The Memoirs of
Sherlock Holmes
Silver
Blaze
“I am afraid, Watson,
that I shall have to go,” said Holmes, as we sat down together to our breakfast
one morning.
“Go! Where to?”
“To Dartmoor; to King's
Pyland.”
I was not surprised.
Indeed, my only wonder was that he had not already been mixed up in this
extraordinary case, which was the one topic of conversation through the length
and breadth of England. For a whole day my companion had rambled about the room
with his chin upon his chest and his brows knitted, charging and recharging his
pipe with the strongest black tobacco, and absolutely deaf to any of my
questions or remarks. Fresh editions of every paper had been sent up by our
news agent, only to be glanced over and tossed down into a corner. Yet, silent
as he was, I knew perfectly well what it was over which he was brooding. There
was but one problem before the public which could challenge his powers of
analysis, and that was the singular disappearance of the favorite for the
Wessex Cup, and the tragic murder of its trainer. When, therefore, he suddenly
announced his intention of setting out for the scene of the drama it was only
what I had both expected and hoped for.
“I should be most happy to
go down with you if I should not be in the way,” said I.
“My dear Watson, you would
confer a great favour upon me by coming. And I think that your time will not be
misspent, for there are points about the case which promise to make it an
absolutely unique one. We have, I think, just time to catch our train at
Paddington, and I will go further into the matter upon our journey. You would
oblige me by bringing with you your very excellent field-glass.”
And so it happened that an
hour or so later I found myself in the corner of a first-class carriage flying
along en route for Exeter, while Sherlock Holmes, with his sharp, eager face
framed in his ear-flapped travelling-cap, dipped rapidly into the bundle of
fresh papers which he had procured at Paddington. We had left Reading far
behind us before he thrust the last one of them under the seat, and offered me
his cigar-case.
“We are going well,” said
he, looking out the window and glancing at his watch. “Our rate at present is
fifty-three and a half miles an hour.”
“I have not observed the
quarter-mile posts,” said I.
“Nor have I. But the
telegraph posts upon this line are sixty yards apart, and the calculation is a
simple one. I presume that you have looked into this matter of the murder of
John Straker and the disappearance of Silver Blaze?”
“I have seen what the
Telegraph and the Chronicle have to say.”
“It is one of those cases
where the art of the reasoner should be used rather for the sifting of details
than for the acquiring of fresh evidence. The tragedy has been so uncommon, so
complete and of such personal importance to so many people, that we are
suffering from a plethora of surmise, conjecture, and hypothesis. The
difficulty is to detach the framework of fact—of absolute undeniable fact—from
the embellishments of theorists and reporters. Then, having established
ourselves upon this sound basis, it is our duty to see what inferences may be
drawn and what are the special points upon which the whole mystery turns. On
Tuesday evening I received telegrams from both Colonel Ross, the owner of the
horse, and from Inspector Gregory, who is looking after the case, inviting my
cooperation.
“Tuesday evening!” I
exclaimed. “And this is Thursday morning. Why didn't you go down yesterday?”
“Because I made a blunder,
my dear Watson—which is, I am afraid, a more common occurrence than any one
would think who only knew me through your memoirs. The fact is that I could not
believe it possible that the most remarkable horse in England could long remain
concealed, especially in so sparsely inhabited a place as the north of
Dartmoor. From hour to hour yesterday I expected to hear that he had been
found, and that his abductor was the murderer of John Straker. When, however,
another morning had come, and I found that beyond the arrest of young Fitzroy
Simpson nothing had been done, I felt that it was time for me to take action.
Yet in some ways I feel that yesterday has not been wasted.”
“You have formed a theory,
then?”
“At least I have got a grip
of the essential facts of the case. I shall enumerate them to you, for nothing
clears up a case so much as stating it to another person, and I can hardly
expect your co-operation if I do not show you the position from which we start.”
I lay back against the
cushions, puffing at my cigar, while Holmes, leaning forward, with his long,
thin forefinger checking off the points upon the palm of his left hand, gave me
a sketch of the events which had led to our journey.
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“Silver Blaze,” said he,
“is from the Somomy stock, and holds as brilliant a record as his famous
ancestor. He is now in his fifth year, and has brought in turn each of the
prizes of the turf to Colonel Ross, his fortunate owner. Up to the time of the
catastrophe he was the first favorite for the Wessex Cup, the betting being
three to one on him. He has always, however, been a prime favorite with the
racing public, and has never yet disappointed them, so that even at those odds
enormous sums of money have been laid upon him. It is obvious, therefore, that
there were many people who had the strongest interest in preventing Silver
Blaze from being there at the fall of the flag next Tuesday.
“The fact was, of course,
appreciated at King's Pyland, where the Colonel's training-stable is situated.
Every precaution was taken to guard the favorite. The trainer, John Straker, is
a retired jockey who rode in Colonel Ross's colors before he became too heavy
for the weighing-chair. He has served the Colonel for five years as jockey and for
seven as trainer, and has always shown himself to be a zealous and honest
servant. Under him were three lads; for the establishment was a small one,
containing only four horses in all. One of these lads sat up each night in the
stable, while the others slept in the loft. All three bore excellent
characters. John Straker, who is a married man, lived in a small villa about
two hundred yards from the stables. He has no children, keeps one maid-servant,
and is comfortably off. The country round is very lonely, but about half a mile
to the north there is a small cluster of villas which have been built by a
Tavistock contractor for the use of invalids and others who may wish to enjoy
the pure Dartmoor air. Tavistock itself lies two miles to the west, while across
the moor, also about two miles distant, is the larger training establishment of
Mapleton, which belongs to Lord Backwater, and is managed by Silas Brown. In
every other direction the moor is a complete wilderness, inhabited only by a
few roaming gypsies. Such was the general situation last Monday night when the
catastrophe occurred.
“On that evening the horses
had been exercised and watered as usual, and the stables were locked up at nine
o'clock. Two of the lads walked up to the trainer's house, where they had
supper in the kitchen, while the third, Ned Hunter, remained on guard. At a few
minutes after nine the maid, Edith Baxter, carried down to the stables his
supper, which consisted of a dish of curried mutton. She took no liquid, as
there was a water-tap in the stables, and it was the rule that the lad on duty
should drink nothing else. The maid carried a lantern with her, as it was very
dark and the path ran across the open moor.
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“Edith Baxter was within
thirty yards of the stables, when a man appeared out of the darkness and called
to her to stop. As he stepped into the circle of yellow light thrown by the
lantern she saw that he was a person of gentlemanly bearing, dressed in a gray
suit of tweeds, with a cloth cap. He wore gaiters, and carried a heavy stick
with a knob to it. She was most impressed, however, by the extreme pallor of
his face and by the nervousness of his manner. His age, she thought, would be
rather over thirty than under it.
“‘Can you tell me where I
am?’ he asked. ‘I had almost made up my mind to sleep on the moor, when I saw
the light of your lantern.’
“‘You are close to the
King's Pyland training-stables,’ said she.
“‘Oh, indeed! What a stroke
of luck!’ he cried. ‘I understand that a stable-boy sleeps there alone every
night. Perhaps that is his supper which you are carrying to him. Now I am sure
that you would not be too proud to earn the price of a new dress, would you?’
He took a piece of white paper folded up out of his waistcoat pocket. ‘See that
the boy has this to-night, and you shall have the prettiest frock that money
can buy.’
“She was frightened by the
earnestness of his manner, and ran past him to the window through which she was
accustomed to hand the meals. It was already opened, and Hunter was seated at
the small table inside. She had begun to tell him of what had happened, when
the stranger came up again.
“‘Good-evening,’ said he,
looking through the window. ‘I wanted to have a word with you.’ The girl has
sworn that as he spoke she noticed the corner of the little paper packet
protruding from his closed hand.
“‘What business have you
here?’ asked the lad.
“‘It's business that may
put something into your pocket,’ said the other. ‘You've two horses in for the
Wessex Cup—Silver Blaze and Bayard. Let me have the straight tip and you won't
be a loser. Is it a fact that at the weights Bayard could give the other a
hundred yards in five furlongs, and that the stable have put their money on
him?’
“‘So, you're one of those
damned touts!’ cried the lad. ‘I'll show you how we serve them in King's
Pyland.’ He sprang up and rushed across the stable to unloose the dog. The girl
fled away to the house, but as she ran she looked back and saw that the
stranger was leaning through the window. A minute later, however, when Hunter
rushed out with the hound he was gone, and though he ran all round the
buildings he failed to find any trace of him.”
“One moment,” I asked. “Did
the stable-boy, when he ran out with the dog, leave the door unlocked behind
him?”
“Excellent, Watson,
excellent!” murmured my companion. “The importance of the point struck me so
forcibly that I sent a special wire to Dartmoor yesterday to clear the matter
up. The boy locked the door before he left it. The window, I may add, was not
large enough for a man to get through.
“Hunter waited until his
fellow-grooms had returned, when he sent a message to the trainer and told him
what had occurred. Straker was excited at hearing the account, although he does
not seem to have quite realized its true significance. It left him, however,
vaguely uneasy, and Mrs. Straker, waking at one in the morning, found that he
was dressing. In reply to her inquiries, he said that he could not sleep on
account of his anxiety about the horses, and that he intended to walk down to
the stables to see that all was well. She begged him to remain at home, as she
could hear the rain pattering against the window, but in spite of her
entreaties he pulled on his large mackintosh and left the house.
“Mrs. Straker awoke at
seven in the morning, to find that her husband had not yet returned. She
dressed herself hastily, called the maid, and set off for the stables. The door
was open; inside, huddled together upon a chair, Hunter was sunk in a state of
absolute stupor, the favorite's stall was empty, and there were no signs of his
trainer.
“The two lads who slept in
the chaff-cutting loft above the harness-room were quickly aroused. They had
heard nothing during the night, for they are both sound sleepers. Hunter was
obviously under the influence of some powerful drug, and as no sense could be
got out of him, he was left to sleep it off while the two lads and the two
women ran out in search of the absentees. They still had hopes that the trainer
had for some reason taken out the horse for early exercise, but on ascending
the knoll near the house, from which all the neighboring moors were visible,
they not only could see no signs of the missing favorite, but they perceived
something which warned them that they were in the presence of a tragedy.
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“About a quarter of a mile
from the stables John Straker's overcoat was flapping from a furze-bush.
Immediately beyond there was a bowl-shaped depression in the moor, and at the
bottom of this was found the dead body of the unfortunate trainer. His head had
been shattered by a savage blow from some heavy weapon, and he was wounded on
the thigh, where there was a long, clean cut, inflicted evidently by some very
sharp instrument. It was clear, however, that Straker had defended himself
vigorously against his assailants, for in his right hand he held a small knife,
which was clotted with blood up to the handle, while in his left he clasped a
red and black silk cravat, which was recognized by the maid as having been worn
on the preceding evening by the stranger who had visited the stables. Hunter,
on recovering from his stupor, was also quite positive as to the ownership of
the cravat. He was equally certain that the same stranger had, while standing
at the window, drugged his curried mutton, and so deprived the stables of their
watchman. As to the missing horse, there were abundant proofs in the mud which
lay at the bottom of the fatal hollow that he had been there at the time of the
struggle. But from that morning he has disappeared, and although a large reward
has been offered, and all the gypsies of Dartmoor are on the alert, no news has
come of him. Finally, an analysis has shown that the remains of his supper left
by the stable-lad contain an appreciable quantity of powdered opium, while the
people at the house partook of the same dish on the same night without any ill
effect.
“Those are the main facts
of the case, stripped of all surmise, and stated as baldly as possible. I shall
now recapitulate what the police have done in the matter.
“Inspector Gregory, to whom
the case has been committed, is an extremely competent officer. Were he but
gifted with imagination he might rise to great heights in his profession. On
his arrival he promptly found and arrested the man upon whom suspicion
naturally rested. There was little difficulty in finding him, for he inhabited
one of those villas which I have mentioned. His name, it appears, was Fitzroy
Simpson. He was a man of excellent birth and education, who had squandered a
fortune upon the turf, and who lived now by doing a little quiet and genteel
book-making in the sporting clubs of London. An examination of his betting-book
shows that bets to the amount of five thousand pounds had been registered by
him against the favorite. On being arrested he volunteered the statement that
he had come down to Dartmoor in the hope of getting some information about the
King's Pyland horses, and also about Desborough, the second favorite, which was
in charge of Silas Brown at the Mapleton stables. He did not attempt to deny
that he had acted as described upon the evening before, but declared that he
had no sinister designs, and had simply wished to obtain first-hand
information. When confronted with his cravat, he turned very pale, and was
utterly unable to account for its presence in the hand of the murdered man. His
wet clothing showed that he had been out in the storm of the night before, and
his stick, which was a Penang-lawyer weighted with lead, was just such a weapon
as might, by repeated blows, have inflicted the terrible injuries to which the
trainer had succumbed. On the other hand, there was no wound upon his person,
while the state of Straker's knife would show that one at least of his
assailants must bear his mark upon him. There you have it all in a nutshell,
Watson, and if you can give me any light I shall be infinitely obliged to you.”
I had listened with the
greatest interest to the statement which Holmes, with characteristic clearness,
had laid before me. Though most of the facts were familiar to me, I had not
sufficiently appreciated their relative importance, nor their connection to
each other.
“Is in not possible,” I
suggested, “that the incised wound upon Straker may have been caused by his own
knife in the convulsive struggles which follow any brain injury?”
“It is more than possible;
it is probable,” said Holmes. “In that case one of the main points in favor of
the accused disappears.”
“And yet,” said I, “even
now I fail to understand what the theory of the police can be.”
“I am afraid that whatever
theory we state has very grave objections to it,” returned my companion. “The
police imagine, I take it, that this Fitzroy Simpson, having drugged the lad,
and having in some way obtained a duplicate key, opened the stable door and
took out the horse, with the intention, apparently, of kidnapping him
altogether. His bridle is missing, so that Simpson must have put this on. Then,
having left the door open behind him, he was leading the horse away over the
moor, when he was either met or overtaken by the trainer. A row naturally
ensued. Simpson beat out the trainer's brains with his heavy stick without
receiving any injury from the small knife which Straker used in self-defence,
and then the thief either led the horse on to some secret hiding-place, or else
it may have bolted during the struggle, and be now wandering out on the moors.
That is the case as it appears to the police, and improbable as it is, all
other explanations are more improbable still. However, I shall very quickly test
the matter when I am once upon the spot, and until then I cannot really see how
we can get much further than our present position.”
It was evening before we
reached the little town of Tavistock, which lies, like the boss of a shield, in
the middle of the huge circle of Dartmoor. Two gentlemen were awaiting us in
the station—the one a tall, fair man with lion-like hair and beard and
curiously penetrating light blue eyes; the other a small, alert person, very
neat and dapper, in a frock-coat and gaiters, with trim little side-whiskers
and an eye-glass. The latter was Colonel Ross, the well-known sportsman; the
other, Inspector Gregory, a man who was rapidly making his name in the English
detective service.
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“I am delighted that you
have come down, Mr. Holmes,” said the Colonel. “The Inspector here has done all
that could possibly be suggested, but I wish to leave no stone unturned in
trying to avenge poor Straker and in recovering my horse.”
“Have there been any fresh
developments?” asked Holmes.
“I am sorry to say that we
have made very little progress,” said the Inspector. “We have an open carriage
outside, and as you would no doubt like to see the place before the light
fails, we might talk it over as we drive.”
A minute later we were all
seated in a comfortable landau, and were rattling through the quaint old
Devonshire city. Inspector Gregory was full of his case, and poured out a
stream of remarks, while Holmes threw in an occasional question or
interjection. Colonel Ross leaned back with his arms folded and his hat tilted
over his eyes, while I listened with interest to the dialogue of the two
detectives. Gregory was formulating his theory, which was almost exactly what
Holmes had foretold in the train.
“The net is drawn pretty
close round Fitzroy Simpson,” he remarked, “and I believe myself that he is our
man. At the same time I recognize that the evidence is purely circumstantial,
and that some new development may upset it.”
“How about Straker's
knife?”
“We have quite come to the
conclusion that he wounded himself in his fall.”
“My friend Dr. Watson made
that suggestion to me as we came down. If so, it would tell against this man
Simpson.”
“Undoubtedly. He has
neither a knife nor any sign of a wound. The evidence against him is certainly
very strong. He had a great interest in the disappearance of the favorite. He
lies under suspicion of having poisoned the stable-boy, he was undoubtedly out
in the storm, he was armed with a heavy stick, and his cravat was found in the
dead man's hand. I really think we have enough to go before a jury.”
Holmes shook his head. “A
clever counsel would tear it all to rags,” said he. “Why should he take the
horse out of the stable? If he wished to injure it why could he not do it
there? Has a duplicate key been found in his possession? What chemist sold him
the powdered opium? Above all, where could he, a stranger to the district, hide
a horse, and such a horse as this? What is his own explanation as to the paper
which he wished the maid to give to the stable-boy?”
“He says that it was a
ten-pound note. One was found in his purse. But your other difficulties are not
so formidable as they seem. He is not a stranger to the district. He has twice
lodged at Tavistock in the summer. The opium was probably brought from London.
The key, having served its purpose, would be hurled away. The horse may be at
the bottom of one of the pits or old mines upon the moor.”
“What does he say about the
cravat?”
“He acknowledges that it is
his, and declares that he had lost it. But a new element has been introduced
into the case which may account for his leading the horse from the stable.”
Holmes pricked up his ears.
“We have found traces which
show that a party of gypsies encamped on Monday night within a mile of the spot
where the murder took place. On Tuesday they were gone. Now, presuming that
there was some understanding between Simpson and these gypsies, might he not
have been leading the horse to them when he was overtaken, and may they not
have him now?”
“It is certainly possible.”
“The moor is being scoured
for these gypsies. I have also examined every stable and out-house in
Tavistock, and for a radius of ten miles.”
“There is another
training-stable quite close, I understand?”
“Yes, and that is a factor
which we must certainly not neglect. As Desborough, their horse, was second in
the betting, they had an interest in the disappearance of the favorite. Silas
Brown, the trainer, is known to have had large bets upon the event, and he was
no friend to poor Straker. We have, however, examined the stables, and there is
nothing to connect him with the affair.”
“And nothing to connect
this man Simpson with the interests of the Mapleton stables?”
“Nothing at all.”
Holmes leaned back in the
carriage, and the conversation ceased. A few minutes later our driver pulled up
at a neat little red-brick villa with overhanging eaves which stood by the
road. Some distance off, across a paddock, lay a long gray-tiled out-building.
In every other direction the low curves of the moor, bronze-colored from the
fading ferns, stretched away to the sky-line, broken only by the steeples of
Tavistock, and by a cluster of houses away to the westward which marked the
Mapleton stables. We all sprang out with the exception of Holmes, who continued
to lean back with his eyes fixed upon the sky in front of him, entirely
absorbed in his own thoughts. It was only when I touched his arm that he roused
himself with a violent start and stepped out of the carriage.
“Excuse me,” said he,
turning to Colonel Ross, who had looked at him in some surprise. “I was
day-dreaming.” There was a gleam in his eyes and a suppressed excitement in his
manner which convinced me, used as I was to his ways, that his hand was upon a
clue, though I could not imagine where he had found it.
“Perhaps you would prefer
at once to go on to the scene of the crime, Mr. Holmes?” said Gregory.
“I think that I should
prefer to stay here a little and go into one or two questions of detail.
Straker was brought back here, I presume?”
“Yes; he lies upstairs. The
inquest is to-morrow.”
“He has been in your
service some years, Colonel Ross?”
“I have always found him an
excellent servant.”
“I presume that you made an
inventory of what he had in this pockets at the time of his death, Inspector?”
“I have the things
themselves in the sitting-room, if you would care to see them.”
“I should be very glad.” We
all filed into the front room and sat round the central table while the
Inspector unlocked a square tin box and laid a small heap of things before us.
There was a box of vestas, two inches of tallow candle, an A D P brier-root
pipe, a pouch of seal-skin with half an ounce of long-cut Cavendish, a silver
watch with a gold chain, five sovereigns in gold, an aluminum pencil-case, a
few papers, and an ivory-handled knife with a very delicate, inflexible blade
marked Weiss & Co., London.
“This is a very singular
knife,” said Holmes, lifting it up and examining it minutely. “I presume, as I
see blood-stains upon it, that it is the one which was found in the dead man's
grasp. Watson, this knife is surely in your line?”
“It is what we call a
cataract knife,” said I.
“I thought so. A very
delicate blade devised for very delicate work. A strange thing for a man to
carry with him upon a rough expedition, especially as it would not shut in his
pocket.”
“The tip was guarded by a
disk of cork which we found beside his body,” said the Inspector. “His wife
tells us that the knife had lain upon the dressing-table, and that he had
picked it up as he left the room. It was a poor weapon, but perhaps the best
that he could lay his hands on at the moment.”
“Very possible. How about
these papers?”
“Three of them are receipted
hay-dealers' accounts. One of them is a letter of instructions from Colonel
Ross. This other is a milliner's account for thirty-seven pounds fifteen made
out by Madame Lesurier, of Bond Street, to William Derbyshire. Mrs. Straker
tells us that Derbyshire was a friend of her husband's and that occasionally
his letters were addressed here.”
“Madam Derbyshire had
somewhat expensive tastes,” remarked Holmes, glancing down the account.
“Twenty-two guineas is rather heavy for a single costume. However there appears
to be nothing more to learn, and we may now go down to the scene of the crime.”
As we emerged from the
sitting-room a woman, who had been waiting in the passage, took a step forward
and laid her hand upon the Inspector's sleeve. Her face was haggard and thin
and eager, stamped with the print of a recent horror.
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“Have you got them? Have
you found them?” she panted.
“No, Mrs. Straker. But Mr.
Holmes here has come from London to help us, and we shall do all that is
possible.”
“Surely I met you in Plymouth
at a garden-party some little time ago, Mrs. Straker?” said Holmes.
“No, sir; you are
mistaken.”
“Dear me! Why, I could have
sworn to it. You wore a costume of dove-colored silk with ostrich-feather
trimming.”
“I never had such a dress,
sir,” answered the lady.
“Ah, that quite settles
it,” said Holmes. And with an apology he followed the Inspector outside. A
short walk across the moor took us to the hollow in which the body had been
found. At the brink of it was the furze-bush upon which the coat had been hung.
“There was no wind that
night, I understand,” said Holmes.
“None; but very heavy
rain.”
“In that case the overcoat
was not blown against the furze-bush, but placed there.”
“Yes, it was laid across
the bush.”
“You fill me with interest,
I perceive that the ground has been trampled up a good deal. No doubt many feet
have been here since Monday night.”
“A piece of matting has
been laid here at the side, and we have all stood upon that.”
“Excellent.”
“In this bag I have one of
the boots which Straker wore, one of Fitzroy Simpson's shoes, and a cast
horseshoe of Silver Blaze.”
“My dear Inspector, you
surpass yourself!” Holmes took the bag, and, descending into the hollow, he
pushed the matting into a more central position. Then stretching himself upon his
face and leaning his chin upon his hands, he made a careful study of the
trampled mud in front of him. “Hullo!” said he, suddenly. “What's this?” It was
a wax vesta half burned, which was so coated with mud that it looked at first
like a little chip of wood.
“I cannot think how I came
to overlook it,” said the Inspector, with an expression of annoyance.
“It was invisible, buried
in the mud. I only saw it because I was looking for it.”
“What! You expected to find
it?”
“I thought it not
unlikely.”
He took the boots from the
bag, and compared the impressions of each of them with marks upon the ground.
Then he clambered up to the rim of the hollow, and crawled about among the
ferns and bushes.
“I am afraid that there are
no more tracks,” said the Inspector. “I have examined the ground very carefully
for a hundred yards in each direction.”
“Indeed!” said Holmes,
rising. “I should not have the impertinence to do it again after what you say.
But I should like to take a little walk over the moor before it grows dark,
that I may know my ground to-morrow, and I think that I shall put this
horseshoe into my pocket for luck.”
Colonel Ross, who had shown
some signs of impatience at my companion's quiet and systematic method of work,
glanced at his watch. “I wish you would come back with me, Inspector,” said he.
“There are several points on which I should like your advice, and especially as
to whether we do not owe it to the public to remove our horse's name from the
entries for the Cup.”
“Certainly not,” cried Holmes,
with decision. “I should let the name stand.”
The Colonel bowed. “I am
very glad to have had your opinion, sir,” said he. “You will find us at poor
Straker's house when you have finished your walk, and we can drive together
into Tavistock.”
He turned back with the
Inspector, while Holmes and I walked slowly across the moor. The sun was
beginning to sink behind the stables of Mapleton, and the long, sloping plain
in front of us was tinged with gold, deepening into rich, ruddy browns where
the faded ferns and brambles caught the evening light. But the glories of the
landscape were all wasted upon my companion, who was sunk in the deepest
thought.
“It's this way, Watson,”
said he at last. “We may leave the question of who killed John Straker for the
instant, and confine ourselves to finding out what has become of the horse.
Now, supposing that he broke away during or after the tragedy, where could he
have gone to? The horse is a very gregarious creature. If left to himself his
instincts would have been either to return to King's Pyland or go over to
Mapleton. Why should he run wild upon the moor? He would surely have been seen
by now. And why should gypsies kidnap him? These people always clear out when
they hear of trouble, for they do not wish to be pestered by the police. They
could not hope to sell such a horse. They would run a great risk and gain
nothing by taking him. Surely that is clear.”
“Where is he, then?”
“I have already said that
he must have gone to King's Pyland or to Mapleton. He is not at King's Pyland.
Therefore he is at Mapleton. Let us take that as a working hypothesis and see
what it leads us to. This part of the moor, as the Inspector remarked, is very
hard and dry. But it falls away towards Mapleton, and you can see from here
that there is a long hollow over yonder, which must have been very wet on
Monday night. If our supposition is correct, then the horse must have crossed
that, and there is the point where we should look for his tracks.”
We had been walking briskly
during this conversation, and a few more minutes brought us to the hollow in
question. At Holmes' request I walked down the bank to the right, and he to the
left, but I had not taken fifty paces before I heard him give a shout, and saw
him waving his hand to me. The track of a horse was plainly outlined in the
soft earth in front of him, and the shoe which he took from his pocket exactly
fitted the impression.
“See the value of
imagination,” said Holmes. “It is the one quality which Gregory lacks. We
imagined what might have happened, acted upon the supposition, and find
ourselves justified. Let us proceed.”
We crossed the marshy
bottom and passed over a quarter of a mile of dry, hard turf. Again the ground
sloped, and again we came on the tracks. Then we lost them for half a mile, but
only to pick them up once more quite close to Mapleton. It was Holmes who saw
them first, and he stood pointing with a look of triumph upon his face. A man's
track was visible beside the horse's.
“The horse was alone
before,” I cried.
“Quite so. It was alone
before. Hullo, what is this?”
The double track turned
sharp off and took the direction of King's Pyland. Holmes whistled, and we both
followed along after it. His eyes were on the trail, but I happened to look a
little to one side, and saw to my surprise the same tracks coming back again in
the opposite direction.
“One for you, Watson,” said
Holmes, when I pointed it out. “You have saved us a long walk, which would have
brought us back on our own traces. Let us follow the return track.”
We had not to go far. It
ended at the paving of asphalt which led up to the gates of the Mapleton
stables. As we approached, a groom ran out from them.
“We don't want any
loiterers about here,” said he.
“I only wished to ask a
question,” said Holmes, with his finger and thumb in his waistcoat pocket.
“Should I be too early to see your master, Mr. Silas Brown, if I were to call
at five o'clock to-morrow morning?”
“Bless you, sir, if any one
is about he will be, for he is always the first stirring. But here he is, sir,
to answer your questions for himself. No, sir, no; it is as much as my place is
worth to let him see me touch your money. Afterwards, if you like.”
As Sherlock Holmes replaced
the half-crown which he had drawn from his pocket, a fierce-looking elderly man
strode out from the gate with a hunting-crop swinging in his hand.
“What's this, Dawson!” he
cried. “No gossiping! Go about your business! And you, what the devil do you
want here?”
“Ten minutes' talk with
you, my good sir,” said Holmes in the sweetest of voices.
|
“I've no time to talk to
every gadabout. We want no stranger here. Be off, or you may find a dog at your
heels.”
Holmes leaned forward and
whispered something in the trainer's ear. He started violently and flushed to
the temples.
“It's a lie!” he shouted,
“an infernal lie!”
“Very good. Shall we argue
about it here in public or talk it over in your parlor?”
“Oh, come in if you wish
to.”
Holmes smiled. “I shall not
keep you more than a few minutes, Watson,” said he. “Now, Mr. Brown, I am quite
at your disposal.”
It was twenty minutes, and
the reds had all faded into grays before Holmes and the trainer reappeared.
Never have I seen such a change as had been brought about in Silas Brown in
that short time. His face was ashy pale, beads of perspiration shone upon his
brow, and his hands shook until the hunting-crop wagged like a branch in the
wind. His bullying, overbearing manner was all gone too, and he cringed along
at my companion's side like a dog with its master.
“Your instructions will be
done. It shall all be done,” said he.
“There must be no mistake,”
said Holmes, looking round at him. The other winced as he read the menace in
his eyes.
“Oh no, there shall be no
mistake. It shall be there. Should I change it first or not?”
Holmes thought a little and
then burst out laughing. “No, don't,” said he; “I shall write to you about it.
No tricks, now, or—”
“Oh, you can trust me, you
can trust me!”
“Yes, I think I can. Well,
you shall hear from me to-morrow.” He turned upon his heel, disregarding the
trembling hand which the other held out to him, and we set off for King's
Pyland.
“A more perfect compound of
the bully, coward, and sneak than Master Silas Brown I have seldom met with,”
remarked Holmes as we trudged along together.
“He has the horse, then?”
“He tried to bluster out of
it, but I described to him so exactly what his actions had been upon that
morning that he is convinced that I was watching him. Of course you observed
the peculiarly square toes in the impressions, and that his own boots exactly
corresponded to them. Again, of course no subordinate would have dared to do
such a thing. I described to him how, when according to his custom he was the
first down, he perceived a strange horse wandering over the moor. How he went
out to it, and his astonishment at recognizing, from the white forehead which
has given the favorite its name, that chance had put in his power the only
horse which could beat the one upon which he had put his money. Then I
described how his first impulse had been to lead him back to King's Pyland, and
how the devil had shown him how he could hide the horse until the race was
over, and how he had led it back and concealed it at Mapleton. When I told him
every detail he gave it up and thought only of saving his own skin.”
“But his stables had been
searched?”
“Oh, and old horse-faker
like him has many a dodge.”
“But are you not afraid to
leave the horse in his power now, since he has every interest in injuring it?”
“My dear fellow, he will
guard it as the apple of his eye. He knows that his only hope of mercy is to
produce it safe.”
“Colonel Ross did not
impress me as a man who would be likely to show much mercy in any case.”
“The matter does not rest
with Colonel Ross. I follow my own methods, and tell as much or as little as I
choose. That is the advantage of being unofficial. I don't know whether you
observed it, Watson, but the Colonel's manner has been just a trifle cavalier
to me. I am inclined now to have a little amusement at his expense. Say nothing
to him about the horse.”
“Certainly not without your
permission.”
“And of course this is all
quite a minor point compared to the question of who killed John Straker.”
“And you will devote
yourself to that?”
“On the contrary, we both
go back to London by the night train.”
I was thunderstruck by my
friend's words. We had only been a few hours in Devonshire, and that he should
give up an investigation which he had begun so brilliantly was quite
incomprehensible to me. Not a word more could I draw from him until we were back
at the trainer's house. The Colonel and the Inspector were awaiting us in the
parlor.
“My friend and I return to
town by the night-express,” said Holmes. “We have had a charming little breath
of your beautiful Dartmoor air.”
The Inspector opened his
eyes, and the Colonel's lip curled in a sneer.
“So you despair of
arresting the murderer of poor Straker,” said he.
Holmes shrugged his
shoulders. “There are certainly grave difficulties in the way,” said he. “I
have every hope, however, that your horse will start upon Tuesday, and I beg
that you will have your jockey in readiness. Might I ask for a photograph of
Mr. John Straker?”
The Inspector took one from
an envelope and handed it to him.
“My dear Gregory, you
anticipate all my wants. If I might ask you to wait here for an instant, I have
a question which I should like to put to the maid.”
“I must say that I am
rather disappointed in our London consultant,” said Colonel Ross, bluntly, as
my friend left the room. “I do not see that we are any further than when he
came.”
“At least you have his
assurance that your horse will run,” said I.
“Yes, I have his
assurance,” said the Colonel, with a shrug of his shoulders. “I should prefer
to have the horse.”
I was about to make some
reply in defence of my friend when he entered the room again.
“Now, gentlemen,” said he,
“I am quite ready for Tavistock.”
As we stepped into the
carriage one of the stable-lads held the door open for us. A sudden idea seemed
to occur to Holmes, for he leaned forward and touched the lad upon the sleeve.
“You have a few sheep in
the paddock,” he said. “Who attends to them?”
“I do, sir.”
“Have you noticed anything
amiss with them of late?”
“Well, sir, not of much
account; but three of them have gone lame, sir.”
I could see that Holmes was
extremely pleased, for he chuckled and rubbed his hands together.
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“A long shot, Watson; a
very long shot,” said he, pinching my arm. “Gregory, let me recommend to your
attention this singular epidemic among the sheep. Drive on, coachman!”
Colonel Ross still wore an
expression which showed the poor opinion which he had formed of my companion's
ability, but I saw by the Inspector's face that his attention had been keenly
aroused.
“You consider that to be
important?” he asked.
“Exceedingly so.”
“Is there any point to
which you would wish to draw my attention?”
“To the curious incident of
the dog in the night-time.”
“The dog did nothing in the
night-time.”
“That was the curious
incident,” remarked Sherlock Holmes.
Four days later Holmes and
I were again in the train, bound for Winchester to see the race for the Wessex
Cup. Colonel Ross met us by appointment outside the station, and we drove in
his drag to the course beyond the town. His face was grave, and his manner was
cold in the extreme.
“I have seen nothing of my
horse,” said he.
“I suppose that you would
know him when you saw him?” asked Holmes.
The Colonel was very angry.
“I have been on the turf for twenty years, and never was asked such a question
as that before,” said he. “A child would know Silver Blaze, with his white
forehead and his mottled off-foreleg.”
“How is the betting?”
“Well, that is the curious
part of it. You could have got fifteen to one yesterday, but the price has
become shorter and shorter, until you can hardly get three to one now.”
“Hum!” said Holmes.
“Somebody knows something, that is clear.”
As the drag drew up in the
enclosure near the grand stand I glanced at the card to see the entries.
Wessex Plate [it ran] 50
sovs. each h ft with 1000 sovs. added, for four and five year olds. Second,
£300. Third, £200. New course (one mile and five furlongs).
1.
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Mr Heath Newton's The Negro.
Red cap. Cinnamon jacket.
|
2.
|
Colonel Wardlaw's Pugilist.
Pink cap. Blue and black jacket.
|
3.
|
Lord Backwater's Desborough.
Yellow cap and sleeves.
|
4.
|
Colonel Ross's Silver Blaze.
Black cap. Red jacket.
|
5.
|
Duke of Balmoral's Iris.
Yellow and black stripes.
|
6.
|
Lord Singleford's Rasper.
Purple cap. Black sleeves.
|
“We scratched our other
one, and put all hopes on your word,” said the Colonel. “Why, what is that?
Silver Blaze favorite?”
“Five to four against
Silver Blaze!” roared the ring. “Five to four against Silver Blaze! Five to
fifteen against Desborough! Five to four on the field!”
“There are the numbers up,”
I cried. “They are all six there.”
“All six there? Then my
horse is running,” cried the Colonel in great agitation. “But I don't see him.
My colors have not passed.”
“Only five have passed.
This must be he.”
As I spoke a powerful bay
horse swept out from the weighting enclosure and cantered past us, bearing on
its back the well-known black and red of the Colonel.
“That's not my horse,”
cried the owner. “That beast has not a white hair upon its body. What is this
that you have done, Mr. Holmes?”
“Well, well, let us see how
he gets on,” said my friend, imperturbably. For a few minutes he gazed through
my field-glass. “Capital! An excellent start!” he cried suddenly. “There they
are, coming round the curve!”
From our drag we had a
superb view as they came up the straight. The six horses were so close together
that a carpet could have covered them, but half way up the yellow of the
Mapleton stable showed to the front. Before they reached us, however,
Desborough's bolt was shot, and the Colonel's horse, coming away with a rush,
passed the post a good six lengths before its rival, the Duke of Balmoral's
Iris making a bad third.
“It's my race, anyhow,”
gasped the Colonel, passing his hand over his eyes. “I confess that I can make
neither head nor tail of it. Don't you think that you have kept up your mystery
long enough, Mr. Holmes?”
“Certainly, Colonel, you
shall know everything. Let us all go round and have a look at the horse together.
Here he is,” he continued, as we made our way into the weighing enclosure,
where only owners and their friends find admittance. “You have only to wash his
face and his leg in spirits of wine, and you will find that he is the same old
Silver Blaze as ever.”
“You take my breath away!”
“I found him in the hands
of a faker, and took the liberty of running him just as he was sent over.”
“My dear sir, you have done
wonders. The horse looks very fit and well. It never went better in its life. I
owe you a thousand apologies for having doubted your ability. You have done me
a great service by recovering my horse. You would do me a greater still if you
could lay your hands on the murderer of John Straker.”
“I have done so,” said
Holmes quietly.
The Colonel and I stared at
him in amazement. “You have got him! Where is he, then?”
“He is here.”
“Here! Where?”
“In my company at the
present moment.”
The Colonel flushed
angrily. “I quite recognize that I am under obligations to you, Mr. Holmes,”
said he, “but I must regard what you have just said as either a very bad joke
or an insult.”
|
Sherlock Holmes laughed. “I
assure you that I have not associated you with the crime, Colonel,” said he.
“The real murderer is standing immediately behind you.” He stepped past and
laid his hand upon the glossy neck of the thoroughbred.
“The horse!” cried both the
Colonel and myself.
“Yes, the horse. And it may
lessen his guilt if I say that it was done in self-defence, and that John
Straker was a man who was entirely unworthy of your confidence. But there goes
the bell, and as I stand to win a little on this next race, I shall defer a
lengthy explanation until a more fitting time.”
We had the corner of a
Pullman car to ourselves that evening as we whirled back to London, and I fancy
that the journey was a short one to Colonel Ross as well as to myself, as we
listened to our companion's narrative of the events which had occurred at the
Dartmoor training-stables upon the Monday night, and the means by which he had
unravelled them.
“I confess,” said he, “that
any theories which I had formed from the newspaper reports were entirely
erroneous. And yet there were indications there, had they not been overlaid by
other details which concealed their true import. I went to Devonshire with the
conviction that Fitzroy Simpson was the true culprit, although, of course, I
saw that the evidence against him was by no means complete. It was while I was
in the carriage, just as we reached the trainer's house, that the immense
significance of the curried mutton occurred to me. You may remember that I was
distrait, and remained sitting after you had all alighted. I was marvelling in
my own mind how I could possibly have overlooked so obvious a clue.”
“I confess,” said the
Colonel, “that even now I cannot see how it helps us.”
“It was the first link in
my chain of reasoning. Powdered opium is by no means tasteless. The flavor is
not disagreeable, but it is perceptible. Were it mixed with any ordinary dish
the eater would undoubtedly detect it, and would probably eat no more. A curry
was exactly the medium which would disguise this taste. By no possible
supposition could this stranger, Fitzroy Simpson, have caused curry to be
served in the trainer's family that night, and it is surely too monstrous a
coincidence to suppose that he happened to come along with powdered opium upon
the very night when a dish happened to be served which would disguise the
flavor. That is unthinkable. Therefore Simpson becomes eliminated from the
case, and our attention centers upon Straker and his wife, the only two people
who could have chosen curried mutton for supper that night. The opium was added
after the dish was set aside for the stable-boy, for the others had the same
for supper with no ill effects. Which of them, then, had access to that dish
without the maid seeing them?
“Before deciding that
question I had grasped the significance of the silence of the dog, for one true
inference invariably suggests others. The Simpson incident had shown me that a
dog was kept in the stables, and yet, though some one had been in and had
fetched out a horse, he had not barked enough to arouse the two lads in the
loft. Obviously the midnight visitor was some one whom the dog knew well.
|
“I was already convinced,
or almost convinced, that John Straker went down to the stables in the dead of
the night and took out Silver Blaze. For what purpose? For a dishonest one,
obviously, or why should he drug his own stable-boy? And yet I was at a loss to
know why. There have been cases before now where trainers have made sure of
great sums of money by laying against their own horses, through agents, and
then preventing them from winning by fraud. Sometimes it is a pulling jockey.
Sometimes it is some surer and subtler means. What was it here? I hoped that
the contents of his pockets might help me to form a conclusion.
“And they did so. You
cannot have forgotten the singular knife which was found in the dead man's
hand, a knife which certainly no sane man would choose for a weapon. It was, as
Dr. Watson told us, a form of knife which is used for the most delicate
operations known in surgery. And it was to be used for a delicate operation
that night. You must know, with your wide experience of turf matters, Colonel
Ross, that it is possible to make a slight nick upon the tendons of a horse's
ham, and to do it subcutaneously, so as to leave absolutely no trace. A horse
so treated would develop a slight lameness, which would be put down to a strain
in exercise or a touch of rheumatism, but never to foul play.”
“Villain! Scoundrel!” cried
the Colonel.
“We have here the
explanation of why John Straker wished to take the horse out on to the moor. So
spirited a creature would have certainly roused the soundest of sleepers when
it felt the prick of the knife. It was absolutely necessary to do it in the
open air.”
“I have been blind!” cried
the Colonel. “Of course that was why he needed the candle, and struck the
match.”
“Undoubtedly. But in
examining his belongings I was fortunate enough to discover not only the method
of the crime, but even its motives. As a man of the world, Colonel, you know
that men do not carry other people's bills about in their pockets. We have most
of us quite enough to do to settle our own. I at once concluded that Straker
was leading a double life, and keeping a second establishment. The nature of
the bill showed that there was a lady in the case, and one who had expensive
tastes. Liberal as you are with your servants, one can hardly expect that they
can buy twenty-guinea walking dresses for their ladies. I questioned Mrs.
Straker as to the dress without her knowing it, and having satisfied myself
that it had never reached her, I made a note of the milliner's address, and
felt that by calling there with Straker's photograph I could easily dispose of
the mythical Derbyshire.
“From that time on all was
plain. Straker had led out the horse to a hollow where his light would be
invisible. Simpson in his flight had dropped his cravat, and Straker had picked
it up—with some idea, perhaps, that he might use it in securing the horse's
leg. Once in the hollow, he had got behind the horse and had struck a light;
but the creature frightened at the sudden glare, and with the strange instinct
of animals feeling that some mischief was intended, had lashed out, and the
steel shoe had struck Straker full on the forehead. He had already, in spite of
the rain, taken off his overcoat in order to do his delicate task, and so, as
he fell, his knife gashed his thigh. Do I make it clear?”
“Wonderful!” cried the
Colonel. “Wonderful! You might have been there!”
“My final shot was, I
confess a very long one. It struck me that so astute a man as Straker would not
undertake this delicate tendon-nicking without a little practice. What could he
practice on? My eyes fell upon the sheep, and I asked a question which, rather
to my surprise, showed that my surmise was correct.
“When I returned to London
I called upon the milliner, who had recognized Straker as an excellent customer
of the name of Derbyshire, who had a very dashing wife, with a strong
partiality for expensive dresses. I have no doubt that this woman had plunged
him over head and ears in debt, and so led him into this miserable plot.”
“You have explained all but
one thing,” cried the Colonel. “Where was the horse?”
“Ah, it bolted, and was
cared for by one of your neighbors. We must have an amnesty in that direction,
I think. This is Clapham Junction, if I am not mistaken, and we shall be in
Victoria in less than ten minutes. If you care to smoke a cigar in our rooms,
Colonel, I shall be happy to give you any other details which might interest
you.”
The Yellow Face
[In publishing these
short sketches based upon the numerous cases in which my companion's singular
gifts have made us the listeners to, and eventually the actors in, some strange
drama, it is only natural that I should dwell rather upon his successes than
upon his failures. And this not so much for the sake of his reputations—for,
indeed, it was when he was at his wits' end that his energy and his versatility
were most admirable—but because where he failed it happened too often that no
one else succeeded, and that the tale was left forever without a conclusion.
Now and again, however, it chanced that even when he erred, the truth was still
discovered. I have noted of some half-dozen cases of the kind of which “The
Adventure of the Musgrave Ritual” and that which I am about to recount are the
two which present the strongest features of interest.]
Sherlock Holmes was a man
who seldom took exercise for exercise's sake. Few men were capable of greater
muscular effort, and he was undoubtedly one of the finest boxers of his weight
that I have ever seen; but he looked upon aimless bodily exertion as a waste of
energy, and he seldom bestirred himself save when there was some professional
object to be served. Then he was absolutely untiring and indefatigable. That he
should have kept himself in training under such circumstances is remarkable,
but his diet was usually of the sparest, and his habits were simple to the
verge of austerity. Save for the occasional use of cocaine, he had no vices,
and he only turned to the drug as a protest against the monotony of existence
when cases were scanty and the papers uninteresting.
One day in early spring he
had so far relaxed as to go for a walk with me in the Park, where the first
faint shoots of green were breaking out upon the elms, and the sticky
spear-heads of the chestnuts were just beginning to burst into their five-fold
leaves. For two hours we rambled about together, in silence for the most part,
as befits two men who know each other intimately. It was nearly five before we
were back in Baker Street once more.
“Beg pardon, sir,” said our
page-boy, as he opened the door. “There's been a gentleman here asking for you,
sir.”
Holmes glanced
reproachfully at me. “So much for afternoon walks!” said he. “Has this
gentleman gone, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Didn't you ask him in?”
“Yes, sir; he came in.”
“How long did he wait?”
“Half an hour, sir. He was
a very restless gentleman, sir, a-walkin' and a-stampin' all the time he was
here. I was waitin' outside the door, sir, and I could hear him. At last he
outs into the passage, and he cries, ‘Is that man never goin' to come?’ Those
were his very words, sir. ‘You'll only need to wait a little longer,’ says I.
‘Then I'll wait in the open air, for I feel half choked,’ says he. ‘I'll be
back before long.’ And with that he ups and he outs, and all I could say
wouldn't hold him back.”
“Well, well, you did your
best,” said Holmes, as we walked into our room. “It's very annoying, though,
Watson. I was badly in need of a case, and this looks, from the man's
impatience, as if it were of importance. Hullo! That's not your pipe on the
table. He must have left his behind him. A nice old brier with a good long stem
of what the tobacconists call amber. I wonder how many real amber mouthpieces
there are in London? Some people think that a fly in it is a sign. Well, he
must have been disturbed in his mind to leave a pipe behind him which he
evidently values highly.”
“How do you know that he
values it highly?” I asked.
“Well, I should put the
original cost of the pipe at seven and sixpence. Now it has, you see, been
twice mended, once in the wooden stem and once in the amber. Each of these
mends, done, as you observe, with silver bands, must have cost more than the
pipe did originally. The man must value the pipe highly when he prefers to
patch it up rather than buy a new one with the same money.”
“Anything else?” I asked,
for Holmes was turning the pipe about in his hand, and staring at it in his
peculiar pensive way.
|
He held it up and tapped on
it with his long, thin fore-finger, as a professor might who was lecturing on a
bone.
“Pipes are occasionally of
extraordinary interest,” said he. “Nothing has more individuality, save perhaps
watches and bootlaces. The indications here, however, are neither very marked
nor very important. The owner is obviously a muscular man, left-handed, with an
excellent set of teeth, careless in his habits, and with no need to practise
economy.”
My friend threw out the
information in a very offhand way, but I saw that he cocked his eye at me to
see if I had followed his reasoning.
“You think a man must be
well-to-do if he smokes a seven-shilling pipe,” said I.
“This is Grosvenor mixture
at eightpence an ounce,” Holmes answered, knocking a little out on his palm.
“As he might get an excellent smoke for half the price, he has no need to
practise economy.”
“And the other points?”
“He has been in the habit
of lighting his pipe at lamps and gas-jets. You can see that it is quite
charred all down one side. Of course a match could not have done that. Why
should a man hold a match to the side of his pipe? But you cannot light it at a
lamp without getting the bowl charred. And it is all on the right side of the
pipe. From that I gather that he is a left-handed man. You hold your own pipe
to the lamp, and see how naturally you, being right-handed, hold the left side
to the flame. You might do it once the other way, but not as a constancy. This
has always been held so. Then he has bitten through his amber. It takes a
muscular, energetic fellow, and one with a good set of teeth, to do that. But
if I am not mistaken I hear him upon the stair, so we shall have something more
interesting than his pipe to study.”
