I am afraid, Watson, that I shall have to go,” said Holmes, as we
sat down together to our breakfast one morning.
“Go! Where to?”
“To Dartmoor; to King’s Pyland.”
I was not surprised. Indeed, my only wonder was that he had not
already been mixed up in this extraordinary case, which was the
one topic of conversation through the length and breadth of
England. For a whole day my companion had rambled about the room
with his chin upon his chest and his brows knitted, charging and
recharging his pipe with the strongest black tobacco, and
absolutely deaf to any of my questions or remarks. Fresh editions
of every paper had been sent up by our news agent, only to be
glanced over and tossed down into a corner. Yet, silent as he
was, I knew perfectly well what it was over which he was
brooding. There was but one problem before the public which could
challenge his powers of analysis, and that was the singular
disappearance of the favourite for the Wessex Cup, and the tragic
murder of its trainer. When, therefore, he suddenly announced his
intention of setting out for the scene of the drama it was only
what I had both expected and hoped for.
“I should be most happy to go down with you if I should not be in
the way,” said I.
“My dear Watson, you would confer a great favour upon me by
coming. And I think that your time will not be misspent, for
there are points about the case which promise to make it an
absolutely unique one. We have, I think, just time to catch our
train at Paddington, and I will go further into the matter upon
our journey. You would oblige me by bringing with you your very
excellent field-glass.”
And so it happened that an hour or so later I found myself in the
corner of a first-class carriage flying along en route for
Exeter, while Sherlock Holmes, with his sharp, eager face framed
in his ear-flapped travelling-cap, dipped rapidly into the bundle
of fresh papers which he had procured at Paddington. We had left
Reading far behind us before he thrust the last one of them under
the seat, and offered me his cigar-case.
“We are going well,” said he, looking out the window and glancing
at his watch. “Our rate at present is fifty-three and a half
miles an hour.”
“I have not observed the quarter-mile posts,” said I.
“Nor have I. But the telegraph posts upon this line are sixty
yards apart, and the calculation is a simple one. I presume that
you have looked into this matter of the murder of John Straker
and the disappearance of Silver Blaze?”
“I have seen what the _Telegraph_ and the _Chronicle_ have to
say.”
“It is one of those cases where the art of the reasoner should be
used rather for the sifting of details than for the acquiring of
fresh evidence. The tragedy has been so uncommon, so complete and
of such personal importance to so many people, that we are
suffering from a plethora of surmise, conjecture, and hypothesis.
The difficulty is to detach the framework of fact—of absolute
undeniable fact—from the embellishments of theorists and
reporters. Then, having established ourselves upon this sound
basis, it is our duty to see what inferences may be drawn and
what are the special points upon which the whole mystery turns.
On Tuesday evening I received telegrams from both Colonel Ross,
the owner of the horse, and from Inspector Gregory, who is
looking after the case, inviting my co-operation.”
“Tuesday evening!” I exclaimed. “And this is Thursday morning.
Why didn’t you go down yesterday?”
“Because I made a blunder, my dear Watson—which is, I am afraid,
a more common occurrence than any one would think who only knew
me through your memoirs. The fact is that I could not believe it
possible that the most remarkable horse in England could long
remain concealed, especially in so sparsely inhabited a place as
the north of Dartmoor. From hour to hour yesterday I expected to
hear that he had been found, and that his abductor was the
murderer of John Straker. When, however, another morning had
come, and I found that beyond the arrest of young Fitzroy Simpson
nothing had been done, I felt that it was time for me to take
action. Yet in some ways I feel that yesterday has not been
wasted.”
“You have formed a theory, then?”
“At least I have got a grip of the essential facts of the case. I
shall enumerate them to you, for nothing clears up a case so much
as stating it to another person, and I can hardly expect your
co-operation if I do not show you the position from which we
start.”
I lay back against the cushions, puffing at my cigar, while
Holmes, leaning forward, with his long, thin forefinger checking
off the points upon the palm of his left hand, gave me a sketch
of the events which had led to our journey.
“Silver Blaze,” said he, “is from the Isonomy stock, and holds as
brilliant a record as his famous ancestor. He is now in his fifth
year, and has brought in turn each of the prizes of the turf to
Colonel Ross, his fortunate owner. Up to the time of the
catastrophe he was the first favourite for the Wessex Cup, the
betting being three to one on him. He has always, however, been a
prime favourite with the racing public, and has never yet
disappointed them, so that even at those odds enormous sums of
money have been laid upon him. It is obvious, therefore, that
there were many people who had the strongest interest in
preventing Silver Blaze from being there at the fall of the flag
next Tuesday.
“The fact was, of course, appreciated at King’s Pyland, where the
Colonel’s training-stable is situated. Every precaution was taken
to guard the favourite. The trainer, John Straker, is a retired
jockey who rode in Colonel Ross’s colours before he became too
heavy for the weighing-chair. He has served the Colonel for five
years as jockey and for seven as trainer, and has always shown
himself to be a zealous and honest servant. Under him were three
lads; for the establishment was a small one, containing only four
horses in all. One of these lads sat up each night in the stable,
while the others slept in the loft. All three bore excellent
characters. John Straker, who is a married man, lived in a small
villa about two hundred yards from the stables. He has no
children, keeps one maid-servant, and is comfortably off. The
country round is very lonely, but about half a mile to the north
there is a small cluster of villas which have been built by a
Tavistock contractor for the use of invalids and others who may
wish to enjoy the pure Dartmoor air. Tavistock itself lies two
miles to the west, while across the moor, also about two miles
distant, is the larger training establishment of Mapleton, which
belongs to Lord Backwater, and is managed by Silas Brown. In
every other direction the moor is a complete wilderness,
inhabited only by a few roaming gypsies. Such was the general
situation last Monday night when the catastrophe occurred.
“On that evening the horses had been exercised and watered as
usual, and the stables were locked up at nine o’clock. Two of the
lads walked up to the trainer’s house, where they had supper in
the kitchen, while the third, Ned Hunter, remained on guard. At a
few minutes after nine the maid, Edith Baxter, carried down to
the stables his supper, which consisted of a dish of curried
mutton. She took no liquid, as there was a water-tap in the
stables, and it was the rule that the lad on duty should drink
nothing else. The maid carried a lantern with her, as it was very
dark and the path ran across the open moor.
“Edith Baxter was within thirty yards of the stables, when a man
appeared out of the darkness and called to her to stop. As he
stepped into the circle of yellow light thrown by the lantern she
saw that he was a person of gentlemanly bearing, dressed in a
grey suit of tweeds, with a cloth cap. He wore gaiters, and
carried a heavy stick with a knob to it. She was most impressed,
however, by the extreme pallor of his face and by the nervousness
of his manner. His age, she thought, would be rather over thirty
than under it.
“‘Can you tell me where I am?’ he asked. ‘I had almost made up my
mind to sleep on the moor, when I saw the light of your lantern.’
“‘You are close to the King’s Pyland training-stables,’ said she.
“‘Oh, indeed! What a stroke of luck!’ he cried. ‘I understand
that a stable-boy sleeps there alone every night. Perhaps that is
his supper which you are carrying to him. Now I am sure that you
would not be too proud to earn the price of a new dress, would
you?’ He took a piece of white paper folded up out of his
waistcoat pocket. ‘See that the boy has this to-night, and you
shall have the prettiest frock that money can buy.’
“She was frightened by the earnestness of his manner, and ran
past him to the window through which she was accustomed to hand
the meals. It was already opened, and Hunter was seated at the
small table inside. She had begun to tell him of what had
happened, when the stranger came up again.
“‘Good-evening,’ said he, looking through the window. ‘I wanted
to have a word with you.’ The girl has sworn that as he spoke she
noticed the corner of the little paper packet protruding from his
closed hand.
“‘What business have you here?’ asked the lad.
“‘It’s business that may put something into your pocket,’ said
the other. ‘You’ve two horses in for the Wessex Cup—Silver Blaze
and Bayard. Let me have the straight tip and you won’t be a
loser. Is it a fact that at the weights Bayard could give the
other a hundred yards in five furlongs, and that the stable have
put their money on him?’
“‘So, you’re one of those damned touts!’ cried the lad. ‘I’ll
show you how we serve them in King’s Pyland.’ He sprang up and
rushed across the stable to unloose the dog. The girl fled away
to the house, but as she ran she looked back and saw that the
stranger was leaning through the window. A minute later, however,
when Hunter rushed out with the hound he was gone, and though he
ran all round the buildings he failed to find any trace of him.”
“One moment,” I asked. “Did the stable-boy, when he ran out with
the dog, leave the door unlocked behind him?”
“Excellent, Watson, excellent!” murmured my companion. “The
importance of the point struck me so forcibly that I sent a
special wire to Dartmoor yesterday to clear the matter up. The
boy locked the door before he left it. The window, I may add, was
not large enough for a man to get through.
“Hunter waited until his fellow-grooms had returned, when he sent
a message to the trainer and told him what had occurred. Straker
was excited at hearing the account, although he does not seem to
have quite realized its true significance. It left him, however,
vaguely uneasy, and Mrs. Straker, waking at one in the morning,
found that he was dressing. In reply to her inquiries, he said
that he could not sleep on account of his anxiety about the
horses, and that he intended to walk down to the stables to see
that all was well. She begged him to remain at home, as she could
hear the rain pattering against the window, but in spite of her
entreaties he pulled on his large mackintosh and left the house.
“Mrs. Straker awoke at seven in the morning, to find that her
husband had not yet returned. She dressed herself hastily, called
the maid, and set off for the stables. The door was open; inside,
huddled together upon a chair, Hunter was sunk in a state of
absolute stupor, the favourite’s stall was empty, and there were
no signs of his trainer.
“The two lads who slept in the chaff-cutting loft above the
harness-room were quickly aroused. They had heard nothing during
the night, for they are both sound sleepers. Hunter was obviously
under the influence of some powerful drug, and as no sense could
be got out of him, he was left to sleep it off while the two lads
and the two women ran out in search of the absentees. They still
had hopes that the trainer had for some reason taken out the
horse for early exercise, but on ascending the knoll near the
house, from which all the neighbouring moors were visible, they
not only could see no signs of the missing favourite, but they
perceived something which warned them that they were in the
presence of a tragedy.
“About a quarter of a mile from the stables John Straker’s
overcoat was flapping from a furze-bush. Immediately beyond there
was a bowl-shaped depression in the moor, and at the bottom of
this was found the dead body of the unfortunate trainer. His head
had been shattered by a savage blow from some heavy weapon, and
he was wounded on the thigh, where there was a long, clean cut,
inflicted evidently by some very sharp instrument. It was clear,
however, that Straker had defended himself vigorously against his
assailants, for in his right hand he held a small knife, which
was clotted with blood up to the handle, while in his left he
clasped a red and black silk cravat, which was recognised by the
maid as having been worn on the preceding evening by the stranger
who had visited the stables.
“Hunter, on recovering from his stupor, was also quite positive
as to the ownership of the cravat. He was equally certain that
the same stranger had, while standing at the window, drugged his
curried mutton, and so deprived the stables of their watchman.
“As to the missing horse, there were abundant proofs in the mud
which lay at the bottom of the fatal hollow that he had been
there at the time of the struggle. But from that morning he has
disappeared, and although a large reward has been offered, and
all the gypsies of Dartmoor are on the alert, no news has come of
him. Finally, an analysis has shown that the remains of his
supper left by the stable-lad contain an appreciable quantity of
powdered opium, while the people at the house partook of the same
dish on the same night without any ill effect.
“Those are the main facts of the case, stripped of all surmise,
and stated as baldly as possible. I shall now recapitulate what
the police have done in the matter.
“Inspector Gregory, to whom the case has been committed, is an
extremely competent officer. Were he but gifted with imagination
he might rise to great heights in his profession. On his arrival
he promptly found and arrested the man upon whom suspicion
naturally rested. There was little difficulty in finding him, for
he inhabited one of those villas which I have mentioned. His
name, it appears, was Fitzroy Simpson. He was a man of excellent
birth and education, who had squandered a fortune upon the turf,
and who lived now by doing a little quiet and genteel book-making
in the sporting clubs of London. An examination of his
betting-book shows that bets to the amount of five thousand
pounds had been registered by him against the favourite.
“On being arrested he volunteered the statement that he had come
down to Dartmoor in the hope of getting some information about
the King’s Pyland horses, and also about Desborough, the second
favourite, which was in charge of Silas Brown at the Mapleton
stables. He did not attempt to deny that he had acted as
described upon the evening before, but declared that he had no
sinister designs, and had simply wished to obtain first-hand
information. When confronted with his cravat, he turned very
pale, and was utterly unable to account for its presence in the
hand of the murdered man. His wet clothing showed that he had
been out in the storm of the night before, and his stick, which
was a Penang-lawyer weighted with lead, was just such a weapon as
might, by repeated blows, have inflicted the terrible injuries to
which the trainer had succumbed.
“On the other hand, there was no wound upon his person, while the
state of Straker’s knife would show that one at least of his
assailants must bear his mark upon him. There you have it all in
a nutshell, Watson, and if you can give me any light I shall be
infinitely obliged to you.”
I had listened with the greatest interest to the statement which
Holmes, with characteristic clearness, had laid before me. Though
most of the facts were familiar to me, I had not sufficiently
appreciated their relative importance, nor their connection to
each other.
“Is it not possible,” I suggested, “that the incised wound upon
Straker may have been caused by his own knife in the convulsive
struggles which follow any brain injury?”
“It is more than possible; it is probable,” said Holmes. “In that
case one of the main points in favour of the accused disappears.”
“And yet,” said I, “even now I fail to understand what the theory
of the police can be.”
“I am afraid that whatever theory we state has very grave
objections to it,” returned my companion. “The police imagine, I
take it, that this Fitzroy Simpson, having drugged the lad, and
having in some way obtained a duplicate key, opened the stable
door and took out the horse, with the intention, apparently, of
kidnapping him altogether. His bridle is missing, so that Simpson
must have put this on. Then, having left the door open behind
him, he was leading the horse away over the moor, when he was
either met or overtaken by the trainer. A row naturally ensued.
Simpson beat out the trainer’s brains with his heavy stick
without receiving any injury from the small knife which Straker
used in self-defence, and then the thief either led the horse on
to some secret hiding-place, or else it may have bolted during
the struggle, and be now wandering out on the moors. That is the
case as it appears to the police, and improbable as it is, all
other explanations are more improbable still. However, I shall
very quickly test the matter when I am once upon the spot, and
until then I cannot really see how we can get much further than
our present position.”
It was evening before we reached the little town of Tavistock,
which lies, like the boss of a shield, in the middle of the huge
circle of Dartmoor. Two gentlemen were awaiting us in the
station—the one a tall, fair man with lion-like hair and beard
and curiously penetrating light blue eyes; the other a small,
alert person, very neat and dapper, in a frock-coat and gaiters,
with trim little side-whiskers and an eye-glass. The latter was
Colonel Ross, the well-known sportsman; the other, Inspector
Gregory, a man who was rapidly making his name in the English
detective service.
“I am delighted that you have come down, Mr. Holmes,” said the
Colonel. “The Inspector here has done all that could possibly be
suggested, but I wish to leave no stone unturned in trying to
avenge poor Straker and in recovering my horse.”
“Have there been any fresh developments?” asked Holmes.
“I am sorry to say that we have made very little progress,” said
the Inspector. “We have an open carriage outside, and as you
would no doubt like to see the place before the light fails, we
might talk it over as we drive.”
A minute later we were all seated in a comfortable landau, and
were rattling through the quaint old Devonshire city. Inspector
Gregory was full of his case, and poured out a stream of remarks,
while Holmes threw in an occasional question or interjection.
Colonel Ross leaned back with his arms folded and his hat tilted
over his eyes, while I listened with interest to the dialogue of
the two detectives. Gregory was formulating his theory, which was
almost exactly what Holmes had foretold in the train.
“The net is drawn pretty close round Fitzroy Simpson,” he
remarked, “and I believe myself that he is our man. At the same
time I recognise that the evidence is purely circumstantial, and
that some new development may upset it.”
“How about Straker’s knife?”
“We have quite come to the conclusion that he wounded himself in
his fall.”
“My friend Dr. Watson made that suggestion to me as we came down.
If so, it would tell against this man Simpson.”
“Undoubtedly. He has neither a knife nor any sign of a wound. The
evidence against him is certainly very strong. He had a great
interest in the disappearance of the favourite. He lies under
suspicion of having poisoned the stable-boy, he was undoubtedly
out in the storm, he was armed with a heavy stick, and his cravat
was found in the dead man’s hand. I really think we have enough
to go before a jury.”
Holmes shook his head. “A clever counsel would tear it all to
rags,” said he. “Why should he take the horse out of the stable?
If he wished to injure it why could he not do it there? Has a
duplicate key been found in his possession? What chemist sold him
the powdered opium? Above all, where could he, a stranger to the
district, hide a horse, and such a horse as this? What is his own
explanation as to the paper which he wished the maid to give to
the stable-boy?”
“He says that it was a ten-pound note. One was found in his
purse. But your other difficulties are not so formidable as they
seem. He is not a stranger to the district. He has twice lodged
at Tavistock in the summer. The opium was probably brought from
London. The key, having served its purpose, would be hurled away.
The horse may be at the bottom of one of the pits or old mines
upon the moor.”
“What does he say about the cravat?”
“He acknowledges that it is his, and declares that he had lost
it. But a new element has been introduced into the case which may
account for his leading the horse from the stable.”
Holmes pricked up his ears.
“We have found traces which show that a party of gypsies encamped
on Monday night within a mile of the spot where the murder took
place. On Tuesday they were gone. Now, presuming that there was
some understanding between Simpson and these gypsies, might he
not have been leading the horse to them when he was overtaken,
and may they not have him now?”
“It is certainly possible.”
“The moor is being scoured for these gypsies. I have also
examined every stable and out-house in Tavistock, and for a
radius of ten miles.”
“There is another training-stable quite close, I understand?”
“Yes, and that is a factor which we must certainly not neglect.
As Desborough, their horse, was second in the betting, they had
an interest in the disappearance of the favourite. Silas Brown,
the trainer, is known to have had large bets upon the event, and
he was no friend to poor Straker. We have, however, examined the
stables, and there is nothing to connect him with the affair.”
“And nothing to connect this man Simpson with the interests of
the Mapleton stables?”
“Nothing at all.”
Holmes leaned back in the carriage, and the conversation ceased.
A few minutes later our driver pulled up at a neat little
red-brick villa with overhanging eaves which stood by the road.
Some distance off, across a paddock, lay a long grey-tiled
out-building. In every other direction the low curves of the
moor, bronze-coloured from the fading ferns, stretched away to
the sky-line, broken only by the steeples of Tavistock, and by a
cluster of houses away to the westward which marked the Mapleton
stables. We all sprang out with the exception of Holmes, who
continued to lean back with his eyes fixed upon the sky in front
of him, entirely absorbed in his own thoughts. It was only when I
touched his arm that he roused himself with a violent start and
stepped out of the carriage.
“Excuse me,” said he, turning to Colonel Ross, who had looked at
him in some surprise. “I was day-dreaming.” There was a gleam in
his eyes and a suppressed excitement in his manner which
convinced me, used as I was to his ways, that his hand was upon a
clue, though I could not imagine where he had found it.
“Perhaps you would prefer at once to go on to the scene of the
crime, Mr. Holmes?” said Gregory.
“I think that I should prefer to stay here a little and go into
one or two questions of detail. Straker was brought back here, I
presume?”
“Yes; he lies upstairs. The inquest is to-morrow.”
“He has been in your service some years, Colonel Ross?”
“I have always found him an excellent servant.”
“I presume that you made an inventory of what he had in his
pockets at the time of his death, Inspector?”
“I have the things themselves in the sitting-room, if you would
care to see them.”
“I should be very glad.” We all filed into the front room and sat
round the central table while the Inspector unlocked a square tin
box and laid a small heap of things before us. There was a box of
vestas, two inches of tallow candle, an A.D.P. briar-root pipe, a
pouch of seal-skin with half an ounce of long-cut Cavendish, a
silver watch with a gold chain, five sovereigns in gold, an
aluminium pencil-case, a few papers, and an ivory-handled knife
with a very delicate, inflexible blade marked Weiss & Co.,
London.
“This is a very singular knife,” said Holmes, lifting it up and
examining it minutely. “I presume, as I see blood-stains upon it,
that it is the one which was found in the dead man’s grasp.
Watson, this knife is surely in your line?”
“It is what we call a cataract knife,” said I.
“I thought so. A very delicate blade devised for very delicate
work. A strange thing for a man to carry with him upon a rough
expedition, especially as it would not shut in his pocket.”
“The tip was guarded by a disk of cork which we found beside his
body,” said the Inspector. “His wife tells us that the knife had
lain upon the dressing-table, and that he had picked it up as he
left the room. It was a poor weapon, but perhaps the best that he
could lay his hands on at the moment.”
“Very possible. How about these papers?”
“Three of them are receipted hay-dealers’ accounts. One of them
is a letter of instructions from Colonel Ross. This other is a
milliner’s account for thirty-seven pounds fifteen made out by
Madame Lesurier, of Bond Street, to William Derbyshire. Mrs.
Straker tells us that Derbyshire was a friend of her husband’s
and that occasionally his letters were addressed here.”
“Madam Derbyshire had somewhat expensive tastes,” remarked
Holmes, glancing down the account. “Twenty-two guineas is rather
heavy for a single costume. However there appears to be nothing
more to learn, and we may now go down to the scene of the crime.”
As we emerged from the sitting-room a woman, who had been waiting
in the passage, took a step forward and laid her hand upon the
Inspector’s sleeve. Her face was haggard and thin and eager,
stamped with the print of a recent horror.
“Have you got them? Have you found them?” she panted.
“No, Mrs. Straker. But Mr. Holmes here has come from London to
help us, and we shall do all that is possible.”
“Surely I met you in Plymouth at a garden-party some little time
ago, Mrs. Straker?” said Holmes.
“No, sir; you are mistaken.”
“Dear me! Why, I could have sworn to it. You wore a costume of
dove-coloured silk with ostrich-feather trimming.”
“I never had such a dress, sir,” answered the lady.
“Ah, that quite settles it,” said Holmes. And with an apology he
followed the Inspector outside. A short walk across the moor took
us to the hollow in which the body had been found. At the brink
of it was the furze-bush upon which the coat had been hung.
“There was no wind that night, I understand,” said Holmes.
“None; but very heavy rain.”
“In that case the overcoat was not blown against the furze-bush,
but placed there.”
“Yes, it was laid across the bush.”
“You fill me with interest, I perceive that the ground has been
trampled up a good deal. No doubt many feet have been here since
Monday night.”
“A piece of matting has been laid here at the side, and we have
all stood upon that.”
“Excellent.”
“In this bag I have one of the boots which Straker wore, one of
Fitzroy Simpson’s shoes, and a cast horseshoe of Silver Blaze.”
“My dear Inspector, you surpass yourself!” Holmes took the bag,
and, descending into the hollow, he pushed the matting into a
more central position. Then stretching himself upon his face and
leaning his chin upon his hands, he made a careful study of the
trampled mud in front of him. “Hullo!” said he, suddenly. “What’s
this?” It was a wax vesta half burned, which was so coated with
mud that it looked at first like a little chip of wood.
“I cannot think how I came to overlook it,” said the Inspector,
with an expression of annoyance.
“It was invisible, buried in the mud. I only saw it because I was
looking for it.”
“What! You expected to find it?”
“I thought it not unlikely.”
He took the boots from the bag, and compared the impressions of
each of them with marks upon the ground. Then he clambered up to
the rim of the hollow, and crawled about among the ferns and
bushes.
“I am afraid that there are no more tracks,” said the Inspector.
“I have examined the ground very carefully for a hundred yards in
each direction.”
“Indeed!” said Holmes, rising. “I should not have the
impertinence to do it again after what you say. But I should like
to take a little walk over the moor before it grows dark, that I
may know my ground to-morrow, and I think that I shall put this
horseshoe into my pocket for luck.”
Colonel Ross, who had shown some signs of impatience at my
companion’s quiet and systematic method of work, glanced at his
watch. “I wish you would come back with me, Inspector,” said he.
“There are several points on which I should like your advice, and
especially as to whether we do not owe it to the public to remove
our horse’s name from the entries for the Cup.”
“Certainly not,” cried Holmes, with decision. “I should let the
name stand.”
The Colonel bowed. “I am very glad to have had your opinion,
sir,” said he. “You will find us at poor Straker’s house when you
have finished your walk, and we can drive together into
Tavistock.”
He turned back with the Inspector, while Holmes and I walked
slowly across the moor. The sun was beginning to sink behind the
stables of Mapleton, and the long, sloping plain in front of us
was tinged with gold, deepening into rich, ruddy browns where the
faded ferns and brambles caught the evening light. But the
glories of the landscape were all wasted upon my companion, who
was sunk in the deepest thought.
“It’s this way, Watson,” said he at last. “We may leave the
question of who killed John Straker for the instant, and confine
ourselves to finding out what has become of the horse. Now,
supposing that he broke away during or after the tragedy, where
could he have gone to? The horse is a very gregarious creature.
If left to himself his instincts would have been either to return
to King’s Pyland or go over to Mapleton. Why should he run wild
upon the moor? He would surely have been seen by now. And why
should gypsies kidnap him? These people always clear out when
they hear of trouble, for they do not wish to be pestered by the
police. They could not hope to sell such a horse. They would run
a great risk and gain nothing by taking him. Surely that is
clear.”
“Where is he, then?”
“I have already said that he must have gone to King’s Pyland or
to Mapleton. He is not at King’s Pyland. Therefore he is at
Mapleton. Let us take that as a working hypothesis and see what
it leads us to. This part of the moor, as the Inspector remarked,
is very hard and dry. But it falls away towards Mapleton, and you
can see from here that there is a long hollow over yonder, which
must have been very wet on Monday night. If our supposition is
correct, then the horse must have crossed that, and there is the
point where we should look for his tracks.”
We had been walking briskly during this conversation, and a few
more minutes brought us to the hollow in question. At Holmes’
request I walked down the bank to the right, and he to the left,
but I had not taken fifty paces before I heard him give a shout,
and saw him waving his hand to me. The track of a horse was
plainly outlined in the soft earth in front of him, and the shoe
which he took from his pocket exactly fitted the impression.
“See the value of imagination,” said Holmes. “It is the one
quality which Gregory lacks. We imagined what might have
happened, acted upon the supposition, and find ourselves
justified. Let us proceed.”
We crossed the marshy bottom and passed over a quarter of a mile
of dry, hard turf. Again the ground sloped, and again we came on
the tracks. Then we lost them for half a mile, but only to pick
them up once more quite close to Mapleton. It was Holmes who saw
them first, and he stood pointing with a look of triumph upon his
face. A man’s track was visible beside the horse’s.
“The horse was alone before,” I cried.
“Quite so. It was alone before. Hullo, what is this?”
The double track turned sharp off and took the direction of
King’s Pyland. Holmes whistled, and we both followed along after
it. His eyes were on the trail, but I happened to look a little
to one side, and saw to my surprise the same tracks coming back
again in the opposite direction.
“One for you, Watson,” said Holmes, when I pointed it out. “You
have saved us a long walk, which would have brought us back on
our own traces. Let us follow the return track.”
We had not to go far. It ended at the paving of asphalt which led
up to the gates of the Mapleton stables. As we approached, a
groom ran out from them.
“We don’t want any loiterers about here,” said he.
