The Return of Sherlock Holmes
by Arthur Conan Doyle · English · Gutenberg #108 · 693,017 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Return of Sherlock Holmes
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: The Return of Sherlock Holmes
Author: Arthur Conan Doyle
Release date: March 8, 2006 [eBook #108]
Most recently updated: April 25, 2026
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/108
Credits: An Anonymous Volunteer
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES ***
The Return of Sherlock Holmes
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Contents
The Adventure of the Empty House
The Adventure of the Norwood Builder
The Adventure of the Dancing Men
The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist
The Adventure of the Priory School
The Adventure of Black Peter.
The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton
The Adventure of the Six Napoleons
The Adventure of the Three Students
The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez
The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter
The Adventure of the Abbey Grange
The Adventure of the Second Stain
THE ADVENTURE OF THE EMPTY HOUSE
It was in the spring of the year 1894 that all London was
interested, and the fashionable world dismayed, by the murder of
the Honourable Ronald Adair under most unusual and inexplicable
circumstances. The public has already learned those particulars
of the crime which came out in the police investigation, but a
good deal was suppressed upon that occasion, since the case for
the prosecution was so overwhelmingly strong that it was not
necessary to bring forward all the facts. Only now, at the end of
nearly ten years, am I allowed to supply those missing links
which make up the whole of that remarkable chain. The crime was
of interest in itself, but that interest was as nothing to me
compared to the inconceivable sequel, which afforded me the
greatest shock and surprise of any event in my adventurous life.
Even now, after this long interval, I find myself thrilling as I
think of it, and feeling once more that sudden flood of joy,
amazement, and incredulity which utterly submerged my mind. Let
me say to that public, which has shown some interest in those
glimpses which I have occasionally given them of the thoughts and
actions of a very remarkable man, that they are not to blame me
if I have not shared my knowledge with them, for I should have
considered it my first duty to do so, had I not been barred by a
positive prohibition from his own lips, which was only withdrawn
upon the third of last month.
It can be imagined that my close intimacy with Sherlock Holmes
had interested me deeply in crime, and that after his
disappearance I never failed to read with care the various
problems which came before the public. And I even attempted, more
than once, for my own private satisfaction, to employ his methods
in their solution, though with indifferent success. There was
none, however, which appealed to me like this tragedy of Ronald
Adair. As I read the evidence at the inquest, which led up to a
verdict of willful murder against some person or persons unknown,
I realized more clearly than I had ever done the loss which the
community had sustained by the death of Sherlock Holmes. There
were points about this strange business which would, I was sure,
have specially appealed to him, and the efforts of the police
would have been supplemented, or more probably anticipated, by
the trained observation and the alert mind of the first criminal
agent in Europe. All day, as I drove upon my round, I turned over
the case in my mind and found no explanation which appeared to me
to be adequate. At the risk of telling a twice-told tale, I will
recapitulate the facts as they were known to the public at the
conclusion of the inquest.
The Honourable Ronald Adair was the second son of the Earl of
Maynooth, at that time governor of one of the Australian
colonies. Adair’s mother had returned from Australia to undergo
the operation for cataract, and she, her son Ronald, and her
daughter Hilda were living together at 427, Park Lane. The youth
moved in the best society—had, so far as was known, no enemies
and no particular vices. He had been engaged to Miss Edith
Woodley, of Carstairs, but the engagement had been broken off by
mutual consent some months before, and there was no sign that it
had left any very profound feeling behind it. For the rest, the
man’s life moved in a narrow and conventional circle, for his
habits were quiet and his nature unemotional. Yet it was upon
this easy-going young aristocrat that death came, in most strange
and unexpected form, between the hours of ten and eleven-twenty
on the night of March 30, 1894.
Ronald Adair was fond of cards—playing continually, but never for
such stakes as would hurt him. He was a member of the Baldwin,
the Cavendish, and the Bagatelle card clubs. It was shown that,
after dinner on the day of his death, he had played a rubber of
whist at the latter club. He had also played there in the
afternoon. The evidence of those who had played with him—Mr.
Murray, Sir John Hardy, and Colonel Moran—showed that the game
was whist, and that there was a fairly equal fall of the cards.
Adair might have lost five pounds, but not more. His fortune was
a considerable one, and such a loss could not in any way affect
him. He had played nearly every day at one club or other, but he
was a cautious player, and usually rose a winner. It came out in
evidence that, in partnership with Colonel Moran, he had actually
won as much as four hundred and twenty pounds in a sitting, some
weeks before, from Godfrey Milner and Lord Balmoral. So much for
his recent history as it came out at the inquest.
On the evening of the crime, he returned from the club exactly at
ten. His mother and sister were out spending the evening with a
relation. The servant deposed that she heard him enter the front
room on the second floor, generally used as his sitting-room. She
had lit a fire there, and as it smoked she had opened the window.
No sound was heard from the room until eleven-twenty, the hour of
the return of Lady Maynooth and her daughter. Desiring to say
good-night, she attempted to enter her son’s room. The door was
locked on the inside, and no answer could be got to their cries
and knocking. Help was obtained, and the door forced. The
unfortunate young man was found lying near the table. His head
had been horribly mutilated by an expanding revolver bullet, but
no weapon of any sort was to be found in the room. On the table
lay two banknotes for ten pounds each and seventeen pounds ten in
silver and gold, the money arranged in little piles of varying
amount. There were some figures also upon a sheet of paper, with
the names of some club friends opposite to them, from which it
was conjectured that before his death he was endeavouring to make
out his losses or winnings at cards.
A minute examination of the circumstances served only to make the
case more complex. In the first place, no reason could be given
why the young man should have fastened the door upon the inside.
There was the possibility that the murderer had done this, and
had afterwards escaped by the window. The drop was at least
twenty feet, however, and a bed of crocuses in full bloom lay
beneath. Neither the flowers nor the earth showed any sign of
having been disturbed, nor were there any marks upon the narrow
strip of grass which separated the house from the road.
Apparently, therefore, it was the young man himself who had
fastened the door. But how did he come by his death? No one could
have climbed up to the window without leaving traces. Suppose a
man had fired through the window, he would indeed be a remarkable
shot who could with a revolver inflict so deadly a wound. Again,
Park Lane is a frequented thoroughfare; there is a cab stand
within a hundred yards of the house. No one had heard a shot. And
yet there was the dead man and there the revolver bullet, which
had mushroomed out, as soft-nosed bullets will, and so inflicted
a wound which must have caused instantaneous death. Such were the
circumstances of the Park Lane Mystery, which were further
complicated by entire absence of motive, since, as I have said,
young Adair was not known to have any enemy, and no attempt had
been made to remove the money or valuables in the room.
All day I turned these facts over in my mind, endeavouring to hit
upon some theory which could reconcile them all, and to find that
line of least resistance which my poor friend had declared to be
the starting-point of every investigation. I confess that I made
little progress. In the evening I strolled across the Park, and
found myself about six o’clock at the Oxford Street end of Park
Lane. A group of loafers upon the pavements, all staring up at a
particular window, directed me to the house which I had come to
see. A tall, thin man with coloured glasses, whom I strongly
suspected of being a plain-clothes detective, was pointing out
some theory of his own, while the others crowded round to listen
to what he said. I got as near him as I could, but his
observations seemed to me to be absurd, so I withdrew again in
some disgust. As I did so I struck against an elderly, deformed
man, who had been behind me, and I knocked down several books
which he was carrying. I remember that as I picked them up, I
observed the title of one of them, _The Origin of Tree Worship_,
and it struck me that the fellow must be some poor bibliophile,
who, either as a trade or as a hobby, was a collector of obscure
volumes. I endeavoured to apologize for the accident, but it was
evident that these books which I had so unfortunately maltreated
were very precious objects in the eyes of their owner. With a
snarl of contempt he turned upon his heel, and I saw his curved
back and white side-whiskers disappear among the throng.
My observations of No. 427, Park Lane did little to clear up the
problem in which I was interested. The house was separated from
the street by a low wall and railing, the whole not more than
five feet high. It was perfectly easy, therefore, for anyone to
get into the garden, but the window was entirely inaccessible,
since there was no waterpipe or anything which could help the
most active man to climb it. More puzzled than ever, I retraced
my steps to Kensington. I had not been in my study five minutes
when the maid entered to say that a person desired to see me. To
my astonishment it was none other than my strange old book
collector, his sharp, wizened face peering out from a frame of
white hair, and his precious volumes, a dozen of them at least,
wedged under his right arm.
“You’re surprised to see me, sir,” said he, in a strange,
croaking voice.
I acknowledged that I was.
“Well, I’ve a conscience, sir, and when I chanced to see you go
into this house, as I came hobbling after you, I thought to
myself, I’ll just step in and see that kind gentleman, and tell
him that if I was a bit gruff in my manner there was not any harm
meant, and that I am much obliged to him for picking up my
books.”
“You make too much of a trifle,” said I. “May I ask how you knew
who I was?”
“Well, sir, if it isn’t too great a liberty, I am a neighbour of
yours, for you’ll find my little bookshop at the corner of Church
Street, and very happy to see you, I am sure. Maybe you collect
yourself, sir. Here’s _British Birds_, and _Catullus_, and _The
Holy War_—a bargain, every one of them. With five volumes you
could just fill that gap on that second shelf. It looks untidy,
does it not, sir?”
I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me. When I turned
again, Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me across my study
table. I rose to my feet, stared at him for some seconds in utter
amazement, and then it appears that I must have fainted for the
first and the last time in my life. Certainly a grey mist swirled
before my eyes, and when it cleared I found my collar-ends undone
and the tingling after-taste of brandy upon my lips. Holmes was
bending over my chair, his flask in his hand.
“My dear Watson,” said the well-remembered voice, “I owe you a
thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected.”
I gripped him by the arms.
“Holmes!” I cried. “Is it really you? Can it indeed be that you
are alive? Is it possible that you succeeded in climbing out of
that awful abyss?”
“Wait a moment,” said he. “Are you sure that you are really fit
to discuss things? I have given you a serious shock by my
unnecessarily dramatic reappearance.”
“I am all right, but indeed, Holmes, I can hardly believe my
eyes. Good heavens! to think that you—you of all men—should be
standing in my study.” Again I gripped him by the sleeve, and
felt the thin, sinewy arm beneath it. “Well, you’re not a spirit
anyhow,” said I. “My dear chap, I’m overjoyed to see you. Sit
down, and tell me how you came alive out of that dreadful chasm.”
He sat opposite to me, and lit a cigarette in his old, nonchalant
manner. He was dressed in the seedy frockcoat of the book
merchant, but the rest of that individual lay in a pile of white
hair and old books upon the table. Holmes looked even thinner and
keener than of old, but there was a dead-white tinge in his
aquiline face which told me that his life recently had not been a
healthy one.
“I am glad to stretch myself, Watson,” said he. “It is no joke
when a tall man has to take a foot off his stature for several
hours on end. Now, my dear fellow, in the matter of these
explanations, we have, if I may ask for your cooperation, a hard
and dangerous night’s work in front of us. Perhaps it would be
better if I gave you an account of the whole situation when that
work is finished.”
“I am full of curiosity. I should much prefer to hear now.”
“You’ll come with me to-night?”
“When you like and where you like.”
“This is, indeed, like the old days. We shall have time for a
mouthful of dinner before we need go. Well, then, about that
chasm. I had no serious difficulty in getting out of it, for the
very simple reason that I never was in it.”
“You never were in it?”
“No, Watson, I never was in it. My note to you was absolutely
genuine. I had little doubt that I had come to the end of my
career when I perceived the somewhat sinister figure of the late
Professor Moriarty standing upon the narrow pathway which led to
safety. I read an inexorable purpose in his grey eyes. I
exchanged some remarks with him, therefore, and obtained his
courteous permission to write the short note which you afterwards
received. I left it with my cigarette-box and my stick, and I
walked along the pathway, Moriarty still at my heels. When I
reached the end I stood at bay. He drew no weapon, but he rushed
at me and threw his long arms around me. He knew that his own
game was up, and was only anxious to revenge himself upon me. We
tottered together upon the brink of the fall. I have some
knowledge, however, of baritsu, or the Japanese system of
wrestling, which has more than once been very useful to me. I
slipped through his grip, and he with a horrible scream kicked
madly for a few seconds, and clawed the air with both his hands.
But for all his efforts he could not get his balance, and over he
went. With my face over the brink, I saw him fall for a long way.
Then he struck a rock, bounded off, and splashed into the water.”
I listened with amazement to this explanation, which Holmes
delivered between the puffs of his cigarette.
“But the tracks!” I cried. “I saw, with my own eyes, that two
went down the path and none returned.”
“It came about in this way. The instant that the Professor had
disappeared, it struck me what a really extraordinarily lucky
chance Fate had placed in my way. I knew that Moriarty was not
the only man who had sworn my death. There were at least three
others whose desire for vengeance upon me would only be increased
by the death of their leader. They were all most dangerous men.
One or other would certainly get me. On the other hand, if all
the world was convinced that I was dead they would take
liberties, these men, they would soon lay themselves open, and
sooner or later I could destroy them. Then it would be time for
me to announce that I was still in the land of the living. So
rapidly does the brain act that I believe I had thought this all
out before Professor Moriarty had reached the bottom of the
Reichenbach Fall.
“I stood up and examined the rocky wall behind me. In your
picturesque account of the matter, which I read with great
interest some months later, you assert that the wall was sheer.
That was not literally true. A few small footholds presented
themselves, and there was some indication of a ledge. The cliff
is so high that to climb it all was an obvious impossibility, and
it was equally impossible to make my way along the wet path
without leaving some tracks. I might, it is true, have reversed
my boots, as I have done on similar occasions, but the sight of
three sets of tracks in one direction would certainly have
suggested a deception. On the whole, then, it was best that I
should risk the climb. It was not a pleasant business, Watson.
The fall roared beneath me. I am not a fanciful person, but I
give you my word that I seemed to hear Moriarty’s voice screaming
at me out of the abyss. A mistake would have been fatal. More
than once, as tufts of grass came out in my hand or my foot
slipped in the wet notches of the rock, I thought that I was
gone. But I struggled upward, and at last I reached a ledge
several feet deep and covered with soft green moss, where I could
lie unseen, in the most perfect comfort. There I was stretched,
when you, my dear Watson, and all your following were
investigating in the most sympathetic and inefficient manner the
circumstances of my death.
“At last, when you had all formed your inevitable and totally
erroneous conclusions, you departed for the hotel, and I was left
alone. I had imagined that I had reached the end of my
adventures, but a very unexpected occurrence showed me that there
were surprises still in store for me. A huge rock, falling from
above, boomed past me, struck the path, and bounded over into the
chasm. For an instant I thought that it was an accident, but a
moment later, looking up, I saw a man’s head against the
darkening sky, and another stone struck the very ledge upon which
I was stretched, within a foot of my head. Of course, the meaning
of this was obvious. Moriarty had not been alone. A
confederate—and even that one glance had told me how dangerous a
man that confederate was—had kept guard while the Professor had
attacked me. From a distance, unseen by me, he had been a witness
of his friend’s death and of my escape. He had waited, and then
making his way round to the top of the cliff, he had endeavoured
to succeed where his comrade had failed.
“I did not take long to think about it, Watson. Again I saw that
grim face look over the cliff, and I knew that it was the
precursor of another stone. I scrambled down on to the path. I
don’t think I could have done it in cold blood. It was a hundred
times more difficult than getting up. But I had no time to think
of the danger, for another stone sang past me as I hung by my
hands from the edge of the ledge. Halfway down I slipped, but, by
the blessing of God, I landed, torn and bleeding, upon the path.
I took to my heels, did ten miles over the mountains in the
darkness, and a week later I found myself in Florence, with the
certainty that no one in the world knew what had become of me.
“I had only one confidant—my brother Mycroft. I owe you many
apologies, my dear Watson, but it was all-important that it
should be thought I was dead, and it is quite certain that you
would not have written so convincing an account of my unhappy end
had you not yourself thought that it was true. Several times
during the last three years I have taken up my pen to write to
you, but always I feared lest your affectionate regard for me
should tempt you to some indiscretion which would betray my
secret. For that reason I turned away from you this evening when
you upset my books, for I was in danger at the time, and any show
of surprise and emotion upon your part might have drawn attention
to my identity and led to the most deplorable and irreparable
results. As to Mycroft, I had to confide in him in order to
obtain the money which I needed. The course of events in London
did not run so well as I had hoped, for the trial of the Moriarty
gang left two of its most dangerous members, my own most
vindictive enemies, at liberty. I travelled for two years in
Tibet, therefore, and amused myself by visiting Lhassa, and
spending some days with the head lama. You may have read of the
remarkable explorations of a Norwegian named Sigerson, but I am
sure that it never occurred to you that you were receiving news
of your friend. I then passed through Persia, looked in at Mecca,
and paid a short but interesting visit to the Khalifa at Khartoum
the results of which I have communicated to the Foreign Office.
Returning to France, I spent some months in a research into the
coal-tar derivatives, which I conducted in a laboratory at
Montpellier, in the south of France. Having concluded this to my
satisfaction and learning that only one of my enemies was now
left in London, I was about to return when my movements were
hastened by the news of this very remarkable Park Lane Mystery,
which not only appealed to me by its own merits, but which seemed
to offer some most peculiar personal opportunities. I came over
at once to London, called in my own person at Baker Street, threw
Mrs. Hudson into violent hysterics, and found that Mycroft had
preserved my rooms and my papers exactly as they had always been.
So it was, my dear Watson, that at two o’clock to-day I found
myself in my old armchair in my own old room, and only wishing
that I could have seen my old friend Watson in the other chair
which he has so often adorned.”
Such was the remarkable narrative to which I listened on that
April evening—a narrative which would have been utterly
incredible to me had it not been confirmed by the actual sight of
the tall, spare figure and the keen, eager face, which I had
never thought to see again. In some manner he had learned of my
own sad bereavement, and his sympathy was shown in his manner
rather than in his words. “Work is the best antidote to sorrow,
my dear Watson,” said he; “and I have a piece of work for us both
to-night which, if we can bring it to a successful conclusion,
will in itself justify a man’s life on this planet.” In vain I
begged him to tell me more. “You will hear and see enough before
morning,” he answered. “We have three years of the past to
discuss. Let that suffice until half-past nine, when we start
upon the notable adventure of the empty house.”
It was indeed like old times when, at that hour, I found myself
seated beside him in a hansom, my revolver in my pocket, and the
thrill of adventure in my heart. Holmes was cold and stern and
silent. As the gleam of the street-lamps flashed upon his austere
features, I saw that his brows were drawn down in thought and his
thin lips compressed. I knew not what wild beast we were about to
hunt down in the dark jungle of criminal London, but I was well
assured, from the bearing of this master huntsman, that the
adventure was a most grave one—while the sardonic smile which
occasionally broke through his ascetic gloom boded little good
for the object of our quest.