An instant later our door
opened, and a tall young man entered the room. He was well but quietly dressed
in a dark-gray suit, and carried a brown wide-awake in his hand. I should have
put him at about thirty, though he was really some years older.
“I beg your pardon,” said
he, with some embarrassment; “I suppose I should have knocked. Yes, of course I
should have knocked. The fact is that I am a little upset, and you must put it
all down to that.” He passed his hand over his forehead like a man who is half dazed,
and then fell rather than sat down upon a chair.
“I can see that you have
not slept for a night or two,” said Holmes, in his easy, genial way. “That
tries a man's nerves more than work, and more even than pleasure. May I ask how
I can help you?”
“I wanted your advice, sir.
I don't know what to do and my whole life seems to have gone to pieces.”
“You wish to employ me as a
consulting detective?”
“Not that only. I want your
opinion as a judicious man—as a man of the world. I want to know what I ought
to do next. I hope to God you'll be able to tell me.”
He spoke in little, sharp,
jerky outbursts, and it seemed to me that to speak at all was very painful to
him, and that his will all through was overriding his inclinations.
“It's a very delicate
thing,” said he. “One does not like to speak of one's domestic affairs to
strangers. It seems dreadful to discuss the conduct of one's wife with two men
whom I have never seen before. It's horrible to have to do it. But I've got to
the end of my tether, and I must have advice.”
“My dear Mr. Grant Munro—”
began Holmes.
Our visitor sprang from his
chair. “What!” he cried, “you know my name?”
“If you wish to preserve
your incognito,” said Holmes, smiling, “I would suggest that you cease to write
your name upon the lining of your hat, or else that you turn the crown towards
the person whom you are addressing. I was about to say that my friend and I
have listened to a good many strange secrets in this room, and that we have had
the good fortune to bring peace to many troubled souls. I trust that we may do
as much for you. Might I beg you, as time may prove to be of importance, to
furnish me with the facts of your case without further delay?”
|
Our visitor again passed
his hand over his forehead, as if he found it bitterly hard. From every gesture
and expression I could see that he was a reserved, self-contained man, with a
dash of pride in his nature, more likely to hide his wounds than to expose
them. Then suddenly, with a fierce gesture of his closed hand, like one who
throws reserve to the winds, he began.
“The facts are these, Mr.
Holmes,” said he. “I am a married man, and have been so for three years. During
that time my wife and I have loved each other as fondly and lived as happily as
any two that ever were joined. We have not had a difference, not one, in
thought or word or deed. And now, since last Monday, there has suddenly sprung
up a barrier between us, and I find that there is something in her life and in
her thought of which I know as little as if she were the woman who brushes by
me in the street. We are estranged, and I want to know why.
“Now there is one thing
that I want to impress upon you before I go any further, Mr. Holmes. Effie
loves me. Don't let there be any mistake about that. She loves me with her
whole heart and soul, and never more than now. I know it. I feel it. I don't
want to argue about that. A man can tell easily enough when a woman loves him.
But there's this secret between us, and we can never be the same until it is
cleared.”
“Kindly let me have the
facts, Mr. Munro,” said Holmes, with some impatience.
“I'll tell you what I know
about Effie's history. She was a widow when I met her first, though quite
young—only twenty-five. Her name then was Mrs. Hebron. She went out to America
when she was young, and lived in the town of Atlanta, where she married this
Hebron, who was a lawyer with a good practice. They had one child, but the
yellow fever broke out badly in the place, and both husband and child died of
it. I have seen his death certificate. This sickened her of America, and she
came back to live with a maiden aunt at Pinner, in Middlesex. I may mention
that her husband had left her comfortably off, and that she had a capital of
about four thousand five hundred pounds, which had been so well invested by him
that it returned an average of seven per cent. She had only been six months at
Pinner when I met her; we fell in love with each other, and we married a few
weeks afterwards.
“I am a hop merchant
myself, and as I have an income of seven or eight hundred, we found ourselves
comfortably off, and took a nice eighty-pound-a-year villa at Norbury. Our
little place was very countrified, considering that it is so close to town. We
had an inn and two houses a little above us, and a single cottage at the other
side of the field which faces us, and except those there were no houses until
you got half way to the station. My business took me into town at certain
seasons, but in summer I had less to do, and then in our country home my wife
and I were just as happy as could be wished. I tell you that there never was a
shadow between us until this accursed affair began.
“There's one thing I ought
to tell you before I go further. When we married, my wife made over all her
property to me—rather against my will, for I saw how awkward it would be if my
business affairs went wrong. However, she would have it so, and it was done.
Well, about six weeks ago she came to me.
“‘Jack,’ said she, ‘when
you took my money you said that if ever I wanted any I was to ask you for it.’
“‘Certainly,’ said I. ‘It's
all your own.’
“‘Well,’ said she, ‘I want
a hundred pounds.’
“I was a bit staggered at
this, for I had imagined it was simply a new dress or something of the kind
that she was after.
“‘What on earth for?’ I
asked.
“‘Oh,’ said she, in her
playful way, ‘you said that you were only my banker, and bankers never ask
questions, you know.’
“‘If you really mean it, of
course you shall have the money,’ said I.
“‘Oh, yes, I really mean
it.’
“‘And you won't tell me
what you want it for?’
“‘Some day, perhaps, but
not just at present, Jack.’
“So I had to be content
with that, though it was the first time that there had ever been any secret
between us. I gave her a check, and I never thought any more of the matter. It
may have nothing to do with what came afterwards, but I thought it only right
to mention it.
“Well, I told you just now
that there is a cottage not far from our house. There is just a field between
us, but to reach it you have to go along the road and then turn down a lane.
Just beyond it is a nice little grove of Scotch firs, and I used to be very
fond of strolling down there, for trees are always a neighborly kind of things.
The cottage had been standing empty this eight months, and it was a pity, for
it was a pretty two storied place, with an old-fashioned porch and honeysuckle
about it. I have stood many a time and thought what a neat little homestead it
would make.
“Well, last Monday evening
I was taking a stroll down that way, when I met an empty van coming up the
lane, and saw a pile of carpets and things lying about on the grass-plot beside
the porch. It was clear that the cottage had at last been let. I walked past
it, and wondered what sort of folk they were who had come to live so near us.
And as I looked I suddenly became aware that a face was watching me out of one
of the upper windows.
“I don't know what there
was about that face, Mr. Holmes, but it seemed to send a chill right down my
back. I was some little way off, so that I could not make out the features, but
there was something unnatural and inhuman about the face. That was the impression
that I had, and I moved quickly forwards to get a nearer view of the person who
was watching me. But as I did so the face suddenly disappeared, so suddenly
that it seemed to have been plucked away into the darkness of the room. I stood
for five minutes thinking the business over, and trying to analyze my
impressions. I could not tell if the face were that of a man or a woman. It had
been too far from me for that. But its color was what had impressed me most. It
was of a livid chalky white, and with something set and rigid about it which
was shockingly unnatural. So disturbed was I that I determined to see a little
more of the new inmates of the cottage. I approached and knocked at the door,
which was instantly opened by a tall, gaunt woman with a harsh, forbidding
face.
|
“‘What may you be wantin'?’
she asked, in a Northern accent.
“‘I am your neighbor over
yonder,’ said I, nodding towards my house. ‘I see that you have only just moved
in, so I thought that if I could be of any help to you in any—’
“‘Ay, we'll just ask ye
when we want ye,’ said she, and shut the door in my face. Annoyed at the
churlish rebuff, I turned my back and walked home. All evening, though I tried
to think of other things, my mind would still turn to the apparition at the
window and the rudeness of the woman. I determined to say nothing about the
former to my wife, for she is a nervous, highly strung woman, and I had no wish
that she would share the unpleasant impression which had been produced upon
myself. I remarked to her, however, before I fell asleep, that the cottage was
now occupied, to which she returned no reply.
“I am usually an extremely
sound sleeper. It has been a standing jest in the family that nothing could
ever wake me during the night. And yet somehow on that particular night,
whether it may have been the slight excitement produced by my little adventure
or not I know not, but I slept much more lightly than usual. Half in my dreams
I was dimly conscious that something was going on in the room, and gradually
became aware that my wife had dressed herself and was slipping on her mantle
and her bonnet. My lips were parted to murmur out some sleepy words of surprise
or remonstrance at this untimely preparation, when suddenly my half-opened eyes
fell upon her face, illuminated by the candle-light, and astonishment held me
dumb. She wore an expression such as I had never seen before—such as I should
have thought her incapable of assuming. She was deadly pale and breathing fast,
glancing furtively towards the bed as she fastened her mantle, to see if she
had disturbed me. Then, thinking that I was still asleep, she slipped
noiselessly from the room, and an instant later I heard a sharp creaking which
could only come from the hinges of the front door. I sat up in bed and rapped
my knuckles against the rail to make certain that I was truly awake. Then I
took my watch from under the pillow. It was three in the morning. What on this
earth could my wife be doing out on the country road at three in the morning?
“I had sat for about twenty
minutes turning the thing over in my mind and trying to find some possible
explanation. The more I thought, the more extraordinary and inexplicable did it
appear. I was still puzzling over it when I heard the door gently close again,
and her footsteps coming up the stairs.
“‘Where in the world have
you been, Effie?’ I asked as she entered.
“She gave a violent start
and a kind of gasping cry when I spoke, and that cry and start troubled me more
than all the rest, for there was something indescribably guilty about them. My
wife had always been a woman of a frank, open nature, and it gave me a chill to
see her slinking into her own room, and crying out and wincing when her own
husband spoke to her.
“‘You awake, Jack!’ she
cried, with a nervous laugh. ‘Why, I thought that nothing could awake you.’
“‘Where have you been?’ I
asked, more sternly.
“‘I don't wonder that you
are surprised,’ said she, and I could see that her fingers were trembling as
she undid the fastenings of her mantle. ‘Why, I never remember having done such
a thing in my life before. The fact is that I felt as though I were choking,
and had a perfect longing for a breath of fresh air. I really think that I
should have fainted if I had not gone out. I stood at the door for a few
minutes, and now I am quite myself again.’
“All the time that she was
telling me this story she never once looked in my direction, and her voice was
quite unlike her usual tones. It was evident to me that she was saying what was
false. I said nothing in reply, but turned my face to the wall, sick at heart,
with my mind filled with a thousand venomous doubts and suspicions. What was it
that my wife was concealing from me? Where had she been during that strange
expedition? I felt that I should have no peace until I knew, and yet I shrank
from asking her again after once she had told me what was false. All the rest
of the night I tossed and tumbled, framing theory after theory, each more
unlikely than the last.
“I should have gone to the
City that day, but I was too disturbed in my mind to be able to pay attention
to business matters. My wife seemed to be as upset as myself, and I could see
from the little questioning glances which she kept shooting at me that she
understood that I disbelieved her statement, and that she was at her wits' end
what to do. We hardly exchanged a word during breakfast, and immediately
afterwards I went out for a walk, that I might think the matter out in the
fresh morning air.
“I went as far as the
Crystal Palace, spent an hour in the grounds, and was back in Norbury by one
o'clock. It happened that my way took me past the cottage, and I stopped for an
instant to look at the windows, and to see if I could catch a glimpse of the
strange face which had looked out at me on the day before. As I stood there,
imagine my surprise, Mr. Holmes, when the door suddenly opened and my wife
walked out.
“I was struck dumb with
astonishment at the sight of her; but my emotions were nothing to those which
showed themselves upon her face when our eyes met. She seemed for an instant to
wish to shrink back inside the house again; and then, seeing how useless all
concealment must be, she came forward, with a very white face and frightened
eyes which belied the smile upon her lips.
“‘Ah, Jack,’ she said, ‘I
have just been in to see if I can be of any assistance to our new neighbors.
Why do you look at me like that, Jack? You are not angry with me?’
“‘So,’ said I, ‘this is
where you went during the night.’
“‘What do you mean?’ she
cried.
“‘You came here. I am sure
of it. Who are these people, that you should visit them at such an hour?’
“‘I have not been here
before.’
“‘How can you tell me what
you know is false?’ I cried. ‘Your very voice changes as you speak. When have I
ever had a secret from you? I shall enter that cottage, and I shall probe the
matter to the bottom.’
“‘No, no, Jack, for God's
sake!’ she gasped, in uncontrollable emotion. Then, as I approached the door,
she seized my sleeve and pulled me back with convulsive strength.
“‘I implore you not to do
this, Jack,’ she cried. ‘I swear that I will tell you everything some day, but
nothing but misery can come of it if you enter that cottage.’ Then, as I tried
to shake her off, she clung to me in a frenzy of entreaty.
|
“‘Trust me, Jack!’ she
cried. ‘Trust me only this once. You will never have cause to regret it. You
know that I would not have a secret from you if it were not for your own sake.
Our whole lives are at stake in this. If you come home with me, all will be well.
If you force your way into that cottage, all is over between us.’
“There was such
earnestness, such despair, in her manner that her words arrested me, and I
stood irresolute before the door.
“‘I will trust you on one
condition, and on one condition only,’ said I at last. ‘It is that this mystery
comes to an end from now. You are at liberty to preserve your secret, but you
must promise me that there shall be no more nightly visits, no more doings
which are kept from my knowledge. I am willing to forget those which are passed
if you will promise that there shall be no more in the future.’
“‘I was sure that you would
trust me,’ she cried, with a great sigh of relief. ‘It shall be just as you
wish. Come away—oh, come away up to the house.’
“Still pulling at my
sleeve, she led me away from the cottage. As we went I glanced back, and there
was that yellow livid face watching us out of the upper window. What link could
there be between that creature and my wife? Or how could the coarse, rough woman
whom I had seen the day before be connected with her? It was a strange puzzle,
and yet I knew that my mind could never know ease again until I had solved it.
“For two days after this I
stayed at home, and my wife appeared to abide loyally by our engagement, for,
as far as I know, she never stirred out of the house. On the third day,
however, I had ample evidence that her solemn promise was not enough to hold
her back from this secret influence which drew her away from her husband and
her duty.
“I had gone into town on
that day, but I returned by the 2.40 instead of the 3.36, which is my usual
train. As I entered the house the maid ran into the hall with a startled face.
“‘Where is your mistress?’
I asked.
“‘I think that she has gone
out for a walk,’ she answered.
“My mind was instantly
filled with suspicion. I rushed upstairs to make sure that she was not in the
house. As I did so I happened to glance out of one of the upper windows, and
saw the maid with whom I had just been speaking running across the field in the
direction of the cottage. Then of course I saw exactly what it all meant. My
wife had gone over there, and had asked the servant to call her if I should
return. Tingling with anger, I rushed down and hurried across, determined to
end the matter once and forever. I saw my wife and the maid hurrying back along
the lane, but I did not stop to speak with them. In the cottage lay the secret
which was casting a shadow over my life. I vowed that, come what might, it
should be a secret no longer. I did not even knock when I reached it, but
turned the handle and rushed into the passage.
“It was all still and quiet
upon the ground floor. In the kitchen a kettle was singing on the fire, and a
large black cat lay coiled up in the basket; but there was no sign of the woman
whom I had seen before. I ran into the other room, but it was equally deserted.
Then I rushed up the stairs, only to find two other rooms empty and deserted at
the top. There was no one at all in the whole house. The furniture and pictures
were of the most common and vulgar description, save in the one chamber at the
window of which I had seen the strange face. That was comfortable and elegant,
and all my suspicions rose into a fierce bitter flame when I saw that on the
mantelpiece stood a copy of a full-length photograph of my wife, which had been
taken at my request only three months ago.
“I stayed long enough to
make certain that the house was absolutely empty. Then I left it, feeling a
weight at my heart such as I had never had before. My wife came out into the
hall as I entered my house; but I was too hurt and angry to speak with her, and
pushing past her, I made my way into my study. She followed me, however, before
I could close the door.
“‘I am sorry that I broke
my promise, Jack,’ said she; ‘but if you knew all the circumstances I am sure
that you would forgive me.’
“‘Tell me everything,
then,’ said I.
|
“‘I cannot, Jack, I
cannot,’ she cried.
“‘Until you tell me who it
is that has been living in that cottage, and who it is to whom you have given
that photograph, there can never be any confidence between us,’ said I, and
breaking away from her, I left the house. That was yesterday, Mr. Holmes, and I
have not seen her since, nor do I know anything more about this strange
business. It is the first shadow that has come between us, and it has so shaken
me that I do not know what I should do for the best. Suddenly this morning it
occurred to me that you were the man to advise me, so I have hurried to you
now, and I place myself unreservedly in your hands. If there is any point which
I have not made clear, pray question me about it. But, above all, tell me
quickly what I am to do, for this misery is more than I can bear.”
Holmes and I had listened
with the utmost interest to this extraordinary statement, which had been
delivered in the jerky, broken fashion of a man who is under the influence of
extreme emotions. My companion sat silent for some time, with his chin upon his
hand, lost in thought.
“Tell me,” said he at last,
“could you swear that this was a man's face which you saw at the window?”
“Each time that I saw it I
was some distance away from it, so that it is impossible for me to say.”
“You appear, however, to
have been disagreeably impressed by it.”
“It seemed to be of an
unnatural color, and to have a strange rigidity about the features. When I
approached, it vanished with a jerk.”
“How long is it since your
wife asked you for a hundred pounds?”
“Nearly two months.”
“Have you ever seen a
photograph of her first husband?”
“No; there was a great fire
at Atlanta very shortly after his death, and all her papers were destroyed.”
“And yet she had a
certificate of death. You say that you saw it.”
“Yes; she got a duplicate
after the fire.”
“Did you ever meet any one
who knew her in America?”
“No.”
“Did she ever talk of
revisiting the place?”
“No.”
“Or get letters from it?”
“No.”
“Thank you. I should like
to think over the matter a little now. If the cottage is now permanently
deserted we may have some difficulty. If, on the other hand, as I fancy is more
likely, the inmates were warned of your coming, and left before you entered yesterday,
then they may be back now, and we should clear it all up easily. Let me advise
you, then, to return to Norbury, and to examine the windows of the cottage
again. If you have reason to believe that is inhabited, do not force your way
in, but send a wire to my friend and me. We shall be with you within an hour of
receiving it, and we shall then very soon get to the bottom of the business.”
“And if it is still empty?”
“In that case I shall come
out to-morrow and talk it over with you. Good-bye, and, above all, do not fret
until you know that you really have a cause for it.”
“I am afraid that this is a
bad business, Watson,” said my companion, as he returned after accompanying Mr.
Grant Munro to the door. “What do you make of it?”
“It had an ugly sound,” I
answered.
“Yes. There's blackmail in
it, or I am much mistaken.”
“And who is the
blackmailer?”
“Well, it must be the
creature who lives in the only comfortable room in the place, and has her
photograph above his fireplace. Upon my word, Watson, there is something very
attractive about that livid face at the window, and I would not have missed the
case for worlds.”
“You have a theory?”
“Yes, a provisional one.
But I shall be surprised if it does not turn out to be correct. This woman's
first husband is in that cottage.”
“Why do you think so?”
“How else can we explain
her frenzied anxiety that her second one should not enter it? The facts, as I
read them, are something like this: This woman was married in America. Her
husband developed some hateful qualities; or shall we say that he contracted
some loathsome disease, and became a leper or an imbecile? She flies from him
at last, returns to England, changes her name, and starts her life, as she
thinks, afresh. She has been married three years, and believes that her
position is quite secure, having shown her husband the death certificate of
some man whose name she has assumed, when suddenly her whereabouts is
discovered by her first husband; or, we may suppose, by some unscrupulous woman
who has attached herself to the invalid. They write to the wife, and threaten
to come and expose her. She asks for a hundred pounds, and endeavors to buy
them off. They come in spite of it, and when the husband mentions casually to
the wife that there are new-comers in the cottage, she knows in some way that
they are her pursuers. She waits until her husband is asleep, and then she
rushes down to endeavor to persuade them to leave her in peace. Having no
success, she goes again next morning, and her husband meets her, as he has told
us, as she comes out. She promises him then not to go there again, but two days
afterwards the hope of getting rid of those dreadful neighbors was too strong
for her, and she made another attempt, taking down with her the photograph
which had probably been demanded from her. In the midst of this interview the
maid rushed in to say that the master had come home, on which the wife, knowing
that he would come straight down to the cottage, hurried the inmates out at the
back door, into the grove of fir-trees, probably, which was mentioned as
standing near. In this way he found the place deserted. I shall be very much
surprised, however, if it still so when he reconnoitres it this evening. What
do you think of my theory?”
“It is all surmise.”
“But at least it covers all
the facts. When new facts come to our knowledge which cannot be covered by it,
it will be time enough to reconsider it. We can do nothing more until we have a
message from our friend at Norbury.”
But we had not a very long
time to wait for that. It came just as we had finished our tea.
“The cottage is still
tenanted,” it said. “Have seen the face again at the window. Will meet the
seven o'clock train, and will take no steps until you arrive.”
He was waiting on the
platform when we stepped out, and we could see in the light of the station
lamps that he was very pale, and quivering with agitation.
“They are still there, Mr.
Holmes,” said he, laying his hand hard upon my friend's sleeve. “I saw lights
in the cottage as I came down. We shall settle it now once and for all.”
“What is your plan, then?”
asked Holmes, as he walked down the dark tree-lined road.
“I am going to force my way
in and see for myself who is in the house. I wish you both to be there as
witnesses.”
“You are quite determined
to do this, in spite of your wife's warning that it is better that you should
not solve the mystery?”
“Yes, I am determined.”
“Well, I think that you are
in the right. Any truth is better than indefinite doubt. We had better go up at
once. Of course, legally, we are putting ourselves hopelessly in the wrong; but
I think that it is worth it.”
It was a very dark night,
and a thin rain began to fall as we turned from the high road into a narrow lane,
deeply rutted, with hedges on either side. Mr. Grant Munro pushed impatiently
forward, however, and we stumbled after him as best we could.
“There are the lights of my
house,” he murmured, pointing to a glimmer among the trees. “And here is the
cottage which I am going to enter.”
We turned a corner in the
lane as he spoke, and there was the building close beside us. A yellow bar
falling across the black foreground showed that the door was not quite closed,
and one window in the upper story was brightly illuminated. As we looked, we
saw a dark blur moving across the blind.
“There is that creature!”
cried Grant Munro. “You can see for yourselves that some one is there. Now
follow me, and we shall soon know all.”
We approached the door; but
suddenly a woman appeared out of the shadow and stood in the golden track of
the lamp-light. I could not see her face in the darkness, but her arms were
thrown out in an attitude of entreaty.
“For God's sake, don't
Jack!” she cried. “I had a presentiment that you would come this evening. Think
better of it, dear! Trust me again, and you will never have cause to regret
it.”
“I have trusted you too
long, Effie,” he cried, sternly. “Leave go of me! I must pass you. My friends
and I are going to settle this matter once and forever!” He pushed her to one
side, and we followed closely after him. As he threw the door open an old woman
ran out in front of him and tried to bar his passage, but he thrust her back,
and an instant afterwards we were all upon the stairs. Grant Munro rushed into
the lighted room at the top, and we entered at his heels.
It was a cosy,
well-furnished apartment, with two candles burning upon the table and two upon
the mantelpiece. In the corner, stooping over a desk, there sat what appeared
to be a little girl. Her face was turned away as we entered, but we could see
that she was dressed in a red frock, and that she had long white gloves on. As
she whisked round to us, I gave a cry of surprise and horror. The face which
she turned towards us was of the strangest livid tint, and the features were
absolutely devoid of any expression. An instant later the mystery was
explained.
|
Holmes, with a laugh, passed his hand behind the child's ear, a mask
peeled off from her countenance, an there was a little coal black negress, with
all her white teeth flashing in amusement at our amazed faces. I burst out
laughing, out of sympathy with her merriment; but Grant Munro stood staring,
with his hand clutching his throat.
“My God!” he cried. “What
can be the meaning of this?”
“I will tell you the
meaning of it,” cried the lady, sweeping into the room with a proud, set face.
“You have forced me, against my own judgment, to tell you, and now we must both
make the best of it. My husband died at Atlanta. My child survived.”
“Your child?”
She drew a large silver
locket from her bosom. “You have never seen this open.”
“I understood that it did
not open.”
She touched a spring, and
the front hinged back. There was a portrait within of a man strikingly handsome
and intelligent-looking, but bearing unmistakable signs upon his features of
his African descent.
“That is John Hebron, of
Atlanta,” said the lady, “and a nobler man never walked the earth. I cut myself
off from my race in order to wed him, but never once while he lived did I for
an instant regret it. It was our misfortune that our only child took after his
people rather than mine. It is often so in such matches, and little Lucy is
darker far than ever her father was. But dark or fair, she is my own dear
little girlie, and her mother's pet.” The little creature ran across at the
words and nestled up against the lady's dress. “When I left her in America,”
she continued, “it was only because her health was weak, and the change might
have done her harm. She was given to the care of a faithful Scotch woman who
had once been our servant. Never for an instant did I dream of disowning her as
my child. But when chance threw you in my way, Jack, and I learned to love you,
I feared to tell you about my child. God forgive me, I feared that I should
lose you, and I had not the courage to tell you. I had to choose between you,
and in my weakness I turned away from my own little girl. For three years I
have kept her existence a secret from you, but I heard from the nurse, and I
knew that all was well with her. At last, however, there came an overwhelming
desire to see the child once more. I struggled against it, but in vain. Though
I knew the danger, I determined to have the child over, if it were but for a
few weeks. I sent a hundred pounds to the nurse, and I gave her instructions
about this cottage, so that she might come as a neighbor, without my appearing
to be in any way connected with her. I pushed my precautions so far as to order
her to keep the child in the house during the daytime, and to cover up her
little face and hands so that even those who might see her at the window should
not gossip about there being a black child in the neighborhood. If I had been
less cautious I might have been more wise, but I was half crazy with fear that
you should learn the truth.
“It was you who told me
first that the cottage was occupied. I should have waited for the morning, but
I could not sleep for excitement, and so at last I slipped out, knowing how
difficult it is to awake you. But you saw me go, and that was the beginning of
my troubles. Next day you had my secret at your mercy, but you nobly refrained
from pursuing your advantage. Three days later, however, the nurse and child
only just escaped from the back door as you rushed in at the front one. And now
to-night you at last know all, and I ask you what is to become of us, my child
and me?” She clasped her hands and waited for an answer.
It was a long ten minutes
before Grant Munro broke the silence, and when his answer came it was one of
which I love to think.
|
He lifted the little child, kissed her, and then, still
carrying her, he held his other hand out to his wife and turned towards the
door.
“We can talk it over more
comfortably at home,” said he. “I am not a very good man, Effie, but I think
that I am a better one than you have given me credit for being.”
Holmes and I followed them
down the lane, and my friend plucked at my sleeve as we came out.
“I think,” said he, “that
we shall be of more use in London than in Norbury.”
Not another word did he say
of the case until late that night, when he was turning away, with his lighted
candle, for his bedroom.
“Watson,” said he, “if it
should ever strike you that I am getting a little over-confident in my powers,
or giving less pains to a case than it deserves, kindly whisper ‘Norbury’ in my
ear, and I shall be infinitely obliged to you.”
The
Stock-Broker's Clerk
Shortly after my
marriage I had bought a connection in the Paddington district. Old Mr.
Farquhar, from whom I purchased it, had at one time an excellent general
practice; but his age, and an affliction of the nature of St. Vitus's dance
from which he suffered, had very much thinned it. The public not unnaturally
goes on the principle that he who would heal others must himself be whole, and
looks askance at the curative powers of the man whose own case is beyond the
reach of his drugs. Thus as my predecessor weakened his practice declined,
until when I purchased it from him it had sunk from twelve hundred to little
more than three hundred a year. I had confidence, however, in my own youth and
energy, and was convinced that in a very few years the concern would be as
flourishing as ever.
For three months after
taking over the practice I was kept very closely at work, and saw little of my
friend Sherlock Holmes, for I was too busy to visit Baker Street, and he seldom
went anywhere himself save upon professional business. I was surprised,
therefore, when, one morning in June, as I sat reading the British Medical
Journal after breakfast, I heard a ring at the bell, followed by the high,
somewhat strident tones of my old companion's voice.
“Ah, my dear Watson,” said
he, striding into the room, “I am very delighted to see you! I trust that Mrs.
Watson has entirely recovered from all the little excitements connected with
our adventure of the Sign of Four.”
“Thank you, we are both
very well,” said I, shaking him warmly by the hand.
“And I hope, also,” he
continued, sitting down in the rocking-chair, “that the cares of medical
practice have not entirely obliterated the interest which you used to take in
our little deductive problems.”
“On the contrary,” I
answered, “it was only last night that I was looking over my old notes, and
classifying some of our past results.”
“I trust that you don't
consider your collection closed.”
“Not at all. I should wish
nothing better than to have some more of such experiences.”
“To-day, for example?”
“Yes, to-day, if you like.”
“And as far off as
Birmingham?”
“Certainly, if you wish
it.”
“And the practice?”
“I do my neighbor's when he
goes. He is always ready to work off the debt.”
|
“Ha! Nothing could be
better,” said Holmes, leaning back in his chair and looking keenly at me from
under his half-closed lids. “I perceive that you have been unwell lately.
Summer colds are always a little trying.”
“I was confined to the
house by a severe chill for three days last week. I thought, however, that I
had cast off every trace of it.”
“So you have. You look
remarkably robust.”
“How, then, did you know of
it?”
“My dear fellow, you know
my methods.”
“You deduced it, then?”
“Certainly.”
“And from what?”
“From your slippers.”
I glanced down at the new
patent leathers which I was wearing. “How on earth—” I began, but Holmes
answered my question before it was asked.
“Your slippers are new,” he
said. “You could not have had them more than a few weeks. The soles which you
are at this moment presenting to me are slightly scorched. For a moment I
thought they might have got wet and been burned in the drying. But near the
instep there is a small circular wafer of paper with the shopman's hieroglyphics
upon it. Damp would of course have removed this. You had, then, been sitting
with our feet outstretched to the fire, which a man would hardly do even in so
wet a June as this if he were in his full health.”
Like all Holmes's reasoning
the thing seemed simplicity itself when it was once explained. He read the
thought upon my features, and his smile had a tinge of bitterness.
“I am afraid that I rather
give myself away when I explain,” said he. “Results without causes are much
more impressive. You are ready to come to Birmingham, then?”
“Certainly. What is the
case?”
“You shall hear it all in
the train. My client is outside in a four-wheeler. Can you come at once?”
“In an instant.” I
scribbled a note to my neighbor, rushed upstairs to explain the matter to my
wife, and joined Holmes upon the door-step.
“Your neighbor is a
doctor,” said he, nodding at the brass plate.
“Yes; he bought a practice
as I did.”
“An old-established one?”
“Just the same as mine.
Both have been ever since the houses were built.”
“Ah! Then you got hold of
the best of the two.”
“I think I did. But how do
you know?”
|
“By the steps, my boy.
Yours are worn three inches deeper than his. But this gentleman in the cab is
my client, Mr. Hall Pycroft. Allow me to introduce you to him. Whip your horse
up, cabby, for we have only just time to catch our train.”
The man whom I found myself
facing was a well built, fresh-complexioned young fellow, with a frank, honest
face and a slight, crisp, yellow mustache. He wore a very shiny top hat and a
neat suit of sober black, which made him look what he was—a smart young City
man, of the class who have been labeled cockneys, but who give us our crack
volunteer regiments, and who turn out more fine athletes and sportsmen than any
body of men in these islands. His round, ruddy face was naturally full of
cheeriness, but the corners of his mouth seemed to me to be pulled down in a
half-comical distress. It was not, however, until we were all in a first-class
carriage and well started upon our journey to Birmingham that I was able to
learn what the trouble was which had driven him to Sherlock Holmes.
“We have a clear run here
of seventy minutes,” Holmes remarked. “I want you, Mr. Hall Pycroft, to tell my
friend your very interesting experience exactly as you have told it to me, or
with more detail if possible. It will be of use to me to hear the succession of
events again. It is a case, Watson, which may prove to have something in it, or
may prove to have nothing, but which, at least, presents those unusual and outré
features which are as dear to you as they are to me. Now, Mr. Pycroft, I shall
not interrupt you again.”
Our young companion looked
at me with a twinkle in his eye.
“The worst of the story
is,” said he, “that I show myself up as such a confounded fool. Of course it
may work out all right, and I don't see that I could have done otherwise; but
if I have lost my crib and get nothing in exchange I shall feel what a soft
Johnnie I have been. I'm not very good at telling a story, Dr. Watson, but it
is like this with me:
“I used to have a billet at
Coxon & Woodhouse's, of Draper's Gardens, but they were let in early in the
spring through the Venezuelan loan, as no doubt you remember, and came a nasty
cropper. I had been with them five years, and old Coxon gave me a ripping good
testimonial when the smash came, but of course we clerks were all turned
adrift, the twenty-seven of us. I tried here and tried there, but there were
lots of other chaps on the same lay as myself, and it was a perfect frost for a
long time. I had been taking three pounds a week at Coxon's, and I had saved about
seventy of them, but I soon worked my way through that and out at the other
end. I was fairly at the end of my tether at last, and could hardly find the
stamps to answer the advertisements or the envelopes to stick them to. I had
worn out my boots paddling up office stairs, and I seemed just as far from
getting a billet as ever.
“At last I saw a vacancy at
Mawson & Williams's, the great stock-broking firm in Lombard Street. I dare
say E. C. is not much in your line, but I can tell you that this is about the
richest house in London. The advertisement was to be answered by letter only. I
sent in my testimonial and application, but without the least hope of getting
it. Back came an answer by return, saying that if I would appear next Monday I
might take over my new duties at once, provided that my appearance was
satisfactory. No one knows how these things are worked. Some people say that
the manager just plunges his hand into the heap and takes the first that comes.
Anyhow it was my innings that time, and I don't ever wish to feel better
pleased. The screw was a pound a week rise, and the duties just about the same
as at Coxon's.
“And now I come to the
queer part of the business. I was in diggings out Hampstead way, 17 Potter's
Terrace. Well, I was sitting doing a smoke that very evening after I had been
promised the appointment, when up came my landlady with a card which had
“Arthur Pinner, Financial Agent,” printed upon it. I had never heard the name
before and could not imagine what he wanted with me; but, of course, I asked
her to show him up. In he walked, a middle-sized, dark-haired, dark-eyed,
black-bearded man, with a touch of the sheeny about his nose. He had a brisk
kind of way with him and spoke sharply, like a man who knew the value of time.
“‘Mr. Hall Pycroft, I
believe?’ said he.
“‘Yes, sir,’ I answered,
pushing a chair towards him.
“‘Lately engaged at Coxon
& Woodhouse's?’
“‘Yes, sir.’
“‘And now on the staff of
Mawson's.’
“‘Quite so.’
“‘Well,’ said he, ‘the fact
is that I have heard some really extraordinary stories about your financial
ability. You remember Parker, who used to be Coxon's manager? He can never say
enough about it.’
“Of course I was pleased to
hear this. I had always been pretty sharp in the office, but I had never
dreamed that I was talked about in the City in this fashion.
“‘You have a good memory?’
said he.
“‘Pretty fair,’ I answered,
modestly.
“‘Have you kept in touch
with the market while you have been out of work?’ he asked.
“‘Yes. I read the stock
exchange list every morning.’
“‘Now that shows real
application!’ he cried. ‘That is the way to prosper! You won't mind my testing
you, will you? Let me see. How are Ayrshires?’
“‘A hundred and six and a
quarter to a hundred and five and seven-eighths.’
“‘And New Zealand
consolidated?’
“‘A hundred and four.’
“‘And British Broken
Hills?’
“‘Seven to seven-and-six.’
“‘Wonderful!’ he cried,
with his hands up. ‘This quite fits in with all that I had heard. My boy, my
boy, you are very much too good to be a clerk at Mawson's!’
“This outburst rather
astonished me, as you can think. ‘Well,’ said I, ‘other people don't think
quite so much of me as you seem to do, Mr. Pinner. I had a hard enough fight to
get this berth, and I am very glad to have it.’
“‘Pooh, man; you should
soar above it. You are not in your true sphere. Now, I'll tell you how it
stands with me. What I have to offer is little enough when measured by your
ability, but when compared with Mawson's, it's light to dark. Let me see. When
do you go to Mawson's?’
“‘On Monday.’
“‘Ha, ha! I think I would
risk a little sporting flutter that you don't go there at all.’
“‘Not go to Mawson's?’
“‘No, sir. By that day you
will be the business manager of the Franco-Midland Hardware Company, Limited,
with a hundred and thirty-four branches in the towns and villages of France,
not counting one in Brussels and one in San Remo.’
“This took my breath away.
‘I never heard of it,’ said I.
“‘Very likely not. It has
been kept very quiet, for the capital was all privately subscribed, and it's
too good a thing to let the public into. My brother, Harry Pinner, is promoter,
and joins the board after allotment as managing director. He knew I was in the
swim down here, and asked me to pick up a good man cheap. A young, pushing man
with plenty of snap about him. Parker spoke of you, and that brought me here
tonight. We can only offer you a beggarly five hundred to start with.’
“‘Five hundred a year!’ I
shouted.
“‘Only that at the
beginning; but you are to have an overriding commission of one per cent on all
business done by your agents, and you may take my word for it that this will
come to more than your salary.’
“‘But I know nothing about
hardware.’
“‘Tut, my boy; you know
about figures.’
“My head buzzed, and I
could hardly sit still in my chair. But suddenly a little chill of doubt came
upon me.
“‘I must be frank with
you,’ said I. ‘Mawson only gives me two hundred, but Mawson is safe. Now,
really, I know so little about your company that—’
“‘Ah, smart, smart!’ he
cried, in a kind of ecstasy of delight. ‘You are the very man for us. You are
not to be talked over, and quite right, too. Now, here's a note for a hundred
pounds, and if you think that we can do business you may just slip it into your
pocket as an advance upon your salary.’
“‘That is very handsome,’
said I. ‘When should I take over my new duties?’
“‘Be in Birmingham
to-morrow at one,’ said he. ‘I have a note in my pocket here which you will
take to my brother. You will find him at 126b
Corporation Street, where the temporary offices of the company are situated. Of
course he must confirm your engagement, but between ourselves it will be all
right.’
“‘Really, I hardly know how
to express my gratitude, Mr. Pinner,’ said I.
“‘Not at all, my boy. You
have only got your desserts. There are one or two small things—mere
formalities—which I must arrange with you. You have a bit of paper beside you
there. Kindly write upon it “I am perfectly willing to act as business manager
to the Franco-Midland Hardware Company, Limited, at a minimum salary of £500.”’
“I did as he asked, and he
put the paper in his pocket.
“‘There is one other
detail,’ said he. ‘What do you intend to do about Mawson's?’
“I had forgotten all about
Mawson's in my joy. ‘I'll write and resign,’ said I.
“‘Precisely what I don't
want you to do. I had a row over you with Mawson's manager. I had gone up to
ask him about you, and he was very offensive; accused me of coaxing you away
from the service of the firm, and that sort of thing. At last I fairly lost my
temper. “If you want good men you should pay them a good price,” said I.
“‘“He would rather have our
small price than your big one,” said he.
“‘“I'll lay you a fiver,”
said I, “that when he has my offer you'll never so much as hear from him
again.”
“‘“Done!” said he. “We
picked him out of the gutter, and he won't leave us so easily.” Those were his
very words.’
“‘The impudent scoundrel!’
I cried. ‘I've never so much as seen him in my life. Why should I consider him
in any way? I shall certainly not write if you would rather I didn't.’
“‘Good! That's a promise,’
said he, rising from his chair. ‘Well, I'm delighted to have got so good a man
for my brother. Here's your advance of a hundred pounds, and here is the
letter. Make a note of the address, 126b
Corporation Street, and remember that one o'clock to-morrow is your
appointment. Good-night; and may you have all the fortune that you deserve!’
“That's just about all that
passed between us, as near as I can remember. You can imagine, Dr. Watson, how
pleased I was at such an extraordinary bit of good fortune. I sat up half the
night hugging myself over it, and next day I was off to Birmingham in a train
that would take me in plenty time for my appointment. I took my things to a
hotel in New Street, and then I made my way to the address which had been given
me.
|
“It was a quarter of an
hour before my time, but I thought that would make no difference. 126b was a passage between two large
shops, which led to a winding stone stair, from which there were many flats,
let as offices to companies or professional men. The names of the occupants
were painted at the bottom on the wall, but there was no such name as the
Franco-Midland Hardware Company, Limited. I stood for a few minutes with my
heart in my boots, wondering whether the whole thing was an elaborate hoax or
not, when up came a man and addressed me. He was very like the chap I had seen
the night before, the same figure and voice, but he was clean shaven and his
hair was lighter.
“‘Are you Mr. Hall
Pycroft?’ he asked.
“‘Yes,’ said I.
“‘Oh! I was expecting you,
but you are a trifle before your time. I had a note from my brother this
morning in which he sang your praises very loudly.’
“‘I was just looking for
the offices when you came.’
“‘We have not got our name
up yet, for we only secured these temporary premises last week. Come up with
me, and we will talk the matter over.’
“I followed him to the top
of a very lofty stair, and there, right under the slates, were a couple of
empty, dusty little rooms, uncarpeted and uncurtained, into which he led me. I
had thought of a great office with shining tables and rows of clerks, such as I
was used to, and I dare say I stared rather straight at the two deal chairs and
one little table, which, with a ledger and a waste paper basket, made up the
whole furniture.
“‘Don't be disheartened,
Mr. Pycroft,’ said my new acquaintance, seeing the length of my face. ‘Rome was
not built in a day, and we have lots of money at our backs, though we don't cut
much dash yet in offices. Pray sit down, and let me have your letter.’
“I gave it to him, and her
read it over very carefully.
“‘You seem to have made a
vast impression upon my brother Arthur,’ said he; ‘and I know that he is a
pretty shrewd judge. He swears by London, you know; and I by Birmingham; but
this time I shall follow his advice. Pray consider yourself definitely
engaged.’
“‘What are my duties?’ I
asked.
“‘You will eventually
manage the great depot in Paris, which will pour a flood of English crockery
into the shops of a hundred and thirty-four agents in France. The purchase will
be completed in a week, and meanwhile you will remain in Birmingham and make
yourself useful.’
“‘How?’
“For answer, he took a big
red book out of a drawer.
“‘This is a directory of
Paris,’ said he, ‘with the trades after the names of the people. I want you to
take it home with you, and to mark off all the hardware sellers, with their
addresses. It would be of the greatest use to me to have them.’
“‘Surely there are
classified lists?’ I suggested.
“‘Not reliable ones. Their
system is different from ours. Stick at it, and let me have the lists by
Monday, at twelve. Good-day, Mr. Pycroft. If you continue to show zeal and
intelligence you will find the company a good master.’
“I went back to the hotel
with the big book under my arm, and with very conflicting feelings in my
breast. On the one hand, I was definitely engaged and had a hundred pounds in
my pocket; on the other, the look of the offices, the absence of name on the
wall, and other of the points which would strike a business man had left a bad impression
as to the position of my employers. However, come what might, I had my money,
so I settled down to my task. All Sunday I was kept hard at work, and yet by
Monday I had only got as far as H. I went round to my employer, found him in
the same dismantled kind of room, and was told to keep at it until Wednesday,
and then come again. On Wednesday it was still unfinished, so I hammered away
until Friday—that is, yesterday. Then I brought it round to Mr. Harry Pinner.
“‘Thank you very much,’
said he; ‘I fear that I underrated the difficulty of the task. This list will
be of very material assistance to me.’
“‘It took some time,’ said
I.
“‘And now,’ said he, ‘I
want you to make a list of the furniture shops, for they all sell crockery.’
“‘Very good.’
“‘And you can come up
to-morrow evening, at seven, and let me know how you are getting on. Don't
overwork yourself. A couple of hours at Day's Music Hall in the evening would
do you no harm after your labors.’ He laughed as he spoke, and I saw with a
thrill that his second tooth upon the left-hand side had been very badly
stuffed with gold.”
Sherlock Holmes rubbed his
hands with delight, and I stared with astonishment at our client.
“You may well look
surprised, Dr. Watson; but it is this way,” said he: “When I was speaking to
the other chap in London, at the time that he laughed at my not going to
Mawson's, I happened to notice that his tooth was stuffed in this very
identical fashion. The glint of the gold in each case caught my eye, you see.
When I put that with the voice and figure being the same, and only those things
altered which might be changed by a razor or a wig, I could not doubt that it
was the same man. Of course you expect two brothers to be alike, but not that
they should have the same tooth stuffed in the same way. He bowed me out, and I
found myself in the street, hardly knowing whether I was on my head or my
heels. Back I went to my hotel, put my head in a basin of cold water, and tried
to think it out. Why had he sent me from London to Birmingham? Why had he got
there before me? And why had he written a letter from himself to himself? It
was altogether too much for me, and I could make no sense of it. And then
suddenly it struck me that what was dark to me might be very light to Mr.
Sherlock Holmes. I had just time to get up to town by the night train to see
him this morning, and to bring you both back with me to Birmingham.”
There was a pause after the
stock-broker's clerk had concluded his surprising experience. Then Sherlock
Holmes cocked his eye at me, leaning back on the cushions with a pleased and
yet critical face, like a connoisseur who has just taken his first sip of a
comet vintage.
“Rather fine, Watson, is it
not?” said he. “There are points in it which please me. I think that you will
agree with me that an interview with Mr. Arthur Harry Pinner in the temporary
offices of the Franco-Midland Hardware Company, Limited, would be a rather
interesting experience for both of us.”
“But how can we do it?” I
asked.
“Oh, easily enough,” said
Hall Pycroft, cheerily. “You are two friends of mine who are in want of a
billet, and what could be more natural than that I should bring you both round
to the managing director?”
“Quite so, of course,” said
Holmes. “I should like to have a look at the gentleman, and see if I can make
anything of his little game. What qualities have you, my friend, which would
make your services so valuable? Or is it possible that—” He began biting his
nails and staring blankly out of the window, and we hardly drew another word
from him until we were in New Street.
At seven o'clock that
evening we were walking, the three of us, down Corporation Street to the
company's offices.
“It is no use our being at
all before our time,” said our client. “He only comes there to see me,
apparently, for the place is deserted up to the very hour he names.”
“That is suggestive,”
remarked Holmes.
“By Jove, I told you so!”
cried the clerk. “That's he walking ahead of us there.”
He pointed to a smallish,
dark, well-dressed man who was bustling along the other side of the road. As we
watched him he looked across at a boy who was bawling out the latest edition of
the evening paper, and running over among the cabs and busses, he bought one
from him. Then, clutching it in his hand, he vanished through a door-way.
“There he goes!” cried Hall
Pycroft. “These are the company's offices into which he has gone. Come with me,
and I'll fix it up as easily as possible.”
Following his lead, we
ascended five stories, until we found ourselves outside a half-opened door, at
which our client tapped. A voice within bade us enter, and we entered a bare,
unfurnished room such as Hall Pycroft had described.
|
At the single table sat
the man whom we had seen in the street, with his evening paper spread out in
front of him, and as he looked up at us it seemed to me that I had never looked
upon a face which bore such marks of grief, and of something beyond grief—of a
horror such as comes to few men in a lifetime. His brow glistened with
perspiration, his cheeks were of the dull, dead white of a fish's belly, and
his eyes were wild and staring. He looked at his clerk as though he failed to
recognize him, and I could see by the astonishment depicted upon our
conductor's face that this was by no means the usual appearance of his
employer.
“You look ill, Mr. Pinner!”
he exclaimed.
“Yes, I am not very well,”
answered the other, making obvious efforts to pull himself together, and
licking his dry lips before he spoke. “Who are these gentlemen whom you have
brought with you?”
“One is Mr. Harris, of
Bermondsey, and the other is Mr. Price, of this town,” said our clerk, glibly.
“They are friends of mine and gentlemen of experience, but they have been out
of a place for some little time, and they hoped that perhaps you might find an
opening for them in the company's employment.”
“Very possibly! Very
possibly!” cried Mr. Pinner with a ghastly smile. “Yes, I have no doubt that we
shall be able to do something for you. What is your particular line, Mr.
Harris?”
“I am an accountant,” said
Holmes.
“Ah yes, we shall want
something of the sort. And you, Mr. Price?”
“A clerk,” said I.
