THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES(福尔摩斯探案集)1

1904
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE ADVENTURE OF BLACK PETER
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
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 recognized 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 sealskin,- and he was 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 sketches 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
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
forward 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 logbooks 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 upward 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 home 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 sealskin- 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 notebook. 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
notebook, 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 notebook 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, gray-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.
Somone 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 bunter 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 logbooks 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 relit, 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 had reappeared on the
London market. You can imagine our amazement. I spent months in trying
to trace them, and at last, after many doubtings 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 logbooks 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 logbooks, 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 notebook, 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 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 forever."
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 notebook 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 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
sidetable. 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 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 the 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 rice 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 notebook 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 sealskin 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 forever. 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 END-
.
1904
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE ADVENTURE OF CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
THE ADVENTURE OF CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON
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,
Hampstead.
Agent.
"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 and 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 Blackwell, 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
astrakhan 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 gray eyes, which gleamed brightly from behind
broad, gold-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 astrakhan coat.
Holmes was gray with anger and mortification.
"Wait a little," he said. "You go too fast. We should 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 pocketbook. "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 notebook."
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 notebook 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, be 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'm 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 wild 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 pocketbook- 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 besides 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 this 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 as
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 home to our nostrils. Then the footsteps
continued backward and forward, backward and forward, 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 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 notebook 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 have 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 grounds 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 grass-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 redhanded. We have their footmarks, 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. "My, it might be a
description of Watson!"
"It's true," said the inspector, with amusement. "It might be a
description of Watson."
"Well, I'm 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 END-
.
1927
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE ADVENTURE OF SHOSCOMBE OLD PLACE
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
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 focussed for my vision.
"Those hairs are threads from a tweed coat. The irregular gray
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 money-lender, 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
Linder 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, Si 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?"
"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 falls 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 stablemen, 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 waits 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 the 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 mill-stream 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 gray 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 highroad 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
grasslands until a dark mass loomed tip 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 field in front of him shone upward 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, witchlike 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 mariner: "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
before 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."
A 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
crediter 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 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
reestablish 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 END-
.
1904
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE ADVENTURE OF THE ABBEY GRANGE
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
It was on a bitterly cold night and frosty morning, towards the
end of 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 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 textbook, 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
Chiselhurst 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 lay 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 this hideous business
to-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- God 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 the 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-table. I was so firmly bound that I could not move, and a
handkerchief round my mouth prevented me from uttering a 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 nightshirt and trousers,
with his favourite blackthorn cudgel in his hand. He rushed at the
burglars, but another- it was an elderly man- stooped, picked the
poker out of the grate and struck him a horrible blow as he passed. He
fell with a groan and never moved again. I fainted once more, but
again it could only have been for 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 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 further 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, overhanging oak mantelpiece.
Beside the fireplace was a heavy oaken chair with arms and crossbars
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 tigerskin 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
nightshirt, 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 that 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 recognize the description."
"Exactly. One would have expected that they would silence 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 bellrope 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 in 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 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 beeswing. 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 corkscrew.
"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 will 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 up 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 diningroom 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 up against that? Three wine-glasses, that is all. But if I
had not taken things for granted, if I had examined everything with
care which I should have shown had we approached the case de novo
and had no cut-and-dried story to warp my mind, should 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 Chiselhurst 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 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 was 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 wineglasses."
"What about the wineglasses?"
"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 beeswing 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 beeswing."
"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 beeswing. 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 beeswing 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 Sydenham train."
The household at the Abbey Grange were much surprised at our return,
but Sherlock Holmes, finding that Stanley Hopkins had gone off to
report to headquarters, 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 form 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, and all else remained as we
had seen it in the morning. Finally, 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 a while, 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 forever 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 hatpin. The sly
devil- God forgive me that I should speak of him so, now that he is
dead! But a devil 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 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 somewhere south of the Suez
Canal on her way to Australia. Her officers were the same as in '95,
with one exception. The first officer, Mr. Jack Crocker, 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 reentered 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
setback."
"A setback?"
"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 Crocker. You got my telegram?"