“I only wished to ask a question,” said Holmes, with his finger
and thumb in his waistcoat pocket. “Should I be too early to see
your master, Mr. Silas Brown, if I were to call at five o’clock
to-morrow morning?”
“Bless you, sir, if any one is about he will be, for he is always
the first stirring. But here he is, sir, to answer your questions
for himself. No, sir, no; it is as much as my place is worth to
let him see me touch your money. Afterwards, if you like.”
As Sherlock Holmes replaced the half-crown which he had drawn
from his pocket, a fierce-looking elderly man strode out from the
gate with a hunting-crop swinging in his hand.
“What’s this, Dawson!” he cried. “No gossiping! Go about your
business! And you, what the devil do you want here?”
“Ten minutes’ talk with you, my good sir,” said Holmes in the
sweetest of voices.
“I’ve no time to talk to every gadabout. We want no strangers
here. Be off, or you may find a dog at your heels.”
Holmes leaned forward and whispered something in the trainer’s
ear. He started violently and flushed to the temples.
“It’s a lie!” he shouted, “an infernal lie!”
“Very good. Shall we argue about it here in public or talk it
over in your parlour?”
“Oh, come in if you wish to.”
Holmes smiled. “I shall not keep you more than a few minutes,
Watson,” said he. “Now, Mr. Brown, I am quite at your disposal.”
It was twenty minutes, and the reds had all faded into greys
before Holmes and the trainer reappeared. Never have I seen such
a change as had been brought about in Silas Brown in that short
time. His face was ashy pale, beads of perspiration shone upon
his brow, and his hands shook until the hunting-crop wagged like
a branch in the wind. His bullying, overbearing manner was all
gone too, and he cringed along at my companion’s side like a dog
with its master.
“Your instructions will be done. It shall all be done,” said he.
“There must be no mistake,” said Holmes, looking round at him.
The other winced as he read the menace in his eyes.
“Oh no, there shall be no mistake. It shall be there. Should I
change it first or not?”
Holmes thought a little and then burst out laughing. “No, don’t,”
said he; “I shall write to you about it. No tricks, now, or—”
“Oh, you can trust me, you can trust me!”
“Yes, I think I can. Well, you shall hear from me to-morrow.” He
turned upon his heel, disregarding the trembling hand which the
other held out to him, and we set off for King’s Pyland.
“A more perfect compound of the bully, coward, and sneak than
Master Silas Brown I have seldom met with,” remarked Holmes as we
trudged along together.
“He has the horse, then?”
“He tried to bluster out of it, but I described to him so exactly
what his actions had been upon that morning that he is convinced
that I was watching him. Of course you observed the peculiarly
square toes in the impressions, and that his own boots exactly
corresponded to them. Again, of course no subordinate would have
dared to do such a thing. I described to him how, when according
to his custom he was the first down, he perceived a strange horse
wandering over the moor. How he went out to it, and his
astonishment at recognising, from the white forehead which has
given the favourite its name, that chance had put in his power
the only horse which could beat the one upon which he had put his
money. Then I described how his first impulse had been to lead
him back to King’s Pyland, and how the devil had shown him how he
could hide the horse until the race was over, and how he had led
it back and concealed it at Mapleton. When I told him every
detail he gave it up and thought only of saving his own skin.”
“But his stables had been searched?”
“Oh, an old horse-faker like him has many a dodge.”
“But are you not afraid to leave the horse in his power now,
since he has every interest in injuring it?”
“My dear fellow, he will guard it as the apple of his eye. He
knows that his only hope of mercy is to produce it safe.”
“Colonel Ross did not impress me as a man who would be likely to
show much mercy in any case.”
“The matter does not rest with Colonel Ross. I follow my own
methods, and tell as much or as little as I choose. That is the
advantage of being unofficial. I don’t know whether you observed
it, Watson, but the Colonel’s manner has been just a trifle
cavalier to me. I am inclined now to have a little amusement at
his expense. Say nothing to him about the horse.”
“Certainly not without your permission.”
“And of course this is all quite a minor point compared to the
question of who killed John Straker.”
“And you will devote yourself to that?”
“On the contrary, we both go back to London by the night train.”
I was thunderstruck by my friend’s words. We had only been a few
hours in Devonshire, and that he should give up an investigation
which he had begun so brilliantly was quite incomprehensible to
me. Not a word more could I draw from him until we were back at
the trainer’s house. The Colonel and the Inspector were awaiting
us in the parlour.
“My friend and I return to town by the night-express,” said
Holmes. “We have had a charming little breath of your beautiful
Dartmoor air.”
The Inspector opened his eyes, and the Colonel’s lip curled in a
sneer.
“So you despair of arresting the murderer of poor Straker,” said
he.
Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “There are certainly grave
difficulties in the way,” said he. “I have every hope, however,
that your horse will start upon Tuesday, and I beg that you will
have your jockey in readiness. Might I ask for a photograph of
Mr. John Straker?”
The Inspector took one from an envelope and handed it to him.
“My dear Gregory, you anticipate all my wants. If I might ask you
to wait here for an instant, I have a question which I should
like to put to the maid.”
“I must say that I am rather disappointed in our London
consultant,” said Colonel Ross, bluntly, as my friend left the
room. “I do not see that we are any further than when he came.”
“At least you have his assurance that your horse will run,” said
I.
“Yes, I have his assurance,” said the Colonel, with a shrug of
his shoulders. “I should prefer to have the horse.”
I was about to make some reply in defence of my friend when he
entered the room again.
“Now, gentlemen,” said he, “I am quite ready for Tavistock.”
As we stepped into the carriage one of the stable-lads held the
door open for us. A sudden idea seemed to occur to Holmes, for he
leaned forward and touched the lad upon the sleeve.
“You have a few sheep in the paddock,” he said. “Who attends to
them?”
“I do, sir.”
“Have you noticed anything amiss with them of late?”
“Well, sir, not of much account; but three of them have gone
lame, sir.”
I could see that Holmes was extremely pleased, for he chuckled
and rubbed his hands together.
“A long shot, Watson; a very long shot,” said he, pinching my
arm. “Gregory, let me recommend to your attention this singular
epidemic among the sheep. Drive on, coachman!”
Colonel Ross still wore an expression which showed the poor
opinion which he had formed of my companion’s ability, but I saw
by the Inspector’s face that his attention had been keenly
aroused.
“You consider that to be important?” he asked.
“Exceedingly so.”
“Is there any point to which you would wish to draw my
attention?”
“To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time.”
“The dog did nothing in the night-time.”
“That was the curious incident,” remarked Sherlock Holmes.
Four days later Holmes and I were again in the train, bound for
Winchester to see the race for the Wessex Cup. Colonel Ross met
us by appointment outside the station, and we drove in his drag
to the course beyond the town. His face was grave, and his manner
was cold in the extreme.
“I have seen nothing of my horse,” said he.
“I suppose that you would know him when you saw him?” asked
Holmes.
The Colonel was very angry. “I have been on the turf for twenty
years, and never was asked such a question as that before,” said
he. “A child would know Silver Blaze, with his white forehead and
his mottled off-foreleg.”
“How is the betting?”
“Well, that is the curious part of it. You could have got fifteen
to one yesterday, but the price has become shorter and shorter,
until you can hardly get three to one now.”
“Hum!” said Holmes. “Somebody knows something, that is clear.”
As the drag drew up in the enclosure near the grand stand I
glanced at the card to see the entries. It ran:—
Wessex Plate. 50 sovs each h ft with 1000 sovs added for four and
five year olds. Second, £300. Third, £200. New course (one mile
and five furlongs).
1. Mr. Heath Newton’s The Negro (red cap, cinnamon jacket).
2. Colonel Wardlaw’s Pugilist (pink cap, blue and black jacket).
3. Lord Backwater’s Desborough (yellow cap and sleeves).
4. Colonel Ross’s Silver Blaze (black cap, red jacket).
5. Duke of Balmoral’s Iris (yellow and black stripes).
6. Lord Singleford’s Rasper (purple cap, black sleeves).
“We scratched our other one, and put all hopes on your word,”
said the Colonel. “Why, what is that? Silver Blaze favourite?”
“Five to four against Silver Blaze!” roared the ring. “Five to
four against Silver Blaze! Five to fifteen against Desborough!
Five to four on the field!”
“There are the numbers up,” I cried. “They are all six there.”
“All six there? Then my horse is running,” cried the Colonel in
great agitation. “But I don’t see him. My colours have not
passed.”
“Only five have passed. This must be he.”
As I spoke a powerful bay horse swept out from the weighing
enclosure and cantered past us, bearing on its back the
well-known black and red of the Colonel.
“That’s not my horse,” cried the owner. “That beast has not a
white hair upon its body. What is this that you have done, Mr.
Holmes?”
“Well, well, let us see how he gets on,” said my friend,
imperturbably. For a few minutes he gazed through my field-glass.
“Capital! An excellent start!” he cried suddenly. “There they
are, coming round the curve!”
From our drag we had a superb view as they came up the straight.
The six horses were so close together that a carpet could have
covered them, but half way up the yellow of the Mapleton stable
showed to the front. Before they reached us, however,
Desborough’s bolt was shot, and the Colonel’s horse, coming away
with a rush, passed the post a good six lengths before its rival,
the Duke of Balmoral’s Iris making a bad third.
“It’s my race, anyhow,” gasped the Colonel, passing his hand over
his eyes. “I confess that I can make neither head nor tail of it.
Don’t you think that you have kept up your mystery long enough,
Mr. Holmes?”
“Certainly, Colonel, you shall know everything. Let us all go
round and have a look at the horse together. Here he is,” he
continued, as we made our way into the weighing enclosure, where
only owners and their friends find admittance. “You have only to
wash his face and his leg in spirits of wine, and you will find
that he is the same old Silver Blaze as ever.”
“You take my breath away!”
“I found him in the hands of a faker, and took the liberty of
running him just as he was sent over.”
“My dear sir, you have done wonders. The horse looks very fit and
well. It never went better in its life. I owe you a thousand
apologies for having doubted your ability. You have done me a
great service by recovering my horse. You would do me a greater
still if you could lay your hands on the murderer of John
Straker.”
“I have done so,” said Holmes quietly.
The Colonel and I stared at him in amazement. “You have got him!
Where is he, then?”
“He is here.”
“Here! Where?”
“In my company at the present moment.”
The Colonel flushed angrily. “I quite recognise that I am under
obligations to you, Mr. Holmes,” said he, “but I must regard what
you have just said as either a very bad joke or an insult.”
Sherlock Holmes laughed. “I assure you that I have not associated
you with the crime, Colonel,” said he. “The real murderer is
standing immediately behind you.” He stepped past and laid his
hand upon the glossy neck of the thoroughbred.
“The horse!” cried both the Colonel and myself.
“Yes, the horse. And it may lessen his guilt if I say that it was
done in self-defence, and that John Straker was a man who was
entirely unworthy of your confidence. But there goes the bell,
and as I stand to win a little on this next race, I shall defer a
lengthy explanation until a more fitting time.”
We had the corner of a Pullman car to ourselves that evening as
we whirled back to London, and I fancy that the journey was a
short one to Colonel Ross as well as to myself, as we listened to
our companion’s narrative of the events which had occurred at the
Dartmoor training-stables upon the Monday night, and the means by
which he had unravelled them.
“I confess,” said he, “that any theories which I had formed from
the newspaper reports were entirely erroneous. And yet there were
indications there, had they not been overlaid by other details
which concealed their true import. I went to Devonshire with the
conviction that Fitzroy Simpson was the true culprit, although,
of course, I saw that the evidence against him was by no means
complete. It was while I was in the carriage, just as we reached
the trainer’s house, that the immense significance of the curried
mutton occurred to me. You may remember that I was distrait, and
remained sitting after you had all alighted. I was marvelling in
my own mind how I could possibly have overlooked so obvious a
clue.”
“I confess,” said the Colonel, “that even now I cannot see how it
helps us.”
“It was the first link in my chain of reasoning. Powdered opium
is by no means tasteless. The flavour is not disagreeable, but it
is perceptible. Were it mixed with any ordinary dish the eater
would undoubtedly detect it, and would probably eat no more. A
curry was exactly the medium which would disguise this taste. By
no possible supposition could this stranger, Fitzroy Simpson,
have caused curry to be served in the trainer’s family that
night, and it is surely too monstrous a coincidence to suppose
that he happened to come along with powdered opium upon the very
night when a dish happened to be served which would disguise the
flavour. That is unthinkable. Therefore Simpson becomes
eliminated from the case, and our attention centres upon Straker
and his wife, the only two people who could have chosen curried
mutton for supper that night. The opium was added after the dish
was set aside for the stable-boy, for the others had the same for
supper with no ill effects. Which of them, then, had access to
that dish without the maid seeing them?
“Before deciding that question I had grasped the significance of
the silence of the dog, for one true inference invariably
suggests others. The Simpson incident had shown me that a dog was
kept in the stables, and yet, though some one had been in and had
fetched out a horse, he had not barked enough to arouse the two
lads in the loft. Obviously the midnight visitor was some one
whom the dog knew well.
“I was already convinced, or almost convinced, that John Straker
went down to the stables in the dead of the night and took out
Silver Blaze. For what purpose? For a dishonest one, obviously,
or why should he drug his own stable-boy? And yet I was at a loss
to know why. There have been cases before now where trainers have
made sure of great sums of money by laying against their own
horses, through agents, and then preventing them from winning by
fraud. Sometimes it is a pulling jockey. Sometimes it is some
surer and subtler means. What was it here? I hoped that the
contents of his pockets might help me to form a conclusion.
“And they did so. You cannot have forgotten the singular knife
which was found in the dead man’s hand, a knife which certainly
no sane man would choose for a weapon. It was, as Dr. Watson told
us, a form of knife which is used for the most delicate
operations known in surgery. And it was to be used for a delicate
operation that night. You must know, with your wide experience of
turf matters, Colonel Ross, that it is possible to make a slight
nick upon the tendons of a horse’s ham, and to do it
subcutaneously, so as to leave absolutely no trace. A horse so
treated would develop a slight lameness, which would be put down
to a strain in exercise or a touch of rheumatism, but never to
foul play.”
“Villain! Scoundrel!” cried the Colonel.
“We have here the explanation of why John Straker wished to take
the horse out on to the moor. So spirited a creature would have
certainly roused the soundest of sleepers when it felt the prick
of the knife. It was absolutely necessary to do it in the open
air.”
“I have been blind!” cried the Colonel. “Of course that was why
he needed the candle, and struck the match.”
“Undoubtedly. But in examining his belongings I was fortunate
enough to discover not only the method of the crime, but even its
motives. As a man of the world, Colonel, you know that men do not
carry other people’s bills about in their pockets. We have most
of us quite enough to do to settle our own. I at once concluded
that Straker was leading a double life, and keeping a second
establishment. The nature of the bill showed that there was a
lady in the case, and one who had expensive tastes. Liberal as
you are with your servants, one can hardly expect that they can
buy twenty-guinea walking dresses for their ladies. I questioned
Mrs. Straker as to the dress without her knowing it, and having
satisfied myself that it had never reached her, I made a note of
the milliner’s address, and felt that by calling there with
Straker’s photograph I could easily dispose of the mythical
Derbyshire.
“From that time on all was plain. Straker had led out the horse
to a hollow where his light would be invisible. Simpson in his
flight had dropped his cravat, and Straker had picked it up—with
some idea, perhaps, that he might use it in securing the horse’s
leg. Once in the hollow, he had got behind the horse and had
struck a light; but the creature frightened at the sudden glare,
and with the strange instinct of animals feeling that some
mischief was intended, had lashed out, and the steel shoe had
struck Straker full on the forehead. He had already, in spite of
the rain, taken off his overcoat in order to do his delicate
task, and so, as he fell, his knife gashed his thigh. Do I make
it clear?”
“Wonderful!” cried the Colonel. “Wonderful! You might have been
there!”
“My final shot was, I confess a very long one. It struck me that
so astute a man as Straker would not undertake this delicate
tendon-nicking without a little practice. What could he practice
on? My eyes fell upon the sheep, and I asked a question which,
rather to my surprise, showed that my surmise was correct.
“When I returned to London I called upon the milliner, who had
recognised Straker as an excellent customer of the name of
Derbyshire, who had a very dashing wife, with a strong partiality
for expensive dresses. I have no doubt that this woman had
plunged him over head and ears in debt, and so led him into this
miserable plot.”
“You have explained all but one thing,” cried the Colonel. “Where
was the horse?”
“Ah, it bolted, and was cared for by one of your neighbours. We
must have an amnesty in that direction, I think. This is Clapham
Junction, if I am not mistaken, and we shall be in Victoria in
less than ten minutes. If you care to smoke a cigar in our rooms,
Colonel, I shall be happy to give you any other details which
might interest you.”
+ + \ No newline at end of file diff --git a/dist/Test.html b/dist/Test.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a78ccf8 --- /dev/null +++ b/dist/Test.html @@ -0,0 +1,33 @@ + + + + +text for h1
+more text for h1 - Link to google
+text for h2 - link
text for h3 and h4 - striked
last line of text for h4
+text for h5 - italic or italic
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+ + \ No newline at end of file diff --git a/dist/The Adventure of the Six Napoleans.html b/dist/The Adventure of the Six Napoleans.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b4a00f7 --- /dev/null +++ b/dist/The Adventure of the Six Napoleans.html @@ -0,0 +1,13 @@ + + + + +It was no very unusual thing for Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard,
to look in upon us of an evening, and his visits were welcome to
Sherlock Holmes, for they enabled him to keep in touch with all
that was going on at the police headquarters. In return for the
news which Lestrade would bring, Holmes was always ready to
listen with attention to the details of any case upon which the
detective was engaged, and was able occasionally, without any
active interference, to give some hint or suggestion drawn from
his own vast knowledge and experience.
On this particular evening, Lestrade had spoken of the weather
and the newspapers. Then he had fallen silent, puffing
thoughtfully at his cigar. Holmes looked keenly at him.
“Anything remarkable on hand?” he asked.
“Oh, no, Mr. Holmes—nothing very particular.”
“Then tell me about it.”
Lestrade laughed.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, there is no use denying that there _is_
something on my mind. And yet it is such an absurd business, that
I hesitated to bother you about it. On the other hand, although
it is trivial, it is undoubtedly queer, and I know that you have
a taste for all that is out of the common. But, in my opinion, it
comes more in Dr. Watson’s line than ours.”
“Disease?” said I.
“Madness, anyhow. And a queer madness, too. You wouldn’t think
there was anyone living at this time of day who had such a hatred
of Napoleon the First that he would break any image of him that
he could see.”
Holmes sank back in his chair.
“That’s no business of mine,” said he.
“Exactly. That’s what I said. But then, when the man commits
burglary in order to break images which are not his own, that
brings it away from the doctor and on to the policeman.”
Holmes sat up again.
“Burglary! This is more interesting. Let me hear the details.”
Lestrade took out his official notebook and refreshed his memory
from its pages.
“The first case reported was four days ago,” said he. “It was at
the shop of Morse Hudson, who has a place for the sale of
pictures and statues in the Kennington Road. The assistant had
left the front shop for an instant, when he heard a crash, and
hurrying in he found a plaster bust of Napoleon, which stood with
several other works of art upon the counter, lying shivered into
fragments. He rushed out into the road, but, although several
passers-by declared that they had noticed a man run out of the
shop, he could neither see anyone nor could he find any means of
identifying the rascal. It seemed to be one of those senseless
acts of hooliganism which occur from time to time, and it was
reported to the constable on the beat as such. The plaster cast
was not worth more than a few shillings, and the whole affair
appeared to be too childish for any particular investigation.
“The second case, however, was more serious, and also more
singular. It occurred only last night.
“In Kennington Road, and within a few hundred yards of Morse
Hudson’s shop, there lives a well-known medical practitioner,
named Dr. Barnicot, who has one of the largest practices upon the
south side of the Thames. His residence and principal
consulting-room is at Kennington Road, but he has a branch
surgery and dispensary at Lower Brixton Road, two miles away.
This Dr. Barnicot is an enthusiastic admirer of Napoleon, and his
house is full of books, pictures, and relics of the French
Emperor. Some little time ago he purchased from Morse Hudson two
duplicate plaster casts of the famous head of Napoleon by the
French sculptor, Devine. One of these he placed in his hall in
the house at Kennington Road, and the other on the mantelpiece of
the surgery at Lower Brixton. Well, when Dr. Barnicot came down
this morning he was astonished to find that his house had been
burgled during the night, but that nothing had been taken save
the plaster head from the hall. It had been carried out and had
been dashed savagely against the garden wall, under which its
splintered fragments were discovered.”
Holmes rubbed his hands.
“This is certainly very novel,” said he.
“I thought it would please you. But I have not got to the end
yet. Dr. Barnicot was due at his surgery at twelve o’clock, and
you can imagine his amazement when, on arriving there, he found
that the window had been opened in the night and that the broken
pieces of his second bust were strewn all over the room. It had
been smashed to atoms where it stood. In neither case were there
any signs which could give us a clue as to the criminal or
lunatic who had done the mischief. Now, Mr. Holmes, you have got
the facts.”
“They are singular, not to say grotesque,” said Holmes. “May I
ask whether the two busts smashed in Dr. Barnicot’s rooms were
the exact duplicates of the one which was destroyed in Morse
Hudson’s shop?”
“They were taken from the same mould.”
“Such a fact must tell against the theory that the man who breaks
them is influenced by any general hatred of Napoleon. Considering
how many hundreds of statues of the great Emperor must exist in
London, it is too much to suppose such a coincidence as that a
promiscuous iconoclast should chance to begin upon three
specimens of the same bust.”
“Well, I thought as you do,” said Lestrade. “On the other hand,
this Morse Hudson is the purveyor of busts in that part of
London, and these three were the only ones which had been in his
shop for years. So, although, as you say, there are many hundreds
of statues in London, it is very probable that these three were
the only ones in that district. Therefore, a local fanatic would
begin with them. What do you think, Dr. Watson?”
“There are no limits to the possibilities of monomania,” I
answered. “There is the condition which the modern French
psychologists have called the _idée fixe_, which may be trifling
in character, and accompanied by complete sanity in every other
way. A man who had read deeply about Napoleon, or who had
possibly received some hereditary family injury through the great
war, might conceivably form such an _idée fixe_ and under its
influence be capable of any fantastic outrage.”
“That won’t do, my dear Watson,” said Holmes, shaking his head,
“for no amount of _idée fixe_ would enable your interesting
monomaniac to find out where these busts were situated.”
“Well, how do _you_ explain it?”
“I don’t attempt to do so. I would only observe that there is a
certain method in the gentleman’s eccentric proceedings. For
example, in Dr. Barnicot’s hall, where a sound might arouse the
family, the bust was taken outside before being broken, whereas
in the surgery, where there was less danger of an alarm, it was
smashed where it stood. The affair seems absurdly trifling, and
yet I dare call nothing trivial when I reflect that some of my
most classic cases have had the least promising commencement. You
will remember, Watson, how the dreadful business of the Abernetty
family was first brought to my notice by the depth which the
parsley had sunk into the butter upon a hot day. I can’t afford,
therefore, to smile at your three broken busts, Lestrade, and I
shall be very much obliged to you if you will let me hear of any
fresh development of so singular a chain of events.”
The development for which my friend had asked came in a quicker
and an infinitely more tragic form than he could have imagined. I
was still dressing in my bedroom next morning, when there was a
tap at the door and Holmes entered, a telegram in his hand. He
read it aloud:
“Come instantly, 131, Pitt Street, Kensington.—LESTRADE.”
“What is it, then?” I asked.
“Don’t know—may be anything. But I suspect it is the sequel of
the story of the statues. In that case our friend the
image-breaker has begun operations in another quarter of London.
There’s coffee on the table, Watson, and I have a cab at the
door.”
In half an hour we had reached Pitt Street, a quiet little
backwater just beside one of the briskest currents of London
life. No. 131 was one of a row, all flat-chested, respectable,
and most unromantic dwellings. As we drove up, we found the
railings in front of the house lined by a curious crowd. Holmes
whistled.
“By George! It’s attempted murder at the least. Nothing less will
hold the London message-boy. There’s a deed of violence indicated
in that fellow’s round shoulders and outstretched neck. What’s
this, Watson? The top steps swilled down and the other ones dry.
Footsteps enough, anyhow! Well, well, there’s Lestrade at the
front window, and we shall soon know all about it.”
The official received us with a very grave face and showed us
into a sitting-room, where an exceedingly unkempt and agitated
elderly man, clad in a flannel dressing-gown, was pacing up and
down. He was introduced to us as the owner of the house—Mr.
Horace Harker, of the Central Press Syndicate.
“It’s the Napoleon bust business again,” said Lestrade. “You
seemed interested last night, Mr. Holmes, so I thought perhaps
you would be glad to be present now that the affair has taken a
very much graver turn.”
“What has it turned to, then?”
“To murder. Mr. Harker, will you tell these gentlemen exactly
what has occurred?”
The man in the dressing-gown turned upon us with a most
melancholy face.
“It’s an extraordinary thing,” said he, “that all my life I have
been collecting other people’s news, and now that a real piece of
news has come my own way I am so confused and bothered that I
can’t put two words together. If I had come in here as a
journalist, I should have interviewed myself and had two columns
in every evening paper. As it is, I am giving away valuable copy
by telling my story over and over to a string of different
people, and I can make no use of it myself. However, I’ve heard
your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and if you’ll only explain this
queer business, I shall be paid for my trouble in telling you the
story.”
Holmes sat down and listened.
“It all seems to centre round that bust of Napoleon which I
bought for this very room about four months ago. I picked it up
cheap from Harding Brothers, two doors from the High Street
Station. A great deal of my journalistic work is done at night,
and I often write until the early morning. So it was to-day. I
was sitting in my den, which is at the back of the top of the
house, about three o’clock, when I was convinced that I heard
some sounds downstairs. I listened, but they were not repeated,
and I concluded that they came from outside. Then suddenly, about
five minutes later, there came a most horrible yell—the most
dreadful sound, Mr. Holmes, that ever I heard. It will ring in my
ears as long as I live. I sat frozen with horror for a minute or
two. Then I seized the poker and went downstairs. When I entered
this room I found the window wide open, and I at once observed
that the bust was gone from the mantelpiece. Why any burglar
should take such a thing passes my understanding, for it was only
a plaster cast and of no real value whatever.
“You can see for yourself that anyone going out through that open
window could reach the front doorstep by taking a long stride.
This was clearly what the burglar had done, so I went round and
opened the door. Stepping out into the dark, I nearly fell over a
dead man, who was lying there. I ran back for a light and there
was the poor fellow, a great gash in his throat and the whole
place swimming in blood. He lay on his back, his knees drawn up,
and his mouth horribly open. I shall see him in my dreams. I had
just time to blow on my police-whistle, and then I must have
fainted, for I knew nothing more until I found the policeman
standing over me in the hall.”
“Well, who was the murdered man?” asked Holmes.
“There’s nothing to show who he was,” said Lestrade. “You shall
see the body at the mortuary, but we have made nothing of it up
to now. He is a tall man, sunburned, very powerful, not more than
thirty. He is poorly dressed, and yet does not appear to be a
labourer. A horn-handled clasp knife was lying in a pool of blood
beside him. Whether it was the weapon which did the deed, or
whether it belonged to the dead man, I do not know. There was no
name on his clothing, and nothing in his pockets save an apple,
some string, a shilling map of London, and a photograph. Here it
is.”