“I have every hope that the
company may accommodate you. I will let you know about it as soon as we come to
any conclusion. And now I beg that you will go. For God's sake leave me to
myself!”
These last words were shot
out of him, as though the constraint which he was evidently setting upon
himself had suddenly and utterly burst asunder. Holmes and I glanced at each
other, and Hall Pycroft took a step towards the table.
“You forget, Mr. Pinner,
that I am here by appointment to receive some directions from you,” said he.
“Certainly, Mr. Pycroft,
certainly,” the other resumed in a calmer tone. “You may wait here a moment;
and there is no reason why your friends should not wait with you. I will be
entirely at your service in three minutes, if I might trespass upon your
patience so far.” He rose with a very courteous air, and, bowing to us, he
passed out through a door at the farther end of the room, which he closed
behind him.
“What now?” whispered
Holmes. “Is he giving us the slip?”
“Impossible,” answered
Pycroft.
“Why so?”
“That door leads into an
inner room.”
“There is no exit?”
“None.”
“Is it furnished?”
“It was empty yesterday.”
“Then what on earth can he
be doing? There is something which I don't understand in his manner. If ever a
man was three parts mad with terror, that man's name is Pinner. What can have
put the shivers on him?”
“He suspects that we are
detectives,” I suggested.
“That's it,” cried Pycroft.
Holmes shook his head. “He
did not turn pale. He was pale when we entered the room,” said he. “It is just
possible that—”
His words were interrupted
by a sharp rat-tat from the direction of the inner door.
“What the deuce is he
knocking at his own door for?” cried the clerk.
Again and much louder cam
the rat-tat-tat. We all gazed expectantly at the closed door. Glancing at
Holmes, I saw his face turn rigid, and he leaned forward in intense excitement.
Then suddenly came a low guggling, gargling sound, and a brisk drumming upon
woodwork. Holmes sprang frantically across the room and pushed at the door. It
was fastened on the inner side. Following his example, we threw ourselves upon
it with all our weight. One hinge snapped, then the other, and down came the
door with a crash.
|
Rushing over it, we found ourselves in the inner room. It
was empty.
But it was only for a
moment that we were at fault. At one corner, the corner nearest the room which
we had left, there was a second door. Holmes sprang to it and pulled it open. A
coat and waistcoat were lying on the floor, and from a hook behind the door,
with his own braces round his neck, was hanging the managing director of the
Franco-Midland Hardware Company. His knees were drawn up, his head hung at a
dreadful angle to his body, and the clatter of his heels against the door made
the noise which had broken in upon our conversation. In an instant I had caught
him round the waist, and held him up while Holmes and Pycroft untied the
elastic bands which had disappeared between the livid creases of skin. Then we
carried him into the other room, where he lay with a clay-colored face, puffing
his purple lips in and out with every breath—a dreadful wreck of all that he
had been but five minutes before.
“What do you think of him,
Watson?” asked Holmes.
I stooped over him and
examined him. His pulse was feeble and intermittent, but his breathing grew
longer, and there was a little shivering of his eyelids, which showed a thin
white slit of ball beneath.
“It has been touch and go
with him,” said I, “but he'll live now. Just open that window, and hand me the
water carafe.” I undid his collar, poured the cold water over his face, and
raised and sank his arms until he drew a long, natural breath. “It's only a
question of time now,” said I, as I turned away from him.
Holmes stood by the table,
with his hands deep in his trouser's pockets and his chin upon his breast.
“I suppose we ought to call
the police in now,” said he. “And yet I confess that I'd like to give them a
complete case when they come.”
“It's a blessed mystery to
me,” cried Pycroft, scratching his head. “Whatever they wanted to bring me all
the way up here for, and then—”
“Pooh! All that is clear
enough,” said Holmes impatiently. “It is this last sudden move.”
“You understand the rest,
then?”
“I think that it is fairly
obvious. What do you say, Watson?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I
must confess that I am out of my depths,” said I.
“Oh surely if you consider
the events at first they can only point to one conclusion.”
“What do you make of them?”
“Well, the whole thing
hinges upon two points. The first is the making of Pycroft write a declaration
by which he entered the service of this preposterous company. Do you not see
how very suggestive that is?”
“I am afraid I miss the
point.”
“Well, why did they want
him to do it? Not as a business matter, for these arrangements are usually
verbal, and there was no earthly business reason why this should be an
exception. Don't you see, my young friend, that they were very anxious to
obtain a specimen of your handwriting, and had no other way of doing it?”
“And why?”
“Quite so. Why? When we
answer that we have made some progress with our little problem. Why? There can
be only one adequate reason. Someone wanted to learn to imitate your writing,
and had to procure a specimen of it first. And now if we pass on to the second
point we find that each throws light upon the other. That point is the request
made by Pinner that you should not resign your place, but should leave the
manager of this important business in the full expectation that a Mr. Hall
Pycroft, whom he had never seen, was about to enter the office upon the Monday
morning.”
“My God!” cried our client,
“what a blind beetle I have been!”
“Now you see the point
about the handwriting. Suppose that some one turned up in your place who wrote
a completely different hand from that in which you had applied for the vacancy,
of course the game would have been up. But in the interval the rogue had
learned to imitate you, and his position was therefore secure, as I presume
that nobody in the office had ever set eyes upon you.”
“Not a soul,” groaned Hall
Pycroft.
“Very good. Of course it
was of the utmost importance to prevent you from thinking better of it, and
also to keep you from coming into contact with any one who might tell you that
your double was at work in Mawson's office. Therefore they gave you a handsome
advance on your salary, and ran you off to the Midlands, where they gave you
enough work to do to prevent your going to London, where you might have burst their
little game up. That is all plain enough.”
“But why should this man
pretend to be his own brother?”
“Well, that is pretty clear
also. There are evidently only two of them in it. The other is impersonating
you at the office. This one acted as your engager, and then found that he could
not find you an employer without admitting a third person into his plot. That
he was most unwilling to do. He changed his appearance as far as he could, and
trusted that the likeness, which you could not fail to observe, would be put
down to a family resemblance. But for the happy chance of the gold stuffing,
your suspicions would probably never have been aroused.”
|
Hall Pycroft shook his
clinched hands in the air. “Good Lord!” he cried, “while I have been fooled in
this way, what has this other Hall Pycroft been doing at Mawson's? What should
we do, Mr. Holmes? Tell me what to do.”
“We must wire to Mawson's.”
“They shut at twelve on
Saturdays.”
“Never mind. There may be
some door-keeper or attendant—”
“Ah yes, they keep a permanent
guard there on account of the value of the securities that they hold. I
remember hearing it talked of in the City.”
“Very good; we shall wire
to him, and see if all is well, and if a clerk of your name is working there.
That is clear enough; but what is not so clear is why at sight of us one of the
rogues should instantly walk out of the room and hang himself.”
“The paper!” croaked a
voice behind us. The man was sitting up, blanched and ghastly, with returning
reason in his eyes, and hands which rubbed nervously at the broad red band
which still encircled his throat.
“The paper! Of course!”
yelled Holmes, in a paroxysm of excitement. “Idiot that I was! I thought so
must of our visit that the paper never entered my head for an instant. To be
sure, the secret must be there.” He flattened it out upon the table, and a cry of
triumph burst from his lips. “Look at this, Watson,” he cried. “It is a London
paper, an early edition of the Evening Standard. Here is what we want. Look at
the headlines: ‘Crime in the City. Murder at Mawson & Williams's. Gigantic
attempted Robbery. Capture of the Criminal.’ Here, Watson, we are all equally
anxious to hear it, so kindly read it aloud to us.”
It appeared from its
position in the paper to have been the one event of importance in town, and the
account of it ran in this way:
“A desperate attempt at
robbery, culminating in the death of one man and the capture of the criminal,
occurred this afternoon in the City. For some time back Mawson & Williams,
the famous financial house, have been the guardians of securities which amount
in the aggregate to a sum of considerably over a million sterling. So conscious
was the manager of the responsibility which devolved upon him in consequence of
the great interests at stake that safes of the very latest construction have
been employed, and an armed watchman has been left day and night in the
building. It appears that last week a new clerk named Hall Pycroft was engaged
by the firm. This person appears to have been none other that Beddington, the
famous forger and cracksman, who, with his brother, had only recently emerged
from a five years' spell of penal servitude. By some means, which are not yet
clear, he succeeded in winning, under a false name, this official position in
the office, which he utilized in order to obtain moulding of various locks, and
a thorough knowledge of the position of the strong room and the safes.
“It is customary at
Mawson's for the clerks to leave at midday on Saturday. Sergeant Tuson, of the
City Police, was somewhat surprised, therefore to see a gentleman with a carpet
bag come down the steps at twenty minutes past one. His suspicions being
aroused, the sergeant followed the man, and with the aid of Constable Pollack
succeeded, after a most desperate resistance, in arresting him. It was at once
clear that a daring and gigantic robbery had been committed. Nearly a hundred
thousand pounds' worth of American railway bonds, with a large amount of scrip
in mines and other companies, was discovered in the bag. On examining the
premises the body of the unfortunate watchman was found doubled up and thrust
into the largest of the safes, where it would not have been discovered until
Monday morning had it not been for the prompt action of Sergeant Tuson. The
man's skull had been shattered by a blow from a poker delivered from behind.
There could be no doubt that Beddington had obtained entrance by pretending
that he had left something behind him, and having murdered the watchman,
rapidly rifled the large safe, and then made off with his booty. His brother,
who usually works with him, has not appeared in this job as far as can at
present be ascertained, although the police are making energetic inquiries as
to his whereabouts.”
|
“Well, we may save the
police some little trouble in that direction,” said Holmes, glancing at the
haggard figure huddled up by the window. “Human nature is a strange mixture,
Watson. You see that even a villain and murderer can inspire such affection
that his brother turns to suicide when he learns that his neck is forfeited.
However, we have no choice as to our action. The doctor and I will remain on
guard, Mr. Pycroft, if you will have the kindness to step out for the police.”
The “Gloria Scott”
“I have some papers
here,” said my friend Sherlock Holmes, as we sat one winter's night on either
side of the fire, “which I really think, Watson, that it would be worth your
while to glance over. These are the documents in the extraordinary case of the
Gloria Scott, and this is the message which struck Justice of the Peace Trevor
dead with horror when he read it.”
He had picked from a drawer
a little tarnished cylinder, and, undoing the tape, he handed me a short note
scrawled upon a half-sheet of slate gray-paper.
“The supply of game for
London is going steadily up,” it ran. “Head-keeper Hudson, we believe, has been
now told to receive all orders for fly-paper and for preservation of your
hen-pheasant's life.”
As I glanced up from
reading this enigmatical message, I saw Holmes chuckling at the expression upon
my face.
“You look a little
bewildered,” said he.
“I cannot see how such a
message as this could inspire horror. It seems to me to be rather grotesque
than otherwise.”
“Very likely. Yet the fact
remains that the reader, who was a fine, robust old man, was knocked clean down
by it as if it had been the butt end of a pistol.”
“You arouse my curiosity,”
said I. “But why did you say just now that there were very particular reasons
why I should study this case?”
“Because it was the first
in which I was ever engaged.”
I had often endeavored to
elicit from my companion what had first turned his mind in the direction of
criminal research, but had never caught him before in a communicative humor.
Now he sat forward in his arm-chair and spread out the documents upon his
knees. Then he lit his pipe and sat for some time smoking and turning them
over.
“You never heard me talk of
Victor Trevor?” he asked. “He was the only friend I made during the two years I
was at college. I was never a very sociable fellow, Watson, always rather fond
of moping in my rooms and working out my own little methods of thought, so that
I never mixed much with the men of my year. Bar fencing and boxing I had few
athletic tastes, and then my line of study was quite distinct from that of the
other fellows, so that we had no points of contact at all. Trevor was the only
man I knew, and that only through the accident of his bull terrier freezing on
to my ankle one morning as I went down to chapel.
|
“It was a prosaic way of
forming a friendship, but it was effective. I was laid by the heels for ten
days, but Trevor used to come in to inquire after me. At first it was only a
minute's chat, but soon his visits lengthened, and before the end of the term
we were close friends. He was a hearty, full-blooded fellow, full of spirits
and energy, the very opposite to me in most respects, but we had some subjects
in common, and it was a bond of union when I found that he was as friendless as
I. Finally, he invited me down to his father's place at Donnithorpe, in
Norfolk, and I accepted his hospitality for a month of the long vacation.
“Old Trevor was evidently a
man of some wealth and consideration, a J.P., and a landed proprietor.
Donnithorpe is a little hamlet just to the north of Langmere, in the country of
the Broads. The house was an old-fashioned, wide-spread, oak-beamed brick building,
with a fine lime-lined avenue leading up to it. There was excellent wild-duck
shooting in the fens, remarkably good fishing, a small but select library,
taken over, as I understood, from a former occupant, and a tolerable cook, so
that he would be a fastidious man who could not put in a pleasant month there.
“Trevor senior was a
widower, and my friend his only son.
“There had been a daughter,
I heard, but she had died of diphtheria while on a visit to Birmingham. The
father interested me extremely. He was a man of little culture, but with a
considerable amount of rude strength, both physically and mentally. He knew
hardly any books, but he had traveled far, had seen much of the world. And had
remembered all that he had learned. In person he was a thick-set, burly man
with a shock of grizzled hair, a brown, weather-beaten face, and blue eyes
which were keen to the verge of fierceness. Yet he had a reputation for
kindness and charity on the country-side, and was noted for the leniency of his
sentences from the bench.
“One evening, shortly after
my arrival, we were sitting over a glass of port after dinner, when young
Trevor began to talk about those habits of observation and inference which I
had already formed into a system, although I had not yet appreciated the part
which they were to play in my life. The old man evidently thought that his son
was exaggerating in his description of one or two trivial feats which I had
performed.
“‘Come, now, Mr. Holmes,’
said he, laughing good-humoredly. ‘I'm an excellent subject, if you can deduce
anything from me.’
“‘I fear there is not very
much,’ I answered; ‘I might suggest that you have gone about in fear of some
personal attack within the last twelve months.’
“The laugh faded from his
lips, and he stared at me in great surprise.
“‘Well, that's true
enough,’ said he. ‘You know, Victor,’ turning to his son, ‘when we broke up
that poaching gang they swore to knife us, and Sir Edward Holly has actually
been attacked. I've always been on my guard since then, though I have no idea
how you know it.’
“‘You have a very handsome
stick,’ I answered. ‘By the inscription I observed that you had not had it more
than a year. But you have taken some pains to bore the head of it and pour
melted lead into the hole so as to make it a formidable weapon. I argued that
you would not take such precautions unless you had some danger to fear.’
“‘Anything else?’ he asked,
smiling.
“‘You have boxed a good
deal in your youth.’
“‘Right again. How did you
know it? Is my nose knocked a little out of the straight?’
“‘No,’ said I. ‘It is your
ears. They have the peculiar flattening and thickening which marks the boxing
man.’
“‘Anything else?’
“‘You have done a good deal
of digging by your callosities.’
“‘Made all my money at the
gold fields.’
“‘You have been in New
Zealand.’
“‘Right again.’
“‘You have visited Japan.’
“‘Quite true.’
“‘And you have been most
intimately associated with some one whose initials were J. A., and whom you
afterwards were eager to entirely forget.’
“Mr. Trevor stood slowly
up, fixed his large blue eyes upon me with a strange wild stare, and then
pitched forward, with his face among the nutshells which strewed the cloth, in
a dead faint.
“You can imagine, Watson,
how shocked both his son and I were. His attack did not last long, however, for
when we undid his collar, and sprinkled the water from one of the
finger-glasses over his face, he gave a gasp or two and sat up.
“‘Ah, boys,’ said he,
forcing a smile, ‘I hope I haven't frightened you. Strong as I look, there is a
weak place in my heart, and it does not take much to knock me over. I don't
know how you manage this, Mr. Holmes, but it seems to me that all the detectives
of fact and of fancy would be children in your hands. That's your line of life,
sir, and you may take the word of a man who has seen something of the world.’
“And that recommendation,
with the exaggerated estimate of my ability with which he prefaced it, was, if
you will believe me, Watson, the very first thing which ever made me feel that
a profession might be made out of what had up to that time been the merest
hobby. At the moment, however, I was too much concerned at the sudden illness
of my host to think of anything else.
“‘I hope that I have said
nothing to pain you?’ said I.
“‘Well, you certainly
touched upon rather a tender point. Might I ask how you know, and how much you
know?’ He spoke now in a half-jesting fashion, but a look of terror still lurked
at the back of his eyes.
“‘It is simplicity itself,’
said I. ‘When you bared your arm to draw that fish into the boat I saw that J.
A. had been tattooed in the bend of the elbow. The letters were still legible,
but it was perfectly clear from their blurred appearance, and from the staining
of the skin round them, that efforts had been made to obliterate them. It was
obvious, then, that those initials had once been very familiar to you, and that
you had afterwards wished to forget them.’
“‘What an eye you have!’ he
cried, with a sigh of relief. ‘It is just as you say. But we won't talk of it.
Of all ghosts the ghosts of our old lovers are the worst. Come into the
billiard-room and have a quiet cigar.’
“From that day, amid all
his cordiality, there was always a touch of suspicion in Mr. Trevor's manner
towards me. Even his son remarked it. ‘You've given the governor such a turn,’
said he, ‘that he'll never be sure again of what you know and what you don't
know.’ He did not mean to show it, I am sure, but it was so strongly in his
mind that it peeped out at every action. At last I became so convinced that I
was causing him uneasiness that I drew my visit to a close. On the very day,
however, before I left, an incident occurred which proved in the sequel to be of
importance.
“We were sitting out upon
the lawn on garden chairs, the three of us, basking in the sun and admiring the
view across the Broads, when a maid came out to say that there was a man at the
door who wanted to see Mr. Trevor.
“‘What is his name?’ asked
my host.
“‘He would not give any.’
“‘What does he want, then?’
“‘He says that you know
him, and that he only wants a moment's conversation.’
“‘Show him round here.’ An
instant afterwards there appeared a little wizened fellow with a cringing
manner and a shambling style of walking. He wore an open jacket, with a splotch
of tar on the sleeve, a red-and-black check shirt, dungaree trousers, and heavy
boots badly worn. His face was thin and brown and crafty, with a perpetual
smile upon it, which showed an irregular line of yellow teeth, and his crinkled
hands were half closed in a way that is distinctive of sailors. As he came
slouching across the lawn I heard Mr. Trevor make a sort of hiccoughing noise
in his throat, and jumping out of his chair, he ran into the house. He was back
in a moment, and I smelt a strong reek of brandy as he passed me.
“‘Well, my man,’ said he.
‘What can I do for you?’
“The sailor stood looking
at him with puckered eyes, and with the same loose-lipped smile upon his face.
“‘You don't know me?’ he
asked.
“‘Why, dear me, it is
surely Hudson,’ said Mr. Trevor in a tone of surprise.
“‘Hudson it is, sir,’ said
the seaman. ‘Why, it's thirty year and more since I saw you last. Here you are
in your house, and me still picking my salt meat out of the harness cask.’
“‘Tut, you will find that I
have not forgotten old times,’ cried Mr. Trevor, and, walking towards the
sailor, he said something in a low voice. ‘Go into the kitchen,’ he continued
out loud, ‘and you will get food and drink. I have no doubt that I shall find
you a situation.’
|
“‘Thank you, sir,’ said the
seaman, touching his fore-lock. ‘I'm just off a two-yearer in an eight-knot
tramp, short-handed at that, and I wants a rest. I thought I'd get it either
with Mr. Beddoes or with you.’
“‘Ah!’ cried Trevor. ‘You
know where Mr. Beddoes is?’
“‘Bless you, sir, I know
where all my old friends are,’ said the fellow with a sinister smile, and he
slouched off after the maid to the kitchen. Mr. Trevor mumbled something to us
about having been shipmate with the man when he was going back to the diggings,
and then, leaving us on the lawn, he went indoors. An hour later, when we
entered the house, we found him stretched dead drunk upon the dining-room sofa.
The whole incident left a most ugly impression upon my mind, and I was not
sorry next day to leave Donnithorpe behind me, for I felt that my presence must
be a source of embarrassment to my friend.
“All this occurred during
the first month of the long vacation. I went up to my London rooms, where I
spent seven weeks working out a few experiments in organic chemistry. One day,
however, when the autumn was far advanced and the vacation drawing to a close,
I received a telegram from my friend imploring me to return to Donnithorpe, and
saying that he was in great need of my advice and assistance. Of course I
dropped everything and set out for the North once more.
“He met me with the
dog-cart at the station, and I saw at a glance that the last two months had
been very trying ones for him. He had grown thin and careworn, and had lost the
loud, cheery manner for which he had been remarkable.
“‘The governor is dying,’
were the first words he said.
“‘Impossible!’ I cried.
‘What is the matter?’
“‘Apoplexy. Nervous shock,
He's been on the verge all day. I doubt if we shall find him alive.’
“I was, as you may think,
Watson, horrified at this unexpected news.
“‘What has caused it?’ I
asked.
“‘Ah, that is the point.
Jump in and we can talk it over while we drive. You remember that fellow who
came upon the evening before you left us?’
“‘Perfectly.’
“‘Do you know who it was
that we let into the house that day?’
“‘I have no idea.’
“‘It was the devil,
Holmes,’ he cried.
“I stared at him in
astonishment.
“‘Yes, it was the devil
himself. We have not had a peaceful hour since—not one. The governor has never
held up his head from that evening, and now the life has been crushed out of
him and his heart broken, all through this accursed Hudson.’
“‘What power had he, then?’
“‘Ah, that is what I would
give so much to know. The kindly, charitable, good old governor—how could he
have fallen into the clutches of such a ruffian! But I am so glad that you have
come, Holmes. I trust very much to your judgment and discretion, and I know
that you will advise me for the best.’
“We were dashing along the
smooth white country road, with the long stretch of the Broads in front of us
glimmering in the red light of the setting sun. From a grove upon our left I
could already see the high chimneys and the flag-staff which marked the
squire's dwelling.
“‘My father made the fellow
gardener,’ said my companion, ‘and then, as that did not satisfy him, he was
promoted to be butler. The house seemed to be at his mercy, and he wandered
about and did what he chose in it. The maids complained of his drunken habits
and his vile language. The dad raised their wages all round to recompense them
for the annoyance. The fellow would take the boat and my father's best gun and
treat himself to little shooting trips. And all this with such a sneering,
leering, insolent face that I would have knocked him down twenty times over if
he had been a man of my own age. I tell you, Holmes, I have had to keep a tight
hold upon myself all this time; and now I am asking myself whether, if I had
let myself go a little more, I might not have been a wiser man.
“‘Well, matters went from
bad to worse with us, and this animal Hudson became more and more intrusive,
until at last, on making some insolent reply to my father in my presence one
day, I took him by the shoulders and turned him out of the room. He slunk away
with a livid face and two venomous eyes which uttered more threats than his
tongue could do. I don't know what passed between the poor dad and him after
that, but the dad came to me next day and asked me whether I would mind
apologizing to Hudson. I refused, as you can imagine, and asked my father how
he could allow such a wretch to take such liberties with himself and his
household.
“‘“Ah, my boy,” said he,
“it is all very well to talk, but you don't know how I am placed. But you shall
know, Victor. I'll see that you shall know, come what may. You wouldn't believe
harm of your poor old father, would you, lad?” He was very much moved, and shut
himself up in the study all day, where I could see through the window that he
was writing busily.
“‘That evening there came
what seemed to me to be a grand release, for Hudson told us that he was going
to leave us. He walked into the dining-room as we sat after dinner, and
announced his intention in the thick voice of a half-drunken man.
“‘“I've had enough of
Norfolk,” said he. “I'll run down to Mr. Beddoes in Hampshire. He'll be as glad
to see me as you were, I dare say.”
“‘“You're not going away in
any kind of spirit, Hudson, I hope,” said my father, with a tameness which mad
my blood boil.
|
“‘“I've not had my
'pology,” said he sulkily, glancing in my direction.
“‘“Victor, you will
acknowledge that you have used this worthy fellow rather roughly,” said the
dad, turning to me.
“‘“On the contrary, I think
that we have both shown extraordinary patience towards him,” I answered.
“‘“Oh, you do, do you?” he
snarls. “Very good, mate. We'll see about that!”
“‘He slouched out of the
room, and half an hour afterwards left the house, leaving my father in a state
of pitiable nervousness. Night after night I heard him pacing his room, and it
was just as he was recovering his confidence that the blow did at last fall.’
“‘And how?’ I asked
eagerly.
“‘In a most extraordinary
fashion. A letter arrived for my father yesterday evening, bearing the
Fordingbridge post-mark. My father read it, clapped both his hands to his head,
and began running round the room in little circles like a man who has been
driven out of his senses. When I at last drew him down on to the sofa, his
mouth and eyelids were all puckered on one side, and I saw that he had a
stroke. Dr. Fordham came over at once. We put him to bed; but the paralysis has
spread, he has shown no sign of returning consciousness, and I think that we
shall hardly find him alive.’
“‘You horrify me, Trevor!’
I cried. ‘What then could have been in this letter to cause so dreadful a
result?’
“‘Nothing. There lies the
inexplicable part of it. The message was absurd and trivial. Ah, my God, it is
as I feared!’
“As he spoke we came round
the curve of the avenue, and saw in the fading light that every blind in the
house had been drawn down. As we dashed up to the door, my friend's face
convulsed with grief, a gentleman in black emerged from it.
“‘When did it happen,
doctor?’ asked Trevor.
“‘Almost immediately after
you left.’
“‘Did he recover
consciousness?’
“‘For an instant before the
end.’
“‘Any message for me?’
“‘Only that the papers were
in the back drawer of the Japanese cabinet.’
“My friend ascended with
the doctor to the chamber of death, while I remained in the study, turning the
whole matter over and over in my head, and feeling as sombre as ever I had done
in my life. What was the past of this Trevor, pugilist, traveler, and
gold-digger, and how had he placed himself in the power of this acid-faced
seaman? Why, too, should he faint at an allusion to the half-effaced initials
upon his arm, and die of fright when he had a letter from Fordingham? Then I
remembered that Fordingham was in Hampshire, and that this Mr. Beddoes, whom
the seaman had gone to visit and presumably to blackmail, had also been
mentioned as living in Hampshire. The letter, then, might either come from
Hudson, the seaman, saying that he had betrayed the guilty secret which
appeared to exist, or it might come from Beddoes, warning an old confederate
that such a betrayal was imminent. So far it seemed clear enough. But then how
could this letter be trivial and grotesque, as described by the son? He must
have misread it. If so, it must have been one of those ingenious secret codes
which mean one thing while they seem to mean another. I must see this letter.
If there were a hidden meaning in it, I was confident that I could pluck it
forth. For an hour I sat pondering over it in the gloom, until at last a
weeping maid brought in a lamp, and close at her heels came my friend Trevor,
pale but composed, with these very papers which lie upon my knee held in his
grasp. He sat down opposite to me, drew the lamp to the edge of the table, and
handed me a short note scribbled, as you see, upon a single sheet of gray
paper. ‘The supply of game for London is going steadily up,’ it ran. ‘Head-keeper
Hudson, we believe, has been now told to receive all orders for fly-paper and
for preservation of your hen-pheasant's life.’
“I dare say my face looked
as bewildered as yours did just now when first I read this message. Then I
reread it very carefully. It was evidently as I had thought, and some secret
meaning must lie buried in this strange combination of words. Or could it be
that there was a prearranged significance to such phrases as ‘fly-paper’ and
‘hen-pheasant’? Such a meaning would be arbitrary and could not be deduced in
any way. And yet I was loath to believe that this was the case, and the
presence of the word Hudson seemed to show that the subject of the message was
as I had guessed, and that it was from Beddoes rather than the sailor. I tried
it backwards, but the combination ‘life pheasant's hen’ was not encouraging.
Then I tried alternate words, but neither ‘the of for’ nor ‘supply game London’
promised to throw any light upon it.
|
“And then in an instant the
key of the riddle was in my hands, and I saw that every third word, beginning
with the first, would give a message which might well drive old Trevor to
despair.
“It was short and terse,
the warning, as I now read it to my companion:
“‘The game is up. Hudson
has told all. Fly for your life.’
“Victor Trevor sank his
face into his shaking hands, ‘It must be that, I suppose,’ said he. “This is
worse than death, for it means disgrace as well. But what is the meaning of
these “head-keepers” and “hen-pheasants”?
“‘It means nothing to the
message, but it might mean a good deal to us if we had no other means of
discovering the sender. You see that he has begun by writing “The … game … is,”
and so on. Afterwards he had, to fulfill the prearranged cipher, to fill in any
two words in each space. He would naturally use the first words which came to
his mind, and if there were so many which referred to sport among them, you may
be tolerably sure that he is either an ardent shot or interested in breeding.
Do you know anything of this Beddoes?’
“‘Why, now that you mention
it,’ said he, ‘I remember that my poor father used to have an invitation from
him to shoot over his preserves every autumn.’
“‘Then it is undoubtedly
from him that the note comes,’ said I. ‘It only remains for us to find out what
this secret was which the sailor Hudson seems to have held over the heads of
these two wealthy and respected men.’
“‘Alas, Holmes, I fear that
it is one of sin and shame!’ cried my friend. ‘But from you I shall have no
secrets. Here is the statement which was drawn up by my father when he knew
that the danger from Hudson had become imminent. I found it in the Japanese
cabinet, as he told the doctor. Take it and read it to me, for I have neither
the strength nor the courage to do it myself.’
“These are the very papers,
Watson, which he handed to me, and I will read them to you, as I read them in
the old study that night to him. They are endorsed outside, as you see, ‘Some
particulars of the voyage of the bark Gloria Scott, from her leaving Falmouth
on the 8th October, 1855, to her destruction in N. Lat. 15° 20', W. Long. 25°
14' on Nov. 6th.’ It is in the form of a letter, and runs in this way:
“‘My dear, dear son, now
that approaching disgrace begins to darken the closing years of my life, I can
write with all truth and honesty that it is not the terror of the law, it is
not the loss of my position in the county, nor is it my fall in the eyes of all
who have known me, which cuts me to the heart; but it is the thought that you
should come to blush for me—you who love me and who have seldom, I hope, had
reason to do other than respect me. But if the blow falls which is forever
hanging over me, then I should wish you to read this, that you may know
straight from me how far I have been to blame. On the other hand, if all should
go well (which may kind God Almighty grant!), then if by any chance this paper
should be still undestroyed and should fall into your hands, I conjure you, by
all you hold sacred, by the memory of your dear mother, and by the love which
had been between us, to hurl it into the fire and to never give one thought to
it again.
“‘If then your eye goes
onto read this line, I know that I shall already have been exposed and dragged
from my home, or as is more likely, for you know that my heart is weak, by lying
with my tongue sealed forever in death. In either case the time for suppression
is past, and every word which I tell you is the naked truth, and this I swear
as I hope for mercy.
“‘My name, dear lad, is not
Trevor. I was James Armitage in my younger days, and you can understand now the
shock that it was to me a few weeks ago when your college friend addressed me
in words which seemed to imply that he had surprised my secret. As Armitage it
was that I entered a London banking-house, and as Armitage I was convicted of
breaking my country's laws, and was sentenced to transportation. Do not think
very harshly of me, laddie. It was a debt of honor, so called, which I had to
pay, and I used money which was not my own to do it, in the certainty that I
could replace it before there could be any possibility of its being missed. But
the most dreadful ill-luck pursued me. The money which I had reckoned upon
never came to hand, and a premature examination of accounts exposed my deficit.
The case might have been dealt leniently with, but the laws were more harshly
administered thirty years ago than now, and on my twenty-third birthday I found
myself chained as a felon with thirty-seven other convicts in 'tween-decks of
the bark Gloria Scott, bound for Australia.
“‘It was the year '55 when
the Crimean war was at its height, and the old convict ships had been largely
used as transports in the Black Sea. The government was compelled, therefore,
to use smaller and less suitable vessels for sending out their prisoners. The
Gloria Scott had been in the Chinese tea-trade, but she was an old-fashioned,
heavy-bowed, broad-beamed craft, and the new clippers had cut her out. She was
a five-hundred-ton boat; and besides her thirty-eight jail-birds, she carried
twenty-six of a crew, eighteen soldiers, a captain, three mates, a doctor, a
chaplain, and four warders. Nearly a hundred souls were in her, all told, when
we set sail from Falmouth.
“‘The partitions between
the cells of the convicts, instead of being of thick oak, as is usual in
convict-ships, were quite thin and frail. The man next to me, upon the aft
side, was one whom I had particularly noticed when we were led down the quay.
He was a young man with a clear, hairless face, a long, thin nose, and rather
nut-cracker jaws. He carried his head very jauntily in the air, had a
swaggering style of walking, and was, above all else, remarkable for his
extraordinary height. I don't think any of our heads would have come up to his
shoulder, and I am sure that he could not have measured less than six and a
half feet. It was strange among so many sad and weary faces to see one which
was full of energy and resolution. The sight of it was to me like a fire in a
snow-storm. I was glad, then, to find that he was my neighbor, and gladder still
when, in the dead of the night, I heard a whisper close to my ear, and found
that he had managed to cut an opening in the board which separated us.
“‘“Hullo, chummy!” said he,
“what's your name, and what are you here for?”
“‘I answered him, and asked
in turn who I was talking with.
|
“‘“I'm Jack Prendergast,”
said he, “and by God! You'll learn to bless my name before you've done with
me.”
“‘I remembered hearing of
his case, for it was one which had made an immense sensation throughout the
country some time before my own arrest. He was a man of good family and of
great ability, but of incurably vicious habits, who had, by an ingenious system
of fraud, obtained huge sums of money from the leading London merchants.
“‘“Ha, ha! You remember my
case!” said he proudly.
“‘“Very well, indeed.”
“‘“Then maybe you remember
something queer about it?”
“‘“What was that, then?”
“‘“I'd had nearly a quarter
of a million, hadn't I?”
“‘“So it was said.”
“‘“But none was recovered,
eh?”
“‘“No.”
“‘“Well, where d'ye suppose
the balance is?” he asked.
“‘“I have no idea,” said I.
“‘“Right between my finger
and thumb,” he cried. “By God! I've got more pounds to my name than you've
hairs on your head. And if you've money, my son, and know how to handle it and
spread it, you can do anything. Now, you don't think it likely that a man who
could do anything is going to wear his breeches out sitting in the stinking
hold of a rat-gutted, beetle-ridden, mouldy old coffin of a Chin China coaster.
No, sir, such a man will look after himself and will look after his chums. You
may lay to that! You hold on to him, and you may kiss the book that he'll haul
you through.”
“‘That was his style of
talk, and at first I thought it meant nothing; but after a while, when he had
tested me and sworn me in with all possible solemnity, he let me understand
that there really was a plot to gain command of the vessel. A dozen of the
prisoners had hatched it before they came aboard, Prendergast was the leader,
and his money was the motive power.
“‘“I'd a partner,” said he,
“a rare good man, as true as a stock to a barrel. He's got the dibbs, he has,
and where do you think he is at this moment? Why, he's the chaplain of this
ship—the chaplain, no less! He came aboard with a black coat, and his papers
right, and money enough in his box to buy the thing right up from keel to
main-truck. The crew are his, body and soul. He could buy 'em at so much a
gross with a cash discount, and he did it before ever they signed on. He's got
two of the warders and Mercer, the second mate, and he'd get the captain
himself, if he thought him worth it.”
“‘“What are we to do,
then?” I asked.
“‘“What do you think?” said
he. “We'll make the coats of some of these soldiers redder than ever the tailor
did.”
“‘“But they are armed,”
said I.
“‘“And so shall we be, my
boy. There's a brace of pistols for every mother's son of us, and if we can't
carry this ship, with the crew at our back, it's time we were all sent to a
young misses' boarding-school. You speak to your mate upon the left to-night, and
see if he is to be trusted.”
“‘I did so, and found my
other neighbor to be a young fellow in much the same position as myself, whose
crime had been forgery. His name was Evans, but he afterwards changed it, like
myself, and he is now a rich and prosperous man in the south of England. He was
ready enough to join the conspiracy, as the only means of saving ourselves, and
before we had crossed the Bay there were only two of the prisoners who were not
in the secret. One of these was of weak mind, and we did not dare to trust him,
and the other was suffering from jaundice, and could not be of any use to us.
“‘From the beginning there
was really nothing to prevent us from taking possession of the ship. The crew
were a set of ruffians, specially picked for the job. The sham chaplain came
into our cells to exhort us, carrying a black bag, supposed to be full of
tracts, and so often did he come that by the third day we had each stowed away
at the foot of our beds a file, a brace of pistols, a pound of powder, and twenty
slugs. Two of the warders were agents of Prendergast, and the second mate was
his right-hand man. The captain, the two mates, two warders Lieutenant Martin,
his eighteen soldiers, and the doctor were all that we had against us. Yet,
safe as it was, we determined to neglect no precaution, and to make our attack
suddenly by night. It came, however, more quickly than we expected, and in this
way.
“‘One evening, about the
third week after our start, the doctor had come down to see one of the
prisoners who was ill, and putting his hand down on the bottom of his bunk he
felt the outline of the pistols. If he had been silent he might have blown the
whole thing, but he was a nervous little chap, so he gave a cry of surprise and
turned so pale that the man knew what was up in an instant and seized him. He
was gagged before he could give the alarm, and tied down upon the bed. He had
unlocked the door that led to the deck, and we were through it in a rush. The
two sentries were shot down, and so was a corporal who came running to see what
was the matter. There were two more soldiers at the door of the state-room, and
their muskets seemed not to be loaded, for they never fired upon us, and they
were shot while trying to fix their bayonets. Then we rushed on into the
captain's cabin, but as we pushed open the door there was an explosion from
within, and there he lay with his brains smeared over the chart of the
|
Atlantic
which was pinned upon the table, while the chaplain stood with a smoking pistol
in his hand at his elbow. The two mates had both been seized by the crew, and
the whole business seemed to be settled.
“‘The state-room was next
the cabin, and we flocked in there and flopped down on the settees, all
speaking together, for we were just mad with the feeling that we were free once
more. There were lockers all round, and Wilson, the sham chaplain, knocked one
of them in, and pulled out a dozen of brown sherry. We cracked off the necks of
the bottles, poured the stuff out into tumblers, and were just tossing them
off, when in an instant without warning there came the roar of muskets in our
ears, and the saloon was so full of smoke that we could not see across the
table. When it cleared again the place was a shambles. Wilson and eight others
were wriggling on the top of each other on the floor, and the blood and the
brown sherry on that table turn me sick now when I think of it. We were so
cowed by the sight that I think we should have given the job up if had not been
for Prendergast. He bellowed like a bull and rushed for the door with all that
were left alive at his heels. Out we ran, and there on the poop were the
lieutenent and ten of his men. The swing skylights above the saloon table had
been a bit open, and they had fired on us through the slit. We got on them
before they could load, and they stood to it like men; but we had the upper
hand of them, and in five minutes it was all over. My God! Was there ever a
slaughter-house like that ship! Predergast was like a raging devil, and he
picked the soldiers up as if they had been children and threw them overboard
alive or dead. There was one sergeant that was horribly wounded and yet kept on
swimming for a surprising time, until some one in mercy blew out his brains.
When the fighting was over there was no one left of our enemies except just the
warders, the mates, and the doctor.
“‘It was over them that the
great quarrel arose. There were many of us who were glad enough to win back our
freedom, and yet who had no wish to have murder on our souls. It was one thing
to knock the soldiers over with their muskets in their hands, and it was
another to stand by while men were being killed in cold blood. Eight of us,
five convicts and three sailors, said that we would not see it done. But there
was no moving Predergast and those who were with him. Our only chance of safety
lay in making a clean job of it, said he, and he would not leave a tongue with
power to wag in a witness-box. It nearly came to our sharing the fate of the
prisoners, but at last he said that if we wished we might take a boat and go.
We jumped at the offer, for we were already sick of these blookthirsty doings,
and we saw that there would be worse before it was done. We were given a suit
of sailor togs each, a barrel of water, two casks, one of junk and one of
biscuits, and a compass. Prendergast threw us over a chart, told us that we
were shipwrecked mariners whose ship had foundered in Lat. 15° and Long. 25°
west, and then cut the painter and let us go.
“‘And now I come to the
most surprising part of my story, my dear son. The seamen had hauled the
fore-yard aback during the rising, but now as we left them they brought it
square again, and as there was a light wind from the north and east the bark
began to draw slowly away from us. Our boat lay, rising and falling, upon the
long, smooth rollers, and Evans and I, who were the most educated of the party,
were sitting in the sheets working out our position and planning what coast we
should make for. It was a nice question, for the Cape de Verds were about five hundred
miles to the north of us, and the African coast about seven hundred to the
east. On the whole, as the wind was coming round to the north, we thought that
Sierra Leone might be best, and turned our head in that direction, the bark
being at that time nearly hull down on our starboard quarter. Suddenly as we
looked at her we saw a dense black cloud of smoke shoot up from her, which hung
like a monstrous tree upon the sky line. A few seconds later a roar like
thunder burst upon our ears, and as the smoke thinned away there was no sign
left of the Gloria Scott. In an instant we swept the boat's head round again
and pulled with all our strength for the place where the haze still trailing
over the water marked the scene of this catastrophe.
“‘It was a long hour before
we reached it, and at first we feared that we had come too late to save any
one. A splintered boat and a number of crates and fragments of spars rising and
falling on the waves showed us where the vessel had foundered; but there was no
sign of life, and we had turned away in despair when we heard a cry for help,
and saw at some distance a piece of wreckage with a man lying stretched across
it.
|
When we pulled him aboard the boat he proved to be a young seaman of the
name of Hudson, who was so burned and exhausted that he could give us no
account of what had happened until the following morning.
“‘It seemed that after we
had left, Prendergast and his gang had proceeded to put to death the five
remaining prisoners. The two warders had been shot and thrown overboard, and so
also had the third mate. Prendergast then descended into the 'tween-decks and
with his own hands cut the throat of the unfortunate surgeon. There only
remained the first mate, who was a bold and active man. When he saw the convict
approaching him with the bloody knife in his hand he kicked off his bonds,
which he had somehow contrived to loosen, and rushing down the deck he plunged
into the after-hold. A dozen convicts, who descended with their pistols in
search of him, found him with a match-box in his hand seated beside an open
powder-barrel, which was one of a hundred carried on board, and swearing that
he would blow all hands up if he were in any way molested. An instant later the
explosion occurred, though Hudson thought it was caused by the misdirected
bullet of one of the convicts rather than the mate's match. Be the cause what I
may, it was the end of the Gloria Scott and of the rabble who held command of
her.
“‘Such, in a few words, my
dear boy, is the history of this terrible business in which I was involved.
Next day we were picked up by the brig Hotspur, bound for Australia, whose
captain found no difficulty in believing that we were the survivors of a
passenger ship which had foundered. The transport ship Gloria Scott was set
down by the Admiralty as being lost at sea, and no word has ever leaked out as
to her true fate. After an excellent voyage the Hotspur landed us at Sydney,
where Evans and I changed our names and made our way to the diggings, where, among
the crowds who were gathered from all nations, we had no difficulty in losing
our former identities. The rest I need not relate. We prospered, we traveled,
we came back as rich colonials to England, and we bought country estates. For
more than twenty years we have led peaceful and useful lives, and we hoped that
our past was forever buried. Imagine, then, my feelings when in the seaman who
came to us I recognized instantly the man who had been picked off the wreck. He
had tracked us down somehow, and had set himself to live upon our fears. You
will understand now how it was that I strove to keep the peace with him, and
you will in some measure sympathize with me in the fears which fill me, now
that he has gone from me to his other victim with threats upon his tongue.’
“Underneath is written in a
hand so shaky as to be hardly legible, ‘Beddoes writes in cipher to say H. has
told all. Sweet Lord, have mercy on our souls!’
“That was the narrative
which I read that night to young Trevor, and I think, Watson, that under the
circumstances it was a dramatic one. The good fellow was heart-broken at it,
and went out to the Terai tea planting, where I hear that he is doing well. As
to the sailor and Beddoes, neither of them was ever heard of again after that
day on which the letter of warning was written. They both disappeared utterly
and completely. No complaint had been lodged with the police, so that Beddoes
had mistaken a threat for a deed. Hudson had been seen lurking about, and it
was believed by the police that he had done away with Beddoes and had fled. For
myself I believe that the truth was exactly the opposite. I think that it is
most probable that Beddoes, pushed to desperation and believing himself to have
been already betrayed, had revenged himself upon Hudson, and had fled from the
country with as much money as he could lay his hands on. Those are the facts of
the case, Doctor, and if they are of any use to your collection, I am sure that
they are very heartily at your service.”
The Musgrave Ritual
An anomaly which often
struck me in the character of my friend Sherlock Holmes was that, although in
his methods of thought he was the neatest and most methodical of mankind, and
although also he affected a certain quiet primness of dress, he was none the
less in his personal habits one of the most untidy men that ever drove a
fellow-lodger to distraction. Not that I am in the least conventional in that
respect myself. The rough-and-tumble work in Afghanistan, coming on the top of
a natural Bohemianism of disposition, has made me rather more lax than befits a
medical man. But with me there is a limit, and when I find a man who keeps his
cigars in the coal-scuttle, his tobacco in the toe end of a Persian slipper,
and his unanswered correspondence transfixed by a jack-knife into the very
centre of his wooden mantelpiece, then I begin to give myself virtuous airs. I
have always held, too, that pistol practice should be distinctly an open-air
pastime; and when Holmes, in one of his queer humors, would sit in an arm-chair
with his hair-trigger and a hundred Boxer cartridges, and proceed to adorn the
opposite wall with a patriotic V. R. done in bullet-pocks, I felt strongly that
neither the atmosphere nor the appearance of our room was improved by it.
Our chambers were always
full of chemicals and of criminal relics which had a way of wandering into
unlikely positions, and of turning up in the butter-dish or in even less
desirable places. But his papers were my great crux. He had a horror of
destroying documents, especially those which were connected with his past
cases, and yet it was only once in every year or two that he would muster
energy to docket and arrange them; for, as I have mentioned somewhere in these
incoherent memoirs, the outbursts of passionate energy when he performed the
remarkable feats with which his name is associated were followed by reactions
of lethargy during which he would lie about with his violin and his books,
hardly moving save from the sofa to the table. Thus month after month his
papers accumulated, until every corner of the room was stacked with bundles of
manuscript which were on no account to be burned, and which could not be put
away save by their owner. One winter's night, as we sat together by the fire, I
ventured to suggest to him that, as he had finished pasting extracts into his
common-place book, he might employ the next two hours in making our room a
little more habitable. He could not deny the justice of my request, so with a
rather rueful face he went off to his bedroom, from which he returned presently
pulling a large tin box behind him. This he placed in the middle of the floor
and, squatting down upon a stool in front of it, he threw back the lid. I could
see that it was already a third full of bundles of paper tied up with red tape
into separate packages.
“There are cases enough
here, Watson,” said he, looking at me with mischievous eyes. “I think that if
you knew all that I had in this box you would ask me to pull some out instead
of putting others in.”
“These are the records of
your early work, then?” I asked. “I have often wished that I had notes of those
cases.”
“Yes, my boy, these were
all done prematurely before my biographer had come to glorify me.” He lifted
bundle after bundle in a tender, caressing sort of way. “They are not all
successes, Watson,” said he. “But there are some pretty little problems among
them. Here's the record of the Tarleton murders, and the case of Vamberry, the
wine merchant, and the adventure of the old Russian woman, and the singular
affair of the aluminium crutch, as well as a full account of Ricoletti of the
club-foot, and his abominable wife. And here—ah, now, this really is something
a little recherché.”
He dived his arm down to
the bottom of the chest, and brought up a small wooden box with a sliding lid,
such as children's toys are kept in. From within he produced a crumpled piece
of paper, an old-fashioned brass key, a peg of wood with a ball of string
attached to it, and three rusty old disks of metal.
“Well, my boy, what do you
make of this lot?” he asked, smiling at my expression.
|
“It is a curious
collection.”
“Very curious, and the
story that hangs round it will strike you as being more curious still.”
“These relics have a
history then?”
“So much so that they are
history.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Sherlock Holmes picked them
up one by one, and laid them along the edge of the table. Then he reseated
himself in his chair and looked them over with a gleam of satisfaction in his
eyes.
“These,” said he, “are all
that I have left to remind me of the adventure of the Musgrave Ritual.”
I had heard him mention the
case more than once, though I had never been able to gather the details. “I
should be so glad,” said I, “if you would give me an account of it.”