I had imagined that we were bound for Baker Street, but Holmes
stopped the cab at the corner of Cavendish Square. I observed
that as he stepped out he gave a most searching glance to right
and left, and at every subsequent street corner he took the
utmost pains to assure that he was not followed. Our route was
certainly a singular one. Holmes’s knowledge of the byways of
London was extraordinary, and on this occasion he passed rapidly
and with an assured step through a network of mews and stables,
the very existence of which I had never known. We emerged at last
into a small road, lined with old, gloomy houses, which led us
into Manchester Street, and so to Blandford Street. Here he
turned swiftly down a narrow passage, passed through a wooden
gate into a deserted yard, and then opened with a key the back
door of a house. We entered together, and he closed it behind us.
The place was pitch dark, but it was evident to me that it was an
empty house. Our feet creaked and crackled over the bare
planking, and my outstretched hand touched a wall from which the
paper was hanging in ribbons. Holmes’s cold, thin fingers closed
round my wrist and led me forward down a long hall, until I dimly
saw the murky fanlight over the door. Here Holmes turned suddenly
to the right and we found ourselves in a large, square, empty
room, heavily shadowed in the corners, but faintly lit in the
centre from the lights of the street beyond. There was no lamp
near, and the window was thick with dust, so that we could only
just discern each other’s figures within. My companion put his
hand upon my shoulder and his lips close to my ear.
“Do you know where we are?” he whispered.
“Surely that is Baker Street,” I answered, staring through the
dim window.
“Exactly. We are in Camden House, which stands opposite to our
own old quarters.”
“But why are we here?”
“Because it commands so excellent a view of that picturesque
pile. Might I trouble you, my dear Watson, to draw a little
nearer to the window, taking every precaution not to show
yourself, and then to look up at our old rooms—the starting-point
of so many of your little fairy-tales? We will see if my three
years of absence have entirely taken away my power to surprise
you.”
I crept forward and looked across at the familiar window. As my
eyes fell upon it, I gave a gasp and a cry of amazement. The
blind was down, and a strong light was burning in the room. The
shadow of a man who was seated in a chair within was thrown in
hard, black outline upon the luminous screen of the window. There
was no mistaking the poise of the head, the squareness of the
shoulders, the sharpness of the features. The face was turned
half-round, and the effect was that of one of those black
silhouettes which our grandparents loved to frame. It was a
perfect reproduction of Holmes. So amazed was I that I threw out
my hand to make sure that the man himself was standing beside me.
He was quivering with silent laughter.
“Well?” said he.
“Good heavens!” I cried. “It is marvellous.”
“I trust that age doth not wither nor custom stale my infinite
variety,” said he, and I recognized in his voice the joy and
pride which the artist takes in his own creation. “It really is
rather like me, is it not?”
“I should be prepared to swear that it was you.”
“The credit of the execution is due to Monsieur Oscar Meunier, of
Grenoble, who spent some days in doing the moulding. It is a bust
in wax. The rest I arranged myself during my visit to Baker
Street this afternoon.”
“But why?”
“Because, my dear Watson, I had the strongest possible reason for
wishing certain people to think that I was there when I was
really elsewhere.”
“And you thought the rooms were watched?”
“I _knew_ that they were watched.”
“By whom?”
“By my old enemies, Watson. By the charming society whose leader
lies in the Reichenbach Fall. You must remember that they knew,
and only they knew, that I was still alive. Sooner or later they
believed that I should come back to my rooms. They watched them
continuously, and this morning they saw me arrive.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I recognized their sentinel when I glanced out of my
window. He is a harmless enough fellow, Parker by name, a
garroter by trade, and a remarkable performer upon the
jew’s-harp. I cared nothing for him. But I cared a great deal for
the much more formidable person who was behind him, the bosom
friend of Moriarty, the man who dropped the rocks over the cliff,
the most cunning and dangerous criminal in London. That is the
man who is after me to-night Watson, and that is the man who is
quite unaware that we are after _him_.”
My friend’s plans were gradually revealing themselves. From this
convenient retreat, the watchers were being watched and the
trackers tracked. That angular shadow up yonder was the bait, and
we were the hunters. In silence we stood together in the darkness
and watched the hurrying figures who passed and repassed in front
of us. Holmes was silent and motionless; but I could tell that he
was keenly alert, and that his eyes were fixed intently upon the
stream of passers-by. It was a bleak and boisterous night and the
wind whistled shrilly down the long street. Many people were
moving to and fro, most of them muffled in their coats and
cravats. Once or twice it seemed to me that I had seen the same
figure before, and I especially noticed two men who appeared to
be sheltering themselves from the wind in the doorway of a house
some distance up the street. I tried to draw my companion’s
attention to them; but he gave a little ejaculation of
impatience, and continued to stare into the street. More than
once he fidgeted with his feet and tapped rapidly with his
fingers upon the wall. It was evident to me that he was becoming
uneasy, and that his plans were not working out altogether as he
had hoped. At last, as midnight approached and the street
gradually cleared, he paced up and down the room in
uncontrollable agitation. I was about to make some remark to him,
when I raised my eyes to the lighted window, and again
experienced almost as great a surprise as before. I clutched
Holmes’s arm, and pointed upward.
“The shadow has moved!” I cried.
It was indeed no longer the profile, but the back, which was
turned towards us.
Three years had certainly not smoothed the asperities of his
temper or his impatience with a less active intelligence than his
own.
“Of course it has moved,” said he. “Am I such a farcical bungler,
Watson, that I should erect an obvious dummy, and expect that
some of the sharpest men in Europe would be deceived by it? We
have been in this room two hours, and Mrs. Hudson has made some
change in that figure eight times, or once in every quarter of an
hour. She works it from the front, so that her shadow may never
be seen. Ah!” He drew in his breath with a shrill, excited
intake. In the dim light I saw his head thrown forward, his whole
attitude rigid with attention. Outside the street was absolutely
deserted. Those two men might still be crouching in the doorway,
but I could no longer see them. All was still and dark, save only
that brilliant yellow screen in front of us with the black figure
outlined upon its centre. Again in the utter silence I heard that
thin, sibilant note which spoke of intense suppressed excitement.
An instant later he pulled me back into the blackest corner of
the room, and I felt his warning hand upon my lips. The fingers
which clutched me were quivering. Never had I known my friend
more moved, and yet the dark street still stretched lonely and
motionless before us.
But suddenly I was aware of that which his keener senses had
already distinguished. A low, stealthy sound came to my ears, not
from the direction of Baker Street, but from the back of the very
house in which we lay concealed. A door opened and shut. An
instant later steps crept down the passage—steps which were meant
to be silent, but which reverberated harshly through the empty
house. Holmes crouched back against the wall, and I did the same,
my hand closing upon the handle of my revolver. Peering through
the gloom, I saw the vague outline of a man, a shade blacker than
the blackness of the open door. He stood for an instant, and then
he crept forward, crouching, menacing, into the room. He was
within three yards of us, this sinister figure, and I had braced
myself to meet his spring, before I realized that he had no idea
of our presence. He passed close beside us, stole over to the
window, and very softly and noiselessly raised it for half a
foot. As he sank to the level of this opening, the light of the
street, no longer dimmed by the dusty glass, fell full upon his
face. The man seemed to be beside himself with excitement. His
two eyes shone like stars, and his features were working
convulsively. He was an elderly man, with a thin, projecting
nose, a high, bald forehead, and a huge grizzled moustache. An
opera hat was pushed to the back of his head, and an evening
dress shirt-front gleamed out through his open overcoat. His face
was gaunt and swarthy, scored with deep, savage lines. In his
hand he carried what appeared to be a stick, but as he laid it
down upon the floor it gave a metallic clang. Then from the
pocket of his overcoat he drew a bulky object, and he busied
himself in some task which ended with a loud, sharp click, as if
a spring or bolt had fallen into its place. Still kneeling upon
the floor he bent forward and threw all his weight and strength
upon some lever, with the result that there came a long,
whirling, grinding noise, ending once more in a powerful click.
He straightened himself then, and I saw that what he held in his
hand was a sort of gun, with a curiously misshapen butt. He
opened it at the breech, put something in, and snapped the
breech-lock. Then, crouching down, he rested the end of the
barrel upon the ledge of the open window, and I saw his long
moustache droop over the stock and his eye gleam as it peered
along the sights. I heard a little sigh of satisfaction as he
cuddled the butt into his shoulder; and saw that amazing target,
the black man on the yellow ground, standing clear at the end of
his foresight. For an instant he was rigid and motionless. Then
his finger tightened on the trigger. There was a strange, loud
whiz and a long, silvery tinkle of broken glass. At that instant
Holmes sprang like a tiger on to the marksman’s back, and hurled
him flat upon his face. He was up again in a moment, and with
convulsive strength he seized Holmes by the throat, but I struck
him on the head with the butt of my revolver, and he dropped
again upon the floor. I fell upon him, and as I held him my
comrade blew a shrill call upon a whistle. There was the clatter
of running feet upon the pavement, and two policemen in uniform,
with one plain-clothes detective, rushed through the front
entrance and into the room.
“That you, Lestrade?” said Holmes.
“Yes, Mr. Holmes. I took the job myself. It’s good to see you
back in London, sir.”
“I think you want a little unofficial help. Three undetected
murders in one year won’t do, Lestrade. But you handled the
Molesey Mystery with less than your usual—that’s to say, you
handled it fairly well.”
We had all risen to our feet, our prisoner breathing hard, with a
stalwart constable on each side of him. Already a few loiterers
had begun to collect in the street. Holmes stepped up to the
window, closed it, and dropped the blinds. Lestrade had produced
two candles, and the policemen had uncovered their lanterns. I
was able at last to have a good look at our prisoner.
It was a tremendously virile and yet sinister face which was
turned towards us. With the brow of a philosopher above and the
jaw of a sensualist below, the man must have started with great
capacities for good or for evil. But one could not look upon his
cruel blue eyes, with their drooping, cynical lids, or upon the
fierce, aggressive nose and the threatening, deep-lined brow,
without reading Nature’s plainest danger-signals. He took no heed
of any of us, but his eyes were fixed upon Holmes’s face with an
expression in which hatred and amazement were equally blended.
“You fiend!” he kept on muttering. “You clever, clever fiend!”
“Ah, Colonel!” said Holmes, arranging his rumpled collar.
“‘Journeys end in lovers’ meetings,’ as the old play says. I
don’t think I have had the pleasure of seeing you since you
favoured me with those attentions as I lay on the ledge above the
Reichenbach Fall.”
The colonel still stared at my friend like a man in a trance.
“You cunning, cunning fiend!” was all that he could say.
“I have not introduced you yet,” said Holmes. “This, gentlemen,
is Colonel Sebastian Moran, once of Her Majesty’s Indian Army,
and the best heavy-game shot that our Eastern Empire has ever
produced. I believe I am correct Colonel, in saying that your bag
of tigers still remains unrivalled?”
The fierce old man said nothing, but still glared at my
companion. With his savage eyes and bristling moustache he was
wonderfully like a tiger himself.
“I wonder that my very simple stratagem could deceive so old a
_shikari_,” said Holmes. “It must be very familiar to you. Have
you not tethered a young kid under a tree, lain above it with
your rifle, and waited for the bait to bring up your tiger? This
empty house is my tree, and you are my tiger. You have possibly
had other guns in reserve in case there should be several tigers,
or in the unlikely supposition of your own aim failing you.
These,” he pointed around, “are my other guns. The parallel is
exact.”
Colonel Moran sprang forward with a snarl of rage, but the
constables dragged him back. The fury upon his face was terrible
to look at.
“I confess that you had one small surprise for me,” said Holmes.
“I did not anticipate that you would yourself make use of this
empty house and this convenient front window. I had imagined you
as operating from the street, where my friend, Lestrade and his
merry men were awaiting you. With that exception, all has gone as
I expected.”
Colonel Moran turned to the official detective.
“You may or may not have just cause for arresting me,” said he,
“but at least there can be no reason why I should submit to the
gibes of this person. If I am in the hands of the law, let things
be done in a legal way.”
“Well, that’s reasonable enough,” said Lestrade. “Nothing further
you have to say, Mr. Holmes, before we go?”
Holmes had picked up the powerful air-gun from the floor, and was
examining its mechanism.
“An admirable and unique weapon,” said he, “noiseless and of
tremendous power: I knew Von Herder, the blind German mechanic,
who constructed it to the order of the late Professor Moriarty.
For years I have been aware of its existence though I have never
before had the opportunity of handling it. I commend it very
specially to your attention, Lestrade and also the bullets which
fit it.”
“You can trust us to look after that, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade,
as the whole party moved towards the door. “Anything further to
say?”
“Only to ask what charge you intend to prefer?”
“What charge, sir? Why, of course, the attempted murder of Mr.
Sherlock Holmes.”
“Not so, Lestrade. I do not propose to appear in the matter at
all. To you, and to you only, belongs the credit of the
remarkable arrest which you have effected. Yes, Lestrade, I
congratulate you! With your usual happy mixture of cunning and
audacity, you have got him.”
“Got him! Got whom, Mr. Holmes?”
“The man that the whole force has been seeking in vain—Colonel
Sebastian Moran, who shot the Honourable Ronald Adair with an
expanding bullet from an air-gun through the open window of the
second-floor front of No. 427, Park Lane, upon the thirtieth of
last month. That’s the charge, Lestrade. And now, Watson, if you
can endure the draught from a broken window, I think that half an
hour in my study over a cigar may afford you some profitable
amusement.”
Our old chambers had been left unchanged through the supervision
of Mycroft Holmes and the immediate care of Mrs. Hudson. As I
entered I saw, it is true, an unwonted tidiness, but the old
landmarks were all in their place. There were the chemical corner
and the acid-stained, deal-topped table. There upon a shelf was
the row of formidable scrap-books and books of reference which
many of our fellow-citizens would have been so glad to burn. The
diagrams, the violin-case, and the pipe-rack—even the Persian
slipper which contained the tobacco—all met my eyes as I glanced
round me. There were two occupants of the room—one, Mrs. Hudson,
who beamed upon us both as we entered—the other, the strange
dummy which had played so important a part in the evening’s
adventures. It was a wax-coloured model of my friend, so
admirably done that it was a perfect facsimile. It stood on a
small pedestal table with an old dressing-gown of Holmes’s so
draped round it that the illusion from the street was absolutely
perfect.
“I hope you observed all precautions, Mrs. Hudson?” said Holmes.
“I went to it on my knees, sir, just as you told me.”
“Excellent. You carried the thing out very well. Did you observe
where the bullet went?”
“Yes, sir. I’m afraid it has spoilt your beautiful bust, for it
passed right through the head and flattened itself on the wall. I
picked it up from the carpet. Here it is!”
Holmes held it out to me. “A soft revolver bullet, as you
perceive, Watson. There’s genius in that, for who would expect to
find such a thing fired from an airgun? All right, Mrs. Hudson. I
am much obliged for your assistance. And now, Watson, let me see
you in your old seat once more, for there are several points
which I should like to discuss with you.”
He had thrown off the seedy frockcoat, and now he was the Holmes
of old in the mouse-coloured dressing-gown which he took from his
effigy.
“The old _shikari’s_ nerves have not lost their steadiness, nor
his eyes their keenness,” said he, with a laugh, as he inspected
the shattered forehead of his bust.
“Plumb in the middle of the back of the head and smack through
the brain. He was the best shot in India, and I expect that there
are few better in London. Have you heard the name?”
“No, I have not.”
“Well, well, such is fame! But, then, if I remember right, you
had not heard the name of Professor James Moriarty, who had one
of the great brains of the century. Just give me down my index of
biographies from the shelf.”
He turned over the pages lazily, leaning back in his chair and
blowing great clouds from his cigar.
“My collection of M’s is a fine one,” said he. “Moriarty himself
is enough to make any letter illustrious, and here is Morgan the
poisoner, and Merridew of abominable memory, and Mathews, who
knocked out my left canine in the waiting-room at Charing Cross,
and, finally, here is our friend of to-night.”
He handed over the book, and I read:
_Moran_, _Sebastian_, _Colonel_. Unemployed. Formerly 1st
Bangalore Pioneers. Born London, 1840. Son of Sir Augustus Moran,
C.B., once British Minister to Persia. Educated Eton and Oxford.
Served in Jowaki Campaign, Afghan Campaign, Charasiab
(despatches), Sherpur, and Cabul. Author of _Heavy Game of the
Western Himalayas_ (1881); _Three Months in the Jungle_ (1884).
Address: Conduit Street. Clubs: The Anglo-Indian, the
Tankerville, the Bagatelle Card Club.
On the margin was written, in Holmes’s precise hand:
The second most dangerous man in London.
“This is astonishing,” said I, as I handed back the volume. “The
man’s career is that of an honourable soldier.”
“It is true,” Holmes answered. “Up to a certain point he did
well. He was always a man of iron nerve, and the story is still
told in India how he crawled down a drain after a wounded
man-eating tiger. There are some trees, Watson, which grow to a
certain height, and then suddenly develop some unsightly
eccentricity. You will see it often in humans. I have a theory
that the individual represents in his development the whole
procession of his ancestors, and that such a sudden turn to good
or evil stands for some strong influence which came into the line
of his pedigree. The person becomes, as it were, the epitome of
the history of his own family.”
“It is surely rather fanciful.”
“Well, I don’t insist upon it. Whatever the cause, Colonel Moran
began to go wrong. Without any open scandal, he still made India
too hot to hold him. He retired, came to London, and again
acquired an evil name. It was at this time that he was sought out
by Professor Moriarty, to whom for a time he was chief of the
staff. Moriarty supplied him liberally with money, and used him
only in one or two very high-class jobs, which no ordinary
criminal could have undertaken. You may have some recollection of
the death of Mrs. Stewart, of Lauder, in 1887. Not? Well, I am
sure Moran was at the bottom of it, but nothing could be proved.
So cleverly was the colonel concealed that, even when the
Moriarty gang was broken up, we could not incriminate him. You
remember at that date, when I called upon you in your rooms, how
I put up the shutters for fear of air-guns? No doubt you thought
me fanciful. I knew exactly what I was doing, for I knew of the
existence of this remarkable gun, and I knew also that one of the
best shots in the world would be behind it. When we were in
Switzerland he followed us with Moriarty, and it was undoubtedly
he who gave me that evil five minutes on the Reichenbach ledge.
“You may think that I read the papers with some attention during
my sojourn in France, on the look-out for any chance of laying
him by the heels. So long as he was free in London, my life would
really not have been worth living. Night and day the shadow would
have been over me, and sooner or later his chance must have come.
