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"His Last Bow"
CONTENTS
The
Adventure of Wisteria Lodge
1. The Singular Experience of Mr. John Scott Eccles
2. The Tiger of San Pedro
The Adventure of the Cardboard Box
The Adventure of the Red Circle
The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans
The Adventure of the Dying Detective
The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax
The Adventure of the Devil’s Foot
His Last Bow
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WISTERIA LODGE
I.
THE SINGULAR EXPERIENCE OF MR. JOHN SCOTT ECCLES
I FIND it
recorded in my notebook that it was a bleak and
windy day towards the end of March in the year 1892.
Holmes had received a telegram while we sat at our
lunch, and he had scribbled a reply. He made no
remark, but the matter remained in his thoughts, for
he stood in front of the fire afterwards with a
thoughtful face, smoking his pipe, and casting an
occasional glance at the message. Suddenly he turned
upon me with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
“I suppose, Watson, we must look upon you as a man
of letters,” said he. “How do you define the word
‘grotesque’?”
“Strange–remarkable,” I suggested.
He shook his head at my definition.
“There is surely something more than that,” said he;
“some underlying suggestion of the tragic and the
terrible. If you cast your mind back to some of
those narratives with which you have afflicted a
long-suffering public, you will recognize how often
the grotesque has deepened into the criminal. Think
of that little affair of the red-headed men. That
was grotesque enough in the outset, and yet it ended
in a desperate attempt at robbery. Or, again, there
was that most grotesque affair of the five orange
pips, which led straight to a murderous conspiracy.
The word puts me on the alert.”
“Have you it there?” I asked.
He read the telegram aloud.
[870] “Have
just had most incredible and grotesque experience.
May I consult you?
“SCOTT ECCLES,
“Post-Office, Charing Cross.”
“Man or woman?” I asked.
“Oh, man, of course. No woman would ever send a
reply-paid telegram. She would have come.”
“Will you see him?”
“My dear Watson, you know how bored I have been
since we locked up Colonel Carruthers. My mind is
like a racing engine, tearing itself to pieces
because it is not connected up with the work for
which it was built. Life is commonplace; the papers
are sterile; audacity and romance seem to have
passed forever from the criminal world. Can you ask
me, then, whether I am ready to look into any new
problem, however trivial it may prove? But here,
unless I am mistaken, is our client.”
A measured step was heard upon the stairs, and a
moment later a stout, tall, gray-whiskered and
solemnly respectable person was ushered into the
room. His life history was written in his heavy
features and pompous manner. From his spats to his
gold-rimmed spectacles he was a Conservative, a
churchman, a good citizen, orthodox and conventional
to the last degree. But some amazing experience had
disturbed his native composure and left its traces
in his bristling hair, his flushed, angry cheeks,
and his flurried, excited manner. He plunged
instantly into his business.
“I have had a most singular and unpleasant
experience, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “Never in my life
have I been placed in such a situation. It is most
improper–most outrageous. I must insist upon some
explanation.” He swelled and puffed in his anger.
“Pray sit down, Mr. Scott Eccles,” said Holmes in a
soothing voice. “May I ask, in the first place, why
you came to me at all?”
“Well, sir, it did not appear to be a matter which
concerned the police, and yet, when you have heard
the facts, you must admit that I could not leave it
where it was. Private detectives are a class with
whom I have absolutely no sympathy, but none the
less, having heard your name– –”
“Quite so. But, in the second place, why did you not
come at once?”
“What do you mean?”
Holmes glanced at his watch.
“It is a quarter-past two,” he said. “Your telegram
was dispatched about one. But no one can glance at
your toilet and attire without seeing that your
disturbance dates from the moment of your waking.”
Our client smoothed down his unbrushed hair and felt
his unshaven chin.
“You are
right, Mr. Holmes. I never gave a thought to my
toilet. I was only too glad to get out of such a
house. But I have been running round making
inquiries before I came to you. I went to the house
agents, you know, and they said that Mr. Garcia’s
rent was paid up all right and that everything was
in order at Wisteria Lodge.”
“Come, come, sir,” said Holmes, laughing. “You are
like my friend, Dr. Watson, who has a bad habit of
telling his stories wrong end foremost. Please
arrange your thoughts and let me know, in their due
sequence, exactly what those events are [871] which
have sent you out unbrushed and unkempt, with dress
boots and waistcoat buttoned awry, in search of
advice and assistance.”
Our client looked down with a rueful face at his own
unconventional appearance.
“I’m sure it must look very bad, Mr. Holmes, and I
am not aware that in my whole life such a thing has
ever happened before. But I will tell you the whole
queer business, and when I have done so you will
admit, I am sure, that there has been enough to
excuse me.”
But his narrative was nipped in the bud. There was a
bustle outside, and Mrs. Hudson opened the door to
usher in two robust and official-looking
individuals, one of whom was well known to us as
Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard, an energetic,
gallant, and, within his limitations, a capable
officer. He shook hands with Holmes and introduced
his comrade as Inspector Baynes, of the Surrey
Constabulary.
“We are hunting together, Mr. Holmes, and our trail
lay in this direction.” He turned his bulldog eyes
upon our visitor. “Are you Mr. John Scott Eccles, of
Popham House, Lee?”
“I am.”
“We have been following you about all the morning.”
“You traced him through the telegram, no doubt,”
said Holmes.
“Exactly, Mr. Holmes. We picked up the scent at
Charing Cross Post-Office and came on here.”
“But why do you follow me? What do you want?”
“We wish a statement, Mr. Scott Eccles, as to the
events which led up to the death last night of Mr.
Aloysius Garcia, of Wisteria Lodge, near Esher.”
Our client had sat up with staring eyes and every
tinge of colour struck from his astonished face.
“Dead? Did you say he was dead?”
“Yes, sir, he is dead.”
“But how? An accident?”
“Murder, if ever there was one upon earth.”
“Good God!
This is awful! You don’t mean–you don’t mean that I
am suspected?”
“A letter of yours was found in the dead man’s
pocket, and we know by it that you had planned to
pass last night at his house.”
“So I did.”
“Oh, you did, did you?”
Out came the official notebook.
“Wait a bit, Gregson,” said Sherlock Holmes. “All
you desire is a plain statement, is it not?”
“And it is my duty to warn Mr. Scott Eccles that it
may be used against him.”
“Mr. Eccles was going to tell us about it when you
entered the room. I think, Watson, a brandy and soda
would do him no harm. Now, sir, I suggest that you
take no notice of this addition to your audience,
and that you proceed with your narrative exactly as
you would have done had you never been interrupted.”
Our visitor had gulped off the brandy and the colour
had returned to his face. With a dubious glance at
the inspector’s notebook, he plunged at once into
his extraordinary statement.
“I am a bachelor,” said he, “and being of a sociable
turn I cultivate a large number of friends. Among
these are the family of a retired brewer called
Melville, living at Albemarle Mansion, Kensington.
It was at his table that I met some weeks [872] ago
a young fellow named Garcia. He was, I understood,
of Spanish descent and connected in some way with
the embassy. He spoke perfect English, was pleasing
in his manners, and as good-looking a man as ever I
saw in my life.
“In some way we struck up quite a friendship, this
young fellow and I. He seemed to take a fancy to me
from the first, and within two days of our meeting
he came to see me at Lee. One thing led to another,
and it ended in his inviting me out to spend a few
days at his house, Wisteria Lodge, between Esher and
Oxshott. Yesterday evening I went to Esher to fulfil
this engagement.
“He had described his household to me before I went
there. He lived with a faithful servant, a
countryman of his own, who looked after all his
needs. This fellow could speak English and did his
housekeeping for him. Then there was a wonderful
cook, he said, a half-breed whom he had picked up in
his travels, who could serve an excellent dinner. I
remember that he remarked what a queer household it
was to find in the heart of Surrey, and that I
agreed with him, though it has proved a good deal
queerer than I thought.
“I drove to the place–about two miles on the south
side of Esher. The house was a fair-sized one,
standing back from the road, with a curving drive
which was banked with high evergreen shrubs. It was
an old, tumble-down building in a crazy state of
disrepair. When the trap pulled up on the
grass-grown drive in front of the blotched and
weather-stained door, I had doubts as to my wisdom
in visiting a man whom I knew so slightly. He opened
the door himself, however, and greeted me with a
great show of cordiality. I was handed over to the
manservant, a melancholy, swarthy individual, who
led the way, my bag in his hand, to my bedroom. The
whole place was depressing. Our dinner was
tкte-а-tкte, and though my host did his best to be
entertaining, his thoughts seemed to continually
wander, and he talked so vaguely and wildly that I
could hardly understand him. He continually drummed
his fingers on the table, gnawed his nails, and gave
other signs of nervous impatience. The dinner itself
was neither well served nor well cooked, and the
gloomy presence of the taciturn servant did not help
to enliven us. I can assure you that many times in
the course of the evening I wished that I could
invent some excuse which would take me back to Lee.
“One thing comes back to my memory which may have a
bearing upon the business that you two gentlemen are
investigating. I thought nothing of it at the time.
Near the end of dinner a note was handed in by the
servant. I noticed that after my host had read it he
seemed even more distrait and strange than before.
He gave up all pretence at conversation and sat,
smoking endless cigarettes, lost in his own
thoughts, but he made no remark as to the contents.
About eleven I was glad to go to bed. Some time
later Garcia looked in at my door–the room was dark
at the time–and asked me if I had rung. I said that
I had not. He apologized for having disturbed me so
late, saying that it was nearly one o’clock. I
dropped off after this and slept soundly all night.
“And now I come to the amazing part of my tale. When
I woke it was broad daylight. I glanced at my watch,
and the time was nearly nine. I had particularly
asked to be called at eight, so I was very much
astonished at this forgetfulness. I sprang up and
rang for the servant. There was no response. I rang
again and again, with the same result. Then I came
to the conclusion that the bell was out of order. I
huddled on my clothes and hurried downstairs in an
exceedingly bad temper to order some hot water. You
can imagine my surprise when I found that there was
no one there. I shouted in the hall. There was no
answer. Then I ran from room to [873] room. All were
deserted. My host had shown me which was his bedroom
the night before, so I knocked at the door. No
reply. I turned the handle and walked in. The room
was empty, and the bed had never been slept in. He
had gone with the rest. The foreign host, the
foreign footman, the foreign cook, all had vanished
in the night! That was the end of my visit to
Wisteria Lodge.”
Sherlock Holmes was rubbing his hands and chuckling
as he added this bizarre incident to his collection
of strange episodes.
“Your experience is, so far as I know, perfectly
unique,” said he. “May I ask, sir, what you did
then?”
“I was furious. My first idea was that I had been
the victim of some absurd practical joke. I packed
my things, banged the hall door behind me, and set
off for Esher, with my bag in my hand. I called at
Allan Brothers’, the chief land agents in the
village, and found that it was from this firm that
the villa had been rented. It struck me that the
whole proceeding could hardly be for the purpose of
making a fool of me, and that the main object must
be to get out of the rent. It is late in March, so
quarter-day is at hand. But this theory would not
work. The agent was obliged to me for my warning,
but told me that the rent had been paid in advance.
Then I made my way to town and called at the Spanish
embassy. The man was unknown there. After this I
went to see Melville, at whose house I had first met
Garcia, but I found that he really knew rather less
about him than I did. Finally when I got your reply
to my wire I came out to you, since I gather that
you are a person who gives advice in difficult
cases. But now, Mr. Inspector, I understand, from
what you said when you entered the room, that you
can carry the story on, and that some tragedy has
occurred. I can assure you that every word I have
said is the truth, and that, outside of what I have
told you, I know absolutely nothing about the fate
of this man. My only desire is to help the law in
every possible way.”
“I am sure of it, Mr. Scott Eccles–I am sure of it,”
said Inspector Gregson in a very amiable tone. “I am
bound to say that everything which you have said
agrees very closely with the facts as they have come
to our notice. For example, there was that note
which arrived during dinner. Did you chance to
observe what became of it?”
“Yes, I did. Garcia rolled it up and threw it into
the fire.”
“What do you say to that, Mr. Baynes?”
The country detective was a stout, puffy, red man,
whose face was only redeemed from grossness by two
extraordinarily bright eyes, almost hidden behind
the heavy creases of cheek and brow. With a slow
smile he drew a folded and discoloured scrap of
paper from his pocket.
“It was a
dog-grate, Mr. Holmes, and he overpitched it. I
picked this out unburned from the back of it.”
Holmes smiled his appreciation.
“You must have examined the house very carefully to
find a single pellet of paper.”
“I did, Mr. Holmes. It’s my way. Shall I read it,
Mr. Gregson?”
The Londoner nodded.
“The note is written upon ordinary cream-laid paper
without watermark. It is a quarter-sheet. The paper
is cut off in two snips with a short-bladed
scissors. It has been folded over three times and
sealed with purple wax, put on hurriedly and pressed
down with some flat oval object. It is addressed to
Mr. Garcia, Wisteria Lodge. It says:
[874] “Our
own colours, green and white. Green open, white
shut. Main stair, first corridor, seventh right,
green baize. Godspeed. D.
It is a woman’s writing, done with a sharp-pointed
pen, but the address is either done with another pen
or by someone else. It is thicker and bolder, as you
see.”
“A very remarkable note,” said Holmes, glancing it
over. “I must compliment you, Mr. Baynes, upon your
attention to detail in your examination of it. A few
trifling points might perhaps be added. The oval
seal is undoubtedly a plain sleeve-link–what else is
of such a shape? The scissors were bent nail
scissors. Short as the two snips are, you can
distinctly see the same slight curve in each.”
The country detective chuckled.
“I thought I had squeezed all the juice out of it,
but I see there was a little over,” he said. “I’m
bound to say that I make nothing of the note except
that there was something on hand, and that a woman,
as usual, was at the bottom of it.”
Mr. Scott Eccles had fidgeted in his seat during
this conversation.
“I am glad you found the note, since it corroborates
my story,” said he. “But I beg to point out that I
have not yet heard what has happened to Mr. Garcia,
nor what has become of his household.”
“As to Garcia,” said Gregson, “that is easily
answered. He was found dead this morning upon
Oxshott Common, nearly a mile from his home. His
head had been smashed to pulp by heavy blows of a
sandbag or some such instrument, which had crushed
rather than wounded. It is a lonely corner, and
there is no house within a quarter of a mile of the
spot. He had apparently been struck down first from
behind, but his assailant had gone on beating him
long after he was dead. It was a most furious
assault. There are no footsteps nor any clue to the
criminals.”
“Robbed?”
“No, there was no attempt at robbery.”
“This is very painful–very painful and terrible,”
said Mr. Scott Eccles in a querulous voice, “but it
is really uncommonly hard upon me. I had nothing to
do with my host going off upon a nocturnal excursion
and meeting so sad an end. How do I come to be mixed
up with the case?”
“Very simply, sir,” Inspector Baynes answered. “The
only document found in the pocket of the deceased
was a letter from you saying that you would be with
him on the night of his death. It was the envelope
of this letter which gave us the dead man’s name and
address. It was after nine this morning when we
reached his house and found neither you nor anyone
else inside it. I wired to Mr. Gregson to run you
down in London while I examined Wisteria Lodge. Then
I came into town, joined Mr. Gregson, and here we
are.”
“I think now,” said Gregson, rising, “we had best
put this matter into an official shape. You will
come round with us to the station, Mr. Scott Eccles,
and let us have your statement in writing.”
“Certainly, I will come at once. But I retain your
services, Mr. Holmes. I desire you to spare no
expense and no pains to get at the truth.”
My friend turned to the country inspector.
“I suppose that you have no objection to my
collaborating with you, Mr. Baynes?”
“Highly honoured, sir, I am sure.”
“You appear to have been very prompt and
business-like in all that you have done. Was there
any clue, may I ask, as to the exact hour that the
man met his death?”
[875] “He had been there since one o’clock. There
was rain about that time, and his death had
certainly been before the rain.”
“But that is perfectly impossible, Mr. Baynes,”
cried our client. “His voice is unmistakable. I
could swear to it that it was he who addressed me in
my bedroom at that very hour.”
“Remarkable, but by no means impossible,” said
Holmes, smiling.
“You have a clue?” asked Gregson.
“On the face of it the case is not a very complex
one, though it certainly presents some novel and
interesting features. A further knowledge of facts
is necessary before I would venture to give a final
and definite opinion. By the way, Mr. Baynes, did
you find anything remarkable besides this note in
your examination of the house?”
The detective looked at my friend in a singular way.
“There were,” said he, “one or two very remarkable
things. Perhaps when I have finished at the
police-station you would care to come out and give
me your opinion of them.”
“I am entirely at your service,” said Sherlock
Holmes, ringing the bell. “You will show these
gentlemen out, Mrs. Hudson, and kindly send the boy
with this telegram. He is to pay a five-shilling
reply.”
We sat for some time in silence after our visitors
had left. Holmes smoked hard, with his brows drawn
down over his keen eyes, and his head thrust forward
in the eager way characteristic of the man.
“Well, Watson,” he asked, turning suddenly upon me,
“what do you make of it?”
“I can make nothing of this mystification of Scott
Eccles.”
“But the crime?”
“Well, taken with the disappearance of the man’s
companions, I should say that they were in some way
concerned in the murder and had fled from justice.”
“That is certainly a possible point of view. On the
face of it you must admit, however, that it is very
strange that his two servants should have been in a
conspiracy against him and should have attacked him
on the one night when he had a guest. They had him
alone at their mercy every other night in the week.”
“Then why did they fly?”
“Quite so. Why did they fly? There is a big fact.
Another big fact is the remarkable experience of our
client, Scott Eccles. Now, my dear Watson, is it
beyond the limits of human ingenuity to furnish an
explanation which would cover both these big facts?
If it were one which would also admit of the
mysterious note with its very curious phraseology,
why, then it would be worth accepting as a temporary
hypothesis. If the fresh facts which come to our
knowledge all fit themselves into the scheme, then
our hypothesis may gradually become a solution.”
“But what is our hypothesis?”
Holmes leaned back in his chair with half-closed
eyes.
“You must admit, my dear Watson, that the idea of a
joke is impossible. There were grave events afoot,
as the sequel showed, and the coaxing of Scott
Eccles to Wisteria Lodge had some connection with
them.”
“But what possible connection?”
“Let us take it link by link. There is, on the face
of it, something unnatural about this strange and
sudden friendship between the young Spaniard and
Scott Eccles. It was the former who forced the pace.
He called upon Eccles at the other end of London on
the very day after he first met him, and he kept in
close touch [876] with him until he got him down to
Esher. Now, what did he want with Eccles? What could
Eccles supply? I see no charm in the man. He is not
particularly intelligent–not a man likely to be
congenial to a quick-witted Latin. Why, then, was he
picked out from all the other people whom Garcia met
as particularly suited to his purpose? Has he any
one outstanding quality? I say that he has. He is
the very type of conventional British
respectability, and the very man as a witness to
impress another Briton. You saw yourself how neither
of the inspectors dreamed of questioning his
statement, extraordinary as it was.”
“But what was he to witness?”
“Nothing, as things turned out, but everything had
they gone another way. That is how I read the
matter.”
“I see, he might have proved an alibi.”
“Exactly, my dear Watson; he might have proved an
alibi. We will suppose, for argument’s sake, that
the household of Wisteria Lodge are confederates in
some design. The attempt, whatever it may be, is to
come off, we will say, before one o’clock. By some
juggling of the clocks it is quite possible that
they may have got Scott Eccles to bed earlier than
he thought, but in any case it is likely that when
Garcia went out of his way to tell him that it was
one it was really not more than twelve. If Garcia
could do whatever he had to do and be back by the
hour mentioned he had evidently a powerful reply to
any accusation. Here was this irreproachable
Englishman ready to swear in any court of law that
the accused was in his house all the time. It was an
insurance against the worst.”
“Yes, yes, I see that. But how about the
disappearance of the others?”
“I have not all my facts yet, but I do not think
there are any insuperable difficulties. Still, it is
an error to argue in front of your data. You find
yourself insensibly twisting them round to fit your
theories.”
“And the message?”
“How did it run? ‘Our own colours, green and white.’
Sounds like racing. ‘Green open, white shut.’ That
is clearly a signal. ‘Main stair, first corridor,
seventh right, green baize.’ This is an assignation.
We may find a jealous husband at the bottom of it
all. It was clearly a dangerous quest. She would not
have said ‘Godspeed’ had it not been so. ‘D’–that
should be a guide.”
“The man was a Spaniard. I suggest that ‘D’ stands
for Dolores, a common female name in Spain.”
“Good, Watson, very good–but quite inadmissible. A
Spaniard would write to a Spaniard in Spanish. The
writer of this note is certainly English. Well, we
can only possess our souls in patience until this
excellent inspector comes back for us. Meanwhile we
can thank our lucky fate which has rescued us for a
few short hours from the insufferable fatigues of
idleness.”
An answer
had arrived to Holmes’s telegram before our Surrey
officer had returned. Holmes read it and was about
to place it in his notebook when he caught a glimpse
of my expectant face. He tossed it across with a
laugh.
“We are
moving in exalted circles,” said he.
The telegram was a list of names and addresses:
Lord
Harringby, The Dingle; Sir George Ffolliott, Oxshott
Towers; Mr. Hynes Hynes, J. P., Purdey Place; Mr.
James Baker Williams, Forton Old Hall; Mr.
Henderson, High Gable; Rev. Joshua Stone, Nether
Walsling.
[877] “This is a very obvious way of limiting our
field of operations,” said Holmes. “No doubt Baynes,
with his methodical mind, has already adopted some
similar plan.”
“I don’t quite understand.”
“Well, my dear fellow, we have already arrived at
the conclusion that the message received by Garcia
at dinner was an appointment or an assignation. Now,
if the obvious reading of it is correct, and in
order to keep this tryst one has to ascend a main
stair and seek the seventh door in a corridor, it is
perfectly clear that the house is a very large one.
It is equally certain that this house cannot be more
than a mile or two from Oxshott, since Garcia was
walking in that direction and hoped, according to my
reading of the facts, to be back in Wisteria Lodge
in time to avail himself of an alibi, which would
only be valid up to one o’clock. As the number of
large houses close to Oxshott must be limited, I
adopted the obvious method of sending to the agents
mentioned by Scott Eccles and obtaining a list of
them. Here they are in this telegram, and the other
end of our tangled skein must lie among them.”
It was
nearly six o’clock before we found ourselves in the
pretty Surrey village of Esher, with Inspector
Baynes as our companion.
Holmes and I had taken things for the night, and
found comfortable quarters at the Bull. Finally we
set out in the company of the detective on our visit
to Wisteria Lodge. It was a cold, dark March
evening, with a sharp wind and a fine rain beating
upon our faces, a fit setting for the wild common
over which our road passed and the tragic goal to
which it led us.
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WISTERIA LODGE
II.
THE TIGER OF SAN PEDRO
A COLD and
melancholy walk of a couple of miles brought us to a
high wooden gate, which opened into a gloomy avenue
of chestnuts. The curved and shadowed drive led us
to a low, dark house, pitch-black against a slate-coloured
sky. From the front window upon the left of the door
there peeped a glimmer of a feeble light.
“There’s a constable in possession,” said Baynes.
“I’ll knock at the window.” He stepped across the
grass plot and tapped with his hand on the pane.
Through the fogged glass I dimly saw a man spring up
from a chair beside the fire, and heard a sharp cry
from within the room. An instant later a
white-faced, hard-breathing policeman had opened the
door, the candle wavering in his trembling hand.
“What’s the matter, Walters?” asked Baynes sharply.
The man mopped his forehead with his handkerchief
and gave a long sigh of relief.
“I am glad you have come, sir. It has been a long
evening, and I don’t think my nerve is as good as it
was.”
“Your nerve, Walters? I should not have thought you
had a nerve in your body.”
“Well, sir, it’s this lonely, silent house and the
queer thing in the kitchen. Then when you tapped at
the window I thought it had come again.”
“That what had come again?”
“The devil, sir, for all I know. It was at the
window.”
“What was at the window, and when?”
“It was just about two hours ago. The light was just
fading. I was sitting reading in the chair. I don’t
know what made me look up, but there was a face
looking in [878] at me through the lower pane. Lord,
sir, what a face it was! I’ll see it in my dreams.”
“Tut, tut,
Walters. This is not talk for a police-constable.”
“I know, sir, I know; but it shook me, sir, and
there’s no use to deny it. It wasn’t black, sir, nor
was it white, nor any colour that I know, but a kind
of queer shade like clay with a splash of milk in
it. Then there was the size of it–it was twice
yours, sir. And the look of it–the great staring
goggle eyes, and the line of white teeth like a
hungry beast. I tell you, sir, I couldn’t move a
finger, nor get my breath, till it whisked away and
was gone. Out I ran and through the shrubbery, but
thank God there was no one there.”
“If I didn’t know you were a good man, Walters, I
should put a black mark against you for this. If it
were the devil himself a constable on duty should
never thank God that he could not lay his hands upon
him. I suppose the whole thing is not a vision and a
touch of nerves?”
“That, at least, is very easily settled,” said
Holmes, lighting his little pocket lantern. “Yes,”
he reported, after a short examination of the grass
bed, “a number twelve shoe, I should say. If he was
all on the same scale as his foot he must certainly
have been a giant.”
“What became of him?”
“He seems to have broken through the shrubbery and
made for the road.”
“Well,” said the inspector with a grave and
thoughtful face, “whoever he may have been, and
whatever he may have wanted, he’s gone for the
present, and we have more immediate things to attend
to. Now, Mr. Holmes, with your permission, I will
show you round the house.”
The various bedrooms and sitting-rooms had yielded
nothing to a careful search. Apparently the tenants
had brought little or nothing with them, and all the
furniture down to the smallest details had been
taken over with the house. A good deal of clothing
with the stamp of Marx and Co., High Holborn, had
been left behind. Telegraphic inquiries had been
already made which showed that Marx knew nothing of
his customer save that he was a good payer. Odds and
ends, some pipes, a few novels, two of them in
Spanish, an old-fashioned pinfire revolver, and a
guitar were among the personal property.
“Nothing in all this,” said Baynes, stalking, candle
in hand, from room to room. “But now, Mr. Holmes, I
invite your attention to the kitchen.”
It was a gloomy, high-ceilinged room at the back of
the house, with a straw litter in one corner, which
served apparently as a bed for the cook. The table
was piled with half-eaten dishes and dirty plates,
the debris of last night’s dinner.
“Look at this,” said Baynes. “What do you make of
it?”
He held up his candle before an extraordinary object
which stood at the back of the dresser. It was so
wrinkled and shrunken and withered that it was
difficult to say what it might have been. One could
but say that it was black and leathery and that it
bore some resemblance to a dwarfish, human figure.
At first, as I examined it, I thought that it was a
mummified negro baby, and then it seemed a very
twisted and ancient monkey. Finally I was left in
doubt as to whether it was animal or human. A double
band of white shells was strung round the centre of
it.
“Very
interesting–very interesting, indeed!” said Holmes,
peering at this sinister relic. “Anything more?”
In silence Baynes led the way to the sink and held
forward his candle. The limbs and body of some
large, white bird, torn savagely to pieces with the
feathers still on, were littered all over it. Holmes
pointed to the wattles on the severed head.
[879] “A white cock,” said he. “Most interesting! It
is really a very curious case.”
But Mr. Baynes had kept his most sinister exhibit to
the last. From under the sink he drew a zinc pail
which contained a quantity of blood. Then from the
table he took a platter heaped with small pieces of
charred bone.
“Something
has been killed and something has been burned. We
raked all these out of the fire. We had a doctor in
this morning. He says that they are not human.”
Holmes smiled and rubbed his hands.
“I must congratulate you, Inspector, on handling so
distinctive and instructive a case. Your powers, if
I may say so without offence, seem superior to your
opportunities.”
Inspector Baynes’s small eyes twinkled with
pleasure.
“You’re right, Mr. Holmes. We stagnate in the
provinces. A case of this sort gives a man a chance,
and I hope that I shall take it. What do you make of
these bones?”
“A lamb, I should say, or a kid.”
“And the white cock?”
“Curious, Mr. Baynes, very curious. I should say
almost unique.”
“Yes, sir, there must have been some very strange
people with some very strange ways in this house.
One of them is dead. Did his companions follow him
and kill him? If they did we should have them, for
every port is watched. But my own views are
different. Yes, sir, my own views are very
different.”
“You have a theory then?”
“And I’ll work it myself, Mr. Holmes. It’s only due
to my own credit to do so. Your name is made, but I
have still to make mine. I should be glad to be able
to say afterwards that I had solved it without your
help.”
Holmes laughed good-humouredly.
“Well, well, Inspector,” said he. “Do you follow
your path and I will follow mine. My results are
always very much at your service if you care to
apply to me for them. I think that I have seen all
that I wish in this house, and that my time may be
more profitably employed elsewhere. Au revoir and
good luck!”
I could tell by numerous subtle signs, which might
have been lost upon anyone but myself, that Holmes
was on a hot scent. As impassive as ever to the
casual observer, there were none the less a subdued
eagerness and suggestion of tension in his
brightened eyes and brisker manner which assured me
that the game was afoot. After his habit he said
nothing, and after mine I asked no questions.
Sufficient for me to share the sport and lend my
humble help to the capture without distracting that
intent brain with needless interruption. All would
come round to me in due time.
I waited, therefore–but to my ever-deepening
disappointment I waited in vain. Day succeeded day,
and my friend took no step forward. One morning he
spent in town, and I learned from a casual reference
that he had visited the British Museum. Save for
this one excursion, he spent his days in long and
often solitary walks, or in chatting with a number
of village gossips whose acquaintance he had
cultivated.
“I’m sure, Watson, a week in the country will be
invaluable to you,” he remarked. “It is very
pleasant to see the first green shoots upon the
hedges and the catkins on the hazels once again.
With a spud, a tin box, and an elementary book on
botany, there are instructive days to be spent.” He
prowled about with this equipment himself, but it
was a poor show of plants which he would bring back
of an evening.
[880] Occasionally in our rambles we came across
Inspector Baynes. His fat, red face wreathed itself
in smiles and his small eyes glittered as he greeted
my companion. He said little about the case, but
from that little we gathered that he also was not
dissatisfied at the course of events. I must admit,
however, that I was somewhat surprised when, some
five days after the crime, I opened my morning paper
to find in large letters:
THE OXSHOTT
MYSTERY
A SOLUTION
ARREST OF SUPPOSED ASSASSIN
Holmes
sprang in his chair as if he had been stung when I
read the headlines.
“By Jove!” he cried. “You don’t mean that Baynes has
got him?”
“Apparently,” said I as I read the following report:
“Great
excitement was caused in Esher and the neighbouring
district when it was learned late last night that an
arrest had been effected in connection with the
Oxshott murder. It will be remembered that Mr.
Garcia, of Wisteria Lodge, was found dead on Oxshott
Common, his body showing signs of extreme violence,
and that on the same night his servant and his cook
fled, which appeared to show their participation in
the crime. It was suggested, but never proved, that
the deceased gentleman may have had valuables in the
house, and that their abstraction was the motive of
the crime. Every effort was made by Inspector
Baynes, who has the case in hand, to ascertain the
hiding place of the fugitives, and he had good
reason to believe that they had not gone far but
were lurking in some retreat which had been already
prepared. It was certain from the first, however,
that they would eventually be detected, as the cook,
from the evidence of one or two tradespeople who
have caught a glimpse of him through the window, was
a man of most remarkable appearance–being a huge and
hideous mulatto, with yellowish features of a
pronounced negroid type. This man has been seen
since the crime, for he was detected and pursued by
Constable Walters on the same evening, when he had
the audacity to revisit Wisteria Lodge. Inspector
Baynes, considering that such a visit must have some
purpose in view and was likely, therefore, to be
repeated, abandoned the house but left an ambuscade
in the shrubbery. The man walked into the trap and
was captured last night after a struggle in which
Constable Downing was badly bitten by the savage. We
understand that when the prisoner is brought before
the magistrates a remand will be applied for by the
police, and that great developments are hoped from
his capture.”
“Really we
must see Baynes at once,” cried Holmes, picking up
his hat. “We will just catch him before he starts.”
We hurried down the village street and found, as we
had expected, that the inspector was just leaving
his lodgings.
“You’ve seen the paper, Mr. Holmes?” he asked,
holding one out to us.
“Yes, Baynes, I’ve seen it. Pray don’t think it a
liberty if I give you a word of friendly warning.”
“Of warning, Mr. Holmes?”
“I have looked into this case with some care, and I
am not convinced that you are on the right lines. I
don’t want you to commit yourself too far unless you
are sure.”
[881] “You’re very kind, Mr. Holmes.”
“I assure you I speak for your good.”
It seemed to me that something like a wink quivered
for an instant over one of Mr. Baynes’s tiny eyes.
“We agreed to work on our own lines, Mr. Holmes.
That’s what I am doing.”
“Oh, very good,” said Holmes. “Don’t blame me.”
“No, sir; I believe you mean well by me. But we all
have our own systems, Mr. Holmes. You have yours,
and maybe I have mine.”
“Let us say no more about it.”
“You’re welcome always to my news. This fellow is a
perfect savage, as strong as a cart-horse and as
fierce as the devil. He chewed Downing’s thumb
nearly off before they could master him. He hardly
speaks a word of English, and we can get nothing out
of him but grunts.”
“And you think you have evidence that he murdered
his late master?”
“I didn’t say so, Mr. Holmes; I didn’t say so. We
all have our little ways. You try yours and I will
try mine. That’s the agreement.”
Holmes shrugged his shoulders as we walked away
together. “I can’t make the man out. He seems to be
riding for a fall. Well, as he says, we must each
try our own way and see what comes of it. But
there’s something in Inspector Baynes which I can’t
quite understand.”
“Just sit down in that chair, Watson,” said Sherlock
Holmes when we had returned to our apartment at the
Bull. “I want to put you in touch with the
situation, as I may need your help to-night. Let me
show you the evolution of this case so far as I have
been able to follow it. Simple as it has been in its
leading features, it has none the less presented
surprising difficulties in the way of an arrest.
There are gaps in that direction which we have still
to fill.
“We will go back to the note which was handed in to
Garcia upon the evening of his death. We may put
aside this idea of Baynes’s that Garcia’s servants
were concerned in the matter. The proof of this lies
in the fact that it was he who had arranged for the
presence of Scott Eccles, which could only have been
done for the purpose of an alibi. It was Garcia,
then, who had an enterprise, and apparently a
criminal enterprise, in hand that night in the
course of which he met his death. I say ‘criminal’
because only a man with a criminal enterprise
desires to establish an alibi. Who, then, is most
likely to have taken his life? Surely the person
against whom the criminal enterprise was directed.
So far it seems to me that we are on safe ground.
“We can now see a reason for the disappearance of
Garcia’s household. They were all confederates in
the same unknown crime. If it came off when Garcia
returned, any possible suspicion would be warded off
by the Englishman’s evidence, and all would be well.
But the attempt was a dangerous one, and if Garcia
did not return by a certain hour it was probable
that his own life had been sacrificed. It had been
arranged, therefore, that in such a case his two
subordinates were to make for some prearranged spot
where they could escape investigation and be in a
position afterwards to renew their attempt. That
would fully explain the facts, would it not?”
The whole inexplicable tangle seemed to straighten
out before me. I wondered, as I always did, how it
had not been obvious to me before.
“But why should one servant return?”
“We can imagine that in the confusion of flight
something precious, something [882] which he could
not bear to part with, had been left behind. That
would explain his persistence, would it not?”
“Well, what is the next step?”
“The next step is the note received by Garcia at the
dinner. It indicates a confederate at the other end.
Now, where was the other end? I have already shown
you that it could only lie in some large house, and
that the number of large houses is limited. My first
days in this village were devoted to a series of
walks in which in the intervals of my botanical
researches I made a reconnaissance of all the large
houses and an examination of the family history of
the occupants. One house, and only one, riveted my
attention. It is the famous old Jacobean grange of
High Gable, one mile on the farther side of Oxshott,
and less than half a mile from the scene of the
tragedy. The other mansions belonged to prosaic and
respectable people who live far aloof from romance.
But Mr. Henderson, of High Gable, was by all
accounts a curious man to whom curious adventures
might befall. I concentrated my attention,
therefore, upon him and his household.
“A singular set of people, Watson–the man himself
the most singular of them all. I managed to see him
on a plausible pretext, but I seemed to read in his
dark, deep-set, brooding eyes that he was perfectly
aware of my true business. He is a man of fifty,
strong, active, with iron-gray hair, great bunched
black eyebrows, the step of a deer, and the air of
an emperor–a fierce, masterful man, with a red-hot
spirit behind his parchment face. He is either a
foreigner or has lived long in the tropics, for he
is yellow and sapless, but tough as whipcord. His
friend and secretary, Mr. Lucas, is undoubtedly a
foreigner, chocolate brown, wily, suave, and
catlike, with a poisonous gentleness of speech. You
see, Watson, we have come already upon two sets of
foreigners–one at Wisteria Lodge and one at High
Gable–so our gaps are beginning to close.
“These two men, close and confidential friends, are
the centre of the household; but there is one other
person who for our immediate purpose may be even
more important. Henderson has two children–girls of
eleven and thirteen. Their governess is a Miss
Burnet, an Englishwoman of forty or thereabouts.
There is also one confidential manservant. This
little group forms the real family, for they travel
about together, and Henderson is a great traveller,
always on the move. It is only within the last few
weeks that he has returned, after a year’s absence,
to High Gable. I may add that he is enormously rich,
and whatever his whims may be he can very easily
satisfy them. For the rest, his house is full of
butlers, footmen, maidservants, and the usual
overfed, underworked staff of a large English
country-house.
“So much I learned partly from village gossip and
partly from my own observation. There are no better
instruments than discharged servants with a
grievance, and I was lucky enough to find one. I
call it luck, but it would not have come my way had
I not been looking out for it. As Baynes remarks, we
all have our systems. It was my system which enabled
me to find John Warner, late gardener of High Gable,
sacked in a moment of temper by his imperious
employer. He in turn had friends among the indoor
servants who unite in their fear and dislike of
their master. So I had my key to the secrets of the
establishment.
“Curious people, Watson! I don’t pretend to
understand it all yet, but very curious people
anyway. It’s a double-winged house, and the servants
live on one side, the family on the other. There’s
no link between the two save for Henderson’s own
servant, who serves the family’s meals. Everything
is carried to a certain door, [883] which forms the
one connection. Governess and children hardly go out
at all, except into the garden. Henderson never by
any chance walks alone. His dark secretary is like
his shadow. The gossip among the servants is that
their master is terribly afraid of something. ‘Sold
his soul to the devil in exchange for money,’ says
Warner, ‘and expects his creditor to come up and
claim his own.’ Where they came from, or who they
are, nobody has an idea. They are very violent.
Twice Henderson has lashed at folk with his
dog-whip, and only his long purse and heavy
compensation have kept him out of the courts.
“Well, now, Watson, let us judge the situation by
this new information. We may take it that the letter
came out of this strange household and was an
invitation to Garcia to carry out some attempt which
had already been planned. Who wrote the note? It was
someone within the citadel, and it was a woman. Who
then but Miss Burnet, the governess? All our
reasoning seems to point that way. At any rate, we
may take it as a hypothesis and see what
consequences it would entail. I may add that Miss
Burnet’s age and character make it certain that my
first idea that there might be a love interest in
our story is out of the question.
“If she wrote the note she was presumably the friend
and confederate of Garcia. What, then, might she be
expected to do if she heard of his death? If he met
it in some nefarious enterprise her lips might be
sealed. Still, in her heart, she must retain
bitterness and hatred against those who had killed
him and would presumably help so far as she could to
have revenge upon them. Could we see her, then, and
try to use her? That was my first thought. But now
we come to a sinister fact. Miss Burnet has not been
seen by any human eye since the night of the murder.
From that evening she has utterly vanished. Is she
alive? Has she perhaps met her end on the same night
as the friend whom she had summoned? Or is she
merely a prisoner? There is the point which we still
have to decide.
“You will appreciate the difficulty of the
situation, Watson. There is nothing upon which we
can apply for a warrant. Our whole scheme might seem
fantastic if laid before a magistrate. The woman’s
disappearance counts for nothing, since in that
extraordinary household any member of it might be
invisible for a week. And yet she may at the present
moment be in danger of her life. All I can do is to
watch the house and leave my agent, Warner, on guard
at the gates. We can’t let such a situation
continue. If the law can do nothing we must take the
risk ourselves.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I know which is her room. It is accessible from the
top of an outhouse. My suggestion is that you and I
go to-night and see if we can strike at the very
heart of the mystery.”
It was not, I must confess, a very alluring
prospect. The old house with its atmosphere of
murder, the singular and formidable inhabitants, the
unknown dangers of the approach, and the fact that
we were putting ourselves legally in a false
position all combined to damp my ardour. But there
was something in the ice-cold reasoning of Holmes
which made it impossible to shrink from any
adventure which he might recommend. One knew that
thus, and only thus, could a solution be found. I
clasped his hand in silence, and the die was cast.
But it was not destined that our investigation
should have so adventurous an ending. It was about
five o’clock, and the shadows of the March evening
were beginning to fall, when an excited rustic
rushed into our room.
“They’ve gone, Mr. Holmes. They went by the last
train. The lady broke away, and I’ve got her in a
cab downstairs.”
[884] “Excellent, Warner!” cried Holmes, springing
to his feet. “Watson, the gaps are closing rapidly.”
In the cab was a woman, half-collapsed from nervous
exhaustion. She bore upon her aquiline and emaciated
face the traces of some recent tragedy. Her head
hung listlessly upon her breast, but as she raised
it and turned her dull eyes upon us I saw that her
pupils were dark dots in the centre of the broad
gray iris. She was drugged with opium.
“I watched
at the gate, same as you advised, Mr. Holmes,” said
our emissary, the discharged gardener. “When the
carriage came out I followed it to the station. She
was like one walking in her sleep, but when they
tried to get her into the train she came to life and
struggled. They pushed her into the carriage. She
fought her way out again. I took her part, got her
into a cab, and here we are. I shan’t forget the
face at the carriage window as I led her away. I’d
have a short life if he had his way–the black-eyed,
scowling, yellow devil.”
We carried her upstairs, laid her on the sofa, and a
couple of cups of the strongest coffee soon cleared
her brain from the mists of the drug. Baynes had
been summoned by Holmes, and the situation rapidly
explained to him.
“Why, sir, you’ve got me the very evidence I want,”
said the inspector warmly, shaking my friend by the
hand. “I was on the same scent as you from the
first.”
“What! You were after Henderson?”
“Why, Mr. Holmes, when you were crawling in the
shrubbery at High Gable I was up one of the trees in
the plantation and saw you down below. It was just
who would get his evidence first.”
“Then why did you arrest the mulatto?”
Baynes chuckled.
“I was sure Henderson, as he calls himself, felt
that he was suspected, and that he would lie low and
make no move so long as he thought he was in any
danger. I arrested the wrong man to make him believe
that our eyes were off him. I knew he would be
likely to clear off then and give us a chance of
getting at Miss Burnet.”
Holmes laid his hand upon the inspector’s shoulder.
“You will rise high in your profession. You have
instinct and intuition,” said he.
Baynes flushed with pleasure.
“I’ve had a plain-clothes man waiting at the station
all the week. Wherever the High Gable folk go he
will keep them in sight. But he must have been hard
put to it when Miss Burnet broke away. However, your
man picked her up, and it all ends well. We can’t
arrest without her evidence, that is clear, so the
sooner we get a statement the better.”
“Every minute she gets stronger,” said Holmes,
glancing at the governess. “But tell me, Baynes, who
is this man Henderson?”
“Henderson,” the inspector answered, “is Don
Murillo, once called the Tiger of San Pedro.”
The Tiger of San Pedro! The whole history of the man
came back to me in a flash. He had made his name as
the most lewd and bloodthirsty tyrant that had ever
governed any country with a pretence to
civilization. Strong, fearless, and energetic, he
had sufficient virtue to enable him to impose his
odious vices upon a cowering people for ten or
twelve years. His name was a terror through all
Central America. At the end of that time there was a
universal rising against him. But he was as cunning
as he was cruel, and at the first whisper of coming
trouble he had secretly conveyed his treasures
aboard a ship which was manned by devoted [885]
adherents. It was an empty palace which was stormed
by the insurgents next day. The dictator, his two
children, his secretary, and his wealth had all
escaped them. From that moment he had vanished from
the world, and his identity had been a frequent
subject for comment in the European press.
“Yes, sir, Don Murillo, the Tiger of San Pedro,”
said Baynes. “If you look it up you will find that
the San Pedro colours are green and white, same as
in the note, Mr. Holmes. Henderson he called
himself, but I traced him back, Paris and Rome and
Madrid to Barcelona, where his ship came in in ’86.
They’ve been looking for him all the time for their
revenge, but it is only now that they have begun to
find him out.”
“They discovered him a year ago,” said Miss Burnet,
who had sat up and was now intently following the
conversation. “Once already his life has been
attempted, but some evil spirit shielded him. Now,
again, it is the noble, chivalrous Garcia who has
fallen, while the monster goes safe. But another
will come, and yet another, until some day justice
will be done; that is as certain as the rise of
to-morrow’s sun.” Her thin hands clenched, and her
worn face blanched with the passion of her hatred.
“But how come you into this matter, Miss Burnet?”
asked Holmes. “How can an English lady join in such
a murderous affair?”
“I join in it because there is no other way in the
world by which justice can be gained. What does the
law of England care for the rivers of blood shed
years ago in San Pedro, or for the shipload of
treasure which this man has stolen? To you they are
like crimes committed in some other planet. But we
know. We have learned the truth in sorrow and in
suffering. To us there is no fiend in hell like Juan
Murillo, and no peace in life while his victims
still cry for vengeance.”
“No doubt,” said Holmes, “he was as you say. I have
heard that he was atrocious. But how are you
affected?”
“I will tell you it all. This villain’s policy was
to murder, on one pretext or another, every man who
showed such promise that he might in time come to be
a dangerous rival. My husband–yes, my real name is
Signora Victor Durando–was the San Pedro minister in
London. He met me and married me there. A nobler man
never lived upon earth. Unhappily, Murillo heard of
his excellence, recalled him on some pretext, and
had him shot. With a premonition of his fate he had
refused to take me with him. His estates were
confiscated, and I was left with a pittance and a
broken heart.
“Then came the downfall of the tyrant. He escaped as
you have just described. But the many whose lives he
had ruined, whose nearest and dearest had suffered
torture and death at his hands, would not let the
matter rest. They banded themselves into a society
which should never be dissolved until the work was
done. It was my part after we had discovered in the
transformed Henderson the fallen despot, to attach
myself to his household and keep the others in touch
with his movements. This I was able to do by
securing the position of governess in his family. He
little knew that the woman who faced him at every
meal was the woman whose husband he had hurried at
an hour’s notice into eternity. I smiled on him, did
my duty to his children, and bided my time. An
attempt was made in Paris and failed. We zig-zagged
swiftly here and there over Europe to throw off the
pursuers and finally returned to this house, which
he had taken upon his first arrival in England.
“But here also the ministers of justice were
waiting. Knowing that he would [886] return there,
Garcia, who is the son of the former highest
dignitary in San Pedro, was waiting with two trusty
companions of humble station, all three fired with
the same reasons for revenge. He could do little
during the day, for Murillo took every precaution
and never went out save with his satellite Lucas, or
Lopez as he was known in the days of his greatness.
At night, however, he slept alone, and the avenger
might find him. On a certain evening, which had been
prearranged, I sent my friend final instructions,
for the man was forever on the alert and continually
changed his room. I was to see that the doors were
open and the signal of a green or white light in a
window which faced the drive was to give notice if
all was safe or if the attempt had better be
postponed.
“But
everything went wrong with us. In some way I had
excited the suspicion of Lopez, the secretary. He
crept up behind me and sprang upon me just as I had
finished the note. He and his master dragged me to
my room and held judgment upon me as a convicted
traitress. Then and there they would have plunged
their knives into me could they have seen how to
escape the consequences of the deed. Finally, after
much debate, they concluded that my murder was too
dangerous. But they determined to get rid forever of
Garcia. They had gagged me, and Murillo twisted my
arm round until I gave him the address. I swear that
he might have twisted it off had I understood what
it would mean to Garcia. Lopez addressed the note
which I had written, sealed it with his sleeve-link,
and sent it by the hand of the servant, Jose. How
they murdered him I do not know, save that it was
Murillo’s hand who struck him down, for Lopez had
remained to guard me. I believe he must have waited
among the gorse bushes through which the path winds
and struck him down as he passed. At first they were
of a mind to let him enter the house and to kill him
as a detected burglar; but they argued that if they
were mixed up in an inquiry their own identity would
at once be publicly disclosed and they would be open
to further attacks. With the death of Garcia, the
pursuit might cease, since such a death might
frighten others from the task.
“All would now have been well for them had it not
been for my knowledge of what they had done. I have
no doubt that there were times when my life hung in
the balance. I was confined to my room, terrorized
by the most horrible threats, cruelly ill-used to
break my spirit–see this stab on my shoulder and the
bruises from end to end of my arms–and a gag was
thrust into my mouth on the one occasion when I
tried to call from the window. For five days this
cruel imprisonment continued, with hardly enough
food to hold body and soul together. This afternoon
a good lunch was brought me, but the moment after I
took it I knew that I had been drugged. In a sort of
dream I remember being half-led, half-carried to the
carriage; in the same state I was conveyed to the
train. Only then, when the wheels were almost
moving, did I suddenly realize that my liberty lay
in my own hands. I sprang out, they tried to drag me
back, and had it not been for the help of this good
man, who led me to the cab, I should never have
broken away. Now, thank God, I am beyond their power
forever.”
We had all listened intently to this remarkable
statement. It was Holmes who broke the silence.
“Our difficulties are not over,” he remarked,
shaking his head. “Our police work ends, but our
legal work begins.”
“Exactly,” said I. “A plausible lawyer could make it
out as an act of self-defence. There may be a
hundred crimes in the background, but it is only on
this one that they can be tried.”
[887] “Come, come,” said Baynes cheerily, “I think
better of the law than that. Self-defence is one
thing. To entice a man in cold blood with the object
of murdering him is another, whatever danger you may
fear from him. No, no, we shall all be justified
when we see the tenants of High Gable at the next
Guildford Assizes.”
It is a
matter of history, however, that a little time was
still to elapse before the Tiger of San Pedro should
meet with his deserts. Wily and bold, he and his
companion threw their pursuer off their track by
entering a lodging-house in Edmonton Street and
leaving by the back-gate into Curzon Square. From
that day they were seen no more in England. Some six
months afterwards the Marquess of Montalva and
Signor Rulli, his secretary, were both murdered in
their rooms at the Hotel Escurial at Madrid. The
crime was ascribed to Nihilism, and the murderers
were never arrested. Inspector Baynes visited us at
Baker Street with a printed description of the dark
face of the secretary, and of the masterful
features, the magnetic black eyes, and the tufted
brows of his master. We could not doubt that
justice, if belated, had come at last.
“A chaotic case, my dear Watson,” said Holmes over
an evening pipe. “It will not be possible for you to
present it in that compact form which is dear to
your heart. It covers two continents, concerns two
groups of mysterious persons, and is further
complicated by the highly respectable presence of
our friend, Scott Eccles, whose inclusion shows me
that the deceased Garcia had a scheming mind and a
well-developed instinct of self-preservation. It is
remarkable only for the fact that amid a perfect
jungle of possibilities we, with our worthy
collaborator, the inspector, have kept our close
hold on the essentials and so been guided along the
crooked and winding path. Is there any point which
is not quite clear to you?”
“The object of the mulatto cook’s return?”
“I think that the strange creature in the kitchen
may account for it. The man was a primitive savage
from the backwoods of San Pedro, and this was his
fetish. When his companion and he had fled to some
prearranged retreat– already occupied, no doubt by a
confederate–the companion had persuaded him to leave
so compromising an article of furniture. But the
mulatto’s heart was with it, and he was driven back
to it next day, when, on reconnoitring through the
window, he found policeman Walters in possession. He
waited three days longer, and then his piety or his
superstition drove him to try once more. Inspector
Baynes, who, with his usual astuteness, had
minimized the incident before me, had really
recognized its importance and had left a trap into
which the creature walked. Any other point, Watson?”
“The torn bird, the pail of blood, the charred
bones, all the mystery of that weird kitchen?”
Holmes smiled as he turned up an entry in his
notebook.
“I spent a morning in the British Museum reading up
that and other points. Here is a quotation from
Eckermann’s Voodooism and the Negroid Religions:
The true
voodoo-worshipper attempts nothing of importance
without certain sacrifices which are intended to
propitiate his unclean gods. In extreme cases these
rites take the form of human sacrifices followed by
cannibalism. The more usual victims are a white
cock, which is plucked in pieces alive, or a black
goat, whose throat is cut and body burned.
“So you see our savage friend was very orthodox in
his ritual. It is grotesque, [888] Watson,” Holmes
added, as he slowly fastened his notebook, “but, as
I have had occasion to remark, there is but one step
from the grotesque to the horrible.”
|
|
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,” said he, “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.”
[889] “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 [890] 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 [891] 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 [892] 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.
[893] “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, [894] 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 [895] 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 [896] 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 [897] 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 [898] 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
[899] 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, [900] 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, [901] 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.”
|
|
THE
RED CIRCLE
“WELL, Mrs.
Warren, I cannot see that you have any particular
cause for uneasiness, nor do I understand why I,
whose time is of some value, should interfere in the
matter. I really have other things to engage me.” So
spoke Sherlock Holmes and turned back to the great
scrapbook in which he was arranging and indexing
some of his recent material.
But the landlady had the pertinacity and also the
cunning of her sex. She held her ground firmly.
“You arranged an affair for a lodger of mine last
year,” she said–“Mr. Fairdale Hobbs.”
“Ah, yes–a simple matter.”
“But he would never cease talking of it–your
kindness, sir, and the way in which you brought
light into the darkness. I remembered his words when
I was in doubt and darkness myself. I know you could
if you only would.”
Holmes was accessible upon the side of flattery, and
also, to do him justice, upon the side of
kindliness. The two forces made him lay down his
gum-brush with a sigh of resignation and push back
his chair.
“Well, well, Mrs. Warren, let us hear about it,
then. You don’t object to tobacco, I take it? Thank
you, Watson–the matches! You are uneasy, as I
understand, because your new lodger remains in his
rooms and you cannot see him. Why, bless you, Mrs.
Warren, if I were your lodger you often would not
see me for weeks on end.”
“No doubt, sir; but this is different. It frightens
me, Mr. Holmes. I can’t sleep for fright. To hear
his quick step moving here and moving there from
early morning [902] to late at night, and yet never
to catch so much as a glimpse of him–it’s more than
I can stand. My husband is as nervous over it as I
am, but he is out at his work all day, while I get
no rest from it. What is he hiding for? What has he
done? Except for the girl, I am all alone in the
house with him, and it’s more than my nerves can
stand.”
Holmes leaned forward and laid his long, thin
fingers upon the woman’s shoulder. He had an almost
hypnotic power of soothing when he wished. The
scared look faded from her eyes, and her agitated
features smoothed into their usual commonplace. She
sat down in the chair which he had indicated.
“If I take it up I must understand every detail,”
said he. “Take time to consider. The smallest point
may be the most essential. You say that the man came
ten days ago and paid you for a fortnight’s board
and lodging?”
“He asked my terms, sir. I said fifty shillings a
week. There is a small sitting-room and bedroom, and
all complete, at the top of the house.”
“Well?”
“He said, ‘I’ll pay you five pounds a week if I can
have it on my own terms.’ I’m a poor woman, sir, and
Mr. Warren earns little, and the money meant much to
me. He took out a ten-pound note, and he held it out
to me then and there. ‘You can have the same every
fortnight for a long time to come if you keep the
terms,’ he said. ‘If not, I’ll have no more to do
with you.’ ”
“What were the terms?”
“Well, sir, they were that he was to have a key of
the house. That was all right. Lodgers often have
them. Also, that he was to be left entirely to
himself and never, upon any excuse, to be
disturbed.”
“Nothing wonderful in that, surely?”
“Not in reason, sir. But this is out of all reason.
He has been there for ten days, and neither Mr.
Warren, nor I, nor the girl has once set eyes upon
him. We can hear that quick step of his pacing up
and down, up and down, night, morning, and noon; but
except on that first night he has never once gone
out of the house.”
“Oh, he went out the first night, did he?”
“Yes, sir, and returned very late–after we were all
in bed. He told me after he had taken the rooms that
he would do so and asked me not to bar the door. I
heard him come up the stair after midnight.”
“But his meals?”
“It was his particular direction that we should
always, when he rang, leave his meal upon a chair,
outside his door. Then he rings again when he has
finished, and we take it down from the same chair.
If he wants anything else he prints it on a slip of
paper and leaves it.”
“Prints it?”
“Yes, sir; prints it in pencil. Just the word,
nothing more. Here’s one I brought to show you–SOAP.
Here’s another–MATCH. This is one he left the first
morning–DAILY GAZETTE. I leave that paper with his
breakfast every morning.”
“Dear me,
Watson,” said Holmes, staring with great curiosity
at the slips of foolscap which the landlady had
handed to him, “this is certainly a little unusual.
Seclusion I can understand; but why print? Printing
is a clumsy process. Why not write? What would it
suggest, Watson?”
“That he desired to conceal his handwriting.”
“But why? What can it matter to him that his
landlady should have a word of his writing? Still,
it may be as you say. Then, again, why such laconic
messages?”
[903] “I cannot imagine.”
“It opens a pleasing field for intelligent
speculation. The words are written with a
broad-pointed, violet-tinted pencil of a not unusual
pattern. You will observe that the paper is torn
away at the side here after the printing was done,
so that the ‘S’ of ‘SOAP’ is partly gone.
Suggestive, Watson, is it not?”
“Of caution?”
“Exactly. There was evidently some mark, some
thumbprint, something which might give a clue to the
person’s identity. Now, Mrs. Warren, you say that
the man was of middle size, dark, and bearded. What
age would he be?”
“Youngish, sir–not over thirty.”
“Well, can you give me no further indications?”
“He spoke good English, sir, and yet I thought he
was a foreigner by his accent.”
“And he was well dressed?”
“Very smartly dressed, sir–quite the gentleman. Dark
clothes–nothing you would note.”
“He gave no name?”
“No, sir.”
“And has had no letters or callers?”
“None.”
“But surely you or the girl enter his room of a
morning?”
“No, sir; he looks after himself entirely.”
“Dear me! that is certainly remarkable. What about
his luggage?”
“He had one big brown bag with him–nothing else.”
“Well, we don’t seem to have much material to help
us. Do you say nothing has come out of that
room–absolutely nothing?”
The landlady drew an envelope from her bag; from it
she shook out two burnt matches and a cigarette-end
upon the table.
“They were on his tray this morning. I brought them
because I had heard that you can read great things
out of small ones.”
Holmes shrugged his shoulders.
