CONTENTS
PART 1
PART 2. THE COUNTRY OF THE SAINTS
PART
1
IN
the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of
London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for
surgeons in the army. Having completed my studies there, I was duly attached to
the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as Assistant Surgeon. The regiment was
stationed in India at the time, and before I could join it, the second Afghan
war had broken out. On landing at Bombay, I learned that my corps had advanced
through the passes, and was already deep in the enemy's country. I followed,
however, with many other officers who were in the same situation as myself, and
succeeded in reaching Candahar in safety, where I found my regiment, and at
once entered upon my new duties.
The
campaign brought honours and promotion to many, but for me it had nothing but
misfortune and disaster. I was removed from my brigade and attached to the
Berkshires, with whom I served at the fatal battle of Maiwand. There I was struck
on the shoulder by a Jezail bullet, which shattered the bone and grazed the
subclavian artery. I should have fallen into the hands of the murderous Ghazis
had it not been for the devotion and courage shown by Murray, my orderly, who
threw me across a pack-horse, and succeeded in bringing me safely to the
British lines.
Worn
with pain, and weak from the prolonged hardships which I had undergone, I was
removed, with a great train of wounded sufferers, to the base hospital at
Peshawar. Here I rallied, and had already improved so far as to be able to walk
about the wards, and even to bask a little upon the verandah, when I was struck
down by enteric fever, that curse of our Indian possessions. For months my life
was despaired of, and when at last I came to myself and became convalescent, I
was so weak and emaciated that a medical board determined that not a day should
be lost in sending me back to England. I was dispatched, accordingly, in the
troopship "Orontes," and landed a month later on Portsmouth jetty,
with my health irretrievably ruined, but with permission from a paternal
government to spend the next nine months in attempting to improve it.
I
had neither kith nor kin in England, and was therefore as free as air—or as
free as an income of eleven shillings and sixpence a day will permit a man to
be. Under such circumstances, I naturally gravitated to London, that great
cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly
drained. There I stayed for some time at a private hotel in the Strand, leading
a comfortless, meaningless existence, and spending such money as I had,
considerably more freely than I ought. So alarming did the state of my finances
become, that I soon realized that I must either leave the metropolis and rusticate
somewhere in the country, or that I must make a complete alteration in my style
of living. Choosing the latter alternative, I began by making up my mind to
leave the hotel, and to take up my quarters in some less pretentious and less
expensive domicile.
On
the very day that I had come to this conclusion, I was standing at the
Criterion Bar, when some one tapped me on the shoulder, and turning round I
recognized young Stamford, who had been a dresser under me at Barts. The sight
of a friendly face in the great wilderness of London is a pleasant thing indeed
to a lonely man. In old days Stamford had never been a particular crony of
mine, but now I hailed him with enthusiasm, and he, in his turn, appeared to be
delighted to see me. In the exuberance of my joy, I asked him to lunch with me
at the Holborn, and we started off together in a hansom.
"Whatever
have you been doing with yourself, Watson?" he asked in undisguised
wonder, as we rattled through the crowded London streets. "You are as thin
as a lath and as brown as a nut."
I
gave him a short sketch of my adventures, and had hardly concluded it by the
time that we reached our destination.
"Poor
devil!" he said, commiseratingly, after he had listened to my misfortunes.
"What are you up to now?"
"Looking
for lodgings." I answered. "Trying to solve the problem as to whether
it is possible to get comfortable rooms at a reasonable price."
"That's
a strange thing," remarked my companion; "you are the second man
to-day that has used that expression to me."
"And
who was the first?" I asked.
"A
fellow who is working at the chemical laboratory up at the hospital. He was
bemoaning himself this morning because he could not get someone to go halves
with him in some nice rooms which he had found, and which were too much for his
purse."
"By
Jove!" I cried, "if he really wants someone to share the rooms and
the expense, I am the very man for him. I should prefer having a partner to
being alone."
Young
Stamford looked rather strangely at me over his wine-glass. "You don't
know Sherlock Holmes yet," he said; "perhaps you would not care for
him as a constant companion."
"Why,
what is there against him?"
"Oh,
I didn't say there was anything against him. He is a little queer in his
ideas—an enthusiast in some branches of science. As far as I know he is a
decent fellow enough."
"A
medical student, I suppose?" said I.
"No—I
have no idea what he intends to go in for. I believe he is well up in anatomy,
and he is a first-class chemist; but, as far as I know, he has never taken out
any systematic medical classes. His studies are very desultory and eccentric,
but he has amassed a lot of out-of-the way knowledge which would astonish his
professors."
"Did
you never ask him what he was going in for?" I asked.
"No;
he is not a man that it is easy to draw out, though he can be communicative
enough when the fancy seizes him."
"I
should like to meet him," I said. "If I am to lodge with anyone, I
should prefer a man of studious and quiet habits. I am not strong enough yet to
stand much noise or excitement. I had enough of both in Afghanistan to last me
for the remainder of my natural existence. How could I meet this friend of
yours?"
"He
is sure to be at the laboratory," returned my companion. "He either
avoids the place for weeks, or else he works there from morning to night. If
you like, we shall drive round together after luncheon."
"Certainly,"
I answered, and the conversation drifted away into other channels.
As
we made our way to the hospital after leaving the Holborn, Stamford gave me a
few more particulars about the gentleman whom I proposed to take as a
fellow-lodger.
"You
mustn't blame me if you don't get on with him," he said; "I know
nothing more of him than I have learned from meeting him occasionally in the
laboratory. You proposed this arrangement, so you must not hold me
responsible."
"If
we don't get on it will be easy to part company," I answered. "It
seems to me, Stamford," I added, looking hard at my companion, "that
you have some reason for washing your hands of the matter. Is this fellow's
temper so formidable, or what is it? Don't be mealy-mouthed about it."
"It
is not easy to express the inexpressible," he answered with a laugh.
"Holmes is a little too scientific for my tastes—it approaches to
cold-bloodedness. I could imagine his giving a friend a little pinch of the
latest vegetable alkaloid, not out of malevolence, you understand, but simply
out of a spirit of inquiry in order to have an accurate idea of the effects. To
do him justice, I think that he would take it himself with the same readiness.
He appears to have a passion for definite and exact knowledge."
"Very
right too."
"Yes,
but it may be pushed to excess. When it comes to beating the subjects in the
dissecting-rooms with a stick, it is certainly taking rather a bizarre
shape."
"Beating
the subjects!"
"Yes,
to verify how far bruises may be produced after death. I saw him at it with my
own eyes."
"And
yet you say he is not a medical student?"
"No.
Heaven knows what the objects of his studies are. But here we are, and you must
form your own impressions about him."
As
he spoke, we turned down a narrow lane and passed through a small side-door,
which opened into a wing of the great hospital. It was familiar ground to me,
and I needed no guiding as we ascended the bleak stone staircase and made our
way down the long corridor with its vista of whitewashed wall and dun-coloured
doors. Near the further end a low arched passage branched away from it and led
to the chemical laboratory.
This
was a lofty chamber, lined and littered with countless bottles. Broad, low
tables were scattered about, which bristled with retorts, test-tubes, and
little Bunsen lamps, with their blue flickering flames. There was only one
student in the room, who was bending over a distant table absorbed in his work.
At
the sound of our steps he glanced round and sprang to his feet with a cry of
pleasure. "I've found it! I've found it," he shouted to my companion,
running towards us with a test-tube in his hand. "I have found a re-agent
which is precipitated by hoemoglobin, and by nothing else." Had he
discovered a gold mine, greater delight could not have shone upon his features.
"Dr.
Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said Stamford, introducing us.
"How
are you?" he said cordially, gripping my hand with a strength for which I
should hardly have given him credit. "You have been in Afghanistan, I
perceive."
"How
on earth did you know that?" I asked in astonishment.
"Never
mind," said he, chuckling to himself. "The question now is about
hoemoglobin. No doubt you see the significance of this discovery of mine?"
"It
is interesting, chemically, no doubt," I answered, "but
practically——"
"Why,
man, it is the most practical medico-legal discovery for years. Don't you see
that it gives us an infallible test for blood stains. Come over here now!"
He seized me by the coat-sleeve in his eagerness, and drew me over to the table
at which he had been working. "Let us have some fresh blood," he
said, digging a long bodkin into his finger, and drawing off the resulting drop
of blood in a chemical pipette. "Now, I add this small quantity of blood
to a litre of water. You perceive that the resulting mixture has the appearance
of pure water. The proportion of blood cannot be more than one in a million. I
have no doubt, however, that we shall be able to obtain the characteristic
reaction." As he spoke, he threw into the vessel a few white crystals, and
then added some drops of a transparent fluid. In an instant the contents assumed
a dull mahogany colour, and a brownish dust was precipitated to the bottom of
the glass jar.
"Ha!
ha!" he cried, clapping his hands, and looking as delighted as a child
with a new toy. "What do you think of that?"
"It
seems to be a very delicate test," I remarked.
"Beautiful!
beautiful! The old Guiacum test was very clumsy and uncertain. So is the
microscopic examination for blood corpuscles. The latter is valueless if the
stains are a few hours old. Now, this appears to act as well whether the blood is
old or new. Had this test been invented, there are hundreds of men now walking
the earth who would long ago have paid the penalty of their crimes."
"Indeed!"
I murmured.
"Criminal
cases are continually hinging upon that one point. A man is suspected of a
crime months perhaps after it has been committed. His linen or clothes are
examined, and brownish stains discovered upon them. Are they blood stains, or
mud stains, or rust stains, or fruit stains, or what are they? That is a
question which has puzzled many an expert, and why? Because there was no
reliable test. Now we have the Sherlock Holmes' test, and there will no longer
be any difficulty."
His
eyes fairly glittered as he spoke, and he put his hand over his heart and bowed
as if to some applauding crowd conjured up by his imagination.
"You
are to be congratulated," I remarked, considerably surprised at his
enthusiasm.
"There
was the case of Von Bischoff at Frankfort last year. He would certainly have
been hung had this test been in existence. Then there was Mason of Bradford,
and the notorious Muller, and Lefevre of Montpellier, and Samson of New
Orleans. I could name a score of cases in which it would have been
decisive."
"You
seem to be a walking calendar of crime," said Stamford with a laugh.
"You might start a paper on those lines. Call it the 'Police News of the
Past.'"
"Very
interesting reading it might be made, too," remarked Sherlock Holmes,
sticking a small piece of plaster over the prick on his finger. "I have to
be careful," he continued, turning to me with a smile, "for I dabble
with poisons a good deal." He held out his hand as he spoke, and I noticed
that it was all mottled over with similar pieces of plaster, and discoloured
with strong acids.
"We
came here on business," said Stamford, sitting down on a high three-legged
stool, and pushing another one in my direction with his foot. "My friend
here wants to take diggings, and as you were complaining that you could get no
one to go halves with you, I thought that I had better bring you
together."
Sherlock
Holmes seemed delighted at the idea of sharing his rooms with me. "I have
my eye on a suite in Baker Street," he said, "which would suit us
down to the ground. You don't mind the smell of strong tobacco, I hope?"
"I
always smoke 'ship's' myself," I answered.
"That's
good enough. I generally have chemicals about, and occasionally do experiments.
Would that annoy you?"
"By
no means."
"Let
me see—what are my other shortcomings. I get in the dumps at times, and don't
open my mouth for days on end. You must not think I am sulky when I do that.
Just let me alone, and I'll soon be right. What have you to confess now? It's
just as well for two fellows to know the worst of one another before they begin
to live together."
I
laughed at this cross-examination. "I keep a bull pup," I said,
"and I object to rows because my nerves are shaken, and I get up at all
sorts of ungodly hours, and I am extremely lazy. I have another set of vices
when I'm well, but those are the principal ones at present."
"Do
you include violin-playing in your category of rows?" he asked, anxiously.
"It
depends on the player," I answered. "A well-played violin is a treat
for the gods—a badly-played one——"
"Oh,
that's all right," he cried, with a merry laugh. "I think we may
consider the thing as settled—that is, if the rooms are agreeable to you."
"When
shall we see them?"
"Call
for me here at noon to-morrow, and we'll go together and settle
everything," he answered.
"All
right—noon exactly," said I, shaking his hand.
We
left him working among his chemicals, and we walked together towards my hotel.
"By
the way," I asked suddenly, stopping and turning upon Stamford, "how
the deuce did he know that I had come from Afghanistan?"
My
companion smiled an enigmatical smile. "That's just his little
peculiarity," he said. "A good many people have wanted to know how he
finds things out."
"Oh!
a mystery is it?" I cried, rubbing my hands. "This is very piquant. I
am much obliged to you for bringing us together. 'The proper study of mankind
is man,' you know."
"You
must study him, then," Stamford said, as he bade me good-bye. "You'll
find him a knotty problem, though. I'll wager he learns more about you than you
about him. Good-bye."
"Good-bye," I answered, and strolled
on to my hotel, considerably interested in my new acquaintance.
WE
met next day as he had arranged, and inspected the rooms at No. 221B, Baker
Street, of which he had spoken at our meeting. They consisted of a couple of
comfortable bed-rooms and a single large airy sitting-room, cheerfully
furnished, and illuminated by two broad windows. So desirable in every way were
the apartments, and so moderate did the terms seem when divided between us,
that the bargain was concluded upon the spot, and we at once entered into
possession. That very evening I moved my things round from the hotel, and on
the following morning Sherlock Holmes followed me with several boxes and
portmanteaus. For a day or two we were busily employed in unpacking and laying
out our property to the best advantage. That done, we gradually began to settle
down and to accommodate ourselves to our new surroundings.
Holmes
was certainly not a difficult man to live with. He was quiet in his ways, and
his habits were regular. It was rare for him to be up after ten at night, and
he had invariably breakfasted and gone out before I rose in the morning.
Sometimes he spent his day at the chemical laboratory, sometimes in the
dissecting-rooms, and occasionally in long walks, which appeared to take him
into the lowest portions of the City. Nothing could exceed his energy when the
working fit was upon him; but now and again a reaction would seize him, and for
days on end he would lie upon the sofa in the sitting-room, hardly uttering a
word or moving a muscle from morning to night. On these occasions I have
noticed such a dreamy, vacant expression in his eyes, that I might have
suspected him of being addicted to the use of some narcotic, had not the temperance
and cleanliness of his whole life forbidden such a notion.
As
the weeks went by, my interest in him and my curiosity as to his aims in life,
gradually deepened and increased. His very person and appearance were such as
to strike the attention of the most casual observer. In height he was rather
over six feet, and so excessively lean that he seemed to be considerably
taller. His eyes were sharp and piercing, save during those intervals of torpor
to which I have alluded; and his thin, hawk-like nose gave
The
reader may set me down as a hopeless busybody, when I confess how much this man
stimulated my curiosity, and how often I endeavoured to break through the
reticence which he showed on all that concerned himself. Before pronouncing
judgment, however, be it remembered, how objectless was my life, and how little
there was to engage my attention. My health forbade me from venturing out
unless the weather was exceptionally genial, and I had no friends who would
call upon me and break the monotony of my daily existence. Under these
circumstances, I eagerly hailed the little mystery which hung around my
companion, and spent much of my time in endeavouring to unravel it.
He
was not studying medicine. He had himself, in reply to a question, confirmed
Stamford's opinion upon that point. Neither did he appear to have pursued any
course of reading which might fit him for a degree in science or any other
recognized portal which would give him an entrance into the learned world. Yet
his zeal for certain studies was remarkable, and within eccentric limits his
knowledge was so extraordinarily ample and minute that his observations have
fairly astounded me. Surely no man would work so hard or attain such precise
information unless he had some definite end in view. Desultory readers are
seldom remarkable for the exactness of their learning. No man burdens his mind
with small matters unless he has some very good reason for doing so.
His
ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge. Of contemporary literature,
philosophy and politics he appeared to know next to nothing. Upon my quoting
Thomas Carlyle, he inquired in the naivest way who he might be and what he had
done. My surprise reached a climax, however, when I found incidentally that he
was ignorant of the Copernican Theory and of the composition of the Solar
System. That any civilized human being in this nineteenth century should not be
aware that the earth travelled
"You
appear to be astonished," he said, smiling at my expression of surprise.
"Now that I do know it I shall do my best to forget it."
"To
forget it!"
"You
see," he explained, "I consider that a man's brain originally is like
a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture as you
choose. A fool takes in all the lumber of every sort that he comes across, so
that the knowledge which might be useful to him gets crowded out, or at best is
jumbled up with a lot of other things so that he has a difficulty in laying his
hands upon it. Now the skilful workman is very careful indeed as to what he
takes into his brain-attic. He will have nothing but the tools which may help
him in doing his work, but of these he has a large assortment, and all in the
most perfect order. It is a mistake to think that that little room has elastic
walls and can distend to any extent. Depend upon it there comes a time when for
every addition of knowledge you forget something that you knew before. It is of
the highest importance, therefore, not to have useless facts elbowing out the
useful ones."
"But
the Solar System!" I protested.
"What
the deuce is it to me?" he interrupted impatiently; "you say that we
go round the sun. If we went round the moon it would not make a pennyworth of
difference to me or to my work."
I
was on the point of asking him what that work might be, but something in his manner
showed me that the question would be an unwelcome one. I pondered over our
short conversation, however, and endeavoured to draw my deductions from it. He
said that he would acquire no knowledge which did not bear upon his object.
Therefore all the knowledge which he possessed was such as would be useful to
him. I enumerated in my own mind all the various points upon which he had shown
me that he was exceptionally well-informed. I even took a pencil and jotted
them down. I could not help smiling at the document when I had completed it. It
ran in this way—
SHERLOCK
HOLMES—his limits.
Knowledge
of Literature.—Nil.
Philosophy.—Nil.
Astronomy.—Nil.
Politics.—Feeble.
Botany.—Variable.
Well up in belladonna, opium, and poisons generally. Knows nothing of practical
gardening.
Geology.—Practical,
but limited. Tells at a glance different soils from each other. After walks has
shown me splashes upon his trousers, and told me by their colour and
consistence in what part of London he had received them.
Chemistry.—Profound.
Anatomy.—Accurate,
but unsystematic.
Sensational
Literature.—Immense. He appears to know every detail of every horror
perpetrated in the century.
Plays
the violin well.
Is
an expert singlestick player, boxer, and swordsman.
Has
a good practical knowledge of British law.
When
I had got so far in my list I threw it into the fire in despair. "If I can
only find what the fellow is driving at by reconciling all these
accomplishments, and discovering a calling which needs them all," I said
to myself, "I may as well give up the attempt at once."
I
see that I have alluded above to his powers upon the violin. These were very
remarkable, but as eccentric as all his other accomplishments. That he could
play pieces, and difficult pieces, I knew well, because at my request he has
played me some of Mendelssohn's Lieder, and other favourites. When left to
himself, however, he would seldom produce any music or attempt any recognized
air. Leaning back in his arm-chair of an evening, he would close his eyes and
scrape carelessly at the fiddle which was thrown across
During
the first week or so we had no callers, and I had begun to think that my
companion was as friendless a man as I was myself. Presently, however, I found
that he had many acquaintances, and those in the most different classes of
society. There was one little sallow rat-faced, dark-eyed fellow who was
introduced to me as Mr. Lestrade, and who came three or four times in a single
week. One morning a young girl called, fashionably dressed, and stayed for half
an hour or more. The same afternoon brought a grey-headed, seedy visitor,
looking like a Jew pedlar, who appeared to me to be much excited, and who was
closely followed by a slip-shod elderly woman. On another occasion an old
white-haired gentleman had an interview with my companion; and on another a
railway porter in his velveteen uniform. When any of these nondescript
individuals put in an appearance, Sherlock Holmes used to beg for the use of
the sitting-room, and I would retire to my bed-room. He always apologized to me
for putting me to this inconvenience. "I have to use this room as a place
of business," he said, "and these people are my clients." Again
I had an opportunity of asking him a point blank question, and again my
delicacy prevented me from forcing another man to confide in me. I imagined at
the time that he had some strong reason for not alluding to it, but he soon
dispelled the idea by coming round to the subject of his own accord.
It
was upon the 4th of March, as I have good reason to remember, that I rose
somewhat earlier than usual, and found that Sherlock Holmes had not yet
finished his breakfast. The landlady had become so accustomed to my late habits
that my place had not been laid nor my coffee prepared. With the unreasonable
petulance of mankind I rang the bell and gave a curt intimation that I was
ready. Then I picked up a magazine from the table and
Its
somewhat ambitious title was "The Book of Life," and it attempted to
show how much an observant man might learn by an accurate and systematic
examination of all that came in his way. It struck me as being a remarkable
mixture of shrewdness and of absurdity. The reasoning was close and intense,
but the deductions appeared to me to be far-fetched and exaggerated. The writer
claimed by a momentary expression, a twitch of a muscle or a glance of an eye,
to fathom a man's inmost thoughts. Deceit, according to him, was an
impossibility in the case of one trained to observation and analysis. His
conclusions were as infallible as so many propositions of Euclid. So startling
would his results appear to the uninitiated that until they learned the
processes by which he had arrived at them they might well consider him as a
necromancer.
"From
a drop of water," said the writer, "a logician could infer the
possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara without having seen or heard of one or
the other. So all life is a great chain, the nature of which is known whenever
we are shown a single link of it. Like all other arts, the Science of Deduction
and Analysis is one which can only be acquired by long and patient study nor is
life long enough to allow any mortal to attain the highest possible perfection
in it. Before turning to those moral and mental aspects of the matter which
present the greatest difficulties, let the enquirer begin by mastering more
elementary problems. Let him, on meeting a fellow-mortal, learn at a glance to
distinguish the history of the man, and the trade or profession to which he
belongs. Puerile as such an exercise may seem, it sharpens the faculties of
observation, and teaches one where to look and what to look for. By a man's
finger nails, by his coat-sleeve, by his boot, by his trouser knees, by the
callosities of his forefinger and thumb, by his expression, by his shirt
cuffs—by each of these things a man's calling is plainly revealed. That all
united should fail to enlighten the competent enquirer in any case is almost
inconceivable."
"What
ineffable twaddle!" I cried, slapping the magazine down on the table,
"I never read such rubbish in my life."
"What
is it?" asked Sherlock Holmes.
"Why,
this article," I said, pointing at it with my egg spoon as I sat down to
my breakfast. "I see that you have read it since you have marked it. I
don't deny that it is smartly written. It irritates me though. It is evidently
the theory of some arm-chair lounger who evolves all these neat little
paradoxes in the seclusion of his own study. It is not practical. I should like
to see him clapped down in a third class carriage on the Underground, and asked
to give the trades of all his fellow-travellers. I would lay a thousand to one
against him."