Our visitor sank into an armchair 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 Crocker, 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 forever."
The sailor thought for a little. Then he struck his leg with his
great sunburned 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.
Damn 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 all 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 I loved. Well, gentlemen, I was
standing with her just inside the window, in all innocence, as God
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 If
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 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 the
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 Crocker, 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 held 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 Crocker, 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 Crocker. 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 END-
.
1892
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE ADVENTURE OF THE BERYL CORONET
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet.
"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 foot-paths it still lay as white as when it fell. The
gray 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-gray 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 recognize 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
cooperation. 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
L50,000 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 L1000 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 L200?'
"'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,' 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 hail, 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, an 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 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 and of Arthur's face, she read the whole
story and, with a scream, fell down senseless on the ground. I sent
the house-maid 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, realizing 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 L1000.
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's
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 green-grocer 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's
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 gray 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 room 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," 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 L1000 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 check-book?
Here is a pen. Better make it out for L4000."
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 the steps by which I reached it.
And let me 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 realized how crushing a misfortune this
would be for you, and how 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 highroad 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-L1000 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 L1000 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 the 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 apologize to him for the wrong which I 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."
THE END
.
1926
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLANCHED SOLDIER
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
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 South
Hampton. 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 suitcase,
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 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 gray
beard, seated behind his littered desk. A red-veined nose jutted out
like a vulture's beak, and two fierce gray 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 recollections, 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 never a 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 that 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 time-table in the hall.
"'There is a train to London at 8:30,' 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-gray
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 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 stoop 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 out 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 countryside 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 chance of the
sufferer. There would be no reason why the latter should not he
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."
"A well-marked case of pseudo-leprosy or ichthyosis, a scale-like
affection of the skin, unsightly, obstinate, but possibly curable, and
certainly noninfective. 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 END-
.
THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle
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 sheets 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 remarkcd, 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, gray
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 pounds 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 22d, 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 22d
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 Homer 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 Homer 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 Homer, 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. Homer, 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, 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
crystallized charcoal. Who would think that so pretty a toy would
be a purueyor 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's 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's 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 horsy-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."
"Thats 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 22d. Twenty-four geese at 7s. 6d.'"
"Quite so. There you are. And underneath?"
"`Sold to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha, at 12s.'"
"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 pounds 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 PentonvilIe. 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's 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 jail now, and
you make him a jail-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."
.
1908
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE ADVENTURE OF THE BRUCE-PARTINGTON PLAN
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
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 of 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 clearing-house, 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
fiancee, 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 the 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 also is 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-gray, 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
metier. 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 gray 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 impetuous, 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 the plans up 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
for 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 fiance
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; there 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 cars 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 fiancee 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 disorganized. 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 off 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 were 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 had 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 the 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 fiancee. 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 Meyer, of 13 Great
George Street, Westminster; Louis La Rothiere, 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
curacao. 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 legalize 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 on 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 discolourations 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 to 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 wit's 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 tonight,' 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 eves 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 Hotel 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 END-
.
1893
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE ADVENTURE OF THE CARDBOARD BOX
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
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," said he, "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 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 an 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
years 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 sisters 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 tomorrow
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 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
run 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 sign 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 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."
-THE END-
.
1892
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE ADVENTURE OF THE COPPER BEECHES
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
The Adventure of the Copper Beeches
"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
celebres 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 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 L4 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 L100 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 L100 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 L30 a
quarter, or L120 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 L120 a year, when they could
have their pick for L40? 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 11:3O."
"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 gray 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 highroad, 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 gray 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 repertoire, 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
gray 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?' 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 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 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 fiance-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's 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. He's not been fed
for two days. Quick, quick, or we'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.
THE END
.
1923
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE ADVENTURE OF THE CREEPING MAN
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
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
armchair 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
armchair, 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- sleuthhounds-"
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 wolfhound, 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 wolfhound, 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. None the less, 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 onward 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 this instrument cupboard.
One day, in looking for a canula, 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 2d," 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 2d, that Roy attacked the professor as he came from his
study into the hall. Again, on July 11th there was a scene of the same
sort, and then I have a note of yet another upon July 20th. After that
we bid 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 it so irrelevant an interruption.