What could I do? I could not shoot him at sight, or I should
myself be in the dock. There was no use appealing to a
magistrate. They cannot interfere on the strength of what would
appear to them to be a wild suspicion. So I could do nothing. But
I watched the criminal news, knowing that sooner or later I
should get him. Then came the death of this Ronald Adair. My
chance had come at last. Knowing what I did, was it not certain
that Colonel Moran had done it? He had played cards with the lad,
he had followed him home from the club, he had shot him through
the open window. There was not a doubt of it. The bullets alone
are enough to put his head in a noose. I came over at once. I was
seen by the sentinel, who would, I knew, direct the colonel’s
attention to my presence. He could not fail to connect my sudden
return with his crime, and to be terribly alarmed. I was sure
that he would make an attempt to get me out of the way _at once_,
and would bring round his murderous weapon for that purpose. I
left him an excellent mark in the window, and, having warned the
police that they might be needed—by the way, Watson, you spotted
their presence in that doorway with unerring accuracy—I took up
what seemed to me to be a judicious post for observation, never
dreaming that he would choose the same spot for his attack. Now,
my dear Watson, does anything remain for me to explain?”
“Yes,” said I. “You have not made it clear what was Colonel
Moran’s motive in murdering the Honourable Ronald Adair?”
“Ah! my dear Watson, there we come into those realms of
conjecture, where the most logical mind may be at fault. Each may
form his own hypothesis upon the present evidence, and yours is
as likely to be correct as mine.”
“You have formed one, then?”
“I think that it is not difficult to explain the facts. It came
out in evidence that Colonel Moran and young Adair had, between
them, won a considerable amount of money. Now, Moran undoubtedly
played foul—of that I have long been aware. I believe that on the
day of the murder Adair had discovered that Moran was cheating.
Very likely he had spoken to him privately, and had threatened to
expose him unless he voluntarily resigned his membership of the
club, and promised not to play cards again. It is unlikely that a
youngster like Adair would at once make a hideous scandal by
exposing a well-known man so much older than himself. Probably he
acted as I suggest. The exclusion from his clubs would mean ruin
to Moran, who lived by his ill-gotten card-gains. He therefore
murdered Adair, who at the time was endeavouring to work out how
much money he should himself return, since he could not profit by
his partner’s foul play. He locked the door lest the ladies
should surprise him and insist upon knowing what he was doing
with these names and coins. Will it pass?”
“I have no doubt that you have hit upon the truth.”
“It will be verified or disproved at the trial. Meanwhile, come
what may, Colonel Moran will trouble us no more. The famous
air-gun of Von Herder will embellish the Scotland Yard Museum,
and once again Mr. Sherlock Holmes is free to devote his life to
examining those interesting little problems which the complex
life of London so plentifully presents.”
THE ADVENTURE OF THE NORWOOD BUILDER
“From the point of view of the criminal expert,” said Mr.
Sherlock Holmes, “London has become a singularly uninteresting
city since the death of the late lamented Professor Moriarty.”
“I can hardly think that you would find many decent citizens to
agree with you,” I answered.
“Well, well, I must not be selfish,” said he, with a smile, as he
pushed back his chair from the breakfast-table. “The community is
certainly the gainer, and no one the loser, save the poor
out-of-work specialist, whose occupation has gone. With that man
in the field, one’s morning paper presented infinite
possibilities. Often it was only the smallest trace, Watson, the
faintest indication, and yet it was enough to tell me that the
great malignant brain was there, as the gentlest tremors of the
edges of the web remind one of the foul spider which lurks in the
centre. Petty thefts, wanton assaults, purposeless outrage—to the
man who held the clue all could be worked into one connected
whole. To the scientific student of the higher criminal world, no
capital in Europe offered the advantages which London then
possessed. But now——” He shrugged his shoulders in humorous
deprecation of the state of things which he had himself done so
much to produce.
At the time of which I speak, Holmes had been back for some
months, and I at his request had sold my practice and returned to
share the old quarters in Baker Street. A young doctor, named
Verner, had purchased my small Kensington practice, and given
with astonishingly little demur the highest price that I ventured
to ask—an incident which only explained itself some years later,
when I found that Verner was a distant relation of Holmes, and
that it was my friend who had really found the money.
Our months of partnership had not been so uneventful as he had
stated, for I find, on looking over my notes, that this period
includes the case of the papers of ex-President Murillo, and also
the shocking affair of the Dutch steamship _Friesland_, which so
nearly cost us both our lives. His cold and proud nature was
always averse, however, from anything in the shape of public
applause, and he bound me in the most stringent terms to say no
further word of himself, his methods, or his successes—a
prohibition which, as I have explained, has only now been
removed.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes was leaning back in his chair after his
whimsical protest, and was unfolding his morning paper in a
leisurely fashion, when our attention was arrested by a
tremendous ring at the bell, followed immediately by a hollow
drumming sound, as if someone were beating on the outer door with
his fist. As it opened there came a tumultuous rush into the
hall, rapid feet clattered up the stair, and an instant later a
wild-eyed and frantic young man, pale, disheveled, and
palpitating, burst into the room. He looked from one to the other
of us, and under our gaze of inquiry he became conscious that
some apology was needed for this unceremonious entry.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes,” he cried. “You mustn’t blame me. I am
nearly mad. Mr. Holmes, I am the unhappy John Hector McFarlane.”
He made the announcement as if the name alone would explain both
his visit and its manner, but I could see, by my companion’s
unresponsive face, that it meant no more to him than to me.
“Have a cigarette, Mr. McFarlane,” said he, pushing his case
across. “I am sure that, with your symptoms, my friend Dr. Watson
here would prescribe a sedative. The weather has been so very
warm these last few days. Now, if you feel a little more
composed, I should be glad if you would sit down in that chair,
and tell us very slowly and quietly who you are, and what it is
that you want. You mentioned your name, as if I should recognize
it, but I assure you that, beyond the obvious facts that you are
a bachelor, a solicitor, a Freemason, and an asthmatic, I know
nothing whatever about you.”
Familiar as I was with my friend’s methods, it was not difficult
for me to follow his deductions, and to observe the untidiness of
attire, the sheaf of legal papers, the watch-charm, and the
breathing which had prompted them. Our client, however, stared in
amazement.
“Yes, I am all that, Mr. Holmes; and, in addition, I am the most
unfortunate man at this moment in London. For heaven’s sake,
don’t abandon me, Mr. Holmes! If they come to arrest me before I
have finished my story, make them give me time, so that I may
tell you the whole truth. I could go to jail happy if I knew that
you were working for me outside.”
“Arrest you!” said Holmes. “This is really most grati—most
interesting. On what charge do you expect to be arrested?”
“Upon the charge of murdering Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of Lower
Norwood.”
My companion’s expressive face showed a sympathy which was not, I
am afraid, entirely unmixed with satisfaction.
“Dear me,” said he, “it was only this moment at breakfast that I
was saying to my friend, Dr. Watson, that sensational cases had
disappeared out of our papers.”
Our visitor stretched forward a quivering hand and picked up the
_Daily Telegraph_, which still lay upon Holmes’s knee.
“If you had looked at it, sir, you would have seen at a glance
what the errand is on which I have come to you this morning. I
feel as if my name and my misfortune must be in every man’s
mouth.” He turned it over to expose the central page. “Here it
is, and with your permission I will read it to you. Listen to
this, Mr. Holmes. The headlines are: ‘Mysterious Affair at Lower
Norwood. Disappearance of a Well-known Builder. Suspicion of
Murder and Arson. A Clue to the Criminal.’ That is the clue which
they are already following, Mr. Holmes, and I know that it leads
infallibly to me. I have been followed from London Bridge
Station, and I am sure that they are only waiting for the warrant
to arrest me. It will break my mother’s heart—it will break her
heart!” He wrung his hands in an agony of apprehension, and
swayed backward and forward in his chair.
I looked with interest upon this man, who was accused of being
the perpetrator of a crime of violence. He was flaxen-haired and
handsome, in a washed-out negative fashion, with frightened blue
eyes, and a clean-shaven face, with a weak, sensitive mouth. His
age may have been about twenty-seven, his dress and bearing that
of a gentleman. From the pocket of his light summer overcoat
protruded the bundle of indorsed papers which proclaimed his
profession.
“We must use what time we have,” said Holmes. “Watson, would you
have the kindness to take the paper and to read the paragraph in
question?”
Underneath the vigorous headlines which our client had quoted, I
read the following suggestive narrative:
“Late last night, or early this morning, an incident occurred at
Lower Norwood which points, it is feared, to a serious crime. Mr.
Jonas Oldacre is a well-known resident of that suburb, where he
has carried on his business as a builder for many years. Mr.
Oldacre is a bachelor, fifty-two years of age, and lives in Deep
Dene House, at the Sydenham end of the road of that name. He has
had the reputation of being a man of eccentric habits, secretive
and retiring. For some years he has practically withdrawn from
the business, in which he is said to have massed considerable
wealth. A small timber-yard still exists, however, at the back of
the house, and last night, about twelve o’clock, an alarm was
given that one of the stacks was on fire. The engines were soon
upon the spot, but the dry wood burned with great fury, and it
was impossible to arrest the conflagration until the stack had
been entirely consumed. Up to this point the incident bore the
appearance of an ordinary accident, but fresh indications seem to
point to serious crime. Surprise was expressed at the absence of
the master of the establishment from the scene of the fire, and
an inquiry followed, which showed that he had disappeared from
the house. An examination of his room revealed that the bed had
not been slept in, that a safe which stood in it was open, that a
number of important papers were scattered about the room, and
finally, that there were signs of a murderous struggle, slight
traces of blood being found within the room, and an oaken
walking-stick, which also showed stains of blood upon the handle.
It is known that Mr. Jonas Oldacre had received a late visitor in
his bedroom upon that night, and the stick found has been
identified as the property of this person, who is a young London
solicitor named John Hector McFarlane, junior partner of Graham
and McFarlane, of 426, Gresham Buildings, E.C. The police believe
that they have evidence in their possession which supplies a very
convincing motive for the crime, and altogether it cannot be
doubted that sensational developments will follow.
“LATER.—It is rumoured as we go to press that Mr. John Hector
McFarlane has actually been arrested on the charge of the
murder of Mr. Jonas Oldacre. It is at least certain that a
warrant has been issued. There have been further and sinister
developments in the investigation at Norwood. Besides the
signs of a struggle in the room of the unfortunate builder it
is now known that the French windows of his bedroom (which is
on the ground floor) were found to be open, that there were
marks as if some bulky object had been dragged across to the
wood-pile, and, finally, it is asserted that charred remains
have been found among the charcoal ashes of the fire. The
police theory is that a most sensational crime has been
committed, that the victim was clubbed to death in his own
bedroom, his papers rifled, and his dead body dragged across
to the wood-stack, which was then ignited so as to hide all
traces of the crime. The conduct of the criminal
investigation has been left in the experienced hands of
Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, who is following up the
clues with his accustomed energy and sagacity.”
Sherlock Holmes listened with closed eyes and fingertips together
to this remarkable account.
“The case has certainly some points of interest,” said he, in his
languid fashion. “May I ask, in the first place, Mr. McFarlane,
how it is that you are still at liberty, since there appears to
be enough evidence to justify your arrest?”
“I live at Torrington Lodge, Blackheath, with my parents, Mr.
Holmes, but last night, having to do business very late with Mr.
Jonas Oldacre, I stayed at an hotel in Norwood, and came to my
business from there. I knew nothing of this affair until I was in
the train, when I read what you have just heard. I at once saw
the horrible danger of my position, and I hurried to put the case
into your hands. I have no doubt that I should have been arrested
either at my city office or at my home. A man followed me from
London Bridge Station, and I have no doubt—Great heaven! what is
that?”
It was a clang of the bell, followed instantly by heavy steps
upon the stair. A moment later, our old friend Lestrade appeared
in the doorway. Over his shoulder I caught a glimpse of one or
two uniformed policemen outside.
“Mr. John Hector McFarlane?” said Lestrade.
Our unfortunate client rose with a ghastly face.
“I arrest you for the wilful murder of Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of
Lower Norwood.”
McFarlane turned to us with a gesture of despair, and sank into
his chair once more like one who is crushed.
“One moment, Lestrade,” said Holmes. “Half an hour more or less
can make no difference to you, and the gentleman was about to
give us an account of this very interesting affair, which might
aid us in clearing it up.”
“I think there will be no difficulty in clearing it up,” said
Lestrade, grimly.
“None the less, with your permission, I should be much interested
to hear his account.”
“Well, Mr. Holmes, it is difficult for me to refuse you anything,
for you have been of use to the force once or twice in the past,
and we owe you a good turn at Scotland Yard,” said Lestrade. “At
the same time I must remain with my prisoner, and I am bound to
warn him that anything he may say will appear in evidence against
him.”
“I wish nothing better,” said our client. “All I ask is that you
should hear and recognize the absolute truth.”
Lestrade looked at his watch. “I’ll give you half an hour,” said
he.
“I must explain first,” said McFarlane, “that I knew nothing of
Mr. Jonas Oldacre. His name was familiar to me, for many years
ago my parents were acquainted with him, but they drifted apart.
I was very much surprised therefore, when yesterday, about three
o’clock in the afternoon, he walked into my office in the city.
But I was still more astonished when he told me the object of his
visit. He had in his hand several sheets of a notebook, covered
with scribbled writing—here they are—and he laid them on my
table.
“‘Here is my will,’ said he. ‘I want you, Mr. McFarlane, to cast
it into proper legal shape. I will sit here while you do so.’
“I set myself to copy it, and you can imagine my astonishment
when I found that, with some reservations, he had left all his
property to me. He was a strange little ferret-like man, with
white eyelashes, and when I looked up at him I found his keen
grey eyes fixed upon me with an amused expression. I could hardly
believe my own as I read the terms of the will; but he explained
that he was a bachelor with hardly any living relation, that he
had known my parents in his youth, and that he had always heard
of me as a very deserving young man, and was assured that his
money would be in worthy hands. Of course, I could only stammer
out my thanks. The will was duly finished, signed, and witnessed
by my clerk. This is it on the blue paper, and these slips, as I
have explained, are the rough draft. Mr. Jonas Oldacre then
informed me that there were a number of documents—building
leases, title-deeds, mortgages, scrip, and so forth—which it was
necessary that I should see and understand. He said that his mind
would not be easy until the whole thing was settled, and he
begged me to come out to his house at Norwood that night,
bringing the will with me, and to arrange matters. ‘Remember, my
boy, not one word to your parents about the affair until
everything is settled. We will keep it as a little surprise for
them.’ He was very insistent upon this point, and made me promise
it faithfully.
“You can imagine, Mr. Holmes, that I was not in a humour to
refuse him anything that he might ask. He was my benefactor, and
all my desire was to carry out his wishes in every particular. I
sent a telegram home, therefore, to say that I had important
business on hand, and that it was impossible for me to say how
late I might be. Mr. Oldacre had told me that he would like me to
have supper with him at nine, as he might not be home before that
hour. I had some difficulty in finding his house, however, and it
was nearly half-past before I reached it. I found him——”
“One moment!” said Holmes. “Who opened the door?”
“A middle-aged woman, who was, I suppose, his housekeeper.”
“And it was she, I presume, who mentioned your name?”
“Exactly,” said McFarlane.
“Pray proceed.”
McFarlane wiped his damp brow, and then continued his narrative:
“I was shown by this woman into a sitting-room, where a frugal
supper was laid out. Afterwards, Mr. Jonas Oldacre led me into
his bedroom, in which there stood a heavy safe. This he opened
and took out a mass of documents, which we went over together. It
was between eleven and twelve when we finished. He remarked that
we must not disturb the housekeeper. He showed me out through his
own French window, which had been open all this time.”
“Was the blind down?” asked Holmes.
“I will not be sure, but I believe that it was only half down.
Yes, I remember how he pulled it up in order to swing open the
window. I could not find my stick, and he said, ‘Never mind, my
boy, I shall see a good deal of you now, I hope, and I will keep
your stick until you come back to claim it.’ I left him there,
the safe open, and the papers made up in packets upon the table.
It was so late that I could not get back to Blackheath, so I
spent the night at the Anerley Arms, and I knew nothing more
until I read of this horrible affair in the morning.”
“Anything more that you would like to ask, Mr. Holmes?” said
Lestrade, whose eyebrows had gone up once or twice during this
remarkable explanation.
“Not until I have been to Blackheath.”
“You mean to Norwood,” said Lestrade.
“Oh, yes, no doubt that is what I must have meant,” said Holmes,
with his enigmatical smile. Lestrade had learned by more
experiences than he would care to acknowledge that that brain
could cut through that which was impenetrable to him. I saw him
look curiously at my companion.
“I think I should like to have a word with you presently, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes,” said he. “Now, Mr. McFarlane, two of my
constables are at the door, and there is a four-wheeler waiting.”
The wretched young man arose, and with a last beseeching glance
at us walked from the room. The officers conducted him to the
cab, but Lestrade remained.
Holmes had picked up the pages which formed the rough draft of
the will, and was looking at them with the keenest interest upon
his face.
“There are some points about that document, Lestrade, are there
not?” said he, pushing them over.
The official looked at them with a puzzled expression.
“I can read the first few lines and these in the middle of the
second page, and one or two at the end. Those are as clear as
print,” said he, “but the writing in between is very bad, and
there are three places where I cannot read it at all.”
“What do you make of that?” said Holmes.
“Well, what do _you_ make of it?”
“That it was written in a train. The good writing represents
stations, the bad writing movement, and the very bad writing
passing over points. A scientific expert would pronounce at once
that this was drawn up on a suburban line, since nowhere save in
the immediate vicinity of a great city could there be so quick a
succession of points. Granting that his whole journey was
occupied in drawing up the will, then the train was an express,
only stopping once between Norwood and London Bridge.”
Lestrade began to laugh.
“You are too many for me when you begin to get on your theories,
Mr. Holmes,” said he. “How does this bear on the case?”
“Well, it corroborates the young man’s story to the extent that
the will was drawn up by Jonas Oldacre in his journey yesterday.
It is curious—is it not?—that a man should draw up so important a
document in so haphazard a fashion. It suggests that he did not
think it was going to be of much practical importance. If a man
drew up a will which he did not intend ever to be effective, he
might do it so.”
“Well, he drew up his own death warrant at the same time,” said
Lestrade.
“Oh, you think so?”
“Don’t you?”
“Well, it is quite possible, but the case is not clear to me
yet.”
“Not clear? Well, if that isn’t clear, what _could_ be clearer?
Here is a young man who learns suddenly that, if a certain older
man dies, he will succeed to a fortune. What does he do? He says
nothing to anyone, but he arranges that he shall go out on some
pretext to see his client that night. He waits until the only
other person in the house is in bed, and then in the solitude of
a man’s room he murders him, burns his body in the wood-pile, and
departs to a neighbouring hotel. The blood-stains in the room and
also on the stick are very slight. It is probable that he
imagined his crime to be a bloodless one, and hoped that if the
body were consumed it would hide all traces of the method of his
death—traces which, for some reason, must have pointed to him. Is
not all this obvious?”