"You
would lose your money," Sherlock Holmes remarked calmly. "As for the
article I wrote it myself."
"You!"
"Yes,
I have a turn both for observation and for deduction. The theories which I have
expressed there, and which appear to you to be so chimerical are really
extremely practical—so practical that I depend upon them for my bread and
cheese."
"And
how?" I asked involuntarily.
"Well,
I have a trade of my own. I suppose I am the only one in the world. I'm a
consulting detective, if you can understand what that is. Here in London we
have lots of Government detectives and lots of private ones. When these fellows
are at fault they come to me, and I manage to put them on the right scent. They
lay all the evidence before me, and I am generally able, by the help of my
knowledge of the history of crime, to set them straight. There is a strong
family resemblance about misdeeds, and if you have all the details of a
thousand at your finger ends, it is odd if you can't unravel the thousand and
first. Lestrade is a well-known detective. He got himself into a fog recently
over a forgery case, and that was what brought him here."
"And
these other people?"
"They
are mostly sent on by private inquiry agencies. They are all people who are in
trouble about something, and want a little enlightening. I listen to their
story, they listen to my comments, and then I pocket my fee."
"But
do you mean to say," I said, "that without leaving your room you can
unravel some knot which other men can make nothing of, although they have seen
every detail for themselves?"
"Quite
so. I have a kind of intuition that way. Now and again a case turns up which is
a little more complex. Then I have to bustle about and see things with my own
eyes. You see I have a lot of special knowledge which I apply to the problem,
and which facilitates matters wonderfully. Those rules of deduction laid down
in that article which aroused your scorn, are invaluable to me in practical
work. Observation with me is second nature. You appeared to be surprised when I
told you, on our first meeting, that you had come from Afghanistan."
"You
were told, no doubt."
"Nothing
of the sort. I knew you came from Afghanistan. From long habit the train of
thoughts ran so swiftly through my mind, that I arrived at the conclusion
without being conscious of intermediate steps. There were such steps, however.
The train of reasoning ran, 'Here is a gentleman of a medical type, but with
the air of a military man. Clearly an army doctor, then. He has just come from
the tropics, for his face is dark, and that is not the natural tint of his
skin, for his wrists are fair. He has undergone hardship and sickness, as his
haggard face says clearly. His left arm has been injured. He holds it in a
stiff and unnatural manner. Where in the tropics could an English army doctor
have seen much hardship and got his arm wounded? Clearly in Afghanistan.' The
whole train of thought did not occupy a second. I then remarked that you came
from Afghanistan, and you were astonished."
"It
is simple enough as you explain it," I said, smiling. "You remind me
of Edgar Allen Poe's Dupin. I had no idea that such individuals did exist
outside of stories."
Sherlock
Holmes rose and lit his pipe. "No doubt you think that you are
complimenting me in comparing me to Dupin," he observed. "Now, in my
opinion, Dupin was a very inferior fellow. That trick of his of breaking in on
his friends' thoughts with an apropos remark after a quarter of an hour's
silence is really very showy and superficial. He had some analytical genius, no
doubt; but he was by no means such a phenomenon as Poe appeared to
imagine."
"Have
you read Gaboriau's works?" I asked. "Does Lecoq come up to your idea
of a detective?"
Sherlock
Holmes sniffed sardonically. "Lecoq was a miserable bungler," he
said, in an angry voice; "he had only one thing to recommend him, and that
was his energy. That book made me positively ill. The question was how to
identify an unknown prisoner. I could have done it in twenty-four hours.
Lecoq
took six months or so. It might be made a text-book for detectives to teach
them what to avoid."
I
felt rather indignant at having two characters whom I had admired treated in
this cavalier style. I walked over to the window, and stood looking out into
the busy street. "This fellow may be very clever," I said to myself,
"but he is certainly very conceited."
"There
are no crimes and no criminals in these days," he said, querulously.
"What is the use of having brains in our profession. I know well that I
have it in me to make my name famous. No man lives or has ever lived who has
brought the same amount of study and of natural talent to the detection of
crime which I have done. And what is the result? There is no crime to detect,
or, at most, some bungling villainy with a motive so transparent that even a
Scotland Yard official can see through it."
I
was still annoyed at his bumptious style of conversation. I thought it best to
change the topic.
"I
wonder what that fellow is looking for?" I asked, pointing to a stalwart,
plainly-dressed individual who was walking slowly down the other side of the
street, looking anxiously at the numbers. He had a large blue envelope in his
hand, and was evidently the bearer of a message.
"You
mean the retired sergeant of Marines," said Sherlock Holmes.
"Brag
and bounce!" thought I to myself. "He knows that I cannot verify his
guess."
The
thought had hardly passed through my mind when the man whom we were watching
caught sight of the number on our door, and ran rapidly across the roadway. We
heard a loud knock, a deep voice below, and heavy steps ascending the stair.
"For
Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he said, stepping into the room and handing my
friend the letter.
Here
was an opportunity of taking the conceit out of him. He little thought of this
when he made that random shot. "May I ask, my lad," I said, in the
blandest voice, "what your trade may be?"
"Commissionaire,
sir," he said, gruffly. "Uniform away for repairs."
"And
you were?" I asked, with a slightly malicious glance at my companion.
"A
sergeant, sir, Royal Marine Light Infantry, sir. No answer? Right, sir."
He
clicked his heels together, raised his hand in a salute, and was gone.
I
CONFESS that I was considerably startled by this fresh proof of the practical
nature of my companion's theories. My respect for his powers of analysis
increased wondrously. There still remained some lurking suspicion in my mind,
however, that the whole thing was a pre-arranged episode, intended to dazzle
me, though what earthly object he could have in taking me in was past my
comprehension. When I looked at him he had finished reading the note, and his
eyes had assumed the vacant, lack-lustre expression which showed mental
abstraction.
"How
in the world did you deduce that?" I asked.
"Deduce
what?" said he, petulantly.
"Why,
that he was a retired sergeant of Marines."
"I
have no time for trifles," he answered, brusquely; then with a smile,
"Excuse my rudeness. You broke the thread of my thoughts; but perhaps it
is as well. So you actually were not able to see that that man was a sergeant
of Marines?"
"No,
indeed."
"It
was easier to know it than to explain why I knew it. If you were asked to prove
that two and two made four, you might find some difficulty, and yet you are
quite sure of the fact. Even across the street I could see a great blue anchor
tattooed on the back of the fellow's hand. That smacked of the sea. He had a
military carriage, however, and regulation side whiskers. There we have the
marine. He was a man with some amount of self-importance and a certain air of
command. You must have observed the way in which he held his head and swung his
cane. A steady, respectable, middle-aged man, too, on the face of him—all facts
which led me to believe that he had been a sergeant."
"Wonderful!"
I ejaculated.
"Commonplace,"
said Holmes, though I thought from his expression that he was pleased at my
evident surprise and admiration. "I said just now that there were no
criminals. It appears that I am wrong—look at this!" He threw me over the
note which the commissionaire had brought.
"Why,"
I cried, as I cast my eye over it, "this is terrible!"
"It
does seem to be a little out of the common," he remarked, calmly.
"Would you mind reading it to me aloud?"
This
is the letter which I read to him—— "MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES,—
"There
has been a bad business during the night at 3, Lauriston Gardens, off
the
Brixton Road. Our man on the beat saw a light there about two in the
morning,
and as the house was an empty one, suspected that something
was
amiss. He found the door open, and in the front room, which is bare of
furniture,
discovered the body of a gentleman, well dressed, and having
cards
in his pocket bearing the name of 'Enoch J. Drebber, Cleveland, Ohio,
U.S.A.'
There had been no robbery, nor is there any evidence as to how the
man
met his death. There are marks of blood in the room, but there is no
wound
upon his person. We are at a loss as to how he came into the empty
house;
indeed, the whole affair is a puzzler. If you can come round to the
house
any time before twelve, you will find me there. I have left
everything
in statu quo until I hear from you. If you are unable to come I shall
give
you fuller details, and would esteem it a great kindness if you would
favour
me with your opinion. Yours faithfully,
"TOBIAS
GREGSON."
"Gregson
is the smartest of the Scotland Yarders," my friend remarked; "he and
Lestrade are the pick of a bad lot. They are both quick and energetic, but
conventional—shockingly so. They have their knives into one another, too. They
are as jealous as a pair of professional beauties. There will be some fun over
this case if they are both put upon the scent."
I
was amazed at the calm way in which he rippled on. "Surely there is not a
moment to be lost," I cried, "shall I go and order you a cab?"
"I'm
not sure about whether I shall go. I am the most incurably lazy devil that ever
stood in shoe leather—that is, when the fit is on me, for I can be spry enough
at times."
"Why,
it is just such a chance as you have been longing for."
"My
dear fellow, what does it matter to me. Supposing I unravel the whole matter,
you may be sure that Gregson, Lestrade, and Co. will pocket all the credit.
That comes of being an unofficial personage."
"But
he begs you to help him."
"Yes.
He knows that I am his superior, and acknowledges it to me; but he would cut
his tongue out before he would own it to any third person. However, we may as
well go and have a look. I shall work it out on my own hook. I may have a laugh
at them if I have nothing else. Come on!"
He
hustled on his overcoat, and bustled about in a way that showed that an
energetic fit had superseded the apathetic one.
"Get
your hat," he said.
"You
wish me to come?"
"Yes,
if you have nothing better to do." A minute later we were both in a
hansom, driving furiously for the Brixton Road.
It
was a foggy, cloudy morning, and a dun-coloured veil hung over the house-tops,
looking like the reflection of the mud-coloured streets beneath. My companion
was in the best of spirits, and prattled away about Cremona fiddles, and the
difference between a Stradivarius and an Amati. As for myself, I was silent,
for the dull weather and the melancholy business upon which we were engaged,
depressed my spirits.
"You
don't seem to give much thought to the matter in hand," I said at last,
interrupting Holmes' musical disquisition.
"No
data yet," he answered. "It is a capital mistake to theorize before
you have all the evidence. It biases the judgment."
"You
will have your data soon," I remarked, pointing with my finger; "this
is the Brixton Road, and that is the house, if I am not very much
mistaken."
"So
it is. Stop, driver, stop!" We were still a hundred yards or so from it,
but he insisted upon our alighting, and we finished our journey upon foot.
Number
3, Lauriston Gardens wore an ill-omened and minatory look. It was one of four
which stood back some little way from the street, two being occupied and two
empty. The latter looked out with three tiers of vacant melancholy windows,
which were blank and dreary, save that here and there a "To Let" card
had developed like a cataract upon the bleared panes. A small garden sprinkled
over with a scattered eruption of sickly plants separated each of these houses
from the street, and was traversed by a narrow pathway, yellowish in colour,
and consisting apparently of a mixture of clay and of gravel. The whole place
was very sloppy from the rain which had fallen through the night. The garden
was bounded by a three-foot brick wall with a fringe of wood rails upon the
top, and against this wall was leaning a stalwart police constable, surrounded
by a small knot of loafers, who craned their necks and strained their eyes in
the vain hope of catching some glimpse of the proceedings within.
I
had imagined that Sherlock Holmes would at once have hurried into the house and
plunged into a study of the mystery. Nothing appeared to be further from his
intention. With an air of nonchalance which, under the circumstances, seemed to
me to border upon affectation, he lounged up and down the pavement, and gazed
vacantly at the ground, the sky, the opposite houses and the line of railings.
Having finished his scrutiny, he proceeded slowly down the path, or rather down
the fringe of grass which flanked the path, keeping his eyes riveted upon the
ground. Twice he stopped, and once I saw him smile, and heard him utter an
exclamation of satisfaction. There were many marks of footsteps upon the wet
clayey soil, but since the police had been coming and going over it, I was
unable to see how my companion could hope to learn anything from it. Still I
had had such extraordinary evidence of the quickness of his perceptive
faculties, that I had no doubt that he could see a great deal which was hidden
from me.
At
the door of the house we were met by a tall, white-faced, flaxen-haired man,
with a notebook in his hand, who rushed forward and wrung my companion's hand
with effusion. "It is indeed kind of you to come," he said, "I
have had everything left untouched."
"Except
that!" my friend answered, pointing at the pathway. "If a herd of
buffaloes had passed along there could not be a greater mess. No doubt,
however, you had drawn your own conclusions, Gregson, before you permitted
this."
"I
have had so much to do inside the house," the detective said evasively.
"My colleague, Mr. Lestrade, is here. I had relied upon him to look after
this."
Holmes
glanced at me and raised his eyebrows sardonically. "With two such men as
yourself and Lestrade upon the ground, there will not be much for a third party
to find out," he said.
Gregson
rubbed his hands in a self-satisfied way. "I think we have done all that
can be done," he answered; "it's a queer case though, and I knew your
taste for such things."
"You
did not come here in a cab?" asked Sherlock Holmes.
"No,
sir."
"Nor
Lestrade?"
"No,
sir."
"Then
let us go and look at the room." With which inconsequent remark he strode
on into the house, followed by Gregson, whose features expressed his
astonishment.
A
short passage, bare planked and dusty, led to the kitchen and offices. Two
doors opened out of it to the left and to the right. One of these had obviously
been closed for many weeks. The other belonged to the dining-room, which was
the apartment in which the mysterious affair had occurred. Holmes walked in,
and I followed him with that subdued feeling at my heart which the presence of
death inspires.
It
was a large square room, looking all the larger from the absence of all
furniture. A vulgar flaring paper adorned the walls, but it was blotched in
places with mildew, and here and there great strips had become detached and
hung down, exposing the yellow plaster beneath. Opposite the door was a showy
fireplace, surmounted by a mantelpiece of imitation white marble. On one corner
of this was stuck the stump of a red wax candle. The solitary window was so dirty
that the light was hazy and uncertain, giving a dull grey tinge to everything,
which was intensified by the thick layer of dust which coated the whole
apartment.
All
these details I observed afterwards. At present my attention was centred upon
the single grim motionless figure which lay stretched upon the boards, with
vacant sightless eyes staring up at the discoloured ceiling. It was that of a
man about forty-three or forty-four years of age, middle-sized, broad
shouldered, with crisp curling black hair, and a short stubbly beard. He was
dressed in a heavy broadcloth frock coat and waistcoat, with light-coloured
trousers, and immaculate collar and cuffs. A top hat, well brushed and trim,
was placed upon the floor beside him. His hands were clenched and his arms
thrown abroad, while his lower limbs were interlocked as though his death
struggle had been a grievous one. On his rigid face there stood an expression
of horror, and as it seemed to me, of hatred, such as I have never seen upon
human features. This malignant and terrible contortion, combined with the low
forehead, blunt nose, and prognathous jaw gave the dead man a singularly
simious and ape-like appearance, which was increased by his writhing, unnatural
posture. I have seen death in many forms, but never has it appeared to me in a
more fearsome aspect than in that dark grimy apartment, which looked out upon
one of the main arteries of suburban London.
Lestrade,
lean and ferret-like as ever, was standing by the doorway, and greeted my
companion and myself.
"This
case will make a stir, sir," he remarked. "It beats anything I have
seen, and I am no chicken."
"There
is no clue?" said Gregson.
"None
at all," chimed in Lestrade.
Sherlock
Holmes approached the body, and, kneeling down, examined it intently. "You
are sure that there is no wound?" he asked, pointing to numerous gouts and
splashes of blood which lay all round.
"Positive!"
cried both detectives.
"Then,
of course, this blood belongs to a second individual—presumably the murderer,
if murder has been committed. It reminds me of the circumstances attendant on
the death of Van Jansen, in Utrecht, in the year '34. Do you remember the case,
Gregson?"
"No,
sir."
"Read
it up—you really should. There is nothing new under the sun. It has all been
done before."
 |
"He
has not been moved at all?" he asked.
"No
more than was necessary for the purposes of our examination."
"You
can take him to the mortuary now," he said. "There is nothing more to
be learned."
Gregson
had a stretcher and four men at hand. At his call they entered the room, and
the stranger was lifted and carried out. As they raised him, a ring tinkled
down and rolled across the floor. Lestrade grabbed it up and stared at it with
mystified eyes.
"There's
been a woman here," he cried. "It's a woman's wedding-ring."
He
held it out, as he spoke, upon the palm of his hand. We all gathered round him
and gazed at it. There could be no doubt that that circlet of plain gold had
once adorned the finger of a bride.
"This
complicates matters," said Gregson. "Heaven knows, they were
complicated enough before."
"You're
sure it doesn't simplify them?" observed Holmes. "There's nothing to
be learned by staring at it. What did you find in his pockets?"
"We
have it all here," said Gregson, pointing to a litter of objects upon one
of the bottom steps of the stairs. "A gold watch, No. 97163, by Barraud,
of London. Gold Albert chain, very heavy and solid. Gold ring, with masonic
device. Gold pin—bull-dog's head, with rubies as eyes. Russian leather
card-case, with cards of Enoch J. Drebber of Cleveland, corresponding with the
E. J. D. upon the linen. No purse, but loose money to the extent of seven
pounds thirteen. Pocket edition of Boccaccio's 'Decameron,' with name of Joseph
Stangerson upon the fly-leaf. Two letters—one addressed to E. J. Drebber and
one to Joseph Stangerson."
"At
what address?"
"American
Exchange, Strand—to be left till called for. They are both from the Guion
Steamship Company, and refer to the sailing of their boats from Liverpool. It
is clear that this unfortunate man was about to return to New York."
"Have
you made any inquiries as to this man, Stangerson?"
"I
did it at once, sir," said Gregson. "I have had advertisements sent
to all the newspapers, and one of my men has gone to the American Exchange, but
he has not returned yet."
"Have
you sent to Cleveland?"
"We
telegraphed this morning."
"How
did you word your inquiries?"
"We
simply detailed the circumstances, and said that we should be glad of any
information which could help us."
"You
did not ask for particulars on any point which appeared to you to be
crucial?"
"I
asked about Stangerson."
"Nothing
else? Is there no circumstance on which this whole case appears to hinge? Will
you not telegraph again?"
"I
have said all I have to say," said Gregson, in an offended voice.
Sherlock
Holmes chuckled to himself, and appeared to be about to make some remark, when
Lestrade, who had been in the front room while we were holding this
conversation in the hall, reappeared upon the scene, rubbing his hands in a
pompous and self-satisfied manner.
"Mr.
Gregson," he said, "I have just made a discovery of the highest
importance, and one which would have been overlooked had I not made a careful
examination of the walls."
The
little man's eyes sparkled as he spoke, and he was evidently in a state of
suppressed exultation at having scored a point against his colleague.
"Come
here," he said, bustling back into the room, the atmosphere of which felt
clearer since the removal of its ghastly inmate. "Now, stand there!"
He
struck a match on his boot and held it up against the wall.
"Look
at that!" he said, triumphantly.
I
have remarked that the paper had fallen away in parts. In this particular
corner of the room a large piece had peeled off, leaving a yellow square of
coarse plastering. Across this bare space there was scrawled in blood-red
letters a single word—
RACHE.
"What
do you think of that?" cried the detective, with the air of a showman
exhibiting his show. "This was overlooked because it was in the darkest
corner of the room, and no one thought of looking there. The murderer has
written it with his or her own blood. See this smear where it has trickled down
the wall! That disposes of the idea of suicide anyhow. Why was that corner
chosen to write it on? I will tell you. See that candle on the mantelpiece. It
was lit at the time, and if it was lit this corner would be the brightest
instead of the darkest portion of the wall."
"And
what does it mean now that you have found it?" asked Gregson in a
depreciatory voice.
"Mean?
Why, it means that the writer was going to put the female name Rachel, but was
disturbed before he or she had time to finish. You mark my words, when this
case comes to be cleared up you will find that a woman named Rachel has
something to do with it. It's all very well for you to laugh, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes. You may be very smart and clever, but the old hound is the best, when
all is said and done."
"I
really beg your pardon!" said my companion, who had ruffled the little
man's temper by bursting into an explosion of laughter. "You certainly
have the credit of being the first of us to find this out, and, as you say, it
bears every mark of having been written by the other participant in last
night's mystery. I have not had time to examine this room yet, but with your
permission I shall do so now."
As he spoke, he whipped a tape measure and a large round magnifying glass from his pocket. With these two implements he trotted noiselessly about the room, sometimes stopping, occasionally kneeling, and once lying flat upon his face. So engrossed was he with his occupation that he appeared to have
|
"They
say that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains," he remarked
with a smile. "It's a very bad definition, but it does apply to detective
work."
Gregson
and Lestrade had watched the manoeuvres of their amateur companion with
considerable curiosity and some contempt. They evidently failed to appreciate
the fact, which I had begun to realize, that Sherlock Holmes' smallest actions
were all directed towards some definite and practical end.
"What
do you think of it, sir?" they both asked.
"It
would be robbing you of the credit of the case if I was to presume to help
you," remarked my friend. "You are doing so well now that it would be
a pity for anyone to interfere." There was a world of sarcasm in his voice
as he spoke. "If you will let me know how your investigations go," he
continued, "I shall be happy to give you any help I can. In the meantime I
should like to speak to the constable who found the body. Can you give me his
name and address?"
Lestrade
glanced at his note-book. "John Rance," he said. "He is off duty
now. You will find him at 46, Audley Court, Kennington Park Gate."
Holmes
took a note of the address.
"Come
along, Doctor," he said; "we shall go and look him up. I'll tell you
one thing which may help you in the case," he continued, turning to the
two detectives. "There has been murder done, and the murderer was a man.
He was more than six feet high, was in the prime of life, had small feet for
his height, wore coarse, square-toed boots and smoked a Trichinopoly cigar. He
came here with his victim in a four-wheeled cab, which was drawn by a horse
with three old shoes and one new one on his off fore leg. In all probability
the murderer had a florid face, and the finger-nails of his right hand were remarkably
long. These are only a few indications, but they may assist you."
Lestrade
and Gregson glanced at each other with an incredulous smile.
"If
this man was murdered, how was it done?" asked the former.
"Poison,"
said Sherlock Holmes curtly, and strode off. "One other thing,
Lestrade," he added, turning round at the door: "'Rache,' is the
German for 'revenge;' so don't lose your time looking for Miss Rachel."
With
which Parthian shot he walked away, leaving the two rivals open-mouthed behind him.
IT
was one o'clock when we left No. 3, Lauriston Gardens. Sherlock Holmes led me
to the nearest telegraph office, whence he dispatched a long telegram. He then
hailed a cab, and ordered the driver to take us to the address given us by
Lestrade.
"There
is nothing like first hand evidence," he remarked; "as a matter of
fact, my mind is entirely made up upon the case, but still we may as well learn
all that is to be learned."