"I have said, sir, that it was the night before last- that is,
September 4th."
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 halfway 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
case. I was so paralyzed 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 wit's 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 cerebralo 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 wolfhound 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 fiancee."
"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 paralyzed 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 5th," 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 reproached. I think, Watson, that our lot for
the next few days might be 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 suitcases 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 26th. 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 Excellsior. 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 gray 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 bellow 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 wish 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 is 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, great 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 hotelward. "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 wolfhound 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 2d,
and from then onward 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 3rd, which also falls into the series, as
did August 26th, 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 amnenities 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 lookout. 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 circle 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 lamplit
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 great
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 wolfhound 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
bound 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 wolfhound 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 bead. "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 haemorrhage 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 receipt to acknowledge money. There was one other
envelope, however, in a more educated band 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 walk 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 tile
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 how fit themselves easily into the general scheme.
The dog, of course, was aware of the change far more quickly than you.
His smell would insure 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."
-THE END-
.
1903
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE ADVENTURE OF THE DANCING MEN
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
THE ADVENTURE OF THE DANCING MEN
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 gray 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 gold fields."
"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 check 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 notebook. The markings were done in pencil, and
ran in this way:
(See illustration.)
Holmes examined it for some time, and then, folding it carefully up,
he placed it in his pocketbook.
"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 Riding 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 boardinghouse 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 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, knawing 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 sundial 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 lookout, 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
notebook 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 armchair. "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 daresay I did it
clumsily, and scared her 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:
(See illustration.)
"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":
(See illustration.)
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 sundial. 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
dressinggown. 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:
(See illustration.)
"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 daresay 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 tomorrow, 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. 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
sundial. He inclosed a copy of it, which is here reproduced:
(See illustration.)
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
Riding 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 stationmaster 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 Riding Thorpe Manor," said he, "but we have heard
nothing of what has passed there."
"It's a terrible business," said the stationmaster. "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 countryside
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 Riding 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
sundial 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 insure 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, gray-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 backward, 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 was 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 handbag 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, 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 insure 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, Elriges 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
jail. 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 forerunners 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 recognized, 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 [of the stickman
with both arms extended up in the air]
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 [the stickman with
both arms extended up in the air]
"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 [of the stickman with right hand on his hip, left
arm raised and knees bent, stickman with leg extended to the left, and
stickman with both arms raised in the air and left leg extended.]
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 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 striding up the path which led to the door. He was a tall,
handsome, swarthy fellow, clad in a suit of 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 a path as if 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 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 forward 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:
(See illustration.)
"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
notebook. 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 END-
.
1910
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE ADVENTURE OF THE DEVIL'S FOOT
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
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 semicircle 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 tick into it for rest and protection.
Then come the sudden swirl round of the wind, the blustering 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 Phoenician 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 archaeologist, 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 himself 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, nor 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 out 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 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, where 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 cardplayers, 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 where which we have 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 realized,
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 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 realized 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 eves 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
stairs, 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 scrutinized with
his lens the tale 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 shield 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 had 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 this 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 do 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 to 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 the 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 are 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 gray 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 pharmacopoeia 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 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, paralyzed 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 have done 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 END-
.
1913
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE ADVENTURE OF THE DYING DETECTIVE
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
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 for 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 springing 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
debris 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 paralyzed, 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 disorganization 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 trouserpocket. 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 give 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
electric 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 gray 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 recognize 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 realize 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 my 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 can think that something nutritious at
Simpson's would not be out of place."
-THE END-
.
1903
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE ADVENTURE OF THE EMPTY HOUSE
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
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 do 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 willful 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 of 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 sittingroom. 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
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 banknotes 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, he would indeed be a remarkable
shot who could with a revolver inflict so deadly a wound. Again,
Park lane is a frequented thoroughfare, 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
waterpipe 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 gray 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 arms.
"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'm 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 frockcoat 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 cooperation, 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 gray 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
soon 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. That 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 upward, 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 lama. 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 Montpellier, 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 armchair 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 forward 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 your little
fairy-tales? 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 recognized 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 recognized 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 upward.
