A Case of Identity
A Scandal in Bohemia
HIS LAST BOW
Silver Blaze
THE ADVENTURE OF BLACK PETER
THE ADVENTURE OF CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON
THE ADVENTURE OF THE ABBEY GRANGE
THE ADVENTURE OF THE BERYL CORONET
THE ADVENTURE OF THE COPPER BEECHES
THE ADVENTURE OF THE DANCING MEN
THE ADVENTURE OF THE EMPTY HOUSE
THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENGINEER'S THUMB
THE ADVENTURE OF THE GOLDEN PINCE-NEZ
THE ADVENTURE OF THE MISSING THREE-QUARTER
THE ADVENTURE OF THE NORWOOD BUILDER
THE ADVENTURE OF THE PRIORY SCHOOL
THE ADVENTURE OF THE SECOND STAIN
THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIX NAPOLEONS
THE ADVENTURE OF THE SOLITARY CYCLIST
THE ADVENTURE OF THE THREE STUDENTS
THE CASE BOOK OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
The Aduenture of the Speckled Band
The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge
The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle
The Boscombe Valley Mystery
The Five Orange Pips
The Man with the Twisted Lip
The Red-headed League
The Sign of the Four
Through the Magic Door
The Five Orange Pips
When I glance over my notes and records of the Sherlock Holmes
cases between the years '82 and '90, I am faced by so many which
present strange and interesting features that it is no easy matter
to know which to choose and which to leave. Some, however, have
already gained publicity through the papers, and others have not
offered a field for those peculiar qualities which my friend
possessed in so high a degree, and which it is the object of these
papers to illustrate. Some, too, have baffled his analytical
skill, and would be, as narratives, beginnings without an ending,
while others have been but partially cleared up, and have their
explanations founded rather upon conjecture and surmise than on
that absolute logical proof which was so dear to him. There is,
however, one of these last which was so remarkable in its details
and so startling in its results that I am tempted to give some
account of it in spite of the fact that there are points in
connection with it which never have been, and probably never will
be, entirely cleared up.
The year '87 furnished us with a long series of cases of
greater or less interest, of which I retain the records. Among my
headings under this one twelve months I find an account of the
adventure of the Paradol Chamber, of the Amateur Mendicant
Society, who held a luxurious club in the lower vault of a
furniture warehouse, of the facts connected with the loss of the
British bark Sophy Anderson, of the singular adventures of the
Grice Patersons in the island of Uffa, and finally of the
Camberwell poisoning case. In the latter, as may be remembered,
Sherlock Holmes was able, by winding up the dead man's watch, to
prove that it had been wound up two hours before, and that
therefore the deceased had gone to bed within that timeДДa
deduction which was of the greatest importance in clearing up the
case. All these I may sketch out at some future date, but none of
them present such singular features as the strange train of
circumstances which I have now taken up my pen to describe.
It was in the latter days of September, and the equinoctial
gales had set in with exceptional violence. All day the wind had
screamed and the rain had beaten against the windows, so that even
here in the heart of great, hand-made London we were forced to
raise our minds for the instant from the routine of life, and to
recognize the presence of those great elemental forces which
shriek at mankind through the bars of his civilization, like
untamed beasts in a cage. As evening drew in, the storm grew
higher and louder, and the wind cried and sobbed like a child in
the chimney. Sherlock Holmes sat moodily at one side of the
fireplace cross-indexing his records of crime, while I at the
other was deep in one of Clark Russell's fine sea-stories until
the howl of the gale from without seemed to blend with the text,
and the splash of the rain to lengthen out into the long swash of
the sea waves. My wife was on a visit to her mother's, and for a
few days I was a dweller once more in my old quarters at Baker
Street.
"Why," said I, glancing up at my companion, "that was surely
the bell. Who could come to-night? Some friend of yours,
perhaps?"
"Except yourself I have none," he answered. "I do not
encourage visitors."
"A client, then?"
"If so, it is a serious case. Nothing less would bring a man
out on such a day and at such an hour. But I take it that it is
more likely to be some crony of the landlady's."
Sherlock Holmes was wrong in his conjecture, however, for
there came a step in the passage and a tapping at the door. He
stretched out his long arm to turn the lamp away from himself and
towards the vacant chair upon which a newcomer must sit. "Come
in!" said he.
The man who entered was young, some two-and-twenty at the
outside, well-groomed and trimly clad, with something of
refinement and delicacy in his bearing. The streaming umbrella
which he held in his hand, and his long shining waterproof told of
the fierce weather through which he had come. He looked about him
anxiously in the glare of the lamp, and I could see that his face
was pale and his eyes heavy, like those of a man who is weighed
down with some great anxiety.
"I owe you an apology," he said, raising his golden pince-nez
to his eyes. "I trust that I am not intruding. I fear that I
have brought some traces of the storm and rain into your snug
chamber."
"Give me your coat and umbrella," said Holmes. "They may rest
here on the hook and will be dry presently. You have come up from
the south-west, I see."
"Yes, from Horsham."
"That clay and chalk mixture which I see upon your toe caps is
quite distinctive."
"I have come for advice."
"That is easily got."
"And help."
"That is not always so easy."
"I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I heard from Major
Prendergast how you saved him in the Tankerville Club scandal."
"Ah, of course. He was wrongfully accused of cheating at
cards."
"He said that you could solve anything."
"He said too much."
"That you are never beaten."
"I have been beaten four timesДДthree times by men, and once
by a woman."
"But what is that compared with the number of your successes?"
"It is true that I have been generally successful."
"Then you may be so with me."
"I beg that you will draw your chair up to the fire and favour
me with some details as to your case."
"It is no ordinary one."
"None of those which come to me are. I am the last court of
appeal."
"And yet I question, sir, whether, in all your experience, you
have ever listened to a more mysterious and inexplicable chain of
events than those which have happened in my own family."
"You fill me with interest," said Holmes. "Pray give us the
essential facts from the commencement, and I can afterwards
question you as to those details which seem to me to be most
important."
The young man pulled his chair up and pushed his wet feet out
towards the blaze.
"My name," said he, "is John Openshaw, but my own affairs
have, as far as I can understand, little to do with this awful
business. It is a hereditary matter; so in order to give you an
idea of the facts, I must go back to the commencement of the
affair.
"You must know that my grandfather had two sonsДДmy uncle
Elias and my father Joseph. My father had a small factory at
Coventry, which he enlarged at the time of the invention of
bicycling. He was a patentee of the Openshaw unbreakable tire,
and his business met with such success that he was able to sell it
and to retire upon a handsome competence.
"My uncle Elias emigrated to America when he was a young man
and became a planter in Florida, where he was reported to have
done very well. At the time of the war he fought in Jackson's
army, and afterwards under Hood, where he rose to be a colonel.
When Lee laid down his arms my uncle returned to his plantation,
where he remained for three or four years. About 1869 or 1870 he
came back to Europe and took a small estate in Sussex, near
Horsham. He had made a very considerable fortune in the States,
and his reason for leaving them was his aversion to the negroes,
and his dislike of the Republican policy in extending the
franchise to them. He was a singular man, fierce and
quick-tempered, very foul-mouthed when he was angry, and of a most
retiring disposition. During all the years that he lived at
Horsham, I doubt if ever he set foot in the town. He had a garden
and two or three fields round his house, and there he would take
his exercise, though very often for weeks on end he would never
leave his room. He drank a great deal of brandy and smoked very
heavily, but he would see no society and did not want any friends,
not even his own brother.
"He didn't mind me; in fact, he took a fancy to me, for at the
time when he saw me first I was a youngster of twelve or so. This
would be in the year 1878, after he had been eight or nine years
in England. He begged my father to let me live with him, and he
was very kind to me in his way. When he was sober he used to be
fond of playing backgammon and draughts with me, and he would make
me his representative both with the servants and with the
tradespeople, so that by the time that I was sixteen I was quite
master of the house. I kept all the keys and could go where I
liked and do what I liked, so long as I did not disturb him in his
privacy. There was one singular exception, however, for he had a
single room, a lumber-room up among the attics, which was
invariably locked, and which he would never permit either me or
anyone else to enter. With a boy's curiosity I have peeped
through the keyhole, but I was never able to see more than such a
collection of old trunks and bundles as would be expected in such
a room.
"One dayДДit was in March, 1883ДДa letter with a foreign stamp
lay upon the table in front of the colonel's plate. It was not a
common thing for him to receive letters, for his bills were all
paid in ready money, and he had no friends of any sort. `From
India!' said he as he took it up, `Pondicherry postmark! What can
this be?' Opening it hurriedly, out there jumped five little dried
orange pips, which pattered down upon his plate. I began to laugh
at this, but the laugh was struck from my lips at the sight of his
face. His lip had fallen, his eyes were protruding, his skin the
colour of putty, and he glared at the envelope which he still held
in his trembling hand, `K. K. K.!' he shrieked, and then, `My God,
my God, my sins have overtaken me!'
"`What is it, uncle?' I cried.
"`Death,' said he, and rising from the table he retired to his
room, leaving me palpitating with horror. I took up the envelope
and saw scrawled in red ink upon the inner flap, just above the
gum, the letter K three times repeated. There was nothing else
save the five dried pips. What could be the reason of his
overpowering terror? I left the breakfast-table, and as I
ascended the stair I met him coming down with an old rusty key,
which must have belonged to the attic, in one hand, and a small
brass box, like a cashbox, in the other.
"`They may do what they like, but I'll checkmate them still,'
said he with an oath. `Tell Mary that I shall want a fire in my
room to-day, and send down to Fordham, the Horsham lawyer.'
"I did as he ordered, and when the lawyer arrived I was asked
to step up to the room. The fire was burning brightly, and in the
grate there was a mass of black, fluffy ashes, as of burned paper,
while the brass box stood open and empty beside it. As I glanced
at the box I noticed, with a start, that upon the lid was printed
the treble K which I had read in the morning upon the envelope.
"`I wish you, John,' said my uncle, `to witness my will. I
leave my estate, with all its advantages and all its
disadvantages, to my brother, your father, whence it will, no
doubt, descend to you. If you can enjoy it in peace, well and
good! If you find you cannot, take my advice, my boy, and leave
it to your deadliest enemy. I am sorry to give you such a
two-edged thing, but I can't say what turn things are going to
take. Kindly sign the paper where Mr. Fordham shows you.'
"I signed the paper as directed, and the lawyer took it away
with him. The singular incident made, as you may think, the
deepest impression upon me, and I pondered over it and turned it
every way in my mind without being able to make anything of it.
Yet I could not shake off the vague feeling of dread which it left
behind, though the sensation grew less keen as the weeks passed,
and nothing happened to disturb the usual routine of our lives. I
could see a change in my uncle, however. He drank more than ever,
and he was less inclined for any sort of society. Most of his
time he would spend in his room, with the door locked upon the
inside, but sometimes he would emerge in a sort of drunken frenzy
and would burst out of the house and tear about the garden with a
revolver in his hand, screaming out that he was afraid of no man,
and that he was not to be cooped up, like a sheep in a pen, by man
or devil. When these hot fits were over, however, he would rush
tumultuously in at the door and lock and bar it behind him, like a
man who can brazen it out no longer against the terror which lies
at the roots of his soul. At such times I have seen his face,
even on a cold day, glisten with moisture, as though it were new
raised from a basin.
"Well, to come to an end of the matter, Mr. Holmes, and not to
abuse your patience, there came a night when he made one of those
drunken sallies from which he never came back. We found him, when
we went to search for him, face downward in a little green-scummed
pool, which lay at the foot of the garden. There was no sign of
any violence, and the water was but two feet deep, so that the
jury, having regard to his known eccentricity, brought in a
verdict of `suicide.' But I, who knew how he winced from the very
thought of death, had much ado to persuade myself that he had gone
out of his way to meet it. The matter passed, however, and my
father entered into possession of the estate, and of some њ14,000,
which lay to his credit at the bank."
"One moment," Holmes interposed, "your statement is, I
foresee, one of the most remarkable to which I have ever listened.
Let me have the date of the reception by your uncle of the letter,
and the date of his supposed suicide."
"The letter arrived on March 10, 1883. His death was seven
weeks later, upon the night of May 2d."
"Thank you. Pray proceed."
"When my father took over the Horsham property, he, at my
request, made a careful examination of the attic, which had been
always locked up. We found the brass box there, although its
contents had been destroyed. On the inside of the cover was a
paper label, with the initials of K. K. K. repeated upon it, and
`Letters, memoranda, receipts, and a register' written beneath.
These, we presume, indicated the nature of the papers which had
been destroyed by Colonel Openshaw. For the rest, there was
nothing of much importance in the attic save a great many
scattered papers and note-books bearing upon my uncle's life in
America. Some of them were of the war time and showed that he had
done his duty well and had borne the repute of a brave soldier.
Others were of a date during the reconstruction of the Southern
states, and were mostly concerned with politics, for he had
evidently taken a strong part in opposing the carpet-bag
politicians who had been sent down from the North.
"Well, it was the beginning of '84 when my father came to live
at Horsham, and all went as well as possible with us until the
January of '85. On the fourth day after the new year I heard my
father give a sharp cry of surprise as we sat together at the
breakfast-table. There he was, sitting with a newly opened
envelope in one hand and five dried orange pips in the
outstretched palm of the other one. He had always laughed at what
he called my cock-and-bull story about the colonel, but he looked
very scared and puzzled now that the same thing had come upon
himself.
"`Why, what on earth does this mean, John?' he stammered.
"My heart had turned to lead. `It is K. K. K.,' said I.
"He looked inside the envelope. `So it is,' he cried. `Here
are the very letters. But what is this written above them?'
"`Put the papers on the sundial,' I read, peeping over his
shoulder.
"`What papers? What sundial?' he asked.
"`The sundial in the garden. There is no other,' said I; `but
the papers must be those that are destroyed.'
"`Pooh!' said he, gripping hard at his courage. `We are in a
civilized land here, and we can't have tomfoolery of this kind.
Where does the thing come from?'
"`From Dundee,' I answered, glancing at the postmark.
"`Some preposterous practical joke,' said he. `What have I to
do with sundials and papers? I shall take no notice of such
nonsense.'
"`I should certainly speak to the police,' I said.
"`And be laughed at for my pains. Nothing of the sort.'
"`Then let me do so?'
"`No, I forbid you. I won't have a fuss made about such
nonsense.'
"It was in vain to argue with him, for he was a very obstinate
man. I went about, however, with a heart which was full of
forebodings.
"On the third day after the coming of the letter my father
went from home to visit an old friend of his, Major Freebody, who
is in command of one of the forts upon Portsdown Hill. I was glad
that he should go, for it seemed to me that he was farther from
danger when he was away from home. In that, however, I was in
error. Upon the second day of his absence I received a telegram
from the major, imploring me to come at once. My father had
fallen over one of the deep chalk-pits which abound in the
neighbourhood, and was lying senseless, with a shattered skull. I
hurried to him, but he passed away without having ever recovered
his consciousness. He had, as it appears, been returning from
Fareham in the twilight, and as the country was unknown to him,
and the chalk-pit unfenced, the jury had no hesitation in bringing
in a verdict of `death from accidental causes.' Carefully as I
examined every fact connected with his death, I was unable to find
anything which could suggest the idea of murder. There were no
signs of violence, no footmarks, no robbery, no record of
strangers having been seen upon the roads. And yet I need not
tell you that my mind was far from at ease, and that I was
well-nigh certain that some foul plot had been woven round him.
"In this sinister way I came into my inheritance. You will
ask me why I did not dispose of it? I answer, because I was well
convinced that our troubles were in some way dependent upon an
incident in my uncle's life, and that the danger would be as
pressing in one house as in another.
"It was in January, '85, that my poor father met his end, and
two years and eight months have elapsed since then. During that
time I have lived happily at Horsham, and I had begun to hope that
this curse had passed away from the family, and that it had ended
with the last generation. I had begun to take comfort too soon,
however; yesterday morning the blow fell in the very shape in
which it had come upon my father."
The young man took from his waistcoat a crumpled envelope, and
turning to the table he shook out upon it five little dried orange
pips.
"This is the envelope," he continued. "The postmark is
LondonДДeastern division. Within are the very words which were
upon my father's last message: `K. K. K.'; and then `Put the
papers on the sundial.'"
"What have you done?" asked Holmes.
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"To tell the truth"ДДhe sank his face into his thin, white
handsДД"I have felt helpless. I have felt like one of those poor
rabbits when the snake is writhing towards it. I seem to be in
the grasp of some resistless, inexorable evil, which no foresight
and no precautions can guard against."
"Tut! tut!" cried Sherlock Holmes. "You must act, man, or you
are lost. Nothing but energy can save you. This is no time for
despair."
"I have seen the police."
"Ah!"
"But they listened to my story with a smile. I am convinced
that the inspector has formed the opinion that the letters are all
practical jokes, and that the deaths of my relations were really
accidents, as the jury stated, and were not to be connected with
the warnings."
Holmes shook his clenched hands in the air. "Incredible
imbecility!" he cried.
"They have, however, allowed me a policeman, who may remain in
the house with me."
"Has he come with you to-night?"
"No. His orders were to stay in the house."
Again Holmes raved in the air.
"Why did you come to me," he cried, "and, above all, why did
you not come at once?"
"I did not know. It was only to-day that I spoke to Major
Prendergast about my troubles and was advised by him to come to
you."
"It is really two days since you had the letter. We should
have acted before this. You have no further evidence, I suppose,
than that which you have placed before usДДno suggestive detail
which might help us?"
"There is one thing," said John Openshaw. He rummaged in his
coat pocket, and, drawing out a piece of discoloured, blue-tinted
paper, he laid it out upon the table. "I have some remembrance,"
said he, "that on the day when my uncle burned the papers I
observed that the small, unburned margins which lay amid the ashes
were of this particular colour. I found this single sheet upon
the floor of his room, and I am inclined to think that it may be
one of the papers which has, perhaps, fluttered out from among the
others, and in that way has escaped destruction. Beyond the
mention of pips, I do not see that it helps us much. I think
myself that it is a page from some private diary. The writing is
undoubtedly my uncle's."
Holmes moved the lamp, and we both bent over the sheet of
paper, which showed by its ragged edge that it had indeed been
torn from a book. It was headed, "March, 1869," and beneath were
the following enigmatical notices:
4th. Hudson came. Same old platform.
7th. Set the pips on McCauley, Paramore, and John
Swain, of St. Augustine.
9th. McCauley cleared.
10th. John Swain cleared.
12th. Visited Paramore. All well.
"Thank you!" said Holmes, folding up the paper and returning
it to our visitor. "And now you must on no account lose another
instant. We cannot spare time even to discuss what you have told
me. You must get home instantly and act."
"What shall I do?"
"There is but one thing to do. It must be done at once. You
must put this piece of paper which you have shown us into the
brass box which you have described. You must also put in a note
to say that all the other papers were burned by your uncle, and
that this is the only one which remains. You must assert that in
such words as will carry conviction with them. Having done this,
you must at once put the box out upon the sundial, as directed.
Do you understand?"
"Entirely."
"Do not think of revenge, or anything of the sort, at present.
I think that we may gain that by means of the law; but we have our
web to weave, while theirs is already woven. The first
consideration is to remove the pressing danger which threatens
you. The second is to clear up the mystery and to punish the
guilty parties."
"I thank you," said the young man, rising and pulling on his
overcoat. "You have given me fresh life and hope. I shall
certainly do as you advise."
"Do not lose an instant. And, above all, take care of
yourself in the meanwhile, for I do not think that there can be a
doubt that you are threatened by a very real and imminent danger.
How do you go back?"
"By train from Waterloo."
"It is not yet nine. The streets will be crowded, so I trust
that you may be in safety. And yet you cannot guard yourself too
closely."
"I am armed."
"That is well. To-morrow I shall set to work upon your case."
"I shall see you at Horsham, then?"
"No, your secret lies in London. It is there that I shall
seek it."
"Then I shall call upon you in a day, or in two days, with
news as to the box and the papers. I shall take your advice in
every particular." He shook hands with us and took his leave.
Outside the wind still screamed and the rain splashed and pattered
against the windows. This strange, wild story seemed to have come
to us from amid the mad elementsДДblown in upon us like a sheet of
sea-weed in a galeДДand now to have been reabsorbed by them once
more.
Sherlock Holmes sat for some time in silence, with his head
sunk forward and his eyes bent upon the red glow of the fire.
Then he lit his pipe, and leaning back in his chair he watched the
blue smoke-rings as they chased each other up to the ceiling.
"I think, Watson," he remarked at last, "that of all our cases
we have had none more fantastic than this."
"Save, perhaps, the Sign of Four."
"Well, yes. Save, perhaps, that. And yet this John Openshaw
seems to me to be walking amid even greater perils than did the
Sholtos."
"But have you," I asked, "formed any definite conception as to
what these perils are?"
"There can be no question as to their nature," he answered.
"Then what are they? Who is this K. K. K., and why does he
pursue this unhappy family?"
Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes and placed his elbows upon the
arms of his chair, with his finger-tips together. "The ideal
reasoner," he remarked, "would, when he had once been shown a
single fact in all its bearings, deduce from it not only all the
chain of events which led up to it but also all the results which
would follow from it. As Cuvier could correctly describe a whole
animal by the contemplation of a single bone, so the observer who
has thoroughly understood one link in a series of incidents should
be able to accurately state all the other ones, both before and
after. We have not yet grasped the results which the reason alone
can attain to. Problems may be solved in the study which have
baffled all those who have sought a solution by the aid of their
senses. To carry the art, however, to its highest pitch, it is
necessary that the reasoner should be able to utilize all the
facts which have come to his knowledge; and this in itself
implies, as you will readily see, a possession of all knowledge,
which, even in these days of free education and encyclopaedias, is
a somewhat rare accomplishment. It is not so impossible, however,
that a man should possess all knowledge which is likely to be
useful to him in his work, and this I have endeavoured in my case
to do. If I remember rightly, you on one occasion, in the early
days of our friendship, defined my limits in a very precise
fashion."
"Yes," I answered, laughing. "It was a singular document.
Philosophy, astronomy, and politics were marked at zero, I
remember. Botany variable, geology profound as regards the
mud-stains from any region within fifty miles of town, chemistry
eccentric, anatomy unsystematic, sensational literature and crime
records unique, violin-player, boxer, swordsman, lawyer, and
self-poisoner by cocaine and tobacco. Those, I think, were the
main points of my analysis."
Holmes grinned at the last item. "Well," he said, "I say now,
as I said then, that a man should keep his little brain-attic
stocked with all the furniture that he is likely to use, and the
rest he can put away in the lumber-room of his library, where he
can get it if he wants it. Now, for such a case as the one which
has been submitted to us to-night, we need certainly to muster all
our resources. Kindly hand me down the letter K of the American
Encyclopaedia which stands upon the shelf beside you. Thank you.
Now let us consider the situation and see what may be deduced from
it. In the first place, we may start with a strong presumption
that Colonel Openshaw had some very strong reason for leaving
America. Men at his time of life do not change all their habits
and exchange willingly the charming climate of Florida for the
lonely life of an English provincial town. His extreme love of
solitude in England suggests the idea that he was in fear of
someone or something, so we may assume as a working hypothesis
that it was fear of someone or something which drove him from
America. As to what it was he feared, we can only deduce that by
considering the formidable letters which were received by himself
and his successors. Did you remark the postmarks of those
letters?"
"The first was from Pondicherry, the second from Dundee, and
the third from London."
"From East London. What do you deduce from that?"
"They are all seaports. That the writer was on board of a
ship."
"Excellent. We have already a clue. There can be no doubt
that the probabilityДДthe strong probabilityДДis that the writer
was on board of a ship. And now let us consider another point.
In the case of Pondicherry, seven weeks elapsed between the threat
and its fulfillment, in Dundee it was only some three or four
days. Does that suggest anything?"
"A greater distance to travel."
"But the letter had also a greater distance to come."
"Then I do not see the point."
"There is at least a presumption that the vessel in which the
man or men are is a sailing-ship. It looks as if they always sent
their singular warning or token before them when starting upon
their mission. You see how quickly the deed followed the sign
when it came from Dundee. If they had come from Pondicherry in a
steamer they would have arrived almost as soon as their letter.
But, as a matter of fact, seven weeks elapsed. I think that those
seven weeks represented the difference between the mail-boat which
brought the letter and the sailing vessel which brought the
writer."
"It is possible."
"More than that. It is probable. And now you see the deadly
urgency of this new case, and why I urged young Openshaw to
caution. The blow has always fallen at the end of the time which
it would take the senders to travel the distance. But this one
comes from London, and therefore we cannot count upon delay."
"Good God!" I cried. "What can it mean, this relentless
persecution?"
"The papers which Openshaw carried are obviously of vital
importance to the person or persons in the sailing-ship. I think
that it is quite clear that there must be more than one of them.
A single man could not have carried out two deaths in such a way
as to deceive a coroner's jury. There must have been several in
it, and they must have been men of resource and determination.
Their papers they mean to have, be the holder of them who it may.
In this way you see K. K. K. ceases to be the initials of an
individual and becomes the badge of a society."
"But of what society?"
"Have you neverДД" said Sherlock Holmes, bending forward and
sinking his voice ДД"have you never heard of the Ku Klux Klan?"
"I never have."
Holmes turned over the leaves of the book upon his knee.
"Here it is," said he presently:
"Ku Klux Klan. A name derived from the fanciful
resemblance to the sound produced by cocking a rifle. This
terrible secret society was formed by some ex-Confederate
soldiers in the Southern states after the Civil War, and it
rapidly formed local branches in different parts of the
country, notably in Tennessee, Louisiana, the Carolinas,
Georgia, and Florida. Its power was used for political
purposes, principally for the terrorizing of the negro voters
and the murdering and driving from the country of those who
were opposed to its views. Its outrages were usually preceded
by a warning sent to the marked man in some fantastic but
generally recognized shapeДДa sprig of oak-leaves in some
parts, melon seeds or orange pips in others. On receiving
this the victim might either openly abjure his former ways, or
might fly from the country. If he braved the matter out,
death would unfailingly come upon him, and usually in some
strange and unforeseen manner. So perfect was the
organization of the society, and so systematic its methods,
that there is hardly a case upon record where any man
succeeded in braving it with impunity, or in which any of its
outrages were traced home to the perpetrators. For some years
the organization flourished in spite of the efforts of the
United States government and of the better classes of the
community in the South. Eventually, in the year 1869, the
movement rather suddenly collapsed, although there have been
sporadic outbreaks of the same sort since that date.
"You will observe," said Holmes, laying down the volume, "that
the sudden breaking up of the society was coincident with the
disappearance of Openshaw from America with their papers. It may
well have been cause and effect. It is no wonder that he and his
family have some of the more implacable spirits upon their track.
You can understand that this register and diary may implicate some
of the first men in the South, and that there may be many who will
not sleep easy at night until it is recovered."
"Then the page we have seenДД"
"Is such as we might expect. It ran, if I remember right,
`sent the pips to A, B, and C'ДДthat is, sent the society's
warning to them. Then there are successive entries that A and B
cleared, or left the country, and finally that C was visited,
with, I fear, a sinister result for C. Well, I think, Doctor,
that we may let some light into this dark place, and I believe
that the only chance young Openshaw has in the meantime is to do
what I have told him. There is nothing more to be said or to be
done to-night, so hand me over my violin and let us try to forget
for half an hour the miserable weather and the still more
miserable ways of our fellowmen."
It had cleared in the morning, and the sun was shining with a
subdued brightness through the dim veil which hangs over the great
city. Sherlock Holmes was already at breakfast when I came down.
"You will excuse me for not waiting for you," said he; "I
have, I foresee, a very busy day before me in looking into this
case of young Openshaw's."
"What steps will you take?" I asked.
"It will very much depend upon the results of my first
inquiries. I may have to go down to Horsham, after all."
"You will not go there first?"
"No, I shall commence with the City. Just ring the bell and
the maid will bring up your coffee."
As I waited, I lifted the unopened newspaper from the table
and glanced my eye over it. It rested upon a heading which sent a
chill to my heart.
"Holmes," I cried, "you are too late."
"Ah!" said he, laying down his cup, "I feared as much. How
was it done?" He spoke calmly, but I could see that he was deeply
moved.
"My eye caught the name of Openshaw, and the heading `Tragedy
Near Waterloo Bridge.' Here is the account:
"Between nine and ten last night Police-Constable Cook, of
the H Division, on duty near Waterloo Bridge, heard a cry for
help and a splash in the water. The night, however, was
extremely dark and stormy, so that, in spite of the help of
several passers-by, it was quite impossible to effect a
rescue. The alarm, however, was given, and, by the aid of the
water-police, the body was eventually recovered. It proved to
be that of a young gentleman whose name, as it appears from an
envelope which was found in his pocket, was John Openshaw, and
whose residence is near Horsham. It is conjectured that he
may have been hurrying down to catch the last train from
Waterloo Station, and that in his haste and the extreme
darkness he missed his path and walked over the edge of one of
the small landing-places for river steamboats. The body
exhibited no traces of violence, and there can be no doubt
that the deceased had been the victim of an unfortunate
accident, which should have the effect of calling the
attention of the authorities to the condition of the riverside
landing-stages."
We sat in silence for some minutes, Holmes more depressed and
shaken than I had ever seen him.
"That hurts my pride, Watson," he said at last. "It is a
petty feeling, no doubt, but it hurts my pride. It becomes a
personal matter with me now, and, if God sends me health, I shall
set my hand upon this gang. That he should come to me for help,
and that I should send him away to his deathДД!" He sprang from
his chair and paced about the room in uncontrollable agitation,
with a flush upon his sallow cheeks and a nervous clasping and
unclasping of his long thin hands.
"They must be cunning devils," he exclaimed at last. "How
could they have decoyed him down there? The Embankment is not on
the direct line to the station. The bridge, no doubt, was too
crowded, even on such a night, for their purpose. Well, Watson,
we shall see who will win in the long run. I am going out now!"
"To the police?"
"No; I shall be my own police. When I have spun the web they
may take the flies, but not before."
All day I was engaged in my professional work, and it was late
in the evening before I returned to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes
had not come back yet. It was nearly ten o'clock before he
entered, looking pale and worn. He walked up to the sideboard,
and tearing a piece from the loaf he devoured it voraciously,
washing it down with a long draught of water.
"You are hungry," I remarked.
"Starving. It had escaped my memory. I have had nothing
since breakfast."
"Nothing?"
"Not a bite. I had no time to think of it."
"And how have you succeeded?"
"Well."
"You have a clue?"
"I have them in the hollow of my hand. Young Openshaw shall
not long remain unavenged. Why, Watson, let us put their own
devilish trade-mark upon them. It is well thought of!"
"What do you mean?"
He took an orange from the cupboard, and tearing it to pieces
he squeezed out the pips upon the table. Of these he took five
and thrust them into an envelope. On the inside of the flap he
wrote "S. H. for J. O." Then he sealed it and addressed it to
"Captain James Calhoun, Bark Lone Star, Savannah, Georgia."
"That will await him when he enters port," said he, chuckling.
"It may give him a sleepless night. He will find it as sure a
precursor of his fate as Openshaw did before him."
"And who is this Captain Calhoun?"
"The leader of the gang. I shall have the others, but he
first."
"How did you trace it, then?"
He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, all covered
with dates and names.
"I have spent the whole day," said he, "over Lloyd's registers
and files of the old papers, following the future career of every
vessel which touched at Pondicherry in January and February in
'83. There were thirty-six ships of fair tonnage which were
reported there during those months. Of these, one, the Lone Star,
instantly attracted my attention, since, although it was reported
as having cleared from London, the name is that which is given to
one of the states of the Union."
"Texas, I think."
"I was not and am not sure which; but I knew that the ship
must have an American origin."
"What then?"
"I searched the Dundee records, and when I found that the bark
Lone Star was there in January, '85, my suspicion became a
certainty. I then inquired as to the vessels which lay at present
in the port of London."
"Yes?"
"The Lone Star had arrived here last week. I went down to the
Albert Dock and found that she had been taken down the river by
the early tide this morning, homeward bound to Savannah. I wired
to Gravesend and learned that she had passed some time ago, and as
the wind is easterly I have no doubt that she is now past the
Goodwins and not very far from the Isle of Wight."
"What will you do, then?"
"Oh, I have my hand upon him. He and the two mates, are, as I
learn, the only native-born Americans in the ship. The others are
Finns and Germans. I know, also, that they were all three away
from the ship last night. I had it from the stevedore who has
been loading their cargo. By the time that their sailing-ship
reaches Savannah the mail-boat will have carried this letter, and
the cable will have informed the police of Savannah that these
three gentlemen are badly wanted here upon a charge of murder."
There is ever a flaw, however, in the best laid of human
plans, and the murderers of John Openshaw were never to receive
the orange pips which would show them that another, as cunning and
as resolute as themselves, was upon their track. Very long and
very severe were the equinoctial gales that year. We waited long
for news of the Lone Star of Savannah, but none ever reached us.
We did at last hear that somewhere far out in the Atlantic a
shattered stern-post of the boat was seen swinging in the trough
of a wave, with the letters "L. S." carved upon it, and that is
all which we shall ever know of the fate of the Lone Star.
The Aduenture of the Speckled Band
On glancing over my notes of the seventy odd cases in which I
have during the last eight years studied the methods of my friend
Sherlock Holmes, I find many tragic, some comic, a large
number merely strange, but none commonplace; for, working as
he did rather for the love of his art than for the acquirement of
wealth, he refused to associate himself with any investigation
which did not tend towards the unusual, and even the fantastic.
Of all these varied cases, however, I cannot recall any which
presented more singular features than that which was associated
with the well-known Surrey family of the Roylotts of Stoke
Moran. The events in question occurred in the early days of my
association with Holmes, when we were sharing rooms as bache-
lors in Baker Street. It is possible that I might have placed them
upon record before, but a promise of secrecy was made at the
time, from which I have only been freed during the last month
by the untimely death of the lady to whom the pledge was given.
It is perhaps as well that the facts should now come to light, for I
have reasons to know that there are widespread rumours as to the
death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott which tend to make the matter
even more terrible than the truth.
It was early in April in the year '83 that I woke one morning
to find Sherlock Holmes standing, fully dressed, by the side of
my bed. He was a late riser, as a rule, and as the clock on the
mantelpiece showed me that it was only a quarter-past seven, I
blinked up at him in some surprise, and perhaps just a little
resentment, for I was myself regular in my habits.
"Very sorry to knock you up, Watson," said he, "but it's the
common lot this morning. Mrs. Hudson has been knocked up,
she retorted upon me, and I on you."
"What is it, then -- a fire?"
"No; a client. It seems that a young lady has arrived in a
considerable state of excitement, who insists upon seeing me.
She is waiting now in the sitting-room. Now, when young ladies
wander about the metropolis at this hour of the morning, and
knock sleepy people up out of their beds, I presume that it is
something very pressing which they have to communicate. Should
it prove to be an interesting case, you would, I am sure, wish to
follow it from the outset. I thought, at any rate, that I should call
you and give you the chance."
"My dear fellow, I would not miss it for anything."
I had no keener pleasure than in following Holmes in his
plofessional investigations, and in admiring the rapid deductions,
as swift as intuitions, and yet always founded on a logical basis
wlth which he unravelled the problems which were submitted to
him. I rapidly threw on my clothes and was ready in a few
minutes to accompany my friend down to the sitting-room. A
lady dressed in black and heavily veiled, who had been sitting in
the window, rose as we entered.
"Good-morning, madam," said Holmes cheerily. "My name
is Sherlock Holmes. This is my intimate friend and associate,
Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before
myself. Ha! I am glad to see that Mrs. Hudson has had the good
sense to light the fire. Pray draw up to it, and I shall order you a
cup of hot coffee, for I observe that you are shivering."
"lt is not cold which makes me shiver," said the woman in a
low voice, changing her seat as requested.
"What, then?"
"It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror." She raised her veil as
she spoke, and we could see that she was indeed in a pitiable
state of agitation, her face all drawn and gray, with restless
frightened eyes, like those of some hunted animal. Her features
and figure were those of a woman of thirty, but her hair was shot
with premature gray, and her expression was weary and haggard.
Sherlock Holmes ran her over with one of his quick, all-
comprehensive glances.
"You must not fear," said he soothingly, bending forward
and patting her forearm. "We shall soon set matters right, I have
no doubt. You have come in by train this morning, I see."
"You know me, then?"
"No, but I observe the second half of a return ticket in the
palm of your left glove. You must have started early, and yet
you had a good drive in a dog-cart, along heavy roads, before
you reached the station."
The lady gave a violent start and stared in bewilderment at my
companion.
"There is no mystery, my dear madam," said he, smiling.
"The left arm of your jacket is spattered with mud in no less
than seven places. The marks are perfectly fresh. There is no
vehicle save a dog-cart which throws up mud in that way, and
then only when you sit on the left-hand side of the driver."
"Whatever your reasons may be, you are perfectly correct,"
said she. "I started from home before six, reached Leatherhead
at twenty past, and came in by the first train to Waterloo. Sir, I
can stand this strain no longer; I shall go mad if it continues. I
have no one to turn to -- none, save only one, who cares for me,
and he, poor fellow, can be of little aid. I have heard of you,
Mr. Holmes; I have heard of you from Mrs. Farintosh, whom
you helped in the hour of her sore need. It was from her that I
had your address. Oh, sir, do you not think that you could help
me, too, and at least throw a little light through the dense
darkness which surrounds me? At present it is out of my power
to reward you for your services, but in a month or six weeks I
shall be married, with the control of my own income, and then at
least you shall not find me ungrateful."
Holmes turned to his desk and, unlocking it, drew out a small
case-book, which he consulted.
"Farintosh," said he. "Ah yes, I recall the case; it was
concerned with an opal tiara. I think it was before your time,
Watson. I can only say, madam, that I shall be happy to devote
the same care to your case as I did to that of your friend. As to
reward, my profession is its own reward; but you are at liberty to
defray whatever expenses I may be put to, at the time which
suits you best. And now I beg that you will lay before us
everything that may help us in forming an opinion upon the
matter."
"Alas!" replied our visitor, "the very horror of my situation
lies in the fact that my fears are so vague, and my suspicions
depend so entirely upon small points, which might seem trivial
to another, that even he to whom of all others I have a right to
look for help and advice looks upon all that I tell him about it as
the fancies of a nervous woman. He does not say so, but I can
read it from his soothing answers and averted eyes. But I have
heard, Mr. Holmes, that you can see deeply into the manifold
wickedness of the human heart. You may advise me how to walk
amid the dangers which encompass me."
"I am all attention, madam."
"My name is Helen Stoner, and I am living with my stepfa-
ther, who is the last survivor of one of the oldest Saxon families
in England, the Roylotts of Stoke Moran, on the western border
of Surrey."
Holmes nodded his head. "The name is familiar to me," said
he.
"The family was at one time among the richest in England,
and the estates extended over the borders into Berkshire in the
north, and Hampshire in the west. In the last century, however,
four successive heirs were of a dissolute and wasteful disposi-
tion, and the family ruin was eventually completed by a gambler
in the days of the Regency. Nothing was left save a few acres of
ground, and the two-hundred-year-old house, which is itself crushed
under a heavy mortgage. The last squire dragged out his exis-
tence there, living the horrible life of an aristocratic pauper; but
his only son, my stepfather, seeing that he must adapt himself to
the new conditions, obtained an advance from a relative, which
enabled him to take a medical degree and went out to Calcutta,
where, by his professional skill and his force of character, he
established a large practice. In a fit of anger, however, caused by
some robberies which had been perpetrated in the house, he beat
his native butler to death and narrowly escaped a capital sen-
tence. As it was, he suffered a long term of imprisonment and
afterwards returned to England a morose and disappointed man.
"When Dr. Roylott was in India he married my mother, Mrs.
Stoner, the young widow of Major-General Stoner, of the Bengal
Artillery. My sister Julia and I were twins, and we were only
two years old at the time of my mother's re-marriage. She had a
considerable sum of money -- not less than lOOO pounds a year -- and
this she bequeathed to Dr. Roylott entirely while we resided with
him, with a provision that a certain annual sum should be
allowed to each of us in the event of our marriage. Shortly after
our return to England my mother died -- she was killed eight
years ago in a railway accident near Crewe. Dr. Roylott then
abandoned his attempts to establish himself in practice in London
and took us to live with him in the old ancestral house at Stoke
Moran. The money which my mother had left was enough for all
our wants, and there seemed to be no obstacle to our happiness.
"But a terrible change came over our stepfather about this
time. Instead of making friends and exchanging visits with our
neighbours, who had at first been overjoyed to see a Roylott of
Stoke Moran back in the old family seat, he shut himself up in
his house and seldom came out save to indulge in ferocious
quarrels with whoever might cross his path. Violence of temper
approaching to mania has been hereditary in the men of the
family, and in my stepfather's case it had, I believe, been
intensified by his long residence in the tropics. A series of
disgraceful brawls took place, two of which ended in the police-
court, until at last he became the terror of the village, and the
folks would fly at his approach, for he is a man of immense
strength, and absolutely uncontrollable in his anger.
"Last week he hurled the local blacksmith over a parapet into
a stream, and it was only by paying over all the money which I
could gather together that I was able to avert another public
exposure. He had no friends at all save the wandering gypsies,
and he would give these vagabonds leave to encamp upon the
few acres of bramble-covered land which represent the family
estate, and would accept in return the hospitality of their tents,
wandering away with them sometimes for weeks on end. He has
a passion also for Indian animals, which are sent over to him by
a correspondent, and he has at this moment a cheetah and a
baboon, which wander freely over his grounds and are feared by
the villagers almost as much as their master.
"You can imagine from what I say that my poor sister Julia
and I had no great pleasure in our lives. No servant would stay
with us, and for a long time we did all the work of the house.
She was but thirty at the time of her death, and yet her hair had
already begun to whiten, even as mine has."
"Your sister is dead, then?"
"She died just two years ago, and it is of her death that I wish
to speak to you. You can understand that, living the life which I
have described, we were little likely to see anyone of our own
age and position. We had, however, an aunt, my mother's
maiden sister, Miss Honoria Westphail, who lives near Harrow,
and we were occasionally allowed to pay short visits at this
lady's house. Julia went there at Christmas two years ago, and
met there a half-pay major of marines, to whom she became
engaged. My stepfather learned of the engagement when my
sister returned and offered no objection to the marriage; but
wlthin a fortnight of the day which had been fixed for the
wedding, the terrible event occurred which has deprived me of
my only companion."
Sherlock Holmes had been leaning back in his chair with his
eyes closed and his head sunk in a cushion, but he half opened
hls lids now and glanced across at his visitor.
"Pray be precise as to details," said he.
"It is easy for me to be so, for every event of that dreadful
time is seared into my memory. The manor-house is, as I have
already said, very old, and only one wing is now inhabited. The
bedrooms in this wing are on the ground floor, the sitting-rooms
being in the central block of the buildings. Of these bedrooms the
first is Dr. Roylott's, the second my sister's, and the third my
own. There is no communication between them, but they all
open out into the same corridor. Do I make myself plain?"
"Perfectly so."
"The windows of the three rooms open out upon the lawn. That
fatal night Dr. Roylott had gone to his room early, though we
knew that he had not retired to rest, for my sister was troubled
by the smell of the strong Indian cigars which it was his custom
to smoke. She left her room, therefore, and came into mine,
where she sat for some time, chatting about her approaching
wedding. At eleven o'clock she rose to leave me, but she paused
at the door and looked back.
" 'Tell me, Helen,' said she, 'have you ever heard anyone
whistle in the dead of the night?'
" 'Never,' said I.
" 'I suppose that you could not possibly whistle, yourself, in
your sleep?'
" 'Certainly not. But why?'
" 'Because during the last few nights I have always, about
three in the morning, heard a low, clear whistle. I am a light
sleeper, and it has awakened me. I cannot tell where it came
from perhaps from the next room, perhaps from the lawn. I
thought that I would just ask you whether you had heard it.'
" 'No, I have not. It must be those wretched gypsies in the
plantation.'
" 'Very likely. And yet if it were on the lawn, I wonder that
you did not hear it also.'
" 'Ah, but I sleep more heavily than you.'
" 'Well, it is of no great consequence, at any rate.' She
smiled back at me, closed my door, and a few moments later I
heard her key turn in the lock."
"Indeed," said Holmes. "Was it your custom always to lock
yourselves in at night?"
"Always."
"And why?"
"I think that I mentioned to you that the doctor kept a cheetah
and a baboon. We had no feeling of security unless our doors
were locked."
"Quite so. Pray proceed with your statement."
"I could not sleep that night. A vague feeling of impending
misfortune impressed me. My sister and I, you will recollect,
were twins, and you know how subtle are the links which bind
two souls which are so closely allied. It was a wild night. The
wind was howling outside, and the rain was beating and splash-
ing against the windows. Suddenly, amid all the hubbub of the
gale, there burst forth the wild scream of a terrified woman. I
knew that it was my sister's voice. I sprang from my bed,
wrapped a shawl round me, and rushed into the corridor. As I
opened my door I seemed to hear a low whistle, such as my
sister described, and a few moments later a clanging sound, as if
a mass of metal had fallen. As I ran down the passage, my
sister's door was unlocked, and revolved slowly upon its hinges.
I stared at it horror-stricken, not knowing what was about to
issue from it. By the light of the corridor-lamp I saw my sister
appear at the opening, her face blanched with terror, her hands
groping for help, her whole figure swaying to and fro like that of
a drunkard. I ran to her and threw my arms round her, but at that
moment her knees seemed to give way and she fell to the
ground. She writhed as one who is in terrible pain, and her limbs
were dreadfully convulsed. At first I thought that she had not
recognized me, but as I bent over her she suddenly shrieked out
in a voice which I shall never forget, 'Oh, my God! Helen! It
was the band! The speckled band!' There was something else
which she would fain have said, and she stabbed with her finger
into the air in the direction of the doctor's room, but a fresh
convulsion seized her and choked her words. I rushed out,
calling loudly for my stepfather, and I met him hastening from
his room in his dressing-gown. When he reached my sister's side
she was unconscious, and though he poured brandy down her
throat and sent for medical aid from the village, all efforts were
in vain, for she slowly sank and died without having recovered
her consciousness. Such was the dreadful end of my beloved
sister."
One moment," said Holmes, "are you sure about this whis-
tle and metallic sound? Could you swear to it?"
"That was what the county coroner asked me at the inquiry. It
is my strong impression that I heard it, and yet, among the crash
of the gale and the creaking of an old house, I may possibly have
been deceived."
"Was your sister dressed?"
"No, she was in her night-dress. In her right hand was found
the charred stump of a match, and in her left a match-box."
"Showing that she had struck a light and looked about her
when the alarm took place. That is important. And what conclu-
sions did the coroner come to?"
"He investigated the case with great care, for Dr. Roylott's
conduct had long been notorious in the county, but he was
unable to find any satisfactory cause of death. My evidence
showed that the door had been fastened upon the inner side, and
the windows were blocked by old-fashioned shutters with broad
iron bars, which were secured every night. The walls were
carefully sounded, and were shown to be quite solid all round,
and the flooring was also thoroughly examined, with the same
result. The chimney is wide, but is barred up by four large
staples. It is certain, therefore, that my sister was quite alone
when she met her end. Besides, there were no marks of any
violence upon her."
"How about poison?"
"The doctors examined her for it, but without success."
"What do you think that this unfortunate lady died of, then?"
