The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes
by Arthur Conan Doyle · English · Gutenberg #834 · 588,895 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Memoirs 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 Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes
Author: Arthur Conan Doyle
Release date: March 1, 1997 [eBook #834]
Most recently updated: December 2, 2023
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/834
Credits: Angela M. Cable
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MEMOIRS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES ***
cover
THE MEMOIRS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
by Arthur Conan Doyle
Contents
I. Silver Blaze
II. The Adventure of the Cardboard Box
III. The Yellow Face
IV. The Stockbroker’s Clerk
V. The “Gloria Scott”
VI. The Musgrave Ritual
VII. The Reigate Squires
VIII. The Crooked Man
IX. The Resident Patient
X. The Greek Interpreter
XI. The Naval Treaty
XII. The Final Problem
I. Silver Blaze
I am afraid, Watson, that I shall have to go,” said Holmes, as we
sat down together to our breakfast one morning.
“Go! Where to?”
“To Dartmoor; to King’s Pyland.”
I was not surprised. Indeed, my only wonder was that he had not
already been mixed up in this extraordinary case, which was the
one topic of conversation through the length and breadth of
England. For a whole day my companion had rambled about the room
with his chin upon his chest and his brows knitted, charging and
recharging his pipe with the strongest black tobacco, and
absolutely deaf to any of my questions or remarks. Fresh editions
of every paper had been sent up by our news agent, only to be
glanced over and tossed down into a corner. Yet, silent as he
was, I knew perfectly well what it was over which he was
brooding. There was but one problem before the public which could
challenge his powers of analysis, and that was the singular
disappearance of the favourite for the Wessex Cup, and the tragic
murder of its trainer. When, therefore, he suddenly announced his
intention of setting out for the scene of the drama it was only
what I had both expected and hoped for.
“I should be most happy to go down with you if I should not be in
the way,” said I.
“My dear Watson, you would confer a great favour upon me by
coming. And I think that your time will not be misspent, for
there are points about the case which promise to make it an
absolutely unique one. We have, I think, just time to catch our
train at Paddington, and I will go further into the matter upon
our journey. You would oblige me by bringing with you your very
excellent field-glass.”
And so it happened that an hour or so later I found myself in the
corner of a first-class carriage flying along en route for
Exeter, while Sherlock Holmes, with his sharp, eager face framed
in his ear-flapped travelling-cap, dipped rapidly into the bundle
of fresh papers which he had procured at Paddington. We had left
Reading far behind us before he thrust the last one of them under
the seat, and offered me his cigar-case.
“We are going well,” said he, looking out the window and glancing
at his watch. “Our rate at present is fifty-three and a half
miles an hour.”
“I have not observed the quarter-mile posts,” said I.
“Nor have I. But the telegraph posts upon this line are sixty
yards apart, and the calculation is a simple one. I presume that
you have looked into this matter of the murder of John Straker
and the disappearance of Silver Blaze?”
“I have seen what the _Telegraph_ and the _Chronicle_ have to
say.”
“It is one of those cases where the art of the reasoner should be
used rather for the sifting of details than for the acquiring of
fresh evidence. The tragedy has been so uncommon, so complete and
of such personal importance to so many people, that we are
suffering from a plethora of surmise, conjecture, and hypothesis.
The difficulty is to detach the framework of fact—of absolute
undeniable fact—from the embellishments of theorists and
reporters. Then, having established ourselves upon this sound
basis, it is our duty to see what inferences may be drawn and
what are the special points upon which the whole mystery turns.
On Tuesday evening I received telegrams from both Colonel Ross,
the owner of the horse, and from Inspector Gregory, who is
looking after the case, inviting my co-operation.”
“Tuesday evening!” I exclaimed. “And this is Thursday morning.
Why didn’t you go down yesterday?”
“Because I made a blunder, my dear Watson—which is, I am afraid,
a more common occurrence than any one would think who only knew
me through your memoirs. The fact is that I could not believe it
possible that the most remarkable horse in England could long
remain concealed, especially in so sparsely inhabited a place as
the north of Dartmoor. From hour to hour yesterday I expected to
hear that he had been found, and that his abductor was the
murderer of John Straker. When, however, another morning had
come, and I found that beyond the arrest of young Fitzroy Simpson
nothing had been done, I felt that it was time for me to take
action. Yet in some ways I feel that yesterday has not been
wasted.”
“You have formed a theory, then?”
“At least I have got a grip of the essential facts of the case. I
shall enumerate them to you, for nothing clears up a case so much
as stating it to another person, and I can hardly expect your
co-operation if I do not show you the position from which we
start.”
I lay back against the cushions, puffing at my cigar, while
Holmes, leaning forward, with his long, thin forefinger checking
off the points upon the palm of his left hand, gave me a sketch
of the events which had led to our journey.
“Silver Blaze,” said he, “is from the Isonomy stock, and holds as
brilliant a record as his famous ancestor. He is now in his fifth
year, and has brought in turn each of the prizes of the turf to
Colonel Ross, his fortunate owner. Up to the time of the
catastrophe he was the first favourite for the Wessex Cup, the
betting being three to one on him. He has always, however, been a
prime favourite with the racing public, and has never yet
disappointed them, so that even at those odds enormous sums of
money have been laid upon him. It is obvious, therefore, that
there were many people who had the strongest interest in
preventing Silver Blaze from being there at the fall of the flag
next Tuesday.
“The fact was, of course, appreciated at King’s Pyland, where the
Colonel’s training-stable is situated. Every precaution was taken
to guard the favourite. The trainer, John Straker, is a retired
jockey who rode in Colonel Ross’s colours before he became too
heavy for the weighing-chair. He has served the Colonel for five
years as jockey and for seven as trainer, and has always shown
himself to be a zealous and honest servant. Under him were three
lads; for the establishment was a small one, containing only four
horses in all. One of these lads sat up each night in the stable,
while the others slept in the loft. All three bore excellent
characters. John Straker, who is a married man, lived in a small
villa about two hundred yards from the stables. He has no
children, keeps one maid-servant, and is comfortably off. The
country round is very lonely, but about half a mile to the north
there is a small cluster of villas which have been built by a
Tavistock contractor for the use of invalids and others who may
wish to enjoy the pure Dartmoor air. Tavistock itself lies two
miles to the west, while across the moor, also about two miles
distant, is the larger training establishment of Mapleton, which
belongs to Lord Backwater, and is managed by Silas Brown. In
every other direction the moor is a complete wilderness,
inhabited only by a few roaming gypsies. Such was the general
situation last Monday night when the catastrophe occurred.
“On that evening the horses had been exercised and watered as
usual, and the stables were locked up at nine o’clock. Two of the
lads walked up to the trainer’s house, where they had supper in
the kitchen, while the third, Ned Hunter, remained on guard. At a
few minutes after nine the maid, Edith Baxter, carried down to
the stables his supper, which consisted of a dish of curried
mutton. She took no liquid, as there was a water-tap in the
stables, and it was the rule that the lad on duty should drink
nothing else. The maid carried a lantern with her, as it was very
dark and the path ran across the open moor.
“Edith Baxter was within thirty yards of the stables, when a man
appeared out of the darkness and called to her to stop. As he
stepped into the circle of yellow light thrown by the lantern she
saw that he was a person of gentlemanly bearing, dressed in a
grey suit of tweeds, with a cloth cap. He wore gaiters, and
carried a heavy stick with a knob to it. She was most impressed,
however, by the extreme pallor of his face and by the nervousness
of his manner. His age, she thought, would be rather over thirty
than under it.
“‘Can you tell me where I am?’ he asked. ‘I had almost made up my
mind to sleep on the moor, when I saw the light of your lantern.’
“‘You are close to the King’s Pyland training-stables,’ said she.
“‘Oh, indeed! What a stroke of luck!’ he cried. ‘I understand
that a stable-boy sleeps there alone every night. Perhaps that is
his supper which you are carrying to him. Now I am sure that you
would not be too proud to earn the price of a new dress, would
you?’ He took a piece of white paper folded up out of his
waistcoat pocket. ‘See that the boy has this to-night, and you
shall have the prettiest frock that money can buy.’
“She was frightened by the earnestness of his manner, and ran
past him to the window through which she was accustomed to hand
the meals. It was already opened, and Hunter was seated at the
small table inside. She had begun to tell him of what had
happened, when the stranger came up again.
“‘Good-evening,’ said he, looking through the window. ‘I wanted
to have a word with you.’ The girl has sworn that as he spoke she
noticed the corner of the little paper packet protruding from his
closed hand.
“‘What business have you here?’ asked the lad.
“‘It’s business that may put something into your pocket,’ said
the other. ‘You’ve two horses in for the Wessex Cup—Silver Blaze
and Bayard. Let me have the straight tip and you won’t be a
loser. Is it a fact that at the weights Bayard could give the
other a hundred yards in five furlongs, and that the stable have
put their money on him?’
“‘So, you’re one of those damned touts!’ cried the lad. ‘I’ll
show you how we serve them in King’s Pyland.’ He sprang up and
rushed across the stable to unloose the dog. The girl fled away
to the house, but as she ran she looked back and saw that the
stranger was leaning through the window. A minute later, however,
when Hunter rushed out with the hound he was gone, and though he
ran all round the buildings he failed to find any trace of him.”
“One moment,” I asked. “Did the stable-boy, when he ran out with
the dog, leave the door unlocked behind him?”
“Excellent, Watson, excellent!” murmured my companion. “The
importance of the point struck me so forcibly that I sent a
special wire to Dartmoor yesterday to clear the matter up. The
boy locked the door before he left it. The window, I may add, was
not large enough for a man to get through.
“Hunter waited until his fellow-grooms had returned, when he sent
a message to the trainer and told him what had occurred. Straker
was excited at hearing the account, although he does not seem to
have quite realized its true significance. It left him, however,
vaguely uneasy, and Mrs. Straker, waking at one in the morning,
found that he was dressing. In reply to her inquiries, he said
that he could not sleep on account of his anxiety about the
horses, and that he intended to walk down to the stables to see
that all was well. She begged him to remain at home, as she could
hear the rain pattering against the window, but in spite of her
entreaties he pulled on his large mackintosh and left the house.
“Mrs. Straker awoke at seven in the morning, to find that her
husband had not yet returned. She dressed herself hastily, called
the maid, and set off for the stables. The door was open; inside,
huddled together upon a chair, Hunter was sunk in a state of
absolute stupor, the favourite’s stall was empty, and there were
no signs of his trainer.
“The two lads who slept in the chaff-cutting loft above the
harness-room were quickly aroused. They had heard nothing during
the night, for they are both sound sleepers. Hunter was obviously
under the influence of some powerful drug, and as no sense could
be got out of him, he was left to sleep it off while the two lads
and the two women ran out in search of the absentees. They still
had hopes that the trainer had for some reason taken out the
horse for early exercise, but on ascending the knoll near the
house, from which all the neighbouring moors were visible, they
not only could see no signs of the missing favourite, but they
perceived something which warned them that they were in the
presence of a tragedy.
“About a quarter of a mile from the stables John Straker’s
overcoat was flapping from a furze-bush. Immediately beyond there
was a bowl-shaped depression in the moor, and at the bottom of
this was found the dead body of the unfortunate trainer. His head
had been shattered by a savage blow from some heavy weapon, and
he was wounded on the thigh, where there was a long, clean cut,
inflicted evidently by some very sharp instrument. It was clear,
however, that Straker had defended himself vigorously against his
assailants, for in his right hand he held a small knife, which
was clotted with blood up to the handle, while in his left he
clasped a red and black silk cravat, which was recognised by the
maid as having been worn on the preceding evening by the stranger
who had visited the stables.
“Hunter, on recovering from his stupor, was also quite positive
as to the ownership of the cravat. He was equally certain that
the same stranger had, while standing at the window, drugged his
curried mutton, and so deprived the stables of their watchman.
“As to the missing horse, there were abundant proofs in the mud
which lay at the bottom of the fatal hollow that he had been
there at the time of the struggle. But from that morning he has
disappeared, and although a large reward has been offered, and
all the gypsies of Dartmoor are on the alert, no news has come of
him. Finally, an analysis has shown that the remains of his
supper left by the stable-lad contain an appreciable quantity of
powdered opium, while the people at the house partook of the same
dish on the same night without any ill effect.
“Those are the main facts of the case, stripped of all surmise,
and stated as baldly as possible. I shall now recapitulate what
the police have done in the matter.
“Inspector Gregory, to whom the case has been committed, is an
extremely competent officer. Were he but gifted with imagination
he might rise to great heights in his profession. On his arrival
he promptly found and arrested the man upon whom suspicion
naturally rested. There was little difficulty in finding him, for
he inhabited one of those villas which I have mentioned. His
name, it appears, was Fitzroy Simpson. He was a man of excellent
birth and education, who had squandered a fortune upon the turf,
and who lived now by doing a little quiet and genteel book-making
in the sporting clubs of London. An examination of his
betting-book shows that bets to the amount of five thousand
pounds had been registered by him against the favourite.
“On being arrested he volunteered the statement that he had come
down to Dartmoor in the hope of getting some information about
the King’s Pyland horses, and also about Desborough, the second
favourite, which was in charge of Silas Brown at the Mapleton
stables. He did not attempt to deny that he had acted as
described upon the evening before, but declared that he had no
sinister designs, and had simply wished to obtain first-hand
information. When confronted with his cravat, he turned very
pale, and was utterly unable to account for its presence in the
hand of the murdered man. His wet clothing showed that he had
been out in the storm of the night before, and his stick, which
was a Penang-lawyer weighted with lead, was just such a weapon as
might, by repeated blows, have inflicted the terrible injuries to
which the trainer had succumbed.
“On the other hand, there was no wound upon his person, while the
state of Straker’s knife would show that one at least of his
assailants must bear his mark upon him. There you have it all in
a nutshell, Watson, and if you can give me any light I shall be
infinitely obliged to you.”
I had listened with the greatest interest to the statement which
Holmes, with characteristic clearness, had laid before me. Though
most of the facts were familiar to me, I had not sufficiently
appreciated their relative importance, nor their connection to
each other.
“Is it not possible,” I suggested, “that the incised wound upon
Straker may have been caused by his own knife in the convulsive
struggles which follow any brain injury?”
“It is more than possible; it is probable,” said Holmes. “In that
case one of the main points in favour of the accused disappears.”
“And yet,” said I, “even now I fail to understand what the theory
of the police can be.”
“I am afraid that whatever theory we state has very grave
objections to it,” returned my companion. “The police imagine, I
take it, that this Fitzroy Simpson, having drugged the lad, and
having in some way obtained a duplicate key, opened the stable
door and took out the horse, with the intention, apparently, of
kidnapping him altogether. His bridle is missing, so that Simpson
must have put this on. Then, having left the door open behind
him, he was leading the horse away over the moor, when he was
either met or overtaken by the trainer. A row naturally ensued.
Simpson beat out the trainer’s brains with his heavy stick
without receiving any injury from the small knife which Straker
used in self-defence, and then the thief either led the horse on
to some secret hiding-place, or else it may have bolted during
the struggle, and be now wandering out on the moors. That is the
case as it appears to the police, and improbable as it is, all
other explanations are more improbable still. However, I shall
very quickly test the matter when I am once upon the spot, and
until then I cannot really see how we can get much further than
our present position.”
It was evening before we reached the little town of Tavistock,
which lies, like the boss of a shield, in the middle of the huge
circle of Dartmoor. Two gentlemen were awaiting us in the
station—the one a tall, fair man with lion-like hair and beard
and curiously penetrating light blue eyes; the other a small,
alert person, very neat and dapper, in a frock-coat and gaiters,
with trim little side-whiskers and an eye-glass. The latter was
Colonel Ross, the well-known sportsman; the other, Inspector
Gregory, a man who was rapidly making his name in the English
detective service.
“I am delighted that you have come down, Mr. Holmes,” said the
Colonel. “The Inspector here has done all that could possibly be
suggested, but I wish to leave no stone unturned in trying to
avenge poor Straker and in recovering my horse.”
“Have there been any fresh developments?” asked Holmes.
“I am sorry to say that we have made very little progress,” said
the Inspector. “We have an open carriage outside, and as you
would no doubt like to see the place before the light fails, we
might talk it over as we drive.”
A minute later we were all seated in a comfortable landau, and
were rattling through the quaint old Devonshire city. Inspector
Gregory was full of his case, and poured out a stream of remarks,
while Holmes threw in an occasional question or interjection.
Colonel Ross leaned back with his arms folded and his hat tilted
over his eyes, while I listened with interest to the dialogue of
the two detectives. Gregory was formulating his theory, which was
almost exactly what Holmes had foretold in the train.
“The net is drawn pretty close round Fitzroy Simpson,” he
remarked, “and I believe myself that he is our man. At the same
time I recognise that the evidence is purely circumstantial, and
that some new development may upset it.”
“How about Straker’s knife?”
“We have quite come to the conclusion that he wounded himself in
his fall.”
“My friend Dr. Watson made that suggestion to me as we came down.
If so, it would tell against this man Simpson.”
“Undoubtedly. He has neither a knife nor any sign of a wound. The
evidence against him is certainly very strong. He had a great
interest in the disappearance of the favourite. He lies under
suspicion of having poisoned the stable-boy, he was undoubtedly
out in the storm, he was armed with a heavy stick, and his cravat
was found in the dead man’s hand. I really think we have enough
to go before a jury.”
Holmes shook his head. “A clever counsel would tear it all to
rags,” said he. “Why should he take the horse out of the stable?
If he wished to injure it why could he not do it there? Has a
duplicate key been found in his possession? What chemist sold him
the powdered opium? Above all, where could he, a stranger to the
district, hide a horse, and such a horse as this? What is his own
explanation as to the paper which he wished the maid to give to
the stable-boy?”
“He says that it was a ten-pound note. One was found in his
purse. But your other difficulties are not so formidable as they
seem. He is not a stranger to the district. He has twice lodged
at Tavistock in the summer. The opium was probably brought from
London. The key, having served its purpose, would be hurled away.
The horse may be at the bottom of one of the pits or old mines
upon the moor.”
“What does he say about the cravat?”
“He acknowledges that it is his, and declares that he had lost
it. But a new element has been introduced into the case which may
account for his leading the horse from the stable.”
Holmes pricked up his ears.
“We have found traces which show that a party of gypsies encamped
on Monday night within a mile of the spot where the murder took
place. On Tuesday they were gone. Now, presuming that there was
some understanding between Simpson and these gypsies, might he
not have been leading the horse to them when he was overtaken,
and may they not have him now?”
“It is certainly possible.”
“The moor is being scoured for these gypsies. I have also
examined every stable and out-house in Tavistock, and for a
radius of ten miles.”
“There is another training-stable quite close, I understand?”
“Yes, and that is a factor which we must certainly not neglect.
As Desborough, their horse, was second in the betting, they had
an interest in the disappearance of the favourite. Silas Brown,
the trainer, is known to have had large bets upon the event, and
he was no friend to poor Straker. We have, however, examined the
stables, and there is nothing to connect him with the affair.”
