, whose dark silhouette appeared suddenly upon his
blind. He was pacing swiftly up and down his room.
“I should like to have a peep at each of them,” said Holmes. “Is it
possible?”
“No difficulty in the world,” Soames answered. “This set of rooms is
quite the oldest in the college, and it is not unusual for visitors to
go over them. Come along, and I will personally conduct you.”
“No names, please!” said Holmes, as we knocked at Gilchrist's door. A
tall, flaxen-haired, slim young fellow opened it, and made us welcome
when he understood our errand. There were some really curious pieces of
mediaeval domestic architecture within. Holmes was so charmed with
one of them that he insisted on drawing it on his note-book, broke his
pencil, had to borrow one from our host, and finally borrowed a knife to
sharpen his own. The same curious accident happened to him in the rooms
of the Indian--a silent, little, hook-nosed fellow, who eyed us askance
and was obviously glad when Holmes's architectural studies had come to
an end. I could not see that in either case Holmes had come upon the
clue for which he was searching. Only at the third did our visit prove
abortive. The outer door would not open to our knock, and nothing more
substantial than a torrent of bad language came from behind it. “I
don't care who you are. You can go to blazes!” roared the angry voice.
“To-morrow's the exam, and I won't be drawn by anyone.”
“A rude fellow,” said our guide, flushing with anger as we withdrew
down the stair. “Of course, he did not realize that it was I who was
knocking, but none the less his conduct was very uncourteous, and,
indeed, under the circumstances rather suspicious.”
Holmes's response was a curious one.
“Can you tell me his exact height?” he asked.
“Really, Mr. Holmes, I cannot undertake to say. He is taller than the
Indian, not so tall as Gilchrist. I suppose five foot six would be about
it.”
“That is very important,” said Holmes. “And now, Mr. Soames, I wish you
good-night.”
Our guide cried aloud in his astonishment and dismay. “Good gracious,
Mr. Holmes, you are surely not going to leave me in this abrupt fashion!
You don't seem to realize the position. To-morrow is the examination. I
must take some definite action to-night. I cannot allow the examination
to be held if one of the papers has been tampered with. The situation
must be faced.”
“You must leave it as it is. I shall drop round early to-morrow morning
and chat the matter over. It is possible that I may be in a position
then to indicate some course of action. Meanwhile you change
nothing--nothing at all.”
“Very good, Mr. Holmes.”
“You can be perfectly easy in your mind. We shall certainly find some
way out of your difficulties. I will take the black clay with me, also
the pencil cuttings. Good-bye.”
When we were out in the darkness of the quadrangle we again looked up at
the windows. The Indian still paced his room. The others were invisible.
“Well, Watson, what do you think of it?” Holmes asked, as we came out
into the main street. “Quite a little parlour game--sort of three-card
trick, is it not? There are your three men. It must be one of them. You
take your choice. Which is yours?”
“The foul-mouthed fellow at the top. He is the one with the worst
record. And yet that Indian was a sly fellow also. Why should he be
pacing his room all the time?”
“There is nothing in that. Many men do it when they are trying to learn
anything by heart.”
“He looked at us in a queer way.”
“So would you if a flock of strangers came in on you when you were
preparing for an examination next day, and every moment was of
value. No, I see nothing in that. Pencils, too, and knives--all was
satisfactory. But that fellow DOES puzzle me.”
“Who?”
“Why, Bannister, the servant. What's his game in the matter?”
“He impressed me as being a perfectly honest man.”
“So he did me. That's the puzzling part. Why should a perfectly
honest man--well, well, here's a large stationer's. We shall begin our
researches here.”
There were only four stationers of any consequence in the town, and at
each Holmes produced his pencil chips and bid high for a duplicate. All
were agreed that one could be ordered, but that it was not a usual size
of pencil and that it was seldom kept in stock. My friend did not
appear to be depressed by his failure, but shrugged his shoulders in
half-humorous resignation.
“No good, my dear Watson. This, the best and only final clue, has run
to nothing. But, indeed, I have little doubt that we can build up a
sufficient case without it. By Jove! my dear fellow, it is nearly nine,
and the landlady babbled of green peas at seven-thirty. What with your
eternal tobacco, Watson, and your irregularity at meals, I expect that
you will get notice to quit and that I shall share your downfall--not,
however, before we have solved the problem of the nervous tutor, the
careless servant, and the three enterprising students.”
Holmes made no further allusion to the matter that day, though he sat
lost in thought for a long time after our belated dinner. At eight in
the morning he came into my room just as I finished my toilet.
“Well, Watson,” said he, “it is time we went down to St. Luke's. Can you
do without breakfast?”
“Certainly.”
“Soames will be in a dreadful fidget until we are able to tell him
something positive.”
“Have you anything positive to tell him?”
“I think so.”
“You have formed a conclusion?”
“Yes, my dear Watson; I have solved the mystery.”
“But what fresh evidence could you have got?”
“Aha! It is not for nothing that I have turned myself out of bed at the
untimely hour of six. I have put in two hours' hard work and covered at
least five miles, with something to show for it. Look at that!”
He held out his hand. On the palm were three little pyramids of black,
doughy clay.
“Why, Holmes, you had only two yesterday!”
“And one more this morning. It is a fair argument that wherever No. 3
came from is also the source of Nos. 1 and 2. Eh, Watson? Well, come
along and put friend Soames out of his pain.”
The unfortunate tutor was certainly in a state of pitiable agitation
when we found him in his chambers. In a few hours the examination would
commence, and he was still in the dilemma between making the facts
public and allowing the culprit to compete for the valuable scholarship.
He could hardly stand still, so great was his mental agitation, and he
ran towards Holmes with two eager hands outstretched.
“Thank Heaven that you have come! I feared that you had given it up in
despair. What am I to do? Shall the examination proceed?”
“Yes; let it proceed by all means.”
“But this rascal----?”
“He shall not compete.”
“You know him?”
“I think so. If this matter is not to become public we must give
ourselves certain powers, and resolve ourselves into a small private
court-martial. You there, if you please, Soames! Watson, you here! I'll
take the arm-chair in the middle. I think that we are now sufficiently
imposing to strike terror into a guilty breast. Kindly ring the bell!”
Bannister entered, and shrunk back in evident surprise and fear at our
judicial appearance.
“You will kindly close the door,” said Holmes. “Now, Bannister, will you
please tell us the truth about yesterday's incident?”
The man turned white to the roots of his hair.
“I have told you everything, sir.”
“Nothing to add?”
“Nothing at all, sir.”
“Well, then, I must make some suggestions to you. When you sat down
on that chair yesterday, did you do so in order to conceal some object
which would have shown who had been in the room?”
Bannister's face was ghastly.
“No, sir; certainly not.”
“It is only a suggestion,” said Holmes, suavely. “I frankly admit that
I am unable to prove it. But it seems probable enough, since the moment
that Mr. Soames's back was turned you released the man who was hiding in
that bedroom.”
Bannister licked his dry lips.
“There was no man, sir.”
“Ah, that's a pity, Bannister. Up to now you may have spoken the truth,
but now I know that you have lied.”
The man's face set in sullen defiance.
“There was no man, sir.”
“Come, come, Bannister!”
“No, sir; there was no one.”
“In that case you can give us no further information. Would you please
remain in the room? Stand over there near the bedroom door. Now, Soames,
I am going to ask you to have the great kindness to go up to the room of
young Gilchrist, and to ask him to step down into yours.”
An instant later the tutor returned, bringing with him the student. He
was a fine figure of a man, tall, lithe, and agile, with a springy step
and a pleasant, open face. His troubled blue eyes glanced at each of us,
and finally rested with an expression of blank dismay upon Bannister in
the farther corner.
“Just close the door,” said Holmes. “Now, Mr. Gilchrist, we are all
quite alone here, and no one need ever know one word of what passes
between us. We can be perfectly frank with each other. We want to know,
Mr. Gilchrist, how you, an honourable man, ever came to commit such an
action as that of yesterday?”
The unfortunate young man staggered back and cast a look full of horror
and reproach at Bannister.
“No, no, Mr. Gilchrist, sir; I never said a word--never one word!” cried
the servant.
“No, but you have now,” said Holmes. “Now, sir, you must see that after
Bannister's words your position is hopeless, and that your only chance
lies in a frank confession.”
For a moment Gilchrist, with upraised hand, tried to control his
writhing features. The next he had thrown himself on his knees beside
the table and, burying his face in his hands, he had burst into a storm
of passionate sobbing.
“Come, come,” said Holmes, kindly; “it is human to err, and at least
no one can accuse you of being a callous criminal. Perhaps it would be
easier for you if I were to tell Mr. Soames what occurred, and you can
check me where I am wrong. Shall I do so? Well, well, don't trouble to
answer. Listen, and see that I do you no injustice.
“From the moment, Mr. Soames, that you said to me that no one, not even
Bannister, could have told that the papers were in your room, the case
began to take a definite shape in my mind. The printer one could, of
course, dismiss. He could examine the papers in his own office. The
Indian I also thought nothing of. If the proofs were in a roll he
could not possibly know what they were. On the other hand, it seemed an
unthinkable coincidence that a man should dare to enter the room,
and that by chance on that very day the papers were on the table. I
dismissed that. The man who entered knew that the papers were there. How
did he know?
“When I approached your room I examined the window. You amused me by
supposing that I was contemplating the possibility of someone having
in broad daylight, under the eyes of all these opposite rooms, forced
himself through it. Such an idea was absurd. I was measuring how tall
a man would need to be in order to see as he passed what papers were on
the central table. I am six feet high, and I could do it with an effort.
No one less than that would have a chance. Already you see I had reason
to think that if one of your three students was a man of unusual height
he was the most worth watching of the three.
“I entered and I took you into my confidence as to the suggestions of
the side table. Of the centre table I could make nothing, until in
your description of Gilchrist you mentioned that he was a long-distance
jumper. Then the whole thing came to me in an instant, and I only needed
certain corroborative proofs, which I speedily obtained.
“What happened was this. This young fellow had employed his afternoon at
the athletic grounds, where he had been practising the jump. He returned
carrying his jumping shoes, which are provided, as you are aware, with
several sharp spikes. As he passed your window he saw, by means of his
great height, these proofs upon your table, and conjectured what they
were. No harm would have been done had it not been that as he passed
your door he perceived the key which had been left by the carelessness
of your servant. A sudden impulse came over him to enter and see if they
were indeed the proofs. It was not a dangerous exploit, for he could
always pretend that he had simply looked in to ask a question.
“Well, when he saw that they were indeed the proofs, it was then that
he yielded to temptation. He put his shoes on the table. What was it you
put on that chair near the window?”
“Gloves,” said the young man.
Holmes looked triumphantly at Bannister. “He put his gloves on the
chair, and he took the proofs, sheet by sheet, to copy them. He thought
the tutor must return by the main gate, and that he would see him. As we
know, he came back by the side gate. Suddenly he heard him at the very
door. There was no possible escape. He forgot his gloves, but he caught
up his shoes and darted into the bedroom. You observe that the scratch
on that table is slight at one side, but deepens in the direction of the
bedroom door. That in itself is enough to show us that the shoe had been
drawn in that direction and that the culprit had taken refuge there. The
earth round the spike had been left on the table, and a second sample
was loosened and fell in the bedroom. I may add that I walked out to the
athletic grounds this morning, saw that tenacious black clay is used in
the jumping-pit, and carried away a specimen of it, together with
some of the fine tan or sawdust which is strewn over it to prevent the
athlete from slipping. Have I told the truth, Mr. Gilchrist?”
The student had drawn himself erect.
“Yes, sir, it is true,” said he.
“Good heavens, have you nothing to add?” cried Soames.
“Yes, sir, I have, but the shock of this disgraceful exposure has
bewildered me. I have a letter here, Mr. Soames, which I wrote to you
early this morning in the middle of a restless night. It was before I
knew that my sin had found me out. Here it is, sir. You will see that I
have said, 'I have determined not to go in for the examination. I have
been offered a commission in the Rhodesian Police, and I am going out to
South Africa at once.”'
“I am indeed pleased to hear that you did not intend to profit by your
unfair advantage,” said Soames. “But why did you change your purpose?”
Gilchrist pointed to Bannister.
“There is the man who set me in the right path,” said he.
“Come now, Bannister,” said Holmes. “It will be clear to you from what
I have said that only you could have let this young man out, since you
were left in the room, and must have locked the door when you went out.
As to his escaping by that window, it was incredible. Can you not clear
up the last point in this mystery, and tell us the reasons for your
action?”
“It was simple enough, sir, if you only had known; but with all your
cleverness it was impossible that you could know. Time was, sir, when
I was butler to old Sir Jabez Gilchrist, this young gentleman's father.
When he was ruined I came to the college as servant, but I never forgot
my old employer because he was down in the world. I watched his son all
I could for the sake of the old days. Well, sir, when I came into this
room yesterday when the alarm was given, the very first thing I saw was
Mr. Gilchrist's tan gloves a-lying in that chair. I knew those gloves
well, and I understood their message. If Mr. Soames saw them the game
was up. I flopped down into that chair, and nothing would budge me until
Mr. Soames he went for you. Then out came my poor young master, whom I
had dandled on my knee, and confessed it all to me. Wasn't it natural,
sir, that I should save him, and wasn't it natural also that I should
try to speak to him as his dead father would have done, and make him
understand that he could not profit by such a deed? Could you blame me,
sir?”
“No, indeed,” said Holmes, heartily, springing to his feet. “Well,
Soames, I think we have cleared your little problem up, and our
breakfast awaits us at home. Come, Watson! As to you, sir, I trust that
a bright future awaits you in Rhodesia. For once you have fallen low.
Let us see in the future how high you can rise.”
*****
THE STRAND MAGAZINE
Vol. 28 JULY, 1904
THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
|
ix_the_adventure_of_the_three_students
|
X.--The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez.
|
The Return of Sherlock Holmes
|
WHEN I look at the three massive manuscript volumes which contain our
work for the year 1894 I confess that it is very difficult for me,
out of such a wealth of material, to select the cases which are most
interesting in themselves and at the same time most conducive to a
display of those peculiar powers for which my friend was famous. As I
turn over the pages I see my notes upon the repulsive story of the red
leech and the terrible death of Crosby the banker. Here also I find an
account of the Addleton tragedy and the singular contents of the ancient
British barrow. The famous Smith-Mortimer succession case comes also
within this period, and so does the tracking and arrest of Huret, the
Boulevard assassin--an exploit which won for Holmes an autograph letter
of thanks from the French President and the Order of the Legion of
Honour. Each of these would furnish a narrative, but on the whole I am
of opinion that none of them unite so many singular points of interest
as the episode of Yoxley Old Place, which includes not only the
lamentable death of young Willoughby Smith, but also those subsequent
developments which threw so curious a light upon the causes of the
crime.
It was a wild, tempestuous night towards the close of November. Holmes
and I sat together in silence all the evening, he engaged with a
powerful lens deciphering the remains of the original inscription upon
a palimpsest, I deep in a recent treatise upon surgery. Outside the
wind howled down Baker Street, while the rain beat fiercely against the
windows. It was strange there in the very depths of the town, with ten
miles of man's handiwork on every side of us, to feel the iron grip of
Nature, and to be conscious that to the huge elemental forces all London
was no more than the molehills that dot the fields. I walked to the
window and looked out on the deserted street. The occasional lamps
gleamed on the expanse of muddy road and shining pavement. A single cab
was splashing its way from the Oxford Street end.
“Well, Watson, it's as well we have not to turn out to-night,” said
Holmes, laying aside his lens and rolling up the palimpsest. “I've done
enough for one sitting. It is trying work for the eyes. So far as I can
make out it is nothing more exciting than an Abbey's accounts dating
from the second half of the fifteenth century. Halloa! halloa! halloa!
What's this?”
Amid the droning of the wind there had come the stamping of a horse's
hoofs and the long grind of a wheel as it rasped against the kerb. The
cab which I had seen had pulled up at our door.
“What can he want?” I ejaculated, as a man stepped out of it.
“Want! He wants us. And we, my poor Watson, want overcoats and cravats
and goloshes, and every aid that man ever invented to fight the weather.
Wait a bit, though! There's the cab off again! There's hope yet. He'd
have kept it if he had wanted us to come. Run down, my dear fellow, and
open the door, for all virtuous folk have been long in bed.”
When the light of the hall lamp fell upon our midnight visitor I had no
difficulty in recognising him. It was young Stanley Hopkins, a promising
detective, in whose career Holmes had several times shown a very
practical interest.
“Is he in?” he asked, eagerly.
“Come up, my dear sir,” said Holmes's voice from above. “I hope you have
no designs upon us on such a night as this.”
The detective mounted the stairs, and our lamp gleamed upon his shining
waterproof. I helped him out of it while Holmes knocked a blaze out of
the logs in the grate.
“Now, my dear Hopkins, draw up and warm your toes,” said he. “Here's
a cigar, and the doctor has a prescription containing hot water and a
lemon which is good medicine on a night like this. It must be something
important which has brought you out in such a gale.”
“It is indeed, Mr. Holmes. I've had a bustling afternoon, I promise you.
Did you see anything of the Yoxley case in the latest editions?”
“I've seen nothing later than the fifteenth century to-day.”
“Well, it was only a paragraph, and all wrong at that, so you have not
missed anything. I haven't let the grass grow under my feet. It's down
in Kent, seven miles from Chatham and three from the railway line. I was
wired for at three-fifteen, reached Yoxley Old Place at five, conducted
my investigation, was back at Charing Cross by the last train, and
straight to you by cab.”
“Which means, I suppose, that you are not quite clear about your case?”
“It means that I can make neither head nor tail of it. So far as I can
see it is just as tangled a business as ever I handled, and yet at first
it seemed so simple that one couldn't go wrong. There's no motive, Mr.
Holmes. That's what bothers me--I can't put my hand on a motive. Here's
a man dead--there's no denying that--but, so far as I can see, no reason
on earth why anyone should wish him harm.”
Holmes lit his cigar and leaned back in his chair.
“Let us hear about it,” said he.
“I've got my facts pretty clear,” said Stanley Hopkins. “All I want now
is to know what they all mean. The story, so far as I can make it out,
is like this. Some years ago this country house, Yoxley Old Place, was
taken by an elderly man, who gave the name of Professor Coram. He was
an invalid, keeping his bed half the time, and the other half hobbling
round the house with a stick or being pushed about the grounds by the
gardener in a bath-chair. He was well liked by the few neighbours who
called upon him, and he has the reputation down there of being a very
learned man. His household used to consist of an elderly housekeeper,
Mrs. Marker, and of a maid, Susan Tarlton. These have both been with him
since his arrival, and they seem to be women of excellent character. The
Professor is writing a learned book, and he found it necessary about
a year ago to engage a secretary. The first two that he tried were
not successes; but the third, Mr. Willoughby Smith, a very young man
straight from the University, seems to have been just what his employer
wanted. His work consisted in writing all the morning to the Professor's
dictation, and he usually spent the evening in hunting up references and
passages which bore upon the next day's work. This Willoughby Smith has
nothing against him either as a boy at Uppingham or as a young man at
Cambridge. I have seen his testimonials, and from the first he was a
decent, quiet, hardworking fellow, with no weak spot in him at all.
And yet this is the lad who has met his death this morning in the
Professor's study under circumstances which can point only to murder.”
The wind howled and screamed at the windows. Holmes and I drew closer to
the fire while the young inspector slowly and point by point developed
his singular narrative.
“If you were to search all England,” said he, “I don't suppose you could
find a household more self-contained or free from outside influences.
Whole weeks would pass and not one of them go past the garden gate. The
Professor was buried in his work and existed for nothing else. Young
Smith knew nobody in the neighbourhood, and lived very much as his
employer did. The two women had nothing to take them from the
house. Mortimer the gardener, who wheels the bath-chair, is an Army
pensioner--an old Crimean man of excellent character. He does not live
in the house, but in a three-roomed cottage at the other end of the
garden. Those are the only people that you would find within the grounds
of Yoxley Old Place. At the same time, the gate of the garden is a
hundred yards from the main London to Chatham road. It opens with a
latch, and there is nothing to prevent anyone from walking in.
“Now I will give you the evidence of Susan Tarlton, who is the only
person who can say anything positive about the matter. It was in the
forenoon, between eleven and twelve. She was engaged at the moment in
hanging some curtains in the upstairs front bedroom. Professor Coram was
still in bed, for when the weather is bad he seldom rises before midday.
The housekeeper was busied with some work in the back of the
house. Willoughby Smith had been in his bedroom, which he uses as a
sitting-room; but the maid heard him at that moment pass along the
passage and descend to the study immediately below her. She did not
see him, but she says that she could not be mistaken in his quick, firm
tread. She did not hear the study door close, but a minute or so later
there was a dreadful cry in the room below. It was a wild, hoarse
scream, so strange and unnatural that it might have come either from a
man or a woman. At the same instant there was a heavy thud, which shook
the old house, and then all was silence. The maid stood petrified for a
moment, and then, recovering her courage, she ran downstairs. The study
door was shut, and she opened it. Inside young Mr. Willoughby Smith was
stretched upon the floor. At first she could see no injury, but as she
tried to raise him she saw that blood was pouring from the underside of
his neck. It was pierced by a very small but very deep wound, which had
divided the carotid artery. The instrument with which the injury had
been inflicted lay upon the carpet beside him. It was one of those small
sealing-wax knives to be found on old-fashioned writing-tables, with
an ivory handle and a stiff blade. It was part of the fittings of the
Professor's own desk.
“At first the maid thought that young Smith was already dead, but on
pouring some water from the carafe over his forehead he opened his eyes
for an instant. 'The Professor,' he murmured--'it was she.' The maid is
prepared to swear that those were the exact words. He tried desperately
to say something else, and he held his right hand up in the air. Then he
fell back dead.
“In the meantime the housekeeper had also arrived upon the scene, but
she was just too late to catch the young man's dying words. Leaving
Susan with the body, she hurried to the Professor's room. He was sitting
up in bed horribly agitated, for he had heard enough to convince him
that something terrible had occurred. Mrs. Marker is prepared to swear
that the Professor was still in his night-clothes, and, indeed, it was
impossible for him to dress without the help of Mortimer, whose orders
were to come at twelve o'clock. The Professor declares that he heard the
distant cry, but that he knows nothing more. He can give no explanation
of the young man's last words, 'The Professor--it was she,' but imagines
that they were the outcome of delirium. He believes that Willoughby
Smith had not an enemy in the world, and can give no reason for the
crime. His first action was to send Mortimer the gardener for the local
police. A little later the chief constable sent for me. Nothing was
moved before I got there, and strict orders were given that no one
should walk upon the paths leading to the house. It was a splendid
chance of putting your theories into practice, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
There was really nothing wanting.”
“Except Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said my companion, with a somewhat bitter
smile. “Well, let us hear about it. What sort of job did you make of
it?”
“I must ask you first, Mr. Holmes, to glance at this rough plan, which
will give you a general idea of the position of the Professor's study
and the various points of the case. It will help you in following my
investigation.”
He unfolded the rough chart, which I here reproduce, and he laid it
across Holmes's knee. I rose, and, standing behind Holmes, I studied it
over his shoulder.
GRAPHIC
“It is very rough, of course, and it only deals with the points
which seem to me to be essential. All the rest you will see later for
yourself. Now, first of all, presuming that the assassin entered the
house, how did he or she come in? Undoubtedly by the garden path and the
back door, from which there is direct access to the study. Any other way
would have been exceedingly complicated. The escape must have also been
made along that line, for of the two other exits from the room one was
blocked by Susan as she ran downstairs and the other leads straight to
the Professor's bedroom. I therefore directed my attention at once
to the garden path, which was saturated with recent rain and would
certainly show any footmarks.
“My examination showed me that I was dealing with a cautious and expert
criminal. No footmarks were to be found on the path. There could be no
question, however, that someone had passed along the grass border which
lines the path, and that he had done so in order to avoid leaving a
track. I could not find anything in the nature of a distinct impression,
but the grass was trodden down and someone had undoubtedly passed. It
could only have been the murderer, since neither the gardener nor anyone
else had been there that morning and the rain had only begun during the
night.”
“One moment,” said Holmes. “Where does this path lead to?”
“To the road.”
“How long is it?”
“A hundred yards or so.”
“At the point where the path passes through the gate you could surely
pick up the tracks?”
“Unfortunately, the path was tiled at that point.”
“Well, on the road itself?”
“No; it was all trodden into mire.”
“Tut-tut! Well, then, these tracks upon the grass, were they coming or
going?”
“It was impossible to say. There was never any outline.”
“A large foot or a small?”
“You could not distinguish.”
Holmes gave an ejaculation of impatience.
“It has been pouring rain and blowing a hurricane ever since,” said
he. “It will be harder to read now than that palimpsest. Well, well, it
can't be helped. What did you do, Hopkins, after you had made certain
that you had made certain of nothing?”
“I think I made certain of a good deal, Mr. Holmes. I knew that someone
had entered the house cautiously from without. I next examined the
corridor. It is lined with cocoanut matting and had taken no
impression of any kind. This brought me into the study itself. It is a
scantily-furnished room. The main article is a large writing-table with
a fixed bureau. This bureau consists of a double column of drawers
with a central small cupboard between them. The drawers were open, the
cupboard locked. The drawers, it seems, were always open, and nothing
of value was kept in them. There were some papers of importance in the
cupboard, but there were no signs that this had been tampered with, and
the Professor assures me that nothing was missing. It is certain that no
robbery has been committed.
“I come now to the body of the young man. It was found near the bureau,
and just to the left of it, as marked upon that chart. The stab was
on the right side of the neck and from behind forwards, so that it is
almost impossible that it could have been self-inflicted.”
“Unless he fell upon the knife,” said Holmes.
“Exactly. The idea crossed my mind. But we found the knife some feet
away from the body, so that seems impossible. Then, of course, there are
the man's own dying words. And, finally, there was this very important
piece of evidence which was found clasped in the dead man's right hand.”
From his pocket Stanley Hopkins drew a small paper packet. He unfolded
it and disclosed a golden pince-nez, with two broken ends of black
silk cord dangling from the end of it. “Willoughby Smith had excellent
sight,” he added. “There can be no question that this was snatched from
the face or the person of the assassin.”
Sherlock Holmes took the glasses into his hand and examined them with
the utmost attention and interest. He held them on his nose, endeavoured
to read through them, went to the window and stared up the street with
them, looked at them most minutely in the full light of the lamp, and
finally, with a chuckle, seated himself at the table and wrote a few
lines upon a sheet of paper, which he tossed across to Stanley Hopkins.
“That's the best I can do for you,” said he. “It may prove to be of some
use.”
The astonished detective read the note aloud. It ran as follows:--
“Wanted, a woman of good address, attired like a lady. She has a
remarkably thick nose, with eyes which are set close upon either side
of it. She has a puckered forehead, a peering expression, and probably
rounded shoulders. There are indications that she has had recourse to an
optician at least twice during the last few months. As her glasses are
of remarkable strength and as opticians are not very numerous, there
should be no difficulty in tracing her.”
Holmes smiled at the astonishment of Hopkins, which must have been
reflected upon my features.
“Surely my deductions are simplicity itself,” said he. “It would be
difficult to name any articles which afford a finer field for inference
than a pair of glasses, especially so remarkable a pair as these. That
they belong to a woman I infer from their delicacy, and also, of course,
from the last words of the dying man. As to her being a person of
refinement and well dressed, they are, as you perceive, handsomely
mounted in solid gold, and it is inconceivable that anyone who wore such
glasses could be slatternly in other respects. You will find that the
clips are too wide for your nose, showing that the lady's nose was very
broad at the base. This sort of nose is usually a short and coarse one,
but there are a sufficient number of exceptions to prevent me from being
dogmatic or from insisting upon this point in my description. My own
face is a narrow one, and yet I find that I cannot get my eyes into the
centre, or near the centre, of these glasses. Therefore the lady's eyes
are set very near to the sides of the nose. You will perceive, Watson,
that the glasses are concave and of unusual strength. A lady whose
vision has been so extremely contracted all her life is sure to have the
physical characteristics of such vision, which are seen in the forehead,
the eyelids, and the shoulders.”
“Yes,” I said, “I can follow each of your arguments. I confess, however,
that I am unable to understand how you arrive at the double visit to the
optician.”
Holmes took the glasses in his hand.
“You will perceive,” he said, “that the clips are lined with tiny
bands of cork to soften the pressure upon the nose. One of these is
discoloured and worn to some slight extent, but the other is new.
Evidently one has fallen off and been replaced. I should judge that the
older of them has not been there more than a few months. They
exactly correspond, so I gather that the lady went back to the same
establishment for the second.”
“By George, it's marvellous!” cried Hopkins, in an ecstasy of
admiration. “To think that I had all that evidence in my hand and
never knew it! I had intended, however, to go the round of the London
opticians.”
“Of course you would. Meanwhile, have you anything more to tell us about
the case?”
“Nothing, Mr. Holmes. I think that you know as much as I do
now--probably more. We have had inquiries made as to any stranger seen
on the country roads or at the railway station. We have heard of none.
What beats me is the utter want of all object in the crime. Not a ghost
of a motive can anyone suggest.”
“Ah! there I am not in a position to help you. But I suppose you want us
to come out to-morrow?”
“If it is not asking too much, Mr. Holmes. There's a train from Charing
Cross to Chatham at six in the morning, and we should be at Yoxley Old
Place between eight and nine.”
“Then we shall take it. Your case has certainly some features of great
interest, and I shall be delighted to look into it. Well, it's nearly
one, and we had best get a few hours' sleep. I dare say you can manage
all right on the sofa in front of the fire. I'll light my spirit-lamp
and give you a cup of coffee before we start.”
The gale had blown itself out next day, but it was a bitter morning when
we started upon our journey. We saw the cold winter sun rise over the
dreary marshes of the Thames and the long, sullen reaches of the river,
which I shall ever associate with our pursuit of the Andaman Islander
in the earlier days of our career. After a long and weary journey we
alighted at a small station some miles from Chatham. While a horse was
being put into a trap at the local inn we snatched a hurried breakfast,
and so we were all ready for business when we at last arrived at Yoxley
Old Place. A constable met us at the garden gate.
“Well, Wilson, any news?”
“No, sir, nothing.”
“No reports of any stranger seen?”
“No, sir. Down at the station they are certain that no stranger either
came or went yesterday.”
“Have you had inquiries made at inns and lodgings?”
“Yes, sir; there is no one that we cannot account for.”
“Well, it's only a reasonable walk to Chatham. Anyone might stay there,
or take a train without being observed. This is the garden path of
which I spoke, Mr. Holmes. I'll pledge my word there was no mark on it
yesterday.”
“On which side were the marks on the grass?”
“This side, sir. This narrow margin of grass between the path and the
flower-bed. I can't see the traces now, but they were clear to me then.”
“Yes, yes; someone has passed along,” said Holmes, stooping over the
grass border. “Our lady must have picked her steps carefully, must she
not, since on the one side she would leave a track on the path, and on
the other an even clearer one on the soft bed?”
“Yes, sir, she must have been a cool hand.”
I saw an intent look pass over Holmes's face.
“You say that she must have come back this way?”
“Yes, sir; there is no other.”
“On this strip of grass?”
“Certainly, Mr. Holmes.”
“Hum! It was a very remarkable performance--very remarkable. Well, I
think we have exhausted the path. Let us go farther. This garden door is
usually kept open, I suppose? Then this visitor had nothing to do but
to walk in. The idea of murder was not in her mind, or she would have
provided herself with some sort of weapon, instead of having to pick
this knife off the writing-table. She advanced along this corridor,
leaving no traces upon the cocoanut matting. Then she found herself in
this study. How long was she there? We have no means of judging.”
“Not more than a few minutes, sir. I forgot to tell you that Mrs.
Marker, the housekeeper, had been in there tidying not very long
before--about a quarter of an hour, she says.”
“Well, that gives us a limit. Our lady enters this room and what does
she do? She goes over to the writing-table. What for? Not for anything
in the drawers. If there had been anything worth her taking it would
surely have been locked up. No; it was for something in that wooden
bureau. Halloa! what is that scratch upon the face of it? Just hold a
match, Watson. Why did you not tell me of this, Hopkins?”
The mark which he was examining began upon the brass work on the
right-hand side of the keyhole, and extended for about four inches,
where it had scratched the varnish from the surface.
“I noticed it, Mr. Holmes. But you'll always find scratches round a
keyhole.”
“This is recent, quite recent. See how the brass shines where it is
cut. An old scratch would be the same colour as the surface. Look at it
through my lens. There's the varnish, too, like earth on each side of a
furrow. Is Mrs. Marker there?”
A sad-faced, elderly woman came into the room.
“Did you dust this bureau yesterday morning?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you notice this scratch?”
“No, sir, I did not.”
“I am sure you did not, for a duster would have swept away these shreds
of varnish. Who has the key of this bureau?”
“The Professor keeps it on his watch-chain.”
“Is it a simple key?”
“No, sir; it is a Chubb's key.”
“Very good. Mrs. Marker, you can go. Now we are making a little
progress. Our lady enters the room, advances to the bureau, and either
opens it or tries to do so. While she is thus engaged young Willoughby
Smith enters the room. In her hurry to withdraw the key she makes this
scratch upon the door. He seizes her, and she, snatching up the nearest
object, which happens to be this knife, strikes at him in order to make
him let go his hold. The blow is a fatal one. He falls and she escapes,
either with or without the object for which she has come. Is Susan the
maid there? Could anyone have got away through that door after the time
that you heard the cry, Susan?”
“No sir; it is impossible. Before I got down the stair I'd have seen
anyone in the passage. Besides, the door never opened, for I would have
heard it.”
“That settles this exit. Then no doubt the lady went out the way she
came. I understand that this other passage leads only to the Professor's
room. There is no exit that way?”
“No, sir.”
“We shall go down it and make the acquaintance of the Professor. Halloa,
Hopkins! this is very important, very important indeed. The Professor's
corridor is also lined with cocoanut matting.”
“Well, sir, what of that?”
“Don't you see any bearing upon the case? Well, well, I don't insist
upon it. No doubt I am wrong. And yet it seems to me to be suggestive.
Come with me and introduce me.”
We passed down the passage, which was of the same length as that which
led to the garden. At the end was a short flight of steps ending in
a door. Our guide knocked, and then ushered us into the Professor's
bedroom.
It was a very large chamber, lined with innumerable volumes, which had
overflowed from the shelves and lay in piles in the corners, or were
stacked all round at the base of the cases. The bed was in the centre
of the room, and in it, propped up with pillows, was the owner of the
house. I have seldom seen a more remarkable-looking person. It was a
gaunt, aquiline face which was turned towards us, with piercing dark
eyes, which lurked in deep hollows under overhung and tufted brows. His
hair and beard were white, save that the latter was curiously stained
with yellow around his mouth. A cigarette glowed amid the tangle of
white hair, and the air of the room was fetid with stale tobacco-smoke.
As he held out his hand to Holmes I perceived that it also was stained
yellow with nicotine.
“A smoker, Mr. Holmes?” said he, speaking well-chosen English with a
curious little mincing accent. “Pray take a cigarette. And you, sir? I
can recommend them, for I have them especially prepared by Ionides of
Alexandria. He sends me a thousand at a time, and I grieve to say that I
have to arrange for a fresh supply every fortnight. Bad, sir, very bad,
but an old man has few pleasures. Tobacco and my work--that is all that
is left to me.”
Holmes had lit a cigarette, and was shooting little darting glances all
over the room.
“Tobacco and my work, but now only tobacco,” the old man exclaimed.
“Alas! what a fatal interruption! Who could have foreseen such a
terrible catastrophe? So estimable a young man! I assure you that after
a few months' training he was an admirable assistant. What do you think
of the matter, Mr. Holmes?”
“I have not yet made up my mind.”
“I shall indeed be indebted to you if you can throw a light where all is
so dark to us. To a poor bookworm and invalid like myself such a blow
is paralyzing. I seem to have lost the faculty of thought. But you are
a man of action--you are a man of affairs. It is part of the everyday
routine of your life. You can preserve your balance in every emergency.
We are fortunate indeed in having you at our side.”
Holmes was pacing up and down one side of the room whilst the old
Professor was talking. I observed that he was smoking with extraordinary
rapidity. It was evident that he shared our host's liking for the fresh
Alexandrian cigarettes.
“Yes, sir, it is a crushing blow,” said the old man. “That is my MAGNUM
OPUS--the pile of papers on the side table yonder. It is my analysis of
the documents found in the Coptic monasteries of Syria and Egypt, a work
which will cut deep at the very foundations of revealed religion.
With my enfeebled health I do not know whether I shall ever be able to
complete it now that my assistant has been taken from me. Dear me, Mr.
Holmes; why, you are even a quicker smoker than I am myself.”
Holmes smiled.
“I am a connoisseur,” said he, taking another cigarette from the
box--his fourth--and lighting it from the stub of that which he had
finished. “I will not trouble you with any lengthy cross-examination,
Professor Coram, since I gather that you were in bed at the time of the
crime and could know nothing about it. I would only ask this. What
do you imagine that this poor fellow meant by his last words: 'The
Professor--it was she'?”
The Professor shook his head.
“Susan is a country girl,” said he, “and you know the incredible
stupidity of that class. I fancy that the poor fellow murmured some
incoherent delirious words, and that she twisted them into this
meaningless message.”
“I see. You have no explanation yourself of the tragedy?”
“Possibly an accident; possibly--I only breathe it among ourselves--a
suicide. Young men have their hidden troubles--some affair of the heart,
perhaps, which we have never known. It is a more probable supposition
than murder.”
“But the eye-glasses?”
“Ah! I am only a student--a man of dreams. I cannot explain the
practical things of life. But still, we are aware, my friend, that
love-gages may take strange shapes. By all means take another cigarette.
It is a pleasure to see anyone appreciate them so. A fan, a glove,
glasses--who knows what article may be carried as a token or treasured
when a man puts an end to his life? This gentleman speaks of footsteps
in the grass; but, after all, it is easy to be mistaken on such a point.
As to the knife, it might well be thrown far from the unfortunate man as
he fell. It is possible that I speak as a child, but to me it seems that
Willoughby Smith has met his fate by his own hand.”
Holmes seemed struck by the theory thus put forward, and he continued to
walk up and down for some time, lost in thought and consuming cigarette
after cigarette.
“Tell me, Professor Coram,” he said, at last, “what is in that cupboard
in the bureau?”
“Nothing that would help a thief. Family papers, letters from my poor
wife, diplomas of Universities which have done me honour. Here is the
key. You can look for yourself.”
Holmes picked up the key and looked at it for an instant; then he handed
it back.
“No; I hardly think that it would help me,” said he. “I should prefer
to go quietly down to your garden and turn the whole matter over in my
head. There is something to be said for the theory of suicide which
you have put forward. We must apologize for having intruded upon you,
Professor Coram, and I promise that we won't disturb you until after
lunch. At two o'clock we will come again and report to you anything
which may have happened in the interval.”
Holmes was curiously distrait, and we walked up and down the garden path
for some time in silence.
“Have you a clue?” I asked, at last.
“It depends upon those cigarettes that I smoked,” said he. “It is
possible that I am utterly mistaken. The cigarettes will show me.”
“My dear Holmes,” I exclaimed, “how on earth----”
“Well, well, you may see for yourself. If not, there's no harm done. Of
course, we always have the optician clue to fall back upon, but I take
a short cut when I can get it. Ah, here is the good Mrs. Marker! Let us
enjoy five minutes of instructive conversation with her.”
I may have remarked before that Holmes had, when he liked, a peculiarly
ingratiating way with women, and that he very readily established terms
of confidence with them. In half the time which he had named he had
captured the housekeeper's goodwill, and was chatting with her as if he
had known her for years.
“Yes, Mr. Holmes, it is as you say, sir. He does smoke something
terrible. All day and sometimes all night, sir. I've seen that room of
a morning--well, sir, you'd have thought it was a London fog. Poor young
Mr. Smith, he was a smoker also, but not as bad as the Professor. His
health--well, I don't know that it's better nor worse for the smoking.”
“Ah!” said Holmes, “but it kills the appetite.”
“Well, I don't know about that, sir.”
“I suppose the Professor eats hardly anything?”
“Well, he is variable. I'll say that for him.”
“I'll wager he took no breakfast this morning, and won't face his lunch
after all the cigarettes I saw him consume.”
“Well, you're out there, sir, as it happens, for he ate a remarkable big
breakfast this morning. I don't know when I've known him make a
better one, and he's ordered a good dish of cutlets for his lunch. I'm
surprised myself, for since I came into that room yesterday and saw
young Mr. Smith lying there on the floor I couldn't bear to look at
food. Well, it takes all sorts to make a world, and the Professor hasn't
let it take his appetite away.”
We loitered the morning away in the garden. Stanley Hopkins had gone
down to the village to look into some rumours of a strange woman who had
been seen by some children on the Chatham Road the previous morning. As
to my friend, all his usual energy seemed to have deserted him. I had
never known him handle a case in such a half-hearted fashion. Even the
news brought back by Hopkins that he had found the children and that
they had undoubtedly seen a woman exactly corresponding with Holmes's
description, and wearing either spectacles or eye-glasses, failed to
rouse any sign of keen interest. He was more attentive when Susan, who
waited upon us at lunch, volunteered the information that she believed
Mr. Smith had been out for a walk yesterday morning, and that he had
only returned half an hour before the tragedy occurred. I could not
myself see the bearing of this incident, but I clearly perceived that
Holmes was weaving it into the general scheme which he had formed in his
brain. Suddenly he sprang from his chair and glanced at his watch. “Two
o'clock, gentlemen,” said he. “We must go up and have it out with our
friend the Professor.”
The old man had just finished his lunch, and certainly his empty dish
bore evidence to the good appetite with which his housekeeper had
credited him. He was, indeed, a weird figure as he turned his white mane
and his glowing eyes towards us. The eternal cigarette smouldered in his
mouth. He had been dressed and was seated in an arm-chair by the fire.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, have you solved this mystery yet?” He shoved the
large tin of cigarettes which stood on a table beside him towards my
companion. Holmes stretched out his hand at the same moment, and between
them they tipped the box over the edge. For a minute or two we were all
on our knees retrieving stray cigarettes from impossible places. When
we rose again I observed that Holmes's eyes were shining and his cheeks
tinged with colour. Only at a crisis have I seen those battle-signals
flying.
“Yes,” said he, “I have solved it.”
Stanley Hopkins and I stared in amazement. Something like a sneer
quivered over the gaunt features of the old Professor.
“Indeed! In the garden?”
“No, here.”
“Here! When?”
“This instant.”
“You are surely joking, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You compel me to tell you
that this is too serious a matter to be treated in such a fashion.”
“I have forged and tested every link of my chain, Professor Coram, and
I am sure that it is sound. What your motives are or what exact part you
play in this strange business I am not yet able to say. In a few
minutes I shall probably hear it from your own lips. Meanwhile I will
reconstruct what is past for your benefit, so that you may know the
information which I still require.
“A lady yesterday entered your study. She came with the intention of
possessing herself of certain documents which were in your bureau. She
had a key of her own. I have had an opportunity of examining yours, and
I do not find that slight discolouration which the scratch made upon the
varnish would have produced. You were not an accessory, therefore, and
she came, so far as I can read the evidence, without your knowledge to
rob you.”
The Professor blew a cloud from his lips. “This is most interesting and
instructive,” said he. “Have you no more to add? Surely, having traced
this lady so far, you can also say what has become of her.”
“I will endeavour to do so. In the first place she was seized by your
secretary, and stabbed him in order to escape. This catastrophe I am
inclined to regard as an unhappy accident, for I am convinced that the
lady had no intention of inflicting so grievous an injury. An assassin
does not come unarmed. Horrified by what she had done she rushed wildly
away from the scene of the tragedy. Unfortunately for her she had lost
her glasses in the scuffle, and as she was extremely short-sighted she
was really helpless without them. She ran down a corridor, which she
imagined to be that by which she had come--both were lined with cocoanut
matting--and it was only when it was too late that she understood that
she had taken the wrong passage and that her retreat was cut off behind
her. What was she to do? She could not go back. She could not remain
where she was. She must go on. She went on. She mounted a stair, pushed
open a door, and found herself in your room.”
The old man sat with his mouth open staring wildly at Holmes. Amazement
and fear were stamped upon his expressive features. Now, with an effort,
he shrugged his shoulders and burst into insincere laughter.
“All very fine, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “But there is one little flaw
in your splendid theory. I was myself in my room, and I never left it
during the day.”
“I am aware of that, Professor Coram.”
“And you mean to say that I could lie upon that bed and not be aware
that a woman had entered my room?”
“I never said so. You WERE aware of it. You spoke with her. You
recognised her. You aided her to escape.”
Again the Professor burst into high-keyed laughter. He had risen to his
feet and his eyes glowed like embers.
“You are mad!” he cried. “You are talking insanely. I helped her to
escape? Where is she now?”
“She is there,” said Holmes, and he pointed to a high bookcase in the
corner of the room.
I saw the old man throw up his arms, a terrible convulsion passed over
his grim face, and he fell back in his chair. At the same instant the
bookcase at which Holmes pointed swung round upon a hinge, and a woman
rushed out into the room. “You are right!” she cried, in a strange
foreign voice. “You are right! I am here.”
She was brown with the dust and draped with the cobwebs which had come
from the walls of her hiding-place. Her face, too, was streaked with
grime, and at the best she could never have been handsome, for she had
the exact physical characteristics which Holmes had divined, with, in
addition, a long and obstinate chin. What with her natural blindness,
and what with the change from dark to light, she stood as one dazed,
blinking about her to see where and who we were. And yet, in spite of
all these disadvantages, there was a certain nobility in the woman's
bearing, a gallantry in the defiant chin and in the upraised head, which
compelled something of respect and admiration. Stanley Hopkins had laid
his hand upon her arm and claimed her as his prisoner, but she waved
him aside gently, and yet with an overmastering dignity which compelled
obedience. The old man lay back in his chair, with a twitching face, and
stared at her with brooding eyes.
“Yes, sir, I am your prisoner,” she said. “From where I stood I could
hear everything, and I know that you have learned the truth. I confess
it all. It was I who killed the young man. But you are right, you who
say it was an accident. I did not even know that it was a knife which
I held in my hand, for in my despair I snatched anything from the table
and struck at him to make him let me go. It is the truth that I tell.”
“Madam,” said Holmes, “I am sure that it is the truth. I fear that you
are far from well.”
She had turned a dreadful colour, the more ghastly under the dark
dust-streaks upon her face. She seated herself on the side of the bed;
then she resumed.
“I have only a little time here,” she said, “but I would have you to
know the whole truth. I am this man's wife. He is not an Englishman. He
is a Russian. His name I will not tell.”
For the first time the old man stirred. “God bless you, Anna!” he cried.
“God bless you!”
She cast a look of the deepest disdain in his direction. “Why should you
cling so hard to that wretched life of yours, Sergius?” said she. “It
has done harm to many and good to none--not even to yourself. However,
it is not for me to cause the frail thread to be snapped before God's
time. I have enough already upon my soul since I crossed the threshold
of this cursed house. But I must speak or I shall be too late.
“I have said, gentlemen, that I am this man's wife. He was fifty and I
a foolish girl of twenty when we married. It was in a city of Russia, a
University--I will not name the place.”
“God bless you, Anna!” murmured the old man again.
“We were reformers--revolutionists--Nihilists, you understand. He and I
and many more. Then there came a time of trouble, a police officer was
killed, many were arrested, evidence was wanted, and in order to save
his own life and to earn a great reward my husband betrayed his own wife
and his companions. Yes, we were all arrested upon his confession. Some
of us found our way to the gallows and some to Siberia. I was among
these last, but my term was not for life. My husband came to England
with his ill-gotten gains, and has lived in quiet ever since, knowing
well that if the Brotherhood knew where he was not a week would pass
before justice would be done.”
The old man reached out a trembling hand and helped himself to a
cigarette. “I am in your hands, Anna,” said he. “You were always good to
me.”
“I have not yet told you the height of his villainy,” said she. “Among
our comrades of the Order there was one who was the friend of my heart.
He was noble, unselfish, loving--all that my husband was not. He hated
violence. We were all guilty--if that is guilt--but he was not. He wrote
for ever dissuading us from such a course. These letters would have
saved him. So would my diary, in which from day to day I had entered
both my feelings towards him and the view which each of us had taken. My
husband found and kept both diary and letters. He hid them, and he tried
hard to swear away the young man's life. In this he failed, but Alexis
was sent a convict to Siberia, where now, at this moment, he works in
a salt mine. Think of that, you villain, you villain; now, now, at this
very moment, Alexis, a man whose name you are not worthy to speak, works
and lives like a slave, and yet I have your life in my hands and I let
you go.”
“You were always a noble woman, Anna,” said the old man, puffing at his
cigarette.
She had risen, but she fell back again with a little cry of pain.
“I must finish,” she said. “When my term was over I set myself to get
the diary and letters which, if sent to the Russian Government, would
procure my friend's release. I knew that my husband had come to England.
After months of searching I discovered where he was. I knew that he
still had the diary, for when I was in Siberia I had a letter from him
once reproaching me and quoting some passages from its pages. Yet I was
sure that with his revengeful nature he would never give it to me of his
own free will. I must get it for myself. With this object I engaged an
agent from a private detective firm, who entered my husband's house as
secretary--it was your second secretary, Sergius, the one who left you
so hurriedly. He found that papers were kept in the cupboard, and he got
an impression of the key. He would not go farther. He furnished me with
a plan of the house, and he told me that in the forenoon the study was
always empty, as the secretary was employed up here. So at last I took
my courage in both hands and I came down to get the papers for myself. I
succeeded, but at what a cost!
“I had just taken the papers and was locking the cupboard when the young
man seized me. I had seen him already that morning. He had met me in
the road and I had asked him to tell me where Professor Coram lived, not
knowing that he was in his employ.”
“Exactly! exactly!” said Holmes. “The secretary came back and told his
employer of the woman he had met. Then in his last breath he tried to
send a message that it was she--the she whom he had just discussed with
him.”
“You must let me speak,” said the woman, in an imperative voice, and
her face contracted as if in pain. “When he had fallen I rushed from the
room, chose the wrong door, and found myself in my husband's room. He
spoke of giving me up. I showed him that if he did so his life was in my
hands. If he gave me to the law I could give him to the Brotherhood. It
was not that I wished to live for my own sake, but it was that I desired
to accomplish my purpose. He knew that I would do what I said--that
his own fate was involved in mine. For that reason and for no other he
shielded me. He thrust me into that dark hiding-place, a relic of old
days, known only to himself. He took his meals in his own room, and so
was able to give me part of his food. It was agreed that when the police
left the house I should slip away by night and come back no more. But in
some way you have read our plans.” She tore from the bosom of her dress
a small packet. “These are my last words,” said she; “here is the packet
which will save Alexis. I confide it to your honour and to your love of
justice. Take it! You will deliver it at the Russian Embassy. Now I have
done my duty, and----”
“Stop her!” cried Holmes. He had bounded across the room and had
wrenched a small phial from her hand.
“Too late!” she said, sinking back on the bed. “Too late! I took the
poison before I left my hiding-place. My head swims! I am going! I
charge you, sir, to remember the packet.”
“A simple case, and yet in some ways an instructive one,” Holmes
remarked, as we travelled back to town. “It hinged from the outset upon
the pince-nez. But for the fortunate chance of the dying man having
seized these I am not sure that we could ever have reached our solution.
It was clear to me from the strength of the glasses that the wearer must
have been very blind and helpless when deprived of them. When you asked
me to believe that she walked along a narrow strip of grass without
once making a false step I remarked, as you may remember, that it was
a noteworthy performance. In my mind I set it down as an impossible
performance, save in the unlikely case that she had a second pair of
glasses. I was forced, therefore, to seriously consider the hypothesis
that she had remained within the house. On perceiving the similarity of
the two corridors it became clear that she might very easily have made
such a mistake, and in that case it was evident that she must have
entered the Professor's room. I was keenly on the alert, therefore,
for whatever would bear out this supposition, and I examined the room
narrowly for anything in the shape of a hiding-place. The carpet seemed
continuous and firmly nailed, so I dismissed the idea of a trap-door.
There might well be a recess behind the books. As you are aware, such
devices are common in old libraries. I observed that books were piled
on the floor at all other points, but that one bookcase was left clear.
This, then, might be the door. I could see no marks to guide me, but the
carpet was of a dun colour, which lends itself very well to examination.
I therefore smoked a great number of those excellent cigarettes, and I
dropped the ash all over the space in front of the suspected bookcase.
It was a simple trick, but exceedingly effective. I then went downstairs
and I ascertained, in your presence, Watson, without your perceiving
the drift of my remarks, that Professor Coram's consumption of food had
increased--as one would expect when he is supplying a second person. We
then ascended to the room again, when, by upsetting the cigarette-box,
I obtained a very excellent view of the floor, and was able to see quite
clearly, from the traces upon the cigarette ash, that the prisoner had,
in our absence, come out from her retreat. Well, Hopkins, here we are at
Charing Cross, and I congratulate you on having brought your case to
a successful conclusion. You are going to head-quarters, no doubt. I
think, Watson, you and I will drive together to the Russian Embassy.”
*****
THE STRAND MAGAZINE
Vol. 28 AUGUST, 1904
THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.
By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.
|
x_the_adventure_of_the_golden_pince_nez
|
XI.--The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter.
|
The Return of Sherlock Holmes
|
WE were fairly accustomed to receive weird telegrams at Baker Street,
but I have a particular recollection of one which reached us on a gloomy
February morning some seven or eight years ago and gave Mr. Sherlock
Holmes a puzzled quarter of an hour. It was addressed to him, and ran
thus:--
“Please await me. Terrible misfortune. Right wing three-quarter missing;
indispensable to morrow.--OVERTON.”
“Strand post-mark and dispatched ten-thirty-six,” said Holmes, reading
it over and over. “Mr. Overton was evidently considerably excited when
he sent it, and somewhat incoherent in consequence. Well, well, he will
be here, I dare say, by the time I have looked through the TIMES, and
then we shall know all about it. Even the most insignificant problem
would be welcome in these stagnant days.”
Things had indeed been very slow with us, and I had learned to dread
such periods of inaction, for I knew by experience that my companion's
brain was so abnormally active that it was dangerous to leave it without
material upon which to work. For years I had gradually weaned him
from that drug mania which had threatened once to check his remarkable
career. Now I knew that under ordinary conditions he no longer craved
for this artificial stimulus, but I was well aware that the fiend was
not dead, but sleeping; and I have known that the sleep was a light one
and the waking near when in periods of idleness I have seen the drawn
look upon Holmes's ascetic face, and the brooding of his deep-set and
inscrutable eyes. Therefore I blessed this Mr. Overton, whoever he might
be, since he had come with his enigmatic message to break that dangerous
calm which brought more peril to my friend than all the storms of his
tempestuous life.
As we had expected, the telegram was soon followed by its sender, and
the card of Mr. Cyril Overton, of Trinity College, Cambridge, announced
the arrival of an enormous young man, sixteen stone of solid bone and
muscle, who spanned the doorway with his broad shoulders and looked
from one of us to the other with a comely face which was haggard with
anxiety.
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”
My companion bowed.
“I've been down to Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes. I saw Inspector Stanley
Hopkins. He advised me to come to you. He said the case, so far as he
could see, was more in your line than in that of the regular police.”
“Pray sit down and tell me what is the matter.”
“It's awful, Mr. Holmes, simply awful! I wonder my hair isn't grey.
Godfrey Staunton--you've heard of him, of course? He's simply the hinge
that the whole team turns on. I'd rather spare two from the pack
and have Godfrey for my three-quarter line. Whether it's passing, or
tackling, or dribbling, there's no one to touch him; and then, he's got
the head and can hold us all together. What am I to do? That's what I
ask you, Mr. Holmes. There's Moorhouse, first reserve, but he is trained
as a half, and he always edges right in on to the scrum instead of
keeping out on the touch-line. He's a fine place-kick, it's true, but,
then, he has no judgment, and he can't sprint for nuts. Why, Morton
or Johnson, the Oxford fliers, could romp round him. Stevenson is
fast enough, but he couldn't drop from the twenty-five line, and a
three-quarter who can't either punt or drop isn't worth a place for
pace alone. No, Mr. Holmes, we are done unless you can help me to find
Godfrey Staunton.”
My friend had listened with amused surprise to this long speech, which
was poured forth with extraordinary vigour and earnestness, every point
being driven home by the slapping of a brawny hand upon the speaker's
knee. When our visitor was silent Holmes stretched out his hand and took
down letter “S” of his commonplace book. For once he dug in vain into
that mine of varied information.
“There is Arthur H. Staunton, the rising young forger,” said he, “and
there was Henry Staunton, whom I helped to hang, but Godfrey Staunton is
a new name to me.”
It was our visitor's turn to look surprised.
“Why, Mr. Holmes, I thought you knew things,” said he. “I suppose, then,
if you have never heard of Godfrey Staunton you don't know Cyril Overton
either?”
Holmes shook his head good-humouredly.
“Great Scot!” cried the athlete. “Why, I was first reserve for England
against Wales, and I've skippered the 'Varsity all this year. But that's
nothing! I didn't think there was a soul in England who didn't know
Godfrey Staunton, the crack three-quarter, Cambridge, Blackheath, and
five Internationals. Good Lord! Mr. Holmes, where HAVE you lived?”
Holmes laughed at the young giant's naive astonishment.
“You live in a different world to me, Mr. Overton, a sweeter and
healthier one. My ramifications stretch out into many sections of
society, but never, I am happy to say, into amateur sport, which is the
best and soundest thing in England. However, your unexpected visit this
morning shows me that even in that world of fresh air and fair play
there may be work for me to do; so now, my good sir, I beg you to sit
down and to tell me slowly and quietly exactly what it is that has
occurred, and how you desire that I should help you.”
Young Overton's face assumed the bothered look of the man who is more
accustomed to using his muscles than his wits; but by degrees, with many
repetitions and obscurities which I may omit from his narrative, he laid
his strange story before us.
“It's this way, Mr. Holmes. As I have said, I am the skipper of the
Rugger team of Cambridge 'Varsity, and Godfrey Staunton is my best man.
To-morrow we play Oxford. Yesterday we all came up and we settled at
Bentley's private hotel. At ten o'clock I went round and saw that all
the fellows had gone to roost, for I believe in strict training and
plenty of sleep to keep a team fit. I had a word or two with Godfrey
before he turned in. He seemed to me to be pale and bothered. I asked
him what was the matter. He said he was all right--just a touch of
headache. I bade him good-night and left him. Half an hour later the
porter tells me that a rough-looking man with a beard called with a note
for Godfrey. He had not gone to bed and the note was taken to his room.
Godfrey read it and fell back in a chair as if he had been pole-axed.
The porter was so scared that he was going to fetch me, but Godfrey
stopped him, had a drink of water, and pulled himself together. Then
he went downstairs, said a few words to the man who was waiting in the
hall, and the two of them went off together. The last that the porter
saw of them, they were almost running down the street in the direction
of the Strand. This morning Godfrey's room was empty, his bed had never
been slept in, and his things were all just as I had seen them the night
before. He had gone off at a moment's notice with this stranger, and no
word has come from him since. I don't believe he will ever come back. He
was a sportsman, was Godfrey, down to his marrow, and he wouldn't have
stopped his training and let in his skipper if it were not for some
cause that was too strong for him. No; I feel as if he were gone for
good and we should never see him again.”
Sherlock Holmes listened with the deepest attention to this singular
narrative.
“What did you do?” he asked.
“I wired to Cambridge to learn if anything had been heard of him there.
I have had an answer. No one has seen him.”
“Could he have got back to Cambridge?”
“Yes, there is a late train--quarter-past eleven.”
“But so far as you can ascertain he did not take it?”
“No, he has not been seen.”
“What did you do next?”
“I wired to Lord Mount-James.”
“Why to Lord Mount-James?”
“Godfrey is an orphan, and Lord Mount-James is his nearest relative--his
uncle, I believe.”
“Indeed. This throws new light upon the matter. Lord Mount-James is one
of the richest men in England.”
“So I've heard Godfrey say.”
“And your friend was closely related?”
“Yes, he was his heir, and the old boy is nearly eighty--cram full of
gout, too. They say he could chalk his billiard-cue with his knuckles.
He never allowed Godfrey a shilling in his life, for he is an absolute
miser, but it will all come to him right enough.”
“Have you heard from Lord Mount-James?”
“No.”
“What motive could your friend have in going to Lord Mount-James?”
“Well, something was worrying him the night before, and if it was to do
with money it is possible that he would make for his nearest relative
who had so much of it, though from all I have heard he would not have
much chance of getting it. Godfrey was not fond of the old man. He would
not go if he could help it.”
“Well, we can soon determine that. If your friend was going to his
relative, Lord Mount-James, you have then to explain the visit of this
rough-looking fellow at so late an hour, and the agitation that was
caused by his coming.”
Cyril Overton pressed his hands to his head. “I can make nothing of it,”
said he.
“Well, well, I have a clear day, and I shall be happy to look into the
matter,” said Holmes. “I should strongly recommend you to make your
preparations for your match without reference to this young gentleman.
It must, as you say, have been an overpowering necessity which tore him
away in such a fashion, and the same necessity is likely to hold him
away. Let us step round together to this hotel, and see if the porter
can throw any fresh light upon the matter.”
Sherlock Holmes was a past-master in the art of putting a humble
witness at his ease, and very soon, in the privacy of Godfrey Staunton's
abandoned room, he had extracted all that the porter had to tell.
The visitor of the night before was not a gentleman, neither was he
a working man. He was simply what the porter described as a
“medium-looking chap”; a man of fifty, beard grizzled, pale face,
quietly dressed. He seemed himself to be agitated. The porter had
observed his hand trembling when he had held out the note. Godfrey
Staunton had crammed the note into his pocket. Staunton had not shaken
hands with the man in the hall. They had exchanged a few sentences, of
which the porter had only distinguished the one word “time.” Then they
had hurried off in the manner described. It was just half-past ten by
the hall clock.
“Let me see,” said Holmes, seating himself on Staunton's bed. “You are
the day porter, are you not?”
“Yes, sir; I go off duty at eleven.”
“The night porter saw nothing, I suppose?”
“No, sir; one theatre party came in late. No one else.”
“Were you on duty all day yesterday?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you take any messages to Mr. Staunton?”
“Yes, sir; one telegram.”
“Ah! that's interesting. What o'clock was this?”
“About six.”
“Where was Mr. Staunton when he received it?”
“Here in his room.”
“Were you present when he opened it?”
“Yes, sir; I waited to see if there was an answer.”
“Well, was there?”
“Yes, sir. He wrote an answer.”
“Did you take it?”
“No; he took it himself.”
“But he wrote it in your presence?”
“Yes, sir. I was standing by the door, and he with his back turned at
that table. When he had written it he said, 'All right, porter, I will
take this myself.'”
“What did he write it with?”
“A pen, sir.”
“Was the telegraphic form one of these on the table?”
“Yes, sir; it was the top one.”
Holmes rose. Taking the forms he carried them over to the window and
carefully examined that which was uppermost.
“It is a pity he did not write in pencil,” said he, throwing them down
again with a shrug of disappointment. “As you have no doubt frequently
observed, Watson, the impression usually goes through--a fact which has
dissolved many a happy marriage. However, I can find no trace here. I
rejoice, however, to perceive that he wrote with a broad-pointed quill
pen, and I can hardly doubt that we will find some impression upon this
blotting-pad. Ah, yes, surely this is the very thing!”
He tore off a strip of the blotting-paper and turned towards us the
following hieroglyphic:--
GRAPHIC
Cyril Overton was much excited. “Hold it to the glass!” he cried.
“That is unnecessary,” said Holmes. “The paper is thin, and the reverse
will give the message. Here it is.” He turned it over and we read:--
GRAPHIC
“So that is the tail end of the telegram which Godfrey Staunton
dispatched within a few hours of his disappearance. There are at least
six words of the message which have escaped us; but what remains--'Stand
by us for God's sake!'--proves that this young man saw a formidable
danger which approached him, and from which someone else could protect
him. 'US,' mark you! Another person was involved. Who should it be but
the pale-faced, bearded man, who seemed himself in so nervous a state?
What, then, is the connection between Godfrey Staunton and the bearded
man? And what is the third source from which each of them sought for
help against pressing danger? Our inquiry has already narrowed down to
that.”
“We have only to find to whom that telegram is addressed,” I suggested.
“Exactly, my dear Watson. Your reflection, though profound, had already
crossed my mind. But I dare say it may have come to your notice that if
you walk into a post-office and demand to see the counterfoil of another
man's message there may be some disinclination on the part of the
officials to oblige you. There is so much red tape in these matters!
However, I have no doubt that with a little delicacy and finesse the end
may be attained. Meanwhile, I should like in your presence, Mr. Overton,
to go through these papers which have been left upon the table.”
There were a number of letters, bills, and note-books, which Holmes
turned over and examined with quick, nervous fingers and darting,
penetrating eyes. “Nothing here,” he said, at last. “By the way, I
suppose your friend was a healthy young fellow--nothing amiss with him?”
“Sound as a bell.”
“Have you ever known him ill?”
“Not a day. He has been laid up with a hack, and once he slipped his
knee-cap, but that was nothing.”
“Perhaps he was not so strong as you suppose. I should think he may have
had some secret trouble. With your assent I will put one or two of these
papers in my pocket, in case they should bear upon our future inquiry.”
“One moment! one moment!” cried a querulous voice, and we looked up to
find a queer little old man, jerking and twitching in the doorway. He
was dressed in rusty black, with a very broad brimmed top-hat and a
loose white necktie--the whole effect being that of a very rustic parson
or of an undertaker's mute. Yet, in spite of his shabby and even absurd
appearance, his voice had a sharp crackle, and his manner a quick
intensity which commanded attention.
“Who are you, sir, and by what right do you touch this gentleman's
papers?” he asked.
“I am a private detective, and I am endeavouring to explain his
disappearance.”
“Oh, you are, are you? And who instructed you, eh?”
“This gentleman, Mr. Staunton's friend, was referred to me by Scotland
Yard.”
“Who are you, sir?”
“I am Cyril Overton.”
“Then it is you who sent me a telegram. My name is Lord Mount-James. I
came round as quickly as the Bayswater 'bus would bring me. So you have
instructed a detective?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And are you prepared to meet the cost?”
“I have no doubt, sir, that my friend Godfrey, when we find him, will be
prepared to do that.”
“But if he is never found, eh? Answer me that!”
“In that case no doubt his family----”
“Nothing of the sort, sir!” screamed the little man. “Don't look to me
for a penny--not a penny! You understand that, Mr. Detective! I am all
the family that this young man has got, and I tell you that I am not
responsible. If he has any expectations it is due to the fact that I
have never wasted money, and I do not propose to begin to do so now. As
to those papers with which you are making so free, I may tell you that
in case there should be anything of any value among them you will be
held strictly to account for what you do with them.”
“Very good, sir,” said Sherlock Holmes. “May I ask in the meanwhile
whether you have yourself any theory to account for this young man's
disappearance?”
“No, sir, I have not. He is big enough and old enough to look after
himself, and if he is so foolish as to lose himself I entirely refuse to
accept the responsibility of hunting for him.”
“I quite understand your position,” said Holmes, with a mischievous
twinkle in his eyes. “Perhaps you don't quite understand mine. Godfrey
Staunton appears to have been a poor man. If he has been kidnapped it
could not have been for anything which he himself possesses. The fame
of your wealth has gone abroad, Lord Mount-James, and it is entirely
possible that a gang of thieves have secured your nephew in order to
gain from him some information as to your house, your habits, and your
treasure.”
The face of our unpleasant little visitor turned as white as his
neckcloth.
“Heavens, sir, what an idea! I never thought of such villainy! What
inhuman rogues there are in the world! But Godfrey is a fine lad--a
staunch lad. Nothing would induce him to give his old uncle away. I'll
have the plate moved over to the bank this evening. In the meantime
spare no pains, Mr. Detective! I beg you to leave no stone unturned to
bring him safely back. As to money, well, so far as a fiver, or even a
tenner, goes, you can always look to me.”
Even in his chastened frame of mind the noble miser could give us no
information which could help us, for he knew little of the private life
of his nephew. Our only clue lay in the truncated telegram, and with a
copy of this in his hand Holmes set forth to find a second link for
his chain. We had shaken off Lord Mount-James, and Overton had gone to
consult with the other members of his team over the misfortune which had
befallen them.
There was a telegraph-office at a short distance from the hotel. We
halted outside it.
“It's worth trying, Watson,” said Holmes. “Of course, with a warrant we
could demand to see the counterfoils, but we have not reached that stage
yet. I don't suppose they remember faces in so busy a place. Let us
venture it.”
“I am sorry to trouble you,” said he, in his blandest manner, to the
young woman behind the grating; “there is some small mistake about a
telegram I sent yesterday. I have had no answer, and I very much fear
that I must have omitted to put my name at the end. Could you tell me if
this was so?”
The young woman turned over a sheaf of counterfoils.
“What o'clock was it?” she asked.
“A little after six.”
“Whom was it to?”
Holmes put his finger to his lips and glanced at me. “The last words
in it were 'for God's sake,'” he whispered, confidentially; “I am very
anxious at getting no answer.”
The young woman separated one of the forms.
“This is it. There is no name,” said she, smoothing it out upon the
counter.
“Then that, of course, accounts for my getting no answer,” said Holmes.
“Dear me, how very stupid of me, to be sure! Good morning, miss, and
many thanks for having relieved my mind.” He chuckled and rubbed his
hands when we found ourselves in the street once more.
“Well?” I asked.
“We progress, my dear Watson, we progress. I had seven different schemes
for getting a glimpse of that telegram, but I could hardly hope to
succeed the very first time.”
“And what have you gained?”
“A starting-point for our investigation.” He hailed a cab. “King's Cross
Station,” said he.
“We have a journey, then?”
“Yes; I think we must run down to Cambridge together. All the
indications seem to me to point in that direction.”
“Tell me,” I asked, as we rattled up Gray's Inn Road, “have you any
suspicion yet as to the cause of the disappearance? I don't think that
among all our cases I have known one where the motives are more obscure.
Surely you don't really imagine that he may be kidnapped in order to
give information against his wealthy uncle?”
“I confess, my dear Watson, that that does not appeal to me as a very
probable explanation. It struck me, however, as being the one which was
most likely to interest that exceedingly unpleasant old person.”
“It certainly did that. But what are your alternatives?”
“I could mention several. You must admit that it is curious and
suggestive that this incident should occur on the eve of this important
match, and should involve the only man whose presence seems essential
to the success of the side. It may, of course, be coincidence, but it
is interesting. Amateur sport is free from betting, but a good deal of
outside betting goes on among the public, and it is possible that it
might be worth someone's while to get at a player as the ruffians of
the turf get at a race-horse. There is one explanation. A second
very obvious one is that this young man really is the heir of a great
property, however modest his means may at present be, and it is not
impossible that a plot to hold him for ransom might be concocted.”
“These theories take no account of the telegram.”
“Quite true, Watson. The telegram still remains the only solid thing
with which we have to deal, and we must not permit our attention to
wander away from it. It is to gain light upon the purpose of this
telegram that we are now upon our way to Cambridge. The path of our
investigation is at present obscure, but I shall be very much surprised
if before evening we have not cleared it up or made a considerable
advance along it.”
It was already dark when we reached the old University city. Holmes took
a cab at the station, and ordered the man to drive to the house of Dr.
Leslie Armstrong. A few minutes later we had stopped at a large mansion
in the busiest thoroughfare. We were shown in, and after a long wait
were at last admitted into the consulting-room, where we found the
doctor seated behind his table.
It argues the degree in which I had lost touch with my profession that
the name of Leslie Armstrong was unknown to me. Now I am aware that he
is not only one of the heads of the medical school of the University,
but a thinker of European reputation in more than one branch of science.
Yet even without knowing his brilliant record one could not fail to be
impressed by a mere glance at the man, the square, massive face, the
brooding eyes under the thatched brows, and the granite moulding of the
inflexible jaw. A man of deep character, a man with an alert mind, grim,
ascetic, self-contained, formidable--so I read Dr. Leslie Armstrong. He
held my friend's card in his hand, and he looked up with no very pleased
expression upon his dour features.
“I have heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I am aware of your
profession, one of which I by no means approve.”
“In that, doctor, you will find yourself in agreement with every
criminal in the country,” said my friend, quietly.
“So far as your efforts are directed towards the suppression of crime,
sir, they must have the support of every reasonable member of the
community, though I cannot doubt that the official machinery is amply
sufficient for the purpose. Where your calling is more open to criticism
is when you pry into the secrets of private individuals, when you rake
up family matters which are better hidden, and when you incidentally
waste the time of men who are more busy than yourself. At the present
moment, for example, I should be writing a treatise instead of
conversing with you.”
“No doubt, doctor; and yet the conversation may prove more important
than the treatise. Incidentally I may tell you that we are doing the
reverse of what you very justly blame, and that we are endeavouring
to prevent anything like public exposure of private matters which must
necessarily follow when once the case is fairly in the hands of the
official police. You may look upon me simply as an irregular pioneer who
goes in front of the regular forces of the country. I have come to ask
you about Mr. Godfrey Staunton.”
“What about him?”
“You know him, do you not?”
“He is an intimate friend of mine.”
“You are aware that he has disappeared?”
“Ah, indeed!” There was no change of expression in the rugged features
of the doctor.
“He left his hotel last night. He has not been heard of.”
“No doubt he will return.”
“To-morrow is the 'Varsity football match.”
“I have no sympathy with these childish games. The young man's fate
interests me deeply, since I know him and like him. The football match
does not come within my horizon at all.”
“I claim your sympathy, then, in my investigation of Mr. Staunton's
fate. Do you know where he is?”
“Certainly not.”
“You have not seen him since yesterday?”
“No, I have not.”
“Was Mr. Staunton a healthy man?”
“Absolutely.”
“Did you ever know him ill?”
“Never.”
Holmes popped a sheet of paper before the doctor's eyes. “Then perhaps
you will explain this receipted bill for thirteen guineas, paid by Mr.
Godfrey Staunton last month to Dr. Leslie Armstrong of Cambridge. I
picked it out from among the papers upon his desk.”
The doctor flushed with anger.
“I do not feel that there is any reason why I should render an
explanation to you, Mr. Holmes.”
Holmes replaced the bill in his note-book. “If you prefer a public
explanation it must come sooner or later,” said he. “I have already told
you that I can hush up that which others will be bound to publish, and
you would really be wiser to take me into your complete confidence.”
“I know nothing about it.”
“Did you hear from Mr. Staunton in London?”
“Certainly not.”
“Dear me, dear me; the post-office again!” Holmes sighed, wearily.
“A most urgent telegram was dispatched to you from London by Godfrey
Staunton at six-fifteen yesterday evening--a telegram which is
undoubtedly associated with his disappearance--and yet you have not had
it. It is most culpable. I shall certainly go down to the office here
and register a complaint.”
Dr. Leslie Armstrong sprang up from behind his desk, and his dark face
was crimson with fury.
“I'll trouble you to walk out of my house, sir,” said he. “You can tell
your employer, Lord Mount-James, that I do not wish to have anything to
do either with him or with his agents. No, sir, not another word!” He
rang the bell furiously. “John, show these gentlemen out!” A pompous
butler ushered us severely to the door, and we found ourselves in the
street. Holmes burst out laughing.
“Dr. Leslie Armstrong is certainly a man of energy and character,” said
he. “I have not seen a man who, if he turned his talents that way, was
more calculated to fill the gap left by the illustrious Moriarty.
And now, my poor Watson, here we are, stranded and friendless in this
inhospitable town, which we cannot leave without abandoning our case.
This little inn just opposite Armstrong's house is singularly adapted to
our needs. If you would engage a front room and purchase the necessaries
for the night, I may have time to make a few inquiries.”
These few inquiries proved, however, to be a more lengthy proceeding
than Holmes had imagined, for he did not return to the inn until nearly
nine o'clock. He was pale and dejected, stained with dust, and exhausted
with hunger and fatigue. A cold supper was ready upon the table, and
when his needs were satisfied and his pipe alight he was ready to take
that half comic and wholly philosophic view which was natural to him
when his affairs were going awry. The sound of carriage wheels caused
him to rise and glance out of the window. A brougham and pair of greys
under the glare of a gas-lamp stood before the doctor's door.
“It's been out three hours,” said Holmes; “started at half-past six, and
here it is back again. That gives a radius of ten or twelve miles, and
he does it once, or sometimes twice, a day.”
“No unusual thing for a doctor in practice.”
“But Armstrong is not really a doctor in practice. He is a lecturer and
a consultant, but he does not care for general practice, which distracts
him from his literary work. Why, then, does he make these long journeys,
which must be exceedingly irksome to him, and who is it that he visits?”
“His coachman----”
“My dear Watson, can you doubt that it was to him that I first applied?
I do not know whether it came from his own innate depravity or from the
promptings of his master, but he was rude enough to set a dog at me.
Neither dog nor man liked the look of my stick, however, and the matter
fell through. Relations were strained after that, and further inquiries
out of the question. All that I have learned I got from a friendly
native in the yard of our own inn. It was he who told me of the doctor's
habits and of his daily journey. At that instant, to give point to his
words, the carriage came round to the door.”
“Could you not follow it?”
“Excellent, Watson! You are scintillating this evening. The idea did
cross my mind. There is, as you may have observed, a bicycle shop next
to our inn. Into this I rushed, engaged a bicycle, and was able to get
started before the carriage was quite out of sight. I rapidly overtook
it, and then, keeping at a discreet distance of a hundred yards or so, I
followed its lights until we were clear of the town. We had got well out
on the country road when a somewhat mortifying incident occurred. The
carriage stopped, the doctor alighted, walked swiftly back to where I
had also halted, and told me in an excellent sardonic fashion that
he feared the road was narrow, and that he hoped his carriage did not
impede the passage of my bicycle. Nothing could have been more admirable
than his way of putting it. I at once rode past the carriage, and,
keeping to the main road, I went on for a few miles, and then halted in
a convenient place to see if the carriage passed. There was no sign of
it, however, and so it became evident that it had turned down one of
several side roads which I had observed. I rode back, but again saw
nothing of the carriage, and now, as you perceive, it has returned after
me. Of course, I had at the outset no particular reason to connect
these journeys with the disappearance of Godfrey Staunton, and was only
inclined to investigate them on the general grounds that everything
which concerns Dr. Armstrong is at present of interest to us; but, now
that I find he keeps so keen a look-out upon anyone who may follow him
on these excursions, the affair appears more important, and I shall not
be satisfied until I have made the matter clear.”
“We can follow him to-morrow.”
“Can we? It is not so easy as you seem to think. You are not familiar
with Cambridgeshire scenery, are you? It does not lend itself to
concealment. All this country that I passed over to-night is as flat and
clean as the palm of your hand, and the man we are following is no fool,
as he very clearly showed to-night. I have wired to Overton to let us
know any fresh London developments at this address, and in the meantime
we can only concentrate our attention upon Dr. Armstrong, whose name
the obliging young lady at the office allowed me to read upon the
counterfoil of Staunton's urgent message. He knows where the young man
is--to that I'll swear--and if he knows, then it must be our own fault
if we cannot manage to know also. At present it must be admitted that
the odd trick is in his possession, and, as you are aware, Watson, it is
not my habit to leave the game in that condition.”
And yet the next day brought us no nearer to the solution of the
mystery. A note was handed in after breakfast, which Holmes passed
across to me with a smile.
“Sir,” it ran, “I can assure you that you are wasting your time in
dogging my movements. I have, as you discovered last night, a window at
the back of my brougham, and if you desire a twenty-mile ride which will
lead you to the spot from which you started, you have only to follow me.
Meanwhile, I can inform you that no spying upon me can in any way help
Mr. Godfrey Staunton, and I am convinced that the best service you can
do to that gentleman is to return at once to London and to report to
your employer that you are unable to trace him. Your time in Cambridge
will certainly be wasted.
“Yours faithfully,
“LESLIE ARMSTRONG.”
“An outspoken, honest antagonist is the doctor,” said Holmes. “Well,
well, he excites my curiosity, and I must really know more before I
leave him.”
“His carriage is at his door now,” said I. “There he is stepping into
it. I saw him glance up at our window as he did so. Suppose I try my
luck upon the bicycle?”
“No, no, my dear Watson! With all respect for your natural acumen I do
not think that you are quite a match for the worthy doctor. I think that
possibly I can attain our end by some independent explorations of my
own. I am afraid that I must leave you to your own devices, as the
appearance of TWO inquiring strangers upon a sleepy countryside might
excite more gossip than I care for. No doubt you will find some sights
to amuse you in this venerable city, and I hope to bring back a more
favourable report to you before evening.”
Once more, however, my friend was destined to be disappointed. He came
back at night weary and unsuccessful.
“I have had a blank day, Watson. Having got the doctor's general
direction, I spent the day in visiting all the villages upon that side
of Cambridge, and comparing notes with publicans and other local news
agencies. I have covered some ground: Chesterton, Histon, Waterbeach,
and Oakington have each been explored and have each proved
disappointing. The daily appearance of a brougham and pair could hardly
have been overlooked in such Sleepy Hollows. The doctor has scored once
more. Is there a telegram for me?”
“Yes; I opened it. Here it is: 'Ask for Pompey from Jeremy Dixon,
Trinity College.' I don't understand it.”
“Oh, it is clear enough. It is from our friend Overton, and is in answer
to a question from me. I'll just send round a note to Mr. Jeremy Dixon,
and then I have no doubt that our luck will turn. By the way, is there
any news of the match?”
“Yes, the local evening paper has an excellent account in its last
edition. Oxford won by a goal and two tries. The last sentences of
the description say: 'The defeat of the Light Blues may be entirely
attributed to the unfortunate absence of the crack International,
Godfrey Staunton, whose want was felt at every instant of the game. The
lack of combination in the three-quarter line and their weakness both
in attack and defence more than neutralized the efforts of a heavy and
hard-working pack.'”
“Then our friend Overton's forebodings have been justified,” said
Holmes. “Personally I am in agreement with Dr. Armstrong, and football
does not come within my horizon. Early to bed to-night, Watson, for I
foresee that to-morrow may be an eventful day.”
I was horrified by my first glimpse of Holmes next morning, for he
sat by the fire holding his tiny hypodermic syringe. I associated that
instrument with the single weakness of his nature, and I feared the
worst when I saw it glittering in his hand. He laughed at my expression
of dismay, and laid it upon the table.
“No, no, my dear fellow, there is no cause for alarm. It is not upon
this occasion the instrument of evil, but it will rather prove to be the
key which will unlock our mystery. On this syringe I base all my hopes.
I have just returned from a small scouting expedition and everything is
favourable. Eat a good breakfast, Watson, for I propose to get upon Dr.
Armstrong's trail to-day, and once on it I will not stop for rest or
food until I run him to his burrow.”
“In that case,” said I, “we had best carry our breakfast with us, for he
is making an early start. His carriage is at the door.”
“Never mind. Let him go. He will be clever if he can drive where I
cannot follow him. When you have finished come downstairs with me, and
I will introduce you to a detective who is a very eminent specialist in
the work that lies before us.”
When we descended I followed Holmes into the stable yard, where
he opened the door of a loose-box and led out a squat, lop-eared,
white-and-tan dog, something between a beagle and a foxhound.
“Let me introduce you to Pompey,” said he. “Pompey is the pride of the
local draghounds, no very great flier, as his build will show, but
a staunch hound on a scent. Well, Pompey, you may not be fast, but
I expect you will be too fast for a couple of middle-aged London
gentlemen, so I will take the liberty of fastening this leather leash to
your collar. Now, boy, come along, and show what you can do.” He led him
across to the doctor's door. The dog sniffed round for an instant, and
then with a shrill whine of excitement started off down the street,
tugging at his leash in his efforts to go faster. In half an hour, we
were clear of the town and hastening down a country road.
“What have you done, Holmes?” I asked.
“A threadbare and venerable device, but useful upon occasion. I walked
into the doctor's yard this morning and shot my syringe full of aniseed
over the hind wheel. A draghound will follow aniseed from here to John
o' Groat's, and our friend Armstrong would have to drive through the Cam
before he would shake Pompey off his trail. Oh, the cunning rascal! This
is how he gave me the slip the other night.”
The dog had suddenly turned out of the main road into a grass-grown
lane. Half a mile farther this opened into another broad road, and the
trail turned hard to the right in the direction of the town, which we
had just quitted. The road took a sweep to the south of the town and
continued in the opposite direction to that in which we started.
“This DETOUR has been entirely for our benefit, then?” said Holmes. “No
wonder that my inquiries among those villages led to nothing. The doctor
has certainly played the game for all it is worth, and one would like to
know the reason for such elaborate deception. This should be the village
of Trumpington to the right of us. And, by Jove! here is the brougham
coming round the corner. Quick, Watson, quick, or we are done!”
He sprang through a gate into a field, dragging the reluctant Pompey
after him. We had hardly got under the shelter of the hedge when the
carriage rattled past. I caught a glimpse of Dr. Armstrong within, his
shoulders bowed, his head sunk on his hands, the very image of distress.
I could tell by my companion's graver face that he also had seen.
“I fear there is some dark ending to our quest,” said he. “It cannot
be long before we know it. Come, Pompey! Ah, it is the cottage in the
field!”
There could be no doubt that we had reached the end of our journey.
Pompey ran about and whined eagerly outside the gate where the marks of
the brougham's wheels were still to be seen. A footpath led across to
the lonely cottage. Holmes tied the dog to the hedge, and we hastened
onwards. My friend knocked at the little rustic door, and knocked again
without response. And yet the cottage was not deserted, for a low sound
came to our ears--a kind of drone of misery and despair, which was
indescribably melancholy. Holmes paused irresolute, and then he glanced
back at the road which we had just traversed. A brougham was coming down
it, and there could be no mistaking those grey horses.
“By Jove, the doctor is coming back!” cried Holmes. “That settles it. We
are bound to see what it means before he comes.”
He opened the door and we stepped into the hall. The droning sound
swelled louder upon our ears until it became one long, deep wail of
distress. It came from upstairs. Holmes darted up and I followed him. He
pushed open a half-closed door and we both stood appalled at the sight
before us.
A woman, young and beautiful, was lying dead upon the bed. Her calm,
pale face, with dim, wide-opened blue eyes, looked upward from amid a
great tangle of golden hair. At the foot of the bed, half sitting, half
kneeling, his face buried in the clothes, was a young man, whose frame
was racked by his sobs. So absorbed was he by his bitter grief that he
never looked up until Holmes's hand was on his shoulder.
“Are you Mr. Godfrey Staunton?”
“Yes, yes; I am--but you are too late. She is dead.”
The man was so dazed that he could not be made to understand that we
were anything but doctors who had been sent to his assistance. Holmes
was endeavouring to utter a few words of consolation, and to explain the
alarm which had been caused to his friends by his sudden disappearance,
when there was a step upon the stairs, and there was the heavy, stern,
questioning face of Dr. Armstrong at the door.
“So, gentlemen,” said he, “you have attained your end, and have
certainly chosen a particularly delicate moment for your intrusion. I
would not brawl in the presence of death, but I can assure you that if I
were a younger man your monstrous conduct would not pass with impunity.”
“Excuse me, Dr. Armstrong, I think we are a little at cross-purposes,”
said my friend, with dignity. “If you could step downstairs with us we
may each be able to give some light to the other upon this miserable
affair.”
A minute later the grim doctor and ourselves were in the sitting-room
below.
“Well, sir?” said he.
“I wish you to understand, in the first place, that I am not employed
by Lord Mount-James, and that my sympathies in this matter are entirely
against that nobleman. When a man is lost it is my duty to ascertain his
fate, but having done so the matter ends so far as I am concerned; and
so long as there is nothing criminal, I am much more anxious to hush up
private scandals than to give them publicity. If, as I imagine, there is
no breach of the law in this matter, you can absolutely depend upon my
discretion and my co-operation in keeping the facts out of the papers.”
Dr. Armstrong took a quick step forward and wrung Holmes by the hand.
“You are a good fellow,” said he. “I had misjudged you. I thank Heaven
that my compunction at leaving poor Staunton all alone in this plight
caused me to turn my carriage back, and so to make your acquaintance.
Knowing as much as you do, the situation is very easily explained.
A year ago Godfrey Staunton lodged in London for a time, and became
passionately attached to his landlady's daughter, whom he married. She
was as good as she was beautiful, and as intelligent as she was good.
No man need be ashamed of such a wife. But Godfrey was the heir to this
crabbed old nobleman, and it was quite certain that the news of his
marriage would have been the end of his inheritance. I knew the lad
well, and I loved him for his many excellent qualities. I did all I
could to help him to keep things straight. We did our very best to keep
the thing from everyone, for when once such a whisper gets about it is
not long before everyone has heard it. Thanks to this lonely cottage and
his own discretion, Godfrey has up to now succeeded. Their secret was
known to no one save to me and to one excellent servant who has at
present gone for assistance to Trumpington. But at last there came a
terrible blow in the shape of dangerous illness to his wife. It was
consumption of the most virulent kind. The poor boy was half crazed with
grief, and yet he had to go to London to play this match, for he could
not get out of it without explanations which would expose his secret. I
tried to cheer him up by a wire, and he sent me one in reply imploring
me to do all I could. This was the telegram which you appear in some
inexplicable way to have seen. I did not tell him how urgent the danger
was, for I knew that he could do no good here, but I sent the truth to
the girl's father, and he very injudiciously communicated it to Godfrey.
The result was that he came straight away in a state bordering on
frenzy, and has remained in the same state, kneeling at the end of her
bed, until this morning death put an end to her sufferings. That is all,
Mr. Holmes, and I am sure that I can rely upon your discretion and that
of your friend.”
Holmes grasped the doctor's hand.
“Come, Watson,” said he, and we passed from that house of grief into the
pale sunlight of the winter day.
*****
THE STRAND MAGAZINE
Vol. 28 SEPTEMBER, 1904
THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.
By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.
|
xi_the_adventure_of_the_missing_three_quarter
|
XII.--The Adventure of the Abbey Grange.
|
The Return of Sherlock Holmes
|
It was on a bitterly cold and frosty morning during the winter of '97
that I was awakened by a tugging at my shoulder. It was Holmes. The
candle in his hand shone upon his eager, stooping face and told me at a
glance that something was amiss.
“Come, Watson, come!” he cried. “The game is afoot. Not a word! Into
your clothes and come!”
Ten minutes later we were both in a cab and rattling through the silent
streets on our way to Charing Cross Station. The first faint winter's
dawn was beginning to appear, and we could dimly see the occasional
figure of an early workman as he passed us, blurred and indistinct in
the opalescent London reek. Holmes nestled in silence into his heavy
coat, and I was glad to do the same, for the air was most bitter and
neither of us had broken our fast. It was not until we had consumed some
hot tea at the station, and taken our places in the Kentish train, that
we were sufficiently thawed, he to speak and I to listen. Holmes drew a
note from his pocket and read it aloud:--
“Abbey Grange, Marsham, Kent,
“3.30 a.m.
“MY DEAR MR. HOLMES,--I should be very glad of your immediate
assistance in what promises to be a most remarkable case.
It is something quite in your line. Except for releasing the lady
I will see that everything is kept exactly as I have found it,
but I beg you not to lose an instant, as it is difficult to leave
Sir Eustace there.
“Yours faithfully, STANLEY HOPKINS.”
“Hopkins has called me in seven times, and on each occasion his summons
has been entirely justified,” said Holmes. “I fancy that every one of
his cases has found its way into your collection, and I must admit,
Watson, that you have some power of selection which atones for much
which I deplore in your narratives. Your fatal habit of looking at
everything from the point of view of a story instead of as a scientific
exercise has ruined what might have been an instructive and even
classical series of demonstrations. You slur over work of the utmost
finesse and delicacy in order to dwell upon sensational details which
may excite, but cannot possibly instruct, the reader.”
“Why do you not write them yourself?” I said, with some bitterness.
“I will, my dear Watson, I will. At present I am, as you know, fairly
busy, but I propose to devote my declining years to the composition of a
text-book which shall focus the whole art of detection into one volume.
Our present research appears to be a case of murder.”
“You think this Sir Eustace is dead, then?”
“I should say so. Hopkins's writing shows considerable agitation, and he
is not an emotional man. Yes, I gather there has been violence, and
that the body is left for our inspection. A mere suicide would not
have caused him to send for me. As to the release of the lady, it would
appear that she has been locked in her room during the tragedy. We
are moving in high life, Watson; crackling paper, 'E.B.' monogram,
coat-of-arms, picturesque address. I think that friend Hopkins will live
up to his reputation and that we shall have an interesting morning. The
crime was committed before twelve last night.”
“How can you possibly tell?”
“By an inspection of the trains and by reckoning the time. The local
police had to be called in, they had to communicate with Scotland Yard,
Hopkins had to go out, and he in turn had to send for me. All that makes
a fair night's work. Well, here we are at Chislehurst Station, and we
shall soon set our doubts at rest.”
A drive of a couple of miles through narrow country lanes brought us
to a park gate, which was opened for us by an old lodge-keeper, whose
haggard face bore the reflection of some great disaster. The avenue ran
through a noble park, between lines of ancient elms, and ended in a low,
widespread house, pillared in front after the fashion of Palladio. The
central part was evidently of a great age and shrouded in ivy, but the
large windows showed that modern changes had been carried out, and one
wing of the house appeared to be entirely new. The youthful figure and
alert, eager face of Inspector Stanley Hopkins confronted us in the open
doorway.
“I'm very glad you have come, Mr. Holmes. And you too, Dr. Watson! But,
indeed, if I had my time over again I should not have troubled you, for
since the lady has come to herself she has given so clear an account of
the affair that there is not much left for us to do. You remember that
Lewisham gang of burglars?”
“What, the three Randalls?”
“Exactly; the father and two sons. It's their work. I have not a doubt
of it. They did a job at Sydenham a fortnight ago, and were seen and
described. Rather cool to do another so soon and so near, but it is
they, beyond all doubt. It's a hanging matter this time.”
“Sir Eustace is dead, then?”
“Yes; his head was knocked in with his own poker.”
“Sir Eustace Brackenstall, the driver tells me.”
“Exactly--one of the richest men in Kent. Lady Brackenstall is in the
morning-room. Poor lady, she has had a most dreadful experience. She
seemed half dead when I saw her first. I think you had best see her
and hear her account of the facts. Then we will examine the dining-room
together.”
Lady Brackenstall was no ordinary person. Seldom have I seen so graceful
a figure, so womanly a presence, and so beautiful a face. She was a
blonde, golden-haired, blue-eyed, and would, no doubt, have had the
perfect complexion which goes with such colouring had not her recent
experience left her drawn and haggard. Her sufferings were physical as
well as mental, for over one eye rose a hideous, plum-coloured swelling,
which her maid, a tall, austere woman, was bathing assiduously with
vinegar and water. The lady lay back exhausted upon a couch, but her
quick, observant gaze as we entered the room, and the alert expression
of her beautiful features, showed that neither her wits nor her courage
had been shaken by her terrible experience. She was enveloped in a
loose dressing-gown of blue and silver, but a black sequin-covered
dinner-dress was hung upon the couch beside her.
“I have told you all that happened, Mr. Hopkins,” she said, wearily;
“could you not repeat it for me? Well, if you think it necessary, I will
tell these gentlemen what occurred. Have they been in the dining-room
yet?”
“I thought they had better hear your ladyship's story first.”
“I shall be glad when you can arrange matters. It is horrible to me to
think of him still lying there.” She shuddered and buried her face in
her hands. As she did so the loose gown fell back from her forearms.
Holmes uttered an exclamation.
“You have other injuries, madam! What is this?” Two vivid red spots
stood out on one of the white, round limbs. She hastily covered it.
“It is nothing. It has no connection with the hideous business of last
night. If you and your friend will sit down I will tell you all I can.
“I am the wife of Sir Eustace Brackenstall. I have been married about
a year. I suppose that it is no use my attempting to conceal that our
marriage has not been a happy one. I fear that all our neighbours would
tell you that, even if I were to attempt to deny it. Perhaps the fault
may be partly mine. I was brought up in the freer, less conventional
atmosphere of South Australia, and this English life, with its
proprieties and its primness, is not congenial to me. But the main
reason lies in the one fact which is notorious to everyone, and that is
that Sir Eustace was a confirmed drunkard. To be with such a man for an
hour is unpleasant. Can you imagine what it means for a sensitive
and high-spirited woman to be tied to him for day and night? It is a
sacrilege, a crime, a villainy to hold that such a marriage is binding.
I say that these monstrous laws of yours will bring a curse upon the
land--Heaven will not let such wickedness endure.” For an instant she
sat up, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes blazing from under the terrible
mark upon her brow. Then the strong, soothing hand of the austere maid
drew her head down on to the cushion, and the wild anger died away into
passionate sobbing. At last she continued:--
“I will tell you about last night. You are aware, perhaps, that in this
house all servants sleep in the modern wing. This central block is made
up of the dwelling-rooms, with the kitchen behind and our bedroom above.
My maid Theresa sleeps above my room. There is no one else, and no sound
could alarm those who are in the farther wing. This must have been well
known to the robbers, or they would not have acted as they did.
“Sir Eustace retired about half-past ten. The servants had already gone
to their quarters. Only my maid was up, and she had remained in her room
at the top of the house until I needed her services. I sat until after
eleven in this room, absorbed in a book. Then I walked round to see
that all was right before I went upstairs. It was my custom to do this
myself, for, as I have explained, Sir Eustace was not always to be
trusted. I went into the kitchen, the butler's pantry, the gun-room,
the billiard-room, the drawing-room, and finally the dining-room. As I
approached the window, which is covered with thick curtains, I suddenly
felt the wind blow upon my face and realized that it was open. I flung
the curtain aside and found myself face to face with a broad-shouldered,
elderly man who had just stepped into the room. The window is a long
French one, which really forms a door leading to the lawn. I held my
bedroom candle lit in my hand, and, by its light, behind the first man I
saw two others, who were in the act of entering. I stepped back, but the
fellow was on me in an instant. He caught me first by the wrist and then
by the throat. I opened my mouth to scream, but he struck me a savage
blow with his fist over the eye, and felled me to the ground. I must
have been unconscious for a few minutes, for when I came to myself I
found that they had torn down the bell-rope and had secured me tightly
to the oaken chair which stands at the head of the dining-room table. I
was so firmly bound that I could not move, and a handkerchief round my
mouth prevented me from uttering any sound. It was at this instant that
my unfortunate husband entered the room. He had evidently heard some
suspicious sounds, and he came prepared for such a scene as he found.
He was dressed in his shirt and trousers, with his favourite blackthorn
cudgel in his hand. He rushed at one of the burglars, but another--it
was the elderly man--stooped, picked the poker out of the grate, and
struck him a horrible blow as he passed. He fell without a groan, and
never moved again. I fainted once more, but again it could only have
been a very few minutes during which I was insensible. When I opened my
eyes I found that they had collected the silver from the sideboard, and
they had drawn a bottle of wine which stood there. Each of them had a
glass in his hand. I have already told you, have I not, that one was
elderly, with a beard, and the others young, hairless lads. They might
have been a father with his two sons. They talked together in whispers.
Then they came over and made sure that I was still securely bound.
Finally they withdrew, closing the window after them. It was quite a
quarter of an hour before I got my mouth free. When I did so my screams
brought the maid to my assistance. The other servants were soon alarmed,
and we sent for the local police, who instantly communicated with
London. That is really all that I can tell you, gentlemen, and I trust
that it will not be necessary for me to go over so painful a story
again.”
“Any questions, Mr. Holmes?” asked Hopkins.
“I will not impose any further tax upon Lady Brackenstall's patience and
time,” said Holmes. “Before I go into the dining-room I should like to
hear your experience.” He looked at the maid.
“I saw the men before ever they came into the house,” said she. “As I
sat by my bedroom window I saw three men in the moonlight down by the
lodge gate yonder, but I thought nothing of it at the time. It was more
than an hour after that I heard my mistress scream, and down I ran, to
find her, poor lamb, just as she says, and him on the floor with his
blood and brains over the room. It was enough to drive a woman out of
her wits, tied there, and her very dress spotted with him; but she never
wanted courage, did Miss Mary Fraser of Adelaide, and Lady Brackenstall
of Abbey Grange hasn't learned new ways. You've questioned her long
enough, you gentlemen, and now she is coming to her own room, just with
her old Theresa, to get the rest that she badly needs.”
With a motherly tenderness the gaunt woman put her arm round her
mistress and led her from the room.
“She has been with her all her life,” said Hopkins. “Nursed her as
a baby, and came with her to England when they first left Australia
eighteen months ago. Theresa Wright is her name, and the kind of maid
you don't pick up nowadays. This way, Mr. Holmes, if you please!”
The keen interest had passed out of Holmes's expressive face, and I
knew that with the mystery all the charm of the case had departed. There
still remained an arrest to be effected, but what were these commonplace
rogues that he should soil his hands with them? An abstruse and learned
specialist who finds that he has been called in for a case of measles
would experience something of the annoyance which I read in my
friend's eyes. Yet the scene in the dining-room of the Abbey Grange was
sufficiently strange to arrest his attention and to recall his waning
interest.
It was a very large and high chamber, with carved oak ceiling, oaken
panelling, and a fine array of deer's heads and ancient weapons around
the walls. At the farther end from the door was the high French window
of which we had heard. Three smaller windows on the right-hand side
filled the apartment with cold winter sunshine. On the left was a large,
deep fireplace, with a massive, over-hanging oak mantelpiece. Beside
the fireplace was a heavy oaken chair with arms and cross-bars at the
bottom. In and out through the open woodwork was woven a crimson cord,
which was secured at each side to the crosspiece below. In releasing the
lady the cord had been slipped off her, but the knots with which it had
been secured still remained. These details only struck our attention
afterwards, for our thoughts were entirely absorbed by the terrible
object which lay upon the tiger-skin hearthrug in front of the fire.
It was the body of a tall, well-made man, about forty years of age.
He lay upon his back, his face upturned, with his white teeth grinning
through his short black beard. His two clenched hands were raised
above his head, and a heavy blackthorn stick lay across them. His dark,
handsome, aquiline features were convulsed into a spasm of vindictive
hatred, which had set his dead face in a terribly fiendish expression.
He had evidently been in his bed when the alarm had broken out, for he
wore a foppish embroidered night-shirt, and his bare feet projected from
his trousers. His head was horribly injured, and the whole room bore
witness to the savage ferocity of the blow which had struck him down.
Beside him lay the heavy poker, bent into a curve by the concussion.
Holmes examined both it and the indescribable wreck which it had
wrought.
“He must be a powerful man, this elder Randall,” he remarked.
“Yes,” said Hopkins. “I have some record of the fellow, and he is a
rough customer.”
“You should have no difficulty in getting him.”
“Not the slightest. We have been on the look-out for him, and there was
some idea that he had got away to America. Now that we know the gang are
here I don't see how they can escape. We have the news at every seaport
already, and a reward will be offered before evening. What beats me is
how they could have done so mad a thing, knowing that the lady could
describe them, and that we could not fail to recognise the description.”
“Exactly. One would have expected that they would have silenced Lady
Brackenstall as well.”
“They may not have realized,” I suggested, “that she had recovered from
her faint.”
“That is likely enough. If she seemed to be senseless they would not
take her life. What about this poor fellow, Hopkins? I seem to have
heard some queer stories about him.”
“He was a good-hearted man when he was sober, but a perfect fiend when
he was drunk, or rather when he was half drunk, for he seldom really
went the whole way. The devil seemed to be in him at such times, and he
was capable of anything. From what I hear, in spite of all his wealth
and his title, he very nearly came our way once or twice. There was
a scandal about his drenching a dog with petroleum and setting it on
fire--her ladyship's dog, to make the matter worse--and that was only
hushed up with difficulty. Then he threw a decanter at that maid,
Theresa Wright; there was trouble about that. On the whole, and between
ourselves, it will be a brighter house without him. What are you looking
at now?”
Holmes was down on his knees examining with great attention the
knots upon the red cord with which the lady had been secured. Then he
carefully scrutinized the broken and frayed end where it had snapped off
when the burglar had dragged it down.
“When this was pulled down the bell in the kitchen must have rung
loudly,” he remarked.
“No one could hear it. The kitchen stands right at the back of the
house.”
“How did the burglar know no one would hear it? How dared he pull at a
bell-rope in that reckless fashion?”
“Exactly, Mr. Holmes, exactly. You put the very question which I have
asked myself again and again. There can be no doubt that this fellow
must have known the house and its habits. He must have perfectly
understood that the servants would all be in bed at that comparatively
early hour, and that no one could possibly hear a bell ring in the
kitchen. Therefore he must have been in close league with one of the
servants. Surely that is evident. But there are eight servants, and all
of good character.”
“Other things being equal,” said Holmes, “one would suspect the one
at whose head the master threw a decanter. And yet that would involve
treachery towards the mistress to whom this woman seems devoted. Well,
well, the point is a minor one, and when you have Randall you will
probably find no difficulty in securing his accomplice. The lady's story
certainly seems to be corroborated, if it needed corroboration, by every
detail which we see before us.” He walked to the French window and threw
it open. “There are no signs here, but the ground is iron hard, and one
would not expect them. I see that these candles on the mantelpiece have
been lighted.”
“Yes; it was by their light and that of the lady's bedroom candle that
the burglars saw their way about.”
“And what did they take?”
“Well, they did not take much--only half-a-dozen articles of plate off
the sideboard. Lady Brackenstall thinks that they were themselves so
disturbed by the death of Sir Eustace that they did not ransack the
house as they would otherwise have done.”
“No doubt that is true. And yet they drank some wine, I understand.”
“To steady their own nerves.”
“Exactly. These three glasses upon the sideboard have been untouched, I
suppose?”
“Yes; and the bottle stands as they left it.”
“Let us look at it. Halloa! halloa! what is this?”
The three glasses were grouped together, all of them tinged with wine,
and one of them containing some dregs of bees-wing. The bottle stood
near them, two-thirds full, and beside it lay a long, deeply-stained
cork. Its appearance and the dust upon the bottle showed that it was no
common vintage which the murderers had enjoyed.
A change had come over Holmes's manner. He had lost his listless
expression, and again I saw an alert light of interest in his keen,
deep-set eyes. He raised the cork and examined it minutely.
“How did they draw it?” he asked.
Hopkins pointed to a half-opened drawer. In it lay some table linen and
a large cork-screw.
“Did Lady Brackenstall say that screw was used?”
“No; you remember that she was senseless at the moment when the bottle
was opened.”
“Quite so. As a matter of fact that screw was NOT used. This bottle was
opened by a pocket-screw, probably contained in a knife, and not more
than an inch and a half long. If you examine the top of the cork you
will observe that the screw was driven in three times before the cork
was extracted. It has never been transfixed. This long screw would
have transfixed it and drawn it with a single pull. When you catch this
fellow you will find that he has one of these multiplex knives in his
possession.”
“Excellent!” said Hopkins.
“But these glasses do puzzle me, I confess. Lady Brackenstall actually
SAW the three men drinking, did she not?”
“Yes; she was clear about that.”
“Then there is an end of it. What more is to be said? And yet you must
admit that the three glasses are very remarkable, Hopkins. What, you
see nothing remarkable! Well, well, let it pass. Perhaps when a man has
special knowledge and special powers like my own it rather encourages
him to seek a complex explanation when a simpler one is at hand. Of
course, it must be a mere chance about the glasses. Well, good morning,
Hopkins. I don't see that I can be of any use to you, and you appear
to have your case very clear. You will let me know when Randall is
arrested, and any further developments which may occur. I trust that I
shall soon have to congratulate you upon a successful conclusion. Come,
Watson, I fancy that we may employ ourselves more profitably at home.”
During our return journey I could see by Holmes's face that he was much
puzzled by something which he had observed. Every now and then, by an
effort, he would throw off the impression and talk as if the matter were
clear, but then his doubts would settle down upon him again, and his
knitted brows and abstracted eyes would show that his thoughts had gone
back once more to the great dining-room of the Abbey Grange in which
this midnight tragedy had been enacted. At last, by a sudden impulse,
just as our train was crawling out of a suburban station, he sprang on
to the platform and pulled me out after him.
“Excuse me, my dear fellow,” said he, as we watched the rear carriages
of our train disappearing round a curve; “I am sorry to make you the
victim of what may seem a mere whim, but on my life, Watson, I simply
CAN'T leave that case in this condition. Every instinct that I possess
cries out against it. It's wrong--it's all wrong--I'll swear that it's
wrong. And yet the lady's story was complete, the maid's corroboration
was sufficient, the detail was fairly exact. What have I to put against
that? Three wine-glasses, that is all. But if I had not taken things for
granted, if I had examined everything with the care which I would have
shown had we approached the case DE NOVO and had no cut-and-dried story
to warp my mind, would I not then have found something more definite
to go upon? Of course I should. Sit down on this bench, Watson, until a
train for Chislehurst arrives, and allow me to lay the evidence before
you, imploring you in the first instance to dismiss from your mind the
idea that anything which the maid or her mistress may have said must
necessarily be true. The lady's charming personality must not be
permitted to warp our judgment.
“Surely there are details in her story which, if we looked at it in cold
blood, would excite our suspicion. These burglars made a considerable
haul at Sydenham a fortnight ago. Some account of them and of their
appearance was in the papers, and would naturally occur to anyone who
wished to invent a story in which imaginary robbers should play a part.
As a matter of fact, burglars who have done a good stroke of business
are, as a rule, only too glad to enjoy the proceeds in peace and quiet
without embarking on another perilous undertaking. Again, it is unusual
for burglars to operate at so early an hour; it is unusual for burglars
to strike a lady to prevent her screaming, since one would imagine that
was the sure way to make her scream; it is unusual for them to commit
murder when their numbers are sufficient to overpower one man; it is
unusual for them to be content with a limited plunder when there is
much more within their reach; and finally I should say that it was very
unusual for such men to leave a bottle half empty. How do all these
unusuals strike you, Watson?”
“Their cumulative effect is certainly considerable, and yet each of them
is quite possible in itself. The most unusual thing of all, as it seems
to me, is that the lady should be tied to the chair.”
“Well, I am not so clear about that, Watson; for it is evident that they
must either kill her or else secure her in such a way that she could
not give immediate notice of their escape. But at any rate I have shown,
have I not, that there is a certain element of improbability about
the lady's story? And now on the top of this comes the incident of the
wine-glasses.”
“What about the wine-glasses?”
“Can you see them in your mind's eye?”
“I see them clearly.”
“We are told that three men drank from them. Does that strike you as
likely?”
“Why not? There was wine in each glass.”
“Exactly; but there was bees-wing only in one glass. You must have
noticed that fact. What does that suggest to your mind?”
“The last glass filled would be most likely to contain bees-wing.”
“Not at all. The bottle was full of it, and it is inconceivable that
the first two glasses were clear and the third heavily charged with it.
There are two possible explanations, and only two. One is that after the
second glass was filled the bottle was violently agitated, and so the
third glass received the bees-wing. That does not appear probable. No,
no; I am sure that I am right.”
“What, then, do you suppose?”
“That only two glasses were used, and that the dregs of both were poured
into a third glass, so as to give the false impression that three people
had been here. In that way all the bees-wing would be in the last glass,
would it not? Yes, I am convinced that this is so. But if I have hit
upon the true explanation of this one small phenomenon, then in
an instant the case rises from the commonplace to the exceedingly
remarkable, for it can only mean that Lady Brackenstall and her maid
have deliberately lied to us, that not one word of their story is to be
believed, that they have some very strong reason for covering the real
criminal, and that we must construct our case for ourselves without any
help from them. That is the mission which now lies before us, and here,
Watson, is the Chislehurst train.”
The household of the Abbey Grange were much surprised at our return, but
Sherlock Holmes, finding that Stanley Hopkins had gone off to report to
head-quarters, took possession of the dining-room, locked the door upon
the inside, and devoted himself for two hours to one of those minute
and laborious investigations which formed the solid basis on which his
brilliant edifices of deduction were reared. Seated in a corner like an
interested student who observes the demonstration of his professor,
I followed every step of that remarkable research. The window, the
curtains, the carpet, the chair, the rope--each in turn was minutely
examined and duly pondered. The body of the unfortunate baronet had been
removed, but all else remained as we had seen it in the morning. Then,
to my astonishment, Holmes climbed up on to the massive mantelpiece. Far
above his head hung the few inches of red cord which were still attached
to the wire. For a long time he gazed upward at it, and then in an
attempt to get nearer to it he rested his knee upon a wooden bracket on
the wall. This brought his hand within a few inches of the broken end of
the rope, but it was not this so much as the bracket itself which seemed
to engage his attention. Finally he sprang down with an ejaculation of
satisfaction.
“It's all right, Watson,” said he. “We have got our case--one of the
most remarkable in our collection. But, dear me, how slow-witted I have
been, and how nearly I have committed the blunder of my lifetime! Now, I
think that with a few missing links my chain is almost complete.”
“You have got your men?”
“Man, Watson, man. Only one, but a very formidable person. Strong as a
lion--witness the blow that bent that poker. Six foot three in height,
active as a squirrel, dexterous with his fingers; finally, remarkably
quick-witted, for this whole ingenious story is of his concoction. Yes,
Watson, we have come upon the handiwork of a very remarkable individual.
And yet in that bell-rope he has given us a clue which should not have
left us a doubt.”
“Where was the clue?”
“Well, if you were to pull down a bell-rope, Watson, where would you
expect it to break? Surely at the spot where it is attached to the wire.
Why should it break three inches from the top as this one has done?”
“Because it is frayed there?”
“Exactly. This end, which we can examine, is frayed. He was cunning
enough to do that with his knife. But the other end is not frayed. You
could not observe that from here, but if you were on the mantelpiece you
would see that it is cut clean off without any mark of fraying whatever.
You can reconstruct what occurred. The man needed the rope. He would not
tear it down for fear of giving the alarm by ringing the bell. What did
he do? He sprang up on the mantelpiece, could not quite reach it, put
his knee on the bracket--you will see the impression in the dust--and so
got his knife to bear upon the cord. I could not reach the place by at
least three inches, from which I infer that he is at least three inches
a bigger man than I. Look at that mark upon the seat of the oaken chair!
What is it?”
“Blood.”
“Undoubtedly it is blood. This alone puts the lady's story out of court.
If she were seated on the chair when the crime was done, how comes
that mark? No, no; she was placed in the chair AFTER the death of her
husband. I'll wager that the black dress shows a corresponding mark to
this. We have not yet met our Waterloo, Watson, but this is our Marengo,
for it begins in defeat and ends in victory. I should like now to have a
few words with the nurse Theresa. We must be wary for awhile, if we are
to get the information which we want.”
She was an interesting person, this stern Australian nurse. Taciturn,
suspicious, ungracious, it took some time before Holmes's pleasant
manner and frank acceptance of all that she said thawed her into a
corresponding amiability. She did not attempt to conceal her hatred for
her late employer.
“Yes, sir, it is true that he threw the decanter at me. I heard him call
my mistress a name, and I told him that he would not dare to speak so if
her brother had been there. Then it was that he threw it at me. He might
have thrown a dozen if he had but left my bonny bird alone. He was for
ever ill-treating her, and she too proud to complain. She will not even
tell me all that he has done to her. She never told me of those marks on
her arm that you saw this morning, but I know very well that they come
from a stab with a hat-pin. The sly fiend--Heaven forgive me that I
should speak of him so, now that he is dead, but a fiend he was if
ever one walked the earth. He was all honey when first we met him, only
eighteen months ago, and we both feel as if it were eighteen years. She
had only just arrived in London. Yes, it was her first voyage--she had
never been from home before. He won her with his title and his money
and his false London ways. If she made a mistake she has paid for it,
if ever a woman did. What month did we meet him? Well, I tell you it was
just after we arrived. We arrived in June, and it was July. They were
married in January of last year. Yes, she is down in the morning-room
again, and I have no doubt she will see you, but you must not ask too
much of her, for she has gone through all that flesh and blood will
stand.”
Lady Brackenstall was reclining on the same couch, but looked brighter
than before. The maid had entered with us, and began once more to foment
the bruise upon her mistress's brow.
“I hope,” said the lady, “that you have not come to cross-examine me
again?”
“No,” Holmes answered, in his gentlest voice, “I will not cause you any
unnecessary trouble, Lady Brackenstall, and my whole desire is to make
things easy for you, for I am convinced that you are a much-tried woman.
If you will treat me as a friend and trust me you may find that I will
justify your trust.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“To tell me the truth.”
“Mr. Holmes!”
“No, no, Lady Brackenstall, it is no use. You may have heard of any
little reputation which I possess. I will stake it all on the fact that
your story is an absolute fabrication.”
Mistress and maid were both staring at Holmes with pale faces and
frightened eyes.
“You are an impudent fellow!” cried Theresa. “Do you mean to say that my
mistress has told a lie?”
Holmes rose from his chair.
“Have you nothing to tell me?”
“I have told you everything.”
“Think once more, Lady Brackenstall. Would it not be better to be
frank?”
For an instant there was hesitation in her beautiful face. Then some new
strong thought caused it to set like a mask.
“I have told you all I know.”
Holmes took his hat and shrugged his shoulders. “I am sorry,” he said,
and without another word we left the room and the house. There was a
pond in the park, and to this my friend led the way. It was frozen
over, but a single hole was left for the convenience of a solitary
swan. Holmes gazed at it and then passed on to the lodge gate. There
he scribbled a short note for Stanley Hopkins and left it with the
lodge-keeper.
“It may be a hit or it may be a miss, but we are bound to do something
for friend Hopkins, just to justify this second visit,” said he. “I will
not quite take him into my confidence yet. I think our next scene of
operations must be the shipping office of the Adelaide-Southampton line,
which stands at the end of Pall Mall, if I remember right. There is a
second line of steamers which connect South Australia with England, but
we will draw the larger cover first.”
Holmes's card sent in to the manager ensured instant attention, and he
was not long in acquiring all the information which he needed. In June
of '95 only one of their line had reached a home port. It was the ROCK
OF GIBRALTAR, their largest and best boat. A reference to the passenger
list showed that Miss Fraser of Adelaide, with her maid, had made the
voyage in her. The boat was now on her way to Australia, somewhere to
the south of the Suez Canal. Her officers were the same as in '95,
with one exception. The first officer, Mr. Jack Croker, had been made a
captain and was to take charge of their new ship, the BASS ROCK, sailing
in two days' time from Southampton. He lived at Sydenham, but he was
likely to be in that morning for instructions, if we cared to wait for
him.
No; Mr. Holmes had no desire to see him, but would be glad to know more
about his record and character.
His record was magnificent. There was not an officer in the fleet to
touch him. As to his character, he was reliable on duty, but a wild,
desperate fellow off the deck of his ship, hot-headed, excitable, but
loyal, honest, and kind-hearted. That was the pith of the information
with which Holmes left the office of the Adelaide-Southampton company.
Thence he drove to Scotland Yard, but instead of entering he sat in
his cab with his brows drawn down, lost in profound thought. Finally he
drove round to the Charing Cross telegraph office, sent off a message,
and then, at last, we made for Baker Street once more.
“No, I couldn't do it, Watson,” said he, as we re-entered our room.
“Once that warrant was made out nothing on earth would save him. Once
or twice in my career I feel that I have done more real harm by my
discovery of the criminal than ever he had done by his crime. I have
learned caution now, and I had rather play tricks with the law of
England than with my own conscience. Let us know a little more before we
act.”
Before evening we had a visit from Inspector Stanley Hopkins. Things
were not going very well with him.
“I believe that you are a wizard, Mr. Holmes. I really do sometimes
think that you have powers that are not human. Now, how on earth could
you know that the stolen silver was at the bottom of that pond?”
“I didn't know it.”
“But you told me to examine it.”
“You got it, then?”
“Yes, I got it.”
“I am very glad if I have helped you.”
“But you haven't helped me. You have made the affair far more difficult.
What sort of burglars are they who steal silver and then throw it into
the nearest pond?”
“It was certainly rather eccentric behaviour. I was merely going on the
idea that if the silver had been taken by persons who did not want it,
who merely took it for a blind as it were, then they would naturally be
anxious to get rid of it.”
“But why should such an idea cross your mind?”
“Well, I thought it was possible. When they came out through the French
window there was the pond, with one tempting little hole in the ice,
right in front of their noses. Could there be a better hiding-place?”
“Ah, a hiding-place--that is better!” cried Stanley Hopkins. “Yes, yes,
I see it all now! It was early, there were folk upon the roads, they
were afraid of being seen with the silver, so they sank it in the pond,
intending to return for it when the coast was clear. Excellent, Mr.
Holmes--that is better than your idea of a blind.”
“Quite so; you have got an admirable theory. I have no doubt that my
own ideas were quite wild, but you must admit that they have ended in
discovering the silver.”
“Yes, sir, yes. It was all your doing. But I have had a bad set-back.”
“A set-back?”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes. The Randall gang were arrested in New York this
morning.”
“Dear me, Hopkins! That is certainly rather against your theory that
they committed a murder in Kent last night.”
“It is fatal, Mr. Holmes, absolutely fatal. Still, there are other gangs
of three besides the Randalls, or it may be some new gang of which the
police have never heard.”
“Quite so; it is perfectly possible. What, are you off?”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes; there is no rest for me until I have got to the bottom
of the business. I suppose you have no hint to give me?”
“I have given you one.”
“Which?”
“Well, I suggested a blind.”
“But why, Mr. Holmes, why?”
“Ah, that's the question, of course. But I commend the idea to your
mind. You might possibly find that there was something in it. You won't
stop for dinner? Well, good-bye, and let us know how you get on.”
Dinner was over and the table cleared before Holmes alluded to the
matter again. He had lit his pipe and held his slippered feet to the
cheerful blaze of the fire. Suddenly he looked at his watch.
“I expect developments, Watson.”
“When?”
“Now--within a few minutes. I dare say you thought I acted rather badly
to Stanley Hopkins just now?”
“I trust your judgment.”
“A very sensible reply, Watson. You must look at it this way: what
I know is unofficial; what he knows is official. I have the right to
private judgment, but he has none. He must disclose all, or he is a
traitor to his service. In a doubtful case I would not put him in so
painful a position, and so I reserve my information until my own mind is
clear upon the matter.”
“But when will that be?”
“The time has come. You will now be present at the last scene of a
remarkable little drama.”
There was a sound upon the stairs, and our door was opened to admit as
fine a specimen of manhood as ever passed through it. He was a very
tall young man, golden-moustached, blue-eyed, with a skin which had been
burned by tropical suns, and a springy step which showed that the huge
frame was as active as it was strong. He closed the door behind him, and
then he stood with clenched hands and heaving breast, choking down some
overmastering emotion.
“Sit down, Captain Croker. You got my telegram?”
Our visitor sank into an arm-chair and looked from one to the other of
us with questioning eyes.
“I got your telegram, and I came at the hour you said. I heard that you
had been down to the office. There was no getting away from you. Let's
hear the worst. What are you going to do with me? Arrest me? Speak out,
man! You can't sit there and play with me like a cat with a mouse.”
“Give him a cigar,” said Holmes. “Bite on that, Captain Croker, and
don't let your nerves run away with you. I should not sit here smoking
with you if I thought that you were a common criminal, you may be sure
of that. Be frank with me, and we may do some good. Play tricks with me,
and I'll crush you.”
“What do you wish me to do?”
“To give me a true account of all that happened at the Abbey Grange last
night--a TRUE account, mind you, with nothing added and nothing taken
off. I know so much already that if you go one inch off the straight
I'll blow this police whistle from my window and the affair goes out of
my hands for ever.”
The sailor thought for a little. Then he struck his leg with his great,
sun-burned hand.
“I'll chance it,” he cried. “I believe you are a man of your word, and
a white man, and I'll tell you the whole story. But one thing I will say
first. So far as I am concerned I regret nothing and I fear nothing, and
I would do it all again and be proud of the job. Curse the beast, if
he had as many lives as a cat he would owe them all to me! But it's
the lady, Mary--Mary Fraser--for never will I call her by that accursed
name. When I think of getting her into trouble, I who would give my life
just to bring one smile to her dear face, it's that that turns my soul
into water. And yet--and yet--what less could I do? I'll tell you my
story, gentlemen, and then I'll ask you as man to man what less could I
do.
“I must go back a bit. You seem to know everything, so I expect that you
know that I met her when she was a passenger and I was first officer
of the ROCK OF GIBRALTAR. From the first day I met her she was the only
woman to me. Every day of that voyage I loved her more, and many a time
since have I kneeled down in the darkness of the night watch and kissed
the deck of that ship because I knew her dear feet had trod it. She was
never engaged to me. She treated me as fairly as ever a woman treated
a man. I have no complaint to make. It was all love on my side, and all
good comradeship and friendship on hers. When we parted she was a free
woman, but I could never again be a free man.
“Next time I came back from sea I heard of her marriage. Well, why
shouldn't she marry whom she liked? Title and money--who could carry
them better than she? She was born for all that is beautiful and dainty.
I didn't grieve over her marriage. I was not such a selfish hound as
that. I just rejoiced that good luck had come her way, and that she had
not thrown herself away on a penniless sailor. That's how I loved Mary
Fraser.
“Well, I never thought to see her again; but last voyage I was promoted,
and the new boat was not yet launched, so I had to wait for a couple of
months with my people at Sydenham. One day out in a country lane I met
Theresa Wright, her old maid. She told me about her, about him, about
everything. I tell you, gentlemen, it nearly drove me mad. This drunken
hound, that he should dare to raise his hand to her whose boots he was
not worthy to lick! I met Theresa again. Then I met Mary herself--and
met her again. Then she would meet me no more. But the other day I had a
notice that I was to start on my voyage within a week, and I determined
that I would see her once before I left. Theresa was always my friend,
for she loved Mary and hated this villain almost as much as I did. From
her I learned the ways of the house. Mary used to sit up reading in her
own little room downstairs. I crept round there last night and scratched
at the window. At first she would not open to me, but in her heart I
know that now she loves me, and she could not leave me in the frosty
night. She whispered to me to come round to the big front window, and
I found it open before me so as to let me into the dining-room. Again
I heard from her own lips things that made my blood boil, and again
I cursed this brute who mishandled the woman that I loved. Well,
gentlemen, I was standing with her just inside the window, in all
innocence, as Heaven is my judge, when he rushed like a madman into the
room, called her the vilest name that a man could use to a woman, and
welted her across the face with the stick he had in his hand. I had
sprung for the poker, and it was a fair fight between us. See here on my
arm where his first blow fell. Then it was my turn, and I went through
him as if he had been a rotten pumpkin. Do you think I was sorry? Not I!
It was his life or mine, but far more than that it was his life or hers,
for how could I leave her in the power of this madman? That was how I
killed him. Was I wrong? Well, then, what would either of you gentlemen
have done if you had been in my position?”
“She had screamed when he struck her, and that brought old Theresa down
from the room above. There was a bottle of wine on the sideboard, and I
opened it and poured a little between Mary's lips, for she was half dead
with the shock. Then I took a drop myself. Theresa was as cool as
ice, and it was her plot as much as mine. We must make it appear that
burglars had done the thing. Theresa kept on repeating our story to her
mistress, while I swarmed up and cut the rope of the bell. Then I lashed
her in her chair, and frayed out the end of the rope to make it look
natural, else they would wonder how in the world a burglar could have
got up there to cut it. Then I gathered up a few plates and pots of
silver, to carry out the idea of a robbery, and there I left them with
orders to give the alarm when I had a quarter of an hour's start. I
dropped the silver into the pond and made off for Sydenham, feeling that
for once in my life I had done a real good night's work. And that's the
truth and the whole truth, Mr. Holmes, if it costs me my neck.”
Holmes smoked for some time in silence. Then he crossed the room and
shook our visitor by the hand.
“That's what I think,” said he. “I know that every word is true, for you
have hardly said a word which I did not know. No one but an acrobat or a
sailor could have got up to that bell-rope from the bracket, and no one
but a sailor could have made the knots with which the cord was fastened
to the chair. Only once had this lady been brought into contact with
sailors, and that was on her voyage, and it was someone of her own class
of life, since she was trying hard to shield him and so showing that she
loved him. You see how easy it was for me to lay my hands upon you when
once I had started upon the right trail.”
“I thought the police never could have seen through our dodge.”
“And the police haven't; nor will they, to the best of my belief. Now,
look here, Captain Croker, this is a very serious matter, though I am
willing to admit that you acted under the most extreme provocation to
which any man could be subjected. I am not sure that in defence of your
own life your action will not be pronounced legitimate. However, that is
for a British jury to decide. Meanwhile I have so much sympathy for you
that if you choose to disappear in the next twenty-four hours I will
promise you that no one will hinder you.”
“And then it will all come out?”
“Certainly it will come out.”
The sailor flushed with anger.
“What sort of proposal is that to make a man? I know enough of law to
understand that Mary would be had as accomplice. Do you think I would
leave her alone to face the music while I slunk away? No, sir; let them
do their worst upon me, but for Heaven's sake, Mr. Holmes, find some way
of keeping my poor Mary out of the courts.”
Holmes for a second time held out his hand to the sailor.
“I was only testing you, and you ring true every time. Well, it is a
great responsibility that I take upon myself, but I have given Hopkins
an excellent hint, and if he can't avail himself of it I can do no more.
See here, Captain Croker, we'll do this in due form of law. You are the
prisoner. Watson, you are a British jury, and I never met a man who was
more eminently fitted to represent one. I am the judge. Now, gentleman
of the jury, you have heard the evidence. Do you find the prisoner
guilty or not guilty?”
“Not guilty, my lord,” said I.
“Vox populi, vox Dei. You are acquitted, Captain Croker. So long as the
law does not find some other victim you are safe from me. Come back
to this lady in a year, and may her future and yours justify us in the
judgment which we have pronounced this night.”
*****
THE STRAND MAGAZINE
Vol. 28 DECEMBER, 1904
THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.
By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.
|
xii_the_adventure_of_the_abbey_grange
|
XIII.--The Adventure of the Second Stain.
|
The Return of Sherlock Holmes
|
I HAD intended “The Adventure of the Abbey Grange” to be the last of
those exploits of my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, which I should ever
communicate to the public. This resolution of mine was not due to any
lack of material, since I have notes of many hundreds of cases to which
I have never alluded, nor was it caused by any waning interest on the
part of my readers in the singular personality and unique methods of
this remarkable man. The real reason lay in the reluctance which Mr.
Holmes has shown to the continued publication of his experiences.
So long as he was in actual professional practice the records of
his successes were of some practical value to him; but since he
has definitely retired from London and betaken himself to study and
bee-farming on the Sussex Downs, notoriety has become hateful to him,
and he has peremptorily requested that his wishes in this matter should
be strictly observed. It was only upon my representing to him that I
had given a promise that “The Adventure of the Second Stain” should be
published when the times were ripe, and pointing out to him that it is
only appropriate that this long series of episodes should culminate in
the most important international case which he has ever been called
upon to handle, that I at last succeeded in obtaining his consent that a
carefully-guarded account of the incident should at last be laid before
the public. If in telling the story I seem to be somewhat vague in
certain details the public will readily understand that there is an
excellent reason for my reticence.
It was, then, in a year, and even in a decade, that shall be nameless,
that upon one Tuesday morning in autumn we found two visitors of
European fame within the walls of our humble room in Baker Street. The
one, austere, high-nosed, eagle-eyed, and dominant, was none other than
the illustrious Lord Bellinger, twice Premier of Britain. The other,
dark, clear-cut, and elegant, hardly yet of middle age, and endowed with
every beauty of body and of mind, was the Right Honourable Trelawney
Hope, Secretary for European Affairs, and the most rising statesman in
the country. They sat side by side upon our paper-littered settee,
and it was easy to see from their worn and anxious faces that it was
business of the most pressing importance which had brought them. The
Premier's thin, blue-veined hands were clasped tightly over the ivory
head of his umbrella, and his gaunt, ascetic face looked gloomily from
Holmes to me. The European Secretary pulled nervously at his moustache
and fidgeted with the seals of his watch-chain.
“When I discovered my loss, Mr. Holmes, which was at eight o'clock this
morning, I at once informed the Prime Minister. It was at his suggestion
that we have both come to you.”
“Have you informed the police?”
“No, sir,” said the Prime Minister, with the quick, decisive manner for
which he was famous. “We have not done so, nor is it possible that we
should do so. To inform the police must, in the long run, mean to inform
the public. This is what we particularly desire to avoid.”
“And why, sir?”
“Because the document in question is of such immense importance that
its publication might very easily--I might almost say probably--lead to
European complications of the utmost moment. It is not too much to say
that peace or war may hang upon the issue. Unless its recovery can be
attended with the utmost secrecy, then it may as well not be recovered
at all, for all that is aimed at by those who have taken it is that its
contents should be generally known.”
“I understand. Now, Mr. Trelawney Hope, I should be much obliged if
you would tell me exactly the circumstances under which this document
disappeared.”
“That can be done in a very few words, Mr. Holmes. The letter--for it
was a letter from a foreign potentate--was received six days ago. It
was of such importance that I have never left it in my safe, but I have
taken it across each evening to my house in Whitehall Terrace, and kept
it in my bedroom in a locked despatch-box. It was there last night. Of
that I am certain. I actually opened the box while I was dressing for
dinner, and saw the document inside. This morning it was gone. The
despatch-box had stood beside the glass upon my dressing-table all
night. I am a light sleeper, and so is my wife. We are both prepared to
swear that no one could have entered the room during the night. And yet
I repeat that the paper is gone.”
“What time did you dine?”
“Half-past seven.”
“How long was it before you went to bed?”
“My wife had gone to the theatre. I waited up for her. It was half-past
eleven before we went to our room.”
“Then for four hours the despatch-box had lain unguarded?”
“No one is ever permitted to enter that room save the housemaid in the
morning, and my valet, or my wife's maid, during the rest of the day.
They are both trusty servants who have been with us for some time.
Besides, neither of them could possibly have known that there was
anything more valuable than the ordinary departmental papers in my
despatch-box.”
“Who did know of the existence of that letter?”
“No one in the house.”
“Surely your wife knew?”
“No, sir; I had said nothing to my wife until I missed the paper this
morning.”
The Premier nodded approvingly.
“I have long known, sir, how high is your sense of public duty,” said
he. “I am convinced that in the case of a secret of this importance it
would rise superior to the most intimate domestic ties.”
The European Secretary bowed.
“You do me no more than justice, sir. Until this morning I have never
breathed one word to my wife upon this matter.”
“Could she have guessed?”
“No, Mr. Holmes, she could not have guessed--nor could anyone have
guessed.”
“Have you lost any documents before?”
“No, sir.”
“Who is there in England who did know of the existence of this letter?”
“Each member of the Cabinet was informed of it yesterday; but the pledge
of secrecy which attends every Cabinet meeting was increased by the
solemn warning which was given by the Prime Minister. Good heavens,
to think that within a few hours I should myself have lost it!” His
handsome face was distorted with a spasm of despair, and his hands
tore at his hair. For a moment we caught a glimpse of the natural man,
impulsive, ardent, keenly sensitive. The next the aristocratic mask was
replaced, and the gentle voice had returned. “Besides the members of
the Cabinet there are two, or possibly three, departmental officials who
know of the letter. No one else in England, Mr. Holmes, I assure you.”
“But abroad?”
“I believe that no one abroad has seen it save the man who wrote it. I
am well convinced that his Ministers--that the usual official channels
have not been employed.”
Holmes considered for some little time.
“Now, sir, I must ask you more particularly what this document is, and
why its disappearance should have such momentous consequences?”
The two statesmen exchanged a quick glance and the Premier's shaggy
eyebrows gathered in a frown.
“Mr. Holmes, the envelope is a long, thin one of pale blue colour. There
is a seal of red wax stamped with a crouching lion. It is addressed in
large, bold handwriting to--”
“I fear, sir,” said Holmes, “that, interesting and indeed essential as
these details are, my inquiries must go more to the root of things. What
WAS the letter?”
“That is a State secret of the utmost importance, and I fear that I
cannot tell you, nor do I see that it is necessary. If by the aid of the
powers which you are said to possess you can find such an envelope as
I describe with its enclosure, you will have deserved well of your
country, and earned any reward which it lies in our power to bestow.”
Sherlock Holmes rose with a smile.
“You are two of the most busy men in the country,” said he, “and in
my own small way I have also a good many calls upon me. I regret
exceedingly that I cannot help you in this matter, and any continuation
of this interview would be a waste of time.”
The Premier sprang to his feet with that quick, fierce gleam of his
deep-set eyes before which a Cabinet has cowered. “I am not accustomed,
sir----” he began, but mastered his anger and resumed his seat. For a
minute or more we all sat in silence. Then the old statesman shrugged
his shoulders.
“We must accept your terms, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you are right, and
it is unreasonable for us to expect you to act unless we give you our
entire confidence.”
“I agree with you, sir,” said the younger statesman.
“Then I will tell you, relying entirely upon your honour and that of
your colleague, Dr. Watson. I may appeal to your patriotism also, for
I could not imagine a greater misfortune for the country than that this
affair should come out.”
“You may safely trust us.”
“The letter, then, is from a certain foreign potentate who has been
ruffled by some recent Colonial developments of this country. It
has been written hurriedly and upon his own responsibility entirely.
Inquiries have shown that his Ministers know nothing of the matter.
At the same time it is couched in so unfortunate a manner, and certain
phrases in it are of so provocative a character, that its publication
would undoubtedly lead to a most dangerous state of feeling in this
country. There would be such a ferment, sir, that I do not hesitate to
say that within a week of the publication of that letter this country
would be involved in a great war.”
Holmes wrote a name upon a slip of paper and handed it to the Premier.
“Exactly. It was he. And it is this letter--this letter which may well
mean the expenditure of a thousand millions and the lives of a hundred
thousand men--which has become lost in this unaccountable fashion.”
“Have you informed the sender?”
“Yes, sir, a cipher telegram has been despatched.”
“Perhaps he desires the publication of the letter.”
“No, sir, we have strong reason to believe that he already understands
that he has acted in an indiscreet and hot-headed manner. It would be a
greater blow to him and to his country than to us if this letter were to
come out.”
“If this is so, whose interest is it that the letter should come out?
Why should anyone desire to steal it or to publish it?”
“There, Mr. Holmes, you take me into regions of high international
politics. But if you consider the European situation you will have no
difficulty in perceiving the motive. The whole of Europe is an armed
camp. There is a double league which makes a fair balance of military
power. Great Britain holds the scales. If Britain were driven into
war with one confederacy, it would assure the supremacy of the other
confederacy, whether they joined in the war or not. Do you follow?”
“Very clearly. It is then the interest of the enemies of this potentate
to secure and publish this letter, so as to make a breach between his
country and ours?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And to whom would this document be sent if it fell into the hands of an
enemy?”
“To any of the great Chancelleries of Europe. It is probably speeding on
its way thither at the present instant as fast as steam can take it.”
Mr. Trelawney Hope dropped his head on his chest and groaned aloud. The
Premier placed his hand kindly upon his shoulder.
“It is your misfortune, my dear fellow. No one can blame you. There is
no precaution which you have neglected. Now, Mr. Holmes, you are in full
possession of the facts. What course do you recommend?”
Holmes shook his head mournfully.
“You think, sir, that unless this document is recovered there will be
war?”
“I think it is very probable.”
“Then, sir, prepare for war.”
“That is a hard saying, Mr. Holmes.”
“Consider the facts, sir. It is inconceivable that it was taken after
eleven-thirty at night, since I understand that Mr. Hope and his wife
were both in the room from that hour until the loss was found out.
It was taken, then, yesterday evening between seven-thirty and
eleven-thirty, probably near the earlier hour, since whoever took it
evidently knew that it was there and would naturally secure it as early
as possible. Now, sir, if a document of this importance were taken at
that hour, where can it be now? No one has any reason to retain it. It
has been passed rapidly on to those who need it. What chance have we now
to overtake or even to trace it? It is beyond our reach.”
The Prime Minister rose from the settee.
“What you say is perfectly logical, Mr. Holmes. I feel that the matter
is indeed out of our hands.”
“Let us presume, for argument's sake, that the document was taken by the
maid or by the valet----”
“They are both old and tried servants.”
“I understand you to say that your room is on the second floor, that
there is no entrance from without, and that from within no one could go
up unobserved. It must, then, be somebody in the house who has taken it.
To whom would the thief take it? To one of several international spies
and secret agents, whose names are tolerably familiar to me. There are
three who may be said to be the heads of their profession. I will begin
my research by going round and finding if each of them is at his post.
If one is missing--especially if he has disappeared since last night--we
will have some indication as to where the document has gone.”
“Why should he be missing?” asked the European Secretary. “He would take
the letter to an Embassy in London, as likely as not.”
“I fancy not. These agents work independently, and their relations with
the Embassies are often strained.”
The Prime Minister nodded his acquiescence.
“I believe you are right, Mr. Holmes. He would take so valuable a prize
to head-quarters with his own hands. I think that your course of action
is an excellent one. Meanwhile, Hope, we cannot neglect all our other
duties on account of this one misfortune. Should there be any fresh
developments during the day we shall communicate with you, and you will
no doubt let us know the results of your own inquiries.”
The two statesmen bowed and walked gravely from the room.
When our illustrious visitors had departed Holmes lit his pipe in
silence, and sat for some time lost in the deepest thought. I had opened
the morning paper and was immersed in a sensational crime which had
occurred in London the night before, when my friend gave an exclamation,
sprang to his feet, and laid his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.
“Yes,” said he, “there is no better way of approaching it. The situation
is desperate, but not hopeless. Even now, if we could be sure which of
them has taken it, it is just possible that it has not yet passed out of
his hands. After all, it is a question of money with these fellows, and
I have the British Treasury behind me. If it's on the market I'll buy
it--if it means another penny on the income-tax. It is conceivable
that the fellow might hold it back to see what bids come from this
side before he tries his luck on the other. There are only those three
capable of playing so bold a game; there are Oberstein, La Rothiere, and
Eduardo Lucas. I will see each of them.”
I glanced at my morning paper.
“Is that Eduardo Lucas of Godolphin Street?”
“Yes.”
“You will not see him.”
“Why not?”
“He was murdered in his house last night.”
My friend has so often astonished me in the course of our adventures
that it was with a sense of exultation that I realized how completely I
had astonished him. He stared in amazement, and then snatched the
paper from my hands. This was the paragraph which I had been engaged in
reading when he rose from his chair:--
“MURDER IN WESTMINSTER.
“A crime of mysterious character was committed last night at 16,
Godolphin Street, one of the old-fashioned and secluded rows of
eighteenth-century houses which lie between the river and the Abbey,
almost in the shadow of the great Tower of the Houses of Parliament.
This small but select mansion has been inhabited for some years by Mr.
Eduardo Lucas, well known in society circles both on account of his
charming personality and because he has the well-deserved reputation
of being one of the best amateur tenors in the country. Mr. Lucas is an
unmarried man, thirty-four years of age, and his establishment consists
of Mrs. Pringle, an elderly housekeeper, and of Mitton, his valet. The
former retires early and sleeps at the top of the house. The valet was
out for the evening, visiting a friend at Hammersmith. From ten o'clock
onwards Mr. Lucas had the house to himself. What occurred during that
time has not yet transpired, but at a quarter to twelve Police-constable
Barrett, passing along Godolphin Street, observed that the door of No.
16 was ajar. He knocked, but received no answer. Perceiving a light
in the front room he advanced into the passage and again knocked, but
without reply. He then pushed open the door and entered. The room was in
a state of wild disorder, the furniture being all swept to one side, and
one chair lying on its back in the centre. Beside this chair, and still
grasping one of its legs, lay the unfortunate tenant of the house. He
had been stabbed to the heart and must have died instantly. The knife
with which the crime had been committed was a curved Indian dagger,
plucked down from a trophy of Oriental arms which adorned one of the
walls. Robbery does not appear to have been the motive of the crime, for
there had been no attempt to remove the valuable contents of the room.
Mr. Eduardo Lucas was so well known and popular that his violent and
mysterious fate will arouse painful interest and intense sympathy in a
wide-spread circle of friends.”
“Well, Watson, what do you make of this?” asked Holmes, after a long
pause.
“It is an amazing coincidence.”
“A coincidence! Here is one of the three men whom we had named as
possible actors in this drama, and he meets a violent death during the
very hours when we know that that drama was being enacted. The odds are
enormous against its being coincidence. No figures could express them.
No, my dear Watson, the two events are connected--MUST be connected. It
is for us to find the connection.”
“But now the official police must know all.”
“Not at all. They know all they see at Godolphin Street. They know--and
shall know--nothing of Whitehall Terrace. Only WE know of both events,
and can trace the relation between them. There is one obvious point
which would, in any case, have turned my suspicions against Lucas.
Godolphin Street, Westminster, is only a few minutes' walk from
Whitehall Terrace. The other secret agents whom I have named live in
the extreme West-end. It was easier, therefore, for Lucas than for the
others to establish a connection or receive a message from the
European Secretary's household--a small thing, and yet where events are
compressed into a few hours it may prove essential. Halloa! what have we
here?”
Mrs. Hudson had appeared with a lady's card upon her salver. Holmes
glanced at it, raised his eyebrows, and handed it over to me.
“Ask Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope if she will be kind enough to step up,”
said he.
A moment later our modest apartment, already so distinguished that
morning, was further honoured by the entrance of the most lovely woman
in London. I had often heard of the beauty of the youngest daughter of
the Duke of Belminster, but no description of it, and no contemplation
of colourless photographs, had prepared me for the subtle, delicate
charm and the beautiful colouring of that exquisite head. And yet as
we saw it that autumn morning, it was not its beauty which would be the
first thing to impress the observer. The cheek was lovely, but it was
paled with emotion; the eyes were bright, but it was the brightness
of fever; the sensitive mouth was tight and drawn in an effort after
self-command. Terror--not beauty--was what sprang first to the eye as
our fair visitor stood framed for an instant in the open door.
“Has my husband been here, Mr. Holmes?”
“Yes, madam, he has been here.”
“Mr. Holmes, I implore you not to tell him that I came here.” Holmes
bowed coldly, and motioned the lady to a chair.
“Your ladyship places me in a very delicate position. I beg that you
will sit down and tell me what you desire; but I fear that I cannot make
any unconditional promise.”
She swept across the room and seated herself with her back to the
window. It was a queenly presence--tall, graceful, and intensely
womanly.
“Mr. Holmes,” she said, and her white-gloved hands clasped and unclasped
as she spoke--“I will speak frankly to you in the hope that it may
induce you to speak frankly in return. There is complete confidence
between my husband and me on all matters save one. That one is politics.
On this his lips are sealed. He tells me nothing. Now, I am aware that
there was a most deplorable occurrence in our house last night. I know
that a paper has disappeared. But because the matter is political my
husband refuses to take me into his complete confidence. Now it is
essential--essential, I say--that I should thoroughly understand it. You
are the only other person, save only these politicians, who knows the
true facts. I beg you, then, Mr. Holmes, to tell me exactly what has
happened and what it will lead to. Tell me all, Mr. Holmes. Let no
regard for your client's interests keep you silent, for I assure you
that his interests, if he would only see it, would be best served by
taking me into his complete confidence. What was this paper which was
stolen?”
“Madam, what you ask me is really impossible.”
She groaned and sank her face in her hands.
“You must see that this is so, madam. If your husband thinks fit to keep
you in the dark over this matter, is it for me, who has only learned the
true facts under the pledge of professional secrecy, to tell what he has
withheld? It is not fair to ask it. It is him whom you must ask.”
“I have asked him. I come to you as a last resource. But without your
telling me anything definite, Mr. Holmes, you may do a great service if
you would enlighten me on one point.”
“What is it, madam?”
“Is my husband's political career likely to suffer through this
incident?”
“Well, madam, unless it is set right it may certainly have a very
unfortunate effect.”
“Ah!” She drew in her breath sharply as one whose doubts are resolved.
“One more question, Mr. Holmes. From an expression which my husband
dropped in the first shock of this disaster I understood that terrible
public consequences might arise from the loss of this document.”
“If he said so, I certainly cannot deny it.”
“Of what nature are they?”
“Nay, madam, there again you ask me more than I can possibly answer.”
“Then I will take up no more of your time. I cannot blame you, Mr.
Holmes, for having refused to speak more freely, and you on your side
will not, I am sure, think the worse of me because I desire, even
against his will, to share my husband's anxieties. Once more I beg that
you will say nothing of my visit.” She looked back at us from the door,
and I had a last impression of that beautiful haunted face, the startled
eyes, and the drawn mouth. Then she was gone.
“Now, Watson, the fair sex is your department,” said Holmes, with a
smile, when the dwindling frou-frou of skirts had ended in the slam
of the front door. “What was the fair lady's game? What did she really
want?”
“Surely her own statement is clear and her anxiety very natural.”
“Hum! Think of her appearance, Watson--her manner, her suppressed
excitement, her restlessness, her tenacity in asking questions. Remember
that she comes of a caste who do not lightly show emotion.”
“She was certainly much moved.”
“Remember also the curious earnestness with which she assured us that it
was best for her husband that she should know all. What did she mean by
that? And you must have observed, Watson, how she manoeuvred to have the
light at her back. She did not wish us to read her expression.”
“Yes; she chose the one chair in the room.”
“And yet the motives of women are so inscrutable. You remember the
woman at Margate whom I suspected for the same reason. No powder on her
nose--that proved to be the correct solution. How can you build on such
a quicksand? Their most trivial action may mean volumes, or their most
extraordinary conduct may depend upon a hairpin or a curling-tongs. Good
morning, Watson.”
“You are off?”
“Yes; I will wile away the morning at Godolphin Street with our friends
of the regular establishment. With Eduardo Lucas lies the solution of
our problem, though I must admit that I have not an inkling as to what
form it may take. It is a capital mistake to theorize in advance of
the facts. Do you stay on guard, my good Watson, and receive any fresh
visitors. I'll join you at lunch if I am able.”
All that day and the next and the next Holmes was in a mood which his
friends would call taciturn, and others morose. He ran out and ran in,
smoked incessantly, played snatches on his violin, sank into reveries,
devoured sandwiches at irregular hours, and hardly answered the casual
questions which I put to him. It was evident to me that things were not
going well with him or his quest. He would say nothing of the case, and
it was from the papers that I learned the particulars of the inquest,
and the arrest with the subsequent release of John Mitton, the valet of
the deceased. The coroner's jury brought in the obvious “Wilful Murder,”
but the parties remained as unknown as ever. No motive was suggested.
The room was full of articles of value, but none had been taken. The
dead man's papers had not been tampered with. They were carefully
examined, and showed that he was a keen student of international
politics, an indefatigable gossip, a remarkable linguist, and an
untiring letter-writer. He had been on intimate terms with the leading
politicians of several countries. But nothing sensational was discovered
among the documents which filled his drawers. As to his relations with
women, they appeared to have been promiscuous but superficial. He had
many acquaintances among them, but few friends, and no one whom he
loved. His habits were regular, his conduct inoffensive. His death was
an absolute mystery, and likely to remain so.
As to the arrest of John Mitton, the valet, it was a counsel of despair
as an alternative to absolute inaction. But no case could be sustained
against him. He had visited friends in Hammersmith that night. The ALIBI
was complete. It is true that he started home at an hour which should
have brought him to Westminster before the time when the crime was
discovered, but his own explanation that he had walked part of the way
seemed probable enough in view of the fineness of the night. He had
actually arrived at twelve o'clock, and appeared to be overwhelmed
by the unexpected tragedy. He had always been on good terms with his
master. Several of the dead man's possessions--notably a small case of
razors--had been found in the valet's boxes, but he explained that they
had been presents from the deceased, and the housekeeper was able to
corroborate the story. Mitton had been in Lucas's employment for three
years. It was noticeable that Lucas did not take Mitton on the Continent
with him. Sometimes he visited Paris for three months on end, but Mitton
was left in charge of the Godolphin Street house. As to the housekeeper,
she had heard nothing on the night of the crime. If her master had a
visitor he had himself admitted him.
So for three mornings the mystery remained, so far as I could follow it
in the papers. If Holmes knew more he kept his own counsel, but, as he
told me that Inspector Lestrade had taken him into his confidence in the
case, I knew that he was in close touch with every development. Upon
the fourth day there appeared a long telegram from Paris which seemed to
solve the whole question.
“A discovery has just been made by the Parisian police,” said the DAILY
TELEGRAPH, “which raises the veil which hung round the tragic fate of
Mr. Eduardo Lucas, who met his death by violence last Monday night
at Godolphin Street, Westminster. Our readers will remember that
the deceased gentleman was found stabbed in his room, and that some
suspicion attached to his valet, but that the case broke down on an
ALIBI. Yesterday a lady, who has been known as Mme. Henri Fournaye,
occupying a small villa in the Rue Austerlitz, was reported to the
authorities by her servants as being insane. An examination showed that
she had indeed developed mania of a dangerous and permanent form.
On inquiry the police have discovered that Mme. Henri Fournaye only
returned from a journey to London on Tuesday last, and there is
evidence to connect her with the crime at Westminster. A comparison of
photographs has proved conclusively that M. Henri Fournaye and Eduardo
Lucas were really one and the same person, and that the deceased had for
some reason lived a double life in London and Paris. Mme. Fournaye,
who is of Creole origin, is of an extremely excitable nature, and has
suffered in the past from attacks of jealousy which have amounted to
frenzy. It is conjectured that it was in one of these that she committed
the terrible crime which has caused such a sensation in London. Her
movements upon the Monday night have not yet been traced, but it is
undoubted that a woman answering to her description attracted much
attention at Charing Cross Station on Tuesday morning by the wildness
of her appearance and the violence of her gestures. It is probable,
therefore, that the crime was either committed when insane, or that
its immediate effect was to drive the unhappy woman out of her mind. At
present she is unable to give any coherent account of the past, and the
doctors hold out no hopes of the re-establishment of her reason. There
is evidence that a woman, who might have been Mme. Fournaye, was seen
for some hours on Monday night watching the house in Godolphin Street.”
“What do you think of that, Holmes?” I had read the account aloud to
him, while he finished his breakfast.
“My dear Watson,” said he, as he rose from the table and paced up and
down the room, “you are most long-suffering, but if I have told you
nothing in the last three days it is because there is nothing to tell.
Even now this report from Paris does not help us much.”
“Surely it is final as regards the man's death.”
“The man's death is a mere incident--a trivial episode--in comparison
with our real task, which is to trace this document and save a European
catastrophe. Only one important thing has happened in the last three
days, and that is that nothing has happened. I get reports almost hourly
from the Government, and it is certain that nowhere in Europe is there
any sign of trouble. Now, if this letter were loose--no, it CAN'T be
loose--but if it isn't loose, where can it be? Who has it? Why is it
held back? That's the question that beats in my brain like a hammer. Was
it, indeed, a coincidence that Lucas should meet his death on the night
when the letter disappeared? Did the letter ever reach him? If so, why
is it not among his papers? Did this mad wife of his carry it off with
her? If so, is it in her house in Paris? How could I search for it
without the French police having their suspicions aroused? It is a case,
my dear Watson, where the law is as dangerous to us as the criminals
are. Every man's hand is against us, and yet the interests at stake are
colossal. Should I bring it to a successful conclusion it will certainly
represent the crowning glory of my career. Ah, here is my latest from
the front!” He glanced hurriedly at the note which had been handed in.