"It is my belief that she died of pure fear and nervous shock,
though what it was that frightened her I cannot imagine."
"Were there gypsies in the plantation at the time?"
"Yes, there are nearly always some there."
"Ah, and what did you gather from this allusion to a band -- a
speckled band?"
"Sometimes I have thought that it was merely the wild talk of
delirium, sometimes that it may have referred to some band of
people, perhaps to these very gypsies in the plantation. I do not
know whether the spotted handkerchiefs which so many of them
wear over their heads might have suggested the strange adjective
which she used."
Holmes shook his head like a man who is far from being
satisfied.
"These are very deep waters," said he; "pray go on with your
narrative."
"Two years have passed since then, and my life has been until
lately lonelier than ever. A month ago, however, a dear friend,
whom I have known for many years, has done me the honour to
ask my hand in marriage. His name is Armitage -- Percy
Armitage -- the second son of Mr. Armitage, of Crane Water,
near Reading. My stepfather has offered no opposition to the
match, and we are to be married in the course of the spring. Two
days ago some repairs were started in the west wing of the
building, and my bedroom wall has been pierced, so that I have
had to move into the chamber in which my sister died, and to
sleep in the very bed in which she slept. Imagine, then, my thrill
of terror when last night, as I lay awake, thinking over her
terrible fate, I suddenly heard in the silence of the night the low
whistle which had been the herald of her own death. I sprang up
and lit the lamp, but nothing was to be seen in the room. I was
too shaken to go to bed again, however, so I dressed, and as
soon as it was daylight I slipped down, got a dog-cart at the
Crown Inn, which is opposite, and drove to Leatherhead, from
whence I have come on this morning with the one object of
seeing you and asking your advice."
"You have done wisely," said my friend. "But have you told
me all?"
"Yes, all."
"Miss Roylott, you have not. You are screening your
stepfather."
"Why, what do you mean?"
For answer Holmes pushed back the frill of black lace which
fringed the hand that lay upon our visitor's knee. Five little livid
spots, the marks of four fingers and a thumb, were printed upon
the white wrist.
"You have been cruelly used," said Holmes.
The lady coloured deeply and covered over her injured wrist.
"He is a hard man," she said, "and perhaps he hardly knows
his own strength."
There was a long silence, during which Holmes leaned his
chin upon his hands and stared into the crackling fire.
"This is a very deep business," he said at last. "There are a
thousand details which I should desire to know before I decide
upon our course of action. Yet we have not a moment to lose. If
we were to come to Stoke Moran to-day, would it be possible for
us to see over these rooms without the knowledge of your
stepfather?"
"As it happens, he spoke of coming into town to-day upon
some most important business. It is probable that he will be
away all day, and that there would be nothing to disturb you. We
have a housekeeper now, but she is old and foolish, and I could
easily get her out of the way."
"Excellent. You are not averse to this trip, Watson?"
"By no means."
"Then we shall both come. What are you going to do yourself?"
"I have one or two things which I would wish to do now that I
am in town. But I shall return by the twelve o'clock train, so as
to be there in time for your coming."
"And you may expect us early in the afternoon. I have myself
some small business matters to attend to. Will you not wait and
breakfast?"
"No, I must go. My heart is lightened already since I have
confided my trouble to you. I shall look forward to seeing you
again this afternoon." She dropped her thick black veil over her
face and glided from the room.
"And what do you think of it all, Watson?" asked Sherlock
Holmes, leaning back in his chair.
"It seems to me to be a most dark and sinister business."
"Dark enough and sinister enough."
"Yet if the lady is correct in saying that the flooring and walls
are sound, and that the door, window, and chimney are impass-
able, then her sister must have been undoubtedly alone when she
met her mysterious end."
"What becomes, then, of these nocturnal whistles, and what
of the very peculiar words of the dying woman?"
"I cannot think."
"When you combine the ideas of whistles at night, the pres-
ence of a band of gypsies who are on intimate terms with this old
doctor, the fact that we have every reason to believe that the
doctor has an interest in preventing his stepdaughter's marriage,
the dying allusion to a band, and, finally, the fact that Miss
Helen Stoner heard a metallic clang, which might have been
caused by one of those metal bars that secured the shutters
falling back into its place, I think that there is good ground to
think that the mystery may be cleared along those lines."
"But what, then, did the gypsies do?"
"I cannot imagine."
"I see many objections to any such theory."
"And so do I. It is precisely for that reason that we are going
to Stoke Moran this day. I want to see whether the objections are
fatal, or if they may be explained away. But what in the name of
the devil!"
The ejaculation had been drawn from my companion by the
fact that our door had been suddenly dashed open, and that a
huge man had framed himself in the aperture. His costume was a
peculiar mixture of the professional and of the agricultural,
having a black top-hat, a long frock-coat, and a pair of high
gaiters, with a hunting-crop swinging in his hand. So tall was he
that his hat actually brushed the cross bar of the- doorway, and
his breadth seemed to span it across from side to side. A large
face, seared with a thousand wrinkles, burned yellow with the
sun, and marked with every evil passion, was turned from one to
the other of us, while his deep-set, bile-shot eyes, and his high,
thin, fleshless nose, gave him somewhat the resemblance to a
fierce old bird of prey.
"Which of you is Holmes?" asked this apparition.
"My name, sir; but you have the advantage of me," said my
companion quietly.
"I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran."
"Indeed, Doctor," said Holmes blandly. "Pray take a seat."
"I will do nothing of the kind. My stepdaughter has been
here. I have traced her. What has she been saying to you?"
"It is a little cold for the time of the year," said Holmes.
"What has she been saying to you?" screamed the old man
furiously.
"But I have heard that the crocuses promise well," continued
my companion imperturbably.
"Ha! You put me off, do you?" said our new visitor, taking a
step forward and shaking his hunting-crop. "I know you, you
scoundrel! I have heard of you before. You are Holmes, the
meddler."
My friend smiled.
"Holmes, the busybody!"
His smile broadened.
"Holmes, the Scotland Yard Jack-in-office!"
Holmes chuckled heartily. "Your conversation is most enter-
taining," said he. "When you go out close the door, for there is
a decided draught."
"I will go when I have said my say. Don't you dare to meddle
with my affairs. I know that Miss Stoner has been here. I traced
her! I am a dangerous man to fall foul of! See here." He stepped
swiftly forward, seized the poker, and bent it into a curve with
his huge brown hands.
"See that you keep yourself out of my grip," he snarled, and
hurling the twisted poker into the fireplace he strode out of the
room.
"He seems a very amiable person," said Holmes, laughing.
"I am not quite so bulky, but if he had remained I might have
shown him that my grip was not much more feeble than his
own." As he spoke he picked up the steel poker and, with a
sudden effort, straightened it out again.
"Fancy his having the insolence to confound me with the
official detective force! This incident gives zest to our investiga-
tion, however, and I only trust that our little friend will not
suffer from her imprudence in allowing this brute to trace her.
And now, Watson, we shall order breakfast, and afterwards I
shall walk down to Doctors' Commons, where I hope to get
some data which may help us in this matter."
It was nearly one o'clock when Sherlock Holmes returned
from his excursion. He held in his hand a sheet of blue paper,
scrawled over with notes and figures.
"I have seen the will of the deceased wife," said he. "To
determine its exact meaning I have been obliged to work out the
present prices of the investments with which it is concerned. The
total income, which at the time of the wife's death was little
short of 1100 pounds, is now, through the fall in agricultural prices,
not more than 750 pounds. Each daughter can claim an income of
250 pounds, in case of marriage. It is evident, therefore, that if both
girls had married, this beauty would have had a mere pittance,
while even one of them would cripple him to a very serious
extent. My morning's work has not been wasted, since it has
proved that he has the very strongest motives for standing in the
way of anything of the sort. And now, Watson, this is too
serious for dawdling, especially as the old man is aware that we
are interesting ourselves in his affairs; so if you are ready, we
shall call a cab and drive to Waterloo. I should be very much
obliged if you would slip your revolver into your pocket. An
Eley's No. 2 is an excellent argument with gentlemen who can
twist steel pokers into knots. That and a tooth-brush are, I think
all that we need."
At Waterloo we were fortunate in catching a train for
Leatherhead, where we hired a trap at the station inn and drove
for four or five miles through the lovely Surrey laries. It was a
perfect day, with a bright sun and a few fleecy clouds in the
heavens. The trees and wayside hedges were just throwing out
their first green shoots, and the air was full of the pleasant smell
of the moist earth. To me at least there was a strange contrast
between the sweet promise of the spring and this sinister quest
upon which we were engaged. My companion sat in the front of
the trap, his arms folded, his hat pulled down over his eyes, and
his chin sunk upon his breast, buried in the deepest thought.
Suddenly, however, he started, tapped me on the shoulder, and
pointed over the meadows
"Look there!" said he.
A heavily timbered park stretched up in a gentle slope, thick-
ening mto a grove at the highest point. From amid the branches
there jutted out the gray gables and high roof-tree of a very old
mansion.
"Stoke Moran?" said he.
"Yes, sir, that be the house of Dr. Grimesby Roylott,"
remarked the driver.
"There is some building going on there," said Holmes; "that
is where we are going."
"There's the village," said the driver, pointing to a cluster of
roofs some distance to the left; "but if you want to get to the
house, you'll find it shorter to get over this stile, and so by the
foot-path over the fields. There it is, where the lady is walking."
"And the lady, I fancy, is Miss Stoner," observed Holmes,
shading his eyes. "Yes, I think we had better do as you suggest."
We got off, paid our fare, and the trap rattled back on its way
to Leatherhead.
"I thought it as well," said Holmes as we climbed the stile,
"that this fellow should think we had come here as architects, or
on some definite business. It may stop his gossip. Good-afternoon,
Miss Stoner. You see that we have been as good as our word."
Our client of the morning had hurried forward to meet us with
a face which spoke her joy. "I have been waiting so eagerly for
you," she cried, shaking hands with us warmly. "All has turned
out splendidly. Dr. Roylott has gone to town, and it is unlikely
that he will be back before evening."
"We have had the pleasure of making the doctor's acquaint-
ance," said Holmes, and in a few words he sketched out what
had occurred. Miss Stoner turned white to the lips as she listened.
"Good heavens!" she cried, "he has followed me, then."
"So it appears."
"He is so cunning that I never know when I am safe from
him. What will he say when he returns?"
"He must guard himself, for he may find that there is some-
one more cunning than himself upon his track. You must lock
yourself up from him to-night. If he is violent, we shall take you
away to your aunt's at Harrow. Now, we must make the best use
of our time, so kindly take us at once to the rooms which we are
to examine."
The building was of gray, lichen-blotched stone, with a high
central portion and two curving wings, like the claws of a crab,
thrown out on each side. In one of these wings the windows
were broken and blocked with wooden boards, while the roof
was partly caved in, a picture of ruin. The central portion was in
little better repair, but the right-hand block was comparatively
modern, and the blinds in the windows, with the blue smoke
curling up from the chimneys, showed that this was where the
family resided. Some scaffolding had been erected against the
end wall, and the stone-work had been broken into, but there
were no signs of any workmen at the moment of our visit.
Holmes walked slowly up and down the ill-trimmed lawn and
examined with deep attention the outsides of the windows.
"This, I take it, belongs to the room in which you used to
sleep, the centre one to your sister's, and the one next to the
main building to Dr. Roylott's chamber?"
"Exactly so. But I am now sleeping in the middle one."
"Pending the alterations, as I understand. By the way, there
does not seem to be any very pressing need for repairs at that end
wall."
"There were none. I believe that it was an excuse to move me
from my room."
"Ah! that is suggestive. Now, on the other side of this narrow
wing runs the corridor from which these three rooms open. There
are windows in it, of course?"
"Yes, but very small ones. Too narrow for anyone to pass
through."
"As you both locked your doors at night, your rooms were
unapproachable from that side. Now, would you have the kind-
ness to go into your room and bar your shutters?"
Miss Stoner did so, and Holmes, after a careful examination
through the open window, endeavoured in every way to force the
shutter open, but without success. There was no slit through
which a knife could be passed to raise the bar. Then with his lens
he tested the hinges, but they were of solid iron, built firmly into
the massive masonry. "Hum!" said he, scratching his chin in
some perplexity, "my theory certainly presents some difficulties.
No one could pass these shutters if they were bolted. Well, we
shall see if the inside throws any light upon the matter."
A small slde door led into the whitewashed corridor from
which the three bedrooms opened. Holmes refused to examine
the third chamber, so we passed at once to the second, that in
which Miss Stoner was now sleeping, and in which her sister had
met with her fate. It was a homely little room, with a low ceiling
and a gaping fireplace, after the fashion of old country-houses. A
brown chest of drawers stood in one corner, a narrow white-
counterpaned bed in another, and a dressing-table on the left-hand
side of the window. These articles, with two small wicker-work
chairs, made up all the furniture in the room save for a square of
Wilton carpet in the centre. The boards round and the panelling
of the walls were of brown, worm-eaten oak, so old and
discoloured that it may have dated from the original building of
the house. Holmes drew one of the chairs into a corner and sat
sllent, while his eyes travelled round and round and up and
down, taking in every detail of the apartment.
"Where does that bell communicate with?" he asked at last
pointing to a thick belt-rope which hung down beside the bed,
the tassel actually lying upon the pi]low.
"It goes to the housekeeper's room."
"It looks newer than the other things?"
"Yes, it was only put there a couple of years ago."
"Your sister asked for it, I suppose?"
"No, I never heard of her using it. We used always to get
what we wanted for ourselves."
"Indeed, it seemed unnecessary to put so nice a bell-pull
there. You will excuse me for a few minutes while I satisfy
myself as to this floor." He threw himself down upon his face
with his lens in his hand and crawled swiftly backward and
forward, examining minutely the cracks between the boards.
Then he dld the same with the wood-work with which the
chamber was panelled. Finally he walked over to the bed and
spent some time in staring at it and in running his eye up and
down the wall. Finally he took the bell-rope in his hand and gave
it a brisk tug.
"Why, it's a dummy," said he.
"Won't it ring?"
"No, it is not even attached to a wire. This is very interesting.
You can see now that it is fastened to a hook just above where
the little opening for the ventilator is."
"How very absurd! I never noticed that before."
"Very strange!" muttered Holmes, pulling at the rope. "There
are one or two very singular points about this room. For exam-
ple, what a fool a builder must be to open a ventilator into
another room, when, with the same trouble, he might have
communicated with the outside air!"
"That is also quite modern," said the lady.
"Done about the same time as the bell-rope?" remarked
Holmes.
"Yes, there were severa} little changes carried out about that
time."
"They seem to have been of a most interesting character --
dummy bell-ropes, and ventilators which do not ventilate. With
your permission, Miss Stoner, we shall now carry our researches
into the inner apartment."
Dr. Grimesby Roylott's chamber was larger than that of his
stepdaughter, but was as plainly furnished. A camp-bed, a small
wooden shelf full of books, mostly of a technical character an
armchair beside the bed, a plain wooden chair against the wail, a
round table, and a large iron safe were the principal things which
met the eye. Holmes walked slowly round and examined each
and all of them with the keenest interest.
"What's in here?" he asked, tapping the safe.
"My stepfather's business papers."
"Oh! you have seen inside, then?"
"Only once, some years ago. I remember that it was full of
papers."
"There isn't a cat in it, for example?"
"No. What a strange idea!"
"Well, look at this!" He took up a small saucer of milk which
stood on the top of it.
"No; we don't keep a cat. But there is a cheetah and a
baboon."
"Ah, yes, of course! Well, a cheetah is just a big cat, and yet
a saucer of milk does not go very far in satisfying its wants, I
daresay. There is one point which I should wish to determine."
He squatted down in front of the wooden chair and examined the
seat of it with the greatest attention.
"Thank you. That is quite settled," said he, rising and putting
his lens in his pocket. "Hello! Here is something interesting!"
The object which had caught his eye was a small dog lash
hung on one corner of the bed. The lash, however, was curled
upon itself and tied so as to make a loop of whipcord.
"What do you make of that, Watson?"
"It's a common enough lash. But I don't know why if should
be tied."
"That is not quite so common, is it? Ah, me! it's a wicked
world, and when a clever man turns his brains to crime it is the
worst of all. I think that I have seen enough now, Miss Stoner,
and with your permission we shall walk out upon the lawn."
I had never seen my friend's face so grim or his brow so dark
as it was when we turned from the scene of this investigation.
We had walked several times up and down the lawn, neither
Miss Stoner nor myself liking to break in upon his thoughts
before he roused himself from his reverie.
"It is very essential, Miss Stoner," said he, "that you should
absolutely follow my advice in every respect."
"I shall most certainly do so."
"The matter is too serious for any hesitation. Your life may
depend upon your compliance."
"I assure you that I am in your hands."
"In the first place, both my friend and I must spend the night
in your room."
Both Miss Stoner and I gazed at him in astonishment.
"Yes, it must be so. Let me explain. I believe that that is the
village inn over there?"
"Yes, that is the Crown."
"Very good. Your windows would be visible from there?"
"Certainly."
"You must confine yourself to your room, on pretence of a
headache, when your stepfather comes back. Then when you
hear him retire for the night, you must open the shutters of your
window, undo the hasp, put your lamp there as a signal to us,
and then withdraw quietly with everything which you are likely
to want into the room which you used to occupy. I have no doubt
that, in spite of the repairs, you could manage there for one
night."
"Oh, yes, easily."
"The rest you will leave in our hands."
"But what will you do?"
"We shall spend the night in your room, and we shall investi-
gate the cause of this noise which has disturbed you."
"I believe, Mr. Holmes, that you have already made up your
mind," said Miss Stoner, laying her hand upon my companion's
sleeve.
"Perhaps I have."
"Then, for pity's sake, tell me what was the cause of my
sister's death."
"I should prefer to have clearer proofs before I speak."
"You can at least tell me whether my own thought is correct,
and if she died from some sudden fright."
"No, I do not think so. I think that there was probably some
more tangible cause. And now, Miss Stoner, we must leave you
for if Dr. Roylott returned and saw us our journey would be in
vain. Good-bye, and be brave, for if you will do what I have told
you you may rest assured that we shall soon drive away the
dangers that threaten you."
Sherlock Holmes and I had no difficulty in engaging a bed-
room and sitting-room at the Crown Inn. They were on the upper
floor, and from our window we could command a view of the
avenue gate, and of the inhabited wing of Stoke Moran Manor
House. At dusk we saw Dr. Grimesby Roylott drive past, his
huge form looming up beside the little figure of the lad who
drove him. The boy had some slight difficulty in undoing the
heavy iron gates, and we heard the hoarse roar of the doctor's
voice and saw the fury with which he shook his clinched fists at
him. The trap drove on, and a few minutes later we saw a
sudden light spring up among the trees as the lamp was lit in one
of the sitting-rooms.
"Do you know, Watson," said Holmes as we sat together in
the gathering darkness, "I have really some scruples as to taking
you to-night. There is a distinct element of danger."
"Can I be of assistance?"
"Your presence might be invaluable."
"Then I shall certainly come."
"It is very kind of you."
"You speak of danger. You have evidently seen more in these
rooms than was visible to me."
"No, but I fancy that I may have deduced a little more. I
imagine that you saw all that I did."
"I saw nothing remarkable save the bell-rope, and what purpose
that could answer I confess is more than I can imagine."
"You saw the ventilator, too?"
"Yes, but I do not think that it is such a very unusual thing to
have a small opening between two rooms. It was so small that a
rat could hardly pass through."
"I knew that we should find a ventilator before ever we came
to Stoke Moran."
"My dear Holmes!"
"Oh, yes, I did. You remember in her statement she said that
her sister could smell Dr. Roylott's cigar. Now, of course that
suggested at once that there must be a communication between
the two rooms. It could only be a small one, or it would have
been remarked upon at the coroner's inquiry. I deduced a
ventilator."
"But what harm can there be in that?"
"Well, there is at least a curious coincidence of dates. A
ventilator is made, a cord is hung, and a lady who sleeps in the
bed dies. Does not that strike you?"
"I cannot as yet see any connection."
"Did you observe anything very peculiar about that bed?"
"No."
"It was clamped to the floor. Did you ever see a bed fastened
like that before?"
"I cannot say that I have."
"The lady could not move her bed. It must always be in the
same relative position to the ventilator and to the rope -- or so we
may call it, since it was clearly never meant for a bell-pull."
"Holmes," I cried, "I seem to see dimly what you are hinting
at. We are only just in time to prevent some subtle and horrible
crime."
"Subtle enough and horrible enough. When a doctor does go
wrong he is the first of criminals. He has nerve and he has
knowledge. Palmer and Pritchard were among the heads of their
profession. This man strikes even deeper, but I think, Watson,
that we shall be able to strike deeper still. But we shall have
horrors enough before the night is over; for goodness' sake let us
have a quiet pipe and turn our minds for a few hours to some-
thing more cheerful."
* * *
About nine o'clock the light among the trees was extinguished,
and all was dark in the direction of the Manor House. Two hours
passed slowly away, and then, suddenly, just at the stroke of
eleven, a single bright light shone out right in front of us.
"That is our signal," said Holmes, springing to his feet; "it
comes from the middle window."
As we passed out he exchanged a few words with the land-
lord, explaining that we were going on a late visit to an acquaint-
ance, and that it was possible that we might spend the night
there. A moment later we were out on the dark road, a chill wind
blowing in our faces, and one yellow light twinkling in front of
us through the gloom to guide us on our sombre errand.
There was little difficulty in entering the grounds, for unre-
paired breaches gaped in the old park wall. Making our way
among the trees, we reached the lawn, crossed it, and were about
to enter through the window when out from a clump of laurel
bushes there darted what seemed to be a hideous and distorted
child, who threw itself upon the grass with writhing limbs and
then ran swiftly across the lawn into the darkness.
"My God!" I whispered; "did you see it?"
Holmes was for the moment as startled as I. His hand closed
like a vise upon my wrist in his agitation. Then he broke into a
low laugh and put his lips to my ear.
"It is a nice household," he murmured. "That is the baboon."
I had forgotten the strange pets which the doctor affected.
There was a cheetah, too; perhaps we might find it upon our
shoulders at any moment. I confess that I felt easier in my mind
when, after following Holmes's example and slipping off my
shoes, I found myself inside the bedroom. My companion noise-
lessly closed the shutters, moved the lamp onto the table, and
cast his eyes round the room. All was as we had seen it in the
daytime. Then creeping up to me and making a trumpet of his
hand, he whispered into my ear again so gently that it was all
that I could do to distinguish the words:
"The least sound would be fatal to our plans."
I nodded to show that I had heard.
"We must sit without light. He would see it through the
ventilator."
I nodded again.
"Do not go asleep; your very life may depend upon it. Have
your pistol ready in case we should need it. I will sit on the side
of the bed, and you in that chair."
I took out my revolver and laid it on the corner of the table.
Holmes had brought up a long thin cane, and this he placed
upon the bed beside him. By it he laid the box of matches and
the stump of a candle. Then he turned down the lamp, and we
were left in darkness.
How shall I ever forget that dreadful vigil? I could not hear a
sound, not even the drawing of a breath, and yet I knew that my
companion sat open-eyed, within a few feet of me, in the same
state of nervous tension in which I was myself. The shutters cut
off the least ray of light, and we waited in absolute darkness.
From outside came the occasional cry of a night-bird, and once
at our very window a long drawn catlike whine, which told us
that the cheetah was indeed at liberty. Far away we could hear
the deep tones of the parish clock, which boomed out every
quarter of an hour. How long they seemed, those quarters!
Twelve struck, and one and two and three, and still we sat
waiting silently for whatever might befall.
Suddenly there was the momentary gleam of a light up in the
direction of the ventilator, which vanished immediately, but was
succeeded by a strong smell of burning oil and heated metal.
Someone in the next room had lit a dark-lantern. I heard a gentle
sound of movement, and then all was silent once more, though
the smell grew stronger. For half an hour I sat with straining
ears. Then suddenly another sound became audible -- a very gen-
tle, soothing sound, like that of a small jet of steam escaping
continually from a kettle. The instant that we heard it, Holmes
sprang from the bed, struck a match, and lashed furiously with
his cane at the bell-pull.
"You see it, Watson?" he yelled. "You see it?"
But I saw nothing. At the moment when Holmes struck the
light I heard a low, clear whistle, but the sudden glare flashing
into my weary eyes made it impossible for me to tell what it was
at which my friend lashed so savagely. I could, however, see
that his face was deadly pale and filled with horror and loathing.-
He had ceased to strike and was gazing up at the ventilator
when suddenly there broke from the silence of the night the most
horrible cry to which I have ever listened. It swelled up louder
and louder, a hoarse yell of pain and fear and anger all mingled
in the one dreadful shriek. They say that away down in the
village, and even in the distant parsonage, that cry raised the
sleepers from their beds. It struck cold to our hearts, and I stood
gazing at Holmes, and he at me, until the last echoes of it had
died away into the silence from which it rose.
"What can it mean?" I gasped.
"It means that it is all over," Holmes answered. "And per-
haps, after all, it is for the best. Take your pistol, and we will
enter Dr. Roylott's room."
With a grave face he lit the lamp and led the way down the
corridor. Twice he struck at the chamber door without any reply
from within. Then he turned the handle and entered, I at his
heels, with the cocked pistol in my hand.
It was a singular sight which met our eyes. On the table stood
a dark-lantern with the shutter half open, throwing a brilliant
beam of light upon the iron safe, the door of which was ajar.
Beside this table, on the wooden chair, sat Dr. Grimesby Roylott
clad in a long gray dressing-gown, his bare ankles protruding
beneath, and his feet thrust into red heelless Turkish slippers.
Across his lap lay the short stock with the long lash which we
had noticed during the day. His chin was cocked upward and his
eyes were fixed in a dreadful, rigid stare at the corner of the
ceiling. Round his brow he had a peculiar yellow band, with
brownish speckles, which seemed to be bound tightly round his
head. As we entered he made neither sound nor motion.
"The band! the speckled band!" whispered Holmes.
I took a step forward. In an instant his strange headgear began
to move, and there reared itself from among his hair the squat
diamond-shaped head and puffed neck of a loathsome serpent.
"It is a swamp adder!" cried Holmes; "the deadliest snake in
India. He has died within ten seconds of being bitten. Violence
does, in truth, recoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls into
the pit which he digs for another. Let us thrust this creature back
into its den, and we can then remove Miss Stoner to some place
of shelter and let the county police know what has happened."
As he spoke he drew the dog-whip swiftly from the dead
man's lap, and throwing the noose round the reptile's neck he
drew it from its horrid perch and, carrying it at arm's length,
threw it into the iron safe, which he closed upon it.
Such are the true facts of the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott,
of Stoke Moran. It is not necessary that I should prolong a
narrative which has already run to too great a length by telling
how we broke the sad news to the terrified girl, how we con-
veyed her by the morning train to the care of her good aunt at
Harrow, of how the slow process of official inquiry came to the
conclusion that the doctor met his fate while indiscreetly playing
with a dangerous pet. The little which I had yet to learn of the
case was told me by Sherlock Holmes as we travelled back next
day.
"I had," said he, "come to an entirely erroneous conclusion
which shows, my dear Watson, how dangerous it always is to
reason from insufficient data. The presence of the gypsies, and
the use of the word 'band,' which was used by the poor girl, no
doubt to explain the appearance which she had caught a hurried
glimpse of by the light of her match, were sufficient to put me
upon an entirely wrong scent. I can only claim the merit that I
instantly reconsidered my position when, however, it became
clear to me that whatever danger threatened an occupant of the
room could not come either from the window or the door. My
attention was speedily drawn, as I have already remarked to you,
to this ventilator, and to the bell-rope which hung down to the
bed. The discovery that this was a dummy, and that the bed was
clamped to the floor, instantly gave rise to the suspicion that the
rope was there as a bridge for something passing through the
hole and coming to the bed. The idea of a snake instantly
occurred to me, and when I coupled it with my knowledge that
the doctor was furnished with a supply of creatures from India, I
felt that I was probably on the right track. The idea of using a
form of poison which could not possibly be discovered by any
chemical test was just such a one as would occur to a clever and
ruthless man who had had an Eastern training. The rapidity with
which such a poison would take effect would also, from his point
of view, be an advantage. It would be a sharp-eyed coroner,
indeed, who could distinguish the two little dark punctures which
would show where the poison fangs had done their work. Then I
thought of the whistle. Of course he must recall the snake before
the morning light revealed it to the victim. He had trained it,
probably by the use of the milk which we saw, to return to him
when summoned. He would put it through this ventilator at the
hour that he thought best, with the certainty that it would crawl
down the rope and land on the bed. It might or might not bite the
occupant, perhaps she might escape every night for a week, but
sooner or later she must fall a victim.
"I had come to these conclusions before ever I had entered his
room. An inspection of his chair showed me that he had been in
the habit of standing on it, which of course would be necessary
in order that he should reach the ventilator. The sight of the safe,
the saucer of milk, and the loop of whipcord were enough to
finally dispel any doubts which may have remained. The metallic
clang heard by Miss Stoner was obviously caused by her stepfa-
ther hastily closing the door of his safe upon its terrible occu-
pant. Having once made up my mind, you know the steps which
I took in order to put the matter to the proof. I heard the creature
hiss as I have no doubt that you did also, and I instantly lit the
light and attacked it."
"With the result of driving it through the ventilator."
"And also with the result of causing it to turn upon its master
at the other side. Some of the blows of my cane came home and
roused its snakish temper, so that it flew upon the first person it
saw. In this way I am no doubt indirectly responsible for Dr.
Grimesby Roylott's death, and I cannot say that it is likely to
weigh very heavily upon my conscience."
1892
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE ADVENTURE OF THE BERYL CORONET
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Electronically Enhanced Text (c) Copyright 1991, World Library, Inc.
THE_ADVENTURE_OF_THE_BERYL_CORONET
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.
{^paragraph 5}
"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.
{^paragraph 10}
"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."
{^paragraph 15}
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.'
{^paragraph 20}
"'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.'
{^paragraph 25}
"'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.
{^paragraph 30}
"'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.
{^paragraph 35}
"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.
{^paragraph 40}
"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.'
{^paragraph 45}
"'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?'
{^paragraph 50}
"'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.
{^paragraph 55}
"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?'
{^paragraph 60}
"'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.
{^paragraph 65}
"'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.
{^paragraph 70}
"'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."
{^paragraph 75}
"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!"
{^paragraph 80}
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?"
{^paragraph 85}
"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."
{^paragraph 90}
"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?"
{^paragraph 95}
"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."
{^paragraph 100}
"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."
{^paragraph 105}
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."
{^paragraph 110}
"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."
{^paragraph 115}
"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."
{^paragraph 120}
"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?"
{^paragraph 125}
"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?"
{^paragraph 130}
"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?"
{^paragraph 135}
"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.
{^paragraph 140}
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."
{^paragraph 145}
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?"
{^paragraph 150}
"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."
{^paragraph 155}
"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."
{^paragraph 160}
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."
{^paragraph 165}
"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."
{^paragraph 170}
"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.
{^paragraph 175}
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."
{^paragraph 180}
"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
{^paragraph 185}
"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?"
{^paragraph 190}
"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.
{^paragraph 195}
"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."
{^paragraph 200}
"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!"
{^paragraph 205}
"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.
{^paragraph 210}
"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!"
{^paragraph 215}
"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.
{^paragraph 220}
"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."
{^paragraph 225}
-
-
THE END
Electronically Enhanced Text (C) Copyright 1991, 1992, World Library, Inc.
--------------------------------------------------------------
A Scandal in Bohemia
To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard
him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses
and predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt
any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that
one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but
admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect
reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a
lover he would have placed himself in a false position. He never
spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They
were admirable things for the observerДДexcellent for drawing the
veil from men's motives and actions. But for the trained reasoner
to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted
temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might
throw a doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensitive
instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would
not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as
his. And yet there was but one woman to him, and that woman was
the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory.
I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted
us away from each other. My own complete happiness, and the
home-centred interests which rise up around the man who first
finds himself master of his own establishment, were sufficient to
absorb all my attention, while Holmes, who loathed every form of
society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in
Baker Street, buried among his old books, and alternating from
week to week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the
drug, and the fierce energy of his own keen nature. He was still,
as ever, deeply attracted by the study of crime, and occupied his
immense faculties and extraordinary powers of observation in
following out those clues, and clearing up those mysteries which
had been abandoned as hopeless by the official police. From time
to time I heard some vague account of his doings: of his summons
to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murder, of his clearing up of
the singular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at Trincomalee, and
finally of the mission which he had accomplished so delicately and
successfully for the reigning family of Holland. Beyond these
signs of his activity, however, which I merely shared with all the
readers of the daily press, I knew little of my former friend and
companion.
One nightДДit was on the twentieth of March, 1888ДДI was
returning from a journey to a patient (for I had now returned to
civil practice), when my way led me through Baker Street. As I
passed the well-remembered door, which must always be associated
in my mind with my wooing, and with the dark incidents of the
Study in Scarlet, I was seized with a keen desire to see Holmes
again, and to know how he was employing his extraordinary powers.
His rooms were brilliantly lit, and, even as I looked up, I saw
his tall, spare figure pass twice in a dark silhouette against the
blind. He was pacing the room swiftly, eagerly, with his head
sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped behind him. To me, who
knew his every mood and habit, his attitude and manner told their
own story. He was at work again. He had risen out of his
drug-created dreams and was hot upon the scent of some new
problem. I rang the bell and was shown up to the chamber which
had formerly been in part my own.
His manner was not effusive. It seldom was; but he was glad,
I think, to see me. With hardly a word spoken, but with a kindly
eye, he waved me to an armchair, threw across his case of cigars,
and indicated a spirit case and a gasogene in the corner. Then he
stood before the fire and looked me over in his singular
introspective fashion.
"Wedlock suits you," he remarked. "I think, Watson, that you
have put on seven and a half pounds since I saw you."
"Seven!" I answered.
"Indeed, I should have thought a little more. Just a trifle
more, I fancy, Watson. And in practice again, I observe. You did
not tell me that you intended to go into harness."
"Then, how do you know?"
"I see it, I deduce it. How do I know that you have been
getting yourself very wet lately, and that you have a most clumsy
and careless servant girl?"
"My dear Holmes," said I, "this is too much. You would
certainly have been burned, had you lived a few centuries ago. It
is true that I had a country walk on Thursday and came home in a
dreadful mess, but as I have changed my clothes I can't imagine
how you deduce it. As to Mary Jane, she is incorrigible, and my
wife has given her notice; but there, again, I fail to see how you
work it out."
He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long, nervous hands
together.
It is simplicity itself," said he; "my eyes tell me that on
the inside of your left shoe, just where the firelight strikes it,
the leather is scored by six almost parallel cuts. Obviously they
have been caused by someone who has very carelessly scraped round
the edges of the sole in order to remove crusted mud from it.
Hence, you see, my double deduction that you had been out in vile
weather, and that you had a particularly malignant boot-slitting
specimen of the London slavey. As to your practice, if a
gentleman walks into my rooms smelling of iodoform, with a black
mark of nitrate of silver upon his right forefinger, and a bulge
on the right side of his top-hat to show where he has secreted his
stethoscope, I must be dull, indeed, if I do not pronounce him to
be an active member of the medical profession."
I could not help laughing at the ease with which he explained
his process of deduction. "When I hear you give your reasons," I
remarked, "the thing always appears to me to be so ridiculously
simple that I could easily do it myself, though at each successive
instance of your reasoning I am baffled until you explain your
process. And yet I believe that my eyes are as good as yours."
"Quite so," he answered, lighting a cigarette, and throwing
himself down into an armchair. "You see, but you do not observe.
The distinction is clear. For example, you have frequently seen
the steps which lead up from the hall to this room."
"Frequently."
"How often?"
"Well, some hundreds of times."
"Then how many are there?"
"How many? I don't know."
"Quite so! You have not observed. And yet you have seen.
That is just my point. Now, I know that there are seventeen
steps, because I have both seen and observed. By the way, since
you are interested in these little problems, and since you are
good enough to chronicle one or two of my trifling experiences,
you may be interested in this." He threw over a sheet of thick,
pink-tinted note-paper which had been lying open upon the table.
"It came by the last post," said he. "Read it aloud."
The note was undated, and without either signature or address.
"There will call upon you to-night, at a quarter to eight
o'clock [it said], a gentleman who desires to consult you upon
a matter of the very deepest moment. Your recent services to
one of the royal houses of Europe have shown that you are one
who may safely be trusted with matters which are of an
importance which can hardly be exaggerated. This account of
you we have from all quarters received. Be in your chamber
then at that hour, and do not take it amiss if your visitor
wear a mask.
"This is indeed a mystery," I remarked. "What do you imagine
that it means?"
"I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorize
before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit
theories, instead of theories to suit facts. But the note itself.
What do you deduce from it?"
I carefully examined the writing, and the paper upon which it
was written.
"The man who wrote it was presumably well to do," I remarked,
endeavouring to imitate my companion's processes. "Such paper
could not be bought under half a crown a packet. It is peculiarly
strong and stiff."
"PeculiarДДthat is the very word," said Holmes. "It is not an
English paper at all. Hold it up to the light."
I did so, and saw a large "E" with a small "g," a "P," and a
large "G" with a small "t" woven into the texture of the paper.
"What do you make of that?" asked Holmes.
"The name of the maker, no doubt; or his monogram, rather."
"Not at all. The `G' with the small `t' stands for
`Gesellschaft,' which is the German for `Company.' It is a
customary contraction like our `Co.' `P,' of course, stands for
`Papier.' Now for the `Eg.' Let us glance at our Continental
Gazetteer." He took down a heavy brown volume from his shelves.
"Eglow, EglonitzДДhere we are, Egria. It is in a German-speaking
countryДДin Bohemia, not far from Carlsbad. `Remarkable as being
the scene of the death of Wallenstein, and for its numerous
glass-factories and paper-mills.' Ha, ha, my boy, what do you
make of that?" His eyes sparkled, and he sent upa great blue
triumphant cloud from his cigarette.
"The paper was made in Bohemia," I said.
"Precisely. And the man who wrote the note is a German. Do
you note the peculiar construction of the sentenceДД'This account
of you we have from all quarters received.' A Frenchman or
Russian could not have written that. It is the German who is so
uncourteous to his verbs. It only remains, therefore, to discover
what is wanted by this German who writes upon Bohemian paper and
prefers wearing a mask to showing his face. And here he comes, if
I am not mistaken, to resolve all our doubts."
As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses' hoofs and
grating wheels against the curb, followed by a sharp pull at the
bell. Holmes whistled.
"A pair, by the sound," said he. "Yes," he continued,
glancing out of the window. "A nice little brougham and a pair of
beauties. A hundred and fifty guineas apiece. There's money in
this case, Watson, if there is nothing else."
"I think that I had better go, Holmes."
"Not a bit, Doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without my
Boswell. And this promises to be interesting. It would be a pity
to miss it."
"But your clientДД"
"Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here
he comes. Sit down in that armchair, Doctor, and give us your
best attention."
A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs
and in the passage, paused immediately outside the door. Then
there was a loud and authoritative tap.
"Come in!" said Holmes.
A man entered who could hardly have been less than six feet
six inches in height, with the chest and limbs of a Hercules. His
dress was rich with a richness which would, in England, be looked
upon as akin to bad taste. Heavy bands of astrakhan were slashed
across the sleeves and fronts of his double-breasted coat, while
the deep blue cloak which was thrown over his shoulders was lined
with flame-coloured silk and secured at the neck with a brooch
which consisted of a single flaming beryl. Boots which extended
halfway up his calves, and which were trimmed at the tops with
rich brown fur, completed the impression of barbaric opulence
which was suggested by his whole appearance. He carried a
broad-brimmed hat in his hand, while he wore across the upper part
of his face, extending down past the cheekbones, a black vizard
mask, which he had apparently adjusted that very moment, for his
hand was still raised to it as he entered. From the lower part of
the face he appeared to be a man of strong character, with a
thick, hanging lip, and a long, straight chin suggestive of
resolution pushed to the length of obstinacy.
"You had my note?" he asked with a deep harsh voice and a
strongly marked German accent. "I told you that I would call."
He looked from one to the other of us, as if uncertain which to
address.
"Pray take a seat," said Holmes. "This is my friend and
colleague, Dr. Watson, who is occasionally good enough to help me
in my cases. Whom have I the honour to address?"
"You may address me as the Count Von Kramm, a Bohemian
nobleman. I understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man
of honour and discretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the
most extreme importance. If not, I should much prefer to
communicate with you alone."
I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me
back into my chair. "It is both, or none," said he. "You may say
before this gentleman anything which you may say to me."
The Count shrugged his broad shoulders. "Then I must begin,"
said he, "by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years;
at the end of that time the matter will be of no importance. At
present it is not too much to say that it is of such weight it may
have an influence upon European history."
"I promise," said Holmes.
"And I."
"You will excuse this mask," continued our strange visitor.
"The august person who employs me wishes his agent to be unknown
to you, and I may confess at once that the title by which I have
just called myself is not exactly my own."
"I was aware of it," said Holmes drily.
"The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every precaution
has to be taken to quench what might grow to be an immense scandal
and seriously compromise one of the reigning families of Europe.
To speak plainly, the matter implicates the great House of
Ormstein, hereditary kings of Bohemia."
"I was also aware of that," murmured Holmes, settling himself
down in his armchair and closing his eyes.
Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the
languid, lounging figure of the man who had been no doubt depicted
to him as the most incisive reasoner and most energetic agent in
Europe. Holmes slowly reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at
his gigantic client.
"If your Majesty would condescend to state your case," he
remarked, "I should be better able to advise you."
The man sprang from his chair and paced up and down the room
in uncontrollable agitation. Then, with a gesture of desperation,
he tore the mask from his face and hurled it upon the ground.
"You are right," he cried; "I am the King. Why should I attempt
to conceal it?"
"Why, indeed?" murmured Holmes. "Your Majesty had not spoken
before I was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich
Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and
hereditary King of Bohemia."
"But you can understand," said our strange visitor, sitting
down once more and passing his hand over his high white forehead,
"you can understand that I am not accustomed to doing such
business in my own person. Yet the matter was so delicate that I
could not confide it to an agent without putting myself in his
power. I have come incognito from Prague for the purpose of
consulting you."
"Then, pray consult," said Holmes, shutting his eyes once
more.
"The facts are briefly these: Some five years ago, during a
lengthy visit to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the well-known
adventuress, Irene Adler. The name is no doubt familiar toyou."
"Kindly look her up in my index, Doctor," murmured Holmes
without opening his eyes. For many years he had adopted a system
of docketing all paragraphs concerning men and things, so that it
was difficult to name a subject or a person on which he could not
at once furnish information. In this case I found her biography
sandwiched in between that of a Hebrew rabbi and that of a
staff-commander who had written a monograph upon the deep-sea
fishes.
"Let me see!" said Holmes. "Hum! Born in New Jersey in the
year 1858. ContraltoДДhum! La Scala, hum! Prima donna Imperial
Opera of WarsawДДyes! Retired from operatic stageДДha! Living in
LondonДДquite so! Your Majesty, as I understand, became entangled
with this young person, wrote her some compromising letters, and
is now desirous of getting those letters back."
"Precisely so. But howДД"
"Was there a secret marriage?"
"None."
"No legal papers or certificates?"
"None."
"Then I fail to follow your Majesty. If this young person
should produce her letters for blackmailing or other purposes, how
is she to prove their authenticity?"
"There is the writing."
"Pooh, pooh! Forgery."
"My private notepaper."
"Stolen."
"My own seal."
"Imitated."
"My photograph."
"Bought."
"We were both in the photograph."
"Oh, dear! That is very bad! Your Majesty has indeed
committed an indiscretion."
"I was madДДinsane."
"You have compromised yourself seriously."
"I was only Crown Prince then. I was young. I am but thirty
now."
"It must be recovered."
"We have tried and failed."
"Your Majesty must pay. It must be bought."
"She will not sell."
"Stolen, then."
"Five attempts have been made. Twice burglars in my pay
ransacked her house. Once we diverted her luggage when she
travelled. Twice she has been waylaid. There has been no
result."
"No sign of it?"
"Absolutely none."
Holmes laughed. "It is quite a pretty little problem," said
he.
"But a very serious one to me," returned the King
reproachfully.
"Very, indeed. And what does she propose to do with the
photograph?"
"To ruin me."
"But how?"
"I am about to be married."
"So I have heard."
"To Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen, second daughter of the
King of Scandinavia. You may know the strict principles of her
family. She is herself the very soul of delicacy. A shadow of a
doubt as to my conduct would bring the matter to an end."
"And Irene Adler?"
"Threatens to send them the photograph. And she will do it.
I know that she will do it. You do not know her, but she has a
soul of steel. She has the face of the most beautiful of women,
and the mind of the most resolute of men. Rather than I should
marry another woman, there are no lengths to which she would not
goДДnone."
"You are sure that she has not sent it yet?"
"I am sure."
"And why?"
"Because she has said that she would send it on the day when
the betrothal was publicly proclaimed. That will be next Monday."
"Oh, then we have three days yet," said Holmes with a yawn.
"That is very fortunate, as I have one or two matters of
importance to look into just at present. Your Majesty will, of
course, stay in London for the present?"
"Certainly. You will find me at the Langham under the name of
the Count Von Kramm."
"Then I shall drop you a line to let you know how we
progress."
"Pray do so. I shall be all anxiety."
"Then, as to money?"
"You have carte blanche."
"Absolutely?"
"I tell you that I would give one of the provinces of my
kingdom to have that photograph."
"And for present expenses?"
The King took a heavy chamois leather bag from under his cloak
and laid it on the table.
"There are three hundred pounds in gold and seven hundred in
notes," he said.
Holmes scribbled a receipt upon a sheet of his note-book and
handed it to him.
"And Mademoiselle's address?" he asked.
"Is Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John's Wood."
Holmes took a note of it. "One other question," said he. "Was
the photograph a cabinet?"
"It was."
"Then, good-night, your Majesty, and I trust that we shall
soon have some good news for you. And good-night, Watson," he
added, as the wheels of the royal brougham rolled down the street.
"If you will be good enough to call to-morrow afternoon at three
o'clock I should like to chat this little matter over with you."
At three o'clock precisely I was at Baker Street, but Holmes
had not yet returned. The landlady informed me that he had left
the house shortly after eight o'clock in the morning. I sat down
beside the fire, however, with the intention of awaiting him,
however long he might be. I was already deeply interested in his
inquiry, for, though it was surrounded by none of the grim and
strange features which were associated with the two crimes which I
have already recorded, still, the nature of the case and the
exalted station of his client gave it a character of its own.
Indeed, apart from the nature of the investigation which my friend
had on hand, there was something in his masterly grasp of a
situation, and his keen, incisive reasoning, which made it a
pleasure to me to study his system of work, and to follow the
quick, subtle methods by which he disentangled the most
inextricable mysteries. So accustomed was I to his invariable
success that the very possibility of his failing had ceased to
enter into my head.
It was close upon four before the door opened, and a
drunken-looking groom, ill-kempt and side-whiskered, with an
inflamed face and disreputable clothes, walked into the room.
Accustomed as I was to my friend's amazing powers in the use of
disguises, I had to look three times before I was certain that it
was indeed he. With a nod he vanished into the bedroom, whence he
emerged in five minutes tweed-suited and respectable, as of old.
Putting his hands into his pockets, he stretched out his legs in
front of the fire and laughed heartily for some minutes.