“It strikes me, my good Lestrade, as being just a trifle too
obvious,” said Holmes. “You do not add imagination to your other
great qualities, but if you could for one moment put yourself in
the place of this young man, would you choose the very night
after the will had been made to commit your crime? Would it not
seem dangerous to you to make so very close a relation between
the two incidents? Again, would you choose an occasion when you
are known to be in the house, when a servant has let you in? And,
finally, would you take the great pains to conceal the body, and
yet leave your own stick as a sign that you were the criminal?
Confess, Lestrade, that all this is very unlikely.”
“As to the stick, Mr. Holmes, you know as well as I do that a
criminal is often flurried, and does such things, which a cool
man would avoid. He was very likely afraid to go back to the
room. Give me another theory that would fit the facts.”
“I could very easily give you half a dozen,” said Holmes. “Here
for example, is a very possible and even probable one. I make you
a free present of it. The older man is showing documents which
are of evident value. A passing tramp sees them through the
window, the blind of which is only half down. Exit the solicitor.
Enter the tramp! He seizes a stick, which he observes there,
kills Oldacre, and departs after burning the body.”
“Why should the tramp burn the body?”
“For the matter of that, why should McFarlane?”
“To hide some evidence.”
“Possibly the tramp wanted to hide that any murder at all had
been committed.”
“And why did the tramp take nothing?”
“Because they were papers that he could not negotiate.”
Lestrade shook his head, though it seemed to me that his manner
was less absolutely assured than before.
“Well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you may look for your tramp, and
while you are finding him we will hold on to our man. The future
will show which is right. Just notice this point, Mr. Holmes:
that so far as we know, none of the papers were removed, and that
the prisoner is the one man in the world who had no reason for
removing them, since he was heir-at-law, and would come into them
in any case.”
My friend seemed struck by this remark.
“I don’t mean to deny that the evidence is in some ways very
strongly in favour of your theory,” said he. “I only wish to
point out that there are other theories possible. As you say, the
future will decide. Good-morning! I dare say that in the course
of the day I shall drop in at Norwood and see how you are getting
on.”
When the detective departed, my friend rose and made his
preparations for the day’s work with the alert air of a man who
has a congenial task before him.
“My first movement Watson,” said he, as he bustled into his
frockcoat, “must, as I said, be in the direction of Blackheath.”
“And why not Norwood?”
“Because we have in this case one singular incident coming close
to the heels of another singular incident. The police are making
the mistake of concentrating their attention upon the second,
because it happens to be the one which is actually criminal. But
it is evident to me that the logical way to approach the case is
to begin by trying to throw some light upon the first
incident—the curious will, so suddenly made, and to so unexpected
an heir. It may do something to simplify what followed. No, my
dear fellow, I don’t think you can help me. There is no prospect
of danger, or I should not dream of stirring out without you. I
trust that when I see you in the evening, I will be able to
report that I have been able to do something for this unfortunate
youngster, who has thrown himself upon my protection.”
It was late when my friend returned, and I could see, by a glance
at his haggard and anxious face, that the high hopes with which
he had started had not been fulfilled. For an hour he droned away
upon his violin, endeavouring to soothe his own ruffled spirits.
At last he flung down the instrument, and plunged into a detailed
account of his misadventures.
“It’s all going wrong, Watson—all as wrong as it can go. I kept a
bold face before Lestrade, but, upon my soul, I believe that for
once the fellow is on the right track and we are on the wrong.
All my instincts are one way, and all the facts are the other,
and I much fear that British juries have not yet attained that
pitch of intelligence when they will give the preference to my
theories over Lestrade’s facts.”
“Did you go to Blackheath?”
“Yes, Watson, I went there, and I found very quickly that the
late lamented Oldacre was a pretty considerable blackguard. The
father was away in search of his son. The mother was at home—a
little, fluffy, blue-eyed person, in a tremor of fear and
indignation. Of course, she would not admit even the possibility
of his guilt. But she would not express either surprise or regret
over the fate of Oldacre. On the contrary, she spoke of him with
such bitterness that she was unconsciously considerably
strengthening the case of the police for, of course, if her son
had heard her speak of the man in this fashion, it would
predispose him towards hatred and violence. ‘He was more like a
malignant and cunning ape than a human being,’ said she, ‘and he
always was, ever since he was a young man.’
“‘You knew him at that time?’ said I.
“‘Yes, I knew him well, in fact, he was an old suitor of mine.
Thank heaven that I had the sense to turn away from him and to
marry a better, if poorer, man. I was engaged to him, Mr. Holmes,
when I heard a shocking story of how he had turned a cat loose in
an aviary, and I was so horrified at his brutal cruelty that I
would have nothing more to do with him.’ She rummaged in a
bureau, and presently she produced a photograph of a woman,
shamefully defaced and mutilated with a knife. ‘That is my own
photograph,’ she said. ‘He sent it to me in that state, with his
curse, upon my wedding morning.’
“‘Well,’ said I, ‘at least he has forgiven you now, since he has
left all his property to your son.’
“‘Neither my son nor I want anything from Jonas Oldacre, dead or
alive!’ she cried, with a proper spirit. ‘There is a God in
heaven, Mr. Holmes, and that same God who has punished that
wicked man will show, in His own good time, that my son’s hands
are guiltless of his blood.’
“Well, I tried one or two leads, but could get at nothing which
would help our hypothesis, and several points which would make
against it. I gave it up at last and off I went to Norwood.
“This place, Deep Dene House, is a big modern villa of staring
brick, standing back in its own grounds, with a laurel-clumped
lawn in front of it. To the right and some distance back from the
road was the timber-yard which had been the scene of the fire.
Here’s a rough plan on a leaf of my notebook. This window on the
left is the one which opens into Oldacre’s room. You can look
into it from the road, you see. That is about the only bit of
consolation I have had to-day. Lestrade was not there, but his
head constable did the honours. They had just found a great
treasure-trove. They had spent the morning raking among the ashes
of the burned wood-pile, and besides the charred organic remains
they had secured several discoloured metal discs. I examined them
with care, and there was no doubt that they were trouser buttons.
I even distinguished that one of them was marked with the name of
‘Hyams,’ who was Oldacre's tailor. I then worked the lawn very
carefully for signs and traces, but this drought has made
everything as hard as iron. Nothing was to be seen save that some
body or bundle had been dragged through a low privet hedge which
is in a line with the wood-pile. All that, of course, fits in
with the official theory. I crawled about the lawn with an August
sun on my back, but I got up at the end of an hour no wiser than
before.
“Well, after this fiasco I went into the bedroom and examined
that also. The blood-stains were very slight, mere smears and
discolourations, but undoubtedly fresh. The stick had been
removed, but there also the marks were slight. There is no doubt
about the stick belonging to our client. He admits it. Footmarks
of both men could be made out on the carpet, but none of any
third person, which again is a trick for the other side. They
were piling up their score all the time and we were at a
standstill.
“Only one little gleam of hope did I get—and yet it amounted to
nothing. I examined the contents of the safe, most of which had
been taken out and left on the table. The papers had been made up
into sealed envelopes, one or two of which had been opened by the
police. They were not, so far as I could judge, of any great
value, nor did the bank-book show that Mr. Oldacre was in such
very affluent circumstances. But it seemed to me that all the
papers were not there. There were allusions to some
deeds—possibly the more valuable—which I could not find. This, of
course, if we could definitely prove it, would turn Lestrade’s
argument against himself, for who would steal a thing if he knew
that he would shortly inherit it?
“Finally, having drawn every other cover and picked up no scent,
I tried my luck with the housekeeper. Mrs. Lexington is her
name—a little, dark, silent person, with suspicious and sidelong
eyes. She could tell us something if she would—I am convinced of
it. But she was as close as wax. Yes, she had let Mr. McFarlane
in at half-past nine. She wished her hand had withered before she
had done so. She had gone to bed at half-past ten. Her room was
at the other end of the house, and she could hear nothing of what
had passed. Mr. McFarlane had left his hat, and to the best of
her belief his stick, in the hall. She had been awakened by the
alarm of fire. Her poor, dear master had certainly been murdered.
Had he any enemies? Well, every man had enemies, but Mr. Oldacre
kept himself very much to himself, and only met people in the way
of business. She had seen the buttons, and was sure that they
belonged to the clothes which he had worn last night. The
wood-pile was very dry, for it had not rained for a month. It
burned like tinder, and by the time she reached the spot, nothing
could be seen but flames. She and all the firemen smelled the
burned flesh from inside it. She knew nothing of the papers, nor
of Mr. Oldacre’s private affairs.
“So, my dear Watson, there’s my report of a failure. And yet—and
yet—” he clenched his thin hands in a paroxysm of conviction—“I
_know_ it’s all wrong. I feel it in my bones. There is something
that has not come out, and that housekeeper knows it. There was a
sort of sulky defiance in her eyes, which only goes with guilty
knowledge. However, there’s no good talking any more about it,
Watson; but unless some lucky chance comes our way I fear that
the Norwood Disappearance Case will not figure in that chronicle
of our successes which I foresee that a patient public will
sooner or later have to endure.”
“Surely,” said I, “the man’s appearance would go far with any
jury?”
“That is a dangerous argument my dear Watson. You remember that
terrible murderer, Bert Stevens, who wanted us to get him off in
’87? Was there ever a more mild-mannered, Sunday-school young
man?”
“It is true.”
“Unless we succeed in establishing an alternative theory, this
man is lost. You can hardly find a flaw in the case which can now
be presented against him, and all further investigation has
served to strengthen it. By the way, there is one curious little
point about those papers which may serve us as the starting-point
for an inquiry. On looking over the bank-book I found that the
low state of the balance was principally due to large checks
which have been made out during the last year to Mr. Cornelius. I
confess that I should be interested to know who this Mr.
Cornelius may be with whom a retired builder has such very large
transactions. Is it possible that he has had a hand in the
affair? Cornelius might be a broker, but we have found no scrip
to correspond with these large payments. Failing any other
indication, my researches must now take the direction of an
inquiry at the bank for the gentleman who has cashed these
checks. But I fear, my dear fellow, that our case will end
ingloriously by Lestrade hanging our client, which will certainly
be a triumph for Scotland Yard.”
I do not know how far Sherlock Holmes took any sleep that night,
but when I came down to breakfast I found him pale and harassed,
his bright eyes the brighter for the dark shadows round them. The
carpet round his chair was littered with cigarette-ends and with
the early editions of the morning papers. An open telegram lay
upon the table.
“What do you think of this, Watson?” he asked, tossing it across.
It was from Norwood, and ran as follows:
Important fresh evidence to hand. McFarlane’s guilt definitely
established. Advise you to abandon case.—LESTRADE.
“This sounds serious,” said I.
“It is Lestrade’s little cock-a-doodle of victory,” Holmes
answered, with a bitter smile. “And yet it may be premature to
abandon the case. After all, important fresh evidence is a
two-edged thing, and may possibly cut in a very different
direction to that which Lestrade imagines. Take your breakfast,
Watson, and we will go out together and see what we can do. I
feel as if I shall need your company and your moral support
today.”
My friend had no breakfast himself, for it was one of his
peculiarities that in his more intense moments he would permit
himself no food, and I have known him presume upon his iron
strength until he has fainted from pure inanition. “At present I
cannot spare energy and nerve force for digestion,” he would say
in answer to my medical remonstrances. I was not surprised,
therefore, when this morning he left his untouched meal behind
him, and started with me for Norwood. A crowd of morbid
sightseers were still gathered round Deep Dene House, which was
just such a suburban villa as I had pictured. Within the gates
Lestrade met us, his face flushed with victory, his manner
grossly triumphant.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, have you proved us to be wrong yet? Have you
found your tramp?” he cried.
“I have formed no conclusion whatever,” my companion answered.
“But we formed ours yesterday, and now it proves to be correct,
so you must acknowledge that we have been a little in front of
you this time, Mr. Holmes.”
“You certainly have the air of something unusual having
occurred,” said Holmes.
Lestrade laughed loudly.
“You don’t like being beaten any more than the rest of us do,”
said he. “A man can’t expect always to have it his own way, can
he, Dr. Watson? Step this way, if you please, gentlemen, and I
think I can convince you once for all that it was John McFarlane
who did this crime.”
He led us through the passage and out into a dark hall beyond.
“This is where young McFarlane must have come out to get his hat
after the crime was done,” said he. “Now look at this.” With
dramatic suddenness he struck a match, and by its light exposed a
stain of blood upon the whitewashed wall. As he held the match
nearer, I saw that it was more than a stain. It was the
well-marked print of a thumb.
“Look at that with your magnifying glass, Mr. Holmes.”
“Yes, I am doing so.”
“You are aware that no two thumb-marks are alike?”
“I have heard something of the kind.”
“Well, then, will you please compare that print with this wax
impression of young McFarlane’s right thumb, taken by my orders
this morning?”
As he held the waxen print close to the blood-stain, it did not
take a magnifying glass to see that the two were undoubtedly from
the same thumb. It was evident to me that our unfortunate client
was lost.
“That is final,” said Lestrade.
“Yes, that is final,” I involuntarily echoed.
“It is final,” said Holmes.
Something in his tone caught my ear, and I turned to look at him.
An extraordinary change had come over his face. It was writhing
with inward merriment. His two eyes were shining like stars. It
seemed to me that he was making desperate efforts to restrain a
convulsive attack of laughter.
“Dear me! Dear me!” he said at last. “Well, now, who would have
thought it? And how deceptive appearances may be, to be sure!
Such a nice young man to look at! It is a lesson to us not to
trust our own judgment, is it not, Lestrade?”
“Yes, some of us are a little too much inclined to be cock-sure,
Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade. The man’s insolence was maddening,
but we could not resent it.
“What a providential thing that this young man should press his
right thumb against the wall in taking his hat from the peg! Such
a very natural action, too, if you come to think of it.” Holmes
was outwardly calm, but his whole body gave a wriggle of
suppressed excitement as he spoke.
“By the way, Lestrade, who made this remarkable discovery?”
“It was the housekeeper, Mrs. Lexington, who drew the night
constable’s attention to it.”
“Where was the night constable?”
“He remained on guard in the bedroom where the crime was
committed, so as to see that nothing was touched.”
“But why didn’t the police see this mark yesterday?”
“Well, we had no particular reason to make a careful examination
of the hall. Besides, it’s not in a very prominent place, as you
see.”
“No, no—of course not. I suppose there is no doubt that the mark
was there yesterday?”
Lestrade looked at Holmes as if he thought he was going out of
his mind. I confess that I was myself surprised both at his
hilarious manner and at his rather wild observation.
“I don’t know whether you think that McFarlane came out of jail
in the dead of the night in order to strengthen the evidence
against himself,” said Lestrade. “I leave it to any expert in the
world whether that is not the mark of his thumb.”
“It is unquestionably the mark of his thumb.”
“There, that’s enough,” said Lestrade. “I am a practical man, Mr.
Holmes, and when I have got my evidence I come to my conclusions.
If you have anything to say, you will find me writing my report
in the sitting-room.”
Holmes had recovered his equanimity, though I still seemed to
detect gleams of amusement in his expression.
“Dear me, this is a very sad development, Watson, is it not?”
said he. “And yet there are singular points about it which hold
out some hopes for our client.”
“I am delighted to hear it,” said I, heartily. “I was afraid it
was all up with him.”
“I would hardly go so far as to say that, my dear Watson. The
fact is that there is one really serious flaw in this evidence to
which our friend attaches so much importance.”
“Indeed, Holmes! What is it?”
“Only this: that I _know_ that that mark was not there when I
examined the hall yesterday. And now, Watson, let us have a
little stroll round in the sunshine.”
With a confused brain, but with a heart into which some warmth of
hope was returning, I accompanied my friend in a walk round the
garden. Holmes took each face of the house in turn, and examined
it with great interest. He then led the way inside, and went over
the whole building from basement to attic. Most of the rooms were
unfurnished, but none the less Holmes inspected them all
minutely. Finally, on the top corridor, which ran outside three
untenanted bedrooms, he again was seized with a spasm of
merriment.
“There are really some very unique features about this case,
Watson,” said he. “I think it is time now that we took our friend
Lestrade into our confidence. He has had his little smile at our
expense, and perhaps we may do as much by him, if my reading of
this problem proves to be correct. Yes, yes, I think I see how we
should approach it.”
The Scotland Yard inspector was still writing in the parlour when
Holmes interrupted him.
“I understood that you were writing a report of this case,” said
he.
“So I am.”
“Don’t you think it may be a little premature? I can’t help
thinking that your evidence is not complete.”
Lestrade knew my friend too well to disregard his words. He laid
down his pen and looked curiously at him.
“What do you mean, Mr. Holmes?”
“Only that there is an important witness whom you have not seen.”
“Can you produce him?”
“I think I can.”
“Then do so.”
“I will do my best. How many constables have you?”
“There are three within call.”
“Excellent!” said Holmes. “May I ask if they are all large,
able-bodied men with powerful voices?”
“I have no doubt they are, though I fail to see what their voices
have to do with it.”
“Perhaps I can help you to see that and one or two other things
as well,” said Holmes. “Kindly summon your men, and I will try.”
Five minutes later, three policemen had assembled in the hall.
“In the outhouse you will find a considerable quantity of straw,”
said Holmes. “I will ask you to carry in two bundles of it. I
think it will be of the greatest assistance in producing the
witness whom I require. Thank you very much. I believe you have
some matches in your pocket Watson. Now, Mr. Lestrade, I will ask
you all to accompany me to the top landing.”
As I have said, there was a broad corridor there, which ran
outside three empty bedrooms. At one end of the corridor we were
all marshalled by Sherlock Holmes, the constables grinning and
Lestrade staring at my friend with amazement, expectation, and
derision chasing each other across his features. Holmes stood
before us with the air of a conjurer who is performing a trick.
“Would you kindly send one of your constables for two buckets of
water? Put the straw on the floor here, free from the wall on
either side. Now I think that we are all ready.”
Lestrade’s face had begun to grow red and angry. “I don’t know
whether you are playing a game with us, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,”
said he. “If you know anything, you can surely say it without all
this tomfoolery.”
“I assure you, my good Lestrade, that I have an excellent reason
for everything that I do. You may possibly remember that you
chaffed me a little, some hours ago, when the sun seemed on your
side of the hedge, so you must not grudge me a little pomp and
ceremony now. Might I ask you, Watson, to open that window, and
then to put a match to the edge of the straw?”
I did so, and driven by the draught a coil of grey smoke swirled
down the corridor, while the dry straw crackled and flamed.
“Now we must see if we can find this witness for you, Lestrade.
Might I ask you all to join in the cry of ‘Fire!’? Now then; one,
two, three——”
“Fire!” we all yelled.
“Thank you. I will trouble you once again.”
“Fire!”
“Just once more, gentlemen, and all together.”
“Fire!” The shout must have rung over Norwood.
