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Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings, save upon
those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night, was seated at the
breakfast table. I stood upon the hearth-rug and picked up the stick which our
visitor had left behind him the night before. It was a fine, thick piece of wood,
bulbous-headed, of the sort which is known as a "Penang lawyer." Just under
the head was a broad silver band nearly an inch across. "To James Mortimer,
M.R.C.S., from his friends of the C.C.H.," was engraved upon it, with the date
"1884." It was just such a stick as the old-fashioned family practitioner used to
carry—dignified, solid, and reassuring.
"Well, Watson, what do you make of it?"
Holmes was sitting with his back to me, and I had given him no sign of my
occupation.
"How did you know what I was doing? I believe you have eyes in the back of
your head."
"I have, at least, a well-polished, silver-plated coffee-pot in front of me," said
he. "But, tell me, Watson, what do you make of our visitor's stick? Since we
have been so unfortunate as to miss him and have no notion of his errand, this
accidental souvenir becomes of importance. Let me hear you reconstruct the
man by an examination of it."
"I think," said I, following as far as I could the methods of my companion,
"that Dr. Mortimer is a successful, elderly medical man, well-esteemed since
those who know him give him this mark of their appreciation."
"Good!" said Holmes. "Excellent!"
"I think also that the probability is in favour of his being a country practitioner
who does a great deal of his visiting on foot."
"Why so?"
"Because this stick, though originally a very handsome one has been so
knocked about that I can hardly imagine a town practitioner carrying it. The
thick-iron ferrule is worn down, so it is evident that he has done a great
amount of walking with it."
"Perfectly sound!" said Holmes.
"And then again, there is the 'friends of the C.C.H.' I should guess that to be
the Something Hunt, the local hunt to whose members he has possibly given
some surgical assistance, and which has made him a small presentation in
return."
"Really, Watson, you excel yourself," said Holmes, pushing back his chair and
lighting a cigarette. "I am bound to say that in all the accounts which you have
been so good as to give of my own small achievements you have habitually
underrated your own abilities. It may be that you are not yourself luminous,
but you are a conductor of light. Some people without possessing genius have
a remarkable power of stimulating it. I confess, my dear fellow, that I am very
much in your debt."
He had never said as much before, and I must admit that his words gave me
keen pleasure, for I had often been piqued by his indifference to my
admiration and to the attempts which I had made to give publicity to his
methods. I was proud, too, to think that I had so far mastered his system as to
apply it in a way which earned his approval. He now took the stick from my
hands and examined it for a few minutes with his naked eyes. Then with an
expression of interest he laid down his cigarette, and carrying the cane to the
window, he looked over it again with a convex lens.
"Interesting, though elementary," said he as he returned to his favourite corner
of the settee. "There are certainly one or two indications upon the stick. It
gives us the basis for several deductions."
"Has anything escaped me?" I asked with some self-importance. "I trust that
there is nothing of consequence which I have overlooked?"
"I am afraid, my dear Watson, that most of your conclusions were erroneous.
When I said that you stimulated me I meant, to be frank, that in noting your
fallacies I was occasionally guided towards the truth. Not that you are entirely
wrong in this instance. The man is certainly a country practitioner. And he
walks a good deal."
"Then I was right."
"To that extent."
"But that was all."
"No, no, my dear Watson, not all—by no means all. I would suggest, for
example, that a presentation to a doctor is more likely to come from a hospital
than from a hunt, and that when the initials 'C.C.' are placed before that
hospital the words 'Charing Cross' very naturally suggest themselves."
"You may be right."
"The probability lies in that direction. And if we take this as a working
hypothesis we have a fresh basis from which to start our construction of this
unknown visitor."
"Well, then, supposing that 'C.C.H.' does stand for 'Charing Cross Hospital,'
what further inferences may we draw?"
"Do none suggest themselves? You know my methods. Apply them!"
"I can only think of the obvious conclusion that the man has practised in town
before going to the country."
"I think that we might venture a little farther than this. Look at it in this light.
On what occasion would it be most probable that such a presentation would be
made? When would his friends unite to give him a pledge of their good will?
Obviously at the moment when Dr. Mortimer withdrew from the service of the
hospital in order to start a practice for himself. We know there has been a
presentation. We believe there has been a change from a town hospital to a
country practice. Is it, then, stretching our inference too far to say that the
presentation was on the occasion of the change?"
"It certainly seems probable."
"Now, you will observe that he could not have been on the staff of the
hospital, since only a man well-established in a London practice could hold
such a position, and such a one would not drift into the country. What was he,
then? If he was in the hospital and yet not on the staff he could only have been
a house-surgeon or a house-physician—little more than a senior student. And
he left five years ago—the date is on the stick. So your grave, middle-aged
family practitioner vanishes into thin air, my dear Watson, and there emerges a
young fellow under thirty, amiable, unambitious, absent-minded, and the
possessor of a favourite dog, which I should describe roughly as being larger
than a terrier and smaller than a mastiff."
I laughed incredulously as Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his settee and blew
little wavering rings of smoke up to the ceiling.
"As to the latter part, I have no means of checking you," said I, "but at least it
is not difficult to find out a few particulars about the man's age and
professional career." From my small medical shelf I took down the Medical
Directory and turned up the name. There were several Mortimers, but only one
who could be our visitor. I read his record aloud.
"Mortimer, James, M.R.C.S., 1882, Grimpen, Dartmoor, Devon.
House-surgeon, from 1882 to 1884, at Charing Cross Hospital.
Winner of the Jackson prize for Comparative Pathology,
with essay entitled 'Is Disease a Reversion?' Corresponding
member of the Swedish Pathological Society. Author of
'Some Freaks of Atavism' (Lancet 1882). 'Do We Progress?'
(Journal of Psychology, March, 1883). Medical Officer
for the parishes of Grimpen, Thorsley, and High Barrow."
"No mention of that local hunt, Watson," said Holmes with a mischievous
smile, "but a country doctor, as you very astutely observed. I think that I am
fairly justified in my inferences. As to the adjectives, I said, if I remember
right, amiable, unambitious, and absent-minded. It is my experience that it is
only an amiable man in this world who receives testimonials, only an
unambitious one who abandons a London career for the country, and only an
absent-minded one who leaves his stick and not his visiting-card after waiting
an hour in your room."
"And the dog?"
"Has been in the habit of carrying this stick behind his master. Being a heavy
stick the dog has held it tightly by the middle, and the marks of his teeth are
very plainly visible. The dog's jaw, as shown in the space between these
marks, is too broad in my opinion for a terrier and not broad enough for a
mastiff. It may have been—yes, by Jove, it is a curly-haired spaniel."
He had risen and paced the room as he spoke. Now he halted in the recess of
the window. There was such a ring of conviction in his voice that I glanced up
in surprise.
"My dear fellow, how can you possibly be so sure of that?"
"For the very simple reason that I see the dog himself on our very door-step,
and there is the ring of its owner. Don't move, I beg you, Watson. He is a
professional brother of yours, and your presence may be of assistance to me.
Now is the dramatic moment of fate, Watson, when you hear a step upon the
stair which is walking into your life, and you know not whether for good or ill.
What does Dr. James Mortimer, the man of science, ask of Sherlock Holmes,
the specialist in crime? Come in!"
The appearance of our visitor was a surprise to me, since I had expected a
typical country practitioner. He was a very tall, thin man, with a long nose like
a beak, which jutted out between two keen, gray eyes, set closely together and
sparkling brightly from behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. He was clad in a
professional but rather slovenly fashion, for his frock-coat was dingy and his
trousers frayed. Though young, his long back was already bowed, and he
walked with a forward thrust of his head and a general air of peering
benevolence. As he entered his eyes fell upon the stick in Holmes's hand, and
he ran towards it with an exclamation of joy. "I am so very glad," said he. "I
was not sure whether I had left it here or in the Shipping Office. I would not
lose that stick for the world."
"A presentation, I see," said Holmes.
"Yes, sir."
"From Charing Cross Hospital?"
"From one or two friends there on the occasion of my marriage."
"Dear, dear, that's bad!" said Holmes, shaking his head.
Dr. Mortimer blinked through his glasses in mild astonishment. "Why was it
bad?"
"Only that you have disarranged our little deductions. Your marriage, you
say?"
"Yes, sir. I married, and so left the hospital, and with it all hopes of a
consulting practice. It was necessary to make a home of my own."
"Come, come, we are not so far wrong, after all," said Holmes. "And now, Dr.
James Mortimer—"
"Mister, sir, Mister—a humble M.R.C.S."
"And a man of precise mind, evidently."
"A dabbler in science, Mr. Holmes, a picker up of shells on the shores of the
great unknown ocean. I presume that it is Mr. Sherlock Holmes whom I am
addressing and not—"
"No, this is my friend Dr. Watson."
"Glad to meet you, sir. I have heard your name mentioned in connection with
that of your friend. You interest me very much, Mr. Holmes. I had hardly
expected so dolichocephalic a skull or such well-marked supra-orbital
development. Would you have any objection to my running my finger along
your parietal fissure? A cast of your skull, sir, until the original is available,
would be an ornament to any anthropological museum. It is not my intention
to be fulsome, but I confess that I covet your skull."
Sherlock Holmes waved our strange visitor into a chair. "You are an enthusiast
in your line of thought, I perceive, sir, as I am in mine," said he. "I observe
from your forefinger that you make your own cigarettes. Have no hesitation in
lighting one."
The man drew out paper and tobacco and twirled the one up in the other with
surprising dexterity. He had long, quivering fingers as agile and restless as the
antennae of an insect.
Holmes was silent, but his little darting glances showed me the interest which
he took in our curious companion. "I presume, sir," said he at last, "that it was
not merely for the purpose of examining my skull that you have done me the
honour to call here last night and again today?"
"No, sir, no; though I am happy to have had the opportunity of doing that as
well. I came to you, Mr. Holmes, because I recognized that I am myself an
unpractical man and because I am suddenly confronted with a most serious
and extraordinary problem. Recognizing, as I do, that you are the second
highest expert in Europe—"
"Indeed, sir! May I inquire who has the honour to be the first?" asked Holmes
with some asperity.
"To the man of precisely scientific mind the work of Monsieur Bertillon must
always appeal strongly."
"Then had you not better consult him?"
"I said, sir, to the precisely scientific mind. But as a practical man of affairs it
is acknowledged that you stand alone. I trust, sir, that I have not inadvertently
—"
"Just a little," said Holmes. "I think, Dr. Mortimer, you would do wisely if
without more ado you would kindly tell me plainly what the exact nature of
the problem is in which you demand my assistance."
Chapter 2. The Curse of the Baskervilles
"I have in my pocket a manuscript," said Dr. James Mortimer.
"I observed it as you entered the room," said Holmes.
"It is an old manuscript."
"Early eighteenth century, unless it is a forgery."
"How can you say that, sir?"
"You have presented an inch or two of it to my examination all the time that
you have been talking. It would be a poor expert who could not give the date
of a document within a decade or so. You may possibly have read my little
monograph upon the subject. I put that at 1730."
"The exact date is 1742." Dr. Mortimer drew it from his breast-pocket. "This
family paper was committed to my care by Sir Charles Baskerville, whose
sudden and tragic death some three months ago created so much excitement in
Devonshire. I may say that I was his personal friend as well as his medical
attendant. He was a strong-minded man, sir, shrewd, practical, and as
unimaginative as I am myself. Yet he took this document very seriously, and
his mind was prepared for just such an end as did eventually overtake him."
Holmes stretched out his hand for the manuscript and flattened it upon his
knee. "You will observe, Watson, the alternative use of the long s and the
short. It is one of several indications which enabled me to fix the date."
I looked over his shoulder at the yellow paper and the faded script. At the head
was written: "Baskerville Hall," and below in large, scrawling figures: "1742."
"It appears to be a statement of some sort."
"Yes, it is a statement of a certain legend which runs in the Baskerville
family."
"But I understand that it is something more modern and practical upon which
you wish to consult me?"
"Most modern. A most practical, pressing matter, which must be decided
within twenty-four hours. But the manuscript is short and is intimately
connected with the affair. With your permission I will read it to you."
Holmes leaned back in his chair, placed his finger-tips together, and closed his
eyes, with an air of resignation. Dr. Mortimer turned the manuscript to the
light and read in a high, cracking voice the following curious, old-world
narrative:
"Of the origin of the Hound of the Baskervilles there
have been many statements, yet as I come in a direct
line from Hugo Baskerville, and as I had the story from
my father, who also had it from his, I have set it down
with all belief that it occurred even as is here set
forth. And I would have you believe, my sons, that the
same Justice which punishes sin may also most graciously
forgive it, and that no ban is so heavy but that by prayer
and repentance it may be removed. Learn then from this
story not to fear the fruits of the past, but rather to
be circumspect in the future, that those foul passions
whereby our family has suffered so grievously may not
again be loosed to our undoing.
"Know then that in the time of the Great Rebellion (the
history of which by the learned Lord Clarendon I most
earnestly commend to your attention) this Manor of
Baskerville was held by Hugo of that name, nor can it be
gainsaid that he was a most wild, profane, and godless
man. This, in truth, his neighbours might have pardoned,
seeing that saints have never flourished in those parts,
but there was in him a certain wanton and cruel humour
which made his name a by-word through the West. It
chanced that this Hugo came to love (if, indeed, so dark
a passion may be known under so bright a name) the daughter
of a yeoman who held lands near the Baskerville estate.
But the young maiden, being discreet and of good repute,
would ever avoid him, for she feared his evil name. So
it came to pass that one Michaelmas this Hugo, with five
or six of his idle and wicked companions, stole down upon
the farm and carried off the maiden, her father and
brothers being from home, as he well knew. When they had
brought her to the Hall the maiden was placed in an upper
chamber, while Hugo and his friends sat down to a long
carouse, as was their nightly custom. Now, the poor lass
upstairs was like to have her wits turned at the singing
and shouting and terrible oaths which came up to her from
below, for they say that the words used by Hugo Baskerville,
when he was in wine, were such as might blast the man who
said them. At last in the stress of her fear she did that
which might have daunted the bravest or most active man,
for by the aid of the growth of ivy which covered (and
still covers) the south wall she came down from under the
eaves, and so homeward across the moor, there being three
leagues betwixt the Hall and her father's farm.
"It chanced that some little time later Hugo left his
guests to carry food and drink—with other worse things,
perchance—to his captive, and so found the cage empty
and the bird escaped. Then, as it would seem, he became
as one that hath a devil, for, rushing down the stairs
into the dining-hall, he sprang upon the great table,
flagons and trenchers flying before him, and he cried
aloud before all the company that he would that very
night render his body and soul to the Powers of Evil if
he might but overtake the wench. And while the revellers
stood aghast at the fury of the man, one more wicked or,
it may be, more drunken than the rest, cried out that
they should put the hounds upon her. Whereat Hugo ran
from the house, crying to his grooms that they should
saddle his mare and unkennel the pack, and giving the
hounds a kerchief of the maid's, he swung them to the
line, and so off full cry in the moonlight over the moor.
"Now, for some space the revellers stood agape, unable
to understand all that had been done in such haste. But
anon their bemused wits awoke to the nature of the deed
which was like to be done upon the moorlands. Everything
was now in an uproar, some calling for their pistols,
some for their horses, and some for another flask of
wine. But at length some sense came back to their crazed
minds, and the whole of them, thirteen in number, took
horse and started in pursuit. The moon shone clear above
them, and they rode swiftly abreast, taking that course
which the maid must needs have taken if she were to reach
her own home.
"They had gone a mile or two when they passed one of the
night shepherds upon the moorlands, and they cried to
him to know if he had seen the hunt. And the man, as
the story goes, was so crazed with fear that he could
scarce speak, but at last he said that he had indeed seen
the unhappy maiden, with the hounds upon her track. 'But
I have seen more than that,' said he, 'for Hugo Baskerville
passed me upon his black mare, and there ran mute behind
him such a hound of hell as God forbid should ever be at
my heels.' So the drunken squires cursed the shepherd
and rode onward. But soon their skins turned cold, for
there came a galloping across the moor, and the black
mare, dabbled with white froth, went past with trailing
bridle and empty saddle. Then the revellers rode close
together, for a great fear was on them, but they still
followed over the moor, though each, had he been alone,
would have been right glad to have turned his horse's
head. Riding slowly in this fashion they came at last
upon the hounds. These, though known for their valour
and their breed, were whimpering in a cluster at the
head of a deep dip or goyal, as we call it, upon the
moor, some slinking away and some, with starting hackles
and staring eyes, gazing down the narrow valley before them.
"The company had come to a halt, more sober men, as you
may guess, than when they started. The most of them
would by no means advance, but three of them, the boldest,
or it may be the most drunken, rode forward down the goyal.
Now, it opened into a broad space in which stood two of
those great stones, still to be seen there, which were
set by certain forgotten peoples in the days of old.
The moon was shining bright upon the clearing, and there
in the centre lay the unhappy maid where she had fallen,
dead of fear and of fatigue. But it was not the sight
of her body, nor yet was it that of the body of Hugo
Baskerville lying near her, which raised the hair upon
the heads of these three dare-devil roysterers, but it
was that, standing over Hugo, and plucking at his throat,
there stood a foul thing, a great, black beast, shaped
like a hound, yet larger than any hound that ever mortal
eye has rested upon. And even as they looked the thing
tore the throat out of Hugo Baskerville, on which, as it
turned its blazing eyes and dripping jaws upon them, the
three shrieked with fear and rode for dear life, still
screaming, across the moor. One, it is said, died that
very night of what he had seen, and the other twain were
but broken men for the rest of their days.
"Such is the tale, my sons, of the coming of the hound
which is said to have plagued the family so sorely ever
since. If I have set it down it is because that which
is clearly known hath less terror than that which is but
hinted at and guessed. Nor can it be denied that many
of the family have been unhappy in their deaths, which
have been sudden, bloody, and mysterious. Yet may we
shelter ourselves in the infinite goodness of Providence,
which would not forever punish the innocent beyond that
third or fourth generation which is threatened in Holy
Writ. To that Providence, my sons, I hereby commend
you, and I counsel you by way of caution to forbear from
crossing the moor in those dark hours when the powers of
evil are exalted.
"[This from Hugo Baskerville to his sons Rodger and John,
with instructions that they say nothing thereof to their
sister Elizabeth.]"
When Dr. Mortimer had finished reading this singular narrative he pushed his
spectacles up on his forehead and stared across at Mr. Sherlock Holmes. The
latter yawned and tossed the end of his cigarette into the fire.
"Well?" said he.
"Do you not find it interesting?"
"To a collector of fairy tales."
Dr. Mortimer drew a folded newspaper out of his pocket.
"Now, Mr. Holmes, we will give you something a little more recent. This is
the Devon County Chronicle of May 14th of this year. It is a short account of
the facts elicited at the death of Sir Charles Baskerville which occurred a few
days before that date."
My friend leaned a little forward and his expression became intent. Our visitor
readjusted his glasses and began:
"The recent sudden death of Sir Charles Baskerville, whose
name has been mentioned as the probable Liberal candidate
for Mid-Devon at the next election, has cast a gloom over
the county. Though Sir Charles had resided at Baskerville
Hall for a comparatively short period his amiability of
character and extreme generosity had won the affection
and respect of all who had been brought into contact with
him. In these days of nouveaux riches it is refreshing
to find a case where the scion of an old county family
which has fallen upon evil days is able to make his own
fortune and to bring it back with him to restore the
fallen grandeur of his line. Sir Charles, as is well known,
made large sums of money in South African speculation.
More wise than those who go on until the wheel turns
against them, he realized his gains and returned to England
with them. It is only two years since he took up his
residence at Baskerville Hall, and it is common talk how
large were those schemes of reconstruction and improvement
which have been interrupted by his death. Being himself
childless, it was his openly expressed desire that the
whole countryside should, within his own lifetime, profit
by his good fortune, and many will have personal reasons
for bewailing his untimely end. His generous donations
to local and county charities have been frequently
chronicled in these columns.
"The circumstances connected with the death of Sir Charles
cannot be said to have been entirely cleared up by the
inquest, but at least enough has been done to dispose of
those rumours to which local superstition has given rise.
There is no reason whatever to suspect foul play, or to
imagine that death could be from any but natural causes.
Sir Charles was a widower, and a man who may be said to
have been in some ways of an eccentric habit of mind.
In spite of his considerable wealth he was simple in his
personal tastes, and his indoor servants at Baskerville
Hall consisted of a married couple named Barrymore, the
husband acting as butler and the wife as housekeeper.
Their evidence, corroborated by that of several friends,
tends to show that Sir Charles's health has for some time
been impaired, and points especially to some affection
of the heart, manifesting itself in changes of colour,
breathlessness, and acute attacks of nervous depression.
Dr. James Mortimer, the friend and medical attendant of
the deceased, has given evidence to the same effect.
"The facts of the case are simple. Sir Charles Baskerville
was in the habit every night before going to bed of walking
down the famous yew alley of Baskerville Hall. The evidence
of the Barrymores shows that this had been his custom.
On the fourth of May Sir Charles had declared his intention
of starting next day for London, and had ordered Barrymore
to prepare his luggage. That night he went out as usual
for his nocturnal walk, in the course of which he was in
the habit of smoking a cigar. He never returned. At
twelve o'clock Barrymore, finding the hall door still open,
became alarmed, and, lighting a lantern, went in search
of his master. The day had been wet, and Sir Charles's
footmarks were easily traced down the alley. Halfway down
this walk there is a gate which leads out on to the moor.
There were indications that Sir Charles had stood for some
little time here. He then proceeded down the alley, and
it was at the far end of it that his body was discovered.
One fact which has not been explained is the statement
of Barrymore that his master's footprints altered their
character from the time that he passed the moor-gate, and
that he appeared from thence onward to have been walking
upon his toes. One Murphy, a gipsy horse-dealer, was on
the moor at no great distance at the time, but he appears
by his own confession to have been the worse for drink.
He declares that he heard cries but is unable to state
from what direction they came. No signs of violence were
to be discovered upon Sir Charles's person, and though
the doctor's evidence pointed to an almost incredible
facial distortion—so great that Dr. Mortimer refused at
first to believe that it was indeed his friend and patient
who lay before him—it was explained that that is a symptom
which is not unusual in cases of dyspnoea and death from
cardiac exhaustion. This explanation was borne out by
the post-mortem examination, which showed long-standing
organic disease, and the coroner's jury returned a
verdict in accordance with the medical evidence. It is
well that this is so, for it is obviously of the utmost
importance that Sir Charles's heir should settle at the
Hall and continue the good work which has been so sadly
interrupted. Had the prosaic finding of the coroner not
finally put an end to the romantic stories which have been
whispered in connection with the affair, it might have been
difficult to find a tenant for Baskerville Hall. It is
understood that the next of kin is Mr. Henry Baskerville,
if he be still alive, the son of Sir Charles Baskerville's
younger brother. The young man when last heard of was
in America, and inquiries are being instituted with a
view to informing him of his good fortune."
Dr. Mortimer refolded his paper and replaced it in his pocket. "Those are the
public facts, Mr. Holmes, in connection with the death of Sir Charles
Baskerville."
"I must thank you," said Sherlock Holmes, "for calling my attention to a case
which certainly presents some features of interest. I had observed some
newspaper comment at the time, but I was exceedingly preoccupied by that
little affair of the Vatican cameos, and in my anxiety to oblige the Pope I lost
touch with several interesting English cases. This article, you say, contains all
the public facts?"
"It does."
"Then let me have the private ones." He leaned back, put his finger-tips
together, and assumed his most impassive and judicial expression.
"In doing so," said Dr. Mortimer, who had begun to show signs of some strong
emotion, "I am telling that which I have not confided to anyone. My motive
for withholding it from the coroner's inquiry is that a man of science shrinks
from placing himself in the public position of seeming to indorse a popular
superstition. I had the further motive that Baskerville Hall, as the paper says,
would certainly remain untenanted if anything were done to increase its
already rather grim reputation. For both these reasons I thought that I was
justified in telling rather less than I knew, since no practical good could result
from it, but with you there is no reason why I should not be perfectly frank.
"The moor is very sparsely inhabited, and those who live near each other are
thrown very much together. For this reason I saw a good deal of Sir Charles
Baskerville. With the exception of Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, and Mr.
Stapleton, the naturalist, there are no other men of education within many
miles. Sir Charles was a retiring man, but the chance of his illness brought us
together, and a community of interests in science kept us so. He had brought
back much scientific information from South Africa, and many a charming
evening we have spent together discussing the comparative anatomy of the
Bushman and the Hottentot.
"Within the last few months it became increasingly plain to me that Sir
Charles's nervous system was strained to the breaking point. He had taken this
legend which I have read you exceedingly to heart—so much so that, although
he would walk in his own grounds, nothing would induce him to go out upon
the moor at night. Incredible as it may appear to you, Mr. Holmes, he was
honestly convinced that a dreadful fate overhung his family, and certainly the
records which he was able to give of his ancestors were not encouraging. The
idea of some ghastly presence constantly haunted him, and on more than one
occasion he has asked me whether I had on my medical journeys at night ever
seen any strange creature or heard the baying of a hound. The latter question
he put to me several times, and always with a voice which vibrated with
excitement.
"I can well remember driving up to his house in the evening some three weeks
before the fatal event. He chanced to be at his hall door. I had descended from
my gig and was standing in front of him, when I saw his eyes fix themselves
over my shoulder and stare past me with an expression of the most dreadful
horror. I whisked round and had just time to catch a glimpse of something
which I took to be a large black calf passing at the head of the drive. So
excited and alarmed was he that I was compelled to go down to the spot where
the animal had been and look around for it. It was gone, however, and the
incident appeared to make the worst impression upon his mind. I stayed with
him all the evening, and it was on that occasion, to explain the emotion which
he had shown, that he confided to my keeping that narrative which I read to
you when first I came. I mention this small episode because it assumes some
importance in view of the tragedy which followed, but I was convinced at the
time that the matter was entirely trivial and that his excitement had no
justification.
"It was at my advice that Sir Charles was about to go to London. His heart
was, I knew, affected, and the constant anxiety in which he lived, however
chimerical the cause of it might be, was evidently having a serious effect upon
his health. I thought that a few months among the distractions of town would
send him back a new man. Mr. Stapleton, a mutual friend who was much
concerned at his state of health, was of the same opinion. At the last instant
came this terrible catastrophe.
"On the night of Sir Charles's death Barrymore the butler, who made the
discovery, sent Perkins the groom on horseback to me, and as I was sitting up
late I was able to reach Baskerville Hall within an hour of the event. I checked
and corroborated all the facts which were mentioned at the inquest. I followed
the footsteps down the yew alley, I saw the spot at the moor-gate where he
seemed to have waited, I remarked the change in the shape of the prints after
that point, I noted that there were no other footsteps save those of Barrymore
on the soft gravel, and finally I carefully examined the body, which had not
been touched until my arrival. Sir Charles lay on his face, his arms out, his
fingers dug into the ground, and his features convulsed with some strong
emotion to such an extent that I could hardly have sworn to his identity. There
was certainly no physical injury of any kind. But one false statement was
made by Barrymore at the inquest. He said that there were no traces upon the
ground round the body. He did not observe any. But I did—some little distance
off, but fresh and clear."
"Footprints?"
"Footprints."
"A man's or a woman's?"
Dr. Mortimer looked strangely at us for an instant, and his voice sank almost
to a whisper as he answered.
"Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!"
Chapter 3. The Problem
I confess at these words a shudder passed through me. There was a thrill in the
doctor's voice which showed that he was himself deeply moved by that which
he told us. Holmes leaned forward in his excitement and his eyes had the hard,
dry glitter which shot from them when he was keenly interested.
"You saw this?"
"As clearly as I see you."
"And you said nothing?"
"What was the use?"
"How was it that no one else saw it?"
"The marks were some twenty yards from the body and no one gave them a
thought. I don't suppose I should have done so had I not known this legend."
"There are many sheep-dogs on the moor?"
"No doubt, but this was no sheep-dog."
"You say it was large?"
"Enormous."
"But it had not approached the body?"
"No."
"What sort of night was it?'
"Damp and raw."
"But not actually raining?"
"No."
"What is the alley like?"
"There are two lines of old yew hedge, twelve feet high and impenetrable. The
walk in the centre is about eight feet across."
"Is there anything between the hedges and the walk?"
"Yes, there is a strip of grass about six feet broad on either side."
"I understand that the yew hedge is penetrated at one point by a gate?"
"Yes, the wicket-gate which leads on to the moor."
"Is there any other opening?"
"None."
"So that to reach the yew alley one either has to come down it from the house
or else to enter it by the moor-gate?"
"There is an exit through a summer-house at the far end."
"Had Sir Charles reached this?"
"No; he lay about fifty yards from it."
"Now, tell me, Dr. Mortimer—and this is important—the marks which you
saw were on the path and not on the grass?"
"No marks could show on the grass."
"Were they on the same side of the path as the moor-gate?"
"Yes; they were on the edge of the path on the same side as the moor-gate."
"You interest me exceedingly. Another point. Was the wicket-gate closed?"
"Closed and padlocked."
"How high was it?"
"About four feet high."
"Then anyone could have got over it?"
"Yes."
"And what marks did you see by the wicket-gate?"
"None in particular."
"Good heaven! Did no one examine?"
"Yes, I examined, myself."
"And found nothing?"
"It was all very confused. Sir Charles had evidently stood there for five or ten
minutes."
"How do you know that?"
"Because the ash had twice dropped from his cigar."
"Excellent! This is a colleague, Watson, after our own heart. But the marks?"
"He had left his own marks all over that small patch of gravel. I could discern
no others."
Sherlock Holmes struck his hand against his knee with an impatient gesture.
"If I had only been there!" he cried. "It is evidently a case of extraordinary
interest, and one which presented immense opportunities to the scientific
expert. That gravel page upon which I might have read so much has been long
ere this smudged by the rain and defaced by the clogs of curious peasants. Oh,
Dr. Mortimer, Dr. Mortimer, to think that you should not have called me in!
You have indeed much to answer for."
"I could not call you in, Mr. Holmes, without disclosing these facts to the
world, and I have already given my reasons for not wishing to do so. Besides,
besides—"
"Why do you hesitate?"
"There is a realm in which the most acute and most experienced of detectives
is helpless."
"You mean that the thing is supernatural?"
"I did not positively say so."
"No, but you evidently think it."
"Since the tragedy, Mr. Holmes, there have come to my ears several incidents
which are hard to reconcile with the settled order of Nature."
"For example?"
"I find that before the terrible event occurred several people had seen a
creature upon the moor which corresponds with this Baskerville demon, and
which could not possibly be any animal known to science. They all agreed that
it was a huge creature, luminous, ghastly, and spectral. I have cross-examined
these men, one of them a hard-headed countryman, one a farrier, and one a
moorland farmer, who all tell the same story of this dreadful apparition,
exactly corresponding to the hell-hound of the legend. I assure you that there
is a reign of terror in the district, and that it is a hardy man who will cross the
moor at night."
"And you, a trained man of science, believe it to be supernatural?"
"I do not know what to believe."
Holmes shrugged his shoulders. "I have hitherto confined my investigations to
this world," said he. "In a modest way I have combated evil, but to take on the
Father of Evil himself would, perhaps, be too ambitious a task. Yet you must
admit that the footmark is material."
"The original hound was material enough to tug a man's throat out, and yet he
was diabolical as well."
"I see that you have quite gone over to the supernaturalists. But now, Dr.
Mortimer, tell me this. If you hold these views, why have you come to consult
me at all? You tell me in the same breath that it is useless to investigate Sir
Charles's death, and that you desire me to do it."
"I did not say that I desired you to do it."
"Then, how can I assist you?"
"By advising me as to what I should do with Sir Henry Baskerville, who
arrives at Waterloo Station"—Dr. Mortimer looked at his watch—"in exactly
one hour and a quarter."
"He being the heir?"
"Yes. On the death of Sir Charles we inquired for this young gentleman and
found that he had been farming in Canada. From the accounts which have
reached us he is an excellent fellow in every way. I speak now not as a
medical man but as a trustee and executor of Sir Charles's will."
"There is no other claimant, I presume?"
"None. The only other kinsman whom we have been able to trace was Rodger
Baskerville, the youngest of three brothers of whom poor Sir Charles was the
elder. The second brother, who died young, is the father of this lad Henry. The
third, Rodger, was the black sheep of the family. He came of the old masterful
Baskerville strain and was the very image, they tell me, of the family picture
of old Hugo. He made England too hot to hold him, fled to Central America,
and died there in 1876 of yellow fever. Henry is the last of the Baskervilles. In
one hour and five minutes I meet him at Waterloo Station. I have had a wire
that he arrived at Southampton this morning. Now, Mr. Holmes, what would
you advise me to do with him?"
"Why should he not go to the home of his fathers?"
"It seems natural, does it not? And yet, consider that every Baskerville who
goes there meets with an evil fate. I feel sure that if Sir Charles could have
spoken with me before his death he would have warned me against bringing
this, the last of the old race, and the heir to great wealth, to that deadly place.
And yet it cannot be denied that the prosperity of the whole poor, bleak
countryside depends upon his presence. All the good work which has been
done by Sir Charles will crash to the ground if there is no tenant of the Hall. I
fear lest I should be swayed too much by my own obvious interest in the
matter, and that is why I bring the case before you and ask for your advice."
Holmes considered for a little time.
"Put into plain words, the matter is this," said he. "In your opinion there is a
diabolical agency which makes Dartmoor an unsafe abode for a Baskerville—
that is your opinion?"
"At least I might go the length of saying that there is some evidence that this
may be so."
"Exactly. But surely, if your supernatural theory be correct, it could work the
young man evil in London as easily as in Devonshire. A devil with merely
local powers like a parish vestry would be too inconceivable a thing."
"You put the matter more flippantly, Mr. Holmes, than you would probably do
if you were brought into personal contact with these things. Your advice, then,
as I understand it, is that the young man will be as safe in Devonshire as in
London. He comes in fifty minutes. What would you recommend?"
"I recommend, sir, that you take a cab, call off your spaniel who is scratching
at my front door, and proceed to Waterloo to meet Sir Henry Baskerville."
"And then?"
"And then you will say nothing to him at all until I have made up my mind
about the matter."
"How long will it take you to make up your mind?"
"Twenty-four hours. At ten o'clock tomorrow, Dr. Mortimer, I will be much
obliged to you if you will call upon me here, and it will be of help to me in my
plans for the future if you will bring Sir Henry Baskerville with you."
"I will do so, Mr. Holmes." He scribbled the appointment on his shirt-cuff and
hurried off in his strange, peering, absent-minded fashion. Holmes stopped
him at the head of the stair.
"Only one more question, Dr. Mortimer. You say that before Sir Charles
Baskerville's death several people saw this apparition upon the moor?"
"Three people did."
"Did any see it after?"
"I have not heard of any."
"Thank you. Good-morning."
Holmes returned to his seat with that quiet look of inward satisfaction which
meant that he had a congenial task before him.
"Going out, Watson?"
"Unless I can help you."
"No, my dear fellow, it is at the hour of action that I turn to you for aid. But
this is splendid, really unique from some points of view. When you pass
Bradley's, would you ask him to send up a pound of the strongest shag
tobacco? Thank you. It would be as well if you could make it convenient not
to return before evening. Then I should be very glad to compare impressions
as to this most interesting problem which has been submitted to us this
morning."
I knew that seclusion and solitude were very necessary for my friend in those
hours of intense mental concentration during which he weighed every particle
of evidence, constructed alternative theories, balanced one against the other,
and made up his mind as to which points were essential and which immaterial.
I therefore spent the day at my club and did not return to Baker Street until
evening. It was nearly nine o'clock when I found myself in the sitting-room
once more.
My first impression as I opened the door was that a fire had broken out, for the
room was so filled with smoke that the light of the lamp upon the table was
blurred by it. As I entered, however, my fears were set at rest, for it was the
acrid fumes of strong coarse tobacco which took me by the throat and set me
coughing. Through the haze I had a vague vision of Holmes in his dressing-
gown coiled up in an armchair with his black clay pipe between his lips.
Several rolls of paper lay around him.
"Caught cold, Watson?" said he.
"No, it's this poisonous atmosphere."
"I suppose it is pretty thick, now that you mention it."
"Thick! It is intolerable."
"Open the window, then! You have been at your club all day, I perceive."
"My dear Holmes!"
"Am I right?"
"Certainly, but how?"
He laughed at my bewildered expression. "There is a delightful freshness
about you, Watson, which makes it a pleasure to exercise any small powers
which I possess at your expense. A gentleman goes forth on a showery and
miry day. He returns immaculate in the evening with the gloss still on his hat
and his boots. He has been a fixture therefore all day. He is not a man with
intimate friends. Where, then, could he have been? Is it not obvious?"
"Well, it is rather obvious."
"The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever
observes. Where do you think that I have been?"
"A fixture also."
"On the contrary, I have been to Devonshire."
"In spirit?"
"Exactly. My body has remained in this armchair and has, I regret to observe,
consumed in my absence two large pots of coffee and an incredible amount of
tobacco. After you left I sent down to Stamford's for the Ordnance map of this
portion of the moor, and my spirit has hovered over it all day. I flatter myself
that I could find my way about."
"A large-scale map, I presume?"
"Very large."
He unrolled one section and held it over his knee. "Here you have the
particular district which concerns us. That is Baskerville Hall in the middle."
"With a wood round it?"
"Exactly. I fancy the yew alley, though not marked under that name, must
stretch along this line, with the moor, as you perceive, upon the right of it.
This small clump of buildings here is the hamlet of Grimpen, where our friend
Dr. Mortimer has his headquarters. Within a radius of five miles there are, as
you see, only a very few scattered dwellings. Here is Lafter Hall, which was
mentioned in the narrative. There is a house indicated here which may be the
residence of the naturalist—Stapleton, if I remember right, was his name. Here
are two moorland farmhouses, High Tor and Foulmire. Then fourteen miles
away the great convict prison of Princetown. Between and around these
scattered points extends the desolate, lifeless moor. This, then, is the stage
upon which tragedy has been played, and upon which we may help to play it
again."
"It must be a wild place."
"Yes, the setting is a worthy one. If the devil did desire to have a hand in the
affairs of men—"
"Then you are yourself inclining to the supernatural explanation."
"The devil's agents may be of flesh and blood, may they not? There are two
questions waiting for us at the outset. The one is whether any crime has been
committed at all; the second is, what is the crime and how was it committed?
Of course, if Dr. Mortimer's surmise should be correct, and we are dealing
with forces outside the ordinary laws of Nature, there is an end of our
investigation. But we are bound to exhaust all other hypotheses before falling
back upon this one. I think we'll shut that window again, if you don't mind. It
is a singular thing, but I find that a concentrated atmosphere helps a
concentration of thought. I have not pushed it to the length of getting into a
box to think, but that is the logical outcome of my convictions. Have you
turned the case over in your mind?"
"Yes, I have thought a good deal of it in the course of the day."
"What do you make of it?"
"It is very bewildering."
"It has certainly a character of its own. There are points of distinction about it.
That change in the footprints, for example. What do you make of that?"
"Mortimer said that the man had walked on tiptoe down that portion of the
alley."
"He only repeated what some fool had said at the inquest. Why should a man
walk on tiptoe down the alley?"
"What then?"
"He was running, Watson—running desperately, running for his life, running
until he burst his heart—and fell dead upon his face."
"Running from what?"
"There lies our problem. There are indications that the man was crazed with
fear before ever he began to run."
"How can you say that?"
"I am presuming that the cause of his fears came to him across the moor. If
that were so, and it seems most probable, only a man who had lost his wits
would have run from the house instead of towards it. If the gipsy's evidence
may be taken as true, he ran with cries for help in the direction where help was
least likely to be. Then, again, whom was he waiting for that night, and why
was he waiting for him in the yew alley rather than in his own house?"
"You think that he was waiting for someone?"
"The man was elderly and infirm. We can understand his taking an evening
stroll, but the ground was damp and the night inclement. Is it natural that he
should stand for five or ten minutes, as Dr. Mortimer, with more practical
sense than I should have given him credit for, deduced from the cigar ash?"
"But he went out every evening."
"I think it unlikely that he waited at the moor-gate every evening. On the
contrary, the evidence is that he avoided the moor. That night he waited there.
It was the night before he made his departure for London. The thing takes
shape, Watson. It becomes coherent. Might I ask you to hand me my violin,
and we will postpone all further thought upon this business until we have had
the advantage of meeting Dr. Mortimer and Sir Henry Baskerville in the
morning."
Chapter 4. Sir Henry Baskerville
Our breakfast table was cleared early, and Holmes waited in his dressing-gown
for the promised interview. Our clients were punctual to their appointment, for
the clock had just struck ten when Dr. Mortimer was shown up, followed by
the young baronet. The latter was a small, alert, dark-eyed man about thirty
years of age, very sturdily built, with thick black eyebrows and a strong,
pugnacious face. He wore a ruddy-tinted tweed suit and had the weather-
beaten appearance of one who has spent most of his time in the open air, and
yet there was something in his steady eye and the quiet assurance of his
bearing which indicated the gentleman.
"This is Sir Henry Baskerville," said Dr. Mortimer.
"Why, yes," said he, "and the strange thing is, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, that if my
friend here had not proposed coming round to you this morning I should have
come on my own account. I understand that you think out little puzzles, and
I've had one this morning which wants more thinking out than I am able to
give it."
"Pray take a seat, Sir Henry. Do I understand you to say that you have yourself
had some remarkable experience since you arrived in London?"
"Nothing of much importance, Mr. Holmes. Only a joke, as like as not. It was
this letter, if you can call it a letter, which reached me this morning."
He laid an envelope upon the table, and we all bent over it. It was of common
quality,
grayish
in
colour.
The
address,
"Sir
Henry
Baskerville,
Northumberland Hotel," was printed in rough characters; the post-mark
"Charing Cross," and the date of posting the preceding evening.
"Who knew that you were going to the Northumberland Hotel?" asked
Holmes, glancing keenly across at our visitor.
"No one could have known. We only decided after I met Dr. Mortimer."
"But Dr. Mortimer was no doubt already stopping there?"
"No, I had been staying with a friend," said the doctor.
"There was no possible indication that we intended to go to this hotel."
"Hum! Someone seems to be very deeply interested in your movements." Out
of the envelope he took a half-sheet of foolscap paper folded into four. This he
opened and spread flat upon the table. Across the middle of it a single
sentence had been formed by the expedient of pasting printed words upon it. It
ran:
As you value your life or your reason keep away from the moor.
The word "moor" only was printed in ink.
"Now," said Sir Henry Baskerville, "perhaps you will tell me, Mr. Holmes,
what in thunder is the meaning of that, and who it is that takes so much
interest in my affairs?"
"What do you make of it, Dr. Mortimer? You must allow that there is nothing
supernatural about this, at any rate?"
"No, sir, but it might very well come from someone who was convinced that
the business is supernatural."
"What business?" asked Sir Henry sharply. "It seems to me that all you
gentlemen know a great deal more than I do about my own affairs."
"You shall share our knowledge before you leave this room, Sir Henry. I
promise you that," said Sherlock Holmes. "We will confine ourselves for the
present with your permission to this very interesting document, which must
have been put together and posted yesterday evening. Have you yesterday's
Times, Watson?"
"It is here in the corner."
"Might I trouble you for it—the inside page, please, with the leading articles?"
He glanced swiftly over it, running his eyes up and down the columns.
"Capital article this on free trade. Permit me to give you an extract from it.
'You may be cajoled into imagining that your own special
trade or your own industry will be encouraged by a
protective tariff, but it stands to reason that such
legislation must in the long run keep away wealth from the
country, diminish the value of our imports, and lower the
general conditions of life in this island.'
"What do you think of that, Watson?" cried Holmes in high glee, rubbing his
hands together with satisfaction. "Don't you think that is an admirable
sentiment?"
Dr. Mortimer looked at Holmes with an air of professional interest, and Sir
Henry Baskerville turned a pair of puzzled dark eyes upon me.
"I don't know much about the tariff and things of that kind," said he, "but it
seems to me we've got a bit off the trail so far as that note is concerned."
"On the contrary, I think we are particularly hot upon the trail, Sir Henry.
Watson here knows more about my methods than you do, but I fear that even
he has not quite grasped the significance of this sentence."
"No, I confess that I see no connection."
"And yet, my dear Watson, there is so very close a connection that the one is
extracted out of the other. 'You,' 'your,' 'your,' 'life,' 'reason,' 'value,' 'keep
away,' 'from the.' Don't you see now whence these words have been taken?"
"By thunder, you're right! Well, if that isn't smart!" cried Sir Henry.
"If any possible doubt remained it is settled by the fact that 'keep away' and
'from the' are cut out in one piece."
"Well, now—so it is!"
"Really, Mr. Holmes, this exceeds anything which I could have imagined,"
said Dr. Mortimer, gazing at my friend in amazement. "I could understand
anyone saying that the words were from a newspaper; but that you should
name which, and add that it came from the leading article, is really one of the
most remarkable things which I have ever known. How did you do it?"
"I presume, Doctor, that you could tell the skull of a negro from that of an
Esquimau?"
"Most certainly."
"But how?"
"Because that is my special hobby. The differences are obvious. The supra-
orbital crest, the facial angle, the maxillary curve, the—"
"But this is my special hobby, and the differences are equally obvious. There
is as much difference to my eyes between the leaded bourgeois type of a
Times article and the slovenly print of an evening half-penny paper as there
could be between your negro and your Esquimau. The detection of types is
one of the most elementary branches of knowledge to the special expert in
crime, though I confess that once when I was very young I confused the Leeds
Mercury with the Western Morning News. But a Times leader is entirely
distinctive, and these words could have been taken from nothing else. As it
was done yesterday the strong probability was that we should find the words
in yesterday's issue."
"So far as I can follow you, then, Mr. Holmes," said Sir Henry Baskerville,
"someone cut out this message with a scissors—"
"Nail-scissors," said Holmes. "You can see that it was a very short-bladed
scissors, since the cutter had to take two snips over 'keep away.'"
"That is so. Someone, then, cut out the message with a pair of short-bladed
scissors, pasted it with paste—"
"Gum," said Holmes.
"With gum on to the paper. But I want to know why the word 'moor' should
have been written?"
"Because he could not find it in print. The other words were all simple and
might be found in any issue, but 'moor' would be less common."
"Why, of course, that would explain it. Have you read anything else in this
message, Mr. Holmes?"
"There are one or two indications, and yet the utmost pains have been taken to
remove all clues. The address, you observe is printed in rough characters. But
the Times is a paper which is seldom found in any hands but those of the
highly educated. We may take it, therefore, that the letter was composed by an
educated man who wished to pose as an uneducated one, and his effort to
conceal his own writing suggests that that writing might be known, or come to
be known, by you. Again, you will observe that the words are not gummed on
in an accurate line, but that some are much higher than others. 'Life,' for
example is quite out of its proper place. That may point to carelessness or it
may point to agitation and hurry upon the part of the cutter. On the whole I
incline to the latter view, since the matter was evidently important, and it is
unlikely that the composer of such a letter would be careless. If he were in a
hurry it opens up the interesting question why he should be in a hurry, since
any letter posted up to early morning would reach Sir Henry before he would
leave his hotel. Did the composer fear an interruption—and from whom?"
"We are coming now rather into the region of guesswork," said Dr. Mortimer.
"Say, rather, into the region where we balance probabilities and choose the
most likely. It is the scientific use of the imagination, but we have always
some material basis on which to start our speculation. Now, you would call it a
guess, no doubt, but I am almost certain that this address has been written in a
hotel."
"How in the world can you say that?"
"If you examine it carefully you will see that both the pen and the ink have
given the writer trouble. The pen has spluttered twice in a single word and has
run dry three times in a short address, showing that there was very little ink in
the bottle. Now, a private pen or ink-bottle is seldom allowed to be in such a
state, and the combination of the two must be quite rare. But you know the
hotel ink and the hotel pen, where it is rare to get anything else. Yes, I have
very little hesitation in saying that could we examine the waste-paper baskets
of the hotels around Charing Cross until we found the remains of the mutilated
Times leader we could lay our hands straight upon the person who sent this
singular message. Halloa! Halloa! What's this?"
He was carefully examining the foolscap, upon which the words were pasted,
holding it only an inch or two from his eyes.
"Well?"
"Nothing," said he, throwing it down. "It is a blank half-sheet of paper,
without even a water-mark upon it. I think we have drawn as much as we can
from this curious letter; and now, Sir Henry, has anything else of interest
happened to you since you have been in London?"
"Why, no, Mr. Holmes. I think not."
"You have not observed anyone follow or watch you?"
"I seem to have walked right into the thick of a dime novel," said our visitor.
"Why in thunder should anyone follow or watch me?"
"We are coming to that. You have nothing else to report to us before we go
into this matter?"
"Well, it depends upon what you think worth reporting."
"I think anything out of the ordinary routine of life well worth reporting."
Sir Henry smiled. "I don't know much of British life yet, for I have spent
nearly all my time in the States and in Canada. But I hope that to lose one of
your boots is not part of the ordinary routine of life over here."
"You have lost one of your boots?"
"My dear sir," cried Dr. Mortimer, "it is only mislaid. You will find it when
you return to the hotel. What is the use of troubling Mr. Holmes with trifles of
this kind?"
"Well, he asked me for anything outside the ordinary routine."
"Exactly," said Holmes, "however foolish the incident may seem. You have
lost one of your boots, you say?"
"Well, mislaid it, anyhow. I put them both outside my door last night, and
there was only one in the morning. I could get no sense out of the chap who
cleans them. The worst of it is that I only bought the pair last night in the
Strand, and I have never had them on."
"If you have never worn them, why did you put them out to be cleaned?"
"They were tan boots and had never been varnished. That was why I put them
out."
"Then I understand that on your arrival in London yesterday you went out at
once and bought a pair of boots?"
"I did a good deal of shopping. Dr. Mortimer here went round with me. You
see, if I am to be squire down there I must dress the part, and it may be that I
have got a little careless in my ways out West. Among other things I bought
these brown boots—gave six dollars for them—and had one stolen before ever
I had them on my feet."
"It seems a singularly useless thing to steal," said Sherlock Holmes. "I confess
that I share Dr. Mortimer's belief that it will not be long before the missing
boot is found."
"And, now, gentlemen," said the baronet with decision, "it seems to me that I
have spoken quite enough about the little that I know. It is time that you kept
your promise and gave me a full account of what we are all driving at."
"Your request is a very reasonable one," Holmes answered. "Dr. Mortimer, I
think you could not do better than to tell your story as you told it to us."
Thus encouraged, our scientific friend drew his papers from his pocket and
presented the whole case as he had done upon the morning before. Sir Henry
Baskerville listened with the deepest attention and with an occasional
exclamation of surprise.
"Well, I seem to have come into an inheritance with a vengeance," said he
when the long narrative was finished. "Of course, I've heard of the hound ever
since I was in the nursery. It's the pet story of the family, though I never
thought of taking it seriously before. But as to my uncle's death—well, it all
seems boiling up in my head, and I can't get it clear yet. You don't seem quite
to have made up your mind whether it's a case for a policeman or a
clergyman."
"Precisely."
"And now there's this affair of the letter to me at the hotel. I suppose that fits
into its place."
"It seems to show that someone knows more than we do about what goes on
upon the moor," said Dr. Mortimer.
"And also," said Holmes, "that someone is not ill-disposed towards you, since
they warn you of danger."
"Or it may be that they wish, for their own purposes, to scare me away."
"Well, of course, that is possible also. I am very much indebted to you, Dr.
Mortimer, for introducing me to a problem which presents several interesting
alternatives. But the practical point which we now have to decide, Sir Henry,
is whether it is or is not advisable for you to go to Baskerville Hall."
"Why should I not go?"
"There seems to be danger."
"Do you mean danger from this family fiend or do you mean danger from
human beings?"
"Well, that is what we have to find out."
"Whichever it is, my answer is fixed. There is no devil in hell, Mr. Holmes,
and there is no man upon earth who can prevent me from going to the home of
my own people, and you may take that to be my final answer." His dark brows
knitted and his face flushed to a dusky red as he spoke. It was evident that the
fiery temper of the Baskervilles was not extinct in this their last representative.
"Meanwhile," said he, "I have hardly had time to think over all that you have
told me. It's a big thing for a man to have to understand and to decide at one
sitting. I should like to have a quiet hour by myself to make up my mind. Now,
look here, Mr. Holmes, it's half-past eleven now and I am going back right
away to my hotel. Suppose you and your friend, Dr. Watson, come round and
lunch with us at two. I'll be able to tell you more clearly then how this thing
strikes me."
"Is that convenient to you, Watson?"
"Perfectly."
"Then you may expect us. Shall I have a cab called?"
"I'd prefer to walk, for this affair has flurried me rather."
"I'll join you in a walk, with pleasure," said his companion.
"Then we meet again at two o'clock. Au revoir, and good-morning!"
We heard the steps of our visitors descend the stair and the bang of the front
door. In an instant Holmes had changed from the languid dreamer to the man
of action.
"Your hat and boots, Watson, quick! Not a moment to lose!" He rushed into
his room in his dressing-gown and was back again in a few seconds in a frock-
coat. We hurried together down the stairs and into the street. Dr. Mortimer and
Baskerville were still visible about two hundred yards ahead of us in the
direction of Oxford Street.
"Shall I run on and stop them?"
"Not for the world, my dear Watson. I am perfectly satisfied with your
company if you will tolerate mine. Our friends are wise, for it is certainly a
very fine morning for a walk."
He quickened his pace until we had decreased the distance which divided us
by about half. Then, still keeping a hundred yards behind, we followed into
Oxford Street and so down Regent Street. Once our friends stopped and stared
into a shop window, upon which Holmes did the same. An instant afterwards
he gave a little cry of satisfaction, and, following the direction of his eager
eyes, I saw that a hansom cab with a man inside which had halted on the other
side of the street was now proceeding slowly onward again.
"There's our man, Watson! Come along! We'll have a good look at him, if we
can do no more."
At that instant I was aware of a bushy black beard and a pair of piercing eyes
turned upon us through the side window of the cab. Instantly the trapdoor at
the top flew up, something was screamed to the driver, and the cab flew madly
off down Regent Street. Holmes looked eagerly round for another, but no
empty one was in sight. Then he dashed in wild pursuit amid the stream of the
traffic, but the start was too great, and already the cab was out of sight.
"There now!" said Holmes bitterly as he emerged panting and white with
vexation from the tide of vehicles. "Was ever such bad luck and such bad
management, too? Watson, Watson, if you are an honest man you will record
this also and set it against my successes!"
"Who was the man?"
"I have not an idea."
"A spy?"
"Well, it was evident from what we have heard that Baskerville has been very
closely shadowed by someone since he has been in town. How else could it be
known so quickly that it was the Northumberland Hotel which he had chosen?
If they had followed him the first day I argued that they would follow him also
the second. You may have observed that I twice strolled over to the window
while Dr. Mortimer was reading his legend."
"Yes, I remember."
"I was looking out for loiterers in the street, but I saw none. We are dealing
with a clever man, Watson. This matter cuts very deep, and though I have not
finally made up my mind whether it is a benevolent or a malevolent agency
which is in touch with us, I am conscious always of power and design. When
our friends left I at once followed them in the hopes of marking down their
invisible attendant. So wily was he that he had not trusted himself upon foot,
but he had availed himself of a cab so that he could loiter behind or dash past
them and so escape their notice. His method had the additional advantage that
if they were to take a cab he was all ready to follow them. It has, however, one
obvious disadvantage."
"It puts him in the power of the cabman."
"Exactly."
"What a pity we did not get the number!"
"My dear Watson, clumsy as I have been, you surely do not seriously imagine
that I neglected to get the number? No. 2704 is our man. But that is no use to
us for the moment."
"I fail to see how you could have done more."
"On observing the cab I should have instantly turned and walked in the other
direction. I should then at my leisure have hired a second cab and followed the
first at a respectful distance, or, better still, have driven to the Northumberland
Hotel and waited there. When our unknown had followed Baskerville home
we should have had the opportunity of playing his own game upon himself
and seeing where he made for. As it is, by an indiscreet eagerness, which was
taken advantage of with extraordinary quickness and energy by our opponent,
we have betrayed ourselves and lost our man."
We had been sauntering slowly down Regent Street during this conversation,
and Dr. Mortimer, with his companion, had long vanished in front of us.
"There is no object in our following them," said Holmes. "The shadow has
departed and will not return. We must see what further cards we have in our
hands and play them with decision. Could you swear to that man's face within
the cab?"
"I could swear only to the beard."
"And so could I—from which I gather that in all probability it was a false one.
A clever man upon so delicate an errand has no use for a beard save to conceal
his features. Come in here, Watson!"
He turned into one of the district messenger offices, where he was warmly
greeted by the manager.
"Ah, Wilson, I see you have not forgotten the little case in which I had the
good fortune to help you?"
"No, sir, indeed I have not. You saved my good name, and perhaps my life."
"My dear fellow, you exaggerate. I have some recollection, Wilson, that you
had among your boys a lad named Cartwright, who showed some ability
during the investigation."
"Yes, sir, he is still with us."
"Could you ring him up?—thank you! And I should be glad to have change of
this five-pound note."
A lad of fourteen, with a bright, keen face, had obeyed the summons of the
manager. He stood now gazing with great reverence at the famous detective.
"Let me have the Hotel Directory," said Holmes. "Thank you! Now,
Cartwright, there are the names of twenty-three hotels here, all in the
immediate neighbourhood of Charing Cross. Do you see?"
"Yes, sir."
"You will visit each of these in turn."
"Yes, sir."
"You will begin in each case by giving the outside porter one shilling. Here are
twenty-three shillings."
"Yes, sir."
"You will tell him that you want to see the waste-paper of yesterday. You will
say that an important telegram has miscarried and that you are looking for it.
You understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"But what you are really looking for is the centre page of the Times with some
holes cut in it with scissors. Here is a copy of the Times. It is this page. You
could easily recognize it, could you not?"
"Yes, sir."
"In each case the outside porter will send for the hall porter, to whom also you
will give a shilling. Here are twenty-three shillings. You will then learn in
possibly twenty cases out of the twenty-three that the waste of the day before
has been burned or removed. In the three other cases you will be shown a heap
of paper and you will look for this page of the Times among it. The odds are
enormously against your finding it. There are ten shillings over in case of
emergencies. Let me have a report by wire at Baker Street before evening.
And now, Watson, it only remains for us to find out by wire the identity of the
cabman, No. 2704, and then we will drop into one of the Bond Street picture
galleries and fill in the time until we are due at the hotel."
Chapter 5. Three Broken Threads
Sherlock Holmes had, in a very remarkable degree, the power of detaching his
mind at will. For two hours the strange business in which we had been
involved appeared to be forgotten, and he was entirely absorbed in the pictures
of the modern Belgian masters. He would talk of nothing but art, of which he
had the crudest ideas, from our leaving the gallery until we found ourselves at
the Northumberland Hotel.
"Sir Henry Baskerville is upstairs expecting you," said the clerk. "He asked me
to show you up at once when you came."
"Have you any objection to my looking at your register?" said Holmes.
"Not in the least."
The book showed that two names had been added after that of Baskerville.
One was Theophilus Johnson and family, of Newcastle; the other Mrs.
Oldmore and maid, of High Lodge, Alton.
"Surely that must be the same Johnson whom I used to know," said Holmes to
the porter. "A lawyer, is he not, gray-headed, and walks with a limp?"
"No, sir, this is Mr. Johnson, the coal-owner, a very active gentleman, not
older than yourself."
"Surely you are mistaken about his trade?"
"No, sir! he has used this hotel for many years, and he is very well known to
us."
"Ah, that settles it. Mrs. Oldmore, too; I seem to remember the name. Excuse
my curiosity, but often in calling upon one friend one finds another."
"She is an invalid lady, sir. Her husband was once mayor of Gloucester. She
always comes to us when she is in town."
"Thank you; I am afraid I cannot claim her acquaintance. We have established
a most important fact by these questions, Watson," he continued in a low voice
as we went upstairs together. "We know now that the people who are so
interested in our friend have not settled down in his own hotel. That means
that while they are, as we have seen, very anxious to watch him, they are
equally anxious that he should not see them. Now, this is a most suggestive
fact."
"What does it suggest?"
"It suggests—halloa, my dear fellow, what on earth is the matter?"
As we came round the top of the stairs we had run up against Sir Henry
Baskerville himself. His face was flushed with anger, and he held an old and
dusty boot in one of his hands. So furious was he that he was hardly articulate,
and when he did speak it was in a much broader and more Western dialect than
any which we had heard from him in the morning.
"Seems to me they are playing me for a sucker in this hotel," he cried. "They'll
find they've started in to monkey with the wrong man unless they are careful.
By thunder, if that chap can't find my missing boot there will be trouble. I can
take a joke with the best, Mr. Holmes, but they've got a bit over the mark this
time."
"Still looking for your boot?"
"Yes, sir, and mean to find it."
"But, surely, you said that it was a new brown boot?"
"So it was, sir. And now it's an old black one."
"What! you don't mean to say—?"
"That's just what I do mean to say. I only had three pairs in the world—the
new brown, the old black, and the patent leathers, which I am wearing. Last
night they took one of my brown ones, and today they have sneaked one of the
black. Well, have you got it? Speak out, man, and don't stand staring!"
An agitated German waiter had appeared upon the scene.
"No, sir; I have made inquiry all over the hotel, but I can hear no word of it."
"Well, either that boot comes back before sundown or I'll see the manager and
tell him that I go right straight out of this hotel."
"It shall be found, sir—I promise you that if you will have a little patience it
will be found."
"Mind it is, for it's the last thing of mine that I'll lose in this den of thieves.
Well, well, Mr. Holmes, you'll excuse my troubling you about such a trifle—"
"I think it's well worth troubling about."
"Why, you look very serious over it."
"How do you explain it?"
"I just don't attempt to explain it. It seems the very maddest, queerest thing
that ever happened to me."
"The queerest perhaps—" said Holmes thoughtfully.
"What do you make of it yourself?"
"Well, I don't profess to understand it yet. This case of yours is very complex,
Sir Henry. When taken in conjunction with your uncle's death I am not sure
that of all the five hundred cases of capital importance which I have handled
there is one which cuts so deep. But we hold several threads in our hands, and
the odds are that one or other of them guides us to the truth. We may waste
time in following the wrong one, but sooner or later we must come upon the
right."
We had a pleasant luncheon in which little was said of the business which had
brought us together. It was in the private sitting-room to which we afterwards
repaired that Holmes asked Baskerville what were his intentions.
"To go to Baskerville Hall."
"And when?"
"At the end of the week."
"On the whole," said Holmes, "I think that your decision is a wise one. I have
ample evidence that you are being dogged in London, and amid the millions of
this great city it is difficult to discover who these people are or what their
object can be. If their intentions are evil they might do you a mischief, and we
should be powerless to prevent it. You did not know, Dr. Mortimer, that you
were followed this morning from my house?"
Dr. Mortimer started violently. "Followed! By whom?"
"That, unfortunately, is what I cannot tell you. Have you among your
neighbours or acquaintances on Dartmoor any man with a black, full beard?"
"No—or, let me see—why, yes. Barrymore, Sir Charles's butler, is a man with
a full, black beard."
"Ha! Where is Barrymore?"
"He is in charge of the Hall."
"We had best ascertain if he is really there, or if by any possibility he might be
in London."
"How can you do that?"
"Give me a telegraph form. 'Is all ready for Sir Henry?' That will do. Address
to Mr. Barrymore, Baskerville Hall. What is the nearest telegraph-office?
Grimpen. Very good, we will send a second wire to the postmaster, Grimpen:
'Telegram to Mr. Barrymore to be delivered into his own hand. If absent,
please return wire to Sir Henry Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel.' That
should let us know before evening whether Barrymore is at his post in
Devonshire or not."
"That's so," said Baskerville. "By the way, Dr. Mortimer, who is this
Barrymore, anyhow?"
"He is the son of the old caretaker, who is dead. They have looked after the
Hall for four generations now. So far as I know, he and his wife are as
respectable a couple as any in the county."
"At the same time," said Baskerville, "it's clear enough that so long as there
are none of the family at the Hall these people have a mighty fine home and
nothing to do."
"That is true."
"Did Barrymore profit at all by Sir Charles's will?" asked Holmes.
"He and his wife had five hundred pounds each."
"Ha! Did they know that they would receive this?"
"Yes; Sir Charles was very fond of talking about the provisions of his will."
"That is very interesting."
"I hope," said Dr. Mortimer, "that you do not look with suspicious eyes upon
everyone who received a legacy from Sir Charles, for I also had a thousand
pounds left to me."
"Indeed! And anyone else?"
"There were many insignificant sums to individuals, and a large number of
public charities. The residue all went to Sir Henry."
"And how much was the residue?"
"Seven hundred and forty thousand pounds."
Holmes raised his eyebrows in surprise. "I had no idea that so gigantic a sum
was involved," said he.
"Sir Charles had the reputation of being rich, but we did not know how very
rich he was until we came to examine his securities. The total value of the
estate was close on to a million."
"Dear me! It is a stake for which a man might well play a desperate game. And
one more question, Dr. Mortimer. Supposing that anything happened to our
young friend here—you will forgive the unpleasant hypothesis!—who would
inherit the estate?"
"Since Rodger Baskerville, Sir Charles's younger brother died unmarried, the
estate would descend to the Desmonds, who are distant cousins. James
Desmond is an elderly clergyman in Westmoreland."
"Thank you. These details are all of great interest. Have you met Mr. James
Desmond?"
"Yes; he once came down to visit Sir Charles. He is a man of venerable
appearance and of saintly life. I remember that he refused to accept any
settlement from Sir Charles, though he pressed it upon him."
"And this man of simple tastes would be the heir to Sir Charles's thousands."
"He would be the heir to the estate because that is entailed. He would also be
the heir to the money unless it were willed otherwise by the present owner,
who can, of course, do what he likes with it."
"And have you made your will, Sir Henry?"
"No, Mr. Holmes, I have not. I've had no time, for it was only yesterday that I
learned how matters stood. But in any case I feel that the money should go
with the title and estate. That was my poor uncle's idea. How is the owner
going to restore the glories of the Baskervilles if he has not money enough to
keep up the property? House, land, and dollars must go together."
"Quite so. Well, Sir Henry, I am of one mind with you as to the advisability of
your going down to Devonshire without delay. There is only one provision
which I must make. You certainly must not go alone."
"Dr. Mortimer returns with me."
"But Dr. Mortimer has his practice to attend to, and his house is miles away
from yours. With all the goodwill in the world he may be unable to help you.
No, Sir Henry, you must take with you someone, a trusty man, who will be
always by your side."
"Is it possible that you could come yourself, Mr. Holmes?"
"If matters came to a crisis I should endeavour to be present in person; but you
can understand that, with my extensive consulting practice and with the
constant appeals which reach me from many quarters, it is impossible for me
to be absent from London for an indefinite time. At the present instant one of
the most revered names in England is being besmirched by a blackmailer, and
only I can stop a disastrous scandal. You will see how impossible it is for me
to go to Dartmoor."