"Well, really!" he cried, and then hechoked and laughed again
until he was obliged to lie back, limp and helpless, in the chair.
"What is it?"
"It's quite too funny. I am sure you could never guess how I
employed my morning, or what I ended by doing."
"I can't imagine. I suppose that you have been watching the
habits, and perhaps the house, of Miss Irene Adler."
"Quite so; but the sequel was rather unusual. I will tell
you, however. I left the house a little after eight o'clock this
morning in the character of a groom out of work. There is a
wonderful sympathy and freemasonry among horsy men. Be one of
them, and you will know all that there is to know. I soon found
Briony Lodge. It is a bijou villa, with a garden at the back, but
built out in front right up to the road, two stories. Chubb lock
to the door. Large sitting-room on the right side, well
furnished, with long windows almost to the floor, and those
preposterous English window fasteners which a child could open.
Behind there was nothing remarkable, save that the passage window
could be reached from the top of the coach-house. I walked round
it and examined it closely from every point of view, but without
noting anything else of interest.
"I then lounged down the street and found, as I expected, that
there was a mews in a lane which runs down by one wall of the
garden. I lent the ostlers a hand in rubbing down their horses,
and received in exchange twopence, a glass of half and half, two
fills of shag tobacco, and as much information as I could desire
about Miss Adler, to say nothing of half a dozen other people in
the neighbourhood in whom I was not in the least interested, but
whose biographies I was compelled to listen to."
"And what of Irene Adler?" I asked.
"Oh, she has turned all the men's heads down in that part.
She is the daintiest thing under a bonnet on this planet. So say
the Serpentine-mews, to a man. She lives quietly, sings at
concerts, drives out at five every day, and returns at seven sharp
for dinner. Seldom goes out at other times, except when she
sings. Has only one male visitor, but a good deal of him. He is
dark, handsome, and dashing, never calls less than once a day, and
often twice. He is a Mr. Godfrey Norton, of the Inner Temple.
See the advantages of a cabman as a confidant. They had driven
him home a dozen times from Serpentine-mews, and knew all about
him. When I had listened to all they had to tell, I began to walk
up and down near Briony Lodge once more, and to think over my plan
of campaign.
"This Godfrey Norton was evidently an important factor in the
matter. He was a lawyer. That sounded ominous. What was the
relation between them, and what the object of his repeated visits?
Was she his client, his friend, or his mistress? If the former,
she had probably transferred the photograph to his keeping. If
the latter, it was less likely. On the issue of this question
depended whether I should continue my work at Briony Lodge, or
turn my attention to the gentleman's chambers in the Temple. It
was a delicate point, and it widened the field of my inquiry. I
fear that I bore you with these details, but I have to let you see
my little difficulties, if you are to understand the situation."
"I am following you closely," I answered.
"I was still balancing the matter in my mind when a hansom cab
drove up to Briony Lodge, and a gentleman sprang out. He was a
remarkably handsome man, dark, aquiline, and moustachedДДevidently
the man of whom I had heard. He appeared to be in a great hurry,
shouted to the cabman to wait, and brushed past the maid who
opened the door with the air of a man who was thoroughly at home.
"He was in the house about half an hour, and I could catch
glimpses of him in the windows of the sitting-room, pacing up and
down, talking excitedly, and waving his arms. Of her I could see
nothing. Presently he emerged, looking even more flurried than
before. As he stepped up to the cab, he pulled a gold watch from
his pocket and looked at it earnestly, `Drive like the devil,' he
shouted, `first to Gross & Hankey's in Regent Street, and then to
the Church of St. Monica in the Edgeware Road. Half a guinea if
you do it in twenty minutes!'
"Away they went, and I was just wondering whether I should not
do well to follow them when up the lane came a neat little landau,
the coachman with his coat only half-buttoned, and his tie under
his ear, while all the tags of his harness were sticking out of
the buckles. It hadn't pulled up before she shot out of the hall
door and into it. I only caught a glimpse of her at the moment,
but she was a lovely woman, with a face that a man might die for.
"`The Church of St. Monica, John,' she cried, `and half a
sovereign if you reach it in twenty minutes.'
"This was quite too good to lose, Watson. I was just
balancing whether I should run for it, or whether I should perch
behind her landau when a cab came through the street. The driver
looked twice at such a shabby fare, but I jumped in before he
could object. `The Church of St. Monica,' said I, `and half a
sovereign if you reach it in twenty minutes.' It was twenty-five
minutes to twelve, and of course it was clear enough what was in
the wind.
"My cabby drove fast. I don't think I ever drove faster, but
the others were there before us. The cab and the landau with
their steaming horses were in front of the door when I arrived. I
paid the man and hurried into the church. There was not a soul
there save the two whom I had followed and a surpliced clergyman,
who seemed to be expostulating with them. They were all three
standing in a knot in front of the altar. I lounged up the side
aisle like any other idler who has dropped into a church.
Suddenly, to my surprise, the three at the altar faced round to
me, and Godfrey Norton came running as hard as he could towards
me.
"`Thank God,' he cried. `You'll do. Come! Come!'
"`What then?' I asked.
"`Come, man, come, only three minutes, or it won't be legal.'
"I was half-dragged up to the altar, and before I knew where I
was I found myself mumbling responses which were whispered in my
ear, and vouching for things of which I knew nothing, and
generally assisting in the secure tying up of Irene Adler,
spinster, to Godfrey Norton, bachelor. It was all done in an
instant, and there was the gentleman thanking me on the one side
and the lady on the other, while the clergyman beamed on me in
front. It was the most preposterous position in which I ever
found myself in my life, and it was the thought of it that started
me laughing just now. It seems that there had been some
informality about their license, that the clergyman absolutely
refused to marry them without a witness of some sort, and that my
lucky appearance saved the bridegroom from having to sally out
into the streets in search of a best man. The bride gave me a
sovereign, and I mean to wear it on my watch-chain in memory of
the occasion."
"This is a very unexpected turn of affairs," said I; "and what
then?"
"Well, I found my plans very seriously menaced. It looked as
if the pair might take an immediate departure, and so necessitate
very prompt and energetic measures on my part. At the church
door, however, they separated, he driving back to the Temple, and
she to her own house. `I shall drive out in the park at five as
usual,' she said as she left him. I heard no more. They drove
away in different directions, and I went off to make my own
arrangements."
"Which are?"
"Some cold beef and a glass of beer," he answered, ringing the
bell. "I have been too busy to think of food, and I am likely to
be busier still this evening. By the way, Doctor, I shall want
your cooperation."
"I shall be delighted."
"You don't mind breaking the law?"
"Not in the least."
"Nor running a chance of arrest?"
"Not in a good cause."
"Oh, the cause is excellent!"
"Then I am your man."
"I was sure that I might rely on you."
"But what is it you wish?"
"When Mrs. Turner has brought in the tray I will make it clear
to you. Now," he said as he turned hungrily on the simple fare
that our landlady had provided, "I must discuss it while I eat,
for I have not much time. It is nearly five now. In two hours we
must be on the scene of action. Miss Irene, or Madame, rather,
returns from her drive at seven. We must be at Briony Lodge to
meet her."
"And what then?"
"You must leave that to me. I have already arranged what is
to occur. There is only one point on which I must insist. You
must not interfere, come what may. You understand?"
"I am to be neutral?"
"To do nothing whatever. There will probably be some small
unpleasantness. Do not join in it. It will end in my being
conveyed into the house. Four or five minutes afterwards the
sitting-room window will open. You are to station yourself close
to that open window."
"Yes."
"You are to watch me, for I will be visible to you."
"Yes."
"And when I raise my handДДsoДДyou will throw into the room
what I give you to throw, and will, at the same time, raise the
cry of fire. You quite follow me?"
"Entirely."
"It is nothing very formidable," he said, taking a long
cigar-shaped roll from his pocket. "It is an ordinary plumber's
smoke-rocket, fitted with a cap at either end to make it
self-lighting. Your task is confined to that. When you raise
your cry of fire, it will be taken up by quite a number of people.
You may then walk to the end of the street, and I will rejoin you
in ten minutes. I hope that I have made myself clear?"
"I am to remain neutral, to get near the window, to watch you,
and at the signal to throw in this object, then to raise the cry
of fire, and to wait you at the corner of the street."
"Precisely."
"Then you may entirely rely on me."
"That is excellent. I think, perhaps, it is almost time that
I prepare for the new role I have to play."
He disappeared into his bedroom and returned in a few minutes
in the character of an amiable and simple-minded Nonconformist
clergyman. His broad black hat, his baggy trousers, his white
tie, his sympathetic smile, and general look of peering and
benevolent curiosity were such as Mr. John Hare alone could have
equalled. It was not merely that Holmes changed his costume. His
expression, his manner, his very soul seemed to vary with every
fresh part that he assumed. The stage lost a fine actor, even as
science lost an acute reasoner, when he became a specialist in
crime.
It was a quarter past six when we left Baker Street, and it
still wanted ten minutes to the hour when we found ourselves in
Serpentine Avenue. It was already dusk, and the lamps were just
being lighted as we paced up and down in front of Briony Lodge,
waiting for the coming of its occupant. The house was just such
as I had pictured it from Sherlock Holmes's succinct description,
but the locality appeared to be less private than I expected. On
the contrary, for a small street in a quiet neighbourhood, it was
remarkably animated. There was a group of shabbily dressed men
smoking and laughing in a corner, a scissors-grinder with his
wheel, two guardsmen who were flirting with a nurse-girl, and
several well-dressed young men who were lounging up and down with
cigars in their mouths.
"You see," remarked Holmes, as we paced to and fro in front of
the house, "this marriage rather simplifies matters. The
photograph becomes a double-edged weapon now. The chances are
that she would be as averse to its being seen by Mr. Godfrey
Norton, as our client is to its coming to the eyes of his
princess. Now the question is, Where are we to find the
photograph?"
"Where, indeed?"
"It is most unlikely that she carries it about with her. It
is cabinet size. Too large for easy concealment about a woman's
dress. She knows that the King is capable of having her waylaid
and searched. Two attempts of the sort have already been made.
We may take it, then, that she does not carry it about with her."
"Where, then?"
"Her banker or her lawyer. There is that double possibility.
But I am inclined to think neither. Women are naturally
secretive, and they like to do their own secreting. Why should
she hand it over to anyone else? She could trust her own
guardianship, but she could not tell what indirect or political
influence might be brought to bear upon a business man. Besides,
remember that she had resolved to use it within a few days. It
must be where she can lay her hands upon it. It must be in her
own house."
"But it has twice been burgled."
"Pshaw! They did not know how to look."
"But how will you look?"
"I will not look."
"What then?"
"I will get her to show me."
"But she will refuse."
"She will not be able to. But I hear the rumble of wheels.
It is her carriage. Now carry out my orders to the letter."
As he spoke the gleam of the side-lights of a carriage came
round the curve of the avenue. It was a smart little landau which
rattled up to the door of Briony Lodge. As it pulled up, one of
the loafing men at the corner dashed forward to open the door in
the hope of earning a copper, but was elbowed away by another
loafer, who had rushed up with the same intention. A fierce
quarrel broke out, which was increased by the two guardsmen, who
took sides with one of the loungers, and by the scissors-grinder,
who was equally hot upon the other side. A blow was struck, and
in an instant the lady, who had stepped from her carriage, was the
centre of a little knot of flushed and struggling men, who struck
savagely at each other with their fists and sticks. Holmes dashed
into the crowd to protect the lady; but just as he reached her he
gave a cry and dropped to the ground, with the blood running
freely down his face. At his fall the guardsmen took to their
heels in one direction and the loungers in the other, while a
number of better-dressed people, who had watched the scuffle
without taking part in it, crowded in to help the lady and to
attend to the injured man. Irene Adler, as I will still call her,
had hurried up the steps; but she stood at the top with her superb
figure outlined against the lights of the hall, looking back into
the street.
"Is the poor gentleman much hurt?" she asked.
"He is dead," cried several voices.
"No, no, there's life in him!" shouted another. "But he'll be
gone before you can get him to hospital."
"He's a brave fellow," said a woman. "They would have had the
lady's purse and watch if it hadn't been for him. They were a
gang, and a rough one, too. Ah, he's breathing now."
"He can't lie in the street. May we bring him in, marm?"
"Surely. Bring him into the sitting-room. There is a
comfortable sofa. This way, please!"
Slowly and solemnly he was borne into Briony Lodge and laid
out in the principal room, while I still observed the proceedings
from my post by the window. The lamps had been lit, but the
blinds had not been drawn, so that I could see Holmes as he lay
upon the couch. I do not know whether he was seized with
compunction at that moment for the part he was playing, but I know
that I never felt more heartily ashamed of myself in my life than
when I saw the beautiful creature against whom I was conspiring,
or the grace and kindliness with which she waited upon the injured
man. And yet it would be the blackest treachery to Holmes to draw
back now from the part which he had intrusted to me. I hardened
my heart, and took the smoke-rocket from under my ulster. After
all, I thought, we are not injuring her. We are but preventing
her from injuring another.
Holmes had sat up upon the couch, and I saw him motion like a
man who is in need of air. A maid rushed across and threw open
the window. At the same instant I saw him raise his hand, and at
the signal I tossed my rocket into the room with a cry of "Fire!"
The word was no sooner out of my mouth than the whole crowd of
spectators, well dressed and illДДgentlemen, ostlers, and
servant-maidsДДjoined in a general shriek of "Fire!" Thick clouds
of smoke curled through the room and out at the open window. I
caught a glimpse of rushing figures, and a moment later the voice
of Holmes from within assuring them that it was a false alarm.
Slipping through the shouting crowd I made my way to the corner of
the street, and in ten minutes was rejoiced to find my friend's
arm in mine, and to get away from the scene of uproar. He walked
swiftly and in silence for some few minutes until we had turned
down one of the quiet streets which lead towards the Edgeware
Road.
"You did it very nicely, Doctor," he remarked. "Nothing could
have been better. It is all right."
"You have the photograph?"
"I know where it is."
"And how did you find out?"
"She showed me, as I told you she would."
"I am still in the dark."
"I do not wish to make a mystery," said he, laughing. "The
matter was perfectly simple. You, of course, saw that everyone in
the street was an accomplice. They were all engaged for the
evening."
"I guessed as much."
"Then, when the row broke out, I had a little moist red paint
in the palm of my hand. I rushed forward, fell down, clapped my
hand to my face, and became a piteous spectacle. It is an old
trick."
"That also I could fathom."
"Then they carried me in. She was bound to have me in. What
else could she do? And into her sitting-room, which was the very
room which I suspected. It lay between that and her bedroom, and
I was determined to see which. They laid me on a couch, I
motioned for air, they were compelled to open the window, and you
had your chance."
"How did that help you?"
"It was all-important. When a woman thinks that her house is
on fire, her instinct is at once to rush to the thing which she
values most. It is a perfectly overpowering impulse, and I have
more than once taken advantage of it. In the case of the
Darlington substitution scandal it was of use to me, and also in
the Arnsworth Castle business. A married woman grabs at her baby;
an unmarried one reaches for her jewel-box. Now it was clear to
me that our lady of today had nothing in the house more precious
to her than what we are in quest of. She would rush to secure it.
The alarm of fire was admirably done. The smoke and shouting were
enough to shake nerves of steel. She responded beautifully. The
photograph is in a recess behind a sliding panel just above the
right bell-pull. She was there in an instant, and I caught a
glimpse of it as she half-drew it out. When I cried out that it
was a false alarm, she replaced it, glanced at the rocket, rushed
from the room, and I have not seen her since. I rose, and, making
my excuses, escaped from the house. I hesitated whether to
attempt to secure the photograph at once; but the coachman had
come in, and as he was watching me narrowly it seemed safer to
wait. A little over-precipitance may ruin all."
"And now?" I asked.
"Our quest is practically finished. I shall call with the
King to-morrow, and with you, if you care to come with us. We
will be shown into the sitting-room to wait for the lady, but it
is probable that when she comes she may find neither us nor the
photograph. It might be a satisfaction to his Majesty to regain
it with his own hands."
"And when will you call?"
"At eight in the morning. She will not be up, so that we
shall have a clear field. Besides, we must be prompt, for this
marriage may mean a complete change in her life and habits. I
must wire to the King without delay."
We had reached Baker Street and had stopped at the door. He
was searching his pockets for the key when someone passing said:
"Good-night, Mister Sherlock Holmes."
There were several people on the pavement at the time, but the
greeting appeared to come from a slim youth in an ulster who had
hurried by.
"I've heard that voice before," said Holmes, staring down the
dimly lit street. "Now, I wonder who the deuce that could have
been."
I slept at Baker Street that night, and we were engaged upon
our toast and coffee in the morning when the King of Bohemia
rushed into the room.
"You have really got it!" he cried, grasping Sherlock Holmes
by either shoulder and looking eagerly into his face.
"Not yet."
"But you have hopes?"
"I have hopes."
"Then, come. I am all impatience to be gone."
"We must have a cab."
"No, my brougham is waiting."
"Then that will simplify matters." We descended and started
off once more for Briony Lodge.
"Irene Adler is married," remarked Holmes.
"Married! When?"
"Yesterday."
"But to whom?"
"To an English lawyer named Norton."
"But she could not love him."
"I am in hopes that she does."
"And why in hopes?"
"Because it would spare your Majesty all fear of future
annoyance. If the lady loves her husband, she does not love your
Majesty. If she does not love your Majesty, there is no reason
why she should interfere with your Majesty's plan."
"It is true. And yetДД Well! I wish she had been of my own
station! What a queen she would have made!" He relapsed into a
moody silence, which was not broken until we drew up in Serpentine
Avenue.
The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly woman stood
upon the steps. She watched us with a sardonic eye as we stepped
from the brougham.
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?" said she.
"I am Mr. Holmes," answered my companion, looking at her with
a questioning and rather startled gaze.
"Indeed! My mistress told me that you were likely to call.
She left this morning with her husband by the 5:15 train from
Charing Cross for the Continent."
"What!" Sherlock Holmes staggered back, white with chagrin
and surprise. "Do you mean that she has left England?"
"Never to return."
"And the papers?" asked the King hoarsely. "All is lost."
"We shall see." He pushed past the servant and rushed into
the drawing-room, followed by the King and myself. The furniture
was scattered about in every direction, with dismantled shelves
and open drawers, as if the lady had hurriedly ransacked them
before her flight. Holmes rushed at the bell-pull, tore back a
small sliding shutter, and, plunging in his hand, pulled out a
photograph and a letter. The photograph was of Irene Adler
herself in evening dress, the letter was superscribed to "Sherlock
Holmes, Esq. To be left till called for." My friend tore it
open, and we all three read it together. It was dated at midnight
of the preceding night and ran in this way:
MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES:
You really did it very well. You took me in completely.
Until after the alarm of fire, I had not a suspicion. But
then, when I found how I had betrayed myself, I began to
think. I had been warned against you months ago. I had been
told that if the King employed an agent it would certainly be
you. And your address had been given me. Yet, with all this,
you made me reveal what you wanted to know. Even after I
became suspicious, I found it hard to think evil of such a
dear, kind old clergyman. But, you know, I have been trained
as an actress myself. Male costume is nothing new to me. I
often take advantage of the freedom which it gives. I sent
John, the coachman, to watch you, ran upstairs, got into my
walking-clothes, as I call them, and came down just as you
departed.
Well, I followed you to your door, and so made sure that I
was really an object of interest to the celebrated Mr.
Sherlock Holmes. Then I, rather imprudently, wished you
good-night, and started for the Temple to see my husband.
We both thought the best resource was flight, when pursued
by so formidable an antagonist; so you will find the nest
empty when you call to-morrow. As to the photograph, your
client may rest in peace. I love and am loved by a better man
than he. The King may do what he will without hindrance from
one whom he has cruelly wronged. I keep it only to safeguard
myself, and to preserve a weapon which will always secure me
from any steps which he might take in the future. I leave a
photograph which he might care to possess; and I remain, dear
Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
Very truly yours,
IRENE NORTON, nee ADLER.
"What a womanДДoh, what a woman!" cried the King of Bohemia,
when we had all three read this epistle. "Did I not tell you how
quick and resolute she was? Would she not have made an admirable
queen? Is it not a pity that she was not on my level?"
"From what I have seen of the lady she seems indeed to be on a
very different level to your Majesty," said Holmes coldly. "I am
sorry that I have not been able to bring your Majesty's business
to a more successful conclusion."
"On the contrary, my dear sir," cried the King; "nothing could
be more successful. I know that her word is inviolate. The
photograph is now as safe as if it were in the fire."
"I am glad to hear your Majesty say so."
"I am immensely indebted to you. Pray tell me in what way I
can reward you. This ringДД" He slipped an emerald snake ring
from his finger and held it out upon the palm of his hand.
"Your Majesty has something which I should value even more
highly," said Holmes.
"You have but to name it."
"This photograph!"
The King stared at him in amazement.
"Irene's photograph!" he cried. "Certainly, if you wish it."
"I thank your Majesty. Then there is no more to be done in
the matter. I have the honour to wish you a very good-morning."
He bowed, and, turning away without observing the hand which the
King had stretched out to him, he set off in my company for his
chambers.
And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the
kingdom of Bohemia, and how the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes
were beaten by a woman's wit. He used to make merry over the
cleverness of women, but I have not heard him do it of late. And
when he speaks of Irene Adler, or when he refers to her
photograph, it is always under the honourable title of the woman.
The Boscombe Valley Mystery
We are seated at breakfast one morning, my wife and I, when the
maid brought in a telegram. It was from Sherlock Holmes and ran
in this way:
Have you a couple of days to spare? Have just been wired
for from the west of England in connection with Boscombe
Valley tragedy. Shall be glad if you will come with me. Air
and scenery perfect. Leave Paddington by the 11:15.
"What do you say, dear?" said my wife, looking across at me.
"Will you go?"
"I really don't know what to say. I have a fairly long list
at present."
"Oh, Anstruther would do your work for you. You have been
looking a little pale lately. I think that the change would do
you good, and you are always so interested in Mr. Sherlock
Holmes's cases."
"I should be ungrateful if I were not, seeing what I gained
through one of them," I answered. "But if I am to go, I must pack
at once, for I have only half an hour."
My experience of camp life in Afghanistan had at least had the
effect of making me a prompt and ready traveller. My wants were
few and simple, so that in less than the time stated I was in a
cab with my valise, rattling away to Paddington Station. Sherlock
Holmes was pacing up and down the platform, his tall, gaunt figure
made even gaunter and taller by his long gray travelling-cloak and
close-fitting cloth cap.
"It is really very good of you to come, Watson," said he. "It
makes a considerable difference to me, having someone with me on
whom I can thoroughly rely. Local aid is always either worthless
or else biassed. If you will keep the two corner seats I shall
get the tickets."
We had the carriage to ourselves save for an immense litter of
papers which Holmes had brought with him. Among these he rummaged
and read, with intervals of note-taking and of meditation, until
we were past Reading. Then he suddenly rolled them all into a
gigantic ball and tossed them up onto the rack.
"Have you heard anything of the case?" he asked.
"Not a word. I have not seen a paper for some days."
"The London press has not had very full accounts. I have just
been looking through all the recent papers in order to master the
particulars. It seems, from what I gather, to be one of those
simple cases which are so extremely difficult."
"That sounds a little paradoxical."
"But it is profoundly true. Singularity is almost invariably
a clue. The more featureless and commonplace a crime is, the more
difficult it is to bring it home. In this case, however, they
have established a very serious case against the son of the
murdered man."
"It is a murder, then?"
"Well, it is conjectured to be so. I shall take nothing for
granted until I have the opportunity of looking personally into
it. I will explain the state of things to you, as far as I have
been able to understand it, in a very few words.
"Boscombe Valley is a country district not very far from Ross,
in Herefordshire. The largest landed proprietor in that part is a
Mr. John Turner, who made his money in Australia and returned some
years ago to the old country. One of the farms which he held,
that of Hatherley, was let to Mr. Charles McCarthy, who was also
an ex-Australian. The men had known each other in the colonies,
so that it was not unnatural that when they came to settle down
they should do so as near each other as possible. Turner was
apparently the richer man, so McCarthy became his tenant but still
remained, it seems, upon terms of perfect equality, as they were
frequently together. McCarthy had one son, a lad of eighteen, and
Turner had an only daughter of the same age, but neither of them
had wives living. They appear to have avoided the society of the
neighbouring English families and to have led retired lives,
though both the McCarthys were fond of sport and were frequently
seen at the race-meetings of the neighbourhood. McCarthy kept two
servantsДДa man and a girl. Turner had a considerable household,
some half-dozen at the least. That is as much as I have been able
to gather about the families. Now for the facts.
"On June 3d, that is, on Monday last, McCarthy left his house
at Hatherley about three in the afternoon and walked down to the
Boscombe Pool, which is a small lake formed by the spreading out
of the stream which runs down the Boscombe Valley. He had been
out with his serving-man in the morning at Ross, and he had told
the man that he must hurry, as he had an appointment of importance
to keep at three. From that appointment he never came back alive.
"From Hatherley Farmhouse to the Boscombe Pool is a quarter of
a mile, and two people saw him as he passed over this ground. One
was an old woman, whose name is not mentioned, and the other was
William Crowder, a game-keeper in the employ of Mr. Turner. Both
these witnesses depose that Mr. McCarthy was walking alone. The
game-keeper adds that within a few minutes of his seeing Mr.
McCarthy pass he had seen his son, Mr. James McCarthy, going the
same way with a gun under his arm. To the best of his belief, the
father was actually in sight at the time, and the son was
following him. He thought no more of the matter until he heard in
the evening of the tragedy that had occurred.
"The two McCarthys were seen after the time when William
Crowder, the game-keeper, lost sight of them. The Boscombe Pool
is thickly wooded round, with just a fringe of grass and of reeds
round the edge. A girl of fourteen, Patience Moran, who is the
daughter of the lodge-keeper of the Boscombe Valley estate, was in
one of the woods picking flowers. She states that while she was
there she saw, at the border of the wood and close by the lake,
Mr. McCarthy and his son, and that they appeared to be having a
violent quarrel. She heard Mr. McCarthy the elder using very
strong language to his son, and she saw the latter raise up his
hand as if to strike his father. She was so frightened by their
violence that she ran away and told her mother when she reached
home that she had left the two McCarthys quarrelling near Boscombe
Pool, and that she was afraid that they were going to fight. She
had hardly said the words when young Mr. McCarthy came running up
to the lodge to say that he had found his father dead in the wood,
and to ask for the help of the lodge-keeper. He was much excited,
without either his gun or his hat, and his right hand and sleeve
were observed to be stained with fresh blood. On following him
they found the dead body stretched out upon the grass beside the
pool. The head had been beaten in by repeated blows of some heavy
and blunt weapon. The injuries were such as might very well have
been inflicted by the butt-end of his son's gun, which was found
lying on the grass within a few paces of the body. Under these
circumstances the young man was instantly arrested, and a verdict
of `wilful murder' having been returned at the inquest on Tuesday,
he was on Wednesday brought before the magistrates at Ross, who
have referred the case to the next Assizes. Those are the main
facts of the case as they came out before the coroner and the
police-court."
"I could hardly imagine a more damning case," I remarked. "If
ever circumstantial evidence pointed to a criminal it does so
here."
"Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing," answered
Holmes thoughtfully. "It may seem to point very straight to one
thing, but if you shift your own point of view a little, you may
find it pointing in an equally uncompromising manner to something
entirely different. It must be confessed, however, that the case
looks exceedingly grave against the young man, and it is very
possible that he is indeed the culprit. There are several people
in the neighbourhood, however, and among them Miss Turner, the
daughter of the neighbouring landner, who believe in his
innocence, and who have retained Lestrade, whom you may recollect
in connection with `A Study in Scarlet', to work out the case in
his interest. Lestrade, being rather puzzled, has referred the
case to me, and hence it is that two middle-aged gentlemen are
flying westward at fifty miles an hour instead of quietly
digesting their breakfasts at home."
"I am afraid," said I, "that the facts are so obvious that you
will find little credit to be gained out of this case."
"There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact," he
answered, laughing. "Besides, we may chance to hit upon some
other obvious facts which may have been by no means obvious to Mr.
Lestrade. You know me too well to think that I am boasting when I
say that I shall either confirm or destroy his theory by means
which he is quite incapable of employing, or even of
understanding. To take the first example to hand, I very clearly
perceive that in your bedroom the window is upon the right-hand
side, and yet I question whether Mr. Lestrade would have noted
even so self-evident a thing as that."
"How on earthДД"
"My dear fellow, I know you well. I know the military
neatness which characterizes you. You shave every morning, and in
this season you shave by the sunlight; but since your shaving is
less and less complete as we get farther back on the left side,
until it becomes positively slovenly as we get round the angle of
the jaw, it is surely very clear that that side is less
illuminated than the other. I could not imagine a man of your
habits looking at himself in an equal light and being satisfied
with such a result. I only quote this as a trivial example of
observation and inference. Therein lies my metier, and it is just
possible that it may be of some service in the investigation which
lies before us. There are one or two minor points which were
brought out in the inquest, and which are worth considering."
"What are they?"
"It appears that his arrest did not take place at once, but
after the return to Hatherley Farm. On the inspector of
constabulary informing him that he was a prisoner, he remarked
that he was not surprised to hear it, and that it was no more than
his deserts. This observation of his had the natural effect of
removing any traces of doubt which might have remained in the
minds of the coroner's jury."
"It was a confession," I ejaculated.
"No, for it was followed by a protestation of innocence."
"Coming on the top of such a damning series of events, it was
at least a most suspicious remark."
"On the contrary," said Holmes, "it is the brightest rift
which I can at present see in the clouds. However innocent he
might be, he could not be such an absolute imbecile as not to see
that the circumstances were very black against him. Had he
appeared surprised at his own arrest, or feigned indignation at
it, I should have looked upon it as highly suspicious, because
such surprise or anger would not be natural under the
circumstances, and yet might appear to be the best policy to a
scheming man. His frank acceptance of the situation marks him as
either an innocent man, or else as a man of considerable
self-restraint and firmness. As to his remark about his deserts,
it was also not unnatural if you consider that he stood beside the
dead body of his father, and that there is no doubt that he had
that very day so far forgotten his filial duty as to bandy words
with him, and even, according to the little girl whose evidence is
so important, to raise his hand as if to strike him. The
self-reproach and contrition which are displayed in his remark
appear to me to be the signs of a healthy mind rather than of a
guilty one."
I shook my head. "Many men have been hanged on far slighter
evidence," I remarked.
"So they have. And many men have been wrongfully hanged."
"What is the young man's own account of the matter?"
"It is, I am afraid, not very encouraging to his supporters,
though there are one or two points in it which are suggestive.
You will find it here, and may read it for yourself."
He picked out from his bundle a copy of the local
Herefordshire paper, and having turned down the sheet he pointed
out the paragraph in which the unfortunate young man had given his
own statement of what had occurred. I settled myself down in the
corner of the carriage and read it very carefully. It ran in this
way:
Mr. James McCarthy, the only son of the deceased, was then
called and gave evidence as follows: "I had been away from
home for three days at Bristol, and had only just returned
upon the morning of last Monday, the 3d. My father was absent
from home at the time of my arrival, and I was informed by the
maid that he had driven over to Ross with John Cobb, the
groom. Shortly after my return I heard the wheels of his trap
in the yard, and, looking out of my window, I saw him get out
and walk rapidly out of the yard, though I was not aware in
which direction he was going. I then took my gun and strolled
out in the direction of the Boscombe Pool, with the intention
of visiting the rabbit-warren which is upon the other side.
On my way I saw William Crowder, the game-keeper, as he had
stated in his evidence; but he is mistaken in thinking that I
was following my father. I had no idea that he was in front
of me. When about a hundred yards from the pool I heard a cry
of `Cooee!' which was a usual signal between my father and
myself. I then hurried forward, and found him standing by the
pool. He appeared to be much surprised at seeing me and asked
me rather roughly what I was doing there. A conversation
ensued which led to high words and almost to blows, for my
father was a man of a very violent temper. Seeing that his
passion was becoming ungovernable, I left him and returned
towards Hatherley Farm. I had not gone more than 150 yards,
however, when I heard a hideous outcry behind me, which caused
me to run back again. I found my father expiring upon the
ground, with his head terribly injured. I dropped my gun and
held him in my arms, but he almost instantly expired. I knelt
beside him for some minutes, and then made my way to Mr.
Turner's lodge-keeper, his house being the nearest, to ask for
assistance. I saw no one near my father when I returned, and
I have no idea how he came by his injuries. He was not a
popular man, being somewhat cold and forbidding in his
manners; but he had, as far as I know, no active enemies. I
know nothing further of the matter."
The Coroner: Did your father make any statement to you
before he died?
Witness: He mumbled a few words, but I could only catch
some allusion to a rat.
The Coroner: What did you understand by that?
Witness: It conveyed no meaning to me. I thought that he
was delirious.
The Coroner: What was the point upon which you and your
father had this final quarrel?
Witness: I should prefer not to answer.
The Coroner: I am afraid that I must press it.
Witness: It is really impossible for me to tell you. I
can assure you that it has nothing to do with the sad tragedy
which followed.
The Coroner: That is for the court to decide. I need not
point out to you that your refusal to answer will prejudice
your case considerably in any future proceedings which may
arise.
Witness: I must still refuse.
The Coroner: I understand that the cry of "Cooee" was a
common signal between you and your father?
Witness: It was.
The Coroner: How was it, then, that he uttered it before
he saw you, and before he even knew that you had returned from
Bristol?
Witness (with considerable confusion): I do not know.
A Juryman: Did you see nothing which aroused your
suspicions when you returned on hearing the cry and found your
father fatally injured?
Witness: Nothing definite.
The Coroner: What do you mean?
Witness: I was so disturbed and excited as I rushed out
into the open, that I could think of nothing except of my
father. Yet I have a vague impression that as I ran forward
something lay upon the ground to the left of me. It seemed to
me to be something gray in colour, a coat of some sort, or a
plaid perhaps. When I rose from my father I looked round for
it, but it was gone.
"Do you mean that it disappeared before you went for
help?"
"Yes, it was gone."
"You cannot say what it was?"
"No, I had a feeling something was there."
"How far from the body?"
"A dozen yards or so."
"And how far from the edge of the wood?"
"About the same."
"Then if it was removed it was while you were within a
dozen yards of it?"
"Yes, but with my back towards it."
This concluded the examination of the witness.
"I see," said I as I glanced down the column, "that the
coroner in his concluding remarks was rather severe upon young
McCarthy. He calls attention, and with reason, to the discrepancy
about his father having signalled to him before seeing him, also
to his refusal to give details of his conversation with his
father, and his singular account of his father's dying words.
They are all, as he remarks, very much against the son."
Holmes laughed softly to himself and stretched himself out
upon the cushioned seat. "Both you and the coroner have been at
some pains," said he, "to single out the very strongest points in
the young man's favour. Don't you see that you alternately give
him credit for having too much imagination and too little? Too
little, if he could not invent a cause of quarrel which would give
him the sympathy of the jury; too much, if he evolved from his own
inner consciousness anything so outre as a dying reference to a
rat, and the incident of the vanishing cloth. No, sir, I shall
approach this case from the point of view that what this young man
says is true, and we shall see whither that hypothesis will lead
us. And now here is my pocket Petrarch, and not another word
shall I say of this case until we are on the scene of action. We
lunch at Swindon, and I see that we shall be there in twenty
minutes."
It was nearly four o'clock when we at last, after passing
through the beautiful Stroud Valley, and over the broad gleaming
Severn, found ourselves at the pretty little country-town of Ross.
A lean, ferret-like man, furtive and sly-looking, was waiting for
us upon the platform. In spite of the light brown dustcoat and
leather-leggings which he wore in deference to his rustic
surroundings, I had no difficulty in recognizing Lestrade, of
Scotland Yard. With him we drove to the Hereford Arms where a
room had already been engaged for us.
"I have ordered a carriage," said Lestrade as we sat over a
cup of tea. "I knew your energetic nature, and that you would not
be happy until you had been on the scene of the crime."
"It was very nice and complimentary of you," Holmes answered.
"It is entirely a question of barometric pressure."
Lestrade looked startled. "I do not quite follow," he said.
"How is the glass? Twenty-nine, I see. No wind, and not a
cloud in the sky. I have a caseful of cigarettes here which need
smoking, and the sofa is very much superior to the usual country
hotel abomination. I do not think that it is probable that I
shall use the carriage to-night."
Lestrade laughed indulgently. "You have, no doubt, already
formed your conclusions from the newspapers," he said. "The case
is as plain as a pikestaff, and the more one goes into it the
plainer it becomes. Still, of course, one can't refuse a lady,
and such a very positive one, too. She had heard of you, and
would have your opinion, though I repeatedly told her that there
was nothing which you could do which I had not already done. Why,
bless my soul! here is her carriage at the door."
He had hardly spoken before there rushed into the room one of
the most lovely young women that I have ever seen in my life. Her
violet eyes shining, her lips parted, a pink flush upon her
cheeks, all thought of her natural reserve lost in her
overpowering excitement and concern.
"Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" she cried, glancing from one to the
other of us, and finally, with a woman's quick intuition,
fastening upon my companion, "I am so glad that you have come. I
have driven down to tell you so. I know that James didn't do it.
I know it, and I want you to start upon your work knowing it, too.
Never let yourself doubt upon that point. We have known each
other since we were little children, and I know his faults as no
one else does; but he is too tenderhearted to hurt a fly. Such a
charge is absurd to anyone who really knows him."
"I hope we may clear him, Miss Turner," said Sherlock Holmes.
"You may rely upon my doing all that I can."
"But you have read the evidence. You have formed some
conclusion? Do you not see some loophole, some flaw? Do you not
yourself think that he is innocent?"
"I think that it is very probable."
"There, now!" she cried, throwing back her head and looking
defiantly at Lestrade. "You hear! He gives me hopes."
Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I am afraid that my
colleague has been a little quick in forming his conclusions," he
said.
"But he is right. Oh! I know that he is right. James never
did it. And about his quarrel with his father, I am sure that the
reason why he would not speak about it to the coroner was because
I was concerned in it."
"In what way?" asked Holmes.
"It is no time for me to hide anything. James and his father
had many disagreements about me. Mr. McCarthy was very anxious
that there should be a marriage between us. James and I have
always loved each other as brother and sister; but of course he is
young and has seen very little of life yet, andДДandДДwell, he
naturally did not wish to do anything like that yet. So there
were quarrels, and this, I am sure, was one of them."
"And your father?" asked Holmes. "Was he in favour of such a
union?"
"No, he was averse to it also. No one but Mr. McCarthy was in
favour of it." A quick blush passed over her fresh young face as
Holmes shot one of his keen, questioning glances at her.
"Thank you for this information," said he. "May I see your
father if I call tomorrow?"
"I am afraid the doctor won't allow it."
"The doctor?"
"Yes, have you not heard? Poor father has never been strong
for years back, but this has broken him down completely. He has
taken to his bed, and Dr. Willows says that he is a wreck and
that his nervous system is shattered. Mr. McCarthy was the only
man alive who had known dad in the old days in Victoria."
"Ha! In Victoria! That is important."
"Yes, at the mines."
"Quite so; at the gold-mines, where, as I understand, Mr.
Turner made his money."
"Yes, certainly."
"Thank you, Miss Turner. You have been of material assistance
to me."
"You will tell me if you have any news tomorrow. No doubt you
will go to the prison to see James. Oh, if you do, Mr. Holmes, do
tell him that I know him to be innocent."
"I will, Miss Turner."
"I must go home now, for dad is very ill, and he misses me so
if I leave him. Good-bye, and God help you in your undertaking."
She hurried from the room as impulsively as she had entered, and
we heard the wheels of her carriage rattle off down the street.
"I am ashamed of you, Holmes," said Lestrade with dignity
after a few minutes' silence. "Why should you raise up hopes
which you are bound to disappoint? I am not over-tender of heart,
but I call it cruel."
"I think that I see my way to clearing James McCarthy," said
Holmes. "Have you an order to see him in prison?"
"Yes, but only for you and me."
"Then I shall reconsider my resolution about going out. We
have still time to take a train to Hereford and see him to-night?"
"Ample."
"Then let us do so. Watson, I fear that you will find it very
slow, but I shall only be away a couple of hours."
I walked down to the station with them, and then wandered
through the streets of the little town, finally returning to the
hotel, where I lay upon the sofa and tried to interest myself in a
yellow-backed novel. The puny plot of the story was so thin,
however, when compared to the deep mystery through which we were
groping, and I found my attention wander so continually from the
fiction to the fact, that I at last flung it across the room and
gave myself up entirely to a consideration of the events of the
day. Supposing that this unhappy young man's story were
absolutely true, then what hellish thing, what absolutely
unforeseen and extraordinary calamity could have occurred between
the time when he parted from his father, and the moment when,
drawn back by his screams, he rushed into the glade? It was
something terrible and deadly. What could it be? Might not the
nature of the injuries reveal something to my medical instincts?
I rang the bell and called for the weekly county paper, which
contained a verbatim account of the inquest. In the surgeon's
deposition it was stated that the posterior third of the left
parietal bone and the left half of the occipital bone had been
shattered by a heavy blow from a blunt weapon. I marked the spot
upon my own head. Clearly such a blow must have been struck from
behind. That was to some extent in favour of the accused, as when
seen quarrelling he was face to face with his father. Still, it
did not go for very much, for the older man might have turned his
back before the blow fell. Still, it might be worth while to call
Holmes's attention to it. Then there was the peculiar dying
reference to a rat. What could that mean? It could not be
delirium. A man dying from a sudden blow does not commonly become
delirious. No, it was more likely to be an attempt to explain how
he met his fate. But what could it indicate? I cudgelled my
brains to find some possible explanation. And then the incident
of the gray cloth seen by young McCarthy. If that were true the
murderer must have dropped some part of his dress, presumably his
overcoat, in his flight, and must have had the hardihood to return
and to carry it away at the instant when the son was kneeling with
his back turned not a dozen paces off. What a tissue of mysteries
and improbabilities the whole thing was! I did not wonder at
Lestrade's opinion, and yet I had so much faith in Sherlock
Holmes's insight that I could not lose hope as long as every fresh
fact seemed to strengthen his conviction of young McCarthy's
innocence.
It was late before Sherlock Holmes returned. He came back
alone, for Lestrade was staying in lodgings in the town.
"The glass still keeps very high," he remarked as he sat down.
"It is of importance that it should not rain before we are able to
go over the ground. On the other hand, a man should be at his
very best and keenest for such nice work as that, and I did not
wish to do it when fagged by a long journey. I have seen young
McCarthy."
"And what did you learn from him?"
"Nothing."
"Could he throw no light?"
"None at all. I was inclined to think at one time that he
knew who had done it and was screening him or her, but I am
convinced now that he is as puzzled as everyone else. He is not a
very quick-witted youth, though comely to look at and, I should
think, sound at heart."
"I cannot admire his taste," I remarked, "if it is indeed a
fact that he was averse to a marriage with so charming a young
lady as this Miss Turner."
"Ah, thereby hangs a rather painful tale. This fellow is
madly, insanely, in love with her, but some two years ago, when he
was only a lad, and before he really knew her, for she had been
away five years at a boarding-school, what does the idiot do but
get into the clutches of a barmaid in Bristol and marry her at a
registry office? No one knows a word of the matter, but you can
imagine how maddening it must be to him to be upbraided for not
doing what he would give his very eyes to do, but what he knows to
be absolutely impossible. It was sheer frenzy of this sort which
made him throw his hands up into the air when his father, at their
last interview, was goading him on to propose to Miss Turner. On
the other hand, he had no means of supporting himself, and his
father, who was by all accounts a very hard man, would have thrown
him over utterly had he known the truth. It was with his barmaid
wife that he had spent the last three days in Bristol, and his
father did not know where he was. Mark that point. It is of
importance. Good has come out of evil, however, for the barmaid,
finding from the papers that he is in serious trouble and likely
to be hanged, has thrown him over utterly and has written to him
to say that she has a husband already in the Bermuda Dockyard, so
that there is really no tie between them. I think that that bit
of news has consoled young McCarthy for all that he has suffered."
"But if he is innocent, who has done it?"
"Ah! who? I would call your attention very particularly to
two points. One is that the murdered man had an appointment with
someone at the pool, and that the someone could not have been his
son, for his son was away, and he did not know when he would
return. The second is that the murdered man was heard to cry
`Cooee!' before he knew that his son had returned. Those are the
crucial points upon which the case depends. And now let us talk
about George Meredith, if you please, and we shall leave all minor
matters until to-morrow."
There was no rain, as Holmes had foretold, and the morning
broke bright and cloudless. At nine o'clock Lestrade called for
us with the carriage, and we set off for Hatherley Farm and the
Boscombe Pool.
"There is serious news this morning," Lestrade observed. "It
is said that Mr. Turner, of the Hall, is so ill that his life is
despaired of."
"An elderly man, I presume?" said Holmes.
"About sixty; but his constitution has been shattered by his
life abroad, and he has been in failing health for some time.
This business has had a very bad effect upon him. He was an old
friend of McCarthy's, and, I may add, a great benefactor to him,
for I have learned that he gave him Hatherley Farm rent free."
"Indeed! That is interesting," said Holmes.
"Oh, yes! In a hundred other ways he has helped him.
Everybody about here speaks of his kindness to him."
"Really! Does it not strike you as a little singular that
this McCarthy, who appears to have had little of his own, and to
have been under such obligations to Turner, should still talk of
marrying his son to Turner's daughter, who is, presumably, heiress
to the estate, and that in such a very cocksure manner, as if it
were merely a case of a proposal and all else would follow? It is
the more strange, since we know that Turner himself was averse to
the idea. The daughter told us as much. Do you not deduce
something from that?"
"We have got to the deductions and the inferences," said
Lestrade, winking at me. "I find it hard enough to tackle facts,
Holmes, without flying away after theories and fancies."
"You are right," said Holmes demurely; "you do find it very
hard to tackle the facts."
"Anyhow, I have grasped one fact which you seem to find it
difficult to get hold of," replied Lestrade with some warmth.
"And that isДД"
"That McCarthy senior met his death from McCarthy junior and
that all theories to the contrary are the merest moonshine."
"Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog," said Holmes,
laughing. "But I am very much mistaken if this is not Hatherley
Farm upon the left."
"Yes, that is it." It was a widespread, comfortable-looking
building, two-storied, slate-roofed, with great yellow blotches of
lichen upon the gray walls. The drawn blinds and the smokeless
chimneys, however, gave it a stricken look, as though the weight
of this horror still lay heavy upon it. We called at the door,
when the maid, at Holmes's request, showed us the boots which her
master wore at the time of his death, and also a pair of the
son's, though not the pair which he had then had. Having measured
these very carefully from seven or eight different points, Holmes
desired to be led to the court-yard, from which we all followed
the winding track which led to Boscombe Pool.
Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot upon such a
scent as this. Men who had only known the quiet thinker and
logician of Baker Street would have failed to recognize him. His
face flushed and darkened. His brows were drawn into two hard
black lines, while his eyes shone out from beneath them with a
steely glitter. His face was bent downward, his shoulders bowed,
his lips compressed, and the veins stood out like whipcord in his
long, sinewy neck. His nostrils seemed to dilate with a purely
animal lust for the chase, and his mind was so absolutely
concentrated upon the matter before him that a question or remark
fell unheeded upon his ears, or, at the most, only provoked a
quick, impatient snarl in reply. Swiftly and silently he made his
way along the track which ran through the meadows, and so by way
of the woods to the Boscombe Pool. It was damp, marshy ground, as
is all that district, and there were marks of many feet, both upon
the path and amid the short grass which bounded it on either side.