“Halloa! Lestrade seems to have observed something of interest. Put on
your hat, Watson, and we will stroll down together to Westminster.”
It was my first visit to the scene of the crime--a high, dingy,
narrow-chested house, prim, formal, and solid, like the century which
gave it birth. Lestrade's bulldog features gazed out at us from the
front window, and he greeted us warmly when a big constable had opened
the door and let us in. The room into which we were shown was that in
which the crime had been committed, but no trace of it now remained,
save an ugly, irregular stain upon the carpet. This carpet was a small
square drugget in the centre of the room, surrounded by a broad expanse
of beautiful, old-fashioned wood-flooring in square blocks highly
polished. Over the fireplace was a magnificent trophy of weapons, one of
which had been used on that tragic night. In the window was a sumptuous
writing-desk, and every detail of the apartment, the pictures, the rugs,
and the hangings, all pointed to a taste which was luxurious to the
verge of effeminacy.
“Seen the Paris news?” asked Lestrade.
Holmes nodded.
“Our French friends seem to have touched the spot this time. No doubt
it's just as they say. She knocked at the door--surprise visit, I
guess, for he kept his life in water-tight compartments. He let her
in--couldn't keep her in the street. She told him how she had traced
him, reproached him, one thing led to another, and then with that dagger
so handy the end soon came. It wasn't all done in an instant, though,
for these chairs were all swept over yonder, and he had one in his hand
as if he had tried to hold her off with it. We've got it all clear as if
we had seen it.”
Holmes raised his eyebrows.
“And yet you have sent for me?”
“Ah, yes, that's another matter--a mere trifle, but the sort of thing
you take an interest in--queer, you know, and what you might call
freakish. It has nothing to do with the main fact--can't have, on the
face of it.”
“What is it, then?”
“Well, you know, after a crime of this sort we are very careful to keep
things in their position. Nothing has been moved. Officer in charge here
day and night. This morning, as the man was buried and the investigation
over--so far as this room is concerned--we thought we could tidy up
a bit. This carpet. You see, it is not fastened down; only just laid
there. We had occasion to raise it. We found----”
“Yes? You found----”
Holmes's face grew tense with anxiety.
“Well, I'm sure you would never guess in a hundred years what we did
find. You see that stain on the carpet? Well, a great deal must have
soaked through, must it not?”
“Undoubtedly it must.”
“Well, you will be surprised to hear that there is no stain on the white
woodwork to correspond.”
“No stain! But there must----”
“Yes; so you would say. But the fact remains that there isn't.”
He took the corner of the carpet in his hand and, turning it over, he
showed that it was indeed as he said.
“But the underside is as stained as the upper. It must have left a
mark.”
Lestrade chuckled with delight at having puzzled the famous expert.
“Now I'll show you the explanation. There IS a second stain, but it does
not correspond with the other. See for yourself.” As he spoke he turned
over another portion of the carpet, and there, sure enough, was a great
crimson spill upon the square white facing of the old-fashioned floor.
“What do you make of that, Mr. Holmes?”
“Why, it is simple enough. The two stains did correspond, but the carpet
has been turned round. As it was square and unfastened it was easily
done.”
“The official police don't need you, Mr. Holmes, to tell them that the
carpet must have been turned round. That's clear enough, for the stains
lie above each other--if you lay it over this way. But what I want to
know is, who shifted the carpet, and why?”
I could see from Holmes's rigid face that he was vibrating with inward
excitement.
“Look here, Lestrade,” said he, “has that constable in the passage been
in charge of the place all the time?”
“Yes, he has.”
“Well, take my advice. Examine him carefully. Don't do it before us.
We'll wait here. You take him into the back room. You'll be more likely
to get a confession out of him alone. Ask him how he dared to admit
people and leave them alone in this room. Don't ask him if he has done
it. Take it for granted. Tell him you KNOW someone has been here. Press
him. Tell him that a full confession is his only chance of forgiveness.
Do exactly what I tell you!”
“By George, if he knows I'll have it out of him!” cried Lestrade. He
darted into the hall, and a few moments later his bullying voice sounded
from the back room.
“Now, Watson, now!” cried Holmes, with frenzied eagerness. All the
demoniacal force of the man masked behind that listless manner burst out
in a paroxysm of energy. He tore the drugget from the floor, and in an
instant was down on his hands and knees clawing at each of the squares
of wood beneath it. One turned sideways as he dug his nails into the
edge of it. It hinged back like the lid of a box. A small black cavity
opened beneath it. Holmes plunged his eager hand into it, and drew it
out with a bitter snarl of anger and disappointment. It was empty.
“Quick, Watson, quick! Get it back again!” The wooden lid was replaced,
and the drugget had only just been drawn straight when Lestrade's voice
was heard in the passage. He found Holmes leaning languidly against
the mantelpiece, resigned and patient, endeavouring to conceal his
irrepressible yawns.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Holmes. I can see that you are bored to
death with the whole affair. Well, he has confessed, all right. Come
in here, MacPherson. Let these gentlemen hear of your most inexcusable
conduct.”
The big constable, very hot and penitent, sidled into the room.
“I meant no harm, sir, I'm sure. The young woman came to the door last
evening--mistook the house, she did. And then we got talking. It's
lonesome, when you're on duty here all day.”
“Well, what happened then?”
“She wanted to see where the crime was done--had read about it in the
papers, she said. She was a very respectable, well-spoken young woman,
sir, and I saw no harm in letting her have a peep. When she saw that
mark on the carpet, down she dropped on the floor, and lay as if she
were dead. I ran to the back and got some water, but I could not bring
her to. Then I went round the corner to the Ivy Plant for some brandy,
and by the time I had brought it back the young woman had recovered and
was off--ashamed of herself, I dare say, and dared not face me.”
“How about moving that drugget?”
“Well, sir, it was a bit rumpled, certainly, when I came back. You see,
she fell on it, and it lies on a polished floor with nothing to keep it
in place. I straightened it out afterwards.”
“It's a lesson to you that you can't deceive me, Constable MacPherson,”
said Lestrade, with dignity. “No doubt you thought that your breach of
duty could never be discovered, and yet a mere glance at that drugget
was enough to convince me that someone had been admitted to the room.
It's lucky for you, my man, that nothing is missing, or you would find
yourself in Queer Street. I'm sorry to have called you down over such a
petty business, Mr. Holmes, but I thought the point of the second stain
not corresponding with the first would interest you.”
“Certainly, it was most interesting. Has this woman only been here once,
constable?”
“Yes, sir, only once.”
“Who was she?”
“Don't know the name, sir. Was answering an advertisement about
type-writing, and came to the wrong number--very pleasant, genteel young
woman, sir.”
“Tall? Handsome?”
“Yes, sir; she was a well-grown young woman. I suppose you might say
she was handsome. Perhaps some would say she was very handsome. 'Oh,
officer, do let me have a peep!' says she. She had pretty, coaxing ways,
as you might say, and I thought there was no harm in letting her just
put her head through the door.”
“How was she dressed?”
“Quiet, sir--a long mantle down to her feet.”
“What time was it?”
“It was just growing dusk at the time. They were lighting the lamps as I
came back with the brandy.”
“Very good,” said Holmes. “Come, Watson, I think that we have more
important work elsewhere.”
As we left the house Lestrade remained in the front room, while the
repentant constable opened the door to let us out. Holmes turned on the
step and held up something in his hand. The constable stared intently.
“Good Lord, sir!” he cried, with amazement on his face. Holmes put his
finger on his lips, replaced his hand in his breast-pocket, and burst
out laughing as we turned down the street. “Excellent!” said he. “Come,
friend Watson, the curtain rings up for the last act. You will be
relieved to hear that there will be no war, that the Right Honourable
Trelawney Hope will suffer no set-back in his brilliant career, that the
indiscreet Sovereign will receive no punishment for his indiscretion,
that the Prime Minister will have no European complication to deal with,
and that with a little tact and management upon our part nobody will be
a penny the worse for what might have been a very ugly incident.”
My mind filled with admiration for this extraordinary man.
“You have solved it!” I cried.
“Hardly that, Watson. There are some points which are as dark as ever.
But we have so much that it will be our own fault if we cannot get the
rest. We will go straight to Whitehall Terrace and bring the matter to a
head.”
When we arrived at the residence of the European Secretary it was for
Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope that Sherlock Holmes inquired. We were shown
into the morning-room.
“Mr. Holmes!” said the lady, and her face was pink with her indignation,
“this is surely most unfair and ungenerous upon your part. I desired,
as I have explained, to keep my visit to you a secret, lest my husband
should think that I was intruding into his affairs. And yet you
compromise me by coming here and so showing that there are business
relations between us.”
“Unfortunately, madam, I had no possible alternative. I have been
commissioned to recover this immensely important paper. I must therefore
ask you, madam, to be kind enough to place it in my hands.”
The lady sprang to her feet, with the colour all dashed in an instant
from her beautiful face. Her eyes glazed--she tottered--I thought that
she would faint. Then with a grand effort she rallied from the shock,
and a supreme astonishment and indignation chased every other expression
from her features.
“You--you insult me, Mr. Holmes.”
“Come, come, madam, it is useless. Give up the letter.”
She darted to the bell.
“The butler shall show you out.”
“Do not ring, Lady Hilda. If you do, then all my earnest efforts to
avoid a scandal will be frustrated. Give up the letter and all will be
set right. If you will work with me I can arrange everything. If you
work against me I must expose you.”
She stood grandly defiant, a queenly figure, her eyes fixed upon his as
if she would read his very soul. Her hand was on the bell, but she had
forborne to ring it.
“You are trying to frighten me. It is not a very manly thing, Mr.
Holmes, to come here and browbeat a woman. You say that you know
something. What is it that you know?”
“Pray sit down, madam. You will hurt yourself there if you fall. I will
not speak until you sit down. Thank you.”
“I give you five minutes, Mr. Holmes.”
“One is enough, Lady Hilda. I know of your visit to Eduardo Lucas, of
your giving him this document, of your ingenious return to the room
last night, and of the manner in which you took the letter from the
hiding-place under the carpet.”
She stared at him with an ashen face and gulped twice before she could
speak.
“You are mad, Mr. Holmes--you are mad!” she cried, at last.
He drew a small piece of cardboard from his pocket. It was the face of a
woman cut out of a portrait.
“I have carried this because I thought it might be useful,” said he.
“The policeman has recognised it.”
She gave a gasp and her head dropped back in the chair.
“Come, Lady Hilda. You have the letter. The matter may still be
adjusted. I have no desire to bring trouble to you. My duty ends when
I have returned the lost letter to your husband. Take my advice and be
frank with me; it is your only chance.”
Her courage was admirable. Even now she would not own defeat.
“I tell you again, Mr. Holmes, that you are under some absurd illusion.”
Holmes rose from his chair.
“I am sorry for you, Lady Hilda. I have done my best for you; I can see
that it is all in vain.”
He rang the bell. The butler entered.
“Is Mr. Trelawney Hope at home?”
“He will be home, sir, at a quarter to one.”
Holmes glanced at his watch.
“Still a quarter of an hour,” said he. “Very good, I shall wait.”
The butler had hardly closed the door behind him when Lady Hilda
was down on her knees at Holmes's feet, her hands out-stretched, her
beautiful face upturned and wet with her tears.
“Oh, spare me, Mr. Holmes! Spare me!” she pleaded, in a frenzy of
supplication. “For Heaven's sake, don't tell him! I love him so! I would
not bring one shadow on his life, and this I know would break his noble
heart.”
Holmes raised the lady. “I am thankful, madam, that you have come to
your senses even at this last moment! There is not an instant to lose.
Where is the letter?”
She darted across to a writing-desk, unlocked it, and drew out a long
blue envelope.
“Here it is, Mr. Holmes. Would to Heaven I had never seen it!”
“How can we return it?” Holmes muttered. “Quick, quick, we must think of
some way! Where is the despatch-box?”
“Still in his bedroom.”
“What a stroke of luck! Quick, madam, bring it here!”
A moment later she had appeared with a red flat box in her hand.
“How did you open it before? You have a duplicate key? Yes, of course
you have. Open it!”
From out of her bosom Lady Hilda had drawn a small key. The box flew
open. It was stuffed with papers. Holmes thrust the blue envelope deep
down into the heart of them, between the leaves of some other document.
The box was shut, locked, and returned to the bedroom.
“Now we are ready for him,” said Holmes; “we have still ten minutes.
I am going far to screen you, Lady Hilda. In return you will spend
the time in telling me frankly the real meaning of this extraordinary
affair.”
“Mr. Holmes, I will tell you everything,” cried the lady. “Oh, Mr.
Holmes, I would cut off my right hand before I gave him a moment of
sorrow! There is no woman in all London who loves her husband as I
do, and yet if he knew how I have acted--how I have been compelled to
act--he would never forgive me. For his own honour stands so high that
he could not forget or pardon a lapse in another. Help me, Mr. Holmes!
My happiness, his happiness, our very lives are at stake!”
“Quick, madam, the time grows short!”
“It was a letter of mine, Mr. Holmes, an indiscreet letter written
before my marriage--a foolish letter, a letter of an impulsive, loving
girl. I meant no harm, and yet he would have thought it criminal. Had he
read that letter his confidence would have been for ever destroyed.
It is years since I wrote it. I had thought that the whole matter was
forgotten. Then at last I heard from this man, Lucas, that it had passed
into his hands, and that he would lay it before my husband. I implored
his mercy. He said that he would return my letter if I would bring him a
certain document which he described in my husband's despatch-box. He had
some spy in the office who had told him of its existence. He assured me
that no harm could come to my husband. Put yourself in my position, Mr.
Holmes! What was I to do?”
“Take your husband into your confidence.”
“I could not, Mr. Holmes, I could not! On the one side seemed certain
ruin; on the other, terrible as it seemed to take my husband's paper,
still in a matter of politics I could not understand the consequences,
while in a matter of love and trust they were only too clear to me.
I did it, Mr. Holmes! I took an impression of his key; this man Lucas
furnished a duplicate. I opened his despatch-box, took the paper, and
conveyed it to Godolphin Street.”
“What happened there, madam?”
“I tapped at the door as agreed. Lucas opened it. I followed him into
his room, leaving the hall door ajar behind me, for I feared to be alone
with the man. I remember that there was a woman outside as I entered.
Our business was soon done. He had my letter on his desk; I handed him
the document. He gave me the letter. At this instant there was a sound
at the door. There were steps in the passage. Lucas quickly turned
back the drugget, thrust the document into some hiding-place there, and
covered it over.
“What happened after that is like some fearful dream. I have a vision of
a dark, frantic face, of a woman's voice, which screamed in French, 'My
waiting is not in vain. At last, at last I have found you with her!'
There was a savage struggle. I saw him with a chair in his hand, a knife
gleamed in hers. I rushed from the horrible scene, ran from the house,
and only next morning in the paper did I learn the dreadful result. That
night I was happy, for I had my letter, and I had not seen yet what the
future would bring.
“It was the next morning that I realized that I had only exchanged one
trouble for another. My husband's anguish at the loss of his paper went
to my heart. I could hardly prevent myself from there and then kneeling
down at his feet and telling him what I had done. But that again would
mean a confession of the past. I came to you that morning in order to
understand the full enormity of my offence. From the instant that I
grasped it my whole mind was turned to the one thought of getting back
my husband's paper. It must still be where Lucas had placed it, for it
was concealed before this dreadful woman entered the room. If it had not
been for her coming, I should not have known where his hiding-place was.
How was I to get into the room? For two days I watched the place, but
the door was never left open. Last night I made a last attempt. What I
did and how I succeeded, you have already learned. I brought the paper
back with me, and thought of destroying it since I could see no way of
returning it, without confessing my guilt to my husband. Heavens, I hear
his step upon the stair!”
The European Secretary burst excitedly into the room.
“Any news, Mr. Holmes, any news?” he cried.
“I have some hopes.”
“Ah, thank heaven!” His face became radiant. “The Prime Minister is
lunching with me. May he share your hopes? He has nerves of steel, and
yet I know that he has hardly slept since this terrible event. Jacobs,
will you ask the Prime Minister to come up? As to you, dear, I fear that
this is a matter of politics. We will join you in a few minutes in the
dining-room.”
The Prime Minister's manner was subdued, but I could see by the gleam
of his eyes and the twitchings of his bony hands that he shared the
excitement of his young colleague.
“I understand that you have something to report, Mr. Holmes?”
“Purely negative as yet,” my friend answered. “I have inquired at every
point where it might be, and I am sure that there is no danger to be
apprehended.”
“But that is not enough, Mr. Holmes. We cannot live for ever on such a
volcano. We must have something definite.”
“I am in hopes of getting it. That is why I am here. The more I think of
the matter the more convinced I am that the letter has never left this
house.”
“Mr. Holmes!”
“If it had it would certainly have been public by now.”
“But why should anyone take it in order to keep it in his house?”
“I am not convinced that anyone did take it.”
“Then how could it leave the despatch-box?”
“I am not convinced that it ever did leave the despatch-box.”
“Mr. Holmes, this joking is very ill-timed. You have my assurance that
it left the box.”
“Have you examined the box since Tuesday morning?”
“No; it was not necessary.”
“You may conceivably have overlooked it.”
“Impossible, I say.”
“But I am not convinced of it; I have known such things to happen. I
presume there are other papers there. Well, it may have got mixed with
them.”
“It was on the top.”
“Someone may have shaken the box and displaced it.”
“No, no; I had everything out.”
“Surely it is easily decided, Hope,” said the Premier. “Let us have the
despatch-box brought in.”
The Secretary rang the bell.
“Jacobs, bring down my despatch-box. This is a farcical waste of time,
but still, if nothing else will satisfy you, it shall be done. Thank
you, Jacobs; put it here. I have always had the key on my watch-chain.
Here are the papers, you see. Letter from Lord Merrow, report from Sir
Charles Hardy, memorandum from Belgrade, note on the Russo-German grain
taxes, letter from Madrid, note from Lord Flowers--good heavens! what is
this? Lord Bellinger! Lord Bellinger!”
The Premier snatched the blue envelope from his hand.
“Yes, it is it--and the letter is intact. Hope, I congratulate you.”
“Thank you! Thank you! What a weight from my heart. But this is
inconceivable--impossible. Mr. Holmes, you are a wizard, a sorcerer! How
did you know it was there?”
“Because I knew it was nowhere else.”
“I cannot believe my eyes!” He ran wildly to the door. “Where is my
wife? I must tell her that all is well. Hilda! Hilda!” we heard his
voice on the stairs.
The Premier looked at Holmes with twinkling eyes.
“Come, sir,” said he. “There is more in this than meets the eye. How
came the letter back in the box?”
Holmes turned away smiling from the keen scrutiny of those wonderful
eyes.
“We also have our diplomatic secrets,” said he, and picking up his hat
he turned to the door.
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Return of Sherlock Holmes, by
Arthur Conan Doyle
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xiii_the_adventure_of_the_second_stain
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The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge
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His Last Bow
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The Singular Experience of Mr. John Scott Eccles
The Tiger of San Pedro
1. The Singular Experience of Mr. John Scott Eccles
I find it recorded in my notebook that it was a bleak and windy day
towards the end of March in the year 1892. Holmes had received a
telegram while we sat at our lunch, and he had scribbled a reply. He
made no remark, but the matter remained in his thoughts, for he stood
in front of the fire afterwards with a thoughtful face, smoking his
pipe, and casting an occasional glance at the message. Suddenly he
turned upon me with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
“I suppose, Watson, we must look upon you as a man of letters,” said
he. “How do you define the word ‘grotesque’?”
“Strange—remarkable,” I suggested.
He shook his head at my definition.
“There is surely something more than that,” said he; “some underlying
suggestion of the tragic and the terrible. If you cast your mind back
to some of those narratives with which you have afflicted a
long-suffering public, you will recognise how often the grotesque has
deepened into the criminal. Think of that little affair of the
red-headed men. That was grotesque enough in the outset, and yet it
ended in a desperate attempt at robbery. Or, again, there was that most
grotesque affair of the five orange pips, which led straight to a
murderous conspiracy. The word puts me on the alert.”
“Have you it there?” I asked.
He read the telegram aloud.
“Have just had most incredible and grotesque experience. May I consult
you?
“Scott Eccles,
“Post Office, Charing Cross.”
“Man or woman?” I asked.
“Oh, man, of course. No woman would ever send a reply-paid telegram.
She would have come.”
“Will you see him?”
“My dear Watson, you know how bored I have been since we locked up
Colonel Carruthers. My mind is like a racing engine, tearing itself to
pieces because it is not connected up with the work for which it was
built. Life is commonplace, the papers are sterile; audacity and
romance seem to have passed forever from the criminal world. Can you
ask me, then, whether I am ready to look into any new problem, however
trivial it may prove? But here, unless I am mistaken, is our client.”
A measured step was heard upon the stairs, and a moment later a stout,
tall, grey-whiskered and solemnly respectable person was ushered into
the room. His life history was written in his heavy features and
pompous manner. From his spats to his gold-rimmed spectacles he was a
Conservative, a churchman, a good citizen, orthodox and conventional to
the last degree. But some amazing experience had disturbed his native
composure and left its traces in his bristling hair, his flushed, angry
cheeks, and his flurried, excited manner. He plunged instantly into his
business.
“I have had a most singular and unpleasant experience, Mr. Holmes,”
said he. “Never in my life have I been placed in such a situation. It
is most improper—most outrageous. I must insist upon some explanation.”
He swelled and puffed in his anger.
“Pray sit down, Mr. Scott Eccles,” said Holmes in a soothing voice.
“May I ask, in the first place, why you came to me at all?”
“Well, sir, it did not appear to be a matter which concerned the
police, and yet, when you have heard the facts, you must admit that I
could not leave it where it was. Private detectives are a class with
whom I have absolutely no sympathy, but none the less, having heard
your name—”
“Quite so. But, in the second place, why did you not come at once?”
Holmes glanced at his watch.
“It is a quarter-past two,” he said. “Your telegram was dispatched
about one. But no one can glance at your toilet and attire without
seeing that your disturbance dates from the moment of your waking.”
Our client smoothed down his unbrushed hair and felt his unshaven chin.
“You are right, Mr. Holmes. I never gave a thought to my toilet. I was
only too glad to get out of such a house. But I have been running round
making inquiries before I came to you. I went to the house agents, you
know, and they said that Mr. Garcia’s rent was paid up all right and
that everything was in order at Wisteria Lodge.”
“Come, come, sir,” said Holmes, laughing. “You are like my friend, Dr.
Watson, who has a bad habit of telling his stories wrong end foremost.
Please arrange your thoughts and let me know, in their due sequence,
exactly what those events are which have sent you out unbrushed and
unkempt, with dress boots and waistcoat buttoned awry, in search of
advice and assistance.”
Our client looked down with a rueful face at his own unconventional
appearance.
“I’m sure it must look very bad, Mr. Holmes, and I am not aware that in
my whole life such a thing has ever happened before. But I will tell
you the whole queer business, and when I have done so you will admit, I
am sure, that there has been enough to excuse me.”
But his narrative was nipped in the bud. There was a bustle outside,
and Mrs. Hudson opened the door to usher in two robust and
official-looking individuals, one of whom was well known to us as
Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard, an energetic, gallant, and, within
his limitations, a capable officer. He shook hands with Holmes and
introduced his comrade as Inspector Baynes, of the Surrey Constabulary.
“We are hunting together, Mr. Holmes, and our trail lay in this
direction.” He turned his bulldog eyes upon our visitor. “Are you Mr.
John Scott Eccles, of Popham House, Lee?”
“I am.”
“We have been following you about all the morning.”
“You traced him through the telegram, no doubt,” said Holmes.
“Exactly, Mr. Holmes. We picked up the scent at Charing Cross
Post-Office and came on here.”
“But why do you follow me? What do you want?”
“We wish a statement, Mr. Scott Eccles, as to the events which led up
to the death last night of Mr. Aloysius Garcia, of Wisteria Lodge, near
Esher.”
Our client had sat up with staring eyes and every tinge of colour
struck from his astonished face.
“Dead? Did you say he was dead?”
“Yes, sir, he is dead.”
“But how? An accident?”
“Murder, if ever there was one upon earth.”
“Good God! This is awful! You don’t mean—you don’t mean that I am
suspected?”
“A letter of yours was found in the dead man’s pocket, and we know by
it that you had planned to pass last night at his house.”
“So I did.”
“Oh, you did, did you?”
Out came the official notebook.
“Wait a bit, Gregson,” said Sherlock Holmes. “All you desire is a plain
statement, is it not?”
“And it is my duty to warn Mr. Scott Eccles that it may be used against
him.”
“Mr. Eccles was going to tell us about it when you entered the room. I
think, Watson, a brandy and soda would do him no harm. Now, sir, I
suggest that you take no notice of this addition to your audience, and
that you proceed with your narrative exactly as you would have done had
you never been interrupted.”
Our visitor had gulped off the brandy and the colour had returned to
his face. With a dubious glance at the inspector’s notebook, he plunged
at once into his extraordinary statement.
“I am a bachelor,” said he, “and being of a sociable turn I cultivate a
large number of friends. Among these are the family of a retired brewer
called Melville, living at Abermarle Mansion, Kensington. It was at his
table that I met some weeks ago a young fellow named Garcia. He was, I
understood, of Spanish descent and connected in some way with the
embassy. He spoke perfect English, was pleasing in his manners, and as
good-looking a man as ever I saw in my life.
“In some way we struck up quite a friendship, this young fellow and I.
He seemed to take a fancy to me from the first, and within two days of
our meeting he came to see me at Lee. One thing led to another, and it
ended in his inviting me out to spend a few days at his house, Wisteria
Lodge, between Esher and Oxshott. Yesterday evening I went to Esher to
fulfil this engagement.
“He had described his household to me before I went there. He lived
with a faithful servant, a countryman of his own, who looked after all
his needs. This fellow could speak English and did his housekeeping for
him. Then there was a wonderful cook, he said, a half-breed whom he had
picked up in his travels, who could serve an excellent dinner. I
remember that he remarked what a queer household it was to find in the
heart of Surrey, and that I agreed with him, though it has proved a
good deal queerer than I thought.
“I drove to the place—about two miles on the south side of Esher. The
house was a fair-sized one, standing back from the road, with a curving
drive which was banked with high evergreen shrubs. It was an old,
tumbledown building in a crazy state of disrepair. When the trap pulled
up on the grass-grown drive in front of the blotched and
weather-stained door, I had doubts as to my wisdom in visiting a man
whom I knew so slightly. He opened the door himself, however, and
greeted me with a great show of cordiality. I was handed over to the
manservant, a melancholy, swarthy individual, who led the way, my bag
in his hand, to my bedroom. The whole place was depressing. Our dinner
was _tête-à-tête_, and though my host did his best to be entertaining,
his thoughts seemed to continually wander, and he talked so vaguely and
wildly that I could hardly understand him. He continually drummed his
fingers on the table, gnawed his nails, and gave other signs of nervous
impatience. The dinner itself was neither well served nor well cooked,
and the gloomy presence of the taciturn servant did not help to enliven
us. I can assure you that many times in the course of the evening I
wished that I could invent some excuse which would take me back to Lee.
“One thing comes back to my memory which may have a bearing upon the
business that you two gentlemen are investigating. I thought nothing of
it at the time. Near the end of dinner a note was handed in by the
servant. I noticed that after my host had read it he seemed even more
distrait and strange than before. He gave up all pretence at
conversation and sat, smoking endless cigarettes, lost in his own
thoughts, but he made no remark as to the contents. About eleven I was
glad to go to bed. Some time later Garcia looked in at my door—the room
was dark at the time—and asked me if I had rung. I said that I had not.
He apologised for having disturbed me so late, saying that it was
nearly one o’clock. I dropped off after this and slept soundly all
night.
“And now I come to the amazing part of my tale. When I woke it was
broad daylight. I glanced at my watch, and the time was nearly nine. I
had particularly asked to be called at eight, so I was very much
astonished at this forgetfulness. I sprang up and rang for the servant.
There was no response. I rang again and again, with the same result.
Then I came to the conclusion that the bell was out of order. I huddled
on my clothes and hurried downstairs in an exceedingly bad temper to
order some hot water. You can imagine my surprise when I found that
there was no one there. I shouted in the hall. There was no answer.
Then I ran from room to room. All were deserted. My host had shown me
which was his bedroom the night before, so I knocked at the door. No
reply. I turned the handle and walked in. The room was empty, and the
bed had never been slept in. He had gone with the rest. The foreign
host, the foreign footman, the foreign cook, all had vanished in the
night! That was the end of my visit to Wisteria Lodge.”
Sherlock Holmes was rubbing his hands and chuckling as he added this
bizarre incident to his collection of strange episodes.
“Your experience is, so far as I know, perfectly unique,” said he. “May
I ask, sir, what you did then?”
“I was furious. My first idea was that I had been the victim of some
absurd practical joke. I packed my things, banged the hall door behind
me, and set off for Esher, with my bag in my hand. I called at Allan
Brothers’, the chief land agents in the village, and found that it was
from this firm that the villa had been rented. It struck me that the
whole proceeding could hardly be for the purpose of making a fool of
me, and that the main object must be to get out of the rent. It is late
in March, so quarter-day is at hand. But this theory would not work.
The agent was obliged to me for my warning, but told me that the rent
had been paid in advance. Then I made my way to town and called at the
Spanish embassy. The man was unknown there. After this I went to see
Melville, at whose house I had first met Garcia, but I found that he
really knew rather less about him than I did. Finally when I got your
reply to my wire I came out to you, since I gather that you are a
person who gives advice in difficult cases. But now, Mr. Inspector, I
understand, from what you said when you entered the room, that you can
carry the story on, and that some tragedy had occurred. I can assure
you that every word I have said is the truth, and that, outside of what
I have told you, I know absolutely nothing about the fate of this man.
My only desire is to help the law in every possible way.”
“I am sure of it, Mr. Scott Eccles—I am sure of it,” said Inspector
Gregson in a very amiable tone. “I am bound to say that everything
which you have said agrees very closely with the facts as they have
come to our notice. For example, there was that note which arrived
during dinner. Did you chance to observe what became of it?”
“Yes, I did. Garcia rolled it up and threw it into the fire.”
“What do you say to that, Mr. Baynes?”
The country detective was a stout, puffy, red man, whose face was only
redeemed from grossness by two extraordinarily bright eyes, almost
hidden behind the heavy creases of cheek and brow. With a slow smile he
drew a folded and discoloured scrap of paper from his pocket.
“It was a dog-grate, Mr. Holmes, and he overpitched it. I picked this
out unburned from the back of it.”
Holmes smiled his appreciation.
“You must have examined the house very carefully to find a single
pellet of paper.”
“I did, Mr. Holmes. It’s my way. Shall I read it, Mr. Gregson?”
The Londoner nodded.
“The note is written upon ordinary cream-laid paper without watermark.
It is a quarter-sheet. The paper is cut off in two snips with a
short-bladed scissors. It has been folded over three times and sealed
with purple wax, put on hurriedly and pressed down with some flat oval
object. It is addressed to Mr. Garcia, Wisteria Lodge. It says:
“Our own colours, green and white. Green open, white shut. Main stair,
first corridor, seventh right, green baize. Godspeed. D.
“It is a woman’s writing, done with a sharp-pointed pen, but the
address is either done with another pen or by someone else. It is
thicker and bolder, as you see.”
“A very remarkable note,” said Holmes, glancing it over. “I must
compliment you, Mr. Baynes, upon your attention to detail in your
examination of it. A few trifling points might perhaps be added. The
oval seal is undoubtedly a plain sleeve-link—what else is of such a
shape? The scissors were bent nail scissors. Short as the two snips
are, you can distinctly see the same slight curve in each.”
The country detective chuckled.
“I thought I had squeezed all the juice out of it, but I see there was
a little over,” he said. “I’m bound to say that I make nothing of the
note except that there was something on hand, and that a woman, as
usual was at the bottom of it.”
Mr. Scott Eccles had fidgeted in his seat during this conversation.
“I am glad you found the note, since it corroborates my story,” said
he. “But I beg to point out that I have not yet heard what has happened
to Mr. Garcia, nor what has become of his household.”
“As to Garcia,” said Gregson, “that is easily answered. He was found
dead this morning upon Oxshott Common, nearly a mile from his home. His
head had been smashed to pulp by heavy blows of a sandbag or some such
instrument, which had crushed rather than wounded. It is a lonely
corner, and there is no house within a quarter of a mile of the spot.
He had apparently been struck down first from behind, but his assailant
had gone on beating him long after he was dead. It was a most furious
assault. There are no footsteps nor any clue to the criminals.”
“Robbed?”
“No, there was no attempt at robbery.”
“This is very painful—very painful and terrible,” said Mr. Scott Eccles
in a querulous voice, “but it is really uncommonly hard on me. I had
nothing to do with my host going off upon a nocturnal excursion and
meeting so sad an end. How do I come to be mixed up with the case?”
“Very simply, sir,” Inspector Baynes answered. “The only document found
in the pocket of the deceased was a letter from you saying that you
would be with him on the night of his death. It was the envelope of
this letter which gave us the dead man’s name and address. It was after
nine this morning when we reached his house and found neither you nor
anyone else inside it. I wired to Mr. Gregson to run you down in London
while I examined Wisteria Lodge. Then I came into town, joined Mr.
Gregson, and here we are.”
“I think now,” said Gregson, rising, “we had best put this matter into
an official shape. You will come round with us to the station, Mr.
Scott Eccles, and let us have your statement in writing.”
“Certainly, I will come at once. But I retain your services, Mr.
Holmes. I desire you to spare no expense and no pains to get at the
truth.”
My friend turned to the country inspector.
“I suppose that you have no objection to my collaborating with you, Mr.
Baynes?”
“Highly honoured, sir, I am sure.”
“You appear to have been very prompt and businesslike in all that you
have done. Was there any clue, may I ask, as to the exact hour that the
man met his death?”
“He had been there since one o’clock. There was rain about that time,
and his death had certainly been before the rain.”
“But that is perfectly impossible, Mr. Baynes,” cried our client. “His
voice is unmistakable. I could swear to it that it was he who addressed
me in my bedroom at that very hour.”
“Remarkable, but by no means impossible,” said Holmes, smiling.
“You have a clue?” asked Gregson.
“On the face of it the case is not a very complex one, though it
certainly presents some novel and interesting features. A further
knowledge of facts is necessary before I would venture to give a final
and definite opinion. By the way, Mr. Baynes, did you find anything
remarkable besides this note in your examination of the house?”
The detective looked at my friend in a singular way.
“There were,” said he, “one or two _very_ remarkable things. Perhaps
when I have finished at the police-station you would care to come out
and give me your opinion of them.”
“I am entirely at your service,” said Sherlock Holmes, ringing the
bell. “You will show these gentlemen out, Mrs. Hudson, and kindly send
the boy with this telegram. He is to pay a five-shilling reply.”
We sat for some time in silence after our visitors had left. Holmes
smoked hard, with his brows drawn down over his keen eyes, and his head
thrust forward in the eager way characteristic of the man.
“Well, Watson,” he asked, turning suddenly upon me, “what do you make
of it?”
“I can make nothing of this mystification of Scott Eccles.”
“But the crime?”
“Well, taken with the disappearance of the man’s companions, I should
say that they were in some way concerned in the murder and had fled
from justice.”
“That is certainly a possible point of view. On the face of it you must
admit, however, that it is very strange that his two servants should
have been in a conspiracy against him and should have attacked him on
the one night when he had a guest. They had him alone at their mercy
every other night in the week.”
“Then why did they fly?”
“Quite so. Why did they fly? There is a big fact. Another big fact is
the remarkable experience of our client, Scott Eccles. Now, my dear
Watson, is it beyond the limits of human ingenuity to furnish an
explanation which would cover both of these big facts? If it were one
which would also admit of the mysterious note with its very curious
phraseology, why, then it would be worth accepting as a temporary
hypothesis. If the fresh facts which come to our knowledge all fit
themselves into the scheme, then our hypothesis may gradually become a
solution.”
“But what is our hypothesis?”
Holmes leaned back in his chair with half-closed eyes.
“You must admit, my dear Watson, that the idea of a joke is impossible.
There were grave events afoot, as the sequel showed, and the coaxing of
Scott Eccles to Wisteria Lodge had some connection with them.”
“But what possible connection?”
“Let us take it link by link. There is, on the face of it, something
unnatural about this strange and sudden friendship between the young
Spaniard and Scott Eccles. It was the former who forced the pace. He
called upon Eccles at the other end of London on the very day after he
first met him, and he kept in close touch with him until he got him
down to Esher. Now, what did he want with Eccles? What could Eccles
supply? I see no charm in the man. He is not particularly
intelligent—not a man likely to be congenial to a quick-witted Latin.
Why, then, was he picked out from all the other people whom Garcia met
as particularly suited to his purpose? Has he any one outstanding
quality? I say that he has. He is the very type of conventional British
respectability, and the very man as a witness to impress another
Briton. You saw yourself how neither of the inspectors dreamed of
questioning his statement, extraordinary as it was.”
“But what was he to witness?”
“Nothing, as things turned out, but everything had they gone another
way. That is how I read the matter.”
“I see, he might have proved an alibi.”
“Exactly, my dear Watson; he might have proved an alibi. We will
suppose, for argument’s sake, that the household of Wisteria Lodge are
confederates in some design. The attempt, whatever it may be, is to
come off, we will say, before one o’clock. By some juggling of the
clocks it is quite possible that they may have got Scott Eccles to bed
earlier than he thought, but in any case it is likely that when Garcia
went out of his way to tell him that it was one it was really not more
than twelve. If Garcia could do whatever he had to do and be back by
the hour mentioned he had evidently a powerful reply to any accusation.
Here was this irreproachable Englishman ready to swear in any court of
law that the accused was in the house all the time. It was an insurance
against the worst.”
“Yes, yes, I see that. But how about the disappearance of the others?”
“I have not all my facts yet, but I do not think there are any
insuperable difficulties. Still, it is an error to argue in front of
your data. You find yourself insensibly twisting them round to fit your
theories.”
“And the message?”
“How did it run? ‘Our own colours, green and white.’ Sounds like
racing. ‘Green open, white shut.’ That is clearly a signal. ‘Main
stair, first corridor, seventh right, green baize.’ This is an
assignation. We may find a jealous husband at the bottom of it all. It
was clearly a dangerous quest. She would not have said ‘Godspeed’ had
it not been so. ‘D’—that should be a guide.”
“The man was a Spaniard. I suggest that ‘D’ stands for Dolores, a
common female name in Spain.”
“Good, Watson, very good—but quite inadmissible. A Spaniard would write
to a Spaniard in Spanish. The writer of this note is certainly English.
Well, we can only possess our soul in patience until this excellent
inspector come back for us. Meanwhile we can thank our lucky fate which
has rescued us for a few short hours from the insufferable fatigues of
idleness.”
An answer had arrived to Holmes’s telegram before our Surrey officer
had returned. Holmes read it and was about to place it in his notebook
when he caught a glimpse of my expectant face. He tossed it across with
a laugh.
“We are moving in exalted circles,” said he.
The telegram was a list of names and addresses:
Lord Harringby, The Dingle; Sir George Ffolliott, Oxshott Towers; Mr.
Hynes Hynes, J.P., Purdley Place; Mr. James Baker Williams, Forton Old
Hall; Mr. Henderson, High Gable; Rev. Joshua Stone, Nether Walsling.
“This is a very obvious way of limiting our field of operations,” said
Holmes. “No doubt Baynes, with his methodical mind, has already adopted
some similar plan.”
“I don’t quite understand.”
“Well, my dear fellow, we have already arrived at the conclusion that
the message received by Garcia at dinner was an appointment or an
assignation. Now, if the obvious reading of it is correct, and in order
to keep the tryst one has to ascend a main stair and seek the seventh
door in a corridor, it is perfectly clear that the house is a very
large one. It is equally certain that this house cannot be more than a
mile or two from Oxshott, since Garcia was walking in that direction
and hoped, according to my reading of the facts, to be back in Wisteria
Lodge in time to avail himself of an alibi, which would only be valid
up to one o’clock. As the number of large houses close to Oxshott must
be limited, I adopted the obvious method of sending to the agents
mentioned by Scott Eccles and obtaining a list of them. Here they are
in this telegram, and the other end of our tangled skein must lie among
them.”
It was nearly six o’clock before we found ourselves in the pretty
Surrey village of Esher, with Inspector Baynes as our companion.
Holmes and I had taken things for the night, and found comfortable
quarters at the Bull. Finally we set out in the company of the
detective on our visit to Wisteria Lodge. It was a cold, dark March
evening, with a sharp wind and a fine rain beating upon our faces, a
fit setting for the wild common over which our road passed and the
tragic goal to which it led us.
2. The Tiger of San Pedro
A cold and melancholy walk of a couple of miles brought us to a high
wooden gate, which opened into a gloomy avenue of chestnuts. The curved
and shadowed drive led us to a low, dark house, pitch-black against a
slate-coloured sky. From the front window upon the left of the door
there peeped a glimmer of a feeble light.
“There’s a constable in possession,” said Baynes. “I’ll knock at the
window.” He stepped across the grass plot and tapped with his hand on
the pane. Through the fogged glass I dimly saw a man spring up from a
chair beside the fire, and heard a sharp cry from within the room. An
instant later a white-faced, hard-breathing policeman had opened the
door, the candle wavering in his trembling hand.
“What’s the matter, Walters?” asked Baynes sharply.
The man mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and gave a long sigh
of relief.
“I am glad you have come, sir. It has been a long evening, and I don’t
think my nerve is as good as it was.”
“Your nerve, Walters? I should not have thought you had a nerve in your
body.”
“Well, sir, it’s this lonely, silent house and the queer thing in the
kitchen. Then when you tapped at the window I thought it had come
again.”
“That what had come again?”
“The devil, sir, for all I know. It was at the window.”
“What was at the window, and when?”
“It was just about two hours ago. The light was just fading. I was
sitting reading in the chair. I don’t know what made me look up, but
there was a face looking in at me through the lower pane. Lord, sir,
what a face it was! I’ll see it in my dreams.”
“Tut, tut, Walters. This is not talk for a police-constable.”
“I know, sir, I know; but it shook me, sir, and there’s no use to deny
it. It wasn’t black, sir, nor was it white, nor any colour that I know
but a kind of queer shade like clay with a splash of milk in it. Then
there was the size of it—it was twice yours, sir. And the look of
it—the great staring goggle eyes, and the line of white teeth like a
hungry beast. I tell you, sir, I couldn’t move a finger, nor get my
breath, till it whisked away and was gone. Out I ran and through the
shrubbery, but thank God there was no one there.”
“If I didn’t know you were a good man, Walters, I should put a black
mark against you for this. If it were the devil himself a constable on
duty should never thank God that he could not lay his hands upon him. I
suppose the whole thing is not a vision and a touch of nerves?”
“That, at least, is very easily settled,” said Holmes, lighting his
little pocket lantern. “Yes,” he reported, after a short examination of
the grass bed, “a number twelve shoe, I should say. If he was all on
the same scale as his foot he must certainly have been a giant.”
“What became of him?”
“He seems to have broken through the shrubbery and made for the road.”
“Well,” said the inspector with a grave and thoughtful face, “whoever
he may have been, and whatever he may have wanted, he’s gone for the
present, and we have more immediate things to attend to. Now, Mr.
Holmes, with your permission, I will show you round the house.”
The various bedrooms and sitting-rooms had yielded nothing to a careful
search. Apparently the tenants had brought little or nothing with them,
and all the furniture down to the smallest details had been taken over
with the house. A good deal of clothing with the stamp of Marx and Co.,
High Holborn, had been left behind. Telegraphic inquiries had been
already made which showed that Marx knew nothing of his customer save
that he was a good payer. Odds and ends, some pipes, a few novels, two
of them in Spanish, an old-fashioned pinfire revolver, and a guitar
were among the personal property.
“Nothing in all this,” said Baynes, stalking, candle in hand, from room
to room. “But now, Mr. Holmes, I invite your attention to the kitchen.”
It was a gloomy, high-ceilinged room at the back of the house, with a
straw litter in one corner, which served apparently as a bed for the
cook. The table was piled with half-eaten dishes and dirty plates, the
_débris_ of last night’s dinner.
“Look at this,” said Baynes. “What do you make of it?”
He held up his candle before an extraordinary object which stood at the
back of the dresser. It was so wrinkled and shrunken and withered that
it was difficult to say what it might have been. One could but say that
it was black and leathery and that it bore some resemblance to a
dwarfish, human figure. At first, as I examined it, I thought that it
was a mummified negro baby, and then it seemed a very twisted and
ancient monkey. Finally I was left in doubt as to whether it was animal
or human. A double band of white shells were strung round the centre of
it.
“Very interesting—very interesting, indeed!” said Holmes, peering at
this sinister relic. “Anything more?”
In silence Baynes led the way to the sink and held forward his candle.
The limbs and body of some large, white bird, torn savagely to pieces
with the feathers still on, were littered all over it. Holmes pointed
to the wattles on the severed head.
“A white cock,” said he. “Most interesting! It is really a very curious
case.”
But Mr. Baynes had kept his most sinister exhibit to the last. From
under the sink he drew a zinc pail which contained a quantity of blood.
Then from the table he took a platter heaped with small pieces of
charred bone.
“Something has been killed and something has been burned. We raked all
these out of the fire. We had a doctor in this morning. He says that
they are not human.”
Holmes smiled and rubbed his hands.
“I must congratulate you, Inspector, on handling so distinctive and
instructive a case. Your powers, if I may say so without offence, seem
superior to your opportunities.”
Inspector Baynes’s small eyes twinkled with pleasure.
“You’re right, Mr. Holmes. We stagnate in the provinces. A case of this
sort gives a man a chance, and I hope that I shall take it. What do you
make of these bones?”
“A lamb, I should say, or a kid.”
“And the white cock?”
“Curious, Mr. Baynes, very curious. I should say almost unique.”
“Yes, sir, there must have been some very strange people with some very
strange ways in this house. One of them is dead. Did his companions
follow him and kill him? If they did we should have them, for every
port is watched. But my own views are different. Yes, sir, my own views
are very different.”
“You have a theory then?”
“And I’ll work it myself, Mr. Holmes. It’s only due to my own credit to
do so. Your name is made, but I have still to make mine. I should be
glad to be able to say afterwards that I had solved it without your
help.”
Holmes laughed good-humouredly.
“Well, well, Inspector,” said he. “Do you follow your path and I will
follow mine. My results are always very much at your service if you
care to apply to me for them. I think that I have seen all that I wish
in this house, and that my time may be more profitably employed
elsewhere. _Au revoir_ and good luck!”
I could tell by numerous subtle signs, which might have been lost upon
anyone but myself, that Holmes was on a hot scent. As impassive as ever
to the casual observer, there were none the less a subdued eagerness
and suggestion of tension in his brightened eyes and brisker manner
which assured me that the game was afoot. After his habit he said
nothing, and after mine I asked no questions. Sufficient for me to
share the sport and lend my humble help to the capture without
distracting that intent brain with needless interruption. All would
come round to me in due time.
I waited, therefore—but to my ever-deepening disappointment I waited in
vain. Day succeeded day, and my friend took no step forward. One
morning he spent in town, and I learned from a casual reference that he
had visited the British Museum. Save for this one excursion, he spent
his days in long and often solitary walks, or in chatting with a number
of village gossips whose acquaintance he had cultivated.
“I’m sure, Watson, a week in the country will be invaluable to you,” he
remarked. “It is very pleasant to see the first green shoots upon the
hedges and the catkins on the hazels once again. With a spud, a tin
box, and an elementary book on botany, there are instructive days to be
spent.” He prowled about with this equipment himself, but it was a poor
show of plants which he would bring back of an evening.
Occasionally in our rambles we came across Inspector Baynes. His fat,
red face wreathed itself in smiles and his small eyes glittered as he
greeted my companion. He said little about the case, but from that
little we gathered that he also was not dissatisfied at the course of
events. I must admit, however, that I was somewhat surprised when, some
five days after the crime, I opened my morning paper to find in large
letters:
THE OXSHOTT MYSTERY
A SOLUTION
ARREST OF SUPPOSED ASSASSIN
Holmes sprang in his chair as if he had been stung when I read the
headlines.
“By Jove!” he cried. “You don’t mean that Baynes has got him?”
“Apparently,” said I as I read the following report:
“Great excitement was caused in Esher and the neighbouring district
when it was learned late last night that an arrest had been effected in
connection with the Oxshott murder. It will be remembered that Mr.
Garcia, of Wisteria Lodge, was found dead on Oxshott Common, his body
showing signs of extreme violence, and that on the same night his
servant and his cook fled, which appeared to show their participation
in the crime. It was suggested, but never proved, that the deceased
gentleman may have had valuables in the house, and that their
abstraction was the motive of the crime. Every effort was made by
Inspector Baynes, who has the case in hand, to ascertain the hiding
place of the fugitives, and he had good reason to believe that they had
not gone far but were lurking in some retreat which had been already
prepared. It was certain from the first, however, that they would
eventually be detected, as the cook, from the evidence of one or two
tradespeople who have caught a glimpse of him through the window, was a
man of most remarkable appearance—being a huge and hideous mulatto,
with yellowish features of a pronounced negroid type. This man has been
seen since the crime, for he was detected and pursued by Constable
Walters on the same evening, when he had the audacity to revisit
Wisteria Lodge. Inspector Baynes, considering that such a visit must
have some purpose in view and was likely, therefore, to be repeated,
abandoned the house but left an ambuscade in the shrubbery. The man
walked into the trap and was captured last night after a struggle in
which Constable Downing was badly bitten by the savage. We understand
that when the prisoner is brought before the magistrates a remand will
be applied for by the police, and that great developments are hoped
from his capture.”
“Really we must see Baynes at once,” cried Holmes, picking up his hat.
“We will just catch him before he starts.” We hurried down the village
street and found, as we had expected, that the inspector was just
leaving his lodgings.
“You’ve seen the paper, Mr. Holmes?” he asked, holding one out to us.
“Yes, Baynes, I’ve seen it. Pray don’t think it a liberty if I give you
a word of friendly warning.”
“Of warning, Mr. Holmes?”
“I have looked into this case with some care, and I am not convinced
that you are on the right lines. I don’t want you to commit yourself
too far unless you are sure.”
“You’re very kind, Mr. Holmes.”
“I assure you I speak for your good.”
It seemed to me that something like a wink quivered for an instant over
one of Mr. Baynes’s tiny eyes.
“We agreed to work on our own lines, Mr. Holmes. That’s what I am
doing.”
“Oh, very good,” said Holmes. “Don’t blame me.”
“No, sir; I believe you mean well by me. But we all have our own
systems, Mr. Holmes. You have yours, and maybe I have mine.”
“Let us say no more about it.”
“You’re welcome always to my news. This fellow is a perfect savage, as
strong as a cart-horse and as fierce as the devil. He chewed Downing’s
thumb nearly off before they could master him. He hardly speaks a word
of English, and we can get nothing out of him but grunts.”
“And you think you have evidence that he murdered his late master?”
“I didn’t say so, Mr. Holmes; I didn’t say so. We all have our little
ways. You try yours and I will try mine. That’s the agreement.”
Holmes shrugged his shoulders as we walked away together. “I can’t make
the man out. He seems to be riding for a fall. Well, as he says, we
must each try our own way and see what comes of it. But there’s
something in Inspector Baynes which I can’t quite understand.”
“Just sit down in that chair, Watson,” said Sherlock Holmes when we had
returned to our apartment at the Bull. “I want to put you in touch with
the situation, as I may need your help to-night. Let me show you the
evolution of this case so far as I have been able to follow it. Simple
as it has been in its leading features, it has none the less presented
surprising difficulties in the way of an arrest. There are gaps in that
direction which we have still to fill.
“We will go back to the note which was handed in to Garcia upon the
evening of his death. We may put aside this idea of Baynes’s that
Garcia’s servants were concerned in the matter. The proof of this lies
in the fact that it was _he_ who had arranged for the presence of Scott
Eccles, which could only have been done for the purpose of an alibi. It
was Garcia, then, who had an enterprise, and apparently a criminal
enterprise, in hand that night in the course of which he met his death.
I say ‘criminal’ because only a man with a criminal enterprise desires
to establish an alibi. Who, then, is most likely to have taken his
life? Surely the person against whom the criminal enterprise was
directed. So far it seems to me that we are on safe ground.
“We can now see a reason for the disappearance of Garcia’s household.
They were _all_ confederates in the same unknown crime. If it came off
when Garcia returned, any possible suspicion would be warded off by the
Englishman’s evidence, and all would be well. But the attempt was a
dangerous one, and if Garcia did _not_ return by a certain hour it was
probable that his own life had been sacrificed. It had been arranged,
therefore, that in such a case his two subordinates were to make for
some prearranged spot where they could escape investigation and be in a
position afterwards to renew their attempt. That would fully explain
the facts, would it not?”
The whole inexplicable tangle seemed to straighten out before me. I
wondered, as I always did, how it had not been obvious to me before.
“But why should one servant return?”
“We can imagine that in the confusion of flight something precious,
something which he could not bear to part with, had been left behind.
That would explain his persistence, would it not?”
“Well, what is the next step?”
“The next step is the note received by Garcia at the dinner. It
indicates a confederate at the other end. Now, where was the other end?
I have already shown you that it could only lie in some large house,
and that the number of large houses is limited. My first days in this
village were devoted to a series of walks in which in the intervals of
my botanical researches I made a reconnaissance of all the large houses
and an examination of the family history of the occupants. One house,
and only one, riveted my attention. It is the famous old Jacobean
grange of High Gable, one mile on the farther side of Oxshott, and less
than half a mile from the scene of the tragedy. The other mansions
belonged to prosaic and respectable people who live far aloof from
romance. But Mr. Henderson, of High Gable, was by all accounts a
curious man to whom curious adventures might befall. I concentrated my
attention, therefore, upon him and his household.
“A singular set of people, Watson—the man himself the most singular of
them all. I managed to see him on a plausible pretext, but I seemed to
read in his dark, deep-set, brooding eyes that he was perfectly aware
of my true business. He is a man of fifty, strong, active, with
iron-grey hair, great bunched black eyebrows, the step of a deer and
the air of an emperor—a fierce, masterful man, with a red-hot spirit
behind his parchment face. He is either a foreigner or has lived long
in the tropics, for he is yellow and sapless, but tough as whipcord.
His friend and secretary, Mr. Lucas, is undoubtedly a foreigner,
chocolate brown, wily, suave, and catlike, with a poisonous gentleness
of speech. You see, Watson, we have come already upon two sets of
foreigners—one at Wisteria Lodge and one at High Gable—so our gaps are
beginning to close.
“These two men, close and confidential friends, are the centre of the
household; but there is one other person who for our immediate purpose
may be even more important. Henderson has two children—girls of eleven
and thirteen. Their governess is a Miss Burnet, an Englishwoman of
forty or thereabouts. There is also one confidential manservant. This
little group forms the real family, for they travel about together, and
Henderson is a great traveller, always on the move. It is only within
the last weeks that he has returned, after a year’s absence, to High
Gable. I may add that he is enormously rich, and whatever his whims may
be he can very easily satisfy them. For the rest, his house is full of
butlers, footmen, maidservants, and the usual overfed, underworked
staff of a large English country house.
“So much I learned partly from village gossip and partly from my own
observation. There are no better instruments than discharged servants
with a grievance, and I was lucky enough to find one. I call it luck,
but it would not have come my way had I not been looking out for it. As
Baynes remarks, we all have our systems. It was my system which enabled
me to find John Warner, late gardener of High Gable, sacked in a moment
of temper by his imperious employer. He in turn had friends among the
indoor servants who unite in their fear and dislike of their master. So
I had my key to the secrets of the establishment.
“Curious people, Watson! I don’t pretend to understand it all yet, but
very curious people anyway. It’s a double-winged house, and the
servants live on one side, the family on the other. There’s no link
between the two save for Henderson’s own servant, who serves the
family’s meals. Everything is carried to a certain door, which forms
the one connection. Governess and children hardly go out at all, except
into the garden. Henderson never by any chance walks alone. His dark
secretary is like his shadow. The gossip among the servants is that
their master is terribly afraid of something. ‘Sold his soul to the
devil in exchange for money,’ says Warner, ‘and expects his creditor to
come up and claim his own.’ Where they came from, or who they are,
nobody has an idea. They are very violent. Twice Henderson has lashed
at folk with his dog-whip, and only his long purse and heavy
compensation have kept him out of the courts.
“Well, now, Watson, let us judge the situation by this new information.
We may take it that the letter came out of this strange household and
was an invitation to Garcia to carry out some attempt which had already
been planned. Who wrote the note? It was someone within the citadel,
and it was a woman. Who then but Miss Burnet, the governess? All our
reasoning seems to point that way. At any rate, we may take it as a
hypothesis and see what consequences it would entail. I may add that
Miss Burnet’s age and character make it certain that my first idea that
there might be a love interest in our story is out of the question.
“If she wrote the note she was presumably the friend and confederate of
Garcia. What, then, might she be expected to do if she heard of his
death? If he met it in some nefarious enterprise her lips might be
sealed. Still, in her heart, she must retain bitterness and hatred
against those who had killed him and would presumably help so far as
she could to have revenge upon them. Could we see her, then and try to
use her? That was my first thought. But now we come to a sinister fact.
Miss Burnet has not been seen by any human eye since the night of the
murder. From that evening she has utterly vanished. Is she alive? Has
she perhaps met her end on the same night as the friend whom she had
summoned? Or is she merely a prisoner? There is the point which we
still have to decide.
“You will appreciate the difficulty of the situation, Watson. There is
nothing upon which we can apply for a warrant. Our whole scheme might
seem fantastic if laid before a magistrate. The woman’s disappearance
counts for nothing, since in that extraordinary household any member of
it might be invisible for a week. And yet she may at the present moment
be in danger of her life. All I can do is to watch the house and leave
my agent, Warner, on guard at the gates. We can’t let such a situation
continue. If the law can do nothing we must take the risk ourselves.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I know which is her room. It is accessible from the top of an
outhouse. My suggestion is that you and I go to-night and see if we can
strike at the very heart of the mystery.”
It was not, I must confess, a very alluring prospect. The old house
with its atmosphere of murder, the singular and formidable inhabitants,
the unknown dangers of the approach, and the fact that we were putting
ourselves legally in a false position all combined to damp my ardour.
But there was something in the ice-cold reasoning of Holmes which made
it impossible to shrink from any adventure which he might recommend.
One knew that thus, and only thus, could a solution be found. I clasped
his hand in silence, and the die was cast.
But it was not destined that our investigation should have so
adventurous an ending. It was about five o’clock, and the shadows of
the March evening were beginning to fall, when an excited rustic rushed
into our room.
“They’ve gone, Mr. Holmes. They went by the last train. The lady broke
away, and I’ve got her in a cab downstairs.”
“Excellent, Warner!” cried Holmes, springing to his feet. “Watson, the
gaps are closing rapidly.”
In the cab was a woman, half-collapsed from nervous exhaustion. She
bore upon her aquiline and emaciated face the traces of some recent
tragedy. Her head hung listlessly upon her breast, but as she raised it
and turned her dull eyes upon us I saw that her pupils were dark dots
in the centre of the broad grey iris. She was drugged with opium.
“I watched at the gate, same as you advised, Mr. Holmes,” said our
emissary, the discharged gardener. “When the carriage came out I
followed it to the station. She was like one walking in her sleep, but
when they tried to get her into the train she came to life and
struggled. They pushed her into the carriage. She fought her way out
again. I took her part, got her into a cab, and here we are. I shan’t
forget the face at the carriage window as I led her away. I’d have a
short life if he had his way—the black-eyed, scowling, yellow devil.”
We carried her upstairs, laid her on the sofa, and a couple of cups of
the strongest coffee soon cleared her brain from the mists of the drug.
Baynes had been summoned by Holmes, and the situation rapidly explained
to him.
“Why, sir, you’ve got me the very evidence I want,” said the inspector
warmly, shaking my friend by the hand. “I was on the same scent as you
from the first.”
“What! You were after Henderson?”
“Why, Mr. Holmes, when you were crawling in the shrubbery at High Gable
I was up one of the trees in the plantation and saw you down below. It
was just who would get his evidence first.”
“Then why did you arrest the mulatto?”
Baynes chuckled.
“I was sure Henderson, as he calls himself, felt that he was suspected,
and that he would lie low and make no move so long as he thought he was
in any danger. I arrested the wrong man to make him believe that our
eyes were off him. I knew he would be likely to clear off then and give
us a chance of getting at Miss Burnet.”
Holmes laid his hand upon the inspector’s shoulder.
“You will rise high in your profession. You have instinct and
intuition,” said he.
Baynes flushed with pleasure.
“I’ve had a plain-clothes man waiting at the station all the week.
Wherever the High Gable folk go he will keep them in sight. But he must
have been hard put to it when Miss Burnet broke away. However, your man
picked her up, and it all ends well. We can’t arrest without her
evidence, that is clear, so the sooner we get a statement the better.”
“Every minute she gets stronger,” said Holmes, glancing at the
governess. “But tell me, Baynes, who is this man Henderson?”
“Henderson,” the inspector answered, “is Don Murillo, once called the
Tiger of San Pedro.”
The Tiger of San Pedro! The whole history of the man came back to me in
a flash. He had made his name as the most lewd and bloodthirsty tyrant
that had ever governed any country with a pretence to civilization.
Strong, fearless, and energetic, he had sufficient virtue to enable him
to impose his odious vices upon a cowering people for ten or twelve
years. His name was a terror through all Central America. At the end of
that time there was a universal rising against him. But he was as
cunning as he was cruel, and at the first whisper of coming trouble he
had secretly conveyed his treasures aboard a ship which was manned by
devoted adherents. It was an empty palace which was stormed by the
insurgents next day. The dictator, his two children, his secretary, and
his wealth had all escaped them. From that moment he had vanished from
the world, and his identity had been a frequent subject for comment in
the European press.
“Yes, sir, Don Murillo, the Tiger of San Pedro,” said Baynes. “If you
look it up you will find that the San Pedro colours are green and
white, same as in the note, Mr. Holmes. Henderson he called himself,
but I traced him back, Paris and Rome and Madrid to Barcelona, where
his ship came in in ’86. They’ve been looking for him all the time for
their revenge, but it is only now that they have begun to find him
out.”
“They discovered him a year ago,” said Miss Burnet, who had sat up and
was now intently following the conversation. “Once already his life has
been attempted, but some evil spirit shielded him. Now, again, it is
the noble, chivalrous Garcia who has fallen, while the monster goes
safe. But another will come, and yet another, until some day justice
will be done; that is as certain as the rise of to-morrow’s sun.” Her
thin hands clenched, and her worn face blanched with the passion of her
hatred.
“But how come you into this matter, Miss Burnet?” asked Holmes. “How
can an English lady join in such a murderous affair?”
“I join in it because there is no other way in the world by which
justice can be gained. What does the law of England care for the rivers
of blood shed years ago in San Pedro, or for the shipload of treasure
which this man has stolen? To you they are like crimes committed in
some other planet. But _we_ know. We have learned the truth in sorrow
and in suffering. To us there is no fiend in hell like Juan Murillo,
and no peace in life while his victims still cry for vengeance.”
“No doubt,” said Holmes, “he was as you say. I have heard that he was
atrocious. But how are you affected?”
“I will tell you it all. This villain’s policy was to murder, on one
pretext or another, every man who showed such promise that he might in
time come to be a dangerous rival. My husband—yes, my real name is
Signora Victor Durando—was the San Pedro minister in London. He met me
and married me there. A nobler man never lived upon earth. Unhappily,
Murillo heard of his excellence, recalled him on some pretext, and had
him shot. With a premonition of his fate he had refused to take me with
him. His estates were confiscated, and I was left with a pittance and a
broken heart.
“Then came the downfall of the tyrant. He escaped as you have just
described. But the many whose lives he had ruined, whose nearest and
dearest had suffered torture and death at his hands, would not let the
matter rest. They banded themselves into a society which should never
be dissolved until the work was done. It was my part after we had
discovered in the transformed Henderson the fallen despot, to attach
myself to his household and keep the others in touch with his
movements. This I was able to do by securing the position of governess
in his family. He little knew that the woman who faced him at every
meal was the woman whose husband he had hurried at an hour’s notice
into eternity. I smiled on him, did my duty to his children, and bided
my time. An attempt was made in Paris and failed. We zig-zagged swiftly
here and there over Europe to throw off the pursuers and finally
returned to this house, which he had taken upon his first arrival in
England.
“But here also the ministers of justice were waiting. Knowing that he
would return there, Garcia, who is the son of the former highest
dignitary in San Pedro, was waiting with two trusty companions of
humble station, all three fired with the same reasons for revenge. He
could do little during the day, for Murillo took every precaution and
never went out save with his satellite Lucas, or Lopez as he was known
in the days of his greatness. At night, however, he slept alone, and
the avenger might find him. On a certain evening, which had been
prearranged, I sent my friend final instructions, for the man was
forever on the alert and continually changed his room. I was to see
that the doors were open and the signal of a green or white light in a
window which faced the drive was to give notice if all was safe or if
the attempt had better be postponed.
“But everything went wrong with us. In some way I had excited the
suspicion of Lopez, the secretary. He crept up behind me and sprang
upon me just as I had finished the note. He and his master dragged me
to my room and held judgment upon me as a convicted traitress. Then and
there they would have plunged their knives into me could they have seen
how to escape the consequences of the deed. Finally, after much debate,
they concluded that my murder was too dangerous. But they determined to
get rid forever of Garcia. They had gagged me, and Murillo twisted my
arm round until I gave him the address. I swear that he might have
twisted it off had I understood what it would mean to Garcia. Lopez
addressed the note which I had written, sealed it with his sleeve-link,
and sent it by the hand of the servant, José. How they murdered him I
do not know, save that it was Murillo’s hand who struck him down, for
Lopez had remained to guard me. I believe he must have waited among the
gorse bushes through which the path winds and struck him down as he
passed. At first they were of a mind to let him enter the house and to
kill him as a detected burglar; but they argued that if they were mixed
up in an inquiry their own identity would at once be publicly disclosed
and they would be open to further attacks. With the death of Garcia,
the pursuit might cease, since such a death might frighten others from
the task.
“All would now have been well for them had it not been for my knowledge
of what they had done. I have no doubt that there were times when my
life hung in the balance. I was confined to my room, terrorised by the
most horrible threats, cruelly ill-used to break my spirit—see this
stab on my shoulder and the bruises from end to end of my arms—and a
gag was thrust into my mouth on the one occasion when I tried to call
from the window. For five days this cruel imprisonment continued, with
hardly enough food to hold body and soul together. This afternoon a
good lunch was brought me, but the moment after I took it I knew that I
had been drugged. In a sort of dream I remember being half-led,
half-carried to the carriage; in the same state I was conveyed to the
train. Only then, when the wheels were almost moving, did I suddenly
realise that my liberty lay in my own hands. I sprang out, they tried
to drag me back, and had it not been for the help of this good man, who
led me to the cab, I should never had broken away. Now, thank God, I am
beyond their power forever.”
We had all listened intently to this remarkable statement. It was
Holmes who broke the silence.
“Our difficulties are not over,” he remarked, shaking his head. “Our
police work ends, but our legal work begins.”
“Exactly,” said I. “A plausible lawyer could make it out as an act of
self-defence. There may be a hundred crimes in the background, but it
is only on this one that they can be tried.”
“Come, come,” said Baynes cheerily, “I think better of the law than
that. Self-defence is one thing. To entice a man in cold blood with the
object of murdering him is another, whatever danger you may fear from
him. No, no, we shall all be justified when we see the tenants of High
Gable at the next Guildford Assizes.”
It is a matter of history, however, that a little time was still to
elapse before the Tiger of San Pedro should meet with his deserts. Wily
and bold, he and his companion threw their pursuer off their track by
entering a lodging-house in Edmonton Street and leaving by the
back-gate into Curzon Square. From that day they were seen no more in
England. Some six months afterwards the Marquess of Montalva and Signor
Rulli, his secretary, were both murdered in their rooms at the Hotel
Escurial at Madrid. The crime was ascribed to Nihilism, and the
murderers were never arrested. Inspector Baynes visited us at Baker
Street with a printed description of the dark face of the secretary,
and of the masterful features, the magnetic black eyes, and the tufted
brows of his master. We could not doubt that justice, if belated, had
come at last.
“A chaotic case, my dear Watson,” said Holmes over an evening pipe. “It
will not be possible for you to present in that compact form which is
dear to your heart. It covers two continents, concerns two groups of
mysterious persons, and is further complicated by the highly
respectable presence of our friend, Scott Eccles, whose inclusion shows
me that the deceased Garcia had a scheming mind and a well-developed
instinct of self-preservation. It is remarkable only for the fact that
amid a perfect jungle of possibilities we, with our worthy
collaborator, the inspector, have kept our close hold on the essentials
and so been guided along the crooked and winding path. Is there any
point which is not quite clear to you?”
“The object of the mulatto cook’s return?”
“I think that the strange creature in the kitchen may account for it.
The man was a primitive savage from the backwoods of San Pedro, and
this was his fetish. When his companion and he had fled to some
prearranged retreat—already occupied, no doubt by a confederate—the
companion had persuaded him to leave so compromising an article of
furniture. But the mulatto’s heart was with it, and he was driven back
to it next day, when, on reconnoitering through the window, he found
policeman Walters in possession. He waited three days longer, and then
his piety or his superstition drove him to try once more. Inspector
Baynes, who, with his usual astuteness, had minimised the incident
before me, had really recognised its importance and had left a trap
into which the creature walked. Any other point, Watson?”
“The torn bird, the pail of blood, the charred bones, all the mystery
of that weird kitchen?”
Holmes smiled as he turned up an entry in his note-book.
“I spent a morning in the British Museum reading up on that and other
points. Here is a quotation from Eckermann’s _Voodooism and the Negroid
Religions:_
“‘The true voodoo-worshipper attempts nothing of importance without
certain sacrifices which are intended to propitiate his unclean gods.
In extreme cases these rites take the form of human sacrifices followed
by cannibalism. The more usual victims are a white cock, which is
plucked in pieces alive, or a black goat, whose throat is cut and body
burned.’
“So you see our savage friend was very orthodox in his ritual. It is
grotesque, Watson,” Holmes added, as he slowly fastened his notebook,
“but, as I have had occasion to remark, there is but one step from the
grotesque to the horrible.”
|
the_adventure_of_wisteria_lodge
|
The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans
|
His Last Bow
|
In the third week of November, in the year 1895, a dense yellow fog
settled down upon London. From the Monday to the Thursday I doubt
whether it was ever possible from our windows in Baker Street to see
the loom of the opposite houses. The first day Holmes had spent in
cross-indexing his huge book of references. The second and third had
been patiently occupied upon a subject which he had recently made his
hobby—the music of the Middle Ages. But when, for the fourth time,
after pushing back our chairs from breakfast we saw the greasy, heavy
brown swirl still drifting past us and condensing in oily drops upon
the window-panes, my comrade’s impatient and active nature could endure
this drab existence no longer. He paced restlessly about our
sitting-room in a fever of suppressed energy, biting his nails, tapping
the furniture, and chafing against inaction.
“Nothing of interest in the paper, Watson?” he said.
I was aware that by anything of interest, Holmes meant anything of
criminal interest. There was the news of a revolution, of a possible
war, and of an impending change of government; but these did not come
within the horizon of my companion. I could see nothing recorded in the
shape of crime which was not commonplace and futile. Holmes groaned and
resumed his restless meanderings.
“The London criminal is certainly a dull fellow,” said he in the
querulous voice of the sportsman whose game has failed him. “Look out
this window, Watson. See how the figures loom up, are dimly seen, and
then blend once more into the cloud-bank. The thief or the murderer
could roam London on such a day as the tiger does the jungle, unseen
until he pounces, and then evident only to his victim.”
“There have,” said I, “been numerous petty thefts.”
Holmes snorted his contempt.
“This great and sombre stage is set for something more worthy than
that,” said he. “It is fortunate for this community that I am not a
criminal.”
“It is, indeed!” said I heartily.
“Suppose that I were Brooks or Woodhouse, or any of the fifty men who
have good reason for taking my life, how long could I survive against
my own pursuit? A summons, a bogus appointment, and all would be over.
It is well they don’t have days of fog in the Latin countries—the
countries of assassination. By Jove! here comes something at last to
break our dead monotony.”
It was the maid with a telegram. Holmes tore it open and burst out
laughing.
“Well, well! What next?” said he. “Brother Mycroft is coming round.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Why not? It is as if you met a tram-car coming down a country lane.
Mycroft has his rails and he runs on them. His Pall Mall lodgings, the
Diogenes Club, Whitehall—that is his cycle. Once, and only once, he has
been here. What upheaval can possibly have derailed him?”
“Does he not explain?”
Holmes handed me his brother’s telegram.
“Must see you over Cadogan West. Coming at once.” MYCROFT.
“Cadogan West? I have heard the name.”
“It recalls nothing to my mind. But that Mycroft should break out in
this erratic fashion! A planet might as well leave its orbit. By the
way, do you know what Mycroft is?”
I had some vague recollection of an explanation at the time of the
Adventure of the Greek Interpreter.
“You told me that he had some small office under the British
government.”
Holmes chuckled.
“I did not know you quite so well in those days. One has to be discreet
when one talks of high matters of state. You are right in thinking that
he is under the British government. You would also be right in a sense
if you said that occasionally he _is_ the British government.”
“My dear Holmes!”
“I thought I might surprise you. Mycroft draws four hundred and fifty
pounds a year, remains a subordinate, has no ambitions of any kind,
will receive neither honour nor title, but remains the most
indispensable man in the country.”
“But how?”
“Well, his position is unique. He has made it for himself. There has
never been anything like it before, nor will be again. He has the
tidiest and most orderly brain, with the greatest capacity for storing
facts, of any man living. The same great powers which I have turned to
the detection of crime he has used for this particular business. The
conclusions of every department are passed to him, and he is the
central exchange, the clearinghouse, which makes out the balance. All
other men are specialists, but his specialism is omniscience. We will
suppose that a minister needs information as to a point which involves
the Navy, India, Canada and the bimetallic question; he could get his
separate advices from various departments upon each, but only Mycroft
can focus them all, and say offhand how each factor would affect the
other. They began by using him as a short-cut, a convenience; now he
has made himself an essential. In that great brain of his everything is
pigeon-holed and can be handed out in an instant. Again and again his
word has decided the national policy. He lives in it. He thinks of
nothing else save when, as an intellectual exercise, he unbends if I
call upon him and ask him to advise me on one of my little problems.
But Jupiter is descending to-day. What on earth can it mean? Who is
Cadogan West, and what is he to Mycroft?”
“I have it,” I cried, and plunged among the litter of papers upon the
sofa. “Yes, yes, here he is, sure enough! Cadogan West was the young
man who was found dead on the Underground on Tuesday morning.”
Holmes sat up at attention, his pipe halfway to his lips.
“This must be serious, Watson. A death which has caused my brother to
alter his habits can be no ordinary one. What in the world can he have
to do with it? The case was featureless as I remember it. The young man
had apparently fallen out of the train and killed himself. He had not
been robbed, and there was no particular reason to suspect violence. Is
that not so?”
“There has been an inquest,” said I, “and a good many fresh facts have
come out. Looked at more closely, I should certainly say that it was a
curious case.”
“Judging by its effect upon my brother, I should think it must be a
most extraordinary one.” He snuggled down in his armchair. “Now,
Watson, let us have the facts.”
“The man’s name was Arthur Cadogan West. He was twenty-seven years of
age, unmarried, and a clerk at Woolwich Arsenal.”
“Government employ. Behold the link with Brother Mycroft!”
“He left Woolwich suddenly on Monday night. Was last seen by his
fiancée, Miss Violet Westbury, whom he left abruptly in the fog about
7:30 that evening. There was no quarrel between them and she can give
no motive for his action. The next thing heard of him was when his dead
body was discovered by a plate-layer named Mason, just outside Aldgate
Station on the Underground system in London.”
“When?”
“The body was found at six on Tuesday morning. It was lying wide of the
metals upon the left hand of the track as one goes eastward, at a point
close to the station, where the line emerges from the tunnel in which
it runs. The head was badly crushed—an injury which might well have
been caused by a fall from the train. The body could only have come on
the line in that way. Had it been carried down from any neighbouring
street, it must have passed the station barriers, where a collector is
always standing. This point seems absolutely certain.”
“Very good. The case is definite enough. The man, dead or alive, either
fell or was precipitated from a train. So much is clear to me.
Continue.”
“The trains which traverse the lines of rail beside which the body was
found are those which run from west to east, some being purely
Metropolitan, and some from Willesden and outlying junctions. It can be
stated for certain that this young man, when he met his death, was
travelling in this direction at some late hour of the night, but at
what point he entered the train it is impossible to state.”
“His ticket, of course, would show that.”
“There was no ticket in his pockets.”
“No ticket! Dear me, Watson, this is really very singular. According to
my experience it is not possible to reach the platform of a
Metropolitan train without exhibiting one’s ticket. Presumably, then,
the young man had one. Was it taken from him in order to conceal the
station from which he came? It is possible. Or did he drop it in the
carriage? That is also possible. But the point is of curious interest.
I understand that there was no sign of robbery?”
“Apparently not. There is a list here of his possessions. His purse
contained two pounds fifteen. He had also a check-book on the Woolwich
branch of the Capital and Counties Bank. Through this his identity was
established. There were also two dress-circle tickets for the Woolwich
Theatre, dated for that very evening. Also a small packet of technical
papers.”
Holmes gave an exclamation of satisfaction.
“There we have it at last, Watson! British government—Woolwich.
Arsenal—technical papers—Brother Mycroft, the chain is complete. But
here he comes, if I am not mistaken, to speak for himself.”
A moment later the tall and portly form of Mycroft Holmes was ushered
into the room. Heavily built and massive, there was a suggestion of
uncouth physical inertia in the figure, but above this unwieldy frame
there was perched a head so masterful in its brow, so alert in its
steel-grey, deep-set eyes, so firm in its lips, and so subtle in its
play of expression, that after the first glance one forgot the gross
body and remembered only the dominant mind.
At his heels came our old friend Lestrade, of Scotland Yard—thin and
austere. The gravity of both their faces foretold some weighty quest.
The detective shook hands without a word. Mycroft Holmes struggled out
of his overcoat and subsided into an armchair.
“A most annoying business, Sherlock,” said he. “I extremely dislike
altering my habits, but the powers that be would take no denial. In the
present state of Siam it is most awkward that I should be away from the
office. But it is a real crisis. I have never seen the Prime Minister
so upset. As to the Admiralty—it is buzzing like an overturned
bee-hive. Have you read up the case?”
“We have just done so. What were the technical papers?”
“Ah, there’s the point! Fortunately, it has not come out. The press
would be furious if it did. The papers which this wretched youth had in
his pocket were the plans of the Bruce-Partington submarine.”
Mycroft Holmes spoke with a solemnity which showed his sense of the
importance of the subject. His brother and I sat expectant.
“Surely you have heard of it? I thought everyone had heard of it.”
“Only as a name.”
“Its importance can hardly be exaggerated. It has been the most
jealously guarded of all government secrets. You may take it from me
that naval warfare becomes impossible within the radius of a
Bruce-Partington’s operation. Two years ago a very large sum was
smuggled through the Estimates and was expended in acquiring a monopoly
of the invention. Every effort has been made to keep the secret. The
plans, which are exceedingly intricate, comprising some thirty separate
patents, each essential to the working of the whole, are kept in an
elaborate safe in a confidential office adjoining the arsenal, with
burglar-proof doors and windows. Under no conceivable circumstances
were the plans to be taken from the office. If the chief constructor of
the Navy desired to consult them, even he was forced to go to the
Woolwich office for the purpose. And yet here we find them in the
pocket of a dead junior clerk in the heart of London. From an official
point of view it’s simply awful.”
“But you have recovered them?”
“No, Sherlock, no! That’s the pinch. We have not. Ten papers were taken
from Woolwich. There were seven in the pocket of Cadogan West. The
three most essential are gone—stolen, vanished. You must drop
everything, Sherlock. Never mind your usual petty puzzles of the
police-court. It’s a vital international problem that you have to
solve. Why did Cadogan West take the papers, where are the missing
ones, how did he die, how came his body where it was found, how can the
evil be set right? Find an answer to all these questions, and you will
have done good service for your country.”
“Why do you not solve it yourself, Mycroft? You can see as far as I.”
“Possibly, Sherlock. But it is a question of getting details. Give me
your details, and from an armchair I will return you an excellent
expert opinion. But to run here and run there, to cross-question
railway guards, and lie on my face with a lens to my eye—it is not my
métier. No, you are the one man who can clear the matter up. If you
have a fancy to see your name in the next honours list—”
My friend smiled and shook his head.
“I play the game for the game’s own sake,” said he. “But the problem
certainly presents some points of interest, and I shall be very pleased
to look into it. Some more facts, please.”
“I have jotted down the more essential ones upon this sheet of paper,
together with a few addresses which you will find of service. The
actual official guardian of the papers is the famous government expert,
Sir James Walter, whose decorations and sub-titles fill two lines of a
book of reference. He has grown grey in the service, is a gentleman, a
favoured guest in the most exalted houses, and, above all, a man whose
patriotism is beyond suspicion. He is one of two who have a key of the
safe. I may add that the papers were undoubtedly in the office during
working hours on Monday, and that Sir James left for London about three
o’clock taking his key with him. He was at the house of Admiral
Sinclair at Barclay Square during the whole of the evening when this
incident occurred.”
“Has the fact been verified?”
“Yes; his brother, Colonel Valentine Walter, has testified to his
departure from Woolwich, and Admiral Sinclair to his arrival in London;
so Sir James is no longer a direct factor in the problem.”
“Who was the other man with a key?”
“The senior clerk and draughtsman, Mr. Sidney Johnson. He is a man of
forty, married, with five children. He is a silent, morose man, but he
has, on the whole, an excellent record in the public service. He is
unpopular with his colleagues, but a hard worker. According to his own
account, corroborated only by the word of his wife, he was at home the
whole of Monday evening after office hours, and his key has never left
the watch-chain upon which it hangs.”
“Tell us about Cadogan West.”
“He has been ten years in the service and has done good work. He has
the reputation of being hot-headed and imperious, but a straight,
honest man. We have nothing against him. He was next Sidney Johnson in
the office. His duties brought him into daily, personal contact with
the plans. No one else had the handling of them.”
“Who locked up the plans that night?”
“Mr. Sidney Johnson, the senior clerk.”
“Well, it is surely perfectly clear who took them away. They are
actually found upon the person of this junior clerk, Cadogan West. That
seems final, does it not?”
“It does, Sherlock, and yet it leaves so much unexplained. In the first
place, why did he take them?”
“I presume they were of value?”
“He could have got several thousands for them very easily.”
“Can you suggest any possible motive for taking the papers to London
except to sell them?”
“No, I cannot.”
“Then we must take that as our working hypothesis. Young West took the
papers. Now this could only be done by having a false key—”
“Several false keys. He had to open the building and the room.”
“He had, then, several false keys. He took the papers to London to sell
the secret, intending, no doubt, to have the plans themselves back in
the safe next morning before they were missed. While in London on this
treasonable mission he met his end.”
“How?”
“We will suppose that he was travelling back to Woolwich when he was
killed and thrown out of the compartment.”
“Aldgate, where the body was found, is considerably past the station
London Bridge, which would be his route to Woolwich.”
“Many circumstances could be imagined under which he would pass London
Bridge. There was someone in the carriage, for example, with whom he
was having an absorbing interview. This interview led to a violent
scene in which he lost his life. Possibly he tried to leave the
carriage, fell out on the line, and so met his end. The other closed
the door. There was a thick fog, and nothing could be seen.”
“No better explanation can be given with our present knowledge; and yet
consider, Sherlock, how much you leave untouched. We will suppose, for
argument’s sake, that young Cadogan West _had_ determined to convey
these papers to London. He would naturally have made an appointment
with the foreign agent and kept his evening clear. Instead of that he
took two tickets for the theatre, escorted his fiancée halfway there,
and then suddenly disappeared.”
“A blind,” said Lestrade, who had sat listening with some impatience to
the conversation.
“A very singular one. That is objection No. 1. Objection No. 2: We will
suppose that he reaches London and sees the foreign agent. He must
bring back the papers before morning or the loss will be discovered. He
took away ten. Only seven were in his pocket. What had become of the
other three? He certainly would not leave them of his own free will.
Then, again, where is the price of his treason? One would have expected
to find a large sum of money in his pocket.”
“It seems to me perfectly clear,” said Lestrade. “I have no doubt at
all as to what occurred. He took the papers to sell them. He saw the
agent. They could not agree as to price. He started home again, but the
agent went with him. In the train the agent murdered him, took the more
essential papers, and threw his body from the carriage. That would
account for everything, would it not?”
“Why had he no ticket?”
“The ticket would have shown which station was nearest the agent’s
house. Therefore he took it from the murdered man’s pocket.”
“Good, Lestrade, very good,” said Holmes. “Your theory holds together.
But if this is true, then the case is at an end. On the one hand, the
traitor is dead. On the other, the plans of the Bruce-Partington
submarine are presumably already on the Continent. What is there for us
to do?”
“To act, Sherlock—to act!” cried Mycroft, springing to his feet. “All
my instincts are against this explanation. Use your powers! Go to the
scene of the crime! See the people concerned! Leave no stone unturned!
In all your career you have never had so great a chance of serving your
country.”
“Well, well!” said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders. “Come, Watson! And
you, Lestrade, could you favour us with your company for an hour or
two? We will begin our investigation by a visit to Aldgate Station.
Good-bye, Mycroft. I shall let you have a report before evening, but I
warn you in advance that you have little to expect.”
An hour later Holmes, Lestrade and I stood upon the Underground
railroad at the point where it emerges from the tunnel immediately
before Aldgate Station. A courteous red-faced old gentleman represented
the railway company.
“This is where the young man’s body lay,” said he, indicating a spot
about three feet from the metals. “It could not have fallen from above,
for these, as you see, are all blank walls. Therefore, it could only
have come from a train, and that train, so far as we can trace it, must
have passed about midnight on Monday.”
“Have the carriages been examined for any sign of violence?”
“There are no such signs, and no ticket has been found.”
“No record of a door being found open?”
“None.”
“We have had some fresh evidence this morning,” said Lestrade. “A
passenger who passed Aldgate in an ordinary Metropolitan train about
11:40 on Monday night declares that he heard a heavy thud, as of a body
striking the line, just before the train reached the station. There was
dense fog, however, and nothing could be seen. He made no report of it
at the time. Why, whatever is the matter with Mr. Holmes?”
My friend was standing with an expression of strained intensity upon
his face, staring at the railway metals where they curved out of the
tunnel. Aldgate is a junction, and there was a network of points. On
these his eager, questioning eyes were fixed, and I saw on his keen,
alert face that tightening of the lips, that quiver of the nostrils,
and concentration of the heavy, tufted brows which I knew so well.
“Points,” he muttered; “the points.”
“What of it? What do you mean?”
“I suppose there are no great number of points on a system such as
this?”
“No; they are very few.”
“And a curve, too. Points, and a curve. By Jove! if it were only so.”
“What is it, Mr. Holmes? Have you a clue?”
“An idea—an indication, no more. But the case certainly grows in
interest. Unique, perfectly unique, and yet why not? I do not see any
indications of bleeding on the line.”
“There were hardly any.”
“But I understand that there was a considerable wound.”
“The bone was crushed, but there was no great external injury.”
“And yet one would have expected some bleeding. Would it be possible
for me to inspect the train which contained the passenger who heard the
thud of a fall in the fog?”
“I fear not, Mr. Holmes. The train has been broken up before now, and
the carriages redistributed.”
“I can assure you, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade, “that every carriage has
been carefully examined. I saw to it myself.”
It was one of my friend’s most obvious weaknesses that he was impatient
with less alert intelligences than his own.
“Very likely,” said he, turning away. “As it happens, it was not the
carriages which I desired to examine. Watson, we have done all we can
here. We need not trouble you any further, Mr. Lestrade. I think our
investigations must now carry us to Woolwich.”
At London Bridge, Holmes wrote a telegram to his brother, which he
handed to me before dispatching it. It ran thus:
See some light in the darkness, but it may possibly flicker out.
Meanwhile, please send by messenger, to await return at Baker Street, a
complete list of all foreign spies or international agents known to be
in England, with full address.—Sherlock.
“That should be helpful, Watson,” he remarked as we took our seats in
the Woolwich train. “We certainly owe Brother Mycroft a debt for having
introduced us to what promises to be a really very remarkable case.”
His eager face still wore that expression of intense and high-strung
energy, which showed me that some novel and suggestive circumstance had
opened up a stimulating line of thought. See the foxhound with hanging
ears and drooping tail as it lolls about the kennels, and compare it
with the same hound as, with gleaming eyes and straining muscles, it
runs upon a breast-high scent—such was the change in Holmes since the
morning. He was a different man from the limp and lounging figure in
the mouse-coloured dressing-gown who had prowled so restlessly only a
few hours before round the fog-girt room.
“There is material here. There is scope,” said he. “I am dull indeed
not to have understood its possibilities.”
“Even now they are dark to me.”
“The end is dark to me also, but I have hold of one idea which may lead
us far. The man met his death elsewhere, and his body was on the _roof_
of a carriage.”
“On the roof!”
“Remarkable, is it not? But consider the facts. Is it a coincidence
that it is found at the very point where the train pitches and sways as
it comes round on the points? Is not that the place where an object
upon the roof might be expected to fall off? The points would affect no
object inside the train. Either the body fell from the roof, or a very
curious coincidence has occurred. But now consider the question of the
blood. Of course, there was no bleeding on the line if the body had
bled elsewhere. Each fact is suggestive in itself. Together they have a
cumulative force.”
“And the ticket, too!” I cried.
“Exactly. We could not explain the absence of a ticket. This would
explain it. Everything fits together.”
“But suppose it were so, we are still as far as ever from unravelling
the mystery of his death. Indeed, it becomes not simpler but stranger.”
“Perhaps,” said Holmes, thoughtfully, “perhaps.” He relapsed into a
silent reverie, which lasted until the slow train drew up at last in
Woolwich Station. There he called a cab and drew Mycroft’s paper from
his pocket.
“We have quite a little round of afternoon calls to make,” said he. “I
think that Sir James Walter claims our first attention.”
The house of the famous official was a fine villa with green lawns
stretching down to the Thames. As we reached it the fog was lifting,
and a thin, watery sunshine was breaking through. A butler answered our
ring.
“Sir James, sir!” said he with solemn face. “Sir James died this
morning.”
“Good heavens!” cried Holmes in amazement. “How did he die?”
“Perhaps you would care to step in, sir, and see his brother, Colonel
Valentine?”
“Yes, we had best do so.”
We were ushered into a dim-lit drawing-room, where an instant later we
were joined by a very tall, handsome, light-bearded man of fifty, the
younger brother of the dead scientist. His wild eyes, stained cheeks,
and unkempt hair all spoke of the sudden blow which had fallen upon the
household. He was hardly articulate as he spoke of it.
“It was this horrible scandal,” said he. “My brother, Sir James, was a
man of very sensitive honour, and he could not survive such an affair.
It broke his heart. He was always so proud of the efficiency of his
department, and this was a crushing blow.”
“We had hoped that he might have given us some indications which would
have helped us to clear the matter up.”
“I assure you that it was all a mystery to him as it is to you and to
all of us. He had already put all his knowledge at the disposal of the
police. Naturally he had no doubt that Cadogan West was guilty. But all
the rest was inconceivable.”
“You cannot throw any new light upon the affair?”
“I know nothing myself save what I have read or heard. I have no desire
to be discourteous, but you can understand, Mr. Holmes, that we are
much disturbed at present, and I must ask you to hasten this interview
to an end.”
“This is indeed an unexpected development,” said my friend when we had
regained the cab. “I wonder if the death was natural, or whether the
poor old fellow killed himself! If the latter, may it be taken as some
sign of self-reproach for duty neglected? We must leave that question
to the future. Now we shall turn to the Cadogan Wests.”
A small but well-kept house in the outskirts of the town sheltered the
bereaved mother. The old lady was too dazed with grief to be of any use
to us, but at her side was a white-faced young lady, who introduced
herself as Miss Violet Westbury, the fiancée of the dead man, and the
last to see him upon that fatal night.
“I cannot explain it, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “I have not shut an eye
since the tragedy, thinking, thinking, thinking, night and day, what
the true meaning of it can be. Arthur was the most single-minded,
chivalrous, patriotic man upon earth. He would have cut his right hand
off before he would sell a State secret confided to his keeping. It is
absurd, impossible, preposterous to anyone who knew him.”
“But the facts, Miss Westbury?”
“Yes, yes; I admit I cannot explain them.”
“Was he in any want of money?”
“No; his needs were very simple and his salary ample. He had saved a
few hundreds, and we were to marry at the New Year.”
“No signs of any mental excitement? Come, Miss Westbury, be absolutely
frank with us.”
The quick eye of my companion had noted some change in her manner. She
coloured and hesitated.
“Yes,” she said at last, “I had a feeling that there was something on
his mind.”
“For long?”
“Only for the last week or so. He was thoughtful and worried. Once I
pressed him about it. He admitted that there was something, and that it
was concerned with his official life. ‘It is too serious for me to
speak about, even to you,’ said he. I could get nothing more.”
Holmes looked grave.
“Go on, Miss Westbury. Even if it seems to tell against him, go on. We
cannot say what it may lead to.”
“Indeed, I have nothing more to tell. Once or twice it seemed to me
that he was on the point of telling me something. He spoke one evening
of the importance of the secret, and I have some recollection that he
said that no doubt foreign spies would pay a great deal to have it.”
My friend’s face grew graver still.
“Anything else?”
“He said that we were slack about such matters—that it would be easy
for a traitor to get the plans.”
“Was it only recently that he made such remarks?”
“Yes, quite recently.”
“Now tell us of that last evening.”
“We were to go to the theatre. The fog was so thick that a cab was
useless. We walked, and our way took us close to the office. Suddenly
he darted away into the fog.”
“Without a word?”
“He gave an exclamation; that was all. I waited but he never returned.
Then I walked home. Next morning, after the office opened, they came to
inquire. About twelve o’clock we heard the terrible news. Oh, Mr.
Holmes, if you could only, only save his honour! It was so much to
him.”
Holmes shook his head sadly.
“Come, Watson,” said he, “our ways lie elsewhere. Our next station must
be the office from which the papers were taken.
“It was black enough before against this young man, but our inquiries
make it blacker,” he remarked as the cab lumbered off. “His coming
marriage gives a motive for the crime. He naturally wanted money. The
idea was in his head, since he spoke about it. He nearly made the girl
an accomplice in the treason by telling her his plans. It is all very
bad.”
“But surely, Holmes, character goes for something? Then, again, why
should he leave the girl in the street and dart away to commit a
felony?”
“Exactly! There are certainly objections. But it is a formidable case
which they have to meet.”
Mr. Sidney Johnson, the senior clerk, met us at the office and received
us with that respect which my companion’s card always commanded. He was
a thin, gruff, bespectacled man of middle age, his cheeks haggard, and
his hands twitching from the nervous strain to which he had been
subjected.
“It is bad, Mr. Holmes, very bad! Have you heard of the death of the
chief?”
“We have just come from his house.”
“The place is disorganised. The chief dead, Cadogan West dead, our
papers stolen. And yet, when we closed our door on Monday evening, we
were as efficient an office as any in the government service. Good God,
it’s dreadful to think of! That West, of all men, should have done such
a thing!”
“You are sure of his guilt, then?”
“I can see no other way out of it. And yet I would have trusted him as
I trust myself.”
“At what hour was the office closed on Monday?”
“At five.”
“Did you close it?”
“I am always the last man out.”
“Where were the plans?”
“In that safe. I put them there myself.”
“Is there no watchman to the building?”
“There is, but he has other departments to look after as well. He is an
old soldier and a most trustworthy man. He saw nothing that evening. Of
course the fog was very thick.”
“Suppose that Cadogan West wished to make his way into the building
after hours; he would need three keys, would he not, before he could
reach the papers?”
“Yes, he would. The key of the outer door, the key of the office, and
the key of the safe.”
“Only Sir James Walter and you had those keys?”
“I had no keys of the doors—only of the safe.”
“Was Sir James a man who was orderly in his habits?”
“Yes, I think he was. I know that so far as those three keys are
concerned he kept them on the same ring. I have often seen them there.”
“And that ring went with him to London?”
“He said so.”
“And your key never left your possession?”
“Never.”
“Then West, if he is the culprit, must have had a duplicate. And yet
none was found upon his body. One other point: if a clerk in this
office desired to sell the plans, would it not be simpler to copy the
plans for himself than to take the originals, as was actually done?”
“It would take considerable technical knowledge to copy the plans in an
effective way.”
“But I suppose either Sir James, or you, or West has that technical
knowledge?”
“No doubt we had, but I beg you won’t try to drag me into the matter,
Mr. Holmes. What is the use of our speculating in this way when the
original plans were actually found on West?”
“Well, it is certainly singular that he should run the risk of taking
originals if he could safely have taken copies, which would have
equally served his turn.”
“Singular, no doubt—and yet he did so.”
“Every inquiry in this case reveals something inexplicable. Now there
are three papers still missing. They are, as I understand, the vital
ones.”
“Yes, that is so.”
“Do you mean to say that anyone holding these three papers, and without
the seven others, could construct a Bruce-Partington submarine?”
“I reported to that effect to the Admiralty. But to-day I have been
over the drawings again, and I am not so sure of it. The double valves
with the automatic self-adjusting slots are drawn in one of the papers
which have been returned. Until the foreigners had invented that for
themselves they could not make the boat. Of course they might soon get
over the difficulty.”
“But the three missing drawings are the most important?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“I think, with your permission, I will now take a stroll round the
premises. I do not recall any other question which I desired to ask.”
He examined the lock of the safe, the door of the room, and finally the
iron shutters of the window. It was only when we were on the lawn
outside that his interest was strongly excited. There was a laurel bush
outside the window, and several of the branches bore signs of having
been twisted or snapped. He examined them carefully with his lens, and
then some dim and vague marks upon the earth beneath. Finally he asked
the chief clerk to close the iron shutters, and he pointed out to me
that they hardly met in the centre, and that it would be possible for
anyone outside to see what was going on within the room.
“The indications are ruined by three days’ delay. They may mean
something or nothing. Well, Watson, I do not think that Woolwich can
help us further. It is a small crop which we have gathered. Let us see
if we can do better in London.”
Yet we added one more sheaf to our harvest before we left Woolwich
Station. The clerk in the ticket office was able to say with confidence
that he saw Cadogan West—whom he knew well by sight—upon the Monday
night, and that he went to London by the 8:15 to London Bridge. He was
alone and took a single third-class ticket. The clerk was struck at the
time by his excited and nervous manner. So shaky was he that he could
hardly pick up his change, and the clerk had helped him with it. A
reference to the timetable showed that the 8:15 was the first train
which it was possible for West to take after he had left the lady about
7:30.
“Let us reconstruct, Watson,” said Holmes after half an hour of
silence. “I am not aware that in all our joint researches we have ever
had a case which was more difficult to get at. Every fresh advance
which we make only reveals a fresh ridge beyond. And yet we have surely
made some appreciable progress.
“The effect of our inquiries at Woolwich has in the main been against
young Cadogan West; but the indications at the window would lend
themselves to a more favourable hypothesis. Let us suppose, for
example, that he had been approached by some foreign agent. It might
have been done under such pledges as would have prevented him from
speaking of it, and yet would have affected his thoughts in the
direction indicated by his remarks to his fiancée. Very good. We will
now suppose that as he went to the theatre with the young lady he
suddenly, in the fog, caught a glimpse of this same agent going in the
direction of the office. He was an impetuous man, quick in his
decisions. Everything gave way to his duty. He followed the man,
reached the window, saw the abstraction of the documents, and pursued
the thief. In this way we get over the objection that no one would take
originals when he could make copies. This outsider had to take
originals. So far it holds together.”
“What is the next step?”
“Then we come into difficulties. One would imagine that under such
circumstances the first act of young Cadogan West would be to seize the
villain and raise the alarm. Why did he not do so? Could it have been
an official superior who took the papers? That would explain West’s
conduct. Or could the chief have given West the slip in the fog, and
West started at once to London to head him off from his own rooms,
presuming that he knew where the rooms were? The call must have been
very pressing, since he left his girl standing in the fog and made no
effort to communicate with her. Our scent runs cold here, and there is
a vast gap between either hypothesis and the laying of West’s body,
with seven papers in his pocket, on the roof of a Metropolitan train.
My instinct now is to work from the other end. If Mycroft has given us
the list of addresses we may be able to pick our man and follow two
tracks instead of one.”
Surely enough, a note awaited us at Baker Street. A government
messenger had brought it post-haste. Holmes glanced at it and threw it
over to me.
There are numerous small fry, but few who would handle so big an
affair. The only men worth considering are Adolph Mayer, of 13, Great
George Street, Westminster; Louis La Rothière, of Campden Mansions,
Notting Hill; and Hugo Oberstein, 13, Caulfield Gardens, Kensington.
The latter was known to be in town on Monday and is now reported as
having left. Glad to hear you have seen some light. The Cabinet awaits
your final report with the utmost anxiety. Urgent representations have
arrived from the very highest quarter. The whole force of the State is
at your back if you should need it.—Mycroft.
“I’m afraid,” said Holmes, smiling, “that all the Queen’s horses and
all the Queen’s men cannot avail in this matter.” He had spread out his
big map of London and leaned eagerly over it. “Well, well,” said he
presently with an exclamation of satisfaction, “things are turning a
little in our direction at last. Why, Watson, I do honestly believe
that we are going to pull it off, after all.” He slapped me on the
shoulder with a sudden burst of hilarity. “I am going out now. It is
only a reconnaissance. I will do nothing serious without my trusted
comrade and biographer at my elbow. Do you stay here, and the odds are
that you will see me again in an hour or two. If time hangs heavy get
foolscap and a pen, and begin your narrative of how we saved the
State.”
I felt some reflection of his elation in my own mind, for I knew well
that he would not depart so far from his usual austerity of demeanour
unless there was good cause for exultation. All the long November
evening I waited, filled with impatience for his return. At last,
shortly after nine o’clock, there arrived a messenger with a note:
Am dining at Goldini’s Restaurant, Gloucester Road, Kensington. Please
come at once and join me there. Bring with you a jemmy, a dark lantern,
a chisel, and a revolver.—S.H.
It was a nice equipment for a respectable citizen to carry through the
dim, fog-draped streets. I stowed them all discreetly away in my
overcoat and drove straight to the address given. There sat my friend
at a little round table near the door of the garish Italian restaurant.
“Have you had something to eat? Then join me in a coffee and curaçao.
Try one of the proprietor’s cigars. They are less poisonous than one
would expect. Have you the tools?”
“They are here, in my overcoat.”
“Excellent. Let me give you a short sketch of what I have done, with
some indication of what we are about to do. Now it must be evident to
you, Watson, that this young man’s body was _placed_ on the roof of the
train. That was clear from the instant that I determined the fact that
it was from the roof, and not from a carriage, that he had fallen.”
“Could it not have been dropped from a bridge?”
“I should say it was impossible. If you examine the roofs you will find
that they are slightly rounded, and there is no railing round them.
Therefore, we can say for certain that young Cadogan West was placed on
it.”
“How could he be placed there?”
“That was the question which we had to answer. There is only one
possible way. You are aware that the Underground runs clear of tunnels
at some points in the West End. I had a vague memory that as I have
travelled by it I have occasionally seen windows just above my head.
Now, suppose that a train halted under such a window, would there be
any difficulty in laying a body upon the roof?”
“It seems most improbable.”
“We must fall back upon the old axiom that when all other contingencies
fail, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Here all
other contingencies _have_ failed. When I found that the leading
international agent, who had just left London, lived in a row of houses
which abutted upon the Underground, I was so pleased that you were a
little astonished at my sudden frivolity.”
“Oh, that was it, was it?”
“Yes, that was it. Mr. Hugo Oberstein, of 13, Caulfield Gardens, had
become my objective. I began my operations at Gloucester Road Station,
where a very helpful official walked with me along the track and
allowed me to satisfy myself not only that the back-stair windows of
Caulfield Gardens open on the line but the even more essential fact
that, owing to the intersection of one of the larger railways, the
Underground trains are frequently held motionless for some minutes at
that very spot.”
“Splendid, Holmes! You have got it!”
“So far—so far, Watson. We advance, but the goal is afar. Well, having
seen the back of Caulfield Gardens, I visited the front and satisfied
myself that the bird was indeed flown. It is a considerable house,
unfurnished, so far as I could judge, in the upper rooms. Oberstein
lived there with a single valet, who was probably a confederate
entirely in his confidence. We must bear in mind that Oberstein has
gone to the Continent to dispose of his booty, but not with any idea of
flight; for he had no reason to fear a warrant, and the idea of an
amateur domiciliary visit would certainly never occur to him. Yet that
is precisely what we are about to make.”
“Could we not get a warrant and legalise it?”
“Hardly on the evidence.”
“What can we hope to do?”
“We cannot tell what correspondence may be there.”
“I don’t like it, Holmes.”
“My dear fellow, you shall keep watch in the street. I’ll do the
criminal part. It’s not a time to stick at trifles. Think of Mycroft’s
note, of the Admiralty, the Cabinet, the exalted person who waits for
news. We are bound to go.”
My answer was to rise from the table.
“You are right, Holmes. We are bound to go.”
He sprang up and shook me by the hand.
“I knew you would not shrink at the last,” said he, and for a moment I
saw something in his eyes which was nearer to tenderness than I had
ever seen. The next instant he was his masterful, practical self once
more.
“It is nearly half a mile, but there is no hurry. Let us walk,” said
he. “Don’t drop the instruments, I beg. Your arrest as a suspicious
character would be a most unfortunate complication.”
Caulfield Gardens was one of those lines of flat-faced pillared, and
porticoed houses which are so prominent a product of the middle
Victorian epoch in the West End of London. Next door there appeared to
be a children’s party, for the merry buzz of young voices and the
clatter of a piano resounded through the night. The fog still hung
about and screened us with its friendly shade. Holmes had lit his
lantern and flashed it upon the massive door.
“This is a serious proposition,” said he. “It is certainly bolted as
well as locked. We would do better in the area. There is an excellent
archway down yonder in case a too zealous policeman should intrude.
Give me a hand, Watson, and I’ll do the same for you.”
A minute later we were both in the area. Hardly had we reached the dark
shadows before the step of the policeman was heard in the fog above. As
its soft rhythm died away, Holmes set to work upon the lower door. I
saw him stoop and strain until with a sharp crash it flew open. We
sprang through into the dark passage, closing the area door behind us.
Holmes led the way up the curving, uncarpeted stair. His little fan of
yellow light shone upon a low window.
“Here we are, Watson—this must be the one.” He threw it open, and as he
did so there was a low, harsh murmur, growing steadily into a loud roar
as a train dashed past us in the darkness. Holmes swept his light along
the window-sill. It was thickly coated with soot from the passing
engines, but the black surface was blurred and rubbed in places.
“You can see where they rested the body. Halloa, Watson! what is this?
There can be no doubt that it is a blood mark.” He was pointing to
faint discolorations along the woodwork of the window. “Here it is on
the stone of the stair also. The demonstration is complete. Let us stay
here until a train stops.”
We had not long to wait. The very next train roared from the tunnel as
before, but slowed in the open, and then, with a creaking of brakes,
pulled up immediately beneath us. It was not four feet from the
window-ledge to the roof of the carriages. Holmes softly closed the
window.
“So far we are justified,” said he. “What do you think of it, Watson?”
“A masterpiece. You have never risen to a greater height.”
“I cannot agree with you there. From the moment that I conceived the
idea of the body being upon the roof, which surely was not a very
abstruse one, all the rest was inevitable. If it were not for the grave
interests involved the affair up to this point would be insignificant.
Our difficulties are still before us. But perhaps we may find something
here which may help us.”
We had ascended the kitchen stair and entered the suite of rooms upon
the first floor. One was a dining-room, severely furnished and
containing nothing of interest. A second was a bedroom, which also drew
blank. The remaining room appeared more promising, and my companion
settled down to a systematic examination. It was littered with books
and papers, and was evidently used as a study. Swiftly and methodically
Holmes turned over the contents of drawer after drawer and cupboard
after cupboard, but no gleam of success came to brighten his austere
face. At the end of an hour he was no further than when he started.
“The cunning dog has covered his tracks,” said he. “He has left nothing
to incriminate him. His dangerous correspondence has been destroyed or
removed. This is our last chance.”
It was a small tin cash-box which stood upon the writing-desk. Holmes
pried it open with his chisel. Several rolls of paper were within,
covered with figures and calculations, without any note to show to what
they referred. The recurring words, “water pressure” and “pressure to
the square inch” suggested some possible relation to a submarine.
Holmes tossed them all impatiently aside. There only remained an
envelope with some small newspaper slips inside it. He shook them out
on the table, and at once I saw by his eager face that his hopes had
been raised.
“What’s this, Watson? Eh? What’s this? Record of a series of messages
in the advertisements of a paper. _Daily Telegraph_ agony column by the
print and paper. Right-hand top corner of a page. No dates—but messages
arrange themselves. This must be the first:
“Hoped to hear sooner. Terms agreed to. Write fully to address given on
card.—Pierrot.
“Next comes:
“Too complex for description. Must have full report. Stuff awaits you
when goods delivered.—Pierrot.
“Then comes:
“Matter presses. Must withdraw offer unless contract completed. Make
appointment by letter. Will confirm by advertisement.—Pierrot.
“Finally:
“Monday night after nine. Two taps. Only ourselves. Do not be so
suspicious. Payment in hard cash when goods delivered.—Pierrot.
“A fairly complete record, Watson! If we could only get at the man at
the other end!” He sat lost in thought, tapping his fingers on the
table. Finally he sprang to his feet.
“Well, perhaps it won’t be so difficult, after all. There is nothing
more to be done here, Watson. I think we might drive round to the
offices of the _Daily Telegraph_, and so bring a good day’s work to a
conclusion.”
Mycroft Holmes and Lestrade had come round by appointment after
breakfast next day and Sherlock Holmes had recounted to them our
proceedings of the day before. The professional shook his head over our
confessed burglary.
“We can’t do these things in the force, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “No
wonder you get results that are beyond us. But some of these days
you’ll go too far, and you’ll find yourself and your friend in
trouble.”
“For England, home and beauty—eh, Watson? Martyrs on the altar of our
country. But what do you think of it, Mycroft?”
“Excellent, Sherlock! Admirable! But what use will you make of it?”
Holmes picked up the _Daily Telegraph_ which lay upon the table.
“Have you seen Pierrot’s advertisement to-day?”
“What? Another one?”
“Yes, here it is:
“To-night. Same hour. Same place. Two taps. Most vitally important.
Your own safety at stake.—Pierrot.
“By George!” cried Lestrade. “If he answers that we’ve got him!”
“That was my idea when I put it in. I think if you could both make it
convenient to come with us about eight o’clock to Caulfield Gardens we
might possibly get a little nearer to a solution.”
One of the most remarkable characteristics of Sherlock Holmes was his
power of throwing his brain out of action and switching all his
thoughts on to lighter things whenever he had convinced himself that he
could no longer work to advantage. I remember that during the whole of
that memorable day he lost himself in a monograph which he had
undertaken upon the Polyphonic Motets of Lassus. For my own part I had
none of this power of detachment, and the day, in consequence, appeared
to be interminable. The great national importance of the issue, the
suspense in high quarters, the direct nature of the experiment which we
were trying—all combined to work upon my nerve. It was a relief to me
when at last, after a light dinner, we set out upon our expedition.
Lestrade and Mycroft met us by appointment at the outside of Gloucester
Road Station. The area door of Oberstein’s house had been left open the
night before, and it was necessary for me, as Mycroft Holmes absolutely
and indignantly declined to climb the railings, to pass in and open the
hall door. By nine o’clock we were all seated in the study, waiting
patiently for our man.
An hour passed and yet another. When eleven struck, the measured beat
of the great church clock seemed to sound the dirge of our hopes.
Lestrade and Mycroft were fidgeting in their seats and looking twice a
minute at their watches. Holmes sat silent and composed, his eyelids
half shut, but every sense on the alert. He raised his head with a
sudden jerk.
“He is coming,” said he.
There had been a furtive step past the door. Now it returned. We heard
a shuffling sound outside, and then two sharp taps with the knocker.
Holmes rose, motioning us to remain seated. The gas in the hall was a
mere point of light. He opened the outer door, and then as a dark
figure slipped past him he closed and fastened it. “This way!” we heard
him say, and a moment later our man stood before us. Holmes had
followed him closely, and as the man turned with a cry of surprise and
alarm he caught him by the collar and threw him back into the room.
Before our prisoner had recovered his balance the door was shut and
Holmes standing with his back against it. The man glared round him,
staggered, and fell senseless upon the floor. With the shock, his
broad-brimmed hat flew from his head, his cravat slipped down from his
lips, and there were the long light beard and the soft, handsome
delicate features of Colonel Valentine Walter.
Holmes gave a whistle of surprise.
“You can write me down an ass this time, Watson,” said he. “This was
not the bird that I was looking for.”
“Who is he?” asked Mycroft eagerly.
“The younger brother of the late Sir James Walter, the head of the
Submarine Department. Yes, yes; I see the fall of the cards. He is
coming to. I think that you had best leave his examination to me.”
We had carried the prostrate body to the sofa. Now our prisoner sat up,
looked round him with a horror-stricken face, and passed his hand over
his forehead, like one who cannot believe his own senses.
“What is this?” he asked. “I came here to visit Mr. Oberstein.”
“Everything is known, Colonel Walter,” said Holmes. “How an English
gentleman could behave in such a manner is beyond my comprehension. But
your whole correspondence and relations with Oberstein are within our
knowledge. So also are the circumstances connected with the death of
young Cadogan West. Let me advise you to gain at least the small credit
for repentance and confession, since there are still some details which
we can only learn from your lips.”
The man groaned and sank his face in his hands. We waited, but he was
silent.
“I can assure you,” said Holmes, “that every essential is already
known. We know that you were pressed for money; that you took an
impress of the keys which your brother held; and that you entered into
a correspondence with Oberstein, who answered your letters through the
advertisement columns of the _Daily Telegraph_. We are aware that you
went down to the office in the fog on Monday night, but that you were
seen and followed by young Cadogan West, who had probably some previous
reason to suspect you. He saw your theft, but could not give the alarm,
as it was just possible that you were taking the papers to your brother
in London. Leaving all his private concerns, like the good citizen that
he was, he followed you closely in the fog and kept at your heels until
you reached this very house. There he intervened, and then it was,
Colonel Walter, that to treason you added the more terrible crime of
murder.”
“I did not! I did not! Before God I swear that I did not!” cried our
wretched prisoner.
“Tell us, then, how Cadogan West met his end before you laid him upon
the roof of a railway carriage.”
“I will. I swear to you that I will. I did the rest. I confess it. It
was just as you say. A Stock Exchange debt had to be paid. I needed the
money badly. Oberstein offered me five thousand. It was to save myself
from ruin. But as to murder, I am as innocent as you.”
“What happened, then?”
“He had his suspicions before, and he followed me as you describe. I
never knew it until I was at the very door. It was thick fog, and one
could not see three yards. I had given two taps and Oberstein had come
to the door. The young man rushed up and demanded to know what we were
about to do with the papers. Oberstein had a short life-preserver. He
always carried it with him. As West forced his way after us into the
house Oberstein struck him on the head. The blow was a fatal one. He
was dead within five minutes. There he lay in the hall, and we were at
our wits’ end what to do. Then Oberstein had this idea about the trains
which halted under his back window. But first he examined the papers
which I had brought. He said that three of them were essential, and
that he must keep them. ‘You cannot keep them,’ said I. ‘There will be
a dreadful row at Woolwich if they are not returned.’ ‘I must keep
them,’ said he, ‘for they are so technical that it is impossible in the
time to make copies.’ ‘Then they must all go back together to-night,’
said I. He thought for a little, and then he cried out that he had it.
‘Three I will keep,’ said he. ‘The others we will stuff into the pocket
of this young man. When he is found the whole business will assuredly
be put to his account.’ I could see no other way out of it, so we did
as he suggested. We waited half an hour at the window before a train
stopped. It was so thick that nothing could be seen, and we had no
difficulty in lowering West’s body on to the train. That was the end of
the matter so far as I was concerned.”
“And your brother?”
“He said nothing, but he had caught me once with his keys, and I think
that he suspected. I read in his eyes that he suspected. As you know,
he never held up his head again.”
There was silence in the room. It was broken by Mycroft Holmes.
“Can you not make reparation? It would ease your conscience, and
possibly your punishment.”
“What reparation can I make?”
“Where is Oberstein with the papers?”
“I do not know.”
“Did he give you no address?”
“He said that letters to the Hôtel du Louvre, Paris, would eventually
reach him.”
“Then reparation is still within your power,” said Sherlock Holmes.
“I will do anything I can. I owe this fellow no particular good-will.
He has been my ruin and my downfall.”
“Here are paper and pen. Sit at this desk and write to my dictation.
Direct the envelope to the address given. That is right. Now the
letter:
“Dear Sir:
“With regard to our transaction, you will no doubt have observed by now
that one essential detail is missing. I have a tracing which will make
it complete. This has involved me in extra trouble, however, and I must
ask you for a further advance of five hundred pounds. I will not trust
it to the post, nor will I take anything but gold or notes. I would
come to you abroad, but it would excite remark if I left the country at
present. Therefore I shall expect to meet you in the smoking-room of
the Charing Cross Hotel at noon on Saturday. Remember that only English
notes, or gold, will be taken.
“That will do very well. I shall be very much surprised if it does not
fetch our man.”
And it did! It is a matter of history—that secret history of a nation
which is often so much more intimate and interesting than its public
chronicles—that Oberstein, eager to complete the coup of his lifetime,
came to the lure and was safely engulfed for fifteen years in a British
prison. In his trunk were found the invaluable Bruce-Partington plans,
which he had put up for auction in all the naval centres of Europe.
Colonel Walter died in prison towards the end of the second year of his
sentence. As to Holmes, he returned refreshed to his monograph upon the
Polyphonic Motets of Lassus, which has since been printed for private
circulation, and is said by experts to be the last word upon the
subject. Some weeks afterwards I learned incidentally that my friend
spent a day at Windsor, whence he returned with a remarkably fine
emerald tie-pin. When I asked him if he had bought it, he answered that
it was a present from a certain gracious lady in whose interests he had
once been fortunate enough to carry out a small commission. He said no
more; but I fancy that I could guess at that lady’s august name, and I
have little doubt that the emerald pin will forever recall to my
friend’s memory the adventure of the Bruce-Partington plans.
|
the_adventure_of_the_bruce_partington_plans
|
The Adventure of the Devil’s Foot
|
His Last Bow
|
In recording from time to time some of the curious experiences and
interesting recollections which I associate with my long and intimate
friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have continually been faced by
difficulties caused by his own aversion to publicity. To his sombre and
cynical spirit all popular applause was always abhorrent, and nothing
amused him more at the end of a successful case than to hand over the
actual exposure to some orthodox official, and to listen with a mocking
smile to the general chorus of misplaced congratulation. It was indeed
this attitude upon the part of my friend and certainly not any lack of
interesting material which has caused me of late years to lay very few
of my records before the public. My participation in some of his
adventures was always a privilege which entailed discretion and
reticence upon me.
It was, then, with considerable surprise that I received a telegram
from Holmes last Tuesday—he has never been known to write where a
telegram would serve—in the following terms: “Why not tell them of the
Cornish horror—strangest case I have handled.” I have no idea what
backward sweep of memory had brought the matter fresh to his mind, or
what freak had caused him to desire that I should recount it; but I
hasten, before another cancelling telegram may arrive, to hunt out the
notes which give me the exact details of the case and to lay the
narrative before my readers.
It was, then, in the spring of the year 1897 that Holmes’s iron
constitution showed some symptoms of giving way in the face of constant
hard work of a most exacting kind, aggravated, perhaps, by occasional
indiscretions of his own. In March of that year Dr. Moore Agar, of
Harley Street, whose dramatic introduction to Holmes I may some day
recount, gave positive injunctions that the famous private agent lay
aside all his cases and surrender himself to complete rest if he wished
to avert an absolute breakdown. The state of his health was not a
matter in which he himself took the faintest interest, for his mental
detachment was absolute, but he was induced at last, on the threat of
being permanently disqualified from work, to give himself a complete
change of scene and air. Thus it was that in the early spring of that
year we found ourselves together in a small cottage near Poldhu Bay, at
the further extremity of the Cornish peninsula.
It was a singular spot, and one peculiarly well suited to the grim
humour of my patient. From the windows of our little whitewashed house,
which stood high upon a grassy headland, we looked down upon the whole
sinister semi-circle of Mounts Bay, that old death trap of sailing
vessels, with its fringe of black cliffs and surge-swept reefs on which
innumerable seamen have met their end. With a northerly breeze it lies
placid and sheltered, inviting the storm-tossed craft to tack into it
for rest and protection.
Then come the sudden swirl round of the wind, the blistering gale from
the south-west, the dragging anchor, the lee shore, and the last battle
in the creaming breakers. The wise mariner stands far out from that
evil place.
On the land side our surroundings were as sombre as on the sea. It was
a country of rolling moors, lonely and dun-coloured, with an occasional
church tower to mark the site of some old-world village. In every
direction upon these moors there were traces of some vanished race
which had passed utterly away, and left as its sole record strange
monuments of stone, irregular mounds which contained the burned ashes
of the dead, and curious earthworks which hinted at prehistoric strife.
The glamour and mystery of the place, with its sinister atmosphere of
forgotten nations, appealed to the imagination of my friend, and he
spent much of his time in long walks and solitary meditations upon the
moor. The ancient Cornish language had also arrested his attention, and
he had, I remember, conceived the idea that it was akin to the
Chaldean, and had been largely derived from the Phœnician traders in
tin. He had received a consignment of books upon philology and was
settling down to develop this thesis when suddenly, to my sorrow and to
his unfeigned delight, we found ourselves, even in that land of dreams,
plunged into a problem at our very doors which was more intense, more
engrossing, and infinitely more mysterious than any of those which had
driven us from London. Our simple life and peaceful, healthy routine
were violently interrupted, and we were precipitated into the midst of
a series of events which caused the utmost excitement not only in
Cornwall but throughout the whole west of England. Many of my readers
may retain some recollection of what was called at the time “The
Cornish Horror,” though a most imperfect account of the matter reached
the London press. Now, after thirteen years, I will give the true
details of this inconceivable affair to the public.
I have said that scattered towers marked the villages which dotted this
part of Cornwall. The nearest of these was the hamlet of Tredannick
Wollas, where the cottages of a couple of hundred inhabitants clustered
round an ancient, moss-grown church. The vicar of the parish, Mr.
Roundhay, was something of an archæologist, and as such Holmes had made
his acquaintance. He was a middle-aged man, portly and affable, with a
considerable fund of local lore. At his invitation we had taken tea at
the vicarage and had come to know, also, Mr. Mortimer Tregennis, an
independent gentleman, who increased the clergyman’s scanty resources
by taking rooms in his large, straggling house. The vicar, being a
bachelor, was glad to come to such an arrangement, though he had little
in common with his lodger, who was a thin, dark, spectacled man, with a
stoop which gave the impression of actual, physical deformity. I
remember that during our short visit we found the vicar garrulous, but
his lodger strangely reticent, a sad-faced, introspective man, sitting
with averted eyes, brooding apparently upon his own affairs.
These were the two men who entered abruptly into our little
sitting-room on Tuesday, March the 16th, shortly after our breakfast
hour, as we were smoking together, preparatory to our daily excursion
upon the moors.
“Mr. Holmes,” said the vicar in an agitated voice, “the most
extraordinary and tragic affair has occurred during the night. It is
the most unheard-of business. We can only regard it as a special
Providence that you should chance to be here at the time, for in all
England you are the one man we need.”
I glared at the intrusive vicar with no very friendly eyes; but Holmes
took his pipe from his lips and sat up in his chair like an old hound
who hears the view-halloa. He waved his hand to the sofa, and our
palpitating visitor with his agitated companion sat side by side upon
it. Mr. Mortimer Tregennis was more self-contained than the clergyman,
but the twitching of his thin hands and the brightness of his dark eyes
showed that they shared a common emotion.
“Shall I speak or you?” he asked of the vicar.
“Well, as you seem to have made the discovery, whatever it may be, and
the vicar to have had it second-hand, perhaps you had better do the
speaking,” said Holmes.
I glanced at the hastily clad clergyman, with the formally dressed
lodger seated beside him, and was amused at the surprise which Holmes’s
simple deduction had brought to their faces.
“Perhaps I had best say a few words first,” said the vicar, “and then
you can judge if you will listen to the details from Mr. Tregennis, or
whether we should not hasten at once to the scene of this mysterious
affair. I may explain, then, that our friend here spent last evening in
the company of his two brothers, Owen and George, and of his sister
Brenda, at their house of Tredannick Wartha, which is near the old
stone cross upon the moor. He left them shortly after ten o’clock,
playing cards round the dining-room table, in excellent health and
spirits. This morning, being an early riser, he walked in that
direction before breakfast and was overtaken by the carriage of Dr.
Richards, who explained that he had just been sent for on a most urgent
call to Tredannick Wartha. Mr. Mortimer Tregennis naturally went with
him. When he arrived at Tredannick Wartha he found an extraordinary
state of things. His two brothers and his sister were seated round the
table exactly as he had left them, the cards still spread in front of
them and the candles burned down to their sockets. The sister lay back
stone-dead in her chair, while the two brothers sat on each side of her
laughing, shouting, and singing, the senses stricken clean out of them.
All three of them, the dead woman and the two demented men, retained
upon their faces an expression of the utmost horror—a convulsion of
terror which was dreadful to look upon. There was no sign of the
presence of anyone in the house, except Mrs. Porter, the old cook and
housekeeper, who declared that she had slept deeply and heard no sound
during the night. Nothing had been stolen or disarranged, and there is
absolutely no explanation of what the horror can be which has
frightened a woman to death and two strong men out of their senses.
There is the situation, Mr. Holmes, in a nutshell, and if you can help
us to clear it up you will have done a great work.”
I had hoped that in some way I could coax my companion back into the
quiet which had been the object of our journey; but one glance at his
intense face and contracted eyebrows told me how vain was now the
expectation. He sat for some little time in silence, absorbed in the
strange drama which had broken in upon our peace.
“I will look into this matter,” he said at last. “On the face of it, it
would appear to be a case of a very exceptional nature. Have you been
there yourself, Mr. Roundhay?”
“No, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Tregennis brought back the account to the
vicarage, and I at once hurried over with him to consult you.”
“How far is it to the house where this singular tragedy occurred?”
“About a mile inland.”
“Then we shall walk over together. But before we start I must ask you a
few questions, Mr. Mortimer Tregennis.”
The other had been silent all this time, but I had observed that his
more controlled excitement was even greater than the obtrusive emotion
of the clergyman. He sat with a pale, drawn face, his anxious gaze
fixed upon Holmes, and his thin hands clasped convulsively together.
His pale lips quivered as he listened to the dreadful experience which
had befallen his family, and his dark eyes seemed to reflect something
of the horror of the scene.
“Ask what you like, Mr. Holmes,” said he eagerly. “It is a bad thing to
speak of, but I will answer you the truth.”
“Tell me about last night.”
“Well, Mr. Holmes, I supped there, as the vicar has said, and my elder
brother George proposed a game of whist afterwards. We sat down about
nine o’clock. It was a quarter-past ten when I moved to go. I left them
all round the table, as merry as could be.”
“Who let you out?”
“Mrs. Porter had gone to bed, so I let myself out. I shut the hall door
behind me. The window of the room in which they sat was closed, but the
blind was not drawn down. There was no change in door or window this
morning, or any reason to think that any stranger had been to the
house. Yet there they sat, driven clean mad with terror, and Brenda
lying dead of fright, with her head hanging over the arm of the chair.
I’ll never get the sight of that room out of my mind so long as I
live.”
“The facts, as you state them, are certainly most remarkable,” said
Holmes. “I take it that you have no theory yourself which can in any
way account for them?”
“It’s devilish, Mr. Holmes, devilish!” cried Mortimer Tregennis. “It is
not of this world. Something has come into that room which has dashed
the light of reason from their minds. What human contrivance could do
that?”
“I fear,” said Holmes, “that if the matter is beyond humanity it is
certainly beyond me. Yet we must exhaust all natural explanations
before we fall back upon such a theory as this. As to yourself, Mr.
Tregennis, I take it you were divided in some way from your family,
since they lived together and you had rooms apart?”
“That is so, Mr. Holmes, though the matter is past and done with. We
were a family of tin-miners at Redruth, but we sold our venture to a
company, and so retired with enough to keep us. I won’t deny that there
was some feeling about the division of the money and it stood between
us for a time, but it was all forgiven and forgotten, and we were the
best of friends together.”
“Looking back at the evening which you spent together, does anything
stand out in your memory as throwing any possible light upon the
tragedy? Think carefully, Mr. Tregennis, for any clue which can help
me.”
“There is nothing at all, sir.”
“Your people were in their usual spirits?”
“Never better.”
“Were they nervous people? Did they ever show any apprehension of
coming danger?”
“Nothing of the kind.”
“You have nothing to add then, which could assist me?”
Mortimer Tregennis considered earnestly for a moment.
“There is one thing that occurs to me,” said he at last. “As we sat at
the table my back was to the window, and my brother George, he being my
partner at cards, was facing it. I saw him once look hard over my
shoulder, so I turned round and looked also. The blind was up and the
window shut, but I could just make out the bushes on the lawn, and it
seemed to me for a moment that I saw something moving among them. I
couldn’t even say if it was man or animal, but I just thought there was
something there. When I asked him what he was looking at, he told me
that he had the same feeling. That is all that I can say.”
“Did you not investigate?”
“No; the matter passed as unimportant.”
“You left them, then, without any premonition of evil?”
“None at all.”
“I am not clear how you came to hear the news so early this morning.”
“I am an early riser and generally take a walk before breakfast. This
morning I had hardly started when the doctor in his carriage overtook
me. He told me that old Mrs. Porter had sent a boy down with an urgent
message. I sprang in beside him and we drove on. When we got there we
looked into that dreadful room. The candles and the fire must have
burned out hours before, and they had been sitting there in the dark
until dawn had broken. The doctor said Brenda must have been dead at
least six hours. There were no signs of violence. She just lay across
the arm of the chair with that look on her face. George and Owen were
singing snatches of songs and gibbering like two great apes. Oh, it was
awful to see! I couldn’t stand it, and the doctor was as white as a
sheet. Indeed, he fell into a chair in a sort of faint, and we nearly
had him on our hands as well.”
“Remarkable—most remarkable!” said Holmes, rising and taking his hat.
“I think, perhaps, we had better go down to Tredannick Wartha without
further delay. I confess that I have seldom known a case which at first
sight presented a more singular problem.”
Our proceedings of that first morning did little to advance the
investigation. It was marked, however, at the outset by an incident
which left the most sinister impression upon my mind. The approach to
the spot at which the tragedy occurred is down a narrow, winding,
country lane. While we made our way along it we heard the rattle of a
carriage coming towards us and stood aside to let it pass. As it drove
by us I caught a glimpse through the closed window of a horribly
contorted, grinning face glaring out at us. Those staring eyes and
gnashing teeth flashed past us like a dreadful vision.
“My brothers!” cried Mortimer Tregennis, white to his lips. “They are
taking them to Helston.”
We looked with horror after the black carriage, lumbering upon its way.
Then we turned our steps towards this ill-omened house in which they
had met their strange fate.
It was a large and bright dwelling, rather a villa than a cottage, with
a considerable garden which was already, in that Cornish air, well
filled with spring flowers. Towards this garden the window of the
sitting-room fronted, and from it, according to Mortimer Tregennis,
must have come that thing of evil which had by sheer horror in a single
instant blasted their minds. Holmes walked slowly and thoughtfully
among the flower-plots and along the path before we entered the porch.
So absorbed was he in his thoughts, I remember, that he stumbled over
the watering-pot, upset its contents, and deluged both our feet and the
garden path. Inside the house we were met by the elderly Cornish
housekeeper, Mrs. Porter, who, with the aid of a young girl, looked
after the wants of the family. She readily answered all Holmes’s
questions. She had heard nothing in the night. Her employers had all
been in excellent spirits lately, and she had never known them more
cheerful and prosperous. She had fainted with horror upon entering the
room in the morning and seeing that dreadful company round the table.
She had, when she recovered, thrown open the window to let the morning
air in, and had run down to the lane, whence she sent a farm-lad for
the doctor. The lady was on her bed upstairs if we cared to see her. It
took four strong men to get the brothers into the asylum carriage. She
would not herself stay in the house another day and was starting that
very afternoon to rejoin her family at St. Ives.
We ascended the stairs and viewed the body. Miss Brenda Tregennis had
been a very beautiful girl, though now verging upon middle age. Her
dark, clear-cut face was handsome, even in death, but there still
lingered upon it something of that convulsion of horror which had been
her last human emotion. From her bedroom we descended to the
sitting-room, where this strange tragedy had actually occurred. The
charred ashes of the overnight fire lay in the grate. On the table were
the four guttered and burned-out candles, with the cards scattered over
its surface. The chairs had been moved back against the walls, but all
else was as it had been the night before. Holmes paced with light,
swift steps about the room; he sat in the various chairs, drawing them
up and reconstructing their positions. He tested how much of the garden
was visible; he examined the floor, the ceiling, and the fireplace; but
never once did I see that sudden brightening of his eyes and tightening
of his lips which would have told me that he saw some gleam of light in
this utter darkness.
“Why a fire?” he asked once. “Had they always a fire in this small room
on a spring evening?”
Mortimer Tregennis explained that the night was cold and damp. For that
reason, after his arrival, the fire was lit. “What are you going to do
now, Mr. Holmes?” he asked.
My friend smiled and laid his hand upon my arm. “I think, Watson, that
I shall resume that course of tobacco-poisoning which you have so often
and so justly condemned,” said he. “With your permission, gentlemen, we
will now return to our cottage, for I am not aware that any new factor
is likely to come to our notice here. I will turn the facts over in my
mind, Mr. Tregennis, and should anything occur to me I will certainly
communicate with you and the vicar. In the meantime I wish you both
good-morning.”
It was not until long after we were back in Poldhu Cottage that Holmes
broke his complete and absorbed silence. He sat coiled in his armchair,
his haggard and ascetic face hardly visible amid the blue swirl of his
tobacco smoke, his black brows drawn down, his forehead contracted, his
eyes vacant and far away. Finally he laid down his pipe and sprang to
his feet.
“It won’t do, Watson!” said he with a laugh. “Let us walk along the
cliffs together and search for flint arrows. We are more likely to find
them than clues to this problem. To let the brain work without
sufficient material is like racing an engine. It racks itself to
pieces. The sea air, sunshine, and patience, Watson—all else will come.
“Now, let us calmly define our position, Watson,” he continued as we
skirted the cliffs together. “Let us get a firm grip of the very little
which we _do_ know, so that when fresh facts arise we may be ready to
fit them into their places. I take it, in the first place, that neither
of us is prepared to admit diabolical intrusions into the affairs of
men. Let us begin by ruling that entirely out of our minds. Very good.
There remain three persons who have been grievously stricken by some
conscious or unconscious human agency. That is firm ground. Now, when
did this occur? Evidently, assuming his narrative to be true, it was
immediately after Mr. Mortimer Tregennis had left the room. That is a
very important point. The presumption is that it was within a few
minutes afterwards. The cards still lay upon the table. It was already
past their usual hour for bed. Yet they had not changed their position
or pushed back their chairs. I repeat, then, that the occurrence was
immediately after his departure, and not later than eleven o’clock last
night.
“Our next obvious step is to check, so far as we can, the movements of
Mortimer Tregennis after he left the room. In this there is no
difficulty, and they seem to be above suspicion. Knowing my methods as
you do, you were, of course, conscious of the somewhat clumsy water-pot
expedient by which I obtained a clearer impress of his foot than might
otherwise have been possible. The wet, sandy path took it admirably.
Last night was also wet, you will remember, and it was not
difficult—having obtained a sample print—to pick out his track among
others and to follow his movements. He appears to have walked away
swiftly in the direction of the vicarage.
“If, then, Mortimer Tregennis disappeared from the scene, and yet some
outside person affected the card-players, how can we reconstruct that
person, and how was such an impression of horror conveyed? Mrs. Porter
may be eliminated. She is evidently harmless. Is there any evidence
that someone crept up to the garden window and in some manner produced
so terrific an effect that he drove those who saw it out of their
senses? The only suggestion in this direction comes from Mortimer
Tregennis himself, who says that his brother spoke about some movement
in the garden. That is certainly remarkable, as the night was rainy,
cloudy, and dark. Anyone who had the design to alarm these people would
be compelled to place his very face against the glass before he could
be seen. There is a three-foot flower-border outside this window, but
no indication of a footmark. It is difficult to imagine, then, how an
outsider could have made so terrible an impression upon the company,
nor have we found any possible motive for so strange and elaborate an
attempt. You perceive our difficulties, Watson?”
“They are only too clear,” I answered with conviction.
“And yet, with a little more material, we may prove that they are not
insurmountable,” said Holmes. “I fancy that among your extensive
archives, Watson, you may find some which were nearly as obscure.
Meanwhile, we shall put the case aside until more accurate data are
available, and devote the rest of our morning to the pursuit of
neolithic man.”
I may have commented upon my friend’s power of mental detachment, but
never have I wondered at it more than upon that spring morning in
Cornwall when for two hours he discoursed upon celts, arrowheads, and
shards, as lightly as if no sinister mystery were waiting for his
solution. It was not until we had returned in the afternoon to our
cottage that we found a visitor awaiting us, who soon brought our minds
back to the matter in hand. Neither of us needed to be told who that
visitor was. The huge body, the craggy and deeply seamed face with the
fierce eyes and hawk-like nose, the grizzled hair which nearly brushed
our cottage ceiling, the beard—golden at the fringes and white near the
lips, save for the nicotine stain from his perpetual cigar—all these
were as well known in London as in Africa, and could only be associated
with the tremendous personality of Dr. Leon Sterndale, the great
lion-hunter and explorer.
We had heard of his presence in the district and had once or twice
caught sight of his tall figure upon the moorland paths. He made no
advances to us, however, nor would we have dreamed of doing so to him,
as it was well known that it was his love of seclusion which caused him
to spend the greater part of the intervals between his journeys in a
small bungalow buried in the lonely wood of Beauchamp Arriance. Here,
amid his books and his maps, he lived an absolutely lonely life,
attending to his own simple wants and paying little apparent heed to
the affairs of his neighbours. It was a surprise to me, therefore, to
hear him asking Holmes in an eager voice whether he had made any
advance in his reconstruction of this mysterious episode. “The county
police are utterly at fault,” said he, “but perhaps your wider
experience has suggested some conceivable explanation. My only claim to
being taken into your confidence is that during my many residences here
I have come to know this family of Tregennis very well—indeed, upon my
Cornish mother’s side I could call them cousins—and their strange fate
has naturally been a great shock to me. I may tell you that I had got
as far as Plymouth upon my way to Africa, but the news reached me this
morning, and I came straight back again to help in the inquiry.”
Holmes raised his eyebrows.
“Did you lose your boat through it?”
“I will take the next.”
“Dear me! that is friendship indeed.”
“I tell you they were relatives.”
“Quite so—cousins of your mother. Was your baggage aboard the ship?”
“Some of it, but the main part at the hotel.”
“I see. But surely this event could not have found its way into the
Plymouth morning papers.”
“No, sir; I had a telegram.”
“Might I ask from whom?”
A shadow passed over the gaunt face of the explorer.
“You are very inquisitive, Mr. Holmes.”
“It is my business.”
With an effort Dr. Sterndale recovered his ruffled composure.
“I have no objection to telling you,” he said. “It was Mr. Roundhay,
the vicar, who sent me the telegram which recalled me.”
“Thank you,” said Holmes. “I may say in answer to your original
question that I have not cleared my mind entirely on the subject of
this case, but that I have every hope of reaching some conclusion. It
would be premature to say more.”
“Perhaps you would not mind telling me if your suspicions point in any
particular direction?”
“No, I can hardly answer that.”
“Then I have wasted my time and need not prolong my visit.” The famous
doctor strode out of our cottage in considerable ill-humour, and within
five minutes Holmes had followed him. I saw him no more until the
evening, when he returned with a slow step and haggard face which
assured me that he had made no great progress with his investigation.
He glanced at a telegram which awaited him and threw it into the grate.
“From the Plymouth hotel, Watson,” he said. “I learned the name of it
from the vicar, and I wired to make certain that Dr. Leon Sterndale’s
account was true. It appears that he did indeed spend last night there,
and that he has actually allowed some of his baggage to go on to
Africa, while he returned to be present at this investigation. What do
you make of that, Watson?”
“He is deeply interested.”
“Deeply interested—yes. There is a thread here which we had not yet
grasped and which might lead us through the tangle. Cheer up, Watson,
for I am very sure that our material has not yet all come to hand. When
it does we may soon leave our difficulties behind us.”
Little did I think how soon the words of Holmes would be realised, or
how strange and sinister would be that new development which opened up
an entirely fresh line of investigation. I was shaving at my window in
the morning when I heard the rattle of hoofs and, looking up, saw a
dog-cart coming at a gallop down the road. It pulled up at our door,
and our friend, the vicar, sprang from it and rushed up our garden
path. Holmes was already dressed, and we hastened down to meet him.
Our visitor was so excited that he could hardly articulate, but at last
in gasps and bursts his tragic story came out of him.
“We are devil-ridden, Mr. Holmes! My poor parish is devil-ridden!” he
cried. “Satan himself is loose in it! We are given over into his
hands!” He danced about in his agitation, a ludicrous object if it were
not for his ashy face and startled eyes. Finally he shot out his
terrible news.
“Mr. Mortimer Tregennis died during the night, and with exactly the
same symptoms as the rest of his family.”
Holmes sprang to his feet, all energy in an instant.
“Can you fit us both into your dog-cart?”
“Yes, I can.”
“Then, Watson, we will postpone our breakfast. Mr. Roundhay, we are
entirely at your disposal. Hurry—hurry, before things get disarranged.”
The lodger occupied two rooms at the vicarage, which were in an angle
by themselves, the one above the other. Below was a large sitting-room;
above, his bedroom. They looked out upon a croquet lawn which came up
to the windows. We had arrived before the doctor or the police, so that
everything was absolutely undisturbed. Let me describe exactly the
scene as we saw it upon that misty March morning. It has left an
impression which can never be effaced from my mind.
The atmosphere of the room was of a horrible and depressing stuffiness.
The servant who had first entered had thrown up the window, or it would
have been even more intolerable. This might partly be due to the fact
that a lamp stood flaring and smoking on the centre table. Beside it
sat the dead man, leaning back in his chair, his thin beard projecting,
his spectacles pushed up on to his forehead, and his lean dark face
turned towards the window and twisted into the same distortion of
terror which had marked the features of his dead sister. His limbs were
convulsed and his fingers contorted as though he had died in a very
paroxysm of fear. He was fully clothed, though there were signs that
his dressing had been done in a hurry. We had already learned that his
bed had been slept in, and that the tragic end had come to him in the
early morning.
One realised the red-hot energy which underlay Holmes’s phlegmatic
exterior when one saw the sudden change which came over him from the
moment that he entered the fatal apartment. In an instant he was tense
and alert, his eyes shining, his face set, his limbs quivering with
eager activity. He was out on the lawn, in through the window, round
the room, and up into the bedroom, for all the world like a dashing
foxhound drawing a cover. In the bedroom he made a rapid cast around
and ended by throwing open the window, which appeared to give him some
fresh cause for excitement, for he leaned out of it with loud
ejaculations of interest and delight. Then he rushed down the stair,
out through the open window, threw himself upon his face on the lawn,
sprang up and into the room once more, all with the energy of the
hunter who is at the very heels of his quarry. The lamp, which was an
ordinary standard, he examined with minute care, making certain
measurements upon its bowl. He carefully scrutinised with his lens the
talc shield which covered the top of the chimney and scraped off some
ashes which adhered to its upper surface, putting some of them into an
envelope, which he placed in his pocketbook. Finally, just as the
doctor and the official police put in an appearance, he beckoned to the
vicar and we all three went out upon the lawn.
“I am glad to say that my investigation has not been entirely barren,”
he remarked. “I cannot remain to discuss the matter with the police,
but I should be exceedingly obliged, Mr. Roundhay, if you would give
the inspector my compliments and direct his attention to the bedroom
window and to the sitting-room lamp. Each is suggestive, and together
they are almost conclusive. If the police would desire further
information I shall be happy to see any of them at the cottage. And
now, Watson, I think that, perhaps, we shall be better employed
elsewhere.”
It may be that the police resented the intrusion of an amateur, or that
they imagined themselves to be upon some hopeful line of investigation;
but it is certain that we heard nothing from them for the next two
days. During this time Holmes spent some of his time smoking and
dreaming in the cottage; but a greater portion in country walks which
he undertook alone, returning after many hours without remark as to
where he had been. One experiment served to show me the line of his
investigation. He had bought a lamp which was the duplicate of the one
which had burned in the room of Mortimer Tregennis on the morning of
the tragedy. This he filled with the same oil as that used at the
vicarage, and he carefully timed the period which it would take to be
exhausted. Another experiment which he made was of a more unpleasant
nature, and one which I am not likely ever to forget.
“You will remember, Watson,” he remarked one afternoon, “that there is
a single common point of resemblance in the varying reports which have
reached us. This concerns the effect of the atmosphere of the room in
each case upon those who had first entered it. You will recollect that
Mortimer Tregennis, in describing the episode of his last visit to his
brother’s house, remarked that the doctor on entering the room fell
into a chair? You had forgotten? Well I can answer for it that it was
so. Now, you will remember also that Mrs. Porter, the housekeeper, told
us that she herself fainted upon entering the room and had afterwards
opened the window. In the second case—that of Mortimer Tregennis
himself—you cannot have forgotten the horrible stuffiness of the room
when we arrived, though the servant had thrown open the window. That
servant, I found upon inquiry, was so ill that she had gone to her bed.
You will admit, Watson, that these facts are very suggestive. In each
case there is evidence of a poisonous atmosphere. In each case, also,
there is combustion going on in the room—in the one case a fire, in the
other a lamp. The fire was needed, but the lamp was lit—as a comparison
of the oil consumed will show—long after it was broad daylight. Why?
Surely because there is some connection between three things—the
burning, the stuffy atmosphere, and, finally, the madness or death of
those unfortunate people. That is clear, is it not?”
“It would appear so.”
“At least we may accept it as a working hypothesis. We will suppose,
then, that something was burned in each case which produced an
atmosphere causing strange toxic effects. Very good. In the first
instance—that of the Tregennis family—this substance was placed in the
fire. Now the window was shut, but the fire would naturally carry fumes
to some extent up the chimney. Hence one would expect the effects of
the poison to be less than in the second case, where there was less
escape for the vapour. The result seems to indicate that it was so,
since in the first case only the woman, who had presumably the more
sensitive organism, was killed, the others exhibiting that temporary or
permanent lunacy which is evidently the first effect of the drug. In
the second case the result was complete. The facts, therefore, seem to
bear out the theory of a poison which worked by combustion.
“With this train of reasoning in my head I naturally looked about in
Mortimer Tregennis’s room to find some remains of this substance. The
obvious place to look was the talc shelf or smoke-guard of the lamp.
There, sure enough, I perceived a number of flaky ashes, and round the
edges a fringe of brownish powder, which had not yet been consumed.
Half of this I took, as you saw, and I placed it in an envelope.”
“Why half, Holmes?”
“It is not for me, my dear Watson, to stand in the way of the official
police force. I leave them all the evidence which I found. The poison
still remained upon the talc had they the wit to find it. Now, Watson,
we will light our lamp; we will, however, take the precaution to open
our window to avoid the premature decease of two deserving members of
society, and you will seat yourself near that open window in an
armchair unless, like a sensible man, you determine to have nothing to
do with the affair. Oh, you will see it out, will you? I thought I knew
my Watson. This chair I will place opposite yours, so that we may be
the same distance from the poison and face to face. The door we will
leave ajar. Each is now in a position to watch the other and to bring
the experiment to an end should the symptoms seem alarming. Is that all
clear? Well, then, I take our powder—or what remains of it—from the
envelope, and I lay it above the burning lamp. So! Now, Watson, let us
sit down and await developments.”
They were not long in coming. I had hardly settled in my chair before I
was conscious of a thick, musky odour, subtle and nauseous. At the very
first whiff of it my brain and my imagination were beyond all control.
A thick, black cloud swirled before my eyes, and my mind told me that
in this cloud, unseen as yet, but about to spring out upon my appalled
senses, lurked all that was vaguely horrible, all that was monstrous
and inconceivably wicked in the universe. Vague shapes swirled and swam
amid the dark cloud-bank, each a menace and a warning of something
coming, the advent of some unspeakable dweller upon the threshold,
whose very shadow would blast my soul. A freezing horror took
possession of me. I felt that my hair was rising, that my eyes were
protruding, that my mouth was opened, and my tongue like leather. The
turmoil within my brain was such that something must surely snap. I
tried to scream and was vaguely aware of some hoarse croak which was my
own voice, but distant and detached from myself. At the same moment, in
some effort of escape, I broke through that cloud of despair and had a
glimpse of Holmes’s face, white, rigid, and drawn with horror—the very
look which I had seen upon the features of the dead. It was that vision
which gave me an instant of sanity and of strength. I dashed from my
chair, threw my arms round Holmes, and together we lurched through the
door, and an instant afterwards had thrown ourselves down upon the
grass plot and were lying side by side, conscious only of the glorious
sunshine which was bursting its way through the hellish cloud of terror
which had girt us in. Slowly it rose from our souls like the mists from
a landscape until peace and reason had returned, and we were sitting
upon the grass, wiping our clammy foreheads, and looking with
apprehension at each other to mark the last traces of that terrific
experience which we had undergone.
“Upon my word, Watson!” said Holmes at last with an unsteady voice, “I
owe you both my thanks and an apology. It was an unjustifiable
experiment even for one’s self, and doubly so for a friend. I am really
very sorry.”
“You know,” I answered with some emotion, for I have never seen so much
of Holmes’s heart before, “that it is my greatest joy and privilege to
help you.”
He relapsed at once into the half-humorous, half-cynical vein which was
his habitual attitude to those about him. “It would be superfluous to
drive us mad, my dear Watson,” said he. “A candid observer would
certainly declare that we were so already before we embarked upon so
wild an experiment. I confess that I never imagined that the effect
could be so sudden and so severe.” He dashed into the cottage, and,
reappearing with the burning lamp held at full arm’s length, he threw
it among a bank of brambles. “We must give the room a little time to
clear. I take it, Watson, that you have no longer a shadow of a doubt
as to how these tragedies were produced?”
“None whatever.”
“But the cause remains as obscure as before. Come into the arbour here
and let us discuss it together. That villainous stuff seems still to
linger round my throat. I think we must admit that all the evidence
points to this man, Mortimer Tregennis, having been the criminal in the
first tragedy, though he was the victim in the second one. We must
remember, in the first place, that there is some story of a family
quarrel, followed by a reconciliation. How bitter that quarrel may have
been, or how hollow the reconciliation we cannot tell. When I think of
Mortimer Tregennis, with the foxy face and the small shrewd, beady eyes
behind the spectacles, he is not a man whom I should judge to be of a
particularly forgiving disposition. Well, in the next place, you will
remember that this idea of someone moving in the garden, which took our
attention for a moment from the real cause of the tragedy, emanated
from him. He had a motive in misleading us. Finally, if he did not
throw the substance into the fire at the moment of leaving the room,
who did do so? The affair happened immediately after his departure. Had
anyone else come in, the family would certainly have risen from the
table. Besides, in peaceful Cornwall, visitors did not arrive after ten
o’clock at night. We may take it, then, that all the evidence points to
Mortimer Tregennis as the culprit.”
“Then his own death was suicide!”
“Well, Watson, it is on the face of it a not impossible supposition.
The man who had the guilt upon his soul of having brought such a fate
upon his own family might well be driven by remorse to inflict it upon
himself. There are, however, some cogent reasons against it.
Fortunately, there is one man in England who knows all about it, and I
have made arrangements by which we shall hear the facts this afternoon
from his own lips. Ah! he is a little before his time. Perhaps you
would kindly step this way, Dr. Leon Sterndale. We have been conducting
a chemical experiment indoors which has left our little room hardly fit
for the reception of so distinguished a visitor.”
I had heard the click of the garden gate, and now the majestic figure
of the great African explorer appeared upon the path. He turned in some
surprise towards the rustic arbour in which we sat.
“You sent for me, Mr. Holmes. I had your note about an hour ago, and I
have come, though I really do not know why I should obey your summons.”
“Perhaps we can clear the point up before we separate,” said Holmes.
“Meanwhile, I am much obliged to you for your courteous acquiescence.
You will excuse this informal reception in the open air, but my friend
Watson and I have nearly furnished an additional chapter to what the
papers call the Cornish Horror, and we prefer a clear atmosphere for
the present. Perhaps, since the matters which we have to discuss will
affect you personally in a very intimate fashion, it is as well that we
should talk where there can be no eavesdropping.”
The explorer took his cigar from his lips and gazed sternly at my
companion.
“I am at a loss to know, sir,” he said, “what you can have to speak
about which affects me personally in a very intimate fashion.”
“The killing of Mortimer Tregennis,” said Holmes.
For a moment I wished that I were armed. Sterndale’s fierce face turned
to a dusky red, his eyes glared, and the knotted, passionate veins
started out in his forehead, while he sprang forward with clenched
hands towards my companion. Then he stopped, and with a violent effort
he resumed a cold, rigid calmness, which was, perhaps, more suggestive
of danger than his hot-headed outburst.
“I have lived so long among savages and beyond the law,” said he, “that
I have got into the way of being a law to myself. You would do well,
Mr. Holmes, not to forget it, for I have no desire to do you an
injury.”
“Nor have I any desire to do you an injury, Dr. Sterndale. Surely the
clearest proof of it is that, knowing what I know, I have sent for you
and not for the police.”