"Whom would you recommend, then?"
Holmes laid his hand upon my arm. "If my friend would undertake it there is
no man who is better worth having at your side when you are in a tight place.
No one can say so more confidently than I."
The proposition took me completely by surprise, but before I had time to
answer, Baskerville seized me by the hand and wrung it heartily.
"Well, now, that is real kind of you, Dr. Watson," said he. "You see how it is
with me, and you know just as much about the matter as I do. If you will come
down to Baskerville Hall and see me through I'll never forget it."
The promise of adventure had always a fascination for me, and I was
complimented by the words of Holmes and by the eagerness with which the
baronet hailed me as a companion.
"I will come, with pleasure," said I. "I do not know how I could employ my
time better."
"And you will report very carefully to me," said Holmes. "When a crisis
comes, as it will do, I will direct how you shall act. I suppose that by Saturday
all might be ready?"
"Would that suit Dr. Watson?"
"Perfectly."
"Then on Saturday, unless you hear to the contrary, we shall meet at the ten-
thirty train from Paddington."
We had risen to depart when Baskerville gave a cry, of triumph, and diving
into one of the corners of the room he drew a brown boot from under a
cabinet.
"My missing boot!" he cried.
"May all our difficulties vanish as easily!" said Sherlock Holmes.
"But it is a very singular thing," Dr. Mortimer remarked. "I searched this room
carefully before lunch."
"And so did I," said Baskerville. "Every inch of it."
"There was certainly no boot in it then."
"In that case the waiter must have placed it there while we were lunching."
The German was sent for but professed to know nothing of the matter, nor
could any inquiry clear it up. Another item had been added to that constant
and apparently purposeless series of small mysteries which had succeeded
each other so rapidly. Setting aside the whole grim story of Sir Charles's death,
we had a line of inexplicable incidents all within the limits of two days, which
included the receipt of the printed letter, the black-bearded spy in the hansom,
the loss of the new brown boot, the loss of the old black boot, and now the
return of the new brown boot. Holmes sat in silence in the cab as we drove
back to Baker Street, and I knew from his drawn brows and keen face that his
mind, like my own, was busy in endeavouring to frame some scheme into
which all these strange and apparently disconnected episodes could be fitted.
All afternoon and late into the evening he sat lost in tobacco and thought.
Just before dinner two telegrams were handed in. The first ran:
Have just heard that Barrymore is at the Hall. BASKERVILLE.
The second:
Visited twenty-three hotels as directed, but sorry, to report unable to trace cut
sheet of Times. CARTWRIGHT.
"There go two of my threads, Watson. There is nothing more stimulating than
a case where everything goes against you. We must cast round for another
scent."
"We have still the cabman who drove the spy."
"Exactly. I have wired to get his name and address from the Official Registry. I
should not be surprised if this were an answer to my question."
The ring at the bell proved to be something even more satisfactory than an
answer, however, for the door opened and a rough-looking fellow entered who
was evidently the man himself.
"I got a message from the head office that a gent at this address had been
inquiring for No. 2704," said he. "I've driven my cab this seven years and
never a word of complaint. I came here straight from the Yard to ask you to
your face what you had against me."
"I have nothing in the world against you, my good man," said Holmes. "On the
contrary, I have half a sovereign for you if you will give me a clear answer to
my questions."
"Well, I've had a good day and no mistake," said the cabman with a grin.
"What was it you wanted to ask, sir?"
"First of all your name and address, in case I want you again."
"John Clayton, 3 Turpey Street, the Borough. My cab is out of Shipley's Yard,
near Waterloo Station."
Sherlock Holmes made a note of it.
"Now, Clayton, tell me all about the fare who came and watched this house at
ten o'clock this morning and afterwards followed the two gentlemen down
Regent Street."
The man looked surprised and a little embarrassed. "Why, there's no good my
telling you things, for you seem to know as much as I do already," said he.
"The truth is that the gentleman told me that he was a detective and that I was
to say nothing about him to anyone."
"My good fellow; this is a very serious business, and you may find yourself in
a pretty bad position if you try to hide anything from me. You say that your
fare told you that he was a detective?"
"Yes, he did."
"When did he say this?"
"When he left me."
"Did he say anything more?"
"He mentioned his name."
Holmes cast a swift glance of triumph at me. "Oh, he mentioned his name, did
he? That was imprudent. What was the name that he mentioned?"
"His name," said the cabman, "was Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
Never have I seen my friend more completely taken aback than by the
cabman's reply. For an instant he sat in silent amazement. Then he burst into a
hearty laugh.
"A touch, Watson—an undeniable touch!" said he. "I feel a foil as quick and
supple as my own. He got home upon me very prettily that time. So his name
was Sherlock Holmes, was it?"
"Yes, sir, that was the gentleman's name."
"Excellent! Tell me where you picked him up and all that occurred."
"He hailed me at half-past nine in Trafalgar Square. He said that he was a
detective, and he offered me two guineas if I would do exactly what he wanted
all day and ask no questions. I was glad enough to agree. First we drove down
to the Northumberland Hotel and waited there until two gentlemen came out
and took a cab from the rank. We followed their cab until it pulled up
somewhere near here."
"This very door," said Holmes.
"Well, I couldn't be sure of that, but I dare say my fare knew all about it. We
pulled up halfway down the street and waited an hour and a half. Then the two
gentlemen passed us, walking, and we followed down Baker Street and along
—"
"I know," said Holmes.
"Until we got three-quarters down Regent Street. Then my gentleman threw
up the trap, and he cried that I should drive right away to Waterloo Station as
hard as I could go. I whipped up the mare and we were there under the ten
minutes. Then he paid up his two guineas, like a good one, and away he went
into the station. Only just as he was leaving he turned round and he said: 'It
might interest you to know that you have been driving Mr. Sherlock Holmes.'
That's how I come to know the name."
"I see. And you saw no more of him?"
"Not after he went into the station."
"And how would you describe Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"
The cabman scratched his head. "Well, he wasn't altogether such an easy
gentleman to describe. I'd put him at forty years of age, and he was of a
middle height, two or three inches shorter than you, sir. He was dressed like a
toff, and he had a black beard, cut square at the end, and a pale face. I don't
know as I could say more than that."
"Colour of his eyes?"
"No, I can't say that."
"Nothing more that you can remember?"
"No, sir; nothing."
"Well, then, here is your half-sovereign. There's another one waiting for you if
you can bring any more information. Good-night!"
"Good-night, sir, and thank you!"
John Clayton departed chuckling, and Holmes turned to me with a shrug of his
shoulders and a rueful smile.
"Snap goes our third thread, and we end where we began," said he. "The
cunning rascal! He knew our number, knew that Sir Henry Baskerville had
consulted me, spotted who I was in Regent Street, conjectured that I had got
the number of the cab and would lay my hands on the driver, and so sent back
this audacious message. I tell you, Watson, this time we have got a foeman
who is worthy of our steel. I've been checkmated in London. I can only wish
you better luck in Devonshire. But I'm not easy in my mind about it."
"About what?"
"About sending you. It's an ugly business, Watson, an ugly dangerous
business, and the more I see of it the less I like it. Yes, my dear fellow, you
may laugh, but I give you my word that I shall be very glad to have you back
safe and sound in Baker Street once more."
Chapter 6. Baskerville Hall
Sir Henry Baskerville and Dr. Mortimer were ready upon the appointed day,
and we started as arranged for Devonshire. Mr. Sherlock Holmes drove with
me to the station and gave me his last parting injunctions and advice.
"I will not bias your mind by suggesting theories or suspicions, Watson," said
he; "I wish you simply to report facts in the fullest possible manner to me, and
you can leave me to do the theorizing."
"What sort of facts?" I asked.
"Anything which may seem to have a bearing however indirect upon the case,
and especially the relations between young Baskerville and his neighbours or
any fresh particulars concerning the death of Sir Charles. I have made some
inquiries myself in the last few days, but the results have, I fear, been negative.
One thing only appears to be certain, and that is that Mr. James Desmond, who
is the next heir, is an elderly gentleman of a very amiable disposition, so that
this persecution does not arise from him. I really think that we may eliminate
him entirely from our calculations. There remain the people who will actually
surround Sir Henry Baskerville upon the moor."
"Would it not be well in the first place to get rid of this Barrymore couple?"
"By no means. You could not make a greater mistake. If they are innocent it
would be a cruel injustice, and if they are guilty we should be giving up all
chance of bringing it home to them. No, no, we will preserve them upon our
list of suspects. Then there is a groom at the Hall, if I remember right. There
are two moorland farmers. There is our friend Dr. Mortimer, whom I believe
to be entirely honest, and there is his wife, of whom we know nothing. There
is this naturalist, Stapleton, and there is his sister, who is said to be a young
lady of attractions. There is Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, who is also an
unknown factor, and there are one or two other neighbours. These are the folk
who must be your very special study."
"I will do my best."
"You have arms, I suppose?"
"Yes, I thought it as well to take them."
"Most certainly. Keep your revolver near you night and day, and never relax
your precautions."
Our friends had already secured a first-class carriage and were waiting for us
upon the platform.
"No, we have no news of any kind," said Dr. Mortimer in answer to my
friend's questions. "I can swear to one thing, and that is that we have not been
shadowed during the last two days. We have never gone out without keeping a
sharp watch, and no one could have escaped our notice."
"You have always kept together, I presume?"
"Except yesterday afternoon. I usually give up one day to pure amusement
when I come to town, so I spent it at the Museum of the College of Surgeons."
"And I went to look at the folk in the park," said Baskerville.
"But we had no trouble of any kind."
"It was imprudent, all the same," said Holmes, shaking his head and looking
very grave. "I beg, Sir Henry, that you will not go about alone. Some great
misfortune will befall you if you do. Did you get your other boot?"
"No, sir, it is gone forever."
"Indeed. That is very interesting. Well, good-bye," he added as the train began
to glide down the platform. "Bear in mind, Sir Henry, one of the phrases in
that queer old legend which Dr. Mortimer has read to us, and avoid the moor
in those hours of darkness when the powers of evil are exalted."
I looked back at the platform when we had left it far behind and saw the tall,
austere figure of Holmes standing motionless and gazing after us.
The journey was a swift and pleasant one, and I spent it in making the more
intimate acquaintance of my two companions and in playing with Dr.
Mortimer's spaniel. In a very few hours the brown earth had become ruddy, the
brick had changed to granite, and red cows grazed in well-hedged fields where
the lush grasses and more luxuriant vegetation spoke of a richer, if a damper,
climate. Young Baskerville stared eagerly out of the window and cried aloud
with delight as he recognized the familiar features of the Devon scenery.
"I've been over a good part of the world since I left it, Dr. Watson," said he;
"but I have never seen a place to compare with it."
"I never saw a Devonshire man who did not swear by his county," I remarked.
"It depends upon the breed of men quite as much as on the county," said Dr.
Mortimer. "A glance at our friend here reveals the rounded head of the Celt,
which carries inside it the Celtic enthusiasm and power of attachment. Poor
Sir Charles's head was of a very rare type, half Gaelic, half Ivernian in its
characteristics. But you were very young when you last saw Baskerville Hall,
were you not?"
"I was a boy in my teens at the time of my father's death and had never seen
the Hall, for he lived in a little cottage on the South Coast. Thence I went
straight to a friend in America. I tell you it is all as new to me as it is to Dr.
Watson, and I'm as keen as possible to see the moor."
"Are you? Then your wish is easily granted, for there is your first sight of the
moor," said Dr. Mortimer, pointing out of the carriage window.
Over the green squares of the fields and the low curve of a wood there rose in
the distance a gray, melancholy hill, with a strange jagged summit, dim and
vague in the distance, like some fantastic landscape in a dream. Baskerville sat
for a long time, his eyes fixed upon it, and I read upon his eager face how
much it meant to him, this first sight of that strange spot where the men of his
blood had held sway so long and left their mark so deep. There he sat, with his
tweed suit and his American accent, in the corner of a prosaic railway-
carriage, and yet as I looked at his dark and expressive face I felt more than
ever how true a descendant he was of that long line of high-blooded, fiery, and
masterful men. There were pride, valour, and strength in his thick brows, his
sensitive nostrils, and his large hazel eyes. If on that forbidding moor a
difficult and dangerous quest should lie before us, this was at least a comrade
for whom one might venture to take a risk with the certainty that he would
bravely share it.
The train pulled up at a small wayside station and we all descended. Outside,
beyond the low, white fence, a wagonette with a pair of cobs was waiting. Our
coming was evidently a great event, for station-master and porters clustered
round us to carry out our luggage. It was a sweet, simple country spot, but I
was surprised to observe that by the gate there stood two soldierly men in dark
uniforms who leaned upon their short rifles and glanced keenly at us as we
passed. The coachman, a hard-faced, gnarled little fellow, saluted Sir Henry
Baskerville, and in a few minutes we were flying swiftly down the broad,
white road. Rolling pasture lands curved upward on either side of us, and old
gabled houses peeped out from amid the thick green foliage, but behind the
peaceful and sunlit countryside there rose ever, dark against the evening sky,
the long, gloomy curve of the moor, broken by the jagged and sinister hills.
The wagonette swung round into a side road, and we curved upward through
deep lanes worn by centuries of wheels, high banks on either side, heavy with
dripping moss and fleshy hart's-tongue ferns. Bronzing bracken and mottled
bramble gleamed in the light of the sinking sun. Still steadily rising, we passed
over a narrow granite bridge and skirted a noisy stream which gushed swiftly
down, foaming and roaring amid the gray boulders. Both road and stream
wound up through a valley dense with scrub oak and fir. At every turn
Baskerville gave an exclamation of delight, looking eagerly about him and
asking countless questions. To his eyes all seemed beautiful, but to me a tinge
of melancholy lay upon the countryside, which bore so clearly the mark of the
waning year. Yellow leaves carpeted the lanes and fluttered down upon us as
we passed. The rattle of our wheels died away as we drove through drifts of
rotting vegetation—sad gifts, as it seemed to me, for Nature to throw before
the carriage of the returning heir of the Baskervilles.
"Halloa!" cried Dr. Mortimer, "what is this?"
A steep curve of heath-clad land, an outlying spur of the moor, lay in front of
us. On the summit, hard and clear like an equestrian statue upon its pedestal,
was a mounted soldier, dark and stern, his rifle poised ready over his forearm.
He was watching the road along which we travelled.
"What is this, Perkins?" asked Dr. Mortimer.
Our driver half turned in his seat. "There's a convict escaped from Princetown,
sir. He's been out three days now, and the warders watch every road and every
station, but they've had no sight of him yet. The farmers about here don't like
it, sir, and that's a fact."
"Well, I understand that they get five pounds if they can give information."
"Yes, sir, but the chance of five pounds is but a poor thing compared to the
chance of having your throat cut. You see, it isn't like any ordinary convict.
This is a man that would stick at nothing."
"Who is he, then?"
"It is Selden, the Notting Hill murderer."
I remembered the case well, for it was one in which Holmes had taken an
interest on account of the peculiar ferocity of the crime and the wanton
brutality which had marked all the actions of the assassin. The commutation of
his death sentence had been due to some doubts as to his complete sanity, so
atrocious was his conduct. Our wagonette had topped a rise and in front of us
rose the huge expanse of the moor, mottled with gnarled and craggy cairns and
tors. A cold wind swept down from it and set us shivering. Somewhere there,
on that desolate plain, was lurking this fiendish man, hiding in a burrow like a
wild beast, his heart full of malignancy against the whole race which had cast
him out. It needed but this to complete the grim suggestiveness of the barren
waste, the chilling wind, and the darkling sky. Even Baskerville fell silent and
pulled his overcoat more closely around him.
We had left the fertile country behind and beneath us. We looked back on it
now, the slanting rays of a low sun turning the streams to threads of gold and
glowing on the red earth new turned by the plough and the broad tangle of the
woodlands. The road in front of us grew bleaker and wilder over huge russet
and olive slopes, sprinkled with giant boulders. Now and then we passed a
moorland cottage, walled and roofed with stone, with no creeper to break its
harsh outline. Suddenly we looked down into a cuplike depression, patched
with stunted oaks and firs which had been twisted and bent by the fury of
years of storm. Two high, narrow towers rose over the trees. The driver
pointed with his whip.
"Baskerville Hall," said he.
Its master had risen and was staring with flushed cheeks and shining eyes. A
few minutes later we had reached the lodge-gates, a maze of fantastic tracery
in wrought iron, with weather-bitten pillars on either side, blotched with
lichens, and surmounted by the boars' heads of the Baskervilles. The lodge
was a ruin of black granite and bared ribs of rafters, but facing it was a new
building, half constructed, the first fruit of Sir Charles's South African gold.
Through the gateway we passed into the avenue, where the wheels were again
hushed amid the leaves, and the old trees shot their branches in a sombre
tunnel over our heads. Baskerville shuddered as he looked up the long, dark
drive to where the house glimmered like a ghost at the farther end.
"Was it here?" he asked in a low voice.
"No, no, the yew alley is on the other side."
The young heir glanced round with a gloomy face.
"It's no wonder my uncle felt as if trouble were coming on him in such a place
as this," said he. "It's enough to scare any man. I'll have a row of electric
lamps up here inside of six months, and you won't know it again, with a
thousand candle-power Swan and Edison right here in front of the hall door."
The avenue opened into a broad expanse of turf, and the house lay before us.
In the fading light I could see that the centre was a heavy block of building
from which a porch projected. The whole front was draped in ivy, with a patch
clipped bare here and there where a window or a coat of arms broke through
the dark veil. From this central block rose the twin towers, ancient, crenelated,
and pierced with many loopholes. To right and left of the turrets were more
modern wings of black granite. A dull light shone through heavy mullioned
windows, and from the high chimneys which rose from the steep, high-angled
roof there sprang a single black column of smoke.
"Welcome, Sir Henry! Welcome to Baskerville Hall!"
A tall man had stepped from the shadow of the porch to open the door of the
wagonette. The figure of a woman was silhouetted against the yellow light of
the hall. She came out and helped the man to hand down our bags.
"You don't mind my driving straight home, Sir Henry?" said Dr. Mortimer.
"My wife is expecting me."
"Surely you will stay and have some dinner?"
"No, I must go. I shall probably find some work awaiting me. I would stay to
show you over the house, but Barrymore will be a better guide than I. Good-
bye, and never hesitate night or day to send for me if I can be of service."
The wheels died away down the drive while Sir Henry and I turned into the
hall, and the door clanged heavily behind us. It was a fine apartment in which
we found ourselves, large, lofty, and heavily raftered with huge baulks of age-
blackened oak. In the great old-fashioned fireplace behind the high iron dogs a
log-fire crackled and snapped. Sir Henry and I held out our hands to it, for we
were numb from our long drive. Then we gazed round us at the high, thin
window of old stained glass, the oak panelling, the stags' heads, the coats of
arms upon the walls, all dim and sombre in the subdued light of the central
lamp.
"It's just as I imagined it," said Sir Henry. "Is it not the very picture of an old
family home? To think that this should be the same hall in which for five
hundred years my people have lived. It strikes me solemn to think of it."
I saw his dark face lit up with a boyish enthusiasm as he gazed about him. The
light beat upon him where he stood, but long shadows trailed down the walls
and hung like a black canopy above him. Barrymore had returned from taking
our luggage to our rooms. He stood in front of us now with the subdued
manner of a well-trained servant. He was a remarkable-looking man, tall,
handsome, with a square black beard and pale, distinguished features.
"Would you wish dinner to be served at once, sir?"
"Is it ready?"
"In a very few minutes, sir. You will find hot water in your rooms. My wife
and I will be happy, Sir Henry, to stay with you until you have made your
fresh arrangements, but you will understand that under the new conditions this
house will require a considerable staff."
"What new conditions?"
"I only meant, sir, that Sir Charles led a very retired life, and we were able to
look after his wants. You would, naturally, wish to have more company, and so
you will need changes in your household."
"Do you mean that your wife and you wish to leave?"
"Only when it is quite convenient to you, sir."
"But your family have been with us for several generations, have they not? I
should be sorry to begin my life here by breaking an old family connection."
I seemed to discern some signs of emotion upon the butler's white face.
"I feel that also, sir, and so does my wife. But to tell the truth, sir, we were
both very much attached to Sir Charles, and his death gave us a shock and
made these surroundings very painful to us. I fear that we shall never again be
easy in our minds at Baskerville Hall."
"But what do you intend to do?"
"I have no doubt, sir, that we shall succeed in establishing ourselves in some
business. Sir Charles's generosity has given us the means to do so. And now,
sir, perhaps I had best show you to your rooms."
A square balustraded gallery ran round the top of the old hall, approached by a
double stair. From this central point two long corridors extended the whole
length of the building, from which all the bedrooms opened. My own was in
the same wing as Baskerville's and almost next door to it. These rooms
appeared to be much more modern than the central part of the house, and the
bright paper and numerous candles did something to remove the sombre
impression which our arrival had left upon my mind.
But the dining-room which opened out of the hall was a place of shadow and
gloom. It was a long chamber with a step separating the dais where the family
sat from the lower portion reserved for their dependents. At one end a
minstrel's gallery overlooked it. Black beams shot across above our heads,
with a smoke-darkened ceiling beyond them. With rows of flaring torches to
light it up, and the colour and rude hilarity of an old-time banquet, it might
have softened; but now, when two black-clothed gentlemen sat in the little
circle of light thrown by a shaded lamp, one's voice became hushed and one's
spirit subdued. A dim line of ancestors, in every variety of dress, from the
Elizabethan knight to the buck of the Regency, stared down upon us and
daunted us by their silent company. We talked little, and I for one was glad
when the meal was over and we were able to retire into the modern billiard-
room and smoke a cigarette.
"My word, it isn't a very cheerful place," said Sir Henry. "I suppose one can
tone down to it, but I feel a bit out of the picture at present. I don't wonder that
my uncle got a little jumpy if he lived all alone in such a house as this.
However, if it suits you, we will retire early tonight, and perhaps things may
seem more cheerful in the morning."
I drew aside my curtains before I went to bed and looked out from my
window. It opened upon the grassy space which lay in front of the hall door.
Beyond, two copses of trees moaned and swung in a rising wind. A half moon
broke through the rifts of racing clouds. In its cold light I saw beyond the trees
a broken fringe of rocks, and the long, low curve of the melancholy moor. I
closed the curtain, feeling that my last impression was in keeping with the rest.
And yet it was not quite the last. I found myself weary and yet wakeful,
tossing restlessly from side to side, seeking for the sleep which would not
come. Far away a chiming clock struck out the quarters of the hours, but
otherwise a deathly silence lay upon the old house. And then suddenly, in the
very dead of the night, there came a sound to my ears, clear, resonant, and
unmistakable. It was the sob of a woman, the muffled, strangling gasp of one
who is torn by an uncontrollable sorrow. I sat up in bed and listened intently.
The noise could not have been far away and was certainly in the house. For
half an hour I waited with every nerve on the alert, but there came no other
sound save the chiming clock and the rustle of the ivy on the wall.
Chapter 7. The Stapletons of Merripit House
The fresh beauty of the following morning did something to efface from our
minds the grim and gray impression which had been left upon both of us by
our first experience of Baskerville Hall. As Sir Henry and I sat at breakfast the
sunlight flooded in through the high mullioned windows, throwing watery
patches of colour from the coats of arms which covered them. The dark
panelling glowed like bronze in the golden rays, and it was hard to realize that
this was indeed the chamber which had struck such a gloom into our souls
upon the evening before.
"I guess it is ourselves and not the house that we have to blame!" said the
baronet. "We were tired with our journey and chilled by our drive, so we took
a gray view of the place. Now we are fresh and well, so it is all cheerful once
more."
"And yet it was not entirely a question of imagination," I answered. "Did you,
for example, happen to hear someone, a woman I think, sobbing in the night?"
"That is curious, for I did when I was half asleep fancy that I heard something
of the sort. I waited quite a time, but there was no more of it, so I concluded
that it was all a dream."
"I heard it distinctly, and I am sure that it was really the sob of a woman."
"We must ask about this right away." He rang the bell and asked Barrymore
whether he could account for our experience. It seemed to me that the pallid
features of the butler turned a shade paler still as he listened to his master's
question.
"There are only two women in the house, Sir Henry," he answered. "One is the
scullery-maid, who sleeps in the other wing. The other is my wife, and I can
answer for it that the sound could not have come from her."
And yet he lied as he said it, for it chanced that after breakfast I met Mrs.
Barrymore in the long corridor with the sun full upon her face. She was a
large, impassive, heavy-featured woman with a stern set expression of mouth.
But her telltale eyes were red and glanced at me from between swollen lids. It
was she, then, who wept in the night, and if she did so her husband must know
it. Yet he had taken the obvious risk of discovery in declaring that it was not
so. Why had he done this? And why did she weep so bitterly? Already round
this pale-faced, handsome, black-bearded man there was gathering an
atmosphere of mystery and of gloom. It was he who had been the first to
discover the body of Sir Charles, and we had only his word for all the
circumstances which led up to the old man's death. Was it possible that it was
Barrymore, after all, whom we had seen in the cab in Regent Street? The beard
might well have been the same. The cabman had described a somewhat shorter
man, but such an impression might easily have been erroneous. How could I
settle the point forever? Obviously the first thing to do was to see the Grimpen
postmaster and find whether the test telegram had really been placed in
Barrymore's own hands. Be the answer what it might, I should at least have
something to report to Sherlock Holmes.
Sir Henry had numerous papers to examine after breakfast, so that the time
was propitious for my excursion. It was a pleasant walk of four miles along
the edge of the moor, leading me at last to a small gray hamlet, in which two
larger buildings, which proved to be the inn and the house of Dr. Mortimer,
stood high above the rest. The postmaster, who was also the village grocer,
had a clear recollection of the telegram.
"Certainly, sir," said he, "I had the telegram delivered to Mr. Barrymore
exactly as directed."
"Who delivered it?"
"My boy here. James, you delivered that telegram to Mr. Barrymore at the
Hall last week, did you not?"
"Yes, father, I delivered it."
"Into his own hands?" I asked.
"Well, he was up in the loft at the time, so that I could not put it into his own
hands, but I gave it into Mrs. Barrymore's hands, and she promised to deliver
it at once."
"Did you see Mr. Barrymore?"
"No, sir; I tell you he was in the loft."
"If you didn't see him, how do you know he was in the loft?"
"Well, surely his own wife ought to know where he is," said the postmaster
testily. "Didn't he get the telegram? If there is any mistake it is for Mr.
Barrymore himself to complain."
It seemed hopeless to pursue the inquiry any farther, but it was clear that in
spite of Holmes's ruse we had no proof that Barrymore had not been in
London all the time. Suppose that it were so—suppose that the same man had
been the last who had seen Sir Charles alive, and the first to dog the new heir
when he returned to England. What then? Was he the agent of others or had he
some sinister design of his own? What interest could he have in persecuting
the Baskerville family? I thought of the strange warning clipped out of the
leading article of the Times. Was that his work or was it possibly the doing of
someone who was bent upon counteracting his schemes? The only conceivable
motive was that which had been suggested by Sir Henry, that if the family
could be scared away a comfortable and permanent home would be secured
for the Barrymores. But surely such an explanation as that would be quite
inadequate to account for the deep and subtle scheming which seemed to be
weaving an invisible net round the young baronet. Holmes himself had said
that no more complex case had come to him in all the long series of his
sensational investigations. I prayed, as I walked back along the gray, lonely
road, that my friend might soon be freed from his preoccupations and able to
come down to take this heavy burden of responsibility from my shoulders.
Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of running feet behind
me and by a voice which called me by name. I turned, expecting to see Dr.
Mortimer, but to my surprise it was a stranger who was pursuing me. He was a
small, slim, clean-shaven, prim-faced man, flaxen-haired and leanjawed,
between thirty and forty years of age, dressed in a gray suit and wearing a
straw hat. A tin box for botanical specimens hung over his shoulder and he
carried a green butterfly-net in one of his hands.
"You will, I am sure, excuse my presumption, Dr. Watson," said he as he came
panting up to where I stood. "Here on the moor we are homely folk and do not
wait for formal introductions. You may possibly have heard my name from our
mutual friend, Mortimer. I am Stapleton, of Merripit House."
"Your net and box would have told me as much," said I, "for I knew that Mr.
Stapleton was a naturalist. But how did you know me?"
"I have been calling on Mortimer, and he pointed you out to me from the
window of his surgery as you passed. As our road lay the same way I thought
that I would overtake you and introduce myself. I trust that Sir Henry is none
the worse for his journey?"
"He is very well, thank you."
"We were all rather afraid that after the sad death of Sir Charles the new
baronet might refuse to live here. It is asking much of a wealthy man to come
down and bury himself in a place of this kind, but I need not tell you that it
means a very great deal to the countryside. Sir Henry has, I suppose, no
superstitious fears in the matter?"
"I do not think that it is likely."
"Of course you know the legend of the fiend dog which haunts the family?"
"I have heard it."
"It is extraordinary how credulous the peasants are about here! Any number of
them are ready to swear that they have seen such a creature upon the moor."
He spoke with a smile, but I seemed to read in his eyes that he took the matter
more seriously. "The story took a great hold upon the imagination of Sir
Charles, and I have no doubt that it led to his tragic end."
"But how?"
"His nerves were so worked up that the appearance of any dog might have had
a fatal effect upon his diseased heart. I fancy that he really did see something
of the kind upon that last night in the yew alley. I feared that some disaster
might occur, for I was very fond of the old man, and I knew that his heart was
weak."
"How did you know that?"
"My friend Mortimer told me."
"You think, then, that some dog pursued Sir Charles, and that he died of fright
in consequence?"
"Have you any better explanation?"
"I have not come to any conclusion."
"Has Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"
The words took away my breath for an instant but a glance at the placid face
and steadfast eyes of my companion showed that no surprise was intended.
"It is useless for us to pretend that we do not know you, Dr. Watson," said he.
"The records of your detective have reached us here, and you could not
celebrate him without being known yourself. When Mortimer told me your
name he could not deny your identity. If you are here, then it follows that Mr.
Sherlock Holmes is interesting himself in the matter, and I am naturally
curious to know what view he may take."
"I am afraid that I cannot answer that question."
"May I ask if he is going to honour us with a visit himself?"
"He cannot leave town at present. He has other cases which engage his
attention."
"What a pity! He might throw some light on that which is so dark to us. But as
to your own researches, if there is any possible way in which I can be of
service to you I trust that you will command me. If I had any indication of the
nature of your suspicions or how you propose to investigate the case, I might
perhaps even now give you some aid or advice."
"I assure you that I am simply here upon a visit to my friend, Sir Henry, and
that I need no help of any kind."
"Excellent!" said Stapleton. "You are perfectly right to be wary and discreet. I
am justly reproved for what I feel was an unjustifiable intrusion, and I promise
you that I will not mention the matter again."
We had come to a point where a narrow grassy path struck off from the road
and wound away across the moor. A steep, boulder-sprinkled hill lay upon the
right which had in bygone days been cut into a granite quarry. The face which
was turned towards us formed a dark cliff, with ferns and brambles growing in
its niches. From over a distant rise there floated a gray plume of smoke.
"A moderate walk along this moor-path brings us to Merripit House," said he.
"Perhaps you will spare an hour that I may have the pleasure of introducing
you to my sister."
My first thought was that I should be by Sir Henry's side. But then I
remembered the pile of papers and bills with which his study table was
littered. It was certain that I could not help with those. And Holmes had
expressly said that I should study the neighbours upon the moor. I accepted
Stapleton's invitation, and we turned together down the path.
"It is a wonderful place, the moor," said he, looking round over the undulating
downs, long green rollers, with crests of jagged granite foaming up into
fantastic surges. "You never tire of the moor. You cannot think the wonderful
secrets which it contains. It is so vast, and so barren, and so mysterious."
"You know it well, then?"
"I have only been here two years. The residents would call me a newcomer.
We came shortly after Sir Charles settled. But my tastes led me to explore
every part of the country round, and I should think that there are few men who
know it better than I do."
"Is it hard to know?"
"Very hard. You see, for example, this great plain to the north here with the
queer hills breaking out of it. Do you observe anything remarkable about
that?"
"It would be a rare place for a gallop."
"You would naturally think so and the thought has cost several their lives
before now. You notice those bright green spots scattered thickly over it?"
"Yes, they seem more fertile than the rest."
Stapleton laughed. "That is the great Grimpen Mire," said he. "A false step
yonder means death to man or beast. Only yesterday I saw one of the moor
ponies wander into it. He never came out. I saw his head for quite a long time
craning out of the bog-hole, but it sucked him down at last. Even in dry
seasons it is a danger to cross it, but after these autumn rains it is an awful
place. And yet I can find my way to the very heart of it and return alive. By
George, there is another of those miserable ponies!"
Something brown was rolling and tossing among the green sedges. Then a
long, agonized, writhing neck shot upward and a dreadful cry echoed over the
moor. It turned me cold with horror, but my companion's nerves seemed to be
stronger than mine.
"It's gone!" said he. "The mire has him. Two in two days, and many more,
perhaps, for they get in the way of going there in the dry weather and never
know the difference until the mire has them in its clutches. It's a bad place, the
great Grimpen Mire."
"And you say you can penetrate it?"
"Yes, there are one or two paths which a very active man can take. I have
found them out."
"But why should you wish to go into so horrible a place?"
"Well, you see the hills beyond? They are really islands cut off on all sides by
the impassable mire, which has crawled round them in the course of years.
That is where the rare plants and the butterflies are, if you have the wit to
reach them."
"I shall try my luck some day."
He looked at me with a surprised face. "For God's sake put such an idea out of
your mind," said he. "Your blood would be upon my head. I assure you that
there would not be the least chance of your coming back alive. It is only by
remembering certain complex landmarks that I am able to do it."
"Halloa!" I cried. "What is that?"
A long, low moan, indescribably sad, swept over the moor. It filled the whole
air, and yet it was impossible to say whence it came. From a dull murmur it
swelled into a deep roar, and then sank back into a melancholy, throbbing
murmur once again. Stapleton looked at me with a curious expression in his
face.
"Queer place, the moor!" said he.
"But what is it?"
"The peasants say it is the Hound of the Baskervilles calling for its prey. I've
heard it once or twice before, but never quite so loud."
I looked round, with a chill of fear in my heart, at the huge swelling plain,
mottled with the green patches of rushes. Nothing stirred over the vast expanse
save a pair of ravens, which croaked loudly from a tor behind us.
"You are an educated man. You don't believe such nonsense as that?" said I.
"What do you think is the cause of so strange a sound?"
"Bogs make queer noises sometimes. It's the mud settling, or the water rising,
or something."
"No, no, that was a living voice."
"Well, perhaps it was. Did you ever hear a bittern booming?"
"No, I never did."
"It's a very rare bird—practically extinct—in England now, but all things are
possible upon the moor. Yes, I should not be surprised to learn that what we
have heard is the cry of the last of the bitterns."
"It's the weirdest, strangest thing that ever I heard in my life."
"Yes, it's rather an uncanny place altogether. Look at the hillside yonder. What
do you make of those?"
The whole steep slope was covered with gray circular rings of stone, a score of
them at least.
"What are they? Sheep-pens?"
"No, they are the homes of our worthy ancestors. Prehistoric man lived thickly
on the moor, and as no one in particular has lived there since, we find all his
little arrangements exactly as he left them. These are his wigwams with the
roofs off. You can even see his hearth and his couch if you have the curiosity
to go inside.
"But it is quite a town. When was it inhabited?"
"Neolithic man—no date."
"What did he do?"
"He grazed his cattle on these slopes, and he learned to dig for tin when the
bronze sword began to supersede the stone axe. Look at the great trench in the
opposite hill. That is his mark. Yes, you will find some very singular points
about the moor, Dr. Watson. Oh, excuse me an instant! It is surely
Cyclopides."
A small fly or moth had fluttered across our path, and in an instant Stapleton
was rushing with extraordinary energy and speed in pursuit of it. To my
dismay the creature flew straight for the great mire, and my acquaintance
never paused for an instant, bounding from tuft to tuft behind it, his green net
waving in the air. His gray clothes and jerky, zigzag, irregular progress made
him not unlike some huge moth himself. I was standing watching his pursuit
with a mixture of admiration for his extraordinary activity and fear lest he
should lose his footing in the treacherous mire, when I heard the sound of
steps and, turning round, found a woman near me upon the path. She had
come from the direction in which the plume of smoke indicated the position of
Merripit House, but the dip of the moor had hid her until she was quite close.
I could not doubt that this was the Miss Stapleton of whom I had been told,
since ladies of any sort must be few upon the moor, and I remembered that I
had heard someone describe her as being a beauty. The woman who
approached me was certainly that, and of a most uncommon type. There could
not have been a greater contrast between brother and sister, for Stapleton was
neutral tinted, with light hair and gray eyes, while she was darker than any
brunette whom I have seen in England—slim, elegant, and tall. She had a
proud, finely cut face, so regular that it might have seemed impassive were it
not for the sensitive mouth and the beautiful dark, eager eyes. With her perfect
figure and elegant dress she was, indeed, a strange apparition upon a lonely
moorland path. Her eyes were on her brother as I turned, and then she
quickened her pace towards me. I had raised my hat and was about to make
some explanatory remark when her own words turned all my thoughts into a
new channel.
"Go back!" she said. "Go straight back to London, instantly."
I could only stare at her in stupid surprise. Her eyes blazed at me, and she
tapped the ground impatiently with her foot.
"Why should I go back?" I asked.
"I cannot explain." She spoke in a low, eager voice, with a curious lisp in her
utterance. "But for God's sake do what I ask you. Go back and never set foot
upon the moor again."
"But I have only just come."
"Man, man!" she cried. "Can you not tell when a warning is for your own
good? Go back to London! Start tonight! Get away from this place at all costs!
Hush, my brother is coming! Not a word of what I have said. Would you mind
getting that orchid for me among the mare's-tails yonder? We are very rich in
orchids on the moor, though, of course, you are rather late to see the beauties
of the place."
Stapleton had abandoned the chase and came back to us breathing hard and
flushed with his exertions.
"Halloa, Beryl!" said he, and it seemed to me that the tone of his greeting was
not altogether a cordial one.
"Well, Jack, you are very hot."
"Yes, I was chasing a Cyclopides. He is very rare and seldom found in the late
autumn. What a pity that I should have missed him!" He spoke unconcernedly,
but his small light eyes glanced incessantly from the girl to me.
"You have introduced yourselves, I can see."
"Yes. I was telling Sir Henry that it was rather late for him to see the true
beauties of the moor."
"Why, who do you think this is?"
"I imagine that it must be Sir Henry Baskerville."
"No, no," said I. "Only a humble commoner, but his friend. My name is Dr.
Watson."
A flush of vexation passed over her expressive face. "We have been talking at
cross purposes," said she.
"Why, you had not very much time for talk," her brother remarked with the
same questioning eyes.
"I talked as if Dr. Watson were a resident instead of being merely a visitor,"
said she. "It cannot much matter to him whether it is early or late for the
orchids. But you will come on, will you not, and see Merripit House?"
A short walk brought us to it, a bleak moorland house, once the farm of some
grazier in the old prosperous days, but now put into repair and turned into a
modern dwelling. An orchard surrounded it, but the trees, as is usual upon the
moor, were stunted and nipped, and the effect of the whole place was mean
and melancholy. We were admitted by a strange, wizened, rusty-coated old
manservant, who seemed in keeping with the house. Inside, however, there
were large rooms furnished with an elegance in which I seemed to recognize
the taste of the lady. As I looked from their windows at the interminable
granite-flecked moor rolling unbroken to the farthest horizon I could not but
marvel at what could have brought this highly educated man and this beautiful
woman to live in such a place.
"Queer spot to choose, is it not?" said he as if in answer to my thought. "And
yet we manage to make ourselves fairly happy, do we not, Beryl?"
"Quite happy," said she, but there was no ring of conviction in her words.
"I had a school," said Stapleton. "It was in the north country. The work to a
man of my temperament was mechanical and uninteresting, but the privilege
of living with youth, of helping to mould those young minds, and of
impressing them with one's own character and ideals was very dear to me.
However, the fates were against us. A serious epidemic broke out in the school
and three of the boys died. It never recovered from the blow, and much of my
capital was irretrievably swallowed up. And yet, if it were not for the loss of
the charming companionship of the boys, I could rejoice over my own
misfortune, for, with my strong tastes for botany and zoology, I find an
unlimited field of work here, and my sister is as devoted to Nature as I am. All
this, Dr. Watson, has been brought upon your head by your expression as you
surveyed the moor out of our window."
"It certainly did cross my mind that it might be a little dull—less for you,
perhaps, than for your sister."
"No, no, I am never dull," said she quickly.
"We have books, we have our studies, and we have interesting neighbours. Dr.
Mortimer is a most learned man in his own line. Poor Sir Charles was also an
admirable companion. We knew him well and miss him more than I can tell.
Do you think that I should intrude if I were to call this afternoon and make the
acquaintance of Sir Henry?"
"I am sure that he would be delighted."
"Then perhaps you would mention that I propose to do so. We may in our
humble way do something to make things more easy for him until he becomes
accustomed to his new surroundings. Will you come upstairs, Dr. Watson, and
inspect my collection of Lepidoptera? I think it is the most complete one in the
south-west of England. By the time that you have looked through them lunch
will be almost ready."
But I was eager to get back to my charge. The melancholy of the moor, the
death of the unfortunate pony, the weird sound which had been associated with
the grim legend of the Baskervilles, all these things tinged my thoughts with
sadness. Then on the top of these more or less vague impressions there had
come the definite and distinct warning of Miss Stapleton, delivered with such
intense earnestness that I could not doubt that some grave and deep reason lay
behind it. I resisted all pressure to stay for lunch, and I set off at once upon my
return journey, taking the grass-grown path by which we had come.
It seems, however, that there must have been some short cut for those who
knew it, for before I had reached the road I was astounded to see Miss
Stapleton sitting upon a rock by the side of the track. Her face was beautifully
flushed with her exertions and she held her hand to her side.
"I have run all the way in order to cut you off, Dr. Watson," said she. "I had
not even time to put on my hat. I must not stop, or my brother may miss me. I
wanted to say to you how sorry I am about the stupid mistake I made in
thinking that you were Sir Henry. Please forget the words I said, which have
no application whatever to you."
"But I can't forget them, Miss Stapleton," said I. "I am Sir Henry's friend, and
his welfare is a very close concern of mine. Tell me why it was that you were
so eager that Sir Henry should return to London."
"A woman's whim, Dr. Watson. When you know me better you will
understand that I cannot always give reasons for what I say or do."
"No, no. I remember the thrill in your voice. I remember the look in your eyes.
Please, please, be frank with me, Miss Stapleton, for ever since I have been
here I have been conscious of shadows all round me. Life has become like that
great Grimpen Mire, with little green patches everywhere into which one may
sink and with no guide to point the track. Tell me then what it was that you
meant, and I will promise to convey your warning to Sir Henry."
An expression of irresolution passed for an instant over her face, but her eyes
had hardened again when she answered me.
"You make too much of it, Dr. Watson," said she. "My brother and I were very
much shocked by the death of Sir Charles. We knew him very intimately, for
his favourite walk was over the moor to our house. He was deeply impressed
with the curse which hung over the family, and when this tragedy came I
naturally felt that there must be some grounds for the fears which he had
expressed. I was distressed therefore when another member of the family came
down to live here, and I felt that he should be warned of the danger which he
will run. That was all which I intended to convey.
"But what is the danger?"
"You know the story of the hound?"
"I do not believe in such nonsense."
"But I do. If you have any influence with Sir Henry, take him away from a
place which has always been fatal to his family. The world is wide. Why
should he wish to live at the place of danger?"
"Because it is the place of danger. That is Sir Henry's nature. I fear that unless
you can give me some more definite information than this it would be
impossible to get him to move."
"I cannot say anything definite, for I do not know anything definite."
"I would ask you one more question, Miss Stapleton. If you meant no more
than this when you first spoke to me, why should you not wish your brother to
overhear what you said? There is nothing to which he, or anyone else, could
object."
"My brother is very anxious to have the Hall inhabited, for he thinks it is for
the good of the poor folk upon the moor. He would be very angry if he knew
that I have said anything which might induce Sir Henry to go away. But I have
done my duty now and I will say no more. I must go back, or he will miss me
and suspect that I have seen you. Good-bye!" She turned and had disappeared
in a few minutes among the scattered boulders, while I, with my soul full of
vague fears, pursued my way to Baskerville Hall.
Chapter 8. First Report of Dr. Watson
From this point onward I will follow the course of events by transcribing my
own letters to Mr. Sherlock Holmes which lie before me on the table. One
page is missing, but otherwise they are exactly as written and show my
feelings and suspicions of the moment more accurately than my memory, clear
as it is upon these tragic events, can possibly do.
Baskerville Hall, October 13th. MY DEAR HOLMES: My previous letters
and telegrams have kept you pretty well up to date as to all that has occurred
in this most God-forsaken corner of the world. The longer one stays here the
more does the spirit of the moor sink into one's soul, its vastness, and also its
grim charm. When you are once out upon its bosom you have left all traces of
modern England behind you, but, on the other hand, you are conscious
everywhere of the homes and the work of the prehistoric people. On all sides
of you as you walk are the houses of these forgotten folk, with their graves and
the huge monoliths which are supposed to have marked their temples. As you
look at their gray stone huts against the scarred hillsides you leave your own
age behind you, and if you were to see a skin-clad, hairy man crawl out from
the low door fitting a flint-tipped arrow on to the string of his bow, you would
feel that his presence there was more natural than your own. The strange thing
is that they should have lived so thickly on what must always have been most
unfruitful soil. I am no antiquarian, but I could imagine that they were some
unwarlike and harried race who were forced to accept that which none other
would occupy.
All this, however, is foreign to the mission on which you sent me and will
probably be very uninteresting to your severely practical mind. I can still
remember your complete indifference as to whether the sun moved round the
earth or the earth round the sun. Let me, therefore, return to the facts
concerning Sir Henry Baskerville.
If you have not had any report within the last few days it is because up to
today there was nothing of importance to relate. Then a very surprising
circumstance occurred, which I shall tell you in due course. But, first of all, I
must keep you in touch with some of the other factors in the situation.
One of these, concerning which I have said little, is the escaped convict upon
the moor. There is strong reason now to believe that he has got right away,
which is a considerable relief to the lonely householders of this district. A
fortnight has passed since his flight, during which he has not been seen and
nothing has been heard of him. It is surely inconceivable that he could have
held out upon the moor during all that time. Of course, so far as his
concealment goes there is no difficulty at all. Any one of these stone huts
would give him a hiding-place. But there is nothing to eat unless he were to
catch and slaughter one of the moor sheep. We think, therefore, that he has
gone, and the outlying farmers sleep the better in consequence.
We are four able-bodied men in this household, so that we could take good
care of ourselves, but I confess that I have had uneasy moments when I have
thought of the Stapletons. They live miles from any help. There are one maid,
an old manservant, the sister, and the brother, the latter not a very strong man.
They would be helpless in the hands of a desperate fellow like this Notting
Hill criminal if he could once effect an entrance. Both Sir Henry and I were
concerned at their situation, and it was suggested that Perkins the groom
should go over to sleep there, but Stapleton would not hear of it.
The fact is that our friend, the baronet, begins to display a considerable
interest in our fair neighbour. It is not to be wondered at, for time hangs
heavily in this lonely spot to an active man like him, and she is a very
fascinating and beautiful woman. There is something tropical and exotic about
her which forms a singular contrast to her cool and unemotional brother. Yet
he also gives the idea of hidden fires. He has certainly a very marked influence
over her, for I have seen her continually glance at him as she talked as if
seeking approbation for what she said. I trust that he is kind to her. There is a
dry glitter in his eyes and a firm set of his thin lips, which goes with a positive
and possibly a harsh nature. You would find him an interesting study.
He came over to call upon Baskerville on that first day, and the very next
morning he took us both to show us the spot where the legend of the wicked
Hugo is supposed to have had its origin. It was an excursion of some miles
across the moor to a place which is so dismal that it might have suggested the
story. We found a short valley between rugged tors which led to an open,
grassy space flecked over with the white cotton grass. In the middle of it rose
two great stones, worn and sharpened at the upper end until they looked like
the huge corroding fangs of some monstrous beast. In every way it
corresponded with the scene of the old tragedy. Sir Henry was much interested
and asked Stapleton more than once whether he did really believe in the
possibility of the interference of the supernatural in the affairs of men. He
spoke lightly, but it was evident that he was very much in earnest. Stapleton
was guarded in his replies, but it was easy to see that he said less than he
might, and that he would not express his whole opinion out of consideration
for the feelings of the baronet. He told us of similar cases, where families had
suffered from some evil influence, and he left us with the impression that he
shared the popular view upon the matter.
On our way back we stayed for lunch at Merripit House, and it was there that
Sir Henry made the acquaintance of Miss Stapleton. From the first moment
that he saw her he appeared to be strongly attracted by her, and I am much
mistaken if the feeling was not mutual. He referred to her again and again on
our walk home, and since then hardly a day has passed that we have not seen
something of the brother and sister. They dine here tonight, and there is some
talk of our going to them next week. One would imagine that such a match
would be very welcome to Stapleton, and yet I have more than once caught a
look of the strongest disapprobation in his face when Sir Henry has been
paying some attention to his sister. He is much attached to her, no doubt, and
would lead a lonely life without her, but it would seem the height of
selfishness if he were to stand in the way of her making so brilliant a marriage.
Yet I am certain that he does not wish their intimacy to ripen into love, and I
have several times observed that he has taken pains to prevent them from
being tete-a-tete. By the way, your instructions to me never to allow Sir Henry
to go out alone will become very much more onerous if a love affair were to
be added to our other difficulties. My popularity would soon suffer if I were to
carry out your orders to the letter.
The other day—Thursday, to be more exact—Dr. Mortimer lunched with us.
He has been excavating a barrow at Long Down and has got a prehistoric skull
which fills him with great joy. Never was there such a single-minded
enthusiast as he! The Stapletons came in afterwards, and the good doctor took
us all to the yew alley at Sir Henry's request to show us exactly how
everything occurred upon that fatal night. It is a long, dismal walk, the yew
alley, between two high walls of clipped hedge, with a narrow band of grass
upon either side. At the far end is an old tumble-down summer-house.
Halfway down is the moor-gate, where the old gentleman left his cigar-ash. It
is a white wooden gate with a latch. Beyond it lies the wide moor. I
remembered your theory of the affair and tried to picture all that had occurred.
As the old man stood there he saw something coming across the moor,
something which terrified him so that he lost his wits and ran and ran until he
died of sheer horror and exhaustion. There was the long, gloomy tunnel down
which he fled. And from what? A sheep-dog of the moor? Or a spectral hound,
black, silent, and monstrous? Was there a human agency in the matter? Did the
pale, watchful Barrymore know more than he cared to say? It was all dim and
vague, but always there is the dark shadow of crime behind it.
One other neighbour I have met since I wrote last. This is Mr. Frankland, of
Lafter Hall, who lives some four miles to the south of us. He is an elderly
man, red-faced, white-haired, and choleric. His passion is for the British law,
and he has spent a large fortune in litigation. He fights for the mere pleasure of
fighting and is equally ready to take up either side of a question, so that it is no
wonder that he has found it a costly amusement. Sometimes he will shut up a
right of way and defy the parish to make him open it. At others he will with
his own hands tear down some other man's gate and declare that a path has
existed there from time immemorial, defying the owner to prosecute him for
trespass. He is learned in old manorial and communal rights, and he applies
his knowledge sometimes in favour of the villagers of Fernworthy and
sometimes against them, so that he is periodically either carried in triumph
down the village street or else burned in effigy, according to his latest exploit.
He is said to have about seven lawsuits upon his hands at present, which will
probably swallow up the remainder of his fortune and so draw his sting and
leave him harmless for the future. Apart from the law he seems a kindly, good-
natured person, and I only mention him because you were particular that I
should send some description of the people who surround us. He is curiously
employed at present, for, being an amateur astronomer, he has an excellent
telescope, with which he lies upon the roof of his own house and sweeps the
moor all day in the hope of catching a glimpse of the escaped convict. If he
would confine his energies to this all would be well, but there are rumours that
he intends to prosecute Dr. Mortimer for opening a grave without the consent
of the next of kin because he dug up the Neolithic skull in the barrow on Long
Down. He helps to keep our lives from being monotonous and gives a little
comic relief where it is badly needed.
And now, having brought you up to date in the escaped convict, the
Stapletons, Dr. Mortimer, and Frankland, of Lafter Hall, let me end on that
which is most important and tell you more about the Barrymores, and
especially about the surprising development of last night.
First of all about the test telegram, which you sent from London in order to
make sure that Barrymore was really here. I have already explained that the
testimony of the postmaster shows that the test was worthless and that we have
no proof one way or the other. I told Sir Henry how the matter stood, and he at
once, in his downright fashion, had Barrymore up and asked him whether he
had received the telegram himself. Barrymore said that he had.
"Did the boy deliver it into your own hands?" asked Sir Henry.
Barrymore looked surprised, and considered for a little time.
"No," said he, "I was in the box-room at the time, and my wife brought it up to
me."
"Did you answer it yourself?"
"No; I told my wife what to answer and she went down to write it."
In the evening he recurred to the subject of his own accord.
"I could not quite understand the object of your questions this morning, Sir
Henry," said he. "I trust that they do not mean that I have done anything to
forfeit your confidence?"
Sir Henry had to assure him that it was not so and pacify him by giving him a
considerable part of his old wardrobe, the London outfit having now all
arrived.
Mrs. Barrymore is of interest to me. She is a heavy, solid person, very limited,
intensely respectable, and inclined to be puritanical. You could hardly
conceive a less emotional subject. Yet I have told you how, on the first night
here, I heard her sobbing bitterly, and since then I have more than once
observed traces of tears upon her face. Some deep sorrow gnaws ever at her
heart. Sometimes I wonder if she has a guilty memory which haunts her, and
sometimes I suspect Barrymore of being a domestic tyrant. I have always felt
that there was something singular and questionable in this man's character, but
the adventure of last night brings all my suspicions to a head.
And yet it may seem a small matter in itself. You are aware that I am not a
very sound sleeper, and since I have been on guard in this house my slumbers
have been lighter than ever. Last night, about two in the morning, I was
aroused by a stealthy step passing my room. I rose, opened my door, and
peeped out. A long black shadow was trailing down the corridor. It was thrown
by a man who walked softly down the passage with a candle held in his hand.
He was in shirt and trousers, with no covering to his feet. I could merely see
the outline, but his height told me that it was Barrymore. He walked very
slowly and circumspectly, and there was something indescribably guilty and
furtive in his whole appearance.
I have told you that the corridor is broken by the balcony which runs round the
hall, but that it is resumed upon the farther side. I waited until he had passed
out of sight and then I followed him. When I came round the balcony he had
reached the end of the farther corridor, and I could see from the glimmer of
light through an open door that he had entered one of the rooms. Now, all
these rooms are unfurnished and unoccupied so that his expedition became
more mysterious than ever. The light shone steadily as if he were standing
motionless. I crept down the passage as noiselessly as I could and peeped
round the corner of the door.
Barrymore was crouching at the window with the candle held against the
glass. His profile was half turned towards me, and his face seemed to be rigid
with expectation as he stared out into the blackness of the moor. For some
minutes he stood watching intently. Then he gave a deep groan and with an
impatient gesture he put out the light. Instantly I made my way back to my
room, and very shortly came the stealthy steps passing once more upon their
return journey. Long afterwards when I had fallen into a light sleep I heard a
key turn somewhere in a lock, but I could not tell whence the sound came.
What it all means I cannot guess, but there is some secret business going on in
this house of gloom which sooner or later we shall get to the bottom of. I do
not trouble you with my theories, for you asked me to furnish you only with
facts. I have had a long talk with Sir Henry this morning, and we have made a
plan of campaign founded upon my observations of last night. I will not speak
about it just now, but it should make my next report interesting reading.
Chapter 9. The Light upon the Moor [Second Report of Dr. Watson]
Baskerville Hall, Oct. 15th. MY DEAR HOLMES: If I was compelled to leave
you without much news during the early days of my mission you must
acknowledge that I am making up for lost time, and that events are now
crowding thick and fast upon us. In my last report I ended upon my top note
with Barrymore at the window, and now I have quite a budget already which
will, unless I am much mistaken, considerably surprise you. Things have taken
a turn which I could not have anticipated. In some ways they have within the
last forty-eight hours become much clearer and in some ways they have
become more complicated. But I will tell you all and you shall judge for
yourself.
Before breakfast on the morning following my adventure I went down the
corridor and examined the room in which Barrymore had been on the night
before. The western window through which he had stared so intently has, I
noticed, one peculiarity above all other windows in the house—it commands
the nearest outlook on to the moor. There is an opening between two trees
which enables one from this point of view to look right down upon it, while
from all the other windows it is only a distant glimpse which can be obtained.
It follows, therefore, that Barrymore, since only this window would serve the
purpose, must have been looking out for something or somebody upon the
moor. The night was very dark, so that I can hardly imagine how he could
have hoped to see anyone. It had struck me that it was possible that some love
intrigue was on foot. That would have accounted for his stealthy movements
and also for the uneasiness of his wife. The man is a striking-looking fellow,
very well equipped to steal the heart of a country girl, so that this theory
seemed to have something to support it. That opening of the door which I had
heard after I had returned to my room might mean that he had gone out to keep
some clandestine appointment. So I reasoned with myself in the morning, and
I tell you the direction of my suspicions, however much the result may have
shown that they were unfounded.
But whatever the true explanation of Barrymore's movements might be, I felt
that the responsibility of keeping them to myself until I could explain them
was more than I could bear. I had an interview with the baronet in his study
after breakfast, and I told him all that I had seen. He was less surprised than I
had expected.
"I knew that Barrymore walked about nights, and I had a mind to speak to him
about it," said he. "Two or three times I have heard his steps in the passage,
coming and going, just about the hour you name."
"Perhaps then he pays a visit every night to that particular window," I
suggested.
"Perhaps he does. If so, we should be able to shadow him and see what it is
that he is after. I wonder what your friend Holmes would do if he were here."
"I believe that he would do exactly what you now suggest," said I. "He would
follow Barrymore and see what he did."
"Then we shall do it together."
"But surely he would hear us."
"The man is rather deaf, and in any case we must take our chance of that. We'll
sit up in my room tonight and wait until he passes." Sir Henry rubbed his
hands with pleasure, and it was evident that he hailed the adventure as a relief
to his somewhat quiet life upon the moor.
The baronet has been in communication with the architect who prepared the
plans for Sir Charles, and with a contractor from London, so that we may
expect great changes to begin here soon. There have been decorators and
furnishers up from Plymouth, and it is evident that our friend has large ideas
and means to spare no pains or expense to restore the grandeur of his family.
When the house is renovated and refurnished, all that he will need will be a
wife to make it complete. Between ourselves there are pretty clear signs that
this will not be wanting if the lady is willing, for I have seldom seen a man
more infatuated with a woman than he is with our beautiful neighbour, Miss
Stapleton. And yet the course of true love does not run quite as smoothly as
one would under the circumstances expect. Today, for example, its surface was
broken by a very unexpected ripple, which has caused our friend considerable
perplexity and annoyance.
After the conversation which I have quoted about Barrymore, Sir Henry put on
his hat and prepared to go out. As a matter of course I did the same.
"What, are you coming, Watson?" he asked, looking at me in a curious way.
"That depends on whether you are going on the moor," said I.
"Yes, I am."
"Well, you know what my instructions are. I am sorry to intrude, but you heard
how earnestly Holmes insisted that I should not leave you, and especially that
you should not go alone upon the moor."
Sir Henry put his hand upon my shoulder with a pleasant smile.
"My dear fellow," said he, "Holmes, with all his wisdom, did not foresee some
things which have happened since I have been on the moor. You understand
me? I am sure that you are the last man in the world who would wish to be a
spoil-sport. I must go out alone."
It put me in a most awkward position. I was at a loss what to say or what to
do, and before I had made up my mind he picked up his cane and was gone.
But when I came to think the matter over my conscience reproached me
bitterly for having on any pretext allowed him to go out of my sight. I
imagined what my feelings would be if I had to return to you and to confess
that some misfortune had occurred through my disregard for your instructions.
I assure you my cheeks flushed at the very thought. It might not even now be
too late to overtake him, so I set off at once in the direction of Merripit House.
I hurried along the road at the top of my speed without seeing anything of Sir
Henry, until I came to the point where the moor path branches off. There,
fearing that perhaps I had come in the wrong direction after all, I mounted a
hill from which I could command a view—the same hill which is cut into the
dark quarry. Thence I saw him at once. He was on the moor path about a
quarter of a mile off, and a lady was by his side who could only be Miss
Stapleton. It was clear that there was already an understanding between them
and that they had met by appointment. They were walking slowly along in
deep conversation, and I saw her making quick little movements of her hands
as if she were very earnest in what she was saying, while he listened intently,
and once or twice shook his head in strong dissent. I stood among the rocks
watching them, very much puzzled as to what I should do next. To follow
them and break into their intimate conversation seemed to be an outrage, and
yet my clear duty was never for an instant to let him out of my sight. To act
the spy upon a friend was a hateful task. Still, I could see no better course than
to observe him from the hill, and to clear my conscience by confessing to him
afterwards what I had done. It is true that if any sudden danger had threatened
him I was too far away to be of use, and yet I am sure that you will agree with
me that the position was very difficult, and that there was nothing more which
I could do.
Our friend, Sir Henry, and the lady had halted on the path and were standing
deeply absorbed in their conversation, when I was suddenly aware that I was
not the only witness of their interview. A wisp of green floating in the air
caught my eye, and another glance showed me that it was carried on a stick by
a man who was moving among the broken ground. It was Stapleton with his
butterfly-net. He was very much closer to the pair than I was, and he appeared
to be moving in their direction. At this instant Sir Henry suddenly drew Miss
Stapleton to his side. His arm was round her, but it seemed to me that she was
straining away from him with her face averted. He stooped his head to hers,
and she raised one hand as if in protest. Next moment I saw them spring apart
and turn hurriedly round. Stapleton was the cause of the interruption. He was
running wildly towards them, his absurd net dangling behind him. He
gesticulated and almost danced with excitement in front of the lovers. What
the scene meant I could not imagine, but it seemed to me that Stapleton was
abusing Sir Henry, who offered explanations, which became more angry as the
other refused to accept them. The lady stood by in haughty silence. Finally
Stapleton turned upon his heel and beckoned in a peremptory way to his sister,
who, after an irresolute glance at Sir Henry, walked off by the side of her
brother. The naturalist's angry gestures showed that the lady was included in
his displeasure. The baronet stood for a minute looking after them, and then he
walked slowly back the way that he had come, his head hanging, the very
picture of dejection.
What all this meant I could not imagine, but I was deeply ashamed to have
witnessed so intimate a scene without my friend's knowledge. I ran down the
hill therefore and met the baronet at the bottom. His face was flushed with
anger and his brows were wrinkled, like one who is at his wit's ends what to
do.
"Halloa, Watson! Where have you dropped from?" said he. "You don't mean to
say that you came after me in spite of all?"
I explained everything to him: how I had found it impossible to remain behind,
how I had followed him, and how I had witnessed all that had occurred. For an
instant his eyes blazed at me, but my frankness disarmed his anger, and he
broke at last into a rather rueful laugh.
"You would have thought the middle of that prairie a fairly safe place for a
man to be private," said he, "but, by thunder, the whole countryside seems to
have been out to see me do my wooing—and a mighty poor wooing at that!
Where had you engaged a seat?"
"I was on that hill."
"Quite in the back row, eh? But her brother was well up to the front. Did you
see him come out on us?"
"Yes, I did."
"Did he ever strike you as being crazy—this brother of hers?"
"I can't say that he ever did."
"I dare say not. I always thought him sane enough until today, but you can take
it from me that either he or I ought to be in a straitjacket. What's the matter
with me, anyhow? You've lived near me for some weeks, Watson. Tell me
straight, now! Is there anything that would prevent me from making a good
husband to a woman that I loved?"
"I should say not."
"He can't object to my worldly position, so it must be myself that he has this
down on. What has he against me? I never hurt man or woman in my life that I
know of. And yet he would not so much as let me touch the tips of her
fingers."
"Did he say so?"
"That, and a deal more. I tell you, Watson, I've only known her these few
weeks, but from the first I just felt that she was made for me, and she, too—
she was happy when she was with me, and that I'll swear. There's a light in a
woman's eyes that speaks louder than words. But he has never let us get
together and it was only today for the first time that I saw a chance of having a
few words with her alone. She was glad to meet me, but when she did it was
not love that she would talk about, and she wouldn't have let me talk about it
either if she could have stopped it. She kept coming back to it that this was a
place of danger, and that she would never be happy until I had left it. I told her
that since I had seen her I was in no hurry to leave it, and that if she really
wanted me to go, the only way to work it was for her to arrange to go with me.
With that I offered in as many words to marry her, but before she could
answer, down came this brother of hers, running at us with a face on him like a
madman. He was just white with rage, and those light eyes of his were blazing
with fury. What was I doing with the lady? How dared I offer her attentions
which were distasteful to her? Did I think that because I was a baronet I could
do what I liked? If he had not been her brother I should have known better
how to answer him. As it was I told him that my feelings towards his sister
were such as I was not ashamed of, and that I hoped that she might honour me
by becoming my wife. That seemed to make the matter no better, so then I lost
my temper too, and I answered him rather more hotly than I should perhaps,
considering that she was standing by. So it ended by his going off with her, as
you saw, and here am I as badly puzzled a man as any in this county. Just tell
me what it all means, Watson, and I'll owe you more than ever I can hope to
pay."
I tried one or two explanations, but, indeed, I was completely puzzled myself.
Our friend's title, his fortune, his age, his character, and his appearance are all
in his favour, and I know nothing against him unless it be this dark fate which
runs in his family. That his advances should be rejected so brusquely without
any reference to the lady's own wishes and that the lady should accept the
situation without protest is very amazing. However, our conjectures were set at
rest by a visit from Stapleton himself that very afternoon. He had come to
offer apologies for his rudeness of the morning, and after a long private
interview with Sir Henry in his study the upshot of their conversation was that
the breach is quite healed, and that we are to dine at Merripit House next
Friday as a sign of it.
"I don't say now that he isn't a crazy man," said Sir Henry; "I can't forget the
look in his eyes when he ran at me this morning, but I must allow that no man
could make a more handsome apology than he has done."
"Did he give any explanation of his conduct?"