Sometimes Holmes would hurry on, sometimes stop dead, and once he
made quite a little detour into the meadow. Lestrade and I walked
behind him, the detective indifferent and contemptuous, while I
watched my friend with the interest which sprang from the
conviction that every one of his actions was directed towards a
definite end.
The Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed-girt sheet of water
some fifty yards across, is situated at the boundary between the
Hatherley Farm and the private park of the wealthy Mr. Turner.
Above the woods which lined it upon the farther side we could see
the red, jutting pinnacles which marked the site of the rich
landowner's dwelling. On the Hatherley side of the pool the woods
grew very thick, and there was a narrow belt of sodden grass
twenty paces across between the edge of the trees and the reeds
which lined the lake. Lestrade showed us the exact spot at which
the body had been found, and, indeed, so moist was the ground,
that I could plainly see the traces which had been left by the
fall of the stricken man. To Holmes, as I could see by his eager
face and peering eyes, very many other things were to be read upon
the trampled grass. He ran round, like a dog who is picking up a
scent, and then turned upon my companion.
"What did you go into the pool for?" he asked.
"I fished about with a rake. I thought there might be some
weapon or other trace. But how on earthДД"
"Oh, tut, tut! I have no time! That left foot of yours with
its inward twist is all over the place. A mole could trace it,
and there it vanishes among the reeds. Oh, how simple it would
all have been had I been here before they came like a herd of
buffalo and wallowed all over it. Here is where the party with
the lodge-keeper came, and they have covered all tracks for six or
eight feet round the body. But here are three separate tracks of
the same feet." He drew out a lens and lay down upon his
waterproof to have a better view, talking all the time rather to
himself than to us. "These are young McCarthy's feet. Twice he
was walking, and once he ran swiftly, so that the soles are deeply
marked and the heels hardly visible. That bears out his story.
He ran when he saw his father on the ground. Then here are the
father's feet as he paced up and down. What is this, then? It is
the butt-end of the gun as the son stood listening. And this?
Ha, ha! What have we here? Tiptoes! tiptoes! Square, too,
quite unusual boots! They come, they go, they come againДДof
course that was for the cloak. Now where did they come from?" He
ran up and down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the track
until we were well within the edge of the wood and under the
shadow of a great beech, the largest tree in the neighbourhood.
Holmes traced his way to the farther side of this and lay down
once more upon his face with a little cry of satisfaction. For a
long time he remained there, turning over the leaves and dried
sticks, gathering up what seemed to me to be dust into an envelope
and examining with his lens not only the ground but even the bark
of the tree as far as he could reach. A jagged stone was lying
among the moss, and this also he carefully examined and retained.
Then he followed a pathway through the wood until he came to the
highroad, where all traces were lost.
"It has been a case of considerable interest," he remarked,
returning to his natural manner. "I fancy that this gray house on
the right must be the lodge. I think that I will go in and have a
word with Moran, and perhaps write a little note. Having done
that, we may drive back to our luncheon. You may walk to the cab,
and I shall be with you presently."
It was about ten minutes before we regained our cab and drove
back into Ross, Holmes still carrying with him the stone which he
had picked up in the wood.
"This may interest you, Lestrade," he remarked, holding it
out. "The murder was done with it."
"I see no marks."
"There are none."
"How do you know, then?"
"The grass was growing under it. It had only lain there a few
days. There was no sign of a place whence it had been taken. It
corresponds with the injuries. There is no sign of any other
weapon."
"And the murderer?"
"Is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right leg, wears
thick-soled shooting-boots and a gray cloak, smokes Indian cigars,
uses a cigar-holder, and carries a blunt pen-knife in his pocket.
There are several other indications, but these may be enough to
aid us in our search."
Lestrade laughed. "I am afraid that I am still a sceptic," he
said. "Theories are all very well, but we have to deal with a
hard-headed British jury."
"Mous verrons," answered Holmes calmly. "You work your own
method, and I shall work mine. I shall be busy this afternoon,
and shall probably return to London by the evening train."
"And leave your case unfinished?"
"No, finished."
"But the mystery?"
"It is solved."
"Who was the criminal, then?"
"The gentleman I describe."
"But who is he?"
"Surely it would not be difficult to find out. This is not
such a populous neighbourhood."
Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I am a practical man," he
said, "and I really cannot undertake to go about the country
looking for a left-handed gentleman with a game-leg. I should
become the laughing-stock of Scotland Yard."
"All right," said Holmes quietly. "I have given you the
chance. Here are your lodgings. Good-bye. I shall drop you a
line before I leave."
Having left Lestrade at his rooms, we drove to our hotel,
where we found lunch upon the table. Holmes was silent and buried
in thought with a pained expression upon his face, as one who
finds himself in a perplexing position.
"Look here, Watson," he said when the cloth was cleared; "just
sit down in this chair and let me preach to you for a little. I
don't know quite what to do, and I should value your advice.
Light a cigar and let me expound."
"Pray do so."
"Well, now, in considering this case there are two points
about young McCarthy's narrative which struck us both instantly,
although they impressed me in his favour and you against him. One
was the fact that his father should, according to his account, cry
`Cooee!' before seeing him. The other was his singular dying
reference to a rat. He mumbled several words, you understand, but
that was all that caught the son's ear. Now from this double
point our research must commence, and we will begin it by
presuming that what the lad says is absolutely true."
"What of this `Cooee!' then?"
"Well, obviously it could not have been meant for the son.
The son, as far as he knew, was in Bristol. It was mere chance
that he was within earshot. The `Cooee!' was meant to attract the
attention of whoever it was that he had the appointment with. But
`Cooee' is a distinctly Australian cry, and one which is used
between Australians. There is a strong presumption that the
person whom McCarthy expected to meet him at Boscombe Pool was
someone who had been in Australia."
"What of the rat, then?"
Sherlock Holmes took a folded paper from his pocket and
flattened it out on the table. "This is a map of the Colony of
Victoria," he said. "I wired to Bristol for it last night." He
put his hand over part of the map. "What do you read?"
"ARAT," I read.
"And now?" He raised his hand.
"BALLARAT."
"Quite so. That was the word the man uttered, and of which
his son only caught the last two syllables. He was trying to
utter the name of his murderer. So and so, of Ballarat."
"It is wonderful!" I exclaimed.
"It is obvious. And now, you see, I had narrowed the field
down considerably. The possession of a gray garment was a third
point which, granting the son's statement to be correct, was a
certainty. We have come now out of mere vagueness to the definite
conception of an Australian from Ballarat with a gray cloak."
"Certainly."
"And one who was at home in the district, for the pool can
only be approached by the farm or by the estate, where strangers
could hardly wander."
"Quite so."
"Then comes our expedition of to-day. By an examination of
the ground I gained the trifling details which I gave to that
imbecile Lestrade, as to the personality of the criminal."
"But how did you gain them?"
"You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of
trifles."
"His height I know that you might roughly judge from the
length of his stride. His boots, too, might be told from their
traces."
"Yes, they were peculiar boots."
"But his lameness?"
"The impression of his right foot was always less distinct
than his left. He put less weight upon it. Why? Because he
limpedДДhe was lame."
"But his left-handedness."
"You were yourself struck by the nature of the injury as
recorded by the surgeon at the inquest. The blow was struck from
immediately behind, and yet was upon the left side. Now, how can
that be unless it were by a left-handed man? He had stood behind
that tree during the interview between the father and son. He had
even smoked there. I found the ash of a cigar, which my special
knowledge of tobacco ashes enables me to pronounce as an Indian
cigar. I have, as you know, devoted some attention to this, and
written a little monograph on the ashes of 14 different varieties
of pipe, cigar, and cigarette tobacco. Having found the ash, I
then looked round and discovered the stump among the moss where he
had tossed it. It was an Indian cigar, of the variety which are
rolled in Rotterdam."
"And the cigar-holder?"
"I could see that the end had not been in his mouth.
Therefore he used a holder. The tip had been cut off, not bitten
off, but the cut was not a clean one, so I deduced a blunt
pen-knife."
"Holmes," I said, "you have drawn a net round this man from
which he cannot escape, and you have saved an innocent human life
as truly as if you had cut the cord which was hanging him. I see
the direction in which all this points. The culprit isДД"
"Mr. John Turner," cried the hotel waiter, opening the door of
our sitting-room, and ushering in a visitor.
The man who entered was a strange and impressive figure. His
slow, limping step and bowed shoulders gave the appearance of
decrepitude, and yet his hard, deep-lined, craggy features, and
his enormous limbs showed that he was possessed of unusual
strength of body and of character. His tangled beard, grizzled
hair, and outstanding, drooping eyebrows combined to give an air
of dignity and power to his appearance, but his face was of an
ashen white, while his lips and the corners of his nostrils were
tinged with a shade of blue. It was clear to me at a glance that
he was in the grip of some deadly and chronic disease.
"Pray sit down on the sofa," said Holmes gently. "You had my
note?"
"Yes, the lodge-keeper brought it up. You said that you
wished to see me here to avoid scandal."
"I thought people would talk if I went to the Hall."
"And why did you wish to see me?" He looked across at my
companion with despair in his weary eyes, as though his question
was already answered.
"Yes," said Holmes, answering the look rather than the words.
"It is so. I know all about McCarthy."
The old man sank his face in his hands. "God help me!" he
cried. "But I would not have let the young man come to harm. I
give you my word that I would have spoken out if it went against
him at the Assizes."
"I am glad to hear you say so," said Holmes gravely.
"I would have spoken now had it not been for my dear girl. It
would break her heartДДit will break her heart when she hears that
I am arrested."
"It may not come to that," said Holmes.
"What?"
"I am no official agent. I understand that it was your
daughter who required my presence here, and I am acting in her
interests. Young McCarthy must be got off, however."
"I am a dying man," said old Turner. "I have had diabetes for
years. My doctor says it is a question whether I shall live a
month. Yet I would rather die under my own roof than in a jail."
Holmes rose and sat down at the table with his pen in his hand
and a bundle of paper before him. "Just tell us the truth," he
said. "I shall jot down the facts. You will sign it, and Watson
here can witness it. Then I could produce your confession at the
last extremity to save young McCarthy. I promise you that I shall
not use it unless it is absolutely needed."
"Its as well," said the old man; "it's a question whether I
shall live to the Assizes, so it matters little to me, but I
should wish to spare Alice the shock. And now I will make the
thing clear to you; it has been a long time in the acting, but
will not take me long to tell.
"You didn't know this dead man, McCarthy. He was a devil
incarnate. I tell you that. God keep you out of the clutches of
such a man as he. His grip has been upon me these twenty years,
and he has blasted my life. I'll tell you first how I came to be
in his power.
"It was in the early '60's at the diggings. I was a young
chap then, hot-blooded and reckless, ready to turn my hand at
anything; I got among bad companions, took to drink, had no luck
with my claim, took to the bush, and in a word became what you
would call over here a highway robber. There were six of us, and
we had a wild, free life of it, sticking up a station from time to
time, or stopping the wagons on the road to the diggings. Black
Jack of Ballarat was the name I went under, and our party is still
remembered in the colony as the Ballarat Gang.
"One day a gold convoy came down from Ballarat to Melbourne,
and we lay in wait for it and attacked it. There were six
troopers and six of us, so it was a close thing, but we emptied
four of their saddles at the first volley. Three of our boys were
killed, however, before we got the swag. I put my pistol to the
head of the wagon-driver, who was this very man McCarthy. I wish
to the Lord that I had shot him then, but I spared him, though I
saw his wicked little eyes fixed on my face, as though to remember
every feature. We got away with the gold, became wealthy men, and
made our way over to England without being suspected. There I
parted from my old pals and determined to settle down to a quiet
and respectable life. I bought this estate, which chanced to be
in the market, and I set myself to do a little good with my money,
to make up for the way in which I had earned it. I married, too,
and though my wife died young she left me my dear little Alice.
Even when she was just a baby her wee hand seemed to lead me down
the right path as nothing else had ever done. In a word, I turned
over a new leaf and did my best to make up for the past. All was
going well when McCarthy laid his grip upon me.
"I had gone up to town about an investment, and I met him in
Regent Street with hardly a coat to his back or a boot to his
foot.
"`Here we are, Jack,' says he, touching me on the arm; `we'll
be as good as a family to you. There's two of us, me and my son,
and you can have the keeping of us. If you don'tДДit's a fine,
law-abiding country is England, and there's always a policeman
within hail.'
"Well, down they came to the west country, there was no
shaking them off, and there they have lived rent free on my best
land ever since. There was no rest for me, no peace, no
forgetfulness; turn where I would, there was his cunning, grinning
face at my elbow. It grew worse as Alice grew up, for he soon saw
I was more afraid of her knowing my past than of the police.
Whatever he wanted he must have, and whatever it was I gave him
without question, land, money, houses, until at last he asked a
thing which I could not give. He asked for Alice.
"His son, you see, had grown up, and so had my girl, and as I
was known to be in weak health, it seemed a fine stroke to him
that his lad should step into the whole property. But there I was
firm. I would not have his cursed stock mixed with mine; not that
I had any dislike to the lad, but his blood was in him, and that
was enough. I stood firm. McCarthy threatened. I braved him to
do his worst. We were to meet at the pool midway between our
houses to talk it over.
"When I went down there I found him talking with his son, so I
smoked a cigar and waited behind a tree until he should be alone.
But as I listened to his talk all that was black and bitter in me
seemed to come uppermost. He was urging his son to marry my
daughter with as little regard for what she might think as if she
were a slut from off the streets. It drove me mad to think that I
and all that I held most dear should be in the power of such a man
as this. Could I not snap the bond? I was already a dying and a
desperate man. Though clear of mind and fairly strong of limb, I
knew that my own fate was sealed. But my memory and my girl!
Both could be saved if I could but silence that foul tongue. I
did it, Mr. Holmes. I would do it again. Deeply as I have
sinned, I have led a life of martyrdom to atone for it. But that
my girl should be entangled in the same meshes which held me was
more than I could suffer. I struck him down with no more
compunction than if he had been some foul and venomous beast. His
cry brought back his son; but I had gained the cover of the wood,
though I was forced to go back to fetch the cloak which I had
dropped in my flight. That is the true story, gentlemen, of all
that occurred."
"Well, it is not for me to judge you," said Holmes as the old
man signed the statement which had been drawn out. "I pray that
we may never be exposed to such a temptation."
"I pray not, sir. And what do you intend to do?"
"In view of your health, nothing. You are yourself aware that
you will soon have to answer for your deed at a higher court than
the Assizes. I will keep your confession, and if McCarthy is
condemned I shall be forced to use it. If not, it shall never be
seen by mortal eye; and your secret, whether you be alive or dead,
shall be safe with us."
"Farewell, then," said the old man solemnly. "Your own
deathbeds, when they come, will be the easier for the thought of
the peace which you have given to mine." Tottering and shaking in
all his giant frame, he stumbled slowly from the room.
"God help us!" said Holmes after a long silence. "Why does
fate play such tricks with poor, helpless worms? I never hear of
such a case as this that I do not think of Baxter's words, and
say, `There, but for the grace of God, goes Sherlock Holmes.'"
James McCarthy was acquitted at the Assizes on the strength of
a number of objections which had been drawn out by Holmes and
submitted to the defending counsel. Old Turner lived for seven
months after our interview, but he is now dead; and there is every
prospect that the son and daughter may come to live happily
together in ignorance of the black cloud which rests upon their
past.
The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle
I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holrnes 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 l; "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," l 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 morn-
ing, Peterson, who, as you know, is a very honest fellow, was
returning from some small jollification and was making his way
homeward down Tottenham Court Road. In front of him he saw,
in the gaslight, a tallish man, walking with a slight stagger, and
carrying a white goose slung over his shoulder. As he reached
the corner of Goodge Street, a row broke out between this
stranger and a little knot of roughs. One of the latter knocked off
the man's hat, on which he raised his stick to defend himself
and, swinging it over his head, smashed the shop window behind
him. Peterson had rushed forward to protect the stranger from his
assailants; but the man, shocked at having broken the window,
and seeing an official-looking person in uniform rushing towards
him, dropped his goose, took to his heels, and vanished amid the
labyrinth of small streets which lie at the back of Tottenham
Court Road. The roughs had also fled at the appearance of
Peterson, so that he was left in possession of the field of battle,
and also of the spoils of victory in the shape of this battered hat
and a most unimpeachable Christmas goose."
"Which surely he restored to their owner?"
"My dear fellow, there lies the problem. It is true that 'For
Mrs. Henry Baker' was printed upon a small card which was tied
to the bird's left leg, and it is also true that the initials 'H. B.'
are legible upon the lining of this hat, but as there are some
thousands of Bakers, and some hundreds of Henry Bakers in this
city of ours, it is not easy to restore lost property to any one of
them."
"What, then, did Peterson do?"
"He brought round both hat and goose to me on Christmas
morning, knowing that even the smallest problems are of interest
to me. The goose we retained until this morning, when there
were signs that, in spite of the slight frost, it would be well that
it should be eaten without unnecessary delay. Its finder has
carried it off, therefore, to fulfil the ultimate destiny of a goose,
while I continue to retain the hat of the unknown gentleman who
lost his Christmas dinner."
"Did he not advertise?"
"No."
"Then, what clue could you have as to his identity?"
"Only as much as we can deduce."
"From his hat?"
"Precisely."
"But you are joking. What can you gather from this old
battered felt?"
"Here is my lens. You know my methods. What can you
gather yourself as to the individuality of the man who has worn
this article?"
I took the tattered object in my hands and turned it over rather
ruefully. It was a very ordinary black hat of the usual round
shape, hard and much the worse for wear. The lining had been of
red silk, but was a good deal discoloured. There was no maker's
name; but, as Holmes had remarked, the initials "H. B." were
scrawled upon one side. It was pierced in the brim for a hat-
securer, but the elastic was missing. For the rest, it was cracked,
exceedingly dusty, and spotted in several places, although there
seemed to have been some attempt to hide the discoloured
patches by smearing them with ink.
"I can see nothing," said I, handing it back to my friend.
"On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail,
however, to reason from what you see. You are too timid in
drawing your inferences."
"Then, pray tell me what it is that you can infer from this
hat?"
He picked it up and gazed at it in the peculiar introspective
fashion which was characteristic of him. "It is perhaps less
suggestive than it might have been," he remarked, "and yet
there are a few inferences which are very distinct, and a few
others which represent at least a strong balance of probability.
That the man was highly intellectual is of course obvious upon
the face of it, and also that he was fairly well-to-do within the
last three years, although he has now fallen upon evil days. He
had foresight, but has less now than formerly, pointing to a
moral retrogression, which, when taken with the decline of his
fortunes, seems to indicate some evil influence, probably drink,
at work upon him. This may account also for the obvious fact
that his wife has ceased to love him."
"My dear Holmes!"
"He has, however, retained some degree of self-respect," he
continued, disregarding my remonstrance. "He is a man who
leads a sedentary life, goes out little, is out of training entirely,
is middle-aged, has grizzled hair which he has had cut within the
last few days, and which he anoints with lime-cream. These are
the more patent facts which are to be deduced from his hat.
Also, by the way, that it is extremely improbable that he has gas
laid on in his house."
"You are certainly joking, Holmes."
"Not in the least. Is it possible that even now, when I give
you these results, you are unable to see how they are attained?"
"I have no doubt that I am very stupid, but I must confess that
I am unable to follow you. For example, how did you deduce
that this man was intellectual?"
For answer Holmes clapped the hat upon his head. It came
right over the forehead and settled upon the bridge of his nose.
"It is a question of cubic capacity," said he; "a man with so
large a brain must have something in it."
"The decline of his fortunes, then?"
"This hat is three years old. These flat brims curled at the
edge came in then. It is a hat of the very best quality. Look at
the band of ribbed silk and the excellent lining. If this man could
afford to buy so expensive a hat three years ago, and has had no
hat since, then he has assuredly gone down in the world."
"Well, that is clear enough, certainly. But how about the
foresight and the moral retrogression?"
Sherlock Holmes laughed. "Here is the foresight," said he
putting his finger upon the little disc and loop of the hat-securer.
"They are never sold upon hats. If this man ordered one, it is a
sign of a certain amount of foresight, since he went out of his
way to take this precaution against the wind. But since we see
that he has broken the elastic and has not troubled to replace it, it
is obvious that he has less foresight now than formerly, which is
a distinct proof of a weakening nature. On the other hand, he has
endeavoured to conceal some of these stains upon the felt by
daubing them with ink, which is a sign that he has not entirely
lost his self-respect."
"Your reasoning is certainly plausible."
"The further points, that he is middle-aged, that his hair is
grizzled, that it has been recently cut, and that he uses lime-
cream, are all to be gathered from a close examination of the
lower part of the lining. The lens discloses a large number of
hair-ends, clean cut by the scissors of the barber. They all appear
to be adhesive, and there is a distinct odour of lime-cream. This
dust, you will observe, is not the gritty, 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 gasjet. 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. l 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 conjec-
tured, 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 commis-
sionaire 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 in-
duce 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 Cosmopoli-
tan," 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 evi-
dence to the effect that he had shown Horner up to the
dressing-room of the Countess of Morcar upon the day of
the robbery in order that he might solder the second bar of
the grate, which was loose. He had remained with Horner
some little time, but had finally been called away. On
returning, he found that Horner had disappeared, that the
bureau had been forced open, and that the small morocco
casket in which, as it afterwards transpired, the Countess
was accustomed to keep her jewel, was lying empty upon
the dressing-table. Ryder instantly gave the alarm, and Horner
was arrested the same evening; but the stone could not be
found either upon his person or in his rooms. Catherine
Cusack, maid to the Countess, deposed to having heard
Ryder's cry of dismay on discovering the robbery, and to
having rushed into the room, where she found matters as
described by the last witness. Inspector Bradstreet, B divi-
sion, gave evidence as to the arrest of Horner, who strug-
gled frantically, and protested his innocence in the strongest
terms. Evidence of a previous conviction for robbery having
been given against the prisoner, the magistrate refused to
deal summarily with the offence, but referred it to the
Assizes. Horner, who had shown signs of intense emotion
during the proceedings, fainted away at the conclusion and
was carried out of court.
"Hum! So much for the police-court," said Holmes thought-
fully, 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 ascertain-
ing 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 advertis-
ing agency and have this put in the evening papers."
"In which, sir?"
"Oh, in the Clobe, 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 southem 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 purveyor to the gallows and the
prison? I'll lock it up in my strong box now and drop a line to
the Countess to say that we have it."
"Do you think that this man Horner is innocent?"
"I cannot tell."
"Well, then, do you imagine that this other one, Henry Baker,
had anything to do with the matter?"
"It is, I think, much more likely that Henry Baker is an
absolutely innocent man, who had no idea that the bird which he
was carrying was of considerably more value than if it were
made of solid gold. That, however, I shall determine by a very
simple test if we have an answer to our advertisement."
"And you can do nothing until then?"
"Nothing. "
"In that case I shall continue my professional round. But I
shall come back in the evening at the hour you have mentioned,
for I should like to see the solution of so tangled a business."
"Very glad to see you. I dine at seven. There is a woodcock, I
believe. By the way, in view of recent occurrences, perhaps I
ought to ask Mrs. Hudson to examine its crop."
I had been delayed at a case, and it was a little after half-past
six when I found myself in Baker Street once more. As I
approached the house I saw a tall man in a Scotch bonnet with a
coat which was buttoned up to his chin waiting outside in the
bright semicircle which was thrown from the fanlight. Just as l
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 com-
pelled 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 permis-
sion, 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 sol-
emnly 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 Ox-
ford 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 inno-
cence. 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."
"That's no good."
"Well, there are some on the stall with the gas-flare."
"Ah, but I was recommended to you."
"Who by?"
"The landlord of the Alpha."
"Oh, yes; I sent him a couple of dozen."
"Fine birds they were, too. Now where did you get them
from?"
To my surprise the question provoked a burst of anger from
the salesman.
"Now, then, mister," said he, with his head cocked and his
arms akimbo, "what are you driving at? Let's have it straight,
now."
"It is straight enough. I should like to know who sold you the
geese which you supplied to the Alpha."
"Well then, I shan't tell you. So now!"
"Oh, it is a matter of no importance; but I don't know why
you should be so warm over such a trifle."
"Warm! You'd be as warm, maybe, if you were as pestered
as I am. When I pay good money for a good article there should
be an end of the business; but it's 'Where are the geese?' and
'Who did you sell the geese to?' and 'What will you take for the
geese?' One would think they were the only geese in the world,
to hear the fuss that is made over them."
"Well, I have no connection with any other people who have
been making inquiries," said Holmes carelessly. "If you won't
tell us the bet is off, that is all. But I'm always ready to back my
opinion on a matter of fowls, and I have a fiver on it that the bird
I ate is country bred."
"Well, then, you've lost your fiver, for it's town bred,"
snapped the salesman.
"It's nothing of the kind."
"I say it is."
"I don't believe it."
"D'you think you know more about fowls than I, who have
handled them ever since I was a nipper? I tell you, all those birds
that went to the Alpha were town bred."
"You'll never persuade me to believe that."
"Will you bet, then?"
"It's merely taking your money, for I know that I am right.
But I'll have a sovereign on with you, just to teach you not to be
obstinate."
The salesman chuckled grimly. "Bring me the books, Bill,"
said he.
The small boy brought round a small thin volume and a great
greasy-backed one, laying them out together beneath the hanging
lamp.
"Now then, Mr. Cocksure," said the salesman, "I thought
that I was out of geese, but before I finish you'll find that there
is still one left in my shop. You see this little book?"
"Well?"
"That's the list of the folk from whom I buy. D'you see?
Well, then, here on this page are the country folk, and the
numbers after their names are where their accounts are in the big
ledger. Now, then! You see this other page in red ink? Well, that
is a list of my town suppliers. Now, look at that third name. Just
read it out to me."
"Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road -- 249," read Holmes.
"Quite so. Now turn that up in the ledger."
Holmes turned to the page indicated. "Here you are, 'Mrs.
Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road, egg and poultry supplier."
"Now, then, what's the last entry?"
" 'December 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 sover-
eign 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 lOO 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 over-
took 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 Robin-
son," 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 seasonabe 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 scrupu-
lous in the means you used. It seems to me, Ryder, that there is
the making of a very pretty villain in you. You knew that this
man Horner, the plumber, had been concerned in some such
matter before, and that suspicion would rest the more readily
upon him. What did you do, then? You made some small job in
my lady's room -- you and your confederate Cusack -- and you
managed that he should be the man sent for. Then, when he had
left, you rifled the jewel-case, raised the alarm, and had this
unfortunate man arrested. You then --"
Ryder threw himself down suddenly upon the rug and clutched
at my companion's knees. "For God's sake, have mercy!" he
shrieked. "Think of my father! of my mother! It would break
their hearts. I never went wrong before! I never will again. I
swear it. I'll swear it on a Bible. Oh, don't bring it into court!
For Christ's sake, don't!"
"Get back into your chair!" said Holmes sternly. "It is very
well to cringe and crawl now, but you thought little enough of
this poor Horner in the dock for a crime of which he knew
nothing."
"I will fly, Mr. Holmes. I will leave the country, sir. Then
the charge against him will break down."
"Hum! We will talk about that. And now let us hear a true
account of the next act. How came the stone into the goose, and
how came the goose into the open market? Tell us the truth, for
there lies your only hope of safety."
Ryder passed his tongue over his parched lips. "I will tell you
it just as it happened, sir," said he. "When Horner had been
arrested, it seemed to me that it would be best for me to get
away with the stone at once, for I did not know at what moment
the police might not take it into their heads to search me and my
room. There was no place about the hotel where it would be
safe. I went out, as if on some commission, and I made for my
sister's house. She had married a man named Oakshott, and
lived in Brixton Road, where she fattened fowls for the market.
All the way there every man I met seemed to me to be a
policeman or a detective; and, for all that it was a cold night, the
sweat was pouring down my face before I came to the Brixton
Road. My sister asked me what was the matter, and why I was
so pale; but I told her that I had been upset by the jewel robbery
at the hotel. Then I went into the back yard and smoked a pipe
and wondered what it would be best to do.
"I had a friend once called Maudsley, who went to the bad,
and has just been serving his time in Pentonville. One day he had
met me, and fell into talk about the ways of thieves, and how
they could get rid of what they stole. I knew that he would be
true to me, for I knew one or two things about him; so I made up
my mind to go right on to Kilburn, where he lived, and take him
into my confidence. He would show me how to turn the stone
into money. But how to get to him in safety? I thought of the
agonies I had gone through in coming from the hotel. I might at
any moment be seized and searched, and there would be the
stone in my waistcoat pocket. I was leaning against the wall at
the time and looking at the geese which were waddling about
round my feet, and suddenly an idea came into my head which
showed me how I could beat the best detective that ever lived.
"My sister had told me some weeks before that I might have
the pick of her geese for a Christmas present, and I knew that
she was always as good as her word. I would take my goose
now, and in it I would carry my stone to Kilburn. There was a
little shed in the yard, and behind this I drove one of the
birds -- a fine big one, white, with a barred tail. I caught it, and
prying its bill open, I thrust the stone down its throat as far as
my finger could reach. The bird gave a gulp, and I felt the stone
pass along its gullet and down into its crop. But the creature
flapped and struggled, and out came my sister to know what was
the matter. As I turned to speak to her the brute broke loose and
fluttered off among the others.
" 'Whatever were you doing with that bird, Jem?' says she.
" 'Well,' said I, 'you said you'd give me one for Christmas,
and I was feeling which was the fattest.'
" 'Oh,' says she, 'we've set yours aside for you -- Jem's bird,
we call it. It's the big white one over yonder. There's twenty-six
of them, which makes one for you, and one for us, and two
dozen for the market.'
" 'Thank you, Maggie,' says l; '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."
Arthur Conan Doyle
THE ADVENTURE OF THE EMPTY HOUSE
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 {sic} the man's life
moved in a narrow and conventional circle, for his habits were quiet and
his nature unemotional. Yet it was upon this easy-going young aristocrat
that death came, in most strange and unexpected form, between the hours of
ten and eleven-twenty on the night of March 30, 1894.
Ronald Adair was fond of cards - playing continually, but never for
such stakes as would hurt him. He was a member of the Baldwin, the
Cavendish, and the Bagatelle card clubs. It was shown that, after dinner
on the day of his death, he had played a rubber of whist at the latter
club. He had also played there in the afternoon. The evidence of those who
had played with him - Mr. Murray, Sir John Hardy, and Colonel Moran -
showed that the game was whist, and that there was a fairly equal fall of
the cards. Adair might have lost five pounds, but not more. His fortune
was a considerable one, and such a loss could not in any way affect him.
He had played nearly every day at one club or other, but he was a cautious
player, and usually rose a winner. It came out in evidence that, in
partnership with Colonel Moran, he had actually won as much as four
hundred and twenty pounds in a sitting, some weeks before, from Godfrey
Milner and Lord Balmoral. So much for his recent history as it came out at
the inquest.
On the evening of the crime, he returned from the club exactly at
ten. His mother and sister were out spending the evening with a relation.
The servant deposed that she heard him enter the front room on the second
floor, generally used as his sitting-room. She had lit a fire there, and
as it smoked she had opened the window. No sound was heard from the room
until eleven-twenty, the hour of the return of Lady Maynooth and her
daughter. Desiring to say good-night, she 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
aim failing you. These," he pointed around, "are my other guns. The
parallel is exact."
Colonel Moran sprang forward with a snarl of rage, but the constables
dragged him back. The fury upon his face was terrible to look at.
"I confess that you had one small surprise for me," said Holmes. "I
did not anticipate that you would yourself make use of this empty house
and this convenient front window. I had imagined you as operating from the
street, where my friend, Lestrade and his merry men were awaiting you.
With that exception, all has gone as I expected."
Colonel Moran turned to the official detective.
"You may or may not have just cause for arresting me," said he, "but
at least there can be no reason why I should submit to the gibes of this
person. If I am in the hands of the law, let things be done in a legal
way."
"Well, that's reasonable enough," said Lestrade. "Nothing further you
have to say, Mr. Holmes, before we go?"
Holmes had picked up the powerful air-gun from the floor, and was
examining its mechanism.
"An admirable and unique weapon," said he, "noiseless and of
tremendous power: I knew Von Herder, the blind German mechanic, who
constructed it to the order of the late Professor Moriarty. For years I
have been aware of its 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 wax-coloured
model of my friend, so admirably done that it was a perfect facsimile. It
stood on a small pedestal table with an old dressing-gown of Holmes's so
draped round it that the illusion from the street was absolutely perfect.
"I hope you 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 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."
Arthur Conan Doyle
THE ADVENTURE OF THE NORWOOD BUILDER
"From the point of view of the criminal expert," said Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, "London has become a singularly uninteresting city since the death
of the late lamented Professor Moriarty."
"I can hardly think that you would find many decent citizens to agree
with you," I answered.
"Well, well, I must not be selfish," said he, with a smile, as 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 recognize 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, Mr.
Holmes, and that same God who has punished that wicked man will show, in
His own good time, that my son's hands are guiltless of his blood.'
"Well, I tried one or two leads, but could get at nothing which would
help our hypothesis, and several points which would make against it. I
gave it up at last and off I went to Norwood.
"This place, Deep Dene House, is a big modern villa of staring brick,
standing back in its own grounds, with a laurel-clumped lawn in front of
it. To the right and some distance back from the road was the timber-yard
which had been the scene of the fire. Here's a rough plan on a leaf of my
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. Lexington is her name - a little,
dark, silent person, with suspicious and sidelong eyes. She could tell us
something if she would - I am convinced of it. But she was as close as
wax. Yes, she had let Mr. McFarlane in at half-past nine. She wished her
hand had withered before she had done so. She had gone to bed at half-past
ten. Her room was at the other end of the house, and she could hear
nothing of what 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 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 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 of it." Holmes was outwardly calm, but
his whole body gave a wriggle of suppressed excitement as he spoke.
"By the way, Lestrade, who made this remarkable discovery?"
"It was the housekeeper, Mrs. Lexington, who drew the night
constable's attention to it."
"Where was the night constable?"
"He remained on guard in the bedroom where the crime was committed,
so as to see that nothing was touched."
"But why didn't the police see this mark yesterday?"
"Well, we had no particular reason to make a careful examination of
the hall. Besides, it's not in a very prominent place, as you see."
"No, no - of course not. I suppose there is no doubt that the mark
was there yesterday?"
Lestrade looked at Holmes as if he thought he was going out of his
mind. I confess that I was myself surprised both at his hilarious manner
and at his rather wild observation.
"I don't know whether you think that McFarlane came out of 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 mark was not there when I examined
the hall yesterday. And now, Watson, let us have a little stroll round in
the sunshine."
With a confused brain, but with a heart into which some warmth of
hope was returning, I accompanied my friend in a walk round the garden.
Holmes took each face of the house in turn, and examined it with great
interest. He then led the way inside, and went over the whole building
from basement to 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 for this gentleman here, I am not sure that you would not have
succeeded."
The wretched creature began to whimper.
"I am sure, sir, it was only my practical joke."
"Oh! a joke, was it? You won't find the laugh on your side, I promise
you. Take him down, and keep him in the sitting-room until I come. Mr.
Holmes," he continued, when they had gone, "I could not speak before the
constables, but I don't mind saying, in the presence of Dr. Watson, that
this is the brightest thing that you have done yet, though it is a mystery
to me how you did it. You have saved an innocent man's life, and you have
prevented a very grave scandal, which would have ruined my reputation in
the Force."
Holmes smiled, and clapped Lestrade upon the shoulder.
"Instead of being ruined, my good sir, you will find that your
reputation has been enormously enhanced. Just make a few alterations in
that report which you were writing, and they will understand how hard it
is to throw dust in the eyes of Inspector Lestrade."
"And you don't want your name to appear?"
"Not at all. The work is its own reward. Perhaps I shall get the
credit also at some distant day, when I permit my zealous historian to lay
out his foolscap once more - eh, Watson? Well, now, let us see where this
rat has been lurking."
A lath-and-plaster partition had been run across the passage six feet
from the end, with a door cunningly concealed in it. It was lit within by
slits under the eaves. A few articles of furniture and a supply of food
and water were within, together with a number of books and papers.
"There's the advantage of being a builder," said Holmes, as we came
out. "He was able to fix up his own little hiding-place without any
confederate - save, of course, that precious housekeeper of his, whom I
should lose no time in adding to your bag, Lestrade."
"I'll take your advice. But how did you know of this place, Mr.
Holmes?"
"I made up my mind that the fellow was in hiding in the house. When I
paced one corridor and found it six feet shorter than the corresponding
one below, it was pretty clear where he was. I thought he had not the
nerve to lie quiet before an alarm of fire. We could, of course, have gone
in and taken him, but it amused me to make him reveal himself. Besides, I
owed you a little mystification, Lestrade, for your chaff in the morning."
"Well, sir, you certainly got equal with me on that. But how in the
world did you know that he was in the house at all?"
"The thumb-mark, Lestrade. You said it was final; and so it was, in a
very different sense. I knew it had not been there the day before. I pay a
good deal of attention to matters of detail, as you may have observed, and
I had examined the hall, and was sure that the wall was clear. Therefore,
it had been put on during the night."
"But how?"
"Very simply. When those packets were sealed up, Jonas Oldacre got
McFarlane to secure one of the seals by putting his thumb upon the soft
wax. It would be done so quickly and so naturally, that I 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."
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:
GRAPHIC
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 boarding-house in Russell
Square, because Parker, the vicar of our parish, was staying in it. There
was an American young lady there - Patrick was the name - Elsie Patrick.
In some way we became friends, until before my month was up I was as much
in love as man could be. We were quietly married at a registry office, and
we returned to Norfolk a wedded couple. You'll think it very mad, Mr.
Holmes, that a man of a good old family should marry a wife in this
fashion, knowing nothing of her past or of her people, but if you saw her
and knew her, it would help you to understand.
"She was very straight about it, was Elsie. I can't say that she did
not give me every chance of getting out of it if I wished to do so. `I
have had some very disagreeable associations in my life,' said she, `I
wish to forget all about them. I would rather never allude to the past,
for it is very painful to me. If you take me, Hilton, you will take a
woman who has nothing that she need be personally ashamed of, but you will
have to be content with my word for it, and to allow me to be silent as to
all that passed up to the time when I became yours. If these conditions
are too hard, then go back to Norfolk, and leave me to the lonely life in
which you found me.' It was only the day before our wedding that she said
those very words to me. I told her that I was content to take her on her
own terms, and I have been as good as my word.
"Well we have been married now for a year, and very happy we have
been. But about a month ago, at the end of June, I saw for the first time
signs of trouble. One day my wife received a letter from America. I saw
the American stamp. She turned deadly white, read the letter, and threw it
into the fire. She made no allusion to it afterwards, and I made none, for
a promise is a promise, but she has never known an easy hour from that
moment. There is always a look of fear upon her face - a look as if she
were waiting and expecting. She would do better to trust me. She would
find that I was her best friend. But until she speaks, I can say nothing.
Mind you, she is a truthful woman, Mr. Holmes, and whatever trouble there
may have been in her past life it has been no fault of hers. I am only a
simple Norfolk squire, but there is not a man in England who ranks his
family honour more highly than I do. She knows it well, and she knew it
well before she married me. She would never bring any stain upon it - of
that I am sure.
"Well, now I come to the queer part of my story. About a week ago -
it was the Tuesday of last week - I found on one of the window-sills a
number of absurd little dancing figures like these upon the paper. They
were scrawled with chalk. I thought that it was the stable-boy who had
drawn them, but the lad swore he knew nothing about it. Anyhow, they had
come there during the night. I had them washed out, and I only mentioned
the matter to my wife afterwards. To my surprise, she took it very
seriously, and begged me if any more came to let her see them. None did
come for a week, and then yesterday morning I found this paper lying on
the 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:
GRAPHIC
"Excellent!" said Holmes. "Excellent! Pray continue."
"When I had taken the copy, I rubbed out the marks, but, two mornings
later, a fresh inscription had appeared. I have a copy of it here":
GRAPHIC
Holmes rubbed his hands and chuckled with delight.
"Our material is rapidly accumulating," said he.
"Three days later a message was left scrawled upon paper, and placed
under a pebble upon the 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 dressing-gown. She implored me to come to
bed. I told her frankly that I wished to see who it was who played such
absurd tricks upon us. She answered that it was some senseless practical
joke, and that I should not take any notice of it.
"`If it really annoys you, Hilton, we might go and travel, you and I,
and so avoid this nuisance.'
"`What, be driven out of our own house by a practical joker?' said I.
`Why, we should have the whole county laughing at us.'
"`Well, come to bed,' said she, `and we can discuss it in the
morning.'
"Suddenly, as she spoke, I saw her white face grow whiter yet in the
moonlight, and her hand tightened upon my shoulder. Something was moving
in the shadow of the tool-house. I saw a dark, creeping figure which
crawled round the corner and squatted in front of the door. Seizing my
pistol, I was rushing out, when my wife threw her arms round me and held
me with convulsive strength. I tried to throw her off, but she clung to me
most desperately. At last I got clear, but by the time I had opened the
door and reached the house the creature was gone. He had left a trace of
his presence, however, for there on the door was the very same arrangement
of dancing men which had already twice appeared, and which I have copied
on that paper. There was no other sign of the fellow anywhere, though I
ran all over the grounds. And yet the amazing thing is that he must have
been there all the time, for when I examined the door again in the
morning, he had scrawled some more of his pictures under the line which I
had already seen."
"Have you that fresh drawing?"
"Yes, it is very short, but I made a copy of it, and here it is."
Again he produced a paper. The new dance was in this form:
GRAPHIC
"Tell me," said Holmes - and I could see by his eyes that he was much
excited - "was this a mere addition to the first or did it appear to be
entirely separate?"
"It was on a different panel of the door."
"Excellent! This is far the most important of all for our purpose. It
fills me with hopes. Now, Mr. Hilton Cubitt, please continue your most
interesting statement."
"I have nothing more to say, Mr. Holmes, except that I was angry with
my wife that night for having held me back when I might have caught the
skulking rascal. She said that she feared that I might come to harm. For
an instant it had crossed my mind that perhaps what she really feared was
that HE might come to harm, for I could not doubt that she knew who this
man was, and what he meant by these strange signals. But there is a tone
in my wife's voice, Mr. Holmes, and a look in her eyes which forbid doubt,
and I am sure that it was indeed my own safety that was in her mind.
There's the whole case, and now I want your advice as to what I ought to
do. My own inclination is to put half a dozen of my farm lads in the
shrubbery, and when this fellow comes again to give him such a hiding that
he will leave us in peace for the future."
"I fear it is too deep a case for such simple remedies," said Holmes.
"How long can you stay in London?"
"I must go back to-day. I would not leave my wife alone all night for
anything. She is very nervous, and begged me to come back."
"I 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. On the evening of the second there came a letter from Hilton
Cubitt. All was quiet with him, save that a long inscription had appeared
that morning upon the pedestal of the sundial. He inclosed a copy of it,
which is here reproduced:
GRAPHIC
Holmes bent over this grotesque frieze for some minutes, and then
suddenly sprang to his feet with an exclamation of surprise and dismay.
His face was haggard with anxiety.
"We have let this affair go far enough," said he. "Is there a train
to North Walsham to-night?"
I turned up the time-table. The last had just gone.
"Then we shall breakfast early and take the very first in the
morning," said Holmes. "Our presence is most urgently needed. Ah! here is
our expected cablegram. One moment, Mrs. Hudson, there may be an answer.
No, that is quite as I expected. This message makes it even more essential
that we should not lose an hour in letting Hilton Cubitt know how matters
stand, for it is a singular and a dangerous web in which our simple
Norfolk squire is entangled."
So, indeed, it proved, and as I come to the dark conclusion of a
story which had seemed to me to be only childish and bizarre, I experience
once again the dismay and horror with which I was filled. Would that I had
some brighter ending to communicate to my readers, but these are the
chronicles of fact, and I must follow to their dark crisis the strange
chain of events which for some days made 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 station-master hurried towards us. "I suppose
that you are the detectives from London?" said he.
A look of annoyance passed over Holmes's face.
"What makes you think such a thing?"
"Because Inspector Martin from Norwich has just passed through. But
maybe you are the surgeons. She's not dead - or wasn't by last accounts.
You may be in time to save her yet - though it be for the gallows."
Holmes's brow was dark with anxiety.
"We are going to 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 XXX stood for E. As you are aware, E is
the most common letter in the English alphabet, and it predominates to so
marked an extent that even in a short sentence one would expect to find it
most often. Out of fifteen symbols in the first message, four were the
same, so it was reasonable to set this down as E. It is true that in some
cases the figure was bearing a flag, and in some cases not, but it was
probable, from the way in which the flags were distributed, that they were
used to break the sentence up into words. I accepted this as a hypothesis,
and noted that E was represented by XXX.
"But now came the real difficulty of the inquiry. The order of the
English letters after E is by no means well marked, and any preponderance
which may be shown in an average of a printed sheet may be reversed in a
single short sentence. Speaking roughly, T, A, O, I, N, S, H, R, D, and L
are the numerical order in which letters occur, but T, A, O, and I are
very nearly abreast of each other, and it would be an endless task to try
each combination until a meaning was arrived at. I therefore waited for
fresh material. In my second interview with Mr. Hilton Cubitt he was able
to give me two other short sentences and one message, which appeared -
since there was no flag - to be a single word. Here are the symbols. Now,
in the single word I have already got the two E's coming second and fourth
in a word of five letters. It might be `sever,' or `lever,' or `never.'
There can be no question that the latter as a reply to an appeal is far
the most probable, and the circumstances pointed to its being a reply
written by the lady. Accepting it as correct, we are now able to say that
the symbols 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 was striding up the path which led to the door. He was a tall,
handsome, swarthy fellow, clad in a suit of gray 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:
GRAPHIC
"If you use the code which I have explained," said Holmes, "you will
find that it simply means `Come here at once.' I was convinced that it was
an invitation which he would not refuse, since he could never imagine that
it could come from anyone but the lady. And so, my dear Watson, we have
ended by turning the dancing men to good when they have so often been the
agents of evil, and I think that I have fulfilled my promise of giving you
something unusual for your 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.
Arthur Conan Doyle
THE ADVENTURE OF THE SOLITARY CYCLIST
From the years 1894 to 1901 inclusive, Mr. Sherlock Holmes was a very
busy man. It is safe to say that there was no public case of any
difficulty in which he was not consulted during those eight years, and
there were hundreds of private cases, some of them of the most intricate
and extraordinary character, in which he played a prominent part. Many
startling successes and a few unavoidable failures were the outcome of
this long period of continuous work. As I have preserved very full notes
of all these cases, and was myself personally engaged in many of them, it
may be imagined that it is no easy task to know which I should select to
lay before the public. I shall, however, preserve my former rule, and give
the preference to those cases which derive their interest not so much from
the brutality of the crime as from the ingenuity and dramatic quality of
the solution. For this reason I will now lay before the reader the facts
connected with Miss Violet Smith, the solitary cyclist of Charlington, and
the curious sequel of our investigation, which culminated in unexpected
tragedy. It is true that the circumstance did not admit of any striking
illustration of those powers for which my friend was famous, but there
were some points about the case which made it stand out in those long
records of crime from which I gather the material for these little
narratives.