It had hardly died away when an amazing thing happened. A door
suddenly flew open out of what appeared to be solid wall at the
end of the corridor, and a little, wizened man darted out of it,
like a rabbit out of its burrow.
“Capital!” said Holmes, calmly. “Watson, a bucket of water over
the straw. That will do! Lestrade, allow me to present you with
your principal missing witness, Mr. Jonas Oldacre.”
The detective stared at the newcomer with blank amazement. The
latter was blinking in the bright light of the corridor, and
peering at us and at the smouldering fire. It was an odious
face—crafty, vicious, malignant, with shifty, light-grey eyes and
white lashes.
“What’s this, then?” said Lestrade, at last. “What have you been
doing all this time, eh?”
Oldacre gave an uneasy laugh, shrinking back from the furious red
face of the angry detective.
“I have done no harm.”
“No harm? You have done your best to get an innocent man hanged.
If it wasn’t for this gentleman here, I am not sure that you
would not have succeeded.”
The wretched creature began to whimper.
“I am sure, sir, it was only my practical joke.”
“Oh! a joke, was it? You won’t find the laugh on your side, I
promise you. Take him down, and keep him in the sitting-room
until I come. Mr. Holmes,” he continued, when they had gone, “I
could not speak before the constables, but I don’t mind saying,
in the presence of Dr. Watson, that this is the brightest thing
that you have done yet, though it is a mystery to me how you did
it. You have saved an innocent man’s life, and you have prevented
a very grave scandal, which would have ruined my reputation in
the Force.”
Holmes smiled, and clapped Lestrade upon the shoulder.
“Instead of being ruined, my good sir, you will find that your
reputation has been enormously enhanced. Just make a few
alterations in that report which you were writing, and they will
understand how hard it is to throw dust in the eyes of Inspector
Lestrade.”
“And you don’t want your name to appear?”
“Not at all. The work is its own reward. Perhaps I shall get the
credit also at some distant day, when I permit my zealous
historian to lay out his foolscap once more—eh, Watson? Well,
now, let us see where this rat has been lurking.”
A lath-and-plaster partition had been run across the passage six
feet from the end, with a door cunningly concealed in it. It was
lit within by slits under the eaves. A few articles of furniture
and a supply of food and water were within, together with a
number of books and papers.
“There’s the advantage of being a builder,” said Holmes, as we
came out. “He was able to fix up his own little hiding-place
without any confederate—save, of course, that precious
housekeeper of his, whom I should lose no time in adding to your
bag, Lestrade.”
“I’ll take your advice. But how did you know of this place, Mr.
Holmes?”
“I made up my mind that the fellow was in hiding in the house.
When I paced one corridor and found it six feet shorter than the
corresponding one below, it was pretty clear where he was. I
thought he had not the nerve to lie quiet before an alarm of
fire. We could, of course, have gone in and taken him, but it
amused me to make him reveal himself. Besides, I owed you a
little mystification, Lestrade, for your chaff in the morning.”
“Well, sir, you certainly got equal with me on that. But how in
the world did you know that he was in the house at all?”
“The thumb-mark, Lestrade. You said it was final; and so it was,
in a very different sense. I knew it had not been there the day
before. I pay a good deal of attention to matters of detail, as
you may have observed, and I had examined the hall, and was sure
that the wall was clear. Therefore, it had been put on during the
night.”
“But how?”
“Very simply. When those packets were sealed up, Jonas Oldacre
got McFarlane to secure one of the seals by putting his thumb
upon the soft wax. It would be done so quickly and so naturally,
that I daresay the young man himself has no recollection of it.
Very likely it just so happened, and Oldacre had himself no
notion of the use he would put it to. Brooding over the case in
that den of his, it suddenly struck him what absolutely damning
evidence he could make against McFarlane by using that
thumb-mark. It was the simplest thing in the world for him to
take a wax impression from the seal, to moisten it in as much
blood as he could get from a pin-prick, and to put the mark upon
the wall during the night, either with his own hand or with that
of his housekeeper. If you examine among those documents which he
took with him into his retreat, I will lay you a wager that you
find the seal with the thumb-mark upon it.”
“Wonderful!” said Lestrade. “Wonderful! It’s all as clear as
crystal, as you put it. But what is the object of this deep
deception, Mr. Holmes?”
It was amusing to me to see how the detective’s overbearing
manner had changed suddenly to that of a child asking questions
of its teacher.
“Well, I don’t think that is very hard to explain. A very deep,
malicious, vindictive person is the gentleman who is now waiting
us downstairs. You know that he was once refused by McFarlane’s
mother? You don’t! I told you that you should go to Blackheath
first and Norwood afterwards. Well, this injury, as he would
consider it, has rankled in his wicked, scheming brain, and all
his life he has longed for vengeance, but never seen his chance.
During the last year or two, things have gone against him—secret
speculation, I think—and he finds himself in a bad way. He
determines to swindle his creditors, and for this purpose he pays
large checks to a certain Mr. Cornelius, who is, I imagine,
himself under another name. I have not traced these checks yet,
but I have no doubt that they were banked under that name at some
provincial town where Oldacre from time to time led a double
existence. He intended to change his name altogether, draw this
money, and vanish, starting life again elsewhere.”
“Well, that’s likely enough.”
“It would strike him that in disappearing he might throw all
pursuit off his track, and at the same time have an ample and
crushing revenge upon his old sweetheart, if he could give the
impression that he had been murdered by her only child. It was a
masterpiece of villainy, and he carried it out like a master. The
idea of the will, which would give an obvious motive for the
crime, the secret visit unknown to his own parents, the retention
of the stick, the blood, and the animal remains and buttons in
the wood-pile, all were admirable. It was a net from which it
seemed to me, a few hours ago, that there was no possible escape.
But he had not that supreme gift of the artist, the knowledge of
when to stop. He wished to improve that which was already
perfect—to draw the rope tighter yet round the neck of his
unfortunate victim—and so he ruined all. Let us descend,
Lestrade. There are just one or two questions that I would ask
him.”
The malignant creature was seated in his own parlour, with a
policeman upon each side of him.
“It was a joke, my good sir—a practical joke, nothing more,” he
whined incessantly. “I assure you, sir, that I simply concealed
myself in order to see the effect of my disappearance, and I am
sure that you would not be so unjust as to imagine that I would
have allowed any harm to befall poor young Mr. McFarlane.”
“That’s for a jury to decide,” said Lestrade. “Anyhow, we shall
have you on a charge of conspiracy, if not for attempted murder.”
“And you’ll probably find that your creditors will impound the
banking account of Mr. Cornelius,” said Holmes.
The little man started, and turned his malignant eyes upon my
friend.
“I have to thank you for a good deal,” said he. “Perhaps I’ll pay
my debt some day.”
Holmes smiled indulgently.
“I fancy that, for some few years, you will find your time very
fully occupied,” said he. “By the way, what was it you put into
the wood-pile besides your old trousers? A dead dog, or rabbits,
or what? You won’t tell? Dear me, how very unkind of you! Well,
well, I daresay that a couple of rabbits would account both for
the blood and for the charred ashes. If ever you write an
account, Watson, you can make rabbits serve your turn.”
THE ADVENTURE OF THE DANCING MEN
Holmes had been seated for some hours in silence with his long,
thin back curved over a chemical vessel in which he was brewing a
particularly malodorous product. His head was sunk upon his
breast, and he looked from my point of view like a strange, lank
bird, with dull grey plumage and a black top-knot.
“So, Watson,” said he, suddenly, “you do not propose to invest in
South African securities?”
I gave a start of astonishment. Accustomed as I was to Holmes’s
curious faculties, this sudden intrusion into my most intimate
thoughts was utterly inexplicable.
“How on earth do you know that?” I asked.
He wheeled round upon his stool, with a steaming test-tube in his
hand, and a gleam of amusement in his deep-set eyes.
“Now, Watson, confess yourself utterly taken aback,” said he.
“I am.”
“I ought to make you sign a paper to that effect.”
“Why?”
“Because in five minutes you will say that it is all so absurdly
simple.”
“I am sure that I shall say nothing of the kind.”
“You see, my dear Watson,”—he propped his test-tube in the rack,
and began to lecture with the air of a professor addressing his
class—“it is not really difficult to construct a series of
inferences, each dependent upon its predecessor and each simple
in itself. If, after doing so, one simply knocks out all the
central inferences and presents one’s audience with the
starting-point and the conclusion, one may produce a startling,
though possibly a meretricious, effect. Now, it was not really
difficult, by an inspection of the groove between your left
forefinger and thumb, to feel sure that you did _not_ propose to
invest your small capital in the gold fields.”
“I see no connection.”
“Very likely not; but I can quickly show you a close connection.
Here are the missing links of the very simple chain: 1. You had
chalk between your left finger and thumb when you returned from
the club last night. 2. You put chalk there when you play
billiards, to steady the cue. 3. You never play billiards except
with Thurston. 4. You told me, four weeks ago, that Thurston had
an option on some South African property which would expire in a
month, and which he desired you to share with him. 5. Your check
book is locked in my drawer, and you have not asked for the key.
6. You do not propose to invest your money in this manner.”
“How absurdly simple!” I cried.
“Quite so!” said he, a little nettled. “Every problem becomes
very childish when once it is explained to you. Here is an
unexplained one. See what you can make of that, friend Watson.”
He tossed a sheet of paper upon the table, and turned once more
to his chemical analysis.
I looked with amazement at the absurd hieroglyphics upon the
paper.
“Why, Holmes, it is a child’s drawing,” I cried.
“Oh, that’s your idea!”
“What else should it be?”
“That is what Mr. Hilton Cubitt, of Riding Thorpe Manor, Norfolk,
is very anxious to know. This little conundrum came by the first
post, and he was to follow by the next train. There’s a ring at
the bell, Watson. I should not be very much surprised if this
were he.”
A heavy step was heard upon the stairs, and an instant later
there entered a tall, ruddy, clean-shaven gentleman, whose clear
eyes and florid cheeks told of a life led far from the fogs of
Baker Street. He seemed to bring a whiff of his strong, fresh,
bracing, east-coast air with him as he entered. Having shaken
hands with each of us, he was about to sit down, when his eye
rested upon the paper with the curious markings, which I had just
examined and left upon the table.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, what do you make of these?” he cried. “They
told me that you were fond of queer mysteries, and I don’t think
you can find a queerer one than that. I sent the paper on ahead,
so that you might have time to study it before I came.”
“It is certainly rather a curious production,” said Holmes. “At
first sight it would appear to be some childish prank. It
consists of a number of absurd little figures dancing across the
paper upon which they are drawn. Why should you attribute any
importance to so grotesque an object?”
“I never should, Mr. Holmes. But my wife does. It is frightening
her to death. She says nothing, but I can see terror in her eyes.
That’s why I want to sift the matter to the bottom.”
Holmes held up the paper so that the sunlight shone full upon it.
It was a page torn from a notebook. The markings were done in
pencil, and ran in this way:
AM-HERE-ABE-SLANEY
Holmes examined it for some time, and then, folding it carefully
up, he placed it in his pocketbook.
“This promises to be a most interesting and unusual case,” said
he. “You gave me a few particulars in your letter, Mr. Hilton
Cubitt, but I should be very much obliged if you would kindly go
over it all again for the benefit of my friend, Dr. Watson.”
“I’m not much of a story-teller,” said our visitor, nervously
clasping and unclasping his great, strong hands. “You’ll just ask
me anything that I don’t make clear. I’ll begin at the time of my
marriage last year, but I want to say first of all that, though
I’m not a rich man, my people have been at Riding Thorpe for a
matter of five centuries, and there is no better known family in
the County of Norfolk. Last year I came up to London for the
Jubilee, and I stopped at a boarding-house in Russell Square,
because Parker, the vicar of our parish, was staying in it. There
was an American young lady there—Patrick was the name—Elsie
Patrick. In some way we became friends, until before my month was
up I was as much in love as a man could be. We were quietly
married at a registry office, and we returned to Norfolk a wedded
couple. You’ll think it very mad, Mr. Holmes, that a man of a
good old family should marry a wife in this fashion, knowing
nothing of her past or of her people, but if you saw her and knew
her, it would help you to understand.
“She was very straight about it, was Elsie. I can’t say that she
did not give me every chance of getting out of it if I wished to
do so. ‘I have had some very disagreeable associations in my
life,’ said she, ‘I wish to forget all about them. I would rather
never allude to the past, for it is very painful to me. If you
take me, Hilton, you will take a woman who has nothing that she
need be personally ashamed of, but you will have to be content
with my word for it, and to allow me to be silent as to all that
passed up to the time when I became yours. If these conditions
are too hard, then go back to Norfolk, and leave me to the lonely
life in which you found me.’ It was only the day before our
wedding that she said those very words to me. I told her that I
was content to take her on her own terms, and I have been as good
as my word.
“Well we have been married now for a year, and very happy we have
been. But about a month ago, at the end of June, I saw for the
first time signs of trouble. One day my wife received a letter
from America. I saw the American stamp. She turned deadly white,
read the letter, and threw it into the fire. She made no allusion
to it afterwards, and I made none, for a promise is a promise,
but she has never known an easy hour from that moment. There is
always a look of fear upon her face—a look as if she were waiting
and expecting. She would do better to trust me. She would find
that I was her best friend. But until she speaks, I can say
nothing. Mind you, she is a truthful woman, Mr. Holmes, and
whatever trouble there may have been in her past life it has been
no fault of hers. I am only a simple Norfolk squire, but there is
not a man in England who ranks his family honour more highly than
I do. She knows it well, and she knew it well before she married
me. She would never bring any stain upon it—of that I am sure.
“Well, now I come to the queer part of my story. About a week
ago—it was the Tuesday of last week—I found on one of the
window-sills a number of absurd little dancing figures like these
upon the paper. They were scrawled with chalk. I thought that it
was the stable-boy who had drawn them, but the lad swore he knew
nothing about it. Anyhow, they had come there during the night. I
had them washed out, and I only mentioned the matter to my wife
afterwards. To my surprise, she took it very seriously, and
begged me if any more came to let her see them. None did come for
a week, and then yesterday morning I found this paper lying on
the sundial in the garden. I showed it to Elsie, and down she
dropped in a dead faint. Since then she has looked like a woman
in a dream, half dazed, and with terror always lurking in her
eyes. It was then that I wrote and sent the paper to you, Mr.
Holmes. It was not a thing that I could take to the police, for
they would have laughed at me, but you will tell me what to do. I
am not a rich man, but if there is any danger threatening my
little woman, I would spend my last copper to shield her.”
He was a fine creature, this man of the old English soil—simple,
straight, and gentle, with his great, earnest blue eyes and
broad, comely face. His love for his wife and his trust in her
shone in his features. Holmes had listened to his story with the
utmost attention, and now he sat for some time in silent thought.
“Don’t you think, Mr. Cubitt,” said he, at last, “that your best
plan would be to make a direct appeal to your wife, and to ask
her to share her secret with you?”
Hilton Cubitt shook his massive head.
“A promise is a promise, Mr. Holmes. If Elsie wished to tell me
she would. If not, it is not for me to force her confidence. But
I am justified in taking my own line—and I will.”
“Then I will help you with all my heart. In the first place, have
you heard of any strangers being seen in your neighbourhood?”
“No.”
“I presume that it is a very quiet place. Any fresh face would
cause comment?”
“In the immediate neighbourhood, yes. But we have several small
watering-places not very far away. And the farmers take in
lodgers.”
“These hieroglyphics have evidently a meaning. If it is a purely
arbitrary one, it may be impossible for us to solve it. If, on
the other hand, it is systematic, I have no doubt that we shall
get to the bottom of it. But this particular sample is so short
that I can do nothing, and the facts which you have brought me
are so indefinite that we have no basis for an investigation. I
would suggest that you return to Norfolk, that you keep a keen
lookout, and that you take an exact copy of any fresh dancing men
which may appear. It is a thousand pities that we have not a
reproduction of those which were done in chalk upon the
window-sill. Make a discreet inquiry also as to any strangers in
the neighbourhood. When you have collected some fresh evidence,
come to me again. That is the best advice which I can give you,
Mr. Hilton Cubitt. If there are any pressing fresh developments,
I shall be always ready to run down and see you in your Norfolk
home.”
The interview left Sherlock Holmes very thoughtful, and several
times in the next few days I saw him take his slip of paper from
his notebook and look long and earnestly at the curious figures
inscribed upon it. He made no allusion to the affair, however,
until one afternoon a fortnight or so later. I was going out when
he called me back.
“You had better stay here, Watson.”
“Why?”
“Because I had a wire from Hilton Cubitt this morning. You
remember Hilton Cubitt, of the dancing men? He was to reach
Liverpool Street at one-twenty. He may be here at any moment. I
gather from his wire that there have been some new incidents of
importance.”
We had not long to wait, for our Norfolk squire came straight
from the station as fast as a hansom could bring him. He was
looking worried and depressed, with tired eyes and a lined
forehead.
“It’s getting on my nerves, this business, Mr. Holmes,” said he,
as he sank, like a wearied man, into an armchair. “It’s bad
enough to feel that you are surrounded by unseen, unknown folk,
who have some kind of design upon you, but when, in addition to
that, you know that it is just killing your wife by inches, then
it becomes as much as flesh and blood can endure. She’s wearing
away under it—just wearing away before my eyes.”
“Has she said anything yet?”
“No, Mr. Holmes, she has not. And yet there have been times when
the poor girl has wanted to speak, and yet could not quite bring
herself to take the plunge. I have tried to help her, but I
daresay I did it clumsily, and scared her from it. She has spoken
about my old family, and our reputation in the county, and our
pride in our unsullied honour, and I always felt it was leading
to the point, but somehow it turned off before we got there.”
“But you have found out something for yourself?”
“A good deal, Mr. Holmes. I have several fresh dancing-men
pictures for you to examine, and, what is more important, I have
seen the fellow.”
“What, the man who draws them?”
“Yes, I saw him at his work. But I will tell you everything in
order. When I got back after my visit to you, the very first
thing I saw next morning was a fresh crop of dancing men. They
had been drawn in chalk upon the black wooden door of the
tool-house, which stands beside the lawn in full view of the
front windows. I took an exact copy, and here it is.” He unfolded
a paper and laid it upon the table. Here is a copy of the
hieroglyphics:
AT-ELRIGES
“Excellent!” said Holmes. “Excellent! Pray continue.”
“When I had taken the copy, I rubbed out the marks, but, two
mornings later, a fresh inscription had appeared. I have a copy
of it here:”
COME-ELSIE
Holmes rubbed his hands and chuckled with delight.
“Our material is rapidly accumulating,” said he.
“Three days later a message was left scrawled upon paper, and
placed under a pebble upon the sundial. Here it is. The
characters are, as you see, exactly the same as the last one.
After that I determined to lie in wait, so I got out my revolver
and I sat up in my study, which overlooks the lawn and garden.