"His sister is everything in his life, he says. That is natural enough, and I am
glad that he should understand her value. They have always been together, and
according to his account he has been a very lonely man with only her as a
companion, so that the thought of losing her was really terrible to him. He had
not understood, he said, that I was becoming attached to her, but when he saw
with his own eyes that it was really so, and that she might be taken away from
him, it gave him such a shock that for a time he was not responsible for what
he said or did. He was very sorry for all that had passed, and he recognized
how foolish and how selfish it was that he should imagine that he could hold a
beautiful woman like his sister to himself for her whole life. If she had to leave
him he had rather it was to a neighbour like myself than to anyone else. But in
any case it was a blow to him and it would take him some time before he
could prepare himself to meet it. He would withdraw all opposition upon his
part if I would promise for three months to let the matter rest and to be content
with cultivating the lady's friendship during that time without claiming her
love. This I promised, and so the matter rests."
So there is one of our small mysteries cleared up. It is something to have
touched bottom anywhere in this bog in which we are floundering. We know
now why Stapleton looked with disfavour upon his sister's suitor—even when
that suitor was so eligible a one as Sir Henry. And now I pass on to another
thread which I have extricated out of the tangled skein, the mystery of the sobs
in the night, of the tear-stained face of Mrs. Barrymore, of the secret journey
of the butler to the western lattice window. Congratulate me, my dear Holmes,
and tell me that I have not disappointed you as an agent—that you do not
regret the confidence which you showed in me when you sent me down. All
these things have by one night's work been thoroughly cleared.
I have said "by one night's work," but, in truth, it was by two nights' work, for
on the first we drew entirely blank. I sat up with Sir Henry in his rooms until
nearly three o'clock in the morning, but no sound of any sort did we hear
except the chiming clock upon the stairs. It was a most melancholy vigil and
ended by each of us falling asleep in our chairs. Fortunately we were not
discouraged, and we determined to try again. The next night we lowered the
lamp and sat smoking cigarettes without making the least sound. It was
incredible how slowly the hours crawled by, and yet we were helped through it
by the same sort of patient interest which the hunter must feel as he watches
the trap into which he hopes the game may wander. One struck, and two, and
we had almost for the second time given it up in despair when in an instant we
both sat bolt upright in our chairs with all our weary senses keenly on the alert
once more. We had heard the creak of a step in the passage.
Very stealthily we heard it pass along until it died away in the distance. Then
the baronet gently opened his door and we set out in pursuit. Already our man
had gone round the gallery and the corridor was all in darkness. Softly we
stole along until we had come into the other wing. We were just in time to
catch a glimpse of the tall, black-bearded figure, his shoulders rounded as he
tiptoed down the passage. Then he passed through the same door as before,
and the light of the candle framed it in the darkness and shot one single yellow
beam across the gloom of the corridor. We shuffled cautiously towards it,
trying every plank before we dared to put our whole weight upon it. We had
taken the precaution of leaving our boots behind us, but, even so, the old
boards snapped and creaked beneath our tread. Sometimes it seemed
impossible that he should fail to hear our approach. However, the man is
fortunately rather deaf, and he was entirely preoccupied in that which he was
doing. When at last we reached the door and peeped through we found him
crouching at the window, candle in hand, his white, intent face pressed against
the pane, exactly as I had seen him two nights before.
We had arranged no plan of campaign, but the baronet is a man to whom the
most direct way is always the most natural. He walked into the room, and as
he did so Barrymore sprang up from the window with a sharp hiss of his
breath and stood, livid and trembling, before us. His dark eyes, glaring out of
the white mask of his face, were full of horror and astonishment as he gazed
from Sir Henry to me.
"What are you doing here, Barrymore?"
"Nothing, sir." His agitation was so great that he could hardly speak, and the
shadows sprang up and down from the shaking of his candle. "It was the
window, sir. I go round at night to see that they are fastened."
"On the second floor?"
"Yes, sir, all the windows."
"Look here, Barrymore," said Sir Henry sternly, "we have made up our minds
to have the truth out of you, so it will save you trouble to tell it sooner rather
than later. Come, now! No lies! What were you doing at that window?"
The fellow looked at us in a helpless way, and he wrung his hands together
like one who is in the last extremity of doubt and misery.
"I was doing no harm, sir. I was holding a candle to the window."
"And why were you holding a candle to the window?"
"Don't ask me, Sir Henry—don't ask me! I give you my word, sir, that it is not
my secret, and that I cannot tell it. If it concerned no one but myself I would
not try to keep it from you."
A sudden idea occurred to me, and I took the candle from the trembling hand
of the butler.
"He must have been holding it as a signal," said I. "Let us see if there is any
answer." I held it as he had done, and stared out into the darkness of the night.
Vaguely I could discern the black bank of the trees and the lighter expanse of
the moor, for the moon was behind the clouds. And then I gave a cry of
exultation, for a tiny pinpoint of yellow light had suddenly transfixed the dark
veil, and glowed steadily in the centre of the black square framed by the
window.
"There it is!" I cried.
"No, no, sir, it is nothing—nothing at all!" the butler broke in; "I assure you,
sir—"
"Move your light across the window, Watson!" cried the baronet. "See, the
other moves also! Now, you rascal, do you deny that it is a signal? Come,
speak up! Who is your confederate out yonder, and what is this conspiracy that
is going on?"
The man's face became openly defiant. "It is my business, and not yours. I will
not tell."
"Then you leave my employment right away."
"Very good, sir. If I must I must."
"And you go in disgrace. By thunder, you may well be ashamed of yourself.
Your family has lived with mine for over a hundred years under this roof, and
here I find you deep in some dark plot against me."
"No, no, sir; no, not against you!" It was a woman's voice, and Mrs.
Barrymore, paler and more horror-struck than her husband, was standing at the
door. Her bulky figure in a shawl and skirt might have been comic were it not
for the intensity of feeling upon her face.
"We have to go, Eliza. This is the end of it. You can pack our things," said the
butler.
"Oh, John, John, have I brought you to this? It is my doing, Sir Henry—all
mine. He has done nothing except for my sake and because I asked him."
"Speak out, then! What does it mean?"
"My unhappy brother is starving on the moor. We cannot let him perish at our
very gates. The light is a signal to him that food is ready for him, and his light
out yonder is to show the spot to which to bring it."
"Then your brother is—"
"The escaped convict, sir—Selden, the criminal."
"That's the truth, sir," said Barrymore. "I said that it was not my secret and that
I could not tell it to you. But now you have heard it, and you will see that if
there was a plot it was not against you."
This, then, was the explanation of the stealthy expeditions at night and the
light at the window. Sir Henry and I both stared at the woman in amazement.
Was it possible that this stolidly respectable person was of the same blood as
one of the most notorious criminals in the country?
"Yes, sir, my name was Selden, and he is my younger brother. We humoured
him too much when he was a lad and gave him his own way in everything
until he came to think that the world was made for his pleasure, and that he
could do what he liked in it. Then as he grew older he met wicked
companions, and the devil entered into him until he broke my mother's heart
and dragged our name in the dirt. From crime to crime he sank lower and
lower until it is only the mercy of God which has snatched him from the
scaffold; but to me, sir, he was always the little curly-headed boy that I had
nursed and played with as an elder sister would. That was why he broke
prison, sir. He knew that I was here and that we could not refuse to help him.
When he dragged himself here one night, weary and starving, with the warders
hard at his heels, what could we do? We took him in and fed him and cared for
him. Then you returned, sir, and my brother thought he would be safer on the
moor than anywhere else until the hue and cry was over, so he lay in hiding
there. But every second night we made sure if he was still there by putting a
light in the window, and if there was an answer my husband took out some
bread and meat to him. Every day we hoped that he was gone, but as long as
he was there we could not desert him. That is the whole truth, as I am an
honest Christian woman and you will see that if there is blame in the matter it
does not lie with my husband but with me, for whose sake he has done all that
he has."
The woman's words came with an intense earnestness which carried
conviction with them.
"Is this true, Barrymore?"
"Yes, Sir Henry. Every word of it."
"Well, I cannot blame you for standing by your own wife. Forget what I have
said. Go to your room, you two, and we shall talk further about this matter in
the morning."
When they were gone we looked out of the window again. Sir Henry had flung
it open, and the cold night wind beat in upon our faces. Far away in the black
distance there still glowed that one tiny point of yellow light.
"I wonder he dares," said Sir Henry.
"It may be so placed as to be only visible from here."
"Very likely. How far do you think it is?"
"Out by the Cleft Tor, I think."
"Not more than a mile or two off."
"Hardly that."
"Well, it cannot be far if Barrymore had to carry out the food to it. And he is
waiting, this villain, beside that candle. By thunder, Watson, I am going out to
take that man!"
The same thought had crossed my own mind. It was not as if the Barrymores
had taken us into their confidence. Their secret had been forced from them.
The man was a danger to the community, an unmitigated scoundrel for whom
there was neither pity nor excuse. We were only doing our duty in taking this
chance of putting him back where he could do no harm. With his brutal and
violent nature, others would have to pay the price if we held our hands. Any
night, for example, our neighbours the Stapletons might be attacked by him,
and it may have been the thought of this which made Sir Henry so keen upon
the adventure.
"I will come," said I.
"Then get your revolver and put on your boots. The sooner we start the better,
as the fellow may put out his light and be off."
In five minutes we were outside the door, starting upon our expedition. We
hurried through the dark shrubbery, amid the dull moaning of the autumn wind
and the rustle of the falling leaves. The night air was heavy with the smell of
damp and decay. Now and again the moon peeped out for an instant, but
clouds were driving over the face of the sky, and just as we came out on the
moor a thin rain began to fall. The light still burned steadily in front.
"Are you armed?" I asked.
"I have a hunting-crop."
"We must close in on him rapidly, for he is said to be a desperate fellow. We
shall take him by surprise and have him at our mercy before he can resist."
"I say, Watson," said the baronet, "what would Holmes say to this? How about
that hour of darkness in which the power of evil is exalted?"
As if in answer to his words there rose suddenly out of the vast gloom of the
moor that strange cry which I had already heard upon the borders of the great
Grimpen Mire. It came with the wind through the silence of the night, a long,
deep mutter, then a rising howl, and then the sad moan in which it died away.
Again and again it sounded, the whole air throbbing with it, strident, wild, and
menacing. The baronet caught my sleeve and his face glimmered white
through the darkness.
"My God, what's that, Watson?"
"I don't know. It's a sound they have on the moor. I heard it once before."
It died away, and an absolute silence closed in upon us. We stood straining our
ears, but nothing came.
"Watson," said the baronet, "it was the cry of a hound."
My blood ran cold in my veins, for there was a break in his voice which told
of the sudden horror which had seized him.
"What do they call this sound?" he asked.
"Who?"
"The folk on the countryside."
"Oh, they are ignorant people. Why should you mind what they call it?"
"Tell me, Watson. What do they say of it?"
I hesitated but could not escape the question.
"They say it is the cry of the Hound of the Baskervilles."
He groaned and was silent for a few moments.
"A hound it was," he said at last, "but it seemed to come from miles away,
over yonder, I think."
"It was hard to say whence it came."
"It rose and fell with the wind. Isn't that the direction of the great Grimpen
Mire?"
"Yes, it is."
"Well, it was up there. Come now, Watson, didn't you think yourself that it was
the cry of a hound? I am not a child. You need not fear to speak the truth."
"Stapleton was with me when I heard it last. He said that it might be the
calling of a strange bird."
"No, no, it was a hound. My God, can there be some truth in all these stories?
Is it possible that I am really in danger from so dark a cause? You don't believe
it, do you, Watson?"
"No, no."
"And yet it was one thing to laugh about it in London, and it is another to
stand out here in the darkness of the moor and to hear such a cry as that. And
my uncle! There was the footprint of the hound beside him as he lay. It all fits
together. I don't think that I am a coward, Watson, but that sound seemed to
freeze my very blood. Feel my hand!"
It was as cold as a block of marble.
"You'll be all right tomorrow."
"I don't think I'll get that cry out of my head. What do you advise that we do
now?"
"Shall we turn back?"
"No, by thunder; we have come out to get our man, and we will do it. We after
the convict, and a hell-hound, as likely as not, after us. Come on! We'll see it
through if all the fiends of the pit were loose upon the moor."
We stumbled slowly along in the darkness, with the black loom of the craggy
hills around us, and the yellow speck of light burning steadily in front. There
is nothing so deceptive as the distance of a light upon a pitch-dark night, and
sometimes the glimmer seemed to be far away upon the horizon and
sometimes it might have been within a few yards of us. But at last we could
see whence it came, and then we knew that we were indeed very close. A
guttering candle was stuck in a crevice of the rocks which flanked it on each
side so as to keep the wind from it and also to prevent it from being visible,
save in the direction of Baskerville Hall. A boulder of granite concealed our
approach, and crouching behind it we gazed over it at the signal light. It was
strange to see this single candle burning there in the middle of the moor, with
no sign of life near it—just the one straight yellow flame and the gleam of the
rock on each side of it.
"What shall we do now?" whispered Sir Henry.
"Wait here. He must be near his light. Let us see if we can get a glimpse of
him."
The words were hardly out of my mouth when we both saw him. Over the
rocks, in the crevice of which the candle burned, there was thrust out an evil
yellow face, a terrible animal face, all seamed and scored with vile passions.
Foul with mire, with a bristling beard, and hung with matted hair, it might well
have belonged to one of those old savages who dwelt in the burrows on the
hillsides. The light beneath him was reflected in his small, cunning eyes which
peered fiercely to right and left through the darkness like a crafty and savage
animal who has heard the steps of the hunters.
Something had evidently aroused his suspicions. It may have been that
Barrymore had some private signal which we had neglected to give, or the
fellow may have had some other reason for thinking that all was not well, but I
could read his fears upon his wicked face. Any instant he might dash out the
light and vanish in the darkness. I sprang forward therefore, and Sir Henry did
the same. At the same moment the convict screamed out a curse at us and
hurled a rock which splintered up against the boulder which had sheltered us. I
caught one glimpse of his short, squat, strongly built figure as he sprang to his
feet and turned to run. At the same moment by a lucky chance the moon broke
through the clouds. We rushed over the brow of the hill, and there was our
man running with great speed down the other side, springing over the stones in
his way with the activity of a mountain goat. A lucky long shot of my revolver
might have crippled him, but I had brought it only to defend myself if attacked
and not to shoot an unarmed man who was running away.
We were both swift runners and in fairly good training, but we soon found that
we had no chance of overtaking him. We saw him for a long time in the
moonlight until he was only a small speck moving swiftly among the boulders
upon the side of a distant hill. We ran and ran until we were completely blown,
but the space between us grew ever wider. Finally we stopped and sat panting
on two rocks, while we watched him disappearing in the distance.
And it was at this moment that there occurred a most strange and unexpected
thing. We had risen from our rocks and were turning to go home, having
abandoned the hopeless chase. The moon was low upon the right, and the
jagged pinnacle of a granite tor stood up against the lower curve of its silver
disc. There, outlined as black as an ebony statue on that shining background, I
saw the figure of a man upon the tor. Do not think that it was a delusion,
Holmes. I assure you that I have never in my life seen anything more clearly.
As far as I could judge, the figure was that of a tall, thin man. He stood with
his legs a little separated, his arms folded, his head bowed, as if he were
brooding over that enormous wilderness of peat and granite which lay before
him. He might have been the very spirit of that terrible place. It was not the
convict. This man was far from the place where the latter had disappeared.
Besides, he was a much taller man. With a cry of surprise I pointed him out to
the baronet, but in the instant during which I had turned to grasp his arm the
man was gone. There was the sharp pinnacle of granite still cutting the lower
edge of the moon, but its peak bore no trace of that silent and motionless
figure.
I wished to go in that direction and to search the tor, but it was some distance
away. The baronet's nerves were still quivering from that cry, which recalled
the dark story of his family, and he was not in the mood for fresh adventures.
He had not seen this lonely man upon the tor and could not feel the thrill
which his strange presence and his commanding attitude had given to me. "A
warder, no doubt," said he. "The moor has been thick with them since this
fellow escaped." Well, perhaps his explanation may be the right one, but I
should like to have some further proof of it. Today we mean to communicate
to the Princetown people where they should look for their missing man, but it
is hard lines that we have not actually had the triumph of bringing him back as
our own prisoner. Such are the adventures of last night, and you must
acknowledge, my dear Holmes, that I have done you very well in the matter of
a report. Much of what I tell you is no doubt quite irrelevant, but still I feel
that it is best that I should let you have all the facts and leave you to select for
yourself those which will be of most service to you in helping you to your
conclusions. We are certainly making some progress. So far as the Barrymores
go we have found the motive of their actions, and that has cleared up the
situation very much. But the moor with its mysteries and its strange
inhabitants remains as inscrutable as ever. Perhaps in my next I may be able to
throw some light upon this also. Best of all would it be if you could come
down to us. In any case you will hear from me again in the course of the next
few days.
Chapter 10. Extract from the Diary of Dr. Watson
So far I have been able to quote from the reports which I have forwarded
during these early days to Sherlock Holmes. Now, however, I have arrived at a
point in my narrative where I am compelled to abandon this method and to
trust once more to my recollections, aided by the diary which I kept at the
time. A few extracts from the latter will carry me on to those scenes which are
indelibly fixed in every detail upon my memory. I proceed, then, from the
morning which followed our abortive chase of the convict and our other
strange experiences upon the moor.
October 16th. A dull and foggy day with a drizzle of rain. The house is banked
in with rolling clouds, which rise now and then to show the dreary curves of
the moor, with thin, silver veins upon the sides of the hills, and the distant
boulders gleaming where the light strikes upon their wet faces. It is
melancholy outside and in. The baronet is in a black reaction after the
excitements of the night. I am conscious myself of a weight at my heart and a
feeling of impending danger—ever present danger, which is the more terrible
because I am unable to define it.
And have I not cause for such a feeling? Consider the long sequence of
incidents which have all pointed to some sinister influence which is at work
around us. There is the death of the last occupant of the Hall, fulfilling so
exactly the conditions of the family legend, and there are the repeated reports
from peasants of the appearance of a strange creature upon the moor. Twice I
have with my own ears heard the sound which resembled the distant baying of
a hound. It is incredible, impossible, that it should really be outside the
ordinary laws of nature. A spectral hound which leaves material footmarks and
fills the air with its howling is surely not to be thought of. Stapleton may fall
in with such a superstition, and Mortimer also, but if I have one quality upon
earth it is common sense, and nothing will persuade me to believe in such a
thing. To do so would be to descend to the level of these poor peasants, who
are not content with a mere fiend dog but must needs describe him with hell-
fire shooting from his mouth and eyes. Holmes would not listen to such
fancies, and I am his agent. But facts are facts, and I have twice heard this
crying upon the moor. Suppose that there were really some huge hound loose
upon it; that would go far to explain everything. But where could such a hound
lie concealed, where did it get its food, where did it come from, how was it
that no one saw it by day? It must be confessed that the natural explanation
offers almost as many difficulties as the other. And always, apart from the
hound, there is the fact of the human agency in London, the man in the cab,
and the letter which warned Sir Henry against the moor. This at least was real,
but it might have been the work of a protecting friend as easily as of an enemy.
Where is that friend or enemy now? Has he remained in London, or has he
followed us down here? Could he—could he be the stranger whom I saw upon
the tor?
It is true that I have had only the one glance at him, and yet there are some
things to which I am ready to swear. He is no one whom I have seen down
here, and I have now met all the neighbours. The figure was far taller than that
of Stapleton, far thinner than that of Frankland. Barrymore it might possibly
have been, but we had left him behind us, and I am certain that he could not
have followed us. A stranger then is still dogging us, just as a stranger dogged
us in London. We have never shaken him off. If I could lay my hands upon
that man, then at last we might find ourselves at the end of all our difficulties.
To this one purpose I must now devote all my energies.
My first impulse was to tell Sir Henry all my plans. My second and wisest one
is to play my own game and speak as little as possible to anyone. He is silent
and distrait. His nerves have been strangely shaken by that sound upon the
moor. I will say nothing to add to his anxieties, but I will take my own steps to
attain my own end.
We had a small scene this morning after breakfast. Barrymore asked leave to
speak with Sir Henry, and they were closeted in his study some little time.
Sitting in the billiard-room I more than once heard the sound of voices raised,
and I had a pretty good idea what the point was which was under discussion.
After a time the baronet opened his door and called for me. "Barrymore
considers that he has a grievance," he said. "He thinks that it was unfair on our
part to hunt his brother-in-law down when he, of his own free will, had told us
the secret."
The butler was standing very pale but very collected before us.
"I may have spoken too warmly, sir," said he, "and if I have, I am sure that I
beg your pardon. At the same time, I was very much surprised when I heard
you two gentlemen come back this morning and learned that you had been
chasing Selden. The poor fellow has enough to fight against without my
putting more upon his track."
"If you had told us of your own free will it would have been a different thing,"
said the baronet, "you only told us, or rather your wife only told us, when it
was forced from you and you could not help yourself."
"I didn't think you would have taken advantage of it, Sir Henry—indeed I
didn't."
"The man is a public danger. There are lonely houses scattered over the moor,
and he is a fellow who would stick at nothing. You only want to get a glimpse
of his face to see that. Look at Mr. Stapleton's house, for example, with no one
but himself to defend it. There's no safety for anyone until he is under lock and
key."
"He'll break into no house, sir. I give you my solemn word upon that. But he
will never trouble anyone in this country again. I assure you, Sir Henry, that in
a very few days the necessary arrangements will have been made and he will
be on his way to South America. For God's sake, sir, I beg of you not to let the
police know that he is still on the moor. They have given up the chase there,
and he can lie quiet until the ship is ready for him. You can't tell on him
without getting my wife and me into trouble. I beg you, sir, to say nothing to
the police."
"What do you say, Watson?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "If he were safely out of the country it would relieve
the tax-payer of a burden."
"But how about the chance of his holding someone up before he goes?"
"He would not do anything so mad, sir. We have provided him with all that he
can want. To commit a crime would be to show where he was hiding."
"That is true," said Sir Henry. "Well, Barrymore—"
"God bless you, sir, and thank you from my heart! It would have killed my
poor wife had he been taken again."
"I guess we are aiding and abetting a felony, Watson? But, after what we have
heard I don't feel as if I could give the man up, so there is an end of it. All
right, Barrymore, you can go."
With a few broken words of gratitude the man turned, but he hesitated and
then came back.
"You've been so kind to us, sir, that I should like to do the best I can for you in
return. I know something, Sir Henry, and perhaps I should have said it before,
but it was long after the inquest that I found it out. I've never breathed a word
about it yet to mortal man. It's about poor Sir Charles's death."
The baronet and I were both upon our feet. "Do you know how he died?"
"No, sir, I don't know that."
"What then?"
"I know why he was at the gate at that hour. It was to meet a woman."
"To meet a woman! He?"
"Yes, sir."
"And the woman's name?"
"I can't give you the name, sir, but I can give you the initials. Her initials were
L. L."
"How do you know this, Barrymore?"
"Well, Sir Henry, your uncle had a letter that morning. He had usually a great
many letters, for he was a public man and well known for his kind heart, so
that everyone who was in trouble was glad to turn to him. But that morning, as
it chanced, there was only this one letter, so I took the more notice of it. It was
from Coombe Tracey, and it was addressed in a woman's hand."
"Well?"
"Well, sir, I thought no more of the matter, and never would have done had it
not been for my wife. Only a few weeks ago she was cleaning out Sir
Charles's study—it had never been touched since his death—and she found the
ashes of a burned letter in the back of the grate. The greater part of it was
charred to pieces, but one little slip, the end of a page, hung together, and the
writing could still be read, though it was gray on a black ground. It seemed to
us to be a postscript at the end of the letter and it said: 'Please, please, as you
are a gentleman, burn this letter, and be at the gate by ten o clock. Beneath it
were signed the initials L. L."
"Have you got that slip?"
"No, sir, it crumbled all to bits after we moved it."
"Had Sir Charles received any other letters in the same writing?"
"Well, sir, I took no particular notice of his letters. I should not have noticed
this one, only it happened to come alone."
"And you have no idea who L. L. is?"
"No, sir. No more than you have. But I expect if we could lay our hands upon
that lady we should know more about Sir Charles's death."
"I cannot understand, Barrymore, how you came to conceal this important
information."
"Well, sir, it was immediately after that our own trouble came to us. And then
again, sir, we were both of us very fond of Sir Charles, as we well might be
considering all that he has done for us. To rake this up couldn't help our poor
master, and it's well to go carefully when there's a lady in the case. Even the
best of us—"
"You thought it might injure his reputation?"
"Well, sir, I thought no good could come of it. But now you have been kind to
us, and I feel as if it would be treating you unfairly not to tell you all that I
know about the matter."
"Very good, Barrymore; you can go." When the butler had left us Sir Henry
turned to me. "Well, Watson, what do you think of this new light?"
"It seems to leave the darkness rather blacker than before."
"So I think. But if we can only trace L. L. it should clear up the whole
business. We have gained that much. We know that there is someone who has
the facts if we can only find her. What do you think we should do?"
"Let Holmes know all about it at once. It will give him the clue for which he
has been seeking. I am much mistaken if it does not bring him down."
I went at once to my room and drew up my report of the morning's
conversation for Holmes. It was evident to me that he had been very busy of
late, for the notes which I had from Baker Street were few and short, with no
comments upon the information which I had supplied and hardly any reference
to my mission. No doubt his blackmailing case is absorbing all his faculties.
And yet this new factor must surely arrest his attention and renew his interest.
I wish that he were here.
October 17th. All day today the rain poured down, rustling on the ivy and
dripping from the eaves. I thought of the convict out upon the bleak, cold,
shelterless moor. Poor devil! Whatever his crimes, he has suffered something
to atone for them. And then I thought of that other one—the face in the cab,
the figure against the moon. Was he also out in that deluged—the unseen
watcher, the man of darkness? In the evening I put on my waterproof and I
walked far upon the sodden moor, full of dark imaginings, the rain beating
upon my face and the wind whistling about my ears. God help those who
wander into the great mire now, for even the firm uplands are becoming a
morass. I found the black tor upon which I had seen the solitary watcher, and
from its craggy summit I looked out myself across the melancholy downs.
Rain squalls drifted across their russet face, and the heavy, slate-coloured
clouds hung low over the landscape, trailing in gray wreaths down the sides of
the fantastic hills. In the distant hollow on the left, half hidden by the mist, the
two thin towers of Baskerville Hall rose above the trees. They were the only
signs of human life which I could see, save only those prehistoric huts which
lay thickly upon the slopes of the hills. Nowhere was there any trace of that
lonely man whom I had seen on the same spot two nights before.
As I walked back I was overtaken by Dr. Mortimer driving in his dog-cart over
a rough moorland track which led from the outlying farmhouse of Foulmire.
He has been very attentive to us, and hardly a day has passed that he has not
called at the Hall to see how we were getting on. He insisted upon my
climbing into his dog-cart, and he gave me a lift homeward. I found him much
troubled over the disappearance of his little spaniel. It had wandered on to the
moor and had never come back. I gave him such consolation as I might, but I
thought of the pony on the Grimpen Mire, and I do not fancy that he will see
his little dog again.
"By the way, Mortimer," said I as we jolted along the rough road, "I suppose
there are few people living within driving distance of this whom you do not
know?"
"Hardly any, I think."
"Can you, then, tell me the name of any woman whose initials are L. L.?"
He thought for a few minutes.
"No," said he. "There are a few gipsies and labouring folk for whom I can't
answer, but among the farmers or gentry there is no one whose initials are
those. Wait a bit though," he added after a pause. "There is Laura Lyons—her
initials are L. L.—but she lives in Coombe Tracey."
"Who is she?" I asked.
"She is Frankland's daughter."
"What! Old Frankland the crank?"
"Exactly. She married an artist named Lyons, who came sketching on the
moor. He proved to be a blackguard and deserted her. The fault from what I
hear may not have been entirely on one side. Her father refused to have
anything to do with her because she had married without his consent and
perhaps for one or two other reasons as well. So, between the old sinner and
the young one the girl has had a pretty bad time."
"How does she live?"
"I fancy old Frankland allows her a pittance, but it cannot be more, for his own
affairs are considerably involved. Whatever she may have deserved one could
not allow her to go hopelessly to the bad. Her story got about, and several of
the people here did something to enable her to earn an honest living. Stapleton
did for one, and Sir Charles for another. I gave a trifle myself. It was to set her
up in a typewriting business."
He wanted to know the object of my inquiries, but I managed to satisfy his
curiosity without telling him too much, for there is no reason why we should
take anyone into our confidence. Tomorrow morning I shall find my way to
Coombe Tracey, and if I can see this Mrs. Laura Lyons, of equivocal
reputation, a long step will have been made towards clearing one incident in
this chain of mysteries. I am certainly developing the wisdom of the serpent,
for when Mortimer pressed his questions to an inconvenient extent I asked him
casually to what type Frankland's skull belonged, and so heard nothing but
craniology for the rest of our drive. I have not lived for years with Sherlock
Holmes for nothing.
I have only one other incident to record upon this tempestuous and melancholy
day. This was my conversation with Barrymore just now, which gives me one
more strong card which I can play in due time.
Mortimer had stayed to dinner, and he and the baronet played ecarte
afterwards. The butler brought me my coffee into the library, and I took the
chance to ask him a few questions.
"Well," said I, "has this precious relation of yours departed, or is he still
lurking out yonder?"
"I don't know, sir. I hope to heaven that he has gone, for he has brought
nothing but trouble here! I've not heard of him since I left out food for him
last, and that was three days ago."
"Did you see him then?"
"No, sir, but the food was gone when next I went that way."
"Then he was certainly there?"
"So you would think, sir, unless it was the other man who took it."
I sat with my coffee-cup halfway to my lips and stared at Barrymore.
"You know that there is another man then?"
"Yes, sir; there is another man upon the moor."
"Have you seen him?"
"No, sir."
"How do you know of him then?"
"Selden told me of him, sir, a week ago or more. He's in hiding, too, but he's
not a convict as far as I can make out. I don't like it, Dr. Watson—I tell you
straight, sir, that I don't like it." He spoke with a sudden passion of
earnestness.
"Now, listen to me, Barrymore! I have no interest in this matter but that of
your master. I have come here with no object except to help him. Tell me,
frankly, what it is that you don't like."
Barrymore hesitated for a moment, as if he regretted his outburst or found it
difficult to express his own feelings in words.
"It's all these goings-on, sir," he cried at last, waving his hand towards the
rain-lashed window which faced the moor. "There's foul play somewhere, and
there's black villainy brewing, to that I'll swear! Very glad I should be, sir, to
see Sir Henry on his way back to London again!"
"But what is it that alarms you?"
"Look at Sir Charles's death! That was bad enough, for all that the coroner
said. Look at the noises on the moor at night. There's not a man would cross it
after sundown if he was paid for it. Look at this stranger hiding out yonder,
and watching and waiting! What's he waiting for? What does it mean? It
means no good to anyone of the name of Baskerville, and very glad I shall be
to be quit of it all on the day that Sir Henry's new servants are ready to take
over the Hall."
"But about this stranger," said I. "Can you tell me anything about him? What
did Selden say? Did he find out where he hid, or what he was doing?"
"He saw him once or twice, but he is a deep one and gives nothing away. At
first he thought that he was the police, but soon he found that he had some lay
of his own. A kind of gentleman he was, as far as he could see, but what he
was doing he could not make out."
"And where did he say that he lived?"
"Among the old houses on the hillside—the stone huts where the old folk used
to live."
"But how about his food?"
"Selden found out that he has got a lad who works for him and brings all he
needs. I dare say he goes to Coombe Tracey for what he wants."
"Very good, Barrymore. We may talk further of this some other time." When
the butler had gone I walked over to the black window, and I looked through a
blurred pane at the driving clouds and at the tossing outline of the wind-swept
trees. It is a wild night indoors, and what must it be in a stone hut upon the
moor. What passion of hatred can it be which leads a man to lurk in such a
place at such a time! And what deep and earnest purpose can he have which
calls for such a trial! There, in that hut upon the moor, seems to lie the very
centre of that problem which has vexed me so sorely. I swear that another day
shall not have passed before I have done all that man can do to reach the heart
of the mystery.
Chapter 11. The Man on the Tor
The extract from my private diary which forms the last chapter has brought
my narrative up to the eighteenth of October, a time when these strange events
began to move swiftly towards their terrible conclusion. The incidents of the
next few days are indelibly graven upon my recollection, and I can tell them
without reference to the notes made at the time. I start them from the day
which succeeded that upon which I had established two facts of great
importance, the one that Mrs. Laura Lyons of Coombe Tracey had written to
Sir Charles Baskerville and made an appointment with him at the very place
and hour that he met his death, the other that the lurking man upon the moor
was to be found among the stone huts upon the hillside. With these two facts
in my possession I felt that either my intelligence or my courage must be
deficient if I could not throw some further light upon these dark places.
I had no opportunity to tell the baronet what I had learned about Mrs. Lyons
upon the evening before, for Dr. Mortimer remained with him at cards until it
was very late. At breakfast, however, I informed him about my discovery and
asked him whether he would care to accompany me to Coombe Tracey. At
first he was very eager to come, but on second thoughts it seemed to both of us
that if I went alone the results might be better. The more formal we made the
visit the less information we might obtain. I left Sir Henry behind, therefore,
not without some prickings of conscience, and drove off upon my new quest.
When I reached Coombe Tracey I told Perkins to put up the horses, and I
made inquiries for the lady whom I had come to interrogate. I had no difficulty
in finding her rooms, which were central and well appointed. A maid showed
me in without ceremony, and as I entered the sitting-room a lady, who was
sitting before a Remington typewriter, sprang up with a pleasant smile of
welcome. Her face fell, however, when she saw that I was a stranger, and she
sat down again and asked me the object of my visit.
The first impression left by Mrs. Lyons was one of extreme beauty. Her eyes
and hair were of the same rich hazel colour, and her cheeks, though
considerably freckled, were flushed with the exquisite bloom of the brunette,
the dainty pink which lurks at the heart of the sulphur rose. Admiration was, I
repeat, the first impression. But the second was criticism. There was
something subtly wrong with the face, some coarseness of expression, some
hardness, perhaps, of eye, some looseness of lip which marred its perfect
beauty. But these, of course, are afterthoughts. At the moment I was simply
conscious that I was in the presence of a very handsome woman, and that she
was asking me the reasons for my visit. I had not quite understood until that
instant how delicate my mission was.
"I have the pleasure," said I, "of knowing your father."
It was a clumsy introduction, and the lady made me feel it. "There is nothing
in common between my father and me," she said. "I owe him nothing, and his
friends are not mine. If it were not for the late Sir Charles Baskerville and
some other kind hearts I might have starved for all that my father cared."
"It was about the late Sir Charles Baskerville that I have come here to see
you."
The freckles started out on the lady's face.
"What can I tell you about him?" she asked, and her fingers played nervously
over the stops of her typewriter.
"You knew him, did you not?"
"I have already said that I owe a great deal to his kindness. If I am able to
support myself it is largely due to the interest which he took in my unhappy
situation."
"Did you correspond with him?"
The lady looked quickly up with an angry gleam in her hazel eyes.
"What is the object of these questions?" she asked sharply.
"The object is to avoid a public scandal. It is better that I should ask them here
than that the matter should pass outside our control."
She was silent and her face was still very pale. At last she looked up with
something reckless and defiant in her manner.
"Well, I'll answer," she said. "What are your questions?"
"Did you correspond with Sir Charles?"
"I certainly wrote to him once or twice to acknowledge his delicacy and his
generosity."
"Have you the dates of those letters?"
"No."
"Have you ever met him?"
"Yes, once or twice, when he came into Coombe Tracey. He was a very
retiring man, and he preferred to do good by stealth."
"But if you saw him so seldom and wrote so seldom, how did he know enough
about your affairs to be able to help you, as you say that he has done?"
She met my difficulty with the utmost readiness.
"There were several gentlemen who knew my sad history and united to help
me. One was Mr. Stapleton, a neighbour and intimate friend of Sir Charles's.
He was exceedingly kind, and it was through him that Sir Charles learned
about my affairs."
I knew already that Sir Charles Baskerville had made Stapleton his almoner
upon several occasions, so the lady's statement bore the impress of truth upon
it.
"Did you ever write to Sir Charles asking him to meet you?" I continued.
Mrs. Lyons flushed with anger again. "Really, sir, this is a very extraordinary
question."
"I am sorry, madam, but I must repeat it."
"Then I answer, certainly not."
"Not on the very day of Sir Charles's death?"
The flush had faded in an instant, and a deathly face was before me. Her dry
lips could not speak the "No" which I saw rather than heard.
"Surely your memory deceives you," said I. "I could even quote a passage of
your letter. It ran 'Please, please, as you are a gentleman, burn this letter, and
be at the gate by ten o'clock.'"
I thought that she had fainted, but she recovered herself by a supreme effort.
"Is there no such thing as a gentleman?" she gasped.
"You do Sir Charles an injustice. He did burn the letter. But sometimes a letter
may be legible even when burned. You acknowledge now that you wrote it?"
"Yes, I did write it," she cried, pouring out her soul in a torrent of words. "I did
write it. Why should I deny it? I have no reason to be ashamed of it. I wished
him to help me. I believed that if I had an interview I could gain his help, so I
asked him to meet me."
"But why at such an hour?"
"Because I had only just learned that he was going to London next day and
might be away for months. There were reasons why I could not get there
earlier."
"But why a rendezvous in the garden instead of a visit to the house?"
"Do you think a woman could go alone at that hour to a bachelor's house?"
"Well, what happened when you did get there?"
"I never went."
"Mrs. Lyons!"
"No, I swear it to you on all I hold sacred. I never went. Something intervened
to prevent my going."
"What was that?"
"That is a private matter. I cannot tell it."
"You acknowledge then that you made an appointment with Sir Charles at the
very hour and place at which he met his death, but you deny that you kept the
appointment."
"That is the truth."
Again and again I cross-questioned her, but I could never get past that point.
"Mrs. Lyons," said I as I rose from this long and inconclusive interview, "you
are taking a very great responsibility and putting yourself in a very false
position by not making an absolutely clean breast of all that you know. If I
have to call in the aid of the police you will find how seriously you are
compromised. If your position is innocent, why did you in the first instance
deny having written to Sir Charles upon that date?"
"Because I feared that some false conclusion might be drawn from it and that I
might find myself involved in a scandal."
"And why were you so pressing that Sir Charles should destroy your letter?"
"If you have read the letter you will know."
"I did not say that I had read all the letter."
"You quoted some of it."
"I quoted the postscript. The letter had, as I said, been burned and it was not
all legible. I ask you once again why it was that you were so pressing that Sir
Charles should destroy this letter which he received on the day of his death."
"The matter is a very private one."
"The more reason why you should avoid a public investigation."
"I will tell you, then. If you have heard anything of my unhappy history you
will know that I made a rash marriage and had reason to regret it."
"I have heard so much."
"My life has been one incessant persecution from a husband whom I abhor.
The law is upon his side, and every day I am faced by the possibility that he
may force me to live with him. At the time that I wrote this letter to Sir
Charles I had learned that there was a prospect of my regaining my freedom if
certain expenses could be met. It meant everything to me—peace of mind,
happiness, self-respect—everything. I knew Sir Charles's generosity, and I
thought that if he heard the story from my own lips he would help me."
"Then how is it that you did not go?"
"Because I received help in the interval from another source."
"Why then, did you not write to Sir Charles and explain this?"
"So I should have done had I not seen his death in the paper next morning."
The woman's story hung coherently together, and all my questions were
unable to shake it. I could only check it by finding if she had, indeed,
instituted divorce proceedings against her husband at or about the time of the
tragedy.
It was unlikely that she would dare to say that she had not been to Baskerville
Hall if she really had been, for a trap would be necessary to take her there, and
could not have returned to Coombe Tracey until the early hours of the
morning. Such an excursion could not be kept secret. The probability was,
therefore, that she was telling the truth, or, at least, a part of the truth. I came
away baffled and disheartened. Once again I had reached that dead wall which
seemed to be built across every path by which I tried to get at the object of my
mission. And yet the more I thought of the lady's face and of her manner the
more I felt that something was being held back from me. Why should she turn
so pale? Why should she fight against every admission until it was forced
from her? Why should she have been so reticent at the time of the tragedy?
Surely the explanation of all this could not be as innocent as she would have
me believe. For the moment I could proceed no farther in that direction, but
must turn back to that other clue which was to be sought for among the stone
huts upon the moor.
And that was a most vague direction. I realized it as I drove back and noted
how hill after hill showed traces of the ancient people. Barrymore's only
indication had been that the stranger lived in one of these abandoned huts, and
many hundreds of them are scattered throughout the length and breadth of the
moor. But I had my own experience for a guide since it had shown me the man
himself standing upon the summit of the Black Tor. That, then, should be the
centre of my search. From there I should explore every hut upon the moor
until I lighted upon the right one. If this man were inside it I should find out
from his own lips, at the point of my revolver if necessary, who he was and
why he had dogged us so long. He might slip away from us in the crowd of
Regent Street, but it would puzzle him to do so upon the lonely moor. On the
other hand, if I should find the hut and its tenant should not be within it I must
remain there, however long the vigil, until he returned. Holmes had missed
him in London. It would indeed be a triumph for me if I could run him to earth
where my master had failed.
Luck had been against us again and again in this inquiry, but now at last it
came to my aid. And the messenger of good fortune was none other than Mr.
Frankland, who was standing, gray-whiskered and red-faced, outside the gate
of his garden, which opened on to the highroad along which I travelled.
"Good-day, Dr. Watson," cried he with unwonted good humour, "you must
really give your horses a rest and come in to have a glass of wine and to
congratulate me."
My feelings towards him were very far from being friendly after what I had
heard of his treatment of his daughter, but I was anxious to send Perkins and
the wagonette home, and the opportunity was a good one. I alighted and sent a
message to Sir Henry that I should walk over in time for dinner. Then I
followed Frankland into his dining-room.
"It is a great day for me, sir—one of the red-letter days of my life," he cried
with many chuckles. "I have brought off a double event. I mean to teach them
in these parts that law is law, and that there is a man here who does not fear to
invoke it. I have established a right of way through the centre of old
Middleton's park, slap across it, sir, within a hundred yards of his own front
door. What do you think of that? We'll teach these magnates that they cannot
ride roughshod over the rights of the commoners, confound them! And I've
closed the wood where the Fernworthy folk used to picnic. These infernal
people seem to think that there are no rights of property, and that they can
swarm where they like with their papers and their bottles. Both cases decided,
Dr. Watson, and both in my favour. I haven't had such a day since I had Sir
John Morland for trespass because he shot in his own warren."
"How on earth did you do that?"
"Look it up in the books, sir. It will repay reading—Frankland v. Morland,
Court of Queen's Bench. It cost me 200 pounds, but I got my verdict."
"Did it do you any good?"
"None, sir, none. I am proud to say that I had no interest in the matter. I act
entirely from a sense of public duty. I have no doubt, for example, that the
Fernworthy people will burn me in effigy tonight. I told the police last time
they did it that they should stop these disgraceful exhibitions. The County
Constabulary is in a scandalous state, sir, and it has not afforded me the
protection to which I am entitled. The case of Frankland v. Regina will bring
the matter before the attention of the public. I told them that they would have
occasion to regret their treatment of me, and already my words have come
true."
"How so?" I asked.
The old man put on a very knowing expression. "Because I could tell them
what they are dying to know; but nothing would induce me to help the rascals
in any way."
I had been casting round for some excuse by which I could get away from his
gossip, but now I began to wish to hear more of it. I had seen enough of the
contrary nature of the old sinner to understand that any strong sign of interest
would be the surest way to stop his confidences.
"Some poaching case, no doubt?" said I with an indifferent manner.
"Ha, ha, my boy, a very much more important matter than that! What about the
convict on the moor?"
I stared. "You don't mean that you know where he is?" said I.
"I may not know exactly where he is, but I am quite sure that I could help the
police to lay their hands on him. Has it never struck you that the way to catch
that man was to find out where he got his food and so trace it to him?"
He certainly seemed to be getting uncomfortably near the truth. "No doubt,"
said I; "but how do you know that he is anywhere upon the moor?"
"I know it because I have seen with my own eyes the messenger who takes
him his food."
My heart sank for Barrymore. It was a serious thing to be in the power of this
spiteful old busybody. But his next remark took a weight from my mind.
"You'll be surprised to hear that his food is taken to him by a child. I see him
every day through my telescope upon the roof. He passes along the same path
at the same hour, and to whom should he be going except to the convict?"
Here was luck indeed! And yet I suppressed all appearance of interest. A
child! Barrymore had said that our unknown was supplied by a boy. It was on
his track, and not upon the convict's, that Frankland had stumbled. If I could
get his knowledge it might save me a long and weary hunt. But incredulity and
indifference were evidently my strongest cards.
"I should say that it was much more likely that it was the son of one of the
moorland shepherds taking out his father's dinner."
The least appearance of opposition struck fire out of the old autocrat. His eyes
looked malignantly at me, and his gray whiskers bristled like those of an angry
cat.
"Indeed, sir!" said he, pointing out over the wide-stretching moor. "Do you see
that Black Tor over yonder? Well, do you see the low hill beyond with the
thornbush upon it? It is the stoniest part of the whole moor. Is that a place
where a shepherd would be likely to take his station? Your suggestion, sir, is a
most absurd one."
I meekly answered that I had spoken without knowing all the facts. My
submission pleased him and led him to further confidences.
"You may be sure, sir, that I have very good grounds before I come to an
opinion. I have seen the boy again and again with his bundle. Every day, and
sometimes twice a day, I have been able—but wait a moment, Dr. Watson. Do
my eyes deceive me, or is there at the present moment something moving
upon that hillside?"
It was several miles off, but I could distinctly see a small dark dot against the
dull green and gray.
"Come, sir, come!" cried Frankland, rushing upstairs. "You will see with your
own eyes and judge for yourself."
The telescope, a formidable instrument mounted upon a tripod, stood upon the
flat leads of the house. Frankland clapped his eye to it and gave a cry of
satisfaction.
"Quick, Dr. Watson, quick, before he passes over the hill!"
There he was, sure enough, a small urchin with a little bundle upon his
shoulder, toiling slowly up the hill. When he reached the crest I saw the
ragged uncouth figure outlined for an instant against the cold blue sky. He
looked round him with a furtive and stealthy air, as one who dreads pursuit.
Then he vanished over the hill.
"Well! Am I right?"
"Certainly, there is a boy who seems to have some secret errand."
"And what the errand is even a county constable could guess. But not one
word shall they have from me, and I bind you to secrecy also, Dr. Watson. Not
a word! You understand!"
"Just as you wish."
"They have treated me shamefully—shamefully. When the facts come out in
Frankland v. Regina I venture to think that a thrill of indignation will run
through the country. Nothing would induce me to help the police in any way.
For all they cared it might have been me, instead of my effigy, which these
rascals burned at the stake. Surely you are not going! You will help me to
empty the decanter in honour of this great occasion!"
But I resisted all his solicitations and succeeded in dissuading him from his
announced intention of walking home with me. I kept the road as long as his
eye was on me, and then I struck off across the moor and made for the stony
hill over which the boy had disappeared. Everything was working in my
favour, and I swore that it should not be through lack of energy or
perseverance that I should miss the chance which fortune had thrown in my
way.
The sun was already sinking when I reached the summit of the hill, and the
long slopes beneath me were all golden-green on one side and gray shadow on
the other. A haze lay low upon the farthest sky-line, out of which jutted the
fantastic shapes of Belliver and Vixen Tor. Over the wide expanse there was
no sound and no movement. One great gray bird, a gull or curlew, soared aloft
in the blue heaven. He and I seemed to be the only living things between the
huge arch of the sky and the desert beneath it. The barren scene, the sense of
loneliness, and the mystery and urgency of my task all struck a chill into my
heart. The boy was nowhere to be seen. But down beneath me in a cleft of the
hills there was a circle of the old stone huts, and in the middle of them there
was one which retained sufficient roof to act as a screen against the weather.
My heart leaped within me as I saw it. This must be the burrow where the
stranger lurked. At last my foot was on the threshold of his hiding place—his
secret was within my grasp.
As I approached the hut, walking as warily as Stapleton would do when with
poised net he drew near the settled butterfly, I satisfied myself that the place
had indeed been used as a habitation. A vague pathway among the boulders
led to the dilapidated opening which served as a door. All was silent within.
The unknown might be lurking there, or he might be prowling on the moor.
My nerves tingled with the sense of adventure. Throwing aside my cigarette, I
closed my hand upon the butt of my revolver and, walking swiftly up to the
door, I looked in. The place was empty.
But there were ample signs that I had not come upon a false scent. This was
certainly where the man lived. Some blankets rolled in a waterproof lay upon
that very stone slab upon which Neolithic man had once slumbered. The ashes
of a fire were heaped in a rude grate. Beside it lay some cooking utensils and a
bucket half-full of water. A litter of empty tins showed that the place had been
occupied for some time, and I saw, as my eyes became accustomed to the
checkered light, a pannikin and a half-full bottle of spirits standing in the
corner. In the middle of the hut a flat stone served the purpose of a table, and
upon this stood a small cloth bundle—the same, no doubt, which I had seen
through the telescope upon the shoulder of the boy. It contained a loaf of
bread, a tinned tongue, and two tins of preserved peaches. As I set it down
again, after having examined it, my heart leaped to see that beneath it there lay
a sheet of paper with writing upon it. I raised it, and this was what I read,
roughly scrawled in pencil: "Dr. Watson has gone to Coombe Tracey."
For a minute I stood there with the paper in my hands thinking out the
meaning of this curt message. It was I, then, and not Sir Henry, who was being
dogged by this secret man. He had not followed me himself, but he had set an
agent—the boy, perhaps—upon my track, and this was his report. Possibly I
had taken no step since I had been upon the moor which had not been
observed and reported. Always there was this feeling of an unseen force, a fine
net drawn round us with infinite skill and delicacy, holding us so lightly that it
was only at some supreme moment that one realized that one was indeed
entangled in its meshes.
If there was one report there might be others, so I looked round the hut in
search of them. There was no trace, however, of anything of the kind, nor
could I discover any sign which might indicate the character or intentions of
the man who lived in this singular place, save that he must be of Spartan habits
and cared little for the comforts of life. When I thought of the heavy rains and
looked at the gaping roof I understood how strong and immutable must be the
purpose which had kept him in that inhospitable abode. Was he our malignant
enemy, or was he by chance our guardian angel? I swore that I would not leave
the hut until I knew.
Outside the sun was sinking low and the west was blazing with scarlet and
gold. Its reflection was shot back in ruddy patches by the distant pools which
lay amid the great Grimpen Mire. There were the two towers of Baskerville
Hall, and there a distant blur of smoke which marked the village of Grimpen.
Between the two, behind the hill, was the house of the Stapletons. All was
sweet and mellow and peaceful in the golden evening light, and yet as I looked
at them my soul shared none of the peace of Nature but quivered at the
vagueness and the terror of that interview which every instant was bringing
nearer. With tingling nerves but a fixed purpose, I sat in the dark recess of the
hut and waited with sombre patience for the coming of its tenant.
And then at last I heard him. Far away came the sharp clink of a boot striking
upon a stone. Then another and yet another, coming nearer and nearer. I
shrank back into the darkest corner and cocked the pistol in my pocket,
determined not to discover myself until I had an opportunity of seeing
something of the stranger. There was a long pause which showed that he had
stopped. Then once more the footsteps approached and a shadow fell across
the opening of the hut.
"It is a lovely evening, my dear Watson," said a well-known voice. "I really
think that you will be more comfortable outside than in."
| In this story as of now, who do you think is most likely to be the killer? Choose from the below options: | 0. Stapleton
1. Morning
2. Belliver
3. Constabulary
4. Black | The suspect is Stapleton | 54,977 |
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
3
The Statement of the Case . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
6
In Quest of a Solution . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
9
The Story of the Bald-Headed Man . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
11
The Tragedy of Pondicherry Lodge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
15
Sherlock Holmes Gives a Demonstration. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
18
The Episode of the Barrel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
22
The Baker Street Irregulars . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
27
A Break in the Chain . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
31
The End of the Islander. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
35
The Great Agra Treasure. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
39
The Strange Story of Jonathan Small . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
41
1
CHAPTER I.
The Science of Deduction
S
herlock Holmes took his bottle from the
corner of the mantelpiece and his hypo-
dermic syringe from its neat morocco case.
With his long, white, nervous fingers he ad-
justed the delicate needle, and rolled back his left
shirt-cuff. For some little time his eyes rested thought-
fully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist all dotted
and scarred with innumerable puncture-marks. Fi-
nally he thrust the sharp point home, pressed down
the tiny piston, and sank back into the velvet-lined
arm-chair with a long sigh of satisfaction.
Three times a day for many months I had wit-
nessed this performance, but custom had not recon-
ciled my mind to it. On the contrary, from day to
day I had become more irritable at the sight, and my
conscience swelled nightly within me at the thought
that I had lacked the courage to protest. Again and
again I had registered a vow that I should deliver
my soul upon the subject, but there was that in the
cool, nonchalant air of my companion which made
him the last man with whom one would care to take
anything approaching to a liberty. His great powers,
his masterly manner, and the experience which I had
had of his many extraordinary qualities, all made me
diffident and backward in crossing him.
Yet upon that afternoon, whether it was the
Beaune which I had taken with my lunch, or the
additional exasperation produced by the extreme de-
liberation of his manner, I suddenly felt that I could
hold out no longer.
“Which is it to-day?” I asked,—“morphine or co-
caine?”
He raised his eyes languidly from the old black-
letter volume which he had opened. “It is cocaine,”
he said,—“a seven-per-cent solution. Would you care
to try it?”
“No, indeed,” I answered, brusquely. “My consti-
tution has not got over the Afghan campaign yet. I
cannot afford to throw any extra strain upon it.”
He smiled at my vehemence. “Perhaps you are
right, Watson,” he said. “I suppose that its influence
is physically a bad one. I find it, however, so transcen-
dently stimulating and clarifying to the mind that its
secondary action is a matter of small moment.”
“But consider!” I said, earnestly. “Count the cost!
Your brain may, as you say, be roused and excited,
but it is a pathological and morbid process, which
involves increased tissue-change and may at last leave
a permanent weakness. You know, too, what a black
reaction comes upon you. Surely the game is hardly
worth the candle. Why should you, for a mere pass-
ing pleasure, risk the loss of those great powers with
which you have been endowed? Remember that I
speak not only as one comrade to another, but as a
medical man to one for whose constitution he is to
some extent answerable.”
He did not seem offended. On the contrary, he
put his fingertips together and leaned his elbows on
the arms of his chair, like one who has a relish for
conversation.
“My mind,” he said, “rebels at stagnation. Give
me problems, give me work, give me the most ab-
struse cryptogram or the most intricate analysis, and
I am in my own proper atmosphere. I can dispense
then with artificial stimulants. But I abhor the dull
routine of existence. I crave for mental exaltation.
That is why I have chosen my own particular profes-
sion,—or rather created it, for I am the only one in
the world.”
“The only unofficial detective?” I said, raising my
eyebrows.
“The only unofficial consulting detective,” he an-
swered. “I am the last and highest court of appeal
in detection. When Gregson or Lestrade or Athelney
Jones are out of their depths—which, by the way, is
their normal state—the matter is laid before me. I
examine the data, as an expert, and pronounce a spe-
cialist’s opinion. I claim no credit in such cases. My
name figures in no newspaper. The work itself, the
pleasure of finding a field for my peculiar powers, is
my highest reward. But you have yourself had some
experience of my methods of work in the Jefferson
Hope case.”
“Yes, indeed,” said I, cordially. “I was never so
struck by anything in my life. I even embodied it in
a small brochure with the somewhat fantastic title of
‘A Study in Scarlet.’ ”
He shook his head sadly. “I glanced over it,” said
he.
“Honestly, I cannot congratulate you upon it.
Detection is, or ought to be, an exact science, and
should be treated in the same cold and unemotional
manner. You have attempted to tinge it with romanti-
cism, which produces much the same effect as if you
worked a love-story or an elopement into the fifth
proposition of Euclid.”
“But the romance was there,” I remonstrated. “I
could not tamper with the facts.”
3
“Some facts should be suppressed, or at least a
just sense of proportion should be observed in treat-
ing them. The only point in the case which deserved
mention was the curious analytical reasoning from
effects to causes by which I succeeded in unraveling
it.”
I was annoyed at this criticism of a work which
had been specially designed to please him. I confess,
too, that I was irritated by the egotism which seemed
to demand that every line of my pamphlet should be
devoted to his own special doings. More than once
during the years that I had lived with him in Baker
Street I had observed that a small vanity underlay my
companion’s quiet and didactic manner. I made no
remark, however, but sat nursing my wounded leg. I
had a Jezail bullet through it some time before, and,
though it did not prevent me from walking, it ached
wearily at every change of the weather.
“My practice has extended recently to the Conti-
nent,” said Holmes, after a while, filling up his old
brier-root pipe. “I was consulted last week by Fran-
cois Le Villard, who, as you probably know, has come
rather to the front lately in the French detective ser-
vice. He has all the Celtic power of quick intuition,
but he is deficient in the wide range of exact knowl-
edge which is essential to the higher developments
of his art. The case was concerned with a will, and
possessed some features of interest. I was able to refer
him to two parallel cases, the one at Riga in 1857, and
the other at St. Louis in 1871, which have suggested
to him the true solution. Here is the letter which I
had this morning acknowledging my assistance.” He
tossed over, as he spoke, a crumpled sheet of foreign
notepaper. I glanced my eyes down it, catching a pro-
fusion of notes of admiration, with stray magnifiques,
coup-de-maˆ
ıtres and tours-de-force, all testifying to the
ardent admiration of the Frenchman.
“He speaks as a pupil to his master,” said I.
“Oh, he rates my assistance too highly,” said Sher-
lock Holmes, lightly. “He has considerable gifts him-
self. He possesses two out of the three qualities nec-
essary for the ideal detective. He has the power of
observation and that of deduction. He is only wanting
in knowledge; and that may come in time. He is now
translating my small works into French.”
“Your works?”
“Oh, didn’t you know?” he cried, laughing. “Yes,
I have been guilty of several monographs. They are
all upon technical subjects. Here, for example, is one
‘Upon the Distinction between the Ashes of the Various To-
baccoes.’ In it I enumerate a hundred and forty forms
of cigar-, cigarette-, and pipe-tobacco, with colored
plates illustrating the difference in the ash. It is a
point which is continually turning up in criminal tri-
als, and which is sometimes of supreme importance
as a clue. If you can say definitely, for example, that
some murder has been done by a man who was smok-
ing an Indian lunkah, it obviously narrows your field
of search. To the trained eye there is as much differ-
ence between the black ash of a Trichinopoly and the
white fluff of bird’s-eye as there is between a cabbage
and a potato.”
“You have an extraordinary genius for minutiae,”
I remarked.
“I appreciate their importance. Here is my mono-
graph upon the tracing of footsteps, with some re-
marks upon the uses of plaster of Paris as a preserver
of impresses. Here, too, is a curious little work upon
the influence of a trade upon the form of the hand,
with lithotypes of the hands of slaters, sailors, cork-
cutters, compositors, weavers, and diamond-polishers.
That is a matter of great practical interest to the sci-
entific detective,—especially in cases of unclaimed
bodies, or in discovering the antecedents of criminals.
But I weary you with my hobby.”
“Not at all,” I answered, earnestly. “It is of the
greatest interest to me, especially since I have had the
opportunity of observing your practical application
of it. But you spoke just now of observation and de-
duction. Surely the one to some extent implies the
other.”
“Why, hardly,” he answered, leaning back luxu-
riously in his armchair, and sending up thick blue
wreaths from his pipe. “For example, observation
shows me that you have been to the Wigmore Street
Post-Office this morning, but deduction lets me know
that when there you dispatched a telegram.”
“Right!” said I. “Right on both points! But I con-
fess that I don’t see how you arrived at it. It was a
sudden impulse upon my part, and I have mentioned
it to no one.”
“It is simplicity itself,” he remarked, chuckling at
my surprise,—“so absurdly simple that an explana-
tion is superfluous; and yet it may serve to define the
limits of observation and of deduction. Observation
tells me that you have a little reddish mould adhering
to your instep. Just opposite the Seymour Street Of-
fice they have taken up the pavement and thrown up
some earth which lies in such a way that it is difficult
to avoid treading in it in entering. The earth is of
this peculiar reddish tint which is found, as far as I
4
know, nowhere else in the neighborhood. So much is
observation. The rest is deduction.”
“How, then, did you deduce the telegram?”
“Why, of course I knew that you had not written
a letter, since I sat opposite to you all morning. I see
also in your open desk there that you have a sheet of
stamps and a thick bundle of postcards. What could
you go into the post-office for, then, but to send a
wire? Eliminate all other factors, and the one which
remains must be the truth.”
“In this case it certainly is so,” I replied, after a
little thought. “The thing, however, is, as you say, of
the simplest. Would you think me impertinent if I
were to put your theories to a more severe test?”
“On the contrary,” he answered, “it would prevent
me from taking a second dose of cocaine. I should be
delighted to look into any problem which you might
submit to me.”
“I have heard you say that it is difficult for a man
to have any object in daily use without leaving the
impress of his individuality upon it in such a way
that a trained observer might read it. Now, I have
here a watch which has recently come into my pos-
session. Would you have the kindness to let me have
an opinion upon the character or habits of the late
owner?”
I handed him over the watch with some slight
feeling of amusement in my heart, for the test was, as
I thought, an impossible one, and I intended it as a
lesson against the somewhat dogmatic tone which he
occasionally assumed. He balanced the watch in his
hand, gazed hard at the dial, opened the back, and
examined the works, first with his naked eyes and
then with a powerful convex lens. I could hardly keep
from smiling at his crestfallen face when he finally
snapped the case to and handed it back.
“There are hardly any data,” he remarked. “The
watch has been recently cleaned, which robs me of
my most suggestive facts.”
“You are right,” I answered. “It was cleaned be-
fore being sent to me.” In my heart I accused my
companion of putting forward a most lame and im-
potent excuse to cover his failure. What data could he
expect from an uncleaned watch?
“Though unsatisfactory, my research has not been
entirely barren,” he observed, staring up at the ceiling
with dreamy, lack-lustre eyes. “Subject to your correc-
tion, I should judge that the watch belonged to your
elder brother, who inherited it from your father.”
“That you gather, no doubt, from the H. W. upon
the back?”
“Quite so. The W. suggests your own name. The
date of the watch is nearly fifty years back, and the
initials are as old as the watch: so it was made for the
last generation. Jewelry usually descents to the eldest
son, and he is most likely to have the same name as
the father. Your father has, if I remember right, been
dead many years. It has, therefore, been in the hands
of your eldest brother.”
“Right, so far,” said I. “Anything else?”
“He was a man of untidy habits,—very untidy
and careless. He was left with good prospects, but
he threw away his chances, lived for some time in
poverty with occasional short intervals of prosperity,
and finally, taking to drink, he died. That is all I can
gather.”
I sprang from my chair and limped impatiently
about the room with considerable bitterness in my
heart.
“This is unworthy of you, Holmes,” I said. “I
could not have believed that you would have de-
scended to this. You have made inquires into the
history of my unhappy brother, and you now pretend
to deduce this knowledge in some fanciful way. You
cannot expect me to believe that you have read all this
from his old watch! It is unkind, and, to speak plainly,
has a touch of charlatanism in it.”
“My dear doctor,” said he, kindly, “pray accept my
apologies. Viewing the matter as an abstract problem,
I had forgotten how personal and painful a thing it
might be to you. I assure you, however, that I never
even knew that you had a brother until you handed
me the watch.”
“Then how in the name of all that is wonderful
did you get these facts? They are absolutely correct
in every particular.”
“Ah, that is good luck. I could only say what was
the balance of probability. I did not at all expect to be
so accurate.“
“But it was not mere guess-work?”
“No, no:
I never guess.
It is a shocking
habit,—destructive to the logical faculty. What seems
strange to you is only so because you do not follow
my train of thought or observe the small facts upon
which large inferences may depend. For example, I
began by stating that your brother was careless. When
you observe the lower part of that watch-case you no-
tice that it is not only dinted in two places, but it is
cut and marked all over from the habit of keeping
other hard objects, such as coins or keys, in the same
pocket. Surely it is no great feat to assume that a man
who treats a fifty-guinea watch so cavalierly must be a
5
careless man. Neither is it a very far-fetched inference
that a man who inherits one article of such value is
pretty well provided for in other respects.”
I nodded, to show that I followed his reasoning.
“It is very customary for pawnbrokers in England,
when they take a watch, to scratch the number of the
ticket with a pin-point upon the inside of the case.
It is more handy than a label, as there is no risk of
the number being lost or transposed. There are no
less than four such numbers visible to my lens on the
inside of this case. Inference,—that your brother was
often at low water. Secondary inference,—that he had
occasional bursts of prosperity, or he could not have
redeemed the pledge. Finally, I ask you to look at
the inner plate, which contains the key-hole. Look at
the thousands of scratches all round the hole,—marks
where the key has slipped. What sober man’s key
could have scored those grooves? But you will never
see a drunkard’s watch without them. He winds it at
night, and he leaves these traces of his unsteady hand.
Where is the mystery in all this?”
“It is as clear as daylight,” I answered. “I regret
the injustice which I did you. I should have had more
faith in your marvellous faculty. May I ask whether
you have any professional inquiry on foot at present?”
“None. Hence the cocaine. I cannot live without
brain-work. What else is there to live for? Stand at the
window here. Was ever such a dreary, dismal, unprof-
itable world? See how the yellow fog swirls down the
street and drifts across the duncolored houses. What
could be more hopelessly prosaic and material? What
is the use of having powers, doctor, when one has
no field upon which to exert them? Crime is com-
monplace, existence is commonplace, and no qualities
save those which are commonplace have any function
upon earth.”
I had opened my mouth to reply to this tirade,
when with a crisp knock our landlady entered, bear-
ing a card upon the brass salver.
“A young lady for you, sir,” she said, addressing
my companion.
“Miss Mary Morstan,” he read. “Hum! I have no
recollection of the name. Ask the young lady to step
up, Mrs. Hudson. Don’t go, doctor. I should prefer
that you remain.”
CHAPTER II.
The Statement of the Case
Miss Morstan entered the room with a firm step
and an outward composure of manner. She was a
blonde young lady, small, dainty, well gloved, and
dressed in the most perfect taste. There was, how-
ever, a plainness and simplicity about her costume
which bore with it a suggestion of limited means. The
dress was a sombre grayish beige, untrimmed and
unbraided, and she wore a small turban of the same
dull hue, relieved only by a suspicion of white feather
in the side. Her face had neither regularity of feature
nor beauty of complexion, but her expression was
sweet and amiable, and her large blue eyes were sin-
gularly spiritual and sympathetic. In an experience of
women which extends over many nations and three
separate continents, I have never looked upon a face
which gave a clearer promise of a refined and sensi-
tive nature. I could not but observe that as she took
the seat which Sherlock Holmes placed for her, her lip
trembled, her hand quivered, and she showed every
sign of intense inward agitation.
“I have come to you, Mr. Holmes,” she said, “be-
cause you once enabled my employer, Mrs. Cecil For-
rester, to unravel a little domestic complication. She
was much impressed by your kindness and skill.”