“And nothing to connect this man Simpson with the interests of
the Mapleton stables?”
“Nothing at all.”
Holmes leaned back in the carriage, and the conversation ceased.
A few minutes later our driver pulled up at a neat little
red-brick villa with overhanging eaves which stood by the road.
Some distance off, across a paddock, lay a long grey-tiled
out-building. In every other direction the low curves of the
moor, bronze-coloured from the fading ferns, stretched away to
the sky-line, broken only by the steeples of Tavistock, and by a
cluster of houses away to the westward which marked the Mapleton
stables. We all sprang out with the exception of Holmes, who
continued to lean back with his eyes fixed upon the sky in front
of him, entirely absorbed in his own thoughts. It was only when I
touched his arm that he roused himself with a violent start and
stepped out of the carriage.
“Excuse me,” said he, turning to Colonel Ross, who had looked at
him in some surprise. “I was day-dreaming.” There was a gleam in
his eyes and a suppressed excitement in his manner which
convinced me, used as I was to his ways, that his hand was upon a
clue, though I could not imagine where he had found it.
“Perhaps you would prefer at once to go on to the scene of the
crime, Mr. Holmes?” said Gregory.
“I think that I should prefer to stay here a little and go into
one or two questions of detail. Straker was brought back here, I
presume?”
“Yes; he lies upstairs. The inquest is to-morrow.”
“He has been in your service some years, Colonel Ross?”
“I have always found him an excellent servant.”
“I presume that you made an inventory of what he had in his
pockets at the time of his death, Inspector?”
“I have the things themselves in the sitting-room, if you would
care to see them.”
“I should be very glad.” We all filed into the front room and sat
round the central table while the Inspector unlocked a square tin
box and laid a small heap of things before us. There was a box of
vestas, two inches of tallow candle, an A.D.P. briar-root pipe, a
pouch of seal-skin with half an ounce of long-cut Cavendish, a
silver watch with a gold chain, five sovereigns in gold, an
aluminium pencil-case, a few papers, and an ivory-handled knife
with a very delicate, inflexible blade marked Weiss & Co.,
London.
“This is a very singular knife,” said Holmes, lifting it up and
examining it minutely. “I presume, as I see blood-stains upon it,
that it is the one which was found in the dead man’s grasp.
Watson, this knife is surely in your line?”
“It is what we call a cataract knife,” said I.
“I thought so. A very delicate blade devised for very delicate
work. A strange thing for a man to carry with him upon a rough
expedition, especially as it would not shut in his pocket.”
“The tip was guarded by a disk of cork which we found beside his
body,” said the Inspector. “His wife tells us that the knife had
lain upon the dressing-table, and that he had picked it up as he
left the room. It was a poor weapon, but perhaps the best that he
could lay his hands on at the moment.”
“Very possible. How about these papers?”
“Three of them are receipted hay-dealers’ accounts. One of them
is a letter of instructions from Colonel Ross. This other is a
milliner’s account for thirty-seven pounds fifteen made out by
Madame Lesurier, of Bond Street, to William Derbyshire. Mrs.
Straker tells us that Derbyshire was a friend of her husband’s
and that occasionally his letters were addressed here.”
“Madam Derbyshire had somewhat expensive tastes,” remarked
Holmes, glancing down the account. “Twenty-two guineas is rather
heavy for a single costume. However there appears to be nothing
more to learn, and we may now go down to the scene of the crime.”
As we emerged from the sitting-room a woman, who had been waiting
in the passage, took a step forward and laid her hand upon the
Inspector’s sleeve. Her face was haggard and thin and eager,
stamped with the print of a recent horror.
“Have you got them? Have you found them?” she panted.
“No, Mrs. Straker. But Mr. Holmes here has come from London to
help us, and we shall do all that is possible.”
“Surely I met you in Plymouth at a garden-party some little time
ago, Mrs. Straker?” said Holmes.
“No, sir; you are mistaken.”
“Dear me! Why, I could have sworn to it. You wore a costume of
dove-coloured silk with ostrich-feather trimming.”
“I never had such a dress, sir,” answered the lady.
“Ah, that quite settles it,” said Holmes. And with an apology he
followed the Inspector outside. A short walk across the moor took
us to the hollow in which the body had been found. At the brink
of it was the furze-bush upon which the coat had been hung.
“There was no wind that night, I understand,” said Holmes.
“None; but very heavy rain.”
“In that case the overcoat was not blown against the furze-bush,
but placed there.”
“Yes, it was laid across the bush.”
“You fill me with interest, I perceive that the ground has been
trampled up a good deal. No doubt many feet have been here since
Monday night.”
“A piece of matting has been laid here at the side, and we have
all stood upon that.”
“Excellent.”
“In this bag I have one of the boots which Straker wore, one of
Fitzroy Simpson’s shoes, and a cast horseshoe of Silver Blaze.”
“My dear Inspector, you surpass yourself!” Holmes took the bag,
and, descending into the hollow, he pushed the matting into a
more central position. Then stretching himself upon his face and
leaning his chin upon his hands, he made a careful study of the
trampled mud in front of him. “Hullo!” said he, suddenly. “What’s
this?” It was a wax vesta half burned, which was so coated with
mud that it looked at first like a little chip of wood.
“I cannot think how I came to overlook it,” said the Inspector,
with an expression of annoyance.
“It was invisible, buried in the mud. I only saw it because I was
looking for it.”
“What! You expected to find it?”
“I thought it not unlikely.”
He took the boots from the bag, and compared the impressions of
each of them with marks upon the ground. Then he clambered up to
the rim of the hollow, and crawled about among the ferns and
bushes.
“I am afraid that there are no more tracks,” said the Inspector.
“I have examined the ground very carefully for a hundred yards in
each direction.”
“Indeed!” said Holmes, rising. “I should not have the
impertinence to do it again after what you say. But I should like
to take a little walk over the moor before it grows dark, that I
may know my ground to-morrow, and I think that I shall put this
horseshoe into my pocket for luck.”
Colonel Ross, who had shown some signs of impatience at my
companion’s quiet and systematic method of work, glanced at his
watch. “I wish you would come back with me, Inspector,” said he.
“There are several points on which I should like your advice, and
especially as to whether we do not owe it to the public to remove
our horse’s name from the entries for the Cup.”
“Certainly not,” cried Holmes, with decision. “I should let the
name stand.”
The Colonel bowed. “I am very glad to have had your opinion,
sir,” said he. “You will find us at poor Straker’s house when you
have finished your walk, and we can drive together into
Tavistock.”
He turned back with the Inspector, while Holmes and I walked
slowly across the moor. The sun was beginning to sink behind the
stables of Mapleton, and the long, sloping plain in front of us
was tinged with gold, deepening into rich, ruddy browns where the
faded ferns and brambles caught the evening light. But the
glories of the landscape were all wasted upon my companion, who
was sunk in the deepest thought.
“It’s this way, Watson,” said he at last. “We may leave the
question of who killed John Straker for the instant, and confine
ourselves to finding out what has become of the horse. Now,
supposing that he broke away during or after the tragedy, where
could he have gone to? The horse is a very gregarious creature.
If left to himself his instincts would have been either to return
to King’s Pyland or go over to Mapleton. Why should he run wild
upon the moor? He would surely have been seen by now. And why
should gypsies kidnap him? These people always clear out when
they hear of trouble, for they do not wish to be pestered by the
police. They could not hope to sell such a horse. They would run
a great risk and gain nothing by taking him. Surely that is
clear.”
“Where is he, then?”
“I have already said that he must have gone to King’s Pyland or
to Mapleton. He is not at King’s Pyland. Therefore he is at
Mapleton. Let us take that as a working hypothesis and see what
it leads us to. This part of the moor, as the Inspector remarked,
is very hard and dry. But it falls away towards Mapleton, and you
can see from here that there is a long hollow over yonder, which
must have been very wet on Monday night. If our supposition is
correct, then the horse must have crossed that, and there is the
point where we should look for his tracks.”
We had been walking briskly during this conversation, and a few
more minutes brought us to the hollow in question. At Holmes’
request I walked down the bank to the right, and he to the left,
but I had not taken fifty paces before I heard him give a shout,
and saw him waving his hand to me. The track of a horse was
plainly outlined in the soft earth in front of him, and the shoe
which he took from his pocket exactly fitted the impression.
“See the value of imagination,” said Holmes. “It is the one
quality which Gregory lacks. We imagined what might have
happened, acted upon the supposition, and find ourselves
justified. Let us proceed.”
We crossed the marshy bottom and passed over a quarter of a mile
of dry, hard turf. Again the ground sloped, and again we came on
the tracks. Then we lost them for half a mile, but only to pick
them up once more quite close to Mapleton. It was Holmes who saw
them first, and he stood pointing with a look of triumph upon his
face. A man’s track was visible beside the horse’s.
“The horse was alone before,” I cried.
“Quite so. It was alone before. Hullo, what is this?”
The double track turned sharp off and took the direction of
King’s Pyland. Holmes whistled, and we both followed along after
it. His eyes were on the trail, but I happened to look a little
to one side, and saw to my surprise the same tracks coming back
again in the opposite direction.
“One for you, Watson,” said Holmes, when I pointed it out. “You
have saved us a long walk, which would have brought us back on
our own traces. Let us follow the return track.”
We had not to go far. It ended at the paving of asphalt which led
up to the gates of the Mapleton stables. As we approached, a
groom ran out from them.
“We don’t want any loiterers about here,” said he.
“I only wished to ask a question,” said Holmes, with his finger
and thumb in his waistcoat pocket. “Should I be too early to see
your master, Mr. Silas Brown, if I were to call at five o’clock
to-morrow morning?”
“Bless you, sir, if any one is about he will be, for he is always
the first stirring. But here he is, sir, to answer your questions
for himself. No, sir, no; it is as much as my place is worth to
let him see me touch your money. Afterwards, if you like.”
As Sherlock Holmes replaced the half-crown which he had drawn
from his pocket, a fierce-looking elderly man strode out from the
gate with a hunting-crop swinging in his hand.
“What’s this, Dawson!” he cried. “No gossiping! Go about your
business! And you, what the devil do you want here?”
“Ten minutes’ talk with you, my good sir,” said Holmes in the
sweetest of voices.
“I’ve no time to talk to every gadabout. We want no strangers
here. Be off, or you may find a dog at your heels.”
Holmes leaned forward and whispered something in the trainer’s
ear. He started violently and flushed to the temples.
“It’s a lie!” he shouted, “an infernal lie!”
“Very good. Shall we argue about it here in public or talk it
over in your parlour?”
“Oh, come in if you wish to.”
Holmes smiled. “I shall not keep you more than a few minutes,
Watson,” said he. “Now, Mr. Brown, I am quite at your disposal.”
It was twenty minutes, and the reds had all faded into greys
before Holmes and the trainer reappeared. Never have I seen such
a change as had been brought about in Silas Brown in that short
time. His face was ashy pale, beads of perspiration shone upon
his brow, and his hands shook until the hunting-crop wagged like
a branch in the wind. His bullying, overbearing manner was all
gone too, and he cringed along at my companion’s side like a dog
with its master.
“Your instructions will be done. It shall all be done,” said he.
“There must be no mistake,” said Holmes, looking round at him.
The other winced as he read the menace in his eyes.
“Oh no, there shall be no mistake. It shall be there. Should I
change it first or not?”
Holmes thought a little and then burst out laughing. “No, don’t,”
said he; “I shall write to you about it. No tricks, now, or—”
“Oh, you can trust me, you can trust me!”
“Yes, I think I can. Well, you shall hear from me to-morrow.” He
turned upon his heel, disregarding the trembling hand which the
other held out to him, and we set off for King’s Pyland.
“A more perfect compound of the bully, coward, and sneak than
Master Silas Brown I have seldom met with,” remarked Holmes as we
trudged along together.
“He has the horse, then?”
“He tried to bluster out of it, but I described to him so exactly
what his actions had been upon that morning that he is convinced
that I was watching him. Of course you observed the peculiarly
square toes in the impressions, and that his own boots exactly
corresponded to them. Again, of course no subordinate would have
dared to do such a thing. I described to him how, when according
to his custom he was the first down, he perceived a strange horse
wandering over the moor. How he went out to it, and his
astonishment at recognising, from the white forehead which has
given the favourite its name, that chance had put in his power
the only horse which could beat the one upon which he had put his
money. Then I described how his first impulse had been to lead
him back to King’s Pyland, and how the devil had shown him how he
could hide the horse until the race was over, and how he had led
it back and concealed it at Mapleton. When I told him every
detail he gave it up and thought only of saving his own skin.”
“But his stables had been searched?”
“Oh, an old horse-faker like him has many a dodge.”
“But are you not afraid to leave the horse in his power now,
since he has every interest in injuring it?”
“My dear fellow, he will guard it as the apple of his eye. He
knows that his only hope of mercy is to produce it safe.”
“Colonel Ross did not impress me as a man who would be likely to
show much mercy in any case.”
“The matter does not rest with Colonel Ross. I follow my own
methods, and tell as much or as little as I choose. That is the
advantage of being unofficial. I don’t know whether you observed
it, Watson, but the Colonel’s manner has been just a trifle
cavalier to me. I am inclined now to have a little amusement at
his expense. Say nothing to him about the horse.”
“Certainly not without your permission.”
“And of course this is all quite a minor point compared to the
question of who killed John Straker.”
“And you will devote yourself to that?”
“On the contrary, we both go back to London by the night train.”
I was thunderstruck by my friend’s words. We had only been a few
hours in Devonshire, and that he should give up an investigation
which he had begun so brilliantly was quite incomprehensible to
me. Not a word more could I draw from him until we were back at
the trainer’s house. The Colonel and the Inspector were awaiting
us in the parlour.
“My friend and I return to town by the night-express,” said
Holmes. “We have had a charming little breath of your beautiful
Dartmoor air.”
The Inspector opened his eyes, and the Colonel’s lip curled in a
sneer.
“So you despair of arresting the murderer of poor Straker,” said
he.
Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “There are certainly grave
difficulties in the way,” said he. “I have every hope, however,
that your horse will start upon Tuesday, and I beg that you will
have your jockey in readiness. Might I ask for a photograph of
Mr. John Straker?”
The Inspector took one from an envelope and handed it to him.
“My dear Gregory, you anticipate all my wants. If I might ask you
to wait here for an instant, I have a question which I should
like to put to the maid.”
“I must say that I am rather disappointed in our London
consultant,” said Colonel Ross, bluntly, as my friend left the
room. “I do not see that we are any further than when he came.”
“At least you have his assurance that your horse will run,” said
I.
“Yes, I have his assurance,” said the Colonel, with a shrug of
his shoulders. “I should prefer to have the horse.”
I was about to make some reply in defence of my friend when he
entered the room again.
“Now, gentlemen,” said he, “I am quite ready for Tavistock.”
As we stepped into the carriage one of the stable-lads held the
door open for us. A sudden idea seemed to occur to Holmes, for he
leaned forward and touched the lad upon the sleeve.
“You have a few sheep in the paddock,” he said. “Who attends to
them?”
“I do, sir.”
“Have you noticed anything amiss with them of late?”
“Well, sir, not of much account; but three of them have gone
lame, sir.”
I could see that Holmes was extremely pleased, for he chuckled
and rubbed his hands together.
“A long shot, Watson; a very long shot,” said he, pinching my
arm. “Gregory, let me recommend to your attention this singular
epidemic among the sheep. Drive on, coachman!”
Colonel Ross still wore an expression which showed the poor
opinion which he had formed of my companion’s ability, but I saw
by the Inspector’s face that his attention had been keenly
aroused.
“You consider that to be important?” he asked.
“Exceedingly so.”
“Is there any point to which you would wish to draw my
attention?”
“To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time.”
“The dog did nothing in the night-time.”
“That was the curious incident,” remarked Sherlock Holmes.
Four days later Holmes and I were again in the train, bound for
Winchester to see the race for the Wessex Cup. Colonel Ross met
us by appointment outside the station, and we drove in his drag
to the course beyond the town. His face was grave, and his manner
was cold in the extreme.
“I have seen nothing of my horse,” said he.
“I suppose that you would know him when you saw him?” asked
Holmes.
The Colonel was very angry. “I have been on the turf for twenty
years, and never was asked such a question as that before,” said
he. “A child would know Silver Blaze, with his white forehead and
his mottled off-foreleg.”
“How is the betting?”
“Well, that is the curious part of it. You could have got fifteen
to one yesterday, but the price has become shorter and shorter,
until you can hardly get three to one now.”
“Hum!” said Holmes. “Somebody knows something, that is clear.”
As the drag drew up in the enclosure near the grand stand I
glanced at the card to see the entries. It ran:—
Wessex Plate. 50 sovs each h ft with 1000 sovs added for four and
five year olds. Second, £300. Third, £200. New course (one mile
and five furlongs).
1. Mr. Heath Newton’s The Negro (red cap, cinnamon jacket).
2. Colonel Wardlaw’s Pugilist (pink cap, blue and black jacket).
3. Lord Backwater’s Desborough (yellow cap and sleeves).
4. Colonel Ross’s Silver Blaze (black cap, red jacket).
5. Duke of Balmoral’s Iris (yellow and black stripes).
6. Lord Singleford’s Rasper (purple cap, black sleeves).
“We scratched our other one, and put all hopes on your word,”
said the Colonel. “Why, what is that? Silver Blaze favourite?”
“Five to four against Silver Blaze!” roared the ring. “Five to
four against Silver Blaze! Five to fifteen against Desborough!
Five to four on the field!”
“There are the numbers up,” I cried. “They are all six there.”
“All six there? Then my horse is running,” cried the Colonel in
great agitation. “But I don’t see him. My colours have not
passed.”
“Only five have passed. This must be he.”
As I spoke a powerful bay horse swept out from the weighing
enclosure and cantered past us, bearing on its back the
well-known black and red of the Colonel.
“That’s not my horse,” cried the owner. “That beast has not a
white hair upon its body. What is this that you have done, Mr.
Holmes?”
“Well, well, let us see how he gets on,” said my friend,
imperturbably. For a few minutes he gazed through my field-glass.
“Capital! An excellent start!” he cried suddenly. “There they
are, coming round the curve!”
From our drag we had a superb view as they came up the straight.
The six horses were so close together that a carpet could have
covered them, but half way up the yellow of the Mapleton stable
showed to the front. Before they reached us, however,
Desborough’s bolt was shot, and the Colonel’s horse, coming away
with a rush, passed the post a good six lengths before its rival,
the Duke of Balmoral’s Iris making a bad third.
“It’s my race, anyhow,” gasped the Colonel, passing his hand over
his eyes. “I confess that I can make neither head nor tail of it.
Don’t you think that you have kept up your mystery long enough,
Mr. Holmes?”