Sterndale sat down with a gasp, overawed for, perhaps, the first time
in his adventurous life. There was a calm assurance of power in
Holmes’s manner which could not be withstood. Our visitor stammered for
a moment, his great hands opening and shutting in his agitation.
“What do you mean?” he asked at last. “If this is bluff upon your part,
Mr. Holmes, you have chosen a bad man for your experiment. Let us have
no more beating about the bush. What _do_ you mean?”
“I will tell you,” said Holmes, “and the reason why I tell you is that
I hope frankness may beget frankness. What my next step may be will
depend entirely upon the nature of your own defence.”
“My defence?”
“Yes, sir.”
“My defence against what?”
“Against the charge of killing Mortimer Tregennis.”
Sterndale mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. “Upon my word, you
are getting on,” said he. “Do all your successes depend upon this
prodigious power of bluff?”
“The bluff,” said Holmes sternly, “is upon your side, Dr. Leon
Sterndale, and not upon mine. As a proof I will tell you some of the
facts upon which my conclusions are based. Of your return from
Plymouth, allowing much of your property to go on to Africa, I will say
nothing save that it first informed me that you were one of the factors
which had to be taken into account in reconstructing this drama—”
“I came back—”
“I have heard your reasons and regard them as unconvincing and
inadequate. We will pass that. You came down here to ask me whom I
suspected. I refused to answer you. You then went to the vicarage,
waited outside it for some time, and finally returned to your cottage.”
“How do you know that?”
“I followed you.”
“I saw no one.”
“That is what you may expect to see when I follow you. You spent a
restless night at your cottage, and you formed certain plans, which in
the early morning you proceeded to put into execution. Leaving your
door just as day was breaking, you filled your pocket with some reddish
gravel that was lying heaped beside your gate.”
Sterndale gave a violent start and looked at Holmes in amazement.
“You then walked swiftly for the mile which separated you from the
vicarage. You were wearing, I may remark, the same pair of ribbed
tennis shoes which are at the present moment upon your feet. At the
vicarage you passed through the orchard and the side hedge, coming out
under the window of the lodger Tregennis. It was now daylight, but the
household was not yet stirring. You drew some of the gravel from your
pocket, and you threw it up at the window above you.”
Sterndale sprang to his feet.
“I believe that you are the devil himself!” he cried.
Holmes smiled at the compliment. “It took two, or possibly three,
handfuls before the lodger came to the window. You beckoned him to come
down. He dressed hurriedly and descended to his sitting-room. You
entered by the window. There was an interview—a short one—during which
you walked up and down the room. Then you passed out and closed the
window, standing on the lawn outside smoking a cigar and watching what
occurred. Finally, after the death of Tregennis, you withdrew as you
had come. Now, Dr. Sterndale, how do you justify such conduct, and what
were the motives for your actions? If you prevaricate or trifle with
me, I give you my assurance that the matter will pass out of my hands
forever.”
Our visitor’s face had turned ashen grey as he listened to the words of
his accuser. Now he sat for some time in thought with his face sunk in
his hands. Then with a sudden impulsive gesture he plucked a photograph
from his breast-pocket and threw it on the rustic table before us.
“That is why I have done it,” said he.
It showed the bust and face of a very beautiful woman. Holmes stooped
over it.
“Brenda Tregennis,” said he.
“Yes, Brenda Tregennis,” repeated our visitor. “For years I have loved
her. For years she has loved me. There is the secret of that Cornish
seclusion which people have marvelled at. It has brought me close to
the one thing on earth that was dear to me. I could not marry her, for
I have a wife who has left me for years and yet whom, by the deplorable
laws of England, I could not divorce. For years Brenda waited. For
years I waited. And this is what we have waited for.” A terrible sob
shook his great frame, and he clutched his throat under his brindled
beard. Then with an effort he mastered himself and spoke on:
“The vicar knew. He was in our confidence. He would tell you that she
was an angel upon earth. That was why he telegraphed to me and I
returned. What was my baggage or Africa to me when I learned that such
a fate had come upon my darling? There you have the missing clue to my
action, Mr. Holmes.”
“Proceed,” said my friend.
Dr. Sterndale drew from his pocket a paper packet and laid it upon the
table. On the outside was written “_Radix pedis diaboli_” with a red
poison label beneath it. He pushed it towards me. “I understand that
you are a doctor, sir. Have you ever heard of this preparation?”
“Devil’s-foot root! No, I have never heard of it.”
“It is no reflection upon your professional knowledge,” said he, “for I
believe that, save for one sample in a laboratory at Buda, there is no
other specimen in Europe. It has not yet found its way either into the
pharmacopœia or into the literature of toxicology. The root is shaped
like a foot, half human, half goatlike; hence the fanciful name given
by a botanical missionary. It is used as an ordeal poison by the
medicine-men in certain districts of West Africa and is kept as a
secret among them. This particular specimen I obtained under very
extraordinary circumstances in the Ubangi country.” He opened the paper
as he spoke and disclosed a heap of reddish-brown, snuff-like powder.
“Well, sir?” asked Holmes sternly.
“I am about to tell you, Mr. Holmes, all that actually occurred, for
you already know so much that it is clearly to my interest that you
should know all. I have already explained the relationship in which I
stood to the Tregennis family. For the sake of the sister I was
friendly with the brothers. There was a family quarrel about money
which estranged this man Mortimer, but it was supposed to be made up,
and I afterwards met him as I did the others. He was a sly, subtle,
scheming man, and several things arose which gave me a suspicion of
him, but I had no cause for any positive quarrel.
“One day, only a couple of weeks ago, he came down to my cottage and I
showed him some of my African curiosities. Among other things I
exhibited this powder, and I told him of its strange properties, how it
stimulates those brain centres which control the emotion of fear, and
how either madness or death is the fate of the unhappy native who is
subjected to the ordeal by the priest of his tribe. I told him also how
powerless European science would be to detect it. How he took it I
cannot say, for I never left the room, but there is no doubt that it
was then, while I was opening cabinets and stooping to boxes, that he
managed to abstract some of the devil’s-foot root. I well remember how
he plied me with questions as to the amount and the time that was
needed for its effect, but I little dreamed that he could have a
personal reason for asking.
“I thought no more of the matter until the vicar’s telegram reached me
at Plymouth. This villain had thought that I would be at sea before the
news could reach me, and that I should be lost for years in Africa. But
I returned at once. Of course, I could not listen to the details
without feeling assured that my poison had been used. I came round to
see you on the chance that some other explanation had suggested itself
to you. But there could be none. I was convinced that Mortimer
Tregennis was the murderer; that for the sake of money, and with the
idea, perhaps, that if the other members of his family were all insane
he would be the sole guardian of their joint property, he had used the
devil’s-foot powder upon them, driven two of them out of their senses,
and killed his sister Brenda, the one human being whom I have ever
loved or who has ever loved me. There was his crime; what was to be his
punishment?
“Should I appeal to the law? Where were my proofs? I knew that the
facts were true, but could I help to make a jury of countrymen believe
so fantastic a story? I might or I might not. But I could not afford to
fail. My soul cried out for revenge. I have said to you once before,
Mr. Holmes, that I have spent much of my life outside the law, and that
I have come at last to be a law to myself. So it was even now. I
determined that the fate which he had given to others should be shared
by himself. Either that or I would do justice upon him with my own
hand. In all England there can be no man who sets less value upon his
own life than I do at the present moment.
“Now I have told you all. You have yourself supplied the rest. I did,
as you say, after a restless night, set off early from my cottage. I
foresaw the difficulty of arousing him, so I gathered some gravel from
the pile which you have mentioned, and I used it to throw up to his
window. He came down and admitted me through the window of the
sitting-room. I laid his offence before him. I told him that I had come
both as judge and executioner. The wretch sank into a chair, paralysed
at the sight of my revolver. I lit the lamp, put the powder above it,
and stood outside the window, ready to carry out my threat to shoot him
should he try to leave the room. In five minutes he died. My God! how
he died! But my heart was flint, for he endured nothing which my
innocent darling had not felt before him. There is my story, Mr.
Holmes. Perhaps, if you loved a woman, you would have done as much
yourself. At any rate, I am in your hands. You can take what steps you
like. As I have already said, there is no man living who can fear death
less than I do.”
Holmes sat for some little time in silence.
“What were your plans?” he asked at last.
“I had intended to bury myself in central Africa. My work there is but
half finished.”
“Go and do the other half,” said Holmes. “I, at least, am not prepared
to prevent you.”
Dr. Sterndale raised his giant figure, bowed gravely, and walked from
the arbour. Holmes lit his pipe and handed me his pouch.
“Some fumes which are not poisonous would be a welcome change,” said
he. “I think you must agree, Watson, that it is not a case in which we
are called upon to interfere. Our investigation has been independent,
and our action shall be so also. You would not denounce the man?”
“Certainly not,” I answered.
“I have never loved, Watson, but if I did and if the woman I loved had
met such an end, I might act even as our lawless lion-hunter has done.
Who knows? Well, Watson, I will not offend your intelligence by
explaining what is obvious. The gravel upon the window-sill was, of
course, the starting-point of my research. It was unlike anything in
the vicarage garden. Only when my attention had been drawn to Dr.
Sterndale and his cottage did I find its counterpart. The lamp shining
in broad daylight and the remains of powder upon the shield were
successive links in a fairly obvious chain. And now, my dear Watson, I
think we may dismiss the matter from our mind and go back with a clear
conscience to the study of those Chaldean roots which are surely to be
traced in the Cornish branch of the great Celtic speech.”
|
the_adventure_of_the_devil_s_foot
|
The Adventure of the Red Circle
|
His Last Bow
|
PART I
“Well, Mrs. Warren, I cannot see that you have any particular cause for
uneasiness, nor do I understand why I, whose time is of some value,
should interfere in the matter. I really have other things to engage
me.” So spoke Sherlock Holmes and turned back to the great scrapbook in
which he was arranging and indexing some of his recent material.
But the landlady had the pertinacity and also the cunning of her sex.
She held her ground firmly.
“You arranged an affair for a lodger of mine last year,” she said—“Mr.
Fairdale Hobbs.”
“Ah, yes—a simple matter.”
“But he would never cease talking of it—your kindness, sir, and the way
in which you brought light into the darkness. I remembered his words
when I was in doubt and darkness myself. I know you could if you only
would.”
Holmes was accessible upon the side of flattery, and also, to do him
justice, upon the side of kindliness. The two forces made him lay down
his gum-brush with a sigh of resignation and push back his chair.
“Well, well, Mrs. Warren, let us hear about it, then. You don’t object
to tobacco, I take it? Thank you, Watson—the matches! You are uneasy,
as I understand, because your new lodger remains in his rooms and you
cannot see him. Why, bless you, Mrs. Warren, if I were your lodger you
often would not see me for weeks on end.”
“No doubt, sir; but this is different. It frightens me, Mr. Holmes. I
can’t sleep for fright. To hear his quick step moving here and moving
there from early morning to late at night, and yet never to catch so
much as a glimpse of him—it’s more than I can stand. My husband is as
nervous over it as I am, but he is out at his work all day, while I get
no rest from it. What is he hiding for? What has he done? Except for
the girl, I am all alone in the house with him, and it’s more than my
nerves can stand.”
Holmes leaned forward and laid his long, thin fingers upon the woman’s
shoulder. He had an almost hypnotic power of soothing when he wished.
The scared look faded from her eyes, and her agitated features smoothed
into their usual commonplace. She sat down in the chair which he had
indicated.
“If I take it up I must understand every detail,” said he. “Take time
to consider. The smallest point may be the most essential. You say that
the man came ten days ago and paid you for a fortnight’s board and
lodging?”
“He asked my terms, sir. I said fifty shillings a week. There is a
small sitting-room and bedroom, and all complete, at the top of the
house.”
“Well?”
“He said, ‘I’ll pay you five pounds a week if I can have it on my own
terms.’ I’m a poor woman, sir, and Mr. Warren earns little, and the
money meant much to me. He took out a ten-pound note, and he held it
out to me then and there. ‘You can have the same every fortnight for a
long time to come if you keep the terms,’ he said. ‘If not, I’ll have
no more to do with you.’
“What were the terms?”
“Well, sir, they were that he was to have a key of the house. That was
all right. Lodgers often have them. Also, that he was to be left
entirely to himself and never, upon any excuse, to be disturbed.”
“Nothing wonderful in that, surely?”
“Not in reason, sir. But this is out of all reason. He has been there
for ten days, and neither Mr. Warren, nor I, nor the girl has once set
eyes upon him. We can hear that quick step of his pacing up and down,
up and down, night, morning, and noon; but except on that first night
he had never once gone out of the house.”
“Oh, he went out the first night, did he?”
“Yes, sir, and returned very late—after we were all in bed. He told me
after he had taken the rooms that he would do so and asked me not to
bar the door. I heard him come up the stair after midnight.”
“But his meals?”
“It was his particular direction that we should always, when he rang,
leave his meal upon a chair, outside his door. Then he rings again when
he has finished, and we take it down from the same chair. If he wants
anything else he prints it on a slip of paper and leaves it.”
“Prints it?”
“Yes, sir; prints it in pencil. Just the word, nothing more. Here’s the
one I brought to show you—SOAP. Here’s another—MATCH. This is one he
left the first morning—DAILY GAZETTE. I leave that paper with his
breakfast every morning.”
“Dear me, Watson,” said Homes, staring with great curiosity at the
slips of foolscap which the landlady had handed to him, “this is
certainly a little unusual. Seclusion I can understand; but why print?
Printing is a clumsy process. Why not write? What would it suggest,
Watson?”
“That he desired to conceal his handwriting.”
“But why? What can it matter to him that his landlady should have a
word of his writing? Still, it may be as you say. Then, again, why such
laconic messages?”
“I cannot imagine.”
“It opens a pleasing field for intelligent speculation. The words are
written with a broad-pointed, violet-tinted pencil of a not unusual
pattern. You will observe that the paper is torn away at the side here
after the printing was done, so that the ‘S’ of ‘SOAP’ is partly gone.
Suggestive, Watson, is it not?”
“Of caution?”
“Exactly. There was evidently some mark, some thumbprint, something
which might give a clue to the person’s identity. Now, Mrs. Warren, you
say that the man was of middle size, dark, and bearded. What age would
he be?”
“Youngish, sir—not over thirty.”
“Well, can you give me no further indications?”
“He spoke good English, sir, and yet I thought he was a foreigner by
his accent.”
“And he was well dressed?”
“Very smartly dressed, sir—quite the gentleman. Dark clothes—nothing
you would note.”
“He gave no name?”
“No, sir.”
“And has had no letters or callers?”
“None.”
“But surely you or the girl enter his room of a morning?”
“No, sir; he looks after himself entirely.”
“Dear me! that is certainly remarkable. What about his luggage?”
“He had one big brown bag with him—nothing else.”
“Well, we don’t seem to have much material to help us. Do you say
nothing has come out of that room—absolutely nothing?”
The landlady drew an envelope from her bag; from it she shook out two
burnt matches and a cigarette-end upon the table.
“They were on his tray this morning. I brought them because I had heard
that you can read great things out of small ones.”
Holmes shrugged his shoulders.
“There is nothing here,” said he. “The matches have, of course, been
used to light cigarettes. That is obvious from the shortness of the
burnt end. Half the match is consumed in lighting a pipe or cigar. But,
dear me! this cigarette stub is certainly remarkable. The gentleman was
bearded and moustached, you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t understand that. I should say that only a clean-shaven man
could have smoked this. Why, Watson, even your modest moustache would
have been singed.”
“A holder?” I suggested.
“No, no; the end is matted. I suppose there could not be two people in
your rooms, Mrs. Warren?”
“No, sir. He eats so little that I often wonder it can keep life in
one.”
“Well, I think we must wait for a little more material. After all, you
have nothing to complain of. You have received your rent, and he is not
a troublesome lodger, though he is certainly an unusual one. He pays
you well, and if he chooses to lie concealed it is no direct business
of yours. We have no excuse for an intrusion upon his privacy until we
have some reason to think that there is a guilty reason for it. I’ve
taken up the matter, and I won’t lose sight of it. Report to me if
anything fresh occurs, and rely upon my assistance if it should be
needed.
“There are certainly some points of interest in this case, Watson,” he
remarked when the landlady had left us. “It may, of course, be
trivial—individual eccentricity; or it may be very much deeper than
appears on the surface. The first thing that strikes one is the obvious
possibility that the person now in the rooms may be entirely different
from the one who engaged them.”
“Why should you think so?”
“Well, apart from this cigarette-end, was it not suggestive that the
only time the lodger went out was immediately after his taking the
rooms? He came back—or someone came back—when all witnesses were out of
the way. We have no proof that the person who came back was the person
who went out. Then, again, the man who took the rooms spoke English
well. This other, however, prints ‘match’ when it should have been
‘matches.’ I can imagine that the word was taken out of a dictionary,
which would give the noun but not the plural. The laconic style may be
to conceal the absence of knowledge of English. Yes, Watson, there are
good reasons to suspect that there has been a substitution of lodgers.”
“But for what possible end?”
“Ah! there lies our problem. There is one rather obvious line of
investigation.” He took down the great book in which, day by day, he
filed the agony columns of the various London journals. “Dear me!” said
he, turning over the pages, “what a chorus of groans, cries, and
bleatings! What a rag-bag of singular happenings! But surely the most
valuable hunting-ground that ever was given to a student of the
unusual! This person is alone and cannot be approached by letter
without a breach of that absolute secrecy which is desired. How is any
news or any message to reach him from without? Obviously by
advertisement through a newspaper. There seems no other way, and
fortunately we need concern ourselves with the one paper only. Here are
the _Daily Gazette_ extracts of the last fortnight. ‘Lady with a black
boa at Prince’s Skating Club’—that we may pass. ‘Surely Jimmy will not
break his mother’s heart’—that appears to be irrelevant. ‘If the lady
who fainted on Brixton bus’—she does not interest me. ‘Every day my
heart longs—’ Bleat, Watson—unmitigated bleat! Ah, this is a little
more possible. Listen to this: ‘Be patient. Will find some sure means
of communications. Meanwhile, this column. G.’ That is two days after
Mrs. Warren’s lodger arrived. It sounds plausible, does it not? The
mysterious one could understand English, even if he could not print it.
Let us see if we can pick up the trace again. Yes, here we are—three
days later. ‘Am making successful arrangements. Patience and prudence.
The clouds will pass. G.’ Nothing for a week after that. Then comes
something much more definite: ‘The path is clearing. If I find chance
signal message remember code agreed—One A, two B, and so on. You will
hear soon. G.’ That was in yesterday’s paper, and there is nothing in
to-day’s. It’s all very appropriate to Mrs. Warren’s lodger. If we wait
a little, Watson, I don’t doubt that the affair will grow more
intelligible.”
So it proved; for in the morning I found my friend standing on the
hearthrug with his back to the fire and a smile of complete
satisfaction upon his face.
“How’s this, Watson?” he cried, picking up the paper from the table.
“‘High red house with white stone facings. Third floor. Second window
left. After dusk. G.’ That is definite enough. I think after breakfast
we must make a little reconnaissance of Mrs. Warren’s neighbourhood.
Ah, Mrs. Warren! what news do you bring us this morning?”
Our client had suddenly burst into the room with an explosive energy
which told of some new and momentous development.
“It’s a police matter, Mr. Holmes!” she cried. “I’ll have no more of
it! He shall pack out of there with his baggage. I would have gone
straight up and told him so, only I thought it was but fair to you to
take your opinion first. But I’m at the end of my patience, and when it
comes to knocking my old man about—”
“Knocking Mr. Warren about?”
“Using him roughly, anyway.”
“But who used him roughly?”
“Ah! that’s what we want to know! It was this morning, sir. Mr. Warren
is a timekeeper at Morton and Waylight’s, in Tottenham Court Road. He
has to be out of the house before seven. Well, this morning he had not
gone ten paces down the road when two men came up behind him, threw a
coat over his head, and bundled him into a cab that was beside the
curb. They drove him an hour, and then opened the door and shot him
out. He lay in the roadway so shaken in his wits that he never saw what
became of the cab. When he picked himself up he found he was on
Hampstead Heath; so he took a bus home, and there he lies now on his
sofa, while I came straight round to tell you what had happened.”
“Most interesting,” said Holmes. “Did he observe the appearance of
these men—did he hear them talk?”
“No; he is clean dazed. He just knows that he was lifted up as if by
magic and dropped as if by magic. Two at least were in it, and maybe
three.”
“And you connect this attack with your lodger?”
“Well, we’ve lived there fifteen years and no such happenings ever came
before. I’ve had enough of him. Money’s not everything. I’ll have him
out of my house before the day is done.”
“Wait a bit, Mrs. Warren. Do nothing rash. I begin to think that this
affair may be very much more important than appeared at first sight. It
is clear now that some danger is threatening your lodger. It is equally
clear that his enemies, lying in wait for him near your door, mistook
your husband for him in the foggy morning light. On discovering their
mistake they released him. What they would have done had it not been a
mistake, we can only conjecture.”
“Well, what am I to do, Mr. Holmes?”
“I have a great fancy to see this lodger of yours, Mrs. Warren.”
“I don’t see how that is to be managed, unless you break in the door. I
always hear him unlock it as I go down the stair after I leave the
tray.”
“He has to take the tray in. Surely we could conceal ourselves and see
him do it.”
The landlady thought for a moment.
“Well, sir, there’s the box-room opposite. I could arrange a
looking-glass, maybe, and if you were behind the door—”
“Excellent!” said Holmes. “When does he lunch?”
“About one, sir.”
“Then Dr. Watson and I will come round in time. For the present, Mrs.
Warren, good-bye.”
At half-past twelve we found ourselves upon the steps of Mrs. Warren’s
house—a high, thin, yellow-brick edifice in Great Orme Street, a narrow
thoroughfare at the northeast side of the British Museum. Standing as
it does near the corner of the street, it commands a view down Howe
Street, with its more pretentious houses. Holmes pointed with a chuckle
to one of these, a row of residential flats, which projected so that
they could not fail to catch the eye.
“See, Watson!” said he. “‘High red house with stone facings.’ There is
the signal station all right. We know the place, and we know the code;
so surely our task should be simple. There’s a ‘to let’ card in that
window. It is evidently an empty flat to which the confederate has
access. Well, Mrs. Warren, what now?”
“I have it all ready for you. If you will both come up and leave your
boots below on the landing, I’ll put you there now.”
It was an excellent hiding-place which she had arranged. The mirror was
so placed that, seated in the dark, we could very plainly see the door
opposite. We had hardly settled down in it, and Mrs. Warren left us,
when a distant tinkle announced that our mysterious neighbour had rung.
Presently the landlady appeared with the tray, laid it down upon a
chair beside the closed door, and then, treading heavily, departed.
Crouching together in the angle of the door, we kept our eyes fixed
upon the mirror. Suddenly, as the landlady’s footsteps died away, there
was the creak of a turning key, the handle revolved, and two thin hands
darted out and lifted the tray from the chair. An instant later it was
hurriedly replaced, and I caught a glimpse of a dark, beautiful,
horrified face glaring at the narrow opening of the box-room. Then the
door crashed to, the key turned once more, and all was silence. Holmes
twitched my sleeve, and together we stole down the stair.
“I will call again in the evening,” said he to the expectant landlady.
“I think, Watson, we can discuss this business better in our own
quarters.”
“My surmise, as you saw, proved to be correct,” said he, speaking from
the depths of his easy-chair. “There has been a substitution of
lodgers. What I did not foresee is that we should find a woman, and no
ordinary woman, Watson.”
“She saw us.”
“Well, she saw something to alarm her. That is certain. The general
sequence of events is pretty clear, is it not? A couple seek refuge in
London from a very terrible and instant danger. The measure of that
danger is the rigour of their precautions. The man, who has some work
which he must do, desires to leave the woman in absolute safety while
he does it. It is not an easy problem, but he solved it in an original
fashion, and so effectively that her presence was not even known to the
landlady who supplies her with food. The printed messages, as is now
evident, were to prevent her sex being discovered by her writing. The
man cannot come near the woman, or he will guide their enemies to her.
Since he cannot communicate with her direct, he has recourse to the
agony column of a paper. So far all is clear.”
“But what is at the root of it?”
“Ah, yes, Watson—severely practical, as usual! What is at the root of
it all? Mrs. Warren’s whimsical problem enlarges somewhat and assumes a
more sinister aspect as we proceed. This much we can say: that it is no
ordinary love escapade. You saw the woman’s face at the sign of danger.
We have heard, too, of the attack upon the landlord, which was
undoubtedly meant for the lodger. These alarms, and the desperate need
for secrecy, argue that the matter is one of life or death. The attack
upon Mr. Warren further shows that the enemy, whoever they are, are
themselves not aware of the substitution of the female lodger for the
male. It is very curious and complex, Watson.”
“Why should you go further in it? What have you to gain from it?”
“What, indeed? It is art for art’s sake, Watson. I suppose when you
doctored you found yourself studying cases without thought of a fee?”
“For my education, Holmes.”
“Education never ends, Watson. It is a series of lessons with the
greatest for the last. This is an instructive case. There is neither
money nor credit in it, and yet one would wish to tidy it up. When dusk
comes we should find ourselves one stage advanced in our
investigation.”
When we returned to Mrs. Warren’s rooms, the gloom of a London winter
evening had thickened into one grey curtain, a dead monotone of colour,
broken only by the sharp yellow squares of the windows and the blurred
haloes of the gas-lamps. As we peered from the darkened sitting-room of
the lodging-house, one more dim light glimmered high up through the
obscurity.
“Someone is moving in that room,” said Holmes in a whisper, his gaunt
and eager face thrust forward to the window-pane. “Yes, I can see his
shadow. There he is again! He has a candle in his hand. Now he is
peering across. He wants to be sure that she is on the lookout. Now he
begins to flash. Take the message also, Watson, that we may check each
other. A single flash—that is A, surely. Now, then. How many did you
make it? Twenty. So did I. That should mean T. AT—that’s intelligible
enough. Another T. Surely this is the beginning of a second word. Now,
then—TENTA. Dead stop. That can’t be all, Watson? ATTENTA gives no
sense. Nor is it any better as three words AT, TEN, TA, unless T. A.
are a person’s initials. There it goes again! What’s that? ATTE—why, it
is the same message over again. Curious, Watson, very curious. Now he
is off once more! AT—why he is repeating it for the third time. ATTENTA
three times! How often will he repeat it? No, that seems to be the
finish. He has withdrawn from the window. What do you make of it,
Watson?”
“A cipher message, Holmes.”
My companion gave a sudden chuckle of comprehension. “And not a very
obscure cipher, Watson,” said he. “Why, of course, it is Italian! The A
means that it is addressed to a woman. ‘Beware! Beware! Beware!’ How’s
that, Watson?
“I believe you have hit it.”
“Not a doubt of it. It is a very urgent message, thrice repeated to
make it more so. But beware of what? Wait a bit, he is coming to the
window once more.”
Again we saw the dim silhouette of a crouching man and the whisk of the
small flame across the window as the signals were renewed. They came
more rapidly than before—so rapid that it was hard to follow them.
“PERICOLO—pericolo—eh, what’s that, Watson? ‘Danger,’ isn’t it? Yes, by
Jove, it’s a danger signal. There he goes again! PERI. Halloa, what on
earth—”
The light had suddenly gone out, the glimmering square of window had
disappeared, and the third floor formed a dark band round the lofty
building, with its tiers of shining casements. That last warning cry
had been suddenly cut short. How, and by whom? The same thought
occurred on the instant to us both. Holmes sprang up from where he
crouched by the window.
“This is serious, Watson,” he cried. “There is some devilry going
forward! Why should such a message stop in such a way? I should put
Scotland Yard in touch with this business—and yet, it is too pressing
for us to leave.”
“Shall I go for the police?”
“We must define the situation a little more clearly. It may bear some
more innocent interpretation. Come, Watson, let us go across ourselves
and see what we can make of it.”
PART II
As we walked rapidly down Howe Street I glanced back at the building
which we had left. There, dimly outlined at the top window, I could see
the shadow of a head, a woman’s head, gazing tensely, rigidly, out into
the night, waiting with breathless suspense for the renewal of that
interrupted message. At the doorway of the Howe Street flats a man,
muffled in a cravat and greatcoat, was leaning against the railing. He
started as the hall-light fell upon our faces.
“Holmes!” he cried.
“Why, Gregson!” said my companion as he shook hands with the Scotland
Yard detective. “Journeys end with lovers’ meetings. What brings you
here?”
“The same reasons that bring you, I expect,” said Gregson. “How you got
on to it I can’t imagine.”
“Different threads, but leading up to the same tangle. I’ve been taking
the signals.”
“Signals?”
“Yes, from that window. They broke off in the middle. We came over to
see the reason. But since it is safe in your hands I see no object in
continuing this business.”
“Wait a bit!” cried Gregson eagerly. “I’ll do you this justice, Mr.
Holmes, that I was never in a case yet that I didn’t feel stronger for
having you on my side. There’s only the one exit to these flats, so we
have him safe.”
“Who is he?”
“Well, well, we score over you for once, Mr. Holmes. You must give us
best this time.” He struck his stick sharply upon the ground, on which
a cabman, his whip in his hand, sauntered over from a four-wheeler
which stood on the far side of the street. “May I introduce you to Mr.
Sherlock Holmes?” he said to the cabman. “This is Mr. Leverton, of
Pinkerton’s American Agency.”
“The hero of the Long Island cave mystery?” said Holmes. “Sir, I am
pleased to meet you.”
The American, a quiet, businesslike young man, with a clean-shaven,
hatchet face, flushed up at the words of commendation. “I am on the
trail of my life now, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “If I can get Gorgiano—”
“What! Gorgiano of the Red Circle?”
“Oh, he has a European fame, has he? Well, we’ve learned all about him
in America. We _know_ he is at the bottom of fifty murders, and yet we
have nothing positive we can take him on. I tracked him over from New
York, and I’ve been close to him for a week in London, waiting some
excuse to get my hand on his collar. Mr. Gregson and I ran him to
ground in that big tenement house, and there’s only one door, so he
can’t slip us. There’s three folk come out since he went in, but I’ll
swear he wasn’t one of them.”
“Mr. Holmes talks of signals,” said Gregson. “I expect, as usual, he
knows a good deal that we don’t.”
In a few clear words Holmes explained the situation as it had appeared
to us. The American struck his hands together with vexation.
“He’s on to us!” he cried.
“Why do you think so?”
“Well, it figures out that way, does it not? Here he is, sending out
messages to an accomplice—there are several of his gang in London. Then
suddenly, just as by your own account he was telling them that there
was danger, he broke short off. What could it mean except that from the
window he had suddenly either caught sight of us in the street, or in
some way come to understand how close the danger was, and that he must
act right away if he was to avoid it? What do you suggest, Mr. Holmes?”
“That we go up at once and see for ourselves.”
“But we have no warrant for his arrest.”
“He is in unoccupied premises under suspicious circumstances,” said
Gregson. “That is good enough for the moment. When we have him by the
heels we can see if New York can’t help us to keep him. I’ll take the
responsibility of arresting him now.”
Our official detectives may blunder in the matter of intelligence, but
never in that of courage. Gregson climbed the stair to arrest this
desperate murderer with the same absolutely quiet and businesslike
bearing with which he would have ascended the official staircase of
Scotland Yard. The Pinkerton man had tried to push past him, but
Gregson had firmly elbowed him back. London dangers were the privilege
of the London force.
The door of the left-hand flat upon the third landing was standing
ajar. Gregson pushed it open. Within all was absolute silence and
darkness. I struck a match and lit the detective’s lantern. As I did
so, and as the flicker steadied into a flame, we all gave a gasp of
surprise. On the deal boards of the carpetless floor there was outlined
a fresh track of blood. The red steps pointed towards us and led away
from an inner room, the door of which was closed. Gregson flung it open
and held his light full blaze in front of him, while we all peered
eagerly over his shoulders.
In the middle of the floor of the empty room was huddled the figure of
an enormous man, his clean-shaven, swarthy face grotesquely horrible in
its contortion and his head encircled by a ghastly crimson halo of
blood, lying in a broad wet circle upon the white woodwork. His knees
were drawn up, his hands thrown out in agony, and from the centre of
his broad, brown, upturned throat there projected the white haft of a
knife driven blade-deep into his body. Giant as he was, the man must
have gone down like a pole-axed ox before that terrific blow. Beside
his right hand a most formidable horn-handled, two-edged dagger lay
upon the floor, and near it a black kid glove.
“By George! it’s Black Gorgiano himself!” cried the American detective.
“Someone has got ahead of us this time.”
“Here is the candle in the window, Mr. Holmes,” said Gregson. “Why,
whatever are you doing?”
Holmes had stepped across, had lit the candle, and was passing it
backward and forward across the window-panes. Then he peered into the
darkness, blew the candle out, and threw it on the floor.
“I rather think that will be helpful,” said he. He came over and stood
in deep thought while the two professionals were examining the body.
“You say that three people came out from the flat while you were
waiting downstairs,” said he at last. “Did you observe them closely?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Was there a fellow about thirty, black-bearded, dark, of middle size?”
“Yes; he was the last to pass me.”
“That is your man, I fancy. I can give you his description, and we have
a very excellent outline of his footmark. That should be enough for
you.”
“Not much, Mr. Holmes, among the millions of London.”
“Perhaps not. That is why I thought it best to summon this lady to your
aid.”
We all turned round at the words. There, framed in the doorway, was a
tall and beautiful woman—the mysterious lodger of Bloomsbury. Slowly
she advanced, her face pale and drawn with a frightful apprehension,
her eyes fixed and staring, her terrified gaze riveted upon the dark
figure on the floor.
“You have killed him!” she muttered. “Oh, _Dio mio_, you have killed
him!” Then I heard a sudden sharp intake of her breath, and she sprang
into the air with a cry of joy. Round and round the room she danced,
her hands clapping, her dark eyes gleaming with delighted wonder, and a
thousand pretty Italian exclamations pouring from her lips. It was
terrible and amazing to see such a woman so convulsed with joy at such
a sight. Suddenly she stopped and gazed at us all with a questioning
stare.
“But you! You are police, are you not? You have killed Giuseppe
Gorgiano. Is it not so?”
“We are police, madam.”
She looked round into the shadows of the room.
“But where, then, is Gennaro?” she asked. “He is my husband, Gennaro
Lucca. I am Emilia Lucca, and we are both from New York. Where is
Gennaro? He called me this moment from this window, and I ran with all
my speed.”
“It was I who called,” said Holmes.
“You! How could you call?”
“Your cipher was not difficult, madam. Your presence here was
desirable. I knew that I had only to flash ‘_Vieni_’ and you would
surely come.”
The beautiful Italian looked with awe at my companion.
“I do not understand how you know these things,” she said. “Giuseppe
Gorgiano—how did he—” She paused, and then suddenly her face lit up
with pride and delight. “Now I see it! My Gennaro! My splendid,
beautiful Gennaro, who has guarded me safe from all harm, he did it,
with his own strong hand he killed the monster! Oh, Gennaro, how
wonderful you are! What woman could ever be worthy of such a man?”
“Well, Mrs. Lucca,” said the prosaic Gregson, laying his hand upon the
lady’s sleeve with as little sentiment as if she were a Notting Hill
hooligan, “I am not very clear yet who you are or what you are; but
you’ve said enough to make it very clear that we shall want you at the
Yard.”
“One moment, Gregson,” said Holmes. “I rather fancy that this lady may
be as anxious to give us information as we can be to get it. You
understand, madam, that your husband will be arrested and tried for the
death of the man who lies before us? What you say may be used in
evidence. But if you think that he has acted from motives which are not
criminal, and which he would wish to have known, then you cannot serve
him better than by telling us the whole story.”
“Now that Gorgiano is dead we fear nothing,” said the lady. “He was a
devil and a monster, and there can be no judge in the world who would
punish my husband for having killed him.”
“In that case,” said Holmes, “my suggestion is that we lock this door,
leave things as we found them, go with this lady to her room, and form
our opinion after we have heard what it is that she has to say to us.”
Half an hour later we were seated, all four, in the small sitting-room
of Signora Lucca, listening to her remarkable narrative of those
sinister events, the ending of which we had chanced to witness. She
spoke in rapid and fluent but very unconventional English, which, for
the sake of clearness, I will make grammatical.
“I was born in Posilippo, near Naples,” said she, “and was the daughter
of Augusto Barelli, who was the chief lawyer and once the deputy of
that part. Gennaro was in my father’s employment, and I came to love
him, as any woman must. He had neither money nor position—nothing but
his beauty and strength and energy—so my father forbade the match. We
fled together, were married at Bari, and sold my jewels to gain the
money which would take us to America. This was four years ago, and we
have been in New York ever since.
“Fortune was very good to us at first. Gennaro was able to do a service
to an Italian gentleman—he saved him from some ruffians in the place
called the Bowery, and so made a powerful friend. His name was Tito
Castalotte, and he was the senior partner of the great firm of
Castalotte and Zamba, who are the chief fruit importers of New York.
Signor Zamba is an invalid, and our new friend Castalotte has all power
within the firm, which employs more than three hundred men. He took my
husband into his employment, made him head of a department, and showed
his good-will towards him in every way. Signor Castalotte was a
bachelor, and I believe that he felt as if Gennaro was his son, and
both my husband and I loved him as if he were our father. We had taken
and furnished a little house in Brooklyn, and our whole future seemed
assured when that black cloud appeared which was soon to overspread our
sky.
“One night, when Gennaro returned from his work, he brought a
fellow-countryman back with him. His name was Gorgiano, and he had come
also from Posilippo. He was a huge man, as you can testify, for you
have looked upon his corpse. Not only was his body that of a giant but
everything about him was grotesque, gigantic, and terrifying. His voice
was like thunder in our little house. There was scarce room for the
whirl of his great arms as he talked. His thoughts, his emotions, his
passions, all were exaggerated and monstrous. He talked, or rather
roared, with such energy that others could but sit and listen, cowed
with the mighty stream of words. His eyes blazed at you and held you at
his mercy. He was a terrible and wonderful man. I thank God that he is
dead!
“He came again and again. Yet I was aware that Gennaro was no more
happy than I was in his presence. My poor husband would sit pale and
listless, listening to the endless raving upon politics and upon social
questions which made up our visitor’s conversation. Gennaro said
nothing, but I, who knew him so well, could read in his face some
emotion which I had never seen there before. At first I thought that it
was dislike. And then, gradually, I understood that it was more than
dislike. It was fear—a deep, secret, shrinking fear. That night—the
night that I read his terror—I put my arms round him and I implored him
by his love for me and by all that he held dear to hold nothing from
me, and to tell me why this huge man overshadowed him so.
“He told me, and my own heart grew cold as ice as I listened. My poor
Gennaro, in his wild and fiery days, when all the world seemed against
him and his mind was driven half mad by the injustices of life, had
joined a Neapolitan society, the Red Circle, which was allied to the
old Carbonari. The oaths and secrets of this brotherhood were
frightful, but once within its rule no escape was possible. When we had
fled to America Gennaro thought that he had cast it all off forever.
What was his horror one evening to meet in the streets the very man who
had initiated him in Naples, the giant Gorgiano, a man who had earned
the name of ‘Death’ in the south of Italy, for he was red to the elbow
in murder! He had come to New York to avoid the Italian police, and he
had already planted a branch of this dreadful society in his new home.
All this Gennaro told me and showed me a summons which he had received
that very day, a Red Circle drawn upon the head of it telling him that
a lodge would be held upon a certain date, and that his presence at it
was required and ordered.
“That was bad enough, but worse was to come. I had noticed for some
time that when Gorgiano came to us, as he constantly did, in the
evening, he spoke much to me; and even when his words were to my
husband those terrible, glaring, wild-beast eyes of his were always
turned upon me. One night his secret came out. I had awakened what he
called ‘love’ within him—the love of a brute—a savage. Gennaro had not
yet returned when he came. He pushed his way in, seized me in his
mighty arms, hugged me in his bear’s embrace, covered me with kisses,
and implored me to come away with him. I was struggling and screaming
when Gennaro entered and attacked him. He struck Gennaro senseless and
fled from the house which he was never more to enter. It was a deadly
enemy that we made that night.
“A few days later came the meeting. Gennaro returned from it with a
face which told me that something dreadful had occurred. It was worse
than we could have imagined possible. The funds of the society were
raised by blackmailing rich Italians and threatening them with violence
should they refuse the money. It seems that Castalotte, our dear friend
and benefactor, had been approached. He had refused to yield to
threats, and he had handed the notices to the police. It was resolved
now that such an example should be made of them as would prevent any
other victim from rebelling. At the meeting it was arranged that he and
his house should be blown up with dynamite. There was a drawing of lots
as to who should carry out the deed. Gennaro saw our enemy’s cruel face
smiling at him as he dipped his hand in the bag. No doubt it had been
prearranged in some fashion, for it was the fatal disc with the Red
Circle upon it, the mandate for murder, which lay upon his palm. He was
to kill his best friend, or he was to expose himself and me to the
vengeance of his comrades. It was part of their fiendish system to
punish those whom they feared or hated by injuring not only their own
persons but those whom they loved, and it was the knowledge of this
which hung as a terror over my poor Gennaro’s head and drove him nearly
crazy with apprehension.
“All that night we sat together, our arms round each other, each
strengthening each for the troubles that lay before us. The very next
evening had been fixed for the attempt. By midday my husband and I were
on our way to London, but not before he had given our benefactor full
warning of this danger, and had also left such information for the
police as would safeguard his life for the future.
“The rest, gentlemen, you know for yourselves. We were sure that our
enemies would be behind us like our own shadows. Gorgiano had his
private reasons for vengeance, but in any case we knew how ruthless,
cunning, and untiring he could be. Both Italy and America are full of
stories of his dreadful powers. If ever they were exerted it would be
now. My darling made use of the few clear days which our start had
given us in arranging for a refuge for me in such a fashion that no
possible danger could reach me. For his own part, he wished to be free
that he might communicate both with the American and with the Italian
police. I do not myself know where he lived, or how. All that I learned
was through the columns of a newspaper. But once as I looked through my
window, I saw two Italians watching the house, and I understood that in
some way Gorgiano had found our retreat. Finally Gennaro told me,
through the paper, that he would signal to me from a certain window,
but when the signals came they were nothing but warnings, which were
suddenly interrupted. It is very clear to me now that he knew Gorgiano
to be close upon him, and that, thank God! he was ready for him when he
came. And now, gentleman, I would ask you whether we have anything to
fear from the law, or whether any judge upon earth would condemn my
Gennaro for what he has done?”
“Well, Mr. Gregson,” said the American, looking across at the official,
“I don’t know what your British point of view may be, but I guess that
in New York this lady’s husband will receive a pretty general vote of
thanks.”
“She will have to come with me and see the chief,” Gregson answered.
“If what she says is corroborated, I do not think she or her husband
has much to fear. But what I can’t make head or tail of, Mr. Holmes, is
how on earth _you_ got yourself mixed up in the matter.”
“Education, Gregson, education. Still seeking knowledge at the old
university. Well, Watson, you have one more specimen of the tragic and
grotesque to add to your collection. By the way, it is not eight
o’clock, and a Wagner night at Covent Garden! If we hurry, we might be
in time for the second act.”
|
the_adventure_of_the_red_circle
|
The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax
|
His Last Bow
|
“But why Turkish?” asked Mr. Sherlock Holmes, gazing fixedly at my
boots. I was reclining in a cane-backed chair at the moment, and my
protruded feet had attracted his ever-active attention.
“English,” I answered in some surprise. “I got them at Latimer’s, in
Oxford Street.”
Holmes smiled with an expression of weary patience.
“The bath!” he said; “the bath! Why the relaxing and expensive Turkish
rather than the invigorating home-made article?”
“Because for the last few days I have been feeling rheumatic and old. A
Turkish bath is what we call an alterative in medicine—a fresh
starting-point, a cleanser of the system.
“By the way, Holmes,” I added, “I have no doubt the connection between
my boots and a Turkish bath is a perfectly self-evident one to a
logical mind, and yet I should be obliged to you if you would indicate
it.”
“The train of reasoning is not very obscure, Watson,” said Holmes with
a mischievous twinkle. “It belongs to the same elementary class of
deduction which I should illustrate if I were to ask you who shared
your cab in your drive this morning.”
“I don’t admit that a fresh illustration is an explanation,” said I
with some asperity.
“Bravo, Watson! A very dignified and logical remonstrance. Let me see,
what were the points? Take the last one first—the cab. You observe that
you have some splashes on the left sleeve and shoulder of your coat.
Had you sat in the centre of a hansom you would probably have had no
splashes, and if you had they would certainly have been symmetrical.
Therefore it is clear that you sat at the side. Therefore it is equally
clear that you had a companion.”
“That is very evident.”
“Absurdly commonplace, is it not?”
“But the boots and the bath?”
“Equally childish. You are in the habit of doing up your boots in a
certain way. I see them on this occasion fastened with an elaborate
double bow, which is not your usual method of tying them. You have,
therefore, had them off. Who has tied them? A bootmaker—or the boy at
the bath. It is unlikely that it is the bootmaker, since your boots are
nearly new. Well, what remains? The bath. Absurd, is it not? But, for
all that, the Turkish bath has served a purpose.”
“What is that?”
“You say that you have had it because you need a change. Let me suggest
that you take one. How would Lausanne do, my dear Watson—first-class
tickets and all expenses paid on a princely scale?”
“Splendid! But why?”
Holmes leaned back in his armchair and took his notebook from his
pocket.
“One of the most dangerous classes in the world,” said he, “is the
drifting and friendless woman. She is the most harmless and often the
most useful of mortals, but she is the inevitable inciter of crime in
others. She is helpless. She is migratory. She has sufficient means to
take her from country to country and from hotel to hotel. She is lost,
as often as not, in a maze of obscure _pensions_ and boardinghouses.
She is a stray chicken in a world of foxes. When she is gobbled up she
is hardly missed. I much fear that some evil has come to the Lady
Frances Carfax.”
I was relieved at this sudden descent from the general to the
particular. Holmes consulted his notes.
“Lady Frances,” he continued, “is the sole survivor of the direct
family of the late Earl of Rufton. The estates went, as you may
remember, in the male line. She was left with limited means, but with
some very remarkable old Spanish jewellery of silver and curiously cut
diamonds to which she was fondly attached—too attached, for she refused
to leave them with her banker and always carried them about with her. A
rather pathetic figure, the Lady Frances, a beautiful woman, still in
fresh middle age, and yet, by a strange change, the last derelict of
what only twenty years ago was a goodly fleet.”
“What has happened to her, then?”
“Ah, what has happened to the Lady Frances? Is she alive or dead? There
is our problem. She is a lady of precise habits, and for four years it
has been her invariable custom to write every second week to Miss
Dobney, her old governess, who has long retired and lives in
Camberwell. It is this Miss Dobney who has consulted me. Nearly five
weeks have passed without a word. The last letter was from the Hôtel
National at Lausanne. Lady Frances seems to have left there and given
no address. The family are anxious, and as they are exceedingly wealthy
no sum will be spared if we can clear the matter up.”
“Is Miss Dobney the only source of information? Surely she had other
correspondents?”
“There is one correspondent who is a sure draw, Watson. That is the
bank. Single ladies must live, and their passbooks are compressed
diaries. She banks at Silvester’s. I have glanced over her account. The
last check but one paid her bill at Lausanne, but it was a large one
and probably left her with cash in hand. Only one check has been drawn
since.”
“To whom, and where?”
“To Miss Marie Devine. There is nothing to show where the check was
drawn. It was cashed at the Crédit Lyonnais at Montpellier less than
three weeks ago. The sum was fifty pounds.”
“And who is Miss Marie Devine?”
“That also I have been able to discover. Miss Marie Devine was the maid
of Lady Frances Carfax. Why she should have paid her this check we have
not yet determined. I have no doubt, however, that your researches will
soon clear the matter up.”
“_My_ researches!”
“Hence the health-giving expedition to Lausanne. You know that I cannot
possibly leave London while old Abrahams is in such mortal terror of
his life. Besides, on general principles it is best that I should not
leave the country. Scotland Yard feels lonely without me, and it causes
an unhealthy excitement among the criminal classes. Go, then, my dear
Watson, and if my humble counsel can ever be valued at so extravagant a
rate as two pence a word, it waits your disposal night and day at the
end of the Continental wire.”
Two days later found me at the Hôtel National at Lausanne, where I
received every courtesy at the hands of M. Moser, the well-known
manager. Lady Frances, as he informed me, had stayed there for several
weeks. She had been much liked by all who met her. Her age was not more
than forty. She was still handsome and bore every sign of having in her
youth been a very lovely woman. M. Moser knew nothing of any valuable
jewellery, but it had been remarked by the servants that the heavy
trunk in the lady’s bedroom was always scrupulously locked. Marie
Devine, the maid, was as popular as her mistress. She was actually
engaged to one of the head waiters in the hotel, and there was no
difficulty in getting her address. It was 11, Rue de Trajan,
Montpellier. All this I jotted down and felt that Holmes himself could
not have been more adroit in collecting his facts.
Only one corner still remained in the shadow. No light which I
possessed could clear up the cause for the lady’s sudden departure. She
was very happy at Lausanne. There was every reason to believe that she
intended to remain for the season in her luxurious rooms overlooking
the lake. And yet she had left at a single day’s notice, which involved
her in the useless payment of a week’s rent. Only Jules Vibart, the
lover of the maid, had any suggestion to offer. He connected the sudden
departure with the visit to the hotel a day or two before of a tall,
dark, bearded man. “_Un sauvage—un veritable sauvage!_” cried Jules
Vibart. The man had rooms somewhere in the town. He had been seen
talking earnestly to Madame on the promenade by the lake. Then he had
called. She had refused to see him. He was English, but of his name
there was no record. Madame had left the place immediately afterwards.
Jules Vibart, and, what was of more importance, Jules Vibart’s
sweetheart, thought that this call and the departure were cause and
effect. Only one thing Jules would not discuss. That was the reason why
Marie had left her mistress. Of that he could or would say nothing. If
I wished to know, I must go to Montpellier and ask her.
So ended the first chapter of my inquiry. The second was devoted to the
place which Lady Frances Carfax had sought when she left Lausanne.
Concerning this there had been some secrecy, which confirmed the idea
that she had gone with the intention of throwing someone off her track.
Otherwise why should not her luggage have been openly labelled for
Baden? Both she and it reached the Rhenish spa by some circuitous
route. This much I gathered from the manager of Cook’s local office. So
to Baden I went, after dispatching to Holmes an account of all my
proceedings and receiving in reply a telegram of half-humorous
commendation.
At Baden the track was not difficult to follow. Lady Frances had stayed
at the Englischer Hof for a fortnight. While there she had made the
acquaintance of a Dr. Shlessinger and his wife, a missionary from South
America. Like most lonely ladies, Lady Frances found her comfort and
occupation in religion. Dr. Shlessinger’s remarkable personality, his
whole hearted devotion, and the fact that he was recovering from a
disease contracted in the exercise of his apostolic duties affected her
deeply. She had helped Mrs. Shlessinger in the nursing of the
convalescent saint. He spent his day, as the manager described it to
me, upon a lounge-chair on the veranda, with an attendant lady upon
either side of him. He was preparing a map of the Holy Land, with
special reference to the kingdom of the Midianites, upon which he was
writing a monograph. Finally, having improved much in health, he and
his wife had returned to London, and Lady Frances had started thither
in their company. This was just three weeks before, and the manager had
heard nothing since. As to the maid, Marie, she had gone off some days
beforehand in floods of tears, after informing the other maids that she
was leaving service forever. Dr. Shlessinger had paid the bill of the
whole party before his departure.
“By the way,” said the landlord in conclusion, “you are not the only
friend of Lady Frances Carfax who is inquiring after her just now. Only
a week or so ago we had a man here upon the same errand.”
“Did he give a name?” I asked.
“None; but he was an Englishman, though of an unusual type.”
“A savage?” said I, linking my facts after the fashion of my
illustrious friend.
“Exactly. That describes him very well. He is a bulky, bearded,
sunburned fellow, who looks as if he would be more at home in a
farmers’ inn than in a fashionable hotel. A hard, fierce man, I should
think, and one whom I should be sorry to offend.”
Already the mystery began to define itself, as figures grow clearer
with the lifting of a fog. Here was this good and pious lady pursued
from place to place by a sinister and unrelenting figure. She feared
him, or she would not have fled from Lausanne. He had still followed.
Sooner or later he would overtake her. Had he already overtaken her?
Was _that_ the secret of her continued silence? Could the good people
who were her companions not screen her from his violence or his
blackmail? What horrible purpose, what deep design, lay behind this
long pursuit? There was the problem which I had to solve.
To Holmes I wrote showing how rapidly and surely I had got down to the
roots of the matter. In reply I had a telegram asking for a description
of Dr. Shlessinger’s left ear. Holmes’s ideas of humour are strange and
occasionally offensive, so I took no notice of his ill-timed
jest—indeed, I had already reached Montpellier in my pursuit of the
maid, Marie, before his message came.
I had no difficulty in finding the ex-servant and in learning all that
she could tell me. She was a devoted creature, who had only left her
mistress because she was sure that she was in good hands, and because
her own approaching marriage made a separation inevitable in any case.
Her mistress had, as she confessed with distress, shown some
irritability of temper towards her during their stay in Baden, and had
even questioned her once as if she had suspicions of her honesty, and
this had made the parting easier than it would otherwise have been.
Lady Frances had given her fifty pounds as a wedding-present. Like me,
Marie viewed with deep distrust the stranger who had driven her
mistress from Lausanne. With her own eyes she had seen him seize the
lady’s wrist with great violence on the public promenade by the lake.
He was a fierce and terrible man. She believed that it was out of dread
of him that Lady Frances had accepted the escort of the Shlessingers to
London. She had never spoken to Marie about it, but many little signs
had convinced the maid that her mistress lived in a state of continual
nervous apprehension. So far she had got in her narrative, when
suddenly she sprang from her chair and her face was convulsed with
surprise and fear. “See!” she cried. “The miscreant follows still!
There is the very man of whom I speak.”
Through the open sitting-room window I saw a huge, swarthy man with a
bristling black beard walking slowly down the centre of the street and
staring eagerly at the numbers of the houses. It was clear that, like
myself, he was on the track of the maid. Acting upon the impulse of the
moment, I rushed out and accosted him.
“You are an Englishman,” I said.
“What if I am?” he asked with a most villainous scowl.
“May I ask what your name is?”
“No, you may not,” said he with decision.
The situation was awkward, but the most direct way is often the best.
“Where is the Lady Frances Carfax?” I asked.
He stared at me with amazement.
“What have you done with her? Why have you pursued her? I insist upon
an answer!” said I.
The fellow gave a bellow of anger and sprang upon me like a tiger. I
have held my own in many a struggle, but the man had a grip of iron and
the fury of a fiend. His hand was on my throat and my senses were
nearly gone before an unshaven French _ouvrier_ in a blue blouse darted
out from a _cabaret_ opposite, with a cudgel in his hand, and struck my
assailant a sharp crack over the forearm, which made him leave go his
hold. He stood for an instant fuming with rage and uncertain whether he
should not renew his attack. Then, with a snarl of anger, he left me
and entered the cottage from which I had just come. I turned to thank
my preserver, who stood beside me in the roadway.
“Well, Watson,” said he, “a very pretty hash you have made of it! I
rather think you had better come back with me to London by the night
express.”
An hour afterwards, Sherlock Holmes, in his usual garb and style, was
seated in my private room at the hotel. His explanation of his sudden
and opportune appearance was simplicity itself, for, finding that he
could get away from London, he determined to head me off at the next
obvious point of my travels. In the disguise of a workingman he had sat
in the _cabaret_ waiting for my appearance.
“And a singularly consistent investigation you have made, my dear
Watson,” said he. “I cannot at the moment recall any possible blunder
which you have omitted. The total effect of your proceeding has been to
give the alarm everywhere and yet to discover nothing.”
“Perhaps you would have done no better,” I answered bitterly.
“There is no ‘perhaps’ about it. I _have_ done better. Here is the Hon.
Philip Green, who is a fellow-lodger with you in this hotel, and we may
find him the starting-point for a more successful investigation.”
A card had come up on a salver, and it was followed by the same bearded
ruffian who had attacked me in the street. He started when he saw me.
“What is this, Mr. Holmes?” he asked. “I had your note and I have come.
But what has this man to do with the matter?”
“This is my old friend and associate, Dr. Watson, who is helping us in
this affair.”
The stranger held out a huge, sunburned hand, with a few words of
apology.
“I hope I didn’t harm you. When you accused me of hurting her I lost my
grip of myself. Indeed, I’m not responsible in these days. My nerves
are like live wires. But this situation is beyond me. What I want to
know, in the first place, Mr. Holmes, is, how in the world you came to
hear of my existence at all.”
“I am in touch with Miss Dobney, Lady Frances’s governess.”
“Old Susan Dobney with the mob cap! I remember her well.”
“And she remembers you. It was in the days before—before you found it
better to go to South Africa.”
“Ah, I see you know my whole story. I need hide nothing from you. I
swear to you, Mr. Holmes, that there never was in this world a man who
loved a woman with a more wholehearted love than I had for Frances. I
was a wild youngster, I know—not worse than others of my class. But her
mind was pure as snow. She could not bear a shadow of coarseness. So,
when she came to hear of things that I had done, she would have no more
to say to me. And yet she loved me—that is the wonder of it!—loved me
well enough to remain single all her sainted days just for my sake
alone. When the years had passed and I had made my money at Barberton I
thought perhaps I could seek her out and soften her. I had heard that
she was still unmarried, I found her at Lausanne and tried all I knew.
She weakened, I think, but her will was strong, and when next I called
she had left the town. I traced her to Baden, and then after a time
heard that her maid was here. I’m a rough fellow, fresh from a rough
life, and when Dr. Watson spoke to me as he did I lost hold of myself
for a moment. But for God’s sake tell me what has become of the Lady
Frances.”
“That is for us to find out,” said Sherlock Holmes with peculiar
gravity. “What is your London address, Mr. Green?”
“The Langham Hotel will find me.”
“Then may I recommend that you return there and be on hand in case I
should want you? I have no desire to encourage false hopes, but you may
rest assured that all that can be done will be done for the safety of
Lady Frances. I can say no more for the instant. I will leave you this
card so that you may be able to keep in touch with us. Now, Watson, if
you will pack your bag I will cable to Mrs. Hudson to make one of her
best efforts for two hungry travellers at 7:30 to-morrow.”
A telegram was awaiting us when we reached our Baker Street rooms,
which Holmes read with an exclamation of interest and threw across to
me. “Jagged or torn,” was the message, and the place of origin, Baden.
“What is this?” I asked.
“It is everything,” Holmes answered. “You may remember my seemingly
irrelevant question as to this clerical gentleman’s left ear. You did
not answer it.”
“I had left Baden and could not inquire.”
“Exactly. For this reason I sent a duplicate to the manager of the
Englischer Hof, whose answer lies here.”
“What does it show?”
“It shows, my dear Watson, that we are dealing with an exceptionally
astute and dangerous man. The Rev. Dr. Shlessinger, missionary from
South America, is none other than Holy Peters, one of the most
unscrupulous rascals that Australia has ever evolved—and for a young
country it has turned out some very finished types. His particular
specialty is the beguiling of lonely ladies by playing upon their
religious feelings, and his so-called wife, an Englishwoman named
Fraser, is a worthy helpmate. The nature of his tactics suggested his
identity to me, and this physical peculiarity—he was badly bitten in a
saloon-fight at Adelaide in ’89—confirmed my suspicion. This poor lady
is in the hands of a most infernal couple, who will stick at nothing,
Watson. That she is already dead is a very likely supposition. If not,
she is undoubtedly in some sort of confinement and unable to write to
Miss Dobney or her other friends. It is always possible that she never
reached London, or that she has passed through it, but the former is
improbable, as, with their system of registration, it is not easy for
foreigners to play tricks with the Continental police; and the latter
is also unlikely, as these rogues could not hope to find any other
place where it would be as easy to keep a person under restraint. All
my instincts tell me that she is in London, but as we have at present
no possible means of telling where, we can only take the obvious steps,
eat our dinner, and possess our souls in patience. Later in the evening
I will stroll down and have a word with friend Lestrade at Scotland
Yard.”
But neither the official police nor Holmes’s own small but very
efficient organisation sufficed to clear away the mystery. Amid the
crowded millions of London the three persons we sought were as
completely obliterated as if they had never lived. Advertisements were
tried, and failed. Clues were followed, and led to nothing. Every
criminal resort which Shlessinger might frequent was drawn in vain. His
old associates were watched, but they kept clear of him. And then
suddenly, after a week of helpless suspense there came a flash of
light. A silver-and-brilliant pendant of old Spanish design had been
pawned at Bovington’s, in Westminster Road. The pawner was a large,
clean-shaven man of clerical appearance. His name and address were
demonstrably false. The ear had escaped notice, but the description was
surely that of Shlessinger.
Three times had our bearded friend from the Langham called for news—the
third time within an hour of this fresh development. His clothes were
getting looser on his great body. He seemed to be wilting away in his
anxiety. “If you will only give me something to do!” was his constant
wail. At last Holmes could oblige him.
“He has begun to pawn the jewels. We should get him now.”
“But does this mean that any harm has befallen the Lady Frances?”
Holmes shook his head very gravely.
“Supposing that they have held her prisoner up to now, it is clear that
they cannot let her loose without their own destruction. We must
prepare for the worst.”
“What can I do?”
“These people do not know you by sight?”
“No.”
“It is possible that he will go to some other pawnbroker in the future.
In that case, we must begin again. On the other hand, he has had a fair
price and no questions asked, so if he is in need of ready-money he
will probably come back to Bovington’s. I will give you a note to them,
and they will let you wait in the shop. If the fellow comes you will
follow him home. But no indiscretion, and, above all, no violence. I
put you on your honour that you will take no step without my knowledge
and consent.”
For two days the Hon. Philip Green (he was, I may mention, the son of
the famous admiral of that name who commanded the Sea of Azof fleet in
the Crimean War) brought us no news. On the evening of the third he
rushed into our sitting-room, pale, trembling, with every muscle of his
powerful frame quivering with excitement.
“We have him! We have him!” he cried.
He was incoherent in his agitation. Holmes soothed him with a few words
and thrust him into an armchair.
“Come, now, give us the order of events,” said he.
“She came only an hour ago. It was the wife, this time, but the pendant
she brought was the fellow of the other. She is a tall, pale woman,
with ferret eyes.”
“That is the lady,” said Holmes.
“She left the office and I followed her. She walked up the Kennington
Road, and I kept behind her. Presently she went into a shop. Mr.
Holmes, it was an undertaker’s.”
My companion started. “Well?” he asked in that vibrant voice which told
of the fiery soul behind the cold grey face.
“She was talking to the woman behind the counter. I entered as well.
‘It is late,’ I heard her say, or words to that effect. The woman was
excusing herself. ‘It should be there before now,’ she answered. ‘It
took longer, being out of the ordinary.’ They both stopped and looked
at me, so I asked some questions and then left the shop.”
“You did excellently well. What happened next?”
“The woman came out, but I had hid myself in a doorway. Her suspicions
had been aroused, I think, for she looked round her. Then she called a
cab and got in. I was lucky enough to get another and so to follow her.
She got down at last at No. 36, Poultney Square, Brixton. I drove past,
left my cab at the corner of the square, and watched the house.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“The windows were all in darkness save one on the lower floor. The
blind was down, and I could not see in. I was standing there, wondering
what I should do next, when a covered van drove up with two men in it.
They descended, took something out of the van, and carried it up the
steps to the hall door. Mr. Holmes, it was a coffin.”
“Ah!”
“For an instant I was on the point of rushing in. The door had been
opened to admit the men and their burden. It was the woman who had
opened it. But as I stood there she caught a glimpse of me, and I think
that she recognised me. I saw her start, and she hastily closed the
door. I remembered my promise to you, and here I am.”
“You have done excellent work,” said Holmes, scribbling a few words
upon a half-sheet of paper. “We can do nothing legal without a warrant,
and you can serve the cause best by taking this note down to the
authorities and getting one. There may be some difficulty, but I should
think that the sale of the jewellery should be sufficient. Lestrade
will see to all details.”
“But they may murder her in the meanwhile. What could the coffin mean,
and for whom could it be but for her?”
“We will do all that can be done, Mr. Green. Not a moment will be lost.
Leave it in our hands. Now, Watson,” he added as our client hurried
away, “he will set the regular forces on the move. We are, as usual,
the irregulars, and we must take our own line of action. The situation
strikes me as so desperate that the most extreme measures are
justified. Not a moment is to be lost in getting to Poultney Square.
“Let us try to reconstruct the situation,” said he as we drove swiftly
past the Houses of Parliament and over Westminster Bridge. “These
villains have coaxed this unhappy lady to London, after first
alienating her from her faithful maid. If she has written any letters
they have been intercepted. Through some confederate they have engaged
a furnished house. Once inside it, they have made her a prisoner, and
they have become possessed of the valuable jewellery which has been
their object from the first. Already they have begun to sell part of
it, which seems safe enough to them, since they have no reason to think
that anyone is interested in the lady’s fate. When she is released she
will, of course, denounce them. Therefore, she must not be released.
But they cannot keep her under lock and key forever. So murder is their
only solution.”
“That seems very clear.”
“Now we will take another line of reasoning. When you follow two
separate chains of thought, Watson, you will find some point of
intersection which should approximate to the truth. We will start now,
not from the lady but from the coffin and argue backward. That incident
proves, I fear, beyond all doubt that the lady is dead. It points also
to an orthodox burial with proper accompaniment of medical certificate
and official sanction. Had the lady been obviously murdered, they would
have buried her in a hole in the back garden. But here all is open and
regular. What does this mean? Surely that they have done her to death
in some way which has deceived the doctor and simulated a natural
end—poisoning, perhaps. And yet how strange that they should ever let a
doctor approach her unless he were a confederate, which is hardly a
credible proposition.”
“Could they have forged a medical certificate?”
“Dangerous, Watson, very dangerous. No, I hardly see them doing that.
Pull up, cabby! This is evidently the undertaker’s, for we have just
passed the pawnbroker’s. Would you go in, Watson? Your appearance
inspires confidence. Ask what hour the Poultney Square funeral takes
place to-morrow.”
The woman in the shop answered me without hesitation that it was to be
at eight o’clock in the morning. “You see, Watson, no mystery;
everything above-board! In some way the legal forms have undoubtedly
been complied with, and they think that they have little to fear. Well,
there’s nothing for it now but a direct frontal attack. Are you armed?”
“My stick!”
“Well, well, we shall be strong enough. ‘Thrice is he armed who hath
his quarrel just.’ We simply can’t afford to wait for the police or to
keep within the four corners of the law. You can drive off, cabby. Now,
Watson, we’ll just take our luck together, as we have occasionally in
the past.”
He had rung loudly at the door of a great dark house in the centre of
Poultney Square. It was opened immediately, and the figure of a tall
woman was outlined against the dim-lit hall.
“Well, what do you want?” she asked sharply, peering at us through the
darkness.
“I want to speak to Dr. Shlessinger,” said Holmes.
“There is no such person here,” she answered, and tried to close the
door, but Holmes had jammed it with his foot.
“Well, I want to see the man who lives here, whatever he may call
himself,” said Holmes firmly.
She hesitated. Then she threw open the door. “Well, come in!” said she.
“My husband is not afraid to face any man in the world.” She closed the
door behind us and showed us into a sitting-room on the right side of
the hall, turning up the gas as she left us. “Mr. Peters will be with
you in an instant,” she said.
Her words were literally true, for we had hardly time to look around
the dusty and moth-eaten apartment in which we found ourselves before
the door opened and a big, clean-shaven bald-headed man stepped lightly
into the room. He had a large red face, with pendulous cheeks, and a
general air of superficial benevolence which was marred by a cruel,
vicious mouth.
“There is surely some mistake here, gentlemen,” he said in an unctuous,
make-everything-easy voice. “I fancy that you have been misdirected.
Possibly if you tried farther down the street—”
“That will do; we have no time to waste,” said my companion firmly.
“You are Henry Peters, of Adelaide, late the Rev. Dr. Shlessinger, of
Baden and South America. I am as sure of that as that my own name is
Sherlock Holmes.”
Peters, as I will now call him, started and stared hard at his
formidable pursuer. “I guess your name does not frighten me, Mr.
Holmes,” said he coolly. “When a man’s conscience is easy you can’t
rattle him. What is your business in my house?”
“I want to know what you have done with the Lady Frances Carfax, whom
you brought away with you from Baden.”
“I’d be very glad if you could tell me where that lady may be,” Peters
answered coolly. “I’ve a bill against her for nearly a hundred pounds,
and nothing to show for it but a couple of trumpery pendants that the
dealer would hardly look at. She attached herself to Mrs. Peters and me
at Baden—it is a fact that I was using another name at the time—and she
stuck on to us until we came to London. I paid her bill and her ticket.
Once in London, she gave us the slip, and, as I say, left these
out-of-date jewels to pay her bills. You find her, Mr. Holmes, and I’m
your debtor.”
“I _mean_ to find her,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I’m going through this
house till I do find her.”
“Where is your warrant?”
Holmes half drew a revolver from his pocket. “This will have to serve
till a better one comes.”
“Why, you’re a common burglar.”
“So you might describe me,” said Holmes cheerfully. “My companion is
also a dangerous ruffian. And together we are going through your
house.”
Our opponent opened the door.
“Fetch a policeman, Annie!” said he. There was a whisk of feminine
skirts down the passage, and the hall door was opened and shut.
“Our time is limited, Watson,” said Holmes. “If you try to stop us,
Peters, you will most certainly get hurt. Where is that coffin which
was brought into your house?”
“What do you want with the coffin? It is in use. There is a body in
it.”
“I must see the body.”
“Never with my consent.”
“Then without it.” With a quick movement Holmes pushed the fellow to
one side and passed into the hall. A door half opened stood immediately
before us. We entered. It was the dining-room. On the table, under a
half-lit chandelier, the coffin was lying. Holmes turned up the gas and
raised the lid. Deep down in the recesses of the coffin lay an
emaciated figure. The glare from the lights above beat down upon an
aged and withered face. By no possible process of cruelty, starvation,
or disease could this worn-out wreck be the still beautiful Lady
Frances. Holmes’s face showed his amazement, and also his relief.
“Thank God!” he muttered. “It’s someone else.”
“Ah, you’ve blundered badly for once, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said
Peters, who had followed us into the room.
“Who is the dead woman?”
“Well, if you really must know, she is an old nurse of my wife’s, Rose
Spender by name, whom we found in the Brixton Workhouse Infirmary. We
brought her round here, called in Dr. Horsom, of 13, Firbank
Villas—mind you take the address, Mr. Holmes—and had her carefully
tended, as Christian folk should. On the third day she died—certificate
says senile decay—but that’s only the doctor’s opinion, and of course
you know better. We ordered her funeral to be carried out by Stimson
and Co., of the Kennington Road, who will bury her at eight o’clock
to-morrow morning. Can you pick any hole in that, Mr. Holmes? You’ve
made a silly blunder, and you may as well own up to it. I’d give
something for a photograph of your gaping, staring face when you pulled
aside that lid expecting to see the Lady Frances Carfax and only found
a poor old woman of ninety.”
Holmes’s expression was as impassive as ever under the jeers of his
antagonist, but his clenched hands betrayed his acute annoyance.
“I am going through your house,” said he.
“Are you, though!” cried Peters as a woman’s voice and heavy steps
sounded in the passage. “We’ll soon see about that. This way, officers,
if you please. These men have forced their way into my house, and I
cannot get rid of them. Help me to put them out.”
A sergeant and a constable stood in the doorway. Holmes drew his card
from his case.
“This is my name and address. This is my friend, Dr. Watson.”
“Bless you, sir, we know you very well,” said the sergeant, “but you
can’t stay here without a warrant.”
“Of course not. I quite understand that.”
“Arrest him!” cried Peters.
“We know where to lay our hands on this gentleman if he is wanted,”
said the sergeant majestically, “but you’ll have to go, Mr. Holmes.”
“Yes, Watson, we shall have to go.”
A minute later we were in the street once more. Holmes was as cool as
ever, but I was hot with anger and humiliation. The sergeant had
followed us.
“Sorry, Mr. Holmes, but that’s the law.”
“Exactly, Sergeant, you could not do otherwise.”
“I expect there was good reason for your presence there. If there is
anything I can do—”
“It’s a missing lady, Sergeant, and we think she is in that house. I
expect a warrant presently.”
“Then I’ll keep my eye on the parties, Mr. Holmes. If anything comes
along, I will surely let you know.”
It was only nine o’clock, and we were off full cry upon the trail at
once. First we drove to Brixton Workhouse Infirmary, where we found
that it was indeed the truth that a charitable couple had called some
days before, that they had claimed an imbecile old woman as a former
servant, and that they had obtained permission to take her away with
them. No surprise was expressed at the news that she had since died.
The doctor was our next goal. He had been called in, had found the
woman dying of pure senility, had actually seen her pass away, and had
signed the certificate in due form. “I assure you that everything was
perfectly normal and there was no room for foul play in the matter,”
said he. Nothing in the house had struck him as suspicious save that
for people of their class it was remarkable that they should have no
servant. So far and no further went the doctor.
Finally we found our way to Scotland Yard. There had been difficulties
of procedure in regard to the warrant. Some delay was inevitable. The
magistrate’s signature might not be obtained until next morning. If
Holmes would call about nine he could go down with Lestrade and see it
acted upon. So ended the day, save that near midnight our friend, the
sergeant, called to say that he had seen flickering lights here and
there in the windows of the great dark house, but that no one had left
it and none had entered. We could but pray for patience and wait for
the morrow.
Sherlock Holmes was too irritable for conversation and too restless for
sleep. I left him smoking hard, with his heavy, dark brows knotted
together, and his long, nervous fingers tapping upon the arms of his
chair, as he turned over in his mind every possible solution of the
mystery. Several times in the course of the night I heard him prowling
about the house. Finally, just after I had been called in the morning,
he rushed into my room. He was in his dressing-gown, but his pale,
hollow-eyed face told me that his night had been a sleepless one.
“What time was the funeral? Eight, was it not?” he asked eagerly.
“Well, it is 7:20 now. Good heavens, Watson, what has become of any
brains that God has given me? Quick, man, quick! It’s life or death—a
hundred chances on death to one on life. I’ll never forgive myself,
never, if we are too late!”
Five minutes had not passed before we were flying in a hansom down
Baker Street. But even so it was twenty-five to eight as we passed Big
Ben, and eight struck as we tore down the Brixton Road. But others were
late as well as we. Ten minutes after the hour the hearse was still
standing at the door of the house, and even as our foaming horse came
to a halt the coffin, supported by three men, appeared on the
threshold. Holmes darted forward and barred their way.
“Take it back!” he cried, laying his hand on the breast of the
foremost. “Take it back this instant!”
“What the devil do you mean? Once again I ask you, where is your
warrant?” shouted the furious Peters, his big red face glaring over the
farther end of the coffin.
“The warrant is on its way. The coffin shall remain in the house until
it comes.”
The authority in Holmes’s voice had its effect upon the bearers. Peters
had suddenly vanished into the house, and they obeyed these new orders.
“Quick, Watson, quick! Here is a screw-driver!” he shouted as the
coffin was replaced upon the table. “Here’s one for you, my man! A
sovereign if the lid comes off in a minute! Ask no questions—work away!
That’s good! Another! And another! Now pull all together! It’s giving!
It’s giving! Ah, that does it at last.”
With a united effort we tore off the coffin-lid. As we did so there
came from the inside a stupefying and overpowering smell of chloroform.
A body lay within, its head all wreathed in cotton-wool, which had been
soaked in the narcotic. Holmes plucked it off and disclosed the
statuesque face of a handsome and spiritual woman of middle age. In an
instant he had passed his arm round the figure and raised her to a
sitting position.
“Is she gone, Watson? Is there a spark left? Surely we are not too
late!”
For half an hour it seemed that we were. What with actual suffocation,
and what with the poisonous fumes of the chloroform, the Lady Frances
seemed to have passed the last point of recall. And then, at last, with
artificial respiration, with injected ether, and with every device that
science could suggest, some flutter of life, some quiver of the
eyelids, some dimming of a mirror, spoke of the slowly returning life.
A cab had driven up, and Holmes, parting the blind, looked out at it.
“Here is Lestrade with his warrant,” said he. “He will find that his
birds have flown. And here,” he added as a heavy step hurried along the
passage, “is someone who has a better right to nurse this lady than we
have. Good morning, Mr. Green; I think that the sooner we can move the
Lady Frances the better. Meanwhile, the funeral may proceed, and the
poor old woman who still lies in that coffin may go to her last
resting-place alone.”
“Should you care to add the case to your annals, my dear Watson,” said
Holmes that evening, “it can only be as an example of that temporary
eclipse to which even the best-balanced mind may be exposed. Such slips
are common to all mortals, and the greatest is he who can recognise and
repair them. To this modified credit I may, perhaps, make some claim.
My night was haunted by the thought that somewhere a clue, a strange
sentence, a curious observation, had come under my notice and had been
too easily dismissed. Then, suddenly, in the grey of the morning, the
words came back to me. It was the remark of the undertaker’s wife, as
reported by Philip Green. She had said, ‘It should be there before now.
It took longer, being out of the ordinary.’ It was the coffin of which
she spoke. It had been out of the ordinary. That could only mean that
it had been made to some special measurement. But why? Why? Then in an
instant I remembered the deep sides, and the little wasted figure at
the bottom. Why so large a coffin for so small a body? To leave room
for another body. Both would be buried under the one certificate. It
had all been so clear, if only my own sight had not been dimmed. At
eight the Lady Frances would be buried. Our one chance was to stop the
coffin before it left the house.
“It was a desperate chance that we might find her alive, but it _was_ a
chance, as the result showed. These people had never, to my knowledge,
done a murder. They might shrink from actual violence at the last. They
could bury her with no sign of how she met her end, and even if she
were exhumed there was a chance for them. I hoped that such
considerations might prevail with them. You can reconstruct the scene
well enough. You saw the horrible den upstairs, where the poor lady had
been kept so long. They rushed in and overpowered her with their
chloroform, carried her down, poured more into the coffin to insure
against her waking, and then screwed down the lid. A clever device,
Watson. It is new to me in the annals of crime. If our ex-missionary
friends escape the clutches of Lestrade, I shall expect to hear of some
brilliant incidents in their future career.”
|
the_disappearance_of_lady_frances_carfax
|
The Adventure of the Dying Detective
|
His Last Bow
|
Mrs. Hudson, the landlady of Sherlock Holmes, was a long-suffering
woman. Not only was her first-floor flat invaded at all hours by
throngs of singular and often undesirable characters but her remarkable
lodger showed an eccentricity and irregularity in his life which must
have sorely tried her patience. His incredible untidiness, his
addiction to music at strange hours, his occasional revolver practice
within doors, his weird and often malodorous scientific experiments,
and the atmosphere of violence and danger which hung around him made
him the very worst tenant in London. On the other hand, his payments
were princely. I have no doubt that the house might have been purchased
at the price which Holmes paid for his rooms during the years that I
was with him.
The landlady stood in the deepest awe of him and never dared to
interfere with him, however outrageous his proceedings might seem. She
was fond of him, too, for he had a remarkable gentleness and courtesy
in his dealings with women. He disliked and distrusted the sex, but he
was always a chivalrous opponent. Knowing how genuine was her regard
for him, I listened earnestly to her story when she came to my rooms in
the second year of my married life and told me of the sad condition to
which my poor friend was reduced.
“He’s dying, Dr. Watson,” said she. “For three days he has been
sinking, and I doubt if he will last the day. He would not let me get a
doctor. This morning when I saw his bones sticking out of his face and
his great bright eyes looking at me I could stand no more of it. ‘With
your leave or without it, Mr. Holmes, I am going for a doctor this very
hour,’ said I. ‘Let it be Watson, then,’ said he. I wouldn’t waste an
hour in coming to him, sir, or you may not see him alive.”
I was horrified for I had heard nothing of his illness. I need not say
that I rushed for my coat and my hat. As we drove back I asked for the
details.
“There is little I can tell you, sir. He has been working at a case
down at Rotherhithe, in an alley near the river, and he has brought
this illness back with him. He took to his bed on Wednesday afternoon
and has never moved since. For these three days neither food nor drink
has passed his lips.”
“Good God! Why did you not call in a doctor?”
“He wouldn’t have it, sir. You know how masterful he is. I didn’t dare
to disobey him. But he’s not long for this world, as you’ll see for
yourself the moment that you set eyes on him.”
He was indeed a deplorable spectacle. In the dim light of a foggy
November day the sick room was a gloomy spot, but it was that gaunt,
wasted face staring at me from the bed which sent a chill to my heart.
His eyes had the brightness of fever, there was a hectic flush upon
either cheek, and dark crusts clung to his lips; the thin hands upon
the coverlet twitched incessantly, his voice was croaking and
spasmodic. He lay listlessly as I entered the room, but the sight of me
brought a gleam of recognition to his eyes.
“Well, Watson, we seem to have fallen upon evil days,” said he in a
feeble voice, but with something of his old carelessness of manner.
“My dear fellow!” I cried, approaching him.
“Stand back! Stand right back!” said he with the sharp imperiousness
which I had associated only with moments of crisis. “If you approach
me, Watson, I shall order you out of the house.”
“But why?”
“Because it is my desire. Is that not enough?”
Yes, Mrs. Hudson was right. He was more masterful than ever. It was
pitiful, however, to see his exhaustion.
“I only wished to help,” I explained.
“Exactly! You will help best by doing what you are told.”
“Certainly, Holmes.”
He relaxed the austerity of his manner.
“You are not angry?” he asked, gasping for breath.
Poor devil, how could I be angry when I saw him lying in such a plight
before me?
“It’s for your own sake, Watson,” he croaked.
“For _my_ sake?”
“I know what is the matter with me. It is a coolie disease from
Sumatra—a thing that the Dutch know more about than we, though they
have made little of it up to date. One thing only is certain. It is
infallibly deadly, and it is horribly contagious.”
He spoke now with a feverish energy, the long hands twitching and
jerking as he motioned me away.
“Contagious by touch, Watson—that’s it, by touch. Keep your distance
and all is well.”
“Good heavens, Holmes! Do you suppose that such a consideration weighs
with me of an instant? It would not affect me in the case of a
stranger. Do you imagine it would prevent me from doing my duty to so
old a friend?”
Again I advanced, but he repulsed me with a look of furious anger.
“If you will stand there I will talk. If you do not you must leave the
room.”
I have so deep a respect for the extraordinary qualities of Holmes that
I have always deferred to his wishes, even when I least understood
them. But now all my professional instincts were aroused. Let him be my
master elsewhere, I at least was his in a sick room.
“Holmes,” said I, “you are not yourself. A sick man is but a child, and
so I will treat you. Whether you like it or not, I will examine your
symptoms and treat you for them.”
He looked at me with venomous eyes.
“If I am to have a doctor whether I will or not, let me at least have
someone in whom I have confidence,” said he.
“Then you have none in me?”
“In your friendship, certainly. But facts are facts, Watson, and, after
all, you are only a general practitioner with very limited experience
and mediocre qualifications. It is painful to have to say these things,
but you leave me no choice.”
I was bitterly hurt.
“Such a remark is unworthy of you, Holmes. It shows me very clearly the
state of your own nerves. But if you have no confidence in me I would
not intrude my services. Let me bring Sir Jasper Meek or Penrose
Fisher, or any of the best men in London. But someone you _must_ have,
and that is final. If you think that I am going to stand here and see
you die without either helping you myself or bringing anyone else to
help you, then you have mistaken your man.”
“You mean well, Watson,” said the sick man with something between a sob
and a groan. “Shall I demonstrate your own ignorance? What do you know,
pray, of Tapanuli fever? What do you know of the black Formosa
corruption?”
“I have never heard of either.”
“There are many problems of disease, many strange pathological
possibilities, in the East, Watson.” He paused after each sentence to
collect his failing strength. “I have learned so much during some
recent researches which have a medico-criminal aspect. It was in the
course of them that I contracted this complaint. You can do nothing.”
“Possibly not. But I happen to know that Dr. Ainstree, the greatest
living authority upon tropical disease, is now in London. All
remonstrance is useless, Holmes, I am going this instant to fetch him.”
I turned resolutely to the door.
Never have I had such a shock! In an instant, with a tiger-spring, the
dying man had intercepted me. I heard the sharp snap of a twisted key.
The next moment he had staggered back to his bed, exhausted and panting
after his one tremendous outflame of energy.
“You won’t take the key from me by force, Watson. I’ve got you, my
friend. Here you are, and here you will stay until I will otherwise.
But I’ll humour you.” (All this in little gasps, with terrible
struggles for breath between.) “You’ve only my own good at heart. Of
course I know that very well. You shall have your way, but give me time
to get my strength. Not now, Watson, not now. It’s four o’clock. At six
you can go.”
“This is insanity, Holmes.”
“Only two hours, Watson. I promise you will go at six. Are you content
to wait?”
“I seem to have no choice.”
“None in the world, Watson. Thank you, I need no help in arranging the
clothes. You will please keep your distance. Now, Watson, there is one
other condition that I would make. You will seek help, not from the man
you mention, but from the one that I choose.”
“By all means.”
“The first three sensible words that you have uttered since you entered
this room, Watson. You will find some books over there. I am somewhat
exhausted; I wonder how a battery feels when it pours electricity into
a non-conductor? At six, Watson, we resume our conversation.”
But it was destined to be resumed long before that hour, and in
circumstances which gave me a shock hardly second to that caused by his
spring to the door. I had stood for some minutes looking at the silent
figure in the bed. His face was almost covered by the clothes and he
appeared to be asleep. Then, unable to settle down to reading, I walked
slowly round the room, examining the pictures of celebrated criminals
with which every wall was adorned. Finally, in my aimless
perambulation, I came to the mantelpiece. A litter of pipes,
tobacco-pouches, syringes, penknives, revolver-cartridges, and other
_débris_ was scattered over it. In the midst of these was a small black
and white ivory box with a sliding lid. It was a neat little thing, and
I had stretched out my hand to examine it more closely, when——
It was a dreadful cry that he gave—a yell which might have been heard
down the street. My skin went cold and my hair bristled at that
horrible scream. As I turned I caught a glimpse of a convulsed face and
frantic eyes. I stood paralysed, with the little box in my hand.
“Put it down! Down, this instant, Watson—this instant, I say!” His head
sank back upon the pillow and he gave a deep sigh of relief as I
replaced the box upon the mantelpiece. “I hate to have my things
touched, Watson. You know that I hate it. You fidget me beyond
endurance. You, a doctor—you are enough to drive a patient into an
asylum. Sit down, man, and let me have my rest!”
The incident left a most unpleasant impression upon my mind. The
violent and causeless excitement, followed by this brutality of speech,
so far removed from his usual suavity, showed me how deep was the
disorganisation of his mind. Of all ruins, that of a noble mind is the
most deplorable. I sat in silent dejection until the stipulated time
had passed. He seemed to have been watching the clock as well as I, for
it was hardly six before he began to talk with the same feverish
animation as before.
“Now, Watson,” said he. “Have you any change in your pocket?”
“Yes.”
“Any silver?”
“A good deal.”
“How many half-crowns?”
“I have five.”
“Ah, too few! Too few! How very unfortunate, Watson! However, such as
they are you can put them in your watchpocket. And all the rest of your
money in your left trouser pocket. Thank you. It will balance you so
much better like that.”
This was raving insanity. He shuddered, and again made a sound between
a cough and a sob.
“You will now light the gas, Watson, but you will be very careful that
not for one instant shall it be more than half on. I implore you to be
careful, Watson. Thank you, that is excellent. No, you need not draw
the blind. Now you will have the kindness to place some letters and
papers upon this table within my reach. Thank you. Now some of that
litter from the mantelpiece. Excellent, Watson! There is a sugar-tongs
there. Kindly raise that small ivory box with its assistance. Place it
here among the papers. Good! You can now go and fetch Mr. Culverton
Smith, of 13, Lower Burke Street.”
To tell the truth, my desire to fetch a doctor had somewhat weakened,
for poor Holmes was so obviously delirious that it seemed dangerous to
leave him. However, he was as eager now to consult the person named as
he had been obstinate in refusing.
“I never heard the name,” said I.
“Possibly not, my good Watson. It may surprise you to know that the man
upon earth who is best versed in this disease is not a medical man, but
a planter. Mr. Culverton Smith is a well-known resident of Sumatra, now
visiting London. An outbreak of the disease upon his plantation, which
was distant from medical aid, caused him to study it himself, with some
rather far-reaching consequences. He is a very methodical person, and I
did not desire you to start before six, because I was well aware that
you would not find him in his study. If you could persuade him to come
here and give us the benefit of his unique experience of this disease,
the investigation of which has been his dearest hobby, I cannot doubt
that he could help me.”
I gave Holmes’s remarks as a consecutive whole and will not attempt to
indicate how they were interrupted by gaspings for breath and those
clutchings of his hands which indicated the pain from which he was
suffering. His appearance had changed for the worse during the few
hours that I had been with him. Those hectic spots were more
pronounced, the eyes shone more brightly out of darker hollows, and a
cold sweat glimmered upon his brow. He still retained, however, the
jaunty gallantry of his speech. To the last gasp he would always be the
master.
“You will tell him exactly how you have left me,” said he. “You will
convey the very impression which is in your own mind—a dying man—a
dying and delirious man. Indeed, I cannot think why the whole bed of
the ocean is not one solid mass of oysters, so prolific the creatures
seem. Ah, I am wandering! Strange how the brain controls the brain!
What was I saying, Watson?”
“My directions for Mr. Culverton Smith.”
“Ah, yes, I remember. My life depends upon it. Plead with him, Watson.
There is no good feeling between us. His nephew, Watson—I had
suspicions of foul play and I allowed him to see it. The boy died
horribly. He has a grudge against me. You will soften him, Watson. Beg
him, pray him, get him here by any means. He can save me—only he!”
“I will bring him in a cab, if I have to carry him down to it.”
“You will do nothing of the sort. You will persuade him to come. And
then you will return in front of him. Make any excuse so as not to come
with him. Don’t forget, Watson. You won’t fail me. You never did fail
me. No doubt there are natural enemies which limit the increase of the
creatures. You and I, Watson, we have done our part. Shall the world,
then, be overrun by oysters? No, no; horrible! You’ll convey all that
is in your mind.”
I left him full of the image of this magnificent intellect babbling
like a foolish child. He had handed me the key, and with a happy
thought I took it with me lest he should lock himself in. Mrs. Hudson
was waiting, trembling and weeping, in the passage. Behind me as I
passed from the flat I heard Holmes’s high, thin voice in some
delirious chant. Below, as I stood whistling for a cab, a man came on
me through the fog.
“How is Mr. Holmes, sir?” he asked.
It was an old acquaintance, Inspector Morton, of Scotland Yard, dressed
in unofficial tweeds.
“He is very ill,” I answered.
He looked at me in a most singular fashion. Had it not been too
fiendish, I could have imagined that the gleam of the fanlight showed
exultation in his face.
“I heard some rumour of it,” said he.
The cab had driven up, and I left him.
Lower Burke Street proved to be a line of fine houses lying in the
vague borderland between Notting Hill and Kensington. The particular
one at which my cabman pulled up had an air of smug and demure
respectability in its old-fashioned iron railings, its massive
folding-door, and its shining brasswork. All was in keeping with a
solemn butler who appeared framed in the pink radiance of a tinted
electrical light behind him.
“Yes, Mr. Culverton Smith is in. Dr. Watson! Very good, sir, I will
take up your card.”
My humble name and title did not appear to impress Mr. Culverton Smith.
Through the half-open door I heard a high, petulant, penetrating voice.
“Who is this person? What does he want? Dear me, Staples, how often
have I said that I am not to be disturbed in my hours of study?”
There came a gentle flow of soothing explanation from the butler.
“Well, I won’t see him, Staples. I can’t have my work interrupted like
this. I am not at home. Say so. Tell him to come in the morning if he
really must see me.”
Again the gentle murmur.
“Well, well, give him that message. He can come in the morning, or he
can stay away. My work must not be hindered.”
I thought of Holmes tossing upon his bed of sickness and counting the
minutes, perhaps, until I could bring help to him. It was not a time to
stand upon ceremony. His life depended upon my promptness. Before the
apologetic butler had delivered his message I had pushed past him and
was in the room.
With a shrill cry of anger a man rose from a reclining chair beside the
fire. I saw a great yellow face, coarse-grained and greasy, with heavy,
double-chin, and two sullen, menacing grey eyes which glared at me from
under tufted and sandy brows. A high bald head had a small velvet
smoking-cap poised coquettishly upon one side of its pink curve. The
skull was of enormous capacity, and yet as I looked down I saw to my
amazement that the figure of the man was small and frail, twisted in
the shoulders and back like one who has suffered from rickets in his
childhood.
“What’s this?” he cried in a high, screaming voice. “What is the
meaning of this intrusion? Didn’t I send you word that I would see you
to-morrow morning?”
“I am sorry,” said I, “but the matter cannot be delayed. Mr. Sherlock
Holmes—”
The mention of my friend’s name had an extraordinary effect upon the
little man. The look of anger passed in an instant from his face. His
features became tense and alert.
“Have you come from Holmes?” he asked.
“I have just left him.”
“What about Holmes? How is he?”
“He is desperately ill. That is why I have come.”
The man motioned me to a chair, and turned to resume his own. As he did
so I caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror over the mantelpiece. I
could have sworn that it was set in a malicious and abominable smile.
Yet I persuaded myself that it must have been some nervous contraction
which I had surprised, for he turned to me an instant later with
genuine concern upon his features.
“I am sorry to hear this,” said he. “I only know Mr. Holmes through
some business dealings which we have had, but I have every respect for
his talents and his character. He is an amateur of crime, as I am of
disease. For him the villain, for me the microbe. There are my
prisons,” he continued, pointing to a row of bottles and jars which
stood upon a side table. “Among those gelatine cultivations some of the
very worst offenders in the world are now doing time.”
“It was on account of your special knowledge that Mr. Holmes desired to
see you. He has a high opinion of you and thought that you were the one
man in London who could help him.”
The little man started, and the jaunty smoking-cap slid to the floor.
“Why?” he asked. “Why should Mr. Holmes think that I could help him in
his trouble?”
“Because of your knowledge of Eastern diseases.”
“But why should he think that this disease which he has contracted is
Eastern?”
“Because, in some professional inquiry, he has been working among
Chinese sailors down in the docks.”
Mr. Culverton Smith smiled pleasantly and picked up his smoking-cap.
“Oh, that’s it—is it?” said he. “I trust the matter is not so grave as
you suppose. How long has he been ill?”
“About three days.”
“Is he delirious?”
“Occasionally.”
“Tut, tut! This sounds serious. It would be inhuman not to answer his
call. I very much resent any interruption to my work, Dr. Watson, but
this case is certainly exceptional. I will come with you at once.”
I remembered Holmes’s injunction.
“I have another appointment,” said I.
“Very good. I will go alone. I have a note of Mr. Holmes’s address. You
can rely upon my being there within half an hour at most.”
It was with a sinking heart that I reentered Holmes’s bedroom. For all
that I knew the worst might have happened in my absence. To my enormous
relief, he had improved greatly in the interval. His appearance was as
ghastly as ever, but all trace of delirium had left him and he spoke in
a feeble voice, it is true, but with even more than his usual crispness
and lucidity.
“Well, did you see him, Watson?”
“Yes; he is coming.”
“Admirable, Watson! Admirable! You are the best of messengers.”
“He wished to return with me.”
“That would never do, Watson. That would be obviously impossible. Did
he ask what ailed me?”
“I told him about the Chinese in the East End.”
“Exactly! Well, Watson, you have done all that a good friend could. You
can now disappear from the scene.”
“I must wait and hear his opinion, Holmes.”
“Of course you must. But I have reasons to suppose that this opinion
would be very much more frank and valuable if he imagines that we are
alone. There is just room behind the head of my bed, Watson.”
“My dear Holmes!”
“I fear there is no alternative, Watson. The room does not lend itself
to concealment, which is as well, as it is the less likely to arouse
suspicion. But just there, Watson, I fancy that it could be done.”
Suddenly he sat up with a rigid intentness upon his haggard face.
“There are the wheels, Watson. Quick, man, if you love me! And don’t
budge, whatever happens—whatever happens, do you hear? Don’t speak!
Don’t move! Just listen with all your ears.” Then in an instant his
sudden access of strength departed, and his masterful, purposeful talk
droned away into the low, vague murmurings of a semi-delirious man.
From the hiding-place into which I had been so swiftly hustled I heard
the footfalls upon the stair, with the opening and the closing of the
bedroom door. Then, to my surprise, there came a long silence, broken
only by the heavy breathings and gaspings of the sick man. I could
imagine that our visitor was standing by the bedside and looking down
at the sufferer. At last that strange hush was broken.
“Holmes!” he cried. “Holmes!” in the insistent tone of one who awakens
a sleeper. “Can’t you hear me, Holmes?” There was a rustling, as if he
had shaken the sick man roughly by the shoulder.
“Is that you, Mr. Smith?” Holmes whispered. “I hardly dared hope that
you would come.”
The other laughed.
“I should imagine not,” he said. “And yet, you see, I am here. Coals of
fire, Holmes—coals of fire!”
“It is very good of you—very noble of you. I appreciate your special
knowledge.”
Our visitor sniggered.
“You do. You are, fortunately, the only man in London who does. Do you
know what is the matter with you?”
“The same,” said Holmes.
“Ah! You recognise the symptoms?”
“Only too well.”
“Well, I shouldn’t be surprised, Holmes. I shouldn’t be surprised if it
_were_ the same. A bad lookout for you if it is. Poor Victor was a dead
man on the fourth day—a strong, hearty young fellow. It was certainly,
as you said, very surprising that he should have contracted an
out-of-the-way Asiatic disease in the heart of London—a disease, too,
of which I had made such a very special study. Singular coincidence,
Holmes. Very smart of you to notice it, but rather uncharitable to
suggest that it was cause and effect.”
“I knew that you did it.”
“Oh, you did, did you? Well, you couldn’t prove it, anyhow. But what do
you think of yourself spreading reports about me like that, and then
crawling to me for help the moment you are in trouble? What sort of a
game is that—eh?”
I heard the rasping, laboured breathing of the sick man. “Give me the
water!” he gasped.
“You’re precious near your end, my friend, but I don’t want you to go
till I have had a word with you. That’s why I give you water. There,
don’t slop it about! That’s right. Can you understand what I say?”
Holmes groaned.
“Do what you can for me. Let bygones be bygones,” he whispered. “I’ll
put the words out of my head—I swear I will. Only cure me, and I’ll
forget it.”
“Forget what?”
“Well, about Victor Savage’s death. You as good as admitted just now
that you had done it. I’ll forget it.”
“You can forget it or remember it, just as you like. I don’t see you in
the witnessbox. Quite another shaped box, my good Holmes, I assure you.
It matters nothing to me that you should know how my nephew died. It’s
not him we are talking about. It’s you.”
“Yes, yes.”
“The fellow who came for me—I’ve forgotten his name—said that you
contracted it down in the East End among the sailors.”
“I could only account for it so.”
“You are proud of your brains, Holmes, are you not? Think yourself
smart, don’t you? You came across someone who was smarter this time.
Now cast your mind back, Holmes. Can you think of no other way you
could have got this thing?”
“I can’t think. My mind is gone. For heaven’s sake help me!”
“Yes, I will help you. I’ll help you to understand just where you are
and how you got there. I’d like you to know before you die.”
“Give me something to ease my pain.”
“Painful, is it? Yes, the coolies used to do some squealing towards the
end. Takes you as cramp, I fancy.”
“Yes, yes; it is cramp.”
“Well, you can hear what I say, anyhow. Listen now! Can you remember
any unusual incident in your life just about the time your symptoms
began?”
“No, no; nothing.”
“Think again.”
“I’m too ill to think.”
“Well, then, I’ll help you. Did anything come by post?”
“By post?”
“A box by chance?”
“I’m fainting—I’m gone!”
“Listen, Holmes!” There was a sound as if he was shaking the dying man,
and it was all that I could do to hold myself quiet in my hiding-place.
“You must hear me. You _shall_ hear me. Do you remember a box—an ivory
box? It came on Wednesday. You opened it—do you remember?”
“Yes, yes, I opened it. There was a sharp spring inside it. Some joke—”
“It was no joke, as you will find to your cost. You fool, you would
have it and you have got it. Who asked you to cross my path? If you had
left me alone I would not have hurt you.”
“I remember,” Holmes gasped. “The spring! It drew blood. This box—this
on the table.”
“The very one, by George! And it may as well leave the room in my
pocket. There goes your last shred of evidence. But you have the truth
now, Holmes, and you can die with the knowledge that I killed you. You
knew too much of the fate of Victor Savage, so I have sent you to share
it. You are very near your end, Holmes. I will sit here and I will
watch you die.”
Holmes’s voice had sunk to an almost inaudible whisper.
“What is that?” said Smith. “Turn up the gas? Ah, the shadows begin to
fall, do they? Yes, I will turn it up, that I may see you the better.”
He crossed the room and the light suddenly brightened. “Is there any
other little service that I can do you, my friend?”
“A match and a cigarette.”
I nearly called out in my joy and my amazement. He was speaking in his
natural voice—a little weak, perhaps, but the very voice I knew. There
was a long pause, and I felt that Culverton Smith was standing in
silent amazement looking down at his companion.
“What’s the meaning of this?” I heard him say at last in a dry, rasping
tone.
“The best way of successfully acting a part is to be it,” said Holmes.
“I give you my word that for three days I have tasted neither food nor
drink until you were good enough to pour me out that glass of water.
But it is the tobacco which I find most irksome. Ah, here _are_ some
cigarettes.” I heard the striking of a match. “That is very much
better. Halloa! halloa! Do I hear the step of a friend?”
There were footfalls outside, the door opened, and Inspector Morton
appeared.
“All is in order and this is your man,” said Holmes.
The officer gave the usual cautions.
“I arrest you on the charge of the murder of one Victor Savage,” he
concluded.
“And you might add of the attempted murder of one Sherlock Holmes,”
remarked my friend with a chuckle. “To save an invalid trouble,
Inspector, Mr. Culverton Smith was good enough to give our signal by
turning up the gas. By the way, the prisoner has a small box in the
right-hand pocket of his coat which it would be as well to remove.
Thank you. I would handle it gingerly if I were you. Put it down here.
It may play its part in the trial.”
There was a sudden rush and a scuffle, followed by the clash of iron
and a cry of pain.
“You’ll only get yourself hurt,” said the inspector. “Stand still, will
you?” There was the click of the closing handcuffs.
“A nice trap!” cried the high, snarling voice. “It will bring _you_
into the dock, Holmes, not me. He asked me to come here to cure him. I
was sorry for him and I came. Now he will pretend, no doubt, that I
have said anything which he may invent which will corroborate his
insane suspicions. You can lie as you like, Holmes. My word is always
as good as yours.”
“Good heavens!” cried Holmes. “I had totally forgotten him. My dear
Watson, I owe you a thousand apologies. To think that I should have
overlooked you! I need not introduce you to Mr. Culverton Smith, since
I understand that you met somewhat earlier in the evening. Have you the
cab below? I will follow you when I am dressed, for I may be of some
use at the station.
“I never needed it more,” said Holmes as he refreshed himself with a
glass of claret and some biscuits in the intervals of his toilet.
“However, as you know, my habits are irregular, and such a feat means
less to me than to most men. It was very essential that I should
impress Mrs. Hudson with the reality of my condition, since she was to
convey it to you, and you in turn to him. You won’t be offended,
Watson? You will realise that among your many talents dissimulation
finds no place, and that if you had shared my secret you would never
have been able to impress Smith with the urgent necessity of his
presence, which was the vital point of the whole scheme. Knowing his
vindictive nature, I was perfectly certain that he would come to look
upon his handiwork.”
“But your appearance, Holmes—your ghastly face?”
“Three days of absolute fast does not improve one’s beauty, Watson. For
the rest, there is nothing which a sponge may not cure. With vaseline
upon one’s forehead, belladonna in one’s eyes, rouge over the
cheek-bones, and crusts of beeswax round one’s lips, a very satisfying
effect can be produced. Malingering is a subject upon which I have
sometimes thought of writing a monograph. A little occasional talk
about half-crowns, oysters, or any other extraneous subject produces a
pleasing effect of delirium.”
“But why would you not let me near you, since there was in truth no
infection?”
“Can you ask, my dear Watson? Do you imagine that I have no respect for
your medical talents? Could I fancy that your astute judgment would
pass a dying man who, however weak, had no rise of pulse or
temperature? At four yards, I could deceive you. If I failed to do so,
who would bring my Smith within my grasp? No, Watson, I would not touch
that box. You can just see if you look at it sideways where the sharp
spring like a viper’s tooth emerges as you open it. I dare say it was
by some such device that poor Savage, who stood between this monster
and a reversion, was done to death. My correspondence, however, is, as
you know, a varied one, and I am somewhat upon my guard against any
packages which reach me. It was clear to me, however, that by
pretending that he had really succeeded in his design I might surprise
a confession. That pretence I have carried out with the thoroughness of
the true artist. Thank you, Watson, you must help me on with my coat.
When we have finished at the police-station I think that something
nutritious at Simpson’s would not be out of place.”
|
the_adventure_of_the_dying_detective
|
His Last Bow: The War Service of Sherlock Holmes
|
His Last Bow
|
It was nine o’clock at night upon the second of August—the most
terrible August in the history of the world. One might have thought
already that God’s curse hung heavy over a degenerate world, for there
was an awesome hush and a feeling of vague expectancy in the sultry and
stagnant air. The sun had long set, but one blood-red gash like an open
wound lay low in the distant west. Above, the stars were shining
brightly, and below, the lights of the shipping glimmered in the bay.
The two famous Germans stood beside the stone parapet of the garden
walk, with the long, low, heavily gabled house behind them, and they
looked down upon the broad sweep of the beach at the foot of the great
chalk cliff in which Von Bork, like some wandering eagle, had perched
himself four years before. They stood with their heads close together,
talking in low, confidential tones. From below the two glowing ends of
their cigars might have been the smouldering eyes of some malignant
fiend looking down in the darkness.
A remarkable man this Von Bork—a man who could hardly be matched among
all the devoted agents of the Kaiser. It was his talents which had
first recommended him for the English mission, the most important
mission of all, but since he had taken it over those talents had become
more and more manifest to the half-dozen people in the world who were
really in touch with the truth. One of these was his present companion,
Baron Von Herling, the chief secretary of the legation, whose huge
100-horse-power Benz car was blocking the country lane as it waited to
waft its owner back to London.
“So far as I can judge the trend of events, you will probably be back
in Berlin within the week,” the secretary was saying. “When you get
there, my dear Von Bork, I think you will be surprised at the welcome
you will receive. I happen to know what is thought in the highest
quarters of your work in this country.” He was a huge man, the
secretary, deep, broad, and tall, with a slow, heavy fashion of speech
which had been his main asset in his political career.
Von Bork laughed.
“They are not very hard to deceive,” he remarked. “A more docile,
simple folk could not be imagined.”
“I don’t know about that,” said the other thoughtfully. “They have
strange limits and one must learn to observe them. It is that surface
simplicity of theirs which makes a trap for the stranger. One’s first
impression is that they are entirely soft. Then one comes suddenly upon
something very hard, and you know that you have reached the limit and
must adapt yourself to the fact. They have, for example, their insular
conventions which simply _must_ be observed.”
“Meaning ‘good form’ and that sort of thing?” Von Bork sighed as one
who had suffered much.
“Meaning British prejudice in all its queer manifestations. As an
example I may quote one of my own worst blunders—I can afford to talk
of my blunders, for you know my work well enough to be aware of my
successes. It was on my first arrival. I was invited to a week-end
gathering at the country house of a cabinet minister. The conversation
was amazingly indiscreet.”
Von Bork nodded. “I’ve been there,” said he dryly.
“Exactly. Well, I naturally sent a résumé of the information to Berlin.
Unfortunately our good chancellor is a little heavy-handed in these
matters, and he transmitted a remark which showed that he was aware of
what had been said. This, of course, took the trail straight up to me.
You’ve no idea the harm that it did me. There was nothing soft about
our British hosts on that occasion, I can assure you. I was two years
living it down. Now you, with this sporting pose of yours—”
“No, no, don’t call it a pose. A pose is an artificial thing. This is
quite natural. I am a born sportsman. I enjoy it.”
“Well, that makes it the more effective. You yacht against them, you
hunt with them, you play polo, you match them in every game, your
four-in-hand takes the prize at Olympia. I have even heard that you go
the length of boxing with the young officers. What is the result?
Nobody takes you seriously. You are a ‘good old sport’ ‘quite a decent
fellow for a German,’ a hard-drinking, night-club, knock-about-town,
devil-may-care young fellow. And all the time this quiet country house
of yours is the centre of half the mischief in England, and the
sporting squire the most astute secret-service man in Europe. Genius,
my dear Von Bork—genius!”
“You flatter me, Baron. But certainly I may claim my four years in this
country have not been unproductive. I’ve never shown you my little
store. Would you mind stepping in for a moment?”
The door of the study opened straight on to the terrace. Von Bork
pushed it back, and, leading the way, he clicked the switch of the
electric light. He then closed the door behind the bulky form which
followed him and carefully adjusted the heavy curtain over the latticed
window. Only when all these precautions had been taken and tested did
he turn his sunburned aquiline face to his guest.
“Some of my papers have gone,” said he. “When my wife and the household
left yesterday for Flushing they took the less important with them. I
must, of course, claim the protection of the embassy for the others.”
“Your name has already been filed as one of the personal suite. There
will be no difficulties for you or your baggage. Of course, it is just
possible that we may not have to go. England may leave France to her
fate. We are sure that there is no binding treaty between them.”
“And Belgium?”
“Yes, and Belgium, too.”
Von Bork shook his head. “I don’t see how that could be. There is a
definite treaty there. She could never recover from such a
humiliation.”
“She would at least have peace for the moment.”
“But her honour?”
“Tut, my dear sir, we live in a utilitarian age. Honour is a mediæval
conception. Besides England is not ready. It is an inconceivable thing,
but even our special war tax of fifty million, which one would think
made our purpose as clear as if we had advertised it on the front page
of the _Times_, has not roused these people from their slumbers. Here
and there one hears a question. It is my business to find an answer.
Here and there also there is an irritation. It is my business to soothe
it. But I can assure you that so far as the essentials go—the storage
of munitions, the preparation for submarine attack, the arrangements
for making high explosives—nothing is prepared. How, then, can England
come in, especially when we have stirred her up such a devil’s brew of
Irish civil war, window-breaking Furies, and God knows what to keep her
thoughts at home.”
“She must think of her future.”
“Ah, that is another matter. I fancy that in the future we have our own
very definite plans about England, and that your information will be
very vital to us. It is to-day or to-morrow with Mr. John Bull. If he
prefers to-day we are perfectly ready. If it is to-morrow we shall be
more ready still. I should think they would be wiser to fight with
allies than without them, but that is their own affair. This week is
their week of destiny. But you were speaking of your papers.” He sat in
the armchair with the light shining upon his broad bald head, while he
puffed sedately at his cigar.
The large oak-panelled, book-lined room had a curtain hung in the
further corner. When this was drawn it disclosed a large, brass-bound
safe. Von Bork detached a small key from his watch chain, and after
some considerable manipulation of the lock he swung open the heavy
door.
“Look!” said he, standing clear, with a wave of his hand.
The light shone vividly into the opened safe, and the secretary of the
embassy gazed with an absorbed interest at the rows of stuffed
pigeon-holes with which it was furnished. Each pigeon-hole had its
label, and his eyes as he glanced along them read a long series of such
titles as “Fords,” “Harbour-defences,” “Aeroplanes,” “Ireland,”
“Egypt,” “Portsmouth forts,” “The Channel,” “Rosythe,” and a score of
others. Each compartment was bristling with papers and plans.
“Colossal!” said the secretary. Putting down his cigar he softly
clapped his fat hands.
“And all in four years, Baron. Not such a bad show for the
hard-drinking, hard-riding country squire. But the gem of my collection
is coming and there is the setting all ready for it.” He pointed to a
space over which “Naval Signals” was printed.
“But you have a good dossier there already.”
“Out of date and waste paper. The Admiralty in some way got the alarm
and every code has been changed. It was a blow, Baron—the worst setback
in my whole campaign. But thanks to my check-book and the good Altamont
all will be well to-night.”
The Baron looked at his watch and gave a guttural exclamation of
disappointment.
“Well, I really can wait no longer. You can imagine that things are
moving at present in Carlton Terrace and that we have all to be at our
posts. I had hoped to be able to bring news of your great coup. Did
Altamont name no hour?”
Von Bork pushed over a telegram.
Will come without fail to-night and bring new sparking plugs.—ALTAMONT.
“Sparking plugs, eh?”
“You see he poses as a motor expert and I keep a full garage. In our
code everything likely to come up is named after some spare part. If he
talks of a radiator it is a battleship, of an oil pump a cruiser, and
so on. Sparking plugs are naval signals.”
“From Portsmouth at midday,” said the secretary, examining the
superscription. “By the way, what do you give him?”
“Five hundred pounds for this particular job. Of course he has a salary
as well.”
“The greedy rogue. They are useful, these traitors, but I grudge them
their blood money.”
“I grudge Altamont nothing. He is a wonderful worker. If I pay him
well, at least he delivers the goods, to use his own phrase. Besides he
is not a traitor. I assure you that our most pan-Germanic Junker is a
sucking dove in his feelings towards England as compared with a real
bitter Irish-American.”
“Oh, an Irish-American?”
“If you heard him talk you would not doubt it. Sometimes I assure you I
can hardly understand him. He seems to have declared war on the King’s
English as well as on the English king. Must you really go? He may be
here any moment.”
“No. I’m sorry, but I have already overstayed my time. We shall expect
you early to-morrow, and when you get that signal book through the
little door on the Duke of York’s steps you can put a triumphant Finis
to your record in England. What! Tokay!” He indicated a heavily sealed
dust-covered bottle which stood with two high glasses upon a salver.
“May I offer you a glass before your journey?”
“No, thanks. But it looks like revelry.”
“Altamont has a nice taste in wines, and he took a fancy to my Tokay.
He is a touchy fellow and needs humouring in small things. I have to
study him, I assure you.” They had strolled out on to the terrace
again, and along it to the further end where at a touch from the
Baron’s chauffeur the great car shivered and chuckled. “Those are the
lights of Harwich, I suppose,” said the secretary, pulling on his dust
coat. “How still and peaceful it all seems. There may be other lights
within the week, and the English coast a less tranquil place! The
heavens, too, may not be quite so peaceful if all that the good Zepplin
promises us comes true. By the way, who is that?”
Only one window showed a light behind them; in it there stood a lamp,
and beside it, seated at a table, was a dear old ruddy-faced woman in a
country cap. She was bending over her knitting and stopping
occasionally to stroke a large black cat upon a stool beside her.
“That is Martha, the only servant I have left.”
The secretary chuckled.
“She might almost personify Britannia,” said he, “with her complete
self-absorption and general air of comfortable somnolence. Well, au
revoir, Von Bork!” With a final wave of his hand he sprang into the
car, and a moment later the two golden cones from the headlights shot
through the darkness. The secretary lay back in the cushions of the
luxurious limousine, with his thoughts so full of the impending
European tragedy that he hardly observed that as his car swung round
the village street it nearly passed over a little Ford coming in the
opposite direction.
Von Bork walked slowly back to the study when the last gleams of the
motor lamps had faded into the distance. As he passed he observed that
his old housekeeper had put out her lamp and retired. It was a new
experience to him, the silence and darkness of his widespread house,
for his family and household had been a large one. It was a relief to
him, however, to think that they were all in safety and that, but for
that one old woman who had lingered in the kitchen, he had the whole
place to himself. There was a good deal of tidying up to do inside his
study and he set himself to do it until his keen, handsome face was
flushed with the heat of the burning papers. A leather valise stood
beside his table, and into this he began to pack very neatly and
systematically the precious contents of his safe. He had hardly got
started with the work, however, when his quick ears caught the sounds
of a distant car. Instantly he gave an exclamation of satisfaction,
strapped up the valise, shut the safe, locked it, and hurried out on to
the terrace. He was just in time to see the lights of a small car come
to a halt at the gate. A passenger sprang out of it and advanced
swiftly towards him, while the chauffeur, a heavily built, elderly man
with a grey moustache, settled down like one who resigns himself to a
long vigil.
“Well?” asked Von Bork eagerly, running forward to meet his visitor.
For answer the man waved a small brown-paper parcel triumphantly above
his head.
“You can give me the glad hand to-night, mister,” he cried. “I’m
bringing home the bacon at last.”
“The signals?”
“Same as I said in my cable. Every last one of them, semaphore, lamp
code, Marconi—a copy, mind you, not the original. That was too
dangerous. But it’s the real goods, and you can lay to that.” He
slapped the German upon the shoulder with a rough familiarity from
which the other winced.
“Come in,” he said. “I’m all alone in the house. I was only waiting for
this. Of course a copy is better than the original. If an original were
missing they would change the whole thing. You think it’s all safe
about the copy?”
The Irish-American had entered the study and stretched his long limbs
from the armchair. He was a tall, gaunt man of sixty, with clear-cut
features and a small goatee beard which gave him a general resemblance
to the caricatures of Uncle Sam. A half-smoked, sodden cigar hung from
the corner of his mouth, and as he sat down he struck a match and relit
it. “Making ready for a move?” he remarked as he looked round him.
“Say, mister,” he added, as his eyes fell upon the safe from which the
curtain was now removed, “you don’t tell me you keep your papers in
that?”
“Why not?”
“Gosh, in a wide-open contraption like that! And they reckon you to be
some spy. Why, a Yankee crook would be into that with a can-opener. If
I’d known that any letter of mine was goin’ to lie loose in a thing
like that I’d have been a mug to write to you at all.”
“It would puzzle any crook to force that safe,” Von Bork answered. “You
won’t cut that metal with any tool.”
“But the lock?”
“No, it’s a double combination lock. You know what that is?”
“Search me,” said the American.
“Well, you need a word as well as a set of figures before you can get
the lock to work.” He rose and showed a double-radiating disc round the
keyhole. “This outer one is for the letters, the inner one for the
figures.”
“Well, well, that’s fine.”
“So it’s not quite as simple as you thought. It was four years ago that
I had it made, and what do you think I chose for the word and figures?”
“It’s beyond me.”
“Well, I chose August for the word, and 1914 for the figures, and here
we are.”
The American’s face showed his surprise and admiration.
“My, but that was smart! You had it down to a fine thing.”
“Yes, a few of us even then could have guessed the date. Here it is,
and I’m shutting down to-morrow morning.”
“Well, I guess you’ll have to fix me up also. I’m not staying in this
goldarned country all on my lonesome. In a week or less, from what I
see, John Bull will be on his hind legs and fair ramping. I’d rather
watch him from over the water.”
“But you’re an American citizen?”
“Well, so was Jack James an American citizen, but he’s doing time in
Portland all the same. It cuts no ice with a British copper to tell him
you’re an American citizen. ‘It’s British law and order over here,’
says he. By the way, mister, talking of Jack James, it seems to me you
don’t do much to cover your men.”
“What do you mean?” Von Bork asked sharply.
“Well, you are their employer, ain’t you? It’s up to you to see that
they don’t fall down. But they do fall down, and when did you ever pick
them up? There’s James—”
“It was James’s own fault. You know that yourself. He was too
self-willed for the job.”
“James was a bonehead—I give you that. Then there was Hollis.”
“The man was mad.”
“Well, he went a bit woozy towards the end. It’s enough to make a man
bug-house when he has to play a part from morning to night with a
hundred guys all ready to set the coppers wise to him. But now there is
Steiner—”
Von Bork started violently, and his ruddy face turned a shade paler.
“What about Steiner?”
“Well, they’ve got him, that’s all. They raided his store last night,
and he and his papers are all in Portsmouth jail. You’ll go off and he,
poor devil, will have to stand the racket, and lucky if he gets off
with his life. That’s why I want to get over the water as soon as you
do.”
Von Bork was a strong, self-contained man, but it was easy to see that
the news had shaken him.
“How could they have got on to Steiner?” he muttered. “That’s the worst
blow yet.”
“Well, you nearly had a worse one, for I believe they are not far off
me.”
“You don’t mean that!”
“Sure thing. My landlady down Fratton way had some inquiries, and when
I heard of it I guessed it was time for me to hustle. But what I want
to know, mister, is how the coppers know these things? Steiner is the
fifth man you’ve lost since I signed on with you, and I know the name
of the sixth if I don’t get a move on. How do you explain it, and ain’t
you ashamed to see your men go down like this?”
Von Bork flushed crimson.
“How dare you speak in such a way!”
“If I didn’t dare things, mister, I wouldn’t be in your service. But
I’ll tell you straight what is in my mind. I’ve heard that with you
German politicians when an agent has done his work you are not sorry to
see him put away.”
Von Bork sprang to his feet.
“Do you dare to suggest that I have given away my own agents!”
“I don’t stand for that, mister, but there’s a stool pigeon or a cross
somewhere, and it’s up to you to find out where it is. Anyhow I am
taking no more chances. It’s me for little Holland, and the sooner the
better.”
Von Bork had mastered his anger.
“We have been allies too long to quarrel now at the very hour of
victory,” he said. “You’ve done splendid work and taken risks, and I
can’t forget it. By all means go to Holland, and you can get a boat
from Rotterdam to New York. No other line will be safe a week from now.
I’ll take that book and pack it with the rest.”
The American held the small parcel in his hand, but made no motion to
give it up.
“What about the dough?” he asked.
“The what?”
“The boodle. The reward. The £500. The gunner turned damned nasty at
the last, and I had to square him with an extra hundred dollars or it
would have been nitsky for you and me. ‘Nothin’ doin’!’ says he, and he
meant it, too, but the last hundred did it. It’s cost me two hundred
pound from first to last, so it isn’t likely I’d give it up without
gettin’ my wad.”
Von Bork smiled with some bitterness. “You don’t seem to have a very
high opinion of my honour,” said he, “you want the money before you
give up the book.”
“Well, mister, it is a business proposition.”
“All right. Have your way.” He sat down at the table and scribbled a
check, which he tore from the book, but he refrained from handing it to
his companion. “After all, since we are to be on such terms, Mr.
Altamont,” said he, “I don’t see why I should trust you any more than
you trust me. Do you understand?” he added, looking back over his
shoulder at the American. “There’s the check upon the table. I claim
the right to examine that parcel before you pick the money up.”
The American passed it over without a word. Von Bork undid a winding of
string and two wrappers of paper. Then he sat gazing for a moment in
silent amazement at a small blue book which lay before him. Across the
cover was printed in golden letters _Practical Handbook of Bee
Culture_. Only for one instant did the master spy glare at this
strangely irrelevant inscription. The next he was gripped at the back
of his neck by a grasp of iron, and a chloroformed sponge was held in
front of his writhing face.
“Another glass, Watson!” said Mr. Sherlock Holmes as he extended the
bottle of Imperial Tokay.
The thickset chauffeur, who had seated himself by the table, pushed
forward his glass with some eagerness.
“It is a good wine, Holmes.”
“A remarkable wine, Watson. Our friend upon the sofa has assured me
that it is from Franz Josef’s special cellar at the Schoenbrunn Palace.
Might I trouble you to open the window, for chloroform vapour does not
help the palate.”
The safe was ajar, and Holmes standing in front of it was removing
dossier after dossier, swiftly examining each, and then packing it
neatly in Von Bork’s valise. The German lay upon the sofa sleeping
stertorously with a strap round his upper arms and another round his
legs.
“We need not hurry ourselves, Watson. We are safe from interruption.
Would you mind touching the bell? There is no one in the house except
old Martha, who has played her part to admiration. I got her the
situation here when first I took the matter up. Ah, Martha, you will be
glad to hear that all is well.”
The pleasant old lady had appeared in the doorway. She curtseyed with a
smile to Mr. Holmes, but glanced with some apprehension at the figure
upon the sofa.
“It is all right, Martha. He has not been hurt at all.”
“I am glad of that, Mr. Holmes. According to his lights he has been a
kind master. He wanted me to go with his wife to Germany yesterday, but
that would hardly have suited your plans, would it, sir?”
“No, indeed, Martha. So long as you were here I was easy in my mind. We
waited some time for your signal to-night.”
“It was the secretary, sir.”
“I know. His car passed ours.”
“I thought he would never go. I knew that it would not suit your plans,
sir, to find him here.”
“No, indeed. Well, it only meant that we waited half an hour or so
until I saw your lamp go out and knew that the coast was clear. You can
report to me to-morrow in London, Martha, at Claridge’s Hotel.”
“Very good, sir.”
“I suppose you have everything ready to leave.”
“Yes, sir. He posted seven letters to-day. I have the addresses as
usual.”
“Very good, Martha. I will look into them to-morrow. Good-night. These
papers,” he continued as the old lady vanished, “are not of very great
importance, for, of course, the information which they represent has
been sent off long ago to the German government. These are the
originals which could not safely be got out of the country.”
“Then they are of no use.”
“I should not go so far as to say that, Watson. They will at least show
our people what is known and what is not. I may say that a good many of
these papers have come through me, and I need not add are thoroughly
untrustworthy. It would brighten my declining years to see a German
cruiser navigating the Solent according to the mine-field plans which I
have furnished. But you, Watson”—he stopped his work and took his old
friend by the shoulders—“I’ve hardly seen you in the light yet. How
have the years used you? You look the same blithe boy as ever.”
“I feel twenty years younger, Holmes. I have seldom felt so happy as
when I got your wire asking me to meet you at Harwich with the car. But
you, Holmes—you have changed very little—save for that horrible
goatee.”
“These are the sacrifices one makes for one’s country, Watson,” said
Holmes, pulling at his little tuft. “To-morrow it will be but a
dreadful memory. With my hair cut and a few other superficial changes I
shall no doubt reappear at Claridge’s to-morrow as I was before this
American stunt—I beg your pardon, Watson, my well of English seems to
be permanently defiled—before this American job came my way.”
“But you have retired, Holmes. We heard of you as living the life of a
hermit among your bees and your books in a small farm upon the South
Downs.”
“Exactly, Watson. Here is the fruit of my leisured ease, the magnum
opus of my latter years!” He picked up the volume from the table and
read out the whole title, _Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with Some
Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen_. “Alone I did it.
Behold the fruit of pensive nights and laborious days when I watched
the little working gangs as once I watched the criminal world of
London.”
“But how did you get to work again?”
“Ah, I have often marvelled at it myself. The Foreign Minister alone I
could have withstood, but when the Premier also deigned to visit my
humble roof—! The fact is, Watson, that this gentleman upon the sofa
was a bit too good for our people. He was in a class by himself. Things
were going wrong, and no one could understand why they were going
wrong. Agents were suspected or even caught, but there was evidence of
some strong and secret central force. It was absolutely necessary to
expose it. Strong pressure was brought upon me to look into the matter.
It has cost me two years, Watson, but they have not been devoid of
excitement. When I say that I started my pilgrimage at Chicago,
graduated in an Irish secret society at Buffalo, gave serious trouble
to the constabulary at Skibbareen, and so eventually caught the eye of
a subordinate agent of Von Bork, who recommended me as a likely man,
you will realise that the matter was complex. Since then I have been
honoured by his confidence, which has not prevented most of his plans
going subtly wrong and five of his best agents being in prison. I
watched them, Watson, and I picked them as they ripened. Well, sir, I
hope that you are none the worse!”
The last remark was addressed to Von Bork himself, who after much
gasping and blinking had lain quietly listening to Holmes’s statement.
He broke out now into a furious stream of German invective, his face
convulsed with passion. Holmes continued his swift investigation of
documents while his prisoner cursed and swore.
“Though unmusical, German is the most expressive of all languages,” he
observed when Von Bork had stopped from pure exhaustion. “Hullo!
Hullo!” he added as he looked hard at the corner of a tracing before
putting it in the box. “This should put another bird in the cage. I had
no idea that the paymaster was such a rascal, though I have long had an
eye upon him. Mister Von Bork, you have a great deal to answer for.”
The prisoner had raised himself with some difficulty upon the sofa and
was staring with a strange mixture of amazement and hatred at his
captor.
“I shall get level with you, Altamont,” he said, speaking with slow
deliberation. “If it takes me all my life I shall get level with you!”
“The old sweet song,” said Holmes. “How often have I heard it in days
gone by. It was a favorite ditty of the late lamented Professor
Moriarty. Colonel Sebastian Moran has also been known to warble it. And
yet I live and keep bees upon the South Downs.”
“Curse you, you double traitor!” cried the German, straining against
his bonds and glaring murder from his furious eyes.
“No, no, it is not so bad as that,” said Holmes, smiling. “As my speech
surely shows you, Mr. Altamont of Chicago had no existence in fact. I
used him and he is gone.”
“Then who are you?”
“It is really immaterial who I am, but since the matter seems to
interest you, Mr. Von Bork, I may say that this is not my first
acquaintance with the members of your family. I have done a good deal
of business in Germany in the past and my name is probably familiar to
you.”
“I would wish to know it,” said the Prussian grimly.
“It was I who brought about the separation between Irene Adler and the
late King of Bohemia when your cousin Heinrich was the Imperial Envoy.
It was I also who saved from murder, by the Nihilist Klopman, Count Von
und Zu Grafenstein, who was your mother’s elder brother. It was I—”
Von Bork sat up in amazement.
“There is only one man,” he cried.
“Exactly,” said Holmes.
Von Bork groaned and sank back on the sofa. “And most of that
information came through you,” he cried. “What is it worth? What have I
done? It is my ruin forever!”
“It is certainly a little untrustworthy,” said Holmes. “It will require
some checking and you have little time to check it. Your admiral may
find the new guns rather larger than he expects, and the cruisers
perhaps a trifle faster.”
Von Bork clutched at his own throat in despair.
“There are a good many other points of detail which will, no doubt,
come to light in good time. But you have one quality which is very rare
in a German, Mr. Von Bork: you are a sportsman and you will bear me no
ill-will when you realise that you, who have outwitted so many other
people, have at last been outwitted yourself. After all, you have done
your best for your country, and I have done my best for mine, and what
could be more natural? Besides,” he added, not unkindly, as he laid his
hand upon the shoulder of the prostrate man, “it is better than to fall
before some ignoble foe. These papers are now ready, Watson. If you
will help me with our prisoner, I think that we may get started for
London at once.”
It was no easy task to move Von Bork, for he was a strong and a
desperate man. Finally, holding either arm, the two friends walked him
very slowly down the garden walk which he had trod with such proud
confidence when he received the congratulations of the famous
diplomatist only a few hours before. After a short, final struggle he
was hoisted, still bound hand and foot, into the spare seat of the
little car. His precious valise was wedged in beside him.
“I trust that you are as comfortable as circumstances permit,” said
Holmes when the final arrangements were made. “Should I be guilty of a
liberty if I lit a cigar and placed it between your lips?”
But all amenities were wasted upon the angry German.
“I suppose you realise, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said he, “that if your
government bears you out in this treatment it becomes an act of war.”
“What about your government and all this treatment?” said Holmes,
tapping the valise.
“You are a private individual. You have no warrant for my arrest. The
whole proceeding is absolutely illegal and outrageous.”
“Absolutely,” said Holmes.
“Kidnapping a German subject.”
“And stealing his private papers.”
“Well, you realise your position, you and your accomplice here. If I
were to shout for help as we pass through the village—”
“My dear sir, if you did anything so foolish you would probably enlarge
the two limited titles of our village inns by giving us ‘The Dangling
Prussian’ as a signpost. The Englishman is a patient creature, but at
present his temper is a little inflamed, and it would be as well not to
try him too far. No, Mr. Von Bork, you will go with us in a quiet,
sensible fashion to Scotland Yard, whence you can send for your friend,
Baron Von Herling, and see if even now you may not fill that place
which he has reserved for you in the ambassadorial suite. As to you,
Watson, you are joining us with your old service, as I understand, so
London won’t be out of your way. Stand with me here upon the terrace,
for it may be the last quiet talk that we shall ever have.”
The two friends chatted in intimate converse for a few minutes,
recalling once again the days of the past, while their prisoner vainly
wriggled to undo the bonds that held him. As they turned to the car
Holmes pointed back to the moonlit sea and shook a thoughtful head.
“There’s an east wind coming, Watson.”
“I think not, Holmes. It is very warm.”
“Good old Watson! You are the one fixed point in a changing age.
There’s an east wind coming all the same, such a wind as never blew on
England yet. It will be cold and bitter, Watson, and a good many of us
may wither before its blast. But it’s God’s own wind none the less, and
a cleaner, better, stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the
storm has cleared. Start her up, Watson, for it’s time that we were on
our way. I have a check for five hundred pounds which should be cashed
early, for the drawer is quite capable of stopping it if he can.”
|
his_last_bow_the_war_service_of_sherlock_holmes
|
THE ADVENTURE OF THE ILLUSTRIOUS CLIENT
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The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes
|
"It can't hurt now," was Mr. Sherlock Holmes's comment when, for the
tenth time in as many years, I asked his leave to reveal the following
narrative. So it was that at last I obtained permission to put on
record what was, in some ways, the supreme moment of my friend's career.
Both Holmes and I had a weakness for the Turkish Bath. It was over a
smoke in the pleasant lassitude of the drying-room that I have found
him less reticent and more human than anywhere else. On the upper
floor of the Northumberland Avenue establishment there is an isolated
corner where two couches lie side by side, and it was on these that we
lay upon September 3, 1902, the day when my narrative begins. I had
asked him whether anything was stirring, and for answer he had shot his
long, thin, nervous arm out of the sheets which enveloped him and had
drawn an envelope from the inside pocket of the coat which hung beside
him.
"It may be some fussy, self-important fool, it may be a matter of life
or death," said he, as he handed me the note. "I know no more than
this message tells me."
It was from the Carlton Club, and dated the evening before. This is
what I read:
"Sir James Damery presents his compliments to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and
will call upon him at 4.30 to-morrow. Sir James begs to say that the
matter upon which he desires to consult Mr. Holmes is very delicate,
and also very important. He trusts, therefore, that Mr. Holmes will
make every effort to grant this interview, and that he will confirm it
over the telephone to the Carlton Club."
"I need not say that I have confirmed it, Watson," said Holmes, as I
returned the paper. "Do you know anything of this man Damery?"
"Only that his name is a household word in Society."
"Well, I can tell you a little more than that. He has rather a
reputation for arranging delicate matters which are to be kept out of
the papers. You may remember his negotiations with Sir George Lewis
over the Hammerford Will case. He is a man of the world with a natural
turn for diplomacy. I am bound, therefore, to hope that it is not a
false scent and that he has some real need for our assistance."
"Our?"
"Well, if you will be so good, Watson."
"I shall be honoured."
"Then you have the hour--four-thirty. Until then we can put the matter
out of our heads."
I was living in my own rooms in Queen Anne Street at the time, but I
was round at Baker Street before the time named. Sharp to the
half-hour, Colonel Sir James Damery was announced. It is hardly
necessary to describe him, for many will remember that large, bluff,
honest personality, that broad, clean-shaven face, above all, that
pleasant, mellow voice. Frankness shone from his grey Irish eyes, and
good humour played round his mobile, smiling lips. His lucent top-hat,
his dark frock-coat, indeed, every detail, from the pearl pin in the
black satin cravat to the lavender spats over the varnished shoes,
spoke of the meticulous care in dress for which he was famous. The
big, masterful aristocrat dominated the little room.
"Of course, I was prepared to find Dr. Watson," he remarked, with a
courteous bow. "His collaboration may be very necessary, for we are
dealing on this occasion, Mr. Holmes, with a man to whom violence is
familiar and who will, literally, stick at nothing. I should say that
there is no more dangerous man in Europe."
"I have had several opponents to whom that flattering term has been
applied," said Holmes, with a smile. "Don't you smoke? Then you will
excuse me if I light my pipe. If your man is more dangerous than the
late Professor Moriarty, or than the living Colonel Sebastian Moran,
then he is indeed worth meeting. May I ask his name?"
"Have you ever heard of Baron Gruner?
"You mean the Austrian murderer?"
Colonel Damery threw up his kid-gloved hands with a laugh. "There is
no getting past you, Mr. Holmes! Wonderful! So you have already sized
him up as a murderer?"
"It is my business to follow the details of Continental crime. Who
could possibly have read what happened at Prague and have any doubts as
to the man's guilt! It was a purely technical legal point and the
suspicious death of a witness that saved him! I am as sure that he
killed his wife when the so-called 'accident' happened in the Splügen
Pass as if I had seen him do it. I knew, also, that he had come to
England, and had a presentiment that sooner or later he would find me
some work to do. Well, what has Baron Gruner been up to? I presume it
is not this old tragedy which has come up again?"
"No, it is more serious than that. To revenge crime is important, but
to prevent it is more so. It is a terrible thing, Mr. Holmes, to see a
dreadful event, an atrocious situation, preparing itself before your
eyes, to clearly understand whither it will lead and yet to be utterly
unable to avert it. Can a human being be placed in a more trying
position?"
"Perhaps not."
"Then you will sympathize with the client in whose interests I am
acting."
"I did not understand that you were merely an intermediary. Who is the
principal?"
"Mr. Holmes, I must beg you not to press that question. It is
important that I should be able to assure him that his honoured name
has been in no way dragged into the matter. His motives are, to the
last degree, honourable and chivalrous, but he prefers to remain
unknown. I need not say that your fees will be assured and that you
will be given a perfectly free hand. Surely the actual name of your
client is immaterial?"
"I am sorry," said Holmes. "I am accustomed to have mystery at one end
of my cases, but to have it at both ends is too confusing. I fear, Sir
James, that I must decline to act."
Our visitor was greatly disturbed. His large, sensitive face was
darkened with emotion and disappointment.
"You hardly realize the effect of your own action, Mr. Holmes," said
he. "You place me in a most serious dilemma, for I am perfectly
certain that you would be proud to take over the case if I could give
you the facts, and yet a promise forbids me from revealing them all.
May I, at least, lay all that I can before you?"
"By all means, so long as it is understood that I commit myself to
nothing."
"That is understood. In the first place, you have no doubt heard of
General de Merville?"
"De Merville of Khyber fame? Yes, I have heard of him."
"He has a daughter, Violet de Merville, young, rich, beautiful,
accomplished, a wonder-woman in every way. It is this daughter, this
lovely, innocent girl, whom we are endeavouring to save from the
clutches of a fiend."
"Baron Gruner has some hold over her, then?"
"The strongest of all holds where a woman is concerned--the hold of
love. The fellow is, as you may have heard, extraordinarily handsome,
with a most fascinating manner, a gentle voice, and that air of romance
and mystery which means so much to a woman. He is said to have the
whole sex at his mercy and to have made ample use of the fact.
"But how came such a man to meet a lady of the standing of Miss Violet
de Merville?"
"It was on a Mediterranean yachting voyage. The company, though
select, paid their own passages. No doubt the promoters hardly
realized the Baron's true character until it was too late. The villain
attached himself to the lady, and with such effect that he has
completely and absolutely won her heart. To say that she loves him
hardly expresses it. She dotes upon him, she is obsessed by him.
Outside of him there is nothing on earth. She will not hear one word
against him. Everything has been done to cure her of her madness, but
in vain. To sum up, she proposes to marry him next month. As she is
of age and has a will of iron, it is hard to know how to prevent her."
"Does she know about the Austrian episode?"
"The cunning devil has told her every unsavoury public scandal of his
past life, but always in such a way as to make himself out to be an
innocent martyr. She absolutely accepts his version and will listen to
no other."
"Dear me! But surely you have inadvertently let out the name of your
client? It is no doubt General de Merville."
Our visitor fidgeted in his chair.
"I could deceive you by saying so, Mr. Holmes, but it would not be
true. De Merville is a broken man. The strong soldier has been
utterly demoralized by this incident. He has lost the nerve which
never failed him on the battlefield and has become a weak, doddering
old man, utterly incapable of contending with a brilliant, forceful
rascal like this Austrian. My client, however, is an old friend, one
who has known the General intimately for many years and taken a
paternal interest in this young girl since she wore short frocks. He
cannot see this tragedy consummated without some attempt to stop it.
There is nothing in which Scotland Yard can act. It was his own
suggestion that you should be called in, but it was, as I have said, on
the express stipulation that he should not be personally involved in
the matter. I have no doubt, Mr. Holmes, with your great powers you
could easily trace my client back through me, but I must ask you, as a
point of honour, to refrain from doing so, and not to break in upon his
incognito."
Holmes gave a whimsical smile.
"I think I may safely promise that," said he. "I may add that your
problem interests me, and that I shall be prepared to look into it.
How shall I keep in touch with you?"
"The Carlton Club will find me. But, in case of emergency, there is a
private telephone call, 'XX.31.'"
Holmes noted it down and sat, still smiling, with the open
memorandum-book upon his knee.
"The Baron's present address, please?"
"Vernon Lodge, near Kingston. It is a large house. He has been
fortunate in some rather shady speculations and is a rich man, which,
naturally, makes him a more dangerous antagonist."
"Is he at home at present?"
"Yes."
"Apart from what you have told me, can you give me any further
information about the man?"
"He has expensive tastes. He is a horse fancier. For a short time he
played polo at Hurlingham, but then this Prague affair got noised about
and he had to leave. He collects books and pictures. He is a man with
a considerable artistic side to his nature. He is, I believe, a
recognized authority upon Chinese pottery, and has written a book upon
the subject."
"A complex mind," said Holmes. "All great criminals have that. My old
friend Charlie Peace was a violin virtuoso. Wainwright was no mean
artist. I could quote many more. Well, Sir James, you will inform
your client that I am turning my mind upon Baron Gruner. I can say no
more. I have some sources of information of my own, and dare say we
may find some means of opening matter up."
When our visitor had left us, Holmes sat so long in deep thought that
it seemed to me that he had forgotten my presence. At last, however,
he came briskly back to earth.
"Well, Watson, any views?" he asked.
"I should think you had better see the young lady herself."
"My dear Watson, if her poor old broken father cannot move her, how
shall I, a stranger, prevail? And yet there is something in the
suggestion if all else fails. But I think we must begin from a
different angle. I rather fancy that Shinwell Johnson might be a help."
I have not had occasion to mention Shinwell Johnson in these memoirs
because I have seldom drawn my cases from the latter phases of my
friend's career. During the first years of the century he became a
valuable assistant. Johnson, I grieve to say, made his name first as a
very dangerous villain and served two terms at Parkhurst. Finally, he
repented and allied himself to Holmes, acting as his agent in the huge
criminal underworld of London, and obtaining information which often
proved to be of vital importance. Had Johnson been a "nark" of the
police he would soon have been exposed, but as he dealt with cases
which never came directly into the courts, his activities were never
realized by his companions. With the glamour of his two convictions
upon him, he had the _entrée_ of every night-club, doss-house, and
gambling-den in the town, and his quick observation and active brain
made him an ideal agent for gaining information. It was to him that
Sherlock Holmes now proposed to turn.
It was not possible for me to follow the immediate steps taken by my
friend, for I had some pressing professional business of my own, but I
met him by appointment that evening at Simpson's, where, sitting at a
small table in the front window, and looking down at the rushing stream
of life in the Strand, he told me something of what had passed.
"Johnson is on the prowl," said he. "He may pick up some garbage in
the darker recesses of the underworld, for it is down there, amid the
black roots of crime, that we must hunt for this man's secrets."
"But, if the lady will not accept what is already known, why should any
fresh discovery of yours turn her from her purpose?"
"Who knows, Watson? Woman's heart and mind are insoluble puzzles to
the male. Murder might be condoned or explained, and yet some smaller
offence might rankle. Baron Gruner remarked to me----"
"He remarked to you!"
"Oh, to be sure, I had not told you of my plans! Well, Watson, I love
to come to close grips with my man. I like to meet him eye to eye and
read for myself the stuff that he is made of. When I had given Johnson
his instructions, I took a cab out to Kingston and found the Baron in a
most affable mood."
"Did he recognize you?"
"There was no difficulty about that, for I simply sent in my card. He
is an excellent antagonist, cool as ice, silky voiced and soothing as
one of your fashionable consultants, and poisonous as a cobra. He has
breed in him, a real aristocrat of crime, with a superficial suggestion
of afternoon tea and all the cruelty of the grave behind it. Yes, I am
glad to have had my attention called to Baron Adelbert Gruner."
"You say he was affable?"
"A purring cat who thinks he sees prospective mice. Some people's
affability is more deadly than the violence of coarser souls. His
greeting was characteristic. 'I rather thought I should see you sooner
or later, Mr. Holmes,' said he. 'You have been engaged, no doubt, by
General de Merville to endeavour to stop my marriage with his daughter,
Violet. That is so, is it not?'
"I acquiesced.
"'My dear man,' said he, 'you will only ruin your own well-deserved
reputation. It is not a case in which you can possibly succeed. You
will have barren work, to say nothing of incurring some danger. Let me
very strongly advise you to draw off at once.'
"'It is curious,' I answered, 'but that was the very advice which I had
intended to give you. I have a respect for your brains, Baron, and the
little which I have seen of your personality has not lessened it. Let
me put it to you as man to man. No one wants to rake up your past and
make you unduly uncomfortable. It is over, and you are now in smooth
waters, but if you persist in this marriage you will raise up a swarm
of powerful enemies who will never leave you alone until they have made
England too hot to hold you. Is the game worth it? Surely you would
be wiser if you left the lady alone. It would not be pleasant for you
if these facts of your past were brought to her notice.'
"The Baron has little waxed tips of hair under his nose, like the short
antennae of an insect. These quivered with amusement as he listened,
and he finally broke into a gentle chuckle.
"'Excuse my amusement, Mr. Holmes,' said he, 'but it is really funny to
see you trying to play a hand with no cards in it. I don't think
anyone could do it better, but it is rather pathetic, all the same.
Not a colour card there, Mr. Holmes, nothing but the smallest of the
small.'
"'So you think.'
"'So I know. Let me make the thing clear to you, for my own hand is so
strong that I can afford to show it. I have been fortunate enough to
win the entire affection of this lady. This was given to me in spite
of the fact that I told her very clearly of all the unhappy incidents
in my past life. I also told her that certain wicked and designing
persons--I hope you recognize yourself--would come to her and tell her
these things, and I warned her how to treat them. You have heard of
post-hypnotic suggestion, Mr. Holmes? Well, you will see how it works,
for a man of personality can use hypnotism without any vulgar passes or
tomfoolery. So she is ready for you and, I have no doubt, would give
you an appointment, for she is quite amenable to her father's
will--save only in the one little matter.'
"Well, Watson, there seemed to be no more to say, so I took my leave
with as much cold dignity as I could summon, but, as I had my hand on
the door-handle, he stopped me.
"'By the way, Mr. Holmes,' said he, 'did you know Le Brun, the French
agent?'
"'Yes,' said I.
"'Do you know what befell him?'
"'I heard that he was beaten by some Apaches in the Montmartre district
and crippled for life.'
"'Quite true, Mr. Holmes. By a curious coincidence he had been
inquiring into my affairs only a week before. Don't do it, Mr. Holmes;
it's not a lucky thing to do. Several have found that out. My last
word to you is, go your own way and let me go mine. Good-bye!'
"So there you are, Watson. You are up to date now."
"The fellow seems dangerous."
"Mighty dangerous. I disregard the blusterer, but this is the sort of
man who says rather less than he means."
"Must you interfere? Does it really matter if he marries the girl?"
"Considering that he undoubtedly murdered his last wife, I should say
it mattered very much. Besides, the client! Well, well, we need not
discuss that. When you have finished your coffee you had best come
home with me, for the blithe Shinwell will be there with his report."
We found him sure enough, a huge, coarse, red-faced, scorbutic man,
with a pair of vivid black eyes which were the only external sign of
the very cunning mind within. It seems that he had dived down into
what was peculiarly his kingdom, and beside him on the settee was a
brand which he had brought up in the shape of a slim, flame-like young
woman with a pale, intense face, youthful, and yet so worn with sin and
sorrow that one read the terrible years which had left their leprous
mark upon her.
"This is Miss Kitty Winter," said Shinwell Johnson, waving his fat hand
as an introduction. "What she don't know--well, there, she'll speak
for herself. Put my hand right on her, Mr. Holmes, within an hour of
your message."
"I'm easy to find," said the young woman. "Hell, London, gets me every
time. Same address for Porky Shinwell. We're old mates, Porky, you
and I. But, by Gripes! there is another who ought to be down in a
lower hell than we if there was any justice in the world! That is the
man you are after, Mr. Holmes."
Holmes smiled. "I gather we have your good wishes, Miss Winter."
"If I can help to put him where he belongs, I'm yours to the rattle,"
said our visitor, with fierce energy. There was an intensity of hatred
in her white, set face and her blazing eyes such as woman seldom and
man never can attain. "You needn't go into my past, Mr. Holmes.
That's neither here nor there. But what I am Adelbert Gruner made me.
If I could pull him down!" She clutched frantically with her hands
into the air. "Oh, if I could only pull him into the pit where he has
pushed so many!"
"You know how the matter stands?"
"Porky Shinwell has been telling me. He's after some other poor fool
and wants to marry her this time. You want to stop it. Well, you
surely know enough about this devil to prevent any decent girl in her
senses wanting to be in the same parish with him."
"She is not in her senses. She is madly in love. She has been told
all about him. She cares nothing."
"Told about the murder?"
"Yes."
"My Lord, she must have a nerve!"
"She puts them all down as slanders."
"Couldn't you lay proofs before her silly eyes?"
"Well, can you help us do so?"
"Ain't I a proof myself? If I stood before her and told her how he
used me----"
"Would you do this?"
"Would I? Would I not!"
"Well, it might be worth trying. But he has told her most of his sins
and had pardon from her, and I understand she will not reopen the
question."
"I'll lay he didn't tell her all," said Miss Winter. "I caught a
glimpse of one or two murders besides the one that made such a fuss.
He would speak of someone in his velvet way and then look at me with a
steady eye and say: 'He died within a month.' It wasn't hot air,
either. But I took little notice--you see, I loved him myself at that
time. Whatever he did went with me, same as with this poor fool!
There was just one thing that shook me. Yes, by Gripes! if it had not
been for his poisonous, lying tongue that explains and soothes, I'd
have left him that very night. It's a book he has--a brown leather
book with a lock, and his arms in gold on the outside. I think he was
a bit drunk that night, or he would not have shown it to me."
"What was it, then?"
"I tell you, Mr. Holmes, this man collects women, and takes a pride in
his collection, as some men collect moths or butterflies. He had it
all in that book. Snapshot photographs, names, details, everything
about them. It was a beastly book--a book no man, even if he had come
from the gutter, could have put together. But it was Adelbert Gruner's
book all the same. 'Souls I have ruined.' He could have put that on
the outside if he had been so minded. However, that's neither here nor
there, for the book would not serve you, and, if it would, you can't
get it."
"Where is it?"
"How can I tell you where it is now? It's more than a year since I
left him. I know where he kept it then. He's a precise, tidy cat of a
man in many of his ways, so maybe it is still in the pigeon-hole of the
old bureau in the inner study. Do you know his house?"
"I've been in the study," said Holmes.
"Have you, though? You haven't been slow on the job if you only
started this morning. Maybe dear Adelbert has met his match this time.
The outer study is the one with the Chinese crockery in it--big glass
cupboard between the windows. Then behind his desk is the door that
leads to the inner study--a small room where he keeps papers and
things."
"Is he not afraid of burglars?"
"Adelbert is no coward. His worst enemy couldn't say that of him. He
can look after himself. There's a burglar alarm at night. Besides,
what is there for a burglar--unless they got away with all this fancy
crockery?"
"No good," said Shinwell Johnson, with the decided voice of the expert.
"No fence wants stuff of that sort that you can neither melt nor sell."
"Quite so," said Holmes. "Well, now, Miss Winter, if you would call
here to-morrow evening at five, I would consider in the meanwhile
whether your suggestion of seeing this lady personally may not be
arranged. I am exceedingly obliged to you for your co-operation. I
need not say that my clients will consider liberally----"
"None of that, Mr. Holmes," cried the young woman. "I am not out for
money. Let me see this man in the mud, and I've got all I worked
for--in the mud with my foot on his cursed face. That's my price. I'm
with you to-morrow or any other day so long as you are on his track.
Porky here can tell you always where to find me."
I did not see Holmes again until the following evening, when we dined
once more at our Strand restaurant. He shrugged his shoulders when I
asked him what luck he had had in his interview. Then he told the
story, which I would repeat in this way. His hard, dry statement needs
some little editing to soften it into the terms of real life.
"There was no difficulty at all about the appointment," said Holmes,
"for the girl glories in showing abject filial obedience in all
secondary things in an attempt to atone for her flagrant breach of it
in her engagement. The General 'phoned that all was ready, and the
fiery Miss W. turned up according to schedule, so that at half-past
five a cab deposited us outside 104 Berkeley Square, where the old
soldier resides--one of those awful grey London castles which would
make a church seem frivolous. A footman showed us into a great
yellow-curtained drawing-room, and there was the lady awaiting us,
demure, pale, self-contained, as inflexible and remote as a snow image
on a mountain.
"I don't quite know how to make her clear to you, Watson. Perhaps you
may meet her before we are through, and you can use your own gift of
words. She is beautiful, but with the ethereal other-world beauty of
some fanatic whose thoughts are set on high. I have seen such faces in
the pictures of the old masters of the Middle Ages. How a beast-man
could have laid his vile paws upon such a being of the beyond I cannot
imagine. You may have noticed how extremes call to each other, the
spiritual to the animal, the cave-man to the angel. You never saw a
worse case than this.
"She knew what we had come for, of course--that villain had lost no
time in poisoning her mind against us. Miss Winter's advent rather
amazed her, I think, but she waved us into our respective chairs like a
Reverend Abbess receiving two rather leprous mendicants. If your head
is inclined to swell, my dear Watson, take a course of Miss Violet de
Merville.
"'Well, sir,' said she, in a voice like the wind from an iceberg, 'your
name is familiar to me. You have called, as I understand, to malign my
fiancé, Baron Gruner. It is only by my father's request that I see you
at all, and I warn you in advance that anything you can say could not
possibly have the slightest effect upon my mind.'
"I was sorry for her, Watson. I thought of her for the moment as I
would have thought of a daughter of my own. I am not often eloquent.
I use my head, not my heart. But I really did plead with her with all
the warmth of words that I could find in my nature. I pictured to her
the awful position of the woman who only wakes to a man's character
after she is his wife--a woman who has to submit to be caressed by
bloody hands and lecherous lips. I spared her nothing--the shame, the
fear, the agony, the hopelessness of it all. All my hot words could
not bring one tinge of colour to those ivory cheeks or one gleam of
emotion to those abstracted eyes. I thought of what the rascal had
said about a post-hypnotic influence. One could really believe that
she was living above the earth in some ecstatic dream. Yet there was
nothing indefinite in her replies.