It was evidently taken by a snapshot from a small camera. It
represented an alert, sharp-featured simian man, with thick
eyebrows and a very peculiar projection of the lower part of the
face, like the muzzle of a baboon.
“And what became of the bust?” asked Holmes, after a careful
study of this picture.
“We had news of it just before you came. It has been found in the
front garden of an empty house in Campden House Road. It was
broken into fragments. I am going round now to see it. Will you
come?”
“Certainly. I must just take one look round.” He examined the
carpet and the window. “The fellow had either very long legs or
was a most active man,” said he. “With an area beneath, it was no
mean feat to reach that window ledge and open that window.
Getting back was comparatively simple. Are you coming with us to
see the remains of your bust, Mr. Harker?”
The disconsolate journalist had seated himself at a
writing-table.
“I must try and make something of it,” said he, “though I have no
doubt that the first editions of the evening papers are out
already with full details. It’s like my luck! You remember when
the stand fell at Doncaster? Well, I was the only journalist in
the stand, and my journal the only one that had no account of it,
for I was too shaken to write it. And now I’ll be too late with a
murder done on my own doorstep.”
As we left the room, we heard his pen travelling shrilly over the
foolscap.
The spot where the fragments of the bust had been found was only
a few hundred yards away. For the first time our eyes rested upon
this presentment of the great emperor, which seemed to raise such
frantic and destructive hatred in the mind of the unknown. It lay
scattered, in splintered shards, upon the grass. Holmes picked up
several of them and examined them carefully. I was convinced,
from his intent face and his purposeful manner, that at last he
was upon a clue.
“Well?” asked Lestrade.
Holmes shrugged his shoulders.
“We have a long way to go yet,” said he. “And yet—and yet—well,
we have some suggestive facts to act upon. The possession of this
trifling bust was worth more, in the eyes of this strange
criminal, than a human life. That is one point. Then there is the
singular fact that he did not break it in the house, or
immediately outside the house, if to break it was his sole
object.”
“He was rattled and bustled by meeting this other fellow. He
hardly knew what he was doing.”
“Well, that’s likely enough. But I wish to call your attention
very particularly to the position of this house, in the garden of
which the bust was destroyed.”
Lestrade looked about him.
“It was an empty house, and so he knew that he would not be
disturbed in the garden.”
“Yes, but there is another empty house farther up the street
which he must have passed before he came to this one. Why did he
not break it there, since it is evident that every yard that he
carried it increased the risk of someone meeting him?”
“I give it up,” said Lestrade.
Holmes pointed to the street lamp above our heads.
“He could see what he was doing here, and he could not there.
That was his reason.”
“By Jove! that’s true,” said the detective. “Now that I come to
think of it, Dr. Barnicot’s bust was broken not far from his red
lamp. Well, Mr. Holmes, what are we to do with that fact?”
“To remember it—to docket it. We may come on something later
which will bear upon it. What steps do you propose to take now,
Lestrade?”
“The most practical way of getting at it, in my opinion, is to
identify the dead man. There should be no difficulty about that.
When we have found who he is and who his associates are, we
should have a good start in learning what he was doing in Pitt
Street last night, and who it was who met him and killed him on
the doorstep of Mr. Horace Harker. Don’t you think so?”
“No doubt; and yet it is not quite the way in which I should
approach the case.”
“What would you do then?”
“Oh, you must not let me influence you in any way. I suggest that
you go on your line and I on mine. We can compare notes
afterwards, and each will supplement the other.”
“Very good,” said Lestrade.
“If you are going back to Pitt Street, you might see Mr. Horace
Harker. Tell him for me that I have quite made up my mind, and
that it is certain that a dangerous homicidal lunatic, with
Napoleonic delusions, was in his house last night. It will be
useful for his article.”
Lestrade stared.
“You don’t seriously believe that?”
Holmes smiled.
“Don’t I? Well, perhaps I don’t. But I am sure that it will
interest Mr. Horace Harker and the subscribers of the Central
Press Syndicate. Now, Watson, I think that we shall find that we
have a long and rather complex day’s work before us. I should be
glad, Lestrade, if you could make it convenient to meet us at
Baker Street at six o’clock this evening. Until then I should
like to keep this photograph, found in the dead man’s pocket. It
is possible that I may have to ask your company and assistance
upon a small expedition which will have be undertaken to-night,
if my chain of reasoning should prove to be correct. Until then
good-bye and good luck!”
Sherlock Holmes and I walked together to the High Street, where
we stopped at the shop of Harding Brothers, whence the bust had
been purchased. A young assistant informed us that Mr. Harding
would be absent until afternoon, and that he was himself a
newcomer, who could give us no information. Holmes’s face showed
his disappointment and annoyance.
“Well, well, we can’t expect to have it all our own way, Watson,”
he said, at last. “We must come back in the afternoon, if Mr.
Harding will not be here until then. I am, as you have no doubt
surmised, endeavouring to trace these busts to their source, in
order to find if there is not something peculiar which may
account for their remarkable fate. Let us make for Mr. Morse
Hudson, of the Kennington Road, and see if he can throw any light
upon the problem.”
A drive of an hour brought us to the picture-dealer’s
establishment. He was a small, stout man with a red face and a
peppery manner.
“Yes, sir. On my very counter, sir,” said he. “What we pay rates
and taxes for I don’t know, when any ruffian can come in and
break one’s goods. Yes, sir, it was I who sold Dr. Barnicot his
two statues. Disgraceful, sir! A Nihilist plot—that’s what I make
it. No one but an anarchist would go about breaking statues. Red
republicans—that’s what I call ’em. Who did I get the statues
from? I don’t see what that has to do with it. Well, if you
really want to know, I got them from Gelder & Co., in Church
Street, Stepney. They are a well-known house in the trade, and
have been this twenty years. How many had I? Three—two and one
are three—two of Dr. Barnicot’s, and one smashed in broad
daylight on my own counter. Do I know that photograph? No, I
don’t. Yes, I do, though. Why, it’s Beppo. He was a kind of
Italian piece-work man, who made himself useful in the shop. He
could carve a bit, and gild and frame, and do odd jobs. The
fellow left me last week, and I’ve heard nothing of him since.
No, I don’t know where he came from nor where he went to. I had
nothing against him while he was here. He was gone two days
before the bust was smashed.”
“Well, that’s all we could reasonably expect from Morse Hudson,”
said Holmes, as we emerged from the shop. “We have this Beppo as
a common factor, both in Kennington and in Kensington, so that is
worth a ten-mile drive. Now, Watson, let us make for Gelder &
Co., of Stepney, the source and origin of the busts. I shall be
surprised if we don’t get some help down there.”
In rapid succession we passed through the fringe of fashionable
London, hotel London, theatrical London, literary London,
commercial London, and, finally, maritime London, till we came to
a riverside city of a hundred thousand souls, where the tenement
houses swelter and reek with the outcasts of Europe. Here, in a
broad thoroughfare, once the abode of wealthy City merchants, we
found the sculpture works for which we searched. Outside was a
considerable yard full of monumental masonry. Inside was a large
room in which fifty workers were carving or moulding. The
manager, a big blond German, received us civilly and gave a clear
answer to all Holmes’s questions. A reference to his books showed
that hundreds of casts had been taken from a marble copy of
Devine’s head of Napoleon, but that the three which had been sent
to Morse Hudson a year or so before had been half of a batch of
six, the other three being sent to Harding Brothers, of
Kensington. There was no reason why those six should be different
from any of the other casts. He could suggest no possible cause
why anyone should wish to destroy them—in fact, he laughed at the
idea. Their wholesale price was six shillings, but the retailer
would get twelve or more. The cast was taken in two moulds from
each side of the face, and then these two profiles of plaster of
Paris were joined together to make the complete bust. The work
was usually done by Italians, in the room we were in. When
finished, the busts were put on a table in the passage to dry,
and afterwards stored. That was all he could tell us.
But the production of the photograph had a remarkable effect upon
the manager. His face flushed with anger, and his brows knotted
over his blue Teutonic eyes.
“Ah, the rascal!” he cried. “Yes, indeed, I know him very well.
This has always been a respectable establishment, and the only
time that we have ever had the police in it was over this very
fellow. It was more than a year ago now. He knifed another
Italian in the street, and then he came to the works with the
police on his heels, and he was taken here. Beppo was his
name—his second name I never knew. Serve me right for engaging a
man with such a face. But he was a good workman—one of the best.”
“What did he get?”
“The man lived and he got off with a year. I have no doubt he is
out now, but he has not dared to show his nose here. We have a
cousin of his here, and I daresay he could tell you where he is.”
“No, no,” cried Holmes, “not a word to the cousin—not a word, I
beg of you. The matter is very important, and the farther I go
with it, the more important it seems to grow. When you referred
in your ledger to the sale of those casts I observed that the
date was June 3rd of last year. Could you give me the date when
Beppo was arrested?”
“I could tell you roughly by the pay-list,” the manager answered.
“Yes,” he continued, after some turning over of pages, “he was
paid last on May 20th.”
“Thank you,” said Holmes. “I don’t think that I need intrude upon
your time and patience any more.” With a last word of caution
that he should say nothing as to our researches, we turned our
faces westward once more.
The afternoon was far advanced before we were able to snatch a
hasty luncheon at a restaurant. A news-bill at the entrance
announced “Kensington Outrage. Murder by a Madman,” and the
contents of the paper showed that Mr. Horace Harker had got his
account into print after all. Two columns were occupied with a
highly sensational and flowery rendering of the whole incident.
Holmes propped it against the cruet-stand and read it while he
ate. Once or twice he chuckled.
“This is all right, Watson,” said he. “Listen to this:
“It is satisfactory to know that there can be no difference of
opinion upon this case, since Mr. Lestrade, one of the most
experienced members of the official force, and Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, the well-known consulting expert, have each come to the
conclusion that the grotesque series of incidents, which have
ended in so tragic a fashion, arise from lunacy rather than from
deliberate crime. No explanation save mental aberration can cover
the facts.
“The Press, Watson, is a most valuable institution, if you only
know how to use it. And now, if you have quite finished, we will
hark back to Kensington and see what the manager of Harding
Brothers has to say on the matter.”
The founder of that great emporium proved to be a brisk, crisp
little person, very dapper and quick, with a clear head and a
ready tongue.
“Yes, sir, I have already read the account in the evening papers.
Mr. Horace Harker is a customer of ours. We supplied him with the
bust some months ago. We ordered three busts of that sort from
Gelder & Co., of Stepney. They are all sold now. To whom? Oh, I
daresay by consulting our sales book we could very easily tell
you. Yes, we have the entries here. One to Mr. Harker you see,
and one to Mr. Josiah Brown, of Laburnum Lodge, Laburnum Vale,
Chiswick, and one to Mr. Sandeford, of Lower Grove Road, Reading.
No, I have never seen this face which you show me in the
photograph. You would hardly forget it, would you, sir, for I’ve
seldom seen an uglier. Have we any Italians on the staff? Yes,
sir, we have several among our workpeople and cleaners. I daresay
they might get a peep at that sales book if they wanted to. There
is no particular reason for keeping a watch upon that book. Well,
well, it’s a very strange business, and I hope that you will let
me know if anything comes of your inquiries.”
Holmes had taken several notes during Mr. Harding’s evidence, and
I could see that he was thoroughly satisfied by the turn which
affairs were taking. He made no remark, however, save that,
unless we hurried, we should be late for our appointment with
Lestrade. Sure enough, when we reached Baker Street the detective
was already there, and we found him pacing up and down in a fever
of impatience. His look of importance showed that his day’s work
had not been in vain.
“Well?” he asked. “What luck, Mr. Holmes?”
“We have had a very busy day, and not entirely a wasted one,” my
friend explained. “We have seen both the retailers and also the
wholesale manufacturers. I can trace each of the busts now from
the beginning.”
“The busts,” cried Lestrade. “Well, well, you have your own
methods, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and it is not for me to say a word
against them, but I think I have done a better day’s work than
you. I have identified the dead man.”
“You don’t say so?”
“And found a cause for the crime.”
“Splendid!”
“We have an inspector who makes a specialty of Saffron Hill and
the Italian Quarter. Well, this dead man had some Catholic emblem
round his neck, and that, along with his colour, made me think he
was from the South. Inspector Hill knew him the moment he caught
sight of him. His name is Pietro Venucci, from Naples, and he is
one of the greatest cut-throats in London. He is connected with
the Mafia, which, as you know, is a secret political society,
enforcing its decrees by murder. Now, you see how the affair
begins to clear up. The other fellow is probably an Italian also,
and a member of the Mafia. He has broken the rules in some
fashion. Pietro is set upon his track. Probably the photograph we
found in his pocket is the man himself, so that he may not knife
the wrong person. He dogs the fellow, he sees him enter a house,
he waits outside for him, and in the scuffle he receives his own
death-wound. How is that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”
Holmes clapped his hands approvingly.
“Excellent, Lestrade, excellent!” he cried. “But I didn’t quite
follow your explanation of the destruction of the busts.”
“The busts! You never can get those busts out of your head. After
all, that is nothing; petty larceny, six months at the most. It
is the murder that we are really investigating, and I tell you
that I am gathering all the threads into my hands.”
“And the next stage?”
“Is a very simple one. I shall go down with Hill to the Italian
Quarter, find the man whose photograph we have got, and arrest
him on the charge of murder. Will you come with us?”
“I think not. I fancy we can attain our end in a simpler way. I
can’t say for certain, because it all depends—well, it all
depends upon a factor which is completely outside our control.
But I have great hopes—in fact, the betting is exactly two to
one—that if you will come with us to-night I shall be able to
help you to lay him by the heels.”
“In the Italian Quarter?”
“No, I fancy Chiswick is an address which is more likely to find
him. If you will come with me to Chiswick to-night, Lestrade,
I’ll promise to go to the Italian Quarter with you to-morrow, and
no harm will be done by the delay. And now I think that a few
hours’ sleep would do us all good, for I do not propose to leave
before eleven o’clock, and it is unlikely that we shall be back
before morning. You’ll dine with us, Lestrade, and then you are
welcome to the sofa until it is time for us to start. In the
meantime, Watson, I should be glad if you would ring for an
express messenger, for I have a letter to send and it is
important that it should go at once.”
Holmes spent the evening in rummaging among the files of the old
daily papers with which one of our lumber-rooms was packed. When
at last he descended, it was with triumph in his eyes, but he
said nothing to either of us as to the result of his researches.
For my own part, I had followed step by step the methods by which
he had traced the various windings of this complex case, and,
though I could not yet perceive the goal which we would reach, I
understood clearly that Holmes expected this grotesque criminal
to make an attempt upon the two remaining busts, one of which, I
remembered, was at Chiswick. No doubt the object of our journey
was to catch him in the very act, and I could not but admire the
cunning with which my friend had inserted a wrong clue in the
evening paper, so as to give the fellow the idea that he could
continue his scheme with impunity. I was not surprised when
Holmes suggested that I should take my revolver with me. He had
himself picked up the loaded hunting-crop, which was his
favourite weapon.
A four-wheeler was at the door at eleven, and in it we drove to a
spot at the other side of Hammersmith Bridge. Here the cabman was
directed to wait. A short walk brought us to a secluded road
fringed with pleasant houses, each standing in its own grounds.
In the light of a street lamp we read “Laburnum Villa” upon the
gate-post of one of them. The occupants had evidently retired to
rest, for all was dark save for a fanlight over the hall door,
which shed a single blurred circle on to the garden path. The
wooden fence which separated the grounds from the road threw a
dense black shadow upon the inner side, and here it was that we
crouched.
“I fear that you’ll have a long wait,” Holmes whispered. “We may
thank our stars that it is not raining. I don’t think we can even
venture to smoke to pass the time. However, it’s a two to one
chance that we get something to pay us for our trouble.”
It proved, however, that our vigil was not to be so long as
Holmes had led us to fear, and it ended in a very sudden and
singular fashion. In an instant, without the least sound to warn
us of his coming, the garden gate swung open, and a lithe, dark
figure, as swift and active as an ape, rushed up the garden path.
We saw it whisk past the light thrown from over the door and
disappear against the black shadow of the house. There was a long
pause, during which we held our breath, and then a very gentle
creaking sound came to our ears. The window was being opened. The
noise ceased, and again there was a long silence. The fellow was
making his way into the house. We saw the sudden flash of a dark
lantern inside the room. What he sought was evidently not there,
for again we saw the flash through another blind, and then
through another.
“Let us get to the open window. We will nab him as he climbs
out,” Lestrade whispered.
But before we could move, the man had emerged again. As he came
out into the glimmering patch of light, we saw that he carried
something white under his arm. He looked stealthily all round
him. The silence of the deserted street reassured him. Turning
his back upon us he laid down his burden, and the next instant
there was the sound of a sharp tap, followed by a clatter and
rattle. The man was so intent upon what he was doing that he
never heard our steps as we stole across the grass plot. With the
bound of a tiger Holmes was on his back, and an instant later
Lestrade and I had him by either wrist, and the handcuffs had
been fastened. As we turned him over I saw a hideous, sallow
face, with writhing, furious features, glaring up at us, and I
knew that it was indeed the man of the photograph whom we had
secured.
But it was not our prisoner to whom Holmes was giving his
attention. Squatted on the doorstep, he was engaged in most
carefully examining that which the man had brought from the
house. It was a bust of Napoleon, like the one which we had seen
that morning, and it had been broken into similar fragments.
Carefully Holmes held each separate shard to the light, but in no
way did it differ from any other shattered piece of plaster. He
had just completed his examination when the hall lights flew up,
the door opened, and the owner of the house, a jovial, rotund
figure in shirt and trousers, presented himself.
“Mr. Josiah Brown, I suppose?” said Holmes.
“Yes, sir; and you, no doubt, are Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I had the
note which you sent by the express messenger, and I did exactly
what you told me. We locked every door on the inside and awaited
developments. Well, I’m very glad to see that you have got the
rascal. I hope, gentlemen, that you will come in and have some
refreshment.”
However, Lestrade was anxious to get his man into safe quarters,
so within a few minutes our cab had been summoned and we were all
four upon our way to London. Not a word would our captive say,
but he glared at us from the shadow of his matted hair, and once,
when my hand seemed within his reach, he snapped at it like a
hungry wolf. We stayed long enough at the police-station to learn
that a search of his clothing revealed nothing save a few
shillings and a long sheath knife, the handle of which bore
copious traces of recent blood.
“That’s all right,” said Lestrade, as we parted. “Hill knows all
these gentry, and he will give a name to him. You’ll find that my
theory of the Mafia will work out all right. But I’m sure I am
exceedingly obliged to you, Mr. Holmes, for the workmanlike way
in which you laid hands upon him. I don’t quite understand it all
yet.”
“I fear it is rather too late an hour for explanations,” said
Holmes. “Besides, there are one or two details which are not
finished off, and it is one of those cases which are worth
working out to the very end. If you will come round once more to
my rooms at six o’clock to-morrow, I think I shall be able to
show you that even now you have not grasped the entire meaning of
this business, which presents some features which make it
absolutely original in the history of crime. If ever I permit you
to chronicle any more of my little problems, Watson, I foresee
that you will enliven your pages by an account of the singular
adventure of the Napoleonic busts.”
When we met again next evening, Lestrade was furnished with much
information concerning our prisoner. His name, it appeared, was
Beppo, second name unknown. He was a well-known ne’er-do-well
among the Italian colony. He had once been a skilful sculptor and
had earned an honest living, but he had taken to evil courses and
had twice already been in jail—once for a petty theft, and once,
as we had already heard, for stabbing a fellow-countryman. He
could talk English perfectly well. His reasons for destroying the
busts were still unknown, and he refused to answer any questions
upon the subject, but the police had discovered that these same
busts might very well have been made by his own hands, since he
was engaged in this class of work at the establishment of Gelder
& Co. To all this information, much of which we already knew,
Holmes listened with polite attention, but I, who knew him so
well, could clearly see that his thoughts were elsewhere, and I
detected a mixture of mingled uneasiness and expectation beneath
that mask which he was wont to assume. At last he started in his
chair, and his eyes brightened. There had been a ring at the
bell. A minute later we heard steps upon the stairs, and an
elderly red-faced man with grizzled side-whiskers was ushered in.
In his right hand he carried an old-fashioned carpet-bag, which
he placed upon the table.
“Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?”
My friend bowed and smiled. “Mr. Sandeford, of Reading, I
suppose?” said he.
“Yes, sir, I fear that I am a little late, but the trains were
awkward. You wrote to me about a bust that is in my possession.”
“Exactly.”
“I have your letter here. You said, ‘I desire to possess a copy
of Devine’s Napoleon, and am prepared to pay you ten pounds for
the one which is in your possession.’ Is that right?”
“Certainly.”
“I was very much surprised at your letter, for I could not
imagine how you knew that I owned such a thing.”
“Of course you must have been surprised, but the explanation is
very simple. Mr. Harding, of Harding Brothers, said that they had
sold you their last copy, and he gave me your address.”
“Oh, that was it, was it? Did he tell you what I paid for it?”
“No, he did not.”
“Well, I am an honest man, though not a very rich one. I only
gave fifteen shillings for the bust, and I think you ought to
know that before I take ten pounds from you.
“I am sure the scruple does you honour, Mr. Sandeford. But I have
named that price, so I intend to stick to it.”
“Well, it is very handsome of you, Mr. Holmes. I brought the bust
up with me, as you asked me to do. Here it is!” He opened his
bag, and at last we saw placed upon our table a complete specimen
of that bust which we had already seen more than once in
fragments.
Holmes took a paper from his pocket and laid a ten-pound note
upon the table.
“You will kindly sign that paper, Mr. Sandeford, in the presence
of these witnesses. It is simply to say that you transfer every
possible right that you ever had in the bust to me. I am a
methodical man, you see, and you never know what turn events
might take afterwards. Thank you, Mr. Sandeford; here is your
money, and I wish you a very good evening.”
When our visitor had disappeared, Sherlock Holmes’s movements
were such as to rivet our attention. He began by taking a clean
white cloth from a drawer and laying it over the table. Then he
placed his newly acquired bust in the centre of the cloth.
Finally, he picked up his hunting-crop and struck Napoleon a
sharp blow on the top of the head. The figure broke into
fragments, and Holmes bent eagerly over the shattered remains.
Next instant, with a loud shout of triumph he held up one
splinter, in which a round, dark object was fixed like a plum in
a pudding.
“Gentlemen,” he cried, “let me introduce you to the famous black
pearl of the Borgias.”
Lestrade and I sat silent for a moment, and then, with a
spontaneous impulse, we both broke at clapping, as at the
well-wrought crisis of a play. A flush of colour sprang to
Holmes’s pale cheeks, and he bowed to us like the master
dramatist who receives the homage of his audience. It was at such
moments that for an instant he ceased to be a reasoning machine,
and betrayed his human love for admiration and applause. The same
singularly proud and reserved nature which turned away with
disdain from popular notoriety was capable of being moved to its
depths by spontaneous wonder and praise from a friend.
“Yes, gentlemen,” said he, “it is the most famous pearl now
existing in the world, and it has been my good fortune, by a
connected chain of inductive reasoning, to trace it from the
Prince of Colonna’s bedroom at the Dacre Hotel, where it was
lost, to the interior of this, the last of the six busts of
Napoleon which were manufactured by Gelder & Co., of Stepney. You
will remember, Lestrade, the sensation caused by the
disappearance of this valuable jewel and the vain efforts of the
London police to recover it. I was myself consulted upon the
case, but I was unable to throw any light upon it. Suspicion fell
upon the maid of the Princess, who was an Italian, and it was
proved that she had a brother in London, but we failed to trace
any connection between them. The maid’s name was Lucretia
Venucci, and there is no doubt in my mind that this Pietro who
was murdered two nights ago was the brother. I have been looking
up the dates in the old files of the paper, and I find that the
disappearance of the pearl was exactly two days before the arrest
of Beppo, for some crime of violence—an event which took place in
the factory of Gelder & Co., at the very moment when these busts
were being made. Now you clearly see the sequence of events,
though you see them, of course, in the inverse order to the way
in which they presented themselves to me. Beppo had the pearl in
his possession. He may have stolen it from Pietro, he may have
been Pietro’s confederate, he may have been the go-between of
Pietro and his sister. It is of no consequence to us which is the
correct solution.
“The main fact is that he _had_ the pearl, and at that moment,
when it was on his person, he was pursued by the police. He made
for the factory in which he worked, and he knew that he had only
a few minutes in which to conceal this enormously valuable prize,
which would otherwise be found on him when he was searched. Six
plaster casts of Napoleon were drying in the passage. One of them
was still soft. In an instant Beppo, a skilful workman, made a
small hole in the wet plaster, dropped in the pearl, and with a
few touches covered over the aperture once more. It was an
admirable hiding-place. No one could possibly find it. But Beppo
was condemned to a year’s imprisonment, and in the meanwhile his
six busts were scattered over London. He could not tell which
contained his treasure. Only by breaking them could he see. Even
shaking would tell him nothing, for as the plaster was wet it was
probable that the pearl would adhere to it—as, in fact, it has
done. Beppo did not despair, and he conducted his search with
considerable ingenuity and perseverance. Through a cousin who
works with Gelder, he found out the retail firms who had bought
the busts. He managed to find employment with Morse Hudson, and
in that way tracked down three of them. The pearl was not there.
Then, with the help of some Italian employee, he succeeded in
finding out where the other three busts had gone. The first was
at Harker’s. There he was dogged by his confederate, who held
Beppo responsible for the loss of the pearl, and he stabbed him
in the scuffle which followed.”
“If he was his confederate, why should he carry his photograph?”
I asked.
“As a means of tracing him, if he wished to inquire about him
from any third person. That was the obvious reason. Well, after
the murder I calculated that Beppo would probably hurry rather
than delay his movements. He would fear that the police would
read his secret, and so he hastened on before they should get
ahead of him. Of course, I could not say that he had not found
the pearl in Harker’s bust. I had not even concluded for certain
that it was the pearl, but it was evident to me that he was
looking for something, since he carried the bust past the other
houses in order to break it in the garden which had a lamp
overlooking it. Since Harker’s bust was one in three, the chances
were exactly as I told you—two to one against the pearl being
inside it. There remained two busts, and it was obvious that he
would go for the London one first. I warned the inmates of the
house, so as to avoid a second tragedy, and we went down, with
the happiest results. By that time, of course, I knew for certain
that it was the Borgia pearl that we were after. The name of the
murdered man linked the one event with the other. There only
remained a single bust—the Reading one—and the pearl must be
there. I bought it in your presence from the owner—and there it
lies.”
We sat in silence for a moment.
“Well,” said Lestrade, “I’ve seen you handle a good many cases,
Mr. Holmes, but I don’t know that I ever knew a more workmanlike
one than that. We’re not jealous of you at Scotland Yard. No,
sir, we are very proud of you, and if you come down to-morrow,
there’s not a man, from the oldest inspector to the youngest
constable, who wouldn’t be glad to shake you by the hand.”
“Thank you!” said Holmes. “Thank you!” and as he turned away, it
seemed to me that he was more nearly moved by the softer human
emotions than I had ever seen him. A moment later he was the cold
and practical thinker once more. “Put the pearl in the safe,
Watson,” said he, “and get out the papers of the Conk-Singleton
forgery case. Good-bye, Lestrade. If any little problem comes
your way, I shall be happy, if I can, to give you a hint or two
as to its solution.”