“Certainly, Colonel, you shall know everything. Let us all go
round and have a look at the horse together. Here he is,” he
continued, as we made our way into the weighing enclosure, where
only owners and their friends find admittance. “You have only to
wash his face and his leg in spirits of wine, and you will find
that he is the same old Silver Blaze as ever.”
“You take my breath away!”
“I found him in the hands of a faker, and took the liberty of
running him just as he was sent over.”
“My dear sir, you have done wonders. The horse looks very fit and
well. It never went better in its life. I owe you a thousand
apologies for having doubted your ability. You have done me a
great service by recovering my horse. You would do me a greater
still if you could lay your hands on the murderer of John
Straker.”
“I have done so,” said Holmes quietly.
The Colonel and I stared at him in amazement. “You have got him!
Where is he, then?”
“He is here.”
“Here! Where?”
“In my company at the present moment.”
The Colonel flushed angrily. “I quite recognise that I am under
obligations to you, Mr. Holmes,” said he, “but I must regard what
you have just said as either a very bad joke or an insult.”
Sherlock Holmes laughed. “I assure you that I have not associated
you with the crime, Colonel,” said he. “The real murderer is
standing immediately behind you.” He stepped past and laid his
hand upon the glossy neck of the thoroughbred.
“The horse!” cried both the Colonel and myself.
“Yes, the horse. And it may lessen his guilt if I say that it was
done in self-defence, and that John Straker was a man who was
entirely unworthy of your confidence. But there goes the bell,
and as I stand to win a little on this next race, I shall defer a
lengthy explanation until a more fitting time.”
We had the corner of a Pullman car to ourselves that evening as
we whirled back to London, and I fancy that the journey was a
short one to Colonel Ross as well as to myself, as we listened to
our companion’s narrative of the events which had occurred at the
Dartmoor training-stables upon the Monday night, and the means by
which he had unravelled them.
“I confess,” said he, “that any theories which I had formed from
the newspaper reports were entirely erroneous. And yet there were
indications there, had they not been overlaid by other details
which concealed their true import. I went to Devonshire with the
conviction that Fitzroy Simpson was the true culprit, although,
of course, I saw that the evidence against him was by no means
complete. It was while I was in the carriage, just as we reached
the trainer’s house, that the immense significance of the curried
mutton occurred to me. You may remember that I was distrait, and
remained sitting after you had all alighted. I was marvelling in
my own mind how I could possibly have overlooked so obvious a
clue.”
“I confess,” said the Colonel, “that even now I cannot see how it
helps us.”
“It was the first link in my chain of reasoning. Powdered opium
is by no means tasteless. The flavour is not disagreeable, but it
is perceptible. Were it mixed with any ordinary dish the eater
would undoubtedly detect it, and would probably eat no more. A
curry was exactly the medium which would disguise this taste. By
no possible supposition could this stranger, Fitzroy Simpson,
have caused curry to be served in the trainer’s family that
night, and it is surely too monstrous a coincidence to suppose
that he happened to come along with powdered opium upon the very
night when a dish happened to be served which would disguise the
flavour. That is unthinkable. Therefore Simpson becomes
eliminated from the case, and our attention centres upon Straker
and his wife, the only two people who could have chosen curried
mutton for supper that night. The opium was added after the dish
was set aside for the stable-boy, for the others had the same for
supper with no ill effects. Which of them, then, had access to
that dish without the maid seeing them?
“Before deciding that question I had grasped the significance of
the silence of the dog, for one true inference invariably
suggests others. The Simpson incident had shown me that a dog was
kept in the stables, and yet, though some one had been in and had
fetched out a horse, he had not barked enough to arouse the two
lads in the loft. Obviously the midnight visitor was some one
whom the dog knew well.
“I was already convinced, or almost convinced, that John Straker
went down to the stables in the dead of the night and took out
Silver Blaze. For what purpose? For a dishonest one, obviously,
or why should he drug his own stable-boy? And yet I was at a loss
to know why. There have been cases before now where trainers have
made sure of great sums of money by laying against their own
horses, through agents, and then preventing them from winning by
fraud. Sometimes it is a pulling jockey. Sometimes it is some
surer and subtler means. What was it here? I hoped that the
contents of his pockets might help me to form a conclusion.
“And they did so. You cannot have forgotten the singular knife
which was found in the dead man’s hand, a knife which certainly
no sane man would choose for a weapon. It was, as Dr. Watson told
us, a form of knife which is used for the most delicate
operations known in surgery. And it was to be used for a delicate
operation that night. You must know, with your wide experience of
turf matters, Colonel Ross, that it is possible to make a slight
nick upon the tendons of a horse’s ham, and to do it
subcutaneously, so as to leave absolutely no trace. A horse so
treated would develop a slight lameness, which would be put down
to a strain in exercise or a touch of rheumatism, but never to
foul play.”
“Villain! Scoundrel!” cried the Colonel.
“We have here the explanation of why John Straker wished to take
the horse out on to the moor. So spirited a creature would have
certainly roused the soundest of sleepers when it felt the prick
of the knife. It was absolutely necessary to do it in the open
air.”
“I have been blind!” cried the Colonel. “Of course that was why
he needed the candle, and struck the match.”
“Undoubtedly. But in examining his belongings I was fortunate
enough to discover not only the method of the crime, but even its
motives. As a man of the world, Colonel, you know that men do not
carry other people’s bills about in their pockets. We have most
of us quite enough to do to settle our own. I at once concluded
that Straker was leading a double life, and keeping a second
establishment. The nature of the bill showed that there was a
lady in the case, and one who had expensive tastes. Liberal as
you are with your servants, one can hardly expect that they can
buy twenty-guinea walking dresses for their ladies. I questioned
Mrs. Straker as to the dress without her knowing it, and having
satisfied myself that it had never reached her, I made a note of
the milliner’s address, and felt that by calling there with
Straker’s photograph I could easily dispose of the mythical
Derbyshire.
“From that time on all was plain. Straker had led out the horse
to a hollow where his light would be invisible. Simpson in his
flight had dropped his cravat, and Straker had picked it up—with
some idea, perhaps, that he might use it in securing the horse’s
leg. Once in the hollow, he had got behind the horse and had
struck a light; but the creature frightened at the sudden glare,
and with the strange instinct of animals feeling that some
mischief was intended, had lashed out, and the steel shoe had
struck Straker full on the forehead. He had already, in spite of
the rain, taken off his overcoat in order to do his delicate
task, and so, as he fell, his knife gashed his thigh. Do I make
it clear?”
“Wonderful!” cried the Colonel. “Wonderful! You might have been
there!”
“My final shot was, I confess a very long one. It struck me that
so astute a man as Straker would not undertake this delicate
tendon-nicking without a little practice. What could he practice
on? My eyes fell upon the sheep, and I asked a question which,
rather to my surprise, showed that my surmise was correct.
“When I returned to London I called upon the milliner, who had
recognised Straker as an excellent customer of the name of
Derbyshire, who had a very dashing wife, with a strong partiality
for expensive dresses. I have no doubt that this woman had
plunged him over head and ears in debt, and so led him into this
miserable plot.”
“You have explained all but one thing,” cried the Colonel. “Where
was the horse?”
“Ah, it bolted, and was cared for by one of your neighbours. We
must have an amnesty in that direction, I think. This is Clapham
Junction, if I am not mistaken, and we shall be in Victoria in
less than ten minutes. If you care to smoke a cigar in our rooms,
Colonel, I shall be happy to give you any other details which
might interest you.”
II. The Adventure of the Cardboard Box
In choosing a few typical cases which illustrate the remarkable
mental qualities of my friend, Sherlock Holmes, I have
endeavoured, as far as possible, to select those which presented
the minimum of sensationalism, while offering a fair field for
his talents. It is, however, unfortunately impossible entirely to
separate the sensational from the criminal, and a chronicler is
left in the dilemma that he must either sacrifice details which
are essential to his statement and so give a false impression of
the problem, or he must use matter which chance, and not choice,
has provided him with. With this short preface I shall turn to my
notes of what proved to be a strange, though a peculiarly
terrible, chain of events.
It was a blazing hot day in August. Baker Street was like an
oven, and the glare of the sunlight upon the yellow brickwork of
the house across the road was painful to the eye. It was hard to
believe that these were the same walls which loomed so gloomily
through the fogs of winter. Our blinds were half-drawn, and
Holmes lay curled upon the sofa, reading and re-reading a letter
which he had received by the morning post. For myself, my term of
service in India had trained me to stand heat better than cold,
and a thermometer at ninety was no hardship. But the morning
paper was uninteresting. Parliament had risen. Everybody was out
of town, and I yearned for the glades of the New Forest or the
shingle of Southsea. A depleted bank account had caused me to
postpone my holiday, and as to my companion, neither the country
nor the sea presented the slightest attraction to him. He loved
to lie in the very centre of five millions of people, with his
filaments stretching out and running through them, responsive to
every little rumour or suspicion of unsolved crime. Appreciation
of nature found no place among his many gifts, and his only
change was when he turned his mind from the evil-doer of the town
to track down his brother of the country.
Finding that Holmes was too absorbed for conversation I had
tossed aside the barren paper, and leaning back in my chair I
fell into a brown study. Suddenly my companion’s voice broke in
upon my thoughts:
“You are right, Watson,” said he. “It does seem a most
preposterous way of settling a dispute.”
“Most preposterous!” I exclaimed, and then suddenly realizing how
he had echoed the inmost thought of my soul, I sat up in my chair
and stared at him in blank amazement.
“What is this, Holmes?” I cried. “This is beyond anything which I
could have imagined.”
He laughed heartily at my perplexity.
“You remember,” he said, “that some little time ago when I read
you the passage in one of Poe’s sketches in which a close
reasoner follows the unspoken thoughts of his companion, you were
inclined to treat the matter as a mere _tour-de-force_ of the
author. On my remarking that I was constantly in the habit of
doing the same thing you expressed incredulity.”
“Oh, no!”
“Perhaps not with your tongue, my dear Watson, but certainly with
your eyebrows. So when I saw you throw down your paper and enter
upon a train of thought, I was very happy to have the opportunity
of reading it off, and eventually of breaking into it, as a proof
that I had been in rapport with you.”
But I was still far from satisfied. “In the example which you
read to me,” said I, “the reasoner drew his conclusions from the
actions of the man whom he observed. If I remember right, he
stumbled over a heap of stones, looked up at the stars, and so
on. But I have been seated quietly in my chair, and what clues
can I have given you?”
“You do yourself an injustice. The features are given to man as
the means by which he shall express his emotions, and yours are
faithful servants.”
“Do you mean to say that you read my train of thoughts from my
features?”
“Your features and especially your eyes. Perhaps you cannot
yourself recall how your reverie commenced?”
“No, I cannot.”
“Then I will tell you. After throwing down your paper, which was
the action which drew my attention to you, you sat for half a
minute with a vacant expression. Then your eyes fixed themselves
upon your newly framed picture of General Gordon, and I saw by
the alteration in your face that a train of thought had been
started. But it did not lead very far. Your eyes flashed across
to the unframed portrait of Henry Ward Beecher which stands upon
the top of your books. Then you glanced up at the wall, and of
course your meaning was obvious. You were thinking that if the
portrait were framed it would just cover that bare space and
correspond with Gordon’s picture over there.”
“You have followed me wonderfully!” I exclaimed.
“So far I could hardly have gone astray. But now your thoughts
went back to Beecher, and you looked hard across as if you were
studying the character in his features. Then your eyes ceased to
pucker, but you continued to look across, and your face was
thoughtful. You were recalling the incidents of Beecher’s career.
I was well aware that you could not do this without thinking of
the mission which he undertook on behalf of the North at the time
of the Civil War, for I remember your expressing your passionate
indignation at the way in which he was received by the more
turbulent of our people. You felt so strongly about it that I
knew you could not think of Beecher without thinking of that
also. When a moment later I saw your eyes wander away from the
picture, I suspected that your mind had now turned to the Civil
War, and when I observed that your lips set, your eyes sparkled,
and your hands clenched I was positive that you were indeed
thinking of the gallantry which was shown by both sides in that
desperate struggle. But then, again, your face grew sadder; you
shook your head. You were dwelling upon the sadness and horror
and useless waste of life. Your hand stole towards your own old
wound and a smile quivered on your lips, which showed me that the
ridiculous side of this method of settling international
questions had forced itself upon your mind. At this point I
agreed with you that it was preposterous and was glad to find
that all my deductions had been correct.”
“Absolutely!” said I. “And now that you have explained it, I
confess that I am as amazed as before.”
“It was very superficial, my dear Watson, I assure you. I should
not have intruded it upon your attention had you not shown some
incredulity the other day. But I have in my hands here a little
problem which may prove to be more difficult of solution than my
small essay in thought reading. Have you observed in the paper a
short paragraph referring to the remarkable contents of a packet
sent through the post to Miss Cushing, of Cross Street, Croydon?”
“No, I saw nothing.”
“Ah! then you must have overlooked it. Just toss it over to me.
Here it is, under the financial column. Perhaps you would be good
enough to read it aloud.”
I picked up the paper which he had thrown back to me and read the
paragraph indicated. It was headed, “A Gruesome Packet.”
“Miss Susan Cushing, living at Cross Street, Croydon, has been
made the victim of what must be regarded as a peculiarly
revolting practical joke unless some more sinister meaning should
prove to be attached to the incident. At two o’clock yesterday
afternoon a small packet, wrapped in brown paper, was handed in
by the postman. A cardboard box was inside, which was filled with
coarse salt. On emptying this, Miss Cushing was horrified to find
two human ears, apparently quite freshly severed. The box had
been sent by parcel post from Belfast upon the morning before.
There is no indication as to the sender, and the matter is the
more mysterious as Miss Cushing, who is a maiden lady of fifty,
has led a most retired life, and has so few acquaintances or
correspondents that it is a rare event for her to receive
anything through the post. Some years ago, however, when she
resided at Penge, she let apartments in her house to three young
medical students, whom she was obliged to get rid of on account
of their noisy and irregular habits. The police are of opinion
that this outrage may have been perpetrated upon Miss Cushing by
these youths, who owed her a grudge and who hoped to frighten her
by sending her these relics of the dissecting-rooms. Some
probability is lent to the theory by the fact that one of these
students came from the north of Ireland, and, to the best of Miss
Cushing’s belief, from Belfast. In the meantime, the matter is
being actively investigated, Mr. Lestrade, one of the very
smartest of our detective officers, being in charge of the case.”
“So much for the _Daily Chronicle_,” said Holmes as I finished
reading. “Now for our friend Lestrade. I had a note from him this
morning, in which he says: ‘I think that this case is very much
in your line. We have every hope of clearing the matter up, but
we find a little difficulty in getting anything to work upon. We
have, of course, wired to the Belfast post-office, but a large
number of parcels were handed in upon that day, and they have no
means of identifying this particular one, or of remembering the
sender. The box is a half-pound box of honeydew tobacco and does
not help us in any way. The medical student theory still appears
to me to be the most feasible, but if you should have a few hours
to spare I should be very happy to see you out here. I shall be
either at the house or in the police-station all day.’ What say
you, Watson? Can you rise superior to the heat and run down to
Croydon with me on the off chance of a case for your annals?”
“I was longing for something to do.”
“You shall have it then. Ring for our boots and tell them to
order a cab. I’ll be back in a moment when I have changed my
dressing-gown and filled my cigar-case.”
A shower of rain fell while we were in the train, and the heat
was far less oppressive in Croydon than in town. Holmes had sent
on a wire, so that Lestrade, as wiry, as dapper, and as
ferret-like as ever, was waiting for us at the station. A walk of
five minutes took us to Cross Street, where Miss Cushing resided.
It was a very long street of two-story brick houses, neat and
prim, with whitened stone steps and little groups of aproned
women gossiping at the doors. Halfway down, Lestrade stopped and
tapped at a door, which was opened by a small servant girl. Miss
Cushing was sitting in the front room, into which we were
ushered. She was a placid-faced woman, with large, gentle eyes,
and grizzled hair curving down over her temples on each side. A
worked antimacassar lay upon her lap and a basket of coloured
silks stood upon a stool beside her.
“They are in the outhouse, those dreadful things,” said she as
Lestrade entered. “I wish that you would take them away
altogether.”
“So I shall, Miss Cushing. I only kept them here until my friend,
Mr. Holmes, should have seen them in your presence.”
“Why in my presence, sir?”
“In case he wished to ask any questions.”
“What is the use of asking me questions when I tell you I know
nothing whatever about it?”
“Quite so, madam,” said Holmes in his soothing way. “I have no
doubt that you have been annoyed more than enough already over
this business.”
“Indeed, I have, sir. I am a quiet woman and live a retired life.
It is something new for me to see my name in the papers and to
find the police in my house. I won’t have those things in here,
Mr. Lestrade. If you wish to see them you must go to the
outhouse.”
It was a small shed in the narrow garden which ran behind the
house. Lestrade went in and brought out a yellow cardboard box,
with a piece of brown paper and some string. There was a bench at
the end of the path, and we all sat down while Holmes examined,
one by one, the articles which Lestrade had handed to him.
“The string is exceedingly interesting,” he remarked, holding it
up to the light and sniffing at it. “What do you make of this
string, Lestrade?”
“It has been tarred.”
“Precisely. It is a piece of tarred twine. You have also, no
doubt, remarked that Miss Cushing has cut the cord with a
scissors, as can be seen by the double fray on each side. This is
of importance.”
“I cannot see the importance,” said Lestrade.
“The importance lies in the fact that the knot is left intact,
and that this knot is of a peculiar character.”
“It is very neatly tied. I had already made a note to that
effect,” said Lestrade complacently.
“So much for the string, then,” said Holmes, smiling, “now for
the box wrapper. Brown paper, with a distinct smell of coffee.
What, did you not observe it? I think there can be no doubt of
it. Address printed in rather straggling characters: ‘Miss S.
Cushing, Cross Street, Croydon.’ Done with a broad-pointed pen,
probably a J, and with very inferior ink. The word ‘Croydon’ has
been originally spelled with an ‘i,’ which has been changed to
‘y.’ The parcel was directed, then, by a man—the printing is
distinctly masculine—of limited education and unacquainted with
the town of Croydon. So far, so good! The box is a yellow
half-pound honeydew box, with nothing distinctive save two thumb
marks at the left bottom corner. It is filled with rough salt of
the quality used for preserving hides and other of the coarser
commercial purposes. And embedded in it are these very singular
enclosures.”
He took out the two ears as he spoke, and laying a board across
his knee he examined them minutely, while Lestrade and I, bending
forward on each side of him, glanced alternately at these
dreadful relics and at the thoughtful, eager face of our
companion. Finally he returned them to the box once more and sat
for a while in deep meditation.
“You have observed, of course,” said he at last, “that the ears
are not a pair.”
“Yes, I have noticed that. But if this were the practical joke of
some students from the dissecting-rooms, it would be as easy for
them to send two odd ears as a pair.”
“Precisely. But this is not a practical joke.”
“You are sure of it?”