"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-lock. 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
foresight. 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 arm 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 existance 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 thirtieth 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 waxcoloured
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 observed 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 airgun? 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 frockcoat, 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 right, 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 Bangalore
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, 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 END-
.
1892
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENGINEER'S THUMB
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
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 summarize. 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 forego 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 duties, 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 be 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 (3d. 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 carafe.
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. Then 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 carbolized 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."
"Well 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 L27 10s. 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 the 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 band 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 fullers-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 lanter. 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, pushed 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 wrang 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 gray
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.
'Hello!' I yelled. 'Hello! 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 butchers
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 be 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 highroad,
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 oillamp 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 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's fears came to be realized, 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's 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."
-THE END-
.
1904
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE ADVENTURE OF THE GOLDEN PINCE-NEZ
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
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 unites
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, be 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 curb. 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 recognizing 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 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 3:15, reached Yoxley Old Place at 5,
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,
hard-worlding 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 freer 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 professors 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 a 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 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, studied
it over his shoulder. (See illustration.)
"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 be. "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 forward, 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 is 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, nor 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 daresay 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, sudden
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 flowerbed. 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 brasswork on the
righthand 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, or 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 was also stained with yellow nicotine.
"A smoker, Mr. Holmes?" said he, speaking in 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 foundation 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 eyeglasses?"
"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 eyeglasses, 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 armchair 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 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
shortsighted 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
recognized 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
over-mastering 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 forever 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 a 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 paper; and was locking the cupboard, when
the young man seized me. I had seen him already that morning. He had
met me on 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 consider
seriously 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 headquarters, no doubt. I think,
Watson, you and I will drive together to the Russian Embassy."
-THE END-
.
1924
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE ADVENTURE OF THE ILLUSTRIOUS CLIENT
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
"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 this 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- 4:30. 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, and, above all,
that pleasant, mellow voice. Frankness shone from his gray 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 sure that he killed
his wife when the so-called 'accident' happened in the Splugen 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 I dare say we may
find some means of opening the 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 under-world 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 entree of every nightclub, 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 breeding 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, 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 cripes! 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 cripes! 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 pipers
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 cooperation. 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've 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 gray London castles
which would make a church seem frivolous. A footman showed us in to
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 beastman 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 fiance, 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 fiance, 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 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 fiance'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-vender 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 Cafe 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 Cafe 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 curb.
"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
friends 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
sublibrarian, 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
armchair.
"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 mantlepiece."
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 plushclad 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 ceramic!"
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, then 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 forever 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 END-
.
1926
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE ADVENTURE OF THE LION'S MANE
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
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 upchannel, 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 list 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 paralyzed 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 cursed 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 burled 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 sonic 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 tip 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
wondering 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 scrambling, 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 nerve; 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 fiance 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 adourned 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 countryside.
"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 ball. 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
forever 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 homeward.
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 all 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 Bardle 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 singlehanded 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, in 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. Bardle. But your
case is far too weak for an arrest. Besides, we have those last words-
the '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 all 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 great. "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 his shoulder "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,
crisscrossed 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 forever."
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
southwest 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 forever 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 of 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
griped 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 'the 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 be. "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 END-
.
1921
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE ADVENTURE OF THE MAZARIN STONE
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
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 downward, as though reading an
invisible book, while the body was sunk deep in an armchair. Billy
detached the head and held it in the air.
"We put it at different angles, so that it may seem more lifelike. 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 armchair. 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 banging 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
armchair 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 gray 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 horrible 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 tonight 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 check in the
same year on the Credit 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 on 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 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 Hoffman 'Barcarole'
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 snitch 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 checks.
"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 role 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 END-
.
1904
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE ADVENTURE OF THE MISSING THREE-QUARTER
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
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 postmark, 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 daresay, 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, 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 awfull I wonder my hair isn't
gray. 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 touchline. 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 Scott!" 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 the 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 workingman. 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 to 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:
(See illustration.)
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:
(See illustration.)