“Mrs. Cecil Forrester,” he repeated thoughtfully.
“I believe that I was of some slight service to her. The
case, however, as I remember it, was a very simple
one.”
“She did not think so. But at least you cannot say
the same of mine. I can hardly imagine anything more
strange, more utterly inexplicable, than the situation
in which I find myself.”
Holmes rubbed his hands, and his eyes glistened.
He leaned forward in his chair with an expression of
6
extraordinary concentration upon his clear-cut, hawk-
like features.
“State your case,” said he, in brisk,
business tones.
I felt that my position was an embarrassing one.
“You will, I am sure, excuse me,” I said, rising from
my chair.
To my surprise, the young lady held up her gloved
hand to detain me. “If your friend,” she said, “would
be good enough to stop, he might be of inestimable
service to me.”
I relapsed into my chair.
“Briefly,” she continued, “the facts are these. My
father was an officer in an Indian regiment who sent
me home when I was quite a child. My mother was
dead, and I had no relative in England. I was placed,
however, in a comfortable boarding establishment at
Edinburgh, and there I remained until I was seventeen
years of age. In the year 1878 my father, who was se-
nior captain of his regiment, obtained twelve months’
leave and came home. He telegraphed to me from
London that he had arrived all safe, and directed me
to come down at once, giving the Langham Hotel as
his address. His message, as I remember, was full of
kindness and love. On reaching London I drove to the
Langham, and was informed that Captain Morstan
was staying there, but that he had gone out the night
before and had not yet returned. I waited all day
without news of him. That night, on the advice of the
manager of the hotel, I communicated with the police,
and next morning we advertised in all the papers.
Our inquiries let to no result; and from that day to
this no word has ever been heard of my unfortunate
father. He came home with his heart full of hope, to
find some peace, some comfort, and instead—” She
put her hand to her throat, and a choking sob cut
short the sentence.
“The date?” asked Holmes, opening his note-book.
“He disappeared upon the 3d of December,
1878,—nearly ten years ago.”
“His luggage?”
“Remained at the hotel. There was nothing in it
to suggest a clue,—some clothes, some books, and a
considerable number of curiosities from the Andaman
Islands. He had been one of the officers in charge of
the convict-guard there.”
“Had he any friends in town?”
“Only one that we know of,—Major Sholto, of his
own regiment, the 34th Bombay Infantry. The major
had retired some little time before, and lived at Upper
Norwood. We communicated with him, of course,
but he did not even know that his brother officer was
in England.”
“A singular case,” remarked Holmes.
“I have not yet described to you the most singu-
lar part. About six years ago—to be exact, upon the
4th of May, 1882—an advertisement appeared in the
Times asking for the address of Miss Mary Morstan
and stating that it would be to her advantage to come
forward. There was no name or address appended. I
had at that time just entered the family of Mrs. Cecil
Forrester in the capacity of governess. By her advice I
published my address in the advertisement column.
The same day there arrived through the post a small
card-board box addressed to me, which I found to
contain a very large and lustrous pearl. No word of
writing was enclosed. Since then every year upon the
same date there has always appeared a similar box,
containing a similar pearl, without any clue as to the
sender. They have been pronounced by an expert to
be of a rare variety and of considerable value. You
can see for yourselves that they are very handsome.”
She opened a flat box as she spoke, and showed me
six of the finest pearls that I had ever seen.
“Your statement is most interesting,” said Sherlock
Holmes. “Has anything else occurred to you?”
“Yes, and no later than to-day.
That is why I
have come to you. This morning I received this letter,
which you will perhaps read for yourself.”
“Thank you,” said Holmes. “The envelope too,
please. Postmark, London, S.W. Date, July 7. Hum!
Man’s thumb-mark on corner,—probably postman.
Best quality paper. Envelopes at sixpence a packet.
Particular man in his stationery. No address. ‘Be at
the third pillar from the left outside the Lyceum The-
atre to-night at seven o’clock. If you are distrustful,
bring two friends. You are a wronged woman, and
shall have justice. Do not bring police. If you do, all
will be in vain. Your unknown friend.’ Well, really,
this is a very pretty little mystery. What do you intend
to do, Miss Morstan?”
“That is exactly what I want to ask you.”
“Then we shall most certainly go.
You and I
and—yes, why, Dr. Watson is the very man. Your cor-
respondent says two friends. He and I have worked
together before.”
“But would he come?” she asked, with something
appealing in her voice and expression.
“I should be proud and happy,” said I, fervently,
“if I can be of any service.”
“You are both very kind,” she answered. “I have
led a retired life, and have no friends whom I could
appeal to. If I am here at six it will do, I suppose?”
7
“You must not be later,” said Holmes. “There is
one other point, however. Is this handwriting the
same as that upon the pearl-box addresses?”
“I have them here,” she answered, producing half
a dozen pieces of paper.
“You are certainly a model client. You have the
correct intuition. Let us see, now.” He spread out the
papers upon the table, and gave little darting glances
from one to the other. “They are disguised hands,
except the letter,” he said, presently, “but there can
be no question as to the authorship. See how the irre-
pressible Greek e will break out, and see the twirl of
the final s. They are undoubtedly by the same person.
I should not like to suggest false hopes, Miss Morstan,
but is there any resemblance between this hand and
that of your father?”
“Nothing could be more unlike.”
“I expected to hear you say so. We shall look out
for you, then, at six. Pray allow me to keep the pa-
pers. I may look into the matter before then. It is only
half-past three. Au revoir, then.”
“Au revoir,” said our visitor, and, with a bright,
kindly glance from one to the other of us, she replaced
her pearl-box in her bosom and hurried away. Stand-
ing at the window, I watched her walking briskly
down the street, until the gray turban and white
feather were but a speck in the sombre crowd.
“What a very attractive woman!” I exclaimed, turn-
ing to my companion.
He had lit his pipe again, and was leaning back
with drooping eyelids. “Is she?” he said, languidly. “I
did not observe.”
“You really are an automaton,—a calculating-
machine!” I cried. “There is something positively
inhuman in you at times.”
He smiled gently. “It is of the first importance,” he
said, “not to allow your judgment to be biased by per-
sonal qualities. A client is to me a mere unit,—a factor
in a problem. The emotional qualities are antagonistic
to clear reasoning. I assure you that the most winning
woman I ever knew was hanged for poisoning three
little children for their insurance-money, and the most
repellant man of my acquaintance is a philanthropist
who has spent nearly a quarter of a million upon the
London poor.”
“In this case, however—”
“I never make exceptions. An exception disproves
the rule. Have you ever had occasion to study charac-
ter in handwriting? What do you make of this fellow’s
scribble?”
“It is legible and regular,” I answered. “A man of
business habits and some force of character.”
Holmes shook his head. “Look at his long letters,”
he said. “They hardly rise above the common herd.
That d might be an a, and that l an e. Men of character
always differentiate their long letters, however illegi-
bly they may write. There is vacillation in his k’s and
self-esteem in his capitals. I am going out now. I have
some few references to make. Let me recommend this
book,—one of the most remarkable ever penned. It is
Winwood Reade’s Martyrdom of Man. I shall be back
in an hour.”
I sat in the window with the volume in my hand,
but my thoughts were far from the daring specu-
lations of the writer. My mind ran upon our late
visitor,—her smiles, the deep rich tones of her voice,
the strange mystery which overhung her life. If she
were seventeen at the time of her father’s disappear-
ance she must be seven-and-twenty now,—a sweet
age, when youth has lost its self-consciousness and
become a little sobered by experience. So I sat and
mused, until such dangerous thoughts came into my
head that I hurried away to my desk and plunged
furiously into the latest treatise upon pathology. What
was I, an army surgeon with a weak leg and a weaker
banking-account, that I should dare to think of such
things? She was a unit, a factor,—nothing more. If
my future were black, it was better surely to face it
like a man than to attempt to brighten it by mere
will-o’-the-wisps of the imagination.
8
CHAPTER III.
In Quest of a Solution
It was half-past five before Holmes returned. He
was bright, eager, and in excellent spirits,—a mood
which in his case alternated with fits of the blackest
depression.
“There is no great mystery in this matter,” he said,
taking the cup of tea which I had poured out for him.
“The facts appear to admit of only one explanation.”
“What! you have solved it already?”
“Well, that would be too much to say. I have dis-
covered a suggestive fact, that is all. It is, however,
very suggestive. The details are still to be added. I
have just found, on consulting the back files of the
Times, that Major Sholto, of Upper Norword, late of
the 34th Bombay Infantry, died upon the 28th of April,
1882.”
“I may be very obtuse, Holmes, but I fail to see
what this suggests.”
“No? You surprise me. Look at it in this way,
then. Captain Morstan disappears. The only per-
son in London whom he could have visited is Major
Sholto. Major Sholto denies having heard that he was
in London. Four years later Sholto dies. Within a
week of his death Captain Morstan’s daughter receives
a valuable present, which is repeated from year to
year, and now culminates in a letter which describes
her as a wronged woman. What wrong can it refer
to except this deprivation of her father? And why
should the presents begin immediately after Sholto’s
death, unless it is that Sholto’s heir knows something
of the mystery and desires to make compensation?
Have you any alternative theory which will meet the
facts?”
“But what a strange compensation!
And how
strangely made! Why, too, should he write a letter
now, rather than six years ago?
Again, the letter
speaks of giving her justice. What justice can she
have? It is too much to suppose that her father is still
alive. There is no other injustice in her case that you
know of.”
“There are difficulties; there are certainly diffi-
culties,” said Sherlock Holmes, pensively. “But our
expedition of to-night will solve them all. Ah, here is
a four-wheeler, and Miss Morstan is inside. Are you
all ready? Then we had better go down, for it is a
little past the hour.”
I picked up my hat and my heaviest stick, but I ob-
served that Holmes took his revolver from his drawer
and slipped it into his pocket. It was clear that he
thought that our night’s work might be a serious one.
Miss Morstan was muffled in a dark cloak, and
her sensitive face was composed, but pale. She must
have been more than woman if she did not feel some
uneasiness at the strange enterprise upon which we
were embarking, yet her self-control was perfect, and
she readily answered the few additional questions
which Sherlock Holmes put to her.
“Major Sholto was a very particular friend of
papa’s,” she said. “His letters were full of allusions
to the major. He and papa were in command of the
troops at the Andaman Islands, so they were thrown
a great deal together. By the way, a curious paper was
found in papa’s desk which no one could understand.
I don’t suppose that it is of the slightest importance,
but I thought you might care to see it, so I brought it
with me. It is here.”
Holmes
unfolded
the
paper
carefully
and
smoothed it out upon his knee. He then very me-
thodically examined it all over with his double lens.
“It is paper of native Indian manufacture,” he re-
marked. “It has at some time been pinned to a board.
The diagram upon it appears to be a plan of part of
a large building with numerous halls, corridors, and
passages. At one point is a small cross done in red ink,
and above it is ‘3.37 from left,’ in faded pencil-writing.
In the left-hand corner is a curious hieroglyphic like
four crosses in a line with their arms touching. Beside
it is written, in very rough and coarse characters, ‘The
sign of the four,—Jonathan Small, Mahomet Singh,
Abdullah Khan, Dost Akbar.’ No, I confess that I
do not see how this bears upon the matter. Yet it is
evidently a document of importance. It has been kept
carefully in a pocket-book; for the one side is as clean
as the other.”
“It was in his pocket-book that we found it.”
“Preserve it carefully, then, Miss Morstan, for it
may prove to be of use to us. I begin to suspect that
this matter may turn out to be much deeper and more
subtle than I at first supposed. I must reconsider
my ideas.” He leaned back in the cab, and I could
see by his drawn brow and his vacant eye that he
was thinking intently. Miss Morstan and I chatted in
an undertone about our present expedition and its
possible outcome, but our companion maintained his
impenetrable reserve until the end of our journey.
It was a September evening, and not yet seven
o’clock, but the day had been a dreary one, and a
9
dense drizzly fog lay low upon the great city. Mud-
colored clouds drooped sadly over the muddy streets.
Down the Strand the lamps were but misty splotches
of diffused light which threw a feeble circular glim-
mer upon the slimy pavement.
The yellow glare
from the shop-windows streamed out into the steamy,
vaporous air, and threw a murky, shifting radiance
across the crowded thoroughfare. There was, to my
mind, something eerie and ghost-like in the endless
procession of faces which flitted across these narrow
bars of light,—sad faces and glad, haggard and merry.
Like all human kind, they flitted from the gloom into
the light, and so back into the gloom once more. I
am not subject to impressions, but the dull, heavy
evening, with the strange business upon which we
were engaged, combined to make me nervous and
depressed. I could see from Miss Morstan’s manner
that she was suffering from the same feeling. Holmes
alone could rise superior to petty influences. He held
his open note-book upon his knee, and from time to
time he jotted down figures and memoranda in the
light of his pocket-lantern.
At the Lyceum Theatre the crowds were already
thick at the side-entrances.
In front a continuous
stream of hansoms and four-wheelers were rattling
up, discharging their cargoes of shirt-fronted men
and beshawled, bediamonded women. We had hardly
reached the third pillar, which was our rendezvous,
before a small, dark, brisk man in the dress of a coach-
man accosted us.
“Are you the parties who come with Miss
Morstan?” he asked.
“I am Miss Morstan, and these two gentlemen are
my friends,” said she.
He bent a pair of wonderfully penetrating and
questioning eyes upon us. “You will excuse me, miss,”
he said with a certain dogged manner, “but I was to
ask you to give me your word that neither of your
companions is a police-officer.”
“I give you my word on that,” she answered.
He gave a shrill whistle, on which a street Arab led
across a four-wheeler and opened the door. The man
who had addressed us mounted to the box, while we
took our places inside. We had hardly done so before
the driver whipped up his horse, and we plunged
away at a furious pace through the foggy streets.
The situation was a curious one. We were driving
to an unknown place, on an unknown errand. Yet our
invitation was either a complete hoax,—which was an
inconceivable hypothesis,—or else we had good rea-
son to think that important issues might hang upon
our journey. Miss Morstan’s demeanor was as res-
olute and collected as ever. I endeavored to cheer
and amuse her by reminiscences of my adventures
in Afghanistan; but, to tell the truth, I was myself so
excited at our situation and so curious as to our desti-
nation that my stories were slightly involved. To this
day she declares that I told her one moving anecdote
as to how a musket looked into my tent at the dead of
night, and how I fired a double-barrelled tiger cub at
it. At first I had some idea as to the direction in which
we were driving; but soon, what with our pace, the
fog, and my own limited knowledge of London, I lost
my bearings, and knew nothing, save that we seemed
to be going a very long way. Sherlock Holmes was
never at fault, however, and he muttered the names
as the cab rattled through squares and in and out by
tortuous by-streets.
“Rochester Row,” said he. “Now Vincent Square.
Now we come out on the Vauxhall Bridge Road. We
are making for the Surrey side, apparently. Yes, I
thought so. Now we are on the bridge. You can catch
glimpses of the river.”
We did indeed bet a fleeting view of a stretch of
the Thames with the lamps shining upon the broad,
silent water; but our cab dashed on, and was soon
involved in a labyrinth of streets upon the other side.
“Wordsworth Road,” said my companion. “Priory
Road. Lark Hall Lane. Stockwell Place. Robert Street.
Cold Harbor Lane. Our quest does not appear to take
us to very fashionable regions.”
We had, indeed, reached a questionable and for-
bidding neighborhood.
Long lines of dull brick
houses were only relieved by the coarse glare and
tawdry brilliancy of public houses at the corner. Then
came rows of two-storied villas each with a fronting of
miniature garden, and then again interminable lines
of new staring brick buildings,—the monster tentacles
which the giant city was throwing out into the country.
At last the cab drew up at the third house in a new
terrace. None of the other houses were inhabited, and
that at which we stopped was as dark as its neigh-
bors, save for a single glimmer in the kitchen window.
On our knocking, however, the door was instantly
thrown open by a Hindoo servant clad in a yellow
turban, white loose-fitting clothes, and a yellow sash.
There was something strangely incongruous in this
Oriental figure framed in the commonplace door-way
of a third-rate suburban dwelling-house.
“The Sahib awaits you,” said he, and even as he
spoke there came a high piping voice from some in-
ner room. “Show them in to me, khitmutgar,” it cried.
“Show them straight in to me.”
10
CHAPTER IV.
The Story of the Bald-Headed Man
We followed the Indian down a sordid and com-
mon passage, ill lit and worse furnished, until he
came to a door upon the right, which he threw open.
A blaze of yellow light streamed out upon us, and in
the centre of the glare there stood a small man with
a very high head, a bristle of red hair all round the
fringe of it, and a bald, shining scalp which shot out
from among it like a mountain-peak from fir-trees.
He writhed his hands together as he stood, and his
features were in a perpetual jerk, now smiling, now
scowling, but never for an instant in repose. Nature
had given him a pendulous lip, and a too visible line
of yellow and irregular teeth, which he strove feebly
to conceal by constantly passing his hand over the
lower part of his face. In spite of his obtrusive bald-
ness, he gave the impression of youth. In point of fact
he had just turned his thirtieth year.
“Your servant, Miss Morstan,” he kept repeating,
in a thin, high voice. “Your servant, gentlemen. Pray
step into my little sanctum. A small place, miss, but
furnished to my own liking. An oasis of art in the
howling desert of South London.”
We were all astonished by the appearance of the
apartment into which he invited us. In that sorry
house it looked as out of place as a diamond of the
first water in a setting of brass. The richest and glossi-
est of curtains and tapestries draped the walls, looped
back here and there to expose some richly-mounted
painting or Oriental vase. The carpet was of amber-
and-black, so soft and so thick that the foot sank
pleasantly into it, as into a bed of moss. Two great
tiger-skins thrown athwart it increased the suggestion
of Eastern luxury, as did a huge hookah which stood
upon a mat in the corner. A lamp in the fashion of a
silver dove was hung from an almost invisible golden
wire in the centre of the room. As it burned it filled
the air with a subtle and aromatic odor.
“Mr. Thaddeus Sholto,” said the little man, still
jerking and smiling. “That is my name. You are Miss
Morstan, of course. And these gentlemen—”
“This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. Wat-
son.”
“A doctor, eh?” cried he, much excited. “Have you
your stethoscope? Might I ask you—would you have
the kindness? I have grave doubts as to my mitral
valve, if you would be so very good. The aortic I may
rely upon, but I should value your opinion upon the
mitral.”
I listened to his heart, as requested, but was un-
able to find anything amiss, save indeed that he was
in an ecstasy of fear, for he shivered from head to foot.
“It appears to be normal,” I said. “You have no cause
for uneasiness.”
“You will excuse my anxiety, Miss Morstan,” he
remarked, airily. “I am a great sufferer, and I have
long had suspicions as to that valve. I am delighted
to hear that they are unwarranted. Had your father,
Miss Morstan, refrained from throwing a strain upon
his heart, he might have been alive now.”
I could have struck the man across the face, so
hot was I at this callous and off-hand reference to so
delicate a matter. Miss Morstan sat down, and her
face grew white to the lips. “I knew in my heart that
he was dead,” said she.
“I can give you every information,” said he, “and,
what is more, I can do you justice; and I will, too,
whatever Brother Bartholomew may say. I am so glad
to have your friends here, not only as an escort to you,
but also as witnesses to what I am about to do and
say. The three of us can show a bold front to Brother
Bartholomew. But let us have no outsiders,—no po-
lice or officials. We can settle everything satisfactorily
among ourselves, without any interference. Noth-
ing would annoy Brother Bartholomew more than
any publicity.” He sat down upon a low settee and
blinked at us inquiringly with his weak, watery blue
eyes.
“For my part,” said Holmes, “whatever you may
choose to say will go no further.”
I nodded to show my agreement.
“That is well!
That is well!” said he.
“May I
offer you a glass of Chianti, Miss Morstan? Or of
Tokay? I keep no other wines. Shall I open a flask?
No? Well, then, I trust that you have no objection
to tobacco-smoke, to the mild balsamic odor of the
Eastern tobacco. I am a little nervous, and I find my
hookah an invaluable sedative.” He applied a taper
to the great bowl, and the smoke bubbled merrily
through the rose-water. We sat all three in a semicir-
cle, with our heads advanced, and our chins upon our
hands, while the strange, jerky little fellow, with his
high, shining head, puffed uneasily in the centre.
“When I first determined to make this commu-
nication to you,” said he, “I might have given you
my address, but I feared that you might disregard
my request and bring unpleasant people with you. I
took the liberty, therefore, of making an appointment
11
in such a way that my man Williams might be able
to see you first. I have complete confidence in his
discretion, and he had orders, if he were dissatisfied,
to proceed no further in the matter. You will excuse
these precautions, but I am a man of somewhat retir-
ing, and I might even say refined, tastes, and there is
nothing more unaesthetic than a policeman. I have a
natural shrinking from all forms of rough materialism.
I seldom come in contact with the rough crowd. I live,
as you see, with some little atmosphere of elegance
around me. I may call myself a patron of the arts. It
is my weakness. The landscape is a genuine Corot,
and, though a connoisseur might perhaps throw a
doubt upon that Salvator Rosa, there cannot be the
least question about the Bouguereau. I am partial to
the modern French school.”
“You will excuse me, Mr. Sholto,” said Miss
Morstan, “but I am here at your request to learn
something which you desire to tell me. It is very late,
and I should desire the interview to be as short as
possible.”
“At the best it must take some time,” he answered;
“for we shall certainly have to go to Norwood and
see Brother Bartholomew. We shall all go and try if
we can get the better of Brother Bartholomew. He is
very angry with me for taking the course which has
seemed right to me. I had quite high words with him
last night. You cannot imagine what a terrible fellow
he is when he is angry.”
“If we are to go to Norwood it would perhaps be
as well to start at once,” I ventured to remark.
He laughed until his ears were quite red. “That
would hardly do,” he cried. “I don’t know what he
would say if I brought you in that sudden way. No, I
must prepare you by showing you how we all stand
to each other. In the first place, I must tell you that
there are several points in the story of which I am
myself ignorant. I can only lay the facts before you as
far as I know them myself.
“My father was, as you may have guessed, Major
John Sholto, once of the Indian army. He retired some
eleven years ago, and came to live at Pondicherry
Lodge in Upper Norwood. He had prospered in In-
dia, and brought back with him a considerable sum
of money, a large collection of valuable curiosities,
and a staff of native servants. With these advantages
he bought himself a house, and lived in great luxury.
My twin-brother Bartholomew and I were the only
children.
“I very well remember the sensation which was
caused by the disappearance of Captain Morstan. We
read the details in the papers, and, knowing that he
had been a friend of our father’s, we discussed the
case freely in his presence. He used to join in our
speculations as to what could have happened. Never
for an instant did we suspect that he had the whole
secret hidden in his own breast,—that of all men he
alone knew the fate of Arthur Morstan.
“We did know, however, that some mystery—some
positive danger—overhung our father. He was very
fearful of going out alone, and he always employed
two prize-fighters to act as porters at Pondicherry
Lodge. Williams, who drove you to-night, was one
of them. He was once light-weight champion of Eng-
land. Our father would never tell us what it was he
feared, but he had a most marked aversion to men
with wooden legs. On one occasion he actually fired
his revolver at a wooden-legged man, who proved to
be a harmless tradesman canvassing for orders. We
had to pay a large sum to hush the matter up. My
brother and I used to think this a mere whim of my
father’s, but events have since led us to change our
opinion.
“Early in 1882 my father received a letter from
India which was a great shock to him. He nearly
fainted at the breakfast-table when he opened it, and
from that day he sickened to his death. What was in
the letter we could never discover, but I could see as
he held it that it was short and written in a scrawling
hand. He had suffered for years from an enlarged
spleen, but he now became rapidly worse, and to-
wards the end of April we were informed that he was
beyond all hope, and that he wished to make a last
communication to us.
“When we entered his room he was propped up
with pillows and breathing heavily. He besought us
to lock the door and to come upon either side of the
bed. Then, grasping our hands, he made a remarkable
statement to us, in a voice which was broken as much
by emotion as by pain. I shall try and give it to you
in his own very words.
“ ‘I have only one thing,’ he said, ‘which weighs
upon my mind at this supreme moment. It is my treat-
ment of poor Morstan’s orphan. The cursed greed
which has been my besetting sin through life has
withheld from her the treasure, half at least of which
should have been hers. And yet I have made no use
of it myself,—so blind and foolish a thing is avarice.
The mere feeling of possession has been so dear to me
that I could not bear to share it with another. See that
chaplet dipped with pearls beside the quinine-bottle.
Even that I could not bear to part with, although I had
got it out with the design of sending it to her. You, my
12
sons, will give her a fair share of the Agra treasure.
But send her nothing—not even the chaplet—until I
am gone. After all, men have been as bad as this and
have recovered.
“ ‘I will tell you how Morstan died,’ he continued.
‘He had suffered for years from a weak heart, but he
concealed it from every one. I alone knew it. When
in India, he and I, through a remarkable chain of cir-
cumstances, came into possession of a considerable
treasure. I brought it over to England, and on the
night of Morstan’s arrival he came straight over here
to claim his share. He walked over from the station,
and was admitted by my faithful Lal Chowdar, who is
now dead. Morstan and I had a difference of opinion
as to the division of the treasure, and we came to
heated words. Morstan had sprung out of his chair in
a paroxysm of anger, when he suddenly pressed his
hand to his side, his face turned a dusky hue, and he
fell backwards, cutting his head against the corner of
the treasure-chest. When I stooped over him I found,
to my horror, that he was dead.
“ ‘For a long time I sat half distracted, wondering
what I should do. My first impulse was, of course,
to call for assistance; but I could not but recognize
that there was every chance that I would be accused
of his murder. His death at the moment of a quarrel,
and the gash in his head, would be black against me.
Again, an official inquiry could not be made without
bringing out some facts about the treasure, which I
was particularly anxious to keep secret. He had told
me that no soul upon earth knew where he had gone.
There seemed to be no necessity why any soul ever
should know.
“ ‘I was still pondering over the matter, when, look-
ing up, I saw my servant, Lal Chowdar, in the door-
way. He stole in and bolted the door behind him.
“Do not fear, Sahib,” he said. “No one need know
that you have killed him. Let us hide him away, and
who is the wiser?” “I did not kill him,” said I. Lal
Chowdar shook his head and smiled. “I heard it all,
Sahib,” said he. “I heard you quarrel, and I heard
the blow. But my lips are sealed. All are asleep in
the house. Let us put him away together.” That was
enough to decide met. If my own servant could not
believe my innocence, how could I hope to make it
good before twelve foolish tradesmen in a jury-box?
Lal Chowdar and I disposed of the body that night,
and within a few days the London papers were full
of the mysterious disappearance of Captain Morstan.
You will see from what I say that I can hardly be
blamed in the matter. My fault lies in the fact that
we concealed not only the body, but also the treasure,
and that I have clung to Morstan’s share as well as to
my own. I wish you, therefore, to make restitution.
Put your ears down to my mouth. The treasure is
hidden in—At this instant a horrible change came
over his expression; his eyes stared wildly, his jaw
dropped, and he yelled, in a voice which I can never
forget, ‘Keep him out! For Christ’s sake keep him
out’! We both stared round at the window behind us
upon which his gaze was fixed. A face was looking in
at us out of the darkness. We could see the whitening
of the nose where it was pressed against the glass. It
was a bearded, hairy face, with wild cruel eyes and an
expression of concentrated malevolence. My brother
and I rushed towards the window, but the man was
gone. When we returned to my father his head had
dropped and his pulse had ceased to beat.
“We searched the garden that night, but found no
sign of the intruder, save that just under the window
a single footmark was visible in the flower-bed. But
for that one trace, we might have thought that our
imaginations had conjured up that wild, fierce face.
We soon, however, had another and a more striking
proof that there were secret agencies at work all round
us. The window of my father’s room was found open
in the morning, his cupboards and boxes had been
rifled, and upon his chest was fixed a torn piece of
paper, with the words ‘The sign of the four’ scrawled
across it. What the phrase meant, or who our secret
visitor may have been, we never knew. As far as we
can judge, none of my father’s property had been
actually stolen, though everything had been turned
out. My brother and I naturally associated this pecu-
liar incident with the fear which haunted my father
during his life; but it is still a complete mystery to
us.”
The little man stopped to relight his hookah and
puffed thoughtfully for a few moments. We had all sat
absorbed, listening to his extraordinary narrative. At
the short account of her father’s death Miss Morstan
had turned deadly white, and for a moment I feared
that she was about to faint. She rallied however, on
drinking a glass of water which I quietly poured out
for her from a Venetian carafe upon the side-table.
Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair with an
abstracted expression and the lids drawn low over
his glittering eyes. As I glanced at him I could not
but think how on that very day he had complained
bitterly of the commonplaceness of life. Here at least
was a problem which would tax his sagacity to the
utmost. Mr. Thaddeus Sholto looked from one to the
other of us with an obvious pride at the effect which
his story had produced, and then continued between
13
the puffs of his overgrown pipe.
“My brother and I,” said he, “were, as you may
imagine, much excited as to the treasure which my
father had spoken of. For weeks and for months we
dug and delved in every part of the garden, without
discovering its whereabouts. It was maddening to
think that the hiding-place was on his very lips at the
moment that he died. We could judge the splendor of
the missing riches by the chaplet which he had taken
out. Over this chaplet my brother Bartholomew and I
had some little discussion. The pearls were evidently
of great value, and he was averse to part with them,
for, between friends, my brother was himself a little
inclined to my father’s fault. He thought, too, that
if we parted with the chaplet it might give rise to
gossip and finally bring us into trouble. It was all that
I could do to persuade him to let me find out Miss
Morstan’s address and send her a detached pearl at
fixed intervals, so that at least she might never feel
destitute.”
“It was a kindly thought,” said our companion,
earnestly. “It was extremely good of you.”
The little man waved his hand deprecatingly. “We
were your trustees,” he said. ”That was the view
which I took of it, though Brother Bartholomew could
not altogether see it in that light. We had plenty of
money ourselves. I desired no more. Besides, it would
have been such bad taste to have treated a young lady
in so scurvy a fashion. ‘Le mauvais goˆ
ut m`
ene au crime.’
The French have a very neat way of putting these
things. Our difference of opinion on this subject went
so far that I thought it best to set up rooms for myself:
so I left Pondicherry Lodge, taking the old khitmutgar
and Williams with me. Yesterday, however, I learn
that an event of extreme importance has occurred.
The treasure has been discovered. I instantly commu-
nicated with Miss Morstan, and it only remains for us
to drive out to Norwood and demand our share. I ex-
plained my views last night to Brother Bartholomew:
so we shall be expected, if not welcome, visitors.”
Mr. Thaddeus Sholto ceased, and sat twitching
on his luxurious settee. We all remained silent, with
our thoughts upon the new development which the
mysterious business had taken. Holmes was the first
to spring to his feet.
“You have done well, sir, from first to last,” said he.
“It is possible that we may be able to make you some
small return by throwing some light upon that which
is still dark to you. But, as Miss Morstan remarked
just now, it is late, and we had best put the matter
through without delay.”
Our new acquaintance very deliberately coiled up
the tube of his hookah, and produced from behind a
curtain a very long befrogged topcoat with Astrakhan
collar and cuffs. This he buttoned tightly up, in spite
of the extreme closeness of the night, and finished his
attire by putting on a rabbit-skin cap with hanging
lappets which covered the ears, so that no part of
him was visible save his mobile and peaky face. “My
health is somewhat fragile,” he remarked, as he led
the way down the passage. “I am compelled to be a
valetudinarian.”
Our cab was awaiting us outside, and our pro-
gramme was evidently prearranged, for the driver
started off at once at a rapid pace. Thaddeus Sholto
talked incessantly, in a voice which rose high above
the rattle of the wheels.
“Bartholomew is a clever fellow,” said he. “How
do you think he found out where the treasure was?
He had come to the conclusion that it was somewhere
indoors: so he worked out all the cubic space of the
house, and made measurements everywhere, so that
not one inch should be unaccounted for. Among other
things, he found that the height of the building was
seventy-four feet, but on adding together the heights
of all the separate rooms, and making every allowance
for the space between, which he ascertained by bor-
ings, he could not bring the total to more than seventy
feet. There were four feet unaccounted for. These
could only be at the top of the building. He knocked
a hole, therefore, in the lath-and-plaster ceiling of the
highest room, and there, sure enough, he came upon
another little garret above it, which had been sealed
up and was known to no one. In the centre stood the
treasure-chest, resting upon two rafters. He lowered
it through the hole, and there it lies. He computes
the value of the jewels at not less than half a million
sterling.”
At the mention of this gigantic sum we all stared
at one another open-eyed. Miss Morstan, could we
secure her rights, would change from a needy gov-
erness to the richest heiress in England. Surely it was
the place of a loyal friend to rejoice at such news;
yet I am ashamed to say that selfishness took me by
the soul, and that my heart turned as heavy as lead
within me. I stammered out some few halting words
of congratulation, and then sat downcast, with my
head drooped, deaf to the babble of our new acquain-
tance. He was clearly a confirmed hypochondriac,
and I was dreamily conscious that he was pouring
forth interminable trains of symptoms, and implor-
ing information as to the composition and action of
innumerable quack nostrums, some of which he bore
14
about in a leather case in his pocket. I trust that he
may not remember any of the answers which I gave
him that night. Holmes declares that he overheard me
caution him against the great danger of taking more
than two drops of castor oil, while I recommended
strychnine in large doses as a sedative. However that
may be, I was certainly relieved when our cab pulled
up with a jerk and the coachman sprang down to
open the door.
“This, Miss Morstan, is Pondicherry Lodge,” said
Mr. Thaddeus Sholto, as he handed her out.
CHAPTER V.
The Tragedy of Pondicherry Lodge
It was nearly eleven o’clock when we reached
this final stage of our night’s adventures. We had
left the damp fog of the great city behind us, and the
night was fairly fine. A warm wind blew from the
westward, and heavy clouds moved slowly across the
sky, with half a moon peeping occasionally through
the rifts. It was clear enough to see for some distance,
but Thaddeus Sholto took down one of the side-lamps
from the carriage to give us a better light upon our
way.
Pondicherry Lodge stood in its own grounds, and
was girt round with a very high stone wall topped
with broken glass. A single narrow iron-clamped
door formed the only means of entrance. On this our
guide knocked with a peculiar postman-like rat-tat.
“Who is there?” cried a gruff voice from within.
“It is I, McMurdo. You surely know my knock by
this time.”
There was a grumbling sound and a clanking and
jarring of keys. The door swung heavily back, and a
short, deep-chested man stood in the opening, with
the yellow light of the lantern shining upon his pro-
truded face and twinkling distrustful eyes.
“That you, Mr. Thaddeus? But who are the others?
I had no orders about them from the master.”
“No, McMurdo?
You surprise me!
I told my
brother last night that I should bring some friends.
“He ain’t been out o’ his room to-day, Mr. Thad-
deus, and I have no orders. You know very well that
I must stick to regulations. I can let you in, but your
friends must just stop where they are.”
This was an unexpected obstacle. Thaddeus Sholto
looked about him in a perplexed and helpless manner.
“This is too bad of you, McMurdo!” he said. “If I
guarantee them, that is enough for you. There is the
young lady, too. She cannot wait on the public road
at this hour.”
“Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus,” said the porter, in-
exorably. “Folk may be friends o’ yours, and yet no
friends o’ the master’s. He pays me well to do my
duty, and my duty I’ll do. I don’t know none o’ your
friends.”
“Oh, yes you do, McMurdo,” cried Sherlock
Holmes, genially. “I don’t think you can have for-
gotten me. Don’t you remember the amateur who
fought three rounds with you at Alison’s rooms on
the night of your benefit four years back?”
“Not Mr. Sherlock Holmes!” roared the prize-
fighter.
“God’s truth!
how could I have mistook
you? If instead o’ standin’ there so quiet you had
just stepped up and given me that cross-hit of yours
under the jaw, I’d ha’ known you without a question.
Ah, you’re one that has wasted your gifts, you have!
You might have aimed high, if you had joined the
fancy.”
“You see, Watson, if all else fails me I have still one
of the scientific professions open to me,” said Holmes,
laughing. “Our friend won’t keep us out in the cold
now, I am sure.”
“In you come, sir, in you come,—you and your
friends,” he answered. “Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus,
but orders are very strict. Had to be certain of your
friends before I let them in.”
Inside, a gravel path wound through desolate
grounds to a huge clump of a house, square and
prosaic, all plunged in shadow save where a moon-
beam struck one corner and glimmered in a garret
15
window. The vast size of the building, with its gloom
and its deathly silence, struck a chill to the heart. Even
Thaddeus Sholto seemed ill at ease, and the lantern
quivered and rattled in his hand.
“I cannot understand it,” he said. “There must
be some mistake. I distinctly told Bartholomew that
we should be here, and yet there is no light in his
window. I do not know what to make of it.”
“Does he always guard the premises in this way?”
asked Holmes.
“Yes; he has followed my father’s custom. He was
the favorite son, you know, and I sometimes think
that my father may have told him more than he ever
told me. That is Bartholomew’s window up there
where the moonshine strikes. It is quite bright, but
there is no light from within, I think.”
“None,” said Holmes. “But I see the glint of a
light in that little window beside the door.”
“Ah, that is the housekeeper’s room. That is where
old Mrs. Bernstone sits. She can tell us all about it.
But perhaps you would not mind waiting here for a
minute or two, for if we all go in together and she
has no word of our coming she may be alarmed. But
hush! what is that?”
He held up the lantern, and his hand shook until
the circles of light flickered and wavered all round us.
Miss Morstan seized my wrist, and we all stood with
thumping hearts, straining our ears. From the great
black house there sounded through the silent night
the saddest and most pitiful of sounds,—the shrill,
broken whimpering of a frightened woman.
“It is Mrs. Bernstone,” said Sholto. “She is the
only woman in the house. Wait here. I shall be back
in a moment.” He hurried for the door, and knocked
in his peculiar way. We could see a tall old woman
admit him, and sway with pleasure at the very sight
of him.
“Oh, Mr. Thaddeus, sir, I am so glad you have
come! I am so glad you have come, Mr. Thaddeus,
sir!” We heard her reiterated rejoicings until the door
was closed and her voice died away into a muffled
monotone.
Our guide had left us the lantern. Holmes swung
it slowly round, and peered keenly at the house,
and at the great rubbish-heaps which cumbered the
grounds. Miss Morstan and I stood together, and
her hand was in mine. A wondrous subtle thing is
love, for here were we two who had never seen each
other before that day, between whom no word or even
look of affection had ever passed, and yet now in an
hour of trouble our hands instinctively sought for
each other. I have marvelled at it since, but at the
time it seemed the most natural thing that I should
go out to her so, and, as she has often told me, there
was in her also the instinct to turn to me for comfort
and protection. So we stood hand in hand, like two
children, and there was peace in our hearts for all the
dark things that surrounded us.
“What a strange place!” she said, looking round.
“It looks as though all the moles in England had
been let loose in it. I have seen something of the sort
on the side of a hill near Ballarat, where the prospec-
tors had been at work.”
“And from the same cause,” said Holmes. “These
are the traces of the treasure-seekers. You must re-
member that they were six years looking for it. No
wonder that the grounds look like a gravel-pit.”
At that moment the door of the house burst open,
and Thaddeus Sholto came running out, with his
hands thrown forward and terror in his eyes.
“There is something amiss with Bartholomew!” he
cried. “I am frightened! My nerves cannot stand it.”
He was, indeed, half blubbering with fear, and his
twitching feeble face peeping out from the great As-
trakhan collar had the helpless appealing expression
of a terrified child.
“Come into the house,” said Holmes, in his crisp,
firm way.
“Yes, do!” pleaded Thaddeus Sholto. “I really do
not feel equal to giving directions.”
We all followed him into the housekeeper’s room,
which stood upon the left-hand side of the passage.
The old woman was pacing up and down with a
scared look and restless picking fingers, but the sight
of Miss Morstan appeared to have a soothing effect
upon her.
“God bless your sweet calm face!” she cried, with
an hysterical sob. “It does me good to see you. Oh,
but I have been sorely tried this day!”
Our companion patted her thin, work-worn hand,
and murmured some few words of kindly womanly
comfort which brought the color back into the others
bloodless cheeks.
“Master has locked himself in and will now an-
swer me,” she explained. “All day I have waited to
hear from him, for he often likes to be alone; but an
hour ago I feared that something was amiss, so I went
up and peeped through the key-hole. You must go
up, Mr. Thaddeus,—you must go up and look for
yourself. I have seen Mr. Bartholomew Sholto in joy
and in sorrow for ten long years, but I never saw him
with such a face on him as that.”
16
Sherlock Holmes took the lamp and led the way,
for Thaddeus Sholto’s teeth were chattering in his
head. So shaken was he that I had to pass my hand
under his arm as we went up the stairs, for his knees
were trembling under him. Twice as we ascended
Holmes whipped his lens out of his pocket and care-
fully examined marks which appeared to me to be
mere shapeless smudges of dust upon the cocoa-nut
matting which served as a stair-carpet. He walked
slowly from step to step, holding the lamp, and shoot-
ing keen glances to right and left. Miss Morstan had
remained behind with the frightened housekeeper.
The third flight of stairs ended in a straight pas-
sage of some length, with a great picture in Indian
tapestry upon the right of it and three doors upon
the left. Holmes advanced along it in the same slow
and methodical way, while we kept close at his heels,
with our long black shadows streaming backwards
down the corridor. The third door was that which we
were seeking. Holmes knocked without receiving any
answer, and then tried to turn the handle and force
it open. It was locked on the inside, however, and
by a broad and powerful bolt, as we could see when
we set our lamp up against it. The key being turned,
however, the hole was not entirely closed. Sherlock
Holmes bent down to it, and instantly rose again with
a sharp intaking of the breath.
“There is something devilish in this, Watson,” said
he, more moved than I had ever before seen him.
“What do you make of it?”
I stooped to the hole, and recoiled in horror. Moon-
light was streaming into the room, and it was bright
with a vague and shifty radiance. Looking straight
at me, and suspended, as it were, in the air, for all
beneath was in shadow, there hung a face,—the very
face of our companion Thaddeus. There was the same
high, shining head, the same circular bristle of red
hair, the same bloodless countenance. The features
were set, however, in a horrible smile, a fixed and
unnatural grin, which in that still and moonlit room
was more jarring to the nerves than any scowl or con-
tortion. So like was the face to that of our little friend
that I looked round at him to make sure that he was
indeed with us. Then I recalled to mind that he had
mentioned to us that his brother and he were twins.
“This is terrible!” I said to Holmes. “What is to be
done?”
“The door must come down,” he answered, and,
springing against it, he put all his weight upon the
lock. It creaked and groaned, but did not yield. To-
gether we flung ourselves upon it once more, and this
time it gave way with a sudden snap, and we found
ourselves within Bartholomew Sholto’s chamber.
It appeared to have been fitted up as a chemical
laboratory. A double line of glass-stoppered bottles
was drawn up upon the wall opposite the door, and
the table was littered over with Bunsen burners, test-
tubes, and retorts. In the corners stood carboys of acid
in wicker baskets. One of these appeared to leak or to
have been broken, for a stream of dark-colored liquid
had trickled out from it, and the air was heavy with a
peculiarly pungent, tar-like odor. A set of steps stood
at one side of the room, in the midst of a litter of lath
and plaster, and above them there was an opening in
the ceiling large enough for a man to pass through.
At the foot of the steps a long coil of rope was thrown
carelessly together.
By the table, in a wooden arm-chair, the master of
the house was seated all in a heap, with his head sunk
upon his left shoulder, and that ghastly, inscrutable
smile upon his face. He was stiff and cold, and had
clearly been dead many hours. It seemed to me that
not only his features but all his limbs were twisted
and turned in the most fantastic fashion. By his hand
upon the table there lay a peculiar instrument,—a
brown, close-grained stick, with a stone head like a
hammer, rudely lashed on with coarse twine. Beside
it was a torn sheet of note-paper with some words
scrawled upon it. Holmes glanced at it, and then
handed it to me.
“You see,” he said, with a significant raising of the
eyebrows.
In the light of the lantern I read, with a thrill of
horror, “The sign of the four.”
“In God’s name, what does it all mean?” I asked.
“It means murder,” said he, stooping over the
dead man. “Ah, I expected it. Look here!” He pointed
to what looked like a long, dark thorn stuck in the
skin just above the ear.
“It looks like a thorn,” said I.
“It is a thorn. You may pick it out. But be careful,
for it is poisoned.”
I took it up between my finger and thumb. It came
away from the skin so readily that hardly any mark
was left behind. One tiny speck of blood showed
where the puncture had been.
“This is all an insoluble mystery to me,” said I. “It
grows darker instead of clearer.”
“On the contrary,” he answered, “it clears every
instant. I only require a few missing links to have an
entirely connected case.”
17
We had almost forgotten our companion’s pres-
ence since we entered the chamber. He was still stand-
ing in the door-way, the very picture of terror, wring-
ing his hands and moaning to himself. Suddenly,
however, he broke out into a sharp, querulous cry.
“The treasure is gone!” he said. “They have robbed
him of the treasure! There is the hole through which
we lowered it. I helped him to do it! I was the last
person who saw him! I left him here last night, and I
heard him lock the door as I came down-stairs.”
“What time was that?”
“It was ten o’clock. And now he is dead, and the
police will be called in, and I shall be suspected of
having had a hand in it. Oh, yes, I am sure I shall. But
you don’t think so, gentlemen? Surely you don’t think
that it was I? Is it likely that I would have brought
you here if it were I? Oh, dear! oh, dear! I know that
I shall go mad!” He jerked his arms and stamped his
feet in a kind of convulsive frenzy.
“You have no reason for fear, Mr. Sholto,” said
Holmes, kindly, putting his hand upon his shoulder.
“Take my advice, and drive down to the station to
report this matter to the police. Offer to assist them
in every way. We shall wait here until your return.”
The little man obeyed in a half-stupefied fashion,
and we heard him stumbling down the stairs in the
dark.
CHAPTER VI.
Sherlock Holmes Gives a Demonstration
“Now, Watson,” said Holmes, rubbing his hands,
“we have half an hour to ourselves.
Let us make
good use of it. My case is, as I have told you, almost
complete; but we must not err on the side of over-
confidence. Simple as the case seems now, there may
be something deeper underlying it.”
“Simple!” I ejaculated.
“Surely,” said he, with something of the air of a
clinical professor expounding to his class. “Just sit in
the corner there, that your footprints may not com-
plicate matters. Now to work! In the first place, how
did these folk come, and how did they go? The door
has not been opened since last night. How of the win-
dow?” He carried the lamp across to it, muttering his
observations aloud the while, but addressing them to
himself rather than to me. “Window is snibbed on
the inner side. Framework is solid. No hinges at the
side. Let us open it. No water-pipe near. Roof quite
out of reach. Yet a man has mounted by the window.
It rained a little last night. Here is the print of a foot
in mould upon the sill. And here is a circular muddy
mark, and here again upon the floor, and here again
by the table. See here, Watson! This is really a very
pretty demonstration.”
I looked at the round, well-defined muddy discs.
“This is not a footmark,” said I.
“It is something much more valuable to us. It
is the impression of a wooden stump. You see here
on the sill is the boot-mark, a heavy boot with the
broad metal heel, and beside it is the mark of the
timber-toe.”
“It is the wooden-legged man.”
“Quite so. But there has been some one else,—a
very able and efficient ally. Could you scale that wall,
doctor?”
I looked out of the open window. The moon still
shone brightly on that angle of the house. We were
a good sixty feet from the ground, and, look where
I would, I could see no foothold, nor as much as a
crevice in the brick-work.
“It is absolutely impossible,” I answered.
“Without aid it is so. But suppose you had a friend
up here who lowered you this good stout rope which
I see in the corner, securing one end of it to this great
hook in the wall. Then, I think, if you were an active
man, you might swarm up, wooden leg and all. You
would depart, of course, in the same fashion, and
your ally would draw up the rope, untie it from the
hook, shut the window, snib it on the inside, and
get away in the way that he originally came. As a
minor point it may be noted,” he continued, fingering
the rope, “that our wooden-legged friend, though a
18
fair climber, was not a professional sailor. His hands
were far from horny. My lens discloses more than one
blood-mark, especially towards the end of the rope,
from which I gather that he slipped down with such
velocity that he took the skin off his hand.”
“This is all very well,” said I, “but the thing be-
comes more unintelligible than ever. How about this
mysterious ally? How came he into the room?”
“Yes,
the ally!” repeated Holmes,
pensively.
“There are features of interest about this ally. He
lifts the case from the regions of the commonplace.
I fancy that this ally breaks fresh ground in the an-
nals of crime in this country,—though parallel cases
suggest themselves from India, and, if my memory
serves me, from Senegambia.”
“How came he, then?” I reiterated. “The door is
locked, the window is inaccessible. Was it through
the chimney?”
“The grate is much too small,” he answered. “I
had already considered that possibility.”
“How then?” I persisted.
“You will not apply my precept,” he said, shaking
his head. “How often have I said to you that when
you have eliminated the impossible whatever remains,
however improbable, must be the truth? We know that
he did not come through the door, the window, or the
chimney. We also know that he could not have been
concealed in the room, as there is no concealment
possible. Whence, then, did he come?”
“He came through the hole in the roof,” I cried.
“Of course he did. He must have done so. If
you will have the kindness to hold the lamp for
me, we shall now extend our researches to the room
above,—the secret room in which the treasure was
found.”
He mounted the steps, and, seizing a rafter with ei-
ther hand, he swung himself up into the garret. Then,
lying on his face, he reached down for the lamp and
held it while I followed him.
The chamber in which we found ourselves was
about ten feet one way and six the other. The floor
was formed by the rafters, with thin lath-and-plaster
between, so that in walking one had to step from
beam to beam. The roof ran up to an apex, and was
evidently the inner shell of the true roof of the house.
There was no furniture of any sort, and the accumu-
lated dust of years lay thick upon the floor.
“Here you are, you see,” said Sherlock Holmes,
putting his hand against the sloping wall. “This is a
trap-door which leads out on to the roof. I can press
it back, and here is the roof itself, sloping at a gentle
angle. This, then, is the way by which Number One
entered. Let us see if we can find one other traces of
his individuality.”
He held down the lamp to the floor, and as he
did so I saw for the second time that night a star-
tled, surprised look come over his face. For myself,
as I followed his gaze my skin was cold under my
clothes. The floor was covered thickly with the prints
of a naked foot,—clear, well defined, perfectly formed,
but scarce half the size of those of an ordinary man.
“Holmes,” I said, in a whisper, “a child has done
the horrid thing.”
He had recovered his self-possession in an instant.
“I was staggered for the moment,” he said, “but the
thing is quite natural. My memory failed me, or I
should have been able to foretell it. There is nothing
more to be learned here. Let us go down.”
“What is your theory, then, as to those footmarks?”
I asked, eagerly, when we had regained the lower
room once more.
“My dear Watson, try a little analysis yourself,”
said he, with a touch of impatience. “You know my
methods. Apply them, and it will be instructive to
compare results.”
“I cannot conceive anything which will cover the
facts,” I answered.
“It will be clear enough to you soon,” he said, in
an off-hand way. “I think that there is nothing else
of importance here, but I will look.” He whipped out
his lens and a tape measure, and hurried about the
room on his knees, measuring, comparing, examining,
with his long thin nose only a few inches from the
planks, and his beady eyes gleaming and deep-set
like those of a bird. So swift, silent, and furtive were
his movements, like those of a trained blood-hound
picking out a scent, that I could not but think what a
terrible criminal he would have made had he turned
his energy and sagacity against the law, instead of
exerting them in its defense. As he hunted about, he
kept muttering to himself, and finally he broke out
into a loud crow of delight.
“We are certainly in luck,” said he. “We ought to
have very little trouble now. Number One has had
the misfortune to tread in the creosote. You can see
the outline of the edge of his small foot here at the
side of this evil-smelling mess. The carboy has been
cracked, You see, and the stuff has leaked out.”
“What then?” I asked.
“Why, we have got him, that’s all,” said he. “I
know a dog that would follow that scent to the world’s
end. If a pack can track a trailed herring across a shire,
19
how far can a specially-trained hound follow so pun-
gent a smell as this? It sounds like a sum in the rule
of three. The answer should give us the—But halloo!
here are the accredited representatives of the law.”
Heavy steps and the clamor of loud voices were
audible from below, and the hall door shut with a
loud crash.
“Before they come,” said Holmes, “just put your
hand here on this poor fellow’s arm, and here on his
leg. What do you feel?”
“The muscles are as hard as a board,” I answered.
“Quite so. They are in a state of extreme contrac-
tion, far exceeding the usual rigor mortis. Coupled
with this distortion of the face, this Hippocratic smile,
or ‘risus sardonicus,’ as the old writers called it, what
conclusion would it suggest to your mind?”
“Death from some powerful vegetable alkaloid,”
I answered,—“some strychnine-like substance which
would produce tetanus.”
“That was the idea which occurred to me the in-
stant I saw the drawn muscles of the face. On getting
into the room I at once looked for the means by which
the poison had entered the system. As you saw, I dis-
covered a thorn which had been driven or shot with
no great force into the scalp. You observe that the part
struck was that which would be turned towards the
hole in the ceiling if the man were erect in his chair.
Now examine the thorn.”
I took it up gingerly and held it in the light of the
lantern. It was long, sharp, and black, with a glazed
look near the point as though some gummy substance
had dried upon it. The blunt end had been trimmed
and rounded off with a knife.
“Is that an English thorn?” he asked.
“No, it certainly is not.”
“With all these data you should be able to draw
some just inference. But here are the regulars: so the
auxiliary forces may beat a retreat.”
As he spoke, the steps which had been coming
nearer sounded loudly on the passage, and a very
stout, portly man in a gray suit strode heavily into the
room. He was red-faced, burly and plethoric, with a
pair of very small twinkling eyes which looked keenly
out from between swollen and puffy pouches. He was
closely followed by an inspector in uniform, and by
the still palpitating Thaddeus Sholto.
“Here’s a business!” he cried, in a muffled, husky
voice. “Here’s a pretty business! But who are all
these? Why, the house seems to be as full as a rabbit-
warren!”
“I think you must recollect me, Mr. Athelney
Jones,” said Holmes, quietly.
“Why, of course I do!” he wheezed. “It’s Mr. Sher-
lock Holmes, the theorist. Remember you! I’ll never
forget how you lectured us all on causes and infer-
ences and effects in the Bishopgate jewel case. It’s
true you set us on the right track; but you’ll own now
that it was more by good luck than good guidance.”
“It was a piece of very simple reasoning.”
“Oh, come, now, come! Never be ashamed to own
up. But what is all this? Bad business! Bad business!
Stern facts here,—no room for theories. How lucky
that I happened to be out at Norwood over another
case! I was at the station when the message arrived.
What d’you think the man died of?”
“Oh, this is hardly a case for me to theorize over,”
said Holmes, dryly.
“No, no. Still, we can’t deny that you hit the nail
on the head sometimes. Dear me! Door locked, I un-
derstand. Jewels worth half a million missing. How
was the window?”
“Fastened; but there are steps on the sill.”
“Well, well, if it was fastened the steps could have
nothing to do with the matter. That’s common sense.
Man might have died in a fit; but then the jewels are
missing. Ha! I have a theory. These flashes come
upon me at times.—Just step outside, sergeant, and
you, Mr. Sholto. Your friend can remain.—What do
you think of this, Holmes? Sholto was, on his own
confession, with his brother last night. The brother
died in a fit, on which Sholto walked off with the
treasure. How’s that?”
“On which the dead man very considerately got
up and locked the door on the inside.”
“Hum! There’s a flaw there. Let us apply common
sense to the matter. This Thaddeus Sholto was with
his brother; there was a quarrel; so much we know.
The brother is dead and the jewels are gone. So much
also we know. No one saw the brother from the time
Thaddeus left him. His bed had not been slept in.
Thaddeus is evidently in a most disturbed state of
mind. His appearance is—well, not attractive. You
see that I am weaving my web round Thaddeus. The
net begins to close upon him.”
“You are not quite in possession of the facts yet,”
said Holmes. “This splinter of wood, which I have
every reason to believe to be poisoned, was in the
man’s scalp where you still see the mark; this card,
inscribed as you see it, was on the table; and beside it
lay this rather curious stone-headed instrument. How
does all that fit into your theory?”
20
“Confirms it in every respect,” said the fat detec-
tive, pompously. “House is full of Indian curiosities.
Thaddeus brought this up, and if this splinter be poi-
sonous Thaddeus may as well have made murderous
use of it as any other man. The card is some hocus-
pocus,—a blind, as like as not. The only question is,
how did he depart? Ah, of course, here is a hole in
the roof.” With great activity, considering his bulk,
he sprang up the steps and squeezed through into
the garret, and immediately afterwards we heard his
exulting voice proclaiming that he had found the trap-
door.
“He can find something,” remarked Holmes,
shrugging his shoulders. “He has occasional glim-
merings of reason. Il n’y a pas des sots si incommodes
que ceux qui ont de l’esprit!”
“You see!” said Athelney Jones, reappearing down
the steps again. “Facts are better than mere theories,
after all. My view of the case is confirmed. There is
a trap-door communicating with the roof, and it is
partly open.”
“It was I who opened it.”
“Oh, indeed! You did notice it, then?” He seemed
a little crestfallen at the discovery. “Well, whoever
noticed it, it shows how our gentleman got away. In-
spector!”
“Yes, sir,” from the passage.
“Ask Mr. Sholto to step this way.—Mr. Sholto, it
is my duty to inform you that anything which you
may say will be used against you. I arrest you in
the Queen’s name as being concerned in the death of
your brother.”
“There, now! Didn’t I tell you!” cried the poor
little man, throwing out his hands, and looking from
one to the other of us.
“Don’t trouble yourself about it, Mr. Sholto,” said
Holmes. “I think that I can engage to clear you of the
charge.”
“Don’t promise too much, Mr. Theorist,—don’t
promise too much!” snapped the detective. “You may
find it a harder matter than you think.”
“Not only will I clear him, Mr. Jones, but I will
make you a free present of the name and description
of one of the two people who were in this room last
night. His name, I have every reason to believe, is
Jonathan Small. He is a poorly-educated man, small,
active, with his right leg off, and wearing a wooden
stump which is worn away upon the inner side. His
left boot has a coarse, square-toed sole, with an iron
band round the heel. He is a middle-aged man, much
sunburned, and has been a convict. These few indica-
tions may be of some assistance to you, coupled with
the fact that there is a good deal of skin missing from
the palm of his hand. The other man—”
“Ah! the other man—?” asked Athelney Jones, in a
sneering voice, but impressed none the less, as I could
easily see, by the precision of the other’s manner.
“Is a rather curious person,” said Sherlock Holmes,
turning upon his heel. “I hope before very long to
be able to introduce you to the pair of them. A word
with you, Watson.”
He led me out to the head of the stair. “This unex-
pected occurrence,” he said, “has caused us rather to
lose sight of the original purpose of our journey.”
“I have just been thinking so,” I answered. “It
is not right that Miss Morstan should remain in this
stricken house.”
“No. You must escort her home. She lives with
Mrs. Cecil Forrester, in Lower Camberwell: so it is
not very far. I will wait for you here if you will drive
out again. Or perhaps you are too tired?”
“By no means. I don’t think I could rest until I
know more of this fantastic business. I have seen
something of the rough side of life, but I give you my
word that this quick succession of strange surprises
to-night has shaken my nerve completely. I should
like, however, to see the matter through with you,
now that I have got so far.”
“Your presence will be of great service to me,” he
answered. “We shall work the case out independently,
and leave this fellow Jones to exult over any mare’s-
nest which he may choose to construct. When you
have dropped Miss Morstan I wish you to go on to
No. 3 Pinchin Lane, down near the water’s edge at
Lambeth. The third house on the right-hand side is
a bird-stuffer’s: Sherman is the name. You will see a
weasel holding a young rabbit in the window. Knock
old Sherman up, and tell him, with my compliments,
that I want Toby at once. You will bring Toby back in
the cab with you.”
“A dog, I suppose.”
“Yes,—a queer mongrel, with a most amazing
power of scent. I would rather have Toby’s help than
that of the whole detective force of London.”
“I shall bring him, then,” said I. “It is one now.
I ought to be back before three, if I can get a fresh
horse.”
“And I,” said Holmes, “shall see what I can learn
from Mrs. Bernstone, and from the Indian servant,
who, Mr. Thaddeus tell me, sleeps in the next garret.
Then I shall study the great Jones’s methods and listen
to his not too delicate sarcasms. ‘Wir sind gewohnt, daß
die Menschen verh¨
ohnen was sie nicht verstehen.’ Goethe
is always pithy.”
21
CHAPTER VII.
The Episode of the Barrel
The police had brought a cab with them, and in
this I escorted Miss Morstan back to her home. After
the angelic fashion of women, she had borne trouble
with a calm face as long as there was some one weaker
than herself to support, and I had found her bright
and placid by the side of the frightened housekeeper.
In the cab, however, she first turned faint, and then
burst into a passion of weeping,—so sorely had she
been tried by the adventures of the night. She has
told me since that she thought me cold and distant
upon that journey. She little guessed the struggle
within my breast, or the effort of self-restraint which
held me back. My sympathies and my love went out
to her, even as my hand had in the garden. I felt
that years of the conventionalities of life could not
teach me to know her sweet, brave nature as had this
one day of strange experiences. Yet there were two
thoughts which sealed the words of affection upon
my lips. She was weak and helpless, shaken in mind
and nerve. It was to take her at a disadvantage to
obtrude love upon her at such a time. Worse still, she
was rich. If Holmes’s researches were successful, she
would be an heiress. Was it fair, was it honorable, that
a half-pay surgeon should take such advantage of an
intimacy which chance had brought about? Might she
not look upon me as a mere vulgar fortune-seeker?
I could not bear to risk that such a thought should
cross her mind. This Agra treasure intervened like an
impassable barrier between us.
It was nearly two o’clock when we reached Mrs.
Cecil Forrester’s.
The servants had retired hours
ago, but Mrs. Forrester had been so interested by
the strange message which Miss Morstan had re-
ceived that she had sat up in the hope of her return.
She opened the door herself, a middle-aged, grace-
ful woman, and it gave me joy to see how tenderly
her arm stole round the other’s waist and how moth-
erly was the voice in which she greeted her.
She
was clearly no mere paid dependant, but an honored
friend. I was introduced, and Mrs. Forrester earnestly
begged me to step in and tell her our adventures. I
explained, however, the importance of my errand, and
promised faithfully to call and report any progress
which we might make with the case. As we drove
away I stole a glance back, and I still seem to see that
little group on the step, the two graceful, clinging
figures, the half-opened door, the hall light shining
through stained glass, the barometer, and the bright
stair-rods. It was soothing to catch even that passing
glimpse of a tranquil English home in the midst of
the wild, dark business which had absorbed us.
And the more I thought of what had happened,
the wilder and darker it grew. I reviewed the whole
extraordinary sequence of events as I rattled on
through the silent gas-lit streets. There was the origi-
nal problem: that at least was pretty clear now. The
death of Captain Morstan, the sending of the pearls,
the advertisement, the letter,—we had had light upon
all those events. They had only led us, however, to a
deeper and far more tragic mystery. The Indian trea-
sure, the curious plan found among Morstan’s bag-
gage, the strange scene at Major Sholto’s death, the
rediscovery of the treasure immediately followed by
the murder of the discoverer, the very singular accom-
paniments to the crime, the footsteps, the remarkable
weapons, the words upon the card, corresponding
with those upon Captain Morstan’s chart,—here was
indeed a labyrinth in which a man less singularly
endowed than my fellow-lodger might well despair
of ever finding the clue.
Pinchin Lane was a row of shabby two-storied
brick houses in the lower quarter of Lambeth. I had
to knock for some time at No. 3 before I could make
my impression. At last, however, there was the glint
of a candle behind the blind, and a face looked out at
the upper window.
“Go on, you drunken vagabone,” said the face. “If
you kick up any more row I’ll open the kennels and
let out forty-three dogs upon you.”
“If you’ll let one out it’s just what I have come for,”
said I.
“Go on!” yelled the voice. “So help me gracious, I
have a wiper in the bag, an’ I’ll drop it on your ’ead
if you don’t hook it.”
“But I want a dog,” I cried.
“I won’t be argued with!” shouted Mr. Sherman.
“Now stand clear, for when I say ‘three,’ down goes
the wiper.”
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes—” I began, but the words
had a most magical effect, for the window instantly
slammed down, and within a minute the door was
unbarred and open. Mr. Sherman was a lanky, lean
old man, with stooping shoulders, a stringy neck, and
blue-tinted glasses.
“A friend of Mr. Sherlock is always welcome,” said
he. “Step in, sir. Keep clear of the badger; for he bites.
22
Ah, naughty, naughty, would you take a nip at the
gentleman?” This to a stoat which thrust its wicked
head and red eyes between the bars of its cage. “Don’t
mind that, sir: it’s only a slow-worm. It hain’t got no
fangs, so I gives it the run o’ the room, for it keeps the
bettles down. You must not mind my bein’ just a little
short wi’ you at first, for I’m guyed at by the children,
and there’s many a one just comes down this lane to
knock me up. What was it that Mr. Sherlock Holmes
wanted, sir?”
“He wanted a dog of yours.”
“Ah! that would be Toby.”
“Yes, Toby was the name.”
“Toby lives at No. 7 on the left here.” He moved
slowly forward with his candle among the queer an-
imal family which he had gathered round him. In
the uncertain, shadowy light I could see dimly that
there were glancing, glimmering eyes peeping down
at us from every cranny and corner. Even the rafters
above our heads were lined by solemn fowls, who
lazily shifted their weight from one leg to the other
as our voices disturbed their slumbers.
Toby proved to an ugly, long-haired, lop-eared
creature, half spaniel and half lurcher, brown-and-
white in color, with a very clumsy waddling gait. It
accepted after some hesitation a lump of sugar which
the old naturalist handed to me, and, having thus
sealed an alliance, it followed me to the cab, and
made no difficulties about accompanying me. It had
just struck three on the Palace clock when I found
myself back once more at Pondicherry Lodge. The
ex-prize-fighter McMurdo had, I found, been arrested
as an accessory, and both he and Mr. Sholto had been
marched off to the station. Two constables guarded
the narrow gate, but they allowed me to pass with the
dog on my mentioning the detective’s name.
Holmes was standing on the door-step, with his
hands in his pockets, smoking his pipe.
“Ah, you have him there!” said he. “Good dog,
then!
Athelney Jones has gone.
We have had an
immense display of energy since you left. He has ar-
rested not only friend Thaddeus, but the gatekeeper,
the housekeeper, and the Indian servant. We have the
place to ourselves, but for a sergeant up-stairs. Leave
the dog here, and come up.”
We tied Toby to the hall table, and reascended
the stairs. The room was as we had left it, save that
a sheet had been draped over the central figure. A
weary-looking police-sergeant reclined in the corner.