+ + \ No newline at end of file diff --git a/dist/The Adventure of the Speckled Band.html b/dist/The Adventure of the Speckled Band.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b9420 --- /dev/null +++ b/dist/The Adventure of the Speckled Band.html @@ -0,0 +1,13 @@ + + + + +On glancing over my notes of the seventy odd cases in which I have
during the last eight years studied the methods of my friend Sherlock
Holmes, I find many tragic, some comic, a large number merely strange,
but none commonplace; for, working as he did rather for the love of his
art than for the acquirement of wealth, he refused to associate himself
with any investigation which did not tend towards the unusual, and even
the fantastic. Of all these varied cases, however, I cannot recall any
which presented more singular features than that which was associated
with the well-known Surrey family of the Roylotts of Stoke Moran. The
events in question occurred in the early days of my association with
Holmes, when we were sharing rooms as bachelors in Baker Street. It
is possible that I might have placed them upon record before, but a
promise of secrecy was made at the time, from which I have only been
freed during the last month by the untimely death of the lady to whom
the pledge was given. It is perhaps as well that the facts should now
come to light, for I have reasons to know that there are wide-spread
rumors as to the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott which tend to make the
matter even more terrible than the truth.
It was early in April in the year ’83 that I woke one morning to find
Sherlock Holmes standing, fully dressed, by the side of my bed. He was
a late riser as a rule, and as the clock on the mantel-piece showed
me that it was only a quarter past seven, I blinked up at him in some
surprise, and perhaps just a little resentment, for I was myself
regular in my habits.
“Very sorry to knock you up, Watson,” said he, “but it’s the common lot
this morning. Mrs. Hudson has been knocked up, she retorted upon me,
and I on you.”
“What is it, then—a fire?”
“No; a client. It seems that a young lady has arrived in a considerable
state of excitement, who insists upon seeing me. She is waiting now in
the sitting-room. Now, when young ladies wander about the metropolis
at this hour of the morning, and knock sleepy people up out of their
beds, I presume that it is something very pressing which they have to
communicate. Should it prove to be an interesting case, you would, I am
sure, wish to follow it from the outset. I thought, at any rate, that I
should call you and give you the chance.”
“My dear fellow, I would not miss it for anything.”
I had no keener pleasure than in following Holmes in his professional
investigations, and in admiring the rapid deductions, as swift as
intuitions, and yet always founded on a logical basis, with which he
unravelled the problems which were submitted to him. I rapidly threw on
my clothes, and was ready in a few minutes to accompany my friend down
to the sitting-room. A lady dressed in black and heavily veiled, who
had been sitting in the window, rose as we entered.
“Good-morning, madam,” said Holmes, cheerily. “My name is Sherlock
Holmes. This is my intimate friend and associate, Dr. Watson, before
whom you can speak as freely as before myself. Ha! I am glad to see
that Mrs. Hudson has had the good sense to light the fire. Pray draw up
to it, and I shall order you a cup of hot coffee, for I observe that
you are shivering.”
“It is not cold which makes me shiver,” said the woman, in a low voice,
changing her seat as requested.
“What, then?”
“It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror.” She raised her veil as she
spoke, and we could see that she was indeed in a pitiable state of
agitation, her face all drawn and gray, with restless, frightened eyes,
like those of some hunted animal. Her features and figure were those of
a woman of thirty, but her hair was shot with premature gray, and her
expression was weary and haggard. Sherlock Holmes ran her over with one
of his quick, all-comprehensive glances.
“You must not fear,” said he, soothingly, bending forward and patting
her forearm. “We shall soon set matters right, I have no doubt. You
have come in by train this morning, I see.”
“You know me, then?”
“No, but I observe the second half of a return ticket in the palm of
your left glove. You must have started early, and yet you had a good
drive in a dog-cart, along heavy roads, before you reached the station.”
The lady gave a violent start, and stared in bewilderment at my
companion.
“There is no mystery, my dear madam,” said he, smiling. “The left arm
of your jacket is spattered with mud in no less than seven places. The
marks are perfectly fresh. There is no vehicle save a dog-cart which
throws up mud in that way, and then only when you sit on the left-hand
side of the driver.”
“Whatever your reasons may be, you are perfectly correct,” said she. “I
started from home before six, reached Leatherhead at twenty past, and
came in by the first train to Waterloo. Sir, I can stand this strain no
longer; I shall go mad if it continues. I have no one to turn to—none,
save only one, who cares for me, and he, poor fellow, can be of little
aid. I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes; I have heard of you from Mrs.
Farintosh, whom you helped in the hour of her sore need. It was from
her that I had your address. Oh, sir, do you not think that you could
help me, too, and at least throw a little light through the dense
darkness which surrounds me? At present it is out of my power to reward
you for your services, but in a month or six weeks I shall be married,
with the control of my own income, and then at least you shall not
find me ungrateful.”
Holmes turned to his desk, and unlocking it, drew out a small
case-book, which he consulted.
“Farintosh,” said he. “Ah yes, I recall the case; it was concerned with
an opal tiara. I think it was before your time, Watson. I can only say,
madam, that I shall be happy to devote the same care to your case as
I did to that of your friend. As to reward, my profession is its own
reward; but you are at liberty to defray whatever expenses I may be put
to, at the time which suits you best. And now I beg that you will lay
before us everything that may help us in forming an opinion upon the
matter.”
“Alas!” replied our visitor, “the very horror of my situation lies
in the fact that my fears are so vague, and my suspicions depend so
entirely upon small points, which might seem trivial to another, that
even he to whom of all others I have a right to look for help and
advice looks upon all that I tell him about it as the fancies of a
nervous woman. He does not say so, but I can read it from his soothing
answers and averted eyes. But I have heard, Mr. Holmes, that you can
see deeply into the manifold wickedness of the human heart. You may
advise me how to walk amid the dangers which encompass me.”
“I am all attention, madam.”
“My name is Helen Stoner, and I am living with my step-father, who is
the last survivor of one of the oldest Saxon families in England, the
Roylotts of Stoke Moran, on the western border of Surrey.”
Holmes nodded his head. “The name is familiar to me,” said he.
“The family was at one time among the richest in England, and the
estates extended over the borders into Berkshire in the north, and
Hampshire in the west. In the last century, however, four successive
heirs were of a dissolute and wasteful disposition, and the family
ruin was eventually completed by a gambler in the days of the
Regency. Nothing was left save a few acres of ground, and the
two-hundred-year-old house, which is itself crushed under a heavy
mortgage. The last squire dragged out his existence there, living
the horrible life of an aristocratic pauper; but his only son, my
step-father, seeing that he must adapt himself to the new conditions,
obtained an advance from a relative, which enabled him to take a
medical degree, and went out to Calcutta, where, by his professional
skill and his force of character, he established a large practice.
In a fit of anger, however, caused by some robberies which had been
perpetrated in the house, he beat his native butler to death, and
narrowly escaped a capital sentence. As it was, he suffered a long
term of imprisonment, and afterwards returned to England a morose and
disappointed man.
“When Dr. Roylott was in India he married my mother, Mrs. Stoner, the
young widow of Major-general Stoner, of the Bengal Artillery. My sister
Julia and I were twins, and we were only two years old at the time of
my mother’s re-marriage. She had a considerable sum of money—not less
than £1000 a year—and this she bequeathed to Dr. Roylott entirely
while we resided with him, with a provision that a certain annual sum
should be allowed to each of us in the event of our marriage. Shortly
after our return to England my mother died—she was killed eight years
ago in a railway accident near Crewe. Dr. Roylott then abandoned his
attempts to establish himself in practice in London, and took us to
live with him in the old ancestral house at Stoke Moran. The money
which my mother had left was enough for all our wants, and there seemed
to be no obstacle to our happiness.
“But a terrible change came over our step-father about this time.
Instead of making friends and exchanging visits with our neighbors, who
had at first been overjoyed to see a Roylott of Stoke Moran back in
the old family seat, he shut himself up in his house, and seldom came
out save to indulge in ferocious quarrels with whoever might cross his
path. Violence of temper approaching to mania has been hereditary in
the men of the family, and in my step-father’s case it had, I believe,
been intensified by his long residence in the tropics. A series of
disgraceful brawls took place, two of which ended in the police-court,
until at last he became the terror of the village, and the folks
would fly at his approach, for he is a man of immense strength, and
absolutely uncontrollable in his anger.
“Last week he hurled the local blacksmith over a parapet into a stream,
and it was only by paying over all the money which I could gather
together that I was able to avert another public exposure. He had no
friends at all save the wandering gypsies, and he would give these
vagabonds leave to encamp upon the few acres of bramble-covered land
which represent the family estate, and would accept in return the
hospitality of their tents, wandering away with them sometimes for
weeks on end. He has a passion also for Indian animals, which are sent
over to him by a correspondent, and he has at this moment a cheetah and
a baboon, which wander freely over his grounds, and are feared by the
villagers almost as much as their master.
“You can imagine from what I say that my poor sister Julia and I had no
great pleasure in our lives. No servant would stay with us, and for a
long time we did all the work of the house. She was but thirty at the
time of her death, and yet her hair had already begun to whiten, even
as mine has.”
“Your sister is dead, then?”
“She died just two years ago, and it is of her death that I wish to
speak to you. You can understand that, living the life which I have
described, we were little likely to see anyone of our own age and
position. We had, however, an aunt, my mother’s maiden sister, Miss
Honoria Westphail, who lives near Harrow, and we were occasionally
allowed to pay short visits at this lady’s house. Julia went there at
Christmas two years ago, and met there a half-pay major of marines,
to whom she became engaged. My step-father learned of the engagement
when my sister returned, and offered no objection to the marriage; but
within a fortnight of the day which had been fixed for the wedding, the
terrible event occurred which has deprived me of my only companion.”
Sherlock Holmes had been leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed
and his head sunk in a cushion, but he half opened his lids now and
glanced across at his visitor.
“Pray be precise as to details,” said he.
“It is easy for me to be so, for every event of that dreadful time is
seared into my memory. The manor-house is, as I have already said, very
old, and only one wing is now inhabited. The bedrooms in this wing are
on the ground floor, the sitting-rooms being in the central block of
the buildings. Of these bedrooms the first is Dr. Roylott’s, the second
my sister’s, and the third my own. There is no communication between
them, but they all open out into the same corridor. Do I make myself
plain?”
“Perfectly so.”
“The windows of the three rooms open out upon the lawn. That fatal
night Dr. Roylott had gone to his room early, though we knew that he
had not retired to rest, for my sister was troubled by the smell of
the strong Indian cigars which it was his custom to smoke. She left
her room, therefore, and came into mine, where she sat for some time,
chatting about her approaching wedding. At eleven o’clock she rose to
leave me but she paused at the door and looked back.
“‘Tell me, Helen,’ said she, ‘have you ever heard any one whistle in
the dead of the night?’
“‘Never,’ said I.
“‘I suppose that you could not possibly whistle, yourself, in your
sleep?’
“‘Certainly not. But why?’
“‘Because during the last few nights I have always, about three in
the morning, heard a low, clear whistle. I am a light sleeper, and it
has awakened me. I cannot tell where it came from—perhaps from the
next room, perhaps from the lawn. I thought that I would just ask you
whether you had heard it.’
“‘No, I have not. It must be those wretched gypsies in the plantation.’
“‘Very likely. And yet if it were on the lawn, I wonder that you did
not hear it also.’
“‘Ah, but I sleep more heavily than you.’
“‘Well, it is of no great consequence, at any rate.’ She smiled back at
me, closed my door, and a few moments later I heard her key turn in the
lock.”
“Indeed,” said Holmes. “Was it your custom always to lock yourselves in
at night?”
“Always.”
“And why?”
“I think that I mentioned to you that the doctor kept a cheetah and a
baboon. We had no feeling of security unless our doors were locked.”
“Quite so. Pray proceed with your statement.”
“I could not sleep that night. A vague feeling of impending misfortune
impressed me. My sister and I, you will recollect, were twins, and you
know how subtle are the links which bind two souls which are so closely
allied. It was a wild night. The wind was howling outside, and the rain
was beating and splashing against the windows. Suddenly, amid all the
hubbub of the gale, there burst forth the wild scream of a terrified
woman. I knew that it was my sister’s voice. I sprang from my bed,
wrapped a shawl round me, and rushed into the corridor. As I opened my
door I seemed to hear a low whistle, such as my sister described, and a
few moments later a clanging sound, as if a mass of metal had fallen.
As I ran down the passage, my sister’s door was unlocked, and revolved
slowly upon its hinges. I stared at it horror-stricken, not knowing
what was about to issue from it. By the light of the corridor-lamp I
saw my sister appear at the opening, her face blanched with terror, her
hands groping for help, her whole figure swaying to and fro like that
of a drunkard. I ran to her and threw my arms round her, but at that
moment her knees seemed to give way and she fell to the ground. She
writhed as one who is in terrible pain, and her limbs were dreadfully
convulsed. At first I thought that she had not recognized me, but as I
bent over her she suddenly shrieked out in a voice which I shall never
forget, ‘Oh, my God! Helen! It was the band! The speckled band!’ There
was something else which she would fain have said, and she stabbed with
her finger into the air in the direction of the doctor’s room, but a
fresh convulsion seized her and choked her words. I rushed out, calling
loudly for my step-father, and I met him hastening from his room in his
dressing-gown. When he reached my sister’s side she was unconscious,
and though he poured brandy down her throat and sent for medical aid
from the village, all efforts were in vain, for she slowly sank and
died without having recovered her consciousness. Such was the dreadful
end of my beloved sister.”
“One moment,” said Holmes; “are you sure about this whistle and
metallic sound? Could you swear to it?”
“That was what the county coroner asked me at the inquiry. It is my
strong impression that I heard it, and yet, among the crash of the gale
and the creaking of an old house, I may possibly have been deceived.”
“Was your sister dressed?”
“No, she was in her night-dress. In her right hand was found the
charred stump of a match, and in her left a matchbox.”
“Showing that she had struck a light and looked about her when the
alarm took place. That is important. And what conclusions did the
coroner come to?”
“He investigated the case with great care, for Dr. Roylott’s conduct
had long been notorious in the county, but he was unable to find any
satisfactory cause of death. My evidence showed that the door had
been fastened upon the inner side, and the windows were blocked by
old-fashioned shutters with broad iron bars, which were secured every
night. The walls were carefully sounded, and were shown to be quite
solid all round, and the flooring was also thoroughly examined, with
the same result. The chimney is wide, but is barred up by four large
staples. It is certain, therefore, that my sister was quite alone when
she met her end. Besides, there were no marks of any violence upon her.”
“How about poison?”
“The doctors examined her for it, but without success.”
“What do you think that this unfortunate lady died of, then?”
“It is my belief that she died of pure fear and nervous shock, though
what it was that frightened her I cannot imagine.”
“Were there gypsies in the plantation at the time?”
“Yes, there are nearly always some there.”
“Ah, and what did you gather from this allusion to a band—a speckled
band?”
“Sometimes I have thought that it was merely the wild talk of delirium,
sometimes that it may have referred to some band of people, perhaps to
these very gypsies in the plantation. I do not know whether the spotted
handkerchiefs which so many of them wear over their heads might have
suggested the strange adjective which she used.”
Holmes shook his head like a man who is far from being satisfied.
“These are very deep waters,” said he; “pray go on with your narrative.”
“Two years have passed since then, and my life has been until lately
lonelier than ever. A month ago, however, a dear friend, whom I have
known for many years, has done me the honor to ask my hand in marriage.
His name is Armitage—Percy Armitage—the second son of Mr. Armitage,
of Crane Water, near Reading. My step-father has offered no opposition
to the match, and we are to be married in the course of the spring. Two
days ago some repairs were started in the west wing of the building,
and my bedroom wall has been pierced, so that I have had to move into
the chamber in which my sister died, and to sleep in the very bed in
which she slept. Imagine, then, my thrill of terror when last night,
as I lay awake, thinking over her terrible fate, I suddenly heard in
the silence of the night the low whistle which had been the herald of
her own death. I sprang up and lit the lamp, but nothing was to be
seen in the room. I was too shaken to go to bed again, however, so I
dressed, and as soon as it was daylight I slipped down, got a dog-cart
at the ‘Crown Inn,’ which is opposite, and drove to Leatherhead, from
whence I have come on this morning with the one object of seeing you
and asking your advice.”
“You have done wisely,” said my friend. “But have you told me all?”
“Yes, all.”
“Miss Roylott, you have not. You are screening your step-father.”
“Why, what do you mean?”
For answer Holmes pushed back the frill of black lace which fringed the
hand that lay upon our visitor’s knee. Five little livid spots, the
marks of four fingers and a thumb, were printed upon the white wrist.
“You have been cruelly used,” said Holmes.
The lady colored deeply and covered over her injured wrist. “He is a
hard man,” she said, “and perhaps he hardly knows his own strength.”
There was a long silence, during which Holmes leaned his chin upon his
hands and stared into the crackling fire.
“This is a very deep business,” he said, at last. “There are a thousand
details which I should desire to know before I decide upon our course
of action. Yet we have not a moment to lose. If we were to come to
Stoke Moran to-day, would it be possible for us to see over these rooms
without the knowledge of your step-father?”
“As it happens, he spoke of coming into town to-day upon some most
important business. It is probable that he will be away all day, and
that there would be nothing to disturb you. We have a house-keeper
now, but she is old and foolish, and I could easily get her out of the
way.”
“Excellent. You are not averse to this trip, Watson?”
“By no means.”
“Then we shall both come. What are you going to do yourself?”
“I have one or two things which I would wish to do now that I am in
town. But I shall return by the twelve o’clock train, so as to be there
in time for your coming.”
“And you may expect us early in the afternoon. I have myself some small
business matters to attend to. Will you not wait and breakfast?”
“No, I must go. My heart is lightened already since I have confided
my trouble to you. I shall look forward to seeing you again this
afternoon.” She dropped her thick black veil over her face and glided
from the room.
“And what do you think of it all, Watson?” asked Sherlock Holmes,
leaning back in his chair.
“It seems to me to be a most dark and sinister business.”
“Dark enough and sinister enough.”
“Yet if the lady is correct in saying that the flooring and walls are
sound, and that the door, window, and chimney are impassable, then her
sister must have been undoubtedly alone when she met her mysterious
end.”
“What becomes, then, of these nocturnal whistles, and what of the very
peculiar words of the dying woman?”
“I cannot think.”
“When you combine the ideas of whistles at night, the presence of a
band of gypsies who are on intimate terms with this old doctor, the
fact that we have every reason to believe that the doctor has an
interest in preventing his step-daughter’s marriage, the dying allusion
to a band, and, finally, the fact that Miss Helen Stoner heard a
metallic clang, which might have been caused by one of those metal bars
which secured the shutters falling back into their place, I think that
there is good ground to think that the mystery may be cleared along
those lines.”
“But what, then, did the gypsies do?”
“I cannot imagine.”
“I see many objections to any such theory.”
“And so do I. It is precisely for that reason that we are going to
Stoke Moran this day. I want to see whether the objections are fatal,
or if they may be explained away. But what in the name of the devil!”
The ejaculation had been drawn from my companion by the fact that our
door had been suddenly dashed open, and that a huge man had framed
himself in the aperture. His costume was a peculiar mixture of the
professional and of the agricultural, having a black top-hat, a long
frock-coat, and a pair of high gaiters, with a hunting-crop swinging in
his hand. So tall was he that his hat actually brushed the cross bar
of the doorway, and his breadth seemed to span it across from side to
side. A large face, seared with a thousand wrinkles, burned yellow with
the sun, and marked with every evil passion, was turned from one to the
other of us, while his deep-set, bile-shot eyes, and his high, thin,
fleshless nose, gave him somewhat the resemblance to a fierce old bird
of prey.
“Which of you is Holmes?” asked this apparition.
“My name, sir; but you have the advantage of me,” said my companion,
quietly.
“I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran.”
“Indeed, doctor,” said Holmes, blandly. “Pray take a seat.”
“I will do nothing of the kind. My step-daughter has been here. I have
traced her. What has she been saying to you?”
“It is a little cold for the time of the year,” said Holmes.
“What has she been saying to you?” screamed the old man, furiously.
“But I have heard that the crocuses promise well,” continued my
companion, imperturbably.
“Ha! You put me off, do you?” said our new visitor, taking a step
forward and shaking his hunting-crop. “I know you, you scoundrel! I
have heard of you before. You are Holmes, the meddler.”
My friend smiled.
“Holmes, the busybody!”
His smile broadened.
“Holmes, the Scotland-yard Jack-in-office!”
Holmes chuckled heartily. “Your conversation is most entertaining,”
said he. “When you go out close the door, for there is a decided
draught.”
“I will go when I have said my say. Don’t you dare to meddle with my
affairs. I know that Miss Stoner has been here. I traced her! I am a
dangerous man to fall foul of! See here.” He stepped swiftly forward,
seized the poker, and bent it into a curve with his huge brown hands.
“See that you keep yourself out of my grip,” he snarled, and hurling
the twisted poker into the fireplace, he strode out of the room.
“He seems a very amiable person,” said Holmes, laughing. “I am not
quite so bulky, but if he had remained I might have shown him that my
grip was not much more feeble than his own.” As he spoke he picked up
the steel poker, and with a sudden effort straightened it out again.
“Fancy his having the insolence to confound me with the official
detective force! This incident gives zest to our investigation,
however, and I only trust that our little friend will not suffer from
her imprudence in allowing this brute to trace her. And now, Watson,
we shall order breakfast, and afterwards I shall walk down to Doctors’
Commons, where I hope to get some data which may help us in this
matter.”
* * * * *
It was nearly one o’clock when Sherlock Holmes returned from his
excursion. He held in his hand a sheet of blue paper, scrawled over
with notes and figures.
“I have seen the will of the deceased wife,” said he. “To determine
its exact meaning I have been obliged to work out the present prices
of the investments with which it is concerned. The total income, which
at the time of the wife’s death was little short of £1100, is now,
through the fall in agricultural prices, not more than £750. Each
daughter can claim an income of £250, in case of marriage. It is
evident, therefore, that if both girls had married, this beauty would
have had a mere pittance, while even one of them would cripple him to
a very serious extent. My morning’s work has not been wasted, since it
has proved that he has the very strongest motives for standing in the
way of anything of the sort. And now, Watson, this is too serious for
dawdling, especially as the old man is aware that we are interesting
ourselves in his affairs; so if you are ready, we shall call a cab and
drive to Waterloo. I should be very much obliged if you would slip your
revolver into your pocket. An Eley’s No. 2 is an excellent argument
with gentlemen who can twist steel pokers into knots. That and a
tooth-brush are, I think, all that we need.”
At Waterloo we were fortunate in catching a train for Leatherhead,
where we hired a trap at the station inn, and drove for four or five
miles through the lovely Surrey lanes. It was a perfect day, with
a bright sun and a few fleecy clouds in the heavens. The trees and
way-side hedges were just throwing out their first green shoots, and
the air was full of the pleasant smell of the moist earth. To me at
least there was a strange contrast between the sweet promise of the
spring and this sinister quest upon which we were engaged. My companion
sat in the front of the trap, his arms folded, his hat pulled down over
his eyes, and his chin sunk upon his breast, buried in the deepest
thought. Suddenly, however, he started, tapped me on the shoulder, and
pointed over the meadows.
“Look there!” said he.
A heavily-timbered park stretched up in a gentle slope, thickening into
a grove at the highest point. From amid the branches there jutted out
the gray gables and high roof-tree of a very old mansion.
“Stoke Moran?” said he.
“Yes, sir, that be the house of Dr. Grimesby Roylott,” remarked the
driver.
“There is some building going on there,” said Holmes; “that is where we
are going.”
“There’s the village,” said the driver, pointing to a cluster of roofs
some distance to the left; “but if you want to get to the house, you’ll
find it shorter to get over this stile, and so by the foot-path over
the fields. There it is, where the lady is walking.”
“And the lady, I fancy, is Miss Stoner,” observed Holmes, shading his
eyes. “Yes, I think we had better do as you suggest.”
We got off, paid our fare, and the trap rattled back on its way to
Leatherhead.
“I thought it as well,” said Holmes, as we climbed the stile, “that
this fellow should think we had come here as architects, or on some
definite business. It may stop his gossip. Good-afternoon, Miss Stoner.
You see that we have been as good as our word.”
Our client of the morning had hurried forward to meet us with a face
which spoke her joy. “I have been waiting so eagerly for you,” she
cried, shaking hands with us warmly. “All has turned out splendidly.
Dr. Roylott has gone to town, and it is unlikely that he will be back
before evening.”
“We have had the pleasure of making the doctor’s acquaintance,” said
Holmes, and in a few words he sketched out what had occurred. Miss
Stoner turned white to the lips as she listened.
“Good heavens!” she cried, “he has followed me, then.”
“So it appears.”
“He is so cunning that I never know when I am safe from him. What will
he say when he returns?”
“He must guard himself, for he may find that there is some one more
cunning than himself upon his track. You must lock yourself up from him
to-night. If he is violent, we shall take you away to your aunt’s at
Harrow. Now, we must make the best use of our time, so kindly take us
at once to the rooms which we are to examine.”
The building was of gray, lichen-blotched stone, with a high central
portion, and two curving wings, like the claws of a crab, thrown out
on each side. In one of these wings the windows were broken, and
blocked with wooden boards, while the roof was partly caved in, a
picture of ruin. The central portion was in little better repair, but
the right-hand block was comparatively modern, and the blinds in the
windows, with the blue smoke curling up from the chimneys, showed that
this was where the family resided. Some scaffolding had been erected
against the end wall, and the stone-work had been broken into, but
there were no signs of any workmen at the moment of our visit. Holmes
walked slowly up and down the ill-trimmed lawn, and examined with deep
attention the outsides of the windows.
“This, I take it, belongs to the room in which you used to sleep, the
centre one to your sister’s, and the one next to the main building to
Dr. Roylott’s chamber?”
“Exactly so. But I am now sleeping in the middle one.”
“Pending the alterations, as I understand. By-the-way, there does not
seem to be any very pressing need for repairs at that end wall.”
“There were none. I believe that it was an excuse to move me from my
room.”
“Ah! that is suggestive. Now, on the other side of this narrow wing
runs the corridor from which these three rooms open. There are windows
in it, of course?”
“Yes, but very small ones. Too narrow for any one to pass through.”
“As you both locked your doors at night, your rooms were unapproachable
from that side. Now, would you have the kindness to go into your room
and bar your shutters.”
Miss Stoner did so, and Holmes, after a careful examination through
the open window, endeavored in every way to force the shutter open,
but without success. There was no slit through which a knife could be
passed to raise the bar. Then with his lens he tested the hinges, but
they were of solid iron, built firmly into the massive masonry. “Hum!”
said he, scratching his chin in some perplexity; “my theory certainly
presents some difficulties. No one could pass these shutters if they
were bolted. Well, we shall see if the inside throws any light upon the
matter.”
A small side door led into the whitewashed corridor from which the
three bedrooms opened. Holmes refused to examine the third chamber,
so we passed at once to the second, that in which Miss Stoner was now
sleeping, and in which her sister had met with her fate. It was a
homely little room, with a low ceiling and a gaping fireplace, after
the fashion of old country-houses. A brown chest of drawers stood
in one corner, a narrow white-counterpaned bed in another, and a
dressing-table on the left-hand side of the window. These articles,
with two small wicker-work chairs, made up all the furniture in the
room, save for a square of Wilton carpet in the centre. The boards
round and the panelling of the walls were of brown, worm-eaten oak, so
old and discolored that it may have dated from the original building of
the house. Holmes drew one of the chairs into a corner and sat silent,
while his eyes travelled round and round and up and down, taking in
every detail of the apartment.