“And leave the litter as it
is?“ he cried, mischievously. “Your tidiness won't bear much strain after all,
Watson. But I should be glad that you should add this case to your annals, for
there are points in it which make it quite unique in the criminal records of
this or, I believe, of any other country. A collection of my trifling
achievements would certainly be incomplete which contained no account of this
very singular business.
“You may remember how the
affair of the Gloria Scott, and my conversation with the unhappy man whose fate
I told you of, first turned my attention in the direction of the profession
which has become my life's work. You see me now when my name has become known
far and wide, and when I am generally recognized both by the public and by the
official force as being a final court of appeal in doubtful cases. Even when
you knew me first, at the time of the affair which you have commemorated in ‘A
Study in Scarlet,’ I had already established a considerable, though not a very
lucrative, connection. You can hardly realize, then, how difficult I found it
at first, and how long I had to wait before I succeeded in making any headway.
“When I first came up to
London I had rooms in Montague Street, just round the corner from the British
Museum, and there I waited, filling in my too abundant leisure time by studying
all those branches of science which might make me more efficient. Now and again
cases came in my way, principally through the introduction of old
fellow-students, for during my last years at the University there was a good
deal of talk there about myself and my methods. The third of these cases was
that of the Musgrave Ritual, and it is to the interest which was aroused by
that singular chain of events, and the large issues which proved to be at
stake, that I trace my first stride towards the position which I now hold.
|
“Reginald Musgrave had been
in the same college as myself, and I had some slight acquaintance with him. He
was not generally popular among the undergraduates, though it always seemed to
me that what was set down as pride was really an attempt to cover extreme
natural diffidence. In appearance he was a man of exceedingly aristocratic
type, thin, high-nosed, and large-eyed, with languid and yet courtly manners.
He was indeed a scion of one of the very oldest families in the kingdom, though
his branch was a cadet one which had separated from the northern Musgraves some
time in the sixteenth century, and had established itself in western Sussex,
where the Manor House of Hurlstone is perhaps the oldest inhabited building in
the county. Something of his birth place seemed to cling to the man, and I
never looked at his pale, keen face or the poise of his head without
associating him with gray archways and mullioned windows and all the venerable
wreckage of a feudal keep. Once or twice we drifted into talk, and I can
remember that more than once he expressed a keen interest in my methods of
observation and inference.
“For four years I had seen
nothing of him until one morning he walked into my room in Montague Street. He
had changed little, was dressed like a young man of fashion—he was always a bit
of a dandy—and preserved the same quiet, suave manner which had formerly
distinguished him.
“‘How has all gone with you
Musgrave?’ I asked, after we had cordially shaken hands.
“‘You probably heard of my
poor father's death,’ said he; ‘he was carried off about two years ago. Since
then I have of course had the Hurlstone estates to manage, and as I am member
for my district as well, my life has been a busy one. But I understand, Holmes,
that you are turning to practical ends those powers with which you used to
amaze us?’
“‘Yes,’ said I, ‘I have
taken to living by my wits.’
“‘I am delighted to hear
it, for your advice at present would be exceedingly valuable to me. We have had
some very strange doings at Hurlstone, and the police have been able to throw
no light upon the matter. It is really the most extraordinary and inexplicable
business.’
“You can imagine with what
eagerness I listened to him, Watson, for the very chance for which I had been
panting during all those months of inaction seemed to have come within my
reach. In my inmost heart I believed that I could succeed where others failed,
and now I had the opportunity to test myself.
“‘Pray, let me have the
details,’ I cried.
“Reginald Musgrave sat down
opposite to me, and lit the cigarette which I had pushed towards him.
“‘You must know,’ said he,
‘that though I am a bachelor, I have to keep up a considerable staff of
servants at Hurlstone, for it is a rambling old place, and takes a good deal of
looking after. I preserve, too, and in the pheasant months I usually have a
house-party, so that it would not do to be short-handed. Altogether there are
eight maids, the cook, the butler, two footmen, and a boy. The garden and the
stables of course have a separate staff.
“‘Of these servants the one
who had been longest in our service was Brunton the butler. He was a young
school-master out of place when he was first taken up by my father, but he was
a man of great energy and character, and he soon became quite invaluable in the
household. He was a well-grown, handsome man, with a splendid forehead, and
though he has been with us for twenty years he cannot be more than forty now.
With his personal advantages and his extraordinary gifts—for he can speak
several languages and play nearly every musical instrument—it is wonderful that
he should have been satisfied so long in such a position, but I suppose that he
was comfortable, and lacked energy to make any change. The butler of Hurlstone
is always a thing that is remembered by all who visit us.
“‘But this paragon has one
fault. He is a bit of a Don Juan, and you can imagine that for a man like him
it is not a very difficult part to play in a quiet country district. When he
was married it was all right, but since he has been a widower we have had no
end of trouble with him. A few months ago we were in hopes that he was about to
settle down again for he became engaged to Rachel Howells, our second
house-maid; but he has thrown her over since then and taken up with Janet
Tregellis, the daughter of the head game-keeper. Rachel—who is a very good
girl, but of an excitable Welsh temperament—had a sharp touch of brain-fever,
and goes about the house now—or did until yesterday—like a black-eyed shadow of
her former self. That was our first drama at Hurlstone; but a second one came
to drive it from our minds, and it was prefaced by the disgrace and dismissal
of butler Brunton.
“‘This was how it came
about. I have said that the man was intelligent, and this very intelligence has
caused his ruin, for it seems to have led to an insatiable curiosity about
things which did not in the least concern him. I had no idea of the lengths to
which this would carry him, until the merest accident opened my eyes to it.
“‘I have said that the
house is a rambling one. One day last week—on Thursday night, to be more
exact—I found that I could not sleep, having foolishly taken a cup of strong
café noir after my dinner. After struggling against it until two in the
morning, I felt that it was quite hopeless, so I rose and lit the candle with
the intention of continuing a novel which I was reading. The book, however, had
been left in the billiard-room, so I pulled on my dressing-gown and started off
to get it.
“‘In order to reach the
billiard-room I had to descend a flight of stairs and then to cross the head of
a passage which led to the library and the gun-room. You can imagine my
surprise when, as I looked down this corridor, I saw a glimmer of light coming
from the open door of the library. I had myself extinguished the lamp and
closed the door before coming to bed. Naturally my first thought was of
burglars. The corridors at Hurlstone have their walls largely decorated with
trophies of old weapons. From one of these I picked a battle-axe, and then,
leaving my candle behind me, I crept on tiptoe down the passage and peeped in
at the open door.
“‘Brunton, the butler, was
in the library. He was sitting, fully dressed, in an easy-chair, with a slip of
paper which looked like a map upon his knee, and his forehead sunk forward upon
his hand in deep thought. I stood dumb with astonishment, watching him from the
darkness. A small taper on the edge of the table shed a feeble light which
sufficed to show me that he was fully dressed. Suddenly, as I looked, he rose
from his chair, and walking over to a bureau at the side, he unlocked it and
drew out one of the drawers. From this he took a paper, and returning to his
seat he flattened it out beside the taper on the edge of the table, and began
to study it with minute attention. My indignation at this calm examination of
our family documents overcame me so far that I took a step forward, and
Brunton, looking up, saw me standing in the doorway.
|
He sprang to his feet, his
face turned livid with fear, and he thrust into his breast the chart-like paper
which he had been originally studying.
“‘“So!” said I. “This is
how you repay the trust which we have reposed in you. You will leave my service
to-morrow.”
“‘He bowed with the look of
a man who is utterly crushed, and slunk past me without a word. The taper was
still on the table, and by its light I glanced to see what the paper was which
Brunton had taken from the bureau. To my surprise it was nothing of any
importance at all, but simply a copy of the questions and answers in the
singular old observance called the Musgrave Ritual. It is a sort of ceremony
peculiar to our family, which each Musgrave for centuries past has gone through
on his coming of age—a thing of private interest, and perhaps of some little
importance to the archaeologist, like our own blazonings and charges, but of no
practical use whatever.’
“‘We had better come back
to the paper afterwards,’ said I.
“‘If you think it really
necessary,’ he answered, with some hesitation. ‘To continue my statement,
however: I relocked the bureau, using the key which Brunton had left, and I had
turned to go when I was surprised to find that the butler had returned, and was
standing before me.
“‘“Mr. Musgrave, sir,” he
cried, in a voice which was hoarse with emotion, “I can't bear disgrace, sir.
I've always been proud above my station in life, and disgrace would kill me. My
blood will be on your head, sir—it will, indeed—if you drive me to despair. If
you cannot keep me after what has passed, then for God's sake let me give you
notice and leave in a month, as if of my own free will. I could stand that, Mr.
Musgrave, but not to be cast out before all the folk that I know so well.”
“‘“You don't deserve much
consideration, Brunton,” I answered. “Your conduct has been most infamous.
However, as you have been a long time in the family, I have no wish to bring
public disgrace upon you. A month, however is too long. Take yourself away in a
week, and give what reason you like for going.”
“‘“Only a week, sir?” he
cried, in a despairing voice. “A fortnight—say at least a fortnight!”
“‘“A week,” I repeated,
“and you may consider yourself to have been very leniently dealt with.”
“‘He crept away, his face
sunk upon his breast, like a broken man, while I put out the light and returned
to my room.
“‘For two days after this
Brunton was most assiduous in his attention to his duties. I made no allusion
to what had passed, and waited with some curiosity to see how he would cover
his disgrace. On the third morning, however he did not appear, as was his
custom, after breakfast to receive my instructions for the day. As I left the
dining-room I happened to meet Rachel Howells, the maid. I have told you that
she had only recently recovered from an illness, and was looking so wretchedly
pale and wan that I remonstrated with her for being at work.
“‘“You should be in bed,” I
said. “Come back to your duties when you are stronger.”
“‘She looked at me with so
strange an expression that I began to suspect that her brain was affected.
“‘“I am strong enough, Mr.
Musgrave,” said she.
“‘“We will see what the
doctor says,” I answered. “You must stop work now, and when you go downstairs
just say that I wish to see Brunton.”
“‘“The butler is gone,”
said she.
“‘“Gone! Gone where?”
“‘“He is gone. No one has
seen him. He is not in his room. Oh, yes, he is gone, he is gone!” She fell
back against the wall with shriek after shriek of laughter, while I, horrified
at this sudden hysterical attack, rushed to the bell to summon help. The girl
was taken to her room, still screaming and sobbing, while I made inquiries
about Brunton. There was no doubt about it that he had disappeared. His bed had
not been slept in, he had been seen by no one since he had retired to his room
the night before, and yet it was difficult to see how he could have left the
house, as both windows and doors were found to be fastened in the morning. His
clothes, his watch, and even his money were in his room, but the black suit
which he usually wore was missing. His slippers, too, were gone, but his boots
were left behind. Where then could butler Brunton have gone in the night, and
what could have become of him now?
“‘Of course we searched the
house from cellar to garret, but there was no trace of him. It is, as I have
said, a labyrinth of an old house, especially the original wing, which is now
practically uninhabited; but we ransacked every room and cellar without
discovering the least sign of the missing man. It was incredible to me that he
could have gone away leaving all his property behind him, and yet where could
he be? I called in the local police, but without success. Rain had fallen on
the night before and we examined the lawn and the paths all round the house,
but in vain. Matters were in this state, when a new development quite drew our
attention away from the original mystery.
“‘For two days Rachel
Howells had been so ill, sometimes delirious, sometimes hysterical, that a
nurse had been employed to sit up with her at night. On the third night after
Brunton's disappearance, the nurse, finding her patient sleeping nicely, had
dropped into a nap in the arm-chair, when she woke in the early morning to find
the bed empty, the window open, and no signs of the invalid. I was instantly
aroused, and, with the two footmen, started off at once in search of the
missing girl. It was not difficult to tell the direction which she had taken,
for, starting from under her window, we could follow her footmarks easily
across the lawn to the edge of the mere, where they vanished close to the
gravel path which leads out of the grounds. The lake there is eight feet deep,
and you can imagine our feelings when we saw that the trail of the poor
demented girl came to an end at the edge of it.
“‘Of course, we had the
drags at once, and set to work to recover the remains, but no trace of the body
could we find. On the other hand, we brought to the surface an object of a most
unexpected kind. It was a linen bag which contained within it a mass of old
rusted and discolored metal and several dull-colored pieces of pebble or glass.
This strange find was all that we could get from the mere, and, although we
made every possible search and inquiry yesterday, we know nothing of the fate
either of Rachel Howells or of Richard Brunton. The county police are at their
wits' end, and I have come up to you as a last resource.’
“You can imagine, Watson,
with what eagerness I listened to this extraordinary sequence of events, and
endeavored to piece them together, and to devise some common thread upon which
they might all hang. The butler was gone. The maid was gone. The maid had loved
the butler, but had afterwards had cause to hate him. She was of Welsh blood,
fiery and passionate. She had been terribly excited immediately after his
disappearance. She had flung into the lake a bag containing some curious
contents. These were all factors which had to be taken into consideration, and
yet none of them got quite to the heart of the matter. What was the
starting-point of this chain of events? There lay the end of this tangled line.
“‘I must see that paper,
Musgrave,’ said I, ‘which this butler of your thought it worth his while to
consult, even at the risk of the loss of his place.’
“‘It is rather an absurd
business, this ritual of ours,’ he answered. ‘But it has at least the saving
grace of antiquity to excuse it. I have a copy of the questions and answers
here if you care to run your eye over them.’
“He handed me the very
paper which I have here, Watson, and this is the strange catechism to which
each Musgrave had to submit when he came to man's estate. I will read you the
questions and answers as they stand.
“‘Whose was it?’
“‘His who is gone.’
“‘Who shall have it?’
“‘He who will come.’
“‘What was the month?’
“‘The sixth from the
first.’
“‘Where was the sun?’
“‘Over the oak.’
“‘Where was the shadow?’
“‘Under the elm.’
“‘How was it stepped?’
“‘North by ten and by ten,
east by five and by five, south by two and by two, west by one and by one, and
so under.’
“‘What shall we give for
it?’
“‘All that is ours.’
“‘Why should we give it?’
“‘For the sake of the
trust.’
“‘The original has no date,
but is in the spelling of the middle of the seventeenth century,’ remarked
Musgrave. ‘I am afraid, however, that it can be of little help to you in
solving this mystery.’
“‘At least,’ said I, ‘it
gives us another mystery, and one which is even more interesting than the
first. It may be that the solution of the one may prove to be the solution of
the other. You will excuse me, Musgrave, if I say that your butler appears to
me to have been a very clever man, and to have had a clearer insight that ten
generations of his masters.’
“‘I hardly follow you,’
said Musgrave. ‘The paper seems to me to be of no practical importance.’
“‘But to me it seems
immensely practical, and I fancy that Brunton took the same view. He had
probably seen it before that night on which you caught him.’
“‘It is very possible. We
took no pains to hide it.’
“‘He simply wished, I
should imagine, to refresh his memory upon that last occasion. He had, as I
understand, some sort of map or chart which he was comparing with the
manuscript, and which he thrust into his pocket when you appeared.’
“‘That is true. But what
could he have to do with this old family custom of ours, and what does this
rigmarole mean?’
“‘I don't think that we
should have much difficulty in determining that,’ said I; ‘with your permission
we will take the first train down to Sussex, and go a little more deeply into
the matter upon the spot.’
“The same afternoon saw us
both at Hurlstone. Possibly you have seen pictures and read descriptions of the
famous old building, so I will confine my account of it to saying that it is
built in the shape of an L, the long arm being the more modern portion, and the
shorter the ancient nucleus, from which the other had developed. Over the low,
heavily-lintelled door, in the centre of this old part, is chiseled the date,
1607, but experts are agreed that the beams and stone-work are really much
older than this. The enormously thick walls and tiny windows of this part had
in the last century driven the family into building the new wing, and the old
one was used now as a store-house and a cellar, when it was used at all. A
splendid park with fine old timber surrounds the house, and the lake, to which
my client had referred, lay close to the avenue, about two hundred yards from
the building.
“I was already firmly
convinced, Watson, that there were not three separate mysteries here, but one
only, and that if I could read the Musgrave Ritual aright I should hold in my
hand the clue which would lead me to the truth concerning both the butler
Brunton and the maid Howells. To that then I turned all my energies. Why should
this servant be so anxious to master this old formula? Evidently because he saw
something in it which had escaped all those generations of country squires, and
from which he expected some personal advantage. What was it then, and how had
it affected his fate?
“It was perfectly obvious
to me, on reading the ritual, that the measurements must refer to some spot to
which the rest of the document alluded, and that if we could find that spot, we
should be in a fair way towards finding what the secret was which the old
Musgraves had thought it necessary to embalm in so curious a fashion. There
were two guides given us to start with, an oak and an elm. As to the oak there
could be no question at all. Right in front of the house, upon the left-hand
side of the drive, there stood a patriarch among oaks, one of the most
magnificent trees that I have ever seen.
“‘That was there when your
ritual was drawn up,’ said I, as we drove past it.
|
“‘It was there at the
Norman Conquest in all probability,’ he answered. ‘It has a girth of
twenty-three feet.’
“Here was one of my fixed
points secured.
“‘Have you any old elms?’ I
asked.
“‘There used to be a very
old one over yonder but it was struck by lightning ten years ago, and we cut
down the stump,’
“‘You can see where it used
to be?’
“‘Oh, yes.’
“‘There are no other elms?’
“‘No old ones, but plenty
of beeches.’
“‘I should like to see
where it grew.’
“We had driven up in a
dogcart, and my client led me away at once, without our entering the house, to
the scar on the lawn where the elm had stood. It was nearly midway between the
oak and the house. My investigation seemed to be progressing.
“‘I suppose it is
impossible to find out how high the elm was?’ I asked.
“‘I can give you it at
once. It was sixty-four feet.’
“‘How do you come to know
it?’ I asked, in surprise.
“‘When my old tutor used to
give me an exercise in trigonometry, it always took the shape of measuring
heights. When I was a lad I worked out every tree and building in the estate.’
“This was an unexpected
piece of luck. My data were coming more quickly than I could have reasonably
hoped.
“‘Tell me,’ I asked, ‘did
your butler ever ask you such a question?’
“Reginald Musgrave looked
at me in astonishment. ‘Now that you call it to my mind,’ he answered, ‘Brunton
did ask me about the height of the tree some months ago, in connection with
some little argument with the groom.’
“This was excellent news,
Watson, for it showed me that I was on the right road. I looked up at the sun.
It was low in the heavens, and I calculated that in less than an hour it would
lie just above the topmost branches of the old oak. One condition mentioned in
the Ritual would then be fulfilled. And the shadow of the elm must mean the
farther end of the shadow, otherwise the trunk would have been chosen as the
guide. I had, then, to find where the far end of the shadow would fall when the
sun was just clear of the oak.”
“That must have been
difficult, Holmes, when the elm was no longer there.”
“Well, at least I knew that
if Brunton could do it, I could also. Besides, there was no real difficulty. I
went with Musgrave to his study and whittled myself this peg, to which I tied
this long string with a knot at each yard. Then I took two lengths of a
fishing-rod, which came to just six feet, and I went back with my client to
where the elm had been. The sun was just grazing the top of the oak. I fastened
the rod on end, marked out the direction of the shadow, and measured it. It was
nine feet in length.
“Of course the calculation
now was a simple one. If a rod of six feet threw a shadow of nine, a tree of
sixty-four feet would throw one of ninety-six, and the line of the one would of
course be the line of the other. I measured out the distance, which brought me
almost to the wall of the house, and I thrust a peg into the spot. You can
imagine my exultation, Watson, when within two inches of my peg I saw a conical
depression in the ground. I knew that it was the mark made by Brunton in his
measurements, and that I was still upon his trail.
|
“From this starting-point I
proceeded to step, having first taken the cardinal points by my pocket-compass.
Ten steps with each foot took me along parallel with the wall of the house, and
again I marked my spot with a peg. Then I carefully paced off five to the east
and two to the south. It brought me to the very threshold of the old door. Two
steps to the west meant now that I was to go two paces down the stone-flagged
passage, and this was the place indicated by the Ritual.
“Never have I felt such a
cold chill of disappointment, Watson. For a moment it seemed to me that there
must be some radical mistake in my calculations. The setting sun shone full
upon the passage floor, and I could see that the old, foot-worn gray stones
with which it was paved were firmly cemented together, and had certainly not
been moved for many a long year. Brunton had not been at work here. I tapped
upon the floor, but it sounded the same all over, and there was no sign of any
crack or crevice. But fortunately, Musgrave, who had begun to appreciate the
meaning of my proceedings, and who was now as excited as myself, took out his
manuscript to check my calculation.
“‘And under,’ he cried.
‘You have omitted the “and under.”’
“I had thought that it
meant that we were to dig, but now, of course, I saw at once that I was wrong.
‘There is a cellar under this then?’ I cried.
“‘Yes, and as old as the
house. Down here, through this door.’
“We went down a winding
stone stair, and my companion, striking a match, lit a large lantern which
stood on a barrel in the corner. In an instant it was obvious that we had at
last come upon the true place, and that we had not been the only people to
visit the spot recently.
“It had been used for the
storage of wood, but the billets, which had evidently been littered over the
floor, were now piled at the sides, so as to leave a clear space in the middle.
In this space lay a large and heavy flagstone with a rusted iron ring in the
centre to which a thick shepherd's-check muffler was attached.
“‘By Jove!’ cried my
client. ‘That's Brunton's muffler. I have seen it on him, and could swear to
it. What has the villain been doing here?’
“At my suggestion a couple
of the county police were summoned to be present, and I then endeavored to
raise the stone by pulling on the cravat. I could only move it slightly, and it
was with the aid of one of the constables that I succeeded at last in carrying
it to one side. A black hole yawned beneath into which we all peered, while
Musgrave, kneeling at the side, pushed down the lantern.
“A small chamber about
seven feet deep and four feet square lay open to us. At one side of this was a
squat, brass-bound wooden box, the lid of which was hinged upwards, with this
curious old-fashioned key projecting from the lock. It was furred outside by a
thick layer of dust, and damp and worms had eaten through the wood, so that a crop
of livid fungi was growing on the inside of it. Several discs of metal, old
coins apparently, such as I hold here, were scattered over the bottom of the
box, but it contained nothing else.
“At the moment, however, we
had no thought for the old chest, for our eyes were riveted upon that which
crouched beside it.
|
It was the figure of a man, clad in a suit of black, who
squatted down upon his hams with his forehead sunk upon the edge of the box and
his two arms thrown out on each side of it. The attitude had drawn all the
stagnant blood to the face, and no man could have recognized that distorted
liver-colored countenance; but his height, his dress, and his hair were all
sufficient to show my client, when we had drawn the body up, that it was indeed
his missing butler. He had been dead some days, but there was no wound or
bruise upon his person to show how he had met his dreadful end. When his body
had been carried from the cellar we found ourselves still confronted with a
problem which was almost as formidable as that with which we had started.
“I confess that so far,
Watson, I had been disappointed in my investigation. I had reckoned upon
solving the matter when once I had found the place referred to in the Ritual;
but now I was there, and was apparently as far as ever from knowing what it was
which the family had concealed with such elaborate precautions. It is true that
I had thrown a light upon the fate of Brunton, but now I had to ascertain how
that fate had come upon him, and what part had been played in the matter by the
woman who had disappeared. I sat down upon a keg in the corner and thought the
whole matter carefully over.
“You know my methods in
such cases, Watson. I put myself in the man's place and, having first gauged
his intelligence, I try to imagine how I should myself have proceeded under the
same circumstances. In this case the matter was simplified by Brunton's
intelligence being quite first-rate, so that it was unnecessary to make any
allowance for the personal equation, as the astronomers have dubbed it. He knew
that something valuable was concealed. He had spotted the place. He found that
the stone which covered it was just too heavy for a man to move unaided. What
would he do next? He could not get help from outside, even if he had some one
whom he could trust, without the unbarring of doors and considerable risk of
detection. It was better, if he could, to have his helpmate inside the house.
But whom could he ask? This girl had been devoted to him. A man always finds it
hard to realize that he may have finally lost a woman's love, however badly he
may have treated her. He would try by a few attentions to make his peace with
the girl Howells, and then would engage her as his accomplice. Together they
would come at night to the cellar, and their united force would suffice to
raise the stone. So far I could follow their actions as if I had actually seen
them.
“But for two of them, and
one a woman, it must have been heavy work the raising of that stone. A burly
Sussex policeman and I had found it no light job. What would they do to assist
them? Probably what I should have done myself. I rose and examined carefully
the different billets of wood which were scattered round the floor. Almost at
once I came upon what I expected. One piece, about three feet in length, had a
very marked indentation at one end, while several were flattened at the sides
as if they had been compressed by some considerable weight. Evidently, as they
had dragged the stone up they had thrust the chunks of wood into the chink,
until at last, when the opening was large enough to crawl through, they would
hold it open by a billet placed lengthwise, which might very well become
indented at the lower end, since the whole weight of the stone would press it
down on to the edge of this other slab. So far I was still on safe ground.
“And now how was I to
proceed to reconstruct this midnight drama? Clearly, only one could fit into
the hole, and that one was Brunton. The girl must have waited above. Brunton
then unlocked the box, handed up the contents presumably—since they were not to
be found—and then—and then what happened?
“What smouldering fire of
vengeance had suddenly sprung into flame in this passionate Celtic woman's soul
when she saw the man who had wronged her—wronged her, perhaps, far more than we
suspected—in her power? Was it a chance that the wood had slipped, and that the
stone had shut Brunton into what had become his sepulchre? Had she only been
guilty of silence as to his fate? Or had some sudden blow from her hand dashed
the support away and sent the slab crashing down into its place? Be that as it
might, I seemed to see that woman's figure still clutching at her treasure
trove and flying wildly up the winding stair, with her ears ringing perhaps
with the muffled screams from behind her and with the drumming of frenzied
hands against the slab of stone which was choking her faithless lover's life
out.
“Here was the secret of her
blanched face, her shaken nerves, her peals of hysterical laughter on the next
morning. But what had been in the box? What had she done with that? Of course,
it must have been the old metal and pebbles which my client had dragged from
the mere. She had thrown them in there at the first opportunity to remove the
last trace of her crime.
“For twenty minutes I had
sat motionless, thinking the matter out. Musgrave still stood with a very pale
face, swinging his lantern and peering down into the hole.
“‘These are coins of
Charles the First,’ said he, holding out the few which had been in the box;
‘you see we were right in fixing our date for the Ritual.’
“‘We may find something
else of Charles the First,’ I cried, as the probable meaning of the first two
question of the Ritual broke suddenly upon me. ‘Let me see the contents of the
bag which you fished from the mere.’
“We ascended to his study,
and he laid the debris before me. I could understand his regarding it as of
small importance when I looked at it, for the metal was almost black and the
stones lustreless and dull. I rubbed one of them on my sleeve, however, and it
glowed afterwards like a spark in the dark hollow of my hand. The metal work
was in the form of a double ring, but it had been bent and twisted out of its
original shape.
“‘You must bear in mind,’
said I, ‘that the royal party made head in England even after the death of the
King, and that when they at last fled they probably left many of their most
precious possessions buried behind them, with the intention of returning for
them in more peaceful times.’
“‘My ancestor, Sir Ralph
Musgrave, was a prominent Cavalier and the right-hand man of Charles the Second
in his wanderings,’ said my friend.
“‘Ah, indeed!’ I answered.
‘Well now, I think that really should give us the last link that we wanted. I
must congratulate you on coming into the possession, though in rather a tragic
manner, of a relic which is of great intrinsic value, but of even greater
importance as an historical curiosity.’
“‘What is it, then?’ he
gasped in astonishment.
“‘It is nothing less than
the ancient crown of the kings of England.’
“‘The crown!’
“‘Precisely. Consider what
the Ritual says: How does it run? “Whose was it?” “His who is gone.” That was
after the execution of Charles. Then, “Who shall have it?” “He who will come.”
That was Charles the Second, whose advent was already foreseen. There can, I
think, be no doubt that this battered and shapeless diadem once encircled the
brows of the royal Stuarts.’
“‘And how came it in the
pond?’
“‘Ah, that is a question
that will take some time to answer.’ And with that I sketched out to him the
whole long chain of surmise and of proof which I had constructed. The twilight
had closed in and the moon was shining brightly in the sky before my narrative
was finished.
“‘And how was it then that
Charles did not get his crown when he returned?’ asked Musgrave, pushing back
the relic into its linen bag.
“‘Ah, there you lay your
finger upon the one point which we shall probably never be able to clear up. It
is likely that the Musgrave who held the secret died in the interval, and by
some oversight left this guide to his descendant without explaining the meaning
of it. From that day to this it has been handed down from father to son, until
at last it came within reach of a man who tore its secret out of it and lost
his life in the venture.’
“And that's the story of
the Musgrave Ritual, Watson. They have the crown down at Hurlstone—though they
had some legal bother and a considerable sum to pay before they were allowed to
retain it. I am sure that if you mentioned my name they would be happy to show
it to you. Of the woman nothing was ever heard, and the probability is that she
got away out of England and carried herself and the memory of her crime to some
land beyond the seas.”
The Reigate Squires
It was some time before
the health of my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes recovered from the strain caused by
his immense exertions in the spring of '87. The whole question of the
Netherland-Sumatra Company and of the colossal schemes of Baron Maupertuis are
too recent in the minds of the public, and are too intimately concerned with
politics and finance to be fitting subjects for this series of sketches. They
led, however, in an indirect fashion to a singular and complex problem which
gave my friend an opportunity of demonstrating the value of a fresh weapon
among the many with which he waged his life-long battle against crime.
On referring to my notes I
see that it was upon the 14th of April that I received a telegram from Lyons
which informed me that Holmes was lying ill in the Hotel Dulong. Within
twenty-four hours I was in his sick-room, and was relieved to find that there
was nothing formidable in his symptoms. Even his iron constitution, however,
had broken down under the strain of an investigation which had extended over
two months, during which period he had never worked less than fifteen hours a
day, and had more than once, as he assured me, kept to his task for five days
at a stretch. Even the triumphant issue of his labors could not save him from
reaction after so terrible an exertion, and at a time when Europe was ringing
with his name and when his room was literally ankle-deep with congratulatory
telegrams I found him a prey to the blackest depression. Even the knowledge
that he had succeeded where the police of three countries had failed, and that
he had outmanoeuvred at every point the most accomplished swindler in Europe,
was insufficient to rouse him from his nervous prostration.
Three days later we were
back in Baker Street together; but it was evident that my friend would be much
the better for a change, and the thought of a week of spring time in the
country was full of attractions to me also. My old friend, Colonel Hayter, who
had come under my professional care in Afghanistan, had now taken a house near
Reigate in Surrey, and had frequently asked me to come down to him upon a
visit. On the last occasion he had remarked that if my friend would only come
with me he would be glad to extend his hospitality to him also. A little
diplomacy was needed, but when Holmes understood that the establishment was a bachelor
one, and that he would be allowed the fullest freedom, he fell in with my plans
and a week after our return from Lyons we were under the Colonel's roof. Hayter
was a fine old soldier who had seen much of the world, and he soon found, as I
had expected, that Holmes and he had much in common.
On the evening of our
arrival we were sitting in the Colonel's gun-room after dinner, Holmes
stretched upon the sofa, while Hayter and I looked over his little armory of
Eastern weapons.
“By the way,” said he suddenly,
“I think I'll take one of these pistols upstairs with me in case we have an
alarm.”
“An alarm!” said I.
“Yes, we've had a scare in
this part lately. Old Acton, who is one of our county magnates, had his house
broken into last Monday. No great damage done, but the fellows are still at
large.”
“No clue?” asked Holmes,
cocking his eye at the Colonel.
“None as yet. But the
affair is a pretty one, one of our little country crimes, which must seem too
small for your attention, Mr. Holmes, after this great international affair.”
Holmes waved away the
compliment, though his smile showed that it had pleased him.
“Was there any feature of
interest?”
“I fancy not. The thieves
ransacked the library and got very little for their pains. The whole place was
turned upside down, drawers burst open, and presses ransacked, with the result
that an odd volume of Pope's Homer, two plated candlesticks, an ivory
letter-weight, a small oak barometer, and a ball of twine are all that have
vanished.”
“What an extraordinary
assortment!” I exclaimed.
“Oh, the fellows evidently
grabbed hold of everything they could get.”
Holmes grunted from the
sofa.
“The county police ought to
make something of that,” said he; “why, it is surely obvious that—”
|
But I held up a warning
finger.
“You are here for a rest,
my dear fellow. For Heaven's sake don't get started on a new problem when your
nerves are all in shreds.”
Holmes shrugged his
shoulders with a glance of comic resignation towards the Colonel, and the talk
drifted away into less dangerous channels.
It was destined, however,
that all my professional caution should be wasted, for next morning the problem
obtruded itself upon us in such a way that it was impossible to ignore it, and
our country visit took a turn which neither of us could have anticipated. We
were at breakfast when the Colonel's butler rushed in with all his propriety
shaken out of him.
“Have you heard the news,
sir?” he gasped. “At the Cunningham's sir!”
“Burglary!” cried the
Colonel, with his coffee-cup in mid-air.
“Murder!”
The Colonel whistled. “By
Jove!” said he. “Who's killed, then? The J.P. or his son?”
“Neither, sir. It was
William the coachman. Shot through the heart, sir, and never spoke again.”
“Who shot him, then?”
“The burglar, sir. He was
off like a shot and got clean away. He'd just broke in at the pantry window
when William came on him and met his end in saving his master's property.”
“What time?”
“It was last night, sir,
somewhere about twelve.”
“Ah, then, we'll step over
afterwards,” said the Colonel, coolly settling down to his breakfast again.
“It's a baddish business,” he added when the butler had gone; “he's our leading
man about here, is old Cunningham, and a very decent fellow too. He'll be cut
up over this, for the man has been in his service for years and was a good
servant. It's evidently the same villains who broke into Acton's.”
“And stole that very
singular collection,” said Holmes, thoughtfully.
“Precisely.”
“Hum! It may prove the
simplest matter in the world, but all the same at first glance this is just a
little curious, is it not? A gang of burglars acting in the country might be
expected to vary the scene of their operations, and not to crack two cribs in
the same district within a few days. When you spoke last night of taking
precautions I remember that it passed through my mind that this was probably
the last parish in England to which the thief or thieves would be likely to
turn their attention—which shows that I have still much to learn.”
“I fancy it's some local
practitioner,” said the Colonel. “In that case, of course, Acton's and
Cunningham's are just the places he would go for, since they are far the
largest about here.”
“And richest?”
“Well, they ought to be,
but they've had a lawsuit for some years which has sucked the blood out of both
of them, I fancy. Old Acton has some claim on half Cunningham's estate, and the
lawyers have been at it with both hands.”
“If it's a local villain
there should not be much difficulty in running him down,” said Holmes with a
yawn. “All right, Watson, I don't intend to meddle.”
|
“Inspector Forrester, sir,”
said the butler, throwing open the door.
The official, a smart,
keen-faced young fellow, stepped into the room. “Good-morning, Colonel,” said
he; “I hope I don't intrude, but we hear that Mr. Holmes of Baker Street is
here.”
The Colonel waved his hand
towards my friend, and the Inspector bowed.
“We thought that perhaps
you would care to step across, Mr. Holmes.”
“The fates are against you,
Watson,” said he, laughing. “We were chatting about the matter when you came
in, Inspector. Perhaps you can let us have a few details.” As he leaned back in
his chair in the familiar attitude I knew that the case was hopeless.
“We had no clue in the
Acton affair. But here we have plenty to go on, and there's no doubt it is the
same party in each case. The man was seen.”
“Ah!”
“Yes, sir. But he was off
like a deer after the shot that killed poor William Kirwan was fired. Mr. Cunningham
saw him from the bedroom window, and Mr. Alec Cunningham saw him from the back
passage. It was quarter to twelve when the alarm broke out. Mr. Cunningham had
just got into bed, and Mr. Alec was smoking a pipe in his dressing-gown. They
both heard William the coachman calling for help, and Mr. Alec ran down to see
what was the matter. The back door was open, and as he came to the foot of the
stairs he saw two men wrestling together outside. One of them fired a shot, the
other dropped, and the murderer rushed across the garden and over the hedge.
Mr. Cunningham, looking out of his bedroom, saw the fellow as he gained the
road, but lost sight of him at once. Mr. Alec stopped to see if he could help
the dying man, and so the villain got clean away. Beyond the fact that he was a
middle-sized man and dressed in some dark stuff, we have no personal clue; but
we are making energetic inquiries, and if he is a stranger we shall soon find
him out.”
“What was this William
doing there? Did he say anything before he died?”
“Not a word. He lives at
the lodge with his mother, and as he was a very faithful fellow we imagine that
he walked up to the house with the intention of seeing that all was right
there. Of course this Acton business has put every one on their guard. The
robber must have just burst open the door—the lock has been forced—when William
came upon him.”
“Did William say anything
to his mother before going out?”
“She is very old and deaf,
and we can get no information from her. The shock has made her half-witted, but
I understand that she was never very bright. There is one very important
circumstance, however. Look at this!”
He took a small piece of
torn paper from a note-book and spread it out upon his knee.
“This was found between the
finger and thumb of the dead man. It appears to be a fragment torn from a
larger sheet. You will observe that the hour mentioned upon it is the very time
at which the poor fellow met his fate. You see that his murderer might have
torn the rest of the sheet from him or he might have taken this fragment from
the murderer. It reads almost as though it were an appointment.”
Holmes took up the scrap of
paper, a facsimile of which is here reproduced.
Scrap showing the words: At
quarter to twelve, learn what, may be
“Presuming that it is an
appointment,” continued the Inspector, “it is of course a conceivable theory
that this William Kirwan—though he had the reputation of being an honest man,
may have been in league with the thief. He may have met him there, may even
have helped him to break in the door, and then they may have fallen out between
themselves.”
“This writing is of
extraordinary interest,” said Holmes, who had been examining it with intense
concentration. “These are much deeper waters than I had thought.” He sank his
head upon his hands, while the Inspector smiled at the effect which his case
had had upon the famous London specialist.
“Your last remark,” said
Holmes, presently, “as to the possibility of there being an understanding
between the burglar and the servant, and this being a note of appointment from
one to the other, is an ingenious and not entirely impossible supposition. But
this writing opens up—” He sank his head into his hands again and remained for
some minutes in the deepest thought. When he raised his face again, I was
surprised to see that his cheek was tinged with color, and his eyes as bright
as before his illness. He sprang to his feet with all his old energy.
“I'll tell you what,” said
he, “I should like to have a quiet little glance into the details of this case.
There is something in it which fascinates me extremely. If you will permit me,
Colonel, I will leave my friend Watson and you, and I will step round with the
Inspector to test the truth of one or two little fancies of mine. I will be
with you again in half an hour.”
An hour and half had
elapsed before the Inspector returned alone.
“Mr. Holmes is walking up
and down in the field outside,” said he. “He wants us all four to go up to the
house together.”
“To Mr. Cunningham's?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What for?”
The Inspector shrugged his
shoulders. “I don't quite know, sir. Between ourselves, I think Mr. Holmes had
not quite got over his illness yet. He's been behaving very queerly, and he is
very much excited.”
“I don't think you need
alarm yourself,” said I. “I have usually found that there was method in his
madness.”
“Some folks might say there
was madness in his method,” muttered the Inspector. “But he's all on fire to
start, Colonel, so we had best go out if you are ready.”
We found Holmes pacing up
and down in the field, his chin sunk upon his breast, and his hands thrust into
his trousers pockets.
“The matter grows in
interest,” said he. “Watson, your country-trip has been a distinct success. I
have had a charming morning.”
“You have been up to the
scene of the crime, I understand,” said the Colonel.
“Yes; the Inspector and I
have made quite a little reconnaissance together.”
“Any success?”
“Well, we have seen some very
interesting things. I'll tell you what we did as we walk. First of all, we saw
the body of this unfortunate man. He certainly died from a revolver wound as
reported.”
“Had you doubted it, then?”
“Oh, it is as well to test
everything. Our inspection was not wasted. We then had an interview with Mr.
Cunningham and his son, who were able to point out the exact spot where the
murderer had broken through the garden-hedge in his flight. That was of great
interest.”
“Naturally.”
“Then we had a look at this
poor fellow's mother. We could get no information from her, however, as she is
very old and feeble.”
“And what is the result of
your investigations?”
“The conviction that the
crime is a very peculiar one. Perhaps our visit now may do something to make it
less obscure. I think that we are both agreed, Inspector, that the fragment of
paper in the dead man's hand, bearing, as it does, the very hour of his death
written upon it, is of extreme importance.”
“It should give a clue, Mr.
Holmes.”
“It does give a clue. Whoever
wrote that note was the man who brought William Kirwan out of his bed at that
hour. But where is the rest of that sheet of paper?”
“I examined the ground
carefully in the hope of finding it,” said the Inspector.
“It was torn out of the
dead man's hand. Why was some one so anxious to get possession of it? Because
it incriminated him. And what would he do with it? Thrust it into his pocket,
most likely, never noticing that a corner of it had been left in the grip of
the corpse. If we could get the rest of that sheet it is obvious that we should
have gone a long way towards solving the mystery.”
“Yes, but how can we get at
the criminal's pocket before we catch the criminal?”
“Well, well, it was worth
thinking over. Then there is another obvious point. The note was sent to
William. The man who wrote it could not have taken it; otherwise, of course, he
might have delivered his own message by word of mouth. Who brought the note,
then? Or did it come through the post?”
“I have made inquiries,”
said the Inspector. “William received a letter by the afternoon post yesterday.
The envelope was destroyed by him.”
“Excellent!” cried Holmes,
clapping the Inspector on the back. “You've seen the postman. It is a pleasure
to work with you. Well, here is the lodge, and if you will come up, Colonel, I
will show you the scene of the crime.”
We passed the pretty
cottage where the murdered man had lived, and walked up an oak-lined avenue to
the fine old Queen Anne house, which bears the date of Malplaquet upon the
lintel of the door. Holmes and the Inspector led us round it until we came to the
side gate, which is separated by a stretch of garden from the hedge which lines
the road. A constable was standing at the kitchen door.
“Throw the door open,
officer,” said Holmes. “Now, it was on those stairs that young Mr. Cunningham
stood and saw the two men struggling just where we are. Old Mr. Cunningham was
at that window—the second on the left—and he saw the fellow get away just to
the left of that bush. So did the son. They are both sure of it on account of
the bush. Then Mr. Alec ran out and knelt beside the wounded man. The ground is
very hard, you see, and there are no marks to guide us.” As he spoke two men
came down the garden path, from round the angle of the house. The one was an
elderly man, with a strong, deep-lined, heavy-eyed face; the other a dashing
young fellow, whose bright, smiling expression and showy dress were in strange
contrast with the business which had brought us there.
“Still at it, then?” said
he to Holmes. “I thought you Londoners were never at fault. You don't seem to
be so very quick, after all.”
“Ah, you must give us a
little time,” said Holmes good-humoredly.
“You'll want it,” said
young Alec Cunningham. “Why, I don't see that we have any clue at all.”
|
“There's only one,”
answered the Inspector. “We thought that if we could only find—Good heavens,
Mr. Holmes! What is the matter?”
My poor friend's face had
suddenly assumed the most dreadful expression. His eyes rolled upwards, his
features writhed in agony, and with a suppressed groan he dropped on his face
upon the ground. Horrified at the suddenness and severity of the attack, we
carried him into the kitchen, where he lay back in a large chair, and breathed
heavily for some minutes. Finally, with a shamefaced apology for his weakness,
he rose once more.
“Watson would tell you that
I have only just recovered from a severe illness,” he explained. “I am liable
to these sudden nervous attacks.”
“Shall I send you home in
my trap?” asked old Cunningham.
“Well, since I am here,
there is one point on which I should like to feel sure. We can very easily
verify it.”
“What was it?”
“Well, it seems to me that
it is just possible that the arrival of this poor fellow William was not
before, but after, the entrance of the burglary into the house. You appear to
take it for granted that, although the door was forced, the robber never got
in.”
“I fancy that is quite
obvious,” said Mr. Cunningham, gravely. “Why, my son Alec had not yet gone to
bed, and he would certainly have heard any one moving about.”
“Where was he sitting?”
“I was smoking in my
dressing-room.”
“Which window is that?”
“The last on the left next
my father's.”
“Both of your lamps were
lit, of course?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“There are some very
singular points here,” said Holmes, smiling. “Is it not extraordinary that a
burglary—and a burglar who had had some previous experience—should deliberately
break into a house at a time when he could see from the lights that two of the
family were still afoot?”
“He must have been a cool
hand.”
“Well, of course, if the
case were not an odd one we should not have been driven to ask you for an
explanation,” said young Mr. Alec. “But as to your ideas that the man had
robbed the house before William tackled him, I think it a most absurd notion.
Wouldn't we have found the place disarranged, and missed the things which he
had taken?”
“It depends on what the
things were,” said Holmes. “You must remember that we are dealing with a
burglar who is a very peculiar fellow, and who appears to work on lines of his
own. Look, for example, at the queer lot of things which he took from
Acton's—what was it?—a ball of string, a letter-weight, and I don't know what
other odds and ends.”
“Well, we are quite in your
hands, Mr. Holmes,” said old Cunningham. “Anything which you or the Inspector
may suggest will most certainly be done.”
“In the first place,” said
Holmes, “I should like you to offer a reward—coming from yourself, for the
officials may take a little time before they would agree upon the sum, and these
things cannot be done too promptly. I have jotted down the form here, if you
would not mind signing it. Fifty pound was quite enough, I thought.”
“I would willingly give
five hundred,” said the J.P., taking the slip of paper and the pencil which
Holmes handed to him. “This is not quite correct, however,” he added, glancing
over the document.
“I wrote it rather
hurriedly.”
“You see you begin,
‘Whereas, at about a quarter to one on Tuesday morning an attempt was made,’
and so on. It was at a quarter to twelve, as a matter of fact.”
I was pained at the
mistake, for I knew how keenly Holmes would feel any slip of the kind. It was
his specialty to be accurate as to fact, but his recent illness had shaken him,
and this one little incident was enough to show me that he was still far from
being himself. He was obviously embarrassed for an instant, while the Inspector
raised his eyebrows, and Alec Cunningham burst into a laugh. The old gentleman
corrected the mistake, however, and handed the paper back to Holmes.
“Get it printed as soon as
possible,” he said; “I think your idea is an excellent one.”
Holmes put the slip of
paper carefully away into his pocket-book.
“And now,” said he, “it
really would be a good thing that we should all go over the house together and
make certain that this rather erratic burglar did not, after all, carry
anything away with him.”
Before entering, Holmes
made an examination of the door which had been forced. It was evident that a
chisel or strong knife had been thrust in, and the lock forced back with it. We
could see the marks in the wood where it had been pushed in.
“You don't use bars, then?”
he asked.
“We have never found it
necessary.”
“You don't keep a dog?”
“Yes, but he is chained on
the other side of the house.”
“When do the servants go to
bed?”
“About ten.”
“I understand that William
was usually in bed also at that hour.”
“Yes.”
“It is singular that on
this particular night he should have been up. Now, I should be very glad if you
would have the kindness to show us over the house, Mr. Cunningham.”
A stone-flagged passage,
with the kitchens branching away from it, led by a wooden staircase directly to
the first floor of the house. It came out upon the landing opposite to a second
more ornamental stair which came up from the front hall. Out of this landing
opened the drawing-room and several bedrooms, including those of Mr. Cunningham
and his son. Holmes walked slowly, taking keen note of the architecture of the
house. I could tell from his expression that he was on a hot scent, and yet I
could not in the least imagine in what direction his inferences were leading
him.
“My good sir,” said Mr.
Cunningham with some impatience, “this is surely very unnecessary. That is my
room at the end of the stairs, and my son's is the one beyond it. I leave it to
your judgment whether it was possible for the thief to have come up here
without disturbing us.”
“You must try round and get
on a fresh scent, I fancy,” said the son with a rather malicious smile.
“Still, I must ask you to
humor me a little further. I should like, for example, to see how far the
windows of the bedrooms command the front. This, I understand is your son's
room”—he pushed open the door—“and that, I presume, is the dressing-room in
which he sat smoking when the alarm was given. Where does the window of that
look out to?” He stepped across the bedroom, pushed open the door, and glanced
round the other chamber.
“I hope that you are
satisfied now?” said Mr. Cunningham, tartly.
“Thank you, I think I have
seen all that I wished.”
“Then if it is really
necessary we can go into my room.”
“If it is not too much
trouble.”