“There is nothing here,” said he. “The matches have,
of course, been used to light cigarettes. That is
obvious from the shortness of the burnt end. Half
the match is consumed in lighting a pipe or cigar.
But, dear me! this cigarette stub is certainly
remarkable. The gentleman was bearded and moustached,
you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t understand that. I should say that only a
clean-shaven man could have smoked this. Why,
Watson, even your modest moustache would have been
singed.”
“A holder?” I suggested.
“No, no; the end is matted. I suppose there could
not be two people in your rooms, Mrs. Warren?”
“No, sir. He eats so little that I often wonder it
can keep life in one.”
“Well, I think we must wait for a little more
material. After all, you have nothing to complain
of. You have received your rent, and he is not a
troublesome lodger, though he is certainly an
unusual one. He pays you well, and if he chooses to
lie concealed it is no direct business of yours. We
have no excuse for an intrusion upon his privacy
until we have some reason to think that there is a
guilty reason for it. I’ve taken up the matter, and
I won’t lose sight of it. Report to me if anything
fresh occurs, and rely upon my assistance if it
should be needed.
[904] “There are certainly some points of interest
in this case, Watson,” he remarked when the landlady
had left us. “It may, of course, be trivial–
individual eccentricity; or it may be very much
deeper than appears on the surface. The first thing
that strikes one is the obvious possibility that the
person now in the rooms may be entirely different
from the one who engaged them.”
“Why should you think so?”
“Well, apart from this cigarette-end, was it not
suggestive that the only time the lodger went out
was immediately after his taking the rooms? He came
back–or someone came back–when all witnesses were
out of the way. We have no proof that the person who
came back was the person who went out. Then, again,
the man who took the rooms spoke English well. This
other, however, prints ‘match’ when it should have
been ‘matches.’ I can imagine that the word was
taken out of a dictionary, which would give the noun
but not the plural. The laconic style may be to
conceal the absence of knowledge of English. Yes,
Watson, there are good reasons to suspect that there
has been a substitution of lodgers.”
“But for what possible end?”
“Ah! there lies our problem. There is one rather
obvious line of investigation.” He took down the
great book in which, day by day, he filed the agony
columns of the various London journals. “Dear me!”
said he, turning over the pages, “what a chorus of
groans, cries, and bleatings! What a rag-bag of
singular happenings! But surely the most valuable
hunting-ground that ever was given to a student of
the unusual! This person is alone and cannot be
approached by letter without a breach of that
absolute secrecy which is desired. How is any news
or any message to reach him from without? Obviously
by advertisement through a newspaper. There seems no
other way, and fortunately we need concern ourselves
with the one paper only. Here are the Daily Gazette
extracts of the last fortnight. ‘Lady with a black
boa at Prince’s Skating Club’–that we may pass.
‘Surely Jimmy will not break his mother’s heart’–
that appears to be irrelevant. ‘If the lady who
fainted in the Brixton bus’– she does not interest
me. ‘Every day my heart longs– –’ Bleat, Watson–
unmitigated bleat! Ah, this is a little more
possible. Listen to this: ‘Be patient. Will find
some sure means of communication. Meanwhile, this
column. G.’ That is two days after Mrs. Warren’s
lodger arrived. It sounds plausible, does it not?
The mysterious one could understand English, even if
he could not print it. Let us see if we can pick up
the trace again. Yes, here we are– three days later.
‘Am making successful arrangements. Patience and
prudence. The clouds will pass. G.’ Nothing for a
week after that. Then comes something much more
definite: ‘The path is clearing. If I find chance
signal message remember code agreed–one A, two B,
and so on. You will hear soon. G.’ That was in
yesterday’s paper, and there is nothing in to-day’s.
It’s all very appropriate to Mrs. Warren’s lodger.
If we wait a little, Watson, I don’t doubt that the
affair will grow more intelligible.”
So it proved; for in the morning I found my friend
standing on the hearthrug with his back to the fire
and a smile of complete satisfaction upon his face.
“How’s this, Watson?” he cried, picking up the paper
from the table. “ ‘High red house with white stone
facings. Third floor. Second window left. After
dusk. G.’ That is definite enough. I think after
breakfast we must make a little reconnaissance of
Mrs. Warren’s neighbourhood. Ah, Mrs. Warren! what
news do you bring us this morning?”
[905] Our client had suddenly burst into the room
with an explosive energy which told of some new and
momentous development.
“It’s a police matter, Mr. Holmes!” she cried. “I’ll
have no more of it! He shall pack out of there with
his baggage. I would have gone straight up and told
him so, only I thought it was but fair to you to
take your opinion first. But I’m at the end of my
patience, and when it comes to knocking my old man
about– –”
“Knocking Mr. Warren about?”
“Using him roughly, anyway.”
“But who used him roughly?”
“Ah! that’s
what we want to know! It was this morning, sir. Mr.
Warren is a timekeeper at Morton and Waylight’s, in
Tottenham Court Road. He has to be out of the house
before seven. Well, this morning he had not gone ten
paces down the road when two men came up behind him,
threw a coat over his head, and bundled him into a
cab that was beside the curb. They drove him an
hour, and then opened the door and shot him out. He
lay in the roadway so shaken in his wits that he
never saw what became of the cab. When he picked
himself up he found he was on Hampstead Heath; so he
took a bus home, and there he lies now on the sofa,
while I came straight round to tell you what had
happened.”
“Most interesting,” said Holmes. “Did he observe the
appearance of these men–did he hear them talk?”
“No; he is clean dazed. He just knows that he was
lifted up as if by magic and dropped as if by magic.
Two at least were in it, and maybe three.”
“And you connect this attack with your lodger?”
“Well, we’ve lived there fifteen years and no such
happenings ever came before. I’ve had enough of him.
Money’s not everything. I’ll have him out of my
house before the day is done.”
“Wait a bit, Mrs. Warren. Do nothing rash. I begin
to think that this affair may be very much more
important than appeared at first sight. It is clear
now that some danger is threatening your lodger. It
is equally clear that his enemies, lying in wait for
him near your door, mistook your husband for him in
the foggy morning light. On discovering their
mistake they released him. What they would have done
had it not been a mistake, we can only conjecture.”
“Well, what am I to do, Mr. Holmes?”
“I have a great fancy to see this lodger of yours,
Mrs. Warren.”
“I don’t see how that is to be managed, unless you
break in the door. I always hear him unlock it as I
go down the stair after I leave the tray.”
“He has to take the tray in. Surely we could conceal
ourselves and see him do it.”
The landlady thought for a moment.
“Well, sir, there’s the box-room opposite. I could
arrange a looking-glass, maybe, and if you were
behind the door– –”
“Excellent!” said Holmes. “When does he lunch?”
“About one, sir.”
“Then Dr. Watson and I will come round in time. For
the present, Mrs. Warren, good-bye.”
At half-past twelve we found ourselves upon the
steps of Mrs. Warren’s house–a high, thin,
yellow-brick edifice in Great Orme Street, a narrow
thoroughfare at the northeast side of the British
Museum. Standing as it does near the corner of the
street, it commands a view down Howe Street, with
its more pretentious [906] houses. Holmes pointed
with a chuckle to one of these, a row of residential
flats, which projected so that they could not fail
to catch the eye.
“See, Watson!” said he. “ ‘High red house with stone
facings.’ There is the signal station all right. We
know the place, and we know the code; so surely our
task should be simple. There’s a ‘to let’ card in
that window. It is evidently an empty flat to which
the confederate has access. Well, Mrs. Warren, what
now?”
“I have it all ready for you. If you will both come
up and leave your boots below on the landing, I’ll
put you there now.”
It was an excellent hiding-place which she had
arranged. The mirror was so placed that, seated in
the dark, we could very plainly see the door
opposite. We had hardly settled down in it, and Mrs.
Warren left us, when a distant tinkle announced that
our mysterious neighbour had rung. Presently the
landlady appeared with the tray, laid it down upon a
chair beside the closed door, and then, treading
heavily, departed. Crouching together in the angle
of the door, we kept our eyes fixed upon the mirror.
Suddenly, as the landlady’s footsteps died away,
there was the creak of a turning key, the handle
revolved, and two thin hands darted out and lifted
the tray from the chair. An instant later it was
hurriedly replaced, and I caught a glimpse of a
dark, beautiful, horrified face glaring at the
narrow opening of the box-room. Then the door
crashed to, the key turned once more, and all was
silence. Holmes twitched my sleeve, and together we
stole down the stair.
“I will call
again in the evening,” said he to the expectant
landlady. “I think, Watson, we can discuss this
business better in our own quarters.”
“My surmise, as you saw, proved to be correct,” said
he, speaking from the depths of his easy-chair.
“There has been a substitution of lodgers. What I
did not foresee is that we should find a woman, and
no ordinary woman, Watson.”
“She saw us.”
“Well, she saw something to alarm her. That is
certain. The general sequence of events is pretty
clear, is it not? A couple seek refuge in London
from a very terrible and instant danger. The measure
of that danger is the rigour of their precautions.
The man, who has some work which he must do, desires
to leave the woman in absolute safety while he does
it. It is not an easy problem, but he solved it in
an original fashion, and so effectively that her
presence was not even known to the landlady who
supplies her with food. The printed messages, as is
now evident, were to prevent her sex being
discovered by her writing. The man cannot come near
the woman, or he will guide their enemies to her.
Since he cannot communicate with her direct, he has
recourse to the agony column of a paper. So far all
is clear.”
“But what is at the root of it?”
“Ah, yes, Watson–severely practical, as usual! What
is at the root of it all? Mrs. Warren’s whimsical
problem enlarges somewhat and assumes a more
sinister aspect as we proceed. This much we can say:
that it is no ordinary love escapade. You saw the
woman’s face at the sign of danger. We have heard,
too, of the attack upon the landlord, which was
undoubtedly meant for the lodger. These alarms, and
the desperate need for secrecy, argue that the
matter is one of life or death. The attack upon Mr.
Warren further shows that the enemy, whoever they
are, are themselves not aware of the substitution of
the female lodger for the male. It is very curious
and complex, Watson.”
“Why should you go further in it? What have you to
gain from it?”
[907] “What, indeed? It is art for art’s sake,
Watson. I suppose when you doctored you found
yourself studying cases without thought of a fee?”
“For my education, Holmes.”
“Education never ends, Watson. It is a series of
lessons with the greatest for the last. This is an
instructive case. There is neither money nor credit
in it, and yet one would wish to tidy it up. When
dusk comes we should find ourselves one stage
advanced in our investigation.”
When we returned to Mrs. Warren’s rooms, the gloom
of a London winter evening had thickened into one
gray curtain, a dead monotone of colour, broken only
by the sharp yellow squares of the windows and the
blurred haloes of the gas-lamps. As we peered from
the darkened sitting-room of the lodging-house, one
more dim light glimmered high up through the
obscurity.
“Someone is moving in that room,” said Holmes in a
whisper, his gaunt and eager face thrust forward to
the window-pane. “Yes, I can see his shadow. There
he is again! He has a candle in his hand. Now he is
peering across. He wants to be sure that she is on
the lookout. Now he begins to flash. Take the
message also, Watson, that we may check each other.
A single flash–that is A, surely. Now, then. How
many did you make it? Twenty. So did I. That should
mean T. AT–that’s intelligible enough! Another T.
Surely this is the beginning of a second word. Now,
then–TENTA. Dead stop. That can’t be all, Watson?
ATTENTA gives no sense. Nor is it any better as
three words AT, TEN, TA, unless T. A. are a person’s
initials. There it goes again! What’s that?
ATTE–why, it is the same message over again.
Curious, Watson, very curious! Now he is off once
more! AT–why, he is repeating it for the third time.
ATTENTA three times! How often will he repeat it?
No, that seems to be the finish. He has withdrawn
from the window. What do you make of it, Watson?”
“A cipher message, Holmes.”
My companion gave a sudden chuckle of comprehension.
“And not a very obscure cipher, Watson,” said he.
“Why, of course, it is Italian! The A means that it
is addressed to a woman. ‘Beware! Beware! Beware!’
How’s that, Watson?”
“I believe you have hit it.”
“Not a doubt of it. It is a very urgent message,
thrice repeated to make it more so. But beware of
what? Wait a bit; he is coming to the window once
more.”
Again we saw the dim silhouette of a crouching man
and the whisk of the small flame across the window
as the signals were renewed. They came more rapidly
than before–so rapid that it was hard to follow
them.
“PERICOLO–pericolo–eh, what’s that, Watson?
‘Danger,’ isn’t it? Yes, by Jove, it’s a danger
signal. There he goes again! PERI. Halloa, what on
earth– –”
The light had suddenly gone out, the glimmering
square of window had disappeared, and the third
floor formed a dark band round the lofty building,
with its tiers of shining casements. That last
warning cry had been suddenly cut short. How, and by
whom? The same thought occurred on the instant to us
both. Holmes sprang up from where he crouched by the
window.
“This is serious, Watson,” he cried. “There is some
devilry going forward! Why should such a message
stop in such a way? I should put Scotland Yard in
touch with this business–and yet, it is too pressing
for us to leave.”
“Shall I go for the police?”
“We must define the situation a little more clearly.
It may bear some more innocent interpretation. Come,
Watson, let us go across ourselves and see what we
can make of it.”
2
[908] As we
walked rapidly down Howe Street I glanced back at
the building which we had left. There, dimly
outlined at the top window, I could see the shadow
of a head, a woman’s head, gazing tensely, rigidly,
out into the night, waiting with breathless suspense
for the renewal of that interrupted message. At the
doorway of the Howe Street flats a man, muffled in a
cravat and greatcoat, was leaning against the
railing. He started as the hall-light fell upon our
faces.
“Holmes!” he cried.
“Why, Gregson!” said my companion as he shook hands
with the Scotland Yard detective. “Journeys end with
lovers’ meetings. What brings you here?”
“The same reasons that bring you, I expect,” said
Gregson. “How you got on to it I can’t imagine.”
“Different threads, but leading up to the same
tangle. I’ve been taking the signals.”
“Signals?”
“Yes, from that window. They broke off in the
middle. We came over to see the reason. But since it
is safe in your hands I see no object in continuing
the business.”
“Wait a bit!” cried Gregson eagerly. “I’ll do you
this justice, Mr. Holmes, that I was never in a case
yet that I didn’t feel stronger for having you on my
side. There’s only the one exit to these flats, so
we have him safe.”
“Who is he?”
“Well, well, we score over you for once, Mr. Holmes.
You must give us best this time.” He struck his
stick sharply upon the ground, on which a cabman,
his whip in his hand, sauntered over from a
four-wheeler which stood on the far side of the
street. “May I introduce you to Mr. Sherlock
Holmes?” he said to the cabman. “This is Mr.
Leverton, of Pinkerton’s American Agency.”
“The hero of the Long Island cave mystery?” said
Holmes. “Sir, I am pleased to meet you.”
The American, a quiet, businesslike young man, with
a clean-shaven, hatchet face, flushed up at the
words of commendation. “I am on the trail of my life
now, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “If I can get Gorgiano–
–”
“What! Gorgiano of the Red Circle?”
“Oh, he has a European fame, has he? Well, we’ve
learned all about him in America. We know he is at
the bottom of fifty murders, and yet we have nothing
positive we can take him on. I tracked him over from
New York, and I’ve been close to him for a week in
London, waiting some excuse to get my hand on his
collar. Mr. Gregson and I ran him to ground in that
big tenement house, and there’s only the one door,
so he can’t slip us. There’s three folk come out
since he went in, but I’ll swear he wasn’t one of
them.”
“Mr. Holmes talks of signals,” said Gregson. “I
expect, as usual, he knows a good deal that we
don’t.”
In a few clear words Holmes explained the situation
as it had appeared to us. The American struck his
hands together with vexation.
“He’s on to us!” he cried.
“Why do you think so?”
“Well, it figures out that way, does it not? Here he
is, sending out messages to an accomplice–there are
several of his gang in London. Then suddenly, just
as by [909] your own account he was telling them
that there was danger, he broke short off. What
could it mean except that from the window he had
suddenly either caught sight of us in the street, or
in some way come to understand how close the danger
was, and that he must act right away if he was to
avoid it? What do you suggest, Mr. Holmes?”
“That we go up at once and see for ourselves.”
“But we have no warrant for his arrest.”
“He is in unoccupied premises under suspicious
circumstances,” said Gregson. “That is good enough
for the moment. When we have him by the heels we can
see if New York can’t help us to keep him. I’ll take
the responsibility of arresting him now.”
Our official detectives may blunder in the matter of
intelligence, but never in that of courage. Gregson
climbed the stair to arrest this desperate murderer
with the same absolutely quiet and businesslike
bearing with which he would have ascended the
official staircase of Scotland Yard. The Pinkerton
man had tried to push past him, but Gregson had
firmly elbowed him back. London dangers were the
privilege of the London force.
The door of the left-hand flat upon the third
landing was standing ajar. Gregson pushed it open.
Within all was absolute silence and darkness. I
struck a match and lit the detective’s lantern. As I
did so, and as the flicker steadied into a flame, we
all gave a gasp of surprise. On the deal boards of
the carpetless floor there was outlined a fresh
track of blood. The red steps pointed towards us and
led away from an inner room, the door of which was
closed. Gregson flung it open and held his light
full blaze in front of him, while we all peered
eagerly over his shoulders.
In the middle of the floor of the empty room was
huddled the figure of an enormous man, his
clean-shaven, swarthy face grotesquely horrible in
its contortion and his head encircled by a ghastly
crimson halo of blood, lying in a broad wet circle
upon the white woodwork. His knees were drawn up,
his hands thrown out in agony, and from the centre
of his broad, brown, upturned throat there projected
the white haft of a knife driven blade-deep into his
body. Giant as he was, the man must have gone down
like a pole-axed ox before that terrific blow.
Beside his right hand a most formidable
horn-handled, two-edged dagger lay upon the floor,
and near it a black kid glove.
“By George!
it’s Black Gorgiano himself!” cried the American
detective. “Someone has got ahead of us this time.”
“Here is the candle in the window, Mr. Holmes,” said
Gregson. “Why, whatever are you doing?”
Holmes had stepped across, had lit the candle, and
was passing it backward and forward across the
window-panes. Then he peered into the darkness, blew
the candle out, and threw it on the floor.
“I rather
think that will be helpful,” said he. He came over
and stood in deep thought while the two
professionals were examining the body. “You say that
three people came out from the flat while you were
waiting downstairs,” said he at last. “Did you
observe them closely?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Was there a fellow about thirty, black-bearded,
dark, of middle size?”
“Yes; he was the last to pass me.”
“That is your man, I fancy. I can give you his
description, and we have a very excellent outline of
his footmark. That should be enough for you.”
[910] “Not much, Mr. Holmes, among the millions of
London.”
“Perhaps not. That is why I thought it best to
summon this lady to your aid.”
We all turned round at the words. There, framed in
the doorway, was a tall and beautiful woman–the
mysterious lodger of Bloomsbury. Slowly she
advanced, her face pale and drawn with a frightful
apprehension, her eyes fixed and staring, her
terrified gaze riveted upon the dark figure on the
floor.
“You have
killed him!” she muttered. “Oh, Dio mio, you have
killed him!” Then I heard a sudden sharp intake of
her breath, and she sprang into the air with a cry
of joy. Round and round the room she danced, her
hands clapping, her dark eyes gleaming with
delighted wonder, and a thousand pretty Italian
exclamations pouring from her lips. It was terrible
and amazing to see such a woman so convulsed with
joy at such a sight. Suddenly she stopped and gazed
at us all with a questioning stare.
“But you! You are police, are you not? You have
killed Giuseppe Gorgiano. Is it not so?”
“We are police, madam.”
She looked round into the shadows of the room.
“But where, then, is Gennaro?” she asked. “He is my
husband, Gennaro Lucca. I am Emilia Lucca, and we
are both from New York. Where is Gennaro? He called
me this moment from this window, and I ran with all
my speed.”
“It was I who called,” said Holmes.
“You! How could you call?”
“Your cipher was not difficult, madam. Your presence
here was desirable. I knew that I had only to flash
‘Vieni’ and you would surely come.”
The beautiful Italian looked with awe at my
companion.
“I do not understand how you know these things,” she
said. “Giuseppe Gorgiano–how did he– –” She paused,
and then suddenly her face lit up with pride and
delight. “Now I see it! My Gennaro! My splendid,
beautiful Gennaro, who has guarded me safe from all
harm, he did it, with his own strong hand he killed
the monster! Oh, Gennaro, how wonderful you are!
What woman could ever be worthy of such a man?”
“Well, Mrs. Lucca,” said the prosaic Gregson, laying
his hand upon the lady’s sleeve with as little
sentiment as if she were a Notting Hill hooligan, “I
am not very clear yet who you are or what you are;
but you’ve said enough to make it very clear that we
shall want you at the Yard.”
“One moment, Gregson,” said Holmes. “I rather fancy
that this lady may be as anxious to give us
information as we can be to get it. You understand,
madam, that your husband will be arrested and tried
for the death of the man who lies before us? What
you say may be used in evidence. But if you think
that he has acted from motives which are not
criminal, and which he would wish to have known,
then you cannot serve him better than by telling us
the whole story.”
“Now that Gorgiano is dead we fear nothing,” said
the lady. “He was a devil and a monster, and there
can be no judge in the world who would punish my
husband for having killed him.”
“In that case,” said Holmes, “my suggestion is that
we lock this door, leave things as we found them, go
with this lady to her room, and form our opinion
after we have heard what it is that she has to say
to us.”
Half an hour later we were seated, all four, in the
small sitting-room of Signora Lucca, listening to
her remarkable narrative of those sinister events,
the ending of which we had chanced to witness. She
spoke in rapid and fluent but very [911]
unconventional English, which, for the sake of
clearness, I will make grammatical.
“I was born in Posilippo, near Naples,” said she,
“and was the daughter of Augusto Barelli, who was
the chief lawyer and once the deputy of that part.
Gennaro was in my father’s employment, and I came to
love him, as any woman must. He had neither money
nor position–nothing but his beauty and strength and
energy–so my father forbade the match. We fled
together, were married at Bari, and sold my jewels
to gain the money which would take us to America.
This was four years ago, and we have been in New
York ever since.
“Fortune was very good to us at first. Gennaro was
able to do a service to an Italian gentleman–he
saved him from some ruffians in the place called the
Bowery, and so made a powerful friend. His name was
Tito Castalotte, and he was the senior partner of
the great firm of Castalotte and Zamba, who are the
chief fruit importers of New York. Signor Zamba is
an invalid, and our new friend Castalotte has all
power within the firm, which employs more than three
hundred men. He took my husband into his employment,
made him head of a department, and showed his
good-will towards him in every way. Signor
Castalotte was a bachelor, and I believe that he
felt as if Gennaro was his son, and both my husband
and I loved him as if he were our father. We had
taken and furnished a little house in Brooklyn, and
our whole future seemed assured when that black
cloud appeared which was soon to overspread our sky.
“One night, when Gennaro returned from his work, he
brought a fellow-countryman back with him. His name
was Gorgiano, and he had come also from Posilippo.
He was a huge man, as you can testify, for you have
looked upon his corpse. Not only was his body that
of a giant but everything about him was grotesque,
gigantic, and terrifying. His voice was like thunder
in our little house. There was scarce room for the
whirl of his great arms as he talked. His thoughts,
his emotions, his passions, all were exaggerated and
monstrous. He talked, or rather roared, with such
energy that others could but sit and listen, cowed
with the mighty stream of words. His eyes blazed at
you and held you at his mercy. He was a terrible and
wonderful man. I thank God that he is dead!
“He came again and again. Yet I was aware that
Gennaro was no more happy than I was in his
presence. My poor husband would sit pale and
listless, listening to the endless raving upon
politics and upon social questions which made up our
visitor’s conversation. Gennaro said nothing, but I,
who knew him so well, could read in his face some
emotion which I had never seen there before. At
first I thought that it was dislike. And then,
gradually, I understood that it was more than
dislike. It was fear–a deep, secret, shrinking fear.
That night–the night that I read his terror–I put my
arms round him and I implored him by his love for me
and by all that he held dear to hold nothing from
me, and to tell me why this huge man overshadowed
him so.
“He told me, and my own heart grew cold as ice as I
listened. My poor Gennaro, in his wild and fiery
days, when all the world seemed against him and his
mind was driven half mad by the injustices of life,
had joined a Neapolitan society, the Red Circle,
which was allied to the old Carbonari. The oaths and
secrets of this brotherhood were frightful, but once
within its rule no escape was possible. When we had
fled to America Gennaro thought that he had cast it
all off forever. What was his horror one evening to
meet in the streets the very man who had initiated
him in Naples, the giant Gorgiano, a man who had
earned the name of ‘Death’ in the south of Italy,
for he was red to the elbow in murder! He had come
to New [912] York to avoid the Italian police, and
he had already planted a branch of this dreadful
society in his new home. All this Gennaro told me
and showed me a summons which he had received that
very day, a Red Circle drawn upon the head of it
telling him that a lodge would be held upon a
certain date, and that his presence at it was
required and ordered.
“That was bad enough, but worse was to come. I had
noticed for some time that when Gorgiano came to us,
as he constantly did, in the evening, he spoke much
to me; and even when his words were to my husband
those terrible, glaring, wild-beast eyes of his were
always turned upon me. One night his secret came
out. I had awakened what he called ‘love’ within
him–the love of a brute– a savage. Gennaro had not
yet returned when he came. He pushed his way in,
seized me in his mighty arms, hugged me in his
bear’s embrace, covered me with kisses, and implored
me to come away with him. I was struggling and
screaming when Gennaro entered and attacked him. He
struck Gennaro senseless and fled from the house
which he was never more to enter. It was a deadly
enemy that we made that night.
“A few days later came the meeting. Gennaro returned
from it with a face which told me that something
dreadful had occurred. It was worse than we could
have imagined possible. The funds of the society
were raised by blackmailing rich Italians and
threatening them with violence should they refuse
the money. It seems that Castalotte, our dear friend
and benefactor, had been approached. He had refused
to yield to threats, and he had handed the notices
to the police. It was resolved now that such an
example should be made of him as would prevent any
other victim from rebelling. At the meeting it was
arranged that he and his house should be blown up
with dynamite. There was a drawing of lots as to who
should carry out the deed. Gennaro saw our enemy’s
cruel face smiling at him as he dipped his hand in
the bag. No doubt it had been prearranged in some
fashion, for it was the fatal disc with the Red
Circle upon it, the mandate for murder, which lay
upon his palm. He was to kill his best friend, or he
was to expose himself and me to the vengeance of his
comrades. It was part of their fiendish system to
punish those whom they feared or hated by injuring
not only their own persons but those whom they
loved, and it was the knowledge of this which hung
as a terror over my poor Gennaro’s head and drove
him nearly crazy with apprehension.
“All that night we sat together, our arms round each
other, each strengthening each for the troubles that
lay before us. The very next evening had been fixed
for the attempt. By midday my husband and I were on
our way to London, but not before he had given our
benefactor full warning of his danger, and had also
left such information for the police as would
safeguard his life for the future.
“The rest, gentlemen, you know for yourselves. We
were sure that our enemies would be behind us like
our own shadows. Gorgiano had his private reasons
for vengeance, but in any case we knew how ruthless,
cunning, and untiring he could be. Both Italy and
America are full of stories of his dreadful powers.
If ever they were exerted it would be now. My
darling made use of the few clear days which our
start had given us in arranging for a refuge for me
in such a fashion that no possible danger could
reach me. For his own part, he wished to be free
that he might communicate both with the American and
with the Italian police. I do not myself know where
he lived, or how. All that I learned was through the
columns of a newspaper. But once as I looked through
my window, I saw two Italians watching the house,
and I understood that in some way Gorgiano had found
out our retreat. Finally Gennaro told me, through
the paper, that he would signal to [913] me from a
certain window, but when the signals came they were
nothing but warnings, which were suddenly
interrupted. It is very clear to me now that he knew
Gorgiano to be close upon him, and that, thank God!
he was ready for him when he came. And now,
gentlemen, I would ask you whether we have anything
to fear from the law, or whether any judge upon
earth would condemn my Gennaro for what he has
done?”
“Well, Mr. Gregson,” said the American, looking
across at the official, “I don’t know what your
British point of view may be, but I guess that in
New York this lady’s husband will receive a pretty
general vote of thanks.”
“She will have to come with me and see the chief,”
Gregson answered. “If what she says is corroborated,
I do not think she or her husband has much to fear.
But what I can’t make head or tail of, Mr. Holmes,
is how on earth you got yourself mixed up in the
matter.”
“Education, Gregson, education. Still seeking
knowledge at the old university. Well, Watson, you
have one more specimen of the tragic and grotesque
to add to your collection. By the way, it is not
eight o’clock, and a Wagner night at Covent Garden!
If we hurry, we might be in time for the second
act.”
|
|
THE
BRUCE-PARTINGTON PLANS
IN THE third
week of November, in the year 1895, a dense yellow
fog settled down upon London. From the Monday to the
Thursday I doubt whether it was ever possible from
our windows in Baker Street to see the loom of the
opposite houses. The first day Holmes had spent in
cross-indexing his huge book of references. The
second and third had been patiently occupied upon a
subject which he had recently made his hobby–the
music of the Middle Ages. But when, for the fourth
time, after pushing back our chairs from breakfast
we saw the greasy, heavy brown swirl still drifting
past us and condensing in oily drops upon the
window-panes, my comrade’s impatient and active
nature could endure this drab existence no longer.
He paced restlessly about our sitting-room in a
fever of suppressed energy, biting his nails,
tapping the furniture, and chafing against inaction.
“Nothing of interest in the paper, Watson?” he said.
I was aware that by anything of interest, Holmes
meant anything of criminal interest. There was the
news of a revolution, of a possible war, and of an
impending change of government; but these did not
come within the horizon of my companion. I could see
nothing recorded in the shape of crime which was not
commonplace and futile. Holmes groaned and resumed
his restless meanderings.
“The London criminal is certainly a dull fellow,”
said he in the querulous voice of the sportsman
whose game has failed him. “Look out of this window,
Watson. See how the figures loom up, are dimly seen,
and then blend once more into the cloud-bank. The
thief or the murderer could roam London on such a
day as the tiger does the jungle, unseen until he
pounces, and then evident only to his victim.”
“There have,” said I, “been numerous petty thefts.”
Holmes snorted his contempt.
“This great and sombre stage is set for something
more worthy than that, ” said he. “It is fortunate
for this community that I am not a criminal.”
[914] “It is, indeed!” said I heartily.
“Suppose that I were Brooks or Woodhouse, or any of
the fifty men who have good reason for taking my
life, how long could I survive against my own
pursuit? A summons, a bogus appointment, and all
would be over. It is well they don’t have days of
fog in the Latin countries–the countries of
assassination. By Jove! here comes something at last
to break our dead monotony.”
It was the maid with a telegram. Holmes tore it open
and burst out laughing.
“Well, well! What next?” said he. “Brother Mycroft
is coming round.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Why not? It is as if you met a tram-car coming down
a country lane. Mycroft has his rails and he runs on
them. His Pall Mall lodgings, the Diogenes Club,
Whitehall–that is his cycle. Once, and only once, he
has been here. What upheaval can possibly have
derailed him?”
“Does he not explain?”
Holmes handed me his brother’s telegram.
Must see you
over Cadogan West. Coming at once.
MYCROFT.
“Cadogan West? I have heard the name.”
“It recalls nothing to my mind. But that Mycroft
should break out in this erratic fashion! A planet
might as well leave its orbit. By the way, do you
know what Mycroft is?”
I had some vague recollection of an explanation at
the time of the Adventure of the Greek Interpreter.
“You told me that he had some small office under the
British government.”
Holmes chuckled.
“I did not know you quite so well in those days. One
has to be discreet when one talks of high matters of
state. You are right in thinking that he is under
the British government. You would also be right in a
sense if you said that occasionally he is the
British government.”
“My dear Holmes!”
“I thought I might surprise you. Mycroft draws four
hundred and fifty pounds a year, remains a
subordinate, has no ambitions of any kind, will
receive neither honour nor title, but remains the
most indispensable man in the country.”
“But how?”
“Well, his position is unique. He has made it for
himself. There has never been anything like it
before, nor will be again. He has the tidiest and
most orderly brain, with the greatest capacity for
storing facts, of any man living. The same great
powers which I have turned to the detection of crime
he has used for this particular business. The
conclusions of every department are passed to him,
and he is the central exchange, the clearing-house,
which makes out the balance. All other men are
specialists, but his specialism is omniscience. We
will suppose that a minister needs information as to
a point which involves the Navy, India, Canada and
the bimetallic question; he could get his separate
advices from various departments upon each, but only
Mycroft can focus them all, and say offhand how each
factor would affect the other. They began by using
him as a short-cut, a convenience; now he has made
himself an essential. In that great brain of his
everything is pigeon-holed and can be handed out in
an instant. Again and again his word has decided the
national policy. He lives in it. He thinks of
nothing else [915] save when, as an intellectual
exercise, he unbends if I call upon him and ask him
to advise me on one of my little problems. But
Jupiter is descending to-day. What on earth can it
mean? Who is Cadogan West, and what is he to
Mycroft?”
“I have it,” I cried, and plunged among the litter
of papers upon the sofa. “Yes, yes, here he is, sure
enough! Cadogan West was the young man who was found
dead on the Underground on Tuesday morning.”
Holmes sat up at attention, his pipe halfway to his
lips.
“This must be serious, Watson. A death which has
caused my brother to alter his habits can be no
ordinary one. What in the world can he have to do
with it? The case was featureless as I remember it.
The young man had apparently fallen out of the train
and killed himself. He had not been robbed, and
there was no particular reason to suspect violence.
Is that not so?”
“There has been an inquest,” said I, “and a good
many fresh facts have come out. Looked at more
closely, I should certainly say that it was a
curious case.”
“Judging by its effect upon my brother, I should
think it must be a most extraordinary one.” He
snuggled down in his armchair. “Now, Watson, let us
have the facts.”
“The man’s name was Arthur Cadogan West. He was
twenty-seven years of age, unmarried, and a clerk at
Woolwich Arsenal.”
“Government employ. Behold the link with Brother
Mycroft!”
“He left Woolwich suddenly on Monday night. Was last
seen by his fiancee, Miss Violet Westbury, whom he
left abruptly in the fog about 7:30 that evening.
There was no quarrel between them and she can give
no motive for his action. The next thing heard of
him was when his dead body was discovered by a
plate-layer named Mason, just outside Aldgate
Station on the Underground system in London.”
“When?”
“The body was found at six on the Tuesday morning.
It was lying wide of the metals upon the left hand
of the track as one goes eastward, at a point close
to the station, where the line emerges from the
tunnel in which it runs. The head was badly
crushed–an injury which might well have been caused
by a fall from the train. The body could only have
come on the line in that way. Had it been carried
down from any neighbouring street, it must have
passed the station barriers, where a collector is
always standing. This point seems absolutely
certain.”
“Very good. The case is definite enough. The man,
dead or alive, either fell or was precipitated from
a train. So much is clear to me. Continue.”
“The trains which traverse the lines of rail beside
which the body was found are those which run from
west to east, some being purely Metropolitan, and
some from Willesden and outlying junctions. It can
be stated for certain that this young man, when he
met his death, was travelling in this direction at
some late hour of the night, but at what point he
entered the train it is impossible to state.”
“His ticket, of course, would show that.”
“There was no ticket in his pockets.”
“No ticket! Dear me, Watson, this is really very
singular. According to my experience it is not
possible to reach the platform of a Metropolitan
train without exhibiting one’s ticket. Presumably,
then, the young man had one. Was it taken from him
in order to conceal the station from which he came?
It is possible. Or did he drop it in the carriage?
That also is possible. But the point is of curious
interest. I understand that there was no sign of
robbery?”
“Apparently not. There is a list here of his
possessions. His purse contained two [916] pounds
fifteen. He had also a check-book on the Woolwich
branch of the Capital and Counties Bank. Through
this his identity was established. There were also
two dress-circle tickets for the Woolwich Theatre,
dated for that very evening. Also a small packet of
technical papers.”
Holmes gave an exclamation of satisfaction.
“There we have it at last, Watson! British
government–Woolwich. Arsenal–technical
papers–Brother Mycroft, the chain is complete. But
here he comes, if I am not mistaken, to speak for
himself.”
A moment
later the tall and portly form of Mycroft Holmes was
ushered into the room. Heavily built and massive,
there was a suggestion of uncouth physical inertia
in the figure, but above this unwieldy frame there
was perched a head so masterful in its brow, so
alert in its steel-gray, deep-set eyes, so firm in
its lips, and so subtle in its play of expression,
that after the first glance one forgot the gross
body and remembered only the dominant mind.
At his heels came our old friend Lestrade, of
Scotland Yard–thin and austere. The gravity of both
their faces foretold some weighty quest. The
detective shook hands without a word. Mycroft Holmes
struggled out of his overcoat and subsided into an
armchair.
“A most annoying business, Sherlock,” said he. “I
extremely dislike altering my habits, but the powers
that be would take no denial. In the present state
of Siam it is most awkward that I should be away
from the office. But it is a real crisis. I have
never seen the Prime Minister so upset. As to the
Admiralty–it is buzzing like an overturned bee-hive.
Have you read up the case?”
“We have just done so. What were the technical
papers?”
“Ah, there’s the point! Fortunately, it has not come
out. The press would be furious if it did. The
papers which this wretched youth had in his pocket
were the plans of the Bruce-Partington submarine.”
Mycroft Holmes spoke with a solemnity which showed
his sense of the importance of the subject. His
brother and I sat expectant.
“Surely you have heard of it? I thought everyone had
heard of it.”
“Only as a name.”
“Its importance can hardly be exaggerated. It has
been the most jealously guarded of all government
secrets. You may take it from me that naval warfare
becomes impossible within the radius of a Bruce-Partington’s
operation. Two years ago a very large sum was
smuggled through the Estimates and was expended in
acquiring a monopoly of the invention. Every effort
has been made to keep the secret. The plans, which
are exceedingly intricate, comprising some thirty
separate patents, each essential to the working of
the whole, are kept in an elaborate safe in a
confidential office adjoining the arsenal, with
burglar-proof doors and windows. Under no
conceivable circumstances were the plans to be taken
from the office. If the chief constructor of the
Navy desired to consult them, even he was forced to
go to the Woolwich office for the purpose. And yet
here we find them in the pocket of a dead junior
clerk in the heart of London. From an official point
of view it’s simply awful.”
“But you have recovered them?”
“No, Sherlock, no! That’s the pinch. We have not.
Ten papers were taken from Woolwich. There were
seven in the pocket of Cadogan West. The three most
essential are gone–stolen, vanished. You must drop
everything, Sherlock. Never mind your usual petty
puzzles of the police-court. It’s a vital
international problem [917] that you have to solve.
Why did Cadogan West take the papers, where are the
missing ones, how did he die, how came his body
where it was found, how can the evil be set right?
Find an answer to all these questions, and you will
have done good service for your country.”
“Why do you not solve it yourself, Mycroft? You can
see as far as I.”
“Possibly, Sherlock. But it is a question of getting
details. Give me your details, and from an armchair
I will return you an excellent expert opinion. But
to run here and run there, to cross-question railway
guards, and lie on my face with a lens to my eye–it
is not my mйtier. No, you are the one man who can
clear the matter up. If you have a fancy to see your
name in the next honours list– –”
My friend smiled and shook his head.
“I play the game for the game’s own sake,” said he.
“But the problem certainly presents some points of
interest, and I shall be very pleased to look into
it. Some more facts, please.”
“I have jotted down the more essential ones upon
this sheet of paper, together with a few addresses
which you will find of service. The actual official
guardian of the papers is the famous government
expert, Sir James Walter, whose decorations and
sub-titles fill two lines of a book of reference. He
has grown gray in the service, is a gentleman, a
favoured guest in the most exalted houses, and,
above all, a man whose patriotism is beyond
suspicion. He is one of two who have a key of the
safe. I may add that the papers were undoubtedly in
the office during working hours on Monday, and that
Sir James left for London about three o’clock taking
his key with him. He was at the house of Admiral
Sinclair at Barclay Square during the whole of the
evening when this incident occurred.”
“Has the fact been verified?”
“Yes; his brother, Colonel Valentine Walter, has
testified to his departure from Woolwich, and
Admiral Sinclair to his arrival in London; so Sir
James is no longer a direct factor in the problem.”
“Who was the other man with a key?”
“The senior clerk and draughtsman, Mr. Sidney
Johnson. He is a man of forty, married, with five
children. He is a silent, morose man, but he has, on
the whole, an excellent record in the public
service. He is unpopular with his colleagues, but a
hard worker. According to his own account,
corroborated only by the word of his wife, he was at
home the whole of Monday evening after office hours,
and his key has never left the watch-chain upon
which it hangs.”
“Tell us about Cadogan West.”
“He has been ten years in the service and has done
good work. He has the reputation of being hot-headed
and impetuous, but a straight, honest man. We have
nothing against him. He was next Sidney Johnson in
the office. His duties brought him into daily,
personal contact with the plans. No one else had the
handling of them.”
“Who locked the plans up that night?”
“Mr. Sidney Johnson, the senior clerk.”
“Well, it is surely perfectly clear who took them
away. They are actually found upon the person of
this junior clerk, Cadogan West. That seems final,
does it not?”
“It does, Sherlock, and yet it leaves so much
unexplained. In the first place, why did he take
them?”
“I presume they were of value?”
“He could have got several thousands for them very
easily.”
[918] “Can you suggest any possible motive for
taking the papers to London except to sell them?”
“No, I cannot.”
“Then we must take that as our working hypothesis.
Young West took the papers. Now this could only be
done by having a false key– –”
“Several false keys. He had to open the building and
the room.”
“He had, then, several false keys. He took the
papers to London to sell the secret, intending, no
doubt, to have the plans themselves back in the safe
next morning before they were missed. While in
London on this treasonable mission he met his end.”
“How?”
“We will suppose that he was travelling back to
Woolwich when he was killed and thrown out of the
compartment.”
“Aldgate, where the body was found, is considerably
past the station for London Bridge, which would be
his route to Woolwich.”
“Many circumstances could be imagined under which he
would pass London Bridge. There was someone in the
carriage, for example, with whom he was having an
absorbing interview. This interview led to a violent
scene in which he lost his life. Possibly he tried
to leave the carriage, fell out on the line, and so
met his end. The other closed the door. There was a
thick fog, and nothing could be seen.”
“No better explanation can be given with our present
knowledge; and yet consider, Sherlock, how much you
leave untouched. We will suppose, for argument’s
sake, that young Cadogan West had determined to
convey these papers to London. He would naturally
have made an appointment with the foreign agent and
kept his evening clear. Instead of that he took two
tickets for the theatre, escorted his fiancee
halfway there, and then suddenly disappeared.”
“A blind,” said Lestrade, who had sat listening with
some impatience to the conversation.
“A very singular one. That is objection No. 1.
Objection No. 2: We will suppose that he reaches
London and sees the foreign agent. He must bring
back the papers before morning or the loss will be
discovered. He took away ten. Only seven were in his
pocket. What had become of the other three? He
certainly would not leave them of his own free will.
Then, again, where is the price of his treason? One
would have expected to find a large sum of money in
his pocket.”
“It seems to me perfectly clear,” said Lestrade. “I
have no doubt at all as to what occurred. He took
the papers to sell them. He saw the agent. They
could not agree as to price. He started home again,
but the agent went with him. In the train the agent
murdered him, took the more essential papers, and
threw his body from the carriage. That would account
for everything, would it not?”
“Why had he no ticket?”
“The ticket would have shown which station was
nearest the agent’s house. Therefore he took it from
the murdered man’s pocket.”
“Good, Lestrade, very good,” said Holmes. “Your
theory holds together. But if this is true, then the
case is at an end. On the one hand, the traitor is
dead. On the other, the plans of the
Bruce-Partington submarine are presumably already on
the Continent. What is there for us to do?”
“To act, Sherlock–to act!” cried Mycroft, springing
to his feet. “All my instincts are against this
explanation. Use your powers! Go to the scene of the
crime! See [919] the people concerned! Leave no
stone unturned! In all your career you have never
had so great a chance of serving your country.”
“Well, well!” said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders.
“Come, Watson! And you, Lestrade, could you favour
us with your company for an hour or two? We will
begin our investigation by a visit to Aldgate
Station. Good-bye, Mycroft. I shall let you have a
report before evening, but I warn you in advance
that you have little to expect.”
An hour later Holmes, Lestrade and I stood upon the
Underground railroad at the point where it emerges
from the tunnel immediately before Aldgate Station.
A courteous red-faced old gentleman represented the
railway company.
“This is where the young man’s body lay,” said he,
indicating a spot about three feet from the metals.
“It could not have fallen from above, for these, as
you see, are all blank walls. Therefore, it could
only have come from a train, and that train, so far
as we can trace it, must have passed about midnight
on Monday.”
“Have the carriages been examined for any sign of
violence?”
“There are no such signs, and no ticket has been
found.”
“No record of a door being found open?”
“None.”
“We have had some fresh evidence this morning,” said
Lestrade. “A passenger who passed Aldgate in an
ordinary Metropolitan train about 11:40 on Monday
night declares that he heard a heavy thud, as of a
body striking the line, just before the train
reached the station. There was dense fog, however,
and nothing could be seen. He made no report of it
at the time. Why, whatever is the matter with Mr.
Holmes?”
My friend
was standing with an expression of strained
intensity upon his face, staring at the railway
metals where they curved out of the tunnel. Aldgate
is a junction, and there was a network of points. On
these his eager, questioning eyes were fixed, and I
saw on his keen, alert face that tightening of the
lips, that quiver of the nostrils, and concentration
of the heavy, tufted brows which I knew so well.
“Points,” he muttered; “the points.”
“What of it? What do you mean?”
“I suppose there are no great number of points on a
system such as this?”
“No; there are very few.”
“And a curve, too. Points, and a curve. By Jove! if
it were only so.”
“What is it, Mr. Holmes? Have you a clue?”
“An idea–an indication, no more. But the case
certainly grows in interest. Unique, perfectly
unique, and yet why not? I do not see any
indications of bleeding on the line.”
“There were hardly any.”
“But I understand that there was a considerable
wound.”
“The bone was crushed, but there was no great
external injury.”
“And yet one would have expected some bleeding.
Would it be possible for me to inspect the train
which contained the passenger who heard the thud of
a fall in the fog?”
“I fear not, Mr. Holmes. The train has been broken
up before now, and the carriages redistributed.”
“I can assure you, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade, “that
every carriage has been carefully examined. I saw to
it myself.”
[920] It was one of my friend’s most obvious
weaknesses that he was impatient with less alert
intelligences than his own.
“Very likely,” said he, turning away. “As it
happens, it was not the carriages which I desired to
examine. Watson, we have done all we can here. We
need not trouble you any further, Mr. Lestrade. I
think our investigations must now carry us to
Woolwich.”
At London Bridge, Holmes wrote a telegram to his
brother, which he handed to me before dispatching
it. It ran thus:
See some
light in the darkness, but it may possibly flicker
out. Meanwhile, please send by messenger, to await
return at Baker Street, a complete list of all
foreign spies or international agents known to be in
England, with full address.
SHERLOCK.
“That should be helpful, Watson,” he remarked as we
took our seats in the Woolwich train. “We certainly
owe Brother Mycroft a debt for having introduced us
to what promises to be a really very remarkable
case.”
His eager face still wore that expression of intense
and high-strung energy, which showed me that some
novel and suggestive circumstance had opened up a
stimulating line of thought. See the foxhound with
hanging ears and drooping tail as it lolls about the
kennels, and compare it with the same hound as, with
gleaming eyes and straining muscles, it runs upon a
breast-high scent –such was the change in Holmes
since the morning. He was a different man from the
limp and lounging figure in the mouse-coloured
dressing-gown who had prowled so restlessly only a
few hours before round the fog-girt room.
“There is material here. There is scope,” said he.
“I am dull indeed not to have understood its
possibilities.”
“Even now they are dark to me.”
“The end is dark to me also, but I have hold of one
idea which may lead us far. The man met his death
elsewhere, and his body was on the roof of a
carriage.”
“On the roof!”
“Remarkable, is it not? But consider the facts. Is
it a coincidence that it is found at the very point
where the train pitches and sways as it comes round
on the points? Is not that the place where an object
upon the roof might be expected to fall off? The
points would affect no object inside the train.
Either the body fell from the roof, or a very
curious coincidence has occurred. But now consider
the question of the blood. Of course, there was no
bleeding on the line if the body had bled elsewhere.
Each fact is suggestive in itself. Together they
have a cumulative force.”
“And the ticket, too!” I cried.
“Exactly. We could not explain the absence of a
ticket. This would explain it. Everything fits
together.”
“But suppose it were so, we are still as far as ever
from unravelling the mystery of his death. Indeed,
it becomes not simpler but stranger.”
“Perhaps,” said Holmes thoughtfully, “perhaps.” He
relapsed into a silent reverie, which lasted until
the slow train drew up at last in Woolwich Station.
There he called a cab and drew Mycroft’s paper from
his pocket.
“We have quite a little round of afternoon calls to
make,” said he. “I think that Sir James Walter
claims our first attention.”
[921] The house of the famous official was a fine
villa with green lawns stretching down to the
Thames. As we reached it the fog was lifting, and a
thin, watery sunshine was breaking through. A butler
answered our ring.
“Sir James, sir!” said he with solemn face. “Sir
James died this morning.”
“Good heavens!” cried Holmes in amazement. “How did
he die?”
“Perhaps you would care to step in, sir, and see his
brother, Colonel Valentine?”
“Yes, we had best do so.”
We were ushered into a dim-lit drawing-room, where
an instant later we were joined by a very tall,
handsome, light-bearded man of fifty, the younger
brother of the dead scientist. His wild eyes,
stained cheeks, and unkempt hair all spoke of the
sudden blow which had fallen upon the household. He
was hardly articulate as he spoke of it.
“It was this horrible scandal,” said he. “My
brother, Sir James, was a man of very sensitive
honour, and he could not survive such an affair. It
broke his heart. He was always so proud of the
efficiency of his department, and this was a
crushing blow.”
“We had hoped that he might have given us some
indications which would have helped us to clear the
matter up.”
“I assure you that it was all a mystery to him as it
is to you and to all of us. He had already put all
his knowledge at the disposal of the police.
Naturally he had no doubt that Cadogan West was
guilty. But all the rest was inconceivable.”
“You cannot throw any new light upon the affair?”
“I know nothing myself save what I have read or
heard. I have no desire to be discourteous, but you
can understand, Mr. Holmes, that we are much
disturbed at present, and I must ask you to hasten
this interview to an end.”
“This is indeed an unexpected development,” said my
friend when we had regained the cab. “I wonder if
the death was natural, or whether the poor old
fellow killed himself! If the latter, may it be
taken as some sign of self-reproach for duty
neglected? We must leave that question to the
future. Now we shall turn to the Cadogan Wests.”
A small but well-kept house in the outskirts of the
town sheltered the bereaved mother. The old lady was
too dazed with grief to be of any use to us, but at
her side was a white-faced young lady, who
introduced herself as Miss Violet Westbury, the
fiancee of the dead man, and the last to see him
upon that fatal night.
“I cannot explain it, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “I have
not shut an eye since the tragedy, thinking,
thinking, thinking, night and day, what the true
meaning of it can be. Arthur was the most
single-minded, chivalrous, patriotic man upon earth.
He would have cut his right hand off before he would
sell a State secret confided to his keeping. It is
absurd, impossible, preposterous to anyone who knew
him.”
“But the facts, Miss Westbury?”
“Yes, yes; I admit I cannot explain them.”
“Was he in any want of money?”
“No; his needs were very simple and his salary
ample. He had saved a few hundreds, and we were to
marry at the New Year.”
“No signs of any mental excitement? Come, Miss
Westbury, be absolutely frank with us.”
The quick eye of my companion had noted some change
in her manner. She coloured and hesitated.
“Yes,” she said at last, “I had a feeling that there
was something on his mind.”
“For long?”
[922] “Only for the last week or so. He was
thoughtful and worried. Once I pressed him about it.
He admitted that there was something, and that it
was concerned with his official life. ‘It is too
serious for me to speak about, even to you,’ said
he. I could get nothing more.”
Holmes looked grave.
“Go on, Miss Westbury. Even if it seems to tell
against him, go on. We cannot say what it may lead
to.”
“Indeed, I have nothing more to tell. Once or twice
it seemed to me that he was on the point of telling
me something. He spoke one evening of the importance
of the secret, and I have some recollection that he
said that no doubt foreign spies would pay a great
deal to have it.”
My friend’s face grew graver still.
“Anything else?”
“He said that we were slack about such matters–that
it would be easy for a traitor to get the plans.”
“Was it only recently that he made such remarks?”
“Yes, quite recently.”
“Now tell us of that last evening.”
“We were to go to the theatre. The fog was so thick
that a cab was useless. We walked, and our way took
us close to the office. Suddenly he darted away into
the fog.”
“Without a word?”
“He gave an exclamation; that was all. I waited but
he never returned. Then I walked home. Next morning,
after the office opened, they came to inquire. About
twelve o’clock we heard the terrible news. Oh, Mr.
Holmes, if you could only, only save his honour! It
was so much to him.”
Holmes shook his head sadly.
“Come, Watson,” said he, “our ways lie elsewhere.
Our next station must be the office from which the
papers were taken.
“It was black enough before against this young man,
but our inquiries make it blacker,” he remarked as
the cab lumbered off. “His coming marriage gives a
motive for the crime. He naturally wanted money. The
idea was in his head, since he spoke about it. He
nearly made the girl an accomplice in the treason by
telling her his plans. It is all very bad.”
“But surely, Holmes, character goes for something?
Then, again, why should he leave the girl in the
street and dart away to commit a felony?”
“Exactly! There are certainly objections. But it is
a formidable case which they have to meet.”
Mr. Sidney Johnson, the senior clerk, met us at the
office and received us with that respect which my
companion’s card always commanded. He was a thin,
gruff, bespectacled man of middle age, his cheeks
haggard, and his hands twitching from the nervous
strain to which he had been subjected.
“It is bad, Mr. Holmes, very bad! Have you heard of
the death of the chief?”
“We have just come from his house.”
“The place is disorganized. The chief dead, Cadogan
West dead, our papers stolen. And yet, when we
closed our door on Monday evening, we were as
efficient an office as any in the government
service. Good God, it’s dreadful to think of! That
West, of all men, should have done such a thing!”
“You are sure of his guilt, then?”
[923] “I can see no other way out of it. And yet I
would have trusted him as I trust myself.”
“At what hour was the office closed on Monday?”
“At five.”
“Did you close it?”
“I am always the last man out.”
“Where were the plans?”
“In that safe. I put them there myself.”
“Is there no watchman to the building?”
“There is, but he has other departments to look
after as well. He is an old soldier and a most
trustworthy man. He saw nothing that evening. Of
course the fog was very thick.”
“Suppose that Cadogan West wished to make his way
into the building after hours; he would need three
keys, would he not, before he could reach the
papers?”
“Yes, he would. The key of the outer door, the key
of the office, and the key of the safe.”
“Only Sir James Walter and you had those keys?”
“I had no keys of the doors–only of the safe.”
“Was Sir James a man who was orderly in his habits?”
“Yes, I think he was. I know that so far as those
three keys are concerned he kept them on the same
ring. I have often seen them there.”
“And that ring went with him to London?”
“He said so.”
“And your key never left your possession?”
“Never.”
“Then West, if he is the culprit, must have had a
duplicate. And yet none was found upon his body. One
other point: if a clerk in this office desired to
sell the plans, would it not be simpler to copy the
plans for himself than to take the originals, as was
actually done?”
“It would take considerable technical knowledge to
copy the plans in an effective way.”
“But I suppose either Sir James, or you, or West had
that technical knowledge?”
“No doubt we had, but I beg you won’t try to drag me
into the matter, Mr. Holmes. What is the use of our
speculating in this way when the original plans were
actually found on West?”
“Well, it is certainly singular that he should run
the risk of taking originals if he could safely have
taken copies, which would have equally served his
turn.”
“Singular, no doubt–and yet he did so.”
“Every inquiry in this case reveals something
inexplicable. Now there are three papers still
missing. They are, as I understand, the vital ones.”
“Yes, that is so.”
“Do you mean
to say that anyone holding these three papers, and
without the seven others, could construct a
Bruce-Partington submarine?”
“I reported to that effect to the Admiralty. But
to-day I have been over the drawings again, and I am
not so sure of it. The double valves with the
automatic self-adjusting slots are drawn in one of
the papers which have been returned. Until the
foreigners had invented that for themselves they
could not make the boat. Of course they might soon
get over the difficulty.”
“But the three missing drawings are the most
important?”
[924] “Undoubtedly.”
“I think, with your permission, I will now take a
stroll round the premises. I do not recall any other
question which I desired to ask.”
He examined the lock of the safe, the door of the
room, and finally the iron shutters of the window.
It was only when we were on the lawn outside that
his interest was strongly excited. There was a
laurel bush outside the window, and several of the
branches bore signs of having been twisted or
snapped. He examined them carefully with his lens,
and then some dim and vague marks upon the earth
beneath. Finally he asked the chief clerk to close
the iron shutters, and he pointed out to me that
they hardly met in the centre, and that it would be
possible for anyone outside to see what was going on
within the room.
“The indications are ruined by the three days’
delay. They may mean something or nothing. Well,
Watson, I do not think that Woolwich can help us
further. It is a small crop which we have gathered.
Let us see if we can do better in London.”
Yet we added one more sheaf to our harvest before we
left Woolwich Station. The clerk in the ticket
office was able to say with confidence that he saw
Cadogan West–whom he knew well by sight–upon the
Monday night, and that he went to London by the 8:15
to London Bridge. He was alone and took a single
third-class ticket. The clerk was struck at the time
by his excited and nervous manner. So shaky was he
that he could hardly pick up his change, and the
clerk had helped him with it. A reference to the
timetable showed that the 8:15 was the first train
which it was possible for West to take after he had
left the lady about 7:30.
“Let us reconstruct, Watson,” said Holmes after half
an hour of silence. “I am not aware that in all our
joint researches we have ever had a case which was
more difficult to get at. Every fresh advance which
we make only reveals a fresh ridge beyond. And yet
we have surely made some appreciable progress.
“The effect of our inquiries at Woolwich has in the
main been against young Cadogan West; but the
indications at the window would lend themselves to a
more favourable hypothesis. Let us suppose, for
example, that he had been approached by some foreign
agent. It might have been done under such pledges as
would have prevented him from speaking of it, and
yet would have affected his thoughts in the
direction indicated by his remarks to his fiancee.
Very good. We will now suppose that as he went to
the theatre with the young lady he suddenly, in the
fog, caught a glimpse of this same agent going in
the direction of the office. He was an impetuous
man, quick in his decisions. Everything gave way to
his duty. He followed the man, reached the window,
saw the abstraction of the documents, and pursued
the thief. In this way we get over the objection
that no one would take originals when he could make
copies. This outsider had to take originals. So far
it holds together.”
