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As published for the first time in The Strand Magazine, Vols XXXV, XXXXVI, XL, XLI, XLII, XLVI and LIV, September 1908- September 1917.
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I find it recorded in my notebook that it was a bleak and windy
day towards the end of March in the year 1892. Holmes had
received a telegram while we sat at our lunch, and he had scribbled a
reply. He made no remark, but the matter remained in his
thoughts, for he stood in front of the fire afterwards with a
thoughtful face, smoking his pipe, and casting an occasional glance
at the message. Suddenly he turned upon me with a mischievous
twinkle in his eyes.
&odq;I suppose, Watson, we must look upon you as a man of
letters,&cdq; said he. &odq;How do you define the word
&onq;grotesque&cnq;?&cdq;
&odq;Strange — remarkable,&cdq; I suggested.
He shook his head at my definition.
&odq;There is surely something more than that,&cdq; said he;
&odq;some underlying suggestion of the tragic and the terrible.
If you cast your mind back to some of those narratives with
which you have afflicted a long-suffering public, you will recognize
how often the grotesque has deepened into the criminal. Think
of that little affair of the red-headed men. That was
grotesque enough in the outset, and yet it ended in a desperate
attempt at robbery. Or, again, there was that most grotesque
affair of the five orange pips, which led straight to a murderous
conspiracy. The word puts me on the alert.&cdq;
&odq;Have you it there?&cdq; I asked.
He read the telegram aloud.
&odq;Have just had most incredible and grotesque experience.
May I consult you? &cdq; Scott Eccles,
&odq;Post-Office, Charing Cross.&cdq;
&odq;Man or woman?&cdq; I asked.
&odq;Oh, man, of course. No woman would ever send a
reply-paid telegram. She would have come.&cdq;
&odq;Will you see him?&cdq;
&odq;My dear Watson, you know how bored I have been since we
locked up Colonel Carruthers. My mind is like a racing engine,
tearing itself to pieces because it is not connected up with the work
for which it was built. Life is commonplace; the papers are
sterile; audacity and romance seem to have passed forever from the
criminal world. Can you ask me, then, whether I am ready to
look into any new problem, however trivial it may prove? But
here, unless I am mistaken, is our client.&cdq;
A measured step was heard upon the stairs, and a moment later a
stout, tall, gray-whiskered and solemnly respectable person was
ushered into the room. His life history was written in his
heavy features and pompous manner. From his spats to his
gold-rimmed spectacles he was a Conservative, a churchman, a good
citizen, orthodox and conventional to the last degree. But
same amazing experience had disturbed his native composure and left
its traces in his bristling hair, his flushed, angry cheeks and his
flurried, excited manner. He plunged instantly into his
business.
&odq;I have had a most singular and unpleasant experience, Mr.
Holmes,&cdq; said he. &odq;Never in my life have I been placed
in such a situation. It is most improper — most
outrageous. I must insist upon some explanation.&cdq;
He swelled and puffed in his anger.
&odq;Pray sit down, Mr. Scott Eccles,&cdq; said Holmes in a
soothing voice. &odq;May I ask, in the first place, why you
came to me at all?&cdq;
&odq;Well, sir, it did not appear to be a matter which
concerned the police, and yet, when you have heard the facts, you
must admit that I could not leave it where it was. Private
detectives are a class with whom I have absolutely no sympathy, but
none the less, having heard your name — &cdq;
&odq;Quite so. But, in the second place, why did you not
come at once?&cdq;
&odq;What do you mean?&cdq;
Holmes glanced at his watch.
&odq;It is a quarter-past two,&cdq; he said. &odq;Your
telegram was dispatched about one. But no one can glance at
your toilet and attire without seeing that your disturbance dates
from the moment of your waking.&cdq;
Our client smoothed down his unbrushed hair and felt his
unshaven chin.
&odq;You are right, Mr. Holmes. I never gave a thought
to my toilet. I was only too glad to get out of such a house.
But I have been running round making inquiries before I came
to you. I went to the house agents, you know, and they said
that Mr. Garcia's rent was paid up all right and that everything was
in order at Wisteria Lodge.&cdq;
&odq;Come, come, sir,&cdq; said Holmes, laughing.
&odq;You are like my friend, Dr. Watson, who has a bad habit
of telling his stories wrong end foremost. Please arrange your
thoughts and let me know, in their due sequence, exactly what those
events are which have sent you out unbrushed and unkempt, with dress
boots and waistcoat buttoned awry, in search of advice and
assistance.&cdq;
Our client looked down with a rueful face at his own
unconventional appearance.
&odq;I'm sure it must look very bad, Mr. Holmes, and I am not
aware that in my whole life such a thing has ever happened before.
But I will tell you the whole queer business, and when I have
done so you will admit, I am sure, that there has been enough to
excuse me.&cdq;
But his narrative was nipped in the bud. There was a
bustle outside, and Mrs. Hudson opened the door to usher in two
robust and official-looking individuals, one of whom was well known
to us as Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard, an energetic, gallant,
and, within his limitations, a capable officer. He shook hands
with Holmes and introduced his comrade as Inspector Baynes, of the
Surrey Constabulary.
&odq;We are hunting together, Mr. Holmes and our trail lay in
this direction.&cdq; He turned his bulldog eyes upon our
visitor. &odq;Are you Mr. John Scott Eccles, of Popham House,
Lee?&cdq;
&odq;I am.&cdq;
&odq;We have been following you about all the morning.&cdq;
&odq;You traced him through the telegram, no doubt,&cdq; said
Holmes.
&odq;Exactly, Mr. Holmes. We picked up the scent at
Charing Cross Post-Office and came on here.&cdq;
&odq;But why do you follow me? What do you want?&cdq;
&odq;We wish a statement, Mr. Scott Eccles, as to the events
which led up to the death last night of Mr. Aloysius Garcia, of
Wisteria Lodge, near Esher.&cdq;
Our client had sat up with staring eyes and every tinge of
colour struck from his astonished face.
&odq;Dead? Did you say he was dead?&cdq;
&odq;Yes, sir, he is dead.&cdq;
&odq;But how? An accident?&cdq;
&odq;Murder, if ever there was one upon earth.&cdq;
&odq;Good God! This is awful! You don't mean
— you don't mean that I am suspected?&cdq;
&odq;A letter of yours was found in the dead man's pocket, and
we know by it that you had planned to pass last night at his
house.&cdq;
&odq;So I did.&cdq;
&odq;Oh, you did, did you?&cdq;
Out came the official notebook.
&odq;Wait a bit, Gregson,&cdq; said Sherlock Holmes.
&odq;All you desire is a plain statement, is it not?&cdq;
&odq;And it is my duty to warn Mr. Scott Eccles that it may be
used against him.&cdq;
&odq;Mr. Eccles was going to tell us about it when you entered
the room. I think, Watson, a brandy and soda would do him no
harm. Now, sir, I suggest that you take no notice of this
addition to your audience, and that you proceed with your narrative
exactly as you would have done had you never been interrupted.&cdq;
Our visitor had gulped off the brandy and the colour had
returned to his face. With a dubious glance at the inspector's
notebook, he plunged at once into his extraordinary statement.
&odq;I am a bachelor,&cdq; said he, &odq;and being of a
sociable turn I cultivate a large number of friends. Among
these are the family of a retired brewer called Melville, living at
Albemarle Mansion, Kensington. It was at his table that I met
some weeks ago a young fellow named Garcia. He was, I
understood, of Spanish descent and connected in some way with the
embassy. He spoke perfect English, was pleasing in his
manners, and as goodlooking a man as ever I saw in my life.
&odq;In some way we struck up quite a friendship, this young
fellow and I. He seemed to take a fancy to me from the first,
and within two days of our meeting he came to see me at Lee.
One thing led to another, and it ended in his inviting me out
to spend a few days at his house, Wisteria Lodge, between Esher and
Oxshott. Yesterday evening I went to Esher to fulfil this
engagement.
&odq;He had described his household to me before I went there.
He lived with a faithful servant, a countryman of his own, who
looked after all his needs. This fellow could speak English
and did his housekeeping for him. Then there was a wonderful
cook he said, a half-breed whom he had picked up in his travels, who
could serve an excellent dinner. I remember that he remarked
what a queer household it was to find in the heart of Surrey, and
that I agreed with him, though it has proved a good deal queerer than
I thought.
&odq;I drove to the place — about two miles on the
south side of Esher. The house was a fair-sized one, standing
back from the road, with a curving drive which was banked with high
evergreen shrubs. It was an old, tumble-down building in a
crazy state of disrepair. When the trap pulled up on the
grass-grown drive in front of the blotched and weather-stained door,
I had doubts as to my wisdom in visiting a man whom I knew so
slightly. He opened the door himself, however, and greeted me
with a great show of cordiality. I was handed over to the
manservant, a melancholy, swarthy individual, who led the way, my bag
in his hand, to my bedroom. The whole place was depressing.
Our dinner was tete-a-tete, and though my host did his best to
be entertaining, his thoughts seemed to continually wander, and he
talked so vaguely and wildly that I could hardly understand him.
He continually drummed his fingers on the table, gnawed his
nails, and gave other signs of nervous impatience. The dinner
itself was neither well served nor well cooked, and the gloomy
presence of the taciturn servant did not help to enliven us. I
can assure you that many times in the course of the evening I wished
that I could invent some excuse which would take me back to Lee.
&odq;One thing comes back to my memory which may have a bearing
upon the business that you two gentlemen are investigating. I
thought nothing of it at the time. Near the end of dinner a
note was handed in by the servant. I noticed that after my
host had read it he seemed even more distrait and strange than
before. He gave up all pretence at conversation and sat,
smoking endless cigarettes, lost in his own thoughts, but he made no
remark as to the contents. About eleven I was glad to go to
bed. Some time later Garcia looked in at my door — the
room was dark at the time — and asked me if I had rung.
I said that I had not. He apologized for having
disturbed me so late, saying that it was nearly one o'clock. I
dropped off after this and slept soundly all night.
&odq;And now I come to the amazing part of my tale. When
I woke it was broad daylight. I glanced at my watch, and the
time was nearly nine. I had particularly asked to be called at
eight, so I was very much astonished at this forgetfulness. I
sprang up and rang for the servant. There was no response.
I rang again and again, with the same result. Then I
came to the conclusion that the bell was out of order. I
huddled on my clothes and hurried downstairs in an exceedingly bad
temper to order some hot water. You can imagine my surprise
when I found that there was no one there. I shouted in the
hall. There was no answer. Then I ran from room to
room. All were deserted. My host had shown me which was
his bedroom the night before, so I knocked at the door. No
reply. I turned the handle and walked in. The room was
empty, and the bed had never been slept in. He had gone with
the rest. The foreign host, the foreign footman, the foreign
cook, all had vanished in the night! That was the end of my
visit to Wisteria Lodge.&cdq;
Sherlock Holmes was rubbing his hands and chuckling as he added
this bizarre incident to his collection of strange episodes.
&odq;Your experience is, so far as I know, perfectly
unique,&cdq; said he. &odq;May I ask, sir, what you did
then?&cdq;
&odq;I was furious. My first idea was that I had been
the victim of some absurd practical joke. I packed my things,
banged the hall door behind me, and set off for Esher, with my bag in
my hand. I called at Allan Brothers, the chief land agents in
the village, and found that it was from this firm that the villa had
been rented. It struck me that the whole proceeding could
hardly be for the purpose of making a fool of me, and that the main
object must be to get out of the rent. It is late in March, so
quarter-day is at hand. But this theory would not work.
The agent was obliged to me for my warning, but told me that
the rent had been paid in advance. Then I made my way to town
and called at the Spanish embassy. The man was unknown there.
After this I went to see Melville, at whose house I had first
met Garcia, but I found that he really knew rather less about him
than I did. Finally when I got your reply to my wire I came
out to you, since I gather that you are a person who gives advice in
difficult cases. But now, Mr. Inspector, I understand, from
what you said when you entered the room, that you can carry the story
on, and that some tragedy has occurred. I can assure you that
every word I have said is the truth, and that, outside of what I have
told you, I know absolutely nothing about the fate of this man.
My only desire is to help the law in every possible way.&cdq;
&odq;I am sure of it, Mr. Scott Eccles — I am sure of
it,&cdq; said Inspector Gregson in a very amiable tone. &odq;I
am bound to say that everything which you have said agrees very
closely with the facts as they have come to our notice. For
example, there was that note which arrived during dinner. Did
you chance to observe what became of it?&cdq;
&odq;Yes, I did. Garcia rolled it up and threw it into
the fire.&cdq;
&odq;What do you say to that, Mr. Baynes?&cdq;
The country detective was a stout, puffy, red man, whose face
was only redeemed from grossness by two extraordinarily bright eyes,
almost hidden behind the heavy creases of cheek and brow. With
a slow smile he drew a folded and discoloured scrap of paper from his
pocket.
&odq;It was a dog-grate, Mr. Holmes, and he overpitched it.
I picked this out unburned from the back of it.&cdq;
Holmes smiled his appreciation.
&odq;You must have examined the house very carefully to find a
single pellet of paper.&cdq;
&odq;I did, Mr. Holmes. It's my way. Shall I read
it, Mr. Gregson?&cdq;
The Londoner nodded.
&odq;The note is written upon ordinary cream-laid paper without
watermark. It is a quarter-sheet. The paper is cut off
in two snips with a short-bladed scissors. It has been folded
over three times and sealed with purple wax, put on hurriedly and
pressed down with some flat oval object. It is addressed to
Mr. Garcia, Wisteria Lodge. It says:
&odq;Our own colours, green and white. Green open,
white shut. Main stair, first corridor, seventh right, green
baize. Godspeed. D.
It is a woman's writing, done with a sharp-pointed pen, but the
address is either done with another pen or by someone else. It
is thicker and bolder, as you see. &odq;
&odq;A very remarkable note,&cdq; said Holmes, glancing it
over. &odq;I must compliment you, Mr. Baynes, upon your
attention to detail in your examination of it. A few trifling
points might perhaps be added. The oval seal is undoubtedly a
plain sleeve-link — what else is of such a shape? The
scissors were bent nail scissors. Short as the two snips are,
you can distinctly see the same slight curve in each.&cdq;
The country detective chuckled.
&odq;I thought I had squeezed all the juice out of it, but I
see there was a little over,&cdq; he said. &odq;I'm bound to
say that I make nothing of the note except that there was something
on hand, and that a woman, as usual, was at the bottom of it.&cdq;
Mr. Scott Eccles had fidgeted in his seat during this
conversation.
&odq;I am glad you found the note, since it corroborates my
story,&cdq; said he. &odq;But I beg to point out that I have
not yet heard what has happened to Mr. Garcia, nor what has become of
his household.&cdq;
&odq;As to Garcia,&cdq; said Gregson, &odq;that is easily
answered. He was found dead this morning upon Oxshott Common,
nearly a mile from his home. His head had been smashed to pulp
by heavy blows of a sandbag or some such instrument, which had
crushed rather than wounded. It is a lonely corner, and there
is no house within a quarter of a mile of the spot. He had
apparently been struck down first from behind, but his assailant had
gone on beating him long after he was dead. It was a most
furious assault. There are no footsteps nor any clue to the
criminals.&cdq;
&odq;Robbed?&cdq;
&odq;No, there was no attempt at robbery.&cdq;
&odq;This is very painful — very painful and
terrible,&cdq; said Mr. Scott Eccles in a querulous voice, &odq;but
it is really uncommonly hard upon me. I had nothing to do with
my host going off upon a nocturnal excursion and meeting so sad an
end. How do I come to be mixed up with the case?&cdq;
&odq;Very simply, sir,&cdq; Inspector Baynes answered.
&odq;The only document found in the pocket of the deceased was
a letter from you saying that you would be with him on the night of
his death. It was the envelope of this letter which gave us
the dead man's name and address. It was after nine this
morning when we reached his house and found neither you nor anyone
else inside it. I wired to Mr. Gregson to run you down in
London while I examined Wisteria Lodge. Then I came into town,
joined Mr. Gregson, and here we are.&cdq;
&odq;I think now,&cdq; said Gregson, rising, &odq;we had best
put this matter into an official shape. You will come round
with us to the station, Mr. Scott Eccles, and let us have your
statement in writing.&cdq;
&odq;Certainly, I will come at once. But I retain your
services, Mr. Holmes. I desire you to spare no expense and no
pains to get at the truth.&cdq;
My friend turned to the country inspector.
&odq;I suppose that you have no objection to my collaborating
with you, Mr. Baynes?&cdq;
&odq;Highly honoured, sir, I am sure.&cdq;
&odq;You appear to have been very prompt and business-like in
all that you have done. Was there any clue, may I ask, as to
the exact hour that the man met his death?&cdq;
&odq;He had been there since one o'clock. There was rain
about that time, and his death had certainly been before the
rain.&cdq;
&odq;But that is perfectly impossible, Mr. Baynes,&cdq; cried
our client. &odq;His voice is unmistakable. I could
swear to it that it was he who addressed me in my bedroom at that
very hour.&cdq;
&odq;Remarkable, but by no means impossible,&cdq; said Holmes,
smiling.
&odq;You have a clue?&cdq; asked Gregson.
&odq;On the face of it the case is not a very complex one,
though it certainly presents some novel and interesting features.
A further knowledge of facts is necessary before I would
venture to give a final and definite opinion. By the way, Mr.
Baynes, did you find anything remarkable besides this note in your
examination of the house?&cdq;
The detective looked at my friend in a singular way.
&odq;There were,&cdq; said he, &odq;one or two very remarkable
things. Perhaps when I have finished at the police-station you
would care to come out and give me your opinion of them.&cdq;
&odq;I am entirely at your service,&cdq; said Sherlock Holmes,
ringing the bell. &odq;You will show these gentlemen out, Mrs.
Hudson, and kindly send the boy with this telegram. He is to
pay a five-shilling reply.&cdq;
We sat for some time in silence after our visitors had left.
Holmes smoked hard, with his brows drawn down over his keen
eyes, and his head thrust forward in the eager way characteristic of
the man.
&odq;Well, Watson,&cdq; he asked, turning suddenly upon me,
&odq;what do you make of it?&cdq;
&odq;I can make nothing of this mystification of Scott
Eccles.&cdq;
&odq;But the crime?&cdq;
&odq;Well, taken with the disappearance of the man's
companions, I should say that they were in some way concerned in the
murder and had fled from justice.&cdq;
&odq;That is certainly a possible point of view. On the
face of it you must admit, however, that it is very strange that his
two servants should have been in a conspiracy against him and should
have attacked him on the one night when he had a guest. They
had him alone at their mercy every other night in the week.&cdq;
&odq;Then why did they fly?&cdq;
&odq;Quite so. Why did they fly? There is a big
fact. Another big fact is the remarkable experience of our
client, Scott Eccles. Now, my dear Watson, is it beyond the
limits of human ingenuity to furnish an explanation which would cover
both these big facts? If it were one which would also admit of
the mysterious note with its very curious phraseology, why, then it
would be worth accepting as a temporary hypothesis. If the
fresh facts which come to our knowledge all fit themselves into the
scheme, then our hypothesis may gradually become a solution.&cdq;
&odq;But what is our hypothesis?&cdq;
Holmes leaned back in his chair with half-closed eyes.