The J.P. shrugged his
shoulders, and led the way into his own chamber, which was a plainly furnished
and commonplace room. As we moved across it in the direction of the window,
Holmes fell back until he and I were the last of the group. Near the foot of
the bed stood a dish of oranges and a carafe of water.
|
As we passed it Holmes,
to my unutterable astonishment, leaned over in front of me and deliberately
knocked the whole thing over. The glass smashed into a thousand pieces and the
fruit rolled about into every corner of the room.
“You've done it now,
Watson,” said he, coolly. “A pretty mess you've made of the carpet.”
I stooped in some confusion
and began to pick up the fruit, understanding for some reason my companion
desired me to take the blame upon myself. The others did the same, and set the
table on its legs again.
“Hullo!” cried the
Inspector, “where's he got to?”
Holmes had disappeared.
“Wait here an instant,”
said young Alec Cunningham. “The fellow is off his head, in my opinion. Come
with me, father, and see where he has got to!”
They rushed out of the
room, leaving the Inspector, the Colonel, and me staring at each other.
“'Pon my word, I am
inclined to agree with Master Alec,” said the official. “It may be the effect
of this illness, but it seems to me that—”
His words were cut short by
a sudden scream of “Help! Help! Murder!” With a thrill I recognised the voice
as that of my friend. I rushed madly from the room on to the landing. The
cries, which had sunk down into a hoarse, inarticulate shouting, came from the
room which we had first visited. I dashed in, and on into the dressing-room
beyond.
|
The two Cunninghams were bending over the prostrate figure of Sherlock
Holmes, the younger clutching his throat with both hands, while the elder
seemed to be twisting one of his wrists. In an instant the three of us had torn
them away from him, and Holmes staggered to his feet, very pale and evidently
greatly exhausted.
“Arrest these men,
Inspector,” he gasped.
“On what charge?”
“That of murdering their
coachman, William Kirwan.”
The Inspector stared about
him in bewilderment. “Oh, come now, Mr. Holmes,” said he at last, “I'm sure you
don't really mean to—”
“Tut, man, look at their
faces!” cried Holmes, curtly.
Never, certainly, have I
seen a plainer confession of guilt upon human countenances. The older man
seemed numbed and dazed with a heavy, sullen expression upon his
strongly-marked face. The son, on the other hand, had dropped all that jaunty,
dashing style which had characterized him, and the ferocity of a dangerous wild
beast gleamed in his dark eyes and distorted his handsome features. The
Inspector said nothing, but, stepping to the door, he blew his whistle. Two of
his constables came at the call.
“I have no alternative, Mr.
Cunningham,” said he. “I trust that this may all prove to be an absurd mistake,
but you can see that—Ah, would you? Drop it!” He struck out with his hand, and
a revolver which the younger man was in the act of cocking clattered down upon
the floor.
“Keep that,” said Holmes,
quietly putting his foot upon it; “you will find it useful at the trial. But
this is what we really wanted.” He held up a little crumpled piece of paper.
“The remainder of the
sheet!” cried the Inspector.
“Precisely.”
“And where was it?”
“Where I was sure it must
be. I'll make the whole matter clear to you presently. I think, Colonel, that
you and Watson might return now, and I will be with you again in an hour at the
furthest. The Inspector and I must have a word with the prisoners, but you will
certainly see me back at luncheon time.”
Sherlock Holmes was as good
as his word, for about one o'clock he rejoined us in the Colonel's
smoking-room. He was accompanied by a little elderly gentleman, who was
introduced to me as the Mr. Acton whose house had been the scene of the original
burglary.
“I wished Mr. Acton to be
present while I demonstrated this small matter to you,” said Holmes, “for it is
natural that he should take a keen interest in the details. I am afraid, my
dear Colonel, that you must regret the hour that you took in such a stormy
petrel as I am.”
“On the contrary,” answered
the Colonel, warmly, “I consider it the greatest privilege to have been
permitted to study your methods of working. I confess that they quite surpass
my expectations, and that I am utterly unable to account for your result. I
have not yet seen the vestige of a clue.”
“I am afraid that my
explanation may disillusion you but it has always been my habit to hide none of
my methods, either from my friend Watson or from any one who might take an
intelligent interest in them. But, first, as I am rather shaken by the knocking
about which I had in the dressing-room, I think that I shall help myself to a
dash of your brandy, Colonel. My strength had been rather tried of late.”
“I trust that you had no
more of those nervous attacks.”
Sherlock Holmes laughed
heartily. “We will come to that in its turn,” said he. “I will lay an account
of the case before you in its due order, showing you the various points which
guided me in my decision. Pray interrupt me if there is any inference which is
not perfectly clear to you.
“It is of the highest
importance in the art of detection to be able to recognize, out of a number of
facts, which are incidental and which vital. Otherwise your energy and
attention must be dissipated instead of being concentrated. Now, in this case
there was not the slightest doubt in my mind from the first that the key of the
whole matter must be looked for in the scrap of paper in the dead man's hand.
“Before going into this, I
would draw your attention to the fact that, if Alec Cunningham's narrative was
correct, and if the assailant, after shooting William Kirwan, had instantly
fled, then it obviously could not be he who tore the paper from the dead man's
hand. But if it was not he, it must have been Alec Cunningham himself, for by
the time that the old man had descended several servants were upon the scene.
|
The point is a simple one, but the Inspector had overlooked it because he had
started with the supposition that these county magnates had had nothing to do
with the matter. Now, I make a point of never having any prejudices, and of
following docilely wherever fact may lead me, and so, in the very first stage
of the investigation, I found myself looking a little askance at the part which
had been played by Mr. Alec Cunningham.
“And now I made a very
careful examination of the corner of paper which the Inspector had submitted to
us. It was at once clear to me that it formed part of a very remarkable
document. Here it is. Do you not now observed something very suggestive about
it?”
“It has a very irregular
look,” said the Colonel.
“My dear sir,” cried
Holmes, “there cannot be the least doubt in the world that it has been written
by two persons doing alternate words. When I draw your attention to the strong
t's of ‘at’ and ‘to’, and ask you to compare them with the weak ones of
‘quarter’ and ‘twelve,’ you will instantly recognize the fact. A very brief
analysis of these four words would enable you to say with the utmost confidence
that the ‘learn’ and the ‘maybe’ are written in the stronger hand, and the
‘what’ in the weaker.”
“By Jove, it's as clear as
day!” cried the Colonel. “Why on earth should two men write a letter in such a
fashion?”
“Obviously the business was
a bad one, and one of the men who distrusted the other was determined that,
whatever was done, each should have an equal hand in it. Now, of the two men,
it is clear that the one who wrote the ‘at’ and ‘to’ was the ringleader.”
“How do you get at that?”
“We might deduce it from
the mere character of the one hand as compared with the other. But we have more
assured reasons than that for supposing it. If you examine this scrap with
attention you will come to the conclusion that the man with the stronger hand
wrote all his words first, leaving blanks for the other to fill up. These
blanks were not always sufficient, and you can see that the second man had a
squeeze to fit his ‘quarter’ in between the ‘at’ and the ‘to,’ showing that the
latter were already written. The man who wrote all his words first is
undoubtedly the man who planned the affair.”
“Excellent!” cried Mr.
Acton.
“But very superficial,”
said Holmes. “We come now, however, to a point which is of importance. You may
not be aware that the deduction of a man's age from his writing is one which
has been brought to considerable accuracy by experts. In normal cases one can
place a man in his true decade with tolerable confidence. I say normal cases,
because ill-health and physical weakness reproduce the signs of old age, even
when the invalid is a youth. In this case, looking at the bold, strong hand of
the one, and the rather broken-backed appearance of the other, which still
retains its legibility although the t's have begun to lose their crossing, we
can say that the one was a young man and the other was advanced in years
without being positively decrepit.”
“Excellent!” cried Mr.
Acton again.
“There is a further point,
however, which is subtler and of greater interest. There is something in common
between these hands. They belong to men who are blood-relatives. It may be most
obvious to you in the Greek e's, but to me there are many small points which
indicate the same thing. I have no doubt at all that a family mannerism can be
traced in these two specimens of writing. I am only, of course, giving you the
leading results now of my examination of the paper. There were twenty-three
other deductions which would be of more interest to experts than to you. They
all tended to deepen the impression upon my mind that the Cunninghams, father
and son, had written this letter.
“Having got so far, my next
step was, of course, to examine into the details of the crime, and to see how
far they would help us. I went up to the house with the Inspector, and saw all
that was to be seen. The wound upon the dead man was, as I was able to
determine with absolute confidence, fired from a revolver at the distance of
something over four yards.
|
There was no powder-blackening on the clothes.
Evidently, therefore, Alec Cunningham had lied when he said that the two men
were struggling when the shot was fired. Again, both father and son agreed as
to the place where the man escaped into the road. At that point, however, as it
happens, there is a broadish ditch, moist at the bottom. As there were no
indications of bootmarks about this ditch, I was absolutely sure not only that
the Cunninghams had again lied, but that there had never been any unknown man
upon the scene at all.
“And now I have to consider
the motive of this singular crime. To get at this, I endeavored first of all to
solve the reason of the original burglary at Mr. Acton's. I understood, from
something which the Colonel told us, that a lawsuit had been going on between
you, Mr. Acton, and the Cunninghams. Of course, it instantly occurred to me
that they had broken into your library with the intention of getting at some
document which might be of importance in the case.”
“Precisely so,” said Mr.
Acton. “There can be no possible doubt as to their intentions. I have the
clearest claim upon half of their present estate, and if they could have found
a single paper—which, fortunately, was in the strong-box of my solicitors—they
would undoubtedly have crippled our case.”
“There you are,” said
Holmes, smiling. “It was a dangerous, reckless attempt, in which I seem to
trace the influence of young Alec. Having found nothing they tried to divert
suspicion by making it appear to be an ordinary burglary, to which end they
carried off whatever they could lay their hands upon. That is all clear enough,
but there was much that was still obscure. What I wanted above all was to get
the missing part of that note. I was certain that Alec had torn it out of the
dead man's hand, and almost certain that he must have thrust it into the pocket
of his dressing-gown. Where else could he have put it? The only question was
whether it was still there. It was worth an effort to find out, and for that
object we all went up to the house.
“The Cunninghams joined us,
as you doubtless remember, outside the kitchen door. It was, of course, of the
very first importance that they should not be reminded of the existence of this
paper, otherwise they would naturally destroy it without delay. The Inspector
was about to tell them the importance which we attached to it when, by the luckiest
chance in the world, I tumbled down in a sort of fit and so changed the
conversation.”
“Good heavens!” cried the
Colonel, laughing, “do you mean to say all our sympathy was wasted and your fit
an imposture?”
“Speaking professionally,
it was admirably done,” cried I, looking in amazement at this man who was
forever confounding me with some new phase of his astuteness.
“It is an art which is
often useful,” said he. “When I recovered I managed, by a device which had
perhaps some little merit of ingenuity, to get old Cunningham to write the word
‘twelve,’ so that I might compare it with the ‘twelve’ upon the paper.”
“Oh, what an ass I have
been!” I exclaimed.
“I could see that you were
commiserating with me over my weakness,” said Holmes, laughing. “I was sorry to
cause you the sympathetic pain which I know that you felt. We then went
upstairs together, and having entered the room and seen the dressing-gown
hanging up behind the door, I contrived, by upsetting a table, to engage their
attention for the moment, and slipped back to examine the pockets. I had hardly
got the paper, however—which was, as I had expected, in one of them—when the
two Cunninghams were on me, and would, I verily believe, have murdered me then
and there but for your prompt and friendly aid. As it is, I feel that young
man's grip on my throat now, and the father has twisted my wrist round in the
effort to get the paper out of my hand. They saw that I must know all about it,
you see, and the sudden change from absolute security to complete despair made
them perfectly desperate.
“I had a little talk with
old Cunningham afterwards as to the motive of the crime. He was tractable
enough, though his son was a perfect demon, ready to blow out his own or
anybody else's brains if he could have got to his revolver. When Cunningham saw
that the case against him was so strong he lost all heart and made a clean
breast of everything. It seems that William had secretly followed his two
masters on the night when they made their raid upon Mr. Acton's, and having
thus got them into his power, proceeded, under threats of exposure, to levy
black-mail upon them. Mr. Alec, however, was a dangerous man to play games of
that sort with. It was a stroke of positive genius on his part to see in the
burglary scare which was convulsing the country side an opportunity of
plausibly getting rid of the man whom he feared. William was decoyed up and
shot, and had they only got the whole of the note and paid a little more
attention to detail in the accessories, it is very possible that suspicion
might never have been aroused.”
“And the note?” I asked.
Sherlock Holmes placed the
subjoined paper before us.
Paper which reads: If you
will only come around at quarter to twelve to the east gate you will learn what
will very much surprise you and may be of the greatest service to you and also
to Annie Morrison. But say nothing to anyone upon the matter
“It is very much the sort
of thing that I expected,” said he. “Of course, we do not yet know what the
relations may have been between Alec Cunningham, William Kirwan, and Annie
Morrison. The results shows that the trap was skillfully baited. I am sure that
you cannot fail to be delighted with the traces of heredity shown in the p's
and in the tails of the g's. The absence of the i-dots in the old man's writing
is also most characteristic. Watson, I think our quiet rest in the country has
been a distinct success, and I shall certainly return much invigorated to Baker
Street to-morrow.”
The Crooked Man
One summer night, a few
months after my marriage, I was seated by my own hearth smoking a last pipe and
nodding over a novel, for my day's work had been an exhausting one. My wife had
already gone upstairs, and the sound of the locking of the hall door some time
before told me that the servants had also retired. I had risen from my seat and
was knocking out the ashes of my pipe when I suddenly heard the clang of the
bell.
I looked at the clock. It
was a quarter to twelve. This could not be a visitor at so late an hour. A
patient, evidently, and possibly an all-night sitting. With a wry face I went
out into the hall and opened the door. To my astonishment it was Sherlock
Holmes who stood upon my step.
“Ah, Watson,” said he, “I
hoped that I might not be too late to catch you.”
“My dear fellow, pray come
in.”
“You look surprised, and no
wonder! Relieved, too, I fancy! Hum! You still smoke the Arcadia mixture of
your bachelor days then! There's no mistaking that fluffy ash upon your coat.
It's easy to tell that you have been accustomed to wear a uniform, Watson.
You'll never pass as a pure-bred civilian as long as you keep that habit of
carrying your handkerchief in your sleeve. Could you put me up tonight?”
“With pleasure.”
“You told me that you had
bachelor quarters for one, and I see that you have no gentleman visitor at
present. Your hat-stand proclaims as much.”
“I shall be delighted if
you will stay.”
|
“Thank you. I'll fill the
vacant peg then. Sorry to see that you've had the British workman in the house.
He's a token of evil. Not the drains, I hope?”
“No, the gas.”
“Ah! He has left two
nail-marks from his boot upon your linoleum just where the light strikes it.
No, thank you, I had some supper at Waterloo, but I'll smoke a pipe with you
with pleasure.”
I handed him my pouch, and
he seated himself opposite to me and smoked for some time in silence. I was
well aware that nothing but business of importance would have brought him to me
at such an hour, so I waited patiently until he should come round to it.
“I see that you are
professionally rather busy just now,” said he, glancing very keenly across at
me.
“Yes, I've had a busy day,”
I answered. “It may seem very foolish in your eyes,” I added, “but really I
don't know how you deduced it.”
Holmes chuckled to himself.
“I have the advantage of
knowing your habits, my dear Watson,” said he. “When your round is a short one
you walk, and when it is a long one you use a hansom. As I perceive that your
boots, although used, are by no means dirty, I cannot doubt that you are at
present busy enough to justify the hansom.”
“Excellent!” I cried.
“Elementary,” said he. “It
is one of those instances where the reasoner can produce an effect which seems
remarkable to his neighbor, because the latter has missed the one little point
which is the basis of the deduction. The same may be said, my dear fellow, for
the effect of some of these little sketches of yours, which is entirely
meretricious, depending as it does upon your retaining in your own hands some
factors in the problem which are never imparted to the reader. Now, at present
I am in the position of these same readers, for I hold in this hand several
threads of one of the strangest cases which ever perplexed a man's brain, and
yet I lack the one or two which are needful to complete my theory. But I'll
have them, Watson, I'll have them!” His eyes kindled and a slight flush sprang
into his thin cheeks. For an instant the veil had lifted upon his keen, intense
nature, but for an instant only. When I glanced again his face had resumed that
red-Indian composure which had made so many regard him as a machine rather than
a man.
“The problem presents
features of interest,” said he. “I may even say exceptional features of
interest. I have already looked into the matter, and have come, as I think,
within sight of my solution. If you could accompany me in that last step you
might be of considerable service to me.”
“I should be delighted.”
“Could you go as far as
Aldershot to-morrow?”
“I have no doubt Jackson
would take my practice.”
“Very good. I want to start
by the 11.10 from Waterloo.”
“That would give me time.”
“Then, if you are not too
sleepy, I will give you a sketch of what has happened, and of what remains to
be done.”
“I was sleepy before you
came. I am quite wakeful now.”
“I will compress the story
as far as may be done without omitting anything vital to the case. It is
conceivable that you may even have read some account of the matter. It is the
supposed murder of Colonel Barclay, of the Royal Munsters, at Aldershot, which
I am investigating.”
“I have heard nothing of
it.”
“It has not excited much
attention yet, except locally. The facts are only two days old. Briefly they
are these:
“The Royal Munsters is, as
you know, one of the most famous Irish regiments in the British army. It did
wonders both in the Crimea and the Mutiny, and has since that time
distinguished itself upon every possible occasion. It was commanded up to
Monday night by James Barclay, a gallant veteran, who started as a full
private, was raised to commissioned rank for his bravery at the time of the
Mutiny, and so lived to command the regiment in which he had once carried a
musket.
“Colonel Barclay had
married at the time when he was a sergeant, and his wife, whose maiden name was
Miss Nancy Devoy, was the daughter of a former color-sergeant in the same
corps. There was, therefore, as can be imagined, some little social friction
when the young couple (for they were still young) found themselves in their new
surroundings. They appear, however, to have quickly adapted themselves, and
Mrs. Barclay has always, I understand, been as popular with the ladies of the
regiment as her husband was with his brother officers. I may add that she was a
woman of great beauty, and that even now, when she has been married for upwards
of thirty years, she is still of a striking and queenly appearance.
“Colonel Barclay's family
life appears to have been a uniformly happy one. Major Murphy, to whom I owe
most of my facts, assures me that he has never heard of any misunderstanding between
the pair. On the whole, he thinks that Barclay's devotion to his wife was
greater than his wife's to Barclay. He was acutely uneasy if he were absent
from her for a day. She, on the other hand, though devoted and faithful, was
less obtrusively affectionate. But they were regarded in the regiment as the
very model of a middle-aged couple. There was absolutely nothing in their
mutual relations to prepare people for the tragedy which was to follow.
“Colonel Barclay himself
seems to have had some singular traits in his character. He was a dashing,
jovial old solder in his usual mood, but there were occasions on which he
seemed to show himself capable of considerable violence and vindictiveness.
This side of his nature, however, appears never to have been turned towards his
wife. Another fact, which had struck Major Murphy and three out of five of the
other officers with whom I conversed, was the singular sort of depression which
came upon him at times. As the major expressed it, the smile had often been struck
from his mouth, as if by some invisible hand, when he has been joining the
gaieties and chaff of the mess-table. For days on end, when the mood was on
him, he has been sunk in the deepest gloom. This and a certain tinge of
superstition were the only unusual traits in his character which his brother
officers had observed. The latter peculiarity took the form of a dislike to
being left alone, especially after dark. This puerile feature in a nature which
was conspicuously manly had often given rise to comment and conjecture.
“The first battalion of the
Royal Munsters (which is the old 117th) has been stationed at Aldershot for
some years. The married officers live out of barracks, and the Colonel has
during all this time occupied a villa called Lachine, about half a mile from
the north camp. The house stands in its own grounds, but the west side of it is
not more than thirty yards from the high-road. A coachman and two maids form
the staff of servants. These with their master and mistress were the sole occupants
of Lachine, for the Barclays had no children, nor was it usual for them to have
resident visitors.
“Now for the events at
Lachine between nine and ten on the evening of last Monday.
“Mrs. Barclay was, it
appears, a member of the Roman Catholic Church, and had interested herself very
much in the establishment of the Guild of St. George, which was formed in
connection with the Watt Street Chapel for the purpose of supplying the poor
with cast-off clothing. A meeting of the Guild had been held that evening at
eight, and Mrs.
|
Barclay had hurried over her dinner in order to be present at
it. When leaving the house she was heard by the coachman to make some
commonplace remark to her husband, and to assure him that she would be back
before very long. She then called for Miss Morrison, a young lady who lives in
the next villa, and the two went off together to their meeting. It lasted forty
minutes, and at a quarter-past nine Mrs. Barclay returned home, having left
Miss Morrison at her door as she passed.
“There is a room which is
used as a morning-room at Lachine. This faces the road and opens by a large
glass folding-door on to the lawn. The lawn is thirty yards across, and is only
divided from the highway by a low wall with an iron rail above it. It was into this
room that Mrs. Barclay went upon her return. The blinds were not down, for the
room was seldom used in the evening, but Mrs. Barclay herself lit the lamp and
then rang the bell, asking Jane Stewart, the house-maid, to bring her a cup of
tea, which was quite contrary to her usual habits. The Colonel had been sitting
in the dining-room, but hearing that his wife had returned he joined her in the
morning-room. The coachman saw him cross the hall and enter it. He was never
seen again alive.
“The tea which had been
ordered was brought up at the end of ten minutes; but the maid, as she
approached the door, was surprised to hear the voices of her master and
mistress in furious altercation. She knocked without receiving any answer, and
even turned the handle, but only to find that the door was locked upon the
inside. Naturally enough she ran down to tell the cook, and the two women with
the coachman came up into the hall and listened to the dispute which was still
raging. They all agreed that only two voices were to be heard, those of Barclay
and of his wife. Barclay's remarks were subdued and abrupt, so that none of
them were audible to the listeners. The lady's, on the other hand, were most
bitter, and when she raised her voice could be plainly heard. ‘You coward!’ she
repeated over and over again. ‘What can be done now? What can be done now? Give
me back my life. I will never so much as breathe the same air with you again!
You coward! You Coward!’ Those were scraps of her conversation, ending in a
sudden dreadful cry in the man's voice, with a crash, and a piercing scream
from the woman. Convinced that some tragedy had occurred, the coachman rushed
to the door and strove to force it, while scream after scream issued from
within. He was unable, however, to make his way in, and the maids were too
distracted with fear to be of any assistance to him. A sudden thought struck
him, however, and he ran through the hall door and round to the lawn upon which
the long French windows open. One side of the window was open, which I
understand was quite usual in the summer-time, and he passed without difficulty
into the room. His mistress had ceased to scream and was stretched insensible
upon a couch, while with his feet tilted over the side of an arm-chair, and his
head upon the ground near the corner of the fender, was lying the unfortunate
soldier stone dead in a pool of his own blood.
“Naturally, the coachman's
first thought, on finding that he could do nothing for his master, was to open
the door. But here an unexpected and singular difficulty presented itself. The
key was not in the inner side of the door, nor could he find it anywhere in the
room. He went out again, therefore, through the window, and having obtained the
help of a policeman and of a medical man, he returned. The lady, against whom
naturally the strongest suspicion rested, was removed to her room, still in a
state of insensibility. The Colonel's body was then placed upon the sofa, and a
careful examination made of the scene of the tragedy.
“The injury from which the
unfortunate veteran was suffering was found to be a jagged cut some two inches
long at the back part of his head, which had evidently been caused by a violent
blow from a blunt weapon. Nor was it difficult to guess what that weapon may
have been. Upon the floor, close to the body, was lying a singular club of hard
carved wood with a bone handle. The Colonel possessed a varied collection of
weapons brought from the different countries in which he had fought, and it is
conjectured by the police that his club was among his trophies. The servants
deny having seen it before, but among the numerous curiosities in the house it
is possible that it may have been overlooked. Nothing else of importance was
discovered in the room by the police, save the inexplicable fact that neither
upon Mrs. Barclay's person nor upon that of the victim nor in any part of the
room was the missing key to be found. The door had eventually to be opened by a
locksmith from Aldershot.
“That was the state of
things, Watson, when upon the Tuesday morning I, at the request of Major
Murphy, went down to Aldershot to supplement the efforts of the police. I think
that you will acknowledge that the problem was already one of interest, but my
observations soon made me realize that it was in truth much more extraordinary
than would at first sight appear.
“Before examining the room
I cross-questioned the servants, but only succeeded in eliciting the facts
which I have already stated. One other detail of interest was remembered by
Jane Stewart, the housemaid. You will remember that on hearing the sound of the
quarrel she descended and returned with the other servants. On that first
occasion, when she was alone, she says that the voices of her master and
mistress were sunk so low that she could hear hardly anything, and judged by
their tones rather than their words that they had fallen out. On my pressing
her, however, she remembered that she heard the word David uttered twice by the
lady. The point is of the utmost importance as guiding us towards the reason of
the sudden quarrel. The Colonel's name, you remember, was James.
“There was one thing in the
case which had made the deepest impression both upon the servants and the
police. This was the contortion of the Colonel's face. It had set, according to
their account, into the most dreadful expression of fear and horror which a
human countenance is capable of assuming. More than one person fainted at the
mere sight of him, so terrible was the effect. It was quite certain that he had
foreseen his fate, and that it had caused him the utmost horror. This, of
course, fitted in well enough with the police theory, if the Colonel could have
seen his wife making a murderous attack upon him. Nor was the fact of the wound
being on the back of his head a fatal objection to this, as he might have
turned to avoid the blow. No information could be got from the lady herself,
who was temporarily insane from an acute attack of brain-fever.
“From the police I learned
that Miss Morrison, who you remember went out that evening with Mrs. Barclay,
denied having any knowledge of what it was which had caused the ill-humor in
which her companion had returned.
“Having gathered these
facts, Watson, I smoked several pipes over them, trying to separate those which
were crucial from others which were merely incidental. There could be no
question that the most distinctive and suggestive point in the case was the
singular disappearance of the door-key. A most careful search had failed to
discover it in the room. Therefore it must have been taken from it. But neither
the Colonel nor the Colonel's wife could have taken it. That was perfectly
clear. Therefore a third person must have entered the room. And that third
person could only have come in through the window. It seemed to me that a
careful examination of the room and the lawn might possibly reveal some traces
of this mysterious individual. You know my methods, Watson. There was not one
of them which I did not apply to the inquiry. And it ended by my discovering traces,
but very different ones from those which I had expected. There had been a man
in the room, and he had crossed the lawn coming from the road. I was able to
obtain five very clear impressions of his foot-marks: one in the roadway
itself, at the point where he had climbed the low wall, two on the lawn, and
two very faint ones upon the stained boards near the window where he had
entered. He had apparently rushed across the lawn, for his toe-marks were much
deeper than his heels. But it was not the man who surprised me. It was his
companion.”
“His companion!”
Holmes pulled a large sheet
of tissue-paper out of his pocket and carefully unfolded it upon his knee.
|
“What do you make of that?”
he asked.
The paper was covered with
the tracings of the foot-marks of some small animal. It had five well-marked
foot-pads, an indication of long nails, and the whole print might be nearly as
large as a dessert-spoon.
“It's a dog,” said I.
“Did you ever hear of a dog
running up a curtain? I found distinct traces that this creature had done so.”
“A monkey, then?”
“But it is not the print of
a monkey.”
“What can it be, then?”
“Neither dog nor cat nor
monkey nor any creature that we are familiar with. I have tried to reconstruct
it from the measurements. Here are four prints where the beast has been
standing motionless. You see that it is no less than fifteen inches from
fore-foot to hind. Add to that the length of neck and head, and you get a creature
not much less than two feet long—probably more if there is any tail. But now
observe this other measurement. The animal has been moving, and we have the
length of its stride. In each case it is only about three inches. You have an
indication, you see, of a long body with very short legs attached to it. It has
not been considerate enough to leave any of its hair behind it. But its general
shape must be what I have indicated, and it can run up a curtain, and it is
carnivorous.”
“How do you deduce that?”
“Because it ran up the
curtain. A canary's cage was hanging in the window, and its aim seems to have
been to get at the bird.”
“Then what was the beast?”
“Ah, if I could give it a
name it might go a long way towards solving the case. On the whole, it was
probably some creature of the weasel and stoat tribe—and yet it is larger than
any of these that I have seen.”
“But what had it to do with
the crime?”
“That, also, is still
obscure. But we have learned a good deal, you perceive. We know that a man
stood in the road looking at the quarrel between the Barclays—the blinds were
up and the room lighted. We know, also, that he ran across the lawn, entered
the room, accompanied by a strange animal, and that he either struck the
Colonel or, as is equally possible, that the Colonel fell down from sheer
fright at the sight of him, and cut his head on the corner of the fender.
Finally, we have the curious fact that the intruder carried away the key with
him when he left.”
“Your discoveries seem to
have left the business more obscure that it was before,” said I.
“Quite so. They undoubtedly
showed that the affair was much deeper than was at first conjectured. I thought
the matter over, and I came to the conclusion that I must approach the case
from another aspect. But really, Watson, I am keeping you up, and I might just
as well tell you all this on our way to Aldershot to-morrow.”
“Thank you, you have gone
rather too far to stop.”
“It is quite certain that
when Mrs. Barclay left the house at half-past seven she was on good terms with
her husband. She was never, as I think I have said, ostentatiously
affectionate, but she was heard by the coachman chatting with the Colonel in a
friendly fashion. Now, it was equally certain that, immediately on her return,
she had gone to the room in which she was least likely to see her husband, had
flown to tea as an agitated woman will, and finally, on his coming in to her,
had broken into violent recriminations. Therefore something had occurred
between seven-thirty and nine o'clock which had completely altered her feelings
towards him. But Miss Morrison had been with her during the whole of that hour
and a half. It was absolutely certain, therefore, in spite of her denial, that
she must know something of the matter.
“My first conjecture was,
that possibly there had been some passages between this young lady and the old
soldier, which the former had now confessed to the wife. That would account for
the angry return, and also for the girl's denial that anything had occurred.
Nor would it be entirely incompatible with most of the words overhead. But
there was the reference to David, and there was the known affection of the
Colonel for his wife, to weigh against it, to say nothing of the tragic
intrusion of this other man, which might, of course, be entirely disconnected
with what had gone before. It was not easy to pick one's steps, but, on the
whole, I was inclined to dismiss the idea that there had been anything between
the Colonel and Miss Morrison, but more than ever convinced that the young lady
held the clue as to what it was which had turned Mrs. Barclay to hatred of her
husband. I took the obvious course, therefore, of calling upon Miss M., of
explaining to her that I was perfectly certain that she held the facts in her
possession, and of assuring her that her friend, Mrs. Barclay, might find
herself in the dock upon a capital charge unless the matter were cleared up.
“Miss Morrison is a little
ethereal slip of a girl, with timid eyes and blond hair, but I found her by no
means wanting in shrewdness and common-sense. She sat thinking for some time
after I had spoken, and then, turning to me with a brisk air of resolution, she
broke into a remarkable statement which I will condense for your benefit.
“‘I promised my friend that
I would say nothing of the matter, and a promise is a promise,’ said she; ‘but
if I can really help her when so serious a charge is laid against her, and when
her own mouth, poor darling, is closed by illness, then I think I am absolved
from my promise. I will tell you exactly what happened upon Monday evening.
“‘We were returning from
the Watt Street Mission about a quarter to nine o'clock. On our way we had to
pass through Hudson Street, which is a very quiet thoroughfare. There is only
one lamp in it, upon the left-hand side, and as we approached this lamp I saw a
man coming towards us with is back very bent, and something like a box slung
over one of his shoulders.
|
He appeared to be deformed, for he carried his head
low and walked with his knees bent. We were passing him when he raised his face
to look at us in the circle of light thrown by the lamp, and as he did so he
stopped and screamed out in a dreadful voice, “My God, it's Nancy!” Mrs.
Barclay turned as white as death, and would have fallen down had the
dreadful-looking creature not caught hold of her. I was going to call for the
police, but she, to my surprise, spoke quite civilly to the fellow.
“‘“I thought you had been
dead this thirty years, Henry,” said she, in a shaking voice.
“‘“So I have,” said he, and
it was awful to hear the tones that he said it in. He had a very dark, fearsome
face, and a gleam in his eyes that comes back to me in my dreams. His hair and
whiskers were shot with gray, and his face was all crinkled and puckered like a
withered apple.
“‘“Just walk on a little
way, dear,” said Mrs. Barclay; “I want to have a word with this man. There is
nothing to be afraid of.” She tried to speak boldly, but she was still deadly
pale and could hardly get her words out for the trembling of her lips.
“‘I did as she asked me,
and they talked together for a few minutes. Then she came down the street with
her eyes blazing, and I saw the crippled wretch standing by the lamp-post and
shaking his clenched fists in the air as if he were mad with rage. She never
said a word until we were at the door here, when she took me by the hand and
begged me to tell no one what had happened.
“‘“It's an old acquaintance
of mine who has come down in the world,” said she. When I promised her I would
say nothing she kissed me, and I have never seen her since. I have told you now
the whole truth, and if I withheld it from the police it is because I did not
realize then the danger in which my dear friend stood. I know that it can only
be to her advantage that everything should be known.’
“There was her statement,
Watson, and to me, as you can imagine, it was like a light on a dark night.
Everything which had been disconnected before began at once to assume its true
place, and I had a shadowy presentiment of the whole sequence of events. My
next step obviously was to find the man who had produced such a remarkable
impression upon Mrs. Barclay. If he were still in Aldershot it should not be a
very difficult matter. There are not such a very great number of civilians, and
a deformed man was sure to have attracted attention. I spent a day in the
search, and by evening—this very evening, Watson—I had run him down. The man's
name is Henry Wood, and he lives in lodgings in this same street in which the
ladies met him. He has only been five days in the place. In the character of a
registration-agent I had a most interesting gossip with his landlady. The man
is by trade a conjurer and performer, going round the canteens after nightfall,
and giving a little entertainment at each. He carries some creature about with
him in that box; about which the landlady seemed to be in considerable
trepidation, for she had never seen an animal like it. He uses it in some of
his tricks according to her account. So much the woman was able to tell me, and
also that it was a wonder the man lived, seeing how twisted he was, and that he
spoke in a strange tongue sometimes, and that for the last two nights she had
heard him groaning and weeping in his bedroom. He was all right, as far as
money went, but in his deposit he had given her what looked like a bad florin.
She showed it to me, Watson, and it was an Indian rupee.
“So now, my dear fellow,
you see exactly how we stand and why it is I want you. It is perfectly plain
that after the ladies parted from this man he followed them at a distance, that
he saw the quarrel between husband and wife through the window, that he rushed
in, and that the creature which he carried in his box got loose. That is all
very certain. But he is the only person in this world who can tell us exactly
what happened in that room.”
“And you intend to ask
him?”
“Most certainly—but in the
presence of a witness.”
“And I am the witness?”
“If you will be so good. If
he can clear the matter up, well and good. If he refuses, we have no
alternative but to apply for a warrant.”
“But how do you know he'll
be there when we return?”
“You may be sure that I
took some precautions. I have one of my Baker Street boys mounting guard over
him who would stick to him like a burr, go where he might. We shall find him in
Hudson Street to-morrow, Watson, and meanwhile I should be the criminal myself
if I kept you out of bed any longer.”
It was midday when we found
ourselves at the scene of the tragedy, and, under my companion's guidance, we
made our way at once to Hudson Street. In spite of his capacity for concealing
his emotions, I could easily see that Holmes was in a state of suppressed
excitement, while I was myself tingling with that half-sporting,
half-intellectual pleasure which I invariably experienced when I associated
myself with him in his investigations.
“This is the street,” said
he, as we turned into a short thoroughfare lined with plain two-storied brick
houses. “Ah, here is Simpson to report.”
“He's in all right, Mr.
Holmes,” cried a small street Arab, running up to us.
“Good, Simpson!” said
Holmes, patting him on the head. “Come along, Watson. This is the house.” He
sent in his card with a message that he had come on important business, and a
moment later we were face to face with the man whom we had come to see. In
spite of the warm weather he was crouching over a fire, and the little room was
like an oven. The man sat all twisted and huddled in his chair in a way which
gave an indescribably impression of deformity; but the face which he turned
towards us, though worn and swarthy, must at some time have been remarkable for
its beauty. He looked suspiciously at us now out of yellow-shot, bilious eyes,
and, without speaking or rising, he waved towards two chairs.
|
“Mr. Henry Wood, late of
India, I believe,” said Holmes, affably. “I've come over this little matter of
Colonel Barclay's death.”
“What should I know about
that?”
“That's what I want to
ascertain. You know, I suppose, that unless the matter is cleared up, Mrs.
Barclay, who is an old friend of yours, will in all probability be tried for
murder.”
The man gave a violent
start.
“I don't know who you are,”
he cried, “nor how you come to know what you do know, but will you swear that
this is true that you tell me?”
“Why, they are only waiting
for her to come to her senses to arrest her.”
“My God! Are you in the
police yourself?”
“No.”
“What business is it of
yours, then?”
“It's every man's business
to see justice done.”
“You can take my word that
she is innocent.”
“Then you are guilty.”
“No, I am not.”
“Who killed Colonel James
Barclay, then?”
“It was a just providence
that killed him. But, mind you this, that if I had knocked his brains out, as
it was in my heart to do, he would have had no more than his due from my hands.
If his own guilty conscience had not struck him down it is likely enough that I
might have had his blood upon my soul. You want me to tell the story. Well, I
don't know why I shouldn't, for there's no cause for me to be ashamed of it.
“It was in this way, sir.
You see me now with my back like a camel and by ribs all awry, but there was a
time when Corporal Henry Wood was the smartest man in the 117th foot. We were
in India then, in cantonments, at a place we'll call Bhurtee. Barclay, who died
the other day, was sergeant in the same company as myself, and the belle of the
regiment, ay, and the finest girl that ever had the breath of life between her
lips, was Nancy Devoy, the daughter of the color-sergeant. There were two men
that loved her, and one that she loved, and you'll smile when you look at this
poor thing huddled before the fire, and hear me say that it was for my good
looks that she loved me.
“Well, though I had her
heart, her father was set upon her marrying Barclay. I was a harum-scarum,
reckless lad, and he had had an education, and was already marked for the
sword-belt. But the girl held true to me, and it seemed that I would have had
her when the Mutiny broke out, and all hell was loose in the country.
“We were shut up in
Bhurtee, the regiment of us with half a battery of artillery, a company of
Sikhs, and a lot of civilians and women-folk. There were ten thousand rebels
round us, and they were as keen as a set of terriers round a rat-cage. About
the second week of it our water gave out, and it was a question whether we
could communicate with General Neill's column, which was moving up country. It
was our only chance, for we could not hope to fight our way out with all the
women and children, so I volunteered to go out and to warn General Neill of our
danger. My offer was accepted, and I talked it over with Sergeant Barclay, who
was supposed to know the ground better than any other man, and who drew up a
route by which I might get through the rebel lines. At ten o'clock the same
night I started off upon my journey. There were a thousand lives to save, but
it was of only one that I was thinking when I dropped over the wall that night.
|
“My way ran down a dried-up
watercourse, which we hoped would screen me from the enemy's sentries; but as I
crept round the corner of it I walked right into six of them, who were
crouching down in the dark waiting for me. In an instant I was stunned with a
blow and bound hand and foot. But the real blow was to my heart and not to my
head, for as I came to and listened to as much as I could understand of their
talk, I heard enough to tell me that my comrade, the very man who had arranged
the way that I was to take, had betrayed me by means of a native servant into
the hands of the enemy.
“Well, there's no need for
me to dwell on that part of it. You know now what James Barclay was capable of.
Bhurtee was relieved by Neill next day, but the rebels took me away with them
in their retreat, and it was many a long year before ever I saw a white face
again. I was tortured and tried to get away, and was captured and tortured
again. You can see for yourselves the state in which I was left. Some of them
that fled into Nepal took me with them, and then afterwards I was up past
Darjeeling. The hill-folk up there murdered the rebels who had me, and I became
their slave for a time until I escaped; but instead of going south I had to go
north, until I found myself among the Afghans. There I wandered about for many
a year, and at last came back to the Punjaub, where I lived mostly among the
natives and picked up a living by the conjuring tricks that I had learned. What
use was it for me, a wretched cripple, to go back to England or to make myself
known to my old comrades? Even my wish for revenge would not make me do that. I
had rather that Nancy and my old pals should think of Harry Wood as having died
with a straight back, than see him living and crawling with a stick like a
chimpanzee. They never doubted that I was dead, and I meant that they never
should. I heard that Barclay had married Nancy, and that he was rising rapidly
in the regiment, but even that did not make me speak.
“But when one gets old one
has a longing for home. For years I've been dreaming of the bright green fields
and the hedges of England. At last I determined to see them before I died. I
saved enough to bring me across, and then I came here where the soldiers are,
for I know their ways and how to amuse them and so earn enough to keep me.”
“Your narrative is most
interesting,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I have already heard of your meeting with
Mrs. Barclay, and your mutual recognition. You then, as I understand, followed
her home and saw through the window an altercation between her husband and her,
in which she doubtless cast his conduct to you in his teeth. Your own feelings
overcame you, and you ran across the lawn and broke in upon them.”
“I did, sir, and at the
sight of me he looked as I have never seen a man look before, and over he went
with his head on the fender. But he was dead before he fell. I read death on
his face as plain as I can read that text over the fire. The bare sight of me was
like a bullet through his guilty heart.”
“And then?”
“Then Nancy fainted, and I
caught up the key of the door from her hand, intending to unlock it and get
help. But as I was doing it it seemed to me better to leave it alone and get
away, for the thing might look black against me, and any way my secret would be
out if I were taken. In my haste I thrust the key into my pocket, and dropped
my stick while I was chasing Teddy, who had run up the curtain. When I got him
into his box, from which he had slipped, I was off as fast as I could run.”
“Who's Teddy?” asked
Holmes.
The man leaned over and
pulled up the front of a kind of hutch in the corner. In an instant out there
slipped a beautiful reddish-brown creature, thin and lithe, with the legs of a
stoat, a long, thin nose, and a pair of the finest red eyes that ever I saw in
an animal's head.
“It's a mongoose,” I cried.
“Well, some call them that,
and some call them ichneumon,” said the man. “Snake-catcher is what I call
them, and Teddy is amazing quick on cobras. I have one here without the fangs,
and Teddy catches it every night to please the folk in the canteen.
“Any other point, sir?”
“Well, we may have to apply
to you again if Mrs. Barclay should prove to be in serious trouble.”
“In that case, of course,
I'd come forward.”
“But if not, there is no
object in raking up this scandal against a dead man, foully as he has acted.
You have at least the satisfaction of knowing that for thirty years of his life
his conscience bitterly reproached him for this wicked deed. Ah, there goes
Major Murphy on the other side of the street. Good-bye, Wood. I want to learn
if anything has happened since yesterday.”
We were in time to overtake
the major before he reached the corner.
“Ah, Holmes,” he said: “I
suppose you have heard that all this fuss has come to nothing?”
“What then?”
|
“The inquest is just over.
The medical evidence showed conclusively that death was due to apoplexy. You
see it was quite a simple case after all.”
“Oh, remarkably
superficial,” said Holmes, smiling. “Come, Watson, I don't think we shall be
wanted in Aldershot any more.”
“There's one thing,” said
I, as we walked down to the station. “If the husband's name was James, and the
other was Henry, what was this talk about David?”
“That one word, my dear
Watson, should have told me the whole story had I been the ideal reasoner which
you are so fond of depicting. It was evidently a term of reproach.”
“Of reproach?”
“Yes; David strayed a
little occasionally, you know, and on one occasion in the same direction as
Sergeant James Barclay. You remember the small affair of Uriah and Bathsheba?
My biblical knowledge is a trifle rusty, I fear, but you will find the story in
the first or second of Samuel.”
The
Resident Patient
Glancing over the
somewhat incoherent series of Memoirs with which I have endeavored to
illustrate a few of the mental peculiarities of my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
I have been struck by the difficulty which I have experienced in picking out
examples which shall in every way answer my purpose. For in those cases in
which Holmes has performed some tour de force of analytical reasoning, and has
demonstrated the value of his peculiar methods of investigation, the facts
themselves have often been so slight or so commonplace that I could not feel
justified in laying them before the public. On the other hand, it has
frequently happened that he has been concerned in some research where the facts
have been of the most remarkable and dramatic character, but where the share
which he has himself taken in determining their causes has been less pronounced
than I, as his biographer, could wish. The small matter which I have chronicled
under the heading of “A Study in Scarlet,” and that other later one connected
with the loss of the Gloria Scott, may serve as examples of this Scylla and
Charybdis which are forever threatening the historian. It may be that in the
business of which I am now about to write the part which my friend played is
not sufficiently accentuated; and yet the whole train of circumstances is so
remarkable that I cannot bring myself to omit it entirely from this series.
It had been a close, rainy
day in October. Our blinds were half-drawn, and Holmes lay curled upon the
sofa, reading and re-reading a letter which he had received by the morning
post. For myself, my term of service in India had trained me to stand heat
better than cold, and a thermometer of 90 was no hardship. But the paper was
uninteresting. Parliament had risen. Everybody was out of town, and I yearned
for the glades of the New Forest or the shingle of Southsea. A depleted bank
account had caused me to postpone my holiday, and as to my companion, neither
the country nor the sea presented the slightest attraction to him. He loved to
lie in the very centre of five millions of people, with his filaments
stretching out and running through them, responsive to every little rumor or
suspicion of unsolved crime. Appreciation of Nature found no place among his
many gifts, and his only change was when he turned his mind from the evil-doer
of the town to track down his brother of the country.
I cannot be sure of the
exact date, for some of my memoranda upon the matter have been mislaid, but it
must have been towards the end of the first year during which Holmes and I
shared chambers in Baker Street. It was boisterous October weather, and we had
both remained indoors all day, I because I feared with my shaken health to face
the keen autumn wind, while he was deep in some of those abstruse chemical
investigations which absorbed him utterly as long as he was engaged upon them.
Towards evening, however, the breaking of a test-tube brought his research to a
premature ending, and he sprang up from his chair with an exclamation of
impatience and a clouded brow.
“A day's work ruined,
Watson,” said he, striding across to the window. “Ha! The stars are out and he
wind has fallen. What do you say to a ramble through London?”
|
I was weary of our little
sitting-room and gladly acquiesced. For three hours we strolled about together,
watching the ever-changing kaleidoscope of life as it ebbs and flows through
Fleet Street and the Strand. His characteristic talk, with its keen observance
of detail and subtle power of inference held me amused and enthralled. It was
ten o'clock before we reached Baker Street again. A brougham was waiting at our
door.
“Hum! A doctor's—general
practitioner, I perceive,” said Holmes. “Not been long in practice, but has had
a good deal to do. Come to consult us, I fancy! Lucky we came back!”
I was sufficiently
conversant with Holmes's methods to be able to follow his reasoning, and to see
that the nature and state of the various medical instruments in the wicker
basket which hung in the lamplight inside the brougham had given him the data
for his swift deduction. The light in our window above showed that this late
visit was indeed intended for us. With some curiosity as to what could have
sent a brother medico to us at such an hour, I followed Holmes into our
sanctum.
A pale, taper-faced man
with sandy whiskers rose up from a chair by the fire as we entered. His age may
not have been more than three or four and thirty, but his haggard expression
and unhealthy hue told of a life which has sapped his strength and robbed him
of his youth. His manner was nervous and shy, like that of a sensitive
gentleman, and the thin white hand which he laid on the mantelpiece as he rose
was that of an artist rather than of a surgeon. His dress was quiet and
sombre—a black frock-coat, dark trousers, and a touch of color about his
necktie.
“Good-evening, doctor,”
said Holmes, cheerily. “I am glad to see that you have only been waiting a very
few minutes.”
“You spoke to my coachman,
then?”
“No, it was the candle on
the side-table that told me. Pray resume your seat and let me know how I can
serve you.”
“My name is Doctor Percy
Trevelyan,” said our visitor, “and I live at 403 Brook Street.”
“Are you not the author of
a monograph upon obscure nervous lesions?” I asked.
His pale cheeks flushed
with pleasure at hearing that his work was known to me.
“I so seldom hear of the
work that I thought it was quite dead,” said he. “My publishers gave me a most
discouraging account of its sale. You are yourself, I presume, a medical man?”
“A retired army surgeon.”