“What is the next step?”
“Then we come into difficulties. One would imagine
that under such circumstances the first act of young
Cadogan West would be to seize the villain and raise
the alarm. Why did he not do so? Could it have been
an official superior who took the papers? That would
explain West’s conduct. Or could the chief have
given West the slip in the fog, and West started at
once to London to head him off from his own rooms,
presuming that he knew where the rooms were? The
call must have been very pressing, since he left his
girl standing in the fog and made no effort to
communicate with her. Our scent runs cold here, and
there is a vast gap between either hypothesis and
the laying of West’s body, with seven papers [925]
in his pocket, on the roof of a Metropolitan train.
My instinct now is to work from the other end. If
Mycroft has given us the list of addresses we may be
able to pick our man and follow two tracks instead
of one.”
Surely enough, a note awaited us at Baker Street. A
government messenger had brought it post-haste.
Holmes glanced at it and threw it over to me.
There are
numerous small fry, but few who would handle so big
an affair. The only men worth considering are Adolph
Meyer, of 13 Great George Street, Westminster; Louis
La Rothiere, of Campden Mansions, Notting Hill; and
Hugo Oberstein, 13 Caulfield Gardens, Kensington.
The latter was known to be in town on Monday and is
now reported as having left. Glad to hear you have
seen some light. The Cabinet awaits your final
report with the utmost anxiety. Urgent
representations have arrived from the very highest
quarter. The whole force of the State is at your
back if you should need it.
MYCROFT.
“I’m afraid,” said Holmes, smiling, “that all the
queen’s horses and all the queen’s men cannot avail
in this matter.” He had spread out his big map of
London and leaned eagerly over it. “Well, well,”
said he presently with an exclamation of
satisfaction, “things are turning a little in our
direction at last. Why, Watson, I do honestly
believe that we are going to pull it off, after
all.” He slapped me on the shoulder with a sudden
burst of hilarity. “I am going out now. It is only a
reconnaissance. I will do nothing serious without my
trusted comrade and biographer at my elbow. Do you
stay here, and the odds are that you will see me
again in an hour or two. If time hangs heavy get
foolscap and a pen, and begin your narrative of how
we saved the State.”
I felt some reflection of his elation in my own
mind, for I knew well that he would not depart so
far from his usual austerity of demeanour unless
there was good cause for exultation. All the long
November evening I waited, filled with impatience
for his return. At last, shortly after nine o’clock,
there arrived a messenger with a note:
Am dining at
Goldini’s Restaurant, Gloucester Road, Kensington.
Please come at once and join me there. Bring with
you a jemmy, a dark lantern, a chisel, and a
revolver.
S. H.
It was a nice equipment for a respectable citizen to
carry through the dim, fog-draped streets. I stowed
them all discreetly away in my overcoat and drove
straight to the address given. There sat my friend
at a little round table near the door of the garish
Italian restaurant.
“Have you had something to eat? Then join me in a
coffee and curacao. Try one of the proprietor’s
cigars. They are less poisonous than one would
expect. Have you the tools?”
“They are here, in my overcoat.”
“Excellent. Let me give you a short sketch of what I
have done, with some indication of what we are about
to do. Now it must be evident to you, Watson, that
this young man’s body was placed on the roof of the
train. That was clear from the instant that I
determined the fact that it was from the roof, and
not from a carriage, that he had fallen.”
“Could it not have been dropped from a bridge?”
[926] “I should say it was impossible. If you
examine the roofs you will find that they are
slightly rounded, and there is no railing round
them. Therefore, we can say for certain that young
Cadogan West was placed on it.”
“How could he be placed there?”
“That was the question which we had to answer. There
is only one possible way. You are aware that the
Underground runs clear of tunnels at some points in
the West End. I had a vague memory that as I have
travelled by it I have occasionally seen windows
just above my head. Now, suppose that a train halted
under such a window, would there be any difficulty
in laying a body upon the roof?”
“It seems most improbable.”
“We must fall back upon the old axiom that when all
other contingencies fail, whatever remains, however
improbable, must be the truth. Here all other
contingencies have failed. When I found that the
leading international agent, who had just left
London, lived in a row of houses which abutted upon
the Underground, I was so pleased that you were a
little astonished at my sudden frivolity.”
“Oh, that was it, was it?”
“Yes, that was it. Mr. Hugo Oberstein, of 13
Caulfield Gardens, had become my objective. I began
my operations at Gloucester Road Station, where a
very helpful official walked with me along the track
and allowed me to satisfy myself not only that the
back-stair windows of Caulfield Gardens open on the
line but the even more essential fact that, owing to
the intersection of one of the larger railways, the
Underground trains are frequently held motionless
for some minutes at that very spot.”
“Splendid, Holmes! You have got it!”
“So far–so far, Watson. We advance, but the goal is
afar. Well, having seen the back of Caulfield
Gardens, I visited the front and satisfied myself
that the bird was indeed flown. It is a considerable
house, unfurnished, so far as I could judge, in the
upper rooms. Oberstein lived there with a single
valet, who was probably a confederate entirely in
his confidence. We must bear in mind that Oberstein
has gone to the Continent to dispose of his booty,
but not with any idea of flight; for he had no
reason to fear a warrant, and the idea of an amateur
domiciliary visit would certainly never occur to
him. Yet that is precisely what we are about to
make.”
“Could we not get a warrant and legalize it?”
“Hardly on the evidence.”
“What can we hope to do?”
“We cannot tell what correspondence may be there.”
“I don’t like it, Holmes.”
“My dear fellow, you shall keep watch in the street.
I’ll do the criminal part. It’s not a time to stick
at trifles. Think of Mycroft’s note, of the
Admiralty, the Cabinet, the exalted person who waits
for news. We are bound to go.”
My answer was to rise from the table.
“You are right, Holmes. We are bound to go.”
He sprang up and shook me by the hand.
“I knew you would not shrink at the last,” said he,
and for a moment I saw something in his eyes which
was nearer to tenderness than I had ever seen. The
next instant he was his masterful, practical self
once more.
“It is nearly half a mile, but there is no hurry.
Let us walk,” said he. “Don’t [927] drop the
instruments, I beg. Your arrest as a suspicious
character would be a most unfortunate complication.”
Caulfield Gardens was one of those lines of
flat-faced pillared, and porticoed houses which are
so prominent a product of the middle Victorian epoch
in the West End of London. Next door there appeared
to be a children’s party, for the merry buzz of
young voices and the clatter of a piano resounded
through the night. The fog still hung about and
screened us with its friendly shade. Holmes had lit
his lantern and flashed it upon the massive door.
“This is a serious proposition,” said he. “It is
certainly bolted as well as locked. We would do
better in the area. There is an excellent archway
down yonder in case a too zealous policeman should
intrude. Give me a hand, Watson, and I’ll do the
same for you.”
A minute later we were both in the area. Hardly had
we reached the dark shadows before the step of the
policeman was heard in the fog above. As its soft
rhythm died away, Holmes set to work upon the lower
door. I saw him stoop and strain until with a sharp
crash it flew open. We sprang through into the dark
passage, closing the area door behind us. Holmes led
the way up the curving, uncarpeted stair. His little
fan of yellow light shone upon a low window.
“Here we are, Watson–this must be the one.” He threw
it open, and as he did so there was a low, harsh
murmur, growing steadily into a loud roar as a train
dashed past us in the darkness. Holmes swept his
light along the window-sill. It was thickly coated
with soot from the passing engines, but the black
surface was blurred and rubbed in places.
“You can see
where they rested the body. Halloa, Watson! what is
this? There can be no doubt that it is a blood
mark.” He was pointing to faint discolourations
along the woodwork of the window. “Here it is on the
stone of the stair also. The demonstration is
complete. Let us stay here until a train stops.”
We had not long to wait. The very next train roared
from the tunnel as before, but slowed in the open,
and then, with a creaking of brakes, pulled up
immediately beneath us. It was not four feet from
the window-ledge to the roof of the carriages.
Holmes softly closed the window.
“So far we are justified,” said he. “What do you
think of it, Watson?”
“A masterpiece. You have never risen to a greater
height.”
“I cannot agree with you there. From the moment that
I conceived the idea of the body being upon the
roof, which surely was not a very abstruse one, all
the rest was inevitable. If it were not for the
grave interests involved the affair up to this point
would be insignificant. Our difficulties are still
before us. But perhaps we may find something here
which may help us.”
We had ascended the kitchen stair and entered the
suite of rooms upon the first floor. One was a
dining-room, severely furnished and containing
nothing of interest. A second was a bedroom, which
also drew blank. The remaining room appeared more
promising, and my companion settled down to a
systematic examination. It was littered with books
and papers, and was evidently used as a study.
Swiftly and methodically Holmes turned over the
contents of drawer after drawer and cupboard after
cupboard, but no gleam of success came to brighten
his austere face. At the end of an hour he was no
further than when he started.
“The cunning dog has covered his tracks,” said he.
“He has left nothing to incriminate him. His
dangerous correspondence has been destroyed or
removed. This is our last chance.”
[928] It was a small tin cash-box which stood upon
the writing-desk. Holmes pried it open with his
chisel. Several rolls of paper were within, covered
with figures and calculations, without any note to
show to what they referred. The recurring words,
“water pressure” and “pressure to the square inch”
suggested some possible relation to a submarine.
Holmes tossed them all impatiently aside. There only
remained an envelope with some small newspaper slips
inside it. He shook them out on the table, and at
once I saw by his eager face that his hopes had been
raised.
“What’s this, Watson? Eh? What’s this? Record of a
series of messages in the advertisements of a paper.
Daily Telegraph agony column by the print and paper.
Right-hand top corner of a page. No dates–but
messages arrange themselves. This must be the first:
“Hoped to
hear sooner. Terms agreed to. Write fully to address
given on card.
“PIERROT.
“Next comes:
“Too complex
for description. Must have full report. Stuff awaits
you when goods delivered.
“PIERROT.
“Then comes:
“Matter
presses. Must withdraw offer unless contract
completed. Make appointment by letter. Will confirm
by advertisement.
“PIERROT.
“Finally:
“Monday
night after nine. Two taps. Only ourselves. Do not
be so suspicious. Payment in hard cash when goods
delivered.
“PIERROT.
“A fairly complete record, Watson! If we could only
get at the man at the other end!” He sat lost in
thought, tapping his fingers on the table. Finally
he sprang to his feet.
“Well, perhaps it won’t be so difficult, after all.
There is nothing more to be done here, Watson. I
think we might drive round to the offices of the
Daily Telegraph, and so bring a good day’s work to a
conclusion.”
Mycroft
Holmes and Lestrade had come round by appointment
after breakfast next day and Sherlock Holmes had
recounted to them our proceedings of the day before.
The professional shook his head over our confessed
burglary.
“We can’t do these things in the force, Mr. Holmes,”
said he. “No wonder you get results that are beyond
us. But some of these days you’ll go too far, and
you’ll find yourself and your friend in trouble.”
“For England, home and beauty–eh, Watson? Martyrs on
the altar of our country. But what do you think of
it, Mycroft?”
“Excellent, Sherlock! Admirable! But what use will
you make of it?”
Holmes picked up the Daily Telegraph which lay upon
the table.
“Have you seen Pierrot’s advertisement to-day?”
“What? Another one?”
“Yes, here it is:
[929]
“To-night. Same hour. Same place. Two taps. Most
vitally important. Your own safety at stake.
“PIERROT.
“By George!” cried Lestrade. “If he answers that
we’ve got him!”
“That was my idea when I put it in. I think if you
could both make it convenient to come with us about
eight o’clock to Caulfield Gardens we might possibly
get a little nearer to a solution.”
One of the
most remarkable characteristics of Sherlock Holmes
was his power of throwing his brain out of action
and switching all his thoughts on to lighter things
whenever he had convinced himself that he could no
longer work to advantage. I remember that during the
whole of that memorable day he lost himself in a
monograph which he had undertaken upon the
Polyphonic Motets of Lassus. For my own part I had
none of this power of detachment, and the day, in
consequence, appeared to be interminable. The great
national importance of the issue, the suspense in
high quarters, the direct nature of the experiment
which we were trying–all combined to work upon my
nerve. It was a relief to me when at last, after a
light dinner, we set out upon our expedition.
Lestrade and Mycroft met us by appointment at the
outside of Gloucester Road Station. The area door of
Oberstein’s house had been left open the night
before, and it was necessary for me, as Mycroft
Holmes absolutely and indignantly declined to climb
the railings, to pass in and open the hall door. By
nine o’clock we were all seated in the study,
waiting patiently for our man.
An hour passed and yet another. When eleven struck,
the measured beat of the great church clock seemed
to sound the dirge of our hopes. Lestrade and
Mycroft were fidgeting in their seats and looking
twice a minute at their watches. Holmes sat silent
and composed, his eyelids half shut, but every sense
on the alert. He raised his head with a sudden jerk.
“He is coming,” said he.
There had been a furtive step past the door. Now it
returned. We heard a shuffling sound outside, and
then two sharp taps with the knocker. Holmes rose,
motioning to us to remain seated. The gas in the
hall was a mere point of light. He opened the outer
door, and then as a dark figure slipped past him he
closed and fastened it. “This way!” we heard him
say, and a moment later our man stood before us.
Holmes had followed him closely, and as the man
turned with a cry of surprise and alarm he caught
him by the collar and threw him back into the room.
Before our prisoner had recovered his balance the
door was shut and Holmes standing with his back
against it. The man glared round him, staggered, and
fell senseless upon the floor. With the shock, his
broad-brimmed hat flew from his head, his cravat
slipped down from his lips, and there were the long
light beard and the soft, handsome delicate features
of Colonel Valentine Walter.
Holmes gave
a whistle of surprise.
“You can write me down an ass this time, Watson,”
said he. “This was not the bird that I was looking
for.”
“Who is he?” asked Mycroft eagerly.
“The younger brother of the late Sir James Walter,
the head of the Submarine Department. Yes, yes; I
see the fall of the cards. He is coming to. I think
that you had best leave his examination to me.”
We had carried the prostrate body to the sofa. Now
our prisoner sat up, looked [930] round him with a
horror-stricken face, and passed his hand over his
forehead, like one who cannot believe his own
senses.
“What is this?” he asked. “I came here to visit Mr.
Oberstein.”
“Everything is known, Colonel Walter,” said Holmes.
“How an English gentleman could behave in such a
manner is beyond my comprehension. But your whole
correspondence and relations with Oberstein are
within our knowledge. So also are the circumstances
connected with the death of young Cadogan West. Let
me advise you to gain at least the small credit for
repentance and confession, since there are still
some details which we can only learn from your
lips.”
The man groaned and sank his face in his hands. We
waited, but he was silent.
“I can assure you,” said Holmes, “that every
essential is already known. We know that you were
pressed for money; that you took an impress of the
keys which your brother held; and that you entered
into a correspondence with Oberstein, who answered
your letters through the advertisement columns of
the Daily Telegraph. We are aware that you went down
to the office in the fog on Monday night, but that
you were seen and followed by young Cadogan West,
who had probably some previous reason to suspect
you. He saw your theft, but could not give the
alarm, as it was just possible that you were taking
the papers to your brother in London. Leaving all
his private concerns, like the good citizen that he
was, he followed you closely in the fog and kept at
your heels until you reached this very house. There
he intervened, and then it was, Colonel Walter, that
to treason you added the more terrible crime of
murder.”
“I did not! I did not! Before God I swear that I did
not!” cried our wretched prisoner.
“Tell us, then, how Cadogan West met his end before
you laid him upon the roof of a railway carriage.”
“I will. I swear to you that I will. I did the rest.
I confess it. It was just as you say. A Stock
Exchange debt had to be paid. I needed the money
badly. Oberstein offered me five thousand. It was to
save myself from ruin. But as to murder, I am as
innocent as you.”
“What happened, then?”
“He had his suspicions before, and he followed me as
you describe. I never knew it until I was at the
very door. It was thick fog, and one could not see
three yards. I had given two taps and Oberstein had
come to the door. The young man rushed up and
demanded to know what we were about to do with the
papers. Oberstein had a short life-preserver. He
always carried it with him. As West forced his way
after us into the house Oberstein struck him on the
head. The blow was a fatal one. He was dead within
five minutes. There he lay in the hall, and we were
at our wit’s end what to do. Then Oberstein had this
idea about the trains which halted under his back
window. But first he examined the papers which I had
brought. He said that three of them were essential,
and that he must keep them. ‘You cannot keep them,’
said I. ‘There will be a dreadful row at Woolwich if
they are not returned.’ ‘I must keep them,’ said he,
‘for they are so technical that it is impossible in
the time to make copies.’ ‘Then they must all go
back together to-night,’ said I. He thought for a
little, and then he cried out that he had it. ‘Three
I will keep,’ said he. ‘The others we will stuff
into the pocket of this young man. When he is found
the whole business will assuredly be put to his
account. I could see no other way out of it, so we
did as he suggested. We waited half an hour at the
window before a train stopped. It was so thick that
nothing could be seen, [931] and we had no
difficulty in lowering West’s body on to the train.
That was the end of the matter so far as I was
concerned.”
“And your
brother?”
“He said nothing, but he had caught me once with his
keys, and I think that he suspected. I read in his
eyes that he suspected. As you know, he never held
up his head again.”
There was silence in the room. It was broken by
Mycroft Holmes.
“Can you not make reparation? It would ease your
conscience, and possibly your punishment.”
“What reparation can I make?”
“Where is Oberstein with the papers?”
“I do not know.”
“Did he give you no address?”
“He said that letters to the Hфtel du Louvre, Paris,
would eventually reach him.”
“Then reparation is still within your power,” said
Sherlock Holmes.
“I will do anything I can. I owe this fellow no
particular good-will. He has been my ruin and my
downfall.”
“Here are paper and pen. Sit at this desk and write
to my dictation. Direct the envelope to the address
given. That is right. Now the letter:
“DEAR SIR:
“With regard to our transaction, you will no doubt
have observed by now that one essential detail is
missing. I have a tracing which will make it
complete. This has involved me in extra trouble,
however, and I must ask you for a further advance of
five hundred pounds. I will not trust it to the
post, nor will I take anything but gold or notes. I
would come to you abroad, but it would excite remark
if I left the country at present. Therefore I shall
expect to meet you in the smoking-room of the
Charing Cross Hotel at noon on Saturday. Remember
that only English notes, or gold, will be taken.
That will do very well. I shall be very much
surprised if it does not fetch our man.”
And it did! It is a matter of history–that secret
history of a nation which is often so much more
intimate and interesting than its public chronicles
–that Oberstein, eager to complete the coup of his
lifetime, came to the lure and was safely engulfed
for fifteen years in a British prison. In his trunk
were found the invaluable Bruce-Partington plans,
which he had put up for auction in all the naval
centres of Europe.
Colonel Walter died in prison towards the end of the
second year of his sentence. As to Holmes, he
returned refreshed to his monograph upon the
Polyphonic Motets of Lassus, which has since been
printed for private circulation, and is said by
experts to be the last word upon the subject. Some
weeks afterwards I learned incidentally that my
friend spent a day at Windsor, whence he returned
with a remarkably fine emerald tie-pin. When I asked
him if he had bought it, he answered that it was a
present from a certain gracious lady in whose
interests he had once been fortunate enough to carry
out a small commission. He said no more; but I fancy
that I could guess at that lady’s august name, and I
have little doubt that the emerald pin will forever
recall to my friend’s memory the adventure of the
Bruce-Partington plans.
|
|
THE
DYING DETECTIVE
MRS. HUDSON,
the landlady of Sherlock Holmes, was a
long-suffering woman. Not only was her first-floor
flat invaded at all hours by throngs of singular and
often undesirable characters but her remarkable
lodger showed an eccentricity and irregularity in
his life which must have sorely tried her patience.
His incredible untidiness, his addiction to music at
strange hours, his occasional revolver practice
within doors, his weird and often malodorous
scientific experiments, and the atmosphere of
violence and danger which hung around him made him
the very worst tenant in London. On the other hand,
his payments were princely. I have no doubt that the
house might have been purchased at the price which
Holmes paid for his rooms during the years that I
was with him.
The landlady stood in the deepest awe of him and
never dared to interfere with him, however
outrageous his proceedings might seem. She was fond
of him, too, for he had a remarkable gentleness and
courtesy in his dealings with women. He disliked and
distrusted the sex, but he was always a chivalrous
opponent. Knowing how genuine was her regard for
him, I listened earnestly to her story when she came
to my rooms in the second year of my married life
and told me of the sad condition to which my poor
friend was reduced.
“He’s dying, Dr. Watson,” said she. “For three days
he has been sinking, and I doubt if he will last the
day. He would not let me get a doctor. This morning
when I saw his bones sticking out of his face and
his great bright eyes looking at me I could stand no
more of it. ‘With your leave or without it, Mr.
Holmes, I am going for a doctor this very hour,’
said I. ‘Let it be Watson, then,’ said he. I
wouldn’t waste an hour in coming to him, sir, or you
may not see him alive.”
I was horrified for I had heard nothing of his
illness. I need not say that I rushed for my coat
and my hat. As we drove back I asked for the
details.
“There is little I can tell you, sir. He has been
working at a case down at Rotherhithe, in an alley
near the river, and he has brought this illness back
with him. He took to his bed on Wednesday afternoon
and has never moved since. For these three days
neither food nor drink has passed his lips.”
“Good God! Why did you not call in a doctor?”
“He wouldn’t have it, sir. You know how masterful he
is. I didn’t dare to disobey him. But he’s not long
for this world, as you’ll see for yourself the
moment that you set eyes on him.”
He was indeed a deplorable spectacle. In the dim
light of a foggy November day the sick room was a
gloomy spot, but it was that gaunt, wasted face
staring at me from the bed which sent a chill to my
heart. His eyes had the brightness of fever, there
was a hectic flush upon either cheek, and dark
crusts clung to his lips; the thin hands upon the
coverlet twitched incessantly, his voice was
croaking and spasmodic. He lay listlessly as I
entered the room, but the sight of me brought a
gleam of recognition to his eyes.
“Well,
Watson, we seem to have fallen upon evil days,” said
he in a feeble voice, but with something of his old
carelessness of manner.
“My dear fellow!” I cried, approaching him.
[933] “Stand back! Stand right back!” said he with
the sharp imperiousness which I had associated only
with moments of crisis. “If you approach me, Watson,
I shall order you out of the house.”
“But why?”
“Because it is my desire. Is that not enough?”
Yes, Mrs. Hudson was right. He was more masterful
than ever. It was pitiful, however, to see his
exhaustion.
“I only wished to help,” I explained.
“Exactly! You will help best by doing what you are
told.”
“Certainly, Holmes.”
He relaxed the austerity of his manner.
“You are not angry?” he asked, gasping for breath.
Poor devil, how could I be angry when I saw him
lying in such a plight before me?
“It’s for your own sake, Watson,” he croaked.
“For my sake?”
“I know what is the matter with me. It is a coolie
disease from Sumatra– a thing that the Dutch know
more about than we, though they have made little of
it up to date. One thing only is certain. It is
infallibly deadly, and it is horribly contagious.”
He spoke now with a feverish energy, the long hands
twitching and jerking as he motioned me away.
“Contagious by touch, Watson–that’s it, by touch.
Keep your distance and all is well.”
“Good heavens, Holmes! Do you suppose that such a
consideration weighs with me for an instant? It
would not affect me in the case of a stranger. Do
you imagine it would prevent me from doing my duty
to so old a friend?”
Again I advanced, but he repulsed me with a look of
furious anger.
“If you will stand there I will talk. If you do not
you must leave the room.”
I have so deep a respect for the extraordinary
qualities of Holmes that I have always deferred to
his wishes, even when I least understood them. But
now all my professional instincts were aroused. Let
him be my master elsewhere, I at least was his in a
sick room.
“Holmes,” said I, “you are not yourself. A sick man
is but a child, and so I will treat you. Whether you
like it or not, I will examine your symptoms and
treat you for them.”
He looked at me with venomous eyes.
“If I am to have a doctor whether I will or not, let
me at least have someone in whom I have confidence,”
said he.
“Then you have none in me?”
“In your friendship, certainly. But facts are facts,
Watson, and, after all, you are only a general
practitioner with very limited experience and
mediocre qualifications. It is painful to have to
say these things, but you leave me no choice.”
I was bitterly hurt.
“Such a remark is unworthy of you, Holmes. It shows
me very clearly the state of your own nerves. But if
you have no confidence in me I would not intrude my
services. Let me bring Sir Jasper Meek or Penrose
Fisher, or any of the best men in London. But
someone you must have, and that is final. If you
think that I am going to stand here and see you die
without either helping you myself or bringing anyone
else to help you, then you have mistaken your man.”
[934] “You mean well, Watson,” said the sick man
with something between a sob and a groan. “Shall I
demonstrate your own ignorance? What do you know,
pray, of Tapanuli fever? What do you know of the
black Formosa corruption?”
“I have never heard of either.”
“There are many problems of disease, many strange
pathological possibilities, in the East, Watson.” He
paused after each sentence to collect his failing
strength. “I have learned so much during some recent
researches which have a medico-criminal aspect. It
was in the course of them that I contracted this
complaint. You can do nothing.”
“Possibly not. But I happen to know that Dr.
Ainstree, the greatest living authority upon
tropical disease, is now in London. All remonstrance
is useless, Holmes, I am going this instant to fetch
him.” I turned resolutely to the door.
Never have I
had such a shock! In an instant, with a
tiger-spring, the dying man had intercepted me. I
heard the sharp snap of a twisted key. The next
moment he had staggered back to his bed, exhausted
and panting after his one tremendous outflame of
energy.
“You won’t take the key from me by force, Watson,
I’ve got you, my friend. Here you are, and here you
will stay until I will otherwise. But I’ll humour
you.” (All this in little gasps, with terrible
struggles for breath between.) “You’ve only my own
good at heart. Of course I know that very well. You
shall have your way, but give me time to get my
strength. Not now, Watson, not now. It’s four
o’clock. At six you can go.”
“This is insanity, Holmes.”
“Only two hours, Watson. I promise you will go at
six. Are you content to wait?”
“I seem to have no choice.”
“None in the world, Watson. Thank you, I need no
help in arranging the clothes. You will please keep
your distance. Now, Watson, there is one other
condition that I would make. You will seek help, not
from the man you mention, but from the one that I
choose.”
“By all means.”
“The first three sensible words that you have
uttered since you entered this room, Watson. You
will find some books over there. I am somewhat
exhausted; I wonder how a battery feels when it
pours electricity into a non-conductor? At six,
Watson, we resume our conversation.”
But it was destined to be resumed long before that
hour, and in circumstances which gave me a shock
hardly second to that caused by his spring to the
door. I had stood for some minutes looking at the
silent figure in the bed. His face was almost
covered by the clothes and he appeared to be asleep.
Then, unable to settle down to reading, I walked
slowly round the room, examining the pictures of
celebrated criminals with which every wall was
adorned. Finally, in my aimless perambulation, I
came to the mantelpiece. A litter of pipes,
tobacco-pouches, syringes, penknives,
revolver-cartridges, and other debris was scattered
over it. In the midst of these was a small black and
white ivory box with a sliding lid. It was a neat
little thing, and I had stretched out my hand to
examine it more closely when– –
It was a dreadful cry that he gave–a yell which
might have been heard down the street. My skin went
cold and my hair bristled at that horrible scream.
As I turned I caught a glimpse of a convulsed face
and frantic eyes. I stood paralyzed, with the little
box in my hand.
[935] “Put
it down! Down, this instant, Watson–this instant, I
say!” His head sank back upon the pillow and he gave
a deep sigh of relief as I replaced the box upon the
mantelpiece. “I hate to have my things touched,
Watson. You know that I hate it. You fidget me
beyond endurance. You, a doctor–you are enough to
drive a patient into an asylum. Sit down, man, and
let me have my rest!”
The incident left a most unpleasant impression upon
my mind. The violent and causeless excitement,
followed by this brutality of speech, so far removed
from his usual suavity, showed me how deep was the
disorganization of his mind. Of all ruins, that of a
noble mind is the most deplorable. I sat in silent
dejection until the stipulated time had passed. He
seemed to have been watching the clock as well as I,
for it was hardly six before he began to talk with
the same feverish animation as before.
“Now, Watson,” said he. “Have you any change in your
pocket?”
“Yes.”
“Any silver?”
“A good deal.”
“How many half-crowns?”
“I have five.”
“Ah, too few! Too few! How very unfortunate, Watson!
However, such as they are you can put them in your
watchpocket. And all the rest of your money in your
left trouserpocket. Thank you. It will balance you
so much better like that.”
This was raving insanity. He shuddered, and again
made a sound between a cough and a sob.
“You will now light the gas, Watson, but you will be
very careful that not for one instant shall it be
more than half on. I implore you to be careful,
Watson. Thank you, that is excellent. No, you need
not draw the blind. Now you will have the kindness
to place some letters and papers upon this table
within my reach. Thank you. Now some of that litter
from the mantelpiece. Excellent, Watson! There is a
sugar-tongs there. Kindly raise that small ivory box
with its assistance. Place it here among the papers.
Good! You can now go and fetch Mr. Culverton Smith,
of 13 Lower Burke Street.”
To tell the truth, my desire to fetch a doctor had
somewhat weakened, for poor Holmes was so obviously
delirious that it seemed dangerous to leave him.
However, he was as eager now to consult the person
named as he had been obstinate in refusing.
“I never heard the name,” said I.
“Possibly not, my good Watson. It may surprise you
to know that the man upon earth who is best versed
in this disease is not a medical man, but a planter.
Mr. Culverton Smith is a well-known resident of
Sumatra, now visiting London. An outbreak of the
disease upon his plantation, which was distant from
medical aid, caused him to study it himself, with
some rather far-reaching consequences. He is a very
methodical person, and I did not desire you to start
before six, because I was well aware that you would
not find him in his study. If you could persuade him
to come here and give us the benefit of his unique
experience of this disease, the investigation of
which has been his dearest hobby, I cannot doubt
that he could help me.”
I give Holmes’s remarks as a consecutive whole and
will not attempt to indicate how they were
interrupted by gaspings for breath and those
clutchings of his hands which indicated the pain
from which he was suffering. His appearance had
changed [936] for the worse during the few hours
that I had been with him. Those hectic spots were
more pronounced, the eyes shone more brightly out of
darker hollows, and a cold sweat glimmered upon his
brow. He still retained, however, the jaunty
gallantry of his speech. To the last gasp he would
always be the master.
“You will tell him exactly how you have left me,”
said he. “You will convey the very impression which
is in your own mind–a dying man–a dying and
delirious man. Indeed, I cannot think why the whole
bed of the ocean is not one solid mass of oysters,
so prolific the creatures seem. Ah, I am wandering!
Strange how the brain controls the brain! What was I
saying, Watson?”
“My directions for Mr. Culverton Smith.”
“Ah, yes, I remember. My life depends upon it. Plead
with him, Watson. There is no good feeling between
us. His nephew, Watson–I had suspicions of foul play
and I allowed him to see it. The boy died horribly.
He has a grudge against me. You will soften him,
Watson. Beg him, pray him, get him here by any
means. He can save me–only he!”
“I will bring him in a cab, if I have to carry him
down to it.”
“You will do nothing of the sort. You will persuade
him to come. And then you will return in front of
him. Make any excuse so as not to come with him.
Don’t forget, Watson. You won’t fail me. You never
did fail me. No doubt there are natural enemies
which limit the increase of the creatures. You and
I, Watson, we have done our part. Shall the world,
then, be overrun by oysters? No, no; horrible!
You’ll convey all that is in your mind.”
I left him full of the image of this magnificent
intellect babbling like a foolish child. He had
handed me the key, and with a happy thought I took
it with me lest he should lock himself in. Mrs.
Hudson was waiting, trembling and weeping, in the
passage. Behind me as I passed from the flat I heard
Holmes’s high, thin voice in some delirious chant.
Below, as I stood whistling for a cab, a man came on
me through the fog.
“How is Mr. Holmes, sir?” he asked.
It was an old acquaintance, Inspector Morton, of
Scotland Yard, dressed in unofficial tweeds.
“He is very ill,” I answered.
He looked at me in a most singular fashion. Had it
not been too fiendish, I could have imagined that
the gleam of the fanlight showed exultation in his
face.
“I heard some rumour of it,” said he.
The cab had driven up, and I left him.
Lower Burke Street proved to be a line of fine
houses lying in the vague borderland between Notting
Hill and Kensington. The particular one at which my
cabman pulled up had an air of smug and demure
respectability in its old-fashioned iron railings,
its massive folding-door, and its shining brasswork.
All was in keeping with a solemn butler who appeared
framed in the pink radiance of a tinted electric
light behind him.
“Yes, Mr. Culverton Smith is in. Dr. Watson! Very
good, sir, I will take up your card.”
My humble name and title did not appear to impress
Mr. Culverton Smith. Through the half-open door I
heard a high, petulant, penetrating voice.
“Who is this person? What does he want? Dear me,
Staples, how often have I said that I am not to be
disturbed in my hours of study?”
There came a gentle flow of soothing explanation
from the butler.
[937] “Well, I won’t see him, Staples. I can’t have
my work interrupted like this. I am not at home. Say
so. Tell him to come in the morning if he really
must see me.”
Again the gentle murmur.
“Well, well, give him that message. He can come in
the morning, or he can stay away. My work must not
be hindered.”
I thought of Holmes tossing upon his bed of sickness
and counting the minutes, perhaps, until I could
bring help to him. It was not a time to stand upon
ceremony. His life depended upon my promptness.
Before the apologetic butler had delivered his
message I had pushed past him and was in the room.
With a shrill cry of anger a man rose from a
reclining chair beside the fire. I saw a great
yellow face, coarse-grained and greasy, with heavy,
double-chin, and two sullen, menacing gray eyes
which glared at me from under tufted and sandy
brows. A high bald head had a small velvet
smoking-cap poised coquettishly upon one side of its
pink curve. The skull was of enormous capacity, and
yet as I looked down I saw to my amazement that the
figure of the man was small and frail, twisted in
the shoulders and back like one who has suffered
from rickets in his childhood.
“What’s
this?” he cried in a high, screaming voice. “What is
the meaning of this intrusion? Didn’t I send you
word that I would see you to-morrow morning?”
“I am sorry,” said I, “but the matter cannot be
delayed. Mr. Sherlock Holmes– –”
The mention of my friend’s name had an extraordinary
effect upon the little man. The look of anger passed
in an instant from his face. His features became
tense and alert.
“Have you come from Holmes?” he asked.
“I have just left him.”
“What about Holmes? How is he?”
“He is desperately ill. That is why I have come.”
The man motioned me to a chair, and turned to resume
his own. As he did so I caught a glimpse of his face
in the mirror over the mantelpiece. I could have
sworn that it was set in a malicious and abominable
smile. Yet I persuaded myself that it must have been
some nervous contraction which I had surprised, for
he turned to me an instant later with genuine
concern upon his features.
“I am sorry to hear this,” said he. “I only know Mr.
Holmes through some business dealings which we have
had, but I have every respect for his talents and
his character. He is an amateur of crime, as I am of
disease. For him the villain, for me the microbe.
There are my prisons,” he continued, pointing to a
row of bottles and jars which stood upon a side
table. “Among those gelatine cultivations some of
the very worst offenders in the world are now doing
time.”
“It was on account of your special knowledge that
Mr. Holmes desired to see you. He has a high opinion
of you and thought that you were the one man in
London who could help him.”
The little man started, and the jaunty smoking-cap
slid to the floor.
“Why?” he asked. “Why should Mr. Holmes think that I
could help him in his trouble?”
“Because of your knowledge of Eastern diseases.”
“But why should he think that this disease which he
has contracted is Eastern?”
“Because, in some professional inquiry, he has been
working among Chinese sailors down in the docks.”
Mr. Culverton Smith smiled pleasantly and picked up
his smoking-cap.
[938] “Oh, that’s it–is it?” said he. “I trust the
matter is not so grave as you suppose. How long has
he been ill?”
“About three days.”
“Is he delirious?”
“Occasionally.”
“Tut, tut! This sounds serious. It would be inhuman
not to answer his call. I very much resent any
interruption to my work, Dr. Watson, but this case
is certainly exceptional. I will come with you at
once.”
I remembered Holmes’s injunction.
“I have another appointment,” said I.
“Very good. I will go alone. I have a note of Mr.
Holmes’s address. You can rely upon my being there
within half an hour at most.”
It was with a sinking heart that I reentered
Holmes’s bedroom. For all that I knew the worst
might have happened in my absence. To my enormous
relief, he had improved greatly in the interval. His
appearance was as ghastly as ever, but all trace of
delirium had left him and he spoke in a feeble
voice, it is true, but with even more than his usual
crispness and lucidity.
“Well, did you see him, Watson?”
“Yes; he is coming.”
“Admirable, Watson! Admirable! You are the best of
messengers.”
“He wished to return with me.”
“That would never do, Watson. That would be
obviously impossible. Did he ask what ailed me?”
“I told him about the Chinese in the East End.”
“Exactly! Well, Watson, you have done all that a
good friend could. You can now disappear from the
scene.”
“I must wait and hear his opinion, Holmes.”
“Of course you must. But I have reasons to suppose
that this opinion would be very much more frank and
valuable if he imagines that we are alone. There is
just room behind the head of my bed, Watson.”
“My dear Holmes!”
“I fear there is no alternative, Watson. The room
does not lend itself to concealment, which is as
well, as it is the less likely to arouse suspicion.
But just there, Watson, I fancy that it could be
done.” Suddenly he sat up with a rigid intentness
upon his haggard face. “There are the wheels,
Watson. Quick, man, if you love me! And don’t budge,
whatever happens–whatever happens, do you hear?
Don’t speak! Don’t move! Just listen with all your
ears.” Then in an instant his sudden access of
strength departed, and his masterful, purposeful
talk droned away into the low, vague murmurings of a
semi-delirious man.
From the hiding-place into which I had been so
swiftly hustled I heard the footfalls upon the
stair, with the opening and the closing of the
bedroom door. Then, to my surprise, there came a
long silence, broken only by the heavy breathings
and gaspings of the sick man. I could imagine that
our visitor was standing by the bedside and looking
down at the sufferer. At last that strange hush was
broken.
“Holmes!” he cried. “Holmes!” in the insistent tone
of one who awakens a sleeper. “Can’t you hear me,
Holmes?” There was a rustling, as if he had shaken
the sick man roughly by the shoulder.
“Is that you, Mr. Smith?” Holmes whispered. “I
hardly dared hope that you would come.”
[939] The other laughed.
“I should imagine not,” he said. “And yet, you see,
I am here. Coals of fire, Holmes–coals of fire!”
“It is very good of you–very noble of you. I
appreciate your special knowledge.”
Our visitor sniggered.
“You do. You are, fortunately, the only man in
London who does. Do you know what is the matter with
you?”
“The same,” said Holmes.
“Ah! You recognize the symptoms?”
“Only too well.”
“Well, I shouldn’t be surprised, Holmes. I shouldn’t
be surprised if it were the same. A bad lookout for
you if it is. Poor Victor was a dead man on the
fourth day–a strong, hearty young fellow. It was
certainly, as you said, very surprising that he
should have contracted an out-of-the-way Asiatic
disease in the heart of London–a disease, too, of
which I had made such a very special study. Singular
coincidence, Holmes. Very smart of you to notice it,
but rather uncharitable to suggest that it was cause
and effect.”
“I knew that you did it.”
“Oh, you did, did you? Well, you couldn’t prove it,
anyhow. But what do you think of yourself spreading
reports about me like that, and then crawling to me
for help the moment you are in trouble? What sort of
a game is that–eh?”
I heard the rasping, laboured breathing of the sick
man. “Give me the water!” he gasped.
“You’re precious near your end, my friend, but I
don’t want you to go till I have had a word with
you. That’s why I give you water. There, don’t slop
it about! That’s right. Can you understand what I
say?”
Holmes groaned.
“Do what you can for me. Let bygones be bygones,” he
whispered. “I’ll put the words out of my head–I
swear I will. Only cure me, and I’ll forget it.”
“Forget what?”
“Well, about Victor Savage’s death. You as good as
admitted just now that you had done it. I’ll forget
it.”
“You can forget it or remember it, just as you like.
I don’t see you in the witness-box. Quite another
shaped box, my good Holmes, I assure you. It matters
nothing to me that you should know how my nephew
died. It’s not him we are talking about. It’s you.”
“Yes, yes.”
“The fellow who came for me–I’ve forgotten his
name–said that you contracted it down in the East
End among the sailors.”
“I could only account for it so.”
“You are proud of your brains, Holmes, are you not?
Think yourself smart, don’t you? You came across
someone who was smarter this time. Now cast your
mind back, Holmes. Can you think of no other way you
could have got this thing?”
“I can’t think. My mind is gone. For heaven’s sake
help me!”
“Yes, I will help you. I’ll help you to understand
just where you are and how you got there. I’d like
you to know before you die.”
“Give me something to ease my pain.”
“Painful, is it? Yes, the coolies used to do some
squealing towards the end. Takes you as cramp, I
fancy.”
[940] “Yes, yes; it is cramp.”
“Well, you can hear what I say, anyhow. Listen now!
Can you remember any unusual incident in your life
just about the time your symptoms began?”
“No, no; nothing.”
“Think again.”
“I’m too ill to think.”
“Well, then, I’ll help you. Did anything come by
post?”
“By post?”
“A box by chance?”
“I’m fainting–I’m gone!”
“Listen, Holmes!” There was a sound as if he was
shaking the dying man, and it was all that I could
do to hold myself quiet in my hiding-place. “You
must hear me. You shall hear me. Do you remember a
box–an ivory box? It came on Wednesday. You opened
it–do you remember?”
“Yes, yes, I opened it. There was a sharp spring
inside it. Some joke– –”
“It was no joke, as you will find to your cost. You
fool, you would have it and you have got it. Who
asked you to cross my path? If you had left me alone
I would not have hurt you.”
“I remember,” Holmes gasped. “The spring! It drew
blood. This box– this on the table.”
“The very one, by George! And it may as well leave
the room in my pocket. There goes your last shred of
evidence. But you have the truth now, Holmes, and
you can die with the knowledge that I killed you.
You knew too much of the fate of Victor Savage, so I
have sent you to share it. You are very near your
end, Holmes. I will sit here and I will watch you
die.”
Holmes’s voice had sunk to an almost inaudible
whisper.
“What is that?” said Smith. “Turn up the gas? Ah,
the shadows begin to fall, do they? Yes, I will turn
it up, that I may see you the better.” He crossed
the room and the light suddenly brightened. “Is
there any other little service that I can do you, my
friend?”
“A match and a cigarette.”
I nearly called out in my joy and my amazement. He
was speaking in his natural voice–a little weak,
perhaps, but the very voice I knew. There was a long
pause, and I felt that Culverton Smith was standing
in silent amazement looking down at his companion.
“What’s the meaning of this?” I heard him say at
last in a dry, rasping tone.
“The best way of successfully acting a part is to be
it,” said Holmes. “I give you my word that for three
days I have tasted neither food nor drink until you
were good enough to pour me out that glass of water.
But it is the tobacco which I find most irksome. Ah,
here are some cigarettes.” I heard the striking of a
match. “That is very much better. Halloa! halloa! Do
I hear the step of a friend?”
There were footfalls outside, the door opened, and
Inspector Morton appeared.
“All is in order and this is your man,” said Holmes.
The officer gave the usual cautions.
“I arrest you on the charge of the murder of one
Victor Savage,” he concluded.
“And you might add of the attempted murder of one
Sherlock Holmes,” remarked my friend with a chuckle.
“To save an invalid trouble, Inspector, Mr.
Culverton Smith was good enough to give our signal
by turning up the gas. By the way, the prisoner has
a small box in the right-hand pocket of his coat
which it [941] would be as well to remove. Thank
you. I would handle it gingerly if I were you. Put
it down here. It may play its part in the trial.”
There was a sudden rush and a scuffle, followed by
the clash of iron and a cry of pain.
“You’ll only
get yourself hurt,” said the inspector. “Stand
still, will you?” There was the click of the closing
handcuffs.
“A nice trap!” cried the high, snarling voice. “It
will bring you into the dock, Holmes, not me. He
asked me to come here to cure him. I was sorry for
him and I came. Now he will pretend, no doubt, that
I have said anything which he may invent which will
corroborate his insane suspicions. You can lie as
you like, Holmes. My word is always as good as
yours.”
“Good heavens!” cried Holmes. “I had totally
forgotten him. My dear Watson, I owe you a thousand
apologies. To think that I should have overlooked
you! I need not introduce you to Mr. Culverton
Smith, since I understand that you met somewhat
earlier in the evening. Have you the cab below? I
will follow you when I am dressed, for I may be of
some use at the station.
“I never needed it more,” said Holmes as he
refreshed himself with a glass of claret and some
biscuits in the intervals of his toilet. “However,
as you know, my habits are irregular, and such a
feat means less to me than to most men. It was very
essential that I should impress Mrs. Hudson with the
reality of my condition, since she was to convey it
to you, and you in turn to him. You won’t be
offended, Watson? You will realize that among your
many talents dissimulation finds no place, and that
if you had shared my secret you would never have
been able to impress Smith with the urgent necessity
of his presence, which was the vital point of the
whole scheme. Knowing his vindictive nature, I was
perfectly certain that he would come to look upon
his handiwork.”
“But your appearance, Holmes–your ghastly face?”
“Three days of absolute fast does not improve one’s
beauty, Watson. For the rest, there is nothing which
a sponge may not cure. With vaseline upon one’s
forehead, belladonna in one’s eyes, rouge over the
cheek-bones, and crusts of beeswax round one’s lips,
a very satisfying effect can be produced.
Malingering is a subject upon which I have sometimes
thought of writing a monograph. A little occasional
talk about half-crowns, oysters, or any other
extraneous subject produces a pleasing effect of
delirium.”
“But why would you not let me near you, since there
was in truth no infection?”
“Can you ask, my dear Watson? Do you imagine that I
have no respect for your medical talents? Could I
fancy that your astute judgment would pass a dying
man who, however weak, had no rise of pulse or
temperature? At four yards, I could deceive you. If
I failed to do so, who would bring my Smith within
my grasp? No, Watson, I would not touch that box.
You can just see if you look at it sideways where
the sharp spring like a viper’s tooth emerges as you
open it. I dare say it was by some such device that
poor Savage, who stood between this monster and a
reversion, was done to death. My correspondence,
however, is, as you know, a varied one, and I am
somewhat upon my guard against any packages which
reach me. It was clear to me, however, that by
pretending that he had really succeeded in his
design I might surprise a confession. That pretence
I have carried out with the thoroughness of the true
artist. Thank you, Watson, you must help me on with
my coat. When we have finished at the police-station
I think that something nutritious at Simpson’s would
not be out of place.”
|
|
THE
DISAPPEARANCE OF LADY FRANCES CARFAX
“BUT why
Turkish?” asked Mr. Sherlock Holmes, gazing fixedly
at my boots. I was reclining in a cane-backed chair
at the moment, and my protruded feet had attracted
his ever-active attention.
“English,” I answered in some surprise. “I got them
at Latimer’s, in Oxford Street.”
Holmes smiled with an expression of weary patience.
“The bath!” he said; “the bath! Why the relaxing and
expensive Turkish rather than the invigorating
home-made article?”
“Because for the last few days I have been feeling
rheumatic and old. A Turkish bath is what we call an
alterative in medicine–a fresh starting-point, a
cleanser of the system.
“By the way, Holmes,” I added, “I have no doubt the
connection between my boots and a Turkish bath is a
perfectly self-evident one to a logical mind, and
yet I should be obliged to you if you would indicate
it.”
“The train of reasoning is not very obscure,
Watson,” said Holmes with a mischievous twinkle. “It
belongs to the same elementary class of deduction
which I should illustrate if I were to ask you who
shared your cab in your drive this morning.”
“I don’t admit that a fresh illustration is an
explanation,” said I with some asperity.
“Bravo, Watson! A very dignified and logical
remonstrance. Let me see, what were the points? Take
the last one first–the cab. You observe that you
have some splashes on the left sleeve and shoulder
of your coat. Had you sat in the centre of a hansom
you would probably have had no splashes, and if you
had they would certainly have been symmetrical.
Therefore it is clear that you sat at the side.
Therefore it is equally clear that you had a
companion.”
“That is very evident.”
“Absurdly commonplace, is it not?”
“But the boots and the bath?”
“Equally childish. You are in the habit of doing up
your boots in a certain way. I see them on this
occasion fastened with an elaborate double bow,
which is not your usual method of tying them. You
have, therefore, had them off. Who has tied them? A
bootmaker–or the boy at the bath. It is unlikely
that it is the bootmaker, since your boots are
nearly new. Well, what remains? The bath. Absurd, is
it not? But, for all that, the Turkish bath has
served a purpose.”
“What is that?”
“You say that you have had it because you need a
change. Let me suggest that you take one. How would
Lausanne do, my dear Watson–first-class tickets and
all expenses paid on a princely scale?”
“Splendid! But why?”
Holmes leaned back in his armchair and took his
notebook from his pocket.
“One of the most dangerous classes in the world,”
said he, “is the drifting and friendless woman. She
is the most harmless and often the most useful of
mortals, [943] but she is the inevitable inciter of
crime in others. She is helpless. She is migratory.
She has sufficient means to take her from country to
country and from hotel to hotel. She is lost, as
often as not, in a maze of obscure pensions and
boarding-houses. She is a stray chicken in a world
of foxes. When she is gobbled up she is hardly
missed. I much fear that some evil has come to the
Lady Frances Carfax.”
I was relieved at this sudden descent from the
general to the particular. Holmes consulted his
notes.
“Lady Frances,” he continued, “is the sole survivor
of the direct family of the late Earl of Rufton. The
estates went, as you may remember, in the male line.
She was left with limited means, but with some very
remarkable old Spanish jewellery of silver and
curiously cut diamonds to which she was fondly
attached–too attached, for she refused to leave them
with her banker and always carried them about with
her. A rather pathetic figure, the Lady Frances, a
beautiful woman, still in fresh middle age, and yet,
by a strange chance, the last derelict of what only
twenty years ago was a goodly fleet.”
“What has happened to her, then?”
“Ah, what has happened to the Lady Frances? Is she
alive or dead? There is our problem. She is a lady
of precise habits, and for four years it has been
her invariable custom to write every second week to
Miss Dobney, her old governess, who has long retired
and lives in Camberwell. It is this Miss Dobney who
has consulted me. Nearly five weeks have passed
without a word. The last letter was from the Hotel
National at Lausanne. Lady Frances seems to have
left there and given no address. The family are
anxious, and as they are exceedingly wealthy no sum
will be spared if we can clear the matter up.”
“Is Miss Dobney the only source of information?
Surely she had other correspondents?”
“There is one correspondent who is a sure draw,
Watson. That is the bank. Single ladies must live,
and their passbooks are compressed diaries. She
banks at Silvester’s. I have glanced over her
account. The last check but one paid her bill at
Lausanne, but it was a large one and probably left
her with cash in hand. Only one check has been drawn
since.”
“To whom, and where?”
“To Miss Marie Devine. There is nothing to show
where the check was drawn. It was cashed at the
Crйdit Lyonnais at Montpellier less than three weeks
ago. The sum was fifty pounds.”
“And who is Miss Marie Devine?”
“That also I have been able to discover. Miss Marie
Devine was the maid of Lady Frances Carfax. Why she
should have paid her this check we have not yet
determined. I have no doubt, however, that your
researches will soon clear the matter up.”
“My researches!”
“Hence the health-giving expedition to Lausanne. You
know that I cannot possibly leave London while old
Abrahams is in such mortal terror of his life.
Besides, on general principles it is best that I
should not leave the country. Scotland Yard feels
lonely without me, and it causes an unhealthy
excitement among the criminal classes. Go, then, my
dear Watson, and if my humble counsel can ever be
valued at so extravagant a rate as two pence a word,
it waits your disposal night and day at the end of
the Continental wire.”
[944] Two days later found me at the Hфtel National
at Lausanne, where I received every courtesy at the
hands of M. Moser, the well-known manager. Lady
Frances, as he informed me, had stayed there for
several weeks. She had been much liked by all who
met her. Her age was not more than forty. She was
still handsome and bore every sign of having in her
youth been a very lovely woman. M. Moser knew
nothing of any valuable jewellery, but it had been
remarked by the servants that the heavy trunk in the
lady’s bedroom was always scrupulously locked. Marie
Devine, the maid, was as popular as her mistress.
She was actually engaged to one of the head waiters
in the hotel, and there was no difficulty in getting
her address. It was 11 Rue de Trajan, Montpellier.
All this I jotted down and felt that Holmes himself
could not have been more adroit in collecting his
facts.
Only one corner still remained in the shadow. No
light which I possessed could clear up the cause for
the lady’s sudden departure. She was very happy at
Lausanne. There was every reason to believe that she
intended to remain for the season in her luxurious
rooms overlooking the lake. And yet she had left at
a single day’s notice, which involved her in the
useless payment of a week’s rent. Only Jules Vibart,
the lover of the maid, had any suggestion to offer.
He connected the sudden departure with the visit to
the hotel a day or two before of a tall, dark,
bearded man. “Un sauvage–un vйritable sauvage!”
cried Jules Vibart. The man had rooms somewhere in
the town. He had been seen talking earnestly to
Madame on the promenade by the lake. Then he had
called. She had refused to see him. He was English,
but of his name there was no record. Madame had left
the place immediately afterwards. Jules Vibart, and,
what was of more importance, Jules Vibart’s
sweetheart, thought that this call and this
departure were cause and effect. Only one thing
Jules would not discuss. That was the reason why
Marie had left her mistress. Of that he could or
would say nothing. If I wished to know, I must go to
Montpellier and ask her.
So ended the first chapter of my inquiry. The second
was devoted to the place which Lady Frances Carfax
had sought when she left Lausanne. Concerning this
there had been some secrecy, which confirmed the
idea that she had gone with the intention of
throwing someone off her track. Otherwise why should
not her luggage have been openly labelled for Baden?
Both she and it reached the Rhenish spa by some
circuitous route. This much I gathered from the
manager of Cook’s local office. So to Baden I went,
after dispatching to Holmes an account of all my
proceedings and receiving in reply a telegram of
half-humorous commendation.
At Baden the track was not difficult to follow. Lady
Frances had stayed at the Englischer Hof for a
fortnight. While there she had made the acquaintance
of a Dr. Shlessinger and his wife, a missionary from
South America. Like most lonely ladies, Lady Frances
found her comfort and occupation in religion. Dr.
Shlessinger’s remarkable personality, his
whole-hearted devotion, and the fact that he was
recovering from a disease contracted in the exercise
of his apostolic duties affected her deeply. She had
helped Mrs. Shlessinger in the nursing of the
convalescent saint. He spent his day, as the manager
described it to me, upon a lounge-chair on the
veranda, with an attendant lady upon either side of
him. He was preparing a map of the Holy Land, with
special reference to the kingdom of the Midianites,
upon which he was writing a monograph. Finally,
having improved much in health, he and his wife had
returned to London, and Lady Frances had started
thither in their company. This was just three weeks
before, and the manager had heard nothing since. As
to the maid, Marie, she had gone off some days [945]
beforehand in floods of tears, after informing the
other maids that she was leaving service forever.
Dr. Shlessinger had paid the bill of the whole party
before his departure.
“By the
way,” said the landlord in conclusion, “you are not
the only friend of Lady Frances Carfax who is
inquiring after her just now. Only a week or so ago
we had a man here upon the same errand.”
“Did he give a name?” I asked.
“None; but he was an Englishman, though of an
unusual type.”
“A savage?” said I, linking my facts after the
fashion of my illustrious friend.
“Exactly. That describes him very well. He is a
bulky, bearded, sunburned fellow, who looks as if he
would be more at home in a farmers’ inn than in a
fashionable hotel. A hard, fierce man, I should
think, and one whom I should be sorry to offend.”
Already the mystery began to define itself, as
figures grow clearer with the lifting of a fog. Here
was this good and pious lady pursued from place to
place by a sinister and unrelenting figure. She
feared him, or she would not have fled from
Lausanne. He had still followed. Sooner or later he
would overtake her. Had he already overtaken her?
Was that the secret of her continued silence? Could
the good people who were her companions not screen
her from his violence or his blackmail? What
horrible purpose, what deep design, lay behind this
long pursuit? There was the problem which I had to
solve.
To Holmes I wrote showing how rapidly and surely I
had got down to the roots of the matter. In reply I
had a telegram asking for a description of Dr.
Shlessinger’s left ear. Holmes’s ideas of humour are
strange and occasionally offensive, so I took no
notice of his ill-timed jest–indeed, I had already
reached Montpellier in my pursuit of the maid,
Marie, before his message came.
I had no difficulty in finding the ex-servant and in
learning all that she could tell me. She was a
devoted creature, who had only left her mistress
because she was sure that she was in good hands, and
because her own approaching marriage made a
separation inevitable in any case. Her mistress had,
as she confessed with distress, shown some
irritability of temper towards her during their stay
in Baden, and had even questioned her once as if she
had suspicions of her honesty, and this had made the
parting easier than it would otherwise have been.
Lady Frances had given her fifty pounds as a
wedding-present. Like me, Marie viewed with deep
distrust the stranger who had driven her mistress
from Lausanne. With her own eyes she had seen him
seize the lady’s wrist with great violence on the
public promenade by the lake. He was a fierce and
terrible man. She believed that it was out of dread
of him that Lady Frances had accepted the escort of
the Shlessingers to London. She had never spoken to
Marie about it, but many little signs had convinced
the maid that her mistress lived in a state of
continual nervous apprehension. So far she had got
in her narrative, when suddenly she sprang from her
chair and her face was convulsed with surprise and
fear. “See!” she cried. “The miscreant follows
still! There is the very man of whom I speak.”
Through the open sitting-room window I saw a huge,
swarthy man with a bristling black beard walking
slowly down the centre of the street and staring
eagerly at the numbers of the houses. It was clear
that, like myself, he was on the track of the maid.
Acting upon the impulse of the moment, I rushed out
and accosted him.
“You are an Englishman,” I said.
“What if I am?” he asked with a most villainous
scowl.
[946] “May I ask what your name is?”
“No, you may not,” said he with decision.
The situation was awkward, but the most direct way
is often the best.
“Where is the Lady Frances Carfax?” I asked.
He stared at me in amazement.
“What have you done with her? Why have you pursued
her? I insist upon an answer!” said I.
The fellow
gave a bellow of anger and sprang upon me like a
tiger. I have held my own in many a struggle, but
the man had a grip of iron and the fury of a fiend.
His hand was on my throat and my senses were nearly
gone before an unshaven French ouvrier in a blue
blouse darted out from a cabaret opposite, with a
cudgel in his hand, and struck my assailant a sharp
crack over the forearm, which made him leave go his
hold. He stood for an instant fuming with rage and
uncertain whether he should not renew his attack.