“Lend me your bull’s-eye, sergeant,” said my com-
panion. “Now tie this bit of card round my neck,
so as to hang it in front of me. Thank you. Now I
must kick off my boots and stockings.—Just you carry
them down with you, Watson. I am going to do a
little climbing. And dip my handkerchief into the
creasote. That will do. Now come up into the garret
with me for a moment.”
We clambered up through the hole.
Holmes
turned his light once more upon the footsteps in the
dust.
“I wish you particularly to notice these footmarks,”
he said. “Do you observe anything noteworthy about
them?”
“They belong,” I said, “to a child or a small
woman.”
“Apart from their size, though. Is there nothing
else?”
“They appear to be much as other footmarks.”
“Not at all. Look here! This is the print of a right
foot in the dust. Now I make one with my naked foot
beside it. What is the chief difference?”
“Your toes are all cramped together. The other
print has each toe distinctly divided.”
“Quite so. That is the point. Bear that in mind.
Now, would you kindly step over to that flap-window
and smell the edge of the wood-work? I shall stay
here, as I have this handkerchief in my hand.”
I did as he directed, and was instantly conscious
of a strong tarry smell.
“That is where he put his foot in getting out. If
you can trace him, I should think that Toby will have
no difficulty. Now run down-stairs, loose the dog,
and look out for Blondin.”
By the time that I got out into the grounds Sher-
lock Holmes was on the roof, and I could see him
like an enormous glow-worm crawling very slowly
along the ridge. I lost sight of him behind a stack
of chimneys, but he presently reappeared, and then
vanished once more upon the opposite side. When I
made my way round there I found him seated at one
of the corner eaves.
“That You, Watson?” he cried.
“Yes.”
“This is the place. What is that black thing down
there?”
“A water-barrel.”
“Top on it?”
“Yes.”
“No sign of a ladder?”
“No.”
23
“Confound the fellow!
It’s a most break-neck
place. I ought to be able to come down where he
could climb up.
The water-pipe feels pretty firm.
Here goes, anyhow.”
There was a scuffling of feet, and the lantern be-
gan to come steadily down the side of the wall. Then
with a light spring he came on to the barrel, and from
there to the earth.
“It was easy to follow him,” he said, drawing on
his stockings and boots. “Tiles were loosened the
whole way along, and in his hurry he had dropped
this. It confirms my diagnosis, as you doctors express
it.”
The object which he held up to me was a small
pocket or pouch woven out of colored grasses and
with a few tawdry beads strung round it. In shape
and size it was not unlike a cigarette-case. Inside were
half a dozen spines of dark wood, sharp at one end
and rounded at the other, like that which had struck
Bartholomew Sholto.
“They are hellish things,” said he. “Look out that
you don’t prick yourself. I’m delighted to have them,
for the chances are that they are all he has. There
is the less fear of you or me finding one in our skin
before long. I would sooner face a Martini bullet,
myself. Are you game for a six-mile trudge, Watson?”
“Certainly,” I answered.
“Your leg will stand it?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Here you are, doggy! Good old Toby! Smell it,
Toby, smell it!” He pushed the creasote handkerchief
under the dog’s nose, while the creature stood with
its fluffy legs separated, and with a most comical cock
to its head, like a connoisseur sniffing the bouquet
of a famous vintage. Holmes then threw the hand-
kerchief to a distance, fastened a stout cord to the
mongrel’s collar, and let him to the foot of the water-
barrel. The creature instantly broke into a succession
of high, tremulous yelps, and, with his nose on the
ground, and his tail in the air, pattered off upon the
trail at a pace which strained his leash and kept us at
the top of our speed.
The east had been gradually whitening, and we
could now see some distance in the cold gray light.
The square, massive house, with its black, empty
windows and high, bare walls, towered up, sad and
forlorn, behind us. Our course let right across the
grounds, in and out among the trenches and pits
with which they were scarred and intersected. The
whole place, with its scattered dirt-heaps and ill-
grown shrubs, had a blighted, ill-omened look which
harmonized with the black tragedy which hung over
it.
On reaching the boundary wall Toby ran along,
whining eagerly, underneath its shadow, and stopped
finally in a corner screened by a young beech. Where
the two walls joined, several bricks had been loosened,
and the crevices left were worn down and rounded
upon the lower side, as though they had frequently
been used as a ladder. Holmes clambered up, and,
taking the dog from me, he dropped it over upon the
other side.
“There’s the print of wooden-leg’s hand,” he re-
marked, as I mounted up beside him. “You see the
slight smudge of blood upon the white plaster. What
a lucky thing it is that we have had no very heavy
rain since yesterday! The scent will lie upon the road
in spite of their eight-and-twenty hours’ start.”
I confess that I had my doubts myself when I re-
flected upon the great traffic which had passed along
the London road in the interval. My fears were soon
appeased, however. Toby never hesitated or swerved,
but waddled on in his peculiar rolling fashion. Clearly,
the pungent smell of the creasote rose high above all
other contending scents.
“Do not imagine,” said Holmes, “that I depend for
my success in this case upon the mere chance of one
of these fellows having put his foot in the chemical. I
have knowledge now which would enable me to trace
them in many different ways. This, however, is the
readiest and, since fortune has put it into our hands,
I should be culpable if I neglected it. It has, however,
prevented the case from becoming the pretty little
intellectual problem which it at one time promised to
be. There might have been some credit to be gained
out of it, but for this too palpable clue.”
“There is credit, and to spare,” said I. “I assure
you, Holmes, that I marvel at the means by which
you obtain your results in this case, even more than I
did in the Jefferson Hope Murder. The thing seems
to me to be deeper and more inexplicable. How, for
example, could you describe with such confidence the
wooden-legged man?”
“Pshaw, my dear boy! it was simplicity itself. I
don’t wish to be theatrical. It is all patent and above-
board. Two officers who are in command of a convict-
guard learn an important secret as to buried trea-
sure. A map is drawn for them by an Englishman
named Jonathan Small. You remember that we saw
the name upon the chart in Captain Morstan’s pos-
session. He had signed it in behalf of himself and
his associates,—the sign of the four, as he somewhat
24
dramatically called it. Aided by this chart, the offi-
cers—or one of them—gets the treasure and brings it
to England, leaving, we will suppose, some condition
under which he received it unfulfilled. Now, then,
why did not Jonathan Small get the treasure himself?
The answer is obvious. The chart is dated at a time
when Morstan was brought into close association with
convicts. Jonathan Small did not get the treasure be-
cause he and his associates were themselves convicts
and could not get away.”
“But that is mere speculation,” said I.
“It is more than that. It is the only hypothesis
which covers the facts. Let us see how it fits in with
the sequel. Major Sholto remains at peace for some
years, happy in the possession of his treasure. Then
he receives a letter from India which gives him a great
fright. What was that?”
“A letter to say that the men whom he had
wronged had been set free.”
“Or had escaped. That is much more likely, for
he would have known what their term of imprison-
ment was. It would not have been a surprise to him.
What does he do then? He guards himself against a
wooden-legged man,—a white man, mark you, for he
mistakes a white tradesman for him, and actually fires
a pistol at him. Now, only one white man’s name is on
the chart. The others are Hindoos or Mohammedans.
There is no other white man. Therefore we may say
with confidence that the wooden-legged man is iden-
tical with Jonathan Small. Does the reasoning strike
yo as being faulty?”
“No: it is clear and concise.”
“Well, now, let us put ourselves in the place of
Jonathan Small. Let us look at it from his point of
view. He comes to England with the double idea of
regaining what he would consider to be his rights
and of having his revenge upon the man who had
wronged him. He found out where Sholto lived, and
very possibly he established communications with
some one inside the house. There is this butler, Lal
Rao, whom we have not seen. Mrs. Bernstone gives
him far from a good character. Small could not find
out, however, where the treasure was hid, for no one
ever knew, save the major and one faithful servant
who had died. Suddenly Small learns that the major
is on his death-bed. In a frenzy lest the secret of the
treasure die with him, he runs the gauntlet of the
guards, makes his way to the dying man’s window,
and is only deterred from entering by the presence
of his two sons. Mad with hate, however, against the
dead man, he enters the room that night, searches his
private papers in the hope of discovering some mem-
orandum relating to the treasure, and finally leaves
a memento of his visit in the short inscription upon
the card. He had doubtless planned beforehand that
should he slay the major he would leave some such
record upon the body as a sign that it was not a com-
mon murder, but, from the point of view of the four
associates, something in the nature of an act of jus-
tice. Whimsical and bizarre conceits of this kind are
common enough in the annals of crime, and usually
afford valuable indications as to the criminal. Do you
follow all this?”
“Very clearly.”
“Now, what could Jonathan Small do? He could
only continue to keep a secret watch upon the efforts
made to find the treasure. Possibly he leaves England
and only comes back at intervals. Then comes the
discovery of the garret, and he is instantly informed
of it. We again trace the presence of some confederate
in the household. Jonathan, with his wooden leg, is
utterly unable to reach the lofty room of Bartholomew
Sholto. He takes with him, however, a rather curious
associate, who gets over this difficulty, but dips his
naked foot into creasote, whence come Toby, and a
six-mile limp for a half-pay officer with a damaged
tendo Achillis.”
“But it was the associate, and not Jonathan, who
committed the crime.”
“Quite so. And rather to Jonathan’s disgust, to
judge by the way the stamped about when he got into
the room. He bore no grudge against Bartholomew
Sholto, and would have preferred if he could have
been simply bound and gagged. He did not wish
to put his head in a halter. There was no help for it,
however: the savage instincts of his companion had
broken out, and the poison had done its work: so
Jonathan Small left his record, lowered the treasure-
box to the ground, and followed it himself.
That
was the train of events as far as I can decipher them.
Of course as to his personal appearance he must be
middle-aged, and must be sunburned after serving
his time in such an oven as the Andamans. His height
is readily calculated from the length of his stride, and
we know that he was bearded. His hairiness was
the one point which impressed itself upon Thaddeus
Sholto when he saw him at the window. I don’t know
that there is anything else.”
“The associate?”
“Ah, well, there is no great mystery in that. But
you will know all about it soon enough. How sweet
the morning air is! See how that one little cloud floats
25
like a pink feather from some gigantic flamingo. Now
the red rim of the sun pushes itself over the London
cloud-bank. It shines on a good many folk, but on
none, I dare bet, who are on a stranger errand than
you and I. How small we feel with our petty ambitions
and strivings in the presence of the great elemental
forces of nature! Are you well up in your Jean Paul?”
“Fairly so. I worked back to him through Carlyle.”
“That was like following the brook to the parent
lake. He makes one curious but profound remark. It
is that the chief proof of man’s real greatness lies in
his perception of his own smallness. It argues, you
see, a power of comparison and of appreciation which
is in itself a proof of nobility. There is much food for
thought in Richter. You have not a pistol, have you?”
“I have my stick.”
“It is just possible that we may need something of
the sort if we get to their lair. Jonathan I shall leave
to you, but if the other turns nasty I shall shoot him
dead.” He took out his revolver as he spoke, and,
having loaded two of the chambers, he put it back
into the right-hand pocket of his jacket.
We had during this time been following the guid-
ance of Toby down the half-rural villa-lined roads
which lead to the metropolis. Now, however, we were
beginning to come among continuous streets, where
laborers and dockmen were already astir, and slat-
ternly women were taking down shutters and brush-
ing door-steps. At the square-topped corner pub-
lic houses business was just beginning, and rough-
looking men were emerging, rubbing their sleeves
across their beards after their morning wet. Strange
dogs sauntered up and stared wonderingly at us as
we passed, but our inimitable Toby looked neither to
the right nor to the left, but trotted onwards with his
nose to the ground and an occasional eager whine
which spoke of a hot scent.
We had traversed Streatham, Brixton, Camberwell,
and now found ourselves in Kennington Lane, having
borne away through the side-streets to the east of the
Oval. The men whom we pursued seemed to have
taken a curiously zigzag road, with the idea probably
of escaping observation. They had never kept to the
main road if a parallel side-street would serve their
turn. At the foot of Kennington Lane they had edged
away to the left through Bond Street and Miles Street.
Where the latter street turns into Knight’s Place, Toby
ceased to advance, but began to run backwards and
forwards with one ear cocked and the other drooping,
the very picture of canine indecision. Then he wad-
dled round in circles, looking up to us from time to
time, as if to ask for sympathy in his embarrassment.
“What the deuce is the matter with the dog?”
growled Holmes.
“They surely would not take a
cab, or go off in a balloon.”
“Perhaps they stood here for some time,” I sug-
gested.
“Ah! it’s all right. He’s off again,” said my com-
panion, in a tone of relief.
He was indeed off, for after sniffing round again
he suddenly made up his mind, and darted away
with an energy and determination such as he had not
yet shown. The scent appeared to be much hotter
than before, for he had not even to put his nose on the
ground, but tugged at his leash and tried to break into
a run. I cold see by the gleam in Holmes’s eyes that
he thought we were nearing the end of our journey.
Our course now ran down Nine Elms until we
came to Broderick and Nelson’s large timber-yard,
just past the White Eagle tavern. Here the dog, frantic
with excitement, turned down through the side-gate
into the enclosure, where the sawyers were already
at work.
On the dog raced through sawdust and
shavings, down an alley, round a passage, between
two wood-piles, and finally, with a triumphant yelp,
sprang upon a large barrel which still stood upon
the hand-trolley on which it had been brought. With
lolling tongue and blinking eyes, Toby stood upon the
cask, looking from one to the other of us for some
sign of appreciation. The staves of the barrel and
the wheels of the trolley were smeared with a dark
liquid, and the whole air was heavy with the smell of
creasote.
Sherlock Holmes and I looked blankly at each
other, and then burst simultaneously into an uncon-
trollable fit of laughter.
26
CHAPTER VIII.
The Baker Street Irregulars
“What now?” I asked. “Toby has lost his character
for infallibility.”
“He acted according to his lights,” said Holmes,
lifting him down from the barrel and walking him
out of the timber-yard. “If you consider how much
creasote is carted about London in one day, it is no
great wonder that our trail should have been crossed.
It is much used now, especially for the seasoning of
wood. Poor Toby is not to blame.”
“We must get on the main scent again, I suppose.”
“Yes. And, fortunately, we have no distance to
go. Evidently what puzzled the dog at the corner of
Knight’s Place was that there were two different trails
running in opposite directions. We took the wrong
one. It only remains to follow the other.”
There was no difficulty about this. On leading
Toby to the place where he had committed his fault,
he cast about in a wide circle and finally dashed off
in a fresh direction.
“We must take care that he does not now bring us
to the place where the creasote-barrel came from,” I
observed.
“I had thought of that. But you notice that he
keeps on the pavement, whereas the barrel passed
down the roadway. No, we are on the true scent
now.”
It tended down towards the river-side, running
through Belmont Place and Prince’s Street. At the end
of Broad Street it ran right down to the water’s edge,
where there was a small wooden wharf. Toby led
us to the very edge of this, and there stood whining,
looking out on the dark current beyond.
“We are out of luck,” said Holmes. “They have
taken to a boat here.” Several small punts and skiffs
were lying about in the water and on the edge of
the wharf. We took Toby round to each in turn, but,
though he sniffed earnestly, he made no sign.
Close to the rude landing-stage was a small brick
house, with a wooden placard slung out through the
second window. “Mordecai Smith” was printed across
it in large letters, and, underneath, “Boats to hire by
the hour or day.” A second inscription above the door
informed us that a steam launch was kept,—a state-
ment which was confirmed by a great pile of coke
upon the jetty. Sherlock Holmes looked slowly round,
and his face assumed an ominous expression.
“This looks bad,” said he.
“These fellows are
sharper than I expected. They seem to have covered
their tracks. There has, I fear, been preconcerted man-
agement here.”
He was approaching the door of the house, when
it opened, and a little, curly-headed lad of six came
running out, followed by a stoutish, red-faced woman
with a large sponge in her hand.
“You come back and be washed, Jack,” she
shouted. “Come back, you young imp; for if your
father comes home and finds you like that, he’ll let us
hear of it.”
“Dear little chap!” said Holmes, strategically.
“What a rosy-cheeked young rascal! Now, Jack, is
there anything you would like?”
The youth pondered for a moment. “I’d like a
shillin’,” said he.
“Nothing you would like better?”
“I’d like two shillin’ better,” the prodigy answered,
after some thought.
“Here you are, then! Catch!—A fine child, Mrs.
Smith!”
“Lor’ bless you, sir, he is that, and forward. He
gets a’most too much for me to manage, ’specially
when my man is away days at a time.”
“Away, is he?” said Holmes, in a disappointed
voice. “I am sorry for that, for I wanted to speak to
Mr. Smith.”
“He’s been away since yesterday mornin’, sir, and,
truth to tell, I am beginnin’ to feel frightened about
him. But if it was about a boat, sir, maybe I could
serve as well.”
“I wanted to hire his steam launch.”
“Why, bless you, sir, it is in the steam launch that
he has gone. That’s what puzzles me; for I know
there ain’t more coals in her than would take her to
about Woolwich and back. If he’d been away in the
barge I’d ha’ thought nothin’; for many a time a job
has taken him as far as Gravesend, and then if there
was much doin’ there he might ha’ stayed over. But
what good is a steam launch without coals?”
“He might have bought some at a wharf down the
river.”
“He might, sir, but it weren’t his way. Many a
time I’ve heard him call out at the prices they charge
for a few odd bags. Besides, I don’t like that wooden-
legged man, wi’ his ugly face and outlandish talk.
What did he want always knockin’ about here for?”
27
“A wooden-legged man?” said Holmes, with
bland surprise.
“Yes, sir, a brown, monkey-faced chap that’s called
more’n once for my old man. It was him that roused
him up yesternight, and, what’s more, my man knew
he was comin’, for he had steam up in the launch.
I tell you straight, sir, I don’t feel easy in my mind
about it.”
“But, my dear Mrs. Smith,” said Holmes, shrug-
ging his shoulders, “You are frightening yourself
about nothing. How could you possibly tell that it
was the wooden-legged man who came in the night?
I don’t quite understand how you can be so sure.”
“His voice, sir. I knew his voice, which is kind
o’ thick and foggy. He tapped at the winder,—about
three it would be. ‘Show a leg, matey,’ says he: ‘time
to turn out guard.’ My old man woke up Jim,—that’s
my eldest,—and away they went, without so much as
a word to me. I could hear the wooden leg clackin’
on the stones.”
“And was this wooden-legged man alone?”
“Couldn’t say, I am sure, sir. I didn’t hear no one
else.”
“I am sorry, Mrs. Smith, for I wanted a steam
launch, and I have heard good reports of the—Let me
see, what is her name?”
“The Aurora, sir.”
“Ah! She’s not that old green launch with a yellow
line, very broad in the beam?”
“No, indeed. She’s as trim a little thing as any on
the river. She’s been fresh painted, black with two red
streaks.”
“Thanks. I hope that you will hear soon from Mr.
Smith. I am going down the river; and if I should see
anything of the Aurora I shall let him know that you
are uneasy. A black funnel, you say?”
“No, sir. Black with a white band.”
“Ah, of course. It was the sides which were black.
Good-morning, Mrs. Smith.—There is a boatman here
with a wherry, Watson. We shall take it and cross the
river.
“The main thing with people of that sort,” said
Holmes, as we sat in the sheets of the wherry, “is
never to let them think that their information can be
of the slightest importance to you. If you do, they will
instantly shut up like an oyster. If you listen to them
under protest, as it were, you are very likely to get
what you want.”
“Our course now seems pretty clear,” said I.
“What would you do, then?”
“I would engage a launch and go down the river
on the track of the Aurora.”
“My dear fellow, it would be a colossal task. She
may have touched at any wharf on either side of
the stream between here and Greenwich. Below the
bridge there is a perfect labyrinth of landing-places
for miles. It would take you days and days to exhaust
them, if you set about it alone.”
“Employ the police, then.”
“No. I shall probably call Athelney Jones in at the
last moment. He is not a bad fellow, and I should not
like to do anything which would injure him profes-
sionally. But I have a fancy for working it out myself,
now that we have gone so far.”
“Could we advertise, then, asking for information
from wharfingers?”
“Worse and worse! Our men would know that the
chase was hot at their heels, and they would be off
out of the country. As it is, they are likely enough to
leave, but as long as they think they are perfectly safe
they will be in no hurry. Jones’s energy will be of use
to us there, for his view of the case is sure to push
itself into the daily press, and the runaways will think
that every one is off on the wrong scent.”
“What are we to do, then?” I asked, as we landed
near Millbank Penitentiary.
“Take this hansom, drive home, have some break-
fast, and get an hour’s sleep.
It is quite on the
cards that we may be afoot to-night again. Stop at
a telegraph-office, cabby! We will keep Toby, for he
may be of use to us yet.”
We pulled up at the Great Peter Street post-office,
and Holmes despatched his wire. “Whom do you
think that is to?” he asked, as we resumed our jour-
ney.
“I am sure I don’t know.”
“You remember the Baker Street division of the de-
tective police force whom I employed in the Jefferson
Hope case?”
“Well,” said I, laughing.
“This is just the case where they might be invalu-
able. If they fail, I have other resources; but I shall try
them first. That wire was to my dirty little lieutenant,
Wiggins, and I expect that he and his gang will be
with us before we have finished our breakfast.”
It was between eight and nine o’clock now, and
I was conscious of a strong reaction after the succes-
sive excitements of the night. I was limp and weary,
befogged in mind and fatigued in body. I had not
28
the professional enthusiasm which carried my com-
panion on, nor could I look at the matter as a mere
abstract intellectual problem. As far as the death of
Bartholomew Sholto went, I had heard little good
of him, and could feel no intense antipathy to his
murderers. The treasure, however, was a different
matter. That, or part of it, belonged rightfully to Miss
Morstan. While there was a chance of recovering it I
was ready to devote my life to the one object. True, if
I found it it would probably put her forever beyond
my reach. Yet it would be a petty and selfish love
which would be influenced by such a thought as that.
If Holmes could work to find the criminals, I had
a tenfold stronger reason to urge me on to find the
treasure.
A bath at Baker Street and a complete change
freshened me up wonderfully. When I came down
to our room I found the breakfast laid and Holmes
pouring out the coffee.
“Here it is,” said he, laughing, and pointing to
an open newspaper. “The energetic Jones and the
ubiquitous reporter have fixed it up between them.
But you have had enough of the case. Better have
your ham and eggs first.”
I took the paper from him and read the short
notice, which was headed “Mysterious Business at
Upper Norwood.”
“About twelve o’clock last night,” said the Stan-
dard, “Mr. Bartholomew Sholto, of Pondicherry Lodge,
Upper Norwood, was found dead in his room under
circumstances which point to foul play. As far as we
can learn, no actual traces of violence were found
upon Mr. Sholto’s person, but a valuable collection
of Indian gems which the deceased gentleman had
inherited from his father has been carried off. The
discovery was first made by Mr. Sherlock Holmes
and Dr. Watson, who had called at the house with
Mr. Thaddeus Sholto, brother of the deceased. By a
singular piece of good fortune, Mr. Athelney Jones,
the well-known member of the detective police force,
happened to be at the Norwood Police Station, and
was on the ground within half an hour of the first
alarm. His trained and experienced faculties were
at once directed towards the detection of the crimi-
nals, with the gratifying result that the brother, Thad-
deus Sholto, has already been arrested, together with
the housekeeper, Mrs. Bernstone, an Indian butler
named Lal Rao, and a porter, or gatekeeper, named
McMurdo. It is quite certain that the thief or thieves
were well acquainted with the house, for Mr. Jones’s
well-known technical knowledge and his powers of
minute observation have enabled him to prove conclu-
sively that the miscreants could not have entered by
the door or by the window, but must have made their
way across the roof of the building, and so through
a trap-door into a room which communicated with
that in which the body was found. This fact, which
has been very clearly made out, proves conclusively
that it was no mere haphazard burglary. The prompt
and energetic action of the officers of the law shows
the great advantage of the presence on such occasions
of a single vigorous and masterful mind. We cannot
but think that it supplies an argument to those who
would wish to see our detectives more decentralized,
and so brought into closer and more effective touch
with the cases which it is their duty to investigate.”
“Isn’t it gorgeous!” said Holmes, grinning over his
coffee-cup. “What do you think of it?”
“I think that we have had a close shave ourselves
of being arrested for the crime.”
“So do I. I wouldn’t answer for our safety now, if
he should happen to have another of his attacks of
energy.”
At this moment there was a loud ring at the bell,
and I could hear Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, raising
her voice in a wail of expostulation and dismay.
“By heaven, Holmes,” I said, half rising, “I believe
that they are really after us.”
“No, it’s not quite so bad as that. It is the unofficial
force,—the Baker Street irregulars.”
As he spoke, there came a swift pattering of naked
feet upon the stairs, a clatter of high voices, and in
rushed a dozen dirty and ragged little street-Arabs.
There was some show of discipline among them, de-
spite their tumultuous entry, for they instantly drew
up in line and stood facing us with expectant faces.
One of their number, taller and older than the oth-
ers, stood forward with an air of lounging superiority
which was very funny in such a disreputable little
carecrow.
“Got your message, sir,” said he, “and brought
’em on sharp. Three bob and a tanner for tickets.”
“Here you are,” said Holmes, producing some sil-
ver. “In future they can report to you, Wiggins, and
you to me. I cannot have the house invaded in this
way. However, it is just as well that you should all
hear the instructions. I want to find the whereabouts
of a steam launch called the Aurora, owner Mordecai
Smith, black with two red streaks, funnel black with
a white band. She is down the river somewhere. I
want one boy to be at Mordecai Smith’s landing-stage
opposite Millbank to say if the boat comes back. You
must divide it out among yourselves, and do both
29
banks thoroughly. Let me know the moment you have
news. Is that all clear?”
“Yes, guv’nor,” said Wiggins.
“The old scale of pay, and a guinea to the boy who
finds the boat. Here’s a day in advance. Now off you
go!” He handed them a shilling each, and away they
buzzed down the stairs, and I saw them a moment
later streaming down the street.
“If the launch is above water they will find her,”
said Holmes, as he rose from the table and lit his pipe.
“They can go everywhere, see everything, overhear
every one. I expect to hear before evening that they
have spotted her. In the mean while, we can do noth-
ing but await results. We cannot pick up the broken
trail until we find either the Aurora or Mr. Mordecai
Smith.”
“Toby could eat these scraps, I dare say. Are you
going to bed, Holmes?”
“No: I am not tired. I have a curious constitution.
I never remember feeling tired by work, though idle-
ness exhausts me completely. I am going to smoke
and to think over this queer business to which my
fair client has introduced us. If ever man had an easy
task, this of ours ought to be. Wooden-legged men
are not so common, but the other man must, I should
think, be absolutely unique.”
“That other man again!”
“I have no wish to make a mystery of him,—to
you, anyway. But you must have formed your own
opinion.
Now, do consider the data.
Diminutive
footmarks, toes never fettered by boots, naked feet,
stone-headed wooden mace, great agility, small poi-
soned darts. What do you make of all this?”
“A savage!” I exclaimed. “Perhaps one of those
Indians who were the associates of Jonathan Small.”
“Hardly that,” said he. “When first I saw signs of
strange weapons I was inclined to think so; but the
remarkable character of the footmarks caused me to
reconsider my views. Some of the inhabitants of the
Indian Peninsula are small men, but none could have
left such marks as that. The Hindoo proper has long
and thin feet. The sandal-wearing Mohammedan has
the great toe well separated from the others, because
the thong is commonly passed between. These little
darts, too, could only be shot in one way. They are
from a blow-pipe. Now, then, where are we to find
our savage?”
“South American,” I hazarded.
He stretched his hand up, and took down a bulky
volume from the shelf. “This is the first volume of a
gazetteer which is now being published. It may be
looked upon as the very latest authority. What have
we here? ‘Andaman Islands, situated 340 miles to
the north of Sumatra, in the Bay of Bengal.’ Hum!
hum!
What’s all this?
Moist climate, coral reefs,
sharks, Port Blair, convict-barracks, Rutland Island,
cottonwoods—Ah, here we are. ‘The aborigines of the
Andaman Islands may perhaps claim the distinction
of being the smallest race upon this earth, though
some anthropologists prefer the Bushmen of Africa,
the Digger Indians of America, and the Terra del Fue-
gians. The average height is rather below four feet,
although many full-grown adults may be found who
are very much smaller than this. They are a fierce,
morose, and intractable people, though capable of
forming most devoted friendships when their con-
fidence has once been gained.’ Mark that, Watson.
Now, then, listen to this. ‘They are naturally hideous,
having large, misshapen heads, small, fierce eyes, and
distorted features. Their feet and hands, however, are
remarkably small. So intractable and fierce are they
that all the efforts of the British official have failed to
win them over in any degree. They have always been
a terror to shipwrecked crews, braining the survivors
with their stone-headed clubs, or shooting them with
their poisoned arrows. These massacres are invari-
ably concluded by a cannibal feast.’ Nice, amiable
people, Watson! If this fellow had been left to his own
unaided devices this affair might have taken an even
more ghastly turn. I fancy that, even as it is, Jonathan
Small would give a good deal not to have employed
him.”
“But how came he to have so singular a compan-
ion?”
“Ah, that is more than I can tell. Since, however,
we had already determined that Small had come from
the Andamans, it is not so very wonderful that this
islander should be with him. No doubt we shall know
all about it in time. Look here, Watson; you look reg-
ularly done. Lie down there on the sofa, and see if I
can put you to sleep.”
He took up his violin from the corner, and as
I stretched myself out he began to play some low,
dreamy, melodious air,—his own, no doubt, for he
had a remarkable gift for improvisation. I have a
vague remembrance of his gaunt limbs, his earnest
face, and the rise and fall of his bow. Then I seemed to
be floated peacefully away upon a soft sea of sound,
until I found myself in dream-land, with the sweet
face of Mary Morstan looking down upon me.
30
CHAPTER IX.
A Break in the Chain
It was late in the afternoon before I woke,
strengthened and refreshed. Sherlock Holmes still
sat exactly as I had left him, save that he had laid
aside his violin and was deep in a book. He looked
across at me, as I stirred, and I noticed that his face
was dark and troubled.
“You have slept soundly,” he said. “I feared that
our talk would wake you.”
“I heard nothing,” I answered. “Have you had
fresh news, then?”
“Unfortunately, no. I confess that I am surprised
and disappointed. I expected something definite by
this time. Wiggins has just been up to report. He
says that no trace can be found of the launch. It is a
provoking check, for every hour is of importance.”
“Can I do anything? I am perfectly fresh now, and
quite ready for another night’s outing.”
“No, we can do nothing. We can only wait. If we
go ourselves, the message might come in our absence,
and delay be caused. You can do what you will, but I
must remain on guard.”
“Then I shall run over to Camberwell and call
upon Mrs. Cecil Forrester. She asked me to, yester-
day.”
“On Mrs. Cecil Forrester?” asked Holmes, with
the twinkle of a smile in his eyes.
“Well, of course Miss Morstan too. They were
anxious to hear what happened.”
“I would not tell them too much,” said Holmes.
“Women are never to be entirely trusted,—not the best
of them.”
I did not pause to argue over this atrocious senti-
ment. “I shall be back in an hour or two,” I remarked.
“All right! Good luck! But, I say, if you are cross-
ing the river you may as well return Toby, for I don’t
think it is at all likely that we shall have any use for
him now.”
I took our mongrel accordingly, and left him, to-
gether with a half-sovereign, at the old naturalist’s in
Pinchin Lane. At Camberwell I found Miss Morstan
a little weary after her night’s adventures, but very
eager to hear the news. Mrs. Forrester, too, was full
of curiosity. I told them all that we had done, sup-
pressing, however, the more dreadful parts of the
tragedy. Thus, although I spoke of Mr. Sholto’s death,
I said nothing of the exact manner and method of it.
With all my omissions, however, there was enough to
startle and amaze them.
“It is a romance!” cried Mrs. Forrester. “An in-
jured lady, half a million in treasure, a black cannibal,
and a wooden-legged ruffian. They take the place of
the conventional dragon or wicked earl.”
“And two knight-errants to the rescue,” added
Miss Morstan, with a bright glance at me.
“Why, Mary, your fortune depends upon the issue
of this search. I don’t think that you are nearly excited
enough. Just imagine what it must be to be so rich,
and to have the world at your feet!”
It sent a little thrill of joy to my heart to notice that
she showed no sign of elation at the prospect. On the
contrary, she gave a toss of her proud head, as though
the matter were one in which she took small interest.
“It is for Mr. Thaddeus Sholto that I am anxious,”
she said. “Nothing else is of any consequence; but I
think that he has behaved most kindly and honorably
throughout. It is our duty to clear him of this dreadful
and unfounded charge.”
It was evening before I left Camberwell, and quite
dark by the time I reached home. My companion’s
book and pipe lay by his chair, but he had disap-
peared. I looked about in the hope of seeing a note,
but there was none.
“I suppose that Mr. Sherlock Holmes has gone
out,” I said to Mrs. Hudson as she came up to lower
the blinds.
“No, sir. He has gone to his room, sir. Do you
know, sir,” sinking her voice into an impressive whis-
per, “I am afraid for his health?”
“Why so, Mrs. Hudson?”
“Well, he’s that strange, sir. After you was gone
he walked and he walked, up and down, and up and
down, until I was weary of the sound of his footstep.
Then I heard him talking to himself and muttering,
and every time the bell rang out he came on the stair-
head, with ‘What is that, Mrs. Hudson?’ And now
he has slammed off to his room, but I can hear him
walking away the same as ever. I hope he’s not going
to be ill, sir. I ventured to say something to him about
cooling medicine, but he turned on me, sir, with such
a look that I don’t know how ever I got out of the
room.”
“I don’t think that you have any cause to be un-
easy, Mrs. Hudson,” I answered. “I have seen him like
this before. He has some small matter upon his mind
31
which makes him restless.” I tried to speak lightly to
our worthy landlady, but I was myself somewhat un-
easy when through the long night I still from time to
time heard the dull sound of his tread, and knew how
his keen spirit was chafing against this involuntary
inaction.
At breakfast-time he looked worn and haggard,
with a little fleck of feverish color upon either cheek.
“You are knocking yourself up, old man,” I re-
marked. “I heard you marching about in the night.”
“No, I could not sleep,” he answered. “This infer-
nal problem is consuming me. It is too much to be
balked by so petty an obstacle, when all else had been
overcome. I know the men, the launch, everything;
and yet I can get no news. I have set other agencies
at work, and used every means at my disposal. The
whole river has been searched on either side, but there
is no news, nor has Mrs. Smith heard of her husband.
I shall come to the conclusion soon that they have
scuttled the craft. But there are objections to that.”
“Or that Mrs. Smith has put us on a wrong scent.”
“No, I think that may be dismissed. I had inquiries
made, and there is a launch of that description.”
“Could it have gone up the river?”
“I have considered that possibility too, and there is
a search-party who will work up as far as Richmond.
If no news comes to-day, I shall start off myself to-
morrow, and go for the men rather than the boat. But
surely, surely, we shall hear something.”
We did not, however. Not a word came to us ei-
ther from Wiggins or from the other agencies. There
were articles in most of the papers upon the Norwood
tragedy. They all appeared to be rather hostile to the
unfortunate Thaddeus Sholto. No fresh details were
to be found, however, in any of them, save that an in-
quest was to be held upon the following day. I walked
over to Camberwell in the evening to report our ill suc-
cess to the ladies, and on my return I found Holmes
dejected and somewhat morose. He would hardly
reply to my questions, and busied himself all evening
in an abstruse chemical analysis which involved much
heating of retorts and distilling of vapors, ending at
last in a smell which fairly drove me out of the apart-
ment. Up to the small hours of the morning I could
hear the clinking of his test-tubes which told me that
he was still engaged in his malodorous experiment.
In the early dawn I woke with a start, and was
surprised to find him standing by my bedside, clad
in a rude sailor dress with a pea-jacket, and a coarse
red scarf round his neck.
“I am off down the river, Watson,” said he. “I have
been turning it over in my mind, and I can see only
one way out of it. It is worth trying, at all events.”
“Surely I can come with you, then?” said I.
“No; you can be much more useful if you will
remain here as my representative. I am loath to go,
for it is quite on the cards that some message may
come during the day, though Wiggins was despon-
dent about it last night. I want you to open all notes
and telegrams, and to act on your own judgment if
any news should come. Can I rely upon you?”
“Most certainly.”
“I am afraid that you will not be able to wire to
me, for I can hardly tell yet where I may find myself.
If I am in luck, however, I may not be gone so very
long. I shall have news of some sort or other before I
get back.”
I had heard nothing of him by breakfast-time. On
opening the Standard, however, I found that there was
a fresh allusion to the business.
“With
reference
to
the
Upper
Norwood
tragedy,” it remarked, “we have reason to be-
lieve that the matter promises to be even more
complex and mysterious than was originally
supposed. Fresh evidence has shown that it
is quite impossible that Mr. Thaddeus Sholto
could have been in any way concerned in the
matter. He and the housekeeper, Mrs. Bern-
stone, were both released yesterday evening.
It is believed, however, that the police have a
clue as to the real culprits, and that it is be-
ing prosecuted by Mr. Athelney Jones, of Scot-
land Yard, with all his well-known energy and
sagacity. Further arrests may be expected at
any moment.”
“That is satisfactory so far as it goes,” thought I.
“Friend Sholto is safe, at any rate. I wonder what the
fresh clue may be; though it seems to be a stereotyped
form whenever the police have made a blunder.”
I tossed the paper down upon the table, but at
that moment my eye caught an advertisement in the
agony column. It ran in this way:
“Lost.—Whereas Mordecai Smith, boatman,
and his son, Jim, left Smith’s Wharf at or
about three o’clock last Tuesday morning in
the steam launch Aurora, black with two red
stripes, funnel black with a white band, the
sum of five pounds will be paid to any one
who can give information to Mrs. Smith, at
Smith’s Wharf, or at 221b Baker Street, as to
the whereabouts of the said Mordecai Smith
and the launch Aurora.”
32
This was clearly Holmes’s doing. The Baker Street
address was enough to prove that. It struck me as
rather ingenious, because it might be read by the fugi-
tives without their seeing in it more than the natural
anxiety of a wife for her missing husband.
It was a long day. Every time that a knock came to
the door, or a sharp step passed in the street, I imag-
ined that it was either Holmes returning or an answer
to his advertisement. I tried to read, but my thoughts
would wander off to our strange quest and to the ill-
assorted and villainous pair whom we were pursuing.
Could there be, I wondered, some radical flaw in my
companion’s reasoning. Might he be suffering from
some huge self-deception? Was it not possible that his
nimble and speculative mind had built up this wild
theory upon faulty premises? I had never known
him to be wrong; and yet the keenest reasoner may
occasionally be deceived. He was likely, I thought,
to fall into error through the over-refinement of his
logic,—his preference for a subtle and bizarre expla-
nation when a plainer and more commonplace one
lay ready to his hand. Yet, on the other hand, I had
myself seen the evidence, and I had heard the reasons
for his deductions. When I looked back on the long
chain of curious circumstances, many of them trivial
in themselves, but all tending in the same direction, I
could not disguise from myself that even if Holmes’s
explanation were incorrect the true theory must be
equally outr´
e and startling.
At three o’clock in the afternoon there was a loud
peal at the bell, an authoritative voice in the hall, and,
to my surprise, no less a person than Mr. Athelney
Jones was shown up to me. Very different was he,
however, from the brusque and masterful professor
of common sense who had taken over the case so
confidently at Upper Norwood. His expression was
downcast, and his bearing meek and even apologetic.
“Good-day, sir; good-day,” said he. “Mr. Sherlock
Holmes is out, I understand.”
“Yes, and I cannot be sure when he will be back.
But perhaps you would care to wait. Take that chair
and try one of these cigars.”
“Thank you; I don’t mind if I do,” said he, mop-
ping his face with a red bandanna handkerchief.
“And a whiskey-and-soda?”
“Well, half a glass. It is very hot for the time of
year; and I have had a good deal to worry and try me.
You know my theory about this Norwood case?”
“I remember that you expressed one.”
“Well, I have been obliged to reconsider it. I had
my net drawn tightly round Mr. Sholto, sir, when
pop he went through a hole in the middle of it. He
was able to prove an alibi which could not be shaken.
From the time that he left his brother’s room he was
never out of sight of some one or other. So it could not
be he who climbed over roofs and through trap-doors.
It’s a very dark case, and my professional credit is at
stake. I should be very glad of a little assistance.”
“We all need help sometimes,” said I.
“Your friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes is a wonderful
man, sir,” said he, in a husky and confidential voice.
“He’s a man who is not to be beat. I have known that
young man go into a good many cases, but I never
saw the case yet that he could not throw a light upon.
He is irregular in his methods, and a little quick per-
haps in jumping at theories, but, on the whole, I think
he would have made a most promising officer, and
I don’t care who knows it. I have had a wire from
him this morning, by which I understand that he has
got some clue to this Sholto business. Here is the
message.”
He took the telegram out of his pocket, and
handed it to me. It was dated from Poplar at twelve
o’clock. “Go to Baker Street at once,” it said. “If I
have not returned, wait for me. I am close on the track
of the Sholto gang. You can come with us to-night if
you want to be in at the finish.”
“This sounds well. He has evidently picked up
the scent again,” said I.
“Ah, then he has been at fault too,” exclaimed
Jones, with evident satisfaction. “Even the best of us
are thrown off sometimes. Of course this may prove
to be a false alarm; but it is my duty as an officer of
the law to allow no chance to slip. But there is some
one at the door. Perhaps this is he.”
A heavy step was heard ascending the stair, with
a great wheezing and rattling as from a man who was
sorely put to it for breath. Once or twice he stopped,
as though the climb were too much for him, but at last
he made his way to our door and entered. His appear-
ance corresponded to the sounds which we had heard.
He was an aged man, clad in seafaring garb, with an
old pea-jacket buttoned up to his throat. His back was
bowed, his knees were shaky, and his breathing was
painfully asthmatic. As he leaned upon a thick oaken
cudgel his shoulders heaved in the effort to draw the
air into his lungs. He had a colored scarf round his
chin, and I could see little of his face save a pair of
keen dark eyes, overhung by bushy white brows, and
long gray side-whiskers. Altogether he gave me the
impression of a respectable master mariner who had
fallen into years and poverty.
“What is it, my man?” I asked.
33
He looked about him in the slow methodical fash-
ion of old age.
“Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?” said he.
“No; but I am acting for him. You can tell me any
message you have for him.”
“It was to him himself I was to tell it,” said he.
“But I tell you that I am acting for him. Was it
about Mordecai Smith’s boat?”
“Yes. I knows well where it is. An’ I knows where
the men he is after are. An’ I knows where the trea-
sure is. I knows all about it.”
“Then tell me, and I shall let him know.”
“It was to him I was to tell it,” he repeated, with
the petulant obstinacy of a very old man.
“Well, you must wait for him.”
“No, no; I ain’t goin’ to lose a whole day to please
no one. If Mr. Holmes ain’t here, then Mr. Holmes
must find it all out for himself. I don’t care about the
look of either of you, and I won’t tell a word.”
He shuffled towards the door, but Athelney Jones
got in front of him.
“Wait a bit, my friend,” said he. “You have impor-
tant information, and you must not walk off. We shall
keep you, whether you like or not, until our friend
returns.”
The old man made a little run towards the door,
but, as Athelney Jones put his broad back up against
it, he recognized the uselessness of resistance.
“Pretty sort o’ treatment this!” he cried, stamping
his stick. “I come here to see a gentleman, and you
two, who I never saw in my life, seize me and treat
me in this fashion!”
“You will be none the worse,” I said. “We shall
recompense you for the loss of your time. Sit over
here on the sofa, and you will not have long to wait.”
He came across sullenly enough, and seated him-
self with his face resting on his hands. Jones and I
resumed our cigars and our talk. Suddenly, however,
Holmes’s voice broke in upon us.
“I think that you might offer me a cigar too,” he
said.
We both started in our chairs. There was Holmes
sitting close to us with an air of quiet amusement.
“Holmes!” I exclaimed. “You here! But where is
the old man?”
“Here is the old man,” said he, holding out a heap
of white hair. “Here he is,—wig, whiskers, eyebrows,
and all. I thought my disguise was pretty good, but I
hardly expected that it would stand that test.”
“Ah, you rogue!” cried Jones, highly delighted.
“You would have made an actor, and a rare one. You
had the proper workhouse cough, and those weak
legs of yours are worth ten pound a week. I thought
I knew the glint of your eye, though. You didn’t get
away from us so easily, you see.”
“I have been working in that get-up all day,” said
he, lighting his cigar. “You see, a good many of the
criminal classes begin to know me,—especially since
our friend here took to publishing some of my cases:
so I can only go on the war-path under some simple
disguise like this. You got my wire?”
“Yes; that was what brought me here.”
“How has your case prospered?”
“It has all come to nothing. I have had to release
two of my prisoners, and there is no evidence against
the other two.”
“Never mind. We shall give you two others in
the place of them. But you must put yourself under
my orders. You are welcome to all the official credit,
but you must act on the line that I point out. Is that
agreed?”
“Entirely, if you will help me to the men.”
“Well, then, in the first place I shall want a fast
police-boat—a steam launch—to be at the Westmin-
ster Stairs at seven o’clock.”
“That is easily managed.
There is always one
about there; but I can step across the road and tele-
phone to make sure.”
“Then I shall want two stanch men, in case of
resistance.”
“There will be two or three in the boat. What
else?”
“When we secure the men we shall get the treasure.
I think that it would be a pleasure to my friend here
to take the box round to the young lady to whom half
of it rightfully belongs. Let her be the first to open
it.—Eh, Watson?”
“It would be a great pleasure to me.”
“Rather an irregular proceeding,” said Jones, shak-
ing his head. “However, the whole thing is irregular,
and I suppose we must wink at it. The treasure must
afterwards be handed over to the authorities until
after the official investigation.”
“Certainly. That is easily managed. One other
point. I should much like to have a few details about
| In this story as of now, who do you think is most likely to be the killer? Choose from the below options: | 0. Agra
1. firm
2. Millbank
3. Jonathan Small
4. Come | The suspect is Jonathan Small | 38,753 |
.
MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES.
IN the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine
of the University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go
through the course prescribed for surgeons in the army.
Having completed my studies there, I was duly attached
to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as Assistant Surgeon.
The regiment was stationed in India at the time, and before
I could join it, the second Afghan war had broken out.
On landing at Bombay, I learned that my corps had advanced
through the passes, and was already deep in the enemy's
country. I followed, however, with many other officers
who were in the same situation as myself, and succeeded
in reaching Candahar in safety, where I found my regiment,
and at once entered upon my new duties.
The campaign brought honours and promotion to many, but for
me it had nothing but misfortune and disaster. I was removed
from my brigade and attached to the Berkshires, with whom I
served at the fatal battle of Maiwand. There I was struck on
the shoulder by a Jezail bullet, which shattered the bone and
grazed the subclavian artery. I should have fallen into the
page 2 / 205
hands of the murderous Ghazis had it not been for the
devotion and courage shown by Murray, my orderly, who threw
me across a pack-horse, and succeeded in bringing me safely
to the British lines.
Worn with pain, and weak from the prolonged hardships which
I had undergone, I was removed, with a great train of wounded
sufferers, to the base hospital at Peshawar. Here I rallied,
and had already improved so far as to be able to walk about
the wards, and even to bask a little upon the verandah,
when I was struck down by enteric fever, that curse of our
Indian possessions. For months my life was despaired of,
and when at last I came to myself and became convalescent,
I was so weak and emaciated that a medical board determined
that not a day should be lost in sending me back to England.
I was dispatched, accordingly, in the troopship "Orontes,"
and landed a month later on Portsmouth jetty, with my health
irretrievably ruined, but with permission from a paternal
government to spend the next nine months in attempting to
improve it.
I had neither kith nor kin in England, and was therefore as
free as air -- or as free as an income of eleven shillings
and sixpence a day will permit a man to be. Under such
circumstances, I naturally gravitated to London, that great
cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire
are irresistibly drained. There I stayed for some time at a
page 3 / 205
private hotel in the Strand, leading a comfortless,
meaningless existence, and spending such money as I had,
considerably more freely than I ought. So alarming did the
state of my finances become, that I soon realized that I must
either leave the metropolis and rusticate somewhere in the
country, or that I must make a complete alteration in my
style of living. Choosing the latter alternative, I began
by making up my mind to leave the hotel, and to take up my
quarters in some less pretentious and less expensive domicile.
On the very day that I had come to this conclusion,
I was standing at the Criterion Bar, when some one tapped me
on the shoulder, and turning round I recognized young Stamford,
who had been a dresser under me at Barts. The sight of a
friendly face in the great wilderness of London is a pleasant
thing indeed to a lonely man. In old days Stamford had never
been a particular crony of mine, but now I hailed him with
enthusiasm, and he, in his turn, appeared to be delighted to
see me. In the exuberance of my joy, I asked him to lunch with
me at the Holborn, and we started off together in a hansom.
"Whatever have you been doing with yourself, Watson?"
he asked in undisguised wonder, as we rattled through
the crowded London streets. "You are as thin as a lath
and as brown as a nut."
page 4 / 205
I gave him a short sketch of my adventures, and had hardly
concluded it by the time that we reached our destination.
"Poor devil!" he said, commiseratingly, after he had listened
to my misfortunes. "What are you up to now?"
"Looking for lodgings." {3} I answered. "Trying to solve the
problem as to whether it is possible to get comfortable rooms
at a reasonable price."
"That's a strange thing," remarked my companion; "you are
the second man to-day that has used that expression to me."
"And who was the first?" I asked.
"A fellow who is working at the chemical laboratory up at the
hospital. He was bemoaning himself this morning because he
could not get someone to go halves with him in some nice rooms
which he had found, and which were too much for his purse."
"By Jove!" I cried, "if he really wants someone to share the
rooms and the expense, I am the very man for him. I should
prefer having a partner to being alone."
page 5 / 205
Young Stamford looked rather strangely at me over his wine-glass.
"You don't know Sherlock Holmes yet," he said; "perhaps you would
not care for him as a constant companion."
"Why, what is there against him?"
"Oh, I didn't say there was anything against him. He is a
little queer in his ideas -- an enthusiast in some branches
of science. As far as I know he is a decent fellow enough."
"A medical student, I suppose?" said I.
"No -- I have no idea what he intends to go in for.
I believe he is well up in anatomy, and he is a first-class
chemist; but, as far as I know, he has never taken out any
systematic medical classes. His studies are very desultory
and eccentric, but he has amassed a lot of out-of-the way
knowledge which would astonish his professors."
"Did you never ask him what he was going in for?" I asked.
"No; he is not a man that it is easy to draw out, though he
can be communicative enough when the fancy seizes him."
page 6 / 205
"I should like to meet him," I said. "If I am to lodge with
anyone, I should prefer a man of studious and quiet habits.
I am not strong enough yet to stand much noise or excitement.
I had enough of both in Afghanistan to last me for the
remainder of my natural existence. How could I meet this
friend of yours?"
"He is sure to be at the laboratory," returned my companion.
"He either avoids the place for weeks, or else he works there
from morning to night. If you like, we shall drive round
together after luncheon."
"Certainly," I answered, and the conversation drifted away
into other channels.
As we made our way to the hospital after leaving the Holborn,
Stamford gave me a few more particulars about the gentleman
whom I proposed to take as a fellow-lodger.
"You mustn't blame me if you don't get on with him," he said;
"I know nothing more of him than I have learned from meeting
him occasionally in the laboratory. You proposed this
arrangement, so you must not hold me responsible."
"If we don't get on it will be easy to part company," I answered.
page 7 / 205
"It seems to me, Stamford," I added, looking hard at my companion,
"that you have some reason for washing your hands of the matter.
Is this fellow's temper so formidable, or what is it?
Don't be mealy-mouthed about it."
"It is not easy to express the inexpressible," he answered
with a laugh. "Holmes is a little too scientific for my
tastes -- it approaches to cold-bloodedness. I could imagine
his giving a friend a little pinch of the latest vegetable
alkaloid, not out of malevolence, you understand, but simply
out of a spirit of inquiry in order to have an accurate idea
of the effects. To do him justice, I think that he would
take it himself with the same readiness. He appears to have
a passion for definite and exact knowledge."
"Very right too."
"Yes, but it may be pushed to excess. When it comes to
beating the subjects in the dissecting-rooms with a stick,
it is certainly taking rather a bizarre shape."
"Beating the subjects!"
"Yes, to verify how far bruises may be produced after death.
I saw him at it with my own eyes."
page 8 / 205
"And yet you say he is not a medical student?"
"No. Heaven knows what the objects of his studies are.
But here we are, and you must form your own impressions about
him." As he spoke, we turned down a narrow lane and passed
through a small side-door, which opened into a wing of the
great hospital. It was familiar ground to me, and I needed
no guiding as we ascended the bleak stone staircase and made
our way down the long corridor with its vista of whitewashed
wall and dun-coloured doors. Near the further end a low
arched passage branched away from it and led to the chemical
laboratory.
This was a lofty chamber, lined and littered with countless
bottles. Broad, low tables were scattered about, which
bristled with retorts, test-tubes, and little Bunsen lamps,
with their blue flickering flames. There was only one
student in the room, who was bending over a distant table
absorbed in his work. At the sound of our steps he glanced
round and sprang to his feet with a cry of pleasure.
"I've found it! I've found it," he shouted to my companion,
running towards us with a test-tube in his hand. "I have
found a re-agent which is precipitated by hoemoglobin, {4}
and by nothing else." Had he discovered a gold mine, greater
delight could not have shone upon his features.
page 9 / 205
"Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said Stamford, introducing us.
"How are you?" he said cordially, gripping my hand with a
strength for which I should hardly have given him credit.
"You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive."
"How on earth did you know that?" I asked in astonishment.
"Never mind," said he, chuckling to himself. "The question
now is about hoemoglobin. No doubt you see the significance
of this discovery of mine?"
"It is interesting, chemically, no doubt," I answered,
"but practically ----"
"Why, man, it is the most practical medico-legal discovery
for years. Don't you see that it gives us an infallible test
for blood stains. Come over here now!" He seized me by the
coat-sleeve in his eagerness, and drew me over to the table
at which he had been working. "Let us have some fresh blood,"
he said, digging a long bodkin into his finger, and drawing off
the resulting drop of blood in a chemical pipette. "Now, I add
this small quantity of blood to a litre of water. You perceive
that the resulting mixture has the appearance of pure water.
page 10 / 205
The proportion of blood cannot be more than one in a million.
I have no doubt, however, that we shall be able to obtain the
characteristic reaction." As he spoke, he threw into the vessel
a few white crystals, and then added some drops of a transparent
fluid. In an instant the contents assumed a dull mahogany colour,
and a brownish dust was precipitated to the bottom of the glass jar.
"Ha! ha!" he cried, clapping his hands, and looking as delighted
as a child with a new toy. "What do you think of that?"
"It seems to be a very delicate test," I remarked.
"Beautiful! beautiful! The old Guiacum test was very clumsy
and uncertain. So is the microscopic examination for blood
corpuscles. The latter is valueless if the stains are a few
hours old. Now, this appears to act as well whether the
blood is old or new. Had this test been invented, there are
hundreds of men now walking the earth who would long ago have
paid the penalty of their crimes."
"Indeed!" I murmured.
"Criminal cases are continually hinging upon that one point.
A man is suspected of a crime months perhaps after it has
been committed. His linen or clothes are examined, and
page 11 / 205
brownish stains discovered upon them. Are they blood stains,
or mud stains, or rust stains, or fruit stains, or what are
they? That is a question which has puzzled many an expert,
and why? Because there was no reliable test. Now we have
the Sherlock Holmes' test, and there will no longer be any
difficulty."
His eyes fairly glittered as he spoke, and he put his hand
over his heart and bowed as if to some applauding crowd
conjured up by his imagination.
"You are to be congratulated," I remarked, considerably
surprised at his enthusiasm.
"There was the case of Von Bischoff at Frankfort last year.
He would certainly have been hung had this test been in
existence. Then there was Mason of Bradford, and the
notorious Muller, and Lefevre of Montpellier, and Samson of
new Orleans. I could name a score of cases in which it would
have been decisive."
"You seem to be a walking calendar of crime," said Stamford
with a laugh. "You might start a paper on those lines.
Call it the `Police News of the Past.'"
page 12 / 205
"Very interesting reading it might be made, too," remarked
Sherlock Holmes, sticking a small piece of plaster over the
prick on his finger. "I have to be careful," he continued,
turning to me with a smile, "for I dabble with poisons a good
deal." He held out his hand as he spoke, and I noticed that
it was all mottled over with similar pieces of plaster, and
discoloured with strong acids.
"We came here on business," said Stamford, sitting down on a
high three-legged stool, and pushing another one in my direction
with his foot. "My friend here wants to take diggings, and as
you were complaining that you could get no one to go halves with
you, I thought that I had better bring you together."
Sherlock Holmes seemed delighted at the idea of sharing his
rooms with me. "I have my eye on a suite in Baker Street,"
he said, "which would suit us down to the ground. You don't
mind the smell of strong tobacco, I hope?"
"I always smoke `ship's' myself," I answered.
"That's good enough. I generally have chemicals about, and
occasionally do experiments. Would that annoy you?"
"By no means."
page 13 / 205
"Let me see -- what are my other shortcomings. I get in the
dumps at times, and don't open my mouth for days on end.
You must not think I am sulky when I do that. Just let me alone,
and I'll soon be right. What have you to confess now? It's
just as well for two fellows to know the worst of one another
before they begin to live together."
I laughed at this cross-examination. "I keep a bull pup,"
I said, "and I object to rows because my nerves are shaken,
and I get up at all sorts of ungodly hours, and I am extremely
lazy. I have another set of vices when I'm well, but those
are the principal ones at present."
"Do you include violin-playing in your category of rows?"
he asked, anxiously.
"It depends on the player," I answered. "A well-played violin
is a treat for the gods -- a badly-played one ----"
"Oh, that's all right," he cried, with a merry laugh.
"I think we may consider the thing as settled -- that is,
if the rooms are agreeable to you."
"When shall we see them?"
page 14 / 205
"Call for me here at noon to-morrow, and we'll go together
and settle everything," he answered.
"All right -- noon exactly," said I, shaking his hand.
We left him working among his chemicals, and we walked
together towards my hotel.
"By the way," I asked suddenly, stopping and turning upon
Stamford, "how the deuce did he know that I had come from
Afghanistan?"
My companion smiled an enigmatical smile. "That's just his
little peculiarity," he said. "A good many people have
wanted to know how he finds things out."
"Oh! a mystery is it?" I cried, rubbing my hands.
"This is very piquant. I am much obliged to you for bringing
us together. `The proper study of mankind is man,' you know."
"You must study him, then," Stamford said, as he bade me good-bye.
"You'll find him a knotty problem, though. I'll wager he learns
more about you than you about him. Good-bye."
page 15 / 205
"Good-bye," I answered, and strolled on to my hotel,
considerably interested in my new acquaintance.
CHAPTER II.
THE SCIENCE OF DEDUCTION.
WE met next day as he had arranged, and inspected the rooms
at No. 221B, {5} Baker Street, of which he had spoken at our
meeting. They consisted of a couple of comfortable bed-rooms
and a single large airy sitting-room, cheerfully furnished,
and illuminated by two broad windows. So desirable in every
way were the apartments, and so moderate did the terms seem
when divided between us, that the bargain was concluded upon
the spot, and we at once entered into possession. That very
evening I moved my things round from the hotel, and on the
following morning Sherlock Holmes followed me with several
boxes and portmanteaus. For a day or two we were busily
employed in unpacking and laying out our property to the best
advantage. That done, we gradually began to settle down and
to accommodate ourselves to our new surroundings.
Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to live with.
He was quiet in his ways, and his habits were regular.
page 16 / 205
It was rare for him to be up after ten at night, and he had
invariably breakfasted and gone out before I rose in the
morning. Sometimes he spent his day at the chemical
laboratory, sometimes in the dissecting-rooms, and
occasionally in long walks, which appeared to take him into
the lowest portions of the City. Nothing could exceed his
energy when the working fit was upon him; but now and again
a reaction would seize him, and for days on end he would lie
upon the sofa in the sitting-room, hardly uttering a word or
moving a muscle from morning to night. On these occasions
I have noticed such a dreamy, vacant expression in his eyes,
that I might have suspected him of being addicted to the use
of some narcotic, had not the temperance and cleanliness of
his whole life forbidden such a notion.
As the weeks went by, my interest in him and my curiosity
as to his aims in life, gradually deepened and increased.
His very person and appearance were such as to strike the
attention of the most casual observer. In height he was
rather over six feet, and so excessively lean that he seemed
to be considerably taller. His eyes were sharp and piercing,
save during those intervals of torpor to which I have alluded;
and his thin, hawk-like nose gave his whole expression an air
of alertness and decision. His chin, too, had the prominence
and squareness which mark the man of determination. His hands
were invariably blotted with ink and stained with chemicals,
yet he was possessed of extraordinary delicacy of touch,
page 17 / 205
as I frequently had occasion to observe when I watched him
manipulating his fragile philosophical instruments.
The reader may set me down as a hopeless busybody,
when I confess how much this man stimulated my curiosity,
and how often I endeavoured to break through the reticence
which he showed on all that concerned himself. Before
pronouncing judgment, however, be it remembered, how objectless
was my life, and how little there was to engage my attention.
My health forbade me from venturing out unless the weather
was exceptionally genial, and I had no friends who would call
upon me and break the monotony of my daily existence.
Under these circumstances, I eagerly hailed the little mystery
which hung around my companion, and spent much of my time in
endeavouring to unravel it.
He was not studying medicine. He had himself, in reply
to a question, confirmed Stamford's opinion upon that point.
Neither did he appear to have pursued any course of reading
which might fit him for a degree in science or any other
recognized portal which would give him an entrance into the
learned world. Yet his zeal for certain studies was
remarkable, and within eccentric limits his knowledge was so
extraordinarily ample and minute that his observations have
fairly astounded me. Surely no man would work so hard or
attain such precise information unless he had some definite
end in view. Desultory readers are seldom remarkable for the
page 18 / 205
exactness of their learning. No man burdens his mind with
small matters unless he has some very good reason for doing so.
His ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge.
Of contemporary literature, philosophy and politics he appeared
to know next to nothing. Upon my quoting Thomas Carlyle,
he inquired in the naivest way who he might be and what he had
done. My surprise reached a climax, however, when I found
incidentally that he was ignorant of the Copernican Theory
and of the composition of the Solar System. That any
civilized human being in this nineteenth century should not
be aware that the earth travelled round the sun appeared to
be to me such an extraordinary fact that I could hardly
realize it.
"You appear to be astonished," he said, smiling at my
expression of surprise. "Now that I do know it I shall do my
best to forget it."
"To forget it!"
"You see," he explained, "I consider that a man's brain
originally is like a little empty attic, and you have to
stock it with such furniture as you choose. A fool takes in
all the lumber of every sort that he comes across, so that
the knowledge which might be useful to him gets crowded out,
page 19 / 205
or at best is jumbled up with a lot of other things so that
he has a difficulty in laying his hands upon it. Now the
skilful workman is very careful indeed as to what he takes
into his brain-attic. He will have nothing but the tools
which may help him in doing his work, but of these he has
a large assortment, and all in the most perfect order.
It is a mistake to think that that little room has elastic
walls and can distend to any extent. Depend upon it there comes
a time when for every addition of knowledge you forget something
that you knew before. It is of the highest importance, therefore,
not to have useless facts elbowing out the useful ones."
"But the Solar System!" I protested.
"What the deuce is it to me?" he interrupted impatiently;
"you say that we go round the sun. If we went round the moon it
would not make a pennyworth of difference to me or to my work."
I was on the point of asking him what that work might be,
but something in his manner showed me that the question would
be an unwelcome one. I pondered over our short conversation,
however, and endeavoured to draw my deductions from it.
He said that he would acquire no knowledge which did not bear
upon his object. Therefore all the knowledge which he
possessed was such as would be useful to him. I enumerated
in my own mind all the various points upon which he had shown
page 20 / 205
me that he was exceptionally well-informed. I even took a
pencil and jotted them down. I could not help smiling at the
document when I had completed it. It ran in this way --
SHERLOCK HOLMES -- his limits.
1. Knowledge of Literature. -- Nil.
2. Philosophy. -- Nil.
3. Astronomy. -- Nil.
4. Politics. -- Feeble.
5. Botany. -- Variable. Well up in belladonna,
opium, and poisons generally.
Knows nothing of practical gardening.
6. Geology. -- Practical, but limited.
Tells at a glance different soils
from each other. After walks has
shown me splashes upon his trousers,
and told me by their colour and
consistence in what part of London
he had received them.
7. Chemistry. -- Profound.
8. Anatomy. -- Accurate, but unsystematic.
9. Sensational Literature. -- Immense. He appears
to know every detail of every horror
perpetrated in the century.
10. Plays the violin well.
11. Is an expert singlestick player, boxer, and swordsman.
page 21 / 205
12. Has a good practical knowledge of British law.
When I had got so far in my list I threw it into the fire in
despair. "If I can only find what the fellow is driving at
by reconciling all these accomplishments, and discovering a
calling which needs them all," I said to myself, "I may as
well give up the attempt at once."
I see that I have alluded above to his powers upon the violin.
These were very remarkable, but as eccentric as all his other
accomplishments. That he could play pieces, and difficult pieces,
I knew well, because at my request he has played me some of
Mendelssohn's Lieder, and other favourites.
When left to himself, however, he would seldom produce any
music or attempt any recognized air. Leaning back in his
arm-chair of an evening, he would close his eyes and scrape
carelessly at the fiddle which was thrown across his knee.
Sometimes the chords were sonorous and melancholy.
Occasionally they were fantastic and cheerful. Clearly they
reflected the thoughts which possessed him, but whether the
music aided those thoughts, or whether the playing was simply
the result of a whim or fancy was more than I could determine.
I might have rebelled against these exasperating solos had it
not been that he usually terminated them by playing in quick
succession a whole series of my favourite airs as a slight
compensation for the trial upon my patience.
page 22 / 205
During the first week or so we had no callers, and I had
begun to think that my companion was as friendless a man as
I was myself. Presently, however, I found that he had many
acquaintances, and those in the most different classes of
society. There was one little sallow rat-faced, dark-eyed
fellow who was introduced to me as Mr. Lestrade, and who came
three or four times in a single week. One morning a young
girl called, fashionably dressed, and stayed for half an hour
or more. The same afternoon brought a grey-headed, seedy
visitor, looking like a Jew pedlar, who appeared to me to be
much excited, and who was closely followed by a slip-shod
elderly woman. On another occasion an old white-haired
gentleman had an interview with my companion; and on another
a railway porter in his velveteen uniform. When any of these
nondescript individuals put in an appearance, Sherlock Holmes
used to beg for the use of the sitting-room, and I would
retire to my bed-room. He always apologized to me for
putting me to this inconvenience. "I have to use this room
as a place of business," he said, "and these people are my
clients." Again I had an opportunity of asking him a point
blank question, and again my delicacy prevented me from
forcing another man to confide in me. I imagined at the time
that he had some strong reason for not alluding to it, but he
soon dispelled the idea by coming round to the subject of his
own accord.
page 23 / 205
It was upon the 4th of March, as I have good reason to remember,
that I rose somewhat earlier than usual, and found that Sherlock
Holmes had not yet finished his breakfast. The landlady had
become so accustomed to my late habits that my place had not been
laid nor my coffee prepared. With the unreasonable petulance
of mankind I rang the bell and gave a curt intimation that I was
ready. Then I picked up a magazine from the table and attempted
to while away the time with it, while my companion munched
silently at his toast. One of the articles had a pencil mark
at the heading, and I naturally began to run my eye through it.