On referring to my notebook for the year 1895, I find that it was
upon Saturday, the 23rd of April, that we first heard of Miss Violet
Smith. Her visit was, I remember, extremely unwelcome to Holmes, for he
was immersed at the moment in a very abstruse and complicated problem
concerning the peculiar persecution to which John Vincent Harden, the well
known tobacco millionaire, had been subjected. My friend, who loved above
all things precision and concentration of thought, resented anything which
distracted his attention from the matter in hand. And yet, without a
harshness which was foreign to his nature, it was impossible to refuse to
listen to the story of the young and beautiful woman, tall, graceful, and
queenly, who presented herself at Baker Street late in the evening, and
implored his assistance and advice. It was vain to urge that his time was
already fully occupied, for the young lady had come with the determination
to tell her story, and it was evident that nothing short of force could
get her out of the room until she had done so. With a resigned air and a
somewhat weary smile, Holmes begged the beautiful intruder to take a seat,
and to inform us what it was that was troubling her.
"At least it cannot be your health," said he, as his keen eyes darted
over her, "so ardent a bicyclist must be full of energy."
She glanced down in surprise at her own feet, and I observed the
slight roughening of the side of the sole caused by the friction of the
edge of the pedal.
"Yes, I bicycle a good deal, Mr. Holmes, and that has something to do
with my visit to you to-day."
My friend took the lady's ungloved hand, and examined it with as
close an attention and as little sentiment as a scientist would show to a
specimen.
"You will excuse me, I am sure. It is my business," said he, as he
dropped it. "I nearly fell into the error of supposing that you were
typewriting. Of course, it is obvious that it is music. You observe the
spatulate finger-ends, Watson, which is common to both professions? There
is a spirituality about the face, however" - she gently turned it towards
the light - "which the typewriter does not generate. This lady is a
musician."
"Yes, Mr. Holmes, I teach music."
"In the country, I presume, from your complexion."
"Yes, sir, near Farnham, on the borders of Surrey."
"A beautiful neighbourhood, and full of the most interesting
associations. You remember, Watson, that it was near there that we took
Archie Stamford, the forger. Now, Miss Violet, what has happened to you,
near Farnham, on the borders of Surrey?"
The young lady, with great clearness and composure, made the
following curious statement:
"My father is dead, Mr. Holmes. He was James Smith, who conducted the
orchestra at the old Imperial Theatre. My mother and I were left without a
relation in the world except one uncle, Ralph Smith, who went to Africa
twenty-five years ago, and we have never had a word from him since. When
father died, we were left very poor, but one day we were told that there
was an advertisement in the TIMES, inquiring for our whereabouts. You can
imagine how excited we were, for we thought that someone had left us a
fortune. We went at once to the lawyer whose name was given in the paper.
There we, met two gentlemen, Mr. Carruthers and Mr. Woodley, who were home
on a visit from South Africa. They said that my uncle was a friend of
theirs, that he had died some months before in great poverty in
Johannesburg, and that he had asked them with his last breath to hunt up
his relations, and see that they were in no want. It seemed strange to us
that Uncle Ralph, who took no notice of us when he was alive, should be so
careful to look after us when he was dead, but Mr. Carruthers explained
that the reason was that my uncle had just heard of the death of his
brother, and so felt responsible for our fate."
"Excuse me," said Holmes. "When was this interview?"
"Last December - four months ago."
"Pray proceed."
"Mr. Woodley seemed to me to be a most odious person. He was for ever
making eyes at me - a coarse, puffy-faced, red-moustached young man, with
his hair plastered down on each side of his forehead. I thought that he
was perfectly hateful - and I was sure that Cyril would not wish me to
know such a person."
"Oh, Cyril is his name!" said Holmes, smiling.
The young lady blushed and laughed.
"Yes, Mr. Holmes, Cyril Morton, an electrical engineer, and we hope
to be married at the end of the summer. Dear me, how DID I get talking
about him? What I wished to say was that Mr. Woodley was perfectly odious,
but that Mr. Carruthers, who was a much older man, was more agreeable. He
was a dark, sallow, clean-shaven, silent person, but he had polite manners
and a pleasant smile. He inquired how we were left, and on finding that we
were very poor, he suggested that I should come and teach music to his
only daughter, aged ten. I said that I did not like to leave my mother, on
which he suggested that I should go home to her every week-end, and he
offered me a hundred a year, which was certainly splendid pay. So it ended
by my accepting, and I went down to Chiltern Grange, about six miles from
Farnham. Mr. Carruthers was a widower, but he had engaged a lady
housekeeper, a very respectable, elderly person, called Mrs. Dixon, to
look after his establishment. The child was a dear, and everything
promised well. Mr. Carruthers was very kind and very musical, and we had
most pleasant evenings together. Every week-end I went home to my mother
in town.
"The first flaw in my happiness was the arrival of the red-moustached
Mr. Woodley. He came for a visit of a week, and oh! it seemed three months
to me. He was a dreadful person - a bully to everyone else, but to me
something infinitely worse. He made odious love to me, boasted of his
wealth, said that if I married him I could have the finest diamonds in
London, and finally, when I would have nothing to do with him, he seized
me in his arms one day after dinner - he was hideously strong - and swore
that he would not let me go until I had kissed him. Mr. Carruthers came in
and tore him from me, on which he turned upon his own host, knocking him
down and cutting his face open. That was the end of his visit, as you can
imagine. Mr. Carruthers apologized to me next day, and assured me that I
should never be exposed to such an insult again. I have not seen Mr.
Woodley since.
"And now, Mr. Holmes, I come at last to the special thing which has
caused me to ask your advice to-day. You must know that every Saturday
forenoon I ride on my bicycle to Farnham Station, in order to get the
12:22 to town. The road from Chiltern Grange is a lonely one, and at one
spot it is particularly so, for it lies for over a mile between
Charlington Heath upon one side and the woods which lie round Charlington
Hall upon the other. You could not find a more lonely tract of road
anywhere, and it is quite rare to meet so much as a cart, or a peasant,
until you reach the high road near Crooksbury Hill. Two weeks ago I was
passing this place, when I chanced to look back over my shoulder, and
about two hundred yards behind me I saw a man, also on a bicycle. He
seemed to be a middle-aged man, with a short, dark beard. I looked back
before I reached Farnham, but the man was gone, so I thought no more about
it. But you can imagine how surprised I was, Mr. Holmes, when, on my
return on the Monday, I saw the same man on the same stretch of road. My
astonishment was increased when the incident occurred again, exactly as
before, on the following Saturday and Monday. He always kept his distance
and did not molest me in any way, but still it certainly was very odd. I
mentioned it to Mr. Carruthers, who seemed interested in what I said, and
told me that he had ordered a horse and trap, so that in future I should
not pass over these lonely roads without some companion.
"The horse and trap were to have come this week, but for some reason
they were not delivered, and again I had to cycle to the station. That was
this morning. You can think that I looked out when I came to Charlington
Heath, and there, sure enough, was the man, exactly as he had been the two
weeks before. He always kept so far from me that I could not clearly see
his face, but it was certainly someone whom I did not know. He was dressed
in a dark suit with a cloth cap. The only thing about his face that I
could clearly see was his dark beard. To-day I was not alarmed, but I was
filled with curiosity, and I determined to find out who he was and what he
wanted. I slowed down my machine, but he slowed down his. Then I stopped
altogether, but he stopped also. Then I laid a trap for him. There is a
sharp turning of the road, and I pedalled very quickly round this, and
then I stopped and waited. I expected him to shoot round and pass me
before he could stop. But he never appeared. Then I went back and looked
round the corner. I could see a mile of road, but he was not on it. To
make it the more extraordinary, there was no side road at this point down
which he could have gone."
Holmes chuckled and rubbed his hands. "This case certainly presents
some features of its own," said he. "How much time elapsed between your
turning the corner and your discovery that the road was clear?"
"Two or three minutes."
"Then he could not have retreated down the road, and you say that
there are no side roads?"
"None."
"Then he certainly took a footpath on one side or the other."
"It could not have been on the side of the heath, or I should have
seen him."
"So, by the process of exclusion, we arrive at the fact that he made
his way toward Charlington Hall, which, as I understand, is situated in
its own grounds on one side of the road. Anything else?"
"Nothing, Mr. Holmes, save that I was so perplexed that I felt I
should not be happy until I had seen you and had your advice."
Holmes sat in silence for some little time.
"Where is the gentleman to whom you are engaged?" he asked at last.
"He is in the Midland Electrical Company, at Coventry."
"He would not pay you a surprise visit?"
"Oh, Mr. Holmes! As if I should not know him!"
"Have you had any other admirers?"
"Several before I knew Cyril."
"And since?"
"There was this dreadful man, Woodley, if you can call him an
admirer."
"No one else?"
Our fair client seemed a little confused.
"Who was he?" asked Holmes.
"Oh, it may be a mere fancy of mine; but it had seemed to me
sometimes that my employer, Mr. Carruthers, takes a great deal of interest
in me. We are thrown rather together. I play his accompaniments in the
evening. He has never said anything. He is a perfect gentleman. But a girl
always knows."
"Ha!" Holmes looked grave. "What does he do for a living?"
"He is a rich man."
"No carriages or horses?"
"Well, at least he is fairly well-to-do. But he goes into the city
two or three times a week. He is deeply interested in South African gold
shares."
"You will let me know any fresh development, Miss Smith. I am very
busy just now, but I will find time to make some inquiries into your case.
In the meantime, take no step without letting me know. Good-bye, and I
trust that we shall have nothing but good news from you."
"It is part of the settled order of Nature that such a girl should
have followers," said Holmes, he pulled at his meditative pipe, "but for
choice not on bicycles in lonely country roads. Some secretive lover,
beyond all doubt. But there are curious and suggestive details about the
case, Watson."
"That he should appear only at that point?"
"Exactly. Our first effort must be to find who are the tenants of
Charlington Hall. Then, again, how about the connection between Carruthers
and Woodley, since they appear to be men of such a different type? How
came they BOTH to be so keen upon looking up Ralph Smith's relations? One
more point. What sort of a menage is it which pays double the market price
for a governess but does not keep a horse, although six miles from the
station? Odd, Watson - very odd!"
"You will go down?"
"No, my dear fellow, YOU will go down. This may be some trifling
intrigue, and I cannot break my other important research for the sake of
it. On Monday you will arrive early at Farnham; you will conceal yourself
near Charlington Heath; you will observe these facts for yourself, and act
as your own judgment advises. Then, having inquired as to the occupants of
the Hall, you will come back to me and report. And now, Watson, not
another word of the matter until we have a few solid stepping-stones on
which we may hope to get across to our solution."
We had ascertained from the lady that she went down upon the Monday
by the train which leaves Waterloo at 9:50, so I started early and caught
the 9:13. At Farnham Station I had no difficulty in being directed to
Charlington Heath. It was impossible to mistake the scene of the young
lady's adventure, for the road runs between the open heath on one side and
an old yew hedge upon the other, surrounding a park which is studded with
magnificent trees. There was a main gateway of lichen-studded stone, each
side pillar surmounted by mouldering heraldic emblems, but besides this
central carriage drive I observed several points where there were gaps in
the hedge and paths leading through them. The house was invisible from the
road, but the surroundings all spoke of gloom and decay.
The heath was covered with golden patches of flowering gorse,
gleaming magnificently in the light of the bright spring sunshine. Behind
one of these clumps I took up my position, so as to command both the
gateway of the Hall and a long stretch of the road upon either side. It
had been deserted when I left it, but now I saw a cyclist riding down it
from the opposite direction to that in which I had come. He was clad in a
dark suit, and I saw that he had a black beard. On reaching the end of the
Charlington grounds, he sprang from his machine and led it through a gap
in the hedge, disappearing from my view.
A quarter of an hour passed, and then a second cyclist appeared. This
time it was the young lady coming from the station. I saw her look about
her as she came to the Charlington hedge. An instant later the man emerged
from his hiding-place, sprang upon his cycle, and followed her. In all the
broad landscape those were the only moving figures, the graceful girl
sitting very straight upon her machine, and the man behind her bending low
over his handle-bar with a curiously furtive suggestion in every movement.
She looked back at him and slowed her pace. He slowed also. She stopped.
He at once stopped, too, keeping two hundred yards behind her. Her next
movement was as unexpected as it was spirited. She suddenly whisked her
wheels round and dashed straight at him. He was as quick as she, however,
and darted off in desperate flight. Presently she came back up the road
again, her head haughtily in the air, not deigning to take any further
notice of her silent attendant. He had turned also, and still kept his
distance until the curve of the road hid them from my sight.
I remained in my hiding-place, and it was well that I did so, for
presently the man reappeared, cycling slowly back. He turned in at the
Hall gates, and dismounted from his machine. For some minutes I could see
him standing among the trees. His hands were raised, and he seemed to be
settling his necktie. Then he mounted his cycle, and rode away from me
down the drive towards the Hall. I ran across the heath and peered through
the trees. Far away I could catch glimpses of the old gray building with
its bristling Tudor chimneys, but the drive ran through a dense shrubbery,
and I saw no more of my man.
However, it seemed to me that I had done a fairly good morning's
work, and I walked back in high spirits to Farnham. The local house agent
could tell me nothing about Charlington Hall, and referred me to a well
known firm in Pall Mall. There I halted on my way home, and met with
courtesy from the representative. No, I could not have Charlington Hall
for the summer. I was just too late. It had been let about a month ago.
Mr. Williamson was the name of the tenant. He was a respectable, elderly
gentleman. The polite agent was afraid he could say no more, as the
affairs of his clients were not matters which he could discuss.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes listened with attention to the long report which
I was able to present to him that evening, but it did not elicit that word
of curt praise which I had hoped for and should have valued. On the
contrary, his austere face was even more severe than usual as he commented
upon the things that I had done and the things that I had not.
"Your hiding-place, my dear Watson, was very faulty. You should have
been behind the hedge, then you would have had a close view of this
interesting person. As it is, you were some hundreds of yards away and can
tell me even less than Miss Smith. She thinks she does not know the man; I
am convinced she does. Why, otherwise, should he be so desperately anxious
that she should not get so near him as to see his features? You describe
him as bending over the handle-bar. Concealment again, you see. You really
have done remarkably badly. He returns to the house, and you want to find
out who he is. You come to a London house agent!"
"What should I have done?" I cried, with some heat.
"Gone to the nearest public-house. That is the centre of country
gossip. They would have told you every name, from the master to the
scullery-maid. Williamson? It conveys nothing to my mind. If he is an
elderly man he is not this active cyclist who sprints away from that young
lady's athletic pursuit. What have we gained by your expedition? The
knowledge that the girl's story is true. I never doubted it. That there is
a connection between the cyclist and the Hall. I never doubted that
either. That the Hall is tenanted by Williamson. Who's the better for
that? Well, well, my dear sir, don't look so depressed. We can do little
more until next Saturday, and in the meantime I may make one or two
inquiries myself."
Next morning, we had a note from Miss Smith, recounting shortly and
accurately the very incidents which I had seen, but the pith of the letter
lay in the postscript:
I am sure that you will respect my confidence, Mr. Holmes, when I
tell you that my place here has become difficult, owing to the fact that
my employer has proposed marriage to me. I am convinced that his feelings
are most deep and most honourable. At the same time, my promise is of
course given. He took my refusal very seriously, but also very gently. You
can understand, however, that the situation is a little strained. "Our
young friend seems to be getting into deep waters," said Holmes,
thoughtfully, as he finished the letter. "The case certainly presents more
features of interest and more possibility of development than I had
originally thought. I should be none the worse for a quiet, peaceful day
in the country, and I am inclined to run down this afternoon and test one
or two theories which I have formed."
Holmes's quiet day in the country had a singular termination, for he
arrived at Baker Street late in the evening, with a cut lip and a
discoloured lump upon his forehead, besides a general air of dissipation
which would have made his own person the fitting object of a Scotland Yard
investigation. He was immensely tickled by his own adventures and laughed
heartily as he recounted them.
"I get so little active exercise that it is always a treat" said he.
"You are aware that I have some proficiency in the good old British sport
of boxing. Occasionally, it is of service, to-day, for example, I should
have come to very ignominious grief without it."
I begged him to tell me what had occurred.
"I found that country pub which I had already recommended to your
notice, and there I made my discreet inquiries. I was in the bar, and a
garrulous landlord was giving me all that I wanted. Williamson is a
white-bearded man, and he lives alone with a small staff of servants at
the Hall. There is some rumor that he is or has been a clergyman, but one
or two incidents of his short residence at the Hall struck me as
peculiarly unecclesiastical. I have already made some inquiries at a
clerical agency, and they tell me that there WAS a man of that name in
orders, whose career has been a singularly dark one. The landlord further
informed me that there are usually week-end visitors - `a warm lot, sir' -
at the Hall, and especially one gentleman with a red moustache, Mr.
Woodley by name, who was always there. We had got as far as this, when who
should walk in but the gentleman himself, who had been drinking his beer
in the tap-room and had heard the whole conversation. Who was I? What did
I want? What did I mean by asking questions? He had a fine flow of
language, and his adjectives were very vigorous. He ended a string of
abuse by a vicious backhander, which I failed to entirely avoid. The next
few minutes were delicious. It was a straight left against a slogging
ruffian. I emerged as you see me. Mr. Woodley went home in a cart. So
ended my country trip, and it must be confessed that, however enjoyable,
my day on the Surrey border has not been much more profitable than your
own."
The Thursday brought us another letter from our client.
You will not be surprised, Mr. Holmes [said she] to hear that I am
leaving Mr. Carruthers's employment. Even the high pay cannot reconcile me
to the discomforts of my situation. On Saturday I come up to town, and I
do not intend to return. Mr. Carruthers has got a trap, and so the dangers
of the lonely road, if there ever were any dangers, are now over.
As to the special cause of my leaving, it is not merely the strained
situation with Mr. Carruthers, but it is the reappearance of that odious
man, Mr. Woodley. He was always hideous, but he looks more awful than ever
now, for he appears to have had an accident and he is much disfigured. I
saw him out of the window, but I am glad to say I did not meet him. He had
a long talk with Mr. Carruthers, who seemed much excited afterwards.
Woodley must be staying in the neighbourhood, for he did not sleep here,
and yet I caught a glimpse of him again this morning, slinking about in
the shrubbery. I would sooner have a savage wild animal loose about the
place. I loathe and fear him more than I can say. How CAN Mr. Carruthers
endure such a creature for a moment? However, all my troubles will be over
on Saturday.
"So I trust, Watson, so I trust," said Holmes, gravely. "There is
some deep intrigue going on round that little woman, and it is our duty to
see that no one molests her upon that last journey. I think, Watson, that
we must spare time to run down together on Saturday morning and make sure
that this curious and inclusive investigation has no untoward ending."
I confess that I had not up to now taken a very serious view of the
case, which had seemed to me rather grotesque and bizarre than dangerous.
That a man should lie in wait for and follow a very handsome woman is no
unheard-of thing, and if he has so little audacity that he not only dared
not address her, but even fled from her approach, he was not a very
formidable assailant. The ruffian Woodley was a very different person,
but, except on one occasion, he had not molested our client, and now he
visited the house of Carruthers without intruding upon her presence. The
man on the bicycle was doubtless a member of those week-end parties at the
Hall of which the publican had spoken, but who he was, or what he wanted,
was as obscure as ever. It was the severity of Holmes's manner and the
fact that he slipped a revolver into his pocket before leaving our rooms
which impressed me with the feeling that tragedy might prove to lurk
behind this curious train of events.
A rainy night had been followed by a glorious morning, and the
heath-covered countryside, with the glowing clumps of flowering gorse,
seemed all the more beautiful to eyes which were weary of the duns and
drabs and slate grays of London. Holmes and I walked along the broad,
sandy road inhaling the fresh morning air and rejoicing in the music of
the birds and the fresh breath of the spring. From a rise of the road on
the shoulder of Crooksbury Hill, we could see the grim Hall bristling out
from amidst the ancient oaks, which, old as they were, were still younger
than the building which they surrounded. Holmes pointed down the long
tract of road which wound, a reddish yellow band, between the brown of the
heath and the budding green of the woods. Far away, a black dot, we could
see a vehicle moving in our direction. Holmes gave an exclamation of
impatience.
"I have given a margin of half an hour," said he. "If that is her
trap, she must be making for the earlier train. I fear, Watson, that she
will be past Charlington before we can possibly meet her."
From the instant that we passed the rise, we could no longer see the
vehicle, but we hastened onward at such a pace that my sedentary life
began to tell upon me, and I was compelled to fall behind. Holmes,
however, was always in training, for he had inexhaustible stores of
nervous energy upon which to draw. His springy step never slowed until
suddenly, when he was a hundred yards in front of me, he halted, and I saw
him throw up his hand with a gesture of grief and despair. At the same
instant an empty dog-cart, the horse cantering, the reins trailing,
appeared round the curve of the road and rattled swiftly towards us.
"Too late, Watson, too late!" cried Holmes, as I ran panting to his
side. "Fool that I was not to allow for that earlier train! It's
abduction, Watson - abduction! Murder! Heaven knows what! Block the road!
Stop the horse! That's right. Now, jump in, and let us see if I can repair
the consequences of my own blunder."
We had sprung into the dog-cart, and Holmes, after turning the horse,
gave it a sharp cut with the whip, and we flew back along the road. As we
turned the curve, the whole stretch of road between the Hall and the heath
was opened up. I grasped Holmes's arm.
"That's the man!" I gasped. A solitary cyclist was coming towards us.
His head was down and his shoulders rounded, as he put every ounce of
energy that he possessed on to the pedals. He was flying like a racer.
Suddenly he raised his bearded face, saw us close to him, and pulled up,
springing from his machine. That coal-black beard was in singular contrast
to eyes were as bright as if he had a fever. He stared at us and at the
dog-cart. Then a look of amazement came over his face.
"Halloa! Stop there!" he shouted, holding his bicycle to block our
road. "Where did you get that dog-cart? Pull up, man!" he yelled, drawing
a pistol from his side "Pull up, I say, or, by George, I'll put a bullet
into your horse."
Holmes threw the reins into my lap and sprang down from the cart.
"You're the man we want to see. Where is Miss Violet Smith?" he said,
in his quick, clear way.
"That's what I'm asking you. You're in her dog-cart. You ought to
know where she is."
"We met the dog-cart on the road. There was no one in it. We drove
back to help the young lady."
"Good Lord! Good Lord! What shall I do?" cried the stranger, in an
ecstasy of despair. "They've got her, that hell-hound Woodley and the
blackguard parson. Come, man, come, if you really are her friend. Stand by
me and we'll save her, if I have to leave my carcass in Charlington Wood."
He ran distractedly, his pistol in his hand, towards a gap in the
hedge. Holmes followed him, and I, leaving the horse grazing beside the
road, followed Holmes.
"This is where they came through," said he, pointing to the marks of
several feet upon the muddy path. "Halloa! Stop a minute! Who's this in
the bush?"
It was a young fellow about seventeen, dressed like an ostler, with
leather cords and gaiters. He lay upon his back, his knees drawn up, a
terrible cut upon his head. He was insensible, but alive. A glance at his
wound told me that it had not penetrated the bone.
"That's Peter, the groom," cried the stranger. "He drove her. The
beasts have pulled him off and clubbed him. Let him lie; we can't do him
any good, but we may save her from the worst fate that can befall a woman."
We ran frantically down the path, which wound among the trees. We had
reached the shrubbery which surrounded the house when Holmes pulled up.
"They didn't go to the house. Here are their marks on the left -
here, beside the laurel bushes. Ah! I said so."
As he spoke, a woman's shrill scream - a scream which vibrated with a
frenzy of horror - burst from the thick, green clump of bushes in front of
us. It ended suddenly on its highest note with a choke and a gurgle.
"This way! This way! They are in the bowling-alley," cried the
stranger, darting through the bushes. "Ah, the cowardly dogs! Follow me,
gentlemen! Too late! too late! by the living Jingo!"
We had broken suddenly into a lovely glade of greensward surrounded
by ancient trees. On the farther side of it, under the shadow of a mighty
oak, there stood a singular group of three people. One was a woman, our
client, drooping and faint, a handkerchief round her mouth. Opposite her
stood a brutal, heavy-faced, red-moustached young man, his gaitered legs
parted wide, one arm akimbo, the other waving a riding crop, his whole
attitude suggestive of triumphant bravado. Between them an elderly,
gray-bearded man, wearing a short surplice over a light tweed suit, had
evidently just completed the wedding service, for he pocketed his
prayer-book as we appeared, and slapped the sinister bridegroom upon the
back in jovial congratulation.
"They're married!" I gasped.
"Come on!" cried our guide, "come on!" He rushed across the glade,
Holmes and I at his heels. As we approached, the lady staggered against
the trunk of the tree for support. Williamson, the ex-clergyman, bowed to
us with mock politeness, and the bully, Woodley, advanced with a shout of
brutal and exultant laughter.
"You can take your beard off, Bob," said he. "I know you, right
enough. Well, you and your pals have just come in time for me to be able
to introduce you to Mrs. Woodley."
Our guide's answer was a singular one. He snatched off the dark beard
which had disguised him and threw it on the ground, disclosing a long,
sallow, clean-shaven face below it. Then he raised his revolver and
covered the young ruffian, who was advancing upon him with his dangerous
riding-crop swinging in his hand.
"Yes," said our ally, "I am Bob Carruthers, and I'll see this woman
righted, if I have to swing for it. I told you what I'd do if you molested
her, and, by the Lord! I'll be as good as my word."
"You're too late. She's my wife."
"No, she's your widow."
His revolver cracked, and I saw the blood spurt from the front of
Woodley's waistcoat. He spun round with a scream and fell upon his back,
his hideous red face turning suddenly to a dreadful mottled pallor. The
old man, still clad in his surplice, burst into such a string of foul
oaths as I have never heard, and pulled out a revolver of his own, but,
before he could raise it, he was looking down the barrel of Holmes's
weapon.
"Enough of this," said my friend, coldly. "Drop that pistol! Watson,
pick it up! Hold it to his head. Thank you. You, Carruthers, give me that
revolver. We'll have no more violence. Come, hand it over!"
"Who are you, then?"
"My name is Sherlock Holmes."
"Good Lord!"
"You have heard of me, I see. I will represent the official police
until their arrival. Here, you!" he shouted to a frightened groom, who had
appeared at the edge of the glade. "Come here. Take this note as hard as
you can ride to Farnham." He scribbled a few words upon a leaf from his
notebook. "Give it to the superintendent at the police-station. Until he
comes, I must detain you all under my personal custody."
The strong, masterful personality of Holmes dominated the tragic
scene, and all were equally puppets in his hands. Williamson and
Carruthers found themselves carrying the wounded Woodley into the house,
and I gave my arm to the frightened girl. The injured man was laid on his
bed, and at Holmes's request I examined him. I carried my report to where
he sat in the old tapestry-hung dining-room with his two prisoners before
him.
"He will live," said I.
"What!" cried Carruthers, springing out of his chair. "I'll go
upstairs and finish him first. Do you tell me that that angel, is to be
tied to Roaring Jack Woodley for life?"
"You need not concern yourself about that," said Holmes. "There are
two very good reasons why she should, under no circumstances, be his wife.
In the first place, we are very safe in questioning Mr. Williamson's right
to solemnize a marriage."
"I have been ordained," cried the old rascal.
"And also unfrocked."
"Once a clergyman, always a clergyman."
"I think not. How about the license?"
"We had a license for the marriage. I have it here in my pocket."
"Then you got it by trick. But, in any case a forced marriage is no
marriage, but it is a very serious felony, as you will discover before you
have finished. You'll have time to think the point out during the next ten
years or so, unless I am mistaken. As to you, Carruthers, you would have
done better to keep your pistol in your pocket."
"I begin to think so, Mr. Holmes, but when I thought of all the
precaution I had taken to shield this girl - for I loved her, Mr. Holmes,
and it is the only time that ever I knew what love was - it fairly drove
me mad to think that she was in the power of the greatest brute and bully
in South Africa - a man whose name is a holy terror from Kimberley to
Johannesburg. Why, Mr. Holmes, you'll hardly believe it, but ever since
that girl has been in my employment I never once let her go past this
house, where I knew the rascals were lurking, without following her on my
bicycle, just to see that she came to no harm. I kept my distance from
her, and I wore a beard, so that she should not recognize me, for she is a
good and high-spirited girl, and she wouldn't have stayed in my employment
long if she had thought that I was following her about the country roads."
"Why didn't you tell her of her danger?"
"Because then, again, she would have left me, and I couldn't bear to
face that. Even if she couldn't love me, it was a great deal to me just to
see her dainty form about the house, and to hear the sound of her voice."
"Well," said I, "you call that love, Mr. Carruthers, but I should
call it selfishness."
"Maybe the two things go together. Anyhow, I couldn't let her go.
Besides, with this crowd about, it was well that she should have someone
near to look after her. Then, when the cable came, I knew they were bound
to make a move."
"What cable?"
Carruthers took a telegram from his pocket "That's it," said he.
It was short and concise: The old man is dead.
"Hum!" said Holmes. "I think I see how things worked, and I can
understand how this message would, as you say, bring them to a head. But
while you wait, you might tell me what you can.
The old reprobate with the surplice burst into a volley of bad
language.
"By heaven!" said he, "if you squeal on us, Bob Carruthers, I'll
serve you as you served Jack Woodley. You can bleat about the girl to your
heart's content, for that's your own affair, but if you round on your pals
to this plain-clothes copper, it will be the worst day's work that ever
you did."
"Your reverence need not be excited," said Holmes, lighting a
cigarette. "The case is clear enough against you, and all I ask is a few
details for my private curiosity. However, if there's any difficulty in
your telling me, I'll do the talking, and then you will see how far you
have a chance of holding back your secrets. In the first place, three of
you came from South Africa on this game - you Williamson, you Carruthers,
and Woodley."
"Lie number one," said the old man; "I never saw either of them until
two months ago, and I have never been in Africa in my life, so you can put
that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr. Busybody Holmes!"
"What he says is true," said Carruthers.
"Well, well, two of you came over. His reverence is our own homemade
article. You had known Ralph Smith in South Africa. You had reason to
believe he would not live long. You found out that his niece would inherit
his fortune. How's that - eh?"
Carruthers nodded and Williamson swore.
"She was next of kin, no doubt, and you were aware that the old
fellow would make no will."
"Couldn't read or write," said Carruthers.
"So you came over, the two of you, and hunted up the girl. The idea
was that one of you was to marry her, and the other have a share of the
plunder. For some reason, Woodley was chosen as the husband. Why was that?"
"We played cards for her on the voyage. He won."
"I see. You got the young lady into your service, and there Woodley
was to do the courting. She recognized the drunken brute that he was, and
would have nothing to do with him. Meanwhile, your arrangement was rather
upset by the fact that you had yourself fallen in love with the lady. You
could no longer bear the idea of this ruffian owning her?"
"No, by George, I couldn't!"
"There was a quarrel between you. He left you in a rage, and began to
make his own plans independently of you."
"It strikes me, Williamson, there isn't very much that we can tell
this gentleman," cried Carruthers, with a bitter laugh. "Yes, we
quarreled, and he knocked me down. I am level with him on that, anyhow.
Then I lost sight of him. That was when he picked up with this outcast
padre here. I found that they had set up housekeeping together at this
place on the line that she had to pass for the station. I kept my eye on
her after that, for I knew there was some devilry in the wind. I saw them
from time to time, for I was anxious to know what they were after. Two
days ago Woodley came up to my house with this cable, which showed that
Ralph Smith was dead. He asked me if I would stand by the bargain. I said
I would not. He asked me if I would marry the girl myself and give him a
share. I said I would willingly do so, but that she would not have me. He
said, `Let us get her married first and after a week or two she may see
things a bit different.' I said I would have nothing to do with violence.
So he went off cursing, like the foul-mouthed blackguard that he was, and
swearing that he would have her yet. She was leaving me this week-end, and
I had got a trap to take her to the station, but I was so uneasy in my
mind that I followed her on my bicycle. She had got a start, however, and
before I could catch her, the mischief was done. The first thing I knew
about it was when I saw you two gentlemen driving back in her dog-cart"
Holmes rose and tossed the end of his cigarette into the grate. "I
have been very obtuse, Watson," said he. "When in your report you said
that you had seen the cyclist as you thought arrange his necktie in the
shrubbery, that alone should have told me all. However, we may
congratulate ourselves upon a curious and, in some respects, a unique
case. I perceive three of the county constabulary in the drive, and I am
glad to see that the little ostler is able to keep pace with them, so it
is likely that neither he nor the interesting bridegroom will be
permanently damaged by their morning's adventures. I think, Watson, that
in your medical capacity, you might wait upon Miss Smith and tell her that
if she is sufficiently recovered, we shall be happy to escort her to her
mother's home. If she is not quite convalescent you will find that a hint
that we were about to telegraph to a young electrician in the Midlands
would probably complete the cure. As to you, Mr. Carruthers, I think that
you have done what you could to make amends for your share in an evil
plot. There is my card, sir, and if my evidence can be of help in your
trial, it shall be at your disposal."
In the whirl of our incessant activity, it has often been difficult
for me, as the reader has probably observed, to round off my narratives,
and to give those final details which the curious might expect. Each case
has been the prelude to another, and the crisis once over, the actors have
passed for ever out of our busy lives. I find, however, a short note at
the end of my manuscript dealing with this case, in which I have put it
upon record that Miss Violet Smith did indeed inherit a large fortune, and
that she is now the wife of Cyril Morton, the senior partner of Morton &
Kennedy, the famous Westminster electricians. Williamson and Woodley were
both tried for abduction and assault, the former getting seven years the
latter ten. Of the fate of Carruthers, I have no record, but I am sure
that his assault was not viewed very gravely by the court, since Woodley
had the reputation of being a most dangerous ruffian, and I think that a
few, months were sufficient to satisfy the demands of justice.
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 hearth-rug.
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 sympathies 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 brow-beaten doctor;
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes can return to London by the morning train."
"Hardly that, Doctor, hardly that," said Holmes, in his blandest
voice. "This northern air is invigorating and pleasant, so I propose to
spend a few days upon your moors, and to occupy my mind as best I may.
Whether I have the shelter of your roof or of the village inn is, of
course, for you to decide."
I could see that the unfortunate doctor was in the last stage of
indecision, from which he was rescued by the deep, sonorous voice of the
red-bearded Duke, which boomed out like a dinner-gong.
"I agree with Mr. Wilder, Dr. Huxtable, that you would have done
wisely to consult me. But since Mr. Holmes has already been taken into
your confidence, it would indeed be absurd that we should not avail
ourselves of his services. Far from going to the inn, Mr. Holmes, I should
be pleased if you would come and stay with me at Holdernesse Hall."
"I thank your Grace. For the purposes of my investigation, I think
that it would be wiser for me to remain at the scene of the mystery."
"Just as you like, Mr. Holmes. Any information which Mr. Wilder or I
can give you is, of course, at your disposal."
"It will probably be necessary for me to see you at the Hall," said
Holmes. "I would only ask you now, sir, whether you have formed any
explanation in your own mind as to the mysterious disappearance of your
son?"
"No sir I have not."
"Excuse me if I allude to that which is painful to you, but I have no
alternative. Do you think that the Duchess had anything to do with the
matter?"
The great minister showed perceptible hesitation.
"I do not think so," he said, at last.
"The other most obvious explanation is that the child has been
kidnapped for the purpose of levying ransom. You have not had any demand
of the sort?"
"No, sir."
"One more question, your Grace. I understand that you wrote to your
son upon the day when this incident occurred."
"No, I wrote upon the day before."
"Exactly. But he received it on that day?"
"Yes."
"Was there anything in your letter which might have unbalanced him or
induced him to take such a step?"
"No, sir, certainly not."
"Did you post that letter yourself?"
The nobleman's reply was interrupted by his secretary, who broke in
with some heat.
"His Grace is not in the habit of posting letters himself," said he.
"This letter was laid with others upon the study table, and I myself put
them in the post-bag."
"You are sure this one was among them?"
"Yes, I observed it."
"How many letters did your Grace write that day?"
"Twenty or thirty. I have a large correspondence. But surely this is
somewhat irrelevant?"
"Not entirely," said Holmes.
"For my own part," the Duke continued, "I have advised the police to
turn their attention to the south of France. I have already said that I do
not believe that the Duchess would encourage so monstrous an action, but
the lad had the most wrong-headed opinions, and it is possible that he may
have fled to her, aided and abetted by this German. I think, Dr. Huxtable,
that we will now return to the Hall."
I could see that there were other questions which Holmes would have
wished to put, but the nobleman's abrupt manner showed that the interview
was at an end. It was evident that to his intensely aristocratic nature
this discussion of his intimate family affairs with a stranger was most
abhorrent, and that he feared lest every fresh question would throw a
fiercer light into the discreetly shadowed corners of his ducal history.
When the nobleman and his secretary had left, my friend flung himself
at once with characteristic eagerness into the investigation.
The boy's chamber was carefully examined, and yielded nothing save
the absolute conviction that it was only through the window that he could
have escaped. The German master's room and effects gave no further clue.
In his case a trailer of ivy had given way under his weight, and we saw by
the light of a lantern the mark on the lawn where his heels had come down.
That one dint in the short, green grass was the only material witness left
of this inexplicable nocturnal flight.
Sherlock Holmes left the house alone, and only returned after eleven.
He had obtained a large ordnance map of the neighbourhood, and this he
brought into my room, where he laid it out on the bed, and, having
balanced the lamp in the middle of it, he began to smoke over it, and
occasionally to point out objects of interest with the reeking amber of
his pipe.
"This case grows upon me, Watson," said he. "There are decidedly some
points of interest in connection with it. In this early stage, I want you
to realize those geographical features which may have a good deal to do
with our investigation.
"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."
GRAPHIC
"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 arable land,
cut up into small fields, with stone walls between them. There, I admit
that a bicycle is impossible. We can dismiss the idea. We turn to the
country on the north. Here there lies a grove of trees, marked as the
`Ragged Shaw,' and on the farther side stretches a great rolling moor,
Lower Gill Moor, extending for ten miles and sloping gradually 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 tires. This, as you perceive,
is a Dunlop, with a patch upon the outer cover. Heidegger's tires 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 tires 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 tires.
"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 tire 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 tire began to
curve fantastically upon the wet and shining path. Suddenly, as I looked
ahead, the gleam of metal caught my eye from amid the thick gorse-bushes.
Out of them we dragged a bicycle, Palmer-tired, 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
ruffled brow that this grim discovery had not, in his opinion, advanced us
much in our inquiry.
"It is a little difficult to know what to do, Watson," said he, at
last. "My own inclinations are to push this inquiry on, for we have
already lost so much time that we cannot afford to waste another hour. On
the other hand, we are bound to inform the police of the discovery, and to
see that this poor fellow's body is looked after."
"I could take a note back."
"But I need your company and assistance. Wait a bit! There is a
fellow cutting peat up yonder. Bring him over here, and he will guide the
police."
I brought the peasant across, and Holmes dispatched the frightened
man with a note to Dr. Huxtable.
"Now, Watson," said he, "we have picked up two clues this morning.
One is the bicycle with the Palmer tire, and we see what that has led to.
The other is the bicycle with the patched Dunlop. Before we start to
investigate that, let us try to realize what we do know, so as to make the
most of it, and to separate the essential from the accidental."
"First of all, I wish to impress upon you that the boy certainly left
of his own free-will. He got down from his window and he went off, either
alone or with someone. That is sure."
I assented.
"Well, now, let us turn to this unfortunate German master. The boy
was fully dressed when he fled. Therefore, he foresaw what he would do.
But the German went without his socks. He certainly acted on very short
notice."
"Undoubtedly."
"Why did he go? Because, from his bedroom window, he saw the flight
of the boy, because he wished to overtake him and bring him back. He
seized his bicycle, pursued the lad, and in pursuing him met his death."
"So it would seem."
"Now I come to the critical part of my argument. The natural action
of a man in pursuing a little boy would be to run after him. He would know
that he could overtake him. But the German does not do so. He turns to his
bicycle. I am told that he was an excellent cyclist. He would not do this,
if he did not see that the boy had some swift means of escape."
"The other bicycle."
"Let us continue our reconstruction. He meets his death five miles
from the school - not by a bullet, mark you, which even a lad might
conceivably discharge, but by a savage blow dealt by a vigorous arm. The
lad, then, HAD a companion in his flight. And the flight was a swift one,
since it took five miles before an expert cyclist could overtake them. Yet
we survey the ground round the scene of the tragedy. What do we find? A
few cattle-tracks, nothing more. I took a wide sweep round, and there is
no path within fifty yards. Another cyclist could have had nothing to do
with the actual murder, nor were there any human foot-marks."
"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 hoped for. At
the spot where we saw the last of the Dunlop tire 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 tire. 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 was some minutes before he spoke.
"How much do you know?" he asked at last, without raising his head.
"I saw you together last night."
"Does anyone else 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.
Arthur Conan Doyle
THE ADVENTURE OF BLACK PETER
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
borne out by the fact that a bottle of rum and two dirty glasses stood
upon the table."
"Yes," said Holmes; "I think that both inferences are permissible.
Was there any other spirit but rum in the room?"
"Yes, there was a tantalus containing brandy and whisky on the
sea-chest. It is of no importance to us, however, since the decanters were
full, and it had therefore not been used."
"For all that, its presence has some significance," said Holmes.
"However, let us hear some more about the objects which do seem to you to
bear upon the case."
"There was this tobacco-pouch upon the table."
"What part of the table?"
"It lay in the middle. It was of coarse 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 hunter feels when he lies beside the water-pool,
and waits for the coming of the thirsty beast of prey. What savage
creature was it which might steal upon us out of the darkness? Was it a
fierce tiger of crime, which could only be taken fighting hard with
flashing fang and claw, or would it prove to be some skulking jackal,
dangerous only to the weak and unguarded?
In absolute silence we crouched amongst the bushes, waiting for
whatever might come. At first the steps of a few belated villagers, or the
sound of voices from the village, lightened our vigil, but one by one
these interruptions died away, and an absolute stillness fell upon us,
save for the chimes of the distant church, which told us of the progress
of the night, and for the rustle and whisper of a fine rain falling amid
the foliage which roofed us in.
Half-past two had chimed, and it was the darkest hour which precedes
the dawn, when we all started as a low but sharp click came from the
direction of the gate. Someone had entered the drive. Again there was a
long silence, and I had begun to fear that it was a false alarm, when a
stealthy step was heard upon the other side of the hut, and a moment later
a metallic scraping and clinking. The man was trying to force the lock.
This time his skill was greater or his tool was better, for there was a
sudden snap and the creak of the hinges. Then a match was struck, and next
instant the steady light from a candle filled the interior of the hut.
Through the gauze curtain our eyes were all riveted upon the scene within.
The nocturnal visitor was a young man, frail and thin, with a black
moustache, which intensified the deadly pallor of his face. He could not
have been much above twenty years of age. I have never seen any human
being who appeared to be in such a pitiable fright, for his teeth were
visibly chattering, and he was shaking in every limb. He was dressed like
a gentleman, in Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers, with a cloth cap upon
his head. We watched him staring round with frightened eyes. Then he laid
the candle-end upon the table and disappeared from our view into one of
the corners. He returned with a large book, one of the 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 Hopkin'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
side-table. If you sign it the whole matter will be settled."
The seaman lurched across the room and took up the pen.
"Shall I sign here?" he asked, stooping over the table.
Holmes leaned over his shoulder and passed both hands over his neck.
"This will do," said he.
I heard a click of steel and a bellow like an enraged bull. The next
instant Holmes and the seaman were rolling on the ground together. He was
a man of such gigantic strength that, even with the handcuffs which Holmes
had so deftly fastened upon his wrists, he would have very quickly
overpowered my friend had Hopkins and I not rushed to his rescue. Only
when I pressed the cold muzzle of the revolver to his temple did he at
last understand that resistance was vain. We lashed his ankles with cord,
and rose breathless from the struggle.
"I must really apologize, Hopkins," said Sherlock Holmes. "I fear
that the scrambled eggs are cold. However, you will enjoy the rest of your
breakfast all the better, will you not, for the thought that you have
brought your case to a triumphant conclusion."
Stanley Hopkins was speechless with amazement.
"I don't know what to say, Mr. Holmes," he blurted out at last, with
a very red face. "It seems to me that I have been making a fool of myself
from the beginning. I understand now, what I should never have forgotten,
that I am the pupil and you are the master. Even now I see what you have
done, but I don't know how you did it or what it signifies."
"Well, well," said Holmes, good-humouredly. "We all learn by
experience, and your lesson this time is that you should never lose sight
of the alternative. You were so absorbed in young Neligan that you could
not spare a thought to Patrick Cairns, the true murderer of Peter Carey."
The hoarse voice of the seaman broke in on our conversation.
"See here, mister," said he, "I make no complaint of being
man-handled in this fashion, but I would have you call things by their
right names. You say I murdered Peter Carey, I say I KILLED Peter Carey,
and there's all the difference. Maybe you don't believe what I say. Maybe
you think I am just slinging you a yarn."
"Not at all," said Holmes. "Let us hear what you have to say."
"It's soon told, and, by the Lord, every word of it is truth. I knew
Black Peter, and when he pulled out his knife I whipped a harpoon through
him sharp, for I knew that it was him or me. That's how he died. You can
call it murder. Anyhow, I'd as soon die with a rope round my neck as with
Black Peter's knife in my heart."
"How came you there?" asked Holmes.
"I'll tell it you from the beginning. Just sit me up a little, so as
I can speak easy. It was in '83 that it happened - August of that year.
Peter Carey was master of the SEA UNICORN, and I was spare harpooner. We
were coming out of the ice-pack on our way home, with head winds and a
week's southerly gale, when we picked up a little craft that had been
blown north. There was one man on her - a landsman. The crew had thought
she would founder and had made for the Norwegian coast in the dinghy. I
guess they were all drowned. Well, we took him on board, this man, and he
and the skipper had some long talks in the cabin. All the baggage we took
off with him was one tin box. So far as I know, the man's name was never
mentioned, and on the second night he disappeared as if he had never been.
It was given out that he had either thrown himself overboard or fallen
overboard in the heavy weather that we were having. Only one man knew what
had happened to him, and that was me, for, with my own eyes, I saw the
skipper tip up his heels and put him over the rail in the middle watch of
a dark night, two days before we sighted the Shetland Lights. "Well, I
kept my knowledge to myself, and waited to see what would come of it. When
we got back to Scotland it was easily hushed up, and nobody asked any
questions. A stranger died by 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."
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, he returned from his last expedition, and having removed his
disguise he sat before the fire and laughed heartily in his silent inward
fashion.
"You would not call me a marrying man, Watson?"
"No, indeed!"
"You'll be interested to hear that I'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 borne 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 red-handed. 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.
Arthur Conan Doyle
THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIX NAPOLEONS
It was no very unusual thing for Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, to
look in upon us of an evening, and his visits were welcome to Sherlock
Holmes, for they enabled him to keep in touch with all that was going on
at the police headquarters. In return for the news which Lestrade would
bring, Holmes was always ready to listen with attention to the details of
any case upon which the detective was engaged, and was able occasionally,
without any active interference, to give some hint or suggestion drawn
from his own vast knowledge and experience.
On this particular evening, Lestrade had spoken of the weather and
the newspapers. Then he had fallen silent, puffing thoughtfully at his
cigar. Holmes looked keenly at him.