“The presumption is strongly against it. Bodies in the
dissecting-rooms are injected with preservative fluid. These ears
bear no signs of this. They are fresh, too. They have been cut
off with a blunt instrument, which would hardly happen if a
student had done it. Again, carbolic or rectified spirits would
be the preservatives which would suggest themselves to the
medical mind, certainly not rough salt. I repeat that there is no
practical joke here, but that we are investigating a serious
crime.”
A vague thrill ran through me as I listened to my companion’s
words and saw the stern gravity which had hardened his features.
This brutal preliminary seemed to shadow forth some strange and
inexplicable horror in the background. Lestrade, however, shook
his head like a man who is only half convinced.
“There are objections to the joke theory, no doubt,” said he,
“but there are much stronger reasons against the other. We know
that this woman has led a most quiet and respectable life at
Penge and here for the last twenty years. She has hardly been
away from her home for a day during that time. Why on earth,
then, should any criminal send her the proofs of his guilt,
especially as, unless she is a most consummate actress, she
understands quite as little of the matter as we do?”
“That is the problem which we have to solve,” Holmes answered,
“and for my part I shall set about it by presuming that my
reasoning is correct, and that a double murder has been
committed. One of these ears is a woman’s, small, finely formed,
and pierced for an earring. The other is a man’s, sun-burned,
discoloured, and also pierced for an earring. These two people
are presumably dead, or we should have heard their story before
now. To-day is Friday. The packet was posted on Thursday morning.
The tragedy, then, occurred on Wednesday or Tuesday or earlier.
If the two people were murdered, who but their murderer would
have sent this sign of his work to Miss Cushing? We may take it
that the sender of the packet is the man whom we want. But he
must have some strong reason for sending Miss Cushing this
packet. What reason then? It must have been to tell her that the
deed was done! or to pain her, perhaps. But in that case she
knows who it is. Does she know? I doubt it. If she knew, why
should she call the police in? She might have buried the ears,
and no one would have been the wiser. That is what she would have
done if she had wished to shield the criminal. But if she does
not wish to shield him she would give his name. There is a tangle
here which needs straightening out.” He had been talking in a
high, quick voice, staring blankly up over the garden fence, but
now he sprang briskly to his feet and walked towards the house.
“I have a few questions to ask Miss Cushing,” said he.
“In that case I may leave you here,” said Lestrade, “for I have
another small business on hand. I think that I have nothing
further to learn from Miss Cushing. You will find me at the
police-station.”
“We shall look in on our way to the train,” answered Holmes. A
moment later he and I were back in the front room, where the
impassive lady was still quietly working away at her
antimacassar. She put it down on her lap as we entered and looked
at us with her frank, searching blue eyes.
“I am convinced, sir,” she said, “that this matter is a mistake,
and that the parcel was never meant for me at all. I have said
this several times to the gentleman from Scotland Yard, but he
simply laughs at me. I have not an enemy in the world, as far as
I know, so why should anyone play me such a trick?”
“I am coming to be of the same opinion, Miss Cushing,” said
Holmes, taking a seat beside her. “I think that it is more than
probable——” he paused, and I was surprised, on glancing round to
see that he was staring with singular intentness at the lady’s
profile. Surprise and satisfaction were both for an instant to be
read upon his eager face, though when she glanced round to find
out the cause of his silence he had become as demure as ever. I
stared hard myself at her flat, grizzled hair, her trim cap, her
little gilt earrings, her placid features; but I could see
nothing which could account for my companion’s evident
excitement.
“There were one or two questions——”
“Oh, I am weary of questions!” cried Miss Cushing impatiently.
“You have two sisters, I believe.”
“How could you know that?”
“I observed the very instant that I entered the room that you
have a portrait group of three ladies upon the mantelpiece, one
of whom is undoubtedly yourself, while the others are so
exceedingly like you that there could be no doubt of the
relationship.”
“Yes, you are quite right. Those are my sisters, Sarah and Mary.”
“And here at my elbow is another portrait, taken at Liverpool, of
your younger sister, in the company of a man who appears to be a
steward by his uniform. I observe that she was unmarried at the
time.”
“You are very quick at observing.”
“That is my trade.”
“Well, you are quite right. But she was married to Mr. Browner a
few days afterwards. He was on the South American line when that
was taken, but he was so fond of her that he couldn’t abide to
leave her for so long, and he got into the Liverpool and London
boats.”
“Ah, the _Conqueror_, perhaps?”
“No, the _May Day_, when last I heard. Jim came down here to see
me once. That was before he broke the pledge; but afterwards he
would always take drink when he was ashore, and a little drink
would send him stark, staring mad. Ah! it was a bad day that ever
he took a glass in his hand again. First he dropped me, then he
quarrelled with Sarah, and now that Mary has stopped writing we
don’t know how things are going with them.”
It was evident that Miss Cushing had come upon a subject on which
she felt very deeply. Like most people who lead a lonely life,
she was shy at first, but ended by becoming extremely
communicative. She told us many details about her brother-in-law
the steward, and then wandering off on the subject of her former
lodgers, the medical students, she gave us a long account of
their delinquencies, with their names and those of their
hospitals. Holmes listened attentively to everything, throwing in
a question from time to time.
“About your second sister, Sarah,” said he. “I wonder, since you
are both maiden ladies, that you do not keep house together.”
“Ah! you don’t know Sarah’s temper or you would wonder no more. I
tried it when I came to Croydon, and we kept on until about two
months ago, when we had to part. I don’t want to say a word
against my own sister, but she was always meddlesome and hard to
please, was Sarah.”
“You say that she quarrelled with your Liverpool relations.”
“Yes, and they were the best of friends at one time. Why, she
went up there to live in order to be near them. And now she has
no word hard enough for Jim Browner. The last six months that she
was here she would speak of nothing but his drinking and his
ways. He had caught her meddling, I suspect, and given her a bit
of his mind, and that was the start of it.”
“Thank you, Miss Cushing,” said Holmes, rising and bowing. “Your
sister Sarah lives, I think you said, at New Street Wallington?
Good-bye, and I am very sorry that you should have been troubled
over a case with which, as you say, you have nothing whatever to
do.”
There was a cab passing as we came out, and Holmes hailed it.
“How far to Wallington?” he asked.
“Only about a mile, sir.”
“Very good. Jump in, Watson. We must strike while the iron is
hot. Simple as the case is, there have been one or two very
instructive details in connection with it. Just pull up at a
telegraph office as you pass, cabby.”
Holmes sent off a short wire and for the rest of the drive lay
back in the cab, with his hat tilted over his nose to keep the
sun from his face. Our driver pulled up at a house which was not
unlike the one which we had just quitted. My companion ordered
him to wait, and had his hand upon the knocker, when the door
opened and a grave young gentleman in black, with a very shiny
hat, appeared on the step.
“Is Miss Cushing at home?” asked Holmes.
“Miss Sarah Cushing is extremely ill,” said he. “She has been
suffering since yesterday from brain symptoms of great severity.
As her medical adviser, I cannot possibly take the responsibility
of allowing anyone to see her. I should recommend you to call
again in ten days.” He drew on his gloves, closed the door, and
marched off down the street.
“Well, if we can’t we can’t,” said Holmes, cheerfully.
“Perhaps she could not or would not have told you much.”
“I did not wish her to tell me anything. I only wanted to look at
her. However, I think that I have got all that I want. Drive us
to some decent hotel, cabby, where we may have some lunch, and
afterwards we shall drop down upon friend Lestrade at the
police-station.”
We had a pleasant little meal together, during which Holmes would
talk about nothing but violins, narrating with great exultation
how he had purchased his own Stradivarius, which was worth at
least five hundred guineas, at a Jew broker’s in Tottenham Court
Road for fifty-five shillings. This led him to Paganini, and we
sat for an hour over a bottle of claret while he told me anecdote
after anecdote of that extraordinary man. The afternoon was far
advanced and the hot glare had softened into a mellow glow before
we found ourselves at the police-station. Lestrade was waiting
for us at the door.
“A telegram for you, Mr. Holmes,” said he.
“Ha! It is the answer!” He tore it open, glanced his eyes over
it, and crumpled it into his pocket. “That’s all right,” said he.
“Have you found out anything?”
“I have found out everything!”
“What!” Lestrade stared at him in amazement. “You are joking.”
“I was never more serious in my life. A shocking crime has been
committed, and I think I have now laid bare every detail of it.”
“And the criminal?”
Holmes scribbled a few words upon the back of one of his visiting
cards and threw it over to Lestrade.
“That is the name,” he said. “You cannot effect an arrest until
to-morrow night at the earliest. I should prefer that you do not
mention my name at all in connection with the case, as I choose
to be only associated with those crimes which present some
difficulty in their solution. Come on, Watson.” We strode off
together to the station, leaving Lestrade still staring with a
delighted face at the card which Holmes had thrown him.
“The case,” said Sherlock Holmes as we chatted over our cigars
that night in our rooms at Baker Street, “is one where, as in the
investigations which you have chronicled under the names of ‘A
Study in Scarlet’ and of ‘The Sign of Four,’ we have been
compelled to reason backward from effects to causes. I have
written to Lestrade asking him to supply us with the details
which are now wanting, and which he will only get after he has
secured his man. That he may be safely trusted to do, for
although he is absolutely devoid of reason, he is as tenacious as
a bulldog when he once understands what he has to do, and,
indeed, it is just this tenacity which has brought him to the top
at Scotland Yard.”
“Your case is not complete, then?” I asked.
“It is fairly complete in essentials. We know who the author of
the revolting business is, although one of the victims still
escapes us. Of course, you have formed your own conclusions.”
“I presume that this Jim Browner, the steward of a Liverpool
boat, is the man whom you suspect?”
“Oh! it is more than a suspicion.”
“And yet I cannot see anything save very vague indications.”
“On the contrary, to my mind nothing could be more clear. Let me
run over the principal steps. We approached the case, you
remember, with an absolutely blank mind, which is always an
advantage. We had formed no theories. We were simply there to
observe and to draw inferences from our observations. What did we
see first? A very placid and respectable lady, who seemed quite
innocent of any secret, and a portrait which showed me that she
had two younger sisters. It instantly flashed across my mind that
the box might have been meant for one of these. I set the idea
aside as one which could be disproved or confirmed at our
leisure. Then we went to the garden, as you remember, and we saw
the very singular contents of the little yellow box.
“The string was of the quality which is used by sailmakers aboard
ship, and at once a whiff of the sea was perceptible in our
investigation. When I observed that the knot was one which is
popular with sailors, that the parcel had been posted at a port,
and that the male ear was pierced for an earring which is so much
more common among sailors than landsmen, I was quite certain that
all the actors in the tragedy were to be found among our
seafaring classes.
“When I came to examine the address of the packet I observed that
it was to Miss S. Cushing. Now, the oldest sister would, of
course, be Miss Cushing, and although her initial was ‘S’ it
might belong to one of the others as well. In that case we should
have to commence our investigation from a fresh basis altogether.
I therefore went into the house with the intention of clearing up
this point. I was about to assure Miss Cushing that I was
convinced that a mistake had been made when you may remember that
I came suddenly to a stop. The fact was that I had just seen
something which filled me with surprise and at the same time
narrowed the field of our inquiry immensely.
“As a medical man, you are aware, Watson, that there is no part
of the body which varies so much as the human ear. Each ear is as
a rule quite distinctive and differs from all other ones. In last
year’s _Anthropological Journal_ you will find two short
monographs from my pen upon the subject. I had, therefore,
examined the ears in the box with the eyes of an expert and had
carefully noted their anatomical peculiarities. Imagine my
surprise, then, when on looking at Miss Cushing I perceived that
her ear corresponded exactly with the female ear which I had just
inspected. The matter was entirely beyond coincidence. There was
the same shortening of the pinna, the same broad curve of the
upper lobe, the same convolution of the inner cartilage. In all
essentials it was the same ear.
“Of course I at once saw the enormous importance of the
observation. It was evident that the victim was a blood relation
and probably a very close one. I began to talk to her about her
family, and you remember that she at once gave us some
exceedingly valuable details.
“In the first place, her sister’s name was Sarah, and her address
had until recently been the same, so that it was quite obvious
how the mistake had occurred and for whom the packet was meant.
Then we heard of this steward, married to the third sister, and
learned that he had at one time been so intimate with Miss Sarah
that she had actually gone up to Liverpool to be near the
Browners, but a quarrel had afterwards divided them. This quarrel
had put a stop to all communications for some months, so that if
Browner had occasion to address a packet to Miss Sarah, he would
undoubtedly have done so to her old address.
“And now the matter had begun to straighten itself out
wonderfully. We had learned of the existence of this steward, an
impulsive man, of strong passions—you remember that he threw up
what must have been a very superior berth in order to be nearer
to his wife—subject, too, to occasional fits of hard drinking. We
had reason to believe that his wife had been murdered, and that a
man—presumably a seafaring man—had been murdered at the same
time. Jealousy, of course, at once suggests itself as the motive
for the crime. And why should these proofs of the deed be sent to
Miss Sarah Cushing? Probably because during her residence in
Liverpool she had some hand in bringing about the events which
led to the tragedy. You will observe that this line of boats
calls at Belfast, Dublin, and Waterford; so that, presuming that
Browner had committed the deed and had embarked at once upon his
steamer, the _May Day_, Belfast would be the first place at which
he could post his terrible packet.
“A second solution was at this stage obviously possible, and
although I thought it exceedingly unlikely, I was determined to
elucidate it before going further. An unsuccessful lover might
have killed Mr. and Mrs. Browner, and the male ear might have
belonged to the husband. There were many grave objections to this
theory, but it was conceivable. I therefore sent off a telegram
to my friend Algar, of the Liverpool force, and asked him to find
out if Mrs. Browner were at home, and if Browner had departed in
the _May Day_. Then we went on to Wallington to visit Miss Sarah.
“I was curious, in the first place, to see how far the family ear
had been reproduced in her. Then, of course, she might give us
very important information, but I was not sanguine that she
would. She must have heard of the business the day before, since
all Croydon was ringing with it, and she alone could have
understood for whom the packet was meant. If she had been willing
to help justice she would probably have communicated with the
police already. However, it was clearly our duty to see her, so
we went. We found that the news of the arrival of the packet—for
her illness dated from that time—had such an effect upon her as
to bring on brain fever. It was clearer than ever that she
understood its full significance, but equally clear that we
should have to wait some time for any assistance from her.
“However, we were really independent of her help. Our answers
were waiting for us at the police-station, where I had directed
Algar to send them. Nothing could be more conclusive. Mrs.
Browner’s house had been closed for more than three days, and the
neighbours were of opinion that she had gone south to see her
relatives. It had been ascertained at the shipping offices that
Browner had left aboard of the _May Day_, and I calculate that
she is due in the Thames to-morrow night. When he arrives he will
be met by the obtuse but resolute Lestrade, and I have no doubt
that we shall have all our details filled in.”
Sherlock Holmes was not disappointed in his expectations. Two
days later he received a bulky envelope, which contained a short
note from the detective, and a typewritten document, which
covered several pages of foolscap.
“Lestrade has got him all right,” said Holmes, glancing up at me.
“Perhaps it would interest you to hear what he says.
“My dear Mr. Holmes,—In accordance with the scheme which we had
formed in order to test our theories”—“the ‘we’ is rather fine,
Watson, is it not?”—“I went down to the Albert Dock yesterday at
6 P.M., and boarded the S.S. _May Day_, belonging to the
Liverpool, Dublin, and London Steam Packet Company. On inquiry, I
found that there was a steward on board of the name of James
Browner and that he had acted during the voyage in such an
extraordinary manner that the captain had been compelled to
relieve him of his duties. On descending to his berth, I found
him seated upon a chest with his head sunk upon his hands,
rocking himself to and fro. He is a big, powerful chap,
clean-shaven, and very swarthy— something like Aldridge, who
helped us in the bogus laundry affair. He jumped up when he heard
my business, and I had my whistle to my lips to call a couple of
river police, who were round the corner, but he seemed to have no
heart in him, and he held out his hands quietly enough for the
darbies. We brought him along to the cells, and his box as well,
for we thought there might be something incriminating; but, bar a
big sharp knife such as most sailors have, we got nothing for our
trouble. However, we find that we shall want no more evidence,
for on being brought before the inspector at the station he asked
leave to make a statement, which was, of course, taken down, just
as he made it, by our shorthand man. We had three copies
typewritten, one of which I enclose. The affair proves, as I
always thought it would, to be an extremely simple one, but I am
obliged to you for assisting me in my investigation. With kind
regards, yours very truly,—G. Lestrade.”
“Hum! The investigation really was a very simple one,” remarked
Holmes, “but I don’t think it struck him in that light when he
first called us in. However, let us see what Jim Browner has to
say for himself. This is his statement as made before Inspector
Montgomery at the Shadwell Police Station, and it has the
advantage of being verbatim.”
“Have I anything to say? Yes, I have a deal to say. I have to
make a clean breast of it all. You can hang me, or you can leave
me alone. I don’t care a plug which you do. I tell you I’ve not
shut an eye in sleep since I did it, and I don’t believe I ever
will again until I get past all waking. Sometimes it’s his face,
but most generally it’s hers. I’m never without one or the other
before me. He looks frowning and black-like, but she has a kind
o’ surprise upon her face. Ay, the white lamb, she might well be
surprised when she read death on a face that had seldom looked
anything but love upon her before.
“But it was Sarah’s fault, and may the curse of a broken man put
a blight on her and set the blood rotting in her veins! It’s not
that I want to clear myself. I know that I went back to drink,
like the beast that I was. But she would have forgiven me; she
would have stuck as close to me as a rope to a block if that
woman had never darkened our door. For Sarah Cushing loved
me—that’s the root of the business—she loved me until all her
love turned to poisonous hate when she knew that I thought more
of my wife’s footmark in the mud than I did of her whole body and
soul.
“There were three sisters altogether. The old one was just a good
woman, the second was a devil, and the third was an angel. Sarah
was thirty-three, and Mary was twenty-nine when I married. We
were just as happy as the day was long when we set up house
together, and in all Liverpool there was no better woman than my
Mary. And then we asked Sarah up for a week, and the week grew
into a month, and one thing led to another, until she was just
one of ourselves.
“I was blue ribbon at that time, and we were putting a little
money by, and all was as bright as a new dollar. My God, whoever
would have thought that it could have come to this? Whoever would
have dreamed it?
“I used to be home for the week-ends very often, and sometimes if
the ship were held back for cargo I would have a whole week at a
time, and in this way I saw a deal of my sister-in-law, Sarah.
She was a fine tall woman, black and quick and fierce, with a
proud way of carrying her head, and a glint from her eye like a
spark from a flint. But when little Mary was there I had never a
thought of her, and that I swear as I hope for God’s mercy.