"You
amaze me, Holmes," said I. "Surely you are not as sure as you pretend
to be of all those particulars which you gave."
"There's
no room for a mistake," he answered. "The very first thing which I
observed on arriving there was that a cab had made two ruts with its wheels
close to the curb. Now, up to last night, we have had no rain for a week, so
that those wheels which left such a deep impression must have been there during
the night. There were the marks of the horse's hoofs, too, the outline of one
of which was far more clearly cut than that of the other three, showing that
that was a new shoe. Since the cab was there after the rain began, and was not
there at any time during the morning—I have Gregson's word for that—it follows
that it must have been there during the night, and, therefore, that it brought
those two individuals to the house."
"That
seems simple enough," said I; "but how about the other man's
height?"
"Why,
the height of a man, in nine cases out of ten, can be told from the length of
his stride. It is a simple calculation enough, though there is no use my boring
you with figures. I had this fellow's stride both on the clay outside and on
the dust within. Then I had a way of checking my calculation. When a man writes
on a wall, his instinct leads him to write about the level of his own eyes. Now
that writing was just over six feet from the ground. It was child's play."
"And
his age?" I asked.
"Well,
if a man can stride four and a-half feet without the smallest effort, he can't
be quite in the sere and yellow. That was the breadth of a puddle on the garden
walk which he had evidently walked across. Patent-leather boots had gone round,
and Square-toes had hopped over. There is no mystery about it at all. I am
simply applying to ordinary life a few of those precepts of observation and
deduction which I advocated in that article. Is there anything else that
puzzles you?"
"The
finger nails and the Trichinopoly," I suggested.
"The
writing on the wall was done with a man's forefinger dipped in blood. My glass
allowed me to observe that the plaster was slightly scratched in doing it,
which would not have been the case if the man's nail had been trimmed. I
gathered up some scattered ash from the floor. It was dark in colour and
flakey—such an ash as is only made by a Trichinopoly. I have made a special
study of cigar ashes—in fact, I have written a monograph upon the subject. I
flatter myself that I can distinguish at a glance the ash of any known brand,
either of cigar or of tobacco. It is just in such details that the skilled
detective differs from the Gregson and Lestrade type."
"And
the florid face?" I asked.
"Ah,
that was a more daring shot, though I have no doubt that I was right. You must
not ask me that at the present state of the affair."
I
passed my hand over my brow. "My head is in a whirl," I remarked;
"the more one thinks of it the more mysterious it grows. How came these
two men—if there were two men—into an empty house? What has become of the
cabman who drove them? How could one man compel another to take poison? Where
did the blood come from? What was the object of the murderer, since robbery had
no part in it? How came the woman's ring there? Above all, why should the
second man write up the German word RACHE before decamping? I confess that I
cannot see any possible way of reconciling all these facts."
My
companion smiled approvingly.
"You
sum up the difficulties of the situation succinctly and well," he said.
"There is much that is still obscure, though I have quite made up my mind
on
"I
shall never do that," I answered; "you have brought detection as near
an exact science as it ever will be brought in this world."
My
companion flushed up with pleasure at my words, and the earnest way in which I
uttered them. I had already observed that he was as sensitive to flattery on
the score of his art as any girl could be of her beauty.
"I'll
tell you one other thing," he said. "Patent leathers and Square-toes
came in the same cab, and they walked down the pathway together as friendly as
possible—arm-in-arm, in all probability. When they got inside they walked up
and down the room—or rather, Patent-leathers stood still while Square-toes
walked up and down. I could read all that in the dust; and I could read that as
he walked he grew more and more excited. That is shown by the increased length
of his strides. He was talking all the while, and working himself up, no doubt,
into a fury. Then the tragedy occurred. I've told you all I know myself now,
for the rest is mere surmise and conjecture. We have a good working basis,
however, on which to start. We must hurry up, for I want to go to Halle's
concert to hear Norman Neruda this afternoon."
This
conversation had occurred while our cab had been threading its way through a
long succession of dingy streets and dreary by-ways. In the dingiest and
dreariest of them our driver suddenly came to a stand. "That's Audley
Court in there," he said, pointing to a narrow slit in the line of
dead-coloured brick. "You'll find me here when you come back."
Audley
Court was not an attractive locality. The narrow passage led us into a
quadrangle paved with flags and lined by sordid dwellings. We picked our way
among groups of dirty children, and through lines of discoloured linen, until
we came to Number 46, the door of which was decorated with a small slip of
brass on which the name Rance was engraved. On enquiry we found that the
constable was in bed, and we were shown into a little front parlour to await
his coming.
He
appeared presently, looking a little irritable at being disturbed in his
slumbers. "I made my report at the office," he said.
Holmes
took a half-sovereign from his pocket and played with it pensively.
"We
thought that we should like to hear it all from your own lips," he said.
"I
shall be most happy to tell you anything I can," the constable answered
with his eyes upon the little golden disk.
"Just
let us hear it all in your own way as it occurred."
Rance
sat down on the horsehair sofa, and knitted his brows as though determined not
to omit anything in his narrative.
"I'll
tell it ye from the beginning," he said. "My time is from ten at
night to six in the morning. At eleven there was a fight at the 'White Hart';
but bar that all was quiet enough on the beat. At one o'clock it began to rain,
and I met Harry Murcher—him who has the Holland Grove beat—and we stood
together at the corner of Henrietta Street a-talkin'. Presently—maybe about two
or a little after—I thought I would take a look round and see that all was
right down the Brixton Road. It was precious dirty and lonely. Not a soul did I
meet all the way down, though a cab or two went past me. I was a strollin'
down, thinkin' between ourselves how uncommon handy a four of gin hot would be,
when suddenly the glint of a light caught my eye in the window of that same
house. Now, I knew that them two houses in Lauriston Gardens was empty on
account of him that owns them who won't have the drains seen to, though the
very last tenant what lived in one of them died o' typhoid fever. I was knocked
all in a heap therefore at seeing a light in the window, and I suspected as
something was wrong. When I got to the door——"
"You
stopped, and then walked back to the garden gate," my companion
interrupted. "What did you do that for?"
Rance
gave a violent jump, and stared at Sherlock Holmes with the utmost amazement
upon his features.
"Why,
that's true, sir," he said; "though how you come to know it, Heaven
only knows. Ye see, when I got up to the door it was so still and so lonesome,
that I thought I'd be none the worse for some one with me. I ain't afeared of
anything on this side o' the grave; but I thought that maybe it was him that
died o' the typhoid inspecting the drains what killed him. The thought gave me
a kind o' turn, and I walked back to the gate to see if I could see Murcher's
lantern, but there wasn't no sign of him nor of anyone else."
"There
was no one in the street?"
"Not
a livin' soul, sir, nor as much as a dog. Then I pulled myself together and
went back and pushed the door open. All was quiet inside, so I went into the
room where the light was a-burnin'. There was a candle flickerin' on the
mantelpiece—a red wax one—and by its light I saw——"
"Yes,
I know all that you saw. You walked round the room several times, and you knelt
down by the body, and then you walked through and tried the kitchen door, and
then——"
John
Rance sprang to his feet with a frightened face and suspicion in his eyes.
"Where was you hid to see all that?" he cried. "It seems to me
that you knows a deal more than you should."
Holmes
laughed and threw his card across the table to the constable. "Don't get
arresting me for the murder," he said. "I am one of the hounds and
not the wolf; Mr. Gregson or Mr. Lestrade will answer for that. Go on, though.
What did you do next?"
Rance
resumed his seat, without however losing his mystified expression. "I went
back to the gate and sounded my whistle. That brought Murcher and two more to
the spot."
"Was
the street empty then?"
"Well,
it was, as far as anybody that could be of any good goes."
"What
do you mean?"
The
constable's features broadened into a grin. "I've seen many a drunk chap
in my time," he said, "but never anyone so cryin' drunk as that cove.
He was at the gate when I came out, a-leanin' up agin the railings, and
a-singin' at the pitch o' his lungs about Columbine's New-fangled Banner, or
some such stuff. He couldn't stand, far less help."
"What
sort of a man was he?" asked Sherlock Holmes.
John
Rance appeared to be somewhat irritated at this digression. "He was an
uncommon drunk sort o' man," he said. "He'd ha' found hisself in the
station if we hadn't been so took up."
"His
face—his dress—didn't you notice them?" Holmes broke in impatiently.
"I
should think I did notice them, seeing that I had to prop him up—me and Murcher
between us. He was a long chap, with a red face, the lower part muffled
round——"
"That
will do," cried Holmes. "What became of him?"
"We'd
enough to do without lookin' after him," the policeman said, in an
aggrieved voice. "I'll wager he found his way home all right."
"How
was he dressed?"
"A
brown overcoat."
"Had
he a whip in his hand?"
"A
whip—no."
"He
must have left it behind," muttered my companion. "You didn't happen
to see or hear a cab after that?"
"No."
"There's
a half-sovereign for you," my companion said, standing up and taking his
hat. "I am afraid, Rance, that you will never rise in the force. That head
of yours should be for use as well as ornament. You might have gained
We
started off for the cab together, leaving our informant incredulous, but obviously
uncomfortable.
"The
blundering fool," Holmes said, bitterly, as we drove back to our lodgings.
"Just to think of his having such an incomparable bit of good luck, and
not taking advantage of it."
"I
am rather in the dark still. It is true that the description of this man
tallies with your idea of the second party in this mystery. But why should he
come back to the house after leaving it? That is not the way of
criminals."
"The
ring, man, the ring: that was what he came back for. If we have no other way of
catching him, we can always bait our line with the ring. I shall have him,
Doctor—I'll lay you two to one that I have him. I must thank you for it all. I
might not have gone but for you, and so have missed the finest study I ever
came across: a study in scarlet, eh? Why shouldn't we use a little art jargon.
There's the scarlet thread of murder running through the colourless skein of
life, and our duty is to unravel it, and isolate it, and expose every inch of
it. And now for lunch, and then for Norman Neruda. Her attack and her bowing
are splendid. What's that little thing of Chopin's she plays so magnificently:
Tra-la-la-lira-lira-lay."
Leaning
back in the cab, this amateur bloodhound carolled away like a lark while I
meditated upon the many-sidedness of the human mind.
OUR
morning's exertions had been too much for my weak health, and I was tired out
in the afternoon. After Holmes' departure for the concert, I lay down upon the
sofa and endeavoured to get a couple of hours' sleep. It was a useless attempt.
My mind had been too much excited by all that had occurred, and the strangest
fancies and surmises crowded into it. Every time that I closed my eyes I saw
before me the distorted baboon-like countenance of the murdered man. So
sinister was the impression which that face had produced upon me that I found
it difficult to feel anything but gratitude for him who had removed its owner
from the world. If ever human features bespoke vice of the most malignant type,
they were certainly those of Enoch J. Drebber, of Cleveland. Still I recognized
that justice must be done, and that the depravity of the victim was no
condonment in the eyes of the law.
The
more I thought of it the more extraordinary did my companion's hypothesis, that
the man had been poisoned, appear. I remembered how he had sniffed his lips,
and had no doubt that he had detected something which had given rise to the
idea. Then, again, if not poison, what had caused the man's death, since there
was neither wound nor marks of strangulation? But, on the other hand, whose
blood was that which lay so thickly upon the floor? There were no signs of a
struggle, nor had the victim any weapon with which he might have wounded an
antagonist. As long as all these questions were unsolved, I felt that sleep
would be no easy matter, either for Holmes or myself. His quiet self-confident
manner convinced me that he had already formed a theory which explained all the
facts, though what it was I could not for an instant conjecture.
He
was very late in returning—so late, that I knew that the concert could not have
detained him all the time. Dinner was on the table before he appeared.
"It
was magnificent," he said, as he took his seat. "Do you remember what
Darwin says about music? He claims that the power of producing and appreciating
it existed among the human race long before the power of
"That's
rather a broad idea," I remarked.
"One's
ideas must be as broad as Nature if they are to interpret Nature," he
answered. "What's the matter? You're not looking quite yourself. This
Brixton Road affair has upset you."
"To
tell the truth, it has," I said. "I ought to be more case-hardened
after my Afghan experiences. I saw my own comrades hacked to pieces at Maiwand
without losing my nerve."
"I
can understand. There is a mystery about this which stimulates the imagination;
where there is no imagination there is no horror. Have you seen the evening
paper?"
"No."
"It
gives a fairly good account of the affair. It does not mention the fact that
when the man was raised up, a woman's wedding ring fell upon the floor. It is
just as well it does not."
"Why?"
"Look
at this advertisement," he answered. "I had one sent to every paper
this morning immediately after the affair."
He
threw the paper across to me and I glanced at the place indicated. It was the
first announcement in the "Found" column. "In Brixton Road, this
morning," it ran, "a plain gold wedding ring, found in the roadway
between the 'White Hart' Tavern and Holland Grove. Apply Dr. Watson, 221B, Baker
Street, between eight and nine this evening."
"Excuse
my using your name," he said. "If I used my own some of these
dunderheads would recognize it, and want to meddle in the affair."
"That
is all right," I answered. "But supposing anyone applies, I have no
ring."
"Oh
yes, you have," said he, handing me one. "This will do very well. It
is almost a facsimile."
"And
who do you expect will answer this advertisement."
"Why,
the man in the brown coat—our florid friend with the square toes. If he does
not come himself he will send an accomplice."
"Would
he not consider it as too dangerous?"
"Not
at all. If my view of the case is correct, and I have every reason to believe
that it is, this man would rather risk anything than lose the ring. According
to my notion he dropped it while stooping over Drebber's body, and did not miss
it at the time. After leaving the house he discovered his loss and hurried
back, but found the police already in possession, owing to his own folly in
leaving the candle burning. He had to pretend to be drunk in order to allay the
suspicions which might have been aroused by his appearance at the gate. Now put
yourself in that man's place. On thinking the matter over, it must have
occurred to him that it was possible that he had lost the ring in the road after
leaving the house. What would he do, then? He would eagerly look out for the
evening papers in the hope of seeing it among the articles found. His eye, of
course, would light upon this. He would be overjoyed. Why should he fear a
trap? There would be no reason in his eyes why the finding of the ring should
be connected with the murder. He would come. He will come. You shall see him
within an hour?"
"And
then?" I asked.
"Oh,
you can leave me to deal with him then. Have you any arms?"
"I
have my old service revolver and a few cartridges."
"You
had better clean it and load it. He will be a desperate man, and though I shall
take him unawares, it is as well to be ready for anything."
I
went to my bedroom and followed his advice. When I returned with the pistol the
table had been cleared, and Holmes was engaged in his favourite occupation of
scraping upon his violin.
"The
plot thickens," he said, as I entered; "I have just had an answer to
my American telegram. My view of the case is the correct one."
"And
that is?" I asked eagerly.
"My
fiddle would be the better for new strings," he remarked. "Put your
pistol in your pocket. When the fellow comes speak to him in an ordinary way.
Leave the rest to me. Don't frighten him by looking at him too hard."
"It
is eight o'clock now," I said, glancing at my watch.
"Yes.
He will probably be here in a few minutes. Open the door slightly. That will
do. Now put the key on the inside. Thank you! This is a queer old book I picked
up at a stall yesterday—'De Jure inter Gentes'—published in Latin at Liege in
the Lowlands, in 1642. Charles' head was still firm on his shoulders when this
little brown-backed volume was struck off."
"Who
is the printer?"
"Philippe
de Croy, whoever he may have been. On the fly-leaf, in very faded ink, is
written 'Ex libris Guliolmi Whyte.' I wonder who William Whyte was. Some
pragmatical seventeenth century lawyer, I suppose. His writing has a legal
twist about it. Here comes our man, I think."
As
he spoke there was a sharp ring at the bell. Sherlock Holmes rose softly and
moved his chair in the direction of the door. We heard the servant pass along
the hall, and the sharp click of the latch as she opened it.
"Does
Dr. Watson live here?" asked a clear but rather harsh voice. We could not
hear the servant's reply, but the door closed, and some one began to ascend the
stairs. The footfall was an uncertain and shuffling one. A look of surprise
passed over the face of my companion as he listened to it. It came slowly along
the passage, and there was a feeble tap at the door.
"Come
in," I cried.
At
my summons, instead of the man of violence whom we expected, a very old and
wrinkled woman hobbled into the apartment. She appeared to be dazzled by the
sudden blaze of light, and after dropping a curtsey, she stood blinking at us
with her bleared eyes and fumbling in her pocket with
The
old crone drew out an evening paper, and pointed at our advertisement.
"It's this as has brought me, good gentlemen," she said, dropping
another curtsey; "a gold wedding ring in the Brixton Road. It belongs to
my girl Sally, as was married only this time twelvemonth, which her husband is
steward aboard a Union boat, and what he'd say if he come 'ome and found her
without her ring is more than I can think, he being short enough at the best o'
times, but more especially when he has the drink. If it please you, she went to
the circus last night along with——"
"Is
that her ring?" I asked.
"The
Lord be thanked!" cried the old woman; "Sally will be a glad woman
this night. That's the ring."
"And
what may your address be?" I inquired, taking up a pencil. "13,
Duncan Street, Houndsditch. A weary way from here."
"The
Brixton Road does not lie between any circus and Houndsditch," said
Sherlock Holmes sharply.
The
old woman faced round and looked keenly at him from her little red-rimmed eyes.
"The gentleman asked me for my address," she said. "Sally lives
in lodgings at 3, Mayfield Place, Peckham."
"And
your name is——?"
"My
name is Sawyer—her's is Dennis, which Tom Dennis married her—and a smart, clean
lad, too, as long as he's at sea, and no steward in the company more thought
of; but when on shore, what with the women and what with liquor shops——"
"Here
is your ring, Mrs. Sawyer," I interrupted, in obedience to a sign from my
companion; "it clearly belongs to your daughter, and I am glad to be able
to restore it to the rightful owner."
With
many mumbled blessings and protestations of gratitude the old crone packed it
away in her pocket, and shuffled off down the stairs. Sherlock Holmes sprang to
his feet the moment that she was gone and rushed into his room. He returned in
a few seconds enveloped in an ulster and a cravat. "I'll follow her,"
he said, hurriedly; "she must be an accomplice, and will lead me to him.
Wait up for me." The hall door had hardly slammed behind our visitor before
Holmes had descended the stair. Looking through the window I could see her
walking feebly along the other side, while her pursuer dogged her some little
distance behind. "Either his whole theory is incorrect," I thought to
myself, "or else he will be led now to the heart of the mystery."
There was no need for him to ask me to wait up for him, for I felt that sleep
was impossible until I heard the result of his adventure.
It
was close upon nine when he set out. I had no idea how long he might be, but I
sat stolidly puffing at my pipe and skipping over the pages of Henri Murger's
"Vie de Bohème." Ten o'clock passed, and I heard the footsteps of the
maid as they pattered off to bed. Eleven, and the more stately tread of the
landlady passed my door, bound for the same destination. It was close upon
twelve before I heard the sharp sound of his latch-key. The instant he entered
I saw by his face that he had not been successful. Amusement and chagrin seemed
to be struggling for the mastery, until the former suddenly carried the day,
and he burst into a hearty laugh.
"I
wouldn't have the Scotland Yarders know it for the world," he cried,
dropping into his chair; "I have chaffed them so much that they would
never have let me hear the end of it. I can afford to laugh, because I know
that I will be even with them in the long run."
"What
is it then?" I asked.
"Oh,
I don't mind telling a story against myself. That creature had gone a little
way when she began to limp and show every sign of being foot-sore. Presently
she came to a halt, and hailed a four-wheeler which was passing. I managed to
be close to her so as to hear the address, but I need not have been so anxious,
for she sang it out loud enough to be heard at the other side of the street,
'Drive to 13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch,' she cried. This begins to look
genuine, I thought, and having seen her safely inside, I
"You
don't mean to say," I cried, in amazement, "that that tottering,
feeble old woman was able to get out of the cab while it was in motion, without
either you or the driver seeing her?"
"Old
woman be damned!" said Sherlock Holmes, sharply. "We were the old
women to be so taken in. It must have been a young man, and an active one, too,
besides being an incomparable actor. The get-up was inimitable. He saw that he
was followed, no doubt, and used this means of giving me the slip. It shows
that the man we are after is not as lonely as I imagined he was, but has
friends who are ready to risk something for him. Now, Doctor, you are looking
done-up. Take my advice and turn in."
I
was certainly feeling very weary, so I obeyed his injunction. I left Holmes
seated in front of the smouldering fire, and long into the watches of the night
I heard the low, melancholy wailings of his violin, and knew that he was still
pondering over the strange problem which he had set himself to unravel.
THE
papers next day were full of the "Brixton Mystery," as they termed
it. Each had a long account of the affair, and some had leaders upon it in
addition. There was some information in them which was new to me. I still
retain in my scrap-book numerous clippings and extracts bearing upon the case.
Here is a condensation of a few of them:—
The
Daily Telegraph remarked that in the history of crime there had seldom been a
tragedy which presented stranger features. The German name of the victim, the
absence of all other motive, and the sinister inscription on the wall, all pointed
to its perpetration by political refugees and revolutionists. The Socialists
had many branches in America, and the deceased had, no doubt, infringed their
unwritten laws, and been tracked down by them. After alluding airily to the
Vehmgericht, aqua tofana, Carbonari, the Marchioness de Brinvilliers, the
Darwinian theory, the principles of Malthus, and the Ratcliff Highway murders,
the article concluded by admonishing the Government and advocating a closer
watch over foreigners in England.
The Standard commented upon the fact that lawless outrages of the sort
usually occurred under a Liberal Administration. They arose from the unsettling
of the minds of the masses, and the consequent weakening of all authority. The
deceased was an American gentleman who had been residing for some weeks in the
Metropolis. He had stayed at the boarding-house of Madame Charpentier, in
Torquay Terrace, Camberwell. He was accompanied in his travels by his private
secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson. The two bade adieu to their landlady upon
Tuesday, the 4th inst., and departed to Euston Station with the avowed
intention of catching the Liverpool express. They were afterwards seen together
upon the platform. Nothing more is known of them until Mr. Drebber's body was,
as recorded, discovered in an empty house in the Brixton Road, many miles from
Euston. How he came there, or how he met his fate, are questions which are
still involved in mystery. Nothing is known of the whereabouts of Stangerson.
We are glad to learn that Mr. Lestrade and Mr. Gregson, of Scotland Yard, are
both engaged upon
the case, and it is confidently anticipated that these well-known officers will
speedily throw light upon the matter.