"Anything remarkable on hand?" he asked.
"Oh, no, Mr. Holmes - nothing very particular."
"Then tell me about it."
Lestrade laughed.
"Well, Mr. Holmes, there is no use denying that there IS something on
my mind. And yet it is such an absurd business, that I hesitated to bother
you about it. On the other hand, although it is trivial, it is undoubtedly
queer, and I know that you have a taste for all that is out of the common.
But, in my opinion, it comes more in Dr. Watson's line than ours."
"Disease?" said I.
"Madness, anyhow. And a queer madness, too. You wouldn't think there
was anyone living at this time of day who had such a hatred of Napoleon
the First that he would break any image of him that he could see."
Holmes sank back in his chair.
"That's no business of mine," said he.
"Exactly. That's what I said. But then, when the man commits burglary
in order to break images which are not his own, that brings it away from
the doctor and on to the policeman."
Holmes sat up again.
"Burglary! This is more interesting. Let me hear the details."
Lestrade took out his official notebook and refreshed his memory from
its pages.
"The first case reported was four days ago," said he. "It was at the
shop of Morse Hudson, who has a place for the sale of pictures and statues
in the Kennington Road. The assistant had left the front shop for an
instant, when he heard a crash, and hurrying in he found a plaster bust of
Napoleon, which stood with several other works of art upon the counter,
lying shivered into fragments. He rushed out into the road, but, although
several passers-by declared that they had noticed a man run out of the
shop, he could neither see anyone nor could he find any means of
identifying the rascal. It seemed to be one of those senseless acts of
Hooliganism which occur from time to time, and it was reported to the
constable on the beat as such. The plaster cast was not worth more than a
few shillings, and the whole affair appeared to be too childish for any
particular investigation.
"The second case, however, was more serious, and also more singular.
It occurred only last night.
"In Kennington Road, and within a few hundred yards of Morse Hudson's
shop, there lives a well-known medical practitioner, named Dr. Barnicot,
who has one of the largest practices upon the south side of the Thames.
His residence and principal consulting-room is at Kennington Road, but he
has a branch surgery and dispensary at Lower Brixton Road, two miles away.
This Dr. Barnicot is an enthusiastic admirer of Napoleon, and his house is
full of books, pictures, and relics of the French Emperor. Some little
time ago he purchased from Morse Hudson two duplicate plaster casts of the
famous head of Napoleon by the French sculptor, Devine. One of these he
placed in his hall in the house at Kennington Road, and the other on the
mantelpiece of the surgery at Lower Brixton. Well, when Dr. Barnicot came
down this morning he was astonished to find that his house had been
burgled during the night, but that nothing had been taken save the plaster
head from the hall. It had been carried out and had been dashed savagely
against the garden wall, under which its splintered fragments were
discovered."
Holmes rubbed his hands.
"This is certainly very novel," said he.
"I thought it would please you. But I have not got to the end yet.
Dr. Barnicot was due at his surgery at twelve o'clock, and you can imagine
his amazement when, on arriving there, he found that the window had been
opened in the night and that the broken pieces of his second bust were
strewn all over the room. It had been smashed to atoms where it stood. In
neither case were there any signs which could give us a clue as to the
criminal or lunatic who had done the mischief. Now, Mr. Holmes, you have
got the facts."
"They are singular, not to say grotesque," said Holmes. "May I ask
whether the two busts smashed in Dr. Barnicot's rooms were the exact
duplicates of the one which was destroyed in Morse Hudson's shop?"
"They were taken from the same mould."
"Such a fact must tell against the theory that the man who breaks
them is influenced by any general hatred of Napoleon. Considering how many
hundreds of statues of the great Emperor must exist in London, it is too
much to suppose such a coincidence as that a promiscuous iconoclast should
chance to begin upon three specimens of the same bust."
"Well, I thought as you do," said Lestrade. "On the other hand, this
Morse Hudson is the purveyor of busts in that part of London, and these
three were the only ones which had been in his shop for years. So,
although, as you say, there are many hundreds of statues in London, it is
very probable that these three were the only ones in that district.
Therefore, a local fanatic would begin with them. What do you think, Dr.
Watson?"
"There are no limits to the possibilities of monomania," I answered.
"There is the condition which the modern French psychologists have called
the `IDEE FIXE,' which may be trifling in character, and accompanied by
complete sanity in every other way. A man who had read deeply about
Napoleon, or who had possibly received some hereditary family injury
through the great war, might conceivably form such an IDEE FIXE and under
its influence be capable of any fantastic outrage."
"That won't do, my dear Watson," said Holmes, shaking his head, "for
no amount of IDEE FIXE would enable your interesting monomaniac to find
out where these busts were situated."
"Well, how do YOU explain it?"
"I don't attempt to do so. I would only observe that there is a
certain method in the gentleman's eccentric proceedings. For example, in
Dr. Barnicot's hall, where a sound might arouse the family, the bust was
taken outside before being broken, whereas in the surgery, where there was
less danger of an alarm, it was smashed where it stood. The affair seems
absurdly trifling, and yet I dare call nothing trivial when I reflect that
some of my most classic cases have had the least promising commencement.
You will remember, Watson, how the dreadful business of the Abernetty
family was first brought to my notice by the depth which the parsley had
sunk into the butter upon a hot day. I can't afford, therefore, to smile
at your three broken busts, Lestrade, and I shall be very much obliged to
you if you will let me hear of any fresh development of so singular a
chain of events."
The development for which my friend had asked came in a quicker and
an infinitely more tragic form than he could have imagined. I was still
dressing in my bedroom next morning, when there was a tap at the door and
Holmes entered, a telegram in his hand. He read it aloud:
"What is it, then?" I asked.
"Don't know - may be anything. But I suspect it is the sequel of the
story of the statues. In that case our friend the image-breaker has begun
operations in another quarter of London. There's coffee on the table,
Watson, and I have a cab at the door."
In half an hour we had reached Pitt Street, a quiet little backwater
just beside one of the briskest currents of London life. No. 131 was one
of a row, all flat-chested, respectable, and most unromantic dwellings. As
we drove up, we found the railings in front of the house lined by a
curious crowd. Holmes whistled.
"By George! It's attempted murder at the least. Nothing less will
hold the London message-boy. There's a deed of violence indicated in that
fellow's round shoulders and outstretched neck. What's this, Watson? The
top steps swilled down and the other ones dry. Footsteps enough, anyhow!
Well, well, there's Lestrade at the front window, and we shall soon know
all about it."
The official received us with a very grave face and showed us into a
sitting-room, where an exceedingly unkempt and agitated elderly man, clad
in a flannel dressing-gown, was pacing up and down. He was introduced to
us as the owner of the house - Mr. Horace Harker, of the Central Press
Syndicate.
"It's the Napoleon bust business again," said Lestrade. "You seemed
interested last night, Mr. Holmes, so I thought perhaps you would be glad
to be present now that the affair has taken a very much graver turn."
"What has it turned to, then?"
"To murder. Mr. Harker, will you tell these gentlemen exactly what
has occurred?"
The man in the dressing-gown turned upon us with a most melancholy
face.
"It's an extraordinary thing," said he, "that all my life I have been
collecting other people's news, and now that a real piece of news has come
my own way I am so confused and bothered that I can't put two words
together. If I had come in here as a journalist, I should have interviewed
myself and had two columns in every evening paper. As it is, I am giving
away valuable copy by telling my story over and over to a string of
different people, and I can make no use of it myself. However, I've heard
your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and if you'll only explain this queer
business, I shall be paid for my trouble in telling you the story."
Holmes sat down and listened.
"It all seems to centre round that bust of Napoleon which I bought
for this very room about four months ago. I picked it up cheap from
Harding Brothers, two doors from the High Street Station. A great deal of
my journalistic work is done at night, and I often write until the early
morning. So it was to-day. I was sitting in my den, which is at the back
of the top of the house, about three o'clock, when I was convinced that I
heard some sounds downstairs. I listened, but they were not repeated, and
I concluded that they came from outside. Then suddenly, about five minutes
later, there came a most horrible yell - the most dreadful sound, Mr.
Holmes, that ever I heard. It will ring in my ears as long as I live. I
sat frozen with horror for a minute or two. Then I seized the poker and
went downstairs. When I entered this room I found the window wide open,
and I at once observed that the bust was gone from the mantelpiece. Why
any burglar should take such a thing passes my understanding, for it was
only a plaster cast and of no real value whatever.
"You can see for yourself that anyone going out through that open
window could reach the front doorstep by taking a long stride. This was
clearly what the burglar had done, so I went round and opened the door.
Stepping out into the dark, I nearly fell over a dead man, who was lying
there. I ran back for a light and there was the poor fellow, a great gash
in his throat and the whole place swimming in blood. He lay on his back,
his knees drawn up, and his mouth horribly open. I shall see him in my
dreams. I had just time to blow on my police-whistle, and then I must have
fainted, for I knew nothing more until I found the policeman standing over
me in the hall."
"Well, who was the murdered man?" asked Holmes.
"There's nothing to show who he was," said Lestrade. "You shall see
the body at the mortuary, but we have made nothing of it up to now. He is
a tall man, sunburned, very powerful, not more than thirty. He is poorly
dressed, and yet does not appear to be a labourer. A horn-handled clasp
knife was lying in a pool of blood beside him. Whether it was the weapon
which did the deed, or whether it belonged to the dead man, I do not know.
There was no name on his clothing, and nothing in his pockets save an
apple, some string, a shilling map of London, and a photograph. Here it
is."
It was evidently taken by a snapshot from a small camera. It
represented an alert, sharp-featured simian man, with thick eyebrows and a
very peculiar projection of the lower part of the face, like the muzzle of
a baboon.
"And what became of the bust?" asked Holmes, after a careful study of
this picture.
"We had news of it just before you came. It has been found in the
front garden of an empty house in Campden House Road. It was broken into
fragments. I am going round now to see it. Will you come?"
"Certainly. I must just take one look round." He examined the carpet
and the window. "The fellow had either very long legs or was a most active
man," said he. "With an area beneath, it was no mean feat to reach that
window ledge and open that window. Getting back was comparatively simple.
Are you coming with us to see the remains of your bust, Mr. Harker?"
The disconsolate journalist had seated himself at a writing-table.
"I must try and make something of it," said he, "though I have no
doubt that the first editions of the evening papers are out already with
full details. It's like my luck! You remember when the stand fell at
Doncaster? Well, I was the only journalist in the stand, and my journal
the only one that had no account of it, for I was too shaken to write it.
And now I'll be too late with a murder done on my own doorstep."
As we left the room, we heard his pen travelling shrilly over the
foolscap.
The spat where the fragments of the bust had been found was only a
few hundred yards away. For the first time our eyes rested upon this
presentment of the great emperor, which seemed to raise such frantic and
destructive hatred in the mind of the unknown. It lay scattered, in
splintered shards, upon the grass. Holmes picked up several of them and
examined them carefully. I was convinced, from his intent face and his
purposeful manner, that at last he was upon a clue.
"Well?" asked Lestrade.
Holmes shrugged his shoulders.
"We have a long way to go yet," said he. "And yet - and yet - well,
we have some suggestive facts to act upon. The possession of this trifling
bust was worth more, in the eyes of this strange criminal, than a human
life. That is one point. Then there is the singular fact that he did not
break it in the house, or immediately outside the house, if to break it
was his sole object."
"He was rattled and bustled by meeting this other fellow. He hardly
knew what he was doing."
"Well, that's likely enough. But I wish to call your attention very
particularly to the position of this house, in the garden of which the
bust was destroyed."
Lestrade looked about him.
"It was an empty house, and so he knew that he would not be disturbed
in the garden."
"Yes, but there is another empty house farther up the street which he
must have passed before he came to this one. Why did he not break it
there, since it is evident that every yard that he carried it increased
the risk of someone meeting him?"
"I give it up," said Lestrade.
Holmes pointed to the street lamp above our heads.
"He could see what he was doing here, and he could not there. That
was his reason."
"By Jove! that's true," said the detective. "Now that I come to think
of it, Dr. Barnicot's bust was broken not far from his red lamp. Well, Mr.
Holmes, what are we to do with that fact?"
"To remember it - to docket it. We may come on something later which
will bear upon it. What steps do you propose to take now, Lestrade?"
"The most practical way of getting at it, in my opinion, is to
identify the dead man. There should be no difficulty about that. When we
have found who he is and who his associates are, we should have a good
start in learning what he was doing in Pitt Street last night, and who it
was who met him and killed him on the doorstep of Mr. Horace Harker. Don't
you think so?"
"No doubt; and yet it is not quite the way in which I should approach
the case."
"What would you do then?"
"Oh, you must not let me influence you in any way. I suggest that you
go on your line and I on mine. We can compare notes afterwards, and each
will supplement the other."
"Very good," said Lestrade.
"If you are going back to Pitt Street, you might see Mr. Horace
Harker. Tell him for me that I have quite made up my mind, and that it is
certain that a dangerous homicidal lunatic, with Napoleonic delusions, was
in his house last night. It will be useful for his article."
Lestrade stared.
"You don't seriously believe that?"
Holmes smiled.
"Don't I? Well, perhaps I don't. But I am sure that it will interest
Mr. Horace Harker and the subscribers of the Central Press Syndicate. Now,
Watson, I think that we shall find that we have a long and rather complex
day's work before us. I should be glad, Lestrade, if you could make it
convenient to meet us at Baker Street at six o'clock this evening. Until
then I should like to keep this photograph, found in the dead man's
pocket. It is possible that I may have to ask your company and assistance
upon a small expedition which will have be undertaken to-night, if my
chain of reasoning should prove to be correct. Until then good-bye and
good luck!"
Sherlock Holmes and I walked together to the High Street, where we
stopped at the shop of Harding Brothers, whence the bust had been
purchased. A young assistant informed us that Mr. Harding would be absent
until afternoon, and that he was himself a newcomer, who could give us no
information. Holmes's face showed his disappointment and annoyance.
"Well, well, we can't expect to have it all our own way, Watson," he
said, at last. "We must come back in the afternoon, if Mr. Harding will
not be here until then. I am, as you have no doubt surmised, endeavouring
to trace these busts to their source, in order to find if there is not
something peculiar which may account for their remarkable fate. Let us
make for Mr. Morse Hudson, of the Kennington Road, and see if he can throw
any light upon the problem."
A drive of an hour brought us to the picture-dealer's establishment.
He was a small, stout man with a red face and a peppery manner.
"Yes, sir. On my very counter, sir," said he. "What we pay rates and
taxes for I don't know, when any ruffian can come in and break one's
goods. Yes, sir, it was I who sold Dr. Barnicot his two statues.
Disgraceful, sir! A Nihilist plot - that's what I make it. No one but an
anarchist would go about breaking statues. Red republicans - that's what I
call 'em. Who did I get the statues from? I don't see what that has to do
with it. Well, if you really want to know, I got them from Gelder & Co.,
in Church Street, Stepney. They are a well-known house in the trade, and
have been this twenty years. How many had I? Three - two and one are three
- two of Dr. Barnicot's, and one smashed in broad daylight on my own
counter. Do I know that photograph? No, I don't. Yes, I do, though. Why,
it's Beppo. He was a kind of Italian piece-work man, who made himself
useful in the shop. He could carve a bit, and gild and frame, and do odd
jobs. The fellow left me last week, and I've heard nothing of him since.
No, I don't know where he came from nor where he went to. I had nothing
against him while he was here. He was gone two days before the bust was
smashed."
"Well, that's all we could reasonably expect from Morse Hudson," said
Holmes, as we emerged from the shop. We have this Beppo as a common
factor, both in Kennington and in Kensington, so that is worth a ten-mile
drive. Now, Watson, let us make for Gelder & Co., of Stepney, the source
and origin of the busts. I shall be surprised if we don't get some help
down there."
In rapid succession we passed through the fringe of fashionable
London, hotel London, theatrical London, literary London, commercial
London, and, finally, maritime London, till we came to a riverside city of
a hundred thousand souls, where the tenement houses swelter and reek with
the outcasts of Europe. Here, in a broad thoroughfare, once the abode of
wealthy City merchants, we found the sculpture works for which we
searched. Outside was a considerable yard full of monumental masonry.
Inside was a large room in which fifty workers were carving or moulding.
The manager, a big blond German, received us civilly and gave a clear
answer to all Holmes's questions. A reference to his books showed that
hundreds of casts had been taken from a marble copy of Devine's head of
Napoleon, but that the three which had been sent to Morse Hudson a year or
so before had been half of a batch of six, the other three being sent to
Harding Brothers, of Kensington. There was no reason why those six should
be different from any of the other casts. He could suggest no possible
cause why anyone should wish to destroy them - in fact, he laughed at the
idea. Their wholesale price was six shillings, but the retailer would get
twelve or more. The cast was taken in two moulds from each side of the
face, and then these two profiles of plaster of Paris were joined together
to make the complete bust. The work was usually done by Italians, in the
room we were in. When finished, the busts were put on a table in the
passage to dry, and afterwards stored. That was all he could tell us.
But the production of the photograph had a remarkable effect upon the
manager. His face flushed with anger, and his brows knotted over his blue
Teutonic eyes.
"Ah, the rascal!" he cried. "Yes, indeed, I know him very well. This
has always been a respectable establishment, and the only time that we
have ever had the police in it was over this very fellow. It was more than
a year ago now. He knifed another Italian in the street, and then he came
to the works with the police on his heels, and he was taken here. Beppo
was his name - his second name I never knew. Serve me right for engaging a
man with such a face. But he was a good workman - one of the best."
"What did he get?"
"The man lived and he got off with a year. I have no doubt he is out
now, but he has not dared to show his nose here. We have a cousin of his
here, and I daresay he could tell you where he is."
"No, no," cried Holmes, "not a word to the cousin - not a word, I beg
of you. The matter is very important, and the farther I go with it, the
more important it seems to grow. When you referred in your ledger to the
sale of those casts I observed that the date was June 3rd of last year.
Could you give me the date when Beppo was arrested?"
"I could tell you roughly by the pay-list," the manager answered.
"Yes," he continued, after some turning over of pages, "he was paid last
on May 20th."
"Thank you," said Holmes. "I don't think that I need intrude upon
your time and patience any more." With a last word of caution that he
should say nothing as to our researches, we turned our faces westward once
more.
The afternoon was far advanced before we were able to snatch a hasty
luncheon at a restaurant. A news-bill at the entrance announced
"Kensington Outrage. Murder by a Madman," and the contents of the paper
showed that Mr. Horace Harker had got his account into print after all.
Two columns were occupied with a highly sensational and flowery rendering
of the whole incident. Holmes propped it against the cruet-stand and read
it while he ate. Once or twice he chuckled.
"This is all right, Watson," said he. "Listen to this:
"It is satisfactory to know that there can be no difference of
opinion upon this case, since Mr. Lestrade, one of the most experienced
members of the official force, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the well known
consulting expert, have each come to the conclusion that the grotesque
series of incidents, which have ended in so tragic a fashion, arise from
lunacy rather than from deliberate crime. No explanation save mental
aberration can cover the facts.
The Press, Watson, is a most valuable institution, if you only know
how to use it. And now, if you have quite finished, we will hark back to
Kensington and see what the manager of Harding Brothers has to say on the
matter."
The founder of that great emporium proved to be a brisk, crisp little
person, very dapper and quick, with a clear head and a ready tongue.
"Yes, sir, I have already read the account in the evening papers. Mr.
Horace Harker is a customer of ours. We supplied him with the bust some
months ago. We ordered three busts of that sort from Gelder & Co., of
Stepney. They are all sold now. To whom? Oh, I daresay by consulting our
sales book we could very easily tell you. Yes, we have the entries here.
One to Mr. Harker you see, and one to Mr. Josiah Brown, of Laburnum Lodge,
Laburnum Vale, Chiswick, and one to Mr. Sandeford, of Lower Grove Road,
Reading. No, I have never seen this face which you show me in the
photograph. You would hardly forget it, would you, sir, for I've seldom
seen an uglier. Have we any Italians on the staff? Yes, sir, we have
several among our workpeople and cleaners. I daresay they might get a peep
at that sales book if they wanted to. There is no particular reason for
keeping a watch upon that book. Well, well, it's a very strange business,
and I hope that you will let me know if anything comes of your inquiries."
Holmes had taken several notes during Mr. Harding's evidence, and I
could see that he was thoroughly satisfied by the turn which affairs were
taking. He made no remark, however, save that, unless we hurried, we
should be late for our appointment with Lestrade. Sure enough, when we
reached Baker Street the detective was already there, and we found him
pacing up and down in a fever of impatience. His look of importance showed
that his day's work had not been in vain.
"Well?" he asked. "What luck, Mr. Holmes?"
"We have had a very busy day, and not entirely a wasted one," my
friend explained. "We have seen both the retailers and also the wholesale
manufacturers. I can trace each of the busts now from the beginning."
"The busts" cried Lestrade. "Well, well, you have your own methods,
Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and it is not for me to say a word against them, but
I think I have done a better day's work than you. I have identified the
dead man."
"You don't say so?"
"And found a cause for the crime."
"Splendid!"
"We have an inspector who makes a specialty of Saffron Hill and the
Italian Quarter. Well, this dead man had some Catholic emblem round his
neck, and that, along with his colour, made me think he was from the
South. Inspector Hill knew him the moment he caught sight of him. His name
is Pietro Venucci, from Naples, and he is one of the greatest cut-throats
in London. He is connected with the Mafia, which, as you know, is a secret
political society, enforcing its decrees by murder. Now, you see how the
affair begins to clear up. The other fellow is probably an Italian also,
and a member of the Mafia. He has broken the rules in some fashion. Pietro
is set upon his track. Probably the photograph we found in his pocket is
the man himself, so that he may not knife the wrong person. He dogs the
fellow, he sees him enter a house, he waits outside for him, and in the
scuffle he receives his own death-wound. How is that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"
Holmes clapped his hands approvingly.
"Excellent, Lestrade, excellent!" he cried. "But I didn't quite
follow your explanation of the destruction of the busts."
"The busts! You never can get those busts out of your head. After
all, that is nothing; petty larceny, six months at the most. It is the
murder that we are really investigating, and I tell you that I am
gathering all the threads into my hands."
"And the next stage?"
"Is a very simple one. I shall go down with Hill to the Italian
Quarter, find the man whose photograph we have got, and arrest him on the
charge of murder. Will you come with us?"
"I think not. I fancy we can attain our end in a simpler way. I can't
say for certain, because it all depends - well, it all depends upon a
factor which is completely outside our control. But I have great hopes -
in fact, the betting is exactly two to one - that if you will come with us
to-night I shall be able to help you to lay him by the heels."
"In the Italian Quarter?"
"No, I fancy Chiswick is an address which is more likely to find him.
If you will come with me to Chiswick to-night, Lestrade, I'll promise to
go to the Italian Quarter with you to-morrow, and no harm will be done by
the delay. And now I think that a few hours' sleep would do us all good,
for I do not propose to leave before eleven o'clock, and it is unlikely
that we shall be back before morning. You'll dine with us, Lestrade, and
then you are welcome to the sofa until it is time for us to start. In the
meantime, Watson, I should be glad if you would ring for an express
messenger, for I have a letter to send and it is important that it should
go at once."
Holmes spent the evening in rummaging among the files of the old
daily papers with which one of our lumber-rooms was packed. When at last
he descended, it was with triumph in his eyes, but he said nothing to
either of us as to the result of his researches. For my own part, I had
followed step by step the methods by which he had traced the various
windings of this complex case, and, though I could not yet perceive the
goal which we would reach, I understood clearly that Holmes expected this
grotesque criminal to make an attempt upon the two remaining busts, one of
which, I remembered, was at Chiswick. No doubt the object of our journey
was to catch him in the very act, and I could not but admire the cunning
with which my friend had inserted a wrong clue in the evening paper, so as
to give the fellow the idea that he could continue his scheme with
impunity. I was not surprised when Holmes suggested that I should take my
revolver with me. He had himself picked up the loaded hunting-crop, which
was his favourite weapon.
A four-wheeler was at the door at eleven, and in it we drove to a
spot at the other side of Hammersmith Bridge. Here the cabman was directed
to wait. A short walk brought us to a secluded road fringed with pleasant
houses, each standing in its own grounds. In the light of a street lamp we
read "Laburnum Villa" upon the gate-post of one of them. The occupants had
evidently retired to rest, for all was dark save for a fanlight over the
hall door, which shed a single blurred circle on to the garden path. The
wooden fence which separated the grounds from the road threw a dense black
shadow upon the inner side, and here it was that we crouched.
"I fear that you'll have a long wait," Holmes whispered. "We may
thank our stars that it is not raining. I don't think we can even venture
to smoke to pass the time. However, it's a two to one chance that we get
something to pay us for our trouble."
It proved, however, that our vigil was not to be so long as Holmes
had led us to fear, and it ended in a very sudden and singular fashion. In
an instant, without the least sound to warn us of his coming, the garden
gate swung open, and a lithe, dark figure, as swift and active as an ape,
rushed up the garden path. We saw it whisk past the light thrown from over
the door and disappear against the black shadow of the house. There was a
long pause, during which we held our breath, and then a very gentle
creaking sound came to our ears. The window was being opened. The noise
ceased, and again there was a long silence. The fellow was making his way
into the house. We saw the sudden flash of a dark lantern inside the room.
What he sought was evidently not there, for again we saw the flash through
another blind, and then through another.
"Let us get to the open window. We will nab him as he climbs out,"
Lestrade whispered.
But before we could move, the man had emerged again. As he came out
into the glimmering patch of light, we saw that he carried something white
under his arm. He looked stealthily all round him. The silence of the
deserted street reassured him. Turning his back upon us he laid down his
burden, and the next instant there was the sound of a sharp tap, followed
by a clatter and rattle. The man was so intent upon what he was doing that
he never heard our steps as we stole across the grass plot. With the bound
of a tiger Holmes was on his back, and an instant later Lestrade and I had
him by either wrist, and the handcuffs had been fastened. As we turned him
over I saw a hideous, sallow face, with writhing, furious features,
glaring up at us, and I knew that it was indeed the man of the photograph
whom we had secured.
But it was not our prisoner to whom Holmes was giving his attention.
Squatted on the doorstep, he was engaged in most carefully examining that
which the man had brought from the house. It was a bust of Napoleon, like
the one which we had seen that morning, and it had been broken into
similar fragments. Carefully Holmes held each separate shard to the light,
but in no way did it differ from any other shattered piece of plaster. He
had just completed his examination when the hall lights flew up, the door
opened, and the owner of the house, a jovial, rotund figure in shirt and
trousers, presented himself.
"Mr. Josiah Brown, I suppose?" said Holmes.
"Yes, sir; and you, no doubt, are Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I had the note
which you sent by the express messenger, and I did exactly what you told
me. We locked every door on the inside and awaited developments. Well, I'm
very glad to see that you have got the rascal. I hope, gentlemen, that you
will come in and have some refreshment."
However, Lestrade was anxious to get his man into safe quarters, so
within a few minutes our cab had been summoned and we were all four upon
our way to London. Not a word would our captive say, but he glared at us
from the shadow of his matted hair, and once, when my hand seemed within
his reach, he snapped at it like a hungry wolf. We stayed long enough at
the police-station to learn that a search of his clothing revealed nothing
save a few shillings and a long sheath knife, the handle of which bore
copious traces of recent blood.
"That's all right," said Lestrade, as we parted. "Hill knows all
these gentry, and he will give a name to him. You'll find that my theory
of the Mafia will work out all right. But I'm sure I am exceedingly
obliged to you, Mr. Holmes, for the workmanlike way in which you laid
hands upon him. I don't quite understand it all yet."
"I fear it is rather too late an hour for explanations," said Holmes.
"Besides, there are one or two details which are not finished off, and it
is one of those cases which are worth working out to the very end. If you
will come round once more to my rooms at six o'clock to-morrow, I think I
shall be able to show you that even now you have not grasped the entire
meaning of this business, which presents some features which make it
absolutely original in the history of crime. If ever I permit you to
chronicle any more of my little problems, Watson, I foresee that you will
enliven your pages by an account of the singular adventure of the
Napoleonic busts."
When we met again next evening, Lestrade was furnished with much
information concerning our prisoner. His name, it appeared, was Beppo,
second name unknown. He was a well-known ne'er-do-well among the Italian
colony. He had once been a skilful sculptor and had earned an honest
living, but he had taken to evil courses and had twice already been in
jail - once for a petty theft, and once, as we had already heard, for
stabbing a fellow-countryman. He could talk English perfectly well. His
reasons for destroying the busts were still unknown, and he refused to
answer any questions upon the subject, but the police had discovered that
these same busts might very well have been made by his own hands, since he
was engaged in this class of work at the establishment of Gelder & Co. To
all this information, much of which we already knew, Holmes listened with
polite attention, but I, who knew him so well, could clearly see that his
thoughts were elsewhere, and I detected a mixture of mingled uneasiness
and expectation beneath that mask which he was wont to assume. At last he
started in his chair, and his eyes brightened. There had been a ring at
the bell. A minute later we heard steps upon the stairs, and an elderly
red-faced man with grizzled side-whiskers was ushered in. In his right
hand he carried an old-fashioned carpet-bag, which he placed upon the
table.
"Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?"
My friend bowed and smiled. "Mr. Sandeford, of Reading, I suppose?"
said he.
"Yes, sir, I fear that I am a little late, but the trains were
awkward. You wrote to me about a bust that is in my possession."
"Exactly."
"I have your letter here. You said, `I desire to possess a copy of
Devine's Napoleon, and am prepared to pay you ten pounds for the one which
is in your possession.' Is that right?"
"Certainly."
"I was very much surprised at your letter, for I could not imagine
how you knew that I owned such a thing."
"Of course you must have been surprised, but the explanation is very
simple. Mr. Harding, of Harding Brothers, said that they had sold you
their last copy, and he gave me your address."
"Oh, that was it, was it? Did he tell you what I paid for it?"
"No, he did not."
"Well, I am an honest man, though not a very rich one. I only gave
fifteen shillings for the bust, and I think you ought to know that before
I take ten pounds from you.
"I am sure the scruple does you honour, Mr. Sandeford. But I have
named that price, so I intend to stick to it."
"Well, it is very handsome of you, Mr. Holmes. I brought the bust up
with me, as you asked me to do. Here it is!" He opened his bag, and at
last we saw placed upon our table a complete specimen of that bust which
we had already seen more than once in fragments.
Holmes took a paper from his pocket and laid a ten-pound note upon
the table.
"You will kindly sign that paper, Mr. Sandeford, in the presence of
these witnesses. It is simply to say that you transfer every possible
right that you ever had in the bust to me. I am a methodical man, you see,
and you never know what turn events might take afterwards. Thank you, Mr.
Sandeford; here is your money, and I wish you a very good evening."
When our visitor had disappeared, Sherlock Holmes's movements were
such as to rivet our attention. He began by taking a clean white cloth
from a drawer and laying it over the table. Then he placed his newly
acquired bust in the centre of the cloth. Finally, he picked up his
hunting-crop and struck Napoleon a sharp blow on the top of the head. The
figure broke into fragments, and Holmes bent eagerly over the shattered
remains. Next instant, with a loud shout of triumph he held up one
splinter, in which a round, dark object was fixed like a plum in a
pudding.
"Gentlemen," he cried, "let me introduce you to the famous black
pearl of the Borgias."
Lestrade and I sat silent for a moment, and then, with a spontaneous
impulse, we both broke at clapping, as at the well-wrought crisis of a
play. A flush of colour sprang to Holmes's pale cheeks, and he bowed to us
like the master dramatist who receives the homage of his audience. It was
at such moments that for an instant he ceased to be a reasoning machine,
and betrayed his human love for admiration and applause. The same
singularly proud and reserved nature which turned away with disdain from
popular notoriety was capable of being moved to its depths by spontaneous
wonder and praise from a friend.
"Yes, gentlemen," said he, "it is the most famous pearl now existing
in the world, and it has been my good fortune, by a connected chain of
inductive reasoning, to trace it from the Prince of Colonna's bedroom at
the Dacre Hotel, where it was lost, to the interior of this, the last of
the six busts of Napoleon which were manufactured by Gelder & Co., of
Stepney. You will remember, Lestrade, the sensation caused by the
disappearance of this valuable jewel and the vain efforts of the London
police to recover it. I was myself consulted upon the case, but I was
unable to throw any light upon it. Suspicion fell upon the maid of the
Princess, who was an Italian, and it was proved that she had a brother in
London, but we failed to trace any connection between them. The maid's
name was Lucretia Venucci, and there is no doubt in my mind that this
Pietro who was murdered two nights ago was the brother. I have been
looking up the dates in the old files of the paper, and I find that the
disappearance of the pearl was exactly two days before the arrest of
Beppo, for some crime of violence - an event which took place in the
factory of Gelder & Co., at the very moment when these busts were being
made. Now you clearly see the sequence of events, though you see them, of
course, in the inverse order to the way in which they presented themselves
to me. Beppo had the pearl in his possession. He may have stolen it from
Pietro, he may have been Pietro's confederate, he may have been the
go-between of Pietro and his sister. It is of no consequence to us which
is the correct solution.
"The main fact is that he HAD the pearl, and at that moment, when it
was on his person, he was pursued by the police. He made for the factory
in which he worked, and he knew that he had only a few minutes in which to
conceal this enormously valuable prize, which would otherwise be found on
him when he was searched. Six plaster casts of Napoleon were drying in the
passage. One of them was still soft. In an instant Beppo, a skilful
workman, made a small hole in the wet plaster, dropped in the pearl, and
with a few touches covered over the aperture once more. It was an
admirable hiding-place. No one could possibly find it. But Beppo was
condemned to a year's imprisonment, and in the meanwhile his six busts
were scattered over London. He could not tell which contained his
treasure. Only by breaking them could he see. Even shaking would tell him
nothing, for as the plaster was wet it was probable that the pearl would
adhere to it - as, in fact, it has done. Beppo did not despair, and he
conducted his search with considerable ingenuity and perseverance. Through
a cousin who works with Gelder, he found out the retail firms who had
bought the busts. He managed to find employment with Morse Hudson, and in
that way tracked down three of them. The pearl was not there. Then, with
the help of some Italian employe, he succeeded in finding out where the
other three busts had gone. The first was at Harker's. There he was dogged
by his confederate, who held Beppo responsible for the loss of the pearl,
and he stabbed him in the scuffle which followed."
"If he was his confederate, why should he carry his photograph?" I
asked.
"As a means of tracing him, if he wished to inquire about him from
any third person. That was the obvious reason. Well, after the murder I
calculated that Beppo would probably hurry rather than delay his
movements. He would fear that the police would read his secret, and so he
hastened on before they should get ahead of him. Of course, I could not
say that he had not found the pearl in Harker's bust. I had not even
concluded for certain that it was the pearl, but it was evident to me that
he was looking for something, since he carried the bust past the other
houses in order to break it in the garden which had a lamp overlooking it.
Since Harker's bust was one in three, the chances were exactly as I told
you - two to one against the pearl being inside it. There remained two
busts, and it was obvious that he would go for the London one first. I
warned the inmates of the house, so as to avoid a second tragedy, and we
went down, with the happiest results. By that time, of course, I knew for
certain that it was the Borgia pearl that we were after. The name of the
murdered man linked the one event with the other. There only remained a
single bust - the Reading one - and the pearl must be there. I bought it
in your presence from the owner - and there it lies."
We sat in silence for a moment.
"Well," said Lestrade, "I've seen you handle a good many cases, Mr.
Holmes, but I don't know that I ever knew a more workmanlike one than
that. We're not jealous of you at Scotland Yard. No, sir, we are very
proud of you, and if you come down to-morrow, there's not a man, from the
oldest inspector to the youngest constable, who wouldn't be glad to shake
you by the hand."
"Thank you!" said Holmes. "Thank you!" and as he turned away, it
seemed to me that he was more nearly moved by the softer human emotions
than I had ever seen him. A moment later he was the cold and practical
thinker once more. "Put the pearl in the safe, Watson," said he, "and get
out the papers of the Conk-Singleton forgery case. Good-bye, Lestrade. If
any little problem comes your way, I shall be happy, if I can, to give you
a hint or two as to its solution."
Arthur Conan Doyle
THE ADVENTURE OF THE GOLDEN PINCE-NEZ
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, he engaged with a
powerful lens deciphering the remains of the original inscription upon a
palimpsest, I deep in a recent treatise upon surgery. Outside the wind
howled down Baker Street, while the rain beat fiercely against the
windows. It was strange there, in the very depths of the town, with ten
miles of man's handiwork on every side of us, to feel the iron grip of
Nature, and to be conscious that to the huge elemental forces all London
was no more than the molehills that dot the fields. I walked to the
window, and looked out on the deserted street. The occasional lamps
gleamed on the expanse of muddy road and shining pavement. A single cab
was splashing its way from the Oxford Street end.
"Well, Watson, it's as well we have not to turn out to-night," said
Holmes, laying aside his lens and rolling up the palimpsest. "I've done
enough for one sitting. It is trying work for the eyes. So far as I can
make out, it is nothing more exciting than an Abbey's accounts dating from
the second half of the fifteenth century. Halloa! halloa! halloa! What's
this?"
Amid the droning of the wind there had come the stamping of a horse's
hoofs, and the long grind of a wheel as it rasped against the 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-working 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 following my
investigation."
He unfolded the rough chart, which I here reproduce,
GRAPHIC
and he laid it across Holmes's knee. I rose and, standing behind
Holmes, studied it over his shoulder.
"It is very rough, of course, and it only deals with the points which
seem to me to be essential. All the rest you will see later for yourself.
Now, first of all, presuming that the assassin entered the house, how did
he or she come in? Undoubtedly by the garden path and the back door, from
which there is direct access to the study. Any other way would have been
exceedingly complicated. The escape must have also been made along that
line, for of the two other exits from the room one was blocked by Susan as
she ran downstairs and the other leads straight to the professor's
bedroom. I therefore directed my attention at once to the garden path,
which was saturated with recent rain, and would certainly show any
footmarks.
"My examination showed me that I was dealing with a cautious and
expert criminal. No footmarks were to be found on the path. There could be
no question, however, that someone had passed along the grass border which
lines the path, and that he had done so in order to avoid leaving a track.
I could not find anything in the nature of a distinct impression, but the
grass was trodden down, and someone had undoubtedly passed. It could only
have been the murderer, since neither the gardener nor anyone else had
been there that morning, and the rain had only begun during the night."
"One moment," said Holmes. "Where does this path lead to?"
"To the road."
"How long is it?"
"A hundred yards or so."
"At the point where the path passes through the gate, you could
surely pick up the tracks?"
"Unfortunately, the path was tiled at that point."
"Well, on the road itself?"
"No, it was all trodden into mire."
"Tut-tut! Well, then, these tracks upon the grass, were they coming
or going?"
"It was impossible to say. There was never any outline."
"A large foot or a small?"
"You could not distinguish."
Holmes gave an ejaculation of impatience.
"It has been pouring rain and blowing a hurricane ever since," said
he. "It will be harder to read now than that palimpsest. Well, well, it
can't be helped. What did you do, Hopkins, after you had made certain that
you had made certain of nothing?"
"I think I made certain of a good deal, Mr. Holmes. I knew that
someone had entered the house cautiously from without. I next examined the
corridor. It is lined with cocoanut matting and had taken no impression of
any kind. This brought me into the study itself. It is a scantily
furnished room. The main article is a large writing-table with a fixed
bureau. This bureau consists of a double column of drawers, with a central
small cupboard between them. The drawers were open, the cupboard locked.
The drawers, it seems, were always open, and nothing of value was kept in
them. There were some papers of importance in the cupboard, but there were
no signs that this had been tampered with, and the professor assures me
that nothing was missing. It is certain that no robbery has been
committed.
"I come now to the body of the young man. It was found near the
bureau, and just to the left of it, as marked upon that chart. The stab
was on the right side of the neck and from behind 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, sullen reaches of the river,
which I shall ever associate with our pursuit of the Andaman Islander in
the earlier days of our career. After a long and weary journey, we
alighted at a small station some miles from Chatham. While a horse was
being put into a trap at the local inn, we snatched a hurried breakfast,
and so we were all ready for business when we at last arrived at Yoxley
Old Place. A constable met us at the garden gate.
"Well, Wilson, any news?"
"No, sir - nothing."
"No reports of any stranger seen?"
"No, sir. Down at the station they are certain that no stranger
either came or went yesterday."
"Have you had inquiries made at inns and lodgings?"
"Yes, sir: there is no one that we cannot account for."
"Well, it's only a reasonable walk to Chatham. Anyone might stay
there or take a train without being observed. This is the garden path of
which I spoke, Mr. Holmes. I'll pledge my word there was no mark on it
yesterday."
"On which side were the marks on the grass?"
"This side, sir. This narrow margin of grass between the path and the
flower-bed. I can't see the traces now, but they were clear to me then."
"Yes, yes: someone has passed along," said Holmes, stooping over the
grass border. "Our lady must have picked her steps carefully, must she
not, since on the one side she would leave a track on the path, and on the
other an even clearer one on the soft bed?"
"Yes, sir, she must have been a cool hand."
I saw an intent look pass over Holmes's face.
"You say that she must have come back this way?"
"Yes, sir, there is no other."
"On this strip of grass?"
"Certainly, Mr. Holmes."
"Hum! It was a very remarkable performance - very remarkable. Well, I
think we have exhausted the path. Let us go farther. This garden door is
usually kept open, I suppose? Then this visitor had nothing to do but to
walk in. The idea of murder was not in her mind, or she would have
provided herself with some sort of weapon, instead of having to pick this
knife off the writing-table. She advanced along this corridor, leaving no
traces upon the cocoanut matting. Then she found herself in this study.
How long was she there? We have no means of judging."
"Not more than a few minutes, sir. I forgot to tell you that Mrs.
Marker, the housekeeper, had been in there tidying not very long before -
about a quarter of an hour, she says."
"Well, that gives us a limit. Our lady enters this room, and what
does she do? She goes over to the writing-table. What for? Not for
anything in the drawers. If there had been anything worth her taking, it
would surely have been locked up. No, it was for something in that wooden
bureau. Halloa! what is that scratch upon the face of it? Just hold a
match, Watson. Why did you not tell me of this, Hopkins?"
The mark which he was examining began upon the brass-work on the
right-hand side of the keyhole, and extended for about four inches, where
it had scratched the varnish from the surface.
"I noticed it, Mr. Holmes, but you'll always find scratches round a
keyhole."
"This is recent, quite recent. See how the brass shines where it is
cut. An old scratch would be the same colour as the surface. Look at it
through my lens. There's the varnish, too, like earth on each side of a
furrow. Is Mrs. Marker there?"
A sad-faced, elderly woman came into the room.
"Did you dust this bureau yesterday morning?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you notice this scratch?"
"No, sir, I did not."
"I am sure you did not, for a duster would have swept away these
shreds of varnish. Who has the key of this bureau?"
"The Professor keeps it on his watch-chain."
"Is it a simple key?"
"No, sir, it is a Chubb's key."
"Very good. Mrs. Marker, you can go. Now we are making a little
progress. Our lady enters the room, advances to the bureau, and either
opens it or tries to do so. While she is thus engaged, young Willoughby
Smith enters the room. In her hurry to withdraw the key, she makes this
scratch upon the door. He seizes her, and she, snatching up the nearest
object, which happens to be this knife, strikes at him in order to make
him let go his hold. The blow is a fatal one. He falls and she escapes,
either with or without the object for which she has come. Is Susan, the
maid, there? Could anyone have got away through that door after the time
that you heard the cry, Susan?"
"No sir, it is impossible. Before I got down the stair, I'd have seen
anyone in the passage. Besides, the door never opened, 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 short-sighted she was
really helpless without them. She ran down a corridor, which she imagined
to be that by which she had come - both were lined with cocoanut matting -
and it was only when it was too late that she understood that she had
taken the wrong passage, and that her retreat was cut off behind her. What
was she to do? She could not go back. She could not remain where she was.
She must go on. She went on. She mounted a stair, pushed open a door, and
found herself in your room."
The old man sat with his mouth open, staring wildly at Holmes.
Amazement and fear were stamped upon his expressive features. Now, with an
effort, he shrugged his shoulders and burst into insincere laughter.
"All very fine, Mr. Holmes," said he. "But there is one little flaw
in your splendid theory. I was myself in my room, and I never left it
during the day."
"I am aware of that, Professor Coram."
"And you mean to say that I could lie upon that bed and not be aware
that a woman had entered my room?"
"I never said so. You WERE aware of it. You spoke with her. You
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."
Arthur Conan Doyle
THE ADVENTURE OF THE MISSING THREE-QUARTER
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:
"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 at
that table. When he had written it, he said: `All right, porter, I will
take this myself.'"
"What did he write it with?"
"A pen, sir."
"Was the telegraphic form one of these on the table?"
"Yes, sir, it was the top one."
Holmes rose. Taking the forms, he carried them over to the window and
carefully examined that which was uppermost.
"It is a pity he did not write in pencil," said he, throwing them
down again with a shrug of disappointment. "As you have no doubt
frequently observed, Watson, the impression usually goes through - a fact
which has dissolved many a happy marriage. However, I can find no trace
here. I rejoice, however, to perceive that he wrote with a broad-pointed
quill pen, and I can hardly doubt that we will find some impression upon
this blotting-pad. Ah, yes, surely this is the very thing!"
He tore off a strip of the blotting-paper and turned towards us the
following hieroglyphic:
GRAPHIC
Cyril Overton was much excited. "Hold it to the glass!" he cried.
"That is unnecessary," said Holmes. "The paper is thin, and the
reverse will give the message. Here it is." He turned it over, and we
read:
GRAPHIC [Stand by us for Gods sake]
"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, 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
in the busiest thoroughfare. We were shown in, and after a long wait were
at last admitted into the consulting-room, where we found the doctor
seated behind his table.
It argues the degree in which I had lost touch with my profession
that the name of Leslie Armstrong was unknown to me. Now I am aware that
he is not only one of the heads of the medical school of the university,
but a thinker of European reputation in more than one branch of science.
Yet even without knowing his brilliant record one could not fail to be
impressed by a mere glance at the man, the square, massive face, the
brooding eyes under the thatched brows, and the granite moulding of the
inflexible jaw. A man of deep character, a man with an alert mind, grim,
ascetic, self-contained, formidable - so I read Dr. Leslie Armstrong. He
held my friend's card in his hand, and he looked up with no very pleased
expression upon his dour features.
"I have heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I am aware of your
profession - one of which I by no means approve."
"In that, Doctor, you will find yourself in agreement with every
criminal in the country," said my friend, quietly.
"So far as your efforts are directed towards the suppression of
crime, sir, they must have the support of every reasonable member of the
community, though I cannot doubt that the official machinery is amply
sufficient for the purpose. Where your calling is more open to criticism
is when you pry into the secrets of private individuals, when you rake up
family matters which are better hidden, and when you incidentally waste
the time of men who are more busy than yourself. At the present moment,
for example, I should be writing a treatise instead of conversing with
you."
"No doubt, Doctor; and yet the conversation may prove more important
than the treatise. Incidentally, I may tell you that we are doing the
reverse of what you very justly blame, and that we are endeavouring to
prevent anything like public exposure of private matters which must
necessarily follow when once the case is fairly in the hands of the
official police. You may look upon me simply as an irregular pioneer, who
goes in front of the regular forces of the country. I have come to ask you
about Mr. Godfrey Staunton."