&odq;You must admit, my dear Watson, that the idea of a joke is
impossible. There were grave events afoot, as the sequel
showed, and the coaxing of Scott Eccles to Wisteria Lodge had some
connection with them.&cdq;
&odq;But what possible connection?&cdq;
&odq;Let us take it link by link. There is, on the face
of it something unnatural about this strange and sudden friendship
between the young Spaniard and Scott Eccles. It was the former
who forced the pace. He called upon Eccles at the other end of
London on the very day after he first met him, and he kept in close
touch with him until he got him down to Esher. Now, what did
he want with Eccles? What could Eccles supply? I see no
charm in the man. He is not particularly intelligent —
not a man likely to be congenial to a quick-witted Latin. Why,
then, was he picked out from all the other people whom Garcia met as
particularly suited to his purpose? Has he any one outstanding
quality? I say that he has. He is the very type of
conventional British respectability, and the very man as a witness to
impress another Briton. You saw yourself how neither of the
inspectors dreamed of questioning his statement, extraordinary as it
was.&cdq;
&odq;But what was he to witness?&cdq;
&odq;Nothing, as things turned out, but everything had they
gone another way. That is how I read the matter.&cdq;
&odq;I see, he might have proved an alibi.&cdq;
&odq;Exactly, my dear Watson; he might have proved an alibi.
We will suppose, for argument's sake, that the household of
Wisteria Lodge are confederates in some design. The attempt,
whatever it may be, is to come off, we will say, before one o'clock.
By some juggling of the clocks it is quite possible that they
may have got Scott Eccles to bed earlier than he thought but in any
case it is likely that when Garcia went out of his way to tell him
that it was one it was really not more than twelve. If Garcia
could do whatever he had to do and be back by the hour mentioned he
had evidently a powerful reply to any accusation. Here was
this irreproachable Englishman ready to swear in any court of law
that the accused was in his house all the time. It was an
insurance against the worst.&cdq;
&odq;Yes, yes, I see that. But how about the
disappearance of the others?&cdq;
&odq;I have not all my facts yet, but I do not think there are
any insuperable difficulties. Still, it is an error to argue
in front of your data. You find yourself insensibly twisting
them round to fit your theories.&cdq;
&odq;And the message?&cdq;
&odq;How did it run? &onq;Our own colours, green and
white.&cnq; Sounds like racing. &onq;Green open, white
shut.&cnq; That is clearly a signal. &onq;Main stair,
first corridor, seventh right, green baize.&cnq; This is an
assignation. We may find a jealous husband at the bottom of it
all. It was clearly a dangerous quest. She would not
have said &onq;Godspeed&cnq; had it not been so. &onq;D&cnq;
— that should be a guide.&cdq;
&odq;The man was a Spaniard. I suggest that &onq;D&cnq;
stands for Dolores, a common female name in Spain.&cdq;
&odq;Good, Watson, very good — but quite inadmissible.
A Spaniard would write to a Spaniard in Spanish. The
writer of this note is certainly English. Well, we can only
possess our souls in patience until this excellent inspector comes
back for us. Meanwhile we can thank our lucky fate which has
rescued us for a few short hours from the insufferable fatigues of
idleness.&cdq;
An answer had arrived to Holmes's telegram before our Surrey
officer had returned. Holmes read it and was about to place it
in his notebook when he caught a glimpse of my expectant face.
He tossed it across with a laugh.
&odq;We are moving in exalted circles,&cdq; said he.
The telegram was a list of names and addresses:
Lord Harringby, The Dingle; Sir George Ffolliott, Oxshott
Towers; Mr. Hynes Hynes, J.P., Purdey Place; Mr. James Baker
Williams, Forton Old Hall; Mr. Henderson, High Gable; Rev. Joshua
Stone, Nether Walsling.
&odq;This is a very obvious way of limiting our field of
operations,&cdq; said Holmes. &odq;No doubt Baynes, with his
methodical mind, has already adopted some similar plan.&cdq;
&odq;I don't quite understand.&cdq;
&odq;Well, my dear fellow, we have already arrived at the
conclusion that the message received by Garcia at dinner was an
appointment or an assignation. Now, if the obvious reading of
it is correct, and in order to keep this tryst one has to ascend a
main stair and seek the seventh door in a corridor, it is perfectly
clear that the house is a very large one. It is equally
certain that this house cannot be more than a mile or two from
Oxshott since Garcia was walking in that direction and hoped,
according to my reading of the facts, to be back in Wisteria Lodge in
time to avail himself of an alibi, which would only be valid up to
one o'clock. As the number of large houses close to Oxshott
must be limited, I adopted the obvious method of sending to the
agents mentioned by Scott Eccles and obtaining a list of them.
Here they are in this telegram, and the other end of our
tangled skein must lie among them.&cdq;
It was nearly six o'clock before we found ourselves in the
pretty Surrey village of Esher, with Inspector Baynes as our
companion.
Holmes and I had taken things for the night, and found
comfortable quarters at the Bull. Finally we set out in the
company of the detective on our visit to Wisteria Lodge. It
was a cold, dark March evening, with a sharp wind and a fine rain
beating upon our faces, a fit setting for the wild common over which
our road passed and the tragic goal to which it led us.
A cold and melancholy walk of a couple of miles brought us to a
high wooden gate, which opened into a gloomy avenue of chestnuts.
The curved and shadowed drive led us to a low, dark house,
pitch-black against a slate-coloured sky. From the front
window upon the left of the door there peeped a glimmer of a feeble
light.
&odq;There's a constable in possession,&cdq; said Baynes.
&odq;I'll knock at the window.&cdq; He stepped across
the grass plot and tapped with his hand on the pane. Through
the fogged glass I dimly saw a man spring up from a chair beside the
fire, and heard a sharp cry from within the room. An instant
later a white-faced, hard-breathing policeman had opened the door,
the candle wavering in his trembling hand.
&odq;What's the matter, Walters?&cdq; asked Baynes sharply.
The man mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and gave a
long sigh of relief.
&odq;I am glad you have come, sir. It has been a long
evening, and I don't think my nerve is as good as it was.&cdq;
&odq;Your nerve, Walters? I should not have thought you
had a nerve in your body.&cdq;
&odq;Well, sir, it's this lonely, silent house and the queer
thing in the kitchen. Then when you tapped at the window I
thought it had come again.&cdq;
&odq;That what had come again?&cdq;
&odq;The devil, sir, for all I know. It was at the
window.&cdq;
&odq;What was at the window, and when?&cdq;
&odq;It was just about two hours ago. The light was just
fading. I was sitting reading in the chair. I don't
know what made me look up, but there was a face looking in at me
through the lower pane. Lord, sir, what a face it was!
I'll see it in my dreams.&cdq;
&odq;Tut, tut, Walters. This is not talk for a
police-constable.&cdq;
&odq;I know sir, I know; but it shook me sir, and there's no
use to deny it, it wasn't black, sir, nor was it white, nor any
colour that I know, but a kind of queer shade like clay with a splash
of milk in it. Then there was the size of it — it was
twice yours, sir. And the look of it — the great
staring goggle eyes, and the line of white teeth like a hungry beast.
I tell you, sir, I couldn't move a finger, nor get my breath,
till it whisked away and was gone. Out I ran and through the
shrubbery, but thank God there was no one there.&cdq;
&odq;If I didn't know you were a good man, Walters, I should
put a black mark against you for this. If it were the devil
himself a constable on duty should never thank God that he could not
lay his hands upon him. I suppose the whole thing is not a
vision and a touch of nerves?&cdq;
&odq;That, at least, is very easily settled,&cdq; said Holmes,
lighting his little pocket lantern. &odq;Yes,&cdq; he
reported, after a short examination of the grass bed, &odq;a number
twelve shoe, I should say. If he was all on the same scale as
his foot he must certainly have been a giant.&cdq;
&odq;What became of him?&cdq;
&odq;He seems to have broken through the shrubbery and made for
the road.&cdq;
&odq;Well,&cdq; said the inspector with a grave and thoughtful
face, &odq;whoever he may have been, and whatever he may have wanted,
he's gone for the present, and we have more immediate things to
attend to. Now, Mr. Holmes, with your permission, I will show
you round the house.&cdq;
The various bedrooms and sitting-rooms had yielded nothing to a
careful search. Apparently the tenants had brought little or
nothing with them, and all the furniture down to the smallest details
had been taken over with the house. A good deal of clothing
with the stamp of Marx and Co., High Holborn, had been left behind.
Telegraphic inquiries had been already made which showed that
Marx knew nothing of his customer save that he was a good payer.
Odds and ends, some pipes, a few novels, two of them in
Spanish, an old-fashioned pinfire revolver, and a guitar were among
the personal property.
&odq;Nothing in all this,&cdq; said Baynes, stalking, candle in
hand, from room to room. &odq;But now, Mr. Holmes, I invite
your attention to the kitchen.&cdq;
It was a gloomy, high-ceilinged room at the back of the house,
with a straw litter in one corner, which served apparently as a bed
for the cook. The table was piled with half-eaten dishes and
dirty plates, the debris of last night's dinner.
&odq;Look at this,&cdq; said Baynes. &odq;What do you
make of it?&cdq;
He held up his candle before an extraordinary object which
stood at the back of the dresser. It was so wrinkled and
shrunken and withered that it was difficult to say what it might have
been. One could but say that it was black and leathery and
that it bore some resemblance to a dwarfish, human figure. At
first, as I examined it, I thought that it was a mummified negro
baby, and then it seemed a very twisted and ancient monkey.
Finally I was left in doubt as to whether it was animal or
human. A double band of white shells was strung round the
centre of it.
&odq;Very interesting — very interesting, indeed!&cdq;
said Holmes, peering at this sinister relic. &odq;Anything
more?&cdq;
In silence Baynes led the way to the sink and held forward his
candle. The limbs and body of some large, white bird, torn
savagely to pieces with the feathers still on, were littered all over
it. Holmes pointed to the wattles on the severed head.
&odq;A white cock,&cdq; said he. &odq;Most interesting!
It is really a very curious case.&cdq;
But Mr. Baynes had kept his most sinister exhibit to the last.
From under the sink he drew a zinc pail which contained a
quantity of blood. Then from the table he took a platter
heaped with small pieces of charred bone.
&odq;Something has been killed and something has been burned.
We raked all these out of the fire. We had a doctor in
this morning. He says that they are not human.&cdq;
Holmes smiled and rubbed his hands.
&odq;I must congratulate you, Inspector, on handling so
distinctive and instructive a case. Your powers, if I may say
so without offence, seem superior to your opportunities.&cdq;
Inspector Baynes's small eyes twinkled with pleasure.
&odq;You're right, Mr. Holmes. We stagnate in the
provinces. A case of this sort gives a man a chance, and I
hope that I shall take it. What do you make of these
bones?&cdq;
&odq;A lamb, I should say, or a kid.&cdq;
&odq;And the white cock?&cdq;
&odq;Curious, Mr. Baynes, very curious. I should say
almost unique.&cdq;
&odq;Yes, sir, there must have been some very strange people
with some very strange ways in this house. One of them is
dead. Did his companions follow him and kill him? If
they did we should have them, for every port is watched. But
my own views are different. Yes, sir, my own views are very
different.&cdq;
&odq;You have a theory then?&cdq;
&odq;And I'll work it myself, Mr. Holmes. It's only due
to my own credit to do so. Your name is made, but I have still
to make mine. I should be glad to be able to say afterwards
that I had solved it without your help.&cdq;
Holmes laughed good-humouredly.
&odq;Well, well, Inspector,&cdq; said he. &odq;Do you
follow your path and I will follow mine. My results are always
very much at your service if you care to apply to me for them.
I think that I have seen all that I wish in this house, and
that my time may be more profitably employed elsewhere. Au
revoir and good luck!&cdq;
I could tell by numerous subtle signs, which might have been
lost upon anyone but myself, that Holmes was on a hot scent.
As impassive as ever to the casual observer, there were none
the less a subdued eagerness and suggestion of tension in his
brightened eyes and brisker manner which assured me that the game was
afoot. After his habit he said nothing, and after mine I asked
no questions. Sufficient for me to share the sport and lend my
humble help to the capture without distracting that intent brain with
needless interruption. All would come round to me in due time.
I waited, therefore — but to my ever-deepening
disappointment I waited in vain. Day succeeded day, and my
friend took no step forward. One morning he spent in town, and
I learned from a casual reference that he had visited the British
Museum. Save for this one excursion, he spent his days in long
and often solitary walks, or in chatting with a number of village
gossips whose acquaintance he had cultivated.
&odq;I'm sure, Watson, a week in the country will be invaluable
to you,&cdq; he remarked. &odq;It is very pleasant to see the
first green shoots upon the hedges and the catkins on the hazels once
again. With a spud, a tin box, and an elementary book on
botany, there are instructive days to be spent.&cdq; He
prowled about with this equipment himself, but it was a poor show of
plants which he would bring back of an evening.
Occasionally in our rambles we came across Inspector Baynes.
His fat, red face wreathed itself in smiles and his small eyes
glittered as he greeted my companion. He said little about the
case, but from that little we gathered that he also was not
dissatisfied at the course of events. I must admit, however,
that I was somewhat surprised when, some five days after the crime, I
opened my morning paper to find in large letters:
THE OXSHOTT MYSTERY A SOLUTION ARREST OF SUPPOSED ASSASSIN
Holmes sprang in his chair as if he had been stung when I read
the headlines.
&odq;By Jove!&cdq; he cried. &odq;You don't mean that
Baynes has got him?&cdq;
&odq;Apparently,&cdq; said I as I read the following report:
&odq;Great excitement was caused in Esher and the neighbouring district when it was learned late last night that an arrest had been effected in connection with the Oxshott murder.It will be remembered that Mr. Garcia, of Wisteria Lodge, was found dead on Oxshott Common, his body showing signs of extreme violence, and that on the same night his servant and his cook fled, which appeared to show their participation in the crime.It was suggested, but never proved, that the deceased gentleman may have had valuables in the house, and that their abstraction was the motive of the crime.Every effort was made by Inspector Baynes, who has the case in hand, to ascertain the hiding place of the fugitives, and he had good reason to believe that they had not gone far but were lurking in some retreat which had been already prepared.It was certain from the first, however, that they would eventually be detected, as the cook, from the evidence of one or two tradespeople who have caught a glimpse of him through the window, was a man of most remarkable appearance — being a huge and hideous mulatto, with yellowish features of a pronounced negroid type.This man has been seen since the crime, for he was detected and pursued by Constable Walters on the same evening, when he had the audacity to revisit Wisteria Lodge.Inspector Baynes, considering that such a visit must have some purpose in view and was likely, therefore, to be repeated, abandoned the house but left an ambuscade in the shrubbery.The man walked into the trap and was captured last night after a struggle in which Constable Downing was badly bitten by the savage.We understand that when the prisoner is brought before the magistrates a remand will be applied for by the police, and that great developments are hoped from his capture.&cdq;
&odq;Really we must see Baynes at once,&cdq; cried Holmes,
picking up his hat. &odq;We will just catch him before he
starts.&cdq; We hurried down the village street and found, as
we had expected, that the inspector was just leaving his lodgings.
&odq;You've seen the paper, Mr. Holmes?&cdq; he asked, holding
one out to us.
&odq;Yes, Baynes, I've seen it. Pray don't think it a
liberty if I give you a word of friendly warning.&cdq;
&odq;Of warning, Mr. Holmes?&cdq;
&odq;I have looked into this case with some care, and I am not
convinced that you are on the right lines. I don't want you to
commit yourself too far unless you are sure.&cdq;
&odq;You're very kind, Mr. Holmes.&cdq;
&odq;I assure you I speak for your good.&cdq;
It seemed to me that something like a wink quivered for an
instant over one of Mr. Baynes's tiny eyes.
&odq;We agreed to work on our own lines, Mr. Holmes.
That's what I am doing.&cdq;
&odq;Oh, very good,&cdq; said Holmes. &odq;Don't blame
me.&cdq;
&odq;No, sir; I believe you mean well by me. But we all
have our own systems, Mr. Holmes. You have yours, and maybe I
have mine.&cdq;
&odq;Let us say no more about it.&cdq;
&odq;You're welcome always to my news. This fellow is a
perfect savage, as strong as a cart-horse and as fierce as the devil.
He chewed Downing's thumb nearly off before they could master
him. He hardly speaks a word of English, and we can get
nothing out of him but grunts.&cdq;
&odq;And you think you have evidence that he murdered his late
master?&cdq;
&odq;I didn't say so, Mr. Holmes- I didn't say so. We
all have our little ways. You try yours and I will try mine.
That's the agreement.&cdq;
Holmes shrugged his shoulders as we walked away together.
&odq;I can't make the man out. He seems to be riding
for a fall. Well, as he says, we must each try our own way and
see what comes of it. But there's something in Inspector
Baynes which I can't quite understand.&cdq;
&odq;Just sit down in that chair, Watson,&cdq; said Sherlock
Holmes when we had returned to our apartment at the Bull.
&odq;I want to put you in touch with the situation, as I may
need your help to-night. Let me show you the evolution of this
case so far as I have been able to follow it. Simple as it has
been in its leading features, it has none the less presented
surprising difficulties in the way of an arrest. There are
gaps in that direction which we have still to fill.
&odq;We will go back to the note which was handed in to Garcia
upon the evening of his death. We may put aside this idea of
Baynes's that Garcia's servants were concerned in the matter.
The proof of this lies in the fact that it was he who had
arranged for the presence of Scott Eccles, which could only have been
done for the purpose of an alibi. It was Garcia, then, who had
an enterprise, and apparently a criminal enterprise, in hand that
night in the course of which he met his death. I say
&onq;criminal&cnq; because only a man with a criminal enterprise
desires to establish an alibi. Who, then, is most likely to
have taken his life? Surely the person against whom the
criminal enterprise was directed. So far it seems to me that
we are on safe ground.
&odq;We can now see a reason for the disappearance of Garcia's
household. They were all confederates in the same unknown
crime. If it came off when Garcia returned, any possible
suspicion would be warded off by the Englishman's evidence, and all
would be well. But the attempt was a dangerous one, and if
Garcia did not return by a certain hour it was probable that his own
life had been sacrificed. It had been arranged, therefore,
that in such a case his two subordinates were to make for some
prearranged spot where they could escape investigation and be in a
position afterwards to renew their attempt. That would fully
explain the facts, would it not?&cdq;
The whole inexplicable tangle seemed to straighten out before
me. I wondered, as I always did, how it had not been obvious
to me before.
&odq;But why should one servant return?&cdq;
&odq;We can imagine that in the confusion of flight something
precious, something which he could not bear to part with, had been
left behind. That would explain his persistence, would it
not?&cdq;
&odq;Well, what is the next step?&cdq;
&odq;The next step is the note received by Garcia at the
dinner. It indicates a confederate at the other end.
Now, where was the other end? I have already shown you
that it could only lie in some large house, and that the number of
large houses is limited. My first days in this village were
devoted to a series of walks in which in the intervals of my
botanical researches I made a reconnaissance of all the large houses
and an examination of the family history of the occupants. One
house, and only one, riveted my attention. It is the famous
old Jacobean grange of High Gable, one mile on the farther side of
Oxshott, and less than half a mile from the scene of the tragedy.
The other mansions belonged to prosaic and respectable people
who live far aloof from romance. But Mr. Henderson, of High
Gable, was by all accounts a curious man to whom curious adventures
might befall. I concentrated my attention, therefore, upon him
and his household.
&odq;A singular set of people, Watson — the man himself
the most singular of them all. I managed to see him on a
plausible pretext, but I seemed to read in his dark, deep-set,
brooding eyes that he was perfectly aware of my true business.
He is a man of fifty, strong, active, with iron-gray hair,
great bunched black eyebrows, the step of a deer, and the air of an
emperor — a fierce, masterful man, with a red-hot spirit
behind his parchment face. He is either a foreigner or has
lived long in the tropics, for he is yellow and sapless, but tough as
whipcord. His friend and secretary, Mr. Lucas, is undoubtedly
a foreigner, chocolate brown, wily, suave, and cat-like, with a
poisonous gentleness of speech. You see, Watson, we have come
already upon two sets of foreigners — one at Wisteria Lodge
and one at High Gable — so our gaps are beginning to close.