Its somewhat ambitious title was "The Book of Life," and it
attempted to show how much an observant man might learn by an
accurate and systematic examination of all that came in his
way. It struck me as being a remarkable mixture of
shrewdness and of absurdity. The reasoning was close and
intense, but the deductions appeared to me to be far-fetched
and exaggerated. The writer claimed by a momentary expression,
a twitch of a muscle or a glance of an eye, to fathom a man's
inmost thoughts. Deceit, according to him, was an impossibility
in the case of one trained to observation and analysis.
His conclusions were as infallible as so many propositions
of Euclid. So startling would his results appear to the
uninitiated that until they learned the processes by which he had
arrived at them they might well consider him as a necromancer.
"From a drop of water," said the writer, "a logician could
page 24 / 205
infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara without
having seen or heard of one or the other. So all life is
a great chain, the nature of which is known whenever we are
shown a single link of it. Like all other arts, the Science
of Deduction and Analysis is one which can only be acquired
by long and patient study nor is life long enough to allow
any mortal to attain the highest possible perfection in it.
Before turning to those moral and mental aspects of the
matter which present the greatest difficulties, let the
enquirer begin by mastering more elementary problems.
Let him, on meeting a fellow-mortal, learn at a glance to
distinguish the history of the man, and the trade or
profession to which he belongs. Puerile as such an exercise
may seem, it sharpens the faculties of observation, and
teaches one where to look and what to look for. By a man's
finger nails, by his coat-sleeve, by his boot, by his trouser
knees, by the callosities of his forefinger and thumb, by his
expression, by his shirt cuffs -- by each of these things a
man's calling is plainly revealed. That all united should
fail to enlighten the competent enquirer in any case is
almost inconceivable."
"What ineffable twaddle!" I cried, slapping the magazine down
on the table, "I never read such rubbish in my life."
"What is it?" asked Sherlock Holmes.
page 25 / 205
"Why, this article," I said, pointing at it with my egg spoon
as I sat down to my breakfast. "I see that you have read it
since you have marked it. I don't deny that it is smartly
written. It irritates me though. It is evidently the theory
of some arm-chair lounger who evolves all these neat little
paradoxes in the seclusion of his own study. It is not
practical. I should like to see him clapped down in a third
class carriage on the Underground, and asked to give the
trades of all his fellow-travellers. I would lay a thousand
to one against him."
"You would lose your money," Sherlock Holmes remarked calmly.
"As for the article I wrote it myself."
"You!"
"Yes, I have a turn both for observation and for deduction.
The theories which I have expressed there, and which appear
to you to be so chimerical are really extremely practical --
so practical that I depend upon them for my bread and cheese."
"And how?" I asked involuntarily.
"Well, I have a trade of my own. I suppose I am the only one
page 26 / 205
in the world. I'm a consulting detective, if you can
understand what that is. Here in London we have lots of
Government detectives and lots of private ones. When these
fellows are at fault they come to me, and I manage to put
them on the right scent. They lay all the evidence before
me, and I am generally able, by the help of my knowledge of
the history of crime, to set them straight. There is a
strong family resemblance about misdeeds, and if you have all
the details of a thousand at your finger ends, it is odd if
you can't unravel the thousand and first. Lestrade is a
well-known detective. He got himself into a fog recently
over a forgery case, and that was what brought him here."
"And these other people?"
"They are mostly sent on by private inquiry agencies.
They are all people who are in trouble about something,
and want a little enlightening. I listen to their story,
they listen to my comments, and then I pocket my fee."
"But do you mean to say," I said, "that without leaving your
room you can unravel some knot which other men can make nothing
of, although they have seen every detail for themselves?"
"Quite so. I have a kind of intuition that way.
Now and again a case turns up which is a little more complex.
page 27 / 205
Then I have to bustle about and see things with my own eyes.
You see I have a lot of special knowledge which I apply to
the problem, and which facilitates matters wonderfully.
Those rules of deduction laid down in that article which
aroused your scorn, are invaluable to me in practical work.
Observation with me is second nature. You appeared to be
surprised when I told you, on our first meeting, that you had
come from Afghanistan."
"You were told, no doubt."
"Nothing of the sort. I _knew_ you came from Afghanistan.
From long habit the train of thoughts ran so swiftly through
my mind, that I arrived at the conclusion without being
conscious of intermediate steps. There were such steps,
however. The train of reasoning ran, `Here is a gentleman of
a medical type, but with the air of a military man. Clearly
an army doctor, then. He has just come from the tropics,
for his face is dark, and that is not the natural tint of his
skin, for his wrists are fair. He has undergone hardship and
sickness, as his haggard face says clearly. His left arm has
been injured. He holds it in a stiff and unnatural manner.
Where in the tropics could an English army doctor have seen
much hardship and got his arm wounded? Clearly in Afghanistan.'
The whole train of thought did not occupy a second. I then
remarked that you came from Afghanistan, and you were astonished."
page 28 / 205
"It is simple enough as you explain it," I said, smiling.
"You remind me of Edgar Allen Poe's Dupin. I had no idea
that such individuals did exist outside of stories."
Sherlock Holmes rose and lit his pipe. "No doubt you think
that you are complimenting me in comparing me to Dupin,"
he observed. "Now, in my opinion, Dupin was a very inferior
fellow. That trick of his of breaking in on his friends'
thoughts with an apropos remark after a quarter of an hour's
silence is really very showy and superficial. He had some
analytical genius, no doubt; but he was by no means such
a phenomenon as Poe appeared to imagine."
"Have you read Gaboriau's works?" I asked.
"Does Lecoq come up to your idea of a detective?"
Sherlock Holmes sniffed sardonically. "Lecoq was a miserable
bungler," he said, in an angry voice; "he had only one thing
to recommend him, and that was his energy. That book made me
positively ill. The question was how to identify an unknown
prisoner. I could have done it in twenty-four hours. Lecoq
took six months or so. It might be made a text-book for
detectives to teach them what to avoid."
I felt rather indignant at having two characters whom I had
page 29 / 205
admired treated in this cavalier style. I walked over to the
window, and stood looking out into the busy street.
"This fellow may be very clever," I said to myself, "but he
is certainly very conceited."
"There are no crimes and no criminals in these days," he said,
querulously. "What is the use of having brains in our
profession. I know well that I have it in me to make my name
famous. No man lives or has ever lived who has brought the
same amount of study and of natural talent to the detection
of crime which I have done. And what is the result? There
is no crime to detect, or, at most, some bungling villany
with a motive so transparent that even a Scotland Yard
official can see through it."
I was still annoyed at his bumptious style of conversation.
I thought it best to change the topic.
"I wonder what that fellow is looking for?" I asked, pointing
to a stalwart, plainly-dressed individual who was walking
slowly down the other side of the street, looking anxiously
at the numbers. He had a large blue envelope in his hand,
and was evidently the bearer of a message.
"You mean the retired sergeant of Marines," said Sherlock Holmes.
page 30 / 205
"Brag and bounce!" thought I to myself. "He knows that I
cannot verify his guess."
The thought had hardly passed through my mind when the man
whom we were watching caught sight of the number on our door,
and ran rapidly across the roadway. We heard a loud knock,
a deep voice below, and heavy steps ascending the stair.
"For Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he said, stepping into the room
and handing my friend the letter.
Here was an opportunity of taking the conceit out of him.
He little thought of this when he made that random shot.
"May I ask, my lad," I said, in the blandest voice,
"what your trade may be?"
"Commissionaire, sir," he said, gruffly.
"Uniform away for repairs."
"And you were?" I asked, with a slightly malicious glance
at my companion.
"A sergeant, sir, Royal Marine Light Infantry, sir.
No answer? Right, sir."
page 31 / 205
He clicked his heels together, raised his hand in a salute,
and was gone.
CHAPTER III.
THE LAURISTON GARDEN MYSTERY {6}
I CONFESS that I was considerably startled by this fresh
proof of the practical nature of my companion's theories.
My respect for his powers of analysis increased wondrously.
There still remained some lurking suspicion in my mind,
however, that the whole thing was a pre-arranged episode,
intended to dazzle me, though what earthly object he could
have in taking me in was past my comprehension.
When I looked at him he had finished reading the note,
and his eyes had assumed the vacant, lack-lustre expression
which showed mental abstraction.
"How in the world did you deduce that?" I asked.
"Deduce what?" said he, petulantly.
"Why, that he was a retired sergeant of Marines."
page 32 / 205
"I have no time for trifles," he answered, brusquely;
then with a smile, "Excuse my rudeness. You broke the thread
of my thoughts; but perhaps it is as well. So you actually were
not able to see that that man was a sergeant of Marines?"
"No, indeed."
"It was easier to know it than to explain why I knew it.
If you were asked to prove that two and two made four, you might
find some difficulty, and yet you are quite sure of the fact.
Even across the street I could see a great blue anchor
tattooed on the back of the fellow's hand. That smacked of
the sea. He had a military carriage, however, and regulation
side whiskers. There we have the marine. He was a man with
some amount of self-importance and a certain air of command.
You must have observed the way in which he held his head and
swung his cane. A steady, respectable, middle-aged man, too,
on the face of him -- all facts which led me to believe that
he had been a sergeant."
"Wonderful!" I ejaculated.
"Commonplace," said Holmes, though I thought from his
expression that he was pleased at my evident surprise and
page 33 / 205
admiration. "I said just now that there were no criminals.
It appears that I am wrong -- look at this!" He threw me
over the note which the commissionaire had brought." {7}
"Why," I cried, as I cast my eye over it, "this is terrible!"
"It does seem to be a little out of the common," he remarked,
calmly. "Would you mind reading it to me aloud?"
This is the letter which I read to him ----
"MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES, -- "There has been a bad
business during the night at 3, Lauriston Gardens, off the
Brixton Road. Our man on the beat saw a light there about
two in the morning, and as the house was an empty one,
suspected that something was amiss. He found the door open,
and in the front room, which is bare of furniture, discovered
the body of a gentleman, well dressed, and having cards in
his pocket bearing the name of `Enoch J. Drebber, Cleveland,
Ohio, U.S.A.' There had been no robbery, nor is there any
evidence as to how the man met his death. There are marks
of blood in the room, but there is no wound upon his person.
We are at a loss as to how he came into the empty house;
indeed, the whole affair is a puzzler. If you can come round
to the house any time before twelve, you will find me there.
I have left everything _in statu quo_ until I hear from you.
page 34 / 205
If you are unable to come I shall give you fuller details,
and would esteem it a great kindness if you would favour me
with your opinion. Yours faithfully, "TOBIAS GREGSON."
"Gregson is the smartest of the Scotland Yarders,"
my friend remarked; "he and Lestrade are the pick of a bad lot.
They are both quick and energetic, but conventional -- shockingly
so. They have their knives into one another, too. They are
as jealous as a pair of professional beauties. There will be
some fun over this case if they are both put upon the scent."
I was amazed at the calm way in which he rippled on.
"Surely there is not a moment to be lost," I cried,
"shall I go and order you a cab?"
"I'm not sure about whether I shall go. I am the most
incurably lazy devil that ever stood in shoe leather -- that is,
when the fit is on me, for I can be spry enough at times."
"Why, it is just such a chance as you have been longing for."
"My dear fellow, what does it matter to me.
Supposing I unravel the whole matter, you may be sure that
Gregson, Lestrade, and Co. will pocket all the credit.
That comes of being an unofficial personage."
page 35 / 205
"But he begs you to help him."
"Yes. He knows that I am his superior, and acknowledges it
to me; but he would cut his tongue out before he would own it
to any third person. However, we may as well go and have a
look. I shall work it out on my own hook. I may have a
laugh at them if I have nothing else. Come on!"
He hustled on his overcoat, and bustled about in a way that
showed that an energetic fit had superseded the apathetic one.
"Get your hat," he said.
"You wish me to come?"
"Yes, if you have nothing better to do." A minute later we
were both in a hansom, driving furiously for the Brixton Road.
It was a foggy, cloudy morning, and a dun-coloured veil hung
over the house-tops, looking like the reflection of the
mud-coloured streets beneath. My companion was in the best
of spirits, and prattled away about Cremona fiddles, and the
difference between a Stradivarius and an Amati. As for
page 36 / 205
myself, I was silent, for the dull weather and the melancholy
business upon which we were engaged, depressed my spirits.
"You don't seem to give much thought to the matter in hand,"
I said at last, interrupting Holmes' musical disquisition.
"No data yet," he answered. "It is a capital mistake to theorize
before you have all the evidence. It biases the judgment."
"You will have your data soon," I remarked, pointing with
my finger; "this is the Brixton Road, and that is the house,
if I am not very much mistaken."
"So it is. Stop, driver, stop!" We were still a hundred yards
or so from it, but he insisted upon our alighting, and we
finished our journey upon foot.
Number 3, Lauriston Gardens wore an ill-omened and minatory look.
It was one of four which stood back some little way from the
street, two being occupied and two empty. The latter looked
out with three tiers of vacant melancholy windows, which were
blank and dreary, save that here and there a "To Let" card had
developed like a cataract upon the bleared panes. A small garden
sprinkled over with a scattered eruption of sickly plants
separated each of these houses from the street, and was traversed
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by a narrow pathway, yellowish in colour, and consisting
apparently of a mixture of clay and of gravel. The whole place
was very sloppy from the rain which had fallen through the night.
The garden was bounded by a three-foot brick wall with a fringe
of wood rails upon the top, and against this wall was leaning a
stalwart police constable, surrounded by a small knot of loafers,
who craned their necks and strained their eyes in the vain hope
of catching some glimpse of the proceedings within.
I had imagined that Sherlock Holmes would at once have
hurried into the house and plunged into a study of the
mystery. Nothing appeared to be further from his intention.
With an air of nonchalance which, under the circumstances,
seemed to me to border upon affectation, he lounged up and
down the pavement, and gazed vacantly at the ground, the sky,
the opposite houses and the line of railings. Having
finished his scrutiny, he proceeded slowly down the path,
or rather down the fringe of grass which flanked the path,
keeping his eyes riveted upon the ground. Twice he stopped,
and once I saw him smile, and heard him utter an exclamation
of satisfaction. There were many marks of footsteps upon the
wet clayey soil, but since the police had been coming and
going over it, I was unable to see how my companion could
hope to learn anything from it. Still I had had such
extraordinary evidence of the quickness of his perceptive
faculties, that I had no doubt that he could see a great deal
which was hidden from me.
page 38 / 205
At the door of the house we were met by a tall, white-faced,
flaxen-haired man, with a notebook in his hand, who rushed
forward and wrung my companion's hand with effusion.
"It is indeed kind of you to come," he said, "I have had
everything left untouched."
"Except that!" my friend answered, pointing at the pathway.
"If a herd of buffaloes had passed along there could not be
a greater mess. No doubt, however, you had drawn your own
conclusions, Gregson, before you permitted this."
"I have had so much to do inside the house," the detective
said evasively. "My colleague, Mr. Lestrade, is here.
I had relied upon him to look after this."
Holmes glanced at me and raised his eyebrows sardonically.
"With two such men as yourself and Lestrade upon the ground,
there will not be much for a third party to find out," he said.
Gregson rubbed his hands in a self-satisfied way.
"I think we have done all that can be done," he answered;
"it's a queer case though, and I knew your taste for such things."
"You did not come here in a cab?" asked Sherlock Holmes.
page 39 / 205
"No, sir."
"Nor Lestrade?"
"No, sir."
"Then let us go and look at the room." With which
inconsequent remark he strode on into the house, followed by
Gregson, whose features expressed his astonishment.
A short passage, bare planked and dusty, led to the kitchen
and offices. Two doors opened out of it to the left and to
the right. One of these had obviously been closed for many
weeks. The other belonged to the dining-room, which was the
apartment in which the mysterious affair had occurred.
Holmes walked in, and I followed him with that subdued
feeling at my heart which the presence of death inspires.
It was a large square room, looking all the larger from the
absence of all furniture. A vulgar flaring paper adorned the
walls, but it was blotched in places with mildew, and here
and there great strips had become detached and hung down,
exposing the yellow plaster beneath. Opposite the door was
a showy fireplace, surmounted by a mantelpiece of imitation
page 40 / 205
white marble. On one corner of this was stuck the stump of
a red wax candle. The solitary window was so dirty that the
light was hazy and uncertain, giving a dull grey tinge to
everything, which was intensified by the thick layer of dust
which coated the whole apartment.
All these details I observed afterwards. At present my
attention was centred upon the single grim motionless figure
which lay stretched upon the boards, with vacant sightless
eyes staring up at the discoloured ceiling. It was that of a
man about forty-three or forty-four years of age, middle-sized,
broad shouldered, with crisp curling black hair, and a
short stubbly beard. He was dressed in a heavy broadcloth
frock coat and waistcoat, with light-coloured trousers, and
immaculate collar and cuffs. A top hat, well brushed and
trim, was placed upon the floor beside him. His hands were
clenched and his arms thrown abroad, while his lower limbs
were interlocked as though his death struggle had been a
grievous one. On his rigid face there stood an expression
of horror, and as it seemed to me, of hatred, such as I have
never seen upon human features. This malignant and terrible
contortion, combined with the low forehead, blunt nose, and
prognathous jaw gave the dead man a singularly simious and
ape-like appearance, which was increased by his writhing,
unnatural posture. I have seen death in many forms, but
never has it appeared to me in a more fearsome aspect than
in that dark grimy apartment, which looked out upon one of
page 41 / 205
the main arteries of suburban London.
Lestrade, lean and ferret-like as ever, was standing by the
doorway, and greeted my companion and myself.
"This case will make a stir, sir," he remarked.
"It beats anything I have seen, and I am no chicken."
"There is no clue?" said Gregson.
"None at all," chimed in Lestrade.
Sherlock Holmes approached the body, and, kneeling down,
examined it intently. "You are sure that there is no wound?"
he asked, pointing to numerous gouts and splashes of blood
which lay all round.
"Positive!" cried both detectives.
"Then, of course, this blood belongs to a second individual -- {8}
presumably the murderer, if murder has been committed.
It reminds me of the circumstances attendant on the death
of Van Jansen, in Utrecht, in the year '34. Do you remember
the case, Gregson?"
page 42 / 205
"No, sir."
"Read it up -- you really should. There is nothing new under
the sun. It has all been done before."
As he spoke, his nimble fingers were flying here, there,
and everywhere, feeling, pressing, unbuttoning, examining,
while his eyes wore the same far-away expression which I have
already remarked upon. So swiftly was the examination made,
that one would hardly have guessed the minuteness with which
it was conducted. Finally, he sniffed the dead man's lips,
and then glanced at the soles of his patent leather boots.
"He has not been moved at all?" he asked.
"No more than was necessary for the purposes of our examination."
"You can take him to the mortuary now," he said.
"There is nothing more to be learned."
Gregson had a stretcher and four men at hand. At his call
they entered the room, and the stranger was lifted and
carried out. As they raised him, a ring tinkled down and
page 43 / 205
rolled across the floor. Lestrade grabbed it up and stared
at it with mystified eyes.
"There's been a woman here," he cried. "It's a woman's
wedding-ring."
He held it out, as he spoke, upon the palm of his hand.
We all gathered round him and gazed at it. There could be no
doubt that that circlet of plain gold had once adorned the
finger of a bride.
"This complicates matters," said Gregson. "Heaven knows,
they were complicated enough before."
"You're sure it doesn't simplify them?" observed Holmes.
"There's nothing to be learned by staring at it.
What did you find in his pockets?"
"We have it all here," said Gregson, pointing to a litter
of objects upon one of the bottom steps of the stairs.
"A gold watch, No. 97163, by Barraud, of London. Gold Albert
chain, very heavy and solid. Gold ring, with masonic device.
Gold pin -- bull-dog's head, with rubies as eyes.
Russian leather card-case, with cards of Enoch J. Drebber
of Cleveland, corresponding with the E. J. D. upon the linen.
page 44 / 205
No purse, but loose money to the extent of seven pounds thirteen.
Pocket edition of Boccaccio's `Decameron,' with name of
Joseph Stangerson upon the fly-leaf. Two letters -- one
addressed to E. J. Drebber and one to Joseph Stangerson."
"At what address?"
"American Exchange, Strand -- to be left till called for.
They are both from the Guion Steamship Company, and refer to
the sailing of their boats from Liverpool. It is clear that
this unfortunate man was about to return to New York."
"Have you made any inquiries as to this man, Stangerson?"
"I did it at once, sir," said Gregson. "I have had advertisements
sent to all the newspapers, and one of my men has gone to the
American Exchange, but he has not returned yet."
"Have you sent to Cleveland?"
"We telegraphed this morning."
"How did you word your inquiries?"
page 45 / 205
"We simply detailed the circumstances, and said that we
should be glad of any information which could help us."
"You did not ask for particulars on any point which appeared
to you to be crucial?"
"I asked about Stangerson."
"Nothing else? Is there no circumstance on which this whole
case appears to hinge? Will you not telegraph again?"
"I have said all I have to say," said Gregson,
in an offended voice.
Sherlock Holmes chuckled to himself, and appeared to be about
to make some remark, when Lestrade, who had been in the front
room while we were holding this conversation in the hall,
reappeared upon the scene, rubbing his hands in a pompous and
self-satisfied manner.
"Mr. Gregson," he said, "I have just made a discovery of the
highest importance, and one which would have been overlooked
had I not made a careful examination of the walls."
page 46 / 205
The little man's eyes sparkled as he spoke, and he was
evidently in a state of suppressed exultation at having
scored a point against his colleague.
"Come here," he said, bustling back into the room,
the atmosphere of which felt clearer since the removal
of its ghastly inmate. "Now, stand there!"
He struck a match on his boot and held it up against the wall.
"Look at that!" he said, triumphantly.
I have remarked that the paper had fallen away in parts.
In this particular corner of the room a large piece had peeled
off, leaving a yellow square of coarse plastering. Across
this bare space there was scrawled in blood-red letters a
single word --
RACHE.
"What do you think of that?" cried the detective, with the
air of a showman exhibiting his show. "This was overlooked
because it was in the darkest corner of the room, and no one
thought of looking there. The murderer has written it with
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his or her own blood. See this smear where it has trickled
down the wall! That disposes of the idea of suicide anyhow.
Why was that corner chosen to write it on? I will tell you.
See that candle on the mantelpiece. It was lit at the time,
and if it was lit this corner would be the brightest instead
of the darkest portion of the wall."
"And what does it mean now that you _have_ found it?" asked
Gregson in a depreciatory voice.
"Mean? Why, it means that the writer was going to put the
female name Rachel, but was disturbed before he or she had
time to finish. You mark my words, when this case comes to
be cleared up you will find that a woman named Rachel has
something to do with it. It's all very well for you to laugh,
Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You may be very smart and clever,
but the old hound is the best, when all is said and done."
"I really beg your pardon!" said my companion, who had
ruffled the little man's temper by bursting into an explosion
of laughter. "You certainly have the credit of being the
first of us to find this out, and, as you say, it bears every
mark of having been written by the other participant in last
night's mystery. I have not had time to examine this room
yet, but with your permission I shall do so now."
page 48 / 205
As he spoke, he whipped a tape measure and a large round
magnifying glass from his pocket. With these two implements
he trotted noiselessly about the room, sometimes stopping,
occasionally kneeling, and once lying flat upon his face.
So engrossed was he with his occupation that he appeared to
have forgotten our presence, for he chattered away to himself
under his breath the whole time, keeping up a running fire of
exclamations, groans, whistles, and little cries suggestive
of encouragement and of hope. As I watched him I was
irresistibly reminded of a pure-blooded well-trained foxhound
as it dashes backwards and forwards through the covert,
whining in its eagerness, until it comes across the lost
scent. For twenty minutes or more he continued his
researches, measuring with the most exact care the distance
between marks which were entirely invisible to me, and
occasionally applying his tape to the walls in an equally
incomprehensible manner. In one place he gathered up very
carefully a little pile of grey dust from the floor, and
packed it away in an envelope. Finally, he examined with his
glass the word upon the wall, going over every letter of it
with the most minute exactness. This done, he appeared to be
satisfied, for he replaced his tape and his glass in his pocket.
"They say that genius is an infinite capacity for taking
pains," he remarked with a smile. "It's a very bad
definition, but it does apply to detective work."
page 49 / 205
Gregson and Lestrade had watched the manoeuvres {9} of their
amateur companion with considerable curiosity and some
contempt. They evidently failed to appreciate the fact, which
I had begun to realize, that Sherlock Holmes' smallest actions
were all directed towards some definite and practical end.
"What do you think of it, sir?" they both asked.
"It would be robbing you of the credit of the case if I was
to presume to help you," remarked my friend. "You are doing
so well now that it would be a pity for anyone to interfere."
There was a world of sarcasm in his voice as he spoke.
"If you will let me know how your investigations go,"
he continued, "I shall be happy to give you any help I can.
In the meantime I should like to speak to the constable who
found the body. Can you give me his name and address?"
Lestrade glanced at his note-book. "John Rance," he said.
"He is off duty now. You will find him at 46, Audley Court,
Kennington Park Gate."
Holmes took a note of the address.
"Come along, Doctor," he said; "we shall go and look him up.
page 50 / 205
I'll tell you one thing which may help you in the case,"
he continued, turning to the two detectives. "There has been
murder done, and the murderer was a man. He was more than
six feet high, was in the prime of life, had small feet for
his height, wore coarse, square-toed boots and smoked a
Trichinopoly cigar. He came here with his victim in a
four-wheeled cab, which was drawn by a horse with three old shoes
and one new one on his off fore leg. In all probability the
murderer had a florid face, and the finger-nails of his right
hand were remarkably long. These are only a few indications,
but they may assist you."
Lestrade and Gregson glanced at each other with an incredulous
smile.
"If this man was murdered, how was it done?" asked the former.
"Poison," said Sherlock Holmes curtly, and strode off.
"One other thing, Lestrade," he added, turning round at the door:
"`Rache,' is the German for `revenge;' so don't lose your
time looking for Miss Rachel."
With which Parthian shot he walked away, leaving the two
rivals open-mouthed behind him.
page 51 / 205
CHAPTER IV.
WHAT JOHN RANCE HAD TO TELL.
IT was one o'clock when we left No. 3, Lauriston Gardens.
Sherlock Holmes led me to the nearest telegraph office,
whence he dispatched a long telegram. He then hailed a cab,
and ordered the driver to take us to the address given us by
Lestrade.
"There is nothing like first hand evidence," he remarked;
"as a matter of fact, my mind is entirely made up upon the case,
but still we may as well learn all that is to be learned."
"You amaze me, Holmes," said I. "Surely you are not as sure
as you pretend to be of all those particulars which you gave."
"There's no room for a mistake," he answered. "The very
first thing which I observed on arriving there was that a cab
had made two ruts with its wheels close to the curb. Now, up
to last night, we have had no rain for a week, so that those
wheels which left such a deep impression must have been there
during the night. There were the marks of the horse's hoofs,
too, the outline of one of which was far more clearly cut
than that of the other three, showing that that was a new
page 52 / 205
shoe. Since the cab was there after the rain began, and was
not there at any time during the morning -- I have Gregson's
word for that -- it follows that it must have been there
during the night, and, therefore, that it brought those two
individuals to the house."
"That seems simple enough," said I; "but how about the other
man's height?"
"Why, the height of a man, in nine cases out of ten,
can be told from the length of his stride. It is a simple
calculation enough, though there is no use my boring you with
figures. I had this fellow's stride both on the clay outside
and on the dust within. Then I had a way of checking my
calculation. When a man writes on a wall, his instinct leads
him to write about the level of his own eyes. Now that writing
was just over six feet from the ground. It was child's play."
"And his age?" I asked.
"Well, if a man can stride four and a-half feet without the
smallest effort, he can't be quite in the sere and yellow.
That was the breadth of a puddle on the garden walk which he
had evidently walked across. Patent-leather boots had gone
round, and Square-toes had hopped over. There is no mystery
about it at all. I am simply applying to ordinary life a few
page 53 / 205
of those precepts of observation and deduction which I
advocated in that article. Is there anything else that
puzzles you?"
"The finger nails and the Trichinopoly," I suggested.
"The writing on the wall was done with a man's forefinger
dipped in blood. My glass allowed me to observe that the
plaster was slightly scratched in doing it, which would not
have been the case if the man's nail had been trimmed.
I gathered up some scattered ash from the floor. It was dark
in colour and flakey -- such an ash as is only made by a
Trichinopoly. I have made a special study of cigar ashes --
in fact, I have written a monograph upon the subject.
I flatter myself that I can distinguish at a glance the ash of
any known brand, either of cigar or of tobacco. It is just
in such details that the skilled detective differs from the
Gregson and Lestrade type."
"And the florid face?" I asked.
"Ah, that was a more daring shot, though I have no doubt that
I was right. You must not ask me that at the present state
of the affair."
page 54 / 205
I passed my hand over my brow. "My head is in a whirl,"
I remarked; "the more one thinks of it the more mysterious it
grows. How came these two men -- if there were two men --
into an empty house? What has become of the cabman who drove
them? How could one man compel another to take poison?
Where did the blood come from? What was the object of the
murderer, since robbery had no part in it? How came the
woman's ring there? Above all, why should the second man write
up the German word RACHE before decamping? I confess that I
cannot see any possible way of reconciling all these facts."
My companion smiled approvingly.
"You sum up the difficulties of the situation succinctly and
well," he said. "There is much that is still obscure, though
I have quite made up my mind on the main facts. As to poor
Lestrade's discovery it was simply a blind intended to put
the police upon a wrong track, by suggesting Socialism and
secret societies. It was not done by a German. The A, if
you noticed, was printed somewhat after the German fashion.
Now, a real German invariably prints in the Latin character,
so that we may safely say that this was not written by one,
but by a clumsy imitator who overdid his part. It was simply
a ruse to divert inquiry into a wrong channel. I'm not going
to tell you much more of the case, Doctor. You know a
conjuror gets no credit when once he has explained his trick,
and if I show you too much of my method of working, you will
page 55 / 205
come to the conclusion that I am a very ordinary individual
after all."
"I shall never do that," I answered; "you have brought
detection as near an exact science as it ever will be brought
in this world."
My companion flushed up with pleasure at my words, and the
earnest way in which I uttered them. I had already observed
that he was as sensitive to flattery on the score of his art
as any girl could be of her beauty.
"I'll tell you one other thing," he said. "Patent leathers {10}
and Square-toes came in the same cab, and they walked down
the pathway together as friendly as possible -- arm-in-arm,
in all probability. When they got inside they walked up and
down the room -- or rather, Patent-leathers stood still while
Square-toes walked up and down. I could read all that in the
dust; and I could read that as he walked he grew more and
more excited. That is shown by the increased length of his
strides. He was talking all the while, and working himself
up, no doubt, into a fury. Then the tragedy occurred.
I've told you all I know myself now, for the rest is mere
surmise and conjecture. We have a good working basis, however,
on which to start. We must hurry up, for I want to go to
Halle's concert to hear Norman Neruda this afternoon."
page 56 / 205
This conversation had occurred while our cab had been
threading its way through a long succession of dingy streets
and dreary by-ways. In the dingiest and dreariest of them
our driver suddenly came to a stand. "That's Audley Court
in there," he said, pointing to a narrow slit in the line of
dead-coloured brick. "You'll find me here when you come back."
Audley Court was not an attractive locality. The narrow
passage led us into a quadrangle paved with flags and lined
by sordid dwellings. We picked our way among groups of dirty
children, and through lines of discoloured linen, until we
came to Number 46, the door of which was decorated with a
small slip of brass on which the name Rance was engraved.
On enquiry we found that the constable was in bed, and we
were shown into a little front parlour to await his coming.
He appeared presently, looking a little irritable at being
disturbed in his slumbers. "I made my report at the office,"
he said.
Holmes took a half-sovereign from his pocket and played with
it pensively. "We thought that we should like to hear it all
from your own lips," he said.
page 57 / 205
"I shall be most happy to tell you anything I can," the
constable answered with his eyes upon the little golden disk.
"Just let us hear it all in your own way as it occurred."
Rance sat down on the horsehair sofa, and knitted his brows
as though determined not to omit anything in his narrative.
"I'll tell it ye from the beginning," he said. "My time is
from ten at night to six in the morning. At eleven there was
a fight at the `White Hart'; but bar that all was quiet
enough on the beat. At one o'clock it began to rain, and I
met Harry Murcher -- him who has the Holland Grove beat --
and we stood together at the corner of Henrietta Street a-talkin'.
Presently -- maybe about two or a little after -- I thought
I would take a look round and see that all was right
down the Brixton Road. It was precious dirty and lonely.
Not a soul did I meet all the way down, though a cab or two
went past me. I was a strollin' down, thinkin' between
ourselves how uncommon handy a four of gin hot would be,
when suddenly the glint of a light caught my eye in the window
of that same house. Now, I knew that them two houses in
Lauriston Gardens was empty on account of him that owns them
who won't have the drains seed to, though the very last
tenant what lived in one of them died o' typhoid fever.
I was knocked all in a heap therefore at seeing a light
page 58 / 205
in the window, and I suspected as something was wrong.
When I got to the door ----"
"You stopped, and then walked back to the garden gate,"
my companion interrupted. "What did you do that for?"
Rance gave a violent jump, and stared at Sherlock Holmes
with the utmost amazement upon his features.
"Why, that's true, sir," he said; "though how you come to
know it, Heaven only knows. Ye see, when I got up to the door
it was so still and so lonesome, that I thought I'd be none
the worse for some one with me. I ain't afeared of anything
on this side o' the grave; but I thought that maybe it was him
that died o' the typhoid inspecting the drains what killed him.
The thought gave me a kind o' turn, and I walked back to the
gate to see if I could see Murcher's lantern, but there
wasn't no sign of him nor of anyone else."
"There was no one in the street?"
"Not a livin' soul, sir, nor as much as a dog. Then I pulled
myself together and went back and pushed the door open. All
was quiet inside, so I went into the room where the light was
a-burnin'. There was a candle flickerin' on the mantelpiece
page 59 / 205
-- a red wax one -- and by its light I saw ----"
"Yes, I know all that you saw. You walked round the room
several times, and you knelt down by the body, and then you
walked through and tried the kitchen door, and then ----"
John Rance sprang to his feet with a frightened face and
suspicion in his eyes. "Where was you hid to see all that?"
he cried. "It seems to me that you knows a deal more than
you should."
Holmes laughed and threw his card across the table to the
constable. "Don't get arresting me for the murder," he said.
"I am one of the hounds and not the wolf; Mr. Gregson or
Mr. Lestrade will answer for that. Go on, though. What did
you do next?"
Rance resumed his seat, without however losing his mystified
expression. "I went back to the gate and sounded my whistle.
That brought Murcher and two more to the spot."
"Was the street empty then?"
"Well, it was, as far as anybody that could be of any good goes."
page 60 / 205
"What do you mean?"
The constable's features broadened into a grin. "I've seen
many a drunk chap in my time," he said, "but never anyone so
cryin' drunk as that cove. He was at the gate when I came
out, a-leanin' up agin the railings, and a-singin' at the
pitch o' his lungs about Columbine's New-fangled Banner, or
some such stuff. He couldn't stand, far less help."
"What sort of a man was he?" asked Sherlock Holmes.
John Rance appeared to be somewhat irritated at this digression.
"He was an uncommon drunk sort o' man," he said. "He'd ha'
found hisself in the station if we hadn't been so took up."
"His face -- his dress -- didn't you notice them?" Holmes
broke in impatiently.
"I should think I did notice them, seeing that I had to prop
him up -- me and Murcher between us. He was a long chap,
with a red face, the lower part muffled round ----"
"That will do," cried Holmes. "What became of him?"
page 61 / 205
"We'd enough to do without lookin' after him," the policeman
said, in an aggrieved voice. "I'll wager he found his way
home all right."
"How was he dressed?"
"A brown overcoat."
"Had he a whip in his hand?"
"A whip -- no."
"He must have left it behind," muttered my companion.
"You didn't happen to see or hear a cab after that?"
"No."
"There's a half-sovereign for you," my companion said,
standing up and taking his hat. "I am afraid, Rance, that
you will never rise in the force. That head of yours should
be for use as well as ornament. You might have gained your
sergeant's stripes last night. The man whom you held in your
hands is the man who holds the clue of this mystery, and whom
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we are seeking. There is no use of arguing about it now;
I tell you that it is so. Come along, Doctor."
We started off for the cab together, leaving our informant
incredulous, but obviously uncomfortable.
"The blundering fool," Holmes said, bitterly, as we drove
back to our lodgings. "Just to think of his having such an
incomparable bit of good luck, and not taking advantage of it."
"I am rather in the dark still. It is true that the
description of this man tallies with your idea of the second
party in this mystery. But why should he come back to the
house after leaving it? That is not the way of criminals."
"The ring, man, the ring: that was what he came back for.
If we have no other way of catching him, we can always bait
our line with the ring. I shall have him, Doctor -- I'll lay
you two to one that I have him. I must thank you for it all.
I might not have gone but for you, and so have missed the
finest study I ever came across: a study in scarlet, eh?
Why shouldn't we use a little art jargon. There's the
scarlet thread of murder running through the colourless skein
of life, and our duty is to unravel it, and isolate it, and
expose every inch of it. And now for lunch, and then for
Norman Neruda. Her attack and her bowing are splendid.
page 63 / 205
What's that little thing of Chopin's she plays so
magnificently: Tra-la-la-lira-lira-lay."
Leaning back in the cab, this amateur bloodhound carolled
away like a lark while I meditated upon the many-sidedness
of the human mind.
CHAPTER V.
OUR ADVERTISEMENT BRINGS A VISITOR.
OUR morning's exertions had been too much for my weak health,
and I was tired out in the afternoon. After Holmes'
departure for the concert, I lay down upon the sofa and
endeavoured to get a couple of hours' sleep. It was a
useless attempt. My mind had been too much excited by all
that had occurred, and the strangest fancies and surmises
crowded into it. Every time that I closed my eyes I saw
before me the distorted baboon-like countenance of the
murdered man. So sinister was the impression which that face
had produced upon me that I found it difficult to feel
anything but gratitude for him who had removed its owner from
the world. If ever human features bespoke vice of the most
malignant type, they were certainly those of Enoch J. Drebber,
of Cleveland. Still I recognized that justice must be done,
and that the depravity of the victim was no condonment {11} in
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the eyes of the law.
The more I thought of it the more extraordinary did my
companion's hypothesis, that the man had been poisoned,
appear. I remembered how he had sniffed his lips, and had no
doubt that he had detected something which had given rise to
the idea. Then, again, if not poison, what had caused the
man's death, since there was neither wound nor marks of
strangulation? But, on the other hand, whose blood was that
which lay so thickly upon the floor? There were no signs of
a struggle, nor had the victim any weapon with which he might
have wounded an antagonist. As long as all these questions
were unsolved, I felt that sleep would be no easy matter,
either for Holmes or myself. His quiet self-confident manner
convinced me that he had already formed a theory which
explained all the facts, though what it was I could not for
an instant conjecture.
He was very late in returning -- so late, that I knew
that the concert could not have detained him all the time.
Dinner was on the table before he appeared.
"It was magnificent," he said, as he took his seat. "Do you
remember what Darwin says about music? He claims that the
power of producing and appreciating it existed among the
human race long before the power of speech was arrived at.
page 65 / 205
Perhaps that is why we are so subtly influenced by it.
There are vague memories in our souls of those misty centuries
when the world was in its childhood."
"That's rather a broad idea," I remarked.
"One's ideas must be as broad as Nature if they are to
interpret Nature," he answered. "What's the matter?
You're not looking quite yourself. This Brixton Road affair
has upset you."
"To tell the truth, it has," I said. "I ought to be more
case-hardened after my Afghan experiences. I saw my own
comrades hacked to pieces at Maiwand without losing my
nerve."
"I can understand. There is a mystery about this which
stimulates the imagination; where there is no imagination
there is no horror. Have you seen the evening paper?"
"No."
"It gives a fairly good account of the affair. It does not
mention the fact that when the man was raised up, a woman's
wedding ring fell upon the floor. It is just as well it does not."
page 66 / 205
"Why?"
"Look at this advertisement," he answered. "I had one sent
to every paper this morning immediately after the affair."
He threw the paper across to me and I glanced at the place
indicated. It was the first announcement in the "Found" column.
"In Brixton Road, this morning," it ran, "a plain gold wedding
ring, found in the roadway between the `White Hart' Tavern
and Holland Grove. Apply Dr. Watson, 221B, Baker Street,
between eight and nine this evening."
"Excuse my using your name," he said. "If I used my own some
of these dunderheads would recognize it, and want to meddle
in the affair."
"That is all right," I answered. "But supposing anyone
applies, I have no ring."
"Oh yes, you have," said he, handing me one. "This will do
very well. It is almost a facsimile."
"And who do you expect will answer this advertisement."
page 67 / 205
"Why, the man in the brown coat -- our florid friend with the
square toes. If he does not come himself he will send an
accomplice."
"Would he not consider it as too dangerous?"
"Not at all. If my view of the case is correct, and I have
every reason to believe that it is, this man would rather
risk anything than lose the ring. According to my notion he
dropped it while stooping over Drebber's body, and did not
miss it at the time. After leaving the house he discovered
his loss and hurried back, but found the police already in
possession, owing to his own folly in leaving the candle
burning. He had to pretend to be drunk in order to allay the
suspicions which might have been aroused by his appearance at
the gate. Now put yourself in that man's place. On thinking
the matter over, it must have occurred to him that it was
possible that he had lost the ring in the road after leaving
the house. What would he do, then? He would eagerly look
out for the evening papers in the hope of seeing it among the
articles found. His eye, of course, would light upon this.
He would be overjoyed. Why should he fear a trap?
There would be no reason in his eyes why the finding of the
ring should be connected with the murder. He would come.
He will come. You shall see him within an hour?"
page 68 / 205
"And then?" I asked.
"Oh, you can leave me to deal with him then. Have you any arms?"
"I have my old service revolver and a few cartridges."
"You had better clean it and load it. He will be a desperate
man, and though I shall take him unawares, it is as well to
be ready for anything."
I went to my bedroom and followed his advice. When I
returned with the pistol the table had been cleared, and
Holmes was engaged in his favourite occupation of scraping
upon his violin.
"The plot thickens," he said, as I entered; "I have just had
an answer to my American telegram. My view of the case is
the correct one."
"And that is?" I asked eagerly.
"My fiddle would be the better for new strings," he remarked.
"Put your pistol in your pocket. When the fellow comes speak
page 69 / 205
to him in an ordinary way. Leave the rest to me.
Don't frighten him by looking at him too hard."
"It is eight o'clock now," I said, glancing at my watch.
"Yes. He will probably be here in a few minutes. Open the
door slightly. That will do. Now put the key on the inside.
Thank you! This is a queer old book I picked up at a stall
yesterday -- `De Jure inter Gentes' -- published in Latin at
Liege in the Lowlands, in 1642. Charles' head was still firm
on his shoulders when this little brown-backed volume was
struck off."
"Who is the printer?"
"Philippe de Croy, whoever he may have been. On the fly-leaf,
in very faded ink, is written `Ex libris Guliolmi Whyte.'
I wonder who William Whyte was. Some pragmatical seventeenth
century lawyer, I suppose. His writing has a legal twist
about it. Here comes our man, I think."
As he spoke there was a sharp ring at the bell. Sherlock Holmes
rose softly and moved his chair in the direction of the door.
We heard the servant pass along the hall, and the sharp click
of the latch as she opened it.
page 70 / 205
"Does Dr. Watson live here?" asked a clear but rather harsh
voice. We could not hear the servant's reply, but the door
closed, and some one began to ascend the stairs.
The footfall was an uncertain and shuffling one. A look of
surprise passed over the face of my companion as he listened
to it. It came slowly along the passage, and there was a
feeble tap at the door.
"Come in," I cried.
At my summons, instead of the man of violence whom we
expected, a very old and wrinkled woman hobbled into the
apartment. She appeared to be dazzled by the sudden blaze of
light, and after dropping a curtsey, she stood blinking at us
with her bleared eyes and fumbling in her pocket with nervous,
shaky fingers. I glanced at my companion, and his face had
assumed such a disconsolate expression that it was all I could
do to keep my countenance.
The old crone drew out an evening paper, and pointed at our
advertisement. "It's this as has brought me, good gentlemen,"
she said, dropping another curtsey; "a gold wedding ring in the
Brixton Road. It belongs to my girl Sally, as was married only
this time twelvemonth, which her husband is steward aboard
a Union boat, and what he'd say if he come 'ome and found her
page 71 / 205
without her ring is more than I can think, he being short enough
at the best o' times, but more especially when he has the drink.
If it please you, she went to the circus last night along with ----"
"Is that her ring?" I asked.
"The Lord be thanked!" cried the old woman; "Sally will be a
glad woman this night. That's the ring."
"And what may your address be?" I inquired, taking up a pencil.
"13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch. A weary way from here."
"The Brixton Road does not lie between any circus and
Houndsditch," said Sherlock Holmes sharply.
The old woman faced round and looked keenly at him from her little
red-rimmed eyes. "The gentleman asked me for _my_ address," she
said. "Sally lives in lodgings at 3, Mayfield Place, Peckham."
"And your name is ----?"
"My name is Sawyer -- her's is Dennis, which Tom Dennis married
her -- and a smart, clean lad, too, as long as he's at sea,
page 72 / 205
and no steward in the company more thought of; but when on shore,
what with the women and what with liquor shops ----"
"Here is your ring, Mrs. Sawyer," I interrupted, in obedience
to a sign from my companion; "it clearly belongs to your daughter,
and I am glad to be able to restore it to the rightful owner."
With many mumbled blessings and protestations of gratitude
the old crone packed it away in her pocket, and shuffled off
down the stairs. Sherlock Holmes sprang to his feet the
moment that she was gone and rushed into his room.
He returned in a few seconds enveloped in an ulster and a
cravat. "I'll follow her," he said, hurriedly; "she must be
an accomplice, and will lead me to him. Wait up for me."
The hall door had hardly slammed behind our visitor before
Holmes had descended the stair. Looking through the window
I could see her walking feebly along the other side, while her
pursuer dogged her some little distance behind. "Either his
whole theory is incorrect," I thought to myself, "or else he
will be led now to the heart of the mystery." There was no
need for him to ask me to wait up for him, for I felt that
sleep was impossible until I heard the result of his adventure.
It was close upon nine when he set out. I had no idea how
long he might be, but I sat stolidly puffing at my pipe and
skipping over the pages of Henri Murger's "Vie de Boheme." {12}
page 73 / 205
Ten o'clock passed, and I heard the footsteps of the maid as
they pattered off to bed. Eleven, and the more stately tread
of the landlady passed my door, bound for the same destination.
It was close upon twelve before I heard the sharp sound of his
latch-key. The instant he entered I saw by his face that he
had not been successful. Amusement and chagrin seemed to be
struggling for the mastery, until the former suddenly carried
the day, and he burst into a hearty laugh.
"I wouldn't have the Scotland Yarders know it for the world,"
he cried, dropping into his chair; "I have chaffed them so
much that they would never have let me hear the end of it.
I can afford to laugh, because I know that I will be even with
them in the long run."
"What is it then?" I asked.
"Oh, I don't mind telling a story against myself. That
creature had gone a little way when she began to limp and
show every sign of being foot-sore. Presently she came to a
halt, and hailed a four-wheeler which was passing. I managed
to be close to her so as to hear the address, but I need not
have been so anxious, for she sang it out loud enough to be
heard at the other side of the street, `Drive to 13, Duncan
Street, Houndsditch,' she cried. This begins to look
genuine, I thought, and having seen her safely inside,
page 74 / 205
I perched myself behind. That's an art which every detective
should be an expert at. Well, away we rattled, and never
drew rein until we reached the street in question. I hopped
off before we came to the door, and strolled down the street
in an easy, lounging way. I saw the cab pull up. The driver
jumped down, and I saw him open the door and stand
expectantly. Nothing came out though. When I reached him he
was groping about frantically in the empty cab, and giving
vent to the finest assorted collection of oaths that ever
I listened to. There was no sign or trace of his passenger,
and I fear it will be some time before he gets his fare.
On inquiring at Number 13 we found that the house belonged to
a respectable paperhanger, named Keswick, and that no one of
the name either of Sawyer or Dennis had ever been heard of
there."
"You don't mean to say," I cried, in amazement, "that that
tottering, feeble old woman was able to get out of the cab
while it was in motion, without either you or the driver
seeing her?"
"Old woman be damned!" said Sherlock Holmes, sharply.
"We were the old women to be so taken in. It must have been
a young man, and an active one, too, besides being an
incomparable actor. The get-up was inimitable. He saw that
he was followed, no doubt, and used this means of giving me
the slip. It shows that the man we are after is not as
page 75 / 205
lonely as I imagined he was, but has friends who are ready to
risk something for him. Now, Doctor, you are looking done-up.
Take my advice and turn in."
I was certainly feeling very weary, so I obeyed his injunction.
I left Holmes seated in front of the smouldering fire, and long
into the watches of the night I heard the low, melancholy
wailings of his violin, and knew that he was still pondering
over the strange problem which he had set himself to unravel.
CHAPTER VI.
TOBIAS GREGSON SHOWS WHAT HE CAN DO.
THE papers next day were full of the "Brixton Mystery,"
as they termed it. Each had a long account of the affair,
and some had leaders upon it in addition. There was some
information in them which was new to me. I still retain in
my scrap-book numerous clippings and extracts bearing upon
the case. Here is a condensation of a few of them:--
The _Daily Telegraph_ remarked that in the history of crime
there had seldom been a tragedy which presented stranger
features. The German name of the victim, the absence of
all other motive, and the sinister inscription on the wall,
page 76 / 205
all pointed to its perpetration by political refugees and
revolutionists. The Socialists had many branches in America,
and the deceased had, no doubt, infringed their unwritten
laws, and been tracked down by them. After alluding airily
to the Vehmgericht, aqua tofana, Carbonari, the Marchioness
de Brinvilliers, the Darwinian theory, the principles of
Malthus, and the Ratcliff Highway murders, the article
concluded by admonishing the Government and advocating
a closer watch over foreigners in England.
The _Standard_ commented upon the fact that lawless outrages
of the sort usually occurred under a Liberal Administration.
They arose from the unsettling of the minds of the masses,
and the consequent weakening of all authority. The deceased
was an American gentleman who had been residing for some
weeks in the Metropolis. He had stayed at the boarding-house
of Madame Charpentier, in Torquay Terrace, Camberwell.
He was accompanied in his travels by his private secretary,
Mr. Joseph Stangerson. The two bade adieu to their landlady
upon Tuesday, the 4th inst., and departed to Euston Station
with the avowed intention of catching the Liverpool express.
They were afterwards seen together upon the platform.
Nothing more is known of them until Mr. Drebber's body was,
as recorded, discovered in an empty house in the Brixton Road,
many miles from Euston. How he came there, or how he met his
fate, are questions which are still involved in mystery.
Nothing is known of the whereabouts of Stangerson. We are
page 77 / 205
glad to learn that Mr. Lestrade and Mr. Gregson, of Scotland
Yard, are both engaged upon the case, and it is confidently
anticipated that these well-known officers will speedily
throw light upon the matter.
The _Daily News_ observed that there was no doubt as to the
crime being a political one. The despotism and hatred of
Liberalism which animated the Continental Governments had had
the effect of driving to our shores a number of men who might
have made excellent citizens were they not soured by the
recollection of all that they had undergone. Among these men
there was a stringent code of honour, any infringement of
which was punished by death. Every effort should be made to
find the secretary, Stangerson, and to ascertain some
particulars of the habits of the deceased. A great step had
been gained by the discovery of the address of the house at
which he had boarded -- a result which was entirely due to
the acuteness and energy of Mr. Gregson of Scotland Yard.
Sherlock Holmes and I read these notices over together at
breakfast, and they appeared to afford him considerable
amusement.
"I told you that, whatever happened, Lestrade and Gregson
would be sure to score."
page 78 / 205
"That depends on how it turns out."
"Oh, bless you, it doesn't matter in the least. If the man
is caught, it will be _on account_ of their exertions; if he
escapes, it will be _in spite_ of their exertions. It's heads
I win and tails you lose. Whatever they do, they will have
followers. `Un sot trouve toujours un plus sot qui l'admire.'"
"What on earth is this?" I cried, for at this moment there
came the pattering of many steps in the hall and on the
stairs, accompanied by audible expressions of disgust upon
the part of our landlady.
"It's the Baker Street division of the detective police
force," said my companion, gravely; and as he spoke there
rushed into the room half a dozen of the dirtiest and most
ragged street Arabs that ever I clapped eyes on.
"'Tention!" cried Holmes, in a sharp tone, and the six dirty
little scoundrels stood in a line like so many disreputable
statuettes. "In future you shall send up Wiggins alone to
report, and the rest of you must wait in the street.
Have you found it, Wiggins?"
"No, sir, we hain't," said one of the youths.
page 79 / 205
"I hardly expected you would. You must keep on until you do.
Here are your wages. {13} He handed each of them a shilling.
"Now, off you go, and come back with a better report next time."
He waved his hand, and they scampered away downstairs like so
many rats, and we heard their shrill voices next moment in
the street.
"There's more work to be got out of one of those little
beggars than out of a dozen of the force," Holmes remarked.
"The mere sight of an official-looking person seals men's
lips. These youngsters, however, go everywhere and hear
everything. They are as sharp as needles, too; all they want
is organisation."
"Is it on this Brixton case that you are employing them?" I asked.
"Yes; there is a point which I wish to ascertain. It is
merely a matter of time. Hullo! we are going to hear some
news now with a vengeance! Here is Gregson coming down the
road with beatitude written upon every feature of his face.
Bound for us, I know. Yes, he is stopping. There he is!"
There was a violent peal at the bell, and in a few seconds
page 80 / 205
the fair-haired detective came up the stairs, three steps
at a time, and burst into our sitting-room.
"My dear fellow," he cried, wringing Holmes' unresponsive hand,
"congratulate me! I have made the whole thing as clear as day."
A shade of anxiety seemed to me to cross my companion's
expressive face.
"Do you mean that you are on the right track?" he asked.
"The right track! Why, sir, we have the man under lock and key."
"And his name is?"
"Arthur Charpentier, sub-lieutenant in Her Majesty's navy,"
cried Gregson, pompously, rubbing his fat hands and inflating
his chest.
Sherlock Holmes gave a sigh of relief, and relaxed into a smile.
"Take a seat, and try one of these cigars," he said.
"We are anxious to know how you managed it. Will you have some
whiskey and water?"
page 81 / 205
"I don't mind if I do," the detective answered.
"The tremendous exertions which I have gone through during
the last day or two have worn me out. Not so much bodily
exertion, you understand, as the strain upon the mind.
You will appreciate that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, for we are both
brain-workers."
"You do me too much honour," said Holmes, gravely.
"Let us hear how you arrived at this most gratifying result."
The detective seated himself in the arm-chair, and puffed
complacently at his cigar. Then suddenly he slapped his
thigh in a paroxysm of amusement.
"The fun of it is," he cried, "that that fool Lestrade,
who thinks himself so smart, has gone off upon the wrong track
altogether. He is after the secretary Stangerson, who had no
more to do with the crime than the babe unborn. I have no
doubt that he has caught him by this time."
The idea tickled Gregson so much that he laughed until he choked.
"And how did you get your clue?"
page 82 / 205
"Ah, I'll tell you all about it. Of course, Doctor Watson,
this is strictly between ourselves. The first difficulty
which we had to contend with was the finding of this
American's antecedents. Some people would have waited until
their advertisements were answered, or until parties came
forward and volunteered information. That is not Tobias
Gregson's way of going to work. You remember the hat beside
the dead man?"
"Yes," said Holmes; "by John Underwood and Sons, 129,
Camberwell Road."
Gregson looked quite crest-fallen.
"I had no idea that you noticed that," he said.
"Have you been there?"
"No."
"Ha!" cried Gregson, in a relieved voice; "you should never
neglect a chance, however small it may seem."
"To a great mind, nothing is little," remarked Holmes,
sententiously.
page 83 / 205
"Well, I went to Underwood, and asked him if he had sold a
hat of that size and description. He looked over his books,
and came on it at once. He had sent the hat to a Mr. Drebber,
residing at Charpentier's Boarding Establishment,
Torquay Terrace. Thus I got at his address."
"Smart -- very smart!" murmured Sherlock Holmes.
"I next called upon Madame Charpentier," continued the
detective. "I found her very pale and distressed. Her
daughter was in the room, too -- an uncommonly fine girl she
is, too; she was looking red about the eyes and her lips
trembled as I spoke to her. That didn't escape my notice.
I began to smell a rat. You know the feeling, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, when you come upon the right scent -- a kind of
thrill in your nerves. `Have you heard of the mysterious
death of your late boarder Mr. Enoch J. Drebber, of
Cleveland?' I asked.
"The mother nodded. She didn't seem able to get out a word.
The daughter burst into tears. I felt more than ever that
these people knew something of the matter.
"`At what o'clock did Mr. Drebber leave your house for the
page 84 / 205
train?' I asked.
"`At eight o'clock,' she said, gulping in her throat to keep
down her agitation. `His secretary, Mr. Stangerson, said
that there were two trains -- one at 9.15 and one at 11.
He was to catch the first. {14}
"`And was that the last which you saw of him?'
"A terrible change came over the woman's face as I asked the
question. Her features turned perfectly livid. It was some
seconds before she could get out the single word `Yes' -- and
when it did come it was in a husky unnatural tone.
"There was silence for a moment, and then the daughter spoke
in a calm clear voice.
"`No good can ever come of falsehood, mother,' she said.
`Let us be frank with this gentleman. We _did_ see Mr. Drebber
again.'
"`God forgive you!' cried Madame Charpentier, throwing up her
hands and sinking back in her chair. `You have murdered your
brother.'
page 85 / 205
"`Arthur would rather that we spoke the truth,' the girl
answered firmly.
"`You had best tell me all about it now,' I said.
`Half-confidences are worse than none. Besides, you do not
know how much we know of it.'
"`On your head be it, Alice!' cried her mother; and then,
turning to me, `I will tell you all, sir. Do not imagine
that my agitation on behalf of my son arises from any fear
lest he should have had a hand in this terrible affair.
He is utterly innocent of it. My dread is, however, that in
your eyes and in the eyes of others he may appear to be
compromised. That however is surely impossible. His high
character, his profession, his antecedents would all forbid it.'
"`Your best way is to make a clean breast of the facts,'
I answered. `Depend upon it, if your son is innocent he will
be none the worse.'
"`Perhaps, Alice, you had better leave us together,' she said,
and her daughter withdrew. `Now, sir,' she continued,
`I had no intention of telling you all this, but since my
poor daughter has disclosed it I have no alternative. Having
once decided to speak, I will tell you all without omitting
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any particular.'
"`It is your wisest course,' said I.
"`Mr. Drebber has been with us nearly three weeks. He and
his secretary, Mr. Stangerson, had been travelling on the
Continent. I noticed a "Copenhagen" label upon each of their
trunks, showing that that had been their last stopping place.
Stangerson was a quiet reserved man, but his employer, I am
sorry to say, was far otherwise. He was coarse in his habits
and brutish in his ways. The very night of his arrival he
became very much the worse for drink, and, indeed, after
twelve o'clock in the day he could hardly ever be said to be
sober. His manners towards the maid-servants were
disgustingly free and familiar. Worst of all, he speedily
assumed the same attitude towards my daughter, Alice, and
spoke to her more than once in a way which, fortunately, she
is too innocent to understand. On one occasion he actually
seized her in his arms and embraced her -- an outrage which
caused his own secretary to reproach him for his unmanly conduct.'
"`But why did you stand all this,' I asked. `I suppose that
you can get rid of your boarders when you wish.'
"Mrs. Charpentier blushed at my pertinent question. `Would
to God that I had given him notice on the very day that he
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came,' she said. `But it was a sore temptation. They were
paying a pound a day each -- fourteen pounds a week, and this
is the slack season. I am a widow, and my boy in the Navy has
cost me much. I grudged to lose the money. I acted for the
best. This last was too much, however, and I gave him notice
to leave on account of it. That was the reason of his going.'
"`Well?'
"`My heart grew light when I saw him drive away. My son is
on leave just now, but I did not tell him anything of all
this, for his temper is violent, and he is passionately fond
of his sister. When I closed the door behind them a load
seemed to be lifted from my mind. Alas, in less than an hour
there was a ring at the bell, and I learned that Mr. Drebber
had returned. He was much excited, and evidently the worse
for drink. He forced his way into the room, where I was
sitting with my daughter, and made some incoherent remark
about having missed his train. He then turned to Alice, and
before my very face, proposed to her that she should fly with
him. "You are of age," he said, "and there is no law to stop
you. I have money enough and to spare. Never mind the old
girl here, but come along with me now straight away. You
shall live like a princess." Poor Alice was so frightened
that she shrunk away from him, but he caught her by the wrist
and endeavoured to draw her towards the door. I screamed,
and at that moment my son Arthur came into the room. What
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happened then I do not know. I heard oaths and the confused
sounds of a scuffle. I was too terrified to raise my head.
When I did look up I saw Arthur standing in the doorway
laughing, with a stick in his hand. "I don't think that fine
fellow will trouble us again," he said. "I will just go
after him and see what he does with himself." With those
words he took his hat and started off down the street.
The next morning we heard of Mr. Drebber's mysterious death.'
"This statement came from Mrs. Charpentier's lips with many
gasps and pauses. At times she spoke so low that I could
hardly catch the words. I made shorthand notes of all that
she said, however, so that there should be no possibility of
a mistake."
"It's quite exciting," said Sherlock Holmes, with a yawn.
"What happened next?"
"When Mrs. Charpentier paused," the detective continued,
"I saw that the whole case hung upon one point. Fixing her
with my eye in a way which I always found effective with women,
I asked her at what hour her son returned.
"`I do not know,' she answered.
page 89 / 205
"`Not know?'
"`No; he has a latch-key, and he let himself in.'
"`After you went to bed?'
"`Yes.'
"`When did you go to bed?'
"`About eleven.'
"`So your son was gone at least two hours?'
"`Yes.'
"`Possibly four or five?'
"`Yes.'
"`What was he doing during that time?'
page 90 / 205
"`I do not know,' she answered, turning white to her very lips.
"Of course after that there was nothing more to be done.
I found out where Lieutenant Charpentier was, took two officers
with me, and arrested him. When I touched him on the
shoulder and warned him to come quietly with us, he answered
us as bold as brass, `I suppose you are arresting me for
being concerned in the death of that scoundrel Drebber,'
he said. We had said nothing to him about it, so that his
alluding to it had a most suspicious aspect."
"Very," said Holmes.
"He still carried the heavy stick which the mother described
him as having with him when he followed Drebber. It was a
stout oak cudgel."
"What is your theory, then?"
"Well, my theory is that he followed Drebber as far as the
Brixton Road. When there, a fresh altercation arose between
them, in the course of which Drebber received a blow from the
stick, in the pit of the stomach, perhaps, which killed him
without leaving any mark. The night was so wet that no one
was about, so Charpentier dragged the body of his victim into
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the empty house. As to the candle, and the blood, and the
writing on the wall, and the ring, they may all be so many
tricks to throw the police on to the wrong scent."
"Well done!" said Holmes in an encouraging voice. "Really,
Gregson, you are getting along. We shall make something of
you yet."
"I flatter myself that I have managed it rather neatly,"
the detective answered proudly. "The young man volunteered a
statement, in which he said that after following Drebber some
time, the latter perceived him, and took a cab in order to
get away from him. On his way home he met an old shipmate,
and took a long walk with him. On being asked where this old
shipmate lived, he was unable to give any satisfactory reply.
I think the whole case fits together uncommonly well. What
amuses me is to think of Lestrade, who had started off upon
the wrong scent. I am afraid he won't make much of {15}
Why, by Jove, here's the very man himself!"
It was indeed Lestrade, who had ascended the stairs while we
were talking, and who now entered the room. The assurance
and jauntiness which generally marked his demeanour and dress
were, however, wanting. His face was disturbed and troubled,
while his clothes were disarranged and untidy. He had
evidently come with the intention of consulting with Sherlock
page 92 / 205
Holmes, for on perceiving his colleague he appeared to be
embarrassed and put out. He stood in the centre of the room,
fumbling nervously with his hat and uncertain what to do.
"This is a most extraordinary case," he said at last --
"a most incomprehensible affair."
"Ah, you find it so, Mr. Lestrade!" cried Gregson,
triumphantly. "I thought you would come to that conclusion.
Have you managed to find the Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson?"
"The Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson," said Lestrade gravely,
"was murdered at Halliday's Private Hotel about six o'clock
this morning."
CHAPTER VII.
LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS.
THE intelligence with which Lestrade greeted us was so
momentous and so unexpected, that we were all three fairly
dumfoundered. Gregson sprang out of his chair and upset the
remainder of his whiskey and water. I stared in silence at
Sherlock Holmes, whose lips were compressed and his brows
drawn down over his eyes.
page 93 / 205
"Stangerson too!" he muttered. "The plot thickens."
"It was quite thick enough before," grumbled Lestrade,
taking a chair. "I seem to have dropped into a sort of council
of war."
"Are you -- are you sure of this piece of intelligence?"
stammered Gregson.
"I have just come from his room," said Lestrade.
"I was the first to discover what had occurred."
"We have been hearing Gregson's view of the matter," Holmes
observed. "Would you mind letting us know what you have seen
and done?"
"I have no objection," Lestrade answered, seating himself.
"I freely confess that I was of the opinion that Stangerson
was concerned in the death of Drebber. This fresh
development has shown me that I was completely mistaken.
Full of the one idea, I set myself to find out what had
become of the Secretary. They had been seen together at
Euston Station about half-past eight on the evening of the
third. At two in the morning Drebber had been found in the
Brixton Road. The question which confronted me was to find
page 94 / 205
out how Stangerson had been employed between 8.30 and the
time of the crime, and what had become of him afterwards.
I telegraphed to Liverpool, giving a description of the man,
and warning them to keep a watch upon the American boats.
I then set to work calling upon all the hotels and
lodging-houses in the vicinity of Euston. You see, I argued
that if Drebber and his companion had become separated,
the natural course for the latter would be to put up somewhere
in the vicinity for the night, and then to hang about the
station again next morning."