"What about him?"
"You know him, do you not?"
"He is an intimate friend of mine."
"You are aware that he has disappeared?"
"Ah, indeed!" There was no change of expression in the rugged
features of the doctor.
"He left his hotel last night - he has not been heard of."
"No doubt he will return."
"To-morrow is the 'Varsity football match."
"I have no sympathy with these childish games. The young man's fate
interests me deeply, since I know him and like him. The football match
does not come within my horizon at all."
"I claim your sympathy, then, in my investigation of Mr. Staunton's
fate. Do you know where he is?"
"Certainly not."
"You have not seen him since yesterday?"
"No, I have not."
"Was Mr. Staunton a healthy man?"
"Absolutely."
"Did you ever know him ill?"
"Never."
Holmes popped a sheet of paper before the doctor's eyes. "Then
perhaps you will explain this receipted bill for thirteen guineas, paid by
Mr. Godfrey Staunton last month to Dr. Leslie Armstrong, of Cambridge. I
picked it out from among the papers upon his desk."
The doctor flushed with anger.
"I do not feel that there is any reason why I should render an
explanation to you, Mr. Holmes."
Holmes replaced the bill in his 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.
Arthur Conan Doyle
THE ADVENTURE OF THE ABBEY GRANGE
It was on a bitterly cold 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 cross-bars at the bottom.
In and out through the open woodwork was woven a crimson cord, which was
secured at each side to the crosspiece below. In releasing the lady, the
cord had been slipped off her, but the knots with which it had been
secured still remained. These details only struck our attention
afterwards, for our thoughts were entirely absorbed by the terrible object
which lay upon the 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 bell-rope in that reckless fashion?"
"Exactly, Mr. Holmes, exactly. You put the very question which I have
asked myself again and again. There can be no doubt that this fellow must
have known the house and its habits. He must have perfectly understood
that the servants would all be in bed at that comparatively early hour,
and that no one could possibly hear a bell ring in the kitchen. Therefore,
he must have been in close league with one of the servants. Surely that is
evident. But there are eight servants, and all of good character."
"Other things being equal," said Holmes, "one would suspect the one
at whose head the master threw a decanter. And yet that would involve
treachery towards the mistress to whom this woman seems devoted. Well,
well, the point is a minor one, and when you have Randall you will
probably find no difficulty in securing his accomplice. The lady's story
certainly seems to be corroborated, if it needed corroboration, by every
detail which we see before us." He walked to the French window and threw
it open. "There are no signs here, but the ground is iron hard, and one
would not expect them. I see that these candles 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 dining-room of the Abbey Grange, in which this
midnight tragedy had been enacted. At last, by a sudden impulse, just as
our train was crawling out of a suburban station, he sprang on to the
platform and pulled me out after him.
"Excuse me, my dear fellow," said he, as we watched the rear
carriages of our train disappearing round a curve, "I am sorry to make you
the victim of what may seem a mere whim, but on my life, Watson, I simply
CAN'T leave that case in this condition. Every instinct that I possess
cries out against it. It's wrong - it's all wrong - I'll swear that it's
wrong. And yet the lady's story was complete, the maid's corroboration was
sufficient, the detail was fairly exact. What have I to put 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 I! It was his life or mine, but far more than that, it was
his life or hers, for how could I leave her in the power of this madman?
That was how I killed him. Was I wrong? Well, then, what would either of
you gentlemen have done, if you had been in my position?"
"She had screamed when he struck her, and that brought old Theresa
down from the room above. There was a bottle of wine on the sideboard, and
I opened it and poured a little between Mary's lips, for she was half dead
with 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!"
Arthur Conan Doyle
THE ADVENTURE OF THE SECOND STAIN
I had intended "The Adventure of the Abbey Grange" to be the last of
those exploits of my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, which I should ever
communicate to the public. This resolution of mine was not due to any lack
of material, since I have notes of many hundreds of cases to which I have
never alluded, nor was it caused by any waning interest on the part of my
readers in the singular personality and unique methods of this remarkable
man. The real reason lay in the reluctance which Mr. Holmes has shown to
the continued publication of his experiences. So long as he was in actual
professional practice the records of his successes were of some practical
value to him, but since he has definitely retired from London and betaken
himself to study and bee-farming on the Sussex Downs, notoriety has become
hateful to him, and he has peremptorily requested that his wishes in this
matter should be strictly observed. It was only upon my representing to
him that I had given a promise that "The Adventure of the Second Stain"
should be published when the times were ripe, and pointing out to him that
it is only appropriate that this long series of episodes should culminate
in the most important international case which he has ever been called
upon to handle, that I at last succeeded in obtaining his consent that a
carefully guarded account of the incident should at last be laid before
the public. If in telling the story I seem to be somewhat vague in certain
details, the public will readily understand that there is an excellent
reason for my reticence.
It was, then, in a year, and even in a decade, that shall be
nameless, that upon one Tuesday morning in autumn we found two visitors of
European fame within the walls of our humble room in Baker Street. The
one, austere, high-nosed, eagle-eyed, and dominant, was none other than
the illustrious Lord Bellinger, twice Premier of Britain. The other, dark,
clear-cut, and elegant, hardly yet of middle age, and endowed with every
beauty of body and of mind, was the Right Honourable Trelawney Hope,
Secretary for European Affairs, and the most rising statesman in the
country. They sat side by side upon our paper-littered settee, and it was
easy to see from their worn and anxious faces that it was business of the
most pressing importance which had brought them. The Premier's thin,
blue-veined hands were clasped tightly over the ivory head of his
umbrella, and his gaunt, ascetic face looked gloomily from Holmes to me.
The European Secretary pulled nervously at his moustache and fidgeted with
the seals of his watch-chain.
"When I discovered my loss, Mr. Holmes, which was at eight o'clock
this morning, I at once informed the Prime Minister. It was at his
suggestion that we have both come to you."
"Have you informed the police?"
"No, sir," said the Prime Minister, with the quick, decisive manner
for which he was famous. "We have not done so, nor is it possible that we
should do so. To inform the police must, in the long run, mean to inform
the public. This is what we particularly desire to avoid."
"And why, sir?"
"Because the document in question is of such immense importance that
its publication might very easily - I might almost say probably - lead to
European complications of the utmost moment. It is not too much to say
that peace or war may hang upon the issue. Unless its recovery can be
attended with the utmost secrecy, then it may as well not be recovered at
all, for all that is aimed at by those who have taken it is that its
contents should be generally known."
"I understand. Now, Mr. Trelawney Hope, I should be much obliged if
you would tell me exactly the circumstances under which this document
disappeared."
"That can be done in a very few words, Mr. Holmes. The letter - for
it was a letter from a foreign potentate - was received six days ago. It
was of such importance that I have never left it in my safe, but have
taken it across each evening to my house in Whitehall Terrace, and kept it
in my bedroom in a locked despatch-box. It was there last night. Of that I
am certain. I actually opened the box while I was dressing for dinner and
saw the document inside. This morning it was gone. The despatch-box had
stood beside the glass upon my dressing-table all night. I am a light
sleeper, and so is my wife. We are both prepared to swear that no one
could have entered the room during the night. And yet I repeat that the
paper is gone."
"What time did you dine?"
"Half-past seven."
"How long was it before you went to bed?"
"My wife had gone to the theatre. I waited up for her. It was
half-past eleven before we went to our room."
"Then for four hours the despatch-box had lain unguarded?"
"No one is ever permitted to enter that room save the house-maid in
the morning, and my valet, or my wife's maid, during the rest of the day.
They are both trusty servants who have been with us for some time.
Besides, neither of them could possibly have known that there was anything
more valuable than the ordinary departmental papers in my despatch-box."
"Who did know of the existence of that letter?"
"No one in the house."
"Surely your wife knew?"
"No, sir. I had said nothing to my wife until I missed the paper this
morning."
The Premier nodded approvingly.
"I have long known, sir, how high is your sense of public duty," said
he. "I am convinced that in the case of a secret of this importance it
would rise superior to the most intimate domestic ties.
The European Secretary bowed.
"You do me no more than justice, sir. Until this morning I have never
breathed one word to my wife upon this matter."
"Could she have guessed?"
"No, Mr. Holmes, she could not have guessed - nor could anyone have
guessed."
"Have you lost any documents before?"
"No, sir."
"Who is there in England who did know of the existence of this
letter?"
"Each member of the Cabinet was informed of it yesterday, but the
pledge of secrecy which attends every Cabinet meeting was increased by the
solemn warning which was given by the Prime Minister. Good heavens, to
think that within a few hours I should myself have lost it!" His handsome
face was distorted with a spasm of despair, and his hands tore at his
hair. For a moment we caught a glimpse of the natural man, impulsive,
ardent, keenly sensitive. The next the aristocratic mask was replaced, and
the gentle voice had returned. "Besides the members of the Cabinet there
are two, or possibly three, departmental officials who know of the letter.
No one else in England, Mr. Holmes, I assure you."
"But abroad?"
"I believe that no one abroad has seen it save the man who wrote it.
I am well convinced that his Ministers - that the usual official channels
have not been employed."
Holmes considered for some little time.
"Now, sir, I must ask you more particularly what this document is,
and why its disappearance should have such momentous consequences?"
The two statesmen exchanged a quick glance and the Premier's shaggy
eyebrows gathered in a frown.
"Mr. Holmes, the envelope is a long, thin one of pale blue colour.
There is a seal of red wax stamped with a crouching lion. It is addressed
in large, bold handwriting to..."
"I fear, sir," said Holmes, "that, interesting and indeed essential
as these details are, my inquiries must go more to the root of things.
What WAS the letter?"
"That is a State secret of the utmost importance, and I fear that I
cannot tell you, nor do I see that it is necessary. If by the aid of the
powers which you are said to possess you can find such an envelope as I
describe with its enclosure, you will have deserved well of your country,
and earned any reward which it lies in our power to bestow."
Sherlock Holmes rose with a smile.
"You are two of the most busy men in the country," said he, "and in
my own small way I have also a good many calls upon me. I regret
exceedingly that I cannot help you in this matter, and any continuation of
this interview would be a waste of time."
The Premier sprang to his feet with that quick, fierce gleam of his
deep-set eyes before which a Cabinet has cowered. "I am not accustomed,
sir," he began, but mastered his anger and resumed his seat. For a minute
or more we all sat in silence. Then the old statesman shrugged his
shoulders.
"We must accept your terms, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you are right, and
it is unreasonable for us to expect you to act unless we give you our
entire confidence."
"I agree with you," said the younger statesman.
"Then I will tell you, relying entirely upon your honour and that of
your colleague, Dr. Watson. I may appeal to your patriotism also, for I
could not imagine a greater misfortune for the country than that this
affair should come out."
"You may safely trust us."
"The letter, then, is from a certain foreign potentate who has been
ruffled by some recent Colonial developments of this country. It has been
written hurriedly and upon his own responsibility entirely. Inquiries have
shown that his Ministers know nothing of the matter. At the same time it
is couched in so unfortunate a manner, and certain phrases in it are of so
provocative a character, that its publication would undoubtedly lead to a
most dangerous state of feeling in this country. There would be such a
ferment, sir, that I do not hesitate to say that within a week of the
publication of that letter this country would be involved in a great war."
Holmes wrote a name upon a slip of paper and handed it to the
Premier.
"Exactly. It was he. And it is this letter - this letter which may
well mean the expenditure of a thousand millions and the lives of a
hundred thousand men - which has become lost in this unaccountable
fashion."
"Have you informed the sender?"
"Yes, sir, a cipher telegram has been despatched."
"Perhaps he desires the publication of the letter."
"No, sir, we have strong reason to believe that he already
understands that he has acted in an indiscreet and hot-headed manner. It
would be a greater blow to him and to his country than to us if this
letter were to come out."
"If this is so, whose interest is it that, the letter should come
out? Why should anyone desire to steal it or to publish it?"
"There, Mr. Holmes, you take me into regions of high international
politics. But if you consider the European situation you will have no
difficulty in perceiving the motive. The whole of Europe is an armed camp.
There is a double league which makes a fair balance of military power.
Great Britain holds the scales. If Britain were driven into war with one
confederacy, it would assure the supremacy of the other confederacy,
whether they joined in the war or not. Do you follow?"
"Very clearly. It is then the interest of the enemies of this
potentate to secure and publish this letter, so as to make a breach
between his country and ours?"
"Yes, sir."
"And to whom would this document be sent if it fell into the hands of
an enemy?"
"To any of the great Chancelleries of Europe. It is probably speeding
on its way thither at the present instant as fast as steam can take it."
Mr. Trelawney Hope dropped his head on his chest and groaned aloud.
The Premier placed his hand kindly upon his shoulder.
"It is your misfortune, my dear fellow. No one can blame you. There
is no precaution which you have neglected. Now, Mr. Holmes, you are in
full possession of the facts. What course do you recommend?"
Holmes shook his head mournfully.
"You think, sir, that unless this document is recovered there will be
war?"
"I think it is very probable."
"Then, sir, prepare for war."
"That is a hard saying, Mr. Holmes."
"Consider the facts, sir. It is inconceivable that it was taken after
eleven-thirty at night, since I understand that Mr. Hope and his wife were
both in the room from that hour until the loss was found out. It was
taken, then, yesterday evening between seven-thirty and eleven-thirty,
probably near the earlier hour, since whoever took it evidently knew that
it was there and would naturally secure it as early as possible. Now, sir,
if a document of this importance were taken at that hour, where can it be
now? No one has any reason to retain it. It has been passed rapidly on to
those who need it. What chance have we now to overtake or even to trace
it? It is beyond our reach."
The Prime Minister rose from the settee.
"What you say is perfectly logical, Mr. Holmes. I feel that the
matter is indeed out of our hands."
"Let us presume, for argument's sake, that the document was taken by
the maid or by the valet..."
"They are both old and tried servants."
"I understand you to say that your room is on the second floor, that
there is no entrance from without, and that from within no one could go up
unobserved. It must, then, be somebody in the house who has taken it. To
whom would the thief take it? To one of several international spies and
secret agents, whose names are tolerably familiar to me. There are three
who may be said to be the heads of their profession. I will begin my
research by going round and finding if each of them is at his post. If one
is missing - especially if he has disappeared since last night - we will
have some indication as to where the document has gone."
"Why should he be missing?" asked the European Secretary. "He would
take the letter to an Embassy in London, as likely as not."
"I fancy not. These agents work independently, and their relations
with the Embassies are often strained."
The Prime Minister nodded his acquiescence.
"I believe you are right, Mr. Holmes. He would take so valuable a
prize to headquarters with his own hands. I think that your course of
action is an excellent one. Meanwhile, Hope, we cannot neglect all our
other duties on account of this one misfortune. Should there be any fresh
developments during the day we shall communicate with you, and you will no
doubt let us know the results of your own inquiries."
The two statesmen bowed and walked gravely from the room.
When our illustrious visitors had departed Holmes lit his pipe in
silence and sat for some time lost in the deepest thought. I had opened
the morning paper and was immersed in a sensational crime which had
occurred in London the night before, when my friend gave an exclamation,
sprang to his feet, and laid his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.
"Yes," said he, "there is no better way of approaching it. The
situation is desperate, but not hopeless. Even now, if we could be sure
which of them has taken it, it is just possible that it has not yet passed
out of his hands. After all, it is a question of money with these fellows,
and I have the British treasury behind me. If it's on the market I'll buy
it - if it means another penny on the income-tax. It is conceivable that
the fellow might hold it back to see what bids come from this side before
he tries his luck on the other. There are only those three capable of
playing so bold a game - there are Oberstein, La Rothiere, and Eduardo
Lucas. I will see each of them."
I glanced at my morning paper.
"Is that Eduardo Lucas of Godolphin Street?"
"Yes."
"You will not see him."
"Why not?"
"He was murdered in his house last night."
My friend has so often astonished me in the course of our adventures
that it was with a sense of exultation that I realized how completely I
had astonished him. He stared in amazement, and then snatched the paper
from my hands. This was the paragraph which I had been engaged in reading
when he rose from his chair.
MURDER IN WESTMINSTER
A crime of mysterious character was committed last night at 16
Godolphin Street, one of the old-fashioned and secluded rows of eighteenth
century houses which lie between the river and the Abbey, almost in the
shadow of the great Tower of the Houses of Parliament. This small but
select mansion has been inhabited for some years by Mr. Eduardo Lucas,
well known in society circles both on account of his charming personality
and because he has the well-deserved reputation of being one of the best
amateur tenors in the country. Mr. Lucas is an unmarried man, thirty-four
years of age, and his establishment consists of Mrs. Pringle, an elderly
housekeeper, and of Mitton, his valet. The former retires early and sleeps
at the top of the house. The valet was out for the evening, visiting a
friend at Hammersmith. From ten o'clock onward Mr. Lucas had the house to
himself. What occurred during that time has not yet transpired, but at a
quarter to twelve Police-constable Barrett, passing along Godolphin Street
observed that the door of No. 16 was ajar. He knocked, but received no
answer. Perceiving a light in the front room, he advanced into the passage
and again knocked, but without reply. He then pushed open the door and
entered. The room was in a state of wild disorder, the furniture being all
swept to one side, and one chair lying on its back in the centre. Beside
this chair, and still grasping one of its legs, lay the unfortunate tenant
of the house. He had been stabbed to the heart and must have died
instantly. The knife with which the crime had been committed was a curved
Indian dagger, plucked down from a trophy of Oriental arms which adorned
one of the walls. Robbery does not appear to have been the motive of the
crime, for there had been no attempt to remove the valuable contents of
the room. Mr. Eduardo Lucas was so well known and popular that his violent
and mysterious fate will arouse painful interest and intense sympathy in a
widespread circle of friends.
"Well, Watson, what do you make of this?" asked Holmes, after a long
pause.
"It is an amazing coincidence."
"A coincidence! Here is one of the three men whom we had named as
possible actors in this drama, and he meets a violent death during the
very hours when we know that that drama was being enacted. The odds are
enormous against its being coincidence. No figures could express them. No,
my dear Watson, the two events are connected - MUST be connected. It is
for us to find the connection."
"But now the official police must know all."
"Not at all. They know all they see at Godolphin Street. They know -
and shall know - nothing of Whitehall Terrace. Only WE know of both
events, and can trace the relation between them. There is one obvious
point which would, in any case, have turned my suspicions against Lucas.
Godolphin Street, Westminster, is only a few minutes' walk from Whitehall
Terrace. The other secret agents whom I have named live in the extreme
West End. It was easier, therefore, for Lucas than for the others to
establish a connection or receive a message from the European Secretary's
household - a small thing, and yet where events are compressed into a few
hours it may prove essential. Halloa! what have we here?"
Mrs. Hudson had appeared with a lady's card upon her salver. Holmes
glanced at it, raised his eyebrows, and handed it over to me.
"Ask Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope if she will be kind enough to step up,"
said he.
A moment later our modest apartment, already so distinguished that
morning, was further honoured by the entrance of the most lovely woman in
London. I had often heard of the beauty of the youngest daughter of the
Duke of Belminster, but no description of it, and no contemplation of
colourless photographs, had prepared me for the subtle, delicate charm and
the beautiful colouring of that exquisite head. And yet as we saw it that
autumn morning, it was not its beauty which would be the first thing to
impress the observer. The cheek was lovely but it was paled with emotion,
the eyes were bright but it was the brightness of fever, the sensitive
mouth was tight and drawn in an effort after self-command. Terror - not
beauty - was what sprang first to the eye as our fair visitor stood framed
for an instant in the open door.
"Has my husband been here, Mr. Holmes?"
"Yes, madam, he has been here."
"Mr. Holmes. I implore you not to tell him that I came here." Holmes
bowed coldly, and motioned the lady to a chair.
"Your ladyship places me in a very delicate position. I beg that you
will sit down and tell me what you desire, but I fear that I cannot make
any unconditional promise."
She swept across the room and seated herself with her back to the
window. It was a queenly presence - tall, graceful, and intensely womanly.
"Mr. Holmes," she said - and her white-gloved hands clasped and unclasped
as she spoke - "I will speak frankly to you in the hopes that it may
induce you to speak frankly in return. There is complete confidence
between my husband and me on all matters save one. That one is politics.
On this his lips are sealed. He tells me nothing. Now, I am aware that
there was a most deplorable occurrence in our house last night. I know
that a paper has disappeared. But because the matter is political my
husband refuses to take me into his complete confidence. Now it is
essential - essential, I say - that I should thoroughly understand it. You
are the only other person, save only these politicians, who knows the true
facts. I beg you then, Mr. Holmes, to tell me exactly what has happened
and what it will lead to. Tell me all, Mr. Holmes. Let no regard for your
client's interests keep you silent, for I assure you that his interests,
if he would only see it, would be best served by taking me into his
complete confidence. What was this paper which was stolen?"
"Madam, what you ask me is really impossible."
She groaned and sank her face in her hands.
"You must see that this is so, madam. If your husband thinks fit to
keep you in the dark over this matter, is it for me, who has only learned
the true facts under the pledge of professional secrecy, to tell what he
has withheld? It is not fair to ask it. It is him whom you must ask."
"I have asked him. I come to you as a last resource. But without your
telling me anything definite, Mr. Holmes, you may do a great service if
you would enlighten me on one point."
"What is it, madam?"
"Is my husband's political career likely to suffer through this
incident?"
"Well, madam, unless it is set right it may certainly have a very
unfortunate effect."
"Ah!" She drew in her breath sharply as one whose doubts are
resolved.
"One more question, Mr. Holmes. From an expression which my husband
dropped in the first shock of this disaster I understood that terrible
public consequences might arise from the loss of this document."
"If he said so, I certainly cannot deny it."
"Of what nature are they?"
"Nay, madam, there again you ask me more than I can possibly answer."
"Then I will take up no more of your time. I cannot blame you, Mr.
Holmes, for having refused to speak more freely, and you on your side will
not, I am sure, think the worse of me because I desire, even against his
will, to share my husband's anxieties. Once more I beg that you will say
nothing of my visit."
She looked back at us from the door, and I had a last impression of
that beautiful haunted face, the startled eyes, and the drawn mouth. Then
she was gone.
"Now, Watson, the fair sex is your department," said Holmes, with a
smile, when the dwindling frou-frou of skirts had ended in the slam of the
front door. "What was the fair lady's game? What did she really want?"
"Surely her own statement is clear and her anxiety very natural."
"Hum! Think of her appearance, Watson - her manner, her suppressed
excitement, her restlessness, her tenacity in asking questions. Remember
that she comes of a caste who do not lightly show emotion."
"She was certainly much moved."
"Remember also the curious earnestness with which she assured us that
it was best for her husband that she should know all. What did she mean by
that? And you must have observed, Watson, how she manoeuvred to have the
light at her back. She did not wish us to read her expression."
"Yes, she chose the one chair in the room."
"And yet the motives of women are so inscrutable. You remember the
woman at Margate whom I suspected for the same reason. No powder on her
nose - that proved to be the correct solution. How can you build on such a
quicksand? Their most trivial action may mean volumes, or their most
extraordinary conduct may depend upon a hairpin or a curling tongs.
Good-morning, Watson."
"You are off?"
"Yes, I will while away the morning at Godolphin Street with our
friends of the regular establishment. With Eduardo Lucas lies the solution
of our problem, though I must admit that I have not an inkling as to what
form it may take. It is a capital mistake to theorize in advance of the
facts. Do you stay on guard, my good Watson, and receive any fresh
visitors. I'll join you at lunch if I am able."
All that day and the next and the next Holmes was in a mood which his
friends would call taciturn, and others morose. He ran out and ran in,
smoked incessantly, played snatches on his violin, sank into reveries,
devoured sandwiches at irregular hours, and hardly answered the casual
questions which I put to him. It was evident to me that things were not
going well with him or his quest. He would say nothing of the case, and it
was from the papers that I learned the particulars of the inquest, and the
arrest with the subsequent release of John Mitton, the valet of the
deceased. The coroner's jury brought in the obvious Wilful Murder, but the
parties remained as unknown as ever. No motive was suggested. The room was
full of articles of value, but none had been taken. The dead man's papers
had not been tampered with. They were carefully examined, and showed that
he was a keen student of international politics, an indefatigable gossip,
a remarkable linguist, and an untiring letter writer. He had been on
intimate terms with the leading politicians of several countries. But
nothing sensational was discovered among the documents which filled his
drawers. As to his relations with women, they appeared to have been
promiscuous but superficial. He had many acquaintances among them, but few
friends, and no one whom he loved. His habits were regular, his conduct
inoffensive. His death was an absolute mystery and likely to remain so.
As to the arrest of John Mitton, the valet, it was a council of
despair as an alternative to absolute inaction. But no case could be
sustained against him. He had visited friends in Hammersmith that night.
The ALIBI was complete. It is true that he started home at an hour which
should have brought him to Westminster before the time when the crime was
discovered, but his own explanation that he had walked part of the way
seemed probable enough in view of the fineness of the night. He had
actually arrived at twelve o'clock, and appeared to be overwhelmed by the
unexpected tragedy. He had always been on good terms with his master.
Several of the dead man's possessions - notably a small case of razors -
had been found in the valet's boxes, but he explained that they had been
presents from the deceased, and the housekeeper was able to corroborate
the story. Mitton had been in Lucas's employment for three years. It was
noticeable that Lucas did not take Mitton on the Continent with him.
Sometimes he visited Paris for three months on end, but Mitton was left in
charge of the Godolphin Street house. As to the housekeeper, she had heard
nothing on the night of the crime. If her master had a visitor he had
himself admitted him.
So for three mornings the mystery remained, so far as I could follow
it in the papers. If Holmes knew more, he kept his own counsel, but, as he
told me that Inspector Lestrade had taken him into him into his confidence
in the case, I knew that he was in close touch with every development.
Upon the fourth day there appeared a long telegram from Paris which seemed
to solve the whole question.
A discovery has just been made by the Parisian police [said the DAILY
TELEGRAPH] which raises the veil which hung round the tragic fate of Mr.
Eduardo Lucas, who met his death by violence last Monday night at
Godolphin Street, Westminster. Our readers will remember that the deceased
gentleman was found stabbed in his room, and that some suspicion attached
to his valet, but that the case broke down on an ALIBI. Yesterday a lady,
who has been known as Mme. Henri Fournaye, occupying a small villa in the
Rue Austerlitz, was reported to the authorities by her servants as being
insane. An examination showed she had indeed developed mania of a
dangerous and permanent form. On inquiry, the police have discovered that
Mme. Henri Fournaye only returned from a journey to London on Tuesday
last, and there is evidence to connect her with the crime at Westminster.
A comparison of photographs has proved conclusively that M. Henri Fournaye
and Eduardo Lucas were really one and the same person, and that the
deceased had for some reason lived a double life in London and Paris. Mme.
Fournaye, who is of Creole origin, is of an extremely excitable nature,
and has suffered in the past from attacks of jealousy which have amounted
to frenzy. It is conjectured that it was in one of these that she
committed the terrible crime which has caused such a sensation in London.
Her movements upon the Monday night have not yet been traced, but it is
undoubted that a woman answering to her description attracted much
attention at Charing Cross Station on Tuesday morning by the wildness of
her appearance and the violence of her gestures. It is probable,
therefore, that the crime was either committed when insane, or that its
immediate effect was to drive the unhappy woman out of her mind. At
present she is unable to give any coherent account of the past, and the
doctors hold out no hopes of the reestablishment of her reason. There is
evidence that a woman, who might have been Mme. Fournaye, was seen for
some hours upon Monday night watching the house in Godolphin Street.
"What do you think of that, Holmes?" I had read the account aloud to
him, while he finished his breakfast.
"My dear Watson," said he, as he rose from the table and paced up and
down the room, "You are most long-suffering, but if I have told you
nothing in the last three days, it is because there is nothing to tell.
Even now this report from Paris does not help us much."
"Surely it is final as regards the man's death."
"The man's death is a mere incident - a trivial episode - in
comparison with our real task, which is to trace this document and save a
European catastrophe. Only one important thing has happened in the last
three days, and that is that nothing has happened. I get reports almost
hourly from the government, and it is certain that nowhere in Europe is
there any sign of trouble. Now, if this letter were loose - no, it CAN'T
be loose - but if it isn't loose, where can it be? Who has it? Why is it
held back? That's the question that beats in my brain like a hammer. Was
it, indeed, a coincidence that Lucas should meet his death on the night
when the letter disappeared? Did the letter ever reach him? If so, why is
it not among his papers? Did this mad wife of his carry it off with her?
If so, is it in her house in Paris? How could I search for it without the
French police having their suspicions aroused? It is a case, my dear
Watson, where the law is as dangerous to us as the criminals are. Every
man's hand is against us, and yet the interests at stake are colossal.
Should I bring it to a successful conclusion, it will certainly represent
the crowning glory of my career. Ah, here is my latest from the front!" He
glanced hurriedly at the note which had been handed in. "Halloa! Lestrade
seems to have observed something of interest. Put on your hat, Watson, and
we will stroll down together to Westminster."
It was my first visit to the scene of the crime - a high, dingy,
narrow-chested house, prim, formal, and solid, like the century which gave
it birth. Lestrade's bulldog features gazed out at us from the front
window, and he greeted us warmly when a big constable had opened the door
and let us in. The room into which we were shown was that in which the
crime had been committed, but no trace of it now remained save an ugly,
irregular stain upon the carpet. This carpet was a small square drugget in
the centre of the room, surrounded by a broad expanse of beautiful,
old-fashioned wood-flooring in square blocks, highly polished. Over the
fireplace was a magnificent trophy of weapons, one of which had been used
on that tragic night. In the window was a sumptuous writing-desk, and
every detail of the apartment, the pictures, the rugs, and the hangings,
all pointed to a taste which was luxurious to the verge of effeminacy.
"Seen the Paris news?" asked Lestrade.
Holmes nodded.
"Our French friends seem to have touched the spot this time. No doubt
it's just as they say. She knocked at the door - surprise visit, I guess,
for he kept his life in water-tight compartments - he let her in, couldn't
keep her in the street. She told him how she had traced him, reproached
him. One thing led to another, and then with that dagger so handy the end
soon came. It wasn't all done in an instant, though, for these chairs were
all swept over yonder, and he had one in his hand as if he had tried to
hold her off with it. We've got it all clear as if we had seen it."
Holmes raised his eyebrows.
"And yet you have sent for me?"
"Ah, yes, that's another matter - a mere trifle, but the sort of
thing you take an interest in - queer, you know, and what you might call
freakish. It has nothing to do with the main fact - can't have, on the
face of it."
"What is it, then?"
"Well, you know, after a crime of this sort we are very careful to
keep things in their position. Nothing has been moved. Officer in charge
here day and night. This morning, as the man was buried and the
investigation over - so far as this room is concerned - we thought we
could tidy up a bit. This carpet. You see, it is not fastened down, only
just laid there. We had occasion to raise it. We found..."
"Yes? You found..."
Holmes's face grew tense with anxiety.
"Well, I'm sure you would never guess in a hundred years what we did
find. You see that stain on the carpet? Well, a great deal must have
soaked through, must it not?"
"Undoubtedly it must."
"Well, you will be surprised to hear that there is no stain on the
white woodwork to correspond."
"No stain! But there must..."
"Yes, so you would say. But the fact remains that there isn't."
He took the corner of the carpet in his hand and, turning it over, he
showed that it was indeed as he said.
"But the under side is as stained as the upper. It must have left a
mark."
Lestrade chuckled with delight at having puzzled the famous expert.
"Now, I'll show you the explanation. There IS a second stain, but it
does not correspond with the other. See for yourself." As he spoke he
turned over another portion of the carpet, and there, sure enough, was a
great crimson spill upon the square white facing of the old-fashioned
floor. "What do you make of that, Mr. Holmes?"
"Why, it is simple enough. The two stains did correspond, but the
carpet has been turned round. As it was square and unfastened it was
easily done."
The official police don't need you, Mr. Holmes, to tell them that the
carpet must have been turned round. That's clear enough, for the stains
lie above each other - if you lay it over this way. But what I want to
know is, who shifted the carpet, and why?"
I could see from Holmes's rigid face that he was vibrating with
inward excitement.
"Look here, Lestrade," said he, "has that constable in the passage
been in charge of the place all the time?"
"Yes, he has."
"Well, take my advice. Examine him carefully. Don't do it before us.
Well wait here. You take him into the back room. You'll be more likely to
get a confession out of him alone. Ask him how he dared to admit people
and leave them alone in this room. Don't ask him if he has done it. Take
it for granted. Tell him you KNOW someone has been here. Press him. Tell
him that a full confession is his only chance of forgiveness. Do exactly
what I tell you!"
"By George, if he knows I'll have it out of him!" cried Lestrade. He
darted into the hall, and a few moments later his bullying voice sounded
from the back room.
"Now, Watson, now!" cried Holmes with frenzied eagerness. All the
demoniacal force of the man masked behind that listless manner burst out
in a paroxysm of energy. He tore the drugget from the floor, and in an
instant was down on his hands and knees clawing at each of the squares of
wood beneath it. One turned sideways as he dug his nails into the edge of
it. It hinged back like the lid of a box. A small black cavity opened
beneath it. Holmes plunged his eager hand into it and drew it out with a
bitter snarl of anger and disappointment. It was empty.
"Quick, Watson, quick! Get it back again!" The wooden lid was
replaced, and the drugget had only just been drawn straight when
Lestrade's voice was heard in the passage. He found Holmes leaning
languidly against the mantelpiece, resigned and patient, endeavouring to
conceal his irrepressible yawns.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Holmes . I can see that you are bored
to death with the whole affair. Well, he has confessed, all right. Come in
here, MacPherson. Let these gentlemen hear of your most inexcusable
conduct."
The big constable, very hot and penitent, sidled into the room.
"I meant no harm, sir, I'm sure. The young woman came to the door
last evening - mistook the house, she did. And then we got talking. It's
lonesome, when you're on duty here all day."
"Well, what happened then?"
"She wanted to see where the crime was done - had read about it in
the papers, she said. She was a very respectable, well-spoken young woman,
sir, and I saw no harm in letting her have a peep. When she saw that mark
on the carpet, down she dropped on the floor, and lay as if she were dead.
I ran to the back and got some water, but I could not bring her to. Then I
went round the corner to the Ivy Plant for some brandy, and by the time I
had brought it back the young woman had recovered and was off - ashamed of
herself, I daresay, and dared not face me."
"How about moving that drugget?"
"Well, sir, it was a bit rumpled, certainly, when I came back. You
see, she fell on it and it lies on a polished floor with nothing to keep
it in place. I straightened it out afterwards."
"It's a lesson to you that you can't deceive me, Constable
MacPherson," said Lestrade, with dignity. "No doubt you thought that your
breach of duty could never be discovered, and yet a mere glance at that
drugget was enough to convince me that someone had been admitted to the
room. It's lucky for you, my man, that nothing is missing, or you would
find yourself in Queer Street. I'm sorry to have called you down over such
a petty business, Mr. Holmes, but I thought the point of the second stain
not corresponding with the first would interest you."
"Certainly, it was most interesting. Has this woman only been here
once, constable?"
"Yes, sir, only once."
"Who was she?"
"Don't know the name, sir. Was answering an advertisement about
typewriting and came to the wrong number - very pleasant, genteel young
woman, sir."
"Tall? Handsome?"
"Yes, sir, she was a well-grown young woman. I suppose you might say
she was handsome. Perhaps some would say she was very handsome. `Oh,
officer, do let me have a peep!' says she. She had pretty, coaxing ways,
as you might say, and I thought there was no harm in letting her just put
her head through the door."
"How was she dressed?"
"Quiet, sir - a long mantle down to her feet."
"What time was it?"
"It was just growing dusk at the time. They were lighting the lamps
as I came back with the brandy."
"Very good," said Holmes. "Come, Watson, I think that we have more
important work elsewhere."
As we left the house Lestrade remained in the front room, while the
repentant constable opened the door to let us out. Holmes turned on the
step and held up something in his hand. The constable stared intently.
"Good Lord, sir!" he cried, with amazement on his face. Holmes put
his finger on his lips, replaced his hand in his breast pocket, and burst
out laughing as we turned down the street. "Excellent!" said he. "Come,
friend Watson, the curtain rings up for the last act. You will be relieved
to hear that there will be no war, that the Right Honourable Trelawney
Hope will suffer no setback in his brilliant career, that the indiscreet
Sovereign will receive no punishment for his indiscretion, that the Prime
Minister will have no Europe an complication to deal with, and that with a
little tact and management upon our part nobody will be a penny the worse
for what might have been a very ugly incident."
My mind filled with admiration for this extraordinary man.
"You have solved it!" I cried.
"Hardly that, Watson. There are some points which are as dark as
ever. But we have so much that it will be our own fault if we cannot get
the rest. We will go straight to Whitehall Terrace and bring the matter to
a head."
When we arrived at the residence of the European Secretary it was for
Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope that Sherlock Holmes inquired. We were shown
into the morning-room.
"Mr. Holmes!" said the lady, and her face was pink with her
indignation. "This is surely most unfair and ungenerous upon your part. I
desired, as I have explained, to keep my visit to you a secret, lest my
husband should think that I was intruding into his affairs. And yet you
compromise me by coming here and so showing that there are business
relations between us."
"Unfortunately, madam, I had no possible alternative. I have been
commissioned to recover this immensely important paper. I must therefore
ask you, madam, to be kind enough to place it in my hands."
The lady sprang to her feet, with the colour all dashed in an instant
from her beautiful face. Her eyes glazed - she tottered - I thought that
she would faint. Then with a grand effort she rallied from the shock, and
a supreme astonishment and indignation chased every other expression from
her features.
"You - you insult me, Mr. Holmes."
"Come, come, madam, it is useless. Give up the letter."
She darted to the bell.
"The butler shall show you out."
"Do not ring, Lady Hilda. If you do, then all my earnest efforts to
avoid a scandal will be frustrated. Give up the letter and all will be set
right. If you will work with me I can arrange everything. If you work
against me I must expose you."
She stood grandly defiant, a queenly figure, her eyes fixed upon his
as if she would read his very soul. Her hand was on the bell, but she had
forborne to ring it.
"You are trying to frighten me. It is not a very manly thing, Mr.
Holmes, to come here and browbeat a woman. You say that you know
something. What is it that you know?"
"Pray sit down, madam. You will hurt yourself there if you fall. I
will not speak until you sit down. Thank you."
"I give you five minutes, Mr. Holmes."
"One is enough, Lady Hilda. I know of your visit to Eduardo Lucas, of
your giving him this document, of your ingenious return to the room last
night, and of the manner in which you took the letter from the
hiding-place under the carpet."
She stared at him with an ashen face and gulped twice before she
could speak.
"You are mad, Mr. Holmes - you are mad!" she cried, at last.
He drew a small piece of cardboard from his pocket. It was the face
of a woman cut out of a portrait.
"I have carried this because I thought it might be useful," said he.
"The policeman has recognized it."
She gave a gasp, and her head dropped back in the chair.
"Come, Lady Hilda. You have the letter. The matter may still be
adjusted. I have no desire to bring trouble to you. My duty ends when I
have returned the lost letter to your husband. Take my advice and be frank
with me. It is your only chance."
Her courage was admirable. Even now she would not own defeat.
"I tell you again, Mr. Holmes, that you are under some absurd
illusion."
Holmes rose from his chair.
"I am sorry for you, Lady Hilda. I have done my best for you. I can
see that it is all in vain."
He rang the bell. The butler entered.
"Is Mr. Trelawney Hope at home?"
"He will be home, sir, at a quarter to one."
Holmes glanced at his watch.
"Still a quarter of an hour," said he. "Very good, I shall wait."
The butler had hardly closed the door behind him when Lady Hilda was
down on her knees at Holmes's feet, her hands outstretched, her beautiful
face upturned and wet with her tears.
"Oh, spare me, Mr. Holmes! Spare me!" she pleaded, in a frenzy of
supplication. "For heaven's sake, don't tell him! I love him so! I would
not bring one shadow on his life, and this I know would break his noble
heart."
Holmes raised the lady. "I am thankful, madam, that you have come to
your senses even at this last moment! There is not an instant to lose.
Where is the letter?"
She darted across to a writing-desk, unlocked it, and drew out a long
blue envelope.
"Here it is, Mr. Holmes. Would to heaven I had never seen it!"
"How can we return it?" Holmes muttered. "Quick, quick, we must think
of some way! Where is the despatch-box?"
"Still in his bedroom."
"What a stroke of luck! Quick, madam, bring it here!" A moment later
she had appeared with a red flat box in her hand.
"How did you open it before? You have a duplicate key? Yes, of course
you have. Open it!"
From out of her bosom Lady Hilda had drawn a small key. The box flew
open. It was stuffed with papers. Holmes thrust the blue envelope deep
down into the heart of them, between the leaves of some other document.
The box was shut, locked, and returned to the bedroom.
"Now we are ready for him," said Holmes. "We have still ten minutes.
I am going far to screen you, Lady Hilda. In return you will spend the
time in telling me frankly the real meaning of this extraordinary affair."
"Mr. Holmes, I will tell you everything," cried the lady. "Oh, Mr.
Holmes, I would cut off my right hand before I gave him a moment of
sorrow! There is no woman in all London who loves her husband as I do, and
yet if he knew how I have acted - how I have been compelled to act - he
would never forgive me. For his own honour stands so high that he could
not forget or pardon a lapse in another. Help me, Mr. Holmes! My
happiness, his happiness, our very lives are at stake!"
"Quick, madam, the time grows short!"
"It was a letter of mine, Mr. Holmes, an indiscreet letter written
before my marriage - a foolish letter, a letter of an impulsive, loving
girl. I meant no harm, and yet he would have thought it criminal. Had he
read that letter his confidence would have been forever destroyed. It is
years since I wrote it. I had thought that the whole matter was forgotten.
Then at last I heard from this man, Lucas, that it had passed into his
hands, and that he would lay it before my husband. I implored his mercy.
He said that he would return my letter if I would bring him a certain
document which he described in my husband's despatch-box. He had some spy
in the office who had told him of its existence. He assured me that no
harm could come to my husband. Put yourself in my position, Mr. Holmes!
What was I to do?"
"Take your husband into your confidence."
"I could not, Mr. Holmes, I could not! On the one side seemed certain
ruin, on the other, terrible as it seemed to take my husband's paper,
still in a matter of politics I could not understand the consequences,
while in a matter of love and trust they were only too clear to me. I did
it, Mr. Holmes! I took an impression of his key. This man, Lucas,
furnished a duplicate. I opened his despatch-box, took the paper, and
conveyed it to Godolphin Street."
"What happened there, madam?"
"I tapped at the door as agreed. Lucas opened it. I followed him into
his room, leaving the hall door ajar behind me, for I feared to be alone
with the man. I remember that there was a woman outside as I entered. Our
business was soon done. He had my letter on his desk, I handed him the
document. He gave me the letter. At this instant there was a sound at the
door. There were steps in the passage. Lucas quickly turned back the
drugget, thrust the document into some hiding-place there, and covered it
over.
"What happened after that is like some fearful dream. I have a vision
of a dark, frantic face, of a woman's voice, which screamed in French, `My
waiting is not in vain. At last, at last I have found you with her!' There
was a savage struggle. I saw him with a chair in his hand, a knife gleamed
in hers. I rushed from the horrible scene, ran from the house, and only
next morning in the paper did I learn the dreadful result. That night I
was happy, for I had my letter, and I had not seen yet what the future
would bring.
"It was the next morning that I realized that I had only exchanged
one trouble for another. My husband's anguish at the loss of his paper
went to my heart. I could hardly prevent myself from there and then
kneeling down at his feet and telling him what I had done. But that again
would mean a confession of the past. I came to you that morning in order
to understand the full enormity of my offence. From the instant that I
grasped it my whole mind was turned to the one thought of getting back my
husband's paper. It must still be where Lucas had placed it, for it was
concealed before this dreadful woman entered the room. If it had not been
for her coming, I should not have known where his hiding-place was. How
was I to get into the room? For two days I watched the place, but the door
was never left open. Last night I made a last attempt. What I did and how
I succeeded, you have already learned. I brought the paper back with me,
and thought of destroying it, since I could see no way of returning it
without confessing my guilt to my husband. Heavens, I hear his step upon
the stair!"
The European Secretary burst excitedly into the room. "Any news, Mr.
Holmes, any news?" he cried.
"I have some hopes."
"Ah, thank heaven!" His face became radiant. "The Prime Minister is
lunching with me. May he share your hopes? He has nerves of steel, and yet
I know that he has hardly slept since this terrible event. Jacobs, will
you ask the Prime Minister to come up? As to you, dear, I fear that this
is a matter of politics. We will join you in a few minutes in the
dining-room."
The Prime Minister's manner was subdued, but I could see by the gleam
of his eyes and the twitchings of his bony hands that he shared the
excitement of his young colleague.
"I understand that you have something to report, Mr. Holmes?"
"Purely negative as yet," my friend answered. "I have inquired at
every point where it might be, and I am sure that there is no danger to be
apprehended."
"But that is not enough, Mr. Holmes. We cannot live forever on such a
volcano. We must have something definite."
"I am in hopes of getting it. That is why I am here. The more I think
of the matter the more convinced I am that the letter has never left this
house."
"Mr. Holmes!"
"If it had it would certainly have been public by now."
"But why should anyone take it in order to keep it in his house?"
"I am not convinced that anyone did take it."
"Then how could it leave the despatch-box?"
"I am not convinced that it ever did leave the despatch-box."
"Mr. Holmes, this joking is very ill-timed. You have my assurance
that it left the box."
"Have you examined the box since Tuesday morning?"
"No. It was not necessary."
"You may conceivably have overlooked it."
"Impossible, I say."
"But I am not convinced of it. I have known such things to happen. I
presume there are other papers there. Well, it may have got mixed with
them."
"It was on the top."
"Someone may have shaken the box and displaced it."
"No, no, I had everything out."
"Surely it is easily, decided, Hope," said the Premier. "Let us have
the despatch-box brought in."
The Secretary rang the bell.
"Jacobs, bring down my despatch-box. This is a farcical waste of
time, but still, if nothing else will satisfy you, it shall be done. Thank
you, Jacobs, put it here. I have always had the key on my watch-chain.
Here are the papers, you see. Letter from Lord Merrow, report from Sir
Charles Hardy, memorandum from Belgrade, note on the Russo-German grain
taxes, letter from Madrid, note from Lord Flowers... Good heavens! what is
this? Lord Bellinger! Lord Bellinger!"
The Premier snatched the blue envelope from his hand.
"Yes, it is it - and the letter is intact. Hope, I congratulate you."
"Thank you! Thank you! What a weight from my heart. But this is
inconceivable - impossible. Mr. Holmes, you are a wizard, a sorcerer! How
did you know it was there?"
"Because I knew it was nowhere else."
"I cannot believe my eyes!" He ran wildly to the door. "Where is my
wife? I must tell her that all is well. Hilda! Hilda!" we heard his voice
on the stairs.
The Premier looked at Holmes with twinkling eyes.
"Come, sir," said he. "There is more in this than meets the eye. How
came the letter back in the box?"
Holmes turned away smiling from the keen scrutiny of those wonderful
eyes.
"We also have our diplomatic secrets," said he and, picking up his
hat, he turned to the door.