&odq;These two men, close and confidential friends, are the
centre of the household; but there is one other person who for our
immediate purpose may be even more important. Henderson has
two children — girls of eleven and thirteen. Their
governess is a Miss Burnet, an Englishwoman of forty or thereabouts.
There is also one confidential manservant. This little
group forms the real family, for they travel about together, and
Henderson is a great traveller, always on the move. It is only
within the last few weeks that he has returned, after a year's
absence, to High Gable. I may add that he is enormously rich,
and whatever his whims may be he can very easily satisfy them.
For the rest, his house is full of butlers, footmen,
maidservants, and the usual overfed, underworked staff of a large
English country-house.
&odq;So much I learned partly from village gossip and partly
from my own observation. There are no better instruments than
discharged servants with a grievance, and I was lucky enough to find
one. I call it luck, but it would not have come my way had I
not been looking out for it. As Baynes remarks, we all have
our systems. It was my system which enabled me to find John
Warner, late gardener of High Gable, sacked in a moment of temper by
his imperious employer. He in turn had friends among the
indoor servants who unite in their fear and dislike of their master.
So I had my key to the secrets of the establishment.
&odq;Curious people, Watson! I don't pretend to
understand it all yet, but very curious people anyway. It's a
double-winged house and the servants live on one side, the family on
the other. There's no link between the two save for
Henderson's own servant, who serves the family's meals.
Everything is carried to a certain door, which forms the one
connection. Governess and children hardly go out at all,
except into the garden. Henderson never by any chance walks
alone. His dark secretary is like his shadow. The
gossip among the servants is that their master is terribly afraid of
something. &onq;Sold his soul to the devil in exchange for
money,&cnq; says Warner, &onq;and expects his creditor to come up and
claim his own.&cnq; Where they came from, or who they are,
nobody has an idea. They are very violent. Twice
Henderson has lashed at folk with his dog-whip, and only his long
purse and heavy compensation have kept him out of the courts.
&odq;Well, now, Watson, let us judge the situation by this new
information. We may take it that the letter came out of this
strange household and was an invitation to Garcia to carry out some
attempt which had already been planned. Who wrote the note?
It was someone within the citadel, and it was a woman.
Who then but Miss Burnet, the governess? All our
reasoning seems to point that way. At any rate, we may take it
as a hypothesis and see what consequences it would entail. I
may add that Miss Burnet's age and character make it certain that my
first idea that there might be a love interest in our story is out of
the question.
&odq;If she wrote the note she was presumably the friend and
confederate of Garcia. What, then, might she be expected to do
if she heard of his death? If he met it in some nefarious
enterprise her lips might be sealed. Still, in her heart, she
must retain bitterness and hatred against those who had killed him
and would presumably help so far as she could to have revenge upon
them. Could we see her, then, and try to use her? That
was my first thought. But now we come to a sinister fact.
Miss Burnet has not been seen by any human eye since the night
of the murder. From that evening she has utterly vanished.
Is she alive? Has she perhaps met her end on the same
night as the friend whom she had summoned? Or is she merely a
prisoner? There is the point which we still have to decide.
&odq;You will appreciate the difficulty of the situation,
Watson. There is nothing upon which we can apply for a
warrant. Our whole scheme might seem fantastic if laid before
a magistrate. The woman's disappearance counts for nothing,
since in that extraordinary household any member of it might be
invisible for a week. And yet she may at the present moment be
in danger of her life. All I can do is to watch the house and
leave my agent, Warner, on guard at the gates. We can't let
such a situation continue. If the law can do nothing we must
take the risk ourselves.&cdq;
&odq;What do you suggest?&cdq;
&odq;I know which is her room. It is accessible from the
top of an outhouse. My suggestion is that you and I go
to-night and see if we can strike at the very heart of the
mystery.&cdq;
It was not, I must confess, a very alluring prospect.
The old house with its atmosphere of murder, the singular and
formidable inhabitants, the unknown dangers of the approach, and the
fact that we were putting ourselves legally in a false position all
combined to damp my ardour. But there was something in the
ice-cold reasoning of Holmes which made it impossible to shrink from
any adventure which he might recommend. One knew that thus,
and only thus, could a solution be found. I clasped his hand
in silence, and the die was cast.
But it was not destined that our investigation should have so
adventurous an ending. It was about five o'clock, and the
shadows of the March evening were beginning to fall, when an excited
rustic rushed into our room.
&odq;They've gone, Mr. Holmes. They went by the last
train. The lady broke away, and I've got her in a cab
downstairs.&cdq;
&odq;Excellent, Warner!&cdq; cried Holmes, springing to his
feet. &odq;Watson, the gaps are closing rapidly.&cdq;
In the cab was a woman, half-collapsed from nervous exhaustion.
She bore upon her aquiline and emaciated face the traces of
some recent tragedy. Her head hung listlessly upon her breast,
but as she raised it and turned her dull eyes upon us I saw that her
pupils were dark dots in the centre of the broad gray iris.
She was drugged with opium.
&odq;I watched at the gate, same as you advised, Mr.
Holmes,&cdq; said our emissary, the discharged gardener.
&odq;When the carriage came out I followed it to the station.
She was like one walking in her sleep, but when they tried to
get her into the train she came to life and struggled. They
pushed her into the carriage. She fought her way out again.
I took her part, got her into a cab, and here we are. I
shan't forget the face at the carriage window as I led her away.
I'd have a short life if he had his way — the
black-eyed, scowling, yellow devil.&cdq;
We carried her upstairs, laid her on the sofa, and a couple of
cups of the strongest coffee soon cleared her brain from the mists of
the drug. Baynes had been summoned by Holmes, and the
situation rapidly explained to him.
&odq;Why, sir, you've got me the very evidence I want,&cdq;
said the inspector warmly, shaking my friend by the hand.
&odq;I was on the same scent as you from the first.&cdq;
&odq;What! You were after Henderson?&cdq;
&odq;Why, Mr. Holmes, when you were crawling in the shrubbery
at High Gable I was up one of the trees in the plantation and saw you
down below. It was just who would get his evidence first.&cdq;
&odq;Then why did you arrest the mulatto?&cdq;
Baynes chuckled.
&odq;I was sure Henderson, as he calls himself, felt that he
was suspected, and that he would lie low and make no move so long as
he thought he was in any danger. I arrested the wrong man to
make him believe that our eyes were off him. I knew he would
be likely to clear off then and give us a chance of getting at Miss
Burnet.&cdq;
Holmes laid his hand upon the inspector's shoulder.
— &odq;You will rise high in your profession. You have
instinct and intuition,&cdq; said he.
Baynes flushed with pleasure.
&odq;I've had a plain-clothes man waiting at the station all
the week. Wherever the High Gable folk go he will keep them in
sight. But he must have been hard put to it when Miss Burnet
broke away. However, your man picked her up, and it all ends
well. We can't arrest without her evidence, that is clear, so
the sooner we get a statement the better.&cdq;
&odq;Every minute she gets stronger,&cdq; said Holmes, glancing
at the governess. &odq;But tell me, Baynes, who is this man
Henderson?&cdq;
&odq;Henderson,&cdq; the inspector answered, &odq;is Don
Murillo, once called the Tiger of San Pedro.&cdq;
The Tiger of San Pedro! The whole history of the man
came back to me in a flash. He had made his name as the most
lewd and bloodthirsty tyrant that had ever governed any country with
a pretence to civilization. Strong, fearless, and energetic,
he had sufficient virtue to enable him to impose his odious vices
upon a cowering people for ten or twelve years. His name was a
terror through all Central America. At the end of that time
there was a universal rising against him. But he was as
cunning as he was cruel, and at the first whisper of coming trouble
he had secretly conveyed his treasures aboard a ship which was manned
by devoted adherents. It was an empty palace which was stormed
by the insurgents next day. The dictator, his two children,
his secretary, and his wealth had all escaped them. From that
moment he had vanished from the world, and his identity had been a
frequent subject for comment in the European press.
&odq;Yes, sir, Don Murillo, the Tiger of San Pedro,&cdq; said
Baynes. &odq;If you look it up you will find that the San
Pedro colours are green and white, same as in the note, Mr. Holmes.
Henderson he called himself, but I traced him back, Paris and
Rome and Madrid to Barcelona, where his ship came in in '86.
They've been looking for him all the time for their revenge,
but it is only now that they have begun to find him out.&cdq;
&odq;They discovered him a year ago,&cdq; said Miss Burnet, who
had sat up and was now intently following the conversation.
&odq;Once already his life has been attempted, but some evil
spirit shielded him. Now, again, it is the noble, chivalrous
Garcia who has fallen, while the monster goes safe. But
another will come, and yet another, until some day justice will be
done; that is as certain as the rise of to-morrow's sun.&cdq;
Her thin hands clenched, and her worn face blanched with the
passion of her hatred.
&odq;But how come you into this matter Miss Burnet?&cdq; asked
Holmes. &odq;How can an English lady join in such a murderous
affair?&cdq;
&odq;I join in it because there is no other way in the world by
which justice can be gained. What does the law of England care
for the rivers of blood shed years ago in San Pedro, or for the
shipload of treasure which this man has stolen? To you they
are like crimes committed in some other planet. But we know.
We have learned the truth in sorrow and in suffering.
To us there is no fiend in hell like Juan Murillo, and no
peace in life while his victims still cry for vengeance.&cdq;
&odq;No doubt,&cdq; said Holmes, &odq;he was as you say I have
heard that he was atrocious. But how are you affected?&cdq;
&odq;I will tell you it all. This villain's policy was
to murder, on one pretext or another, every man who showed such
promise that he might in time come to be a dangerous rival. My
husband — yes, my real name is Signora Victor Durando
— was the San Pedro minister in London. He met me and
married me there. A nobler man never lived upon earth.
Unhappily, Murillo heard of his excellence, recalled him on
some pretext, and had him shot. With a premonition of his fate
he had refused to take me with him. His estates were
confiscated, and I was left with a pittance and a broken heart.
&odq;Then came the downfall of the tyrant. He escaped as
you have just described. But the many whose lives he had
ruined, whose nearest and dearest had suffered torture and death at
his hands, would not let the matter rest. They banded
themselves into a society which should never be dissolved until the
work was done. It was my part after we had discovered in the
transformed Henderson the fallen despot, to attach myself to his
household and keep the others in touch with his movements.
This I was able to do by securing the position of governess in
his family. He little knew that the woman who faced him at
every meal was the woman whose husband he had hurried at an hour's
notice into eternity. I smiled on him, did my duty to his
children, and bided my time. An attempt was made in Paris and
failed. We zig-zagged swiftly here and there over Europe to
throw off the pursuers and finally returned to this house, which he
had taken upon his first arrival in England.
&odq;But here also the ministers of justice were waiting.
Knowing that he would return there, Garcia, who is the son of
the former highest dignitary in San Pedro, was waiting with two
trusty companions of humble station, all three fired with the same
reasons for revenge. He could do little during the day, for
Murillo took every precaution and never went out save with his
satellite Lucas, or Lopez as he was known in the days of his
greatness. At night, however, he slept alone, and the avenger
might find him. On a certain evening, which had been
prearranged, I sent my friend final instructions, for the man was
forever on the alert and continually changed his room. I was
to see that the doors were open and the signal of a green or white
light in a window which faced the drive was to give notice if all was
safe or if the attempt had better be postponed.
&odq;But everything went wrong with us. In some way I
had excited the suspicion of Lopez, the secretary. He crept up
behind me and sprang upon me just as I had finished the note.
He and his master dragged me to my room and held judgment upon
me as a convicted traitress. Then and there they would have
plunged their knives into me could they have seen how to escape the
consequences of the deed. Finally, after much debate, they
concluded that my murder was too dangerous. But they
determined to get rid forever of Garcia. They had gagged me,
and Murillo twisted my arm round until I gave him the address.
I swear that he might have twisted it off had I understood
what it would mean to Garcia. Lopez addressed the note which I
had written, sealed it with his sleeve-link, and sent it by the hand
of the servant, Jose. How they murdered him I do not know,
save that it was Murillo's hand who struck him down, for Lopez had
remained to guard me. I believe he must have waited among the
gorse bushes through which the path winds and struck him down as he
passed. At first they were of a mind to let him enter the
house and to kill him as a detected burglar; but they argued that if
they were mixed up in an inquiry their own identity would at once be
publicly disclosed and they would be open to further attacks.
With the death of Garcia, the pursuit might cease, since such
a death might frighten others from the task.
&odq;All would now have been well for them had it not been for
my knowledge of what they had done. I have no doubt that there
were times when my life hung in the balance. I was confined to
my room, terrorized by the most horrible threats, cruelly ill-used to
break my spirit — see this stab on my shoulder and the
bruises from end to end of my arms — and a gag was thrust
into my mouth on the one occasion when I tried to call from the
window. For five days this cruel imprisonment continued, with
hardly enough food to hold body and soul together. This
afternoon a good lunch was brought me, but the moment after I took it
I knew that I had been drugged. In a sort of dream I remember
being half-led, half-carried to the carriage; in the same state I was
conveyed to the train. Only then, when the wheels were almost
moving, did I suddenly realize that my liberty lay in my own hands.
I sprang out, they tried to drag me back, and had it not been
for the help of this good man, who led me to the cab, I should never
have broken away. Now, thank God, I am beyond their power
forever.&cdq;
We had all listened intently to this remarkable statement.
It was Holmes who broke the silence.
&odq;Our difficulties are not over,&cdq; he remarked, shaking
his head. &odq;Our police work ends, but our legal work
begins.&cdq;
&odq;Exactly,&cdq; said I. &odq;A plausible lawyer could
make it out as an act of self-defence. There may be a hundred
crimes in the background, but it is only on this one that they can be
tried.&cdq;
&odq;Come, come,&cdq; said Baynes cheerily, &odq;I think better
of the law than that. Self-defence is one thing. To
entice a man in cold blood with the object of murdering him is
another, whatever danger you may fear from him. No, no, we
shall all be justified when we see the tenants of High Gable at the
next Guildford Assizes.&cdq;
It is a matter of history, however, that a little time was
still to elapse before the Tiger of San Pedro should meet with his
deserts. Wily and bold, he and his companion threw their
pursuer off their track by entering a lodging-house in Edmonton
Street and leaving by the back-gate into Curzon Square. From
that day they were seen no more in England. Some six months
afterwards the Marquess of Montalva and Signor Rulli, his secretary,
were both murdered in their rooms at the Hotel Escurial at Madrid.
The crime was ascribed to Nihilism, and the murderers were
never arrested. Inspector Baynes visited us at Baker Street
with a printed description of the dark face of the secretary, and of
the masterful features, the magnetic black eyes, and the tufted brows
of his master. We could not doubt that justice, if belated,
had come at last.
&odq;A chaotic case, my dear Watson,&cdq; said Holmes over an
evening pipe. &odq;It will not be possible for you to present
it in that compact form which is dear to your heart. It covers
two continents, concerns two groups of mysterious persons, and is
further complicated by the highly respectable presence of our friend,
Scott Eccles, whose inclusion shows me that the deceased Garcia had a
scheming mind and a well-developed instinct of self-preservation.
It is remarkable only for the fact that amid a perfect jungle
of possibilities we, with our worthy collaborator, the inspector,
have kept our close hold on the essentials and so been guided along
the crooked and winding path. Is there any point which is not
quite clear to you?&cdq;
&odq;The object of the mulatto cook's return?&cdq;
&odq;I think that the strange creature in the kitchen may
account for it. The man was a primitive savage from the
backwoods of San Pedro, and this was his fetish. When his
companion and he had fled to some prearranged retreat —
already occupied, no doubt by a confederate — the companion
had persuaded him to leave so compromising an article of furniture.
But the mulatto's heart was with it, and he was driven back to
it next day, when, on reconnoitring through the window, he found
policeman Walters in possession. He waited three days longer,
and then his piety or his superstition drove him to try once more.
Inspector Baynes, who, with his usual astuteness, had
minimized the incident before me, had really recognized its
importance and had left a trap into which the creature walked.
Any other point, Watson?&cdq;
&odq;The torn bird, the pail of blood, the charred bones, all
the mystery of that weird kitchen?&cdq;
Holmes smiled as he turned up an entry in his notebook.
&odq;I spent a morning in the British Museum reading up on that
and other points. Here is a quotation from Eckermann's
Voodooism and the Negroid Religions:
The true voodoo-worshipper attempts nothing of importance without certain sacrifices which are intended to propitiate his unclean gods.In extreme cases these rites take the form of human sacrifices followed by cannibalism.The more usual victims are a white cock, which is plucked in pieces alive, or a black goat, whose throat is cut and body burned.
&odq;So you see our savage friend was very orthodox in his
ritual. It is grotesque, Watson,&cdq; Holmes added, as he
slowly fastened his notebook, &odq;but, as I have had occasion to
remark, there is but one step from the grotesque to the
horrible.&cdq;
In the third week of November, in the year 1895, a dense yellow
fog settled down upon London. From the Monday to the Thursday
I doubt whether it was ever possible from our windows in Baker Street
to see the loom of the opposite houses. The first day Holmes
had spent in cross-indexing his huge book of references. The
second and third had been patiently occupied upon a subject which he
had recently made his hobby — the music of the Middle Ages.
But when, for the fourth time, after pushing back our chairs
from breakfast we saw the greasy, heavy brown swirl still drifting
past us and condensing in oily drops upon the window-panes, my
comrade's impatient and active nature could endure this drab
existence no longer. He paced restlessly about our
sitting-room in a fever of suppressed energy, biting his nails,
tapping the furniture, and chafing against inaction.
&odq;Nothing of interest in the paper, Watson?&cdq; he said.
I was aware that by anything of interest, Holmes meant anything
of criminal interest. There was the news of a revolution, of a
possible war, and of an impending change of government; but these did
not come within the horizon of my companion. I could see
nothing recorded in the shape of crime which was not commonplace and
futile. Holmes groaned and resumed his restless meanderings.
&odq;The London criminal is certainly a dull fellow,&cdq; said
he in the querulous voice of the sportsman whose game has failed him.
&odq;Look out of this window, Watson. See how the
figures loom up, are dimly seen, and then blend once more into the
cloud-bank. The thief or the murderer could roam London on
such a day as the tiger does the jungle, unseen until he pounces, and
then evident only to his victim.&cdq;
&odq;There have,&cdq; said I, &odq;been numerous petty
thefts.&cdq;
Holmes snorted his contempt.
&odq;This great and sombre stage is set for something more
worthy than that,&cdq; said he. &odq;It is fortunate for this
community that I am not a criminal.&cdq;
&odq;It is, indeed!&cdq; said I heartily.
&odq;Suppose that I were Brooks or Woodhouse, or any of the
fifty men who have good reason for taking my life, how long could I
survive against my own pursuit? A summons, a bogus
appointment, and all would be over. It is well they don't have
days of fog in the Latin countries — the countries of
assassination. By Jove! here comes something at last to break
our dead monotony.&cdq;
It was the maid with a telegram. Holmes tore it open and
burst out laughing.
&odq;Well, well! What next?&cdq; said he.
&odq;Brother Mycroft is coming round.&cdq;
&odq;Why not?&cdq; I asked.
&odq;Why not? It is as if you met a tram-car coming down
a country lane. Mycroft has his rails and he runs on them.
His Pall Mall lodgings, the Diogenes Club, Whitehall —
that is his cycle. Once, and only once, he has been here.
What upheaval can possibly have derailed him?&cdq;
&odq;Does he not explain?&cdq;
Holmes handed me his brother's telegram.
Must see you over Cadogan West. Coming at once.
MYCROFT.
&odq;Cadogan West? I have heard the name.&cdq;
&odq;It recalls nothing to my mind. But that Mycroft
should break out in this erratic fashion! A planet might as
well leave its orbit. By the way, do you know what Mycroft
is?&cdq;
I had some vague recollection of an explanation at the time of
the Adventure of the Greek Interpreter.