“Where does that bell communicate with?” he asked, at last, pointing to
a thick bell-rope which hung down beside the bed, the tassel actually
lying upon the pillow.
“It goes to the house-keeper’s room.”
“It looks newer than the other things?”
“Yes, it was only put there a couple of years ago.”
“Your sister asked for it, I suppose?”
“No, I never heard of her using it. We used always to get what we
wanted for ourselves.”
“Indeed, it seemed unnecessary to put so nice a bell-pull there. You
will excuse me for a few minutes while I satisfy myself as to this
floor.” He threw himself down upon his face with his lens in his hand,
and crawled swiftly backward and forward, examining minutely the cracks
between the boards. Then he did the same with the wood-work with which
the chamber was panelled. Finally he walked over to the bed, and spent
some time in staring at it, and in running his eye up and down the
wall. Finally he took the bell-rope in his hand and gave it a brisk tug.
“Why, it’s a dummy,” said he.
“Won’t it ring?”
“No, it is not even attached to a wire. This is very interesting. You
can see now that it is fastened to a hook just above where the little
opening for the ventilator is.”
“How very absurd! I never noticed that before.”
“Very strange!” muttered Holmes, pulling at the rope. “There are one or
two very singular points about this room. For example, what a fool a
builder must be to open a ventilator into another room, when, with the
same trouble, he might have communicated with the outside air!”
“That is also quite modern,” said the lady.
“Done about the same time as the bell-rope?” remarked Holmes.
“Yes, there were several little changes carried out about that time.”
“They seem to have been of a most interesting character—dummy
bell-ropes, and ventilators which do not ventilate. With your
permission, Miss Stoner, we shall now carry our researches into the
inner apartment.”
Dr. Grimesby Roylott’s chamber was larger than that of his
step-daughter, but was as plainly furnished. A camp-bed, a small wooden
shelf full of books, mostly of a technical character, an arm-chair
beside the bed, a plain wooden chair against the wall, a round table,
and a large iron safe were the principal things which met the eye.
Holmes walked slowly round and examined each and all of them with the
keenest interest.
“What’s in here?” he asked, tapping the safe.
“My step-father’s business papers.”
“Oh! you have seen inside, then?”
“Only once, some years ago. I remember that it was full of papers.”
“There isn’t a cat in it, for example?”
“No. What a strange idea!”
“Well, look at this!” He took up a small saucer of milk which stood on
the top of it.
“No; we don’t keep a cat. But there is a cheetah and a baboon.”
“Ah, yes, of course! Well, a cheetah is just a big cat, and yet a
saucer of milk does not go very far in satisfying its wants, I dare
say. There is one point which I should wish to determine.” He squatted
down in front of the wooden chair, and examined the seat of it with the
greatest attention.
“Thank you. That is quite settled,” said he, rising and putting his
lens in his pocket. “Hello! Here is something interesting!”
The object which had caught his eye was a small dog-lash hung on one
corner of the bed. The lash, however, was curled upon itself, and tied
so as to make a loop of whip-cord.
“What do you make of that, Watson?”
“It’s a common enough lash. But I don’t know why it should be tied.”
“That is not quite so common, is it? Ah, me! it’s a wicked world,
and when a clever man turns his brains to crime it is the worst of
all. I think that I have seen enough now, Miss Stoner, and with your
permission we shall walk out upon the lawn.”
I had never seen my friend’s face so grim or his brow so dark as it
was when we turned from the scene of this investigation. We had walked
several times up and down the lawn, neither Miss Stoner nor myself
liking to break in upon his thoughts before he roused himself from his
reverie.
“It is very essential, Miss Stoner,” said he, “that you should
absolutely follow my advice in every respect.”
“I shall most certainly do so.”
“The matter is too serious for any hesitation. Your life may depend
upon your compliance.”
“I assure you that I am in your hands.”
“In the first place, both my friend and I must spend the night in your
room.”
Both Miss Stoner and I gazed at him in astonishment.
“Yes, it must be so. Let me explain. I believe that that is the village
inn over there?”
“Yes, that is the ‘Crown.’”
“Very good. Your windows would be visible from there?”
“Certainly.”
“You must confine yourself to your room, on pretence of a headache,
when your step-father comes back. Then when you hear him retire for
the night, you must open the shutters of your window, undo the hasp,
put your lamp there as a signal to us, and then withdraw quietly with
everything which you are likely to want into the room which you used to
occupy. I have no doubt that, in spite of the repairs, you could manage
there for one night.”
“Oh yes, easily.”
“The rest you will leave in our hands.”
“But what will you do?”
“We shall spend the night in your room, and we shall investigate the
cause of this noise which has disturbed you.”
“I believe, Mr. Holmes, that you have already made up your mind,” said
Miss Stoner, laying her hand upon my companion’s sleeve.
“Perhaps I have.”
“Then for pity’s sake tell me what was the cause of my sister’s death.”
“I should prefer to have clearer proofs before I speak.”
“You can at least tell me whether my own thought is correct, and if she
died from some sudden fright.”
[Illustration: “‘GOOD-BYE, AND BE BRAVE’”]
“No, I do not think so. I think that there was probably some more
tangible cause. And now, Miss Stoner, we must leave you, for if Dr.
Roylott returned and saw us, our journey would be in vain. Good-bye,
and be brave, for if you will do what I have told you, you may rest
assured that we shall soon drive away the dangers that threaten you.”
Sherlock Holmes and I had no difficulty in engaging a bedroom and
sitting-room at the “Crown Inn.” They were on the upper floor, and
from our window we could command a view of the avenue gate, and of the
inhabited wing of Stoke Moran Manor House. At dusk we saw Dr. Grimesby
Roylott drive past, his huge form looming up beside the little figure
of the lad who drove him. The boy had some slight difficulty in undoing
the heavy iron gates, and we heard the hoarse roar of the doctor’s
voice, and saw the fury with which he shook his clinched fists at him.
The trap drove on, and a few minutes later we saw a sudden light spring
up among the trees as the lamp was lit in one of the sitting-rooms.
“Do you know, Watson,” said Holmes, as we sat together in the gathering
darkness, “I have really some scruples as to taking you to-night. There
is a distinct element of danger.”
“Can I be of assistance?”
“Your presence might be invaluable.”
“Then I shall certainly come.”
“It is very kind of you.”
“You speak of danger. You have evidently seen more in these rooms than
was visible to me.”
“No, but I fancy that I may have deduced a little more. I imagine that
you saw all that I did.”
“I saw nothing remarkable save the bell-rope, and what purpose that
could answer I confess is more than I can imagine.”
“You saw the ventilator, too?”
“Yes, but I do not think that it is such a very unusual thing to have
a small opening between two rooms. It was so small that a rat could
hardly pass through.”
“I knew that we should find a ventilator before ever we came to Stoke
Moran.”
“My dear Holmes!”
“Oh yes, I did. You remember in her statement she said that her sister
could smell Dr. Roylott’s cigar. Now, of course that suggested at once
that there must be a communication between the two rooms. It could only
be a small one, or it would have been remarked upon at the coroner’s
inquiry. I deduced a ventilator.”
“But what harm can there be in that?”
“Well, there is at least a curious coincidence of dates. A ventilator
is made, a cord is hung, and a lady who sleeps in the bed dies. Does
not that strike you?”
“I cannot as yet see any connection.”
“Did you observe anything very peculiar about that bed?”
“No.”
“It was clamped to the floor. Did you ever see a bed fastened like that
before?”
“I cannot say that I have.”
“The lady could not move her bed. It must always be in the same
relative position to the ventilator and to the rope—for so we may call
it, since it was clearly never meant for a bell-pull.”
“Holmes,” I cried, “I seem to see dimly what you are hinting at. We are
only just in time to prevent some subtle and horrible crime.”
“Subtle enough and horrible enough. When a doctor does go wrong, he is
the first of criminals. He has nerve and he has knowledge. Palmer and
Pritchard were among the heads of their profession. This man strikes
even deeper, but I think, Watson, that we shall be able to strike
deeper still. But we shall have horrors enough before the night is
over; for goodness’ sake let us have a quiet pipe, and turn our minds
for a few hours to something more cheerful.”
* * * * *
About nine o’clock the light among the trees was extinguished, and all
was dark in the direction of the Manor House. Two hours passed slowly
away, and then, suddenly, just at the stroke of eleven, a single
bright light shone out right in front of us.
“That is our signal,” said Holmes, springing to his feet; “it comes
from the middle window.”
As we passed out he exchanged a few words with the landlord, explaining
that we were going on a late visit to an acquaintance, and that it was
possible that we might spend the night there. A moment later we were
out on the dark road, a chill wind blowing in our faces, and one yellow
light twinkling in front of us through the gloom to guide us on our
sombre errand.
There was little difficulty in entering the grounds, for unrepaired
breaches gaped in the old park wall. Making our way among the trees,
we reached the lawn, crossed it, and were about to enter through the
window, when out from a clump of laurel bushes there darted what seemed
to be a hideous and distorted child, who threw itself upon the grass
with writhing limbs, and then ran swiftly across the lawn into the
darkness.
“My God!” I whispered; “did you see it?”
Holmes was for the moment as startled as I. His hand closed like a vice
upon my wrist in his agitation. Then he broke into a low laugh, and put
his lips to my ear.
“It is a nice household,” he murmured. “That is the baboon.”
I had forgotten the strange pets which the doctor affected. There was
a cheetah, too; perhaps we might find it upon our shoulders at any
moment. I confess that I felt easier in my mind when, after following
Holmes’s example and slipping off my shoes, I found myself inside the
bedroom. My companion noiselessly closed the shutters, moved the lamp
onto the table, and cast his eyes round the room. All was as we had
seen it in the daytime. Then creeping up to me and making a trumpet of
his hand, he whispered into my ear again so gently that it was all that
I could do to distinguish the words:
“The least sound would be fatal to our plans.”
I nodded to show that I had heard.
“We must sit without light. He would see it through the ventilator.”
I nodded again.
“Do not go asleep; your very life may depend upon it. Have your pistol
ready in case we should need it. I will sit on the side of the bed, and
you in that chair.”
I took out my revolver and laid it on the corner of the table.
Holmes had brought up a long thin cane, and this he placed upon the bed
beside him. By it he laid the box of matches and the stump of a candle.
Then he turned down the lamp, and we were left in darkness.
How shall I ever forget that dreadful vigil? I could not hear a sound,
not even the drawing of a breath, and yet I knew that my companion
sat open-eyed, within a few feet of me, in the same state of nervous
tension in which I was myself. The shutters cut off the least ray
of light, and we waited in absolute darkness. From outside came the
occasional cry of a night-bird, and once at our very window a long
drawn cat-like whine, which told us that the cheetah was indeed at
liberty. Far away we could hear the deep tones of the parish clock,
which boomed out every quarter of an hour. How long they seemed, those
quarters! Twelve struck, and one and two and three, and still we sat
waiting silently for whatever might befall.
Suddenly there was the momentary gleam of a light up in the direction
of the ventilator, which vanished immediately, but was succeeded by
a strong smell of burning oil and heated metal. Some one in the next
room had lit a dark-lantern. I heard a gentle sound of movement, and
then all was silent once more, though the smell grew stronger. For half
an hour I sat with straining ears. Then suddenly another sound became
audible—a very gentle, soothing sound, like that of a small jet of
steam escaping continually from a kettle. The instant that we heard it,
Holmes sprang from the bed, struck a match, and lashed furiously with
his cane at the bell-pull.
“You see it, Watson?” he yelled. “You see it?”
But I saw nothing. At the moment when Holmes struck the light I heard
a low, clear whistle, but the sudden glare flashing into my weary eyes
made it impossible for me to tell what it was at which my friend lashed
so savagely. I could, however, see that his face was deadly pale, and
filled with horror and loathing.
He had ceased to strike, and was gazing up at the ventilator, when
suddenly there broke from the silence of the night the most horrible
cry to which I have ever listened. It swelled up louder and louder, a
hoarse yell of pain and fear and anger all mingled in the one dreadful
shriek. They say that away down in the village, and even in the distant
parsonage, that cry raised the sleepers from their beds. It struck cold
to our hearts, and I stood gazing at Holmes, and he at me, until the
last echoes of it had died away into the silence from which it rose.
“What can it mean?” I gasped.
“It means that it is all over,” Holmes answered. “And perhaps, after
all, it is for the best. Take your pistol, and we will enter Dr.
Roylott’s room.”
With a grave face he lit the lamp and led the way down the corridor.
Twice he struck at the chamber door without any reply from within.
Then he turned the handle and entered, I at his heels, with the cocked
pistol in my hand.
It was a singular sight which met our eyes. On the table stood a
dark-lantern with the shutter half open, throwing a brilliant beam
of light upon the iron safe, the door of which was ajar. Beside this
table, on the wooden chair, sat Dr. Grimesby Roylott, clad in a long
gray dressing-gown, his bare ankles protruding beneath, and his feet
thrust into red heelless Turkish slippers. Across his lap lay the short
stock with the long lash which we had noticed during the day. His chin
was cocked upward and his eyes were fixed in a dreadful, rigid stare
at the corner of the ceiling. Round his brow he had a peculiar yellow
band, with brownish speckles, which seemed to be bound tightly round
his head. As we entered he made neither sound nor motion.
“The band! the speckled band!” whispered Holmes.
I took a step forward. In an instant his strange head-gear began
to move, and there reared itself from among his hair the squat
diamond-shaped head and puffed neck of a loathsome serpent.
“It is a swamp adder!” cried Holmes; “the deadliest snake in India. He
has died within ten seconds of being bitten. Violence does, in truth,
recoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls into the pit which he
digs for another. Let us thrust this creature back into its den, and
we can then remove Miss Stoner to some place of shelter, and let the
county police know what has happened.”
As he spoke he drew the dog-whip swiftly from the dead man’s lap, and
throwing the noose round the reptile’s neck, he drew it from its horrid
perch, and carrying it at arm’s length, threw it into the iron safe,
which he closed upon it.
* * * * *
Such are the true facts of the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke
Moran. It is not necessary that I should prolong a narrative which has
already run to too great a length, by telling how we broke the sad news
to the terrified girl, how we conveyed her by the morning train to the
care of her good aunt at Harrow, of how the slow process of official
inquiry came to the conclusion that the doctor met his fate while
indiscreetly playing with a dangerous pet. The little which I had yet
to learn of the case was told me by Sherlock Holmes as we travelled
back next day.
“I had,” said he, “come to an entirely erroneous conclusion, which
shows, my dear Watson, how dangerous it always is to reason from
insufficient data. The presence of the gypsies, and the use of the
word ‘band,’ which was used by the poor girl, no doubt to explain the
appearance which she had caught a hurried glimpse of by the light of
her match, were sufficient to put me upon an entirely wrong scent. I
can only claim the merit that I instantly reconsidered my position
when, however, it became clear to me that whatever danger threatened
an occupant of the room could not come either from the window or the
door. My attention was speedily drawn, as I have already remarked to
you, to this ventilator, and to the bell-rope which hung down to the
bed. The discovery that this was a dummy, and that the bed was clamped
to the floor, instantly gave rise to the suspicion that the rope was
there as bridge for something passing through the hole, and coming
to the bed. The idea of a snake instantly occurred to me, and when
I coupled it with my knowledge that the doctor was furnished with a
supply of creatures from India, I felt that I was probably on the right
track. The idea of using a form of poison which could not possibly be
discovered by any chemical test was just such a one as would occur to a
clever and ruthless man who had had an Eastern training. The rapidity
with which such a poison would take effect would also, from his point
of view, be an advantage. It would be a sharp-eyed coroner, indeed, who
could distinguish the two little dark punctures which would show where
the poison fangs had done their work. Then I thought of the whistle. Of
course he must recall the snake before the morning light revealed it to
the victim. He had trained it, probably by the use of the milk which
we saw, to return to him when summoned. He would put it through this
ventilator at the hour that he thought best, with the certainty that it
would crawl down the rope and land on the bed. It might or might not
bite the occupant, perhaps she might escape every night for a week, but
sooner or later she must fall a victim.
“I had come to these conclusions before ever I had entered his room.
An inspection of his chair showed me that he had been in the habit of
standing on it, which of course would be necessary in order that he
should reach the ventilator. The sight of the safe, the saucer of milk,
and the loop of whip-cord were enough to finally dispel any doubts
which may have remained. The metallic clang heard by Miss Stoner was
obviously caused by her step-father hastily closing the door of his
safe upon its terrible occupant. Having once made up my mind, you know
the steps which I took in order to put the matter to the proof. I
heard the creature hiss, as I have no doubt that you did also, and I
instantly lit the light and attacked it.”
“With the result of driving it through the ventilator.”
“And also with the result of causing it to turn upon its master at the
other side. Some of the blows of my cane came home, and roused its
snakish temper, so that it flew upon the first person it saw. In this
way I am no doubt indirectly responsible for Dr. Grimesby Roylott’s
death, and I cannot say that it is likely to weigh very heavily upon my
conscience.”
+ + \ No newline at end of file diff --git a/dist/The Naval Treaty.html b/dist/The Naval Treaty.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a385e89 --- /dev/null +++ b/dist/The Naval Treaty.html @@ -0,0 +1,13 @@ + + + + +The July which immediately succeeded my marriage was made
memorable by three cases of interest, in which I had the
privilege of being associated with Sherlock Holmes and of
studying his methods. I find them recorded in my notes under the
headings of “The Adventure of the Second Stain,” “The Adventure
of the Naval Treaty,” and “The Adventure of the Tired Captain.”
The first of these, however, deals with interest of such
importance and implicates so many of the first families in the
kingdom that for many years it will be impossible to make it
public. No case, however, in which Holmes was engaged has ever
illustrated the value of his analytical methods so clearly or has
impressed those who were associated with him so deeply. I still
retain an almost verbatim report of the interview in which he
demonstrated the true facts of the case to Monsieur Dubuque of
the Paris police, and Fritz von Waldbaum, the well-known
specialist of Dantzig, both of whom had wasted their energies
upon what proved to be side-issues. The new century will have
come, however, before the story can be safely told. Meanwhile I
pass on to the second on my list, which promised also at one time
to be of national importance, and was marked by several incidents
which give it a quite unique character.
During my school-days I had been intimately associated with a lad
named Percy Phelps, who was of much the same age as myself,
though he was two classes ahead of me. He was a very brilliant
boy, and carried away every prize which the school had to offer,
finished his exploits by winning a scholarship which sent him on
to continue his triumphant career at Cambridge. He was, I
remember, extremely well connected, and even when we were all
little boys together we knew that his mother’s brother was Lord
Holdhurst, the great conservative politician. This gaudy
relationship did him little good at school. On the contrary, it
seemed rather a piquant thing to us to chevy him about the
playground and hit him over the shins with a wicket. But it was
another thing when he came out into the world. I heard vaguely
that his abilities and the influences which he commanded had won
him a good position at the Foreign Office, and then he passed
completely out of my mind until the following letter recalled his
existence:
Briarbrae, Woking.
My dear Watson,—I have no doubt that you can remember
“Tadpole” Phelps, who was in the fifth form when you were in
the third. It is possible even that you may have heard that
through my uncle’s influence I obtained a good appointment at
the Foreign Office, and that I was in a situation of trust
and honour until a horrible misfortune came suddenly to blast
my career.
There is no use writing of the details of that dreadful
event. In the event of your acceding to my request it is
probable that I shall have to narrate them to you. I have
only just recovered from nine weeks of brain-fever, and am
still exceedingly weak. Do you think that you could bring
your friend Mr. Holmes down to see me? I should like to have
his opinion of the case, though the authorities assure me
that nothing more can be done. Do try to bring him down, and
as soon as possible. Every minute seems an hour while I live
in this state of horrible suspense. Assure him that if I have
not asked his advice sooner it was not because I did not
appreciate his talents, but because I have been off my head
ever since the blow fell. Now I am clear again, though I dare
not think of it too much for fear of a relapse. I am still so
weak that I have to write, as you see, by dictating. Do try
to bring him.
Your old schoolfellow,
Percy Phelps.
There was something that touched me as I read this letter,
something pitiable in the reiterated appeals to bring Holmes. So
moved was I that even had it been a difficult matter I should
have tried it, but of course I knew well that Holmes loved his
art, so that he was ever as ready to bring his aid as his client
could be to receive it. My wife agreed with me that not a moment
should be lost in laying the matter before him, and so within an
hour of breakfast-time I found myself back once more in the old
rooms in Baker Street.
Holmes was seated at his side-table clad in his dressing-gown,
and working hard over a chemical investigation. A large curved
retort was boiling furiously in the bluish flame of a Bunsen
burner, and the distilled drops were condensing into a two-litre
measure. My friend hardly glanced up as I entered, and I, seeing
that his investigation must be of importance, seated myself in an
armchair and waited. He dipped into this bottle or that, drawing
out a few drops of each with his glass pipette, and finally
brought a test-tube containing a solution over to the table. In
his right hand he held a slip of litmus-paper.
“You come at a crisis, Watson,” said he. “If this paper remains
blue, all is well. If it turns red, it means a man’s life.” He
dipped it into the test-tube and it flushed at once into a dull,
dirty crimson. “Hum! I thought as much!” he cried. “I will be at
your service in an instant, Watson. You will find tobacco in the
Persian slipper.” He turned to his desk and scribbled off several
telegrams, which were handed over to the page-boy. Then he threw
himself down into the chair opposite, and drew up his knees until
his fingers clasped round his long, thin shins.
“A very commonplace little murder,” said he. “You’ve got
something better, I fancy. You are the stormy petrel of crime,
Watson. What is it?”
I handed him the letter, which he read with the most concentrated
attention.
“It does not tell us very much, does it?” he remarked, as he
handed it back to me.
“Hardly anything.”
“And yet the writing is of interest.”
“But the writing is not his own.”
“Precisely. It is a woman’s.”
“A man’s surely,” I cried.
“No, a woman’s, and a woman of rare character. You see, at the
commencement of an investigation it is something to know that
your client is in close contact with some one who, for good or
evil, has an exceptional nature. My interest is already awakened
in the case. If you are ready we will start at once for Woking,
and see this diplomatist who is in such evil case, and the lady
to whom he dictates his letters.”
We were fortunate enough to catch an early train at Waterloo, and
in a little under an hour we found ourselves among the fir-woods
and the heather of Woking. Briarbrae proved to be a large
detached house standing in extensive grounds within a few
minutes’ walk of the station. On sending in our cards we were
shown into an elegantly appointed drawing-room, where we were
joined in a few minutes by a rather stout man who received us
with much hospitality. His age may have been nearer forty than
thirty, but his cheeks were so ruddy and his eyes so merry that
he still conveyed the impression of a plump and mischievous boy.
“I am so glad that you have come,” said he, shaking our hands
with effusion. “Percy has been inquiring for you all morning. Ah,
poor old chap, he clings to any straw! His father and his mother
asked me to see you, for the mere mention of the subject is very
painful to them.”
“We have had no details yet,” observed Holmes. “I perceive that
you are not yourself a member of the family.”
Our acquaintance looked surprised, and then, glancing down, he
began to laugh.
“Of course you saw the ‘J.H.’ monogram on my locket,” said he.
“For a moment I thought you had done something clever. Joseph
Harrison is my name, and as Percy is to marry my sister Annie I
shall at least be a relation by marriage. You will find my sister
in his room, for she has nursed him hand-and-foot this two months
back. Perhaps we’d better go in at once, for I know how impatient
he is.”
The chamber in which we were shown was on the same floor as the
drawing-room. It was furnished partly as a sitting and partly as
a bedroom, with flowers arranged daintily in every nook and
corner. A young man, very pale and worn, was lying upon a sofa
near the open window, through which came the rich scent of the
garden and the balmy summer air. A woman was sitting beside him,
who rose as we entered.
“Shall I leave, Percy?” she asked.
He clutched her hand to detain her. “How are you, Watson?” said
he, cordially. “I should never have known you under that
moustache, and I daresay you would not be prepared to swear to
me. This I presume is your celebrated friend, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes?”
I introduced him in a few words, and we both sat down. The stout
young man had left us, but his sister still remained with her
hand in that of the invalid. She was a striking-looking woman, a
little short and thick for symmetry, but with a beautiful olive
complexion, large, dark, Italian eyes, and a wealth of deep black
hair. Her rich tints made the white face of her companion the
more worn and haggard by the contrast.
“I won’t waste your time,” said he, raising himself upon the
sofa. “I’ll plunge into the matter without further preamble. I
was a happy and successful man, Mr. Holmes, and on the eve of
being married, when a sudden and dreadful misfortune wrecked all
my prospects in life.
“I was, as Watson may have told you, in the Foreign Office, and
through the influences of my uncle, Lord Holdhurst, I rose
rapidly to a responsible position. When my uncle became foreign
minister in this administration he gave me several missions of
trust, and as I always brought them to a successful conclusion,
he came at last to have the utmost confidence in my ability and
tact.
“Nearly ten weeks ago—to be more accurate, on the 23rd of May—he
called me into his private room, and, after complimenting me on
the good work which I had done, he informed me that he had a new
commission of trust for me to execute.
“‘This,’ said he, taking a grey roll of paper from his bureau,
‘is the original of that secret treaty between England and Italy
of which, I regret to say, some rumours have already got into the
public press. It is of enormous importance that nothing further
should leak out. The French or the Russian embassy would pay an
immense sum to learn the contents of these papers. They should
not leave my bureau were it not that it is absolutely necessary
to have them copied. You have a desk in your office?’
“‘Yes, sir.’
“‘Then take the treaty and lock it up there. I shall give
directions that you may remain behind when the others go, so that
you may copy it at your leisure without fear of being overlooked.
When you have finished, relock both the original and the draft in
the desk, and hand them over to me personally to-morrow morning.’
“I took the papers and—”
“Excuse me an instant,” said Holmes. “Were you alone during this
conversation?”
“Absolutely.”
“In a large room?”
“Thirty feet each way.”
“In the centre?”
“Yes, about it.”
“And speaking low?”
“My uncle’s voice is always remarkably low. I hardly spoke at
all.”
“Thank you,” said Holmes, shutting his eyes; “pray go on.”
“I did exactly what he indicated, and waited until the other
clerks had departed. One of them in my room, Charles Gorot, had
some arrears of work to make up, so I left him there and went out
to dine. When I returned he was gone. I was anxious to hurry my
work, for I knew that Joseph—the Mr. Harrison whom you saw just
now—was in town, and that he would travel down to Woking by the
eleven o’clock train, and I wanted if possible to catch it.
“When I came to examine the treaty I saw at once that it was of
such importance that my uncle had been guilty of no exaggeration
in what he had said. Without going into details, I may say that
it defined the position of Great Britain towards the Triple
Alliance, and fore-shadowed the policy which this country would
pursue in the event of the French fleet gaining a complete
ascendancy over that of Italy in the Mediterranean. The questions
treated in it were purely naval. At the end were the signatures
of the high dignitaries who had signed it. I glanced my eyes over
it, and then settled down to my task of copying.
“It was a long document, written in the French language, and
containing twenty-six separate articles. I copied as quickly as I
could, but at nine o’clock I had only done nine articles, and it
seemed hopeless for me to attempt to catch my train. I was
feeling drowsy and stupid, partly from my dinner and also from
the effects of a long day’s work. A cup of coffee would clear my
brain. A commissionnaire remains all night in a little lodge at
the foot of the stairs, and is in the habit of making coffee at
his spirit-lamp for any of the officials who may be working over
time. I rang the bell, therefore, to summon him.