Arthur Conan Doyle
THE ADVENTURE OF THE THREE STUDENTS
It was in the year '95 that a combination of events, into which I
need not enter, caused Mr. Sherlock Holmes and myself to spend some weeks
in one of our great university towns, and it was during this time that the
small but instructive adventure which I am about to relate befell us. It
will be obvious that any details which would help the reader exactly to
identify the college or the criminal would be injudicious and offensive.
So painful a scandal may well be allowed to die out. With due discretion
the incident itself may, however, be described, since it serves to
illustrate some of those qualities for which my friend was remarkable. I
will endeavour, in my statement, to avoid such terms as would serve to
limit the events to any particular place, or give a clue as to the people
concerned.
We were residing at the time in furnished lodgings close to a library
where Sherlock Holmes was pursuing some laborious researches in early
English charters - researches which led to results so striking that they
may be the subject of one of my future narratives. Here it was that one
evening we received a visit from an acquaintance, Mr. Hilton Soames, tutor
and lecturer at the College of St. Luke's. Mr. Soames was a tall, spare
man, of a nervous and excitable temperament. I had always known him to be
restless in his manner, but on this particular occasion he was in such a
state of uncontrollable agitation that it was clear something very unusual
had occurred.
"I trust, Mr. Holmes, that you can spare me a few hours of your
valuable time. We have had a very painful incident at St. Luke's, and
really, but for the happy chance of your being in town, I should have been
at a loss what to do."
"I am very busy just now, and I desire no distractions," my friend
answered. "I should much prefer that you called in the aid of the police."
"No, no, my dear sir; such a course is utterly impossible. When once
the law is evoked it cannot be stayed again, and this is just one of those
cases where, for the credit of the college, it is most essential to avoid
scandal. Your discretion is as well known as your powers, and you are the
one man in the world who can help me. I beg you, Mr. Holmes, to do what
you can."
My friend's temper had not improved since he had been deprived of the
congenial surroundings of Baker Street. Without his scrapbooks, his
chemicals, and his homely untidiness, he was an uncomfortable man. He
shrugged his shoulders in ungracious acquiescence, while our visitor in
hurried words and with much excitable gesticulation poured forth his
story.
"I must explain to you, Mr. Holmes, that to-morrow is the first day
of the examination for the Fortescue Scholarship. I am one of the
examiners. My subject is Greek, and the first of the papers consists of a
large passage of Greek translation which the candidate has not seen. This
passage is printed on the examination paper, and it would naturally be an
immense advantage if the candidate could prepare it in advance. For this
reason, great care is taken to keep the paper secret.
"To-day, about three o'clock, the proofs of this paper arrived from
the printers. The exercise consists of half a chapter of Thucydides. I had
to read it over carefully, as the text must be absolutely correct. At
four-thirty my task was not yet completed. I had, however, promised to
take tea in a friend's rooms, so I left the proof upon my desk. I was
absent rather more than an hour.
"You are aware, Mr. Holmes, that our college doors are double - a
green baize one within and a heavy oak one without. As I approached my
outer door, I was amazed to see a key in it. For an instant I imagined
that I had left my own there, but on feeling in my pocket I found that it
was all right. The only duplicate which existed, so far as I knew, was
that which belonged to my servant, Bannister - a man who has looked after
my room for ten years, and whose honesty is absolutely above suspicion. I
found that the key was indeed his, that he had entered my room to know if
I wanted tea, and that he had very carelessly left the key in the door
when he came out. His visit to my room must have been within a very few
minutes of my leaving it. His forgetfulness about the key would have
mattered little upon any other occasion, but on this one day it has
produced the most deplorable consequences.
"The moment I looked at my table, I was aware that someone had
rummaged among my papers. The proof was in three long slips. I had left
them all together. Now, I found that one of them was lying on the floor,
one was on the side table near the window, and the third was where I had
left it."
Holmes stirred for the first time.
"The first page on the floor, the second in the window, the third
where you left it," said he.
"Exactly, Mr. Holmes. You amaze me. How could you possibly know that?"
"Pray continue your very interesting statement."
"For an instant I imagined that Bannister had taken the unpardonable
liberty of examining my papers. He denied it, however, with the utmost
earnestness, and I am convinced that he was speaking the truth. The
alternative was that someone passing had observed the key in the door, had
known that I was out, and had entered to look at the papers. A large sum
of money is at stake, for the scholarship is a very valuable one, and an
unscrupulous man might very well run a risk in order to gain an advantage
over his fellows.
"Bannister was very much upset by the incident. He had nearly fainted
when we found that the papers had undoubtedly been tampered with. I gave
him a little brandy and left him collapsed in a chair, while I made a most
careful examination of the room. I soon saw that the intruder had left
other traces of his presence besides the rumpled papers. On the table in
the window were several shreds from a pencil which had been sharpened. A
broken tip of lead was lying there also. Evidently the rascal had copied
the paper in a great hurry, had broken his pencil, and had been compelled
to put a fresh point to it."
"Excellent!" said Holmes, who was recovering his good-humour as his
attention became more engrossed by the case. "Fortune has been your
friend."
"This was not all. I have a new writing-table with a fine surface of
red leather. I am prepared to swear, and so is Bannister, that it was
smooth and unstained. Now I found a clean cut in it about three inches
long - not a mere scratch, but a positive cut. Not only this, but on the
table I found a small ball of black dough or clay, with specks of
something which looks like sawdust in it. I am convinced that these marks
were left by the man who rifled the papers. There were no footmarks and no
other evidence as to his identity. I was at my wit's end, when suddenly
the happy thought occurred to me that you were in the town, and I came
straight round to put the matter into your hands. Do help me, Mr. Holmes.
You see my dilemma. Either I must find the man or else the examination
must be postponed until fresh papers are prepared, and since this cannot
be done without explanation, there will ensue a hideous scandal, which
will throw a cloud not only on the college, but on the university. Above
all things, I desire to settle the matter quietly and discreetly."
"I shall be happy to look into it and to give you such advice as I
can," said Holmes, rising and putting on his overcoat. "The case is not
entirely devoid of interest. Had anyone visited you in your room after the
papers came to you?"
"Yes, young Daulat Ras, an Indian student, who lives on the same
stair, came in to ask me some particulars about the examination."
"For which he was entered?"
"Yes."
"And the papers were on your table?"
"To the best of my belief, they were rolled up."
"But might be recognized as proofs?"
"Possibly."
"No one else in your room?"
"No."
"Did anyone know that these proofs would be there?"
"No one save the printer."
"Did this man Bannister know?"
"No, certainly not. No one knew."
"Where is Bannister now?"
"He was very ill, poor fellow. I left him collapsed in the chair. I
was in such a hurry to come to you."
"You left your door open?"
"I locked up the papers first."
"Then it amounts to this, Mr. Soames: that, unless the Indian student
recognized the roll as being proofs, the man who tampered with them came
upon them accidentally without knowing that they were there."
"So it seems to me."
Holmes gave an enigmatic smile.
"Well," said he, "let us go round. Not one of your cases, Watson -
mental, not physical. All right; come if you want to. Now, Mr. Soames - at
your disposal!"
The sitting-room of our client opened by a long, low, latticed window
on to the ancient lichen-tinted court of the old college. A Gothic arched
door led to a worn stone staircase. On the ground floor was the tutor's
room. Above were three students, one on each story. It was already
twilight when we reached the scene of our problem. Holmes halted and
looked earnestly at the window. Then he approached it, and, standing on
tiptoe with his neck craned, he looked into the room.
"He must have entered through the door. There is no opening except
the one pane," said our learned guide.
"Dear me!" said Holmes, and he smiled in a singular way as he glanced
at our companion. "Well, if there is nothing to be learned here, we had
best go inside."
The lecturer unlocked the outer door and ushered us into his room. We
stood at the entrance while Holmes made an examination of the carpet.
"I am afraid there are no signs here," said he. "One could hardly
hope for any upon so dry a day. Your servant seems to have quite
recovered. You left him in a chair, you say. Which chair?"
"By the window there."
"I see. Near this little table. You can come in now. I have finished
with the carpet. Let us take the little table first. Of course, what has
happened is very clear. The man entered and took the papers, sheet by
sheet, from the central table. He carried them over to the window table,
because from there he could see if you came across the courtyard, and so
could effect an escape."
"As a matter of fact, he could not," said Soames, "for I entered by
the side door."
"Ah, that's good! Well, anyhow, that was in his mind. Let me see the
three strips. No finger impressions - no! Well, he carried over this one
first, and he copied it. How long would it take him to do that, using
every possible contraction? A quarter of an hour, not less. Then he tossed
it down and seized the next. He was in the midst of that when your return
caused him to make a very hurried retreat - VERY hurried, since he had not
time to replace the papers which would tell you that he had been there.
You were not aware of any hurrying feet on the stair as you entered the
outer door?"
"No, I can't say I was."
"Well, he wrote so furiously that he broke his pencil, and had, as
you observe, to sharpen it again. This is of interest, Watson. The pencil
was not an ordinary one. It was above the usual size, with a soft lead,
the outer colour was dark blue, the maker's name was printed in silver
lettering, and the piece remaining is only about an inch and a half long.
Look for such a pencil, Mr. Soames, and you have got your man. When I add
that he possesses a large and very blunt knife, you have an additional
aid."
Mr. Soames was somewhat overwhelmed by this flood of information. "I
can follow the other points," said he, "but really, in this matter of the
length..."
Holmes held out a small chip with the letters NN and a space of clear
wood after them.
"You see?"
"No, I fear that even now..."
"Watson, I have always done you an injustice. There are others. What
could this NN be? It is at the end of a word. You are aware that Johann
Faber is the most common maker's name. Is it not clear that there is just
as much of the pencil left as usually follows the Johann?" He held the
small table sideways to the electric light. "I was hoping that if the
paper on which he wrote was thin, some trace of it might come through upon
this polished surface. No, I see nothing. I don't think there is anything
more to be learned here. Now for the central table. This small pellet is,
I presume, the black, doughy mass you spoke of. Roughly pyramidal in shape
and hollowed out, I perceive. As you say, there appear to be grains of
sawdust in it. Dear me, this is very interesting. And the cut - a positive
tear, I see. It began with a thin scratch and ended in a jagged hole. I am
much indebted to you for directing my attention to this case, Mr. Soames.
Where does that door lead to?"
"To my bedroom."
"Have you been in it since your adventure?"
"No, I came straight away for you."
"I should like to have a glance round. What a charming, old-fashioned
room! Perhaps you will kindly wait a minute, until I have examined the
floor. No, I see nothing. What about this curtain? You hang your clothes
behind it. If anyone were forced to conceal himself in this room he must
do it there, since the bed is too low and the wardrobe too shallow. No one
there, I suppose?"
As Holmes drew the curtain I was aware, from some little rigidity and
alertness of his attitude, that he was prepared for an emergency. As a
matter of fact, the drawn curtain disclosed nothing but three or four
suits of clothes hanging from a line of pegs. Holmes turned away, and
stooped suddenly to the floor.
"Halloa! What's this?" said he.
It was a small pyramid of black, putty-like stuff, exactly like the
one upon the table of the study. Holmes held it out on his open palm in
the glare of the electric light.
"Your visitor seems to have left traces in your bedroom as well as in
your sitting-room, Mr. Soames."
"What could he have wanted there?"
"I think it is clear enough. You came back by an unexpected way, and
so he had no warning until you were at the very door. What could he do? He
caught up everything which would betray him, and he rushed into your
bedroom to conceal himself"
"Good gracious, Mr. Holmes, do you mean to tell me that, all the time
I was talking to Bannister in this room, we had the man prisoner if we had
only known it?"
"So I read it."
"Surely there is another alternative, Mr. Holmes. I don't know
whether you observed my bedroom window?"
"Lattice-paned, lead framework, three separate windows, one swinging
on hinge, and large enough to admit a man."
"Exactly. And it looks out on an angle of the courtyard so as to be
partly invisible. The man might have effected his entrance there, left
traces as he passed through the bedroom, and finally, finding the door
open, have escaped that way."
Holmes shook his head impatiently.
"Let us be practical," said he. "I understand you to say that there
are three students who use this stair, and are in the habit of passing
your door?"
"Yes, there are."
"And they are all in for this examination?"
"Yes."
"Have you any reason to suspect any one of them more than the others?"
Soames hesitated.
"It is a very delicate question," said he. "One hardly likes to throw
suspicion where there are no proofs."
"Let us hear the suspicions. I will look after the proofs."
"I will tell you, then, in a few words the character of the three men
who inhabit these rooms. The lower of the three is Gilchrist, a fine
scholar and athlete, plays in the Rugby team and the cricket team for the
college, and got his Blue for the hurdles and the long jump. He is a fine,
manly fellow. His father was the notorious Sir Jabez Gilchrist, who ruined
himself on the turf. My scholar has been left very poor, but he is
hard-working and industrious. He will do well.
"The second floor is inhabited by Daulat Ras, the Indian. He is a
quiet, inscrutable fellow; as most of those Indians are. He is well up in
his work, though his Greek is his weak subject. He is steady and
methodical.
"The top floor belongs to Miles McLaren. He is a brilliant fellow
when he chooses to work - one of the brightest intellects of the
university; but he is wayward, dissipated, and unprincipled. He was nearly
expelled over a card scandal in his first year. He has been idling all
this term, and he must look forward with dread to the examination."
"Then it is he whom you suspect?"
"I dare not go so far as that. But, of the three, he is perhaps the
least unlikely."
"Exactly. Now, Mr. Soames, let us have a look at your servant,
Bannister."
He was a little, white-faced, clean-shaven, grizzly-haired fellow of
fifty. He was still suffering from this sudden disturbance of the quiet
routine of his life. His plump face was twitching with his nervousness,
and his fingers could not keep still.
"We are investigating this unhappy business, Bannister," said his
master.
"Yes, sir."
"I understand," said Holmes, "that you left your key in the door?"
"Yes, sir."
"Was it not very extraordinary that you should do this on the very
day when there were these papers inside?"
"It was most unfortunate, sir. But I have occasionally done the same
thing at other times."
"When did you enter the room?"
"It was about half-past four. That is Mr. Soames' tea time."
"How long did you stay?"
"When I saw that he was absent, I withdrew at once."
"Did you look at these papers on the table?"
"No, sir - certainly not."
"How came you to leave the key in the door?"
"I had the tea-tray in my hand. I thought I would come back for the
key. Then I forgot."
"Has the outer door a spring lock?"
"No, sir."
"Then it was open all the time?"
"Yes, sir."
"Anyone in the room could get out?"
"Yes, sir."
"When Mr. Soames returned and called for you, you were very much
disturbed?"
"Yes, sir. Such a thing has never happened during the many years that
I have been here. I nearly fainted, sir."
"So I understand. Where were you when you began to feel bad?"
"Where was I, sir? Why, here, near the door."
"That is singular, because you sat down in that chair over yonder
near the corner. Why did you pass these other chairs?"
"I don't know, sir, it didn't matter to me where I sat."
"I really don't think he knew much about it, Mr. Holmes. He was
looking very bad - quite ghastly."
"You stayed here when your master left?"
"Only for a minute or so. Then I locked the door and went to my room."
"Whom do you suspect?"
"Oh, I would not venture to say, sir. I don't believe there is any
gentleman in this university who is capable of profiting by such an
action. No, sir, I'll not believe it."
"Thank you, that will do," said Holmes. "Oh, one more word. You have
not mentioned to any of the three gentlemen whom you attend that anything
is amiss?"
"No, sir - not a word."
"You haven't seen any of them?"
"No, sir."
"Very good. Now, Mr. Soames, we will take a walk in the quadrangle,
if you please."
Three yellow squares of light shone above us in the gathering gloom.
"Your three birds are all in their nests," said Holmes, looking up.
"Halloa! What's that? One of them seems restless enough."
It was the Indian, whose dark silhouette appeared suddenly upon his
blind. He was pacing swiftly up and down his room.
"I should like to have a peep at each of them," said Holmes. "Is it
possible?"
"No difficulty in the world," Soames answered. "This set of rooms is
quite the oldest in the college, and it is not unusual for visitors to go
over them. Come along, and I will personally conduct you."
"No names, please!" said Holmes, as we knocked at Gilchrist's door. A
tall, flaxen-haired, slim young fellow opened it, and made us welcome when
he understood our errand. There were some really curious pieces of
mediaeval domestic architecture within. Holmes was so charmed with one of
them that he insisted on drawing it in his notebook, broke his pencil, had
to borrow one from our host and finally borrowed a knife to sharpen his
own. The same curious accident happened to him in the rooms of the Indian
- a silent, little, hook-nosed fellow, who eyed us askance, and was
obviously glad when Holmes's architectural studies had come to an end. I
could not see that in either case Holmes had come upon the clue for which
he was searching. Only at the third did our visit prove abortive. The
outer door would not open to our knock, and nothing more substantial than
a torrent of bad language came from behind it. "I don't care who you are.
You can go to blazes!" roared the angry voice. "Tomorrow's the exam, and I
won't be drawn by anyone."
"A rude fellow," said our guide, flushing with anger as we withdrew
down the stair. "Of course, he did not realize that it was I who was
knocking, but none the less his conduct was very uncourteous, and, indeed,
under the circumstances rather suspicious."
Holmes's response was a curious one.
"Can you tell me his exact height?" he asked.
"Really, Mr. Holmes, I cannot undertake to say. He is taller than the
Indian, not so tall as Gilchrist. I suppose five foot six would be about
it."
"That is very important," said Holmes. "And now, Mr. Soames, I wish
you good-night."
Our guide cried aloud in his astonishment and dismay. "Good gracious,
Mr. Holmes, you are surely not going to leave me in this abrupt fashion!
You don't seem to realize the position. To-morrow is the examination. I
must take some definite action to-night. I cannot allow the examination to
be held if one of the papers has been tampered with. The situation must be
faced."
"You must leave it as it is. I shall drop round early to-morrow
morning and chat the matter over. It is possible that I may be in a
position then to indicate some course of action. Meanwhile, you change
nothing - nothing at all."
"Very good, Mr. Holmes."
"You can be perfectly easy in your mind. We shall certainly find some
way out of your difficulties. I will take the black clay with me, also the
pencil cuttings. Good-bye."
When we were out in the darkness of the quadrangle, we again looked
up at the windows. The Indian still paced his room. The others were
invisible.
"Well, Watson, what do you think of it?" Holmes asked, as we came out
into the main street. "Quite a little parlour game - sort of three-card
trick, is it not? There are your three men. It must be one of them. You
take your choice. Which is yours?"
"The foul-mouthed fellow at the top. He is the one with the worst
record. And yet that Indian was a sly fellow also. Why should he be pacing
his room all the time?"
"There is nothing in that. Many men do it when they are trying to
learn anything by heart."
"He looked at us in a queer way."
"So would you, if a flock of strangers came in on you when you were
preparing for an examination next day, and every moment was of value. No,
I see nothing in that. Pencils, too, and knives - all was satisfactory.
But that fellow DOES puzzle me."
"Who?"
"Why, Bannister, the servant. What's his game in the matter?"
"He impressed me as being a perfectly honest man."
"So he did me. That's the puzzling part. Why should a perfectly
honest man - Well, well, here's a large stationer's. We shall begin our
researches here."
There were only four stationers of any consequences in the town, and
at each Holmes produced his pencil chips, and bid high for a duplicate.
All were agreed that one could be ordered, but that it was not a usual
size of pencil and that it was seldom kept in stock. My friend did not
appear to be depressed by his failure, but shrugged his shoulders in
half-humorous resignation.
"No good, my dear Watson. This, the best and only final clue, has run
to nothing. But, indeed, I have little doubt that we can build up a
sufficient case without it. By Jove! my dear fellow, it is nearly nine,
and the landlady babbled of green peas at seven-thirty. What with your
eternal tobacco, Watson, and your irregularity at meals, I expect that you
will get notice to quit, and that I shall share your downfall - not,
however, before we have solved the problem of the nervous tutor, the
careless servant, and the three enterprising students."
Holmes made no further allusion to the matter that day, though he sat
lost in thought for a long time after our belated dinner. At eight in the
morning, he came into my room just as I finished my toilet.
"Well, Watson," said he, "it is time we went down to St. Luke's. Can
you do without breakfast?"
"Certainly."
"Soames will be in a dreadful fidget until we are able to tell him
something positive."
"Have you anything positive to tell him?"
"I think so."
"You have formed a conclusion?"
"Yes, my dear Watson, I have solved the mystery."
"But what fresh evidence could you have got?"
"Aha! It is not for nothing that I have turned myself out of bed at
the untimely hour of six. I have put in two hours' hard work and covered
at least five miles, with something to show for it. Look at that!"
He held out his hand. On the palm were three little pyramids of
black, doughy clay.
"Why, Holmes, you had only two yesterday."
"And one more this morning. It is a fair argument that wherever No. 3
came from is also the source of Nos. 1 and 2. Eh, Watson? Well, come along
and put friend Soames out of his pain."
The unfortunate tutor was certainly in a state of pitiable agitation
when we found him in his chambers. In a few hours the examination would
commence, and he was still in the dilemma between making the facts public
and allowing the culprit to compete for the valuable scholarship. He could
hardly stand still so great was his mental agitation, and he ran towards
Holmes with two eager hands outstretched.
"Thank heaven that you have come! I feared that you had given it up
in despair. What am I to do? Shall the examination proceed?"
"Yes, let it proceed, by all means."
"But this rascal?"
"He shall not compete."
"You know him?"
"I think so. If this matter is not to become public, we must give
ourselves certain powers and resolve ourselves into a small private
court-martial. You there, if you please, Soames! Watson you here! I'll
take the armchair in the middle. I think that we are now sufficiently
imposing to strike terror into a guilty breast. Kindly ring the bell!"
Bannister entered, and shrank back in evident surprise and fear at
our judicial appearance.
"You will kindly close the door," said Holmes. "Now, Bannister, will
you please tell us the truth about yesterday's incident?"
The man turned white to the roots of his hair.
"I have told you everything, sir."
"Nothing to add?"
"Nothing at all, sir."
"Well, then, I must make some suggestions to you. When you sat down
on that chair yesterday, did you do so in order to conceal some object
which would have shown who had been in the room?"
Bannister's face was ghastly.
"No, sir, certainly not."
"It is only a suggestion," said Holmes, suavely. "I frankly admit
that I am unable to prove it. But it seems probable enough, since the
moment that Mr. Soames's back was turned, you released the man who was
hiding in that bedroom."
Bannister licked his dry lips.
"There was no man, sir."
"Ah, that's a pity, Bannister. Up to now you may have spoken the
truth, but now I know that you have lied."
The man's face set in sullen defiance.
"There was no man, sir."
"Come, come, Bannister!"
"No, sir, there was no one."
"In that case, you can give us no further information. Would you
please remain in the room? Stand over there near the bedroom door. Now,
Soames, I am going to ask you to have the great kindness to go up to the
room of young Gilchrist, and to ask him to step down into yours."
An instant later the tutor returned, bringing with him the student.
He was a fine figure of a man, tall, lithe, and agile, with a springy step
and a pleasant, open face. His troubled blue eyes glanced at each of us,
and finally rested with an expression of blank dismay upon Bannister in
the farther corner.
"Just close the door," said Holmes. "Now, Mr. Gilchrist, we are all
quite alone here, and no one need ever know one word of what passes
between us. We can be perfectly frank with each other. We want to know,
Mr. Gilchrist, how you, an honourable man, ever came to commit such an
action as that of yesterday?"
The unfortunate young man staggered back, and cast a look full of
horror and reproach at Bannister.
"No, no, Mr. Gilchrist, sir, I never said a word - never one word!"
cried the servant.
"No, but you have now," said Holmes. "Now, sir, you must see that
after Bannister's words your position is hopeless, and that your only
chance lies in a frank confession."
For a moment Gilchrist, with upraised hand, tried to control his
writhing features. The next he had thrown himself on his knees beside the
table, and burying his face in his hands, he had burst into a storm of
passionate sobbing.
"Come, come," said Holmes, kindly, "it is human to err, and at least
no one can accuse you of being a callous criminal. Perhaps it would be
easier for you if I were to tell Mr. Soames what occurred, and you can
check me where I am wrong. Shall I do so? Well, well, don't trouble to
answer. Listen, and see that I do you no injustice.
"From the moment, Mr. Soames, that you said to me that no one, not
even Bannister, could have told that the papers were in your room, the
case began to take a definite shape in my mind. The printer one could, of
course, dismiss. He could examine the papers in his own office. The Indian
I also thought nothing of. If the proofs were in a roll, he could not
possibly know what they were. On the other hand, it seemed an unthinkable
coincidence that a man should dare to enter the room, and that by chance
on that very day the papers were on the table. I dismissed that. The man
who entered knew that the papers were there. How did he know?
"When I approached your room, I examined the window. You amused me by
supposing that I was contemplating the possibility of someone having in
broad daylight, under the eyes of all these opposite rooms, forced himself
through it. Such an idea was absurd. I was measuring how tall a man would
need to be in order to see, as he passed, what papers were on the central
table. I am six feet high, and I could do it with an effort. No one less
than that would have a chance. Already you see I had reason to think that,
if one of your three students was a man of unusual height, he was the most
worth watching of the three.
"I entered, and I took you into my confidence as to the suggestions
of the side table. Of the centre table I could make nothing, until in your
description of Gilchrist you mentioned that he was a long-distance jumper.
Then the whole thing came to me in an instant, and I only needed certain
corroborative proofs, which I speedily obtained.
"What happened with{sic} this: This young fellow had employed his
afternoon at the athletic grounds, where he had been practising the jump.
He returned carrying his jumping-shoes, which are provided, as you are
aware, with several sharp spikes. As he passed your window he saw, by
means of his great height, these proofs upon your table, and conjectured
what they were. No harm would have been done had it not been that, as he
passed your door, he perceived the key which had been left by the
carelessness of your servant. A sudden impulse came over him to enter, and
see if they were indeed the proofs. It was not a dangerous exploit for he
could always pretend that he had simply looked in to ask a question.
"Well, when he saw that they were indeed the proofs, it was then that
he yielded to temptation. He put his shoes on the table. What was it you
put on that chair near the window?"
"Gloves," said the young man.
Holmes looked triumphantly at Bannister. "He put his gloves on the
chair, and he took the proofs, sheet by sheet, to copy them. He thought
the tutor must return by the main gate and that he would see him. As we
know, he came back by the side gate. Suddenly he heard him at the very
door. There was no possible escape. He forgot his gloves but he caught up
his shoes and darted into the bedroom. You observe that the scratch on
that table is slight at one side, but deepens in the direction of the
bedroom door. That in itself is enough to show us that the shoe had been
drawn in that direction, and that the culprit had taken refuge there. The
earth round the spike had been left on the table, and a second sample was
loosened and fell in the bedroom. I may add that I walked out to the
athletic grounds this morning, saw that tenacious black clay is used in
the jumping-pit and carried away a specimen of it, together with some of
the fine tan or sawdust which is strewn over it to prevent the athlete
from slipping. Have I told the truth, Mr. Gilchrist?"
The student had drawn himself erect.
"Yes, sir, it is true," said he.
"Good heavens! have you nothing to add?" cried Soames.
"Yes, sir, I have, but the shock of this disgraceful exposure has
bewildered me. I have a letter here, Mr. Soames, which I wrote to you
early this morning in the middle of a restless night. It was before I knew
that my sin had found me out. Here it is, sir. You will see that I have
said, `I have determined not to go in for the examination. I have been
offered a commission in the Rhodesian Police, and I am going out to South
Africa at once.'"
"I am indeed pleased to hear that you did not intend to profit by
your unfair advantage," said Soames. "But why did you change your purpose?"
Gilchrist pointed to Bannister.
"There is the man who set me in the right path," said he.
"Come now, Bannister," said Holmes. "It will be clear to you, from
what I have said, that only you could have let this young man out, since
you were left in the room, and must have locked the door when you went
out. As to his escaping by that window, it was incredible. Can you not
clear up the last point in this mystery, and tell us the reasons for your
action?"
"It was simple enough, sir, if you only had known, but, with all your
cleverness, it was impossible that you could know. Time was, sir, when I
was butler to old Sir Jabez Gilchrist, this young gentleman's father. When
he was ruined I came to the college as servant, but I never forgot my old
employer because he was down in the world. I watched his son all I could
for the sake of the old days. Well, sir, when I came into this room
yesterday, when the alarm was given, the very first thing I saw was Mr.
Gilchrist's tan gloves a-lying in that chair. I knew those gloves well,
and I understood their message. If Mr. Soames saw them, the game was up. I
flopped down into that chair, and nothing would budge me until Mr. Soames
he went for you. Then out came my poor young master, whom I had dandled on
my knee, and confessed it all to me. Wasn't it natural, sir, that I should
save him, and wasn't it natural also that I should try to speak to him as
his dead father would have done, and make him understand that he could not
profit by such a deed? Could you blame me, sir?"
"No, indeed," said Holmes, heartily, springing to his feet. "Well,
Soames, I think we have cleared your little problem up, and our breakfast
awaits us at home. Come, Watson! As to you, sir, I trust that a bright
future awaits you in Rhodesia. For once you have fallen low. Let us see,
in the future, how high you can rise."
1892
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE ADVENTURE OF THE COPPER BEECHES
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Electronically Enhanced Text (c) Copyright 1991, World Library, Inc.
THE_ADVENTURE_OF_THE_COPPER_BEECHES
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."
{^paragraph 5}
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:
{^paragraph 10}
-
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.
{^paragraph 15}
-
"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."
{^paragraph 20}
"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."
{^paragraph 25}
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!'
{^paragraph 30}
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.'
{^paragraph 35}
"'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.'
{^paragraph 40}
"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.'
{^paragraph 45}
"'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?'
{^paragraph 50}
"'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.'
{^paragraph 55}
"'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.
{^paragraph 60}
"'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.
{^paragraph 65}
"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,
{^paragraph 70}
"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?"
{^paragraph 75}
"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."
{^paragraph 80}
"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?"
{^paragraph 85}
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.
{^paragraph 90}
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.
{^paragraph 95}
HUNTER.
-
"Will you come with me?" asked Holmes, glancing up.
"I should wish to."
"Just look it up, then."
{^paragraph 100}
"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.
{^paragraph 105}
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!"
{^paragraph 110}
"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."
{^paragraph 115}
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.
{^paragraph 120}
"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."
{^paragraph 125}
"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.
{^paragraph 130}
"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.'
{^paragraph 135}
"'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."
{^paragraph 140}
"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.
{^paragraph 145}
"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.'
{^paragraph 150}
"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.
{^paragraph 155}
"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.
{^paragraph 160}
'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.'
{^paragraph 165}
"'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.
{^paragraph 170}
"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?"
{^paragraph 175}
"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."
{^paragraph 180}
"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."
{^paragraph 185}
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.
{^paragraph 190}
"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."
{^paragraph 195}
"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.
{^paragraph 200}
"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!"
{^paragraph 205}
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."
{^paragraph 210}
"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."
{^paragraph 215}
"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."
{^paragraph 220}
"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
Electronically Enhanced Text (C) Copyright 1991, 1992, World Library, Inc.
Arthur Conan Doyle: Through the Magic Door
==========================================
a machine-readable transcription
Version 1.0: 1993-02-08
1.1: 1993-04-07 corrected a number of transcription
errors
This is a machine-readable transcription of Arthur Conan Doyle's
`Through the Magic Door', published by Thomas Nelson and Sons, Ltd.:
London, [1919]. It was first published by Smith, Elder & Co.: London,
1907.
Transcription principles:
-------------------------
The index of the printed text has been deleted as being of fairly
little interest for an e-text edition.
Each line in the file correspond to a line in the book, except that
end-of-line hyphenation has been removed. Page breaks have not been
retained.
Dropped capitals have been converted to ordinary capitals. The
immediately following words in caps have been converted to lower- and
upper-case letters as appropriate.
Italics have been placed inside underscore characters (_). Three
hyphens (---) represent an em dash. Longer sequences of hyphens
represent correspondingly longer dashes.
Accented characters have been represented by the following encoding:
e acute e grave e diaeresis e circumflex ae ligature OE ligature oe ligature
I trust the principles are fairly clear.
There is one possible printing error in the book, which has been left
uncorrected: 'Paraquay'.
The transcription and proof-reading was done by Anders Thulin,
Rydsvagen 288, S-582 50 Linkoping, Sweden.
Email: ath@linkoping.trab.se.
I'd be grateful to learn of any errors you find in the text.
THROUGH THE
MAGIC DOOR
BY
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
THROUGH THE MAGIC DOOR.
I.
I care not how humble your bookshelf may
be, nor how lowly the room which it adorns.
Close the door of that room behind you, shut
off with it all the cares of the outer world,
plunge back into the soothing company of the
great dead, and then you are through the
magic portal into that fair land whither worry
and vexation can follow you no more. You
have left all that is vulgar and all that is sordid
behind you. There stand your noble, silent
comrades, waiting in their ranks. Pass your
eye down their files. Choose your man. And
then you have but to hold up your hand to
him and away you go together into dreamland.
Surely there would be something eerie about
a line of books were it not that familiarity has
deadened our sense of it. Each is a mummified
soul embalmed in cere-cloth and natron
of leather and printer's ink. Each cover of a
true book enfolds the concentrated essence of
a man. The personalities of the writers have
faded into the thinnest shadows, as their bodies
into impalpable dust, yet here are their very
spirits at your command.
It is our familiarity also which has lessened
our perception of the miraculous good
fortune which we enjoy. Let us suppose that
we were suddenly to learn that Shakespeare
had returned to earth, and that he would
favour any of us with an hour of his wit and
his fancy. How eagerly we would seek him
out! And yet we have him---the very best
of him---at our elbows from week to week,
and hardly trouble ourselves to put out our
hands to beckon him down. No matter what
mood a man may be in, when once he has
passed through the magic door he can summon
the world's greatest to sympathize with
him in it. If he be thoughtful, here are the
kings of thought. If he be dreamy, here are
the masters of fancy. Or is it amusement
that he lacks? He can signal to any one of
the world's great story-tellers, and out comes
the dead man and holds him enthralled by the
hour. The dead are such good company that
one may come to think too little of the living.
It is a real and a pressing danger with many
of us, that we should never find our own
thoughts and our own souls, but be ever obsessed
by the dead. Yet second-hand romance
and second-hand emotion are surely better
than the dull, soul-killing monotony which
life brings to most of the human race. But
best of all when the dead man's wisdom and
strength in the living of our own strenuous
days.
Come through the magic door with me,
and sit here on the green settee, where you
can see the old oak case with its untidy lines
of volumes. Smoking is not forbidden.
Would you care to hear me talk of them?
Well, I ask nothing better, for there is no
volume there which is not a dear, personal
friend, and what can a man talk of more
pleasantly than that? The other books are
over yonder, but these are my own favourites
---the ones I care to re-read and to have near
my elbow. There is not a tattered cover
which does not bring its mellow memories
to me.
Some of them represent those little sacrifices
which make a possession dearer. You
see the line of old, brown volumes at the
bottom? Every one of those represents a
lunch. They were bought in my student days,
when times were not too affluent. Threepence
was my modest allowance for my midday sandwich
and glass of beer; but, as luck would
have it, my way to the classes led past the
most fascinating bookshop in the world. Outside
the door of it stood a large tub filled with
an ever-changing litter of tattered books, with
a card above which announced that any volume
therein could be purchased for the identical
sum which I carried in my pocket. As I approached
it a combat ever raged betwixt the
hunger of a youthful body and that of an inquiring
and omnivorous mind. Five times out of
six the animal won. But when the mental
prevailed, then there was an entrancing five
minutes' digging among out-of-date almanacs,
volumes of Scotch theology, and tables of logarithms,
until one found something which made
it all worth while. If you will look over these
titles, you will see that I did not do so very
badly. Four volumes of Gordon's ``Tacitus''
(life is too short to read originals, so long
as there are good translations), Sir William
Temple's Essays, Addison's works, Swift's
``Tale of a Tub,'' Clarendon's ``History,''
``Gil Blas,'' Buckingham's Poems, Churchill's
Poems, ``Life of Bacon''---not so bad for
the old threepenny tub.
They were not always in such plebeian company.
Look at the thickness of the rich
leather, and the richness of the dim gold
lettering. Once they adorned the shelves of
some noble library, and even among the odd
almanacs and the sermons they bore the traces
of their former greatness, like the faded silk
dress of the reduced gentlewoman, a present
pathos but a glory of the past.
Reading is made too easy nowadays, with
cheap paper editions and free libraries. A
man does not appreciate at its full worth the
thing that comes to him without effort. Who
now ever gets the thrill which Carlyle felt
when he hurried home with the six volumes
of Gibbon's ``History'' under his arm, his
mind just starving for want of food, to devour
them at the rate of one a day? A book should
be your very own before you can really get the
taste of it, and unless you have worked for it,
you will never have the true inward pride of
possession.
If I had to choose the one book out of all
that line from which I have had most pleasure
and most profit, I should point to yonder
stained copy of Macaulay's ``Essays.'' It
seems entwined into my whole life as I look
backwards. It was my comrade in my student
days, it has been with me on the sweltering
Gold Coast, and it formed part of my humble
kit when I went a-whaling in the Arctic.
Honest Scotch harpooners have addled their
brains over it, and you may still see the grease
stains where the second engineer grappled
with Frederick the Great. Tattered and dirty
and worn, no gilt-edged morocco-bound volume
could ever take its place for me.
What a noble gateway this book forms
through which one may approach the study
either of letters or of history! Milton,
Machiavelli, Hallam, Southey, Bunyan,
Byron, Johnson, Pitt, Hampden, Clive, Hastings,
Chatham---what nuclei for thought!
With a good grip of each how pleasant and
easy to fill in all that lies between! The short,
vivid sentences, the broad sweep of allusion,
the exact detail, they all throw a glamour
round the subject and should make the least
studious of readers desire to go further. If
Macaulay's hand cannot lead a man upon those
pleasant paths, then, indeed, he may give up
all hope of ever finding them.
When I was a senior schoolboy this book
---not this very volume, for it had an even
more tattered predecessor---opened up a new
world to me. History had been a lesson
and abhorrent. Suddenly the task and the
drudgery became an incursion into an enchanted
land, a land of colour and beauty,
with a kind, wise guide to point the path.
In that great style of his I loved even the
faults---indeed, now that I come to think of
it, it was the faults which I loved best. No
sentence could be too stiff with rich embroidery,
and no antithesis too flowery. It
pleased me to read that ``a universal shout
of laughter from the Tagus to the Vistula informed
the Pope that the days of the crusades
were past,'' and I was delighted to learn that
``Lady Jerningham kept a vase in which
people placed foolish verses, and Mr. Dash
wrote verses which were fit to be placed in
Lady Jerningham's vase.'' Those were the
kind of sentences which used to fill me with
a vague but enduring pleasure, like chords
which linger in the musician's ear. A man
likes a plainer literary diet as he grows older,
but still as I glance over the Essays I am filled
with admiration and wonder at the alternate
power of handling a great subject, and of adorning
it by delightful detail---just a bold sweep of
the brush, and then the most delicate stippling.
As he leads you down the path, he for ever
indicates the alluring side-tracks which branch
away from it. An admirable, if somewhat old-fashioned,
literary and historical education
night be effected by working through every
book which is alluded to in the Essays. I should
be curious, however, to know the exact age of
the youth when he came to the end of his
studies.
I wish Macaulay had written a historical
novel. I am convinced that it would have
been a great one. I do not know if he had
the power of drawing an imaginary character,
but he certainly had the gift of reconstructing
a dead celebrity to a remarkable degree. Look
at the simple half-paragraph in which he gives
us Johnson and his atmosphere. Was ever a
more definite picture given in a shorter space---
``As we close it, the club-room is before
us, and the table on which stand the omelet
for Nugent, and the lemons for Johnson.
There are assembled those heads which live
for ever on the canvas of Reynolds. There
are the spectacles of Burke, and the tall thin
form of Langton, the courtly sneer of Beauclerk
and the beaming smile of Garrick, Gibbon
tapping his snuff-box, and Sir Joshua with
his trumpet in his ear. In the foreground is
that strange figure which is as familiar to us
as the figures of those among whom we have
been brought up---the gigantic body, the huge
massy face, seamed with the scars of disease,
the brown coat, the black worsted stockings,
the grey wig with the scorched foretop, the
dirty hands, the nails bitten and pared to the
quick. We see the eyes and mouth moving
with convulsive twitches; we see the heavy
form rolling; we hear it puffing, and then
comes the `Why, sir!' and the `What then,
sir?' and the `No, sir!' and the `You
don't see your way through the question,
sir! ' ''
It is etched into your memory for ever.
I can remember that when I visited London
at the age of sixteen the first thing I did after
housing my luggage was to make a pilgrimage
to Macaulay's grave, where he lies in Westminster
Abbey, just under the shadow of Addison,
and amid the dust of the poets whom he
had loved so well. It was the one great object
of interest which London held for me. And
so it might well be, when I think of all I owe
him. It is not merely the knowledge and the
stimulation of fresh interests, but it is the
charming gentlemanly tone, the broad, liberal
outlook, the general absence of bigotry and of
prejudice. My judgment now confirms all
that I felt for him then.
My four-volume edition of the History
stands, as you see, to the right of the Essays.
Do you recollect the third chapter of that
work---the one which reconstructs the England
of the seventeenth century? It has always
seemed to me the very high-water mark
of Macaulay's powers, with its marvellous
mixture of precise fact and romantic phrasing.
The population of towns, the statistics of
commerce, the prosaic facts of life are all
transmuted into wonder and interest by the
handling of the master. You feel that he
could have cast a glamour over the multiplication
table had he set himself to do so. Take
a single concrete example of what I mean.
The fact that a Londoner in the country, or
a countryman in London, felt equally out of
place in those days of difficult travel, would
seem to hardly require stating, and to afford
no opportunity of leaving a strong impression
upon the reader's mind. See what Macaulay
makes of it, though it is no more. than a hundred
other paragraphs which discuss a hundred
various points---
``A cockney in a rural village was stared
at as much as if he had intruded into a kraal
of Hottentots. On the other hand, when the
lord of a Lincolnshire or Shropshire manor
appeared in Fleet Street, he was as easily
distinguished from the resident population as
a Turk or a Lascar. His dress, his gait, his
accent, the manner in which he gazed at the
shops, stumbled into gutters, ran against the
porters, and stood under the waterspouts,
marked him out as an excellent subject for
the operations of swindlers and banterers.
Bullies jostled him into the kennel, Hackney
coachmen splashed him from head to foot,
thieves explored with perfect security the huge
pockets of his horseman's coat, while he stood
entranced by the splendour of the Lord Mayor's
Show. Money-droppers, sore from the cart's
tail, introduced themselves to him, and appeared
to him the most honest friendly gentlemen
that he had ever seen. Painted women,
the refuse of Lewkner Lane and Whetstone
Park, passed themselves on him for countesses
and maids of honour. If he asked his way to
St. James', his informants sent him to Mile
End. If he went into a shop, he was instantly
discerned to be a fit purchaser of everything
that nobody else would buy, of second-hand
embroidery, copper rings, and watches that
would not go. If he rambled into any fashionable
coffee-house, he became a mark for
the insolent derision of fops, and the grave
waggery of Templars. Enraged and mortified,
he soon returned to his mansion, and
there, in the homage of his tenants and the
conversation of his boon companions, found
consolation for the vexations and humiliations
which he had undergone. There he was once
more a great man, and saw nothing above himself
except when at the assizes he took his seat
on the bench near the Judge, or when at the
muster of the militia he saluted the Lord Lieutenant.''
On the whole, I should put this detached
chapter of description at the very head of his
Essays, though it happens to occur in another
volume. The History as a whole does not, as
it seems to me, reach the same level as the
shorter articles. One cannot but feel that it
is a brilliant piece of special pleading from a
fervid Whig, and that there must be more to
be said for the other side than is there set forth.
Some of the Essays are tinged also, no doubt,
by his own political and religious limitations.
The best are those which get right away into
the broad fields of literature and philosophy.
Johnson, Walpole, Madame D'Arblay, Addison,
and the two great Indian ones, Clive
and Warren Hastings, are my own favourites.
Frederick the Great, too, must surely stand
in the first rank. Only one would I wish to
eliminate. It is the diabolically clever criticism
upon Montgomery. One would have
wished to think that Macaulay's heart was
too kind, and his soul too gentle, to pen so
bitter an attack. Bad work will sink of its
own weight. It is not necessary to souse
the author as well. One would think more
highly of the man if he had not done that
savage bit of work.
I don't know why talking of Macaulay always
makes me think of Scott, whose books
in a faded, olive-backed line, have a shelf,
you see, of their own. Perhaps it is that they
both had so great an influence, and woke such
admiration in me. Or perhaps it is the real
similarity in the minds and characters of the
two men. You don't see it, you say? Well,
just think of Scott's ``Border Ballads,'' and
then of Macaulay's ``Lays.'' The machines
must be alike, when the products are so similar.
Each was the only man who could possibly
have written the poems of the other.
What swing and dash in both of them! What
a love of all that is and noble and martial!
So simple, and yet so strong. But there
are minds on which strength and simplicity
are thrown away. They think that unless a
thing is obscure it must be superficial, whereas
it is often the shallow stream which is turbid,
and the deep which is clear. Do you
remember the fatuous criticism of Matthew
Arnold upon the glorious ``Lays,'' where he
calls out ``is this poetry?'' after quoting---
``And how can man die better
Than facing fearful odds
For the ashes of his fathers
And the Temples of his Gods?''
In trying to show that Macaulay had not
the poetic sense he was really showing that
he himself had not the dramatic sense. The
baldness of the idea and of the language had
evidently offended him. But this is exactly
where the true merit lies. Macaulay is giving
the rough, blunt words with which a simple-minded
soldier appeals to two comrades to
help him in a deed of valour. Any high-flown
sentiment would have been absolutely
out of character. The lines are, I think, taken
with their context, admirable ballad poetry,
and have just the dramatic quality and sense
which a ballad poet must have. That opinion
of Arnold's shook my faith in his judgment,
and yet I would forgive a good deal to the
man who wrote---
``One more charge and then be dumb,
When the forts of Folly fall,
May the victors when they come
Find my body near the wall.'
Not a bad verse that for one's life aspiration.
This is one of the things which human
society has not yet understood---the value of
a noble, inspiriting text. When it does we
shall meet them everywhere engraved on appropriate
places, and our progress through the
streets will be brightened and ennobled by one
continual series of beautiful mental impulses
and images, reflected into our souls from the
printed thoughts which meet our eyes. To
think that we should walk with empty, listless
minds while all this splendid material is running
to waste. I do not mean mere Scriptural
texts, for they do not bear the same meaning
to all, though what human creature can fail to
be spurred onwards by ``Work while it is
day, for the night cometh when no man can
work.'' But I mean those beautiful thoughts---
who can say that they are uninspired thoughts?
---which may be gathered from a hundred
authors to match a hundred uses. A fine
thought in fine language is a most precious
jewel, and should not be hid away, but be
exposed for use and ornament. To take the
nearest example, there is a horse-trough across
the road from my house, a plain stone trough,
and no man could pass it with any feelings
save vague discontent at its ugliness. But
suppose that on its front slab you print the
verse of Coleridge---
``He prayeth best who loveth best
All things, both great and small
For the dear Lord who fashioned him
He knows and loveth all.''
I fear I may misquote, for I have not ``The
Ancient Mariner'' at my elbow, but even as it
stands does it not elevate the horse-trough?
We all do this, I suppose, in a small way for
ourselves. There are few men who have not
some chosen quotations printed on thei