“My own hobby has always
been nervous disease. I should wish to make it an absolute specialty, but, of
course, a man must take what he can get at first. This, however, is beside the
question, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I quite appreciate how valuable your time
is. The fact is that a very singular train of events has occurred recently at
my house in Brook Street, and to-night they came to such a head that I felt it
was quite impossible for me to wait another hour before asking for your advice
and assistance.”
Sherlock Holmes sat down
and lit his pipe. “You are very welcome to both,” said he. “Pray let me have a
detailed account of what the circumstances are which have disturbed you.”
“One or two of them are so
trivial,” said Dr. Trevelyan, “that really I am almost ashamed to mention them.
But the matter is so inexplicable, and the recent turn which it has taken is so
elaborate, that I shall lay it all before you, and you shall judge what is
essential and what is not.
“I am compelled, to begin
with, to say something of my own college career. I am a London University man,
you know, and I am sure that you will not think that I am unduly singing my own
praises if I say that my student career was considered by my professors to be a
very promising one. After I had graduated I continued to devote myself to
research, occupying a minor position in King's College Hospital, and I was
fortunate enough to excite considerable interest by my research into the
pathology of catalepsy, and finally to win the Bruce Pinkerton prize and medal
by the monograph on nervous lesions to which your friend has just alluded. I
should not go too far if I were to say that there was a general impression at
that time that a distinguished career lay before me.
“But the one great
stumbling-block lay in my want of capital. As you will readily understand, a
specialist who aims high is compelled to start in one of a dozen streets in the
Cavendish Square quarter, all of which entail enormous rents and furnishing expenses.
Besides this preliminary outlay, he must be prepared to keep himself for some
years, and to hire a presentable carriage and horse. To do this was quite
beyond my power, and I could only hope that by economy I might in ten years'
time save enough to enable me to put up my plate. Suddenly, however, an
unexpected incident opened up quite a new prospect to me.
“This was a visit from a
gentleman of the name of Blessington, who was a complete stranger to me. He
came up to my room one morning, and plunged into business in an instant.
“‘You are the same Percy
Trevelyan who has had so distinguished a career and won a great prize lately?’
said he.
“I bowed.
“‘Answer me frankly,’ he
continued, ‘for you will find it to your interest to do so. You have all the
cleverness which makes a successful man. Have you the tact?’
“I could not help smiling
at the abruptness of the question.
“‘I trust that I have my
share,’ I said.
“‘Any bad habits? Not drawn
towards drink, eh?’
“‘Really, sir!’ I cried.
“‘Quite right! That's all
right! But I was bound to ask. With all these qualities, why are you not in
practice?’
“I shrugged my shoulders.
“‘Come, come!’ said he, in
his bustling way. ‘It's the old story. More in your brains than in your pocket,
eh? What would you say if I were to start you in Brook Street?’
|
“I stared at him in
astonishment.
“‘Oh, it's for my sake, not
for yours,’ he cried. ‘I'll be perfectly frank with you, and if it suits you it
will suit me very well. I have a few thousands to invest, d'ye see, and I think
I'll sink them in you.’
“‘But why?’ I gasped.
“‘Well, it's just like any
other speculation, and safer than most.’
“‘What am I to do, then?’
“‘I'll tell you. I'll take
the house, furnish it, pay the maids, and run the whole place. All you have to
do is just to wear out your chair in the consulting-room. I'll let you have
pocket-money and everything. Then you hand over to me three quarters of what
you earn, and you keep the other quarter for yourself.’
“This was the strange
proposal, Mr. Holmes, with which the man Blessington approached me. I won't
weary you with the account of how we bargained and negotiated. It ended in my
moving into the house next Lady Day, and starting in practice on very much the
same conditions as he had suggested. He came himself to live with me in the
character of a resident patient. His heart was weak, it appears, and he needed
constant medical supervision. He turned the two best rooms of the first floor
into a sitting-room and bedroom for himself. He was a man of singular habits, shunning
company and very seldom going out. His life was irregular, but in one respect
he was regularity itself. Every evening, at the same hour, he walked into the
consulting-room, examined the books, put down five and three-pence for every
guinea that I had earned, and carried the rest off to the strong-box in his own
room.
“I may say with confidence
that he never had occasion to regret his speculation. From the first it was a
success. A few good cases and the reputation which I had won in the hospital
brought me rapidly to the front, and during the last few years I have made him
a rich man.
“So much, Mr. Holmes, for
my past history and my relations with Mr. Blessington. It only remains for me
now to tell you what has occurred to bring me here to-night.
“Some weeks ago Mr.
Blessington came down to me in, as it seemed to me, a state of considerable
agitation. He spoke of some burglary which, he said, had been committed in the
West End, and he appeared, I remember, to be quite unnecessarily excited about
it, declaring that a day should not pass before we should add stronger bolts to
our windows and doors. For a week he continued to be in a peculiar state of
restlessness, peering continually out of the windows, and ceasing to take the
short walk which had usually been the prelude to his dinner. From his manner it
struck me that he was in mortal dread of something or somebody, but when I
questioned him upon the point he became so offensive that I was compelled to
drop the subject. Gradually, as time passed, his fears appeared to die away,
and he had renewed his former habits, when a fresh event reduced him to the
pitiable state of prostration in which he now lies.
“What happened was this.
Two days ago I received the letter which I now read to you. Neither address nor
date is attached to it.
“‘A Russian nobleman who is
now resident in England,’ it runs, ‘would be glad to avail himself of the
professional assistance of Dr. Percy Trevelyan. He has been for some years a
victim to cataleptic attacks, on which, as is well known, Dr. Trevelyan is an
authority. He proposes to call at about quarter past six to-morrow evening, if
Dr. Trevelyan will make it convenient to be at home.’
“This letter interested me
deeply, because the chief difficulty in the study of catalepsy is the rareness
of the disease. You may believe, than, that I was in my consulting-room when,
at the appointed hour, the page showed in the patient.
He was an elderly man,
thin, demure, and common-place—by no means the conception one forms of a
Russian nobleman. I was much more struck by the appearance of his companion.
This was a tall young man, surprisingly handsome, with a dark, fierce face, and
the limbs and chest of a Hercules.
|
He had his hand under the other's arm as
they entered, and helped him to a chair with a tenderness which one would
hardly have expected from his appearance.
“‘You will excuse my coming
in, doctor,’ said he to me, speaking English with a slight lisp. ‘This is my
father, and his health is a matter of the most overwhelming importance to me.’
“I was touched by this
filial anxiety. ‘You would, perhaps, care to remain during the consultation?’
said I.
“‘Not for the world,’ he
cried with a gesture of horror. ‘It is more painful to me than I can express.
If I were to see my father in one of these dreadful seizures I am convinced
that I should never survive it. My own nervous system is an exceptionally
sensitive one. With your permission, I will remain in the waiting-room while
you go into my father's case.’
“To this, of course, I
assented, and the young man withdrew. The patient and I then plunged into a
discussion of his case, of which I took exhaustive notes. He was not remarkable
for intelligence, and his answers were frequently obscure, which I attributed
to his limited acquaintance with our language. Suddenly, however, as I sat
writing, he ceased to give any answer at all to my inquiries, and on my turning
towards him I was shocked to see that he was sitting bolt upright in his chair,
staring at me with a perfectly blank and rigid face. He was again in the grip
of his mysterious malady.
“My first feeling, as I
have just said, was one of pity and horror. My second, I fear, was rather one
of professional satisfaction. I made notes of my patient's pulse and
temperature, tested the rigidity of his muscles, and examined his reflexes.
There was nothing markedly abnormal in any of these conditions, which
harmonized with my former experiences. I had obtained good results in such
cases by the inhalation of nitrite of amyl, and the present seemed an admirable
opportunity of testing its virtues. The bottle was downstairs in my laboratory,
so leaving my patient seated in his chair, I ran down to get it. There was some
little delay in finding it—five minutes, let us say—and then I returned.
Imagine my amazement to find the room empty and the patient gone.
“Of course, my first act
was to run into the waiting-room. The son had gone also. The hall door had been
closed, but not shut. My page who admits patients is a new boy and by no means
quick. He waits downstairs, and runs up to show patients out when I ring the
consulting-room bell. He had heard nothing, and the affair remained a complete
mystery. Mr. Blessington came in from his walk shortly afterwards, but I did
not say anything to him upon the subject, for, to tell the truth, I have got in
the way of late of holding as little communication with him as possible.
“Well, I never thought that
I should see anything more of the Russian and his son, so you can imagine my
amazement when, at the very same hour this evening, they both came marching
into my consulting-room, just as they had done before.
“‘I feel that I owe you a
great many apologies for my abrupt departure yesterday, doctor,’ said my
patient.
“‘I confess that I was very
much surprised at it,’ said I.
“‘Well, the fact is,’ he
remarked, ‘that when I recover from these attacks my mind is always very
clouded as to all that has gone before. I woke up in a strange room, as it
seemed to me, and made my way out into the street in a sort of dazed way when
you were absent.’
“‘And I,’ said the son,
‘seeing my father pass the door of the waiting-room, naturally thought that the
consultation had come to an end. It was not until we had reached home that I
began to realize the true state of affairs.’
“‘Well,’ said I, laughing,
‘there is no harm done except that you puzzled me terribly; so if you, sir,
would kindly step into the waiting-room I shall be happy to continue our
consultation which was brought to so abrupt an ending.’
“For half an hour or so I
discussed that old gentleman's symptoms with him, and then, having prescribed
for him, I saw him go off upon the arm of his son.
“I have told you that Mr.
Blessington generally chose this hour of the day for his exercise. He came in
shortly afterwards and passed upstairs.
|
An instant later I heard him running
down, and he burst into my consulting-room like a man who is mad with panic.
“‘Who has been in my room?’
he cried.
“‘No one,’ said I.
“‘It's a lie!’ He yelled.
‘Come up and look!’
“I passed over the
grossness of his language, as he seemed half out of his mind with fear. When I
went upstairs with him he pointed to several footprints upon the light carpet.
“‘D'you mean to say those
are mine?’ he cried.
“They were certainly very
much larger than any which he could have made, and were evidently quite fresh.
It rained hard this afternoon, as you know, and my patients were the only
people who called. It must have been the case, then, that the man in the
waiting-room had, for some unknown reason, while I was busy with the other,
ascended to the room of my resident patient. Nothing has been touched or taken,
but there were the footprints to prove that the intrusion was an undoubted
fact.
“Mr. Blessington seemed
more excited over the matter than I should have thought possible, though of
course it was enough to disturb anybody's peace of mind. He actually sat crying
in an arm-chair, and I could hardly get him to speak coherently. It was his
suggestion that I should come round to you, and of course I at once saw the
propriety of it, for certainly the incident is a very singular one, though he
appears to completely overrate its importance. If you would only come back with
me in my brougham, you would at least be able to soothe him, though I can
hardly hope that you will be able to explain this remarkable occurrence.”
Sherlock Holmes had
listened to this long narrative with an intentness which showed me that his
interest was keenly aroused. His face was as impassive as ever, but his lids
had drooped more heavily over his eyes, and his smoke had curled up more
thickly from his pipe to emphasize each curious episode in the doctor's tale.
As our visitor concluded, Holmes sprang up without a word, handed me my hat,
picked his own from the table, and followed Dr. Trevelyan to the door. Within a
quarter of an hour we had been dropped at the door of the physician's residence
in Brook Street, one of those sombre, flat-faced houses which one associates
with a West-End practice. A small page admitted us, and we began at once to
ascend the broad, well-carpeted stair.
But a singular interruption
brought us to a standstill. The light at the top was suddenly whisked out, and
from the darkness came a reedy, quivering voice.
“I have a pistol,” it
cried. “I give you my word that I'll fire if you come any nearer.”
“This really grows
outrageous, Mr. Blessington,” cried Dr. Trevelyan.
“Oh, then it is you,
doctor,” said the voice, with a great heave of relief. “But those other
gentlemen, are they what they pretend to be?”
We were conscious of a long
scrutiny out of the darkness.
“Yes, yes, it's all right,”
said the voice at last. “You can come up, and I am sorry if my precautions have
annoyed you.”
He relit the stair gas as
he spoke, and we saw before us a singular-looking man, whose appearance, as
well as his voice, testified to his jangled nerves. He was very fat, but had
apparently at some time been much fatter, so that the skin hung about his face
in loose pouches, like the cheeks of a blood-hound. He was of a sickly color,
and his thin, sandy hair seemed to bristle up with the intensity of his
emotion.
|
In his hand he held a pistol, but he thrust it into his pocket as we
advanced.
“Good-evening, Mr. Holmes,”
said he. “I am sure I am very much obliged to you for coming round. No one ever
needed your advice more than I do. I suppose that Dr. Trevelyan has told you of
this most unwarrantable intrusion into my rooms.”
“Quite so,” said Holmes.
“Who are these two men Mr. Blessington, and why do they wish to molest you?”
“Well, well,” said the
resident patient, in a nervous fashion, “of course it is hard to say that. You
can hardly expect me to answer that, Mr. Holmes.”
“Do you mean that you don't
know?”
“Come in here, if you
please. Just have the kindness to step in here.”
He led the way into his
bedroom, which was large and comfortably furnished.
“You see that,” said he,
pointing to a big black box at the end of his bed. “I have never been a very
rich man, Mr. Holmes—never made but one investment in my life, as Dr. Trevelyan
would tell you. But I don't believe in bankers. I would never trust a banker,
Mr. Holmes. Between ourselves, what little I have is in that box, so you can
understand what it means to me when unknown people force themselves into my
rooms.”
Holmes looked at Blessington
in his questioning way and shook his head.
“I cannot possibly advise
you if you try to deceive me,” said he.
“But I have told you
everything.”
Holmes turned on his heel
with a gesture of disgust. “Good-night, Dr. Trevelyan,” said he.
“And no advice for me?”
cried Blessington, in a breaking voice.
“My advice to your, sir, is
to speak the truth.”
A minute later we were in
the street and walking for home. We had crossed Oxford Street and were half way
down Harley Street before I could get a word from my companion.
“Sorry to bring you out on
such a fool's errand, Watson,” he said at last. “It is an interesting case,
too, at the bottom of it.”
“I can make little of it,”
I confessed.
“Well, it is quite evident
that there are two men—more, perhaps, but at least two—who are determined for
some reason to get at this fellow Blessington. I have no doubt in my mind that
both on the first and on the second occasion that young man penetrated to
Blessington's room, while his confederate, by an ingenious device, kept the
doctor from interfering.”
“And the catalepsy?”
“A fraudulent imitation,
Watson, though I should hardly dare to hint as much to our specialist. It is a
very easy complaint to imitate. I have done it myself.”
“And then?”
“By the purest chance
Blessington was out on each occasion. Their reason for choosing so unusual an
hour for a consultation was obviously to insure that there should be no other
patient in the waiting-room. It just happened, however, that this hour
coincided with Blessington's constitutional, which seems to show that they were
not very well acquainted with his daily routine. Of course, if they had been
merely after plunder they would at least have made some attempt to search for
it. Besides, I can read in a man's eye when it is his own skin that he is
frightened for. It is inconceivable that this fellow could have made two such
vindictive enemies as these appear to be without knowing of it. I hold it,
therefore, to be certain that he does know who these men are, and that for reasons
of his own he suppresses it. It is just possible that to-morrow may find him in
a more communicative mood.”
“Is there not one
alternative,” I suggested, “grotesquely improbably, no doubt, but still just
conceivable? Might the whole story of the cataleptic Russian and his son be a
concoction of Dr. Trevelyan's, who has, for his own purposes, been in
Blessington's rooms?”
I saw in the gaslight that
Holmes wore an amused smile at this brilliant departure of mine.
“My dear fellow,” said he,
“it was one of the first solutions which occurred to me, but I was soon able to
corroborate the doctor's tale. This young man has left prints upon the
stair-carpet which made it quite superfluous for me to ask to see those which
he had made in the room. When I tell you that his shoes were square-toed
instead of being pointed like Blessington's, and were quite an inch and a third
longer than the doctor's, you will acknowledge that there can be no doubt as to
his individuality. But we may sleep on it now, for I shall be surprised if we
do not hear something further from Brook Street in the morning.”
Sherlock Holmes's prophecy
was soon fulfilled, and in a dramatic fashion. At half-past seven next morning,
in the first glimmer of daylight, I found him standing by my bedside in his
dressing-gown.
“There's a brougham waiting
for us, Watson,” said he.
“What's the matter, then?”
“The Brook Street
business.”
“Any fresh news?”
“Tragic, but ambiguous,”
said he, pulling up the blind. “Look at this—a sheet from a note-book, with
‘For God's sake come at once—P. T.,’ scrawled upon it in pencil. Our friend,
the doctor, was hard put to it when he wrote this. Come along, my dear fellow,
for it's an urgent call.”
In a quarter of an hour or
so we were back at the physician's house. He came running out to meet us with a
face of horror.
“Oh, such a business!” he
cried, with his hands to his temples.
“What then?”
“Blessington has committed
suicide!”
Holmes whistled.
“Yes, he hanged himself
during the night.”
We had entered, and the
doctor had preceded us into what was evidently his waiting-room.
“I really hardly know what
I am doing,” he cried. “The police are already upstairs. It has shaken me most
dreadfully.”
“When did you find it out?”
“He has a cup of tea taken
in to him early every morning. When the maid entered, about seven, there the
unfortunate fellow was hanging in the middle of the room. He had tied his cord
to the hook on which the heavy lamp used to hang, and he had jumped off from
the top of the very box that he showed us yesterday.”
Holmes stood for a moment
in deep thought.
“With your permission,”
said he at last, “I should like to go upstairs and look into the matter.”
We both ascended, followed
by the doctor.
It was a dreadful sight
which met us as we entered the bedroom door. I have spoken of the impression of
flabbiness which this man Blessington conveyed. As he dangled from the hook it
was exaggerated and intensified until he was scarce human in his appearance.
The neck was drawn out like a plucked chicken's, making the rest of him seem
the more obese and unnatural by the contrast. He was clad only in his long
night-dress, and his swollen ankles and ungainly feet protruded starkly from
beneath it. Beside him stood a smart-looking police-inspector, who was taking
notes in a pocket-book.
“Ah, Mr. Holmes,” said he,
heartily, as my friend entered, “I am delighted to see you.”
“Good-morning, Lanner,”
answered Holmes; “you won't think me an intruder, I am sure. Have you heard of
the events which led up to this affair?”
“Yes, I heard something of
them.”
“Have you formed any
opinion?”
“As far as I can see, the
man has been driven out of his senses by fright. The bed has been well slept
in, you see. There's his impression deep enough. It's about five in the
morning, you know, that suicides are most common. That would be about his time
for hanging himself. It seems to have been a very deliberate affair.”
“I should say that he has
been dead about three hours, judging by the rigidity of the muscles,” said I.
“Noticed anything peculiar
about the room?” asked Holmes.
“Found a screw-driver and
some screws on the wash-hand stand. Seems to have smoked heavily during the
night, too. Here are four cigar-ends that I picked out of the fireplace.”
“Hum!” said Holmes, “have
you got his cigar-holder?”
“No, I have seen none.”
“His cigar-case, then?”
“Yes, it was in his
coat-pocket.”
|
Holmes opened it and
smelled the single cigar which it contained.
“Oh, this is an Havana, and
these others are cigars of the peculiar sort which are imported by the Dutch
from their East Indian colonies. They are usually wrapped in straw, you know,
and are thinner for their length than any other brand.” He picked up the four
ends and examined them with his pocket-lens.
“Two of these have been
smoked from a holder and two without,” said he. “Two have been cut by a not
very sharp knife, and two have had the ends bitten off by a set of excellent
teeth. This is no suicide, Mr. Lanner. It is a very deeply planned and
cold-blooded murder.”
“Impossible!” cried the
inspector.
“And why?”
“Why should any one murder
a man in so clumsy a fashion as by hanging him?”
“That is what we have to
find out.”
“How could they get in?”
“Through the front door.”
“It was barred in the
morning.”
“Then it was barred after
them.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw their traces. Excuse
me a moment, and I may be able to give you some further information about it.”
He went over to the door,
and turning the lock he examined it in his methodical way. Then he took out the
key, which was on the inside, and inspected that also. The bed, the carpet, the
chairs the mantelpiece, the dead body, and the rope were each in turn examined,
until at last he professed himself satisfied, and with my aid and that of the
inspector cut down the wretched object and laid it reverently under a sheet.
“How about this rope?” he
asked.
“It is cut off this,” said
Dr. Trevelyan, drawing a large coil from under the bed. “He was morbidly
nervous of fire, and always kept this beside him, so that he might escape by
the window in case the stairs were burning.”
“That must have saved them
trouble,” said Holmes, thoughtfully. “Yes, the actual facts are very plain, and
I shall be surprised if by the afternoon I cannot give you the reasons for them
as well. I will take this photograph of Blessington, which I see upon the
mantelpiece, as it may help me in my inquiries.”
“But you have told us
nothing!” cried the doctor.
“Oh, there can be no doubt
as to the sequence of events,” said Holmes. “There were three of them in it:
the young man, the old man, and a third, to whose identity I have no clue. The
first two, I need hardly remark, are the same who masqueraded as the Russian
count and his son, so we can give a very full description of them. They were
admitted by a confederate inside the house. If I might offer you a word of
advice, Inspector, it would be to arrest the page, who, as I understand, has
only recently come into your service, Doctor.”
“The young imp cannot be
found,” said Dr. Trevelyan; “the maid and the cook have just been searching for
him.”
Holmes shrugged his
shoulders.
“He has played a not
unimportant part in this drama,” said he. “The three men having ascended the
stairs, which they did on tiptoe, the elder man first, the younger man second,
and the unknown man in the rear—”
“My dear Holmes!” I
ejaculated.
“Oh, there could be no
question as to the superimposing of the footmarks. I had the advantage of
learning which was which last night. They ascended, then, to Mr. Blessington's
room, the door of which they found to be locked. With the help of a wire,
however, they forced round the key. Even without the lens you will perceive, by
the scratches on this ward, where the pressure was applied.
“On entering the room their
first proceeding must have been to gag Mr. Blessington. He may have been
asleep, or he may have been so paralyzed with terror as to have been unable to
cry out. These walls are thick, and it is conceivable that his shriek, if he
had time to utter one, was unheard.
“Having secured him, it is
evident to me that a consultation of some sort was held. Probably it was
something in the nature of a judicial proceeding. It must have lasted for some
time, for it was then that these cigars were smoked. The older man sat in that
wicker chair; it was he who used the cigar-holder. The younger man sat over
yonder; he knocked his ash off against the chest of drawers. The third fellow
paced up and down. Blessington, I think, sat upright in the bed, but of that I
cannot be absolutely certain.
“Well, it ended by their
taking Blessington and hanging him. The matter was so prearranged that it is my
belief that they brought with them some sort of block or pulley which might
serve as a gallows. That screw-driver and those screws were, as I conceive, for
fixing it up. Seeing the hook, however they naturally saved themselves the
trouble. Having finished their work they made off, and the door was barred
behind them by their confederate.”
We had all listened with
the deepest interest to this sketch of the night's doings, which Holmes had
deduced from signs so subtle and minute that, even when he had pointed them out
to us, we could scarcely follow him in his reasoning. The inspector hurried
away on the instant to make inquiries about the page, while Holmes and I
returned to Baker Street for breakfast.
“I'll be back by three,”
said he, when we had finished our meal. “Both the inspector and the doctor will
meet me here at that hour, and I hope by that time to have cleared up any
little obscurity which the case may still present.”
Our visitors arrived at the
appointed time, but it was a quarter to four before my friend put in an
appearance. From his expression as he entered, however, I could see that all
had gone well with him.
“Any news, Inspector?”
“We have got the boy, sir.”
“Excellent, and I have got
the men.”
|
“You have got them!” we
cried, all three.
“Well, at least I have got
their identity. This so-called Blessington is, as I expected, well known at
headquarters, and so are his assailants. Their names are Biddle, Hayward, and
Moffat.”
“The Worthingdon bank
gang,” cried the inspector.
“Precisely,” said Holmes.
“Then Blessington must have
been Sutton.”
“Exactly,” said Holmes.
“Why, that makes it as
clear as crystal,” said the inspector.
But Trevelyan and I looked
at each other in bewilderment.
“You must surely remember
the great Worthingdon bank business,” said Holmes. “Five men were in it—these
four and a fifth called Cartwright. Tobin, the care-taker, was murdered, and
the thieves got away with seven thousand pounds. This was in 1875. They were
all five arrested, but the evidence against them was by no means conclusive.
This Blessington or Sutton, who was the worst of the gang, turned informer. On
his evidence Cartwright was hanged and the other three got fifteen years
apiece. When they got out the other day, which was some years before their full
term, they set themselves, as you perceive, to hunt down the traitor and to
avenge the death of their comrade upon him. Twice they tried to get at him and
failed; a third time, you see, it came off. Is there anything further which I
can explain, Dr. Trevelyan?”
“I think you have made it
all remarkable clear,” said the doctor. “No doubt the day on which he was
perturbed was the day when he had seen of their release in the newspapers.”
“Quite so. His talk about a
burglary was the merest blind.”
“But why could he not tell
you this?”
“Well, my dear sir, knowing
the vindictive character of his old associates, he was trying to hide his own
identity from everybody as long as he could. His secret was a shameful one, and
he could not bring himself to divulge it. However, wretch as he was, he was
still living under the shield of British law, and I have no doubt, Inspector,
that you will see that, though that shield may fail to guard, the sword of
justice is still there to avenge.”
Such were the singular
circumstances in connection with the Resident Patient and the Brook Street
Doctor. From that night nothing has been seen of the three murderers by the
police, and it is surmised at Scotland Yard that they were among the passengers
of the ill-fated steamer Norah Creina, which was lost some years ago with all
hands upon the Portuguese coast, some leagues to the north of Oporto. The
proceedings against the page broke down for want of evidence, and the Brook
Street Mystery, as it was called, has never until now been fully dealt with in
any public print.
The
Greek Interpreter
During my long and
intimate acquaintance with Mr. Sherlock Holmes I had never heard him refer to
his relations, and hardly ever to his own early life. This reticence upon his
part had increased the somewhat inhuman effect which he produced upon me, until
sometimes I found myself regarding him as an isolated phenomenon, a brain
without a heart, as deficient in human sympathy as he was pre-eminent in intelligence.
His aversion to women and his disinclination to form new friendships were both
typical of his unemotional character, but not more so than his complete
suppression of every reference to his own people. I had come to believe that he
was an orphan with no relatives living, but one day, to my very great surprise,
he began to talk to me about his brother.
It was after tea on a
summer evening, and the conversation, which had roamed in a desultory,
spasmodic fashion from golf clubs to the causes of the change in the obliquity
of the ecliptic, came round at last to the question of atavism and hereditary
aptitudes. The point under discussion was, how far any singular gift in an
individual was due to his ancestry and how far to his own early training.
“In your own case,” said I,
“from all that you have told me, it seems obvious that your faculty of
observation and your peculiar facility for deduction are due to your own
systematic training.”
“To some extent,” he
answered, thoughtfully. “My ancestors were country squires, who appear to have
led much the same life as is natural to their class. But, none the less, my
turn that way is in my veins, and may have come with my grandmother, who was
the sister of Vernet, the French artist. Art in the blood is liable to take the
strangest forms.”
“But how do you know that
it is hereditary?”
“Because my brother Mycroft
possesses it in a larger degree than I do.”
This was news to me indeed.
If there were another man with such singular powers in England, how was it that
neither police nor public had heard of him? I put the question, with a hint
that it was my companion's modesty which made him acknowledge his brother as
his superior. Holmes laughed at my suggestion.
“My dear Watson,” said he,
“I cannot agree with those who rank modesty among the virtues. To the logician
all things should be seen exactly as they are, and to underestimate one's self
is as much a departure from truth as to exaggerate one's own powers. When I
say, therefore, that Mycroft has better powers of observation than I, you may
take it that I am speaking the exact and literal truth.”
“Is he your junior?”
“Seven years my senior.”
“How comes it that he is
unknown?”
“Oh, he is very well known
in his own circle.”
“Where, then?”
|
“Well, in the Diogenes
Club, for example.”
I had never heard of the
institution, and my face must have proclaimed as much, for Sherlock Holmes
pulled out his watch.
“The Diogenes Club is the
queerest club in London, and Mycroft one of the queerest men. He's always there
from quarter to five to twenty to eight. It's six now, so if you care for a
stroll this beautiful evening I shall be very happy to introduce you to two
curiosities.”
Five minutes later we were
in the street, walking towards Regent's Circus.
“You wonder,” said my
companion, “why it is that Mycroft does not use his powers for detective work.
He is incapable of it.”
“But I thought you said—”
“I said that he was my
superior in observation and deduction. If the art of the detective began and
ended in reasoning from an arm-chair, my brother would be the greatest criminal
agent that ever lived. But he has no ambition and no energy. He will not even
go out of his way to verify his own solution, and would rather be considered
wrong than take the trouble to prove himself right. Again and again I have
taken a problem to him, and have received an explanation which has afterwards
proved to be the correct one. And yet he was absolutely incapable of working
out the practical points which must be gone into before a case could be laid
before a judge or jury.”
“It is not his profession,
then?”
“By no means. What is to me
a means of livelihood is to him the merest hobby of a dilettante. He has an
extraordinary faculty for figures, and audits the books in some of the
government departments. Mycroft lodges in Pall Mall, and he walks round the corner
into Whitehall every morning and back every evening. From year's end to year's
end he takes no other exercise, and is seen nowhere else, except only in the
Diogenes Club, which is just opposite his rooms.”
“I cannot recall the name.”
“Very likely not. There are
many men in London, you know, who, some from shyness, some from misanthropy,
have no wish for the company of their fellows. Yet they are not averse to
comfortable chairs and the latest periodicals. It is for the convenience of
these that the Diogenes Club was started, and it now contains the most
unsociable and unclubable men in town. No member is permitted to take the least
notice of any other one. Save in the Stranger's Room, no talking is, under any
circumstances, allowed, and three offences, if brought to the notice of the
committee, render the talker liable to expulsion. My brother was one of the
founders, and I have myself found it a very soothing atmosphere.”
We had reached Pall Mall as
we talked, and were walking down it from the St. James's end. Sherlock Holmes
stopped at a door some little distance from the Carlton, and, cautioning me not
to speak, he led the way into the hall. Through the glass paneling I caught a
glimpse of a large and luxurious room, in which a considerable number of men were
sitting about and reading papers, each in his own little nook. Holmes showed me
into a small chamber which looked out into Pall Mall, and then, leaving me for
a minute, he came back with a companion whom I knew could only be his brother.
|
Mycroft Holmes was a much
larger and stouter man than Sherlock. His body was absolutely corpulent, but
his face, though massive, had preserved something of the sharpness of
expression which was so remarkable in that of his brother. His eyes, which were
of a peculiarly light, watery gray, seemed to always retain that far-away,
introspective look which I had only observed in Sherlock's when he was exerting
his full powers.
“I am glad to meet you,
sir,” said he, putting out a broad, fat hand like the flipper of a seal. “I hear
of Sherlock everywhere since you became his chronicler. By the way, Sherlock, I
expected to see you round last week, to consult me over that Manor House case.
I thought you might be a little out of your depth.”
“No, I solved it,” said my
friend, smiling.
“It was Adams, of course.”
“Yes, it was Adams.”
“I was sure of it from the
first.” The two sat down together in the bow-window of the club. “To any one
who wishes to study mankind this is the spot,” said Mycroft. “Look at the
magnificent types! Look at these two men who are coming towards us, for
example.”
“The billiard-marker and
the other?”
“Precisely. What do you
make of the other?”
The two men had stopped
opposite the window. Some chalk marks over the waistcoat pocket were the only
signs of billiards which I could see in one of them. The other was a very
small, dark fellow, with his hat pushed back and several packages under his
arm.
“An old soldier, I
perceive,” said Sherlock.
“And very recently
discharged,” remarked the brother.
“Served in India, I see.”
“And a non-commissioned
officer.”
“Royal Artillery, I fancy,”
said Sherlock.
“And a widower.”
“But with a child.”
“Children, my dear boy,
children.”
“Come,” said I, laughing,
“this is a little too much.”
“Surely,” answered Holmes,
“it is not hard to say that a man with that bearing, expression of authority,
and sunbaked skin, is a soldier, is more than a private, and is not long from
India.”
“That he has not left the
service long is shown by his still wearing his ‘ammunition boots’, as they are
called,” observed Mycroft.
“He had not the cavalry
stride, yet he wore his hat on one side, as is shown by the lighter skin of
that side of his brow. His weight is against his being a sapper. He is in the
artillery.”
“Then, of course, his
complete mourning shows that he has lost some one very dear. The fact that he
is doing his own shopping looks as though it were his wife. He has been buying
things for children, you perceive. There is a rattle, which shows that one of
them is very young. The wife probably died in childbed. The fact that he has a
picture-book under his arm shows that there is another child to be thought of.”
I began to understand what
my friend meant when he said that his brother possessed even keener faculties
that he did himself. He glanced across at me and smiled. Mycroft took snuff
from a tortoise-shell box, and brushed away the wandering grains from his coat
front with a large, red silk handkerchief.
“By the way, Sherlock,”
said he, “I have had something quite after your own heart—a most singular
problem—submitted to my judgment. I really had not the energy to follow it up
save in a very incomplete fashion, but it gave me a basis for some pleasing
speculation. If you would care to hear the facts—”
“My dear Mycroft, I should
be delighted.”
The brother scribbled a
note upon a leaf of his pocket-book, and, ringing the bell, he handed it to the
waiter.
“I have asked Mr. Melas to
step across,” said he. “He lodges on the floor above me, and I have some slight
acquaintance with him, which led him to come to me in his perplexity. Mr. Melas
is a Greek by extraction, as I understand, and he is a remarkable linguist. He
earns his living partly as interpreter in the law courts and partly by acting
as guide to any wealthy Orientals who may visit the Northumberland Avenue
hotels. I think I will leave him to tell his very remarkable experience in his
own fashion.”
A few minutes later we were
joined by a short, stout man whose olive face and coal-black hair proclaimed
his Southern origin, though his speech was that of an educated Englishman. He
shook hands eagerly with Sherlock Holmes, and his dark eyes sparkled with pleasure
when he understood that the specialist was anxious to hear his story.
“I do not believe that the
police credit me—on my word, I do not,” said he in a wailing voice. “Just
because they have never heard of it before, they think that such a thing cannot
be. But I know that I shall never be easy in my mind until I know what has
become of my poor man with the sticking-plaster upon his face.”
“I am all attention,” said
Sherlock Holmes.
“This is Wednesday
evening,” said Mr. Melas. “Well then, it was Monday night—only two days ago,
you understand—that all this happened. I am an interpreter, as perhaps my
neighbor there has told you. I interpret all languages—or nearly all—but as I
am a Greek by birth and with a Grecian name, it is with that particular tongue
that I am principally associated. For many years I have been the chief Greek
interpreter in London, and my name is very well known in the hotels.
It happens not unfrequently
that I am sent for at strange hours by foreigners who get into difficulties, or
by travelers who arrive late and wish my services. I was not surprised,
therefore, on Monday night when a Mr. Latimer, a very fashionably dressed young
man, came up to my rooms and asked me to accompany him in a cab which was
waiting at the door. A Greek friend had come to see him upon business, he said,
and as he could speak nothing but his own tongue, the services of an
interpreter were indispensable. He gave me to understand that his house was
some little distance off, in Kensington, and he seemed to be in a great hurry,
bustling me rapidly into the cab when we had descended to the street.
“I say into the cab, but I
soon became doubtful as to whether it was not a carriage in which I found
myself. It was certainly more roomy than the ordinary four-wheeled disgrace to
London, and the fittings, though frayed, were of rich quality. Mr. Latimer
seated himself opposite to me and we started off through Charing Cross and up
the Shaftesbury Avenue. We had come out upon Oxford Street and I had ventured
some remark as to this being a roundabout way to Kensington, when my words were
arrested by the extraordinary conduct of my companion.
“He began by drawing a most
formidable-looking bludgeon loaded with lead from his pocket, and switching it
backward and forward several times, as if to test its weight and strength. Then
he placed it without a word upon the seat beside him.
|
Having done this, he drew
up the windows on each side, and I found to my astonishment that they were
covered with paper so as to prevent my seeing through them.
“‘I am sorry to cut off
your view, Mr. Melas,’ said he. ‘The fact is that I have no intention that you
should see what the place is to which we are driving. It might possibly be
inconvenient to me if you could find your way there again.’
“As you can imagine, I was
utterly taken aback by such an address. My companion was a powerful,
broad-shouldered young fellow, and, apart from the weapon, I should not have
had the slightest chance in a struggle with him.
“‘This is very
extraordinary conduct, Mr. Latimer,’ I stammered. ‘You must be aware that what
you are doing is quite illegal.’
“‘It is somewhat of a
liberty, no doubt,’ said he, ‘but we'll make it up to you. I must warn you,
however, Mr. Melas, that if at any time to-night you attempt to raise an alarm
or do anything which is against my interests, you will find it a very serious
thing. I beg you to remember that no one knows where you are, and that, whether
you are in this carriage or in my house, you are equally in my power.’
“His words were quiet, but
he had a rasping way of saying them which was very menacing. I sat in silence
wondering what on earth could be his reason for kidnapping me in this
extraordinary fashion. Whatever it might be, it was perfectly clear that there
was no possible use in my resisting, and that I could only wait to see what
might befall.
“For nearly two hours we
drove without my having the least clue as to where we were going. Sometimes the
rattle of the stones told of a paved causeway, and at others our smooth, silent
course suggested asphalt; but, save by this variation in sound, there was
nothing at all which could in the remotest way help me to form a guess as to
where we were. The paper over each window was impenetrable to light, and a blue
curtain was drawn across the glass work in front. It was a quarter-past seven
when we left Pall Mall, and my watch showed me that it was ten minutes to nine
when we at last came to a standstill. My companion let down the window, and I
caught a glimpse of a low, arched doorway with a lamp burning above it. As I
was hurried from the carriage it swung open, and I found myself inside the
house, with a vague impression of a lawn and trees on each side of me as I
entered. Whether these were private grounds, however, or bona-fide country was
more than I could possibly venture to say.
“There was a colored
gas-lamp inside which was turned so low that I could see little save that the
hall was of some size and hung with pictures. In the dim light I could make out
that the person who had opened the door was a small, mean-looking, middle-aged
man with rounded shoulders. As he turned towards us the glint of the light
showed me that he was wearing glasses.
“‘Is this Mr. Melas,
Harold?’ said he.
“‘Yes.’
“‘Well done, well done! No
ill-will, Mr. Melas, I hope, but we could not get on without you. If you deal
fair with us you'll not regret it, but if you try any tricks, God help you!’ He
spoke in a nervous, jerky fashion, and with little giggling laughs in between,
but somehow he impressed me with fear more than the other.
“‘What do you want with
me?’ I asked.
“‘Only to ask a few
questions of a Greek gentleman who is visiting us, and to let us have the
answers. But say no more than you are told to say, or—’ here came the nervous
giggle again—‘you had better never have been born.’
“As he spoke he opened a
door and showed the way into a room which appeared to be very richly furnished,
but again the only light was afforded by a single lamp half-turned down. The
chamber was certainly large, and the way in which my feet sank into the carpet
as I stepped across it told me of its richness. I caught glimpses of velvet
chairs, a high white marble mantel-piece, and what seemed to be a suit of
Japanese armor at one side of it. There was a chair just under the lamp, and
the elderly man motioned that I should sit in it. The younger had left us, but
he suddenly returned through another door, leading with him a gentleman clad in
some sort of loose dressing-gown who moved slowly towards us.
|
As he came into
the circle of dim light which enabled me to see him more clearly I was thrilled
with horror at his appearance. He was deadly pale and terribly emaciated, with
the protruding, brilliant eyes of a man whose spirit was greater than his
strength. But what shocked me more than any signs of physical weakness was that
his face was grotesquely criss-crossed with sticking-plaster, and that one
large pad of it was fastened over his mouth.
“‘Have you the slate,
Harold?’ cried the older man, as this strange being fell rather than sat down
into a chair. ‘Are his hands loose? Now, then, give him the pencil. You are to
ask the questions, Mr. Melas, and he will write the answers. Ask him first of
all whether he is prepared to sign the papers?’
“The man's eyes flashed
fire.
“‘Never!’ he wrote in Greek
upon the slate.
“‘On no condition?’ I
asked, at the bidding of our tyrant.
“‘Only if I see her married
in my presence by a Greek priest whom I know.’
“The man giggled in his
venomous way.
“‘You know what awaits you,
then?’
“‘I care nothing for
myself.’
“These are samples of the
questions and answers which made up our strange half-spoken, half-written
conversation. Again and again I had to ask him whether he would give in and
sign the documents. Again and again I had the same indignant reply. But soon a
happy thought came to me. I took to adding on little sentences of my own to
each question, innocent ones at first, to test whether either of our companions
knew anything of the matter, and then, as I found that they showed no signs I
played a more dangerous game. Our conversation ran something like this:
“‘You can do no good by
this obstinacy. Who are you?’
“‘I care not. I am a
stranger in London.’
“‘Your fate will be upon
your own head. How long have you been here?’
“‘Let it be so. Three
weeks.’
“‘The property can never be
yours. What ails you?’
“‘It shall not go to
villains. They are starving me.’
“‘You shall go free if you
sign. What house is this?’
“‘I will never sign. I do
not know.’
“‘You are not doing her any
service. What is your name?’
“‘Let me hear her say so.
Kratides.’
“‘You shall see her if you
sign. Where are you from?’
“‘Then I shall never see
her. Athens.’
“Another five minutes, Mr.
Holmes, and I should have wormed out the whole story under their very noses. My
very next question might have cleared the matter up, but at that instant the
door opened and a woman stepped into the room. I could not see her clearly
enough to know more than that she was tall and graceful, with black hair, and
clad in some sort of loose white gown.
“‘Harold,’ said she,
speaking English with a broken accent. ‘I could not stay away longer. It is so
lonely up there with only—Oh, my God, it is Paul!’
|
“These last words were in
Greek, and at the same instant the man with a convulsive effort tore the
plaster from his lips, and screaming out ‘Sophy! Sophy!’ rushed into the
woman's arms. Their embrace was but for an instant, however, for the younger
man seized the woman and pushed her out of the room, while the elder easily
overpowered his emaciated victim, and dragged him away through the other door.
For a moment I was left alone in the room, and I sprang to my feet with some
vague idea that I might in some way get a clue to what this house was in which
I found myself. Fortunately, however, I took no steps, for looking up I saw
that the older man was standing in the door-way with his eyes fixed upon me.
“‘That will do, Mr. Melas,’
said he. ‘You perceive that we have taken you into our confidence over some
very private business. We should not have troubled you, only that our friend
who speaks Greek and who began these negotiations has been forced to return to
the East. It was quite necessary for us to find some one to take his place, and
we were fortunate in hearing of your powers.’
“I bowed.
“‘There are five sovereigns
here,’ said he, walking up to me, ‘which will, I hope, be a sufficient fee. But
remember,’ he added, tapping me lightly on the chest and giggling, ‘if you
speak to a human soul about this—one human soul, mind—well, may God have mercy
upon your soul!’
“I cannot tell you the
loathing and horror with which this insignificant-looking man inspired me. I
could see him better now as the lamp-light shone upon him. His features were
peaky and sallow, and his little pointed beard was thready and ill-nourished.
He pushed his face forward as he spoke and his lips and eyelids were
continually twitching like a man with St. Vitus's dance. I could not help
thinking that his strange, catchy little laugh was also a symptom of some
nervous malady. The terror of his face lay in his eyes, however, steel gray,
and glistening coldly with a malignant, inexorable cruelty in their depths.
“‘We shall know if you
speak of this,’ said he. ‘We have our own means of information. Now you will
find the carriage waiting, and my friend will see you on your way.’
“I was hurried through the
hall and into the vehicle, again obtaining that momentary glimpse of trees and
a garden. Mr. Latimer followed closely at my heels, and took his place opposite
to me without a word. In silence we again drove for an interminable distance
with the windows raised, until at last, just after midnight, the carriage
pulled up.
“‘You will get down here,
Mr. Melas,’ said my companion. ‘I am sorry to leave you so far from your house,
but there is no alternative. Any attempt upon your part to follow the carriage
can only end in injury to yourself.’
“He opened the door as he
spoke, and I had hardly time to spring out when the coachman lashed the horse
and the carriage rattled away. I looked around me in astonishment. I was on
some sort of a heathy common mottled over with dark clumps of furze-bushes. Far
away stretched a line of houses, with a light here and there in the upper
windows. On the other side I saw the red signal-lamps of a railway.
|
“The carriage which had
brought me was already out of sight. I stood gazing round and wondering where
on earth I might be, when I saw some one coming towards me in the darkness. As
he came up to me I made out that he was a railway porter.
“‘Can you tell me what
place this is?’ I asked.
“‘Wandsworth Common,’ said
he.
“‘Can I get a train into
town?’
“‘If you walk on a mile or
so to Clapham Junction,’ said he, ‘you'll just be in time for the last to
Victoria.’
“So that was the end of my
adventure, Mr. Holmes. I do not know where I was, nor whom I spoke with, nor
anything save what I have told you. But I know that there is foul play going
on, and I want to help that unhappy man if I can. I told the whole story to Mr.
Mycroft Holmes next morning, and subsequently to the police.”
We all sat in silence for
some little time after listening to this extraordinary narrative. Then Sherlock
looked across at his brother.
“Any steps?” he asked.
Mycroft picked up the Daily
News, which was lying on the side-table.
“Anybody supplying any
information as to the whereabouts of a Greek gentleman named Paul Kratides,
from Athens, who is unable to speak English, will be rewarded. A similar reward
paid to any one giving information about a Greek lady whose first name is
Sophy. X 2473.
“That was in all the
dailies. No answer.”
“How about the Greek
Legation?”
“I have inquired. They know
nothing.”
“A wire to the head of the
Athens police, then?”
“Sherlock has all the
energy of the family,” said Mycroft, turning to me. “Well, you take the case up
by all means, and let me know if you do any good.”
“Certainly,” answered my
friend, rising from his chair. “I'll let you know, and Mr. Melas also. In the
meantime, Mr. Melas, I should certainly be on my guard, if I were you, for of
course they must know through these advertisements that you have betrayed
them.”
As we walked home together,
Holmes stopped at a telegraph office and sent off several wires.
“You see, Watson,” he
remarked, “our evening has been by no means wasted. Some of my most interesting
cases have come to me in this way through Mycroft. The problem which we have
just listened to, although it can admit of but one explanation, has still some distinguishing
features.”
“You have hopes of solving
it?”
“Well, knowing as much as
we do, it will be singular indeed if we fail to discover the rest. You must
yourself have formed some theory which will explain the facts to which we have
listened.”
“In a vague way, yes.”
“What was your idea, then?”
“It seemed to me to be
obvious that this Greek girl had been carried off by the young Englishman named
Harold Latimer.”
“Carried off from where?”
“Athens, perhaps.”
Sherlock Holmes shook his
head. “This young man could not talk a word of Greek. The lady could talk
English fairly well. Inference—that she had been in England some little time,
but he had not been in Greece.”
“Well, then, we will
presume that she had come on a visit to England, and that this Harold had
persuaded her to fly with him.”
“That is more probable.”
“Then the brother—for that,
I fancy, must be the relationship—comes over from Greece to interfere. He
imprudently puts himself into the power of the young man and his older
associate. They seize him and use violence towards him in order to make him
sign some papers to make over the girl's fortune—of which he may be trustee—to
them. This he refuses to do. In order to negotiate with him they have to get an
interpreter, and they pitch upon this Mr. Melas, having used some other one
before. The girl is not told of the arrival of her brother, and finds it out by
the merest accident.”
“Excellent, Watson!” cried
Holmes. “I really fancy that you are not far from the truth. You see that we
hold all the cards, and we have only to fear some sudden act of violence on
their part. If they give us time we must have them.”
“But how can we find where
this house lies?”
“Well, if our conjecture is
correct and the girl's name is or was Sophy Kratides, we should have no difficulty
in tracing her. That must be our main hope, for the brother is, of course, a
complete stranger. It is clear that some time has elapsed since this Harold
established these relations with the girl—some weeks, at any rate—since the
brother in Greece has had time to hear of it and come across. If they have been
living in the same place during this time, it is probable that we shall have
some answer to Mycroft's advertisement.”