Then, with a snarl of anger, he left me and entered
the cottage from which I had just come. I turned to
thank my preserver, who stood beside me in the
roadway.
“Well, Watson,” said he, “a very pretty hash you
have made of it! I rather think you had better come
back with me to London by the night express.”
An hour afterwards, Sherlock Holmes, in his usual
garb and style, was seated in my private room at the
hotel. His explanation of his sudden and opportune
appearance was simplicity itself, for, finding that
he could get away from London, he determined to head
me off at the next obvious point of my travels. In
the disguise of a workingman he had sat in the
cabaret waiting for my appearance.
“And a singularly consistent investigation you have
made, my dear Watson,” said he. “I cannot at the
moment recall any possible blunder which you have
omitted. The total effect of your proceeding has
been to give the alarm everywhere and yet to
discover nothing.”
“Perhaps you would have done no better,” I answered
bitterly.
“There is no ‘perhaps’ about it. I have done better.
Here is the Hon. Philip Green, who is a
fellow-lodger with you in this hotel, and we may
find him the starting-point for a more successful
investigation.”
A card had come up on a salver, and it was followed
by the same bearded ruffian who had attacked me in
the street. He started when he saw me.
“What is this, Mr. Holmes?” he asked. “I had your
note and I have come. But what has this man to do
with the matter?”
“This is my old friend and associate, Dr. Watson,
who is helping us in this affair.”
The stranger held out a huge, sunburned hand, with a
few words of apology.
“I hope I didn’t harm you. When you accused me of
hurting her I lost my grip of myself. Indeed, I’m
not responsible in these days. My nerves are like
live wires. But this situation is beyond me. What I
want to know, in the first place, Mr. Holmes, is,
how in the world you came to hear of my existence at
all.”
“I am in touch with Miss Dobney, Lady Frances’s
governess.”
“Old Susan Dobney with the mob cap! I remember her
well.”
“And she remembers you. It was in the days
before–before you found it better to go to South
Africa.”
“Ah, I see you know my whole story. I need hide
nothing from you. I swear to you, Mr. Holmes, that
there never was in this world a man who loved a
woman with a more wholehearted love than I had for
Frances. I was a wild youngster, I [947] know–not
worse than others of my class. But her mind was pure
as snow. She could not bear a shadow of coarseness.
So, when she came to hear of things that I had done,
she would have no more to say to me. And yet she
loved me–that is the wonder of it!–loved me well
enough to remain single all her sainted days just
for my sake alone. When the years had passed and I
had made my money at Barberton I thought perhaps I
could seek her out and soften her. I had heard that
she was still unmarried. I found her at Lausanne and
tried all I knew. She weakened, I think, but her
will was strong, and when next I called she had left
the town. I traced her to Baden, and then after a
time heard that her maid was here. I’m a rough
fellow, fresh from a rough life, and when Dr. Watson
spoke to me as he did I lost hold of myself for a
moment. But for God’s sake tell me what has become
of the Lady Frances.”
“That is for us to find out,” said Sherlock Holmes
with peculiar gravity. “What is your London address,
Mr. Green?”
“The Langham Hotel will find me.”
“Then may I recommend that you return there and be
on hand in case I should want you? I have no desire
to encourage false hopes, but you may rest assured
that all that can be done will be done for the
safety of Lady Frances. I can say no more for the
instant. I will leave you this card so that you may
be able to keep in touch with us. Now, Watson, if
you will pack your bag I will cable to Mrs. Hudson
to make one of her best efforts for two hungry
travellers at 7:30 to-morrow.”
A telegram
was awaiting us when we reached our Baker Street
rooms, which Holmes read with an exclamation of
interest and threw across to me. “Jagged or torn,”
was the message, and the place of origin, Baden.
“What is this?” I asked.
“It is everything,” Holmes answered. “You may
remember my seemingly irrelevant question as to this
clerical gentleman’s left ear. You did not answer
it.”
“I had left Baden and could not inquire.”
“Exactly. For this reason I sent a duplicate to the
manager of the Englischer Hof, whose answer lies
here.”
“What does it show?”
“It shows, my dear Watson, that we are dealing with
an exceptionally astute and dangerous man. The Rev.
Dr. Shlessinger, missionary from South America, is
none other than Holy Peters, one of the most
unscrupulous rascals that Australia has ever
evolved–and for a young country it has turned out
some very finished types. His particular specialty
is the beguiling of lonely ladies by playing upon
their religious feelings, and his so-called wife, an
Englishwoman named Fraser, is a worthy helpmate. The
nature of his tactics suggested his identity to me,
and this physical peculiarity–he was badly bitten in
a saloon-fight at Adelaide in ’89–confirmed my
suspicion. This poor lady is in the hands of a most
infernal couple, who will stick at nothing, Watson.
That she is already dead is a very likely
supposition. If not, she is undoubtedly in some sort
of confinement and unable to write to Miss Dobney or
her other friends. It is always possible that she
never reached London, or that she has passed through
it, but the former is improbable, as, with their
system of registration, it is not easy for
foreigners to play tricks with the Continental
police; and the latter is also unlikely, as these
rogues could not hope to find any other place where
it would be as easy to keep a person under
restraint. All my instincts tell me that she is in
London, but as we have at present [948] no possible
means of telling where, we can only take the obvious
steps, eat our dinner, and possess our souls in
patience. Later in the evening I will stroll down
and have a word with friend Lestrade at Scotland
Yard.”
But neither the official police nor Holmes’s own
small but very efficient organization sufficed to
clear away the mystery. Amid the crowded millions of
London the three persons we sought were as
completely obliterated as if they had never lived.
Advertisements were tried, and failed. Clues were
followed, and led to nothing. Every criminal resort
which Shlessinger might frequent was drawn in vain.
His old associates were watched, but they kept clear
of him. And then suddenly, after a week of helpless
suspense there came a flash of light. A
silver-and-brilliant pendant of old Spanish design
had been pawned at Bovington’s, in Westminster Road.
The pawner was a large, clean-shaven man of clerical
appearance. His name and address were demonstrably
false. The ear had escaped notice, but the
description was surely that of Shlessinger.
Three times had our bearded friend from the Langham
called for news–the third time within an hour of
this fresh development. His clothes were getting
looser on his great body. He seemed to be wilting
away in his anxiety. “If you will only give me
something to do!” was his constant wail. At last
Holmes could oblige him.
“He has begun to pawn the jewels. We should get him
now.”
“But does this mean that any harm has befallen the
Lady Frances?”
Holmes shook his head very gravely.
“Supposing that they have held her prisoner up to
now, it is clear that they cannot let her loose
without their own destruction. We must prepare for
the worst.”
“What can I do?”
“These people do not know you by sight?”
“No.”
“It is possible that he will go to some other
pawnbroker in the future. In that case, we must
begin again. On the other hand, he has had a fair
price and no questions asked, so if he is in need of
ready-money he will probably come back to
Bovington’s. I will give you a note to them, and
they will let you wait in the shop. If the fellow
comes you will follow him home. But no indiscretion,
and, above all, no violence. I put you on your
honour that you will take no step without my
knowledge and consent.”
For two days the Hon. Philip Green (he was, I may
mention, the son of the famous admiral of that name
who commanded the Sea of Azof fleet in the Crimean
War) brought us no news. On the evening of the third
he rushed into our sitting-room, pale, trembling,
with every muscle of his powerful frame quivering
with excitement.
“We have
him! We have him!” he cried.
He was incoherent in his agitation. Holmes soothed
him with a few words and thrust him into an
armchair.
“Come, now, give us the order of events,” said he.
“She came only an hour ago. It was the wife, this
time, but the pendant she brought was the fellow of
the other. She is a tall, pale woman, with ferret
eyes.”
“That is the lady,” said Holmes.
“She left the office and I followed her. She walked
up the Kennington Road, [949] and I kept behind her.
Presently she went into a shop. Mr. Holmes, it was
an undertaker’s.”
My companion started. “Well?” he asked in that
vibrant voice which told of the fiery soul behind
the cold gray face.
“She was talking to the woman behind the counter. I
entered as well. ‘It is late,’ I heard her say, or
words to that effect. The woman was excusing
herself. ‘It should be there before now,’ she
answered. ‘It took longer, being out of the
ordinary.’ They both stopped and looked at me, so I
asked some question and then left the shop.”
“You did excellently well. What happened next?”
“The woman came out, but I had hid myself in a
doorway. Her suspicions had been aroused, I think,
for she looked round her. Then she called a cab and
got in. I was lucky enough to get another and so to
follow her. She got down at last at No. 36, Poultney
Square, Brixton. I drove past, left my cab at the
corner of the square, and watched the house.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“The windows were all in darkness save one on the
lower floor. The blind was down, and I could not see
in. I was standing there, wondering what I should do
next, when a covered van drove up with two men in
it. They descended, took something out of the van,
and carried it up the steps to the hall door. Mr.
Holmes, it was a coffin.”
“Ah!”
“For an instant I was on the point of rushing in.
The door had been opened to admit the men and their
burden. It was the woman who had opened it. But as I
stood there she caught a glimpse of me, and I think
that she recognized me. I saw her start, and she
hastily closed the door. I remembered my promise to
you, and here I am.”
“You have done excellent work,” said Holmes
scribbling a few words upon a half-sheet of paper.
“We can do nothing legal without a warrant, and you
can serve the cause best by taking this note down to
the authorities and getting one. There may be some
difficulty, but I should think that the sale of the
jewellery should be sufficient. Lestrade will see to
all details.”
“But they may murder her in the meanwhile. What
could the coffin mean, and for whom could it be but
for her?”
“We will do all that can be done, Mr. Green. Not a
moment will be lost. Leave it in our hands. Now,
Watson,” he added as our client hurried away, “he
will set the regular forces on the move. We are, as
usual, the irregulars, and we must take our own line
of action. The situation strikes me as so desperate
that the most extreme measures are justified. Not a
moment is to be lost in getting to Poultney Square.
“Let us try to reconstruct the situation,” said he
as we drove swiftly past the Houses of Parliament
and over Westminster Bridge. “These villains have
coaxed this unhappy lady to London, after first
alienating her from her faithful maid. If she has
written any letters they have been intercepted.
Through some confederate they have engaged a
furnished house. Once inside it, they have made her
a prisoner, and they have become possessed of the
valuable jewellery which has been their object from
the first. Already they have begun to sell part of
it, which seems safe enough to them, since they have
no reason to think that anyone is interested in the
lady’s fate. When she is released she will, of
course, denounce them. [950] Therefore, she must not
be released. But they cannot keep her under lock and
key forever. So murder is their only solution.”
“That seems very clear.”
“Now we will take another line of reasoning. When
you follow two separate chains of thought, Watson,
you will find some point of intersection which
should approximate to the truth. We will start now,
not from the lady but from the coffin and argue
backward. That incident proves, I fear, beyond all
doubt that the lady is dead. It points also to an
orthodox burial with proper accompaniment of medical
certificate and official sanction. Had the lady been
obviously murdered, they would have buried her in a
hole in the back garden. But here all is open and
regular. What does that mean? Surely that they have
done her to death in some way which has deceived the
doctor and simulated a natural end–poisoning,
perhaps. And yet how strange that they should ever
let a doctor approach her unless he were a
confederate, which is hardly a credible
proposition.”
“Could they have forged a medical certificate?”
“Dangerous, Watson, very dangerous. No, I hardly see
them doing that. Pull up, cabby! This is evidently
the undertaker’s, for we have just passed the
pawnbroker’s. Would you go in, Watson? Your
appearance inspires confidence. Ask what hour the
Poultney Square funeral takes place to-morrow.”
The woman in the shop answered me without hesitation
that it was to be at eight o’clock in the morning.
“You see, Watson, no mystery; everything
above-board! In some way the legal forms have
undoubtedly been complied with, and they think that
they have little to fear. Well, there’s nothing for
it now but a direct frontal attack. Are you armed?”
“My stick!”
“Well, well, we shall be strong enough. ‘Thrice is
he armed who hath his quarrel just.’ We simply can’t
afford to wait for the police or to keep within the
four corners of the law. You can drive off, cabby.
Now, Watson, we’ll just take our luck together, as
we have occasionally done in the past.”
He had rung loudly at the door of a great dark house
in the centre of Poultney Square. It was opened
immediately, and the figure of a tall woman was
outlined against the dim-lit hall.
“Well, what do you want?” she asked sharply, peering
at us through the darkness.
“I want to speak to Dr. Shlessinger,” said Holmes.
“There is no such person here,” she answered, and
tried to close the door, but Holmes had jammed it
with his foot.
“Well, I want to see the man who lives here,
whatever he may call himself,” said Holmes firmly.
She hesitated. Then she threw open the door. “Well,
come in!” said she. “My husband is not afraid to
face any man in the world.” She closed the door
behind us and showed us into a sitting-room on the
right side of the hall, turning up the gas as she
left us. “Mr. Peters will be with you in an
instant,” she said.
Her words were literally true, for we had hardly
time to look around the dusty and moth-eaten
apartment in which we found ourselves before the
door opened and a big, clean-shaven bald-headed man
stepped lightly into the room. He had a large red
face, with pendulous cheeks, and a general air of
superficial benevolence which was marred by a cruel,
vicious mouth.
“There is surely some mistake here, gentlemen,” he
said in an unctuous, [951] make-everything-easy
voice. “I fancy that you have been misdirected.
Possibly if you tried farther down the street– –”
“That will do; we have no time to waste,” said my
companion firmly. “You are Henry Peters, of
Adelaide, late the Rev. Dr. Shlessinger, of Baden
and South America. I am as sure of that as that my
own name is Sherlock Holmes.”
Peters, as I will now call him, started and stared
hard at his formidable pursuer. “I guess your name
does not frighten me, Mr. Holmes,” said he coolly.
“When a man’s conscience is easy you can’t rattle
him. What is your business in my house?”
“I want to know what you have done with the Lady
Frances Carfax, whom you brought away with you from
Baden.”
“I’d be very glad if you could tell me where that
lady may be,” Peters answered coolly. “I’ve a bill
against her for nearly a hundred pounds, and nothing
to show for it but a couple of trumpery pendants
that the dealer would hardly look at. She attached
herself to Mrs. Peters and me at Baden–it is a fact
that I was using another name at the time–and she
stuck on to us until we came to London. I paid her
bill and her ticket. Once in London, she gave us the
slip, and, as I say, left these out-of-date jewels
to pay her bills. You find her, Mr. Holmes, and I’m
your debtor.”
“I mean to find her,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I’m
going through this house till I do find her.”
“Where is your warrant?”
Holmes half
drew a revolver from his pocket. “This will have to
serve till a better one comes.”
“Why, you are a common burglar.”
“So you might describe me,” said Holmes cheerfully.
“My companion is also a dangerous ruffian. And
together we are going through your house.”
Our opponent opened the door.
“Fetch a policeman, Annie!” said he. There was a
whisk of feminine skirts down the passage, and the
hall door was opened and shut.
“Our time is limited, Watson,” said Holmes. “If you
try to stop us, Peters, you will most certainly get
hurt. Where is that coffin which was brought into
your house?”
“What do you want with the coffin? It is in use.
There is a body in it.”
“I must see that body.”
“Never with my consent.”
“Then without it.” With a quick movement Holmes
pushed the fellow to one side and passed into the
hall. A door half opened stood immediately before
us. We entered. It was the dining-room. On the
table, under a half-lit chandelier, the coffin was
lying. Holmes turned up the gas and raised the lid.
Deep down in the recesses of the coffin lay an
emaciated figure. The glare from the lights above
beat down upon an aged and withered face. By no
possible process of cruelty, starvation, or disease
could this wornout wreck be the still beautiful Lady
Frances. Holmes’s face showed his amazement, and
also his relief.
“Thank God!” he muttered. “It’s someone else.”
“Ah, you’ve blundered badly for once, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes,” said Peters, who had followed us into the
room.
“Who is this dead woman?”
“Well, if you really must know, she is an old nurse
of my wife’s, Rose Spender [952] by name, whom we
found in the Brixton Workhouse Infirmary. We brought
her round here, called in Dr. Horsom, of 13 Firbank
Villas–mind you take the address, Mr. Holmes–and had
her carefully tended, as Christian folk should. On
the third day she died–certificate says senile
decay–but that’s only the doctor’s opinion, and of
course you know better. We ordered her funeral to be
carried out by Stimson and Co., of the Kennington
Road, who will bury her at eight o’clock to-morrow
morning. Can you pick any hole in that, Mr. Holmes?
You’ve made a silly blunder, and you may as well own
up to it. I’d give something for a photograph of
your gaping, staring face when you pulled aside that
lid expecting to see the Lady Frances Carfax and
only found a poor old woman of ninety.”
Holmes’s expression was as impassive as ever under
the jeers of his antagonist, but his clenched hands
betrayed his acute annoyance.
“I am going through your house,” said he.
“Are you, though!” cried Peters as a woman’s voice
and heavy steps sounded in the passage. “We’ll soon
see about that. This way, officers, if you please.
These men have forced their way into my house, and I
cannot get rid of them. Help me to put them out.”
A sergeant and a constable stood in the doorway.
Holmes drew his card from his case.
“This is my name and address. This is my friend, Dr.
Watson.”
“Bless you, sir, we know you very well,” said the
sergeant, “but you can’t stay here without a
warrant.”
“Of course not. I quite understand that.”
“Arrest him!” cried Peters.
“We know where to lay our hands on this gentleman if
he is wanted,” said the sergeant majestically, “but
you’ll have to go, Mr. Holmes.”
“Yes, Watson, we shall have to go.”
A minute later we were in the street once more.
Holmes was as cool as ever, but I was hot with anger
and humiliation. The sergeant had followed us.
“Sorry, Mr. Holmes, but that’s the law.”
“Exactly, Sergeant, you could not do otherwise.”
“I expect there was good reason for your presence
there. If there is anything I can do– –”
“It’s a missing lady, Sergeant, and we think she is
in that house. I expect a warrant presently.”
“Then I’ll keep my eye on the parties, Mr. Holmes.
If anything comes along, I will surely let you
know.”
It was only nine o’clock, and we were off full cry
upon the trail at once. First we drove to Brixton
Workhouse Infirmary, where we found that it was
indeed the truth that a charitable couple had called
some days before, that they had claimed an imbecile
old woman as a former servant, and that they had
obtained permission to take her away with them. No
surprise was expressed at the news that she had
since died.
The doctor was our next goal. He had been called in,
had found the woman dying of pure senility, had
actually seen her pass away, and had signed the
certificate in due form. “I assure you that
everything was perfectly normal and there was no
room for foul play in the matter,” said he. Nothing
in the house had struck him as suspicious save that
for people of their class it was remarkable that
they should have no servant. So far and no farther
went the doctor.
[953] Finally we found our way to Scotland Yard.
There had been difficulties of procedure in regard
to the warrant. Some delay was inevitable. The
magistrate’s signature might not be obtained until
next morning. If Holmes would call about nine he
could go down with Lestrade and see it acted upon.
So ended the day, save that near midnight our
friend, the sergeant, called to say that he had seen
flickering lights here and there in the windows of
the great dark house, but that no one had left it
and none had entered. We could but pray for patience
and wait for the morrow.
Sherlock Holmes was too irritable for conversation
and too restless for sleep. I left him smoking hard,
with his heavy, dark brows knotted together, and his
long, nervous fingers tapping upon the arms of his
chair, as he turned over in his mind every possible
solution of the mystery. Several times in the course
of the night I heard him prowling about the house.
Finally, just after I had been called in the
morning, he rushed into my room. He was in his
dressing-gown, but his pale, hollow-eyed face told
me that his night had been a sleepless one.
“What time was the funeral? Eight, was it not?” he
asked eagerly. “Well, it is 7:20 now. Good heavens,
Watson, what has become of any brains that God has
given me? Quick, man, quick! It’s life or death–a
hundred chances on death to one on life. I’ll never
forgive myself, never, if we are too late!”
Five minutes had not passed before we were flying in
a hansom down Baker Street. But even so it was
twenty-five to eight as we passed Big Ben, and eight
struck as we tore down the Brixton Road. But others
were late as well as we. Ten minutes after the hour
the hearse was still standing at the door of the
house, and even as our foaming horse came to a halt
the coffin, supported by three men, appeared on the
threshold. Holmes darted forward and barred their
way.
“Take it
back!” he cried, laying his hand on the breast of
the foremost. “Take it back this instant!”
“What the devil do you mean? Once again I ask you,
where is your warrant?” shouted the furious Peters,
his big red face glaring over the farther end of the
coffin.
“The warrant is on its way. This coffin shall remain
in the house until it comes.”
The authority in Holmes’s voice had its effect upon
the bearers. Peters had suddenly vanished into the
house, and they obeyed these new orders. “Quick,
Watson, quick! Here is a screw-driver!” he shouted
as the coffin was replaced upon the table. “Here’s
one for you, my man! A sovereign if the lid comes
off in a minute! Ask no questions–work away! That’s
good! Another! And another! Now pull all together!
It’s giving! It’s giving! Ah, that does it at last.”
With a united effort we tore off the coffin-lid. As
we did so there came from the inside a stupefying
and overpowering smell of chloroform. A body lay
within, its head all wreathed in cotton-wool, which
had been soaked in the narcotic. Holmes plucked it
off and disclosed the statuesque face of a handsome
and spiritual woman of middle age. In an instant he
had passed his arm round the figure and raised her
to a sitting position.
“Is she gone, Watson? Is there a spark left? Surely
we are not too late!”
For half an hour it seemed that we were. What with
actual suffocation, and what with the poisonous
fumes of the chloroform, the Lady Frances seemed to
have passed the last point of recall. And then, at
last, with artificial respiration, with injected
ether, with every device that science could suggest,
some flutter of life, some quiver of the eyelids,
some dimming of a mirror, spoke of the slowly [954]
returning life. A cab had driven up, and Holmes,
parting the blind, looked out at it. “Here is
Lestrade with his warrant,” said he. “He will find
that his birds have flown. And here,” he added as a
heavy step hurried along the passage, “is someone
who has a better right to nurse this lady than we
have. Good morning, Mr. Green; I think that the
sooner we can move the Lady Frances the better.
Meanwhile, the funeral may proceed, and the poor old
woman who still lies in that coffin may go to her
last resting-place alone.”
“Should you
care to add the case to your annals, my dear
Watson,” said Holmes that evening, “it can only be
as an example of that temporary eclipse to which
even the best-balanced mind may be exposed. Such
slips are common to all mortals, and the greatest is
he who can recognize and repair them. To this
modified credit I may, perhaps, make some claim. My
night was haunted by the thought that somewhere a
clue, a strange sentence, a curious observation, had
come under my notice and had been too easily
dismissed. Then, suddenly, in the gray of the
morning, the words came back to me. It was the
remark of the undertaker’s wife, as reported by
Philip Green. She had said, ‘It should be there
before now. It took longer, being out of the
ordinary.’ It was the coffin of which she spoke. It
had been out of the ordinary. That could only mean
that it had been made to some special measurement.
But why? Why? Then in an instant I remembered the
deep sides, and the little wasted figure at the
bottom. Why so large a coffin for so small a body?
To leave room for another body. Both would be buried
under the one certificate. It had all been so clear,
if only my own sight had not been dimmed. At eight
the Lady Frances would be buried. Our one chance was
to stop the coffin before it left the house.
“It was a desperate chance that we might find her
alive, but it was a chance, as the result showed.
These people had never, to my knowledge, done a
murder. They might shrink from actual violence at
the last. They could bury her with no sign of how
she met her end, and even if she were exhumed there
was a chance for them. I hoped that such
considerations might prevail with them. You can
reconstruct the scene well enough. You saw the
horrible den upstairs, where the poor lady had been
kept so long. They rushed in and overpowered her
with their chloroform, carried her down, poured more
into the coffin to insure against her waking, and
then screwed down the lid. A clever device, Watson.
It is new to me in the annals of crime. If our
ex-missionary friends escape the clutches of
Lestrade, I shall expect to hear of some brilliant
incidents in their future career.”
|
|
THE
DEVIL’S FOOT
IN RECORDING
from time to time some of the curious experiences
and interesting recollections which I associate with
my long and intimate friendship with Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, I have continually been faced by
difficulties caused by his own aversion to
publicity. To his sombre and cynical spirit all
popular applause was always abhorrent, and nothing
amused him more at the end of a successful case than
to hand over the actual exposure to some orthodox
official, and to listen with a mocking smile to the
general chorus of misplaced congratulation. It was
indeed [955] this attitude upon the part of my
friend and certainly not any lack of interesting
material which has caused me of late years to lay
very few of my records before the public. My
participation in some of his adventures was always a
privilege which entailed discretion and reticence
upon me.
It was, then, with considerable surprise that I
received a telegram from Holmes last Tuesday–he has
never been known to write where a telegram would
serve–in the following terms:
Why not tell
them of the Cornish horror–strangest case I have
handled.
I have no idea what backward sweep of memory had
brought the matter fresh to his mind, or what freak
had caused him to desire that I should recount it;
but I hasten, before another cancelling telegram may
arrive, to hunt out the notes which give me the
exact details of the case and to lay the narrative
before my readers.
It was, then, in the spring of the year 1897 that
Holmes’s iron constitution showed some symptoms of
giving way in the face of constant hard work of a
most exacting kind, aggravated, perhaps, by
occasional indiscretions of his own. In March of
that year Dr. Moore Agar, of Harley Street, whose
dramatic introduction to Holmes I may some day
recount, gave positive injunctions that the famous
private agent lay aside all his cases and surrender
himself to complete rest if he wished to avert an
absolute breakdown. The state of his health was not
a matter in which he himself took the faintest
interest, for his mental detachment was absolute,
but he was induced at last, on the threat of being
permanently disqualified from work, to give himself
a complete change of scene and air. Thus it was that
in the early spring of that year we found ourselves
together in a small cottage near Poldhu Bay, at the
further extremity of the Cornish peninsula.
It was a singular spot, and one peculiarly well
suited to the grim humour of my patient. From the
windows of our little whitewashed house, which stood
high upon a grassy headland, we looked down upon the
whole sinister semicircle of Mounts Bay, that old
death trap of sailing vessels, with its fringe of
black cliffs and surge-swept reefs on which
innumerable seamen have met their end. With a
northerly breeze it lies placid and sheltered,
inviting the storm-tossed craft to tack into it for
rest and protection.
Then come the sudden swirl round of the wind, the
blustering gale from the south-west, the dragging
anchor, the lee shore, and the last battle in the
creaming breakers. The wise mariner stands far out
from that evil place.
On the land
side our surroundings were as sombre as on the sea.
It was a country of rolling moors, lonely and dun-coloured,
with an occasional church tower to mark the site of
some old-world village. In every direction upon
these moors there were traces of some vanished race
which had passed utterly away, and left as its sole
record strange monuments of stone, irregular mounds
which contained the burned ashes of the dead, and
curious earthworks which hinted at prehistoric
strife. The glamour and mystery of the place, with
its sinister atmosphere of forgotten nations,
appealed to the imagination of my friend, and he
spent much of his time in long walks and solitary
meditations upon the moor. The ancient Cornish
language had also arrested his attention, and he
had, I remember, conceived the idea that it was akin
to the Chaldean, and had been largely derived from
the Phoenician traders in tin. He had received a
consignment of books upon philology and was settling
down to develop this thesis when suddenly, to my
sorrow and to his unfeigned delight, we found
ourselves, even in that land of dreams, plunged into
a problem [956] at our very doors which was more
intense, more engrossing, and infinitely more
mysterious than any of those which had driven us
from London. Our simple life and peaceful, healthy
routine were violently interrupted, and we were
precipitated into the midst of a series of events
which caused the utmost excitement not only in
Cornwall but throughout the whole west of England.
Many of my readers may retain some recollection of
what was called at the time “The Cornish Horror,”
though a most imperfect account of the matter
reached the London press. Now, after thirteen years,
I will give the true details of this inconceivable
affair to the public.
I have said that scattered towers marked the
villages which dotted this part of Cornwall. The
nearest of these was the hamlet of Tredannick
Wollas, where the cottages of a couple of hundred
inhabitants clustered round an ancient, moss-grown
church. The vicar of the parish, Mr. Roundhay, was
something of an archaeologist, and as such Holmes
had made his acquaintance. He was a middle-aged man,
portly and affable, with a considerable fund of
local lore. At his invitation we had taken tea at
the vicarage and had come to know, also, Mr.
Mortimer Tregennis, an independent gentleman, who
increased the clergyman’s scanty resources by taking
rooms in his large, straggling house. The vicar,
being a bachelor, was glad to come to such an
arrangement, though he had little in common with his
lodger, who was a thin, dark, spectacled man, with a
stoop which gave the impression of actual, physical
deformity. I remember that during our short visit we
found the vicar garrulous, but his lodger strangely
reticent, a sad-faced, introspective man, sitting
with averted eyes, brooding apparently upon his own
affairs.
These were the two men who entered abruptly into our
little sitting-room on Tuesday, March the 16th,
shortly after our breakfast hour, as we were smoking
together, preparatory to our daily excursion upon
the moors.
“Mr.
Holmes,” said the vicar in an agitated voice, “the
most extraordinary and tragic affair has occurred
during the night. It is the most unheard-of
business. We can only regard it as a special
Providence that you should chance to be here at the
time, for in all England you are the one man we
need.”
I glared at the intrusive vicar with no very
friendly eyes; but Holmes took his pipe from his
lips and sat up in his chair like an old hound who
hears the view-halloa. He waved his hand to the
sofa, and our palpitating visitor with his agitated
companion sat side by side upon it. Mr. Mortimer
Tregennis was more self-contained than the
clergyman, but the twitching of his thin hands and
the brightness of his dark eyes showed that they
shared a common emotion.
“Shall I speak or you?” he asked of the vicar.
“Well, as you seem to have made the discovery,
whatever it may be, and the vicar to have had it
second-hand, perhaps you had better do the
speaking,” said Holmes.
I glanced at the hastily clad clergyman, with the
formally dressed lodger seated beside him, and was
amused at the surprise which Holmes’s simple
deduction had brought to their faces.
“Perhaps I had best say a few words first,” said the
vicar, “and then you can judge if you will listen to
the details from Mr. Tregennis, or whether we should
not hasten at once to the scene of this mysterious
affair. I may explain, then, that our friend here
spent last evening in the company of his two
brothers, Owen and George, and of his sister Brenda,
at their house of Tredannick Wartha, which is near
the old stone cross upon the moor. He left them
shortly after ten o’clock, [957] playing cards round
the dining-room table, in excellent health and
spirits. This morning, being an early riser, he
walked in that direction before breakfast and was
overtaken by the carriage of Dr. Richards, who
explained that he had just been sent for on a most
urgent call to Tredannick Wartha. Mr. Mortimer
Tregennis naturally went with him. When he arrived
at Tredannick Wartha he found an extraordinary state
of things. His two brothers and his sister were
seated round the table exactly as he had left them,
the cards still spread in front of them and the
candles burned down to their sockets. The sister lay
back stone-dead in her chair, while the two brothers
sat on each side of her laughing, shouting, and
singing, the senses stricken clean out of them. All
three of them, the dead woman and the two demented
men, retained upon their faces an expression of the
utmost horror–a convulsion of terror which was
dreadful to look upon. There was no sign of the
presence of anyone in the house, except Mrs. Porter,
the old cook and housekeeper, who declared that she
had slept deeply and heard no sound during the
night. Nothing had been stolen or disarranged, and
there is absolutely no explanation of what the
horror can be which has frightened a woman to death
and two strong men out of their senses. There is the
situation, Mr. Holmes, in a nutshell, and if you can
help us to clear it up you will have done a great
work.”
I had hoped that in some way I could coax my
companion back into the quiet which had been the
object of our journey; but one glance at his intense
face and contracted eyebrows told me how vain was
now the expectation. He sat for some little time in
silence, absorbed in the strange drama which had
broken in upon our peace.
“I will look into this matter,” he said at last. “On
the face of it, it would appear to be a case of a
very exceptional nature. Have you been there
yourself, Mr. Roundhay?”
“No, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Tregennis brought back the
account to the vicarage, and I at once hurried over
with him to consult you.”
“How far is it to the house where this singular
tragedy occurred?”
“About a mile inland.”
“Then we shall walk over together. But before we
start I must ask you a few questions, Mr. Mortimer
Tregennis.”
The other had been silent all this time, but I had
observed that his more controlled excitement was
even greater than the obtrusive emotion of the
clergyman. He sat with a pale, drawn face, his
anxious gaze fixed upon Holmes, and his thin hands
clasped convulsively together. His pale lips
quivered as he listened to the dreadful experience
which had befallen his family, and his dark eyes
seemed to reflect something of the horror of the
scene.
“Ask what you like, Mr. Holmes,” said he eagerly.
“It is a bad thing to speak of, but I will answer
you the truth.”
“Tell me about last night.”
“Well, Mr. Holmes, I supped there, as the vicar has
said, and my elder brother George proposed a game of
whist afterwards. We sat down about nine o’clock. It
was a quarter-past ten when I moved to go. I left
them all round the table, as merry as could be.”
“Who let you out?”
“Mrs. Porter had gone to bed, so I let myself out. I
shut the hall door behind me. The window of the room
in which they sat was closed, but the blind was not
drawn down. There was no change in door or window
this morning, nor any reason [958] to think that any
stranger had been to the house. Yet there they sat,
driven clean mad with terror, and Brenda lying dead
of fright, with her head hanging over the arm of the
chair. I’ll never get the sight of that room out of
my mind so long as I live.”
“The facts, as you state them, are certainly most
remarkable,” said Holmes. “I take it that you have
no theory yourself which can in any way account for
them?”
“It’s devilish, Mr. Holmes, devilish!” cried
Mortimer Tregennis. “It is not of this world.
Something has come into that room which has dashed
the light of reason from their minds. What human
contrivance could do that?”
“I fear,” said Holmes, “that if the matter is beyond
humanity it is certainly beyond me. Yet we must
exhaust all natural explanations before we fall back
upon such a theory as this. As to yourself, Mr.
Tregennis, I take it you were divided in some way
from your family, since they lived together and you
had rooms apart?”
“That is so, Mr. Holmes, though the matter is past
and done with. We were a family of tin-miners at
Redruth, but we sold out our venture to a company,
and so retired with enough to keep us. I won’t deny
that there was some feeling about the division of
the money and it stood between us for a time, but it
was all forgiven and forgotten, and we were the best
of friends together.”
“Looking back at the evening which you spent
together, does anything stand out in your memory as
throwing any possible light upon the tragedy? Think
carefully, Mr. Tregennis, for any clue which can
help me.”
“There is nothing at all, sir.”
“Your people were in their usual spirits?”
“Never better.”
“Were they nervous people? Did they ever show any
apprehension of coming danger?”
“Nothing of the kind.”
“You have nothing to add then, which could assist
me?”
Mortimer Tregennis considered earnestly for a
moment.
“There is one thing occurs to me,” said he at last.
“As we sat at the table my back was to the window,
and my brother George, he being my partner at cards,
was facing it. I saw him once look hard over my
shoulder, so I turned round and looked also. The
blind was up and the window shut, but I could just
make out the bushes on the lawn, and it seemed to me
for a moment that I saw something moving among them.
I couldn’t even say if it was man or animal, but I
just thought there was something there. When I asked
him what he was looking at, he told me that he had
the same feeling. That is all that I can say.”
“Did you not investigate?”
“No; the matter passed as unimportant.”
“You left them, then, without any premonition of
evil?”
“None at all.”
“I am not clear how you came to hear the news so
early this morning.”
“I am an early riser and generally take a walk
before breakfast. This morning I had hardly started
when the doctor in his carriage overtook me. He told
me that old Mrs. Porter had sent a boy down with an
urgent message. I sprang in beside him and we drove
on. When we got there we looked into that dreadful
room. The candles and the fire must have burned out
hours before, and they had been sitting there in the
dark until dawn had broken. The doctor said Brenda
must have been dead at least six hours. There were
no signs of violence. She just lay across the arm
[959] of the chair with that look on her face.
George and Owen were singing snatches of songs and
gibbering like two great apes. Oh, it was awful to
see! I couldn’t stand it, and the doctor was as
white as a sheet. Indeed, he fell into a chair in a
sort of faint, and we nearly had him on our hands as
well.”
“Remarkable–most remarkable!” said Holmes, rising
and taking his hat. “I think, perhaps, we had better
go down to Tredannick Wartha without further delay.
I confess that I have seldom known a case which at
first sight presented a more singular problem.”
Our
proceedings of that first morning did little to
advance the investigation. It was marked, however,
at the outset by an incident which left the most
sinister impression upon my mind. The approach to
the spot at which the tragedy occurred is down a
narrow, winding, country lane. While we made our way
along it we heard the rattle of a carriage coming
towards us and stood aside to let it pass. As it
drove by us I caught a glimpse through the closed
window of a horribly contorted, grinning face
glaring out at us. Those staring eyes and gnashing
teeth flashed past us like a dreadful vision.
“My
brothers!” cried Mortimer Tregennis, white to his
lips. “They are taking them to Helston.”
We looked with horror after the black carriage,
lumbering upon its way. Then we turned our steps
towards this ill-omened house in which they had met
their strange fate.
It was a large and bright dwelling, rather a villa
than a cottage, with a considerable garden which was
already, in that Cornish air, well filled with
spring flowers. Towards this garden the window of
the sitting-room fronted, and from it, according to
Mortimer Tregennis, must have come that thing of
evil which had by sheer horror in a single instant
blasted their minds. Holmes walked slowly and
thoughtfully among the flower-plots and along the
path before we entered the porch. So absorbed was he
in his thoughts, I remember, that he stumbled over
the watering-pot, upset its contents, and deluged
both our feet and the garden path. Inside the house
we were met by the elderly Cornish housekeeper, Mrs.
Porter, who, with the aid of a young girl, looked
after the wants of the family. She readily answered
all Holmes’s questions. She had heard nothing in the
night. Her employers had all been in excellent
spirits lately, and she had never known them more
cheerful and prosperous. She had fainted with horror
upon entering the room in the morning and seeing
that dreadful company round the table. She had, when
she recovered, thrown open the window to let the
morning air in, and had run down to the lane, whence
she sent a farm-lad for the doctor. The lady was on
her bed upstairs if we cared to see her. It took
four strong men to get the brothers into the asylum
carriage. She would not herself stay in the house
another day and was starting that very afternoon to
rejoin her family at St. Ives.
We ascended
the stairs and viewed the body. Miss Brenda
Tregennis had been a very beautiful girl, though now
verging upon middle age. Her dark, clear-cut face
was handsome, even in death, but there still
lingered upon it something of that convulsion of
horror which had been her last human emotion. From
her bedroom we descended to the sitting-room, where
this strange tragedy had actually occurred. The
charred ashes of the overnight fire lay in the
grate. On the table were the four guttered and
burned-out candles, with the cards scattered over
its surface. The chairs had been moved back against
the walls, but all else was as it [960] had been the
night before. Holmes paced with light, swift steps
about the room; he sat in the various chairs,
drawing them up and reconstructing their positions.
He tested how much of the garden was visible; he
examined the floor, the ceiling, and the fireplace;
but never once did I see that sudden brightening of
his eyes and tightening of his lips which would have
told me that he saw some gleam of light in this
utter darkness.
“Why a fire?” he asked once. “Had they always a fire
in this small room on a spring evening?”
Mortimer Tregennis explained that the night was cold
and damp. For that reason, after his arrival, the
fire was lit. “What are you going to do now, Mr.
Holmes?” he asked.
My friend smiled and laid his hand upon my arm. “I
think, Watson, that I shall resume that course of
tobacco-poisoning which you have so often and so
justly condemned,” said he. “With your permission,
gentlemen, we will now return to our cottage, for I
am not aware that any new factor is likely to come
to our notice here. I will turn the facts over in my
mind, Mr. Tregennis, and should anything occur to me
I will certainly communicate with you and the vicar.
In the meantime I wish you both good-morning.”
It was not until long after we were back in Poldhu
Cottage that Holmes broke his complete and absorbed
silence. He sat coiled in his armchair, his haggard
and ascetic face hardly visible amid the blue swirl
of his tobacco smoke, his black brows drawn down,
his forehead contracted, his eyes vacant and far
away. Finally he laid down his pipe and sprang to
his feet.
“It won’t do, Watson!” said he with a laugh. “Let us
walk along the cliffs together and search for flint
arrows. We are more likely to find them than clues
to this problem. To let the brain work without
sufficient material is like racing an engine. It
racks itself to pieces. The sea air, sunshine, and
patience, Watson–all else will come.
“Now, let us calmly define our position, Watson,” he
continued as we skirted the cliffs together. “Let us
get a firm grip of the very little which we do know,
so that when fresh facts arise we may be ready to
fit them into their places. I take it, in the first
place, that neither of us is prepared to admit
diabolical intrusions into the affairs of men. Let
us begin by ruling that entirely out of our minds.
Very good. There remain three persons who have been
grievously stricken by some conscious or unconscious
human agency. That is firm ground. Now, when did
this occur? Evidently, assuming his narrative to be
true, it was immediately after Mr. Mortimer
Tregennis had left the room. That is a very
important point. The presumption is that it was
within a few minutes afterwards. The cards still lay
upon the table. It was already past their usual hour
for bed. Yet they had not changed their position or
pushed back their chairs. I repeat, then, that the
occurrence was immediately after his departure, and
not later than eleven o’clock last night.
“Our next obvious step is to check, so far as we
can, the movements of Mortimer Tregennis after he
left the room. In this there is no difficulty, and
they seem to be above suspicion. Knowing my methods
as you do, you were, of course, conscious of the
somewhat clumsy water-pot expedient by which I
obtained a clearer impress of his foot than might
otherwise have been possible. The wet, sandy path
took it admirably. Last night was also wet, you will
remember, and it was not difficult–having obtained a
sample print–to pick out his track among others and
to follow [961] his movements. He appears to have
walked away swiftly in the direction of the
vicarage.
“If, then, Mortimer Tregennis disappeared from the
scene, and yet some outside person affected the
cardplayers, how can we reconstruct that person, and
how was such an impression of horror conveyed? Mrs.
Porter may be eliminated. She is evidently harmless.
Is there any evidence that someone crept up to the
garden window and in some manner produced so
terrific an effect that he drove those who saw it
out of their senses? The only suggestion in this
direction comes from Mortimer Tregennis himself, who
says that his brother spoke about some movement in
the garden. That is certainly remarkable, as the
night was rainy, cloudy, and dark. Anyone who had
the design to alarm these people would be compelled
to place his very face against the glass before he
could be seen. There is a three-foot flower-border
outside this window, but no indication of a
footmark. It is difficult to imagine, then, how an
outsider could have made so terrible an impression
upon the company, nor have we found any possible
motive for so strange and elaborate an attempt. You
perceive our difficulties, Watson?”
“They are only too clear,” I answered with
conviction.
“And yet, with a little more material, we may prove
that they are not insurmountable,” said Holmes. “I
fancy that among your extensive archives, Watson,
you may find some which were nearly as obscure.
Meanwhile, we shall put the case aside until more
accurate data are available, and devote the rest of
our morning to the pursuit of neolithic man.”
I may have commented upon my friend’s power of
mental detachment, but never have I wondered at it
more than upon that spring morning in Cornwall when
for two hours he discoursed upon celts, arrowheads,
and shards, as lightly as if no sinister mystery
were waiting for his solution. It was not until we
had returned in the afternoon to our cottage that we
found a visitor awaiting us, who soon brought our
minds back to the matter in hand. Neither of us
needed to be told who that visitor was. The huge
body, the craggy and deeply seamed face with the
fierce eyes and hawk-like nose, the grizzled hair
which nearly brushed our cottage ceiling, the
beard–golden at the fringes and white near the lips,
save for the nicotine stain from his perpetual
cigar–all these were as well known in London as in
Africa, and could only be associated with the
tremendous personality of Dr. Leon Sterndale, the
great lion-hunter and explorer.
We had heard of his presence in the district and had
once or twice caught sight of his tall figure upon
the moorland paths. He made no advances to us,
however, nor would we have dreamed of doing so to
him, as it was well known that it was his love of
seclusion which caused him to spend the greater part
of the intervals between his journeys in a small
bungalow buried in the lonely wood of Beauchamp
Arriance. Here, amid his books and his maps, he
lived an absolutely lonely life, attending to his
own simple wants and paying little apparent heed to
the affairs of his neighbours. It was a surprise to
me, therefore, to hear him asking Holmes in an eager
voice whether he had made any advance in his
reconstruction of this mysterious episode. “The
county police are utterly at fault,” said he, “but
perhaps your wider experience has suggested some
conceivable explanation. My only claim to being
taken into your confidence is that during my many
residences here I have come to know this family of
Tregennis very well–indeed, upon my Cornish mother’s
side I could call them cousins– and their strange
fate has naturally been a great shock to me. I may
tell you that I had got as far as Plymouth [962]
upon my way to Africa, but the news reached me this
morning, and I came straight back again to help in
the inquiry.”
Holmes raised his eyebrows.
“Did you lose your boat through it?”
“I will take the next.”
“Dear me! that is friendship indeed.”
“I tell you they were relatives.”
“Quite so–cousins of your mother. Was your baggage
aboard the ship?”
“Some of it, but the main part at the hotel.”
“I see. But surely this event could not have found
its way into the Plymouth morning papers.”
“No, sir; I had a telegram.”
“Might I ask from whom?”
A shadow passed over the gaunt face of the explorer.
“You are very inquisitive, Mr. Holmes.”
“It is my business.”
With an effort Dr. Sterndale recovered his ruffled
composure.
“I have no objection to telling you,” he said. “It
was Mr. Roundhay, the vicar, who sent me the
telegram which recalled me.”
“Thank you,” said Holmes. “I may say in answer to
your original question that I have not cleared my
mind entirely on the subject of this case, but that
I have every hope of reaching some conclusion. It
would be premature to say more.”
“Perhaps you would not mind telling me if your
suspicions point in any particular direction?”
“No, I can hardly answer that.”
“Then I have wasted my time and need not prolong my
visit.” The famous doctor strode out of our cottage
in considerable ill-humour, and within five minutes
Holmes had followed him. I saw him no more until the
evening, when he returned with a slow step and
haggard face which assured me that he had made no
great progress with his investigation. He glanced at
a telegram which awaited him and threw it into the
grate.
“From the Plymouth hotel, Watson,” he said. “I
learned the name of it from the vicar, and I wired
to make certain that Dr. Leon Sterndale’s account
was true. It appears that he did indeed spend last
night there, and that he has actually allowed some
of his baggage to go on to Africa, while he returned
to be present at this investigation. What do you
make of that, Watson?”
“He is deeply interested.”
“Deeply interested–yes. There is a thread here which
we have not yet grasped and which might lead us
through the tangle. Cheer up, Watson, for I am very
sure that our material has not yet all come to hand.
When it does we may soon leave our difficulties
behind us.”
Little did I think how soon the words of Holmes
would be realized, or how strange and sinister would
be that new development which opened up an entirely
fresh line of investigation. I was shaving at my
window in the morning when I heard the rattle of
hoofs and, looking up, saw a dog-cart coming at a
gallop down the road. It pulled up at our door, and
our friend, the vicar, sprang from it and rushed up
our garden path. Holmes was already dressed, and we
hastened down to meet him.
[963] Our visitor was so excited that he could
hardly articulate, but at last in gasps and bursts
his tragic story came out of him.
“We are devil-ridden, Mr. Holmes! My poor parish is
devil-ridden!” he cried. “Satan himself is loose in
it! We are given over into his hands!” He danced
about in his agitation, a ludicrous object if it
were not for his ashy face and startled eyes.
Finally he shot out his terrible news.
“Mr. Mortimer Tregennis died during the night, and
with exactly the same symptoms as the rest of his
family.”
Holmes sprang to his feet, all energy in an instant.
“Can you fit us both into your dog-cart?”
“Yes, I can.”
“Then, Watson, we will postpone our breakfast. Mr.
Roundhay, we are entirely at your disposal.
Hurry–hurry, before things get disarranged.”
The lodger occupied two rooms at the vicarage, which
were in an angle by themselves, the one above the
other. Below was a large sitting-room; above, his
bedroom. They looked out upon a croquet lawn which
came up to the windows. We had arrived before the
doctor or the police, so that everything was
absolutely undisturbed. Let me describe exactly the
scene as we saw it upon that misty March morning. It
has left an impression which can never be effaced
from my mind.
The
atmosphere of the room was of a horrible and
depressing stuffiness. The servant who had first
entered had thrown up the window, or it would have
been even more intolerable. This might partly be due
to the fact that a lamp stood flaring and smoking on
the centre table. Beside it sat the dead man,
leaning back in his chair, his thin beard
projecting, his spectacles pushed up on to his
forehead, and his lean dark face turned towards the
window and twisted into the same distortion of
terror which had marked the features of his dead
sister. His limbs were convulsed and his fingers
contorted as though he had died in a very paroxysm
of fear. He was fully clothed, though there were
signs that his dressing had been done in a hurry. We
had already learned that his bed had been slept in,
and that the tragic end had come to him in the early
morning.
One realized the red-hot energy which underlay
Holmes’s phlegmatic exterior when one saw the sudden
change which came over him from the moment that he
entered the fatal apartment. In an instant he was
tense and alert, his eyes shining, his face set, his
limbs quivering with eager activity. He was out on
the lawn, in through the window, round the room, and
up into the bedroom, for all the world like a
dashing foxhound drawing a cover. In the bedroom he
made a rapid cast around and ended by throwing open
the window, which appeared to give him some fresh
cause for excitement, for he leaned out of it with
loud ejaculations of interest and delight. Then he
rushed down the stair, out through the open window,
threw himself upon his face on the lawn, sprang up
and into the room once more, all with the energy of
the hunter who is at the very heels of his quarry.
The lamp, which was an ordinary standard, he
examined with minute care, making certain
measurements upon its bowl. He carefully scrutinized
with his lens the talc shield which covered the top
of the chimney and scraped off some ashes which
adhered to its upper surface, putting some of them
into an envelope, which he placed in his pocketbook.
Finally, just as the doctor and the official police
put in an appearance, he beckoned to the vicar and
we all three went out upon the lawn.
“I am glad to say that my investigation has not been
entirely barren,” he remarked. “I cannot remain to
discuss the matter with the police, but I should be
[964] exceedingly obliged, Mr. Roundhay, if you
would give the inspector my compliments and direct
his attention to the bedroom window and to the
sitting-room lamp. Each is suggestive, and together
they are almost conclusive. If the police would
desire further information I shall be happy to see
any of them at the cottage. And now, Watson, I think
that, perhaps, we shall be better employed
elsewhere.”
It may be that the police resented the intrusion of
an amateur, or that they imagined themselves to be
upon some hopeful line of investigation; but it is
certain that we heard nothing from them for the next
two days. During this time Holmes spent some of his
time smoking and dreaming in the cottage; but a
greater portion in country walks which he undertook
alone, returning after many hours without remark as
to where he had been. One experiment served to show
me the line of his investigation. He had bought a
lamp which was the duplicate of the one which had
burned in the room of Mortimer Tregennis on the
morning of the tragedy. This he filled with the same
oil as that used at the vicarage, and he carefully
timed the period which it would take to be
exhausted. Another experiment which he made was of a
more unpleasant nature, and one which I am not
likely ever to forget.
“You will remember, Watson,” he remarked one
afternoon, “that there is a single common point of
resemblance in the varying reports which have
reached us. This concerns the effect of the
atmosphere of the room in each case upon those who
had first entered it. You will recollect that
Mortimer Tregennis, in describing the episode of his
last visit to his brother’s house, remarked that the
doctor on entering the room fell into a chair? You
had forgotten? Well, I can answer for it that it was
so. Now, you will remember also that Mrs. Porter,
the housekeeper, told us that she herself fainted
upon entering the room and had afterwards opened the
window. In the second case–that of Mortimer
Tregennis himself–you cannot have forgotten the
horrible stuffiness of the room when we arrived,
though the servant had thrown open the window. That
servant, I found upon inquiry, was so ill that she
had gone to her bed. You will admit, Watson, that
these facts are very suggestive. In each case there
is evidence of a poisonous atmosphere. In each case,
also, there is combustion going on in the room–in
the one case a fire, in the other a lamp. The fire
was needed, but the lamp was lit–as a comparison of
the oil consumed will show–long after it was broad
daylight. Why? Surely because there is some
connection between three things–the burning, the
stuffy atmosphere, and, finally, the madness or
death of those unfortunate people. That is clear, is
it not?”
“It would appear so.”
“At least we may accept it as a working hypothesis.
We will suppose, then, that something was burned in
each case which produced an atmosphere causing
strange toxic effects. Very good. In the first
instance–that of the Tregennis family–this substance
was placed in the fire. Now the window was shut, but
the fire would naturally carry fumes to some extent
up the chimney. Hence one would expect the effects
of the poison to be less than in the second case,
where there was less escape for the vapour. The
result seems to indicate that it was so, since in
the first case only the woman, who had presumably
the more sensitive organism, was killed, the others
exhibiting that temporary or permanent lunacy which
is evidently the first effect of the drug. In the
second case the result was complete. The facts,
therefore, seem to bear out the theory of a poison
which worked by combustion.
[965] “With this train of reasoning in my head I
naturally looked about in Mortimer Tregennis’s room
to find some remains of this substance. The obvious
place to look was the talc shield or smoke-guard of
the lamp. There, sure enough, I perceived a number
of flaky ashes, and round the edges a fringe of
brownish powder, which had not yet been consumed.
Half of this I took, as you saw, and I placed it in
an envelope.”
“Why half, Holmes?”
“It is not for me, my dear Watson, to stand in the
way of the official police force. I leave them all
the evidence which I found. The poison still
remained upon the talc had they the wit to find it.
Now, Watson, we will light our lamp; we will,
however, take the precaution to open our window to
avoid the premature decease of two deserving members
of society, and you will seat yourself near that
open window in an armchair unless, like a sensible
man, you determine to have nothing to do with the
affair. Oh, you will see it out, will you? I thought
I knew my Watson. This chair I will place opposite
yours, so that we may be the same distance from the
poison and face to face. The door we will leave
ajar. Each is now in a position to watch the other
and to bring the experiment to an end should the
symptoms seem alarming. Is that all clear? Well,
then, I take our powder–or what remains of it–from
the envelope, and I lay it above the burning lamp.
So! Now, Watson, let us sit down and await
developments.”
They were not long in coming. I had hardly settled
in my chair before I was conscious of a thick, musky
odour, subtle and nauseous. At the very first whiff
of it my brain and my imagination were beyond all
control. A thick, black cloud swirled before my
eyes, and my mind told me that in this cloud, unseen
as yet, but about to spring out upon my appalled
senses, lurked all that was vaguely horrible, all
that was monstrous and inconceivably wicked in the
universe. Vague shapes swirled and swam amid the
dark cloud-bank, each a menace and a warning of
something coming, the advent of some unspeakable
dweller upon the threshold, whose very shadow would
blast my soul. A freezing horror took possession of
me. I felt that my hair was rising, that my eyes
were protruding, that my mouth was opened, and my
tongue like leather. The turmoil within my brain was
such that something must surely snap. I tried to
scream and was vaguely aware of some hoarse croak
which was my own voice, but distant and detached
from myself. At the same moment, in some effort of
escape, I broke through that cloud of despair and
had a glimpse of Holmes’s face, white, rigid, and
drawn with horror–the very look which I had seen
upon the features of the dead. It was that vision
which gave me an instant of sanity and of strength.
I dashed from my chair, threw my arms round Holmes,
and together we lurched through the door, and an
instant afterwards had thrown ourselves down upon
the grass plot and were lying side by side,
conscious only of the glorious sunshine which was
bursting its way through the hellish cloud of terror
which had girt us in. Slowly it rose from our souls
like the mists from a landscape until peace and
reason had returned, and we were sitting upon the
grass, wiping our clammy foreheads, and looking with
apprehension at each other to mark the last traces
of that terrific experience which we had undergone.
“Upon my
word, Watson!” said Holmes at last with an unsteady
voice, “I owe you both my thanks and an apology. It
was an unjustifiable experiment even for one’s self,
and doubly so for a friend. I am really very sorry.”
“You know,” I answered with some emotion, for I had
never seen so much of Holmes’s heart before, “that
it is my greatest joy and privilege to help you.”
[966] He relapsed at once into the half-humorous,
half-cynical vein which was his habitual attitude to
those about him. “It would be superfluous to drive
us mad, my dear Watson,” said he. “A candid observer
would certainly declare that we were so already
before we embarked upon so wild an experiment. I
confess that I never imagined that the effect could
be so sudden and so severe.” He dashed into the
cottage, and, reappearing with the burning lamp held
at full arm’s length, he threw it among a bank of
brambles. “We must give the room a little time to
clear. I take it, Watson, that you have no longer a
shadow of a doubt as to how these tragedies were
produced?”
“None whatever.”
“But the cause remains as obscure as before. Come
into the arbour here and let us discuss it together.
That villainous stuff seems still to linger round my
throat. I think we must admit that all the evidence
points to this man, Mortimer Tregennis, having been
the criminal in the first tragedy, though he was the
victim in the second one. We must remember, in the
first place, that there is some story of a family
quarrel, followed by a reconciliation. How bitter
that quarrel may have been, or how hollow the
reconciliation we cannot tell. When I think of
Mortimer Tregennis, with the foxy face and the small
shrewd, beady eyes behind the spectacles, he is not
a man whom I should judge to be of a particularly
forgiving disposition. Well, in the next place, you
will remember that this idea of someone moving in
the garden, which took our attention for a moment
from the real cause of the tragedy, emanated from
him. He had a motive in misleading us. Finally, if
he did not throw this substance into the fire at the
moment of leaving the room, who did do so? The
affair happened immediately after his departure. Had
anyone else come in, the family would certainly have
risen from the table. Besides, in peaceful Cornwall,
visitors do not arrive after ten o’clock at night.
We may take it, then, that all the evidence points
to Mortimer Tregennis as the culprit.”
“Then his own death was suicide!”
“Well, Watson, it is on the face of it a not
impossible supposition. The man who had the guilt
upon his soul of having brought such a fate upon his
own family might well be driven by remorse to
inflict it upon himself. There are, however, some
cogent reasons against it. Fortunately, there is one
man in England who knows all about it, and I have
made arrangements by which we shall hear the facts
this afternoon from his own lips. Ah! he is a little
before his time. Perhaps you would kindly step this
way, Dr. Leon Sterndale. We have been conducting a
chemical experiment indoors which has left our
little room hardly fit for the reception of so
distinguished a visitor.”
I had heard the click of the garden gate, and now
the majestic figure of the great African explorer
appeared upon the path. He turned in some surprise
towards the rustic arbour in which we sat.
“You sent for me, Mr. Holmes. I had your note about
an hour ago, and I have come, though I really do not
know why I should obey your summons.”