"'I have listened to you with patience, Mr. Holmes,' said she. 'The
effect upon my mind is exactly as predicted. I am aware that Adelbert,
that my fiancé, has had a stormy life in which he has incurred bitter
hatreds and most unjust aspersions. You are only the last of a series
who have brought their slanders before me. Possibly you mean well,
though I learn that you are a paid agent who would have been equally
willing to act for the Baron as against him. But in any case I wish
you to understand once for all that I love him and that he loves me,
and that the opinion of all the world is no more to me than the twitter
of those birds outside the window. If his noble nature has ever for an
instant fallen, it may be that I have been specially sent to raise it
to its true and lofty level. I am not clear,' here she turned her eyes
upon my companion, 'who this young lady may be.'
"I was about to answer when the girl broke in like a whirlwind. If
ever you saw flame and ice face to face, it was those two women.
"'I'll tell you who I am,' she cried, springing out of her chair, her
mouth all twisted with passion--'I am his last mistress. I am one of a
hundred that he has tempted and used and ruined and thrown into the
refuse heap, as he will you also. _Your_ refuse heap is more likely to
be a grave, and maybe that's the best. I tell you, you foolish woman,
if you marry this man he'll be the death of you. It may be a broken
heart or it may be a broken neck, but he'll have you one way or the
other. It's not out of love for you I'm speaking. I don't care a
tinker's curse whether you live or die. It's out of hate for him and
to spite him and to get back on him for what he did to me. But it's
all the same, and you needn't look at me like that, my fine lady, for
you may be lower than I am before you are through with it.'
"'I should prefer not to discuss such matters,' said Miss de Merville
coldly. 'Let me say once for all that I am aware of three passages in
my fiancé's life in which he became entangled with designing women, and
that I am assured of his hearty repentance for any evil that he may
have done.'
"'Three passages!' screamed my companion. 'You fool! You unutterable
fool!'
"'Mr. Holmes, I beg that you will bring this interview to an end,' said
the icy voice. 'I have obeyed my father's wish in seeing you, but I am
not compelled to listen to the ravings of this person.'
"With an oath Miss Winter darted forward, and if I had not caught her
wrist she would have clutched this maddening woman by the hair. I
dragged her towards the door, and was lucky to get her back into the
cab without a public scene, for she was beside herself with rage. In a
cold way I felt pretty furious myself, Watson, for there was something
indescribably annoying in the calm aloofness and supreme
self-complaisance of the woman whom we were trying to save. So now
once again you know exactly how we stand, and it is clear that I must
plan some fresh opening move, for this gambit won't work. I'll keep in
touch with you, Watson, for it is more than likely that you will have
your part to play, though it is just possible that the next move may
lie with them rather than with us."
And it did. Their blow fell--or his blow rather, for never could I
believe that the lady was privy to it. I think I could show you the
very paving-stone upon which I stood when my eyes fell upon the
placard, and a pang of horror passed through my very soul. It was
between the "Grand Hotel" and Charing Cross Station, where a one-legged
news-vendor displayed his evening papers. The date was just two days
after the last conversation. There, black upon yellow, was the
terrible news-sheet:
+-------------+
| MURDEROUS |
| ATTACK |
| UPON |
| SHERLOCK |
| HOLMES. |
+-------------+
I think I stood stunned for some moments. Then I have a confused
recollection of snatching at a paper, of the remonstrance of the man,
whom I had not paid, and, finally, of standing in the doorway of a
chemist's shop while I turned up the fateful paragraph. This was how
it ran:
"We learn with regret that Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the well-known private
detective, was the victim this morning of a murderous assault which has
left him in a precarious position. There are no exact details to hand,
but the event seems to have occurred about twelve o'clock in Regent
Street, outside the Café Royal. The attack was made by two men armed
with sticks, and Mr. Holmes was beaten about the head and body,
receiving injuries which the doctors describe as most serious. He was
carried to Charing Cross Hospital, and afterwards insisted upon being
taken to his rooms in Baker Street. The miscreants who attacked him
appear to have been respectably dressed men, who escaped from the
bystanders by passing through the Café Royal and out into Glasshouse
Street behind it. No doubt they belonged to that criminal fraternity
which has so often had occasion to bewail the activity and ingenuity of
the injured man."
I need not say that my eyes had hardly glanced over the paragraph
before I had sprung into a hansom and was on my way to Baker Street. I
found Sir Leslie Oakshott, the famous surgeon in the hall and his
brougham waiting at the kerb.
"No immediate danger," was his report. "Two lacerated scalp wounds and
some considerable bruises. Several stitches have been necessary.
Morphine has been injected and quiet is essential, but an interview of
a few minutes would not be absolutely forbidden."
With this permission I stole into the darkened room. The sufferer was
wide awake, and I heard my name in a hoarse whisper. The blind was
three-quarters down, but one ray of sunlight slanted through and struck
the bandaged head of the injured man. A crimson patch had soaked
through the white linen compress. I sat beside him and bent my head.
"All right, Watson. Don't look so scared," he muttered in a very weak
voice. "It's not as bad as it seems."
"Thank God for that!"
"I'm a bit of a single-stick expert, as you know. I took most of them
on my guard. It was the second man that was too much for me."
"What can I do, Holmes? Of course, it was that damned fellow who set
them on. I'll go and thrash the hide off him if you give the word."
"Good old Watson! No, we can do nothing there unless the police lay
their hands on the men. But their get-away had been well prepared. We
may be sure of that. Wait a little. I have my plans. The first thing
is to exaggerate my injuries. They'll come to you for news. Put it on
thick, Watson. Lucky if I live the week
out--concussion--delirium--what you like! You can't overdo it."
"But Sir Leslie Oakshott?"
"Oh, he's all right. He shall see the worst side of me. I'll look
after that."
"Anything else?"
"Yes. Tell Shinwell Johnson to get that girl out of the way. Those
beauties will be after her now. They know, of course, that she was
with me in the case. If they dared to do me in it is not likely they
will neglect her. That is urgent. Do it to-night."
"I'll go now. Anything more?"
"Put my pipe on the table--and the tobacco-slipper. Right! Come in
each morning and we will plan our campaign."
I arranged with Johnson that evening to take Miss Winter to a quiet
suburb and see that she lay low until the danger was past.
For six days the public were under the impression that Holmes was at
the door of death. The bulletins were very grave and there were
sinister paragraphs in the papers. My continual visits assured me that
it was not so bad as that. His wiry constitution and his determined
will were working wonders. He was recovering fast, and I had
suspicions at times that he was really finding himself faster than he
pretended, even to me. There was a curious secretive streak in the man
which led to many dramatic effects, but left even his closest friend
guessing as to what his exact plans might be. He pushed to an extreme
the axiom that the only safe plotter was he who plotted alone. I was
nearer him than anyone else, and yet I was always conscious of the gap
between.
On the seventh day the stitches were taken out, in spite of which there
was a report of erysipelas in the evening papers. The same evening
papers had an announcement which I was bound, sick or well, to carry to
my friend. It was simply that among the passengers on the Cunard boat
_Ruritania_, starting from Liverpool on Friday, was the Baron Adelbert
Gruner, who had some important financial business to settle in the
States before his impending wedding to Miss Violet de Merville, only
daughter of, etc., etc. Holmes listened to the news with a cold,
concentrated look upon his pale face, which told me that it hit him
hard.
"Friday!" he cried. "Only three clear days. I believe the rascal
wants to put himself out of danger's way. But he won't, Watson! By
the Lord Harry, he won't! Now, Watson, I want you to do something for
me."
"I am here to be used, Holmes."
"Well, then, spend the next twenty-four hours in an intensive study of
Chinese pottery."
He gave no explanations and I asked for none. By long experience I had
learned the wisdom of obedience. But when I had left his room I walked
down Baker Street, revolving in my head how on earth I was to carry out
so strange an order. Finally I drove to the London Library in St.
James's Square, put the matter to my friend Lomax, the sub-librarian,
and departed to my rooms with a goodly volume under my arm.
It is said that the barrister who crams up a case with such care that
he can examine an expert witness upon the Monday has forgotten all his
forced knowledge before the Saturday. Certainly I should not like now
to pose as an authority upon ceramics. And yet all that evening, and
all that night with a short interval for rest, and all next morning I
was sucking in knowledge and committing names to memory. There I
learned of the hall-marks of the great artist-decorators, of the
mystery of cyclical dates, the marks of the Hung-wu and the beauties of
the Yung-lo, the writings of Tang-ying, and the glories of the
primitive period of the Sung and the Yuan. I was charged with all this
information when I called upon Holmes next evening. He was out of bed
now, though you would not have guessed it from the published reports,
and he sat with his much-bandaged head resting upon his hand in the
depth of his favourite arm-chair.
"Why, Holmes," I said, "if one believed the papers you are dying."
"That," said he, "is the very impression which I intended to convey.
And now, Watson, have you learned your lessons?"
"At least I have tried to."
"Good. You could keep up an intelligent conversation on the subject?"
"I believe I could."
"Then hand me that little box from the mantel-piece."
He opened the lid and took out a small object most carefully wrapped in
some fine Eastern silk. This he unfolded, and disclosed a delicate
little saucer of the most beautiful deep-blue colour.
"It needs careful handling, Watson. This is the real egg-shell pottery
of the Ming dynasty. No finer piece ever passed through Christie's. A
complete set of this would be worth a king's ransom--in fact, it is
doubtful if there is a complete set outside the Imperial palace of
Peking. The sight of this would drive a real connoisseur wild."
"What am I to do with it?"
Holmes handed me a card upon which was printed: "Dr. Hill Barton, 369
Half Moon Street."
"That is your name for the evening, Watson. You will call upon Baron
Gruner. I know something of his habits, and at half-past eight he
would probably be disengaged. A note will tell him in advance that you
are about to call, and you will say that you are bringing him a
specimen of an absolutely unique set of Ming china. You may as well be
a medical man, since that is a part which you can play without
duplicity. You are a collector, this set has come your way, you have
heard of the Baron's interest in the subject, and you are not averse to
selling at a price."
"What price?"
"Well asked, Watson. You would certainly fall down badly if you did
not know the value of your own wares. This saucer was got for me by
Sir James, and comes, I understand, from the collection of his client.
You will not exaggerate if you say that it could hardly be matched in
the world."
"I could perhaps suggest that the set should be valued by an expert."
"Excellent, Watson! You scintillate to-day. Suggest Christie or
Sotheby. Your delicacy prevents your putting a price for yourself."
"But if he won't see me?"
"Oh, yes, he will see you. He has the collection mania in its most
acute form--and especially on this subject, on which he is an
acknowledged authority. Sit down, Watson, and I will dictate the
letter. No answer needed. You will merely say that you are coming,
and why."
It was an admirable document, short, courteous, and stimulating to the
curiosity of the connoisseur. A district messenger was duly dispatched
with it. On the same evening, with the precious saucer in my hand and
the card of Dr. Hill Barton in my pocket, I set off on my own adventure.
The beautiful house and grounds indicated that Baron Gruner was, as Sir
James had said, a man of considerable wealth. A long winding drive,
with banks of rare shrubs on either side, opened out into a great
gravelled square adorned with statues. The place had been built by a
South African gold king in the days of the great boom, and the long,
low house with the turrets at the corners, though an architectural
nightmare, was imposing in its size and solidity. A butler who would
have adorned a bench of bishops showed me in, and handed me over to a
plush-clad footman, who ushered me into the Baron's presence.
He was standing at the open front of a great case which stood between
the windows, and which contained part of his Chinese collection. He
turned as I entered with a small brown vase in his hand.
"Pray sit down, doctor," said he. "I was looking over my own treasures
and wondering whether I could really afford to add to them. This
little Tang specimen, which dates from the seventh century, would
probably interest you. I am sure you never saw finer workmanship or a
richer glaze. Have you the Ming saucer with you of which you spoke?"
I carefully unpacked it and handed it to him. He seated himself at his
desk, pulled over the lamp, for it was growing dark, and set himself to
examine it. As he did so the yellow light beat upon his own features,
and I was able to study them at my ease.
He was certainly a remarkably handsome man. His European reputation
for beauty was fully deserved. In figure he was not more than of
middle size, but was built upon graceful and active lines. His face
was swarthy, almost Oriental, with large, dark, languorous eyes which
might easily hold an irresistible fascination for women. His hair and
moustache were raven black, the latter short, pointed, and carefully
waxed. His features were regular and pleasing, save only his straight,
thin-lipped mouth. If ever I saw a murderer's mouth it was there--a
cruel, hard gash in the face, compressed, inexorable, and terrible. He
was ill-advised to train his moustache away from it, for it was
Nature's danger-signal, set as a warning to his victims. His voice was
engaging and his manners perfect. In age I should have put him at
little over thirty, though his record afterwards showed that he was
forty-two.
"Very fine--very fine indeed!" he said at last. "And you say you have
a set of six to correspond. What puzzles me is that I should not have
heard of such magnificent specimens. I only know of one in England to
match this, and it is certainly not likely to be in the market. Would
it be indiscreet if I were to ask you, Dr. Hill Barton, how you
obtained this?"
"Does it really matter?" I asked, with as careless an air as I could
muster. "You can see that the piece is genuine, and, as to the value,
I am content to take an expert's valuation."
"Very mysterious," said he, with a quick, suspicious flash of his dark
eyes. "In dealing with objects of such value, one naturally wishes to
know all about the transaction. That the piece is genuine is certain.
I have no doubts at all about that. But suppose--I am bound to take
every possibility into account--that it should prove afterwards that
you had no right to sell?"
"I would guarantee you against any claim of the sort."
"That, of course, would open up the question as to what your guarantee
was worth."
"My bankers would answer that."
"Quite so. And yet the whole transaction strikes me as rather unusual."
"You can do business or not," said I, with indifference. "I have given
you the first offer as I understood that you were a connoisseur, but I
shall have no difficulty in other quarters."
"Who told you I was a connoisseur?"
"I was aware that you had written a book upon the subject."
"Have you read the book?"
"No."
"Dear me, this becomes more and more difficult for me to understand!
You are a connoisseur and collector with a very valuable piece in your
collection, and yet you have never troubled to consult the one book
which would have told you of the real meaning and value of what you
held. How do you explain that?"
"I am a very busy man. I am a doctor in practice."
"That is no answer. If a man has a hobby he follows it up, whatever
his other pursuits may be. You said in your note that you were a
connoisseur."
"So I am."
"Might I ask you a few questions to test you? I am obliged to tell
you, doctor--if you are indeed a doctor--that the incident becomes more
and more suspicious. I would ask you what do you know of the Emperor
Shomu and how do you associate him with the Shoso-in near Nara? Dear
me, does that puzzle you? Tell me a little about the Northern Wei
dynasty and its place in the history of ceramics."
I sprang from my chair in simulated anger.
"This is intolerable, sir," said I. "I came here to do you a favour,
and not to be examined as if I were a schoolboy. My knowledge on these
subjects may be second only to your own, but I certainly shall not
answer questions which have been put in so offensive a way."
He looked at me steadily. The languor had gone from his eyes. They
suddenly glared. There was a gleam of teeth from between those cruel
lips.
"What is the game? You are here as a spy. You are an emissary of
Holmes. This is a trick that you are playing upon me. The fellow is
dying, I hear, so he sends his tools to keep watch upon me. You've
made your way in here without leave, and, by God! you may find it
harder to get out than to get in."
He had sprung to his feet, and I stepped back, bracing myself for an
attack, for the man was beside himself with rage. He may have
suspected me from the first; certainly this cross-examination had shown
him the truth; but it was clear that I could not hope to deceive him.
He dived his hand into a side-drawer and rummaged furiously. Then
something struck upon his ear, for he stood listening intently.
"Ah!" he cried. "Ah!" and dashed into the room behind him.
Two steps took me to the open door, and my mind will ever carry a clear
picture of the scene within. The window leading out to the garden was
wide open. Beside it, looking like some terrible ghost, his head girt
with bloody bandages, his face drawn and white, stood Sherlock Holmes.
The next instant he was through the gap, and I heard the crash of his
body among the laurel bushes outside. With a howl of rage the master
of the house rushed after him to the open window.
And then! It was done in an instant, and yet I clearly saw it. An
arm--a woman's arm--shot out from among the leaves. At the same
instant the Baron uttered a horrible cry--a yell which will always ring
in my memory. He clapped his two hands to his face and rushed round
the room, beating his head horribly against the walls. Then he fell
upon the carpet, rolling and writhing, while scream after scream
resounded through the house.
"Water! For God's sake, water!" was his cry.
I seized a carafe from a side-table and rushed to his aid. At the same
moment the butler and several footmen ran in from the hall. I remember
that one of them fainted as I knelt by the injured man and turned that
awful face to the light of the lamp. The vitriol was eating into it
everywhere and dripping from the ears and the chin. One eye was
already white and glazed. The other was red and inflamed. The
features which I had admired a few minutes before were now like some
beautiful painting over which the artist has passed a wet and foul
sponge. They were blurred, discoloured, inhuman, terrible.
In a few words I explained exactly what had occurred, so far as the
vitriol attack was concerned. Some had climbed through the window and
others had rushed out on to the lawn, but it was dark and it had begun
to rain. Between his screams the victim raged and raved against the
avenger. "It was that hell-cat, Kitty Winter!" he cried. "Oh, the
she-devil! She shall pay for it! She shall pay! Oh, God in heaven,
this pain is more than I can bear!"
I bathed his face in oil, put cotton wadding on the raw surfaces, and
administered a hypodermic of morphia. All suspicion of me had passed
from his mind in the presence of this shock, and he clung to my hands
as if I might have the power even yet to clear those dead-fish eyes
which gazed up at me. I could have wept over the ruin had I not
remembered very clearly the vile life which had led up to so hideous a
change. It was loathsome to feel the pawing of his burning hands, and
I was relieved when his family surgeon, closely followed by a
specialist, came to relieve me of my charge. An inspector of police
had also arrived, and to him I handed my real card. It would have been
useless as well as foolish to do otherwise, for I was nearly as well
known by sight at the Yard as Holmes himself. Then I left that house
of gloom and terror. Within an hour I was at Baker Street.
Holmes was seated in his familiar chair, looking very pale and
exhausted. Apart from his injuries, even his iron nerves had been
shocked by the events of the evening, and he listened with horror to my
account of the Baron's transformation.
"The wages of sin, Watson--the wages of sin!" said he. "Sooner or
later it will always come. God knows, there was sin enough," he added,
taking up a brown volume from the table. "Here is the book the woman
talked of. If this will not break off the marriage, nothing ever
could. But it will, Watson. It must. No self-respecting woman could
stand it."
"It is his love diary?"
"Or his lust diary. Call it what you will. The moment the woman told
us of it I realized what a tremendous weapon was there, if we could but
lay our hands on it. I said nothing at the time to indicate my
thoughts, for this woman might have given it away. But I brooded over
it. Then this assault upon me gave me the chance of letting the Baron
think that no precautions need be taken against me. That was all to
the good. I would have waited a little longer, but his visit to
America forced my hand. He would never have left so compromising a
document behind him. Therefore we had to act at once. Burglary at
night is impossible. He takes precautions. But there was a chance in
the evening if I could only be sure that his attention was engaged.
That was where you and your blue saucer came in. But I had to be sure
of the position of the book, and I knew I had only a few minutes in
which to act, for my time was limited by your knowledge of Chinese
pottery. Therefore I gathered the girl up at the last moment. How
could I guess what the little packet was that she carried so carefully
under her cloak? I thought she had come altogether on my business, but
it seems she had some of her own."
"He guessed I came from you."
"I feared he would. But you held him in play just long enough for me
to get the book, though not long enough for an unobserved escape. Ah,
Sir James, I am very glad you have come!"
Our courtly friend had appeared in answer to a previous summons. He
listened with the deepest attention to Holmes's account of what had
occurred.
"You have done wonders--wonders!" he cried, when he had heard the
narrative. "But if these injuries are as terrible as Dr. Watson
describes, then surely our purpose of thwarting the marriage is
sufficiently gained without the use of this horrible book."
Holmes shook his head.
"Women of the de Merville type do not act like that. She would love
him the more as a disfigured martyr. No, no. It is his moral side,
not his physical, which we have to destroy. That book will bring her
back to earth--and I know nothing else that could. It is in his own
writing. She cannot get past it."
Sir James carried away both it and the precious saucer. As I was
myself overdue, I went down with him into the street. A brougham was
waiting for him. He sprang in, gave a hurried order to the cockaded
coachman, and drove swiftly away. He flung his overcoat half out of
the window to cover the armorial bearings upon the panel, but I had
seen them in the glare of our fanlight none the less. I gasped with
surprise. Then I turned back and ascended the stair to Holmes's room.
"I have found out who our client is," I cried, bursting with my great
news. "Why, Holmes, it is----"
"It is a loyal friend and a chivalrous gentleman," said Holmes, holding
up a restraining hand. "Let that now and for ever be enough for us."
I do not know how the incriminating book was used. Sir James may have
managed it. Or it is more probable that so delicate a task was
entrusted to the young lady's father. The effect, at any rate, was all
that could be desired. Three days later appeared a paragraph in _The
Morning Post_ to say that the marriage between Baron Adelbert Gruner
and Miss Violet de Merville would not take place. The same paper had
the first police-court hearing of the proceedings against Miss Kitty
Winter on the grave charge of vitriol-throwing. Such extenuating
circumstances came out in the trial that the sentence, as will be
remembered, was the lowest that was possible for such an offence.
Sherlock Holmes was threatened with a prosecution for burglary, but
when an object is good and a client is sufficiently illustrious, even
the rigid British law becomes human and elastic. My friend has not yet
stood in the dock.
|
the_adventure_of_the_illustrious_client
|
THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLANCHED SOLDIER
|
The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes
|
The ideas of my friend Watson, though limited, are exceedingly
pertinacious. For a long time he has worried me to write an experience
of my own. Perhaps I have rather invited this persecution, since I
have often had occasion to point out to him how superficial are his own
accounts and to accuse him of pandering to popular taste instead of
confining himself rigidly to facts and figures. "Try it yourself,
Holmes!" he has retorted, and I am compelled to admit that, having
taken my pen in my hand, I do begin to realize that the matter must be
presented in such a way as may interest the reader. The following case
can hardly fail to do so, as it is among the strangest happenings in my
collection, though it chanced that Watson had no note of it in his
collection. Speaking of my old friend and biographer, I would take
this opportunity to remark that if I burden myself with a companion in
my various little inquiries it is not done out of sentiment or caprice,
but it is that Watson has some remarkable characteristics of his own,
to which in his modesty he has given small attention amid his
exaggerated estimates of my own performances. A confederate who
foresees your conclusions and course of action is always dangerous, but
one to whom each development comes as a perpetual surprise, and to whom
the future is always a closed book, is, indeed, an ideal helpmate.
I find from my notebook that it was in January, 1903, just after the
conclusion of the Boer War, that I had my visit from Mr. James M. Dodd,
a big, fresh, sunburned, upstanding Briton. The good Watson had at
that time deserted me for a wife, the only selfish action which I can
recall in our association. I was alone.
It is my habit to sit with my back to the window and to place my
visitors in the opposite chair, where the light falls full upon them.
Mr. James M. Dodd seemed somewhat at a loss how to begin the interview.
I did not attempt to help him, for his silence gave me more time for
observation. I have found it wise to impress clients with a sense of
power, and so I gave him some of my conclusions.
"From South Africa, sir, I perceive."
"Yes, sir," he answered, with some surprise.
"Imperial Yeomanry, I fancy."
"Exactly."
"Middlesex Corps, no doubt."
"That is so. Mr. Holmes, you are a wizard."
I smiled at his bewildered expression.
"When a gentleman of virile appearance enters my room with such tan
upon his face as an English sun could never give, and with his
handkerchief in his sleeve instead of in his pocket, it is not
difficult to place him. You wear a short beard, which shows that you
were not a regular. You have the cut of a riding-man. As to
Middlesex, your card has already shown me that you are a stockbroker
from Throgmorton Street. What other regiment would you join?"
"You see everything."
"I see no more than you, but I have trained myself to notice what I
see. However, Mr. Dodd, it was not to discuss the science of
observation that you called upon me this morning. What has been
happening at Tuxbury Old Park?"
"Mr. Holmes----!"
"My dear sir, there is no mystery. Your letter came with that heading,
and as you fixed this appointment in very pressing terms it was clear
that something sudden and important had occurred."
"Yes, indeed. But the letter was written in the afternoon, and a good
deal has happened since then. If Colonel Emsworth had not kicked me
out----"
"Kicked you out!"
"Well, that was what it amounted to. He is a hard nail, is Colonel
Emsworth. The greatest martinet in the Army in his day, and it was a
day of rough language, too. I couldn't have stuck the Colonel if it
had not been for Godfrey's sake."
I lit my pipe and leaned back in my chair.
"Perhaps you will explain what you are talking about."
My client grinned mischievously.
"I had got into the way of supposing that you knew everything without
being told," said he. "But I will give you the facts, and I hope to
God that you will be able to tell me what they mean. I've been awake
all night puzzling my brain, and the more I think the more incredible
does it become.
"When I joined up in January, 1901--just two years ago--young Godfrey
Emsworth had joined the same squadron. He was Colonel Emsworth's only
son--Emsworth, the Crimean V.C.--and he had the fighting blood in him,
so it is no wonder he volunteered. There was not a finer lad in the
regiment. We formed a friendship--the sort of friendship which can
only be made when one lives the same life and shares the same joys and
sorrows. He was my mate--and that means a good deal in the Army. We
took the rough and the smooth together for a year of hard fighting.
Then he was hit with a bullet from an elephant gun in the action near
Diamond Hill outside Pretoria. I got one letter from the hospital at
Cape Town and one from Southampton. Since then not a word--not one
word, Mr. Holmes, for six months and more, and he my closest pal.
"Well, when the war was over, and we all got back, I wrote to his
father and asked where Godfrey was. No answer. I waited a bit and
then I wrote again. This time I had a reply, short and gruff. Godfrey
had gone on a voyage round the world, and it was not likely that he
would be back for a year. That was all.
"I wasn't satisfied, Mr. Holmes. The whole thing seemed to me so
damned unnatural. He was a good lad and he would not drop a pal like
that. It was not like him. Then, again, I happened to know that he
was heir to a lot of money, and also that his father and he did not
always hit it off too well. The old man was sometimes a bully, and
young Godfrey had too much spirit to stand it. No, I wasn't satisfied,
and I determined that I would get to the root of the matter. It
happened, however, that my own affairs needed a lot of straightening
out, after two years' absence, and so it is only this week that I have
been able to take up Godfrey's case again. But since I have taken it
up I mean to drop everything in order to see it through."
Mr. James M. Dodd appeared to be the sort of person whom it would be
better to have as a friend than as an enemy. His blue eyes were stern
and his square jaw had set hard as he spoke.
"Well, what have you done?" I asked.
"My first move was to get down to his home, Tuxbury Old Park, near
Bedford, and to see for myself how the ground lay. I wrote to the
mother, therefore--I had had quite enough of the curmudgeon of a
father--and I made a clean frontal attack: Godfrey was my chum, I had a
great deal of interest which I might tell her of our common
experiences, I should be in the neighbourhood, would there be any
objection, et cetera? In reply I had quite an amiable answer from her
and an offer to put me up for the night. That was what took me down on
Monday.
"Tuxbury Old Hall is inaccessible--five miles from anywhere. There was
no trap at the station, so I had to walk, carrying my suit-case, and it
was nearly dark before I arrived. It is a great wandering house,
standing in a considerable park. I should judge it was of all sorts of
ages and styles, starting on a half-timbered Elizabethan foundation and
ending in a Victorian portico. Inside it was all panelling and
tapestry and half-effaced old pictures, a house of shadows and mystery.
There was a butler, old Ralph, who seemed about the same age as the
house and there was his wife, who might have been older. She had been
Godfrey's nurse, and I had heard him speak of her as second only to his
mother in his affections, so I was drawn to her in spite of her queer
appearance. The mother I liked also--a gentle little white mouse of a
woman. It was only the Colonel himself whom I barred.
"We had a bit of a barney right away, and I should have walked back to
the station if I had not felt that it might be playing his game for me
to do so. I was shown straight into his study, and there I found him,
a huge, bow-backed man with a smoky skin and a straggling grey beard,
seated behind his littered desk. A red-veined nose jutted out like a
vulture's beak, and two fierce grey eyes glared at me from under tufted
brows. I could understand now why Godfrey seldom spoke of his father.
"'Well, sir,' said he in a rasping voice. 'I should be interested to
know the real reasons for this visit.'
"I answered that I had explained them in my letter to his wife.
"'Yes, yes; you said that you had known Godfrey in Africa. We have, of
course, only your word for that.'
"'I have his letters to me in my pocket.'
"'Kindly let me see them.'
"He glanced at the two which I handed him, and then he tossed them back.
"'Well, what then?' he asked.
"'I was fond of your son Godfrey, sir. Many ties and memories united
us. Is it not natural that I should wonder at his sudden silence and
should wish to know what has become of him?'
"'I have some recollection, sir, that I had already corresponded with
you and had told you what had become of him. He has gone upon a voyage
round the world. His health was in a poor way after his African
experiences, and both his mother and I were of opinion that complete
rest and change were needed. Kindly pass that explanation on to any
other friends who may be interested in the matter.'
"'Certainly,' I answered. 'But perhaps you would have the goodness to
let me have the name of the steamer and of the line by which he sailed,
together with the date. I have no doubt that I should be able to get a
letter through to him.'
"My request seemed both to puzzle and to irritate my host. His great
eyebrows came down over his eyes and he tapped his fingers impatiently
on the table. He looked up at last with the expression of one who has
seen his adversary make a dangerous move at chess, and has decided how
to meet it.
"'Many people, Mr. Dodd,' said he, 'would take offence at your infernal
pertinacity and would think that this insistence had reached the point
of damned impertinence.'
"'You must put it down, sir, to my real love for your son.'
"'Exactly. I have already made every allowance upon that score. I
must ask you, however, to drop these inquiries. Every family has its
own inner knowledge and its own motives, which cannot always be made
clear to outsiders, however well-intentioned. My wife is anxious to
hear something of Godfrey's past which you are in a position to tell
her, but I would ask you to let the present and the future alone. Such
inquiries serve no useful purpose, sir, and place us in a delicate and
difficult position.'
"So I came to a dead end, Mr. Holmes. There was no getting past it. I
could only pretend to accept the situation and register a vow inwardly
that I would never rest until my friend's fate had been cleared up. It
was a dull evening. We dined quietly, the three of us, in a gloomy,
faded old room. The lady questioned me eagerly about her son, but the
old man seemed morose and depressed. I was so bored by the whole
proceeding that I made an excuse as soon as I decently could and
retired to my bedroom. It was a large, bare room on the ground floor,
as gloomy as the rest of the house, but after a year of sleeping upon
the veldt, Mr. Holmes, one is not too particular about one's quarters.
I opened the curtains and looked out into the garden, remarking that it
was a fine night with a bright half-moon. Then I sat down by the
roaring fire with the lamp on a table beside me, and endeavoured to
distract my mind with a novel. I was interrupted, however, by Ralph,
the old butler, who came in with a fresh supply of coals.
"'I thought you might run short in the night-time, sir. It is bitter
weather and these rooms are cold.'
"He hesitated before leaving the room, and when I looked round he was
standing facing me with a wistful look upon his wrinkled face.
"'Beg your pardon, sir, but I could not help hearing what you said of
young Master Godfrey at dinner. You know, sir, that my wife nursed
him, and so I may say I am his foster-father. It's natural we should
take an interest. And you say he carried himself well, sir?'
"'There was no braver man in the regiment. He pulled me out once from
under the rifles of the Boers, or maybe I should not be here.'
"The old butler rubbed his skinny hands.
"'Yes, sir, yes, that is Master Godfrey all over. He was always
courageous. There's not a tree in the park, sir, that he has not
climbed. Nothing would stop him. He was a fine boy--and oh, sir, he
was a fine man.'
"I sprang to my feet.
"'Look here!' I cried. 'You say he was. You speak as if he were dead.
What is all this mystery? What has become of Godfrey Emsworth?'
"I gripped the old man by the shoulder, but he shrank away.
"'I don't know what you mean, sir. Ask the master about Master
Godfrey. He knows. It is not for me to interfere.'
"He was leaving the room, but I held his arm.
"'Listen,' I said. 'You are going to answer one question before you
leave if I have to hold you all night. Is Godfrey dead?'
"He could not face my eyes. He was like a man hypnotized. The answer
was dragged from his lips. It was a terrible and unexpected one.
"'I wish to God he was!' he cried, and, tearing himself free, he dashed
from the room.
"You will think, Mr. Holmes, that I returned to my chair in no very
happy state of mind. The old man's words seemed to me to bear only one
interpretation. Clearly my poor friend had become involved in some
criminal, or, at the least, disreputable, transaction which touched the
family honour. That stern old man had sent his son away and hidden him
from the world lest some scandal should come to light. Godfrey was a
reckless fellow. He was easily influenced by those around him. No
doubt he had fallen into bad hands and been misled to his ruin. It was
a piteous business, if it was indeed so, but even now it was my duty to
hunt him out and see if I could aid him. I was anxiously pondering the
matter when I looked up, and there was Godfrey Emsworth standing before
me."
My client had paused as one in deep emotion.
"Pray continue," I said. "Your problem presents some very unusual
features."
"He was outside the window, Mr. Holmes, with his face pressed against
the glass. I have told you that I looked out at the night. When I did
so, I left the curtains partly open. His figure was framed in this
gap. The window came down to the ground and I could see the whole
length of it, but it was his face which held my gaze. He was deadly
pale--never have I seen a man so white. I reckon ghosts may look like
that; but his eyes met mine, and they were the eyes of a living man.
He sprang back when he saw that I was looking at him, and he vanished
into the darkness.
"There was something shocking about the man, Mr. Holmes. It wasn't
merely that ghastly face glimmering as white as cheese in the darkness.
It was more subtle than that--something slinking, something furtive,
something guilty--something very unlike the frank, manly lad that I had
known. It left a feeling of horror in my mind.
"But when a man has been soldiering for a year or two with brother Boer
as a playmate, he keeps his nerve and acts quickly. Godfrey had hardly
vanished before I was at the window. There was an awkward catch, and I
was some little time before I could throw it up. Then I nipped through
and ran down the garden path in the direction that I thought he might
have taken.
"It was a long path and the light was not very good but it seemed to me
something was moving ahead of me. I ran on and called his name, but it
was no use. When I got to the end of the path there were several
others branching in different directions to various outhouses. I stood
hesitating, and as I did so I heard distinctly the sound of a closing
door. It was not behind me in the house, but ahead of me, somewhere in
the darkness. That was enough, Mr. Holmes, to assure me that what I
had seen was not a vision. Godfrey had run away from me and he had
shut a door behind him. Of that I was certain.
"There was nothing more I could do, and I spent an uneasy night turning
the matter over in my mind and trying to find some theory which would
cover the facts. Next day I found the Colonel rather more
conciliatory, and as his wife remarked that there were some places of
interest in the neighbourhood, it gave me an opening to ask whether my
presence for one more night would incommode them. A somewhat grudging
acquiescence from the old man gave me a clear day in which to make my
observations. I was already perfectly convinced that Godfrey was in
hiding somewhere near, but where and why remained to be solved.
"The house was so large and so rambling that a regiment might be hid
away in it and no one the wiser. If the secret lay there, it was
difficult for me to penetrate it. But the door which I had heard close
was certainly not in the house. I must explore the garden and see what
I could find. There was no difficulty in the way, for the old people
were busy in their own fashion and left me to my own devices.
"There were several small outhouses, but at the end of the garden there
was a detached building of some size--large enough for a gardener's or
a gamekeeper's residence. Could this be the place whence the sound of
that shutting door had come? I approached it in a careless fashion, as
though I were strolling aimlessly round the grounds. As I did so, a
small, brisk, bearded man in a black coat and bowler hat--not at all
the gardener type--came out of the door. To my surprise, he locked it
after him and put the key in his pocket. Then he looked at me with
some surprise on his face.
"'Are you a visitor here?' he asked.
"I explained that I was and that I was a friend of Godfrey's.
"'What a pity that he should be away on his travels, for he would have
so liked to see me,' I continued.
"'Quite so. Exactly,' said he, with a rather guilty air. 'No doubt
you will renew your visit at some more propitious time.' He passed on,
but when I turned I observed that he was standing watching me,
half-concealed by the laurels at the far end of the garden.
"I had a good look at the little house as I passed it, but the windows
were heavily curtained, and, so far as one could see, it was empty. I
might spoil my own game, and even be ordered off the premises, if I
were too audacious, for I was still conscious that I was being watched.
Therefore, I strolled back to the house and waited for night before I
went on with my inquiry. When all was dark and quiet, I slipped out of
my window and made my way as silently as possible to the mysterious
lodge.
"I have said that it was heavily curtained, but now I found that the
windows were shuttered as well. Some light, however, was breaking
through one of them, so I concentrated my attention upon this. I was
in luck, for the curtain had not been quite closed, and there was a
crack in the shutter so that I could see the inside of the room. It
was a cheery place enough, a bright lamp and a blazing fire. Opposite
to me was seated the little man whom I had seen in the morning. He was
smoking a pipe and reading a paper."
"What paper?" I asked.
My client seemed annoyed at the interruption of his narrative.
"Can it matter?" he asked.
"It is most essential."
"I really took no notice."
"Possibly you observed whether it was a broad-leafed paper or of that
smaller type which one associates with weeklies."
"Now that you mention it, it was not large. It might have been _The
Spectator_. However, I had little thought to spare upon such details,
for a second man was seated with his back to the window, and I could
swear that this second man was Godfrey. I could not see his face, but
I knew the familiar slope of his shoulders. He was leaning upon his
elbow in an attitude of great melancholy, his body turned towards the
fire. I was hesitating as to what I should do when there was a sharp
tap on my shoulder, and there was Colonel Emsworth beside me.
"'This way, sir!' said he in a low voice. He walked in silence to the
house and I followed him into my own bedroom. He had picked up a
timetable in the hall.
"'There is a train to London at eight-thirty,' said he. 'The trap will
be at the door at eight.'
"He was white with rage, and, indeed, I felt myself in so difficult a
position that I could only stammer out a few incoherent apologies, in
which I tried to excuse myself by urging my anxiety for my friend.
"'The matter will not bear discussion,' said he abruptly. 'You have
made a most damnable intrusion into the privacy of our family. You
were here as a guest and you have become a spy. I have nothing more to
say, sir, save that I have no wish ever to see you again.'
"At this I lost my temper, Mr. Holmes, and I spoke with some warmth.
"'I have seen your son, and I am convinced that for some reason of your
own you are concealing him from the world. I have no idea what your
motives are in cutting him off in this fashion, but I am sure that he
is no longer a free agent. I warn you, Colonel Emsworth, that until I
am assured as to the safety and well-being of my friend I shall never
desist in my efforts to get to the bottom of the mystery, and I shall
certainly not allow myself to be intimidated by anything which you may
say or do.'
"The old fellow looked diabolical, and I really thought he was about to
attack me. I have said that he was a gaunt, fierce old giant, and
though I am no weakling I might have been hard put to it to hold my own
against him. However, after a long glare of rage he turned upon his
heel and walked out of the room. For my part, I took the appointed
train in the morning, with the full intention of coming straight to you
and asking for your advice and assistance at the appointment for which
I had already written."
Such was the problem which my visitor laid before me. It presented, as
the astute reader will have already perceived, few difficulties in its
solution, for a very limited choice of alternatives must get to the
root of the matter. Still, elementary as it was, there were points of
interest and novelty about it which may excuse my placing it upon
record. I now proceeded, using my familiar method of logical analysis,
to narrow down the possible solutions.
"The servants," I asked; "how many were in the house?"
"To the best of my belief there were only the old butler and his wife.
They seemed to live in the simplest fashion."
"There was no servant, then, in the detached house?"
"None, unless the little man with the beard acted as such. He seemed,
however, to be quite a superior person."
"That seems very suggestive. Had you any indication that food was
conveyed from the one house to the other?"
"Now that you mention it, I did see old Ralph carrying a basket down
the garden walk and going in the direction of this house. The idea of
food did not occur to me at the moment."
"Did you make any local inquiries?"
"Yes, I did. I spoke to the station-master and also to the innkeeper
in the village. I simply asked if they knew anything of my old
comrade, Godfrey Emsworth. Both of them assured me that he had gone
for a voyage round the world. He had come home and then had almost at
once started off again. The story was evidently universally accepted."
"You said nothing of your suspicions?"
"Nothing."
"That was very wise. The matter should certainly be inquired into. I
will go back with you to Tuxbury Old Park."
"To-day?"
It happened that at the moment I was clearing up the case which my
friend Watson has described as that of the Abbey School, in which the
Duke of Greyminster was so deeply involved. I had also a commission
from the Sultan of Turkey which called for immediate action, as
political consequences of the gravest kind might arise from its
neglect. Therefore it was not until the beginning of the next week, as
my diary records, that I was able to start forth on my mission to
Bedfordshire in company with Mr. James M. Dodd. As we drove to Euston
we picked up a grave and taciturn gentleman of iron-grey aspect, with
whom I had made the necessary arrangements.
"This is an old friend," said I to Dodd. "It is possible that his
presence may be entirely unnecessary, and, on the other hand, it may be
essential. It is not necessary at the present stage to go further into
the matter."
The narratives of Watson have accustomed the reader, no doubt, to the
fact that I do not waste words or disclose my thoughts while a case is
actually under consideration. Dodd seemed surprised, but nothing more
was said and the three of us continued our journey together. In the
train I asked Dodd one more question which I wished our companion to
hear.
"You say that you saw your friend's face quite clearly at the window,
so clearly that you are sure of his identity?"
"I have no doubt about it whatever. His nose was pressed against the
glass. The lamplight shone full upon him."
"It could not have been someone resembling him?"
"No, no; it was he."
"But you say he was changed?"
"Only in colour. His face was--how shall I describe it?--it was of a
fish-belly whiteness. It was bleached."
"Was it equally pale all over?"
"I think not. It was his brow which I saw so clearly as it was pressed
against the window."
"Did you call to him?"
"I was too startled and horrified for the moment. Then I pursued him,
as I have told you, but without result."
My case was practically complete, and there was only one small incident
needed to round it off. When, after a considerable drive, we arrived
at the strange old rambling house which my client had described, it was
Ralph, the elderly butler, who opened the door. I had requisitioned
the carriage for the day and had asked my elderly friend to remain
within it unless we should summon him. Ralph, a little wrinkled old
fellow, was in the conventional costume of black coat and
pepper-and-salt trousers, with only one curious variant. He wore brown
leather gloves, which at sight of us he instantly shuffled off, laying
them down on the hall-table as we passed in. I have, as my friend
Watson may have remarked, an abnormally acute set of senses, and a
faint but incisive scent was apparent. It seemed to centre on the
hall-table. I turned, placed my hat there, knocked it off, stooped to
pick it up, and contrived to bring my nose within a foot of the gloves.
Yes, it was undoubtedly from them that the curious tarry odour was
oozing. I passed on into the study with my case complete. Alas, that
I should have to show my hand so when I tell my own story! It was by
concealing such links in the chain that Watson was enabled to produce
his meretricious finales.
Colonel Emsworth was not in his room, but he came quickly enough on
receipt of Ralph's message. We heard his quick, heavy step in the
passage. The door was flung open and he rushed in with bristling beard
and twisted features, as terrible an old man as ever I have seen. He
held our cards in his hand, and he tore them up and stamped on the
fragments.
"Have I not told you, you infernal busybody, that you are warned off
the premises? Never dare to show your damned face here again. If you
enter again without my leave I shall be within my rights if I use
violence. I'll shoot you, sir! By God, I will! As to you, sir,"
turning upon me, "I extend the same warning to you. I am familiar with
your ignoble profession, but you must take your reputed talents to some
other field. There is no opening for them here."
"I cannot leave here," said my client firmly, "until I hear from
Godfrey's own lips that he is under no restraint."
Our involuntary host rang the bell.
"Ralph," he said, "telephone down to the county police and ask the
inspector to send up two constables. Tell him there are burglars in
the house."
"One moment," said I. "You must be aware, Mr. Dodd, that Colonel
Emsworth is within his rights and that we have no legal status within
his house. On the other hand, he should recognize that your action is
prompted entirely by solicitude for his son. I venture to hope that,
if I were allowed to have five minutes' conversation with Colonel
Emsworth, I could certainly alter his view of the matter."
"I am not so easily altered," said the old soldier. "Ralph, do what I
have told you. What the devil are you waiting for? Ring up the
police!"
"Nothing of the sort," I said, putting my back to the door. "Any
police interference would bring about the very catastrophe which you
dread." I took out my notebook and scribbled one word upon a loose
sheet. "That," said I, as I handed it to Colonel Emsworth, "is what
has brought us here."
He stared at the writing with a face from which every expression save
amazement had vanished.
"How do you know?" he gasped, sitting down heavily in his chair.
"It is my business to know things. That is my trade."
He sat in deep thought, his gaunt hand tugging at his straggling beard.
Then he made a gesture of resignation.
"Well, if you wish to see Godfrey, you shall. It is no doing of mine,
but you have forced my hand. Ralph, tell Mr. Godfrey and Mr. Kent that
in five minutes we shall be with them."
At the end of that time we passed down the garden path and found
ourselves in front of the mystery house at the end. A small bearded
man stood at the door with a look of considerable astonishment upon his
face.
"This is very sudden, Colonel Emsworth," said he. "This will
disarrange all our plans."
"I can't help it, Mr. Kent. Our hands have been forced. Can Mr.
Godfrey see us?"
"Yes; he is waiting inside." He turned and led us into a large,
plainly furnished front room. A man was standing with his back to the
fire, and at the sight of him my client sprang forward with
outstretched hand.
"Why, Godfrey, old man, this is fine!"
But the other waved him back.
"Don't touch me, Jimmie. Keep your distance. Yes, you may well stare!
I don't quite look the smart Lance-Corporal Emsworth, of B Squadron, do
I?"
His appearance was certainly extraordinary. One could see that he had
indeed been a handsome man with clear-cut features sunburned by an
African sun, but mottled in patches over this darker surface were
curious whitish patches which had bleached his skin.
"That's why I don't court visitors," said he. "I don't mind you,
Jimmie, but I could have done without your friend. I suppose there is
some good reason for it, but you have me at a disadvantage."
"I wanted to be sure that all was well with you, Godfrey. I saw you
that night when you looked into my window, and I could not let the
matter rest till I had cleared things up."
"Old Ralph told me you were there, and I couldn't help taking a peep at
you. I hoped you would not have seen me, and I had to run to my burrow
when I heard the window go up."
"But what in Heaven's name is the matter?"
"Well, it's not a long story to tell," said he, lighting a cigarette.
"You remember that morning fight at Buffelsspruit, outside Pretoria, on
the Eastern railway line? You heard I was hit?"
"Yes, I heard that, but I never got particulars."
"Three of us got separated from the others. It was very broken
country, you may remember. There was Simpson--the fellow we called
Baldy Simpson--and Anderson, and I. We were clearing brother Boer, but
he lay low and got the three of us. The other two were killed. I got
an elephant bullet through my shoulder. I stuck on to my horse,
however, and he galloped several miles before I fainted and rolled off
the saddle.
"When I came to myself it was nightfall, and I raised myself up,
feeling very weak and ill. To my surprise there was a house close
beside me, a fairly large house with a broad stoep and many windows.
It was deadly cold. You remember the kind of numb cold which used to
come at evening, a deadly, sickening sort of cold, very different from
a crisp healthy frost. Well, I was chilled to the bone, and my only
hope seemed to lie in reaching that house. I staggered to my feet and
dragged myself along, hardly conscious of what I did. I have a dim
memory of slowly ascending the steps, entering a wide-opened door,
passing into a large room which contained several beds, and throwing
myself down with a gasp of satisfaction upon one of them. It was
unmade, but that troubled me not at all. I drew the clothes over my
shivering body and in a moment I was in a deep sleep.
"It was morning when I wakened, and it seemed to me that instead of
coming out into a world of sanity I had emerged into some extraordinary
nightmare. The African sun flooded through the big, curtainless
windows, and every detail of the great, bare, whitewashed dormitory
stood out hard and clear. In front of me was standing a small,
dwarf-like man with a huge, bulbous head, who was jabbering excitedly
in Dutch, waving two horrible hands which looked to me like brown
sponges. Behind him stood a group of people who seemed to be intensely
amused by the situation, but a chill came over me as I looked at them.
Not one of them was a normal human being. Every one was twisted or
swollen or disfigured in some strange way. The laughter of these
strange monstrosities was a dreadful thing to hear.
"It seemed that none of them could speak English, but the situation
wanted clearing up, for the creature with the big head was growing
furiously angry and, uttering wild beast cries, he had laid his
deformed hands upon me and was dragging me out of bed, regardless of
the fresh flow of blood from my wound. The little monster was as
strong as a bull, and I don't know what he might have done to me had
not an elderly man who was clearly in authority been attracted to the
room by the hubbub. He said a few stern words in Dutch and my
persecutor shrank away. Then he turned upon me, gazing at me in the
utmost amazement.
"'How in the world did you come here?' he asked, in amazement. 'Wait a
bit! I see that you are tired out and that wounded shoulder of yours
wants looking after. I am a doctor, and I'll soon have you tied up.
But, man alive! you are in far greater danger here than ever you were
on the battlefield. You are in the Leper Hospital, and you have slept
in a leper's bed.'
"Need I tell you more, Jimmie? It seems that in view of the
approaching battle all these poor creatures had been evacuated the day
before. Then, as the British advanced, they had been brought back by
this, their medical superintendent, who assured me that, though he
believed he was immune to the disease, he would none the less never
have dared to do what I had done. He put me in a private room, treated
me kindly, and within a week or so I was removed to the general
hospital at Pretoria.
"So there you have my tragedy. I hoped against hope, but it was not
until I had reached home that the terrible signs which you see upon my
face told me that I had not escaped. What was I to do? I was in this
lonely house. We had two servants whom we could utterly trust. There
was a house where I could live. Under pledge of secrecy, Mr. Kent, who
is a surgeon, was prepared to stay with me. It seemed simple enough on
those lines. The alternative was a dreadful one--segregation for life
among strangers with never a hope of release. But absolute secrecy was
necessary, or even in this quiet country-side there would have been an
outcry, and I should have been dragged to my horrible doom. Even you,
Jimmie--even you had to be kept in the dark. Why my father has
relented I cannot imagine."
Colonel Emsworth pointed to me.
"This is the gentleman who forced my hand." He unfolded the scrap of
paper on which I had written the word "Leprosy." "It seemed to me that
if he knew so much as that it was safer that he should know all."
"And so it was," said I. "Who knows but good may come of it? I
understand that only Mr. Kent has seen the patient. May I ask, sir, if
you are an authority on such complaints, which are, I understand,
tropical or semi-tropical in their nature?"
"I have the ordinary knowledge of the educated medical man," he
observed, with some stiffness.
"I have no doubt, sir, that you are fully competent, but I am sure that
you will agree that in such a case a second opinion is valuable. You
have avoided this, I understand, for fear that pressure should be put
upon you to segregate the patient."
"That is so," said Colonel Emsworth.
"I foresaw this situation," I explained, "and I have brought with me a
friend whose discretion may absolutely be trusted. I was able once to
do him a professional service, and he is ready to advise as a friend
rather than as a specialist. His name is Sir James Saunders."
The prospect of an interview with Lord Roberts would not have excited
greater wonder and pleasure in a raw subaltern than was now reflected
upon the face of Mr. Kent.
"I shall indeed be proud," he murmured.
"Then I will ask Sir James to step this way. He is at present in the
carriage outside the door. Meanwhile, Colonel Emsworth, we may perhaps
assemble in your study, where I could give the necessary explanations."
And here it is that I miss my Watson. By cunning questions and
ejaculations of wonder he could elevate my simple art, which is but
systematized common sense, into a prodigy. When I tell my own story I
have no such aid. And yet I will give my process of thought even as I
gave it to my small audience, which included Godfrey's mother, in the
study of Colonel Emsworth.
"That process," said I, "starts upon the supposition that when you have
eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains however
improbable, must be the truth. It may well be that several
explanations remain, in which case one tries test after test until one
or other of them has a convincing amount of support. We will now apply
this principle to the case in point. As it was first presented to me,
there were three possible explanations of the seclusion or
incarceration of this gentleman in an outhouse of his father's mansion.
There was the explanation that he was in hiding for a crime, or that he
was mad and that they wished to avoid an asylum, or that he had some
disease which caused his segregation. I could think of no other
adequate solutions. These, then, had to be sifted and balanced against
each other.
"The criminal solution would not bear inspection. No unsolved crime
had been reported from that district. I was sure of that. If it were
some crime not yet discovered, then clearly it would be to the interest
of the family to get rid of the delinquent and send him abroad rather
than keep him concealed at home. I could see no explanation for such a
line of conduct.
"Insanity was more plausible. The presence of the second person in the
outhouse suggested a keeper. The fact that he locked the door when he
came out strengthened the supposition and gave the idea of constraint.
On the other hand, this constraint could not be severe or the young man
could not have got loose and come down to have a look at his friend.
You will remember, Mr. Dodd, that I felt round for points, asking you,
for example, about the paper which Mr. Kent was reading. Had it been
_The Lancet_ or _The British Medical Journal_ it would have helped me.
It is not illegal, however, to keep a lunatic upon private premises so
long as there is a qualified person in attendance and that the
authorities have been duly notified. Why, then, all this desperate
desire for secrecy? Once again I could not get the theory to fit the
facts.
"There remained the third possibility, into which, rare and unlikely as
it was, everything seemed to fit. Leprosy is not uncommon in South
Africa. By some extraordinary chance this youth might have contracted
it. His people would be placed in a very dreadful position, since they
would desire to save him from segregation. Great secrecy would be
needed to prevent rumours from getting about and subsequent
interference by the authorities. A devoted medical man, if
sufficiently paid, would easily be found to take charge of the
sufferer. There would be no reason why the latter should not be
allowed freedom after dark. Bleaching of the skin is a common result
of the disease. The case was a strong one--so strong that I determined
to act as if it were actually proved. When on arriving here I noticed
that Ralph, who carries out the meals, had gloves which are impregnated
with disinfectants, my last doubts were removed. A single word showed
you, sir, that your secret was discovered, and if I wrote rather than
said it, it was to prove to you that my discretion was to be trusted."
I was finishing this little analysis of the case when the door was
opened and the austere figure of the great dermatologist was ushered
in. But for once his sphinx-like features had relaxed and there was a
warm humanity in his eyes. He strode up to Colonel Emsworth and shook
him by the hand.
"It is often my lot to bring ill-tidings, and seldom good," said he.
"This occasion is the more welcome. It is not leprosy."
"What?"
"A well-marked case of pseudo-leprosy or ichthyosis, a scale-like
affection of the skin, unsightly, obstinate, but possibly curable, and
certainly non-infective. Yes, Mr. Holmes, the coincidence is a
remarkable one. But is it coincidence? Are there not subtle forces at
work of which we know little? Are we assured that the apprehension,
from which this young man has no doubt suffered terribly since his
exposure to its contagion, may not produce a physical effect which
simulates that which it fears? At any rate, I pledge my professional
reputation---- But the lady has fainted! I think that Mr. Kent had
better be with her until she recovers from this joyous shock."
|
the_adventure_of_the_blanched_soldier
|
THE ADVENTURE OF THE MAZARIN STONE
|
The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes
|
It was pleasant to Dr. Watson to find himself once more in the untidy
room of the first floor in Baker Street which had been the
starting-point of so many remarkable adventures. He looked round him
at the scientific charts upon the wall, the acid-charred bench of
chemicals, the violin-case leaning in the corner, the coal-scuttle,
which contained of old the pipes and tobacco. Finally, his eyes came
round to the fresh and smiling face of Billy, the young but very wise
and tactful page, who had helped a little to fill up the gap of
loneliness and isolation which surrounded the saturnine figure of the
great detective.
"It all seems very unchanged, Billy. You don't change, either. I hope
the same can be said of him?"
Billy glanced, with some solicitude, at the closed door of the bedroom.
"I think he's in bed and asleep," he said.
It was seven in the evening of a lovely summer's day, but Dr. Watson
was sufficiently familiar with the irregularity of his old friend's
hours to feel no surprise at the idea.
"That means a case, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir; he is very hard at it just now. I'm frightened for his
health. He gets paler and thinner, and he eats nothing. 'When will
you be pleased to dine, Mr. Holmes?' Mrs. Hudson asked. 'Seven-thirty,
the day after to-morrow,' said he. You know his way when he is keen on
a case."
"Yes, Billy, I know."
"He's following someone. Yesterday he was out as a workman looking for
a job. To-day he was an old woman. Fairly took me in, he did, and I
ought to know his ways by now." Billy pointed with a grin to a very
baggy parasol which leaned against the sofa. "That's part of the old
woman's outfit," he said.
"But what is it all about, Billy?"
Billy sank his voice, as one who discusses great secrets of State. "I
don't mind telling you, sir, but it should go no farther. It's this
case of the Crown diamond."
"What--the hundred-thousand-pound burglary?"
"Yes, sir. They must get it back, sir. Why, we had the Prime Minister
and the Home Secretary both sitting on that very sofa. Mr. Holmes was
very nice to them. He soon put them at their ease and promised he
would do all he could. Then there is Lord Cantlemere----"
"Ah!"
"Yes, sir; you know what that means. He's a stiff 'un, sir, if I may
say so. I can get along with the Prime Minister, and I've nothing
against the Home Secretary, who seemed a civil, obliging sort of man,
but I can't stand his lordship. Neither can Mr. Holmes, sir. You see,
he don't believe in Mr. Holmes and he was against employing him. He'd
rather he failed."
"And Mr. Holmes knows it?"
"Mr. Holmes always knows whatever there is to know."
"Well, we'll hope he won't fail and that Lord Cantlemere will be
confounded. But I say, Billy, what is that curtain for across the
window?"
"Mr. Holmes had it put up there three days ago. We've got something
funny behind it."
Billy advanced and drew away the drapery which screened the alcove of
the bow window.
Dr. Watson could not restrain a cry of amazement. There was a
facsimile of his old friend, dressing-gown and all, the face turned
three-quarters towards the window and downwards, as though reading an
invisible book, while the body was sunk deep in an arm-chair. Billy
detached the head and held it in the air.
"We put it at different angles, so that it may seem more life-like. I
wouldn't dare touch it if the blind were not down. But when it's up
you can see this from across the way."
"We used something of the sort once before."
"Before my time," said Billy. He drew the window curtains apart and
looked out into the street. "There are folk who watch us from over
yonder. I can see a fellow now at the window. Have a look for
yourself."
Watson had taken a step forward when the bedroom door opened, and the
long, thin form of Holmes emerged, his face pale and drawn, but his
step and bearing as active as ever. With a single spring he was at the
window, and had drawn the blind once more.
"That will do, Billy," said he. "You were in danger of your life then,
my boy, and I can't do without you just yet. Well, Watson, it is good
to see you in your old quarters once again. You come at a critical
moment."
"So I gather."
"You can go, Billy. That boy is a problem, Watson. How far am I
justified in allowing him to be in danger?"
"Danger of what, Holmes?"
"Of sudden death. I'm expecting something this evening."
"Expecting what?"
"To be murdered, Watson."
"No, no; you are joking, Holmes!"
"Even my limited sense of humour could evolve a better joke than that.
But we may be comfortable in the meantime, may we not? Is alcohol
permitted? The gasogene and cigars are in the old place. Let me see
you once more in the customary arm-chair. You have not, I hope,
learned to despise my pipe and my lamentable tobacco? It has to take
the place of food these days."
"But why not eat?"
"Because the faculties become refined when you starve them. Why,
surely, as a doctor, my dear Watson, you must admit that what your
digestion gains in the way of blood supply is so much lost to the
brain. I am a brain, Watson. The rest of me is a mere appendix.
Therefore, it is the brain I must consider."
"But this danger, Holmes?"
"Ah, yes; in case it should come off, it would perhaps be as well that
you should burden your memory with the name and address of the
murderer. You can give it to Scotland Yard, with my love and a parting
blessing. Sylvius is the name--Count Negretto Sylvius. Write it down,
man, write it down! 136 Moorside Gardens, N.W. Got it?"
Watson's honest face was twitching with anxiety. He knew only too well
the immense risks taken by Holmes, and was well aware that what he said
was more likely to be under-statement than exaggeration. Watson was
always the man of action, and he rose to the occasion.
"Count me in, Holmes. I have nothing to do for a day or two."
"Your morals don't improve, Watson. You have added fibbing to your
other vices. You bear every sign of the busy medical man, with calls
on him every hour."
"Not such important ones. But can't you have this fellow arrested?"
"Yes, Watson, I could. That's what worries him so."
"But why don't you?"
"Because I don't know where the diamond is."
"Ah! Billy told me--the missing Crown jewel!"
"Yes, the great yellow Mazarin stone. I've cast my net and I have my
fish. But I have not got the stone. What is the use of taking _them_?
We can make the world a better place by laying them by the heels. But
that is not what I am out for. It's the stone I want."
"And is this Count Sylvius one of your fish?"
"Yes, and he's a shark. He bites. The other is Sam Merton, the boxer.
Not a bad fellow, Sam, but the Count has used him. Sam's not a shark.
He is a great big silly bull-headed gudgeon. But he is flopping about
in my net all the same."
"Where is this Count Sylvius?"
"I've been at his very elbow all the morning. You've seen me as an old
lady, Watson. I was never more convincing. He actually picked up my
parasol for me once. 'By your leave, madame,' said he--half-Italian,
you know, and with the Southern graces of manner when in the mood, but
a devil incarnate in the other mood. Life is full of whimsical
happenings, Watson."
"It might have been tragedy."
"Well, perhaps it might. I followed him to old Straubenzee's workshop
in the Minories. Straubenzee made the air-gun--a very pretty bit of
work, as I understand, and I rather fancy it is in the opposite window
at the present moment. Have you seen the dummy? Of course, Billy
showed it to you. Well, it may get a bullet through its beautiful head
at any moment. Ah, Billy, what is it?"
The boy had reappeared in the room with a card upon a tray. Holmes
glanced at it with raised eyebrows and an amused smile.
"The man himself. I had hardly expected this. Grasp the nettle,
Watson! A man of nerve. Possibly you have heard of his reputation as
a shooter of big game. It would indeed be a triumphant ending to his
excellent sporting record if he added me to his bag. This is a proof
that he feels my toe very close behind his heel."
"Send for the police."
"I probably shall. But not just yet. Would you glance carefully out
of the window, Watson, and see if anyone is hanging about in the
street?"
Watson looked warily round the edge of the curtain.
"Yes, there is one rough fellow near the door."
"That will be Sam Merton--the faithful but rather fatuous Sam. Where
is this gentleman, Billy?"
"In the waiting-room, sir."
"Show him up when I ring."
"Yes, sir."
"If I am not in the room, show him in all the same."
"Yes, sir."
Watson waited until the door was closed, and then he turned earnestly
to his companion.
"Look here, Holmes, this is simply impossible. This is a desperate
man, who sticks at nothing. He may have come to murder you."
"I should not be surprised."
"I insist upon staying with you."
"You would be horribly in the way."
"In his way?"
"No, my dear fellow--in my way."
"Well, I can't possibly leave you."
"Yes, you can, Watson. And you will, for you have never failed to play
the game. I am sure you will play it to the end. This man has come
for his own purpose, but he may stay for mine." Holmes took out his
notebook and scribbled a few lines. "Take a cab to Scotland Yard and
give this to Youghal of the C.I.D. Come back with the police. The
fellow's arrest will follow."
"I'll do that with joy."
"Before you return I may have just time enough to find out where the
stone is." He touched the bell. "I think we will go out through the
bedroom. This second exit is exceedingly useful. I rather want to see
my shark without his seeing me, and I have, as you will remember, my
own way of doing it."
It was, therefore, an empty room into which Billy, a minute later,
ushered Count Sylvius. The famous game-shot, sportsman, and
man-about-town was a big, swarthy fellow, with a formidable dark
moustache, shading a cruel, thin-lipped mouth, and surmounted by a
long, curved nose, like the beak of an eagle. He was well dressed, but
his brilliant necktie, shining pin, and glittering rings were
flamboyant in their effect. As the door closed behind him he looked
round him with fierce, startled eyes, like one who suspects a trap at
every turn. Then he gave a violent start as he saw the impassive head
and the collar of the dressing-gown which projected above the arm-chair
in the window. At first his expression was one of pure amazement.
Then the light of a horrible hope gleamed in his dark, murderous eyes.
He took one more glance round to see that there were no witnesses, and
then, on tiptoe, his thick stick half raised, he approached the silent
figure. He was crouching for his final spring and blow when a cool,
sardonic voice greeted him from the open bedroom door:
"Don't break it, Count! Don't break it!"
The assassin staggered back, amazement in his convulsed face. For an
instant he half raised his loaded cane once more, as if he would turn
his violence from the effigy to the original; but there was something
in that steady grey eye and mocking smile which caused his hand to sink
to his side.
"It's a pretty little thing," said Holmes, advancing towards the image.
"Tavernier, the French modeller, made it. He is as good at waxworks as
your friend Straubenzee is at air-guns."
"Air-guns, sir! What do you mean?"
"Put your hat and stick on the side-table. Thank you! Pray take a
seat. Would you care to put your revolver out also? Oh, very good, if
you prefer to sit upon it. Your visit is really most opportune, for I
wanted badly to have a few minutes' chat with you."
The Count scowled, with heavy, threatening eyebrows.
"I, too, wished to have some words with you, Holmes. That is why I am
here. I won't deny that I intended to assault you just now."
Holmes swung his leg on the edge of the table.
"I rather gathered that you had some idea of the sort in your head,"
said he. "But why these personal attentions?"
"Because you have gone out of your way to annoy me. Because you have
put your creatures upon my track."
"My creatures! I assure you no!"
"Nonsense! I have had them followed. Two can play at that game,
Holmes."
"It is a small point, Count Sylvius, but perhaps you would kindly give
me my prefix when you address me. You can understand that, with my
routine of work, I should find myself on familiar terms with half the
rogues' gallery, and you will agree that exceptions are invidious."
"Well, _Mr._ Holmes, then."
"Excellent! But I assure you you are mistaken about my alleged agents."
Count Sylvius laughed contemptuously.
"Other people can observe as well as you. Yesterday there was an old
sporting man. To-day it was an elderly woman. They held me in view
all day."
"Really, sir, you compliment me. Old Baron Dowson said the night
before he was hanged that in my case what the law had gained the stage
had lost. And now you give my little impersonations your kindly
praise!"
"It was you--you yourself?"
Holmes shrugged his shoulders. "You can see in the corner the parasol
which you so politely handed to me in the Minories before you began to
suspect."
"If I had known, you might never----"
"Have seen this humble home again. I was well aware of it. We all
have neglected opportunities to deplore. As it happens, you did not
know, so here we are!"
The Count's knotted brows gathered more heavily over his menacing eyes.
"What you say only makes the matter worse. It was not your agents, but
your play-acting, busybody self! You admit that you have dogged me.
Why?"
"Come now, Count. You used to shoot lions in Algeria."
"Well?"
"But why?"
"Why? The sport--the excitement--the danger!"
"And, no doubt, to free the country from a pest?"
"Exactly!"
"My reasons in a nutshell!"
The Count sprang to his feet, and his hand involuntarily moved back to
his hip-pocket.
"Sit down, sir, sit down! There was another, more practical, reason.
I want that yellow diamond!"
Count Sylvius lay back in his chair with an evil smile.
"Upon my word!" said he.
"You knew that I was after you for that. The real reason why you are
here to-night is to find out how much I know about the matter and how
far my removal is absolutely essential. Well, I should say that, from
your point of view, it is absolutely essential, for I know all about
it, save only one thing, which you are about to tell me."
"Oh, indeed! And, pray, what is this missing fact?"
"Where the Crown diamond now is."
The Count looked sharply at his companion. "Oh, you want to know that,
do you? How the devil should I be able to tell you where it is?"
"You can, and you will."
"Indeed!"
"You can't bluff me, Count Sylvius." Holmes's eyes, as he gazed at
him, contracted and lightened until they were like two menacing points
of steel. "You are absolute plate-glass. I see to the very back of
your mind."
"Then, of course, you see where the diamond is!"
Holmes clapped his hands with amusement, and then pointed a derisive
finger. "Then you do know. You have admitted it!"
"I admit nothing."
"Now, Count, if you will be reasonable, we can do business. If not,
you will get hurt."
Count Sylvius threw up his eyes to the ceiling. "And you talk about
bluff!" said he.
Holmes looked at him thoughtfully, like a master chess-player who
meditates his crowning move. Then he threw open the table drawer and
drew out a squat notebook.
"Do you know what I keep in this book?"
"No, sir, I do not!"
"You!"
"Me?"
"Yes, sir, _you_! You are all here--every action of your vile and
dangerous life."
"Damn you, Holmes!" cried the Count, with blazing eyes. "There are
limits to my patience!"
"It's all here, Count. The real facts as to the death of old Mrs.
Harold, who left you the Blymer estate, which you so rapidly gambled
away."
"You are dreaming!"
"And the complete life history of Miss Minnie Warrender."
"Tut! You will make nothing of that!"
"Plenty more here, Count. Here is the robbery in the train-de-luxe to
the Riviera on February 13, 1892. Here is the forged cheque in the
same year on the Crédit Lyonnais."
"No; you're wrong there."
"Then I am right on the others! Now, Count, you are a card-player.
When the other fellow has all the trumps, it saves time to throw down
your hand."
"What has all this talk to do with the jewel of which you spoke?"
"Gently, Count. Restrain that eager mind! Let me get to the points in
my own humdrum fashion. I have all this against you; but, above all, I
have a clear case against both you and your fighting bully in the case
of the Crown diamond.
"Indeed!"
"I have the cabman who took you to Whitehall and the cabman who brought
you away. I have the Commissionaire who saw you near the case. I have
Ikey Sanders, who refused to cut it up for you. Ikey has peached, and
the game is up."
The veins stood out on the Count's forehead. His dark, hairy hands
were clenched in a convulsion of restrained emotion. He tried to
speak, but the words would not shape themselves.
"That's the hand I play from," said Holmes. "I put it all upon the
table. But one card is missing. It's the King of Diamonds. I don't
know where the stone is."
"You never shall know."
"No? Now, be reasonable, Count. Consider the situation. You are
going to be locked up for twenty years. So is Sam Merton. What good
are you going to get out of your diamond? None in the world. But if
you hand it over--well, I'll compound a felony. We don't want you or
Sam. We want the stone. Give that up, and so far as I am concerned
you can go free so long as you behave yourself in the future. If you
make another slip--well, it will be the last. But this time my
commission is to get the stone, not you."
"But if I refuse?"
"Why, then--alas!--it must be you and not the stone."
Billy had appeared in answer to a ring.
"I think, Count, that it would be as well to have your friend Sam at
this conference. After all, his interests should be represented.
Billy, you will see a large and ugly gentleman outside the front door.
Ask him to come up."
"If he won't come, sir?"
"No violence, Billy. Don't be rough with him. If you tell him that
Count Sylvius wants him he will certainly come."
"What are you going to do now?" asked the Count, as Billy disappeared.
"My friend Watson was with me just now. I told him that I had a shark
and a gudgeon in my net; now I am drawing the net and up they come
together."
The Count had risen from his chair, and his hand was behind his back.
Holmes held something half protruding from the pocket of his
dressing-gown.
"You won't die in your bed, Holmes."
"I have often had the same idea. Does it matter very much? After all,
Count, your own exit is more likely to be perpendicular than
horizontal. But these anticipations of the future are morbid. Why not
give ourselves up to the unrestrained enjoyment of the present?"
A sudden wild-beast light sprang up in the dark, menacing eyes of the
master criminal. Holmes's figure seemed to grow taller as he grew
tense and ready.
"It is no use your fingering your revolver, my friend," he said, in a
quiet voice. "You know perfectly well that you dare not use it, even
if I gave you time to draw it. Nasty, noisy things, revolvers, Count.
Better stick to air-guns. Ah! I think I hear the fairy footstep of
your estimable partner. Good day, Mr. Merton. Rather dull in the
street, is it not?"
The prize-fighter, a heavily built young man with a stupid, obstinate,
slab-sided face, stood awkwardly at the door, looking about him with a
puzzled expression. Holmes's debonair manner was a new experience, and
though he vaguely felt that it was hostile, he did not know how to
counter it. He turned to his more astute comrade for help.
"What's the game now, Count? What's this fellow want? What's up?"
His voice was deep and raucous.
The Count shrugged his shoulders and it was Holmes who answered.
"If I may put it in a nutshell, Mr. Merton, I should say it was _all_
up."
The boxer still addressed his remarks to his associate.
"Is this cove trying to be funny, or what? I'm not in the funny mood
myself."
"No, I expect not," said Holmes. "I think I can promise you that you
will feel even less humorous as the evening advances. Now, look here,
Count Sylvius. I'm a busy man and I can't waste time. I'm going into
that bedroom. Pray make yourselves quite at home in my absence. You
can explain to your friend how the matter lies without the restraint of
my presence. I shall try over the Hoffmann Barcarolle upon my violin.
In five minutes I shall return for your final answer. You quite grasp
the alternative, do you not? Shall we take you, or shall we have the
stone?"
Holmes withdrew, picking up his violin from the corner as he passed. A
few moments later the long-drawn, wailing notes of that most haunting
of tunes came faintly through the closed door of the bedroom.
"What is it, then?" asked Merton anxiously, as his companion turned to
him. "Does he know about the stone?"
"He knows a damned sight too much about it. I'm not sure that he
doesn't know all about it."
"Good Lord!" The boxer's sallow face turned a shade whiter.
"Ikey Sanders has split on us."
"He has, has he? I'll do him down a thick 'un for that if I swing for
it."
"That won't help us much. We've got to make up our minds what to do."
"Half a mo'," said the boxer, looking suspiciously at the bedroom door.
"He's a leary cove that wants watching. I suppose he's not listening?"
"How can he be listening with that music going?"
"That's right. Maybe somebody's behind a curtain. Too many curtains
in this room." As he looked round he suddenly saw for the first time
the effigy in the window, and stood staring and pointing, too amazed
for words.
"Tut! it's only a dummy," said the Count.
"A fake, is it? Well, strike me! Madame Tussaud ain't in it. It's
the living spit of him, gown and all. But them curtains, Count!"
"Oh, confound the curtains! We are wasting our time, and there is none
too much. He can lag us over this stone."
"The deuce he can!"
"But he'll let us slip if we only tell him where the swag is."
"What! Give it up? Give up a hundred thousand quid?"
"It's one or the other."
Merton scratched his short-cropped pate.
"He's alone in there. Let's do him in. If his light were out we
should have nothing to fear."
The Count shook his head.
"He is armed and ready. If we shot him we could hardly get away in a
place like this. Besides, it's likely enough that the police know
whatever evidence he has got. Hallo! What was that?"
There was a vague sound which seemed to come from the window. Both men
sprang round, but all was quiet. Save for the one strange figure
seated in the chair, the room was certainly empty.
"Something in the street," said Merton. "Now look here, guv'nor,
you've got the brains. Surely you can think a way out of it. If
slugging is no use then it's up to you."
"I've fooled better men than he," the Count answered. "The stone is
here in my secret pocket. I take no chances leaving it about. It can
be out of England to-night and cut into four pieces in Amsterdam before
Sunday. He knows nothing of Van Seddar."
"I thought Van Seddar was going next week."
"He _was_. But now he must get off by the next boat. One or other of
us must slip round with the stone to Lime Street and tell him."
"But the false bottom ain't ready."
"Well, he must take it as it is and chance it. There's not a moment to
lose." Again, with the sense of danger which becomes an instinct with
the sportsman, he paused and looked hard at the window. Yes, it was
surely from the street that the faint sound had come.
"As to Holmes," he continued, "we can fool him easily enough. You see,
the damned fool won't arrest us if he can get the stone. Well, we'll
promise him the stone. We'll put him on the wrong track about it, and
before he finds that it is the wrong track it will be in Holland and we
out of the country."
"That sounds good to me!" cried Sam Merton, with a grin.
"You go on and tell the Dutchman to get a move on him. I'll see this
sucker and fill him up with a bogus confession. I'll tell him that the
stone is in Liverpool. Confound that whining music; it gets on my
nerves! By the time he finds it isn't in Liverpool it will be in
quarters and we on the blue water. Come back here, out of a line with
that keyhole. Here is the stone."
"I wonder you dare carry it."
"Where could I have it safer? If we could take it out of Whitehall
someone else could surely take it out of my lodgings."
"Let's have a look at it."
Count Sylvius cast a somewhat unflattering glance at his associate, and
disregarded the unwashed hand which was extended towards him.
"What--d'ye think I'm going to snatch it off you? See here, mister,
I'm getting a bit tired of your ways."
"Well, well; no offence, Sam. We can't afford to quarrel. Come over
to the window if you want to see the beauty properly. Now hold it to
the light! Here!"
"Thank you!"
With a single spring Holmes had leaped from the dummy's chair and had
grasped the precious jewel. He held it now in one hand, while his
other pointed a revolver at the Count's head. The two villains
staggered back in utter amazement. Before they had recovered Holmes
had pressed the electric bell.
"No violence, gentlemen--no violence, I beg of you! Consider the
furniture! It must be very clear to you that your position is an
impossible one. The police are waiting below."
The Count's bewilderment overmastered his rage and fear.
"But how the deuce----?" he gasped.
"Your surprise is very natural. You are not aware that a second door
from my bedroom leads behind that curtain. I fancied that you must
have heard me when I displaced the figure, but luck was on my side. It
gave me a chance of listening to your racy conversation which would
have been painfully constrained had you been aware of my presence."
The Count gave a gesture of resignation.
"We give you best, Holmes. I believe you are the devil himself."
"Not far from him, at any rate," Holmes answered, with a polite smile.
Sam Merton's slow intellect had only gradually appreciated the
situation. Now, as the sound of heavy steps came from the stairs
outside, he broke silence at last.
"A fair cop!" said he. "But, I say, what about that bloomin' fiddle!
I hear it yet."
"Tut, tut!" Holmes answered. "You are perfectly right. Let it play!
These modern gramophones are a remarkable invention."
There was an inrush of police, the handcuffs clicked and the criminals
were led to the waiting cab. Watson lingered with Holmes,
congratulating him upon this fresh leaf added to his laurels. Once
more their conversation was interrupted by the imperturbable Billy with
his card-tray.
"Lord Cantlemere, sir."
"Show him up, Billy. This is the eminent peer who represents the very
highest interests," said Holmes. "He is an excellent and loyal person,
but rather of the old regime. Shall we make him unbend? Dare we
venture upon a slight liberty? He knows, we may conjecture, nothing of
what has occurred."
The door opened to admit a thin, austere figure with a hatchet face and
drooping mid-Victorian whiskers of a glossy blackness which hardly
corresponded with the rounded shoulders and feeble gait. Holmes
advanced affably, and shook an unresponsive hand.
"How-do-you-do, Lord Cantlemere? It is chilly, for the time of year,
but rather warm indoors. May I take your overcoat?"
"No, I thank you; I will not take it off."
Holmes laid his hand insistently upon the sleeve.
"Pray allow me! My friend Dr. Watson would assure you that these
changes of temperature are most insidious."
His lordship shook himself free with some impatience.
"I am quite comfortable, sir. I have no need to stay. I have simply
looked in to know how your self-appointed task was progressing."
"It is difficult--very difficult."
"I feared that you would find it so."
There was a distinct sneer in the old courtier's words and manner.
"Every man finds his limitations, Mr. Holmes, but at least it cures us
of the weakness of self-satisfaction."
"Yes, sir, I have been much perplexed."
"No doubt."
"Especially upon one point. Possibly you could help me upon it?"
"You apply for my advice rather late in the day. I thought that you
had your own all-sufficient methods. Still, I am ready to help you."
"You see, Lord Cantlemere, we can no doubt frame a case against the
actual thieves."
"When you have caught them."
"Exactly. But the question is--how shall we proceed against the
receiver?"
"Is this not rather premature?"
"It is as well to have our plans ready. Now, what would you regard as
final evidence against the receiver?"
"The actual possession of the stone."
"You would arrest him upon that?"
"Most undoubtedly."
Holmes seldom laughed, but he got as near it as his old friend Watson
could remember.
"In that case, my dear sir, I shall be under the painful necessity of
advising your arrest."
Lord Cantlemere was very angry. Some of the ancient fires flickered up
into his sallow cheeks.
"You take a great liberty, Mr. Holmes. In fifty years of official life
I cannot recall such a case. I am a busy man, sir, engaged upon
important affairs, and I have no time or taste for foolish jokes. I
may tell you frankly, sir, that I have never been a believer in your
powers, and that I have always been of the opinion that the matter was
far safer in the hands of the regular police force. Your conduct
confirms all my conclusions. I have the honour, sir, to wish you good
evening."
Holmes had swiftly changed his position and was between the peer and
the door.
"One moment, sir," said he. "To actually go off with the Mazarin stone
would be a more serious offence than to be found in temporary
possession of it."
"Sir, this is intolerable! Let me pass."
"Put your hand in the right-hand pocket of your overcoat."
"What do you mean, sir?"
"Come--come; do what I ask."
An instant later the amazed peer was standing, blinking and stammering,
with the great yellow stone on his shaking palm.
"What! What! How is this, Mr. Holmes?"
"Too bad, Lord Cantlemere, too bad!" cried Holmes. "My old friend here
will tell you that I have an impish habit of practical joking. Also
that I can never resist a dramatic situation. I took the liberty--the
very great liberty, I admit--of putting the stone into your pocket at
the beginning of our interview."
The old peer stared from the stone to the smiling face before him.
"Sir, I am bewildered. But--yes--it is indeed the Mazarin stone. We
are greatly your debtors, Mr. Holmes. Your sense of humour may, as you
admit, be somewhat perverted, and its exhibition remarkably untimely,
but at least I withdraw any reflection I have made upon your amazing
professional powers. But how----"
"The case is but half finished; the details can wait. No doubt, Lord
Cantlemere, your pleasure in telling of this successful result in the
exalted circle to which you return will be some small atonement for my
practical joke. Billy, you will show his lordship out, and tell Mrs.
Hudson that I should be glad if she would send up dinner for two as
soon as possible."
|
the_adventure_of_the_mazarin_stone
|
THE ADVENTURE OF THE THREE GABLES
|
The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes
|
I don't think that any of my adventures with Mr. Sherlock Holmes opened
quite so abruptly, or so dramatically, as that which I associate with
The Three Gables. I had not seen Holmes for some days, and had no idea
of the new channel into which his activities had been directed. He was
in a chatty mood that morning, however, and had just settled me into
the well-worn low arm-chair on one side of the fire, while he had
curled down with his pipe in his mouth upon the opposite chair, when
our visitor arrived. If I had said that a mad bull had arrived, it
would give a clearer impression of what occurred.
The door had flown open and a huge negro had burst into the room. He
would have been a comic figure if he had not been terrific, for he was
dressed in a very loud grey check suit with a flowing salmon-coloured
tie. His broad face and flattened nose were thrust forward, as his
sullen dark eyes, with a smouldering gleam of malice in them, turned
from one of us to the other.
"Which of you genelmen is Masser Holmes?" he asked.
Holmes raised his pipe with a languid smile.
"Oh! it's you, is it?" said our visitor, coming with an unpleasant,
stealthy step round the angle of the table. "See here, Masser Holmes,
you keep your hands out of other folks' business. Leave folks to
manage their own affairs. Got that, Masser Holmes?"
"Keep on talking," said Holmes. "It's fine."
"Oh! it's fine, is it?" growled the savage. "It won't be so damn fine
if I have to trim you up a bit. I've handled your kind before now, and
they didn't look fine when I was through with them. Look at that,
Masser Holmes!"
He swung a huge knotted lump of a fist under my friend's nose. Holmes
examined it closely with an air of great interest. "Were you born so?"
he asked. "Or did it come by degrees?"
It may have been the icy coolness of my friend, or it may have been the
slight clatter which I made as I picked up the poker. In any case, our
visitor's manner became less flamboyant.
"Well, I've given you fair warnin'," said he. "I've a friend that's
interested out Harrow way--you know what I'm meaning--and he don't
intend to have no buttin' in by you. Got that? You ain't the law, and
I ain't the law either, and if you come in I'll be on hand also. Don't
you forget it."
"I've wanted to meet you for some time," said Holmes. "I won't ask you
to sit down, for I don't like the smell of you, but aren't you Steve
Dixie, the bruiser?
"That's my name, Masser Holmes, and you'll get put through it for sure
if you give me any lip."
"It is certainly the last thing you need," said Holmes, staring at our
visitor's hideous mouth. "But it was the killing of young Perkins
outside the Holborn Bar---- What! you're not going?"
The negro had sprung back, and his face was leaden. "I won't listen to
no such talk," said he. "What have I to do with this 'ere Perkins,
Masser Holmes? I was trainin' at the Bull Ring in Birmingham when this
boy done gone get into trouble."
"Yes, you'll tell the magistrate about it, Steve," said Holmes. "I've
been watching you and Barney Stockdale----"
"So help me the Lord! Masser Holmes----"
"That's enough. Get out of it. I'll pick you up when I want you."
"Good mornin', Masser Holmes. I hope there ain't no hard feelin's
about this 'ere visit?"
"There will be unless you tell me who sent you."
"Why, there ain't no secret about that, Masser Holmes. It was that
same genelman that you have just done gone mention."
"And who set him on to it?"
"S'elp me. I don't know, Masser Holmes. He just say, 'Steve, you go
see Mr. Holmes, and tell him his life ain't safe if he go down Harrow
way.' That's the whole truth."
Without waiting for any further questioning, our visitor bolted out of
the room almost as precipitately as he had entered. Holmes knocked out
the ashes of his pipe with a quiet chuckle.
"I am glad you were not forced to break his woolly head, Watson. I
observed your manoeuvres with the poker. But he is really rather a
harmless fellow, a great muscular, foolish, blustering baby, and easily
cowed, as you have seen. He is one of the Spencer John gang and has
taken part in some dirty work of late which I may clear up when I have
time. His immediate principal, Barney, is a more astute person. They
specialize in assaults, intimidation, and the like. What I want to
know is, who is at the back of them on this particular occasion?"
"But why do they want to intimidate you?"
"It is this Harrow Weald case. It decides me to look into the matter,
for if it is worth anyone's while to take so much trouble, there must
be something in it."
"But what is it?"
"I was going to tell you when we had this comic interlude. Here is
Mrs. Maberley's note. If you care to come with me we will wire her and
go out at once."
DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES, (I read)--
I have had a succession of strange incidents occur to me in connection
with this house, and I should much value your advice. You would find
me at home any time to-morrow. The house is within a short walk of the
Weald Station. I believe that my late husband, Mortimer Maberley, was
one of your early clients.
Yours faithfully,
MARY MABERLEY.
The address was "The Three Gables, Harrow Weald."
"So that's that!" said Holmes. "And now, if you can spare the time,
Watson, we will get upon our way."
A short railway journey, and a shorter drive, brought us to the house,
a brick and timber villa, standing in its own acre of undeveloped
grassland. Three small projections above the upper windows made a
feeble attempt to justify its name. Behind was a grove of melancholy,
half-grown pines, and the whole aspect of the place was poor and
depressing. None the less, we found the house to be well furnished,
and the lady who received us was a most engaging elderly person, who
bore every mark of refinement and culture.
"I remember your husband well, madam," said Holmes, "though it is some
years since he used my services in some trifling matter."
"Probably you would be more familiar with the name of my son Douglas."
Holmes looked at her with great interest.
"Dear me! Are you the mother of Douglas Maberley? I knew him
slightly. But, of course, all London knew him. What a magnificent
creature he was! Where is he now?"
"Dead, Mr. Holmes, dead! He was Attaché at Rome, and he died there of
pneumonia last month."
"I am sorry. One could not connect death with such a man. I have
never known anyone so vitally alive. He lived intensely--every fibre
of him!"
"Too intensely, Mr. Holmes. That was the ruin of him. You remember
him as he was--debonair and splendid. You did not see the moody,
morose, brooding creature into which he developed. His heart was
broken. In a single month I seemed to see my gallant boy turn into a
worn-out cynical man."
"A love affair--a woman?"
"Or a fiend. Well, it was not to talk of my poor lad that I asked you
to come, Mr. Holmes."
"Dr. Watson and I are at your service."
"There have been some very strange happenings. I have been in this
house more than a year now, and as I wished to lead a retired life I
have seen little of my neighbours. Three days ago I had a call from a
man who said that he was a house agent. He said that this house would
exactly suit a client of his and that if I would part with it money
would be no object. It seemed to me very strange, as there are several
empty houses on the market which appear to be equally eligible, but
naturally I was interested in what he said. I therefore named a price
which was five hundred pounds more than I gave. He at once closed with
the offer, but added that his client desired to buy the furniture as
well and would I put a price upon it. Some of this furniture is from
my old home, and it is, as you see, very good, so that I named a good
round sum. To this also he at once agreed. I had always wanted to
travel, and the bargain was so good a one that it really seemed that I
should be my own mistress for the rest of my life.
"Yesterday the man arrived with the agreement all drawn out. Luckily I
showed it to Mr. Sutro, my lawyer, who lives in Harrow. He said to me,
'This is a very strange document. Are you aware that if you sign it
you could not legally take _anything_ out of the house--not even your
own private possessions?' When the man came again in the evening I
pointed this out, and I said that I meant only to sell the furniture.
"'No, no; everything,' said he.
"'But my clothes? My jewels?'
"'Well, well, some concession might be made for your personal effects.
But nothing shall go out of the house unchecked. My client is a very
liberal man, but he has his fads and his own way of doing things. It
is everything or nothing with him.'
"'Then it must be nothing,' said I. And there the matter was left, but
the whole thing seemed to me to be so unusual that I thought----"
Here we had a very extraordinary interruption.
Holmes raised his hand for silence. Then he strode across the room,
flung open the door, and dragged in a great gaunt woman whom he had
seized by the shoulder. She entered with ungainly struggles, like some
huge awkward chicken, torn squawking out of its coop.
"Leave me alone! What are you a-doin' of?" she screeched.
"Why, Susan, what is this?"
"Well, ma'am, I was comin' in to ask if the visitors was stayin' for
lunch when this man jumped out at me."
"I have been listening to her for the last five minutes, but did not
wish to interrupt your most interesting narrative. Just a little
wheezy, Susan, are you not? You breathe too heavily for that kind of
work."
Susan turned a sulky but amazed face upon her captor. "Who be you,
anyhow, and what right have you a-pullin' me about like this?"
"It was merely that I wished to ask a question in your presence. Did
you, Mrs. Maberley, mention to anyone that you were going to write to
me and consult me?"
"No, Mr. Holmes, I did not."
"Who posted your letter?"
"Susan did."
"Exactly. Now, Susan, to whom was it that you wrote or sent a message
to say that your mistress was asking advice from me?"
"It's a lie. I sent no message."
"Now, Susan, wheezy people may not live long, you know. It's a wicked
thing to tell fibs. Whom did you tell?"
"Susan!" cried her mistress, "I believe you are a bad, treacherous
woman. I remember now that I saw you speaking to someone over the
hedge."
"That was my own business," said the woman sullenly.
"Suppose I tell you that it was Barney Stockdale to whom you spoke?"
said Holmes.
"Well, if you know, what do you want to ask for?"
"I was not sure, but I know now. Well now, Susan, it will be worth ten
pounds to you if you will tell me who is at the back of Barney."
"Someone that could lay down a thousand pounds for every ten you have
in the world."
"So, a rich man? No; you smiled--a rich woman. Now we have got so
far, you may as well give the name and earn the tenner."
"I'll see you in hell first."
"Oh, Susan! Language!"
"I am clearing out of here. I've had enough of you all. I'll send for
my box to-morrow." She flounced for the door.
"Good-bye, Susan. Paregoric is the stuff.... Now," he continued,
turning suddenly from lively to severe when the door had closed behind
the flushed and angry woman, "this gang means business. Look how close
they play the game. Your letter to me had the 10 p.m. postmark. And
yet Susan passes the word to Barney. Barney has time to go to his
employer and get instructions; he or she--I incline to the latter from
Susan's grin when she thought I had blundered--forms a plan. Black
Steve is called in, and I am warned off by eleven o'clock next morning.
That's quick work, you know."
"But what do they want?"
"Yes, that's the question. Who had the house before you?"
"A retired sea captain, called Ferguson."
"Anything remarkable about him?"
"Not that ever I heard of."
"I was wondering whether he could have buried something. Of course,
when people bury treasure nowadays they do it in the Post Office bank.
But there are always some lunatics about. It would be a dull world
without them. At first I thought of some buried valuable. But why, in
that case, should they want your furniture? You don't happen to have a
Raphael or a first folio Shakespeare without knowing it?"
"No, I don't think I have anything rarer than a Crown Derby tea-set."
"That would hardly justify all this mystery. Besides, why should they
not openly state what they want? If they covet your tea-set, they can
surely offer a price for it without buying you out, lock, stock, and
barrel. No, as I read it, there is something which you do not know
that you have, and which you would not give up if you did know."
"That is how I read it," said I.
"Dr. Watson agrees, so that settles it."
"Well, Mr. Holmes, what can it be?"
"Let us see whether by this purely mental analysis we can get it to a
finer point. You have been in this house a year."
"Nearly two."
"All the better. During this long period no one wants anything from
you. Now suddenly within three or four days you have urgent demands.
What would you gather from that?"
"It can only mean," said I, "that the object, whatever it may be, has
only just come into the house."
"Settled once again," said Holmes. "Now, Mrs. Maberley, has any object
just arrived?"
"No; I have bought nothing new this year."
"Indeed! That is very remarkable. Well, I think we had best let
matters develop a little further until we have clearer data. Is that
lawyer of yours a capable man?"
"Mr. Sutro is most capable."
"Have you another maid, or was the fair Susan, who has just banged your
front door, alone?"
"I have a young girl."
"Try and get Sutro to spend a night or two in the house. You might
possibly want protection."
"Against whom?"
"Who knows? The matter is certainly obscure. If I can't find what
they are after, I must approach the matter from the other end, and try
to get at the principal. Did this house-agent man give any address?"
"Simply his card and occupation. Haines-Johnson, Auctioneer and
Valuer."
"I don't think we shall find him in the Directory. Honest business men
don't conceal their place of business. Well, you will let me know any
fresh development. I have taken up your case, and you may rely upon it
that I shall see it through."
As we passed through the hall Holmes's eyes, which missed nothing,
lighted upon several trunks and cases which were piled in the corner.
The labels shone out upon them.
"'Milano.' 'Lucerne.' These are from Italy."
"They are poor Douglas's things."
"You have not unpacked them? How long have you had them?"
"They arrived last week."
"But you said--why, surely this might be the missing link. How do we
know that there is not something of value there?"
"There could not possibly be, Mr. Holmes. Poor Douglas had only his
pay and a small annuity. What could he have of value?"
Holmes was lost in thought.
"Delay no longer, Mrs. Maberley," he said at last. "Have these things
taken upstairs to your bedroom. Examine them as soon as possible and
see what they contain. I will come to-morrow and hear your report."
It was quite evident that The Three Gables was under very close
surveillance, for as we came round the high hedge at the end of the
lane there was the negro prize-fighter standing in the shadow. We came
on him quite suddenly, and a grim and menacing figure he looked in that
lonely place. Holmes clapped his hand to his pocket.
"Lookin' for your gun, Masser Holmes?"
"No; for my scent-bottle, Steve."
"You are funny, Masser Holmes, ain't you?"
"It won't be funny for you, Steve, if I get after you. I gave you fair
warning this morning."
"Well, Masser Holmes, I done gone think over what you said, and I don't
want no more talk about that affair of Masser Perkins. S'pose I can
help you, Masser Holmes, I will."
"Well, then, tell me who is behind you on this job?"
"So help me the Lord! Masser Holmes, I told you the truth before. I
don't know. My boss Barney gives me orders and that's all."
"Well, just bear in mind, Steve, that the lady in that house, and
everything under that roof, is under my protection. Don't you forget
it."
"All right, Masser Holmes. I'll remember.'
"I've got him thoroughly frightened for his own skin, Watson," Holmes
remarked as we walked on. "I think he would double-cross his employer
if he knew who he was. It was lucky I had some knowledge of the
Spencer John crowd, and that Steve was one of them. Now, Watson, this
is a case for Langdale Pike, and I am going to see him now. When I get
back I may be clearer in the matter."
I saw no more of Holmes during the day, but I could well imagine how he
spent it, for Langdale Pike was his human book of reference upon all
matters of social scandal. This strange, languid creature spent his
waking hours in the bow window of a St. James's Street club, and was
the receiving-station, as well as the transmitter, for all the gossip
of the Metropolis. He made, it was said, a four-figure income by the
paragraphs which he contributed every week to the garbage papers which
cater for an inquisitive public. If ever, far down in the turbid
depths of London life, there was some strange swirl or eddy, it was
marked with automatic exactness by this human dial upon the surface.
Holmes discreetly helped Langdale to knowledge, and on occasion was
helped in turn.
When I met my friend in his room early next morning, I was conscious
from his bearing that all was well, but none the less a most unpleasant
surprise was awaiting us. It took the shape of the following telegram:
"Please come out at once. Client's house burgled in the night. Police
in possession.
"SUTRO."
Holmes whistled. "The drama has come to a crisis, and quicker than I
had expected. There is a great driving-power at the back of this
business, Watson, which does not surprise me after what I have heard.
This Sutro, of course, is her lawyer. I made a mistake, I fear, in not
asking you to spend the night on guard. This fellow has clearly proved
a broken reed. Well, there is nothing for it but another journey to
Harrow Weald."
We found The Three Gables a very different establishment to the orderly
household of the previous day. A small group of idlers had assembled
at the garden gate, while a couple of constables were examining the
windows and the geranium beds. Within we met a grey old gentleman, who
introduced himself as the lawyer, together with a bustling, rubicund
Inspector, who greeted Holmes as an old friend.
"Well, Mr. Holmes, no chance for you in this case, I'm afraid. Just a
common, ordinary burglary, and well within the capacity of the poor old
police. No experts need apply."
"I am sure the case is in very good hands," said Holmes. "Merely a
common burglary, you say?"
"Quite so. We know pretty well who the men are and where to find them.
It is that gang of Barney Stockdale, with the big nigger in it--they've
been seen about here."
"Excellent! What did they get?"
"Well, they don't seem to have got much. Mrs. Maberley was
chloroformed and the house was---- Ah! here is the lady herself."
Our friend of yesterday, looking very pale and ill, had entered the
room, leaning upon a little maid-servant.
"You gave me good advice, Mr. Holmes," said she, smiling ruefully.
"Alas, I did not take it! I did not wish to trouble Mr. Sutro, and so
I was unprotected."
"I only heard of it this morning," the lawyer explained.
"Mr. Holmes advised me to have some friend in the house. I neglected
his advice, and I have paid for it."
"You look wretchedly ill," said Holmes. "Perhaps you are hardly equal
to telling me what occurred."
"It is all here," said the Inspector, tapping a bulky notebook.
"Still, if the lady is not too exhausted----"
"There is really so little to tell. I have no doubt that wicked Susan
had planned an entrance for them. They must have known the house to an
inch. I was conscious for a moment of the chloroform rag which was
thrust over my mouth, but I have no notion how long I may have been
senseless. When I woke, one man was at the bedside and another was
rising with a bundle in his hand from among my son's baggage, which was
partially opened and littered over the floor. Before he could get away
I sprang up and seized him."
"You took a big risk," said the Inspector.
"I clung to him, but he shook me off, and the other may have struck me,
for I can remember no more. Mary the maid heard the noise and began
screaming out of the window. That brought the police, but the rascals
had got away."
"What did they take?"
"Well, I don't think there is anything of value missing. I am sure
there was nothing in my son's trunks."
"Did the men leave no clue?"
"There was one sheet of paper which I may have torn from the man that I
grasped. It was lying all crumpled on the floor. It is in my son's
handwriting."
"Which means that it is not of much use," said the Inspector. "Now if
it had been in the burglar's----"
"Exactly," said Holmes. "What rugged common sense! None the less, I
should be curious to see it."
The Inspector drew a folded sheet of foolscap from his pocket-book.
"I never pass anything, however trifling," said he, with some
pomposity. "That is my advice to you, Mr. Holmes. In twenty-five
years' experience I have learned my lesson. There is always the chance
of finger-marks or something."
Holmes inspected the sheet of paper.
"What do you make of it, Inspector?"
"Seems to be the end of some queer novel, so far as I can see."
"It may certainly prove to be the end of a queer tale," said Holmes.
"You have noticed the number on the top of the page. It is two hundred
and forty-five. Where are the odd two hundred and forty-four pages?"
"Well, I suppose the burglars got those. Much good may it do them!"
"It seems a queer thing to break into a house in order to steal such
papers as that. Does it suggest anything to you, Inspector?"
"Yes, sir; it suggests that in their hurry the rascals just grabbed at
what came first to hand. I wish them joy of what they got."
"Why should they go to my son's things?" asked Mrs. Maberley.
"Well, they found nothing valuable downstairs, so they tried their luck
upstairs. That is how I read it. What do you make of it, Mr. Holmes?"
"I must think it over, Inspector. Come to the window, Watson." Then,
as we stood together, he read over the fragment of paper. It began in
the middle of a sentence and ran like this:
"... face bled considerably from the cuts and blows, but it was nothing
to the bleeding of his heart as he saw that lovely face, the face for
which he had been prepared to sacrifice his very life, looking out at
his agony and humiliation. She smiled--yes, by Heaven! she smiled,
like the heartless fiend she was, as he looked up at her. It was at
that moment that love died and hate was born. Man must live for
something. If it is not for your embrace, my lady, then it shall
surely be for your undoing and my complete revenge."
"Queer grammar!" said Holmes, with a smile, as he handed the paper back
to the Inspector. "Did you notice how the 'he' suddenly changed to
'my.' The writer was so carried away by his own story that he imagined
himself at the supreme moment to be the hero."
"It seemed mighty poor stuff," said the Inspector, as he replaced it in
his book. "What! are you off, Mr. Holmes?"
"I don't think there is anything more for me to do now that the case is
in such capable hands. By the way, Mrs. Maberley, did you say you
wished to travel?"
"It has always been my dream, Mr. Holmes."
"Where would you like to go--Cairo, Madeira, the Riviera?"
"Oh! if I had the money I would go round the world."
"Quite so. Round the world. Well, good morning. I may drop you a
line in the evening." As we passed the window I caught a glimpse of
the Inspector's smile and shake of the head. "These clever fellows
have always a touch of madness." That was what I read in the
Inspector's smile.
"Now, Watson, we are at the last lap of our little journey," said
Holmes, when we were back in the roar of Central London once more. "I
think we had best clear the matter up at once, and it would be well
that you should come with me, for it is safer to have a witness when
you are dealing with such a lady as Isadora Klein."
We had taken a cab and were speeding to some address in Grosvenor
Square. Holmes had been sunk in thought, but he roused himself
suddenly.
"By the way, Watson, I suppose you see it all clearly?"
"No, I can't say that I do. I only gather that we are going to see the
lady who is behind all this mischief."
"Exactly! But does the name Isadora Klein convey nothing to you? She
was, of course, the celebrated beauty. There was never a woman to
touch her. She is pure Spanish, the real blood of the masterful
Conquistadors, and her people have been leaders in Pernambuco for
generations. She married the aged German sugar king, Klein, and
presently found herself the richest as well as the most lovely widow
upon earth. Then there was an interval of adventure when she pleased
her own tastes. She had several lovers, and Douglas Maberley, one of
the most striking men in London, was one of them. It was by all
accounts more than an adventure with him. He was not a Society
butterfly, but a strong, proud man who gave and expected all. But she
is the '_belle dame sans merci_' of fiction. When her caprice is
satisfied, the matter is ended, and if the other party in the matter
can't take her word for it, she knows how to bring it home to him."
"Then that was his own story----"
"Ah! you are piecing it together now. I hear that she is about to
marry the young Duke of Lomond, who might almost be her son. His
Grace's ma might overlook the age, but a big scandal would be a
different matter, so it is imperative---- Ah! here we are."
It was one of the finest corner-houses of the West End. A machine-like
footman took up our cards and returned with word that the lady was not
at home. "Then we shall wait until she is," said Holmes cheerfully.
The machine broke down.
"Not at home means not at home to _you_," said the footman.
"Good," Holmes answered. "That means that we shall not have to wait.
Kindly give this note to your mistress."
He scribbled three or four words upon a sheet of his notebook, folded
it, and handed it to the man.
"What did you say, Holmes?" I asked.
"I simply wrote 'Shall it be the police, then?' I think that should
pass us in."
It did--with amazing celerity. A minute later we were in an
Arabian-nights' drawing-room, vast and wonderful, in a half gloom,
picked out with an occasional pink electric light. The lady had come,
I felt, to that time of life when even the proudest beauty finds the
half-light more welcome. She rose from a settee as we entered: tall,
queenly, a perfect figure, a lovely mask-like face, with two wonderful
Spanish eyes which looked murder at us both.
"What is this intrusion--and this insulting message?" she asked,
holding up the slip of paper.
"I need not explain, madame. I have too much respect for your
intelligence to do so--though I confess that intelligence has been
surprisingly at fault of late."
"How so, sir?"
"By supposing that your hired bullies could frighten me from my work.
Surely no man would take up my profession if it were not that danger
attracts him. It was you, then, who forced me to examine the case of
young Maberley."
"I have no idea what you are talking about. What have I to do with
hired bullies?"
Holmes turned away wearily.
"Yes, I have underrated your intelligence. Well, good afternoon!"
"Stop! Where are you going?"
"To Scotland Yard."
We had not got half-way to the door before she had overtaken us and was
holding his arm. She had turned in a moment from steel to velvet.
"Come and sit down, gentlemen. Let us talk this matter over. I feel
that I may be frank with you, Mr. Holmes. You have the feelings of a
gentleman. How quick a woman's instinct is to find it out. I will
treat you as a friend."
"I cannot promise to reciprocate, madame. I am not the law, but I
represent justice so far as my feeble powers go. I am ready to listen,
and then I will tell you how I will act."
"No doubt it was foolish of me to threaten a brave man like yourself."
"What was really foolish, madame, is that you have placed yourself in
the power of a band of rascals who may blackmail or give you away."
"No, no! I am not so simple. Since I have promised to be frank, I may
say that no one, save Barney Stockdale and Susan, his wife, have the
least idea who their employer is. As to them, well, it is not the
first----" She smiled and nodded, with a charming coquettish intimacy.
"I see. You've tested them before."
"They are good hounds who run silent."
"Such hounds have a way sooner or later of biting the hand that feeds
them. They will be arrested for this burglary. The police are already
after them."
"They will take what comes to them. That is what they are paid for. I
shall not appear in the matter."
"Unless I bring you into it."
"No, no; you would not. You are a gentleman. It is a woman's secret."
"In the first place you must give back this manuscript."
She broke into a ripple of laughter, and walked to the fireplace.
There was a calcined mass which she broke up with the poker. "Shall I
give this back?" she asked. So roguish and exquisite did she look as
she stood before us with a challenging smile that I felt of all
Holmes's criminals this was the one whom he would find it hardest to
face. However, he was immune from sentiment.
"That seals your fate," he said coldly. "You are very prompt in your
actions, madame, but you have overdone it on this occasion."
She threw the poker down with a clatter.
"How hard you are!" she cried. "May I tell you the whole story?"
"I fancy I could tell it to you."
"But you must look at it with my eyes, Mr. Holmes. You must realize it
from the point of view of a woman who sees all her life's ambition
about to be ruined at the last moment. Is such a woman to be blamed if
she protects herself?"
"The original sin was yours."
"Yes, yes! I admit it. He was a dear boy, Douglas, but it so chanced
that he could not fit into my plans. He wanted marriage--marriage, Mr.
Holmes--with a penniless commoner. Nothing less would serve him. Then
he became pertinacious. Because I had given he seemed to think that I
still must give, and to him only. It was intolerable. At last I had
to make him realize it."
"By hiring ruffians to beat him under your own window."
"You do indeed seem to know everything. Well, it is true. Barney and
the boys drove him away, and were, I admit, a little rough in doing so.
But what did he do then? Could I have believed that a gentleman would
do such an act? He wrote a book in which he described his own story.
I, of course, was the wolf; he the lamb. It was all there, under
different names, of course; but who in all London would have failed to
recognize it? What do you say to that, Mr. Holmes?"
"Well, he was within his rights."
"It was as if the air of Italy had got into his blood and brought with
it the old cruel Italian spirit. He wrote to me and sent me a copy of
his book that I might have the torture of anticipation. There were two
copies, he said--one for me, one for his publisher."
"How did you know the publisher's had not reached him?"
"I knew who his publisher was. It is not his only novel, you know. I
found out that he had not heard from Italy. Then came Douglas's sudden
death. So long as that other manuscript was in the world there was no
safety for me. Of course, it must be among his effects, and these
would be returned to his mother. I set the gang at work. One of them
got into the house as servant. I wanted to do the thing honestly. I
really and truly did. I was ready to buy the house and everything in
it. I offered any price she cared to ask. I only tried the other way
when everything else had failed. Now, Mr. Holmes, granting that I was
too hard on Douglas--and, God knows, I am sorry for it!--what else
could I do with my whole future at stake?"
Sherlock Holmes shrugged his shoulders.
"Well, well," said he, "I suppose I shall have to compound a felony as
usual. How much does it cost to go round the world in first-class
style?"
The lady stared in amazement.
"Could it be done on five thousand pounds?"
"Well, I should think so, indeed!"
"Very good. I think you will sign me a cheque for that, and I will see
that it comes to Mrs. Maberley. You owe her a little change of air.
Meantime, lady"--he wagged a cautionary forefinger--"have a care! Have
a care! You can't play with edged tools for ever without cutting those
dainty hands."
|
the_adventure_of_the_three_gables
|
THE ADVENTURE OF THE SUSSEX VAMPIRE
|
The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes
|
Holmes had read carefully a note which the last post had brought him.
Then, with the dry chuckle which was his nearest approach to a laugh,
he tossed it over to me.
"For a mixture of the modern and the mediæval, of the practical and of
the wildly fanciful, I think this is surely the limit," said he. "What
do you make of it, Watson?"
I read as follows:
46, OLD JEWRY,
_Nov._ 19_th._
_Re_ Vampires.
SIR,--
Our client, Mr. Robert Ferguson, of Ferguson and Muirhead, tea brokers,
of Mincing Lane, has made some inquiry from us in a communication of
even date concerning vampires. As our firm specializes entirely upon
the assessment of machinery the matter hardly comes within our purview,
and we have therefore recommended Mr. Ferguson to call upon you and lay
the matter before you. We have not forgotten your successful action in
the case of Matilda Briggs.
We are, Sir, Faithfully yours,
MORRISON, MORRISON, AND DODD.
per E. J. C.
"Matilda Briggs was not the name of a young woman, Watson," said
Holmes, in a reminiscent voice. "It was a ship which is associated
with the giant rat of Sumatra, a story for which the world is not yet
prepared. But what do we know about vampires? Does it come within our
purview either? Anything is better than stagnation, but really we seem
to have been switched on to a Grimm's fairy tale. Make a long arm,
Watson, and see what V has to say."
I leaned back and took down the great index volume to which he
referred. Holmes balanced it on his knee and his eyes moved slowly and
lovingly over the record of old cases, mixed with the accumulated
information of a lifetime.
"Voyage of the Gloria Scott," he read. "That was a bad business. I
have some recollection that you made a record of it, Watson, though I
was unable to congratulate you upon the result. Victor Lynch, the
forger. Venomous lizard or gila. Remarkable case, that! Vittoria,
the circus belle. Vanderbilt and the Yeggman. Vipers. Vigor, the
Hammersmith wonder. Hullo! Hullo! Good old index. You can't beat
it. Listen to this, Watson. Vampirism in Hungary. And again,
Vampires in Transylvania." He turned over the pages with eagerness,
but after a short intent perusal he threw down the great book with a
snarl of disappointment.
"Rubbish, Watson, rubbish! What have we to do with walking corpses who
can only be held in their grave by stakes driven through their hearts?
It's pure lunacy."
"But surely," said I, "the vampire was not necessarily a dead man? A
living person might have the habit. I have read, for example, of the
old sucking the blood of the young in order to retain their youth."
"You are right, Watson. It mentions the legend in one of these
references. But are we to give serious attention to such things? This
Agency stands flat-footed upon the ground, and there it must remain.
The world is big enough for us. No ghosts need apply. I fear that we
cannot take Mr. Robert Ferguson very seriously. Possibly this note may
be from him, and may throw some light upon what is worrying him."
He took up a second letter which had lain unnoticed upon the table
whilst he had been absorbed with the first. This he began to read with
a smile of amusement upon his face which gradually faded away into an
expression of intense interest and concentration. When he had finished
he sat for some little time lost in thought with the letter dangling
from his fingers. Finally, with a start, he aroused himself from his
reverie.
"Cheeseman's, Lamberley. Where is Lamberley, Watson?"
"It is in Sussex, south of Horsham."
"Not very far, eh? And Cheeseman's?"
"I know that country, Holmes. It is full of old houses which are named
after the men who built them centuries ago. You get Odley's and
Harvey's and Carriton's--the folk are forgotten but their names live in
their houses."
"Precisely," said Holmes coldly. It was one of the peculiarities of
his proud, self-contained nature that, though he docketed any fresh
information very quickly and accurately in his brain, he seldom made
any acknowledgment to the giver. "I rather fancy we shall know a good
deal more about Cheeseman's, Lamberley, before we are through. The
letter is, as I had hoped, from Robert Ferguson. By the way, he claims
acquaintance with you."
"With me!"
"You had better read it."
He handed the letter across. It was headed with the address quoted.
DEAR MR. HOLMES, (it said)--I have been recommended to you by my
lawyers, but indeed the matter is so extraordinarily delicate that it
is most difficult to discuss. It concerns a friend for whom I am
acting. This gentleman married some five years ago a Peruvian lady,
the daughter of a Peruvian merchant, whom he had met in connection with
the importation of nitrates. The lady was very beautiful, but the fact
of her foreign birth and of her alien religion always caused a
separation of interests and of feelings between husband and wife, so
that after a time his love may have cooled towards her and he may have
come to regard their union as a mistake. He felt there were sides of
her character which he could never explore or understand. This was the
more painful as she was as loving a wife as a man could have--to all
appearance absolutely devoted.
Now for the point which I will make more plain when we meet. Indeed,
this note is merely to give you a general idea of the situation and to
ascertain whether you would care to interest yourself in the matter.
The lady began to show some curious traits quite alien to her
ordinarily sweet and gentle disposition. The gentleman had been
married twice and he had one son by the first wife. This boy was now
fifteen, a very charming and affectionate youth, though unhappily
injured through an accident in childhood. Twice the wife was caught in
the act of assaulting this poor lad in the most unprovoked way. Once
she struck him with a stick and left a great weal on his arm.
This was a small matter, however, compared with her conduct to her own
child, a dear boy just under one year of age. On one occasion about a
month ago this child had been left by its nurse for a few minutes. A
loud cry from the baby, as of pain, called the nurse back. As she ran
into the room she saw her employer, the lady, leaning over the baby and
apparently biting his neck. There was a small wound in the neck, from
which a stream of blood had escaped. The nurse was so horrified that
she wished to call the husband, but the lady implored her not to do so,
and actually gave her five pounds as a price for her silence. No
explanation was ever given, and for the moment the matter was passed
over.
It left, however, a terrible impression upon the nurse's mind, and from
that time she began to watch her mistress closely, and to keep a closer
guard upon the baby, whom she tenderly loved. It seemed to her that
even as she watched the mother, so the mother watched her, and that
every time she was compelled to leave the baby alone the mother was
waiting to get at it. Day and night the nurse covered the child, and
day and night the silent, watchful mother seemed to be lying in wait as
a wolf waits for a lamb. It must read most incredible to you, and yet
I beg you to take it seriously, for a child's life and a man's sanity
may depend upon it.
At last there came one dreadful day when the facts could no longer be
concealed from the husband. The nurse's nerve had given way; she could
stand the strain no longer, and she made a clean breast of it all to
the man. To him it seemed as wild a tale as it may now seem to you.
He knew his wife to be a loving wife, and, save for the assaults upon
her stepson, a loving mother. Why, then, should she wound her own dear
little baby? He told the nurse that she was dreaming, that her
suspicions were those of a lunatic, and that such libels upon her
mistress were not to be tolerated. Whilst they were talking, a sudden
cry of pain was heard. Nurse and master rushed together to the
nursery. Imagine his feelings, Mr. Holmes, as he saw his wife rise
from a kneeling position beside the cot, and saw blood upon the child's
exposed neck and upon the sheet. With a cry of horror, he turned his
wife's face to the light and saw blood all round her lips. It was
she--she beyond all question--who had drunk the poor baby's blood.
So the matter stands. She is now confined to her room. There has been
no explanation. The husband is half demented. He knows, and I know,
little of Vampirism beyond the name. We had thought it was some wild
tale of foreign parts. And yet here in the very heart of the English
Sussex--well, all this can be discussed with you in the morning. Will
you see me? Will you use your great powers in aiding a distracted man?
If so, kindly wire to Ferguson, Cheeseman's, Lamberley, and I will be
at your rooms by ten o'clock.
Yours faithfully,
ROBERT FERGUSON.
PS.--I believe your friend Watson played Rugby for Blackheath when I
was three-quarter for Richmond. It is the only personal introduction
which I can give.
"Of course I remember him," said I, as I laid down the letter. "Big
Bob Ferguson, the finest three-quarter Richmond ever had. He was
always a good-natured chap. It's like him to be so concerned over a
friend's case."
Holmes looked at me thoughtfully and shook his head.
"I never get your limits, Watson," said he. "There are unexplored
possibilities about you. Take a wire down, like a good fellow. 'Will
examine your case with pleasure.'"
"_Your_ case!"
"We must not let him think that this Agency is a home for the
weak-minded. Of course it is his case. Send him that wire and let the
matter rest till morning."
Promptly at ten o'clock next morning Ferguson strode into our room. I
had remembered him as a long, slab-sided man with loose limbs and a
fine turn of speed, which had carried him round many an opposing back.
There is surely nothing in life more painful than to meet the wreck of
a fine athlete whom one has known in his prime. His great frame had
fallen in, his flaxen hair was scanty, and his shoulders were bowed. I
fear that I roused corresponding emotions in him.
"Hullo, Watson," said he, and his voice was still deep and hearty.
"You don't look quite the man you did when I threw you over the ropes
into the crowd at the Old Deer Park. I expect I have changed a bit
also. But it's this last day or two that has aged me. I see by your
telegram, Mr. Holmes, that it is no use my pretending to be anyone's
deputy."
"It is simpler to deal direct," said Holmes.
"Of course it is. But you can imagine how difficult it is when you are
speaking of the one woman whom you are bound to protect and help. What
can I do? How am I to go to the police with such a story? And yet the
kiddies have got to be protected. Is it madness, Mr. Holmes? Is it
something in the blood? Have you any similar case in your experience?
For God's sake, give me some advice, for I am at my wits' end."
"Very naturally, Mr. Ferguson. Now sit here and pull yourself together
and give me a few clear answers. I can assure you that I am very far
from being at my wits' end, and that I am confident we shall find some
solution. First of all, tell me what steps you have taken. Is your
wife still near the children?"
"We had a dreadful scene. She is a most loving woman, Mr. Holmes. If
ever a woman loved a man with all her heart and soul, she loves me.
She was cut to the heart that I should have discovered this horrible,
this incredible, secret. She would not even speak. She gave no answer
to my reproaches, save to gaze at me with a sort of wild, despairing
look in her eyes. Then she rushed to her room and locked herself in.
Since then she has refused to see me. She has a maid who was with her
before her marriage, Dolores by name--a friend rather than a servant.
She takes her food to her."
"Then the child is in no immediate danger?"
"Mrs. Mason, the nurse, has sworn that she will not leave it night or
day. I can absolutely trust her. I am more uneasy about poor little
Jack, for, as I told you in my note, he has twice been assaulted by
her."
"But never wounded?"
"No; she struck him savagely. It is the more terrible as he is a poor
little inoffensive cripple." Ferguson's gaunt features softened as he
spoke of his boy. "You would think that the dear lad's condition would
soften anyone's heart. A fall in childhood and a twisted spine, Mr.
Holmes. But the dearest, most loving heart within."
Holmes had picked up the letter of yesterday and was reading it over.
"What other inmates are there in your house, Mr. Ferguson?"
"Two servants who have not been long with us. One stable-hand,
Michael, who sleeps in the house. My wife, myself, my boy Jack, baby,
Dolores, and Mrs. Mason. That is all."
"I gather that you did not know your wife well at the time of your
marriage?"
"I had only known her a few weeks."
"How long had this maid Dolores been with her?"
"Some years."
"Then your wife's character would really be better known by Dolores
than by you?"
"Yes, you may say so."
Holmes made a note.
"I fancy," said he, "that I may be of more use at Lamberley than here.
It is eminently a case for personal investigation. If the lady remains
in her room, our presence could not annoy or inconvenience her. Of
course, we would stay at the inn."
Ferguson gave a gesture of relief.
"It is what I hoped, Mr. Holmes. There is an excellent train at two
from Victoria, if you could come."
"Of course we could come. There is a lull at present. I can give you
my undivided energies. Watson, of course, comes with us. But there
are one or two points upon which I wish to be very sure before I start.
This unhappy lady, as I understand it, has appeared to assault both the
children, her own baby and your little son?"
"That is so."
"But the assaults take different forms, do they not? She has beaten
your son."
"Once with a stick and once very savagely with her hands."
"Did she give no explanation why she struck him?"
"None, save that she hated him. Again and again she said so."
"Well, that is not unknown among stepmothers. A posthumous jealousy,
we will say. Is the lady jealous by nature?"
"Yes, she is very jealous--jealous with all the strength of her fiery
tropical love."
"But the boy--he is fifteen, I understand, and probably very developed
in mind, since his body has been circumscribed in action. Did he give
you no explanation of these assaults?"
"No; he declared there was no reason."
"Were they good friends at other times?"
"No; there was never any love between them."
"Yet you say he is affectionate?"
"Never in the world could there be so devoted a son. My life is his
life. He is absorbed in what I say or do."
Once again Holmes made a note. For some time he sat lost in thought.
"No doubt you and the boy were great comrades before this second
marriage. You were thrown very close together, were you not?"
"Very much so."
"And the boy, having so affectionate a nature, was devoted, no doubt,
to the memory of his mother?"
"Most devoted."
"He would certainly seem to be a most interesting lad. There is one
other point about these assaults. Were the strange attacks upon the
baby and the assaults upon your son at the same period?"
"In the first case it was so. It was as if some frenzy had seized her,
and she had vented her rage upon both. In the second case it was only
Jack who suffered. Mrs. Mason had no complaint to make about the baby."
"That certainly complicates matters."
"I don't quite follow you, Mr. Holmes."
"Possibly not. One forms provisional theories and waits for time or
fuller knowledge to explode them. A bad habit, Mr. Ferguson; but human
nature is weak. I fear that your old friend here has given an
exaggerated view of my scientific methods. However, I will only say at
the present stage that your problem does not appear to me to be
insoluble, and that you may expect to find us at Victoria at two
o'clock."
It was evening of a dull, foggy November day when, having left our bags
at the "Chequers," Lamberley, we drove through the Sussex clay of a
long winding lane, and finally reached the isolated and ancient
farm-house in which Ferguson dwelt. It was a large, straggling
building, very old in the centre, very new at the wings, with towering
Tudor chimneys and a lichen-spotted, high-pitched roof of Horsham
slabs. The doorsteps were worn into curves, and the ancient tiles
which lined the porch were marked with the rebus of a cheese and a man,
after the original builder. Within, the ceilings were corrugated with
heavy oaken beams, and the uneven floors sagged into sharp curves. An
odour of age and decay pervaded the whole crumbling building.
There was one very large central room, into which Ferguson led us.
Here, in a huge old-fashioned fireplace with an iron screen behind it
dated 1670, there blazed and spluttered a splendid log fire.
The room, as I gazed round, was a most singular mixture of dates and of
places. The half-panelled walls may well have belonged to the original
yeoman farmer of the seventeenth century. They were ornamented,
however, on the lower part by a line of well-chosen modern
water-colours; while above, where yellow plaster took the place of oak,
there was hung a fine collection of South American utensils and
weapons, which had been brought, no doubt, by the Peruvian lady
upstairs. Holmes rose, with that quick curiosity which sprang from his
eager mind, and examined them with some care. He returned with his
eyes full of thought.
"Hullo!" he cried. "Hullo!"
A spaniel had lain in a basket in the corner. It came slowly forward
towards its master, walking with difficulty. Its hind-legs moved
irregularly and its tail was on the ground. It licked Ferguson's hand.
"What is it, Mr. Holmes?"
"The dog. What's the matter with it?"
"That's what puzzled the vet. A sort of paralysis. Spinal meningitis,
he thought. But it is passing. He'll be all right soon--won't you,
Carlo?"
A shiver of assent passed through the drooping tail. The dog's
mournful eyes passed from one of us to the other. He knew that we were
discussing his case.
"Did it come on suddenly?"
"In a single night."
"How long ago?"
"It may have been four months ago."
"Very remarkable. Very suggestive."
"What do you see in it, Mr. Holmes?"
"A confirmation of what I had already thought."
"For God's sake, what do you think, Mr. Holmes? It may be a mere
intellectual puzzle to you, but it is life and death to me! My wife a
would-be murderer--my child in constant danger! Don't play with me,
Mr. Holmes. It is too terribly serious."
The big Rugby three-quarter was trembling all over. Holmes put his
hand soothingly upon his arm.
"I fear that there is pain for you, Mr. Ferguson, whatever the solution
may be," said he. "I would spare you all I can. I cannot say more for
the instant, but before I leave this house I hope I may have something
definite."
"Please God you may! If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I will go up to
my wife's room and see if there has been any change."
He was away some minutes, during which Holmes resumed his examination
of the curiosities upon the wall. When our host returned it was clear
from his downcast face that he had made no progress. He brought with
him a tall, slim, brown-faced girl.
"The tea is ready, Dolores," said Ferguson. "See that your mistress
has everything she can wish."
"She verra ill," cried the girl, looking with indignant eyes at her
master. "She no ask for food. She verra ill. She need doctor. I
frightened stay alone with her without doctor."
Ferguson looked at me with a question in his eyes.
"I should be so glad if I could be of use."
"Would your mistress see Dr. Watson?"
"I take him. I no ask leave. She needs doctor."
"Then I'll come with you at once."
I followed the girl, who was quivering with strong emotion, up the
staircase and down an ancient corridor. At the end was an iron-clamped
and massive door. It struck me as I looked at it that if Ferguson
tried to force his way to his wife he would find it no easy matter.
The girl drew a key from her pocket, and the heavy oaken planks creaked
upon their old hinges. I passed in and she swiftly followed, fastening
the door behind her.
On the bed a woman was lying who was clearly in a high fever. She was
only half conscious, but as I entered she raised a pair of frightened
but beautiful eyes and glared at me in apprehension. Seeing a
stranger, she appeared to be relieved, and sank back with a sigh upon
the pillow. I stepped up to her with a few reassuring words, and she
lay still while I took her pulse and temperature. Both were high, and
yet my impression was that the condition was rather that of mental and
nervous excitement than of any actual seizure.
"She lie like that one day, two day. I 'fraid she die," said the girl.
The woman turned her flushed and handsome face towards me.
"Where is my husband?"
"He is below, and would wish to see you."
"I will not see him. I will not see him." Then she seemed to wander
off into delirium. "A fiend! A fiend! Oh, what shall I do with this
devil?"
"Can I help you in any way?"
"No. No one can help. It is finished. All is destroyed. Do what I
will, all is destroyed."
The woman must have some strange delusion. I could not see honest Bob
Ferguson in the character of fiend or devil.
"Madame," I said, "your husband loves you dearly. He is deeply grieved
at this happening."
Again she turned on me those glorious eyes.
"He loves me. Yes. But do I not love him? Do I not love him even to
sacrifice myself rather than break his dear heart. That is how I love
him. And yet he could think of me--he could speak of me so."
"He is full of grief, but he cannot understand.
"No, he cannot understand. But he should trust."
"Will you not see him?" I suggested.
"No, no; I cannot forget those terrible words nor the look upon his
face. I will not see him. Go now. You can do nothing for me. Tell
him only one thing. I want my child. I have a right to my child.
That is the only message I can send him." She turned her face to the
wall and would say no more.
I returned to the room downstairs, where Ferguson and Holmes still sat
by the fire. Ferguson listened moodily to my account of the interview.
"How can I send her the child?" he said. "How do I know what strange
impulse might come upon her? How can I ever forget how she rose from
beside it with its blood upon her lips?" He shuddered at the
recollection. "The child is safe with Mrs. Mason, and there he must
remain."
A smart maid, the only modern thing which we had seen in the house, had
brought in some tea. As she was serving it the door opened and a youth
entered the room. He was a remarkable lad, pale-faced and fair-haired,
with excitable light blue eyes which blazed into a sudden flame of
emotion and joy as they rested upon his father. He rushed forward and
threw his arms round his neck with the abandon of a loving girl.
"Oh, daddy," he cried, "I did not know that you were due yet. I should
have been here to meet you. Oh, I am so glad to see you!"
Ferguson gently disengaged himself from the embrace with some little
show of embarrassment.
"Dear old chap," said he, patting the flaxen head with a very tender
hand. "I came early because my friends, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson,
have been persuaded to come down and spend an evening with us."
"Is that Mr. Holmes, the detective?"
"Yes."
The youth looked at us with a very penetrating and, as it seemed to me,
unfriendly gaze.
"What about your other child, Mr. Ferguson?" asked Holmes. "Might we
make the acquaintance of the baby?"
"Ask Mrs. Mason to bring baby down," said Ferguson. The boy went off
with a curious, shambling gait which told my surgical eyes that he was
suffering from a weak spine. Presently he returned, and behind him
came a tall, gaunt woman bearing in her arms a very beautiful child,
dark-eyed, golden-haired, a wonderful mixture of the Saxon and the
Latin. Ferguson was evidently devoted to it, for he took it into his
arms and fondled it most tenderly.
"Fancy anyone having the heart to hurt him," he muttered, as he glanced
down at the small, angry red pucker upon the cherub throat.
It was at this moment that I chanced to glance at Holmes, and saw a
most singular intentness in his expression. His face was as set as if
it had been carved out of old ivory, and his eyes, which had glanced
for a moment at father and child, were now fixed with eager curiosity
upon something at the other side of the room. Following his gaze I
could only guess that he was looking out through the window at the
melancholy, dripping garden. It is true that a shutter had half closed
outside and obstructed the view, but none the less it was certainly at
the window that Holmes was fixing his concentrated attention. Then he
smiled, and his eyes came back to the baby. On its chubby neck there
was this small puckered mark. Without speaking, Holmes examined it
with care. Finally he shook one of the dimpled fists which waved in
front of him.
"Good-bye, little man. You have made a strange start in life. Nurse,
I should wish to have a word with you in private."
He took her aside and spoke earnestly for a few minutes. I only heard
the last words, which were: "Your anxiety will soon, I hope, be set at
rest." The woman, who seemed to be a sour, silent kind of creature,
withdrew with the child.
"What is Mrs. Mason like?" asked Holmes.
"Not very prepossessing externally, as you can see, but a heart of
gold, and devoted to the child."
"Do you like her, Jack?" Holmes turned suddenly upon the boy. His
expressive mobile face shadowed over, and he shook his head.
"Jacky has very strong likes and dislikes," said Ferguson, putting his
arm round the boy. "Luckily I am one of his likes."
The boy cooed and nestled his head upon his father's breast. Ferguson
gently disengaged him.
"Run away, little Jacky," said he, and he watched his son with loving
eyes until he disappeared. "Now, Mr. Holmes," he continued, when the
boy was gone, "I really feel that I have brought you on a fool's
errand, for what can you possibly do, save give me your sympathy? It
must be an exceedingly delicate and complex affair from your point of
view."
"It is certainly delicate," said my friend, with an amused smile, "but
I have not been struck up to now with its complexity. It has been a
case for intellectual deduction, but when this original intellectual
deduction is confirmed point by point by quite a number of independent
incidents, then the subjective becomes objective and we can say
confidently that we have reached our goal. I had, in fact, reached it
before we left Baker Street, and the rest has merely been observation
and confirmation."
Ferguson put his big hand to his furrowed forehead.
"For Heaven's sake, Holmes," he said hoarsely, "if you can see the
truth in this matter, do not keep me in suspense. How do I stand?
What shall I do? I care nothing as to how you have found your facts so
long as you have really got them."
"Certainly I owe you an explanation, and you shall have it. But you
will permit me to handle the matter in my own way? Is the lady capable
of seeing us, Watson?"
"She is ill, but she is quite rational."
"Very good. It is only in her presence that we can clear the matter
up. Let us go up to her."
"She will not see me," cried Ferguson.
"Oh, yes, she will," said Holmes. He scribbled a few lines upon a
sheet of paper. "You at least have the _entrée_, Watson. Will you
have the goodness to give the lady this note?"
I ascended again and handed the note to Dolores, who cautiously opened
the door. A minute later I heard a cry from within, a cry in which joy
and surprise seemed to be blended. Dolores looked out.
"She will see them. She will leesten," said she.
At my summons Ferguson and Holmes came up. As we entered the room
Ferguson took a step or two towards his wife, who had raised herself in
the bed, but she held out her hand to repulse him. He sank into an
arm-chair, while Holmes seated himself beside him, after bowing to the
lady, who looked at him with wide-eyed amazement.
"I think we can dispense with Dolores," said Holmes. "Oh, very well,
madame, if you would rather she stayed I can see no objection. Now,
Mr. Ferguson, I am a busy man with many calls, and my methods have to
be short and direct. The swiftest surgery is the least painful. Let
me first say what will ease your mind. Your wife is a very good, a
very loving, and a very ill-used woman."
Ferguson sat up with a cry of joy.
"Prove that, Mr. Holmes, and I am your debtor for ever."
"I will do so, but in doing so I must wound you deeply in another
direction."
"I care nothing so long as you clear my wife. Everything on earth is
insignificant compared to that."
"Let me tell you, then, the train of reasoning which passed through my
mind in Baker Street. The idea of a vampire was to me absurd. Such
things do not happen in criminal practice in England. And yet your
observation was precise. You had seen the lady rise from beside the
child's cot with the blood upon her lips."
"I did."
"Did it not occur to you that a bleeding wound may be sucked for some
other purpose than to draw the blood from it? Was there not a Queen in
English history who sucked such a wound to draw poison from it?"
"Poison!"
"A South American household. My instinct felt the presence of those
weapons upon the wall before my eyes ever saw them. It might have been
other poison, but that was what occurred to me. When I saw that little
empty quiver beside the small bird-bow, it was just what I expected to
see. If the child were pricked with one of those arrows dipped in
curare or some other devilish drug, it would mean death if the venom
were not sucked out.
"And the dog! If one were to use such a poison, would one not try it
first in order to see that it had not lost its power? I did not
foresee the dog, but at least I understood him and he fitted into my
reconstruction.
"Now do you understand? Your wife feared such an attack. She saw it
made and saved the child's life, and yet she shrank from telling you
all the truth, for she knew how you loved the boy and feared lest it
break your heart."
"Jacky!"
"I watched him as you fondled the child just now. His face was clearly
reflected in the glass of the window where the shutter formed a
background. I saw such jealousy, such cruel hatred, as I have seldom
seen in a human face."
"My Jacky!"
"You have to face it, Mr. Ferguson. It is the more painful because it
is a distorted love, a maniacal exaggerated love for you, and possibly
for his dead mother, which has prompted his action. His very soul is
consumed with hatred for this splendid child, whose health and beauty
are a contrast to his own weakness."
"Good God! It is incredible!"
"Have I spoken the truth, madame?"
The lady was sobbing, with her face buried in the pillows. Now she
turned to her husband.
"How could I tell you, Bob? I felt the blow it would be to you. It
was better that I should wait and that it should come from some other
lips than mine. When this gentleman, who seems to have powers of
magic, wrote that he knew all, I was glad."
"I think a year at sea would be my prescription for Master Jacky," said
Holmes, rising from his chair. "Only one thing is still clouded,
madame. We can quite understand your attacks upon Master Jacky. There
is a limit to a mother's patience. But how did you dare to leave the
child these last two days?"
"I had told Mrs. Mason. She knew."
"Exactly. So I imagined."
Ferguson was standing by the bed, choking, his hands outstretched and
quivering.
"This, I fancy, is the time for our exit, Watson," said Holmes in a
whisper. "If you will take one elbow of the too faithful Dolores, I
will take the other. There, now," he added, as he closed the door
behind him, "I think we may leave them to settle the rest among
themselves."
I have only one further note of this case. It is the letter which
Holmes wrote in final answer to that with which the narrative begins.
It ran thus:
BAKER STREET,
_Nov._ 21st.
_Re_ Vampires.
SIR,--
Referring to your letter of the 19th, I beg to state that I have looked
into the inquiry of your client, Mr. Robert Ferguson, of Ferguson and
Muirhead, tea brokers, of Mincing Lane, and that the matter has been
brought to a satisfactory conclusion. With thanks for your
recommendation,
I am, Sir,
Faithfully yours,
SHERLOCK HOLMES.
|
the_adventure_of_the_sussex_vampire
|
THE ADVENTURE OF THE THREE GARRIDEBS
|
The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes
|
It may have been a comedy, or it may have been a tragedy. It cost one
man his reason, it cost me a blood-letting, and it cost yet another man
the penalties of the law. Yet there was certainly an element of
comedy. Well, you shall judge for yourselves.
I remember the date very well, for it was in the same month that Holmes
refused a knighthood for services which may perhaps some day be
described. I only refer to the matter in passing, for in my position
of partner and confidant I am obliged to be particularly careful to
avoid any indiscretion. I repeat, however, that this enables me to fix
the date, which was the latter end of June, 1902, shortly after the
conclusion of the South African War. Holmes had spent several days in
bed, as was his habit from time to time, but he emerged that morning
with a long foolscap document in his hand and a twinkle of amusement in
his austere grey eyes.
"There is a chance for you to make some money, friend Watson," said he.
"Have you ever heard the name of Garrideb?"
I admitted that I had not.
"Well, if you can lay your hand upon a Garrideb, there's money in it."
"Why?"
"Ah, that's a long story--rather a whimsical one, too. I don't think
in all our explorations of human complexities we have ever come upon
anything more singular. The fellow will be here presently for
cross-examination, so I won't open the matter up till he comes. But
meanwhile, that's the name we want."
The telephone directory lay on the table beside me, and I turned over
the pages in a rather hopeless quest. But to my amazement there was
this strange name in its due place. I gave a cry of triumph.
"Here you are, Holmes! Here it is!"
Holmes took the book from my hand.
"'Garrideb, N.,'" he read, "'136 Little Ryder Street, W.' Sorry to
disappoint you, my dear Watson, but this is the man himself. That is
the address upon his letter. We want another to match him."
Mrs. Hudson had come in with a card upon a tray. I took it up and
glanced at it.
"Why, here it is!" I cried in amazement. "This is a different initial.
John Garrideb, Counsellor at Law, Moorville, Kansas, U.S.A."
Holmes smiled as he looked at the card. "I am afraid you must make yet
another effort, Watson," said he. "This gentleman is also in the plot
already, though I certainly did not expect to see him this morning.
However, he is in a position to tell us a good deal which I want to
know."
A moment later he was in the room. Mr. John Garrideb, Counsellor at
Law, was a short, powerful man with the round, fresh, clean-shaven face
characteristic of so many American men of affairs. The general effect
was chubby and rather childlike, so that one received the impression of
quite a young man with a broad set smile upon his face. His eyes,
however, were arresting. Seldom in any human head have I seen a pair
which bespoke a more intense inward life, so bright were they, so
alert, so responsive to every change of thought. His accent was
American, but was not accompanied by any eccentricity of speech.
"Mr. Holmes?" he asked, glancing from one to the other. "Ah, yes!
Your pictures are not unlike you, sir, if I may say so. I believe you
have had a letter from my namesake, Mr. Nathan Garrideb, have you not?"
"Pray sit down," said Sherlock Holmes. "We shall, I fancy, have a good
deal to discuss." He took up his sheets of foolscap. "You are, of
course, the Mr. John Garrideb mentioned in this document. But surely
you have been in England some time?"
"Why do you say that, Mr. Holmes?" I seemed to read sudden suspicion in
those expressive eyes.
"Your whole outfit is English."
Mr. Garrideb forced a laugh. "I've read of your tricks, Mr. Holmes,
but I never thought I would be the subject of them. Where do you read
that?"
"The shoulder cut of your coat, the toes of your boots--could anyone
doubt it?"
"Well, well, I had no idea I was so obvious a Britisher. But business
brought me over here some time ago, and so, as you say, my outfit is
nearly all London. However, I guess your time is of value, and we did
not meet to talk about the cut of my socks. What about getting down to
that paper you hold in your hand?"
Holmes had in some way ruffled our visitor, whose chubby face had
assumed a far less amiable expression.
"Patience! Patience, Mr. Garrideb!" said my friend in a soothing
voice. "Dr. Watson would tell you that these little digressions of
mine sometimes prove in the end to have some bearing on the matter.
But why did Mr. Nathan Garrideb not come with you?"
"Why did he ever drag you into it at all?" asked our visitor, with a
sudden outflame of anger. "What in thunder had you to do with it?
Here was a bit of professional business between two gentlemen, and one
of them must needs call in a detective! I saw him this morning, and he
told me this fool-trick he had played me, and that's why I am here.
But I feel bad about it, all the same."
"There was no reflection upon you, Mr. Garrideb. It was simply zeal
upon his part to gain your end--an end which is, I understand, equally
vital for both of you. He knew that I had means of getting
information, and, therefore, it was very natural that he should apply
to me."
Our visitor's angry face gradually cleared.
"Well, that puts it different," said he. "When I went to see him this
morning and he told me he had sent to a detective, I just asked for
your address and came right away. I don't want police butting into a
private matter. But if you are content just to help us find the man,
there can be no harm in that."
"Well, that is just how it stands," said Holmes. "And now, sir, since
you are here, we had best have a clear account from your own lips. My
friend here knows nothing of the details."
Mr. Garrideb surveyed me with not too friendly a gaze.
"Need he know?" he asked.
"We usually work together."
"Well, there's no reason it should be kept a secret. I'll give you the
facts as short as I can make them. If you came from Kansas I would not
need to explain to you who Alexander Hamilton Garrideb was. He made
his money in real estate, and afterwards in the wheat pit at Chicago,
but he spent it in buying up as much land as would make one of your
counties, lying along the Arkansas River, west of Fort Dodge. It's
grazing-land and lumber-land and arable-land and mineralized-land, and
just every sort of land that brings dollars to the man that owns it.
"He had no kith nor kin--or, if he had, I never heard of it. But he
took a kind of pride in the queerness of his name. That was what
brought us together. I was in the law at Topeka, and one day I had a
visit from the old man, and he was tickled to death to meet another man
with his own name. It was his pet fad, and he was dead set to find out
if there were any more Garridebs in the world. 'Find me another!' said
he. I told him I was a busy man and could not spend my life hiking
round the world in search of Garridebs. 'None the less,' said he,
'that is just what you will do if things pan out as I planned them.' I
thought he was joking, but there was a powerful lot of meaning in the
words, as I was soon to discover.
"For he died within a year of saying them, and he left a will behind
him. It was the queerest will that has ever been filed in the State of
Kansas. His property was divided into three parts, and I was to have
one on condition that I found two Garridebs who would share the
remainder. It's five million dollars for each if it is a cent, but we
can't lay a finger on it until we all three stand in a row.
"It was so big a chance that I just let my legal practice slide and I
set forth looking for Garridebs. There is not one in the United
States. I went through it, sir, with a fine-toothed comb and never a
Garrideb could I catch. Then I tried the old country. Sure enough
there was the name in the London Telephone Directory. I went after him
two days ago and explained the whole matter to him. But he is a lone
man, like myself, with some women relations, but no men. It says three
adult men in the will. So you see we still have a vacancy, and if you
can help to fill it we will be very ready to pay your charges."
"Well, Watson," said Holmes, with a smile, "I said it was rather
whimsical, did I not? I should have thought, sir, that your obvious
way was to advertise in the agony columns of the papers."
"I have done that, Mr. Holmes. No replies."
"Dear me! Well, it is certainly a most curious little problem. I may
take a glance at it in my leisure. By the way, it is curious that you
should have come from Topeka. I used to have a correspondent--he is
dead now--old Dr. Lysander Starr, who was Mayor in 1890."
"Good old Dr. Starr!" said our visitor. "His name is still honoured.
Well, Mr. Holmes, I suppose all we can do is to report to you and let
you know how we progress. I reckon you will hear within a day or two."
With this assurance our American bowed and departed.
Holmes had lit his pipe, and he sat for some time with a curious smile
upon his face.
"Well?" I asked at last.
"I am wondering, Watson--just wondering!"
"At what?"
Holmes took his pipe from his lips.
"I was wondering, Watson, what on earth could be the object of this man
in telling us such a rigmarole of lies. I nearly asked him so--for
there are times when a brutal frontal attack is the best policy--but I
judged it better to let him think he had fooled us. Here is a man with
an English coat frayed at the elbow and trousers bagged at the knee
with a year's wear, and yet by this document and by his own account he
is a provincial American lately landed in London. There have been no
advertisements in the agony columns. You know that I miss nothing
there. They are my favourite covert for putting up a bird, and I would
never have overlooked such a cock pheasant as that. I never knew a Dr.
Lysander Starr of Topeka. Touch him where you would he was false. I
think the fellow is really an American, but he has worn his accent
smooth with years of London. What is his game, then, and what motive
lies behind this preposterous search for Garridebs? It's worth our
attention, for, granting that the man is a rascal, he is certainly a
complex and ingenious one. We must now find out if our other
correspondent is a fraud also. Just ring him up, Watson."
I did so, and heard a thin, quavering voice at the other end of the
line.
"Yes, yes, I am Mr. Nathan Garrideb. Is Mr. Holmes there? I should
very much like to have a word with Mr. Holmes."
My friend took the instrument and I heard the usual syncopated dialogue.
"Yes, he has been here. I understand that you don't know him.... How
long? ... Only two days! ... Yes, yes, of course, it is a most
captivating prospect. Will you be at home this evening? I suppose
your namesake will not be there? ... Very good, we will come then, for
I would rather have a chat without him.... Dr. Watson will come with
me.... I understood from your note that you did not go out often....
Well, we shall be round about six. You need not mention it to the
American lawyer.... Very good. Good-bye!"
It was twilight of a lovely spring evening, and even Little Ryder
Street, one of the smaller offshoots from the Edgware Road, within a
stone-cast of old Tyburn Tree of evil memory, looked golden and
wonderful in the slanting rays of the setting sun. The particular
house to which we were directed was a large, old-fashioned, Early
Georgian edifice with a flat brick face broken only by two deep bay
windows on the ground floor. It was on this ground floor that our
client lived, and, indeed, the low windows proved to be the front of
the huge room in which he spent his waking hours. Holmes pointed as we
passed to the small brass plate which bore the curious name.
"Up some years, Watson," he remarked, indicating its discoloured
surface. "It's his real name, anyhow, and that is something to note."
The house had a common stair, and there were a number of names painted
in the hall some indicating offices and some private chambers. It was
not a collection of residential flats, but rather the abode of Bohemian
bachelors. Our client opened the door for us himself and apologized by
saying that the woman in charge left at four o'clock. Mr. Nathan
Garrideb proved to be a very tall, loose-jointed, round-backed person,
gaunt and bald, some sixty-odd years of age. He had a cadaverous face,
with the dull dead skin of a man to whom exercise was unknown. Large
round spectacles and a small projecting goat's beard combined with his
stooping attitude to give him an expression of peering curiosity. The
general effect, however, was amiable, though eccentric.
The room was as curious as its occupant. It looked like a small
museum. It was both broad and deep, with cupboards and cabinets all
round, crowded with specimens, geological and anatomical. Cases of
butterflies and moths flanked each side of the entrance. A large table
in the centre was littered with all sorts of debris, while the tall
brass tube of a powerful microscope bristled up amongst them. As I
glanced round I was surprised at the universality of the man's
interests. Here was a case of ancient coins. There was a cabinet of
flint instruments. Behind his central table was a large cupboard of
fossil bones. Above was a line of plaster skulls with such names as
"Neanderthal," "Heidelberg," "Cromagnon" printed beneath them. It was
clear that he was a student of many subjects. As he stood in front of
us now, he held a piece of chamois leather in his right hand with which
he was polishing a coin.
"Syracusan--of the best period," he explained, holding it up. "They
degenerated greatly towards the end. At their best I hold them
supreme, though some prefer the Alexandrian school. You will find a
chair here, Mr. Holmes. Pray allow me to clear these bones. And you,
sir--ah, yes, Dr. Watson--if you would have the goodness to put the
Japanese vase to one side. You see round me my little interests in
life. My doctor lectures me about never going out, but why should I go
out when I have so much to hold me here? I can assure you that the
adequate cataloguing of one of those cabinets would take me three good
months."
Holmes looked round him with curiosity.
"But do you tell me that you _never_ go out?" he said
"Now and again I drive down to Sotheby's or Christie's. Otherwise I
very seldom leave my room. I am not too strong, and my researches are
very absorbing. But you can imagine, Mr. Holmes, what a terrific
shock--pleasant but terrific--it was for me when I heard of this
unparalleled good fortune. It only needs one more Garrideb to complete
the matter, and surely we can find one. I had a brother, but he is
dead, and female relatives are disqualified. But there must surely be
others in the world. I had heard that you handled strange cases, and
that was why I sent to you. Of course, this American gentleman is
quite right, and I should have taken his advice first, but I acted for
the best."
"I think you acted very wisely indeed," said Holmes. "But are you
really anxious to acquire an estate in America?"
"Certainly not, sir. Nothing would induce me to leave my collection.
But this gentleman has assured me that he will buy me out as soon as we
have established our claim. Five million dollars was the sum named.
There are a dozen specimens in the market at the present moment which
fill gaps in my collection, and which I am unable to purchase for want
of a few hundred pounds. Just think what I could do with five million
dollars. Why, I have the nucleus of a national collection. I shall be
the Hans Sloane of my age."
His eyes gleamed behind his great spectacles. It was very clear that
no pains would be spared by Mr. Nathan Garrideb in finding a namesake.
"I merely called to make your acquaintance, and there is no reason why
I should interrupt your studies," said Holmes. "I prefer to establish
personal touch with those with whom I do business. There are few
questions I need ask, for I have your very clear narrative in my
pocket, and I filled up the blanks when this American gentleman called.
I understand that up to this week you were unaware of his existence."
"That is so. He called last Tuesday."
"Did he tell you of our interview to-day?"
"Yes, he came straight back to me. He had been very angry."
"Why should he be angry?"
"He seemed to think it was some reflection on his honour. But he was
quite cheerful again when he returned."
"Did he suggest any course of action?"
"No, sir, he did not."
"Has he had, or asked for, any money from you?"
"No, sir, never!"
"You see no possible object he has in view?"
"None, except what he states."
"Did you tell him of our telephone appointment?"
"Yes, sir, I did."
Holmes was lost in thought. I could see that he was puzzled.
"Have you any articles of great value in your collection?"
"No, sir. I am not a rich man. It is a good collection, but not a
very valuable one."
"You have no fear of burglars?"
"Not the least."
"How long have you been in these rooms?"
"Nearly five years."
Holmes's cross-examination was interrupted by an imperative knocking at
the door. No sooner had our client unlatched it than the American
lawyer burst excitedly into the room.
"Here you are!" he cried, waving a paper over his head. "I thought I
should be in time to get you. Mr. Nathan Garrideb, my congratulations!
You are a rich man, sir. Our business is happily finished and all is
well. As to you, Mr. Holmes, we can only say we are sorry if we have
given you any useless trouble."
He handed over the paper to our client, who stood staring at a marked
advertisement. Holmes and I leaned forward and read it over his
shoulder. This is how it ran:
+-----------------------------------------------------+
| |
| HOWARD GARRIDEB. |
| |
| Constructor of Agricultural Machinery. |
| |
| Binders, reapers' steam and hand plows, drills, |
| harrows, farmers' carts, buckboards, and all other |
| appliances. |
| |
| Estimates for Artesian Wells. |
| |
| Apply Grosvenor Buildings, Aston. |
| |
+-----------------------------------------------------+
"Glorious!" gasped our host. "That makes our third man."
"I had opened up inquiries in Birmingham," said the American, "and my
agent there has sent me this advertisement from a local paper. We must
hustle and put the thing through. I have written to this man and told
him that you will see him in his office to-morrow afternoon at four
o'clock."
"You want _me_ to see him?"
"What do you say, Mr. Holmes? Don't you think it would be wiser? Here
am I, a wandering American with a wonderful tale. Why should he
believe what I tell him? But you are a Britisher with solid
references, and he is bound to take notice of what you say. I would go
with you if you wished, but I have a very busy day to-morrow, and I
could always follow you if you are in any trouble."
"Well, I have not made such a journey for years."
"It is nothing, Mr. Garrideb. I have figured out your connections.
You leave at twelve and should be there soon after two. Then you can
be back the same night. All you have to do is to see this man, explain
the matter, and get an affidavit of his existence. By the Lord!" he
added hotly, "considering I've come all the way from the centre of
America, it is surely little enough if you go a hundred miles in order
to put this matter through."
"Quite so," said Holmes. "I think what this gentleman says is very
true."
Mr. Nathan Garrideb shrugged his shoulders with a disconsolate air.
"Well, if you insist I shall go," said he. "It is certainly hard for
me to refuse you anything, considering the glory of hope that you have
brought into my life."
"Then that is agreed," said Holmes, "and no doubt you will let me have
a report as soon as you can."
"I'll see to that," said the American. "Well," he added, looking at
his watch, "I'll have to get on. I'll call to-morrow, Mr. Nathan, and
see you off to Birmingham. Coming my way, Mr. Holmes? Well, then,
good-bye, and we may have good news for you to-morrow night."
I noticed that my friend's face cleared when the American left the
room, and the look of thoughtful perplexity had vanished.
"I wish I could look over your collection, Mr. Garrideb," said he. "In
my profession all sorts of odd knowledge comes useful, and this room of
yours is a storehouse of it."
Our client shone with pleasure and his eyes gleamed from behind his big
glasses.
"I had always heard, sir, that you were a very intelligent man," said
he. "I could take you round now, if you have the time."