We had reached our house in
Baker Street while we had been talking. Holmes ascended the stair first, and as
he opened the door of our room he gave a start of surprise. Looking over his
shoulder, I was equally astonished. His brother Mycroft was sitting smoking in
the arm-chair.
|
“Come in, Sherlock! Come
in, sir,” said he blandly, smiling at our surprised faces. “You don't expect
such energy from me, do you, Sherlock? But somehow this case attracts me.”
“How did you get here?”
“I passed you in a hansom.”
“There has been some new development?”
“I had an answer to my
advertisement.”
“Ah!”
“Yes, it came within a few
minutes of your leaving.”
“And to what effect?”
Mycroft Holmes took out a
sheet of paper.
“Here it is,” said he,
“written with a J pen on royal cream paper by a middle-aged man with a weak
constitution.
“Sir [he says]:
“In answer to your
advertisement of to-day's date, I beg to inform you that I know the young lady
in question very well. If you should care to call upon me I could give you some
particulars as to her painful history. She is living at present at The Myrtles,
Beckenham.
“Yours faithfully,
“J. Davenport.
“He writes from Lower
Brixton,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Do you not think that we might drive to him
now, Sherlock, and learn these particulars?”
“My dear Mycroft, the
brother's life is more valuable than the sister's story. I think we should call
at Scotland Yard for Inspector Gregson, and go straight out to Beckenham. We
know that a man is being done to death, and every hour may be vital.”
“Better pick up Mr. Melas
on our way,” I suggested. “We may need an interpreter.”
“Excellent,” said Sherlock
Holmes. “Send the boy for a four-wheeler, and we shall be off at once.” He
opened the table-drawer as he spoke, and I noticed that he slipped his revolver
into his pocket. “Yes,” said he, in answer to my glance; “I should say from
what we have heard, that we are dealing with a particularly dangerous gang.”
It was almost dark before
we found ourselves in Pall Mall, at the rooms of Mr. Melas. A gentleman had
just called for him, and he was gone.
“Can you tell me where?”
asked Mycroft Holmes.
“I don't know, sir,”
answered the woman who had opened the door; “I only know that he drove away
with the gentleman in a carriage.”
“Did the gentleman give a
name?”
“No, sir.”
“He wasn't a tall,
handsome, dark young man?”
“Oh, no, sir. He was a
little gentleman, with glasses, thin in the face, but very pleasant in his
ways, for he was laughing all the time that he was talking.”
“Come along!” cried
Sherlock Holmes, abruptly. “This grows serious,” he observed, as we drove to
Scotland Yard. “These men have got hold of Melas again. He is a man of no
physical courage, as they are well aware from their experience the other night.
This villain was able to terrorize him the instant that he got into his
presence. No doubt they want his professional services, but, having used him,
they may be inclined to punish him for what they will regard as his treachery.”
Our hope was that, by
taking train, we might get to Beckenham as soon or sooner than the carriage. On
reaching Scotland Yard, however, it was more than an hour before we could get
Inspector Gregson and comply with the legal formalities which would enable us
to enter the house. It was a quarter to ten before we reached London Bridge,
and half past before the four of us alighted on the Beckenham platform. A drive
of half a mile brought us to The Myrtles—a large, dark house standing back from
the road in its own grounds. Here we dismissed our cab, and made our way up the
drive together.
“The windows are all dark,”
remarked the inspector. “The house seems deserted.”
“Our birds are flown and
the nest empty,” said Holmes.
“Why do you say so?”
“A carriage heavily loaded
with luggage has passed out during the last hour.”
The inspector laughed. “I
saw the wheel-tracks in the light of the gate-lamp, but where does the luggage
come in?”
“You may have observed the
same wheel-tracks going the other way. But the outward-bound ones were very
much deeper—so much so that we can say for a certainty that there was a very
considerable weight on the carriage.”
“You get a trifle beyond me
there,” said the inspector, shrugging his shoulder. “It will not be an easy
door to force, but we will try if we cannot make some one hear us.”
He hammered loudly at the
knocker and pulled at the bell, but without any success. Holmes had slipped
away, but he came back in a few minutes.
“I have a window open,”
said he.
“It is a mercy that you are
on the side of the force, and not against it, Mr. Holmes,” remarked the
inspector, as he noted the clever way in which my friend had forced back the
catch. “Well, I think that under the circumstances we may enter without an
invitation.”
One after the other we made
our way into a large apartment, which was evidently that in which Mr. Melas had
found himself. The inspector had lit his lantern, and by its light we could see
the two doors, the curtain, the lamp, and the suit of Japanese mail as he had
described them. On the table lay two glasses, and empty brandy-bottle, and the
remains of a meal.
“What is that?” asked
Holmes, suddenly.
We all stood still and
listened. A low moaning sound was coming from somewhere over our heads. Holmes
rushed to the door and out into the hall. The dismal noise came from upstairs.
He dashed up, the inspector and I at his heels, while his brother Mycroft
followed as quickly as his great bulk would permit.
Three doors faced up upon
the second floor, and it was from the central of these that the sinister sounds
were issuing, sinking sometimes into a dull mumble and rising again into a
shrill whine. It was locked, but the key had been left on the outside. Holmes
flung open the door and rushed in, but he was out again in an instant, with his
hand to his throat.
|
“It's charcoal,” he cried.
“Give it time. It will clear.”
Peering in, we could see
that the only light in the room came from a dull blue flame which flickered
from a small brass tripod in the centre. It threw a livid, unnatural circle
upon the floor, while in the shadows beyond we saw the vague loom of two
figures which crouched against the wall. From the open door there reeked a
horrible poisonous exhalation which set us gasping and coughing. Holmes rushed
to the top of the stairs to draw in the fresh air, and then, dashing into the
room, he threw up the window and hurled the brazen tripod out into the garden.
“We can enter in a minute,”
he gasped, darting out again. “Where is a candle? I doubt if we could strike a
match in that atmosphere. Hold the light at the door and we shall get them out,
Mycroft. Now!”
With a rush we got to the
poisoned men and dragged them out into the well-lit hall. Both of them were
blue-lipped and insensible, with swollen, congested faces and protruding eyes.
Indeed, so distorted were their features that, save for his black beard and
stout figure, we might have failed to recognize in one of them the Greek
interpreter who had parted from us only a few hours before at the Diogenes
Club. His hands and feet were securely strapped together, and he bore over one
eye the marks of a violent blow. The other, who was secured in a similar
fashion, was a tall man in the last stage of emaciation, with several strips of
sticking-plaster arranged in a grotesque pattern over his face. He had ceased
to moan as we laid him down, and a glance showed me that for him at least our
aid had come too late. Mr. Melas, however, still lived, and in less than an
hour, with the aid of ammonia and brandy I had the satisfaction of seeing him
open his eyes, and of knowing that my hand had drawn him back from that dark
valley in which all paths meet.
It was a simple story which
he had to tell, and one which did but confirm our own deductions. His visitor,
on entering his rooms, had drawn a life-preserver from his sleeve, and had so
impressed him with the fear of instant and inevitable death that he had
kidnapped him for the second time. Indeed, it was almost mesmeric, the effect
which this giggling ruffian had produced upon the unfortunate linguist, for he
could not speak of him save with trembling hands and a blanched cheek. He had
been taken swiftly to Beckenham, and had acted as interpreter in a second
interview, even more dramatic than the first, in which the two Englishmen had
menaced their prisoner with instant death if he did not comply with their
demands. Finally, finding him proof against every threat, they had hurled him
back into his prison, and after reproaching Melas with his treachery, which
appeared from the newspaper advertisement, they had stunned him with a blow
from a stick, and he remembered nothing more until he found us bending over
him.
And this was the singular
case of the Grecian Interpreter, the explanation of which is still involved in
some mystery. We were able to find out, by communicating with the gentleman who
had answered the advertisement, that the unfortunate young lady came of a
wealthy Grecian family, and that she had been on a visit to some friends in
England. While there she had met a young man named Harold Latimer, who had
acquired an ascendancy over her and had eventually persuaded her to fly with
him. Her friends, shocked at the event, had contented themselves with informing
her brother at Athens, and had then washed their hands of the matter. The
brother, on his arrival in England, had imprudently placed himself in the power
of Latimer and of his associate, whose name was Wilson Kemp—a man of the
foulest antecedents. These two, finding that through his ignorance of the
language he was helpless in their hands, had kept him a prisoner, and had
endeavored by cruelty and starvation to make him sign away his own and his
sister's property. They had kept him in the house without the girl's knowledge,
and the plaster over the face had been for the purpose of making recognition
difficult in case she should ever catch a glimpse of him. Her feminine
perception, however, had instantly seen through the disguise when, on the
occasion of the interpreter's visit, she had seen him for the first time. The poor
girl, however, was herself a prisoner, for there was no one about the house
except the man who acted as coachman, and his wife, both of whom were tools of
the conspirators. Finding that their secret was out, and that their prisoner
was not to be coerced, the two villains with the girl had fled away at a few
hours' notice from the furnished house which they had hired, having first, as
they thought, taken vengeance both upon the man who had defied and the one who
had betrayed them.
Months afterwards a curious
newspaper cutting reached us from Buda-Pesth. It told how two Englishmen who
had been traveling with a woman had met with a tragic end. They had each been
stabbed, it seems, and the Hungarian police were of opinion that they had
quarreled and had inflicted mortal injuries upon each other. Holmes, however,
is, I fancy, of a different way of thinking, and holds to this day that, if one
could find the Grecian girl, one might learn how the wrongs of herself and her
brother came to be avenged.
The Naval Treaty
The July which
immediately succeeded my marriage was made memorable by three cases of
interest, in which I had the privilege of being associated with Sherlock Holmes
and of studying his methods. I find them recorded in my notes under the
headings of “The Adventure of the Second Stain,” “The Adventure of the Naval
Treaty,” and “The Adventure of the Tired Captain.” The first of these, however,
deals with interest of such importance and implicates so many of the first
families in the kingdom that for many years it will be impossible to make it
public. No case, however, in which Holmes was engaged has ever illustrated the
value of his analytical methods so clearly or has impressed those who were
associated with him so deeply. I still retain an almost verbatim report of the
interview in which he demonstrated the true facts of the case to Monsieur
Dubugue of the Paris police, and Fritz von Waldbaum, the well-known specialist
of Dantzig, both of whom had wasted their energies upon what proved to be
side-issues. The new century will have come, however, before the story can be
safely told. Meanwhile I pass on to the second on my list, which promised also
at one time to be of national importance, and was marked by several incidents
which give it a quite unique character.
During my school-days I had
been intimately associated with a lad named Percy Phelps, who was of much the
same age as myself, though he was two classes ahead of me. He was a very
brilliant boy, and carried away every prize which the school had to offer,
finishing his exploits by winning a scholarship which sent him on to continue
his triumphant career at Cambridge. He was, I remember, extremely well
connected, and even when we were all little boys together we knew that his
mother's brother was Lord Holdhurst, the great conservative politician. This
gaudy relationship did him little good at school. On the contrary, it seemed
rather a piquant thing to us to chevy him about the playground and hit him over
the shins with a wicket. But it was another thing when he came out into the
world. I heard vaguely that his abilities and the influences which he commanded
had won him a good position at the Foreign Office, and then he passed
completely out of my mind until the following letter recalled his existence:
Briarbrae, Woking.
My dear Watson:
I have no doubt that you
can remember “Tadpole” Phelps, who was in the fifth form when you were in the
third. It is possible even that you may have heard that through my uncle's
influence I obtained a good appointment at the Foreign Office, and that I was
in a situation of trust and honor until a horrible misfortune came suddenly to
blast my career.
There is no use writing of
the details of that dreadful event. In the event of your acceding to my request
it is probable that I shall have to narrate them to you. I have only just
recovered from nine weeks of brain-fever, and am still exceedingly weak. Do you
think that you could bring your friend Mr. Holmes down to see me? I should like
to have his opinion of the case, though the authorities assure me that nothing
more can be done. Do try to bring him down, and as soon as possible. Every
minute seems an hour while I live in this state of horrible suspense. Assure
him that if I have not asked his advice sooner it was not because I did not
appreciate his talents, but because I have been off my head ever since the blow
fell. Now I am clear again, though I dare not think of it too much for fear of
a relapse. I am still so weak that I have to write, as you see, by dictating.
Do try to bring him.
Your old school-fellow,
Percy Phelps.
There was something that
touched me as I read this letter, something pitiable in the reiterated appeals
to bring Holmes. So moved was I that even had it been a difficult matter I
should have tried it, but of course I knew well that Holmes loved his art, so
that he was ever as ready to bring his aid as his client could be to receive
it. My wife agreed with me that not a moment should be lost in laying the
matter before him, and so within an hour of breakfast-time I found myself back
once more in the old rooms in Baker Street.
|
Holmes was seated at his
side-table clad in his dressing-gown, and working hard over a chemical
investigation. A large curved retort was boiling furiously in the bluish flame
of a Bunsen burner, and the distilled drops were condensing into a two-litre
measure. My friend hardly glanced up as I entered, and I, seeing that his
investigation must be of importance, seated myself in an arm-chair and waited.
He dipped into this bottle or that, drawing out a few drops of each with his
glass pipette, and finally brought a test-tube containing a solution over to
the table. In his right hand he held a slip of litmus-paper.
“You come at a crisis,
Watson,” said he. “If this paper remains blue, all is well. If it turns red, it
means a man's life.” He dipped it into the test-tube and it flushed at once
into a dull, dirty crimson. “Hum! I thought as much!” he cried. “I will be at
your service in an instant, Watson. You will find tobacco in the Persian
slipper.” He turned to his desk and scribbled off several telegrams, which were
handed over to the page-boy. Then he threw himself down into the chair
opposite, and drew up his knees until his fingers clasped round his long, thin
shins.
“A very commonplace little
murder,” said he. “You've got something better, I fancy. You are the stormy
petrel of crime, Watson. What is it?”
I handed him the letter,
which he read with the most concentrated attention.
“It does not tell us very
much, does it?” he remarked, as he handed it back to me.
“Hardly anything.”
“And yet the writing is of
interest.”
“But the writing is not his
own.”
“Precisely. It is a
woman's.”
“A man's surely,” I cried.
“No, a woman's, and a woman
of rare character. You see, at the commencement of an investigation it is
something to know that your client is in close contact with some one who, for
good or evil, has an exceptional nature. My interest is already awakened in the
case. If you are ready we will start at once for Woking, and see this
diplomatist who is in such evil case, and the lady to whom he dictates his
letters.”
We were fortunate enough to
catch an early train at Waterloo, and in a little under an hour we found
ourselves among the fir-woods and the heather of Woking. Briarbrae proved to be
a large detached house standing in extensive grounds within a few minutes' walk
of the station. On sending in our cards we were shown into an elegantly
appointed drawing-room, where we were joined in a few minutes by a rather stout
man who received us with much hospitality. His age may have been nearer forty
than thirty, but his cheeks were so ruddy and his eyes so merry that he still
conveyed the impression of a plump and mischievous boy.
“I am so glad that you have
come,” said he, shaking our hands with effusion. “Percy has been inquiring for
you all morning. Ah, poor old chap, he clings to any straw! His father and his
mother asked me to see you, for the mere mention of the subject is very painful
to them.”
“We have had no details
yet,” observed Holmes. “I perceive that you are not yourself a member of the
family.”
Our acquaintance looked
surprised, and then, glancing down, he began to laugh.
“Of course you saw the J H
monogram on my locket,” said he. “For a moment I thought you had done something
clever. Joseph Harrison is my name, and as Percy is to marry my sister Annie I
shall at least be a relation by marriage. You will find my sister in his room,
for she has nursed him hand-and-foot this two months back. Perhaps we'd better
go in at once, for I know how impatient he is.”
The chamber in which we
were shown was on the same floor as the drawing-room. It was furnished partly
as a sitting and partly as a bedroom, with flowers arranged daintily in every
nook and corner. A young man, very pale and worn, was lying upon a sofa near
the open window, through which came the rich scent of the garden and the balmy
summer air. A woman was sitting beside him, who rose as we entered.
“Shall I leave, Percy?” she
asked.
He clutched her hand to
detain her. “How are you, Watson?” said he, cordially. “I should never have
known you under that moustache, and I dare say you would not be prepared to
swear to me. This I presume is your celebrated friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”
I introduced him in a few
words, and we both sat down. The stout young man had left us, but his sister
still remained with her hand in that of the invalid. She was a striking-looking
woman, a little short and thick for symmetry, but with a beautiful olive
complexion, large, dark, Italian eyes, and a wealth of deep black hair. Her
rich tints made the white face of her companion the more worn and haggard by
the contrast.
|
“I won't waste your time,”
said he, raising himself upon the sofa. “I'll plunge into the matter without
further preamble. I was a happy and successful man, Mr. Holmes, and on the eve
of being married, when a sudden and dreadful misfortune wrecked all my
prospects in life.
“I was, as Watson may have
told you, in the Foreign Office, and through the influences of my uncle, Lord
Holdhurst, I rose rapidly to a responsible position. When my uncle became
foreign minister in this administration he gave me several missions of trust,
and as I always brought them to a successful conclusion, he came at last to
have the utmost confidence in my ability and tact.
“Nearly ten weeks ago—to be
more accurate, on the twenty-third of May—he called me into his private room,
and, after complimenting me on the good work which I had done, he informed me
that he had a new commission of trust for me to execute.
“‘This,’ said he, taking a
gray roll of paper from his bureau, ‘is the original of that secret treaty
between England and Italy of which, I regret to say, some rumors have already
got into the public press. It is of enormous importance that nothing further
should leak out. The French or the Russian embassy would pay an immense sum to
learn the contents of these papers. They should not leave my bureau were it not
that it is absolutely necessary to have them copied. You have a desk in your
office?’
“‘Yes, sir.’
|
“‘Then take the treaty and
lock it up there. I shall give directions that you may remain behind when the
others go, so that you may copy it at your leisure without fear of being
overlooked. When you have finished, relock both the original and the draft in
the desk, and hand them over to me personally to-morrow morning.’
“I took the papers and—”
“Excuse me an instant,”
said Holmes. “Were you alone during this conversation?”
“Absolutely.”
“In a large room?”
“Thirty feet each way.”
“In the centre?”
“Yes, about it.”
“And speaking low?”
“My uncle's voice is always
remarkably low. I hardly spoke at all.”
“Thank you,” said Holmes,
shutting his eyes; “pray go on.”
“I did exactly what he
indicated, and waited until the other clerks had departed. One of them in my
room, Charles Gorot, had some arrears of work to make up, so I left him there
and went out to dine. When I returned he was gone. I was anxious to hurry my
work, for I knew that Joseph—the Mr. Harrison whom you saw just now—was in
town, and that he would travel down to Woking by the eleven-o'clock train, and
I wanted if possible to catch it.
“When I came to examine the
treaty I saw at once that it was of such importance that my uncle had been
guilty of no exaggeration in what he had said. Without going into details, I
may say that it defined the position of Great Britain towards the Triple
Alliance, and fore-shadowed the policy which this country would pursue in the
event of the French fleet gaining a complete ascendancy over that of Italy in
the Mediterranean. The questions treated in it were purely naval. At the end
were the signatures of the high dignitaries who had signed it. I glanced my
eyes over it, and then settled down to my task of copying.
“It was a long document,
written in the French language, and containing twenty-six separate articles. I
copied as quickly as I could, but at nine o'clock I had only done nine
articles, and it seemed hopeless for me to attempt to catch my train. I was
feeling drowsy and stupid, partly from my dinner and also from the effects of a
long day's work. A cup of coffee would clear my brain. A commissionaire remains
all night in a little lodge at the foot of the stairs, and is in the habit of
making coffee at his spirit-lamp for any of the officials who may be working
over time. I rang the bell, therefore, to summon him.
“To my surprise, it was a
woman who answered the summons, a large, coarse-faced, elderly woman, in an
apron. She explained that she was the commissionaire's wife, who did the
charing, and I gave her the order for the coffee.
“I wrote two more articles
and then, feeling more drowsy than ever, I rose and walked up and down the room
to stretch my legs. My coffee had not yet come, and I wondered what was the
cause of the delay could be. Opening the door, I started down the corridor to
find out. There was a straight passage, dimly lighted, which led from the room
in which I had been working, and was the only exit from it. It ended in a
curving staircase, with the commissionaire's lodge in the passage at the
bottom. Half way down this staircase is a small landing, with another passage
running into it at right angles. This second one leads by means of a second
small stair to a side door, used by servants, and also as a short cut by clerks
when coming from Charles Street. Here is a rough chart of the place.”
Sketch of the building
showing rooms and corridors
“Thank you. I think that I
quite follow you,” said Sherlock Holmes.
“It is of the utmost
importance that you should notice this point.
|
I went down the stairs and into
the hall, where I found the commissionaire fast asleep in his box, with the
kettle boiling furiously upon the spirit-lamp. I took off the kettle and blew
out the lamp, for the water was spurting over the floor. Then I put out my hand
and was about to shake the man, who was still sleeping soundly, when a bell
over his head rang loudly, and he woke with a start.
“‘Mr. Phelps, sir!’ said
he, looking at me in bewilderment.
“‘I came down to see if my
coffee was ready.’
“‘I was boiling the kettle
when I fell asleep, sir.’ He looked at me and then up at the still quivering
bell with an ever-growing astonishment upon his face.
“‘If you was here, sir,
then who rang the bell?’ he asked.
“‘The bell!’ I cried. ‘What
bell is it?’
“‘It's the bell of the room
you were working in.’
“A cold hand seemed to
close round my heart. Some one, then, was in that room where my precious treaty
lay upon the table. I ran frantically up the stair and along the passage. There
was no one in the corridors, Mr. Holmes. There was no one in the room. All was
exactly as I left it, save only that the papers which had been committed to my
care had been taken from the desk on which they lay. The copy was there, and
the original was gone.”
Holmes sat up in his chair
and rubbed his hands. I could see that the problem was entirely to his heart.
“Pray, what did you do then?” he murmured.
“I recognized in an instant
that the thief must have come up the stairs from the side door. Of course I
must have met him if he had come the other way.”
“You were satisfied that he
could not have been concealed in the room all the time, or in the corridor
which you have just described as dimly lighted?”
“It is absolutely
impossible. A rat could not conceal himself either in the room or the corridor.
There is no cover at all.”
“Thank you. Pray proceed.”
“The commissionaire, seeing
by my pale face that something was to be feared, had followed me upstairs. Now
we both rushed along the corridor and down the steep steps which led to Charles
Street. The door at the bottom was closed, but unlocked. We flung it open and
rushed out. I can distinctly remember that as we did so there came three chimes
from a neighboring clock. It was quarter to ten.”
“That is of enormous
importance,” said Holmes, making a note upon his shirt-cuff.
“The night was very dark,
and a thin, warm rain was falling. There was no one in Charles Street, but a
great traffic was going on, as usual, in Whitehall, at the extremity. We rushed
along the pavement, bare-headed as we were, and at the far corner we found a
policeman standing.
“‘A robbery has been
committed,’ I gasped. ‘A document of immense value has been stolen from the
Foreign Office. Has any one passed this way?’
“‘I have been standing here
for a quarter of an hour, sir,’ said he; ‘only one person has passed during
that time—a woman, tall and elderly, with a Paisley shawl.’
“‘Ah, that is only my
wife,’ cried the commissionaire; ‘has no one else passed?’
“‘No one.’
“‘Then it must be the other
way that the thief took,’ cried the fellow, tugging at my sleeve.
“But I was not satisfied,
and the attempts which he made to draw me away increased my suspicions.
“‘Which way did the woman
go?’ I cried.
“‘I don't know, sir. I noticed
her pass, but I had no special reason for watching her. She seemed to be in a
hurry.’
“‘How long ago was it?’
“‘Oh, not very many
minutes.’
“‘Within the last five?’
“‘Well, it could not be
more than five.’
“‘You're only wasting your
time, sir, and every minute now is of importance,’ cried the commissionaire;
‘take my word for it that my old woman has nothing to do with it, and come down
to the other end of the street. Well, if you won't, I will.’ And with that he
rushed off in the other direction.
“But I was after him in an
instant and caught him by the sleeve.
“‘Where do you live?’ said
I.
“‘16 Ivy Lane, Brixton,’ he
answered. ‘But don't let yourself be drawn away upon a false scent, Mr. Phelps.
Come to the other end of the street and let us see if we can hear of anything.’
“Nothing was to be lost by
following his advice. With the policeman we both hurried down, but only to find
the street full of traffic, many people coming and going, but all only too
eager to get to a place of safety upon so wet a night. There was no lounger who
could tell us who had passed.
“Then we returned to the
office, and searched the stairs and the passage without result. The corridor
which led to the room was laid down with a kind of creamy linoleum which shows
an impression very easily. We examined it very carefully, but found no outline
of any footmark.”
“Had it been raining all
evening?”
“Since about seven.”
“How is it, then, that the
woman who came into the room about nine left no traces with her muddy boots?”
“I am glad you raised the
point. It occurred to me at the time. The charwomen are in the habit of taking
off their boots at the commissionaire's office, and putting on list slippers.”
“That is very clear. There
were no marks, then, though the night was a wet one? The chain of events is
certainly one of extraordinary interest. What did you do next?”
“We examined the room also.
There is no possibility of a secret door, and the windows are quite thirty feet
from the ground. Both of them were fastened on the inside. The carpet prevents
any possibility of a trap-door, and the ceiling is of the ordinary whitewashed
kind. I will pledge my life that whoever stole my papers could only have come
through the door.”
“How about the fireplace?”
“They use none. There is a
stove. The bell-rope hangs from the wire just to the right of my desk. Whoever
rang it must have come right up to the desk to do it. But why should any
criminal wish to ring the bell? It is a most insoluble mystery.”
“Certainly the incident was
unusual. What were your next steps? You examined the room, I presume, to see if
the intruder had left any traces—any cigar-end or dropped glove or hairpin or
other trifle?”
“There was nothing of the
sort.”
“No smell?”
“Well, we never thought of
that.”
“Ah, a scent of tobacco
would have been worth a great deal to us in such an investigation.”
“I never smoke myself, so I
think I should have observed it if there had been any smell of tobacco. There
was absolutely no clue of any kind. The only tangible fact was that the
commissionaire's wife—Mrs. Tangey was the name—had hurried out of the place. He
could give no explanation save that it was about the time when the woman always
went home. The policeman and I agreed that our best plan would be to seize the
woman before she could get rid of the papers, presuming that she had them.
“The alarm had reached
Scotland Yard by this time, and Mr. Forbes, the detective, came round at once
and took up the case with a great deal of energy. We hired a hansom, and in
half an hour we were at the address which had been given to us. A young woman
opened the door, who proved to be Mrs. Tangey's eldest daughter. Her mother had
not come back yet, and we were shown into the front room to wait.
“About ten minutes later a
knock came at the door, and here we made the one serious mistake for which I
blame myself. Instead of opening the door ourselves, we allowed the girl to do
so. We heard her say, ‘Mother, there are two men in the house waiting to see
you,’ and an instant afterwards we heard the patter of feet rushing down the
passage. Forbes flung open the door, and we both ran into the back room or
kitchen, but the woman had got there before us. She stared at us with defiant
eyes, and then, suddenly recognizing me, an expression of absolute astonishment
came over her face.
|
“‘Why, if it isn't Mr.
Phelps, of the office!’ she cried.
“‘Come, come, who did you
think we were when you ran away from us?’ asked my companion.
“‘I thought you were the
brokers,’ said she, ‘we have had some trouble with a tradesman.’
“‘That's not quite good
enough,’ answered Forbes. ‘We have reason to believe that you have taken a
paper of importance from the Foreign Office, and that you ran in here to
dispose of it. You must come back with us to Scotland Yard to be searched.’
“It was in vain that she
protested and resisted. A four-wheeler was brought, and we all three drove back
in it. We had first made an examination of the kitchen, and especially of the
kitchen fire, to see whether she might have made away with the papers during
the instant that she was alone. There were no signs, however, of any ashes or
scraps. When we reached Scotland Yard she was handed over at once to the female
searcher. I waited in an agony of suspense until she came back with her report.
There were no signs of the papers.
“Then for the first time
the horror of my situation came in its full force. Hitherto I had been acting,
and action had numbed thought. I had been so confident of regaining the treaty
at once that I had not dared to think of what would be the consequence if I
failed to do so. But now there was nothing more to be done, and I had leisure
to realize my position. It was horrible. Watson there would tell you that I was
a nervous, sensitive boy at school. It is my nature. I thought of my uncle and
of his colleagues in the Cabinet, of the shame which I had brought upon him,
upon myself, upon every one connected with me. What though I was the victim of
an extraordinary accident? No allowance is made for accidents where diplomatic
interests are at stake. I was ruined, shamefully, hopelessly ruined. I don't
know what I did. I fancy I must have made a scene. I have a dim recollection of
a group of officials who crowded round me, endeavoring to soothe me. One of
them drove down with me to Waterloo, and saw me into the Woking train. I
believe that he would have come all the way had it not been that Dr. Ferrier,
who lives near me, was going down by that very train. The doctor most kindly
took charge of me, and it was well he did so, for I had a fit in the station,
and before we reached home I was practically a raving maniac.
“You can imagine the state
of things here when they were roused from their beds by the doctor's ringing
and found me in this condition. Poor Annie here and my mother were
broken-hearted. Dr. Ferrier had just heard enough from the detective at the
station to be able to give an idea of what had happened, and his story did not
mend matters. It was evident to all that I was in for a long illness, so Joseph
was bundled out of this cheery bedroom, and it was turned into a sick-room for
me. Here I have lain, Mr. Holmes, for over nine weeks, unconscious, and raving
with brain-fever. If it had not been for Miss Harrison here and for the
doctor's care I should not be speaking to you now. She has nursed me by day and
a hired nurse has looked after me by night, for in my mad fits I was capable of
anything. Slowly my reason has cleared, but it is only during the last three
days that my memory has quite returned. Sometimes I wish that it never had. The
first thing that I did was to wire to Mr. Forbes, who had the case in hand. He
came out, and assures me that, though everything has been done, no trace of a
clue has been discovered. The commissionaire and his wife have been examined in
every way without any light being thrown upon the matter. The suspicions of the
police then rested upon young Gorot, who, as you may remember, stayed over time
in the office that night. His remaining behind and his French name were really
the only two points which could suggest suspicion; but, as a matter of fact, I
did not begin work until he had gone, and his people are of Huguenot
extraction, but as English in sympathy and tradition as you and I are. Nothing
was found to implicate him in any way, and there the matter dropped. I turn to
you, Mr. Holmes, as absolutely my last hope. If you fail me, then my honor as
well as my position are forever forfeited.”
The invalid sank back upon
his cushions, tired out by this long recital, while his nurse poured him out a
glass of some stimulating medicine. Holmes sat silently, with his head thrown
back and his eyes closed, in an attitude which might seem listless to a
stranger, but which I knew betokened the most intense self-absorption.
“You statement has been so
explicit,” said he at last, “that you have really left me very few questions to
ask. There is one of the very utmost importance, however. Did you tell any one
that you had this special task to perform?”
“No one.”
“Not Miss Harrison here,
for example?”
“No. I had not been back to
Woking between getting the order and executing the commission.”
“And none of your people
had by chance been to see you?”
“None.”
“Did any of them know their
way about in the office?”
“Oh, yes, all of them had
been shown over it.”
“Still, of course, if you
said nothing to any one about the treaty these inquiries are irrelevant.”
“I said nothing.”
“Do you know anything of
the commissionaire?”
“Nothing except that he is
an old soldier.”
“What regiment?”
“Oh, I have
heard—Coldstream Guards.”
|
“Thank you. I have no doubt
I can get details from Forbes. The authorities are excellent at amassing facts,
though they do not always use them to advantage. What a lovely thing a rose
is!”
He walked past the couch to
the open window, and held up the drooping stalk of a moss-rose, looking down at
the dainty blend of crimson and green. It was a new phase of his character to
me, for I had never before seen him show any keen interest in natural objects.
“There is nothing in which
deduction is so necessary as in religion,” said he, leaning with his back
against the shutters. “It can be built up as an exact science by the reasoner.
Our highest assurance of the goodness of Providence seems to me to rest in the
flowers. All other things, our powers our desires, our food, are all really
necessary for our existence in the first instance. But this rose is an extra.
Its smell and its color are an embellishment of life, not a condition of it. It
is only goodness which gives extras, and so I say again that we have much to
hope from the flowers.”
Percy Phelps and his nurse
looked at Holmes during this demonstration with surprise and a good deal of
disappointment written upon their faces. He had fallen into a reverie, with the
moss-rose between his fingers. It had lasted some minutes before the young lady
broke in upon it.
“Do you see any prospect of
solving this mystery, Mr. Holmes?” she asked, with a touch of asperity in her
voice.
“Oh, the mystery!” he
answered, coming back with a start to the realities of life. “Well, it would be
absurd to deny that the case is a very abstruse and complicated one, but I can
promise you that I will look into the matter and let you know any points which
may strike me.”
“Do you see any clue?”
“You have furnished me with
seven, but, of course, I must test them before I can pronounce upon their
value.”
“You suspect some one?”
“I suspect myself.”
“What!”
“Of coming to conclusions
too rapidly.”
“Then go to London and test
your conclusions.”
“Your advice is very
excellent, Miss Harrison,” said Holmes, rising. “I think, Watson, we cannot do
better. Do not allow yourself to indulge in false hopes, Mr. Phelps. The affair
is a very tangled one.”
“I shall be in a fever
until I see you again,” cried the diplomatist.
“Well, I'll come out by the
same train to-morrow, though it's more than likely that my report will be a
negative one.”
“God bless you for
promising to come,” cried our client. “It gives me fresh life to know that
something is being done. By the way, I have had a letter from Lord Holdhurst.”
“Ha! What did he say?”
“He was cold, but not
harsh. I dare say my severe illness prevented him from being that. He repeated
that the matter was of the utmost importance, and added that no steps would be
taken about my future—by which he means, of course, my dismissal—until my health
was restored and I had an opportunity of repairing my misfortune.”
“Well, that was reasonable
and considerate,” said Holmes. “Come, Watson, for we have a good day's work
before us in town.”
Mr. Joseph Harrison drove
us down to the station, and we were soon whirling up in a Portsmouth train.
Holmes was sunk in profound thought, and hardly opened his mouth until we had
passed Clapham Junction.
“It's a very cheery thing
to come into London by any of these lines which run high, and allow you to look
down upon the houses like this.”
|
I thought he was joking,
for the view was sordid enough, but he soon explained himself.
“Look at those big,
isolated clumps of building rising up above the slates, like brick islands in a
lead-colored sea.”
“The board-schools.”
“Light-houses, my boy!
Beacons of the future! Capsules with hundreds of bright little seeds in each,
out of which will spring the wise, better England of the future. I suppose that
man Phelps does not drink?”
“I should not think so.”
“Nor should I, but we are
bound to take every possibility into account. The poor devil has certainly got
himself into very deep water, and it's a question whether we shall ever be able
to get him ashore. What did you think of Miss Harrison?”
“A girl of strong
character.”
“Yes, but she is a good
sort, or I am mistaken. She and her brother are the only children of an
iron-master somewhere up Northumberland way. He got engaged to her when
traveling last winter, and she came down to be introduced to his people, with
her brother as escort. Then came the smash, and she stayed on to nurse her
lover, while brother Joseph, finding himself pretty snug, stayed on too. I've
been making a few independent inquiries, you see. But to-day must be a day of
inquiries.”
“My practice—” I began.
“Oh, if you find your own
cases more interesting than mine—” said Holmes, with some asperity.
“I was going to say that my
practice could get along very well for a day or two, since it is the slackest
time in the year.”
“Excellent,” said he,
recovering his good-humor. “Then we'll look into this matter together. I think
that we should begin by seeing Forbes. He can probably tell us all the details
we want until we know from what side the case is to be approached.”
“You said you had a clue?”
“Well, we have several, but
we can only test their value by further inquiry. The most difficult crime to
track is the one which is purposeless. Now this is not purposeless. Who is it
who profits by it? There is the French ambassador, there is the Russian, there
is who-ever might sell it to either of these, and there is Lord Holdhurst.”
“Lord Holdhurst!”
“Well, it is just
conceivable that a statesman might find himself in a position where he was not
sorry to have such a document accidentally destroyed.”
“Not a statesman with the
honorable record of Lord Holdhurst?”
“It is a possibility and we
cannot afford to disregard it. We shall see the noble lord to-day and find out
if he can tell us anything. Meanwhile I have already set inquiries on foot.”
“Already?”
“Yes, I sent wires from
Woking station to every evening paper in London. This advertisement will appear
in each of them.”
He handed over a sheet torn
from a note-book. On it was scribbled in pencil:
“£10 reward. The number of
the cab which dropped a fare at or about the door of the Foreign Office in
Charles Street at quarter to ten in the evening of May 23d. Apply 221b, Baker Street.”
“You are confident that the
thief came in a cab?”
“If not, there is no harm
done. But if Mr. Phelps is correct in stating that there is no hiding-place
either in the room or the corridors, then the person must have come from
outside. If he came from outside on so wet a night, and yet left no trace of
damp upon the linoleum, which was examined within a few minutes of his passing,
then it is exceeding probably that he came in a cab. Yes, I think that we may
safely deduce a cab.”
“It sounds plausible.”
“That is one of the clues
of which I spoke. It may lead us to something. And then, of course, there is
the bell—which is the most distinctive feature of the case. Why should the bell
ring? Was it the thief who did it out of bravado? Or was it some one who was
with the thief who did it in order to prevent the crime? Or was it an accident?
Or was it—?” He sank back into the state of intense and silent thought from
which he had emerged; but it seemed to me, accustomed as I was to his every
mood, that some new possibility had dawned suddenly upon him.
It was twenty past three
when we reached our terminus, and after a hasty luncheon at the buffet we
pushed on at once to Scotland Yard. Holmes had already wired to Forbes, and we
found him waiting to receive us—a small, foxy man with a sharp but by no means
amiable expression. He was decidedly frigid in his manner to us, especially
when he heard the errand upon which we had come.
|
“I've heard of your methods
before now, Mr. Holmes,” said he, tartly. “You are ready enough to use all the
information that the police can lay at your disposal, and then you try to
finish the case yourself and bring discredit on them.”
“On the contrary,” said
Holmes, “out of my last fifty-three cases my name has only appeared in four,
and the police have had all the credit in forty-nine. I don't blame you for not
knowing this, for you are young and inexperienced, but if you wish to get on in
your new duties you will work with me and not against me.”
“I'd be very glad of a hint
or two,” said the detective, changing his manner. “I've certainly had no credit
from the case so far.”
“What steps have you taken?”
“Tangey, the
commissionaire, has been shadowed. He left the Guards with a good character and
we can find nothing against him. His wife is a bad lot, though. I fancy she
knows more about this than appears.”
“Have you shadowed her?”
“We have set one of our
women on to her. Mrs. Tangey drinks, and our woman has been with her twice when
she was well on, but she could get nothing out of her.”
“I understand that they
have had brokers in the house?”
“Yes, but they were paid
off.”
“Where did the money come
from?”
“That was all right. His
pension was due. They have not shown any sign of being in funds.”
“What explanation did she
give of having answered the bell when Mr. Phelps rang for the coffee?”
“She said that he husband
was very tired and she wished to relieve him.”
“Well, certainly that would
agree with his being found a little later asleep in his chair. There is nothing
against them then but the woman's character. Did you ask her why she hurried
away that night? Her haste attracted the attention of the police constable.”
“She was later than usual
and wanted to get home.”
“Did you point out to her
that you and Mr. Phelps, who started at least twenty minutes after he, got home
before her?”
“She explains that by the
difference between a 'bus and a hansom.”
“Did she make it clear why,
on reaching her house, she ran into the back kitchen?”
“Because she had the money
there with which to pay off the brokers.”
“She has at least an answer
for everything. Did you ask her whether in leaving she met any one or saw any
one loitering about Charles Street?”
“She saw no one but the
constable.”
“Well, you seem to have
cross-examined her pretty thoroughly. What else have you done?”
“The clerk Gorot has been
shadowed all these nine weeks, but without result. We can show nothing against
him.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, we have nothing else
to go upon—no evidence of any kind.”
“Have you formed a theory
about how that bell rang?”
“Well, I must confess that
it beats me. It was a cool hand, whoever it was, to go and give the alarm like
that.”
“Yes, it was a queer thing
to do. Many thanks to you for what you have told me. If I can put the man into
your hands you shall hear from me. Come along, Watson.”
“Where are we going to now?”
I asked, as we left the office.
“We are now going to
interview Lord Holdhurst, the cabinet minister and future premier of England.”
We were fortunate in
finding that Lord Holdhurst was still in his chambers in Downing Street, and on
Holmes sending in his card we were instantly shown up. The statesman received
us with that old-fashioned courtesy for which he is remarkable, and seated us
on the two luxuriant lounges on either side of the fireplace.
|
Standing on the
rug between us, with his slight, tall figure, his sharp features, thoughtful
face, and curling hair prematurely tinged with gray, he seemed to represent
that not too common type, a nobleman who is in truth noble.
“Your name is very familiar
to me, Mr. Holmes,” said he, smiling. “And, of course, I cannot pretend to be
ignorant of the object of your visit. There has only been one occurrence in
these offices which could call for your attention. In whose interest are you
acting, may I ask?”
“In that of Mr. Percy
Phelps,” answered Holmes.
“Ah, my unfortunate nephew!
You can understand that our kinship makes it the more impossible for me to
screen him in any way. I fear that the incident must have a very prejudicial
effect upon his career.”
“But if the document is
found?”
“Ah, that, of course, would
be different.”
“I had one or two questions
which I wished to ask you, Lord Holdhurst.”
“I shall be happy to give
you any information in my power.”
“Was it in this room that
you gave your instructions as to the copying of the document?”
“It was.”
“Then you could hardly have
been overheard?”
“It is out of the
question.”
“Did you ever mention to
any one that it was your intention to give any one the treaty to be copied?”
“Never.”
“You are certain of that?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, since you never said
so, and Mr. Phelps never said so, and nobody else knew anything of the matter,
then the thief's presence in the room was purely accidental. He saw his chance
and he took it.”
The statesman smiled. “You
take me out of my province there,” said he.
Holmes considered for a
moment. “There is another very important point which I wish to discuss with
you,” said he. “You feared, as I understand, that very grave results might
follow from the details of this treaty becoming known.”
A shadow passed over the
expressive face of the statesman. “Very grave results indeed.”
“And have they occurred?”
“Not yet.”
“If the treaty had reached,
let us say, the French or Russian Foreign Office, you would expect to hear of
it?”
“I should,” said Lord Holdhurst,
with a wry face.
“Since nearly ten weeks
have elapsed, then, and nothing has been heard, it is not unfair to suppose
that for some reason the treaty has not reached them.”
Lord Holdhurst shrugged his
shoulders.
“We can hardly suppose, Mr.
Holmes, that the thief took the treaty in order to frame it and hang it up.”
“Perhaps he is waiting for
a better price.”
“If he waits a little
longer he will get no price at all. The treaty will cease to be secret in a few
months.”
“That is most important,”
said Holmes. “Of course, it is a possible supposition that the thief has had a
sudden illness—”
“An attack of brain-fever,
for example?” asked the statesman, flashing a swift glance at him.
“I did not say so,” said
Holmes, imperturbably. “And now, Lord Holdhurst, we have already taken up too
much of your valuable time, and we shall wish you good-day.”
“Every success to your
investigation, be the criminal who it may,” answered the nobleman, as he bowed
us out the door.
“He's a fine fellow,” said
Holmes, as we came out into Whitehall. “But he has a struggle to keep up his
position. He is far from rich and has many calls. You noticed, of course, that
his boots had been re-soled? Now, Watson, I won't detain you from your
legitimate work any longer. I shall do nothing more to-day, unless I have an
answer to my cab advertisement. But I should be extremely obliged to you if you
would come down with me to Woking to-morrow, by the same train which we took
yesterday.”
I met him accordingly next
morning and we traveled down to Woking together. He had had no answer to his
advertisement, he said, and no fresh light had been thrown upon the case. He
had, when he so willed it, the utter immobility of countenance of a red Indian,
and I could not gather from his appearance whether he was satisfied or not with
the position of the case. His conversation, I remember, was about the Bertillon
system of measurements, and he expressed his enthusiastic admiration of the
French savant.
We found our client still
under the charge of his devoted nurse, but looking considerably better than
before. He rose from the sofa and greeted us without difficulty when we
entered.
|
“Any news?” he asked,
eagerly.
“My report, as I expected,
is a negative one,” said Holmes. “I have seen Forbes, and I have seen your uncle,
and I have set one or two trains of inquiry upon foot which may lead to
something.”
“You have not lost heart,
then?”
“By no means.”
“God bless you for saying
that!” cried Miss Harrison. “If we keep our courage and our patience the truth
must come out.”
“We have more to tell you
than you have for us,” said Phelps, reseating himself upon the couch.
“I hoped you might have
something.”
“Yes, we have had an
adventure during the night, and one which might have proved to be a serious
one.” His expression grew very grave as he spoke, and a look of something akin
to fear sprang up in his eyes. “Do you know,” said he, “that I begin to believe
that I am the unconscious centre of some monstrous conspiracy, and that my life
is aimed at as well as my honor?”
“Ah!” cried Holmes.
“It sounds incredible, for
I have not, as far as I know, an enemy in the world. Yet from last night's
experience I can come to no other conclusion.”
“Pray let me hear it.”
“You must know that last
night was the very first night that I have ever slept without a nurse in the
room. I was so much better that I thought I could dispense with one. I had a
night-light burning, however. Well, about two in the morning I had sunk into a
light sleep when I was suddenly aroused by a slight noise. It was like the
sound which a mouse makes when it is gnawing a plank, and I lay listening to it
for some time under the impression that it must come from that cause. Then it
grew louder, and suddenly there came from the window a sharp metallic snick. I
sat up in amazement. There could be no doubt what the sounds were now. The
first ones had been caused by some one forcing an instrument through the slit
between the sashes, and the second by the catch being pressed back.
“There was a pause then for
about ten minutes, as if the person were waiting to see whether the noise had
awakened me. Then I heard a gentle creaking as the window was very slowly
opened. I could stand it no longer, for my nerves are not what they used to be.
I sprang out of bed and flung open the shutters. A man was crouching at the
window. I could see little of him, for he was gone like a flash. He was wrapped
in some sort of cloak which came across the lower part of his face. One thing
only I am sure of, and that is that he had some weapon in his hand. It looked
to me like a long knife. I distinctly saw the gleam of it as he turned to run.”
“This is most interesting,”
said Holmes. “Pray what did you do then?”
“I should have followed him
through the open window if I had been stronger. As it was, I rang the bell and
roused the house. It took me some little time, for the bell rings in the
kitchen and the servants all sleep upstairs. I shouted, however, and that
brought Joseph down, and he roused the others. Joseph and the groom found marks
on the bed outside the window, but the weather has been so dry lately that they
found it hopeless to follow the trail across the grass. There's a place, however,
on the wooden fence which skirts the road which shows signs, they tell me, as
if some one had got over, and had snapped the top of the rail in doing so. I
have said nothing to the local police yet, for I thought I had best have your
opinion first.”
This tale of our client's
appeared to have an extraordinary effect upon Sherlock Holmes. He rose from his
chair and paced about the room in uncontrollable excitement.
“Misfortunes never come
single,” said Phelps, smiling, though it was evident that his adventure had
somewhat shaken him.
“You have certainly had
your share,” said Holmes. “Do you think you could walk round the house with
me?”
“Oh, yes, I should like a
little sunshine. Joseph will come, too.”
“And I also,” said Miss
Harrison.
“I am afraid not,” said
Holmes, shaking his head. “I think I must ask you to remain sitting exactly
where you are.”
The young lady resumed her
seat with an air of displeasure. Her brother, however, had joined us and we set
off all four together. We passed round the lawn to the outside of the young
diplomatist's window. There were, as he had said, marks upon the bed, but they
were hopelessly blurred and vague. Holmes stopped over them for an instant, and
then rose shrugging his shoulders.
“I don't think any one
could make much of this,” said he. “Let us go round the house and see why this
particular room was chose by the burglar. I should have thought those larger
windows of the drawing-room and dining-room would have had more attractions for
him.”
“They are more visible from
the road,” suggested Mr. Joseph Harrison.
“Ah, yes, of course. There
is a door here which he might have attempted. What is it for?”
“It is the side entrance
for trades-people. Of course it is locked at night.”
“Have you ever had an alarm
like this before?”
“Never,” said our client.
“Do you keep plate in the
house, or anything to attract burglars?”