The
Daily News observed that there was no doubt as to the crime being a political
one. The despotism and hatred of Liberalism which animated the Continental
Governments had had the effect of driving to our shores a number of men who
might have made excellent citizens were they not soured by the recollection of
all that they had undergone. Among these men there was a stringent code of
honour, any infringement of which was punished by death. Every effort should be
made to find the secretary, Stangerson, and to ascertain some particulars of
the habits of the deceased. A great step had been gained by the discovery of
the address of the house at which he had boarded—a result which was entirely
due to the acuteness and energy of Mr. Gregson of Scotland Yard.
Sherlock
Holmes and I read these notices over together at breakfast, and they appeared
to afford him considerable amusement.
"I
told you that, whatever happened, Lestrade and Gregson would be sure to
score."
"That
depends on how it turns out."
"Oh,
bless you, it doesn't matter in the least. If the man is caught, it will be on
account of their exertions; if he escapes, it will be in spite of their
exertions. It's heads I win and tails you lose. Whatever they do, they will
have followers. 'Un sot trouve toujours un plus sot qui l'admire.'"
"What
on earth is this?" I cried, for at this moment there came the pattering of
many steps in the hall and on the stairs, accompanied by audible expressions of
disgust upon the part of our landlady.
"It's
the Baker Street division of the detective police force," said my
companion, gravely; and as he spoke there rushed into the room half a dozen of
the dirtiest and most ragged street Arabs that ever I clapped eyes on.
"'Tention!"
cried Holmes, in a sharp tone, and the six dirty little scoundrels stood in a
line like so many disreputable statuettes. "In future you shall send
"No,
sir, we hain't," said one of the youths.
"I
hardly expected you would. You must keep on until you do. Here are your
wages." He handed each of them a shilling.
"Now,
off you go, and come back with a better report next time."
He
waved his hand, and they scampered away downstairs like so many rats, and we
heard their shrill voices next moment in the street.
"There's
more work to be got out of one of those little beggars than out of a dozen of
the force," Holmes remarked. "The mere sight of an official-looking
person seals men's lips. These youngsters, however, go everywhere and hear
everything. They are as sharp as needles, too; all they want is
organisation."
"Is
it on this Brixton case that you are employing them?" I asked.
"Yes;
there is a point which I wish to ascertain. It is merely a matter of time.
Hullo! we are going to hear some news now with a vengeance! Here is Gregson
coming down the road with beatitude written upon every feature of his face.
Bound for us, I know. Yes, he is stopping. There he is!"
There
was a violent peal at the bell, and in a few seconds the fair-haired detective
came up the stairs, three steps at a time, and burst into our sitting-room.
"My
dear fellow," he cried, wringing Holmes' unresponsive hand,
"congratulate me! I have made the whole thing as clear as day."
A
shade of anxiety seemed to me to cross my companion's expressive face.
"Do
you mean that you are on the right track?" he asked.
"The
right track! Why, sir, we have the man under lock and key."
"And
his name is?"
"Arthur
Charpentier, sub-lieutenant in Her Majesty's navy," cried Gregson,
pompously, rubbing his fat hands and inflating his chest.
Sherlock
Holmes gave a sigh of relief, and relaxed into a smile.
"Take
a seat, and try one of these cigars," he said. "We are anxious to
know how you managed it. Will you have some whiskey and water?"
"I
don't mind if I do," the detective answered. "The tremendous
exertions which I have gone through during the last day or two have worn me
out. Not so much bodily exertion, you understand, as the strain upon the mind.
You will appreciate that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, for we are both
brain-workers."
"You
do me too much honour," said Holmes, gravely. "Let us hear how you
arrived at this most gratifying result."
The
detective seated himself in the arm-chair, and puffed complacently at his
cigar. Then suddenly he slapped his thigh in a paroxysm of amusement.
"The
fun of it is," he cried, "that that fool Lestrade, who thinks himself
so smart, has gone off upon the wrong track altogether. He is after the
secretary Stangerson, who had no more to do with the crime than the babe unborn.
I have no doubt that he has caught him by this time."
The
idea tickled Gregson so much that he laughed until he choked. "And how did
you get your clue?"
"Ah,
I'll tell you all about it. Of course, Doctor Watson, this is strictly between
ourselves. The first difficulty which we had to contend with was the finding of
this American's antecedents. Some people would have waited until their
advertisements were answered, or until parties came forward and volunteered
information. That is not Tobias Gregson's way of going to work. You remember
the hat beside the dead man?"
"Yes,"
said Holmes; "by John Underwood and Sons, 129, Camberwell Road."
Gregson
looked quite crest-fallen.
"I
had no idea that you noticed that," he said. "Have you been
there?"
"No."
"Ha!"
cried Gregson, in a relieved voice; "you should never neglect a chance,
however small it may seem."
"To
a great mind, nothing is little," remarked Holmes, sententiously.
"Well,
I went to Underwood, and asked him if he had sold a hat of that size and
description. He looked over his books, and came on it at once. He had sent the
hat to a Mr. Drebber, residing at Charpentier's Boarding Establishment, Torquay
Terrace. Thus I got at his address."
"Smart—very
smart!" murmured Sherlock Holmes.
"I
next called upon Madame Charpentier," continued the detective. "I
found her very pale and distressed. Her daughter was in the room, too—an
uncommonly fine girl she is, too; she was looking red about the eyes and her
lips trembled as I spoke to her. That didn't escape my notice. I began to smell
a rat. You know the feeling, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, when you come upon the right
scent—a kind of thrill in your nerves. 'Have you heard of the mysterious death
of your late boarder Mr. Enoch J. Drebber, of Cleveland?' I asked.
"The
mother nodded. She didn't seem able to get out a word. The daughter burst into
tears. I felt more than ever that these people knew something of the matter.
"'At
what o'clock did Mr. Drebber leave your house for the train?' I asked.
"'At
eight o'clock,' she said, gulping in her throat to keep down her agitation.
'His secretary, Mr. Stangerson, said that there were two trains— one at 9.15
and one at 11. He was to catch the first.
"'And
was that the last which you saw of him?'
"A
terrible change came over the woman's face as I asked the question. Her
features turned perfectly livid. It was some seconds before she could get out
the single word 'Yes'—and when it did come it was in a husky unnatural tone.
"There
was silence for a moment, and then the daughter spoke in a calm clear voice.
"'No
good can ever come of falsehood, mother,' she said. 'Let us be frank with this
gentleman. We did see Mr. Drebber again.'
"'God
forgive you!' cried Madame Charpentier, throwing up her hands and sinking back
in her chair. 'You have murdered your brother.'
"'Arthur
would rather that we spoke the truth,' the girl answered firmly.
"'You
had best tell me all about it now,' I said. 'Half-confidences are worse than
none. Besides, you do not know how much we know of it.'
"'On
your head be it, Alice!' cried her mother; and then, turning to me, 'I will
tell you all, sir. Do not imagine that my agitation on behalf of my son arises
from any fear lest he should have had a hand in this terrible affair. He is
utterly innocent of it. My dread is, however, that in your eyes and in the eyes
of others he may appear to be compromised. That however is surely impossible.
His high character, his profession, his antecedents would all forbid it.'
"'Your
best way is to make a clean breast of the facts,' I answered. 'Depend upon it,
if your son is innocent he will be none the worse.'
"'Perhaps,
Alice, you had better leave us together,' she said, and her daughter withdrew.
'Now, sir,' she continued, 'I had no intention of telling you all this, but
since my poor daughter has disclosed it I have no alternative. Having once
decided to speak, I will tell you all without omitting any particular.'
"'It
is your wisest course,' said I.
"'Mr.
Drebber has been with us nearly three weeks. He and his secretary, Mr.
Stangerson, had been travelling on the Continent. I noticed a
"Copenhagen" label upon each of their trunks, showing that that had
been their last stopping place. Stangerson was a quiet reserved man, but his
employer, I am sorry to say, was far otherwise. He was coarse in his habits and
brutish in his ways. The very night of his arrival he became very much the
worse for drink, and, indeed, after twelve o'clock in the day he could
"'But
why did you stand all this,' I asked. 'I suppose that you can get rid of your
boarders when you wish.'
"Mrs.
Charpentier blushed at my pertinent question. 'Would to God that I had given
him notice on the very day that he came,' she said. 'But it was a sore
temptation. They were paying a pound a day each—fourteen pounds a week, and
this is the slack season. I am a widow, and my boy in the Navy has cost me
much. I grudged to lose the money. I acted for the best. This last was too
much, however, and I gave him notice to leave on account of it. That was the
reason of his going.'
"'Well?'
"'My
heart grew light when I saw him drive away. My son is on leave just now, but I
did not tell him anything of all this, for his temper is violent, and he is
passionately fond of his sister. When I closed the door behind them a load
seemed to be lifted from my mind. Alas, in less than an hour there was a ring
at the bell, and I learned that Mr. Drebber had returned. He was much excited,
and evidently the worse for drink. He forced his way into the room, where I was
sitting with my daughter, and made some incoherent remark about having missed
his train. He then turned to Alice, and before my very face, proposed to her
that she should fly with him. "You are of age," he said, "and
there is no law to stop you. I have money enough and to spare. Never mind the
old girl here, but come along with me now straight away. You shall live like a
princess." Poor Alice was so frightened that she shrunk away from him, but
he caught her by the wrist and endeavoured to draw her towards the door. I
screamed, and at that moment my son Arthur came into the room. What happened
then I do not know. I heard oaths and the confused sounds of a scuffle. I was
too terrified to raise my head. When I did look up I saw Arthur standing in the
doorway laughing, with a stick in his hand. "I
"This
statement came from Mrs. Charpentier's lips with many gasps and pauses. At
times she spoke so low that I could hardly catch the words. I made shorthand
notes of all that she said, however, so that there should be no possibility of
a mistake."
"It's
quite exciting," said Sherlock Holmes, with a yawn. "What happened
next?"
"When
Mrs. Charpentier paused," the detective continued, "I saw that the
whole case hung upon one point. Fixing her with my eye in a way which I always
found effective with women, I asked her at what hour her son returned.
"'I
do not know,' she answered.
"'Not
know?'
"'No;
he has a latch-key, and he let himself in.'
"'After
you went to bed?'
"'Yes.'
"'When
did you go to bed?'
"'About
eleven.'
"'So
your son was gone at least two hours?'
"'Yes.'
"'Possibly
four or five?'
"'Yes.'
"'What
was he doing during that time?'
"'I
do not know,' she answered, turning white to her very lips.
"Of
course after that there was nothing more to be done. I found out where
Lieutenant Charpentier was, took two officers with me, and arrested him. When I
touched him on the shoulder and warned him to come quietly with us, he answered
us as bold as brass, 'I suppose you are arresting me for being concerned in the
death of that scoundrel Drebber,' he said. We had said nothing to him about it,
so that his alluding to it had a most suspicious aspect."
"Very,"
said Holmes.
"He
still carried the heavy stick which the mother described him as having with him
when he followed Drebber. It was a stout oak cudgel."
"What
is your theory, then?"
"Well,
my theory is that he followed Drebber as far as the Brixton Road. When there, a
fresh altercation arose between them, in the course of which Drebber received a
blow from the stick, in the pit of the stomach, perhaps, which killed him
without leaving any mark. The night was so wet that no one was about, so
Charpentier dragged the body of his victim into the empty house. As to the
candle, and the blood, and the writing on the wall, and the ring, they may all
be so many tricks to throw the police on to the wrong scent."
"Well
done!" said Holmes in an encouraging voice. "Really, Gregson, you are
getting along. We shall make something of you yet."
"I
flatter myself that I have managed it rather neatly," the detective
answered proudly. "The young man volunteered a statement, in which he said
that after following Drebber some time, the latter perceived him, and took a
cab in order to get away from him. On his way home he met an old shipmate, and
took a long walk with him. On being asked where this old shipmate lived, he was
unable to give any satisfactory reply. I think the whole case fits together
uncommonly well. What amuses me is to think of Lestrade, who had started off
upon the wrong scent. I am afraid he won't make much of.. Why, by Jove, here's
the very man himself!"
It
was indeed Lestrade, who had ascended the stairs while we were talking, and who
now entered the room. The assurance and jauntiness which
"Ah,
you find it so, Mr. Lestrade!" cried Gregson, triumphantly. "I
thought you would come to that conclusion. Have you managed to find the
Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson?"
"The
Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson," said Lestrade gravely, "was
murdered at Halliday's Private Hotel about six o'clock this morning."
THE
intelligence with which Lestrade greeted us was so momentous and so unexpected,
that we were all three fairly dumfoundered. Gregson sprang out of his chair and
upset the remainder of his whiskey and water. I stared in silence at Sherlock
Holmes, whose lips were compressed and his brows drawn down over his eyes.
"Stangerson
too!" he muttered. "The plot thickens."
"It
was quite thick enough before," grumbled Lestrade, taking a chair. "I
seem to have dropped into a sort of council of war."
"Are
you—are you sure of this piece of intelligence?" stammered Gregson.
"I
have just come from his room," said Lestrade. "I was the first to
discover what had occurred."
"We
have been hearing Gregson's view of the matter," Holmes observed.
"Would you mind letting us know what you have seen and done?"
"I
have no objection," Lestrade answered, seating himself. "I freely
confess that I was of the opinion that Stangerson was concerned in the death of
Drebber. This fresh development has shown me that I was completely mistaken.
Full of the one idea, I set myself to find out what had become of the
Secretary. They had been seen together at Euston Station about half-past eight
on the evening of the third. At two in the morning Drebber had been found in
the Brixton Road. The question which confronted me was to find out how
Stangerson had been employed between 8.30 and the time of the crime, and what
had become of him afterwards. I telegraphed to Liverpool, giving a description
of the man, and warning them to keep a watch upon the American boats. I then
set to work calling upon all the hotels and lodging-houses in the vicinity of
Euston. You see, I argued that if Drebber and his companion had become
separated, the natural course for the latter would be to put up somewhere in
the vicinity for the night, and then to hang about the station again next
morning."
"They
would be likely to agree on some meeting-place beforehand," remarked
Holmes.
"So
it proved. I spent the whole of yesterday evening in making enquiries entirely
without avail. This morning I began very early, and at eight o'clock I reached
Halliday's Private Hotel, in Little George Street. On my enquiry as to whether
a Mr. Stangerson was living there, they at once answered me in the affirmative.
"'No
doubt you are the gentleman whom he was expecting,' they said. 'He has been
waiting for a gentleman for two days.'
"'Where
is he now?' I asked.
"'He
is upstairs in bed. He wished to be called at nine.'
"'I
will go up and see him at once,' I said.
"It
seemed to me that my sudden appearance might shake his nerves and lead him to
say something unguarded. The Boots volunteered to show me the room: it was on
the second floor, and there was a small corridor leading up to it. The Boots
pointed out the door to me, and was about to go downstairs again when I saw
something that made me feel sickish, in spite of my twenty years' experience.
From under the door there curled a little red ribbon of blood, which had
meandered across the passage and formed a little pool along the skirting at the
other side. I gave a cry, which brought the Boots back. He nearly fainted when
he saw it. The door was locked on the inside, but we put our shoulders to it,
and knocked it in. The window of the room was open, and beside the window, all
huddled up, lay the body of a man in his nightdress. He was quite dead, and had
been for some time, for his limbs were rigid and cold. When we turned him over,
the Boots recognized him at once as being the same gentleman who had engaged
the room under the name of Joseph Stangerson. The cause of death was a deep
stab in the left side, which must have penetrated the heart. And now comes the
strangest part of the affair. What do you suppose was above the murdered
man?"
I
felt a creeping of the flesh, and a presentiment of coming horror, even before
Sherlock Holmes answered.
"The
word RACHE, written in letters of blood," he said.
"That
was it," said Lestrade, in an awe-struck voice; and we were all silent for
a while.
There
was something so methodical and so incomprehensible about the deeds of this
unknown assassin, that it imparted a fresh ghastliness to his crimes. My
nerves, which were steady enough on the field of battle tingled as I thought of
it.
"The
man was seen," continued Lestrade. "A milk boy, passing on his way to
the dairy, happened to walk down the lane which leads from the mews at the back
of the hotel. He noticed that a ladder, which usually lay there, was raised
against one of the windows of the second floor, which was wide open. After
passing, he looked back and saw a man descend the ladder. He came down so
quietly and openly that the boy imagined him to be some carpenter or joiner at
work in the hotel. He took no particular notice of him, beyond thinking in his
own mind that it was early for him to be at work. He has an impression that the
man was tall, had a reddish face, and was dressed in a long, brownish coat. He
must have stayed in the room some little time after the murder, for we found
blood-stained water in the basin, where he had washed his hands, and marks on
the sheets where he had deliberately wiped his knife."
I
glanced at Holmes on hearing the description of the murderer, which tallied so
exactly with his own. There was, however, no trace of exultation or
satisfaction upon his face.
"Did
you find nothing in the room which could furnish a clue to the murderer?"
he asked.
"Nothing.
Stangerson had Drebber's purse in his pocket, but it seems that this was usual,
as he did all the paying. There was eighty odd pounds in it, but nothing had
been taken. Whatever the motives of these extraordinary crimes, robbery is
certainly not one of them. There were no papers or memoranda in the murdered
man's pocket, except a single telegram, dated from Cleveland about a month ago,
and containing the words, 'J. H. is in Europe.' There was no name appended to
this message."
"And
there was nothing else?" Holmes asked.
"Nothing
of any importance. The man's novel, with which he had read himself to sleep was
lying upon the bed, and his pipe was on a chair beside him. There was a glass
of water on the table, and on the window-sill a small chip ointment box
containing a couple of pills."
Sherlock
Holmes sprang from his chair with an exclamation of delight. "The last
link," he cried, exultantly. "My case is complete." The two
detectives stared at him in amazement.
"I
have now in my hands," my companion said, confidently, "all the
threads which have formed such a tangle. There are, of course, details to be
filled in, but I am as certain of all the main facts, from the time that
Drebber parted from Stangerson at the station, up to the discovery of the body
of the latter, as if I had seen them with my own eyes. I will give you a proof
of my knowledge. Could you lay your hand upon those pills?"
"I
have them," said Lestrade, producing a small white box; "I took them
and the purse and the telegram, intending to have them put in a place of safety
at the Police Station. It was the merest chance my taking these pills, for I am
bound to say that I do not attach any importance to them."
"Give
them here," said Holmes. "Now, Doctor," turning to me, "are
those ordinary pills?"
They
certainly were not. They were of a pearly grey colour, small, round, and almost
transparent against the light. "From their lightness and transparency, I
should imagine that they are soluble in water," I remarked.
"Precisely
so," answered Holmes. "Now would you mind going down and fetching
that poor little devil of a terrier which has been bad so long, and which the
landlady wanted you to put out of its pain yesterday."
I
went downstairs and carried the dog upstair in my arms. It's laboured breathing
and glazing eye showed that it was not far from its end. Indeed, its snow-white
muzzle proclaimed that it had already exceeded the usual term of canine
existence. I placed it upon a cushion on the rug.
"I
will now cut one of these pills in two," said Holmes, and drawing his
penknife he suited the action to the word. "One half we return into the
box for future purposes. The other half I will place in this wine glass, in
which is a teaspoonful of water. You perceive that our friend, the Doctor, is
right, and that it readily dissolves."
"This
may be very interesting," said Lestrade, in the injured tone of one who
suspects that he is being laughed at, "I cannot see, however, what it has
to do with the death of Mr. Joseph Stangerson."
"Patience,
my friend, patience! You will find in time that it has everything to do with
it. I shall now add a little milk to make the mixture palatable, and on presenting
it to the dog we find that he laps it up readily enough."
As
he spoke he turned the contents of the wine glass into a saucer and placed it
in front of the terrier, who speedily licked it dry. Sherlock Holmes' earnest
demeanour had so far convinced us that we all sat in silence, watching the
animal intently, and expecting some startling effect. None such appeared,
however. The dog continued to lie stretched upon the cushion, breathing in a
laboured way, but apparently neither the better nor the worse for its draught.
Holmes
had taken out his watch, and as minute followed minute without result, an
expression of the utmost chagrin and disappointment appeared upon his features.
He gnawed his lip, drummed his fingers upon the table, and showed every other
symptom of acute impatience. So great was his emotion, that I felt sincerely
sorry for him, while the two detectives smiled derisively, by no means
displeased at this check which he had met.
"It
can't be a coincidence," he cried, at last springing from his chair and
pacing wildly up and down the room; "it is impossible that it should be a
mere coincidence. The very pills which I suspected in the case of Drebber are
actually found after the death of Stangerson. And yet they are inert. What can
it mean? Surely my whole chain of reasoning cannot have been false. It is
impossible! And yet this wretched dog is none the worse. Ah, I have it! I have
it!" With a perfect shriek of delight he rushed to the box, cut the other
pill in two, dissolved it, added milk, and presented it to the terrier. The
unfortunate creature's tongue seemed hardly to have been moistened in it
Sherlock
Holmes drew a long breath, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
"I should have more faith," he said; "I ought to know by this
time that when a fact appears to be opposed to a long train of deductions, it
invariably proves to be capable of bearing some other interpretation. Of the
two pills in that box one was of the most deadly poison, and the other was
entirely harmless. I ought to have known that before ever I saw the box at
all."
This
last statement appeared to me to be so startling, that I could hardly believe
that he was in his sober senses. There was the dead dog, however, to prove that
his conjecture had been correct. It seemed to me that the mists in my own mind
were gradually clearing away, and I began to have a dim, vague perception of
the truth.
"All
this seems strange to you," continued Holmes, "because you failed at
the beginning of the inquiry to grasp the importance of the single real clue
which was presented to you. I had the good fortune to seize upon that, and
everything which has occurred since then has served to confirm my original
supposition, and, indeed, was the logical sequence of it. Hence things which
have perplexed you and made the case more obscure, have served to enlighten me
and to strengthen my conclusions. It is a mistake to confound strangeness with
mystery. The most commonplace crime is often the most mysterious because it
presents no new or special features from which deductions may be drawn. This
murder would have been infinitely more difficult to unravel had the body of the
victim been simply found lying in the roadway without any of those outré and
sensational accompaniments which have rendered it remarkable. These strange
details, far from making the case more difficult, have really had the effect of
making it less so."
Mr.
Gregson, who had listened to this address with considerable impatience, could
contain himself no longer. "Look here, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he said,
"we are all ready to acknowledge that you are a smart man, and that you
have your own methods of working. We want something more than mere theory and
preaching now, though. It is a case of taking the man. I have
"I
cannot help feeling that Gregson is right, sir," remarked Lestrade.
"We have both tried, and we have both failed. You have remarked more than
once since I have been in the room that you had all the evidence which you
require. Surely you will not withhold it any longer."
"Any
delay in arresting the assassin," I observed, "might give him time to
perpetrate some fresh atrocity."