"Unfortunately, I have not. But these specimens are so well labelled
and classified that they hardly need your personal explanation. If I
should be able to look in to-morrow, I presume that there would be no
objection to my glancing over them?"
"None at all. You are most welcome. The place will, of course, be
shut up, but Mrs. Saunders is in the basement up to four o'clock and
would let you in with her key."
"Well, I happen to be clear to-morrow afternoon. If you would say a
word to Mrs. Saunders it would be quite in order. By the way, who is
your house-agent?"
Our client was amazed at the sudden question.
"Holloway and Steele, in the Edgware Road. But why?"
"I am a bit of an archæologist myself when it comes to houses," said
Holmes, laughing. "I was wondering if this was Queen Anne or Georgian."
"Georgian, beyond doubt."
"Really. I should have thought a little earlier. However, it is
easily ascertained. Well, good-bye, Mr. Garrideb, and may you have
every success in your Birmingham journey."
The house-agent's was close by, but we found that it was closed for the
day, so we made our way back to Baker Street. It was not till after
dinner that Holmes reverted to the subject.
"Our little problem draws to a close," said he. "No doubt you have
outlined the solution in your own mind."
"I can make neither head nor tail of it."
"The head is surely clear enough and the tail we should see to-morrow.
Did you notice nothing curious about that advertisement?"
"I saw that the word 'plough' was misspelt."
"Oh, you did notice that, did you? Come, Watson, you improve all the
time. Yes, it was bad English but good American. The printer had set
it up as received. Then the buckboards. That is American also. And
artesian wells are commoner with them than with us. It was a typical
American advertisement, but purporting to be from an English firm.
What do you make of that?"
"I can only suppose that this American lawyer put it in himself. What
his object was I fail to understand."
"Well, there are alternative explanations. Anyhow, he wanted to get
this good old fossil up to Birmingham. That is very clear. I might
have told him that he was clearly going on a wild-goose chase, but, on
second thoughts, it seemed better to clear the stage by letting him go.
To-morrow, Watson--well, to-morrow will speak for itself."
Holmes was up and out early. When he returned at lunch-time I noticed
that his face was very grave.
"This is a more serious matter than I had expected, Watson," said he.
"It is fair to tell you so, though I know it will only be an additional
reason to you for running your head into danger. I should know my
Watson by now. But there is danger, and you should know it."
"Well, it is not the first we have shared, Holmes. I hope it may not
be the last. What is the particular danger this time?"
"We are up against a very hard case. I have identified Mr. John
Garrideb, Counsellor at Law. He is none other than 'Killer' Evans, of
sinister and murderous reputation."
"I fear I am none the wiser."
"Ah, it is not part of your profession to carry about a portable
Newgate Calendar in your memory. I have been down to see friend
Lestrade at the Yard. There may be an occasional want of imaginative
intuition down there, but they lead the world for thoroughness and
method. I had an idea that we might get on the track of our American
friend in their records. Sure enough, I found his chubby face smiling
up at me from the Rogues' Portrait Gallery. James Winter, _alias_
Morecroft, _alias_ Killer Evans, was the inscription below." Holmes
drew an envelope from his pocket. "I scribbled down a few points from
his dossier. Aged forty-four. Native of Chicago. Known to have shot
three men in the States. Escaped from penitentiary through political
influence. Came to London in 1893. Shot a man over cards in a night
club in the Waterloo Road in January, 1895. Man died, but he was shown
to have been the aggressor in the row. Dead man was identified as
Rodger Prescott, famous as forger and coiner in Chicago. Killer Evans
released in 1901. Has been under police supervision since, but so far
as known has led an honest life. Very dangerous man, usually carries
arms and is prepared to use them. That is our bird, Watson--a sporting
bird, as you must admit."
"But what is his game?"
"Well, it begins to define itself. I have been to the house-agents.
Our client, as he told us, has been there five years. It was unlet for
a year before then. The previous tenant was a gentleman at large named
Waldron. Waldron's appearance was well remembered at the office. He
had suddenly vanished and nothing more been heard of him. He was a
tall, bearded man with very dark features. Now, Prescott, the man whom
Killer Evans had shot, was, according to Scotland Yard, a tall, dark
man with a beard. As a working hypothesis, I think we may take it that
Prescott, the American criminal, used to live in the very room which
our innocent friend now devotes to his museum. So at last we get a
link, you see."
"And the next link?"
"Well, we must go now and look for that."
He took a revolver from the drawer and handed it to me.
"I have my old favourite with me. If our Wild West friend tries to
live up to his nickname, we must be ready for him. I'll give you an
hour for a siesta, Watson, and then I think it will be time for our
Ryder Street adventure."
It was just four o'clock when we reached the curious apartment of
Nathan Garrideb. Mrs. Saunders, the caretaker, was about to leave, but
she had no hesitation in admitting us, for the door shut with a spring
lock and Holmes promised to see that all was safe before we left.
Shortly afterwards the outer door closed, her bonnet passed the bow
window, and we knew that we were alone in the lower floor of the house.
Holmes made a rapid examination of the premises. There was one
cupboard in a dark corner which stood out a little from the wall. It
was behind this that we eventually crouched, while Holmes in a whisper
outlined his intentions.
"He wanted to get our amiable friend out of his room--that is very
clear, and, as the collector never went out, it took some planning to
do it. The whole of this Garrideb invention was apparently for no
other end. I must say, Watson, that there is a certain devilish
ingenuity about it, even if the queer name of the tenant did give him
an opening which he could hardly have expected. He wove his plot with
remarkable cunning."
"But what did he want?"
"Well, that is what we are here to find out. It has nothing whatever
to do with our client, so far as I can read the situation. It is
something connected with the man he murdered--the man who may have been
his confederate in crime. There is some guilty secret in the room.
That is how I read it. At first I thought our friend might have
something in his collection more valuable than he knew--something worth
the attention of a big criminal. But the fact that Rodger Prescott of
evil memory inhabited these rooms points to some deeper reason. Well,
Watson, we can but possess our souls in patience and see what the hour
may bring."
That hour was not long in striking. We crouched closer in the shadow
as we heard the outer door open and shut. Then came the sharp,
metallic snap of a key, and the American was in the room. He closed
the door softly behind him, took a sharp glance around him to see that
all was safe, threw off his overcoat, and walked up to the central
table with the brisk manner of one who knows exactly what he has to do
and how to do it. He pushed the table to one side, tore up the square
of carpet on which it rested, rolled it completely back, and then,
drawing a jemmy from his inside pocket, he knelt down and worked
vigorously upon the floor. Presently we heard the sound of sliding
boards, and an instant later a square had opened in the planks. Killer
Evans struck a match, lit a stump of candle, and vanished from our view.
Clearly our moment had come. Holmes touched my wrist as a signal, and
together we stole across to the open trapdoor. Gently as we moved,
however, the old floor must have creaked under our feet, for the head
of our American, peering anxiously round, emerged suddenly from the
open space. His face turned upon us with a glare of baffled rage,
which gradually softened into a rather shamefaced grin as he realized
that two pistols were pointed at his head.
"Well, well!" said he, coolly, as he scrambled to the surface. "I
guess you have been one too many for me, Mr. Holmes. Saw through my
game, I suppose, and played me for a sucker from the first. Well, sir,
I hand it to you; you have me beat and----"
In an instant he had whisked out a revolver from his breast and had
fired two shots. I felt a sudden hot sear as if a red-hot iron had
been pressed to my thigh. There was a crash as Holmes's pistol came
down on the man's head. I had a vision of him sprawling upon the floor
with blood running down his face while Holmes rummaged him for weapons.
Then my friend's wiry arms were round me and he was leading me to a
chair.
"You're not hurt, Watson? For God's sake, say that you are not hurt!"
It was worth a wound--it was worth many wounds--to know the depth of
loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes
were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one
and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great
brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in
that moment of revelation.
"It's nothing, Holmes. It's a mere scratch."
He had ripped up my trousers with his pocket-knife.
"You are right," he cried, with an immense sigh of relief. "It is
quite superficial." His face set like flint as he glared at our
prisoner, who was sitting up with a dazed face. "By the Lord, it is as
well for you. If you had killed Watson, you would not have got out of
this room alive. Now, sir, what have you to say for yourself?"
He had nothing to say for himself. He only lay and scowled. I leaned
on Holmes's arm, and together we looked down into the small cellar
which had been disclosed by the secret flap. It was still illuminated
by the candle which Evans had taken down with him. Our eyes fell upon
a mass of rusted machinery, great rolls of paper, a litter of bottles,
and, neatly arranged upon a small table, a number of neat little
bundles.
"A printing press--a counterfeiter's outfit," said Holmes.
"Yes, sir," said our prisoner, staggering slowly to his feet and then
sinking into the chair. "The greatest counterfeiter London ever saw.
That's Prescott's machine, and those bundles on the table are two
thousand of Prescott's notes worth a hundred each and fit to pass
anywhere. Help yourselves, gentlemen. Call it a deal and let me beat
it."
Holmes laughed.
"We don't do things like that, Mr. Evans. There is no bolt-hole for
you in this country. You shot this man Prescott, did you not?"
"Yes, sir, and got five years for it, though it was he who pulled on
me. Five years--when I should have had a medal the size of a soup
plate. No living man could tell a Prescott from a Bank of England, and
if I hadn't put him out he would have flooded London with them. I was
the only one in the world who knew where he made them. Can you wonder
that I wanted to get to the place? And can you wonder that when I
found this crazy boob of a bug-hunter with the queer name squatting
right on the top of it, and never quitting his room, I had to do the
best I could to shift him? Maybe I would have been wiser if I had put
him away. It would have been easy enough, but I'm a soft-hearted guy
that can't begin shooting unless the other man has a gun also. But
say, Mr. Holmes, what have I done wrong, anyhow? I've not used this
plant. I've not hurt this old stiff. Where do you get me?"
"Only attempted murder, so far as I can see," said Holmes. "But that's
not our job. They take that at the next stage. What we wanted at
present was just your sweet self. Please give the Yard a call, Watson.
It won't be entirely unexpected."
So those were the facts about Killer Evans and his remarkable invention
of the three Garridebs. We heard later that our poor old friend never
got over the shock of his dissipated dreams. When his castle in the
air fell down, it buried him beneath the ruins. He was last heard of
at a nursing-home in Brixton. It was a glad day at the Yard when the
Prescott outfit was discovered, for, though they knew that it existed,
they had never been able, after the death of the man, to find out where
it was. Evans had indeed done great service and caused several worthy
C.I.D. men to sleep the sounder, for the counterfeiter stands in a
class by himself as a public danger. They would willingly have
subscribed to that soup-plate medal of which the criminal had spoken,
but an unappreciative Bench took a less favourable view, and the Killer
returned to those shades from which he had just emerged.
|
the_adventure_of_the_three_garridebs
|
THE PROBLEM OF THOR BRIDGE
|
The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes
|
Somewhere in the vaults of the bank of Cox and Co., at Charing Cross,
there is a travel-worn and battered tin dispatch-box with my name, John
H. Watson, M.D., Late Indian Army, painted upon the lid. It is crammed
with papers, nearly all of which are records of cases to illustrate the
curious problems which Mr. Sherlock Holmes had at various times to
examine. Some, and not the least interesting, were complete failures,
and as such will hardly bear narrating, since no final explanation is
forthcoming. A problem without a solution may interest the student,
but can hardly fail to annoy the casual reader. Among these unfinished
tales is that of Mr. James Phillimore, who, stepping back into his own
house to get his umbrella, was never more seen in this world. No less
remarkable is that of the cutter _Alicia_, which sailed one spring
morning into a small patch of mist from where she never again emerged,
nor was anything further ever heard of herself and her crew. A third
case worthy of note is that of Isadora Persano, the well-known
journalist and duellist, who was found stark staring mad with a
matchbox in front of him which contained a remarkable worm, said to be
unknown to science. Apart from these unfathomed cases, there are some
which involve the secrets of private families to an extent which would
mean consternation in many exalted quarters if it were thought possible
that they might find their way into print. I need not say that such a
breach of confidence is unthinkable, and that these records will be
separated and destroyed now that my friend has time to turn his
energies to the matter. There remain a considerable residue of cases
of greater or less interest which I might have edited before had I not
feared to give the public a surfeit which might react upon the
reputation of the man whom above all others I revere. In some I was
myself concerned and can speak as an eye-witness, while in others I was
either not present or played so small a part that they could only be
told as by a third person. The following narrative is drawn from my
own experience.
It was a wild morning in October, and I observed as I was dressing how
the last remaining leaves were being whirled from the solitary plane
tree which graces the yard behind our house. I descended to breakfast
prepared to find my companion in depressed spirits, for, like all great
artists, he was easily impressed by his surroundings. On the contrary,
I found that he had nearly finished his meal, and that his mood was
particularly bright and joyous, with that somewhat sinister
cheerfulness which was characteristic of his lighter moments.
"You have a case, Holmes?" I remarked.
"The faculty of deduction is certainly contagious, Watson," he
answered. "It has enabled you to probe my secret. Yes, I have a case.
After a month of trivialities and stagnation the wheels move once more."
"Might I share it?"
"There is little to share, but we may discuss it when you have consumed
the two hard-boiled eggs with which our new cook has favoured us.
Their condition may not be unconnected with the copy of the _Family
Herald_ which I observed yesterday upon the hall-table. Even so
trivial a matter as cooking an egg demands an attention which is
conscious of the passage of time, and incompatible with the love
romance in that excellent periodical."
A quarter of an hour later the table had been cleared and we were face
to face. He had drawn a letter from his pocket.
"You have heard of Neil Gibson, the Gold King?" he said.
"You mean the American Senator?"
"Well, he was once Senator for some Western State, but is better known
as the greatest gold-mining magnate in the world."
"Yes, I know of him. He has surely lived in England for some time.
His name is very familiar."
"Yes; he bought a considerable estate in Hampshire some five years ago.
Possibly you have already heard of the tragic end of his wife?"
"Of course. I remember it now. That is why the name is familiar. But
I really know nothing of the details."
Holmes waved his hand towards some papers on a chair. "I had no idea
that the case was coming my way or I should have had my extracts
ready," said he. "The fact is that the problem, though exceedingly
sensational, appeared to present no difficulty. The interesting
personality of the accused does not obscure the clearness of the
evidence. That was the view taken by the coroner's jury and also in
the police-court proceedings. It is now referred to the Assizes at
Winchester. I fear it is a thankless business. I can discover facts,
Watson, but I cannot change them. Unless some entirely new and
unexpected ones come to light I do not see what my client can hope for."
"Your client?"
"Ah, I forgot I had not told you. I am getting into your involved
habit, Watson, of telling a story backwards. You had best read this
first."
The letter which he handed to me, written in a bold, masterful hand,
ran as follows:
CLARIDGE'S HOTEL, _October_ 3_rd_.
DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES,--
I can't see the best woman God ever made go to her death without doing
all that is possible to save her. I can't explain things--I can't even
try to explain them, but I know beyond all doubt that Miss Dunbar is
innocent. You know the facts--who doesn't? It has been the gossip of
the country. And never a voice raised for her! It's the damned
injustice of it all that makes me crazy. That woman has a heart that
wouldn't let her kill a fly. Well, I'll come at eleven to-morrow and
see if you can get some ray of light in the dark. Maybe I have a clue
and don't know it. Anyhow, all I know and all I have and all I am are
for your use if only you can save her. If ever in your life you showed
your powers, put them now into this case.
Yours faithfully,
J. NEIL GIBSON.
"There you have it," said Sherlock Holmes, knocking out the ashes of
his after-breakfast pipe and slowly refilling it. "That is the
gentleman I await. As to the story, you have hardly time to master all
these papers, so I must give it to you in a nutshell if you are to take
an intelligent interest in the proceedings. This man is the greatest
financial power in the world, and a man, as I understand, of most
violent and formidable character. He married a wife, the victim of
this tragedy, of whom I know nothing save that she was past her prime,
which was the more unfortunate as a very attractive governess
superintended the education of two young children. These are the three
people concerned, and the scene is a grand old manor-house, the centre
of an historical English estate. Then as to the tragedy. The wife was
found in the grounds nearly half a mile from the house, late at night,
clad in her dinner dress, with a shawl over her shoulders and a
revolver bullet through her brain. No weapon was found near her and
there was no local clue as to the murder. No weapon near her,
Watson--mark that! The crime seems to have been committed late in the
evening, and the body was found by a gamekeeper about eleven o'clock,
when it was examined by the police and by a doctor before being carried
up to the house. Is this too condensed, or can you follow it clearly?"
"It is all very clear. But why suspect the governess?"
"Well, in the first place there is some very direct evidence. A
revolver with one discharged chamber and a calibre which corresponded
with the bullet was found on the floor of her wardrobe." His eyes
fixed and he repeated in broken words,
"On--the--floor--of--her--wardrobe." Then he sank into silence, and I
saw that some train of thought had been set moving which I should be
foolish to interrupt. Suddenly with a start he emerged into brisk life
once more. "Yes, Watson, it was found. Pretty damning, eh? So the
two juries thought. Then the dead woman had a note upon her making an
appointment at that very place and signed by the governess. How's
that? Finally, there is the motive. Senator Gibson is an attractive
person. If his wife dies, who more likely to succeed her than the
young lady who had already by all accounts received pressing attentions
from her employer. Love, fortune, power, all depending upon one
middle-aged life. Ugly, Watson--very ugly!"
"Yes, indeed, Holmes."
"Nor could she prove an alibi. On the contrary, she had to admit that
she was down near Thor Bridge--that was the scene of the tragedy--about
that hour. She couldn't deny it, for some passing villager had seen
her there."
"That really seems final."
"And yet, Watson--and yet! This bridge--a single broad span of stone
with balustraded sides--carries the drive over the narrowest part of a
long, deep, reed-girt sheet of water. Thor Mere it is called. In the
mouth of the bridge lay the dead woman. Such are the main facts. But
here, if I mistake not, is our client, considerably before his time."
Billy had opened the door, but the name which he announced was an
unexpected one. Mr. Marlow Bates was a stranger to both of us. He was
a thin, nervous wisp of a man with frightened eyes, and a twitching,
hesitating manner--a man whom my own professional eye would judge to be
on the brink of an absolute nervous breakdown.
"You seem agitated, Mr. Bates," said Holmes. "Pray sit down. I fear I
can only give you a short time, for I have an appointment at eleven."
"I know you have," our visitor gasped, shooting out short sentences
like a man who is out of breath. "Mr. Gibson is coming. Mr. Gibson is
my employer. I am manager of his estate. Mr. Holmes, he is a
villain--an infernal villain."
"Strong language, Mr. Bates."
"I have to be emphatic, Mr. Holmes, for the time is so limited. I
would not have him find me here for the world. He is almost due now.
But I was so situated that I could not come earlier. His secretary,
Mr. Ferguson, only told me this morning of his appointment with you."
"And you are his manager?"
"I have given him notice. In a couple of weeks I shall have shaken off
his accursed slavery. A hard man, Mr. Holmes, hard to all about him.
Those public charities are a screen to cover his private iniquities.
But his wife was his chief victim. He was brutal to her--yes, sir,
brutal! How she came by her death I do not know, but I am sure that he
had made her life a misery to her. She was a creature of the Tropics,
a Brazilian by birth, as no doubt you know?"
"No; it had escaped me."
"Tropical by birth and tropical by nature. A child of the sun and of
passion. She had loved him as such women can love, but when her own
physical charms had faded--I am told that they once were great--there
was nothing to hold him. We all liked her and felt for her and hated
him for the way that he treated her. But he is plausible and cunning.
That is all I have to say to you. Don't take him at his face value.
There is more behind. Now I'll go. No, no, don't detain me! He is
almost due."
With a frightened look at the clock our strange visitor literally ran
to the door and disappeared.
"Well! Well!" said Holmes, after an interval of silence. "Mr. Gibson
seems to have a nice loyal household. But the warning is a useful one,
and now we can only wait till the man himself appears."
Sharp at the hour we heard a heavy step upon the stairs and the famous
millionaire was shown into the room. As I looked upon him I understood
not only the fears and dislike of his manager, but also the execrations
which so many business rivals have heaped upon his head. If I were a
sculptor and desired to idealize the successful man of affairs, iron of
nerve and leathery of conscience, I should choose Mr. Neil Gibson as my
model. His tall, gaunt craggy figure had a suggestion of hunger and
rapacity. An Abraham Lincoln keyed to base uses instead of high ones
would give some idea of the man. His face might have been chiselled in
granite, hard-set, craggy, remorseless, with deep lines upon it, the
scars of many a crisis. Cold grey eyes, looking shrewdly out from
under bristling brows, surveyed us each in turn. He bowed in
perfunctory fashion as Holmes mentioned my name, and then with a
masterful air of possession he drew a chair up to my companion and
seated himself with his bony knees almost touching him.
"Let me say right here, Mr. Holmes," he began, "that money is nothing
to me in this case. You can burn it if it's any use in lighting you to
the truth. This woman is innocent and this woman has to be cleared,
and it's up to you to do it. Name your figure!"
"My professional charges are upon a fixed scale," said Holmes coldly.
"I do not vary them, save when I remit them altogether."
"Well, if dollars make no difference to you, think of the reputation.
If you pull this off every paper in England and America will be booming
you. You'll be the talk of two continents."
"Thank you, Mr. Gibson, I do not think that I am in need of booming.
It may surprise you to know that I prefer to work anonymously, and that
it is the problem itself which attracts me. But we are wasting time.
Let us get down to the facts."
"I think that you will find all the main ones in the Press reports. I
don't know that I can add anything which will help you. But if there
is anything you would wish more light upon--well, I am here to give it."
"Well, there is just one point."
"What is it?"
"What were the exact relations between you and Miss Dunbar?"
The Gold King gave a violent start, and half rose from his chair. Then
his massive calm came back to him.
"I suppose you are within your rights--and maybe doing your duty--in
asking such a question, Mr. Holmes."
"We will agree to suppose so," said Holmes.
"Then I can assure you that our relations were entirely and always
those of an employer towards a young lady whom he never conversed with,
or ever saw, save when she was in the company of his children."
Holmes rose from his chair.
"I am a rather busy man, Mr. Gibson," said he, "and I have no time or
taste for aimless conversations. I wish you good morning."
Our visitor had risen also and his great loose figure towered above
Holmes. There was an angry gleam from under those bristling brows and
a tinge of colour in the sallow cheeks.
"What the devil do you mean by this, Mr. Holmes? Do you dismiss my
case?"
"Well, Mr. Gibson, at least I dismiss you. I should have thought my
words were plain."
"Plain enough, but what's at the back of it? Raising the price on me,
or afraid to tackle it, or what? I've a right to a plain answer."
"Well, perhaps you have," said Holmes. "I'll give you one. This case
is quite sufficiently complicated to start with, without the further
difficulty of false information."
"Meaning that I lie."
"Well, I was trying to express it as delicately as I could, but if you
insist upon the word I will not contradict you."
I sprang to my feet, for the expression upon the millionaire's face was
fiendish in its intensity, and he had raised his great knotted fist.
Holmes smiled languidly and reached his hand out for his pipe.
"Don't be noisy, Mr. Gibson. I find that after breakfast even the
smallest argument is unsettling. I suggest that a stroll in the
morning air and a little quiet thought will be greatly to your
advantage."
With an effort the Gold King mastered his fury. I could not but admire
him, for by a supreme self-command he had turned in a minute from a hot
flame of anger to a frigid and contemptuous indifference.
"Well, it's your choice. I guess you know how to run your own
business. I can't make you touch the case against your will. You've
done yourself no good this morning, Mr. Holmes, for I have broken
stronger men than you. No man ever crossed me and was the better for
it."
"So many have said so, and yet here I am," said Holmes, smiling.
"Well, good morning, Mr. Gibson. You have a good deal yet to learn."
Our visitor made a noisy exit, but Holmes smoked in imperturbable
silence with dreamy eyes fixed upon the ceiling.
"Any views, Watson?" he asked at last.
"Well, Holmes, I must confess that when I consider that this is a man
who would certainly brush any obstacle from his path, and when I
remember that his wife may have been an obstacle and an object of
dislike, as that man Bates plainly told us, it seems to me----"
"Exactly. And to me also."
"But what were his relations with the governess and how did you
discover them?"
"Bluff, Watson, bluff! When I considered the passionate,
unconventional, unbusinesslike tone of his letter, and contrasted it
with his self-contained manner and appearance, it was pretty clear that
there was some deep emotion which centred upon the accused woman rather
than upon the victim. We've got to understand the exact relations of
those three people if we are to reach the truth. You saw the frontal
attack which I made upon him and how imperturbably he received it.
Then I bluffed him by giving him the impression that I was absolutely
certain, when in reality I was only extremely suspicious.
"Perhaps he will come back?"
"He is sure to come back. He must come back. He can't leave it where
it is. Ha! isn't that a ring? Yes, there is his footstep. Well, Mr.
Gibson, I was just saying to Dr. Watson that you were somewhat overdue."
The Gold King had re-entered the room in a more chastened mood than he
had left it. His wounded pride still showed in his resentful eyes, but
his common sense had shown him that he must yield if he would attain
his end.
"I've been thinking it over, Mr. Holmes, and I feel that I have been
hasty in taking your remarks amiss. You are justified in getting down
to the facts, whatever they may be, and I think the more of you for it.
I can assure you, however, that the relations between Miss Dunbar and
me don't really touch this case."
"That is for me to decide, is it not?"
"Yes, I guess that is so. You're like a surgeon who wants every
symptom before he can give his diagnosis."
"Exactly. That expresses it. And it is only a patient who has an
object in deceiving his surgeon who would conceal the facts of his
case."
"That may be so, but you will admit, Mr. Holmes, that most men would
shy off a bit when they are asked point-blank what their relations with
a woman may be--if there is really some serious feeling in the case. I
guess most men have a little private reserve of their own in some
corner of their souls where they don't welcome intruders. And you
burst suddenly into it. But the object excuses you, since it was to
try and save her. Well, the stakes are down and the reserve open and
you can explore where you will. What is it you want?"
"The truth."
The Gold King paused for a moment as one who marshals his thoughts.
His grim, deep-lined face had become even sadder and more grave.
"I can give it to you in a very few words, Mr. Holmes," said he at
last. "There are some things that are painful as well as difficult to
say, so I won't go deeper than is needful. I met my wife when I was
gold-hunting in Brazil. Maria Pinto was the daughter of a Government
official at Manaos, and she was very beautiful. I was young and ardent
in those days, but even now, as I look back with colder blood and a
more critical eye, I can see that she was rare and wonderful in her
beauty. It was a deep rich nature, too, passionate, whole-hearted,
tropical, ill-balanced, very different from the American women whom I
had known. Well, to make a long story short, I loved her and I married
her. It was only when the romance had passed--and it lingered for
years--that I realized that we had nothing--absolutely nothing--in
common. My love faded. If hers had faded also it might have been
easier. But you know the wonderful way of women! Do what I might
nothing could turn her from me. If I have been harsh to her, even
brutal as some have said, it has been because I knew that if I could
kill her love, or if it turned to hate, it would be easier for both of
us. But nothing changed her. She adored me in those English woods as
she had adored me twenty years ago on the banks of the Amazon. Do what
I might, she was as devoted as ever.
"Then came Miss Grace Dunbar. She answered our advertisement and
became governess to our two children. Perhaps you have seen her
portrait in the papers. The whole world has proclaimed that she also
is a very beautiful woman. Now, I make no pretence to be more moral
than my neighbours, and I will admit to you that I could not live under
the same roof with such a woman and in daily contact with her without
feeling a passionate regard for her. Do you blame me, Mr. Holmes?"
"I do not blame you for feeling it. I should blame you if you
expressed it, since this young lady was in a sense under your
protection."
"Well, maybe so," said the millionaire, though for a moment the reproof
had brought the old angry gleam into his eyes. "I'm not pretending to
be any better than I am. I guess all my life I've been a man that
reached out his hand for what he wanted, and I never wanted anything
more than the love and possession of that woman. I told her so."
"Oh, you did, did you?"
Holmes could look very formidable when he was moved.
"I said to her that if I could marry her I would, but that it was out
of my power. I said that money was no object and that all I could do
to make her happy and comfortable would be done."
"Very generous, I am sure," said Holmes, with a sneer.
"See here, Mr. Holmes. I came to you on a question of evidence, not on
a question of morals. I'm not asking for your criticism."
"It is only for the young lady's sake that I touch your case at all,"
said Holmes sternly. "I don't know that anything she is accused of is
really worse than what you have yourself admitted, that you have tried
to ruin a defenceless girl who was under your roof. Some of you rich
men have to be taught that all the world cannot be bribed into
condoning your offences."
To my surprise the Gold King took the reproof with equanimity.
"That's how I feel myself about it now. I thank God that my plans did
not work out as I intended. She would have none of it, and she wanted
to leave the house instantly."
"Why did she not?"
"Well, in the first place, others were dependent upon her, and it was
no light matter for her to let them all down by sacrificing her living.
When I had sworn--as I did--that she should never be molested again,
she consented to remain. But there was another reason. She knew the
influence she had over me, and that it was stronger than any other
influence in the world. She wanted to use it for good."
"How?"
"Well, she knew something of my affairs. They are large, Mr.
Holmes--large beyond the belief of an ordinary man. I can make or
break--and it is usually break. It wasn't individuals only. It was
communities, cities, even nations. Business is a hard game, and the
weak go to the wall. I played the game for all it was worth. I never
squealed myself and I never cared if the other fellow squealed. But
she saw it different. I guess she was right. She believed and said
that a fortune for one man that was more than he needed should not be
built on ten thousand ruined men who were left without the means of
life. That was how she saw it, and I guess she could see past the
dollars to something that was more lasting. She found that I listened
to what she said, and she believed she was serving the world by
influencing my actions. So she stayed--and then this came along."
"Can you throw any light upon that?"
The Gold King paused for a minute or more, his head sunk in his hands,
lost in deep thought.
"It's very black against her. I can't deny that. And women lead an
inward life and may do things beyond the judgment of a man. At first I
was so rattled and taken aback that I was ready to think she had been
led away in some extraordinary fashion that was clean against her usual
nature. One explanation came into my head. I give it to you, Mr.
Holmes, for what it is worth. There is no doubt that my wife was
bitterly jealous. There is a soul-jealousy that can be as frantic as
any body-jealousy, and though my wife had no cause--and I think she
understood this--for the latter, she was aware that this English girl
exerted an influence upon my mind and my acts that she herself never
had. It was an influence for good, but that did not mend the matter.
She was crazy with hatred, and the heat of the Amazon was always in her
blood. She might have planned to murder Miss Dunbar--or we will say to
threaten her with a gun and so frighten her into leaving us. Then
there might have been a scuffle and the gun gone off and shot the woman
who held it."
"That possibility had already occurred to me," said Holmes. "Indeed,
it is the only obvious alternative to deliberate murder."
"But she utterly denies it."
"Well, that is not final--is it? One can understand that a woman
placed in so awful a position might hurry home still in her
bewilderment holding the revolver. She might even throw it down among
her clothes, hardly knowing what she was doing, and when it was found
she might try to lie her way out by a total denial, since all
explanation was impossible. What is against such a supposition?"
"Miss Dunbar herself."
"Well, perhaps."
Holmes looked at his watch. "I have no doubt we can get the necessary
permits this morning and reach Winchester by the evening train. When I
have seen this young lady, it is very possible that I may be of more
use to you in the matter, though I cannot promise that my conclusions
will necessarily be such as you desire."
There was some delay in the official pass, and instead of reaching
Winchester that day we went down to Thor Place, the Hampshire estate of
Mr. Neil Gibson. He did not accompany us himself, but we had the
address of Sergeant Coventry, of the local police, who had first
examined into the affair. He was a tall, thin, cadaverous man, with a
secretive and mysterious manner, which conveyed the idea that he knew
or suspected a very great deal more than he dared say. He had a trick,
too, of suddenly sinking his voice to a whisper as if he had come upon
something of vital importance, though the information was usually
commonplace enough. Behind these tricks of manner he soon showed
himself to be a decent, honest fellow who was not too proud to admit
that he was out of his depth and would welcome any help.
"Anyhow, I'd rather have you than Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes," said he.
"If the Yard gets called into a case, then the local loses all credit
for success and may be blamed for failure. Now, you play straight, so
I've heard."
"I need not appear in the matter at all," said Holmes, to the evident
relief of our melancholy acquaintance. "If I can clear it up I don't
ask to have my name mentioned."
"Well, it's very handsome of you, I am sure. And your friend, Dr.
Watson, can be trusted, I know. Now, Mr. Holmes, as we walk down to
the place there is one question I should like to ask you. I'd breathe
it to no soul but you." He looked round as though he hardly dare utter
the words. "Don't you think there might be a case against Mr. Neil
Gibson himself?"
"I have been considering that."
"You've not seen Miss Dunbar. She is a wonderful fine woman in every
way. He may well have wished his wife out of the road. And these
Americans are readier with pistols than our folk are. It was his
pistol, you know."
"Was that clearly made out?"
"Yes, sir. It was one of a pair that he had."
"One of a pair? Where is the other?"
"Well, the gentleman has a lot of fire-arms of one sort and another.
We never quite matched that particular pistol--but the box was made for
two."
"If it was one of a pair you should surely be able to match it."
"Well, we have them all laid out at the house if you would care to look
them over."
"Later, perhaps. I think we will walk down together and have a look at
the scene of the tragedy."
This conversation had taken place in the little front room of Sergeant
Coventry's humble cottage which served as the local police-station. A
walk of half a mile or so across a wind-swept heath, all gold and
bronze with the fading ferns, brought us to a side-gate opening into
the grounds of the Thor Place estate. A path led us through the
pheasant preserves, and then from a clearing we saw the wide-spread,
half-timbered house, half Tudor and half Georgian, upon the crest of
the hill. Beside us there was a long, reedy pool, constricted in the
centre where the main carriage drive passed over a stone bridge, but
swelling into small lakes on either side. Our guide paused at the
mouth of this bridge, and he pointed to the ground.
"That was where Mrs. Gibson's body lay. I marked it by that stone."
"I understand that you were there before it was moved?"
"Yes; they sent for me at once."
"Who did?"
"Mr. Gibson himself. The moment the alarm was given and he had rushed
down with others from the house, he insisted that nothing should be
moved until the police should arrive."
"That was sensible. I gathered from the newspaper report that the shot
was fired from close quarters."
"Yes, sir, very close."
"Near the right temple?"
"Just behind it, sir."
"How did the body lie?"
"On the back, sir. No trace of a struggle. No marks. No weapon. The
short note from Miss Dunbar was clutched in her left hand."
"Clutched, you say?"
"Yes, sir; we could hardly open the fingers."
"That is of great importance. It excludes the idea that anyone could
have placed the note there after death in order to furnish a false
clue. Dear me! The note, as I remember, was quite short. 'I will be
at Thor Bridge at nine o'clock.--G. Dunbar.' Was that not so?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did Miss Dunbar admit writing it?"
"Yes, sir."
"What was her explanation?"
"Her defence was reserved for the Assizes. She would say nothing."
"The problem is certainly a very interesting one. The point of the
letter is very obscure, is it not?"
"Well, sir," said the guide, "it seemed, if I may be so bold as to say
so, the only really clear point in the whole case."
Holmes shook his head.
"Granting that the letter is genuine and was really written, it was
certainly received some time before--say one hour or two. Why, then,
was this lady still clasping it in her left hand? Why should she carry
it so carefully? She did not need to refer to it in the interview.
Does it not seem remarkable?"
"Well, sir, as you put it, perhaps it does."
"I think I should like to sit quietly for a few minutes and think it
out." He seated himself upon the stone ledge of the bridge, and I
could see his quick grey eyes darting their questioning glances in
every direction. Suddenly he sprang up again and ran across to the
opposite parapet, whipped his lens from his pocket, and began to
examine the stonework.
"This is curious," said he.
"Yes, sir; we saw the chip on the ledge. I expect it's been done by
some passer-by."
The stonework was grey, but at this one point it showed white for a
space not larger than a sixpence. When examined closely one could see
that the surface was chipped as by a sharp blow.
"It took some violence to do that," said Holmes thoughtfully. With his
cane he struck the ledge several times without leaving a mark. "Yes,
it was a hard knock. In a curious place, too. It was not from above
but from below, for you see that it is on the _lower_ edge of the
parapet."
"But it is at least fifteen feet from the body."
"Yes, it is fifteen feet from the body. It may have nothing to do with
the matter, but it is a point worth noting. I do not think that we
have anything more to learn here. There were no footsteps, you say?"
"The ground was iron hard, sir. There were no traces at all."
"Then we can go. We will go up to the house first and look over these
weapons of which you speak. Then we shall get on to Winchester, for I
should desire to see Miss Dunbar before we go farther."
Mr. Neil Gibson had not returned from town, but we saw in the house the
neurotic Mr. Bates who had called upon us in the morning. He showed us
with a sinister relish the formidable array of fire-arms of various
shapes and sizes which his employer had accumulated in the course of an
adventurous life.
"Mr. Gibson has his enemies, as anyone would expect who knew him and
his methods," said he. "He sleeps with a loaded revolver in the drawer
beside his bed. He is a man of violence, sir, and there are times when
all of us are afraid of him. I am sure that the poor lady who has
passed was often terrified."
"Did you ever witness physical violence towards her?"
"No, I cannot say that. But I have heard words which were nearly as
bad--words of cold, cutting contempt, even before the servants."
"Our millionaire does not seem to shine in private life," remarked
Holmes, as we made our way to the station. "Well, Watson, we have come
on a good many facts, some of them new ones, and yet I seem some way
from my conclusion. In spite of the very evident dislike which Mr.
Bates has to his employer, I gather from him that when the alarm came
he was undoubtedly in his library. Dinner was over at eight-thirty and
all was normal up to then. It is true that the alarm was somewhat late
in the evening, but the tragedy certainly occurred about the hour named
in the note. There is no evidence at all that Mr. Gibson had been out
of doors since his return from town at five o'clock. On the other
hand, Miss Dunbar, as I understand it, admits that she had made an
appointment to meet Mrs. Gibson at the bridge. Beyond this she would
say nothing, as her lawyer had advised her to reserve her defence. We
have several very vital questions to ask that young lady, and my mind
will not be easy until we have seen her. I must confess that the case
would seem to me to be very black against her if it were not for one
thing."
"And what is that, Holmes?"
"The finding of the pistol in her wardrobe."
"Dear me, Holmes!" I cried, "that seemed to me to be the most damning
incident of all."
"Not so, Watson. It had struck me even at my first perfunctory reading
as very strange, and now that I am in closer touch with the case it is
my only firm ground for hope. We must look for consistency. Where
there is a want of it we must suspect deception."
"I hardly follow you."
"Well now, Watson, suppose for a moment that we visualize you in the
character of a woman who, in a cold, premeditated fashion, is about to
get rid of a rival. You have planned it. A note has been written.
The victim has come. You have your weapon. The crime is done. It has
been workman-like and complete. Do you tell me that after carrying out
so crafty a crime you would now ruin your reputation as a criminal by
forgetting to fling your weapon into those adjacent reed-beds which
would for ever cover it, but you must needs carry it carefully home and
put it in your own wardrobe, the very first place that would be
searched? Your best friends would hardly call you a schemer, Watson,
and yet I could not picture you doing anything so crude as that."
"In the excitement of the moment----"
"No, no, Watson, I will not admit that it is possible. Where a crime
is coolly premeditated, then the means of covering it are coolly
premeditated also. I hope, therefore, that we are in the presence of a
serious misconception."
"But there is so much to explain."
"Well, we shall set about explaining it. When once your point of view
is changed, the very thing which was so damning becomes a clue to the
truth. For example, there is this revolver. Miss Dunbar disclaims all
knowledge of it. On our new theory she is speaking truth when she says
so. Therefore, it was placed in her wardrobe. Who placed it there?
Someone who wished to incriminate her. Was not that person the actual
criminal? You see how we come at once upon a most fruitful line of
inquiry."
We were compelled to spend the night at Winchester, as the formalities
had not yet been completed, but next morning, in the company of Mr.
Joyce Cummings, the rising barrister who was entrusted with the
defence, we were allowed to see the young lady in her cell. I had
expected from all that we had heard to see a beautiful woman, but I can
never forget the effect which Miss Dunbar produced upon me. It was no
wonder that even the masterful millionaire had found in her something
more powerful than himself--something which could control and guide
him. One felt, too, as one looked at that strong, clear-cut, and yet
sensitive face, that even should she be capable of some impetuous deed,
none the less there was an innate nobility of character which would
make her influence always for the good. She was a brunette, tall, with
a noble figure and commanding presence, but her dark eyes had in them
the appealing, helpless expression of the hunted creature who feels the
nets around it, but can see no way out from the toils. Now, as she
realized the presence and the help of my famous friend, there came a
touch of colour in her wan cheeks and a light of hope began to glimmer
in the glance which she turned upon us.
"Perhaps Mr. Neil Gibson has told you something of what occurred
between us?" she asked, in a low, agitated voice.
"Yes," Holmes answered; "you need not pain yourself by entering into
that part of the story. After seeing you, I am prepared to accept Mr.
Gibson's statement both as to the influence which you had over him and
as to the innocence of your relations with him. But why was the whole
situation not brought out in court?"
"It seemed to me incredible that such a charge could be sustained. I
thought that if we waited the whole thing must clear itself up without
our being compelled to enter into painful details of the inner life of
the family. But I understand that far from clearing it has become even
more serious."
"My dear young lady," cried Holmes earnestly, "I beg you to have no
illusions upon the point. Mr. Cummings here would assure you that all
the cards are at present against us, and that we must do everything
that is possible if we are to win clear. It would be a cruel deception
to pretend that you are not in very great danger. Give me all the help
you can, then, to get at the truth."
"I will conceal nothing."
"Tell us, then, of your true relations with Mr. Gibson's wife."
"She hated me, Mr. Holmes. She hated me with all the fervour of her
tropical nature. She was a woman who would do nothing by halves, and
the measure of her love for her husband was the measure also of her
hatred for me. It is probable that she misunderstood our relations. I
would not wish to wrong her, but she loved so vividly in a physical
sense that she could hardly understand the mental, and even spiritual,
tie which held her husband to me, or imagine that it was only my desire
to influence his power to good ends which kept me under his roof. I
can see now that I was wrong. Nothing could justify me in remaining
where I was a cause of unhappiness, and yet it is certain that the
unhappiness would have remained even if I had left the house."
"Now, Miss Dunbar," said Holmes, "I beg you to tell us exactly what
occurred that evening."
"I can tell you the truth so far as I know it, Mr. Holmes, but I am in
a position to prove nothing, and there are points--the most vital
points--which I can neither explain nor can I imagine any explanation."
"If you will find the facts, perhaps others may find the explanation."
"With regard, then, to my presence at Thor Bridge that night, I
received a note from Mrs. Gibson in the morning. It lay on the table
of the schoolroom, and it may have been left there by her own hand. It
implored me to see her there after dinner, said she had something
important to say to me, and asked me to leave an answer on the sundial
in the garden, as she desired no one to be in our confidence. I saw no
reason for such secrecy, but I did as she asked, accepting the
appointment. She asked me to destroy her note and I burned it in the
schoolroom grate. She was very much afraid of her husband, who treated
her with a harshness for which I frequently reproached him, and I could
only imagine that she acted in this way because she did not wish him to
know of our interview."
"Yet she kept your reply very carefully?"
"Yes. I was surprised to hear that she had it in her hand when she
died."
"Well, what happened then?"
"I went down as I had promised. When I reached the bridge she was
waiting for me. Never did I realize till that moment how this poor
creature hated me. She was like a mad woman--indeed, I think she was a
mad woman, subtly mad with the deep power of deception which insane
people may have. How else could she have met me with unconcern every
day and yet had so raging a hatred of me in her heart? I will not say
what she said. She poured her whole wild fury out in burning and
horrible words. I did not even answer--I could not. It was dreadful
to see her. I put my hands to my ears and rushed away. When I left
her she was standing still shrieking out her curses at me, in the mouth
of the bridge."
"Where she was afterwards found?"
"Within a few yards from the spot."
"And yet, presuming that she met her death shortly after you left her,
you heard no shot?"
"No, I heard nothing. But, indeed, Mr. Holmes, I was so agitated and
horrified by this terrible outbreak that I rushed to get back to the
peace of my own room, and I was incapable of noticing anything which
happened."
"You say that you returned to your room. Did you leave it again before
next morning?"
"Yes; when the alarm came that the poor creature had met her death I
ran out with the others."
"Did you see Mr. Gibson?"
"Yes; he had just returned from the bridge when I saw him. He had sent
for the doctor and the police."
"Did he seem to you much perturbed?"
"Mr. Gibson is a very strong, self-contained man. I do not think that
he would ever show his emotions on the surface. But I, who knew him so
well, could see that he was deeply concerned."
"Then we come to the all-important point. This pistol that was found
in your room. Had you ever seen it before?"
"Never, I swear it."
"When was it found?"
"Next morning, when the police made their search."
"Among your clothes?"
"Yes; on the floor of my wardrobe under my dresses."
"You could not guess how long it had been there?"
"It had not been there the morning before."
"How do you know?"
"Because I tidied out the wardrobe."
"That is final. Then someone came into your room and placed the pistol
there in order to inculpate you."
"It must have been so."
"And when?"
"It could only have been at meal-time, or else at the hours when I
would be in the schoolroom with the children."
"As you were when you got the note?"
"Yes; from that time onwards for the whole morning."
"Thank you, Miss Dunbar. Is there any other point which could help me
in the investigation?"
"I can think of none."
"There was some sign of violence on the stonework of the bridge--a
perfectly fresh chip just opposite the body. Could you suggest any
possible explanation of that?"
"Surely it must be a mere coincidence."
"Curious, Miss Dunbar, very curious. Why should it appear at the very
time of the tragedy and why at the very place?"
"But what could have caused it? Only great violence could have such an
effect."
Holmes did not answer. His pale, eager face had suddenly assumed that
tense, far-away expression which I had learned to associate with the
supreme manifestations of his genius. So evident was the crisis in his
mind that none of us dared to speak, and we sat, barrister, prisoner,
and myself, watching him in a concentrated and absorbed silence.
Suddenly he sprang from his chair, vibrating with nervous energy and
the pressing need for action.
"Come, Watson, come!" he cried.
"What is it, Mr. Holmes?"
"Never mind, my dear lady. You will hear from me, Mr. Cummings. With
the help of the God of justice I will give you a case which will make
England ring. You will get news by to-morrow, Miss Dunbar, and
meanwhile take my assurance that the clouds are lifting and that I have
every hope that the light of truth is breaking through."
It was not a long journey from Winchester to Thor Place, but it was
long to me in my impatience, while for Holmes it was evident that it
seemed endless; for, in his nervous restlessness, he could not sit
still, but paced the carriage or drummed with his long, sensitive
fingers upon the cushions beside him. Suddenly, however, as we neared
our destination he seated himself opposite to me--we had a first-class
carriage to ourselves--and laying a hand upon each of my knees he
looked into my eyes with the peculiarly mischievous gaze which was
characteristic of his more imp-like moods.
"Watson," said he, "I have some recollection that you go armed upon
these excursions of ours."
It was as well for him that I did so, for he took little care for his
own safety when his mind was once absorbed by a problem, so that more
than once my revolver had been a good friend in need. I reminded him
of the fact.
"Yes, yes, I am a little absent-minded in such matters. But have you
your revolver on you?"
I produced it from my hip-pocket, a short, handy, but very serviceable
little weapon. He undid the catch, shook out the cartridges, and
examined it with care.
"It's heavy--remarkably heavy," said he.
"Yes, it is a solid bit of work."
He mused over it for a minute.
"Do you know, Watson," said he, "I believe your revolver is going to
have a very intimate connection with the mystery which we are
investigating."
"My dear Holmes, you are joking."
"No, Watson, I am very serious. There is a test before us. If the
test comes off, all will be clear. And the test will depend upon the
conduct of this little weapon. One cartridge out. Now we will replace
the other five and put on the safety-catch. So! That increases the
weight and makes it a better reproduction."
I had no glimmer of what was in his mind nor did he enlighten me, but
sat lost in thought until we pulled up in the little Hampshire station.
We secured a ramshackle trap, and in a quarter of an hour were at the
house of our confidential friend, the sergeant.
"A clue, Mr. Holmes? What is it?"
"It all depends upon the behaviour of Dr. Watson's revolver," said my
friend. "Here it is. Now, officer, can you give me ten yards of
string?"
The village shop provided a ball of stout twine.
"I think that this is all we will need," said Holmes. "Now, if you
please, we will get off on what I hope is the last stage of our
journey."
The sun was setting and turning the rolling Hampshire moor into a
wonderful autumnal panorama. The sergeant, with many critical and
incredulous glances, which showed his deep doubts of the sanity of my
companion, lurched along beside us. As we approached the scene of the
crime I could see that my friend under all his habitual coolness was in
truth deeply agitated.
"Yes," he said, in answer to my remark, "you have seen me miss my mark
before, Watson. I have an instinct for such things, and yet it has
sometimes played me false. It seemed a certainty when first it flashed
across my mind in the cell at Winchester, but one drawback of an active
mind is that one can always conceive alternative explanations which
would make our scent a false one. And yet--and yet---- Well, Watson,
we can but try."
As he walked he had firmly tied one end of the string to the handle of
the revolver. We had now reached the scene of the tragedy. With great
care he marked out under the guidance of the policeman the exact spot
where the body had been stretched. He then hunted among the heather
and the ferns until he found a considerable stone. This he secured to
the other end of his line of string, and he hung it over the parapet of
the bridge so that it swung clear above the water. He then stood on
the fatal spot, some distance from the edge of the bridge, with my
revolver in his hand, the string being taut between the weapon and the
heavy stone on the farther side.
"Now for it!" he cried.
At the words he raised the pistol to his head, and then let go his
grip. In an instant it had been whisked away by the weight of the
stone, had struck with a sharp crack against the parapet, and had
vanished over the side into the water. It had hardly gone before
Holmes was kneeling beside the stonework, and a joyous cry showed that
he had found what he expected.
"Was there ever a more exact demonstration?" he cried. "See, Watson,
your revolver has solved the problem!" As he spoke he pointed to a
second chip of the exact size and shape of the first which had appeared
on the under edge of the stone balustrade.
"We'll stay at the inn to-night," he continued, as he rose and faced
the astonished sergeant. "You will, of course, get a grappling-hook
and you will easily restore my friend's revolver. You will also find
beside it the revolver, string and weight with which this vindictive
woman attempted to disguise her own crime and to fasten a charge of
murder upon an innocent victim. You can let Mr. Gibson know that I
will see him in the morning, when steps can be taken for Miss Dunbar's
vindication."
Late that evening, as we sat together smoking our pipes in the village
inn, Holmes gave me a brief review of what had passed.
"I fear, Watson," said he, "that you will not improve any reputation
which I may have acquired by adding the Case of the Thor Bridge Mystery
to your annals. I have been sluggish in mind and wanting in that
mixture of imagination and reality which is the basis of my art. I
confess that the chip in the stonework was a sufficient clue to suggest
the true solution, and that I blame myself for not having attained it
sooner.
"It must be admitted that the workings of this unhappy woman's mind
were deep and subtle, so that it was no very simple matter to unravel
her plot. I do not think that in our adventures we have ever come
across a stranger example of what perverted love can bring about.
Whether Miss Dunbar was her rival in a physical or in a merely mental
sense seems to have been equally unforgivable in her eyes. No doubt
she blamed this innocent lady for all those harsh dealings and unkind
words with which her husband tried to repel her too demonstrative
affection. Her first resolution was to end her own life. Her second
was to do it in such a way as to involve her victim in a fate which was
worse far than any sudden death could be.
"We can follow the various steps quite clearly, and they show a
remarkable subtlety of mind. A note was extracted very cleverly from
Miss Dunbar which would make it appear that she had chosen the scene of
the crime. In her anxiety that it should be discovered she somewhat
overdid it, by holding it in her hand to the last. This alone should
have excited my suspicions earlier than it did.
"Then she took one of her husband's revolvers--there was, as you saw,
an arsenal in the house--and kept it for her own use. A similar one
she concealed that morning in Miss Dunbar's wardrobe after discharging
one barrel, which she could easily do in the woods without attracting
attention. She then went down to the bridge where she had contrived
this exceedingly ingenious method for getting rid of her weapon. When
Miss Dunbar appeared she used her last breath in pouring out her
hatred, and then, when she was out of hearing, carried out her terrible
purpose. Every link is now in its place and the chain is complete.
The papers may ask why the mere was not dragged in the first instance,
but it is easy to be wise after the event, and in any case the expanse
of a reed-filled lake is no easy matter to drag unless you have a clear
perception of what you are looking for and where. Well, Watson, we
have helped a remarkable woman, and also a formidable man. Should they
in the future join their forces, as seems not unlikely, the financial
world may find that Mr. Neil Gibson has learned something in that
schoolroom of Sorrow where our earthly lessons are taught."
|
the_problem_of_thor_bridge
|
THE ADVENTURE OF THE CREEPING MAN
|
The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes
|
Mr. Sherlock Holmes was always of opinion that I should publish the
singular facts connected with Professor Presbury, if only to dispel
once for all the ugly rumours which some twenty years ago agitated the
University and were echoed in the learned societies of London. There
were, however, certain obstacles in the way, and the true history of
this curious case remained entombed in the tin box which contains so
many records of my friend's adventures. Now we have at last obtained
permission to ventilate the facts which formed one of the very last
cases handled by Holmes before his retirement from practice. Even now
a certain reticence and discretion have to be observed in laying the
matter before the public.
It was one Sunday evening early in September of the year 1903 that I
received one of Holmes's laconic messages: "Come at once if
convenient--if inconvenient come all the same.--S.H." The relations
between us in those latter days were peculiar. He was a man of habits,
narrow and concentrated habits, and I had become one of them. As an
institution I was like the violin, the shag tobacco, the old black
pipe, the index books, and others perhaps less excusable. When it was
a case of active work and a comrade was needed upon whose nerve he
could place some reliance, my role was obvious. But apart from this I
had uses. I was a whetstone for his mind. I stimulated him. He liked
to think aloud in my presence. His remarks could hardly be said to be
made to me--many of them would have been as appropriately addressed to
his bedstead--but none the less, having formed the habit, it had become
in some way helpful that I should register and interject. If I
irritated him by a certain methodical slowness in my mentality, that
irritation served only to make his own flame-like intuitions and
impressions flash up the more vividly and swiftly. Such was my humble
role in our alliance.
When I arrived at Baker Street I found him huddled up in his arm-chair
with updrawn knees, his pipe in his mouth and his brow furrowed with
thought. It was clear that he was in the throes of some vexatious
problem. With a wave of his hand he indicated my old arm-chair, but
otherwise for half an hour he gave no sign that he was aware of my
presence. Then with a start he seemed to come from his reverie, and,
with his usual whimsical smile, he greeted me back to what had once
been my home.
"You will excuse a certain abstraction of mind, my dear Watson," said
he. "Some curious facts have been submitted to me within the last
twenty-four hours, and they in turn have given rise to some
speculations of a more general character. I have serious thoughts of
writing a small monograph upon the uses of dogs in the work of the
detective."
"But surely, Holmes, this has been explored," said I.
"Bloodhounds--sleuth-hounds----"
"No, no, Watson; that side of the matter is, of course, obvious. But
there is another which is far more subtle. You may recollect that in
the case which you, in your sensational way, coupled with the Copper
Beeches, I was able, by watching the mind of the child, to form a
deduction as to the criminal habits of the very smug and respectable
father."
"Yes, I remember it well."
"My line of thoughts about dogs is analogous. A dog reflects the
family life. Whoever saw a frisky dog in a gloomy family, or a sad dog
in a happy one? Snarling people have snarling dogs, dangerous people
have dangerous ones. And their passing moods may reflect the passing
moods of others."
I shook my head. "Surely, Holmes, this is a little far-fetched," said
I.
He had refilled his pipe and resumed his seat, taking no notice of my
comment.
"The practical application of what I have said is very close to the
problem which I am investigating. It is a tangled skein, you
understand, and I am looking for a loose end. One possible loose end
lies in the question: Why does Professor Presbury's faithful
wolf-hound, Roy, endeavour to bite him?"
I sank back in my chair in some disappointment. Was it for so trivial
a question as this that I had been summoned from my work? Holmes
glanced across at me.
"The same old Watson!" said he. "You never learn that the gravest
issues may depend upon the smallest things. But is it not on the face
of it strange that a staid, elderly philosopher--you've heard of
Presbury, of course, the famous Camford physiologist?--that such a man,
whose friend has been his devoted wolf-hound, should now have been
twice attacked by his own dog? What do you make of it?"
"The dog is ill."
"Well, that has to be considered. But he attacks no one else, nor does
he apparently molest his master, save on very special occasions.
Curious, Watson--very curious. But young Mr. Bennett is before his
time, if that is his ring. I had hoped to have a longer chat with you
before he came."
There was a quick step on the stairs, a sharp tap at the door, and a
moment later the new client presented himself. He was a tall, handsome
youth about thirty, well dressed and elegant, but with something in his
bearing which suggested the shyness of the student rather than the
self-possession of the man of the world. He shook hands with Holmes,
and then looked with some surprise at me.
"This matter is very delicate, Mr. Holmes," he said. "Consider the
relation in which I stand to Professor Presbury, both privately and
publicly. I really can hardly justify myself if I speak before any
third person."
"Have no fear, Mr. Bennett. Dr. Watson is the very soul of discretion,
and I can assure you that this is a matter in which I am very likely to
need an assistant."
"As you like, Mr. Holmes. You will, I am sure, understand my having
some reserves in the matter."
"You will appreciate it, Watson, when I tell you that this gentleman,
Mr. Trevor Bennett, is professional assistant to the great scientist,
lives under his roof, and is engaged to his only daughter. Certainly
we must agree that the Professor has every claim upon his loyalty and
devotion. But it may best be shown by taking the necessary steps to
clear up this strange mystery."
"I hope so, Mr. Holmes. That is my one object. Does Dr. Watson know
the situation?"
"I have not had time to explain it."
"Then perhaps I had better go over the ground again before explaining
some fresh developments."
"I will do so myself," said Holmes, "in order to show that I have the
events in their due order. The Professor, Watson, is a man of European
reputation. His life has been academic. There has never been a breath
of scandal. He is a widower with one daughter, Edith. He is, I
gather, a man of very virile and positive, one might almost say
combative, character. So the matter stood until a very few months ago.
"Then the current of his life was broken. He is sixty-one years of
age, but he became engaged to the daughter of Professor Morphy, his
colleague in the chair of Comparative Anatomy. It was not, as I
understand, the reasoned courting of an elderly man, but rather the
passionate frenzy of youth, for no one could have shown himself a more
devoted lover. The lady, Alice Morphy, was a very perfect girl both in
mind and body, so that there was every excuse for the Professor's
infatuation. Nonetheless, it did not meet with full approval in his
own family."
"We thought it rather excessive," said our visitor.
"Exactly. Excessive and a little violent and unnatural. Professor
Presbury was rich, however, and there was no objection upon the part of
the father. The daughter, however, had other views, and there were
already several candidates for her hand, who, if they were less
eligible from a worldly point of view, were at least more of an age.
The girl seemed to like the Professor in spite of his eccentricities.
It was only age which stood in the way.
"About this time a little mystery suddenly clouded the normal routine
of the Professor's life. He did what he had never done before. He
left home and gave no indication where he was going. He was away a
fortnight, and returned looking rather travel-worn. He made no
allusion to where he had been, although he was usually the frankest of
men. It chanced, however, that our client here, Mr. Bennett, received
a letter from a fellow-student in Prague, who said that he was glad to
have seen Professor Presbury there, although he had not been able to
talk to him. Only in this way did his own household learn where he had
been.
"Now comes the point. From that time onwards a curious change came
over the Professor. He became furtive and sly. Those around him had
always the feeling that he was not the man that they had known, but
that he was under some shadow which had darkened his higher qualities.
His intellect was not affected. His lectures were as brilliant as
ever. But always there was something new, something sinister and
unexpected. His daughter, who was devoted to him, tried again and
again to resume the old relations and to penetrate this mask which her
father seemed to have put on. You, sir, as I understand, did the
same--but all was in vain. And now, Mr. Bennett, tell in your own
words the incident of the letters."
"You must understand, Dr. Watson, that the Professor had no secrets
from me. If I were his son or his younger brother, I could not have
more completely enjoyed his confidence. As his secretary I handled
every paper which came to him, and I opened and subdivided his letters.
Shortly after his return all this was changed. He told me that certain
letters might come to him from London which would be marked by a cross
under the stamp. These were to be set aside for his own eyes only. I
may say that several of these did pass through my hands, that they had
the E.C. mark, and were in an illiterate handwriting. If he answered
them at all the answers did not pass through my hands nor into the
letter-basket in which our correspondence was collected."
"And the box," said Holmes.
"Ah, yes, the box. The Professor brought back a little wooden box from
his travels. It was the one thing which suggested a Continental tour,
for it was one of those quaint carved things which one associates with
Germany. This he placed in his instrument cupboard. One day, in
looking for a cannula, I took up the box. To my surprise he was very
angry, and reproved me in words which were quite savage for my
curiosity. It was the first time such a thing had happened and I was
deeply hurt. I endeavoured to explain that it was a mere accident that
I had touched the box, but all the evening I was conscious that he
looked at me harshly and that the incident was rankling in his mind."
Mr. Bennett drew a little diary book from his pocket. "That was on
July 2," said he.
"You are certainly an admirable witness," said Holmes. "I may need
some of these dates which you have noted."
"I learned method among other things from my great teacher. From the
time that I observed abnormality in his behaviour I felt that it was my
duty to study his case. Thus I have it here that it was on that very
day, July 2, that Roy attacked the Professor, as he came from his study
into the hall. Again on July 11, there was a scene of the same sort
and then I have a note of yet another upon July 20. After that we had
to banish Roy to the stables. He was a dear, affectionate animal--but
I fear I weary you."
Mr. Bennett spoke in a tone of reproach, for it was very clear that
Holmes was not listening. His face was rigid and his eyes gazed
abstractedly at the ceiling. With an effort he recovered himself.
"Singular! Most singular!" he murmured. "These details were new to
me, Mr. Bennett. I think we have now fairly gone over the old ground,
have we not? But you spoke of some fresh developments."
The pleasant, open face of our visitor clouded over, shadowed by some
grim remembrance. "What I speak of occurred the night before last,"
said he. "I was lying awake about two in the morning, when I was aware
of a dull muffled sound coming from the passage. I opened my door and
peeped out. I should explain that the Professor sleeps at the end of
the passage----"
"The date being----?" asked Holmes.
Our visitor was clearly annoyed at so irrelevant an interruption.
"I have said, sir, that it was the night before last--that is,
September 4."
Holmes nodded and smiled.
"Pray continue," said he.
"He sleeps at the end of the passage, and would have to pass my door in
order to reach the staircase. It was a really terrifying experience,
Mr. Holmes. I think that I am as strong-nerved as my neighbours, but I
was shaken by what I saw. The passage was dark save that one window
half-way along it threw a patch of light. I could see that something
was coming along the passage, something dark and crouching. Then
suddenly it emerged into the light, and I saw that it was he. He was
crawling, Mr. Holmes--crawling! He was not quite on his hands and
knees. I should rather say on his hands and feet, with his face sunk
between his hands. Yet he seemed to move with ease. I was so
paralysed by the sight that it was not until he had reached my door
that I was able to step forward and ask if I could assist him. His
answer was extraordinary. He sprang up, spat out some atrocious word
at me, and hurried on past me, and down the staircase. I waited about
for an hour, but he did not come back. It must have been daylight
before he regained his room."
"Well, Watson, what make you of that?" asked Holmes, with the air of
the pathologist who presents a rare specimen.
"Lumbago, possibly. I have known a severe attack make a man walk in
just such a way, and nothing would be more trying to the temper."
"Good, Watson! You always keep us flat-footed on the ground. But we
can hardly accept lumbago, since he was able to stand erect in a
moment."
"He was never better in health," said Bennett. "In fact, he is
stronger than I have known him for years. But there are the facts, Mr.
Holmes. It is not a case in which we can consult the police, and yet
we are utterly at our wits' end as to what to do, and we feel in some
strange way that we are drifting towards disaster. Edith--Miss
Presbury--feels as I do, that we cannot wait passively any longer."
"It is certainly a very curious and suggestive case. What do you
think, Watson?"
"Speaking as a medical man," said I, "it appears to be a case for an
alienist. The old gentleman's cerebral processes were disturbed by the
love affair. He made a journey abroad in the hope of breaking himself
of the passion. His letters and the box may be connected with some
other private transaction--a loan, perhaps, or share certificates,
which are in the box."
"And the wolf-hound no doubt disapproved of the financial bargain. No,
no, Watson, there is more in it than this. Now, I can only suggest----"
What Sherlock Holmes was about to suggest will never be known, for at
this moment the door opened and a young lady was shown into the room.
As she appeared Mr. Bennett sprang up with a cry and ran forward with
his hands out to meet those which she had herself outstretched.
"Edith, dear! Nothing the matter, I hope?"
"I felt I must follow you. Oh, Jack, I have been so dreadfully
frightened! It is awful to be there alone."
"Mr. Holmes, this is the young lady I spoke of. This is my fiancée."
"We were gradually coming to that conclusion, were we not, Watson?"
Holmes answered, with a smile. "I take it, Miss Presbury, that there
is some fresh development in the case, and that you thought we should
know?"
Our new visitor, a bright, handsome girl of a conventional English
type, smiled back at Holmes as she seated herself beside Mr. Bennett.
"When I found Mr. Bennett had left his hotel I thought I should
probably find him here. Of course, he had told me that he would
consult you. But, oh, Mr. Holmes, can you do nothing for my poor
father?"
"I have hopes, Miss Presbury, but the case is still obscure. Perhaps
what you have to say may throw some fresh light upon it."
"It was last night, Mr. Holmes. He had been very strange all day. I
am sure that there are times when he has no recollection of what he
does. He lives as in a strange dream. Yesterday was such a day. It
was not my father with whom I lived. His outward shell was there, but
it was not really he."
"Tell me what happened."
"I was awakened in the night by the dog barking most furiously. Poor
Roy, he is chained now near the stable. I may say that I always sleep
with my door locked; for, as Jack--as Mr. Bennett--will tell you, we
all have a feeling of impending danger. My room is on the second
floor. It happened that the blind was up in my window, and there was
bright moonlight outside. As I lay with my eyes fixed upon the square
of light, listening to the frenzied barkings of the dog, I was amazed
to see my father's face looking in at me. Mr. Holmes, I nearly died of
surprise and horror. There it was pressed against the window-pane, and
one hand seemed to be raised as if to push up the window. If that
window had opened, I think I should have gone mad. It was no delusion,
Mr. Holmes. Don't deceive yourself by thinking so. I dare say it was
twenty seconds or so that I lay paralysed and watched the face. Then
it vanished, but I could not--I could not spring out of bed and look
out after it. I lay cold and shivering till morning. At breakfast he
was sharp and fierce in manner, and made no allusion to the adventure
of the night. Neither did I, but I gave an excuse for coming to
town--and here I am."
Holmes looked thoroughly surprised at Miss Presbury's narrative.
"My dear young lady, you say that your room is on the second floor. Is
there a long ladder in the garden?"
"No, Mr. Holmes; that is the amazing part of it. There is no possible
way of reaching the window--and yet he was there."
"The date being September 5," said Holmes. "That certainly complicates
matters."
It was the young lady's turn to look surprised. "This is the second
time that you have alluded to the date, Mr. Holmes," said Bennett. "Is
it possible that it has any bearing upon the case?"
"It is possible--very possible--and yet I have not my full material at
present."
"Possibly you are thinking of the connection between insanity and
phases of the moon?"
"No, I assure you. It was quite a different line of thought. Possibly
you can leave your notebook with me and I will check the dates. Now I
think, Watson, that our line of action is perfectly clear. This young
lady has informed us--and I have the greatest confidence in her
intuition--that her father remembers little or nothing which occurs
upon certain dates. We will therefore call upon him as if he had given
us an appointment upon such a date. He will put it down to his own
lack of memory. Thus we will open our campaign by having a good close
view of him."
"That is excellent," said Mr. Bennett. "I warn you, however, that the
Professor is irascible and violent at times."
Holmes smiled. "There are reasons why we should come at once--very
cogent reasons if my theories hold good. To-morrow, Mr. Bennett, will
certainly see us in Camford. There is, if I remember right, an inn
called the 'Chequers' where the port used to be above mediocrity, and
the linen was above reproach. I think, Watson, that our lot for the
next few days might lie in less pleasant places."
Monday morning found us on our way to the famous University town--an
easy effort on the part of Holmes, who had no roots to pull up, but one
which involved frantic planning and hurrying on my part, as my practice
was by this time not inconsiderable. Holmes made no allusion to the
case until after we had deposited our suit-cases at the ancient hostel
of which he had spoken.
"I think, Watson, that we can catch the Professor just before lunch.
He lectures at eleven, and should have an interval at home."
"What possible excuse have we for calling?"
Holmes glanced at his notebook.
"There was a period of excitement upon August 26. We will assume that
he is a little hazy as to what he does at such times. If we insist
that we are there by appointment I think he will hardly venture to
contradict us. Have you the effrontery necessary to put it through?"
"We can but try."
"Excellent, Watson! Compound of the Busy Bee and Excelsior. We can
but try--the motto of the firm. A friendly native will surely guide
us."
Such a one on the back of a smart hansom swept us past a row of ancient
colleges, and finally turning into a tree-lined drive pulled up at the
door of a charming house, girt round with lawns and covered with purple
wistaria. Professor Presbury was certainly surrounded with every sign
not only of comfort but of luxury. Even as we pulled up a grizzled
head appeared at the front window, and we were aware of a pair of keen
eyes from under shaggy brows which surveyed us through large horn
glasses. A moment later we were actually in his sanctum, and the
mysterious scientist, whose vagaries had brought us from London, was
standing before us. There was certainly no sign of eccentricity either
in his manner or appearance, for he was a portly, large-featured man,
grave, tall, and frock-coated, with the dignity of bearing which a
lecturer needs. His eyes were his most remarkable feature, keen,
observant, and clever to the verge of cunning.
He looked at our cards. "Pray sit down, gentlemen. What can I do for
you?"
Mr. Holmes smiled amiably.
"It was the question which I was about to put to you, Professor."
"To me, sir!"
"Possibly there is some mistake. I heard through a second person that
Professor Presbury of Camford had need of my services."
"Oh, indeed!" It seemed to me that there was a malicious sparkle in
the intense grey eyes. "You heard that, did you? May I ask the name
of your informant?"
"I am sorry, Professor, but the matter was rather confidential. If I
have made a mistake there is no harm done. I can only express my
regret."
"Not at all. I should wish to go further into this matter. It
interests me. Have you any scrap of writing, any letter or telegram,
to bear out your assertion?"
"No, I have not."
"I presume that you do not go so far as to assert that I summoned you?"
"I would rather answer no questions," said Holmes.
"No, I dare say not," said the Professor, with asperity. "However,
that particular one can be answered very easily without your aid."
He walked across the room to the bell. Our London friend, Mr. Bennett,
answered the call.
"Come in, Mr. Bennett. These two gentlemen have come from London under
the impression that they have been summoned. You handle all my
correspondence. Have you a note of anything going to a person named
Holmes?"
"No, sir," Bennett answered, with a flush.
"That is conclusive," said the Professor, glaring angrily at my
companion. "Now, sir"--he leaned forward with his two hands upon the
table--"it seems to me that your position is a very questionable one."
Holmes shrugged his shoulders.
"I can only repeat that I am sorry that we have made a needless
intrusion."
"Hardly enough, Mr. Holmes!" the old man cried, in a high screaming
voice, with extraordinary malignancy upon his face. He got between us
and the door as he spoke, and he shook his two hands at us with furious
passion. "You can hardly get out of it so easily as that." His face
was convulsed and he grinned and gibbered at us in his senseless rage.
I am convinced that we should have had to fight our way out of the room
if Mr. Bennett had not intervened.
"My dear Professor," he cried, "consider your position! Consider the
scandal at the University! Mr. Holmes is a well-known man. You cannot
possibly treat him with such discourtesy."
Sulkily our host--if I may call him so--cleared the path to the door.
We were glad to find ourselves outside the house, and in the quiet of
the tree-lined drive. Holmes seemed greatly amused by the episode.
"Our learned friend's nerves are somewhat out of order," said he.
"Perhaps our intrusion was a little crude, and yet we have gained that
personal contact which I desired. But, dear me, Watson, he is surely
at our heels. The villain still pursues us."
There were the sounds of running feet behind, but it was, to my relief,
not the formidable Professor but his assistant who appeared round the
curve of the drive. He came panting up to us.
"I am so sorry, Mr. Holmes. I wished to apologize."
"My dear sir, there is no need. It is all in the way of professional
experience."
"I have never seen him in a more dangerous mood. But he grows more
sinister. You can understand now why his daughter and I are alarmed.
And yet his mind is perfectly clear."
"Too clear!" said Holmes. "That was my miscalculation. It is evident
that his memory is much more reliable than I had thought. By the way,
can we, before we go, see the window of Miss Presbury's room?"
Mr. Bennett pushed his way through some shrubs and we had a view of the
side of the house.
"It is there. The second on the left."
"Dear me, it seems hardly accessible. And yet you will observe that
there is a creeper below and a water-pipe above which give some
foothold."
"I could not climb it myself," said Mr. Bennett.
"Very likely. It would certainly be a dangerous exploit for any normal
man."
"There was one other thing I wished to tell you, Mr. Holmes. I have
the address of the man in London to whom the Professor writes. He
seems to have written this morning and I got it from his
blotting-paper. It is an ignoble position for a trusted secretary, but
what else can I do?"
Holmes glanced at the paper and put it into his pocket.
"Dorak--a curious name. Slavonic, I imagine. Well, it is an important
link in the chain. We return to London this afternoon, Mr. Bennett. I
see no good purpose to be served by our remaining. We cannot arrest
the Professor, because he has done no crime, nor can we place him under
constraint, for he cannot be proved to be mad. No action is as yet
possible."
"Then what on earth are we to do?"
"A little patience, Mr. Bennett. Things will soon develop. Unless I
am mistaken next Tuesday may mark a crisis. Certainly we shall be in
Camford on that day. Meanwhile, the general position is undeniably
unpleasant, and if Miss Presbury can prolong her visit----"
"That is easy."
"Then let her stay till we can assure her that all danger is past.
Meanwhile, let him have his way and do not cross him. So long as he is
in a good humour all is well."
"There he is!" said Bennett, in a startled whisper. Looking between
the branches we saw the tall, erect figure emerge from the hall door
and look around him. He stood leaning forward, his hands swinging
straight before him, his head turning from side to side. The secretary
with a last wave slipped off among the trees, and we saw him presently
rejoin his employer, the two entering the house together in what seemed
to be animated and even excited conversation.
"I expect the old gentleman has been putting two and two together,"
said Holmes, as we walked hotelwards. "He struck me as having a
particularly clear and logical brain, from the little I saw of him.
Explosive, no doubt, but then from his point of view he has something
to explode about if detectives are put on his track and he suspects his
own household of doing it. I rather fancy that friend Bennett is in
for an uncomfortable time."
Holmes stopped at a post office and sent off a telegram on our way.
The answer reached us in the evening, and he tossed it across to me.
"Have visited the Commercial Road and seen Dorak. Suave person,
Bohemian, elderly. Keeps large general store.--Mercer."
"Mercer is since your time," said Holmes. "He is my general utility
man who looks up routine business. It was important to know something
of the man with whom our Professor was so secretly corresponding. His
nationality connects up with the Prague visit."
"Thank goodness that something connects with something," said I. "At
present we seem to be faced by a long series of inexplicable incidents
with no bearing upon each other. For example, what possible connection
can there be between an angry wolf-hound and a visit to Bohemia, or
either of them with a man crawling down a passage at night? As to your
dates, that is the biggest mystification of all."
Holmes smiled and rubbed his hands. We were, I may say, seated in the
old sitting-room of the ancient hotel, with a bottle of the famous
vintage of which Holmes had spoken on the table between us.
"Well, now, let us take the dates first," said he, his finger-tips
together and his manner as if he were addressing a class. "This
excellent young man's diary shows that there was trouble upon July 2,
and from then onwards it seems to have been at nine-day intervals,
with, so far as I remember, only one exception. Thus the last outbreak
upon Friday was on September 3, which also falls into the series, as
did August 26, which preceded it. The thing is beyond coincidence."
I was forced to agree.
"Let us, then, form the provisional theory that every nine days the
Professor takes some strong drug which has a passing but highly
poisonous effect. His naturally violent nature is intensified by it.
He learned to take this drug while he was in Prague, and is now
supplied with it by a Bohemian intermediary in London. This all hangs
together, Watson!"
"But the dog, the face at the window, the creeping man in the passage?"
"Well, well, we have made a beginning. I should not expect any fresh
developments until next Tuesday. In the meantime we can only keep in
touch with friend Bennett and enjoy the amenities of this charming
town."
In the morning Mr. Bennett slipped round to bring us the latest report.
As Holmes had imagined, times had not been easy with him. Without
exactly accusing him of being responsible for our presence, the
Professor had been very rough and rude in his speech, and evidently
felt some strong grievance. This morning he was quite himself again,
however, and had delivered his usual brilliant lecture to a crowded
class. "Apart from his queer fits," said Bennett, "he has actually
more energy and vitality than I can ever remember, nor was his brain
ever clearer. But it's not he--it's never the man whom we have known."
"I don't think you have anything to fear now for a week at least,"
Holmes answered. "I am a busy man, and Dr. Watson has his patients to
attend to. Let us agree that we meet here at this hour next Tuesday,
and I shall be surprised if before we leave you again we are not able
to explain, even if we cannot perhaps put an end to, your troubles.
Meanwhile, keep us posted in what occurs."
I saw nothing of my friend for the next few days, but on the following
Monday evening I had a short note asking me to meet him next day at the
train. From what he told me as we travelled up to Camford all was
well, the peace of the Professor's house had been unruffled, and his
own conduct perfectly normal. This also was the report which was given
us by Mr. Bennett himself when he called upon us that evening at our
old quarters in the "Chequers." "He heard from his London
correspondent to-day. There was a letter and there was a small packet,
each with the cross under the stamp which warned me not to touch them.
There has been nothing else."
"That may prove quite enough," said Holmes grimly. "Now, Mr. Bennett,
we shall, I think, come to some conclusion to-night. If my deductions
are correct we should have an opportunity of bringing matters to a
head. In order to do so it is necessary to hold the Professor under
observation. I would suggest, therefore, that you remain awake and on
the look out. Should you hear him pass your door do not interrupt him,
but follow him as discreetly as you can. Dr. Watson and I will not be
far off. By the way, where is the key of that little box of which you
spoke?"
"Upon his watch-chain."
"I fancy our researches must lie in that direction. At the worst the
lock should not be very formidable. Have you any other able-bodied man
on the premises?"
"There is the coachman, Macphail."
"Where does he sleep?"
"Over the stables."
"We might possibly want him. Well, we can do no more until we see how
things develop. Good-bye--but I expect that we shall see you before
morning."
It was nearly midnight before we took our station among some bushes
immediately opposite the hall door of the Professor. It was a fine
night, but chilly, and we were glad of our warm overcoats. There was a
breeze, and clouds were scudding across the sky, obscuring from time to
time the half-moon. It would have been a dismal vigil were it not for
the expectation and excitement which carried us along, and the
assurance of my comrade that we had probably reached the end of the
strange sequence of events which had engaged our attention.
"If the cycle of nine days holds good then we shall have the Professor
at his worst to-night," said Holmes. "The fact that these strange
symptoms began after his visit to Prague, that he is in secret
correspondence with a Bohemian dealer in London, who presumably
represents someone in Prague, and that he received a packet from him
this very day, all point in one direction. What he takes and why he
takes it are still beyond our ken, but that it emanates in some way
from Prague is clear enough. He takes it under definite directions
which regulate this ninth-day system, which was the first point which
attracted my attention. But his symptoms are most remarkable. Did you
observe his knuckles?"
I had to confess that I did not.
"Thick and horny in a way which is quite new in my experience. Always
look at the hands first, Watson. Then cuffs, trouser-knees, and boots.
Very curious knuckles which can only be explained by the mode of
progression observed by----" Holmes paused, and suddenly clapped his
hand to his forehead. "Oh, Watson, Watson, what a fool I have been!
It seems incredible, and yet it must be true. All points in one
direction. How could I miss seeing the connection of ideas? Those
knuckles--how could I have passed those knuckles? And the dog! And
the ivy! It's surely time that I disappeared into that little farm of
my dreams. Look out, Watson! Here he is! We shall have the chance of
seeing for ourselves."
The hall door had slowly opened, and against the lamp-lit background we
saw the tall figure of Professor Presbury. He was clad in his
dressing-gown. As he stood outlined in the doorway he was erect but
leaning forward with dangling arms, as when we saw him last.
Now he stepped forward into the drive, and an extraordinary change came
over him. He sank down into a crouching position, and moved along upon
his hands and feet, skipping every now and then as if he were
overflowing with energy and vitality. He moved along the face of the
house and then round the corner. As he disappeared Bennett slipped
through the hall door and softly followed him.
"Come, Watson, come!" cried Holmes, and we stole as softly as we could
through the bushes until we had gained a spot whence we could see the
other side of the house, which was bathed in the light of the
half-moon. The Professor was clearly visible crouching at the foot of
the ivy-covered wall. As we watched him he suddenly began with
incredible agility to ascend it. From branch to branch he sprang, sure
of foot and firm of grasp, climbing apparently in mere joy at his own
powers, with no definite object in view. With his dressing-gown
flapping on each side of him he looked like some huge bat glued against
the side of his own house, a great square dark patch upon the moonlit
wall. Presently he tired of this amusement, and, dropping from branch
to branch, he squatted down into the old attitude and moved towards the
stables, creeping along in the same strange way as before. The
wolf-hound was out now, barking furiously, and more excited than ever
when it actually caught sight of its master. It was straining on its
chain, and quivering with eagerness and rage. The Professor squatted
down very deliberately just out of reach of the hound, and began to
provoke it in every possible way. He took handfuls of pebbles from the
drive and threw them in the dog's face, prodded him with a stick which
he had picked up, flicked his hands about only a few inches from the
gaping mouth, and endeavoured in every way to increase the animal's
fury, which was already beyond all control. In all our adventures I do
not know that I have ever seen a more strange sight than this impassive
and still dignified figure crouching frog-like upon the ground and
goading to a wilder exhibition of passion the maddened hound, which
ramped and raged in front of him, by all manner of ingenious and
calculated cruelty.
And then in a moment it happened! It was not the chain that broke, but
it was the collar that slipped, for it had been made for a thick-necked
Newfoundland. We heard the rattle of falling metal, and the next
instant dog and man were rolling on the ground together, the one
roaring in rage, the other screaming in a strange shrill falsetto of
terror. It was a very narrow thing for the Professor's life. The
savage creature had him fairly by the throat, its fangs had bitten
deep, and he was senseless before we could reach them and drag the two
apart. It might have been a dangerous task for us, but Bennett's voice
and presence brought the great wolf-hound instantly to reason. The
uproar had brought the sleepy and astonished coachman from his room
above the stables. "I'm not surprised," said he, shaking his head.
"I've seen him at it before. I knew the dog would get him sooner or
later."
The hound was secured, and together we carried the Professor up to his
room, where Bennett, who had a medical degree, helped me to dress his
torn throat. The sharp teeth had passed dangerously near the carotid
artery, and the hemorrhage was serious. In half an hour the danger was
past, I had given the patient an injection of morphia, and he had sunk
into deep sleep. Then, and only then, were we able to look at each
other and to take stock of the situation.
"I think a first-class surgeon should see him," said I.
"For God's sake, no!" cried Bennett. "At present the scandal is
confined to our own household. It is safe with us. If it gets beyond
these walls it will never stop. Consider his position at the
University, his European reputation, the feelings of his daughter."
"Quite so," said Holmes. "I think it may be quite possible to keep the
matter to ourselves, and also to prevent its recurrence now that we
have a free hand. The key from the watch-chain, Mr. Bennett. Macphail
will guard the patient and let us know if there is any change. Let us
see what we can find in the Professor's mysterious box."
There was not much, but there was enough--an empty phial, another
nearly full, a hypodermic syringe, several letters in a crabbed,
foreign hand. The marks on the envelopes showed that they were those
which had disturbed the routine of the secretary, and each was dated
from the Commercial Road and signed "A. Dorak." They were mere
invoices to say that a fresh bottle was being sent to Professor
Presbury, or receipts to acknowledge money. There was one other
envelope, however, in a more educated hand and bearing the Austrian
stamp with the postmark of Prague. "Here we have our material!" cried
Holmes, as he tore out the enclosure.
"HONOURED COLLEAGUE," it ran. "Since your esteemed visit I have
thought much of your case, and though in your circumstances there are
some special reasons for the treatment, I would none the less enjoin
caution, as my results have shown that it is not without danger of a
kind.
"It is possible that the Serum of Anthropoid would have been better. I
have, as I explained to you, used black-faced Langur because a specimen
was accessible. Langur is, of course, a crawler and climber, while
Anthropoid walks erect, and is in all ways nearer.
"I beg you to take every possible precaution that there be no premature
revelation of the process. I have one other client in England, and
Dorak is my agent for both.
"Weekly reports will oblige.
"Yours with high esteem,
"H. LOWENSTEIN."
Lowenstein! The name brought back to me the memory of some snippet
from a newspaper which spoke of an obscure scientist who was striving
in some unknown way for the secret of rejuvenescence and the elixir of
life. Lowenstein of Prague! Lowenstein with the wondrous
strength-giving serum, tabooed by the profession because he refused to
reveal its source. In a few words I said what I remembered. Bennett
had taken a manual of Zoology from the shelves. "'Langur,'" he read,
"'the great black-faced monkey of the Himalayan slopes, biggest and
most human of climbing monkeys.' Many details are added. Well, thanks
to you, Mr. Holmes, it is very clear that we have traced the evil to
its source."
"The real source," said Holmes, "lies, of course, in that untimely love
affair which gave our impetuous Professor the idea that he could only
gain his wish by turning himself into a younger man. When one tries to
rise above Nature one is liable to fall below it. The highest type of
man may revert to the animal if he leaves the straight road of
destiny." He sat musing for a little with the phial in his hand,
looking at the clear liquid within. "When I have written to this man
and told him that I hold him criminally responsible for the poisons
which he circulates, we will have no more trouble. But it may recur.
Others may find a better way. There is danger there--a very real
danger to humanity. Consider, Watson, that the material, the sensual,
the worldly would all prolong their worthless lives. The spiritual
would not avoid the call to something higher. It would be the survival
of the least fit. What sort of cesspool may not our poor world
become?" Suddenly the dreamer disappeared, and Holmes, the man of
action, sprang from his chair. "I think there is nothing more to be
said, Mr. Bennett. The various incidents will now fit themselves
easily into the general scheme. The dog, of course, was aware of the
change far more quickly than you. His smell would ensure that. It was
the monkey, not the Professor, whom Roy attacked, just as it was the
monkey who teased Roy. Climbing was a joy to the creature, and it was
a mere chance, I take it, that the pastime brought him to the young
lady's window. There is an early train to town, Watson, but I think we
shall just have time for a cup of tea at the 'Chequers' before we catch
it."
IX
THE ADVENTURE OF THE LION'S MANE
It is a most singular thing that a problem which was certainly as
abstruse and unusual as any which I have faced in my long professional
career should have come to me after my retirement; and be brought, as
it were, to my very door. It occurred after my withdrawal to my little
Sussex home, when I had given myself up entirely to that soothing life
of Nature for which I had so often yearned during the long years spent
amid the gloom of London. At this period of my life the good Watson
had passed almost beyond my ken. An occasional week-end visit was the
most that I ever saw of him. Thus I must act as my own chronicler.
Ah! had he but been with me, how much he might have made of so
wonderful a happening and of my eventual triumph against every
difficulty! As it is, however, I must needs tell my tale in my own
plain way, showing by my words each step upon the difficult road which
lay before me as I searched for the mystery of the Lion's Mane.
My villa is situated upon the southern slope of the Downs, commanding a
great view of the Channel. At this point the coast-line is entirely of
chalk cliffs, which can only be descended by a single, long, tortuous
path, which is steep and slippery. At the bottom of the path lie a
hundred yards of pebbles and shingle, even when the tide is at full.
Here and there, however, there are curves and hollows which make
splendid swimming-pools filled afresh with each flow. This admirable
beach extends for some miles in each direction, save only at one point
where the little cove and village of Fulworth break the line.
My house is lonely. I, my old housekeeper, and my bees have the estate
all to ourselves. Half a mile off, however, is Harold Stackhurst's
well-known coaching establishment. The Gables, quite a large place,
which contains some score of young fellows preparing for various
professions, with a staff of several masters. Stackhurst himself was a
well-known rowing Blue in his day, and an excellent all-round scholar.
He and I were always friendly from the day I came to the coast, and he
was the one man who was on such terms with me that we could drop in on
each other in the evenings without an invitation.
Towards the end of July, 1907, there was a severe gale, the wind
blowing up-Channel, heaping the seas to the base of the cliffs, and
leaving a lagoon at the turn of the tide. On the morning of which I
speak the wind had abated, and all Nature was newly washed and fresh.
It was impossible to work upon so delightful a day, and I strolled out
before breakfast to enjoy the exquisite air. I walked along the cliff
path which led to the steep descent to the beach. As I walked I heard
a shout behind me, and there was Harold Stackhurst waving his hand in
cheery greeting.
"What a morning, Mr. Holmes! I thought I should see you out."
"Going for a swim, I see."
"At your old tricks again," he laughed, patting his bulging pocket.
"Yes. McPherson started early, and I expect I may find him there."
Fitzroy McPherson was the science master, a fine upstanding young
fellow whose life had been crippled by heart trouble following
rheumatic fever. He was a natural athlete, however, and excelled in
every game which did not throw too great a strain upon him. Summer and
winter he went for his swim, and, as I am a swimmer myself, I have
often joined him.
At this moment we saw the man himself. His head showed above the edge
of the cliff where the path ends. Then his whole figure appeared at
the top, staggering like a drunken man. The next instant he threw up
his hands, and, with a terrible cry, fell upon his face. Stackhurst
and I rushed forward--it may have been fifty yards--and turned him on
his back. He was obviously dying. Those glazed sunken eyes and
dreadful livid cheeks could mean nothing else. One glimmer of life
came into his face for an instant, and he uttered two or three words
with an eager air of warning. They were slurred and indistinct, but to
my ear the last of them, which burst in a shriek from his lips, were
"the lion's mane." It was utterly irrelevant and unintelligible, and
yet I could twist the sound into no other sense. Then he half raised
himself from the ground, threw his arms into the air and fell forward
on his side. He was dead.
My companion was paralysed by the sudden horror of it, but I, as may
well be imagined, had every sense on the alert. And I had need, for it
was speedily evident that we were in the presence of an extraordinary
case. The man was dressed only in his Burberry overcoat, his trousers,
and an unlaced pair of canvas shoes. As he fell over, his Burberry,
which had been simply thrown round his shoulders, slipped off, exposing
his trunk. We stared at it in amazement. His back was covered with
dark red lines as though he had been terribly flogged by a thin wire
scourge. The instrument with which this punishment had been inflicted
was clearly flexible, for the long, angry weals curved round his
shoulders and ribs. There was blood dripping down his chin, for he had
bitten through his lower lip in the paroxysm of his agony. His drawn
and distorted face told how terrible that agony had been.
I was kneeling and Stackhurst standing by the body when a shadow fell
across us, and we found that Ian Murdoch was by our side. Murdoch was
the mathematical coach at the establishment, a tall, dark, thin man, so
taciturn and aloof that none can be said to have been his friend. He
seemed to live in some high, abstract region of surds and conic
sections with little to connect him with ordinary life. He was looked
upon as an oddity by the students, and would have been their butt, but
there was some strange outlandish blood in the man, which showed itself
not only in his coal-black eyes and swarthy face, but also in
occasional outbreaks of temper, which could only be described as
ferocious. On one occasion, being plagued by a little dog belonging to
McPherson, he had caught the creature up and hurled it through the
plate-glass window, an action for which Stackhurst would certainly have
given him his dismissal had he not been a very valuable teacher. Such
was the strange, complex man who now appeared beside us. He seemed to
be honestly shocked at the sight before him, though the incident of the
dog may show that there was no great sympathy between the dead man and
himself.
"Poor fellow! Poor fellow! What can I do? How can I help?"
"Were you with him? Can you tell us what has happened?"
"No, no, I was late this morning. I was not on the beach at all. I
have come straight from The Gables. What can I do?"
"You can hurry to the police-station at Fulworth. Report the matter at
once."
Without a word he made off at top speed, and I proceeded to take the
matter in hand, while Stackhurst, dazed at this tragedy, remained by
the body. My first task naturally was to note who was on the beach.
From the top of the path I could see the whole sweep of it, and it was
absolutely deserted save that two or three dark figures could be seen
far away moving towards the village of Fulworth. Having satisfied
myself upon this point, I walked slowly down the path. There was clay
or soft marl mixed with the chalk, and every here and there I saw the
same footstep, both ascending and descending. No one else had gone
down to the beach by this track that morning. At one place I observed
the print of an open hand with the fingers towards the incline. This
could only mean that poor McPherson had fallen as he ascended. There
were rounded depressions, too, which suggested that he had come down
upon his knees more than once. At the bottom of the path was the
considerable lagoon left by the retreating tide. At the side of it
McPherson had undressed, for there lay his towel on a rock. It was
folded and dry, so that it would seem that after all he had never
entered the water. Once or twice as I hunted round amid the hard
shingle I came on little patches of sand where the print of his canvas
shoe, and also of his naked foot, could be seen. The latter fact
proved that he had made all ready to bathe, though the towel indicated
that he had not actually done so.
And here was the problem clearly defined--as strange a one as had ever
confronted me. The man had not been on the beach more than a quarter
of an hour at the most. Stackhurst had followed him from The Gables,
so there could be no doubt about that. He had gone to bathe and had
stripped, as the naked footsteps showed. Then he had suddenly huddled
on his clothes again--they were all dishevelled and unfastened--and he
had returned without bathing, or at any rate without drying himself.
And the reason for his change of purpose had been that he had been
scourged in some savage, inhuman fashion, tortured until he bit his lip
through in his agony, and was left with only strength enough to crawl
away and to die. Who had done this barbarous deed? There were, it is
true, small grottos and caves in the base of the cliffs, but the low
sun shone directly into them, and there was no place for concealment.
Then, again, there were those distant figures on the beach. They
seemed too far away to have been connected with the crime, and the
broad lagoon in which McPherson had intended to bathe lay between him
and them, lapping up to the rocks. On the sea two or three
fishing-boats were at no great distance. Their occupants might be
examined at our leisure. There were several roads for inquiry, but
none which led to any very obvious goal.
When I at last returned to the body I found that a little group of
wandering folk had gathered round it. Stackhurst was, of course, still
there, and Ian Murdoch had just arrived with Anderson, the village
constable, a big, ginger-moustached man of the slow, solid Sussex
breed--a breed which covers much good sense under a heavy, silent
exterior. He listened to everything, took note of all we said, and
finally drew me aside.
"I'd be glad of your advice, Mr. Holmes. This is a big thing for me to
handle, and I'll hear of it from Lewes if I go wrong."
I advised him to send for his immediate superior, and for a doctor;
also to allow nothing to be moved, and as few fresh footmarks as
possible to be made, until they came. In the meantime I searched the
dead man's pockets. There were his handkerchief, a large knife, and a
small folding card-case. From this projected a slip of paper, which I
unfolded and handed to the constable. There was written on it in a
scrawling, feminine hand: "I will be there, you may be sure.--Maudie."
It read like a love affair, an assignation, though when and where were
a blank. The constable replaced it in the card-case and returned it
with the other things to the pockets of the Burberry. Then, as nothing
more suggested itself, I walked back to my house for breakfast, having
first arranged that the base of the cliffs should be thoroughly
searched.
Stackhurst was round in an hour or two to tell me that the body had
been removed to The Gables, where the inquest would be held. He
brought with him some serious and definite news. As I expected,
nothing had been found in the small caves below the cliff, but he had
examined the papers in McPherson's desk, and there were several which
showed an intimate correspondence with a certain Miss Maud Bellamy, of
Fulworth. We had then established the identity of the writer of the
note.
"The police have the letters," he explained. "I could not bring them.
But there is no doubt that it was a serious love affair. I see no
reason, however, to connect it with that horrible happening save,
indeed, that the lady had made an appointment with him."
"But hardly at a bathing-pool which all of you were in the habit of
using," I remarked.
"It is mere chance," said he, "that several of the students were not
with McPherson."
"Was it mere chance?"
Stackhurst knit his brows in thought.
"Ian Murdoch held them back," said he; "he would insist upon some
algebraic demonstration before breakfast. Poor chap, he is dreadfully
cut up about it all."
"And yet I gather that they were not friends."
"At one time they were not. But for a year or more Murdoch has been as
near to McPherson as he ever could be to anyone. He is not of a very
sympathetic disposition by nature."
"So I understand. I seem to remember your telling me once about a
quarrel over the ill-usage of a dog."
"That blew over all right."
"But left some vindictive feeling, perhaps."
"No, no; I am sure they were real friends."
"Well, then, we must explore the matter of the girl. Do you know her?"
"Everyone knows her. She is the beauty of the neighbourhood--a real
beauty, Holmes, who would draw attention everywhere. I knew that
McPherson was attracted by her, but I had no notion that it had gone so
far as these letters would seem to indicate."
"But who is she?"
"She is the daughter of old Tom Bellamy, who owns all the boats and
bathing-cots at Fulworth. He was a fisherman to start with, but is now
a man of some substance. He and his son William run the business."
"Shall we walk into Fulworth and see them?"
"On what pretext?"
"Oh, we can easily find a pretext. After all, this poor man did not
ill-use himself in this outrageous way. Some human hand was on the
handle of that scourge, if indeed it was a scourge which inflicted the
injuries. His circle of acquaintances in this lonely place was surely
limited. Let us follow it up in every direction and we can hardly fail
to come upon the motive, which in turn should lead us to the criminal."
It would have been a pleasant walk across the thyme-scented Downs had
our minds not been poisoned by the tragedy we had witnessed. The
village of Fulworth lies in a hollow curving in a semicircle round the
bay. Behind the old-fashioned hamlet several modern houses have been
built upon the rising ground. It was to one of these that Stackhurst
guided me.
"That's The Haven, as Bellamy called it. The one with the corner tower
and slate roof. Not bad for a man who started with nothing but---- By
Jove, look at that!"
The garden gate of The Haven had opened and a man had emerged. There
was no mistaking that tall, angular, straggling figure. It was Ian
Murdoch, the mathematician. A moment later we confronted him upon the
road.
"Hullo!" said Stackhurst. The man nodded, gave us a sideways glance
from his curious dark eyes, and would have passed us, but his principal
pulled him up.
"What were you doing there?" he asked.
Murdoch's face flushed with anger. "I am your subordinate, sir, under
your roof. I am not aware that I owe you any account of my private
actions."
Stackhurst's nerves were near the surface after all he had endured.
Otherwise, perhaps, he would have waited. Now he lost his temper
completely.
"In the circumstances your answer is pure impertinence, Mr. Murdoch."
"Your own question might perhaps come under the same heading."
"This is not the first time that I have had to overlook your
insubordinate ways. It will certainly be the last. You will kindly
make fresh arrangements for your future as speedily as you can."
"I had intended to do so. I have lost to-day the only person who made
The Gables habitable."
He strode off upon his way, while Stackhurst, with angry eyes, stood
glaring after him. "Is he not an impossible, intolerable man?" he
cried.
The one thing that impressed itself forcibly upon my mind was that Mr.
Ian Murdoch was taking the first chance to open a path of escape from
the scene of the crime. Suspicion, vague and nebulous, was now
beginning to take outline in my mind. Perhaps the visit to the
Bellamys might throw some further light upon the matter. Stackhurst
pulled himself together and we went forward to the house.
Mr. Bellamy proved to be a middle-aged man with a flaming red beard.
He seemed to be in a very angry mood, and his face was soon as florid
as his hair.
"No, sir, I do not desire any particulars. My son here"--indicating a
powerful young man, with a heavy, sullen face, in the corner of the
sitting-room--"is of one mind with me that Mr. McPherson's attentions
to Maud were insulting. Yes, sir, the word 'marriage' was never
mentioned, and yet there were letters and meetings, and a great deal
more of which neither of us could approve. She has no mother, and we
are her only guardians. We are determined----"
But the words were taken from his mouth by the appearance of the lady
herself. There was no gainsaying that she would have graced any
assembly in the world. Who could have imagined that so rare a flower
would grow from such a root and in such an atmosphere? Women have
seldom been an attraction to me, for my brain has always governed my
heart, but I could not look upon her perfect clear-cut face, with all
the soft freshness of the Downlands in her delicate colouring, without
realizing that no young man would cross her path unscathed. Such was
the girl who had pushed open the door and stood now, wide-eyed and
intense, in front of Harold Stackhurst.
"I know already that Fitzroy is dead," she said. "Do not be afraid to
tell me the particulars."
"This other gentleman of yours let us know the news," explained the
father.
"There is no reason why my sister should be brought into the matter,"
growled the younger man. The sister turned a sharp, fierce look upon
him. "This is my business, William. Kindly leave me to manage it in
my own way. By all accounts there has been a crime committed. If I
can help to show who did it, it is the least I can do for him who is
gone."
She listened to a short account from my companion, with a composed
concentration which showed me that she possessed strong character as
well as great beauty. Maud Bellamy will always remain in my memory as
a most complete and remarkable woman. It seems that she already knew
me by sight, for she turned to me at the end.
"Bring them to justice, Mr. Holmes. You have my sympathy and my help,
whoever they may be." It seemed to me that she glanced defiantly at
her father and brother as she spoke.
"Thank you," said I. "I value a woman's instinct in such matters. You
use the word 'they.' You think that more than one was concerned?"
"I knew Mr. McPherson well enough to be aware that he was a brave and a
strong man. No single person could ever have inflicted such an outrage
upon him."
"Might I have one word with you alone?"
"I tell you, Maud, not to mix yourself up in the matter," cried her
father angrily.
She looked at me helplessly. "What can I do?"
"The whole world will know the facts presently, so there can be no harm
if I discuss them here," said I. "I should have preferred privacy, but
if your father will not allow it, he must share the deliberations."
Then I spoke of the note which had been found in the dead man's pocket.
"It is sure to be produced at the inquest. May I ask you to throw any
light upon it that you can?"
"I see no reason for mystery," she answered. "We were engaged to be
married, and we only kept it secret because Fitzroy's uncle, who is
very old and said to be dying, might have disinherited him if he had
married against his wish. There was no other reason."
"You could have told us," growled Mr. Bellamy.
"So I would, father, if you had ever shown sympathy."
"I object to my girl picking up with men outside her own station."
"It was your prejudice against him which prevented us from telling you.
As to this appointment"--she fumbled in her dress and produced a
crumpled note--"it was in answer to this."
"DEAREST," ran the message: "The old place on the beach just after
sunset on Tuesday. It is the only time I can get away.--F.M."
"Tuesday was to-day, and I had meant to meet him to-night."
I turned over the paper. "This never came by post. How did you get
it?"
"I would rather not answer that question. It has really nothing to do
with the matter which you are investigating. But anything which bears
upon that I will most freely answer."
She was as good as her word, but there was nothing which was helpful in
our investigation. She had no reason to think that her fiancé had any
hidden enemy, but she admitted that she had had several warm admirers.
"May I ask if Mr. Ian Murdoch was one of them?"
She blushed and seemed confused.
"There was a time when I thought he was. But that was all changed when
he understood the relations between Fitzroy and myself."
Again the shadow round this strange man seemed to me to be taking more
definite shape. His record must be examined. His rooms must be
privately searched. Stackhurst was a willing collaborator, for in his
mind also suspicions were forming. We returned from our visit to The
Haven with the hope that one free end of this tangled skein was already
in our hands.
A week passed. The inquest had thrown no light upon the matter and had
been adjourned for further evidence. Stackhurst had made discreet
inquiry about his subordinate, and there had been a superficial search
of his room, but without result. Personally, I had gone over the whole
ground again, both physically and mentally, but with no new
conclusions. In all my chronicles the reader will find no case which
brought me so completely to the limit of my powers. Even my
imagination could conceive no solution to the mystery. And then there
came the incident of the dog.
It was my old housekeeper who heard of it first by that strange
wireless by which such people collect the news of the country-side.
"Sad story this, sir, about Mr. McPherson's dog," said she one evening.
I do not encourage such conversations, but the words arrested my
attention.
"What of Mr. McPherson's dog?"
"Dead, sir. Died of grief for its master."
"Who told you this?"
"Why, sir, everyone is talking of it. It took on terrible, and has
eaten nothing for a week. Then to-day two of the young gentlemen from
The Gables found it dead--down on the beach, sir, at the very place
where its master met his end."
"At the very place." The words stood out clear in my memory. Some dim
perception that the matter was vital rose in my mind. That the dog
should die was after the beautiful, faithful nature of dogs. But 'in
the very place'! Why should this lonely beach be fatal to it? Was it
possible that it also, had been sacrificed to some revengeful feud?
Was it possible----? Yes, the perception was dim, but already
something was building up in my mind. In a few minutes I was on my way
to The Gables, where I found Stackhurst in his study. At my request he
sent for Sudbury and Blount, the two students who had found the dog.
"Yes, it lay on the very edge of the pool," said one of them. "It must
have followed the trail of its dead master."
I saw the faithful little creature, an Airedale terrier, laid out upon
the mat in the hall. The body was stiff and rigid, the eyes
projecting, and the limbs contorted. There was agony in every line of
it.
From The Gables I walked down to the bathing-pool. The sun had sunk
and the shadow of the great cliff lay black across the water, which
glimmered dully like a sheet of lead. The place was deserted and there
was no sign of life save for two sea-birds circling and screaming
overhead. In the fading light I could dimly make out the little dog's
spoor upon the sand round the very rock on which his master's towel had
been laid. For a long time I stood in deep meditation while the
shadows grew darker around me. My mind was filled with racing
thoughts. You have known what it was to be in a nightmare in which you
feel that there is some all-important thing for which you search and
which you know is there, though it remains for ever just beyond your
reach. That was how I felt that evening as I stood alone by that place
of death. Then at last I turned and walked slowly homewards. I had
just reached the top of the path when it came to me. Like a flash, I
remembered the thing for which I had so eagerly and vainly grasped.
You will know, or Watson has written in vain, that I hold a vast store
of out-of-the-way knowledge, without scientific system, but very
available for the needs of my work. My mind is like a crowded box-room
with packets of all sorts stowed away therein--so many that I may well
have but a vague perception of what was there. I had known that there
was something which might bear upon this matter. It was still vague,
but at least I knew how I could make it clear. It was monstrous,
incredible, and yet it was always a possibility. I would test it to
the full. There is a great garret in my little house which is stuffed
with books. It was into this that I plunged and rummaged for an hour.
At the end of that time I emerged with a little chocolate and silver
volume. Eagerly I turned up the chapter of which I had a dim
remembrance. Yes, it was indeed a far-fetched and unlikely
proposition, and yet I could not be at rest until I had made sure if it
might, indeed, be so. It was late when I retired, with my mind eagerly
awaiting the work of the morrow.
But that work met with an annoying interruption. I had hardly
swallowed my early cup of tea and was starting for the beach when I had
a call from Inspector Bardie of the Sussex Constabulary--a steady,
solid, bovine man with thoughtful eyes, which looked at me now with a
very troubled expression.
"I know your immense experience, sir," said he. "This is quite
unofficial, of course, and need go no farther. But I am fairly up
against it in this McPherson case. The question is, shall I make an
arrest, or shall I not?"
"Meaning Mr. Ian Murdoch?"
"Yes, sir. There is really no one else when you come to think of it.
That's the advantage of this solitude. We narrow it down to a very
small compass. If he did not do it, then who did?"
"What have you against him?"
He had gleaned along the same furrows as I had. There was Murdoch's
character and the mystery which seemed to hang round the man. His
furious bursts of temper, as shown in the incident of the dog. The
fact that he had quarrelled with McPherson in the past, and that there
was some reason to think that he might have resented his attentions to
Miss Bellamy. He had all my points, but no fresh ones, save that
Murdoch seemed to be making every preparation for departure.
"What would my position be if I let him slip away with all this
evidence against him?" The burly, phlegmatic man was sorely troubled
in his mind.
"Consider," I said, "all the essential gaps in your case. On the
morning of the crime he can surely prove an alibi. He had been with
his scholars till the last moment, and within a few minutes of
McPherson's appearance he came upon us from behind. Then bear in mind
the absolute impossibility that he could single-handed have inflicted
this outrage upon a man quite as strong as himself. Finally, there is
this question of the instrument with which these injuries were
inflicted."
"What could it be but a scourge or flexible whip of some sort?"
"Have you examined the marks?" I asked.
"I have seen them. So has the doctor."
"But I have examined them very carefully with a lens. They have
peculiarities."
"What are they, Mr. Holmes?"
I stepped to my bureau and brought out an enlarged photograph. "This
is my method in such cases," I explained.
"You certainly do things thoroughly, Mr. Holmes."
"I should hardly be what I am if I did not. Now let us consider this
weal which extends round the right shoulder. Do you observe nothing
remarkable?"
"I can't say I do."
"Surely it is evident that it is unequal in its intensity. There is a
dot of extravasated blood, here, and another there. There are similar
indications in this other weal down here. What can that mean?"
"I have no idea. Have you?"
"Perhaps I have. Perhaps I haven't. I may be able to say more soon.
Anything which will define what made that mark will bring us a long way
towards the criminal."
"It is, of course, an absurd idea," said the policeman, "but if a
red-hot net of wire had been laid across the back, then these
better-marked points would represent where the meshes crossed each
other."
"A most ingenious comparison. Or shall we say a very stiff
cat-o'-nine-tails with small hard knots upon it?"
"By Jove, Mr. Holmes, I think you have hit it."
"Or there may be some very different cause, Mr. Bardie. But your case
is far too weak for an arrest. Besides, we have those last
words--'Lion's Mane.'"
"I have wondered whether Ian----"
"Yes, I have considered that. If the second word had borne any
resemblance to Murdoch--but it did not. He gave it almost in a shriek.
I am sure that it was 'Mane.'"
"Have you no alternative, Mr. Holmes?"
"Perhaps I have. But I do not care to discuss it until there is
something more solid to discuss."
"And when will that be?"
"In an hour--possibly less."
The Inspector rubbed his chin and looked at me with dubious eyes.
"I wish I could see what was in your mind, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps it's
those fishing-boats."
"No, no; they were too far out."
"Well, then, is it Bellamy and that big son of his? They were not too
sweet upon Mr. McPherson. Could they have done him a mischief?"
"No, no; you won't draw me until I am ready," said I with a smile.
"Now, Inspector, we each have our own work to do. Perhaps if you were
to meet me here at midday----?"
So far we had got when there came the tremendous interruption which was
the beginning of the end. My outer door was flung open, there were
blundering footsteps in the passage, and Ian Murdoch staggered into the
room, pallid, dishevelled, his clothes in wild disorder, clawing with
his bony hands at the furniture to hold himself erect. "Brandy!
Brandy!" he gasped, and fell groaning upon the sofa.
He was not alone. Behind him came Stackhurst, hatless and panting,
almost as distrait as his companion.
"Yes, yes, brandy!" he cried. "The man is at his last gasp. It was
all I could do to bring him here. He fainted twice upon the way."
Half a tumbler of the raw spirit brought about a wondrous change. He
pushed himself up on one arm and swung his coat from off his shoulders.
"For God's sake! oil, opium, morphia!" he cried. "Anything to ease
this infernal agony!"
The Inspector and I cried out at the sight. There, criss-crossed upon
the man's naked shoulder, was the same strange reticulated pattern of
red, inflamed lines which had been the death-mark of Fitzroy McPherson.
The pain was evidently terrible and was more than local, for the
sufferer's breathing would stop for a time, his face would turn black,
and then with loud gasps he would clap his hand to his heart, while his
brow dropped beads of sweat. At any moment he might die. More and
more brandy was poured down his throat, each fresh dose bringing him
back to life. Pads of cotton-wool soaked in salad-oil seemed to take
the agony from the strange wounds. At last his head fell heavily upon
the cushion. Exhausted Nature had taken refuge in its last storehouse
of vitality. It was half a sleep and half a faint, but at least it was
ease from pain.
To question him had been impossible, but the moment we were assured of
his condition Stackhurst turned upon me.
"My God!" he cried, "what is it, Holmes? What is it?"
"Where did you find him?"
"Down on the beach. Exactly where poor McPherson met his end. If this
man's heart had been weak as McPherson's was, he would not be here now.
More than once I thought he was gone as I brought him up. It was too
far to The Gables, so I made for you."
"Did you see him on the beach?"
"I was walking on the cliff when I heard his cry. He was at the edge
of the water, reeling about like a drunken man. I ran down, threw some
clothes about him, and brought him up. For Heaven's sake, Holmes, use
all the powers you have and spare no pains to lift the curse from this
place, for life is becoming unendurable. Can you, with all your
world-wide reputation, do nothing for us?"
"I think I can, Stackhurst. Come with me now! And you, Inspector,
come along! We will see if we cannot deliver this murderer into your
hands."
Leaving the unconscious man in the charge of my housekeeper, we all
three went down to the deadly lagoon. On the shingle there was piled a
little heap of towels and clothes, left by the stricken man. Slowly I
walked round the edge of the water, my comrades in Indian file behind
me. Most of the pool was quite shallow, but under the cliff where the
beach was hollowed out it was four or five feet deep. It was to this
part that a swimmer would naturally go, for it formed a beautiful
pellucid green pool as clear as crystal. A line of rocks lay above it
at the base of the cliff, and along this I led the way, peering eagerly
into the depths beneath me. I had reached the deepest and stillest
pool when my eyes caught that for which they were searching, and I
burst into a shout of triumph.
"Cyanea!" I cried. "Cyanea! Behold the Lion's Mane!"
The strange object at which I pointed did indeed look like a tangled
mass torn from the mane of a lion. It lay upon a rocky shelf some
three feet under the water, a curious waving, vibrating, hairy creature
with streaks of silver among its yellow tresses. It pulsated with a
slow, heavy dilation and contraction.
"It has done mischief enough. Its day is over!" I cried. "Help me,
Stackhurst! Let us end the murderer for ever."
There was a big boulder just above the ledge, and we pushed it until it
fell with a tremendous splash into the water. When the ripples had
cleared we saw that it had settled upon the ledge below. One flapping
edge of yellow membrane showed that our victim was beneath it. A thick
oily scum oozed out from below the stone and stained the water round,
rising slowly to the surface.
"Well, this gets me!" cried the Inspector. "What was it, Mr. Holmes?
I'm born and bred in these parts, but I never saw such a thing. It
don't belong to Sussex."
"Just as well for Sussex," I remarked. "It may have been the
south-west gale that brought it up. Come back to my house, both of
you, and I will give you the terrible experience of one who has good
reason to remember his own meeting with the same peril of the seas."
When we reached my study, we found that Murdoch was so far recovered
that he could sit up. He was dazed in mind, and every now and then was
shaken by a paroxysm of pain. In broken words he explained that he had
no notion what had occurred to him, save that terrific pangs had
suddenly shot through him, and that it had taken all his fortitude to
reach the bank.
"Here is a book," I said, taking up the little volume, "which first
brought light into what might have been for ever dark. It is _Out of
Doors_, by the famous observer J. G. Wood. Wood himself very nearly
perished from contact with this vile creature, so he wrote with a very
full knowledge. _Cyanea Capillata_ is the miscreant's full name, and
he can be as dangerous to life as, and far more painful than, the bite
of the cobra. Let me briefly give this extract.
"'If the bather should see a loose roundish mass of tawny membranes and
fibres, something like very large handfuls of lion's mane and silver
paper, let him beware, for this is the fearful stinger, _Cyanea
Capillata_.' Could our sinister acquaintance be more clearly described?
"He goes on to tell his own encounter with one when swimming off the
coast of Kent. He found that the creature radiated almost invisible
filaments to the distance of fifty feet, and that anyone within that
circumference from the deadly centre was in danger of death. Even at a
distance the effect upon Wood was almost fatal. 'The multitudinous
threads caused light scarlet lines upon the skin which on closer
examination resolved into minute dots or pustules, each dot charged as
it were with a red-hot needle making its way through the nerves.'
"The local pain was, as he explains, the least part of the exquisite
torment. 'Pangs shot through the chest, causing me to fall as if
struck by a bullet. The pulsation would cease, and then the heart
would give six or seven leaps as if it would force its way through the
chest.'
"It nearly killed him, although he had only been exposed to it in the
disturbed ocean and not in the narrow calm waters of a bathing-pool.
He says that he could hardly recognize himself afterwards, so white,
wrinkled and shrivelled was his face. He gulped down brandy, a whole
bottleful, and it seems to have saved his life. There is the book,
Inspector. I leave it with you, and you cannot doubt that it contains
a full explanation of the tragedy of poor McPherson."
"And incidentally exonerates me," remarked Ian Murdoch with a wry
smile. "I do not blame you, Inspector, nor you, Mr. Holmes, for your
suspicions were natural. I feel that on the very eve of my arrest I
have only cleared myself by sharing the fate of my poor friend."
"No, Mr. Murdoch. I was already upon the track, and had I been out as
early as I intended I might well have saved you from this terrific
experience."
"But how did you know, Mr. Holmes?"
"I am an omnivorous reader with a strangely retentive memory for
trifles. That phrase 'Lion's Mane' haunted my mind. I knew that I had
seen it somewhere in an unexpected context. You have seen that it does
describe the creature. I have no doubt that it was floating on the
water when McPherson saw it, and that this phrase was the only one by
which he could convey to us a warning as to the creature which had been
his death."
"Then I, at least, am cleared," said Murdoch, rising slowly to his
feet. "There are one or two words of explanation which I should give,
for I know the direction in which your inquiries have run. It is true
that I loved this lady, but from the day when she chose my friend
McPherson my one desire was to help her to happiness. I was well
content to stand aside and act as their go-between. Often I carried
their messages, and it was because I was in their confidence and
because she was so dear to me that I hastened to tell her of my
friend's death, lest someone should forestall me in a more sudden and
heartless manner. She would not tell you, sir, of our relations lest
you should disapprove and I might suffer. But with your leave I must
try to get back to The Gables, for my bed will be very welcome."
Stackhurst held out his hand. "Our nerves have all been at
concert-pitch," said he. "Forgive what is past, Murdoch. We shall
understand each other better in the future." They passed out together
with their arms linked in friendly fashion. The Inspector remained,
staring at me in silence with his ox-like eyes.
"Well, you've done it!" he cried at last. "I had read of you, but I
never believed it. It's wonderful!"
I was forced to shake my head. To accept such praise was to lower
one's own standards.
"I was slow at the outset--culpably slow. Had the body been found in
the water I could hardly have missed it. It was the towel which misled
me. The poor fellow had never thought to dry himself, and so I in turn
was led to believe that he had never been in the water. Why, then,
should the attack of any water creature suggest itself to me? That was
where I went astray. Well, well, Inspector, I often ventured to chaff
you gentlemen of the police force, but _Cyanea Capillata_ very nearly
avenged Scotland Yard."
|
the_adventure_of_the_creeping_man
|
THE ADVENTURE OF THE VEILED LODGER
|
The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes
|
When one considers that Mr. Sherlock Holmes was in active practice for
twenty-three years, and that during seventeen of these I was allowed to
co-operate with him and to keep notes of his doings, it will be clear
that I have a mass of material at my command. The problem has always
been, not to find, but to choose. There is the long row of year-books
which fill a shelf, and there are the dispatch-cases filled with
documents, a perfect quarry for the student, not only of crime, but of
the social and official scandals of the late Victorian era. Concerning
these latter, I may say that the writers of agonized letters, who beg
that the honour of their families or the reputation of famous forbears
may not be touched, have nothing to fear. The discretion and high
sense of professional honour which have always distinguished my friend
are still at work in the choice of these memoirs, and no confidence
will be abused. I deprecate, however, in the strongest way the
attempts which have been made lately to get at and to destroy these
papers. The source of these outrages is known, and if they are
repeated I have Mr. Holmes's authority for saying that the whole story
concerning the politician, the lighthouse and the trained cormorant
will be given to the public. There is at least one reader who will
understand.
It is not reasonable to suppose that every one of these cases gave
Holmes the opportunity of showing those curious gifts of instinct and
observation which I have endeavoured to set forth in these memoirs.
Sometimes he had with much effort to pick the fruit, sometimes it fell
easily into his lap. But the most terrible human tragedies were often
involved in these cases which brought him the fewest personal
opportunities, and it is one of these which I now desire to record. In
telling it, I have made a slight change of name and place, but
otherwise the facts are as stated.
One forenoon--it was late in 1896--I received a hurried note from
Holmes asking for my attendance. When I arrived, I found him seated in
a smoke-laden atmosphere, with an elderly, motherly woman of the buxom
landlady type in the corresponding chair in front of him.
"This is Mrs. Merrilow, of South Brixton," said my friend, with a wave
of the hand. "Mrs. Merrilow does not object to tobacco, Watson, if you
wish to indulge your filthy habits. Mrs. Merrilow has an interesting
story to tell which may well lead to further developments in which your
presence may be useful."
"Anything I can do----"
"You will understand, Mrs. Merrilow, that if I come to Mrs. Ronder I
should prefer to have a witness. You will make her understand that
before we arrive."
"Lord bless you, Mr. Holmes," said our visitor, "she is that anxious to
see you that you might bring the whole parish at your heels!"
"Then we shall come early in the afternoon. Let us see that we have
our facts correct before we start. If we go over them it will help Dr.
Watson to understand the situation. You say that Mrs. Ronder has been
your lodger for seven years and that you have only once seen her face."
"And I wish to God I had not!" said Mrs. Merrilow.
"It was, I understand, terribly mutilated."
"Well, Mr. Holmes, you would hardly say it was a face at all. That's
how it looked. Our milkman got a glimpse of her once peeping out of
the upper window, and he dropped his tin and the milk all over the
front garden. That is the kind of face it is. When I saw her--I
happened on her unawares--she covered up quick, and then she said,
'Now, Mrs. Merrilow, you know at last why it is that I never raise my
veil.'"
"Do you know anything about her history?"
"Nothing at all."
"Did she give references when she came?"
"No, sir, but she gave hard cash, and plenty of it. A quarter's rent
right down on the table in advance and no arguing about terms. In
these times a poor woman like me can't afford to turn down a chance
like that."
"Did she give any reason for choosing your house?"
"Mine stands well back from the road and is more private than most.
Then, again, I only take the one, and I have no family of my own. I
reckon she had tried others and found that mine suited her best. It's
privacy she is after, and she is ready to pay for it."
"You say that she never showed her face from first to last save on the
one accidental occasion. Well, it is a very remarkable story, most
remarkable, and I don't wonder that you want it examined."
"I don't, Mr. Holmes. I am quite satisfied so long as I get my rent.
You could not have a quieter lodger, or one who gives less trouble."
"Then what has brought matters to a head?"
"Her health, Mr. Holmes. She seems to be wasting away. And there's
something terrible on her mind. 'Murder!' she cries. 'Murder!' And
once I heard her, 'You cruel beast! You monster!' she cried. It was
in the night, and it fair rang through the house and sent the shivers
through me. So I went to her in the morning. 'Mrs. Ronder,' I says,
'if you have anything that is troubling your soul, there's the clergy,'
I says, 'and there's the police. Between them you should get some
help.' 'For God's sake, not the police!' says she, 'and the clergy
can't change what is past. And yet,' she says, 'it would ease my mind
if someone knew the truth before I died.' 'Well,' says I, 'if you
won't have the regulars, there is this detective man what we read
about'--beggin' your pardon, Mr. Holmes. And she, she fair jumped at
it. 'That's the man,' says she. 'I wonder I never thought of it
before. Bring him here, Mrs. Merrilow, and if he won't come, tell him
I am the wife of Ronder's wild beast show. Say that, and give him the
name Abbas Parva.' Here it is as she wrote it, Abbas Parva. 'That will
bring him, if he's the man I think he is.'"
"And it will, too," remarked Holmes. "Very good, Mrs. Merrilow. I
should like to have a little chat with Dr. Watson. That will carry us
till lunch-time. About three o'clock you may expect to see us at your
house in Brixton."
Our visitor had no sooner waddled out of the room--no other verb can
describe Mrs. Merrilow's method of progression--than Sherlock Holmes
threw himself with fierce energy upon the pile of commonplace books in
the corner. For a few minutes there was a constant swish of the
leaves, and then with a grunt of satisfaction he came upon what he
sought. So excited was he that he did not rise, but sat upon the floor
like some strange Buddha, with crossed legs, the huge books all round
him, and one open upon his knees.
"The case worried me at the time, Watson. Here are my marginal notes
to prove it. I confess that I could make nothing of it. And yet I was
convinced that the coroner was wrong. Have you no recollection of the
Abbas Parva tragedy?"
"None, Holmes."
"And yet you were with me then. But certainly my own impression was
very superficial, for there was nothing to go by, and none of the
parties had engaged my services. Perhaps you would care to read the
papers?"
"Could you not give me the points?"
"That is very easily done. It will probably come back to your memory
as I talk. Ronder, of course, was a household word. He was the rival
of Wombwell, and of Sanger, one of the greatest showmen of his day.
There is evidence, however, that he took to drink, and that both he and
his show were on the down grade at the time of the great tragedy. The
caravan had halted for the night at Abbas Parva, which is a small
village in Berkshire, when this horror occurred. They were on their
way to Wimbledon, travelling by road, and they were simply camping, and
not exhibiting, as the place is so small a one that it would not have
paid them to open.
"They had among their exhibits a very fine North African lion. Sahara
King was its name, and it was the habit, both of Ronder and his wife,
to give exhibitions inside its cage. Here, you see, is a photograph of
the performance, by which you will perceive that Ronder was a huge
porcine person and that his wife was a very magnificent woman. It was
deposed at the inquest that there had been some signs that the lion was
dangerous, but, as usual, familiarity begat contempt, and no notice was
taken of the fact.
"It was usual for either Ronder or his wife to feed the lion at night.
Sometimes one went, sometimes both, but they never allowed anyone else
to do it, for they believed that so long as they were the food-carriers
he would regard them as benefactors, and would never molest them. On
this particular night, seven years ago, they both went, and a very
terrible happening followed, the details of which have never been made
clear.
"It seems that the whole camp was roused near midnight by the roars of
the animal and the screams of the woman. The different grooms and
_employés_ rushed from their tents, carrying lanterns, and by their
light an awful sight was revealed. Ronder lay, with the back of his
head crushed in and deep claw-marks across his scalp, some ten yards
from the cage, which was open. Close to the door of the cage lay Mrs.
Ronder, upon her back, with the creature squatting and snarling above
her. It had torn her face in such a fashion that it was never thought
that she could live. Several of the circus men, headed by Leonardo,
the strongman, and Griggs, the clown, drove the creature off with
poles, upon which it sprang back into the cage, and was at once locked
in. How it had got loose was a mystery. It was conjectured that the
pair intended to enter the cage, but that when the door was loosed the
creature bounded out upon them. There was no other point of interest
in the evidence, save that the woman in a delirium of agony kept
screaming, 'Coward! Coward!' as she was carried back to the van in
which they lived. It was six months before she was fit to give
evidence, but the inquest was duly held, with the obvious verdict of
death from misadventure."
"What alternative could be conceived?" said I.
"You may well say so. And yet there were one or two points which
worried young Edmunds, of the Berkshire Constabulary. A smart lad
that! He was sent later to Allahabad. That was how I came into the
matter, for he dropped in and smoked a pipe or two over it."
"A thin, yellow-haired man?"
"Exactly. I was sure you would pick up the trail presently."
"But what worried him?"
"Well, we were both worried. It was so deucedly difficult to
reconstruct the affair. Look at it from the lion's point of view. He
is liberated. What does he do? He takes half a dozen bounds forward,
which brings him to Ronder. Ronder turns to fly,--the claw-marks were
on the back of his head--but the lion strikes him down. Then, instead
of bounding on and escaping, he returns to the woman, who was close to
the cage, and he knocks her over and chews her face up. Then, again,
those cries of hers would seem to imply that her husband had in some
way failed her. What could the poor devil have done to help her? You
see the difficulty?"
"Quite."
"And then there was another thing. It comes back to me now as I think
it over. There was some evidence that, just at the time the lion
roared and the woman screamed, a man began shouting in terror."
"This man Ronder, no doubt."
"Well, if his skull was smashed in you would hardly expect to hear from
him again. There were at least two witnesses who spoke of the cries of
a man being mingled with those of a woman."
"I should think the whole camp was crying out by then. As to the other
points, I think I could suggest a solution."
"I should be glad to consider it."
"The two were together, ten yards from the cage, when the lion got
loose. The man turned and was struck down. The woman conceived the
idea of getting into the cage and shutting the door. It was her only
refuge. She made for it, and just as she reached it the beast bounded
after her and knocked her over. She was angry with her husband for
having encouraged the beast's rage by turning. If they had faced it,
they might have cowed it. Hence her cries of 'Coward!'"
"Brilliant, Watson! Only one flaw in your diamond."
"What is the flaw, Holmes?"
"If they were both ten paces from the cage, how came the beast to get
loose?"
"Is it possible that they had some enemy who loosed it?"
"And why should it attack them savagely when it was in the habit of
playing with them, and doing tricks with them inside the cage?"
"Possibly the same enemy had done something to enrage it."
Holmes looked thoughtful and remained in silence for some moments.
"Well, Watson, there is this to be said for your theory. Ronder was a
man of many enemies. Edmunds told me that in his cups he was horrible.
A huge bully of a man, he cursed and slashed at everyone who came in
his way. I expect those cries about a monster, of which our visitor
has spoken, were nocturnal reminiscences of the dear departed.
However, our speculations are futile until we have all the facts.
There is a cold partridge on the sideboard, Watson, and a bottle of
Montrachet. Let us renew our energies before we make a fresh call upon
them."
When our hansom deposited us at the house of Mrs. Merrilow, we found
that plump lady blocking up the open door of her humble but retired
abode. It was very clear that her chief preoccupation was lest she
should lose a valuable lodger, and she implored us, before showing us
up, to say and do nothing which could lead to so undesirable an end.
Then, having reassured her, we followed her up the straight,
badly-carpeted staircase and were shown into the room of the mysterious
lodger.
It was a close, musty, ill-ventilated place, as might be expected,
since its inmate seldom left it. From keeping beasts in a cage, the
woman seemed, by some retribution of Fate, to have become herself a
beast in a cage. She sat now in a broken arm-chair in the shadowy
corner of the room. Long years of inaction had coarsened the lines of
her figure, but at some period it must have been beautiful, and was
still full and voluptuous. A thick dark veil covered her face, but it
was cut off close at her upper lip, and disclosed a perfectly-shaped
mouth and a delicately-rounded chin. I could well conceive that she
had indeed been a very remarkable woman. Her voice, too, was
well-modulated and pleasing.
"My name is not unfamiliar to you, Mr. Holmes," said she. "I thought
that it would bring you."
"That is so, madam, though I do not know how you are aware that I was
interested in your case."
"I learned it when I had recovered my health and was examined by Mr.
Edmunds, the County detective. I fear I lied to him. Perhaps it would
have been wiser had I told the truth."
"It is usually wiser to tell the truth. But why did you lie to him?"
"Because the fate of someone else depended upon it. I know that he was
a very worthless being, and yet I would not have his destruction upon
my conscience. We had been so close--so close!"
"But has this impediment been removed?"
"Yes, sir. The person that I allude to is dead."
"Then why should you not now tell the police anything you know?"
"Because there is another person to be considered. That other person
is myself. I could not stand the scandal and publicity which would
come from a police examination. I have not long to live, but I wish to
die undisturbed. And yet I wanted to find one man of judgment to whom
I could tell my terrible story, so that when I am gone all might be
understood."
"You compliment me, madam. At the same time, I am a responsible
person. I do not promise you that when you have spoken I may not
myself think it my duty to refer the case to the police."
"I think not, Mr. Holmes. I know your character and methods too well,
for I have followed your work for some years. Reading is the only
pleasure which Fate has left me, and I miss little which passes in the
world. But in any case, I will take my chance of the use which you may
make of my tragedy. It will ease my mind to tell it."
"My friend and I would be glad to hear it."
The woman rose and took from a drawer the photograph of a man. He was
clearly a professional acrobat, a man of magnificent physique, taken
with his huge arms folded across his swollen chest and a smile breaking
from under his heavy moustache--the self-satisfied smile of the man of
many conquests.
"That is Leonardo," she said.
"Leonardo, the strongman, who gave evidence?"
"The same. And this--this is my husband."
It was a dreadful face--a human pig, or rather a human wild boar, for
it was formidable in its bestiality. One could imagine that vile mouth
champing and foaming in its rage, and one could conceive those small,
vicious eyes darting pure malignancy as they looked forth upon the
world, Ruffian, bully, beast--it was all written on that heavy-jowled
face.
"Those two pictures will help you, gentlemen, to understand the story.
I was a poor circus girl brought up on the sawdust, and doing springs
through the hoop before I was ten. When I became a woman this man
loved me, if such lust as his can be called love, and in an evil moment
I became his wife. From that day I was in hell, and he the devil who
tormented me. There was no one in the show who did not know of his
treatment. He deserted me for others. He tied me down and lashed me
with his riding-whip when I complained. They all pitied me and they
all loathed him, but what could they do? They feared him, one and all.
For he was terrible at all times, and murderous when he was drunk.
Again and again he was had for assault, and for cruelty to the beasts,
but he had plenty of money and the fines were nothing to him. The best
men all left us and the show began to go downhill. It was only
Leonardo and I who kept it up--with little Jimmy Griggs, the clown.
Poor devil, he had not much to be funny about, but he did what he could
to hold things together.
"Then Leonardo came more and more into my life. You see what he was
like. I know now the poor spirit that was hidden in that splendid
body, but compared to my husband he seemed like the Angel Gabriel. He
pitied me and helped me, till at last our intimacy turned to
love--deep, deep, passionate love, such love as I had dreamed of but
never hoped to feel. My husband suspected it, but I think that he was
a coward as well as a bully, and that Leonardo was the one man that he
was afraid of. He took revenge in his own way by torturing me more
than ever. One night my cries brought Leonardo to the door of our van.
We were near tragedy that night, and soon my lover and I understood
that it could not be avoided. My husband was not fit to live. We
planned that he should die.
"Leonardo had a clever, scheming brain. It was he who planned it. I
do not say that to blame him, for I was ready to go with him every inch
of the way. But I should never have had the wit to think of such a
plan. We made a club--Leonardo made it--and in the leaden head he
fastened five long steel nails, the points outwards, with just such a
spread as the lion's paw. This was to give my husband his death-blow,
and yet to leave the evidence that it was the lion which we would loose
who had done the deed.
"It was a pitch-dark night when my husband and I went down, as was our
custom, to feed the beast. We carried with us the raw meat in a zinc
pail. Leonardo was waiting at the corner of the big van which we
should have to pass before we reached the cage. He was too slow, and
we walked past him before he could strike, but he followed us on tiptoe
and I heard the crash as the club smashed my husband's skull. My heart
leaped with joy at the sound. I sprang forward, and I undid the catch
which held the door of the great lion's cage.
"And then the terrible thing happened. You may have heard how quick
these creatures are to scent human blood, and how it excites them.
Some strange instinct had told the creature in one instant that a human
being had been slain. As I slipped the bars it bounded out, and was on
me in an instant. Leonardo could have saved me. If he had rushed
forward and struck the beast with his club he might have cowed it. But
the man lost his nerve. I heard him shout in his terror, and then I
saw him turn and fly. At the same instant the teeth of the lion met in
my face. Its hot, filthy breath had already poisoned me and I was
hardly conscious of pain. With the palms of my hands I tried to push
the great steaming, blood-stained jaws away from me, and I screamed for
help. I was conscious that the camp was stirring, and then dimly I
remember a group of men, Leonardo, Griggs and others, dragging me from
under the creature's paws. That was my last memory, Mr. Holmes, for
many a weary month. When I came to myself, and saw myself in the
mirror, I cursed that lion--oh, how I cursed him!---not because he had
torn away my beauty, but because he had not torn away my life. I had
but one desire, Mr. Holmes, and I had enough money to gratify it. It
was that I should cover myself so that my poor face should be seen by
none, and that I should dwell where none whom I had ever known should
find me. That was all that was left to me to do--and that is what I
have done. A poor wounded beast that has crawled into its hole to
die--that is the end of Eugenia Ronder."
We sat in silence for some time after the unhappy woman had told her
story. Then Holmes stretched out his long arm and patted her hand with
such a show of sympathy as I had seldom known him to exhibit.
"Poor girl!" he said. "Poor girl! The ways of Fate are indeed hard to
understand. If there is not some compensation hereafter, then the
world is a cruel jest. But what of this man Leonardo?"
"I never saw him or heard from him again. Perhaps I have been wrong to
feel so bitterly against him. He might as soon have loved one of the
freaks whom we carried round the country as the thing which the lion
had left. But a woman's love is not so easily set aside. He had left
me under the beast's claws, he had deserted me in my need, and yet I
could not bring myself to give him to the gallows. For myself, I cared
nothing what became of me. What could be more dreadful than my actual
life? But I stood between Leonardo and his fate."
"And he is dead?"
"He was drowned last month when bathing near Margate. I saw his death
in the paper."
"And what did he do with this five-clawed club, which is the most
singular and ingenious part of all your story?"
"I cannot tell, Mr. Holmes. There is a chalk-pit by the camp, with a
deep green pool at the base of it. Perhaps in the depths of that
pool----"
"Well, well, it is of little consequence now. The case is closed."
"Yes," said the woman, "the case is closed."
We had risen to go, but there was something in the woman's voice which
arrested Holmes's attention. He turned swiftly upon her.
"Your life is not your own," he said. "Keep your hands off it."
"What use is it to anyone?"
"How can you tell? The example of patient suffering is in itself the
most precious of all lessons to an impatient world."
The woman's answer was a terrible one. She raised her veil and stepped
forward into the light.
"I wonder if you would bear it," she said.
It was horrible. No words can describe the framework of a face when
the face itself is gone. Two living and beautiful brown eyes looking
sadly out from that grisly ruin did but make the view more awful.
Holmes held up his hand in a gesture of pity and protest, and together
we left the room.
Two days later, when I called upon my friend, he pointed with some
pride to a small blue bottle upon his mantelpiece. I picked it up.
There was a red poison label. A pleasant almondy odour rose when I
opened it.
"Prussic acid?" said I.
"Exactly. It came by post. 'I send you my temptation. I will follow
your advice.' That was the message. I think, Watson, we can guess the
name of the brave woman who sent it."
|
the_adventure_of_the_veiled_lodger
|
THE ADVENTURE OF SHOSCOMBE OLD PLACE
|
The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes
|
Sherlock Holmes had been bending for a long time over a low-power
microscope. Now he straightened himself up and looked round at me in
triumph.
"It is glue, Watson," said he. "Unquestionably it is glue. Have a
look at these scattered objects in the field!"
I stooped to the eyepiece and focused for my vision.
"Those hairs are threads from a tweed coat. The irregular grey masses
are dust. There are epithelial scales on the left. Those brown blobs
in the centre are undoubtedly glue."
"Well," I said, laughing, "I am prepared to take your word for it.
Does anything depend upon it?"
"It is a very fine demonstration," he answered. "In the St. Pancras
case you may remember that a cap was found beside the dead policeman.
The accused man denies that it is his. But he is a picture-frame maker
who habitually handles glue."
"Is it one of your cases?"
"No; my friend, Merivale of the Yard, asked me to look into the case.
Since I ran down that coiner by the zinc and copper filings in the seam
of his cuff they have begun to realize the importance of the
microscope." He looked impatiently at his watch. "I had a new client
calling, but he is overdue. By the way, Watson, you know something of
racing?"
"I ought to. I pay for it with about half my wound pension."
"Then I'll make you my 'Handy Guide to the Turf.' What about Sir
Robert Norberton? Does the name recall anything?"
"Well, I should say so. He lives at Shoscombe Old Place, and I know it
well, for my summer quarters were down there once. Norberton nearly
came within your province once."
"How was that?"
"It was when he horsewhipped Sam Brewer, the well-known Curzon Street
moneylender, on Newmarket Heath. He nearly killed the man."
"Ah, he sounds interesting! Does he often indulge in that way?"
"Well, he has the name of being a dangerous man. He is about the most
daredevil rider in England--second in the Grand National a few years
back. He is one of those men who have overshot their true generation.
He should have been a buck in the days of the Regency--a boxer, an
athlete, a plunger on the Turf, a lover of fair ladies, and, by all
account, so far down Queer Street that he may never find his way back
again."
"Capital, Watson! A thumb-nail sketch. I seem to know the man. Now,
can you give me some idea of Shoscombe Old Place?"
"Only that it is in the centre of Shoscombe Park, and that the famous
Shoscombe stud and training quarters are to be found there."
"And the head trainer," said Holmes, "is John Mason. You need not look
surprised at my knowledge, Watson, for this is a letter from him which
I am unfolding. But let us have some more about Shoscombe. I seem to
have struck a rich vein."
"There are the Shoscombe spaniels," said I. "You hear of them at every
dog show. The most exclusive breed in England. They are the special
pride of the lady of Shoscombe Old Place."
"Sir Robert Norberton's wife, I presume!"
"Sir Robert has never married. Just as well, I think, considering his
prospects. He lives with his widowed sister, Lady Beatrice Falder."
"You mean that she lives with him?"
"No, no. The place belonged to her late husband, Sir James. Norberton
has no claim on it at all. It is only a life interest and reverts to
her husband's brother. Meantime, she draws the rents every year."
"And brother Robert, I suppose, spends the said rents?"
"That is about the size of it. He is a devil of a fellow and must lead
her a most uneasy life. Yet I have heard that she is devoted to him.
But what is amiss at Shoscombe?"
"Ah, that is just what I want to know. And here, I expect, is the man
who can tell us."
The door had opened and the page had shown in a tall, clean-shaven man
with the firm, austere expression which is only seen upon those who
have to control horses or boys. Mr. John Mason had many of both under
his sway, and he looked equal to the task. He bowed with cold
self-possession and seated himself upon the chair to which Holmes had
waved him.
"You had my note, Mr. Holmes?"
"Yes, but it explained nothing."
"It was too delicate a thing for me to put the details on paper. And
too complicated. It was only face to face I could do it."
"Well, we are at your disposal."
"First of all, Mr. Holmes, I think that my employer, Sir Robert, has
gone mad."
Holmes raised his eyebrows. "This is Baker Street, not Harley Street,"
said he. "But why do you say so?"
"Well, sir, when a man does one queer thing, or two queer things, there
may be a meaning to it, but when everything he does is queer, then you
begin to wonder. I believe Shoscombe Prince and the Derby have turned
his brain."
"That is a colt you are running?"
"The best in England, Mr. Holmes. I should know, if anyone does. Now,
I'll be plain with you, for I know you are gentlemen of honour and that
it won't go beyond the room. Sir Robert has got to win this Derby.
He's up to the neck, and it's his last chance. Everything he could
raise or borrow is on the horse--and at fine odds, too! You can get
forties now, but it was nearer the hundred when he began to back him."
"But how is that, if the horse is so good?"
"The public don't know how good he is. Sir Robert has been too clever
for the touts. He has the Prince's half-brother out for spins. You
can't tell 'em apart. But there are two lengths in a furlong between
them when it comes to a gallop. He thinks of nothing but the horse and
the race. His whole life is on it. He's holding off the Jews till
then. If the Prince fails him, he is done."
"It seems a rather desperate gamble, but where does the madness come
in?"
"Well, first of all, you have only to look at him. I don't believe he
sleeps at night. He is down at the stables at all hours. His eyes are
wild. It has all been too much for his nerves. Then there is his
conduct to Lady Beatrice!"
"Ah! what is that?"
"They have always been the best of friends. They had the same tastes,
the two of them, and she loved the horses as much as he did. Every day
at the same hour she would drive down to see them--and, above all, she
loved the Prince. He would prick up his ears when he heard the wheels
on the gravel, and he would trot out each morning to the carriage to
get his lump of sugar. But that's all over now."
"Why?"
"Well, she seems to have lost all interest in the horses. For a week
now she has driven past the stables with never so much as 'good
morning'!"
"You think there has been a quarrel?"
"And a bitter, savage, spiteful quarrel at that. Why else would he
give away her pet spaniel that she loved as if he were her child? He
gave it a few days ago to old Barnes, what keeps the 'Green Dragon,'
three miles off, at Crendall."
"That certainly did seem strange."
"Of course, with her weak heart and dropsy one couldn't expect that she
could get about with him, but he spent two hours every evening in her
room. He might well do what he could, for she has been a rare good
friend to him. But that's all over, too. He never goes near her. And
she takes it to heart. She is brooding and sulky and drinking, Mr.
Holmes--drinking like a fish."
"Did she drink before this estrangement?"
"Well, she took her glass, but now it is often a whole bottle of an
evening. So Stephens, the butler, told me. It's all changed, Mr.
Holmes, and there is something damned rotten about it. But then,
again, what is master doing down at the old church crypt at night? And
who is the man that meets him there?"
Holmes rubbed his hands.
"Go on, Mr. Mason. You get more and more interesting."
"It was the butler who saw him go. Twelve o'clock at night and raining
hard. So next night I was up at the house and, sure enough, master was
off again. Stephens and I went after him, but it was jumpy work, for
it would have been a bad job if he had seen us. He's a terrible man
with his fists if he gets started, and no respecter of persons. So we
were shy of getting too near, but we marked him down all right. It was
the haunted crypt that he was making for, and there was a man waiting
for him there."
"What is this haunted crypt?"
"Well, sir, there is an old ruined chapel in the park. It is so old
that nobody could fix its date. And under it there's a crypt which has
a bad name among us. It's a dark, damp, lonely place by day, but there
are few in that county that would have the nerve to go near it at
night. But master's not afraid. He never feared anything in his life.
But what is he doing there in the night-time?"
"Wait a bit!" said Holmes. "You say there is another man there. It
must be one of your own stable-men, or someone from the house! Surely
you have only to spot who it is and question him?"
"It's no one I know."
"How can you say that?"
"Because I have seen him, Mr. Holmes. It was on that second night.
Sir Robert turned and passed us--me and Stephens, quaking in the bushes
like two bunny-rabbits, for there was a bit of moon that night. But we
could hear the other moving about behind. We were not afraid of him.
So we up when Sir Robert was gone and pretended we were just having a
walk like in the moonlight, and so we came right on him as casual and
innocent as you please. 'Hullo, mate! who may you be?' says I. I
guess he had not heard us coming, so he looked over his shoulder with a
face as if he had seen the Devil coming out of Hell. He let out a
yell, and away he went as hard as he could lick it in the darkness. He
could run!--I'll give him that. In a minute he was out of sight and
hearing, and who he was, or what he was, we never found."
"But you saw him clearly in the moonlight?"
"Yes, I would swear to his yellow face--a mean dog, I should say. What
could he have in common with Sir Robert?"
Holmes sat for some time lost in thought.
"Who keeps Lady Beatrice Falder company?" he asked at last.
"There is her maid, Carrie Evans. She has been with her this five
years."
"And is, no doubt, devoted?"
Mr. Mason shuffled uncomfortably.
"She's devoted enough," he answered at last. "But I won't say to whom."
"Ah!" said Holmes.
"I can't tell tales out of school."
"I quite understand, Mr. Mason. Of course, the situation is clear
enough. From Dr. Watson's description of Sir Robert I can realize that
no woman is safe from him. Don't you think the quarrel between brother
and sister may lie there?"
"Well, the scandal has been pretty clear for a long time."
"But she may not have seen it before. Let us suppose that she has
suddenly found it out. She wants to get rid of the woman. Her brother
will not permit it. The invalid, with her weak heart and inability to
get about, has no means of enforcing her will. The hated maid is still
tied to her. The lady refuses to speak, sulks, takes to drink. Sir
Robert in his anger takes her pet spaniel away from her. Does not all
this hang together?"
"Well, it might do--so far as it goes."
"Exactly! As far as it goes. How would all that bear upon the visits
by night to the old crypt? We can't fit that into our plot."
"No, sir, and there is something more that I can't fit in. Why should
Sir Robert want to dig up a dead body?"
Holmes sat up abruptly.
"We only found it out yesterday--after I had written to you. Yesterday
Sir Robert had gone to London, so Stephens and I went down to the
crypt. It was all in order, sir, except that in one corner was a bit
of a human body."
"You informed the police, I suppose?"
Our visitor smiled grimly.
"Well, sir, I think it would hardly interest them. It was just the
head and a few bones of a mummy. It may have been a thousand years
old. But it wasn't there before. That I'll swear, and so will
Stephens. It had been stowed away in a corner and covered over with a
board, but that corner had always been empty before."
"What did you do with it?"
"Well, we just left it there."
"That was wise. You say Sir Robert was away yesterday. Has he
returned?"
"We expect him back to-day."
"When did Sir Robert give away his sister's dog?"
"It was just a week ago to-day. The creature was howling outside the
old well-house, and Sir Robert was in one of his tantrums that morning.
He caught it up and I thought he would have killed it. Then he gave it
to Sandy Bain, the jockey, and told him to take the dog to old Barnes
at the 'Green Dragon,' for he never wished to see it again."
Holmes sat for some time in silent thought. He had lit the oldest and
foulest of his pipes.
"I am not clear yet what you want me to do in this matter, Mr. Mason,"
he said at last. "Can't you make it more definite?"
"Perhaps this will make it more definite, Mr. Holmes," said our visitor.
He took a paper from his pocket and, unwrapping it carefully, he
exposed a charred fragment of bone.
Holmes examined it with interest.
"Where did you get it?"
"There is a central heating furnace in the cellar under Lady Beatrice's
room. It's been off for some time, but Sir Robert complained of cold
and had it on again. Harvey runs it--he's one of my lads. This very
morning he came to me with this which he found raking out the cinders.
He didn't like the look of it."
"Nor do I," said Holmes. "What do you make of it, Watson?"
It was burned to a black cinder, but there could be no question as to
its anatomical significance.
"It's the upper condyle of a human femur," said I.
"Exactly!" Holmes had become very serious. "When does this lad tend
to the furnace?"
"He makes it up every evening and then leaves it."
"Then anyone could visit it during the night?
"Yes, sir."
"Can you enter it from outside?"
"There is one door from outside. There is another which leads up by a
stair to the passage in which Lady Beatrice's room is situated."
"These are deep waters, Mr. Mason; deep and rather dirty. You say that
Sir Robert was not at home last night?"
"No, sir."
"Then, whoever was burning bones, it was not he."
"That's true, sir."
"What is the name of that inn you spoke of?"
"The 'Green Dragon.'"
"Is there good fishing in that part of Berkshire?"
The honest trainer showed very clearly upon his face that he was
convinced that yet another lunatic had come into his harassed life.
"Well, sir, I've heard there are trout in the millstream and pike in
the Hall lake."
"That's good enough. Watson and I are famous fishermen--are we not,
Watson? You may address us in future at the 'Green Dragon.' We should
reach it to-night. I need not say that we don't want to see you, Mr.
Mason, but a note will reach us, and no doubt I could find you if I
want you. When we have gone a little farther into the matter I will
let you have a considered opinion."
Thus it was that on a bright May evening Holmes and I found ourselves
alone in a first-class carriage and bound for the little
"halt-on-demand" station of Shoscombe. The rack above us was covered
with a formidable litter of rods, reels and baskets. On reaching our
destination a short drive took us to an old-fashioned tavern, where a
sporting host, Josiah Barnes, entered eagerly into our plans for the
extirpation of the fish of the neighbourhood.
"What about the Hall lake and the chance of a pike?" said Holmes.
The face of the innkeeper clouded.
"That wouldn't do, sir. You might chance to find yourself in the lake
before you were through."
"How's that, then?"
"It's Sir Robert, sir. He's terrible jealous of touts. If you two
strangers were as near his training quarters as that he'd be after you
as sure as fate. He ain't taking no chances, Sir Robert ain't."
"I've heard he has a horse entered for the Derby."
"Yes, and a good colt, too. He carries all our money for the race, and
all Sir Robert's into the bargain. By the way"--he looked at us with
thoughtful eyes--"I suppose you ain't on the Turf yourselves?"
"No, indeed. Just two weary Londoners who badly need some good
Berkshire air."
"Well, you are in the right place for that. There is a deal of it
lying about. But mind what I have told you about Sir Robert. He's the
sort that strikes first and speaks afterwards. Keep clear of the park."
"Surely, Mr. Barnes! We certainly shall. By the way, that was a most
beautiful spaniel that was whining in the hall."
"I should say it was. That was the real Shoscombe breed. There ain't
a better in England."
"I am a dog-fancier myself," said Holmes. "Now, if it is a fair
question, what would a prize dog like that cost?"
"More than I could pay, sir. It was Sir Robert himself who gave me
this one. That's why I have to keep it on a lead. It would be off to
the Hall in a jiffy if I gave it its head."
"We are getting some cards in our hand, Watson," said Holmes, when the
landlord had left us. "It's not an easy one to play, but we may see
our way in a day or two. By the way Sir Robert is still in London, I
hear. We might, perhaps, enter the sacred domain to-night without fear
of bodily assault. There are one or two points on which I should like
reassurance."
"Have you any theory, Holmes?"
"Only this, Watson, that something happened a week or so ago which has
cut deep into the life of the Shoscombe household. What is that
something? We can only guess at it from its effects. They seem to be
of a curiously mixed character. But that should surely help us. It is
only the colourless, uneventful case which is hopeless.
"Let us consider our data. The brother no longer visits the beloved
invalid sister. He gives away her favourite dog. Her dog, Watson!
Does that suggest nothing to you?"
"Nothing but the brother's spite."
"Well, it might be so. Or--well, there is an alternative. Now to
continue our review of the situation from the time that the quarrel, if
there is a quarrel, began. The lady keeps her room, alters her habits,
is not seen save when she drives out with her maid, refuses to stop at
the stables to greet her favourite horse, and apparently takes to
drink. That covers the case, does it not?"
"Save for the business in the crypt."
"That is another line of thought. There are two, and I beg you will
not tangle them. Line A, which concerns Lady Beatrice, has a vaguely
sinister flavour, has it not?"
"I can make nothing of it."
"Well, now, let us take up line B, which concerns Sir Robert. He is
mad keen upon winning the Derby. He is in the hands of the Jews, and
may at any moment be sold up and his racing stables seized by his
creditors. He is a daring and desperate man. He derives his income
from his sister. His sister's maid is his willing tool. So far we
seem to be on fairly safe ground, do we not?"