“Perhaps we can clear the point up before we
separate,” said Holmes. “Meanwhile, I am much
obliged to you for your courteous acquiescence. You
will excuse this informal reception in the open air,
but my friend Watson and I have nearly furnished an
additional chapter to what the papers call the
Cornish Horror, and we prefer a clear atmosphere for
the present. Perhaps, since the matters which we
have to discuss will affect you personally in a very
intimate fashion, it is as well that we should talk
where there can be no eavesdropping.”
[967] The explorer took his cigar from his lips and
gazed sternly at my companion.
“I am at a loss to know, sir,” he said, “what you
can have to speak about which affects me personally
in a very intimate fashion.”
“The killing of Mortimer Tregennis,” said Holmes.
For a moment I wished that I were armed. Sterndale’s
fierce face turned to a dusky red, his eyes glared,
and the knotted, passionate veins started out in his
forehead, while he sprang forward with clenched
hands towards my companion. Then he stopped, and
with a violent effort he resumed a cold, rigid
calmness, which was, perhaps, more suggestive of
danger than his hot-headed outburst.
“I have
lived so long among savages and beyond the law,”
said he, “that I have got into the way of being a
law to myself. You would do well, Mr. Holmes, not to
forget it, for I have no desire to do you an
injury.”
“Nor have I any desire to do you an injury, Dr.
Sterndale. Surely the clearest proof of it is that,
knowing what I know, I have sent for you and not for
the police.”
Sterndale sat down with a gasp, overawed for,
perhaps, the first time in his adventurous life.
There was a calm assurance of power in Holmes’s
manner which could not be withstood. Our visitor
stammered for a moment, his great hands opening and
shutting in his agitation.
“What do you mean?” he asked at last. “If this is
bluff upon your part, Mr. Holmes, you have chosen a
bad man for your experiment. Let us have no more
beating about the bush. What do you mean?”
“I will tell you,” said Holmes, “and the reason why
I tell you is that I hope frankness may beget
frankness. What my next step may be will depend
entirely upon the nature of your own defence.”
“My defence?”
“Yes, sir.”
“My defence against what?”
“Against the charge of killing Mortimer Tregennis.”
Sterndale mopped his forehead with his handkerchief.
“Upon my word, you are getting on,” said he. “Do all
your successes depend upon this prodigious power of
bluff?”
“The bluff,” said Holmes sternly, “is upon your
side, Dr. Leon Sterndale, and not upon mine. As a
proof I will tell you some of the facts upon which
my conclusions are based. Of your return from
Plymouth, allowing much of your property to go on to
Africa, I will say nothing save that it first
informed me that you were one of the factors which
had to be taken into account in reconstructing this
drama– –”
“I came back– –”
“I have heard your reasons and regard them as
unconvincing and inadequate. We will pass that. You
came down here to ask me whom I suspected. I refused
to answer you. You then went to the vicarage, waited
outside it for some time, and finally returned to
your cottage.”
“How do you know that?”
“I followed you.”
“I saw no one.”
“That is what you may expect to see when I follow
you. You spent a restless night at your cottage, and
you formed certain plans, which in the early morning
you proceeded to put into execution. Leaving your
door just as day was breaking, [968] you filled your
pocket with some reddish gravel that was lying
heaped beside your gate.”
Sterndale gave a violent start and looked at Holmes
in amazement.
“You then walked swiftly for the mile which
separated you from the vicarage. You were wearing, I
may remark, the same pair of ribbed tennis shoes
which are at the present moment upon your feet. At
the vicarage you passed through the orchard and the
side hedge, coming out under the window of the
lodger Tregennis. It was now daylight, but the
household was not yet stirring. You drew some of the
gravel from your pocket, and you threw it up at the
window above you.”
Sterndale sprang to his feet.
“I believe that you are the devil himself!” he
cried.
Holmes smiled at the compliment. “It took two, or
possibly three, handfuls before the lodger came to
the window. You beckoned him to come down. He
dressed hurriedly and descended to his sitting-room.
You entered by the window. There was an interview–a
short one–during which you walked up and down the
room. Then you passed out and closed the window,
standing on the lawn outside smoking a cigar and
watching what occurred. Finally, after the death of
Tregennis, you withdrew as you had come. Now, Dr.
Sterndale, how do you justify such conduct, and what
were the motives for your actions? If you
prevaricate or trifle with me, I give you my
assurance that the matter will pass out of my hands
forever.”
Our visitor’s face had turned ashen gray as he
listened to the words of his accuser. Now he sat for
some time in thought with his face sunk in his
hands. Then with a sudden impulsive gesture he
plucked a photograph from his breast-pocket and
threw it on the rustic table before us.
“That is why I have done it,” said he.
It showed the bust and face of a very beautiful
woman. Holmes stooped over it.
“Brenda Tregennis,” said he.
“Yes, Brenda Tregennis,” repeated our visitor. “For
years I have loved her. For years she has loved me.
There is the secret of that Cornish seclusion which
people have marvelled at. It has brought me close to
the one thing on earth that was dear to me. I could
not marry her, for I have a wife who has left me for
years and yet whom, by the deplorable laws of
England, I could not divorce. For years Brenda
waited. For years I waited. And this is what we have
waited for.” A terrible sob shook his great frame,
and he clutched his throat under his brindled beard.
Then with an effort he mastered himself and spoke
on:
“The vicar knew. He was in our confidence. He would
tell you that she was an angel upon earth. That was
why he telegraphed to me and I returned. What was my
baggage or Africa to me when I learned that such a
fate had come upon my darling? There you have the
missing clue to my action, Mr. Holmes.”
“Proceed,” said my friend.
Dr. Sterndale drew from his pocket a paper packet
and laid it upon the table. On the outside was
written “Radix pedis diaboli” with a red poison
label beneath it. He pushed it towards me. “I
understand that you are a doctor, sir. Have you ever
heard of this preparation?”
“Devil’s-foot root! No, I have never heard of it.”
“It is no reflection upon your professional
knowledge,” said he, “for I believe that, save for
one sample in a laboratory at Buda, there is no
other specimen in [969] Europe. It has not yet found
its way either into the pharmacopoeia or into the
literature of toxicology. The root is shaped like a
foot, half human, half goatlike; hence the fanciful
name given by a botanical missionary. It is used as
an ordeal poison by the medicine-men in certain
districts of West Africa and is kept as a secret
among them. This particular specimen I obtained
under very extraordinary circumstances in the
Ubanghi country.” He opened the paper as he spoke
and disclosed a heap of reddish-brown, snuff-like
powder.
“Well, sir?” asked Holmes sternly.
“I am about to tell you, Mr. Holmes, all that
actually occurred, for you already know so much that
it is clearly to my interest that you should know
all. I have already explained the relationship in
which I stood to the Tregennis family. For the sake
of the sister I was friendly with the brothers.
There was a family quarrel about money which
estranged this man Mortimer, but it was supposed to
be made up, and I afterwards met him as I did the
others. He was a sly, subtle, scheming man, and
several things arose which gave me a suspicion of
him, but I had no cause for any positive quarrel.
“One day, only a couple of weeks ago, he came down
to my cottage and I showed him some of my African
curiosities. Among other things I exhibited this
powder, and I told him of its strange properties,
how it stimulates those brain centres which control
the emotion of fear, and how either madness or death
is the fate of the unhappy native who is subjected
to the ordeal by the priest of his tribe. I told him
also how powerless European science would be to
detect it. How he took it I cannot say, for I never
left the room, but there is no doubt that it was
then, while I was opening cabinets and stooping to
boxes, that he managed to abstract some of the
devil’s-foot root. I well remember how he plied me
with questions as to the amount and the time that
was needed for its effect, but I little dreamed that
he could have a personal reason for asking.
“I thought no more of the matter until the vicar’s
telegram reached me at Plymouth. This villain had
thought that I would be at sea before the news could
reach me, and that I should be lost for years in
Africa. But I returned at once. Of course, I could
not listen to the details without feeling assured
that my poison had been used. I came round to see
you on the chance that some other explanation had
suggested itself to you. But there could be none. I
was convinced that Mortimer Tregennis was the
murderer; that for the sake of money, and with the
idea, perhaps, that if the other members of his
family were all insane he would be the sole guardian
of their joint property, he had used the
devil’s-foot powder upon them, driven two of them
out of their senses, and killed his sister Brenda,
the one human being whom I have ever loved or who
has ever loved me. There was his crime; what was to
be his punishment?
“Should I appeal to the law? Where were my proofs? I
knew that the facts were true, but could I help to
make a jury of countrymen believe so fantastic a
story? I might or I might not. But I could not
afford to fail. My soul cried out for revenge. I
have said to you once before, Mr. Holmes, that I
have spent much of my life outside the law, and that
I have come at last to be a law to myself. So it was
now. I determined that the fate which he had given
to others should be shared by himself. Either that
or I would do justice upon him with my own hand. In
all England there can be no man who sets less value
upon his own life than I do at the present moment.
“Now I have told you all. You have yourself supplied
the rest. I did, as you say, [970] after a restless
night, set off early from my cottage. I foresaw the
difficulty of arousing him, so I gathered some
gravel from the pile which you have mentioned, and I
used it to throw up to his window. He came down and
admitted me through the window of the sitting-room.
I laid his offence before him. I told him that I had
come both as judge and executioner. The wretch sank
into a chair, paralyzed at the sight of my revolver.
I lit the lamp, put the powder above it, and stood
outside the window, ready to carry out my threat to
shoot him should he try to leave the room. In five
minutes he died. My God! how he died! But my heart
was flint, for he endured nothing which my innocent
darling had not felt before him. There is my story,
Mr. Holmes. Perhaps, if you loved a woman, you would
have done as much yourself. At any rate, I am in
your hands. You can take what steps you like. As I
have already said, there is no man living who can
fear death less than I do.”
Holmes sat for some little time in silence.
“What were your plans?” he asked at last.
“I had intended to bury myself in central Africa. My
work there is but half finished.”
“Go and do the other half,” said Holmes. “I, at
least, am not prepared to prevent you.”
Dr. Sterndale raised his giant figure, bowed
gravely, and walked from the arbour. Holmes lit his
pipe and handed me his pouch.
“Some fumes which are not poisonous would be a
welcome change,” said he. “I think you must agree,
Watson, that it is not a case in which we are called
upon to interfere. Our investigation has been
independent, and our action shall be so also. You
would not denounce the man?”
“Certainly not,” I answered.
“I have never loved, Watson, but if I did and if the
woman I loved had met such an end, I might act even
as our lawless lion-hunter has done. Who knows?
Well, Watson, I will not offend your intelligence by
explaining what is obvious. The gravel upon the
window-sill was, of course, the starting-point of my
research. It was unlike anything in the vicarage
garden. Only when my attention had been drawn to Dr.
Sterndale and his cottage did I find its
counterpart. The lamp shining in broad daylight and
the remains of powder upon the shield were
successive links in a fairly obvious chain. And now,
my dear Watson, I think we may dismiss the matter
from our mind and go back with a clear conscience to
the study of those Chaldean roots which are surely
to be traced in the Cornish branch of the great
Celtic speech.”
|
|
HIS
LAST BOW
An Epilogue of Sherlock Holmes
IT WAS nine
o’clock at night upon the second of August–the most
terrible August in the history of the world. One
might have thought already that God’s curse hung
heavy over a degenerate world, for there was an
awesome hush and a feeling of vague expectancy in
the sultry and stagnant air. The sun had long set,
but one blood-red gash like an open wound lay low in
the distant west. Above, the stars [971] were
shining brightly, and below, the lights of the
shipping glimmered in the bay. The two famous
Germans stood beside the stone parapet of the garden
walk, with the long, low, heavily gabled house
behind them, and they looked down upon the broad
sweep of the beach at the foot of the great chalk
cliff on which Von Bork, like some wandering eagle,
had perched himself four years before. They stood
with their heads close together, talking in low,
confidential tones. From below the two glowing ends
of their cigars might have been the smouldering eyes
of some malignant fiend looking down in the
darkness.
A remarkable man this Von Bork–a man who could
hardly be matched among all the devoted agents of
the Kaiser. It was his talents which had first
recommended him for the English mission, the most
important mission of all, but since he had taken it
over those talents had become more and more manifest
to the half-dozen people in the world who were
really in touch with the truth. One of these was his
present companion, Baron Von Herling, the chief
secretary of the legation, whose huge
100-horse-power Benz car was blocking the country
lane as it waited to waft its owner back to London.
“So far as I can judge the trend of events, you will
probably be back in Berlin within the week,” the
secretary was saying. “When you get there, my dear
Von Bork, I think you will be surprised at the
welcome you will receive. I happen to know what is
thought in the highest quarters of your work in this
country.” He was a huge man, the secretary, deep,
broad, and tall, with a slow, heavy fashion of
speech which had been his main asset in his
political career.
Von Bork laughed.
“They are not very hard to deceive,” he remarked. “A
more docile, simple folk could not be imagined.”
“I don’t know about that,” said the other
thoughtfully. “They have strange limits and one must
learn to observe them. It is that surface simplicity
of theirs which makes a trap for the stranger. One’s
first impression is that they are entirely soft.
Then one comes suddenly upon something very hard,
and you know that you have reached the limit and
must adapt yourself to the fact. They have, for
example, their insular conventions which simply must
be observed.”
“Meaning, ‘good form’ and that sort of thing?” Von
Bork sighed as one who had suffered much.
“Meaning British prejudice in all its queer
manifestations. As an example I may quote one of my
own worst blunders–I can afford to talk of my
blunders, for you know my work well enough to be
aware of my successes. It was on my first arrival. I
was invited to a week-end gathering at the country
house of a cabinet minister. The conversation was
amazingly indiscreet.”
Von Bork nodded. “I’ve been there,” said he dryly.
“Exactly. Well, I naturally sent a rйsumй of the
information to Berlin. Unfortunately our good
chancellor is a little heavy-handed in these
matters, and he transmitted a remark which showed
that he was aware of what had been said. This, of
course, took the trail straight up to me. You’ve no
idea the harm that it did me. There was nothing soft
about our British hosts on that occasion, I can
assure you. I was two years living it down. Now you,
with this sporting pose of yours– –”
“No, no, don’t call it a pose. A pose is an
artificial thing. This is quite natural. I am a born
sportsman. I enjoy it.”
“Well, that makes it the more effective. You yacht
against them, you hunt with them, you play polo, you
match them in every game, your four-in-hand takes
the [972] prize at Olympia. I have even heard that
you go the length of boxing with the young officers.
What is the result? Nobody takes you seriously. You
are a ‘good old sport,’ ‘quite a decent fellow for a
German,’ a hard-drinking, night-club,
knock-about-town, devil-may-care young fellow. And
all the time this quiet country house of yours is
the centre of half the mischief in England, and the
sporting squire the most astute secret-service man
in Europe. Genius, my dear Von Bork–genius!”
“You flatter me, Baron. But certainly I may claim
that my four years in this country have not been
unproductive. I’ve never shown you my little store.
Would you mind stepping in for a moment?”
The door of the study opened straight on to the
terrace. Von Bork pushed it back, and, leading the
way, he clicked the switch of the electric light. He
then closed the door behind the bulky form which
followed him and carefully adjusted the heavy
curtain over the latticed window. Only when all
these precautions had been taken and tested did he
turn his sunburned aquiline face to his guest.
“Some of my papers have gone,” said he. “When my
wife and the household left yesterday for Flushing
they took the less important with them. I must, of
course, claim the protection of the embassy for the
others.”
“Your name has already been filed as one of the
personal suite. There will be no difficulties for
you or your baggage. Of course, it is just possible
that we may not have to go. England may leave France
to her fate. We are sure that there is no binding
treaty between them.”
“And Belgium?”
“Yes, and Belgium, too.”
Von Bork shook his head. “I don’t see how that could
be. There is a definite treaty there. She could
never recover from such a humiliation.”
“She would at least have peace for the moment.”
“But her honour?”
“Tut, my dear sir, we live in a utilitarian age.
Honour is a mediaeval conception. Besides England is
not ready. It is an inconceivable thing, but even
our special war tax of fifty million, which one
would think made our purpose as clear as if we had
advertised it on the front page of the Times, has
not roused these people from their slumbers. Here
and there one hears a question. It is my business to
find an answer. Here and there also there is an
irritation. It is my business to soothe it. But I
can assure you that so far as the essentials go–the
storage of munitions, the preparation for submarine
attack, the arrangements for making high
explosives–nothing is prepared. How, then, can
England come in, especially when we have stirred her
up such a devil’s brew of Irish civil war,
window-breaking Furies, and God knows what to keep
her thoughts at home.”
“She must think of her future.”
“Ah, that is another matter. I fancy that in the
future we have our own very definite plans about
England, and that your information will be very
vital to us. It is to-day or to-morrow with Mr. John
Bull. If he prefers to-day we are perfectly ready.
If it is to-morrow we shall be more ready still. I
should think they would be wiser to fight with
allies than without them, but that is their own
affair. This week is their week of destiny. But you
were speaking of your papers.” He sat in the
armchair with the light shining upon his broad bald
head, while he puffed sedately at his cigar.
The large oak-panelled, book-lined room had a
curtain hung in the further corner. When this was
drawn it disclosed a large, brass-bound safe. Von
Bork [973] detached a small key from his watch
chain, and after some considerable manipulation of
the lock he swung open the heavy door.
“Look!” said he, standing clear, with a wave of his
hand.
The light shone vividly into the opened safe, and
the secretary of the embassy gazed with an absorbed
interest at the rows of stuffed pigeon-holes with
which it was furnished. Each pigeon-hole had its
label, and his eyes as he glanced along them read a
long series of such titles as “Fords,” “Harbour-defences,”
“Aeroplanes,” “Ireland,” “Egypt,” “Portsmouth
forts,” “The Channel,” “Rosythe,” and a score of
others. Each compartment was bristling with papers
and plans.
“Colossal!” said the secretary. Putting down his
cigar he softly clapped his fat hands.
“And all in four years, Baron. Not such a bad show
for the hard-drinking, hard-riding country squire.
But the gem of my collection is coming and there is
the setting all ready for it.” He pointed to a space
over which “Naval Signals” was printed.
“But you have a good dossier there already.”
“Out of date and waste paper. The Admiralty in some
way got the alarm and every code has been changed.
It was a blow, Baron–the worst setback in my whole
campaign. But thanks to my check-book and the good
Altamont all will be well to-night.”
The Baron looked at his watch and gave a guttural
exclamation of disappointment.
“Well, I really can wait no longer. You can imagine
that things are moving at present in Carlton Terrace
and that we have all to be at our posts. I had hoped
to be able to bring news of your great coup. Did
Altamont name no hour?”
Von Bork pushed over a telegram.
Will come without fail to-night and bring new
sparking plugs.
ALTAMONT.
“Sparking plugs, eh?”
“You see he poses as a motor expert and I keep a
full garage. In our code everything likely to come
up is named after some spare part. If he talks of a
radiator it is a battleship, of an oil pump a
cruiser, and so on. Sparking plugs are naval
signals.”
“From Portsmouth at midday,” said the secretary,
examining the superscription. “By the way, what do
you give him?”
“Five hundred pounds for this particular job. Of
course he has a salary as well.”
“The greedy rogue. They are useful, these traitors,
but I grudge them their blood money.”
“I grudge Altamont nothing. He is a wonderful
worker. If I pay him well, at least he delivers the
goods, to use his own phrase. Besides he is not a
traitor. I assure you that our most pan-Germanic
Junker is a sucking dove in his feelings towards
England as compared with a real bitter
Irish-American.”
“Oh, an Irish-American?”
“If you heard him talk you would not doubt it.
Sometimes I assure you I can hardly understand him.
He seems to have declared war on the King’s English
as well as on the English king. Must you really go?
He may be here any moment.”
“No. I’m sorry, but I have already overstayed my
time. We shall expect you early to-morrow, and when
you get that signal book through the little door on
[974] the Duke of York’s steps you can put a
triumphant finis to your record in England. What!
Tokay!” He indicated a heavily sealed dust-covered
bottle which stood with two high glasses upon a
salver.
“May I offer you a glass before your journey?”
“No, thanks. But it looks like revelry.”
“Altamont has a nice taste in wines, and he took a
fancy to my Tokay. He is a touchy fellow and needs
humouring in small things. I have to study him, I
assure you.” They had strolled out on to the terrace
again, and along it to the further end where at a
touch from the Baron’s chauffeur the great car
shivered and chuckled. “Those are the lights of
Harwich, I suppose,” said the secretary, pulling on
his dust coat. “How still and peaceful it all seems.
There may be other lights within the week, and the
English coast a less tranquil place! The heavens,
too, may not be quite so peaceful if all that the
good Zeppelin promises us comes true. By the way,
who is that?”
Only one window showed a light behind them; in it
there stood a lamp, and beside it, seated at a
table, was a dear old ruddy-faced woman in a country
cap. She was bending over her knitting and stopping
occasionally to stroke a large black cat upon a
stool beside her.
“That is Martha, the only servant I have left.”
The secretary chuckled.
“She might almost personify Britannia,” said he,
“with her complete self-absorption and general air
of comfortable somnolence. Well, au revoir, Von
Bork!” With a final wave of his hand he sprang into
the car, and a moment later the two golden cones
from the headlights shot forward through the
darkness. The secretary lay back in the cushions of
the luxurious limousine, with his thoughts so full
of the impending European tragedy that he hardly
observed that as his car swung round the village
street it nearly passed over a little Ford coming in
the opposite direction.
Von Bork walked slowly back to the study when the
last gleams of the motor lamps had faded into the
distance. As he passed he observed that his old
housekeeper had put out her lamp and retired. It was
a new experience to him, the silence and darkness of
his widespread house, for his family and household
had been a large one. It was a relief to him,
however, to think that they were all in safety and
that, but for that one old woman who had lingered in
the kitchen, he had the whole place to himself.
There was a good deal of tidying up to do inside his
study and he set himself to do it until his keen,
handsome face was flushed with the heat of the
burning papers. A leather valise stood beside his
table, and into this he began to pack very neatly
and systematically the precious contents of his
safe. He had hardly got started with the work,
however, when his quick ears caught the sound of a
distant car. Instantly he gave an exclamation of
satisfaction, strapped up the valise, shut the safe,
locked it, and hurried out on to the terrace. He was
just in time to see the lights of a small car come
to a halt at the gate. A passenger sprang out of it
and advanced swiftly towards him, while the
chauffeur, a heavily built, elderly man with a gray
moustache, settled down like one who resigns himself
to a long vigil.
“Well?” asked Von Bork eagerly, running forward to
meet his visitor.
For answer the man waved a small brown-paper parcel
triumphantly above his head.
[975] “You can give me the glad hand to-night,
mister,” he cried. “I’m bringing home the bacon at
last.”
“The signals?”
“Same as I said in my cable. Every last one of them,
semaphore, lamp code, Marconi–a copy, mind you, not
the original. That was too dangerous. But it’s the
real goods, and you can lay to that.” He slapped the
German upon the shoulder with a rough familiarity
from which the other winced.
“Come in,” he said. “I’m all alone in the house. I
was only waiting for this. Of course a copy is
better than the original. If an original were
missing they would change the whole thing. You think
it’s all safe about the copy?”
The Irish-American had entered the study and
stretched his long limbs from the armchair. He was a
tall, gaunt man of sixty, with clear-cut features
and a small goatee beard which gave him a general
resemblance to the caricatures of Uncle Sam. A
half-smoked, sodden cigar hung from the corner of
his mouth, and as he sat down he struck a match and
relit it. “Making ready for a move?” he remarked as
he looked round him. “Say, mister,” he added, as his
eyes fell upon the safe from which the curtain was
now removed, “you don’t tell me you keep your papers
in that?”
“Why not?”
“Gosh, in a wide-open contraption like that! And
they reckon you to be some spy. Why, a Yankee crook
would be into that with a can-opener. If I’d known
that any letter of mine was goin’ to lie loose in a
thing like that I’d have been a mug to write to you
at all.”
“It would puzzle any crook to force that safe,” Von
Bork answered. “You won’t cut that metal with any
tool.”
“But the lock?”
“No, it’s a double combination lock. You know what
that is?”
“Search me,” said the American.
“Well, you need a word as well as a set of figures
before you can get the lock to work.” He rose and
showed a double-radiating disc round the keyhole.
“This outer one is for the letters, the inner one
for the figures.”
“Well, well, that’s fine.”
“So it’s not quite as simple as you thought. It was
four years ago that I had it made, and what do you
think I chose for the word and figures?”
“It’s beyond me.”
“Well, I chose August for the word, and 1914 for the
figures, and here we are.”
The American’s face showed his surprise and
admiration.
“My, but that was smart! You had it down to a fine
thing.”
“Yes, a few of us even then could have guessed the
date. Here it is, and I’m shutting down to-morrow
morning.”
“Well, I guess you’ll have to fix me up also. I’m
not staying in this gol-darned country all on my
lonesome. In a week or less, from what I see, John
Bull will be on his hind legs and fair ramping. I’d
rather watch him from over the water.”
“But you’re an American citizen?”
“Well, so was Jack James an American citizen, but
he’s doing time in Portland all the same. It cuts no
ice with a British copper to tell him you’re an
American citizen. ‘It’s British law and order over
here,’ says he. By the way, mister, talking of Jack
James, it seems to me you don’t do much to cover
your men.”
“What do you mean?” Von Bork asked sharply.
[976] “Well, you are their employer, ain’t you? It’s
up to you to see that they don’t fall down. But they
do fall down, and when did you ever pick them up?
There’s James– –”
“It was James’s own fault. You know that yourself.
He was too self-willed for the job.”
“James was a bonehead–I give you that. Then there
was Hollis.”
“The man was mad.”
“Well, he went a bit woozy towards the end. It’s
enough to make a man bughouse when he has to play a
part from morning to night with a hundred guys all
ready to set the coppers wise to him. But now there
is Steiner– –”
Von Bork started violently, and his ruddy face
turned a shade paler.
“What about Steiner?”
“Well, they’ve got him, that’s all. They raided his
store last night, and he and his papers are all in
Portsmouth jail. You’ll go off and he, poor devil,
will have to stand the racket, and lucky if he gets
off with his life. That’s why I want to get over the
water as soon as you do.”
Von Bork was a strong, self-contained man, but it
was easy to see that the news had shaken him.
“How could they have got on to Steiner?” he
muttered. “That’s the worst blow yet.”
“Well, you nearly had a worse one, for I believe
they are not far off me.”
“You don’t mean that!”
“Sure thing. My landlady down Fratton way had some
inquiries, and when I heard of it I guessed it was
time for me to hustle. But what I want to know,
mister, is how the coppers know these things?
Steiner is the fifth man you’ve lost since I signed
on with you, and I know the name of the sixth if I
don’t get a move on. How do you explain it, and
ain’t you ashamed to see your men go down like
this?”
Von Bork flushed crimson.
“How dare you speak in such a way!”
“If I didn’t dare things, mister, I wouldn’t be in
your service. But I’ll tell you straight what is in
my mind. I’ve heard that with you German politicians
when an agent has done his work you are not sorry to
see him put away.”
Von Bork sprang to his feet.
“Do you dare to suggest that I have given away my
own agents!”
“I don’t stand for that, mister, but there’s a stool
pigeon or a cross somewhere, and it’s up to you to
find out where it is. Anyhow I am taking no more
chances. It’s me for little Holland, and the sooner
the better.”
Von Bork had mastered his anger.
“We have been allies too long to quarrel now at the
very hour of victory,” he said. “You’ve done
splendid work and taken risks, and I can’t forget
it. By all means go to Holland, and you can get a
boat from Rotterdam to New York. No other line will
be safe a week from now. I’ll take that book and
pack it with the rest.”
The American held the small parcel in his hand, but
made no motion to give it up.
“What about the dough?” he asked.
“The what?”
“The boodle. The reward. The Ј500. The gunner turned
damned nasty at the last, and I had to square him
with an extra hundred dollars or it would have been
nitsky for you and me. ‘Nothin’ doin’!’ says he, and
he meant it, too, but the last [977] hundred did it.
It’s cost me two hundred pound from first to last,
so it isn’t likely I’d give it up without gettin’ my
wad.”
Von Bork smiled with some bitterness. “You don’t
seem to have a very high opinion of my honour,” said
he, “you want the money before you give up the
book.”
“Well, mister, it is a business proposition.”
“All right. Have your way.” He sat down at the table
and scribbled a check, which he tore from the book,
but he refrained from handing it to his companion.
“After all, since we are to be on such terms, Mr.
Altamont,” said he, “I don’t see why I should trust
you any more than you trust me. Do you understand?”
he added, looking back over his shoulder at the
American. “There’s the check upon the table. I claim
the right to examine that parcel before you pick the
money up.”
The American passed it over without a word. Von Bork
undid a winding of string and two wrappers of paper.
Then he sat gazing for a moment in silent amazement
at a small blue book which lay before him. Across
the cover was printed in golden letters Practical
Handbook of Bee Culture. Only for one instant did
the master spy glare at this strangely irrelevant
inscription. The next he was gripped at the back of
his neck by a grasp of iron, and a chloroformed
sponge was held in front of his writhing face.
“Another
glass, Watson!” said Mr. Sherlock Holmes as he
extended the bottle of Imperial Tokay.
The thickset chauffeur, who had seated himself by
the table, pushed forward his glass with some
eagerness.
“It is a good wine, Holmes.”
“A remarkable wine, Watson. Our friend upon the sofa
has assured me that it is from Franz Josef’s special
cellar at the Schoenbrunn Palace. Might I trouble
you to open the window, for chloroform vapour does
not help the palate.”
The safe was ajar, and Holmes standing in front of
it was removing dossier after dossier, swiftly
examining each, and then packing it neatly in Von
Bork’s valise. The German lay upon the sofa sleeping
stertorously with a strap round his upper arms and
another round his legs.
“We need not hurry ourselves, Watson. We are safe
from interruption. Would you mind touching the bell?
There is no one in the house except old Martha, who
has played her part to admiration. I got her the
situation here when first I took the matter up. Ah,
Martha, you will be glad to hear that all is well.”
The pleasant old lady had appeared in the doorway.
She curtseyed with a smile to Mr. Holmes, but
glanced with some apprehension at the figure upon
the sofa.
“It is all right, Martha. He has not been hurt at
all.”
“I am glad of that, Mr. Holmes. According to his
lights he has been a kind master. He wanted me to go
with his wife to Germany yesterday, but that would
hardly have suited your plans, would it, sir?”
“No, indeed, Martha. So long as you were here I was
easy in my mind. We waited some time for your signal
to-night.”
“It was the secretary, sir.”
“I know. His car passed ours.”
“I thought he would never go. I knew that it would
not suit your plans, sir, to find him here.”
“No, indeed. Well, it only meant that we waited half
an hour or so until I [978] saw your lamp go out and
knew that the coast was clear. You can report to me
to-morrow in London, Martha, at Claridge’s Hotel.”
“Very good, sir.”
“I suppose you have everything ready to leave.”
“Yes, sir. He posted seven letters to-day. I have
the addresses as usual.”
“Very good, Martha. I will look into them to-morrow.
Good-night. These papers,” he continued as the old
lady vanished, “are not of very great importance,
for, of course, the information which they represent
has been sent off long ago to the German government.
These are the originals which could not safely be
got out of the country.”
“Then they are of no use.”
“I should not go so far as to say that, Watson. They
will at least show our people what is known and what
is not. I may say that a good many of these papers
have come through me, and I need not add are
thoroughly untrustworthy. It would brighten my
declining years to see a German cruiser navigating
the Solent according to the mine-field plans which I
have furnished. But you, Watson”–he stopped his work
and took his old friend by the shoulders–“I’ve
hardly seen you in the light yet. How have the years
used you? You look the same blithe boy as ever.”
“I feel twenty years younger, Holmes. I have seldom
felt so happy as when I got your wire asking me to
meet you at Harwich with the car. But you, Holmes
–you have changed very little–save for that horrible
goatee.”
“These are the sacrifices one makes for one’s
country, Watson,” said Holmes, pulling at his little
tuft. “To-morrow it will be but a dreadful memory.
With my hair cut and a few other superficial changes
I shall no doubt reappear at Claridge’s to-morrow as
I was before this American stunt–I beg your pardon,
Watson, my well of English seems to be permanently
defiled– before this American job came my way.”
“But you have retired, Holmes. We heard of you as
living the life of a hermit among your bees and your
books in a small farm upon the South Downs.”
“Exactly, Watson. Here is the fruit of my leisured
ease, the magnum opus of my latter years!” He picked
up the volume from the table and read out the whole
title, Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with Some
Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen.
“Alone I did it. Behold the fruit of pensive nights
and laborious days when I watched the little working
gangs as once I watched the criminal world of
London.”
“But how did you get to work again?”
“Ah, I have often marvelled at it myself. The
Foreign Minister alone I could have withstood, but
when the Premier also deigned to visit my humble
roof– –! The fact is, Watson, that this gentleman
upon the sofa was a bit too good for our people. He
was in a class by himself. Things were going wrong,
and no one could understand why they were going
wrong. Agents were suspected or even caught, but
there was evidence of some strong and secret central
force. It was absolutely necessary to expose it.
Strong pressure was brought upon me to look into the
matter. It has cost me two years, Watson, but they
have not been devoid of excitement. When I say that
I started my pilgrimage at Chicago, graduated in an
Irish secret society at Buffalo, gave serious
trouble to the constabulary at Skibbareen, and so
eventually caught the eye of a subordinate agent of
Von Bork, who recommended me as a likely man, you
will realize that the matter was complex. Since then
I have been honoured by his confidence, which has
not prevented most of his plans going subtly wrong
and five of his best agents being in prison. [979] I
watched them, Watson, and I picked them as they
ripened. Well, sir, I hope that you are none the
worse!”
The last remark was addressed to Von Bork himself,
who after much gasping and blinking had lain quietly
listening to Holmes’s statement. He broke out now
into a furious stream of German invective, his face
convulsed with passion. Holmes continued his swift
investigation of documents while his prisoner cursed
and swore.
“Though unmusical, German is the most expressive of
all languages,” he observed when Von Bork had
stopped from pure exhaustion. “Hullo! Hullo!” he
added as he looked hard at the corner of a tracing
before putting it in the box. “This should put
another bird in the cage. I had no idea that the
paymaster was such a rascal, though I have long had
an eye upon him. Mister Von Bork, you have a great
deal to answer for.”
The prisoner had raised himself with some difficulty
upon the sofa and was staring with a strange mixture
of amazement and hatred at his captor.
“I shall get level with you, Altamont,” he said,
speaking with slow deliberation. “If it takes me all
my life I shall get level with you!”
“The old sweet song,” said Holmes. “How often have I
heard it in days gone by. It was a favourite ditty
of the late lamented Professor Moriarty. Colonel
Sebastian Moran has also been known to warble it.
And yet I live and keep bees upon the South Downs.”
“Curse you,
you double traitor!” cried the German, straining
against his bonds and glaring murder from his
furious eyes.
“No, no, it is not so bad as that,” said Holmes,
smiling. “As my speech surely shows you, Mr.
Altamont of Chicago had no existence in fact. I used
him and he is gone.”
“Then who are you?”
“It is really immaterial who I am, but since the
matter seems to interest you, Mr. Von Bork, I may
say that this is not my first acquaintance with the
members of your family. I have done a good deal of
business in Germany in the past and my name is
probably familiar to you.”
“I would wish to know it,” said the Prussian grimly.
“It was I who brought about the separation between
Irene Adler and the late King of Bohemia when your
cousin Heinrich was the Imperial Envoy. It was I
also who saved from murder, by the Nihilist Klopman,
Count Von und Zu Grafenstein, who was your mother’s
elder brother. It was I– –”
Von Bork sat up in amazement.
“There is only one man,” he cried.
“Exactly,” said Holmes.
Von Bork groaned and sank back on the sofa. “And
most of that information came through you,” he
cried. “What is it worth? What have I done? It is my
ruin forever!”
“It is certainly a little untrustworthy,” said
Holmes. “It will require some checking and you have
little time to check it. Your admiral may find the
new guns rather larger than he expects, and the
cruisers perhaps a trifle faster.”
Von Bork clutched at his own throat in despair.
“There are a good many other points of detail which
will, no doubt, come to light in good time. But you
have one quality which is very rare in a German, Mr.
Von Bork: you are a sportsman and you will bear me
no ill-will when you realize that you, who have
outwitted so many other people, have at last been
outwitted yourself. After all, you have done your
best for your country, and I have done my [980] best
for mine, and what could be more natural? Besides,”
he added, not unkindly, as he laid his hand upon the
shoulder of the prostrate man, “it is better than to
fall before some more ignoble foe. These papers are
now ready, Watson. If you will help me with our
prisoner, I think that we may get started for London
at once.”
It was no
easy task to move Von Bork, for he was a strong and
a desperate man. Finally, holding either arm, the
two friends walked him very slowly down the garden
walk which he had trod with such proud confidence
when he received the congratulations of the famous
diplomatist only a few hours before. After a short,
final struggle he was hoisted, still bound hand and
foot, into the spare seat of the little car. His
precious valise was wedged in beside him.
“I trust that you are as comfortable as
circumstances permit,” said Holmes when the final
arrangements were made. “Should I be guilty of a
liberty if I lit a cigar and placed it between your
lips?”
But all amenities were wasted upon the angry German.
“I suppose you realize, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said
he, “that if your government bears you out in this
treatment it becomes an act of war.”
“What about your government and all this treatment?”
said Holmes, tapping the valise.
“You are a private individual. You have no warrant
for my arrest. The whole proceeding is absolutely
illegal and outrageous.”
“Absolutely,” said Holmes.
“Kidnapping a German subject.”
“And stealing his private papers.”
“Well, you realize your position, you and your
accomplice here. If I were to shout for help as we
pass through the village– –”
“My dear sir, if you did anything so foolish you
would probably enlarge the two limited titles of our
village inns by giving us ‘The Dangling Prussian’ as
a signpost. The Englishman is a patient creature,
but at present his temper is a little inflamed, and
it would be as well not to try him too far. No, Mr.
Von Bork, you will go with us in a quiet, sensible
fashion to Scotland Yard, whence you can send for
your friend, Baron Von Herling, and see if even now
you may not fill that place which he has reserved
for you in the ambassadorial suite. As to you,
Watson, you are joining us with your old service, as
I understand, so London won’t be out of your way.
Stand with me here upon the terrace, for it may be
the last quiet talk that we shall ever have.”
The two friends chatted in intimate converse for a
few minutes, recalling once again the days of the
past, while their prisoner vainly wriggled to undo
the bonds that held him. As they turned to the car
Holmes pointed back to the moonlit sea and shook a
thoughtful head.
“There’s an east wind coming, Watson.”
“I think not, Holmes. It is very warm.”
“Good old Watson! You are the one fixed point in a
changing age. There’s an east wind coming all the
same, such a wind as never blew on England yet. It
will be cold and bitter, Watson, and a good many of
us may wither before its blast. But it’s God’s own
wind none the less, and a cleaner, better, stronger
land will lie in the sunshine when the storm has
cleared. Start her up, Watson, for it’s time that we
were on our way. I have a check for five hundred
pounds which should be cashed early, for the drawer
is quite capable of stopping it if he can.”
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"THE SIGN OF FOUR"
CONTENTS
1. The
Science of Deduction
2. The Statement of the Case
3. In Quest of a Solution
4. The Story of the Bald-headed Man
5. The Tragedy of Pondicherry Lodge
6. Sherlock Holmes Gives a Demonstartion
7. The Episode of the Barrel
8. The Baker Street Irregulars
9. A Break in the Chain
10. The End of the Islander
11. The Great Agra Treasure
12. The Strange Story of Jonathan Small
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THE SCIENCE OF DEDUCTION
SHERLOCK
HOLMES took his bottle from the corner of the
mantelpiece, and his hypodermic syringe from its
neat morocco case. With his long, white, nervous
fingers he adjusted the delicate needle and rolled
back his left shirtcuff. For some little time his
eyes rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and
wrist, all dotted and scarred with innumerable
puncture-marks. Finally, he thrust the sharp point
home, pressed down the tiny piston, and sank back
into the velvet-lined armchair with a long sigh of
satisfaction.
Three times a day for many months I had witnessed
this performance, but custom had not reconciled my
mind to it. On the contrary, from day to day I had
become more irritable at the sight, and my
conscience swelled nightly within me at the thought
that I had lacked the courage to protest. Again and
again I had registered a vow that I should deliver
my soul upon the subject; but there was that in the
cool, nonchalant air of my companion which made him
the last man with whom one would care to take
anything approaching to a liberty. His great powers,
his masterly manner, and the experience which I had
had of his many extraordinary qualities, all made me
diffident and backward in crossing him.
Yet upon that afternoon, whether it was the Beaune
which I had taken with my lunch or the additional
exasperation produced by the extreme deliberation of
his manner, I suddenly felt that I could hold out no
longer.
“Which is it to-day,” I asked, “morphine or
cocaine?”
He raised his eyes languidly from the old
black-letter volume which he had opened.
“It is cocaine,” he said, “a seven-per-cent
solution. Would you care to try it?”
“No, indeed,” I answered brusquely. “My constitution
has not got over the Afghan campaign yet. I cannot
afford to throw any extra strain upon it.”
He smiled at my vehemence. “Perhaps you are right,
Watson,” he said. “I suppose that its influence is
physically a bad one. I find it, however, so
transcendently stimulating and clarifying to the
mind that its secondary action is a matter of small
moment.”
“But consider!” I said earnestly. “Count the cost!
Your brain may, as you say, be roused and excited,
but it is a pathological and morbid process which
involves increased tissue-change and may at least
leave a permanent weakness. You know, too, what a
black reaction comes upon you. Surely the game is
hardly worth the candle. Why should you, for a mere
passing pleasure, risk the loss of those great
powers with which you have been endowed? Remember
that I speak not only as one comrade to another but
as a medical man to one for whose constitution he is
to some extent answerable.”
He did not seem offended. On the contrary, he put
his finger-tips together, and leaned his elbows on
the arms of his chair, like one who has a relish for
conversation.
“My mind,” he said, “rebels at stagnation. Give me
problems, give me work, [90] give me the most
abstruse cryptogram, or the most intricate analysis,
and I am in my own proper atmosphere. I can dispense
then with artificial stimulants. But I abhor the
dull routine of existence. I crave for mental
exaltation. That is why I have chosen my own
particular profession, or rather created it, for I
am the only one in the world.”
“The only unofficial detective?” I said, raising my
eyebrows.
“The only unofficial consulting detective,” he
answered. “I am the last and highest court of appeal
in detection. When Gregson, or Lestrade, or Athelney
Jones are out of their depths–which, by the way, is
their normal state–the matter is laid before me. I
examine the data, as an expert, and pronounce a
specialist’s opinion. I claim no credit in such
cases. My name figures in no newspaper. The work
itself, the pleasure of finding a field for my
peculiar powers, is my highest reward. But you have
yourself had some experience of my methods of work
in the Jefferson Hope case.”
“Yes, indeed,” said I cordially. “I was never so
struck by anything in my life. I even embodied it in
a small brochure, with the somewhat fantastic title
of ‘A Study in Scarlet.’”
He shook his head sadly.
“I glanced over it,” said he. “Honestly, I cannot
congratulate you upon it. Detection is, or ought to
be, an exact science and should be treated in the
same cold and unemotional manner. You have attempted
to tinge it with romanticism, which produces much
the same effect as if you worked a love-story or an
elopement into the fifth proposition of Euclid.”
“But the romance was there,” I remonstrated. “I
could not tamper with the facts.”
“Some facts should be suppressed, or, at least, a
just sense of proportion should be observed in
treating them. The only point in the case which
deserved mention was the curious analytical
reasoning from effects to causes, by which I
succeeded in unravelling it.”
I was annoyed at this criticism of a work which had
been specially designed to please him. I confess,
too, that I was irritated by the egotism which
seemed to demand that every line of my pamphlet
should be devoted to his own special doings. More
than once during the years that I had lived with him
in Baker Street I had observed that a small vanity
underlay my companion’s quiet and didactic manner. I
made no remark, however, but sat nursing my wounded
leg. I had had a Jezail bullet through it some time
before, and though it did not prevent me from
walking it ached wearily at every change of the
weather.
“My practice has extended recently to the
Continent,” said Holmes after a while, filling up
his old brier-root pipe. “I was consulted last week
by Francois le Villard, who, as you probably know,
has come rather to the front lately in the French
detective service. He has all the Celtic power of
quick intuition, but he is deficient in the wide
range of exact knowledge which is essential to the
higher developments of his art. The case was
concerned with a will and possessed some features of
interest. I was able to refer him to two parallel
cases, the one at Riga in 1857, and the other at St.
Louis in 1871, which have suggested to him the true
solution. Here is the letter which I had this
morning acknowledging my assistance.”
He tossed over, as he spoke, a crumpled sheet of
foreign notepaper. I glanced my eyes down it,
catching a profusion of notes of admiration, with
stray magnifiques, [91] coup-de-maоtres and
tours-de-force, all testifying to the ardent
admiration of the Frenchman.
“He speaks as a pupil to his master,” said I.
“Oh, he rates my assistance too highly,” said
Sherlock Holmes lightly. “He has considerable gifts
himself. He possesses two out of the three qualities
necessary for the ideal detective. He has the power
of observation and that of deduction. He is only
wanting in knowledge, and that may come in time. He
is now translating my small works into French.”
“Your works?”
“Oh, didn’t you know?” he cried, laughing. “Yes, I
have been guilty of several monographs. They are all
upon technical subjects. Here, for example, is one
‘Upon the Distinction between the Ashes of the
Various Tobaccos.’ In it I enumerate a hundred and
forty forms of cigar, cigarette, and pipe tobacco,
with coloured plates illustrating the difference in
the ash. It is a point which is continually turning
up in criminal trials, and which is sometimes of
supreme importance as a clue. If you can say
definitely, for example, that some murder had been
done by a man who was smoking an Indian lunkah, it
obviously narrows your field of search. To the
trained eye there is as much difference between the
black ash of a Trichinopoly and the white fluff of
bird’s-eye as there is between a cabbage and a
potato.”
“You have an extraordinary genius for minutiae,” I
remarked.
“I appreciate their importance. Here is my monograph
upon the tracing of footsteps, with some remarks
upon the uses of plaster of Paris as a preserver of
impresses. Here, too, is a curious little work upon
the influence of a trade upon the form of the hand,
with lithotypes of the hands of slaters, sailors,
cork-cutters, compositors, weavers, and
diamond-polishers. That is a matter of great
practical interest to the scientific
detective–especially in cases of unclaimed bodies,
or in discovering the antecedents of criminals. But
I weary you with my hobby.”
“Not at all,” I answered earnestly. “It is of the
greatest interest to me, especially since I have had
the opportunity of observing your practical
application of it. But you spoke just now of
observation and deduction. Surely the one to some
extent implies the other.”
“Why, hardly,” he answered, leaning back luxuriously
in his armchair and sending up thick blue wreaths
from his pipe. “For example, observation shows me
that you have been to the Wigmore Street Post-Office
this morning, but deduction lets me know that when
there you dispatched a telegram.”
“Right!” said I. “Right on both points! But I
confess that I don’t see how you arrived at it. It
was a sudden impulse upon my part, and I have
mentioned it to no one.”
“It is simplicity itself,” he remarked, chuckling at
my surprise–“so absurdly simple that an explanation
is superfluous; and yet it may serve to define the
limits of observation and of deduction. Observation
tells me that you have a little reddish mould
adhering to your instep. Just opposite the Wigmore
Street Office they have taken up the pavement and
thrown up some earth, which lies in such a way that
it is difficult to avoid treading in it in entering.
The earth is of this peculiar reddish tint which is
found, as far as I know, nowhere else in the
neighbourhood. So much is observation. The rest is
deduction.”
“How, then, did you deduce the telegram?”
“Why, of course I knew that you had not written a
letter, since I sat opposite [92] to you all
morning. I see also in your open desk there that you
have a sheet of stamps and a thick bundle of
postcards. What could you go into the post-office
for, then, but to send a wire? Eliminate all other
factors, and the one which remains must be the
truth.”
“In this case it certainly is so,” I replied after a
little thought. “The thing, however, is, as you say,
of the simplest. Would you think me impertinent if I
were to put your theories to a more severe test?”
“On the contrary,” he answered, “it would prevent me
from taking a second dose of cocaine. I should be
delighted to look into any problem which you might
submit to me.”
“I have heard you say it is difficult for a man to
have any object in daily use without leaving the
impress of his individuality upon it in such a way
that a trained observer might read it. Now, I have
here a watch which has recently come into my
possession. Would you have the kindness to let me
have an opinion upon the character or habits of the
late owner?”
I handed him over the watch with some slight feeling
of amusement in my heart, for the test was, as I
thought, an impossible one, and I intended it as a
lesson against the somewhat dogmatic tone which he
occasionally assumed. He balanced the watch in his
hand, gazed hard at the dial, opened the back, and
examined the works, first with his naked eyes and
then with a powerful convex lens. I could hardly
keep from smiling at his crestfallen face when he
finally snapped the case to and handed it back.
“There are
hardly any data,” he remarked. “The watch has been
recently cleaned, which robs me of my most
suggestive facts.”
“You are right,” I answered. “It was cleaned before
being sent to me.” In my heart I accused my
companion of putting forward a most lame and
impotent excuse to cover his failure. What data
could he expect from an uncleaned watch?
“Though unsatisfactory, my research has not been
entirely barren,” he observed, staring up at the
ceiling with dreamy, lack-lustre eyes. “Subject to
your correction, I should judge that the watch
belonged to your elder brother, who inherited it
from your father.”
“That you gather, no doubt, from the H. W. upon the
back?”
“Quite so. The W. suggests your own name. The date
of the watch is nearly fifty years back, and the
initials are as old as the watch: so it was made for
the last generation. Jewellery usually descends to
the eldest son, and he is most likely to have the
same name as the father. Your father has, if I
remember right, been dead many years. It has,
therefore, been in the hands of your eldest
brother.”
“Right, so far,” said I. “Anything else?”
“He was a man of untidy habits–very untidy and
careless. He was left with good prospects, but he
threw away his chances, lived for some time in
poverty with occasional short intervals of
prosperity, and finally, taking to drink, he died.
That is all I can gather.”
I sprang from my chair and limped impatiently about
the room with considerable bitterness in my heart.
“This is unworthy of you, Holmes,” I said. “I could
not have believed that you would have descended to
this. You have made inquiries into the history of my
unhappy brother, and you now pretend to deduce this
knowledge in some fanciful way. You cannot expect me
to believe that you have read all this from [93] his
old watch! It is unkind and, to speak plainly, has a
touch of charlatanism in it.”
“My dear doctor,” said he kindly, “pray accept my
apologies. Viewing the matter as an abstract
problem, I had forgotten how personal and painful a
thing it might be to you. I assure you, however,
that I never even knew that you had a brother until
you handed me the watch.”
“Then how in the name of all that is wonderful did
you get these facts? They are absolutely correct in
every particular.”
“Ah, that is good luck. I could only say what was
the balance of probability. I did not at all expect
to be so accurate.”
“But it was not mere guesswork?”
“No, no: I never guess. It is a shocking
habit–destructive to the logical faculty. What seems
strange to you is only so because you do not follow
my train of thought or observe the small facts upon
which large inferences may depend. For example, I
began by stating that your brother was careless.
When you observe the lower part of that watch-case
you notice that it is not only dinted in two places
but it is cut and marked all over from the habit of
keeping other hard objects, such as coins or keys,
in the same pocket. Surely it is no great feat to
assume that a man who treats a fifty-guinea watch so
cavalierly must be a careless man. Neither is it a
very far-fetched inference that a man who inherits
one article of such value is pretty well provided
for in other respects.”
I nodded to show that I followed his reasoning.
“It is very customary for pawnbrokers in England,
when they take a watch, to scratch the numbers of
the ticket with a pin-point upon the inside of the
case. It is more handy than a label as there is no
risk of the number being lost or transposed. There
are no less than four such numbers visible to my
lens on the inside of this case. Inference–that your
brother was often at low water. Secondary
inference–that he had occasional bursts of
prosperity, or he could not have redeemed the
pledge. Finally, I ask you to look at the inner
plate, which contains the keyhole. Look at the
thousands of scratches all round the hole–marks
where the key has slipped. What sober man’s key
could have scored those grooves? But you will never
see a drunkard’s watch without them. He winds it at
night, and he leaves these traces of his unsteady
hand. Where is the mystery in all this?”
“It is as clear as daylight,” I answered. “I regret
the injustice which I did you. I should have had
more faith in your marvellous faculty. May I ask
whether you have any professional inquiry on foot at
present?”
“None. Hence the cocaine. I cannot live without
brainwork. What else is there to live for? Stand at
the window here. Was ever such a dreary, dismal,
unprofitable world? See how the yellow fog swirls
down the street and drifts across the dun-coloured
houses. What could be more hopelessly prosaic and
material? What is the use of having powers, Doctor,
when one has no field upon which to exert them?
Crime is commonplace, existence is commonplace, and
no qualities save those which are commonplace have
any function upon earth.”
I had opened my mouth to reply to this tirade when,
with a crisp knock, our landlady entered, bearing a
card upon the brass salver.
“A young lady for you, sir,” she said, addressing my
companion.
“Miss Mary Morstan,” he read. “Hum! I have no
recollection of the name. Ask the young lady to step
up, Mrs. Hudson. Don’t go, Doctor. I should prefer
that you remain.”
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THE
STATEMENT OF THE CASE
MISS MORSTAN
entered the room with a firm step and an outward
composure of manner. She was a blonde young lady,
small, dainty, well gloved, and dressed in the most
perfect taste. There was, however, a plainness and
simplicity about her costume which bore with it a
suggestion of limited means. The dress was a sombre
grayish beige, untrimmed and unbraided, and she wore
a small turban of the same dull hue, relieved only
by a suspicion of white feather in the side. Her
face had neither regularity of feature nor beauty of
complexion, but her expression was sweet and
amiable, and her large blue eyes were singularly
spiritual and sympathetic. In an experience of women
which extends over many nations and three separate
continents, I have never looked upon a face which
gave a clearer promise of a refined and sensitive
nature. I could not but observe that as she took the
seat which Sherlock Holmes placed for her, her lip
trembled, her hand quivered, and she showed every
sign of intense inward agitation.
“I have come to you, Mr. Holmes,” she said, “because
you once enabled my employer, Mrs. Cecil Forrester,
to unravel a little domestic complication. She was
much impressed by your kindness and skill.”
“Mrs. Cecil Forrester,” he repeated thoughtfully. “I
believe that I was of some slight service to her.
The case, however, as I remember it, was a very
simple one.”
“She did not think so. But at least you cannot say
the same of mine. I can hardly imagine anything more
strange, more utterly inexplicable, than the
situation in which I find myself.”
Holmes rubbed his hands, and his eyes glistened. He
leaned forward in his chair with an expression of
extraordinary concentration upon his clear-cut,
hawklike features.
“State your
case,” said he in brisk business tones.
I felt that my position was an embarrassing one.
“You will, I am sure, excuse me,” I said, rising
from my chair.
To my surprise, the young lady held up her gloved
hand to detain me.
“If your friend,” she said, “would be good enough to
stop, he might be of inestimable service to me.”
I relapsed into my chair.
“Briefly,” she continued, “the facts are these. My
father was an officer in an Indian regiment, who
sent me home when I was quite a child. My mother was
dead, and I had no relative in England. I was
placed, however, in a comfortable boarding
establishment at Edinburgh, and there I remained
until I was seventeen years of age. In the year 1878
my father, who was senior captain of his regiment,
obtained twelve months’ leave and came home. He
telegraphed to me from London that he had arrived
all safe and directed me to come down at once,
giving the Langham Hotel as his address. His
message, as I remember, was full of kindness and
love. On reaching London I drove to the Langham and
was informed that Captain Morstan was staying there,
but that he had gone out the night before and had
not returned. I waited all day without news of him.
That night, on the [95] advice of the manager of the
hotel, I communicated with the police, and next
morning we advertised in all the papers. Our
inquiries led to no result; and from that day to
this no word has ever been heard of my unfortunate
father. He came home with his heart full of hope to
find some peace, some comfort, and instead– –”
She put her hand to her throat, and a choking sob
cut short the sentence.
“The date?” asked Holmes, opening his notebook.
“He disappeared upon the third of December,
1878–nearly ten years ago.”
“His luggage?”
“Remained at the hotel. There was nothing in it to
suggest a clue–some clothes, some books, and a
considerable number of curiosities from the Andaman
Islands. He had been one of the officers in charge
of the convict-guard there.”
“Had he any friends in town?”
“Only one that we know of–Major Sholto, of his own
regiment, the Thirty-fourth Bombay Infantry. The
major had retired some little time before and lived
at Upper Norwood. We communicated with him, of
course, but he did not even know that his brother
officer was in England.”
“A singular case,” remarked Holmes.
“I have not yet described to you the most singular
part. About six years ago–to be exact, upon the
fourth of May, 1882–an advertisement appeared in the
Times asking for the address of Miss Mary Morstan,
and stating that it would be to her advantage to
come forward. There was no name or address appended.
I had at that time just entered the family of Mrs.
Cecil Forrester in the capacity of governess. By her
advice I published my address in the advertisement
column. The same day there arrived through the post
a small cardboard box addressed to me, which I found
to contain a very large and lustrous pearl. No word
of writing was enclosed. Since then every year upon
the same date there has always appeared a similar
box, containing a similar pearl, without any clue as
to the sender. They have been pronounced by an
expert to be of a rare variety and of considerable
value. You can see for yourself that they are very
handsome.”
She opened a flat box as she spoke and showed me six
of the finest pearls that I had ever seen.
“Your statement is most interesting,” said Sherlock
Holmes. “Has anything else occurred to you?”
“Yes, and no later than to-day. That is why I have
come to you. This morning I received this letter,
which you will perhaps read for yourself.”
“Thank you,” said Holmes. “The envelope, too,
please. Post-mark, London, S. W. Date, July 7. Hum!
Man’s thumb-mark on corner–probably postman. Best
quality paper. Envelopes at sixpence a packet.
Particular man in his stationery. No address.
“Be at the third pillar from the left outside the
Lyceum Theatre to-night at seven o’clock. If you are
distrustful bring two friends. You are a wronged
woman and shall have justice. Do not bring police.
If you do, all will be in vain. Your unknown friend.
Well, really, this is a very pretty little mystery!
What do you intend to do, Miss Morstan?”
“That is exactly what I want to ask you.”
“Then we shall most certainly go–you and I and–yes,
why Dr. Watson is the [96] very man. Your
correspondent says two friends. He and I have worked
together before.”
“But would he come?” she asked with something
appealing in her voice and expression.
“I shall be proud and happy,” said I fervently, “if
I can be of any service.”
“You are both very kind,” she answered. “I have led
a retired life and have no friends whom I could
appeal to. If I am here at six it will do, I
suppose?”
“You must not be later,” said Holmes. “There is one
other point, however. Is this handwriting the same
as that upon the pearl-box addresses?”
“I have them here,” she answered, producing half a
dozen pieces of paper.