Thus
pressed by us all, Holmes showed signs of irresolution. He continued to walk up
and down the room with his head sunk on his chest and his brows drawn down, as
was his habit when lost in thought.
"There
will be no more murders," he said at last, stopping abruptly and facing
us. "You can put that consideration out of the question. You have asked me
if I know the name of the assassin. I do. The mere knowing of his name is a
small thing, however, compared with the power of laying our hands upon him.
This I expect very shortly to do. I have good hopes of managing it through my
own arrangements; but it is a thing which needs delicate handling, for we have
a shrewd and desperate man to deal with, who is supported, as I have had
occasion to prove, by another who is as clever as himself. As long as this man
has no idea that anyone can have a clue there is some chance of securing him;
but if he had the slightest suspicion, he would change his name, and vanish in
an instant among the four million inhabitants of this great city. Without
meaning to hurt either of your feelings, I am bound to say that I consider these
men to be more than a match for the official force, and that is why I have not
asked your assistance. If I fail I shall, of course, incur all the blame due to
this omission; but that I am prepared for. At present I am ready to promise
that the instant that I can communicate with you without endangering my own
combinations, I shall do so."
Gregson
and Lestrade seemed to be far from satisfied by this assurance, or by the
depreciating allusion to the detective police. The former had flushed up to the
roots of his flaxen hair, while the other's beady eyes glistened with curiosity
and resentment. Neither of them had time to speak, however, before there was a
tap at the door, and the spokesman of the street Arabs, young Wiggins,
introduced his insignificant and unsavoury person.
"Please,
sir," he said, touching his forelock, "I have the cab
downstairs."
"Good
boy," said Holmes, blandly. "Why don't you introduce this pattern at
Scotland Yard?" he continued, taking a pair of steel handcuffs from a
drawer. "See how beautifully the spring works. They fasten in an
instant."
"The
old pattern is good enough," remarked Lestrade, "if we can only find
the man to put them on."
"Very
good, very good," said Holmes, smiling. "The cabman may as well help
me with my boxes. Just ask him to step up, Wiggins."
I
was surprised to find my companion speaking as though he were about to set out
on a journey, since he had not said anything to me about it. There was a small
portmanteau in the room, and this he pulled out and began to strap. He was
busily engaged at it when the cabman entered the room.
"Just
give me a help with this buckle, cabman," he said, kneeling over his task,
and never turning his head.
The
fellow came forward with a somewhat sullen, defiant air, and put down his hands
to assist. At that instant there was a sharp click, the jangling of metal, and
Sherlock Holmes sprang to his feet again.
"Gentlemen,"
he cried, with flashing eyes, "let me introduce you to Mr. Jefferson Hope,
the murderer of Enoch Drebber and of Joseph Stangerson."
The
whole thing occurred in a moment—so quickly that I had no time to realize it. I
have a vivid recollection of that instant, of Holmes' triumphant expression and
the ring of his voice, of the cabman's dazed, savage face, as he glared at the
glittering handcuffs, which had appeared as if by magic upon his wrists. For a
second or two we might have been a group of statues. Then, with an inarticulate
roar of fury, the prisoner wrenched himself free
"We
have his cab," said Sherlock Holmes. "It will serve to take him to
Scotland Yard. And now, gentlemen," he continued, with a pleasant smile,
"we have reached the end of our little mystery. You are very welcome to
put any questions that you like to me now, and there is no danger that I will
refuse to answer them."
PART
2. THE COUNTRY OF THE SAINTS
IN
the central portion of the great North American Continent there lies an arid
and repulsive desert, which for many a long year served as a barrier against
the advance of civilisation. From the Sierra Nevada to Nebraska, and from the
Yellowstone River in the north to the Colorado upon the south, is a region of
desolation and silence. Nor is Nature always in one mood throughout this grim
district. It comprises snow-capped and lofty mountains, and dark and gloomy
valleys. There are swift-flowing rivers which dash through jagged cañons; and
there are enormous plains, which in winter are white with snow, and in summer
are grey with the saline alkali dust. They all preserve, however, the common
characteristics of barrenness, inhospitality, and misery.
There
are no inhabitants of this land of despair. A band of Pawnees or of Blackfeet
may occasionally traverse it in order to reach other hunting-grounds, but the
hardiest of the braves are glad to lose sight of those awesome plains, and to
find themselves once more upon their prairies. The coyote skulks among the
scrub, the buzzard flaps heavily through the air, and the clumsy grizzly bear
lumbers through the dark ravines, and picks up such sustenance as it can
amongst the rocks. These are the sole dwellers in the wilderness.
In
the whole world there can be no more dreary view than that from the northern
slope of the Sierra Blanco. As far as the eye can reach stretches the great
flat plain-land, all dusted over with patches of alkali, and intersected by
clumps of the dwarfish chaparral bushes. On the extreme verge of the horizon
lie a long chain of mountain peaks, with their rugged summits flecked with
snow. In this great stretch of country there is no sign of life, nor of
anything appertaining to life. There is no bird in the steel-blue heaven, no
movement upon the dull, grey earth—above all, there is absolute silence. Listen
as one may, there is no shadow of a sound in all that mighty wilderness;
nothing but silence—complete and heart-subduing silence.
It
has been said there is nothing appertaining to life upon the broad plain. That
is hardly true. Looking down from the Sierra Blanco, one sees a pathway traced
out across the desert, which winds away and is lost in the extreme distance. It
is rutted with wheels and trodden down by the feet of many adventurers. Here
and there there are scattered white objects which glisten in the sun, and stand
out against the dull deposit of alkali. Approach, and examine them! They are
bones: some large and coarse, others smaller and more delicate. The former have
belonged to oxen, and the latter to men. For fifteen hundred miles one may
trace this ghastly caravan route by these scattered remains of those who had
fallen by the wayside.
Looking
down on this very scene, there stood upon the fourth of May, eighteen hundred
and forty-seven, a solitary traveller. His appearance was such that he might
have been the very genius or demon of the region. An observer would have found
it difficult to say whether he was nearer to forty or to sixty. His face was
lean and haggard, and the brown parchment-like skin was drawn tightly over the
projecting bones; his long, brown hair and beard were all flecked and dashed
with white; his eyes were sunken in his head, and burned with an unnatural
lustre; while the hand which grasped his rifle was hardly more fleshy than that
of a skeleton. As he stood, he leaned upon his weapon for support, and yet his
tall figure and the massive framework of his bones suggested a wiry and
vigorous constitution. His gaunt face, however, and his clothes, which hung so
baggily over his shrivelled limbs, proclaimed what it was that gave him that
senile and decrepit appearance. The man was dying—dying from hunger and from
thirst.
He
had toiled painfully down the ravine, and on to this little elevation, in the
vain hope of seeing some signs of water. Now the great salt plain stretched
before his eyes, and the distant belt of savage mountains, without a sign
anywhere of plant or tree, which might indicate the presence of moisture. In
all that broad landscape there was no gleam of hope. North, and east, and west
he looked with wild questioning eyes, and then he realised that his wanderings
had come to an end, and that there, on that barren crag, he was about to die.
"Why not here, as well as in a feather bed, twenty years hence," he
muttered, as he seated himself in the shelter of a boulder.
Before
sitting down, he had deposited upon the ground his useless rifle, and also a
large bundle tied up in a grey shawl, which he had carried slung over his right
shoulder. It appeared to be somewhat too heavy for his strength, for in
lowering it, it came down on the ground with some little violence. Instantly
there broke from the grey parcel a little moaning cry, and from it there
protruded a small, scared face, with very bright brown eyes, and two little
speckled, dimpled fists.
"You've
hurt me!" said a childish voice reproachfully.
"Have
I though," the man answered penitently, "I didn't go for to do
it." As he spoke he unwrapped the grey shawl and extricated a pretty
little girl of about five years of age, whose dainty shoes and smart pink frock
with its little linen apron all bespoke a mother's care. The child was pale and
wan, but her healthy arms and legs showed that she had suffered less than her
companion.
"How
is it now?" he answered anxiously, for she was still rubbing the towsy
golden curls which covered the back of her head.
"Kiss
it and make it well," she said, with perfect gravity, shoving the injured
part up to him. "That's what mother used to do. Where's mother?"
"Mother's
gone. I guess you'll see her before long."
"Gone,
eh!" said the little girl. "Funny, she didn't say good-bye; she 'most
always did if she was just goin' over to Auntie's for tea, and now she's been
away three days. Say, it's awful dry, ain't it? Ain't there no water, nor
nothing to eat?"
"No,
there ain't nothing, dearie. You'll just need to be patient awhile, and then
you'll be all right. Put your head up agin me like that, and then you'll feel
bullier. It ain't easy to talk when your lips is like leather, but I guess I'd
best let you know how the cards lie. What's that you've got?"
"Pretty
things! fine things!" cried the little girl enthusiastically, holding up
two glittering fragments of mica. "When we goes back to home I'll give
them to brother Bob."
"You'll
see prettier things than them soon," said the man confidently. "You
just wait a bit. I was going to tell you though—you remember when we left the
river?"
"Oh,
yes."
"Well,
we reckoned we'd strike another river soon, d'ye see. But there was somethin'
wrong; compasses, or map, or somethin', and it didn't turn up. Water ran out.
Just except a little drop for the likes of you and—and——"
"And
you couldn't wash yourself," interrupted his companion gravely, staring up
at his grimy visage.
"No,
nor drink. And Mr. Bender, he was the fust to go, and then Indian Pete, and
then Mrs. McGregor, and then Johnny Hones, and then, dearie, your mother."
"Then
mother's a deader too," cried the little girl dropping her face in her
pinafore and sobbing bitterly.
"Yes,
they all went except you and me. Then I thought there was some chance of water
in this direction, so I heaved you over my shoulder and we tramped it together.
It don't seem as though we've improved matters. There's an almighty small
chance for us now!"
"Do
you mean that we are going to die too?" asked the child, checking her
sobs, and raising her tear-stained face.
"I
guess that's about the size of it."
"Why
didn't you say so before?" she said, laughing gleefully. "You gave me
such a fright. Why, of course, now as long as we die we'll be with mother
again."
"Yes,
you will, dearie."
"And
you too. I'll tell her how awful good you've been. I'll bet she meets us at the
door of Heaven with a big pitcher of water, and a lot of buckwheat cakes, hot,
and toasted on both sides, like Bob and me was fond of. How long will it be
first?"
"I
don't know—not very long." The man's eyes were fixed upon the northern
horizon. In the blue vault of the heaven there had appeared three little specks
which increased in size every moment, so rapidly did they approach. They
speedily resolved themselves into three large brown birds, which circled over
the heads of the two wanderers, and then settled upon some rocks which overlooked
them. They were buzzards, the vultures of the west, whose coming is the
forerunner of death.
"Cocks
and hens," cried the little girl gleefully, pointing at their ill-omened
forms, and clapping her hands to make them rise. "Say, did God make this
country?"
"In
course He did," said her companion, rather startled by this unexpected
question.
"He
made the country down in Illinois, and He made the Missouri," the little
girl continued. "I guess somebody else made the country in these parts.
It's not nearly so well done. They forgot the water and the trees."
"What
would ye think of offering up prayer?" the man asked diffidently.
"It
ain't night yet," she answered.
"It
don't matter. It ain't quite regular, but He won't mind that, you bet. You say
over them ones that you used to say every night in the waggon when we was on
the Plains."
"Why
don't you say some yourself?" the child asked, with wondering eyes.
"I
disremember them," he answered. "I hain't said none since I was half
the height o' that gun. I guess it's never too late. You say them out, and I'll
stand by and come in on the choruses."
"Then
you'll need to kneel down, and me too," she said, laying the shawl out for
that purpose. "You've got to put your hands up like this. It makes you
feel kind o' good."
It
was a strange sight had there been anything but the buzzards to see it. Side by
side on the narrow shawl knelt the two wanderers, the little prattling child
and the reckless, hardened adventurer. Her chubby face, and
Had
the wanderer remained awake for another half hour a strange sight would have
met his eyes. Far away on the extreme verge of the alkali plain there rose up a
little spray of dust, very slight at first, and hardly to be distinguished from
the mists of the distance, but gradually growing higher and broader until it
formed a solid, well-defined cloud. This cloud continued to increase in size
until it became evident that it could only be raised by a great multitude of moving
creatures. In more fertile spots the observer would have come to the conclusion
that one of those great herds of bisons which graze upon the prairie land was
approaching him. This was obviously impossible in these arid wilds. As the
whirl of dust drew nearer to the solitary bluff upon which the two castaways
were reposing, the canvas-covered tilts of waggons and the figures of armed
horsemen began to show up through the haze, and the apparition revealed itself
as being a great caravan upon its journey for the West. But what a caravan!
When the head of it had reached the base of the mountains, the rear was not yet
visible on the horizon. Right across the enormous plain stretched the
straggling array, waggons and carts, men on horseback, and men on foot. Innumerable
women who staggered along under burdens, and children who toddled beside the
waggons or peeped out from under the white coverings. This was evidently no
ordinary party of immigrants, but rather some nomad people who had been
compelled from stress of circumstances to seek themselves a new country. There
rose through the clear air a confused clattering and rumbling from this great
mass of humanity, with the creaking
At
the head of the column there rode a score or more of grave ironfaced men, clad
in sombre homespun garments and armed with rifles. On reaching the base of the
bluff they halted, and held a short council among themselves.
"The
wells are to the right, my brothers," said one, a hard-lipped,
clean-shaven man with grizzly hair.
"To
the right of the Sierra Blanco—so we shall reach the Rio Grande," said
another.
"Fear
not for water," cried a third. "He who could draw it from the rocks
will not now abandon His own chosen people."
"Amen!
Amen!" responded the whole party.
They
were about to resume their journey when one of the youngest and keenest-eyed
uttered an exclamation and pointed up at the rugged crag above them. From its
summit there fluttered a little wisp of pink, showing up hard and bright
against the grey rocks behind. At the sight there was a general reining up of
horses and unslinging of guns, while fresh horsemen came galloping up to
reinforce the vanguard. The word 'Redskins' was on every lip.
"There
can't be any number of Injuns here," said the elderly man who appeared to
be in command. "We have passed the Pawnees, and there are no other tribes
until we cross the great mountains."
"Shall
I go forward and see, Brother Stangerson," asked one of the band.
"And
I," "and I," cried a dozen voices.
"Leave
your horses below and we will await you here," the Elder answered. In a
moment the young fellows had dismounted, fastened their horses, and were
ascending the precipitous slope which led up to the object which had excited
their curiosity. They advanced rapidly and noiselessly, with the confidence and
dexterity of practised scouts. The watchers from the plain
On
the little plateau which crowned the barren hill there stood a single giant
boulder, and against this boulder there lay a tall man, long-bearded and
hard-featured, but of an excessive thinness. His placid face and regular
breathing showed that he was fast asleep. Beside him lay a little child, with
her round white arms encircling his brown sinewy neck, and her golden haired
head resting upon the breast of his velveteen tunic. Her rosy lips were parted,
showing the regular line of snow-white teeth within, and a playful smile played
over her infantile features. Her plump little white legs terminating in white
socks and neat shoes with shining buckles, offered a strange contrast to the
long shrivelled members of her companion. On the ledge of rock above this
strange couple there stood three solemn buzzards, who, at the sight of the new
comers uttered raucous screams of disappointment and flapped sullenly away.
The
cries of the foul birds awoke the two sleepers who stared about them in
bewilderment. The man staggered to his feet and looked down upon the plain
which had been so desolate when sleep had overtaken him, and which was now
traversed by this enormous body of men and of beasts. His face assumed an
expression of incredulity as he gazed, and he passed his boney hand over his
eyes. "This is what they call delirium, I guess," he muttered. The
child stood beside him, holding on to the skirt of his coat, and said nothing
but looked all round her with the wondering questioning gaze of childhood.
The
rescuing party were speedily able to convince the two castaways that their
appearance was no delusion. One of them seized the little girl, and hoisted her
upon his shoulder, while two others supported her gaunt companion, and assisted
him towards the waggons.
 |
"My name is John Ferrier," the wanderer explained; "me and that little un are all that's left o' twenty-one people. The rest is all dead o' thirst and hunger away down in the south."
"Is
she your child?" asked someone.
"I
guess she is now," the other cried, defiantly; "she's mine 'cause I
saved her. No man will take her from me. She's Lucy Ferrier from this day on.
Who are you, though?" he continued, glancing with curiosity at his
stalwart, sunburned rescuers; "there seems to be a powerful lot of
ye."
"Nigh
upon ten thousand," said one of the young men; "we are the persecuted
children of God—the chosen of the Angel Merona."
"I
never heard tell on him," said the wanderer. "He appears to have
chosen a fair crowd of ye."
"Do
not jest at that which is sacred," said the other sternly. "We are of
those who believe in those sacred writings, drawn in Egyptian letters on plates
of beaten gold, which were handed unto the holy Joseph Smith at Palmyra. We
have come from Nauvoo, in the State of Illinois, where we had founded our
temple. We have come to seek a refuge from the violent man and from the
godless, even though it be the heart of the desert."
The
name of Nauvoo evidently recalled recollections to John Ferrier. "I see,"
he
said, "you are the Mormons."
"We
are the Mormons," answered his companions with one voice. "And where
are you going?"
"We
do not know. The hand of God is leading us under the person of our Prophet. You
must come before him. He shall say what is to be done with you."
They
had reached the base of the hill by this time, and were surrounded by crowds of
the pilgrims—pale-faced meek-looking women, strong laughing children, and
anxious earnest-eyed men. Many were the cries of astonishment and of commiseration
which arose from them when they perceived the youth of one of the strangers and
the destitution of the other.
Their
escort did not halt, however, but pushed on, followed by a great crowd of
Mormons, until they reached a waggon, which was conspicuous for its great size
and for the gaudiness and smartness of its appearance. Six horses were yoked to
it, whereas the others were furnished with two, or, at most, four a-piece.
Beside the driver there sat a man who could not have been more than thirty years
of age, but whose massive head and resolute expression marked him as a leader.
He was reading a brown-backed volume, but as the crowd approached he laid it
aside, and listened attentively to an account of the episode. Then he turned to
the two castaways.
"If
we take you with us," he said, in solemn words, "it can only be as
believers in our own creed. We shall have no wolves in our fold. Better far
that your bones should bleach in this wilderness than that you should prove to
be that little speck of decay which in time corrupts the whole fruit. Will you
come with us on these terms?"
"Guess
I'll come with you on any terms," said Ferrier, with such emphasis that
the grave Elders could not restrain a smile. The leader alone retained his
stern, impressive expression.
"Take
him, Brother Stangerson," he said, "give him food and drink, and the
child likewise. Let it be your task also to teach him our holy creed. We have
delayed long enough. Forward! On, on to Zion!"
"On,
on to Zion!" cried the crowd of Mormons, and the words rippled down the
long caravan, passing from mouth to mouth until they died away in a dull murmur
in the far distance. With a cracking of whips and a creaking of wheels the
great waggons got into motion, and soon the whole caravan was winding along
once more. The Elder to whose care the two waifs had been committed, led them
to his waggon, where a meal was already awaiting them.
"You
shall remain here," he said. "In a few days you will have recovered
from your fatigues. In the meantime, remember that now and for ever you are of
our religion. Brigham Young has said it, and he has spoken with the voice of
Joseph Smith, which is the voice of God."
_________________________________________________________________
THIS
is not the place to commemorate the trials and privations endured by the
immigrant Mormons before they came to their final haven. From the shores of the
Mississippi to the western slopes of the Rocky Mountains they had struggled on
with a constancy almost unparalleled in history. The savage man, and the savage
beast, hunger, thirst, fatigue, and disease— every impediment which Nature
could place in the way, had all been overcome with Anglo-Saxon tenacity. Yet
the long journey and the accumulated terrors had shaken the hearts of the
stoutest among them. There was not one who did not sink upon his knees in
heartfelt prayer when they saw the broad valley of Utah bathed in the sunlight
beneath them, and learned from the lips of their leader that this was the
promised land, and that these virgin acres were to be theirs for evermore.
Young
speedily proved himself to be a skilful administrator as well as a resolute
chief. Maps were drawn and charts prepared, in which the future city was
sketched out. All around farms were apportioned and allotted in proportion to the
standing of each individual. The tradesman was put to his trade and the artisan
to his calling. In the town streets and squares sprang up, as if by magic. In
the country there was draining and hedging, planting and clearing, until the
next summer saw the whole country golden with the wheat crop. Everything
prospered in the strange settlement. Above all, the great temple which they had
erected in the centre of the city grew ever taller and larger. From the first
blush of dawn until the closing of the twilight, the clatter of the hammer and
the rasp of the saw was never absent from the monument which the immigrants
erected to Him who had led them safe through many dangers.
The
two castaways, John Ferrier and the little girl who had shared his fortunes and
had been adopted as his daughter, accompanied the Mormons to the end of their
great pilgrimage. Little Lucy Ferrier was borne along pleasantly enough in
Elder Stangerson's waggon, a retreat which she shared with the Mormon's three
wives and with his son, a headstrong forward boy of twelve. Having rallied,
with the elasticity of childhood, from the shock
On
the farm thus acquired John Ferrier built himself a substantial log-house,
which received so many additions in succeeding years that it grew into a roomy
villa. He was a man of a practical turn of mind, keen in his dealings and
skilful with his hands. His iron constitution enabled him to work morning and
evening at improving and tilling his lands. Hence it came about that his farm
and all that belonged to him prospered exceedingly. In three years he was
better off than his neighbours, in six he was well-to-do, in nine he was rich, and
in twelve there were not half a dozen men in the whole of Salt Lake City who
could compare with him. From the great inland sea to the distant Wahsatch
Mountains there was no name better known than that of John Ferrier.
There
was one way and only one in which he offended the susceptibilities of his
co-religionists. No argument or persuasion could ever induce him to set up a
female establishment after the manner of his companions. He never gave reasons
for this persistent refusal, but contented himself by resolutely and inflexibly
adhering to his determination. There were some who accused him of lukewarmness
in his adopted religion, and others who put it down to greed of wealth and
reluctance to incur expense. Others, again, spoke of some early love affair,
and of a fair-haired girl who had pined away on the shores of the Atlantic.
Whatever the reason, Ferrier remained strictly celibate. In every other respect
he conformed to the religion of the young settlement, and gained the name of
being an orthodox and straight-walking man.