About two in the morning I was seated by the window, all being
dark save for the moonlight outside, when I heard steps behind
me, and there was my wife in her dressing-gown. She implored me
to come to bed. I told her frankly that I wished to see who it
was who played such absurd tricks upon us. She answered that it
was some senseless practical joke, and that I should not take any
notice of it.
“‘If it really annoys you, Hilton, we might go and travel, you
and I, and so avoid this nuisance.’
“‘What, be driven out of our own house by a practical joker?’
said I. ‘Why, we should have the whole county laughing at us.’
“‘Well, come to bed,’ said she, ‘and we can discuss it in the
morning.’
“Suddenly, as she spoke, I saw her white face grow whiter yet in
the moonlight, and her hand tightened upon my shoulder. Something
was moving in the shadow of the tool-house. I saw a dark,
creeping figure which crawled round the corner and squatted in
front of the door. Seizing my pistol, I was rushing out, when my
wife threw her arms round me and held me with convulsive
strength. I tried to throw her off, but she clung to me most
desperately. At last I got clear, but by the time I had opened
the door and reached the house the creature was gone. He had left
a trace of his presence, however, for there on the door was the
very same arrangement of dancing men which had already twice
appeared, and which I have copied on that paper. There was no
other sign of the fellow anywhere, though I ran all over the
grounds. And yet the amazing thing is that he must have been
there all the time, for when I examined the door again in the
morning, he had scrawled some more of his pictures under the line
which I had already seen.”
“Have you that fresh drawing?”
“Yes, it is very short, but I made a copy of it, and here it is.”
Again he produced a paper. The new dance was in this form:
NEVER
“Tell me,” said Holmes—and I could see by his eyes that he was
much excited—“was this a mere addition to the first or did it
appear to be entirely separate?”
“It was on a different panel of the door.”
“Excellent! This is far the most important of all for our
purpose. It fills me with hopes. Now, Mr. Hilton Cubitt, please
continue your most interesting statement.”
“I have nothing more to say, Mr. Holmes, except that I was angry
with my wife that night for having held me back when I might have
caught the skulking rascal. She said that she feared that I might
come to harm. For an instant it had crossed my mind that perhaps
what she really feared was that _he_ might come to harm, for I
could not doubt that she knew who this man was, and what he meant
by these strange signals. But there is a tone in my wife’s voice,
Mr. Holmes, and a look in her eyes which forbid doubt, and I am
sure that it was indeed my own safety that was in her mind.
There’s the whole case, and now I want your advice as to what I
ought to do. My own inclination is to put half a dozen of my farm
lads in the shrubbery, and when this fellow comes again to give
him such a hiding that he will leave us in peace for the future.”
“I fear it is too deep a case for such simple remedies,” said
Holmes. “How long can you stay in London?”
“I must go back to-day. I would not leave my wife alone all night
for anything. She is very nervous, and begged me to come back.”
“I daresay you are right. But if you could have stopped, I might
possibly have been able to return with you in a day or two.
Meanwhile you will leave me these papers, and I think that it is
very likely that I shall be able to pay you a visit shortly and
to throw some light upon your case.”
Sherlock Holmes preserved his calm professional manner until our
visitor had left us, although it was easy for me, who knew him so
well, to see that he was profoundly excited. The moment that
Hilton Cubitt’s broad back had disappeared through the door my
comrade rushed to the table, laid out all the slips of paper
containing dancing men in front of him, and threw himself into an
intricate and elaborate calculation. For two hours I watched him
as he covered sheet after sheet of paper with figures and
letters, so completely absorbed in his task that he had evidently
forgotten my presence. Sometimes he was making progress and
whistled and sang at his work; sometimes he was puzzled, and
would sit for long spells with a furrowed brow and a vacant eye.
Finally he sprang from his chair with a cry of satisfaction, and
walked up and down the room rubbing his hands together. Then he
wrote a long telegram upon a cable form. “If my answer to this is
as I hope, you will have a very pretty case to add to your
collection, Watson,” said he. “I expect that we shall be able to
go down to Norfolk tomorrow, and to take our friend some very
definite news as to the secret of his annoyance.”
I confess that I was filled with curiosity, but I was aware that
Holmes liked to make his disclosures at his own time and in his
own way, so I waited until it should suit him to take me into his
confidence.
But there was a delay in that answering telegram, and two days of
impatience followed, during which Holmes pricked up his ears at
every ring of the bell. On the evening of the second there came a
letter from Hilton Cubitt. All was quiet with him, save that a
long inscription had appeared that morning upon the pedestal of
the sundial. He inclosed a copy of it, which is here reproduced:
ELSIE-PREPARE-TO-MEET-THY-GOD
Holmes bent over this grotesque frieze for some minutes, and then
suddenly sprang to his feet with an exclamation of surprise and
dismay. His face was haggard with anxiety.
“We have let this affair go far enough,” said he. “Is there a
train to North Walsham to-night?”
I turned up the time-table. The last had just gone.
“Then we shall breakfast early and take the very first in the
morning,” said Holmes. “Our presence is most urgently needed. Ah!
here is our expected cablegram. One moment, Mrs. Hudson, there
may be an answer. No, that is quite as I expected. This message
makes it even more essential that we should not lose an hour in
letting Hilton Cubitt know how matters stand, for it is a
singular and a dangerous web in which our simple Norfolk squire
is entangled.”
So, indeed, it proved, and as I come to the dark conclusion of a
story which had seemed to me to be only childish and bizarre, I
experience once again the dismay and horror with which I was
filled. Would that I had some brighter ending to communicate to
my readers, but these are the chronicles of fact, and I must
follow to their dark crisis the strange chain of events which for
some days made Riding Thorpe Manor a household word through the
length and breadth of England.
We had hardly alighted at North Walsham, and mentioned the name
of our destination, when the station-master hurried towards us.
“I suppose that you are the detectives from London?” said he.
A look of annoyance passed over Holmes’s face.
“What makes you think such a thing?”
“Because Inspector Martin from Norwich has just passed through.
But maybe you are the surgeons. She’s not dead—or wasn’t by last
accounts. You may be in time to save her yet—though it be for the
gallows.”
Holmes’s brow was dark with anxiety.
“We are going to Riding Thorpe Manor,” said he, “but we have
heard nothing of what has passed there.”
“It’s a terrible business,” said the station-master. “They are
shot, both Mr. Hilton Cubitt and his wife. She shot him and then
herself—so the servants say. He’s dead and her life is despaired
of. Dear, dear, one of the oldest families in the county of
Norfolk, and one of the most honoured.”
Without a word Holmes hurried to a carriage, and during the long
seven miles’ drive he never opened his mouth. Seldom have I seen
him so utterly despondent. He had been uneasy during all our
journey from town, and I had observed that he had turned over the
morning papers with anxious attention, but now this sudden
realization of his worst fears left him in a blank melancholy. He
leaned back in his seat, lost in gloomy speculation. Yet there
was much around to interest us, for we were passing through as
singular a countryside as any in England, where a few scattered
cottages represented the population of to-day, while on every
hand enormous square-towered churches bristled up from the flat
green landscape and told of the glory and prosperity of old East
Anglia. At last the violet rim of the German Ocean appeared over
the green edge of the Norfolk coast, and the driver pointed with
his whip to two old brick and timber gables which projected from
a grove of trees. “That’s Riding Thorpe Manor,” said he.
As we drove up to the porticoed front door, I observed in front
of it, beside the tennis lawn, the black tool-house and the
pedestalled sundial with which we had such strange associations.
A dapper little man, with a quick, alert manner and a waxed
moustache, had just descended from a high dog-cart. He introduced
himself as Inspector Martin, of the Norfolk Constabulary, and he
was considerably astonished when he heard the name of my
companion.
“Why, Mr. Holmes, the crime was only committed at three this
morning. How could you hear of it in London and get to the spot
as soon as I?”
“I anticipated it. I came in the hope of preventing it.”
“Then you must have important evidence, of which we are ignorant,
for they were said to be a most united couple.”
“I have only the evidence of the dancing men,” said Holmes. “I
will explain the matter to you later. Meanwhile, since it is too
late to prevent this tragedy, I am very anxious that I should use
the knowledge which I possess in order to insure that justice be
done. Will you associate me in your investigation, or will you
prefer that I should act independently?”
“I should be proud to feel that we were acting together, Mr.
Holmes,” said the inspector, earnestly.
“In that case I should be glad to hear the evidence and to
examine the premises without an instant of unnecessary delay.”
Inspector Martin had the good sense to allow my friend to do
things in his own fashion, and contented himself with carefully
noting the results. The local surgeon, an old, white-haired man,
had just come down from Mrs. Hilton Cubitt’s room, and he
reported that her injuries were serious, but not necessarily
fatal. The bullet had passed through the front of her brain, and
it would probably be some time before she could regain
consciousness. On the question of whether she had been shot or
had shot herself, he would not venture to express any decided
opinion. Certainly the bullet had been discharged at very close
quarters. There was only the one pistol found in the room, two
barrels of which had been emptied. Mr. Hilton Cubitt had been
shot through the heart. It was equally conceivable that he had
shot her and then himself, or that she had been the criminal, for
the revolver lay upon the floor midway between them.
“Has he been moved?” asked Holmes.
“We have moved nothing except the lady. We could not leave her
lying wounded upon the floor.”
“How long have you been here, Doctor?”
“Since four o’clock.”
“Anyone else?”
“Yes, the constable here.”
“And you have touched nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“You have acted with great discretion. Who sent for you?”
“The housemaid, Saunders.”
“Was it she who gave the alarm?”
“She and Mrs. King, the cook.”
“Where are they now?”
“In the kitchen, I believe.”
“Then I think we had better hear their story at once.”
The old hall, oak-panelled and high-windowed, had been turned
into a court of investigation. Holmes sat in a great,
old-fashioned chair, his inexorable eyes gleaming out of his
haggard face. I could read in them a set purpose to devote his
life to this quest until the client whom he had failed to save
should at last be avenged. The trim Inspector Martin, the old,
grey-headed country doctor, myself, and a stolid village
policeman made up the rest of that strange company.
The two women told their story clearly enough. They had been
aroused from their sleep by the sound of an explosion, which had
been followed a minute later by a second one. They slept in
adjoining rooms, and Mrs. King had rushed in to Saunders.
Together they had descended the stairs. The door of the study was
open, and a candle was burning upon the table. Their master lay
upon his face in the centre of the room. He was quite dead. Near
the window his wife was crouching, her head leaning against the
wall. She was horribly wounded, and the side of her face was red
with blood. She breathed heavily, but was incapable of saying
anything. The passage, as well as the room, was full of smoke and
the smell of powder. The window was certainly shut and fastened
upon the inside. Both women were positive upon the point. They
had at once sent for the doctor and for the constable. Then, with
the aid of the groom and the stable-boy, they had conveyed their
injured mistress to her room. Both she and her husband had
occupied the bed. She was clad in her dress—he in his
dressing-gown, over his night-clothes. Nothing had been moved in
the study. So far as they knew, there had never been any quarrel
between husband and wife. They had always looked upon them as a
very united couple.
These were the main points of the servants’ evidence. In answer
to Inspector Martin, they were clear that every door was fastened
upon the inside, and that no one could have escaped from the
house. In answer to Holmes, they both remembered that they were
conscious of the smell of powder from the moment that they ran
out of their rooms upon the top floor. “I commend that fact very
carefully to your attention,” said Holmes to his professional
colleague. “And now I think that we are in a position to
undertake a thorough examination of the room.”
The study proved to be a small chamber, lined on three sides with
books, and with a writing-table facing an ordinary window, which
looked out upon the garden. Our first attention was given to the
body of the unfortunate squire, whose huge frame lay stretched
across the room. His disordered dress showed that he had been
hastily aroused from sleep. The bullet had been fired at him from
the front, and had remained in his body, after penetrating the
heart. His death had certainly been instantaneous and painless.
There was no powder-marking either upon his dressing-gown or on
his hands. According to the country surgeon, the lady had stains
upon her face, but none upon her hand.
“The absence of the latter means nothing, though its presence may
mean everything,” said Holmes. “Unless the powder from a badly
fitting cartridge happens to spurt backward, one may fire many
shots without leaving a sign. I would suggest that Mr. Cubitt’s
body may now be removed. I suppose, Doctor, you have not
recovered the bullet which wounded the lady?”
“A serious operation will be necessary before that can be done.
But there are still four cartridges in the revolver. Two have
been fired and two wounds inflicted, so that each bullet can be
accounted for.”
“So it would seem,” said Holmes. “Perhaps you can account also
for the bullet which has so obviously struck the edge of the
window?”
He had turned suddenly, and his long, thin finger was pointing to
a hole which had been drilled right through the lower
window-sash, about an inch above the bottom.
“By George!” cried the inspector. “How ever did you see that?”
“Because I looked for it.”
“Wonderful!” said the country doctor. “You are certainly right,
sir. Then a third shot has been fired, and therefore a third
person must have been present. But who could that have been, and
how could he have got away?”
“That is the problem which we are now about to solve,” said
Sherlock Holmes. “You remember, Inspector Martin, when the
servants said that on leaving their room they were at once
conscious of a smell of powder, I remarked that the point was an
extremely important one?”
“Yes, sir; but I confess I did not quite follow you.”
“It suggested that at the time of the firing, the window as well
as the door of the room had been open. Otherwise the fumes of
powder could not have been blown so rapidly through the house. A
draught in the room was necessary for that. Both door and window
were only open for a very short time, however.”
“How do you prove that?”
“Because the candle was not guttered.”
“Capital!” cried the inspector. “Capital!”
“Feeling sure that the window had been open at the time of the
tragedy, I conceived that there might have been a third person in
the affair, who stood outside this opening and fired through it.
Any shot directed at this person might hit the sash. I looked,
and there, sure enough, was the bullet mark!”
“But how came the window to be shut and fastened?”
“The woman’s first instinct would be to shut and fasten the
window. But, halloa! What is this?”
It was a lady’s hand-bag which stood upon the study table—a trim
little hand-bag of crocodile-skin and silver. Holmes opened it and
turned the contents out. There were twenty fifty-pound notes of
the Bank of England, held together by an india-rubber
band—nothing else.
“This must be preserved, for it will figure in the trial,” said
Holmes, as he handed the bag with its contents to the inspector.
“It is now necessary that we should try to throw some light upon
this third bullet, which has clearly, from the splintering of the
wood, been fired from inside the room. I should like to see Mrs.
King, the cook, again. You said, Mrs. King, that you were
awakened by a _loud_ explosion. When you said that, did you mean
that it seemed to you to be louder than the second one?”
“Well, sir, it wakened me from my sleep, so it is hard to judge.
But it did seem very loud.”
“You don’t think that it might have been two shots fired almost
at the same instant?”
“I am sure I couldn’t say, sir.”
“I believe that it was undoubtedly so. I rather think, Inspector
Martin, that we have now exhausted all that this room can teach
us. If you will kindly step round with me, we shall see what
fresh evidence the garden has to offer.”
A flower-bed extended up to the study window, and we all broke
into an exclamation as we approached it. The flowers were
trampled down, and the soft soil was imprinted all over with
footmarks. Large, masculine feet they were, with peculiarly long,
sharp toes. Holmes hunted about among the grass and leaves like a
retriever after a wounded bird. Then, with a cry of satisfaction,
he bent forward and picked up a little brazen cylinder.
“I thought so,” said he, “the revolver had an ejector, and here
is the third cartridge. I really think, Inspector Martin, that
our case is almost complete.”
The country inspector’s face had shown his intense amazement at
the rapid and masterful progress of Holmes’s investigation. At
first he had shown some disposition to assert his own position,
but now he was overcome with admiration, and ready to follow
without question wherever Holmes led.
“Whom do you suspect?” he asked.
“I’ll go into that later. There are several points in this
problem which I have not been able to explain to you yet. Now
that I have got so far, I had best proceed on my own lines, and
then clear the whole matter up once and for all.”
“Just as you wish, Mr. Holmes, so long as we get our man.”
“I have no desire to make mysteries, but it is impossible at the
moment of action to enter into long and complex explanations. I
have the threads of this affair all in my hand. Even if this lady
should never recover consciousness, we can still reconstruct the
events of last night and insure that justice be done. First of
all, I wish to know whether there is any inn in this
neighbourhood known as ‘Elrige’s’?”
The servants were cross-questioned, but none of them had heard of
such a place. The stable-boy threw a light upon the matter by
remembering that a farmer of that name lived some miles off, in
the direction of East Ruston.
“Is it a lonely farm?”
“Very lonely, sir.”
“Perhaps they have not heard yet of all that happened here during
the night?”
“Maybe not, sir.”
Holmes thought for a little, and then a curious smile played over
his face.
“Saddle a horse, my lad,” said he. “I shall wish you to take a
note to Elrige’s Farm.”
He took from his pocket the various slips of the dancing men.
With these in front of him, he worked for some time at the
study-table. Finally he handed a note to the boy, with directions
to put it into the hands of the person to whom it was addressed,
and especially to answer no questions of any sort which might be
put to him. I saw the outside of the note, addressed in
straggling, irregular characters, very unlike Holmes’s usual
precise hand. It was consigned to Mr. Abe Slaney, Elriges Farm,
East Ruston, Norfolk.
“I think, Inspector,” Holmes remarked, “that you would do well to
telegraph for an escort, as, if my calculations prove to be
correct, you may have a particularly dangerous prisoner to convey
to the county jail. The boy who takes this note could no doubt
forward your telegram. If there is an afternoon train to town,
Watson, I think we should do well to take it, as I have a
chemical analysis of some interest to finish, and this
investigation draws rapidly to a close.”
When the youth had been dispatched with the note, Sherlock Holmes
gave his instructions to the servants. If any visitor were to
call asking for Mrs. Hilton Cubitt, no information should be
given as to her condition, but he was to be shown at once into
the drawing-room. He impressed these points upon them with the
utmost earnestness. Finally he led the way into the drawing-room,
with the remark that the business was now out of our hands, and
that we must while away the time as best we might until we could
see what was in store for us. The doctor had departed to his
patients, and only the inspector and myself remained.
“I think that I can help you to pass an hour in an interesting
and profitable manner,” said Holmes, drawing his chair up to the
table, and spreading out in front of him the various papers upon
which were recorded the antics of the dancing men. “As to you,
friend Watson, I owe you every atonement for having allowed your
natural curiosity to remain so long unsatisfied. To you,
Inspector, the whole incident may appeal as a remarkable
professional study. I must tell you, first of all, the
interesting circumstances connected with the previous
consultations which Mr. Hilton Cubitt has had with me in Baker
Street.” He then shortly recapitulated the facts which have
already been recorded. “I have here in front of me these singular
productions, at which one might smile, had they not proved
themselves to be the forerunners of so terrible a tragedy. I am
fairly familiar with all forms of secret writings, and am myself
the author of a trifling monograph upon the subject, in which I
analyze one hundred and sixty separate ciphers, but I confess
that this is entirely new to me. The object of those who invented
the system has apparently been to conceal that these characters
convey a message, and to give the idea that they are the mere
random sketches of children.