&odq;You told me that he had some small office under the
British government.&cdq;
Holmes chuckled.
&odq;I did not know you quite so well in those days. One
has to be discreet when one talks of high matters of state.
You are right in thinking that he is under the British
government. You would also be right in a sense if you said
that occasionally he is the British government.&cdq;
&odq;My dear Holmes!&cdq;
&odq;I thought I might surprise you. Mycroft draws four
hundred and fifty pounds a year, remains a subordinate, has no
ambitions of any kind, will receive neither honour nor title, but
remains the most indispensable man in the country.&cdq;
&odq;But how?&cdq;
&odq;Well, his position is unique. He has made it for
himself. There has never been anything like it before, nor
will be again. He has the tidiest and most orderly brain, with
the greatest capacity for storing facts, of any man living.
The same great powers which I have turned to the detection of
crime he has used for this particular business. The
conclusions of every department are passed to him, and he is the
central exchange, the clearing-house, which makes out the balance.
All other men are specialists, but his specialism is
omniscience. We will suppose that a minister needs information
as to a point which involves the Navy, India, Canada and the
bimetallic question; he could get his separate advices from various
departments upon each, but only Mycroft can focus them all, and say
offhand how each factor would affect the other. They began by
using him as a short-cut, a convenience; now he has made himself an
essential. In that great brain of his everything is
pigeon-holed and can be handed out in an instant. Again and
again his word has decided the national policy. He lives in
it. He thinks of nothing else save when, as an intellectual
exercise, he unbends if I call upon him and ask him to advise me on
one of my little problems. But Jupiter is descending to-day.
What on earth can it mean? Who is Cadogan West, and
what is he to Mycroft?&cdq;
&odq;I have it,&cdq; I cried, and plunged among the litter of
papers upon the sofa. &odq;Yes, yes, here he is, sure enough!
Cadogan West was the young man who was found dead on the
Underground on Tuesday morning.&cdq;
Holmes sat up at attention, his pipe halfway to his lips.
&odq;This must be serious, Watson. A death which has
caused my brother to alter his habits can be no ordinary one.
What in the world can he have to do with it? The case
was featureless as I remember it. The young man had apparently
fallen out of the train and killed himself. He had not been
robbed, and there was no particular reason to suspect violence.
Is that not so?&cdq;
&odq;There has been an inquest,&cdq; said I, &odq;and a good
many fresh facts have come out. Looked at more closely, I
should certainly say that it was a curious case.&cdq;
&odq;Judging by its effect upon my brother, I should think it
must be a most extraordinary one.&cdq; He snuggled down in his
armchair. &odq;Now, Watson, let us have the facts.&cdq;
&odq;The man's name was Arthur Cadogan West. He was
twenty-seven years of age, unmarried, and a clerk at Woolwich
Arsenal.&cdq;
&odq;Government employ. Behold the link with Brother
Mycroft!&cdq;
&odq;He left Woolwich suddenly on Monday night. Was last
seen by his fiancee, Miss Violet Westbury, whom he left abruptly in
the fog about 7:30 that evening. There was no quarrel between
them and she can give no motive for his action. The next thing
heard of him was when his dead body was discovered by a plate-layer
named Mason, just outside Aldgate Station on the Underground system
in London.&cdq;
&odq;When?&cdq;
&odq;The body was found at six on the Tuesday morning.
It was lying wide of the metals upon the left hand of the
track as one goes eastward, at a point close to the station, where
the line emerges from the tunnel in which it runs. The head
was badly crushed — an injury which might well have been
caused by a fall from the train. The body could only have come
on the line in that way. Had it been carried down from any
neighbouring street, it must have passed the station barriers, where
a collector is always standing. This point seems absolutely
certain.&cdq;
&odq;Very good. The case is definite enough. The
man, dead or alive, either fell or was precipitated from a train.
So much is clear to me. Continue.&cdq;
&odq;The trains which traverse the lines of rail beside which
the body was found are those which run from west to east, some being
purely Metropolitan, and some from Willesden and outlying junctions.
It can be stated for certain that this young man when he met
his death, was travelling in this direction at some late hour of the
night, but at what point he entered the train it is impossible to
state.&cdq;
&odq;His ticket, of course, would show that.&cdq;
&odq;There was no ticket in his pockets.&cdq;
&odq;No ticket! Dear me, Watson, this is really very
singular. According to my experience it is not possible to
reach the platform of a Metropolitan train without exhibiting one's
ticket. Presumably, then, the young man had one. Was it
taken from him in order to conceal the station from which he came?
It is possible. Or did he drop it in the carriage?
That also is possible. But the point is of curious
interest. I understand that there was no sign of robbery?&cdq;
&odq;Apparently not. There is a list here of his
possessions. His purse contained two pounds fifteen. He
had also a check-book on the Woolwich branch of the Capital and
Counties Bank. Through this his identity was established.
There were also two dress-circle tickets for the Woolwich
Theatre, dated for that very evening. Also a small packet of
technical papers.&cdq;
Holmes gave an exclamation of satisfaction.
&odq;There we have it at last, Watson! British
government — Woolwich. Arsenal — technical
papers — Brother Mycroft, the chain is complete. But
here he comes, if I am not mistaken, to speak for himself.&cdq;
A moment later the tall and portly form of Mycroft Holmes was
ushered into the room. Heavily built and massive, there was a
suggestion of uncouth physical inertia in the figure, but above this
unwieldy frame there was perched a head so masterful in its brow, so
alert in its steel-gray, deep-set eyes, so firm in its lips, and so
subtle in its play of expression, that after the first glance one
forgot the gross body and remembered only the dominant mind.
At his heels came our old friend Lestrade, of Scotland Yard
— thin and austere. The gravity of both their faces
foretold some weighty quest. The detective shook hands without
a word. Mycroft Holmes struggled out of his overcoat and
subsided into an armchair.
&odq;A most annoying business, Sherlock,&cdq; said he.
&odq;I extremely dislike altering my habits, but the powers
that be would take no denial. In the present state of Siam it
is most awkward that I should be away from the office. But it
is a real crisis. I have never seen the Prime Minister so
upset. As to the Admiralty — it is buzzing like an
overturned bee-hive. Have you read up the case?&cdq;
&odq;We have just done so. What were the technical
papers?&cdq;
&odq;Ah, there's the point! Fortunately, it has not come
out. The press would be furious if it did. The papers
which this wretched youth had in his pocket were the plans of the
Bruce-Partington submarine.&cdq;
Mycroft Holmes spoke with a solemnity which showed his sense of
the importance of the subject. His brother and I sat
expectant.
&odq;Surely you have heard of it? I thought everyone had
heard of it.&cdq;
&odq;Only as a name.&cdq;
&odq;Its importance can hardly be exaggerated. It has
been the most jealously guarded of all government secrets. You
may take it from me that naval warfare becomes impossible within the
radius of a Bruce-Partington's operation. Two years ago a very
large sum was smuggled through the Estimates and was expended in
acquiring a monopoly of the invention. Every effort has been
made to keep the secret. The plans, which are exceedingly
intricate, comprising some thirty separate patents, each essential to
the working of the whole, are kept in an elaborate safe in a
confidential office adjoining the arsenal, with burglarproof doors
and windows. Under no conceivable circumstances were the plans
to be taken from the office. If the chief constructor of the
Navy desired to consult them, even he was forced to go to the
Woolwich office for the purpose. And yet here we find them in
the pocket of a dead junior clerk in the heart of London. From
an official point of view it's simply awful.&cdq;
&odq;But you have recovered them?&cdq;
&odq;No, Sherlock, no! That's the pinch. We have
not. Ten papers were taken from Woolwich. There were
seven in the pocket of Cadogan West. The three most essential
are gone — stolen, vanished. You must drop everything,
Sherlock. Never mind your usual petty puzzles of the
police-court. It's a vital international problem that you have
to solve. Why did Cadogan West take the papers, where are the
missing ones, how did he die, how came his body where it was found,
how can the evil be set right? Find an answer to all these
questions, and you will have done good service for your country.&cdq;
&odq;Why do you not solve it yourself, Mycroft? You can
see as far as I.&cdq;
&odq;Possibly, Sherlock. But it is a question of getting
details. Give me your details, and from an armchair I will
return you an excellent expert opinion. But to run here and
run there, to cross-question railway guards, and lie on my face with
a lens to my eye — it is not my metier. No, you are
the one man who can clear the matter up. If you have a fancy
to see your name in the next honours list — &cdq;
My friend smiled and shook his head.
&odq;I play the game for the game's own sake,&cdq; said he.
&odq;But the problem certainly presents some points of
interest, and I shall be very pleased to look into it. Some
more facts, please.&cdq;
&odq;I have jotted down the more essential ones upon this sheet
of paper, together with a few addresses which you will find of
service. The actual official guardian of the papers is the
famous government expert, Sir James Walter, whose decorations and
sub-titles fill two lines of a book of reference. He has grown
gray in the service, is a gentleman, a favoured guest in the most
exalted houses, and, above all, a man whose patriotism is beyond
suspicion. He is one of two who have a key of the safe.
I may add that the papers were undoubtedly in the office
during working hours on Monday, and that Sir James left for London
about three o'clock taking his key with him. He was at the
house of Admiral Sinclair at Barclay Square during the whole of the
evening when this incident occurred.&cdq;
&odq;Has the fact been verified?&cdq;
&odq;Yes; his brother, Colonel Valentine Walter, has testified
to his departure from Woolwich, and Admiral Sinclair to his arrival
in London; so Sir James is no longer a direct factor in the
problem.&cdq;
&odq;Who was the other man with a key?&cdq;
&odq;The senior clerk and draughtsman, Mr. Sidney Johnson.
He is a man of forty, married, with five children. He
is a silent, morose man, but he has, on the whole, an excellent
record in the public service. He is unpopular with his
colleagues, but a hard worker. According to his own account,
corroborated only by the word of his wife, he was at home the whole
of Monday evening after office hours, and his key has never left the
watch-chain upon which it hangs.&cdq;
&odq;Tell us about Cadogan West.&cdq;
&odq;He has been ten years in the service and has done good
work. He has the reputation of being hot-headed and impetuous,
but a straight, honest man. We have nothing against him.
He was next to Sidney Johnson in the office. His duties
brought him into daily, personal contact with the plans. No
one else had the handling of them.&cdq;
&odq;Who locked the plans up that night?&cdq;
&odq;Mr. Sidney Johnson, the senior clerk.&cdq;
&odq;Well, it is surely perfectly clear who took them away.
They are actually found upon the person of this junior clerk,
Cadogan West. That seems final, does it not?&cdq;
&odq;It does, Sherlock, and yet it leaves so much unexplained.
In the first place, why did he take them?&cdq;
&odq;I presume they were of value?&cdq;
&odq;He could have got several thousands for them very
easily.&cdq;
&odq;Can you suggest any possible motive for taking the papers
to London except to sell them?&cdq;
&odq;No, I cannot.&cdq;
&odq;Then we must take that as our working hypothesis.
Young West took the papers. Now this could only be done
by having a false key — &cdq;
&odq;Several false keys. He had to open the building and
the room.&cdq;
&odq;He had, then, several false keys. He took the
papers to London to sell the secret, intending, no doubt, to have the
plans themselves back in the safe next morning before they were
missed. While in London on this treasonable mission he met his
end.&cdq;
&odq;How?&cdq;
&odq;We will suppose that he was travelling back to Woolwich
when he was killed and thrown out of the compartment.&cdq;
&odq;Aldgate, where the body was found, is considerably past
the station for London Bridge, which would be his route to
Woolwich.&cdq;
&odq;Many circumstances could be imagined under which he would
pass London Bridge. There was someone in the carriage, for
example, with whom he was having an absorbing interview. This
interview led to a violent scene in which he lost his life.
Possibly he tried to leave the carriage, fell out on the line,
and so met his end. The other closed the door. There
was a thick fog, and nothing could be seen.&cdq;
&odq;No better explanation can be given with our present
knowledge; and yet consider, Sherlock, how much you leave untouched.
We will suppose, for argument's sake, that young Cadogan West
had determined to convey these papers to London. He would
naturally have made an appointment with the foreign agent and kept
his evening clear. Instead of that he took two tickets for the
theatre, escorted his fiancee halfway there, and then suddenly
disappeared.&cdq;
&odq;A blind,&cdq; said Lestrade, who had sat listening with
some impatience to the conversation.
&odq;A very singular one. That is objection No. 1.
Objection No. 2: We will suppose that he reaches London and
sees the foreign agent. He must bring back the papers before
morning or the loss will be discovered. He took away ten.
Only seven were in his pocket. What had become of the
other three? He certainly would not leave them of his own free
will. Then, again, where is the price of his treason?
One would have expected to find a large sum of money in his
pocket.&cdq;
&odq;It seems to me perfectly clear,&cdq; said Lestrade.
&odq;I have no doubt at all as to what occurred. He
took the papers to sell them. He saw the agent. They
could not agree as to price. He started home again, but the
agent went with him. In the train the agent murdered him, took
the more essential papers, and threw his body from the carriage.
That would account for everything, would it not?&cdq;
&odq;Why had he no ticket?&cdq;
&odq;The ticket would have shown which station was nearest the
agent's house. Therefore he took it from the murdered man's
pocket.&cdq;
&odq;Good, Lestrade, very good,&cdq; said Holmes.
&odq;Your theory holds together. But if this is true,
then the case is at an end. On the one hand, the traitor is
dead. On the other, the plans of the Bruce-Partington
submarine are presumably already on the Continent. What is
there for us to do?&cdq;
&odq;To act, Sherlock — to act!&cdq; cried Mycroft,
springing to his feet. &odq;All my instincts are against this
explanation. Use your powers! Go to the scene of the
crime! See the people concerned! Leave no stone
unturned! In all your career you have never had so great a
chance of serving your country.&cdq;
&odq;Well, well!&cdq; said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders.
&odq;Come, Watson! And you, Lestrade, could you favour
us with your company for an hour or two? We will begin our
investigation by a visit to Aldgate Station. Good-bye,
Mycroft. I shall let you have a report before evening, but I
warn you in advance that you have little to expect.&cdq;
An hour later Holmes, Lestrade and I stood upon the Underground
railroad at the point where it emerges from the tunnel immediately
before Aldgate Station. A courteous red-faced old gentleman
represented the railway company.
&odq;This is where the young man's body lay,&cdq; said he,
indicating a spot about three feet from the metals. &odq;It
could not have fallen from above, for these, as you see, are all
blank walls. Therefore, it could only have come from a train,
and that train, so far as we can trace it, must have passed about
midnight on Monday.&cdq;
&odq;Have the carriages been examined for any sign of
violence?&cdq;
&odq;There are no such signs, and no ticket has been
found.&cdq;
&odq;No record of a door being found open?&cdq;
&odq;None.&cdq;
&odq;We have had some fresh evidence this morning,&cdq; said
Lestrade. &odq;A passenger who passed Aldgate in an ordinary
Metropolitan train about 11:40 on Monday night declares that he heard
a heavy thud, as of a body striking the line, just before the train
reached the station. There was dense fog, however, and nothing
could be seen. He made no report of it at the time. Why
whatever is the matter with Mr. Holmes?&cdq;
My friend was standing with an expression of strained intensity
upon his face, staring at the railway metals where they curved out of
the tunnel. Aldgate is a junction, and there was a network of
points. On these his eager, questioning eyes were fixed, and I
saw on his keen, alert face that tightening of the lips, that quiver
of the nostrils, and concentration of the heavy tufted brows which I
knew so well.
&odq;Points,&cdq; he muttered, &odq;the points.&cdq;
&odq;What of it? What do you mean?&cdq;
&odq;I suppose there are no great number of points on a system
such as this?&cdq;
&odq;No; there are very few.&cdq;
&odq;And a curve, too. Points, and a curve. By
Jove! if it were only so.&cdq;
&odq;What is it, Mr. Holmes? Have you a clue?&cdq;
&odq;An idea — an indication, no more. But the
case certainly grows in interest. Unique, perfectly unique,
and yet why not? I do not see any indications of bleeding on
the line.&cdq;
&odq;There were hardly any.&cdq;
&odq;But I understand that there was a considerable wound.&cdq;
&odq;The bone was crushed, but there was no great external
injury.&cdq;
&odq;And yet one would have expected some bleeding.
Would it be possible for me to inspect the train which
contained the passenger who heard the thud of a fall in the fog?&cdq;
&odq;I fear not, Mr. Holmes. The train has been broken
up before now, and the carriages redistributed.&cdq;
&odq;I can assure you, Mr. Holmes,&cdq; said Lestrade,
&odq;that every carriage has been carefully examined. I saw to
it myself.&cdq;
It was one of my friend's most obvious weaknesses that he was
impatient with less alert intelligences than his own.
&odq;Very likely,&cdq; said he, turning away. &odq;As it
happens, it was not the carriages which I desired to examine.
Watson, we have done all we can here. We need not
trouble you any further, Mr. Lestrade. I think our
investigations must now carry us to Woolwich.&cdq;
At London Bridge, Holmes wrote a telegram to his brother, which
he handed to me before dispatching it. It ran thus:
See some light in the darkness, but it may possibly flicker
out. Meanwhile, please send by messenger, to await return at
Baker Street, a complete list of all foreign spies or international
agents known to be in England, with full address. SHERLOCK.
&odq;That should be helpful, Watson,&cdq; he remarked as we
took our seats in the Woolwich train. &odq;We certainly owe
Brother Mycroft a debt for having introduced us to what promises to
be a really very remarkable case.&cdq;
His eager face still wore that expression of intense and
high-strung energy, which showed me that some novel and suggestive
circumstance had opened up a stimulating line of thought. See
the foxhound with hanging ears and drooping tail as it lolls about
the kennels, and compare it with the same hound as, with gleaming
eyes and straining muscles, it runs upon a breast-high scent —
such was the change in Holmes since the morning. He was a
different man from the limp and lounging figure in the mouse-coloured
dressing-gown who had prowled so restlessly only a few hours before
round the fog-girt room.
&odq;There is material here. There is scope,&cdq; said
he. &odq;I am dull indeed not to have understood its
possibilities.&cdq;
&odq;Even now they are dark to me.&cdq;
&odq;The end is dark to me also, but I have hold of one idea
which may lead us far. The man met his death elsewhere, and
his body was on the roof of a carriage.&cdq;
&odq;On the roof!&cdq;
&odq;Remarkable, is it not? But consider the facts.
Is it a coincidence that it is found at the very point where
the train pitches and sways as it comes round on the points?
Is not that the place where an object upon the roof might be
expected to fall off? The points would affect no object inside
the train. Either the body fell from the roof, or a very
curious coincidence has occurred. But now consider the
question of the blood. Of course, there was no bleeding on the
line if the body had bled elsewhere. Each fact is suggestive
in itself. Together they have a cumulative force.&cdq;
&odq;And the ticket, too!&cdq; I cried.
&odq;Exactly. We could not explain the absence of a
ticket. This would explain it. Everything fits
together.&cdq;
&odq;But suppose it were so, we are still as far as ever from
unravelling the mystery of his death. Indeed, it becomes not
simpler but stranger.&cdq;
&odq;Perhaps,&cdq; said Holmes thoughtfully, &odq;perhaps.&cdq;
He relapsed into a silent reverie, which lasted until the slow
train drew up at last in Woolwich Station. There he called a
cab and drew Mycroft's paper from his pocket.
&odq;We have quite a little round of afternoon calls to
make,&cdq; said he. &odq;I think that Sir James Walter claims
our first attention.&cdq;
The house of the famous official was a fine villa with green
lawns, stretching down to the Thames. As we reached it the fog
was lifting, and a thin, watery sunshine was breaking through.
A butler answered our ring.
&odq;Sir James, sir!&cdq; said he with solemn face.