“It had seemed to me sometimes that she liked to be alone with
me, or to coax me out for a walk with her, but I had never
thought anything of that. But one evening my eyes were opened. I
had come up from the ship and found my wife out, but Sarah at
home. ‘Where’s Mary?’ I asked. ‘Oh, she has gone to pay some
accounts.’ I was impatient and paced up and down the room. ‘Can’t
you be happy for five minutes without Mary, Jim?’ says she. ‘It’s
a bad compliment to me that you can’t be contented with my
society for so short a time.’ ‘That’s all right, my lass,’ said
I, putting out my hand towards her in a kindly way, but she had
it in both hers in an instant, and they burned as if they were in
a fever. I looked into her eyes and I read it all there. There
was no need for her to speak, nor for me either. I frowned and
drew my hand away. Then she stood by my side in silence for a
bit, and then put up her hand and patted me on the shoulder.
‘Steady old Jim!’ said she, and with a kind o’ mocking laugh, she
ran out of the room.
“Well, from that time Sarah hated me with her whole heart and
soul, and she is a woman who can hate, too. I was a fool to let
her go on biding with us—a besotted fool—but I never said a word
to Mary, for I knew it would grieve her. Things went on much as
before, but after a time I began to find that there was a bit of
a change in Mary herself. She had always been so trusting and so
innocent, but now she became queer and suspicious, wanting to
know where I had been and what I had been doing, and whom my
letters were from, and what I had in my pockets, and a thousand
such follies. Day by day she grew queerer and more irritable, and
we had ceaseless rows about nothing. I was fairly puzzled by it
all. Sarah avoided me now, but she and Mary were just
inseparable. I can see now how she was plotting and scheming and
poisoning my wife’s mind against me, but I was such a blind
beetle that I could not understand it at the time. Then I broke
my blue ribbon and began to drink again, but I think I should not
have done it if Mary had been the same as ever. She had some
reason to be disgusted with me now, and the gap between us began
to be wider and wider. And then this Alec Fairbairn chipped in,
and things became a thousand times blacker.
“It was to see Sarah that he came to my house first, but soon it
was to see us, for he was a man with winning ways, and he made
friends wherever he went. He was a dashing, swaggering chap,
smart and curled, who had seen half the world and could talk of
what he had seen. He was good company, I won’t deny it, and he
had wonderful polite ways with him for a sailor man, so that I
think there must have been a time when he knew more of the poop
than the forecastle. For a month he was in and out of my house,
and never once did it cross my mind that harm might come of his
soft, tricky ways. And then at last something made me suspect,
and from that day my peace was gone forever.
“It was only a little thing, too. I had come into the parlour
unexpected, and as I walked in at the door I saw a light of
welcome on my wife’s face. But as she saw who it was it faded
again, and she turned away with a look of disappointment. That
was enough for me. There was no one but Alec Fairbairn whose step
she could have mistaken for mine. If I could have seen him then I
should have killed him, for I have always been like a madman when
my temper gets loose. Mary saw the devil’s light in my eyes, and
she ran forward with her hands on my sleeve. ‘Don’t, Jim, don’t!’
says she. ‘Where’s Sarah?’ I asked. ‘In the kitchen,’ says she.
‘Sarah,’ says I as I went in, ‘this man Fairbairn is never to
darken my door again.’ ‘Why not?’ says she. ‘Because I order it.’
‘Oh!’ says she, ‘if my friends are not good enough for this
house, then I am not good enough for it either.’ ‘You can do what
you like,’ says I, ‘but if Fairbairn shows his face here again
I’ll send you one of his ears for a keepsake.’ She was frightened
by my face, I think, for she never answered a word, and the same
evening she left my house.
“Well, I don’t know now whether it was pure devilry on the part
of this woman, or whether she thought that she could turn me
against my wife by encouraging her to misbehave. Anyway, she took
a house just two streets off and let lodgings to sailors.
Fairbairn used to stay there, and Mary would go round to have tea
with her sister and him. How often she went I don’t know, but I
followed her one day, and as I broke in at the door Fairbairn got
away over the back garden wall, like the cowardly skunk that he
was. I swore to my wife that I would kill her if I found her in
his company again, and I led her back with me, sobbing and
trembling, and as white as a piece of paper. There was no trace
of love between us any longer. I could see that she hated me and
feared me, and when the thought of it drove me to drink, then she
despised me as well.
“Well, Sarah found that she could not make a living in Liverpool,
so she went back, as I understand, to live with her sister in
Croydon, and things jogged on much the same as ever at home. And
then came this last week and all the misery and ruin.
“It was in this way. We had gone on the _May Day_ for a round
voyage of seven days, but a hogshead got loose and started one of
our plates, so that we had to put back into port for twelve
hours. I left the ship and came home, thinking what a surprise it
would be for my wife, and hoping that maybe she would be glad to
see me so soon. The thought was in my head as I turned into my
own street, and at that moment a cab passed me, and there she
was, sitting by the side of Fairbairn, the two chatting and
laughing, with never a thought for me as I stood watching them
from the footpath.
“I tell you, and I give you my word for it, that from that moment
I was not my own master, and it is all like a dim dream when I
look back on it. I had been drinking hard of late, and the two
things together fairly turned my brain. There’s something
throbbing in my head now, like a docker’s hammer, but that
morning I seemed to have all Niagara whizzing and buzzing in my
ears.
“Well, I took to my heels, and I ran after the cab. I had a heavy
oak stick in my hand, and I tell you I saw red from the first;
but as I ran I got cunning, too, and hung back a little to see
them without being seen. They pulled up soon at the railway
station. There was a good crowd round the booking-office, so I
got quite close to them without being seen. They took tickets for
New Brighton. So did I, but I got in three carriages behind them.
When we reached it they walked along the Parade, and I was never
more than a hundred yards from them. At last I saw them hire a
boat and start for a row, for it was a very hot day, and they
thought, no doubt, that it would be cooler on the water.
“It was just as if they had been given into my hands. There was a
bit of a haze, and you could not see more than a few hundred
yards. I hired a boat for myself, and I pulled after them. I
could see the blur of their craft, but they were going nearly as
fast as I, and they must have been a long mile from the shore
before I caught them up. The haze was like a curtain all round
us, and there were we three in the middle of it. My God, shall I
ever forget their faces when they saw who was in the boat that
was closing in upon them? She screamed out. He swore like a
madman and jabbed at me with an oar, for he must have seen death
in my eyes. I got past it and got one in with my stick that
crushed his head like an egg. I would have spared her, perhaps,
for all my madness, but she threw her arms round him, crying out
to him, and calling him ‘Alec.’ I struck again, and she lay
stretched beside him. I was like a wild beast then that had
tasted blood. If Sarah had been there, by the Lord, she should
have joined them. I pulled out my knife, and—well, there! I’ve
said enough. It gave me a kind of savage joy when I thought how
Sarah would feel when she had such signs as these of what her
meddling had brought about. Then I tied the bodies into the boat,
stove a plank, and stood by until they had sunk. I knew very well
that the owner would think that they had lost their bearings in
the haze, and had drifted off out to sea. I cleaned myself up,
got back to land, and joined my ship without a soul having a
suspicion of what had passed. That night I made up the packet for
Sarah Cushing, and next day I sent it from Belfast.
“There you have the whole truth of it. You can hang me, or do
what you like with me, but you cannot punish me as I have been
punished already. I cannot shut my eyes but I see those two faces
staring at me—staring at me as they stared when my boat broke
through the haze. I killed them quick, but they are killing me
slow; and if I have another night of it I shall be either mad or
dead before morning. You won’t put me alone into a cell, sir? For
pity’s sake don’t, and may you be treated in your day of agony as
you treat me now.’
“What is the meaning of it, Watson?” said Holmes solemnly as he
laid down the paper. “What object is served by this circle of
misery and violence and fear? It must tend to some end, or else
our universe is ruled by chance, which is unthinkable. But what
end? There is the great standing perennial problem to which human
reason is as far from an answer as ever.”
III. The Yellow Face
In publishing these short sketches based upon the numerous cases
in which my companion’s singular gifts have made us the listeners
to, and eventually the actors in, some strange drama, it is only
natural that I should dwell rather upon his successes than upon
his failures. And this not so much for the sake of his
reputation—for, indeed, it was when he was at his wits’ end that
his energy and his versatility were most admirable—but because
where he failed it happened too often that no one else succeeded,
and that the tale was left forever without a conclusion. Now and
again, however, it chanced that even when he erred, the truth was
still discovered. I have noted of some half-dozen cases of the
kind, of which the Affair of the Second Stain and that which I am
now about to recount are the two which present the strongest
features of interest.
Sherlock Holmes was a man who seldom took exercise for exercise’s
sake. Few men were capable of greater muscular effort, and he was
undoubtedly one of the finest boxers of his weight that I have
ever seen; but he looked upon aimless bodily exertion as a waste
of energy, and he seldom bestirred himself save when there was
some professional object to be served. Then he was absolutely
untiring and indefatigable. That he should have kept himself in
training under such circumstances is remarkable, but his diet was
usually of the sparest, and his habits were simple to the verge
of austerity. Save for the occasional use of cocaine, he had no
vices, and he only turned to the drug as a protest against the
monotony of existence when cases were scanty and the papers
uninteresting.
One day in early spring he had so far relaxed as to go for a walk
with me in the Park, where the first faint shoots of green were
breaking out upon the elms, and the sticky spear-heads of the
chestnuts were just beginning to burst into their five-fold
leaves. For two hours we rambled about together, in silence for
the most part, as befits two men who know each other intimately.
It was nearly five before we were back in Baker Street once more.
“Beg pardon, sir,” said our page-boy, as he opened the door.
“There’s been a gentleman here asking for you, sir.”
Holmes glanced reproachfully at me. “So much for afternoon
walks!” said he. “Has this gentleman gone, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Didn’t you ask him in?”
“Yes, sir; he came in.”
“How long did he wait?”
“Half an hour, sir. He was a very restless gentleman, sir,
a-walkin’ and a-stampin’ all the time he was here. I was waitin’
outside the door, sir, and I could hear him. At last he outs into
the passage, and he cries, ‘Is that man never goin’ to come?’
Those were his very words, sir. ‘You’ll only need to wait a
little longer,’ says I. ‘Then I’ll wait in the open air, for I
feel half choked,’ says he. ‘I’ll be back before long.’ And with
that he ups and he outs, and all I could say wouldn’t hold him
back.”
“Well, well, you did your best,” said Holmes, as we walked into
our room. “It’s very annoying, though, Watson. I was badly in
need of a case, and this looks, from the man’s impatience, as if
it were of importance. Halloa! That’s not your pipe on the table.
He must have left his behind him. A nice old briar with a good
long stem of what the tobacconists call amber. I wonder how many
real amber mouthpieces there are in London. Some people think
that a fly in it is a sign. Well, he must have been disturbed in
his mind to leave a pipe behind him which he evidently values
highly.”
“How do you know that he values it highly?” I asked.
“Well, I should put the original cost of the pipe at seven and
sixpence. Now it has, you see, been twice mended, once in the
wooden stem and once in the amber. Each of these mends, done, as
you observe, with silver bands, must have cost more than the pipe
did originally. The man must value the pipe highly when he
prefers to patch it up rather than buy a new one with the same
money.”
“Anything else?” I asked, for Holmes was turning the pipe about
in his hand, and staring at it in his peculiar pensive way.
He held it up and tapped on it with his long, thin fore-finger,
as a professor might who was lecturing on a bone.
“Pipes are occasionally of extraordinary interest,” said he.
“Nothing has more individuality, save perhaps watches and
bootlaces. The indications here, however, are neither very marked
nor very important. The owner is obviously a muscular man,
left-handed, with an excellent set of teeth, careless in his
habits, and with no need to practise economy.”
My friend threw out the information in a very offhand way, but I
saw that he cocked his eye at me to see if I had followed his
reasoning.
“You think a man must be well-to-do if he smokes a seven-shilling
pipe,” said I.
“This is Grosvenor mixture at eightpence an ounce,” Holmes
answered, knocking a little out on his palm. “As he might get an
excellent smoke for half the price, he has no need to practise
economy.”
“And the other points?”
“He has been in the habit of lighting his pipe at lamps and
gas-jets. You can see that it is quite charred all down one side.
Of course a match could not have done that. Why should a man hold
a match to the side of his pipe? But you cannot light it at a
lamp without getting the bowl charred. And it is all on the right
side of the pipe. From that I gather that he is a left-handed
man. You hold your own pipe to the lamp, and see how naturally
you, being right-handed, hold the left side to the flame. You
might do it once the other way, but not as a constancy. This has
always been held so. Then he has bitten through his amber. It
takes a muscular, energetic fellow, and one with a good set of
teeth, to do that. But if I am not mistaken I hear him upon the
stair, so we shall have something more interesting than his pipe
to study.”
An instant later our door opened, and a tall young man entered
the room. He was well but quietly dressed in a dark-grey suit,
and carried a brown wide-awake in his hand. I should have put him
at about thirty, though he was really some years older.
“I beg your pardon,” said he, with some embarrassment; “I suppose
I should have knocked. Yes, of course I should have knocked. The
fact is that I am a little upset, and you must put it all down to
that.” He passed his hand over his forehead like a man who is
half dazed, and then fell rather than sat down upon a chair.
“I can see that you have not slept for a night or two,” said
Holmes, in his easy, genial way. “That tries a man’s nerves more
than work, and more even than pleasure. May I ask how I can help
you?”
“I wanted your advice, sir. I don’t know what to do and my whole
life seems to have gone to pieces.”
“You wish to employ me as a consulting detective?”
“Not that only. I want your opinion as a judicious man—as a man
of the world. I want to know what I ought to do next. I hope to
God you’ll be able to tell me.”
He spoke in little, sharp, jerky outbursts, and it seemed to me
that to speak at all was very painful to him, and that his will
all through was overriding his inclinations.
“It’s a very delicate thing,” said he. “One does not like to
speak of one’s domestic affairs to strangers. It seems dreadful
to discuss the conduct of one’s wife with two men whom I have
never seen before. It’s horrible to have to do it. But I’ve got
to the end of my tether, and I must have advice.”
“My dear Mr. Grant Munro—” began Holmes.
Our visitor sprang from his chair. “What!” he cried, “you know my
name?”
“If you wish to preserve your _incognito_,” said Holmes, smiling,
“I would suggest that you cease to write your name upon the
lining of your hat, or else that you turn the crown towards the
person whom you are addressing. I was about to say that my friend
and I have listened to a good many strange secrets in this room,
and that we have had the good fortune to bring peace to many
troubled souls. I trust that we may do as much for you. Might I
beg you, as time may prove to be of importance, to furnish me
with the facts of your case without further delay?”
Our visitor again passed his hand over his forehead, as if he
found it bitterly hard. From every gesture and expression I could
see that he was a reserved, self-contained man, with a dash of
pride in his nature, more likely to hide his wounds than to
expose them. Then suddenly, with a fierce gesture of his closed
hand, like one who throws reserve to the winds, he began.
“The facts are these, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “I am a married man,
and have been so for three years. During that time my wife and I
have loved each other as fondly and lived as happily as any two
that ever were joined. We have not had a difference, not one, in
thought or word or deed. And now, since last Monday, there has
suddenly sprung up a barrier between us, and I find that there is
something in her life and in her thought of which I know as
little as if she were the woman who brushes by me in the street.
We are estranged, and I want to know why.
“Now there is one thing that I want to impress upon you before I
go any further, Mr. Holmes. Effie loves me. Don’t let there be
any mistake about that. She loves me with her whole heart and
soul, and never more than now. I know it. I feel it. I don’t want
to argue about that. A man can tell easily enough when a woman
loves him. But there’s this secret between us, and we can never
be the same until it is cleared.”
“Kindly let me have the facts, Mr. Munro,” said Holmes, with some
impatience.
“I’ll tell you what I know about Effie’s history. She was a widow
when I met her first, though quite young—only twenty-five. Her
name then was Mrs. Hebron. She went out to America when she was
young, and lived in the town of Atlanta, where she married this
Hebron, who was a lawyer with a good practice. They had one
child, but the yellow fever broke out badly in the place, and
both husband and child died of it. I have seen his death
certificate. This sickened her of America, and she came back to
live with a maiden aunt at Pinner, in Middlesex. I may mention
that her husband had left her comfortably off, and that she had a
capital of about four thousand five hundred pounds, which had
been so well invested by him that it returned an average of seven
per cent. She had only been six months at Pinner when I met her;
we fell in love with each other, and we married a few weeks
afterwards.
“I am a hop merchant myself, and as I have an income of seven or
eight hundred, we found ourselves comfortably off, and took a
nice eighty-pound-a-year villa at Norbury. Our little place was
very countrified, considering that it is so close to town. We had
an inn and two houses a little above us, and a single cottage at
the other side of the field which faces us, and except those
there were no houses until you got half way to the station. My
business took me into town at certain seasons, but in summer I
had less to do, and then in our country home my wife and I were
just as happy as could be wished. I tell you that there never was
a shadow between us until this accursed affair began.
“There’s one thing I ought to tell you before I go further. When
we married, my wife made over all her property to me—rather
against my will, for I saw how awkward it would be if my business
affairs went wrong. However, she would have it so, and it was
done. Well, about six weeks ago she came to me.
“‘Jack,’ said she, ‘when you took my money you said that if ever
I wanted any I was to ask you for it.’
“‘Certainly,’ said I. ‘It’s all your own.’
“‘Well,’ said she, ‘I want a hundred pounds.’
“I was a bit staggered at this, for I had imagined it was simply
a new dress or something of the kind that she was after.
“‘What on earth for?’ I asked.
“‘Oh,’ said she, in her playful way, ‘you said that you were only
my banker, and bankers never ask questions, you know.’
“‘If you really mean it, of course you shall have the money,’
said I.
“‘Oh, yes, I really mean it.’
“‘And you won’t tell me what you want it for?’
“‘Some day, perhaps, but not just at present, Jack.’
“So I had to be content with that, though it was the first time
that there had ever been any secret between us. I gave her a
check, and I never thought any more of the matter. It may have
nothing to do with what came afterwards, but I thought it only
right to mention it.
“Well, I told you just now that there is a cottage not far from
our house. There is just a field between us, but to reach it you
have to go along the road and then turn down a lane. Just beyond
it is a nice little grove of Scotch firs, and I used to be very
fond of strolling down there, for trees are always a neighbourly
kind of things. The cottage had been standing empty this eight
months, and it was a pity, for it was a pretty two-storied place,
with an old-fashioned porch and honeysuckle about it. I have
stood many a time and thought what a neat little homestead it
would make.
“Well, last Monday evening I was taking a stroll down that way,
when I met an empty van coming up the lane, and saw a pile of
carpets and things lying about on the grass-plot beside the
porch. It was clear that the cottage had at last been let. I
walked past it, and wondered what sort of folk they were who had
come to live so near us. And as I looked I suddenly became aware
that a face was watching me out of one of the upper windows.