“You are certainly a model client. You have the
correct intuition. Let us see, now.” He spread out
the papers upon the table and gave little darting
glances from one to the other. “They are disguised
hands, except the letter,” he said presently; “but
there can be no question as to the authorship. See
how the irrepressible Greek e will break out, and
see the twirl of the final s. They are undoubtedly
by the same person. I should not like to suggest
false hopes, Miss Morstan, but is there any
resemblance between this hand and that of your
father?”
“Nothing could be more unlike.”
“I expected to hear you say so. We shall look out
for you, then, at six. Pray allow me to keep the
papers. I may look into the matter before then. It
is only half-past three. Au revoir, then.”
“Au revoir,” said our visitor; and with a bright,
kindly glance from one to the other of us, she
replaced her pearl-box in her bosom and hurried
away.
Standing at the window, I watched her walking
briskly down the street until the gray turban and
white feather were but a speck in the sombre crowd.
“What a very attractive woman!” I exclaimed, turning
to my companion.
He had lit his pipe again and was leaning back with
drooping eyelids. “Is she?” he said languidly; “I
did not observe.”
“You really are an automaton–a calculating machine,”
I cried. “There is something positively inhuman in
you at times.”
He smiled gently.
“It is of the first importance,” he cried, “not to
allow your judgment to be biased by personal
qualities. A client is to me a mere unit, a factor
in a problem. The emotional qualities are
antagonistic to clear reasoning. I assure you that
the most winning woman I ever knew was hanged for
poisoning three little children for their
insurance-money, and the most repellent man of my
acquaintance is a philanthropist who has spent
nearly a quarter of a million upon the London poor.”
“In this case, however– –”
“I never make exceptions. An exception disproves the
rule. Have you ever had occasion to study character
in handwriting? What do you make of this fellow’s
scribble?”
“It is legible and regular,” I answered. “A man of
business habits and some force of character.”
Holmes shook his head.
“Look at his long letters,” he said. “They hardly
rise above the common herd. That d might be an a,
and that l an e. Men of character always
differentiate their long letters, however illegibly
they may write. There is vacillation in his k’s and
self-esteem in his capitals. I am going out now. I
have some few references to [97] make. Let me
recommend this book–one of the most remarkable ever
penned. It is Winwood Reade’s Martyrdom of Man. I
shall be back in an hour.”
I sat in the window with the volume in my hand, but
my thoughts were far from the daring speculations of
the writer. My mind ran upon our late visitor –her
smiles, the deep rich tones of her voice, the
strange mystery which overhung her life. If she were
seventeen at the time of her father’s disappearance
she must be seven-and-twenty now–a sweet age, when
youth has lost its self-consciousness and become a
little sobered by experience. So I sat and mused
until such dangerous thoughts came into my head that
I hurried away to my desk and plunged furiously into
the latest treatise upon pathology. What was I, an
army surgeon with a weak leg and a weaker banking
account, that I should dare to think of such things?
She was a unit, a factor–nothing more. If my future
were black, it was better surely to face it like a
man than to attempt to brighten it by mere
will-o’-the-wisps of the imagination.
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IN
QUEST OF A SOLUTION
IT WAS
half-past five before Holmes returned. He was
bright, eager, and in excellent spirits, a mood
which in his case alternated with fits of the
blackest depression.
“There is no great mystery in this matter,” he said,
taking the cup of tea which I had poured out for
him; “the facts appear to admit of only one
explanation.”
“What! you have solved it already?”
“Well, that would be too much to say. I have
discovered a suggestive fact, that is all. It is,
however, very suggestive. The details are still to
be added. I have just found, on consulting the back
files of the Times, that Major Sholto, of Upper
Norwood, late of the Thirty-fourth Bombay Infantry,
died upon the twenty-eighth of April, 1882.”
“I may be very obtuse, Holmes, but I fail to see
what this suggests.”
“No? You surprise me. Look at it in this way, then.
Captain Morstan disappears. The only person in
London whom he could have visited is Major Sholto.
Major Sholto denies having heard that he was in
London. Four years later Sholto dies. Within a week
of his death Captain Morstan’s daughter receives a
valuable present, which is repeated from year to
year and now culminates in a letter which describes
her as a wronged woman. What wrong can it refer to
except this deprivation of her father? And why
should the presents begin immediately after Sholto’s
death unless it is that Sholto’s heir knows
something of the mystery and desires to make
compensation? Have you any alternative theory which
will meet the facts?”
“But what a strange compensation! And how strangely
made! Why, too, should he write a letter now, rather
than six years ago? Again, the letter speaks of
giving her justice. What justice can she have? It is
too much to suppose that her father is still alive.
There is no other injustice in her case that you
know of.”
“There are difficulties; there are certainly
difficulties,” said Sherlock Holmes pensively; “but
our expedition of to-night will solve them all. Ah,
here is a [98] four-wheeler, and Miss Morstan is
inside. Are you all ready? Then we had better go
down, for it is a little past the hour.”
I picked up my hat and my heaviest stick, but I
observed that Holmes took his revolver from his
drawer and slipped it into his pocket. It was clear
that he thought that our night’s work might be a
serious one.
Miss Morstan was muffled in a dark cloak, and her
sensitive face was composed but pale. She must have
been more than woman if she did not feel some
uneasiness at the strange enterprise upon which we
were embarking, yet her self-control was perfect,
and she readily answered the few additional
questions which Sherlock Holmes put to her.
“Major Sholto was a very particular friend of
Papa’s,” she said. “His letters were full of
allusions to the major. He and Papa were in command
of the troops at the Andaman Islands, so they were
thrown a great deal together. By the way, a curious
paper was found in Papa’s desk which no one could
understand. I don’t suppose that it is of the
slightest importance, but I thought you might care
to see it, so I brought it with me. It is here.”
Holmes unfolded the paper carefully and smoothed it
out upon his knee. He then very methodically
examined it all over with his double lens.
“It is paper of native Indian manufacture,” he
remarked. “It has at some time been pinned to a
board. The diagram upon it appears to be a plan of
part of a large building with numerous halls,
corridors, and passages. At one point is a small
cross done in red ink, and above it is ‘3.37 from
left,’ in faded pencil-writing. In the left-hand
corner is a curious hieroglyphic like four crosses
in a line with their arms touching. Beside it is
written, in very rough and coarse characters, ‘The
sign of the four–Jonathan Small, Mahomet Singh,
Abdullah Khan, Dost Akbar.’ No, I confess that I do
not see how this bears upon the matter. Yet it is
evidently a document of importance. It has been kept
carefully in a pocketbook, for the one side is as
clean as the other.”
“It was in his pocketbook that we found it.”
“Preserve it carefully, then, Miss Morstan, for it
may prove to be of use to us. I begin to suspect
that this matter may turn out to be much deeper and
more subtle than I at first supposed. I must
reconsider my ideas.”
He leaned back in the cab, and I could see by his
drawn brow and his vacant eye that he was thinking
intently. Miss Morstan and I chatted in an undertone
about our present expedition and its possible
outcome, but our companion maintained his
impenetrable reserve until the end of our journey.
It was a September evening and not yet seven
o’clock, but the day had been a dreary one, and a
dense drizzly fog lay low upon the great city. Mud-coloured
clouds drooped sadly over the muddy streets. Down
the Strand the lamps were but misty splotches of
diffused light which threw a feeble circular glimmer
upon the slimy pavement. The yellow glare from the
shop-windows streamed out into the steamy, vaporous
air and threw a murky, shifting radiance across the
crowded thoroughfare. There was, to my mind,
something eerie and ghostlike in the endless
procession of faces which flitted across these
narrow bars of light–sad faces and glad, haggard and
merry. Like all humankind, they flitted from the
gloom into the light and so back into the gloom once
more. I am not subject to impressions, but the dull,
heavy evening, with the strange business upon which
we were engaged, combined to make me nervous and
depressed. I could see from Miss Morstan’s manner
that she was suffering from the same feeling. Holmes
alone [99] could rise superior to petty influences.
He held his open notebook upon his knee, and from
time to time he jotted down figures and memoranda in
the light of his pocket-lantern.
At the Lyceum Theatre the crowds were already thick
at the side-entrances. In front a continuous stream
of hansoms and four-wheelers were rattling up,
discharging their cargoes of shirt-fronted men and
beshawled, bediamonded women. We had hardly reached
the third pillar, which was our rendezvous, before a
small, dark, brisk man in the dress of a coachman
accosted us.
“Are you the
parties who come with Miss Morstan?” he asked.
“I am Miss Morstan, and these two gentlemen are my
friends,” said she.
He bent a pair of wonderfully penetrating and
questioning eyes upon us.
“You will excuse me, miss,” he said with a certain
dogged manner, “but I was to ask you to give me your
word that neither of your companions is a
police-officer.”
“I give you my word on that,” she answered.
He gave a shrill whistle, on which a street Arab led
across a four-wheeler and opened the door. The man
who had addressed us mounted to the box, while we
took our places inside. We had hardly done so before
the driver whipped up his horse, and we plunged away
at a furious pace through the foggy streets.
The situation was a curious one. We were driving to
an unknown place, on an unknown errand. Yet our
invitation was either a complete hoax–which was an
inconceivable hypothesis–or else we had good reason
to think that important issues might hang upon our
journey. Miss Morstan’s demeanour was as resolute
and collected as ever. I endeavoured to cheer and
amuse her by reminiscences of my adventures in
Afghanistan; but, to tell the truth, I was myself so
excited at our situation and so curious as to our
destination that my stories were slightly involved.
To this day she declares that I told her one moving
anecdote as to how a musket looked into my tent at
the dead of night, and how I fired a double-barrelled
tiger cub at it. At first I had some idea as to the
direction in which we were driving; but soon, what
with our pace, the fog, and my own limited knowledge
of London, I lost my bearings and knew nothing save
that we seemed to be going a very long way. Sherlock
Holmes was never at fault, however, and he muttered
the names as the cab rattled through squares and in
and out by tortuous by-streets.
“Rochester Row,” said he. “Now Vincent Square. Now
we come out on the Vauxhall Bridge Road. We are
making for the Surrey side apparently. Yes, I
thought so. Now we are on the bridge. You can catch
glimpses of the river.”
We did indeed get a fleeting view of a stretch of
the Thames, with the lamps shining upon the broad,
silent water; but our cab dashed on and was soon
involved in a labyrinth of streets upon the other
side.
“Wordsworth Road,” said my companion. “Priory Road.
Lark Hall Lane. Stockwell Place. Robert Street. Cold
Harbour Lane. Our quest does not appear to take us
to very fashionable regions.”
We had indeed reached a questionable and forbidding
neighbourhood. Long lines of dull brick houses were
only relieved by the coarse glare and tawdry
brilliancy of public-houses at the corner. Then came
rows of two-storied villas, each with a fronting of
miniature garden, and then again interminable lines
of new, staring brick buildings–the monster
tentacles which the giant city was throwing out into
the country. At last the cab drew up at the third
house in a new terrace. None of the other houses
were inhabited, and that at which we stopped was as
dark as its neighbours, save for a single glimmer in
the kitchen-window. On our [100] knocking, however,
the door was instantly thrown open by a Hindoo
servant, clad in a yellow turban, white
loose-fitting clothes, and a yellow sash. There was
something strangely incongruous in this Oriental
figure framed in the commonplace doorway of a
third-rate suburban dwelling-house.
“The sahib awaits you,” said he, and even as he
spoke, there came a high, piping voice from some
inner room.
“Show them in to me, khitmutgar,” it said. “Show
them straight in to me.”
|
|
THE
STORY OF THE BALD-HEADED MAN
WE FOLLOWED
the Indian down a sordid and common passage, ill-lit
and worse furnished, until he came to a door upon
the right, which he threw open. A blaze of yellow
light streamed out upon us, and in the centre of the
glare there stood a small man with a very high head,
a bristle of red hair all round the fringe of it,
and a bald, shining scalp which shot out from among
it like a mountain-peak from fir-trees. He writhed
his hands together as he stood, and his features
were in a perpetual jerk–now smiling, now scowling,
but never for an instant in repose. Nature had given
him a pendulous lip, and a too visible line of
yellow and irregular teeth, which he strove feebly
to conceal by constantly passing his hand over the
lower part of his face. In spite of his obtrusive
baldness he gave the impression of youth. In point
of fact, he had just turned his thirtieth year.
“Your servant, Miss Morstan,” he kept repeating in a
thin, high voice. “Your servant, gentlemen. Pray
step into my little sanctum. A small place, miss,
but furnished to my own liking. An oasis of art in
the howling desert of South London.”
We were all astonished by the appearance of the
apartment into which he invited us. In that sorry
house it looked as out of place as a diamond of the
first water in a setting of brass. The richest and
glossiest of curtains and tapestries draped the
walls, looped back here and there to expose some
richly mounted painting or Oriental vase. The carpet
was of amber and black, so soft and so thick that
the foot sank pleasantly into it, as into a bed of
moss. Two great tiger-skins thrown athwart it
increased the suggestion of Eastern luxury, as did a
huge hookah which stood upon a mat in the corner. A
lamp in the fashion of a silver dove was hung from
an almost invisible golden wire in the centre of the
room. As it burned it filled the air with a subtle
and aromatic odour.
“Mr. Thaddeus Sholto,” said the little man, still
jerking and smiling. “That is my name. You are Miss
Morstan, of course. And these gentlemen– –”
“This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this Dr. Watson.”
“A doctor, eh?” cried he, much excited. “Have you
your stethoscope? Might I ask you–would you have the
kindness? I have grave doubts as to my mitral valve,
if you would be so very good. The aortic I may rely
upon, but I should value your opinion upon the
mitral.”
I listened to his heart, as requested, but was
unable to find anything amiss, save, indeed, that he
was in an ecstasy of fear, for he shivered from head
to foot.
“It appears to be normal,” I said. “You have no
cause for uneasiness.”
“You will excuse my anxiety, Miss Morstan,” he
remarked airily. “I am a great [101] sufferer, and I
have long had suspicions as to that valve. I am
delighted to hear that they are unwarranted. Had
your father, Miss Morstan, refrained from throwing a
strain upon his heart, he might have been alive
now.”
I could have struck the man across the face, so hot
was I at this callous and offhand reference to so
delicate a matter. Miss Morstan sat down, and her
face grew white to the lips.
“I knew in my heart that he was dead,” said she.
“I can give you every information,” said he; “and,
what is more, I can do you justice; and I will, too,
whatever Brother Bartholomew may say. I am so glad
to have your friends here not only as an escort to
you but also as witnesses to what I am about to do
and say. The three of us can show a bold front to
Brother Bartholomew. But let us have no outsiders–no
police or officials. We can settle everything
satisfactorily among ourselves without any
interference. Nothing would annoy Brother
Bartholomew more than any publicity.”
He sat down upon a low settee and blinked at us
inquiringly with his weak, watery blue eyes.
“For my part,” said Holmes, “whatever you may choose
to say will go no further.”
I nodded to show my agreement.
“That is well! That is well!” said he. “May I offer
you a glass of Chianti, Miss Morstan? Or of Tokay? I
keep no other wines. Shall I open a flask? No? Well,
then, I trust that you have no objection to
tobacco-smoke, to the balsamic odour of the Eastern
tobacco. I am a little nervous, and I find my hookah
an invaluable sedative.”
He applied a taper to the great bowl, and the smoke
bubbled merrily through the rose-water. We sat all
three in a semicircle, with our heads advanced and
our chins upon our hands, while the strange, jerky
little fellow, with his high, shining head, puffed
uneasily in the centre.
“When I first determined to make this communication
to you,” said he, “I might have given you my
address; but I feared that you might disregard my
request and bring unpleasant people with you. I took
the liberty, therefore, of making an appointment in
such a way that my man Williams might be able to see
you first. I have complete confidence in his
discretion, and he had orders, if he were
dissatisfied, to proceed no further in the matter.
You will excuse these precautions, but I am a man of
somewhat retiring, and I might even say refined,
tastes, and there is nothing more unaesthetic than a
policeman. I have a natural shrinking from all forms
of rough materialism. I seldom come in contact with
the rough crowd. I live, as you see, with some
little atmosphere of elegance around me. I may call
myself a patron of the arts. It is my weakness. The
landscape is a genuine Corot, and though a
connoisseur might perhaps throw a doubt upon that
Salvator Rosa, there cannot be the least question
about the Bouguereau. I am partial to the modern
French school.”
“You will excuse me, Mr. Sholto,” said Miss Morstan,
“but I am here at your request to learn something
which you desire to tell me. It is very late, and I
should desire the interview to be as short as
possible.”
“At the best it must take some time,” he answered;
“for we shall certainly have to go to Norwood and
see Brother Bartholomew. We shall all go and try if
we can get the better of Brother Bartholomew. He is
very angry with me for taking the course which has
seemed right to me. I had quite high words with him
last night. You cannot imagine what a terrible
fellow he is when he is angry.”
[102] “If we are to go to Norwood, it would perhaps
be as well to start at once,” I ventured to remark.
He laughed until his ears were quite red.
“That would hardly do,” he cried. “I don’t know what
he would say if I brought you in that sudden way.
No, I must prepare you by showing you how we all
stand to each other. In the first place, I must tell
you that there are several points in the story of
which I am myself ignorant. I can only lay the facts
before you as far as I know them myself.
“My father was, as you may have guessed, Major John
Sholto, once of the Indian Army. He retired some
eleven years ago and came to live at Pondicherry
Lodge in Upper Norwood. He had prospered in India
and brought back with him a considerable sum of
money, a large collection of valuable curiosities,
and a staff of native servants. With these
advantages he bought himself a house, and lived in
great luxury. My twin-brother Bartholomew and I were
the only children.
“I very well remember the sensation which was caused
by the disappearance of Captain Morstan. We read the
details in the papers, and knowing that he had been
a friend of our father’s we discussed the case
freely in his presence. He used to join in our
speculations as to what could have happened. Never
for an instant did we suspect that he had the whole
secret hidden in his own breast, that of all men he
alone knew the fate of Arthur Morstan.
“We did know, however, that some mystery, some
positive danger, overhung our father. He was very
fearful of going out alone, and he always employed
two prize-fighters to act as porters at Pondicherry
Lodge. Williams, who drove you to-night, was one of
them. He was once lightweight champion of England.
Our father would never tell us what it was he
feared, but he had a most marked aversion to men
with wooden legs. On one occasion he actually fired
his revolver at a wooden-legged man, who proved to
be a harmless tradesman canvassing for orders. We
had to pay a large sum to hush the matter up. My
brother and I used to think this a mere whim of my
father’s, but events have since led us to change our
opinion.
“Early in 1882 my father received a letter from
India which was a great shock to him. He nearly
fainted at the breakfast-table when he opened it,
and from that day he sickened to his death. What was
in the letter we could never discover, but I could
see as he held it that it was short and written in a
scrawling hand. He had suffered for years from an
enlarged spleen, but he now became rapidly worse,
and towards the end of April we were informed that
he was beyond all hope, and that he wished to make a
last communication to us.
“When we entered his room he was propped up with
pillows and breathing heavily. He besought us to
lock the door and to come upon either side of the
bed. Then grasping our hands he made a remarkable
statement to us in a voice which was broken as much
by emotion as by pain. I shall try and give it to
you in his own very words.
“‘I have only one thing,’ he said, ‘which weighs
upon my mind at this supreme moment. It is my
treatment of poor Morstan’s orphan. The cursed greed
which has been my besetting sin through life has
withheld from her the treasure, half at least of
which should have been hers. And yet I have made no
use of it myself, so blind and foolish a thing is
avarice. The mere feeling of possession has been so
dear to me that I could not bear to share it with
another. See that chaplet tipped with pearls beside
the quinine-bottle. Even that I could not bear to
part with, [103] although I had got it out with the
design of sending it to her. You, my sons, will give
her a fair share of the Agra treasure. But send her
nothing–not even the chaplet–until I am gone. After
all, men have been as bad as this and have
recovered.
“‘I will
tell you how Morstan died,’ he continued. ‘He had
suffered for years from a weak heart, but he
concealed it from every one. I alone knew it. When
in India, he and I, through a remarkable chain of
circumstances, came into possession of a
considerable treasure. I brought it over to England,
and on the night of Morstan’s arrival he came
straight over here to claim his share. He walked
over from the station and was admitted by my
faithful old Lal Chowdar, who is now dead. Morstan
and I had a difference of opinion as to the division
of the treasure, and we came to heated words.
Morstan had sprung out of his chair in a paroxysm of
anger, when he suddenly pressed his hand to his
side, his face turned a dusky hue, and he fell
backward, cutting his head against the corner of the
treasure-chest. When I stooped over him I found, to
my horror, that he was dead.
“‘For a long time I sat half distracted, wondering
what I should do. My first impulse was, of course,
to call for assistance; but I could not but
recognize that there was every chance that I would
be accused of his murder. His death at the moment of
a quarrel, and the gash in his head, would be black
against me. Again, an official inquiry could not be
made without bringing out some facts about the
treasure, which I was particularly anxious to keep
secret. He had told me that no soul upon earth knew
where he had gone. There seemed to be no necessity
why any soul ever should know.
“‘I was still pondering over the matter, when,
looking up, I saw my servant, Lal Chowdar, in the
doorway. He stole in and bolted the door behind him.
“Do not fear, sahib,” he said; “no one need know
that you have killed him. Let us hide him away, and
who is the wiser?” “I did not kill him,” said I. Lal
Chowdar shook his head and smiled. “I heard it all,
sahib,” said he; “I heard you quarrel, and I heard
the blow. But my lips are sealed. All are asleep in
the house. Let us put him away together.” That was
enough to decide me. If my own servant could not
believe my innocence, how could I hope to make it
good before twelve foolish tradesmen in a jury-box?
Lal Chowdar and I disposed of the body that night,
and within a few days the London papers were full of
the mysterious disappearance of Captain Morstan. You
will see from what I say that I can hardly be blamed
in the matter. My fault lies in the fact that we
concealed not only the body but also the treasure
and that I have clung to Morstan’s share as well as
to my own. I wish you, therefore, to make
restitution. Put your ears down to my mouth. The
treasure is hidden in– –’
“At this instant a horrible change came over his
expression; his eyes stared wildly, his jaw dropped,
and he yelled in a voice which I can never forget,
‘Keep him out! For Christ’s sake keep him out!’ We
both stared round at the window behind us upon which
his gaze was fixed. A face was looking in at us out
of the darkness. We could see the whitening of the
nose where it was pressed against the glass. It was
a bearded, hairy face, with wild cruel eyes and an
expression of concentrated malevolence. My brother
and I rushed towards the window, but the man was
gone. When we returned to my father his head had
dropped and his pulse had ceased to beat.
“We searched the garden that night but found no sign
of the intruder save that just under the window a
single footmark was visible in the flower-bed. But
for that [104] one trace, we might have thought that
our imaginations had conjured up that wild, fierce
face. We soon, however, had another and a more
striking proof that there were secret agencies at
work all round us. The window of my father’s room
was found open in the morning, his cupboards and
boxes had been rifled, and upon his chest was fixed
a torn piece of paper with the words ‘The sign of
the four’ scrawled across it. What the phrase meant
or who our secret visitor may have been, we never
knew. As far as we can judge, none of my father’s
property had been actually stolen, though everything
had been turned out. My brother and I naturally
associated this peculiar incident with the fear
which haunted my father during his life, but it is
still a complete mystery to us.”
The little man stopped to relight his hookah and
puffed thoughtfully for a few moments. We had all
sat absorbed, listening to his extraordinary
narrative. At the short account of her father’s
death Miss Morstan had turned deadly white, and for
a moment I feared that she was about to faint. She
rallied, however, on drinking a glass of water which
I quietly poured out for her from a Venetian carafe
upon the side-table. Sherlock Holmes leaned back in
his chair with an abstracted expression and the lids
drawn low over his glittering eyes. As I glanced at
him I could not but think how on that very day he
had complained bitterly of the commonplaceness of
life. Here at least was a problem which would tax
his sagacity to the utmost. Mr. Thaddeus Sholto
looked from one to the other of us with an obvious
pride at the effect which his story had produced and
then continued between the puffs of his overgrown
pipe.
“My brother and I,” said he, “were, as you may
imagine, much excited as to the treasure which my
father had spoken of. For weeks and for months we
dug and delved in every part of the garden without
discovering its whereabouts. It was maddening to
think that the hiding-place was on his very lips at
the moment that he died. We could judge the
splendour of the missing riches by the chaplet which
he had taken out. Over this chaplet my brother
Bartholomew and I had some little discussion. The
pearls were evidently of great value, and he was
averse to part with them, for, between friends, my
brother was himself a little inclined to my father’s
fault. He thought, too, that if we parted with the
chaplet it might give rise to gossip and finally
bring us into trouble. It was all that I could do to
persuade him to let me find out Miss Morstan’s
address and send her a detached pearl at fixed
intervals so that at least she might never feel
destitute.”
“It was a kindly thought,” said our companion
earnestly; “it was extremely good of you.”
The little man waved his hand deprecatingly.
“We were your trustees,” he said; “that was the view
which I took of it, though Brother Bartholomew could
not altogether see it in that light. We had plenty
of money ourselves. I desired no more. Besides, it
would have been such bad taste to have treated a
young lady in so scurvy a fashion. ‘Le mauvais goыt
mиne au crime.’ The French have a very neat way of
putting these things. Our difference of opinion on
this subject went so far that I thought it best to
set up rooms for myself; so I left Pondicherry
Lodge, taking the old khitmutgar and Williams with
me. Yesterday, however, I learned that an event of
extreme importance has occurred. The treasure has
been discovered. I instantly communicated with Miss
Morstan, and it only remains for us to drive out to
Norwood and demand our share. I explained my views
last night to Brother Bartholomew, so we shall be
expected, if not welcome, visitors.”
[105] Mr. Thaddeus Sholto ceased and sat twitching
on his luxurious settee. We all remained silent,
with our thoughts upon the new development which the
mysterious business had taken. Holmes was the first
to spring to his feet.
“You have done well, sir, from first to last,” said
he. “It is possible that we may be able to make you
some small return by throwing some light upon that
which is still dark to you. But, as Miss Morstan
remarked just now, it is late, and we had best put
the matter through without delay.”
Our new acquaintance very deliberately coiled up the
tube of his hookah and produced from behind a
curtain a very long befrogged topcoat with astrakhan
collar and cuffs. This he buttoned tightly up in
spite of the extreme closeness of the night and
finished his attire by putting on a rabbit-skin cap
with hanging lappets which covered the ears, so that
no part of him was visible save his mobile and peaky
face.
“My health is somewhat fragile,” he remarked as he
led the way down the passage. “I am compelled to be
a valetudinarian.”
Our cab was awaiting us outside, and our programme
was evidently prearranged, for the driver started
off at once at a rapid pace. Thaddeus Sholto talked
incessantly in a voice which rose high above the
rattle of the wheels.
“Bartholomew is a clever fellow,” said he. “How do
you think he found out where the treasure was? He
had come to the conclusion that it was somewhere
indoors, so he worked out all the cubic space of the
house and made measurements everywhere so that not
one inch should be unaccounted for. Among other
things, he found that the height of the building was
seventy-four feet, but on adding together the
heights of all the separate rooms and making every
allowance for the space between, which he
ascertained by borings, he could not bring the total
to more than seventy feet. There were four feet
unaccounted for. These could only be at the top of
the building. He knocked a hole, therefore, in the
lath and plaster ceiling of the highest room, and
there, sure enough, he came upon another little
garret above it, which had been sealed up and was
known to no one. In the centre stood the
treasure-chest resting upon two rafters. He lowered
it through the hole, and there it lies. He computes
the value of the jewels at not less than half a
million sterling.”
At the mention of this gigantic sum we all stared at
one another open-eyed. Miss Morstan, could we secure
her rights, would change from a needy governess to
the richest heiress in England. Surely it was the
place of a loyal friend to rejoice at such news, yet
I am ashamed to say that selfishness took me by the
soul and that my heart turned as heavy as lead
within me. I stammered out some few halting words of
congratulation and then sat downcast, with my head
drooped, deaf to the babble of our new acquaintance.
He was clearly a confirmed hypochondriac, and I was
dreamily conscious that he was pouring forth
interminable trains of symptoms, and imploring
information as to the composition and action of
innumerable quack nostrums, some of which he bore
about in a leather case in his pocket. I trust that
he may not remember any of the answers which I gave
him that night. Holmes declares that he overheard me
caution him against the great danger of taking more
than two drops of castor-oil, while I recommended
strychnine in large doses as a sedative. However
that may be, I was certainly relieved when our cab
pulled up with a jerk and the coachman sprang down
to open the door.
“This, Miss Morstan, is Pondicherry Lodge,” said Mr.
Thaddeus Sholto as he handed her out.
|
|
THE
TRAGEDY OF PONDICHERRY LODGE
IT WAS
nearly eleven o’clock when we reached this final
stage of our night’s adventures. We had left the
damp fog of the great city behind us, and the night
was fairly fine. A warm wind blew from the westward,
and heavy clouds moved slowly across the sky, with
half a moon peeping occasionally through the rifts.
It was clear enough to see for some distance, but
Thaddeus Sholto took down one of the side-lamps from
the carriage to give us a better light upon our way.
Pondicherry Lodge stood in its own grounds and was
girt round with a very high stone wall topped with
broken glass. A single narrow iron-clamped door
formed the only means of entrance. On this our guide
knocked with a peculiar postman-like rat-tat.
“Who is there?” cried a gruff voice from within.
“It is I, McMurdo. You surely know my knock by this
time.”
There was a grumbling sound and a clanking and
jarring of keys. The door swung heavily back, and a
short, deep-chested man stood in the opening, with
the yellow light of the lantern shining upon his
protruded face and twinkling, distrustful eyes.
“That you,
Mr. Thaddeus? But who are the others? I had no
orders about them from the master.”
“No, McMurdo? You surprise me! I told my brother
last night that I should bring some friends.”
“He hain’t been out o’ his rooms to-day, Mr.
Thaddeus, and I have no orders. You know very well
that I must stick to regulations. I can let you in,
but your friends they must just stop where they
are.”
This was an unexpected obstacle. Thaddeus Sholto
looked about him in a perplexed and helpless manner.
“This is too bad of you, McMurdo!” he said. “If I
guarantee them, that is enough for you. There is the
young lady, too. She cannot wait on the public road
at this hour.”
“Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus,” said the porter
inexorably. “Folk may be friends o’ yours, and yet
no friend o’ the master’s. He pays me well to do my
duty, and my duty I’ll do. I don’t know none o’ your
friends.”
“Oh, yes you do, McMurdo,” cried Sherlock Holmes
genially. “I don’t think you can have forgotten me.
Don’t you remember that amateur who fought three
rounds with you at Alison’s rooms on the night of
your benefit four years back?”
“Not Mr. Sherlock Holmes!” roared the prize-fighter.
“God’s truth! how could I have mistook you? If
instead o’ standin’ there so quiet you had just
stepped up and given me that cross-hit of yours
under the jaw, I’d ha’ known you without a question.
Ah, you’re one that has wasted your gifts, you have!
You might have aimed high, if you had joined the
fancy.”
“You see, Watson, if all else fails me, I have still
one of the scientific professions open to me,” said
Holmes, laughing. “Our friend won’t keep us out in
the cold now, I am sure.”
“In you come, sir, in you come–you and your
friends,” he answered. “Very sorry, [107] Mr.
Thaddeus, but orders are very strict. Had to be
certain of your friends before I let them in.”
Inside, a gravel path wound through desolate grounds
to a huge clump of a house, square and prosaic, all
plunged in shadow save where a moonbeam struck one
corner and glimmered in a garret window. The vast
size of the building, with its gloom and its deathly
silence, struck a chill to the heart. Even Thaddeus
Sholto seemed ill at ease, and the lantern quivered
and rattled in his hand.
“I cannot understand it,” he said. “There must be
some mistake. I distinctly told Bartholomew that we
should be here, and yet there is no light in his
window. I do not know what to make of it.”
“Does he always guard the premises in this way?”
asked Holmes.
“Yes; he has followed my father’s custom. He was the
favourite son you know, and I sometimes think that
my father may have told him more than he ever told
me. That is Bartholomew’s window up there where the
moonshine strikes. It is quite bright, but there is
no light from within, I think.”
“None,” said Holmes. “But I see the glint of a light
in that little window beside the door.”
“Ah, that is the housekeeper’s room. That is where
old Mrs. Bernstone sits. She can tell us all about
it. But perhaps you would not mind waiting here for
a minute or two, for if we all go in together, and
she has had no word of our coming, she may be
alarmed. But, hush! what is that?”
He held up the lantern, and his hand shook until the
circles of light flickered and wavered all round us.
Miss Morstan seized my wrist, and we all stood, with
thumping hearts, straining our ears. From the great
black house there sounded through the silent night
the saddest and most pitiful of sounds–the shrill,
broken whimpering of a frightened woman.
“It is Mrs. Bernstone,” said Sholto. “She is the
only woman in the house. Wait here. I shall be back
in a moment.”
He hurried for the door and knocked in his peculiar
way. We could see a tall old woman admit him and
sway with pleasure at the very sight of him.
“Oh, Mr. Thaddeus, sir, I am so glad you have come!
I am so glad you have come, Mr. Thaddeus, sir!”
We heard her reiterated rejoicings until the door
was closed and her voice died away into a muffled
monotone.
Our guide had left us the lantern. Holmes swung it
slowly round and peered keenly at the house and at
the great rubbish-heaps which cumbered the grounds.
Miss Morstan and I stood together, and her hand was
in mine. A wondrous subtle thing is love, for here
were we two, who had never seen each other before
that day, between whom no word or even look of
affection had ever passed, and yet now in an hour of
trouble our hands instinctively sought for each
other. I have marvelled at it since, but at the time
it seemed the most natural thing that I should go
out to her so, and, as she has often told me, there
was in her also the instinct to turn to me for
comfort and protection. So we stood hand in hand
like two children, and there was peace in our hearts
for all the dark things that surrounded us.
“What a strange place!” she said, looking round.
“It looks as though all the moles in England had
been let loose in it. I have seen something of the
sort on the side of a hill near Ballarat, where the
prospectors had been at work.”
[108] “And from the same cause,” said Holmes. “These
are the traces of the treasure-seekers. You must
remember that they were six years looking for it. No
wonder that the grounds look like a gravel-pit.”
At that moment the door of the house burst open, and
Thaddeus Sholto came running out, with his hands
thrown forward and terror in his eyes.
“There is something amiss with Bartholomew!” he
cried. “I am frightened! My nerves cannot stand it.”
He was, indeed, half blubbering with fear, and his
twitching, feeble face peeping out from the great
astrakhan collar had the helpless, appealing
expression of a terrified child.
“Come into the house,” said Holmes in his crisp,
firm way.
“Yes, do!” pleaded Thaddeus Sholto. “I really do not
feel equal to giving directions.”
We all followed him into the housekeeper’s room,
which stood upon the left-hand side of the passage.
The old woman was pacing up and down with a scared
look and restless, picking fingers, but the sight of
Miss Morstan appeared to have a soothing effect upon
her.
“God bless your sweet, calm face!” she cried with a
hysterical sob. “It does me good to see you. Oh, but
I have been sorely tried this day!”
Our companion patted her thin, work-worn hand and
murmured some few words of kindly, womanly comfort
which brought the colour back into the other’s
bloodless cheeks.
“Master has locked himself in and will not answer
me,” she explained. “All day I have waited to hear
from him, for he often likes to be alone; but an
hour ago I feared that something was amiss, so I
went up and peeped through the keyhole. You must go
up, Mr. Thaddeus–you must go up and look for
yourself. I have seen Mr. Bartholomew Sholto in joy
and in sorrow for ten long years, but I never saw
him with such a face on him as that.”
Sherlock Holmes took the lamp and led the way, for
Thaddeus Sholto’s teeth were chattering in his head.
So shaken was he that I had to pass my hand under
his arm as we went up the stairs, for his knees were
trembling under him. Twice as we ascended, Holmes
whipped his lens out of his pocket and carefully
examined marks which appeared to me to be mere
shapeless smudges of dust upon the cocoanut-matting
which served as a stair-carpet. He walked slowly
from step to step, holding the lamp low, and
shooting keen glances to right and left. Miss
Morstan had remained behind with the frightened
housekeeper.
The third flight of stairs ended in a straight
passage of some length, with a great picture in
Indian tapestry upon the right of it and three doors
upon the left. Holmes advanced along it in the same
slow and methodical way, while we kept close at his
heels, with our long black shadows streaming
backward down the corridor. The third door was that
which we were seeking. Holmes knocked without
receiving any answer, and then tried to turn the
handle and force it open. It was locked on the
inside, however, and by a broad and powerful bolt,
as we could see when we set our lamp up against it.
The key being turned, however, the hole was not
entirely closed. Sherlock Holmes bent down to it and
instantly rose again with a sharp intaking of the
breath.
“There is something devilish in this, Watson,” said
he, more moved than I had ever before seen him.
“What do you make of it?”
[109] I stooped to the hole and recoiled in horror.
Moonlight was streaming into the room, and it was
bright with a vague and shifty radiance. Looking
straight at me and suspended, as it were, in the
air, for all beneath was in shadow, there hung a
face–the very face of our companion Thaddeus. There
was the same high, shining head, the same circular
bristle of red hair, the same bloodless countenance.
The features were set, however, in a horrible smile,
a fixed and unnatural grin, which in that still and
moonlit room was more jarring to the nerves than any
scowl or contortion. So like was the face to that of
our little friend that I looked round at him to make
sure that he was indeed with us. Then I recalled to
mind that he had mentioned to us that his brother
and he were twins.“This is terrible!” I said to
Holmes. “What is to be done?”
“The door must come down,” he answered, and
springing against it, he put all his weight upon the
lock.
It creaked and groaned but did not yield. Together
we flung ourselves upon it once more, and this time
it gave way with a sudden snap, and we found
ourselves within Bartholomew Sholto’s chamber.
It appeared to have been fitted up as a chemical
laboratory. A double line of glass-stoppered bottles
was drawn up upon the wall opposite the door, and
the table was littered over with Bunsen burners,
test-tubes, and retorts. In the corners stood
carboys of acid in wicker baskets. One of these
appeared to leak or to have been broken, for a
stream of dark-coloured liquid had trickled out from
it, and the air was heavy with a peculiarly pungent,
tarlike odour. A set of steps stood at one side of
the room in the midst of a litter of lath and
plaster, and above them there was an opening in the
ceiling large enough for a man to pass through. At
the foot of the steps a long coil of rope was thrown
carelessly together.
By the table
in a wooden armchair the master of the house was
seated all in a heap, with his head sunk upon his
left shoulder and that ghastly, inscrutable smile
upon his face. He was stiff and cold and had clearly
been dead many hours. It seemed to me that not only
his features but all his limbs were twisted and
turned in the most fantastic fashion. By his hand
upon the table there lay a peculiar instrument–a
brown, close-grained stick, with a stone head like a
hammer, rudely lashed on with coarse twine. Beside
it was a torn sheet of note-paper with some words
scrawled upon it. Holmes glanced at it and then
handed it to me.
“You see,” he said with a significant raising of the
eyebrows.
In the light of the lantern I read with a thrill of
horror, “The sign of the four.”
“In God’s name, what does it all mean?” I asked.
“It means murder,” said he, stooping over the dead
man. “Ah! I expected it. Look here!”
He pointed to what looked like a long dark thorn
stuck in the skin just above the ear.
“It looks like a thorn,” said I.
“It is a thorn. You may pick it out. But be careful,
for it is poisoned.”
I took it up between my finger and thumb. It came
away from the skin so readily that hardly any mark
was left behind. One tiny speck of blood showed
where the puncture had been.
“This is all an insoluble mystery to me,” said I.
“It grows darker instead of clearer.”
“On the contrary,” he answered, “it clears every
instant. I only require a few missing links to have
an entirely connected case.”
[110] We had almost forgotten our companion’s
presence since we entered the chamber. He was still
standing in the doorway, the very picture of terror,
wringing his hands and moaning to himself. Suddenly,
however, he broke out into a sharp, querulous cry.
“The treasure is gone!” he said. “They have robbed
him of the treasure! There is the hole through which
we lowered it. I helped him to do it! I was the last
person who saw him! I left him here last night, and
I heard him lock the door as I came downstairs.”
“What time was that?”
“It was ten o’clock. And now he is dead, and the
police will be called in, and I shall be suspected
of having had a hand in it. Oh, yes, I am sure I
shall. But you don’t think so, gentlemen? Surely you
don’t think that it was I? Is it likely that I would
have brought you here if it were I? Oh, dear! oh,
dear! I know that I shall go mad!”
He jerked his arms and stamped his feet in a kind of
convulsive frenzy.
“You have no reason for fear, Mr. Sholto,” said
Holmes kindly, putting his hand upon his shoulder;
“take my advice and drive down to the station to
report the matter to the police. Offer to assist
them in every way. We shall wait here until your
return.”
The little man obeyed in a half-stupefied fashion,
and we heard him stumbling down the stairs in the
dark.
|
|
SHERLOCK HOLMES GIVES A DEMONSTRATION
“NOW,
Watson,” said Holmes, rubbing his hands, “we have
half an hour to ourselves. Let us make good use of
it. My case is, as I have told you, almost complete;
but we must not err on the side of overconfidence.
Simple as the case seems now, there may be something
deeper underlying it.”
“Simple!” I ejaculated.
“Surely,” said he with something of the air of a
clinical professor expounding to his class. “Just
sit in the corner there, that your footprints may
not complicate matters. Now to work! In the first
place, how did these folk come and how did they go?
The door has not been opened since last night. How
of the window?” He carried the lamp across to it,
muttering his observations aloud the while but
addressing them to himself rather than to me.
“Window is snibbed on the inner side. Frame-work is
solid. No hinges at the side. Let us open it. No
water-pipe near. Roof quite out of reach. Yet a man
has mounted by the window. It rained a little last
night. Here is the print of a foot in mould upon the
sill. And here is a circular muddy mark, and here
again upon the floor, and here again by the table.
See here, Watson! This is really a very pretty
demonstration.”
I looked at the round, well-defined muddy discs.
“That is not a foot-mark,” said I.
“It is something much more valuable to us. It is the
impression of a wooden stump. You see here on the
sill is the boot-mark, a heavy boot with a broad
metal heel, and beside it is the mark of the
timber-toe.”
“It is the wooden-legged man.”
“Quite so. But there has been someone else–a very
able and efficient ally. Could you scale that wall,
Doctor?”
I looked out of the open window. The moon still
shone brightly on that angle of the house. We were a
good sixty feet from the ground, and, look where I
would, I could see no foothold, nor as much as a
crevice in the brickwork.
“It is absolutely impossible,” I answered.
“Without aid it is so. But suppose you had a friend
up here who lowered you this good stout rope which I
see in the corner, securing one end of it to this
great hook in the wall. Then, I think, if you were
an active man, you might swarm up, wooden leg and
all. You would depart, of course, in the same
fashion, and your ally would draw up the rope, untie
it from the hook, shut the window, snib it on the
inside, and get away in the way that he originally
came. As a minor point, it may be noted,” he
continued, fingering the rope, “that our
wooden-legged friend, though a fair climber, was not
a professional sailor. His hands were far from
horny. My lens discloses more than one blood-mark,
especially towards the end of the rope, from which I
gather that he slipped down with such velocity that
he took the skin off his hands.”
“This is all very well,” said I; “but the thing
becomes more unintelligible than ever. How about
this mysterious ally? How came he into the room?”
“Yes, the ally!” repeated Holmes pensively. “There
are features of interest about this ally. He lifts
the case from the regions of the commonplace. I
fancy that this ally breaks fresh ground in the
annals of crime in this country–though parallel
cases suggest themselves from India and, if my
memory serves me, from Senegambia.”
“How came he, then?” I reiterated. “The door is
locked; the window is inaccessible. Was it through
the chimney?”
“The grate is much too small,” he answered. “I had
already considered that possibility.”
“How, then?” I persisted.
“You will not apply my precept,” he said, shaking
his head. “How often have I said to you that when
you have eliminated the impossible, whatever
remains, however improbable, must be the truth? We
know that he did not come through the door, the
window, or the chimney. We also know that he could
not have been concealed in the room, as there is no
concealment possible. When, then, did he come?”
“He came through the hole in the roof!” I cried.
“Of course he did. He must have done so. If you will
have the kindness to hold the lamp for me, we shall
now extend our researches to the room above–the
secret room in which the treasure was found.”
He mounted the steps, and, seizing a rafter with
either hand, he swung himself up into the garret.
Then, lying on his face, he reached down for the
lamp and held it while I followed him.
The chamber in which we found ourselves was about
ten feet one way and six the other. The floor was
formed by the rafters, with thin lath and plaster
between, so that in walking one had to step from
beam to beam. The roof ran up to an apex and was
evidently the inner shell of the true roof of the
house. There was no furniture of any sort, and the
accumulated dust of years lay thick upon the floor.
“Here you are, you see,” said Sherlock Holmes,
putting his hand against the [112] sloping wall.
“This is a trapdoor which leads out on to the roof.
I can press it back, and here is the roof itself,
sloping at a gentle angle. This, then, is the way by
which Number One entered. Let us see if we can find
some other traces of his individuality?”
He held down
the lamp to the floor, and as he did so I saw for
the second time that night a startled, surprised
look come over his face. For myself, as I followed
his gaze, my skin was cold under my clothes. The
floor was covered thickly with the prints of a naked
foot–clear, well-defined, perfectly formed, but
scarce half the size of those of an ordinary man.
“Holmes,” I
said in a whisper, “a child has done this horrid
thing.”
He had recovered his self-possession in an instant.
“I was staggered for the moment,” he said, “but the
thing is quite natural. My memory failed me, or I
should have been able to foretell it. There is
nothing more to be learned here. Let us go down.”
“What is your theory, then, as to those footmarks?”
I asked eagerly when we had regained the lower room
once more.
“My dear Watson, try a little analysis yourself,”
said he with a touch of impatience. “You know my
methods. Apply them, and it will be instructive to
compare results.”
“I cannot conceive anything which will cover the
facts,” I answered.
“It will be clear enough to you soon,” he said, in
an offhand way. “I think that there is nothing else
of importance here, but I will look.”
He whipped out his lens and a tape measure and
hurried about the room on his knees, measuring,
comparing, examining, with his long thin nose only a
few inches from the planks and his beady eyes
gleaming and deep-set like those of a bird. So
swift, silent, and furtive were his movements, like
those of a trained bloodhound picking out a scent,
that I could not but think what a terrible criminal
he would have made had he turned his energy and
sagacity against the law instead of exerting them in
its defence. As he hunted about, he kept muttering
to himself, and finally he broke out into a loud
crow of delight.
“We are certainly in luck,” said he. “We ought to
have very little trouble now. Number One has had the
misfortune to tread in the creosote. You can see the
outline of the edge of his small foot here at the
side of this evil-smelling mess. The carboy has been
cracked, you see, and the stuff has leaked out.”
“What then?” I asked.
“Why, we have got him, that’s all,” said he.
“I know a dog that would follow that scent to the
world’s end. If a pack can track a trailed herring
across a shire, how far can a specially trained
hound follow so pungent a smell as this? It sounds
like a sum in the rule of three. The answer should
give us the– – But hallo! here are the accredited
representatives of the law.”
Heavy steps and the clamour of loud voices were
audible from below, and the hall door shut with a
loud crash.
“Before they come,” said Holmes, “just put your hand
here on this poor fellow’s arm, and here on his leg.
What do you feel?”
“The muscles are as hard as a board,” I answered.
“Quite so. They are in a state of extreme
contraction, far exceeding the usual rigor mortis.
Coupled with this distortion of the face, this
Hippocratic smile, or ‘risus sardonicus,’ as the old
writers called it, what conclusion would it suggest
to your mind?”
“Death from some powerful vegetable alkaloid,” I answered, “some
strychnine-like substance which would produce
tetanus.”
“That was the idea which occurred to me the instant
I saw the drawn muscles of the face. On getting into
the room I at once looked for the means by which the
poison had entered the system. As you saw, I
discovered a thorn which had been driven or shot
with no great force into the scalp. You observe that
the part struck was that which would be turned
towards the hole in the ceiling if the man were
erect in his chair. Now examine this thorn.”
I took it up gingerly and held it in the light of
the lantern. It was long, sharp, and black, with a
glazed look near the point as though some gummy
substance had dried upon it. The blunt end had been
trimmed and rounded off with a knife.
“Is that an English thorn?” he asked.
“No, it certainly is not.”
“With all these data you should be able to draw some
just inference. But here are the regulars, so the
auxiliary forces may beat a retreat.”
As he spoke, the steps which had been coming nearer
sounded loudly on the passage, and a very stout,
portly man in a gray suit strode heavily into the
room. He was red-faced, burly, and plethoric, with a
pair of very small twinkling eyes which looked
keenly out from between swollen and puffy pouches.
He was closely followed by an inspector in uniform
and by the still palpitating Thaddeus Sholto.
“Here’s a business!” he cried in a muffled, husky
voice. “Here’s a pretty business! But who are all
these? Why, the house seems to be as full as a
rabbit-warren!”
“I think you must recollect me, Mr. Athelney Jones,”
said Holmes quietly.
“Why, of course I do!” he wheezed. “It’s Mr.
Sherlock Holmes, the theorist. Remember you! I’ll
never forget how you lectured us all on causes and
inferences and effects in the Bishopgate jewel case.
It’s true you set us on the right track; but you’ll
own now that it was more by good luck than good
guidance.”
“It was a piece of very simple reasoning.”
“Oh, come, now, come! Never be ashamed to own up.
But what is all this? Bad business! Bad business!
Stern facts here–no room for theories. How lucky
that I happened to be out at Norwood over another
case! I was at the station when the message arrived.
What d’you think the man died of?”
“Oh, this is hardly a case for me to theorize over,”
said Holmes dryly.
“No, no. Still, we can’t deny that you hit the nail
on the head sometimes. Dear me! Door locked, I
understand. Jewels worth half a million missing. How
was the window?”
“Fastened; but there are steps on the sill.”
“Well, well, if it was fastened the steps could have
nothing to do with the matter. That’s common sense.
Man might have died in a fit; but then the jewels
are missing. Ha! I have a theory. These flashes come
upon me at times.– Just step outside, Sergeant, and
you, Mr. Sholto. Your friend can remain.– What do
you think of this, Holmes? Sholto was, on his own
confession, with his brother last night. The brother
died in a fit, on which Sholto walked off with the
treasure? How’s that?”
“On which the dead man very considerately got up and
locked the door on the inside.”
“Hum! There’s a flaw there. Let us apply common
sense to the matter. This Thaddeus Sholto was with
his brother; there was a quarrel: so much we know.
[114] The brother is dead and the jewels are gone.
So much also we know. No one saw the brother from
the time Thaddeus left him. His bed had not been
slept in. Thaddeus is evidently in a most disturbed
state of mind. His appearance is –well, not
attractive. You see that I am weaving my web round
Thaddeus. The net begins to close upon him.”
“You are not quite in possession of the facts yet,”
said Holmes. “This splinter of wood, which I have
every reason to believe to be poisoned, was in the
man’s scalp where you still see the mark; this card,
inscribed as you see it, was on the table, and
beside it lay this rather curious stone-headed
instrument. How does all that fit into your theory?”
“Confirms it in every respect,” said the fat
detective pompously. “House is full of Indian
curiosities. Thaddeus brought this up, and if this
splinter be poisonous Thaddeus may as well have made
murderous use of it as any other man. The card is
some hocus-pocus–a blind, as like as not. The only
question is, how did he depart? Ah, of course, here
is a hole in the roof.”
With great activity, considering his bulk, he sprang
up the steps and squeezed through into the garret,
and immediately afterwards we heard his exulting
voice proclaiming that he had found the trapdoor.
“He can find something,” remarked Holmes, shrugging
his shoulders; “he has occasional glimmerings of
reason. Il n’y a pas des sots si incommodes que ceux
qui ont de l’esprit!”
“You see!” said Athelney Jones, reappearing down the
steps again; “facts are better than theories, after
all. My view of the case is confirmed. There is a
trapdoor communicating with the roof, and it is
partly open.”
“It was I who opened it.”
“Oh, indeed! You did notice it, then?” He seemed a
little crestfallen at the discovery. “Well, whoever
noticed it, it shows how our gentleman got away.
Inspector!”
“Yes, sir,” from the passage.
“Ask Mr. Sholto to step this way.–Mr. Sholto, it is
my duty to inform you that anything which you may
say will be used against you. I arrest you in the
Queen’s name as being concerned in the death of your
brother.”
“There, now!
Didn’t I tell you!” cried the poor little man,
throwing out his hands and looking from one to the
other of us.
“Don’t trouble yourself about it, Mr. Sholto,” said
Holmes; “I think that I can engage to clear you of
the charge.”
“Don’t promise too much, Mr. Theorist, don’t promise
too much!” snapped the detective. “You may find it a
harder matter than you think.”
“Not only will I clear him, Mr. Jones, but I will
make you a free present of the name and description
of one of the two people who were in this room last
night. His name, I have every reason to believe, is
Jonathan Small. He is a poorly educated man, small,
active, with his right leg off, and wearing a wooden
stump which is worn away upon the inner side. His
left boot has a coarse, square-toed sole, with an
iron band round the heel. He is a middle-aged man,
much sunburned, and has been a convict. These few
indications may be of some assistance to you,
coupled with the fact that there is a good deal of
skin missing from the palm of his hand. The other
man– –”
“Ah! the other man?” asked Athelney Jones in a
sneering voice, but impressed none the less, as I
could easily see, by the precision of the other’s
manner.
“Is a rather curious person,” said Sherlock Holmes, turning upon his heel.
“I hope before very long to be able to introduce you
to the pair of them. A word with you, Watson.”
He led me out to the head of the stair.
“This unexpected occurrence,” he said, “has caused
us rather to lose sight of the original purpose of
our journey.”
“I have just been thinking so,” I answered; “it is
not right that Miss Morstan should remain in this
stricken house.”
“No. You must escort her home. She lives with Mrs.
Cecil Forrester in Lower Camberwell, so it is not
very far. I will wait for you here if you will drive
out again. Or perhaps you are too tired?”
“By no means. I don’t think I could rest until I
know more of this fantastic business. I have seen
something of the rough side of life, but I give you
my word that this quick succession of strange
surprises to-night has shaken my nerve completely. I
should like, however, to see the matter through with
you, now that I have got so far.”
“Your presence will be of great service to me,” he
answered. “We shall work the case out independently
and leave this fellow Jones to exult over any
mare’s-nest which he may choose to construct. When
you have dropped Miss Morstan, I wish you to go on
to No. 3 Pinchin Lane, down near the water’s edge at
Lambeth. The third house on the right-hand side is a
bird-stuffer’s; Sherman is the name. You will see a
weasel holding a young rabbit in the window. Knock
old Sherman up and tell him, with my compliments,
that I want Toby at once. You will bring Toby back
in the cab with you.”
“A dog, I suppose.”
“Yes, a queer mongrel with a most amazing power of
scent. I would rather have Toby’s help than that of
the whole detective force of London.”
“I shall bring him then,” said I. “It is one now. I
ought to be back before three if I can get a fresh
horse.”
“And I,” said Holmes, “shall see what I can learn
from Mrs. Bernstone and from the Indian servant,
who, Mr. Thaddeus tells me, sleeps in the next
garret. Then I shall study the great Jones’s methods
and listen to his not too delicate sarcasms.“
‘Wir sind
gewohnt, daЯ die Menschen verhцhnen was sie nicht
verstehen.’
“Goethe is
always pithy.”
|
|
THE
EPISODE OF THE BARREL
THE police
had brought a cab with them, and in this I escorted
Miss Morstan back to her home. After the angelic
fashion of women, she had borne trouble with a calm
face as long as there was someone weaker than
herself to support, and I had found her bright and
placid by the side of the frightened housekeeper. In
the cab, however, she first turned faint and then
burst into a passion of weeping–so sorely had she
been tried by the adventures of the night. She has
told me since that [116] she thought me cold and
distant upon that journey. She little guessed the
struggle within my breast, or the effort of
self-restraint which held me back. My sympathies and
my love went out to her, even as my hand had in the
garden. I felt that years of the conventionalities
of life could not teach me to know her sweet, brave
nature as had this one day of strange experiences.
Yet there were two thoughts which sealed the words
of affection upon my lips. She was weak and
helpless, shaken in mind and nerve. It was to take
her at a disadvantage to obtrude love upon her at
such a time. Worse still, she was rich. If Holmes’s
researches were successful, she would be an heiress.
Was it fair, was it honourable, that a half-pay
surgeon should take such advantage of an intimacy
which chance had brought about? Might she not look
upon me as a mere vulgar fortune-seeker? I could not
bear to risk that such a thought should cross her
mind. This Agra treasure intervened like an
impassable barrier between us.
It was nearly two o’clock when we reached Mrs. Cecil
Forrester’s. The servants had retired hours ago, but
Mrs. Forrester had been so interested by the strange
message which Miss Morstan had received that she had
sat up in the hope of her return. She opened the
door herself, a middle-aged, graceful woman, and it
gave me joy to see how tenderly her arm stole round
the other’s waist and how motherly was the voice in
which she greeted her. She was clearly no mere paid
dependant but an honoured friend. I was introduced,
and Mrs. Forrester earnestly begged me to step in
and tell her our adventures. I explained, however,
the importance of my errand and promised faithfully
to call and report any progress which we might make
with the case. As we drove away I stole a glance
back, and I still seem to see that little group on
the step–the two graceful, clinging figures, the
half-opened door, the hall-light shining through
stained glass, the barometer, and the bright
stair-rods. It was soothing to catch even that
passing glimpse of a tranquil English home in the
midst of the wild, dark business which had absorbed
us.
And the more I thought of what had happened, the
wilder and darker it grew. I reviewed the whole
extraordinary sequence of events as I rattled on
through the silent, gas-lit streets. There was the
original problem: that at least was pretty clear
now. The death of Captain Morstan, the sending of
the pearls, the advertisement, the letter–we had had
light upon all those events. They had only led us,
however, to a deeper and far more tragic mystery.
The Indian treasure, the curious plan found among
Morstan’s baggage, the strange scene at Major
Sholto’s death, the rediscovery of the treasure
immediately followed by the murder of the
discoverer, the very singular accompaniments to the
crime, the footsteps, the remarkable weapons, the
words upon the card, corresponding with those upon
Captain Morstan’s chart–here was indeed a labyrinth
in which a man less singularly endowed than my
fellow-lodger might well despair of ever finding the
clue.
Pinchin Lane was a row of shabby, two-storied brick
houses in the lower quarter of Lambeth. I had to
knock for some time at No. 3 before I could make any
impression. At last, however, there was the glint of
a candle behind the blind, and a face looked out at
the upper window.
“Go on, you drunken vagabond,” said the face. “If
you kick up any more row, I’ll open the kennels and
let out forty-three dogs upon you.”