"But the crypt?"
"Ah, yes, the crypt! Let us suppose, Watson--it is merely a scandalous
supposition, a hypothesis put forward for argument's sake--that Sir
Robert has done away with his sister."
"My dear Holmes, it is out of the question."
"Very possibly, Watson. Sir Robert is a man of an honourable stock.
But you do occasionally find a carrion crow among the eagles. Let us
for a moment argue upon this supposition. He could not fly the country
until he had realized his fortune, and that fortune could only be
realized by bringing off this coup with Shoscombe Prince. Therefore,
he has still to stand his ground. To do this he would have to dispose
of the body of his victim, and he would also have to find a substitute
who would impersonate her. With the maid as his confidante that would
not be impossible. The woman's body might be conveyed to the crypt,
which is a place so seldom visited, and it might be secretly destroyed
at night in the furnace, leaving behind it such evidence as we have
already seen. What say you to that, Watson?"
"Well, it is all possible if you grant the original monstrous
supposition."
"I think that there is a small experiment which we may try to-morrow,
Watson, in order to throw some light on the matter. Meanwhile, if we
mean to keep up our characters, I suggest that we have our host in for
a glass of his own wine and hold some high converse upon eels and dace,
which seems to be the straight road to his affections. We may chance
to come upon some useful local gossip in the process."
In the morning Holmes discovered that we had come without our
spoon-bait for jack, which absolved us from fishing for the day. About
eleven o'clock we started for a walk, and he obtained leave to take the
black spaniel with us.
"This is the place," said he, as we came to two high park gates with
heraldic griffins towering above them. "About midday, Mr. Barnes
informs me, the old lady takes a drive, and the carriage must slow down
while the gates are opened. When it comes through, and before it
gathers speed, I want you, Watson, to stop the coachman with some
question. Never mind me. I shall stand behind this holly-bush and see
what I can see."
It was not a long vigil. Within a quarter of an hour we saw the big
open yellow barouche coming down the long avenue, with two splendid,
high-stepping grey carriage horses in the shafts. Holmes crouched
behind his bush with the dog. I stood unconcernedly swinging a cane in
the roadway. A keeper ran out and the gates swung open.
The carriage had slowed to a walk and I was able to get a good look at
the occupants. A highly-coloured young woman with flaxen hair and
impudent eyes sat on the left. At her right was an elderly person with
rounded back and a huddle of shawls about her face and shoulders which
proclaimed the invalid. When the horses reached the high road I held
up my hand with an authoritative gesture, and as the coachman pulled up
I inquired if Sir Robert was at Shoscombe Old Place.
At the same moment Holmes stepped out and released the spaniel. With a
joyous cry it dashed forward to the carriage and sprang upon the step.
Then in a moment its eager greeting changed to furious rage, and it
snapped at the black skirt above it.
"Drive on! Drive on!" shrieked a harsh voice. The coachman lashed the
horses, and we were left standing in the roadway.
"Well, Watson, that's done it," said Holmes, as he fastened the lead to
the neck of the excited spaniel. "He thought it was his mistress and
he found it was a stranger. Dogs don't make mistakes."
"But it was the voice of a man!" I cried.
"Exactly! We have added one card to our hand, Watson, but it needs
careful playing, all the same."
My companion seemed to have no further plans for the day, and we did
actually use our fishing tackle in the mill-stream, with the result
that we had a dish of trout for our supper. It was only after that
meal that Holmes showed signs of renewed activity. Once more we found
ourselves upon the same road as in the morning, which led us to the
park gates. A tall, dark figure was awaiting us there, who proved to
be our London acquaintance, Mr. John Mason, the trainer.
"Good evening, gentlemen," said he. "I got your note, Mr. Holmes. Sir
Robert has not returned yet, but I hear that he is expected to-night."
"How far is this crypt from the house?" asked Holmes.
"A good quarter of a mile."
"Then I think we can disregard him altogether."
"I can't afford to do that, Mr. Holmes. The moment he arrives he will
want to see me to get the last news of Shoscombe Prince."
"I see! In that case we must work without you, Mr. Mason. You can
show us the crypt and then leave us."
It was pitch-dark and without a moon, but Mason led us over the
grass-lands until a dark mass loomed up in front of us which proved to
be the ancient chapel. We entered the broken gap which was once the
porch and our guide, stumbling among heaps of loose masonry, picked his
way to the corner of the building, where a steep stair led down into
the crypt. Striking a match, he illuminated the melancholy
place--dismal and evil-smelling, with ancient crumbling walls of
rough-hewn stone, and piles of coffins, some of lead and some of stone,
extending upon one side right up to the arched and groined roof which
lost itself in the shadows above our heads. Holmes had lit his
lantern, which shot a tiny tunnel of vivid yellow light upon the
mournful scene. Its rays were reflected back from the coffin-plates,
many of them adorned with the griffin and coronet of this old family
which carried its honours even to the gate of Death.
"You spoke of some bones, Mr. Mason. Could you show them before you
go?"
"They are here in this corner." The trainer strode across and then
stood in silent surprise as our light was turned upon the place. "They
are gone," said he.
"So I expected," said Holmes, chuckling. "I fancy the ashes of them
might even now be found in that oven which had already consumed a part."
"But why in the world would anyone want to burn the bones of a man who
has been dead a thousand years?" asked John Mason.
"That is what we are here to find out," said Holmes. "It may mean a
long search, and we need not detain you. I fancy that we shall get our
solution before morning."
When John Mason had left us, Holmes set to work making a very careful
examination of the graves, ranging from a very ancient one, which
appeared to be Saxon, in the centre, through a long line of Norman
Hugos and Odos, until we reached the Sir William and Sir Denis Falder
of the eighteenth century. It was an hour or more before Holmes came
to a leaden coffin standing on end before the entrance to the vault. I
heard his little cry of satisfaction, and was aware from his hurried
but purposeful movements that he had reached a goal. With his lens he
was eagerly examining the edges of the heavy lid. Then he drew from
his pocket a short jemmy, a box-opener, which he thrust into a chink,
levering back the whole front, which seemed to be secured by only a
couple of clamps. There was a rending, tearing sound as it gave way,
but it had hardly hinged back and partly revealed the contents before
we had an unforeseen interruption.
Someone was walking in the chapel above. It was the firm, rapid step
of one who came with a definite purpose and knew well the ground upon
which he walked. A light streamed down the stairs, and an instant
later the man who bore it was framed in the Gothic archway. He was a
terrible figure, huge in stature and fierce in manner. A large
stable-lantern which he held in front of him shone upwards upon a
strong, heavily-moustached face and angry eyes, which glared round him
into every recess of the vault, finally fixing themselves with a deadly
stare upon my companion and myself.
"Who the devil are you?" he thundered. "And what are you doing upon my
property?" Then, as Holmes returned no answer, he took a couple of
steps forward and raised a heavy stick which he carried. "Do you hear
me?" he cried. "Who are you? What are you doing here?" His cudgel
quivered in the air.
But instead of shrinking, Holmes advanced to meet him.
"I also have a question to ask you, Sir Robert," he said in his
sternest tone. "Who is this? And what is it doing here?"
He turned and tore open the coffin-lid behind him. In the glare of the
lantern I saw a body swathed in a sheet from head to foot, with
dreadful, witch-like features, all nose and chin, projecting at one
end, the dim, glazed eyes staring from a discoloured and crumbling face.
The Baronet had staggered back with a cry and supported himself against
a stone sarcophagus.
"How came you to know of this?" he cried. And then, with some return
of his truculent manner: "What business is it of yours?"
"My name is Sherlock Holmes," said my companion. "Possibly it is
familiar to you. In any case, my business is that of every other good
citizen--to uphold the law. It seems to me that you have much to
answer for."
Sir Robert glared for a moment, but Holmes's quiet voice and cool,
assured manner had their effect.
"'Fore God, Mr. Holmes, it's all right," said he. "Appearances are
against me, I'll admit, but I could act no otherwise."
"I should be happy to think so, but I fear your explanations must be
for the police."
Sir Robert shrugged his broad shoulders.
"Well, if it must be, it must. Come up to the house and you can judge
for yourself how the matter stands."
Quarter of an hour later we found ourselves in what I judge, from the
lines of polished barrels behind glass covers, to be the gun-room of
the old house. It was comfortably furnished, and here Sir Robert left
us for a few moments. When he returned he had two companions with him;
the one, the florid young woman whom we had seen in the carriage; the
other, a small rat-faced man with a disagreeably furtive manner. These
two wore an appearance of utter bewilderment, which showed that the
Baronet had not yet had time to explain to them the turn events had
taken.
"There," said Sir Robert, with a wave of his hand, "are Mr. and Mrs.
Norlett. Mrs. Norlett, under her maiden name of Evans, has for some
years been my sister's confidential maid. I have brought them here
because I feel that my best course is to explain the true position to
you, and they are the two people upon earth who can substantiate what I
say."
"Is this necessary, Sir Robert? Have you thought what you are doing?"
cried the woman.
"As to me, I entirely disclaim all responsibility," said her husband.
Sir Robert gave him a glance of contempt. "I will take all
responsibility," said he. "Now, Mr. Holmes, listen to a plain
statement of the facts.
"You have clearly gone pretty deeply into my affairs or I should not
have found you where I did. Therefore, you know already, in all
probability, that I am running a dark horse for the Derby and that
everything depends upon my success. If I win, all is easy. If I
lose--well, I dare not think of that!"
"I understand the position," said Holmes.
"I am dependent upon my sister, Lady Beatrice, for everything. But it
is well known that her interest in the estate is for her own life only.
For myself, I am deeply in the hands of the Jews. I have always known
that if my sister were to die my creditors would be on to my estate
like a flock of vultures. Everything would be seized; my stables, my
horses--everything. Well, Mr. Holmes, my sister _did_ die just a week
ago."
"And you told no one!"
"What could I do? Absolute ruin faced me. If I could stave things off
for three weeks all would be well. Her maid's husband--this man
here--is an actor. It came into our heads--it came into my head--that
he could for that short period personate my sister. It was but a case
of appearing daily in the carriage, for no one need enter her room save
the maid. It was not difficult to arrange. My sister died of the
dropsy which had long afflicted her."
"That will be for a coroner to decide."
"Her doctor would certify that for months her symptoms have threatened
such an end."
"Well, what did you do?"
"The body could not remain there. On the first night Norlett and I
carried it out to the old well-house, which is now never used. We were
followed, however, by her pet spaniel, which yapped continually at the
door, so I felt some safer place was needed. I got rid of the spaniel
and we carried the body to the crypt of the church. There was no
indignity or irreverence, Mr. Holmes. I do not feel that I have
wronged the dead."
"Your conduct seems to me inexcusable, Sir Robert."
The Baronet shook his head impatiently. "It is easy to preach," said
he. "Perhaps you would have felt differently if you had been in my
position. One cannot see all one's hopes and all one's plans shattered
at the last moment and make no effort to save them. It seemed to me
that it would be no unworthy resting-place if we put her for the time
in one of the coffins of her husband's ancestors lying in what is still
consecrated ground. We opened such a coffin, removed the contents, and
placed her as you have seen her. As to the old relics which we took
out, we could not leave them on the floor of the crypt. Norlett and I
removed them, and he descended at night and burned them in the central
furnace. There is my story, Mr. Holmes, though how you forced my hand
so that I have to tell it is more than I can say."
Holmes sat for some time lost in thought.
"There is one flaw in your narrative, Sir Robert," he said at last.
"Your bets on the race, and therefore your hopes for the future, would
hold good even if your creditors seized your estate."
"The horse would be part of the estate. What do they care for my bets?
As likely as not they would not run him at all. My chief creditor is,
unhappily, my most bitter enemy--a rascally fellow, Sam Brewer, whom I
was once compelled to horsewhip on Newmarket Heath. Do you suppose
that he would try to save me?"
"Well, Sir Robert," said Holmes, rising, "this matter must, of course,
be referred to the police. It was my duty to bring the facts to light
and there I must leave it. As to the morality or decency of your own
conduct, it is not for me to express an opinion. It is nearly
midnight, Watson, and I think we may make our way back to our humble
abode."
It is generally known now that this singular episode ended upon a
happier note than Sir Robert's actions deserved. Shoscombe Prince did
win the Derby, the sporting owner did net eighty thousand pounds in
bets, and the creditors did hold their hand until the race was over,
when they were paid in full, and enough was left to re-establish Sir
Robert in a fair position in life. Both police and coroner took a
lenient view of the transaction, and beyond a mild censure for the
delay in registering the lady's decease, the lucky owner got away
scatheless from this strange incident in a career which has now
outlived its shadows and promises to end in an honoured old age.
|
the_adventure_of_shoscombe_old_place
|
THE ADVENTURE OF THE RETIRED COLOURMAN
|
The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes
|
Sherlock Holmes was in a melancholy and philosophic mood that morning.
His alert practical nature was subject to such reactions.
"Did you see him?" he asked.
"You mean the old fellow who has just gone out?"
"Precisely."
"Yes, I met him at the door."
"What did you think of him?"
"A pathetic, futile, broken creature."
"Exactly, Watson. Pathetic and futile. But is not all life pathetic
and futile? Is not his story a microcosm of the whole? We reach. We
grasp. And what is left in our hands at the end? A shadow. Or worse
than a shadow--misery."
"Is he one of your clients?"
"Well, I suppose I may call him so. He has been sent on by the Yard.
Just as medical men occasionally send their incurables to a quack.
They argue that they can do nothing more, and that whatever happens the
patient can be no worse than he is."
"What is the matter?"
Holmes took a rather soiled card from the table. "Josiah Amberley. He
says he was junior partner of Brickfall and Amberley, who are
manufacturers of artistic materials. You will see their names upon
paint-boxes. He made his little pile, retired from business at the age
of sixty-one, bought a house at Lewisham, and settled down to rest
after a life of ceaseless grind. One would think his future was
tolerably assured."
"Yes, indeed."
Holmes glanced over some notes which he had scribbled upon the back of
an envelope.
"Retired in 1896, Watson. Early in 1897 he married a woman twenty
years younger than himself--a good-looking woman, too, if the
photograph does not flatter. A competence, a wife, leisure--it seemed
a straight road which lay before him. And yet within two years he is,
as you have seen, as broken and miserable a creature as crawls beneath
the sun."
"But what has happened?"
"The old story, Watson. A treacherous friend and a fickle wife. It
would appear that Amberley has one hobby in life, and it is chess. Not
far from him at Lewisham there lives a young doctor who is also a
chess-player. I have noted his name as Dr. Ray Ernest. Ernest was
frequently in the house, and an intimacy between him and Mrs. Amberley
was a natural sequence, for you must admit that our unfortunate client
has few outward graces, whatever his inner virtues may be. The couple
went off together last week--destination untraced. What is more, the
faithless spouse carried off the old man's deed-box as her personal
luggage with a good part of his life's savings within. Can we find the
lady? Can we save the money? A commonplace problem so far as it has
developed, and yet a vital one for Josiah Amberley."
"What will you do about it?"
"Well, the immediate question, my dear Watson, happens to be, What will
_you_ do?--if you will be good enough to understudy me. You know that
I am preoccupied with this case of the two Coptic Patriarchs, which
should come to a head to-day. I really have not time to go out to
Lewisham, and yet evidence taken on the spot has a special value. The
old fellow was quite insistent that I should go, but I explained my
difficulty. He is prepared to meet a representative."
"By all means," I answered. "I confess I don't see that I can be of
much service, but I am willing to do my best." And so it was that on a
summer afternoon I set forth to Lewisham, little dreaming that within a
week the affair in which I was engaging would be the eager debate of
all England.
It was late that evening before I returned to Baker Street and gave an
account of my mission. Holmes lay with his gaunt figure stretched in
his deep chair, his pipe curling forth slow wreaths of acrid tobacco,
while his eyelids drooped over his eyes so lazily that he might almost
have been asleep were it not that at any halt or questionable passage
of my narrative they half lifted, and two grey eyes, as bright and keen
as rapiers, transfixed me with their searching glance.
"The Haven is the name of Mr. Josiah Amberley's house," I explained.
"I think it would interest you, Holmes. It is like some penurious
patrician who has sunk into the company of his inferiors. You know
that particular quarter, the monotonous brick streets, the weary
suburban highways. Right in the middle of them, a little island of
ancient culture and comfort, lies this old home, surrounded by a high
sun-baked wall mottled with lichens and topped with moss, the sort of
wall----"
"Cut out the poetry, Watson," said Holmes severely. "I note that it
was a high brick wall."
"Exactly. I should not have known which was The Haven had I not asked
a lounger who was smoking in the street. I have a reason for
mentioning him. He was a tall, dark, heavily-moustached, rather
military-looking man. He nodded in answer to my inquiry and gave me a
curiously questioning glance, which came back to my memory a little
later.
"I had hardly entered the gateway before I saw Mr. Amberley coming down
the drive. I only had a glimpse of him this morning, and he certainly
gave me the impression of a strange creature, but when I saw him in
full light his appearance was even more abnormal."
"I have, of course, studied it, and yet I should be interested to have
your impression," said Holmes.
"He seemed to me like a man who was literally bowed down by care. His
back was curved as though he carried a heavy burden. Yet he was not
the weakling that I had at first imagined, for his shoulders and chest
have the framework of a giant, though his figure tapers away into a
pair of spindled legs."
"Left shoe wrinkled, right one smooth."
"I did not observe that."
"No, you wouldn't. I spotted his artificial limb. But proceed."
"I was struck by the snaky locks of grizzled hair which curled from
under his old straw hat, and his face with its fierce, eager expression
and the deeply-lined features."
"Very good, Watson. What did he say?"
"He began pouring out the story of his grievances. We walked down the
drive together, and of course I took a good look round. I have never
seen a worse-kept place. The garden was all running to seed, giving me
an impression of wild neglect in which the plants had been allowed to
find the way of nature rather than of art. How any decent woman could
have tolerated such a state of things, I don't know. The house, too,
was slatternly to the last degree, but the poor man seemed himself to
be aware of it and to be trying to remedy it, for a great pot of green
paint stood in the centre of the hall and he was carrying a thick brush
in his left hand. He had been working on the woodwork.
"He took me into his dingy sanctum, and we had a long chat. Of course,
he was disappointed that you had not come yourself. 'I hardly
expected,' he said, 'that so humble an individual as myself, especially
after my heavy financial loss, could obtain the complete attention of
so famous a man as Mr. Sherlock Holmes.'
"I assured him that the financial question did not arise. 'No, of
course, it is art for art's sake with him,' said he; 'but even on the
artistic side of crime he might have found something here to study.
And human nature, Dr. Watson--the black ingratitude of it all! When
did I ever refuse one of her requests? Was ever a woman so pampered?
And that young man--he might have been my own son. He had the run of
my house. And yet see how they have treated me! Oh, Dr. Watson, it is
a dreadful, dreadful world!'
"That was the burden of his song for an hour or more. He had, it
seems, no suspicion of an intrigue. They lived alone save for a woman
who comes in by the day and leaves every evening at six. On that
particular evening old Amberley, wishing to give his wife a treat, had
taken two upper circle seats at the Haymarket Theatre. At the last
moment she had complained of a headache and had refused to go. He had
gone alone. There seemed to be no doubt about the fact, for he
produced the unused ticket which he had taken for his wife."
"That is remarkable--most remarkable," said Holmes, whose interest in
the case seemed to be rising. "Pray continue, Watson. I find your
narrative most arresting. Did you personally examine this ticket? You
did not, perchance, take the number?"
"It so happens that I did," I answered with some pride. "It chanced to
be my old school number, thirty-one, and so it stuck in my head."
"Excellent, Watson! His seat, then, was either thirty or thirty-two."
"Quite so," I answered, with some mystification. "And on B row."
"That is most satisfactory. What else did he tell you?"
"He showed me his strong-room, as he called it. It really is a
strong-room--like a bank--with iron door and shutter--burglar-proof, as
he claimed. However, the woman seems to have had a duplicate key, and
between them they had carried off some seven thousand pounds' worth of
cash and securities."
"Securities! How could they dispose of those?"
"He said that he had given the police a list and that he hoped they
would be unsalable. He had got back from the theatre about midnight,
and found the place plundered, the door and window open and the
fugitives gone. There was no letter or message, nor has he heard a
word since. He at once gave the alarm to the police."
Holmes brooded for some minutes.
"You say he was painting. What was he painting?"
"Well, he was painting the passage. But he had already painted the
door and woodwork of this room I spoke of."
"Does it not strike you as a strange occupation in the circumstances?"
"'One must do something to ease an aching heart.' That was his own
explanation. It was eccentric, no doubt, but he is clearly an
eccentric man. He tore up one of his wife's photographs in my
presence--tore it up furiously in a tempest of passion. 'I never wish
to see her damned face again,' he shrieked."
"Anything more, Watson?"
"Yes, one thing which struck me more than anything else. I had driven
to the Blackheath Station and had caught my train there, when just as
it was starting I saw a man dart into the carriage next to my own. You
know that I have a quick eye for faces, Holmes. It was undoubtedly the
tall, dark man whom I had addressed in the street. I saw him once more
at London Bridge, and then I lost him in the crowd. But I am convinced
that he was following me."
"No doubt! No doubt!" said Holmes. "A tall, dark, heavily-moustached
man, you say, with grey-tinted sun-glasses?"
"Holmes, you are a wizard. I did not say so, but he had grey-tinted
sun-glasses."
"And a Masonic tie-pin?"
"Holmes!"
"Quite simple, my dear Watson. But let us get down to what is
practical. I must admit to you that the case, which seemed to me to be
so absurdly simple as to be hardly worth my notice, is rapidly assuming
a very different aspect. It is true that though in your mission you
have missed everything of importance, yet even those things which have
obtruded themselves upon your notice give rise to serious thought."
"What have I missed?"
"Don't be hurt, my dear fellow. You know that I am quite impersonal.
No one else would have done better. Some possibly not so well. But
clearly you have missed some vital points. What is the opinion of the
neighbours about this man Amberley and his wife? That surely is of
importance. What of Dr. Ernest? Was he the gay Lothario one would
expect? With your natural advantages, Watson, every lady is your
helper and accomplice. What about the girl at the post office, or the
wife of the greengrocer? I can picture you whispering soft nothings
with the young lady at the 'Blue Anchor,' and receiving hard somethings
in exchange. All this you have left undone."
"It can still be done."
"It has been done. Thanks to the telephone and the help of the Yard, I
can usually get my essentials without leaving this room. As a matter
of fact, my information confirms the man's story. He has the local
repute of being a miser as well as a harsh and exacting husband. That
he had a large sum of money in that strong-room of his is certain. So
also is it that young Dr. Ernest, an unmarried man, played chess with
Amberley, and probably played the fool with his wife. All this seems
plain sailing, and one would think that there was no more to be
said--and yet!--and yet!"
"Where lies the difficulty?"
"In my imagination, perhaps. Well, leave it there, Watson. Let us
escape from this weary workaday world by the side door of music.
Carina sings to-night at the Albert Hall, and we still have time to
dress, dine and enjoy."
In the morning I was up betimes, but some toast crumbs and two empty
egg-shells told me that my companion was earlier still. I found a
scribbled note upon the table.
DEAR WATSON,--
There are one or two points of contact which I should wish to establish
with Mr. Josiah Amberley. When I have done so we can dismiss the
case--or not. I would only ask you to be on hand about three o'clock,
as I conceive it possible that I may want you.
S. H.
I saw nothing of Holmes all day, but at the hour named he returned,
grave, preoccupied and aloof. At such times it was wiser to leave him
to himself.
"Has Amberley been here yet?"
"No."
"Ah! I am expecting him."
He was not disappointed, for presently the old fellow arrived with a
very worried and puzzled expression upon his austere face.
"I've had a telegram, Mr. Holmes. I can make nothing of it." He
handed it over, and Holmes read it aloud.
"Come at once without fail. Can give you information as to your recent
loss.--ELMAN. The Vicarage."
"Dispatched at two-ten from Little Turlington," said Holmes. "Little
Turlington is in Essex, I believe, not far from Frinton. Well, of
course you will start at once. This is evidently from a responsible
person, the vicar of the place. Where is my Crockford? Yes, here we
have him. J. C. Elman, M.A., Living of Mossmoor cum Little Purlington.
Look up the trains, Watson."
"There is one at five-twenty from Liverpool Street."
"Excellent. You had best go with him, Watson. He may need help or
advice. Clearly we have come to a crisis in this affair."
But our client seemed by no means eager to start.
"It's perfectly absurd, Mr. Holmes," he said. "What can this man
possibly know of what has occurred? It is waste of time and money."
"He would not have telegraphed to you if he did not know something.
Wire at once that you are coming."
"I don't think I shall go."
Holmes assumed his sternest aspect.
"It would make the worst possible impression both on the police and
upon myself, Mr. Amberley, if when so obvious a clue arose you should
refuse to follow it up. We should feel that you were not really in
earnest in this investigation."
Our client seemed horrified at the suggestion.
"Why, of course I shall go if you look at it in that way," said he.
"On the face of it, it seems absurd to suppose that this parson knows
anything, but if you think----"
"I _do_ think," said Holmes, with emphasis, and so we were launched
upon our journey. Holmes took me aside before we left the room and
gave me one word of counsel which showed that he considered the matter
to be of importance. "Whatever you do, see that he really _does_ go,"
said he. "Should he break away or return, get to the nearest telephone
exchange and send the single word 'Bolted.' I will arrange here that
it shall reach me wherever I am."
Little Purlington is not an easy place to reach, for it is on a branch
line. My remembrance of the journey is not a pleasant one, for the
weather was hot, the train slow, and my companion sullen and silent,
hardly talking at all, save to make an occasional sardonic remark as to
the futility of our proceedings. When we at last reached the little
station it was a two-mile drive before we came to the Vicarage, where a
big, solemn, rather pompous clergyman received us in his study. Our
telegram lay before him.
"Well, gentlemen," he asked, "what can I do for you?"
"We came," I explained, "in answer to your wire."
"My wire! I sent no wire."
"I mean the wire which you sent to Mr. Josiah Amberley about his wife
and his money."
"If this is a joke, sir, it is a very questionable one," said the vicar
angrily. "I have never heard of the gentleman you name, and I have not
sent a wire to anyone."
Our client and I looked at each other in amazement.
"Perhaps there is some mistake," said I; "are there perhaps two
vicarages? Here is the wire itself, signed Elman, and dated from the
Vicarage."
"There is only one vicarage, sir, and only one vicar, and this wire is
a scandalous forgery, the origin of which shall certainly be
investigated by the police. Meanwhile, I can see no possible object in
prolonging this interview."
So Mr. Amberley and I found ourselves on the roadside in what seemed to
me to be the most primitive village in England. We made for the
telegraph office, but it was already closed. There was a telephone,
however, at the little 'Railway Arms,' and by it I got into touch with
Holmes, who shared in our amazement at the result of our journey.
"Most singular!" said the distant voice. "Most remarkable! I much
fear, my dear Watson, that there is no return train to-night. I have
unwittingly condemned you to the horrors of a country inn. However,
there is always Nature, Watson--Nature and Josiah Amberley--you can be
in close commune with both." I heard his dry chuckle as he turned away.
It was soon apparent to me that my companion's reputation as a miser
was not undeserved. He had grumbled at the expense of the journey, had
insisted upon travelling third-class, and was now clamorous in his
objections to the hotel bill. Next morning, when we did at last arrive
in London, it was hard to say which of us was in the worse humour.
"You had best take Baker Street as we pass," said I. "Mr. Holmes may
have some fresh instructions."
"If they are not worth more than the last ones they are not of much
use," said Amberley, with a malevolent scowl. None the less, he kept
me company. I had already warned Holmes by telegram of the hour of our
arrival, but we found a message waiting that he was at Lewisham, and
would expect us there. That was a surprise, but an even greater one
was to find that he was not alone in the sitting-room of our client. A
stern-looking, impassive man sat beside him, a dark man with
grey-tinted glasses and a large Masonic pin projecting from his tie.
"This is my friend Mr. Barker," said Holmes. "He has been interesting
himself also in your business, Mr. Josiah Amberley, though we have been
working independently. But we both have the same question to ask you!"
Mr. Amberley sat down heavily. He sensed impending danger. I read it
in his straining eyes and his twitching features.
"What is the question, Mr. Holmes?"
"Only this: What did you do with the bodies?"
The man sprang to his feet with a hoarse scream. He clawed into the
air with his bony hands. His mouth was open, and for the instant he
looked like some horrible bird of prey. In a flash we got a glimpse of
the real Josiah Amberley, a misshapen demon with a soul as distorted as
his body. As he fell back into his chair he clapped his hand to his
lips as if to stifle a cough. Holmes sprang at his throat like a
tiger, and twisted his face towards the ground. A white pellet fell
from between his gasping lips.
"No short cuts, Josiah Amberley. Things must be done decently and in
order. What about it, Barker?"
"I have a cab at the door," said our taciturn companion.
"It is only a few hundred yards to the station. We will go together.
You can stay here, Watson. I shall be back within half an hour."
The old colourman had the strength of a lion in that great trunk of
his, but he was helpless in the hands of the two experienced
man-handlers. Wriggling and twisting he was dragged to the waiting
cab, and I was left to my solitary vigil in the ill-omened house. In
less time than he had named, however, Holmes was back, in company with
a smart young police inspector.
"I've left Barker to look after the formalities," said Holmes. "You
had not met Barker, Watson. He is my hated rival upon the Surrey
shore. When you said a tall dark man it was not difficult for me to
complete the picture. He has several good cases to his credit, has he
not, Inspector?"
"He has certainly interfered several times," the Inspector answered
with reserve.
"His methods are irregular, no doubt, like my own. The irregulars are
useful sometimes, you know. You, for example, with your compulsory
warning about whatever he said being used against him, could never have
bluffed this rascal into what is virtually a confession."
"Perhaps not. But we get there all the same, Mr. Holmes. Don't
imagine that we had not formed our own views of this case, and that we
would not have laid our hands on our man. You will excuse us for
feeling sore when you jump in with methods which we cannot use, and so
rob us of the credit."
"There shall be no such robbery, MacKinnon. I assure you that I efface
myself from now onwards, and as to Barker, he has done nothing save
what I told him."
The Inspector seemed considerably relieved.
"That is very handsome of you, Mr. Holmes. Praise or blame can matter
little to you, but it is very different to us when the newspapers begin
to ask questions."
"Quite so. But they are pretty sure to ask questions anyhow, so it
would be as well to have answers. What will you say, for example, when
the intelligent and enterprising reporter asks you what the exact
points were which aroused your suspicion, and finally gave you a
certain conviction as to the real facts?"
The Inspector looked puzzled.
"We don't seem to have got any real facts yet, Mr. Holmes. You say
that the prisoner, in the presence of three witnesses, practically
confessed, by trying to commit suicide, that he had murdered his wife
and her lover. What other facts have you?"
"Have you arranged for a search?"
"There are three constables on their way."
"Then you will soon get the clearest fact of all. The bodies cannot be
far away. Try the cellars and the garden. It should not take long to
dig up the likely places. This house is older than the water-pipes.
There must be a disused well somewhere. Try your luck there."
"But how did you know of it, and how was it done?"
"I'll show you first how it was done, and then I will give the
explanation which is due to you, and even more to my long-suffering
friend here, who has been invaluable throughout. But, first, I would
give you an insight into this man's mentality. It is a very unusual
one--so much so that I think his destination is more likely to be
Broadmoor than the scaffold. He has, to a high degree, the sort of
mind which one associates with the mediæval Italian nature rather than
with the modern Briton. He was a miserable miser who made his wife so
wretched by his niggardly ways that she was a ready prey for any
adventurer. Such a one came upon the scene in the person of this
chess-playing doctor. Amberley excelled at chess--one mark, Watson, of
a scheming mind. Like all misers, he was a jealous man, and his
jealousy became a frantic mania. Rightly or wrongly, he suspected an
intrigue. He determined to have his revenge, and he planned it with
diabolical cleverness. Come here!"
Holmes led us along the passage with as much certainty as if he had
lived in the house, and halted at the open door of the strong-room.
"Pooh! What an awful smell of paint!" cried the Inspector.
"That was our first clue," said Holmes. "You can thank Dr. Watson's
observation for that, though he failed to draw the inference. It set
my foot upon the trail. Why should this man at such a time be filling
his house with strong odours? Obviously, to cover some other smell
which he wished to conceal--some guilty smell which would suggest
suspicions. Then came the idea of a room such as you see here with
iron door and shutter--a hermetically sealed room. Put those two facts
together, and whither do they lead? I could only determine that by
examining the house myself. I was already certain that the case was
serious, for I had examined the box-office chart at the Haymarket
Theatre--another of Dr. Watson's bull's-eyes--and ascertained that
neither B thirty nor thirty-two of the upper circle had been occupied
that night. Therefore, Amberley had not been to the theatre, and his
alibi fell to the ground. He made a bad slip when he allowed my astute
friend to notice the number of the seat taken for his wife. The
question now arose how I might be able to examine the house. I sent an
agent to the most impossible village I could think of, and summoned my
man to it at such an hour that he could not possibly get back. To
prevent any miscarriage, Dr. Watson accompanied him. The good vicar's
name I took, of course, out of my Crockford. Do I make it all clear to
you?"
"It is masterly," said the Inspector, in an awed voice.
"There being no fear of interruption I proceeded to burgle the house.
Burglary has always been an alternative profession, had I cared to
adopt it, and I have little doubt that I should have come to the front.
Observe what I found. You see the gas-pipe along the skirting here.
Very good. It rises in the angle of the wall, and there is a tap here
in the corner. The pipe runs out into the strong-room, as you can see,
and ends in that plaster rose in the centre of the ceiling, where it is
concealed by the ornamentation. That end is wide open. At any moment
by turning the outside tap the room could be flooded with gas. With
door and shutter closed and the tap full on I would not give two
minutes of conscious sensation to anyone shut up in that little
chamber. By what devilish device he decoyed them there I do not know,
but once inside the door they were at his mercy."
The Inspector examined the pipe with interest. "One of our officers
mentioned the smell of gas," said he, "but, of course, the window and
door were open then, and the paint--or some of it--was already about.
He had begun the work of painting the day before, according to his
story. But what next, Mr. Holmes?"
"Well, then came an incident which was rather unexpected to myself. I
was slipping through the pantry window in the early dawn when I felt a
hand inside my collar, and a voice said: 'Now, you rascal, what are you
doing in there?' When I could twist my head round I looked into the
tinted spectacles of my friend and rival, Mr. Barker. It was a curious
forgathering, and set us both smiling. It seems that he had been
engaged by Dr. Ray Ernest's family to make some investigations, and had
come to the same conclusion as to foul play. He had watched the house
for some days, and had spotted Dr. Watson as one of the obviously
suspicious characters who had called there. He could hardly arrest
Watson, but when he saw a man actually climbing out of the pantry
window there came a limit to his restraint. Of course, I told him how
matters stood and we continued the case together."
"Why him? Why not us?"
"Because it was in my mind to put that little test which answered so
admirably. I fear you would not have gone so far."
The Inspector smiled.
"Well, maybe not. I understand that I have your word, Mr. Holmes, that
you step right out of the case now and that you turn all your results
over to us."
"Certainly, that is always my custom."
"Well, in the name of the Force I thank you. It seems a clear case, as
you put it, and there can't be much difficulty over the bodies."
"I'll show you a grim little bit of evidence," said Holmes, "and I am
sure Amberley himself never observed it. You'll get results,
Inspector, by always putting yourself in the other fellow's place, and
thinking what you would do yourself. It takes some imagination, but it
pays. Now, we will suppose that you were shut up in this little room,
had not two minutes to live, but wanted to get even with the fiend who
was probably mocking at you from the other side of the door. What
would you do?"
"Write a message."
"Exactly. You would like to tell people how you died. No use writing
on paper. That would be seen. If you wrote on the wall some eye might
rest upon it. Now, look here! Just above the skirting is scribbled
with a purple indelible pencil: 'We we----' That's all."
"What do you make of that?"
"Well, it's only a foot above the ground. The poor devil was on the
floor and dying when he wrote it. He lost his senses before he could
finish."
"He was writing, 'We were murdered.'"
"That's how I read it. If you find an indelible pencil on the body----"
"We'll look out for it, you may be sure. But those securities?
Clearly there was no robbery at all. And yet he _did_ possess those
bonds. We verified that."
"You may be sure he has them hidden in a safe place. When the whole
elopement had passed into history he would suddenly discover them, and
announce that the guilty couple had relented and sent back the plunder
or had dropped it on the way."
"You certainly seem to have met every difficulty," said the Inspector.
"Of course, he was bound to call us in, but why he should have gone to
you I can't understand."
"Pure swank!" Holmes answered. "He felt so clever and so sure of
himself that he imagined no one could touch him. He could say to any
suspicious neighbour, 'Look at the steps I have taken. I have
consulted not only the police, but even Sherlock Holmes.'"
The Inspector laughed.
"We must forgive you your 'even,' Mr. Holmes," said he; "it's as
workmanlike a job as I can remember."
A couple of days later my friend tossed across to me a copy of the
bi-weekly _North Surrey Observer_. Under a series of flaming
headlines, which began with "The Haven Horror" and ended with
"Brilliant Police Investigation," there was a packed column of print
which gave the first consecutive account of the affair. The concluding
paragraph is typical of the whole. It ran thus:
"The remarkable acumen by which Inspector MacKinnon deduced from the
smell of paint that some other smell, that of gas, for example, might
be concealed; the bold deduction that the strongroom might also be the
death-chamber, and the subsequent inquiry which led to the discovery of
the bodies in a disused well, cleverly concealed by a dog-kennel,
should live in the history of crime as a standing example of the
intelligence of our professional detectives."
"Well, well, MacKinnon is a good fellow," said Holmes, with a tolerant
smile. "You can file it in our archives, Watson. Some day the true
story may be told."
Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London
* * * * *
By A. CONAN DOYLE
THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.
THE MEMOIRS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.
THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.
MICAH CLARKE.
THE CAPTAIN OF THE POLE STAR.
THE SIGN OF FOUR.
THE WHITE COMPANY
THE REFUGEES.
THE STARK MUNRO LETTERS.
THE EXPLOITS OF BRIGADIER GERARD.
RODNEY STONE.
UNCLE BERNAC.
THE TRAGEDY OF THE "KOROSKO."
A DUET, WITH AN OCCASIONAL CHORUS.
THE GREEN FLAG.
THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES.
THE ADVENTURES OF GERARD.
SIR NIGEL.
THROUGH THE MAGIC DOOR.
ROUND THE FIRE STORIES.
THE LAST GALLEY.
THE LOST WORLD.
ROUND THE RED LAMP.
THE VALLEY OF FEAR.
HIS LAST BOW.
DANGER! AND OTHER STORIES.
THE FIRM OF GIRDLESTONE.
TALES OF ADVENTURE AND MEDICAL LIFE.
TALES OF LONG AGO.
TALES OF PIRATES AND BLUE WATER.
TALES OF THE RING AND CAMP.
TALES OF TERROR AND MYSTERY.
TALES OF TWILIGHT AND THE UNSEEN.
SONGS OF ACTION.
SONGS OF THE ROAD.
THE GUARDS CAME THROUGH, AND OTHER POEMS.
POEMS: COLLECTED EDITION.
THREE OF THEM: A REMINISCENCE.
THE MYSTERY OF JOAN OF ARC. BY LÉON
DENIS. Translated from the French by
A. CONAN DOYLE.
|
the_adventure_of_the_retired_colourman
|
I. Silver Blaze
|
The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes
|
I am afraid, Watson, that I shall have to go,” said Holmes, as we
sat down together to our breakfast one morning.
“Go! Where to?”
“To Dartmoor; to King’s Pyland.”
I was not surprised. Indeed, my only wonder was that he had not
already been mixed up in this extraordinary case, which was the
one topic of conversation through the length and breadth of
England. For a whole day my companion had rambled about the room
with his chin upon his chest and his brows knitted, charging and
recharging his pipe with the strongest black tobacco, and
absolutely deaf to any of my questions or remarks. Fresh editions
of every paper had been sent up by our news agent, only to be
glanced over and tossed down into a corner. Yet, silent as he
was, I knew perfectly well what it was over which he was
brooding. There was but one problem before the public which could
challenge his powers of analysis, and that was the singular
disappearance of the favourite for the Wessex Cup, and the tragic
murder of its trainer. When, therefore, he suddenly announced his
intention of setting out for the scene of the drama it was only
what I had both expected and hoped for.
“I should be most happy to go down with you if I should not be in
the way,” said I.
“My dear Watson, you would confer a great favour upon me by
coming. And I think that your time will not be misspent, for
there are points about the case which promise to make it an
absolutely unique one. We have, I think, just time to catch our
train at Paddington, and I will go further into the matter upon
our journey. You would oblige me by bringing with you your very
excellent field-glass.”
And so it happened that an hour or so later I found myself in the
corner of a first-class carriage flying along en route for
Exeter, while Sherlock Holmes, with his sharp, eager face framed
in his ear-flapped travelling-cap, dipped rapidly into the bundle
of fresh papers which he had procured at Paddington. We had left
Reading far behind us before he thrust the last one of them under
the seat, and offered me his cigar-case.
“We are going well,” said he, looking out the window and glancing
at his watch. “Our rate at present is fifty-three and a half
miles an hour.”
“I have not observed the quarter-mile posts,” said I.
“Nor have I. But the telegraph posts upon this line are sixty
yards apart, and the calculation is a simple one. I presume that
you have looked into this matter of the murder of John Straker
and the disappearance of Silver Blaze?”
“I have seen what the _Telegraph_ and the _Chronicle_ have to
say.”
“It is one of those cases where the art of the reasoner should be
used rather for the sifting of details than for the acquiring of
fresh evidence. The tragedy has been so uncommon, so complete and
of such personal importance to so many people, that we are
suffering from a plethora of surmise, conjecture, and hypothesis.
The difficulty is to detach the framework of fact—of absolute
undeniable fact—from the embellishments of theorists and
reporters. Then, having established ourselves upon this sound
basis, it is our duty to see what inferences may be drawn and
what are the special points upon which the whole mystery turns.
On Tuesday evening I received telegrams from both Colonel Ross,
the owner of the horse, and from Inspector Gregory, who is
looking after the case, inviting my co-operation.”
“Tuesday evening!” I exclaimed. “And this is Thursday morning.
Why didn’t you go down yesterday?”
“Because I made a blunder, my dear Watson—which is, I am afraid,
a more common occurrence than any one would think who only knew
me through your memoirs. The fact is that I could not believe it
possible that the most remarkable horse in England could long
remain concealed, especially in so sparsely inhabited a place as
the north of Dartmoor. From hour to hour yesterday I expected to
hear that he had been found, and that his abductor was the
murderer of John Straker. When, however, another morning had
come, and I found that beyond the arrest of young Fitzroy Simpson
nothing had been done, I felt that it was time for me to take
action. Yet in some ways I feel that yesterday has not been
wasted.”
“You have formed a theory, then?”
“At least I have got a grip of the essential facts of the case. I
shall enumerate them to you, for nothing clears up a case so much
as stating it to another person, and I can hardly expect your
co-operation if I do not show you the position from which we
start.”
I lay back against the cushions, puffing at my cigar, while
Holmes, leaning forward, with his long, thin forefinger checking
off the points upon the palm of his left hand, gave me a sketch
of the events which had led to our journey.
“Silver Blaze,” said he, “is from the Isonomy stock, and holds as
brilliant a record as his famous ancestor. He is now in his fifth
year, and has brought in turn each of the prizes of the turf to
Colonel Ross, his fortunate owner. Up to the time of the
catastrophe he was the first favourite for the Wessex Cup, the
betting being three to one on him. He has always, however, been a
prime favourite with the racing public, and has never yet
disappointed them, so that even at those odds enormous sums of
money have been laid upon him. It is obvious, therefore, that
there were many people who had the strongest interest in
preventing Silver Blaze from being there at the fall of the flag
next Tuesday.
“The fact was, of course, appreciated at King’s Pyland, where the
Colonel’s training-stable is situated. Every precaution was taken
to guard the favourite. The trainer, John Straker, is a retired
jockey who rode in Colonel Ross’s colours before he became too
heavy for the weighing-chair. He has served the Colonel for five
years as jockey and for seven as trainer, and has always shown
himself to be a zealous and honest servant. Under him were three
lads; for the establishment was a small one, containing only four
horses in all. One of these lads sat up each night in the stable,
while the others slept in the loft. All three bore excellent
characters. John Straker, who is a married man, lived in a small
villa about two hundred yards from the stables. He has no
children, keeps one maid-servant, and is comfortably off. The
country round is very lonely, but about half a mile to the north
there is a small cluster of villas which have been built by a
Tavistock contractor for the use of invalids and others who may
wish to enjoy the pure Dartmoor air. Tavistock itself lies two
miles to the west, while across the moor, also about two miles
distant, is the larger training establishment of Mapleton, which
belongs to Lord Backwater, and is managed by Silas Brown. In
every other direction the moor is a complete wilderness,
inhabited only by a few roaming gypsies. Such was the general
situation last Monday night when the catastrophe occurred.
“On that evening the horses had been exercised and watered as
usual, and the stables were locked up at nine o’clock. Two of the
lads walked up to the trainer’s house, where they had supper in
the kitchen, while the third, Ned Hunter, remained on guard. At a
few minutes after nine the maid, Edith Baxter, carried down to
the stables his supper, which consisted of a dish of curried
mutton. She took no liquid, as there was a water-tap in the
stables, and it was the rule that the lad on duty should drink
nothing else. The maid carried a lantern with her, as it was very
dark and the path ran across the open moor.
“Edith Baxter was within thirty yards of the stables, when a man
appeared out of the darkness and called to her to stop. As he
stepped into the circle of yellow light thrown by the lantern she
saw that he was a person of gentlemanly bearing, dressed in a
grey suit of tweeds, with a cloth cap. He wore gaiters, and
carried a heavy stick with a knob to it. She was most impressed,
however, by the extreme pallor of his face and by the nervousness
of his manner. His age, she thought, would be rather over thirty
than under it.
“‘Can you tell me where I am?’ he asked. ‘I had almost made up my
mind to sleep on the moor, when I saw the light of your lantern.’
“‘You are close to the King’s Pyland training-stables,’ said she.
“‘Oh, indeed! What a stroke of luck!’ he cried. ‘I understand
that a stable-boy sleeps there alone every night. Perhaps that is
his supper which you are carrying to him. Now I am sure that you
would not be too proud to earn the price of a new dress, would
you?’ He took a piece of white paper folded up out of his
waistcoat pocket. ‘See that the boy has this to-night, and you
shall have the prettiest frock that money can buy.’
“She was frightened by the earnestness of his manner, and ran
past him to the window through which she was accustomed to hand
the meals. It was already opened, and Hunter was seated at the
small table inside. She had begun to tell him of what had
happened, when the stranger came up again.
“‘Good-evening,’ said he, looking through the window. ‘I wanted
to have a word with you.’ The girl has sworn that as he spoke she
noticed the corner of the little paper packet protruding from his
closed hand.
“‘What business have you here?’ asked the lad.
“‘It’s business that may put something into your pocket,’ said
the other. ‘You’ve two horses in for the Wessex Cup—Silver Blaze
and Bayard. Let me have the straight tip and you won’t be a
loser. Is it a fact that at the weights Bayard could give the
other a hundred yards in five furlongs, and that the stable have
put their money on him?’
“‘So, you’re one of those damned touts!’ cried the lad. ‘I’ll
show you how we serve them in King’s Pyland.’ He sprang up and
rushed across the stable to unloose the dog. The girl fled away
to the house, but as she ran she looked back and saw that the
stranger was leaning through the window. A minute later, however,
when Hunter rushed out with the hound he was gone, and though he
ran all round the buildings he failed to find any trace of him.”
“One moment,” I asked. “Did the stable-boy, when he ran out with
the dog, leave the door unlocked behind him?”
“Excellent, Watson, excellent!” murmured my companion. “The
importance of the point struck me so forcibly that I sent a
special wire to Dartmoor yesterday to clear the matter up. The
boy locked the door before he left it. The window, I may add, was
not large enough for a man to get through.
“Hunter waited until his fellow-grooms had returned, when he sent
a message to the trainer and told him what had occurred. Straker
was excited at hearing the account, although he does not seem to
have quite realized its true significance. It left him, however,
vaguely uneasy, and Mrs. Straker, waking at one in the morning,
found that he was dressing. In reply to her inquiries, he said
that he could not sleep on account of his anxiety about the
horses, and that he intended to walk down to the stables to see
that all was well. She begged him to remain at home, as she could
hear the rain pattering against the window, but in spite of her
entreaties he pulled on his large mackintosh and left the house.
“Mrs. Straker awoke at seven in the morning, to find that her
husband had not yet returned. She dressed herself hastily, called
the maid, and set off for the stables. The door was open; inside,
huddled together upon a chair, Hunter was sunk in a state of
absolute stupor, the favourite’s stall was empty, and there were
no signs of his trainer.
“The two lads who slept in the chaff-cutting loft above the
harness-room were quickly aroused. They had heard nothing during
the night, for they are both sound sleepers. Hunter was obviously
under the influence of some powerful drug, and as no sense could
be got out of him, he was left to sleep it off while the two lads
and the two women ran out in search of the absentees. They still
had hopes that the trainer had for some reason taken out the
horse for early exercise, but on ascending the knoll near the
house, from which all the neighbouring moors were visible, they
not only could see no signs of the missing favourite, but they
perceived something which warned them that they were in the
presence of a tragedy.
“About a quarter of a mile from the stables John Straker’s
overcoat was flapping from a furze-bush. Immediately beyond there
was a bowl-shaped depression in the moor, and at the bottom of
this was found the dead body of the unfortunate trainer. His head
had been shattered by a savage blow from some heavy weapon, and
he was wounded on the thigh, where there was a long, clean cut,
inflicted evidently by some very sharp instrument. It was clear,
however, that Straker had defended himself vigorously against his
assailants, for in his right hand he held a small knife, which
was clotted with blood up to the handle, while in his left he
clasped a red and black silk cravat, which was recognised by the
maid as having been worn on the preceding evening by the stranger
who had visited the stables.
“Hunter, on recovering from his stupor, was also quite positive
as to the ownership of the cravat. He was equally certain that
the same stranger had, while standing at the window, drugged his
curried mutton, and so deprived the stables of their watchman.
“As to the missing horse, there were abundant proofs in the mud
which lay at the bottom of the fatal hollow that he had been
there at the time of the struggle. But from that morning he has
disappeared, and although a large reward has been offered, and
all the gypsies of Dartmoor are on the alert, no news has come of
him. Finally, an analysis has shown that the remains of his
supper left by the stable-lad contain an appreciable quantity of
powdered opium, while the people at the house partook of the same
dish on the same night without any ill effect.
“Those are the main facts of the case, stripped of all surmise,
and stated as baldly as possible. I shall now recapitulate what
the police have done in the matter.
“Inspector Gregory, to whom the case has been committed, is an
extremely competent officer. Were he but gifted with imagination
he might rise to great heights in his profession. On his arrival
he promptly found and arrested the man upon whom suspicion
naturally rested. There was little difficulty in finding him, for
he inhabited one of those villas which I have mentioned. His
name, it appears, was Fitzroy Simpson. He was a man of excellent
birth and education, who had squandered a fortune upon the turf,
and who lived now by doing a little quiet and genteel book-making
in the sporting clubs of London. An examination of his
betting-book shows that bets to the amount of five thousand
pounds had been registered by him against the favourite.
“On being arrested he volunteered the statement that he had come
down to Dartmoor in the hope of getting some information about
the King’s Pyland horses, and also about Desborough, the second
favourite, which was in charge of Silas Brown at the Mapleton
stables. He did not attempt to deny that he had acted as
described upon the evening before, but declared that he had no
sinister designs, and had simply wished to obtain first-hand
information. When confronted with his cravat, he turned very
pale, and was utterly unable to account for its presence in the
hand of the murdered man. His wet clothing showed that he had
been out in the storm of the night before, and his stick, which
was a Penang-lawyer weighted with lead, was just such a weapon as
might, by repeated blows, have inflicted the terrible injuries to
which the trainer had succumbed.
“On the other hand, there was no wound upon his person, while the
state of Straker’s knife would show that one at least of his
assailants must bear his mark upon him. There you have it all in
a nutshell, Watson, and if you can give me any light I shall be
infinitely obliged to you.”
I had listened with the greatest interest to the statement which
Holmes, with characteristic clearness, had laid before me. Though
most of the facts were familiar to me, I had not sufficiently
appreciated their relative importance, nor their connection to
each other.
“Is it not possible,” I suggested, “that the incised wound upon
Straker may have been caused by his own knife in the convulsive
struggles which follow any brain injury?”
“It is more than possible; it is probable,” said Holmes. “In that
case one of the main points in favour of the accused disappears.”
“And yet,” said I, “even now I fail to understand what the theory
of the police can be.”
“I am afraid that whatever theory we state has very grave
objections to it,” returned my companion. “The police imagine, I
take it, that this Fitzroy Simpson, having drugged the lad, and
having in some way obtained a duplicate key, opened the stable
door and took out the horse, with the intention, apparently, of
kidnapping him altogether. His bridle is missing, so that Simpson
must have put this on. Then, having left the door open behind
him, he was leading the horse away over the moor, when he was
either met or overtaken by the trainer. A row naturally ensued.
Simpson beat out the trainer’s brains with his heavy stick
without receiving any injury from the small knife which Straker
used in self-defence, and then the thief either led the horse on
to some secret hiding-place, or else it may have bolted during
the struggle, and be now wandering out on the moors. That is the
case as it appears to the police, and improbable as it is, all
other explanations are more improbable still. However, I shall
very quickly test the matter when I am once upon the spot, and
until then I cannot really see how we can get much further than
our present position.”
It was evening before we reached the little town of Tavistock,
which lies, like the boss of a shield, in the middle of the huge
circle of Dartmoor. Two gentlemen were awaiting us in the
station—the one a tall, fair man with lion-like hair and beard
and curiously penetrating light blue eyes; the other a small,
alert person, very neat and dapper, in a frock-coat and gaiters,
with trim little side-whiskers and an eye-glass. The latter was
Colonel Ross, the well-known sportsman; the other, Inspector
Gregory, a man who was rapidly making his name in the English
detective service.
“I am delighted that you have come down, Mr. Holmes,” said the
Colonel. “The Inspector here has done all that could possibly be
suggested, but I wish to leave no stone unturned in trying to
avenge poor Straker and in recovering my horse.”
“Have there been any fresh developments?” asked Holmes.
“I am sorry to say that we have made very little progress,” said
the Inspector. “We have an open carriage outside, and as you
would no doubt like to see the place before the light fails, we
might talk it over as we drive.”
A minute later we were all seated in a comfortable landau, and
were rattling through the quaint old Devonshire city. Inspector
Gregory was full of his case, and poured out a stream of remarks,
while Holmes threw in an occasional question or interjection.
Colonel Ross leaned back with his arms folded and his hat tilted
over his eyes, while I listened with interest to the dialogue of
the two detectives. Gregory was formulating his theory, which was
almost exactly what Holmes had foretold in the train.
“The net is drawn pretty close round Fitzroy Simpson,” he
remarked, “and I believe myself that he is our man. At the same
time I recognise that the evidence is purely circumstantial, and
that some new development may upset it.”
“How about Straker’s knife?”
“We have quite come to the conclusion that he wounded himself in
his fall.”
“My friend Dr. Watson made that suggestion to me as we came down.
If so, it would tell against this man Simpson.”
“Undoubtedly. He has neither a knife nor any sign of a wound. The
evidence against him is certainly very strong. He had a great
interest in the disappearance of the favourite. He lies under
suspicion of having poisoned the stable-boy, he was undoubtedly
out in the storm, he was armed with a heavy stick, and his cravat
was found in the dead man’s hand. I really think we have enough
to go before a jury.”
Holmes shook his head. “A clever counsel would tear it all to
rags,” said he. “Why should he take the horse out of the stable?
If he wished to injure it why could he not do it there? Has a
duplicate key been found in his possession? What chemist sold him
the powdered opium? Above all, where could he, a stranger to the
district, hide a horse, and such a horse as this? What is his own
explanation as to the paper which he wished the maid to give to
the stable-boy?”
“He says that it was a ten-pound note. One was found in his
purse. But your other difficulties are not so formidable as they
seem. He is not a stranger to the district. He has twice lodged
at Tavistock in the summer. The opium was probably brought from
London. The key, having served its purpose, would be hurled away.
The horse may be at the bottom of one of the pits or old mines
upon the moor.”
“What does he say about the cravat?”
“He acknowledges that it is his, and declares that he had lost
it. But a new element has been introduced into the case which may
account for his leading the horse from the stable.”
Holmes pricked up his ears.
“We have found traces which show that a party of gypsies encamped
on Monday night within a mile of the spot where the murder took
place. On Tuesday they were gone. Now, presuming that there was
some understanding between Simpson and these gypsies, might he
not have been leading the horse to them when he was overtaken,
and may they not have him now?”
“It is certainly possible.”
“The moor is being scoured for these gypsies. I have also
examined every stable and out-house in Tavistock, and for a
radius of ten miles.”
“There is another training-stable quite close, I understand?”
“Yes, and that is a factor which we must certainly not neglect.
As Desborough, their horse, was second in the betting, they had
an interest in the disappearance of the favourite. Silas Brown,
the trainer, is known to have had large bets upon the event, and
he was no friend to poor Straker. We have, however, examined the
stables, and there is nothing to connect him with the affair.”
“And nothing to connect this man Simpson with the interests of
the Mapleton stables?”
“Nothing at all.”
Holmes leaned back in the carriage, and the conversation ceased.
A few minutes later our driver pulled up at a neat little
red-brick villa with overhanging eaves which stood by the road.
Some distance off, across a paddock, lay a long grey-tiled
out-building. In every other direction the low curves of the
moor, bronze-coloured from the fading ferns, stretched away to
the sky-line, broken only by the steeples of Tavistock, and by a
cluster of houses away to the westward which marked the Mapleton
stables. We all sprang out with the exception of Holmes, who
continued to lean back with his eyes fixed upon the sky in front
of him, entirely absorbed in his own thoughts. It was only when I
touched his arm that he roused himself with a violent start and
stepped out of the carriage.
“Excuse me,” said he, turning to Colonel Ross, who had looked at
him in some surprise. “I was day-dreaming.” There was a gleam in
his eyes and a suppressed excitement in his manner which
convinced me, used as I was to his ways, that his hand was upon a
clue, though I could not imagine where he had found it.
“Perhaps you would prefer at once to go on to the scene of the
crime, Mr. Holmes?” said Gregory.
“I think that I should prefer to stay here a little and go into
one or two questions of detail. Straker was brought back here, I
presume?”
“Yes; he lies upstairs. The inquest is to-morrow.”
“He has been in your service some years, Colonel Ross?”
“I have always found him an excellent servant.”
“I presume that you made an inventory of what he had in his
pockets at the time of his death, Inspector?”
“I have the things themselves in the sitting-room, if you would
care to see them.”
“I should be very glad.” We all filed into the front room and sat
round the central table while the Inspector unlocked a square tin
box and laid a small heap of things before us. There was a box of
vestas, two inches of tallow candle, an A.D.P. briar-root pipe, a
pouch of seal-skin with half an ounce of long-cut Cavendish, a
silver watch with a gold chain, five sovereigns in gold, an
aluminium pencil-case, a few papers, and an ivory-handled knife
with a very delicate, inflexible blade marked Weiss & Co.,
London.
“This is a very singular knife,” said Holmes, lifting it up and
examining it minutely. “I presume, as I see blood-stains upon it,
that it is the one which was found in the dead man’s grasp.
Watson, this knife is surely in your line?”
“It is what we call a cataract knife,” said I.
“I thought so. A very delicate blade devised for very delicate
work. A strange thing for a man to carry with him upon a rough
expedition, especially as it would not shut in his pocket.”
“The tip was guarded by a disk of cork which we found beside his
body,” said the Inspector. “His wife tells us that the knife had
lain upon the dressing-table, and that he had picked it up as he
left the room. It was a poor weapon, but perhaps the best that he
could lay his hands on at the moment.”
“Very possible. How about these papers?”
“Three of them are receipted hay-dealers’ accounts. One of them
is a letter of instructions from Colonel Ross. This other is a
milliner’s account for thirty-seven pounds fifteen made out by
Madame Lesurier, of Bond Street, to William Derbyshire. Mrs.
Straker tells us that Derbyshire was a friend of her husband’s
and that occasionally his letters were addressed here.”
“Madam Derbyshire had somewhat expensive tastes,” remarked
Holmes, glancing down the account. “Twenty-two guineas is rather
heavy for a single costume. However there appears to be nothing
more to learn, and we may now go down to the scene of the crime.”
As we emerged from the sitting-room a woman, who had been waiting
in the passage, took a step forward and laid her hand upon the
Inspector’s sleeve. Her face was haggard and thin and eager,
stamped with the print of a recent horror.
“Have you got them? Have you found them?” she panted.
“No, Mrs. Straker. But Mr. Holmes here has come from London to
help us, and we shall do all that is possible.”
“Surely I met you in Plymouth at a garden-party some little time
ago, Mrs. Straker?” said Holmes.
“No, sir; you are mistaken.”
“Dear me! Why, I could have sworn to it. You wore a costume of
dove-coloured silk with ostrich-feather trimming.”
“I never had such a dress, sir,” answered the lady.
“Ah, that quite settles it,” said Holmes. And with an apology he
followed the Inspector outside. A short walk across the moor took
us to the hollow in which the body had been found. At the brink
of it was the furze-bush upon which the coat had been hung.
“There was no wind that night, I understand,” said Holmes.
“None; but very heavy rain.”
“In that case the overcoat was not blown against the furze-bush,
but placed there.”
“Yes, it was laid across the bush.”
“You fill me with interest, I perceive that the ground has been
trampled up a good deal. No doubt many feet have been here since
Monday night.”
“A piece of matting has been laid here at the side, and we have
all stood upon that.”
“Excellent.”
“In this bag I have one of the boots which Straker wore, one of
Fitzroy Simpson’s shoes, and a cast horseshoe of Silver Blaze.”
“My dear Inspector, you surpass yourself!” Holmes took the bag,
and, descending into the hollow, he pushed the matting into a
more central position. Then stretching himself upon his face and
leaning his chin upon his hands, he made a careful study of the
trampled mud in front of him. “Hullo!” said he, suddenly. “What’s
this?” It was a wax vesta half burned, which was so coated with
mud that it looked at first like a little chip of wood.
“I cannot think how I came to overlook it,” said the Inspector,
with an expression of annoyance.
“It was invisible, buried in the mud. I only saw it because I was
looking for it.”
“What! You expected to find it?”
“I thought it not unlikely.”
He took the boots from the bag, and compared the impressions of
each of them with marks upon the ground. Then he clambered up to
the rim of the hollow, and crawled about among the ferns and
bushes.
“I am afraid that there are no more tracks,” said the Inspector.
“I have examined the ground very carefully for a hundred yards in
each direction.”
“Indeed!” said Holmes, rising. “I should not have the
impertinence to do it again after what you say. But I should like
to take a little walk over the moor before it grows dark, that I
may know my ground to-morrow, and I think that I shall put this
horseshoe into my pocket for luck.”
Colonel Ross, who had shown some signs of impatience at my
companion’s quiet and systematic method of work, glanced at his
watch. “I wish you would come back with me, Inspector,” said he.
“There are several points on which I should like your advice, and
especially as to whether we do not owe it to the public to remove
our horse’s name from the entries for the Cup.”
“Certainly not,” cried Holmes, with decision. “I should let the
name stand.”
The Colonel bowed. “I am very glad to have had your opinion,
sir,” said he. “You will find us at poor Straker’s house when you
have finished your walk, and we can drive together into
Tavistock.”
He turned back with the Inspector, while Holmes and I walked
slowly across the moor. The sun was beginning to sink behind the
stables of Mapleton, and the long, sloping plain in front of us
was tinged with gold, deepening into rich, ruddy browns where the
faded ferns and brambles caught the evening light. But the
glories of the landscape were all wasted upon my companion, who
was sunk in the deepest thought.
“It’s this way, Watson,” said he at last. “We may leave the
question of who killed John Straker for the instant, and confine
ourselves to finding out what has become of the horse. Now,
supposing that he broke away during or after the tragedy, where
could he have gone to? The horse is a very gregarious creature.
If left to himself his instincts would have been either to return
to King’s Pyland or go over to Mapleton. Why should he run wild
upon the moor? He would surely have been seen by now. And why
should gypsies kidnap him? These people always clear out when
they hear of trouble, for they do not wish to be pestered by the
police. They could not hope to sell such a horse. They would run
a great risk and gain nothing by taking him. Surely that is
clear.”
“Where is he, then?”
“I have already said that he must have gone to King’s Pyland or
to Mapleton. He is not at King’s Pyland. Therefore he is at
Mapleton. Let us take that as a working hypothesis and see what
it leads us to. This part of the moor, as the Inspector remarked,
is very hard and dry. But it falls away towards Mapleton, and you
can see from here that there is a long hollow over yonder, which
must have been very wet on Monday night. If our supposition is
correct, then the horse must have crossed that, and there is the
point where we should look for his tracks.”
We had been walking briskly during this conversation, and a few
more minutes brought us to the hollow in question. At Holmes’
request I walked down the bank to the right, and he to the left,
but I had not taken fifty paces before I heard him give a shout,
and saw him waving his hand to me. The track of a horse was
plainly outlined in the soft earth in front of him, and the shoe
which he took from his pocket exactly fitted the impression.
“See the value of imagination,” said Holmes. “It is the one
quality which Gregory lacks. We imagined what might have
happened, acted upon the supposition, and find ourselves
justified. Let us proceed.”
We crossed the marshy bottom and passed over a quarter of a mile
of dry, hard turf. Again the ground sloped, and again we came on
the tracks. Then we lost them for half a mile, but only to pick
them up once more quite close to Mapleton. It was Holmes who saw
them first, and he stood pointing with a look of triumph upon his
face. A man’s track was visible beside the horse’s.
“The horse was alone before,” I cried.
“Quite so. It was alone before. Hullo, what is this?”
The double track turned sharp off and took the direction of
King’s Pyland. Holmes whistled, and we both followed along after
it. His eyes were on the trail, but I happened to look a little
to one side, and saw to my surprise the same tracks coming back
again in the opposite direction.
“One for you, Watson,” said Holmes, when I pointed it out. “You
have saved us a long walk, which would have brought us back on
our own traces. Let us follow the return track.”
We had not to go far. It ended at the paving of asphalt which led
up to the gates of the Mapleton stables. As we approached, a
groom ran out from them.
“We don’t want any loiterers about here,” said he.
“I only wished to ask a question,” said Holmes, with his finger
and thumb in his waistcoat pocket. “Should I be too early to see
your master, Mr. Silas Brown, if I were to call at five o’clock
to-morrow morning?”
“Bless you, sir, if any one is about he will be, for he is always
the first stirring. But here he is, sir, to answer your questions
for himself. No, sir, no; it is as much as my place is worth to
let him see me touch your money. Afterwards, if you like.”
As Sherlock Holmes replaced the half-crown which he had drawn
from his pocket, a fierce-looking elderly man strode out from the
gate with a hunting-crop swinging in his hand.
“What’s this, Dawson!” he cried. “No gossiping! Go about your
business! And you, what the devil do you want here?”
“Ten minutes’ talk with you, my good sir,” said Holmes in the
sweetest of voices.
“I’ve no time to talk to every gadabout. We want no strangers
here. Be off, or you may find a dog at your heels.”
Holmes leaned forward and whispered something in the trainer’s
ear. He started violently and flushed to the temples.
“It’s a lie!” he shouted, “an infernal lie!”
“Very good. Shall we argue about it here in public or talk it
over in your parlour?”
“Oh, come in if you wish to.”
Holmes smiled. “I shall not keep you more than a few minutes,
Watson,” said he. “Now, Mr. Brown, I am quite at your disposal.”
It was twenty minutes, and the reds had all faded into greys
before Holmes and the trainer reappeared. Never have I seen such
a change as had been brought about in Silas Brown in that short
time. His face was ashy pale, beads of perspiration shone upon
his brow, and his hands shook until the hunting-crop wagged like
a branch in the wind. His bullying, overbearing manner was all
gone too, and he cringed along at my companion’s side like a dog
with its master.
“Your instructions will be done. It shall all be done,” said he.
“There must be no mistake,” said Holmes, looking round at him.
The other winced as he read the menace in his eyes.
“Oh no, there shall be no mistake. It shall be there. Should I
change it first or not?”
Holmes thought a little and then burst out laughing. “No, don’t,”
said he; “I shall write to you about it. No tricks, now, or—”
“Oh, you can trust me, you can trust me!”
“Yes, I think I can. Well, you shall hear from me to-morrow.” He
turned upon his heel, disregarding the trembling hand which the
other held out to him, and we set off for King’s Pyland.
“A more perfect compound of the bully, coward, and sneak than
Master Silas Brown I have seldom met with,” remarked Holmes as we
trudged along together.
“He has the horse, then?”
“He tried to bluster out of it, but I described to him so exactly
what his actions had been upon that morning that he is convinced
that I was watching him. Of course you observed the peculiarly
square toes in the impressions, and that his own boots exactly
corresponded to them. Again, of course no subordinate would have
dared to do such a thing. I described to him how, when according
to his custom he was the first down, he perceived a strange horse
wandering over the moor. How he went out to it, and his
astonishment at recognising, from the white forehead which has
given the favourite its name, that chance had put in his power
the only horse which could beat the one upon which he had put his
money. Then I described how his first impulse had been to lead
him back to King’s Pyland, and how the devil had shown him how he
could hide the horse until the race was over, and how he had led
it back and concealed it at Mapleton. When I told him every
detail he gave it up and thought only of saving his own skin.”
“But his stables had been searched?”
“Oh, an old horse-faker like him has many a dodge.”
“But are you not afraid to leave the horse in his power now,
since he has every interest in injuring it?”
“My dear fellow, he will guard it as the apple of his eye. He
knows that his only hope of mercy is to produce it safe.”
“Colonel Ross did not impress me as a man who would be likely to
show much mercy in any case.”
“The matter does not rest with Colonel Ross. I follow my own
methods, and tell as much or as little as I choose. That is the
advantage of being unofficial. I don’t know whether you observed
it, Watson, but the Colonel’s manner has been just a trifle
cavalier to me. I am inclined now to have a little amusement at
his expense. Say nothing to him about the horse.”
“Certainly not without your permission.”
“And of course this is all quite a minor point compared to the
question of who killed John Straker.”
“And you will devote yourself to that?”
“On the contrary, we both go back to London by the night train.”
I was thunderstruck by my friend’s words. We had only been a few
hours in Devonshire, and that he should give up an investigation
which he had begun so brilliantly was quite incomprehensible to
me. Not a word more could I draw from him until we were back at
the trainer’s house. The Colonel and the Inspector were awaiting
us in the parlour.
“My friend and I return to town by the night-express,” said
Holmes. “We have had a charming little breath of your beautiful
Dartmoor air.”
The Inspector opened his eyes, and the Colonel’s lip curled in a
sneer.
“So you despair of arresting the murderer of poor Straker,” said
he.
Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “There are certainly grave
difficulties in the way,” said he. “I have every hope, however,
that your horse will start upon Tuesday, and I beg that you will
have your jockey in readiness. Might I ask for a photograph of
Mr. John Straker?”
The Inspector took one from an envelope and handed it to him.
“My dear Gregory, you anticipate all my wants. If I might ask you
to wait here for an instant, I have a question which I should
like to put to the maid.”
“I must say that I am rather disappointed in our London
consultant,” said Colonel Ross, bluntly, as my friend left the
room. “I do not see that we are any further than when he came.”
“At least you have his assurance that your horse will run,” said
I.
“Yes, I have his assurance,” said the Colonel, with a shrug of
his shoulders. “I should prefer to have the horse.”
I was about to make some reply in defence of my friend when he
entered the room again.
“Now, gentlemen,” said he, “I am quite ready for Tavistock.”
As we stepped into the carriage one of the stable-lads held the
door open for us. A sudden idea seemed to occur to Holmes, for he
leaned forward and touched the lad upon the sleeve.
“You have a few sheep in the paddock,” he said. “Who attends to
them?”
“I do, sir.”
“Have you noticed anything amiss with them of late?”
“Well, sir, not of much account; but three of them have gone
lame, sir.”
I could see that Holmes was extremely pleased, for he chuckled
and rubbed his hands together.
“A long shot, Watson; a very long shot,” said he, pinching my
arm. “Gregory, let me recommend to your attention this singular
epidemic among the sheep. Drive on, coachman!”
Colonel Ross still wore an expression which showed the poor
opinion which he had formed of my companion’s ability, but I saw
by the Inspector’s face that his attention had been keenly
aroused.
“You consider that to be important?” he asked.
“Exceedingly so.”
“Is there any point to which you would wish to draw my
attention?”
“To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time.”
“The dog did nothing in the night-time.”
“That was the curious incident,” remarked Sherlock Holmes.
Four days later Holmes and I were again in the train, bound for
Winchester to see the race for the Wessex Cup. Colonel Ross met
us by appointment outside the station, and we drove in his drag
to the course beyond the town. His face was grave, and his manner
was cold in the extreme.
“I have seen nothing of my horse,” said he.
“I suppose that you would know him when you saw him?” asked
Holmes.
The Colonel was very angry. “I have been on the turf for twenty
years, and never was asked such a question as that before,” said
he. “A child would know Silver Blaze, with his white forehead and
his mottled off-foreleg.”
“How is the betting?”
“Well, that is the curious part of it. You could have got fifteen
to one yesterday, but the price has become shorter and shorter,
until you can hardly get three to one now.”
“Hum!” said Holmes. “Somebody knows something, that is clear.”
As the drag drew up in the enclosure near the grand stand I
glanced at the card to see the entries. It ran:—
Wessex Plate. 50 sovs each h ft with 1000 sovs added for four and
five year olds. Second, £300. Third, £200. New course (one mile
and five furlongs).
1. Mr. Heath Newton’s The Negro (red cap, cinnamon jacket).
2. Colonel Wardlaw’s Pugilist (pink cap, blue and black jacket).
3. Lord Backwater’s Desborough (yellow cap and sleeves).
4. Colonel Ross’s Silver Blaze (black cap, red jacket).
5. Duke of Balmoral’s Iris (yellow and black stripes).
6. Lord Singleford’s Rasper (purple cap, black sleeves).
“We scratched our other one, and put all hopes on your word,”
said the Colonel. “Why, what is that? Silver Blaze favourite?”
“Five to four against Silver Blaze!” roared the ring. “Five to
four against Silver Blaze! Five to fifteen against Desborough!
Five to four on the field!”
“There are the numbers up,” I cried. “They are all six there.”
“All six there? Then my horse is running,” cried the Colonel in
great agitation. “But I don’t see him. My colours have not
passed.”
“Only five have passed. This must be he.”
As I spoke a powerful bay horse swept out from the weighing
enclosure and cantered past us, bearing on its back the
well-known black and red of the Colonel.
“That’s not my horse,” cried the owner. “That beast has not a
white hair upon its body. What is this that you have done, Mr.
Holmes?”
“Well, well, let us see how he gets on,” said my friend,
imperturbably. For a few minutes he gazed through my field-glass.
“Capital! An excellent start!” he cried suddenly. “There they
are, coming round the curve!”
From our drag we had a superb view as they came up the straight.
The six horses were so close together that a carpet could have
covered them, but half way up the yellow of the Mapleton stable
showed to the front. Before they reached us, however,
Desborough’s bolt was shot, and the Colonel’s horse, coming away
with a rush, passed the post a good six lengths before its rival,
the Duke of Balmoral’s Iris making a bad third.
“It’s my race, anyhow,” gasped the Colonel, passing his hand over
his eyes. “I confess that I can make neither head nor tail of it.
Don’t you think that you have kept up your mystery long enough,
Mr. Holmes?”
“Certainly, Colonel, you shall know everything. Let us all go
round and have a look at the horse together. Here he is,” he
continued, as we made our way into the weighing enclosure, where
only owners and their friends find admittance. “You have only to
wash his face and his leg in spirits of wine, and you will find
that he is the same old Silver Blaze as ever.”
“You take my breath away!”
“I found him in the hands of a faker, and took the liberty of
running him just as he was sent over.”
“My dear sir, you have done wonders. The horse looks very fit and
well. It never went better in its life. I owe you a thousand
apologies for having doubted your ability. You have done me a
great service by recovering my horse. You would do me a greater
still if you could lay your hands on the murderer of John
Straker.”
“I have done so,” said Holmes quietly.
The Colonel and I stared at him in amazement. “You have got him!
Where is he, then?”
“He is here.”
“Here! Where?”
“In my company at the present moment.”
The Colonel flushed angrily. “I quite recognise that I am under
obligations to you, Mr. Holmes,” said he, “but I must regard what
you have just said as either a very bad joke or an insult.”
Sherlock Holmes laughed. “I assure you that I have not associated
you with the crime, Colonel,” said he. “The real murderer is
standing immediately behind you.” He stepped past and laid his
hand upon the glossy neck of the thoroughbred.
“The horse!” cried both the Colonel and myself.
“Yes, the horse. And it may lessen his guilt if I say that it was
done in self-defence, and that John Straker was a man who was
entirely unworthy of your confidence. But there goes the bell,
and as I stand to win a little on this next race, I shall defer a
lengthy explanation until a more fitting time.”
We had the corner of a Pullman car to ourselves that evening as
we whirled back to London, and I fancy that the journey was a
short one to Colonel Ross as well as to myself, as we listened to
our companion’s narrative of the events which had occurred at the
Dartmoor training-stables upon the Monday night, and the means by
which he had unravelled them.
“I confess,” said he, “that any theories which I had formed from
the newspaper reports were entirely erroneous. And yet there were
indications there, had they not been overlaid by other details
which concealed their true import. I went to Devonshire with the
conviction that Fitzroy Simpson was the true culprit, although,
of course, I saw that the evidence against him was by no means
complete. It was while I was in the carriage, just as we reached
the trainer’s house, that the immense significance of the curried
mutton occurred to me. You may remember that I was distrait, and
remained sitting after you had all alighted. I was marvelling in
my own mind how I could possibly have overlooked so obvious a
clue.”
“I confess,” said the Colonel, “that even now I cannot see how it
helps us.”
“It was the first link in my chain of reasoning. Powdered opium
is by no means tasteless. The flavour is not disagreeable, but it
is perceptible. Were it mixed with any ordinary dish the eater
would undoubtedly detect it, and would probably eat no more. A
curry was exactly the medium which would disguise this taste. By
no possible supposition could this stranger, Fitzroy Simpson,
have caused curry to be served in the trainer’s family that
night, and it is surely too monstrous a coincidence to suppose
that he happened to come along with powdered opium upon the very
night when a dish happened to be served which would disguise the
flavour. That is unthinkable. Therefore Simpson becomes
eliminated from the case, and our attention centres upon Straker
and his wife, the only two people who could have chosen curried
mutton for supper that night. The opium was added after the dish
was set aside for the stable-boy, for the others had the same for
supper with no ill effects. Which of them, then, had access to
that dish without the maid seeing them?
“Before deciding that question I had grasped the significance of
the silence of the dog, for one true inference invariably
suggests others. The Simpson incident had shown me that a dog was
kept in the stables, and yet, though some one had been in and had
fetched out a horse, he had not barked enough to arouse the two
lads in the loft. Obviously the midnight visitor was some one
whom the dog knew well.
“I was already convinced, or almost convinced, that John Straker
went down to the stables in the dead of the night and took out
Silver Blaze. For what purpose? For a dishonest one, obviously,
or why should he drug his own stable-boy? And yet I was at a loss
to know why. There have been cases before now where trainers have
made sure of great sums of money by laying against their own
horses, through agents, and then preventing them from winning by
fraud. Sometimes it is a pulling jockey. Sometimes it is some
surer and subtler means. What was it here? I hoped that the
contents of his pockets might help me to form a conclusion.
“And they did so. You cannot have forgotten the singular knife
which was found in the dead man’s hand, a knife which certainly
no sane man would choose for a weapon. It was, as Dr. Watson told
us, a form of knife which is used for the most delicate
operations known in surgery. And it was to be used for a delicate
operation that night. You must know, with your wide experience of
turf matters, Colonel Ross, that it is possible to make a slight
nick upon the tendons of a horse’s ham, and to do it
subcutaneously, so as to leave absolutely no trace. A horse so
treated would develop a slight lameness, which would be put down
to a strain in exercise or a touch of rheumatism, but never to
foul play.”
“Villain! Scoundrel!” cried the Colonel.
“We have here the explanation of why John Straker wished to take
the horse out on to the moor. So spirited a creature would have
certainly roused the soundest of sleepers when it felt the prick
of the knife. It was absolutely necessary to do it in the open
air.”
“I have been blind!” cried the Colonel. “Of course that was why
he needed the candle, and struck the match.”
“Undoubtedly. But in examining his belongings I was fortunate
enough to discover not only the method of the crime, but even its
motives. As a man of the world, Colonel, you know that men do not
carry other people’s bills about in their pockets. We have most
of us quite enough to do to settle our own. I at once concluded
that Straker was leading a double life, and keeping a second
establishment. The nature of the bill showed that there was a
lady in the case, and one who had expensive tastes. Liberal as
you are with your servants, one can hardly expect that they can
buy twenty-guinea walking dresses for their ladies. I questioned
Mrs. Straker as to the dress without her knowing it, and having
satisfied myself that it had never reached her, I made a note of
the milliner’s address, and felt that by calling there with
Straker’s photograph I could easily dispose of the mythical
Derbyshire.
“From that time on all was plain. Straker had led out the horse
to a hollow where his light would be invisible. Simpson in his
flight had dropped his cravat, and Straker had picked it up—with
some idea, perhaps, that he might use it in securing the horse’s
leg. Once in the hollow, he had got behind the horse and had
struck a light; but the creature frightened at the sudden glare,
and with the strange instinct of animals feeling that some
mischief was intended, had lashed out, and the steel shoe had
struck Straker full on the forehead. He had already, in spite of
the rain, taken off his overcoat in order to do his delicate
task, and so, as he fell, his knife gashed his thigh. Do I make
it clear?”
“Wonderful!” cried the Colonel. “Wonderful! You might have been
there!”
“My final shot was, I confess a very long one. It struck me that
so astute a man as Straker would not undertake this delicate
tendon-nicking without a little practice. What could he practice
on? My eyes fell upon the sheep, and I asked a question which,
rather to my surprise, showed that my surmise was correct.
“When I returned to London I called upon the milliner, who had
recognised Straker as an excellent customer of the name of
Derbyshire, who had a very dashing wife, with a strong partiality
for expensive dresses. I have no doubt that this woman had
plunged him over head and ears in debt, and so led him into this
miserable plot.”
“You have explained all but one thing,” cried the Colonel. “Where
was the horse?”
“Ah, it bolted, and was cared for by one of your neighbours. We
must have an amnesty in that direction, I think. This is Clapham
Junction, if I am not mistaken, and we shall be in Victoria in
less than ten minutes. If you care to smoke a cigar in our rooms,
Colonel, I shall be happy to give you any other details which
might interest you.”
|
i_silver_blaze
|
II. The Adventure of the Cardboard Box
|
The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes
|
In choosing a few typical cases which illustrate the remarkable
mental qualities of my friend, Sherlock Holmes, I have
endeavoured, as far as possible, to select those which presented
the minimum of sensationalism, while offering a fair field for
his talents. It is, however, unfortunately impossible entirely to
separate the sensational from the criminal, and a chronicler is
left in the dilemma that he must either sacrifice details which
are essential to his statement and so give a false impression of
the problem, or he must use matter which chance, and not choice,
has provided him with. With this short preface I shall turn to my
notes of what proved to be a strange, though a peculiarly
terrible, chain of events.
It was a blazing hot day in August. Baker Street was like an
oven, and the glare of the sunlight upon the yellow brickwork of
the house across the road was painful to the eye. It was hard to
believe that these were the same walls which loomed so gloomily
through the fogs of winter. Our blinds were half-drawn, and
Holmes lay curled upon the sofa, reading and re-reading a letter
which he had received by the morning post. For myself, my term of
service in India had trained me to stand heat better than cold,
and a thermometer at ninety was no hardship. But the morning
paper was uninteresting. Parliament had risen. Everybody was out
of town, and I yearned for the glades of the New Forest or the
shingle of Southsea. A depleted bank account had caused me to
postpone my holiday, and as to my companion, neither the country
nor the sea presented the slightest attraction to him. He loved
to lie in the very centre of five millions of people, with his
filaments stretching out and running through them, responsive to
every little rumour or suspicion of unsolved crime. Appreciation
of nature found no place among his many gifts, and his only
change was when he turned his mind from the evil-doer of the town
to track down his brother of the country.
Finding that Holmes was too absorbed for conversation I had
tossed aside the barren paper, and leaning back in my chair I
fell into a brown study. Suddenly my companion’s voice broke in
upon my thoughts:
“You are right, Watson,” said he. “It does seem a most
preposterous way of settling a dispute.”
“Most preposterous!” I exclaimed, and then suddenly realizing how
he had echoed the inmost thought of my soul, I sat up in my chair
and stared at him in blank amazement.
“What is this, Holmes?” I cried. “This is beyond anything which I
could have imagined.”
He laughed heartily at my perplexity.
“You remember,” he said, “that some little time ago when I read
you the passage in one of Poe’s sketches in which a close
reasoner follows the unspoken thoughts of his companion, you were
inclined to treat the matter as a mere _tour-de-force_ of the
author. On my remarking that I was constantly in the habit of
doing the same thing you expressed incredulity.”
“Oh, no!”
“Perhaps not with your tongue, my dear Watson, but certainly with
your eyebrows. So when I saw you throw down your paper and enter
upon a train of thought, I was very happy to have the opportunity
of reading it off, and eventually of breaking into it, as a proof
that I had been in rapport with you.”
But I was still far from satisfied. “In the example which you
read to me,” said I, “the reasoner drew his conclusions from the
actions of the man whom he observed. If I remember right, he
stumbled over a heap of stones, looked up at the stars, and so
on. But I have been seated quietly in my chair, and what clues
can I have given you?”
“You do yourself an injustice. The features are given to man as
the means by which he shall express his emotions, and yours are
faithful servants.”
“Do you mean to say that you read my train of thoughts from my
features?”
“Your features and especially your eyes. Perhaps you cannot
yourself recall how your reverie commenced?”
“No, I cannot.”
“Then I will tell you. After throwing down your paper, which was
the action which drew my attention to you, you sat for half a
minute with a vacant expression. Then your eyes fixed themselves
upon your newly framed picture of General Gordon, and I saw by
the alteration in your face that a train of thought had been
started. But it did not lead very far. Your eyes flashed across
to the unframed portrait of Henry Ward Beecher which stands upon
the top of your books. Then you glanced up at the wall, and of
course your meaning was obvious. You were thinking that if the
portrait were framed it would just cover that bare space and
correspond with Gordon’s picture over there.”
“You have followed me wonderfully!” I exclaimed.
“So far I could hardly have gone astray. But now your thoughts
went back to Beecher, and you looked hard across as if you were
studying the character in his features. Then your eyes ceased to
pucker, but you continued to look across, and your face was
thoughtful. You were recalling the incidents of Beecher’s career.
I was well aware that you could not do this without thinking of
the mission which he undertook on behalf of the North at the time
of the Civil War, for I remember your expressing your passionate
indignation at the way in which he was received by the more
turbulent of our people. You felt so strongly about it that I
knew you could not think of Beecher without thinking of that
also. When a moment later I saw your eyes wander away from the
picture, I suspected that your mind had now turned to the Civil
War, and when I observed that your lips set, your eyes sparkled,
and your hands clenched I was positive that you were indeed
thinking of the gallantry which was shown by both sides in that
desperate struggle. But then, again, your face grew sadder; you
shook your head. You were dwelling upon the sadness and horror
and useless waste of life. Your hand stole towards your own old
wound and a smile quivered on your lips, which showed me that the
ridiculous side of this method of settling international
questions had forced itself upon your mind. At this point I
agreed with you that it was preposterous and was glad to find
that all my deductions had been correct.”
“Absolutely!” said I. “And now that you have explained it, I
confess that I am as amazed as before.”
“It was very superficial, my dear Watson, I assure you. I should
not have intruded it upon your attention had you not shown some
incredulity the other day. But I have in my hands here a little
problem which may prove to be more difficult of solution than my
small essay in thought reading. Have you observed in the paper a
short paragraph referring to the remarkable contents of a packet
sent through the post to Miss Cushing, of Cross Street, Croydon?”
“No, I saw nothing.”
“Ah! then you must have overlooked it. Just toss it over to me.
Here it is, under the financial column. Perhaps you would be good
enough to read it aloud.”
I picked up the paper which he had thrown back to me and read the
paragraph indicated. It was headed, “A Gruesome Packet.”
“Miss Susan Cushing, living at Cross Street, Croydon, has been
made the victim of what must be regarded as a peculiarly
revolting practical joke unless some more sinister meaning should
prove to be attached to the incident. At two o’clock yesterday
afternoon a small packet, wrapped in brown paper, was handed in
by the postman. A cardboard box was inside, which was filled with
coarse salt. On emptying this, Miss Cushing was horrified to find
two human ears, apparently quite freshly severed. The box had
been sent by parcel post from Belfast upon the morning before.
There is no indication as to the sender, and the matter is the
more mysterious as Miss Cushing, who is a maiden lady of fifty,
has led a most retired life, and has so few acquaintances or
correspondents that it is a rare event for her to receive
anything through the post. Some years ago, however, when she
resided at Penge, she let apartments in her house to three young
medical students, whom she was obliged to get rid of on account
of their noisy and irregular habits. The police are of opinion
that this outrage may have been perpetrated upon Miss Cushing by
these youths, who owed her a grudge and who hoped to frighten her
by sending her these relics of the dissecting-rooms. Some
probability is lent to the theory by the fact that one of these
students came from the north of Ireland, and, to the best of Miss
Cushing’s belief, from Belfast. In the meantime, the matter is
being actively investigated, Mr. Lestrade, one of the very
smartest of our detective officers, being in charge of the case.”
“So much for the _Daily Chronicle_,” said Holmes as I finished
reading. “Now for our friend Lestrade. I had a note from him this
morning, in which he says: ‘I think that this case is very much
in your line. We have every hope of clearing the matter up, but
we find a little difficulty in getting anything to work upon. We
have, of course, wired to the Belfast post-office, but a large
number of parcels were handed in upon that day, and they have no
means of identifying this particular one, or of remembering the
sender. The box is a half-pound box of honeydew tobacco and does
not help us in any way. The medical student theory still appears
to me to be the most feasible, but if you should have a few hours
to spare I should be very happy to see you out here. I shall be
either at the house or in the police-station all day.’ What say
you, Watson? Can you rise superior to the heat and run down to
Croydon with me on the off chance of a case for your annals?”
“I was longing for something to do.”
“You shall have it then. Ring for our boots and tell them to
order a cab. I’ll be back in a moment when I have changed my
dressing-gown and filled my cigar-case.”
A shower of rain fell while we were in the train, and the heat
was far less oppressive in Croydon than in town. Holmes had sent
on a wire, so that Lestrade, as wiry, as dapper, and as
ferret-like as ever, was waiting for us at the station. A walk of
five minutes took us to Cross Street, where Miss Cushing resided.
It was a very long street of two-story brick houses, neat and
prim, with whitened stone steps and little groups of aproned
women gossiping at the doors. Halfway down, Lestrade stopped and
tapped at a door, which was opened by a small servant girl. Miss
Cushing was sitting in the front room, into which we were
ushered. She was a placid-faced woman, with large, gentle eyes,
and grizzled hair curving down over her temples on each side. A
worked antimacassar lay upon her lap and a basket of coloured
silks stood upon a stool beside her.
“They are in the outhouse, those dreadful things,” said she as
Lestrade entered. “I wish that you would take them away
altogether.”
“So I shall, Miss Cushing. I only kept them here until my friend,
Mr. Holmes, should have seen them in your presence.”
“Why in my presence, sir?”
“In case he wished to ask any questions.”
“What is the use of asking me questions when I tell you I know
nothing whatever about it?”
“Quite so, madam,” said Holmes in his soothing way. “I have no
doubt that you have been annoyed more than enough already over
this business.”
“Indeed, I have, sir. I am a quiet woman and live a retired life.
It is something new for me to see my name in the papers and to
find the police in my house. I won’t have those things in here,
Mr. Lestrade. If you wish to see them you must go to the
outhouse.”
It was a small shed in the narrow garden which ran behind the
house. Lestrade went in and brought out a yellow cardboard box,
with a piece of brown paper and some string. There was a bench at
the end of the path, and we all sat down while Holmes examined,
one by one, the articles which Lestrade had handed to him.
“The string is exceedingly interesting,” he remarked, holding it
up to the light and sniffing at it. “What do you make of this
string, Lestrade?”
“It has been tarred.”
“Precisely. It is a piece of tarred twine. You have also, no
doubt, remarked that Miss Cushing has cut the cord with a
scissors, as can be seen by the double fray on each side. This is
of importance.”
“I cannot see the importance,” said Lestrade.
“The importance lies in the fact that the knot is left intact,
and that this knot is of a peculiar character.”
“It is very neatly tied. I had already made a note to that
effect,” said Lestrade complacently.
“So much for the string, then,” said Holmes, smiling, “now for
the box wrapper. Brown paper, with a distinct smell of coffee.
What, did you not observe it? I think there can be no doubt of
it. Address printed in rather straggling characters: ‘Miss S.
Cushing, Cross Street, Croydon.’ Done with a broad-pointed pen,
probably a J, and with very inferior ink. The word ‘Croydon’ has
been originally spelled with an ‘i,’ which has been changed to
‘y.’ The parcel was directed, then, by a man—the printing is
distinctly masculine—of limited education and unacquainted with
the town of Croydon. So far, so good! The box is a yellow
half-pound honeydew box, with nothing distinctive save two thumb
marks at the left bottom corner. It is filled with rough salt of
the quality used for preserving hides and other of the coarser
commercial purposes. And embedded in it are these very singular
enclosures.”
He took out the two ears as he spoke, and laying a board across
his knee he examined them minutely, while Lestrade and I, bending
forward on each side of him, glanced alternately at these
dreadful relics and at the thoughtful, eager face of our
companion. Finally he returned them to the box once more and sat
for a while in deep meditation.
“You have observed, of course,” said he at last, “that the ears
are not a pair.”
“Yes, I have noticed that. But if this were the practical joke of
some students from the dissecting-rooms, it would be as easy for
them to send two odd ears as a pair.”
“Precisely. But this is not a practical joke.”
“You are sure of it?”
“The presumption is strongly against it. Bodies in the
dissecting-rooms are injected with preservative fluid. These ears
bear no signs of this. They are fresh, too. They have been cut
off with a blunt instrument, which would hardly happen if a
student had done it. Again, carbolic or rectified spirits would
be the preservatives which would suggest themselves to the
medical mind, certainly not rough salt. I repeat that there is no
practical joke here, but that we are investigating a serious
crime.”
A vague thrill ran through me as I listened to my companion’s
words and saw the stern gravity which had hardened his features.
This brutal preliminary seemed to shadow forth some strange and
inexplicable horror in the background. Lestrade, however, shook
his head like a man who is only half convinced.
“There are objections to the joke theory, no doubt,” said he,
“but there are much stronger reasons against the other. We know
that this woman has led a most quiet and respectable life at
Penge and here for the last twenty years. She has hardly been
away from her home for a day during that time. Why on earth,
then, should any criminal send her the proofs of his guilt,
especially as, unless she is a most consummate actress, she
understands quite as little of the matter as we do?”
“That is the problem which we have to solve,” Holmes answered,
“and for my part I shall set about it by presuming that my
reasoning is correct, and that a double murder has been
committed. One of these ears is a woman’s, small, finely formed,
and pierced for an earring. The other is a man’s, sun-burned,
discoloured, and also pierced for an earring. These two people
are presumably dead, or we should have heard their story before
now. To-day is Friday. The packet was posted on Thursday morning.
The tragedy, then, occurred on Wednesday or Tuesday or earlier.
If the two people were murdered, who but their murderer would
have sent this sign of his work to Miss Cushing? We may take it
that the sender of the packet is the man whom we want. But he
must have some strong reason for sending Miss Cushing this
packet. What reason then? It must have been to tell her that the
deed was done! or to pain her, perhaps. But in that case she
knows who it is. Does she know? I doubt it. If she knew, why
should she call the police in? She might have buried the ears,
and no one would have been the wiser. That is what she would have
done if she had wished to shield the criminal. But if she does
not wish to shield him she would give his name. There is a tangle
here which needs straightening out.” He had been talking in a
high, quick voice, staring blankly up over the garden fence, but
now he sprang briskly to his feet and walked towards the house.
“I have a few questions to ask Miss Cushing,” said he.
“In that case I may leave you here,” said Lestrade, “for I have
another small business on hand. I think that I have nothing
further to learn from Miss Cushing. You will find me at the
police-station.”
“We shall look in on our way to the train,” answered Holmes. A
moment later he and I were back in the front room, where the
impassive lady was still quietly working away at her
antimacassar. She put it down on her lap as we entered and looked
at us with her frank, searching blue eyes.
“I am convinced, sir,” she said, “that this matter is a mistake,
and that the parcel was never meant for me at all. I have said
this several times to the gentleman from Scotland Yard, but he
simply laughs at me. I have not an enemy in the world, as far as
I know, so why should anyone play me such a trick?”
“I am coming to be of the same opinion, Miss Cushing,” said
Holmes, taking a seat beside her. “I think that it is more than
probable——” he paused, and I was surprised, on glancing round to
see that he was staring with singular intentness at the lady’s
profile. Surprise and satisfaction were both for an instant to be
read upon his eager face, though when she glanced round to find
out the cause of his silence he had become as demure as ever. I
stared hard myself at her flat, grizzled hair, her trim cap, her
little gilt earrings, her placid features; but I could see
nothing which could account for my companion’s evident
excitement.
“There were one or two questions——”
“Oh, I am weary of questions!” cried Miss Cushing impatiently.
“You have two sisters, I believe.”
“How could you know that?”
“I observed the very instant that I entered the room that you
have a portrait group of three ladies upon the mantelpiece, one
of whom is undoubtedly yourself, while the others are so
exceedingly like you that there could be no doubt of the
relationship.”
“Yes, you are quite right. Those are my sisters, Sarah and Mary.”
“And here at my elbow is another portrait, taken at Liverpool, of
your younger sister, in the company of a man who appears to be a
steward by his uniform. I observe that she was unmarried at the
time.”
“You are very quick at observing.”
“That is my trade.”
“Well, you are quite right. But she was married to Mr. Browner a
few days afterwards. He was on the South American line when that
was taken, but he was so fond of her that he couldn’t abide to
leave her for so long, and he got into the Liverpool and London
boats.”
“Ah, the _Conqueror_, perhaps?”
“No, the _May Day_, when last I heard. Jim came down here to see
me once. That was before he broke the pledge; but afterwards he
would always take drink when he was ashore, and a little drink
would send him stark, staring mad. Ah! it was a bad day that ever
he took a glass in his hand again. First he dropped me, then he
quarrelled with Sarah, and now that Mary has stopped writing we
don’t know how things are going with them.”
It was evident that Miss Cushing had come upon a subject on which
she felt very deeply. Like most people who lead a lonely life,
she was shy at first, but ended by becoming extremely
communicative. She told us many details about her brother-in-law
the steward, and then wandering off on the subject of her former
lodgers, the medical students, she gave us a long account of
their delinquencies, with their names and those of their
hospitals. Holmes listened attentively to everything, throwing in
a question from time to time.
“About your second sister, Sarah,” said he. “I wonder, since you
are both maiden ladies, that you do not keep house together.”
“Ah! you don’t know Sarah’s temper or you would wonder no more. I
tried it when I came to Croydon, and we kept on until about two
months ago, when we had to part. I don’t want to say a word
against my own sister, but she was always meddlesome and hard to
please, was Sarah.”
“You say that she quarrelled with your Liverpool relations.”
“Yes, and they were the best of friends at one time. Why, she
went up there to live in order to be near them. And now she has
no word hard enough for Jim Browner. The last six months that she
was here she would speak of nothing but his drinking and his
ways. He had caught her meddling, I suspect, and given her a bit
of his mind, and that was the start of it.”
“Thank you, Miss Cushing,” said Holmes, rising and bowing. “Your
sister Sarah lives, I think you said, at New Street Wallington?
Good-bye, and I am very sorry that you should have been troubled
over a case with which, as you say, you have nothing whatever to
do.”
There was a cab passing as we came out, and Holmes hailed it.
“How far to Wallington?” he asked.
“Only about a mile, sir.”
“Very good. Jump in, Watson. We must strike while the iron is
hot. Simple as the case is, there have been one or two very
instructive details in connection with it. Just pull up at a
telegraph office as you pass, cabby.”
Holmes sent off a short wire and for the rest of the drive lay
back in the cab, with his hat tilted over his nose to keep the
sun from his face. Our driver pulled up at a house which was not
unlike the one which we had just quitted. My companion ordered
him to wait, and had his hand upon the knocker, when the door
opened and a grave young gentleman in black, with a very shiny
hat, appeared on the step.
“Is Miss Cushing at home?” asked Holmes.
“Miss Sarah Cushing is extremely ill,” said he. “She has been
suffering since yesterday from brain symptoms of great severity.
As her medical adviser, I cannot possibly take the responsibility
of allowing anyone to see her. I should recommend you to call
again in ten days.” He drew on his gloves, closed the door, and
marched off down the street.
“Well, if we can’t we can’t,” said Holmes, cheerfully.
“Perhaps she could not or would not have told you much.”
“I did not wish her to tell me anything. I only wanted to look at
her. However, I think that I have got all that I want. Drive us
to some decent hotel, cabby, where we may have some lunch, and
afterwards we shall drop down upon friend Lestrade at the
police-station.”
We had a pleasant little meal together, during which Holmes would
talk about nothing but violins, narrating with great exultation
how he had purchased his own Stradivarius, which was worth at
least five hundred guineas, at a Jew broker’s in Tottenham Court
Road for fifty-five shillings. This led him to Paganini, and we
sat for an hour over a bottle of claret while he told me anecdote
after anecdote of that extraordinary man. The afternoon was far
advanced and the hot glare had softened into a mellow glow before
we found ourselves at the police-station. Lestrade was waiting
for us at the door.
“A telegram for you, Mr. Holmes,” said he.
“Ha! It is the answer!” He tore it open, glanced his eyes over
it, and crumpled it into his pocket. “That’s all right,” said he.
“Have you found out anything?”
“I have found out everything!”
“What!” Lestrade stared at him in amazement. “You are joking.”
“I was never more serious in my life. A shocking crime has been
committed, and I think I have now laid bare every detail of it.”
“And the criminal?”
Holmes scribbled a few words upon the back of one of his visiting
cards and threw it over to Lestrade.
“That is the name,” he said. “You cannot effect an arrest until
to-morrow night at the earliest. I should prefer that you do not
mention my name at all in connection with the case, as I choose
to be only associated with those crimes which present some
difficulty in their solution. Come on, Watson.” We strode off
together to the station, leaving Lestrade still staring with a
delighted face at the card which Holmes had thrown him.
“The case,” said Sherlock Holmes as we chatted over our cigars
that night in our rooms at Baker Street, “is one where, as in the
investigations which you have chronicled under the names of ‘A
Study in Scarlet’ and of ‘The Sign of Four,’ we have been
compelled to reason backward from effects to causes. I have
written to Lestrade asking him to supply us with the details
which are now wanting, and which he will only get after he has
secured his man. That he may be safely trusted to do, for
although he is absolutely devoid of reason, he is as tenacious as
a bulldog when he once understands what he has to do, and,
indeed, it is just this tenacity which has brought him to the top
at Scotland Yard.”
“Your case is not complete, then?” I asked.
“It is fairly complete in essentials. We know who the author of
the revolting business is, although one of the victims still
escapes us. Of course, you have formed your own conclusions.”
“I presume that this Jim Browner, the steward of a Liverpool
boat, is the man whom you suspect?”
“Oh! it is more than a suspicion.”
“And yet I cannot see anything save very vague indications.”
“On the contrary, to my mind nothing could be more clear. Let me
run over the principal steps. We approached the case, you
remember, with an absolutely blank mind, which is always an
advantage. We had formed no theories. We were simply there to
observe and to draw inferences from our observations. What did we
see first? A very placid and respectable lady, who seemed quite
innocent of any secret, and a portrait which showed me that she
had two younger sisters. It instantly flashed across my mind that
the box might have been meant for one of these. I set the idea
aside as one which could be disproved or confirmed at our
leisure. Then we went to the garden, as you remember, and we saw
the very singular contents of the little yellow box.
“The string was of the quality which is used by sailmakers aboard
ship, and at once a whiff of the sea was perceptible in our
investigation. When I observed that the knot was one which is
popular with sailors, that the parcel had been posted at a port,
and that the male ear was pierced for an earring which is so much
more common among sailors than landsmen, I was quite certain that
all the actors in the tragedy were to be found among our
seafaring classes.
“When I came to examine the address of the packet I observed that
it was to Miss S. Cushing. Now, the oldest sister would, of
course, be Miss Cushing, and although her initial was ‘S’ it
might belong to one of the others as well. In that case we should
have to commence our investigation from a fresh basis altogether.
I therefore went into the house with the intention of clearing up
this point. I was about to assure Miss Cushing that I was
convinced that a mistake had been made when you may remember that
I came suddenly to a stop. The fact was that I had just seen
something which filled me with surprise and at the same time
narrowed the field of our inquiry immensely.
“As a medical man, you are aware, Watson, that there is no part
of the body which varies so much as the human ear. Each ear is as
a rule quite distinctive and differs from all other ones. In last
year’s _Anthropological Journal_ you will find two short
monographs from my pen upon the subject. I had, therefore,
examined the ears in the box with the eyes of an expert and had
carefully noted their anatomical peculiarities. Imagine my
surprise, then, when on looking at Miss Cushing I perceived that
her ear corresponded exactly with the female ear which I had just
inspected. The matter was entirely beyond coincidence. There was
the same shortening of the pinna, the same broad curve of the
upper lobe, the same convolution of the inner cartilage. In all
essentials it was the same ear.
“Of course I at once saw the enormous importance of the
observation. It was evident that the victim was a blood relation
and probably a very close one. I began to talk to her about her
family, and you remember that she at once gave us some
exceedingly valuable details.
“In the first place, her sister’s name was Sarah, and her address
had until recently been the same, so that it was quite obvious
how the mistake had occurred and for whom the packet was meant.
Then we heard of this steward, married to the third sister, and
learned that he had at one time been so intimate with Miss Sarah
that she had actually gone up to Liverpool to be near the
Browners, but a quarrel had afterwards divided them. This quarrel
had put a stop to all communications for some months, so that if
Browner had occasion to address a packet to Miss Sarah, he would
undoubtedly have done so to her old address.
“And now the matter had begun to straighten itself out
wonderfully. We had learned of the existence of this steward, an
impulsive man, of strong passions—you remember that he threw up
what must have been a very superior berth in order to be nearer
to his wife—subject, too, to occasional fits of hard drinking. We
had reason to believe that his wife had been murdered, and that a
man—presumably a seafaring man—had been murdered at the same
time. Jealousy, of course, at once suggests itself as the motive
for the crime. And why should these proofs of the deed be sent to
Miss Sarah Cushing? Probably because during her residence in
Liverpool she had some hand in bringing about the events which
led to the tragedy. You will observe that this line of boats
calls at Belfast, Dublin, and Waterford; so that, presuming that
Browner had committed the deed and had embarked at once upon his
steamer, the _May Day_, Belfast would be the first place at which
he could post his terrible packet.
“A second solution was at this stage obviously possible, and
although I thought it exceedingly unlikely, I was determined to
elucidate it before going further. An unsuccessful lover might
have killed Mr. and Mrs. Browner, and the male ear might have
belonged to the husband. There were many grave objections to this
theory, but it was conceivable. I therefore sent off a telegram
to my friend Algar, of the Liverpool force, and asked him to find
out if Mrs. Browner were at home, and if Browner had departed in
the _May Day_. Then we went on to Wallington to visit Miss Sarah.
“I was curious, in the first place, to see how far the family ear
had been reproduced in her. Then, of course, she might give us
very important information, but I was not sanguine that she
would. She must have heard of the business the day before, since
all Croydon was ringing with it, and she alone could have
understood for whom the packet was meant. If she had been willing
to help justice she would probably have communicated with the
police already. However, it was clearly our duty to see her, so
we went. We found that the news of the arrival of the packet—for
her illness dated from that time—had such an effect upon her as
to bring on brain fever. It was clearer than ever that she
understood its full significance, but equally clear that we
should have to wait some time for any assistance from her.
“However, we were really independent of her help. Our answers
were waiting for us at the police-station, where I had directed
Algar to send them. Nothing could be more conclusive. Mrs.
Browner’s house had been closed for more than three days, and the
neighbours were of opinion that she had gone south to see her
relatives. It had been ascertained at the shipping offices that
Browner had left aboard of the _May Day_, and I calculate that
she is due in the Thames to-morrow night. When he arrives he will
be met by the obtuse but resolute Lestrade, and I have no doubt
that we shall have all our details filled in.”
Sherlock Holmes was not disappointed in his expectations. Two
days later he received a bulky envelope, which contained a short
note from the detective, and a typewritten document, which
covered several pages of foolscap.
“Lestrade has got him all right,” said Holmes, glancing up at me.
“Perhaps it would interest you to hear what he says.
“My dear Mr. Holmes,—In accordance with the scheme which we had
formed in order to test our theories”—“the ‘we’ is rather fine,
Watson, is it not?”—“I went down to the Albert Dock yesterday at
6 P.M., and boarded the S.S. _May Day_, belonging to the
Liverpool, Dublin, and London Steam Packet Company. On inquiry, I
found that there was a steward on board of the name of James
Browner and that he had acted during the voyage in such an
extraordinary manner that the captain had been compelled to
relieve him of his duties. On descending to his berth, I found
him seated upon a chest with his head sunk upon his hands,
rocking himself to and fro. He is a big, powerful chap,
clean-shaven, and very swarthy— something like Aldridge, who
helped us in the bogus laundry affair. He jumped up when he heard
my business, and I had my whistle to my lips to call a couple of
river police, who were round the corner, but he seemed to have no
heart in him, and he held out his hands quietly enough for the
darbies. We brought him along to the cells, and his box as well,
for we thought there might be something incriminating; but, bar a
big sharp knife such as most sailors have, we got nothing for our
trouble. However, we find that we shall want no more evidence,
for on being brought before the inspector at the station he asked
leave to make a statement, which was, of course, taken down, just
as he made it, by our shorthand man. We had three copies
typewritten, one of which I enclose. The affair proves, as I
always thought it would, to be an extremely simple one, but I am
obliged to you for assisting me in my investigation. With kind
regards, yours very truly,—G. Lestrade.”
“Hum! The investigation really was a very simple one,” remarked
Holmes, “but I don’t think it struck him in that light when he
first called us in. However, let us see what Jim Browner has to
say for himself. This is his statement as made before Inspector
Montgomery at the Shadwell Police Station, and it has the
advantage of being verbatim.”
“Have I anything to say? Yes, I have a deal to say. I have to
make a clean breast of it all. You can hang me, or you can leave
me alone. I don’t care a plug which you do. I tell you I’ve not
shut an eye in sleep since I did it, and I don’t believe I ever
will again until I get past all waking. Sometimes it’s his face,
but most generally it’s hers. I’m never without one or the other
before me. He looks frowning and black-like, but she has a kind
o’ surprise upon her face. Ay, the white lamb, she might well be
surprised when she read death on a face that had seldom looked
anything but love upon her before.
“But it was Sarah’s fault, and may the curse of a broken man put
a blight on her and set the blood rotting in her veins! It’s not
that I want to clear myself. I know that I went back to drink,
like the beast that I was. But she would have forgiven me; she
would have stuck as close to me as a rope to a block if that
woman had never darkened our door. For Sarah Cushing loved
me—that’s the root of the business—she loved me until all her
love turned to poisonous hate when she knew that I thought more
of my wife’s footmark in the mud than I did of her whole body and
soul.
“There were three sisters altogether. The old one was just a good
woman, the second was a devil, and the third was an angel. Sarah
was thirty-three, and Mary was twenty-nine when I married. We
were just as happy as the day was long when we set up house
together, and in all Liverpool there was no better woman than my
Mary. And then we asked Sarah up for a week, and the week grew
into a month, and one thing led to another, until she was just
one of ourselves.
“I was blue ribbon at that time, and we were putting a little
money by, and all was as bright as a new dollar. My God, whoever
would have thought that it could have come to this? Whoever would
have dreamed it?
“I used to be home for the week-ends very often, and sometimes if
the ship were held back for cargo I would have a whole week at a
time, and in this way I saw a deal of my sister-in-law, Sarah.
She was a fine tall woman, black and quick and fierce, with a
proud way of carrying her head, and a glint from her eye like a
spark from a flint. But when little Mary was there I had never a
thought of her, and that I swear as I hope for God’s mercy.
“It had seemed to me sometimes that she liked to be alone with
me, or to coax me out for a walk with her, but I had never
thought anything of that. But one evening my eyes were opened. I
had come up from the ship and found my wife out, but Sarah at
home. ‘Where’s Mary?’ I asked. ‘Oh, she has gone to pay some
accounts.’ I was impatient and paced up and down the room. ‘Can’t
you be happy for five minutes without Mary, Jim?’ says she. ‘It’s
a bad compliment to me that you can’t be contented with my
society for so short a time.’ ‘That’s all right, my lass,’ said
I, putting out my hand towards her in a kindly way, but she had
it in both hers in an instant, and they burned as if they were in
a fever. I looked into her eyes and I read it all there. There
was no need for her to speak, nor for me either. I frowned and
drew my hand away. Then she stood by my side in silence for a
bit, and then put up her hand and patted me on the shoulder.
‘Steady old Jim!’ said she, and with a kind o’ mocking laugh, she
ran out of the room.
“Well, from that time Sarah hated me with her whole heart and
soul, and she is a woman who can hate, too. I was a fool to let
her go on biding with us—a besotted fool—but I never said a word
to Mary, for I knew it would grieve her. Things went on much as
before, but after a time I began to find that there was a bit of
a change in Mary herself. She had always been so trusting and so
innocent, but now she became queer and suspicious, wanting to
know where I had been and what I had been doing, and whom my
letters were from, and what I had in my pockets, and a thousand
such follies. Day by day she grew queerer and more irritable, and
we had ceaseless rows about nothing. I was fairly puzzled by it
all. Sarah avoided me now, but she and Mary were just
inseparable. I can see now how she was plotting and scheming and
poisoning my wife’s mind against me, but I was such a blind
beetle that I could not understand it at the time. Then I broke
my blue ribbon and began to drink again, but I think I should not
have done it if Mary had been the same as ever. She had some
reason to be disgusted with me now, and the gap between us began
to be wider and wider. And then this Alec Fairbairn chipped in,
and things became a thousand times blacker.
“It was to see Sarah that he came to my house first, but soon it
was to see us, for he was a man with winning ways, and he made
friends wherever he went. He was a dashing, swaggering chap,
smart and curled, who had seen half the world and could talk of
what he had seen. He was good company, I won’t deny it, and he
had wonderful polite ways with him for a sailor man, so that I
think there must have been a time when he knew more of the poop
than the forecastle. For a month he was in and out of my house,
and never once did it cross my mind that harm might come of his
soft, tricky ways. And then at last something made me suspect,
and from that day my peace was gone forever.
“It was only a little thing, too. I had come into the parlour
unexpected, and as I walked in at the door I saw a light of
welcome on my wife’s face. But as she saw who it was it faded
again, and she turned away with a look of disappointment. That
was enough for me. There was no one but Alec Fairbairn whose step
she could have mistaken for mine. If I could have seen him then I
should have killed him, for I have always been like a madman when
my temper gets loose. Mary saw the devil’s light in my eyes, and
she ran forward with her hands on my sleeve. ‘Don’t, Jim, don’t!’
says she. ‘Where’s Sarah?’ I asked. ‘In the kitchen,’ says she.
‘Sarah,’ says I as I went in, ‘this man Fairbairn is never to
darken my door again.’ ‘Why not?’ says she. ‘Because I order it.’
‘Oh!’ says she, ‘if my friends are not good enough for this
house, then I am not good enough for it either.’ ‘You can do what
you like,’ says I, ‘but if Fairbairn shows his face here again
I’ll send you one of his ears for a keepsake.’ She was frightened
by my face, I think, for she never answered a word, and the same
evening she left my house.
“Well, I don’t know now whether it was pure devilry on the part
of this woman, or whether she thought that she could turn me
against my wife by encouraging her to misbehave. Anyway, she took
a house just two streets off and let lodgings to sailors.
Fairbairn used to stay there, and Mary would go round to have tea
with her sister and him. How often she went I don’t know, but I
followed her one day, and as I broke in at the door Fairbairn got
away over the back garden wall, like the cowardly skunk that he
was. I swore to my wife that I would kill her if I found her in
his company again, and I led her back with me, sobbing and
trembling, and as white as a piece of paper. There was no trace
of love between us any longer. I could see that she hated me and
feared me, and when the thought of it drove me to drink, then she
despised me as well.
“Well, Sarah found that she could not make a living in Liverpool,
so she went back, as I understand, to live with her sister in
Croydon, and things jogged on much the same as ever at home. And
then came this last week and all the misery and ruin.
“It was in this way. We had gone on the _May Day_ for a round
voyage of seven days, but a hogshead got loose and started one of
our plates, so that we had to put back into port for twelve
hours. I left the ship and came home, thinking what a surprise it
would be for my wife, and hoping that maybe she would be glad to
see me so soon. The thought was in my head as I turned into my
own street, and at that moment a cab passed me, and there she
was, sitting by the side of Fairbairn, the two chatting and
laughing, with never a thought for me as I stood watching them
from the footpath.
“I tell you, and I give you my word for it, that from that moment
I was not my own master, and it is all like a dim dream when I
look back on it. I had been drinking hard of late, and the two
things together fairly turned my brain. There’s something
throbbing in my head now, like a docker’s hammer, but that
morning I seemed to have all Niagara whizzing and buzzing in my
ears.
“Well, I took to my heels, and I ran after the cab. I had a heavy
oak stick in my hand, and I tell you I saw red from the first;
but as I ran I got cunning, too, and hung back a little to see
them without being seen. They pulled up soon at the railway
station. There was a good crowd round the booking-office, so I
got quite close to them without being seen. They took tickets for
New Brighton. So did I, but I got in three carriages behind them.
When we reached it they walked along the Parade, and I was never
more than a hundred yards from them. At last I saw them hire a
boat and start for a row, for it was a very hot day, and they
thought, no doubt, that it would be cooler on the water.
“It was just as if they had been given into my hands. There was a
bit of a haze, and you could not see more than a few hundred
yards. I hired a boat for myself, and I pulled after them. I
could see the blur of their craft, but they were going nearly as
fast as I, and they must have been a long mile from the shore
before I caught them up. The haze was like a curtain all round
us, and there were we three in the middle of it. My God, shall I
ever forget their faces when they saw who was in the boat that
was closing in upon them? She screamed out. He swore like a
madman and jabbed at me with an oar, for he must have seen death
in my eyes. I got past it and got one in with my stick that
crushed his head like an egg. I would have spared her, perhaps,
for all my madness, but she threw her arms round him, crying out
to him, and calling him ‘Alec.’ I struck again, and she lay
stretched beside him. I was like a wild beast then that had
tasted blood. If Sarah had been there, by the Lord, she should
have joined them. I pulled out my knife, and—well, there! I’ve
said enough. It gave me a kind of savage joy when I thought how
Sarah would feel when she had such signs as these of what her
meddling had brought about. Then I tied the bodies into the boat,
stove a plank, and stood by until they had sunk. I knew very well
that the owner would think that they had lost their bearings in
the haze, and had drifted off out to sea. I cleaned myself up,
got back to land, and joined my ship without a soul having a
suspicion of what had passed. That night I made up the packet for
Sarah Cushing, and next day I sent it from Belfast.
“There you have the whole truth of it. You can hang me, or do
what you like with me, but you cannot punish me as I have been
punished already. I cannot shut my eyes but I see those two faces
staring at me—staring at me as they stared when my boat broke
through the haze. I killed them quick, but they are killing me
slow; and if I have another night of it I shall be either mad or
dead before morning. You won’t put me alone into a cell, sir? For
pity’s sake don’t, and may you be treated in your day of agony as
you treat me now.’
“What is the meaning of it, Watson?” said Holmes solemnly as he
laid down the paper. “What object is served by this circle of
misery and violence and fear? It must tend to some end, or else
our universe is ruled by chance, which is unthinkable. But what
end? There is the great standing perennial problem to which human
reason is as far from an answer as ever.”
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ii_the_adventure_of_the_cardboard_box
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III. The Yellow Face
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The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes
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In publishing these short sketches based upon the numerous cases
in which my companion’s singular gifts have made us the listeners
to, and eventually the actors in, some strange drama, it is only
natural that I should dwell rather upon his successes than upon
his failures. And this not so much for the sake of his
reputation—for, indeed, it was when he was at his wits’ end that
his energy and his versatility were most admirable—but because
where he failed it happened too often that no one else succeeded,
and that the tale was left forever without a conclusion. Now and
again, however, it chanced that even when he erred, the truth was
still discovered. I have noted of some half-dozen cases of the
kind, of which the Affair of the Second Stain and that which I am
now about to recount are the two which present the strongest
features of interest.
Sherlock Holmes was a man who seldom took exercise for exercise’s
sake. Few men were capable of greater muscular effort, and he was
undoubtedly one of the finest boxers of his weight that I have
ever seen; but he looked upon aimless bodily exertion as a waste
of energy, and he seldom bestirred himself save when there was
some professional object to be served. Then he was absolutely
untiring and indefatigable. That he should have kept himself in
training under such circumstances is remarkable, but his diet was
usually of the sparest, and his habits were simple to the verge
of austerity. Save for the occasional use of cocaine, he had no
vices, and he only turned to the drug as a protest against the
monotony of existence when cases were scanty and the papers
uninteresting.
One day in early spring he had so far relaxed as to go for a walk
with me in the Park, where the first faint shoots of green were
breaking out upon the elms, and the sticky spear-heads of the
chestnuts were just beginning to burst into their five-fold
leaves. For two hours we rambled about together, in silence for
the most part, as befits two men who know each other intimately.
It was nearly five before we were back in Baker Street once more.
“Beg pardon, sir,” said our page-boy, as he opened the door.
“There’s been a gentleman here asking for you, sir.”
Holmes glanced reproachfully at me. “So much for afternoon
walks!” said he. “Has this gentleman gone, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Didn’t you ask him in?”
“Yes, sir; he came in.”
“How long did he wait?”
“Half an hour, sir. He was a very restless gentleman, sir,
a-walkin’ and a-stampin’ all the time he was here. I was waitin’
outside the door, sir, and I could hear him. At last he outs into
the passage, and he cries, ‘Is that man never goin’ to come?’
Those were his very words, sir. ‘You’ll only need to wait a
little longer,’ says I. ‘Then I’ll wait in the open air, for I
feel half choked,’ says he. ‘I’ll be back before long.’ And with
that he ups and he outs, and all I could say wouldn’t hold him
back.”
“Well, well, you did your best,” said Holmes, as we walked into
our room. “It’s very annoying, though, Watson. I was badly in
need of a case, and this looks, from the man’s impatience, as if
it were of importance. Halloa! That’s not your pipe on the table.
He must have left his behind him. A nice old briar with a good
long stem of what the tobacconists call amber. I wonder how many
real amber mouthpieces there are in London. Some people think
that a fly in it is a sign. Well, he must have been disturbed in
his mind to leave a pipe behind him which he evidently values
highly.”
“How do you know that he values it highly?” I asked.
“Well, I should put the original cost of the pipe at seven and
sixpence. Now it has, you see, been twice mended, once in the
wooden stem and once in the amber. Each of these mends, done, as
you observe, with silver bands, must have cost more than the pipe
did originally. The man must value the pipe highly when he
prefers to patch it up rather than buy a new one with the same
money.”
“Anything else?” I asked, for Holmes was turning the pipe about
in his hand, and staring at it in his peculiar pensive way.
He held it up and tapped on it with his long, thin fore-finger,
as a professor might who was lecturing on a bone.
“Pipes are occasionally of extraordinary interest,” said he.
“Nothing has more individuality, save perhaps watches and
bootlaces. The indications here, however, are neither very marked
nor very important. The owner is obviously a muscular man,
left-handed, with an excellent set of teeth, careless in his
habits, and with no need to practise economy.”
My friend threw out the information in a very offhand way, but I
saw that he cocked his eye at me to see if I had followed his
reasoning.
“You think a man must be well-to-do if he smokes a seven-shilling
pipe,” said I.
“This is Grosvenor mixture at eightpence an ounce,” Holmes
answered, knocking a little out on his palm. “As he might get an
excellent smoke for half the price, he has no need to practise
economy.”
“And the other points?”
“He has been in the habit of lighting his pipe at lamps and
gas-jets. You can see that it is quite charred all down one side.
Of course a match could not have done that. Why should a man hold
a match to the side of his pipe? But you cannot light it at a
lamp without getting the bowl charred. And it is all on the right
side of the pipe. From that I gather that he is a left-handed
man. You hold your own pipe to the lamp, and see how naturally
you, being right-handed, hold the left side to the flame. You
might do it once the other way, but not as a constancy. This has
always been held so. Then he has bitten through his amber. It
takes a muscular, energetic fellow, and one with a good set of
teeth, to do that. But if I am not mistaken I hear him upon the
stair, so we shall have something more interesting than his pipe
to study.”
An instant later our door opened, and a tall young man entered
the room. He was well but quietly dressed in a dark-grey suit,
and carried a brown wide-awake in his hand. I should have put him
at about thirty, though he was really some years older.
“I beg your pardon,” said he, with some embarrassment; “I suppose
I should have knocked. Yes, of course I should have knocked. The
fact is that I am a little upset, and you must put it all down to
that.” He passed his hand over his forehead like a man who is
half dazed, and then fell rather than sat down upon a chair.
“I can see that you have not slept for a night or two,” said
Holmes, in his easy, genial way. “That tries a man’s nerves more
than work, and more even than pleasure. May I ask how I can help
you?”
“I wanted your advice, sir. I don’t know what to do and my whole
life seems to have gone to pieces.”
“You wish to employ me as a consulting detective?”
“Not that only. I want your opinion as a judicious man—as a man
of the world. I want to know what I ought to do next. I hope to
God you’ll be able to tell me.”
He spoke in little, sharp, jerky outbursts, and it seemed to me
that to speak at all was very painful to him, and that his will
all through was overriding his inclinations.
“It’s a very delicate thing,” said he. “One does not like to
speak of one’s domestic affairs to strangers. It seems dreadful
to discuss the conduct of one’s wife with two men whom I have
never seen before. It’s horrible to have to do it. But I’ve got
to the end of my tether, and I must have advice.”
“My dear Mr. Grant Munro—” began Holmes.
Our visitor sprang from his chair. “What!” he cried, “you know my
name?”
“If you wish to preserve your _incognito_,” said Holmes, smiling,
“I would suggest that you cease to write your name upon the
lining of your hat, or else that you turn the crown towards the
person whom you are addressing. I was about to say that my friend
and I have listened to a good many strange secrets in this room,
and that we have had the good fortune to bring peace to many
troubled souls. I trust that we may do as much for you. Might I
beg you, as time may prove to be of importance, to furnish me
with the facts of your case without further delay?”
Our visitor again passed his hand over his forehead, as if he
found it bitterly hard. From every gesture and expression I could
see that he was a reserved, self-contained man, with a dash of
pride in his nature, more likely to hide his wounds than to
expose them. Then suddenly, with a fierce gesture of his closed
hand, like one who throws reserve to the winds, he began.
“The facts are these, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “I am a married man,
and have been so for three years. During that time my wife and I
have loved each other as fondly and lived as happily as any two
that ever were joined. We have not had a difference, not one, in
thought or word or deed. And now, since last Monday, there has
suddenly sprung up a barrier between us, and I find that there is
something in her life and in her thought of which I know as
little as if she were the woman who brushes by me in the street.
We are estranged, and I want to know why.
“Now there is one thing that I want to impress upon you before I
go any further, Mr. Holmes. Effie loves me. Don’t let there be
any mistake about that. She loves me with her whole heart and
soul, and never more than now. I know it. I feel it. I don’t want
to argue about that. A man can tell easily enough when a woman
loves him. But there’s this secret between us, and we can never
be the same until it is cleared.”
“Kindly let me have the facts, Mr. Munro,” said Holmes, with some
impatience.
“I’ll tell you what I know about Effie’s history. She was a widow
when I met her first, though quite young—only twenty-five. Her
name then was Mrs. Hebron. She went out to America when she was
young, and lived in the town of Atlanta, where she married this
Hebron, who was a lawyer with a good practice. They had one
child, but the yellow fever broke out badly in the place, and
both husband and child died of it. I have seen his death
certificate. This sickened her of America, and she came back to
live with a maiden aunt at Pinner, in Middlesex. I may mention
that her husband had left her comfortably off, and that she had a
capital of about four thousand five hundred pounds, which had
been so well invested by him that it returned an average of seven
per cent. She had only been six months at Pinner when I met her;
we fell in love with each other, and we married a few weeks
afterwards.
“I am a hop merchant myself, and as I have an income of seven or
eight hundred, we found ourselves comfortably off, and took a
nice eighty-pound-a-year villa at Norbury. Our little place was
very countrified, considering that it is so close to town. We had
an inn and two houses a little above us, and a single cottage at
the other side of the field which faces us, and except those
there were no houses until you got half way to the station. My
business took me into town at certain seasons, but in summer I
had less to do, and then in our country home my wife and I were
just as happy as could be wished. I tell you that there never was
a shadow between us until this accursed affair began.
“There’s one thing I ought to tell you before I go further. When
we married, my wife made over all her property to me—rather
against my will, for I saw how awkward it would be if my business
affairs went wrong. However, she would have it so, and it was
done. Well, about six weeks ago she came to me.
“‘Jack,’ said she, ‘when you took my money you said that if ever
I wanted any I was to ask you for it.’
“‘Certainly,’ said I. ‘It’s all your own.’
“‘Well,’ said she, ‘I want a hundred pounds.’
“I was a bit staggered at this, for I had imagined it was simply
a new dress or something of the kind that she was after.
“‘What on earth for?’ I asked.
“‘Oh,’ said she, in her playful way, ‘you said that you were only
my banker, and bankers never ask questions, you know.’
“‘If you really mean it, of course you shall have the money,’
said I.
“‘Oh, yes, I really mean it.’
“‘And you won’t tell me what you want it for?’
“‘Some day, perhaps, but not just at present, Jack.’
“So I had to be content with that, though it was the first time
that there had ever been any secret between us. I gave her a
check, and I never thought any more of the matter. It may have
nothing to do with what came afterwards, but I thought it only
right to mention it.
“Well, I told you just now that there is a cottage not far from
our house. There is just a field between us, but to reach it you
have to go along the road and then turn down a lane. Just beyond
it is a nice little grove of Scotch firs, and I used to be very
fond of strolling down there, for trees are always a neighbourly
kind of things. The cottage had been standing empty this eight
months, and it was a pity, for it was a pretty two-storied place,
with an old-fashioned porch and honeysuckle about it. I have
stood many a time and thought what a neat little homestead it
would make.
“Well, last Monday evening I was taking a stroll down that way,
when I met an empty van coming up the lane, and saw a pile of
carpets and things lying about on the grass-plot beside the
porch. It was clear that the cottage had at last been let. I
walked past it, and wondered what sort of folk they were who had
come to live so near us. And as I looked I suddenly became aware
that a face was watching me out of one of the upper windows.
“I don’t know what there was about that face, Mr. Holmes, but it
seemed to send a chill right down my back. I was some little way
off, so that I could not make out the features, but there was
something unnatural and inhuman about the face. That was the
impression that I had, and I moved quickly forwards to get a
nearer view of the person who was watching me. But as I did so
the face suddenly disappeared, so suddenly that it seemed to have
been plucked away into the darkness of the room. I stood for five
minutes thinking the business over, and trying to analyze my
impressions. I could not tell if the face were that of a man or a
woman. It had been too far from me for that. But its colour was
what had impressed me most. It was of a livid chalky white, and
with something set and rigid about it which was shockingly
unnatural. So disturbed was I that I determined to see a little
more of the new inmates of the cottage. I approached and knocked
at the door, which was instantly opened by a tall, gaunt woman
with a harsh, forbidding face.
“‘What may you be wantin’?’ she asked, in a Northern accent.
“‘I am your neighbour over yonder,’ said I, nodding towards my
house. ‘I see that you have only just moved in, so I thought that
if I could be of any help to you in any—’
“‘Ay, we’ll just ask ye when we want ye,’ said she, and shut the
door in my face. Annoyed at the churlish rebuff, I turned my back
and walked home. All evening, though I tried to think of other
things, my mind would still turn to the apparition at the window
and the rudeness of the woman. I determined to say nothing about
the former to my wife, for she is a nervous, highly strung woman,
and I had no wish that she would share the unpleasant impression
which had been produced upon myself. I remarked to her, however,
before I fell asleep, that the cottage was now occupied, to which
she returned no reply.
“I am usually an extremely sound sleeper. It has been a standing
jest in the family that nothing could ever wake me during the
night. And yet somehow on that particular night, whether it may
have been the slight excitement produced by my little adventure
or not I know not, but I slept much more lightly than usual. Half
in my dreams I was dimly conscious that something was going on in
the room, and gradually became aware that my wife had dressed
herself and was slipping on her mantle and her bonnet. My lips
were parted to murmur out some sleepy words of surprise or
remonstrance at this untimely preparation, when suddenly my
half-opened eyes fell upon her face, illuminated by the
candle-light, and astonishment held me dumb. She wore an
expression such as I had never seen before—such as I should have
thought her incapable of assuming. She was deadly pale and
breathing fast, glancing furtively towards the bed as she
fastened her mantle, to see if she had disturbed me. Then,
thinking that I was still asleep, she slipped noiselessly from
the room, and an instant later I heard a sharp creaking which
could only come from the hinges of the front door. I sat up in
bed and rapped my knuckles against the rail to make certain that
I was truly awake. Then I took my watch from under the pillow. It
was three in the morning. What on this earth could my wife be
doing out on the country road at three in the morning?
“I had sat for about twenty minutes turning the thing over in my
mind and trying to find some possible explanation. The more I
thought, the more extraordinary and inexplicable did it appear. I
was still puzzling over it when I heard the door gently close
again, and her footsteps coming up the stairs.
“‘Where in the world have you been, Effie?’ I asked as she
entered.
“She gave a violent start and a kind of gasping cry when I spoke,
and that cry and start troubled me more than all the rest, for
there was something indescribably guilty about them. My wife had
always been a woman of a frank, open nature, and it gave me a
chill to see her slinking into her own room, and crying out and
wincing when her own husband spoke to her.
“‘You awake, Jack!’ she cried, with a nervous laugh. ‘Why, I
thought that nothing could awake you.’
“‘Where have you been?’ I asked, more sternly.
“‘I don’t wonder that you are surprised,’ said she, and I could
see that her fingers were trembling as she undid the fastenings
of her mantle. ‘Why, I never remember having done such a thing in
my life before. The fact is that I felt as though I were choking,
and had a perfect longing for a breath of fresh air. I really
think that I should have fainted if I had not gone out. I stood
at the door for a few minutes, and now I am quite myself again.’
“All the time that she was telling me this story she never once
looked in my direction, and her voice was quite unlike her usual
tones. It was evident to me that she was saying what was false. I
said nothing in reply, but turned my face to the wall, sick at
heart, with my mind filled with a thousand venomous doubts and
suspicions. What was it that my wife was concealing from me?
Where had she been during that strange expedition? I felt that I
should have no peace until I knew, and yet I shrank from asking
her again after once she had told me what was false. All the rest
of the night I tossed and tumbled, framing theory after theory,
each more unlikely than the last.
“I should have gone to the City that day, but I was too disturbed
in my mind to be able to pay attention to business matters. My
wife seemed to be as upset as myself, and I could see from the
little questioning glances which she kept shooting at me that she
understood that I disbelieved her statement, and that she was at
her wits’ end what to do. We hardly exchanged a word during
breakfast, and immediately afterwards I went out for a walk, that
I might think the matter out in the fresh morning air.
“I went as far as the Crystal Palace, spent an hour in the
grounds, and was back in Norbury by one o’clock. It happened that
my way took me past the cottage, and I stopped for an instant to
look at the windows, and to see if I could catch a glimpse of the
strange face which had looked out at me on the day before. As I
stood there, imagine my surprise, Mr. Holmes, when the door
suddenly opened and my wife walked out.
“I was struck dumb with astonishment at the sight of her; but my
emotions were nothing to those which showed themselves upon her
face when our eyes met. She seemed for an instant to wish to
shrink back inside the house again; and then, seeing how useless
all concealment must be, she came forward, with a very white face
and frightened eyes which belied the smile upon her lips.
“‘Ah, Jack,’ she said, ‘I have just been in to see if I can be of
any assistance to our new neighbours. Why do you look at me like
that, Jack? You are not angry with me?’
“‘So,’ said I, ‘this is where you went during the night.’
“‘What do you mean?’ she cried.
“‘You came here. I am sure of it. Who are these people, that you
should visit them at such an hour?’
“‘I have not been here before.’
“‘How can you tell me what you know is false?’ I cried. ‘Your
very voice changes as you speak. When have I ever had a secret
from you? I shall enter that cottage, and I shall probe the
matter to the bottom.’
“‘No, no, Jack, for God’s sake!’ she gasped, in uncontrollable
emotion. Then, as I approached the door, she seized my sleeve and
pulled me back with convulsive strength.
“‘I implore you not to do this, Jack,’ she cried. ‘I swear that I
will tell you everything some day, but nothing but misery can
come of it if you enter that cottage.’ Then, as I tried to shake
her off, she clung to me in a frenzy of entreaty.
“‘Trust me, Jack!’ she cried. ‘Trust me only this once. You will
never have cause to regret it. You know that I would not have a
secret from you if it were not for your own sake. Our whole lives
are at stake in this. If you come home with me, all will be well.
If you force your way into that cottage, all is over between us.’
“There was such earnestness, such despair, in her manner that her
words arrested me, and I stood irresolute before the door.
“‘I will trust you on one condition, and on one condition only,’
said I at last. ‘It is that this mystery comes to an end from
now. You are at liberty to preserve your secret, but you must
promise me that there shall be no more nightly visits, no more
doings which are kept from my knowledge. I am willing to forget
those which are passed if you will promise that there shall be no
more in the future.’
“‘I was sure that you would trust me,’ she cried, with a great
sigh of relief. ‘It shall be just as you wish. Come away—oh, come
away up to the house.’
“Still pulling at my sleeve, she led me away from the cottage. As
we went I glanced back, and there was that yellow livid face
watching us out of the upper window. What link could there be
between that creature and my wife? Or how could the coarse, rough
woman whom I had seen the day before be connected with her? It
was a strange puzzle, and yet I knew that my mind could never
know ease again until I had solved it.
“For two days after this I stayed at home, and my wife appeared
to abide loyally by our engagement, for, as far as I know, she
never stirred out of the house. On the third day, however, I had
ample evidence that her solemn promise was not enough to hold her
back from this secret influence which drew her away from her
husband and her duty.
“I had gone into town on that day, but I returned by the 2.40
instead of the 3.36, which is my usual train. As I entered the
house the maid ran into the hall with a startled face.
“‘Where is your mistress?’ I asked.
“‘I think that she has gone out for a walk,’ she answered.
“My mind was instantly filled with suspicion. I rushed upstairs
to make sure that she was not in the house. As I did so I
happened to glance out of one of the upper windows, and saw the
maid with whom I had just been speaking running across the field
in the direction of the cottage. Then of course I saw exactly
what it all meant. My wife had gone over there, and had asked the
servant to call her if I should return. Tingling with anger, I
rushed down and hurried across, determined to end the matter once
and forever. I saw my wife and the maid hurrying back along the
lane, but I did not stop to speak with them. In the cottage lay
the secret which was casting a shadow over my life. I vowed that,
come what might, it should be a secret no longer. I did not even
knock when I reached it, but turned the handle and rushed into
the passage.
“It was all still and quiet upon the ground floor. In the kitchen
a kettle was singing on the fire, and a large black cat lay
coiled up in the basket; but there was no sign of the woman whom
I had seen before. I ran into the other room, but it was equally
deserted. Then I rushed up the stairs, only to find two other
rooms empty and deserted at the top. There was no one at all in
the whole house. The furniture and pictures were of the most
common and vulgar description, save in the one chamber at the
window of which I had seen the strange face. That was comfortable
and elegant, and all my suspicions rose into a fierce bitter
flame when I saw that on the mantelpiece stood a copy of a
full-length photograph of my wife, which had been taken at my
request only three months ago.
“I stayed long enough to make certain that the house was
absolutely empty. Then I left it, feeling a weight at my heart
such as I had never had before. My wife came out into the hall as
I entered my house; but I was too hurt and angry to speak with
her, and pushing past her, I made my way into my study. She
followed me, however, before I could close the door.
“‘I am sorry that I broke my promise, Jack,’ said she; ‘but if
you knew all the circumstances I am sure that you would forgive
me.’
“‘Tell me everything, then,’ said I.
“‘I cannot, Jack, I cannot,’ she cried.
“‘Until you tell me who it is that has been living in that
cottage, and who it is to whom you have given that photograph,
there can never be any confidence between us,’ said I, and
breaking away from her, I left the house. That was yesterday, Mr.
Holmes, and I have not seen her since, nor do I know anything
more about this strange business. It is the first shadow that has
come between us, and it has so shaken me that I do not know what
I should do for the best. Suddenly this morning it occurred to me
that you were the man to advise me, so I have hurried to you now,
and I place myself unreservedly in your hands. If there is any
point which I have not made clear, pray question me about it.
But, above all, tell me quickly what I am to do, for this misery
is more than I can bear.”
Holmes and I had listened with the utmost interest to this
extraordinary statement, which had been delivered in the jerky,
broken fashion of a man who is under the influence of extreme
emotions. My companion sat silent for some time, with his chin
upon his hand, lost in thought.
“Tell me,” said he at last, “could you swear that this was a
man’s face which you saw at the window?”
“Each time that I saw it I was some distance away from it, so
that it is impossible for me to say.”
“You appear, however, to have been disagreeably impressed by it.”
“It seemed to be of an unnatural colour, and to have a strange
rigidity about the features. When I approached, it vanished with
a jerk.”
“How long is it since your wife asked you for a hundred pounds?”
“Nearly two months.”
“Have you ever seen a photograph of her first husband?”
“No; there was a great fire at Atlanta very shortly after his
death, and all her papers were destroyed.”
“And yet she had a certificate of death. You say that you saw
it.”
“Yes; she got a duplicate after the fire.”
“Did you ever meet any one who knew her in America?”
“No.”
“Did she ever talk of revisiting the place?”
“No.”
“Or get letters from it?”
“No.”
“Thank you. I should like to think over the matter a little now.
If the cottage is now permanently deserted we may have some
difficulty. If, on the other hand, as I fancy is more likely, the
inmates were warned of your coming, and left before you entered
yesterday, then they may be back now, and we should clear it all
up easily. Let me advise you, then, to return to Norbury, and to
examine the windows of the cottage again. If you have reason to
believe that it is inhabited, do not force your way in, but send
a wire to my friend and me. We shall be with you within an hour
of receiving it, and we shall then very soon get to the bottom of
the business.”
“And if it is still empty?”
“In that case I shall come out to-morrow and talk it over with
you. Good-by; and, above all, do not fret until you know that you
really have a cause for it.”
“I am afraid that this is a bad business, Watson,” said my
companion, as he returned after accompanying Mr. Grant Munro to
the door. “What do you make of it?”
“It had an ugly sound,” I answered.
“Yes. There’s blackmail in it, or I am much mistaken.”
“And who is the blackmailer?”
“Well, it must be the creature who lives in the only comfortable
room in the place, and has her photograph above his fireplace.
Upon my word, Watson, there is something very attractive about
that livid face at the window, and I would not have missed the
case for worlds.”
“You have a theory?”
“Yes, a provisional one. But I shall be surprised if it does not
turn out to be correct. This woman’s first husband is in that
cottage.”
“Why do you think so?”
“How else can we explain her frenzied anxiety that her second one
should not enter it? The facts, as I read them, are something
like this: This woman was married in America. Her husband
developed some hateful qualities; or shall we say that he
contracted some loathsome disease, and became a leper or an
imbecile? She flies from him at last, returns to England, changes
her name, and starts her life, as she thinks, afresh. She has
been married three years, and believes that her position is quite
secure, having shown her husband the death certificate of some
man whose name she has assumed, when suddenly her whereabouts is
discovered by her first husband; or, we may suppose, by some
unscrupulous woman who has attached herself to the invalid. They
write to the wife, and threaten to come and expose her. She asks
for a hundred pounds, and endeavours to buy them off. They come
in spite of it, and when the husband mentions casually to the
wife that there are new-comers in the cottage, she knows in some
way that they are her pursuers. She waits until her husband is
asleep, and then she rushes down to endeavour to persuade them to
leave her in peace. Having no success, she goes again next
morning, and her husband meets her, as he has told us, as she
comes out. She promises him then not to go there again, but two
days afterwards the hope of getting rid of those dreadful
neighbours was too strong for her, and she made another attempt,
taking down with her the photograph which had probably been
demanded from her. In the midst of this interview the maid rushed
in to say that the master had come home, on which the wife,
knowing that he would come straight down to the cottage, hurried
the inmates out at the back door, into the grove of fir-trees,
probably, which was mentioned as standing near. In this way he
found the place deserted. I shall be very much surprised,
however, if it is still so when he reconnoitres it this evening.
What do you think of my theory?”
“It is all surmise.”
“But at least it covers all the facts. When new facts come to our
knowledge which cannot be covered by it, it will be time enough
to reconsider it. We can do nothing more until we have a message
from our friend at Norbury.”
But we had not a very long time to wait for that. It came just as
we had finished our tea. “The cottage is still tenanted,” it
said. “Have seen the face again at the window. Will meet the
seven o’clock train, and will take no steps until you arrive.”
He was waiting on the platform when we stepped out, and we could
see in the light of the station lamps that he was very pale, and
quivering with agitation.
“They are still there, Mr. Holmes,” said he, laying his hand hard
upon my friend’s sleeve. “I saw lights in the cottage as I came
down. We shall settle it now once and for all.”
“What is your plan, then?” asked Holmes, as he walked down the
dark tree-lined road.
“I am going to force my way in and see for myself who is in the
house. I wish you both to be there as witnesses.”
“You are quite determined to do this, in spite of your wife’s
warning that it is better that you should not solve the mystery?”
“Yes, I am determined.”
“Well, I think that you are in the right. Any truth is better
than indefinite doubt. We had better go up at once. Of course,
legally, we are putting ourselves hopelessly in the wrong; but I
think that it is worth it.”
It was a very dark night, and a thin rain began to fall as we
turned from the high road into a narrow lane, deeply rutted, with
hedges on either side. Mr. Grant Munro pushed impatiently
forward, however, and we stumbled after him as best we could.
“There are the lights of my house,” he murmured, pointing to a
glimmer among the trees. “And here is the cottage which I am
going to enter.”
We turned a corner in the lane as he spoke, and there was the
building close beside us. A yellow bar falling across the black
foreground showed that the door was not quite closed, and one
window in the upper story was brightly illuminated. As we looked,
we saw a dark blur moving across the blind.
“There is that creature!” cried Grant Munro. “You can see for
yourselves that some one is there. Now follow me, and we shall
soon know all.”
We approached the door; but suddenly a woman appeared out of the
shadow and stood in the golden track of the lamp-light. I could
not see her face in the darkness, but her arms were thrown out in
an attitude of entreaty.
“For God’s sake, don’t Jack!” she cried. “I had a presentiment
that you would come this evening. Think better of it, dear! Trust
me again, and you will never have cause to regret it.”
“I have trusted you too long, Effie,” he cried, sternly. “Leave
go of me! I must pass you. My friends and I are going to settle
this matter once and forever!” He pushed her to one side, and we
followed closely after him. As he threw the door open an old
woman ran out in front of him and tried to bar his passage, but
he thrust her back, and an instant afterwards we were all upon
the stairs. Grant Munro rushed into the lighted room at the top,
and we entered at his heels.
It was a cosey, well-furnished apartment, with two candles
burning upon the table and two upon the mantelpiece. In the
corner, stooping over a desk, there sat what appeared to be a
little girl. Her face was turned away as we entered, but we could
see that she was dressed in a red frock, and that she had long
white gloves on. As she whisked round to us, I gave a cry of
surprise and horror. The face which she turned towards us was of
the strangest livid tint, and the features were absolutely devoid
of any expression. An instant later the mystery was explained.
Holmes, with a laugh, passed his hand behind the child’s ear, a
mask peeled off from her countenance, and there was a little coal
black negress, with all her white teeth flashing in amusement at
our amazed faces. I burst out laughing, out of sympathy with her
merriment; but Grant Munro stood staring, with his hand clutching
his throat.
“My God!” he cried. “What can be the meaning of this?”
“I will tell you the meaning of it,” cried the lady, sweeping
into the room with a proud, set face. “You have forced me,
against my own judgment, to tell you, and now we must both make
the best of it. My husband died at Atlanta. My child survived.”
“Your child?”
She drew a large silver locket from her bosom. “You have never
seen this open.”
“I understood that it did not open.”
She touched a spring, and the front hinged back. There was a
portrait within of a man strikingly handsome and
intelligent-looking, but bearing unmistakable signs upon his
features of his African descent.
“That is John Hebron, of Atlanta,” said the lady, “and a nobler
man never walked the earth. I cut myself off from my race in
order to wed him, but never once while he lived did I for an
instant regret it. It was our misfortune that our only child took
after his people rather than mine. It is often so in such
matches, and little Lucy is darker far than ever her father was.
But dark or fair, she is my own dear little girlie, and her
mother’s pet.” The little creature ran across at the words and
nestled up against the lady’s dress. “When I left her in
America,” she continued, “it was only because her health was
weak, and the change might have done her harm. She was given to
the care of a faithful Scotch woman who had once been our
servant. Never for an instant did I dream of disowning her as my
child. But when chance threw you in my way, Jack, and I learned
to love you, I feared to tell you about my child. God forgive me,
I feared that I should lose you, and I had not the courage to
tell you. I had to choose between you, and in my weakness I
turned away from my own little girl. For three years I have kept
her existence a secret from you, but I heard from the nurse, and
I knew that all was well with her. At last, however, there came
an overwhelming desire to see the child once more. I struggled
against it, but in vain. Though I knew the danger, I determined
to have the child over, if it were but for a few weeks. I sent a
hundred pounds to the nurse, and I gave her instructions about
this cottage, so that she might come as a neighbour, without my
appearing to be in any way connected with her. I pushed my
precautions so far as to order her to keep the child in the house
during the daytime, and to cover up her little face and hands so
that even those who might see her at the window should not gossip
about there being a black child in the neighbourhood. If I had
been less cautious I might have been more wise, but I was half
crazy with fear that you should learn the truth.
“It was you who told me first that the cottage was occupied. I
should have waited for the morning, but I could not sleep for
excitement, and so at last I slipped out, knowing how difficult
it is to awake you. But you saw me go, and that was the beginning
of my troubles. Next day you had my secret at your mercy, but you
nobly refrained from pursuing your advantage. Three days later,
however, the nurse and child only just escaped from the back door
as you rushed in at the front one. And now to-night you at last
know all, and I ask you what is to become of us, my child and
me?” She clasped her hands and waited for an answer.
It was a long ten minutes before Grant Munro broke the silence,
and when his answer came it was one of which I love to think. He
lifted the little child, kissed her, and then, still carrying
her, he held his other hand out to his wife and turned towards
the door.
“We can talk it over more comfortably at home,” said he. “I am
not a very good man, Effie, but I think that I am a better one
than you have given me credit for being.”
Holmes and I followed them down the lane, and my friend plucked
at my sleeve as we came out.
“I think,” said he, “that we shall be of more use in London than
in Norbury.”
Not another word did he say of the case until late that night,
when he was turning away, with his lighted candle, for his
bedroom.
“Watson,” said he, “if it should ever strike you that I am
getting a little over-confident in my powers, or giving less
pains to a case than it deserves, kindly whisper ‘Norbury’ in my
ear, and I shall be infinitely obliged to you.”
|
iii_the_yellow_face
|
IV. The Stockbroker’s Clerk
|
The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes
|
Shortly after my marriage I had bought a connection in the
Paddington district. Old Mr. Farquhar, from whom I purchased it,
had at one time an excellent general practice; but his age, and
an affliction of the nature of St. Vitus’s dance from which he
suffered, had very much thinned it. The public not unnaturally
goes on the principle that he who would heal others must himself
be whole, and looks askance at the curative powers of the man
whose own case is beyond the reach of his drugs. Thus as my
predecessor weakened his practice declined, until when I
purchased it from him it had sunk from twelve hundred to little
more than three hundred a year. I had confidence, however, in my
own youth and energy, and was convinced that in a very few years
the concern would be as flourishing as ever.
For three months after taking over the practice I was kept very
closely at work, and saw little of my friend Sherlock Holmes, for
I was too busy to visit Baker Street, and he seldom went anywhere
himself save upon professional business. I was surprised,
therefore, when, one morning in June, as I sat reading the
_British Medical Journal_ after breakfast, I heard a ring at the
bell, followed by the high, somewhat strident tones of my old
companion’s voice.
“Ah, my dear Watson,” said he, striding into the room, “I am very
delighted to see you! I trust that Mrs. Watson has entirely
recovered from all the little excitements connected with our
adventure of the Sign of Four.”
“Thank you, we are both very well,” said I, shaking him warmly by
the hand.
“And I hope, also,” he continued, sitting down in the
rocking-chair, “that the cares of medical practice have not
entirely obliterated the interest which you used to take in our
little deductive problems.”
“On the contrary,” I answered, “it was only last night that I was
looking over my old notes, and classifying some of our past
results.”
“I trust that you don’t consider your collection closed.”
“Not at all. I should wish nothing better than to have some more
of such experiences.”
“To-day, for example?”
“Yes, to-day, if you like.”
“And as far off as Birmingham?”
“Certainly, if you wish it.”
“And the practice?”
“I do my neighbour’s when he goes. He is always ready to work off
the debt.”
“Ha! Nothing could be better,” said Holmes, leaning back in his
chair and looking keenly at me from under his half closed lids.