“To my surprise, it was a woman who answered the summons, a
large, coarse-faced, elderly woman, in an apron. She explained
that she was the commissionnaire’s wife, who did the charing, and
I gave her the order for the coffee.
“I wrote two more articles and then, feeling more drowsy than
ever, I rose and walked up and down the room to stretch my legs.
My coffee had not yet come, and I wondered what the cause of the
delay could be. Opening the door, I started down the corridor to
find out. There was a straight passage, dimly lighted, which led
from the room in which I had been working, and was the only exit
from it. It ended in a curving staircase, with the
commissionnaire’s lodge in the passage at the bottom. Half-way
down this staircase is a small landing, with another passage
running into it at right angles. This second one leads by means
of a second small stair to a side door, used by servants, and
also as a short cut by clerks when coming from Charles Street.
Here is a rough chart of the place.”
rough chart
“Thank you. I think that I quite follow you,” said Sherlock
Holmes.
“It is of the utmost importance that you should notice this
point. I went down the stairs and into the hall, where I found
the commissionnaire fast asleep in his box, with the kettle
boiling furiously upon the spirit-lamp. I took off the kettle and
blew out the lamp, for the water was spurting over the floor.
Then I put out my hand and was about to shake the man, who was
still sleeping soundly, when a bell over his head rang loudly,
and he woke with a start.
“‘Mr. Phelps, sir!’ said he, looking at me in bewilderment.
“‘I came down to see if my coffee was ready.’
“‘I was boiling the kettle when I fell asleep, sir.’ He looked at
me and then up at the still quivering bell with an ever-growing
astonishment upon his face.
“‘If you was here, sir, then who rang the bell?’ he asked.
“‘The bell!’ I cried. ‘What bell is it?’
“‘It’s the bell of the room you were working in.’
“A cold hand seemed to close round my heart. Some one, then, was
in that room where my precious treaty lay upon the table. I ran
frantically up the stairs and along the passage. There was no one
in the corridors, Mr. Holmes. There was no one in the room. All
was exactly as I left it, save only that the papers which had
been committed to my care had been taken from the desk on which
they lay. The copy was there, and the original was gone.”
Holmes sat up in his chair and rubbed his hands. I could see that
the problem was entirely to his heart. “Pray, what did you do
then?” he murmured.
“I recognised in an instant that the thief must have come up the
stairs from the side door. Of course I must have met him if he
had come the other way.”
“You were satisfied that he could not have been concealed in the
room all the time, or in the corridor which you have just
described as dimly lighted?”
“It is absolutely impossible. A rat could not conceal himself
either in the room or the corridor. There is no cover at all.”
“Thank you. Pray proceed.”
“The commissionnaire, seeing by my pale face that something was
to be feared, had followed me upstairs. Now we both rushed along
the corridor and down the steep steps which led to Charles
Street. The door at the bottom was closed, but unlocked. We flung
it open and rushed out. I can distinctly remember that as we did
so there came three chimes from a neighbouring clock. It was
quarter to ten.”
“That is of enormous importance,” said Holmes, making a note upon
his shirt-cuff.
“The night was very dark, and a thin, warm rain was falling.
There was no one in Charles Street, but a great traffic was going
on, as usual, in Whitehall, at the extremity. We rushed along the
pavement, bare-headed as we were, and at the far corner we found
a policeman standing.
“‘A robbery has been committed,’ I gasped. ‘A document of immense
value has been stolen from the Foreign Office. Has any one passed
this way?’
“‘I have been standing here for a quarter of an hour, sir,’ said
he; ‘only one person has passed during that time—a woman, tall
and elderly, with a Paisley shawl.’
“‘Ah, that is only my wife,’ cried the commissionnaire; ‘has no
one else passed?’
“‘No one.’
“‘Then it must be the other way that the thief took,’ cried the
fellow, tugging at my sleeve.
“‘But I was not satisfied, and the attempts which he made to draw
me away increased my suspicions.
“‘Which way did the woman go?’ I cried.
“‘I don’t know, sir. I noticed her pass, but I had no special
reason for watching her. She seemed to be in a hurry.’
“‘How long ago was it?’
“‘Oh, not very many minutes.’
“‘Within the last five?’
“‘Well, it could not be more than five.’
“‘You’re only wasting your time, sir, and every minute now is of
importance,’ cried the commissionnaire; ‘take my word for it that
my old woman has nothing to do with it, and come down to the
other end of the street. Well, if you won’t, I will.’ And with
that he rushed off in the other direction.
“But I was after him in an instant and caught him by the sleeve.
“‘Where do you live?’ said I.
“‘16 Ivy Lane, Brixton,’ he answered. ‘But don’t let yourself be
drawn away upon a false scent, Mr. Phelps. Come to the other end
of the street and let us see if we can hear of anything.’
“Nothing was to be lost by following his advice. With the
policeman we both hurried down, but only to find the street full
of traffic, many people coming and going, but all only too eager
to get to a place of safety upon so wet a night. There was no
lounger who could tell us who had passed.
“Then we returned to the office, and searched the stairs and the
passage without result. The corridor which led to the room was
laid down with a kind of creamy linoleum which shows an
impression very easily. We examined it very carefully, but found
no outline of any footmark.”
“Had it been raining all evening?”
“Since about seven.”
“How is it, then, that the woman who came into the room about
nine left no traces with her muddy boots?”
“I am glad you raised the point. It occurred to me at the time.
The charwomen are in the habit of taking off their boots at the
commissionnaire’s office, and putting on list slippers.”
“That is very clear. There were no marks, then, though the night
was a wet one? The chain of events is certainly one of
extraordinary interest. What did you do next?
“We examined the room also. There is no possibility of a secret
door, and the windows are quite thirty feet from the ground. Both
of them were fastened on the inside. The carpet prevents any
possibility of a trap-door, and the ceiling is of the ordinary
whitewashed kind. I will pledge my life that whoever stole my
papers could only have come through the door.”
“How about the fireplace?”
“They use none. There is a stove. The bell-rope hangs from the
wire just to the right of my desk. Whoever rang it must have come
right up to the desk to do it. But why should any criminal wish
to ring the bell? It is a most insoluble mystery.”
“Certainly the incident was unusual. What were your next steps?
You examined the room, I presume, to see if the intruder had left
any traces—any cigar-end or dropped glove or hairpin or other
trifle?”
“There was nothing of the sort.”
“No smell?”
“Well, we never thought of that.”
“Ah, a scent of tobacco would have been worth a great deal to us
in such an investigation.”
“I never smoke myself, so I think I should have observed it if
there had been any smell of tobacco. There was absolutely no clue
of any kind. The only tangible fact was that the
commissionnaire’s wife—Mrs. Tangey was the name—had hurried out
of the place. He could give no explanation save that it was about
the time when the woman always went home. The policeman and I
agreed that our best plan would be to seize the woman before she
could get rid of the papers, presuming that she had them.
“The alarm had reached Scotland Yard by this time, and Mr.
Forbes, the detective, came round at once and took up the case
with a great deal of energy. We hired a hansom, and in half an
hour we were at the address which had been given to us. A young
woman opened the door, who proved to be Mrs. Tangey’s eldest
daughter. Her mother had not come back yet, and we were shown
into the front room to wait.
“About ten minutes later a knock came at the door, and here we
made the one serious mistake for which I blame myself. Instead of
opening the door ourselves, we allowed the girl to do so. We
heard her say, ‘Mother, there are two men in the house waiting to
see you,’ and an instant afterwards we heard the patter of feet
rushing down the passage. Forbes flung open the door, and we both
ran into the back room or kitchen, but the woman had got there
before us. She stared at us with defiant eyes, and then, suddenly
recognising me, an expression of absolute astonishment came over
her face.
“‘Why, if it isn’t Mr. Phelps, of the office!’ she cried.
“‘Come, come, who did you think we were when you ran away from
us?’ asked my companion.
“‘I thought you were the brokers,’ said she, ‘we have had some
trouble with a tradesman.’
“‘That’s not quite good enough,’ answered Forbes. ‘We have reason
to believe that you have taken a paper of importance from the
Foreign Office, and that you ran in here to dispose of it. You
must come back with us to Scotland Yard to be searched.’
“It was in vain that she protested and resisted. A four-wheeler
was brought, and we all three drove back in it. We had first made
an examination of the kitchen, and especially of the kitchen
fire, to see whether she might have made away with the papers
during the instant that she was alone. There were no signs,
however, of any ashes or scraps. When we reached Scotland Yard
she was handed over at once to the female searcher. I waited in
an agony of suspense until she came back with her report. There
were no signs of the papers.
“Then for the first time the horror of my situation came in its
full force. Hitherto I had been acting, and action had numbed
thought. I had been so confident of regaining the treaty at once
that I had not dared to think of what would be the consequence if
I failed to do so. But now there was nothing more to be done, and
I had leisure to realize my position. It was horrible. Watson
there would tell you that I was a nervous, sensitive boy at
school. It is my nature. I thought of my uncle and of his
colleagues in the Cabinet, of the shame which I had brought upon
him, upon myself, upon every one connected with me. What though I
was the victim of an extraordinary accident? No allowance is made
for accidents where diplomatic interests are at stake. I was
ruined, shamefully, hopelessly ruined. I don’t know what I did. I
fancy I must have made a scene. I have a dim recollection of a
group of officials who crowded round me, endeavouring to soothe
me. One of them drove down with me to Waterloo, and saw me into
the Woking train. I believe that he would have come all the way
had it not been that Dr. Ferrier, who lives near me, was going
down by that very train. The doctor most kindly took charge of
me, and it was well he did so, for I had a fit in the station,
and before we reached home I was practically a raving maniac.
“You can imagine the state of things here when they were roused
from their beds by the doctor’s ringing and found me in this
condition. Poor Annie here and my mother were broken-hearted. Dr.
Ferrier had just heard enough from the detective at the station
to be able to give an idea of what had happened, and his story
did not mend matters. It was evident to all that I was in for a
long illness, so Joseph was bundled out of this cheery bedroom,
and it was turned into a sick-room for me. Here I have lain, Mr.
Holmes, for over nine weeks, unconscious, and raving with
brain-fever. If it had not been for Miss Harrison here and for
the doctor’s care I should not be speaking to you now. She has
nursed me by day and a hired nurse has looked after me by night,
for in my mad fits I was capable of anything. Slowly my reason
has cleared, but it is only during the last three days that my
memory has quite returned. Sometimes I wish that it never had.
The first thing that I did was to wire to Mr. Forbes, who had the
case in hand. He came out, and assures me that, though everything
has been done, no trace of a clue has been discovered. The
commissionnaire and his wife have been examined in every way
without any light being thrown upon the matter. The suspicions of
the police then rested upon young Gorot, who, as you may
remember, stayed over time in the office that night. His
remaining behind and his French name were really the only two
points which could suggest suspicion; but, as a matter of fact, I
did not begin work until he had gone, and his people are of
Huguenot extraction, but as English in sympathy and tradition as
you and I are. Nothing was found to implicate him in any way, and
there the matter dropped. I turn to you, Mr. Holmes, as
absolutely my last hope. If you fail me, then my honour as well
as my position are forever forfeited.”
The invalid sank back upon his cushions, tired out by this long
recital, while his nurse poured him out a glass of some
stimulating medicine. Holmes sat silently, with his head thrown
back and his eyes closed, in an attitude which might seem
listless to a stranger, but which I knew betokened the most
intense self-absorption.
“You statement has been so explicit,” said he at last, “that you
have really left me very few questions to ask. There is one of
the very utmost importance, however. Did you tell any one that
you had this special task to perform?”
“No one.”
“Not Miss Harrison here, for example?”
“No. I had not been back to Woking between getting the order and
executing the commission.”
“And none of your people had by chance been to see you?”
“None.”
“Did any of them know their way about in the office?”
“Oh, yes, all of them had been shown over it.”
“Still, of course, if you said nothing to any one about the
treaty these inquiries are irrelevant.”
“I said nothing.”
“Do you know anything of the commissionnaire?”
“Nothing except that he is an old soldier.”
“What regiment?”
“Oh, I have heard—Coldstream Guards.”
“Thank you. I have no doubt I can get details from Forbes. The
authorities are excellent at amassing facts, though they do not
always use them to advantage. What a lovely thing a rose is!”
He walked past the couch to the open window, and held up the
drooping stalk of a moss-rose, looking down at the dainty blend
of crimson and green. It was a new phase of his character to me,
for I had never before seen him show any keen interest in natural
objects.
“There is nothing in which deduction is so necessary as in
religion,” said he, leaning with his back against the shutters.
“It can be built up as an exact science by the reasoner. Our
highest assurance of the goodness of Providence seems to me to
rest in the flowers. All other things, our powers our desires,
our food, are all really necessary for our existence in the first
instance. But this rose is an extra. Its smell and its colour are
an embellishment of life, not a condition of it. It is only
goodness which gives extras, and so I say again that we have much
to hope from the flowers.”
Percy Phelps and his nurse looked at Holmes during this
demonstration with surprise and a good deal of disappointment
written upon their faces. He had fallen into a reverie, with the
moss-rose between his fingers. It had lasted some minutes before
the young lady broke in upon it.
“Do you see any prospect of solving this mystery, Mr. Holmes?”
she asked, with a touch of asperity in her voice.
“Oh, the mystery!” he answered, coming back with a start to the
realities of life. “Well, it would be absurd to deny that the
case is a very abstruse and complicated one, but I can promise
you that I will look into the matter and let you know any points
which may strike me.”
“Do you see any clue?”
“You have furnished me with seven, but, of course, I must test
them before I can pronounce upon their value.”
“You suspect some one?”
“I suspect myself.”
“What!”
“Of coming to conclusions too rapidly.”
“Then go to London and test your conclusions.”
“Your advice is very excellent, Miss Harrison,” said Holmes,
rising. “I think, Watson, we cannot do better. Do not allow
yourself to indulge in false hopes, Mr. Phelps. The affair is a
very tangled one.”
“I shall be in a fever until I see you again,” cried the
diplomatist.
“Well, I’ll come out by the same train to-morrow, though it’s
more than likely that my report will be a negative one.”
“God bless you for promising to come,” cried our client. “It
gives me fresh life to know that something is being done. By the
way, I have had a letter from Lord Holdhurst.”
“Ha! What did he say?”
“He was cold, but not harsh. I daresay my severe illness
prevented him from being that. He repeated that the matter was of
the utmost importance, and added that no steps would be taken
about my future—by which he means, of course, my dismissal—until
my health was restored and I had an opportunity of repairing my
misfortune.”
“Well, that was reasonable and considerate,” said Holmes. “Come,
Watson, for we have a good day’s work before us in town.”
Mr. Joseph Harrison drove us down to the station, and we were
soon whirling up in a Portsmouth train. Holmes was sunk in
profound thought, and hardly opened his mouth until we had passed
Clapham Junction.
“It’s a very cheery thing to come into London by any of these
lines which run high, and allow you to look down upon the houses
like this.”
I thought he was joking, for the view was sordid enough, but he
soon explained himself.
“Look at those big, isolated clumps of building rising up above
the slates, like brick islands in a lead-coloured sea.”
“The board-schools.”
“Light-houses, my boy! Beacons of the future! Capsules with
hundreds of bright little seeds in each, out of which will spring
the wise, better England of the future. I suppose that man Phelps
does not drink?”
“I should not think so.”
“Nor should I, but we are bound to take every possibility into
account. The poor devil has certainly got himself into very deep
water, and it’s a question whether we shall ever be able to get
him ashore. What did you think of Miss Harrison?”
“A girl of strong character.”
“Yes, but she is a good sort, or I am mistaken. She and her
brother are the only children of an iron-master somewhere up
Northumberland way. He got engaged to her when traveling last
winter, and she came down to be introduced to his people, with
her brother as escort. Then came the smash, and she stayed on to
nurse her lover, while brother Joseph, finding himself pretty
snug, stayed on too. I’ve been making a few independent
inquiries, you see. But to-day must be a day of inquiries.”
“My practice—” I began.
“Oh, if you find your own cases more interesting than mine—” said
Holmes, with some asperity.
“I was going to say that my practice could get along very well
for a day or two, since it is the slackest time in the year.”
“Excellent,” said he, recovering his good-humour. “Then we’ll
look into this matter together. I think that we should begin by
seeing Forbes. He can probably tell us all the details we want
until we know from what side the case is to be approached.”
“You said you had a clue?”
“Well, we have several, but we can only test their value by
further inquiry. The most difficult crime to track is the one
which is purposeless. Now this is not purposeless. Who is it who
profits by it? There is the French ambassador, there is the
Russian, there is whoever might sell it to either of these, and
there is Lord Holdhurst.”
“Lord Holdhurst!”
“Well, it is just conceivable that a statesman might find himself
in a position where he was not sorry to have such a document
accidentally destroyed.”
“Not a statesman with the honourable record of Lord Holdhurst?”
“It is a possibility and we cannot afford to disregard it. We
shall see the noble lord to-day and find out if he can tell us
anything. Meanwhile I have already set inquiries on foot.”
“Already?”
“Yes, I sent wires from Woking station to every evening paper in
London. This advertisement will appear in each of them.”
He handed over a sheet torn from a note-book. On it was scribbled
in pencil:
“£10 Reward.—The number of the cab which dropped a fare at or
about the door of the Foreign Office in Charles Street at quarter
to ten in the evening of May 23rd. Apply 221B, Baker Street.”
“You are confident that the thief came in a cab?”
“If not, there is no harm done. But if Mr. Phelps is correct in
stating that there is no hiding-place either in the room or the
corridors, then the person must have come from outside. If he
came from outside on so wet a night, and yet left no trace of
damp upon the linoleum, which was examined within a few minutes
of his passing, then it is exceeding probable that he came in a
cab. Yes, I think that we may safely deduce a cab.”
“It sounds plausible.”
“That is one of the clues of which I spoke. It may lead us to
something. And then, of course, there is the bell—which is the
most distinctive feature of the case. Why should the bell ring?
Was it the thief who did it out of bravado? Or was it some one
who was with the thief who did it in order to prevent the crime?
Or was it an accident? Or was it—?” He sank back into the state
of intense and silent thought from which he had emerged; but it
seemed to me, accustomed as I was to his every mood, that some
new possibility had dawned suddenly upon him.
It was twenty past three when we reached our terminus, and after
a hasty luncheon at the buffet we pushed on at once to Scotland
Yard. Holmes had already wired to Forbes, and we found him
waiting to receive us—a small, foxy man with a sharp but by no
means amiable expression. He was decidedly frigid in his manner
to us, especially when he heard the errand upon which we had
come.
“I’ve heard of your methods before now, Mr. Holmes,” said he,
tartly. “You are ready enough to use all the information that the
police can lay at your disposal, and then you try to finish the
case yourself and bring discredit on them.”
“On the contrary,” said Holmes, “out of my last fifty-three cases
my name has only appeared in four, and the police have had all
the credit in forty-nine. I don’t blame you for not knowing this,
for you are young and inexperienced, but if you wish to get on in
your new duties you will work with me and not against me.”
“I’d be very glad of a hint or two,” said the detective, changing
his manner. “I’ve certainly had no credit from the case so far.”
“What steps have you taken?”
“Tangey, the commissionnaire, has been shadowed. He left the
Guards with a good character and we can find nothing against him.
His wife is a bad lot, though. I fancy she knows more about this
than appears.”
“Have you shadowed her?”
“We have set one of our women on to her. Mrs. Tangey drinks, and
our woman has been with her twice when she was well on, but she
could get nothing out of her.”
“I understand that they have had brokers in the house?”
“Yes, but they were paid off.”
“Where did the money come from?”
“That was all right. His pension was due. They have not shown any
sign of being in funds.”
“What explanation did she give of having answered the bell when
Mr. Phelps rang for the coffee?”
“She said that her husband was very tired and she wished to
relieve him.”
“Well, certainly that would agree with his being found a little
later asleep in his chair. There is nothing against them then but
the woman’s character. Did you ask her why she hurried away that
night? Her haste attracted the attention of the police
constable.”
“She was later than usual and wanted to get home.”
“Did you point out to her that you and Mr. Phelps, who started at
least twenty minutes after her, got home before her?”
“She explains that by the difference between a ‘bus and a
hansom.”
“Did she make it clear why, on reaching her house, she ran into
the back kitchen?”
“Because she had the money there with which to pay off the
brokers.”
“She has at least an answer for everything. Did you ask her
whether in leaving she met any one or saw any one loitering about
Charles Street?”
“She saw no one but the constable.”
“Well, you seem to have cross-examined her pretty thoroughly.
What else have you done?”
“The clerk Gorot has been shadowed all these nine weeks, but
without result. We can show nothing against him.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, we have nothing else to go upon—no evidence of any kind.”
“Have you formed a theory about how that bell rang?”
“Well, I must confess that it beats me. It was a cool hand,
whoever it was, to go and give the alarm like that.”
“Yes, it was a queer thing to do. Many thanks to you for what you
have told me. If I can put the man into your hands you shall hear
from me. Come along, Watson.”
“Where are we going to now?” I asked, as we left the office.
“We are now going to interview Lord Holdhurst, the cabinet
minister and future premier of England.”
We were fortunate in finding that Lord Holdhurst was still in his
chambers in Downing Street, and on Holmes sending in his card we
were instantly shown up. The statesman received us with that
old-fashioned courtesy for which he is remarkable, and seated us
on the two luxuriant lounges on either side of the fireplace.
Standing on the rug between us, with his slight, tall figure, his
sharp features, thoughtful face, and curling hair prematurely
tinged with grey, he seemed to represent that not too common
type, a nobleman who is in truth noble.
“Your name is very familiar to me, Mr. Holmes,” said he, smiling.
“And, of course, I cannot pretend to be ignorant of the object of
your visit. There has only been one occurrence in these offices
which could call for your attention. In whose interest are you
acting, may I ask?”
“In that of Mr. Percy Phelps,” answered Holmes.
“Ah, my unfortunate nephew! You can understand that our kinship
makes it the more impossible for me to screen him in any way. I
fear that the incident must have a very prejudicial effect upon
his career.”
“But if the document is found?”
“Ah, that, of course, would be different.”
“I had one or two questions which I wished to ask you, Lord
Holdhurst.”
“I shall be happy to give you any information in my power.”
“Was it in this room that you gave your instructions as to the
copying of the document?”
“It was.”
“Then you could hardly have been overheard?”
“It is out of the question.”
“Did you ever mention to any one that it was your intention to
give any one the treaty to be copied?”
“Never.”
“You are certain of that?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, since you never said so, and Mr. Phelps never said so, and
nobody else knew anything of the matter, then the thief’s
presence in the room was purely accidental. He saw his chance and
he took it.”
The statesman smiled. “You take me out of my province there,”
said he.
Holmes considered for a moment. “There is another very important
point which I wish to discuss with you,” said he. “You feared, as
I understand, that very grave results might follow from the
details of this treaty becoming known.”
A shadow passed over the expressive face of the statesman. “Very
grave results indeed.”
“And have they occurred?”
“Not yet.”
“If the treaty had reached, let us say, the French or Russian
Foreign Office, you would expect to hear of it?”
“I should,” said Lord Holdhurst, with a wry face.
“Since nearly ten weeks have elapsed, then, and nothing has been
heard, it is not unfair to suppose that for some reason the
treaty has not reached them.”
Lord Holdhurst shrugged his shoulders.
“We can hardly suppose, Mr. Holmes, that the thief took the
treaty in order to frame it and hang it up.”
“Perhaps he is waiting for a better price.”
“If he waits a little longer he will get no price at all. The
treaty will cease to be secret in a few months.”
“That is most important,” said Holmes. “Of course, it is a
possible supposition that the thief has had a sudden illness—”
“An attack of brain-fever, for example?” asked the statesman,
flashing a swift glance at him.
“I did not say so,” said Holmes, imperturbably. “And now, Lord
Holdhurst, we have already taken up too much of your valuable
time, and we shall wish you good-day.”
“Every success to your investigation, be the criminal who it
may,” answered the nobleman, as he bowed us out the door.
“He’s a fine fellow,” said Holmes, as we came out into Whitehall.
“But he has a struggle to keep up his position. He is far from
rich and has many calls. You noticed, of course, that his boots
had been resoled. Now, Watson, I won’t detain you from your
legitimate work any longer. I shall do nothing more to-day,
unless I have an answer to my cab advertisement. But I should be
extremely obliged to you if you would come down with me to Woking
to-morrow, by the same train which we took yesterday.”
I met him accordingly next morning and we travelled down to
Woking together. He had had no answer to his advertisement, he
said, and no fresh light had been thrown upon the case. He had,
when he so willed it, the utter immobility of countenance of a
red Indian, and I could not gather from his appearance whether he
was satisfied or not with the position of the case. His
conversation, I remember, was about the Bertillon system of
measurements, and he expressed his enthusiastic admiration of the
French savant.
We found our client still under the charge of his devoted nurse,
but looking considerably better than before. He rose from the
sofa and greeted us without difficulty when we entered.
“Any news?” he asked, eagerly.
“My report, as I expected, is a negative one,” said Holmes. “I
have seen Forbes, and I have seen your uncle, and I have set one
or two trains of inquiry upon foot which may lead to something.”
“You have not lost heart, then?”
“By no means.”
“God bless you for saying that!” cried Miss Harrison. “If we keep
our courage and our patience the truth must come out.”
“We have more to tell you than you have for us,” said Phelps,
reseating himself upon the couch.
“I hoped you might have something.”
“Yes, we have had an adventure during the night, and one which
might have proved to be a serious one.” His expression grew very
grave as he spoke, and a look of something akin to fear sprang up
in his eyes. “Do you know,” said he, “that I begin to believe
that I am the unconscious centre of some monstrous conspiracy,
and that my life is aimed at as well as my honour?”
“Ah!” cried Holmes.
“It sounds incredible, for I have not, as far as I know, an enemy
in the world. Yet from last night’s experience I can come to no
other conclusion.”
“Pray let me hear it.”
“You must know that last night was the very first night that I
have ever slept without a nurse in the room. I was so much better
that I thought I could dispense with one. I had a night-light
burning, however. Well, about two in the morning I had sunk into
a light sleep when I was suddenly aroused by a slight noise. It
was like the sound which a mouse makes when it is gnawing a
plank, and I lay listening to it for some time under the
impression that it must come from that cause. Then it grew
louder, and suddenly there came from the window a sharp metallic
snick. I sat up in amazement. There could be no doubt what the
sounds were now. The first ones had been caused by some one
forcing an instrument through the slit between the sashes, and
the second by the catch being pressed back.
“There was a pause then for about ten minutes, as if the person
were waiting to see whether the noise had awakened me. Then I
heard a gentle creaking as the window was very slowly opened. I
could stand it no longer, for my nerves are not what they used to
be. I sprang out of bed and flung open the shutters. A man was
crouching at the window. I could see little of him, for he was
gone like a flash. He was wrapped in some sort of cloak which
came across the lower part of his face. One thing only I am sure
of, and that is that he had some weapon in his hand. It looked to
me like a long knife. I distinctly saw the gleam of it as he
turned to run.”
“This is most interesting,” said Holmes. “Pray what did you do
then?”
“I should have followed him through the open window if I had been
stronger. As it was, I rang the bell and roused the house. It
took me some little time, for the bell rings in the kitchen and
the servants all sleep upstairs. I shouted, however, and that
brought Joseph down, and he roused the others. Joseph and the
groom found marks on the bed outside the window, but the weather
has been so dry lately that they found it hopeless to follow the
trail across the grass. There’s a place, however, on the wooden
fence which skirts the road which shows signs, they tell me, as
if some one had got over, and had snapped the top of the rail in
doing so. I have said nothing to the local police yet, for I
thought I had best have your opinion first.”