Lucy
Ferrier grew up within the log-house, and assisted her adopted father in all
his undertakings. The keen air of the mountains and the balsamic odour
It
was not the father, however, who first discovered that the child had developed
into the woman. It seldom is in such cases. That mysterious change is too
subtle and too gradual to be measured by dates. Least of all does the maiden
herself know it until the tone of a voice or the touch of a hand sets her heart
thrilling within her, and she learns, with a mixture of pride and of fear, that
a new and a larger nature has awoken within her. There are few who cannot
recall that day and remember the one little incident which heralded the dawn of
a new life. In the case of Lucy Ferrier the occasion was serious enough in
itself, apart from its future influence on her destiny and that of many
besides.
It
was a warm June morning, and the Latter Day Saints were as busy as the bees
whose hive they have chosen for their emblem. In the fields and in the streets
rose the same hum of human industry. Down the dusty high roads defiled long
streams of heavily-laden mules, all heading to the west, for the gold fever had
broken out in California, and the Overland Route lay through the City of the
Elect. There, too, were droves of sheep and bullocks coming in from the
outlying pasture lands, and trains of tired immigrants, men and horses equally
weary of their interminable journey. Through all this motley assemblage,
threading her way with the skill of an accomplished rider, there galloped Lucy
Ferrier, her fair face flushed with the exercise and her long chestnut hair
floating out behind her. She had a commission from her father in the City, and
was dashing in as she had done many a time before, with all the fearlessness of
youth, thinking only of her task and how it was to be performed. The
travel-stained adventurers gazed after her in astonishment, and even the
unemotional Indians, journeying in with their pelties, relaxed
She
had reached the outskirts of the city when she found the road blocked by a
great drove of cattle, driven by a half-dozen wild-looking herdsmen from the
plains. In her impatience she endeavoured to pass this obstacle by pushing her
horse into what appeared to be a gap. Scarcely had she got fairly into it,
however, before the beasts closed in behind her, and she found herself
completely imbedded in the moving stream of fierce-eyed, long-horned bullocks.
Accustomed as she was to deal with cattle, she was not alarmed at her situation,
but took advantage of every opportunity to urge her horse on in the hopes of
pushing her way through the cavalcade. Unfortunately the horns of one of the
creatures, either by accident or design, came in violent contact with the flank
of the mustang, and excited it to madness. In an instant it reared up upon its
hind legs with a snort of rage, and pranced and tossed in a way that would have
unseated any but a most skilful rider. The situation was full of peril. Every
plunge of the excited horse brought it against the horns again, and goaded it
to fresh madness. It was all that the girl could do to keep herself in the
saddle, yet a slip would mean a terrible death under the hoofs of the unwieldy
and terrified animals. Unaccustomed to sudden emergencies, her head began to
swim, and her grip upon the bridle to relax. Choked by the rising cloud of dust
and by the steam from the struggling creatures, she might have abandoned her
efforts in despair, but for a kindly voice at her elbow which assured her of
assistance. At the same moment a sinewy brown hand caught the frightened horse
by the curb, and forcing a way through the drove, soon brought her to the
outskirts.
"You're
not hurt, I hope, miss," said her preserver, respectfully.
She
looked up at his dark, fierce face, and laughed saucily. "I'm awful
frightened," she said, naively; "whoever would have thought that
Poncho would have been so scared by a lot of cows?"
"Thank
God you kept your seat," the other said earnestly. He was a tall,
savage-looking young fellow, mounted on a powerful roan horse, and clad in the
rough dress of a hunter, with a long rifle slung over his shoulders. "I
"Hadn't
you better come and ask yourself?" she asked, demurely.
The
young fellow seemed pleased at the suggestion, and his dark eyes sparkled with
pleasure. "I'll do so," he said, "we've been in the mountains
for two months, and are not over and above in visiting condition. He must take
us as he finds us."
"He
has a good deal to thank you for, and so have I," she answered, "he's
awful fond of me. If those cows had jumped on me he'd have never got over
it."
"Neither
would I," said her companion.
"You!
Well, I don't see that it would make much matter to you, anyhow. You ain't even
a friend of ours."
The
young hunter's dark face grew so gloomy over this remark that Lucy Ferrier
laughed aloud.
"There,
I didn't mean that," she said; "of course, you are a friend now. You
must come and see us. Now I must push along, or father won't trust me with his
business any more. Good-bye!"
"Good-bye,"
he answered, raising his broad sombrero, and bending over her little hand. She
wheeled her mustang round, gave it a cut with her riding-whip, and darted away
down the broad road in a rolling cloud of dust.
Young
Jefferson Hope rode on with his companions, gloomy and taciturn. He and they
had been among the Nevada Mountains prospecting for silver, and were returning
to Salt Lake City in the hope of raising capital enough to work some lodes
which they had discovered. He had been as keen as any of them upon the business
until this sudden incident had drawn his thoughts into another channel. The
sight of the fair young girl, as frank and wholesome as the Sierra breezes, had
stirred his volcanic, untamed heart to its very depths. When she had vanished
from his sight, he realized that a
He
called on John Ferrier that night, and many times again, until his face was a
familiar one at the farm-house. John, cooped up in the valley, and absorbed in
his work, had had little chance of learning the news of the outside world
during the last twelve years. All this Jefferson Hope was able to tell him, and
in a style which interested Lucy as well as her father. He had been a pioneer
in California, and could narrate many a strange tale of fortunes made and
fortunes lost in those wild, halcyon days. He had been a scout too, and a
trapper, a silver explorer, and a ranchman. Wherever stirring adventures were
to be had, Jefferson Hope had been there in search of them. He soon became a
favourite with the old farmer, who spoke eloquently of his virtues. On such
occasions, Lucy was silent, but her blushing cheek and her bright, happy eyes,
showed only too clearly that her young heart was no longer her own. Her honest
father may not have observed these symptoms, but they were assuredly not thrown
away upon the man who had won her affections.
It
was a summer evening when he came galloping down the road and pulled up at the
gate. She was at the doorway, and came down to meet him. He threw the bridle
over the fence and strode up the pathway.
"I
am off, Lucy," he said, taking her two hands in his, and gazing tenderly
down into her face; "I won't ask you to come with me now, but will you be
ready to come when I am here again?"
"And
when will that be?" she asked, blushing and laughing.
"A
couple of months at the outside. I will come and claim you then, my darling.
There's no one who can stand between us."
"And
how about father?" she asked.
"He
has given his consent, provided we get these mines working all right. I have no
fear on that head."
"Oh,
well; of course, if you and father have arranged it all, there's no more to be
said," she whispered, with her cheek against his broad breast.
"Thank
God!" he said, hoarsely, stooping and kissing her. "It is settled,
then. The longer I stay, the harder it will be to go. They are waiting for me
at the cañon. Good-bye, my own darling—good-bye. In two months you shall see
me."
He
tore himself from her as he spoke, and, flinging himself upon his horse,
galloped furiously away, never even looking round, as though afraid that his
resolution might fail him if he took one glance at what he was leaving. She
stood at the gate, gazing after him until he vanished from her sight. Then she
walked back into the house, the happiest girl in all Utah.
THREE
weeks had passed since Jefferson Hope and his comrades had departed from Salt
Lake City. John Ferrier's heart was sore within him when he thought of the
young man's return, and of the impending loss of his adopted child. Yet her
bright and happy face reconciled him to the arrangement more than any argument
could have done. He had always determined, deep down in his resolute heart,
that nothing would ever induce him to allow his daughter to wed a Mormon. Such
a marriage he regarded as no marriage at all, but as a shame and a disgrace.
Whatever he might think of the Mormon doctrines, upon that one point he was
inflexible. He had to seal his mouth on the subject, however, for to express an
unorthodox opinion was a dangerous matter in those days in the Land of the
Saints.
Yes,
a dangerous matter—so dangerous that even the most saintly dared only whisper
their religious opinions with bated breath, lest something which fell from
their lips might be misconstrued, and bring down a swift retribution upon them.
The victims of persecution had now turned persecutors on their own account, and
persecutors of the most terrible description. Not the Inquisition of Seville,
nor the German Vehm-gericht, nor the Secret Societies of Italy, were ever able
to put a more formidable machinery in motion than that which cast a cloud over
the State of Utah.
Its
invisibility, and the mystery which was attached to it, made this organization
doubly terrible. It appeared to be omniscient and omnipotent, and yet was
neither seen nor heard. The man who held out against the Church vanished away,
and none knew whither he had gone or what had befallen him. His wife and his
children awaited him at home, but no father ever returned to tell them how he
had fared at the hands of his secret judges. A rash word or a hasty act was
followed by annihilation, and yet none knew what the nature might be of this
terrible power which was suspended over them. No wonder that men went about in
fear and trembling, and that even in the heart of the wilderness they dared not
whisper the doubts which oppressed them.
At
first this vague and terrible power was exercised only upon the recalcitrants
who, having embraced the Mormon faith, wished afterwards to pervert or to
abandon it. Soon, however, it took a wider range. The supply of adult women was
running short, and polygamy without a female population on which to draw was a
barren doctrine indeed. Strange rumours began to be bandied about—rumours of murdered
immigrants and rifled camps in regions where Indians had never been seen. Fresh
women appeared in the harems of the Elders—women who pined and wept, and bore
upon their faces the traces of an unextinguishable horror. Belated wanderers
upon the mountains spoke of gangs of armed men, masked, stealthy, and
noiseless, who flitted by them in the darkness. These tales and rumours took
substance and shape, and were corroborated and re-corroborated, until they
resolved themselves into a definite name. To this day, in the lonely ranches of
the West, the name of the Danite Band, or the Avenging Angels, is a sinister
and an ill-omened one.
Fuller
knowledge of the organization which produced such terrible results served to
increase rather than to lessen the horror which it inspired in the minds of
men. None knew who belonged to this ruthless society. The names of the
participators in the deeds of blood and violence done under the name of
religion were kept profoundly secret. The very friend to whom you communicated
your misgivings as to the Prophet and his mission, might be one of those who
would come forth at night with fire and sword to exact a terrible reparation.
Hence every man feared his neighbour, and none spoke of the things which were
nearest his heart.
One
fine morning, John Ferrier was about to set out to his wheatfields, when he
heard the click of the latch, and, looking through the window, saw a stout,
sandy-haired, middle-aged man coming up the pathway. His heart leapt to his
mouth, for this was none other than the great Brigham Young himself. Full of
trepidation—for he knew that such a visit boded him little good—Ferrier ran to
the door to greet the Mormon chief. The latter, however, received his
salutations coldly, and followed him with a stern face into the sitting-room.
"Brother
Ferrier," he said, taking a seat, and eyeing the farmer keenly from under
his light-coloured eyelashes, "the true believers have been good
"It
is so," answered John Ferrier.
"In
return for all this we asked but one condition: that was, that you should
embrace the true faith, and conform in every way to its usages. This you
promised to do, and this, if common report says truly, you have
neglected."
"And
how have I neglected it?" asked Ferrier, throwing out his hands in
expostulation. "Have I not given to the common fund? Have I not attended
at the Temple? Have I not——?"
"Where
are your wives?" asked Young, looking round him. "Call them in, that
I may greet them."
"It
is true that I have not married," Ferrier answered. "But women were
few, and there were many who had better claims than I. I was not a lonely man:
I had my daughter to attend to my wants."
"It
is of that daughter that I would speak to you," said the leader of the
Mormons. "She has grown to be the flower of Utah, and has found favour in
the eyes of many who are high in the land."
John
Ferrier groaned internally.
"There
are stories of her which I would fain disbelieve—stories that she is sealed to
some Gentile. This must be the gossip of idle tongues. What is the thirteenth rule
in the code of the sainted Joseph Smith? 'Let every maiden of the true faith
marry one of the elect; for if she wed a Gentile, she commits a grievous sin.'
This being so, it is impossible that you, who profess the holy creed, should
suffer your daughter to violate it."
John
Ferrier made no answer, but he played nervously with his riding-whip.
"Upon
this one point your whole faith shall be tested—so it has been decided in the
Sacred Council of Four. The girl is young, and we would not have her wed grey
hairs, neither would we deprive her of all choice. We
Ferrier
remained silent for some little time with his brows knitted.
"You
will give us time," he said at last. "My daughter is very young—she
is scarce of an age to marry."
"She
shall have a month to choose," said Young, rising from his seat. "At
the end of that time she shall give her answer."
He
was passing through the door, when he turned, with flushed face and flashing
eyes. "It were better for you, John Ferrier," he thundered,
"that you and she were now lying blanched skeletons upon the Sierra
Blanco, than that you should put your weak wills against the orders of the Holy
Four!"
With
a threatening gesture of his hand, he turned from the door, and Ferrier heard his
heavy step scrunching along the shingly path.
He
was still sitting with his elbows upon his knees, considering how he should
broach the matter to his daughter when a soft hand was laid upon his, and
looking up, he saw her standing beside him. One glance at her pale, frightened
face showed him that she had heard what had passed.
"I
could not help it," she said, in answer to his look. "His voice rang
through the house. Oh, father, father, what shall we do?"
"Don't
you scare yourself," he answered, drawing her to him, and passing his
broad, rough hand caressingly over her chestnut hair. "We'll fix it up
somehow or another. You don't find your fancy kind o' lessening for this chap,
do you?"
A
sob and a squeeze of his hand was her only answer.
"No;
of course not. I shouldn't care to hear you say you did. He's a likely lad, and
he's a Christian, which is more than these folk here, in spite o' all their
praying and preaching. There's a party starting for Nevada to-morrow, and I'll
manage to send him a message letting him know the hole we are in. If I know
anything o' that young man, he'll be back here with a speed that would whip
electro-telegraphs."
Lucy
laughed through her tears at her father's description.
"When
he comes, he will advise us for the best. But it is for you that I am
frightened, dear. One hears—one hears such dreadful stories about those who
oppose the Prophet: something terrible always happens to them."
"But
we haven't opposed him yet," her father answered. "It will be time to
look out for squalls when we do. We have a clear month before us; at the end of
that, I guess we had best shin out of Utah."
"Leave
Utah!"
"That's
about the size of it."
"But
the farm?"
"We
will raise as much as we can in money, and let the rest go. To tell the truth,
Lucy, it isn't the first time I have thought of doing it. I don't care about
knuckling under to any man, as these folk do to their darned prophet. I'm a
free-born American, and it's all new to me. Guess I'm too old to learn. If he
comes browsing about this farm, he might chance to run up against a charge of
buckshot travelling in the opposite direction."
"But
they won't let us leave," his daughter objected.
"Wait
till Jefferson comes, and we'll soon manage that. In the meantime, don't you
fret yourself, my dearie, and don't get your eyes swelled up, else he'll be
walking into me when he sees you. There's nothing to be afeared about, and
there's no danger at all."
John
Ferrier uttered these consoling remarks in a very confident tone, but she could
not help observing that he paid unusual care to the fastening of the doors that
night, and that he carefully cleaned and loaded the rusty old shotgun which
hung upon the wall of his bedroom.
ON
the morning which followed his interview with the Mormon Prophet, John Ferrier
went in to Salt Lake City, and having found his acquaintance, who was bound for
the Nevada Mountains, he entrusted him with his message to Jefferson Hope. In
it he told the young man of the imminent danger which threatened them, and how
necessary it was that he should return. Having done thus he felt easier in his
mind, and returned home with a lighter heart.
As
he approached his farm, he was surprised to see a horse hitched to each of the
posts of the gate. Still more surprised was he on entering to find two young
men in possession of his sitting-room. One, with a long pale face, was leaning
back in the rocking-chair, with his feet cocked up upon the stove.
The
other, a bull-necked youth with coarse bloated features, was standing in front
of the window with his hands in his pocket, whistling a popular hymn. Both of
them nodded to Ferrier as he entered, and the one in the rocking-chair
commenced the conversation.
"Maybe
you don't know us," he said. "This here is the son of Elder Drebber,
and I'm Joseph Stangerson, who travelled with you in the desert when the Lord
stretched out His hand and gathered you into the true fold."
"As
He will all the nations in His own good time," said the other in a nasal
voice; "He grindeth slowly but exceeding small."
John
Ferrier bowed coldly. He had guessed who his visitors were.
"We
have come," continued Stangerson, "at the advice of our fathers to
solicit the hand of your daughter for whichever of us may seem good to you and
to her. As I have but four wives and Brother Drebber here has seven, it appears
to me that my claim is the stronger one."
"Nay,
nay, Brother Stangerson," cried the other; "the question is not how
many wives we have, but how many we can keep. My father has now given over his
mills to me, and I am the richer man."
"But
my prospects are better," said the other, warmly. "When the Lord
removes my father, I shall have his tanning yard and his leather factory. Then
I am your elder, and am higher in the Church."
"It
will be for the maiden to decide," rejoined young Drebber, smirking at his
own reflection in the glass. "We will leave it all to her decision."
During
this dialogue, John Ferrier had stood fuming in the doorway, hardly able to
keep his riding-whip from the backs of his two visitors.
"Look
here," he said at last, striding up to them, "when my daughter
summons you, you can come, but until then I don't want to see your faces
again."
The
two young Mormons stared at him in amazement. In their eyes this competition
between them for the maiden's hand was the highest of honours both to her and
her father.
"There
are two ways out of the room," cried Ferrier; "there is the door, and
there is the window. Which do you care to use?"
His
brown face looked so savage, and his gaunt hands so threatening, that his
visitors sprang to their feet and beat a hurried retreat. The old farmer
followed them to the door.
"Let
me know when you have settled which it is to be," he said, sardonically.
"You
shall smart for this!" Stangerson cried, white with rage. "You have
defied the Prophet and the Council of Four. You shall rue it to the end of your
days."
"The
hand of the Lord shall be heavy upon you," cried young Drebber; "He
will arise and smite you!"
"Then
I'll start the smiting," exclaimed Ferrier furiously, and would have
rushed upstairs for his gun had not Lucy seized him by the arm and restrained
him. Before he could escape from her, the clatter of horses' hoofs told him
that they were beyond his reach.
"The
young canting rascals!" he exclaimed, wiping the perspiration from his
forehead; "I would sooner see you in your grave, my girl, than the wife of
either of them."
"And
so should I, father," she answered, with spirit; "but Jefferson will
soon be here."
"Yes.
It will not be long before he comes. The sooner the better, for we do not know
what their next move may be."
It
was, indeed, high time that someone capable of giving advice and help should
come to the aid of the sturdy old farmer and his adopted daughter. In the whole
history of the settlement there had never been such a case of rank disobedience
to the authority of the Elders. If minor errors were punished so sternly, what
would be the fate of this arch rebel. Ferrier knew that his wealth and position
would be of no avail to him. Others as well known and as rich as himself had
been spirited away before now, and their goods given over to the Church. He was
a brave man, but he trembled at the vague, shadowy terrors which hung over him.
Any known danger he could face with a firm lip, but this suspense was
unnerving. He concealed his fears from his daughter, however, and affected to
make light of the whole matter, though she, with the keen eye of love, saw
plainly that he was ill at ease.
He
expected that he would receive some message or remonstrance from Young as to
his conduct, and he was not mistaken, though it came in an unlooked-for manner.
Upon rising next morning he found, to his surprise, a small square of paper
pinned on to the coverlet of his bed just over his chest. On it was printed, in
bold straggling letters:—
"Twenty-nine
days are given you for amendment, and then——"
The
dash was more fear-inspiring than any threat could have been. How this warning
came into his room puzzled John Ferrier sorely, for his servants slept in an
outhouse, and the doors and windows had all been secured. He crumpled the paper
up and said nothing to his daughter, but the incident struck a chill into his
heart. The twenty-nine days were evidently the balance of the month which Young
had promised. What strength or courage could
Still
more shaken was he next morning. They had sat down to their breakfast when Lucy
with a cry of surprise pointed upwards. In the centre of the ceiling was
scrawled, with a burned stick apparently, the number 28. To his daughter it was
unintelligible, and he did not enlighten her. That night he sat up with his gun
and kept watch and ward. He saw and he heard nothing, and yet in the morning a
great 27 had been painted upon the outside of his door.
Thus
day followed day; and as sure as morning came he found that his unseen enemies
had kept their register, and had marked up in some conspicuous position how
many days were still left to him out of the month of grace. Sometimes the fatal
numbers appeared upon the walls, sometimes upon the floors, occasionally they
were on small placards stuck upon the garden gate or the railings. With all his
vigilance John Ferrier could not discover whence these daily warnings
proceeded. A horror which was almost superstitious came upon him at the sight
of them. He became haggard and restless, and his eyes had the troubled look of
some hunted creature. He had but one hope in life now, and that was for the
arrival of the young hunter from Nevada.
Twenty
had changed to fifteen and fifteen to ten, but there was no news of the
absentee. One by one the numbers dwindled down, and still there came no sign of
him. Whenever a horseman clattered down the road, or a driver shouted at his
team, the old farmer hurried to the gate thinking that help had arrived at
last. At last, when he saw five give way to four and that again to three, he
lost heart, and abandoned all hope of escape. Single-handed, and with his
limited knowledge of the mountains which surrounded the settlement, he knew
that he was powerless. The more-frequented roads were strictly watched and
guarded, and none could pass along them without an order from the Council. Turn
which way he would, there appeared to be no avoiding the blow which hung over
him. Yet the old man never wavered in his resolution to part with life itself
before he consented to what he regarded as his daughter's dishonour.
He
was sitting alone one evening pondering deeply over his troubles, and searching
vainly for some way out of them. That morning had shown the figure 2 upon the
wall of his house, and the next day would be the last of the allotted time.
What was to happen then? All manner of vague and terrible fancies filled his
imagination. And his daughter—what was to become of her after he was gone? Was
there no escape from the invisible network which was drawn all round them. He
sank his head upon the table and sobbed at the thought of his own impotence.
What
was that? In the silence he heard a gentle scratching sound—low, but very
distinct in the quiet of the night. It came from the door of the house. Ferrier
crept into the hall and listened intently. There was a pause for a few moments,
and then the low insidious sound was repeated. Someone was evidently tapping
very gently upon one of the panels of the door. Was it some midnight assassin who
had come to carry out the murderous orders of the secret tribunal? Or was it
some agent who was marking up that the last day of grace had arrived. John
Ferrier felt that instant death would be better than the suspense which shook
his nerves and chilled his heart. Springing forward he drew the bolt and threw
the door open.
Outside
all was calm and quiet. The night was fine, and the stars were twinkling
brightly overhead. The little front garden lay before the farmer's eyes bounded
by the fence and gate, but neither there nor on the road was any human being to
be seen. With a sigh of relief, Ferrier looked to right and to left, until
happening to glance straight down at his own feet he saw to his astonishment a
man lying flat upon his face upon the ground, with arms and legs all asprawl.