&odq;Sir James died this morning.&cdq;
&odq;Good heavens!&cdq; cried Holmes in amazement.
&odq;How did he die?&cdq;
&odq;Perhaps you would care to step in, sir, and see his
brother, Colonel Valentine?&cdq;
&odq;Yes, we had best do so.&cdq;
We were ushered into a dim-lit drawing-room, where an instant
later we were joined by a very tall, handsome, light-bearded man of
fifty, the younger brother of the dead scientist. His wild
eyes, stained cheeks, and unkempt hair all spoke of the sudden blow
which had fallen upon the household. He was hardly articulate
as he spoke of it.
&odq;It was this horrible scandal,&cdq; said he. &odq;My
brother, Sir James, was a man of very sensitive honour, and he could
not survive such an affair. It broke his heart. He was
always so proud of the efficiency of his department, and this was a
crushing blow.&cdq;
&odq;We had hoped that he might have given us some indications
which would have helped us to clear the matter up.&cdq;
&odq;I assure you that it was all a mystery to him as it is to
you and to all of us. He had already put all his knowledge at
the disposal of the police. Naturally he had no doubt that
Cadogan West was guilty. But all the rest was
inconceivable.&cdq;
&odq;You cannot throw any new light upon the affair?&cdq;
&odq;I know nothing myself save what I have read or heard.
I have no desire to be discourteous, but you can understand,
Mr. Holmes, that we are much disturbed at present, and I must ask you
to hasten this interview to an end.&cdq;
&odq;This is indeed an unexpected development,&cdq; said my
friend when we had regained the cab. &odq;I wonder if the
death was natural, or whether the poor old fellow killed himself!
If the latter, may it be taken as some sign of self-reproach
for duty neglected? We must leave that question to the future.
Now we shall turn to the Cadogan Wests.&cdq;
A small but well-kept house in the outskirts of the town
sheltered the bereaved mother. The old lady was too dazed with
grief to be of any use to us, but at her side was a white-faced young
lady, who introduced herself as Miss Violet Westbury, the fiancee of
the dead man, and the last to see him upon that fatal night.
&odq;I cannot explain it, Mr. Holmes,&cdq; she said.
&odq;I have not shut an eye since the tragedy, thinking,
thinking, thinking, night and day, what the true meaning of it can
be. Arthur was the most single-minded, chivalrous, patriotic
man upon earth. He would have cut his right hand off before he
would sell a State secret confided to his keeping. It is
absurd, impossible, preposterous to anyone who knew him.&cdq;
&odq;But the facts, Miss Westbury?&cdq;
&odq;Yes, yes I admit I cannot explain them.&cdq;
&odq;Was he in any want of money?&cdq;
&odq;No; his needs were very simple and his salary ample.
He had saved a few hundreds, and we were to marry at the New
Year.&cdq;
&odq;No signs of any mental excitement? Come, Miss
Westbury, be absolutely frank with us.&cdq;
The quick eye of my companion had noted some change in her
manner. She coloured and hesitated.
&odq;Yes,&cdq; she said at last, &odq;I had a feeling that
there was something on his mind.&cdq;
&odq;For long?&cdq;
&odq;Only for the last week or so. He was thoughtful and
worried. Once I pressed him about it. He admitted that
there was something, and that it was concerned with his official
life. &onq;It is too serious for me to speak about, even to
you,&cnq; said he. I could get nothing more.&cdq;
Holmes looked grave.
&odq;Go on, Miss Westbury. Even if it seems to tell
against him, go on. We cannot say what it may lead to.&cdq;
&odq;Indeed, I have nothing more to tell. Once or twice
it seemed to me that he was on the point of telling me something.
He spoke one evening of the importance of the secret, and I
have some recollection that he said that no doubt foreign spies would
pay a great deal to have it.&cdq;
My friend's face grew graver still.
&odq;Anything else?&cdq;
&odq;He said that we were slack about such matters —
that it would be easy for a traitor to get the plans.&cdq;
&odq;Was it only recently that he made such remarks?&cdq;
&odq;Yes, quite recently.&cdq;
&odq;Now tell us of that last evening.&cdq;
&odq;We were to go to the theatre. The fog was so thick
that a cab was useless. We walked, and our way took us close
to the office. Suddenly he darted away into the fog.&cdq;
&odq;Without a word?&cdq;
&odq;He gave an exclamation; that was all. I waited but
he never returned. Then I walked home. Next morning,
after the office opened, they came to inquire. About twelve
o'clock we heard the terrible news. Oh, Mr. Holmes, if you
could only, only save his honour! It was so much to him.&cdq;
Holmes shook his head sadly.
&odq;Come, Watson,&cdq; said he, &odq;our ways lie elsewhere.
Our next station must be the office from which the papers were
taken.
&odq;It was black enough before against this young man, but our
inquiries make it blacker,&cdq; he remarked as the cab lumbered off.
&odq;His coming marriage gives a motive for the crime.
He naturally wanted money. The idea was in his head,
since he spoke about it. He nearly made the girl an accomplice
in the treason by telling her his plans. It is all very
bad.&cdq;
&odq;But surely, Holmes, character goes for something?
Then, again, why should he leave the girl in the street and
dart away to commit a felony?&cdq;
&odq;Exactly! There are certainly objections. But
it is a formidable case which they have to meet.&cdq;
Mr. Sidney Johnson, the senior clerk, met us at the office and
received us with that respect which my companion's card always
commanded. He was a thin, gruff, bespectacled man of middle
age, his cheeks haggard, and his hands twitching from the nervous
strain to which he had been subjected.
&odq;It is bad, Mr. Holmes, very bad! Have you heard of
the death of the chief?&cdq;
&odq;We have just come from his house.&cdq;
&odq;The place is disorganized. The chief dead, Cadogan
West dead, our papers stolen. And yet, when we closed our door
on Monday evening, we were as efficient an office as any in the
government service. Good God, it's dreadful to think of!
That West, of all men, should have done such a thing!&cdq;
&odq;You are sure of his guilt, then?&cdq;
&odq;I can see no other way out of it. And yet I would
have trusted him as I trust myself.&cdq;
&odq;At what hour was the office closed on Monday?&cdq;
&odq;At five.&cdq;
&odq;Did you close it?&cdq;
&odq;I am always the last man out.&cdq;
&odq;Where were the plans?&cdq;
&odq;In that safe. I put them there myself.&cdq;
&odq;Is there no watchman to the building?&cdq;
&odq;There is, but he has other departments to look after as
well. He is an old soldier and a most trustworthy man.
He saw nothing that evening. Of course the fog was very
thick.&cdq;
&odq;Suppose that Cadogan West wished to make his way into the
building after hours; he would need three keys, would he not, before
he could reach the papers?&cdq;
&odq;Yes, he would. The key of the outer door, the key
of the office, and the key of the safe.&cdq;
&odq;Only Sir James Walter and you had those keys?&cdq;
&odq;I had no keys of the doors — only of the
safe.&cdq;
&odq;Was Sir James a man who was orderly in his habits?&cdq;
&odq;Yes, I think he was. I know that so far as those
three keys are concerned he kept them on the same ring. I have
often seen them there.&cdq;
&odq;And that ring went with him to London?&cdq;
&odq;He said so.&cdq;
&odq;And your key never left your possession?&cdq;
&odq;Never.&cdq;
&odq;Then West, if he is the culprit, must have had a
duplicate. And yet none was found upon his body. One
other point: if a clerk in this office desired to sell the plans,
would it not be simpler to copy the plans for himself than to take
the originals, as was actually done?&cdq;
&odq;It would take considerable technical knowledge to copy the
plans in an effective way.&cdq;
&odq;But I suppose either Sir James, or you, or West had that
technical knowledge?&cdq;
&odq;No doubt we had, but I beg you won't try to drag me into
the matter, Mr. Holmes. What is the use of our speculating in
this way when the original plans were actually found on West?&cdq;
&odq;Well, it is certainly singular that he should run the risk
of taking originals if he could safely have taken copies, which would
have equally served his turn.&cdq;
&odq;Singular, no doubt — and yet he did so.&cdq;
&odq;Every inquiry in this case reveals something inexplicable.
Now there are three papers still missing. They are, as
I understand, the vital ones.&cdq;
&odq;Yes, that is so.&cdq;
&odq;Do you mean to say that anyone holding these three papers
and without the seven others, could construct a Bruce-Partington
submarine?&cdq;
&odq;I reported to that effect to the Admiralty. But
to-day I have been over the drawings again, and I am not so sure of
it. The double valves with the automatic self-adjusting slots
are drawn in one of the papers which have been returned. Until
the foreigners had invented that for themselves they could not make
the boat. Of course they might soon get over the
difficulty.&cdq;
&odq;But the three missing drawings are the most
important?&cdq;
&odq;Undoubtedly.&cdq;
&odq;I think, with your permission, I will now take a stroll
round me premises. I do not recall any other question which I
desired to ask.&cdq;
He examined the lock of the safe, the door of the room, and
finally the iron shutters of the window. It was only when we
were on the lawn outside that his interest was strongly excited.
There was a laurel bush outside the window, and several of the
branches bore signs of having been twisted or snapped. He
examined them carefully with his lens, and then some dim and vague
marks upon the earth beneath. Finally he asked the chief clerk
to close the iron shutters, and he pointed out to me that they hardly
met in the centre, and that it would be possible for anyone outside
to see what was going on within the room.
&odq;The indications are ruined by the three days' delay.
They may mean something or nothing. Well, Watson, I do
not think that Woolwich can help us further. It is a small
crop which we have gathered. Let us see if we can do better in
London.&cdq;
Yet we added one more sheaf to our harvest before we left
Woolwich Station. The clerk in the ticket office was able to
say with confidence that he saw Cadogan West — whom he knew
well by sight — upon the Monday night, and that he went to
London by the 8:15 to London Bridge. He was alone and took a
single third-class ticket. The clerk was struck at the time by
his excited and nervous manner. So shaky was he that he could
hardly pick up his change, and the clerk had helped him with it.
A reference to the timetable showed that the 8:15 was the
first train which it was possible for West to take after he had left
the lady about 7:30.
&odq;Let us reconstruct, Watson,&cdq; said Holmes after half an
hour of silence. &odq;I am not aware that in all our joint
researches we have ever had a case which was more difficult to get
at. Every fresh advance which we make only reveals a fresh
ridge beyond. And yet we have surely made some appreciable
progress.
&odq;The effect of our inquiries at Woolwich has in the main
been against young Cadogan West; but the indications at the window
would lend themselves to a more favourable hypothesis. Let us
suppose, for example, that he had been approached by some foreign
agent. It might have been done under such pledges as would
have prevented him from speaking of it, and yet would have affected
his thoughts in the direction indicated by his remarks to his
fiancee. Very good. We will now suppose that as he went
to the theatre with the young lady he suddenly, in the fog, caught a
glimpse of this same agent going in the direction of the office.
He was an impetuous man, quick in his decisions.
Everything gave way to his duty. He followed the man,
reached the window, saw the abstraction of the documents, and pursued
the thief. In this way we get over the objection that no one
would take originals when he could make copies. This outsider
had to take originals. So far it holds together.&cdq;
&odq;What is the next step?&cdq;
&odq;Then we come into difficulties. One would imagine
that under such circumstances the first act of young Cadogan West
would be to seize the villain and raise the alarm. Why did he
not do so? Could it have been an official superior who took
the papers? That would explain West's conduct. Or could
the chief have given West the slip in the fog, and West started at
once to London to head him off from his own rooms, presuming that he
knew where the rooms were? The call must have been very
pressing, since he left his girl standing in the fog and made no
effort to communicate with her. Our scent runs cold here, and
there is a vast gap between either hypothesis and the laying of
West's body, with seven papers in his pocket, on the roof of a
Metropolitan train. My instinct now is to work from the other
end. If Mycroft has given us the list of addresses we may be
able to pick our man and follow two tracks instead of one.&cdq;
Surely enough, a note awaited us at Baker Street. A
government messenger had brought it post-haste. Holmes glanced
at it and threw it over to me.
There are numerous small fry, but few who would handle so big
an affair. The only men worth considering are Adolph Meyer, of
13 Great George Street, Westminster; Louis La Rothiere, of Campden
Mansions, Notting Hill; and Hugo Oberstein, 13 Caulfield Gardens,
Kensington. The latter was known to be in town on Monday and
is now reported as having left. Glad to hear you have seen
some light. The Cabinet awaits your final report with the
utmost anxiety. Urgent representations have arrived from the
very highest quarter. The whole force of the State is at your
back if you should need it. MYCROFT.
&odq;I'm afraid,&cdq; said Holmes, smiling, &odq;that all the
queen's horses and all the queen's men cannot avail in this
matter.&cdq; He had spread out his big map of London and
leaned eagerly over it. &odq;Well, well,&cdq; said he
presently with an exclamation of satisfaction, &odq;things are
turning a little in our direction at last. Why Watson, I do
honestly believe that we are going to pull it off, after all.&cdq;
He slapped me on the shoulder with a sudden burst of hilarity.
&odq;I am going out now. It is only a reconnaissance.
I will do nothing serious without my trusted comrade and
biographer at my elbow. Do you stay here, and the odds are
that you will see me again in an hour or two. If time hangs
heavy get foolscap and a pen, and begin your narrative of how we
saved the State.&cdq;
I felt some reflection of his elation in my own mind, for I
knew well that he would not depart so far from his usual austerity of
demeanour unless there was good cause for exultation. All the
long November evening I waited, filled with impatience for his
return. At last, shortly after nine o'clock, there arrived a
messenger with a note:
Am dining at Goldini's Restaurant, Gloucester Road,
Kensington. Please come at once and join me there.
Bring with you a jemmy, a dark lantern, a chisel, and a
revolver. S. H.
It was a nice equipment for a respectable citizen to carry
through the dim, fog-draped streets. I stowed them all
discreetly away in my overcoat and drove straight to the address
given. There sat my friend at a little round table near the
door of the garish Italian restaurant.
&odq;Have you had something to eat? Then join me in a
coffee and curacao. Try one of the proprietor's cigars.
They are less poisonous than one would expect. Have you
the tools?&cdq;
&odq;They are here, in my overcoat.&cdq;
&odq;Excellent. Let me give you a short sketch of what I
have done, with some indication of what we are about to do.
Now it must be evident to you, Watson, that this young man's
body was placed on the roof of the train. That was clear from
the instant that I determined the fact that it was from the roof, and
not from a carriage, that he had fallen.&cdq;
&odq;Could it not have been dropped from a bridge?&cdq;
&odq;I should say it was impossible. If you examine the
roofs you will find that they are slightly rounded, and there is no
railing round them. Therefore, we can say for certain that
young Cadogan West was placed on it.&cdq;
&odq;How could he be placed there?&cdq;
&odq;That was the question which we had to answer. There
is only one possible way. You are aware that the Underground
runs clear of tunnels at some points in the West End. I had a
vague memory that as I have travelled by it I have occasionally seen
windows just above my head. Now, suppose that a train halted
under such a window, would there be any difficulty in laying a body
upon the roof?&cdq;
&odq;It seems most improbable.&cdq;
&odq;We must fall back upon the old axiom that when all other
contingencies fail, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the
truth. Here all other contingencies have failed. When I
found that the leading international agent, who had just left London,
lived in a row of houses which abutted upon the Underground, I was so
pleased that you were a little astonished at my sudden
frivolity.&cdq;
&odq;Oh, that was it, was it?&cdq;
&odq;Yes, that was it. Mr. Hugo Oberstein, of 13
Caulfield Gardens, had become my objective. I began my
operations at Gloucester Road Station, where a very helpful official
walked with me along the track and allowed me to satisfy myself not
only that the back-stair windows of Caulfield Gardens open on the
line but the even more essential fact that, owing to the intersection
of one of the larger railways, the Underground trains are frequently
held motionless for some minutes at that very spot.&cdq;
&odq;Splendid, Holmes! You have got it!&cdq;
&odq;So far — so far, Watson. We advance, but
the goal is afar. Well, having seen the back of Caulfield
Gardens, I visited the front and satisfied myself that the bird was
indeed flown. It is a considerable house, unfurnished, so far
as I could judge, in the upper rooms. Oberstein lived there
with a single valet, who was probably a confederate entirely in his
confidence. We must bear in mind that Oberstein has gone to
the Continent to dispose of his booty, but not with any idea of
flight; for he had no reason to fear a warrant, and the idea of an
amateur domiciliary visit would certainly never occur to him.
Yet that is precisely what we are about to make.&cdq;
&odq;Could we not get a warrant and legalize it?&cdq;
&odq;Hardly on the evidence.&cdq;
&odq;What can we hope to do?&cdq;
&odq;We cannot tell what correspondence may be there.&cdq;
&odq;I don't like it, Holmes.&cdq;
&odq;My dear fellow, you shall keep watch in the street.
I'll do the criminal part. It's not a time to stick at
trifles. Think of Mycroft's note, of the Admiralty, the
Cabinet, the exalted person who waits for news. We are bound
to go.&cdq;
My answer was to rise from the table.
&odq;You are right, Holmes. We are bound to go.&cdq;
He sprang up and shook me by the hand.
&odq;I knew you would not shrink at the last,&cdq; said he, and
for a moment I saw something in his eyes which was nearer to
tenderness than I had ever seen. The next instant he was his
masterful, practical self once more.
&odq;It is nearly half a mile, but there is no hurry.
Let us walk,&cdq; said he. &odq;Don't drop the
instruments, I beg. Your arrest as a suspicious character
would be a most unfortunate complication.&cdq;
Caulfield Gardens was one of those lines of flat-faced,
pillared, and porticoed houses which are so prominent a product of
the middle Victorian epoch in the West End of London. Next
door there appeared to be a children's party, for the merry buzz of
young voices and the clatter of a piano resounded through the night.
The fog still hung about and screened us with its friendly
shade. Holmes had lit his lantern and flashed it upon the
massive door.
&odq;This is a serious proposition,&cdq; said he.
&odq;It is certainly bolted as well as locked. We would
do better in the area. There is an excellent archway down
yonder in case a too zealous policeman should intrude. Give me
a hand, Watson, and I'll do the same for you.&cdq;
A minute later we were both in the area. Hardly had we
reached the dark shadows before the step of the policeman was heard
in the fog above. As its soft rhythm died away, Holmes set to
work upon the lower door. I saw him stoop and strain until
with a sharp crash it flew open. We sprang through into the
dark passage, closing the area door behind us. Holmes led the
way up the curving, uncarpeted stair. His little fan of yellow
light shone upon a low window.
&odq;Here we are, Watson — this must be the one.&cdq;
He threw it open, and as he did so there was a low, harsh
murmur, growing steadily into a loud roar as a train dashed past us
in the darkness. Holmes swept his light along the window-sill.
It was thickly coated with soot from the passing engines, but
the black surface was blurred and rubbed in places.
&odq;You can see where they rested the body. Halloa,
Watson! what is this? There can be no doubt that it is a
blood mark.&cdq; He was pointing to faint discolourations
along the woodwork of the window. &odq;Here it is on the stone
of the stair also. The demonstration is complete. Let
us stay here until a train stops.&cdq;
We had not long to wait. The very next train roared from
the tunnel as before, but slowed in the open, and then, with a
creaking of brakes, pulled up immediately beneath us. It was
not four feet from the window-ledge to the roof of the carriages.
Holmes softly closed the window.
&odq;So far we are justified,&cdq; said he. &odq;What do
you think of it, Watson?&cdq;
&odq;A masterpiece. You have never risen to a greater
height.&cdq;
&odq;I cannot agree with you there. From the moment that
I conceived the idea of the body being upon the roof, which surely
was not a very abstruse one, all the rest was inevitable. If
it were not for the grave interests involved the affair up to this
point would be insignificant. Our difficulties are still
before us. But perhaps we may find something here which may
help us.&cdq;
We had ascended the kitchen stair and entered the suite of
rooms upon the first floor. One was a dining-room, severely
furnished and containing nothing of interest. A second was a
bedroom, which also drew blank. The remaining room appeared
more promising, and my companion settled down to a systematic
examination. It was littered with books and papers, and was
evidently used as a study. Swiftly and methodically Holmes
turned over the contents of drawer after drawer and cupboard after
cupboard, but no gleam of success came to brighten his austere face.