This tale of our client’s appeared to have an extraordinary
effect upon Sherlock Holmes. He rose from his chair and paced
about the room in uncontrollable excitement.
“Misfortunes never come single,” said Phelps, smiling, though it
was evident that his adventure had somewhat shaken him.
“You have certainly had your share,” said Holmes. “Do you think
you could walk round the house with me?”
“Oh, yes, I should like a little sunshine. Joseph will come,
too.”
“And I also,” said Miss Harrison.
“I am afraid not,” said Holmes, shaking his head. “I think I must
ask you to remain sitting exactly where you are.”
The young lady resumed her seat with an air of displeasure. Her
brother, however, had joined us and we set off all four together.
We passed round the lawn to the outside of the young
diplomatist’s window. There were, as he had said, marks upon the
bed, but they were hopelessly blurred and vague. Holmes stopped
over them for an instant, and then rose shrugging his shoulders.
“I don’t think any one could make much of this,” said he. “Let us
go round the house and see why this particular room was chosen by
the burglar. I should have thought those larger windows of the
drawing-room and dining-room would have had more attractions for
him.”
“They are more visible from the road,” suggested Mr. Joseph
Harrison.
“Ah, yes, of course. There is a door here which he might have
attempted. What is it for?”
“It is the side entrance for trades-people. Of course it is
locked at night.”
“Have you ever had an alarm like this before?”
“Never,” said our client.
“Do you keep plate in the house, or anything to attract
burglars?”
“Nothing of value.”
Holmes strolled round the house with his hands in his pockets and
a negligent air which was unusual with him.
“By the way,” said he to Joseph Harrison, “you found some place,
I understand, where the fellow scaled the fence. Let us have a
look at that!”
The plump young man led us to a spot where the top of one of the
wooden rails had been cracked. A small fragment of the wood was
hanging down. Holmes pulled it off and examined it critically.
“Do you think that was done last night? It looks rather old, does
it not?”
“Well, possibly so.”
“There are no marks of any one jumping down upon the other side.
No, I fancy we shall get no help here. Let us go back to the
bedroom and talk the matter over.”
Percy Phelps was walking very slowly, leaning upon the arm of his
future brother-in-law. Holmes walked swiftly across the lawn, and
we were at the open window of the bedroom long before the others
came up.
“Miss Harrison,” said Holmes, speaking with the utmost intensity
of manner, “you must stay where you are all day. Let nothing
prevent you from staying where you are all day. It is of the
utmost importance.”
“Certainly, if you wish it, Mr. Holmes,” said the girl in
astonishment.
“When you go to bed lock the door of this room on the outside and
keep the key. Promise to do this.”
“But Percy?”
“He will come to London with us.”
“And am I to remain here?”
“It is for his sake. You can serve him. Quick! Promise!”
She gave a quick nod of assent just as the other two came up.
“Why do you sit moping there, Annie?” cried her brother. “Come
out into the sunshine!”
“No, thank you, Joseph. I have a slight headache and this room is
deliciously cool and soothing.”
“What do you propose now, Mr. Holmes?” asked our client.
“Well, in investigating this minor affair we must not lose sight
of our main inquiry. It would be a very great help to me if you
would come up to London with us.”
“At once?”
“Well, as soon as you conveniently can. Say in an hour.”
“I feel quite strong enough, if I can really be of any help.”
“The greatest possible.”
“Perhaps you would like me to stay there to-night?”
“I was just going to propose it.”
“Then, if my friend of the night comes to revisit me, he will
find the bird flown. We are all in your hands, Mr. Holmes, and
you must tell us exactly what you would like done. Perhaps you
would prefer that Joseph came with us so as to look after me?”
“Oh, no; my friend Watson is a medical man, you know, and he’ll
look after you. We’ll have our lunch here, if you will permit us,
and then we shall all three set off for town together.”
It was arranged as he suggested, though Miss Harrison excused
herself from leaving the bedroom, in accordance with Holmes’s
suggestion. What the object of my friend’s manœuvres was I could
not conceive, unless it were to keep the lady away from Phelps,
who, rejoiced by his returning health and by the prospect of
action, lunched with us in the dining-room. Holmes had a still
more startling surprise for us, however, for, after accompanying
us down to the station and seeing us into our carriage, he calmly
announced that he had no intention of leaving Woking.
“There are one or two small points which I should desire to clear
up before I go,” said he. “Your absence, Mr. Phelps, will in some
ways rather assist me. Watson, when you reach London you would
oblige me by driving at once to Baker Street with our friend
here, and remaining with him until I see you again. It is
fortunate that you are old schoolfellows, as you must have much
to talk over. Mr. Phelps can have the spare bedroom to-night, and
I will be with you in time for breakfast, for there is a train
which will take me into Waterloo at eight.”
“But how about our investigation in London?” asked Phelps,
ruefully.
“We can do that to-morrow. I think that just at present I can be
of more immediate use here.”
“You might tell them at Briarbrae that I hope to be back
to-morrow night,” cried Phelps, as we began to move from the
platform.
“I hardly expect to go back to Briarbrae,” answered Holmes, and
waved his hand to us cheerily as we shot out from the station.
Phelps and I talked it over on our journey, but neither of us
could devise a satisfactory reason for this new development.
“I suppose he wants to find out some clue as to the burglary last
night, if a burglar it was. For myself, I don’t believe it was an
ordinary thief.”
“What is your own idea, then?”
“Upon my word, you may put it down to my weak nerves or not, but
I believe there is some deep political intrigue going on around
me, and that for some reason that passes my understanding my life
is aimed at by the conspirators. It sounds high-flown and absurd,
but consider the facts! Why should a thief try to break in at a
bedroom window, where there could be no hope of any plunder, and
why should he come with a long knife in his hand?”
“You are sure it was not a house-breaker’s jimmy?”
“Oh, no, it was a knife. I saw the flash of the blade quite
distinctly.”
“But why on earth should you be pursued with such animosity?”
“Ah, that is the question.”
“Well, if Holmes takes the same view, that would account for his
action, would it not? Presuming that your theory is correct, if
he can lay his hands upon the man who threatened you last night
he will have gone a long way towards finding who took the naval
treaty. It is absurd to suppose that you have two enemies, one of
whom robs you, while the other threatens your life.”
“But Holmes said that he was not going to Briarbrae.”
“I have known him for some time,” said I, “but I never knew him
do anything yet without a very good reason,” and with that our
conversation drifted off on to other topics.
But it was a weary day for me. Phelps was still weak after his
long illness, and his misfortune made him querulous and nervous.
In vain I endeavoured to interest him in Afghanistan, in India,
in social questions, in anything which might take his mind out of
the groove. He would always come back to his lost treaty,
wondering, guessing, speculating, as to what Holmes was doing,
what steps Lord Holdhurst was taking, what news we should have in
the morning. As the evening wore on his excitement became quite
painful.
“You have implicit faith in Holmes?” he asked.
“I have seen him do some remarkable things.”
“But he never brought light into anything quite so dark as this?”
“Oh, yes; I have known him solve questions which presented fewer
clues than yours.”
“But not where such large interests are at stake?”
“I don’t know that. To my certain knowledge he has acted on
behalf of three of the reigning houses of Europe in very vital
matters.”
“But you know him well, Watson. He is such an inscrutable fellow
that I never quite know what to make of him. Do you think he is
hopeful? Do you think he expects to make a success of it?”
“He has said nothing.”
“That is a bad sign.”
“On the contrary, I have noticed that when he is off the trail he
generally says so. It is when he is on a scent and is not quite
absolutely sure yet that it is the right one that he is most
taciturn. Now, my dear fellow, we can’t help matters by making
ourselves nervous about them, so let me implore you to go to bed
and so be fresh for whatever may await us to-morrow.”
I was able at last to persuade my companion to take my advice,
though I knew from his excited manner that there was not much
hope of sleep for him. Indeed, his mood was infectious, for I lay
tossing half the night myself, brooding over this strange
problem, and inventing a hundred theories, each of which was more
impossible than the last. Why had Holmes remained at Woking? Why
had he asked Miss Harrison to remain in the sick-room all day?
Why had he been so careful not to inform the people at Briarbrae
that he intended to remain near them? I cudgelled my brains until
I fell asleep in the endeavour to find some explanation which
would cover all these facts.
It was seven o’clock when I awoke, and I set off at once for
Phelps’s room, to find him haggard and spent after a sleepless
night. His first question was whether Holmes had arrived yet.
“He’ll be here when he promised,” said I, “and not an instant
sooner or later.”
And my words were true, for shortly after eight a hansom dashed
up to the door and our friend got out of it. Standing in the
window we saw that his left hand was swathed in a bandage and
that his face was very grim and pale. He entered the house, but
it was some little time before he came upstairs.
“He looks like a beaten man,” cried Phelps.
I was forced to confess that he was right. “After all,” said I,
“the clue of the matter lies probably here in town.”
Phelps gave a groan.
“I don’t know how it is,” said he, “but I had hoped for so much
from his return. But surely his hand was not tied up like that
yesterday. What can be the matter?”
“You are not wounded, Holmes?” I asked, as my friend entered the
room.
“Tut, it is only a scratch through my own clumsiness,” he
answered, nodding his good-mornings to us. “This case of yours,
Mr. Phelps, is certainly one of the darkest which I have ever
investigated.”
“I feared that you would find it beyond you.”
“It has been a most remarkable experience.”
“That bandage tells of adventures,” said I. “Won’t you tell us
what has happened?”
“After breakfast, my dear Watson. Remember that I have breathed
thirty miles of Surrey air this morning. I suppose that there has
been no answer from my cabman advertisement? Well, well, we
cannot expect to score every time.”
The table was all laid, and just as I was about to ring Mrs.
Hudson entered with the tea and coffee. A few minutes later she
brought in three covers, and we all drew up to the table, Holmes
ravenous, I curious, and Phelps in the gloomiest state of
depression.
“Mrs. Hudson has risen to the occasion,” said Holmes, uncovering
a dish of curried chicken. “Her cuisine is a little limited, but
she has as good an idea of breakfast as a Scotch-woman. What have
you here, Watson?”
“Ham and eggs,” I answered.
“Good! What are you going to take, Mr. Phelps—curried fowl or
eggs, or will you help yourself?”
“Thank you. I can eat nothing,” said Phelps.
“Oh, come! Try the dish before you.”
“Thank you, I would really rather not.”
“Well, then,” said Holmes, with a mischievous twinkle, “I suppose
that you have no objection to helping me?”
Phelps raised the cover, and as he did so he uttered a scream,
and sat there staring with a face as white as the plate upon
which he looked. Across the centre of it was lying a little
cylinder of blue-grey paper. He caught it up, devoured it with
his eyes, and then danced madly about the room, pressing it to
his bosom and shrieking out in his delight. Then he fell back
into an armchair so limp and exhausted with his own emotions that
we had to pour brandy down his throat to keep him from fainting.
“There! there!” said Holmes, soothing, patting him upon the
shoulder. “It was too bad to spring it on you like this, but
Watson here will tell you that I never can resist a touch of the
dramatic.”
Phelps seized his hand and kissed it. “God bless you!” he cried.
“You have saved my honour.”
“Well, my own was at stake, you know,” said Holmes. “I assure you
it is just as hateful to me to fail in a case as it can be to you
to blunder over a commission.”
Phelps thrust away the precious document into the innermost
pocket of his coat.
“I have not the heart to interrupt your breakfast any further,
and yet I am dying to know how you got it and where it was.”
Sherlock Holmes swallowed a cup of coffee, and turned his
attention to the ham and eggs. Then he rose, lit his pipe, and
settled himself down into his chair.
“I’ll tell you what I did first, and how I came to do it
afterwards,” said he. “After leaving you at the station I went
for a charming walk through some admirable Surrey scenery to a
pretty little village called Ripley, where I had my tea at an
inn, and took the precaution of filling my flask and of putting a
paper of sandwiches in my pocket. There I remained until evening,
when I set off for Woking again, and found myself in the
high-road outside Briarbrae just after sunset.
“Well, I waited until the road was clear—it is never a very
frequented one at any time, I fancy—and then I clambered over the
fence into the grounds.”
“Surely the gate was open!” ejaculated Phelps.
“Yes, but I have a peculiar taste in these matters. I chose the
place where the three fir-trees stand, and behind their screen I
got over without the least chance of any one in the house being
able to see me. I crouched down among the bushes on the other
side, and crawled from one to the other—witness the disreputable
state of my trouser knees—until I had reached the clump of
rhododendrons just opposite to your bedroom window. There I
squatted down and awaited developments.
“The blind was not down in your room, and I could see Miss
Harrison sitting there reading by the table. It was quarter-past
ten when she closed her book, fastened the shutters, and retired.
“I heard her shut the door, and felt quite sure that she had
turned the key in the lock.”
“The key!” ejaculated Phelps.
“Yes; I had given Miss Harrison instructions to lock the door on
the outside and take the key with her when she went to bed. She
carried out every one of my injunctions to the letter, and
certainly without her co-operation you would not have that paper
in your coat-pocket. She departed then and the lights went out,
and I was left squatting in the rhododendron-bush.
“The night was fine, but still it was a very weary vigil. Of
course it has the sort of excitement about it that the sportsman
feels when he lies beside the water-course and waits for the big
game. It was very long, though—almost as long, Watson, as when
you and I waited in that deadly room when we looked into the
little problem of the Speckled Band. There was a church-clock
down at Woking which struck the quarters, and I thought more than
once that it had stopped. At last however about two in the
morning, I suddenly heard the gentle sound of a bolt being pushed
back and the creaking of a key. A moment later the servants’ door
was opened, and Mr. Joseph Harrison stepped out into the
moonlight.”
“Joseph!” ejaculated Phelps.
“He was bare-headed, but he had a black coat thrown over his
shoulder so that he could conceal his face in an instant if there
were any alarm. He walked on tiptoe under the shadow of the wall,
and when he reached the window he worked a long-bladed knife
through the sash and pushed back the catch. Then he flung open
the window, and putting his knife through the crack in the
shutters, he thrust the bar up and swung them open.
“From where I lay I had a perfect view of the inside of the room
and of every one of his movements. He lit the two candles which
stood upon the mantelpiece, and then he proceeded to turn back
the corner of the carpet in the neighbourhood of the door.
Presently he stopped and picked out a square piece of board, such
as is usually left to enable plumbers to get at the joints of the
gas-pipes. This one covered, as a matter of fact, the T joint
which gives off the pipe which supplies the kitchen underneath.
Out of this hiding-place he drew that little cylinder of paper,
pushed down the board, rearranged the carpet, blew out the
candles, and walked straight into my arms as I stood waiting for
him outside the window.
“Well, he has rather more viciousness than I gave him credit for,
has Master Joseph. He flew at me with his knife, and I had to
grasp him twice, and got a cut over the knuckles, before I had
the upper hand of him. He looked murder out of the only eye he
could see with when we had finished, but he listened to reason
and gave up the papers. Having got them I let my man go, but I
wired full particulars to Forbes this morning. If he is quick
enough to catch his bird, well and good. But if, as I shrewdly
suspect, he finds the nest empty before he gets there, why, all
the better for the government. I fancy that Lord Holdhurst for
one, and Mr. Percy Phelps for another, would very much rather
that the affair never got as far as a police-court.
“My God!” gasped our client. “Do you tell me that during these
long ten weeks of agony the stolen papers were within the very
room with me all the time?”
“So it was.”
“And Joseph! Joseph a villain and a thief!”
“Hum! I am afraid Joseph’s character is a rather deeper and more
dangerous one than one might judge from his appearance. From what
I have heard from him this morning, I gather that he has lost
heavily in dabbling with stocks, and that he is ready to do
anything on earth to better his fortunes. Being an absolutely
selfish man, when a chance presented itself he did not allow
either his sister’s happiness or your reputation to hold his
hand.”
Percy Phelps sank back in his chair. “My head whirls,” said he.
“Your words have dazed me.”
“The principal difficulty in your case,” remarked Holmes, in his
didactic fashion, “lay in the fact of there being too much
evidence. What was vital was overlaid and hidden by what was
irrelevant. Of all the facts which were presented to us we had to
pick just those which we deemed to be essential, and then piece
them together in their order, so as to reconstruct this very
remarkable chain of events. I had already begun to suspect
Joseph, from the fact that you had intended to travel home with
him that night, and that therefore it was a likely enough thing
that he should call for you, knowing the Foreign Office well,
upon his way. When I heard that some one had been so anxious to
get into the bedroom, in which no one but Joseph could have
concealed anything—you told us in your narrative how you had
turned Joseph out when you arrived with the doctor—my suspicions
all changed to certainties, especially as the attempt was made on
the first night upon which the nurse was absent, showing that the
intruder was well acquainted with the ways of the house.”
“How blind I have been!”
“The facts of the case, as far as I have worked them out, are
these: this Joseph Harrison entered the office through the
Charles Street door, and knowing his way he walked straight into
your room the instant after you left it. Finding no one there he
promptly rang the bell, and at the instant that he did so his
eyes caught the paper upon the table. A glance showed him that
chance had put in his way a State document of immense value, and
in an instant he had thrust it into his pocket and was gone. A
few minutes elapsed, as you remember, before the sleepy
commissionnaire drew your attention to the bell, and those were
just enough to give the thief time to make his escape.
“He made his way to Woking by the first train, and having
examined his booty and assured himself that it really was of
immense value, he had concealed it in what he thought was a very
safe place, with the intention of taking it out again in a day or
two, and carrying it to the French embassy, or wherever he
thought that a long price was to be had. Then came your sudden
return. He, without a moment’s warning, was bundled out of his
room, and from that time onward there were always at least two of
you there to prevent him from regaining his treasure. The
situation to him must have been a maddening one. But at last he
thought he saw his chance. He tried to steal in, but was baffled
by your wakefulness. You remember that you did not take your
usual draught that night.”
“I remember.”
“I fancy that he had taken steps to make that draught
efficacious, and that he quite relied upon your being
unconscious. Of course, I understood that he would repeat the
attempt whenever it could be done with safety. Your leaving the
room gave him the chance he wanted. I kept Miss Harrison in it
all day so that he might not anticipate us. Then, having given
him the idea that the coast was clear, I kept guard as I have
described. I already knew that the papers were probably in the
room, but I had no desire to rip up all the planking and skirting
in search of them. I let him take them, therefore, from the
hiding-place, and so saved myself an infinity of trouble. Is
there any other point which I can make clear?”
“Why did he try the window on the first occasion,” I asked, “when
he might have entered by the door?”
“In reaching the door he would have to pass seven bedrooms. On
the other hand, he could get out on to the lawn with ease.
Anything else?”
“You do not think,” asked Phelps, “that he had any murderous
intention? The knife was only meant as a tool.”
“It may be so,” answered Holmes, shrugging his shoulders. “I can
only say for certain that Mr. Joseph Harrison is a gentleman to
whose mercy I should be extremely unwilling to trust.”
+ + \ No newline at end of file diff --git a/dist/The Red Headed League.html b/dist/The Red Headed League.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a387be9 --- /dev/null +++ b/dist/The Red Headed League.html @@ -0,0 +1,13 @@ + + + + +I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn
of last year, and found him in deep conversation with a very stout,
florid-faced, elderly gentleman, with fiery red hair. With an apology
for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw, when Holmes pulled me
abruptly into the room and closed the door behind me.
“You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson,” he
said, cordially.
“I was afraid that you were engaged.”
“So I am. Very much so.”
“Then I can wait in the next room.”
“Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper
in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will
be of the utmost use to me in yours also.”
The stout gentleman half-rose from his chair and gave a bob of
greeting, with a quick, little, questioning glance from his small,
fat-encircled eyes.
“Try the settee,” said Holmes, relapsing into his arm-chair and putting
his finger-tips together, as was his custom when in judicial moods. “I
know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and
outside the conventions and humdrum routine of every-day life. You have
shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has prompted you to
chronicle, and, if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish
so many of my own little adventures.”
“Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me,” I
observed.
“You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went
into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that
for strange effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to
life itself, which is always far more daring than any effort of the
imagination.”
“A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting.”
“You did, doctor, but none the less you must come round to my view,
for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you, until your
reason breaks down under them and acknowledges me to be right. Now, Mr.
Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call upon me this morning,
and to begin a narrative which promises to be one of the most singular
which I have listened to for some time. You have heard me remark that
the strangest and most unique things are very often connected not with
the larger but with the smaller crimes, and occasionally, indeed, where
there is room for doubt whether any positive crime has been committed.
As far as I have heard it is impossible for me to say whether the
present case is an instance of crime or not, but the course of events
is certainly among the most singular that I have ever listened to.
Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have the great kindness to recommence
your narrative. I ask you, not merely because my friend Dr. Watson has
not heard the opening part, but also because the peculiar nature of the
story makes me anxious to have every possible detail from your lips.
As a rule, when I have heard some slight indication of the course of
events, I am able to guide myself by the thousands of other similar
cases which occur to my memory. In the present instance I am forced to
admit that the facts are, to the best of my belief, unique.”
The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of some
little pride, and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the inside
pocket of his great-coat. As he glanced down the advertisement column,
with his head thrust forward, and the paper flattened out upon his
knee, I took a good look at the man, and endeavored, after the fashion
of my companion, to read the indications which might be presented by
his dress or appearance.
I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our visitor bore
every mark of being an average commonplace British tradesman, obese,
pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy gray shepherd’s check trousers,
a not over-clean black frock-coat, unbuttoned in the front, and a drab
waistcoat with a heavy brassy Albert chain, and a square pierced bit of
metal dangling down as an ornament. A frayed top-hat and a faded brown
overcoat with a wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair beside him.
Altogether, look as I would, there was nothing remarkable about the man
save his blazing red head, and the expression of extreme chagrin and
discontent upon his features.
Sherlock Holmes’s quick eye took in my occupation, and he shook his
head with a smile as he noticed my questioning glances. “Beyond the
obvious facts that he has at some time done manual labor, that he takes
snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he has been in China, and that he
has done a considerable amount of writing lately, I can deduce nothing
else.”
Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger upon the
paper, but his eyes upon my companion.
“How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that, Mr. Holmes?”
he asked. “How did you know, for example, that I did manual labor. It’s
as true as gospel, for I began as a ship’s carpenter.”
“Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size larger than
your left. You have worked with it, and the muscles are more developed.”
“Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?”
“I won’t insult your intelligence by telling you how I read that,
especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order, you use
an arc-and-compass breastpin.”
“Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?”
“What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny for five
inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the elbow where you
rest it upon the desk.”
“Well, but China?”
“The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your right wrist
could only have been done in China. I have made a small study of tattoo
marks, and have even contributed to the literature of the subject.
That trick of staining the fishes’ scales of a delicate pink is quite
peculiar to China. When, in addition, I see a Chinese coin hanging from
your watch-chain, the matter becomes even more simple.”
Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. “Well, I never!” said he. “I thought
at first that you had done something clever, but I see that there was
nothing in it, after all.”
“I begin to think, Watson,” said Holmes, “that I make a mistake in
explaining. ‘Omne ignotum pro magnifico,’ you know, and my poor little
reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I am so candid. Can
you not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?”
“Yes, I have got it now,” he answered, with his thick, red finger
planted half-way down the column. “Here it is. This is what began it
all. You just read it for yourself, sir.”
I took the paper from him, and read as follows:
“TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE: On account of the bequest of the
late Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pa., U.S.A., there is now
another vacancy open which entitles a member of the League
to a salary of £4 a week for purely nominal services. All
red-headed men who are sound in body and mind, and above
the age of twenty-one years, are eligible. Apply in person on
Monday, at eleven o’clock, to Duncan Ross, at the offices of
the League, 7 Pope’s Court, Fleet Street.”
“What on earth does this mean?” I ejaculated, after I had twice read
over the extraordinary announcement.
Holmes chuckled, and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit when in
high spirits. “It is a little off the beaten track, isn’t it?” said
he. “And now, Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch, and tell us all about
yourself, your household, and the effect which this advertisement had
upon your fortunes. You will first make a note, doctor, of the paper
and the date.”
“It is _The Morning Chronicle_, of April 27, 1890. Just two months ago.”
“Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?”
“Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,”
said Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead; “I have a small pawnbroker’s
business at Coburg Square, near the city. It’s not a very large affair,
and of late years it has not done more than just give me a living. I
used to be able to keep two assistants, but now I only keep one; and I
would have a job to pay him, but that he is willing to come for half
wages, so as to learn the business.”
“What is the name of this obliging youth?” asked Sherlock Holmes.
“His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he’s not such a youth, either. It’s
hard to say his age. I should not wish a smarter assistant, Mr. Holmes;
and I know very well that he could better himself, and earn twice what
I am able to give him. But, after all, if he is satisfied, why should I
put ideas in his head?”
“Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having an _employé_ who
comes under the full market price. It is not a common experience among
employers in this age. I don’t know that your assistant is not as
remarkable as your advertisement.”
“Oh, he has his faults, too,” said Mr. Wilson. “Never was such a fellow
for photography. Snapping away with a camera when he ought to be
improving his mind, and then diving down into the cellar like a rabbit
into its hole to develope his pictures. That is his main fault; but, on
the whole, he’s a good worker. There’s no vice in him.”
“He is still with you, I presume?”
“Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of simple cooking,
and keeps the place clean—that’s all I have in the house, for I am a
widower, and never had any family. We live very quietly, sir, the three
of us; and we keep a roof over our heads, and pay our debts, if we do
nothing more.
“The first thing that put us out was that advertisement. Spaulding, he
came down into the office just this day eight weeks, with this very
paper in his hand, and he says:
“‘I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed man.’
“‘Why that?’ I asks.
“‘Why,’ says he, ‘here’s another vacancy on the League of the
Red-headed Men. It’s worth quite a little fortune to any man who gets
it, and I understand that there are more vacancies than there are men,
so that the trustees are at their wits’ end what to do with the money.
If my hair would only change color, here’s a nice little crib all ready
for me to step into.’
“‘Why, what is it, then?’ I asked. You see, Mr. Holmes, I am a very
stay-at-home man, and as my business came to me instead of my having
to go to it, I was often weeks on end without putting my foot over the
door-mat. In that way I didn’t know much of what was going on outside,
and I was always glad of a bit of news.
“‘Have you never heard of the League of the Red-headed Men?’ he asked,
with his eyes open.
“‘Never.’
“‘Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself for one of the
vacancies.’
“‘And what are they worth?’ I asked.
“‘Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is slight, and it
need not interfere very much with one’s other occupations.’
“Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my ears, for the
business has not been over-good for some years, and an extra couple of
hundred would have been very handy.
“‘Tell me all about it,’ said I.
“‘Well,’ said he, showing me the advertisement, ‘you can see for
yourself that the League has a vacancy, and there is the address
where you should apply for particulars. As far as I can make out, the
League was founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins, who
was very peculiar in his ways. He was himself red-headed, and he had a
great sympathy for all red-headed men; so, when he died, it was found
that he had left his enormous fortune in the hands of trustees, with
instructions to apply the interest to the providing of easy berths to
men whose hair is of that color. From all I hear it is splendid pay,
and very little to do.’
“‘But,’ said I, ‘there would be millions of red-headed men who would
apply.’
“‘Not so many as you might think,’ he answered. ‘You see it is really
confined to Londoners, and to grown men. This American had started from
London when he was young, and he wanted to do the old town a good turn.