“I don’t know what there was about that face, Mr. Holmes, but it
seemed to send a chill right down my back. I was some little way
off, so that I could not make out the features, but there was
something unnatural and inhuman about the face. That was the
impression that I had, and I moved quickly forwards to get a
nearer view of the person who was watching me. But as I did so
the face suddenly disappeared, so suddenly that it seemed to have
been plucked away into the darkness of the room. I stood for five
minutes thinking the business over, and trying to analyze my
impressions. I could not tell if the face were that of a man or a
woman. It had been too far from me for that. But its colour was
what had impressed me most. It was of a livid chalky white, and
with something set and rigid about it which was shockingly
unnatural. So disturbed was I that I determined to see a little
more of the new inmates of the cottage. I approached and knocked
at the door, which was instantly opened by a tall, gaunt woman
with a harsh, forbidding face.
“‘What may you be wantin’?’ she asked, in a Northern accent.
“‘I am your neighbour over yonder,’ said I, nodding towards my
house. ‘I see that you have only just moved in, so I thought that
if I could be of any help to you in any—’
“‘Ay, we’ll just ask ye when we want ye,’ said she, and shut the
door in my face. Annoyed at the churlish rebuff, I turned my back
and walked home. All evening, though I tried to think of other
things, my mind would still turn to the apparition at the window
and the rudeness of the woman. I determined to say nothing about
the former to my wife, for she is a nervous, highly strung woman,
and I had no wish that she would share the unpleasant impression
which had been produced upon myself. I remarked to her, however,
before I fell asleep, that the cottage was now occupied, to which
she returned no reply.
“I am usually an extremely sound sleeper. It has been a standing
jest in the family that nothing could ever wake me during the
night. And yet somehow on that particular night, whether it may
have been the slight excitement produced by my little adventure
or not I know not, but I slept much more lightly than usual. Half
in my dreams I was dimly conscious that something was going on in
the room, and gradually became aware that my wife had dressed
herself and was slipping on her mantle and her bonnet. My lips
were parted to murmur out some sleepy words of surprise or
remonstrance at this untimely preparation, when suddenly my
half-opened eyes fell upon her face, illuminated by the
candle-light, and astonishment held me dumb. She wore an
expression such as I had never seen before—such as I should have
thought her incapable of assuming. She was deadly pale and
breathing fast, glancing furtively towards the bed as she
fastened her mantle, to see if she had disturbed me. Then,
thinking that I was still asleep, she slipped noiselessly from
the room, and an instant later I heard a sharp creaking which
could only come from the hinges of the front door. I sat up in
bed and rapped my knuckles against the rail to make certain that
I was truly awake. Then I took my watch from under the pillow. It
was three in the morning. What on this earth could my wife be
doing out on the country road at three in the morning?
“I had sat for about twenty minutes turning the thing over in my
mind and trying to find some possible explanation. The more I
thought, the more extraordinary and inexplicable did it appear. I
was still puzzling over it when I heard the door gently close
again, and her footsteps coming up the stairs.
“‘Where in the world have you been, Effie?’ I asked as she
entered.
“She gave a violent start and a kind of gasping cry when I spoke,
and that cry and start troubled me more than all the rest, for
there was something indescribably guilty about them. My wife had
always been a woman of a frank, open nature, and it gave me a
chill to see her slinking into her own room, and crying out and
wincing when her own husband spoke to her.
“‘You awake, Jack!’ she cried, with a nervous laugh. ‘Why, I
thought that nothing could awake you.’
“‘Where have you been?’ I asked, more sternly.
“‘I don’t wonder that you are surprised,’ said she, and I could
see that her fingers were trembling as she undid the fastenings
of her mantle. ‘Why, I never remember having done such a thing in
my life before. The fact is that I felt as though I were choking,
and had a perfect longing for a breath of fresh air. I really
think that I should have fainted if I had not gone out. I stood
at the door for a few minutes, and now I am quite myself again.’
“All the time that she was telling me this story she never once
looked in my direction, and her voice was quite unlike her usual
tones. It was evident to me that she was saying what was false. I
said nothing in reply, but turned my face to the wall, sick at
heart, with my mind filled with a thousand venomous doubts and
suspicions. What was it that my wife was concealing from me?
Where had she been during that strange expedition? I felt that I
should have no peace until I knew, and yet I shrank from asking
her again after once she had told me what was false. All the rest
of the night I tossed and tumbled, framing theory after theory,
each more unlikely than the last.
“I should have gone to the City that day, but I was too disturbed
in my mind to be able to pay attention to business matters. My
wife seemed to be as upset as myself, and I could see from the
little questioning glances which she kept shooting at me that she
understood that I disbelieved her statement, and that she was at
her wits’ end what to do. We hardly exchanged a word during
breakfast, and immediately afterwards I went out for a walk, that
I might think the matter out in the fresh morning air.
“I went as far as the Crystal Palace, spent an hour in the
grounds, and was back in Norbury by one o’clock. It happened that
my way took me past the cottage, and I stopped for an instant to
look at the windows, and to see if I could catch a glimpse of the
strange face which had looked out at me on the day before. As I
stood there, imagine my surprise, Mr. Holmes, when the door
suddenly opened and my wife walked out.
“I was struck dumb with astonishment at the sight of her; but my
emotions were nothing to those which showed themselves upon her
face when our eyes met. She seemed for an instant to wish to
shrink back inside the house again; and then, seeing how useless
all concealment must be, she came forward, with a very white face
and frightened eyes which belied the smile upon her lips.
“‘Ah, Jack,’ she said, ‘I have just been in to see if I can be of
any assistance to our new neighbours. Why do you look at me like
that, Jack? You are not angry with me?’
“‘So,’ said I, ‘this is where you went during the night.’
“‘What do you mean?’ she cried.
“‘You came here. I am sure of it. Who are these people, that you
should visit them at such an hour?’
“‘I have not been here before.’
“‘How can you tell me what you know is false?’ I cried. ‘Your
very voice changes as you speak. When have I ever had a secret
from you? I shall enter that cottage, and I shall probe the
matter to the bottom.’
“‘No, no, Jack, for God’s sake!’ she gasped, in uncontrollable
emotion. Then, as I approached the door, she seized my sleeve and
pulled me back with convulsive strength.
“‘I implore you not to do this, Jack,’ she cried. ‘I swear that I
will tell you everything some day, but nothing but misery can
come of it if you enter that cottage.’ Then, as I tried to shake
her off, she clung to me in a frenzy of entreaty.
“‘Trust me, Jack!’ she cried. ‘Trust me only this once. You will
never have cause to regret it. You know that I would not have a
secret from you if it were not for your own sake. Our whole lives
are at stake in this. If you come home with me, all will be well.
If you force your way into that cottage, all is over between us.’
“There was such earnestness, such despair, in her manner that her
words arrested me, and I stood irresolute before the door.
“‘I will trust you on one condition, and on one condition only,’
said I at last. ‘It is that this mystery comes to an end from
now. You are at liberty to preserve your secret, but you must
promise me that there shall be no more nightly visits, no more
doings which are kept from my knowledge. I am willing to forget
those which are passed if you will promise that there shall be no
more in the future.’
“‘I was sure that you would trust me,’ she cried, with a great
sigh of relief. ‘It shall be just as you wish. Come away—oh, come
away up to the house.’
“Still pulling at my sleeve, she led me away from the cottage. As
we went I glanced back, and there was that yellow livid face
watching us out of the upper window. What link could there be
between that creature and my wife? Or how could the coarse, rough
woman whom I had seen the day before be connected with her? It
was a strange puzzle, and yet I knew that my mind could never
know ease again until I had solved it.
“For two days after this I stayed at home, and my wife appeared
to abide loyally by our engagement, for, as far as I know, she
never stirred out of the house. On the third day, however, I had
ample evidence that her solemn promise was not enough to hold her
back from this secret influence which drew her away from her
husband and her duty.
“I had gone into town on that day, but I returned by the 2.40
instead of the 3.36, which is my usual train. As I entered the
house the maid ran into the hall with a startled face.
“‘Where is your mistress?’ I asked.
“‘I think that she has gone out for a walk,’ she answered.
“My mind was instantly filled with suspicion. I rushed upstairs
to make sure that she was not in the house. As I did so I
happened to glance out of one of the upper windows, and saw the
maid with whom I had just been speaking running across the field
in the direction of the cottage. Then of course I saw exactly
what it all meant. My wife had gone over there, and had asked the
servant to call her if I should return. Tingling with anger, I
rushed down and hurried across, determined to end the matter once
and forever. I saw my wife and the maid hurrying back along the
lane, but I did not stop to speak with them. In the cottage lay
the secret which was casting a shadow over my life. I vowed that,
come what might, it should be a secret no longer. I did not even
knock when I reached it, but turned the handle and rushed into
the passage.
“It was all still and quiet upon the ground floor. In the kitchen
a kettle was singing on the fire, and a large black cat lay
coiled up in the basket; but there was no sign of the woman whom
I had seen before. I ran into the other room, but it was equally
deserted. Then I rushed up the stairs, only to find two other
rooms empty and deserted at the top. There was no one at all in
the whole house. The furniture and pictures were of the most
common and vulgar description, save in the one chamber at the
window of which I had seen the strange face. That was comfortable
and elegant, and all my suspicions rose into a fierce bitter
flame when I saw that on the mantelpiece stood a copy of a
full-length photograph of my wife, which had been taken at my
request only three months ago.
“I stayed long enough to make certain that the house was
absolutely empty. Then I left it, feeling a weight at my heart
such as I had never had before. My wife came out into the hall as
I entered my house; but I was too hurt and angry to speak with
her, and pushing past her, I made my way into my study. She
followed me, however, before I could close the door.
“‘I am sorry that I broke my promise, Jack,’ said she; ‘but if
you knew all the circumstances I am sure that you would forgive
me.’
“‘Tell me everything, then,’ said I.
“‘I cannot, Jack, I cannot,’ she cried.
“‘Until you tell me who it is that has been living in that
cottage, and who it is to whom you have given that photograph,
there can never be any confidence between us,’ said I, and
breaking away from her, I left the house. That was yesterday, Mr.
Holmes, and I have not seen her since, nor do I know anything
more about this strange business. It is the first shadow that has
come between us, and it has so shaken me that I do not know what
I should do for the best. Suddenly this morning it occurred to me
that you were the man to advise me, so I have hurried to you now,
and I place myself unreservedly in your hands. If there is any
point which I have not made clear, pray question me about it.
But, above all, tell me quickly what I am to do, for this misery
is more than I can bear.”
Holmes and I had listened with the utmost interest to this
extraordinary statement, which had been delivered in the jerky,
broken fashion of a man who is under the influence of extreme
emotions. My companion sat silent for some time, with his chin
upon his hand, lost in thought.
“Tell me,” said he at last, “could you swear that this was a
man’s face which you saw at the window?”
“Each time that I saw it I was some distance away from it, so
that it is impossible for me to say.”
“You appear, however, to have been disagreeably impressed by it.”
“It seemed to be of an unnatural colour, and to have a strange
rigidity about the features. When I approached, it vanished with
a jerk.”
“How long is it since your wife asked you for a hundred pounds?”
“Nearly two months.”
“Have you ever seen a photograph of her first husband?”
“No; there was a great fire at Atlanta very shortly after his
death, and all her papers were destroyed.”
“And yet she had a certificate of death. You say that you saw
it.”
“Yes; she got a duplicate after the fire.”
“Did you ever meet any one who knew her in America?”
“No.”
“Did she ever talk of revisiting the place?”
“No.”
“Or get letters from it?”
“No.”
“Thank you. I should like to think over the matter a little now.
If the cottage is now permanently deserted we may have some
difficulty. If, on the other hand, as I fancy is more likely, the
inmates were warned of your coming, and left before you entered
yesterday, then they may be back now, and we should clear it all
up easily. Let me advise you, then, to return to Norbury, and to
examine the windows of the cottage again. If you have reason to
believe that it is inhabited, do not force your way in, but send
a wire to my friend and me. We shall be with you within an hour
of receiving it, and we shall then very soon get to the bottom of
the business.”
“And if it is still empty?”
“In that case I shall come out to-morrow and talk it over with
you. Good-by; and, above all, do not fret until you know that you
really have a cause for it.”
“I am afraid that this is a bad business, Watson,” said my
companion, as he returned after accompanying Mr. Grant Munro to
the door. “What do you make of it?”
“It had an ugly sound,” I answered.
“Yes. There’s blackmail in it, or I am much mistaken.”
“And who is the blackmailer?”
“Well, it must be the creature who lives in the only comfortable
room in the place, and has her photograph above his fireplace.
Upon my word, Watson, there is something very attractive about
that livid face at the window, and I would not have missed the
case for worlds.”
“You have a theory?”
“Yes, a provisional one. But I shall be surprised if it does not
turn out to be correct. This woman’s first husband is in that
cottage.”
“Why do you think so?”
“How else can we explain her frenzied anxiety that her second one
should not enter it? The facts, as I read them, are something
like this: This woman was married in America. Her husband
developed some hateful qualities; or shall we say that he
contracted some loathsome disease, and became a leper or an
imbecile? She flies from him at last, returns to England, changes
her name, and starts her life, as she thinks, afresh. She has
been married three years, and believes that her position is quite
secure, having shown her husband the death certificate of some
man whose name she has assumed, when suddenly her whereabouts is
discovered by her first husband; or, we may suppose, by some
unscrupulous woman who has attached herself to the invalid. They
write to the wife, and threaten to come and expose her. She asks
for a hundred pounds, and endeavours to buy them off. They come
in spite of it, and when the husband mentions casually to the
wife that there are new-comers in the cottage, she knows in some
way that they are her pursuers. She waits until her husband is
asleep, and then she rushes down to endeavour to persuade them to
leave her in peace. Having no success, she goes again next
morning, and her husband meets her, as he has told us, as she
comes out. She promises him then not to go there again, but two
days afterwards the hope of getting rid of those dreadful
neighbours was too strong for her, and she made another attempt,
taking down with her the photograph which had probably been
demanded from her. In the midst of this interview the maid rushed
in to say that the master had come home, on which the wife,
knowing that he would come straight down to the cottage, hurried
the inmates out at the back door, into the grove of fir-trees,
probably, which was mentioned as standing near. In this way he
found the place deserted. I shall be very much surprised,
however, if it is still so when he reconnoitres it this evening.
What do you think of my theory?”
“It is all surmise.”
“But at least it covers all the facts. When new facts come to our
knowledge which cannot be covered by it, it will be time enough
to reconsider it. We can do nothing more until we have a message
from our friend at Norbury.”
But we had not a very long time to wait for that. It came just as
we had finished our tea. “The cottage is still tenanted,” it
said. “Have seen the face again at the window. Will meet the
seven o’clock train, and will take no steps until you arrive.”
He was waiting on the platform when we stepped out, and we could
see in the light of the station lamps that he was very pale, and
quivering with agitation.
“They are still there, Mr. Holmes,” said he, laying his hand hard
upon my friend’s sleeve. “I saw lights in the cottage as I came
down. We shall settle it now once and for all.”
“What is your plan, then?” asked Holmes, as he walked down the
dark tree-lined road.
“I am going to force my way in and see for myself who is in the
house. I wish you both to be there as witnesses.”
“You are quite determined to do this, in spite of your wife’s
warning that it is better that you should not solve the mystery?”
“Yes, I am determined.”
“Well, I think that you are in the right. Any truth is better
than indefinite doubt. We had better go up at once. Of course,
legally, we are putting ourselves hopelessly in the wrong; but I
think that it is worth it.”
It was a very dark night, and a thin rain began to fall as we
turned from the high road into a narrow lane, deeply rutted, with
hedges on either side. Mr. Grant Munro pushed impatiently
forward, however, and we stumbled after him as best we could.
“There are the lights of my house,” he murmured, pointing to a
glimmer among the trees. “And here is the cottage which I am
going to enter.”
We turned a corner in the lane as he spoke, and there was the
building close beside us. A yellow bar falling across the black
foreground showed that the door was not quite closed, and one
window in the upper story was brightly illuminated. As we looked,
we saw a dark blur moving across the blind.
“There is that creature!” cried Grant Munro. “You can see for
yourselves that some one is there. Now follow me, and we shall
soon know all.”
We approached the door; but suddenly a woman appeared out of the
shadow and stood in the golden track of the lamp-light. I could
not see her face in the darkness, but her arms were thrown out in
an attitude of entreaty.
“For God’s sake, don’t Jack!” she cried. “I had a presentiment
that you would come this evening. Think better of it, dear! Trust
me again, and you will never have cause to regret it.”
“I have trusted you too long, Effie,” he cried, sternly. “Leave
go of me! I must pass you. My friends and I are going to settle
this matter once and forever!” He pushed her to one side, and we
followed closely after him. As he threw the door open an old
woman ran out in front of him and tried to bar his passage, but
he thrust her back, and an instant afterwards we were all upon
the stairs. Grant Munro rushed into the lighted room at the top,
and we entered at his heels.
It was a cosey, well-furnished apartment, with two candles
burning upon the table and two upon the mantelpiece. In the
corner, stooping over a desk, there sat what appeared to be a
little girl. Her face was turned away as we entered, but we could
see that she was dressed in a red frock, and that she had long
white gloves on. As she whisked round to us, I gave a cry of
surprise and horror. The face which she turned towards us was of
the strangest livid tint, and the features were absolutely devoid
of any expression. An instant later the mystery was explained.
Holmes, with a laugh, passed his hand behind the child’s ear, a
mask peeled off from her countenance, and there was a little coal
black negress, with all her white teeth flashing in amusement at
our amazed faces. I burst out laughing, out of sympathy with her
merriment; but Grant Munro stood staring, with his hand clutching
his throat.
“My God!” he cried. “What can be the meaning of this?”
“I will tell you the meaning of it,” cried the lady, sweeping
into the room with a proud, set face. “You have forced me,
against my own judgment, to tell you, and now we must both make
the best of it. My husband died at Atlanta. My child survived.”
“Your child?”
She drew a large silver locket from her bosom. “You have never
seen this open.”
“I understood that it did not open.”
She touched a spring, and the front hinged back. There was a
portrait within of a man strikingly handsome and
intelligent-looking, but bearing unmistakable signs upon his
features of his African descent.
“That is John Hebron, of Atlanta,” said the lady, “and a nobler
man never walked the earth. I cut myself off from my race in
order to wed him, but never once while he lived did I for an
instant regret it. It was our misfortune that our only child took
after his people rather than mine. It is often so in such
matches, and little Lucy is darker far than ever her father was.
But dark or fair, she is my own dear little girlie, and her
mother’s pet.” The little creature ran across at the words and
nestled up against the lady’s dress. “When I left her in
America,” she continued, “it was only because her health was
weak, and the change might have done her harm. She was given to
the care of a faithful Scotch woman who had once been our
servant. Never for an instant did I dream of disowning her as my
child. But when chance threw you in my way, Jack, and I learned
to love you, I feared to tell you about my child. God forgive me,
I feared that I should lose you, and I had not the courage to
tell you. I had to choose between you, and in my weakness I
turned away from my own little girl. For three years I have kept
her existence a secret from you, but I heard from the nurse, and
I knew that all was well with her. At last, however, there came
an overwhelming desire to see the child once more. I struggled
against it, but in vain. Though I knew the danger, I determined
to have the child over, if it were but for a few weeks. I sent a
hundred pounds to the nurse, and I gave her instructions about
this cottage, so that she might come as a neighbour, without my
appearing to be in any way connected with her. I pushed my
precautions so far as to order her to keep the child in the house
during the daytime, and to cover up her little face and hands so
that even those who might see her at the window should not gossip
about there being a black child in the neighbourhood. If I had
been less cautious I might have been more wise, but I was half
crazy with fear that you should learn the truth.