At the end of an hour he was no further than when he started.
&odq;The cunning dog has covered his tracks,&cdq; said he.
&odq;He has left nothing to incriminate him. His
dangerous correspondence has been destroyed or removed. This
is our last chance.&cdq;
It was a small tin cash-box which stood upon the writing-desk.
Holmes pried it open with his chisel. Several rolls of
paper were within, covered with figures and calculations, without any
note to show to what they referred. The recurring words
&odq;water pressure&cdq; and &odq;pressure to the square inch&cdq;
suggested some possible relation to a submarine. Holmes tossed
them all impatiently aside. There only remained an envelope
with some small newspaper slips inside it. He shook them out
on the table, and at once I saw by his eager face that his hopes had
been raised.
&odq;What's this, Watson? Eh? What's this?
Record of a series of messages in the advertisements of a
paper. Daily Telegraph agony column by the print and paper.
Right-hand top corner of a page. No dates — but
messages arrange themselves. This must be the first:
&odq;Hoped to hear sooner.Terms agreed to.Write fully to address given on card.PIERROT.
&odq;Next comes:
&odq;Too complex for description.Must have full report.Stuff awaits you when goods delivered.PIERROT.
&odq;Then comes:
&odq;Matter presses.Must withdraw offer unless contract completed.Make appointment by letter.Will confirm by advertisement.PIERROT.
&odq;Finally:
&odq;Monday night after nine.Two taps.Only ourselves.Do not be so suspicious.Payment in hard cash when goods delivered.PIERROT.
&odq;A fairly complete record, Watson! If we could only
get at the man at the other end!&cdq; He sat lost in thought,
tapping his fingers on the table. Finally he sprang to his
feet.
&odq;Well, perhaps it won't be so difficult, after all.
There is nothing more to be done here, Watson. I think
we might drive round to the offices of the Daily Telegraph, and so
bring a good day's work to a conclusion.&cdq;
Mycroft Holmes and Lestrade had come round by appointment after
breakfast next day and Sherlock Holmes had recounted to them our
proceedings of the day before. The professional shook his head
over our confessed burglary.
&odq;We can't do these things in the force, Mr. Holmes,&cdq;
said he. &odq;No wonder you get results that are beyond us.
But some of these days you'll go too far, and you'll find
yourself and your friend in trouble.&cdq;
&odq;For England, home and beauty — eh, Watson?
Martyrs on the altar of our country. But what do you
think of it, Mycroft?&cdq;
&odq;Excellent, Sherlock! Admirable! But what use
will you make of it?&cdq;
Holmes picked up the Daily Telegraph which lay upon the table.
&odq;Have you seen Pierrot's advertisement to-day?&cdq;
&odq;What? Another one?&cdq;
&odq;Yes, here it is:
&odq;To-night.Same hour.Same place.Two taps.Most vitally important.Your own safety at stake.PIERROT.
&odq;By George!&cdq; cried Lestrade. &odq;If he answers
that we've got him!&cdq;
&odq;That was my idea when I put it in. I think if you
could both make it convenient to come with us about eight o'clock to
Caulfield Gardens we might possibly get a little nearer to a
solution.&cdq;
One of the most remarkable characteristics of Sherlock Holmes
was his power of throwing his brain out of action and switching all
his thoughts on to lighter things whenever he had convinced himself
that he could no longer work to advantage. I remember that
during the whole of that memorable day he lost himself in a monograph
which he had undertaken upon the Polyphonic Motets of Lassus.
For my own part I had none of this power of detachment, and
the day, in consequence, appeared to be interminable. The
great national importance of the issue, the suspense in high
quarters, the direct nature of the experiment which we were trying
— all combined to work upon my nerve. It was a relief
to me when at last, after a light dinner, we set out upon our
expedition. Lestrade and Mycroft met us by appointment at the
outside of Gloucester Road Station. The area door of
Oberstein's house had been left open the night before, and it was
necessary for me, as Mycroft Holmes absolutely and indignantly
declined to climb the railings, to pass in and open the hall door.
By nine o'clock we were all seated in the study, waiting
patiently for our man.
An hour passed and yet another. When eleven struck, the
measured beat of the great church clock seemed to sound the dirge of
our hopes. Lestrade and Mycroft were fidgeting in their seats
and looking twice a minute at their watches. Holmes sat silent
and composed, his eyelids half shut, but every sense on the alert.
He raised his head with a sudden jerk.
&odq;He is coming,&cdq; said he.
There had been a furtive step past the door. Now it
returned. We heard a shuffling sound outside, and then two
sharp taps with the knocker. Holmes rose, motioning to us to
remain seated. The gas in the hall was a mere point of light.
He opened the outer door, and then as a dark figure slipped
past him he closed and fastened it. &odq;This way!&cdq; we
heard him say, and a moment later our man stood before us.
Holmes had followed him closely, and as the man turned with a
cry of surprise and alarm he caught him by the collar and threw him
back into the room. Before our prisoner had recovered his
balance the door was shut and Holmes standing with his back against
it. The man glared round him, staggered, and fell senseless
upon the floor. With the shock, his broad-brimmed hat flew
from his head, his cravat slipped down from his lips, and there were
the long light beard and the soft, handsome delicate features of
Colonel Valentine Walter.
Holmes gave a whistle of surprise.
&odq;You can write me down an ass this time, Watson,&cdq; said
he. &odq;This was not the bird that I was looking for.&cdq;
&odq;Who is he?&cdq; asked Mycroft eagerly.
&odq;The younger brother of the late Sir James Walter, the head
of the Submarine Department. Yes, yes; I see the fall of the
cards. He is coming to. I think that you had best leave
his examination to me.&cdq;
We had carried the prostrate body to the sofa. Now our
prisoner sat up, looked round him with a horror-stricken face, and
passed his hand over his forehead, like one who cannot believe his
own senses.
&odq;What is this?&cdq; he asked. &odq;I came here to
visit Mr. Oberstein.&cdq;
&odq;Everything is known, Colonel Walter,&cdq; said Holmes.
&odq;How an English gentleman could behave in such a manner is
beyond my comprehension. But your whole correspondence and
relations with Oberstein are within our knowledge. So also are
the circumstances connected with the death of young Cadogan West.
Let me advise you to gain at least the small credit for
repentance and confession, since there are still some details which
we can only learn from your lips.&cdq;
The man groaned and sank his face in his hands. We
waited, but he was silent.
&odq;I can assure you,&cdq; said Holmes, &odq;that every
essential is already known. We know that you were pressed for
money; that you took an impress of the keys which your brother held;
and that you entered into a correspondence with Oberstein, who
answered your letters through the advertisement columns of the Daily
Telegraph. We are aware that you went down to the office in
the fog on Monday night, but that you were seen and followed by young
Cadogan West, who had probably some previous reason to suspect you.
He saw your theft, but could not give the alarm, as it was
just possible that you were taking the papers to your brother in
London. Leaving all his private concerns, like the good
citizen that he was, he followed you closely in the fog and kept at
your heels until you reached this very house. There he
intervened, and then it was, Colonel Walter, that to treason you
added the more terrible crime of murder.&cdq;
&odq;I did not! I did not! Before God I swear
that I did not!&cdq; cried our wretched prisoner.
&odq;Tell us, then, how Cadogan West met his end before you
laid him upon the roof of a railway carriage.&cdq;
&odq;I will. I swear to you that I will. I did
the rest. I confess it. It was just as you say.
A Stock Exchange debt had to be paid. I needed the
money badly. Oberstein offered me five thousand. It was
to save myself from ruin. But as to murder, I am as innocent
as you.&cdq;
&odq;What happened, then?&cdq;
&odq;He had his suspicions before, and he followed me as you
describe. I never knew it until I was at the very door.
It was thick fog, and one could not see three yards. I
had given two taps and Oberstein had come to the door. The
young man rushed up and demanded to know what we were about to do
with the papers. Oberstein had a short life-preserver.
He always carried it with him. As West forced his way
after us into the house Oberstein struck him on the head. The
blow was a fatal one. He was dead within five minutes.
There he lay in the hall, and we were at our wit's end what to
do. Then Oberstein had this idea about the trains which halted
under his back window. But first he examined the papers which
I had brought. He said that three of them were essential, and
that he must keep them. &onq;You cannot keep them,&cnq; said
I. &onq;There will be a dreadful row at Woolwich if they are
not returned.&cnq; &onq;I must keep them,&cnq; said he,
&onq;for they are so technical that it is impossible in the time to
make copies.&cnq; &onq;Then they must all go back together
tonight,&cnq; said I. He thought for a little, and then he
cried out that he had it. &onq;Three I will keep,&cnq; said
he. ' The others we will stuff into the pocket of this young
man. When he is found the whole business will assuredly be put
to his account. I could see no other way out of it, so we did
as he suggested. We waited half an hour at the window before a
train stopped. It was so thick that nothing could be seen, and
we had no difficulty in lowering West's body on to the train.
That was the end of the matter so far as I was concerned.&cdq;
&odq;And your brother?&cdq;
&odq;He said nothing, but he had caught me once with his keys,
and I think that he suspected. I read in his eyes that he
suspected. As you know, he never held up his head again.&cdq;
There was silence in the room. It was broken by Mycroft
Holmes.
&odq;Can you not make reparation? It would ease your
conscience, and possibly your punishment.&cdq;
&odq;What reparation can I make?&cdq;
&odq;Where is Oberstein with the papers?&cdq;
&odq;I do not know.&cdq;
&odq;Did he give you no address?&cdq;
&odq;He said that letters to the Hotel du Louvre, Paris, would
eventually reach him.&cdq;
&odq;Then reparation is still within your power,&cdq; said
Sherlock Holmes.
&odq;I will do anything I can. I owe this fellow no
particular good-will. He has been my ruin and my
downfall.&cdq;
&odq;Here are paper and pen. Sit at this desk and write
to my dictation. Direct the envelope to the address given.
That is right. Now the letter:
&odq;DEAR SIR:&cdq; With regard to our transaction, you will
no doubt have observed by now that one essential detail is missing.
I have a tracing which will make it complete. This has
involved me in extra trouble, however, and I must ask you for a
further advance of five hundred pounds. I will not trust it to
the post, nor will I take anything but gold or notes. I would
come to you abroad, but it would excite remark if I left the country
at present. Therefore I shall expect to meet you in the
smoking-room of the Charing Cross Hotel at noon on Saturday.
Remember that only English notes, or gold, will be taken.
That will do very well. I shall be very much surprised
if it does not fetch our man. &odq;
And it did! It is a matter of history — that
secret history of a nation which is often so much more intimate and
interesting than its public chronicles — that Oberstein,
eager to complete the coup of his lifetime, came to the lure and was
safely engulfed for fifteen years in a British prison. In his
trunk were found the invaluable Bruce-Partington plans, which he had
put up for auction in all the naval centres of Europe.
Colonel Walter died in prison towards the end of the second
year of his sentence. As to Holmes, he returned refreshed to
his monograph upon the Polyphonic Motets of Lassus, which has since
been printed for private circulation, and is said by experts to be
the last word upon the subject. Some weeks afterwards I
learned incidentally that my friend spent a day at Windsor, whence he
returned with a remarkably fine emerald tie-pin. When I asked
him if he had bought it, he answered that it was a present from a
certain gracious lady in whose interests he had once been fortunate
enough to carry out a small commission. He said no more, but I
fancy that I could guess at that lady's august name, and I have
little doubt that the emerald pin will forever recall to my friend's
memory the adventure of the Bruce-Partington plans.
In recording from time to time some of the curious experiences
and interesting recollections which I associate with my long and
intimate friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have continually been
faced by difficulties caused by his own aversion to publicity.
To his sombre and cynical spirit all popular applause was
always abhorrent, and nothing amused him more at the end of a
successful case than to hand over the actual exposure to some
orthodox official, and to listen with a mocking smile to the general
chorus of misplaced congratulation. It was indeed this
attitude upon the part of my friend and certainly not any lack of
interesting material which has caused me of late years to lay very
few of my records before the public. My participation in some
of his adventures was always a privilege which entailed discretion
and reticence upon me.
It was, then, with considerable surprise that I received a
telegram from Holmes last Tuesday — he has never been known
to write where a telegram would serve — in the following
terms:
Why not tell them of the Cornish horror — strangest
case I have handled.
I have no idea what backward sweep of memory had brought the
matter fresh to his mind, or what freak had caused him to desire that
I should recount it; but I hasten, before another cancelling telegram
may arrive, to hunt out the notes which give me the exact details of
the case and to lay the narrative before my readers.
It was, then, in the spring of the year 1897 that Holmes's iron
constitution showed some symptoms of giving way in the face of
constant hard work of a most exacting kind, aggravated, perhaps, by
occasional indiscretions of his own. In March of that year Dr.
Moore Agar, of Harley Street, whose dramatic introduction to Holmes I
may some day recount, gave positive injunctions that the famous
private agent lay aside all his cases and surrender himself to
complete rest if he wished to avert an absolute breakdown. The
state of his health was not a matter in which he himself took the
faintest interest, for his mental detachment was absolute, but he was
induced at last, on the threat of being permanently disqualified from
work, to give himself a complete change of scene and air. Thus
it was that in the early spring of that year we found ourselves
together in a small cottage near Poldhu Bay, at the further extremity
of the Cornish peninsula.
It was a singular spot, and one peculiarly well suited to the
grim humour of my patient. From the windows of our little
whitewashed house, which stood high upon a grassy headland, we looked
down upon the whole sinister semicircle of Mounts Bay, that old death
trap of sailing vessels, with its fringe of black cliffs and
surge-swept reefs on which innumerable seamen have met their end.
With a northerly breeze it lies placid and sheltered, inviting
the storm-tossed craft to tack into it for rest and protection.
Then come the sudden swirl round of the wind, the blustering
gale from the south-west, the dragging anchor, the lee shore, and the
last battle in the creaming breakers. The wise mariner stands
far out from that evil place.
On the land side our surroundings were as sombre as on the sea.
It was a country of rolling moors, lonely and dun-coloured,
with an occasional church tower to mark the site of some oldworld
village. In every direction upon these moors there were traces
of some vanished race which had passed utterly away, and left as its
sole record strange monuments of stone, irregular mounds which
contained the burned ashes of the dead, and curious earthworks which
hinted at prehistoric strife. The glamour and mystery of the
place, with its sinister atmosphere of forgotten nations, appealed to
the imagination of my friend, and he spent much of his time in long
walks and solitary meditations upon the moor. The ancient
Cornish language had also arrested his attention, and he had, I
remember, conceived the idea that it was akin to the Chaldean, and
had been largely derived from the Phoenician traders in tin.
He had received a consignment of books upon philology and was
settling down to develop this thesis when suddenly, to my sorrow and
to his unfeigned delight, we found ourselves, even in that land of
dreams, plunged into a problem at our very doors which was more
intense, more engrossing, and infinitely more mysterious than any of
those which had driven us from London. Our simple life and
peaceful, healthy routine were violently interrupted, and we were
precipitated into the midst of a series of events which caused the
utmost excitement not only in Cornwall but throughout the whole west
of England. Many of my readers may retain some recollection of
what was called at the time &odq;The Cornish Horror,&cdq; though a
most imperfect account of the matter reached the London press.
Now, after thirteen years, I will give the true details of
this inconceivable affair to the public.
I have said that scattered towers marked the villages which
dotted this part of Cornwall. The nearest of these was the
hamlet of Tredannick Wollas, where the cottages of a couple of
hundred inhabitants clustered round an ancient, moss-grown church.
The vicar of the parish, Mr. Roundhay, was something of an
archeologist, and as such Holmes had made his acquaintance. He
was a middle-aged man, portly and affable, with a considerable fund
of local lore. At his invitation we had taken tea at the
vicarage and had come to know, also, Mr. Mortimer Tregennis, an
independent gentleman, who increased the clergyman's scanty resources
by taking rooms in his large, straggling house. The vicar,
being a bachelor, was glad to come to such an arrangement, though he
had little in common with his lodger, who was a thin, dark,
spectacled man, with a stoop which gave the impression of actual,
physical deformity. I remember that during our short visit we
found the vicar garrulous, but his lodger strangely reticent, a
sad-faced, introspective man, sitting with averted eyes, brooding
apparently upon his own affairs.
These were the two men who entered abruptly into our little
sitting-room on Tuesday, March the 16th, shortly after our breakfast
hour, as we were smoking together, preparatory to our daily excursion
upon the moors.
&odq;Mr. Holmes,&cdq; said the vicar in an agitated voice,
&odq;the most extraordinary and tragic affair has occurred during the
night. It is the most unheard-of business. We can only
regard it as a special Providence that you should chance to be here
at the time, for in all England you are the one man we need.&cdq;
I glared at the intrusive vicar with no very friendly eyes; but
Holmes took his pipe from his lips and sat up in his chair like an
old hound who hears the view-halloa. He waved his hand to the
sofa, and our palpitating visitor with his agitated companion sat
side by side upon it. Mr. Mortimer Tregennis was more
selfcontained than the clergyman, but the twitching of his thin hands
and the brightness of his dark eyes showed that they shared a common
emotion.
&odq;Shall I speak or you?&cdq; he asked of the vicar.
&odq;Well, as you seem to have made the discovery, whatever it
may be, and the vicar to have had it second-hand, perhaps you had
better do the speaking,&cdq; said Holmes.
I glanced at the hastily clad clergyman, with the formally
dressed lodger seated beside him, and was amused at the surprise
which Holmes's simple deduction had brought to their faces.
&odq;Perhaps I had best say a few words first,&cdq; said the
vicar, &odq;and then you can judge if you will listen to the details
from Mr. Tregennis, or whether we should not hasten at once to the
scene of this mysterious affair. I may explain, then, that our
friend here spent last evening in the company of his two brothers,
Owen and George, and of his sister Brenda, at their house of
Tredannick Wartha, which is near the old stone cross upon the moor.
He left them shortly after ten o'clock, playing cards round
the dining-room table, in excellent health and spirits. This
morning, being an early riser, he walked in that direction before
breakfast and was overtaken by the carriage of Dr. Richards, who
explained that he had just been sent for on a most urgent call to
Tredannick Wartha. Mr. Mortimer Tregennis naturally went with
him. When he arrived at Tredannick Wartha he found an
extraordinary state of things. His two brothers and his sister
were seated round the table exactly as he had left them, the cards
still spread in front of them and the candles burned down to their
sockets. The sister lay back stone-dead in her chair, while
the two brothers sat on each side of her laughing, shouting, and
singing, the senses stricken clean out of them. All three of
them, the dead woman and the two demented men, retained upon their
faces an expression of the utmost horror — a convulsion of
terror which was dreadful to look upon. There was no sign of
the presence of anyone in the house, except Mrs. Porter, the old cook
and housekeeper, who declared that she had slept deeply and heard no
sound during the night. Nothing had been stolen or
disarranged, and there is absolutely no explanation of what the
horror can be which has frightened a woman to death and two strong
men out of their senses. There is the situation, Mr. Holmes,
in a nutshell, and if you can help us to clear it up you will have
done a great work.&cdq;
I had hoped that in some way I could coax my companion back
into the quiet which had been the object of our journey; but one
glance at his intense face and contracted eyebrows told me how vain
was now the expectation. He sat for some little time in
silence, absorbed in the strange drama which had broken in upon our
peace.
&odq;I will look into this matter,&cdq; he said at last.