“Having once recognized, however, that the symbols stood for
letters, and having applied the rules which guide us in all forms
of secret writings, the solution was easy enough. The first
message submitted to me was so short that it was impossible for
me to do more than to say, with some confidence, that the symbol
XXX stood for E. As you are aware, E is the most common letter in
the English alphabet, and it predominates to so marked an extent
that even in a short sentence one would expect to find it most
often. Out of fifteen symbols in the first message, four were the
same, so it was reasonable to set this down as E. It is true that
in some cases the figure was bearing a flag, and in some cases
not, but it was probable, from the way in which the flags were
distributed, that they were used to break the sentence up into
words. I accepted this as a hypothesis, and noted that E was
represented by
E
“But now came the real difficulty of the inquiry. The order of
the English letters after E is by no means well marked, and any
preponderance which may be shown in an average of a printed sheet
may be reversed in a single short sentence. Speaking roughly, T,
A, O, I, N, S, H, R, D, and L are the numerical order in which
letters occur, but T, A, O, and I are very nearly abreast of each
other, and it would be an endless task to try each combination
until a meaning was arrived at. I therefore waited for fresh
material. In my second interview with Mr. Hilton Cubitt he was
able to give me two other short sentences and one message, which
appeared—since there was no flag—to be a single word. Here are
the symbols. Now, in the single word I have already got the two
E’s coming second and fourth in a word of five letters. It might
be ‘sever,’ or ‘lever,’ or ‘never.’ There can be no question that
the latter as a reply to an appeal is far the most probable, and
the circumstances pointed to its being a reply written by the
lady. Accepting it as correct, we are now able to say that the
symbols stand respectively for N, V, and R.
N-V-R
“Even now I was in considerable difficulty, but a happy thought
put me in possession of several other letters. It occurred to me
that if these appeals came, as I expected, from someone who had
been intimate with the lady in her early life, a combination
which contained two E’s with three letters between might very
well stand for the name ‘ELSIE.’ On examination I found that such
a combination formed the termination of the message which was
three times repeated. It was certainly some appeal to ‘Elsie.’ In
this way I had got my L, S, and I. But what appeal could it be?
There were only four letters in the word which preceded ‘Elsie,’
and it ended in E. Surely the word must be ‘COME.’ I tried all
other four letters ending in E, but could find none to fit the
case. So now I was in possession of C, O, and M, and I was in a
position to attack the first message once more, dividing it into
words and putting dots for each symbol which was still unknown.
So treated, it worked out in this fashion:
.M .ERE ..E SL.NE.
“Now the first letter _can_ only be A, which is a most useful
discovery, since it occurs no fewer than three times in this
short sentence, and the H is also apparent in the second word.
Now it becomes:
AM HERE A.E SLANE.
Or, filling in the obvious vacancies in the name:
AM HERE ABE SLANEY.
I had so many letters now that I could proceed with considerable
confidence to the second message, which worked out in this
fashion:
A. ELRI. ES.
Here I could only make sense by putting T and G for the missing
letters, and supposing that the name was that of some house or
inn at which the writer was staying.”
Inspector Martin and I had listened with the utmost interest to
the full and clear account of how my friend had produced results
which had led to so complete a command over our difficulties.
“What did you do then, sir?” asked the inspector.
“I had every reason to suppose that this Abe Slaney was an
American, since Abe is an American contraction, and since a
letter from America had been the starting-point of all the
trouble. I had also every cause to think that there was some
criminal secret in the matter. The lady’s allusions to her past,
and her refusal to take her husband into her confidence, both
pointed in that direction. I therefore cabled to my friend,
Wilson Hargreave, of the New York Police Bureau, who has more
than once made use of my knowledge of London crime. I asked him
whether the name of Abe Slaney was known to him. Here is his
reply: ‘The most dangerous crook in Chicago.’ On the very evening
upon which I had his answer, Hilton Cubitt sent me the last
message from Slaney. Working with known letters, it took this
form:
ELSIE .RE.ARE TO MEET THY GO.
The addition of a P and a D completed a message which showed me
that the rascal was proceeding from persuasion to threats, and my
knowledge of the crooks of Chicago prepared me to find that he
might very rapidly put his words into action. I at once came to
Norfolk with my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson, but, unhappily,
only in time to find that the worst had already occurred.”
“It is a privilege to be associated with you in the handling of a
case,” said the inspector, warmly. “You will excuse me, however,
if I speak frankly to you. You are only answerable to yourself,
but I have to answer to my superiors. If this Abe Slaney, living
at Elrige’s, is indeed the murderer, and if he has made his
escape while I am seated here, I should certainly get into
serious trouble.”
“You need not be uneasy. He will not try to escape.”
“How do you know?”
“To fly would be a confession of guilt.”
“Then let us go arrest him.”
“I expect him here every instant.”
“But why should he come?”
“Because I have written and asked him.”
“But this is incredible, Mr. Holmes! Why should he come because
you have asked him? Would not such a request rather rouse his
suspicions and cause him to fly?”
“I think I have known how to frame the letter,” said Sherlock
Holmes. “In fact, if I am not very much mistaken, here is the
gentleman himself coming up the drive.”
A man was striding up the path which led to the door. He was a
tall, handsome, swarthy fellow, clad in a suit of grey flannel,
with a Panama hat, a bristling black beard, and a great,
aggressive hooked nose, and flourishing a cane as he walked. He
swaggered up the path as if the place belonged to him, and we
heard his loud, confident peal at the bell.
“I think, gentlemen,” said Holmes, quietly, “that we had best
take up our position behind the door. Every precaution is
necessary when dealing with such a fellow. You will need your
handcuffs, Inspector. You can leave the talking to me.”
We waited in silence for a minute—one of those minutes which one
can never forget. Then the door opened and the man stepped in. In
an instant Holmes clapped a pistol to his head, and Martin
slipped the handcuffs over his wrists. It was all done so swiftly
and deftly that the fellow was helpless before he knew that he
was attacked. He glared from one to the other of us with a pair
of blazing black eyes. Then he burst into a bitter laugh.
“Well, gentlemen, you have the drop on me this time. I seem to
have knocked up against something hard. But I came here in answer
to a letter from Mrs. Hilton Cubitt. Don’t tell me that she is in
this? Don’t tell me that she helped to set a trap for me?”
“Mrs. Hilton Cubitt was seriously injured, and is at death’s
door.”
The man gave a hoarse cry of grief, which rang through the house.
“You’re crazy!” he cried, fiercely. “It was he that was hurt, not
she. Who would have hurt little Elsie? I may have threatened
her—God forgive me!—but I would not have touched a hair of her
pretty head. Take it back—you! Say that she is not hurt!”
“She was found badly wounded, by the side of her dead husband.”
He sank with a deep groan on the settee and buried his face in
his manacled hands. For five minutes he was silent. Then he
raised his face once more, and spoke with the cold composure of
despair.
“I have nothing to hide from you, gentlemen,” said he. “If I shot
the man he had his shot at me, and there’s no murder in that. But
if you think I could have hurt that woman, then you don’t know
either me or her. I tell you, there was never a man in this world
loved a woman more than I loved her. I had a right to her. She
was pledged to me years ago. Who was this Englishman that he
should come between us? I tell you that I had the first right to
her, and that I was only claiming my own.”
“She broke away from your influence when she found the man that
you are,” said Holmes, sternly. “She fled from America to avoid
you, and she married an honourable gentleman in England. You
dogged her and followed her and made her life a misery to her, in
order to induce her to abandon the husband whom she loved and
respected in order to fly with you, whom she feared and hated.
You have ended by bringing about the death of a noble man and
driving his wife to suicide. That is your record in this
business, Mr. Abe Slaney, and you will answer for it to the law.”
“If Elsie dies, I care nothing what becomes of me,” said the
American. He opened one of his hands, and looked at a note
crumpled up in his palm. “See here, mister,” he cried, with a
gleam of suspicion in his eyes, “you’re not trying to scare me
over this, are you? If the lady is hurt as bad as you say, who
was it that wrote this note?” He tossed it forward on to the
table.
“I wrote it, to bring you here.”
“You wrote it? There was no one on earth outside the Joint who
knew the secret of the dancing men. How came you to write it?”
“What one man can invent another can discover,” said Holmes.
“There is a cab coming to convey you to Norwich, Mr. Slaney. But
meanwhile, you have time to make some small reparation for the
injury you have wrought. Are you aware that Mrs. Hilton Cubitt
has herself lain under grave suspicion of the murder of her
husband, and that it was only my presence here, and the knowledge
which I happened to possess, which has saved her from the
accusation? The least that you owe her is to make it clear to the
whole world that she was in no way, directly or indirectly,
responsible for his tragic end.”
“I ask nothing better,” said the American. “I guess the very best
case I can make for myself is the absolute naked truth.”
“It is my duty to warn you that it will be used against you,”
cried the inspector, with the magnificent fair play of the
British criminal law.
Slaney shrugged his shoulders.
“I’ll chance that,” said he. “First of all, I want you gentlemen
to understand that I have known this lady since she was a child.
There were seven of us in a gang in Chicago, and Elsie’s father
was the boss of the Joint. He was a clever man, was old Patrick.
It was he who invented that writing, which would pass as a
child’s scrawl unless you just happened to have the key to it.
Well, Elsie learned some of our ways, but she couldn’t stand the
business, and she had a bit of honest money of her own, so she
gave us all the slip and got away to London. She had been engaged
to me, and she would have married me, I believe, if I had taken
over another profession, but she would have nothing to do with
anything on the cross. It was only after her marriage to this
Englishman that I was able to find out where she was. I wrote to
her, but got no answer. After that I came over, and, as letters
were no use, I put my messages where she could read them.
“Well, I have been here a month now. I lived in that farm, where
I had a room down below, and could get in and out every night,
and no one the wiser. I tried all I could to coax Elsie away. I
knew that she read the messages, for once she wrote an answer
under one of them. Then my temper got the better of me, and I
began to threaten her. She sent me a letter then, imploring me to
go away, and saying that it would break her heart if any scandal
should come upon her husband. She said that she would come down
when her husband was asleep at three in the morning, and speak
with me through the end window, if I would go away afterwards and
leave her in peace. She came down and brought money with her,
trying to bribe me to go. This made me mad, and I caught her arm
and tried to pull her through the window. At that moment in
rushed the husband with his revolver in his hand. Elsie had sunk
down upon the floor, and we were face to face. I was heeled also,
and I held up my gun to scare him off and let me get away. He
fired and missed me. I pulled off almost at the same instant, and
down he dropped. I made away across the garden, and as I went I
heard the window shut behind me. That’s God’s truth, gentlemen,
every word of it, and I heard no more about it until that lad
came riding up with a note which made me walk in here, like a
jay, and give myself into your hands.”
A cab had driven up whilst the American had been talking. Two
uniformed policemen sat inside. Inspector Martin rose and touched
his prisoner on the shoulder.
“It is time for us to go.”
“Can I see her first?”
“No, she is not conscious. Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I only hope that
if ever again I have an important case, I shall have the good
fortune to have you by my side.”
We stood at the window and watched the cab drive away. As I
turned back, my eye caught the pellet of paper which the prisoner
had tossed upon the table. It was the note with which Holmes had
decoyed him.
“See if you can read it, Watson,” said he, with a smile.
It contained no word, but this little line of dancing men:
COME-HERE-AT-ONCE
“If you use the code which I have explained,” said Holmes, “you
will find that it simply means ‘Come here at once.’ I was
convinced that it was an invitation which he would not refuse,
since he could never imagine that it could come from anyone but
the lady. And so, my dear Watson, we have ended by turning the
dancing men to good when they have so often been the agents of
evil, and I think that I have fulfilled my promise of giving you
something unusual for your notebook. Three-forty is our train,
and I fancy we should be back in Baker Street for dinner.”
Only one word of epilogue. The American, Abe Slaney, was
condemned to death at the winter assizes at Norwich, but his
penalty was changed to penal servitude in consideration of
mitigating circumstances, and the certainty that Hilton Cubitt
had fired the first shot. Of Mrs. Hilton Cubitt I only know that
I have heard she recovered entirely, and that she still remains a
widow, devoting her whole life to the care of the poor and to the
administration of her husband’s estate.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE SOLITARY CYCLIST
From the years 1894 to 1901 inclusive, Mr. Sherlock Holmes was a
very busy man. It is safe to say that there was no public case of
any difficulty in which he was not consulted during those eight
years, and there were hundreds of private cases, some of them of
the most intricate and extraordinary character, in which he
played a prominent part. Many startling successes and a few
unavoidable failures were the outcome of this long period of
continuous work. As I have preserved very full notes of all these
cases, and was myself personally engaged in many of them, it may
be imagined that it is no easy task to know which I should select
to lay before the public. I shall, however, preserve my former
rule, and give the preference to those cases which derive their
interest not so much from the brutality of the crime as from the
ingenuity and dramatic quality of the solution. For this reason I
will now lay before the reader the facts connected with Miss
Violet Smith, the solitary cyclist of Charlington, and the
curious sequel of our investigation, which culminated in
unexpected tragedy. It is true that the circumstance did not
admit of any striking illustration of those powers for which my
friend was famous, but there were some points about the case
which made it stand out in those long records of crime from which
I gather the material for these little narratives.
On referring to my notebook for the year 1895, I find that it was
upon Saturday, the 23rd of April, that we first heard of Miss
Violet Smith. Her visit was, I remember, extremely unwelcome to
Holmes, for he was immersed at the moment in a very abstruse and
complicated problem concerning the peculiar persecution to which
John Vincent Harden, the well-known tobacco millionaire, had been
subjected. My friend, who loved above all things precision and
concentration of thought, resented anything which distracted his
attention from the matter in hand. And yet, without a harshness
which was foreign to his nature, it was impossible to refuse to
listen to the story of the young and beautiful woman, tall,
graceful, and queenly, who presented herself at Baker Street late
in the evening, and implored his assistance and advice. It was
vain to urge that his time was already fully occupied, for the
young lady had come with the determination to tell her story, and
it was evident that nothing short of force could get her out of
the room until she had done so. With a resigned air and a
somewhat weary smile, Holmes begged the beautiful intruder to
take a seat, and to inform us what it was that was troubling her.
“At least it cannot be your health,” said he, as his keen eyes
darted over her, “so ardent a bicyclist must be full of energy.”
She glanced down in surprise at her own feet, and I observed the
slight roughening of the side of the sole caused by the friction
of the edge of the pedal.
“Yes, I bicycle a good deal, Mr. Holmes, and that has something
to do with my visit to you to-day.”
My friend took the lady’s ungloved hand, and examined it with as
close an attention and as little sentiment as a scientist would
show to a specimen.
“You will excuse me, I am sure. It is my business,” said he, as
he dropped it. “I nearly fell into the error of supposing that
you were typewriting. Of course, it is obvious that it is music.
You observe the spatulate finger-ends, Watson, which is common to
both professions? There is a spirituality about the face,
however”—she gently turned it towards the light—“which the
typewriter does not generate. This lady is a musician.”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes, I teach music.”
“In the country, I presume, from your complexion.”
“Yes, sir, near Farnham, on the borders of Surrey.”
“A beautiful neighbourhood, and full of the most interesting
associations. You remember, Watson, that it was near there that
we took Archie Stamford, the forger. Now, Miss Violet, what has
happened to you, near Farnham, on the borders of Surrey?”
The young lady, with great clearness and composure, made the
following curious statement:
“My father is dead, Mr. Holmes. He was James Smith, who conducted
the orchestra at the old Imperial Theatre. My mother and I were
left without a relation in the world except one uncle, Ralph
Smith, who went to Africa twenty-five years ago, and we have
never had a word from him since. When father died, we were left
very poor, but one day we were told that there was an
advertisement in _The Times_, inquiring for our whereabouts. You
can imagine how excited we were, for we thought that someone had
left us a fortune. We went at once to the lawyer whose name was
given in the paper. There we met two gentlemen, Mr. Carruthers
and Mr. Woodley, who were home on a visit from South Africa. They
said that my uncle was a friend of theirs, that he had died some
months before in great poverty in Johannesburg, and that he had
asked them with his last breath to hunt up his relations, and see
that they were in no want. It seemed strange to us that Uncle
Ralph, who took no notice of us when he was alive, should be so
careful to look after us when he was dead, but Mr. Carruthers
explained that the reason was that my uncle had just heard of the
death of his brother, and so felt responsible for our fate.”
“Excuse me,” said Holmes. “When was this interview?”
“Last December—four months ago.”
“Pray proceed.”
“Mr. Woodley seemed to me to be a most odious person. He was for
ever making eyes at me—a coarse, puffy-faced, red-moustached
young man, with his hair plastered down on each side of his
forehead. I thought that he was perfectly hateful—and I was sure
that Cyril would not wish me to know such a person.”
“Oh, Cyril is his name!” said Holmes, smiling.
The young lady blushed and laughed.
“Yes, Mr. Holmes, Cyril Morton, an electrical engineer, and we
hope to be married at the end of the summer. Dear me, how _did_ I
get talking about him? What I wished to say was that Mr. Woodley
was perfectly odious, but that Mr. Carruthers, who was a much
older man, was more agreeable. He was a dark, sallow,
clean-shaven, silent person, but he had polite manners and a
pleasant smile. He inquired how we were left, and on finding that
we were very poor, he suggested that I should come and teach
music to his only daughter, aged ten. I said that I did not like
to leave my mother, on which he suggested that I should go home
to her every week-end, and he offered me a hundred a year, which
was certainly splendid pay. So it ended by my accepting, and I
went down to Chiltern Grange, about six miles from Farnham. Mr.
Carruthers was a widower, but he had engaged a lady housekeeper,
a very respectable, elderly person, called Mrs. Dixon, to look
after his establishment. The child was a dear, and everything
promised well. Mr. Carruthers was very kind and very musical, and
we had most pleasant evenings together. Every week-end I went
home to my mother in town.
“The first flaw in my happiness was the arrival of the
red-moustached Mr. Woodley. He came for a visit of a week, and
oh! it seemed three months to me. He was a dreadful person—a
bully to everyone else, but to me something infinitely worse. He
made odious love to me, boasted of his wealth, said that if I
married him I could have the finest diamonds in London, and
finally, when I would have nothing to do with him, he seized me
in his arms one day after dinner—he was hideously strong—and
swore that he would not let me go until I had kissed him. Mr.
Carruthers came in and tore him from me, on which he turned upon
his own host, knocking him down and cutting his face open. That
was the end of his visit, as you can imagine. Mr. Carruthers
apologized to me next day, and assured me that I should never be
exposed to such an insult again. I have not seen Mr. Woodley
since.