“It was you who told me first that the cottage was occupied. I
should have waited for the morning, but I could not sleep for
excitement, and so at last I slipped out, knowing how difficult
it is to awake you. But you saw me go, and that was the beginning
of my troubles. Next day you had my secret at your mercy, but you
nobly refrained from pursuing your advantage. Three days later,
however, the nurse and child only just escaped from the back door
as you rushed in at the front one. And now to-night you at last
know all, and I ask you what is to become of us, my child and
me?” She clasped her hands and waited for an answer.
It was a long ten minutes before Grant Munro broke the silence,
and when his answer came it was one of which I love to think. He
lifted the little child, kissed her, and then, still carrying
her, he held his other hand out to his wife and turned towards
the door.
“We can talk it over more comfortably at home,” said he. “I am
not a very good man, Effie, but I think that I am a better one
than you have given me credit for being.”
Holmes and I followed them down the lane, and my friend plucked
at my sleeve as we came out.
“I think,” said he, “that we shall be of more use in London than
in Norbury.”
Not another word did he say of the case until late that night,
when he was turning away, with his lighted candle, for his
bedroom.
“Watson,” said he, “if it should ever strike you that I am
getting a little over-confident in my powers, or giving less
pains to a case than it deserves, kindly whisper ‘Norbury’ in my
ear, and I shall be infinitely obliged to you.”
IV. The Stockbroker’s Clerk
Shortly after my marriage I had bought a connection in the
Paddington district. Old Mr. Farquhar, from whom I purchased it,
had at one time an excellent general practice; but his age, and
an affliction of the nature of St. Vitus’s dance from which he
suffered, had very much thinned it. The public not unnaturally
goes on the principle that he who would heal others must himself
be whole, and looks askance at the curative powers of the man
whose own case is beyond the reach of his drugs. Thus as my
predecessor weakened his practice declined, until when I
purchased it from him it had sunk from twelve hundred to little
more than three hundred a year. I had confidence, however, in my
own youth and energy, and was convinced that in a very few years
the concern would be as flourishing as ever.
For three months after taking over the practice I was kept very
closely at work, and saw little of my friend Sherlock Holmes, for
I was too busy to visit Baker Street, and he seldom went anywhere
himself save upon professional business. I was surprised,
therefore, when, one morning in June, as I sat reading the
_British Medical Journal_ after breakfast, I heard a ring at the
bell, followed by the high, somewhat strident tones of my old
companion’s voice.
“Ah, my dear Watson,” said he, striding into the room, “I am very
delighted to see you! I trust that Mrs. Watson has entirely
recovered from all the little excitements connected with our
adventure of the Sign of Four.”
“Thank you, we are both very well,” said I, shaking him warmly by
the hand.
“And I hope, also,” he continued, sitting down in the
rocking-chair, “that the cares of medical practice have not
entirely obliterated the interest which you used to take in our
little deductive problems.”
“On the contrary,” I answered, “it was only last night that I was
looking over my old notes, and classifying some of our past
results.”
“I trust that you don’t consider your collection closed.”
“Not at all. I should wish nothing better than to have some more
of such experiences.”
“To-day, for example?”
“Yes, to-day, if you like.”
“And as far off as Birmingham?”
“Certainly, if you wish it.”
“And the practice?”
“I do my neighbour’s when he goes. He is always ready to work off
the debt.”
“Ha! Nothing could be better,” said Holmes, leaning back in his
chair and looking keenly at me from under his half closed lids.
“I perceive that you have been unwell lately. Summer colds are
always a little trying.”
“I was confined to the house by a severe chill for three days
last week. I thought, however, that I had cast off every trace of
it.”
“So you have. You look remarkably robust.”
“How, then, did you know of it?”
“My dear fellow, you know my methods.”
“You deduced it, then?”
“Certainly.”
“And from what?”
“From your slippers.”
I glanced down at the new patent leathers which I was wearing.
“How on earth—” I began, but Holmes answered my question before
it was asked.
“Your slippers are new,” he said. “You could not have had them
more than a few weeks. The soles which you are at this moment
presenting to me are slightly scorched. For a moment I thought
they might have got wet and been burned in the drying. But near
the instep there is a small circular wafer of paper with the
shopman’s hieroglyphics upon it. Damp would of course have
removed this. You had, then, been sitting with your feet
outstretched to the fire, which a man would hardly do even in so
wet a June as this if he were in his full health.”
Like all Holmes’s reasoning the thing seemed simplicity itself
when it was once explained. He read the thought upon my features,
and his smile had a tinge of bitterness.
“I am afraid that I rather give myself away when I explain,” said
he. “Results without causes are much more impressive. You are
ready to come to Birmingham, then?”
“Certainly. What is the case?”
“You shall hear it all in the train. My client is outside in a
four-wheeler. Can you come at once?”
“In an instant.” I scribbled a note to my neighbour, rushed
upstairs to explain the matter to my wife, and joined Holmes upon
the door-step.
“Your neighbour is a doctor,” said he, nodding at the brass
plate.
“Yes; he bought a practice as I did.”
“An old-established one?”
“Just the same as mine. Both have been ever since the houses were
built.”
“Ah! Then you got hold of the best of the two.”
“I think I did. But how do you know?”
“By the steps, my boy. Yours are worn three inches deeper than
his. But this gentleman in the cab is my client, Mr. Hall
Pycroft. Allow me to introduce you to him. Whip your horse up,
cabby, for we have only just time to catch our train.”
The man whom I found myself facing was a well-built,
fresh-complexioned young fellow, with a frank, honest face and a
slight, crisp, yellow moustache. He wore a very shiny top hat and
a neat suit of sober black, which made him look what he was—a
smart young City man, of the class who have been labeled
cockneys, but who give us our crack volunteer regiments, and who
turn out more fine athletes and sportsmen than any body of men in
these islands. His round, ruddy face was naturally full of
cheeriness, but the corners of his mouth seemed to me to be
pulled down in a half-comical distress. It was not, however,
until we were all in a first-class carriage and well started upon
our journey to Birmingham that I was able to learn what the
trouble was which had driven him to Sherlock Holmes.
“We have a clear run here of seventy minutes,” Holmes remarked.
“I want you, Mr. Hall Pycroft, to tell my friend your very
interesting experience exactly as you have told it to me, or with
more detail if possible. It will be of use to me to hear the
succession of events again. It is a case, Watson, which may prove
to have something in it, or may prove to have nothing, but which,
at least, presents those unusual and _outré_ features which are
as dear to you as they are to me. Now, Mr. Pycroft, I shall not
interrupt you again.”
Our young companion looked at me with a twinkle in his eye.
“The worst of the story is,” said he, “that I show myself up as
such a confounded fool. Of course it may work out all right, and
I don’t see that I could have done otherwise; but if I have lost
my crib and get nothing in exchange I shall feel what a soft
Johnnie I have been. I’m not very good at telling a story, Dr.
Watson, but it is like this with me:
“I used to have a billet at Coxon & Woodhouse, of Drapers’
Gardens, but they were let in early in the spring through the
Venezuelan loan, as no doubt you remember, and came a nasty
cropper. I had been with them five years, and old Coxon gave me a
ripping good testimonial when the smash came, but of course we
clerks were all turned adrift, the twenty-seven of us. I tried
here and tried there, but there were lots of other chaps on the
same lay as myself, and it was a perfect frost for a long time. I
had been taking three pounds a week at Coxon’s, and I had saved
about seventy of them, but I soon worked my way through that and
out at the other end. I was fairly at the end of my tether at
last, and could hardly find the stamps to answer the
advertisements or the envelopes to stick them to. I had worn out
my boots paddling up office stairs, and I seemed just as far from
getting a billet as ever.
“At last I saw a vacancy at Mawson & Williams’, the great
stockbroking firm in Lombard Street. I daresay E.C. is not much
in your line, but I can tell you that this is about the richest
house in London. The advertisement was to be answered by letter
only. I sent in my testimonial and application, but without the
least hope of getting it. Back came an answer by return, saying
that if I would appear next Monday I might take over my new
duties at once, provided that my appearance was satisfactory. No
one knows how these things are worked. Some people say that the
manager just plunges his hand into the heap and takes the first
that comes. Anyhow it was my innings that time, and I don’t ever
wish to feel better pleased. The screw was a pound a week rise,
and the duties just about the same as at Coxon’s.
“And now I come to the queer part of the business. I was in
diggings out Hampstead way—17, Potter’s Terrace. Well, I was
sitting doing a smoke that very evening after I had been promised
the appointment, when up came my landlady with a card which had
‘Arthur Pinner, Financial Agent,’ printed upon it. I had never
heard the name before and could not imagine what he wanted with
me; but, of course, I asked her to show him up. In he walked, a
middle-sized, dark-haired, dark-eyed, black-bearded man, with a
touch of the Sheeny about his nose. He had a brisk kind of way
with him and spoke sharply, like a man who knew the value of
time.”
“‘Mr. Hall Pycroft, I believe?’” said he.
“‘Yes, sir,’ I answered, pushing a chair towards him.
“‘Lately engaged at Coxon & Woodhouse’s?’
“‘Yes, sir.’
“‘And now on the staff of Mawson’s.’
“‘Quite so.’
“‘Well,’ said he, ‘the fact is that I have heard some really
extraordinary stories about your financial ability. You remember
Parker, who used to be Coxon’s manager? He can never say enough
about it.’
“Of course I was pleased to hear this. I had always been pretty
sharp in the office, but I had never dreamed that I was talked
about in the City in this fashion.
“‘You have a good memory?’ said he.
“‘Pretty fair,’ I answered, modestly.
“‘Have you kept in touch with the market while you have been out
of work?’ he asked.
“‘Yes; I read the Stock Exchange List every morning.’
“‘Now that shows real application!’ he cried. ‘That is the way to
prosper! You won’t mind my testing you, will you? Let me see. How
are Ayrshires?’
“‘A hundred and six and a quarter to a hundred and five and
seven-eighths.’
“‘And New Zealand Consolidated?’
“‘A hundred and four.
“‘And British Broken Hills?’
“‘Seven to seven-and-six.’
“‘Wonderful!’ he cried, with his hands up. ‘This quite fits in
with all that I had heard. My boy, my boy, you are very much too
good to be a clerk at Mawson’s!’
“This outburst rather astonished me, as you can think. ‘Well,’
said I, ‘other people don’t think quite so much of me as you seem
to do, Mr. Pinner. I had a hard enough fight to get this berth,
and I am very glad to have it.’
“‘Pooh, man; you should soar above it. You are not in your true
sphere. Now, I’ll tell you how it stands with me. What I have to
offer is little enough when measured by your ability, but when
compared with Mawson’s, it’s light to dark. Let me see. When do
you go to Mawson’s?’
“‘On Monday.’
“‘Ha, ha! I think I would risk a little sporting flutter that you
don’t go there at all.’
“‘Not go to Mawson’s?’
“‘No, sir. By that day you will be the business manager of the
Franco-Midland Hardware Company, Limited, with a hundred and
thirty-four branches in the towns and villages of France, not
counting one in Brussels and one in San Remo.’
“This took my breath away. ‘I never heard of it,’ said I.
“‘Very likely not. It has been kept very quiet, for the capital
was all privately subscribed, and it’s too good a thing to let
the public into. My brother, Harry Pinner, is promoter, and joins
the board after allotment as managing director. He knew I was in
the swim down here, and asked me to pick up a good man cheap. A
young, pushing man with plenty of snap about him. Parker spoke of
you, and that brought me here to-night. We can only offer you a
beggarly five hundred to start with.’
“‘Five hundred a year!’ I shouted.
“‘Only that at the beginning; but you are to have an overriding
commission of one per cent on all business done by your agents,
and you may take my word for it that this will come to more than
your salary.’
“‘But I know nothing about hardware.’
“‘Tut, my boy; you know about figures.’
“My head buzzed, and I could hardly sit still in my chair. But
suddenly a little chill of doubt came upon me.
“‘I must be frank with you,’ said I. ‘Mawson only gives me two
hundred, but Mawson is safe. Now, really, I know so little about
your company that—’
“‘Ah, smart, smart!’ he cried, in a kind of ecstasy of delight.
‘You are the very man for us. You are not to be talked over, and
quite right, too. Now, here’s a note for a hundred pounds, and if
you think that we can do business you may just slip it into your
pocket as an advance upon your salary.’
“‘That is very handsome,’ said I. ‘When should I take over my new
duties?’
“‘Be in Birmingham to-morrow at one,’ said he. ‘I have a note in
my pocket here which you will take to my brother. You will find
him at 126B, Corporation Street, where the temporary offices of
the company are situated. Of course he must confirm your
engagement, but between ourselves it will be all right.’
“‘Really, I hardly know how to express my gratitude, Mr. Pinner,’
said I.
“‘Not at all, my boy. You have only got your deserts. There are
one or two small things—mere formalities—which I must arrange
with you. You have a bit of paper beside you there. Kindly write
upon it “I am perfectly willing to act as business manager to the
Franco-Midland Hardware Company, Limited, at a minimum salary of
£500.”’
“I did as he asked, and he put the paper in his pocket.
“‘There is one other detail,’ said he. ‘What do you intend to do
about Mawson’s?’
“I had forgotten all about Mawson’s in my joy. ‘I’ll write and
resign,’ said I.
“‘Precisely what I don’t want you to do. I had a row over you
with Mawson’s manager. I had gone up to ask him about you, and he
was very offensive; accused me of coaxing you away from the
service of the firm, and that sort of thing. At last I fairly
lost my temper. “If you want good men you should pay them a good
price,” said I.’
“‘He would rather have our small price than your big one,’ said
he.
“‘I’ll lay you a fiver,’ said I, ‘that when he has my offer
you’ll never so much as hear from him again.’
“‘Done!’ said he. ‘We picked him out of the gutter, and he won’t
leave us so easily.’ Those were his very words.”
“‘The impudent scoundrel!’ I cried. ‘I’ve never so much as seen
him in my life. Why should I consider him in any way? I shall
certainly not write if you would rather I didn’t.’
“‘Good! That’s a promise,’ said he, rising from his chair. ‘Well,
I’m delighted to have got so good a man for my brother. Here’s
your advance of a hundred pounds, and here is the letter. Make a
note of the address, 126B, Corporation Street, and remember that
one o’clock to-morrow is your appointment. Good-night; and may
you have all the fortune that you deserve!’
“That’s just about all that passed between us, as near as I can
remember. You can imagine, Dr. Watson, how pleased I was at such
an extraordinary bit of good fortune. I sat up half the night
hugging myself over it, and next day I was off to Birmingham in a
train that would take me in plenty time for my appointment. I
took my things to a hotel in New Street, and then I made my way
to the address which had been given me.
“It was a quarter of an hour before my time, but I thought that
would make no difference. 126B, was a passage between two large
shops, which led to a winding stone stair, from which there were
many flats, let as offices to companies or professional men. The
names of the occupants were painted at the bottom on the wall,
but there was no such name as the Franco-Midland Hardware
Company, Limited. I stood for a few minutes with my heart in my
boots, wondering whether the whole thing was an elaborate hoax or
not, when up came a man and addressed me. He was very like the
chap I had seen the night before, the same figure and voice, but
he was clean shaven and his hair was lighter.
“‘Are you Mr. Hall Pycroft?’ he asked.
“‘Yes,’ said I.
“‘Oh! I was expecting you, but you are a trifle before your time.
I had a note from my brother this morning in which he sang your
praises very loudly.’
“‘I was just looking for the offices when you came.’
“‘We have not got our name up yet, for we only secured these
temporary premises last week. Come up with me, and we will talk
the matter over.’
“I followed him to the top of a very lofty stair, and there,
right under the slates, were a couple of empty, dusty little
rooms, uncarpeted and uncurtained, into which he led me. I had
thought of a great office with shining tables and rows of clerks,
such as I was used to, and I daresay I stared rather straight at
the two deal chairs and one little table, which, with a ledger
and a waste paper basket, made up the whole furniture.
“‘Don’t be disheartened, Mr. Pycroft,’ said my new acquaintance,
seeing the length of my face. ‘Rome was not built in a day, and
we have lots of money at our backs, though we don’t cut much dash
yet in offices. Pray sit down, and let me have your letter.’
“I gave it to him, and he read it over very carefully.
“‘You seem to have made a vast impression upon my brother
Arthur,’ said he; ‘and I know that he is a pretty shrewd judge.
He swears by London, you know; and I by Birmingham; but this time
I shall follow his advice. Pray consider yourself definitely
engaged.’
“‘What are my duties?’ I asked.
“‘You will eventually manage the great depôt in Paris, which will
pour a flood of English crockery into the shops of a hundred and
thirty-four agents in France. The purchase will be completed in a
week, and meanwhile you will remain in Birmingham and make
yourself useful.’
“‘How?’
“For answer, he took a big red book out of a drawer.
“‘This is a directory of Paris,’ said he, ‘with the trades after
the names of the people. I want you to take it home with you, and
to mark off all the hardware sellers, with their addresses. It
would be of the greatest use to me to have them.’
“‘Surely there are classified lists?’ I suggested.
“‘Not reliable ones. Their system is different from ours. Stick
at it, and let me have the lists by Monday, at twelve. Good-day,
Mr. Pycroft. If you continue to show zeal and intelligence you
will find the company a good master.’
“I went back to the hotel with the big book under my arm, and
with very conflicting feelings in my breast. On the one hand, I
was definitely engaged and had a hundred pounds in my pocket; on
the other, the look of the offices, the absence of name on the
wall, and other of the points which would strike a business man
had left a bad impression as to the position of my employers.
However, come what might, I had my money, so I settled down to my
task. All Sunday I was kept hard at work, and yet by Monday I had
only got as far as H. I went round to my employer, found him in
the same dismantled kind of room, and was told to keep at it
until Wednesday, and then come again. On Wednesday it was still
unfinished, so I hammered away until Friday—that is, yesterday.
Then I brought it round to Mr. Harry Pinner.
“‘Thank you very much,’ said he; ‘I fear that I underrated the
difficulty of the task. This list will be of very material
assistance to me.’
“‘It took some time,’ said I.
“‘And now,’ said he, ‘I want you to make a list of the furniture
shops, for they all sell crockery.’
“‘Very good.’
“‘And you can come up to-morrow evening, at seven, and let me
know how you are getting on. Don’t overwork yourself. A couple of
hours at Day’s Music Hall in the evening would do you no harm
after your labours.’ He laughed as he spoke, and I saw with a
thrill that his second tooth upon the left-hand side had been
very badly stuffed with gold.”