&odq;On the face of it, it would appear to be a case of a very
exceptional nature. Have you been there yourself, Mr.
Roundhay?&cdq;
&odq;No, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Tregennis brought back the
account to the vicarage, and I at once hurried over with him to
consult you.&cdq;
&odq;How far is it to the house where this singular tragedy
occurred?&cdq;
&odq;About a mile inland.&cdq;
&odq;Then we shall walk over together. But before we
start I must ask you a few questions, Mr. Mortimer Tregennis.&cdq;
The other had been silent all this time, but I had observed
that his more controlled excitement was even greater than the
obtrusive emotion of the clergyman. He sat with a pale, drawn
face, his anxious gaze fixed upon Holmes, and his thin hands clasped
convulsively together. His pale lips quivered as he listened
to the dreadful experience which had befallen his family, and his
dark eyes seemed to reflect something of the horror of the scene.
&odq;Ask what you like, Mr. Holmes,&cdq; said he eagerly.
&odq;It is a bad thing to speak of, but I will answer you the
truth.&cdq;
&odq;Tell me about last night.&cdq;
&odq;Well, Mr. Holmes, I supped there, as the vicar has said,
and my elder brother George proposed a game of whist afterwards.
We sat down about nine o'clock. It was a quarter-past
ten when I moved to go. I left them all round the table, as
merry as could be.&cdq;
&odq;Who let you out?&cdq;
&odq;Mrs. Porter had gone to bed, so I let myself out. I
shut the hall door behind me. The window of the room in which
they sat was closed, but the blind was not drawn down. There
was no change in door or window this morning, nor any reason to think
that any stranger had been to the house. Yet there they sat,
driven clean mad with terror, and Brenda lying dead of fright, with
her head hanging over the arm of the chair. I'll never get the
sight of that room out of my mind so long as I live.&cdq;
&odq;The facts, as you state them, are certainly most
remarkable,&cdq; said Holmes. &odq;I take it that you have no
theory yourself which can in any way account for them?&cdq;
&odq;It's devilish, Mr. Holmes, devilish!&cdq; cried Mortimer
Tregennis. &odq;It is not of this world. Something has
come into that room which has dashed the light of reason from their
minds. What human contrivance could do that?&cdq;
&odq;I fear,&cdq; said Holmes, &odq;that if the matter is
beyond humanity it is certainly beyond me. Yet we must exhaust
all natural explanations before we fall back upon such a theory as
this. As to yourself, Mr. Tregennis, I take it you were
divided in some way from your family, since they lived together and
you had rooms apart?&cdq;
&odq;That is so, Mr. Holmes, though the matter is past and done
with. We were a family of tin-miners at Redruth, but we sold
out our venture to a company, and so retired with enough to keep us.
I won't deny that there was some feeling about the division of
the money and it stood between us for a time, but it was all forgiven
and forgotten, and we were the best of friends together.&cdq;
&odq;Looking back at the evening which you spent together, does
anything stand out in your memory as throwing any possible light upon
the tragedy? Think carefully, Mr. Tregennis, for any clue
which can help me.&cdq;
&odq;There is nothing at all, sir.&cdq;
&odq;Your people were in their usual spirits?&cdq;
&odq;Never better.&cdq;
&odq;Were they nervous people? Did they ever show any
apprehension of coming danger?&cdq;
&odq;Nothing of the kind.&cdq;
&odq;You have nothing to add then, which could assist me?&cdq;
Mortimer Tregennis considered earnestly for a moment.
&odq;There is one thing occurs to me,&cdq; said he at last.
&odq;As we sat at the table my back was to the window, and my
brother George, he being my partner at cards, was facing it. I
saw him once look hard over my shoulder, so I turned round and looked
also. The blind was up and the window shut, but I could just
make out the bushes on the lawn, and it seemed to me for a moment
that I saw something moving among them. I couldn't even say if
it was man or animal, but I just thought there was something there.
When I asked him what he was looking at, he told me that he
had the same feeling. That is all that I can say.&cdq;
&odq;Did you not investigate?&cdq;
&odq;No; the matter passed as unimportant.&cdq;
&odq;You left them, then, without any premonition of evil?&cdq;
&odq;None at all.&cdq;
&odq;I am not clear how you came to hear the news so early this
morning.&cdq;
&odq;I am an early riser and generally take a walk before
breakfast. This morning I had hardly started when the doctor
in his carriage overtook me. He told me that old Mrs. Porter
had sent a boy down with an urgent message. I sprang in beside
him and we drove on. When we got there we looked into that
dreadful room. The candles and the fire must have burned out
hours before, and they had been sitting there in the dark until dawn
had broken. The doctor said Brenda must have been dead at
least six hours. There were no signs of violence. She
just lay across the arm of the chair with that look on her face.
George and Owen were singing snatches of songs and gibbering
like two great apes. Oh, it was awful to see! I
couldn't stand it, and the doctor was as white as a sheet.
Indeed, he fell into a chair in a sort of faint, and we nearly
had him on our hands as well.&cdq;
&odq;Remarkable — most remarkable!&cdq; said Holmes,
rising and taking his hat. &odq;I think, perhaps, we had
better go down to Tredannick Wartha without further delay. I
confess that I have seldom known a case which at first sight
presented a more singular problem.&cdq;
Our proceedings of that first morning did little to advance the
investigation. It was marked, however, at the outset by an
incident which left the most sinister impression upon my mind.
The approach to the spot at which the tragedy occurred is down
a narrow, winding, country lane. While we made our way along
it we heard the raffle of a carriage coming towards us and stood
aside to let it pass. As it drove by us I caught a glimpse
through the closed window of a horribly contorted, grinning face
glaring out at us. Those staring eyes and gnashing teeth
flashed past us like a dreadful vision.
&odq;My brothers!&cdq; cried Mortimer Tregennis, white to his
lips. &odq;They are taking them to Helston.&cdq;
We looked with horror after the black carriage, lumbering upon
its way. Then we turned our steps towards this ill-omened
house in which they had met their strange fate.
It was a large and bright dwelling, rather a villa than a
cottage, with a considerable garden which was already, in that
Cornish air, well filled with spring flowers. Towards this
garden the window of the sitting-room fronted, and from it, according
to Mortimer Tregennis, must have come that thing of evil which had by
sheer horror in a single instant blasted their minds. Holmes
walked slowly and thoughtfully among the flower-plots and along the
path before we entered the porch. So absorbed was he in his
thoughts, I remember, that he stumbled over the watering-pot, upset
its contents, and deluged both our feet and the garden path.
Inside the house we were met by the elderly Cornish
housekeeper, Mrs. Porter, who, with the aid of a young girl, looked
after the wants of the family. She readily answered all
Holmes's questions. She had heard nothing in the night.
Her employers had all been in excellent spirits lately, and
she had never known them more cheerful and prosperous. She had
fainted with horror upon entering the room in the morning and seeing
that dreadful company round the table. She had, when she
recovered, thrown open the window to let the morning air in and had
run down to the lane, whence she sent a farm-lad for the doctor.
The lady was on her bed upstairs if we cared to see her.
It took four strong men to get the brothers into the asylum
carriage. She would not herself stay in the house another day
and was starting that very afternoon to rejoin her family at St.
Ives.
We ascended the stairs and viewed the body. Miss Brenda
Tregennis had been a very beautiful girl, though now verging upon
middle age. Her dark, clear-cut face was handsome, even in
death, but there still lingered upon it something of that convulsion
of horror which had been her last human emotion. From her
bedroom we descended to the sitting-room, where this strange tragedy
had actually occurred. The charred ashes of the overnight fire
lay in the grate. On the table were the four guttered and
burned-out candles, with the cards scattered over its surface.
The chairs had been moved back against the walls, but all else
was as it had been the night before. Holmes paced with light,
swift steps about the room; he sat in the various chairs, drawing
them up and reconstructing their positions. He tested how much
of the garden was visible; he examined the floor, the ceiling, and
the fireplace; but never once did I see that sudden brightening of
his eyes and tightening of his lips which would have told me that he
saw some gleam of light in this utter darkness.
&odq;Why a fire?&cdq; he asked once. &odq;Had they
always a fire in this small room on a spring evening?&cdq;
Mortimer Tregennis explained that the night was cold and damp.
For that reason, after his arrival, the fire was lit.
&odq;What are you going to do now, Mr. Holmes?&cdq; he asked.
My friend smiled and laid his hand upon my arm. &odq;I
think, Watson, that I shall resume that course of tobacco-poisoning
which you have so often and so justly condemned,&cdq; said he.
&odq;With your permission, gentlemen, we will now return to
our cottage, for I am not aware that any new factor is likely to come
to our notice here. I will turn the facts over in my mind, Mr.
Tregennis, and should anything occur to me I will certainly
communicate with you and the vicar. In the meantime I wish you
both good-morning.&cdq;
It was not until long after we were back in Poldhu Cottage that
Holmes broke his complete and absorbed silence. He sat coiled
in his armchair, his haggard and ascetic face hardly visible amid the
blue swirl of his tobacco smoke, his black brows drawn down, his
forehead contracted, his eyes vacant and far away. Finally he
laid down his pipe and sprang to his feet.
&odq;It won't do, Watson!&cdq; said he with a laugh.
&odq;Let us walk along the cliffs together and search for
flint arrows. We are more likely to find them than clues to
this problem. To let the brain work without sufficient
material is like racing an engine. It racks itself to pieces.
The sea air, sunshine, and patience, Watson — all else
will come.
&odq;Now, let us calmly define our position, Watson,&cdq; he
continued as we skirted the cliffs together. &odq;Let us get a
firm grip of the very little which we do know, so that when fresh
facts arise we may be ready to fit them into their places. I
take it, in the first place, that neither of us is prepared to admit
diabolical intrusions into the affairs of men. Let us begin by
ruling that entirely out of our minds. Very good. There
remain three persons who have been grievously stricken by some
conscious or unconscious human agency. That is firm ground.
Now, when did this occur? Evidently, assuming his
narrative to be true, it was immediately after Mr. Mortimer Tregennis
had left the room. That is a very important point. The
presumption is that it was within a few minutes afterwards.
The cards still lay upon the table. It was already past
their usual hour for bed. Yet they had not changed their
position or pushed back their chairs. I repeat then, that the
occurrence was immediately after his departure, and not later than
eleven o'clock last night.
&odq;Our next obvious step is to check, so far as we can, the
movements of Mortimer Tregennis after he left the room. In
this there is no difficulty, and they seem to be above suspicion.
Knowing my methods as you do, you were, of course, conscious
of the somewhat clumsy water-pot expedient by which I obtained a
clearer impress of his foot than might otherwise have been possible.
The wet, sandy path took it admirably. Last night was
also wet, you will remember, and it was not difficult —
having obtained a sample print — to pick out his track among
others and to follow his movements. He appears to have walked
away swiftly in the direction of the vicarage.
&odq;If, then, Mortimer Tregennis disappeared from the scene,
and yet some outside person affected the cardplayers, how can we
reconstruct that person, and how was such an impression of horror
conveyed? Mrs. Porter may be eliminated. She is
evidently harmless. Is there any evidence that someone crept
up to the garden window and in some manner produced so terrific an
effect that he drove those who saw it out of their senses? The
only suggestion in this direction comes from Mortimer Tregennis
himself, who says that his brother spoke about some movement in the
garden. That is certainly remarkable, as the night was rainy,
cloudy, and dark. Anyone who had the design to alarm these
people would be compelled to place his very face against the glass
before he could be seen. There is a three-foot flowerborder
outside this window, but no indication of a footmark. It is
difficult to imagine, then, how an outsider could have made so
terrible an impression upon the company, nor have we found any
possible motive for so strange and elaborate an attempt. You
perceive our difficulties, Watson?&cdq;
&odq;They are only too clear,&cdq; I answered with conviction.
&odq;And yet, with a little more material, we may prove that
they are not insurmountable,&cdq; said Holmes. &odq;I fancy
that among your extensive archives, Watson, you may find some which
were nearly as obscure. Meanwhile, we shall put the case aside
until more accurate data are available, and devote the rest of our
morning to the pursuit of neolithic man.&cdq;
I may have commented upon my friend's power of mental
detachment, but never have I wondered at it more than upon that
spring morning in Cornwall when for two hours he discoursed upon
Celts, arrowheads, and shards, as lightly as if no sinister mystery
were waiting for his solution. It was not until we had
returned in the afternoon to our cottage that we found a visitor
awaiting us, who soon brought our minds back to the matter in hand.
Neither of us needed to be told who that visitor was.
The huge body, the craggy and deeply seamed face with the
fierce eyes and hawk-like nose, the grizzled hair which nearly
brushed our cottage ceiling, the beard — golden at the
fringes and white near the lips, save for the nicotin stain from his
perpetual cigar — all these were as well known in London as
in Africa, and could only be associated with the tremendous
personality of Dr. Leon Sterndale, the great lion-hunter and
explorer.
We had heard of his presence in the district and had once or
twice caught sight of his tall figure upon the moorland paths.
He made no advances to us, however, nor would we have dreamed
of doing so to him, as it was well known that it was his love of
seclusion which caused him to spend the greater part of the intervals
between his journeys in a small bungalow buried in the lonely wood of
Beauchamp Arriance. Here, amid his books and his maps, he
lived an absolutely lonely life, attending to his own simple wants
and paying little apparent heed to the affairs of his neighbours.
It was a surprise to me, therefore, to hear him asking Holmes
in an eager voice whether he had made any advance in his
reconstruction of this mysterious episode. &odq;The county
police are utterly at fault,&cdq; said he, &odq;but perhaps your
wider experience has suggested some conceivable explanation.
My only claim to being taken into your confidence is that
during my many residences here I have come to know this family of
Tregennis very well — indeed, upon my Cornish mother's side I
could call them cousins — and their strange fate has
naturally been a great shock to me. I may tell you that I had
got as far as Plymouth upon my way to Africa, but the news reached me
this morning, and I came straight back again to help in the
inquiry.&cdq;
Holmes raised his eyebrows.
&odq;Did you lose your boat through it?&cdq;
&odq;I will take the next.&cdq;
&odq;Dear me! that is friendship indeed.&cdq;
&odq;I tell you they were relatives.&cdq;
&odq;Quite so — cousins of your mother. Was your
baggage aboard the ship?&cdq;
&odq;Some of it, but the main part at the hotel.&cdq;
&odq;I see. But surely this event could not have found
its way into the Plymouth morning papers.&cdq;
&odq;No, sir; I had a telegram.&cdq;
&odq;Might I ask from whom?&cdq;
A shadow passed over the gaunt face of the explorer.
&odq;You are very inquisitive, Mr. Holmes.&cdq;
&odq;It is my business.&cdq;
With an effort Dr. Sterndale recovered his ruffled composure.
&odq;I have no objection to telling you,&cdq; he said.
&odq;It was Mr. Roundhay, the vicar, who sent me the telegram
which recalled me.&cdq;
&odq;Thank you,&cdq; said Holmes. &odq;I may say in
answer to your original question that I have not cleared my mind
entirely on the subject of this case, but that I have every hope of
reaching some conclusion. It would be premature to say
more.&cdq;
&odq;Perhaps you would not mind telling me if your suspicions
point in any particular direction?&cdq;
&odq;No, I can hardly answer that.&cdq;
&odq;Then I have wasted my time and need not prolong my
visit.&cdq; The famous doctor strode out of our cottage in
considerable ill-humour, and within five minutes Holmes had followed
him. I saw him no more until the evening, when he returned
with a slow step and haggard face which assured me that he had made
no great progress with his investigation. He glanced at a
telegram which awaited him and threw it into the grate.
&odq;From the Plymouth hotel, Watson,&cdq; he said.
&odq;I learned the name of it from the vicar, and I wired to
make certain that Dr. Leon Sterndale's account was true. It
appears that he did indeed spend last night there, and that he has
actually allowed some of his baggage to go on to Africa, while he
returned to be present at this investigation. What do you make
of that, Watson?&cdq;
&odq;He is deeply interested.&cdq;
&odq;Deeply interested — yes. There is a thread
here which we have not yet grasped and which might lead us through
the tangle. Cheer up, Watson, for I am very sure that our
material has not yet all come to hand. When it does we may
soon leave our difficulties behind us.&cdq;
Little did I think how soon the words of Holmes would be
realized, or how strange and sinister would be that new development
which opened up an entirely fresh line of investigation. I was
shaving at my window in the morning when I heard the rattle of hoofs
and, looking up, saw a dog-cart coming at a gallop down the road.
It pulled up at our door, and our friend, the vicar, sprang
from it and rushed up our garden path. Holmes was already
dressed, and we hastened down to meet him.
Our visitor was so excited that he could hardly articulate, but
at last in gasps and bursts his tragic story came out of him.
&odq;We are devil-ridden, Mr. Holmes! My poor parish is
devilridden!&cdq; he cried. &odq;Satan himself is loose in it!
We are given over into his hands!&cdq; He danced about
in his agitation, a ludicrous object if it were not for his ashy face
and startled eyes. Finally he shot out his terrible news.
&odq;Mr. Mortimer Tregennis died during the night, and with
exactly the same symptoms as the rest of his family.&cdq;
Holmes sprang to his feet, all energy in an instant.
&odq;Can you fit us both into your dog-cart?&cdq;
&odq;Yes, I can.&cdq;
&odq;Then, Watson, we will postpone our breakfast. Mr.
Roundhay, we are entirely at your disposal. Hurry —
hurry, before things get disarranged.&cdq;
The lodger occupied two rooms at the vicarage, which were in an
angle by themselves, the one above the other. Below was a
large sitting-room; above, his bedroom. They looked out upon a
croquet lawn which came up to the windows. We had arrived
before the doctor or the police, so that everything was absolutely
undisturbed. Let me describe exactly the scene as we saw it
upon that misty March morning. It has left an impression which
can never be effaced from my mind.
The atmosphere of the room was of a horrible and depressing
stuffiness. The servant who had first entered had thrown up
the window, or it would have been even more intolerable. This
might partly be due to the fact that a lamp stood flaring and smoking
on the centre table. Beside it sat the dead man, leaning back
in his chair, his thin beard projecting, his spectacles pushed up on
to his forehead, and his lean dark face turned towards the window and
twisted into the same distortion of terror which had marked the
features of his dead sister. His limbs were convulsed and his
fingers contorted as though he had died in a very paroxysm of fear.
He was fully clothed, though there were signs that his
dressing had been done in a hurry. We had already learned that
his bed had been slept in, and that the tragic end had come to him in
the early morning.
One realized the red-hot energy which underlay Holmes's
phlegmatic exterior when one saw the sudden change which came over
him from the moment that he entered the fatal apartment. In an
instant he was tense and alert, his eyes shining, his face set, his
limbs quivering with eager activity. He was out on the lawn,
in through the window, round the room, and up into the bedroom, for
all the world like a dashing foxhound drawing a cover. In the
bedroom he made a rapid cast around and ended by throwing open the
window, which appeared to give him some fresh cause for excitement,
for he leaned out of it with loud ejaculations of interest and
delight. Then he rushed down the stair, out through the open
window, threw himself upon his face on the lawn, sprang up and into
the room once more, all with the energy of the hunter who is at the
very heels of his quarry. The lamp, which was an ordinary
standard, he examined with minute care, making certain measurements
upon its bowl. He carefully scrutinized with his lens the tale
shield which covered the top of the chimney and scraped off some
ashes which adhered to its upper surface, putting some of them into
an envelope, which he placed in his pocketbook. Finally, just
as the doctor and the official police put in an appearance, he
beckoned to the vicar and we all three went out upon the lawn.