“If you’ll let one out, it’s just what I have come
for,” said I.
“Go on!” yelled the voice. “So help me gracious, I
have a wiper in this bag, and I’ll drop it on your
’ead if you don’t hook it!”
“But I want a dog,” I cried.
“I won’t be argued with!” shouted Mr. Sherman. “Now
stand clear; for when I say ‘three,’ down goes the
wiper.”
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes– –” I began; but the words had
a most magical effect, for the window instantly
slammed down, and within a minute the door was
unbarred and open. Mr. Sherman was a lanky, lean old
man, with stooping shoulders, a stringy neck, and
blue-tinted glasses.
“A friend of
Mr. Sherlock is always welcome,” said he. “Step in,
sir. Keep clear of the badger, for he bites. Ah,
naughty, naughty; would you take a nip at the
gentleman?” This to a stoat which thrust its wicked
head and red eyes between the bars of its cage.
“Don’t mind that, sir; it’s only a slowworm. It
hain’t got no fangs, so I gives it the run o’ the
room, for it keeps the beetles down. You must not
mind my bein’ just a little short wi’ you at first,
for I’m guyed at by the children, and there’s many a
one just comes down this lane to knock me up. What
was it that Mr. Sherlock Holmes wanted, sir?”
“He wanted a dog of yours.”
“Ah! that would be Toby.”
“Yes, Toby was the name.”
“Toby lives at No. 7 on the left here.”
He moved slowly forward with his candle among the
queer animal family which he had gathered round him.
In the uncertain, shadowy light I could see dimly
that there were glancing, glimmering eyes peeping
down at us from every cranny and corner. Even the
rafters above our heads were lined by solemn fowls,
who lazily shifted their weight from one leg to the
other as our voices disturbed their slumbers.
Toby proved to be an ugly, long-haired, lop-eared
creature, half spaniel and half lurcher, brown and
white in colour, with a very clumsy, waddling gait.
It accepted, after some hesitation, a lump of sugar
which the old naturalist handed to me, and, having
thus sealed an alliance, it followed me to the cab
and made no difficulties about accompanying me. It
had just struck three on the Palace clock when I
found myself back once more at Pondicherry Lodge.
The ex-prize-fighter McMurdo had, I found, been
arrested as an accessory, and both he and Mr. Sholto
had been marched off to the station. Two constables
guarded the narrow gate, but they allowed me to pass
with the dog on my mentioning the detective’s name.
Holmes was standing on the doorstep with his hands
in his pockets, smoking his pipe.
“Ah, you have him there!” said he. “Good dog, then!
Athelney Jones has gone. We have had an immense
display of energy since you left. He has arrested
not only friend Thaddeus but the gatekeeper, the
housekeeper, and the Indian servant. We have the
place to ourselves but for a sergeant upstairs.
Leave the dog here and come up.”
We tied Toby to the hall table and reascended the
stairs. The room was as we had left it, save that a
sheet had been draped over the central figure. A
weary-looking police-sergeant reclined in the
corner.
“Lend me your bull’s eye, Sergeant,” said my
companion. “Now tie this bit of card round my neck,
so as to hang it in front of me. Thank you. Now I
must kick off my boots and stockings. Just you carry
them down with you, Watson. I am going to do a
little climbing. And dip my handkerchief into the
creosote. That will do. Now come up into the garret
with me for a moment.”
We clambered up through the hole. Holmes turned his
light once more upon the footsteps in the dust.
“I wish you particularly to notice these footmarks,” he said. “Do you
observe anything noteworthy about them?”
“They belong,” I said, “to a child or a small
woman.”
“Apart from their size, though. Is there nothing
else?”
“They appear to be much as other footmarks.”
“Not at all. Look here! This is the print of a right
foot in the dust. Now I make one with my naked foot
beside it. What is the chief difference?”
“Your toes are all cramped together. The other print
has each toe distinctly divided.”
“Quite so. That is the point. Bear that in mind.
Now, would you kindly step over to that flap-window
and smell the edge of the woodwork? I shall stay
over here, as I have this handkerchief in my hand.”
I did as he directed and was instantly conscious of
a strong tarry smell.
“That is where he put his foot in getting out. If
you can trace him, I should think that Toby will
have no difficulty. Now run downstairs, loose the
dog, and look out for Blondin.”
By the time that I got out into the grounds Sherlock
Holmes was on the roof, and I could see him like an
enormous glow-worm crawling very slowly along the
ridge. I lost sight of him behind a stack of
chimneys, but he presently reappeared and then
vanished once more upon the opposite side. When I
made my way round there I found him seated at one of
the corner eaves.
“That you, Watson?” he cried.
“Yes.”
“This is the place. What is that black thing down
there?”
“A water-barrel.”
“Top on it?”
“Yes.”
“No sign of a ladder?”
“No.”
“Confound the fellow! It’s a most breakneck place. I
ought to be able to come down where he could climb
up. The water-pipe feels pretty firm. Here goes,
anyhow.”
There was a scuffling of feet, and the lantern began
to come steadily down the side of the wall. Then
with a light spring he came on to the barrel, and
from there to the earth.
“It was easy to follow him,” he said, drawing on his
stockings and boots. “Tiles were loosened the whole
way along, and in his hurry he had dropped this. It
confirms my diagnosis, as you doctors express it.”
The object which he held up to me was a small pocket
or pouch woven out of coloured grasses and with a
few tawdry beads strung round it. In shape and size
it was not unlike a cigarette-case. Inside were half
a dozen spines of dark wood, sharp at one end and
rounded at the other, like that which had struck
Bartholomew Sholto.
“They are hellish things,” said he. “Look out that
you don’t prick yourself. I’m delighted to have
them, for the chances are that they are all he has.
There is the less fear of you or me finding one in
our skin before long. I would sooner face a Martini
bullet, myself. Are you game for a six-mile trudge,
Watson?”
“Certainly,” I answered.
“Your leg will stand it?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Here you are, doggy! Good old Toby! Smell it, Toby,
smell it!” He pushed the creosote handkerchief under
the dog’s nose, while the creature stood with its
fluffy legs separated, and with a most comical cock
to its head, like a connoisseur sniffing the bouquet
of a famous vintage. Holmes then threw the
handkerchief to a distance, fastened a stout cord to
the mongrel’s collar, and led him to the foot of the
water-barrel. The creature instantly broke into a
succession of high, tremulous yelps and, with his
nose on the ground and his tail in the air, pattered
off upon the trail at a pace which strained his
leash and kept us at the top of our speed.
The east had
been gradually whitening, and we could now see some
distance in the cold gray light. The square, massive
house, with its black, empty windows and high, bare
walls, towered up, sad and forlorn, behind us. Our
course led right across the grounds, in and out
among the trenches and pits with which they were
scarred and intersected. The whole place, with its
scattered dirt-heaps and ill-grown shrubs, had a
blighted, ill-omened look which harmonized with the
black tragedy which hung over it.
On reaching the boundary wall Toby ran along,
whining eagerly, underneath its shadow, and stopped
finally in a corner screened by a young beech. Where
the two walls joined, several bricks had been
loosened, and the crevices left were worn down and
rounded upon the lower side, as though they had
frequently been used as a ladder. Holmes clambered
up, and taking the dog from me he dropped it over
upon the other side.
“There’s the print of Wooden-leg’s hand,” he
remarked as I mounted up beside him. “You see the
slight smudge of blood upon the white plaster. What
a lucky thing it is that we have had no very heavy
rain since yesterday! The scent will lie upon the
road in spite of their eight-and-twenty hours’
start.”
I confess that I had my doubts myself when I
reflected upon the great traffic which had passed
along the London road in the interval. My fears were
soon appeased, however. Toby never hesitated or
swerved but waddled on in his peculiar rolling
fashion. Clearly the pungent smell of the creosote
rose high above all other contending scents.
“Do not imagine,” said Holmes, “that I depend for my
success in this case upon the mere chance of one of
these fellows having put his foot in the chemical. I
have knowledge now which would enable me to trace
them in many different ways. This, however, is the
readiest, and, since fortune has put it into our
hands, I should be culpable if I neglected it. It
has, however, prevented the case from becoming the
pretty little intellectual problem which it at one
time promised to be. There might have been some
credit to be gained out of it but for this too
palpable clue.”
“There is credit, and to spare,” said I. “I assure
you, Holmes, that I marvel at the means by which you
obtain your results in this case even more than I
did in the Jefferson Hope murder. The thing seems to
me to be deeper and more inexplicable. How, for
example, could you describe with such confidence the
wooden-legged man?”
“Pshaw, my dear boy! it was simplicity itself. I
don’t wish to be theatrical. It is all patent and
above-board. Two officers who are in command of a
convict-guard learn an important secret as to buried
treasure. A map is drawn for them by an Englishman
named Jonathan Small. You remember that we saw the
name upon the [120] chart in Captain Morstan’s
possession. He had signed it in behalf of himself
and his associates–the sign of the four, as he
somewhat dramatically called it. Aided by this
chart, the officers–or one of them–gets the treasure
and brings it to England, leaving, we will suppose,
some condition under which he received it
unfulfilled. Now, then, why did not Jonathan Small
get the treasure himself? The answer is obvious. The
chart is dated at a time when Morstan was brought
into close association with convicts. Jonathan Small
did not get the treasure because he and his
associates were themselves convicts and could not
get away.”
“But this is mere speculation,” said I.
“It is more than that. It is the only hypothesis
which covers the facts. Let us see how it fits in
with the sequel. Major Sholto remains at peace for
some years, happy in the possession of his treasure.
Then he receives a letter from India which gives him
a great fright. What was that?”
“A letter to say that the men whom he had wronged
had been set free.”
“Or had escaped. That is much more likely, for he
would have known what their term of imprisonment
was. It would not have been a surprise to him. What
does he do then? He guards himself against a
wooden-legged man–a white man, mark you, for he
mistakes a white tradesman for him and actually
fires a pistol at him. Now, only one white man’s
name is on the chart. The others are Hindoos or
Mohammedans. There is no other white man. Therefore
we may say with confidence that the wooden-legged
man is identical with Jonathan Small. Does the
reasoning strike you as being faulty?”
“No: it is clear and concise.”
“Well, now, let us put ourselves in the place of
Jonathan Small. Let us look at it from his point of
view. He comes to England with the double idea of
regaining what he would consider to be his rights
and of having his revenge upon the man who had
wronged him. He found out where Sholto lived, and
very possibly he established communications with
someone inside the house. There is this butler, Lal
Rao, whom we have not seen. Mrs. Bernstone gives him
far from a good character. Small could not find out,
however, where the treasure was hid, for no one ever
knew save the major and one faithful servant who had
died. Suddenly Small learns that the major is on his
deathbed. In a frenzy lest the secret of the
treasure die with him, he runs the gauntlet of the
guards, makes his way to the dying man’s window, and
is only deterred from entering by the presence of
his two sons. Mad with hate, however, against the
dead man, he enters the room that night, searches
his private papers in the hope of discovering some
memorandum relating to the treasure, and finally
leaves a memento of his visit in the short
inscription upon the card. He had doubtless planned
beforehand that, should he slay the major, he would
leave some such record upon the body as a sign that
it was not a common murder but, from the point of
view of the four associates, something in the nature
of an act of justice. Whimsical and bizarre conceits
of this kind are common enough in the annals of
crime and usually afford valuable indications as to
the criminal. Do you follow all this?”
“Very clearly.”
“Now what could Jonathan small do? He could only
continue to keep a secret watch upon the efforts
made to find the treasure. Possibly he leaves
England and only comes back at intervals. Then comes
the discovery of the garret, and he is instantly
informed of it. We again trace the presence of some
confederate in the household. Jonathan, with his
wooden leg, is utterly unable to reach the lofty
room of Bartholomew Sholto. He takes with him,
however, a rather curious associate, who gets over
this difficulty but dips his naked foot into
creosote, whence come Toby, and a six-mile limp for
a half-pay officer with a damaged tendo Achillis.”
“But it was the associate and not Jonathan who
committed the crime.”
“Quite so. And rather to Jonathan’s disgust, to
judge by the way he stamped about when he got into
the room. He bore no grudge against Bartholomew
Sholto and would have preferred if he could have
been simply bound and gagged. He did not wish to put
his head in a halter. There was no help for it,
however: the savage instincts of his companion had
broken out, and the poison had done its work: so
Jonathan Small left his record, lowered the
treasure-box to the ground, and followed it himself.
That was the train of events as far as I can
decipher them. Of course, as to his personal
appearance, he must be middle-aged and must be
sunburned after serving his time in such an oven as
the Andamans. His height is readily calculated from
the length of his stride, and we know that he was
bearded. His hairiness was the one point which
impressed itself upon Thaddeus Sholto when he saw
him at the window. I don’t know that there is
anything else.”
“The associate?”
“Ah, well, there is no great mystery in that. But
you will know all about it soon enough. How sweet
the morning air is! See how that one little cloud
floats like a pink feather from some gigantic
flamingo. Now the red rim of the sun pushes itself
over the London cloud-bank. It shines on a good many
folk, but on none, I dare bet, who are on a stranger
errand than you and I. How small we feel with our
petty ambitions and strivings in the presence of the
great elemental forces of Nature! Are you well up in
your Jean Paul?”
“Fairly so. I worked back to him through Carlyle.”
“That was like following the brook to the parent
lake. He makes one curious but profound remark. It
is that the chief proof of man’s real greatness lies
in his perception of his own smallness. It argues,
you see, a power of comparison and of appreciation
which is in itself a proof of nobility. There is
much food for thought in Richter. You have not a
pistol, have you?”
“I have my stick.”
“It is just possible that we may need something of
the sort if we get to their lair. Jonathan I shall
leave to you, but if the other turns nasty I shall
shoot him dead.”
He took out his revolver as he spoke, and, having
loaded two of the chambers, he put it back into the
right-hand pocket of his jacket.
We had
during this time been following the guidance of Toby
down the half-rural villa-lined roads which lead to
the metropolis. Now, however, we were beginning to
come among continuous streets, where labourers and
dockmen were already astir, and slatternly women
were taking down shutters and brushing door-steps.
At the square-topped corner public-houses business
was just beginning, and rough-looking men were
emerging, rubbing their sleeves across their beards
after their morning wet. Strange dogs sauntered up
and stared wonderingly at us as we passed, but our
inimitable Toby looked neither to the right nor to
the left but trotted onward with his nose to the
ground and an occasional eager whine which spoke of
a hot scent.
We had traversed Streatham, Brixton, Camberwell, and
now found ourselves in Kennington Lane, having borne
away through the side streets to the east of the
[122] Oval. The men whom we pursued seemed to have
taken a curiously zigzag road, with the idea
probably of escaping observation. They had never
kept to the main road if a parallel side street
would serve their turn. At the foot of Kennington
Lane they had edged away to the left through Bond
Street and Miles Street. Where the latter street
turns into Knight’s Place, Toby ceased to advance
but began to run backward and forward with one ear
cocked and the other drooping, the very picture of
canine indecision. Then he waddled round in circles,
looking up to us from time to time, as if to ask for
sympathy in his embarrassment.
“What the deuce is the matter with the dog?” growled
Holmes. “They surely would not take a cab or go off
in a balloon.”
“Perhaps they stood here for some time,” I
suggested.
“Ah! it’s all right. He’s off again,” said my
companion in a tone of relief.
He was indeed off, for after sniffing round again he
suddenly made up his mind and darted away with an
energy and determination such as he had not yet
shown. The scent appeared to be much hotter than
before, for he had not even to put his nose on the
ground but tugged at his leash and tried to break
into a run. I could see by the gleam in Holmes’s
eyes that he thought we were nearing the end of our
journey.
Our course now ran down Nine Elms until we came to
Broderick and Nelson’s large timber-yard just past
the White Eagle tavern. Here the dog, frantic with
excitement, turned down through the side gate into
the enclosure, where the sawyers were already at
work. On the dog raced through sawdust and shavings,
down an alley, round a passage, between two
wood-piles, and finally, with a triumphant yelp,
sprang upon a large barrel which still stood upon
the hand-trolley on which it had been brought. With
lolling tongue and blinking eyes Toby stood upon the
cask, looking from one to the other of us for some
sign of appreciation. The staves of the barrel and
the wheels of the trolley were smeared with a dark
liquid, and the whole air was heavy with the smell
of creosote.
Sherlock Holmes and I looked blankly at each other
and then burst simultaneously into an uncontrollable
fit of laughter.
|
|
THE
BAKER STREET IRREGULARS
“WHAT now?”
I asked. “Toby has lost his character for
infallibility.”
“He acted according to his lights,” said Holmes,
lifting him down from the barrel and walking him out
of the timber-yard. “If you consider how much
creosote is carted about London in one day, it is no
great wonder that our trail should have been
crossed. It is much used now, especially for the
seasoning of wood. Poor Toby is not to blame.”
“We must get on the main scent again, I suppose.”
“Yes. And, fortunately, we have no distance to go.
Evidently what puzzled the dog at the corner of
Knight’s Place was that there were two different
trails running in opposite directions. We took the
wrong one. It only remains to follow the other.”
There was no difficulty about this. On leading Toby
to the place where he [123] had committed his fault,
he cast about in a wide circle and finally dashed
off in a fresh direction.
“We must take care that he does not now bring us to
the place where the creosote-barrel came from,” I
observed.
“I had thought of that. But you notice that he keeps
on the pavement, whereas the barrel passed down the
roadway. No, we are on the true scent now.”
It tended down towards the riverside, running
through Belmont Place and Prince’s Street. At the
end of Broad Street it ran right down to the water’s
edge, where there was a small wooden wharf. Toby led
us to the very edge of this and there stood whining,
looking out on the dark current beyond.
“We are out of luck,” said Holmes. “They have taken
to a boat here.”
Several small punts and skiffs were lying about in
the water and on the edge of the wharf. We took Toby
round to each in turn, but though he sniffed
earnestly he made no sign.
Close to the rude landing-stage was a small brick
house, with a wooden placard slung out through the
second window. “Mordecai Smith” was printed across
it in large letters, and, underneath, “Boats to hire
by the hour or day.” A second inscription above the
door informed us that a steam launch was kept–a
statement which was confirmed by a great pile of
coke upon the jetty. Sherlock Holmes looked slowly
round, and his face assumed an ominous expression.
“This looks bad,” said he. “These fellows are
sharper than I expected. They seem to have covered
their tracks. There has, I fear, been preconcerted
management here.”
He was approaching the door of the house, when it
opened, and a little curly-headed lad of six came
running out, followed by a stoutish, red-faced woman
with a large sponge in her hand.
“You come back and be washed, Jack,” she shouted.
“Come back, you young imp; for if your father comes
home and finds you like that he’ll let us hear of
it.”
“Dear little
chap!” said Holmes strategically. “What a
rosy-cheeked young rascal! Now, Jack, is there
anything you would like?”
The youth pondered for a moment.
“I’d like a shillin’,” said he.
“Nothing you would like better?”
“I’d like two shillin’ better,” the prodigy answered
after some thought.
“Here you are, then! Catch!–A fine child, Mrs.
Smith!”
“Lor’ bless you, sir, he is that, and forward. He
gets a’most too much for me to manage, ’specially
when my man is away days at a time.”
“Away, is he?” said Holmes in a disappointed voice.
“I am sorry for that, for I wanted to speak to Mr.
Smith.”
“He’s been away since yesterday mornin’, sir, and,
truth to tell, I am beginnin’ to feel frightened
about him. But if it was about a boat, sir, maybe I
could serve as well.”
“I wanted to hire his steam launch.”
“Why, bless you, sir, it is in the steam launch that
he has gone. That’s what puzzles me; for I know
there ain’t more coals in her than would take her to
about Woolwich and back. If he’s been away in the
barge I’d ha’ thought nothin’; for many a time a job
has taken him as far as Gravesend, and then if there
was much doin’ there he might ha’ stayed over. But
what good is a steam launch without coals?”
[124] “He might have bought some at a wharf down the
river.”
“He might, sir, but it weren’t his way. Many a time
I’ve heard him call out at the prices they charge
for a few odd bags. Besides, I don’t like that
wooden-legged man, wi’ his ugly face and outlandish
talk. What did he want always knockin’ about here
for?”
“A wooden-legged man?” said Holmes with bland
surprise.
“Yes, sir, a brown, monkey-faced chap that’s called
more’n once for my old man. It was him that roused
him up yesternight, and, what’s more, my man knew he
was comin’, for he had steam up in the launch. I
tell you straight, sir, I don’t feel easy in my mind
about it.”
“But, my dear Mrs. Smith,” said Holmes, shrugging
his shoulders, “you are frightening yourself about
nothing. How could you possibly tell that it was the
wooden-legged man who came in the night? I don’t
quite understand how you can be so sure.”
“His voice, sir. I knew his voice, which is kind o’
thick and foggy. He tapped at the winder–about three
it would be. ‘Show a leg, matey,’ says he: ‘time to
turn out guard.’ My old man woke up Jim–that’s my
eldest–and away they went without so much as a word
to me. I could hear the wooden leg clackin’ on the
stones.”
“And was this wooden-legged man alone?”
“Couldn’t say, I am sure, sir. I didn’t hear no one
else.”
“I am sorry, Mrs. Smith, for I wanted a steam
launch, and I have heard good reports of the– – Let
me see, what is her name?”
“The Aurora, sir.”
“Ah! She’s not that old green launch with a yellow
line, very broad in the beam?”
“No, indeed. She’s as trim a little thing as any on
the river. She’s been fresh painted, black with two
red streaks.”
“Thanks. I hope that you will hear soon from Mr.
Smith. I am going down the river, and if I should
see anything of the Aurora I shall let him know that
you are uneasy. A black funnel, you say?”
“No, sir. Black with a white band.”
“Ah, of course. It was the sides which were black.
Good-morning, Mrs. Smith. There is a boatman here
with a wherry, Watson. We shall take it and cross
the river.”
“The main thing with people of that sort,” said
Holmes as we sat in the sheets of the wherry, “is
never to let them think that their information can
be of the slightest importance to you. If you do
they will instantly shut up like an oyster. If you
listen to them under protest, as it were, you are
very likely to get what you want.”
“Our course now seems pretty clear,” said I.
“What would you do, then?”
“I would engage a launch and go down the river on
the track of the Aurora.”
“My dear fellow, it would be a colossal task. She
may have touched at any wharf on either side of the
stream between here and Greenwich. Below the bridge
there is a perfect labyrinth of landing-places for
miles. It would take you days and days to exhaust
them if you set about it alone.”
“Employ the police, then.”
“No. I shall probably call Athelney Jones in at the
last moment. He is not a bad fellow, and I should
not like to do anything which would injure him
professionally. [125] But I have a fancy for working
it out myself, now that we have gone so far.”
“Could we advertise, then, asking for information
from wharfingers?”
“Worse and worse! Our men would know that the chase
was hot at their heels, and they would be off out of
the country. As it is, they are likely enough to
leave, but as long as they think they are perfectly
safe they will be in no hurry. Jones’s energy will
be of use to us there, for his view of the case is
sure to push itself into the daily press, and the
runaways will think that everyone is off on the
wrong scent.”
“What are we to do, then?” I asked as we landed near
Millbank Penitentiary.
“Take this hansom, drive home, have some breakfast,
and get an hour’s sleep. It is quite on the cards
that we may be afoot to-night again. Stop at a
telegraph office, cabby! We will keep Toby, for he
may be of use to us yet.”
We pulled up at the Great Peter Street Post-Office,
and Holmes dispatched his wire.
“Whom do you think that is to?” he asked as we
resumed our journey.
“I am sure I don’t know.”
“You remember the Baker Street division of the
detective police force whom I employed in the
Jefferson Hope case?”
“Well,” said I, laughing.
“This is just the case where they might be
invaluable. If they fail I have other resources, but
I shall try them first. That wire was to my dirty
little lieutenant, Wiggins, and I expect that he and
his gang will be with us before we have finished our
breakfast.”
It was between eight and nine o’clock now, and I was
conscious of a strong reaction after the successive
excitements of the night. I was limp and weary,
befogged in mind and fatigued in body. I had not the
professional enthusiasm which carried my companion
on, nor could I look at the matter as a mere
abstract intellectual problem. As far as the death
of Bartholomew Sholto went, I had heard little good
of him and could feel no intense antipathy to his
murderers. The treasure, however, was a different
matter. That, or part of it, belonged rightfully to
Miss Morstan. While there was a chance of recovering
it I was ready to devote my life to the one object.
True, if I found it, it would probably put her
forever beyond my reach. Yet it would be a petty and
selfish love which would be influenced by such a
thought as that. If Holmes could work to find the
criminals, I had a tenfold stronger reason to urge
me on to find the treasure.
A bath at Baker Street and a complete change
freshened me up wonderfully. When I came down to our
room I found the breakfast laid and Holmes pouring
out the coffee.
“Here it is,” said he, laughing and pointing to an
open newspaper. “The energetic Jones and the
ubiquitous reporter have fixed it up between them.
But you have had enough of the case. Better have
your ham and eggs first.”
I took the paper from him and read the short notice,
which was headed “Mysterious Business at Upper
Norwood.”
About twelve
o’clock last night [said the Standard] Mr.
Bartholomew Sholto, of Pondicherry Lodge, Upper
Norwood, was found dead in his room under
circumstances which point to foul play. As far as we
can learn, no actual traces of violence were found
upon Mr. Sholto’s person, but a valuable collection
of Indian gems which the deceased gentleman had
inherited from his father has been carried off. The
discovery was first made by Mr. Sherlock Holmes and
Dr. Watson, who had called at the house with Mr.
Thaddeus Sholto, brother of the deceased. By a
singular piece of good fortune, Mr. Athelney Jones,
the well-known member of the detective police force,
happened to be at the Norwood police station and was
on the ground within half an hour of the first
alarm. His trained and experienced faculties were at
once directed towards the detection of the
criminals, with the gratifying result that the
brother, Thaddeus Sholto, has already been arrested,
together with the housekeeper, Mrs. Bernstone, an
Indian butler named Lal Rao, and a porter, or
gatekeeper, named McMurdo. It is quite certain that
the thief or thieves were well acquainted with the
house, for Mr. Jones’s well-known technical
knowledge and his powers of minute observation have
enabled him to prove conclusively that the
miscreants could not have entered by the door or by
the window but must have made their way across the
roof of the building, and so through a trapdoor into
a room which communicated with that in which the
body was found. This fact, which has been very
clearly made out, proves conclusively that it was no
mere haphazard burglary. The prompt and energetic
action of the officers of the law shows the great
advantage of the presence on such occasions of a
single vigorous and masterful mind. We cannot but
think that it supplies an argument to those who
would wish to see our detectives more
de-centralized, and so brought into closer and more
effective touch with the cases which it is their
duty to investigate.
“Isn’t it gorgeous!” said Holmes, grinning over his
coffee cup. “What do you think of it?”
“I think that we have had a close shave ourselves of
being arrested for the crime.”
“So do I. I wouldn’t answer for our safety now if he
should happen to have another of his attacks of
energy.”
At this moment there was a loud ring at the bell,
and I could hear Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, raising
her voice in a wail of expostulation and dismay.
“By heavens, Holmes,” I said, half rising, “I
believe that they are really after us.”
“No, it’s not quite so bad as that. It is the
unofficial force–the Baker Street irregulars.”
As he spoke, there came a swift pattering of naked
feet upon the stairs, a clatter of high voices, and
in rushed a dozen dirty and ragged little street
Arabs. There was some show of discipline among them,
despite their tumultuous entry, for they instantly
drew up in line and stood facing us with expectant
faces. One of their number, taller and older than
the others, stood forward with an air of lounging
superiority which was very funny in such a
disreputable little scarecrow.
“Got your message, sir,” said he, “and brought ’em
on sharp. Three bob and a tanner for tickets.”
“Here you are,” said Holmes, producing some silver.
“In future they can report to you, Wiggins, and you
to me. I cannot have the house invaded in this way.
However, it is just as well that you should all hear
the instructions. I want to find the whereabouts of
a steam launch called the Aurora, owner Mordecai
Smith, black with two red streaks, funnel black with
a white band. She is down the river somewhere. I
want one boy to be at Mordecai Smith’s landing-stage
opposite [127] Millbank to say if the boat comes
back. You must divide it out among yourselves and do
both banks thoroughly. Let me know the moment you
have news. Is that all clear?”
“Yes, guv’nor,” said Wiggins.
“The old scale of pay, and a guinea to the boy who
finds the boat. Here’s a day in advance. Now off you
go!”
He handed
them a shilling each, and away they buzzed down the
stairs, and I saw them a moment later streaming down
the street.
“If the launch is above water they will find her,”
said Holmes as he rose from the table and lit his
pipe. “They can go everywhere, see everything,
overhear everyone. I expect to hear before evening
that they have spotted her. In the meanwhile, we can
do nothing but await results. We cannot pick up the
broken trail until we find either the Aurora or Mr.
Mordecai Smith.”
“Toby could eat these scraps, I dare say. Are you
going to bed, Holmes?”
“No: I am not tired. I have a curious constitution.
I never remember feeling tired by work, though
idleness exhausts me completely. I am going to smoke
and to think over this queer business to which my
fair client has introduced us. If ever man had an
easy task, this of ours ought to be. Wooden-legged
men are not so common, but the other man must, I
should think, be absolutely unique.”
“That other man again!”
“I have no wish to make a mystery of him to you,
anyway. But you must have formed your own opinion.
Now, do consider the data. Diminutive footmarks,
toes never fettered by boots, naked feet,
stone-headed wooden mace, great agility, small
poisoned darts. What do you make of all this?”
“A savage!” I exclaimed. “Perhaps one of those
Indians who were the associates of Jonathan Small.”
“Hardly that,” said he. “When first I saw signs of
strange weapons I was inclined to think so, but the
remarkable character of the footmarks caused me to
reconsider my views. Some of the inhabitants of the
Indian Peninsula are small men, but none could have
left such marks as that. The Hindoo proper has long
and thin feet. The sandal-wearing Mohammedan has the
great toe well separated from the others because the
thong is commonly passed between. These little
darts, too, could only be shot in one way. They are
from a blow-pipe. Now, then, where are we to find
our savage?”
“South America,” I hazarded.
He stretched his hand up and took down a bulky
volume from the shelf.
“This is the first volume of a gazetteer which is
now being published. It may be looked upon as the
very latest authority. What have we here?
“Andaman
Islands, situated 340 miles to the north of Sumatra,
in the Bay of Bengal.
Hum! hum! What’s all this? Moist climate, coral
reefs, sharks, Port Blair, convict barracks, Rutland
Island, cottonwoods– – Ah, here we are!
“The
aborigines of the Andaman Islands may perhaps claim
the distinction of being the smallest race upon this
earth, though some anthropologists prefer the
Bushmen of Africa, the Digger Indians of America,
and the Terra del Fuegians. The average height is
rather below four feet, although many full-grown
adults may be found who are very much smaller than
this. [128] They are a fierce, morose, and
intractable people, though capable of forming most
devoted friendships when their confidence has once
been gained.
Mark that, Watson. Now, then listen to this.
“They are
naturally hideous, having large, misshapen heads,
small fierce eyes, and distorted features. Their
feet and hands, however, are remarkably small. So
intractable and fierce are they, that all the
efforts of the British officials have failed to win
them over in any degree. They have always been a
terror to shipwrecked crews, braining the survivors
with their stone-headed clubs or shooting them with
their poisoned arrows. These massacres are
invariably concluded by a cannibal feast.
Nice, amiable people, Watson! If this fellow had
been left to his own unaided devices, this affair
might have taken an even more ghastly turn. I fancy
that, even as it is, Jonathan Small would give a
good deal not to have employed him.”
“But how came he to have so singular a companion?”
“Ah, that is more than I can tell. Since, however,
we had already determined that Small had come from
the Andamans, it is not so very wonderful that this
islander should be with him. No doubt we shall know
all about it in time. Look here, Watson; you look
regularly done. Lie down there on the sofa and see
if I can put you to sleep.”
He took up his violin from the corner, and as I
stretched myself out he began to play some low,
dreamy, melodious air–his own, no doubt, for he had
a remarkable gift for improvisation. I have a vague
remembrance of his gaunt limbs, his earnest face and
the rise and fall of his bow. Then I seemed to be
floated peacefully away upon a soft sea of sound
until I found myself in dreamland, with the sweet
face of Mary Morstan looking down upon me.
|
|
A
BREAK IN THE CHAIN
IT WAS late
in the afternoon before I woke, strengthened and
refreshed. Sherlock Holmes still sat exactly as I
had left him, save that he had laid aside his violin
and was deep in a book. He looked across at me as I
stirred, and I noticed that his face was dark and
troubled.
“You have slept soundly,” he said. “I feared that
our talk would wake you.”
“I heard nothing,” I answered. “Have you had fresh
news, then?”
“Unfortunately, no. I confess that I am surprised
and disappointed. I expected something definite by
this time. Wiggins has just been up to report. He
says that no trace can be found of the launch. It is
a provoking check, for every hour is of importance.”
“Can I do anything? I am perfectly fresh now, and
quite ready for another night’s outing.”
“No; we can do nothing. We can only wait. If we go
ourselves the message might [129] come in our
absence and delay be caused. You can do what you
will, but I must remain on guard.”
“Then I shall run over to Camberwell and call upon
Mrs. Cecil Forrester. She asked me to, yesterday.”
“On Mrs. Cecil Forrester?” asked Holmes with the
twinkle of a smile in his eyes.
“Well, of course on Miss Morstan, too. They were
anxious to hear what happened.”
“I would not tell them too much,” said Holmes.
“Women are never to be entirely trusted–not the best
of them.”
I did not pause to argue over this atrocious
sentiment.
“I shall be back in an hour or two,” I remarked.
“All right! Good luck! But, I say, if you are
crossing the river you may as well return Toby, for
I don’t think it is at all likely that we shall have
any use for him now.”
I took our mongrel accordingly and left him,
together with a half-sovereign, at the old
naturalist’s in Pinchin Lane. At Camberwell I found
Miss Morstan a little weary after her night’s
adventures but very eager to hear the news. Mrs.
Forrester, too, was full of curiosity. I told them
all that we had done, suppressing, however, the more
dreadful parts of the tragedy. Thus, although I
spoke of Mr. Sholto’s death, I said nothing of the
exact manner and method of it. With all my
omissions, however, there was enough to startle and
amaze them.
“It is a romance!” cried Mrs. Forrester. “An injured
lady, half a million in treasure, a black cannibal,
and a wooden-legged ruffian. They take the place of
the conventional dragon or wicked earl.”
“And two knight-errants to the rescue,” added Miss
Morstan with a bright glance at me.
“Why, Mary, your fortune depends upon the issue of
this search. I don’t think that you are nearly
excited enough. Just imagine what it must be to be
so rich and to have the world at your feet!”
It sent a little thrill of joy to my heart to notice
that she showed no sign of elation at the prospect.
On the contrary, she gave a toss of her proud head,
as though the matter were one in which she took
small interest.
“It is for Mr. Thaddeus Sholto that I am anxious,”
she said. “Nothing else is of any consequence; but I
think that he has behaved most kindly and honourably
throughout. It is our duty to clear him of this
dreadful and unfounded charge.”
It was evening before I left Camberwell, and quite
dark by the time I reached home. My companion’s book
and pipe lay by his chair, but he had disappeared. I
looked about in the hope of seeing a note, but there
was none.
“I suppose that Mr. Sherlock Holmes has gone out,” I
said to Mrs. Hudson as she came up to lower the
blinds.
“No, sir. He has gone to his room, sir. Do you know,
sir,” sinking her voice into an impressive whisper,
“I am afraid for his health.”
“Why so, Mrs. Hudson?”
“Well, he’s that strange, sir. After you was gone he
walked and he walked, up and down, and up and down,
until I was weary of the sound of his footstep. Then
I heard him talking to himself and muttering, and
every time the bell rang out he came on the
stairhead, with ‘What is that, Mrs. Hudson?’ And now
he has slammed off to his room, but I can hear him
walking away the same as ever. I [130] hope he’s not
going to be ill, sir. I ventured to say something to
him about cooling medicine, but he turned on me,
sir, with such a look that I don’t know how ever I
got out of the room.”
“I don’t think that you have any cause to be uneasy,
Mrs. Hudson,” I answered. “I have seen him like this
before. He has some small matter upon his mind which
makes him restless.”
I tried to speak lightly to our worthy landlady, but
I was myself somewhat uneasy when through the long
night I still from time to time heard the dull sound
of his tread, and knew how his keen spirit was
chafing against this involuntary inaction.
At breakfast-time he looked worn and haggard, with a
little fleck of feverish colour upon either cheek.
“You are knocking yourself up, old man,” I remarked.
“I heard you marching about in the night.”
“No, I could not sleep,” he answered. “This infernal
problem is consuming me. It is too much to be balked
by so petty an obstacle, when all else had been
overcome. I know the men, the launch, everything;
and yet I can get no news. I have set other agencies
at work and used every means at my disposal. The
whole river has been searched on either side, but
there is no news, nor has Mrs. Smith heard of her
husband. I shall come to the conclusion soon that
they have scuttled the craft. But there are
objections to that.”
“Or that Mrs. Smith has put us on a wrong scent.”
“No, I think that may be dismissed. I had inquiries
made, and there is a launch of that description.”
“Could it have gone up the river?”
“I have considered that possibility, too, and there
is a search-party who will work up as far as
Richmond. If no news comes to-day I shall start off
myself to-morrow and go for the men rather than the
boat. But surely, surely, we shall hear something.”
We did not, however. Not a word came to us either
from Wiggins or from the other agencies. There were
articles in most of the papers upon the Norwood
tragedy. They all appeared to be rather hostile to
the unfortunate Thaddeus Sholto. No fresh details
were to be found, however, in any of them, save that
an inquest was to be held upon the following day. I
walked over to Camberwell in the evening to report
our ill-success to the ladies, and on my return I
found Holmes dejected and somewhat morose. He would
hardly reply to my questions and busied himself all
the evening in an abstruse chemical analysis which
involved much heating of retorts and distilling of
vapours, ending at last in a smell which fairly
drove me out of the apartment. Up to the small hours
of the morning I could hear the clinking of his
test-tubes which told me that he was still engaged
in his malodorous experiment.
In the early dawn I woke with a start and was
surprised to find him standing by my bedside, clad
in a rude sailor dress with a pea-jacket and a
coarse red scarf round his neck.
“I am off
down the river, Watson,” said he. “I have been
turning it over in my mind, and I can see only one
way out of it. It is worth trying, at all events.”
“Surely I can come with you, then?” said I.
“No; you can be much more useful if you will remain
here as my representative. I am loath to go, for it
is quite on the cards that some message may come
during [131] the day, though Wiggins was despondent
about it last night. I want you to open all notes
and telegrams, and to act on your own judgment if
any news should come. Can I rely upon you?”
“Most certainly.”
“I am afraid that you will not be able to wire to
me, for I can hardly tell yet where I may find
myself. If I am in luck, however, I may not be gone
so very long. I shall have news of some sort or
other before I get back.”
I had heard nothing of him by breakfast time. On
opening the Standard, however, I found that there
was a fresh allusion to the business.
With
reference to the Upper Norwood tragedy [it remarked]
we have reason to believe that the matter promises
to be even more complex and mysterious than was
originally supposed. Fresh evidence has shown that
it is quite impossible that Mr. Thaddeus Sholto
could have been in any way concerned in the matter.
He and the housekeeper, Mrs. Bernstone, were both
released yesterday evening. It is believed, however,
that the police have a clue as to the real culprits,
and that it is being prosecuted by Mr. Athelney
Jones, of Scotland Yard, with all his well-known
energy and sagacity. Further arrests may be expected
at any moment.
“That is satisfactory so far as it goes,” thought I.
“Friend Sholto is safe, at any rate. I wonder what
the fresh clue may be, though it seems to be a
stereotyped form whenever the police have made a
blunder.”
I tossed the paper down upon the table, but at that
moment my eye caught an advertisement in the agony
column. It ran in this way:
LOST–Whereas
Mordecai Smith, boatman, and his son Jim, left
Smith’s Wharf at or about three o’clock last Tuesday
morning in the steam launch Aurora, black with two
red stripes, funnel black with a white band, the sum
of five pounds will be paid to anyone who can give
information to Mrs. Smith, at Smith’s Wharf, or at
221B, Baker Street, as to the whereabouts of the
said Mordecai Smith and the launch Aurora.
This was clearly Holmes’s doing. The Baker Street
address was enough to prove that. It struck me as
rather ingenious because it might be read by the
fugitives without their seeing in it more than the
natural anxiety of a wife for her missing husband.
It was a long day. Every time that a knock came to
the door or a sharp step passed in the street, I
imagined that it was either Holmes returning or an
answer to his advertisement. I tried to read, but my
thoughts would wander off to our strange quest and
to the ill-assorted and villainous pair whom we were
pursuing. Could there be, I wondered, some radical
flaw in my companion’s reasoning? Might he not be
suffering from some huge self-deception? Was it not
possible that his nimble and speculative mind had
built up this wild theory upon faulty premises? I
had never known him to be wrong, and yet the keenest
reasoner may occasionally be deceived. He was
likely, I thought, to fall into error through the
over-refinement of his logic–his preference for a
subtle and bizarre explanation when a plainer and
more commonplace one lay ready to his hand. Yet, on
the other hand, I had myself seen the evidence, and
I had heard the reasons for his deductions. When I
looked back on the long chain of curious
circumstances, many of them trivial in themselves
but all tending in the same direction, I could not
[132] disguise from myself that even if Holmes’s
explanation were incorrect the true theory must be
equally outre and startling.
At three o’clock on the afternoon there was a loud
peal at the bell, an authoritative voice in the
hall, and, to my surprise, no less a person than Mr.
Athelney Jones was shown up to me. Very different
was he, however, from the brusque and masterful
professor of common sense who had taken over the
case so confidently at Upper Norwood. His expression
was downcast, and his bearing meek and even
apologetic.
“Good-day, sir; good-day,” said he. “Mr. Sherlock
Holmes is out, I understand.”
“Yes, and I cannot be sure when he will be back. But
perhaps you would care to wait. Take that chair and
try one of these cigars.”
“Thank you; I don’t mind if I do,” said he, mopping
his face with a red bandanna handkerchief.
“And a whisky and soda?”
“Well, half a glass. It is very hot for the time of
year, and I have had a good deal to worry and try
me. You know my theory about this Norwood case?”
“I remember that you expressed one.”
“Well, I have been obliged to reconsider it. I had
my net drawn tightly round Mr. Sholto, sir, when pop
he went through a hole in the middle of it. He was
able to prove an alibi which could not be shaken.
From the time that he left his brother’s room he was
never out of sight of someone or other. So it could
not be he who climbed over roofs and through
trapdoors. It’s a very dark case, and my
professional credit is at stake. I should be very
glad of a little assistance.”
“We all need help sometimes,” said I.
“Your friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, is a wonderful
man, sir,” said he in a husky and confidential
voice. “He’s a man who is not to be beat. I have
known that young man go into a good many cases, but
I never saw the case yet that he could not throw a
light upon. He is irregular in his methods and a
little quick perhaps in jumping at theories, but, on
the whole, I think he would have made a most
promising officer, and I don’t care who knows it. I
have had a wire from him this morning, by which I
understand that he has got some clue to this Sholto
business. Here is his message.”
He took the telegram out of his pocket and handed it
to me. It was dated from Poplar at twelve o’clock.
Go to Baker
Street at once [it said]. If I have not returned,
wait for me. I am close on the track of the Sholto
gang. You can come with us to-night if you want to
be in at the finish.
“This sounds
well. He has evidently picked up the scent again,”
said I.
“Ah, then he has been at fault too,” exclaimed Jones
with evident satisfaction. “Even the best of us are
thrown off sometimes. Of course this may prove to be
a false alarm but it is my duty as an officer of the
law to allow no chance to slip. But there is someone
at the door. Perhaps this is he.”
A heavy step was heard ascending the stair, with a
great wheezing and rattling as from a man who was
sorely put to it for breath. Once or twice he
stopped, as though the climb were too much for him,
but at last he made his way to our door and entered.
His appearance corresponded to the sounds which we
had heard. He was an aged man, clad in seafaring
garb, with an old pea-jacket buttoned up to his
throat. His back was bowed, his knees were shaky,
and his breathing was [133] painfully asthmatic. As
he leaned upon a thick oaken cudgel his shoulders
heaved in the effort to draw the air into his lungs.
He had a coloured scarf round his chin, and I could
see little of his face save a pair of keen dark
eyes, overhung by bushy white brows and long gray
side-whiskers. Altogether he gave me the impression
of a respectable master mariner who had fallen into
years and poverty.
“What is it, my man?” I asked.
He looked about him in the slow methodical fashion
of old age.
“Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?” said he.
“No; but I am acting for him. You can tell me any
message you have for him.”
“It was to him himself I was to tell it,” said he.
“But I tell you that I am acting for him. Was it
about Mordecai Smith’s boat?”
“Yes. I knows well where it is. An’ I knows where
the men he is after are. An’ I knows where the
treasure is. I knows all about it.”
“Then tell me, and I shall let him know.”
“It was to him I was to tell it,” he repeated with
the petulant obstinacy of a very old man.
“Well, you must wait for him.”
“No, no; I ain’t goin’ to lose a whole day to please
no one. If Mr. Holmes ain’t here, then Mr. Holmes
must find it all out for himself. I don’t care about
the look of either of you, and I won’t tell a word.”
He shuffled towards the door, but Athelney Jones got
in front of him.
“Wait a bit, my friend,” said he. “You have
important information, and you must not walk off. We
shall keep you, whether you like or not, until our
friend returns.”
The old man made a little run towards the door, but,
as Athelney Jones put his broad back up against it,
he recognized the uselessness of resistance.
“Pretty sort
o’ treatment this!” he cried, stamping his stick. “I
come here to see a gentleman, and you two, who I
never saw in my life, seize me and treat me in this
fashion!”
“You will be none the worse,” I said. “We shall
recompense you for the loss of your time. Sit over
here on the sofa, and you will not have long to
wait.”
He came across sullenly enough and seated himself
with his face resting on his hands. Jones and I
resumed our cigars and our talk. Suddenly, however,
Holmes’s voice broke in upon us.
“I think that you might offer me a cigar too,” he
said.
We both started in our chairs. There was Holmes
sitting close to us with an air of quiet amusement.
“Holmes!” I exclaimed. “You here! But where is the
old man?”
“Here is the
old man,” said he, holding out a heap of white hair.
“Here he is–wig, whiskers, eyebrows, and all. I
thought my disguise was pretty good, but I hardly
expected that it would stand that test.”
“Ah, you rogue!” cried Jones, highly delighted. “You
would have made an actor and a rare one. You had the
proper workhouse cough, and those weak legs of yours
are worth ten pound a week. I thought I knew the
glint of your eye, though. You didn’t get away from
us so easily, you see.”
“I have been working in that get-up all day,” said
he, lighting his cigar. “You see, a good many of the
criminal classes begin to know me–especially since
our friend here took to publishing some of my cases:
so I can only go on the war-path under some simple
disguise like this. You got my wire?”
“Yes; that was what brought me here.”
“How has your case prospered?”
“It has all come to nothing. I have had to release
two of my prisoners, and there is no evidence
against the other two.”
“Never mind. We shall give you two others in the
place of them. But you must put yourself under my
orders. You are welcome to all the official credit,
but you must act on the lines that I point out. Is
that agreed?”
“Entirely, if you will help me to the men.”
“Well, then, in the first place I shall want a fast
police-boat–a steam launch–to be at the Westminster
Stairs at seven o’clock.”
“That is easily managed. There is always one about
there, but I can step across the road and telephone
to make sure.”
“Then I shall want two staunch men in case of
resistance.”
“There will be two or three in the boat. What else?”
“When we secure the men we shall get the treasure. I
think that it would be a pleasure to my friend here
to take the box round to the young lady to whom half
of it rightfully belongs. Let her be the first to
open it. Eh, Watson?”
“It would be a great pleasure to me.”
“Rather an irregular proceeding,” said Jones,
shaking his head. “However, the whole thing is
irregular, and I suppose we must wink at it. The
treasure must afterwards be handed over to the
authorities until after the official investigation.”
“Certainly. That is easily managed. One other point.
I should much like to have a few details about this
matter from the lips of Jonathan Small himself. You
know I like to work the details of my cases out.
There is no objection to my having an unofficial
interview with him, either here in my rooms or
elsewhere, as long as he is efficiently guarded?”
“Well, you are master of the situation. I have had
no proof yet of the existence of this Jonathan
Small. However, if you can catch him, I don’t see
how I can refuse you an interview with him.”
“That is understood, then?”
“Perfectly. Is there anything else?”
“Only that I insist upon your dining with us. It
will be ready in half an hour. I have oysters and a
brace of grouse, with something a little choice in
white wines.–Watson, you have never yet recognized
my merits as a housekeeper.”
|
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THE
END OF THE ISLANDER
OUR meal was
a merry one. Holmes could talk exceedingly well when
he chose, and that night he did choose. He appeared
to be in a state of nervous exaltation. I have never
known him so brilliant. He spoke on a quick
succession of subjects–on miracle plays, on
mediaeval pottery, on Stradivarius violins, on the
Buddhism of Ceylon, and on the warships of the
future–handling each as though he had made a special
study of it. His bright humour marked the reaction
from his black depression of the preceding days.
Athelney Jones proved to be a sociable soul in his
hours of relaxation and faced his dinner with the
air of a bon vivant. For myself, I felt elated at
the thought that we were nearing the end of our
task, and I caught [135] something of Holmes’s
gaiety. None of us alluded during dinner to the
cause which had brought us together.
When the cloth was cleared Holmes glanced at his
watch and filled up three glasses with port.
“One bumper,” said he, “to the success of our little
expedition. And now it is high time we were off.
Have you a pistol, Watson?”
“I have my old service-revolver in my desk.”
“You had best take it, then. It is well to be
prepared. I see that the cab is at the door. I
ordered it for half-past six.”
It was a little past seven before we reached the
Westminster wharf and found our launch awaiting us.
Holmes eyed it critically.
“Is there anything to mark it as a police-boat?”
“Yes, that green lamp at the side.”
“Then take it off.”
The small change was made, we stepped on board, and
the ropes were cast off. Jones, Holmes, and I sat in
the stern. There was one man at the rudder, one to
tend the engines, and two burly police-inspectors
forward.
“Where to?” asked Jones.
“To the Tower. Tell them to stop opposite to
Jacobson’s Yard.”
Our craft was evidently a very fast one. We shot
past the long lines of loaded barges as though they
were stationary. Holmes smiled with satisfaction as
we overhauled a river steamer and left her behind
us.
“We ought to be able to catch anything on the
river,” he said.
“Well, hardly that. But there are not many launches
to beat us.”
“We shall have to catch the Aurora, and she has a
name for being a clipper. I will tell you how the
land lies, Watson. You recollect how annoyed I was
at being baulked by so small a thing?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I gave my mind a thorough rest by plunging
into a chemical analysis. One of our greatest
statesmen has said that a change of work is the best
rest. So it is. When I had succeeded in dissolving
the hydrocarbon which I was at work at, I came back
to our problem of the Sholtos, and thought the whole
matter out again. My boys had been up the river and
down the river without result. The launch was not at
any landing-stage or wharf, nor had it returned. Yet
it could hardly have been scuttled to hide their
traces, though that always remained as a possible
hypothesis if all else failed. I knew that this man
Small had a certain degree of low cunning, but I did
not think him capable of anything in the nature of
delicate finesse. That is usually a product of
higher education. I then reflected that since he had
certainly been in London some time–as we had
evidence that he maintained a continual watch over
Pondicherry Lodge–he could hardly leave at a
moment’s notice, but would need some little time, if
it were only a day, to arrange his affairs. That was
the balance of probability, at any rate.”
“It seems to me to be a little weak,” said I; “it is
more probable that he had arranged his affairs
before ever he set out upon his expedition.”
“No, I hardly think so. This lair of his would be
too valuable a retreat in case of need for him to
give it up until he was sure that he could do
without it. But a second consideration struck me.
Jonathan Small must have felt that the peculiar
appearance of his companion, however much he may
have top-coated him, would give rise to gossip, and
possibly be associated with this Norwood tragedy. He
was [136] quite sharp enough to see that. They had
started from their headquarters under cover of
darkness, and he would wish to get back before it
was broad light. Now, it was past three o’clock,
according to Mrs. Smith, when they got the boat. It
would be quite bright, and people would be about in
an hour or so. Therefore, I argued, they did not go
very far. They paid Smith well to hold his tongue,
reserved his launch for the final escape, and
hurried to their lodgings with the treasure-box. In
a couple of nights, when they had time to see what
view the papers took, and whether there was any
suspicion, they would make their way under cover of
darkness to some ship at Gravesend or in the Downs,
where no doubt they had already arranged for
passages to America or the Colonies.”
“But the launch? They could not have taken that to
their lodgings.”
“Quite so. I argued that the launch must be no great
way off, in spite of its invisibility. I then put
myself in the place of Small and looked at it as a
man of his capacity would. He would probably
consider that to send back the launch or to keep it
at a wharf would make pursuit easy if the police did
happen to get on his track. How, then, could he
conceal the launch and yet have her at hand when
wanted? I wondered what I should do myself if I were
in his shoes. I could only think of one way of doing
it. I might hand the launch over to some
boat-builder or repairer, with directions to make a
trifling change in her. She would then be removed to
his shed or yard, and so be effectually concealed,
while at the same time I could have her at a few
hours’ notice.”
“That seems simple enough.”
“It is just these very simple things which are
extremely liable to be overlooked. However, I
determined to act on the idea. I started at once in
this harmless seaman’s rig and inquired at all the
yards down the river. I drew blank at fifteen, but
at the sixteenth–Jacobson’s–I learned that the
Aurora had been handed over to them two days ago by
a wooden-legged man, with some trivial directions as
to her rudder. ‘There ain’t naught amiss with her
rudder,’ said the foreman. ‘There she lies, with the
red streaks.’ At that moment who should come down
but Mordecai Smith, the missing owner. He was rather
the worse for liquor. I should not, of course, have
known him, but he bellowed out his name and the name
of his launch. ‘I want her to-night at eight
o’clock,’ said he–‘eight o’clock sharp, mind, for I
have two gentlemen who won’t be kept waiting.’ They
had evidently paid him well, for he was very flush
of money, chucking shillings about to the men. I
followed him some distance, but he subsided into an
alehouse; so I went back to the yard, and, happening
to pick up one of my boys on the way, I stationed
him as a sentry over the launch. He is to stand at
the water’s edge and wave his handkerchief to us
when they start. We shall be lying off in the
stream, and it will be a strange thing if we do not
take men, treasure, and all.”
“You have planned it all very neatly, whether they
are the right men or not,” said Jones; “but if the
affair were in my hands I should have had a body of
police in Jacobson’s Yard and arrested them when
they came down.”
“Which would have been never. This man Small is a
pretty shrewd fellow. He would send a scout on
ahead, and if anything made him suspicious he would
lie snug for another week.”
“But you might have stuck to Mordecai Smith, and so
been led to their hiding-place,” said I.
“In that case I should have wasted my day. I think
that it is a hundred to one against Smith knowing
where they live. As long as he has liquor and good
pay, [137] why should he ask questions? They send
him messages what to do. No, I thought over every
possible course, and this is the best.”
While this conversation had been proceeding, we had
been shooting the long series of bridges which span
the Thames. As we passed the City the last rays of
the sun were gilding the cross upon the summit of
St. Paul’s. It was twilight before we reached the
Tower.
“That is Jacobson’s Yard,” said Holmes, pointing to
a bristle of masts and rigging on the Surrey side.
“Cruise gently up and down here under cover of this
string of lighters.” He took a pair of night-glasses
from his pocket and gazed some time at the shore. “I
see my sentry at his post,” he remarked, “but no
sign of a handkerchief.”
“Suppose we go downstream a short way and lie in
wait for them,” said Jones eagerly.
We were all eager by this time, even the policemen
and stokers, who had a very vague idea of what was
going forward.
“We have no right to take anything for granted,”
Holmes answered. “It is certainly ten to one that
they go downstream, but we cannot be certain. From
this point we can see the entrance of the yard, and
they can hardly see us. It will be a clear night and
plenty of light. We must stay where we are. See how
the folk swarm over yonder in the gaslight.”
“They are coming from work in the yard.”
“Dirty-looking rascals, but I suppose every one has
some little immortal spark concealed about him. You
would not think it, to look at them. There is no a
priori probability about it. A strange enigma is
man!”
“Someone calls him a soul concealed in an animal,” I
suggested.
“Winwood Reade is good upon the subject,” said
Holmes. “He remarks that, while the individual man
is an insoluble puzzle, in the aggregate he becomes
a mathematical certainty. You can, for example,
never foretell what any one man will do, but you can
say with precision what an average number will be up
to. Individuals vary, but percentages remain
constant. So says the statistician. But do I see a
handkerchief? Surely there is a white flutter over
yonder.”
“Yes, it is your boy,” I cried. “I can see him
plainly.”
“And there is the Aurora,” exclaimed Holmes, “and
going like the devil! Full speed ahead, engineer.
Make after that launch with the yellow light. By
heaven, I shall never forgive myself if she proves
to have the heels of us!”
She had slipped unseen through the yard-entrance and
passed between two or three small craft, so that she
had fairly got her speed up before we saw her. Now
she was flying down the stream, near in to the
shore, going at a tremendous rate. Jones looked
gravely at her and shook his head.
“She is very fast,” he said. “I doubt if we shall
catch her.”
“We must catch her!” cried Holmes between his teeth.
“Heap it on, stokers! Make her do all she can! If we
burn the boat we must have them!”
We were
fairly after her now. The furnaces roared, and the
powerful engines whizzed and clanked like a great
metallic heart. Her sharp, steep prow cut through
the still river-water and sent two rolling waves to
right and to left of us. With every throb of the
engines we sprang and quivered like a living thing.
One great yellow lantern in our bows threw a long,
flickering funnel of light in front of us. Right
ahead a dark blur upon the water showed where the
Aurora lay, and the swirl of white foam behind her
spoke of the pace at which she was going. We flashed
[138] past barges, steamers, merchant-vessels, in
and out, behind this one and round the other. Voices
hailed us out of the darkness, but still the Aurora
thundered on, and still we followed close upon her
track.
“Pile it on, men, pile it on!” cried Holmes, looking
down into the engine-room, while the fierce glow
from below beat upon his eager, aquiline face. “Get
every pound of steam you can.”
“I think we gain a little,” said Jones with his eyes
on the Aurora.
“I am sure of it,” said I. “We shall be up with her
in a very few minutes.”
At that moment, however, as our evil fate would have
it, a tug with three barges in tow blundered in
between us. It was only by putting our helm hard
down that we avoided a collision, and before we
could round them and recover our way the Aurora had
gained a good two hundred yards. She was still,
however, well in view, and the murky, uncertain
twilight was settling into a clear, starlit night.