Sherlock Holmes rubbed his hands with delight, and I stared with
astonishment at our client.
“You may well look surprised, Dr. Watson; but it is this way,”
said he: “When I was speaking to the other chap in London, at the
time that he laughed at my not going to Mawson’s, I happened to
notice that his tooth was stuffed in this very identical fashion.
The glint of the gold in each case caught my eye, you see. When I
put that with the voice and figure being the same, and only those
things altered which might be changed by a razor or a wig, I
could not doubt that it was the same man. Of course you expect
two brothers to be alike, but not that they should have the same
tooth stuffed in the same way. He bowed me out, and I found
myself in the street, hardly knowing whether I was on my head or
my heels. Back I went to my hotel, put my head in a basin of cold
water, and tried to think it out. Why had he sent me from London
to Birmingham? Why had he got there before me? And why had he
written a letter from himself to himself? It was altogether too
much for me, and I could make no sense of it. And then suddenly
it struck me that what was dark to me might be very light to Mr.
Sherlock Holmes. I had just time to get up to town by the night
train to see him this morning, and to bring you both back with me
to Birmingham.”
There was a pause after the stockbroker’s clerk had concluded his
surprising experience. Then Sherlock Holmes cocked his eye at me,
leaning back on the cushions with a pleased and yet critical
face, like a connoisseur who has just taken his first sip of a
comet vintage.
“Rather fine, Watson, is it not?” said he. “There are points in
it which please me. I think that you will agree with me that an
interview with Mr. Arthur Harry Pinner in the temporary offices
of the Franco-Midland Hardware Company, Limited, would be a
rather interesting experience for both of us.”
“But how can we do it?” I asked.
“Oh, easily enough,” said Hall Pycroft, cheerily. “You are two
friends of mine who are in want of a billet, and what could be
more natural than that I should bring you both round to the
managing director?”
“Quite so, of course,” said Holmes. “I should like to have a look
at the gentleman, and see if I can make anything of his little
game. What qualities have you, my friend, which would make your
services so valuable? or is it possible that—” He began biting
his nails and staring blankly out of the window, and we hardly
drew another word from him until we were in New Street.
At seven o’clock that evening we were walking, the three of us,
down Corporation Street to the company’s offices.
“It is no use our being at all before our time,” said our client.
“He only comes there to see me, apparently, for the place is
deserted up to the very hour he names.”
“That is suggestive,” remarked Holmes.
“By Jove, I told you so!” cried the clerk. “That’s he walking
ahead of us there.”
He pointed to a smallish, dark, well-dressed man who was bustling
along the other side of the road. As we watched him he looked
across at a boy who was bawling out the latest edition of the
evening paper, and running over among the cabs and busses, he
bought one from him. Then, clutching it in his hand, he vanished
through a doorway.
“There he goes!” cried Hall Pycroft. “These are the company’s
offices into which he has gone. Come with me, and I’ll fix it up
as easily as possible.”
Following his lead, we ascended five stories, until we found
ourselves outside a half-opened door, at which our client tapped.
A voice within bade us enter, and we entered a bare, unfurnished
room such as Hall Pycroft had described. At the single table sat
the man whom we had seen in the street, with his evening paper
spread out in front of him, and as he looked up at us it seemed
to me that I had never looked upon a face which bore such marks
of grief, and of something beyond grief—of a horror such as comes
to few men in a lifetime. His brow glistened with perspiration,
his cheeks were of the dull, dead white of a fish’s belly, and
his eyes were wild and staring. He looked at his clerk as though
he failed to recognise him, and I could see by the astonishment
depicted upon our conductor’s face that this was by no means the
usual appearance of his employer.
“You look ill, Mr. Pinner!” he exclaimed.
“Yes, I am not very well,” answered the other, making obvious
efforts to pull himself together, and licking his dry lips before
he spoke. “Who are these gentlemen whom you have brought with
you?”
“One is Mr. Harris, of Bermondsey, and the other is Mr. Price, of
this town,” said our clerk, glibly. “They are friends of mine and
gentlemen of experience, but they have been out of a place for
some little time, and they hoped that perhaps you might find an
opening for them in the company’s employment.”
“Very possibly! Very possibly!” cried Mr. Pinner with a ghastly
smile. “Yes, I have no doubt that we shall be able to do
something for you. What is your particular line, Mr. Harris?”
“I am an accountant,” said Holmes.
“Ah yes, we shall want something of the sort. And you, Mr.
Price?”
“A clerk,” said I.
“I have every hope that the company may accommodate you. I will
let you know about it as soon as we come to any conclusion. And
now I beg that you will go. For God’s sake leave me to myself!”
These last words were shot out of him, as though the constraint
which he was evidently setting upon himself had suddenly and
utterly burst asunder. Holmes and I glanced at each other, and
Hall Pycroft took a step towards the table.
“You forget, Mr. Pinner, that I am here by appointment to receive
some directions from you,” said he.
“Certainly, Mr. Pycroft, certainly,” the other resumed in a
calmer tone. “You may wait here a moment; and there is no reason
why your friends should not wait with you. I will be entirely at
your service in three minutes, if I might trespass upon your
patience so far.” He rose with a very courteous air, and, bowing
to us, he passed out through a door at the farther end of the
room, which he closed behind him.
“What now?” whispered Holmes. “Is he giving us the slip?”
“Impossible,” answered Pycroft.
“Why so?”
“That door leads into an inner room.”
“There is no exit?”
“None.”
“Is it furnished?”
“It was empty yesterday.”
“Then what on earth can he be doing? There is something which I
don’t understand in this manner. If ever a man was three parts
mad with terror, that man’s name is Pinner. What can have put the
shivers on him?”
“He suspects that we are detectives,” I suggested.
“That’s it,” cried Pycroft.
Holmes shook his head. “He did not turn pale. He was pale when we
entered the room,” said he. “It is just possible that—”
His words were interrupted by a sharp rat-tat from the direction
of the inner door.
“What the deuce is he knocking at his own door for?” cried the
clerk.
Again and much louder came the rat-tat-tat. We all gazed
expectantly at the closed door. Glancing at Holmes, I saw his
face turn rigid, and he leaned forward in intense excitement.
Then suddenly came a low guggling, gargling sound, and a brisk
drumming upon woodwork. Holmes sprang frantically across the room
and pushed at the door. It was fastened on the inner side.
Following his example, we threw ourselves upon it with all our
weight. One hinge snapped, then the other, and down came the door
with a crash. Rushing over it, we found ourselves in the inner
room. It was empty.
But it was only for a moment that we were at fault. At one
corner, the corner nearest the room which we had left, there was
a second door. Holmes sprang to it and pulled it open. A coat and
waistcoat were lying on the floor, and from a hook behind the
door, with his own braces round his neck, was hanging the
managing director of the Franco-Midland Hardware Company. His
knees were drawn up, his head hung at a dreadful angle to his
body, and the clatter of his heels against the door made the
noise which had broken in upon our conversation. In an instant I
had caught him round the waist, and held him up while Holmes and
Pycroft untied the elastic bands which had disappeared between
the livid creases of skin. Then we carried him into the other
room, where he lay with a clay-coloured face, puffing his purple
lips in and out with every breath—a dreadful wreck of all that he
had been but five minutes before.
“What do you think of him, Watson?” asked Holmes.
I stooped over him and examined him. His pulse was feeble and
intermittent, but his breathing grew longer, and there was a
little shivering of his eyelids, which showed a thin white slit
of ball beneath.
“It has been touch and go with him,” said I, “but he’ll live now.
Just open that window, and hand me the water carafe.” I undid his
collar, poured the cold water over his face, and raised and sank
his arms until he drew a long, natural breath. “It’s only a
question of time now,” said I, as I turned away from him.
Holmes stood by the table, with his hands deep in his trouser’s
pockets and his chin upon his breast.
“I suppose we ought to call the police in now,” said he. “And yet
I confess that I’d like to give them a complete case when they
come.”
“It’s a blessed mystery to me,” cried Pycroft, scratching his
head. “Whatever they wanted to bring me all the way up here for,
and then—”
“Pooh! All that is clear enough,” said Holmes impatiently. “It is
this last sudden move.”
“You understand the rest, then?”
“I think that it is fairly obvious. What do you say, Watson?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I must confess that I am out of my
depths,” said I.
“Oh, surely if you consider the events at first they can only
point to one conclusion.”
“What do you make of them?”
“Well, the whole thing hinges upon two points. The first is the
making of Pycroft write a declaration by which he entered the
service of this preposterous company. Do you not see how very
suggestive that is?”
“I am afraid I miss the point.”
“Well, why did they want him to do it? Not as a business matter,
for these arrangements are usually verbal, and there was no
earthly business reason why this should be an exception. Don’t
you see, my young friend, that they were very anxious to obtain a
specimen of your handwriting, and had no other way of doing it?”
“And why?”
“Quite so. Why? When we answer that we have made some progress
with our little problem. Why? There can be only one adequate
reason. Some one wanted to learn to imitate your writing, and had
to procure a specimen of it first. And now if we pass on to the
second point we find that each throws light upon the other. That
point is the request made by Pinner that you should not resign
your place, but should leave the manager of this important
business in the full expectation that a Mr. Hall Pycroft, whom he
had never seen, was about to enter the office upon the Monday
morning.”
“My God!” cried our client, “what a blind beetle I have been!”
“Now you see the point about the handwriting. Suppose that some
one turned up in your place who wrote a completely different hand
from that in which you had applied for the vacancy, of course the
game would have been up. But in the interval the rogue had
learned to imitate you, and his position was therefore secure, as
I presume that nobody in the office had ever set eyes upon you.”
“Not a soul,” groaned Hall Pycroft.
“Very good. Of course it was of the utmost importance to prevent
you from thinking better of it, and also to keep you from coming
into contact with any one who might tell you that your double was
at work in Mawson’s office. Therefore they gave you a handsome
advance on your salary, and ran you off to the Midlands, where
they gave you enough work to do to prevent your going to London,
where you might have burst their little game up. That is all
plain enough.”
“But why should this man pretend to be his own brother?”
“Well, that is pretty clear also. There are evidently only two of
them in it. The other is impersonating you at the office. This
one acted as your engager, and then found that he could not find
you an employer without admitting a third person into his plot.
That he was most unwilling to do. He changed his appearance as
far as he could, and trusted that the likeness, which you could
not fail to observe, would be put down to a family resemblance.
But for the happy chance of the gold stuffing, your suspicions
would probably never have been aroused.”
Hall Pycroft shook his clinched hands in the air. “Good Lord!” he
cried, “while I have been fooled in this way, what has this other
Hall Pycroft been doing at Mawson’s? What should we do, Mr.
Holmes? Tell me what to do.”
“We must wire to Mawson’s.”
“They shut at twelve on Saturdays.”
“Never mind. There may be some door-keeper or attendant—”
“Ah yes, they keep a permanent guard there on account of the
value of the securities that they hold. I remember hearing it
talked of in the City.”
“Very good; we shall wire to him, and see if all is well, and if
a clerk of your name is working there. That is clear enough; but
what is not so clear is why at sight of us one of the rogues
should instantly walk out of the room and hang himself.”
“The paper!” croaked a voice behind us. The man was sitting up,
blanched and ghastly, with returning reason in his eyes, and
hands which rubbed nervously at the broad red band which still
encircled his throat.
“The paper! Of course!” yelled Holmes, in a paroxysm of
excitement. “Idiot that I was! I thought so much of our visit
that the paper never entered my head for an instant. To be sure,
the secret must be there.” He flattened it out upon the table,
and a cry of triumph burst from his lips. “Look at this, Watson,”
he cried. “It is a London paper, an early edition of the _Evening
Standard_. Here is what we want. Look at the headlines: ‘Crime in
the City. Murder at Mawson & Williams’. Gigantic Attempted
Robbery. Capture of the Criminal.’ Here, Watson, we are all
equally anxious to hear it, so kindly read it aloud to us.”
It appeared from its position in the paper to have been the one
event of importance in town, and the account of it ran in this
way:
“A desperate attempt at robbery, culminating in the death of one
man and the capture of the criminal, occurred this afternoon in
the City. For some time back Mawson & Williams, the famous
financial house, have been the guardians of securities which
amount in the aggregate to a sum of considerably over a million
sterling. So conscious was the manager of the responsibility
which devolved upon him in consequence of the great interests at
stake that safes of the very latest construction have been
employed, and an armed watchman has been left day and night in
the building. It appears that last week a new clerk named Hall
Pycroft was engaged by the firm. This person appears to have been
none other than Beddington, the famous forger and cracksman, who,
with his brother, had only recently emerged from a five years’
spell of penal servitude. By some means, which are not yet clear,
he succeeded in winning, under a false name, this official
position in the office, which he utilised in order to obtain
moulding of various locks, and a thorough knowledge of the
position of the strong room and the safes.
“It is customary at Mawson’s for the clerks to leave at midday on
Saturday. Sergeant Tuson, of the City Police, was somewhat
surprised, therefore to see a gentleman with a carpet bag come
down the steps at twenty minutes past one. His suspicions being
aroused, the sergeant followed the man, and with the aid of
Constable Pollock succeeded, after a most desperate resistance,
in arresting him. It was at once clear that a daring and gigantic
robbery had been committed. Nearly a hundred thousand pounds’
worth of American railway bonds, with a large amount of scrip in
other mines and companies, was discovered in the bag. On
examining the premises the body of the unfortunate watchman was
found doubled up and thrust into the largest of the safes, where
it would not have been discovered until Monday morning had it not
been for the prompt action of Sergeant Tuson. The man’s skull had
been shattered by a blow from a poker delivered from behind.
There could be no doubt that Beddington had obtained entrance by
pretending that he had left something behind him, and having
murdered the watchman, rapidly rifled the large safe, and then
made off with his booty. His brother, who usually works with him,
has not appeared in this job as far as can at present be
ascertained, although the police are making energetic inquiries
as to his whereabouts.”
“Well, we may save the police some little trouble in that
direction,” said Holmes, glancing at the haggard figure huddled
up by the window. “Human nature is a strange mixture, Watson. You
see that even a villain and murderer can inspire such affection
that his brother turns to suicide when he learns that his neck is
forfeited. However, we have no choice as to our action. The
doctor and I will remain on guard, Mr. Pycroft, if you will have
the kindness to step out for the police.”
V. The “_Gloria Scott_”
“I have some papers here,” said my friend Sherlock Holmes, as we
sat one winter’s night on either side of the fire, “which I
really think, Watson, that it would be worth your while to glance
over. These are the documents in the extraordinary case of the
_Gloria Scott_, and this is the message which struck Justice of
the Peace Trevor dead with horror when he read it.”
He had picked from a drawer a little tarnished cylinder, and,
undoing the tape, he handed me a short note scrawled upon a
half-sheet of slate-grey paper.
“The supply of game for London is going steadily up,” it ran.
“Head-keeper Hudson, we believe, has been now told to receive all
orders for fly-paper and for preservation of your hen-pheasant’s
life.”
As I glanced up from reading this enigmatical message, I saw
Holmes chuckling at the expression upon my face.
“You look a little bewildered,” said he.
“I cannot see how such a message as this could inspire horror. It
seems to me to be rather grotesque than otherwise.”
“Very likely. Yet the fact remains that the reader, who was a
fine, robust old man, was knocked clean down by it as if it had
been the butt end of a pistol.”
“You arouse my curiosity,” said I. “But why did you say just now
that there were very particular reasons why I should study this
case?”
“Because it was the first in which I was ever engaged.”
I had often endeavoured to elicit from my companion what had
first turned his mind in the direction of criminal research, but
had never caught him before in a communicative humour. Now he sat
forward in this armchair and spread out the documents upon his
knees. Then he lit his pipe and sat for some time smoking and
turning them over.
“You never heard me talk of Victor Trevor?” he asked. “He was the
only friend I made during the two years I was at college. I was
never a very sociable fellow, Watson, always rather fond of
moping in my rooms and working out my own little methods of
thought, so that I never mixed much with the men of my year. Bar
fencing and boxing I had few athletic tastes, and then my line of
study was quite distinct from that of the other fellows, so that
we had no points of contact at all. Trevor was the only man I
knew, and that only through the accident of his bull terrier
freezing on to my ankle one morning as I went down to chapel.
“It was a prosaic way of forming a friendship, but it was
effective. I was laid by the heels for ten days, but Trevor used
to come in to inquire after me. At first it was only a minute’s
chat, but soon his visits lengthened, and before the end of the
term we were close friends. He was a hearty, full-blooded fellow,
full of spirits and energy, the very opposite to me in most
respects, but we had some subjects in common, and it was a bond
of union when I found that he was as friendless as I. Finally, he
invited me down to his father’s place at Donnithorpe, in Norfolk,
and I accepted his hospitality for a month of the long vacation.
“Old Trevor was evidently a man of some wealth and consideration,
a J.P. and a landed proprietor. Donnithorpe is a little hamlet
just to the north of Langmere, in the country of the Broads. The
house was an old-fashioned, wide-spread, oak-beamed brick
building, with a fine lime-lined avenue leading up to it. There
was excellent wild-duck shooting in the fens, remarkably good
fishing, a small but select library, taken over, as I understood,
from a former occupant, and a tolerable cook, so that he would be
a fastidious man who could not put in a pleasant month there.
“Trevor senior was a widower, and my friend his only son.
“There had been a daughter, I heard, but she had died of
diphtheria while on a visit to Birmingham. The father interested
me extremely. He was a man of little culture, but with a
considerable amount of rude strength, both physically and
mentally. He knew hardly any books, but he had travelled far, had
seen much of the world. And had remembered all that he had
learned. In person he was a thick-set, burly man with a shock of
grizzled hair, a brown, weather-beaten face, and blue eyes which
were keen to the verge of fierceness. Yet he had a reputation for
kindness and charity on the country-side, and was noted for the
leniency of his sentences from the bench.
“One evening, shortly after my arrival, we were sitting over a
glass of port after dinner, when young Trevor began to talk about
those habits of observation and inference which I had already
formed into a system, although I had not yet appreciated the part
which they were to play in my life. The old man evidently thought
that his son was exaggerating in his description of one or two
trivial feats which I had performed.
“‘Come, now, Mr. Holmes,’ said he, laughing good-humoredly. ‘I’m
an excellent subject, if you can deduce anything from me.’
“‘I fear there is not very much,’ I answered; ‘I might suggest
that you have gone about in fear of some personal attack within
the last twelve months.’
“The laugh faded from his lips, and he stared at me in great
surprise.
“‘Well, that’s true enough,’ said he. ‘You know, Victor,’ turning
to his son, ‘when we broke up that poaching gang, they swore to
knife us, and Sir Edward Holly has actually been attacked. I’ve
always been on my guard since then, though I have no idea how you
know it.’
“‘You have a very handsome stick,’ I answered. ‘By the
inscription I observed that you had not had it more than a year.
But you ha
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/834