"They would be likely to agree on some meeting-place beforehand,"
remarked Holmes.
"So it proved. I spent the whole of yesterday evening in
making enquiries entirely without avail. This morning I
began very early, and at eight o'clock I reached Halliday's
Private Hotel, in Little George Street. On my enquiry as to
whether a Mr. Stangerson was living there, they at once
answered me in the affirmative.
"`No doubt you are the gentleman whom he was expecting,'
they said. `He has been waiting for a gentleman for two days.'
"`Where is he now?' I asked.
page 95 / 205
"`He is upstairs in bed. He wished to be called at nine.'
"`I will go up and see him at once,' I said.
"It seemed to me that my sudden appearance might shake his
nerves and lead him to say something unguarded. The Boots
volunteered to show me the room: it was on the second floor,
and there was a small corridor leading up to it. The Boots
pointed out the door to me, and was about to go downstairs
again when I saw something that made me feel sickish, in
spite of my twenty years' experience. From under the door
there curled a little red ribbon of blood, which had
meandered across the passage and formed a little pool along
the skirting at the other side. I gave a cry, which brought
the Boots back. He nearly fainted when he saw it. The door
was locked on the inside, but we put our shoulders to it, and
knocked it in. The window of the room was open, and beside
the window, all huddled up, lay the body of a man in his
nightdress. He was quite dead, and had been for some time,
for his limbs were rigid and cold. When we turned him over,
the Boots recognized him at once as being the same gentleman
who had engaged the room under the name of Joseph Stangerson.
The cause of death was a deep stab in the left side, which
must have penetrated the heart. And now comes the strangest
part of the affair. What do you suppose was above the
murdered man?"
page 96 / 205
I felt a creeping of the flesh, and a presentiment of coming
horror, even before Sherlock Holmes answered.
"The word RACHE, written in letters of blood," he said.
"That was it," said Lestrade, in an awe-struck voice;
and we were all silent for a while.
There was something so methodical and so incomprehensible
about the deeds of this unknown assassin, that it imparted a
fresh ghastliness to his crimes. My nerves, which were steady
enough on the field of battle tingled as I thought of it.
"The man was seen," continued Lestrade. "A milk boy, passing
on his way to the dairy, happened to walk down the lane which
leads from the mews at the back of the hotel. He noticed
that a ladder, which usually lay there, was raised against
one of the windows of the second floor, which was wide open.
After passing, he looked back and saw a man descend the
ladder. He came down so quietly and openly that the boy
imagined him to be some carpenter or joiner at work in the
hotel. He took no particular notice of him, beyond thinking
in his own mind that it was early for him to be at work. He
has an impression that the man was tall, had a reddish face,
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and was dressed in a long, brownish coat. He must have
stayed in the room some little time after the murder, for we
found blood-stained water in the basin, where he had washed
his hands, and marks on the sheets where he had deliberately
wiped his knife."
I glanced at Holmes on hearing the description of the murderer,
which tallied so exactly with his own. There was, however,
no trace of exultation or satisfaction upon his face.
"Did you find nothing in the room which could furnish a clue
to the murderer?" he asked.
"Nothing. Stangerson had Drebber's purse in his pocket,
but it seems that this was usual, as he did all the paying.
There was eighty odd pounds in it, but nothing had been
taken. Whatever the motives of these extraordinary crimes,
robbery is certainly not one of them. There were no papers
or memoranda in the murdered man's pocket, except a single
telegram, dated from Cleveland about a month ago, and
containing the words, `J. H. is in Europe.' There was no
name appended to this message."
"And there was nothing else?" Holmes asked.
page 98 / 205
"Nothing of any importance. The man's novel, with which he
had read himself to sleep was lying upon the bed, and his
pipe was on a chair beside him. There was a glass of water
on the table, and on the window-sill a small chip ointment
box containing a couple of pills."
Sherlock Holmes sprang from his chair with an exclamation
of delight.
"The last link," he cried, exultantly. "My case is complete."
The two detectives stared at him in amazement.
"I have now in my hands," my companion said, confidently,
"all the threads which have formed such a tangle. There are,
of course, details to be filled in, but I am as certain of
all the main facts, from the time that Drebber parted from
Stangerson at the station, up to the discovery of the body of
the latter, as if I had seen them with my own eyes. I will
give you a proof of my knowledge. Could you lay your hand
upon those pills?"
"I have them," said Lestrade, producing a small white box;
"I took them and the purse and the telegram, intending to have
them put in a place of safety at the Police Station. It was
page 99 / 205
the merest chance my taking these pills, for I am bound to
say that I do not attach any importance to them."
"Give them here," said Holmes. "Now, Doctor," turning to me,
"are those ordinary pills?"
They certainly were not. They were of a pearly grey colour,
small, round, and almost transparent against the light.
"From their lightness and transparency, I should imagine that
they are soluble in water," I remarked.
"Precisely so," answered Holmes. "Now would you mind going
down and fetching that poor little devil of a terrier which
has been bad so long, and which the landlady wanted you to
put out of its pain yesterday."
I went downstairs and carried the dog upstair in my arms.
It's laboured breathing and glazing eye showed that it was
not far from its end. Indeed, its snow-white muzzle
proclaimed that it had already exceeded the usual term of
canine existence. I placed it upon a cushion on the rug.
"I will now cut one of these pills in two," said Holmes,
and drawing his penknife he suited the action to the word.
"One half we return into the box for future purposes.
page 100 / 205
The other half I will place in this wine glass, in which
is a teaspoonful of water. You perceive that our friend,
the Doctor, is right, and that it readily dissolves."
"This may be very interesting," said Lestrade, in the injured
tone of one who suspects that he is being laughed at,
"I cannot see, however, what it has to do with the death of
Mr. Joseph Stangerson."
"Patience, my friend, patience! You will find in time that
it has everything to do with it. I shall now add a little
milk to make the mixture palatable, and on presenting it to
the dog we find that he laps it up readily enough."
As he spoke he turned the contents of the wine glass into a
saucer and placed it in front of the terrier, who speedily
licked it dry. Sherlock Holmes' earnest demeanour had so far
convinced us that we all sat in silence, watching the animal
intently, and expecting some startling effect. None such
appeared, however. The dog continued to lie stretched upon
tho {16} cushion, breathing in a laboured way, but apparently
neither the better nor the worse for its draught.
Holmes had taken out his watch, and as minute followed minute
without result, an expression of the utmost chagrin and
disappointment appeared upon his features. He gnawed his lip,
page 101 / 205
drummed his fingers upon the table, and showed every
other symptom of acute impatience. So great was his emotion,
that I felt sincerely sorry for him, while the two detectives
smiled derisively, by no means displeased at this check which
he had met.
"It can't be a coincidence," he cried, at last springing from
his chair and pacing wildly up and down the room; "it is
impossible that it should be a mere coincidence. The very
pills which I suspected in the case of Drebber are actually
found after the death of Stangerson. And yet they are inert.
What can it mean? Surely my whole chain of reasoning cannot
have been false. It is impossible! And yet this wretched
dog is none the worse. Ah, I have it! I have it!" With a
perfect shriek of delight he rushed to the box, cut the other
pill in two, dissolved it, added milk, and presented it to
the terrier. The unfortunate creature's tongue seemed hardly
to have been moistened in it before it gave a convulsive
shiver in every limb, and lay as rigid and lifeless as if it
had been struck by lightning.
Sherlock Holmes drew a long breath, and wiped the
perspiration from his forehead. "I should have more faith,"
he said; "I ought to know by this time that when a fact
appears to be opposed to a long train of deductions,
it invariably proves to be capable of bearing some other
interpretation. Of the two pills in that box one was of the
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most deadly poison, and the other was entirely harmless.
I ought to have known that before ever I saw the box at all."
This last statement appeared to me to be so startling,
that I could hardly believe that he was in his sober senses.
There was the dead dog, however, to prove that his conjecture
had been correct. It seemed to me that the mists in my own
mind were gradually clearing away, and I began to have a dim,
vague perception of the truth.
"All this seems strange to you," continued Holmes,
"because you failed at the beginning of the inquiry to grasp
the importance of the single real clue which was presented
to you. I had the good fortune to seize upon that, and
everything which has occurred since then has served to
confirm my original supposition, and, indeed, was the logical
sequence of it. Hence things which have perplexed you and
made the case more obscure, have served to enlighten me and
to strengthen my conclusions. It is a mistake to confound
strangeness with mystery. The most commonplace crime is
often the most mysterious because it presents no new or
special features from which deductions may be drawn.
This murder would have been infinitely more difficult to
unravel had the body of the victim been simply found lying
in the roadway without any of those _outre_ {17} and sensational
accompaniments which have rendered it remarkable. These
strange details, far from making the case more difficult,
page 103 / 205
have really had the effect of making it less so."
Mr. Gregson, who had listened to this address with
considerable impatience, could contain himself no longer.
"Look here, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he said, "we are all ready
to acknowledge that you are a smart man, and that you have
your own methods of working. We want something more than
mere theory and preaching now, though. It is a case of
taking the man. I have made my case out, and it seems I was
wrong. Young Charpentier could not have been engaged in this
second affair. Lestrade went after his man, Stangerson, and
it appears that he was wrong too. You have thrown out hints
here, and hints there, and seem to know more than we do, but
the time has come when we feel that we have a right to ask
you straight how much you do know of the business. Can you
name the man who did it?"
"I cannot help feeling that Gregson is right, sir," remarked
Lestrade. "We have both tried, and we have both failed.
You have remarked more than once since I have been in the room
that you had all the evidence which you require. Surely you
will not withhold it any longer."
"Any delay in arresting the assassin," I observed,
"might give him time to perpetrate some fresh atrocity."
page 104 / 205
Thus pressed by us all, Holmes showed signs of irresolution.
He continued to walk up and down the room with his head sunk
on his chest and his brows drawn down, as was his habit when
lost in thought.
"There will be no more murders," he said at last, stopping
abruptly and facing us. "You can put that consideration out
of the question. You have asked me if I know the name of the
assassin. I do. The mere knowing of his name is a small
thing, however, compared with the power of laying our hands
upon him. This I expect very shortly to do. I have good
hopes of managing it through my own arrangements; but it is a
thing which needs delicate handling, for we have a shrewd and
desperate man to deal with, who is supported, as I have had
occasion to prove, by another who is as clever as himself.
As long as this man has no idea that anyone can have a clue
there is some chance of securing him; but if he had the
slightest suspicion, he would change his name, and vanish in
an instant among the four million inhabitants of this great
city. Without meaning to hurt either of your feelings, I am
bound to say that I consider these men to be more than a
match for the official force, and that is why I have not
asked your assistance. If I fail I shall, of course, incur
all the blame due to this omission; but that I am prepared
for. At present I am ready to promise that the instant that
I can communicate with you without endangering my own
combinations, I shall do so."
page 105 / 205
Gregson and Lestrade seemed to be far from satisfied by this
assurance, or by the depreciating allusion to the detective
police. The former had flushed up to the roots of his flaxen
hair, while the other's beady eyes glistened with curiosity
and resentment. Neither of them had time to speak, however,
before there was a tap at the door, and the spokesman of the
street Arabs, young Wiggins, introduced his insignificant and
unsavoury person.
"Please, sir," he said, touching his forelock, "I have the
cab downstairs."
"Good boy," said Holmes, blandly. "Why don't you introduce
this pattern at Scotland Yard?" he continued, taking a pair
of steel handcuffs from a drawer. "See how beautifully the
spring works. They fasten in an instant."
"The old pattern is good enough," remarked Lestrade,
"if we can only find the man to put them on."
"Very good, very good," said Holmes, smiling. "The cabman may
as well help me with my boxes. Just ask him to step up, Wiggins."
I was surprised to find my companion speaking as though he
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were about to set out on a journey, since he had not said
anything to me about it. There was a small portmanteau in
the room, and this he pulled out and began to strap. He was
busily engaged at it when the cabman entered the room.
"Just give me a help with this buckle, cabman," he said,
kneeling over his task, and never turning his head.
The fellow came forward with a somewhat sullen, defiant air,
and put down his hands to assist. At that instant there was
a sharp click, the jangling of metal, and Sherlock Holmes
sprang to his feet again.
"Gentlemen," he cried, with flashing eyes, "let me introduce
you to Mr. | In this story as of now, who do you think is most likely to be the killer? Choose from the below options: | 0. Brinvilliers
1. Jefferson Hope
2. WE
3. Quite
4. Majesty | The suspect is Jefferson Hope | 29,423 |
I
am inclined to think—” said I.
“I should do so,” Sherlock Holmes re-
marked impatiently.
I believe that I am one of the most long-
suffering of mortals; but I’ll admit that I was annoyed
at the sardonic interruption.
“Really, Holmes,” said I severely, “you are a little
trying at times.”
He was too much absorbed with his own thoughts
to give any immediate answer to my remonstrance.
He leaned upon his hand, with his untasted breakfast
before him, and he stared at the slip of paper which
he had just drawn from its envelope. Then he took
the envelope itself, held it up to the light, and very
carefully studied both the exterior and the flap.
“It is Porlock’s writing,” said he thoughtfully. “I
can hardly doubt that it is Porlock’s writing, though
I have seen it only twice before. The Greek e with
the peculiar top flourish is distinctive. But if it is
Porlock, then it must be something of the very first
importance.”
He was speaking to himself rather than to me; but
my vexation disappeared in the interest which the
words awakened.
“Who then is Porlock?” I asked.
“Porlock, Watson, is a nom-de-plume, a mere iden-
tification mark; but behind it lies a shifty and evasive
personality. In a former letter he frankly informed me
that the name was not his own, and defied me ever
to trace him among the teeming millions of this great
city. Porlock is important, not for himself, but for
the great man with whom he is in touch. Picture to
yourself the pilot fish with the shark, the jackal with
the lion—anything that is insignificant in companion-
ship with what is formidable: not only formidable,
Watson, but sinister—in the highest degree sinister.
That is where he comes within my purview. You have
heard me speak of Professor Moriarty?”
“The famous scientific criminal, as famous among
crooks as—”
“My blushes, Watson!” Holmes murmured in a
deprecating voice.
“I was about to say, as he is unknown to the pub-
lic.”
“A touch! A distinct touch!” cried Holmes. “You
are developing a certain unexpected vein of pawky
humour, Watson, against which I must learn to guard
myself. But in calling Moriarty a criminal you are
uttering libel in the eyes of the law—and there lie the
glory and the wonder of it! The greatest schemer of
all time, the organizer of every deviltry, the control-
ling brain of the underworld, a brain which might
have made or marred the destiny of nations—that’s
the man! But so aloof is he from general suspicion, so
immune from criticism, so admirable in his manage-
ment and self-effacement, that for those very words
that you have uttered he could hale you to a court and
emerge with your year’s pension as a solatium for his
wounded character. Is he not the celebrated author
of The Dynamics of an Asteroid, a book which ascends
to such rarefied heights of pure mathematics that it
is said that there was no man in the scientific press
capable of criticizing it? Is this a man to traduce?
Foul-mouthed doctor and slandered professor—such
would be your respective roles! That’s genius, Watson.
But if I am spared by lesser men, our day will surely
come.”
“May I be there to see!” I exclaimed devoutly. “But
you were speaking of this man Porlock.”
“Ah, yes—the so-called Porlock is a link in the
chain some little way from its great attachment. Por-
lock is not quite a sound link—between ourselves. He
is the only flaw in that chain so far as I have been able
to test it.”
“But no chain is stronger than its weakest link.”
“Exactly, my dear Watson! Hence the extreme
importance of Porlock. Led on by some rudimen-
tary aspirations towards right, and encouraged by
the judicious stimulation of an occasional ten-pound
note sent to him by devious methods, he has once or
twice given me advance information which has been
of value—that highest value which anticipates and
prevents rather than avenges crime. I cannot doubt
that, if we had the cipher, we should find that this
communication is of the nature that I indicate.”
Again Holmes flattened out the paper upon his
unused plate. I rose and, leaning over him, stared
down at the curious inscription, which ran as follows:
534 C2 13 127 36 31 4 17 21 41
DOUGLAS 109 293 5 37 BIRLSTONE
26 BIRLSTONE 9 47 171
5
“What do you make of it, Holmes?”
“It is obviously an attempt to convey secret infor-
mation.”
“But what is the use of a cipher message without
the cipher?”
“In this instance, none at all.”
“Why do you say ‘in this instance’?”
“Because there are many ciphers which I would
read as easily as I do the apocrypha of the agony
column: such crude devices amuse the intelligence
without fatiguing it. But this is different. It is clearly a
reference to the words in a page of some book. Until I
am told which page and which book I am powerless.”
“But why ‘Douglas’ and ‘Birlstone’?”
“Clearly because those are words which were not
contained in the page in question.”
“Then why has he not indicated the book?”
“Your native shrewdness, my dear Watson, that
innate cunning which is the delight of your friends,
would surely prevent you from inclosing cipher and
message in the same envelope. Should it miscarry,
you are undone. As it is, both have to go wrong
before any harm comes from it. Our second post is
now overdue, and I shall be surprised if it does not
bring us either a further letter of explanation, or, as
is more probable, the very volume to which these
figures refer.”
Holmes’s calculation was fulfilled within a very
few minutes by the appearance of Billy, the page, with
the very letter which we were expecting.
“The same writing,” remarked Holmes, as he
opened the envelope, “and actually signed,” he added
in an exultant voice as he unfolded the epistle. “Come,
we are getting on, Watson.” His brow clouded, how-
ever, as he glanced over the contents.
“Dear me, this is very disappointing! I fear, Wat-
son, that all our expectations come to nothing. I trust
that the man Porlock will come to no harm.
“Dear Mr. Holmes [he says]:
“I will go no further in this matter. It
is too dangerous—he suspects me. I can
see that he suspects me. He came to me
quite unexpectedly after I had actually ad-
dressed this envelope with the intention
of sending you the key to the cipher. I
was able to cover it up. If he had seen it,
it would have gone hard with me. But I
read suspicion in his eyes. Please burn the
cipher message, which can now be of no
use to you.
— “Fred Porlock.”
Holmes sat for some little time twisting this letter
between his fingers, and frowning, as he stared into
the fire.
“After all,” he said at last, “there may be nothing
in it. It may be only his guilty conscience. Knowing
himself to be a traitor, he may have read the accusa-
tion in the other’s eyes.”
“The other being, I presume, Professor Moriarty.”
“No less! When any of that party talk about ‘He’
you know whom they mean. There is one predomi-
nant ‘He’ for all of them.”
“But what can he do?”
“Hum! That’s a large question. When you have
one of the first brains of Europe up against you, and
all the powers of darkness at his back, there are infi-
nite possibilities. Anyhow, Friend Porlock is evidently
scared out of his senses—kindly compare the writing
in the note to that upon its envelope; which was done,
he tells us, before this ill-omened visit. The one is
clear and firm. The other hardly legible.”
“Why did he write at all? Why did he not simply
drop it?”
“Because he feared I would make some inquiry
after him in that case, and possibly bring trouble on
him.”
“No doubt,” said I. “Of course.” I had picked
up the original cipher message and was bending my
brows over it. “It’s pretty maddening to think that
an important secret may lie here on this slip of paper,
and that it is beyond human power to penetrate it.”
Sherlock Holmes had pushed away his untasted
breakfast and lit the unsavoury pipe which was the
companion of his deepest meditations. “I wonder!”
said he, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. “Per-
haps there are points which have escaped your Machi-
avellian intellect. Let us consider the problem in the
light of pure reason. This man’s reference is to a book.
That is our point of departure.”
“A somewhat vague one.”
“Let us see then if we can narrow it down. As I
focus my mind upon it, it seems rather less impene-
trable. What indications have we as to this book?”
“None.”
“Well, well, it is surely not quite so bad as that.
The cipher message begins with a large 534, does it
not? We may take it as a working hypothesis that
534 is the particular page to which the cipher refers.
So our book has already become a large book which
6
is surely something gained. What other indications
have we as to the nature of this large book? The next
sign is C2. What do you make of that, Watson?”
“Chapter the second, no doubt.”
“Hardly that, Watson. You will, I am sure, agree
with me that if the page be given, the number of the
chapter is immaterial. Also that if page 534 finds us
only in the second chapter, the length of the first one
must have been really intolerable.”
“Column!” I cried.
“Brilliant, Watson. You are scintillating this morn-
ing. If it is not column, then I am very much deceived.
So now, you see, we begin to visualize a large book
printed in double columns which are each of a con-
siderable length, since one of the words is numbered
in the document as the two hundred and ninety-third.
Have we reached the limits of what reason can sup-
ply?”
“I fear that we have.”
“Surely you do yourself an injustice. One more cor-
uscation, my dear Watson—yet another brain-wave!
Had the volume been an unusual one, he would have
sent it to me. Instead of that, he had intended, before
his plans were nipped, to send me the clue in this
envelope. He says so in his note. This would seem
to indicate that the book is one which he thought I
would have no difficulty in finding for myself. He
had it—and he imagined that I would have it, too. In
short, Watson, it is a very common book.”
“What you say certainly sounds plausible.”
“So we have contracted our field of search to a
large book, printed in double columns and in com-
mon use.”
“The Bible!” I cried triumphantly.
“Good, Watson, good! But not, if I may say so,
quite good enough! Even if I accepted the compliment
for myself I could hardly name any volume which
would be less likely to lie at the elbow of one of Mo-
riarty’s associates. Besides, the editions of Holy Writ
are so numerous that he could hardly suppose that
two copies would have the same pagination. This is
clearly a book which is standardized. He knows for
certain that his page 534 will exactly agree with my
page 534.”
“But very few books would correspond with that.”
“Exactly. Therein lies our salvation. Our search is
narrowed down to standardized books which anyone
may be supposed to possess.”
“Bradshaw!”
“There are difficulties, Watson. The vocabulary of
Bradshaw is nervous and terse, but limited. The selec-
tion of words would hardly lend itself to the sending
of general messages. We will eliminate Bradshaw.
The dictionary is, I fear, inadmissible for the same
reason. What then is left?”
“An almanac!”
“Excellent, Watson! I am very much mistaken if
you have not touched the spot. An almanac! Let us
consider the claims of Whitaker’s Almanac. It is in
common use. It has the requisite number of pages. It
is in double column. Though reserved in its earlier
vocabulary, it becomes, if I remember right, quite gar-
rulous towards the end.” He picked the volume from
his desk. “Here is page 534, column two, a substan-
tial block of print dealing, I perceive, with the trade
and resources of British India. Jot down the words,
Watson! Number thirteen is ‘Mahratta.’ Not, I fear, a
very auspicious beginning. Number one hundred and
twenty-seven is ‘Government’; which at least makes
sense, though somewhat irrelevant to ourselves and
Professor Moriarty. Now let us try again. What does
the Mahratta government do? Alas! the next word is
‘pig’s-bristles.’ We are undone, my good Watson! It is
finished!”
He had spoken in jesting vein, but the twitching
of his bushy eyebrows bespoke his disappointment
and irritation. I sat helpless and unhappy, staring
into the fire. A long silence was broken by a sudden
exclamation from Holmes, who dashed at a cupboard,
from which he emerged with a second yellow-covered
volume in his hand.
“We pay the price, Watson, for being too up-to-
date!” he cried. “We are before our time, and suffer
the usual penalties. Being the seventh of January, we
have very properly laid in the new almanac. It is more
than likely that Porlock took his message from the old
one. No doubt he would have told us so had his letter
of explanation been written. Now let us see what page
534 has in store for us. Number thirteen is ‘There,’
which is much more promising. Number one hundred
and twenty-seven is ‘is’—‘There is’ ”—Holmes’s eyes
were gleaming with excitement, and his thin, nervous
fingers twitched as he counted the words—“ ‘danger.’
Ha! Ha! Capital! Put that down, Watson. ‘There
is danger—may—come—very—soon—one.’
Then
we have the name ‘Douglas’—‘rich—country—now—
at—Birlstone—House—Birlstone—confidence—is—
pressing.’ There, Watson! What do you think of pure
reason and its fruit? If the greengrocer had such a
thing as a laurel wreath, I should send Billy round
for it.”
7
I was staring at the strange message which I had
scrawled, as he deciphered it, upon a sheet of foolscap
on my knee.
“What a queer, scrambling way of expressing his
meaning!” said I.
“On the contrary, he has done quite remarkably
well,” said Holmes. “When you search a single col-
umn for words with which to express your meaning,
you can hardly expect to get everything you want.
You are bound to leave something to the intelligence
of your correspondent. The purport is perfectly clear.
Some deviltry is intended against one Douglas, who-
ever he may be, residing as stated, a rich country
gentleman. He is sure—‘confidence’ was as near as
he could get to ‘confident’—that it is pressing. There
is our result—and a very workmanlike little bit of
analysis it was!”
Holmes had the impersonal joy of the true artist
in his better work, even as he mourned darkly when
it fell below the high level to which he aspired. He
was still chuckling over his success when Billy swung
open the door and Inspector MacDonald of Scotland
Yard was ushered into the room.
Those were the early days at the end of the ’80’s,
when Alec MacDonald was far from having attained
the national fame which he has now achieved. He was
a young but trusted member of the detective force,
who had distinguished himself in several cases which
had been entrusted to him. His tall, bony figure gave
promise of exceptional physical strength, while his
great cranium and deep-set, lustrous eyes spoke no
less clearly of the keen intelligence which twinkled
out from behind his bushy eyebrows. He was a silent,
precise man with a dour nature and a hard Aberdo-
nian accent.
Twice already in his career had Holmes helped
him to attain success, his own sole reward being the
intellectual joy of the problem. For this reason the
affection and respect of the Scotchman for his ama-
teur colleague were profound, and he showed them
by the frankness with which he consulted Holmes
in every difficulty. Mediocrity knows nothing higher
than itself; but talent instantly recognizes genius, and
MacDonald had talent enough for his profession to
enable him to perceive that there was no humiliation
in seeking the assistance of one who already stood
alone in Europe, both in his gifts and in his experi-
ence. Holmes was not prone to friendship, but he was
tolerant of the big Scotchman, and smiled at the sight
of him.
“You are an early bird, Mr. Mac,” said he. “I wish
you luck with your worm. I fear this means that there
is some mischief afoot.”
“If you said ‘hope’ instead of ‘fear,’ it would be
nearer the truth, I’m thinking, Mr. Holmes,” the in-
spector answered, with a knowing grin. “Well, maybe
a wee nip would keep out the raw morning chill. No,
I won’t smoke, I thank you. I’ll have to be pushing on
my way; for the early hours of a case are the precious
ones, as no man knows better than your own self.
But—but—”
The inspector had stopped suddenly, and was star-
ing with a look of absolute amazement at a paper
upon the table. It was the sheet upon which I had
scrawled the enigmatic message.
“Douglas!” he stammered. “Birlstone! What’s this,
Mr. Holmes? Man, it’s witchcraft! Where in the name
of all that is wonderful did you get those names?”
“It is a cipher that Dr. Watson and I have had
occasion to solve. But why—what’s amiss with the
names?”
The inspector looked from one to the other of us
in dazed astonishment. “Just this,” said he, “that
Mr. Douglas of Birlstone Manor House was horribly
murdered last night!”
8
CHAPTER II.
Sherlock Holmes Discourses
It was one of those dramatic moments for which
my friend existed. It would be an overstatement to say
that he was shocked or even excited by the amazing
announcement. Without having a tinge of cruelty in
his singular composition, he was undoubtedly callous
from long over-stimulation. Yet, if his emotions were
dulled, his intellectual perceptions were exceedingly
active. There was no trace then of the horror which
I had myself felt at this curt declaration; but his face
showed rather the quiet and interested composure of
the chemist who sees the crystals falling into position
from his oversaturated solution.
“Remarkable!” said he. “Remarkable!”
“You don’t seem surprised.”
“Interested, Mr. Mac, but hardly surprised. Why
should I be surprised? I receive an anonymous com-
munication from a quarter which I know to be im-
portant, warning me that danger threatens a certain
person. Within an hour I learn that this danger has ac-
tually materialized and that the person is dead. I am
interested; but, as you observe, I am not surprised.”
In a few short sentences he explained to the in-
spector the facts about the letter and the cipher. Mac-
Donald sat with his chin on his hands and his great
sandy eyebrows bunched into a yellow tangle.
“I was going down to Birlstone this morning,”
said he. “I had come to ask you if you cared to come
with me—you and your friend here. But from what
you say we might perhaps be doing better work in
London.”
“I rather think not,” said Holmes.
“Hang it all, Mr. Holmes!” cried the inspector.
“The papers will be full of the Birlstone mystery in a
day or two; but where’s the mystery if there is a man
in London who prophesied the crime before ever it
occurred? We have only to lay our hands on that man,
and the rest will follow.”
“No doubt, Mr. Mac. But how do you propose to
lay your hands on the so-called Porlock?”
MacDonald turned over the letter which Holmes
had handed him.
“Posted in Camberwell—that
doesn’t help us much. Name, you say, is assumed.
Not much to go on, certainly. Didn’t you say that you
have sent him money?”
“Twice.”
“And how?”
“In notes to Camberwell post-office.”
“Did you ever trouble to see who called for them?”
“No.”
The inspector looked surprised and a little
shocked. “Why not?”
“Because I always keep faith.
I had promised
when he first wrote that I would not try to trace him.”
“You think there is someone behind him?”
“I know there is.”
“This professor that I’ve heard you mention?”
“Exactly!”
Inspector MacDonald smiled, and his eyelid quiv-
ered as he glanced towards me. “I won’t conceal from
you, Mr. Holmes, that we think in the C. I. D. that
you have a wee bit of a bee in your bonnet over this
professor. I made some inquiries myself about the
matter. He seems to be a very respectable, learned,
and talented sort of man.”
“I’m glad you’ve got so far as to recognize the
talent.”
“Man, you can’t but recognize it! After I heard
your view I made it my business to see him. I had a
chat with him on eclipses. How the talk got that way
I canna think; but he had out a reflector lantern and a
globe, and made it all clear in a minute. He lent me a
book; but I don’t mind saying that it was a bit above
my head, though I had a good Aberdeen upbringing.
He’d have made a grand meenister with his thin face
and gray hair and solemn-like way of talking. When
he put his hand on my shoulder as we were parting,
it was like a father’s blessing before you go out into
the cold, cruel world.”
Holmes chuckled and rubbed his hands. “Great!”
he said. “Great! Tell me, Friend MacDonald, this
pleasing and touching interview was, I suppose, in
the professor’s study?”
“That’s so.”
“A fine room, is it not?”
“Very fine—very handsome indeed, Mr. Holmes.”
“You sat in front of his writing desk?”
“Just so.”
“Sun in your eyes and his face in the shadow?”
“Well, it was evening; but I mind that the lamp
was turned on my face.”
“It would be. Did you happen to observe a picture
over the professor’s head?”
9
“I don’t miss much, Mr. Holmes. Maybe I learned
that from you. Yes, I saw the picture—a young woman
with her head on her hands, peeping at you side-
ways.”
“That painting was by Jean Baptiste Greuze.”
The inspector endeavoured to look interested.
“Jean Baptiste Greuze,” Holmes continued, joining
his finger tips and leaning well back in his chair, “was
a French artist who flourished between the years 1750
and 1800. I allude, of course to his working career.
Modern criticism has more than indorsed the high
opinion formed of him by his contemporaries.”
The inspector’s eyes grew abstracted. “Hadn’t we
better—” he said.
“We are doing so,” Holmes interrupted. “All that
I am saying has a very direct and vital bearing upon
what you have called the Birlstone Mystery. In fact, it
may in a sense be called the very centre of it.”
MacDonald smiled feebly, and looked appealingly
to me. “Your thoughts move a bit too quick for me,
Mr. Holmes. You leave out a link or two, and I can’t
get over the gap. What in the whole wide world can
be the connection between this dead painting man
and the affair at Birlstone?”
“All knowledge comes useful to the detective,”
remarked Holmes. “Even the trivial fact that in the
year 1865 a picture by Greuze entitled La Jeune Fille
a l’Agneau fetched one million two hundred thou-
sand francs—more than forty thousand pounds—at
the Portalis sale may start a train of reflection in your
mind.”
It was clear that it did. The inspector looked hon-
estly interested.
“I may remind you,” Holmes continued, “that the
professor’s salary can be ascertained in several trust-
worthy books of reference.
It is seven hundred a
year.”
“Then how could he buy—”
“Quite so! How could he?”
“Ay,
that’s
remarkable,”
said
the
inspector
thoughtfully. “Talk away, Mr. Holmes. I’m just loving
it. It’s fine!”
Holmes smiled. He was always warmed by gen-
uine admiration—the characteristic of the real artist.
“What about Birlstone?” he asked.
“We’ve time yet,” said the inspector, glancing at
his watch. “I’ve a cab at the door, and it won’t take us
twenty minutes to Victoria. But about this picture: I
thought you told me once, Mr. Holmes, that you had
never met Professor Moriarty.”
“No, I never have.”
“Then how do you know about his rooms?”
“Ah, that’s another matter. I have been three times
in his rooms, twice waiting for him under different
pretexts and leaving before he came. Once—well, I
can hardly tell about the once to an official detective.
It was on the last occasion that I took the liberty of
running over his papers—with the most unexpected
results.”
“You found something compromising?”
“Absolutely nothing. That was what amazed me.
However, you have now seen the point of the picture.
It shows him to be a very wealthy man. How did
he acquire wealth? He is unmarried. His younger
brother is a station master in the west of England. His
chair is worth seven hundred a year. And he owns a
Greuze.”
“Well?”
“Surely the inference is plain.”
“You mean that he has a great income and that he
must earn it in an illegal fashion?”
“Exactly.
Of course I have other reasons for
thinking so—dozens of exiguous threads which lead
vaguely up towards the centre of the web where the
poisonous, motionless creature is lurking. I only men-
tion the Greuze because it brings the matter within
the range of your own observation.”
“Well, Mr. Holmes, I admit that what you say is
interesting: it’s more than interesting—it’s just won-
derful. But let us have it a little clearer if you can. Is
it forgery, coining, burglary—where does the money
come from?”
“Have you ever read of Jonathan Wild?”
“Well, the name has a familiar sound. Someone
in a novel, was he not? I don’t take much stock of
detectives in novels—chaps that do things and never
let you see how they do them. That’s just inspiration:
not business.”
“Jonathan Wild wasn’t a detective, and he wasn’t
in a novel. He was a master criminal, and he lived
last century—1750 or thereabouts.”
“Then he’s no use to me. I’m a practical man.”
“Mr. Mac, the most practical thing that you ever
did in your life would be to shut yourself up for three
months and read twelve hours a day at the annals of
crime. Everything comes in circles—even Professor
Moriarty. Jonathan Wild was the hidden force of the
10
London criminals, to whom he sold his brains and his
organization on a fifteen per cent commission. The
old wheel turns, and the same spoke comes up. It’s
all been done before, and will be again. I’ll tell you
one or two things about Moriarty which may interest
you.”
“You’ll interest me, right enough.”
“I happen to know who is the first link in his
chain—a chain with this Napoleon-gone-wrong at
one end, and a hundred broken fighting men, pick-
pockets, blackmailers, and card sharpers at the other,
with every sort of crime in between. His chief of staff
is Colonel Sebastian Moran, as aloof and guarded and
inaccessible to the law as himself. What do you think
he pays him?”
“I’d like to hear.”
“Six thousand a year. That’s paying for brains,
you see—the American business principle. I learned
that detail quite by chance. It’s more than the Prime
Minister gets. That gives you an idea of Moriarty’s
gains and of the scale on which he works. Another
point: I made it my business to hunt down some
of Moriarty’s checks lately—just common innocent
checks that he pays his household bills with. They
were drawn on six different banks. Does that make
any impression on your mind?”
“Queer, certainly! But what do you gather from
it?”
“That he wanted no gossip about his wealth. No
single man should know what he had. I have no
doubt that he has twenty banking accounts; the bulk
of his fortune abroad in the Deutsche Bank or the
Credit Lyonnais as likely as not. Sometime when you
have a year or two to spare I commend to you the
study of Professor Moriarty.”
Inspector MacDonald had grown steadily more
impressed as the conversation proceeded. He had lost
himself in his interest. Now his practical Scotch intel-
ligence brought him back with a snap to the matter
in hand.
“He can keep, anyhow,” said he.
“You’ve got
us side-tracked with your interesting anecdotes, Mr.
Holmes.
What really counts is your remark that
there is some connection between the professor and
the crime. That you get from the warning received
through the man Porlock. Can we for our present
practical needs get any further than that?”
“We may form some conception as to the motives
of the crime. It is, as I gather from your original
remarks, an inexplicable, or at least an unexplained,
murder. Now, presuming that the source of the crime
is as we suspect it to be, there might be two different
motives. In the first place, I may tell you that Moriarty
rules with a rod of iron over his people. His disci-
pline is tremendous. There is only one punishment
in his code. It is death. Now we might suppose that
this murdered man—this Douglas whose approaching
fate was known by one of the arch-criminal’s subor-
dinates—had in some way betrayed the chief. His
punishment followed, and would be known to all—if
only to put the fear of death into them.”
“Well, that is one suggestion, Mr. Holmes.”
“The other is that it has been engineered by Mo-
riarty in the ordinary course of business. Was there
any robbery?”
“I have not heard.”
“If so, it would, of course, be against the first hy-
pothesis and in favour of the second. Moriarty may
have been engaged to engineer it on a promise of part
spoils, or he may have been paid so much down to
manage it. Either is possible. But whichever it may
be, or if it is some third combination, it is down at
Birlstone that we must seek the solution. I know our
man too well to suppose that he has left anything up
here which may lead us to him.”
“Then to Birlstone we must go!” cried MacDonald,
jumping from his chair. “My word! it’s later than I
thought. I can give you, gentlemen, five minutes for
preparation, and that is all.”
“And ample for us both,” said Holmes, as he
sprang up and hastened to change from his dress-
ing gown to his coat. “While we are on our way, Mr.
Mac, I will ask you to be good enough to tell me all
about it.”
“All about it” proved to be disappointingly little,
and yet there was enough to assure us that the case
before us might well be worthy of the expert’s closest
attention. He brightened and rubbed his thin hands
together as he listened to the meagre but remarkable
details. A long series of sterile weeks lay behind us,
and here at last there was a fitting object for those re-
markable powers which, like all special gifts, become
irksome to their owner when they are not in use. That
razor brain blunted and rusted with inaction.
Sherlock Holmes’s eyes glistened, his pale cheeks
took a warmer hue, and his whole eager face shone
with an inward light when the call for work reached
him. Leaning forward in the cab, he listened intently
to MacDonald’s short sketch of the problem which
11
awaited us in Sussex. The inspector was himself de-
pendent, as he explained to us, upon a scribbled ac-
count forwarded to him by the milk train in the early
hours of the morning. White Mason, the local officer,
was a personal friend, and hence MacDonald had
been notified much more promptly than is usual at
Scotland Yard when provincials need their assistance.
It is a very cold scent upon which the Metropolitan
expert is generally asked to run.
“Dear Inspector MacDonald [said the
letter which he read to us]:
“Official requisition for your services is
in separate envelope. This is for your pri-
vate eye. Wire me what train in the morn-
ing you can get for Birlstone, and I will
meet it—or have it met if I am too occu-
pied. This case is a snorter. Don’t waste
a moment in getting started. If you can
bring Mr. Holmes, please do so; for he
will find something after his own heart.
We would think the whole thing had been
fixed up for theatrical effect if there wasn’t
a dead man in the middle of it. My word!
it is a snorter.“
“Your friend seems to be no fool,” remarked
Holmes.
“No, sir, White Mason is a very live man, if I am
any judge.”
“Well, have you anything more?”
“Only that he will give us every detail when we
meet.”
“Then how did you get at Mr. Douglas and the
fact that he had been horribly murdered?”
“That was in the enclosed official report. It didn’t
say ‘horrible’: that’s not a recognized official term. It
gave the name John Douglas. It mentioned that his
injuries had been in the head, from the discharge of
a shotgun. It also mentioned the hour of the alarm,
which was close on to midnight last night. It added
that the case was undoubtedly one of murder, but
that no arrest had been made, and that the case was
one which presented some very perplexing and ex-
traordinary features. That’s absolutely all we have at
present, Mr. Holmes.”
“Then, with your permission, we will leave it at
that, Mr. Mac. The temptation to form premature
theories upon insufficient data is the bane of our
profession. I can see only two things for certain at
present—a great brain in London, and a dead man in
Sussex. It’s the chain between that we are going to
trace.”
CHAPTER III.
The Tragedy of Birlstone
Now for a moment I will ask leave to remove my
own insignificant personality and to describe events
which occurred before we arrived upon the scene by
the light of knowledge which came to us afterwards.
Only in this way can I make the reader appreciate the
people concerned and the strange setting in which
their fate was cast.
The village of Birlstone is a small and very an-
cient cluster of half-timbered cottages on the northern
border of the county of Sussex. For centuries it had
remained unchanged; but within the last few years its
picturesque appearance and situation have attracted
a number of well-to-do residents, whose villas peep
out from the woods around. These woods are locally
supposed to be the extreme fringe of the great Weald
forest, which thins away until it reaches the northern
chalk downs. A number of small shops have come
into being to meet the wants of the increased popu-
lation; so there seems some prospect that Birlstone
may soon grow from an ancient village into a mod-
ern town. It is the centre for a considerable area of
country, since Tunbridge Wells, the nearest place of
importance, is ten or twelve miles to the eastward,
over the borders of Kent.
About half a mile from the town, standing in an
old park famous for its huge beech trees, is the an-
cient Manor House of Birlstone. Part of this venerable
building dates back to the time of the first crusade,
12
when Hugo de Capus built a fortalice in the centre of
the estate, which had been granted to him by the Red
King. This was destroyed by fire in 1543, and some of
its smoke-blackened corner stones were used when,
in Jacobean times, a brick country house rose upon
the ruins of the feudal castle.
The Manor House, with its many gables and its
small diamond-paned windows, was still much as the
builder had left it in the early seventeenth century.
Of the double moats which had guarded its more
warlike predecessor, the outer had been allowed to
dry up, and served the humble function of a kitchen
garden. The inner one was still there, and lay forty
feet in breadth, though now only a few feet in depth,
round the whole house. A small stream fed it and
continued beyond it, so that the sheet of water, though
turbid, was never ditch-like or unhealthy. The ground
floor windows were within a foot of the surface of the
water.
The only approach to the house was over a draw-
bridge, the chains and windlass of which had long
been rusted and broken. The latest tenants of the
Manor House had, however, with characteristic en-
ergy, set this right, and the drawbridge was not only
capable of being raised, but actually was raised ev-
ery evening and lowered every morning. By thus
renewing the custom of the old feudal days the
Manor House was converted into an island during the
night—a fact which had a very direct bearing upon
the mystery which was soon to engage the attention
of all England.
The house had been untenanted for some years
and was threatening to moulder into a picturesque
decay when the Douglases took possession of it. This
family consisted of only two individuals—John Dou-
glas and his wife. Douglas was a remarkable man,
both in character and in person. In age he may have
been about fifty, with a strong-jawed, rugged face, a
grizzling moustache, peculiarly keen gray eyes, and
a wiry, vigorous figure which had lost nothing of the
strength and activity of youth. He was cheery and
genial to all, but somewhat offhand in his manners,
giving the impression that he had seen life in social
strata on some far lower horizon than the county
society of Sussex.
Yet, though looked at with some curiosity and
reserve by his more cultivated neighbours, he soon
acquired a great popularity among the villagers, sub-
scribing handsomely to all local objects, and attending
their smoking concerts and other functions, where,
having a remarkably rich tenor voice, he was always
ready to oblige with an excellent song. He appeared
to have plenty of money, which was said to have been
gained in the California gold fields, and it was clear
from his own talk and that of his wife that he had
spent a part of his life in America.
The good impression which had been produced
by his generosity and by his democratic manners was
increased by a reputation gained for utter indifference
to danger. Though a wretched rider, he turned out
at every meet, and took the most amazing falls in his
determination to hold his own with the best. When
the vicarage caught fire he distinguished himself also
by the fearlessness with which he reentered the build-
ing to save property, after the local fire brigade had
given it up as impossible. Thus it came about that
John Douglas of the Manor House had within five
years won himself quite a reputation in Birlstone.
His wife, too, was popular with those who had
made her acquaintance; though, after the English
fashion, the callers upon a stranger who settled in
the county without introductions were few and far
between. This mattered the less to her, as she was
retiring by disposition, and very much absorbed, to
all appearance, in her husband and her domestic du-
ties. It was known that she was an English lady who
had met Mr. Douglas in London, he being at that time
a widower. She was a beautiful woman, tall, dark,
and slender, some twenty years younger than her hus-
band, a disparity which seemed in no wise to mar the
contentment of their family life.
It was remarked sometimes, however, by those
who knew them best, that the confidence between the
two did not appear to be complete, since the wife was
either very reticent about her husband’s past life, or
else, as seemed more likely, was imperfectly informed
about it.
It had also been noted and commented
upon by a few observant people that there were signs
sometimes of some nerve-strain upon the part of Mrs.
Douglas, and that she would display acute uneasiness
if her absent husband should ever be particularly late
in his return. On a quiet countryside, where all gossip
is welcome, this weakness of the lady of the Manor
House did not pass without remark, and it bulked
larger upon people’s memory when the events arose
which gave it a very special significance.
There was yet another individual whose residence
under that roof was, it is true, only an intermittent
one, but whose presence at the time of the strange
happenings which will now be narrated brought his
name prominently before the public. This was Cecil
James Barker, of Hales Lodge, Hampstead.
Cecil Barker’s tall, loose-jointed figure was a fa-
miliar one in the main street of Birlstone village;
13
for he was a frequent and welcome visitor at the
Manor House. He was the more noticed as being the
only friend of the past unknown life of Mr. Douglas
who was ever seen in his new English surroundings.
Barker was himself an undoubted Englishman; but by
his remarks it was clear that he had first known Dou-
glas in America and had there lived on intimate terms
with him. He appeared to be a man of considerable
wealth, and was reputed to be a bachelor.
In age he was rather younger than Douglas—forty-
five at the most—a tall, straight, broad-chested fellow
with a clean-shaved, prize-fighter face, thick, strong,
black eyebrows, and a pair of masterful black eyes
which might, even without the aid of his very ca-
pable hands, clear a way for him through a hostile
crowd. He neither rode nor shot, but spent his days
in wandering round the old village with his pipe in
his mouth, or in driving with his host, or in his ab-
sence with his hostess, over the beautiful countryside.
“An easy-going, free-handed gentleman,” said Ames,
the butler. “But, my word! I had rather not be the
man that crossed him!” He was cordial and intimate
with Douglas, and he was no less friendly with his
wife—a friendship which more than once seemed to
cause some irritation to the husband, so that even the
servants were able to perceive his annoyance. Such
was the third person who was one of the family when
the catastrophe occurred.
As to the other denizens of the old building, it
will suffice out of a large household to mention the
prim, respectable, and capable Ames, and Mrs. Allen,
a buxom and cheerful person, who relieved the lady
of some of her household cares. The other six servants
in the house bear no relation to the events of the night
of January 6th.
It was at eleven forty-five that the first alarm
reached the small local police station, in charge of
Sergeant Wilson of the Sussex Constabulary. Cecil
Barker, much excited, had rushed up to the door and
pealed furiously upon the bell. A terrible tragedy
had occurred at the Manor House, and John Douglas
had been murdered. That was the breathless burden
of his message. He had hurried back to the house,
followed within a few minutes by the police sergeant,
who arrived at the scene of the crime a little after
twelve o’clock, after taking prompt steps to warn the
county authorities that something serious was afoot.
On reaching the Manor House, the sergeant had
found the drawbridge down, the windows lighted up,
and the whole household in a state of wild confusion
and alarm. The white-faced servants were huddling
together in the hall, with the frightened butler wring-
ing his hands in the doorway.
Only Cecil Barker
seemed to be master of himself and his emotions; he
had opened the door which was nearest to the en-
trance and he had beckoned to the sergeant to follow
him. At that moment there arrived Dr. Wood, a brisk
and capable general practitioner from the village. The
three men entered the fatal room together, while the
horror-stricken butler followed at their heels, closing
the door behind him to shut out the terrible scene
from the maid servants.
The dead man lay on his back, sprawling with
outstretched limbs in the centre of the room. He was
clad only in a pink dressing gown, which covered
his night clothes. There were carpet slippers on his
bare feet. The doctor knelt beside him and held down
the hand lamp which had stood on the table. One
glance at the victim was enough to show the healer
that his presence could be dispensed with. The man
had been horribly injured. Lying across his chest was
a curious weapon, a shotgun with the barrel sawed
off a foot in front of the triggers. It was clear that this
had been fired at close range and that he had received
the whole charge in the face, blowing his head almost
to pieces. The triggers had been wired together, so as
to make the simultaneous discharge more destructive.
The country policeman was unnerved and trou-
bled by the tremendous responsibility which had
come so suddenly upon him. “We will touch nothing
until my superiors arrive,” he said in a hushed voice,
staring in horror at the dreadful head.
“Nothing has been touched up to now,” said Cecil
Barker. “I’ll answer for that. You see it all exactly as I
found it.”
“When was that?” The sergeant had drawn out his
notebook.
“It was just half-past eleven. I had not begun to
undress, and I was sitting by the fire in my bedroom
when I heard the report. It was not very loud—it
seemed to be muffled. I rushed down—I don’t sup-
pose it was thirty seconds before I was in the room.”
“Was the door open?”
“Yes, it was open. Poor Douglas was lying as
you see him. His bedroom candle was burning on
the table. It was I who lit the lamp some minutes
afterward.”
“Did you see no one?”
“No. I heard Mrs. Douglas coming down the stair
behind me, and I rushed out to prevent her from see-
ing this dreadful sight. Mrs. Allen, the housekeeper,
came and took her away. Ames had arrived, and we
ran back into the room once more.”
14
“But surely I have heard that the drawbridge is
kept up all night.”
“Yes, it was up until I lowered it.”
“Then how could any murderer have got away? It
is out of the question! Mr. Douglas must have shot
himself.”
“That was our first idea. But see!” Barker drew
aside the curtain, and showed that the long, diamond-
paned window was open to its full extent. “And look
at this!” He held the lamp down and illuminated a
smudge of blood like the mark of a boot-sole upon
the wooden sill. “Someone has stood there in getting
out.”
“You mean that someone waded across the moat?”
“Exactly!”
“Then if you were in the room within half a minute
of the crime, he must have been in the water at that
very moment.”
“I have not a doubt of it. I wish to heaven that I
had rushed to the window! But the curtain screened
it, as you can see, and so it never occurred to me.
Then I heard the step of Mrs. Douglas, and I could
not let her enter the room. It would have been too
horrible.”
“Horrible enough!” said the doctor, looking at
the shattered head and the terrible marks which sur-
rounded it. “I’ve never seen such injuries since the
Birlstone railway smash.”
“But, I say,” remarked the police sergeant, whose
slow, bucolic common sense was still pondering the
open window. “It’s all very well your saying that a
man escaped by wading this moat, but what I ask
you is, how did he ever get into the house at all if the
bridge was up?”
“Ah, that’s the question,” said Barker.
“At what o’clock was it raised?”
“It was nearly six o’clock,” said Ames, the butler.
“I’ve heard,” said the sergeant, “that it was usually
raised at sunset. That would be nearer half-past four
than six at this time of year.”
“Mrs. Douglas had visitors to tea,” said Ames. “I
couldn’t raise it until they went. Then I wound it up
myself.”
“Then it comes to this,” said the sergeant: “If any-
one came from outside—if they did—they must have
got in across the bridge before six and been in hiding
ever since, until Mr. Douglas came into the room after
eleven.”
“That is so! Mr. Douglas went round the house
every night the last thing before he turned in to see
that the lights were right. That brought him in here.
The man was waiting and shot him. Then he got
away through the window and left his gun behind
him. That’s how I read it; for nothing else will fit the
facts.”
The sergeant picked up a card which lay beside
the dead man on the floor. The initials V. V. and un-
der them the number 341 were rudely scrawled in ink
upon it.
“What’s this?” he asked, holding it up.
Barker looked at it with curiosity. “I never noticed
it before,” he said. “The murderer must have left it
behind him.”
“V. V.—341. I can make no sense of that.”
The sergeant kept turning it over in his big fingers.
“What’s V. V.? Somebody’s initials, maybe. What have
you got there, Dr. Wood?”
It was a good-sized hammer which had been ly-
ing on the rug in front of the fireplace—a substantial,
workmanlike hammer. Cecil Barker pointed to a box
of brass-headed nails upon the mantelpiece.
“Mr. Douglas was altering the pictures yesterday,”
he said. “I saw him myself, standing upon that chair
and fixing the big picture above it. That accounts for
the hammer.”
“We’d best put it back on the rug where we found
it,” said the sergeant, scratching his puzzled head in
his perplexity. “It will want the best brains in the
force to get to the bottom of this thing. It will be a
London job before it is finished.” He raised the hand
lamp and walked slowly round the room. “Hullo!”
he cried, excitedly, drawing the window curtain to
one side. “What o’clock were those curtains drawn?”
“When the lamps were lit,” said the butler. “It
would be shortly after four.”
“Someone had been hiding here, sure enough.”
He held down the light, and the marks of muddy
boots were very visible in the corner. “I’m bound to
say this bears out your theory, Mr. Barker. It looks as
if the man got into the house after four when the cur-
tains were drawn and before six when the bridge was
raised. He slipped into this room, because it was the
first that he saw. There was no other place where he
could hide, so he popped in behind this curtain. That
all seems clear enough. It is likely that his main idea
was to burgle the house; but Mr. Douglas chanced to
come upon him, so he murdered him and escaped.”
“That’s how I read it,” said Barker. “But, I say,
aren’t we wasting precious time? Couldn’t we start
15
out and scour the country before the fellow gets
away?”
The sergeant considered for a moment.
“There are no trains before six in the morning; so
he can’t get away by rail. If he goes by road with his
legs all dripping, it’s odds that someone will notice
him. Anyhow, I can’t leave here myself until I am
relieved. But I think none of you should go until we
see more clearly how we all stand.”
The doctor had taken the lamp and was narrowly
scrutinizing the body. “What’s this mark?” he asked.
“Could this have any connection with the crime?”
The dead man’s right arm was thrust out from
his dressing gown, and exposed as high as the elbow.
About halfway up the forearm was a curious brown
design, a triangle inside a circle, standing out in vivid
relief upon the lard-coloured skin.
“It’s not tattooed,” said the doctor, peering
through his glasses. “I never saw anything like it. The
man has been branded at some time as they brand
cattle. What is the meaning of this?”
“I don’t profess to know the meaning of it,” said
Cecil Barker; “but I have seen the mark on Douglas
many times this last ten years.”
“And so have I,” said the butler. “Many a time
when the master has rolled up his sleeves I have no-
ticed that very mark. I’ve often wondered what it
could be.”
“Then it has nothing to do with the crime, any-
how,” said the sergeant. “But it’s a rum thing all the
same. Everything about this case is rum. Well, what
is it now?”
The butler had given an exclamation of astonish-
ment and was pointing at the dead man’s outstretched
hand.
“They’ve taken his wedding ring!” he gasped.
“What!”
“Yes, indeed. Master always wore his plain gold
wedding ring on the little finger of his left hand. That
ring with the rough nugget on it was above it, and
the twisted snake ring on the third finger. There’s the
nugget and there’s the snake, but the wedding ring is
gone.”
“He’s right,” said Barker.
“Do you tell me,” said the sergeant, “that the wed-
ding ring was below the other?”
“Always!”
“Then the murderer, or whoever it was, first took
off this ring you call the nugget ring, then the wed-
ding ring, and afterwards put the nugget ring back
again.”
“That is so!”
The worthy country policeman shook his head.
“Seems to me the sooner we get London on to this
case the better,” said he. “White Mason is a smart
man. No local job has ever been too much for White
Mason. It won’t be long now before he is here to help
us. But I expect we’ll have to look to London before
we are through. Anyhow, I’m not ashamed to say that
it is a deal too thick for the likes of me.”
CHAPTER IV.
Darkness
At three in the morning the chief Sussex detective,
obeying the urgent call from Sergeant Wilson of Birl-
stone, arrived from headquarters in a light dog-cart
behind a breathless trotter. By the five-forty train in
the morning he had sent his message to Scotland Yard,
and he was at the Birlstone station at twelve o’clock to
welcome us. White Mason was a quiet, comfortable-
looking person in a loose tweed suit, with a clean-
shaved, ruddy face, a stoutish body, and powerful
bandy legs adorned with gaiters, looking like a small
farmer, a retired gamekeeper, or anything upon earth
except a very favourable specimen of the provincial
criminal officer.
“A real downright snorter, Mr. MacDonald!” he
kept repeating. “We’ll have the pressmen down like
flies when they understand it. I’m hoping we will
get our work done before they get poking their noses
into it and messing up all the trails. There has been
16
nothing like this that I can remember. There are some
bits that will come home to you, Mr. Holmes, or I am
mistaken. And you also, Dr. Watson; for the medicos
will have a word to say before we finish. Your room
is at the Westville Arms. There’s no other place; but
I hear that it is clean and good. The man will carry
your bags. This way, gentlemen, if you please.”
He was a very bustling and genial person, this
Sussex detective. In ten minutes we had all found
our quarters. In ten more we were seated in the par-
lour of the inn and being treated to a rapid sketch
of those events which have been outlined in the pre-
vious chapter. MacDonald made an occasional note,
while Holmes sat absorbed, with the expression of
surprised and reverent admiration with which the
botanist surveys the rare and precious bloom.
“Remarkable!” he said, when the story was un-
folded, “most remarkable! I can hardly recall any case
where the features have been more peculiar.”
“I thought you would say so, Mr. Holmes,” said
White Mason in great delight. “We’re well up with the
times in Sussex. I’ve told you now how matters were,
up to the time when I took over from Sergeant Wilson
between three and four this morning. My word! I
made the old mare go! But I need not have been in
such a hurry, as it turned out; for there was nothing
immediate that I could do. Sergeant Wilson had all
the facts. I checked them and considered them and
maybe added a few of my own.”
“What were they?” asked Holmes eagerly.
“Well, I first had the hammer examined. There
was Dr. Wood there to help me. We found no signs
of violence upon it. I was hoping that if Mr. Douglas
defended himself with the hammer, he might have
left his mark upon the murderer before he dropped it
on the mat. But there was no stain.”
“That, of course, proves nothing at all,” remarked
Inspector MacDonald. “There has been many a ham-
mer murder and no trace on the hammer.”
“Quite so. It doesn’t prove it wasn’t used. But
there might have been stains, and that would have
helped us. As a matter of fact there were none. Then
I examined the gun. They were buckshot cartridges,
and, as Sergeant Wilson pointed out, the triggers were
wired together so that, if you pulled on the hinder
one, both barrels were discharged. Whoever fixed
that up had made up his mind that he was going to
take no chances of missing his man. The sawed gun
was not more than two foot long—one could carry
it easily under one’s coat. There was no complete
maker’s name; but the printed letters P-E-N were on
the fluting between the barrels, and the rest of the
name had been cut off by the saw.”
“A big P with a flourish above it, E and N smaller?”
asked Holmes.
“Exactly.”
“Pennsylvania
Small
Arms
Company—well-
known American firm,” said Holmes.
White Mason gazed at my friend as the little vil-
lage practitioner looks at the Harley Street specialist
who by a word can solve the difficulties that perplex
him.
“That is very helpful, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you
are right. Wonderful! Wonderful! Do you carry the
names of all the gun makers in the world in your
memory?”
Holmes dismissed the subject with a wave.
“No doubt it is an American shotgun,” White Ma-
son continued. “I seem to have read that a sawed-off
shotgun is a weapon used in some parts of America.
Apart from the name upon the barrel, the idea had
occurred to me. There is some evidence then, that
this man who entered the house and killed its master
was an American.”
MacDonald shook his head. “Man, you are surely
travelling overfast,” said he. “I have heard no evi-
dence yet that any stranger was ever in the house at
all.”
“The open window, the blood on the sill, the queer
card, the marks of boots in the corner, the gun!”
“Nothing there that could not have been arranged.
Mr. Douglas was an American, or had lived long in
America. So had Mr. Barker. You don’t need to im-
port an American from outside in order to account
for American doings.”
“Ames, the butler—”
“What about him? Is he reliable?”
“Ten years with Sir Charles Chandos—as solid as
a rock. He has been with Douglas ever since he took
the Manor House five years ago. He has never seen a
gun of this sort in the house.”
“The gun was made to conceal. That’s why the
barrels were sawed. It would fit into any box. How
could he swear there was no such gun in the house?”
“Well, anyhow, he had never seen one.”
MacDonald shook his obstinate Scotch head. “I’m
not convinced yet that there was ever anyone in the
house,” said he. “I’m asking you to conseedar” (his
accent became more Aberdonian as he lost himself in
his argument) “I’m asking you to conseedar what it in-
volves if you suppose that this gun was ever brought
17
into the house, and that all these strange things were
done by a person from outside. Oh, man, it’s just
inconceivable! It’s clean against common sense! I put
it to you, Mr. Holmes, judging it by what we have
heard.”
“Well, state your case, Mr. Mac,” said Holmes in
his most judicial style.
“The man is not a burglar, supposing that he ever
existed. The ring business and the card point to pre-
meditated murder for some private reason. Very good.
Here is a man who slips into a house with the delib-
erate intention of committing murder. He knows, if
he knows anything, that he will have a deeficulty in
making his escape, as the house is surrounded with
water. What weapon would he choose? You would
say the most silent in the world. Then he could hope
when the deed was done to slip quickly from the win-
dow, to wade the moat, and to get away at his leisure.
That’s understandable. But is it understandable that
he should go out of his way to bring with him the
most noisy weapon he could select, knowing well that
it will fetch every human being in the house to the
spot as quick as they can run, and that it is all odds
that he will be seen before he can get across the moat?
Is that credible, Mr. Holmes?”
“Well, you put the case strongly,” my friend
replied thoughtfully. “It certainly needs a good deal
of justification. May I ask, Mr. White Mason, whether
you examined the farther side of the moat at once to
see if there were any signs of the man having climbed
out from the water?”
“There were no signs, Mr. Holmes. But it is a stone
ledge, and one could hardly expect them.”
“No tracks or marks?”
“None.”
“Ha! Would there be any objection, Mr. White Ma-
son, to our going down to the house at once? There
may possibly be some small point which might be
suggestive.”
“I was going to propose it, Mr. Holmes; but I
thought it well to put you in touch with all the facts
before we go. I suppose if anything should strike
you—” White Mason looked doubtfully at the ama-
teur.
“I have worked with Mr. Holmes before,” said
Inspector MacDonald. “He plays the game.”
“My own idea of the game, at any rate,” said
Holmes, with a smile. “I go into a case to help the
ends of justice and the work of the police. If I have
ever separated myself from the official force, it is be-
cause they have first separated themselves from me.
I have no wish ever to score at their expense. At
the same time, Mr. White Mason, I claim the right to
work in my own way and give my results at my own
time—complete rather than in stages.”
“I am sure we are honoured by your presence and
to show you all we know,” said White Mason cordially.
“Come along, Dr. Watson, and when the time comes
we’ll all hope for a place in your book.”
We walked down the quaint village street with a
row of pollarded elms on each side of it. Just beyond
were two ancient stone pillars, weather-stained and
lichen-blotched bearing upon their summits a shape-
less something which had once been the rampant lion
of Capus of Birlstone. A short walk along the wind-
ing drive with such sward and oaks around it as one
only sees in rural England, then a sudden turn, and
the long, low Jacobean house of dingy, liver-coloured
brick lay before us, with an old-fashioned garden of
cut yews on each side of it. As we approached it,
there was the wooden drawbridge and the beautiful
broad moat as still and luminous as quicksilver in the
cold, winter sunshine.
Three centuries had flowed past the old Manor
House, centuries of births and of homecomings, of
country dances and of the meetings of fox hunters.
Strange that now in its old age this dark business
should have cast its shadow upon the venerable walls!
And yet those strange, peaked roofs and quaint, over-
hung gables were a fitting covering to grim and terri-
ble intrigue. As I looked at the deep-set windows and
the long sweep of the dull-coloured, water-lapped
front, I felt that no more fitting scene could be set for
such a tragedy.
“That’s the window,” said White Mason, “that one
on the immediate right of the drawbridge. It’s open
just as it was found last night.”
“It looks rather narrow for a man to pass.”
“Well, it wasn’t a fat man, anyhow. We don’t need
your deductions, Mr. Holmes, to tell us that. But you
or I could squeeze through all right.”
Holmes walked to the edge of the moat and looked
across. Then he examined the stone ledge and the
grass border beyond it.
“I’ve had a good look, Mr. Holmes,” said White
Mason. “There is nothing there, no sign that anyone
has landed—but why should he leave any sign?”
“Exactly. Why should he? Is the water always
turbid?”
18
“Generally about this colour. The stream brings
down the clay.”
“How deep is it?”
“About two feet at each side and three in the mid-
dle.”
“So we can put aside all idea of the man having
been drowned in crossing.”
“No, a child could not be drowned in it.”
We walked across the drawbridge, and were ad-
mitted by a quaint, gnarled, dried-up person, who
was the butler, Ames. The poor old fellow was white
and quivering from the shock. The village sergeant,
a tall, formal, melancholy man, still held his vigil in
the room of Fate. The doctor had departed.
“Anything fresh, Sergeant Wilson?” asked White
Mason.
“No, sir.”
“Then you can go home. You’ve had enough. We
can send for you if we want you. The butler had better
wait outside. Tell him to warn Mr. Cecil Barker, Mrs.
Douglas, and the housekeeper that we may want a
word with them presently. Now, gentlemen, perhaps
you will allow me to give you the views I have formed
first, and then you will be able to arrive at your own.”
He impressed me, this country specialist. He had
a solid grip of fact and a cool, clear, common-sense
brain, which should take him some way in his profes-
sion. Holmes listened to him intently, with no sign of
that impatience which the official exponent too often
produced.
“Is it suicide, or is it murder—that’s our first ques-
tion, gentlemen, is it not? If it were suicide, then we
have to believe that this man began by taking off his
wedding ring and concealing it; that he then came
down here in his dressing gown, trampled mud into
a corner behind the curtain in order to give the idea
someone had waited for him, opened the window,
put blood on the—”
“We can surely dismiss that,” said MacDonald.
“So I think. Suicide is out of the question. Then a
murder has been done. What we have to determine
is, whether it was done by someone outside or inside
the house.”
“Well, let’s hear the argument.”
“There are considerable difficulties both ways, and
yet one or the other it must be. We will suppose first
that some person or persons inside the house did
the crime. They got this man down here at a time
when everything was still and yet no one was asleep.
They then did the deed with the queerest and noisi-
est weapon in the world so as to tell everyone what
had happened—a weapon that was never seen in the
house before. That does not seem a very likely start,
does it?”
“No, it does not.”