"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 daresay it may have come to your notice
that, if you walk into a postoffice 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 notebooks, 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 a
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 on 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 notebook. "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 postoffice 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 turns 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 grays, 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 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 villagers 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 onward. 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 he had just
traversed. A brougham was coming down it, and there could be no
mistaking those gray 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
cooperation 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
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 END-
.
1892
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE ADVENTURE OF THE NOBLE BACHELOR
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
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 be 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 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 can
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 cooperation, 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,
"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 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 home 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 not I 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
reentering 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 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 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 prexisting 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, hello, 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 8s., breakfast 2s. 6d., cocktail 1s., lunch 2S.
6d., glass sherry, 8d."
"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, Lastrade," 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 confectioners
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 pate 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 authority
"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, but 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," be 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 attended 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."
-THE END-
.
1903
SHERLOCK HOMES
THE ADVENTURE OF THE NORWOOD BUILDER
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
THE ADVENTURE OF THE NORWOOD BUILDER
"From the point of view of the criminal" 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 be
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, 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, from 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, disheveled, 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 recognize 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 jail 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
headlines 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 backward and forward 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
indorsed 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 the paragraph in question?"
Underneath the vigorous headlines 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 massed 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 fingertips 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 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 notebook, 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 gray eyes fixed upon me
with an amused expression. I could hardly believe my own 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 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 not all this 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 such 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
frockcoat, "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 be 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 blackguard. 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 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,
Ah, 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 notebook. 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 found 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 Oldacres 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
discolourations, 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. Lesington 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 halfpast
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 had passed. Mr. McFarlane
had left his hat, and to the best of her 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 had
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 checks 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 had 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 checks. 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 today."
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 cock-sure, 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 if 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 jail 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 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 attic. 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 gray 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 newcomer 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-gray eyes and white lashes.
"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 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 daresay
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 waiting 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 checks to a certain
Mr. Cornelius, who is, I imagine, himself under another name. I have
not traced these checks 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
daresay 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 END-
.
1904
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE ADVENTURE OF THE PRIORY SCHOOL
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
THE ADVENTURE OF THE PRIORY SCHOOL
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
gray 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 insure 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 rumor 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 check 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 intrusted their sons to me. But I felt that my school
had reached its zenith when, weeks ago, the Duke of Holdernesse sent
Mr. James Wilder, his secretary, with 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 gray
trousers. There were no signs that anyone had entered the room, and it
is quite certain that anything in the nature of cries or ones 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
homesickness, 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 notebook 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 of the latter were with the mother?"
"Yes."
"Did he say so?"
"No."
"The Duke, then?"
"Good heaven, no!"
"Then how could you know?"
"I have had some confidential talks with Mr. James Wilder, his
Graces secretary. It was he who gave me the information about Lord
Saltire's feelings."
"I see. By the way, that last letter of the Dukes- 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 browbeaten 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 wrongheaded 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.
"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." (See illustration.)
"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 county 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 amble
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 upward. 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 rumble 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 homeward, 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 tyres 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 tyres.
"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 tires 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 tyres 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 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 nightshirt 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 ruffied 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 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 onward 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
boped 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, gray 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 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. "Well 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, "well 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."
"Were?"
"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 gray 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 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 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 check-book upon the table," said
he. "I should be glad if you would make me out a check 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 check."
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 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 beside your friend know?"
"I have spoken to no one."
The Duke took a pen in his quivering fingers and opened his
check-book.
"I shall be as good as my word, Mr. Holmes. I am about to write your
check, 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 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 forever, 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 check and placed it carefully in his
notebook. "I am a poor man," said he, as he patted it
affectionately, and thrust it into the depths of his inner pocket.
-THE END-
.
1911
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE ADVENTURE OF THE RED CIRCLE
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
"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 sittingroom 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 has 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 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 Holmes, 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 choses 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 news paper. 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 in the 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 communication. 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 the 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 tile 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 gray 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 cager 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
be 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."
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 the 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 band, 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 the 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. 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, wildbeast 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 how that such an example should be made of him 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 his 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 vengence, 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 out 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,
gentlemen, 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 burry, we might be
in time for the second act."
-THE END-