“Nothing of value.”
Holmes strolled round the
house with his hands in his pockets and a negligent air which was unusual with
him.
“By the way,” said he to
Joseph Harrison, “you found some place, I understand, where the fellow scaled
the fence. Let us have a look at that!”
|
The plump young man led us
to a spot where the top of one of the wooden rails had been cracked. A small
fragment of the wood was hanging down. Holmes pulled it off and examined it
critically.
“Do you think that was done
last night? It looks rather old, does it not?”
“Well, possibly so.”
“There are no marks of any
one jumping down upon the other side. No, I fancy we shall get no help here.
Let us go back to the bedroom and talk the matter over.”
Percy Phelps was walking
very slowly, leaning upon the arm of his future brother-in-law. Holmes walked
swiftly across the lawn, and we were at the open window of the bedroom long
before the others came up.
“Miss Harrison,” said
Holmes, speaking with the utmost intensity of manner, “you must stay where you
are all day. Let nothing prevent you from staying where you are all day. It is
of the utmost importance.”
“Certainly, if you wish it,
Mr. Holmes,” said the girl in astonishment.
“When you go to bed lock
the door of this room on the outside and keep the key. Promise to do this.”
“But Percy?”
“He will come to London
with us.”
“And am I to remain here?”
“It is for his sake. You
can serve him. Quick! Promise!”
She gave a quick nod of
assent just as the other two came up.
“Why do you sit moping
there, Annie?” cried her brother. “Come out into the sunshine!”
“No, thank you, Joseph. I
have a slight headache and this room is deliciously cool and soothing.”
“What do you propose now,
Mr. Holmes?” asked our client.
“Well, in investigating
this minor affair we must not lose sight of our main inquiry. It would be a
very great help to me if you would come up to London with us.”
“At once?”
“Well, as soon as you
conveniently can. Say in an hour.”
“I feel quite strong
enough, if I can really be of any help.”
“The greatest possible.”
“Perhaps you would like me
to stay there to-night?”
“I was just going to
propose it.”
“Then, if my friend of the
night comes to revisit me, he will find the bird flown. We are all in your
hands, Mr. Holmes, and you must tell us exactly what you would like done.
Perhaps you would prefer that Joseph came with us so as to look after me?”
“Oh, no; my friend Watson
is a medical man, you know, and he'll look after you. We'll have our lunch
here, if you will permit us, and then we shall all three set off for town
together.”
It was arranged as he suggested,
though Miss Harrison excused herself from leaving the bedroom, in accordance
with Holmes's suggestion. What the object of my friend's manoeuvres was I could
not conceive, unless it were to keep the lady away from Phelps, who, rejoiced
by his returning health and by the prospect of action, lunched with us in the
dining-room. Holmes had still more startling surprise for us, however, for,
after accompanying us down to the station and seeing us into our carriage, he
calmly announced that he had no intention of leaving Woking.
“There are one or two small
points which I should desire to clear up before I go,” said he. “Your absence,
Mr. Phelps, will in some ways rather assist me. Watson, when you reach London
you would oblige me by driving at once to Baker Street with our friend here,
and remaining with him until I see you again. It is fortunate that you are old
school-fellows, as you must have much to talk over. Mr. Phelps can have the
spare bedroom to-night, and I will be with you in time for breakfast, for there
is a train which will take me into Waterloo at eight.”
“But how about our
investigation in London?” asked Phelps, ruefully.
“We can do that to-morrow.
I think that just at present I can be of more immediate use here.”
“You might tell them at
Briarbrae that I hope to be back to-morrow night,” cried Phelps, as we began to
move from the platform.
|
“I hardly expect to go back
to Briarbrae,” answered Holmes, and waved his hand to us cheerily as we shot
out from the station.
Phelps and I talked it over
on our journey, but neither of us could devise a satisfactory reason for this
new development.
“I suppose he wants to find
out some clue as to the burglary last night, if a burglar it was. For myself, I
don't believe it was an ordinary thief.”
“What is your own idea,
then?”
“Upon my word, you may put
it down to my weak nerves or not, but I believe there is some deep political
intrigue going on around me, and that for some reason that passes my
understanding my life is aimed at by the conspirators. It sounds high-flown and
absurd, but consider the facts! Why should a thief try to break in at a bedroom
window, where there could be no hope of any plunder, and why should he come
with a long knife in his hand?”
“You are sure it was not a
house-breaker's jimmy?”
“Oh, no, it was a knife. I
saw the flash of the blade quite distinctly.”
“But why on earth should
you be pursued with such animosity?”
“Ah, that is the question.”
“Well, if Holmes takes the
same view, that would account for his action, would it not? Presuming that your
theory is correct, if he can lay his hands upon the man who threatened you last
night he will have gone a long way towards finding who took the naval treaty.
It is absurd to suppose that you have two enemies, one of whom robs you, while
the other threatens your life.”
“But Holmes said that he
was not going to Briarbrae.”
“I have known him for some
time,” said I, “but I never knew him do anything yet without a very good
reason,” and with that our conversation drifted off on to other topics.
But it was a weary day for
me. Phelps was still weak after his long illness, and his misfortune made him
querulous and nervous. In vain I endeavored to interest him in Afghanistan, in
India, in social questions, in anything which might take his mind out of the
groove. He would always come back to his lost treaty, wondering, guessing,
speculating, as to what Holmes was doing, what steps Lord Holdhurst was taking,
what news we should have in the morning. As the evening wore on his excitement
became quite painful.
“You have implicit faith in
Holmes?” he asked.
“I have seen him do some
remarkable things.”
“But he never brought light
into anything quite so dark as this?”
“Oh, yes, I have known him
solve questions which presented fewer clues than yours.”
“But not where such large
interests are at stake?”
“I don't know that. To my
certain knowledge he has acted on behalf of three of the reigning houses of
Europe in very vital matters.”
“But you know him well,
Watson. He is such an inscrutable fellow that I never quite know what to make
of him. Do you think he is hopeful? Do you think he expects to make a success
of it?”
“He has said nothing.”
“That is a bad sign.”
“On the contrary, I have
noticed that when he is off the trail he generally says so. It is when he is on
a scent and is not quite absolutely sure yet that it is the right one that he
is most taciturn. Now, my dear fellow, we can't help matters by making
ourselves nervous about them, so let me implore you to go to bed and so be
fresh for whatever may await us to-morrow.”
I was able at last to
persuade my companion to take my advice, though I knew from his excited manner
that there was not much hope of sleep for him. Indeed, his mood was infectious,
for I lay tossing half the night myself, brooding over this strange problem,
and inventing a hundred theories, each of which was more impossible than the
last. Why had Holmes remained at Woking? Why had he asked Miss Harrison to
remain in the sick-room all day? Why had he been so careful not to inform the
people at Briarbrae that he intended to remain near them? I cudgelled my brains
until I fell asleep in the endeavor to find some explanation which would cover
all these facts.
It was seven o'clock when I
awoke, and I set off at once for Phelps's room, to find him haggard and spent
after a sleepless night. His first question was whether Holmes had arrived yet.
“He'll be here when he
promised,” said I, “and not an instant sooner or later.”
And my words were true, for
shortly after eight a hansom dashed up to the door and our friend got out of
it. Standing in the window we saw that his left hand was swathed in a bandage
and that his face was very grim and pale. He entered the house, but it was some
little time before he came upstairs.
“He looks like a beaten
man,” cried Phelps.
I was forced to confess
that he was right. “After all,” said I, “the clue of the matter lies probably
here in town.”
Phelps gave a groan.
“I don't know how it is,”
said he, “but I had hoped for so much from his return. But surely his hand was
not tied up like that yesterday. What can be the matter?”
“You are not wounded,
Holmes?” I asked, as my friend entered the room.
“Tut, it is only a scratch
through my own clumsiness,” he answered, nodding his good-mornings to us. “This
case of yours, Mr. Phelps, is certainly one of the darkest which I have ever
investigated.”
“I feared that you would
find it beyond you.”
“It has been a most
remarkable experience.”
“That bandage tells of
adventures,” said I. “Won't you tell us what has happened?”
“After breakfast, my dear
Watson. Remember that I have breathed thirty miles of Surrey air this morning.
I suppose that there has been no answer from my cabman advertisement? Well,
well, we cannot expect to score every time.”
The table was all laid, and
just as I was about to ring Mrs. Hudson entered with the tea and coffee. A few
minutes later she brought in three covers, and we all drew up to the table,
Holmes ravenous, I curious, and Phelps in the gloomiest state of depression.
“Mrs. Hudson has risen to
the occasion,” said Holmes, uncovering a dish of curried chicken. “Her cuisine
is a little limited, but she has as good an idea of breakfast as a
Scotch-woman. What have you here, Watson?”
“Ham and eggs,” I answered.
“Good! What are you going
to take, Mr. Phelps—curried fowl or eggs, or will you help yourself?”
“Thank you. I can eat
nothing,” said Phelps.
“Oh, come! Try the dish
before you.”
“Thank you, I would really
rather not.”
“Well, then,” said Holmes,
with a mischievous twinkle, “I suppose that you have no objection to helping
me?”
|
Phelps raised the cover,
and as he did so he uttered a scream, and sat there staring with a face as
white as the plate upon which he looked. Across the centre of it was lying a
little cylinder of blue-gray paper. He caught it up, devoured it with his eyes,
and then danced madly about the room, passing it to his bosom and shrieking out
in his delight. Then he fell back into an arm-chair so limp and exhausted with
his own emotions that we had to pour brandy down his throat to keep him from
fainting.
“There! there!” said
Holmes, soothing, patting him upon the shoulder. “It was too bad to spring it
on you like this, but Watson here will tell you that I never can resist a touch
of the dramatic.”
Phelps seized his hand and
kissed it. “God bless you!” he cried. “You have saved my honor.”
“Well, my own was at stake,
you know,” said Holmes. “I assure you it is just as hateful to me to fail in a
case as it can be to you to blunder over a commission.”
Phelps thrust away the
precious document into the innermost pocket of his coat.
“I have not the heart to
interrupt your breakfast any further, and yet I am dying to know how you got it
and where it was.”
Sherlock Holmes swallowed a
cup of coffee, and turned his attention to the ham and eggs. Then he rose, lit
his pipe, and settled himself down into his chair.
“I'll tell you what I did
first, and how I came to do it afterwards,” said he. “After leaving you at the
station I went for a charming walk through some admirable Surrey scenery to a
pretty little village called Ripley, where I had my tea at an inn, and took the
precaution of filling my flask and of putting a paper of sandwiches in my
pocket. There I remained until evening, when I set off for Woking again, and
found myself in the high-road outside Briarbrae just after sunset.
“Well, I waited until the
road was clear—it is never a very frequented one at any time, I fancy—and then
I clambered over the fence into the grounds.”
“Surely the gate was open!”
ejaculated Phelps.
“Yes, but I have a peculiar
taste in these matters. I chose the place where the three fir-trees stand, and
behind their screen I got over without the least chance of any one in the house
being able to see me. I crouched down among the bushes on the other side, and
crawled from one to the other—witness the disreputable state of my trouser
knees—until I had reached the clump of rhododendrons just opposite to your
bedroom window. There I squatted down and awaited developments.
“The blind was not down in
your room, and I could see Miss Harrison sitting there reading by the table. It
was quarter-past ten when she closed her book, fastened the shutters, and
retired.
“I heard her shut the door,
and felt quite sure that she had turned the key in the lock.”
“The key!” ejaculated
Phelps.
“Yes, I had given Miss
Harrison instructions to lock the door on the outside and take the key with her
when she went to bed. She carried out every one of my injunctions to the
letter, and certainly without her cooperation you would not have that paper in
you coat-pocket. She departed then and the lights went out, and I was left
squatting in the rhododendron-bush.
“The night was fine, but
still it was a very weary vigil. Of course it has the sort of excitement about
it that the sportsman feels when he lies beside the water-course and waits for
the big game. It was very long, though—almost as long, Watson, as when you and
I waited in that deadly room when we looked into the little problem of the
Speckled Band. There was a church-clock down at Woking which struck the
quarters, and I thought more than once that it had stopped. At last however
about two in the morning, I suddenly heard the gentle sound of a bolt being
pushed back and the creaking of a key.
|
A moment later the servant's door was
opened, and Mr. Joseph Harrison stepped out into the moonlight.”
“Joseph!” ejaculated
Phelps.
“He was bare-headed, but he
had a black coat thrown over his shoulder so that he could conceal his face in
an instant if there were any alarm. He walked on tiptoe under the shadow of the
wall, and when he reached the window he worked a long-bladed knife through the
sash and pushed back the catch. Then he flung open the window, and putting his
knife through the crack in the shutters, he thrust the bar up and swung them
open.
“From where I lay I had a
perfect view of the inside of the room and of every one of his movements. He
lit the two candles which stood upon the mantelpiece, and then he proceeded to
turn back the corner of the carpet in the neighborhood of the door. Presently
he stopped and picked out a square piece of board, such as is usually left to
enable plumbers to get at the joints of the gas-pipes. This one covered, as a
matter of fact, the T joint which gives off the pipe which supplies the kitchen
underneath. Out of this hiding-place he drew that little cylinder of paper,
pushed down the board, rearranged the carpet, blew out the candles, and walked
straight into my arms as I stood waiting for him outside the window.
“Well, he has rather more
viciousness than I gave him credit for, has Master Joseph. He flew at me with
his knife, and I had to grasp him twice, and got a cut over the knuckles,
before I had the upper hand of him. He looked murder out of the only eye he
could see with when we had finished, but he listened to reason and gave up the
papers. Having got them I let my man go, but I wired full particulars to Forbes
this morning. If he is quick enough to catch his bird, well and good. But if,
as I shrewdly suspect, he finds the nest empty before he gets there, why, all
the better for the government. I fancy that Lord Holdhurst for one, and Mr.
Percy Phelps for another, would very much rather that the affair never got as
far as a police-court.
“My God!” gasped our
client. “Do you tell me that during these long ten weeks of agony the stolen
papers were within the very room with me all the time?”
“So it was.”
“And Joseph! Joseph a
villain and a thief!”
“Hum! I am afraid Joseph's
character is a rather deeper and more dangerous one than one might judge from
his appearance. From what I have heard from him this morning, I gather that he
has lost heavily in dabbling with stocks, and that he is ready to do anything
on earth to better his fortunes. Being an absolutely selfish man, when a chance
presented itself he did not allow either his sister's happiness or your
reputation to hold his hand.”
Percy Phelps sank back in
his chair. “My head whirls,” said he. “Your words have dazed me.”
“The principal difficulty
in your case,” remarked Holmes, in his didactic fashion, “lay in the fact of
there being too much evidence. What was vital was overlaid and hidden by what
was irrelevant. Of all the facts which were presented to us we had to pick just
those which we deemed to be essential, and then piece them together in their
order, so as to reconstruct this very remarkable chain of events. I had already
begun to suspect Joseph, from the fact that you had intended to travel home
with him that night, and that therefore it was a likely enough thing that he
should call for you, knowing the Foreign Office well, upon his way. When I
heard that some one had been so anxious to get into the bedroom, in which no
one but Joseph could have concealed anything—you told us in your narrative how
you had turned Joseph out when you arrived with the doctor—my suspicions all
changed to certainties, especially as the attempt was made on the first night
upon which the nurse was absent, showing that the intruder was well acquainted
with the ways of the house.”
“How blind I have been!”
“The facts of the case, as
far as I have worked them out, are these: this Joseph Harrison entered the
office through the Charles Street door, and knowing his way he walked straight
into your room the instant after you left it. Finding no one there he promptly
rang the bell, and at the instant that he did so his eyes caught the paper upon
the table. A glance showed him that chance had put in his way a State document
of immense value, and in an instant he had thrust it into his pocket and was
gone. A few minutes elapsed, as you remember, before the sleepy commissionaire
drew your attention to the bell, and those were just enough to give the thief
time to make his escape.
“He made his way to Woking
by the first train, and having examined his booty and assured himself that it
really was of immense value, he had concealed it in what he thought was a very
safe place, with the intention of taking it out again in a day or two, and
carrying it to the French embassy, or wherever he thought that a long price was
to be had. Then came your sudden return. He, without a moment's warning, was
bundled out of his room, and from that time onward there were always at least
two of you there to prevent him from regaining his treasure. The situation to
him must have been a maddening one. But at last he thought he saw his chance.
He tried to steal in, but was baffled by your wakefulness. You remember that
you did not take your usual draught that night.”
“I remember.”
“I fancy that he had taken
steps to make that draught efficacious, and that he quite relied upon your
being unconscious. Of course, I understood that he would repeat the attempt
whenever it could be done with safety. Your leaving the room gave him the
chance he wanted. I kept Miss Harrison in it all day so that he might not anticipate
us. Then, having given him the idea that the coast was clear, I kept guard as I
have described. I already knew that the papers were probably in the room, but I
had no desire to rip up all the planking and skirting in search of them. I let
him take them, therefore, from the hiding-place, and so saved myself an
infinity of trouble.
|
Is there any other point which I can make clear?”
“Why did he try the window
on the first occasion,” I asked, “when he might have entered by the door?”
“In reaching the door he
would have to pass seven bedrooms. On the other hand, he could get out on to
the lawn with ease. Anything else?”
“You do not think,” asked
Phelps, “that he had any murderous intention? The knife was only meant as a
tool.”
“It may be so,” answered
Holmes, shrugging his shoulders. “I can only say for certain that Mr. Joseph
Harrison is a gentleman to whose mercy I should be extremely unwilling to
trust.”
The Final Problem
It is with a heavy heart
that I take up my pen to write these the last words in which I shall ever
record the singular gifts by which my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes was
distinguished. In an incoherent and, as I deeply feel, an entirely inadequate
fashion, I have endeavored to give some account of my strange experiences in
his company from the chance which first brought us together at the period of
the “Study in Scarlet,” up to the time of his interference in the matter of the
“Naval Treaty”—an interference which had the unquestionable effect of
preventing a serious international complication. It was my intention to have
stopped there, and to have said nothing of that event which has created a void
in my life which the lapse of two years has done little to fill. My hand has
been forced, however, by the recent letters in which Colonel James Moriarty
defends the memory of his brother, and I have no choice but to lay the facts
before the public exactly as they occurred. I alone know the absolute truth of
the matter, and I am satisfied that the time has come when no good purpose is
to be served by its suppression. As far as I know, there have been only three
accounts in the public press: that in the Journal de Genève on May 6th, 1891,
the Reuter's despatch in the English papers on May 7th, and finally the recent
letters to which I have alluded. Of these the first and second were extremely
condensed, while the last is, as I shall now show, an absolute perversion of
the facts. It lies with me to tell for the first time what really took place
between Professor Moriarty and Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
It may be remembered that
after my marriage, and my subsequent start in private practice, the very
intimate relations which had existed between Holmes and myself became to some
extent modified. He still came to me from time to time when he desired a
companion in his investigation, but these occasions grew more and more seldom,
until I find that in the year 1890 there were only three cases of which I
retain any record. During the winter of that year and the early spring of 1891,
I saw in the papers that he had been engaged by the French government upon a
matter of supreme importance, and I received two notes from Holmes, dated from
Narbonne and from Nimes, from which I gathered that his stay in France was
likely to be a long one. It was with some surprise, therefore, that I saw him
walk into my consulting-room upon the evening of April 24th. It struck me that
he was looking even paler and thinner than usual.
“Yes, I have been using
myself up rather too freely,” he remarked, in answer to my look rather than to
my words; “I have been a little pressed of late. Have you any objection to my
closing your shutters?”
The only light in the room
came from the lamp upon the table at which I had been reading. Holmes edged his
way round the wall and flinging the shutters together, he bolted them securely.
“You are afraid of
something?” I asked.
“Well, I am.”
“Of what?”
“Of air-guns.”
“My dear Holmes, what do
you mean?”
“I think that you know me
well enough, Watson, to understand that I am by no means a nervous man. At the
same time, it is stupidity rather than courage to refuse to recognize danger
when it is close upon you. Might I trouble you for a match?” He drew in the
smoke of his cigarette as if the soothing influence was grateful to him.
“I must apologize for
calling so late,” said he, “and I must further beg you to be so unconventional
as to allow me to leave your house presently by scrambling over your back
garden wall.”
“But what does it all
mean?” I asked.
|
He held out his hand, and I
saw in the light of the lamp that two of his knuckles were burst and bleeding.
“It is not an airy nothing,
you see,” said he, smiling. “On the contrary, it is solid enough for a man to
break his hand over. Is Mrs. Watson in?”
“She is away upon a visit.”
“Indeed! You are alone?”
“Quite.”
“Then it makes it the
easier for me to propose that you should come away with me for a week to the
Continent.”
“Where?”
“Oh, anywhere. It's all the
same to me.”
There was something very
strange in all this. It was not Holmes's nature to take an aimless holiday, and
something about his pale, worn face told me that his nerves were at their
highest tension. He saw the question in my eyes, and, putting his finger-tips
together and his elbows upon his knees, he explained the situation.
“You have probably never
heard of Professor Moriarty?” said he.
“Never.”
“Aye, there's the genius
and the wonder of the thing!” he cried. “The man pervades London, and no one
has heard of him. That's what puts him on a pinnacle in the records of crime. I
tell you, Watson, in all seriousness, that if I could beat that man, if I could
free society of him, I should feel that my own career had reached its summit,
and I should be prepared to turn to some more placid line in life. Between
ourselves, the recent cases in which I have been of assistance to the royal
family of Scandinavia, and to the French republic, have left me in such a
position that I could continue to live in the quiet fashion which is most
congenial to me, and to concentrate my attention upon my chemical researches.
But I could not rest, Watson, I could not sit quiet in my chair, if I thought
that such a man as Professor Moriarty were walking the streets of London
unchallenged.”
“What has he done, then?”
“His career has been an
extraordinary one. He is a man of good birth and excellent education, endowed
by nature with a phenomenal mathematical faculty. At the age of twenty-one he
wrote a treatise upon the Binomial Theorem, which has had a European vogue. On
the strength of it he won the Mathematical Chair at one of our smaller
universities, and had, to all appearance, a most brilliant career before him.
But the man had hereditary tendencies of the most diabolical kind. A criminal
strain ran in his blood, which, instead of being modified, was increased and
rendered infinitely more dangerous by his extraordinary mental powers. Dark rumors
gathered round him in the university town, and eventually he was compelled to
resign his chair and to come down to London, where he set up as an army coach.
So much is known to the world, but what I am telling you now is what I have
myself discovered.
“As you are aware, Watson,
there is no one who knows the higher criminal world of London so well as I do.
For years past I have continually been conscious of some power behind the
malefactor, some deep organizing power which forever stands in the way of the
law, and throws its shield over the wrong-doer. Again and again in cases of the
most varying sorts—forgery cases, robberies, murders—I have felt the presence
of this force, and I have deduced its action in many of those undiscovered
crimes in which I have not been personally consulted. For years I have
endeavored to break through the veil which shrouded it, and at last the time
came when I seized my thread and followed it, until it led me, after a thousand
cunning windings, to ex-Professor Moriarty of mathematical celebrity.
“He is the Napoleon of
crime, Watson. He is the organizer of half that is evil and of nearly all that
is undetected in this great city. He is a genius, a philosopher, an abstract
thinker. He has a brain of the first order. He sits motionless, like a spider
in the center of its web, but that web has a thousand radiations, and he knows
well every quiver of each of them. He does little himself. He only plans. But
his agents are numerous and splendidly organized. Is there a crime to be done,
a paper to be abstracted, we will say, a house to be rifled, a man to be
removed—the word is passed to the Professor, the matter is organized and
carried out. The agent may be caught. In that case money is found for his bail
or his defence. But the central power which uses the agent is never
caught—never so much as suspected. This was the organization which I deduced,
Watson, and which I devoted my whole energy to exposing and breaking up.
“But the Professor was
fenced round with safeguards so cunningly devised that, do what I would, it
seemed impossible to get evidence which would convict in a court of law. You
know my powers, my dear Watson, and yet at the end of three months I was forced
to confess that I had at last met an antagonist who was my intellectual equal.
My horror at his crimes was lost in my admiration at his skill. But at last he
made a trip—only a little, little trip—but it was more than he could afford
when I was so close upon him. I had my chance, and, starting from that point, I
have woven my net round him until now it is all ready to close. In three
days—that is to say, on Monday next—matters will be ripe, and the Professor,
with all the principal members of his gang, will be in the hands of the police.
Then will come the greatest criminal trial of the century, the clearing up of
over forty mysteries, and the rope for all of them; but if we move at all
prematurely, you understand, they may slip out of our hands even at the last
moment.
“Now, if I could have done
this without the knowledge of Professor Moriarty, all would have been well. But
he was too wily for that. He saw every step which I took to draw my toils round
him. Again and again he strove to break away, but I as often headed him off. I
tell you, my friend, that if a detailed account of that silent contest could be
written, it would take its place as the most brilliant bit of thrust-and-parry
work in the history of detection. Never have I risen to such a height, and
never have I been so hard pressed by an opponent. He cut deep, and yet I just
undercut him.
![]() |
This morning the last steps were taken, and three days only were
wanted to complete the business. I was sitting in my room thinking the matter
over, when the door opened and Professor Moriarty stood before me.
“My nerves are fairly
proof, Watson, but I must confess to a start when I saw the very man who had
been so much in my thoughts standing there on my threshold. His appearance was
quite familiar to me. He is extremely tall and thin, his forehead domes out in
a white curve, and his two eyes are deeply sunken in his head. He is
clean-shaven, pale, and ascetic-looking, retaining something of the professor
in his features. His shoulders are rounded from much study, and his face
protrudes forward, and is forever slowly oscillating from side to side in a
curiously reptilian fashion. He peered at me with great curiosity in his
puckered eyes.
“‘You have less frontal
development that I should have expected,’ said he, at last. ‘It is a dangerous
habit to finger loaded firearms in the pocket of one's dressing-gown.’
“The fact is that upon his
entrance I had instantly recognized the extreme personal danger in which I lay.
The only conceivable escape for him lay in silencing my tongue. In an instant I
had slipped the revolver from the drawer into my pocket, and was covering him
through the cloth. At his remark I drew the weapon out and laid it cocked upon
the table. He still smiled and blinked, but there was something about his eyes
which made me feel very glad that I had it there.
“‘You evidently don't know
me,’ said he.
“‘On the contrary,’ I
answered, ‘I think it is fairly evident that I do. Pray take a chair. I can
spare you five minutes if you have anything to say.’
“‘All that I have to say
has already crossed your mind,’ said he.
“‘Then possibly my answer
has crossed yours,’ I replied.
“‘You stand fast?’
“‘Absolutely.’
“He clapped his hand into
his pocket, and I raised the pistol from the table. But he merely drew out a
memorandum-book in which he had scribbled some dates.
“‘You crossed my path on
the 4th of January,’ said he. ‘On the 23d you incommoded me; by the middle of
February I was seriously inconvenienced by you; at the end of March I was
absolutely hampered in my plans; and now, at the close of April, I find myself
placed in such a position through your continual persecution that I am in
positive danger of losing my liberty. The situation is becoming an impossible
one.’
“‘Have you any suggestion
to make?’ I asked.
“‘You must drop it, Mr.
Holmes,’ said he, swaying his face about. ‘You really must, you know.’
“‘After Monday,’ said I.
“‘Tut, tut,’ said he. ‘I am
quite sure that a man of your intelligence will see that there can be but one
outcome to this affair. It is necessary that you should withdraw. You have
worked things in such a fashion that we have only one resource left. It has
been an intellectual treat to me to see the way in which you have grappled with
this affair, and I say, unaffectedly, that it would be a grief to me to be
forced to take any extreme measure. You smile, sir, but I assure you that it
really would.’
“‘Danger is part of my
trade,’ I remarked.
“‘That is not danger,’ said
he. ‘It is inevitable destruction. You stand in the way not merely of an
individual, but of a mighty organization, the full extent of which you, with
all your cleverness, have been unable to realize. You must stand clear, Mr.
Holmes, or be trodden under foot.’
“‘I am afraid,’ said I,
rising, ‘that in the pleasure of this conversation I am neglecting business of
importance which awaits me elsewhere.’
“He rose also and looked at
me in silence, shaking his head sadly.
“‘Well, well,’ said he, at
last. ‘It seems a pity, but I have done what I could. I know every move of your
game. You can do nothing before Monday. It has been a duel between you and me,
Mr. Holmes. You hope to place me in the dock. I tell you that I will never
stand in the dock. You hope to beat me. I tell you that you will never beat me.
If you are clever enough to bring destruction upon me, rest assured that I
shall do as much to you.’
“‘You have paid me several
compliments, Mr. Moriarty,’ said I. ‘Let me pay you one in return when I say
that if I were assured of the former eventuality I would, in the interests of
the public, cheerfully accept the latter.’
“‘I can promise you the
one, but not the other,’ he snarled, and so turned his rounded back upon me,
and went peering and blinking out of the room.
“That was my singular
interview with Professor Moriarty. I confess that it left an unpleasant effect
upon my mind. His soft, precise fashion of speech leaves a conviction of
sincerity which a mere bully could not produce. Of course, you will say: ‘Why
not take police precautions against him?’ the reason is that I am well
convinced that it is from his agents the blow would fall. I have the best
proofs that it would be so.”
“You have already been
assaulted?”
“My dear Watson, Professor
Moriarty is not a man who lets the grass grow under his feet. I went out about
mid-day to transact some business in Oxford Street. As I passed the corner
which leads from Bentinck Street on to the Welbeck Street crossing a two-horse
van furiously driven whizzed round and was on me like a flash. I sprang for the
foot-path and saved myself by the fraction of a second. The van dashed round by
Marylebone Lane and was gone in an instant. I kept to the pavement after that,
Watson, but as I walked down Vere Street a brick came down from the roof of one
of the houses, and was shattered to fragments at my feet. I called the police
and had the place examined. There were slates and bricks piled up on the roof
preparatory to some repairs, and they would have me believe that the wind had
toppled over one of these. Of course I knew better, but I could prove nothing.
I took a cab after that and reached my brother's rooms in Pall Mall, where I
spent the day. Now I have come round to you, and on my way I was attacked by a
rough with a bludgeon. I knocked him down, and the police have him in custody;
but I can tell you with the most absolute confidence that no possible connection
will ever be traced between the gentleman upon whose front teeth I have barked
my knuckles and the retiring mathematical coach, who is, I dare say, working
out problems upon a black-board ten miles away. You will not wonder, Watson,
that my first act on entering your rooms was to close your shutters, and that I
have been compelled to ask your permission to leave the house by some less
conspicuous exit than the front door.”
I had often admired my
friend's courage, but never more than now, as he sat quietly checking off a
series of incidents which must have combined to make up a day of horror.
“You will spend the night
here?” I said.
“No, my friend, you might
find me a dangerous guest. I have my plans laid, and all will be well. Matters
have gone so far now that they can move without my help as far as the arrest
goes, though my presence is necessary for a conviction. It is obvious,
therefore, that I cannot do better than get away for the few days which remain
before the police are at liberty to act. It would be a great pleasure to me,
therefore, if you could come on to the Continent with me.”
“The practice is quiet,”
said I, “and I have an accommodating neighbor. I should be glad to come.”
“And to start to-morrow
morning?”
“If necessary.”
“Oh yes, it is most
necessary. Then these are your instructions, and I beg, my dear Watson, that
you will obey them to the letter, for you are now playing a double-handed game
with me against the cleverest rogue and the most powerful syndicate of
criminals in Europe. Now listen! You will dispatch whatever luggage you intend
to take by a trusty messenger unaddressed to Victoria to-night. In the morning
you will send for a hansom, desiring your man to take neither the first nor the
second which may present itself. Into this hansom you will jump, and you will
drive to the Strand end of the Lowther Arcade, handing the address to the
cabman upon a slip of paper, with a request that he will not throw it away.
Have your fare ready, and the instant that your cab stops, dash through the
Arcade, timing yourself to reach the other side at a quarter-past nine. You
will find a small brougham waiting close to the curb, driven by a fellow with a
heavy black cloak tipped at the collar with red. Into this you will step, and
you will reach Victoria in time for the Continental express.”
“Where shall I meet you?”
“At the station. The second
first-class carriage from the front will be reserved for us.”
“The carriage is our
rendezvous, then?”
“Yes.”
It was in vain that I asked
Holmes to remain for the evening. It was evident to me that he thought he might
bring trouble to the roof he was under, and that that was the motive which
impelled him to go. With a few hurried words as to our plans for the morrow he
rose and came out with me into the garden, clambering over the wall which leads
into Mortimer Street, and immediately whistling for a hansom, in which I heard
him drive away.
In the morning I obeyed
Holmes's injunctions to the letter. A hansom was procured with such precaution
as would prevent its being one which was placed ready for us, and I drove
immediately after breakfast to the Lowther Arcade, through which I hurried at
the top of my speed. A brougham was waiting with a very massive driver wrapped
in a dark cloak, who, the instant that I had stepped in, whipped up the horse
and rattled off to Victoria Station. On my alighting there he turned the
carriage, and dashed away again without so much as a look in my direction.
So far all had gone admirably.
My luggage was waiting for me, and I had no difficulty in finding the carriage
which Holmes had indicated, the less so as it was the only one in the train
which was marked “Engaged.” My only source of anxiety now was the
non-appearance of Holmes. The station clock marked only seven minutes from the
time when we were due to start. In vain I searched among the groups of
travellers and leave-takers for the lithe figure of my friend. There was no
sign of him. I spent a few minutes in assisting a venerable Italian priest, who
was endeavoring to make a porter understand, in his broken English, that his
luggage was to be booked through to Paris. Then, having taken another look
round, I returned to my carriage, where I found that the porter, in spite of
the ticket, had given me my decrepit Italian friend as a traveling companion.
It was useless for me to explain to him that his presence was an intrusion, for
my Italian was even more limited than his English, so I shrugged my shoulders
resignedly, and continued to look out anxiously for my friend. A chill of fear
had come over me, as I thought that his absence might mean that some blow had
fallen during the night. Already the doors had all been shut and the whistle
blown, when—
“My dear Watson,” said a
voice, “you have not even condescended to say good-morning.”
I turned in uncontrollable
astonishment. The aged ecclesiastic had turned his face towards me. For an
instant the wrinkles were smoothed away, the nose drew away from the chin, the
lower lip ceased to protrude and the mouth to mumble, the dull eyes regained
their fire, the drooping figure expanded. The next the whole frame collapsed
again, and Holmes had gone as quickly as he had come.
“Good heavens!” I cried;
“how you startled me!”
“Every precaution is still
necessary,” he whispered. “I have reason to think that they are hot upon our
trail. Ah, there is Moriarty himself.”
The train had already begun
to move as Holmes spoke. Glancing back, I saw a tall man pushing his way
furiously through the crowd, and waving his hand as if he desired to have the
train stopped. It was too late, however, for we were rapidly gathering momentum,
and an instant later had shot clear of the station.
“With all our precautions,
you see that we have cut it rather fine,” said Holmes, laughing. He rose, and
throwing off the black cassock and hat which had formed his disguise, he packed
them away in a hand-bag.
“Have you seen the morning
paper, Watson?”
“No.”
“You haven't seen about
Baker Street, then?”
“Baker Street?”
“They set fire to our rooms
last night. No great harm was done.”
“Good heavens, Holmes, this
is intolerable!”
“They must have lost my track
completely after their bludgeon-man was arrested. Otherwise they could not have
imagined that I had returned to my rooms. They have evidently taken the
precaution of watching you, however, and that is what has brought Moriarty to
Victoria. You could not have made any slip in coming?”
“I did exactly what you
advised.”
“Did you find your
brougham?”
“Yes, it was waiting.”
“Did you recognize your
coachman?”
“No.”
“It was my brother Mycroft.
It is an advantage to get about in such a case without taking a mercenary into
your confidence. But we must plan what we are to do about Moriarty now.”
“As this is an express, and
as the boat runs in connection with it, I should think we have shaken him off
very effectively.”
“My dear Watson, you
evidently did not realize my meaning when I said that this man may be taken as
being quite on the same intellectual plane as myself. You do not imagine that
if I were the pursuer I should allow myself to be baffled by so slight an
obstacle. Why, then, should you think so meanly of him?”
“What will he do?”
“What I should do.”
“What would you do, then?”
“Engage a special.”
“But it must be late.”
“By no means. This train
stops at Canterbury; and there is always at least a quarter of an hour's delay
at the boat. He will catch us there.”
“One would think that we
were the criminals. Let us have him arrested on his arrival.”
“It would be to ruin the
work of three months. We should get the big fish, but the smaller would dart
right and left out of the net. On Monday we should have them all. No, an arrest
is inadmissible.”
“What then?”
“We shall get out at
Canterbury.”
“And then?”
“Well, then we must make a
cross-country journey to Newhaven, and so over to Dieppe. Moriarty will again
do what I should do. He will get on to Paris, mark down our luggage, and wait
for two days at the depot. In the meantime we shall treat ourselves to a couple
of carpet-bags, encourage the manufactures of the countries through which we
travel, and make our way at our leisure into Switzerland, via Luxembourg and
Basle.”
At Canterbury, therefore,
we alighted, only to find that we should have to wait an hour before we could
get a train to Newhaven.
I was still looking rather
ruefully after the rapidly disappearing luggage-van which contained my
wardrobe, when Holmes pulled my sleeve and pointed up the line.
“Already, you see,” said
he.
Far away, from among the
Kentish woods there rose a thin spray of smoke. A minute later a carriage and
engine could be seen flying along the open curve which leads to the station. We
had hardly time to take our place behind a pile of luggage when it passed with
a rattle and a roar, beating a blast of hot air into our faces.
“There he goes,” said
Holmes, as we watched the carriage swing and rock over the point. “There are
limits, you see, to our friend's intelligence. It would have been a
coup-de-maître had he deduced what I would deduce and acted accordingly.”
“And what would he have
done had he overtaken us?”
“There cannot be the least
doubt that he would have made a murderous attack upon me. It is, however, a
game at which two may play. The question now is whether we should take a
premature lunch here, or run our chance of starving before we reach the buffet
at Newhaven.”
We made our way to Brussels
that night and spent two days there, moving on upon the third day as far as
Strasburg. On the Monday morning Holmes had telegraphed to the London police,
and in the evening we found a reply waiting for us at our hotel. Holmes tore it
open, and then with a bitter curse hurled it into the grate.
“I might have known it!” he
groaned. “He has escaped!”
“Moriarty?”
“They have secured the
whole gang with the exception of him. He has given them the slip. Of course,
when I had left the country there was no one to cope with him. But I did think
that I had put the game in their hands. I think that you had better return to
England, Watson.”
“Why?”
“Because you will find me a
dangerous companion now. This man's occupation is gone. He is lost if he
returns to London. If I read his character right he will devote his whole
energies to revenging himself upon me. He said as much in our short interview,
and I fancy that he meant it. I should certainly recommend you to return to
your practice.”
It was hardly an appeal to
be successful with one who was an old campaigner as well as an old friend. We
sat in the Strasbourg salle-Ã -manger arguing the question for half an hour, but
the same night we had resumed our journey and were well on our way to Geneva.
For a charming week we wandered
up the Valley of the Rhone, and then, branching off at Leuk, we made our way
over the Gemmi Pass, still deep in snow, and so, by way of Interlaken, to
Meiringen. It was a lovely trip, the dainty green of the spring below, the
virgin white of the winter above; but it was clear to me that never for one
instant did Holmes forget the shadow which lay across him. In the homely Alpine
villages or in the lonely mountain passes, I could tell by his quick glancing
eyes and his sharp scrutiny of every face that passed us, that he was well
convinced that, walk where we would, we could not walk ourselves clear of the
danger which was dogging our footsteps.
Once, I remember, as we
passed over the Gemmi, and walked along the border of the melancholy Daubensee,
a large rock which had been dislodged from the ridge upon our right clattered
down and roared into the lake behind us. In an instant Holmes had raced up on
to the ridge, and, standing upon a lofty pinnacle, craned his neck in every
direction. It was in vain that our guide assured him that a fall of stones was
a common chance in the spring-time at that spot. He said nothing, but he smiled
at me with the air of a man who sees the fulfillment of that which he had
expected.
And yet for all his
watchfulness he was never depressed. On the contrary, I can never recollect
having seen him in such exuberant spirits. Again and again he recurred to the
fact that if he could be assured that society was freed from Professor Moriarty
he would cheerfully bring his own career to a conclusion.
“I think that I may go so
far as to say, Watson, that I have not lived wholly in vain,” he remarked. “If
my record were closed to-night I could still survey it with equanimity. The air
of London is the sweeter for my presence. In over a thousand cases I am not
aware that I have ever used my powers upon the wrong side. Of late I have been
tempted to look into the problems furnished by nature rather than those more
superficial ones for which our artificial state of society is responsible. Your
memoirs will draw to an end, Watson, upon the day that I crown my career by the
capture or extinction of the most dangerous and capable criminal in Europe.”
I shall be brief, and yet
exact, in the little which remains for me to tell. It is not a subject on which
I would willingly dwell, and yet I am conscious that a duty devolves upon me to
omit no detail.
It was on the third of May
that we reached the little village of Meiringen, where we put up at the
Englischer Hof, then kept by Peter Steiler the elder. Our landlord was an
intelligent man, and spoke excellent English, having served for three years as
waiter at the Grosvenor Hotel in London. At his advice, on the afternoon of the
fourth we set off together, with the intention of crossing the hills and spending
the night at the hamlet of Rosenlaui. We had strict injunctions, however, on no
account to pass the falls of Reichenbach, which are about half-way up the hill,
without making a small detour to see them.
It is, indeed, a fearful
place. The torrent, swollen by the melting snow, plunges into a tremendous
abyss, from which the spray rolls up like the smoke from a burning house. The
shaft into which the river hurls itself is an immense chasm, lined by glistening
coal-black rock, and narrowing into a creaming, boiling pit of incalculable
depth, which brims over and shoots the stream onward over its jagged lip. The
long sweep of green water roaring forever down, and the thick flickering
curtain of spray hissing forever upward, turn a man giddy with their constant
whirl and clamor. We stood near the edge peering down at the gleam of the
breaking water far below us against the black rocks, and listening to the
half-human shout which came booming up with the spray out of the abyss.
The path has been cut
half-way round the fall to afford a complete view, but it ends abruptly, and
the traveler has to return as he came. We had turned to do so, when we saw a
Swiss lad come running along it with a letter in his hand. It bore the mark of
the hotel which we had just left, and was addressed to me by the landlord. It
appeared that within a very few minutes of our leaving, an English lady had
arrived who was in the last stage of consumption. She had wintered at Davos
Platz, and was journeying now to join her friends at Lucerne, when a sudden
hemorrhage had overtaken her. It was thought that she could hardly live a few
hours, but it would be a great consolation to her to see an English doctor,
and, if I would only return, etc. The good Steiler assured me in a postscript
that he would himself look upon my compliance as a very great favor, since the
lady absolutely refused to see a Swiss physician, and he could not but feel
that he was incurring a great responsibility.
The appeal was one which
could not be ignored. It was impossible to refuse the request of a
fellow-countrywoman dying in a strange land. Yet I had my scruples about
leaving Holmes. It was finally agreed, however, that he should retain the young
Swiss messenger with him as guide and companion while I returned to Meiringen.
My friend would stay some little time at the fall, he said, and would then walk
slowly over the hill to Rosenlaui, where I was to rejoin him in the evening. As
I turned away I saw Holmes, with his back against a rock and his arms folded,
gazing down at the rush of the waters. It was the last that I was ever destined
to see of him in this world.
When I was near the bottom
of the descent I looked back. It was impossible, from that position, to see the
fall, but I could see the curving path which winds over the shoulder of the
hill and leads to it. Along this a man was, I remember, walking very rapidly.
I could see his black
figure clearly outlined against the green behind him. I noted him, and the
energy with which he walked but he passed from my mind again as I hurried on
upon my errand.
It may have been a little
over an hour before I reached Meiringen. Old Steiler was standing at the porch
of his hotel.
“Well,” said I, as I came
hurrying up, “I trust that she is no worse?”
A look of surprise passed
over his face, and at the first quiver of his eyebrows my heart turned to lead
in my breast.
“You did not write this?” I
said, pulling the letter from my pocket. “There is no sick Englishwoman in the
hotel?”
“Certainly not!” he cried.
“But it has the hotel mark upon it! Ha, it must have been written by that tall
Englishman who came in after you had gone. He said—”
But I waited for none of
the landlord's explanations. In a tingle of fear I was already running down the
village street, and making for the path which I had so lately descended. It had
taken me an hour to come down. For all my efforts two more had passed before I
found myself at the fall of Reichenbach once more. There was Holmes's
Alpine-stock still leaning against the rock by which I had left him. But there
was no sign of him, and it was in vain that I shouted. My only answer was my
own voice reverberating in a rolling echo from the cliffs around me.
It was the sight of that
Alpine-stock which turned me cold and sick. He had not gone to Rosenlaui, then.
He had remained on that three-foot path, with sheer wall on one side and sheer
drop on the other, until his enemy had overtaken him. The young Swiss had gone
too. He had probably been in the pay of Moriarty, and had left the two men
together. And then what had happened? Who was to tell us what had happened
then?
I stood for a minute or two
to collect myself, for I was dazed with the horror of the thing. Then I began
to think of Holmes's own methods and to try to practise them in reading this
tragedy. It was, alas, only too easy to do. During our conversation we had not
gone to the end of the path, and the Alpine-stock marked the place where we had
stood. The blackish soil is kept forever soft by the incessant drift of spray,
and a bird would leave its tread upon it. Two lines of footmarks were clearly
marked along the farther end of the path, both leading away from me. There were
none returning. A few yards from the end the soil was all ploughed up into a
patch of mud, and the branches and ferns which fringed the chasm were torn and
bedraggled. I lay upon my face and peered over with the spray spouting up all
around me. It had darkened since I left, and now I could only see here and
there the glistening of moisture upon the black walls, and far away down at the
end of the shaft the gleam of the broken water. I shouted; but only the same
half-human cry of the fall was borne back to my ears.
But it was destined that I
should after all have a last word of greeting from my friend and comrade. I
have said that his Alpine-stock had been left leaning against a rock which
jutted on to the path. From the top of this boulder the gleam of something
bright caught my eye, and, raising my hand, I found that it came from the
silver cigarette-case which he used to carry. As I took it up a small square of
paper upon which it had lain fluttered down on to the ground. Unfolding it, I
found that it consisted of three pages torn from his note-book and addressed to
me. It was characteristic of the man that the direction was as precise, and the
writing as firm and clear, as though it had been written in his study.
My dear Watson [it said]:
I write these few lines
through the courtesy of Mr. Moriarty, who awaits my convenience for the final
discussion of those questions which lie between us. He has been giving me a
sketch of the methods by which he avoided the English police and kept himself
informed of our movements. They certainly confirm the very high opinion which I
had formed of his abilities. I am pleased to think that I shall be able to free
society from any further effects of his presence, though I fear that it is at a
cost which will give pain to my friends, and especially, my dear Watson, to
you. I have already explained to you, however, that my career had in any case
reached its crisis, and that no possible conclusion to it could be more
congenial to me than this. Indeed, if I may make a full confession to you, I
was quite convinced that the letter from Meiringen was a hoax, and I allowed
you to depart on that errand under the persuasion that some development of this
sort would follow. Tell Inspector Patterson that the papers which he needs to
convict the gang are in pigeonhole M., done up in a blue envelope and inscribed
“Moriarty.” I made every disposition of my property before leaving England, and
handed it to my brother Mycroft. Pray give my greetings to Mrs. Watson, and
believe me to be, my dear fellow,
Very sincerely yours,
Sherlock Holmes
A few words may suffice to
tell the little that remains. An examination by experts leaves little doubt
that a personal contest between the two men ended, as it could hardly fail to
end in such a situation, in their reeling over, locked in each other's arms.
Any attempt at recovering the bodies was absolutely hopeless, and there, deep
down in that dreadful cauldron of swirling water and seething foam, will lie
for all time the most dangerous criminal and the foremost champion of the law
of their generation. The Swiss youth was never found again, and there can be no
doubt that he was one of the numerous agents whom Moriarty kept in his employ.
As to the gang, it will be within the memory of the public how completely the
evidence which Holmes had accumulated exposed their organization, and how
heavily the hand of the dead man weighed upon them. Of their terrible chief few
details came out during the proceedings, and if I have now been compelled to
make a clear statement of his career it is due to those injudicious champions
who have endeavored to clear his memory by attacks upon him whom I shall ever
regard as the best and the wisest man whom I have ever known.
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