“Well, then, everyone is agreed that after the alarm
was given only a minute at the most had passed be-
fore the whole household—not Mr. Cecil Barker alone,
though he claims to have been the first, but Ames and
all of them were on the spot. Do you tell me that in
that time the guilty person managed to make foot-
marks in the corner, open the window, mark the sill
with blood, take the wedding ring off the dead man’s
finger, and all the rest of it? It’s impossible!”
“You put it very clearly,” said Holmes.
“I am
inclined to agree with you.”
“Well, then, we are driven back to the theory that
it was done by someone from outside. We are still
faced with some big difficulties; but anyhow they
have ceased to be impossibilities. The man got into
the house between four-thirty and six; that is to say,
between dusk and the time when the bridge was
raised. There had been some visitors, and the door
was open; so there was nothing to prevent him. He
may have been a common burglar, or he may have
had some private grudge against Mr. Douglas. Since
Mr. Douglas has spent most of his life in America,
and this shotgun seems to be an American weapon,
it would seem that the private grudge is the more
likely theory. He slipped into this room because it
was the first he came to, and he hid behind the curtain.
There he remained until past eleven at night. At that
time Mr. Douglas entered the room. It was a short
interview, if there were any interview at all; for Mrs.
Douglas declares that her husband had not left her
more than a few minutes when she heard the shot.”
“The candle shows that,” said Holmes.
“Exactly. The candle, which was a new one, is not
burned more than half an inch. He must have placed
it on the table before he was attacked; otherwise, of
course, it would have fallen when he fell. This shows
that he was not attacked the instant that he entered
the room. When Mr. Barker arrived the candle was lit
and the lamp was out.”
“That’s all clear enough.”
“Well, now, we can reconstruct things on those
lines. Mr. Douglas enters the room. He puts down
the candle. A man appears from behind the curtain.
He is armed with this gun. He demands the wed-
ding ring—Heaven only knows why, but so it must
have been. Mr. Douglas gave it up. Then either in
19
cold blood or in the course of a struggle—Douglas
may have gripped the hammer that was found upon
the mat—he shot Douglas in this horrible way. He
dropped his gun and also it would seem this queer
card—V. V. 341, whatever that may mean—and he
made his escape through the window and across the
moat at the very moment when Cecil Barker was
discovering the crime. How’s that, Mr. Holmes?”
“Very interesting, but just a little unconvincing.”
“Man, it would be absolute nonsense if it wasn’t
that anything else is even worse!” cried MacDonald.
“Somebody killed the man, and whoever it was I
could clearly prove to you that he should have done
it some other way. What does he mean by allowing
his retreat to be cut off like that? What does he mean
by using a shotgun when silence was his one chance
of escape? Come, Mr. Holmes, it’s up to you to give
us a lead, since you say Mr. White Mason’s theory is
unconvincing.”
Holmes had sat intently observant during this long
discussion, missing no word that was said, with his
keen eyes darting to right and to left, and his forehead
wrinkled with speculation.
“I should like a few more facts before I get so far as
a theory, Mr. Mac,” said he, kneeling down beside the
body. “Dear me! these injuries are really appalling.
Can we have the butler in for a moment? . . . Ames, I
understand that you have often seen this very unusual
mark—a branded triangle inside a circle—upon Mr.
Douglas’s forearm?”
“Frequently, sir.”
“You never heard any speculation as to what it
meant?”
“No, sir.”
“It must have caused great pain when it was in-
flicted. It is undoubtedly a burn. Now, I observe,
Ames, that there is a small piece of plaster at the
angle of Mr. Douglas’s jaw. Did you observe that in
life?”
“Yes, sir, he cut himself in shaving yesterday morn-
ing.”
“Did you ever know him to cut himself in shaving
before?”
“Not for a very long time, sir.”
“Suggestive!” said Holmes. “It may, of course,
be a mere coincidence, or it may point to some ner-
vousness which would indicate that he had reason
to apprehend danger. Had you noticed anything un-
usual in his conduct, yesterday, Ames?”
“It struck me that he was a little restless and ex-
cited, sir.”
“Ha! The attack may not have been entirely unex-
pected. We do seem to make a little progress, do we
not? Perhaps you would rather do the questioning,
Mr. Mac?”
“No, Mr. Holmes, it’s in better hands than mine.”
“Well, then, we will pass to this card—V. V. 341. It
is rough cardboard. Have you any of the sort in the
house?”
“I don’t think so.”
Holmes walked across to the desk and dabbed a
little ink from each bottle on to the blotting paper. “It
was not printed in this room,” he said; “this is black
ink and the other purplish. It was done by a thick
pen, and these are fine. No, it was done elsewhere, I
should say. Can you make anything of the inscription,
Ames?”
“No, sir, nothing.”
“What do you think, Mr. Mac?”
“It gives me the impression of a secret society of
some sort; the same with his badge upon the fore-
arm.”
“That’s my idea, too,” said White Mason.
“Well, we can adopt it as a working hypothesis
and then see how far our difficulties disappear. An
agent from such a society makes his way into the
house, waits for Mr. Douglas, blows his head nearly
off with this weapon, and escapes by wading the moat,
after leaving a card beside the dead man, which will
when mentioned in the papers, tell other members of
the society that vengeance has been done. That all
hangs together. But why this gun, of all weapons?”
“Exactly.”
“And why the missing ring?”
“Quite so.”
“And why no arrest? It’s past two now. I take it
for granted that since dawn every constable within
forty miles has been looking out for a wet stranger?”
“That is so, Mr. Holmes.”
“Well, unless he has a burrow close by or a change
of clothes ready, they can hardly miss him. And yet
they have missed him up to now!” Holmes had gone
to the window and was examining with his lens the
blood mark on the sill. “It is clearly the tread of a
shoe. It is remarkably broad; a splay-foot, one would
say. Curious, because, so far as one can trace any
footmark in this mud-stained corner, one would say it
was a more shapely sole. However, they are certainly
very indistinct. What’s this under the side table?”
“Mr. Douglas’s dumb-bells,” said Ames.
20
“Dumb-bell—there’s only one.
Where’s the
other?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Holmes. There may have been
only one. I have not noticed them for months.”
“One dumb-bell—” Holmes said seriously; but his
remarks were interrupted by a sharp knock at the
door.
A tall, sunburned, capable-looking, clean-shaved
man looked in at us. I had no difficulty in guessing
that it was the Cecil Barker of whom I had heard. His
masterful eyes travelled quickly with a questioning
glance from face to face.
“Sorry to interrupt your consultation,” said he,
“but you should hear the latest news.”
“An arrest?”
“No such luck. But they’ve found his bicycle. The
fellow left his bicycle behind him. Come and have a
look. It is within a hundred yards of the hall door.”
We found three or four grooms and idlers stand-
ing in the drive inspecting a bicycle which had been
drawn out from a clump of evergreens in which it had
been concealed. It was a well used Rudge-Whitworth,
splashed as from a considerable journey. There was a
saddlebag with spanner and oilcan, but no clue as to
the owner.
“It would be a grand help to the police,” said the
inspector, “if these things were numbered and regis-
tered. But we must be thankful for what we’ve got. If
we can’t find where he went to, at least we are likely
to get where he came from. But what in the name of
all that is wonderful made the fellow leave it behind?
And how in the world has he got away without it?
We don’t seem to get a gleam of light in the case, Mr.
Holmes.”
“Don’t we?” my friend answered thoughtfully. “I
wonder!”
CHAPTER V.
The People Of the Drama
“Have you seen all you want of the study?” asked
White Mason as we reentered the house.
“For the time,” said the inspector, and Holmes
nodded.
“Then perhaps you would now like to hear the ev-
idence of some of the people in the house. We could
use the dining-room, Ames. Please come yourself first
and tell us what you know.”
The butler’s account was a simple and a clear one,
and he gave a convincing impression of sincerity. He
had been engaged five years before, when Douglas
first came to Birlstone. He understood that Mr. Dou-
glas was a rich gentleman who had made his money
in America. He had been a kind and considerate em-
ployer—not quite what Ames was used to, perhaps;
but one can’t have everything. He never saw any signs
of apprehension in Mr. Douglas: on the contrary, he
was the most fearless man he had ever known. He
ordered the drawbridge to be pulled up every night
because it was the ancient custom of the old house,
and he liked to keep the old ways up.
Mr. Douglas seldom went to London or left the
village; but on the day before the crime he had been
shopping at Tunbridge Wells. He (Ames) had ob-
served some restlessness and excitement on the part
of Mr. Douglas that day; for he had seemed impatient
and irritable, which was unusual with him. He had
not gone to bed that night; but was in the pantry at
the back of the house, putting away the silver, when
he heard the bell ring violently. He heard no shot;
but it was hardly possible he would, as the pantry
and kitchens were at the very back of the house and
there were several closed doors and a long passage
between. The housekeeper had come out of her room,
attracted by the violent ringing of the bell. They had
gone to the front of the house together.
As they reached the bottom of the stair he had
seen Mrs. Douglas coming down it. No, she was not
hurrying; it did not seem to him that she was particu-
larly agitated. Just as she reached the bottom of the
stair Mr. Barker had rushed out of the study. He had
stopped Mrs. Douglas and begged her to go back.
“For God’s sake, go back to your room!” he cried.
21
“Poor Jack is dead! You can do nothing. For God’s
sake, go back!”
After some persuasion upon the stairs Mrs. Dou-
glas had gone back. She did not scream. She made
no outcry whatever. Mrs. Allen, the housekeeper, had
taken her upstairs and stayed with her in the bed-
room. Ames and Mr. Barker had then returned to the
study, where they had found everything exactly as the
police had seen it. The candle was not lit at that time;
but the lamp was burning. They had looked out of
the window; but the night was very dark and nothing
could be seen or heard. They had then rushed out
into the hall, where Ames had turned the windlass
which lowered the drawbridge. Mr. Barker had then
hurried off to get the police.
Such, in its essentials, was the evidence of the
butler.
The account of Mrs. Allen, the housekeeper, was,
so far as it went, a corroboration of that of her fellow
servant. The housekeeper’s room was rather nearer
to the front of the house than the pantry in which
Ames had been working. She was preparing to go to
bed when the loud ringing of the bell had attracted
her attention. She was a little hard of hearing. Per-
haps that was why she had not heard the shot; but
in any case the study was a long way off. She re-
membered hearing some sound which she imagined
to be the slamming of a door. That was a good deal
earlier—half an hour at least before the ringing of the
bell. When Mr. Ames ran to the front she went with
him. She saw Mr. Barker, very pale and excited, come
out of the study. He intercepted Mrs. Douglas, who
was coming down the stairs. He entreated her to go
back, and she answered him, but what she said could
not be heard.
“Take her up! Stay with her!” he had said to Mrs.
Allen.
She had therefore taken her to the bedroom, and
endeavoured to soothe her. She was greatly excited,
trembling all over, but made no other attempt to go
downstairs. She just sat in her dressing gown by
her bedroom fire, with her head sunk in her hands.
Mrs. Allen stayed with her most of the night. As to
the other servants, they had all gone to bed, and the
alarm did not reach them until just before the police
arrived. They slept at the extreme back of the house,
and could not possibly have heard anything.
So far the housekeeper could add nothing on cross-
examination save lamentations and expressions of
amazement.
Cecil Barker succeeded Mrs. Allen as a witness.
As to the occurrences of the night before, he had very
little to add to what he had already told the police.
Personally, he was convinced that the murderer had
escaped by the window. The bloodstain was conclu-
sive, in his opinion, on that point. Besides, as the
bridge was up, there was no other possible way of
escaping. He could not explain what had become of
the assassin or why he had not taken his bicycle, if
it were indeed his. He could not possibly have been
drowned in the moat, which was at no place more
than three feet deep.
In his own mind he had a very definite theory
about the murder. Douglas was a reticent man, and
there were some chapters in his life of which he never
spoke. He had emigrated to America when he was a
very young man. He had prospered well, and Barker
had first met him in California, where they had be-
come partners in a successful mining claim at a place
called Benito Canyon. They had done very well; but
Douglas had suddenly sold out and started for Eng-
land. He was a widower at that time. Barker had
afterwards realized his money and come to live in
London. Thus they had renewed their friendship.
Douglas had given him the impression that some
danger was hanging over his head, and he had always
looked upon his sudden departure from California,
and also his renting a house in so quiet a place in Eng-
land, as being connected with this peril. He imagined
that some secret society, some implacable organiza-
tion, was on Douglas’s track, which would never rest
until it killed him. Some remarks of his had given
him this idea; though he had never told him what the
society was, nor how he had come to offend it. He
could only suppose that the legend upon the placard
had some reference to this secret society.
“How long were you with Douglas in California?”
asked Inspector MacDonald.
“Five years altogether.”
“He was a bachelor, you say?”
“A widower.”
“Have you ever heard where his first wife came
from?”
“No, I remember his saying that she was of Ger-
man extraction, and I have seen her portrait. She was
a very beautiful woman. She died of typhoid the year
before I met him.”
“You don’t associate his past with any particular
part of America?”
“I have heard him talk of Chicago. He knew that
city well and had worked there. I have heard him talk
22
of the coal and iron districts. He had travelled a good
deal in his time.”
“Was he a politician? Had this secret society to do
with politics?”
“No, he cared nothing about politics.”
“You have no reason to think it was criminal?”
“On the contrary, I never met a straighter man in
my life.”
“Was there anything curious about his life in Cali-
fornia?”
“He liked best to stay and to work at our claim in
the mountains. He would never go where other men
were if he could help it. That’s why I first thought
that someone was after him. Then when he left so
suddenly for Europe I made sure that it was so. I
believe that he had a warning of some sort. Within a
week of his leaving half a dozen men were inquiring
for him.”
“What sort of men?”
“Well, they were a mighty hard-looking crowd.
They came up to the claim and wanted to know where
he was. I told them that he was gone to Europe and
that I did not know where to find him. They meant
him no good—it was easy to see that.”
“Were these men Americans—Californians?”
“Well, I don’t know about Californians. They were
Americans, all right. But they were not miners. I
don’t know what they were, and was very glad to see
their backs.”
“That was six years ago?”
“Nearer seven.”
“And then you were together five years in Cali-
fornia, so that this business dates back not less than
eleven years at the least?”
“That is so.”
“It must be a very serious feud that would be kept
up with such earnestness for as long as that. It would
be no light thing that would give rise to it.”
“I think it shadowed his whole life. It was never
quite out of his mind.”
“But if a man had a danger hanging over him, and
knew what it was, don’t you think he would turn to
the police for protection?”
“Maybe it was some danger that he could not be
protected against. There’s one thing you should know.
He always went about armed. His revolver was never
out of his pocket. But, by bad luck, he was in his
dressing gown and had left it in the bedroom last
night. Once the bridge was up, I guess he thought he
was safe.”
“I should like these dates a little clearer,” said
MacDonald. “It is quite six years since Douglas left
California. You followed him next year, did you not?”
“That is so.”
“And he had been married five years. You must
have returned about the time of his marriage.”
“About a month before. I was his best man.”
“Did you know Mrs. Douglas before her mar-
riage?”
“No, I did not. I had been away from England for
ten years.”
“But you have seen a good deal of her since.”
Barker looked sternly at the detective. “I have
seen a good deal of him since,” he answered. “If I
have seen her, it is because you cannot visit a man
without knowing his wife. If you imagine there is any
connection—”
“I imagine nothing, Mr. Barker. I am bound to
make every inquiry which can bear upon the case.
But I mean no offense.”
“Some inquiries are offensive,” Barker answered
angrily.
“It’s only the facts that we want. It is in your
interest and everyone’s interest that they should be
cleared up. Did Mr. Douglas entirely approve your
friendship with his wife?”
Barker grew paler, and his great, strong hands
were clasped convulsively together. “You have no
right to ask such questions!” he cried. “What has this
to do with the matter you are investigating?”
“I must repeat the question.”
“Well, I refuse to answer.”
“You can refuse to answer; but you must be aware
that your refusal is in itself an answer, for you would
not refuse if you had not something to conceal.”
Barker stood for a moment with his face set grimly
and his strong black eyebrows drawn low in intense
thought. Then he looked up with a smile. “Well, I
guess you gentlemen are only doing your clear duty
after all, and I have no right to stand in the way of
it. I’d only ask you not to worry Mrs. Douglas over
this matter; for she has enough upon her just now. I
may tell you that poor Douglas had just one fault in
the world, and that was his jealousy. He was fond
of me—no man could be fonder of a friend. And he
was devoted to his wife. He loved me to come here,
and was forever sending for me. And yet if his wife
and I talked together or there seemed any sympathy
between us, a kind of wave of jealousy would pass
23
over him, and he would be off the handle and saying
the wildest things in a moment. More than once I’ve
sworn off coming for that reason, and then he would
write me such penitent, imploring letters that I just
had to. But you can take it from me, gentlemen, if
it was my last word, that no man ever had a more
loving, faithful wife—and I can say also no friend
could be more loyal than I!”
It was spoken with fervour and feeling, and yet
Inspector MacDonald could not dismiss the subject.
“You are aware,” said he, “that the dead man’s
wedding ring has been taken from his finger?”
“So it appears,” said Barker.
“What do you mean by ‘appears’? You know it as
a fact.”
The man seemed confused and undecided. “When
I said ‘appears’ I meant that it was conceivable that
he had himself taken off the ring.”
“The mere fact that the ring should be absent, who-
ever may have removed it, would suggest to anyone’s
mind, would it not, that the marriage and the tragedy
were connected?”
Barker shrugged his broad shoulders. “I can’t pro-
fess to say what it means.” he answered. “But if you
mean to hint that it could reflect in any way upon
this lady’s honour”—his eyes blazed for an instant,
and then with an evident effort he got a grip upon
his own emotions—“well, you are on the wrong track,
that’s all.”
“I don’t know that I’ve anything else to ask you at
present,” said MacDonald, coldly.
“There was one small point,” remarked Sherlock
Holmes. “When you entered the room there was only
a candle lighted on the table, was there not?”
“Yes, that was so.”
“By its light you saw that some terrible incident
had occurred?”
“Exactly.”
“You at once rang for help?”
“Yes.”
“And it arrived very speedily?”
“Within a minute or so.”
“And yet when they arrived they found that the
candle was out and that the lamp had been lighted.
That seems very remarkable.”
Again Barker showed some signs of indecision. “I
don’t see that it was remarkable, Mr. Holmes,” he
answered after a pause. “The candle threw a very bad
light. My first thought was to get a better one. The
lamp was on the table; so I lit it.”
“And blew out the candle?”
“Exactly.”
Holmes asked no further question, and Barker,
with a deliberate look from one to the other of us,
which had, as it seemed to me, something of defiance
in it, turned and left the room.
Inspector MacDonald had sent up a note to the
effect that he would wait upon Mrs. Douglas in her
room; but she had replied that she would meet us in
the dining room. She entered now, a tall and beauti-
ful woman of thirty, reserved and self-possessed to a
remarkable degree, very different from the tragic and
distracted figure I had pictured. It is true that her face
was pale and drawn, like that of one who has endured
a great shock; but her manner was composed, and the
finely moulded hand which she rested upon the edge
of the table was as steady as my own. Her sad, ap-
pealing eyes travelled from one to the other of us with
a curiously inquisitive expression. That questioning
gaze transformed itself suddenly into abrupt speech.
“Have you found anything out yet?” she asked.
Was it my imagination that there was an under-
tone of fear rather than of hope in the question?
“We have taken every possible step, Mrs. Dou-
glas,” said the inspector. “You may rest assured that
nothing will be neglected.”
“Spare no money,” she said in a dead, even tone.
“It is my desire that every possible effort should be
made.”
“Perhaps you can tell us something which may
throw some light upon the matter.”
“I fear not; but all I know is at your service.”
“We have heard from Mr. Cecil Barker that you
did not actually see—that you were never in the room
where the tragedy occurred?”
“No, he turned me back upon the stairs.
He
begged me to return to my room.”
“Quite so. You had heard the shot, and you had
at once come down.”
“I put on my dressing gown and then came
down.”
“How long was it after hearing the shot that you
were stopped on the stair by Mr. Barker?”
“It may have been a couple of minutes. It is so
hard to reckon time at such a moment. He implored
me not to go on. He assured me that I could do
nothing. Then Mrs. Allen, the housekeeper, led me
upstairs again. It was all like some dreadful dream.”
24
“Can you give us any idea how long your husband
had been downstairs before you heard the shot?”
“No, I cannot say. He went from his dressing
room, and I did not hear him go. He did the round of
the house every night, for he was nervous of fire. It
is the only thing that I have ever known him nervous
of.”
“That is just the point which I want to come to,
Mrs. Douglas. You have known your husband only in
England, have you not?”
“Yes, we have been married five years.”
“Have you heard him speak of anything which
occurred in America and might bring some danger
upon him?”
Mrs. Douglas thought earnestly before she an-
swered. “Yes.” she said at last, “I have always felt that
there was a danger hanging over him. He refused
to discuss it with me. It was not from want of confi-
dence in me—there was the most complete love and
confidence between us—but it was out of his desire
to keep all alarm away from me. He thought I should
brood over it if I knew all, and so he was silent.”
“How did you know it, then?”
Mrs. Douglas’s face lit with a quick smile. “Can
a husband ever carry about a secret all his life and
a woman who loves him have no suspicion of it? I
knew it by his refusal to talk about some episodes in
his American life. I knew it by certain precautions he
took. I knew it by certain words he let fall. I knew it
by the way he looked at unexpected strangers. I was
perfectly certain that he had some powerful enemies,
that he believed they were on his track, and that he
was always on his guard against them. I was so sure
of it that for years I have been terrified if ever he came
home later than was expected.”
“Might I ask,” asked Holmes, “what the words
were which attracted your attention?”
“The Valley of Fear,” the lady answered. “That
was an expression he has used when I questioned
him. ‘I have been in the Valley of Fear. I am not out
of it yet.’—‘Are we never to get out of the Valley of
Fear?’ I have asked him when I have seen him more
serious than usual. ‘Sometimes I think that we never
shall,’ he has answered.”
“Surely you asked him what he meant by the Val-
ley of Fear?”
“I did; but his face would become very grave and
he would shake his head. ‘It is bad enough that one
of us should have been in its shadow,’ he said. ‘Please
God it shall never fall upon you!’ It was some real
valley in which he had lived and in which something
terrible had occurred to him, of that I am certain; but
I can tell you no more.”
“And he never mentioned any names?”
“Yes, he was delirious with fever once when he
had his hunting accident three years ago. Then I re-
member that there was a name that came continually
to his lips. He spoke it with anger and a sort of hor-
ror. McGinty was the name—Bodymaster McGinty.
I asked him when he recovered who Bodymaster
McGinty was, and whose body he was master of.
‘Never of mine, thank God!’
he answered with a
laugh, and that was all I could get from him. But
there is a connection between Bodymaster McGinty
and the Valley of Fear.”
“There is one other point,” said Inspector Mac-
Donald. “You met Mr. Douglas in a boarding house
in London, did you not, and became engaged to him
there? Was there any romance, anything secret or
mysterious, about the wedding?”
“There was romance. There is always romance.
There was nothing mysterious.”
“He had no rival?”
“No, I was quite free.”
“You have heard, no doubt, that his wedding ring
has been taken. Does that suggest anything to you?
Suppose that some enemy of his old life had tracked
him down and committed this crime, what possible
reason could he have for taking his wedding ring?”
For an instant I could have sworn that the faintest
shadow of a smile flickered over the woman’s lips.
“I really cannot tell,” she answered. “It is certainly
a most extraordinary thing.”
“Well, we will not detain you any longer, and
we are sorry to have put you to this trouble at such
a time,” said the inspector. “There are some other
points, no doubt; but we can refer to you as they
arise.”
She rose, and I was again conscious of that quick,
questioning glance with which she had just surveyed
us. “What impression has my evidence made upon
you?” The question might as well have been spoken.
Then, with a bow, she swept from the room.
“She’s a beautiful woman—a very beautiful
woman,” said MacDonald thoughtfully, after the door
had closed behind her. “This man Barker has certainly
been down here a good deal. He is a man who might
be attractive to a woman. He admits that the dead
man was jealous, and maybe he knew best himself
what cause he had for jealousy. Then there’s that
wedding ring. You can’t get past that. The man who
25
tears a wedding ring off a dead man’s—What do you
say to it, Mr. Holmes?”
My friend had sat with his head upon his hands,
sunk in the deepest thought. Now he rose and rang
the bell. “Ames,” he said, when the butler entered,
“where is Mr. Cecil Barker now?”
“I’ll see, sir.”
He came back in a moment to say that Barker was
in the garden.
“Can you remember, Ames, what Mr. Barker had
on his feet last night when you joined him in the
study?”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes. He had a pair of bedroom slip-
pers. I brought him his boots when he went for the
police.”
“Where are the slippers now?”
“They are still under the chair in the hall.”
“Very good, Ames. It is, of course, important for
us to know which tracks may be Mr. Barker’s and
which from outside.”
“Yes, sir. I may say that I noticed that the slippers
were stained with blood—so indeed were my own.”
“That is natural enough, considering the condition
of the room. Very good, Ames. We will ring if we
want you.”
A few minutes later we were in the study. Holmes
had brought with him the carpet slippers from the
hall. As Ames had observed, the soles of both were
dark with blood.
“Strange!” murmured Holmes, as he stood in the
light of the window and examined them minutely.
“Very strange indeed!”
Stooping with one of his quick feline pounces, he
placed the slipper upon the blood mark on the sill.
It exactly corresponded. He smiled in silence at his
colleagues.
The inspector was transfigured with excitement.
His native accent rattled like a stick upon railings.
“Man,” he cried, “there’s not a doubt of it! Barker
has just marked the window himself. It’s a good deal
broader than any bootmark. I mind that you said
it was a splay-foot, and here’s the explanation. But
what’s the game, Mr. Holmes—what’s the game?”
“Ay, what’s the game?” my friend repeated
thoughtfully.
White Mason chuckled and rubbed his fat hands
together in his professional satisfaction. “I said it was
a snorter!” he cried. “And a real snorter it is!”
CHAPTER VI.
A Dawning Light
The three detectives had many matters of detail
into which to inquire; so I returned alone to our mod-
est quarters at the village inn. But before doing so I
took a stroll in the curious old-world garden which
flanked the house. Rows of very ancient yew trees
cut into strange designs girded it round. Inside was
a beautiful stretch of lawn with an old sundial in the
middle, the whole effect so soothing and restful that
it was welcome to my somewhat jangled nerves.
In that deeply peaceful atmosphere one could for-
get, or remember only as some fantastic nightmare,
that darkened study with the sprawling, bloodstained
figure on the floor. And yet, as I strolled round it and
tried to steep my soul in its gentle balm, a strange inci-
dent occurred, which brought me back to the tragedy
and left a sinister impression in my mind.
I have said that a decoration of yew trees circled
the garden. At the end farthest from the house they
thickened into a continuous hedge. On the other side
of this hedge, concealed from the eyes of anyone ap-
proaching from the direction of the house, there was
a stone seat. As I approached the spot I was aware
of voices, some remark in the deep tones of a man,
answered by a little ripple of feminine laughter.
An instant later I had come round the end of the
hedge and my eyes lit upon Mrs. Douglas and the
man Barker before they were aware of my presence.
Her appearance gave me a shock. In the dining-room
26
she had been demure and discreet. Now all pretense
of grief had passed away from her. Her eyes shone
with the joy of living, and her face still quivered with
amusement at some remark of her companion. He
sat forward, his hands clasped and his forearms on
his knees, with an answering smile upon his bold,
handsome face. In an instant—but it was just one
instant too late—they resumed their solemn masks
as my figure came into view. A hurried word or two
passed between them, and then Barker rose and came
towards me.
“Excuse me, sir,” said he, “but am I addressing Dr.
Watson?”
I bowed with a coldness which showed, I dare say,
very plainly the impression which had been produced
upon my mind.
“We thought that it was probably you, as your
friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes is so well known.
Would you mind coming over and speaking to Mrs.
Douglas for one instant?”
I followed him with a dour face. Very clearly I
could see in my mind’s eye that shattered figure on
the floor. Here within a few hours of the tragedy
were his wife and his nearest friend laughing together
behind a bush in the garden which had been his. I
greeted the lady with reserve. I had grieved with her
grief in the dining-room. Now I met her appealing
gaze with an unresponsive eye.
“I fear that you think me callous and hard-
hearted,” said she.
I shrugged my shoulders. “It is no business of
mine,” said I.
“Perhaps some day you will do me justice. If you
only realized—”
“There is no need why Dr. Watson should realize,”
said Barker quickly. “As he has himself said, it is no
possible business of his.”
“Exactly,” said I, “and so I will beg leave to resume
my walk.”
“One moment, Dr. Watson,” cried the woman in
a pleading voice. “There is one question which you
can answer with more authority than anyone else in
the world, and it may make a very great difference to
me. You know Mr. Holmes and his relations with the
police better than anyone else can. Supposing that a
matter were brought confidentially to his knowledge,
is it absolutely necessary that he should pass it on to
the detectives?”
“Yes, that’s it,” said Barker eagerly. “Is he on his
own or is he entirely in with them?”
“I really don’t know that I should be justified in
discussing such a point.”
“I beg—I implore that you will, Dr. Watson! I
assure you that you will be helping us—helping me
greatly if you will guide us on that point.”
There was such a ring of sincerity in the woman’s
voice that for the instant I forgot all about her levity
and was moved only to do her will.
“Mr. Holmes is an independent investigator,” I
said. “He is his own master, and would act as his
own judgment directed. At the same time, he would
naturally feel loyalty towards the officials who were
working on the same case, and he would not con-
ceal from them anything which would help them in
bringing a criminal to justice. Beyond this I can say
nothing, and I would refer you to Mr. Holmes himself
if you wanted fuller information.”
So saying I raised my hat and went upon my way,
leaving them still seated behind that concealing hedge.
I looked back as I rounded the far end of it, and saw
that they were still talking very earnestly together,
and, as they were gazing after me, it was clear that it
was our interview that was the subject of their debate.
“I wish none of their confidences,” said Holmes,
when I reported to him what had occurred. He had
spent the whole afternoon at the Manor House in con-
sultation with his two colleagues, and returned about
five with a ravenous appetite for a high tea which I
had ordered for him. “No confidences, Watson; for
they are mighty awkward if it comes to an arrest for
conspiracy and murder.”
“You think it will come to that?”
He was in his most cheerful and debonair hu-
mour. “My dear Watson, when I have exterminated
that fourth egg I shall be ready to put you in touch
with the whole situation. I don’t say that we have
fathomed it—far from it—but when we have traced
the missing dumb-bell—”
“The dumb-bell!”
“Dear me, Watson, is it possible that you have not
penetrated the fact that the case hangs upon the miss-
ing dumb-bell? Well, well, you need not be downcast;
for between ourselves I don’t think that either Inspec-
tor Mac or the excellent local practitioner has grasped
the overwhelming importance of this incident. One
dumb-bell, Watson! Consider an athlete with one
dumb-bell! Picture to yourself the unilateral devel-
opment, the imminent danger of a spinal curvature.
Shocking, Watson, shocking!”
He sat with his mouth full of toast and his eyes
sparkling with mischief, watching my intellectual en-
tanglement. The mere sight of his excellent appetite
27
was an assurance of success, for I had very clear rec-
ollections of days and nights without a thought of
food, when his baffled mind had chafed before some
problem while his thin, eager features became more
attenuated with the asceticism of complete mental
concentration. Finally he lit his pipe, and sitting in
the inglenook of the old village inn he talked slowly
and at random about his case, rather as one who
thinks aloud than as one who makes a considered
statement.
“A lie, Watson—a great, big, thumping, obtrusive,
uncompromising lie—that’s what meets us on the
threshold! There is our starting point. The whole
story told by Barker is a lie. But Barker’s story is
corroborated by Mrs. Douglas. Therefore she is lying
also. They are both lying, and in a conspiracy. So
now we have the clear problem. Why are they lying,
and what is the truth which they are trying so hard
to conceal? Let us try, Watson, you and I, if we can
get behind the lie and reconstruct the truth.
“How do I know that they are lying? Because it is
a clumsy fabrication which simply could not be true.
Consider! According to the story given to us, the
assassin had less than a minute after the murder had
been committed to take that ring, which was under
another ring, from the dead man’s finger, to replace
the other ring—a thing which he would surely never
have done—and to put that singular card beside his
victim. I say that this was obviously impossible.
“You may argue—but I have too much respect for
your judgment, Watson, to think that you will do
so—that the ring may have been taken before the man
was killed. The fact that the candle had been lit only
a short time shows that there had been no lengthy
interview. Was Douglas, from what we hear of his
fearless character, a man who would be likely to give
up his wedding ring at such short notice, or could we
conceive of his giving it up at all? No, no, Watson,
the assassin was alone with the dead man for some
time with the lamp lit. Of that I have no doubt at all.
“But the gunshot was apparently the cause of
death. Therefore the shot must have been fired some
time earlier than we are told. But there could be no
mistake about such a matter as that. We are in the
presence, therefore, of a deliberate conspiracy upon
the part of the two people who heard the gunshot—of
the man Barker and of the woman Douglas. When on
the top of this I am able to show that the blood mark
on the windowsill was deliberately placed there by
Barker, in order to give a false clue to the police, you
will admit that the case grows dark against him.
“Now we have to ask ourselves at what hour the
murder actually did occur. Up to half-past ten the
servants were moving about the house; so it was cer-
tainly not before that time. At a quarter to eleven
they had all gone to their rooms with the exception
of Ames, who was in the pantry. I have been trying
some experiments after you left us this afternoon, and
I find that no noise which MacDonald can make in
the study can penetrate to me in the pantry when the
doors are all shut.
“It is otherwise, however, from the housekeeper’s
room. It is not so far down the corridor, and from it I
could vaguely hear a voice when it was very loudly
raised. The sound from a shotgun is to some extent
muffled when the discharge is at very close range,
as it undoubtedly was in this instance. It would not
be very loud, and yet in the silence of the night it
should have easily penetrated to Mrs. Allen’s room.
She is, as she has told us, somewhat deaf; but none
the less she mentioned in her evidence that she did
hear something like a door slamming half an hour
before the alarm was given. Half an hour before the
alarm was given would be a quarter to eleven. I have
no doubt that what she heard was the report of the
gun, and that this was the real instant of the murder.
“If this is so, we have now to determine what
Barker and Mrs. Douglas, presuming that they are
not the actual murderers, could have been doing from
quarter to eleven, when the sound of the shot brought
them down, until quarter past eleven, when they rang
the bell and summoned the servants. What were they
doing, and why did they not instantly give the alarm?
That is the question which faces us, and when it has
been answered we shall surely have gone some way
to solve our problem.”
“I am convinced myself,” said I, “that there is an
understanding between those two people. She must
be a heartless creature to sit laughing at some jest
within a few hours of her husband’s murder.”
“Exactly. She does not shine as a wife even in her
own account of what occurred. I am not a whole-
souled admirer of womankind, as you are aware, Wat-
son, but my experience of life has taught me that there
are few wives, having any regard for their husbands,
who would let any man’s spoken word stand between
them and that husband’s dead body. Should I ever
marry, Watson, I should hope to inspire my wife with
some feeling which would prevent her from being
walked off by a housekeeper when my corpse was
lying within a few yards of her. It was badly stage-
managed; for even the rawest investigators must be
struck by the absence of the usual feminine ululation.
28
If there had been nothing else, this incident alone
would have suggested a prearranged conspiracy to
my mind.”
“You think then, definitely, that Barker and Mrs.
Douglas are guilty of the murder?”
“There is an appalling directness about your ques-
tions, Watson,” said Holmes, shaking his pipe at me.
“They come at me like bullets. If you put it that Mrs.
Douglas and Barker know the truth about the murder,
and are conspiring to conceal it, then I can give you
a whole-souled answer. I am sure they do. But your
more deadly proposition is not so clear. Let us for a
moment consider the difficulties which stand in the
way.
“We will suppose that this couple are united by
the bonds of a guilty love, and that they have deter-
mined to get rid of the man who stands between them.
It is a large supposition; for discreet inquiry among
servants and others has failed to corroborate it in any
way. On the contrary, there is a good deal of evidence
that the Douglases were very attached to each other.”
“That, I am sure, cannot he true.” said I, thinking
of the beautiful smiling face in the garden.
“Well at least they gave that impression. However,
we will suppose that they are an extraordinarily as-
tute couple, who deceive everyone upon this point,
and conspire to murder the husband. He happens to
be a man over whose head some danger hangs—”
“We have only their word for that.”
Holmes looked thoughtful. “I see, Watson. You
are sketching out a theory by which everything they
say from the beginning is false. According to your
idea, there was never any hidden menace, or secret
society, or Valley of Fear, or Boss MacSomebody, or
anything else. Well, that is a good sweeping general-
ization. Let us see what that brings us to. They invent
this theory to account for the crime. They then play
up to the idea by leaving this bicycle in the park as
proof of the existence of some outsider. The stain on
the windowsill conveys the same idea. So does the
card on the body, which might have been prepared in
the house. That all fits into your hypothesis, Watson.
But now we come on the nasty, angular, uncompro-
mising bits which won’t slip into their places. Why a
cut-off shotgun of all weapons—and an American one
at that? How could they be so sure that the sound of
it would not bring someone on to them? It’s a mere
chance as it is that Mrs. Allen did not start out to
inquire for the slamming door. Why did your guilty
couple do all this, Watson?”
“I confess that I can’t explain it.”
“Then again, if a woman and her lover conspire to
murder a husband, are they going to advertise their
guilt by ostentatiously removing his wedding ring
after his death? Does that strike you as very probable,
Watson?”
“No, it does not.”
“And once again, if the thought of leaving a bicy-
cle concealed outside had occurred to you, would it
really have seemed worth doing when the dullest de-
tective would naturally say this is an obvious blind, as
the bicycle is the first thing which the fugitive needed
in order to make his escape.”
“I can conceive of no explanation.”
“And yet there should be no combination of events
for which the wit of man cannot conceive an expla-
nation.
Simply as a mental exercise, without any
assertion that it is true, let me indicate a possible line
of thought. It is, I admit, mere imagination; but how
often is imagination the mother of truth?
“We will suppose that there was a guilty secret, a
really shameful secret in the life of this man Douglas.
This leads to his murder by someone who is, we will
suppose, an avenger, someone from outside. This
avenger, for some reason which I confess I am still
at a loss to explain, took the dead man’s wedding
ring. The vendetta might conceivably date back to the
man’s first marriage, and the ring be taken for some
such reason.
“Before this avenger got away, Barker and the wife
had reached the room. The assassin convinced them
that any attempt to arrest him would lead to the publi-
cation of some hideous scandal. They were converted
to this idea, and preferred to let him go. For this
purpose they probably lowered the bridge, which can
be done quite noiselessly, and then raised it again. He
made his escape, and for some reason thought that he
could do so more safely on foot than on the bicycle.
He therefore left his machine where it would not be
discovered until he had got safely away. So far we are
within the bounds of possibility, are we not?”
“Well, it is possible, no doubt,” said I, with some
reserve.
“We have to remember, Watson, that whatever
occurred is certainly something very extraordinary.
Well, now, to continue our supposititious case, the
couple—not necessarily a guilty couple—realize after
the murderer is gone that they have placed themselves
in a position in which it may be difficult for them to
prove that they did not themselves either do the deed
or connive at it. They rapidly and rather clumsily met
the situation. The mark was put by Barker’s blood-
stained slipper upon the window-sill to suggest how
29
the fugitive got away. They obviously were the two
who must have heard the sound of the gun; so they
gave the alarm exactly as they would have done, but
a good half hour after the event.”
“And how do you propose to prove all this?”
“Well, if there were an outsider, he may be traced
and taken. That would be the most effective of all
proofs. But if not—well, the resources of science are
far from being exhausted. I think that an evening
alone in that study would help me much.”
“An evening alone!”
“I propose to go up there presently. I have ar-
ranged it with the estimable Ames, who is by no
means whole-hearted about Barker. I shall sit in that
room and see if its atmosphere brings me inspiration.
I’m a believer in the genius loci. You smile, Friend
Watson. Well, we shall see. By the way, you have that
big umbrella of yours, have you not?”
“It is here.”
“Well, I’ll borrow that if I may.”
“Certainly—but what a wretched weapon! If there
is danger—”
“Nothing serious, my dear Watson, or I should
certainly ask for your assistance. But I’ll take the um-
brella. At present I am only awaiting the return of
our colleagues from Tunbridge Wells, where they are
at present engaged in trying for a likely owner to the
bicycle.”
It was nightfall before Inspector MacDonald and
White Mason came back from their expedition, and
they arrived exultant, reporting a great advance in
our investigation.
“Man, I’ll admeet that I had my doubts if there
was ever an outsider,” said MacDonald, “but that’s
all past now. We’ve had the bicycle identified, and we
have a description of our man; so that’s a long step
on our journey.”
“It sounds to me like the beginning of the end,”
said Holmes. “I’m sure I congratulate you both with
all my heart.”
“Well, I started from the fact that Mr. Douglas had
seemed disturbed since the day before, when he had
been at Tunbridge Wells. It was at Tunbridge Wells
then that he had become conscious of some danger. It
was clear, therefore, that if a man had come over with
a bicycle it was from Tunbridge Wells that he might
be expected to have come. We took the bicycle over
with us and showed it at the hotels. It was identified
at once by the manager of the Eagle Commercial as
belonging to a man named Hargrave, who had taken
a room there two days before. This bicycle and a
small valise were his whole belongings. He had reg-
istered his name as coming from London, but had
given no address. The valise was London made, and
the contents were British; but the man himself was
undoubtedly an American.”
“Well, well,” said Holmes gleefully, “you have in-
deed done some solid work while I have been sitting
spinning theories with my friend! It’s a lesson in
being practical, Mr. Mac.”
“Ay, it’s just that, Mr. Holmes,” said the inspector
with satisfaction.
“But this may all fit in with your theories,” I re-
marked.
“That may or may not be. But let us hear the end,
Mr. Mac. Was there nothing to identify this man?”
“So little that it was evident that he had carefully
guarded himself against identification. There were no
papers or letters, and no marking upon the clothes. A
cycle map of the county lay on his bedroom table. He
had left the hotel after breakfast yesterday morning
on his bicycle, and no more was heard of him until
our inquiries.”
“That’s what puzzles me, Mr. Holmes,” said White
Mason. “If the fellow did not want the hue and cry
raised over him, one would imagine that he would
have returned and remained at the hotel as an inof-
fensive tourist. As it is, he must know that he will
be reported to the police by the hotel manager and
that his disappearance will be connected with the
murder.”
“So one would imagine. Still, he has been justified
of his wisdom up to date, at any rate, since he has not
been taken. But his description—what of that?”
MacDonald referred to his notebook. “Here we
have it so far as they could give it. They don’t seem
to have taken any very particular stock of him; but
still the porter, the clerk, and the chambermaid are
all agreed that this about covers the points. He was a
man about five foot nine in height, fifty or so years of
age, his hair slightly grizzled, a grayish moustache, a
curved nose, and a face which all of them described
as fierce and forbidding.”
“Well, bar the expression, that might almost be a
description of Douglas himself,” said Holmes. “He is
just over fifty, with grizzled hair and moustache, and
about the same height. Did you get anything else?”
“He was dressed in a heavy gray suit with a reefer
jacket, and he wore a short yellow overcoat and a soft
cap.”
“What about the shotgun?”
30
“It is less than two feet long. It could very well
have fitted into his valise. He could have carried it
inside his overcoat without difficulty.”
“And how do you consider that all this bears upon
the general case?”
“Well, Mr. Holmes,” said MacDonald, “when we
have got our man—and you may be sure that I had
his description on the wires within five minutes of
hearing it—we shall be better able to judge. But, even
as it stands, we have surely gone a long way. We know
that an American calling himself Hargrave came to
Tunbridge Wells two days ago with bicycle and valise.
In the latter was a sawed-off shotgun; so he came with
the deliberate purpose of crime. Yesterday morning
he set off for this place on his bicycle, with his gun
concealed in his overcoat. No one saw him arrive, so
far as we can learn; but he need not pass through the
village to reach the park gates, and there are many
cyclists upon the road. Presumably he at once con-
cealed his cycle among the laurels where it was found,
and possibly lurked there himself, with his eye on
the house, waiting for Mr. Douglas to come out. The
shotgun is a strange weapon to use inside a house;
but he had intended to use it outside, and there it has
very obvious advantages, as it would be impossible to
miss with it, and the sound of shots is so common in
an English sporting neighbourhood that no particular
notice would be taken.”
“That is all very clear,” said Holmes.
“Well, Mr. Douglas did not appear. What was he
to do next? He left his bicycle and approached the
house in the twilight. He found the bridge down
and no one about. He took his chance, intending, no
doubt, to make some excuse if he met anyone. He met
no one. He slipped into the first room that he saw,
and concealed himself behind the curtain. Thence he
could see the drawbridge go up, and he knew that
his only escape was through the moat. He waited
until quarter-past eleven, when Mr. Douglas upon his
usual nightly round came into the room. He shot
him and escaped, as arranged. He was aware that the
bicycle would be described by the hotel people and
be a clue against him; so he left it there and made his
way by some other means to London or to some safe
hiding place which he had already arranged. How is
that, Mr. Holmes?”
“Well, Mr. Mac, it is very good and very clear so
far as it goes. That is your end of the story. My end
is that the crime was committed half an hour earlier
than reported; that Mrs. Douglas and Barker are both
in a conspiracy to conceal something; that they aided
the murderer’s escape—or at least that they reached
the room before he escaped—and that they fabricated
evidence of his escape through the window, whereas
in all probability they had themselves let him go by
lowering the bridge. That’s my reading of the first
half.”
The two detectives shook their heads.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, if this is true, we only tumble
out of one mystery into another,” said the London
inspector.
“And in some ways a worse one,” added White
Mason. “The lady has never been in America in all
her life. What possible connection could she have
with an American assassin which would cause her to
shelter him?”
“I freely admit the difficulties,” said Holmes. “I
propose to make a little investigation of my own to-
night, and it is just possible that it may contribute
something to the common cause.”
“Can we help you, Mr. Holmes?”
“No,
no!
Darkness and Dr. Watson’s um-
brella—my wants are simple. And Ames, the faithful
Ames, no doubt he will stretch a point for me. All my
lines of thought lead me back invariably to the one
basic question—why should an athletic man develop
his frame upon so unnatural an instrument as a single
dumb-bell?”
It was late that night when Holmes returned from
his solitary excursion. We slept in a double-bedded
room, which was the best that the little country inn
could do for us. I was already asleep when I was
partly awakened by his entrance.
“Well, Holmes,” I murmured, “have you found
anything out?”
He stood beside me in silence, his candle in his
hand. Then the tall, lean figure inclined towards me.
“I say, Watson,” he whispered, “would you be afraid
to sleep in the same room with a lunatic, a man with
softening of the brain, an idiot whose mind has lost
its grip?”
“Not in the least,” I answered in astonishment.
“Ah, that’s lucky,” he said, and not another word
would he utter that night.
31
CHAPTER VII.
The Solution
Next morning, after breakfast, we found Inspector
MacDonald and White Mason seated in close consul-
tation in the small parlour of the local police sergeant.
On the table in front of them were piled a number
of letters and telegrams, which they were carefully
sorting and docketing. Three had been placed on one
side.
“Still on the track of the elusive bicyclist?” Holmes
asked cheerfully.
“What is the latest news of the
ruffian?”
MacDonald pointed ruefully to his heap of corre-
spondence.
“He is at present reported from Leicester, Notting-
ham, Southampton, Derby, East Ham, Richmond, and
fourteen other places. In three of them—East Ham,
Leicester, and Liverpool—there is a clear case against
him, and he has actually been arrested. The country
seems to be full of the fugitives with yellow coats.”
“Dear me!” said Holmes sympathetically. “Now,
Mr. Mac and you, Mr. White Mason, I wish to give
you a very earnest piece of advice. When I went into
this case with you I bargained, as you will no doubt
remember, that I should not present you with half-
proved theories, but that I should retain and work out
my own ideas until I had satisfied myself that they
were correct. For this reason I am not at the present
moment telling you all that is in my mind. On the
other hand, I said that I would play the game fairly by
you, and I do not think it is a fair game to allow you
for one unnecessary moment to waste your energies
upon a profitless task. Therefore I am here to advise
you this morning, and my advice to you is summed
up in three words—abandon the case.”
MacDonald and White Mason stared in amaze-
ment at their celebrated colleague.
“You consider it hopeless!” cried the inspector.
“I consider your case to be hopeless. I do not
consider that it is hopeless to arrive at the truth.”
“But this cyclist. He is not an invention. We have
his description, his valise, his bicycle. The fellow must
be somewhere. Why should we not get him?”
“Yes, yes, no doubt he is somewhere, and no doubt
we shall get him; but I would not have you waste your
energies in East Ham or Liverpool. I am sure that we
can find some shorter cut to a result.”
“You are holding something back. It’s hardly fair
of you, Mr. Holmes.” The inspector was annoyed.
“You know my methods of work, Mr. Mac. But
I will hold it back for the shortest time possible. I
only wish to verify my details in one way, which can
very readily be done, and then I make my bow and
return to London, leaving my results entirely at your
service. I owe you too much to act otherwise; for in
all my experience I cannot recall any more singular
and interesting study.”
“This is clean beyond me, Mr. Holmes. We saw
you when we returned from Tunbridge Wells last
night, and you were in general agreement with our
results. What has happened since then to give you a
completely new idea of the case?”
“Well, since you ask me, I spent, as I told you that
I would, some hours last night at the Manor House.”
“Well, what happened?”
“Ah, I can only give you a very general answer to
that for the moment. By the way, I have been read-
ing a short but clear and interesting account of the
old building, purchasable at the modest sum of one
penny from the local tobacconist.”
Here Holmes drew a small tract, embellished with
a rude engraving of the ancient Manor House, from
his waistcoat pocket.
“It immensely adds to the zest of an investigation,
my dear Mr. Mac, when one is in conscious sympathy
with the historical atmosphere of one’s surroundings.
Don’t look so impatient; for I assure you that even
so bald an account as this raises some sort of picture
of the past in one’s mind. Permit me to give you a
sample. ‘Erected in the fifth year of the reign of James
I, and standing upon the site of a much older build-
ing, the Manor House of Birlstone presents one of
the finest surviving examples of the moated Jacobean
residence—’ ”
“You are making fools of us, Mr. Holmes!”
“Tut, tut, Mr. Mac!—the first sign of temper I have
detected in you. Well, I won’t read it verbatim, since
you feel so strongly upon the subject. But when I
tell you that there is some account of the taking of
the place by a parliamentary colonel in 1644, of the
concealment of Charles for several days in the course
of the Civil War, and finally of a visit there by the
second George, you will admit that there are various
associations of interest connected with this ancient
house.”
“I don’t doubt it, Mr. Holmes; but that is no busi-
ness of ours.”
32
“Is it not? Is it not? Breadth of view, my dear Mr.
Mac, is one of the essentials of our profession. The
interplay of ideas and the oblique uses of knowledge
are often of extraordinary interest. You will excuse
these remarks from one who, though a mere connois-
seur of crime, is still rather older and perhaps more
experienced than yourself.”
“I’m the first to admit that,” said the detective
heartily. “You get to your point, I admit; but you have
such a deuced round-the-corner way of doing it.”
“Well, well, I’ll drop past history and get down
to present-day facts. I called last night, as I have al-
ready said, at the Manor House. I did not see either
Barker or Mrs. Douglas. I saw no necessity to disturb
them; but I was pleased to hear that the lady was
not visibly pining and that she had partaken of an
excellent dinner. My visit was specially made to the
good Mr. Ames, with whom I exchanged some amia-
bilities, which culminated in his allowing me, without
reference to anyone else, to sit alone for a time in the
study.”
“What! With that?” I ejaculated.
“No, no, everything is now in order. You gave
permission for that, Mr. Mac, as I am informed. The
room was in its normal state, and in it I passed an
instructive quarter of an hour.”
“What were you doing?”
“Well, not to make a mystery of so simple a mat-
ter, I was looking for the missing dumb-bell. It has
always bulked rather large in my estimate of the case.
I ended by finding it.”
“Where?”
“Ah, there we come to the edge of the unexplored.
Let me go a little further, a very little further, and I
will promise that you shall share everything that I
know.”
“Well, we’re bound to take you on your own
terms,” said the inspector; “but when it comes to
telling us to abandon the case—why in the name of
goodness should we abandon the case?”
“For the simple reason, my dear Mr. Mac, that
you have not got the first idea what it is that you are
investigating.”
“We are investigating the murder of Mr. John Dou-
glas of Birlstone Manor.”
“Yes, yes, so you are. But don’t trouble to trace
the mysterious gentleman upon the bicycle. I assure
you that it won’t help you.”
“Then what do you suggest that we do?”
“I will tell you exactly what to do, if you will do
it.”
“Well, I’m bound to say I’ve always found you had
reason behind all your queer ways. I’ll do what you
advise.”
“And you, Mr. White Mason?”
The country detective looked helplessly from one
to the other. Holmes and his methods were new to
him. “Well, if it is good enough for the inspector, it is
good enough for me,” he said at last.
“Capital!” said Holmes. “Well, then, I should rec-
ommend a nice, cheery country walk for both of you.
They tell me that the views from Birlstone Ridge over
the Weald are very remarkable. No doubt lunch could
be got at some suitable hostelry; though my ignorance
of the country prevents me from recommending one.
In the evening, tired but happy—”
“Man, this is getting past a joke!” cried MacDon-
ald, rising angrily from his chair.
“Well, well, spend the day as you like,” said
Holmes, patting him cheerfully upon the shoulder.
“Do what you like and go where you will, but meet
me here before dusk without fail—without fail, Mr.
Mac.”
“That sounds more like sanity.”
“All of it was excellent advice; but I don’t insist, so
long as you are here when I need you. But now, before
we part, I want you to write a note to Mr. Barker.”
“Well?”
“I’ll dictate it, if you like. Ready?
“Dear Sir:
“It has struck me that it is our duty to
drain the moat, in the hope that we may
find some—“
“It’s impossible,” said the inspector. “I’ve made
inquiry.”
“Tut, tut! My dear sir, please do what I ask you.”
“Well, go on.”
“—in the hope that we may find some-
thing which may bear upon our investiga-
tion. I have made arrangements, and the
workmen will be at work early to-morrow
morning diverting the stream—“
“Impossible!”
“—diverting the stream; so I thought it
best to explain matters beforehand.
33
“Now sign that, and send it by hand about four
o’clock. At that hour we shall meet again in this room.
Until then we may each do what we like; for I can
assure you that this inquiry has come to a definite
pause.”
Evening was drawing in when we reassembled.
Holmes was very serious in his manner, myself curi-
ous, and the detectives obviously critical and annoyed.
“Well, gentlemen,” said my friend gravely, “I am
asking you now to put everything to the test with
me, and you will judge for yourselves whether the
observations I have made justify the conclusions to
which I have come. It is a chill evening, and I do not
know how long our expedition may last; so I beg that
you will wear your warmest coats. It is of the first
importance that we should be in our places before
it grows dark; so with your permission we shall get
started at once.”
We passed along the outer bounds of the Manor
House park until we came to a place where there was
a gap in the rails which fenced it. Through this we
slipped, and then in the gathering gloom we followed
Holmes until we had reached a shrubbery which lies
nearly opposite to the main door and the drawbridge.
The latter had not been raised. Holmes crouched
down behind the screen of laurels, and we all three
followed his example.
“Well, what are we to do now?” asked MacDonald
with some gruffness.
“Possess our souls in patience and make as little
noise as possible,” Holmes answered.
“What are we here for at all? I really think that
you might treat us with more frankness.”
Holmes laughed. “Watson insists that I am the
dramatist in real life,” said he. “Some touch of the
artist wells up within me, and calls insistently for a
well-staged performance. Surely our profession, Mr.
Mac, would be a drab and sordid one if we did not
sometimes set the scene so as to glorify our results.
The blunt accusation, the brutal tap upon the shoul-
der—what can one make of such a d´
enouement? But
the quick inference, the subtle trap, the clever forecast
of coming events, the triumphant vindication of bold
theories—are these not the pride and the justification
of our life’s work? At the present moment you thrill
with the glamour of the situation and the anticipation
of the hunt. Where would be that thrill if I had been
as definite as a timetable? I only ask a little patience,
Mr. Mac, and all will be clear to you.”
“Well, I hope the pride and justification and the
rest of it will come before we all get our death of cold,”
said the London detective with comic resignation.
We all had good reason to join in the aspiration;
for our vigil was a long and bitter one. Slowly the
shadows darkened over the long, sombre face of the
old house. A cold, damp reek from the moat chilled
us to the bones and set our teeth chattering. There
was a single lamp over the gateway and a steady globe
of light in the fatal study. Everything else was dark
and still.
“How long is this to last?” asked the inspector
finally. “And what is it we are watching for?”
“I have no more notion than you how long it is to
last,” Holmes answered with some asperity. “If crim-
inals would always schedule their movements like
railway trains, it would certainly be more convenient
for all of us. As to what it is we—Well, that’s what we
are watching for!”
As he spoke the bright, yellow light in the study
was obscured by somebody passing to and fro before
it. The laurels among which we lay were immediately
opposite the window and not more than a hundred
feet from it. Presently it was thrown open with a
whining of hinges, and we could dimly see the dark
outline of a man’s head and shoulders looking out
into the gloom. For some minutes he peered forth
in furtive, stealthy fashion, as one who wishes to be
assured that he is unobserved. Then he leaned for-
ward, and in the intense silence we were aware of
the soft lapping of agitated water. He seemed to be
stirring up the moat with something which he held
in his hand. Then suddenly he hauled something in
as a fisherman lands a fish—some large, round object
which obscured the light as it was dragged through
the open casement.
“Now!” cried Holmes. “Now!”
We were all upon our feet, staggering after him
with our stiffened limbs, while he ran swiftly across
the bridge and rang violently at the bell. There was
the rasping of bolts from the other side, and the
amazed Ames stood in the entrance. Holmes brushed
him aside without a word and, followed by all of us,
rushed into the room which had been occupied by
the man whom we had been watching.
The oil lamp on the table represented the glow
which we had seen from outside. It was now in the
hand of Cecil Barker, who held it towards us as we
entered. Its light shone upon his strong, resolute,
clean-shaved face and his menacing eyes.
34
“What the devil is the meaning of all this?” he
cried. “What are you after, anyhow?”
Holmes took a swift glance round, and then
pounced upon a sodden bundle tied together with
cord which lay where it had been thrust under the
writing table.
“This is what we are after, Mr. Barker—this bun-
dle, weighted with a dumb-bell, which you have just
raised from the bottom of the moat.”
Barker stared at Holmes with amazement in his
face. “How in thunder came you to know anything
about it?” he asked.
“Simply that I put it there.”
“You put it there! You!”
“Perhaps I should have said ‘replaced it there,’ ”
said Holmes. “You will remember, Inspector MacDon-
ald, that I was somewhat struck by the absence of a
dumb-bell. I drew your attention to it; but with the
pressure of other events you had hardly the time to
give it the consideration which would have enabled
you to draw deductions from it. When water is near
and a weight is missing it is not a very far-fetched
supposition that something has been sunk in the wa-
ter. The idea was at least worth testing; so with the
help of Ames, who admitted me to the room, and the
crook of Dr. Watson’s umbrella, I was able last night
to fish up and inspect this bundle.
“It was of the first importance, however, that we
should be able to prove who placed it there. This we
accomplished by the very obvious device of announc-
ing that the moat would be dried to-morrow, which
had, of course, the effect that whoever had hidden
the bundle would most certainly withdraw it the mo-
ment that darkness enabled him to do so. We have no
less than four witnesses as to who it was who took
advantage of the opportunity, and so, Mr. Barker, I
think the word lies now with you.”
Sherlock Holmes put the sopping bundle upon
the table beside the lamp and undid the cord which
bound it.
From within he extracted a dumb-bell,
which he tossed down to its fellow in the corner. Next
he drew forth a pair of boots. “American, as you
perceive,” he remarked, pointing to the toes. Then
he laid upon the table a long, deadly, sheathed knife.
Finally he unravelled a bundle of clothing, comprising
a complete set of underclothes, socks, a gray tweed
suit, and a short yellow overcoat.
“The
clothes
are
commonplace,”
remarked
Holmes, “save only the overcoat, which is full of
suggestive touches.” He held it tenderly towards the
light. “Here, as you perceive, is the inner pocket pro-
longed into the lining in such fashion as to give ample
space for the truncated fowling piece. The tailor’s tab
is on the neck—‘Neal, Outfitter, Vermissa, U. S. A.’
I have spent an instructive afternoon in the rector’s
library, and have enlarged my knowledge by adding
the fact that Vermissa is a flourishing little town at the
head of one of the best known coal and iron valleys
in the United States. I have some recollection, Mr.
Barker, that you associated the coal districts with Mr.
Douglas’s first wife, and it would surely not be too
far-fetched an inference that the V. V. upon the card
by the dead body might stand for Vermissa Valley,
or that this very valley which sends forth emissaries
of murder may be that Valley of Fear of which we
have heard. So much is fairly clear. And now, Mr.
Barker, I seem to be standing rather in the way of
your explanation.”
It was a sight to see Cecil Barker’s expressive face
during this exposition of the great detective. Anger,
amazement, consternation, and indecision swept over
it in turn. Finally he took refuge in a somewhat acrid
irony.
“You know such a lot, Mr. Holmes, perhaps you
had better tell us some more,” he sneered.
“I have no doubt that I could tell you a great deal
more, Mr. Barker; but it would come with a better
grace from you.”
“Oh, you think so, do you? Well, all I can say is
that if there’s any secret here it is not my secret, and I
am not the man to give it away.”
“Well, if you take that line, Mr. Barker,” said the
inspector quietly, “we must just keep you in sight
until we have the warrant and can hold you.”
“You can do what you damn please about that,”
said Barker defiantly.
The proceedings seemed to have come to a definite
end so far as he was concerned; for one had only to
look at that granite face to realize that no peine forte
et dure would ever force him to plead against his will.
The deadlock was broken, however, by a woman’s
voice. Mrs. Douglas had been standing listening at
the half opened door, and now she entered the room.
“You have done enough for now, Cecil,” said she.
“Whatever comes of it in the future, you have done
enough.”
“Enough and more than enough,” remarked Sher-
lock Holmes gravely. “I have every sympathy with
you, madam, and should strongly urge you to have
some confidence in the common sense of our juris-
diction and to take the police voluntarily into your
complete confidence. It may be that I am myself at
35
fault for not following up the hint which you con-
veyed to me through my friend, Dr. Watson; but, at
that time I had every reason to believe that you were
directly concerned in the crime. Now I am assured
that this is not so. At the same time, there is much
that is unexplained, and I should strongly recommend
that you ask Mr. Douglas to tell us his own story.”
Mrs. Douglas gave a cry of astonishment at
Holmes’s words.
The detectives and I must have
echoed it, when we were aware of a man who seemed
to have emerged from the wall, who advanced now
from the gloom of the corner in which he had ap-
peared. Mrs. Douglas turned, and in an instant her
arms were round him. Barker had seized his out-
stretched hand.
“It’s best this way, Jack,” his wife repeated; “I am
sure that it is best.”
“Indeed, yes, Mr. Douglas,” said Sherlock Holmes,
“I am sure that you will find it best.”
The man stood blinking at us with the dazed look
of one who comes from the dark into the light. It
was a remarkable face, bold gray eyes, a strong, short-
clipped, grizzled moustache, a square, projecting chin,
and a humorous mouth. He took a good look at us
all, and then to my amazement he advanced to me
and handed me a bundle of paper.
“I’ve heard of you,” said he in a voice which was
not quite English and not quite American, but was
altogether mellow and pleasing. “You are the histo-
rian of this bunch. Well, Dr. Watson, you’ve never had
such a story as that pass through your hands before,
and I’ll lay my last dollar on that. Tell it your own
way; but there are the facts, and you can’t miss the
public so long as you have those. I’ve been cooped up
two days, and I’ve spent the daylight hours—as much
daylight as I could get in that rat trap—in putting the
thing into words. You’re welcome to them—you and
your public. There’s the story of the Valley of Fear.”
“That’s the past, Mr. Douglas,” said Sherlock
Holmes quietly.
“What we desire now is to hear
your story of the present.”
“You’ll have it, sir,” said Douglas. “May I smoke
as I talk? Well, thank you, Mr. Holmes. You’re a
smoker yourself, if I remember right, and you’ll guess
what it is to be sitting for two days with tobacco in
your pocket and afraid that the smell will give you
away.” He leaned against the mantelpiece and sucked
at the cigar which Holmes had handed him. “I’ve
heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I never guessed that I
should meet you. But before you are through with
that,” he nodded at my papers, “you will say I’ve
brought you something fresh.”
Inspector MacDonald had been staring at the new-
comer with the greatest amazement. “Well, this fairly
beats me!” he cried at last. “If you are Mr. John Dou-
glas of Birlstone Manor, then whose death have we
been investigating for these two days, and where in
the world have you sprung from now? You seemed
to me to come out of the floor like a jack-in-a-box.”
“Ah, Mr. Mac,” said Holmes, shaking a reproving
forefinger, “you would not read that excellent local
compilation which described the concealment of King
Charles. People did not hide in those days without
excellent hiding places, and the hiding place that has
once been used may be again. I had persuaded myself
that we should find Mr. Douglas under this roof.”
“And how long have you been playing this trick
upon us, Mr. Holmes?” said the inspector angrily.
“How long have you allowed us to waste ourselves
upon a search that you knew to be an absurd one?”
“Not one instant, my dear Mr. Mac. Only last
night did I form my views of the case. As they could
not be put to the proof until this evening, I invited
you and your colleague to take a holiday for the day.
Pray what more could I do? When I found the suit of
clothes in the moat, it at once became apparent to me
| In this story as of now, who do you think is most likely to be the killer? Choose from the below options: | 0. Bodymaster
1. Hadn
2. John Douglas
3. Just
4. Twice | The suspect is John Douglas | 35,285 |
Its quite clear to me that needle in a haystack tests are quite broken with every model paper showing like a 99.99% coverage on over 100k+ tokens. When in practice, it can be seen that anything over 20% of total model context size is useless for RAG via input tokens.
So the goal here is to expand this dataset to be the most comprehensive stack of mystery novels and have the LLM predict the final killer as proposed by Sholto Douglas on this podcast with Dwarkesh.
Obviously the missing thing here is that the pre-training data almost 100% covers Sherlock Holmes novels. The most immediate fix I found here was to replace all english names with Hindi or any other regional language to increase token size drastically for the model as these words require more tokens in the vocabulary to embed.
Since, I keep running out of API calls to replace names in the text, I have attached a list of 500 names that I could cleanly generate in the recipe here.
My goal for v2 of this dataset is to just take more of these novels and convert it into an assignment task for detectives. And try to check for sample efficiency to get the LLM to be as good as Sherlock Holmes.
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