“I perceive that you have been unwell lately. Summer colds are
always a little trying.”
“I was confined to the house by a severe chill for three days
last week. I thought, however, that I had cast off every trace of
it.”
“So you have. You look remarkably robust.”
“How, then, did you know of it?”
“My dear fellow, you know my methods.”
“You deduced it, then?”
“Certainly.”
“And from what?”
“From your slippers.”
I glanced down at the new patent leathers which I was wearing.
“How on earth—” I began, but Holmes answered my question before
it was asked.
“Your slippers are new,” he said. “You could not have had them
more than a few weeks. The soles which you are at this moment
presenting to me are slightly scorched. For a moment I thought
they might have got wet and been burned in the drying. But near
the instep there is a small circular wafer of paper with the
shopman’s hieroglyphics upon it. Damp would of course have
removed this. You had, then, been sitting with your feet
outstretched to the fire, which a man would hardly do even in so
wet a June as this if he were in his full health.”
Like all Holmes’s reasoning the thing seemed simplicity itself
when it was once explained. He read the thought upon my features,
and his smile had a tinge of bitterness.
“I am afraid that I rather give myself away when I explain,” said
he. “Results without causes are much more impressive. You are
ready to come to Birmingham, then?”
“Certainly. What is the case?”
“You shall hear it all in the train. My client is outside in a
four-wheeler. Can you come at once?”
“In an instant.” I scribbled a note to my neighbour, rushed
upstairs to explain the matter to my wife, and joined Holmes upon
the door-step.
“Your neighbour is a doctor,” said he, nodding at the brass
plate.
“Yes; he bought a practice as I did.”
“An old-established one?”
“Just the same as mine. Both have been ever since the houses were
built.”
“Ah! Then you got hold of the best of the two.”
“I think I did. But how do you know?”
“By the steps, my boy. Yours are worn three inches deeper than
his. But this gentleman in the cab is my client, Mr. Hall
Pycroft. Allow me to introduce you to him. Whip your horse up,
cabby, for we have only just time to catch our train.”
The man whom I found myself facing was a well-built,
fresh-complexioned young fellow, with a frank, honest face and a
slight, crisp, yellow moustache. He wore a very shiny top hat and
a neat suit of sober black, which made him look what he was—a
smart young City man, of the class who have been labeled
cockneys, but who give us our crack volunteer regiments, and who
turn out more fine athletes and sportsmen than any body of men in
these islands. His round, ruddy face was naturally full of
cheeriness, but the corners of his mouth seemed to me to be
pulled down in a half-comical distress. It was not, however,
until we were all in a first-class carriage and well started upon
our journey to Birmingham that I was able to learn what the
trouble was which had driven him to Sherlock Holmes.
“We have a clear run here of seventy minutes,” Holmes remarked.
“I want you, Mr. Hall Pycroft, to tell my friend your very
interesting experience exactly as you have told it to me, or with
more detail if possible. It will be of use to me to hear the
succession of events again. It is a case, Watson, which may prove
to have something in it, or may prove to have nothing, but which,
at least, presents those unusual and _outré_ features which are
as dear to you as they are to me. Now, Mr. Pycroft, I shall not
interrupt you again.”
Our young companion looked at me with a twinkle in his eye.
“The worst of the story is,” said he, “that I show myself up as
such a confounded fool. Of course it may work out all right, and
I don’t see that I could have done otherwise; but if I have lost
my crib and get nothing in exchange I shall feel what a soft
Johnnie I have been. I’m not very good at telling a story, Dr.
Watson, but it is like this with me:
“I used to have a billet at Coxon & Woodhouse, of Drapers’
Gardens, but they were let in early in the spring through the
Venezuelan loan, as no doubt you remember, and came a nasty
cropper. I had been with them five years, and old Coxon gave me a
ripping good testimonial when the smash came, but of course we
clerks were all turned adrift, the twenty-seven of us. I tried
here and tried there, but there were lots of other chaps on the
same lay as myself, and it was a perfect frost for a long time. I
had been taking three pounds a week at Coxon’s, and I had saved
about seventy of them, but I soon worked my way through that and
out at the other end. I was fairly at the end of my tether at
last, and could hardly find the stamps to answer the
advertisements or the envelopes to stick them to. I had worn out
my boots paddling up office stairs, and I seemed just as far from
getting a billet as ever.
“At last I saw a vacancy at Mawson & Williams’, the great
stockbroking firm in Lombard Street. I daresay E.C. is not much
in your line, but I can tell you that this is about the richest
house in London. The advertisement was to be answered by letter
only. I sent in my testimonial and application, but without the
least hope of getting it. Back came an answer by return, saying
that if I would appear next Monday I might take over my new
duties at once, provided that my appearance was satisfactory. No
one knows how these things are worked. Some people say that the
manager just plunges his hand into the heap and takes the first
that comes. Anyhow it was my innings that time, and I don’t ever
wish to feel better pleased. The screw was a pound a week rise,
and the duties just about the same as at Coxon’s.
“And now I come to the queer part of the business. I was in
diggings out Hampstead way—17, Potter’s Terrace. Well, I was
sitting doing a smoke that very evening after I had been promised
the appointment, when up came my landlady with a card which had
‘Arthur Pinner, Financial Agent,’ printed upon it. I had never
heard the name before and could not imagine what he wanted with
me; but, of course, I asked her to show him up. In he walked, a
middle-sized, dark-haired, dark-eyed, black-bearded man, with a
touch of the Sheeny about his nose. He had a brisk kind of way
with him and spoke sharply, like a man who knew the value of
time.”
“‘Mr. Hall Pycroft, I believe?’” said he.
“‘Yes, sir,’ I answered, pushing a chair towards him.
“‘Lately engaged at Coxon & Woodhouse’s?’
“‘Yes, sir.’
“‘And now on the staff of Mawson’s.’
“‘Quite so.’
“‘Well,’ said he, ‘the fact is that I have heard some really
extraordinary stories about your financial ability. You remember
Parker, who used to be Coxon’s manager? He can never say enough
about it.’
“Of course I was pleased to hear this. I had always been pretty
sharp in the office, but I had never dreamed that I was talked
about in the City in this fashion.
“‘You have a good memory?’ said he.
“‘Pretty fair,’ I answered, modestly.
“‘Have you kept in touch with the market while you have been out
of work?’ he asked.
“‘Yes; I read the Stock Exchange List every morning.’
“‘Now that shows real application!’ he cried. ‘That is the way to
prosper! You won’t mind my testing you, will you? Let me see. How
are Ayrshires?’
“‘A hundred and six and a quarter to a hundred and five and
seven-eighths.’
“‘And New Zealand Consolidated?’
“‘A hundred and four.
“‘And British Broken Hills?’
“‘Seven to seven-and-six.’
“‘Wonderful!’ he cried, with his hands up. ‘This quite fits in
with all that I had heard. My boy, my boy, you are very much too
good to be a clerk at Mawson’s!’
“This outburst rather astonished me, as you can think. ‘Well,’
said I, ‘other people don’t think quite so much of me as you seem
to do, Mr. Pinner. I had a hard enough fight to get this berth,
and I am very glad to have it.’
“‘Pooh, man; you should soar above it. You are not in your true
sphere. Now, I’ll tell you how it stands with me. What I have to
offer is little enough when measured by your ability, but when
compared with Mawson’s, it’s light to dark. Let me see. When do
you go to Mawson’s?’
“‘On Monday.’
“‘Ha, ha! I think I would risk a little sporting flutter that you
don’t go there at all.’
“‘Not go to Mawson’s?’
“‘No, sir. By that day you will be the business manager of the
Franco-Midland Hardware Company, Limited, with a hundred and
thirty-four branches in the towns and villages of France, not
counting one in Brussels and one in San Remo.’
“This took my breath away. ‘I never heard of it,’ said I.
“‘Very likely not. It has been kept very quiet, for the capital
was all privately subscribed, and it’s too good a thing to let
the public into. My brother, Harry Pinner, is promoter, and joins
the board after allotment as managing director. He knew I was in
the swim down here, and asked me to pick up a good man cheap. A
young, pushing man with plenty of snap about him. Parker spoke of
you, and that brought me here to-night. We can only offer you a
beggarly five hundred to start with.’
“‘Five hundred a year!’ I shouted.
“‘Only that at the beginning; but you are to have an overriding
commission of one per cent on all business done by your agents,
and you may take my word for it that this will come to more than
your salary.’
“‘But I know nothing about hardware.’
“‘Tut, my boy; you know about figures.’
“My head buzzed, and I could hardly sit still in my chair. But
suddenly a little chill of doubt came upon me.
“‘I must be frank with you,’ said I. ‘Mawson only gives me two
hundred, but Mawson is safe. Now, really, I know so little about
your company that—’
“‘Ah, smart, smart!’ he cried, in a kind of ecstasy of delight.
‘You are the very man for us. You are not to be talked over, and
quite right, too. Now, here’s a note for a hundred pounds, and if
you think that we can do business you may just slip it into your
pocket as an advance upon your salary.’
“‘That is very handsome,’ said I. ‘When should I take over my new
duties?’
“‘Be in Birmingham to-morrow at one,’ said he. ‘I have a note in
my pocket here which you will take to my brother. You will find
him at 126B, Corporation Street, where the temporary offices of
the company are situated. Of course he must confirm your
engagement, but between ourselves it will be all right.’
“‘Really, I hardly know how to express my gratitude, Mr. Pinner,’
said I.
“‘Not at all, my boy. You have only got your deserts. There are
one or two small things—mere formalities—which I must arrange
with you. You have a bit of paper beside you there. Kindly write
upon it “I am perfectly willing to act as business manager to the
Franco-Midland Hardware Company, Limited, at a minimum salary of
£500.”’
“I did as he asked, and he put the paper in his pocket.
“‘There is one other detail,’ said he. ‘What do you intend to do
about Mawson’s?’
“I had forgotten all about Mawson’s in my joy. ‘I’ll write and
resign,’ said I.
“‘Precisely what I don’t want you to do. I had a row over you
with Mawson’s manager. I had gone up to ask him about you, and he
was very offensive; accused me of coaxing you away from the
service of the firm, and that sort of thing. At last I fairly
lost my temper. “If you want good men you should pay them a good
price,” said I.’
“‘He would rather have our small price than your big one,’ said
he.
“‘I’ll lay you a fiver,’ said I, ‘that when he has my offer
you’ll never so much as hear from him again.’
“‘Done!’ said he. ‘We picked him out of the gutter, and he won’t
leave us so easily.’ Those were his very words.”
“‘The impudent scoundrel!’ I cried. ‘I’ve never so much as seen
him in my life. Why should I consider him in any way? I shall
certainly not write if you would rather I didn’t.’
“‘Good! That’s a promise,’ said he, rising from his chair. ‘Well,
I’m delighted to have got so good a man for my brother. Here’s
your advance of a hundred pounds, and here is the letter. Make a
note of the address, 126B, Corporation Street, and remember that
one o’clock to-morrow is your appointment. Good-night; and may
you have all the fortune that you deserve!’
“That’s just about all that passed between us, as near as I can
remember. You can imagine, Dr. Watson, how pleased I was at such
an extraordinary bit of good fortune. I sat up half the night
hugging myself over it, and next day I was off to Birmingham in a
train that would take me in plenty time for my appointment. I
took my things to a hotel in New Street, and then I made my way
to the address which had been given me.
“It was a quarter of an hour before my time, but I thought that
would make no difference. 126B, was a passage between two large
shops, which led to a winding stone stair, from which there were
many flats, let as offices to companies or professional men. The
names of the occupants were painted at the bottom on the wall,
but there was no such name as the Franco-Midland Hardware
Company, Limited. I stood for a few minutes with my heart in my
boots, wondering whether the whole thing was an elaborate hoax or
not, when up came a man and addressed me. He was very like the
chap I had seen the night before, the same figure and voice, but
he was clean shaven and his hair was lighter.
“‘Are you Mr. Hall Pycroft?’ he asked.
“‘Yes,’ said I.
“‘Oh! I was expecting you, but you are a trifle before your time.
I had a note from my brother this morning in which he sang your
praises very loudly.’
“‘I was just looking for the offices when you came.’
“‘We have not got our name up yet, for we only secured these
temporary premises last week. Come up with me, and we will talk
the matter over.’
“I followed him to the top of a very lofty stair, and there,
right under the slates, were a couple of empty, dusty little
rooms, uncarpeted and uncurtained, into which he led me. I had
thought of a great office with shining tables and rows of clerks,
such as I was used to, and I daresay I stared rather straight at
the two deal chairs and one little table, which, with a ledger
and a waste paper basket, made up the whole furniture.
“‘Don’t be disheartened, Mr. Pycroft,’ said my new acquaintance,
seeing the length of my face. ‘Rome was not built in a day, and
we have lots of money at our backs, though we don’t cut much dash
yet in offices. Pray sit down, and let me have your letter.’
“I gave it to him, and he read it over very carefully.
“‘You seem to have made a vast impression upon my brother
Arthur,’ said he; ‘and I know that he is a pretty shrewd judge.
He swears by London, you know; and I by Birmingham; but this time
I shall follow his advice. Pray consider yourself definitely
engaged.’
“‘What are my duties?’ I asked.
“‘You will eventually manage the great depôt in Paris, which will
pour a flood of English crockery into the shops of a hundred and
thirty-four agents in France. The purchase will be completed in a
week, and meanwhile you will remain in Birmingham and make
yourself useful.’
“‘How?’
“For answer, he took a big red book out of a drawer.
“‘This is a directory of Paris,’ said he, ‘with the trades after
the names of the people. I want you to take it home with you, and
to mark off all the hardware sellers, with their addresses. It
would be of the greatest use to me to have them.’
“‘Surely there are classified lists?’ I suggested.
“‘Not reliable ones. Their system is different from ours. Stick
at it, and let me have the lists by Monday, at twelve. Good-day,
Mr. Pycroft. If you continue to show zeal and intelligence you
will find the company a good master.’
“I went back to the hotel with the big book under my arm, and
with very conflicting feelings in my breast. On the one hand, I
was definitely engaged and had a hundred pounds in my pocket; on
the other, the look of the offices, the absence of name on the
wall, and other of the points which would strike a business man
had left a bad impression as to the position of my employers.
However, come what might, I had my money, so I settled down to my
task. All Sunday I was kept hard at work, and yet by Monday I had
only got as far as H. I went round to my employer, found him in
the same dismantled kind of room, and was told to keep at it
until Wednesday, and then come again. On Wednesday it was still
unfinished, so I hammered away until Friday—that is, yesterday.
Then I brought it round to Mr. Harry Pinner.
“‘Thank you very much,’ said he; ‘I fear that I underrated the
difficulty of the task. This list will be of very material
assistance to me.’
“‘It took some time,’ said I.
“‘And now,’ said he, ‘I want you to make a list of the furniture
shops, for they all sell crockery.’
“‘Very good.’
“‘And you can come up to-morrow evening, at seven, and let me
know how you are getting on. Don’t overwork yourself. A couple of
hours at Day’s Music Hall in the evening would do you no harm
after your labours.’ He laughed as he spoke, and I saw with a
thrill that his second tooth upon the left-hand side had been
very badly stuffed with gold.”
Sherlock Holmes rubbed his hands with delight, and I stared with
astonishment at our client.
“You may well look surprised, Dr. Watson; but it is this way,”
said he: “When I was speaking to the other chap in London, at the
time that he laughed at my not going to Mawson’s, I happened to
notice that his tooth was stuffed in this very identical fashion.
The glint of the gold in each case caught my eye, you see. When I
put that with the voice and figure being the same, and only those
things altered which might be changed by a razor or a wig, I
could not doubt that it was the same man. Of course you expect
two brothers to be alike, but not that they should have the same
tooth stuffed in the same way. He bowed me out, and I found
myself in the street, hardly knowing whether I was on my head or
my heels. Back I went to my hotel, put my head in a basin of cold
water, and tried to think it out. Why had he sent me from London
to Birmingham? Why had he got there before me? And why had he
written a letter from himself to himself? It was altogether too
much for me, and I could make no sense of it. And then suddenly
it struck me that what was dark to me might be very light to Mr.
Sherlock Holmes. I had just time to get up to town by the night
train to see him this morning, and to bring you both back with me
to Birmingham.”
There was a pause after the stockbroker’s clerk had concluded his
surprising experience. Then Sherlock Holmes cocked his eye at me,
leaning back on the cushions with a pleased and yet critical
face, like a connoisseur who has just taken his first sip of a
comet vintage.
“Rather fine, Watson, is it not?” said he. “There are points in
it which please me. I think that you will agree with me that an
interview with Mr. Arthur Harry Pinner in the temporary offices
of the Franco-Midland Hardware Company, Limited, would be a
rather interesting experience for both of us.”
“But how can we do it?” I asked.
“Oh, easily enough,” said Hall Pycroft, cheerily. “You are two
friends of mine who are in want of a billet, and what could be
more natural than that I should bring you both round to the
managing director?”
“Quite so, of course,” said Holmes. “I should like to have a look
at the gentleman, and see if I can make anything of his little
game. What qualities have you, my friend, which would make your
services so valuable? or is it possible that—” He began biting
his nails and staring blankly out of the window, and we hardly
drew another word from him until we were in New Street.
At seven o’clock that evening we were walking, the three of us,
down Corporation Street to the company’s offices.
“It is no use our being at all before our time,” said our client.
“He only comes there to see me, apparently, for the place is
deserted up to the very hour he names.”
“That is suggestive,” remarked Holmes.
“By Jove, I told you so!” cried the clerk. “That’s he walking
ahead of us there.”
He pointed to a smallish, dark, well-dressed man who was bustling
along the other side of the road. As we watched him he looked
across at a boy who was bawling out the latest edition of the
evening paper, and running over among the cabs and busses, he
bought one from him. Then, clutching it in his hand, he vanished
through a doorway.
“There he goes!” cried Hall Pycroft. “These are the company’s
offices into which he has gone. Come with me, and I’ll fix it up
as easily as possible.”
Following his lead, we ascended five stories, until we found
ourselves outside a half-opened door, at which our client tapped.
A voice within bade us enter, and we entered a bare, unfurnished
room such as Hall Pycroft had described. At the single table sat
the man whom we had seen in the street, with his evening paper
spread out in front of him, and as he looked up at us it seemed
to me that I had never looked upon a face which bore such marks
of grief, and of something beyond grief—of a horror such as comes
to few men in a lifetime. His brow glistened with perspiration,
his cheeks were of the dull, dead white of a fish’s belly, and
his eyes were wild and staring. He looked at his clerk as though
he failed to recognise him, and I could see by the astonishment
depicted upon our conductor’s face that this was by no means the
usual appearance of his employer.
“You look ill, Mr. Pinner!” he exclaimed.
“Yes, I am not very well,” answered the other, making obvious
efforts to pull himself together, and licking his dry lips before
he spoke. “Who are these gentlemen whom you have brought with
you?”
“One is Mr. Harris, of Bermondsey, and the other is Mr. Price, of
this town,” said our clerk, glibly. “They are friends of mine and
gentlemen of experience, but they have been out of a place for
some little time, and they hoped that perhaps you might find an
opening for them in the company’s employment.”
“Very possibly! Very possibly!” cried Mr. Pinner with a ghastly
smile. “Yes, I have no doubt that we shall be able to do
something for you. What is your particular line, Mr. Harris?”
“I am an accountant,” said Holmes.
“Ah yes, we shall want something of the sort. And you, Mr.
Price?”
“A clerk,” said I.
“I have every hope that the company may accommodate you. I will
let you know about it as soon as we come to any conclusion. And
now I beg that you will go. For God’s sake leave me to myself!”
These last words were shot out of him, as though the constraint
which he was evidently setting upon himself had suddenly and
utterly burst asunder. Holmes and I glanced at each other, and
Hall Pycroft took a step towards the table.
“You forget, Mr. Pinner, that I am here by appointment to receive
some directions from you,” said he.
“Certainly, Mr. Pycroft, certainly,” the other resumed in a
calmer tone. “You may wait here a moment; and there is no reason
why your friends should not wait with you. I will be entirely at
your service in three minutes, if I might trespass upon your
patience so far.” He rose with a very courteous air, and, bowing
to us, he passed out through a door at the farther end of the
room, which he closed behind him.
“What now?” whispered Holmes. “Is he giving us the slip?”
“Impossible,” answered Pycroft.
“Why so?”
“That door leads into an inner room.”
“There is no exit?”
“None.”
“Is it furnished?”
“It was empty yesterday.”
“Then what on earth can he be doing? There is something which I
don’t understand in this manner. If ever a man was three parts
mad with terror, that man’s name is Pinner. What can have put the
shivers on him?”
“He suspects that we are detectives,” I suggested.
“That’s it,” cried Pycroft.
Holmes shook his head. “He did not turn pale. He was pale when we
entered the room,” said he. “It is just possible that—”
His words were interrupted by a sharp rat-tat from the direction
of the inner door.
“What the deuce is he knocking at his own door for?” cried the
clerk.
Again and much louder came the rat-tat-tat. We all gazed
expectantly at the closed door. Glancing at Holmes, I saw his
face turn rigid, and he leaned forward in intense excitement.
Then suddenly came a low guggling, gargling sound, and a brisk
drumming upon woodwork. Holmes sprang frantically across the room
and pushed at the door. It was fastened on the inner side.
Following his example, we threw ourselves upon it with all our
weight. One hinge snapped, then the other, and down came the door
with a crash. Rushing over it, we found ourselves in the inner
room. It was empty.
But it was only for a moment that we were at fault. At one
corner, the corner nearest the room which we had left, there was
a second door. Holmes sprang to it and pulled it open. A coat and
waistcoat were lying on the floor, and from a hook behind the
door, with his own braces round his neck, was hanging the
managing director of the Franco-Midland Hardware Company. His
knees were drawn up, his head hung at a dreadful angle to his
body, and the clatter of his heels against the door made the
noise which had broken in upon our conversation. In an instant I
had caught him round the waist, and held him up while Holmes and
Pycroft untied the elastic bands which had disappeared between
the livid creases of skin. Then we carried him into the other
room, where he lay with a clay-coloured face, puffing his purple
lips in and out with every breath—a dreadful wreck of all that he
had been but five minutes before.
“What do you think of him, Watson?” asked Holmes.
I stooped over him and examined him. His pulse was feeble and
intermittent, but his breathing grew longer, and there was a
little shivering of his eyelids, which showed a thin white slit
of ball beneath.
“It has been touch and go with him,” said I, “but he’ll live now.
Just open that window, and hand me the water carafe.” I undid his
collar, poured the cold water over his face, and raised and sank
his arms until he drew a long, natural breath. “It’s only a
question of time now,” said I, as I turned away from him.
Holmes stood by the table, with his hands deep in his trouser’s
pockets and his chin upon his breast.
“I suppose we ought to call the police in now,” said he. “And yet
I confess that I’d like to give them a complete case when they
come.”
“It’s a blessed mystery to me,” cried Pycroft, scratching his
head. “Whatever they wanted to bring me all the way up here for,
and then—”
“Pooh! All that is clear enough,” said Holmes impatiently. “It is
this last sudden move.”
“You understand the rest, then?”
“I think that it is fairly obvious. What do you say, Watson?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I must confess that I am out of my
depths,” said I.
“Oh, surely if you consider the events at first they can only
point to one conclusion.”
“What do you make of them?”
“Well, the whole thing hinges upon two points. The first is the
making of Pycroft write a declaration by which he entered the
service of this preposterous company. Do you not see how very
suggestive that is?”
“I am afraid I miss the point.”
“Well, why did they want him to do it? Not as a business matter,
for these arrangements are usually verbal, and there was no
earthly business reason why this should be an exception. Don’t
you see, my young friend, that they were very anxious to obtain a
specimen of your handwriting, and had no other way of doing it?”
“And why?”
“Quite so. Why? When we answer that we have made some progress
with our little problem. Why? There can be only one adequate
reason. Some one wanted to learn to imitate your writing, and had
to procure a specimen of it first. And now if we pass on to the
second point we find that each throws light upon the other. That
point is the request made by Pinner that you should not resign
your place, but should leave the manager of this important
business in the full expectation that a Mr. Hall Pycroft, whom he
had never seen, was about to enter the office upon the Monday
morning.”
“My God!” cried our client, “what a blind beetle I have been!”
“Now you see the point about the handwriting. Suppose that some
one turned up in your place who wrote a completely different hand
from that in which you had applied for the vacancy, of course the
game would have been up. But in the interval the rogue had
learned to imitate you, and his position was therefore secure, as
I presume that nobody in the office had ever set eyes upon you.”
“Not a soul,” groaned Hall Pycroft.
“Very good. Of course it was of the utmost importance to prevent
you from thinking better of it, and also to keep you from coming
into contact with any one who might tell you that your double was
at work in Mawson’s office. Therefore they gave you a handsome
advance on your salary, and ran you off to the Midlands, where
they gave you enough work to do to prevent your going to London,
where you might have burst their little game up. That is all
plain enough.”
“But why should this man pretend to be his own brother?”
“Well, that is pretty clear also. There are evidently only two of
them in it. The other is impersonating you at the office. This
one acted as your engager, and then found that he could not find
you an employer without admitting a third person into his plot.
That he was most unwilling to do. He changed his appearance as
far as he could, and trusted that the likeness, which you could
not fail to observe, would be put down to a family resemblance.
But for the happy chance of the gold stuffing, your suspicions
would probably never have been aroused.”
Hall Pycroft shook his clinched hands in the air. “Good Lord!” he
cried, “while I have been fooled in this way, what has this other
Hall Pycroft been doing at Mawson’s? What should we do, Mr.
Holmes? Tell me what to do.”
“We must wire to Mawson’s.”
“They shut at twelve on Saturdays.”
“Never mind. There may be some door-keeper or attendant—”
“Ah yes, they keep a permanent guard there on account of the
value of the securities that they hold. I remember hearing it
talked of in the City.”
“Very good; we shall wire to him, and see if all is well, and if
a clerk of your name is working there. That is clear enough; but
what is not so clear is why at sight of us one of the rogues
should instantly walk out of the room and hang himself.”
“The paper!” croaked a voice behind us. The man was sitting up,
blanched and ghastly, with returning reason in his eyes, and
hands which rubbed nervously at the broad red band which still
encircled his throat.
“The paper! Of course!” yelled Holmes, in a paroxysm of
excitement. “Idiot that I was! I thought so much of our visit
that the paper never entered my head for an instant. To be sure,
the secret must be there.” He flattened it out upon the table,
and a cry of triumph burst from his lips. “Look at this, Watson,”
he cried. “It is a London paper, an early edition of the _Evening
Standard_. Here is what we want. Look at the headlines: ‘Crime in
the City. Murder at Mawson & Williams’. Gigantic Attempted
Robbery. Capture of the Criminal.’ Here, Watson, we are all
equally anxious to hear it, so kindly read it aloud to us.”
It appeared from its position in the paper to have been the one
event of importance in town, and the account of it ran in this
way:
“A desperate attempt at robbery, culminating in the death of one
man and the capture of the criminal, occurred this afternoon in
the City. For some time back Mawson & Williams, the famous
financial house, have been the guardians of securities which
amount in the aggregate to a sum of considerably over a million
sterling. So conscious was the manager of the responsibility
which devolved upon him in consequence of the great interests at
stake that safes of the very latest construction have been
employed, and an armed watchman has been left day and night in
the building. It appears that last week a new clerk named Hall
Pycroft was engaged by the firm. This person appears to have been
none other than Beddington, the famous forger and cracksman, who,
with his brother, had only recently emerged from a five years’
spell of penal servitude. By some means, which are not yet clear,
he succeeded in winning, under a false name, this official
position in the office, which he utilised in order to obtain
moulding of various locks, and a thorough knowledge of the
position of the strong room and the safes.
“It is customary at Mawson’s for the clerks to leave at midday on
Saturday. Sergeant Tuson, of the City Police, was somewhat
surprised, therefore to see a gentleman with a carpet bag come
down the steps at twenty minutes past one. His suspicions being
aroused, the sergeant followed the man, and with the aid of
Constable Pollock succeeded, after a most desperate resistance,
in arresting him. It was at once clear that a daring and gigantic
robbery had been committed. Nearly a hundred thousand pounds’
worth of American railway bonds, with a large amount of scrip in
other mines and companies, was discovered in the bag. On
examining the premises the body of the unfortunate watchman was
found doubled up and thrust into the largest of the safes, where
it would not have been discovered until Monday morning had it not
been for the prompt action of Sergeant Tuson. The man’s skull had
been shattered by a blow from a poker delivered from behind.
There could be no doubt that Beddington had obtained entrance by
pretending that he had left something behind him, and having
murdered the watchman, rapidly rifled the large safe, and then
made off with his booty. His brother, who usually works with him,
has not appeared in this job as far as can at present be
ascertained, although the police are making energetic inquiries
as to his whereabouts.”
“Well, we may save the police some little trouble in that
direction,” said Holmes, glancing at the haggard figure huddled
up by the window. “Human nature is a strange mixture, Watson. You
see that even a villain and murderer can inspire such affection
that his brother turns to suicide when he learns that his neck is
forfeited. However, we have no choice as to our action. The
doctor and I will remain on guard, Mr. Pycroft, if you will have
the kindness to step out for the police.”
|
iv_the_stockbroker_s_clerk
|
V. The “_Gloria Scott_”
|
The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes
|
“I have some papers here,” said my friend Sherlock Holmes, as we
sat one winter’s night on either side of the fire, “which I
really think, Watson, that it would be worth your while to glance
over. These are the documents in the extraordinary case of the
_Gloria Scott_, and this is the message which struck Justice of
the Peace Trevor dead with horror when he read it.”
He had picked from a drawer a little tarnished cylinder, and,
undoing the tape, he handed me a short note scrawled upon a
half-sheet of slate-grey paper.
“The supply of game for London is going steadily up,” it ran.
“Head-keeper Hudson, we believe, has been now told to receive all
orders for fly-paper and for preservation of your hen-pheasant’s
life.”
As I glanced up from reading this enigmatical message, I saw
Holmes chuckling at the expression upon my face.
“You look a little bewildered,” said he.
“I cannot see how such a message as this could inspire horror. It
seems to me to be rather grotesque than otherwise.”
“Very likely. Yet the fact remains that the reader, who was a
fine, robust old man, was knocked clean down by it as if it had
been the butt end of a pistol.”
“You arouse my curiosity,” said I. “But why did you say just now
that there were very particular reasons why I should study this
case?”
“Because it was the first in which I was ever engaged.”
I had often endeavoured to elicit from my companion what had
first turned his mind in the direction of criminal research, but
had never caught him before in a communicative humour. Now he sat
forward in this armchair and spread out the documents upon his
knees. Then he lit his pipe and sat for some time smoking and
turning them over.
“You never heard me talk of Victor Trevor?” he asked. “He was the
only friend I made during the two years I was at college. I was
never a very sociable fellow, Watson, always rather fond of
moping in my rooms and working out my own little methods of
thought, so that I never mixed much with the men of my year. Bar
fencing and boxing I had few athletic tastes, and then my line of
study was quite distinct from that of the other fellows, so that
we had no points of contact at all. Trevor was the only man I
knew, and that only through the accident of his bull terrier
freezing on to my ankle one morning as I went down to chapel.
“It was a prosaic way of forming a friendship, but it was
effective. I was laid by the heels for ten days, but Trevor used
to come in to inquire after me. At first it was only a minute’s
chat, but soon his visits lengthened, and before the end of the
term we were close friends. He was a hearty, full-blooded fellow,
full of spirits and energy, the very opposite to me in most
respects, but we had some subjects in common, and it was a bond
of union when I found that he was as friendless as I. Finally, he
invited me down to his father’s place at Donnithorpe, in Norfolk,
and I accepted his hospitality for a month of the long vacation.
“Old Trevor was evidently a man of some wealth and consideration,
a J.P. and a landed proprietor. Donnithorpe is a little hamlet
just to the north of Langmere, in the country of the Broads. The
house was an old-fashioned, wide-spread, oak-beamed brick
building, with a fine lime-lined avenue leading up to it. There
was excellent wild-duck shooting in the fens, remarkably good
fishing, a small but select library, taken over, as I understood,
from a former occupant, and a tolerable cook, so that he would be
a fastidious man who could not put in a pleasant month there.
“Trevor senior was a widower, and my friend his only son.
“There had been a daughter, I heard, but she had died of
diphtheria while on a visit to Birmingham. The father interested
me extremely. He was a man of little culture, but with a
considerable amount of rude strength, both physically and
mentally. He knew hardly any books, but he had travelled far, had
seen much of the world. And had remembered all that he had
learned. In person he was a thick-set, burly man with a shock of
grizzled hair, a brown, weather-beaten face, and blue eyes which
were keen to the verge of fierceness. Yet he had a reputation for
kindness and charity on the country-side, and was noted for the
leniency of his sentences from the bench.
“One evening, shortly after my arrival, we were sitting over a
glass of port after dinner, when young Trevor began to talk about
those habits of observation and inference which I had already
formed into a system, although I had not yet appreciated the part
which they were to play in my life. The old man evidently thought
that his son was exaggerating in his description of one or two
trivial feats which I had performed.
“‘Come, now, Mr. Holmes,’ said he, laughing good-humoredly. ‘I’m
an excellent subject, if you can deduce anything from me.’
“‘I fear there is not very much,’ I answered; ‘I might suggest
that you have gone about in fear of some personal attack within
the last twelve months.’
“The laugh faded from his lips, and he stared at me in great
surprise.
“‘Well, that’s true enough,’ said he. ‘You know, Victor,’ turning
to his son, ‘when we broke up that poaching gang, they swore to
knife us, and Sir Edward Holly has actually been attacked. I’ve
always been on my guard since then, though I have no idea how you
know it.’
“‘You have a very handsome stick,’ I answered. ‘By the
inscription I observed that you had not had it more than a year.
But you have taken some pains to bore the head of it and pour
melted lead into the hole so as to make it a formidable weapon. I
argued that you would not take such precautions unless you had
some danger to fear.’
“‘Anything else?’ he asked, smiling.
“‘You have boxed a good deal in your youth.’
“‘Right again. How did you know it? Is my nose knocked a little
out of the straight?’
“‘No,’ said I. ‘It is your ears. They have the peculiar
flattening and thickening which marks the boxing man.’
“‘Anything else?’
“‘You have done a good deal of digging by your callosities.’
“‘Made all my money at the gold fields.’
“‘You have been in New Zealand.’
“‘Right again.’
“‘You have visited Japan.’
“‘Quite true.’
“‘And you have been most intimately associated with some one
whose initials were J. A., and whom you afterwards were eager to
entirely forget.’
“Mr. Trevor stood slowly up, fixed his large blue eyes upon me
with a strange wild stare, and then pitched forward, with his
face among the nutshells which strewed the cloth, in a dead
faint.
“You can imagine, Watson, how shocked both his son and I were.
His attack did not last long, however, for when we undid his
collar, and sprinkled the water from one of the finger-glasses
over his face, he gave a gasp or two and sat up.
“‘Ah, boys,’ said he, forcing a smile, ‘I hope I haven’t
frightened you. Strong as I look, there is a weak place in my
heart, and it does not take much to knock me over. I don’t know
how you manage this, Mr. Holmes, but it seems to me that all the
detectives of fact and of fancy would be children in your hands.
That’s your line of life, sir, and you may take the word of a man
who has seen something of the world.’
“And that recommendation, with the exaggerated estimate of my
ability with which he prefaced it, was, if you will believe me,
Watson, the very first thing which ever made me feel that a
profession might be made out of what had up to that time been the
merest hobby. At the moment, however, I was too much concerned at
the sudden illness of my host to think of anything else.
“‘I hope that I have said nothing to pain you?’ said I.
“‘Well, you certainly touched upon rather a tender point. Might I
ask how you know, and how much you know?’ He spoke now in a
half-jesting fashion, but a look of terror still lurked at the
back of his eyes.
“‘It is simplicity itself,’ said I. ‘When you bared your arm to
draw that fish into the boat I saw that J. A. had been tattooed
in the bend of the elbow. The letters were still legible, but it
was perfectly clear from their blurred appearance, and from the
staining of the skin round them, that efforts had been made to
obliterate them. It was obvious, then, that those initials had
once been very familiar to you, and that you had afterwards
wished to forget them.’
“What an eye you have!” he cried, with a sigh of relief. ‘It is
just as you say. But we won’t talk of it. Of all ghosts the
ghosts of our old lovers are the worst. Come into the
billiard-room and have a quiet cigar.’
“From that day, amid all his cordiality, there was always a touch
of suspicion in Mr. Trevor’s manner towards me. Even his son
remarked it. ‘You’ve given the governor such a turn,’ said he,
‘that he’ll never be sure again of what you know and what you
don’t know.’ He did not mean to show it, I am sure, but it was so
strongly in his mind that it peeped out at every action. At last
I became so convinced that I was causing him uneasiness that I
drew my visit to a close. On the very day, however, before I
left, an incident occurred which proved in the sequel to be of
importance.
“We were sitting out upon the lawn on garden chairs, the three of
us, basking in the sun and admiring the view across the Broads,
when a maid came out to say that there was a man at the door who
wanted to see Mr. Trevor.
“‘What is his name?’ asked my host.
“‘He would not give any.’
“‘What does he want, then?’
“‘He says that you know him, and that he only wants a moment’s
conversation.’
“‘Show him round here.’ An instant afterwards there appeared a
little wizened fellow with a cringing manner and a shambling
style of walking. He wore an open jacket, with a splotch of tar
on the sleeve, a red-and-black check shirt, dungaree trousers,
and heavy boots badly worn. His face was thin and brown and
crafty, with a perpetual smile upon it, which showed an irregular
line of yellow teeth, and his crinkled hands were half closed in
a way that is distinctive of sailors. As he came slouching across
the lawn I heard Mr. Trevor make a sort of hiccoughing noise in
his throat, and jumping out of his chair, he ran into the house.
He was back in a moment, and I smelt a strong reek of brandy as
he passed me.
“‘Well, my man,’ said he, ‘what can I do for you?’
“The sailor stood looking at him with puckered eyes, and with the
same loose-lipped smile upon his face.
“‘You don’t know me?’ he asked.
“‘Why, dear me, it is surely Hudson,’ said Mr. Trevor in a tone
of surprise.
“‘Hudson it is, sir,’ said the seaman. ‘Why, it’s thirty year and
more since I saw you last. Here you are in your house, and me
still picking my salt meat out of the harness cask.’
“‘Tut, you will find that I have not forgotten old times,’ cried
Mr. Trevor, and, walking towards the sailor, he said something in
a low voice. ‘Go into the kitchen,’ he continued out loud, ‘and
you will get food and drink. I have no doubt that I shall find
you a situation.’
“‘Thank you, sir,’ said the seaman, touching his forelock. ‘I’m
just off a two-yearer in an eight-knot tramp, short-handed at
that, and I wants a rest. I thought I’d get it either with Mr.
Beddoes or with you.’
“‘Ah!’ cried Trevor. ‘You know where Mr. Beddoes is?’
“‘Bless you, sir, I know where all my old friends are,’ said the
fellow with a sinister smile, and he slouched off after the maid
to the kitchen. Mr. Trevor mumbled something to us about having
been shipmate with the man when he was going back to the
diggings, and then, leaving us on the lawn, he went indoors. An
hour later, when we entered the house, we found him stretched
dead drunk upon the dining-room sofa. The whole incident left a
most ugly impression upon my mind, and I was not sorry next day
to leave Donnithorpe behind me, for I felt that my presence must
be a source of embarrassment to my friend.
“All this occurred during the first month of the long vacation. I
went up to my London rooms, where I spent seven weeks working out
a few experiments in organic chemistry. One day, however, when
the autumn was far advanced and the vacation drawing to a close,
I received a telegram from my friend imploring me to return to
Donnithorpe, and saying that he was in great need of my advice
and assistance. Of course I dropped everything and set out for
the North once more.
“He met me with the dog-cart at the station, and I saw at a
glance that the last two months had been very trying ones for
him. He had grown thin and careworn, and had lost the loud,
cheery manner for which he had been remarkable.
“‘The governor is dying,’ were the first words he said.
“‘Impossible!’ I cried. ‘What is the matter?’
“‘Apoplexy. Nervous shock, He’s been on the verge all day. I
doubt if we shall find him alive.’
“I was, as you may think, Watson, horrified at this unexpected
news.
“‘What has caused it?’ I asked.
“‘Ah, that is the point. Jump in and we can talk it over while we
drive. You remember that fellow who came upon the evening before
you left us?’
“‘Perfectly.’
“‘Do you know who it was that we let into the house that day?’
“‘I have no idea.’
“‘It was the devil, Holmes,’ he cried.
“I stared at him in astonishment.
“‘Yes, it was the devil himself. We have not had a peaceful hour
since—not one. The governor has never held up his head from that
evening, and now the life has been crushed out of him and his
heart broken, all through this accursed Hudson.’
“‘What power had he, then?’
“‘Ah, that is what I would give so much to know. The kindly,
charitable, good old governor—how could he have fallen into the
clutches of such a ruffian! But I am so glad that you have come,
Holmes. I trust very much to your judgment and discretion, and I
know that you will advise me for the best.’
“We were dashing along the smooth white country road, with the
long stretch of the Broads in front of us glimmering in the red
light of the setting sun. From a grove upon our left I could
already see the high chimneys and the flag-staff which marked the
squire’s dwelling.
“‘My father made the fellow gardener,’ said my companion, ‘and
then, as that did not satisfy him, he was promoted to be butler.
The house seemed to be at his mercy, and he wandered about and
did what he chose in it. The maids complained of his drunken
habits and his vile language. The dad raised their wages all
round to recompense them for the annoyance. The fellow would take
the boat and my father’s best gun and treat himself to little
shooting trips. And all this with such a sneering, leering,
insolent face that I would have knocked him down twenty times
over if he had been a man of my own age. I tell you, Holmes, I
have had to keep a tight hold upon myself all this time; and now
I am asking myself whether, if I had let myself go a little more,
I might not have been a wiser man.
“‘Well, matters went from bad to worse with us, and this animal
Hudson became more and more intrusive, until at last, on making
some insolent reply to my father in my presence one day, I took
him by the shoulders and turned him out of the room. He slunk
away with a livid face and two venomous eyes which uttered more
threats than his tongue could do. I don’t know what passed
between the poor dad and him after that, but the dad came to me
next day and asked me whether I would mind apologising to Hudson.
I refused, as you can imagine, and asked my father how he could
allow such a wretch to take such liberties with himself and his
household.
“‘“Ah, my boy,” said he, “it is all very well to talk, but you
don’t know how I am placed. But you shall know, Victor. I’ll see
that you shall know, come what may. You wouldn’t believe harm of
your poor old father, would you, lad?” He was very much moved,
and shut himself up in the study all day, where I could see
through the window that he was writing busily.
“‘That evening there came what seemed to me to be a grand
release, for Hudson told us that he was going to leave us. He
walked into the dining-room as we sat after dinner, and announced
his intention in the thick voice of a half-drunken man.
“‘“I’ve had enough of Norfolk,” said he. “I’ll run down to Mr.
Beddoes in Hampshire. He’ll be as glad to see me as you were, I
daresay.”
“‘“You’re not going away in an unkind spirit, Hudson, I hope,”
said my father, with a tameness which made my blood boil.
“‘“I’ve not had my ’pology,” said he sulkily, glancing in my
direction.
“‘“Victor, you will acknowledge that you have used this worthy
fellow rather roughly,” said the dad, turning to me.
“‘“On the contrary, I think that we have both shown extraordinary
patience towards him,” I answered.
“‘“Oh, you do, do you?” he snarls. “Very good, mate. We’ll see
about that!” He slouched out of the room, and half an hour
afterwards left the house, leaving my father in a state of
pitiable nervousness. Night after night I heard him pacing his
room, and it was just as he was recovering his confidence that
the blow did at last fall.
“‘And how?’ I asked eagerly.
“‘In a most extraordinary fashion. A letter arrived for my father
yesterday evening, bearing the Fordingbridge postmark. My father
read it, clapped both his hands to his head, and began running
round the room in little circles like a man who has been driven
out of his senses. When I at last drew him down on to the sofa,
his mouth and eyelids were all puckered on one side, and I saw
that he had a stroke. Dr. Fordham came over at once. We put him
to bed; but the paralysis has spread, he has shown no sign of
returning consciousness, and I think that we shall hardly find
him alive.’
“‘You horrify me, Trevor!’ I cried. ‘What then could have been in
this letter to cause so dreadful a result?’
“‘Nothing. There lies the inexplicable part of it. The message
was absurd and trivial. Ah, my God, it is as I feared!’
“As he spoke we came round the curve of the avenue, and saw in
the fading light that every blind in the house had been drawn
down. As we dashed up to the door, my friend’s face convulsed
with grief, a gentleman in black emerged from it.
“‘When did it happen, doctor?’ asked Trevor.
“‘Almost immediately after you left.’
“‘Did he recover consciousness?’
“‘For an instant before the end.’
“‘Any message for me?’
“‘Only that the papers were in the back drawer of the Japanese
cabinet.’
“My friend ascended with the doctor to the chamber of death,
while I remained in the study, turning the whole matter over and
over in my head, and feeling as sombre as ever I had done in my
life. What was the past of this Trevor, pugilist, traveler, and
gold-digger, and how had he placed himself in the power of this
acid-faced seaman? Why, too, should he faint at an allusion to
the half-effaced initials upon his arm, and die of fright when he
had a letter from Fordingbridge? Then I remembered that
Fordingbridge was in Hampshire, and that this Mr. Beddoes, whom
the seaman had gone to visit and presumably to blackmail, had
also been mentioned as living in Hampshire. The letter, then,
might either come from Hudson, the seaman, saying that he had
betrayed the guilty secret which appeared to exist, or it might
come from Beddoes, warning an old confederate that such a
betrayal was imminent. So far it seemed clear enough. But then
how could this letter be trivial and grotesque, as described by
the son? He must have misread it. If so, it must have been one of
those ingenious secret codes which mean one thing while they seem
to mean another. I must see this letter. If there were a hidden
meaning in it, I was confident that I could pluck it forth. For
an hour I sat pondering over it in the gloom, until at last a
weeping maid brought in a lamp, and close at her heels came my
friend Trevor, pale but composed, with these very papers which
lie upon my knee held in his grasp. He sat down opposite to me,
drew the lamp to the edge of the table, and handed me a short
note scribbled, as you see, upon a single sheet of grey paper.
‘The supply of game for London is going steadily up,’ it ran.
‘Head-keeper Hudson, we believe, has been now told to receive all
orders for fly paper and for preservation of your hen pheasant’s
life.’
“I daresay my face looked as bewildered as yours did just now
when first I read this message. Then I reread it very carefully.
It was evidently as I had thought, and some secret meaning must
lie buried in this strange combination of words. Or could it be
that there was a prearranged significance to such phrases as ‘fly
paper’ and ‘hen pheasant’? Such a meaning would be arbitrary and
could not be deduced in any way. And yet I was loath to believe
that this was the case, and the presence of the word ‘Hudson’
seemed to show that the subject of the message was as I had
guessed, and that it was from Beddoes rather than the sailor. I
tried it backwards, but the combination ‘life pheasant’s hen’ was
not encouraging. Then I tried alternate words, but neither ‘The
of for’ nor ‘supply game London’ promised to throw any light upon
it. And then in an instant the key of the riddle was in my hands,
and I saw that every third word, beginning with the first, would
give a message which might well drive old Trevor to despair.
“It was short and terse, the warning, as I now read it to my
companion:
“‘The game is up. Hudson has told all. Fly for your life.’
“Victor Trevor sank his face into his shaking hands. ‘It must be
that, I suppose,’ said he. ‘This is worse than death, for it
means disgrace as well. But what is the meaning of these
“head-keepers” and “hen pheasants”?’
“‘It means nothing to the message, but it might mean a good deal
to us if we had no other means of discovering the sender. You see
that he has begun by writing “The ... game ... is,” and so on.
Afterwards he had, to fulfill the prearranged cipher, to fill in
any two words in each space. He would naturally use the first
words which came to his mind, and if there were so many which
referred to sport among them, you may be tolerably sure that he
is either an ardent shot or interested in breeding. Do you know
anything of this Beddoes?’
“‘Why, now that you mention it,’ said he, ‘I remember that my
poor father used to have an invitation from him to shoot over his
preserves every autumn.’
“‘Then it is undoubtedly from him that the note comes,’ said I.
‘It only remains for us to find out what this secret was which
the sailor Hudson seems to have held over the heads of these two
wealthy and respected men.’
“‘Alas, Holmes, I fear that it is one of sin and shame!’ cried my
friend. ‘But from you I shall have no secrets. Here is the
statement which was drawn up by my father when he knew that the
danger from Hudson had become imminent. I found it in the
Japanese cabinet, as he told the doctor. Take it and read it to
me, for I have neither the strength nor the courage to do it
myself.’
“These are the very papers, Watson, which he handed to me, and I
will read them to you, as I read them in the old study that night
to him. They are endorsed outside, as you see, ‘Some particulars
of the voyage of the bark _Gloria Scott_, from her leaving
Falmouth on the 8th October, 1855, to her destruction in N. lat.
15º 20’, W. long. 25º 14’ on Nov. 6th.’ It is in the form of a
letter, and runs in this way:
“‘My dear, dear son,—Now that approaching disgrace begins to
darken the closing years of my life, I can write with all truth
and honesty that it is not the terror of the law, it is not the
loss of my position in the county, nor is it my fall in the eyes
of all who have known me, which cuts me to the heart; but it is
the thought that you should come to blush for me—you who love me
and who have seldom, I hope, had reason to do other than respect
me. But if the blow falls which is forever hanging over me, then
I should wish you to read this, that you may know straight from
me how far I have been to blame. On the other hand, if all should
go well (which may kind God Almighty grant!), then if by any
chance this paper should be still undestroyed and should fall
into your hands, I conjure you, by all you hold sacred, by the
memory of your dear mother, and by the love which had been
between us, to hurl it into the fire and to never give one
thought to it again.
“‘If then your eye goes on to read this line, I know that I shall
already have been exposed and dragged from my home, or as is more
likely, for you know that my heart is weak, by lying with my
tongue sealed forever in death. In either case the time for
suppression is past, and every word which I tell you is the naked
truth, and this I swear as I hope for mercy.
“‘My name, dear lad, is not Trevor. I was James Armitage in my
younger days, and you can understand now the shock that it was to
me a few weeks ago when your college friend addressed me in words
which seemed to imply that he had surmised my secret. As Armitage
it was that I entered a London banking house, and as Armitage I
was convicted of breaking my country’s laws, and was sentenced to
transportation. Do not think very harshly of me, laddie. It was a
debt of honour, so called, which I had to pay, and I used money
which was not my own to do it, in the certainty that I could
replace it before there could be any possibility of its being
missed. But the most dreadful ill-luck pursued me. The money
which I had reckoned upon never came to hand, and a premature
examination of accounts exposed my deficit. The case might have
been dealt leniently with, but the laws were more harshly
administered thirty years ago than now, and on my twenty-third
birthday I found myself chained as a felon with thirty-seven
other convicts in ’tween-decks of the barque _Gloria Scott_,
bound for Australia.
“‘It was the year ’55 when the Crimean war was at its height, and
the old convict ships had been largely used as transports in the
Black Sea. The government was compelled, therefore, to use
smaller and less suitable vessels for sending out their
prisoners. The _Gloria Scott_ had been in the Chinese tea trade,
but she was an old-fashioned, heavy-bowed, broad-beamed craft,
and the new clippers had cut her out. She was a five-hundred-ton
boat, and besides her thirty-eight gaol-birds, she carried
twenty-six of a crew, eighteen soldiers, a captain, three mates,
a doctor, a chaplain, and four warders. Nearly a hundred souls
were in her, all told, when we set sail from Falmouth.
“‘The partitions between the cells of the convicts, instead of
being of thick oak, as is usual in convict-ships, were quite thin
and frail. The man next to me, upon the aft side, was one whom I
had particularly noticed when we were led down the quay. He was a
young man with a clear, hairless face, a long, thin nose, and
rather nut-cracker jaws. He carried his head very jauntily in the
air, had a swaggering style of walking, and was, above all else,
remarkable for his extraordinary height. I don’t think any of our
heads would have come up to his shoulder, and I am sure that he
could not have measured less than six and a half feet. It was
strange among so many sad and weary faces to see one which was
full of energy and resolution. The sight of it was to me like a
fire in a snowstorm. I was glad, then, to find that he was my
neighbour, and gladder still when, in the dead of the night, I
heard a whisper close to my ear, and found that he had managed to
cut an opening in the board which separated us.
“‘“Hallao, chummy!” said he, “what’s your name, and what are you
here for?”
“‘I answered him, and asked in turn who I was talking with.
“‘“I’m Jack Prendergast,” said he, “and by God! You’ll learn to
bless my name before you’ve done with me.”
“‘I remembered hearing of his case, for it was one which had made
an immense sensation throughout the country some time before my
own arrest. He was a man of good family and of great ability, but
of incurably vicious habits, who had by an ingenious system of
fraud obtained huge sums of money from the leading London
merchants.
“‘“Ha, ha! You remember my case!” said he proudly.
“‘“Very well, indeed.”
“‘“Then maybe you remember something queer about it?”
“‘“What was that, then?”
“‘“I’d had nearly a quarter of a million, hadn’t I?”
“‘“So it was said.”
“‘“But none was recovered, eh?”
“‘“No.”
“‘“Well, where d’ye suppose the balance is?” he asked.
“‘“I have no idea,” said I.
“‘“Right between my finger and thumb,” he cried. “By God! I’ve
got more pounds to my name than you’ve hairs on your head. And if
you’ve money, my son, and know how to handle it and spread it,
you can do _anything!_ Now, you don’t think it likely that a man
who could do anything is going to wear his breeches out sitting
in the stinking hold of a rat-gutted, beetle-ridden, mouldy old
coffin of a China coaster. No, sir, such a man will look after
himself and will look after his chums. You may lay to that! You
hold on to him, and you may kiss the book that he’ll haul you
through.”
“‘That was his style of talk, and at first I thought it meant
nothing; but after a while, when he had tested me and sworn me in
with all possible solemnity, he let me understand that there
really was a plot to gain command of the vessel. A dozen of the
prisoners had hatched it before they came aboard, Prendergast was
the leader, and his money was the motive power.
“‘“I’d a partner,” said he, “a rare good man, as true as a stock
to a barrel. He’s got the dibbs, he has, and where do you think
he is at this moment? Why, he’s the chaplain of this ship—the
chaplain, no less! He came aboard with a black coat, and his
papers right, and money enough in his box to buy the thing right
up from keel to main-truck. The crew are his, body and soul. He
could buy ’em at so much a gross with a cash discount, and he did
it before ever they signed on. He’s got two of the warders and
Mercer, the second mate, and he’d get the captain himself, if he
thought him worth it.”
“‘“What are we to do, then?” I asked.
“‘“What do you think?” said he. “We’ll make the coats of some of
these soldiers redder than ever the tailor did.”
“‘“But they are armed,” said I.
“‘“And so shall we be, my boy. There’s a brace of pistols for
every mother’s son of us, and if we can’t carry this ship, with
the crew at our back, it’s time we were all sent to a young
misses’ boarding-school. You speak to your mate upon the left
to-night, and see if he is to be trusted.”
“‘I did so, and found my other neighbour to be a young fellow in
much the same position as myself, whose crime had been forgery.
His name was Evans, but he afterwards changed it, like myself,
and he is now a rich and prosperous man in the south of England.
He was ready enough to join the conspiracy, as the only means of
saving ourselves, and before we had crossed the Bay there were
only two of the prisoners who were not in the secret. One of
these was of weak mind, and we did not dare to trust him, and the
other was suffering from jaundice, and could not be of any use to
us.
““From the beginning there was really nothing to prevent us from
taking possession of the ship. The crew were a set of ruffians,
specially picked for the job. The sham chaplain came into our
cells to exhort us, carrying a black bag, supposed to be full of
tracts, and so often did he come that by the third day we had
each stowed away at the foot of our beds a file, a brace of
pistols, a pound of powder, and twenty slugs. Two of the warders
were agents of Prendergast, and the second mate was his
right-hand man. The captain, the two mates, two warders,
Lieutenant Martin, his eighteen soldiers, and the doctor were all
that we had against us. Yet, safe as it was, we determined to
neglect no precaution, and to make our attack suddenly by night.
It came, however, more quickly than we expected, and in this way.
“‘One evening, about the third week after our start, the doctor
had come down to see one of the prisoners who was ill, and
putting his hand down on the bottom of his bunk he felt the
outline of the pistols. If he had been silent he might have blown
the whole thing, but he was a nervous little chap, so he gave a
cry of surprise and turned so pale that the man knew what was up
in an instant and seized him. He was gagged before he could give
the alarm, and tied down upon the bed. He had unlocked the door
that led to the deck, and we were through it in a rush. The two
sentries were shot down, and so was a corporal who came running
to see what was the matter. There were two more soldiers at the
door of the state-room, and their muskets seemed not to be
loaded, for they never fired upon us, and they were shot while
trying to fix their bayonets. Then we rushed on into the
captain’s cabin, but as we pushed open the door there was an
explosion from within, and there he lay with his brains smeared
over the chart of the Atlantic which was pinned upon the table,
while the chaplain stood with a smoking pistol in his hand at his
elbow. The two mates had both been seized by the crew, and the
whole business seemed to be settled.
“‘The state-room was next the cabin, and we flocked in there and
flopped down on the settees, all speaking together, for we were
just mad with the feeling that we were free once more. There were
lockers all round, and Wilson, the sham chaplain, knocked one of
them in, and pulled out a dozen of brown sherry. We cracked off
the necks of the bottles, poured the stuff out into tumblers, and
were just tossing them off, when in an instant without warning
there came the roar of muskets in our ears, and the saloon was so
full of smoke that we could not see across the table. When it
cleared again the place was a shambles. Wilson and eight others
were wriggling on the top of each other on the floor, and the
blood and the brown sherry on that table turn me sick now when I
think of it. We were so cowed by the sight that I think we should
have given the job up if it had not been for Prendergast. He
bellowed like a bull and rushed for the door with all that were
left alive at his heels. Out we ran, and there on the poop were
the lieutenant and ten of his men. The swing skylights above the
saloon table had been a bit open, and they had fired on us
through the slit. We got on them before they could load, and they
stood to it like men; but we had the upper hand of them, and in
five minutes it was all over. My God! Was there ever a
slaughter-house like that ship! Prendergast was like a raging
devil, and he picked the soldiers up as if they had been children
and threw them overboard alive or dead. There was one sergeant
that was horribly wounded and yet kept on swimming for a
surprising time, until some one in mercy blew out his brains.
When the fighting was over there was no one left of our enemies
except just the warders, the mates, and the doctor.
“‘It was over them that the great quarrel arose. There were many
of us who were glad enough to win back our freedom, and yet who
had no wish to have murder on our souls. It was one thing to
knock the soldiers over with their muskets in their hands, and it
was another to stand by while men were being killed in cold
blood. Eight of us, five convicts and three sailors, said that we
would not see it done. But there was no moving Prendergast and
those who were with him. Our only chance of safety lay in making
a clean job of it, said he, and he would not leave a tongue with
power to wag in a witness-box. It nearly came to our sharing the
fate of the prisoners, but at last he said that if we wished we
might take a boat and go. We jumped at the offer, for we were
already sick of these bloodthirsty doings, and we saw that there
would be worse before it was done. We were given a suit of
sailors’ togs each, a barrel of water, two casks, one of junk and
one of biscuits, and a compass. Prendergast threw us over a
chart, told us that we were shipwrecked mariners whose ship had
foundered in lat. 15º N. and long 25º W., and then cut the
painter and let us go.
“‘And now I come to the most surprising part of my story, my dear
son. The seamen had hauled the foreyard aback during the rising,
but now as we left them they brought it square again, and as
there was a light wind from the north and east the barque began
to draw slowly away from us. Our boat lay, rising and falling,
upon the long, smooth rollers, and Evans and I, who were the most
educated of the party, were sitting in the sheets working out our
position and planning what coast we should make for. It was a
nice question, for the Cape de Verds were about five hundred
miles to the north of us, and the African coast about seven
hundred to the east. On the whole, as the wind was coming round
to the north, we thought that Sierra Leone might be best, and
turned our head in that direction, the barque being at that time
nearly hull down on our starboard quarter. Suddenly as we looked
at her we saw a dense black cloud of smoke shoot up from her,
which hung like a monstrous tree upon the sky line. A few seconds
later a roar like thunder burst upon our ears, and as the smoke
thinned away there was no sign left of the _Gloria Scott_. In an
instant we swept the boat’s head round again and pulled with all
our strength for the place where the haze still trailing over the
water marked the scene of this catastrophe.
“‘It was a long hour before we reached it, and at first we feared
that we had come too late to save any one. A splintered boat and
a number of crates and fragments of spars rising and falling on
the waves showed us where the vessel had foundered; but there was
no sign of life, and we had turned away in despair when we heard
a cry for help, and saw at some distance a piece of wreckage with
a man lying stretched across it. When we pulled him aboard the
boat he proved to be a young seaman of the name of Hudson, who
was so burned and exhausted that he could give us no account of
what had happened until the following morning.
“‘It seemed that after we had left, Prendergast and his gang had
proceeded to put to death the five remaining prisoners. The two
warders had been shot and thrown overboard, and so also had the
third mate. Prendergast then descended into the ’tween-decks and
with his own hands cut the throat of the unfortunate surgeon.
There only remained the first mate, who was a bold and active
man. When he saw the convict approaching him with the bloody
knife in his hand he kicked off his bonds, which he had somehow
contrived to loosen, and rushing down the deck he plunged into
the after-hold.
“‘A dozen convicts, who descended with their pistols in search of
him, found him with a match-box in his hand seated beside an open
powder barrel, which was one of a hundred carried on board, and
swearing that he would blow all hands up if he were in any way
molested. An instant later the explosion occurred, though Hudson
thought it was caused by the misdirected bullet of one of the
convicts rather than the mate’s match. Be the cause what it may,
it was the end of the _Gloria Scott_ and of the rabble who held
command of her.
“‘Such, in a few words, my dear boy, is the history of this
terrible business in which I was involved. Next day we were
picked up by the brig _Hotspur_, bound for Australia, whose
captain found no difficulty in believing that we were the
survivors of a passenger ship which had foundered. The transport
ship _Gloria Scott_ was set down by the Admiralty as being lost
at sea, and no word has ever leaked out as to her true fate.
After an excellent voyage the _Hotspur_ landed us at Sydney,
where Evans and I changed our names and made our way to the
diggings, where, among the crowds who were gathered from all
nations, we had no difficulty in losing our former identities.
“‘The rest I need not relate. We prospered, we travelled, we came
back as rich colonials to England, and we bought country estates.
For more than twenty years we have led peaceful and useful lives,
and we hoped that our past was forever buried. Imagine, then, my
feelings when in the seaman who came to us I recognised instantly
the man who had been picked off the wreck. He had tracked us down
somehow, and had set himself to live upon our fears. You will
understand now how it was that I strove to keep the peace with
him, and you will in some measure sympathise with me in the fears
which fill me, now that he has gone from me to his other victim
with threats upon his tongue.’
“Underneath is written in a hand so shaky as to be hardly
legible, ‘Beddoes writes in cipher to say H. has told all. Sweet
Lord, have mercy on our souls!’
“That was the narrative which I read that night to young Trevor,
and I think, Watson, that under the circumstances it was a
dramatic one. The good fellow was heartbroken at it, and went out
to the Terai tea planting, where I hear that he is doing well. As
to the sailor and Beddoes, neither of them was ever heard of
again after that day on which the letter of warning was written.
They both disappeared utterly and completely. No complaint had
been lodged with the police, so that Beddoes had mistaken a
threat for a deed. Hudson had been seen lurking about, and it was
believed by the police that he had done away with Beddoes and had
fled. For myself I believe that the truth was exactly the
opposite. I think that it is most probable that Beddoes, pushed
to desperation and believing himself to have been already
betrayed, had revenged himself upon Hudson, and had fled from the
country with as much money as he could lay his hands on. Those
are the facts of the case, Doctor, and if they are of any use to
your collection, I am sure that they are very heartily at your
service.”
|
v_the_gloria_scott
|
VI. The Musgrave Ritual
|
The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes
|
An anomaly which often struck me in the character of my friend
Sherlock Holmes was that, although in his methods of thought he
was the neatest and most methodical of mankind, and although also
he affected a certain quiet primness of dress, he was none the
less in his personal habits one of the most untidy men that ever
drove a fellow-lodger to distraction. Not that I am in the least
conventional in that respect myself. The rough-and-tumble work in
Afghanistan, coming on the top of a natural Bohemianism of
disposition, has made me rather more lax than befits a medical
man. But with me there is a limit, and when I find a man who
keeps his cigars in the coal-scuttle, his tobacco in the toe end
of a Persian slipper, and his unanswered correspondence
transfixed by a jack-knife into the very centre of his wooden
mantelpiece, then I begin to give myself virtuous airs. I have
always held, too, that pistol practice should be distinctly an
open-air pastime; and when Holmes, in one of his queer humours,
would sit in an armchair with his hair-trigger and a hundred
Boxer cartridges, and proceed to adorn the opposite wall with a
patriotic V. R. done in bullet-pocks, I felt strongly that
neither the atmosphere nor the appearance of our room was
improved by it.
Our chambers were always full of chemicals and of criminal relics
which had a way of wandering into unlikely positions, and of
turning up in the butter-dish or in even less desirable places.
But his papers were my great crux. He had a horror of destroying
documents, especially those which were connected with his past
cases, and yet it was only once in every year or two that he
would muster energy to docket and arrange them; for, as I have
mentioned somewhere in these incoherent memoirs, the outbursts of
passionate energy when he performed the remarkable feats with
which his name is associated were followed by reactions of
lethargy during which he would lie about with his violin and his
books, hardly moving save from the sofa to the table. Thus month
after month his papers accumulated, until every corner of the
room was stacked with bundles of manuscript which were on no
account to be burned, and which could not be put away save by
their owner. One winter’s night, as we sat together by the fire,
I ventured to suggest to him that, as he had finished pasting
extracts into his common-place book, he might employ the next two
hours in making our room a little more habitable. He could not
deny the justice of my request, so with a rather rueful face he
went off to his bedroom, from which he returned presently pulling
a large tin box behind him. This he placed in the middle of the
floor and, squatting down upon a stool in front of it, he threw
back the lid. I could see that it was already a third full of
bundles of paper tied up with red tape into separate packages.
“There are cases enough here, Watson,” said he, looking at me
with mischievous eyes. “I think that if you knew all that I had
in this box you would ask me to pull some out instead of putting
others in.”
“These are the records of your early work, then?” I asked. “I
have often wished that I had notes of those cases.”
“Yes, my boy, these were all done prematurely before my
biographer had come to glorify me.” He lifted bundle after bundle
in a tender, caressing sort of way. “They are not all successes,
Watson,” said he. “But there are some pretty little problems
among them. Here’s the record of the Tarleton murders, and the
case of Vamberry, the wine merchant, and the adventure of the old
Russian woman, and the singular affair of the aluminium crutch,
as well as a full account of Ricoletti of the club-foot, and his
abominable wife. And here—ah, now, this really is something a
little _recherché_.”
He dived his arm down to the bottom of the chest, and brought up
a small wooden box with a sliding lid, such as children’s toys
are kept in. From within he produced a crumpled piece of paper,
an old-fashioned brass key, a peg of wood with a ball of string
attached to it, and three rusty old disks of metal.
“Well, my boy, what do you make of this lot?” he asked, smiling
at my expression.
“It is a curious collection.”
“Very curious, and the story that hangs round it will strike you
as being more curious still.”
“These relics have a history then?”
“So much so that they _are_ history.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Sherlock Holmes picked them up one by one, and laid them along
the edge of the table. Then he reseated himself in his chair and
looked them over with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.
“These,” said he, “are all that I have left to remind me of the
adventure of the Musgrave Ritual.”
I had heard him mention the case more than once, though I had
never been able to gather the details.
“I should be so glad,” said I, “if you would give me an account
of it.”
“And leave the litter as it is?” he cried, mischievously. “Your
tidiness won’t bear much strain after all, Watson. But I should
be glad that you should add this case to your annals, for there
are points in it which make it quite unique in the criminal
records of this or, I believe, of any other country. A collection
of my trifling achievements would certainly be incomplete which
contained no account of this very singular business.
“You may remember how the affair of the _Gloria Scott_, and my
conversation with the unhappy man whose fate I told you of, first
turned my attention in the direction of the profession which has
become my life’s work. You see me now when my name has become
known far and wide, and when I am generally recognised both by
the public and by the official force as being a final court of
appeal in doubtful cases. Even when you knew me first, at the
time of the affair which you have commemorated in ‘A Study in
Scarlet,’ I had already established a considerable, though not a
very lucrative, connection. You can hardly realize, then, how
difficult I found it at first, and how long I had to wait before
I succeeded in making any headway.
“When I first came up to London I had rooms in Montague Street,
just round the corner from the British Museum, and there I
waited, filling in my too abundant leisure time by studying all
those branches of science which might make me more efficient. Now
and again cases came in my way, principally through the
introduction of old fellow-students, for during my last years at
the University there was a good deal of talk there about myself
and my methods. The third of these cases was that of the Musgrave
Ritual, and it is to the interest which was aroused by that
singular chain of events, and the large issues which proved to be
at stake, that I trace my first stride towards the position which
I now hold.
“Reginald Musgrave had been in the same college as myself, and I
had some slight acquaintance with him. He was not generally
popular among the undergraduates, though it always seemed to me
that what was set down as pride was really an attempt to cover
extreme natural diffidence. In appearance he was a man of
exceedingly aristocratic type, thin, high-nosed, and large-eyed,
with languid and yet courtly manners. He was indeed a scion of
one of the very oldest families in the kingdom, though his branch
was a cadet one which had separated from the northern Musgraves
some time in the sixteenth century, and had established itself in
western Sussex, where the Manor House of Hurlstone is perhaps the
oldest inhabited building in the county. Something of his
birthplace seemed to cling to the man, and I never looked at his
pale, keen face or the poise of his head without associating him
with grey archways and mullioned windows and all the venerable
wreckage of a feudal keep. Once or twice we drifted into talk,
and I can remember that more than once he expressed a keen
interest in my methods of observation and inference.
“For four years I had seen nothing of him until one morning he
walked into my room in Montague Street. He had changed little,
was dressed like a young man of fashion—he was always a bit of a
dandy—and preserved the same quiet, suave manner which had
formerly distinguished him.
“‘How has all gone with you Musgrave?’ I asked, after we had
cordially shaken hands.
“‘You probably heard of my poor father’s death,’ said he; ‘he was
carried off about two years ago. Since then I have of course had
the Hurlstone estates to manage, and as I am member for my
district as well, my life has been a busy one. But I understand,
Holmes, that you are turning to practical ends those powers with
which you used to amaze us?’
“‘Yes,’ said I, ‘I have taken to living by my wits.’
“‘I am delighted to hear it, for your advice at present would be
exceedingly valuable to me. We have had some very strange doings
at Hurlstone, and the police have been able to throw no light
upon the matter. It is really the most extraordinary and
inexplicable business.’
“You can imagine with what eagerness I listened to him, Watson,
for the very chance for which I had been panting during all those
months of inaction seemed to have come within my reach. In my
inmost heart I believed that I could succeed where others failed,
and now I had the opportunity to test myself.
“‘Pray, let me have the details,’ I cried.
“Reginald Musgrave sat down opposite to me, and lit the cigarette
which I had pushed towards him.
“‘You must know,’ said he, ‘that though I am a bachelor, I have
to keep up a considerable staff of servants at Hurlstone, for it
is a rambling old place, and takes a good deal of looking after.
I preserve, too, and in the pheasant months I usually have a
house-party, so that it would not do to be short-handed.
Altogether there are eight maids, the cook, the butler, two
footmen, and a boy. The garden and the stables of course have a
separate staff.
“‘Of these servants the one who had been longest in our service
was Brunton the butler. He was a young schoolmaster out of place
when he was first taken up by my father, but he was a man of
great energy and character, and he soon became quite invaluable
in the household. He was a well-grown, handsome man, with a
splendid forehead, and though he has been with us for twenty
years he cannot be more than forty now. With his personal
advantages and his extraordinary gifts—for he can speak several
languages and play nearly every musical instrument—it is
wonderful that he should have been satisfied so long in such a
position, but I suppose that he was comfortable, and lacked
energy to make any change. The butler of Hurlstone is always a
thing that is remembered by all who visit us.
“‘But this paragon has one fault. He is a bit of a Don Juan, and
you can imagine that for a man like him it is not a very
difficult part to play in a quiet country district. When he was
married it was all right, but since he has been a widower we have
had no end of trouble with him. A few months ago we were in hopes
that he was about to settle down again for he became engaged to
Rachel Howells, our second housemaid; but he has thrown her over
since then and taken up with Janet Tregellis, the daughter of the
head gamekeeper. Rachel—who is a very good girl, but of an
excitable Welsh temperament—had a sharp touch of brain-fever, and
goes about the house now—or did until yesterday—like a black-eyed
shadow of her former self. That was our first drama at Hurlstone;
but a second one came to drive it from our minds, and it was
prefaced by the disgrace and dismissal of butler Brunton.
“‘This was how it came about. I have said that the man was
intelligent, and this very intelligence has caused his ruin, for
it seems to have led to an insatiable curiosity about things
which did not in the least concern him. I had no idea of the
lengths to which this would carry him, until the merest accident
opened my eyes to it.
“‘I have said that the house is a rambling one. One day last
week—on Thursday night, to be more exact—I found that I could not
sleep, having foolishly taken a cup of strong _café noir_ after
my dinner. After struggling against it until two in the morning,
I felt that it was quite hopeless, so I rose and lit the candle
with the intention of continuing a novel which I was reading. The
book, however, had been left in the billiard-room, so I pulled on
my dressing-gown and started off to get it.
“‘In order to reach the billiard-room I had to descend a flight
of stairs and then to cross the head of a passage which led to
the library and the gun-room. You can imagine my surprise when,
as I looked down this corridor, I saw a glimmer of light coming
from the open door of the library. I had myself extinguished the
lamp and closed the door before coming to bed. Naturally my first
thought was of burglars. The corridors at Hurlstone have their
walls largely decorated with trophies of old weapons. From one of
these I picked a battle-axe, and then, leaving my candle behind
me, I crept on tiptoe down the passage and peeped in at the open
door.
“‘Brunton, the butler, was in the library. He was sitting, fully
dressed, in an easy-chair, with a slip of paper which looked like
a map upon his knee, and his forehead sunk forward upon his hand
in deep thought. I stood dumb with astonishment, watching him
from the darkness. A small taper on the edge of the table shed a
feeble light which sufficed to show me that he was fully dressed.
Suddenly, as I looked, he rose from his chair, and walking over
to a bureau at the side, he unlocked it and drew out one of the
drawers. From this he took a paper, and returning to his seat he
flattened it out beside the taper on the edge of the table, and
began to study it with minute attention. My indignation at this
calm examination of our family documents overcame me so far that
I took a step forward, and Brunton, looking up, saw me standing
in the doorway. He sprang to his feet, his face turned livid with
fear, and he thrust into his breast the chart-like paper which he
had been originally studying.
“‘“So!” said I. “This is how you repay the trust which we have
reposed in you. You will leave my service to-morrow.”
“‘He bowed with the look of a man who is utterly crushed, and
slunk past me without a word. The taper was still on the table,
and by its light I glanced to see what the paper was which
Brunton had taken from the bureau. To my surprise it was nothing
of any importance at all, but simply a copy of the questions and
answers in the singular old observance called the Musgrave
Ritual. It is a sort of ceremony peculiar to our family, which
each Musgrave for centuries past has gone through on his coming
of age—a thing of private interest, and perhaps of some little
importance to the archaeologist, like our own blazonings and
charges, but of no practical use whatever.’
“‘We had better come back to the paper afterwards,’ said I.
“‘If you think it really necessary,’ he answered, with some
hesitation. ‘To continue my statement, however: I relocked the
bureau, using the key which Brunton had left, and I had turned to
go when I was surprised to find that the butler had returned, and
was standing before me.
“‘“Mr. Musgrave, sir,” he cried, in a voice which was hoarse with
emotion, “I can’t bear disgrace, sir. I’ve always been proud
above my station in life, and disgrace would kill me. My blood
will be on your head, sir—it will, indeed—if you drive me to
despair. If you cannot keep me after what has passed, then for
God’s sake let me give you notice and leave in a month, as if of
my own free will. I could stand that, Mr. Musgrave, but not to be
cast out before all the folk that I know so well.”
“‘“You don’t deserve much consideration, Brunton,” I answered.
“Your conduct has been most infamous. However, as you have been a
long time in the family, I have no wish to bring public disgrace
upon you. A month, however is too long. Take yourself away in a
week, and give what reason you like for going.”
“‘“Only a week, sir?” he cried, in a despairing voice. “A
fortnight—say at least a fortnight!”
“‘“A week,” I repeated, “and you may consider yourself to have
been very leniently dealt with.”
“‘He crept away, his face sunk upon his breast, like a broken
man, while I put out the light and returned to my room.
“‘For two days after this Brunton was most assiduous in his
attention to his duties. I made no allusion to what had passed,
and waited with some curiosity to see how he would cover his
disgrace. On the third morning, however he did not appear, as was
his custom, after breakfast to receive my instructions for the
day. As I left the dining-room I happened to meet Rachel Howells,
the maid. I have told you that she had only recently recovered
from an illness, and was looking so wretchedly pale and wan that
I remonstrated with her for being at work.
“‘“You should be in bed,” I said. “Come back to your duties when
you are stronger.”
“‘She looked at me with so strange an expression that I began to
suspect that her brain was affected.
“‘“I am strong enough, Mr. Musgrave,” said she.
“‘“We will see what the doctor says,” I answered. “You must stop
work now, and when you go downstairs just say that I wish to see
Brunton.”
“‘“The butler is gone,” said she.
“‘“Gone! Gone where?”
“‘“He is gone. No one has seen him. He is not in his room. Oh,
yes, he is gone, he is gone!” She fell back against the wall with
shriek after shriek of laughter, while I, horrified at this
sudden hysterical attack, rushed to the bell to summon help. The
girl was taken to her room, still screaming and sobbing, while I
made inquiries about Brunton. There was no doubt about it that he
had disappeared. His bed had not been slept in, he had been seen
by no one since he had retired to his room the night before, and
yet it was difficult to see how he could have left the house, as
both windows and doors were found to be fastened in the morning.
His clothes, his watch, and even his money were in his room, but
the black suit which he usually wore was missing. His slippers,
too, were gone, but his boots were left behind. Where then could
butler Brunton have gone in the night, and what could have become
of him now?
“‘Of course we searched the house from cellar to garret, but
there was no trace of him. It is, as I have said, a labyrinth of
an old house, especially the original wing, which is now
practically uninhabited; but we ransacked every room and cellar
without discovering the least sign of the missing man. It was
incredible to me that he could have gone away leaving all his
property behind him, and yet where could he be? I called in the
local police, but without success. Rain had fallen on the night
before and we examined the lawn and the paths all round the
house, but in vain. Matters were in this state, when a new
development quite drew our attention away from the original
mystery.
“‘For two days Rachel Howells had been so ill, sometimes
delirious, sometimes hysterical, that a nurse had been employed
to sit up with her at night. On the third night after Brunton’s
disappearance, the nurse, finding her patient sleeping nicely,
had dropped into a nap in the armchair, when she woke in the
early morning to find the bed empty, the window open, and no
signs of the invalid. I was instantly aroused, and, with the two
footmen, started off at once in search of the missing girl. It
was not difficult to tell the direction which she had taken, for,
starting from under her window, we could follow her footmarks
easily across the lawn to the edge of the mere, where they
vanished close to the gravel path which leads out of the grounds.
The lake there is eight feet deep, and you can imagine our
feelings when we saw that the trail of the poor demented girl
came to an end at the edge of it.
“‘Of course, we had the drags at once, and set to work to recover
the remains, but no trace of the body could we find. On the other
hand, we brought to the surface an object of a most unexpected
kind. It was a linen bag which contained within it a mass of old
rusted and discoloured metal and several dull-coloured pieces of
pebble or glass. This strange find was all that we could get from
the mere, and, although we made every possible search and inquiry
yesterday, we know nothing of the fate either of Rachel Howells
or of Richard Brunton. The county police are at their wits’ end,
and I have come up to you as a last resource.’
“You can imagine, Watson, with what eagerness I listened to this
extraordinary sequence of events, and endeavoured to piece them
together, and to devise some common thread upon which they might
all hang. The butler was gone. The maid was gone. The maid had
loved the butler, but had afterwards had cause to hate him. She
was of Welsh blood, fiery and passionate. She had been terribly
excited immediately after his disappearance. She had flung into
the lake a bag containing some curious contents. These were all
factors which had to be taken into consideration, and yet none of
them got quite to the heart of the matter. What was the
starting-point of this chain of events? There lay the end of this
tangled line.
“‘I must see that paper, Musgrave,’ said I, ‘which this butler of
yours thought it worth his while to consult, even at the risk of
the loss of his place.’
“‘It is rather an absurd business, this ritual of ours,’ he
answered. ‘But it has at least the saving grace of antiquity to
excuse it. I have a copy of the questions and answers here if you
care to run your eye over them.’
“He handed me the very paper which I have here, Watson, and this
is the strange catechism to which each Musgrave had to submit
when he came to man’s estate. I will read you the questions and
answers as they stand.
“‘Whose was it?’
“‘His who is gone.’
“‘Who shall have it?’
“‘He who will come.’
“‘Where was the sun?’
“‘Over the oak.’
“‘Where was the shadow?’
“‘Under the elm.’
“How was it stepped?’
“‘North by ten and by ten, east by five and by five, south by two
and by two, west by one and by one, and so under.’
“‘What shall we give for it?’
“‘All that is ours.’
“‘Why should we give it?’
“‘For the sake of the trust.’
“‘The original has no date, but is in the spelling of the middle
of the seventeenth century,’ remarked Musgrave. ‘I am afraid,
however, that it can be of little help to you in solving this
mystery.’
“‘At least,’ said I, ‘it gives us another mystery, and one which
is even more interesting than the first. It may be that the
solution of the one may prove to be the solution of the other.
You will excuse me, Musgrave, if I say that your butler appears
to me to have been a very clever man, and to have had a clearer
insight than ten generations of his masters.’
“‘I hardly follow you,’ said Musgrave. ‘The paper seems to me to
be of no practical importance.’
“‘But to me it seems immensely practical, and I fancy that
Brunton took the same view. He had probably seen it before that
night on which you caught him.’
“‘It is very possible. We took no pains to hide it.’
“‘He simply wished, I should imagine, to refresh his memory upon
that last occasion. He had, as I understand, some sort of map or
chart which he was comparing with the manuscript, and which he
thrust into his pocket when you appeared.’
“‘That is true. But what could he have to do with this old family
custom of ours, and what does this rigmarole mean?’
“‘I don’t think that we should have much difficulty in
determining that,’ said I; ‘with your permission we will take the
first train down to Sussex, and go a little more deeply into the
matter upon the spot.’
“The same afternoon saw us both at Hurlstone. Possibly you have
seen pictures and read descriptions of the famous old building,
so I will confine my account of it to saying that it is built in
the shape of an L, the long arm being the more modern portion,
and the shorter the ancient nucleus, from which the other had
developed. Over the low, heavily-lintelled door, in the centre of
this old part, is chiseled the date, 1607, but experts are agreed
that the beams and stonework are really much older than this. The
enormously thick walls and tiny windows of this part had in the
last century driven the family into building the new wing, and
the old one was used now as a storehouse and a cellar, when it
was used at all. A splendid park with fine old timber surrounds
the house, and the lake, to which my client had referred, lay
close to the avenue, about two hundred yards from the building.
“I was already firmly convinced, Watson, that there were not
three separate mysteries here, but one only, and that if I could
read the Musgrave Ritual aright I should hold in my hand the clue
which would lead me to the truth concerning both the butler
Brunton and the maid Howells. To that then I turned all my
energies. Why should this servant be so anxious to master this
old formula? Evidently because he saw something in it which had
escaped all those generations of country squires, and from which
he expected some personal advantage. What was it then, and how
had it affected his fate?
“It was perfectly obvious to me, on reading the Ritual, that the
measurements must refer to some spot to which the rest of the
document alluded, and that if we could find that spot, we should
be in a fair way towards finding what the secret was which the
old Musgraves had thought it necessary to embalm in so curious a
fashion. There were two guides given us to start with, an oak and
an elm. As to the oak there could be no question at all. Right in
front of the house, upon the left-hand side of the drive, there
stood a patriarch among oaks, one of the most magnificent trees
that I have ever seen.
“‘That was there when your Ritual was drawn up,’ said I, as we
drove past it.
“‘It was there at the Norman Conquest in all probability,’ he
answered. ‘It has a girth of twenty-three feet.’
“‘Have you any old elms?’ I asked.
“‘There used to be a very old one over yonder but it was struck
by lightning ten years ago, and we cut down the stump.’
“‘You can see where it used to be?’
“‘Oh, yes.’
“‘There are no other elms?’
“‘No old ones, but plenty of beeches.’
“‘I should like to see where it grew.’
“We had driven up in a dog-cart, and my client led me away at
once, without our entering the house, to the scar on the lawn
where the elm had stood. It was nearly midway between the oak and
the house. My investigation seemed to be progressing.
“‘I suppose it is impossible to find out how high the elm was?’ I
asked.
“‘I can give you it at once. It was sixty-four feet.’
“‘How do you come to know it?’ I asked, in surprise.
“‘When my old tutor used to give me an exercise in trigonometry,
it always took the shape of measuring heights. When I was a lad I
worked out every tree and building in the estate.’
“This was an unexpected piece of luck. My data were coming more
quickly than I could have reasonably hoped.
“‘Tell me,’ I asked, ‘did your butler ever ask you such a
question?’
“Reginald Musgrave looked at me in astonishment. ‘Now that you
call it to my mind,’ he answered, ‘Brunton _did_ ask me about the
height of the tree some months ago, in connection with some
little argument with the groom.’
“This was excellent news, Watson, for it showed me that I was on
the right road. I looked up at the sun. It was low in the
heavens, and I calculated that in less than an hour it would lie
just above the topmost branches of the old oak. One condition
mentioned in the Ritual would then be fulfilled. And the shadow
of the elm must mean the farther end of the shadow, otherwise the
trunk would have been chosen as the guide. I had, then, to find
where the far end of the shadow would fall when the sun was just
clear of the oak.”
“That must have been difficult, Holmes, when the elm was no
longer there.”
“Well, at least I knew that if Brunton could do it, I could also.
Besides, there was no real difficulty. I went with Musgrave to
his study and whittled myself this peg, to which I tied this long
string with a knot at each yard. Then I took two lengths of a
fishing-rod, which came to just six feet, and I went back with my
client to where the elm had been. The sun was just grazing the
top of the oak. I fastened the rod on end, marked out the
direction of the shadow, and measured it. It was nine feet in
length.
“Of course the calculation now was a simple one. If a rod of six
feet threw a shadow of nine, a tree of sixty-four feet would
throw one of ninety-six, and the line of the one would of course
be the line of the other. I measured out the distance, which
brought me almost to the wall of the house, and I thrust a peg
into the spot. You can imagine my exultation, Watson, when within
two inches of my peg I saw a conical depression in the ground. I
knew that it was the mark made by Brunton in his measurements,
and that I was still upon his trail.
“From this starting-point I proceeded to step, having first taken
the cardinal points by my pocket-compass. Ten steps with each
foot took me along parallel with the wall of the house, and again
I marked my spot with a peg. Then I carefully paced off five to
the east and two to the south. It brought me to the very
threshold of the old door. Two steps to the west meant now that I
was to go two paces down the stone-flagged passage, and this was
the place indicated by the Ritual.
“Never have I felt such a cold chill of disappointment, Watson.
For a moment it seemed to me that there must be some radical
mistake in my calculations. The setting sun shone full upon the
passage floor, and I could see that the old, foot-worn grey
stones with which it was paved were firmly cemented together, and
had certainly not been moved for many a long year. Brunton had
not been at work here. I tapped upon the floor, but it sounded
the same all over, and there was no sign of any crack or crevice.
But, fortunately, Musgrave, who had begun to appreciate the
meaning of my proceedings, and who was now as excited as myself,
took out his manuscript to check my calculation.
“‘And under,’ he cried. ‘You have omitted the “and under.”’
“I had thought that it meant that we were to dig, but now, of
course, I saw at once that I was wrong. ‘There is a cellar under
this then?’ I cried.
“‘Yes, and as old as the house. Down here, through this door.’
“We went down a winding stone stair, and my companion, striking a
match, lit a large lantern which stood on a barrel in the corner.
In an instant it was obvious that we had at last come upon the
true place, and that we had not been the only people to visit the
spot recently.
“It had been used for the storage of wood, but the billets, which
had evidently been littered over the floor, were now piled at the
sides, so as to leave a clear space in the middle. In this space
lay a large and heavy flagstone with a rusted iron ring in the
centre to which a thick shepherd’s-check muffler was attached.
“‘By Jove!’ cried my client. ‘That’s Brunton’s muffler. I have
seen it on him, and could swear to it. What has the villain been
doing here?’
“At my suggestion a couple of the county police were summoned to
be present, and I then endeavoured to raise the stone by pulling
on the cravat. I could only move it slightly, and it was with the
aid of one of the constables that I succeeded at last in carrying
it to one side. A black hole yawned beneath into which we all
peered, while Musgrave, kneeling at the side, pushed down the
lantern.
“A small chamber about seven feet deep and four feet square lay
open to us. At one side of this was a squat, brass-bound wooden
box, the lid of which was hinged upwards, with this curious
old-fashioned key projecting from the lock. It was furred outside
by a thick layer of dust, and damp and worms had eaten through
the wood, so that a crop of livid fungi was growing on the inside
of it. Several discs of metal, old coins apparently, such as I
hold here, were scattered over the bottom of the box, but it
contained nothing else.
“At the moment, however, we had no thought for the old chest, for
our eyes were riveted upon that which crouched beside it. It was
the figure of a man, clad in a suit of black, who squatted down
upon his hams with his forehead sunk upon the edge of the box and
his two arms thrown out on each side of it. The attitude had
drawn all the stagnant blood to the face, and no man could have
recognised that distorted liver-coloured countenance; but his
height, his dress, and his hair were all sufficient to show my
client, when we had drawn the body up, that it was indeed his
missing butler. He had been dead some days, but there was no
wound or bruise upon his person to show how he had met his
dreadful end. When his body had been carried from the cellar we
found ourselves still confronted with a problem which was almost
as formidable as that with which we had started.
“I confess that so far, Watson, I had been disappointed in my
investigation. I had reckoned upon solving the matter when once I
had found the place referred to in the Ritual; but now I was
there, and was apparently as far as ever from knowing what it was
which the family had concealed with such elaborate precautions.
It is true that I had thrown a light upon the fate of Brunton,
but now I had to ascertain how that fate had come upon him, and
what part had been played in the matter by the woman who had
disappeared. I sat down upon a keg in the corner and thought the
whole matter carefully over.
“You know my methods in such cases, Watson. I put myself in the
man’s place and, having first gauged his intelligence, I try to
imagine how I should myself have proceeded under the same
circumstances. In this case the matter was simplified by
Brunton’s intelligence being quite first-rate, so that it was
unnecessary to make any allowance for the personal equation, as
the astronomers have dubbed it. He knew that something valuable
was concealed. He had spotted the place. He found that the stone
which covered it was just too heavy for a man to move unaided.
What would he do next? He could not get help from outside, even
if he had some one whom he could trust, without the unbarring of
doors and considerable risk of detection. It was better, if he
could, to have his helpmate inside the house. But whom could he
ask? This girl had been devoted to him. A man always finds it
hard to realize that he may have finally lost a woman’s love,
however badly he may have treated her. He would try by a few
attentions to make his peace with the girl Howells, and then
would engage her as his accomplice. Together they would come at
night to the cellar, and their united force would suffice to
raise the stone. So far I could follow their actions as if I had
actually seen them.
“But for two of them, and one a woman, it must have been heavy
work the raising of that stone. A burly Sussex policeman and I
had found it no light job. What would they do to assist them?
Probably what I should have done myself. I rose and examined
carefully the different billets of wood which were scattered
round the floor. Almost at once I came upon what I expected. One
piece, about three feet in length, had a very marked indentation
at one end, while several were flattened at the sides as if they
had been compressed by some considerable weight. Evidently, as
they had dragged the stone up they had thrust the chunks of wood
into the chink, until at last, when the opening was large enough
to crawl through, they would hold it open by a billet placed
lengthwise, which might very well become indented at the lower
end, since the whole weight of the stone would press it down on
to the edge of this other slab. So far I was still on safe
ground.
“And now how was I to proceed to reconstruct this midnight drama?
Clearly, only one could fit into the hole, and that one was
Brunton. The girl must have waited above. Brunton then unlocked
the box, handed up the contents presumably—since they were not to
be found—and then—and then what happened?
“What smouldering fire of vengeance had suddenly sprung into
flame in this passionate Celtic woman’s soul when she saw the man
who had wronged her—wronged her, perhaps, far more than we
suspected—in her power? Was it a chance that the wood had
slipped, and that the stone had shut Brunton into what had become
his sepulchre? Had she only been guilty of silence as to his
fate? Or had some sudden blow from her hand dashed the support
away and sent the slab crashing down into its place? Be that as
it might, I seemed to see that woman’s figure still clutching at
her treasure trove and flying wildly up the winding stair, with
her ears ringing perhaps with the muffled screams from behind her
and with the drumming of frenzied hands against the slab of stone
which was choking her faithless lover’s life out.
“Here was the secret of her blanched face, her shaken nerves, her
peals of hysterical laughter on the next morning. But what had
been in the box? What had she done with that? Of course, it must
have been the old metal and pebbles which my client had dragged
from the mere. She had thrown them in there at the first
opportunity to remove the last trace of her crime.
“For twenty minutes I had sat motionless, thinking the matter
out. Musgrave still stood with a very pale face, swinging his
lantern and peering down into the hole.
“‘These are coins of Charles the First,’ said he, holding out the
few which had been in the box; ‘you see we were right in fixing
our date for the Ritual.’
“‘We may find something else of Charles the First,’ I cried, as
the probable meaning of the first two questions of the Ritual
broke suddenly upon me. ‘Let me see the contents of the bag which
you fished from the mere.’
“We ascended to his study, and he laid the _débris_ before me. I
could understand his regarding it as of small importance when I
looked at it, for the metal was almost black and the stones
lustreless and dull. I rubbed one of them on my sleeve, however,
and it glowed afterwards like a spark in the dark hollow of my
hand. The metal work was in the form of a double ring, but it had
been bent and twisted out of its original shape.
“‘You must bear in mind,’ said I, ‘that the Royal party made head
in England even after the death of the King, and that when they
at last fled they probably left many of their most precious
possessions buried behind them, with the intention of returning
for them in more peaceful times.’
“‘My ancestor, Sir Ralph Musgrave, was a prominent Cavalier and
the right-hand man of Charles the Second in his wanderings,’ said
my friend.
“‘Ah, indeed!’ I answered. ‘Well now, I think that really should
give us the last link that we wanted. I must congratulate you on
coming into the possession, though in rather a tragic manner of a
relic which is of great intrinsic value, but of even greater
importance as an historical curiosity.’
“‘What is it, then?’ he gasped in astonishment.
“‘It is nothing less than the ancient crown of the Kings of
England.’
“‘The crown!’
“‘Precisely. Consider what the Ritual says: How does it run?
“Whose was it?” “His who is gone.” That was after the execution
of Charles. Then, “Who shall have it?” “He who will come.” That
was Charles the Second, whose advent was already foreseen. There
can, I think, be no doubt that this battered and shapeless diadem
once encircled the brows of the royal Stuarts.’
“‘And how came it in the pond?’
“‘Ah, that is a question that will take some time to answer.’ And
with that I sketched out to him the whole long chain of surmise
and of proof which I had constructed. The twilight had closed in
and the moon was shining brightly in the sky before my narrative
was finished.
“‘And how was it then that Charles did not get his crown when he
returned?’ asked Musgrave, pushing back the relic into its linen
bag.
“‘Ah, there you lay your finger upon the one point which we shall
probably never be able to clear up. It is likely that the
Musgrave who held the secret died in the interval, and by some
oversight left this guide to his descendant without explaining
the meaning of it. From that day to this it has been handed down
from father to son, until at last it came within reach of a man
who tore its secret out of it and lost his life in the venture.’
“And that’s the story of the Musgrave Ritual, Watson. They have
the crown down at Hurlstone—though they had some legal bother and
a considerable sum to pay before they were allowed to retain it.
I am sure that if you mentioned my name they would be happy to
show it to you. Of the woman nothing was ever heard, and the
probability is that she got away out of England and carried
herself and the memory of her crime to some land beyond the
seas.”
|
vi_the_musgrave_ritual
|
VII. The Reigate Squires
|
The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes
|
It was some time before the health of my friend Mr. Sherlock
Holmes recovered from the strain caused by his immense exertions
in the spring of ’87. The whole question of the
Netherland-Sumatra Company and of the colossal schemes of Baron
Maupertuis are too recent in the minds of the public, and are too
intimately concerned with politics and finance to be fitting
subjects for this series of sketches. They led, however, in an
indirect fashion to a singular and complex problem which gave my
friend an opportunity of demonstrating the value of a fresh
weapon among the many with which he waged his life-long battle
against crime.
On referring to my notes I see that it was upon the 14th of April
that I received a telegram from Lyons which informed me that
Holmes was lying ill in the Hotel Dulong. Within twenty-four
hours I was in his sick-room, and was relieved to find that there
was nothing formidable in his symptoms. Even his iron
constitution, however, had broken down under the strain of an
investigation which had extended over two months, during which
period he had never worked less than fifteen hours a day, and had
more than once, as he assured me, kept to his task for five days
at a stretch. Even the triumphant issue of his labours could not
save him from reaction after so terrible an exertion, and at a
time when Europe was ringing with his name and when his room was
literally ankle-deep with congratulatory telegrams I found him a
prey to the blackest depression. Even the knowledge that he had
succeeded where the police of three countries had failed, and
that he had outmanœuvred at every point the most accomplished
swindler in Europe, was insufficient to rouse him from his
nervous prostration.
Three days later we were back in Baker Street together; but it
was evident that my friend would be much the better for a change,
and the thought of a week of spring time in the country was full
of attractions to me also. My old friend, Colonel Hayter, who had
come under my professional care in Afghanistan, had now taken a
house near Reigate in Surrey, and had frequently asked me to come
down to him upon a visit. On the last occasion he had remarked
that if my friend would only come with me he would be glad to
extend his hospitality to him also. A little diplomacy was
needed, but when Holmes understood that the establishment was a
bachelor one, and that he would be allowed the fullest freedom,
he fell in with my plans and a week after our return from Lyons
we were under the Colonel’s roof. Hayter was a fine old soldier
who had seen much of the world, and he soon found, as I had
expected, that Holmes and he had much in common.
On the evening of our arrival we were sitting in the Colonel’s
gun-room after dinner, Holmes stretched upon the sofa, while
Hayter and I looked over his little armoury of fire-arms.
“By the way,” said he suddenly, “I think I’ll take one of these
pistols upstairs with me in case we have an alarm.”
“An alarm!” said I.
“Yes, we’ve had a scare in this part lately. Old Acton, who is
one of our county magnates, had his house broken into last
Monday. No great damage done, but the fellows are still at
large.”
“No clue?” asked Holmes, cocking his eye at the Colonel.
“None as yet. But the affair is a petty one, one of our little
country crimes, which must seem too small for your attention, Mr.
Holmes, after this great international affair.”
Holmes waved away the compliment, though his smile showed that it
had pleased him.
“Was there any feature of interest?”
“I fancy not. The thieves ransacked the library and got very
little for their pains. The whole place was turned upside down,
drawers burst open, and presses ransacked, with the result that
an odd volume of Pope’s ‘Homer,’ two plated candlesticks, an
ivory letter-weight, a small oak barometer, and a ball of twine
are all that have vanished.”
“What an extraordinary assortment!” I exclaimed.
“Oh, the fellows evidently grabbed hold of everything they could
get.”
Holmes grunted from the sofa.
“The county police ought to make something of that,” said he;
“why, it is surely obvious that—”
But I held up a warning finger.
“You are here for a rest, my dear fellow. For Heaven’s sake don’t
get started on a new problem when your nerves are all in shreds.”
Holmes shrugged his shoulders with a glance of comic resignation
towards the Colonel, and the talk drifted away into less
dangerous channels.
It was destined, however, that all my professional caution should
be wasted, for next morning the problem obtruded itself upon us
in such a way that it was impossible to ignore it, and our
country visit took a turn which neither of us could have
anticipated. We were at breakfast when the Colonel’s butler
rushed in with all his propriety shaken out of him.
“Have you heard the news, sir?” he gasped. “At the Cunningham’s
sir!”
“Burglary!” cried the Colonel, with his coffee-cup in mid-air.
“Murder!”
The Colonel whistled. “By Jove!” said he. “Who’s killed, then?
The J.P. or his son?”
“Neither, sir. It was William the coachman. Shot through the
heart, sir, and never spoke again.”
“Who shot him, then?”
“The burglar, sir. He was off like a shot and got clean away.
He’d just broke in at the pantry window when William came on him
and met his end in saving his master’s property.”
“What time?”
“It was last night, sir, somewhere about twelve.”
“Ah, then, we’ll step over afterwards,” said the Colonel, coolly
settling down to his breakfast again. “It’s a baddish business,”
he added when the butler had gone; “he’s our leading man about
here, is old Cunningham, and a very decent fellow too. He’ll be
cut up over this, for the man has been in his service for years
and was a good servant. It’s evidently the same villains who
broke into Acton’s.”
“And stole that very singular collection,” said Holmes,
thoughtfully.
“Precisely.”
“Hum! It may prove the simplest matter in the world, but all the
same at first glance this is just a little curious, is it not? A
gang of burglars acting in the country might be expected to vary
the scene of their operations, and not to crack two cribs in the
same district within a few days. When you spoke last night of
taking precautions I remember that it passed through my mind that
this was probably the last parish in England to which the thief
or thieves would be likely to turn their attention—which shows
that I have still much to learn.”
“I fancy it’s some local practitioner,” said the Colonel. “In
that case, of course, Acton’s and Cunningham’s are just the
places he would go for, since they are far the largest about
here.”
“And richest?”
“Well, they ought to be, but they’ve had a lawsuit for some years
which has sucked the blood out of both of them, I fancy. Old
Acton has some claim on half Cunningham’s estate, and the lawyers
have been at it with both hands.”
“If it’s a local villain there should not be much difficulty in
running him down,” said Holmes with a yawn. “All right, Watson, I
don’t intend to meddle.”
“Inspector Forrester, sir,” said the butler, throwing open the
door.
The official, a smart, keen-faced young fellow, stepped into the
room. “Good-morning, Colonel,” said he; “I hope I don’t intrude,
but we hear that Mr. Holmes of Baker Street is here.”
The Colonel waved his hand towards my friend, and the Inspector
bowed.
“We thought that perhaps you would care to step across, Mr.
Holmes.”
“The fates are against you, Watson,” said he, laughing. “We were
chatting about the matter when you came in, Inspector. Perhaps
you can let us have a few details.” As he leaned back in his
chair in the familiar attitude I knew that the case was hopeless.
“We had no clue in the Acton affair. But here we have plenty to
go on, and there’s no doubt it is the same party in each case.
The man was seen.”
“Ah!”
“Yes, sir. But he was off like a deer after the shot that killed
poor William Kirwan was fired. Mr. Cunningham saw him from the
bedroom window, and Mr. Alec Cunningham saw him from the back
passage. It was quarter to twelve when the alarm broke out. Mr.
Cunningham had just got into bed, and Mr. Alec was smoking a pipe
in his dressing-gown. They both heard William the coachman
calling for help, and Mr. Alec ran down to see what was the
matter. The back door was open, and as he came to the foot of the
stairs he saw two men wrestling together outside. One of them
fired a shot, the other dropped, and the murderer rushed across
the garden and over the hedge. Mr. Cunningham, looking out of his
bedroom, saw the fellow as he gained the road, but lost sight of
him at once. Mr. Alec stopped to see if he could help the dying
man, and so the villain got clean away. Beyond the fact that he
was a middle-sized man and dressed in some dark stuff, we have no
personal clue; but we are making energetic inquiries, and if he
is a stranger we shall soon find him out.”
“What was this William doing there? Did he say anything before he
died?”
“Not a word. He lives at the lodge with his mother, and as he was
a very faithful fellow we imagine that he walked up to the house
with the intention of seeing that all was right there. Of course
this Acton business has put every one on their guard. The robber
must have just burst open the door—the lock has been forced—when
William came upon him.”
“Did William say anything to his mother before going out?”
“She is very old and deaf, and we can get no information from
her. The shock has made her half-witted, but I understand that
she was never very bright. There is one very important
circumstance, however. Look at this!”
He took a small piece of torn paper from a note-book and spread
it out upon his knee.
“This was found between the finger and thumb of the dead man. It
appears to be a fragment torn from a larger sheet. You will
observe that the hour mentioned upon it is the very time at which
the poor fellow met his fate. You see that his murderer might
have torn the rest of the sheet from him or he might have taken
this fragment from the murderer. It reads almost as though it
were an appointment.”
Holmes took up the scrap of paper, a facsimile of which is here
reproduced.
scrap of paper
“Presuming that it is an appointment,” continued the Inspector,
“it is of course a conceivable theory that this William
Kirwan—though he had the reputation of being an honest man, may
have been in league with the thief. He may have met him there,
may even have helped him to break in the door, and then they may
have fallen out between themselves.”
“This writing is of extraordinary interest,” said Holmes, who had
been examining it with intense concentration. “These are much
deeper waters than I had thought.” He sank his head upon his
hands, while the Inspector smiled at the effect which his case
had had upon the famous London specialist.
“Your last remark,” said Holmes, presently, “as to the
possibility of there being an understanding between the burglar
and the servant, and this being a note of appointment from one to
the other, is an ingenious and not entirely impossible
supposition. But this writing opens up—” He sank his head into
his hands again and remained for some minutes in the deepest
thought. When he raised his face again, I was surprised to see
that his cheek was tinged with colour, and his eyes as bright as
before his illness. He sprang to his feet with all his old
energy.
“I’ll tell you what,” said he, “I should like to have a quiet
little glance into the details of this case. There is something
in it which fascinates me extremely. If you will permit me,
Colonel, I will leave my friend Watson and you, and I will step
round with the Inspector to test the truth of one or two little
fancies of mine. I will be with you again in half an hour.”
An hour and half had elapsed before the Inspector returned alone.
“Mr. Holmes is walking up and down in the field outside,” said
he. “He wants us all four to go up to the house together.”
“To Mr. Cunningham’s?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What for?”
The Inspector shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t quite know, sir.
Between ourselves, I think Mr. Holmes had not quite got over his
illness yet. He’s been behaving very queerly, and he is very much
excited.”
“I don’t think you need alarm yourself,” said I. “I have usually
found that there was method in his madness.”
“Some folks might say there was madness in his method,” muttered
the Inspector. “But he’s all on fire to start, Colonel, so we had
best go out if you are ready.”
We found Holmes pacing up and down in the field, his chin sunk
upon his breast, and his hands thrust into his trousers pockets.
“The matter grows in interest,” said he. “Watson, your
country-trip has been a distinct success. I have had a charming
morning.”
“You have been up to the scene of the crime, I understand,” said
the Colonel.
“Yes; the Inspector and I have made quite a little reconnaissance
together.”
“Any success?”
“Well, we have seen some very interesting things. I’ll tell you
what we did as we walk. First of all, we saw the body of this
unfortunate man. He certainly died from a revolver wound as
reported.”
“Had you doubted it, then?”
“Oh, it is as well to test everything. Our inspection was not
wasted. We then had an interview with Mr. Cunningham and his son,
who were able to point out the exact spot where the murderer had
broken through the garden-hedge in his flight. That was of great
interest.”
“Naturally.”
“Then we had a look at this poor fellow’s mother. We could get no
information from her, however, as she is very old and feeble.”
“And what is the result of your investigations?”
“The conviction that the crime is a very peculiar one. Perhaps
our visit now may do something to make it less obscure. I think
that we are both agreed, Inspector that the fragment of paper in
the dead man’s hand, bearing, as it does, the very hour of his
death written upon it, is of extreme importance.”
“It should give a clue, Mr. Holmes.”
“It _does_ give a clue. Whoever wrote that note was the man who
brought William Kirwan out of his bed at that hour. But where is
the rest of that sheet of paper?”
“I examined the ground carefully in the hope of finding it,” said
the Inspector.
“It was torn out of the dead man’s hand. Why was some one so
anxious to get possession of it? Because it incriminated him. And
what would he do with it? Thrust it into his pocket, most likely,
never noticing that a corner of it had been left in the grip of
the corpse. If we could get the rest of that sheet it is obvious
that we should have gone a long way towards solving the mystery.”
“Yes, but how can we get at the criminal’s pocket before we catch
the criminal?”
“Well, well, it was worth thinking over. Then there is another
obvious point. The note was sent to William. The man who wrote it
could not have taken it; otherwise, of course, he might have
delivered his own message by word of mouth. Who brought the note,
then? Or did it come through the post?”
“I have made inquiries,” said the Inspector. “William received a
letter by the afternoon post yesterday. The envelope was
destroyed by him.”
“Excellent!” cried Holmes, clapping the Inspector on the back.
“You’ve seen the postman. It is a pleasure to work with you.
Well, here is the lodge, and if you will come up, Colonel, I will
show you the scene of the crime.”
We passed the pretty cottage where the murdered man had lived,
and walked up an oak-lined avenue to the fine old Queen Anne
house, which bears the date of Malplaquet upon the lintel of the
door. Holmes and the Inspector led us round it until we came to
the side gate, which is separated by a stretch of garden from the
hedge which lines the road. A constable was standing at the
kitchen door.
“Throw the door open, officer,” said Holmes. “Now, it was on
those stairs that young Mr. Cunningham stood and saw the two men
struggling just where we are. Old Mr. Cunningham was at that
window—the second on the left—and he saw the fellow get away just
to the left of that bush. Then Mr. Alec ran out and knelt beside
the wounded man. The ground is very hard, you see, and there are
no marks to guide us.” As he spoke two men came down the garden
path, from round the angle of the house. The one was an elderly
man, with a strong, deep-lined, heavy-eyed face; the other a
dashing young fellow, whose bright, smiling expression and showy
dress were in strange contrast with the business which had
brought us there.
“Still at it, then?” said he to Holmes. “I thought you Londoners
were never at fault. You don’t seem to be so very quick, after
all.”
“Ah, you must give us a little time,” said Holmes good-humoredly.
“You’ll want it,” said young Alec Cunningham. “Why, I don’t see
that we have any clue at all.”
“There’s only one,” answered the Inspector. “We thought that if
we could only find—Good heavens, Mr. Holmes! What is the matter?”
My poor friend’s face had suddenly assumed the most dreadful
expression. His eyes rolled upwards, his features writhed in
agony, and with a suppressed groan he dropped on his face upon
the ground. Horrified at the suddenness and severity of the
attack, we carried him into the kitchen, where he lay back in a
large chair, and breathed heavily for some minutes. Finally, with
a shamefaced apology for his weakness, he rose once more.
“Watson would tell you that I have only just recovered from a
severe illness,” he explained. “I am liable to these sudden
nervous attacks.”
“Shall I send you home in my trap?” asked old Cunningham.
“Well, since I am here, there is one point on which I should like
to feel sure. We can very easily verify it.”
“What was it?”
“Well, it seems to me that it is just possible that the arrival
of this poor fellow William was not before, but after, the
entrance of the burglar into the house. You appear to take it for
granted that, although the door was forced, the robber never got
in.”
“I fancy that is quite obvious,” said Mr. Cunningham, gravely.
“Why, my son Alec had not yet gone to bed, and he would certainly
have heard any one moving about.”
“Where was he sitting?”
“I was smoking in my dressing-room.”
“Which window is that?”
“The last on the left next my father’s.”
“Both of your lamps were lit, of course?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“There are some very singular points here,” said Holmes, smiling.
“Is it not extraordinary that a burglar—and a burglar who had had
some previous experience—should deliberately break into a house
at a time when he could see from the lights that two of the
family were still afoot?”
“He must have been a cool hand.”
“Well, of course, if the case were not an odd one we should not
have been driven to ask you for an explanation,” said young Mr.
Alec. “But as to your ideas that the man had robbed the house
before William tackled him, I think it a most absurd notion.
Wouldn’t we have found the place disarranged, and missed the
things which he had taken?”
“It depends on what the things were,” said Holmes. “You must
remember that we are dealing with a burglar who is a very
peculiar fellow, and who appears to work on lines of his own.
Look, for example, at the queer lot of things which he took from
Acton’s—what was it?—a ball of string, a letter-weight, and I
don’t know what other odds and ends.”
“Well, we are quite in your hands, Mr. Holmes,” said old
Cunningham. “Anything which you or the Inspector may suggest will
most certainly be done.”
“In the first place,” said Holmes, “I should like you to offer a
reward—coming from yourself, for the officials may take a little
time before they would agree upon the sum, and these things
cannot be done too promptly. I have jotted down the form here, if
you would not mind signing it. Fifty pounds was quite enough, I
thought.”
“I would willingly give five hundred,” said the J.P., taking the
slip of paper and the pencil which Holmes handed to him. “This is
not quite correct, however,” he added, glancing over the
document.
“I wrote it rather hurriedly.”
“You see you begin, ‘Whereas, at about a quarter to one on
Tuesday morning an attempt was made,’ and so on. It was at a
quarter to twelve, as a matter of fact.”
I was pained at the mistake, for I knew how keenly Holmes would
feel any slip of the kind. It was his specialty to be accurate as
to fact, but his recent illness had shaken him, and this one
little incident was enough to show me that he was still far from
being himself. He was obviously embarrassed for an instant, while
the Inspector raised his eyebrows, and Alec Cunningham burst into
a laugh. The old gentleman corrected the mistake, however, and
handed the paper back to Holmes.
“Get it printed as soon as possible,” he said; “I think your idea
is an excellent one.”
Holmes put the slip of paper carefully away into his pocket-book.
“And now,” said he, “it really would be a good thing that we
should all go over the house together and make certain that this
rather erratic burglar did not, after all, carry anything away
with him.”
Before entering, Holmes made an examination of the door which had
been forced. It was evident that a chisel or strong knife had
been thrust in, and the lock forced back with it. We could see
the marks in the wood where it had been pushed in.
“You don’t use bars, then?” he asked.
“We have never found it necessary.”
“You don’t keep a dog?”
“Yes, but he is chained on the other side of the house.”
“When do the servants go to bed?”
“About ten.”
“I understand that William was usually in bed also at that hour.”
“Yes.”
“It is singular that on this particular night he should have been
up. Now, I should be very glad if you would have the kindness to
show us over the house, Mr. Cunningham.”
A stone-flagged passage, with the kitchens branching away from
it, led by a wooden staircase directly to the first floor of the
house. It came out upon the landing opposite to a second more
ornamental stair which came up from the front hall. Out of this
landing opened the drawing-room and several bedrooms, including
those of Mr. Cunningham and his son. Holmes walked slowly, taking
keen note of the architecture of the house. I could tell from his
expression that he was on a hot scent, and yet I could not in the
least imagine in what direction his inferences were leading him.
“My good sir,” said Mr. Cunningham with some impatience, “this is
surely very unnecessary. That is my room at the end of the
stairs, and my son’s is the one beyond it. I leave it to your
judgment whether it was possible for the thief to have come up
here without disturbing us.”
“You must try round and get on a fresh scent, I fancy,” said the
son with a rather malicious smile.
“Still, I must ask you to humour me a little further. I should
like, for example, to see how far the windows of the bedrooms
command the front. This, I understand is your son’s room”—he
pushed open the door—“and that, I presume, is the dressing-room
in which he sat smoking when the alarm was given. Where does the
window of that look out to?” He stepped across the bedroom,
pushed open the door, and glanced round the other chamber.
“I hope that you are satisfied now?” said Mr. Cunningham, tartly.
“Thank you, I think I have seen all that I wished.”
“Then if it is really necessary we can go into my room.”
“If it is not too much trouble.”
The J.P. shrugged his shoulders, and led the way into his own
chamber, which was a plainly furnished and commonplace room. As
we moved across it in the direction of the window, Holmes fell
back until he and I were the last of the group. Near the foot of
the bed stood a dish of oranges and a carafe of water. As we
passed it Holmes, to my unutterable astonishment, leaned over in
front of me and deliberately knocked the whole thing over. The
glass smashed into a thousand pieces and the fruit rolled about
into every corner of the room.
“You’ve done it now, Watson,” said he, coolly. “A pretty mess
you’ve made of the carpet.”
I stooped in some confusion and began to pick up the fruit,
understanding for some reason my companion desired me to take the
blame upon myself. The others did the same, and set the table on
its legs again.
“Halloa!” cried the Inspector, “where’s he got to?”
Holmes had disappeared.
“Wait here an instant,” said young Alec Cunningham. “The fellow
is off his head, in my opinion. Come with me, father, and see
where he has got to!”
They rushed out of the room, leaving the Inspector, the Colonel,
and me staring at each other.
“’Pon my word, I am inclined to agree with Master Alec,” said the
official. “It may be the effect of this illness, but it seems to
me that—”
His words were cut short by a sudden scream of “Help! Help!
Murder!” With a thrill I recognised the voice of that of my
friend. I rushed madly from the room on to the landing. The
cries, which had sunk down into a hoarse, inarticulate shouting,
came from the room which we had first visited. I dashed in, and
on into the dressing-room beyond. The two Cunninghams were
bending over the prostrate figure of Sherlock Holmes, the younger
clutching his throat with both hands, while the elder seemed to
be twisting one of his wrists. In an instant the three of us had
torn them away from him, and Holmes staggered to his feet, very
pale and evidently greatly exhausted.
“Arrest these men, Inspector!” he gasped.
“On what charge?”
“That of murdering their coachman, William Kirwan!”
The Inspector stared about him in bewilderment. “Oh, come now,
Mr. Holmes,” said he at last, “I’m sure you don’t really mean
to—”
“Tut, man, look at their faces!” cried Holmes, curtly.
Never, certainly, have I seen a plainer confession of guilt upon
human countenances. The older man seemed numbed and dazed with a
heavy, sullen expression upon his strongly-marked face. The son,
on the other hand, had dropped all that jaunty, dashing style
which had characterized him, and the ferocity of a dangerous wild
beast gleamed in his dark eyes and distorted his handsome
features. The Inspector said nothing, but, stepping to the door,
he blew his whistle. Two of his constables came at the call.
“I have no alternative, Mr. Cunningham,” said he. “I trust that
this may all prove to be an absurd mistake, but you can see
that—Ah, would you? Drop it!” He struck out with his hand, and a
revolver which the younger man was in the act of cocking
clattered down upon the floor.
“Keep that,” said Holmes, quietly putting his foot upon it; “you
will find it useful at the trial. But this is what we really
wanted.” He held up a little crumpled piece of paper.
“The remainder of the sheet!” cried the Inspector.
“Precisely.”
“And where was it?”
“Where I was sure it must be. I’ll make the whole matter clear to
you presently. I think, Colonel, that you and Watson might return
now, and I will be with you again in an hour at the furthest. The
Inspector and I must have a word with the prisoners, but you will
certainly see me back at luncheon time.”
Sherlock Holmes was as good as his word, for about one o’clock he
rejoined us in the Colonel’s smoking-room. He was accompanied by
a little elderly gentleman, who was introduced to me as the Mr.
Acton whose house had been the scene of the original burglary.
“I wished Mr. Acton to be present while I demonstrated this small
matter to you,” said Holmes, “for it is natural that he should
take a keen interest in the details. I am afraid, my dear
Colonel, that you must regret the hour that you took in such a
stormy petrel as I am.”
“On the contrary,” answered the Colonel, warmly, “I consider it
the greatest privilege to have been permitted to study your
methods of working. I confess that they quite surpass my
expectations, and that I am utterly unable to account for your
result. I have not yet seen the vestige of a clue.”
“I am afraid that my explanation may disillusionize you but it
has always been my habit to hide none of my methods, either from
my friend Watson or from any one who might take an intelligent
interest in them. But, first, as I am rather shaken by the
knocking about which I had in the dressing-room, I think that I
shall help myself to a dash of your brandy, Colonel. My strength
has been rather tried of late.”
“I trust that you had no more of those nervous attacks.”
Sherlock Holmes laughed heartily. “We will come to that in its
turn,” said he. “I will lay an account of the case before you in
its due order, showing you the various points which guided me in
my decision. Pray interrupt me if there is any inference which is
not perfectly clear to you.
“It is of the highest importance in the art of detection to be
able to recognise, out of a number of facts, which are incidental
and which vital. Otherwise your energy and attention must be
dissipated instead of being concentrated. Now, in this case there
was not the slightest doubt in my mind from the first that the
key of the whole matter must be looked for in the scrap of paper
in the dead man’s hand.
“Before going into this, I would draw your attention to the fact
that, if Alec Cunningham’s narrative was correct, and if the
assailant, after shooting William Kirwan, had _instantly_ fled,
then it obviously could not be he who tore the paper from the
dead man’s hand. But if it was not he, it must have been Alec
Cunningham himself, for by the time that the old man had
descended several servants were upon the scene. The point is a
simple one, but the Inspector had overlooked it because he had
started with the supposition that these county magnates had had
nothing to do with the matter. Now, I make a point of never
having any prejudices, and of following docilely wherever fact
may lead me, and so, in the very first stage of the
investigation, I found myself looking a little askance at the
part which had been played by Mr. Alec Cunningham.
“And now I made a very careful examination of the corner of paper
which the Inspector had submitted to us. It was at once clear to
me that it formed part of a very remarkable document. Here it is.
Do you not now observe something very suggestive about it?”
“It has a very irregular look,” said the Colonel.
“My dear sir,” cried Holmes, “there cannot be the least doubt in
the world that it has been written by two persons doing alternate
words. When I draw your attention to the strong t’s of ‘at’ and
‘to’, and ask you to compare them with the weak ones of ‘quarter’
and ‘twelve,’ you will instantly recognise the fact. A very brief
analysis of these four words would enable you to say with the
utmost confidence that the ‘learn’ and the ‘maybe’ are written in
the stronger hand, and the ‘what’ in the weaker.”
“By Jove, it’s as clear as day!” cried the Colonel. “Why on earth
should two men write a letter in such a fashion?”
“Obviously the business was a bad one, and one of the men who
distrusted the other was determined that, whatever was done, each
should have an equal hand in it. Now, of the two men, it is clear
that the one who wrote the ‘at’ and ‘to’ was the ringleader.”
“How do you get at that?”
“We might deduce it from the mere character of the one hand as
compared with the other. But we have more assured reasons than
that for supposing it. If you examine this scrap with attention
you will come to the conclusion that the man with the stronger
hand wrote all his words first, leaving blanks for the other to
fill up. These blanks were not always sufficient, and you can see
that the second man had a squeeze to fit his ‘quarter’ in between
the ‘at’ and the ‘to,’ showing that the latter were already
written. The man who wrote all his words first is undoubtedly the
man who planned the affair.”
“Excellent!” cried Mr. Acton.
“But very superficial,” said Holmes. “We come now, however, to a
point which is of importance. You may not be aware that the
deduction of a man’s age from his writing is one which has been
brought to considerable accuracy by experts. In normal cases one
can place a man in his true decade with tolerable confidence. I
say normal cases, because ill-health and physical weakness
reproduce the signs of old age, even when the invalid is a youth.
In this case, looking at the bold, strong hand of the one, and
the rather broken-backed appearance of the other, which still
retains its legibility although the t’s have begun to lose their
crossing, we can say that the one was a young man and the other
was advanced in years without being positively decrepit.”
“Excellent!” cried Mr. Acton again.
“There is a further point, however, which is subtler and of
greater interest. There is something in common between these
hands. They belong to men who are blood-relatives. It may be most
obvious to you in the Greek e’s, but to me there are many small
points which indicate the same thing. I have no doubt at all that
a family mannerism can be traced in these two specimens of
writing. I am only, of course, giving you the leading results now
of my examination of the paper. There were twenty-three other
deductions which would be of more interest to experts than to
you. They all tend to deepen the impression upon my mind that the
Cunninghams, father and son, had written this letter.
“Having got so far, my next step was, of course, to examine into
the details of the crime, and to see how far they would help us.
I went up to the house with the Inspector, and saw all that was
to be seen. The wound upon the dead man was, as I was able to
determine with absolute confidence, fired from a revolver at the
distance of something over four yards. There was no
powder-blackening on the clothes. Evidently, therefore, Alec
Cunningham had lied when he said that the two men were struggling
when the shot was fired. Again, both father and son agreed as to
the place where the man escaped into the road. At that point,
however, as it happens, there is a broadish ditch, moist at the
bottom. As there were no indications of bootmarks about this
ditch, I was absolutely sure not only that the Cunninghams had
again lied, but that there had never been any unknown man upon
the scene at all.
“And now I have to consider the motive of this singular crime. To
get at this, I endeavoured first of all to solve the reason of
the original burglary at Mr. Acton’s. I understood, from
something which the Colonel told us, that a lawsuit had been
going on between you, Mr. Acton, and the Cunninghams. Of course,
it instantly occurred to me that they had broken into your
library with the intention of getting at some document which
might be of importance in the case.”
“Precisely so,” said Mr. Acton. “There can be no possible doubt
as to their intentions. I have the clearest claim upon half of
their present estate, and if they could have found a single
paper—which, fortunately, was in the strong-box of my
solicitors—they would undoubtedly have crippled our case.”
“There you are,” said Holmes, smiling. “It was a dangerous,
reckless attempt, in which I seem to trace the influence of young
Alec. Having found nothing they tried to divert suspicion by
making it appear to be an ordinary burglary, to which end they
carried off whatever they could lay their hands upon. That is all
clear enough, but there was much that was still obscure. What I
wanted above all was to get the missing part of that note. I was
certain that Alec had torn it out of the dead man’s hand, and
almost certain that he must have thrust it into the pocket of his
dressing-gown. Where else could he have put it? The only question
was whether it was still there. It was worth an effort to find
out, and for that object we all went up to the house.
“The Cunninghams joined us, as you doubtless remember, outside
the kitchen door. It was, of course, of the very first importance
that they should not be reminded of the existence of this paper,
otherwise they would naturally destroy it without delay. The
Inspector was about to tell them the importance which we attached
to it when, by the luckiest chance in the world, I tumbled down
in a sort of fit and so changed the conversation.
“Good heavens!” cried the Colonel, laughing, “do you mean to say
all our sympathy was wasted and your fit an imposture?”
“Speaking professionally, it was admirably done,” cried I,
looking in amazement at this man who was forever confounding me
with some new phase of his astuteness.
“It is an art which is often useful,” said he. “When I recovered
I managed, by a device which had perhaps some little merit of
ingenuity, to get old Cunningham to write the word ‘twelve,’ so
that I might compare it with the ‘twelve’ upon the paper.”
“Oh, what an ass I have been!” I exclaimed.
“I could see that you were commiserating me over my weakness,”
said Holmes, laughing. “I was sorry to cause you the sympathetic
pain which I know that you felt. We then went upstairs together,
and having entered the room and seen the dressing-gown hanging up
behind the door, I contrived, by upsetting a table, to engage
their attention for the moment, and slipped back to examine the
pockets. I had hardly got the paper, however—which was, as I had
expected, in one of them—when the two Cunninghams were on me, and
would, I verily believe, have murdered me then and there but for
your prompt and friendly aid. As it is, I feel that young man’s
grip on my throat now, and the father has twisted my wrist round
in the effort to get the paper out of my hand. They saw that I
must know all about it, you see, and the sudden change from
absolute security to complete despair made them perfectly
desperate.
“I had a little talk with old Cunningham afterwards as to the
motive of the crime. He was tractable enough, though his son was
a perfect demon, ready to blow out his own or anybody else’s
brains if he could have got to his revolver. When Cunningham saw
that the case against him was so strong he lost all heart and
made a clean breast of everything. It seems that William had
secretly followed his two masters on the night when they made
their raid upon Mr. Acton’s, and having thus got them into his
power, proceeded, under threats of exposure, to levy blackmail
upon them. Mr. Alec, however, was a dangerous man to play games
of that sort with. It was a stroke of positive genius on his part
to see in the burglary scare which was convulsing the country
side an opportunity of plausibly getting rid of the man whom he
feared. William was decoyed up and shot, and had they only got
the whole of the note and paid a little more attention to detail
in the accessories, it is very possible that suspicion might
never have been aroused.”
“And the note?” I asked.
Sherlock Holmes placed the subjoined paper before us.
piece of paper
If you will only come round at quarter to twelve
to the east gate you will learn what
will very much surprise you and maybe
be of the greatest service to you and also
to Annie Morrison. But say nothing to anyone
upon the matter
“It is very much the sort of thing that I expected,” said he. “Of
course, we do not yet know what the relations may have been
between Alec Cunningham, William Kirwan, and Annie Morrison. The
results shows that the trap was skillfully baited. I am sure that
you cannot fail to be delighted with the traces of heredity shown
in the p’s and in the tails of the g’s. The absence of the i-dots
in the old man’s writing is also most characteristic. Watson, I
think our quiet rest in the country has been a distinct success,
and I shall certainly return much invigorated to Baker Street
to-morrow.”
|
vii_the_reigate_squires
|
VIII. The Crooked Man
|
The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes
|
One summer night, a few months after my marriage, I was seated by
my own hearth smoking a last pipe and nodding over a novel, for
my day’s work had been an exhausting one. My wife had already
gone upstairs, and the sound of the locking of the hall door some
time before told me that the servants had also retired. I had
risen from my seat and was knocking out the ashes of my pipe when
I suddenly heard the clang of the bell.
I looked at the clock. It was a quarter to twelve. This could not
be a visitor at so late an hour. A patient, evidently, and
possibly an all-night sitting. With a wry face I went out into
the hall and opened the door. To my astonishment it was Sherlock
Holmes who stood upon my step.
“Ah, Watson,” said he, “I hoped that I might not be too late to
catch you.”
“My dear fellow, pray come in.”
“You look surprised, and no wonder! Relieved, too, I fancy! Hum!
You still smoke the Arcadia mixture of your bachelor days then!
There’s no mistaking that fluffy ash upon your coat. It’s easy to
tell that you have been accustomed to wear a uniform, Watson.
You’ll never pass as a pure-bred civilian as long as you keep
that habit of carrying your handkerchief in your sleeve. Could
you put me up to-night?”
“With pleasure.”
“You told me that you had bachelor quarters for one, and I see
that you have no gentleman visitor at present. Your hat-stand
proclaims as much.”
“I shall be delighted if you will stay.”
“Thank you. I’ll fill the vacant peg then. Sorry to see that
you’ve had the British workman in the house. He’s a token of
evil. Not the drains, I hope?”
“No, the gas.”
“Ah! He has left two nail-marks from his boot upon your linoleum
just where the light strikes it. No, thank you, I had some supper
at Waterloo, but I’ll smoke a pipe with you with pleasure.”
I handed him my pouch, and he seated himself opposite to me and
smoked for some time in silence. I was well aware that nothing
but business of importance would have brought him to me at such
an hour, so I waited patiently until he should come round to it.
“I see that you are professionally rather busy just now,” said
he, glancing very keenly across at me.
“Yes, I’ve had a busy day,” I answered. “It may seem very foolish
in your eyes,” I added, “but really I don’t know how you deduced
it.”
Holmes chuckled to himself.
“I have the advantage of knowing your habits, my dear Watson,”
said he. “When your round is a short one you walk, and when it is
a long one you use a hansom. As I perceive that your boots,
although used, are by no means dirty, I cannot doubt that you are
at present busy enough to justify the hansom.”
“Excellent!” I cried.
“Elementary,” said he. “It is one of those instances where the
reasoner can produce an effect which seems remarkable to his
neighbour, because the latter has missed the one little point
which is the basis of the deduction. The same may be said, my
dear fellow, for the effect of some of these little sketches of
yours, which is entirely meretricious, depending as it does upon
your retaining in your own hands some factors in the problem
which are never imparted to the reader. Now, at present I am in
the position of these same readers, for I hold in this hand
several threads of one of the strangest cases which ever
perplexed a man’s brain, and yet I lack the one or two which are
needful to complete my theory. But I’ll have them, Watson, I’ll
have them!” His eyes kindled and a slight flush sprang into his
thin cheeks. For an instant only. When I glanced again his face
had resumed that red-Indian composure which had made so many
regard him as a machine rather than a man.
“The problem presents features of interest,” said he. “I may even
say exceptional features of interest. I have already looked into
the matter, and have come, as I think, within sight of my
solution. If you could accompany me in that last step you might
be of considerable service to me.”
“I should be delighted.”
“Could you go as far as Aldershot to-morrow?”
“I have no doubt Jackson would take my practice.”
“Very good. I want to start by the 11.10 from Waterloo.”
“That would give me time.”
“Then, if you are not too sleepy, I will give you a sketch of
what has happened, and of what remains to be done.”
“I was sleepy before you came. I am quite wakeful now.”
“I will compress the story as far as may be done without omitting
anything vital to the case. It is conceivable that you may even
have read some account of the matter. It is the supposed murder
of Colonel Barclay, of the Royal Mallows, at Aldershot, which I
am investigating.”
“I have heard nothing of it.”
“It has not excited much attention yet, except locally. The facts
are only two days old. Briefly they are these:
“The Royal Mallows is, as you know, one of the most famous Irish
regiments in the British army. It did wonders both in the Crimea
and the Mutiny, and has since that time distinguished itself upon
every possible occasion. It was commanded up to Monday night by
James Barclay, a gallant veteran, who started as a full private,
was raised to commissioned rank for his bravery at the time of
the Mutiny, and so lived to command the regiment in which he had
once carried a musket.
“Colonel Barclay had married at the time when he was a sergeant,
and his wife, whose maiden name was Miss Nancy Devoy, was the
daughter of a former colour-sergeant in the same corps. There
was, therefore, as can be imagined, some little social friction
when the young couple (for they were still young) found
themselves in their new surroundings. They appear, however, to
have quickly adapted themselves, and Mrs. Barclay has always, I
understand, been as popular with the ladies of the regiment as
her husband was with his brother officers. I may add that she was
a woman of great beauty, and that even now, when she has been
married for upwards of thirty years, she is still of a striking
and queenly appearance.
“Colonel Barclay’s family life appears to have been a uniformly
happy one. Major Murphy, to whom I owe most of my facts, assures
me that he has never heard of any misunderstanding between the
pair. On the whole, he thinks that Barclay’s devotion to his wife
was greater than his wife’s to Barclay. He was acutely uneasy if
he were absent from her for a day. She, on the other hand, though
devoted and faithful, was less obtrusively affectionate. But they
were regarded in the regiment as the very model of a middle-aged
couple. There was absolutely nothing in their mutual relations to
prepare people for the tragedy which was to follow.
“Colonel Barclay himself seems to have had some singular traits
in his character. He was a dashing, jovial old soldier in his
usual mood, but there were occasions on which he seemed to show
himself capable of considerable violence and vindictiveness. This
side of his nature, however, appears never to have been turned
towards his wife. Another fact, which had struck Major Murphy and
three out of five of the other officers with whom I conversed,
was the singular sort of depression which came upon him at times.
As the major expressed it, the smile had often been struck from
his mouth, as if by some invisible hand, when he has been joining
the gayeties and chaff of the mess-table. For days on end, when
the mood was on him, he has been sunk in the deepest gloom. This
and a certain tinge of superstition were the only unusual traits
in his character which his brother officers had observed. The
latter peculiarity took the form of a dislike to being left
alone, especially after dark. This puerile feature in a nature
which was conspicuously manly had often given rise to comment and
conjecture.
“The first battalion of the Royal Mallows (which is the old
117th) has been stationed at Aldershot for some years. The
married officers live out of barracks, and the Colonel has during
all this time occupied a villa called Lachine, about half a mile
from the north camp. The house stands in its own grounds, but the
west side of it is not more than thirty yards from the high-road.
A coachman and two maids form the staff of servants. These with
their master and mistress were the sole occupants of Lachine, for
the Barclays had no children, nor was it usual for them to have
resident visitors.
“Now for the events at Lachine between nine and ten on the
evening of last Monday.”
“Mrs. Barclay was, it appears, a member of the Roman Catholic
Church, and had interested herself very much in the establishment
of the Guild of St. George, which was formed in connection with
the Watt Street Chapel for the purpose of supplying the poor with
cast-off clothing. A meeting of the Guild had been held that
evening at eight, and Mrs. Barclay had hurried over her dinner in
order to be present at it. When leaving the house she was heard
by the coachman to make some commonplace remark to her husband,
and to assure him that she would be back before very long. She
then called for Miss Morrison, a young lady who lives in the next
villa, and the two went off together to their meeting. It lasted
forty minutes, and at a quarter-past nine Mrs. Barclay returned
home, having left Miss Morrison at her door as she passed.
“There is a room which is used as a morning-room at Lachine. This
faces the road and opens by a large glass folding-door on to the
lawn. The lawn is thirty yards across, and is only divided from
the highway by a low wall with an iron rail above it. It was into
this room that Mrs. Barclay went upon her return. The blinds were
not down, for the room was seldom used in the evening, but Mrs.
Barclay herself lit the lamp and then rang the bell, asking Jane
Stewart, the housemaid, to bring her a cup of tea, which was
quite contrary to her usual habits. The Colonel had been sitting
in the dining-room, but hearing that his wife had returned he
joined her in the morning-room. The coachman saw him cross the
hall and enter it. He was never seen again alive.
“The tea which had been ordered was brought up at the end of ten
minutes; but the maid, as she approached the door, was surprised
to hear the voices of her master and mistress in furious
altercation. She knocked without receiving any answer, and even
turned the handle, but only to find that the door was locked upon
the inside. Naturally enough she ran down to tell the cook, and
the two women with the coachman came up into the hall and
listened to the dispute which was still raging. They all agreed
that only two voices were to be heard, those of Barclay and of
his wife. Barclay’s remarks were subdued and abrupt, so that none
of them were audible to the listeners. The lady’s, on the other
hand, were most bitter, and when she raised her voice could be
plainly heard. ‘You coward!’ she repeated over and over again.
‘What can be done now? What can be done now? Give me back my
life. I will never so much as breathe the same air with you
again! You coward! You coward!’ Those were scraps of her
conversation, ending in a sudden dreadful cry in the man’s voice,
with a crash, and a piercing scream from the woman. Convinced
that some tragedy had occurred, the coachman rushed to the door
and strove to force it, while scream after scream issued from
within. He was unable, however, to make his way in, and the maids
were too distracted with fear to be of any assistance to him. A
sudden thought struck him, however, and he ran through the hall
door and round to the lawn upon which the long French windows
open. One side of the window was open, which I understand was
quite usual in the summer-time, and he passed without difficulty
into the room. His mistress had ceased to scream and was
stretched insensible upon a couch, while with his feet tilted
over the side of an armchair, and his head upon the ground near
the corner of the fender, was lying the unfortunate soldier stone
dead in a pool of his own blood.
“Naturally, the coachman’s first thought, on finding that he
could do nothing for his master, was to open the door. But here
an unexpected and singular difficulty presented itself. The key
was not in the inner side of the door, nor could he find it
anywhere in the room. He went out again, therefore, through the
window, and having obtained the help of a policeman and of a
medical man, he returned. The lady, against whom naturally the
strongest suspicion rested, was removed to her room, still in a
state of insensibility. The Colonel’s body was then placed upon
the sofa, and a careful examination made of the scene of the
tragedy.
“The injury from which the unfortunate veteran was suffering was
found to be a jagged cut some two inches long at the back part of
his head, which had evidently been caused by a violent blow from
a blunt weapon. Nor was it difficult to guess what that weapon
may have been. Upon the floor, close to the body, was lying a
singular club of hard carved wood with a bone handle. The Colonel
possessed a varied collection of weapons brought from the
different countries in which he had fought, and it is conjectured
by the police that his club was among his trophies. The servants
deny having seen it before, but among the numerous curiosities in
the house it is possible that it may have been overlooked.
Nothing else of importance was discovered in the room by the
police, save the inexplicable fact that neither upon Mrs.
Barclay’s person nor upon that of the victim nor in any part of
the room was the missing key to be found. The door had eventually
to be opened by a locksmith from Aldershot.
“That was the state of things, Watson, when upon the Tuesday
morning I, at the request of Major Murphy, went down to Aldershot
to supplement the efforts of the police. I think that you will
acknowledge that the problem was already one of interest, but my
observations soon made me realize that it was in truth much more
extraordinary than would at first sight appear.
“Before examining the room I cross-questioned the servants, but
only succeeded in eliciting the facts which I have already
stated. One other detail of interest was remembered by Jane
Stewart, the housemaid. You will remember that on hearing the
sound of the quarrel she descended and returned with the other
servants. On that first occasion, when she was alone, she says
that the voices of her master and mistress were sunk so low that
she could hear hardly anything, and judged by their tones rather
than their words that they had fallen out. On my pressing her,
however, she remembered that she heard the word ‘David’ uttered
twice by the lady. The point is of the utmost importance as
guiding us towards the reason of the sudden quarrel. The
Colonel’s name, you remember, was James.
“There was one thing in the case which had made the deepest
impression both upon the servants and the police. This was the
contortion of the Colonel’s face. It had set, according to their
account, into the most dreadful expression of fear and horror
which a human countenance is capable of assuming. More than one
person fainted at the mere sight of him, so terrible was the
effect. It was quite certain that he had foreseen his fate, and
that it had caused him the utmost horror. This, of course, fitted
in well enough with the police theory, if the Colonel could have
seen his wife making a murderous attack upon him. Nor was the
fact of the wound being on the back of his head a fatal objection
to this, as he might have turned to avoid the blow. No
information could be got from the lady herself, who was
temporarily insane from an acute attack of brain-fever.
“From the police I learned that Miss Morrison, who you remember
went out that evening with Mrs. Barclay, denied having any
knowledge of what it was which had caused the ill-humour in which
her companion had returned.
“Having gathered these facts, Watson, I smoked several pipes over
them, trying to separate those which were crucial from others
which were merely incidental. There could be no question that the
most distinctive and suggestive point in the case was the
singular disappearance of the door-key. A most careful search had
failed to discover it in the room. Therefore it must have been
taken from it. But neither the Colonel nor the Colonel’s wife
could have taken it. That was perfectly clear. Therefore a third
person must have entered the room. And that third person could
only have come in through the window. It seemed to me that a
careful examination of the room and the lawn might possibly
reveal some traces of this mysterious individual. You know my
methods, Watson. There was not one of them which I did not apply
to the inquiry. And it ended by my discovering traces, but very
different ones from those which I had expected. There had been a
man in the room, and he had crossed the lawn coming from the
road. I was able to obtain five very clear impressions of his
footmarks: one in the roadway itself, at the point where he had
climbed the low wall, two on the lawn, and two very faint ones
upon the stained boards near the window where he had entered. He
had apparently rushed across the lawn, for his toe-marks were
much deeper than his heels. But it was not the man who surprised
me. It was his companion.”
“His companion!”
Holmes pulled a large sheet of tissue-paper out of his pocket and
carefully unfolded it upon his knee.
“What do you make of that?” he asked.
The paper was covered with the tracings of the footmarks of some
small animal. It had five well-marked footpads, an indication of
long nails, and the whole print might be nearly as large as a
dessert-spoon.
“It’s a dog,” said I.
“Did you ever hear of a dog running up a curtain? I found
distinct traces that this creature had done so.”
“A monkey, then?”
“But it is not the print of a monkey.”
“What can it be, then?”
“Neither dog nor cat nor monkey nor any creature that we are
familiar with. I have tried to reconstruct it from the
measurements. Here are four prints where the beast has been
standing motionless. You see that it is no less than fifteen
inches from fore-foot to hind. Add to that the length of neck and
head, and you get a creature not much less than two feet
long—probably more if there is any tail. But now observe this
other measurement. The animal has been moving, and we have the
length of its stride. In each case it is only about three inches.
You have an indication, you see, of a long body with very short
legs attached to it. It has not been considerate enough to leave
any of its hair behind it. But its general shape must be what I
have indicated, and it can run up a curtain, and it is
carnivorous.”
“How do you deduce that?”
“Because it ran up the curtain. A canary’s cage was hanging in
the window, and its aim seems to have been to get at the bird.”
“Then what was the beast?”
“Ah, if I could give it a name it might go a long way towards
solving the case. On the whole, it was probably some creature of
the weasel and stoat tribe—and yet it is larger than any of these
that I have seen.”
“But what had it to do with the crime?”
“That, also, is still obscure. But we have learned a good deal,
you perceive. We know that a man stood in the road looking at the
quarrel between the Barclays—the blinds were up and the room
lighted. We know, also, that he ran across the lawn, entered the
room, accompanied by a strange animal, and that he either struck
the Colonel or, as is equally possible, that the Colonel fell
down from sheer fright at the sight of him, and cut his head on
the corner of the fender. Finally, we have the curious fact that
the intruder carried away the key with him when he left.”
“Your discoveries seem to have left the business more obscure
that it was before,” said I.
“Quite so. They undoubtedly showed that the affair was much
deeper than was at first conjectured. I thought the matter over,
and I came to the conclusion that I must approach the case from
another aspect. But really, Watson, I am keeping you up, and I
might just as well tell you all this on our way to Aldershot
to-morrow.”
“Thank you, you have gone rather too far to stop.”
“It is quite certain that when Mrs. Barclay left the house at
half-past seven she was on good terms with her husband. She was
never, as I think I have said, ostentatiously affectionate, but
she was heard by the coachman chatting with the Colonel in a
friendly fashion. Now, it was equally certain that, immediately
on her return, she had gone to the room in which she was least
likely to see her husband, had flown to tea as an agitated woman
will, and finally, on his coming in to her, had broken into
violent recriminations. Therefore something had occurred between
seven-thirty and nine o’clock which had completely altered her
feelings towards him. But Miss Morrison had been with her during
the whole of that hour and a half. It was absolutely certain,
therefore, in spite of her denial, that she must know something
of the matter.
“My first conjecture was, that possibly there had been some
passages between this young lady and the old soldier, which the
former had now confessed to the wife. That would account for the
angry return, and also for the girl’s denial that anything had
occurred. Nor would it be entirely incompatible with most of the
words overheard. But there was the reference to David, and there
was the known affection of the Colonel for his wife, to weigh
against it, to say nothing of the tragic intrusion of this other
man, which might, of course, be entirely disconnected with what
had gone before. It was not easy to pick one’s steps, but, on the
whole, I was inclined to dismiss the idea that there had been
anything between the Colonel and Miss Morrison, but more than
ever convinced that the young lady held the clue as to what it
was which had turned Mrs. Barclay to hatred of her husband. I
took the obvious course, therefore, of calling upon Miss
Morrison, of explaining to her that I was perfectly certain that
she held the facts in her possession, and of assuring her that
her friend, Mrs. Barclay, might find herself in the dock upon a
capital charge unless the matter were cleared up.
“Miss Morrison is a little, ethereal slip of a girl, with timid
eyes and blonde hair, but I found her by no means wanting in
shrewdness and common sense. She sat thinking for some time after
I had spoken, and then, turning to me with a brisk air of
resolution, she broke into a remarkable statement which I will
condense for your benefit.
“‘I promised my friend that I would say nothing of the matter,
and a promise is a promise,’ said she; ‘but if I can really help
her when so serious a charge is laid against her, and when her
own mouth, poor darling, is closed by illness, then I think I am
absolved from my promise. I will tell you exactly what happened
upon Monday evening.
“‘We were returning from the Watt Street Mission about a quarter
to nine o’clock. On our way we had to pass through Hudson Street,
which is a very quiet thoroughfare. There is only one lamp in it,
upon the left-hand side, and as we approached this lamp I saw a
man coming towards us with his back very bent, and something like
a box slung over one of his shoulders. He appeared to be
deformed, for he carried his head low and walked with his knees
bent. We were passing him when he raised his face to look at us
in the circle of light thrown by the lamp, and as he did so he
stopped and screamed out in a dreadful voice, “My God, it’s
Nancy!” Mrs. Barclay turned as white as death, and would have
fallen down had the dreadful-looking creature not caught hold of
her. I was going to call for the police, but she, to my surprise,
spoke quite civilly to the fellow.
“‘“I thought you had been dead this thirty years, Henry,” said
she, in a shaking voice.
“‘“So I have,” said he, and it was awful to hear the tones that
he said it in. He had a very dark, fearsome face, and a gleam in
his eyes that comes back to me in my dreams. His hair and
whiskers were shot with grey, and his face was all crinkled and
puckered like a withered apple.
“‘“Just walk on a little way, dear,” said Mrs. Barclay; “I want
to have a word with this man. There is nothing to be afraid of.”
She tried to speak boldly, but she was still deadly pale and
could hardly get her words out for the trembling of her lips.
“‘I did as she asked me, and they talked together for a few
minutes. Then she came down the street with her eyes blazing, and
I saw the crippled wretch standing by the lamp-post and shaking
his clenched fists in the air as if he were mad with rage. She
never said a word until we were at the door here, when she took
me by the hand and begged me to tell no one what had happened.
“‘“It’s an old acquaintance of mine who has come down in the
world,” said she. When I promised her I would say nothing she
kissed me, and I have never seen her since. I have told you now
the whole truth, and if I withheld it from the police it is
because I did not realize then the danger in which my dear friend
stood. I know that it can only be to her advantage that
everything should be known.’
“There was her statement, Watson, and to me, as you can imagine,
it was like a light on a dark night. Everything which had been
disconnected before began at once to assume its true place, and I
had a shadowy presentiment of the whole sequence of events. My
next step obviously was to find the man who had produced such a
remarkable impression upon Mrs. Barclay. If he were still in
Aldershot it should not be a very difficult matter. There are not
such a very great number of civilians, and a deformed man was
sure to have attracted attention. I spent a day in the search,
and by evening—this very evening, Watson—I had run him down. The
man’s name is Henry Wood, and he lives in lodgings in this same
street in which the ladies met him. He has only been five days in
the place. In the character of a registration-agent I had a most
interesting gossip with his landlady. The man is by trade a
conjurer and performer, going round the canteens after nightfall,
and giving a little entertainment at each. He carries some
creature about with him in that box; about which the landlady
seemed to be in considerable trepidation, for she had never seen
an animal like it. He uses it in some of his tricks according to
her account. So much the woman was able to tell me, and also that
it was a wonder the man lived, seeing how twisted he was, and
that he spoke in a strange tongue sometimes, and that for the
last two nights she had heard him groaning and weeping in his
bedroom. He was all right, as far as money went, but in his
deposit he had given her what looked like a bad florin. She
showed it to me, Watson, and it was an Indian rupee.
“So now, my dear fellow, you see exactly how we stand and why it
is I want you. It is perfectly plain that after the ladies parted
from this man he followed them at a distance, that he saw the
quarrel between husband and wife through the window, that he
rushed in, and that the creature which he carried in his box got
loose. That is all very certain. But he is the only person in
this world who can tell us exactly what happened in that room.”
“And you intend to ask him?”
“Most certainly—but in the presence of a witness.”
“And I am the witness?”
“If you will be so good. If he can clear the matter up, well and
good. If he refuses, we have no alternative but to apply for a
warrant.”
“But how do you know he’ll be there when we return?”
“You may be sure that I took some precautions. I have one of my
Baker Street boys mounting guard over him who would stick to him
like a burr, go where he might. We shall find him in Hudson
Street to-morrow, Watson, and meanwhile I should be the criminal
myself if I kept you out of bed any longer.”
It was midday when we found ourselves at the scene of the
tragedy, and, under my companion’s guidance, we made our way at
once to Hudson Street. In spite of his capacity for concealing
his emotions, I could easily see that Holmes was in a state of
suppressed excitement, while I was myself tingling with that
half-sporting, half-intellectual pleasure which I invariably
experienced when I associated myself with him in his
investigations.
“This is the street,” said he, as we turned into a short
thoroughfare lined with plain two-storied brick houses. “Ah, here
is Simpson to report.”
“He’s in all right, Mr. Holmes,” cried a small street Arab,
running up to us.
“Good, Simpson!” said Holmes, patting him on the head. “Come
along, Watson. This is the house.” He sent in his card with a
message that he had come on important business, and a moment
later we were face to face with the man whom we had come to see.
In spite of the warm weather he was crouching over a fire, and
the little room was like an oven. The man sat all twisted and
huddled in his chair in a way which gave an indescribable
impression of deformity; but the face which he turned towards us,
though worn and swarthy, must at some time have been remarkable
for its beauty. He looked suspiciously at us now out of
yellow-shot, bilious eyes, and, without speaking or rising, he
waved towards two chairs.
“Mr. Henry Wood, late of India, I believe,” said Holmes, affably.
“I’ve come over this little matter of Colonel Barclay’s death.”
“What should I know about that?”
“That’s what I want to ascertain. You know, I suppose, that
unless the matter is cleared up, Mrs. Barclay, who is an old
friend of yours, will in all probability be tried for murder.”
The man gave a violent start.
“I don’t know who you are,” he cried, “nor how you come to know
what you do know, but will you swear that this is true that you
tell me?”
“Why, they are only waiting for her to come to her senses to
arrest her.”
“My God! Are you in the police yourself?”
“No.”
“What business is it of yours, then?”
“It’s every man’s business to see justice done.”
“You can take my word that she is innocent.”
“Then you are guilty.”
“No, I am not.”
“Who killed Colonel James Barclay, then?”
“It was a just providence that killed him. But, mind you this,
that if I had knocked his brains out, as it was in my heart to
do, he would have had no more than his due from my hands. If his
own guilty conscience had not struck him down it is likely enough
that I might have had his blood upon my soul. You want me to tell
the story. Well, I don’t know why I shouldn’t, for there’s no
cause for me to be ashamed of it.
“It was in this way, sir. You see me now with my back like a
camel and my ribs all awry, but there was a time when Corporal
Henry Wood was the smartest man in the 117th Foot. We were in
India then, in cantonments, at a place we’ll call Bhurtee.
Barclay, who died the other day, was sergeant in the same company
as myself, and the belle of the regiment, ay, and the finest girl
that ever had the breath of life between her lips, was Nancy
Devoy, the daughter of the colour-sergeant. There were two men
that loved her, and one that she loved, and you’ll smile when you
look at this poor thing huddled before the fire, and hear me say
that it was for my good looks that she loved me.
“Well, though I had her heart, her father was set upon her
marrying Barclay. I was a harum-scarum, reckless lad, and he had
had an education, and was already marked for the sword-belt. But
the girl held true to me, and it seemed that I would have had her
when the Mutiny broke out, and all hell was loose in the country.