So
unnerved was he at the sight that he leaned up against the wall with his hand
to his throat to stifle his inclination to call out. His first thought was that
the prostrate figure was that of some wounded or dying man, but as he watched
it he saw it writhe along the ground and into the hall with the rapidity and
noiselessness of a serpent. Once within the house the man sprang to his feet,
closed the door, and revealed to the astonished farmer the fierce face and
resolute expression of Jefferson Hope.
 |
"Good
God!" gasped John Ferrier. "How you scared me! Whatever made you come
in like that."
"Give
me food," the other said, hoarsely. "I have had no time for bite or
sup for eight-and-forty hours." He flung himself upon the cold meat and
bread which were still lying upon the table from his host's supper, and
devoured it voraciously. "Does Lucy bear up well?" he asked, when he
had satisfied his hunger.
"Yes.
She does not know the danger," her father answered.
"That
is well. The house is watched on every side. That is why I crawled my way up to
it. They may be darned sharp, but they're not quite sharp enough to catch a
Washoe hunter."
John
Ferrier felt a different man now that he realized that he had a devoted ally.
He seized the young man's leathery hand and wrung it cordially. "You're a
man to be proud of," he said. "There are not many who would come to
share our danger and our troubles."
"You've
hit it there, pard," the young hunter answered. "I have a respect for
you, but if you were alone in this business I'd think twice before I put my
head into such a hornet's nest. It's Lucy that brings me here, and before harm
comes on her I guess there will be one less o' the Hope family in Utah."
"What
are we to do?"
"To-morrow
is your last day, and unless you act to-night you are lost. I have a mule and
two horses waiting in the Eagle Ravine. How much money have you?"
"Two
thousand dollars in gold, and five in notes."
"That
will do. I have as much more to add to it. We must push for Carson City through
the mountains. You had best wake Lucy. It is as well that the servants do not
sleep in the house."
While
Ferrier was absent, preparing his daughter for the approaching journey,
Jefferson Hope packed all the eatables that he could find into a
"We
must make our start at once," said Jefferson Hope, speaking in a low but
resolute voice, like one who realizes the greatness of the peril, but has
steeled his heart to meet it. "The front and back entrances are watched,
but with caution we may get away through the side window and across the fields.
Once on the road we are only two miles from the Ravine where the horses are waiting.
By daybreak we should be half-way through the mountains."
"What
if we are stopped," asked Ferrier.
Hope
slapped the revolver butt which protruded from the front of his tunic. "If
they are too many for us we shall take two or three of them with us," he
said with a sinister smile.
The
lights inside the house had all been extinguished, and from the darkened window
Ferrier peered over the fields which had been his own, and which he was now
about to abandon for ever. He had long nerved himself to the sacrifice,
however, and the thought of the honour and happiness of his daughter outweighed
any regret at his ruined fortunes. All looked so peaceful and happy, the
rustling trees and the broad silent stretch of grain-land, that it was
difficult to realize that the spirit of murder lurked through it all. Yet the
white face and set expression of the young hunter showed that in his approach
to the house he had seen enough to satisfy him upon that head.
Ferrier
carried the bag of gold and notes, Jefferson Hope had the scanty provisions and
water, while Lucy had a small bundle containing a few of her more valued
possessions. Opening the window very slowly and carefully, they waited until a
dark cloud had somewhat obscured the night, and then one by one passed through
into the little garden. With bated breath and crouching figures they stumbled
across it, and gained the shelter of the
It
was as well that his prairie training had given Jefferson Hope the ears of a
lynx. He and his friends had hardly crouched down before the melancholy hooting
of a mountain owl was heard within a few yards of them, which was immediately
answered by another hoot at a small distance. At the same moment a vague
shadowy figure emerged from the gap for which they had been making, and uttered
the plaintive signal cry again, on which a second man appeared out of the
obscurity.
"To-morrow
at midnight," said the first who appeared to be in authority. "When
the Whip-poor-Will calls three times."
"It
is well," returned the other. "Shall I tell Brother Drebber?"
"Pass
it on to him, and from him to the others. Nine to seven!"
"Seven
to five!" repeated the other, and the two figures flitted away in
different directions. Their concluding words had evidently been some form of
sign and countersign. The instant that their footsteps had died away in the
distance, Jefferson Hope sprang to his feet, and helping his companions through
the gap, led the way across the fields at the top of his speed, supporting and
half-carrying the girl when her strength appeared to fail her.
"Hurry
on! hurry on!" he gasped from time to time. "We are through the line
of sentinels. Everything depends on speed. Hurry on!"
Once
on the high road they made rapid progress. Only once did they meet anyone, and
then they managed to slip into a field, and so avoid recognition. Before
reaching the town the hunter branched away into a rugged and narrow footpath
which led to the mountains. Two dark jagged peaks loomed above them through the
darkness, and the defile which led between them was the Eagle Cañon in which
the horses were awaiting them. With unerring instinct Jefferson Hope picked his
way among the great boulders and along the bed of a dried-up watercourse, until
he came to the retired corner, screened with rocks, where the faithful animals
had been
It
was a bewildering route for anyone who was not accustomed to face Nature in her
wildest moods. On the one side a great crag towered up a thousand feet or more,
black, stern, and menacing, with long basaltic columns upon its rugged surface
like the ribs of some petrified monster. On the other hand a wild chaos of
boulders and debris made all advance impossible. Between the two ran the
irregular track, so narrow in places that they had to travel in Indian file,
and so rough that only practised riders could have traversed it at all. Yet in
spite of all dangers and difficulties, the hearts of the fugitives were light
within them, for every step increased the distance between them and the
terrible despotism from which they were flying.
They
soon had a proof, however, that they were still within the jurisdiction of the
Saints. They had reached the very wildest and most desolate portion of the pass
when the girl gave a startled cry, and pointed upwards. On a rock which
overlooked the track, showing out dark and plain against the sky, there stood a
solitary sentinel. He saw them as soon as they perceived him, and his military
challenge of "Who goes there?" rang through the silent ravine.
"Travellers
for Nevada," said Jefferson Hope, with his hand upon the rifle which hung
by his saddle.
They
could see the lonely watcher fingering his gun, and peering down at them as if
dissatisfied at their reply.
"By
whose permission?" he asked.
"The
Holy Four," answered Ferrier. His Mormon experiences had taught him that
that was the highest authority to which he could refer.
"Nine
from seven," cried the sentinel.
"Seven
from five," returned Jefferson Hope promptly, remembering the countersign
which he had heard in the garden.
"Pass,
and the Lord go with you," said the voice from above. Beyond his post the
path broadened out, and the horses were able to break into a trot. Looking
back, they could see the solitary watcher leaning upon his gun, and knew that
they had passed the outlying post of the chosen people, and that freedom lay
before them.
ALL
night their course lay through intricate defiles and over irregular and
rock-strewn paths. More than once they lost their way, but Hope's intimate
knowledge of the mountains enabled them to regain the track once more. When
morning broke, a scene of marvellous though savage beauty lay before them. In
every direction the great snow-capped peaks hemmed them in, peeping over each
other's shoulders to the far horizon. So steep were the rocky banks on either
side of them, that the larch and the pine seemed to be suspended over their
heads, and to need only a gust of wind to come hurtling down upon them. Nor was
the fear entirely an illusion, for the barren valley was thickly strewn with
trees and boulders which had fallen in a similar manner. Even as they passed, a
great rock came thundering down with a hoarse rattle which woke the echoes in
the silent gorges, and startled the weary horses into a gallop.
As
the sun rose slowly above the eastern horizon, the caps of the great mountains
lit up one after the other, like lamps at a festival, until they were all ruddy
and glowing. The magnificent spectacle cheered the hearts of the three
fugitives and gave them fresh energy. At a wild torrent which swept out of a
ravine they called a halt and watered their horses, while they partook of a
hasty breakfast. Lucy and her father would fain have rested longer, but
Jefferson Hope was inexorable. "They will be upon our track by this
time," he said. "Everything depends upon our speed. Once safe in
Carson we may rest for the remainder of our lives."
During
the whole of that day they struggled on through the defiles, and by evening
they calculated that they were more than thirty miles from their enemies. At
night-time they chose the base of a beetling crag, where the rocks offered some
protection from the chill wind, and there huddled together for warmth, they
enjoyed a few hours' sleep. Before daybreak, however, they were up and on their
way once more. They had seen no signs of any pursuers, and Jefferson Hope began
to think that they were fairly out of the reach of the terrible organization
whose enmity they had incurred. He
About
the middle of the second day of their flight their scanty store of provisions
began to run out. This gave the hunter little uneasiness, however, for there
was game to be had among the mountains, and he had frequently before had to
depend upon his rifle for the needs of life. Choosing a sheltered nook, he
piled together a few dried branches and made a blazing fire, at which his
companions might warm themselves, for they were now nearly five thousand feet
above the sea level, and the air was bitter and keen. Having tethered the
horses, and bade Lucy adieu, he threw his gun over his shoulder, and set out in
search of whatever chance might throw in his way. Looking back he saw the old
man and the young girl crouching over the blazing fire, while the three animals
stood motionless in the back-ground. Then the intervening rocks hid them from
his view.
He
walked for a couple of miles through one ravine after another without success,
though from the marks upon the bark of the trees, and other indications, he
judged that there were numerous bears in the vicinity. At last, after two or
three hours' fruitless search, he was thinking of turning back in despair, when
casting his eyes upwards he saw a sight which sent a thrill of pleasure through
his heart. On the edge of a jutting pinnacle, three or four hundred feet above
him, there stood a creature somewhat resembling a sheep in appearance, but
armed with a pair of gigantic horns. The big-horn—for so it is called—was
acting, probably, as a guardian over a flock which were invisible to the
hunter; but fortunately it was heading in the opposite direction, and had not
perceived him. Lying on his face, he rested his rifle upon a rock, and took a
long and steady aim before drawing the trigger. The animal sprang into the air,
tottered for a moment upon the edge of the precipice, and then came crashing
down into the valley beneath.
The
creature was too unwieldy to lift, so the hunter contented himself with cutting
away one haunch and part of the flank. With this trophy over his shoulder, he
hastened to retrace his steps, for the evening was already drawing in. He had
hardly started, however, before he realized the difficulty which faced him. In
his eagerness he had wandered far past the ravines which were known to him, and
it was no easy matter to pick out the path
He
had now come to the mouth of the very defile in which he had left them. Even in
the darkness he could recognize the outline of the cliffs which bounded it.
They must, he reflected, be awaiting him anxiously, for he had been absent
nearly five hours. In the gladness of his heart he put his hands to his mouth
and made the glen re-echo to a loud halloo as a signal that he was coming. He
paused and listened for an answer. None came save his own cry, which clattered
up the dreary silent ravines, and was borne back to his ears in countless
repetitions. Again he shouted, even louder than before, and again no whisper
came back from the friends whom he had left such a short time ago. A vague,
nameless dread came over him, and he hurried onwards frantically, dropping the
precious food in his agitation.
When
he turned the corner, he came full in sight of the spot where the fire had been
lit. There was still a glowing pile of wood ashes there, but it had evidently
not been tended since his departure. The same dead silence still reigned all
round. With his fears all changed to convictions, he hurried on. There was no
living creature near the remains of the fire: animals, man, maiden, all were
gone. It was only too clear that some sudden and terrible disaster had occurred
during his absence—a disaster which had embraced them all, and yet had left no
traces behind it.
Bewildered
and stunned by this blow, Jefferson Hope felt his head spin round, and had to
lean upon his rifle to save himself from falling. He was
JOHN
FERRIER,
FORMERLY
OF SALT LAKE CITY,
Died
August 4th, 1860.
The
sturdy old man, whom he had left so short a time before, was gone, then, and
this was all his epitaph. Jefferson Hope looked wildly round to see if there
was a second grave, but there was no sign of one. Lucy had been carried back by
their terrible pursuers to fulfil her original destiny, by becoming one of the
harem of the Elder's son. As the young fellow realized the certainty of her
fate, and his own powerlessness to prevent it, he wished that he, too, was
lying with the old farmer in his last silent resting-place.
Again,
however, his active spirit shook off the lethargy which springs from despair.
If there was nothing else left to him, he could at least devote his life to
revenge. With indomitable patience and perseverance, Jefferson Hope possessed
also a power of sustained vindictiveness, which he may have learned from the
Indians amongst whom he had lived. As he stood by the desolate fire, he felt
that the only one thing which could assuage his grief would be thorough and
complete retribution, brought by his own hand upon his enemies. His strong will
and untiring energy should, he determined,
For
five days he toiled footsore and weary through the defiles which he had already
traversed on horseback. At night he flung himself down among the rocks, and
snatched a few hours of sleep; but before daybreak he was always well on his
way. On the sixth day, he reached the Eagle Cañon, from which they had
commenced their ill-fated flight. Thence he could look down upon the home of
the saints. Worn and exhausted, he leaned upon his rifle and shook his gaunt
hand fiercely at the silent widespread city beneath him. As he looked at it, he
observed that there were flags in some of the principal streets, and other
signs of festivity. He was still speculating as to what this might mean when he
heard the clatter of horse's hoofs, and saw a mounted man riding towards him.
As he approached, he recognized him as a Mormon named Cowper, to whom he had
rendered services at different times. He therefore accosted him when he got up
to him, with the object of finding out what Lucy Ferrier's fate had been.
"I
am Jefferson Hope," he said. "You remember me."
The
Mormon looked at him with undisguised astonishment—indeed, it was difficult to
recognize in this tattered, unkempt wanderer, with ghastly white face and
fierce, wild eyes, the spruce young hunter of former days. Having, however, at
last, satisfied himself as to his identity, the man's surprise changed to
consternation.
"You
are mad to come here," he cried. "It is as much as my own life is
worth to be seen talking with you. There is a warrant against you from the Holy
Four for assisting the Ferriers away."
"I
don't fear them, or their warrant," Hope said, earnestly. "You must
know something of this matter, Cowper. I conjure you by everything you hold
dear to answer a few questions. We have always been friends. For God's sake,
don't refuse to answer me."
"What
is it?" the Mormon asked uneasily. "Be quick. The very rocks have
ears and the trees eyes."
"What
has become of Lucy Ferrier?"
"She
was married yesterday to young Drebber. Hold up, man, hold up, you have no life
left in you."
"Don't
mind me," said Hope faintly. He was white to the very lips, and had sunk
down on the stone against which he had been leaning. "Married, you
say?"
"Married
yesterday—that's what those flags are for on the Endowment House. There was
some words between young Drebber and young Stangerson as to which was to have
her. They'd both been in the party that followed them, and Stangerson had shot
her father, which seemed to give him the best claim; but when they argued it
out in council, Drebber's party was the stronger, so the Prophet gave her over
to him. No one won't have her very long though, for I saw death in her face
yesterday. She is more like a ghost than a woman. Are you off, then?"
"Yes,
I am off," said Jefferson Hope, who had risen from his seat. His face might
have been chiselled out of marble, so hard and set was its expression, while
its eyes glowed with a baleful light.
"Where
are you going?"
"Never
mind," he answered; and, slinging his weapon over his shoulder, strode off
down the gorge and so away into the heart of the mountains to the haunts of the
wild beasts. Amongst them all there was none so fierce and so dangerous as
himself.
The
prediction of the Mormon was only too well fulfilled. Whether it was the
terrible death of her father or the effects of the hateful marriage into which
she had been forced, poor Lucy never held up her head again, but pined away and
died within a month. Her sottish husband, who had married her principally for
the sake of John Ferrier's property, did not affect any great grief at his
bereavement; but his other wives mourned over her, and sat up with her the
night before the burial, as is the Mormon custom. They were
For
some months Jefferson Hope lingered among the mountains, leading a strange wild
life, and nursing in his heart the fierce desire for vengeance which possessed
him. Tales were told in the City of the weird figure which was seen prowling
about the suburbs, and which haunted the lonely mountain gorges. Once a bullet
whistled through Stangerson's window and flattened itself upon the wall within
a foot of him. On another occasion, as Drebber passed under a cliff a great
boulder crashed down on him, and he only escaped a terrible death by throwing
himself upon his face. The two young Mormons were not long in discovering the
reason of these attempts upon their lives, and led repeated expeditions into
the mountains in the hope of capturing or killing their enemy, but always
without success. Then they adopted the precaution of never going out alone or
after nightfall, and of having their houses guarded. After a time they were
able to relax these measures, for nothing was either heard or seen of their
opponent, and they hoped that time had cooled his vindictiveness.
Far
from doing so, it had, if anything, augmented it. The hunter's mind was of a
hard, unyielding nature, and the predominant idea of revenge had taken such complete
possession of it that there was no room for any other emotion. He was, however,
above all things practical. He soon realized that even his iron constitution
could not stand the incessant strain which he was putting upon it. Exposure and
want of wholesome food were wearing him
His
intention had been to be absent a year at the most, but a combination of
unforeseen circumstances prevented his leaving the mines for nearly five. At
the end of that time, however, his memory of his wrongs and his craving for
revenge were quite as keen as on that memorable night when he had stood by John
Ferrier's grave. Disguised, and under an assumed name, he returned to Salt Lake
City, careless what became of his own life, as long as he obtained what he knew
to be justice. There he found evil tidings awaiting him. There had been a
schism among the Chosen People a few months before, some of the younger members
of the Church having rebelled against the authority of the Elders, and the
result had been the secession of a certain number of the malcontents, who had
left Utah and become Gentiles. Among these had been Drebber and Stangerson; and
no one knew whither they had gone. Rumour reported that Drebber had managed to
convert a large part of his property into money, and that he had departed a
wealthy man, while his companion, Stangerson, was comparatively poor. There was
no clue at all, however, as to their whereabouts.
Many
a man, however vindictive, would have abandoned all thought of revenge in the
face of such a difficulty, but Jefferson Hope never faltered for a moment. With
the small competence he possessed, eked out by such employment as he could pick
up, he travelled from town to town through the United States in quest of his
enemies. Year passed into year, his black hair turned grizzled, but still he
wandered on, a human bloodhound, with his mind wholly set upon the one object
upon which he had devoted his life. At last his perseverance was rewarded. It
was but a glance of a face in a window, but that one glance told him that
Cleveland in Ohio possessed the men whom he was in pursuit of. He returned to
his miserable lodgings with his plan of vengeance all arranged. It chanced,
however, that Drebber, looking from his window, had recognized the vagrant in
the street, and had read murder in his eyes. He hurried before a justice of the peace,
Again
the avenger had been foiled, and again his concentrated hatred urged him to
continue the pursuit. Funds were wanting, however, and for some time he had to
return to work, saving every dollar for his approaching journey. At last,
having collected enough to keep life in him, he departed for Europe, and
tracked his enemies from city to city, working his way in any menial capacity,
but never overtaking the fugitives. When he reached St. Petersburg they had
departed for Paris; and when he followed them there he learned that they had
just set off for Copenhagen. At the Danish capital he was again a few days
late, for they had journeyed on to London, where he at last succeeded in
running them to earth. As to what occurred there, we cannot do better than
quote the old hunter's own account, as duly recorded in Dr. Watson's Journal,
to which we are already under such obligations.
WATSON,
M.D
OUR
prisoner's furious resistance did not apparently indicate any ferocity in his
disposition towards ourselves, for on finding himself powerless, he smiled in
an affable manner, and expressed his hopes that he had not hurt any of us in
the scuffle. "I guess you're going to take me to the police-station,"
he remarked to Sherlock Holmes. "My cab's at the door. If you'll loose my
legs I'll walk down to it. I'm not so light to lift as I used to be."
Gregson
and Lestrade exchanged glances as if they thought this proposition rather a
bold one; but Holmes at once took the prisoner at his word, and loosened the
towel which we had bound round his ancles. He rose and stretched his legs, as
though to assure himself that they were free once more. I remember that I
thought to myself, as I eyed him, that I had seldom seen a more powerfully
built man; and his dark sunburned face bore an expression of determination and
energy which was as formidable as his personal strength.
"If
there's a vacant place for a chief of the police, I reckon you are the man for
it," he said, gazing with undisguised admiration at my fellow-lodger.
"The way you kept on my trail was a caution."
"You
had better come with me," said Holmes to the two detectives.
"I
can drive you," said Lestrade.
"Good!
and Gregson can come inside with me. You too, Doctor, you have taken an
interest in the case and may as well stick to us."
I
assented gladly, and we all descended together. Our prisoner made no attempt at
escape, but stepped calmly into the cab which had been his, and we followed
him. Lestrade mounted the box, whipped up the horse, and brought us in a very
short time to our destination. We were ushered into a small chamber where a
police Inspector noted down our prisoner's name and the names of the men with
whose murder he had been charged. The official was a white-faced unemotional
man, who went through his duties in
"I've
got a good deal to say," our prisoner said slowly. "I want to tell
you gentlemen all about it."
"Hadn't
you better reserve that for your trial?" asked the Inspector.
"I
may never be tried," he answered. "You needn't look startled. It
isn't suicide I am thinking of. Are you a Doctor?" He turned his fierce
dark eyes upon me as he asked this last question.
"Yes;
I am," I answered.
"Then
put your hand here," he said, with a smile, motioning with his manacled
wrists towards his chest.
I
did so; and became at once conscious of an extraordinary throbbing and
commotion which was going on inside. The walls of his chest seemed to thrill
and quiver as a frail building would do inside when some powerful engine was at
work. In the silence of the room I could hear a dull humming and buzzing noise
which proceeded from the same source.
"Why,"
I cried, "you have an aortic aneurism!"
"That's
what they call it," he said, placidly. "I went to a Doctor last week
about it, and he told me that it is bound to burst before many days passed. It
has been getting worse for years. I got it from over-exposure and under-feeding
among the Salt Lake Mountains. I've done my work now, and I don't care how soon
I go, but I should like to leave some account of the business behind me. I
don't want to be remembered as a common cut-throat."
The
Inspector and the two detectives had a hurried discussion as to the
advisability of allowing him to tell his story.
"Do
you consider, Doctor, that there is immediate danger?" the former asked,
"Most
certainly there is," I answered.
"In
that case it is clearly our duty, in the interests of justice, to take his
statement," said the Inspector. "You are at liberty, sir, to give
your account, which I again warn you will be taken down."
"I'll
sit down, with your leave," the prisoner said, suiting the action to the
word. "This aneurism of mine makes me easily tired, and the tussle we had
half an hour ago has not mended matters. I'm on the brink of the grave, and I
am not likely to lie to you. Every word I say is the absolute truth, and how you
use it is a matter of no consequence to me."
With
these words, Jefferson Hope leaned back in his chair and began the following
remarkable statement. He spoke in a calm and methodical manner, as though the
events which he narrated were commonplace enough. I can vouch for the accuracy
of the subjoined account, for I have had access to Lestrade's note-book, in
which the prisoner's words were taken down exactly as they were uttered.