Our boilers were strained to their utmost, and the
frail shell vibrated and creaked with the fierce
energy which was driving us along. We had shot
through the pool, past the West India Docks, down
the long Deptford Reach, and up again after rounding
the Isle of Dogs. The dull blur in front of us
resolved itself now clearly into the dainty Aurora.
Jones turned our searchlight upon her, so that we
could plainly see the figures upon her deck. One man
sat by the stern, with something black between his
knees, over which he stooped. Beside him lay a dark
mass, which looked like a Newfoundland dog. The boy
held the tiller, while against the red glare of the
furnace I could see old Smith, stripped to the
waist, and shovelling coals for dear life. They may
have had some doubt at first as to whether we were
really pursuing them, but now as we followed every
winding and turning which they took there could no
longer be any question about it. At Greenwich we
were about three hundred paces behind them. At
Blackwall we could not have been more than two
hundred and fifty. I have coursed many creatures in
many countries during my checkered career, but never
did sport give me such a wild thrill as this mad,
flying man-hunt down the Thames. Steadily we drew in
upon them, yard by yard. In the silence of the night
we could hear the panting and clanking of their
machinery. The man in the stern still crouched upon
the deck, and his arms were moving as though he were
busy, while every now and then he would look up and
measure with a glance the distance which still
separated us. Nearer we came and nearer. Jones
yelled to them to stop. We were not more than four
boat’s-lengths behind them, both boats flying at a
tremendous pace. It was a clear reach of the river,
with Barking Level upon one side and the melancholy
Plumstead Marshes upon the other. At our hail the
man in the stern sprang up from the deck and shook
his two clenched fists at us, cursing the while in a
high, cracked voice. He was a good-sized, powerful
man, and as he stood poising himself with legs
astride I could see that from the thigh downward
there was but a wooden stump upon the right side. At
the sound of his strident, angry cries, there was
movement in the huddled bundle upon the deck. It
straightened itself into a little black man–the
smallest I have ever seen–with a great, misshapen
head and a shock of tangled, dishevelled hair.
Holmes had already drawn his revolver, and I whipped
out mine at the sight of this savage, distorted
creature. He was wrapped in some sort of dark ulster
or blanket, which left only his face exposed, but
that face was enough to give a man a sleepless
night. Never have I seen features so deeply marked
with all bestiality and cruelty. His small eyes
glowed and burned with a sombre light, and his thick
lips were writhed back from his teeth, which grinned
and chattered at us with half animal fury.
“Fire if he raises his hand,” said Holmes quietly.
We were within a boat’s-length by this time, and
almost within touch of our quarry. I can see the two
of them now as they stood, the white man with his
legs far apart, shrieking out curses, and the
unhallowed dwarf with his hideous face, and his
strong yellow teeth gnashing at us in the light of
our lantern.
It was well
that we had so clear a view of him. Even as we
looked he plucked out from under his covering a
short, round piece of wood, like a school-ruler, and
clapped it to his lips. Our pistols rang out
together. He whirled round, threw up his arms, and,
with a kind of choking cough, fell sideways into the
stream. I caught one glimpse of his venomous,
menacing eyes amid the white swirl of the waters. At
the same moment the wooden-legged man threw himself
upon the rudder and put it hard down, so that his
boat made straight in for the southern bank, while
we shot past her stern, only clearing her by a few
feet. We were round after her in an instant, but she
was already nearly at the bank. It was a wild and
desolate place, where the moon glimmered upon a wide
expanse of marsh-land, with pools of stagnant water
and beds of decaying vegetation. The launch, with a
dull thud, ran up upon the mud-bank, with her bow in
the air and her stern flush with the water. The
fugitive sprang out, but his stump instantly sank
its whole length into the sodden soil. In vain he
struggled and writhed. Not one step could he
possibly take either forward or backward. He yelled
in impotent rage and kicked frantically into the mud
with his other foot, but his struggles only bored
his wooden pin the deeper into the sticky bank. When
we brought our launch alongside he was so firmly
anchored that it was only by throwing the end of a
rope over his shoulders that we were able to haul
him out and to drag him, like some evil fish, over
our side. The two Smiths, father and son, sat
sullenly in their launch but came aboard meekly
enough when commanded. The Aurora herself we hauled
off and made fast to our stern. A solid iron chest
of Indian workmanship stood upon the deck. This,
there could be no question, was the same that had
contained the ill-omened treasure of the Sholtos.
There was no key, but it was of considerable weight,
so we transferred it carefully to our own little
cabin. As we steamed slowly upstream again, we
flashed our searchlight in every direction, but
there was no sign of the Islander. Somewhere in the
dark ooze at the bottom of the Thames lie the bones
of that strange visitor to our shores.
“See here,”
said Holmes, pointing to the wooden hatchway. “We
were hardly quick enough with our pistols.” There,
sure enough, just behind where we had been standing,
stuck one of those murderous darts which we knew so
well. It must have whizzed between us at the instant
we fired. Holmes smiled at it and shrugged his
shoulders in his easy fashion, but I confess that it
turned me sick to think of the horrible death which
had passed so close to us that night.
|
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THE
GREAT AGRA TREASURE
OUR captive
sat in the cabin opposite to the iron box which he
had done so much and waited so long to gain. He was
a sunburned reckless-eyed fellow, with a network of
lines and wrinkles all over his mahogany features,
which told of a hard, open-air life. There was a
singular prominence about his bearded chin which
marked a man [140] who was not to be easily turned
from his purpose. His age may have been fifty or
thereabouts, for his black, curly hair was thickly
shot with gray. His face in repose was not an
unpleasing one, though his heavy brows and
aggressive chin gave him, as I had lately seen, a
terrible expression when moved to anger. He sat now
with his handcuffed hands upon his lap, and his head
sunk upon his breast, while he looked with his keen,
twinkling eyes at the box which had been the cause
of his ill-doings. It seemed to me that there was
more sorrow than anger in his rigid and contained
countenance. Once he looked up at me with a gleam of
something like humour in his eyes.
“Well,
Jonathan Small,” said Holmes, lighting a cigar, “I
am sorry that it has come to this.”
“And so am I, sir,” he answered frankly. “I don’t
believe that I can swing over the job. I give you my
word on the book that I never raised hand against
Mr. Sholto. It was that little hell-hound, Tonga,
who shot one of his cursed darts into him. I had no
part in it, sir. I was as grieved as if it had been
my blood-relation. I welted the little devil with
the slack end of the rope for it, but it was done,
and I could not undo it again.”
“Have a cigar,” said Holmes; “and you had best take
a pull out of my flask, for you are very wet. How
could you expect so small and weak a man as this
black fellow to overpower Mr. Sholto and hold him
while you were climbing the rope?”
“You seem to know as much about it as if you were
there, sir. The truth is that I hoped to find the
room clear. I knew the habits of the house pretty
well, and it was the time when Mr. Sholto usually
went down to his supper. I shall make no secret of
the business. The best defence that I can make is
just the simple truth. Now, if it had been the old
major I would have swung for him with a light heart.
I would have thought no more of knifing him than of
smoking this cigar. But it’s cursed hard that I
should be lagged over this young Sholto, with whom I
had no quarrel whatever.”
“You are under the charge of Mr. Athelney Jones, of
Scotland Yard. He is going to bring you up to my
rooms, and I shall ask you for a true account of the
matter. You must make a clean breast of it, for if
you do I hope that I may be of use to you. I think I
can prove that the poison acts so quickly that the
man was dead before ever you reached the room.”
“That he was, sir. I never got such a turn in my
life as when I saw him grinning at me with his head
on his shoulder as I climbed through the window. It
fairly shook me, sir. I’d have half killed Tonga for
it if he had not scrambled off. That was how he came
to leave his club, and some of his darts too, as he
tells me, which I dare say helped to put you on our
track; though how you kept on it is more than I can
tell. I don’t feel no malice against you for it. But
it does seem a queer thing,” he added with a bitter
smile, “that I, who have a fair claim to half a
million of money, should spend the first half of my
life building a breakwater in the Andamans, and am
like to spend the other half digging drains at
Dartmoor. It was an evil day for me when first I
clapped eyes upon the merchant Achmet and had to do
with the Agra treasure, which never brought anything
but a curse yet upon the man who owned it. To him it
brought murder, to Major Sholto it brought fear and
guilt, to me it has meant slavery for life.”
At this moment Athelney Jones thrust his broad face
and heavy shoulders into the tiny cabin.
“Quite a family party,” he remarked. “I think I
shall have a pull at that flask, [141] Holmes. Well,
I think we may all congratulate each other. Pity we
didn’t take the other alive, but there was no
choice. I say, Holmes, you must confess that you cut
it rather fine. It was all we could do to overhaul
her.”
“All is well that ends well,” said Holmes. “But I
certainly did not know that the Aurora was such a
clipper.”
“Smith says she is one of the fastest launches on
the river, and that if he had had another man to
help him with the engines we should never have
caught her. He swears he knew nothing of this
Norwood business.”
“Neither he did,” cried our prisoner–“not a word. I
chose his launch because I heard that she was a
flier. We told him nothing; but we paid him well,
and he was to get something handsome if we reached
our vessel, the Esmeralda, at Gravesend, outward
bound for the Brazils.”
“Well, if he has done no wrong we shall see that no
wrong comes to him. If we are pretty quick in
catching our men, we are not so quick in condemning
them.” It was amusing to notice how the
consequential Jones was already beginning to give
himself airs on the strength of the capture. From
the slight smile which played over Sherlock Holmes’s
face, I could see that the speech had not been lost
upon him.
“We will be at Vauxhall Bridge presently,” said
Jones, “and shall land you, Dr. Watson, with the
treasure-box. I need hardly tell you that I am
taking a very grave responsibility upon myself in
doing this. It is most irregular, but of course an
agreement is an agreement. I must, however, as a
matter of duty, send an inspector with you, since
you have so valuable a charge. You will drive, no
doubt?”
“Yes, I shall drive.”
“It is a pity there is no key, that we may make an
inventory first. You will have to break it open.
Where is the key, my man?”
“At the bottom of the river,” said Small shortly.
“Hum! There was no use your giving this unnecessary
trouble. We have had work enough already through
you. However, Doctor, I need not warn you to be
careful. Bring the box back with you to the Baker
Street rooms. You will find us there, on our way to
the station.”
They landed me at Vauxhall, with my heavy iron box,
and with a bluff, genial inspector as my companion.
A quarter of an hour’s drive brought us to Mrs.
Cecil Forrester’s. The servant seemed surprised at
so late a visitor. Mrs. Cecil Forrester was out for
the evening, she explained, and likely to be very
late. Miss Morstan, however, was in the
drawing-room; so to the drawing-room I went, box in
hand, leaving the obliging inspector in the cab.
She was seated by the open window, dressed in some
sort of white diaphanous material, with a little
touch of scarlet at the neck and waist. The soft
light of a shaded lamp fell upon her as she leaned
back in the basket chair, playing over her sweet
grave face, and tinting with a dull, metallic
sparkle the rich coils of her luxuriant hair. One
white arm and hand drooped over the side of the
chair, and her whole pose and figure spoke of an
absorbing melancholy. At the sound of my footfall
she sprang to her feet, however, and a bright flush
of surprise and of pleasure coloured her pale
cheeks.
“I heard a cab drive up,” she said. “I thought that
Mrs. Forrester had come back very early, but I never
dreamed that it might be you. What news have you
brought me?”
“I have brought something better than news,” said I,
putting down the box upon the table and speaking
jovially and boisterously, though my heart was heavy
[142] within me. “I have brought you something which
is worth all the news in the world. I have brought
you a fortune.”
She glanced at the iron box.
“Is that the treasure then?” she asked, coolly
enough.
“Yes, this is the great Agra treasure. Half of it is
yours and half is Thaddeus Sholto’s. You will have a
couple of hundred thousand each. Think of that! An
annuity of ten thousand pounds. There will be few
richer young ladies in England. Is it not glorious?”
I think I must have been rather over-acting my
delight, and that she detected a hollow ring in my
congratulations, for I saw her eyebrows rise a
little, and she glanced at me curiously.
“If I have it,” said she, “I owe it to you.”
“No, no,” I answered, “not to me but to my friend
Sherlock Holmes. With all the will in the world, I
could never have followed up a clue which has taxed
even his analytical genius. As it was, we very
nearly lost it at the last moment.”
“Pray sit down and tell me all about it, Dr.
Watson,” said she.
I narrated briefly what had occurred since I had
seen her last. Holmes’s new method of search, the
discovery of the Aurora, the appearance of Athelney
Jones, our expedition in the evening, and the wild
chase down the Thames. She listened with parted lips
and shining eyes to my recital of our adventures.
When I spoke of the dart which had so narrowly
missed us, she turned so white that I feared that
she was about to faint.
“It is nothing,” she said as I hastened to pour her
out some water. “I am all right again. It was a
shock to me to hear that I had placed my friends in
such horrible peril.”
“That is all over,” I answered. “It was nothing. I
will tell you no more gloomy details. Let us turn to
something brighter. There is the treasure. What
could be brighter than that? I got leave to bring it
with me, thinking that it would interest you to be
the first to see it.”
“It would be of the greatest interest to me,” she
said. There was no eagerness in her voice, however.
It had struck her, doubtless, that it might seem
ungracious upon her part to be indifferent to a
prize which had cost so much to win.
“What a pretty box!” she said, stooping over it.
“This is Indian work, I suppose?”
“Yes; it is Benares metal-work.”
“And so heavy!” she exclaimed, trying to raise it.
“The box alone must be of some value. Where is the
key?”
“Small threw it into the Thames,” I answered. “I
must borrow Mrs. Forrester’s poker.”
There was in the front a thick and broad hasp,
wrought in the image of a sitting Buddha. Under this
I thrust the end of the poker and twisted it outward
as a lever. The hasp sprang open with a loud snap.
With trembling fingers I flung back the lid. We both
stood gazing in astonishment. The box was empty!
No wonder that it was heavy. The ironwork was
two-thirds of an inch thick all round. It was
massive, well made, and solid, like a chest
constructed to carry things of great price, but not
one shred or crumb of metal or jewellery lay within
it. It was absolutely and completely empty.
“The treasure is lost,” said Miss Morstan calmly.
As I listened to the words and realized what they
meant, a great shadow seemed to pass from my soul. I
did not know how this Agra treasure had weighed me
down [143] until now that it was finally removed. It
was selfish, no doubt, disloyal, wrong, but I could
realize nothing save that the golden barrier was
gone from between us.
“Thank God!” I ejaculated from my very heart.
She looked at me with a quick, questioning smile.
“Why do you say that?” she asked.
“Because you are within my reach again,” I said,
taking her hand. She did not withdraw it. “Because I
love you, Mary, as truly as ever a man loved a
woman. Because this treasure, these riches, sealed
my lips. Now that they are gone I can tell you how I
love you. That is why I said, ‘Thank God.’”
“Then I say
‘Thank God,’ too,” she whispered as I drew her to my
side.
Whoever had lost a treasure, I knew that night that
I had gained one.
|
|
THE
STRANGE STORY OF JONATHAN SMALL
A VERY
patient man was that inspector in the cab, for it
was a weary time before I rejoined him. His face
clouded over when I showed him the empty box.
“There goes the reward!” said he gloomily. “Where
there is no money there is no pay. This night’s work
would have been worth a tenner each to Sam Brown and
me if the treasure had been there.”
“Mr. Thaddeus Sholto is a rich man,” I said; “he
will see that you are rewarded, treasure or no.”
The inspector shook his head despondently, however.
“It’s a bad job,” he repeated; “and so Mr. Athelney
Jones will think.”
His forecast proved to be correct, for the detective
looked blank enough when I got to Baker Street and
showed him the empty box. They had only just
arrived, Holmes, the prisoner, and he, for they had
changed their plans so far as to report themselves
at a station upon the way. My companion lounged in
his armchair with his usual listless expression,
while Small sat stolidly opposite to him with his
wooden leg cocked over his sound one. As I exhibited
the empty box he leaned back in his chair and
laughed aloud.
“This is your doing, Small,” said Athelney Jones
angrily.
“Yes, I have put it away where you shall never lay
hand upon it,” he cried exultantly. “It is my
treasure, and if I can’t have the loot I’ll take
darned good care that no one else does. I tell you
that no living man has any right to it, unless it is
three men who are in the Andaman convict-barracks
and myself. I know now that I cannot have the use of
it, and I know that they cannot. I have acted all
through for them as much as for myself. It’s been
the sign of four with us always. Well, I know that
they would have had me do just what I have done, and
throw the treasure into the Thames rather than let
it go to kith or kin of Sholto or Morstan. It was
not to make them rich that we did for Achmet. You’ll
find the treasure where the key is and where little
Tonga is. When I saw that your launch must catch us,
I put the loot away in a safe place. There are no
rupees for you this journey.”
“You are deceiving us, Small,” said Athelney Jones
sternly; “if you had wished [144] to throw the
treasure into the Thames, it would have been easier
for you to have thrown box and all.”
“Easier for me to throw and easier for you to
recover,” he answered with a shrewd, side-long look.
“The man that was clever enough to hunt me down is
clever enough to pick an iron box from the bottom of
a river. Now that they are scattered over five miles
or so, it may be a harder job. It went to my heart
to do it though. I was half mad when you came up
with us. However, there’s no good grieving over it.
I’ve had ups in my life, and I’ve had downs, but
I’ve learned not to cry over spilled milk.”
“This is a very serious matter, Small,” said the
detective. “If you had helped justice, instead of
thwarting it in this way, you would have had a
better chance at your trial.”
“Justice!” snarled the ex-convict. “A pretty
justice! Whose loot is this, if it is not ours?
Where is the justice that I should give it up to
those who have never earned it? Look how I have
earned it! Twenty long years in that fever-ridden
swamp, all day at work under the mangrove-tree, all
night chained up in the filthy convict-huts, bitten
by mosquitoes, racked with ague, bullied by every
cursed black-faced policeman who loved to take it
out of a white man. That was how I earned the Agra
treasure, and you talk to me of justice because I
cannot bear to feel that I have paid this price only
that another may enjoy it! I would rather swing a
score of times, or have one of Tonga’s darts in my
hide, than live in a convict’s cell and feel that
another man is at his ease in a palace with the
money that should be mine.”
Small had dropped his mask of stoicism, and all this
came out in a wild whirl of words, while his eyes
blazed, and the handcuffs clanked together with the
impassioned movement of his hands. I could
understand, as I saw the fury and the passion of the
man, that it was no groundless or unnatural terror
which had possessed Major Sholto when he first
learned that the injured convict was upon his track.
“You forget that we know nothing of all this,” said
Holmes quietly. “We have not heard your story, and
we cannot tell how far justice may originally have
been on your side.”
“Well, sir, you have been very fair-spoken to me,
though I can see that I have you to thank that I
have these bracelets upon my wrists. Still, I bear
no grudge for that. It is all fair and above-board.
If you want to hear my story, I have no wish to hold
it back. What I say to you is God’s truth, every
word of it. Thank you, you can put the glass beside
me here, and I’ll put my lips to it if I am dry.
“I am a Worcestershire man myself, born near
Pershore. I dare say you would find a heap of Smalls
living there now if you were to look. I have often
thought of taking a look round there, but the truth
is that I was never much of a credit to the family,
and I doubt if they would be so very glad to see me.
They were all steady, chapel-going folk, small
farmers, well known and respected over the
countryside, while I was always a bit of a rover. At
last, however, when I was about eighteen, I gave
them no more trouble, for I got into a mess over a
girl and could only get out of it again by taking
the Queen’s shilling and joining the Third Buffs,
which was just starting for India.
“I wasn’t destined to do much soldiering, however. I
had just got past the goose-step and learned to
handle my musket, when I was fool enough to go
swimming in the Ganges. Luckily for me, my company
sergeant, John Holder, was in [145] the water at the
same time, and he was one of the finest swimmers in
the service. A crocodile took me just as I was
halfway across and nipped off my right leg as clean
as a surgeon could have done it, just above the
knee. What with the shock and the loss of blood, I
fainted, and should have been drowned if Holder had
not caught hold of me and paddled for the bank. I
was five months in hospital over it, and when at
last I was able to limp out of it with this timber
toe strapped to my stump, I found myself invalided
out of the Army and unfitted for any active
occupation.
“I was, as you can imagine, pretty down on my luck
at this time, for I was a useless cripple, though
not yet in my twentieth year. However, my misfortune
soon proved to be a blessing in disguise. A man
named Abel White, who had come out there as an
indigo-planter, wanted an overseer to look after his
coolies and keep them up to their work. He happened
to be a friend of our colonel’s, who had taken an
interest in me since the accident. To make a long
story short, the colonel recommended me strongly for
the post, and, as the work was mostly to be done on
horseback, my leg was no great obstacle, for I had
enough thigh left to keep a good grip on the saddle.
What I had to do was to ride over the plantation, to
keep an eye on the men as they worked, and to report
the idlers. The pay was fair, I had comfortable
quarters, and altogether I was content to spend the
remainder of my life in indigo-planting. Mr. Abel
White was a kind man, and he would often drop into
my little shanty and smoke a pipe with me, for white
folk out there feel their hearts warm to each other
as they never do here at home.
“Well, I was never in luck’s way long. Suddenly,
without a note of warning, the great mutiny broke
upon us. One month India lay as still and peaceful,
to all appearance, as Surrey or Kent; the next there
were two hundred thousand black devils let loose,
and the country was a perfect hell. Of course you
know all about it, gentlemen–a deal more than I do,
very like, since reading is not in my line. I only
know what I saw with my own eyes. Our plantation was
at a place called Muttra, near the border of the
Northwest Provinces. Night after night the whole sky
was alight with the burning bungalows, and day after
day we had small companies of Europeans passing
through our estate with their wives and children, on
their way to Agra, where were the nearest troops.
Mr. Abel White was an obstinate man. He had it in
his head that the affair had been exaggerated, and
that it would blow over as suddenly as it had sprung
up. There he sat on his veranda, drinking
whisky-pegs and smoking cheroots, while the country
was in a blaze about him. Of course we stuck by him,
I and Dawson, who, with his wife, used to do the
book-work and the managing. Well, one fine day the
crash came. I had been away on a distant plantation
and was riding slowly home in the evening, when my
eye fell upon something all huddled together at the
bottom of a steep nullah. I rode down to see what it
was, and the cold struck through my heart when I
found it was Dawson’s wife, all cut into ribbons,
and half eaten by jackals and native dogs. A little
further up the road Dawson himself was lying on his
face, quite dead, with an empty revolver in his
hand, and four sepoys lying across each other in
front of him. I reined up my horse, wondering which
way I should turn; but at that moment I saw thick
smoke curling up from Abel White’s bungalow and the
flames beginning to burst through the roof. I knew
then that I could do my employer no good, but would
only throw my own life away if I meddled in the
matter. From where I stood I could see hundreds of
the black fiends, with their [146] red coats still
on their backs, dancing and howling round the
burning house. Some of them pointed at me, and a
couple of bullets sang past my head: so I broke away
across the paddy-fields, and found myself late at
night safe within the walls at Agra.
“As it
proved, however, there was no great safety there,
either. The whole country was up like a swarm of
bees. Wherever the English could collect in little
bands they held just the ground that their guns
commanded. Everywhere else they were helpless
fugitives. It was a fight of the millions against
the hundreds; and the cruellest part of it was that
these men that we fought against, foot, horse, and
gunners, were our own picked troops, whom we had
taught and trained, handling our own weapons and
blowing our own bugle-calls. At Agra there were the
Third Bengal Fusiliers, some Sikhs, two troops of
horse, and a battery of artillery. A volunteer corps
of clerks and merchants had been formed, and this I
joined, wooden leg and all. We went out to meet the
rebels at Shahgunge early in July, and we beat them
back for a time, but our powder gave out, and we had
to fall back upon the city.
“Nothing but the worst news came to us from every
side–which is not to be wondered at, for if you look
at the map you will see that we were right in the
heart of it. Lucknow is rather better than a hundred
miles to the east, and Cawnpore about as far to the
south. From every point on the compass there was
nothing but torture and murder and outrage.
“The city of Agra is a great place, swarming with
fanatics and fierce devil-worshippers of all sorts.
Our handful of men were lost among the narrow,
winding streets. Our leader moved across the river,
therefore, and took up his position in the old fort
of Agra. I don’t know if any of you gentlemen have
ever read or heard anything of that old fort. It is
a very queer place–the queerest that ever I was in,
and I have been in some rum corners, too. First of
all it is enormous in size. I should think that the
enclosure must be acres and acres. There is a modern
part, which took all our garrison, women, children,
stores, and everything else, with plenty of room
over. But the modern part is nothing like the size
of the old quarter, where nobody goes, and which is
given over to the scorpions and the centipedes. It
is all full of great deserted halls, and winding
passages, and long corridors twisting in and out, so
that it is easy enough for folk to get lost in it.
For this reason it was seldom that anyone went into
it, though now and again a party with torches might
go exploring.
“The river washes along the front of the old fort,
and so protects it, but on the sides and behind
there are many doors, and these had to be guarded,
of course, in the old quarter as well as in that
which was actually held by our troops. We were
short-handed, with hardly men enough to man the
angles of the building and to serve the guns. It was
impossible for us, therefore, to station a strong
guard at every one of the innumerable gates. What we
did was to organize a central guard-house in the
middle of the fort, and to leave each gate under the
charge of one white man and two or three natives. I
was selected to take charge during certain hours of
the night of a small isolated door upon the
south-west side of the building. Two Sikh troopers
were placed under my command, and I was instructed
if anything went wrong to fire my musket, when I
might rely upon help coming at once from the central
guard. As the guard was a good two hundred paces
away, however, and as the space between was cut up
into a labyrinth of passages and corridors, I had
great doubts as to whether they could arrive in time
to be of any use in case of an actual attack.
[147] “Well, I was pretty proud at having this small
command given me, since I was a raw recruit, and a
game-legged one at that. For two nights I kept the
watch with my Punjabees. They were tall,
fierce-looking chaps, Mahomet Singh and Abdullah
Khan by name, both old fighting men, who had borne
arms against us at Chilian Wallah. They could talk
English pretty well, but I could get little out of
them. They preferred to stand together, and jabber
all night in their queer Sikh lingo. For myself, I
used to stand outside the gateway, looking down on
the broad, winding river and on the twinkling lights
of the great city. The beating of drums, the rattle
of tomtoms, and the yells and howls of the rebels,
drunk with opium and with bang, were enough to
remind us all night of our dangerous neighbours
across the stream. Every two hours the officer of
the night used to come round to all the posts to
make sure that all was well.
“The third night of my watch was dark and dirty,
with a small driving rain. It was dreary work
standing in the gateway hour after hour in such
weather. I tried again and again to make my Sikhs
talk, but without much success. At two in the
morning the rounds passed and broke for a moment the
weariness of the night. Finding that my companions
would not be led into conversation, I took out my
pipe and laid down my musket to strike the match. In
an instant the two Sikhs were upon me. One of them
snatched my firelock up and levelled it at my head,
while the other held a great knife to my throat and
swore between his teeth that he would plunge it into
me if I moved a step.
“My first
thought was that these fellows were in league with
the rebels, and that this was the beginning of an
assault. If our door were in the hands of the sepoys
the place must fall, and the women and children be
treated as they were in Cawnpore. Maybe you
gentlemen think that I am just making out a case for
myself, but I give you my word that when I thought
of that, though I felt the point of the knife at my
throat, I opened my mouth with the intention of
giving a scream, if it was my last one, which might
alarm the main guard. The man who held me seemed to
know my thoughts; for, even as I braced myself to
it, he whispered: ‘Don’t make a noise. The fort is
safe enough. There are no rebel dogs on this side of
the river.’ There was the ring of truth in what he
said, and I knew that if I raised my voice I was a
dead man. I could read it in the fellow’s brown
eyes. I waited, therefore, in silence, to see what
it was that they wanted from me.
“‘Listen to me, sahib,’ said the taller and fiercer
of the pair, the one whom they called Abdullah Khan.
‘You must either be with us now, or you must be
silenced forever. The thing is too great a one for
us to hesitate. Either you are heart and soul with
us on your oath on the cross of the Christians, or
your body this night shall be thrown into the ditch,
and we shall pass over to our brothers in the rebel
army. There is no middle way. Which is it to
be–death or life? We can only give you three minutes
to decide, for the time is passing, and all must be
done before the rounds come again.’
“‘How can I decide?’ said I. ‘You have not told me
what you want of me. But I tell you now that if it
is anything against the safety of the fort I will
have no truck with it, so you can drive home your
knife and welcome.’
“‘It is nothing against the fort,’ said he. ‘We only
ask you to do that which your countrymen come to
this land for. We ask you to be rich. If you will be
one of us this night, we will swear to you upon the
naked knife, and by the threefold oath which no Sikh
was ever known to break, that you shall have your
fair share of the loot. A quarter of the treasure
shall be yours. We can say no fairer.’
[148] “‘But what is the treasure then?’ I asked. ‘I
am as ready to be rich as you can be if you will but
show me how it can be done.’
“‘You will swear, then,’ said he, ‘by the bones of
your father, by the honour of your mother, by the
cross of your faith, to raise no hand and speak no
word against us, either now or afterwards?’
“‘I will swear it,’ I answered, ‘provided that the
fort is not endangered.’
“‘Then my comrade and I will swear that you shall
have a quarter of the treasure which shall be
equally divided among the four of us.’
“‘There are but three,’ said I.
“‘No; Dost Akbar must have his share. We can tell
the tale to you while we wait them. Do you stand at
the gate, Mahomet Singh, and give notice of their
coming. The thing stands thus, sahib, and I tell it
to you because I know that an oath is binding upon a
Feringhee, and that we may trust you. Had you been a
lying Hindoo, though you had sworn by all the gods
in their false temples, your blood would have been
upon the knife and your body in the water. But the
Sikh knows the Englishman, and the Englishman knows
the Sikh. Hearken, then, to what I have to say.
“‘There is a rajah in the northern provinces who has
much wealth, though his lands are small. Much has
come to him from his father, and more still he has
set by himself, for he is of a low nature and hoards
his gold rather than spend it. When the troubles
broke out he would be friends both with the lion and
the tiger–with the sepoy and with the Company’s raj.
Soon, however, it seemed to him that the white men’s
day was come, for through all the land he could hear
of nothing but of their death and their overthrow.
Yet, being a careful man, he made such plans that,
come what might, half at least of his treasure
should be left to him. That which was in gold and
silver he kept by him in the vaults of his palace,
but the most precious stones and the choicest pearls
that he had he put in an iron box and sent it by a
trusty servant, who, under the guise of a merchant,
should take it to the fort at Agra, there to lie
until the land is at peace. Thus, if the rebels won
he would have his money, but if the Company
conquered, his jewels would be saved to him. Having
thus divided his hoard, he threw himself into the
cause of the sepoys, since they were strong upon his
borders. By his doing this, mark you, sahib, his
property becomes the due of those who have been true
to their salt.
“‘This pretended merchant, who travels under the
name of Achmet, is now in the city of Agra and
desires to gain his way into the fort. He has with
him as travelling-companion my foster-brother Dost
Akbar, who knows his secret. Dost Akbar has promised
this night to lead him to a side-postern of the
fort, and has chosen this one for his purpose. Here
he will come presently, and here he will find
Mahomet Singh and myself awaiting him. The place is
lonely, and none shall know of his coming. The world
shall know the merchant Achmet no more, but the
great treasure of the rajah shall be divided among
us. What say you to it, sahib?’
“In Worcestershire the life of a man seems a great
and a sacred thing; but it is very different when
there is fire and blood all round you, and you have
been used to meeting death at every turn. Whether
Achmet the merchant lived or died was a thing as
light as air to me, but at the talk about the
treasure my heart turned to it, and I thought of
what I might do in the old country with it, and how
my folk would stare when they saw their
ne’er-do-well coming back with his pockets full of
gold moidores. I had, therefore, already made up my
mind. [149] Abdullah Khan, however, thinking that I
hesitated, pressed the matter more closely.
“‘Consider, sahib,’ said he, ‘that if this man is
taken by the commandant he will be hung or shot, and
his jewels taken by the government, so that no man
will be a rupee the better for them. Now, since we
do the taking of him, why should we not do the rest
as well? The jewels will be as well with us as in
the Company’s coffers. There will be enough to make
every one of us rich men and great chiefs. No one
can know about the matter, for here we are cut off
from all men. What could be better for the purpose?
Say again, then, sahib, whether you are with us, or
if we must look upon you as an enemy.’
“‘I am with you heart and soul,’ said I.
“‘It is well,’ he answered, handing me back my
firelock. ‘You see that we trust you, for your word,
like ours, is not to be broken. We have now only to
wait for my brother and the merchant.’
“‘Does your brother know, then, of what you will
do?’ I asked.
“‘The plan is his. He has devised it. We will go to
the gate and share the watch with Mahomet Singh.’
“The rain was still falling steadily, for it was
just the beginning of the wet season. Brown, heavy
clouds were drifting across the sky, and it was hard
to see more than a stonecast. A deep moat lay in
front of our door, but the water was in places
nearly dried up, and it could easily be crossed. It
was strange to me to be standing there with those
two wild Punjabees waiting for the man who was
coming to his death.
“Suddenly my eye caught the glint of a shaded
lantern at the other side of the moat. It vanished
among the mound-heaps, and then appeared again
coming slowly in our direction.
“‘Here they are!’ I exclaimed.
“‘You will challenge him, sahib, as usual,’
whispered Abdullah. ‘Give him no cause for fear.
Send us in with him, and we shall do the rest while
you stay here on guard. Have the lantern ready to
uncover, that we may be sure that it is indeed the
man.’
“The light had flickered onward, now stopping and
now advancing, until I could see two dark figures
upon the other side of the moat. I let them scramble
down the sloping bank, splash through the mire, and
climb halfway up to the gate before I challenged
them.
“‘Who goes there?’ said I in a subdued voice.
“‘Friends,’ came the answer. I uncovered my lantern
and threw a flood of light upon them. The first was
an enormous Sikh with a black beard which swept
nearly down to his cummerbund. Outside of a show I
have never seen so tall a man. The other was a
little fat, round fellow with a great yellow turban
and a bundle in his hand, done up in a shawl. He
seemed to be all in a quiver with fear, for his
hands twitched as if he had the ague, and his head
kept turning to left and right with two bright
little twinkling eyes, like a mouse when he ventures
out from his hole. It gave me the chills to think of
killing him, but I thought of the treasure, and my
heart set as hard as a flint within me. When he saw
my white face he gave a little chirrup of joy and
came running up towards me.
“‘Your protection, sahib,’ he panted, ‘your
protection for the unhappy merchant Achmet. I have
travelled across Rajpootana, that I might seek the
shelter of the fort at Agra. I have been robbed and
beaten and abused because I have been the [150]
friend of the Company. It is a blessed night this
when I am once more in safety–I and my poor
possessions.’
“‘What have you in the bundle?’ I asked.
“‘An iron box,’ he answered, ‘which contains one or
two little family matters which are of no value to
others but which I should be sorry to lose. Yet I am
not a beggar; and I shall reward you, young sahib,
and your governor also if he will give me the
shelter I ask.’
“I could not trust myself to speak longer with the
man. The more I looked at his fat, frightened face,
the harder did it seem that we should slay him in
cold blood. It was best to get it over.
“‘Take him to the main guard,’ said I. The two Sikhs
closed in upon him on each side, and the giant
walked behind, while they marched in through the
dark gateway. Never was a man so compassed round
with death. I remained at the gateway with the
lantern.
“I could
hear the measured tramp of their footsteps sounding
through the lonely corridors. Suddenly it ceased,
and I heard voices and a scuffle, with the sound of
blows. A moment later there came, to my horror, a
rush of footsteps coming in my direction, with a
loud breathing of a running man. I turned my lantern
down the long straight passage, and there was the
fat man, running like the wind, with a smear of
blood across his face, and close at his heels,
bounding like a tiger, the great black-bearded Sikh,
with a knife flashing in his hand. I have never seen
a man run so fast as that little merchant. He was
gaining on the Sikh, and I could see that if he once
passed me and got to the open air he would save
himself yet. My heart softened to him, but again the
thought of his treasure turned me hard and bitter. I
cast my firelock between his legs as he raced past,
and he rolled twice over like a shot rabbit. Ere he
could stagger to his feet the Sikh was upon him and
buried his knife twice in his side. The man never
uttered moan nor moved muscle but lay where he had
fallen. I think myself that he may have broken his
neck with the fall. You see, gentlemen, that I am
keeping my promise. I am telling you every word of
the business just exactly as it happened, whether it
is in my favour or not.”
He stopped
and held out his manacled hands for the whisky and
water which Holmes had brewed for him. For myself, I
confess that I had now conceived the utmost horror
of the man not only for this cold-blooded business
in which he had been concerned but even more for the
somewhat flippant and careless way in which he
narrated it. Whatever punishment was in store for
him, I felt that he might expect no sympathy from
me. Sherlock Holmes and Jones sat with their hands
upon their knees, deeply interested in the story but
with the same disgust written upon their faces. He
may have observed it, for there was a touch of
defiance in his voice and manner as he proceeded.
“It was all very bad, no doubt,” said he. “I should
like to know how many fellows in my shoes would have
refused a share of this loot when they knew that
they would have their throats cut for their pains.
Besides, it was my life or his when once he was in
the fort. If he had got out, the whole business
would come to light, and I should have been court-martialled
and shot as likely as not; for people were not very
lenient at a time like that.”
“Go on with your story,” said Holmes shortly.
“Well, we carried him in, Abdullah, Akbar, and I. A
fine weight he was, too, for all that he was so
short. Mahomet Singh was left to guard the door. We
took [151] him to a place which the Sikhs had
already prepared. It was some distance off, where a
winding passage leads to a great empty hall, the
brick walls of which were all crumbling to pieces.
The earth floor had sunk in at one place, making a
natural grave, so we left Achmet the merchant there,
having first covered him over with loose bricks.
This done, we all went back to the treasure.
“It lay where he had dropped it when he was first
attacked. The box was the same which now lies open
upon your table. A key was hung by a silken cord to
that carved handle upon the top. We opened it, and
the light of the lantern gleamed upon a collection
of gems such as I have read of and thought about
when I was a little lad at Pershore. It was blinding
to look upon them. When we had feasted our eyes we
took them all out and made a list of them. There
were one hundred and forty-three diamonds of the
first water, including one which has been called, I
believe, ‘the Great Mogul,’ and is said to be the
second largest stone in existence. Then there were
ninety-seven very fine emeralds, and one hundred and
seventy rubies, some of which, however, were small.
There were forty carbuncles, two hundred and ten
sapphires, sixty-one agates, and a great quantity of
beryls, onyxes, cats’-eyes, turquoises, and other
stones, the very names of which I did not know at
the time, though I have become more familiar with
them since. Besides this, there were nearly three
hundred very fine pearls, twelve of which were set
in a gold coronet. By the way, these last had been
taken out of the chest, and were not there when I
recovered it.
“After we had counted our treasures we put them back
into the chest and carried them to the gateway to
show them to Mahomet Singh. Then we solemnly renewed
our oath to stand by each other and be true to our
secret. We agreed to conceal our loot in a safe
place until the country should be at peace again,
and then to divide it equally among ourselves. There
was no use dividing it at present, for if gems of
such value were found upon us it would cause
suspicion, and there was no privacy in the fort nor
any place where we could keep them. We carried the
box, therefore, into the same hall where we had
buried the body, and there, under certain bricks in
the best-preserved wall, we made a hollow and put
our treasure. We made careful note of the place, and
next day I drew four plans, one for each of us, and
put the sign of the four of us at the bottom, for we
had sworn that we should each always act for all, so
that none might take advantage. That is an oath that
I can put my hand to my heart and swear that I have
never broken.
“Well, there’s no use my telling you gentlemen what
came of the Indian mutiny. After Wilson took Delhi
and Sir Colin relieved Lucknow the back of the
business was broken. Fresh troops came pouring in,
and Nana Sahib made himself scarce over the
frontier. A flying column under Colonel Greathed
came round to Agra and cleared the Pandies away from
it. Peace seemed to be settling upon the country,
and we four were beginning to hope that the time was
at hand when we might safely go off with our shares
of the plunder. In a moment, however, our hopes were
shattered by our being arrested as the murderers of
Achmet.
“It came about in this way. When the rajah put his
jewels into the hands of Achmet he did it because he
knew that he was a trusty man. They are suspicious
folk in the East, however: so what does this rajah
do but take a second even more trusty servant and
set him to play the spy upon the first. This second
man was ordered never to let Achmet out of his
sight, and he followed him like his shadow. He went
after him that night and saw him pass through the
doorway. Of course [152] he thought he had taken
refuge in the fort and applied for admission there
himself next day, but could find no trace of Achmet.
This seemed to him so strange that he spoke about it
to a sergeant of guides, who brought it to the ears
of the commandant. A thorough search was quickly
made, and the body was discovered. Thus at the very
moment that we thought that all was safe we were all
four seized and brought to trial on a charge of
murder –three of us because we had held the gate
that night, and the fourth because he was known to
have been in the company of the murdered man. Not a
word about the jewels came out at the trial, for the
rajah had been deposed and driven out of India: so
no one had any particular interest in them. The
murder, however, was clearly made out, and it was
certain that we must all have been concerned in it.
The three Sikhs got penal servitude for life, and I
was condemned to death, though my sentence was
afterwards commuted to the same as the others.
“It was rather a queer position that we found
ourselves in then. There we were all four tied by
the leg and with precious little chance of ever
getting out again, while we each held a secret which
might have put each of us in a palace if we could
only have made use of it. It was enough to make a
man eat his heart out to have to stand the kick and
the cuff of every petty jack-in-office, to have rice
to eat and water to drink, when that gorgeous
fortune was ready for him outside, just waiting to
be picked up. It might have driven me mad; but I was
always a pretty stubborn one, so I just held on and
bided my time.
“At last it seemed to me to have come. I was changed
from Agra to Madras, and from there to Blair Island
in the Andamans. There are very few white convicts
at this settlement, and, as I had behaved well from
the first, I soon found myself a sort of privileged
person. I was given a hut in Hope Town, which is a
small place on the slopes of Mount Harriet, and I
was left pretty much to myself. It is a dreary,
fever-stricken place, and all beyond our little
clearings was infested with wild cannibal natives,
who were ready enough to blow a poisoned dart at us
if they saw a chance. There was digging and ditching
and yam-planting, and a dozen other things to be
done, so we were busy enough all day; though in the
evening we had a little time to ourselves. Among
other things, I learned to dispense drugs for the
surgeon, and picked up a smattering of his
knowledge. All the time I was on the lookout for a
chance to escape; but it is hundreds of miles from
any other land, and there is little or no wind in
those seas: so it was a terribly difficult job to
get away.
“The surgeon, Dr. Somerton, was a fast, sporting
young chap, and the other young officers would meet
in his rooms of an evening and play cards. The
surgery, where I used to make up my drugs, was next
to his sitting-room, with a small window between us.
Often, if I felt lonesome, I used to turn out the
lamp in the surgery, and then, standing there, I
could hear their talk and watch their play. I am
fond of a hand at cards myself, and it was almost as
good as having one to watch the others. There was
Major Sholto, Captain Morstan, and Lieutenant
Bromley Brown, who were in command of the native
troops, and there was the surgeon himself, and two
or three prison-officials, crafty old hands who
played a nice sly safe game. A very snug little
party they used to make.
“Well, there was one thing which very soon struck
me, and that was that the soldiers used always to
lose and the civilians to win. Mind, I don’t say
there was anything unfair, but so it was. These
prison-chaps had done little else than play cards
ever since they had been at the Andamans, and they
knew each other’s [153] game to a point, while the
others just played to pass the time and threw their
cards down anyhow. Night after night the soldiers
got up poorer men, and the poorer they got the more
keen they were to play. Major Sholto was the hardest
hit. He used to pay in notes and gold at first, but
soon it came to notes of hand and for big sums. He
sometimes would win for a few deals just to give him
heart, and then the luck would set in against him
worse than ever. All day he would wander about as
black as thunder, and he took to drinking a deal
more than was good for him.
“One night he lost even more heavily than usual. I
was sitting in my hut when he and Captain Morstan
came stumbling along on the way to their quarters.
They were bosom friends, those two, and never far
apart. The major was raving about his losses.
“‘It’s all up, Morstan,’ he was saying as they
passed my hut. ‘I shall have to send in my papers. I
am a ruined man.’
“‘Nonsense, old chap!’ said the other, slapping him
upon the shoulder. ‘I’ve had a nasty facer myself,
but– –’ That was all I could hear, but it was enough
to set me thinking.
“A couple of days later Major Sholto was strolling
on the beach: so I took the chance of speaking to
him.
“‘I wish to have your advice, Major,’ said I.
“‘Well, Small, what is it?’ he asked, taking his
cheroot from his lips.
“‘I wanted to ask you, sir,’ said I, ‘who is the
proper person to whom hidden treasure should be
handed over. I know where half a million worth lies,
and, as I cannot use it myself, I thought perhaps
the best thing that I could do would be to hand it
over to the proper authorities, and then perhaps
they would get my sentence shortened for me.’
“‘Half a million, Small?’ he gasped, looking hard at
me to see if I was in earnest.
“‘Quite that, sir–in jewels and pearls. It lies
there ready for anyone. And the queer thing about it
is that the real owner is outlawed and cannot hold
property, so that it belongs to the first comer.’
“‘To government, Small,’ he stammered, ‘to
government.’ But he said it in a halting fashion,
and I knew in my heart that I had got him.
“‘You think, then, sir, that I should give the
information to the governor-general?’ said I
quietly.
“‘Well, well, you must not do anything rash, or that
you might repent. Let me hear all about it, Small.
Give me the facts.’
“I told him the whole story, with small changes, so
that he could not identify the places. When I had
finished he stood stock still and full of thought. I
could see by the twitch of his lip that there was a
struggle going on within him.
“‘This is a very important matter, Small,’ he said
at last. ‘You must not say a word to anyone about
it, and I shall see you again soon.’
“Two nights later he and his friend, Captain
Morstan, came to my hut in the dead of the night
with a lantern.
“‘I want you
just to let Captain Morstan hear that story from
your own lips, Small,’ said he.
“I repeated it as I had told it before.
“‘It rings true, eh?’ said he. ‘It’s good enough to
act upon?’
“Captain Morstan nodded.
“‘Look here, Small,’ said the major. ‘We have been
talking it over, my friend here and I, and we have
come to the conclusion that this secret of yours is
hardly a [154] government matter, after all, but is
a private concern of your own, which of course you
have the power of disposing of as you think best.
Now the question is, What price would you ask for
it? We might be inclined to take it up, and at least
look into it, if we could agree as to terms.’ He
tried to speak in a cool, careless way, but his eyes
were shining with excitement and greed.
“‘Why, as to that, gentlemen,’ I answered, trying
also to be cool but feeling as excited as he did,
‘there is only one bargain which a man in my
position can make. I shall want you to help me to my
freedom, and to help my three companions to theirs.
We shall then take you into partnership and give you
a fifth share to divide between you.’
“‘Hum!’ said he. ‘A fifth share! That is not very
tempting.’
“‘It would come to fifty thousand apiece,’ said I.
“‘But how can we gain your freedom? You know very
well that you ask an impossibility.’
“‘Nothing of the sort,’ I answered. ‘I have thought
it all out to the last detail. The only bar to our
escape is that we can get no boat fit for the
voyage, and no provisions to last us for so long a
time. There are plenty of little yachts and yawls at
Calcutta or Madras which would serve our turn well.
Do you bring one over. We shall engage to get aboard
her by night, and if you will drop us on any part of
the Indian coast you will have done your part of the
bargain.’
“‘If there were only one,’ he said.
“‘None or all,’ I answered. ‘We have sworn it. The
four of us must always act together.’
“‘You see, Morstan,’ said he, ‘Small is a man of his
word. He does not flinch from his friends. I think
we may very well trust him.’
“‘It’s a dirty business,’ the other answered. ‘Yet,
as you say, the money will save our commissions
handsomely.’
“‘Well, Small,’ said the major, ‘we must, I suppose,
try and meet you. We must first, of course, test the
truth of your story. Tell me where the box is hid,
and I shall get leave of absence and go back to
India in the monthly relief-boat to inquire into the
affair.’
“‘Not so fast,’ said I, growing colder as he got
hot. ‘I must have the consent of my three comrades.
I tell you that it is four or none with us.’
“‘Nonsense!’ he broke in. ‘What have three black
fellows to do with our agreement?’
“‘Black or blue,’ said I, ‘they are in with me, and
we all go together.’
“Well, the matter ended by a second meeting, at
which Mahomet Singh, Abdullah Khan, and Dost Akbar
were all present. We talked the matter over again,
and at last we came to an arrangement. We were to
provide both the officers with charts of the part of
the Agra fort, and mark the place in the wall where
the treasure was hid. Major Sholto was to go to
India to test our story. If he found the box he was
to leave it there, to send out a small yacht
provisioned for a voyage, which was to lie off
Rutland Island, and to which we were to make our
way, and finally to return to his duties. Captain
Morstan was then to apply for leave of absence, to
meet us at Agra, and there we were to have a final
division of the treasure, he taking the major’s
share as well as his own. All this we sealed by the
most solemn oaths that the mind could think or the
lips utter. I sat up all night with paper and ink,
and by the morning I had the two charts all ready,
signed with the sign of four–that is, of Abdullah,
Akbar, Mahomet, and myself.
[155] “Well, gentlemen, I weary you with my long
story, and I know that my friend Mr. Jones is
impatient to get me safely stowed in chokey. I’ll
make it as short as I can. The villain Sholto went
off to India, but he never came back again. Captain
Morstan showed me his name among a list of
passengers in one of the mail-boats very shortly
afterwards. His uncle had died, leaving him a
fortune, and he had left the Army; yet he could
stoop to treat five men as he had treated us.
Morstan went over to Agra shortly afterwards and
found, as we expected, that the treasure was indeed
gone. The scoundrel had stolen it all without
carrying out one of the conditions on which we had
sold him the secret. From that I lived only for
vengeance. I thought of it by day and I nursed it by
night. It became an overpowering, absorbing passion
with me. I cared nothing for the law–nothing for the
gallows. To escape, to track down Sholto, to have my
hand upon his throat–that was my one thought. Even
the Agra treasure had come to be a smaller thing in
my mind than the slaying of Sholto.
“Well, I have set my mind on many things in this
life, and never one which I did not carry out. But
it was weary years before my time came. I have told
you that I had picked up something of medicine. One
day when Dr. Somerton was down with a fever a little
Andaman Islander was picked up by a convict-gang in
the woods. He was sick to death and had gone to a
lonely place to die. I took him in hand, though he
was as venomous as a young snake, and after a couple
of months I got him all right and able to walk. He
took a kind of fancy to me then, and would hardly go
back to his woods, but was always hanging about my
hut. I learned a little of his lingo from him, and
this made him all the fonder of me.
“Tonga–for that was his name–was a fine boatman and
owned a big, roomy canoe of his own. When I found
that he was devoted to me and would do anything to
serve me, I saw my chance of escape. I talked it
over with him. He was to bring his boat round on a
certain night to an old wharf which was never
guarded, and there he was to pick me up. I gave him
directions to have several gourds of water and a lot
of yams, cocoanuts, and sweet potatoes.
“He was staunch and true, was little Tonga. No man
ever had a more faithful mate. At the night named he
had his boat at the wharf. As it chanced, however,
there was one of the convict-guard down there–a vile
Pathan who had never missed a chance of insulting
and injuring me. I had always vowed vengeance, and
now I had my chance. It was as if fate had placed
him in my way that I might pay my debt before I left
the island. He stood on the bank with his back to
me, and his carbine on his shoulder. I looked about
for a stone to beat out his brains with, but none
could I see.
“Then a
queer thought came into my head and showed me where
I could lay my hand on a weapon. I sat down in the
darkness and unstrapped my wooden leg. With three
long hops I was on him. He put his carbine to his
shoulder, but I struck him full, and knocked the
whole front of his skull in. You can see the split
in the wood now where I hit him. We both went down
together, for I could not keep my balance; but when
I got up I found him still lying quiet enough. I
made for the boat, and in an hour we were well out
at sea. Tonga had brought all his earthly
possessions with him, his arms and his gods. Among
other things, he had a long bamboo spear, and some
Andaman cocoanut matting, with which I made a sort
of a sail. For ten days we were beating about,
trusting to luck, and on the eleventh we were picked
up by a trader which was going from Singapore to
Jiddah with a cargo of Malay pilgrims. They were a
rum crowd, and Tonga and I soon [156] managed to
settle down among them. They had one very good
quality: they let you alone and asked no questions.
“Well, if I were to tell you all the adventures that
my little chum and I went through, you would not
thank me, for I would have you here until the sun
was shining. Here and there we drifted about the
world, something always turning up to keep us from
London. All the time, however, I never lost sight of
my purpose. I would dream of Sholto at night. A
hundred times I have killed him in my sleep. At
last, however, some three or four years ago, we
found ourselves in England. I had no great
difficulty in finding where Sholto lived, and I set
to work to discover whether he had realized on the
treasure, or if he still had it. I made friends with
someone who could help me–I name no names, for I
don’t want to get anyone else in a hole–and I soon
found that he still had the jewels. Then I tried to
get at him in many ways; but he was pretty sly and
had always two prize-fighters, besides his sons and
his khitmutgar, on guard over him.
“One day, however, I got word that he was dying. I
hurried at once to the garden, mad that he should
slip out of my clutches like that, and, looking
through the window, I saw him lying in his bed, with
his sons on each side of him. I’d have come through
and taken my chance with the three of them, only
even as I looked at him his jaw dropped, and I knew
that he was gone. I got into his room that same
night, though, and I searched his papers to see if
there was any record of where he had hidden our
jewels. There was not a line, however, so I came
away, bitter and savage as a man could be. Before I
left I bethought me that if I ever met my Sikh
friends again it would be a satisfaction to know
that I had left some mark of our hatred; so I
scrawled down the sign of the four of us, as it had
been on the chart, and I pinned it on his bosom. It
was too much that he should be taken to the grave
without some token from the men whom he had robbed
and befooled.
“We earned a
living at this time by my exhibiting poor Tonga at
fairs and other such places as the black cannibal.
He would eat raw meat and dance his war-dance: so we
always had a hatful of pennies after a day’s work. I
still heard all the news from Pondicherry Lodge, and
for some years there was no news to hear, except
that they were hunting for the treasure. At last,
however, came what we had waited for so long. The
treasure had been found. It was up at the top of the
house in Mr. Bartholomew Sholto’s chemical
laboratory. I came at once and had a look at the
place, but I could not see how, with my wooden leg,
I was to make my way up to it. I learned, however,
about a trapdoor in the roof, and also about Mr.
Sholto’s supper-hour. It seemed to me that I could
manage the thing easily through Tonga. I brought him
out with me with a long rope wound round his waist.
He could climb like a cat, and he soon made his way
through the roof, but, as ill luck would have it,
Bartholomew Sholto was still in the room, to his
cost. Tonga thought he had done something very
clever in killing him, for when I came up by the
rope I found him strutting about as proud as a
peacock. Very much surprised was he when I made at
him with the rope’s end and cursed him for a little
bloodthirsty imp. I took the treasure box and let it
down, and then slid down myself, having first left
the sign of the four upon the table to show that the
jewels had come back at last to those who had most
right to them. Tonga then pulled up the rope, closed
the window, and made off the way that he had come.
“I don’t
know that I have anything else to tell you. I had
heard a waterman speak of the speed of Smith’s
launch, the Aurora, so I thought she would be a
handy craft [157] for our escape. I engaged with old
Smith, and was to give him a big sum if he got us
safe to our ship. He knew, no doubt, that there was
some screw loose, but he was not in our secrets. All
this is the truth, and if I tell it to you,
gentlemen, it is not to amuse you–for you have not
done me a very good turn–but it is because I believe
the best defence I can make is just to hold back
nothing, but let all the world know how badly I have
myself been served by Major Sholto, and how innocent
I am of the death of his son.”
“A very remarkable account,” said Sherlock Holmes.
“A fitting windup to an extremely interesting case.
There is nothing at all new to me in the latter part
of your narrative except that you brought your own
rope. That I did not know. By the way, I had hoped
that Tonga had lost all his darts; yet he managed to
shoot one at us in the boat.”
“He had lost them all, sir, except the one which was
in his blow-pipe at the time.”
“Ah, of course,” said Holmes. “I had not thought of
that.”
“Is there any other point which you would like to
ask about?” asked the convict affably.
“I think not, thank you,” my companion answered.
“Well, Holmes,” said Athelney Jones, “you are a man
to be humoured, and we all know that you are a
connoisseur of crime; but duty is duty, and I have
gone rather far in doing what you and your friend
asked me. I shall feel more at ease when we have our
story-teller here safe under lock and key. The cab
still waits, and there are two inspectors
downstairs. I am much obliged to you both for your
assistance. Of course you will be wanted at the
trial. Good-night to you.”
“Good-night, gentlemen both,” said Jonathan Small.
“You first,
Small,” remarked the wary Jones as they left the
room. “I’ll take particular care that you don’t club
me with your wooden leg, whatever you may have done
to the gentleman at the Andaman Isles.”
“Well, and there is the end of our little drama,” I
remarked, after we had sat some time smoking in
silence. “I fear that it may be the last
investigation in which I shall have the chance of
studying your methods. Miss Morstan has done me the
honour to accept me as a husband in prospective.”
He gave a most dismal groan.
“I feared as much,” said he. “I really cannot
congratulate you.”
I was a little hurt.
“Have you any reason to be dissatisfied with my
choice?” I asked.
“Not at all. I think she is one of the most charming
young ladies I ever met and might have been most
useful in such work as we have been doing. She had a
decided genius that way; witness the way in which
she preserved that Agra plan from all the other
papers of her father. But love is an emotional
thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that
true cold reason which I place above all things. I
should never marry myself, lest I bias my judgment.”
“I trust,” said I, laughing, “that my judgment may
survive the ordeal. But you look weary.”
“Yes, the reaction is already upon me. I shall be as
limp as a rag for a week.”
“Strange,” said I, “how terms of what in another man
I should call laziness alternate with your fits of
splendid energy and vigour.”
“Yes,” he answered, “there are in me the makings of
a very fine loafer, and also of a pretty spry sort
of a fellow. I often think of those lines of old
Goethe:
[158]
”Schade, daЯ die Natur nur einen Mensch aus dir
schuf, Denn zum wьrdigen Mann war und zum Schelmen
der Stoff.
By the way, apropos of this Norwood business, you
see that they had, as I surmised, a confederate in
the house, who could be none other than Lal Rao, the
butler: so Jones actually has the undivided honour
of having caught one fish in his great haul.”
“The division seems rather unfair,” I remarked. “You
have done all the work in this business. I get a
wife out of it, Jones gets the credit, pray what
remains for you?”
“For me,” said Sherlock Holmes, “there still remains
the cocaine-bottle.” And he stretched his long white
hand up for it.
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