Then, again, I have heard it is no use your applying if your hair is
light red, or dark red, or anything but real bright, blazing, fiery
red. Now, if you cared to apply, Mr. Wilson, you would just walk in;
but perhaps it would hardly be worth your while to put yourself out of
the way for the sake of a few hundred pounds.’
“Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves, that my
hair is of a very full and rich tint, so that it seemed to me that, if
there was to be any competition in the matter, I stood as good a chance
as any man that I had ever met. Vincent Spaulding seemed to know so
much about it that I thought he might prove useful, so I just ordered
him to put up the shutters for the day, and to come right away with me.
He was very willing to have a holiday, so we shut the business up, and
started off for the address that was given us in the advertisement.
“I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes. From
north, south, east, and west every man who had a shade of red in his
hair had tramped into the city to answer the advertisement. Fleet
Street was choked with red-headed folk, and Pope’s Court looked
like a coster’s orange barrow. I should not have thought there were
so many in the whole country as were brought together by that single
advertisement. Every shade of color they were—straw, lemon, orange,
brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but, as Spaulding said, there were
not many who had the real vivid flame-colored tint. When I saw how many
were waiting, I would have given it up in despair; but Spaulding would
not hear of it. How he did it I could not imagine, but he pushed and
pulled and butted until he got me through the crowd, and right up to
the steps which led to the office. There was a double stream upon the
stair, some going up in hope, and some coming back dejected; but we
wedged in as well as we could, and soon found ourselves in the office.”
“Your experience has been a most entertaining one,” remarked Holmes, as
his client paused and refreshed his memory with a huge pinch of snuff.
“Pray continue your very interesting statement.”
“There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs and a
deal table, behind which sat a small man, with a head that was even
redder than mine. He said a few words to each candidate as he came
up, and then he always managed to find some fault in them which would
disqualify them. Getting a vacancy did not seem to be such a very easy
matter, after all. However, when our turn came, the little man was much
more favorable to me than to any of the others, and he closed the door
as we entered, so that he might have a private word with us.
“‘This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,’ said my assistant, ‘and he is willing to
fill a vacancy in the League.’
“‘And he is admirably suited for it,’ the other answered. ‘He has every
requirement. I cannot recall when I have seen anything so fine.’ He
took a step backward, cocked his head on one side, and gazed at my hair
until I felt quite bashful. Then suddenly he plunged forward, wrung my
hand, and congratulated me warmly on my success.
“‘It would be injustice to hesitate,’ said he. ‘You will, however, I am
sure, excuse me for taking an obvious precaution.’ With that he seized
my hair in both his hands, and tugged until I yelled with the pain.
‘There is water in your eyes,’ said he, as he released me. ‘I perceive
that all is as it should be. But we have to be careful, for we have
twice been deceived by wigs and once by paint. I could tell you tales
of cobbler’s wax which would disgust you with human nature.’ He stepped
over to the window, and shouted through it at the top of his voice that
the vacancy was filled. A groan of disappointment came up from below,
and the folk all trooped away in different directions, until there was
not a red head to be seen except my own and that of the manager.
“‘My name,’ said he, ‘is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am myself one of the
pensioners upon the fund left by our noble benefactor. Are you a
married man, Mr. Wilson? Have you a family?’
“I answered that I had not.
“His face fell immediately.
“‘Dear me!’ he said, gravely, ‘that is very serious indeed! I am sorry
to hear you say that. The fund was, of course, for the propagation
and spread of the red-heads as well as for their maintenance. It is
exceedingly unfortunate that you should be a bachelor.’
“My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that I was not
to have the vacancy after all; but, after thinking it over for a few
minutes, he said that it would be all right.
“‘In the case of another,’ said he, ‘the objection might be fatal, but
we must stretch a point in favor of a man with such a head of hair as
yours. When shall you be able to enter upon your new duties?’
“‘Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business already,’ said I.
“‘Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!’ said Vincent Spaulding. ‘I
shall be able to look after that for you.’
“‘What would be the hours?’ I asked.
“‘Ten to two.’
“Now a pawnbroker’s business is mostly done of an evening, Mr. Holmes,
especially Thursday and Friday evening, which is just before pay-day;
so it would suit me very well to earn a little in the mornings.
Besides, I knew that my assistant was a good man, and that he would see
to anything that turned up.
“‘That would suit me very well,’ said I. ‘And the pay?’
“‘Is £4 a week.’
“‘And the work?’
“‘Is purely nominal.’
“‘What do you call purely nominal?’
“‘Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the building, the
whole time. If you leave, you forfeit your whole position forever.
The will is very clear upon that point. You don’t comply with the
conditions if you budge from the office during that time.’
“‘It’s only four hours a day, and I should not think of leaving,’ said
I.
“‘No excuse will avail,’ said Mr. Duncan Ross, ‘neither sickness nor
business nor anything else. There you must stay, or you lose your
billet.’
“‘And the work?’
“‘Is to copy out the “Encyclopædia Britannica.” There is the first
volume of it in that press. You must find your own ink, pens, and
blotting-paper, but we provide this table and chair. Will you be ready
to-morrow?’
“‘Certainly,’ I answered.
“‘Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me congratulate you once
more on the important position which you have been fortunate enough to
gain.’ He bowed me out of the room, and I went home with my assistant,
hardly knowing what to say or do, I was so pleased at my own good
fortune.
“Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I was in
low spirits again; for I had quite persuaded myself that the whole
affair must be some great hoax or fraud, though what its object might
be I could not imagine. It seemed altogether past belief that any one
could make such a will, or that they would pay such a sum for doing
anything so simple as copying out the ‘Encyclopædia Britannica.’
Vincent Spaulding did what he could to cheer me up, but by bedtime I
had reasoned myself out of the whole thing. However, in the morning
I determined to have a look at it anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle
of ink, and with a quill-pen, and seven sheets of foolscap paper, I
started off for Pope’s Court.
“Well, to my surprise and delight, everything was as right as possible.
The table was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross was there to
see that I got fairly to work. He started me off upon the letter A, and
then he left me; but he would drop in from time to time to see that all
was right with me. At two o’clock he bade me good-day, complimented me
upon the amount that I had written, and locked the door of the office
after me.
“This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday the manager
came in and planked down four golden sovereigns for my week’s work.
It was the same next week, and the same the week after. Every morning
I was there at ten, and every afternoon I left at two. By degrees Mr.
Duncan Ross took to coming in only once of a morning, and then, after
a time, he did not come in at all. Still, of course, I never dared to
leave the room for an instant, for I was not sure when he might come,
and the billet was such a good one, and suited me so well, that I would
not risk the loss of it.
“Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about Abbots and
Archery and Armor and Architecture and Attica, and hoped with diligence
that I might get on to the B’s before very long. It cost me something
in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly filled a shelf with my writings.
And then suddenly the whole business came to an end.”
“To an end?”
“Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my work as usual
at ten o’clock, but the door was shut and locked, with a little square
of card-board hammered on to the middle of the panel with a tack. Here
it is, and you can read for yourself.”
He held up a piece of white card-board about the size of a sheet of
note-paper. It read in this fashion:
“THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE
IS
DISSOLVED.
_October 9, 1890._”
Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and the rueful
face behind it, until the comical side of the affair so completely
overtopped every other consideration that we both burst out into a roar
of laughter.
“I cannot see that there is anything very funny,” cried our client,
flushing up to the roots of his flaming head. “If you can do nothing
better than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere.”
“No, no,” cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from which he
had half risen. “I really wouldn’t miss your case for the world. It is
most refreshingly unusual. But there is, if you will excuse my saying
so, something just a little funny about it. Pray what steps did you
take when you found the card upon the door?”
“I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then I called at
the offices round, but none of them seemed to know anything about it.
Finally, I went to the landlord, who is an accountant living on the
ground-floor, and I asked him if he could tell me what had become of
the Red-headed League. He said that he had never heard of any such
body. Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He answered that the
name was new to him.
[Illustration: “THE DOOR WAS SHUT AND LOCKED”]
“‘Well,’ said I, ‘the gentleman at No. 4.’
“‘What, the red-headed man?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘Oh,’ said he, ‘his name was William Morris. He was a solicitor, and
was using my room as a temporary convenience until his new premises
were ready. He moved out yesterday.’
“‘Where could I find him?’
“‘Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, 17 King
Edward Street, near St. Paul’s.’
“I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it was a
manufactory of artificial knee-caps, and no one in it had ever heard of
either Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross.”
“And what did you do then?” asked Holmes.
“I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice of my
assistant. But he could not help me in any way. He could only say that
if I waited I should hear by post. But that was not quite good enough,
Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose such a place without a struggle, so,
as I had heard that you were good enough to give advice to poor folk
who were in need of it, I came right away to you.”
“And you did very wisely,” said Holmes. “Your case is an exceedingly
remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into it. From what you
have told me I think that it is possible that graver issues hang from
it than might at first sight appear.”
“Grave enough!” said Mr. Jabez Wilson. “Why, I have lost four pound a
week.”
“As far as you are personally concerned,” remarked Holmes, “I do not
see that you have any grievance against this extraordinary league. On
the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by some £30, to say
nothing of the minute knowledge which you have gained on every subject
which comes under the letter A. You have lost nothing by them.”
“No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they are, and what
their object was in playing this prank—if it was a prank—upon me. It
was a pretty expensive joke for them, for it cost them two and thirty
pounds.”
“We shall endeavor to clear up these points for you. And, first, one
or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours who first called
your attention to the advertisement—how long had he been with you?”
“About a month then.”
“How did he come?”
“In answer to an advertisement.”
“Was he the only applicant?”
“No, I had a dozen.”
“Why did you pick him?”
“Because he was handy, and would come cheap.”
“At half-wages, in fact.”
“Yes.”
“What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?”
“Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his face,
though he’s not short of thirty. Has a white splash of acid upon his
forehead.”
Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. “I thought as
much,” said he. “Have you ever observed that his ears are pierced for
earrings?”
“Yes, sir. He told me that a gypsy had done it for him when he was a
lad.”
“Hum!” said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. “He is still with
you?”
“Oh yes, sir; I have only just left him.”
“And has your business been attended to in your absence?”
“Nothing to complain of, sir. There’s never very much to do of a
morning.”
“That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an opinion upon
the subject in the course of a day or two. To-day is Saturday, and I
hope that by Monday we may come to a conclusion.”
“Well, Watson,” said Holmes, when our visitor had left us, “what do you
make of it all?”
“I make nothing of it,” I answered, frankly. “It is a most mysterious
business.”
“As a rule,” said Holmes, “the more bizarre a thing is the less
mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless crimes
which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the most
difficult to identify. But I must be prompt over this matter.”
“What are you going to do, then?” I asked.
“To smoke,” he answered. “It is quite a three-pipe problem, and I beg
that you won’t speak to me for fifty minutes.” He curled himself up
in his chair, with his thin knees drawn up to his hawk-like nose, and
there he sat with his eyes closed and his black clay pipe thrusting out
like the bill of some strange bird. I had come to the conclusion that
he had dropped asleep, and indeed was nodding myself, when he suddenly
sprang out of his chair with the gesture of a man who has made up his
mind, and put his pipe down upon the mantel-piece.
“Sarasate plays at the St. James’s Hall this afternoon,” he remarked.
“What do you think, Watson? Could your patients spare you for a few
hours?”
“I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very absorbing.”
“Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the city first, and
we can have some lunch on the way. I observe that there is a good deal
of German music on the programme, which is rather more to my taste than
Italian or French. It is introspective, and I want to introspect. Come
along!”
We travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a short walk
took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the singular story which we
had listened to in the morning. It was a pokey, little, shabby-genteel
place, where four lines of dingy two-storied brick houses looked out
into a small railed-in enclosure, where a lawn of weedy grass and
a few clumps of faded laurel-bushes made a hard fight against a
smoke-laden and uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls and a brown
board with “JABEZ WILSON” in white letters, upon a corner
house, announced the place where our red-headed client carried on his
business. Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it with his head on one
side, and looked it all over, with his eyes shining brightly between
puckered lids. Then he walked slowly up the street, and then down again
to the corner, still looking keenly at the houses. Finally he returned
to the pawnbroker’s, and, having thumped vigorously upon the pavement
with his stick two or three times, he went up to the door and knocked.
It was instantly opened by a bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow,
who asked him to step in.
“Thank you,” said Holmes, “I only wished to ask you how you would go
from here to the Strand.”
“Third right, fourth left,” answered the assistant, promptly, closing
the door.
“Smart fellow, that,” observed Holmes, as we walked away. “He is, in my
judgment, the fourth smartest man in London, and for daring I am not
sure that he has not a claim to be third. I have known something of him
before.”
“Evidently,” said I, “Mr. Wilson’s assistant counts for a good deal in
this mystery of the Red-headed League. I am sure that you inquired your
way merely in order that you might see him.”
“Not him.”
“What then?”
“The knees of his trousers.”
“And what did you see?”
“What I expected to see.”
“Why did you beat the pavement?”
“My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We are
spies in an enemy’s country. We know something of Saxe-Coburg Square.
Let us now explore the parts which lie behind it.”
The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the corner
from the retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a contrast to
it as the front of a picture does to the back. It was one of the main
arteries which convey the traffic of the city to the north and west.
The roadway was blocked with the immense stream of commerce flowing
in a double tide inward and outward, while the foot-paths were black
with the hurrying swarm of pedestrians. It was difficult to realize
as we looked at the line of fine shops and stately business premises
that they really abutted on the other side upon the faded and stagnant
square which we had just quitted.
“Let me see,” said Holmes, standing at the corner, and glancing along
the line, “I should like just to remember the order of the houses here.
It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of London. There is
Mortimer’s, the tobacconist, the little newspaper shop, the Coburg
branch of the City and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian Restaurant, and
McFarlane’s carriage-building depot. That carries us right on to the
other block. And now, doctor, we’ve done our work, so it’s time we had
some play. A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land,
where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony, and there are no
red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums.”
My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only a
very capable performer, but a composer of no ordinary merit. All the
afternoon he sat in the stalls wrapped in the most perfect happiness,
gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to the music, while his
gently smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes were as unlike those
of Holmes, the sleuth-hound, Holmes the relentless, keen-witted,
ready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible to conceive. In his
singular character the dual nature alternately asserted itself, and
his extreme exactness and astuteness represented, as I have often
thought, the reaction against the poetic and contemplative mood which
occasionally predominated in him. The swing of his nature took him from
extreme languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, he was never
so truly formidable as when, for days on end, he had been lounging in
his arm-chair amid his improvisations and his black-letter editions.
Then it was that the lust of the chase would suddenly come upon him,
and that his brilliant reasoning power would rise to the level of
intuition, until those who were unacquainted with his methods would
look askance at him as on a man whose knowledge was not that of other
mortals. When I saw him that afternoon so enrapt in the music at St.
James’s Hall I felt that an evil time might be coming upon those whom
he had set himself to hunt down.
“You want to go home, no doubt, doctor,” he remarked, as we emerged.
“Yes, it would be as well.”
“And I have some business to do which will take some hours. This
business at Coburg Square is serious.”
“Why serious?”
“A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason to
believe that we shall be in time to stop it. But to-day being Saturday
rather complicates matters. I shall want your help to-night.”
“At what time?”
“Ten will be early enough.”
“I shall be at Baker Street at ten.”
“Very well. And, I say, doctor, there may be some little danger, so
kindly put your army revolver in your pocket.” He waved his hand,
turned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant among the crowd.
[Illustration: “ALL AFTERNOON HE SAT IN THE STALLS”]
I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbors, but I was always
oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my dealings with Sherlock
Holmes. Here I had heard what he had heard, I had seen what he had
seen, and yet from his words it was evident that he saw clearly not
only what had happened, but what was about to happen, while to me the
whole business was still confused and grotesque. As I drove home to
my house in Kensington I thought over it all, from the extraordinary
story of the red-headed copier of the “Encyclopædia” down to the visit
to Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous words with which he had parted
from me. What was this nocturnal expedition, and why should I go armed?
Where were we going, and what were we to do? I had the hint from Holmes
that this smooth-faced pawnbroker’s assistant was a formidable man—a
man who might play a deep game. I tried to puzzle it out, but gave it
up in despair, and set the matter aside until night should bring an
explanation.
It was a quarter past nine when I started from home and made my way
across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two
hansoms were standing at the door, and, as I entered the passage, I
heard the sound of voices from above. On entering his room I found
Holmes in animated conversation with two men, one of whom I recognized
as Peter Jones, the official police agent, while the other was a long,
thin, sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat and oppressively respectable
frock-coat.
“Ha! our party is complete,” said Holmes, buttoning up his pea-jacket,
and taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack. “Watson, I think
you know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr.
Merryweather, who is to be our companion in to-night’s adventure.”
“We’re hunting in couples again, doctor, you see,” said Jones, in his
consequential way. “Our friend here is a wonderful man for starting a
chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him to do the running down.”
“I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase,”
observed Mr. Merryweather, gloomily.
“You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir,” said the
police agent, loftily. “He has his own little methods, which are, if he
won’t mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical and fantastic,
but he has the makings of a detective in him. It is not too much to
say that once or twice, as in that business of the Sholto murder and
the Agra treasure, he has been more nearly correct than the official
force.”
“Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right,” said the stranger,
with deference. “Still, I confess that I miss my rubber. It is the
first Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I have not had my
rubber.”
“I think you will find,” said Sherlock Holmes, “that you will play for
a higher stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and that the play
will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will be
some £30,000; and for you, Jones, it will be the man upon whom you wish
to lay your hands.”
“John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He’s a young man,
Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession, and I would
rather have my bracelets on him than on any criminal in London. He’s a
remarkable man, is young John Clay. His grandfather was a royal duke,
and he himself has been to Eton and Oxford. His brain is as cunning as
his fingers, and though we meet signs of him at every turn, we never
know where to find the man himself. He’ll crack a crib in Scotland one
week, and be raising money to build an orphanage in Cornwall the next.
I’ve been on his track for years, and have never set eyes on him yet.”
“I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night. I’ve
had one or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I agree with
you that he is at the head of his profession. It is past ten, however,
and quite time that we started. If you two will take the first hansom,
Watson and I will follow in the second.”
Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive,
and lay back in the cab humming the tunes which he had heard in the
afternoon. We rattled through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit streets
until we emerged into Farringdon Street.
“We are close there now,” my friend remarked. “This fellow Merryweather
is a bank director, and personally interested in the matter. I thought
it as well to have Jones with us also. He is not a bad fellow, though
an absolute imbecile in his profession. He has one positive virtue. He
is as brave as a bull-dog, and as tenacious as a lobster if he gets his
claws upon any one. Here we are, and they are waiting for us.”
We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had found
ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and, following
the guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a narrow passage
and through a side door, which he opened for us. Within there was a
small corridor, which ended in a very massive iron gate. This also was
opened, and led down a flight of winding stone steps, which terminated
at another formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped to light a
lantern, and then conducted us down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and
so, after opening a third door, into a huge vault or cellar, which was
piled all round with crates and massive boxes.
“You are not very vulnerable from above,” Holmes remarked, as he held
up the lantern and gazed about him.
“Nor from below,” said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon the
flags which lined the floor. “Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow!” he
remarked, looking up in surprise.
“I must really ask you to be a little more quiet,” said Holmes,
severely. “You have already imperilled the whole success of our
expedition. Might I beg that you would have the goodness to sit down
upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?”
The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a very
injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his knees
upon the floor, and, with the lantern and a magnifying lens, began to
examine minutely the cracks between the stones. A few seconds sufficed
to satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again, and put his glass in
his pocket.
“We have at least an hour before us,” he remarked; “for they can
hardly take any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed.
Then they will not lose a minute, for the sooner they do their work
the longer time they will have for their escape. We are at present,
doctor—as no doubt you have divined—in the cellar of the city branch
of one of the principal London banks. Mr. Merryweather is the chairman
of directors, and he will explain to you that there are reasons why the
more daring criminals of London should take a considerable interest in
this cellar at present.”
“It is our French gold,” whispered the director. “We have had several
warnings that an attempt might be made upon it.”
“Your French gold?”
“Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our resources, and
borrowed, for that purpose, 30,000 napoleons from the Bank of France.
It has become known that we have never had occasion to unpack the
money, and that it is still lying in our cellar. The crate upon which
I sit contains 2000 napoleons packed between layers of lead foil. Our
reserve of bullion is much larger at present than is usually kept in a
single branch office, and the directors have had misgivings upon the
subject.”
“Which were very well justified,” observed Holmes. “And now it is time
that we arranged our little plans. I expect that within an hour matters
will come to a head. In the mean time, Mr. Merryweather, we must put
the screen over that dark lantern.”
“And sit in the dark?”
“I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket, and I
thought that, as we were a _partie carrée_, you might have your rubber
after all. But I see that the enemy’s preparations have gone so far
that we cannot risk the presence of a light. And, first of all, we must
choose our positions. These are daring men, and though we shall take
them at a disadvantage, they may do us some harm unless we are careful.
I shall stand behind this crate, and do you conceal yourselves behind
those. Then, when I flash a light upon them, close in swiftly. If they
fire, Watson, have no compunction about shooting them down.”
I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden case behind
which I crouched. Holmes shot the slide across the front of his
lantern, and left us in pitch darkness—such an absolute darkness
as I have never before experienced. The smell of hot metal remained
to assure us that the light was still there, ready to flash out at
a moment’s notice. To me, with my nerves worked up to a pitch of
expectancy, there was something depressing and subduing in the sudden
gloom, and in the cold, dank air of the vault.
“They have but one retreat,” whispered Holmes. “That is back through
the house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you have done what I
asked you, Jones?”
“I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door.”
“Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be silent and
wait.”
What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it was but an
hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the night must have
almost gone, and the dawn be breaking above us. My limbs were weary and
stiff, for I feared to change my position; yet my nerves were worked
up to the highest pitch of tension, and my hearing was so acute that I
could not only hear the gentle breathing of my companions, but I could
distinguish the deeper, heavier in-breath of the bulky Jones from the
thin, sighing note of the bank director. From my position I could look
over the case in the direction of the floor. Suddenly my eyes caught
the glint of a light.
At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then it
lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then, without any
warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand appeared; a white,
almost womanly hand, which felt about in the centre of the little area
of light. For a minute or more the hand, with its writhing fingers,
protruded out of the floor. Then it was withdrawn as suddenly as it
appeared, and all was dark again save the single lurid spark which
marked a chink between the stones.
Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a rending, tearing
sound, one of the broad, white stones turned over upon its side, and
left a square, gaping hole, through which streamed the light of a
lantern. Over the edge there peeped a clean-cut, boyish face, which
looked keenly about it, and then, with a hand on either side of the
aperture, drew itself shoulder-high and waist-high, until one knee
rested upon the edge. In another instant he stood at the side of the
hole, and was hauling after him a companion, lithe and small like
himself, with a pale face and a shock of very red hair.
“It’s all clear,” he whispered. “Have you the chisel and the bags.
Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, and I’ll swing for it!”
Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the collar.
The other dived down the hole, and I heard the sound of rending cloth
as Jones clutched at his skirts. The light flashed upon the barrel of a
revolver, but Holmes’s hunting crop came down on the man’s wrist, and
the pistol clinked upon the stone floor.
“It’s no use, John Clay,” said Holmes, blandly. “You have no chance at
all.”
“So I see,” the other answered, with the utmost coolness. “I fancy that
my pal is all right, though I see you have got his coat-tails.”
“There are three men waiting for him at the door,” said Holmes.
“Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing very completely. I must
compliment you.”
“And I you,” Holmes answered. “Your red-headed idea was very new and
effective.”
“You’ll see your pal again presently,” said Jones. “He’s quicker at
climbing down holes than I am. Just hold out while I fix the derbies.”
“I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands,” remarked
our prisoner, as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists. “You may not
be aware that I have royal blood in my veins. Have the goodness, also,
when you address me always to say ‘sir’ and ‘please.’”
“All right,” said Jones, with a stare and a snigger. “Well, would you
please, sir, march up-stairs, where we can get a cab to carry your
highness to the police-station?”
“That is better,” said John Clay, serenely. He made a sweeping bow to
the three of us, and walked quietly off in the custody of the detective.
“Really Mr. Holmes,” said Mr. Merryweather, as we followed them from
the cellar, “I do not know how the bank can thank you or repay you.
There is no doubt that you have detected and defeated in the most
complete manner one of the most determined attempts at bank robbery
that have ever come within my experience.”
“I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr.
John Clay,” said Holmes. “I have been at some small expense over this
matter, which I shall expect the bank to refund, but beyond that I am
amply repaid by having had an experience which is in many ways unique,
and by hearing the very remarkable narrative of the Red-headed League.”
* * * * *
“You see, Watson,” he explained, in the early hours of the morning,
as we sat over a glass of whiskey-and-soda in Baker Street, “it was
perfectly obvious from the first that the only possible object of this
rather fantastic business of the advertisement of the League, and the
copying of the ‘Encyclopædia,’ must be to get this not over-bright
pawnbroker out of the way for a number of hours every day. It was a
curious way of managing it, but, really, it would be difficult to
suggest a better. The method was no doubt suggested to Clay’s ingenious
mind by the color of his accomplice’s hair. The £4 a week was a lure
which must draw him, and what was it to them, who were playing for
thousands? They put in the advertisement, one rogue has the temporary
office, the other rogue incites the man to apply for it, and together
they manage to secure his absence every morning in the week. From
the time that I heard of the assistant having come for half wages,
it was obvious to me that he had some strong motive for securing the
situation.”
“But how could you guess what the motive was?”
“Had there been women in the house, I should have suspected a mere
vulgar intrigue. That, however, was out of the question. The man’s
business was a small one, and there was nothing in his house which
could account for such elaborate preparations, and such an expenditure
as they were at. It must, then, be something out of the house. What
could it be? I thought of the assistant’s fondness for photography,
and his trick of vanishing into the cellar. The cellar! There was the
end of this tangled clue. Then I made inquiries as to this mysterious
assistant, and found that I had to deal with one of the coolest
and most daring criminals in London. He was doing something in the
cellar—something which took many hours a day for months on end. What
could it be, once more? I could think of nothing save that he was
running a tunnel to some other building.
“So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action. I
surprised you by beating upon the pavement with my stick. I was
ascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or behind.
It was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the
assistant answered it. We have had some skirmishes, but we had never
set eyes upon each other before. I hardly looked at his face. His
knees were what I wished to see. You must yourself have remarked how
worn, wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke of those hours of
burrowing. The only remaining point was what they were burrowing for. I
walked round the corner, saw that the City and Suburban Bank abutted on
our friend’s premises, and felt that I had solved my problem. When you
drove home after the concert I called upon Scotland Yard, and upon the
chairman of the bank directors, with the result that you have seen.”
“And how could you tell that they would make their attempt to-night?” I
asked.
“Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign that they
cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson’s presence—in other words,
that they had completed their tunnel. But it was essential that they
should use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the bullion might
be removed. Saturday would suit them better than any other day, as it
would give them two days for their escape. For all these reasons I
expected them to come to-night.”
“You reasoned it out beautifully,” I exclaimed, in unfeigned
admiration. “It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings true.”
“It saved me from ennui,” he answered, yawning. “Alas! I already feel
it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort to escape
from the commonplaces of existence. These little problems help me to do
so.”
“And you are a benefactor of the race,” said I.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, perhaps, after all, it is of some
little use,” he remarked. “‘L’homme c’est rien—l’oeuvre c’est
tout,’ as Gustave Flaubert wrote to Georges Sand.”
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