“And now, Mr. Holmes, I come at last to the special thing which
has caused me to ask your advice to-day. You must know that every
Saturday forenoon I ride on my bicycle to Farnham Station, in
order to get the 12:22 to town. The road from Chiltern Grange is
a lonely one, and at one spot it is particularly so, for it lies
for over a mile between Charlington Heath upon one side and the
woods which lie round Charlington Hall upon the other. You could
not find a more lonely tract of road anywhere, and it is quite
rare to meet so much as a cart, or a peasant, until you reach the
high road near Crooksbury Hill. Two weeks ago I was passing this
place, when I chanced to look back over my shoulder, and about
two hundred yards behind me I saw a man, also on a bicycle. He
seemed to be a middle-aged man, with a short, dark beard. I
looked back before I reached Farnham, but the man was gone, so I
thought no more about it. But you can imagine how surprised I
was, Mr. Holmes, when, on my return on the Monday, I saw the same
man on the same stretch of road. My astonishment was increased
when the incident occurred again, exactly as before, on the
following Saturday and Monday. He always kept his distance and
did not molest me in any way, but still it certainly was very
odd. I mentioned it to Mr. Carruthers, who seemed interested in
what I said, and told me that he had ordered a horse and trap, so
that in future I should not pass over these lonely roads without
some companion.
“The horse and trap were to have come this week, but for some
reason they were not delivered, and again I had to cycle to the
station. That was this morning. You can think that I looked out
when I came to Charlington Heath, and there, sure enough, was the
man, exactly as he had been the two weeks before. He always kept
so far from me that I could not clearly see his face, but it was
certainly someone whom I did not know. He was dressed in a dark
suit with a cloth cap. The only thing about his face that I could
clearly see was his dark beard. To-day I was not alarmed, but I
was filled with curiosity, and I determined to find out who he
was and what he wanted. I slowed down my machine, but he slowed
down his. Then I stopped altogether, but he stopped also. Then I
laid a trap for him. There is a sharp turning of the road, and I
pedalled very quickly round this, and then I stopped and waited.
I expected him to shoot round and pass me before he could stop.
But he never appeared. Then I went back and looked round the
corner. I could see a mile of road, but he was not on it. To make
it the more extraordinary, there was no side road at this point
down which he could have gone.”
Holmes chuckled and rubbed his hands. “This case certainly
presents some features of its own,” said he. “How much time
elapsed between your turning the corner and your discovery that
the road was clear?”
“Two or three minutes.”
“Then he could not have retreated down the road, and you say that
there are no side roads?”
“None.”
“Then he certainly took a footpath on one side or the other.”
“It could not have been on the side of the heath, or I should
have seen him.”
“So, by the process of exclusion, we arrive at the fact that he
made his way toward Charlington Hall, which, as I understand, is
situated in its own grounds on one side of the road. Anything
else?”
“Nothing, Mr. Holmes, save that I was so perplexed that I felt I
should not be happy until I had seen you and had your advice.”
Holmes sat in silence for some little time.
“Where is the gentleman to whom you are engaged?” he asked at
last.
“He is in the Midland Electrical Company, at Coventry.”
“He would not pay you a surprise visit?”
“Oh, Mr. Holmes! As if I should not know him!”
“Have you had any other admirers?”
“Several before I knew Cyril.”
“And since?”
“There was this dreadful man, Woodley, if you can call him an
admirer.”
“No one else?”
Our fair client seemed a little confused.
“Who was he?” asked Holmes.
“Oh, it may be a mere fancy of mine; but it had seemed to me
sometimes that my employer, Mr. Carruthers, takes a great deal of
interest in me. We are thrown rather together. I play his
accompaniments in the evening. He has never said anything. He is
a perfect gentleman. But a girl always knows.”
“Ha!” Holmes looked grave. “What does he do for a living?”
“He is a rich man.”
“No carriages or horses?”
“Well, at least he is fairly well-to-do. But he goes into the
city two or three times a week. He is deeply interested in South
African gold shares.”
“You will let me know any fresh development, Miss Smith. I am
very busy just now, but I will find time to make some inquiries
into your case. In the meantime, take no step without letting me
know. Good-bye, and I trust that we shall have nothing but good
news from you.”
“It is part of the settled order of Nature that such a girl
should have followers,” said Holmes, as he pulled at his
meditative pipe, “but for choice not on bicycles in lonely
country roads. Some secretive lover, beyond all doubt. But there
are curious and suggestive details about the case, Watson.”
“That he should appear only at that point?”
“Exactly. Our first effort must be to find who are the tenants of
Charlington Hall. Then, again, how about the connection between
Carruthers and Woodley, since they appear to be men of such a
different type? How came they _both_ to be so keen upon looking
up Ralph Smith’s relations? One more point. What sort of a
_ménage_ is it which pays double the market price for a governess
but does not keep a horse, although six miles from the station?
Odd, Watson—very odd!”
“You will go down?”
“No, my dear fellow, _you_ will go down. This may be some
trifling intrigue, and I cannot break my other important research
for the sake of it. On Monday you will arrive early at Farnham;
you will conceal yourself near Charlington Heath; you will
observe these facts for yourself, and act as your own judgment
advises. Then, having inquired as to the occupants of the Hall,
you will come back to me and report. And now, Watson, not another
word of the matter until we have a few solid stepping-stones on
which we may hope to get across to our solution.”
We had ascertained from the lady that she went down upon the
Monday by the train which leaves Waterloo at 9:50, so I started
early and caught the 9:13. At Farnham Station I had no difficulty
in being directed to Charlington Heath. It was impossible to
mistake the scene of the young lady’s adventure, for the road
runs between the open heath on one side and an old yew hedge upon
the other, surrounding a park which is studded with magnificent
trees. There was a main gateway of lichen-studded stone, each
side pillar surmounted by mouldering heraldic emblems, but
besides this central carriage drive I observed several points
where there were gaps in the hedge and paths leading through
them. The house was invisible from the road, but the surroundings
all spoke of gloom and decay.
The heath was covered with golden patches of flowering gorse,
gleaming magnificently in the light of the bright spring
sunshine. Behind one of these clumps I took up my position, so as
to command both the gateway of the Hall and a long stretch of the
road upon either side. It had been deserted when I left it, but
now I saw a cyclist riding down it from the opposite direction to
that in which I had come. He was clad in a dark suit, and I saw
that he had a black beard. On reaching the end of the Charlington
grounds, he sprang from his machine and led it through a gap in
the hedge, disappearing from my view.
A quarter of an hour passed, and then a second cyclist appeared.
This time it was the young lady coming from the station. I saw
her look about her as she came to the Charlington hedge. An
instant later the man emerged from his hiding-place, sprang upon
his cycle, and followed her. In all the broad landscape those
were the only moving figures, the graceful girl sitting very
straight upon her machine, and the man behind her bending low
over his handle-bar with a curiously furtive suggestion in every
movement. She looked back at him and slowed her pace. He slowed
also. She stopped. He at once stopped, too, keeping two hundred
yards behind her. Her next movement was as unexpected as it was
spirited. She suddenly whisked her wheels round and dashed
straight at him. He was as quick as she, however, and darted off
in desperate flight. Presently she came back up the road again,
her head haughtily in the air, not deigning to take any further
notice of her silent attendant. He had turned also, and still
kept his distance until the curve of the road hid them from my
sight.
I remained in my hiding-place, and it was well that I did so, for
presently the man reappeared, cycling slowly back. He turned in
at the Hall gates, and dismounted from his machine. For some
minutes I could see him standing among the trees. His hands were
raised, and he seemed to be settling his necktie. Then he mounted
his cycle, and rode away from me down the drive towards the Hall.
I ran across the heath and peered through the trees. Far away I
could catch glimpses of the old grey building with its bristling
Tudor chimneys, but the drive ran through a dense shrubbery, and
I saw no more of my man.
However, it seemed to me that I had done a fairly good morning’s
work, and I walked back in high spirits to Farnham. The local
house agent could tell me nothing about Charlington Hall, and
referred me to a well-known firm in Pall Mall. There I halted on
my way home, and met with courtesy from the representative. No, I
could not have Charlington Hall for the summer. I was just too
late. It had been let about a month ago. Mr. Williamson was the
name of the tenant. He was a respectable, elderly gentleman. The
polite agent was afraid he could say no more, as the affairs of
his clients were not matters which he could discuss.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes listened with attention to the long report
which I was able to present to him that evening, but it did not
elicit that word of curt praise which I had hoped for and should
have valued. On the contrary, his austere face was even more
severe than usual as he commented upon the things that I had done
and the things that I had not.
“Your hiding-place, my dear Watson, was very faulty. You should
have been behind the hedge, then you would have had a close view
of this interesting person. As it is, you were some hundreds of
yards away and can tell me even less than Miss Smith. She thinks
she does not know the man; I am convinced she does. Why,
otherwise, should he be so desperately anxious that she should
not get so near him as to see his features? You describe him as
bending over the handle-bar. Concealment again, you see. You
really have done remarkably badly. He returns to the house, and
you want to find out who he is. You come to a London house
agent!”
“What should I have done?” I cried, with some heat.
“Gone to the nearest public-house. That is the centre of country
gossip. They would have told you every name, from the master to
the scullery-maid. Williamson? It conveys nothing to my mind. If
he is an elderly man he is not this active cyclist who sprints
away from that young lady’s athletic pursuit. What have we gained
by your expedition? The knowledge that the girl’s story is true.
I never doubted it. That there is a connection between the
cyclist and the Hall. I never doubted that either. That the Hall
is tenanted by Williamson. Who’s the better for that? Well, well,
my dear sir, don’t look so depressed. We can do little more until
next Saturday, and in the meantime I may make one or two
inquiries myself.”
Next morning, we had a note from Miss Smith, recounting shortly
and accurately the very incidents which I had seen, but the pith
of the letter lay in the postscript:
“I am sure that you will respect my confidence, Mr. Holmes, when
I tell you that my place here has become difficult, owing to the
fact that my employer has proposed marriage to me. I am convinced
that his feelings are most deep and most honourable. At the same
time, my promise is of course given. He took my refusal very
seriously, but also very gently. You can understand, however,
that the situation is a little strained.”
“Our young friend seems to be getting into deep waters,” said
Holmes, thoughtfully, as he finished the letter. “The case
certainly presents more features of interest and more possibility
of development than I had originally thought. I should be none
the worse for a quiet, peaceful day in the country, and I am
inclined to run down this afternoon and test one or two theories
which I have formed.”
Holmes’s quiet day in the country had a singular termination, for
he arrived at Baker Street late in the evening, with a cut lip
and a discoloured lump upon his forehead, besides a general air
of dissipation which would have made his own person the fitting
object of a Scotland Yard investigation. He was immensely tickled
by his own adventures and laughed heartily as he recounted them.
“I get so little active exercise that it is always a treat,” said
he. “You are aware that I have some proficiency in the good old
British sport of boxing. Occasionally, it is of service; to-day,
for example, I should have come to very ignominious grief without
it.”
I begged him to tell me what had occurred.
“I found that country pub which I had already recommended to your
notice, and there I made my discreet inquiries. I was in the bar,
and a garrulous landlord was giving me all that I wanted.
Williamson is a white-bearded man, and he lives alone with a
small staff of servants at the Hall. There is some rumour that he
is or has been a clergyman, but one or two incidents of his short
residence at the Hall struck me as peculiarly unecclesiastical. I
have already made some inquiries at a clerical agency, and they
tell me that there _was_ a man of that name in orders, whose
career has been a singularly dark one. The landlord further
informed me that there are usually week-end visitors—‘a warm lot,
sir’—at the Hall, and especially one gentleman with a red
moustache, Mr. Woodley by name, who was always there. We had got
as far as this, when who should walk in but the gentleman
himself, who had been drinking his beer in the tap-room and had
heard the whole conversation. Who was I? What did I want? What
did I mean by asking questions? He had a fine flow of language,
and his adjectives were very vigorous. He ended a string of abuse
by a vicious backhander, which I failed to entirely avoid. The
next few minutes were delicious. It was a straight left against a
slogging ruffian. I emerged as you see me. Mr. Woodley went home
in a cart. So ended my country trip, and it must be confessed
that, however enjoyable, my day on the Surrey border has not been
much more profitable than your own.”
The Thursday brought us another letter from our client.
You will not be surprised, Mr. Holmes (said she), to hear
that I am leaving Mr. Carruthers’s employment. Even the high
pay cannot reconcile me to the discomforts of my situation.
On Saturday I come up to town, and I do not intend to return.
Mr. Carruthers has got a trap, and so the dangers of the
lonely road, if there ever were any dangers, are now over.
As to the special cause of my leaving, it is not merely the
strained situation with Mr. Carruthers, but it is the
reappearance of that odious man, Mr. Woodley. He was always
hideous, but he looks more awful than ever now, for he appears to
have had an accident and he is much disfigured. I saw him out of
the window, but I am glad to say I did not meet him. He had a
long talk with Mr. Carruthers, who seemed much excited
afterwards. Woodley must be staying in the neighbourhood, for he
did not sleep here, and yet I caught a glimpse of him again this
morning, slinking about in the shrubbery. I would sooner have a
savage wild animal loose about the place. I loathe and fear him
more than I can say. How _can_ Mr. Carruthers endure such a
creature for a moment? However, all my troubles will be over on
Saturday.
“So I trust, Watson, so I trust,” said Holmes, gravely. “There is
some deep intrigue going on round that little woman, and it is
our duty to see that no one molests her upon that last journey. I
think, Watson, that we must spare time to run down together on
Saturday morning and make sure that this curious and inclusive
investigation has no untoward ending.”
I confess that I had not up to now taken a very serious view of
the case, which had seemed to me rather grotesque and bizarre
than dangerous. That a man should lie in wait for and follow a
very handsome woman is no unheard-of thing, and if he has so
little audacity that he not only dared not address her, but even
fled from her approach, he was not a very formidable assailant.
The ruffian Woodley was a very different person, but, except on
one occasion, he had not molested our client, and now he visited
the house of Carruthers without intruding upon her presence. The
man on the bicycle was doubtless a member of those week-end
parties at the Hall of which the publican had spoken, but who he
was, or what he wanted, was as obscure as ever. It was the
severity of Holmes’s manner and the fact that he slipped a
revolver into his pocket before leaving our rooms which impressed
me with the feeling that tragedy might prove to lurk behind this
curious train of events.
A rainy night had been followed by a glorious morning, and the
heath-covered countryside, with the glowing clumps of flowering
gorse, seemed all the more beautiful to eyes which were weary of
the duns and drabs and slate greys of London. Holmes and I walked
along the broad, sandy road inhaling the fresh morning air and
rejoicing in the music of the birds and the fresh breath of the
spring. From a rise of the road on the shoulder of Crooksbury
Hill, we could see the grim Hall bristling out from amidst the
ancient oaks, which, old as they were, were still younger than
the building which they surrounded. Holmes pointed down the long
tract of road which wound, a reddish yellow band, between the
brown of the heath and the budding green of the woods. Far away,
a black dot, we could see a vehicle moving in our direction.
Holmes gave an exclamation of impatience.
“I have given a margin of half an hour,” said he. “If that is her
trap, she must be making for the earlier train. I fear, Watson,
that she will be past Charlington before we can possibly meet
her.”
From the instant that we passed the rise, we could no longer see
the vehicle, but we hastened onward at such a pace that my
sedentary life began to tell upon me, and I was compelled to fall
behind. Holmes, however, was always in training, for he had
inexhaustible stores of nervous energy upon which to draw. His
springy step never slowed until suddenly, when he was a hundred
yards in front of me, he halted, and I saw him throw up his hand
with a gesture of grief and despair. At the same instant an empty
dog-cart, the horse cantering, the reins trailing, appeared round
the curve of the road and rattled swiftly towards us.
“Too late, Watson, too late!” cried Holmes, as I ran panting to
his side. “Fool that I was not to allow for that earlier train!
It’s abduction, Watson—abduction! Murder! Heaven knows what!
Block the road! Stop the horse! That’s right. Now, jump in, and
let us see if I can repair the consequences of my own blunder.”
We had sprung into the dog-cart, and Holmes, after turning the
horse, gave it a sharp cut with the whip, and we flew back along
the road. As we turned the curve, the whole stretch of road
between the Hall and the heath was opened up. I grasped Holmes’s
arm.
“That’s the man!” I gasped.
A solitary cyclist was coming towards us. His head was down and
his shoulders rounded, as he put every ounce of energy that he
possessed on to the pedals. He was flying like a racer. Suddenly
he raised his bearded face, saw us close to him, and pulled up,
springing from his machine. That coal-black beard was in singular
contrast to the pallor of his face, and his eyes were as bright
as if he had a fever. He stared at us and at the dog-cart. Then a
look of amazement came over his face.
“Halloa! Stop there!” he shouted, holding his bicycle to block
our road. “Where did you get that dog-cart? Pull up, man!” he
yelled, drawing a pistol from his side pocket. “Pull up, I say,
or, by George, I’ll put a bullet into your horse.”
Holmes threw the reins into my lap and sprang down from the cart.
“You’re the man we want to see. Where is Miss Violet Smith?” he
said, in his quick, clear way.
“That’s what I’m asking you. You’re in her dog-cart. You ought to
know where she is.”
“We met the dog-cart on the road. There was no one in it. We
drove back to help the young lady.”
“Good Lord! Good Lord! What shall I do?” cried the stranger, in
an ecstasy of despair. “They’ve got her, that hell-hound Woodley
and the blackguard parson. Come, man, come, if you really are her
friend. Stand by me and we’ll save her, if I have to leave my
carcass in Charlington Wood.”
He ran distractedly, his pistol in his hand, towards a gap in the
hedge. Holmes followed him, and I, leaving the horse grazing
beside the road, followed Holmes.
“This is where they came through,” said he, pointing to the marks
of several feet upon the muddy path. “Halloa! Stop a minute!
Who’s this in the bush?”
It was a young fellow about seventeen, dressed like an ostler,
with leather cords and gaiters. He lay upon his back, his knees
drawn up, a terrible cut upon his head. He was insensible, but
alive. A glance at his wound told me that it had not penetrated
the bone.
“That’s Peter, the groom,” cried the stranger. “He drove her. The
beasts have pulled him off and clubbed him. Let him lie; we can’t
do him any good, but we may save her from the worst fate that can
befall a woman.”
We ran frantically down the path, which wound among the trees. We
had reached the shrubbery which surrounded the house when Holmes
pulled up.
“They didn’t go to the house. Here are their marks on the
left—here, beside the laurel bushes. Ah! I said so.”
As he spoke, a woman’s shrill scream—a scream which vibrated with
a frenzy of horror—burst from the thick, green clump of bushes in
front of us. It ended suddenly on its highest note with a choke
and a gurgle.
“This way! This way! They are in the bowling-alley,”
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/108