“We were shut up in Bhurtee, the regiment of us with half a
battery of artillery, a company of Sikhs, and a lot of civilians
and women-folk. There were ten thousand rebels round us, and they
were as keen as a set of terriers round a rat-cage. About the
second week of it our water gave out, and it was a question
whether we could communicate with General Neill’s column, which
was moving up country. It was our only chance, for we could not
hope to fight our way out with all the women and children, so I
volunteered to go out and to warn General Neill of our danger. My
offer was accepted, and I talked it over with Sergeant Barclay,
who was supposed to know the ground better than any other man,
and who drew up a route by which I might get through the rebel
lines. At ten o’clock the same night I started off upon my
journey. There were a thousand lives to save, but it was of only
one that I was thinking when I dropped over the wall that night.
“My way ran down a dried-up watercourse, which we hoped would
screen me from the enemy’s sentries; but as I crept round the
corner of it I walked right into six of them, who were crouching
down in the dark waiting for me. In an instant I was stunned with
a blow and bound hand and foot. But the real blow was to my heart
and not to my head, for as I came to and listened to as much as I
could understand of their talk, I heard enough to tell me that my
comrade, the very man who had arranged the way that I was to
take, had betrayed me by means of a native servant into the hands
of the enemy.
“Well, there’s no need for me to dwell on that part of it. You
know now what James Barclay was capable of. Bhurtee was relieved
by Neill next day, but the rebels took me away with them in their
retreat, and it was many a long year before ever I saw a white
face again. I was tortured and tried to get away, and was
captured and tortured again. You can see for yourselves the state
in which I was left. Some of them that fled into Nepaul took me
with them, and then afterwards I was up past Darjeeling. The
hill-folk up there murdered the rebels who had me, and I became
their slave for a time until I escaped; but instead of going
south I had to go north, until I found myself among the Afghans.
There I wandered about for many a year, and at last came back to
the Punjab, where I lived mostly among the natives and picked up
a living by the conjuring tricks that I had learned. What use was
it for me, a wretched cripple, to go back to England or to make
myself known to my old comrades? Even my wish for revenge would
not make me do that. I had rather that Nancy and my old pals
should think of Harry Wood as having died with a straight back,
than see him living and crawling with a stick like a chimpanzee.
They never doubted that I was dead, and I meant that they never
should. I heard that Barclay had married Nancy, and that he was
rising rapidly in the regiment, but even that did not make me
speak.
“But when one gets old one has a longing for home. For years I’ve
been dreaming of the bright green fields and the hedges of
England. At last I determined to see them before I died. I saved
enough to bring me across, and then I came here where the
soldiers are, for I know their ways and how to amuse them and so
earn enough to keep me.”
“Your narrative is most interesting,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I
have already heard of your meeting with Mrs. Barclay, and your
mutual recognition. You then, as I understand, followed her home
and saw through the window an altercation between her husband and
her, in which she doubtless cast his conduct to you in his teeth.
Your own feelings overcame you, and you ran across the lawn and
broke in upon them.”
“I did, sir, and at the sight of me he looked as I have never
seen a man look before, and over he went with his head on the
fender. But he was dead before he fell. I read death on his face
as plain as I can read that text over the fire. The bare sight of
me was like a bullet through his guilty heart.”
“And then?”
“Then Nancy fainted, and I caught up the key of the door from her
hand, intending to unlock it and get help. But as I was doing it
it seemed to me better to leave it alone and get away, for the
thing might look black against me, and any way my secret would be
out if I were taken. In my haste I thrust the key into my pocket,
and dropped my stick while I was chasing Teddy, who had run up
the curtain. When I got him into his box, from which he had
slipped, I was off as fast as I could run.”
“Who’s Teddy?” asked Holmes.
The man leaned over and pulled up the front of a kind of hutch in
the corner. In an instant out there slipped a beautiful
reddish-brown creature, thin and lithe, with the legs of a stoat,
a long, thin nose, and a pair of the finest red eyes that ever I
saw in an animal’s head.
“It’s a mongoose,” I cried.
“Well, some call them that, and some call them ichneumon,” said
the man. “Snake-catcher is what I call them, and Teddy is amazing
quick on cobras. I have one here without the fangs, and Teddy
catches it every night to please the folk in the canteen.
“Any other point, sir?”
“Well, we may have to apply to you again if Mrs. Barclay should
prove to be in serious trouble.”
“In that case, of course, I’d come forward.”
“But if not, there is no object in raking up this scandal against
a dead man, foully as he has acted. You have at least the
satisfaction of knowing that for thirty years of his life his
conscience bitterly reproached him for this wicked deed. Ah,
there goes Major Murphy on the other side of the street. Good-by,
Wood. I want to learn if anything has happened since yesterday.”
We were in time to overtake the major before he reached the
corner.
“Ah, Holmes,” he said: “I suppose you have heard that all this
fuss has come to nothing?”
“What then?”
“The inquest is just over. The medical evidence showed
conclusively that death was due to apoplexy. You see it was quite
a simple case after all.”
“Oh, remarkably superficial,” said Holmes, smiling. “Come,
Watson, I don’t think we shall be wanted in Aldershot any more.”
“There’s one thing,” said I, as we walked down to the station.
“If the husband’s name was James, and the other was Henry, what
was this talk about David?”
“That one word, my dear Watson, should have told me the whole
story had I been the ideal reasoner which you are so fond of
depicting. It was evidently a term of reproach.”
“Of reproach?”
“Yes; David strayed a little occasionally, you know, and on one
occasion in the same direction as Sergeant James Barclay. You
remember the small affair of Uriah and Bathsheba? My biblical
knowledge is a trifle rusty, I fear, but you will find the story
in the first or second of Samuel.”
|
viii_the_crooked_man
|
IX. The Resident Patient
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The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes
|
In glancing over the somewhat incoherent series of memoirs with
which I have endeavoured to illustrate a few of the mental
peculiarities of my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have been
struck by the difficulty which I have experienced in picking out
examples which shall in every way answer my purpose. For in those
cases in which Holmes has performed some _tour-de-force_ of
analytical reasoning, and has demonstrated the value of his
peculiar methods of investigation, the facts themselves have
often been so slight or so commonplace that I could not feel
justified in laying them before the public. On the other hand, it
has frequently happened that he has been concerned in some
research where the facts have been of the most remarkable and
dramatic character, but where the share which he has himself
taken in determining their causes has been less pronounced than
I, as his biographer, could wish. The small matter which I have
chronicled under the heading of “A Study in Scarlet,” and that
other later one connected with the loss of the _Gloria Scott_,
may serve as examples of this Scylla and Charybdis which are
forever threatening the historian. It may be that in the business
of which I am now about to write the part which my friend played
is not sufficiently accentuated; and yet the whole train of
circumstances is so remarkable that I cannot bring myself to omit
it entirely from this series.
I cannot be sure of the exact date, for some of my memoranda upon
the matter have been mislaid, but it must have been towards the
end of the first year during which Holmes and I shared chambers
in Baker Street. It was boisterous October weather, and we had
both remained indoors all day, I because I feared with my shaken
health to face the keen autumn wind, while he was deep in some of
those abstruse chemical investigations which absorbed him utterly
as long as he was engaged upon them. Towards evening, however,
the breaking of a test-tube brought his research to a premature
ending, and he sprang up from his chair with an exclamation of
impatience and a clouded brow.
“A day’s work ruined, Watson,” said he, striding across to the
window. “Ha! the stars are out and the wind has fallen. What do
you say to a ramble through London?”
I was weary of our little sitting-room and gladly acquiesced. For
three hours we strolled about together, watching the
ever-changing kaleidoscope of life as it ebbs and flows through
Fleet Street and the Strand. Holmes had shaken off his temporary
ill-humour, and his characteristic talk, with its keen observance
of detail and subtle power of inference held me amused and
enthralled. It was ten o’clock before we reached Baker Street
again. A brougham was waiting at our door.
“Hum! A doctor’s—general practitioner, I perceive,” said Holmes.
“Not been long in practice, but has had a good deal to do. Come
to consult us, I fancy! Lucky we came back!”
I was sufficiently conversant with Holmes’s methods to be able to
follow his reasoning, and to see that the nature and state of the
various medical instruments in the wicker basket which hung in
the lamplight inside the brougham had given him the data for his
swift deduction. The light in our window above showed that this
late visit was indeed intended for us. With some curiosity as to
what could have sent a brother medico to us at such an hour, I
followed Holmes into our sanctum.
A pale, taper-faced man with sandy whiskers rose up from a chair
by the fire as we entered. His age may not have been more than
three or four and thirty, but his haggard expression and
unhealthy hue told of a life which has sapped his strength and
robbed him of his youth. His manner was nervous and shy, like
that of a sensitive gentleman, and the thin white hand which he
laid on the mantelpiece as he rose was that of an artist rather
than of a surgeon. His dress was quiet and sombre—a black
frock-coat, dark trousers, and a touch of colour about his
necktie.
“Good-evening, doctor,” said Holmes, cheerily. “I am glad to see
that you have only been waiting a very few minutes.”
“You spoke to my coachman, then?”
“No, it was the candle on the side-table that told me. Pray
resume your seat and let me know how I can serve you.”
“My name is Doctor Percy Trevelyan,” said our visitor, “and I
live at 403, Brook Street.”
“Are you not the author of a monograph upon obscure nervous
lesions?” I asked.
His pale cheeks flushed with pleasure at hearing that his work
was known to me.
“I so seldom hear of the work that I thought it was quite dead,”
said he. “My publishers gave me a most discouraging account of
its sale. You are yourself, I presume, a medical man?”
“A retired Army surgeon.”
“My own hobby has always been nervous disease. I should wish to
make it an absolute specialty, but, of course, a man must take
what he can get at first. This, however, is beside the question,
Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I quite appreciate how valuable your
time is. The fact is that a very singular train of events has
occurred recently at my house in Brook Street, and to-night they
came to such a head that I felt it was quite impossible for me to
wait another hour before asking for your advice and assistance.”
Sherlock Holmes sat down and lit his pipe. “You are very welcome
to both,” said he. “Pray let me have a detailed account of what
the circumstances are which have disturbed you.”
“One or two of them are so trivial,” said Dr. Trevelyan, “that
really I am almost ashamed to mention them. But the matter is so
inexplicable, and the recent turn which it has taken is so
elaborate, that I shall lay it all before you, and you shall
judge what is essential and what is not.
“I am compelled, to begin with, to say something of my own
college career. I am a London University man, you know, and I am
sure that you will not think that I am unduly singing my own
praises if I say that my student career was considered by my
professors to be a very promising one. After I had graduated I
continued to devote myself to research, occupying a minor
position in King’s College Hospital, and I was fortunate enough
to excite considerable interest by my research into the pathology
of catalepsy, and finally to win the Bruce Pinkerton prize and
medal by the monograph on nervous lesions to which your friend
has just alluded. I should not go too far if I were to say that
there was a general impression at that time that a distinguished
career lay before me.
“But the one great stumbling-block lay in my want of capital. As
you will readily understand, a specialist who aims high is
compelled to start in one of a dozen streets in the Cavendish
Square quarter, all of which entail enormous rents and furnishing
expenses. Besides this preliminary outlay, he must be prepared to
keep himself for some years, and to hire a presentable carriage
and horse. To do this was quite beyond my power, and I could only
hope that by economy I might in ten years’ time save enough to
enable me to put up my plate. Suddenly, however, an unexpected
incident opened up quite a new prospect to me.
“This was a visit from a gentleman of the name of Blessington,
who was a complete stranger to me. He came up to my room one
morning, and plunged into business in an instant.
“‘You are the same Percy Trevelyan who has had so distinguished a
career and won a great prize lately?’ said he.
“I bowed.
“‘Answer me frankly,’ he continued, ‘for you will find it to your
interest to do so. You have all the cleverness which makes a
successful man. Have you the tact?’
“I could not help smiling at the abruptness of the question.
“‘I trust that I have my share,’ I said.
“‘Any bad habits? Not drawn towards drink, eh?’
“‘Really, sir!’ I cried.
“‘Quite right! That’s all right! But I was bound to ask. With all
these qualities, why are you not in practice?’
“I shrugged my shoulders.
“‘Come, come!’ said he, in his bustling way. ‘It’s the old story.
More in your brains than in your pocket, eh? What would you say
if I were to start you in Brook Street?’
“I stared at him in astonishment.
“‘Oh, it’s for my sake, not for yours,’ he cried. ‘I’ll be
perfectly frank with you, and if it suits you it will suit me
very well. I have a few thousands to invest, d’ye see, and I
think I’ll sink them in you.’
“‘But why?’ I gasped.
“‘Well, it’s just like any other speculation, and safer than
most.’
“‘What am I to do, then?’
“‘I’ll tell you. I’ll take the house, furnish it, pay the maids,
and run the whole place. All you have to do is just to wear out
your chair in the consulting-room. I’ll let you have pocket-money
and everything. Then you hand over to me three quarters of what
you earn, and you keep the other quarter for yourself.’
“This was the strange proposal, Mr. Holmes, with which the man
Blessington approached me. I won’t weary you with the account of
how we bargained and negotiated. It ended in my moving into the
house next Lady Day, and starting in practice on very much the
same conditions as he had suggested. He came himself to live with
me in the character of a resident patient. His heart was weak, it
appears, and he needed constant medical supervision. He turned
the two best rooms of the first floor into a sitting-room and
bedroom for himself. He was a man of singular habits, shunning
company and very seldom going out. His life was irregular, but in
one respect he was regularity itself. Every evening, at the same
hour, he walked into the consulting-room, examined the books, put
down five and three-pence for every guinea that I had earned, and
carried the rest off to the strong-box in his own room.
“I may say with confidence that he never had occasion to regret
his speculation. From the first it was a success. A few good
cases and the reputation which I had won in the hospital brought
me rapidly to the front, and during the last few years I have
made him a rich man.
“So much, Mr. Holmes, for my past history and my relations with
Mr. Blessington. It only remains for me now to tell you what has
occurred to bring me here to-night.
“Some weeks ago Mr. Blessington came down to me in, as it seemed
to me, a state of considerable agitation. He spoke of some
burglary which, he said, had been committed in the West End, and
he appeared, I remember, to be quite unnecessarily excited about
it, declaring that a day should not pass before we should add
stronger bolts to our windows and doors. For a week he continued
to be in a peculiar state of restlessness, peering continually
out of the windows, and ceasing to take the short walk which had
usually been the prelude to his dinner. From his manner it struck
me that he was in mortal dread of something or somebody, but when
I questioned him upon the point he became so offensive that I was
compelled to drop the subject. Gradually, as time passed, his
fears appeared to die away, and he had renewed his former habits,
when a fresh event reduced him to the pitiable state of
prostration in which he now lies.
“What happened was this. Two days ago I received the letter which
I now read to you. Neither address nor date is attached to it.
“‘A Russian nobleman who is now resident in England,’ it runs,
‘would be glad to avail himself of the professional assistance of
Dr. Percy Trevelyan. He has been for some years a victim to
cataleptic attacks, on which, as is well known, Dr. Trevelyan is
an authority. He proposes to call at about quarter past six
to-morrow evening, if Dr. Trevelyan will make it convenient to be
at home.’
“This letter interested me deeply, because the chief difficulty
in the study of catalepsy is the rareness of the disease. You may
believe, then, that I was in my consulting-room when, at the
appointed hour, the page showed in the patient.
“He was an elderly man, thin, demure, and commonplace—by no means
the conception one forms of a Russian nobleman. I was much more
struck by the appearance of his companion. This was a tall young
man, surprisingly handsome, with a dark, fierce face, and the
limbs and chest of a Hercules. He had his hand under the other’s
arm as they entered, and helped him to a chair with a tenderness
which one would hardly have expected from his appearance.
“‘You will excuse my coming in, doctor,’ said he to me, speaking
English with a slight lisp. ‘This is my father, and his health is
a matter of the most overwhelming importance to me.’
“I was touched by this filial anxiety. ‘You would, perhaps, care
to remain during the consultation?’ said I.
“‘Not for the world,’ he cried with a gesture of horror. ‘It is
more painful to me than I can express. If I were to see my father
in one of these dreadful seizures I am convinced that I should
never survive it. My own nervous system is an exceptionally
sensitive one. With your permission, I will remain in the
waiting-room while you go into my father’s case.’
“To this, of course, I assented, and the young man withdrew. The
patient and I then plunged into a discussion of his case, of
which I took exhaustive notes. He was not remarkable for
intelligence, and his answers were frequently obscure, which I
attributed to his limited acquaintance with our language.
Suddenly, however, as I sat writing, he ceased to give any answer
at all to my inquiries, and on my turning towards him I was
shocked to see that he was sitting bolt upright in his chair,
staring at me with a perfectly blank and rigid face. He was again
in the grip of his mysterious malady.
“My first feeling, as I have just said, was one of pity and
horror. My second, I fear, was rather one of professional
satisfaction. I made notes of my patient’s pulse and temperature,
tested the rigidity of his muscles, and examined his reflexes.
There was nothing markedly abnormal in any of these conditions,
which harmonised with my former experiences. I had obtained good
results in such cases by the inhalation of nitrite of amyl, and
the present seemed an admirable opportunity of testing its
virtues. The bottle was downstairs in my laboratory, so leaving
my patient seated in his chair, I ran down to get it. There was
some little delay in finding it—five minutes, let us say—and then
I returned. Imagine my amazement to find the room empty and the
patient gone.
“Of course, my first act was to run into the waiting-room. The
son had gone also. The hall door had been closed, but not shut.
My page who admits patients is a new boy and by no means quick.
He waits downstairs, and runs up to show patients out when I ring
the consulting-room bell. He had heard nothing, and the affair
remained a complete mystery. Mr. Blessington came in from his
walk shortly afterwards, but I did not say anything to him upon
the subject, for, to tell the truth, I have got in the way of
late of holding as little communication with him as possible.
“Well, I never thought that I should see anything more of the
Russian and his son, so you can imagine my amazement when, at the
very same hour this evening, they both came marching into my
consulting-room, just as they had done before.
“‘I feel that I owe you a great many apologies for my abrupt
departure yesterday, doctor,’ said my patient.
“‘I confess that I was very much surprised at it,’ said I.
“‘Well, the fact is,’ he remarked, ‘that when I recover from
these attacks my mind is always very clouded as to all that has
gone before. I woke up in a strange room, as it seemed to me, and
made my way out into the street in a sort of dazed way when you
were absent.’
“‘And I,’ said the son, ‘seeing my father pass the door of the
waiting-room, naturally thought that the consultation had come to
an end. It was not until we had reached home that I began to
realize the true state of affairs.’
“‘Well,’ said I, laughing, ‘there is no harm done except that you
puzzled me terribly; so if you, sir, would kindly step into the
waiting-room I shall be happy to continue our consultation which
was brought to so abrupt an ending.’
“‘For half an hour or so I discussed that old gentleman’s
symptoms with him, and then, having prescribed for him, I saw him
go off upon the arm of his son.
“I have told you that Mr. Blessington generally chose this hour
of the day for his exercise. He came in shortly afterwards and
passed upstairs. An instant later I heard him running down, and
he burst into my consulting-room like a man who is mad with
panic.
“‘Who has been in my room?’ he cried.
“‘No one,’ said I.
“‘It’s a lie! He yelled. ‘Come up and look!’
“I passed over the grossness of his language, as he seemed half
out of his mind with fear. When I went upstairs with him he
pointed to several footprints upon the light carpet.
“‘D’you mean to say those are mine?’ he cried.
“They were certainly very much larger than any which he could
have made, and were evidently quite fresh. It rained hard this
afternoon, as you know, and my patients were the only people who
called. It must have been the case, then, that the man in the
waiting-room had, for some unknown reason, while I was busy with
the other, ascended to the room of my resident patient. Nothing
had been touched or taken, but there were the footprints to prove
that the intrusion was an undoubted fact.
“Mr. Blessington seemed more excited over the matter than I
should have thought possible, though of course it was enough to
disturb anybody’s peace of mind. He actually sat crying in an
armchair, and I could hardly get him to speak coherently. It was
his suggestion that I should come round to you, and of course I
at once saw the propriety of it, for certainly the incident is a
very singular one, though he appears to completely overrate its
importance. If you would only come back with me in my brougham,
you would at least be able to soothe him, though I can hardly
hope that you will be able to explain this remarkable
occurrence.”
Sherlock Holmes had listened to this long narrative with an
intentness which showed me that his interest was keenly aroused.
His face was as impassive as ever, but his lids had drooped more
heavily over his eyes, and his smoke had curled up more thickly
from his pipe to emphasize each curious episode in the doctor’s
tale. As our visitor concluded, Holmes sprang up without a word,
handed me my hat, picked his own from the table, and followed Dr.
Trevelyan to the door. Within a quarter of an hour we had been
dropped at the door of the physician’s residence in Brook Street,
one of those sombre, flat-faced houses which one associates with
a West-End practice. A small page admitted us, and we began at
once to ascend the broad, well-carpeted stair.
But a singular interruption brought us to a standstill. The light
at the top was suddenly whisked out, and from the darkness came a
reedy, quivering voice.
“I have a pistol,” it cried. “I give you my word that I’ll fire
if you come any nearer.”
“This really grows outrageous, Mr. Blessington,” cried Dr.
Trevelyan.
“Oh, then it is you, doctor,” said the voice, with a great heave
of relief. “But those other gentlemen, are they what they pretend
to be?”
We were conscious of a long scrutiny out of the darkness.
“Yes, yes, it’s all right,” said the voice at last. “You can come
up, and I am sorry if my precautions have annoyed you.”
He relit the stair gas as he spoke, and we saw before us a
singular-looking man, whose appearance, as well as his voice,
testified to his jangled nerves. He was very fat, but had
apparently at some time been much fatter, so that the skin hung
about his face in loose pouches, like the cheeks of a
blood-hound. He was of a sickly colour, and his thin, sandy hair
seemed to bristle up with the intensity of his emotion. In his
hand he held a pistol, but he thrust it into his pocket as we
advanced.
“Good-evening, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “I am sure I am very much
obliged to you for coming round. No one ever needed your advice
more than I do. I suppose that Dr. Trevelyan has told you of this
most unwarrantable intrusion into my rooms.”
“Quite so,” said Holmes. “Who are these two men Mr. Blessington,
and why do they wish to molest you?”
“Well, well,” said the resident patient, in a nervous fashion,
“of course it is hard to say that. You can hardly expect me to
answer that, Mr. Holmes.”
“Do you mean that you don’t know?”
“Come in here, if you please. Just have the kindness to step in
here.”
He led the way into his bedroom, which was large and comfortably
furnished.
“You see that,” said he, pointing to a big black box at the end
of his bed. “I have never been a very rich man, Mr. Holmes—never
made but one investment in my life, as Dr. Trevelyan would tell
you. But I don’t believe in bankers. I would never trust a
banker, Mr. Holmes. Between ourselves, what little I have is in
that box, so you can understand what it means to me when unknown
people force themselves into my rooms.”
Holmes looked at Blessington in his questioning way and shook his
head.
“I cannot possibly advise you if you try to deceive me,” said he.
“But I have told you everything.”
Holmes turned on his heel with a gesture of disgust. “Good-night,
Dr. Trevelyan,” said he.
“And no advice for me?” cried Blessington, in a breaking voice.
“My advice to you, sir, is to speak the truth.”
A minute later we were in the street and walking for home. We had
crossed Oxford Street and were half way down Harley Street before
I could get a word from my companion.
“Sorry to bring you out on such a fool’s errand, Watson,” he said
at last. “It is an interesting case, too, at the bottom of it.”
“I can make little of it,” I confessed.
“Well, it is quite evident that there are two men—more, perhaps,
but at least two—who are determined for some reason to get at
this fellow Blessington. I have no doubt in my mind that both on
the first and on the second occasion that young man penetrated to
Blessington’s room, while his confederate, by an ingenious
device, kept the doctor from interfering.”
“And the catalepsy?”
“A fraudulent imitation, Watson, though I should hardly dare to
hint as much to our specialist. It is a very easy complaint to
imitate. I have done it myself.”
“And then?”
“By the purest chance Blessington was out on each occasion. Their
reason for choosing so unusual an hour for a consultation was
obviously to insure that there should be no other patient in the
waiting-room. It just happened, however, that this hour coincided
with Blessington’s constitutional, which seems to show that they
were not very well acquainted with his daily routine. Of course,
if they had been merely after plunder they would at least have
made some attempt to search for it. Besides, I can read in a
man’s eye when it is his own skin that he is frightened for. It
is inconceivable that this fellow could have made two such
vindictive enemies as these appear to be without knowing of it. I
hold it, therefore, to be certain that he does know who these men
are, and that for reasons of his own he suppresses it. It is just
possible that to-morrow may find him in a more communicative
mood.”
“Is there not one alternative,” I suggested, “grotesquely
improbable, no doubt, but still just conceivable? Might the whole
story of the cataleptic Russian and his son be a concoction of
Dr. Trevelyan’s, who has, for his own purposes, been in
Blessington’s rooms?”
I saw in the gaslight that Holmes wore an amused smile at this
brilliant departure of mine.
“My dear fellow,” said he, “it was one of the first solutions
which occurred to me, but I was soon able to corroborate the
doctor’s tale. This young man has left prints upon the
stair-carpet which made it quite superfluous for me to ask to see
those which he had made in the room. When I tell you that his
shoes were square-toed instead of being pointed like
Blessington’s, and were quite an inch and a third longer than the
doctor’s, you will acknowledge that there can be no doubt as to
his individuality. But we may sleep on it now, for I shall be
surprised if we do not hear something further from Brook Street
in the morning.”
Sherlock Holmes’s prophecy was soon fulfilled, and in a dramatic
fashion. At half-past seven next morning, in the first glimmer of
daylight, I found him standing by my bedside in his
dressing-gown.
“There’s a brougham waiting for us, Watson,” said he.
“What’s the matter, then?”
“The Brook Street business.”
“Any fresh news?”
“Tragic, but ambiguous,” said he, pulling up the blind. “Look at
this—a sheet from a note-book, with ‘For God’s sake come at
once—P.T.,’ scrawled upon it in pencil. Our friend, the doctor,
was hard put to it when he wrote this. Come along, my dear
fellow, for it’s an urgent call.”
In a quarter of an hour or so we were back at the physician’s
house. He came running out to meet us with a face of horror.
“Oh, such a business!” he cried, with his hands to his temples.
“What then?”
“Blessington has committed suicide!”
Holmes whistled.
“Yes, he hanged himself during the night.”
We had entered, and the doctor had preceded us into what was
evidently his waiting-room.
“I really hardly know what I am doing,” he cried. “The police are
already upstairs. It has shaken me most dreadfully.”
“When did you find it out?”
“He has a cup of tea taken in to him early every morning. When
the maid entered, about seven, there the unfortunate fellow was
hanging in the middle of the room. He had tied his cord to the
hook on which the heavy lamp used to hang, and he had jumped off
from the top of the very box that he showed us yesterday.”
Holmes stood for a moment in deep thought.
“With your permission,” said he at last, “I should like to go
upstairs and look into the matter.”
We both ascended, followed by the doctor.
It was a dreadful sight which met us as we entered the bedroom
door. I have spoken of the impression of flabbiness which this
man Blessington conveyed. As he dangled from the hook it was
exaggerated and intensified until he was scarce human in his
appearance. The neck was drawn out like a plucked chicken’s,
making the rest of him seem the more obese and unnatural by the
contrast. He was clad only in his long night-dress, and his
swollen ankles and ungainly feet protruded starkly from beneath
it. Beside him stood a smart-looking police-inspector, who was
taking notes in a pocket-book.
“Ah, Mr. Holmes,” said he, heartily, as my friend entered, “I am
delighted to see you.”
“Good-morning, Lanner,” answered Holmes; “you won’t think me an
intruder, I am sure. Have you heard of the events which led up to
this affair?”
“Yes, I heard something of them.”
“Have you formed any opinion?”
“As far as I can see, the man has been driven out of his senses
by fright. The bed has been well slept in, you see. There’s his
impression deep enough. It’s about five in the morning, you know,
that suicides are most common. That would be about his time for
hanging himself. It seems to have been a very deliberate affair.”
“I should say that he has been dead about three hours, judging by
the rigidity of the muscles,” said I.
“Noticed anything peculiar about the room?” asked Holmes.
“Found a screw-driver and some screws on the wash-hand stand.
Seems to have smoked heavily during the night, too. Here are four
cigar-ends that I picked out of the fireplace.”
“Hum!” said Holmes, “have you got his cigar-holder?”
“No, I have seen none.”
“His cigar-case, then?”
“Yes, it was in his coat-pocket.”
Holmes opened it and smelled the single cigar which it contained.
“Oh, this is a Havana, and these others are cigars of the
peculiar sort which are imported by the Dutch from their East
Indian colonies. They are usually wrapped in straw, you know, and
are thinner for their length than any other brand.” He picked up
the four ends and examined them with his pocket-lens.
“Two of these have been smoked from a holder and two without,”
said he. “Two have been cut by a not very sharp knife, and two
have had the ends bitten off by a set of excellent teeth. This is
no suicide, Mr. Lanner. It is a very deeply planned and
cold-blooded murder.”
“Impossible!” cried the inspector.
“And why?”
“Why should any one murder a man in so clumsy a fashion as by
hanging him?”
“That is what we have to find out.”
“How could they get in?”
“Through the front door.”
“It was barred in the morning.”
“Then it was barred after them.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw their traces. Excuse me a moment, and I may be able to
give you some further information about it.”
He went over to the door, and turning the lock he examined it in
his methodical way. Then he took out the key, which was on the
inside, and inspected that also. The bed, the carpet, the chairs,
the mantelpiece, the dead body, and the rope were each in turn
examined, until at last he professed himself satisfied, and with
my aid and that of the inspector cut down the wretched object and
laid it reverently under a sheet.
“How about this rope?” he asked.
“It is cut off this,” said Dr. Trevelyan, drawing a large coil
from under the bed. “He was morbidly nervous of fire, and always
kept this beside him, so that he might escape by the window in
case the stairs were burning.”
“That must have saved them trouble,” said Holmes, thoughtfully.
“Yes, the actual facts are very plain, and I shall be surprised
if by the afternoon I cannot give you the reasons for them as
well. I will take this photograph of Blessington, which I see
upon the mantelpiece, as it may help me in my inquiries.”
“But you have told us nothing!” cried the doctor.
“Oh, there can be no doubt as to the sequence of events,” said
Holmes. “There were three of them in it: the young man, the old
man, and a third, to whose identity I have no clue. The first
two, I need hardly remark, are the same who masqueraded as the
Russian count and his son, so we can give a very full description
of them. They were admitted by a confederate inside the house. If
I might offer you a word of advice, Inspector, it would be to
arrest the page, who, as I understand, has only recently come
into your service, Doctor.”
“The young imp cannot be found,” said Dr. Trevelyan; “the maid
and the cook have just been searching for him.”
Holmes shrugged his shoulders.
“He has played a not unimportant part in this drama,” said he.
“The three men having ascended the stairs, which they did on
tiptoe, the elder man first, the younger man second, and the
unknown man in the rear—”
“My dear Holmes!” I ejaculated.
“Oh, there could be no question as to the superimposing of the
footmarks. I had the advantage of learning which was which last
night. They ascended, then, to Mr. Blessington’s room, the door
of which they found to be locked. With the help of a wire,
however, they forced round the key. Even without the lens you
will perceive, by the scratches on this ward, where the pressure
was applied.
“On entering the room their first proceeding must have been to
gag Mr. Blessington. He may have been asleep, or he may have been
so paralyzed with terror as to have been unable to cry out. These
walls are thick, and it is conceivable that his shriek, if he had
time to utter one, was unheard.
“Having secured him, it is evident to me that a consultation of
some sort was held. Probably it was something in the nature of a
judicial proceeding. It must have lasted for some time, for it
was then that these cigars were smoked. The older man sat in that
wicker chair; it was he who used the cigar-holder. The younger
man sat over yonder; he knocked his ash off against the chest of
drawers. The third fellow paced up and down. Blessington, I
think, sat upright in the bed, but of that I cannot be absolutely
certain.
“Well, it ended by their taking Blessington and hanging him. The
matter was so prearranged that it is my belief that they brought
with them some sort of block or pulley which might serve as a
gallows. That screw-driver and those screws were, as I conceive,
for fixing it up. Seeing the hook, however they naturally saved
themselves the trouble. Having finished their work they made off,
and the door was barred behind them by their confederate.”
We had all listened with the deepest interest to this sketch of
the night’s doings, which Holmes had deduced from signs so subtle
and minute that, even when he had pointed them out to us, we
could scarcely follow him in his reasoning. The inspector hurried
away on the instant to make inquiries about the page, while
Holmes and I returned to Baker Street for breakfast.
“I’ll be back by three,” said he, when we had finished our meal.
“Both the inspector and the doctor will meet me here at that
hour, and I hope by that time to have cleared up any little
obscurity which the case may still present.”
Our visitors arrived at the appointed time, but it was a quarter
to four before my friend put in an appearance. From his
expression as he entered, however, I could see that all had gone
well with him.
“Any news, Inspector?”
“We have got the boy, sir.”
“Excellent, and I have got the men.”
“You have got them!” we cried, all three.
“Well, at least I have got their identity. This so-called
Blessington is, as I expected, well known at headquarters, and so
are his assailants. Their names are Biddle, Hayward, and Moffat.”
“The Worthingdon bank gang,” cried the inspector.
“Precisely,” said Holmes.
“Then Blessington must have been Sutton.”
“Exactly,” said Holmes.
“Why, that makes it as clear as crystal,” said the inspector.
But Trevelyan and I looked at each other in bewilderment.
“You must surely remember the great Worthingdon bank business,”
said Holmes. “Five men were in it—these four and a fifth called
Cartwright. Tobin, the caretaker, was murdered, and the thieves
got away with seven thousand pounds. This was in 1875. They were
all five arrested, but the evidence against them was by no means
conclusive. This Blessington or Sutton, who was the worst of the
gang, turned informer. On his evidence Cartwright was hanged and
the other three got fifteen years apiece. When they got out the
other day, which was some years before their full term, they set
themselves, as you perceive, to hunt down the traitor and to
avenge the death of their comrade upon him. Twice they tried to
get at him and failed; a third time, you see, it came off. Is
there anything further which I can explain, Dr. Trevelyan?”
“I think you have made it all remarkably clear,” said the doctor.
“No doubt the day on which he was perturbed was the day when he
had seen of their release in the newspapers.”
“Quite so. His talk about a burglary was the merest blind.”
“But why could he not tell you this?”
“Well, my dear sir, knowing the vindictive character of his old
associates, he was trying to hide his own identity from everybody
as long as he could. His secret was a shameful one, and he could
not bring himself to divulge it. However, wretch as he was, he
was still living under the shield of British law, and I have no
doubt, Inspector, that you will see that, though that shield may
fail to guard, the sword of justice is still there to avenge.”
Such were the singular circumstances in connection with the
Resident Patient and the Brook Street Doctor. From that night
nothing has been seen of the three murderers by the police, and
it is surmised at Scotland Yard that they were among the
passengers of the ill-fated steamer _Norah Creina_, which was
lost some years ago with all hands upon the Portuguese coast,
some leagues to the north of Oporto. The proceedings against the
page broke down for want of evidence, and the Brook Street
Mystery, as it was called, has never until now been fully dealt
with in any public print.
|
ix_the_resident_patient
|
X. The Greek Interpreter
|
The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes
|
During my long and intimate acquaintance with Mr. Sherlock Holmes
I had never heard him refer to his relations, and hardly ever to
his own early life. This reticence upon his part had increased
the somewhat inhuman effect which he produced upon me, until
sometimes I found myself regarding him as an isolated phenomenon,
a brain without a heart, as deficient in human sympathy as he was
pre-eminent in intelligence. His aversion to women and his
disinclination to form new friendships were both typical of his
unemotional character, but not more so than his complete
suppression of every reference to his own people. I had come to
believe that he was an orphan with no relatives living, but one
day, to my very great surprise, he began to talk to me about his
brother.
It was after tea on a summer evening, and the conversation, which
had roamed in a desultory, spasmodic fashion from golf clubs to
the causes of the change in the obliquity of the ecliptic, came
round at last to the question of atavism and hereditary
aptitudes. The point under discussion was, how far any singular
gift in an individual was due to his ancestry and how far to his
own early training.
“In your own case,” said I, “from all that you have told me, it
seems obvious that your faculty of observation and your peculiar
facility for deduction are due to your own systematic training.”
“To some extent,” he answered, thoughtfully. “My ancestors were
country squires, who appear to have led much the same life as is
natural to their class. But, none the less, my turn that way is
in my veins, and may have come with my grandmother, who was the
sister of Vernet, the French artist. Art in the blood is liable
to take the strangest forms.”
“But how do you know that it is hereditary?”
“Because my brother Mycroft possesses it in a larger degree than
I do.”
This was news to me indeed. If there were another man with such
singular powers in England, how was it that neither police nor
public had heard of him? I put the question, with a hint that it
was my companion’s modesty which made him acknowledge his brother
as his superior. Holmes laughed at my suggestion.
“My dear Watson,” said he, “I cannot agree with those who rank
modesty among the virtues. To the logician all things should be
seen exactly as they are, and to underestimate one’s self is as
much a departure from truth as to exaggerate one’s own powers.
When I say, therefore, that Mycroft has better powers of
observation than I, you may take it that I am speaking the exact
and literal truth.”
“Is he your junior?”
“Seven years my senior.”
“How comes it that he is unknown?”
“Oh, he is very well known in his own circle.”
“Where, then?”
“Well, in the Diogenes Club, for example.”
I had never heard of the institution, and my face must have
proclaimed as much, for Sherlock Holmes pulled out his watch.
“The Diogenes Club is the queerest club in London, and Mycroft
one of the queerest men. He’s always there from quarter to five
to twenty to eight. It’s six now, so if you care for a stroll
this beautiful evening I shall be very happy to introduce you to
two curiosities.”
Five minutes later we were in the street, walking towards
Regent’s Circus.
“You wonder,” said my companion, “why it is that Mycroft does not
use his powers for detective work. He is incapable of it.”
“But I thought you said—”
“I said that he was my superior in observation and deduction. If
the art of the detective began and ended in reasoning from an
armchair, my brother would be the greatest criminal agent that
ever lived. But he has no ambition and no energy. He will not
even go out of his way to verify his own solutions, and would
rather be considered wrong than take the trouble to prove himself
right. Again and again I have taken a problem to him, and have
received an explanation which has afterwards proved to be the
correct one. And yet he was absolutely incapable of working out
the practical points which must be gone into before a case could
be laid before a judge or jury.”
“It is not his profession, then?”
“By no means. What is to me a means of livelihood is to him the
merest hobby of a dilettante. He has an extraordinary faculty for
figures, and audits the books in some of the government
departments. Mycroft lodges in Pall Mall, and he walks round the
corner into Whitehall every morning and back every evening. From
year’s end to year’s end he takes no other exercise, and is seen
nowhere else, except only in the Diogenes Club, which is just
opposite his rooms.”
“I cannot recall the name.”
“Very likely not. There are many men in London, you know, who,
some from shyness, some from misanthropy, have no wish for the
company of their fellows. Yet they are not averse to comfortable
chairs and the latest periodicals. It is for the convenience of
these that the Diogenes Club was started, and it now contains the
most unsociable and unclubable men in town. No member is
permitted to take the least notice of any other one. Save in the
Stranger’s Room, no talking is, under any circumstances, allowed,
and three offences, if brought to the notice of the committee,
render the talker liable to expulsion. My brother was one of the
founders, and I have myself found it a very soothing atmosphere.”
We had reached Pall Mall as we talked, and were walking down it
from the St. James’s end. Sherlock Holmes stopped at a door some
little distance from the Carlton, and, cautioning me not to
speak, he led the way into the hall. Through the glass paneling I
caught a glimpse of a large and luxurious room, in which a
considerable number of men were sitting about and reading papers,
each in his own little nook. Holmes showed me into a small
chamber which looked out into Pall Mall, and then, leaving me for
a minute, he came back with a companion whom I knew could only be
his brother.
Mycroft Holmes was a much larger and stouter man than Sherlock.
His body was absolutely corpulent, but his face, though massive,
had preserved something of the sharpness of expression which was
so remarkable in that of his brother. His eyes, which were of a
peculiarly light, watery grey, seemed to always retain that
far-away, introspective look which I had only observed in
Sherlock’s when he was exerting his full powers.
“I am glad to meet you, sir,” said he, putting out a broad, fat
hand like the flipper of a seal. “I hear of Sherlock everywhere
since you became his chronicler. By the way, Sherlock, I expected
to see you round last week, to consult me over that Manor House
case. I thought you might be a little out of your depth.”
“No, I solved it,” said my friend, smiling.
“It was Adams, of course.”
“Yes, it was Adams.”
“I was sure of it from the first.” The two sat down together in
the bow-window of the club. “To any one who wishes to study
mankind this is the spot,” said Mycroft. “Look at the magnificent
types! Look at these two men who are coming towards us, for
example.”
“The billiard-marker and the other?”
“Precisely. What do you make of the other?”
The two men had stopped opposite the window. Some chalk marks
over the waistcoat pocket were the only signs of billiards which
I could see in one of them. The other was a very small, dark
fellow, with his hat pushed back and several packages under his
arm.
“An old soldier, I perceive,” said Sherlock.
“And very recently discharged,” remarked the brother.
“Served in India, I see.”
“And a non-commissioned officer.”
“Royal Artillery, I fancy,” said Sherlock.
“And a widower.”
“But with a child.”
“Children, my dear boy, children.”
“Come,” said I, laughing, “this is a little too much.”
“Surely,” answered Holmes, “it is not hard to say that a man with
that bearing, expression of authority, and sunbaked skin, is a
soldier, is more than a private, and is not long from India.”
“That he has not left the service long is shown by his still
wearing his ammunition boots, as they are called,” observed
Mycroft.
“He had not the cavalry stride, yet he wore his hat on one side,
as is shown by the lighter skin of that side of his brow. His
weight is against his being a sapper. He is in the artillery.”
“Then, of course, his complete mourning shows that he has lost
some one very dear. The fact that he is doing his own shopping
looks as though it were his wife. He has been buying things for
children, you perceive. There is a rattle, which shows that one
of them is very young. The wife probably died in childbed. The
fact that he has a picture-book under his arm shows that there is
another child to be thought of.”
I began to understand what my friend meant when he said that his
brother possessed even keener faculties that he did himself. He
glanced across at me and smiled. Mycroft took snuff from a
tortoise-shell box, and brushed away the wandering grains from
his coat front with a large, red silk handkerchief.
“By the way, Sherlock,” said he, “I have had something quite
after your own heart—a most singular problem—submitted to my
judgment. I really had not the energy to follow it up save in a
very incomplete fashion, but it gave me a basis for some pleasing
speculation. If you would care to hear the facts—”
“My dear Mycroft, I should be delighted.”
The brother scribbled a note upon a leaf of his pocket-book, and,
ringing the bell, he handed it to the waiter.
“I have asked Mr. Melas to step across,” said he. “He lodges on
the floor above me, and I have some slight acquaintance with him,
which led him to come to me in his perplexity. Mr. Melas is a
Greek by extraction, as I understand, and he is a remarkable
linguist. He earns his living partly as interpreter in the law
courts and partly by acting as guide to any wealthy Orientals who
may visit the Northumberland Avenue hotels. I think I will leave
him to tell his very remarkable experience in his own fashion.”
A few minutes later we were joined by a short, stout man whose
olive face and coal-black hair proclaimed his Southern origin,
though his speech was that of an educated Englishman. He shook
hands eagerly with Sherlock Holmes, and his dark eyes sparkled
with pleasure when he understood that the specialist was anxious
to hear his story.
“I do not believe that the police credit me—on my word, I do
not,” said he in a wailing voice. “Just because they have never
heard of it before, they think that such a thing cannot be. But I
know that I shall never be easy in my mind until I know what has
become of my poor man with the sticking-plaster upon his face.”
“I am all attention,” said Sherlock Holmes.
“This is Wednesday evening,” said Mr. Melas. “Well then, it was
Monday night—only two days ago, you understand—that all this
happened. I am an interpreter, as perhaps my neighbour there has
told you. I interpret all languages—or nearly all—but as I am a
Greek by birth and with a Grecian name, it is with that
particular tongue that I am principally associated. For many
years I have been the chief Greek interpreter in London, and my
name is very well known in the hotels.
“It happens not unfrequently that I am sent for at strange hours
by foreigners who get into difficulties, or by travelers who
arrive late and wish my services. I was not surprised, therefore,
on Monday night when a Mr. Latimer, a very fashionably dressed
young man, came up to my rooms and asked me to accompany him in a
cab which was waiting at the door. A Greek friend had come to see
him upon business, he said, and as he could speak nothing but his
own tongue, the services of an interpreter were indispensable. He
gave me to understand that his house was some little distance
off, in Kensington, and he seemed to be in a great hurry,
bustling me rapidly into the cab when we had descended to the
street.
“I say into the cab, but I soon became doubtful as to whether it
was not a carriage in which I found myself. It was certainly more
roomy than the ordinary four-wheeled disgrace to London, and the
fittings, though frayed, were of rich quality. Mr. Latimer seated
himself opposite to me and we started off through Charing Cross
and up the Shaftesbury Avenue. We had come out upon Oxford Street
and I had ventured some remark as to this being a roundabout way
to Kensington, when my words were arrested by the extraordinary
conduct of my companion.
“He began by drawing a most formidable-looking bludgeon loaded
with lead from his pocket, and switching it backward and forward
several times, as if to test its weight and strength. Then he
placed it without a word upon the seat beside him. Having done
this, he drew up the windows on each side, and I found to my
astonishment that they were covered with paper so as to prevent
my seeing through them.
“‘I am sorry to cut off your view, Mr. Melas,’ said he. ‘The fact
is that I have no intention that you should see what the place is
to which we are driving. It might possibly be inconvenient to me
if you could find your way there again.’
“As you can imagine, I was utterly taken aback by such an
address. My companion was a powerful, broad-shouldered young
fellow, and, apart from the weapon, I should not have had the
slightest chance in a struggle with him.
“‘This is very extraordinary conduct, Mr. Latimer,’ I stammered.
‘You must be aware that what you are doing is quite illegal.’
“‘It is somewhat of a liberty, no doubt,’ said he, ‘but we’ll
make it up to you. I must warn you, however, Mr. Melas, that if
at any time to-night you attempt to raise an alarm or do anything
which is against my interests, you will find it a very serious
thing. I beg you to remember that no one knows where you are, and
that, whether you are in this carriage or in my house, you are
equally in my power.’
“His words were quiet, but he had a rasping way of saying them
which was very menacing. I sat in silence wondering what on earth
could be his reason for kidnapping me in this extraordinary
fashion. Whatever it might be, it was perfectly clear that there
was no possible use in my resisting, and that I could only wait
to see what might befall.
“For nearly two hours we drove without my having the least clue
as to where we were going. Sometimes the rattle of the stones
told of a paved causeway, and at others our smooth, silent course
suggested asphalt; but, save by this variation in sound, there
was nothing at all which could in the remotest way help me to
form a guess as to where we were. The paper over each window was
impenetrable to light, and a blue curtain was drawn across the
glass work in front. It was a quarter-past seven when we left
Pall Mall, and my watch showed me that it was ten minutes to nine
when we at last came to a standstill. My companion let down the
window, and I caught a glimpse of a low, arched doorway with a
lamp burning above it. As I was hurried from the carriage it
swung open, and I found myself inside the house, with a vague
impression of a lawn and trees on each side of me as I entered.
Whether these were private grounds, however, or _bonâ-fide_
country was more than I could possibly venture to say.
“There was a coloured gas-lamp inside which was turned so low
that I could see little save that the hall was of some size and
hung with pictures. In the dim light I could make out that the
person who had opened the door was a small, mean-looking,
middle-aged man with rounded shoulders. As he turned towards us
the glint of the light showed me that he was wearing glasses.
“‘Is this Mr. Melas, Harold?’ said he.
“‘Yes.’
“‘Well done, well done! No ill-will, Mr. Melas, I hope, but we
could not get on without you. If you deal fair with us you’ll not
regret it, but if you try any tricks, God help you!’
He spoke in a nervous, jerky fashion, and with little giggling
laughs in between, but somehow he impressed me with fear more
than the other.
“‘What do you want with me?’ I asked.
“‘Only to ask a few questions of a Greek gentleman who is
visiting us, and to let us have the answers. But say no more than
you are told to say, or’—here came the nervous giggle again—‘you
had better never have been born.’
“As he spoke he opened a door and showed the way into a room
which appeared to be very richly furnished, but again the only
light was afforded by a single lamp half-turned down. The chamber
was certainly large, and the way in which my feet sank into the
carpet as I stepped across it told me of its richness. I caught
glimpses of velvet chairs, a high white marble mantel-piece, and
what seemed to be a suit of Japanese armour at one side of it.
There was a chair just under the lamp, and the elderly man
motioned that I should sit in it. The younger had left us, but he
suddenly returned through another door, leading with him a
gentleman clad in some sort of loose dressing-gown who moved
slowly towards us. As he came into the circle of dim light which
enables me to see him more clearly I was thrilled with horror at
his appearance. He was deadly pale and terribly emaciated, with
the protruding, brilliant eyes of a man whose spirit was greater
than his strength. But what shocked me more than any signs of
physical weakness was that his face was grotesquely criss-crossed
with sticking-plaster, and that one large pad of it was fastened
over his mouth.
“‘Have you the slate, Harold?’ cried the older man, as this
strange being fell rather than sat down into a chair. ‘Are his
hands loose? Now, then, give him the pencil. You are to ask the
questions, Mr. Melas, and he will write the answers. Ask him
first of all whether he is prepared to sign the papers?’
“The man’s eyes flashed fire.
“‘Never!’ he wrote in Greek upon the slate.
“‘On no condition?’ I asked, at the bidding of our tyrant.
“‘Only if I see her married in my presence by a Greek priest whom
I know.’
“The man giggled in his venomous way.
“‘You know what awaits you, then?’
“‘I care nothing for myself.’
“These are samples of the questions and answers which made up our
strange half-spoken, half-written conversation. Again and again I
had to ask him whether he would give in and sign the documents.
Again and again I had the same indignant reply. But soon a happy
thought came to me. I took to adding on little sentences of my
own to each question, innocent ones at first, to test whether
either of our companions knew anything of the matter, and then,
as I found that they showed no signs I played a more dangerous
game. Our conversation ran something like this:
“‘You can do no good by this obstinacy. _Who are you?_’
“‘I care not. _I am a stranger in London._’
“‘Your fate will be upon your own head. _How long have you been
here?_’
“‘Let it be so. _Three weeks._’
“‘The property can never be yours. _What ails you?_’
“‘It shall not go to villains. _They are starving me._’
“‘You shall go free if you sign. _What house is this?_’
“‘I will never sign. _I do not know._’
“‘You are not doing her any service. _What is your name?_’
“‘Let me hear her say so. _Kratides._’
“‘You shall see her if you sign. _Where are you from?_’
“‘Then I shall never see her. _Athens._’
“Another five minutes, Mr. Holmes, and I should have wormed out
the whole story under their very noses. My very next question
might have cleared the matter up, but at that instant the door
opened and a woman stepped into the room. I could not see her
clearly enough to know more than that she was tall and graceful,
with black hair, and clad in some sort of loose white gown.
“‘Harold,’ said she, speaking English with a broken accent. ‘I
could not stay away longer. It is so lonely up there with
only—Oh, my God, it is Paul!’
“These last words were in Greek, and at the same instant the man
with a convulsive effort tore the plaster from his lips, and
screaming out ‘Sophy! Sophy!’ rushed into the woman’s arms. Their
embrace was but for an instant, however, for the younger man
seized the woman and pushed her out of the room, while the elder
easily overpowered his emaciated victim, and dragged him away
through the other door. For a moment I was left alone in the
room, and I sprang to my feet with some vague idea that I might
in some way get a clue to what this house was in which I found
myself. Fortunately, however, I took no steps, for looking up I
saw that the older man was standing in the doorway with his eyes
fixed upon me.
“‘That will do, Mr. Melas,’ said he. ‘You perceive that we have
taken you into our confidence over some very private business. We
should not have troubled you, only that our friend who speaks
Greek and who began these negotiations has been forced to return
to the East. It was quite necessary for us to find some one to
take his place, and we were fortunate in hearing of your powers.’
“I bowed.
“‘There are five sovereigns here,’ said he, walking up to me,
‘which will, I hope, be a sufficient fee. But remember,’ he
added, tapping me lightly on the chest and giggling, ‘if you
speak to a human soul about this—one human soul, mind—well, may
God have mercy upon your soul!”
“I cannot tell you the loathing and horror with which this
insignificant-looking man inspired me. I could see him better now
as the lamp-light shone upon him. His features were peaky and
sallow, and his little pointed beard was thready and
ill-nourished. He pushed his face forward as he spoke and his
lips and eyelids were continually twitching like a man with St.
Vitus’s dance. I could not help thinking that his strange, catchy
little laugh was also a symptom of some nervous malady. The
terror of his face lay in his eyes, however, steel grey, and
glistening coldly with a malignant, inexorable cruelty in their
depths.
“‘We shall know if you speak of this,’ said he. ‘We have our own
means of information. Now you will find the carriage waiting, and
my friend will see you on your way.’
“I was hurried through the hall and into the vehicle, again
obtaining that momentary glimpse of trees and a garden. Mr.
Latimer followed closely at my heels, and took his place opposite
to me without a word. In silence we again drove for an
interminable distance with the windows raised, until at last,
just after midnight, the carriage pulled up.
“‘You will get down here, Mr. Melas,’ said my companion. ‘I am
sorry to leave you so far from your house, but there is no
alternative. Any attempt upon your part to follow the carriage
can only end in injury to yourself.’
“He opened the door as he spoke, and I had hardly time to spring
out when the coachman lashed the horse and the carriage rattled
away. I looked around me in astonishment. I was on some sort of a
heathy common mottled over with dark clumps of furze-bushes. Far
away stretched a line of houses, with a light here and there in
the upper windows. On the other side I saw the red signal-lamps
of a railway.
“The carriage which had brought me was already out of sight. I
stood gazing round and wondering where on earth I might be, when
I saw some one coming towards me in the darkness. As he came up
to me I made out that he was a railway porter.
“‘Can you tell me what place this is?’ I asked.
“‘Wandsworth Common,’ said he.
“‘Can I get a train into town?’
“‘If you walk on a mile or so to Clapham Junction,’ said he,
‘you’ll just be in time for the last to Victoria.’
“So that was the end of my adventure, Mr. Holmes. I do not know
where I was, nor whom I spoke with, nor anything save what I have
told you. But I know that there is foul play going on, and I want
to help that unhappy man if I can. I told the whole story to Mr.
Mycroft Holmes next morning, and subsequently to the police.”
We all sat in silence for some little time after listening to
this extraordinary narrative. Then Sherlock looked across at his
brother.
“Any steps?” he asked.
Mycroft picked up the _Daily News_, which was lying on the
side-table.
“‘Anybody supplying any information to the whereabouts of a Greek
gentleman named Paul Kratides, from Athens, who is unable to
speak English, will be rewarded. A similar reward paid to any one
giving information about a Greek lady whose first name is Sophy.
X 2473.’ That was in all the dailies. No answer.”
“How about the Greek Legation?”
“I have inquired. They know nothing.”
“A wire to the head of the Athens police, then?”
“Sherlock has all the energy of the family,” said Mycroft,
turning to me. “Well, you take the case up by all means, and let
me know if you do any good.”
“Certainly,” answered my friend, rising from his chair. “I’ll let
you know, and Mr. Melas also. In the meantime, Mr. Melas, I
should certainly be on my guard, if I were you, for of course
they must know through these advertisements that you have
betrayed them.”
As we walked home together, Holmes stopped at a telegraph office
and sent off several wires.
“You see, Watson,” he remarked, “our evening has been by no means
wasted. Some of my most interesting cases have come to me in this
way through Mycroft. The problem which we have just listened to,
although it can admit of but one explanation, has still some
distinguishing features.”
“You have hopes of solving it?”
“Well, knowing as much as we do, it will be singular indeed if we
fail to discover the rest. You must yourself have formed some
theory which will explain the facts to which we have listened.”
“In a vague way, yes.”
“What was your idea, then?”
“It seemed to me to be obvious that this Greek girl had been
carried off by the young Englishman named Harold Latimer.”
“Carried off from where?”
“Athens, perhaps.”
Sherlock Holmes shook his head. “This young man could not talk a
word of Greek. The lady could talk English fairly well.
Inference, that she had been in England some little time, but he
had not been in Greece.”
“Well, then, we will presume that she had come on a visit to
England, and that this Harold had persuaded her to fly with him.”
“That is more probable.”
“Then the brother—for that, I fancy, must be the
relationship—comes over from Greece to interfere. He imprudently
puts himself into the power of the young man and his older
associate. They seize him and use violence towards him in order
to make him sign some papers to make over the girl’s fortune—of
which he may be trustee—to them. This he refuses to do. In order
to negotiate with him they have to get an interpreter, and they
pitch upon this Mr. Melas, having used some other one before. The
girl is not told of the arrival of her brother, and finds it out
by the merest accident.”
“Excellent, Watson!” cried Holmes. “I really fancy that you are
not far from the truth. You see that we hold all the cards, and
we have only to fear some sudden act of violence on their part.
If they give us time we must have them.”
“But how can we find where this house lies?”
“Well, if our conjecture is correct and the girl’s name is or was
Sophy Kratides, we should have no difficulty in tracing her. That
must be our main hope, for the brother is, of course, a complete
stranger. It is clear that some time has elapsed since this
Harold established these relations with the girl—some weeks, at
any rate—since the brother in Greece has had time to hear of it
and come across. If they have been living in the same place
during this time, it is probable that we shall have some answer
to Mycroft’s advertisement.”
We had reached our house in Baker Street while we had been
talking. Holmes ascended the stair first, and as he opened the
door of our room he gave a start of surprise. Looking over his
shoulder, I was equally astonished. His brother Mycroft was
sitting smoking in the armchair.
“Come in, Sherlock! Come in, sir,” said he blandly, smiling at
our surprised faces. “You don’t expect such energy from me, do
you, Sherlock? But somehow this case attracts me.”
“How did you get here?”
“I passed you in a hansom.”
“There has been some new development?”
“I had an answer to my advertisement.”
“Ah!”
“Yes, it came within a few minutes of your leaving.”
“And to what effect?”
Mycroft Holmes took out a sheet of paper.
“Here it is,” said he, “written with a J pen on royal cream paper
by a middle-aged man with a weak constitution. ‘Sir,’ he says,
‘in answer to your advertisement of to-day’s date, I beg to
inform you that I know the young lady in question very well. If
you should care to call upon me I could give you some particulars
as to her painful history. She is living at present at The
Myrtles, Beckenham. Yours faithfully, J. Davenport.’
“He writes from Lower Brixton,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Do you not
think that we might drive to him now, Sherlock, and learn these
particulars?”
“My dear Mycroft, the brother’s life is more valuable than the
sister’s story. I think we should call at Scotland Yard for
Inspector Gregson, and go straight out to Beckenham. We know that
a man is being done to death, and every hour may be vital.”
“Better pick up Mr. Melas on our way,” I suggested. “We may need
an interpreter.”
“Excellent,” said Sherlock Holmes. “Send the boy for a
four-wheeler, and we shall be off at once.” He opened the
table-drawer as he spoke, and I noticed that he slipped his
revolver into his pocket. “Yes,” said he, in answer to my glance;
“I should say from what we have heard, that we are dealing with a
particularly dangerous gang.”
It was almost dark before we found ourselves in Pall Mall, at the
rooms of Mr. Melas. A gentleman had just called for him, and he
was gone.
“Can you tell me where?” asked Mycroft Holmes.
“I don’t know, sir,” answered the woman who had opened the door;
“I only know that he drove away with the gentleman in a
carriage.”
“Did the gentleman give a name?”
“No, sir.”
“He wasn’t a tall, handsome, dark young man?”
“Oh, no, sir. He was a little gentleman, with glasses, thin in
the face, but very pleasant in his ways, for he was laughing all
the time that he was talking.”
“Come along!” cried Sherlock Holmes, abruptly. “This grows
serious,” he observed, as we drove to Scotland Yard. “These men
have got hold of Melas again. He is a man of no physical courage,
as they are well aware from their experience the other night.
This villain was able to terrorise him the instant that he got
into his presence. No doubt they want his professional services,
but, having used him, they may be inclined to punish him for what
they will regard as his treachery.”
Our hope was that, by taking train, we might get to Beckenham as
soon or sooner than the carriage. On reaching Scotland Yard,
however, it was more than an hour before we could get Inspector
Gregson and comply with the legal formalities which would enable
us to enter the house. It was a quarter to ten before we reached
London Bridge, and half past before the four of us alighted on
the Beckenham platform. A drive of half a mile brought us to The
Myrtles—a large, dark house standing back from the road in its
own grounds. Here we dismissed our cab, and made our way up the
drive together.
“The windows are all dark,” remarked the inspector. “The house
seems deserted.”
“Our birds are flown and the nest empty,” said Holmes.
“Why do you say so?”
“A carriage heavily loaded with luggage has passed out during the
last hour.”
The inspector laughed. “I saw the wheel-tracks in the light of
the gate-lamp, but where does the luggage come in?”
“You may have observed the same wheel-tracks going the other way.
But the outward-bound ones were very much deeper—so much so that
we can say for a certainty that there was a very considerable
weight on the carriage.”
“You get a trifle beyond me there,” said the inspector, shrugging
his shoulder. “It will not be an easy door to force, but we will
try if we cannot make some one hear us.”
He hammered loudly at the knocker and pulled at the bell, but
without any success. Holmes had slipped away, but he came back in
a few minutes.
“I have a window open,” said he.
“It is a mercy that you are on the side of the force, and not
against it, Mr. Holmes,” remarked the inspector, as he noted the
clever way in which my friend had forced back the catch. “Well, I
think that under the circumstances we may enter without an
invitation.”
One after the other we made our way into a large apartment, which
was evidently that in which Mr. Melas had found himself. The
inspector had lit his lantern, and by its light we could see the
two doors, the curtain, the lamp, and the suit of Japanese mail
as he had described them. On the table lay two glasses, and empty
brandy-bottle, and the remains of a meal.
“What is that?” asked Holmes, suddenly.
We all stood still and listened. A low moaning sound was coming
from somewhere over our heads. Holmes rushed to the door and out
into the hall. The dismal noise came from upstairs. He dashed up,
the inspector and I at his heels, while his brother Mycroft
followed as quickly as his great bulk would permit.
Three doors faced up upon the second floor, and it was from the
central of these that the sinister sounds were issuing, sinking
sometimes into a dull mumble and rising again into a shrill
whine. It was locked, but the key had been left on the outside.
Holmes flung open the door and rushed in, but he was out again in
an instant, with his hand to his throat.
“It’s charcoal,” he cried. “Give it time. It will clear.”
Peering in, we could see that the only light in the room came
from a dull blue flame which flickered from a small brass tripod
in the centre. It threw a livid, unnatural circle upon the floor,
while in the shadows beyond we saw the vague loom of two figures
which crouched against the wall. From the open door there reeked
a horrible poisonous exhalation which set us gasping and
coughing. Holmes rushed to the top of the stairs to draw in the
fresh air, and then, dashing into the room, he threw up the
window and hurled the brazen tripod out into the garden.
“We can enter in a minute,” he gasped, darting out again. “Where
is a candle? I doubt if we could strike a match in that
atmosphere. Hold the light at the door and we shall get them out,
Mycroft, now!”
With a rush we got to the poisoned men and dragged them out into
the well-lit hall. Both of them were blue-lipped and insensible,
with swollen, congested faces and protruding eyes. Indeed, so
distorted were their features that, save for his black beard and
stout figure, we might have failed to recognise in one of them
the Greek interpreter who had parted from us only a few hours
before at the Diogenes Club. His hands and feet were securely
strapped together, and he bore over one eye the marks of a
violent blow. The other, who was secured in a similar fashion,
was a tall man in the last stage of emaciation, with several
strips of sticking-plaster arranged in a grotesque pattern over
his face. He had ceased to moan as we laid him down, and a glance
showed me that for him at least our aid had come too late. Mr.
Melas, however, still lived, and in less than an hour, with the
aid of ammonia and brandy I had the satisfaction of seeing him
open his eyes, and of knowing that my hand had drawn him back
from that dark valley in which all paths meet.
It was a simple story which he had to tell, and one which did but
confirm our own deductions. His visitor, on entering his rooms,
had drawn a life-preserver from his sleeve, and had so impressed
him with the fear of instant and inevitable death that he had
kidnapped him for the second time. Indeed, it was almost
mesmeric, the effect which this giggling ruffian had produced
upon the unfortunate linguist, for he could not speak of him save
with trembling hands and a blanched cheek. He had been taken
swiftly to Beckenham, and had acted as interpreter in a second
interview, even more dramatic than the first, in which the two
Englishmen had menaced their prisoner with instant death if he
did not comply with their demands. Finally, finding him proof
against every threat, they had hurled him back into his prison,
and after reproaching Melas with his treachery, which appeared
from the newspaper advertisement, they had stunned him with a
blow from a stick, and he remembered nothing more until he found
us bending over him.
And this was the singular case of the Grecian Interpreter, the
explanation of which is still involved in some mystery. We were
able to find out, by communicating with the gentleman who had
answered the advertisement, that the unfortunate young lady came
of a wealthy Grecian family, and that she had been on a visit to
some friends in England. While there she had met a young man
named Harold Latimer, who had acquired an ascendancy over her and
had eventually persuaded her to fly with him. Her friends,
shocked at the event, had contented themselves with informing her
brother at Athens, and had then washed their hands of the matter.
The brother, on his arrival in England, had imprudently placed
himself in the power of Latimer and of his associate, whose name
was Wilson Kemp—a man of the foulest antecedents. These two,
finding that through his ignorance of the language he was
helpless in their hands, had kept him a prisoner, and had
endeavoured by cruelty and starvation to make him sign away his
own and his sister’s property. They had kept him in the house
without the girl’s knowledge, and the plaster over the face had
been for the purpose of making recognition difficult in case she
should ever catch a glimpse of him. Her feminine perception,
however, had instantly seen through the disguise when, on the
occasion of the interpreter’s visit, she had seen him for the
first time. The poor girl, however, was herself a prisoner, for
there was no one about the house except the man who acted as
coachman, and his wife, both of whom were tools of the
conspirators. Finding that their secret was out, and that their
prisoner was not to be coerced, the two villains with the girl
had fled away at a few hours’ notice from the furnished house
which they had hired, having first, as they thought, taken
vengeance both upon the man who had defied and the one who had
betrayed them.
Months afterwards a curious newspaper cutting reached us from
Buda-Pesth. It told how two Englishmen who had been traveling
with a woman had met with a tragic end. They had each been
stabbed, it seems, and the Hungarian police were of opinion that
they had quarreled and had inflicted mortal injuries upon each
other. Holmes, however, is, I fancy, of a different way of
thinking, and holds to this day that, if one could find the
Grecian girl, one might learn how the wrongs of herself and her
brother came to be avenged.
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x_the_greek_interpreter
|
XI. The Naval Treaty
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The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes
|
The July which immediately succeeded my marriage was made
memorable by three cases of interest, in which I had the
privilege of being associated with Sherlock Holmes and of
studying his methods. I find them recorded in my notes under the
headings of “The Adventure of the Second Stain,” “The Adventure
of the Naval Treaty,” and “The Adventure of the Tired Captain.”
The first of these, however, deals with interest of such
importance and implicates so many of the first families in the
kingdom that for many years it will be impossible to make it
public. No case, however, in which Holmes was engaged has ever
illustrated the value of his analytical methods so clearly or has
impressed those who were associated with him so deeply. I still
retain an almost verbatim report of the interview in which he
demonstrated the true facts of the case to Monsieur Dubuque of
the Paris police, and Fritz von Waldbaum, the well-known
specialist of Dantzig, both of whom had wasted their energies
upon what proved to be side-issues. The new century will have
come, however, before the story can be safely told. Meanwhile I
pass on to the second on my list, which promised also at one time
to be of national importance, and was marked by several incidents
which give it a quite unique character.
During my school-days I had been intimately associated with a lad
named Percy Phelps, who was of much the same age as myself,
though he was two classes ahead of me. He was a very brilliant
boy, and carried away every prize which the school had to offer,
finished his exploits by winning a scholarship which sent him on
to continue his triumphant career at Cambridge. He was, I
remember, extremely well connected, and even when we were all
little boys together we knew that his mother’s brother was Lord
Holdhurst, the great conservative politician. This gaudy
relationship did him little good at school. On the contrary, it
seemed rather a piquant thing to us to chevy him about the
playground and hit him over the shins with a wicket. But it was
another thing when he came out into the world. I heard vaguely
that his abilities and the influences which he commanded had won
him a good position at the Foreign Office, and then he passed
completely out of my mind until the following letter recalled his
existence:
Briarbrae, Woking.
My dear Watson,—I have no doubt that you can remember
“Tadpole” Phelps, who was in the fifth form when you were in
the third. It is possible even that you may have heard that
through my uncle’s influence I obtained a good appointment at
the Foreign Office, and that I was in a situation of trust
and honour until a horrible misfortune came suddenly to blast
my career.
There is no use writing of the details of that dreadful
event. In the event of your acceding to my request it is
probable that I shall have to narrate them to you. I have
only just recovered from nine weeks of brain-fever, and am
still exceedingly weak. Do you think that you could bring
your friend Mr. Holmes down to see me? I should like to have
his opinion of the case, though the authorities assure me
that nothing more can be done. Do try to bring him down, and
as soon as possible. Every minute seems an hour while I live
in this state of horrible suspense. Assure him that if I have
not asked his advice sooner it was not because I did not
appreciate his talents, but because I have been off my head
ever since the blow fell. Now I am clear again, though I dare
not think of it too much for fear of a relapse. I am still so
weak that I have to write, as you see, by dictating. Do try
to bring him.
Your old schoolfellow,
Percy Phelps.
There was something that touched me as I read this letter,
something pitiable in the reiterated appeals to bring Holmes. So
moved was I that even had it been a difficult matter I should
have tried it, but of course I knew well that Holmes loved his
art, so that he was ever as ready to bring his aid as his client
could be to receive it. My wife agreed with me that not a moment
should be lost in laying the matter before him, and so within an
hour of breakfast-time I found myself back once more in the old
rooms in Baker Street.
Holmes was seated at his side-table clad in his dressing-gown,
and working hard over a chemical investigation. A large curved
retort was boiling furiously in the bluish flame of a Bunsen
burner, and the distilled drops were condensing into a two-litre
measure. My friend hardly glanced up as I entered, and I, seeing
that his investigation must be of importance, seated myself in an
armchair and waited. He dipped into this bottle or that, drawing
out a few drops of each with his glass pipette, and finally
brought a test-tube containing a solution over to the table. In
his right hand he held a slip of litmus-paper.
“You come at a crisis, Watson,” said he. “If this paper remains
blue, all is well. If it turns red, it means a man’s life.” He
dipped it into the test-tube and it flushed at once into a dull,
dirty crimson. “Hum! I thought as much!” he cried. “I will be at
your service in an instant, Watson. You will find tobacco in the
Persian slipper.” He turned to his desk and scribbled off several
telegrams, which were handed over to the page-boy. Then he threw
himself down into the chair opposite, and drew up his knees until
his fingers clasped round his long, thin shins.
“A very commonplace little murder,” said he. “You’ve got
something better, I fancy. You are the stormy petrel of crime,
Watson. What is it?”
I handed him the letter, which he read with the most concentrated
attention.
“It does not tell us very much, does it?” he remarked, as he
handed it back to me.
“Hardly anything.”
“And yet the writing is of interest.”
“But the writing is not his own.”
“Precisely. It is a woman’s.”
“A man’s surely,” I cried.
“No, a woman’s, and a woman of rare character. You see, at the
commencement of an investigation it is something to know that
your client is in close contact with some one who, for good or
evil, has an exceptional nature. My interest is already awakened
in the case. If you are ready we will start at once for Woking,
and see this diplomatist who is in such evil case, and the lady
to whom he dictates his letters.”
We were fortunate enough to catch an early train at Waterloo, and
in a little under an hour we found ourselves among the fir-woods
and the heather of Woking. Briarbrae proved to be a large
detached house standing in extensive grounds within a few
minutes’ walk of the station. On sending in our cards we were
shown into an elegantly appointed drawing-room, where we were
joined in a few minutes by a rather stout man who received us
with much hospitality. His age may have been nearer forty than
thirty, but his cheeks were so ruddy and his eyes so merry that
he still conveyed the impression of a plump and mischievous boy.
“I am so glad that you have come,” said he, shaking our hands
with effusion. “Percy has been inquiring for you all morning. Ah,
poor old chap, he clings to any straw! His father and his mother
asked me to see you, for the mere mention of the subject is very
painful to them.”
“We have had no details yet,” observed Holmes. “I perceive that
you are not yourself a member of the family.”
Our acquaintance looked surprised, and then, glancing down, he
began to laugh.
“Of course you saw the ‘J.H.’ monogram on my locket,” said he.
“For a moment I thought you had done something clever. Joseph
Harrison is my name, and as Percy is to marry my sister Annie I
shall at least be a relation by marriage. You will find my sister
in his room, for she has nursed him hand-and-foot this two months
back. Perhaps we’d better go in at once, for I know how impatient
he is.”
The chamber in which we were shown was on the same floor as the
drawing-room. It was furnished partly as a sitting and partly as
a bedroom, with flowers arranged daintily in every nook and
corner. A young man, very pale and worn, was lying upon a sofa
near the open window, through which came the rich scent of the
garden and the balmy summer air. A woman was sitting beside him,
who rose as we entered.
“Shall I leave, Percy?” she asked.
He clutched her hand to detain her. “How are you, Watson?” said
he, cordially. “I should never have known you under that
moustache, and I daresay you would not be prepared to swear to
me. This I presume is your celebrated friend, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes?”
I introduced him in a few words, and we both sat down. The stout
young man had left us, but his sister still remained with her
hand in that of the invalid. She was a striking-looking woman, a
little short and thick for symmetry, but with a beautiful olive
complexion, large, dark, Italian eyes, and a wealth of deep black
hair. Her rich tints made the white face of her companion the
more worn and haggard by the contrast.
“I won’t waste your time,” said he, raising himself upon the
sofa. “I’ll plunge into the matter without further preamble. I
was a happy and successful man, Mr. Holmes, and on the eve of
being married, when a sudden and dreadful misfortune wrecked all
my prospects in life.
“I was, as Watson may have told you, in the Foreign Office, and
through the influences of my uncle, Lord Holdhurst, I rose
rapidly to a responsible position. When my uncle became foreign
minister in this administration he gave me several missions of
trust, and as I always brought them to a successful conclusion,
he came at last to have the utmost confidence in my ability and
tact.
“Nearly ten weeks ago—to be more accurate, on the 23rd of May—he
called me into his private room, and, after complimenting me on
the good work which I had done, he informed me that he had a new
commission of trust for me to execute.
“‘This,’ said he, taking a grey roll of paper from his bureau,
‘is the original of that secret treaty between England and Italy
of which, I regret to say, some rumours have already got into the
public press. It is of enormous importance that nothing further
should leak out. The French or the Russian embassy would pay an
immense sum to learn the contents of these papers. They should
not leave my bureau were it not that it is absolutely necessary
to have them copied. You have a desk in your office?’
“‘Yes, sir.’
“‘Then take the treaty and lock it up there. I shall give
directions that you may remain behind when the others go, so that
you may copy it at your leisure without fear of being overlooked.
When you have finished, relock both the original and the draft in
the desk, and hand them over to me personally to-morrow morning.’
“I took the papers and—”
“Excuse me an instant,” said Holmes. “Were you alone during this
conversation?”
“Absolutely.”
“In a large room?”
“Thirty feet each way.”
“In the centre?”
“Yes, about it.”
“And speaking low?”
“My uncle’s voice is always remarkably low. I hardly spoke at
all.”
“Thank you,” said Holmes, shutting his eyes; “pray go on.”
“I did exactly what he indicated, and waited until the other
clerks had departed. One of them in my room, Charles Gorot, had
some arrears of work to make up, so I left him there and went out
to dine. When I returned he was gone. I was anxious to hurry my
work, for I knew that Joseph—the Mr. Harrison whom you saw just
now—was in town, and that he would travel down to Woking by the
eleven o’clock train, and I wanted if possible to catch it.
“When I came to examine the treaty I saw at once that it was of
such importance that my uncle had been guilty of no exaggeration
in what he had said. Without going into details, I may say that
it defined the position of Great Britain towards the Triple
Alliance, and fore-shadowed the policy which this country would
pursue in the event of the French fleet gaining a complete
ascendancy over that of Italy in the Mediterranean. The questions
treated in it were purely naval. At the end were the signatures
of the high dignitaries who had signed it. I glanced my eyes over
it, and then settled down to my task of copying.
“It was a long document, written in the French language, and
containing twenty-six separate articles. I copied as quickly as I
could, but at nine o’clock I had only done nine articles, and it
seemed hopeless for me to attempt to catch my train. I was
feeling drowsy and stupid, partly from my dinner and also from
the effects of a long day’s work. A cup of coffee would clear my
brain. A commissionnaire remains all night in a little lodge at
the foot of the stairs, and is in the habit of making coffee at
his spirit-lamp for any of the officials who may be working over
time. I rang the bell, therefore, to summon him.
“To my surprise, it was a woman who answered the summons, a
large, coarse-faced, elderly woman, in an apron. She explained
that she was the commissionnaire’s wife, who did the charing, and
I gave her the order for the coffee.
“I wrote two more articles and then, feeling more drowsy than
ever, I rose and walked up and down the room to stretch my legs.
My coffee had not yet come, and I wondered what the cause of the
delay could be. Opening the door, I started down the corridor to
find out. There was a straight passage, dimly lighted, which led
from the room in which I had been working, and was the only exit
from it. It ended in a curving staircase, with the
commissionnaire’s lodge in the passage at the bottom. Half-way
down this staircase is a small landing, with another passage
running into it at right angles. This second one leads by means
of a second small stair to a side door, used by servants, and
also as a short cut by clerks when coming from Charles Street.
Here is a rough chart of the place.”
rough chart
“Thank you. I think that I quite follow you,” said Sherlock
Holmes.
“It is of the utmost importance that you should notice this
point. I went down the stairs and into the hall, where I found
the commissionnaire fast asleep in his box, with the kettle
boiling furiously upon the spirit-lamp. I took off the kettle and
blew out the lamp, for the water was spurting over the floor.
Then I put out my hand and was about to shake the man, who was
still sleeping soundly, when a bell over his head rang loudly,
and he woke with a start.
“‘Mr. Phelps, sir!’ said he, looking at me in bewilderment.
“‘I came down to see if my coffee was ready.’
“‘I was boiling the kettle when I fell asleep, sir.’ He looked at
me and then up at the still quivering bell with an ever-growing
astonishment upon his face.
“‘If you was here, sir, then who rang the bell?’ he asked.
“‘The bell!’ I cried. ‘What bell is it?’
“‘It’s the bell of the room you were working in.’
“A cold hand seemed to close round my heart. Some one, then, was
in that room where my precious treaty lay upon the table. I ran
frantically up the stairs and along the passage. There was no one
in the corridors, Mr. Holmes. There was no one in the room. All
was exactly as I left it, save only that the papers which had
been committed to my care had been taken from the desk on which
they lay. The copy was there, and the original was gone.”
Holmes sat up in his chair and rubbed his hands. I could see that
the problem was entirely to his heart. “Pray, what did you do
then?” he murmured.
“I recognised in an instant that the thief must have come up the
stairs from the side door. Of course I must have met him if he
had come the other way.”
“You were satisfied that he could not have been concealed in the
room all the time, or in the corridor which you have just
described as dimly lighted?”
“It is absolutely impossible. A rat could not conceal himself
either in the room or the corridor. There is no cover at all.”
“Thank you. Pray proceed.”
“The commissionnaire, seeing by my pale face that something was
to be feared, had followed me upstairs. Now we both rushed along
the corridor and down the steep steps which led to Charles
Street. The door at the bottom was closed, but unlocked. We flung
it open and rushed out. I can distinctly remember that as we did
so there came three chimes from a neighbouring clock. It was
quarter to ten.”
“That is of enormous importance,” said Holmes, making a note upon
his shirt-cuff.
“The night was very dark, and a thin, warm rain was falling.
There was no one in Charles Street, but a great traffic was going
on, as usual, in Whitehall, at the extremity. We rushed along the
pavement, bare-headed as we were, and at the far corner we found
a policeman standing.
“‘A robbery has been committed,’ I gasped. ‘A document of immense
value has been stolen from the Foreign Office. Has any one passed
this way?’
“‘I have been standing here for a quarter of an hour, sir,’ said
he; ‘only one person has passed during that time—a woman, tall
and elderly, with a Paisley shawl.’
“‘Ah, that is only my wife,’ cried the commissionnaire; ‘has no
one else passed?’
“‘No one.’
“‘Then it must be the other way that the thief took,’ cried the
fellow, tugging at my sleeve.
“‘But I was not satisfied, and the attempts which he made to draw
me away increased my suspicions.
“‘Which way did the woman go?’ I cried.
“‘I don’t know, sir. I noticed her pass, but I had no special
reason for watching her. She seemed to be in a hurry.’
“‘How long ago was it?’
“‘Oh, not very many minutes.’
“‘Within the last five?’
“‘Well, it could not be more than five.’
“‘You’re only wasting your time, sir, and every minute now is of
importance,’ cried the commissionnaire; ‘take my word for it that
my old woman has nothing to do with it, and come down to the
other end of the street. Well, if you won’t, I will.’ And with
that he rushed off in the other direction.
“But I was after him in an instant and caught him by the sleeve.
“‘Where do you live?’ said I.
“‘16 Ivy Lane, Brixton,’ he answered. ‘But don’t let yourself be
drawn away upon a false scent, Mr. Phelps. Come to the other end
of the street and let us see if we can hear of anything.’
“Nothing was to be lost by following his advice. With the
policeman we both hurried down, but only to find the street full
of traffic, many people coming and going, but all only too eager
to get to a place of safety upon so wet a night. There was no
lounger who could tell us who had passed.
“Then we returned to the office, and searched the stairs and the
passage without result. The corridor which led to the room was
laid down with a kind of creamy linoleum which shows an
impression very easily. We examined it very carefully, but found
no outline of any footmark.”
“Had it been raining all evening?”
“Since about seven.”
“How is it, then, that the woman who came into the room about
nine left no traces with her muddy boots?”
“I am glad you raised the point. It occurred to me at the time.
The charwomen are in the habit of taking off their boots at the
commissionnaire’s office, and putting on list slippers.”
“That is very clear. There were no marks, then, though the night
was a wet one? The chain of events is certainly one of
extraordinary interest. What did you do next?
“We examined the room also. There is no possibility of a secret
door, and the windows are quite thirty feet from the ground. Both
of them were fastened on the inside. The carpet prevents any
possibility of a trap-door, and the ceiling is of the ordinary
whitewashed kind. I will pledge my life that whoever stole my
papers could only have come through the door.”
“How about the fireplace?”
“They use none. There is a stove. The bell-rope hangs from the
wire just to the right of my desk. Whoever rang it must have come
right up to the desk to do it. But why should any criminal wish
to ring the bell? It is a most insoluble mystery.”
“Certainly the incident was unusual. What were your next steps?
You examined the room, I presume, to see if the intruder had left
any traces—any cigar-end or dropped glove or hairpin or other
trifle?”
“There was nothing of the sort.”
“No smell?”
“Well, we never thought of that.”
“Ah, a scent of tobacco would have been worth a great deal to us
in such an investigation.”
“I never smoke myself, so I think I should have observed it if
there had been any smell of tobacco. There was absolutely no clue
of any kind. The only tangible fact was that the
commissionnaire’s wife—Mrs. Tangey was the name—had hurried out
of the place. He could give no explanation save that it was about
the time when the woman always went home. The policeman and I
agreed that our best plan would be to seize the woman before she
could get rid of the papers, presuming that she had them.
“The alarm had reached Scotland Yard by this time, and Mr.
Forbes, the detective, came round at once and took up the case
with a great deal of energy. We hired a hansom, and in half an
hour we were at the address which had been given to us. A young
woman opened the door, who proved to be Mrs. Tangey’s eldest
daughter. Her mother had not come back yet, and we were shown
into the front room to wait.
“About ten minutes later a knock came at the door, and here we
made the one serious mistake for which I blame myself. Instead of
opening the door ourselves, we allowed the girl to do so. We
heard her say, ‘Mother, there are two men in the house waiting to
see you,’ and an instant afterwards we heard the patter of feet
rushing down the passage. Forbes flung open the door, and we both
ran into the back room or kitchen, but the woman had got there
before us. She stared at us with defiant eyes, and then, suddenly
recognising me, an expression of absolute astonishment came over
her face.
“‘Why, if it isn’t Mr. Phelps, of the office!’ she cried.
“‘Come, come, who did you think we were when you ran away from
us?’ asked my companion.
“‘I thought you were the brokers,’ said she, ‘we have had some
trouble with a tradesman.’
“‘That’s not quite good enough,’ answered Forbes. ‘We have reason
to believe that you have taken a paper of importance from the
Foreign Office, and that you ran in here to dispose of it. You
must come back with us to Scotland Yard to be searched.’
“It was in vain that she protested and resisted. A four-wheeler
was brought, and we all three drove back in it. We had first made
an examination of the kitchen, and especially of the kitchen
fire, to see whether she might have made away with the papers
during the instant that she was alone. There were no signs,
however, of any ashes or scraps. When we reached Scotland Yard
she was handed over at once to the female searcher. I waited in
an agony of suspense until she came back with her report. There
were no signs of the papers.
“Then for the first time the horror of my situation came in its
full force. Hitherto I had been acting, and action had numbed
thought. I had been so confident of regaining the treaty at once
that I had not dared to think of what would be the consequence if
I failed to do so. But now there was nothing more to be done, and
I had leisure to realize my position. It was horrible. Watson
there would tell you that I was a nervous, sensitive boy at
school. It is my nature. I thought of my uncle and of his
colleagues in the Cabinet, of the shame which I had brought upon
him, upon myself, upon every one connected with me. What though I
was the victim of an extraordinary accident? No allowance is made
for accidents where diplomatic interests are at stake. I was
ruined, shamefully, hopelessly ruined. I don’t know what I did. I
fancy I must have made a scene. I have a dim recollection of a
group of officials who crowded round me, endeavouring to soothe
me. One of them drove down with me to Waterloo, and saw me into
the Woking train. I believe that he would have come all the way
had it not been that Dr. Ferrier, who lives near me, was going
down by that very train. The doctor most kindly took charge of
me, and it was well he did so, for I had a fit in the station,
and before we reached home I was practically a raving maniac.
“You can imagine the state of things here when they were roused
from their beds by the doctor’s ringing and found me in this
condition. Poor Annie here and my mother were broken-hearted. Dr.
Ferrier had just heard enough from the detective at the station
to be able to give an idea of what had happened, and his story
did not mend matters. It was evident to all that I was in for a
long illness, so Joseph was bundled out of this cheery bedroom,
and it was turned into a sick-room for me. Here I have lain, Mr.
Holmes, for over nine weeks, unconscious, and raving with
brain-fever. If it had not been for Miss Harrison here and for
the doctor’s care I should not be speaking to you now. She has
nursed me by day and a hired nurse has looked after me by night,
for in my mad fits I was capable of anything. Slowly my reason
has cleared, but it is only during the last three days that my
memory has quite returned. Sometimes I wish that it never had.
The first thing that I did was to wire to Mr. Forbes, who had the
case in hand. He came out, and assures me that, though everything
has been done, no trace of a clue has been discovered. The
commissionnaire and his wife have been examined in every way
without any light being thrown upon the matter. The suspicions of
the police then rested upon young Gorot, who, as you may
remember, stayed over time in the office that night. His
remaining behind and his French name were really the only two
points which could suggest suspicion; but, as a matter of fact, I
did not begin work until he had gone, and his people are of
Huguenot extraction, but as English in sympathy and tradition as
you and I are. Nothing was found to implicate him in any way, and
there the matter dropped. I turn to you, Mr. Holmes, as
absolutely my last hope. If you fail me, then my honour as well
as my position are forever forfeited.”
The invalid sank back upon his cushions, tired out by this long
recital, while his nurse poured him out a glass of some
stimulating medicine. Holmes sat silently, with his head thrown
back and his eyes closed, in an attitude which might seem
listless to a stranger, but which I knew betokened the most
intense self-absorption.
“You statement has been so explicit,” said he at last, “that you
have really left me very few questions to ask. There is one of
the very utmost importance, however. Did you tell any one that
you had this special task to perform?”
“No one.”
“Not Miss Harrison here, for example?”
“No. I had not been back to Woking between getting the order and
executing the commission.”
“And none of your people had by chance been to see you?”
“None.”
“Did any of them know their way about in the office?”
“Oh, yes, all of them had been shown over it.”
“Still, of course, if you said nothing to any one about the
treaty these inquiries are irrelevant.”
“I said nothing.”
“Do you know anything of the commissionnaire?”
“Nothing except that he is an old soldier.”
“What regiment?”
“Oh, I have heard—Coldstream Guards.”
“Thank you. I have no doubt I can get details from Forbes. The
authorities are excellent at amassing facts, though they do not
always use them to advantage. What a lovely thing a rose is!”
He walked past the couch to the open window, and held up the
drooping stalk of a moss-rose, looking down at the dainty blend
of crimson and green. It was a new phase of his character to me,
for I had never before seen him show any keen interest in natural
objects.
“There is nothing in which deduction is so necessary as in
religion,” said he, leaning with his back against the shutters.
“It can be built up as an exact science by the reasoner. Our
highest assurance of the goodness of Providence seems to me to
rest in the flowers. All other things, our powers our desires,
our food, are all really necessary for our existence in the first
instance. But this rose is an extra. Its smell and its colour are
an embellishment of life, not a condition of it. It is only
goodness which gives extras, and so I say again that we have much
to hope from the flowers.”
Percy Phelps and his nurse looked at Holmes during this
demonstration with surprise and a good deal of disappointment
written upon their faces. He had fallen into a reverie, with the
moss-rose between his fingers. It had lasted some minutes before
the young lady broke in upon it.
“Do you see any prospect of solving this mystery, Mr. Holmes?”
she asked, with a touch of asperity in her voice.
“Oh, the mystery!” he answered, coming back with a start to the
realities of life. “Well, it would be absurd to deny that the
case is a very abstruse and complicated one, but I can promise
you that I will look into the matter and let you know any points
which may strike me.”
“Do you see any clue?”
“You have furnished me with seven, but, of course, I must test
them before I can pronounce upon their value.”
“You suspect some one?”
“I suspect myself.”
“What!”
“Of coming to conclusions too rapidly.”
“Then go to London and test your conclusions.”
“Your advice is very excellent, Miss Harrison,” said Holmes,
rising. “I think, Watson, we cannot do better. Do not allow
yourself to indulge in false hopes, Mr. Phelps. The affair is a
very tangled one.”
“I shall be in a fever until I see you again,” cried the
diplomatist.
“Well, I’ll come out by the same train to-morrow, though it’s
more than likely that my report will be a negative one.”
“God bless you for promising to come,” cried our client. “It
gives me fresh life to know that something is being done. By the
way, I have had a letter from Lord Holdhurst.”
“Ha! What did he say?”
“He was cold, but not harsh. I daresay my severe illness
prevented him from being that. He repeated that the matter was of
the utmost importance, and added that no steps would be taken
about my future—by which he means, of course, my dismissal—until
my health was restored and I had an opportunity of repairing my
misfortune.”
“Well, that was reasonable and considerate,” said Holmes. “Come,
Watson, for we have a good day’s work before us in town.”
Mr. Joseph Harrison drove us down to the station, and we were
soon whirling up in a Portsmouth train. Holmes was sunk in
profound thought, and hardly opened his mouth until we had passed
Clapham Junction.
“It’s a very cheery thing to come into London by any of these
lines which run high, and allow you to look down upon the houses
like this.”
I thought he was joking, for the view was sordid enough, but he
soon explained himself.
“Look at those big, isolated clumps of building rising up above
the slates, like brick islands in a lead-coloured sea.”
“The board-schools.”
“Light-houses, my boy! Beacons of the future! Capsules with
hundreds of bright little seeds in each, out of which will spring
the wise, better England of the future. I suppose that man Phelps
does not drink?”
“I should not think so.”
“Nor should I, but we are bound to take every possibility into
account. The poor devil has certainly got himself into very deep
water, and it’s a question whether we shall ever be able to get
him ashore. What did you think of Miss Harrison?”
“A girl of strong character.”
“Yes, but she is a good sort, or I am mistaken. She and her
brother are the only children of an iron-master somewhere up
Northumberland way. He got engaged to her when traveling last
winter, and she came down to be introduced to his people, with
her brother as escort. Then came the smash, and she stayed on to
nurse her lover, while brother Joseph, finding himself pretty
snug, stayed on too. I’ve been making a few independent
inquiries, you see. But to-day must be a day of inquiries.”
“My practice—” I began.
“Oh, if you find your own cases more interesting than mine—” said
Holmes, with some asperity.
“I was going to say that my practice could get along very well
for a day or two, since it is the slackest time in the year.”
“Excellent,” said he, recovering his good-humour. “Then we’ll
look into this matter together. I think that we should begin by
seeing Forbes. He can probably tell us all the details we want
until we know from what side the case is to be approached.”
“You said you had a clue?”
“Well, we have several, but we can only test their value by
further inquiry. The most difficult crime to track is the one
which is purposeless. Now this is not purposeless. Who is it who
profits by it? There is the French ambassador, there is the
Russian, there is whoever might sell it to either of these, and
there is Lord Holdhurst.”
“Lord Holdhurst!”
“Well, it is just conceivable that a statesman might find himself
in a position where he was not sorry to have such a document
accidentally destroyed.”
“Not a statesman with the honourable record of Lord Holdhurst?”
“It is a possibility and we cannot afford to disregard it. We
shall see the noble lord to-day and find out if he can tell us
anything. Meanwhile I have already set inquiries on foot.”
“Already?”
“Yes, I sent wires from Woking station to every evening paper in
London. This advertisement will appear in each of them.”
He handed over a sheet torn from a note-book. On it was scribbled
in pencil:
“£10 Reward.—The number of the cab which dropped a fare at or
about the door of the Foreign Office in Charles Street at quarter
to ten in the evening of May 23rd. Apply 221B, Baker Street.”
“You are confident that the thief came in a cab?”
“If not, there is no harm done. But if Mr. Phelps is correct in
stating that there is no hiding-place either in the room or the
corridors, then the person must have come from outside. If he
came from outside on so wet a night, and yet left no trace of
damp upon the linoleum, which was examined within a few minutes
of his passing, then it is exceeding probable that he came in a
cab. Yes, I think that we may safely deduce a cab.”
“It sounds plausible.”
“That is one of the clues of which I spoke. It may lead us to
something. And then, of course, there is the bell—which is the
most distinctive feature of the case. Why should the bell ring?
Was it the thief who did it out of bravado? Or was it some one
who was with the thief who did it in order to prevent the crime?
Or was it an accident? Or was it—?” He sank back into the state
of intense and silent thought from which he had emerged; but it
seemed to me, accustomed as I was to his every mood, that some
new possibility had dawned suddenly upon him.
It was twenty past three when we reached our terminus, and after
a hasty luncheon at the buffet we pushed on at once to Scotland
Yard. Holmes had already wired to Forbes, and we found him
waiting to receive us—a small, foxy man with a sharp but by no
means amiable expression. He was decidedly frigid in his manner
to us, especially when he heard the errand upon which we had
come.
“I’ve heard of your methods before now, Mr. Holmes,” said he,
tartly. “You are ready enough to use all the information that the
police can lay at your disposal, and then you try to finish the
case yourself and bring discredit on them.”
“On the contrary,” said Holmes, “out of my last fifty-three cases
my name has only appeared in four, and the police have had all
the credit in forty-nine. I don’t blame you for not knowing this,
for you are young and inexperienced, but if you wish to get on in
your new duties you will work with me and not against me.”
“I’d be very glad of a hint or two,” said the detective, changing
his manner. “I’ve certainly had no credit from the case so far.”
“What steps have you taken?”
“Tangey, the commissionnaire, has been shadowed. He left the
Guards with a good character and we can find nothing against him.
His wife is a bad lot, though. I fancy she knows more about this
than appears.”
“Have you shadowed her?”
“We have set one of our women on to her. Mrs. Tangey drinks, and
our woman has been with her twice when she was well on, but she
could get nothing out of her.”
“I understand that they have had brokers in the house?”
“Yes, but they were paid off.”
“Where did the money come from?”
“That was all right. His pension was due. They have not shown any
sign of being in funds.”
“What explanation did she give of having answered the bell when
Mr. Phelps rang for the coffee?”
“She said that her husband was very tired and she wished to
relieve him.”
“Well, certainly that would agree with his being found a little
later asleep in his chair. There is nothing against them then but
the woman’s character. Did you ask her why she hurried away that
night? Her haste attracted the attention of the police
constable.”
“She was later than usual and wanted to get home.”
“Did you point out to her that you and Mr. Phelps, who started at
least twenty minutes after her, got home before her?”
“She explains that by the difference between a ‘bus and a
hansom.”
“Did she make it clear why, on reaching her house, she ran into
the back kitchen?”
“Because she had the money there with which to pay off the
brokers.”
“She has at least an answer for everything. Did you ask her
whether in leaving she met any one or saw any one loitering about
Charles Street?”
“She saw no one but the constable.”
“Well, you seem to have cross-examined her pretty thoroughly.
What else have you done?”
“The clerk Gorot has been shadowed all these nine weeks, but
without result. We can show nothing against him.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, we have nothing else to go upon—no evidence of any kind.”
“Have you formed a theory about how that bell rang?”
“Well, I must confess that it beats me. It was a cool hand,
whoever it was, to go and give the alarm like that.”
“Yes, it was a queer thing to do. Many thanks to you for what you
have told me. If I can put the man into your hands you shall hear
from me. Come along, Watson.”
“Where are we going to now?” I asked, as we left the office.
“We are now going to interview Lord Holdhurst, the cabinet
minister and future premier of England.”
We were fortunate in finding that Lord Holdhurst was still in his
chambers in Downing Street, and on Holmes sending in his card we
were instantly shown up. The statesman received us with that
old-fashioned courtesy for which he is remarkable, and seated us
on the two luxuriant lounges on either side of the fireplace.
Standing on the rug between us, with his slight, tall figure, his
sharp features, thoughtful face, and curling hair prematurely
tinged with grey, he seemed to represent that not too common
type, a nobleman who is in truth noble.
“Your name is very familiar to me, Mr. Holmes,” said he, smiling.
“And, of course, I cannot pretend to be ignorant of the object of
your visit. There has only been one occurrence in these offices
which could call for your attention. In whose interest are you
acting, may I ask?”
“In that of Mr. Percy Phelps,” answered Holmes.
“Ah, my unfortunate nephew! You can understand that our kinship
makes it the more impossible for me to screen him in any way. I
fear that the incident must have a very prejudicial effect upon
his career.”
“But if the document is found?”
“Ah, that, of course, would be different.”
“I had one or two questions which I wished to ask you, Lord
Holdhurst.”
“I shall be happy to give you any information in my power.”
“Was it in this room that you gave your instructions as to the
copying of the document?”
“It was.”
“Then you could hardly have been overheard?”
“It is out of the question.”
“Did you ever mention to any one that it was your intention to
give any one the treaty to be copied?”
“Never.”
“You are certain of that?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, since you never said so, and Mr. Phelps never said so, and
nobody else knew anything of the matter, then the thief’s
presence in the room was purely accidental. He saw his chance and
he took it.”
The statesman smiled. “You take me out of my province there,”
said he.
Holmes considered for a moment. “There is another very important
point which I wish to discuss with you,” said he. “You feared, as
I understand, that very grave results might follow from the
details of this treaty becoming known.”
A shadow passed over the expressive face of the statesman. “Very
grave results indeed.”
“And have they occurred?”
“Not yet.”
“If the treaty had reached, let us say, the French or Russian
Foreign Office, you would expect to hear of it?”
“I should,” said Lord Holdhurst, with a wry face.
“Since nearly ten weeks have elapsed, then, and nothing has been
heard, it is not unfair to suppose that for some reason the
treaty has not reached them.”
Lord Holdhurst shrugged his shoulders.
“We can hardly suppose, Mr. Holmes, that the thief took the
treaty in order to frame it and hang it up.”
“Perhaps he is waiting for a better price.”
“If he waits a little longer he will get no price at all. The
treaty will cease to be secret in a few months.”
“That is most important,” said Holmes. “Of course, it is a
possible supposition that the thief has had a sudden illness—”
“An attack of brain-fever, for example?” asked the statesman,
flashing a swift glance at him.
“I did not say so,” said Holmes, imperturbably. “And now, Lord
Holdhurst, we have already taken up too much of your valuable
time, and we shall wish you good-day.”
“Every success to your investigation, be the criminal who it
may,” answered the nobleman, as he bowed us out the door.
“He’s a fine fellow,” said Holmes, as we came out into Whitehall.
“But he has a struggle to keep up his position. He is far from
rich and has many calls. You noticed, of course, that his boots
had been resoled. Now, Watson, I won’t detain you from your
legitimate work any longer. I shall do nothing more to-day,
unless I have an answer to my cab advertisement. But I should be
extremely obliged to you if you would come down with me to Woking
to-morrow, by the same train which we took yesterday.”
I met him accordingly next morning and we travelled down to
Woking together. He had had no answer to his advertisement, he
said, and no fresh light had been thrown upon the case. He had,
when he so willed it, the utter immobility of countenance of a
red Indian, and I could not gather from his appearance whether he
was satisfied or not with the position of the case. His
conversation, I remember, was about the Bertillon system of
measurements, and he expressed his enthusiastic admiration of the
French savant.
We found our client still under the charge of his devoted nurse,
but looking considerably better than before. He rose from the
sofa and greeted us without difficulty when we entered.
“Any news?” he asked, eagerly.
“My report, as I expected, is a negative one,” said Holmes. “I
have seen Forbes, and I have seen your uncle, and I have set one
or two trains of inquiry upon foot which may lead to something.”
“You have not lost heart, then?”
“By no means.”
“God bless you for saying that!” cried Miss Harrison. “If we keep
our courage and our patience the truth must come out.”
“We have more to tell you than you have for us,” said Phelps,
reseating himself upon the couch.
“I hoped you might have something.”
“Yes, we have had an adventure during the night, and one which
might have proved to be a serious one.” His expression grew very
grave as he spoke, and a look of something akin to fear sprang up
in his eyes. “Do you know,” said he, “that I begin to believe
that I am the unconscious centre of some monstrous conspiracy,
and that my life is aimed at as well as my honour?”
“Ah!” cried Holmes.
“It sounds incredible, for I have not, as far as I know, an enemy
in the world. Yet from last night’s experience I can come to no
other conclusion.”
“Pray let me hear it.”
“You must know that last night was the very first night that I
have ever slept without a nurse in the room. I was so much better
that I thought I could dispense with one. I had a night-light
burning, however. Well, about two in the morning I had sunk into
a light sleep when I was suddenly aroused by a slight noise. It
was like the sound which a mouse makes when it is gnawing a
plank, and I lay listening to it for some time under the
impression that it must come from that cause. Then it grew
louder, and suddenly there came from the window a sharp metallic
snick. I sat up in amazement. There could be no doubt what the
sounds were now. The first ones had been caused by some one
forcing an instrument through the slit between the sashes, and
the second by the catch being pressed back.
“There was a pause then for about ten minutes, as if the person
were waiting to see whether the noise had awakened me. Then I
heard a gentle creaking as the window was very slowly opened. I
could stand it no longer, for my nerves are not what they used to
be. I sprang out of bed and flung open the shutters. A man was
crouching at the window. I could see little of him, for he was
gone like a flash. He was wrapped in some sort of cloak which
came across the lower part of his face. One thing only I am sure
of, and that is that he had some weapon in his hand. It looked to
me like a long knife. I distinctly saw the gleam of it as he
turned to run.”
“This is most interesting,” said Holmes. “Pray what did you do
then?”
“I should have followed him through the open window if I had been
stronger. As it was, I rang the bell and roused the house. It
took me some little time, for the bell rings in the kitchen and
the servants all sleep upstairs. I shouted, however, and that
brought Joseph down, and he roused the others. Joseph and the
groom found marks on the bed outside the window, but the weather
has been so dry lately that they found it hopeless to follow the
trail across the grass. There’s a place, however, on the wooden
fence which skirts the road which shows signs, they tell me, as
if some one had got over, and had snapped the top of the rail in
doing so. I have said nothing to the local police yet, for I
thought I had best have your opinion first.”
This tale of our client’s appeared to have an extraordinary
effect upon Sherlock Holmes. He rose from his chair and paced
about the room in uncontrollable excitement.
“Misfortunes never come single,” said Phelps, smiling, though it
was evident that his adventure had somewhat shaken him.
“You have certainly had your share,” said Holmes. “Do you think
you could walk round the house with me?”
“Oh, yes, I should like a little sunshine. Joseph will come,
too.”
“And I also,” said Miss Harrison.
“I am afraid not,” said Holmes, shaking his head. “I think I must
ask you to remain sitting exactly where you are.”
The young lady resumed her seat with an air of displeasure. Her
brother, however, had joined us and we set off all four together.
We passed round the lawn to the outside of the young
diplomatist’s window. There were, as he had said, marks upon the
bed, but they were hopelessly blurred and vague. Holmes stopped
over them for an instant, and then rose shrugging his shoulders.
“I don’t think any one could make much of this,” said he. “Let us
go round the house and see why this particular room was chosen by
the burglar. I should have thought those larger windows of the
drawing-room and dining-room would have had more attractions for
him.”
“They are more visible from the road,” suggested Mr. Joseph
Harrison.
“Ah, yes, of course. There is a door here which he might have
attempted. What is it for?”
“It is the side entrance for trades-people. Of course it is
locked at night.”
“Have you ever had an alarm like this before?”
“Never,” said our client.
“Do you keep plate in the house, or anything to attract
burglars?”
“Nothing of value.”
Holmes strolled round the house with his hands in his pockets and
a negligent air which was unusual with him.
“By the way,” said he to Joseph Harrison, “you found some place,
I understand, where the fellow scaled the fence. Let us have a
look at that!”
The plump young man led us to a spot where the top of one of the
wooden rails had been cracked. A small fragment of the wood was
hanging down. Holmes pulled it off and examined it critically.
“Do you think that was done last night? It looks rather old, does
it not?”
“Well, possibly so.”
“There are no marks of any one jumping down upon the other side.
No, I fancy we shall get no help here. Let us go back to the
bedroom and talk the matter over.”
Percy Phelps was walking very slowly, leaning upon the arm of his
future brother-in-law. Holmes walked swiftly across the lawn, and
we were at the open window of the bedroom long before the others
came up.
“Miss Harrison,” said Holmes, speaking with the utmost intensity
of manner, “you must stay where you are all day. Let nothing
prevent you from staying where you are all day. It is of the
utmost importance.”
“Certainly, if you wish it, Mr. Holmes,” said the girl in
astonishment.
“When you go to bed lock the door of this room on the outside and
keep the key. Promise to do this.”
“But Percy?”
“He will come to London with us.”
“And am I to remain here?”
“It is for his sake. You can serve him. Quick! Promise!”
She gave a quick nod of assent just as the other two came up.
“Why do you sit moping there, Annie?” cried her brother. “Come
out into the sunshine!”
“No, thank you, Joseph. I have a slight headache and this room is
deliciously cool and soothing.”
“What do you propose now, Mr. Holmes?” asked our client.
“Well, in investigating this minor affair we must not lose sight
of our main inquiry. It would be a very great help to me if you
would come up to London with us.”
“At once?”
“Well, as soon as you conveniently can. Say in an hour.”
“I feel quite strong enough, if I can really be of any help.”
“The greatest possible.”
“Perhaps you would like me to stay there to-night?”
“I was just going to propose it.”
“Then, if my friend of the night comes to revisit me, he will
find the bird flown. We are all in your hands, Mr. Holmes, and
you must tell us exactly what you would like done. Perhaps you
would prefer that Joseph came with us so as to look after me?”
“Oh, no; my friend Watson is a medical man, you know, and he’ll
look after you. We’ll have our lunch here, if you will permit us,
and then we shall all three set off for town together.”
It was arranged as he suggested, though Miss Harrison excused
herself from leaving the bedroom, in accordance with Holmes’s
suggestion. What the object of my friend’s manœuvres was I could
not conceive, unless it were to keep the lady away from Phelps,
who, rejoiced by his returning health and by the prospect of
action, lunched with us in the dining-room. Holmes had a still
more startling surprise for us, however, for, after accompanying
us down to the station and seeing us into our carriage, he calmly
announced that he had no intention of leaving Woking.
“There are one or two small points which I should desire to clear
up before I go,” said he. “Your absence, Mr. Phelps, will in some
ways rather assist me. Watson, when you reach London you would
oblige me by driving at once to Baker Street with our friend
here, and remaining with him until I see you again. It is
fortunate that you are old schoolfellows, as you must have much
to talk over. Mr. Phelps can have the spare bedroom to-night, and
I will be with you in time for breakfast, for there is a train
which will take me into Waterloo at eight.”
“But how about our investigation in London?” asked Phelps,
ruefully.
“We can do that to-morrow. I think that just at present I can be
of more immediate use here.”
“You might tell them at Briarbrae that I hope to be back
to-morrow night,” cried Phelps, as we began to move from the
platform.
“I hardly expect to go back to Briarbrae,” answered Holmes, and
waved his hand to us cheerily as we shot out from the station.
Phelps and I talked it over on our journey, but neither of us
could devise a satisfactory reason for this new development.
“I suppose he wants to find out some clue as to the burglary last
night, if a burglar it was. For myself, I don’t believe it was an
ordinary thief.”
“What is your own idea, then?”
“Upon my word, you may put it down to my weak nerves or not, but
I believe there is some deep political intrigue going on around
me, and that for some reason that passes my understanding my life
is aimed at by the conspirators. It sounds high-flown and absurd,
but consider the facts! Why should a thief try to break in at a
bedroom window, where there could be no hope of any plunder, and
why should he come with a long knife in his hand?”
“You are sure it was not a house-breaker’s jimmy?”
“Oh, no, it was a knife. I saw the flash of the blade quite
distinctly.”
“But why on earth should you be pursued with such animosity?”
“Ah, that is the question.”
“Well, if Holmes takes the same view, that would account for his
action, would it not? Presuming that your theory is correct, if
he can lay his hands upon the man who threatened you last night
he will have gone a long way towards finding who took the naval
treaty. It is absurd to suppose that you have two enemies, one of
whom robs you, while the other threatens your life.”
“But Holmes said that he was not going to Briarbrae.”
“I have known him for some time,” said I, “but I never knew him
do anything yet without a very good reason,” and with that our
conversation drifted off on to other topics.
But it was a weary day for me. Phelps was still weak after his
long illness, and his misfortune made him querulous and nervous.
In vain I endeavoured to interest him in Afghanistan, in India,
in social questions, in anything which might take his mind out of
the groove. He would always come back to his lost treaty,
wondering, guessing, speculating, as to what Holmes was doing,
what steps Lord Holdhurst was taking, what news we should have in
the morning. As the evening wore on his excitement became quite
painful.
“You have implicit faith in Holmes?” he asked.
“I have seen him do some remarkable things.”
“But he never brought light into anything quite so dark as this?”
“Oh, yes; I have known him solve questions which presented fewer
clues than yours.”
“But not where such large interests are at stake?”
“I don’t know that. To my certain knowledge he has acted on
behalf of three of the reigning houses of Europe in very vital
matters.”
“But you know him well, Watson. He is such an inscrutable fellow
that I never quite know what to make of him. Do you think he is
hopeful? Do you think he expects to make a success of it?”
“He has said nothing.”
“That is a bad sign.”
“On the contrary, I have noticed that when he is off the trail he
generally says so. It is when he is on a scent and is not quite
absolutely sure yet that it is the right one that he is most
taciturn. Now, my dear fellow, we can’t help matters by making
ourselves nervous about them, so let me implore you to go to bed
and so be fresh for whatever may await us to-morrow.”
I was able at last to persuade my companion to take my advice,
though I knew from his excited manner that there was not much
hope of sleep for him. Indeed, his mood was infectious, for I lay
tossing half the night myself, brooding over this strange
problem, and inventing a hundred theories, each of which was more
impossible than the last. Why had Holmes remained at Woking? Why
had he asked Miss Harrison to remain in the sick-room all day?
Why had he been so careful not to inform the people at Briarbrae
that he intended to remain near them? I cudgelled my brains until
I fell asleep in the endeavour to find some explanation which
would cover all these facts.
It was seven o’clock when I awoke, and I set off at once for
Phelps’s room, to find him haggard and spent after a sleepless
night. His first question was whether Holmes had arrived yet.
“He’ll be here when he promised,” said I, “and not an instant
sooner or later.”
And my words were true, for shortly after eight a hansom dashed
up to the door and our friend got out of it. Standing in the
window we saw that his left hand was swathed in a bandage and
that his face was very grim and pale. He entered the house, but
it was some little time before he came upstairs.
“He looks like a beaten man,” cried Phelps.
I was forced to confess that he was right. “After all,” said I,
“the clue of the matter lies probably here in town.”
Phelps gave a groan.
“I don’t know how it is,” said he, “but I had hoped for so much
from his return. But surely his hand was not tied up like that
yesterday. What can be the matter?”
“You are not wounded, Holmes?” I asked, as my friend entered the
room.
“Tut, it is only a scratch through my own clumsiness,” he
answered, nodding his good-mornings to us. “This case of yours,
Mr. Phelps, is certainly one of the darkest which I have ever
investigated.”
“I feared that you would find it beyond you.”
“It has been a most remarkable experience.”
“That bandage tells of adventures,” said I. “Won’t you tell us
what has happened?”
“After breakfast, my dear Watson. Remember that I have breathed
thirty miles of Surrey air this morning. I suppose that there has
been no answer from my cabman advertisement? Well, well, we
cannot expect to score every time.”
The table was all laid, and just as I was about to ring Mrs.
Hudson entered with the tea and coffee. A few minutes later she
brought in three covers, and we all drew up to the table, Holmes
ravenous, I curious, and Phelps in the gloomiest state of
depression.
“Mrs. Hudson has risen to the occasion,” said Holmes, uncovering
a dish of curried chicken. “Her cuisine is a little limited, but
she has as good an idea of breakfast as a Scotch-woman. What have
you here, Watson?”
“Ham and eggs,” I answered.
“Good! What are you going to take, Mr. Phelps—curried fowl or
eggs, or will you help yourself?”
“Thank you. I can eat nothing,” said Phelps.
“Oh, come! Try the dish before you.”
“Thank you, I would really rather not.”
“Well, then,” said Holmes, with a mischievous twinkle, “I suppose
that you have no objection to helping me?”
Phelps raised the cover, and as he did so he uttered a scream,
and sat there staring with a face as white as the plate upon
which he looked. Across the centre of it was lying a little
cylinder of blue-grey paper. He caught it up, devoured it with
his eyes, and then danced madly about the room, pressing it to
his bosom and shrieking out in his delight. Then he fell back
into an armchair so limp and exhausted with his own emotions that
we had to pour brandy down his throat to keep him from fainting.
“There! there!” said Holmes, soothing, patting him upon the
shoulder. “It was too bad to spring it on you like this, but
Watson here will tell you that I never can resist a touch of the
dramatic.”
Phelps seized his hand and kissed it. “God bless you!” he cried.
“You have saved my honour.”
“Well, my own was at stake, you know,” said Holmes. “I assure you
it is just as hateful to me to fail in a case as it can be to you
to blunder over a commission.”
Phelps thrust away the precious document into the innermost
pocket of his coat.
“I have not the heart to interrupt your breakfast any further,
and yet I am dying to know how you got it and where it was.”
Sherlock Holmes swallowed a cup of coffee, and turned his
attention to the ham and eggs. Then he rose, lit his pipe, and
settled himself down into his chair.
“I’ll tell you what I did first, and how I came to do it
afterwards,” said he. “After leaving you at the station I went
for a charming walk through some admirable Surrey scenery to a
pretty little village called Ripley, where I had my tea at an
inn, and took the precaution of filling my flask and of putting a
paper of sandwiches in my pocket. There I remained until evening,
when I set off for Woking again, and found myself in the
high-road outside Briarbrae just after sunset.
“Well, I waited until the road was clear—it is never a very
frequented one at any time, I fancy—and then I clambered over the
fence into the grounds.”
“Surely the gate was open!” ejaculated Phelps.
“Yes, but I have a peculiar taste in these matters. I chose the
place where the three fir-trees stand, and behind their screen I
got over without the least chance of any one in the house being
able to see me. I crouched down among the bushes on the other
side, and crawled from one to the other—witness the disreputable
state of my trouser knees—until I had reached the clump of
rhododendrons just opposite to your bedroom window. There I
squatted down and awaited developments.
“The blind was not down in your room, and I could see Miss
Harrison sitting there reading by the table. It was quarter-past
ten when she closed her book, fastened the shutters, and retired.
“I heard her shut the door, and felt quite sure that she had
turned the key in the lock.”
“The key!” ejaculated Phelps.
“Yes; I had given Miss Harrison instructions to lock the door on
the outside and take the key with her when she went to bed. She
carried out every one of my injunctions to the letter, and
certainly without her co-operation you would not have that paper
in your coat-pocket. She departed then and the lights went out,
and I was left squatting in the rhododendron-bush.
“The night was fine, but still it was a very weary vigil. Of
course it has the sort of excitement about it that the sportsman
feels when he lies beside the water-course and waits for the big
game. It was very long, though—almost as long, Watson, as when
you and I waited in that deadly room when we looked into the
little problem of the Speckled Band. There was a church-clock
down at Woking which struck the quarters, and I thought more than
once that it had stopped. At last however about two in the
morning, I suddenly heard the gentle sound of a bolt being pushed
back and the creaking of a key. A moment later the servants’ door
was opened, and Mr. Joseph Harrison stepped out into the
moonlight.”
“Joseph!” ejaculated Phelps.
“He was bare-headed, but he had a black coat thrown over his
shoulder so that he could conceal his face in an instant if there
were any alarm. He walked on tiptoe under the shadow of the wall,
and when he reached the window he worked a long-bladed knife
through the sash and pushed back the catch. Then he flung open
the window, and putting his knife through the crack in the
shutters, he thrust the bar up and swung them open.
“From where I lay I had a perfect view of the inside of the room
and of every one of his movements. He lit the two candles which
stood upon the mantelpiece, and then he proceeded to turn back
the corner of the carpet in the neighbourhood of the door.
Presently he stopped and picked out a square piece of board, such
as is usually left to enable plumbers to get at the joints of the
gas-pipes. This one covered, as a matter of fact, the T joint
which gives off the pipe which supplies the kitchen underneath.
Out of this hiding-place he drew that little cylinder of paper,
pushed down the board, rearranged the carpet, blew out the
candles, and walked straight into my arms as I stood waiting for
him outside the window.
“Well, he has rather more viciousness than I gave him credit for,
has Master Joseph. He flew at me with his knife, and I had to
grasp him twice, and got a cut over the knuckles, before I had
the upper hand of him. He looked murder out of the only eye he
could see with when we had finished, but he listened to reason
and gave up the papers. Having got them I let my man go, but I
wired full particulars to Forbes this morning. If he is quick
enough to catch his bird, well and good. But if, as I shrewdly
suspect, he finds the nest empty before he gets there, why, all
the better for the government. I fancy that Lord Holdhurst for
one, and Mr. Percy Phelps for another, would very much rather
that the affair never got as far as a police-court.
“My God!” gasped our client. “Do you tell me that during these
long ten weeks of agony the stolen papers were within the very
room with me all the time?”
“So it was.”
“And Joseph! Joseph a villain and a thief!”
“Hum! I am afraid Joseph’s character is a rather deeper and more
dangerous one than one might judge from his appearance. From what
I have heard from him this morning, I gather that he has lost
heavily in dabbling with stocks, and that he is ready to do
anything on earth to better his fortunes. Being an absolutely
selfish man, when a chance presented itself he did not allow
either his sister’s happiness or your reputation to hold his
hand.”
Percy Phelps sank back in his chair. “My head whirls,” said he.
“Your words have dazed me.”
“The principal difficulty in your case,” remarked Holmes, in his
didactic fashion, “lay in the fact of there being too much
evidence. What was vital was overlaid and hidden by what was
irrelevant. Of all the facts which were presented to us we had to
pick just those which we deemed to be essential, and then piece
them together in their order, so as to reconstruct this very
remarkable chain of events. I had already begun to suspect
Joseph, from the fact that you had intended to travel home with
him that night, and that therefore it was a likely enough thing
that he should call for you, knowing the Foreign Office well,
upon his way. When I heard that some one had been so anxious to
get into the bedroom, in which no one but Joseph could have
concealed anything—you told us in your narrative how you had
turned Joseph out when you arrived with the doctor—my suspicions
all changed to certainties, especially as the attempt was made on
the first night upon which the nurse was absent, showing that the
intruder was well acquainted with the ways of the house.”
“How blind I have been!”
“The facts of the case, as far as I have worked them out, are
these: this Joseph Harrison entered the office through the
Charles Street door, and knowing his way he walked straight into
your room the instant after you left it. Finding no one there he
promptly rang the bell, and at the instant that he did so his
eyes caught the paper upon the table. A glance showed him that
chance had put in his way a State document of immense value, and
in an instant he had thrust it into his pocket and was gone. A
few minutes elapsed, as you remember, before the sleepy
commissionnaire drew your attention to the bell, and those were
just enough to give the thief time to make his escape.
“He made his way to Woking by the first train, and having
examined his booty and assured himself that it really was of
immense value, he had concealed it in what he thought was a very
safe place, with the intention of taking it out again in a day or
two, and carrying it to the French embassy, or wherever he
thought that a long price was to be had. Then came your sudden
return. He, without a moment’s warning, was bundled out of his
room, and from that time onward there were always at least two of
you there to prevent him from regaining his treasure. The
situation to him must have been a maddening one. But at last he
thought he saw his chance. He tried to steal in, but was baffled
by your wakefulness. You remember that you did not take your
usual draught that night.”
“I remember.”
“I fancy that he had taken steps to make that draught
efficacious, and that he quite relied upon your being
unconscious. Of course, I understood that he would repeat the
attempt whenever it could be done with safety. Your leaving the
room gave him the chance he wanted. I kept Miss Harrison in it
all day so that he might not anticipate us. Then, having given
him the idea that the coast was clear, I kept guard as I have
described. I already knew that the papers were probably in the
room, but I had no desire to rip up all the planking and skirting
in search of them. I let him take them, therefore, from the
hiding-place, and so saved myself an infinity of trouble. Is
there any other point which I can make clear?”
“Why did he try the window on the first occasion,” I asked, “when
he might have entered by the door?”
“In reaching the door he would have to pass seven bedrooms. On
the other hand, he could get out on to the lawn with ease.
Anything else?”
“You do not think,” asked Phelps, “that he had any murderous
intention? The knife was only meant as a tool.”
“It may be so,” answered Holmes, shrugging his shoulders. “I can
only say for certain that Mr. Joseph Harrison is a gentleman to
whose mercy I should be extremely unwilling to trust.”
|
xi_the_naval_treaty
|
XII. The Final Problem
|
The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes
|
It is with a heavy heart that I take up my pen to write these the
last words in which I shall ever record the singular gifts by
which my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes was distinguished. In an
incoherent and, as I deeply feel, an entirely inadequate fashion,
I have endeavoured to give some account of my strange experiences
in his company from the chance which first brought us together at
the period of the “Study in Scarlet,” up to the time of his
interference in the matter of the “Naval Treaty”—an interference
which had the unquestionable effect of preventing a serious
international complication. It was my intention to have stopped
there, and to have said nothing of that event which has created a
void in my life which the lapse of two years has done little to
fill. My hand has been forced, however, by the recent letters in
which Colonel James Moriarty defends the memory of his brother,
and I have no choice but to lay the facts before the public
exactly as they occurred. I alone know the absolute truth of the
matter, and I am satisfied that the time has come when no good
purpose is to be served by its suppression. As far as I know,
there have been only three accounts in the public press: that in
the _Journal de Genève_ on May 6th, 1891, the Reuter’s despatch
in the English papers on May 7th, and finally the recent letter
to which I have alluded. Of these the first and second were
extremely condensed, while the last is, as I shall now show, an
absolute perversion of the facts. It lies with me to tell for the
first time what really took place between Professor Moriarty and
Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
It may be remembered that after my marriage, and my subsequent
start in private practice, the very intimate relations which had
existed between Holmes and myself became to some extent modified.
He still came to me from time to time when he desired a companion
in his investigation, but these occasions grew more and more
seldom, until I find that in the year 1890 there were only three
cases of which I retain any record. During the winter of that
year and the early spring of 1891, I saw in the papers that he
had been engaged by the French government upon a matter of
supreme importance, and I received two notes from Holmes, dated
from Narbonne and from Nimes, from which I gathered that his stay
in France was likely to be a long one. It was with some surprise,
therefore, that I saw him walk into my consulting-room upon the
evening of the 24th of April. It struck me that he was looking
even paler and thinner than usual.
“Yes, I have been using myself up rather too freely,” he
remarked, in answer to my look rather than to my words; “I have
been a little pressed of late. Have you any objection to my
closing your shutters?”
The only light in the room came from the lamp upon the table at
which I had been reading. Holmes edged his way round the wall and
flinging the shutters together, he bolted them securely.
“You are afraid of something?” I asked.
“Well, I am.”
“Of what?”
“Of air-guns.”
“My dear Holmes, what do you mean?”
“I think that you know me well enough, Watson, to understand that
I am by no means a nervous man. At the same time, it is stupidity
rather than courage to refuse to recognise danger when it is
close upon you. Might I trouble you for a match?” He drew in the
smoke of his cigarette as if the soothing influence was grateful
to him.
“I must apologise for calling so late,” said he, “and I must
further beg you to be so unconventional as to allow me to leave
your house presently by scrambling over your back garden wall.”
“But what does it all mean?” I asked.
He held out his hand, and I saw in the light of the lamp that two
of his knuckles were burst and bleeding.
“It is not an airy nothing, you see,” said he, smiling. “On the
contrary, it is solid enough for a man to break his hand over. Is
Mrs. Watson in?”
“She is away upon a visit.”
“Indeed! You are alone?”
“Quite.”
“Then it makes it the easier for me to propose that you should
come away with me for a week to the Continent.”
“Where?”
“Oh, anywhere. It’s all the same to me.”
There was something very strange in all this. It was not Holmes’s
nature to take an aimless holiday, and something about his pale,
worn face told me that his nerves were at their highest tension.
He saw the question in my eyes, and, putting his finger-tips
together and his elbows upon his knees, he explained the
situation.
“You have probably never heard of Professor Moriarty?” said he.
“Never.”
“Aye, there’s the genius and the wonder of the thing!” he cried.
“The man pervades London, and no one has heard of him. That’s
what puts him on a pinnacle in the records of crime. I tell you,
Watson, in all seriousness, that if I could beat that man, if I
could free society of him, I should feel that my own career had
reached its summit, and I should be prepared to turn to some more
placid line in life. Between ourselves, the recent cases in which
I have been of assistance to the royal family of Scandinavia, and
to the French republic, have left me in such a position that I
could continue to live in the quiet fashion which is most
congenial to me, and to concentrate my attention upon my chemical
researches. But I could not rest, Watson, I could not sit quiet
in my chair, if I thought that such a man as Professor Moriarty
were walking the streets of London unchallenged.”
“What has he done, then?”
“His career has been an extraordinary one. He is a man of good
birth and excellent education, endowed by nature with a
phenomenal mathematical faculty. At the age of twenty-one he
wrote a treatise upon the Binomial Theorem, which has had a
European vogue. On the strength of it he won the Mathematical
Chair at one of our smaller universities, and had, to all
appearances, a most brilliant career before him. But the man had
hereditary tendencies of the most diabolical kind. A criminal
strain ran in his blood, which, instead of being modified, was
increased and rendered infinitely more dangerous by his
extraordinary mental powers. Dark rumours gathered round him in
the university town, and eventually he was compelled to resign
his chair and to come down to London, where he set up as an Army
coach. So much is known to the world, but what I am telling you
now is what I have myself discovered.
“As you are aware, Watson, there is no one who knows the higher
criminal world of London so well as I do. For years past I have
continually been conscious of some power behind the malefactor,
some deep organizing power which forever stands in the way of the
law, and throws its shield over the wrong-doer. Again and again
in cases of the most varying sorts—forgery cases, robberies,
murders—I have felt the presence of this force, and I have
deduced its action in many of those undiscovered crimes in which
I have not been personally consulted. For years I have
endeavoured to break through the veil which shrouded it, and at
last the time came when I seized my thread and followed it, until
it led me, after a thousand cunning windings, to ex-Professor
Moriarty of mathematical celebrity.
“He is the Napoleon of crime, Watson. He is the organizer of half
that is evil and of nearly all that is undetected in this great
city. He is a genius, a philosopher, an abstract thinker. He has
a brain of the first order. He sits motionless, like a spider in
the centre of its web, but that web has a thousand radiations,
and he knows well every quiver of each of them. He does little
himself. He only plans. But his agents are numerous and
splendidly organized. Is there a crime to be done, a paper to be
abstracted, we will say, a house to be rifled, a man to be
removed—the word is passed to the Professor, the matter is
organized and carried out. The agent may be caught. In that case
money is found for his bail or his defence. But the central power
which uses the agent is never caught—never so much as suspected.
This was the organization which I deduced, Watson, and which I
devoted my whole energy to exposing and breaking up.
“But the Professor was fenced round with safeguards so cunningly
devised that, do what I would, it seemed impossible to get
evidence which would convict in a court of law. You know my
powers, my dear Watson, and yet at the end of three months I was
forced to confess that I had at last met an antagonist who was my
intellectual equal. My horror at his crimes was lost in my
admiration at his skill. But at last he made a trip—only a
little, little trip—but it was more than he could afford when I
was so close upon him. I had my chance, and, starting from that
point, I have woven my net round him until now it is all ready to
close. In three days—that is to say, on Monday next—matters will
be ripe, and the Professor, with all the principal members of his
gang, will be in the hands of the police. Then will come the
greatest criminal trial of the century, the clearing up of over
forty mysteries, and the rope for all of them; but if we move at
all prematurely, you understand, they may slip out of our hands
even at the last moment.
“Now, if I could have done this without the knowledge of
Professor Moriarty, all would have been well. But he was too wily
for that. He saw every step which I took to draw my toils round
him. Again and again he strove to break away, but I as often
headed him off. I tell you, my friend, that if a detailed account
of that silent contest could be written, it would take its place
as the most brilliant bit of thrust-and-parry work in the history
of detection. Never have I risen to such a height, and never have
I been so hard pressed by an opponent. He cut deep, and yet I
just undercut him. This morning the last steps were taken, and
three days only were wanted to complete the business. I was
sitting in my room thinking the matter over, when the door opened
and Professor Moriarty stood before me.
“My nerves are fairly proof, Watson, but I must confess to a
start when I saw the very man who had been so much in my thoughts
standing there on my threshhold. His appearance was quite
familiar to me. He is extremely tall and thin, his forehead domes
out in a white curve, and his two eyes are deeply sunken in his
head. He is clean-shaven, pale, and ascetic-looking, retaining
something of the professor in his features. His shoulders are
rounded from much study, and his face protrudes forward, and is
forever slowly oscillating from side to side in a curiously
reptilian fashion. He peered at me with great curiosity in his
puckered eyes.
“‘You have less frontal development than I should have expected,’
said he, at last. ‘It is a dangerous habit to finger loaded
firearms in the pocket of one’s dressing-gown.’
“The fact is that upon his entrance I had instantly recognised
the extreme personal danger in which I lay. The only conceivable
escape for him lay in silencing my tongue. In an instant I had
slipped the revolver from the drawer into my pocket, and was
covering him through the cloth. At his remark I drew the weapon
out and laid it cocked upon the table. He still smiled and
blinked, but there was something about his eyes which made me
feel very glad that I had it there.
“‘You evidently don’t know me,’ said he.
“‘On the contrary,’ I answered, ‘I think it is fairly evident
that I do. Pray take a chair. I can spare you five minutes if you
have anything to say.’
“‘All that I have to say has already crossed your mind,’ said he.
“‘Then possibly my answer has crossed yours,’ I replied.
“‘You stand fast?’
“‘Absolutely.’
“He clapped his hand into his pocket, and I raised the pistol
from the table. But he merely drew out a memorandum-book in which
he had scribbled some dates.
“‘You crossed my path on the 4th of January,’ said he. ‘On the
23rd you incommoded me; by the middle of February I was seriously
inconvenienced by you; at the end of March I was absolutely
hampered in my plans; and now, at the close of April, I find
myself placed in such a position through your continual
persecution that I am in positive danger of losing my liberty.
The situation is becoming an impossible one.’
“‘Have you any suggestion to make?’ I asked.
“‘You must drop it, Mr. Holmes,’ said he, swaying his face about.
‘You really must, you know.’
“‘After Monday,’ said I.
“‘Tut, tut,’ said he. ‘I am quite sure that a man of your
intelligence will see that there can be but one outcome to this
affair. It is necessary that you should withdraw. You have worked
things in such a fashion that we have only one resource left. It
has been an intellectual treat to me to see the way in which you
have grappled with this affair, and I say, unaffectedly, that it
would be a grief to me to be forced to take any extreme measure.
You smile, sir, but I assure you that it really would.’
“‘Danger is part of my trade,’ I remarked.
“‘That is not danger,’ said he. ‘It is inevitable destruction.
You stand in the way not merely of an individual, but of a mighty
organization, the full extent of which you, with all your
cleverness, have been unable to realize. You must stand clear,
Mr. Holmes, or be trodden under foot.’
“‘I am afraid,’ said I, rising, ‘that in the pleasure of this
conversation I am neglecting business of importance which awaits
me elsewhere.’
“He rose also and looked at me in silence, shaking his head
sadly.
“‘Well, well,’ said he, at last. ‘It seems a pity, but I have
done what I could. I know every move of your game. You can do
nothing before Monday. It has been a duel between you and me, Mr.
Holmes. You hope to place me in the dock. I tell you that I will
never stand in the dock. You hope to beat me. I tell you that you
will never beat me. If you are clever enough to bring destruction
upon me, rest assured that I shall do as much to you.’
“‘You have paid me several compliments, Mr. Moriarty,’ said I.
‘Let me pay you one in return when I say that if I were assured
of the former eventuality I would, in the interests of the
public, cheerfully accept the latter.’
“‘I can promise you the one, but not the other,’ he snarled, and
so turned his rounded back upon me, and went peering and blinking
out of the room.
“That was my singular interview with Professor Moriarty. I
confess that it left an unpleasant effect upon my mind. His soft,
precise fashion of speech leaves a conviction of sincerity which
a mere bully could not produce. Of course, you will say: ‘Why not
take police precautions against him?’ The reason is that I am
well convinced that it is from his agents the blow will fall. I
have the best proofs that it would be so.”
“You have already been assaulted?”
“My dear Watson, Professor Moriarty is not a man who lets the
grass grow under his feet. I went out about midday to transact
some business in Oxford Street. As I passed the corner which
leads from Bentinck Street on to the Welbeck Street crossing a
two-horse van furiously driven whizzed round and was on me like a
flash. I sprang for the foot-path and saved myself by the
fraction of a second. The van dashed round by Marylebone Lane and
was gone in an instant. I kept to the pavement after that,
Watson, but as I walked down Vere Street a brick came down from
the roof of one of the houses, and was shattered to fragments at
my feet. I called the police and had the place examined. There
were slates and bricks piled up on the roof preparatory to some
repairs, and they would have me believe that the wind had toppled
over one of these. Of course I knew better, but I could prove
nothing. I took a cab after that and reached my brother’s rooms
in Pall Mall, where I spent the day. Now I have come round to
you, and on my way I was attacked by a rough with a bludgeon. I
knocked him down, and the police have him in custody; but I can
tell you with the most absolute confidence that no possible
connection will ever be traced between the gentleman upon whose
front teeth I have barked my knuckles and the retiring
mathematical coach, who is, I daresay, working out problems upon
a blackboard ten miles away. You will not wonder, Watson, that my
first act on entering your rooms was to close your shutters, and
that I have been compelled to ask your permission to leave the
house by some less conspicuous exit than the front door.”
I had often admired my friend’s courage, but never more than now,
as he sat quietly checking off a series of incidents which must
have combined to make up a day of horror.
“You will spend the night here?” I said.
“No, my friend, you might find me a dangerous guest. I have my
plans laid, and all will be well. Matters have gone so far now
that they can move without my help as far as the arrest goes,
though my presence is necessary for a conviction. It is obvious,
therefore, that I cannot do better than get away for the few days
which remain before the police are at liberty to act. It would be
a great pleasure to me, therefore, if you could come on to the
Continent with me.”
“The practice is quiet,” said I, “and I have an accommodating
neighbour. I should be glad to come.”
“And to start to-morrow morning?”
“If necessary.”
“Oh yes, it is most necessary. Then these are your instructions,
and I beg, my dear Watson, that you will obey them to the letter,
for you are now playing a double-handed game with me against the
cleverest rogue and the most powerful syndicate of criminals in
Europe. Now listen! You will dispatch whatever luggage you intend
to take by a trusty messenger unaddressed to Victoria to-night.
In the morning you will send for a hansom, desiring your man to
take neither the first nor the second which may present itself.
Into this hansom you will jump, and you will drive to the Strand
end of the Lowther Arcade, handing the address to the cabman upon
a slip of paper, with a request that he will not throw it away.
Have your fare ready, and the instant that your cab stops, dash
through the Arcade, timing yourself to reach the other side at a
quarter-past nine. You will find a small brougham waiting close
to the curb, driven by a fellow with a heavy black cloak tipped
at the collar with red. Into this you will step, and you will
reach Victoria in time for the Continental express.”
“Where shall I meet you?”
“At the station. The second first-class carriage from the front
will be reserved for us.”
“The carriage is our rendezvous, then?”
“Yes.”
It was in vain that I asked Holmes to remain for the evening. It
was evident to me that he thought he might bring trouble to the
roof he was under, and that that was the motive which impelled
him to go. With a few hurried words as to our plans for the
morrow he rose and came out with me into the garden, clambering
over the wall which leads into Mortimer Street, and immediately
whistling for a hansom, in which I heard him drive away.
In the morning I obeyed Holmes’s injunctions to the letter. A
hansom was procured with such precaution as would prevent its
being one which was placed ready for us, and I drove immediately
after breakfast to the Lowther Arcade, through which I hurried at
the top of my speed. A brougham was waiting with a very massive
driver wrapped in a dark cloak, who, the instant that I had
stepped in, whipped up the horse and rattled off to Victoria
Station. On my alighting there he turned the carriage, and dashed
away again without so much as a look in my direction.
So far all had gone admirably. My luggage was waiting for me, and
I had no difficulty in finding the carriage which Holmes had
indicated, the less so as it was the only one in the train which
was marked “Engaged.” My only source of anxiety now was the
non-appearance of Holmes. The station clock marked only seven
minutes from the time when we were due to start. In vain I
searched among the groups of travellers and leave-takers for the
lithe figure of my friend. There was no sign of him. I spent a
few minutes in assisting a venerable Italian priest, who was
endeavouring to make a porter understand, in his broken English,
that his luggage was to be booked through to Paris. Then, having
taken another look round, I returned to my carriage, where I
found that the porter, in spite of the ticket, had given me my
decrepit Italian friend as a traveling companion. It was useless
for me to explain to him that his presence was an intrusion, for
my Italian was even more limited than his English, so I shrugged
my shoulders resignedly, and continued to look out anxiously for
my friend. A chill of fear had come over me, as I thought that
his absence might mean that some blow had fallen during the
night. Already the doors had all been shut and the whistle blown,
when—
“My dear Watson,” said a voice, “you have not even condescended
to say good-morning.”
I turned in uncontrollable astonishment. The aged ecclesiastic
had turned his face towards me. For an instant the wrinkles were
smoothed away, the nose drew away from the chin, the lower lip
ceased to protrude and the mouth to mumble, the dull eyes
regained their fire, the drooping figure expanded. The next the
whole frame collapsed again, and Holmes had gone as quickly as he
had come.
“Good heavens!” I cried. “How you startled me!”
“Every precaution is still necessary,” he whispered. “I have
reason to think that they are hot upon our trail. Ah, there is
Moriarty himself.”
The train had already begun to move as Holmes spoke. Glancing
back, I saw a tall man pushing his way furiously through the
crowd, and waving his hand as if he desired to have the train
stopped. It was too late, however, for we were rapidly gathering
momentum, and an instant later had shot clear of the station.
“With all our precautions, you see that we have cut it rather
fine,” said Holmes, laughing. He rose, and throwing off the black
cassock and hat which had formed his disguise, he packed them
away in a hand-bag.
“Have you seen the morning paper, Watson?”
“No.”
“You haven’t seen about Baker Street, then?”
“Baker Street?”
“They set fire to our rooms last night. No great harm was done.”
“Good heavens, Holmes! This is intolerable.”
“They must have lost my track completely after their bludgeon-man
was arrested. Otherwise they could not have imagined that I had
returned to my rooms. They have evidently taken the precaution of
watching you, however, and that is what has brought Moriarty to
Victoria. You could not have made any slip in coming?”
“I did exactly what you advised.”
“Did you find your brougham?”
“Yes, it was waiting.”
“Did you recognise your coachman?”
“No.”
“It was my brother Mycroft. It is an advantage to get about in
such a case without taking a mercenary into your confidence. But
we must plan what we are to do about Moriarty now.”
“As this is an express, and as the boat runs in connection with
it, I should think we have shaken him off very effectively.”
“My dear Watson, you evidently did not realize my meaning when I
said that this man may be taken as being quite on the same
intellectual plane as myself. You do not imagine that if I were
the pursuer I should allow myself to be baffled by so slight an
obstacle. Why, then, should you think so meanly of him?”
“What will he do?”
“What I should do?”
“What would you do, then?”
“Engage a special.”
“But it must be late.”
“By no means. This train stops at Canterbury; and there is always
at least a quarter of an hour’s delay at the boat. He will catch
us there.”
“One would think that we were the criminals. Let us have him
arrested on his arrival.”
“It would be to ruin the work of three months. We should get the
big fish, but the smaller would dart right and left out of the
net. On Monday we should have them all. No, an arrest is
inadmissible.”
“What then?”
“We shall get out at Canterbury.”
“And then?”
“Well, then we must make a cross-country journey to Newhaven, and
so over to Dieppe. Moriarty will again do what I should do. He
will get on to Paris, mark down our luggage, and wait for two
days at the depôt. In the meantime we shall treat ourselves to a
couple of carpet-bags, encourage the manufactures of the
countries through which we travel, and make our way at our
leisure into Switzerland, via Luxembourg and Basle.”
At Canterbury, therefore, we alighted, only to find that we
should have to wait an hour before we could get a train to
Newhaven.
I was still looking rather ruefully after the rapidly
disappearing luggage-van which contained my wardrobe, when Holmes
pulled my sleeve and pointed up the line.
“Already, you see,” said he.
Far away, from among the Kentish woods there rose a thin spray of
smoke. A minute later a carriage and engine could be seen flying
along the open curve which leads to the station. We had hardly
time to take our place behind a pile of luggage when it passed
with a rattle and a roar, beating a blast of hot air into our
faces.
“There he goes,” said Holmes, as we watched the carriage swing
and rock over the points. “There are limits, you see, to our
friend’s intelligence. It would have been a _coup-de-maître_ had
he deduced what I would deduce and acted accordingly.”
“And what would he have done had he overtaken us?”
“There cannot be the least doubt that he would have made a
murderous attack upon me. It is, however, a game at which two may
play. The question now is whether we should take a premature
lunch here, or run our chance of starving before we reach the
buffet at Newhaven.”
We made our way to Brussels that night and spent two days there,
moving on upon the third day as far as Strasburg. On the Monday
morning Holmes had telegraphed to the London police, and in the
evening we found a reply waiting for us at our hotel. Holmes tore
it open, and then with a bitter curse hurled it into the grate.
“I might have known it!” he groaned. “He has escaped!”
“Moriarty?”
“They have secured the whole gang with the exception of him. He
has given them the slip. Of course, when I had left the country
there was no one to cope with him. But I did think that I had put
the game in their hands. I think that you had better return to
England, Watson.”
“Why?”
“Because you will find me a dangerous companion now. This man’s
occupation is gone. He is lost if he returns to London. If I read
his character right he will devote his whole energies to
revenging himself upon me. He said as much in our short
interview, and I fancy that he meant it. I should certainly
recommend you to return to your practice.”
It was hardly an appeal to be successful with one who was an old
campaigner as well as an old friend. We sat in the Strasburg
_salle-à-manger_ arguing the question for half an hour, but the
same night we had resumed our journey and were well on our way to
Geneva.
For a charming week we wandered up the Valley of the Rhone, and
then, branching off at Leuk, we made our way over the Gemmi Pass,
still deep in snow, and so, by way of Interlaken, to Meiringen.
It was a lovely trip, the dainty green of the spring below, the
virgin white of the winter above; but it was clear to me that
never for one instant did Holmes forget the shadow which lay
across him. In the homely Alpine villages or in the lonely
mountain passes, I could tell by his quick glancing eyes and his
sharp scrutiny of every face that passed us, that he was well
convinced that, walk where we would, we could not walk ourselves
clear of the danger which was dogging our footsteps.
Once, I remember, as we passed over the Gemmi, and walked along
the border of the melancholy Daubensee, a large rock which had
been dislodged from the ridge upon our right clattered down and
roared into the lake behind us. In an instant Holmes had raced up
on to the ridge, and, standing upon a lofty pinnacle, craned his
neck in every direction. It was in vain that our guide assured
him that a fall of stones was a common chance in the spring-time
at that spot. He said nothing, but he smiled at me with the air
of a man who sees the fulfillment of that which he had expected.
And yet for all his watchfulness he was never depressed. On the
contrary, I can never recollect having seen him in such exuberant
spirits. Again and again he recurred to the fact that if he could
be assured that society was freed from Professor Moriarty he
would cheerfully bring his own career to a conclusion.
“I think that I may go so far as to say, Watson, that I have not
lived wholly in vain,” he remarked. “If my record were closed
to-night I could still survey it with equanimity. The air of
London is the sweeter for my presence. In over a thousand cases I
am not aware that I have ever used my powers upon the wrong side.
Of late I have been tempted to look into the problems furnished
by nature rather than those more superficial ones for which our
artificial state of society is responsible. Your memoirs will
draw to an end, Watson, upon the day that I crown my career by
the capture or extinction of the most dangerous and capable
criminal in Europe.”
I shall be brief, and yet exact, in the little which remains for
me to tell. It is not a subject on which I would willingly dwell,
and yet I am conscious that a duty devolves upon me to omit no
detail.
It was on the 3rd of May that we reached the little village of
Meiringen, where we put up at the Englischer Hof, then kept by
Peter Steiler the elder. Our landlord was an intelligent man, and
spoke excellent English, having served for three years as waiter
at the Grosvenor Hotel in London. At his advice, on the afternoon
of the 4th we set off together, with the intention of crossing
the hills and spending the night at the hamlet of Rosenlaui. We
had strict injunctions, however, on no account to pass the falls
of Reichenbach, which are about half-way up the hill, without
making a small détour to see them.
It is indeed, a fearful place. The torrent, swollen by the
melting snow, plunges into a tremendous abyss, from which the
spray rolls up like the smoke from a burning house. The shaft
into which the river hurls itself is an immense chasm, lined by
glistening coal-black rock, and narrowing into a creaming,
boiling pit of incalculable depth, which brims over and shoots
the stream onward over its jagged lip. The long sweep of green
water roaring forever down, and the thick flickering curtain of
spray hissing forever upward, turn a man giddy with their
constant whirl and clamour. We stood near the edge peering down
at the gleam of the breaking water far below us against the black
rocks, and listening to the half-human shout which came booming
up with the spray out of the abyss.
The path has been cut half-way round the fall to afford a
complete view, but it ends abruptly, and the traveler has to
return as he came. We had turned to do so, when we saw a Swiss
lad come running along it with a letter in his hand. It bore the
mark of the hotel which we had just left, and was addressed to me
by the landlord. It appeared that within a very few minutes of
our leaving, an English lady had arrived who was in the last
stage of consumption. She had wintered at Davos Platz, and was
journeying now to join her friends at Lucerne, when a sudden
hemorrhage had overtaken her. It was thought that she could
hardly live a few hours, but it would be a great consolation to
her to see an English doctor, and, if I would only return, etc.
The good Steiler assured me in a postscript that he would himself
look upon my compliance as a very great favour, since the lady
absolutely refused to see a Swiss physician, and he could not but
feel that he was incurring a great responsibility.
The appeal was one which could not be ignored. It was impossible
to refuse the request of a fellow-countrywoman dying in a strange
land. Yet I had my scruples about leaving Holmes. It was finally
agreed, however, that he should retain the young Swiss messenger
with him as guide and companion while I returned to Meiringen. My
friend would stay some little time at the fall, he said, and
would then walk slowly over the hill to Rosenlaui, where I was to
rejoin him in the evening. As I turned away I saw Holmes, with
his back against a rock and his arms folded, gazing down at the
rush of the waters. It was the last that I was ever destined to
see of him in this world.
When I was near the bottom of the descent I looked back. It was
impossible, from that position, to see the fall, but I could see
the curving path which winds over the shoulder of the hill and
leads to it. Along this a man was, I remember, walking very
rapidly.
I could see his black figure clearly outlined against the green
behind him. I noted him, and the energy with which he walked but
he passed from my mind again as I hurried on upon my errand.
It may have been a little over an hour before I reached
Meiringen. Old Steiler was standing at the porch of his hotel.
“Well,” said I, as I came hurrying up, “I trust that she is no
worse?”
A look of surprise passed over his face, and at the first quiver
of his eyebrows my heart turned to lead in my breast.
“You did not write this?” I said, pulling the letter from my
pocket. “There is no sick Englishwoman in the hotel?”
“Certainly not!” he cried. “But it has the hotel mark upon it!
Ha, it must have been written by that tall Englishman who came in
after you had gone. He said—”
But I waited for none of the landlord’s explanations. In a tingle
of fear I was already running down the village street, and making
for the path which I had so lately descended. It had taken me an
hour to come down. For all my efforts two more had passed before
I found myself at the fall of Reichenbach once more. There was
Holmes’s Alpine-stock still leaning against the rock by which I
had left him. But there was no sign of him, and it was in vain
that I shouted. My only answer was my own voice reverberating in
a rolling echo from the cliffs around me.
It was the sight of that Alpine-stock which turned me cold and
sick. He had not gone to Rosenlaui, then. He had remained on that
three-foot path, with sheer wall on one side and sheer drop on
the other, until his enemy had overtaken him. The young Swiss had
gone too. He had probably been in the pay of Moriarty, and had
left the two men together. And then what had happened? Who was to
tell us what had happened then?
I stood for a minute or two to collect myself, for I was dazed
with the horror of the thing. Then I began to think of Holmes’s
own methods and to try to practise them in reading this tragedy.
It was, alas, only too easy to do. During our conversation we had
not gone to the end of the path, and the Alpine-stock marked the
place where we had stood. The blackish soil is kept forever soft
by the incessant drift of spray, and a bird would leave its tread
upon it. Two lines of footmarks were clearly marked along the
farther end of the path, both leading away from me. There were
none returning. A few yards from the end the soil was all
ploughed up into a patch of mud, and the branches and ferns which
fringed the chasm were torn and bedraggled. I lay upon my face
and peered over with the spray spouting up all around me. It had
darkened since I left, and now I could only see here and there
the glistening of moisture upon the black walls, and far away
down at the end of the shaft the gleam of the broken water. I
shouted; but only the same half-human cry of the fall was borne
back to my ears.
But it was destined that I should after all have a last word of
greeting from my friend and comrade. I have said that his
Alpine-stock had been left leaning against a rock which jutted on
to the path. From the top of this boulder the gleam of something
bright caught my eye, and, raising my hand, I found that it came
from the silver cigarette-case which he used to carry. As I took
it up a small square of paper upon which it had lain fluttered
down on to the ground. Unfolding it, I found that it consisted of
three pages torn from his note-book and addressed to me. It was
characteristic of the man that the direction was a precise, and
the writing as firm and clear, as though it had been written in
his study.
“My dear Watson,” he said, “I write these few lines through the
courtesy of Mr. Moriarty, who awaits my convenience for the final
discussion of those questions which lie between us. He has been
giving me a sketch of the methods by which he avoided the English
police and kept himself informed of our movements. They certainly
confirm the very high opinion which I had formed of his
abilities. I am pleased to think that I shall be able to free
society from any further effects of his presence, though I fear
that it is at a cost which will give pain to my friends, and
especially, my dear Watson, to you. I have already explained to
you, however, that my career had in any case reached its crisis,
and that no possible conclusion to it could be more congenial to
me than this. Indeed, if I may make a full confession to you, I
was quite convinced that the letter from Meiringen was a hoax,
and I allowed you to depart on that errand under the persuasion
that some development of this sort would follow. Tell Inspector
Patterson that the papers which he needs to convict the gang are
in pigeonhole M., done up in a blue envelope and inscribed
‘Moriarty.’ I made every disposition of my property before
leaving England, and handed it to my brother Mycroft. Pray give
my greetings to Mrs. Watson, and believe me to be, my dear
fellow,
“Very sincerely yours,
“Sherlock Holmes.”
A few words may suffice to tell the little that remains. An
examination by experts leaves little doubt that a personal
contest between the two men ended, as it could hardly fail to end
in such a situation, in their reeling over, locked in each
other’s arms. Any attempt at recovering the bodies was absolutely
hopeless, and there, deep down in that dreadful caldron of
swirling water and seething foam, will lie for all time the most
dangerous criminal and the foremost champion of the law of their
generation. The Swiss youth was never found again, and there can
be no doubt that he was one of the numerous agents whom Moriarty
kept in his employ. As to the gang, it will be within the memory
of the public how completely the evidence which Holmes had
accumulated exposed their organization, and how heavily the hand
of the dead man weighed upon them. Of their terrible chief few
details came out during the proceedings, and if I have now been
compelled to make a clear statement of his career it is due to
those injudicious champions who have endeavoured to clear his
memory by attacks upon him whom I shall ever regard as the best
and the wisest man whom I have ever known.
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