"It
don't much matter to you why I hated these men," he said; "it's
enough that they were guilty of the death of two human beings—a father and a
daughter—and that they had, therefore, forfeited their own lives. After the
lapse of time that has passed since their crime, it was impossible for me to
secure a conviction against them in any court. I knew of their guilt though,
and I determined that I should be judge, jury, and executioner all rolled into
one. You'd have done the same, if you have any manhood in you, if you had been
in my place.
"That
girl that I spoke of was to have married me twenty years ago. She was forced
into marrying that same Drebber, and broke her heart over it. I took the
marriage ring from her dead finger, and I vowed that his dying eyes should rest
upon that very ring, and that his last thoughts should be of the crime for
which he was punished. I have carried it about with me, and have followed him
and his accomplice over two continents until I caught them. They thought to
tire me out, but they could not do it. If I die to-morrow, as is likely enough,
I die knowing that my work in this world is done, and well done. They have
perished, and by my hand. There is nothing left for me to hope for, or to
desire.
"They
were rich and I was poor, so that it was no easy matter for me to follow them.
When I got to London my pocket was about empty, and I found that I must turn my
hand to something for my living. Driving and riding are as natural to me as
walking, so I applied at a cabowner's office, and soon got employment. I was to
bring a certain sum a week to the owner, and whatever was over that I might
keep for myself. There was seldom much over, but I managed to scrape along
somehow. The hardest job was to learn my way about, for I reckon that of all
the mazes that ever were contrived, this city is the most confusing. I had a
map beside me though, and when once I had spotted the principal hotels and
stations, I got on pretty well.
"It
was some time before I found out where my two gentlemen were living; but I
inquired and inquired until at last I dropped across them. They were at a
boarding-house at Camberwell, over on the other side of the river. When once I
found them out I knew that I had them at my mercy. I had grown my beard, and
there was no chance of their recognizing me. I would dog them and follow them
until I saw my opportunity. I was determined that they should not escape me
again.
"They
were very near doing it for all that. Go where they would about London, I was
always at their heels. Sometimes I followed them on my cab, and sometimes on
foot, but the former was the best, for then they could not get away from me. It
was only early in the morning or late at night that I could earn anything, so
that I began to get behind hand with my employer. I did not mind that, however,
as long as I could lay my hand upon the men I wanted.
"They
were very cunning, though. They must have thought that there was some chance of
their being followed, for they would never go out alone, and never after
nightfall. During two weeks I drove behind them every day, and never once saw them
separate. Drebber himself was drunk half the time, but Stangerson was not to be
caught napping. I watched them late and early, but never saw the ghost of a
chance; but I was not discouraged, for something told me that the hour had
almost come. My only fear was that this thing in my chest might burst a little
too soon and leave my work undone.
"At
last, one evening I was driving up and down Torquay Terrace, as the street was
called in which they boarded, when I saw a cab drive up to their door. Presently
some luggage was brought out, and after a time Drebber and Stangerson followed
it, and drove off. I whipped up my horse and kept within sight of them, feeling
very ill at ease, for I feared that they were going to shift their quarters. At
Euston Station they got out, and I left a boy to hold my horse, and followed
them on to the platform. I heard them ask for the Liverpool train, and the
guard answer that one had just gone and there would not be another for some
hours. Stangerson seemed to be put out at that, but Drebber was rather pleased
than otherwise. I got so close to them in the bustle that I could hear every
word that passed between them. Drebber said that he had a little business of
his own to do, and that if the other would wait for him he would soon rejoin
him. His companion remonstrated with him, and reminded him that they had
resolved to stick together. Drebber answered that the matter was a delicate
one, and that he must go alone. I could not catch what Stangerson said to that,
but the other burst out swearing, and reminded him that he was nothing more
than his paid servant, and that he must not presume to dictate to him. On that
the Secretary gave it up as a bad job, and simply bargained with him that if he
missed the last train he should rejoin him at Halliday's Private Hotel; to
which Drebber answered that he would be back on the platform before eleven, and
made his way out of the station.
"The
moment for which I had waited so long had at last come. I had my enemies within
my power. Together they could protect each other, but singly they were at my
mercy. I did not act, however, with undue precipitation. My plans were already
formed. There is no satisfaction in vengeance unless the offender has time to
realize who it is that strikes him, and why retribution has come upon him. I
had my plans arranged by which I should have the opportunity of making the man
who had wronged me understand that his old sin had found him out. It chanced
that some days before a gentleman who had been engaged in looking over some
houses in the Brixton Road had dropped the key of one of them in my carriage.
It was claimed that same evening, and returned; but in the interval I had taken
a moulding of it, and had a duplicate constructed. By means of this I had access
to at least one spot in this great city where I could rely upon being
"He
walked down the road and went into one or two liquor shops, staying for nearly
half-an-hour in the last of them. When he came out he staggered in his walk,
and was evidently pretty well on. There was a hansom just in front of me, and
he hailed it. I followed it so close that the nose of my horse was within a
yard of his driver the whole way. We rattled across Waterloo Bridge and through
miles of streets, until, to my astonishment, we found ourselves back in the
Terrace in which he had boarded. I could not imagine what his intention was in
returning there; but I went on and pulled up my cab a hundred yards or so from
the house. He entered it, and his hansom drove away. Give me a glass of water,
if you please. My mouth gets dry with the talking."
I
handed him the glass, and he drank it down.
"That's
better," he said. "Well, I waited for a quarter of an hour, or more,
when suddenly there came a noise like people struggling inside the house. Next
moment the door was flung open and two men appeared, one of whom was Drebber,
and the other was a young chap whom I had never seen before. This fellow had
Drebber by the collar, and when they came to the head of the steps he gave him
a shove and a kick which sent him half across the road. 'You hound,' he cried,
shaking his stick at him; 'I'll teach you to insult an honest girl!' He was so
hot that I think he would have thrashed Drebber with his cudgel, only that the
cur staggered away down the road as fast as his legs would carry him. He ran as
far as the corner, and then, seeing my cab, he hailed me and jumped in. 'Drive
me to Halliday's Private Hotel,' said he.
"When
I had him fairly inside my cab, my heart jumped so with joy that I feared lest
at this last moment my aneurism might go wrong. I drove along slowly, weighing
in my own mind what it was best to do. I might take him right out into the
country, and there in some deserted lane have my last interview with him. I had
almost decided upon this, when he solved the problem for me. The craze for
drink had seized him again, and he ordered me to pull up outside a gin palace.
He went in, leaving word that I should
"Don't
imagine that I intended to kill him in cold blood. It would only have been
rigid justice if I had done so, but I could not bring myself to do it. I had
long determined that he should have a show for his life if he chose to take
advantage of it. Among the many billets which I have filled in America during
my wandering life, I was once janitor and sweeper out of the laboratory at York
College. One day the professor was lecturing on poisions, and he showed his
students some alkaloid, as he called it, which he had extracted from some South
American arrow poison, and which was so powerful that the least grain meant
instant death. I spotted the bottle in which this preparation was kept, and
when they were all gone, I helped myself to a little of it. I was a fairly good
dispenser, so I worked this alkaloid into small, soluble pills, and each pill I
put in a box with a similar pill made without the poison. I determined at the
time that when I had my chance, my gentlemen should each have a draw out of one
of these boxes, while I ate the pill that remained. It would be quite as
deadly, and a good deal less noisy than firing across a handkerchief. From that
day I had always my pill boxes about with me, and the time had now come when I
was to use them.
"It
was nearer one than twelve, and a wild, bleak night, blowing hard and raining
in torrents. Dismal as it was outside, I was glad within—so glad that I could
have shouted out from pure exultation. If any of you gentlemen have ever pined
for a thing, and longed for it during twenty long years, and then suddenly
found it within your reach, you would understand my feelings. I lit a cigar,
and puffed at it to steady my nerves, but my hands were trembling, and my
temples throbbing with excitement. As I drove, I could see old John Ferrier and
sweet Lucy looking at me out of the darkness and smiling at me, just as plain
as I see you all in this room. All the way they were ahead of me, one on each
side of the horse until I pulled up at the house in the Brixton Road.
"There
was not a soul to be seen, nor a sound to be heard, except the dripping of the rain.
When I looked in at the window, I found Drebber all huddled together in a
drunken sleep. I shook him by the arm, 'It's time to get out,' I said.
"'All
right, cabby,' said he.
"I
suppose he thought we had come to the hotel that he had mentioned, for he got
out without another word, and followed me down the garden. I had to walk beside
him to keep him steady, for he was still a little top-heavy. When we came to
the door, I opened it, and led him into the front room. I give you my word that
all the way, the father and the daughter were walking in front of us.
"'It's
infernally dark,' said he, stamping about.
"'We'll
soon have a light,' I said, striking a match and putting it to a wax candle
which I had brought with me. 'Now, Enoch Drebber,' I continued, turning to him,
and holding the light to my own face, 'who am I?'
"He
gazed at me with bleared, drunken eyes for a moment, and then I saw a horror
spring up in them, and convulse his whole features, which showed me that he
knew me. He staggered back with a livid face, and I saw the perspiration break
out upon his brow, while his teeth chattered in his head. At the sight, I
leaned my back against the door and laughed loud and long. I had always known
that vengeance would be sweet, but I had never hoped for the contentment of
soul which now possessed me.
"'You
dog!' I said; 'I have hunted you from Salt Lake City to St. Petersburg, and you
have always escaped me. Now, at last your wanderings have come to an end, for
either you or I shall never see to-morrow's sun rise.' He shrunk still further
away as I spoke, and I could see on his face that he thought I was mad. So I
was for the time. The pulses in my temples beat like sledge-hammers, and I
believe I would have had a fit of some sort if the blood had not gushed from my
nose and relieved me.
"'What
do you think of Lucy Ferrier now?' I cried, locking the door, and shaking the
key in his face. 'Punishment has been slow in coming, but it has overtaken you
at last.' I saw his coward lips tremble as I spoke. He would have begged for
his life, but he knew well that it was useless.
"'Would
you murder me?' he stammered.
"'There
is no murder,' I answered. 'Who talks of murdering a mad dog? What mercy had
you upon my poor darling, when you dragged her from her slaughtered father, and
bore her away to your accursed and shameless harem.'
"'It
was not I who killed her father,' he cried.
"'But
it was you who broke her innocent heart,' I shrieked, thrusting the box before
him. 'Let the high God judge between us. Choose and eat. There is death in one
and life in the other. I shall take what you leave. Let us see if there is
justice upon the earth, or if we are ruled by chance.'
"He
cowered away with wild cries and prayers for mercy, but I drew my knife and
held it to his throat until he had obeyed me. Then I swallowed the other, and
we stood facing one another in silence for a minute or more, waiting to see
which was to live and which was to die. Shall I ever forget the look which came
over his face when the first warning pangs told him that the poison was in his
system? I laughed as I saw it, and held Lucy's marriage ring in front of his
eyes. It was but for a moment, for the action of the alkaloid is rapid. A spasm
of pain contorted his features; he threw his hands out in front of him,
staggered, and then, with a hoarse cry, fell heavily upon the floor. I turned
him over with my foot, and placed my hand upon his heart. There was no
movement. He was dead!
"The
blood had been streaming from my nose, but I had taken no notice of it. I don't
know what it was that put it into my head to write upon the wall with it.
Perhaps it was some mischievous idea of setting the police upon a wrong track,
for I felt light-hearted and cheerful. I remembered a German being found in New
York with RACHE written up above him, and it was argued at the time in the
newspapers that the secret societies must have done it. I guessed that what
puzzled the New Yorkers would puzzle the Londoners, so I dipped my finger in my
own blood and printed it on a convenient place on the wall. Then I walked down
to my cab and found that there was nobody about, and that the night was still
very wild. I had driven some distance when I put my hand into the pocket in
which I usually kept Lucy's ring, and found that it was not there. I was
thunderstruck at this, for it was the only memento that I had of her. Thinking
that I might have
"That
was how Enoch Drebber came to his end. All I had to do then was to do as much
for Stangerson, and so pay off John Ferrier's debt. I knew that he was staying
at Halliday's Private Hotel, and I hung about all day, but he never came out. I
fancy that he suspected something when Drebber failed to put in an appearance.
He was cunning, was Stangerson, and always on his guard. If he thought he could
keep me off by staying indoors he was very much mistaken. I soon found out
which was the window of his bedroom, and early next morning I took advantage of
some ladders which were lying in the lane behind the hotel, and so made my way
into his room in the grey of the dawn. I woke him up and told him that the hour
had come when he was to answer for the life he had taken so long before. I
described Drebber's death to him, and I gave him the same choice of the
poisoned pills. Instead of grasping at the chance of safety which that offered
him, he sprang from his bed and flew at my throat. In self-defence I stabbed
him to the heart. It would have been the same in any case, for Providence would
never have allowed his guilty hand to pick out anything but the poison.
"I
have little more to say, and it's as well, for I am about done up. I went on
cabbing it for a day or so, intending to keep at it until I could save enough
to take me back to America. I was standing in the yard when a ragged youngster
asked if there was a cabby there called Jefferson Hope, and said that his cab
was wanted by a gentleman at 221B, Baker Street. I went round, suspecting no
harm, and the next thing I knew, this young man here had the bracelets on my
wrists, and as neatly shackled as ever I saw in my life. That's the whole of my
story, gentlemen. You may consider me to be a murderer; but I hold that I am
just as much an officer of justice as you are."
So
thrilling had the man's narrative been, and his manner was so impressive that
we had sat silent and absorbed. Even the professional
detectives,
blasé as they were in every detail of crime, appeared to be keenly interested
in the man's story. When he finished we sat for some minutes in a
"There
is only one point on which I should like a little more information,"
Sherlock Holmes said at last. "Who was your accomplice who came for the
ring which I advertised?"
The
prisoner winked at my friend jocosely. "I can tell my own secrets,"
he said, "but I don't get other people into trouble. I saw your
advertisement, and I thought it might be a plant, or it might be the ring which
I wanted. My friend volunteered to go and see. I think you'll own he did it
smartly."
"Not
a doubt of that," said Holmes heartily.
"Now,
gentlemen," the Inspector remarked gravely, "the forms of the law
must be complied with. On Thursday the prisoner will be brought before the
magistrates, and your attendance will be required. Until then I will be
responsible for him." He rang the bell as he spoke, and Jefferson Hope was
led off by a couple of warders, while my friend and I made our way out of the
Station and took a cab back to Baker Street.
WE
had all been warned to appear before the magistrates upon the Thursday; but
when the Thursday came there was no occasion for our testimony. A higher Judge
had taken the matter in hand, and Jefferson Hope had been summoned before a
tribunal where strict justice would be meted out to him. On the very night
after his capture the aneurism burst, and he was found in the morning stretched
upon the floor of the cell, with a placid smile upon his face, as though he had
been able in his dying moments to look back upon a useful life, and on work
well done.
"Gregson
and Lestrade will be wild about his death," Holmes remarked, as we chatted
it over next evening. "Where will their grand advertisement be now?"
"I
don't see that they had very much to do with his capture," I answered.
"What
you do in this world is a matter of no consequence," returned my
companion, bitterly. "The question is, what can you make people believe
that you have done. Never mind," he continued, more brightly, after a
pause. "I would not have missed the investigation for anything. There has
been no better case within my recollection. Simple as it was, there were
several most instructive points about it."
"Simple!"
I ejaculated.
"Well,
really, it can hardly be described as otherwise," said Sherlock Holmes,
smiling at my surprise. "The proof of its intrinsic simplicity is, that
without any help save a few very ordinary deductions I was able to lay my hand
upon the criminal within three days."
"That
is true," said I.
"I
have already explained to you that what is out of the common is usually a guide
rather than a hindrance. In solving a problem of this sort, the grand thing is
to be able to reason backwards. That is a very useful accomplishment, and a
very easy one, but people do not practise it much. In the every-day affairs of
life it is more useful to reason forwards, and so the
"I
confess," said I, "that I do not quite follow you."
"I
hardly expected that you would. Let me see if I can make it clearer. Most
people, if you describe a train of events to them, will tell you what the
result would be. They can put those events together in their minds, and argue
from them that something will come to pass. There are few people, however, who,
if you told them a result, would be able to evolve from their own inner
consciousness what the steps were which led up to that result. This power is
what I mean when I talk of reasoning backwards, or analytically."
"I
understand," said I.
"Now
this was a case in which you were given the result and had to find everything
else for yourself. Now let me endeavour to show you the different steps in my
reasoning. To begin at the beginning. I approached the house, as you know, on
foot, and with my mind entirely free from all impressions. I naturally began by
examining the roadway, and there, as I have already explained to you, I saw
clearly the marks of a cab, which, I ascertained by inquiry, must have been
there during the night. I satisfied myself that it was a cab and not a private
carriage by the narrow gauge of the wheels. The ordinary London growler is
considerably less wide than a gentleman's brougham.
"This
was the first point gained. I then walked slowly down the garden path, which
happened to be composed of a clay soil, peculiarly suitable for taking
impressions. No doubt it appeared to you to be a mere trampled line of slush,
but to my trained eyes every mark upon its surface had a meaning. There is no
branch of detective science which is so important and so much neglected as the
art of tracing footsteps. Happily, I have always laid great stress upon it, and
much practice has made it second nature to me. I saw the heavy footmarks of the
constables, but I saw also the track of the two men who had first passed
through the garden. It was easy to tell that they had been before the others,
because in places their marks had been entirely obliterated by the others
coming upon the top of them. In this way my
"On
entering the house this last inference was confirmed. My well-booted man lay
before me. The tall one, then, had done the murder, if murder there was. There
was no wound upon the dead man's person, but the agitated expression upon his
face assured me that he had foreseen his fate before it came upon him. Men who
die from heart disease, or any sudden natural cause, never by any chance
exhibit agitation upon their features. Having sniffed the dead man's lips I
detected a slightly sour smell, and I came to the conclusion that he had had
poison forced upon him. Again, I argued that it had been forced upon him from
the hatred and fear expressed upon his face. By the method of exclusion, I had
arrived at this result, for no other hypothesis would meet the facts. Do not
imagine that it was a very unheard of idea. The forcible administration of
poison is by no means a new thing in criminal annals. The cases of Dolsky in
Odessa, and of Leturier in Montpellier, will occur at once to any toxicologist.
"And
now came the great question as to the reason why. Robbery had not been the
object of the murder, for nothing was taken. Was it politics, then, or was it a
woman? That was the question which confronted me. I was inclined from the first
to the latter supposition. Political assassins are only too glad to do their
work and to fly. This murder had, on the contrary, been done most deliberately,
and the perpetrator had left his tracks all over the room, showing that he had
been there all the time. It must have been a private wrong, and not a political
one, which called for such a methodical revenge. When the inscription was
discovered upon the wall I was more inclined than ever to my opinion. The thing
was too evidently a blind. When the ring was found, however, it settled the
question. Clearly the murderer had used it to remind his victim of some dead or
absent woman. It was at this point that I asked Gregson whether he had enquired
in his telegram to Cleveland as to any particular point in Mr. Drebber's former
career. He answered, you remember, in the negative.
"I
then proceeded to make a careful examination of the room, which confirmed me in
my opinion as to the murderer's height, and furnished me with the additional
details as to the Trichinopoly cigar and the length of his nails. I had already
come to the conclusion, since there were no signs of a struggle, that the blood
which covered the floor had burst from the murderer's nose in his excitement. I
could perceive that the track of blood coincided with the track of his feet. It
is seldom that any man, unless he is very full-blooded, breaks out in this way
through emotion, so I hazarded the opinion that the criminal was probably a
robust and ruddy-faced man. Events proved that I had judged correctly.
"Having
left the house, I proceeded to do what Gregson had neglected. I telegraphed to
the head of the police at Cleveland, limiting my enquiry to the circumstances
connected with the marriage of Enoch Drebber. The answer was conclusive. It
told me that Drebber had already applied for the protection of the law against
an old rival in love, named Jefferson Hope, and that this same Hope was at
present in Europe. I knew now that I held the clue to the mystery in my hand,
and all that remained was to secure the murderer.
"I
had already determined in my own mind that the man who had walked into the
house with Drebber, was none other than the man who had driven the cab. The
marks in the road showed me that the horse had wandered on in a way which would
have been impossible had there been anyone in charge of it. Where, then, could the
driver be, unless he were inside the house? Again, it is absurd to suppose that
any sane man would carry out a deliberate crime under the very eyes, as it
were, of a third person, who was sure to betray him. Lastly, supposing one man
wished to dog another through London, what better means could he adopt than to
turn cabdriver. All these considerations led me to the irresistible conclusion
that Jefferson Hope was to be found among the jarveys of the Metropolis.
"If
he had been one there was no reason to believe that he had ceased to be. On the
contrary, from his point of view, any sudden change would be likely to draw
attention to himself. He would, probably, for a time at least, continue to
perform his duties. There was no reason to suppose that he was going under an
assumed name. Why should he change his name in a country
"It
is wonderful!" I cried. "Your merits should be publicly recognized.
You should publish an account of the case. If you won't, I will for you."
"You
may do what you like, Doctor," he answered. "See here!" he
continued, handing a paper over to me, "look at this!"
It
was the Echo for the day, and the paragraph to which he pointed was devoted to
the case in question.
"The
public," it said, "have lost a sensational treat through the sudden
death of the man Hope, who was suspected of the murder of Mr. Enoch Drebber and
of Mr. Joseph Stangerson. The details of the case will probably be never known
now, though we are informed upon good authority that the crime was the result
of an old standing and romantic feud, in which love and Mormonism bore a part.
It seems that both the victims belonged, in their younger days, to the Latter
Day Saints, and Hope, the deceased prisoner, hails also from Salt Lake City. If
the case has had no other effect, it, at least, brings out in the most striking
manner the efficiency of our detective police force, and will serve as a lesson
to all foreigners that they will do wisely to settle their feuds at home, and
not to carry them on to British soil. It is an open secret that the credit of
this smart capture belongs entirely to the well-known Scotland Yard officials,
Messrs. Lestrade and Gregson. The man was apprehended, it appears, in the rooms
of a certain Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who has himself, as an amateur, shown some
talent in the detective line, and who, with such instructors, may hope in time
to attain to some degree of their skill. It is expected that a testimonial of
some sort will be presented to the two officers as a fitting recognition of
their services."
"Didn't
I tell you so when we started?" cried Sherlock Holmes with a laugh.
"That's the result of all our Study in Scarlet: to get them a
testimonial!"
"Never
mind," I answered, "I have all the facts in my journal, and the
public shall know them. In the meantime you must make yourself contented by the
consciousness of success, like the Roman miser—
"'Populus
me sibilat, at mihi plaudo. Ipse domi simul ac nummos contemplor in
arca.'"
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