&odq;I am glad to say that my investigation has not been
entirely barren,&cdq; he remarked. &odq;I cannot remain to
discuss the matter with the police, but I should be exceedingly
obliged, Mr. Roundhay, if you would give the inspector my compliments
and direct his attention to the bedroom window and to the sittingroom
lamp. Each is suggestive, and together they are almost
conclusive. If the police would desire further information I
shall be happy to see any of them at the cottage. And now,
Watson, I think that, perhaps, we shall be better employed
elsewhere.&cdq;
It may be that the police resented the intrusion of an amateur,
or that they imagined themselves to be upon some hopeful line of
investigation; but it is certain that we heard nothing from them for
the next two days. During this time Holmes spent some of his
time smoking and dreaming in the cottage; but a greater portion in
country walks which he undertook alone, returning after many hours
without remark as to where he had been. One experiment served
to show me the line of his investigation. He had bought a lamp
which was the duplicate of the one which had burned in the room of
Mortimer Tregennis on the morning of the tragedy. This he
filled with the same oil as that used at the vicarage, and he
carefully timed the period which it would take to be exhausted.
Another experiment which he made was of a more unpleasant
nature, and one which I am not likely ever to forget.
&odq;You will remember, Watson,&cdq; he remarked one afternoon,
&odq;that there is a single common point of resemblance in the
varying reports which have reached us. This concerns the
effect of the atmosphere of the room in each case upon those who had
first entered it. You will recollect that Mortimer Tregennis,
in describing the episode of his last visit to his brother's house,
remarked that the doctor on entering the room fell into a chair?
You had forgotten? Well, I can answer for it that it
was so. Now, you will remember also that Mrs. Porter, the
housekeeper, told us that she herself fainted upon entering the room
and had afterwards opened the window. In the second case
— that of Mortimer Tregennis himself — you cannot have
forgotten the horrible stuffiness of the room when we arrived, though
the servant had thrown open the window. That servant, I found
upon inquiry, was so ill that she had gone to her bed. You
will admit, Watson, that these facts are very suggestive. In
each case there is evidence of a poisonous atmosphere. In each
case, also, there is combustion going on in the room — in the
one case a fire, in the other a lamp. The fire was needed, but
the lamp was lit — as a comparison of the oil consumed will
show — long after it was broad daylight. Why?
Surely because there is some connection between three things
— the burning, the stuffy atmosphere, and, finally, the
madness or death of those unfortunate people. That is clear,
is it not?&cdq;
&odq;It would appear so.&cdq;
&odq;At least we may accept it as a working hypothesis.
We will suppose, then, that something was burned in each case
which produced an atmosphere causing strange toxic effects.
Very good. In the first instance — that of the
Tregennis family — this substance was placed in the fire.
Now the window was shut, but the fire would naturally carry
fumes to some extent up the chimney. Hence one would expect
the effects of the poison to be less than in the second case, where
there was less escape for the vapour. The result seems to
indicate that it was so, since in the first case only the woman, who
had presumably the more sensitive organism, was killed, the others
exhibiting that temporary or permanent lunacy which is evidently the
first effect of the drug. In the second case the result was
complete. The facts, therefore, seem to bear out the theory of
a poison which worked by combustion.
&odq;With this train of reasoning in my head I naturally looked
about in Mortimer Tregennis's room to find some remains of this
substance. The obvious place to look was the talc shield or
smoke-guard of the lamp. There, sure enough, I perceived a
number of flaky ashes, and round the edges a fringe of brownish
powder, which had not yet been consumed. Half of this I took,
as you saw, and I placed it in an envelope.&cdq;
&odq;Why half, Holmes?&cdq;
&odq;It is not for me, my dear Watson, to stand in the way of
the official police force. I leave them all the evidence which
I found. The poison still remained upon the talc had they the
wit to find it. Now, Watson, we will light our lamp; we will,
however, take the precaution to open our window to avoid the
premature decease of two deserving members of society, and you will
seat yourself near that open window in an armchair unless, like a
sensible man, you determine to have nothing to do with the affair.
Oh, you will see it out, will you? I thought I knew my
Watson. This chair I will place opposite yours, so that we may
be the same distance from the poison and face to face. The
door we will leave ajar. Each is now in a position to watch
the other and to bring the experiment to an end should the symptoms
seem alarming. Is that all clear? Well, then, I take
our powder — or what remains of it — from the
envelope, and I lay it above the burning lamp. So! Now,
Watson, let us sit down and await developments.&cdq;
They were not long in coming. I had hardly settled in my
chair before I was conscious of a thick, musky odour, subtle and
nauseous. At the very first whiff of it my brain and my
imagination were beyond all control. A thick, black cloud
swirled before my eyes, and my mind told me that in this cloud,
unseen as yet, but about to spring out upon my appalled senses,
lurked all that was vaguely horrible, all that was monstrous and
inconceivably wicked in the universe. Vague shapes swirled and
swam amid the dark cloud-bank, each a menace and a warning of
something coming, the advent of some unspeakable dweller upon the
threshold, whose very shadow would blast my soul. A freezing
horror took possession of me. I felt that my hair was rising,
that my eyes were protruding, that my mouth wag opened, and my tongue
like leather. The turmoil within my brain was such that
something must surely snap. I tried to scream and was vaguely
aware of some hoarse croak which was my own voice, but distant and
detached from myself. At the same moment, in some effort of
escape, I broke through that cloud of despair and had a glimpse of
Holmes's face, white, rigid, and drawn with horror — the very
look which I had seen upon the features of the dead. It was
that vision which gave me an instant of sanity and of strength.
I dashed from my chair, threw my arms round Holmes, and
together we lurched through the door, and an instant afterwards had
thrown ourselves down upon the grass plot and were lying side by
side, conscious only of the glorious sunshine which was bursting its
way through the hellish cloud of terror which had girt us in.
Slowly it rose from our souls like the mists from a landscape
until peace and reason had returned, and we were sitting upon the
grass, wiping our clammy foreheads, and looking with apprehension at
each other to mark the last traces of that terrific experience which
we had undergone.
&odq;Upon my word, Watson!&cdq; said Holmes at last with an
unsteady voice, &odq;I owe you both my thanks and an apology.
It was an unjustifiable experiment even for one's self, and
doubly so for a friend. I am really very sorry.&cdq;
&odq;You know,&cdq; I answered with some emotion, for I had
never seen so much of Holmes's heart before, &odq;that it is my
greatest joy and privilege to help you.&cdq;
He relapsed at once into the half-humorous, half-cynical vein
which was his habitual attitude to those about him. &odq;It
would be superfluous to drive us mad, my dear Watson,&cdq; said he.
&odq;A candid observer would certainly declare that we were so
already before we embarked upon so wild an experiment. I
confess that I never imagined that the effect could be so sudden and
so severe.&cdq; He dashed into the cottage, and, reappearing
with the burning lamp held at full arm's length, he threw it among a
bank of brambles. &odq;We must give the room a little time to
clear. I take it, Watson, that you have no longer a shadow of
a doubt as to how these tragedies were produced?&cdq;
&odq;None whatever.&cdq;
&odq;But the cause remains as obscure as before. Come
into the arbour here and let us discuss it together. That
villainous stuff seems still to linger round my throat. I
think we must admit that all the evidence points to this man,
Mortimer Tregennis, having been the criminal in the first tragedy,
though he was the victim in the second one. We must remember,
in the first place, that there is some story of a family quarrel,
followed by a reconciliation. How bitter that quarrel may have
been, or how hollow the reconciliation we cannot tell. When I
think of Mortimer Tregennis, with the foxy face and the small shrewd,
beady eyes behind the spectacles, he is not a man whom I should judge
to be of a particularly forgiving disposition. Well, in the
next place, you will remember that this idea of someone moving in the
garden, which took our attention for a moment from the real cause of
the tragedy, emanated from him. He had a motive in misleading
us. Finally, if he did not throw this substance into the fire
at the moment of leaving the room, who did do so? The affair
happened immediately after his departure. Had anyone else come
in, the family would certainly have risen from the table.
Besides, in peaceful Cornwall, visitors do not arrive after
ten o'clock at night. We may take it, then, that all the
evidence points to Mortimer Tregennis as the culprit.&cdq;
&odq;Then his own death was suicide!&cdq;
&odq;Well, Watson, it is on the face of it a not impossible
supposition. The man who had the guilt upon his soul of having
brought such a fate upon his own family might well be driven by
remorse to inflict it upon himself. There are, however, some
cogent reasons against it. Forturnately, there is one man in
England who knows all about it, and I have made arrangements by which
we shall hear the facts this afternoon from his own lips. Ah!
he is a little before his time. Perhaps you would kindly step
this way, Dr. Leon Sterndale. We have been conducting a
chemical experiment indoors which has left our little room hardly fit
for the reception of so distinguished a visitor.&cdq;
I had heard the click of the garden gate, and now the majestic
figure of the great African explorer appeared upon the path.
He turned in some surprise towards the rustic arbour in which
we sat.
&odq;You sent for me, Mr. Holmes. I had your note about
an hour ago, and I have come, though I really do not know why I
should obey your summons.&cdq;
&odq;Perhaps we can clear the point up before we separate,&cdq;
said Holmes. &odq;Meanwhile, I am much obliged to you for your
courteous acquiescence. You will excuse this informal
reception in the open air, but my friend Watson and I have nearly
furnished an additional chapter to what the papers call the Cornish
Horror, and we prefer a clear atmosphere for the present.
Perhaps, since the matters which we have to discuss will
affect you personally in a very intimate fashion, it is as well that
we should talk where there can be no eavesdropping.&cdq;
The explorer took his cigar from his lips and gazed sternly at
my companion.
&odq;I am at a loss to know, sir,&cdq; he said, &odq;what you
can have to speak about which affects me personally in a very
intimate fashion.&cdq;
&odq;The killing of Mortimer Tregennis,&cdq; said Holmes.
For a moment I wished that I were armed. Sterndale's
fierce face turned to a dusky red, his eyes glared, and the knotted,
passionate veins started out in his forehead, while he sprang forward
with clenched hands towards my companion. Then he stopped, and
with a violent effort he resumed a cold, rigid calmness, which was,
perhaps, more suggestive of danger than his hot-headed outburst.
&odq;I have lived so long among savages and beyond the
law,&cdq; said he, &odq;that I have got into the way of being a law
to myself. You would do well, Mr. Holmes, not to forget it,
for I have no desire to do you an injury.&cdq;
&odq;Nor have I any desire to do you an injury, Dr. Sterndale.
Surely the clearest proof of it is that, knowing what I know,
I have sent for you and not for the police.&cdq;
Sterndale sat down with a gasp, overawed for, perhaps, the
first time in his adventurous life. There was a calm assurance
of power in Holmes's manner which could not be withstood. Our
visitor stammered for a moment, his great hands opening and shutting
in his agitation.
&odq;What do you mean?&cdq; he asked at last. &odq;If
this is bluff upon your part, Mr. Holmes, you have chosen a bad man
for your experiment. Let us have no more beating about the
bush. What do you mean?&cdq;
&odq;I will tell you,&cdq; said Holmes, &odq;and the reason why
I tell you is that I hope frankness may beget frankness. What
my next step may be will depend entirely upon the nature of your own
defence.&cdq;
&odq;My defence?&cdq;
&odq;Yes, sir.&cdq;
&odq;My defence against what?&cdq;
&odq;Against the charge of killing Mortimer Tregennis.&cdq;
Sterndale mopped his forehead with his handkerchief.
&odq;Upon my word, you are getting on,&cdq; said he.
&odq;Do all your successes depend upon this prodigious power
of bluff?&cdq;
&odq;The bluff,&cdq; said Holmes sternly, &odq;is upon your
side, Dr. Leon Sterndale, and not upon mine. As a proof I will
tell you some of the facts upon which my conclusions are based.
Of your return from Plymouth, allowing much of your property
to go on to Africa, I will say nothing save that it first informed me
that you were one of the factors which had to be taken into account
in reconstructing this drama — &cdq;
&odq;I came back — &cdq;
&odq;I have heard your reasons and regard them as unconvincing
and inadequate. We will pass that. You came down here
to ask me whom I suspected. I refused to answer you.
You then went to the vicarage, waited outside it for some
time, and finally returned to your cottage.&cdq;
&odq;How do you know that?&cdq;
&odq;I followed you.&cdq;
&odq;I saw no one.&cdq;
&odq;That is what you may expect to see when I follow you.
You spent a restless night at your cottage, and you formed
certain plans, which in the early morning you proceeded to put into
execution. Leaving your door just as day was breaking, you
filled your pocket with some reddish gravel that was lying heaped
beside your gate.&cdq;
Sterndale gave a violent start and looked at Holmes in
amazement.
&odq;You then walked swiftly for the mile which separated you
from the vicarage. You were wearing, I may remark, the same
pair of ribbed tennis shoes which are at the present moment upon your
feet. At the vicarage you passed through the orchard and the
side hedge, coming out under the window of the lodger Tregennis.
It was now daylight, but the household was not yet stirring.
You drew some of the gravel from your pocket, and you threw it
up at the window above you.&cdq;
Sterndale sprang to his feet.
&odq;I believe that you are the devil himself!&cdq; he cried.
Holmes smiled at the compliment. &odq;It took two, or
possibly three, handfuls before the lodger came to the window.
You beckoned him to come down. He dressed hurriedly and
descended to his sitting-room. You entered by the window.
There was an interview — a short one — during
which you walked up and down the room. Then you passed out and
closed the window, standing on the lawn outside smoking a cigar and
watching what occurred. Finally, after the death of Tregennis,
you withdrew as you had come. Now, Dr. Sterndale, how do you
justify such conduct, and what were the motives for your actions?
If you prevaricate or trifle with me, I give you my assurance
that the matter will pass out of my hands forever.&cdq;
Our visitor's face had turned ashen gray as he listened to the
words of his accuser. Now he sat for some time in thought with
his face sunk in his hands. Then with a sudden impulsive
gesture he plucked a photograph from his breast-pocket and threw it
on the rustic table before us.
&odq;That is why I have done it,&cdq; said he.
It showed the bust and face of a very beautiful woman.
Holmes stooped over it.
&odq;Brenda Tregennis,&cdq; said he.
&odq;Yes, Brenda Tregennis,&cdq; repeated our visitor.
&odq;For years I have loved her. For years she has
loved me. There is the secret of that Cornish seclusion which
people have marvelled at. It has brought me close to the one
thing on earth that was dear to me. I could not marry her, for
I have a wife who has left me for years and yet whom, by the
deplorable laws of England, I could not divorce. For years
Brenda waited. For years I waited. And this is what we
have waited for.&cdq; A terrible sob shook his great frame,
and he clutched his throat under his brindled beard. Then with
an effort he mastered himself and spoke on:
&odq;The vicar knew. He was in our confidence. He
would tell you that she was an angel upon earth. That was why
he telegraphed to me and I returned. What was my baggage or
Africa to me when I learned that such a fate had come upon my
darling? There you have the missing clue to my action, Mr.
Holmes.&cdq;
&odq;Proceed,&cdq; said my friend.
Dr. Sterndale drew from his pocket a paper packet and laid it
upon the table. On the outside was written &odq;Radix pedis
diaboli&cdq; with a red poison label beneath it. He pushed it
towards me. &odq;I understand that you are a doctor, sir.
Have you ever heard of this preparation?&cdq;
&odq;Devil's-foot root! No, I have never heard of
it.&cdq;
&odq;It is no reflection upon your professional knowledge,&cdq;
said he, &odq;for I believe that, save for one sample in a laboratory
at Buda, there is no other specimen in Europe. It has not yet
found its way either into the pharmacopoeia or into the literature of
toxicology. The root is shaped like a foot, half human, half
goatlike; hence the fanciful name given by a botanical missionary.
It is used as an ordeal poison by the medicine-men in certain
districts of West Africa and is kept as a secret among them.
This particular specimen I obtained under very extraordinary
circumstances in the Ubangi country.&cdq; He opened the paper
as he spoke and disclosed a heap of reddish-brown, snuff-like powder.
&odq;Well, sir?&cdq; asked Holmes sternly.
&odq;I am about to tell you, Mr. Holmes, all that actually
occurred, for you already know so much that it is clearly to my
interest that you should know all. I have already explained
the relationship in which I stood to the Tregennis family. For
the sake of the sister I was friendly with the brothers. There
was a family quarrel about money which estranged this man Mortimer,
but it was supposed to be made up, and I afterwards met him as I did
the others. He was a sly, subtle, scheming man, and several
things arose which gave me a suspicion of him, but I had no cause for
any positive quarrel.
&odq;One day, only a couple of weeks ago, he came down to my
cottage and I showed him some of my African curiosities. Among
other things I exhibited this powder, and I told him of its strange
properties, how it stimulates those brain centres which control the
emotion of fear, and how either madness or death is the fate of the
unhappy native who is subjected to the ordeal by the priest of his
tribe. I told him also how powerless European science would be
to detect it. How hi took it I cannot say, for I never left
the room, but there is no doubt that it was then, while I was opening
cabinets and stooping to boxes, that he managed to abstract some of
the devil's-foot root. I well remember how he plied me with
questions as to the amount and the time that was needed for its
effect, but I little dreamed that he could have a personal reason for
asking.
&odq;I thought no more of the matter until the vicar's telegram
reached me at Plymouth. This villain had thought that I would
be at sea before the news could reach me, and that I should be lost
for years in Africa. But I returned at once. Of course,
I could not listen to the details without feeling assured that my
poison had been used. I came round to see you on the chance
that some other explanation had suggested itself to you. But
there could be none. I was convinced that Mortimer Tregennis
was the murderer; that for the sake of money, and with the idea,
perhaps, that if the other members of his family were all insane he
would be the sole guardian of their joint property, he had used the
devil's-foot powder upon them, driven two of them out of their
senses, and killed his sister Brenda, the one human being whom I have
ever loved or who has ever loved me. There was his crime; what
was to be his punishment?
&odq;Should I appeal to the law? Where were my proofs?
I knew that the facts were true, but could I help to make a
jury of countrymen believe so fantastic a story? I might or I
might not. But I could not afford to fail. My soul
cried out for revenge. I have said to you once before, Mr.
Holmes, that I have spent much of my life outside the law, and that I
have come at last to be a law to myself. So it was now.
I determined that the fate which he had given to others should
be shared by himself. Either that or I would do justice upon
him with my own hand. In all England there can be no man who
sets less value upon his own life than I do at the present moment.
&odq;Now I have told you all. You have yourself supplied
the rest. I did, as you say, after a restless night, set off
early from my cottage. I foresaw the difficulty of arousing
him, so I gathered some gravel from the pile which you have
mentioned, and I used it to throw up to his window. He came
down and admitted me through the window of the sitting-room. I
laid his offence before him. I told him that I had come both
as judge and executioner. The wretch sank into a chair,
paralyzed at the sight of my revolver. I lit the lamp, put the
powder above it, and stood outside the window, ready to carry out my
threat to shoot him should he try to leave the room. In five
minutes he died. My God! how he died! But my heart was
flint, for he endured nothing which my innocent darling had not felt
before him. There is my story, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps, if
you loved a woman, you would have done as much yourself. At
any rate, I am in your hands. You can take what steps you
like. As I have already said, there is no man living who can
fear death less than I do.&cdq;
Holmes sat for some little time in silence.
&odq;What were your plans?&cdq; he asked at last.
&odq;I had intended to bury myself in central Africa. My
work there is but half finished.&cdq;
&odq;Go and do the other half,&cdq; said Holmes. &odq;I,
at least, am not prepared to prevent you.&cdq;
Dr. Sterndale raised his giant figure, bowed gravely, and
walked from the arbour. Holmes lit his pipe and handed me his
pouch.
&odq;Some fumes which are not poisonous would be a welcome
change,&cdq; said he. &odq;I think you must agree, Watson,
that it is not a case in which we are called upon to interfere.
Our investigation has been independent, and our action shall
be so also. You would not denounce the man?&cdq;
&odq;Certainly not,&cdq; I answered.
&odq;I have never loved, Watson, but if I did and if the woman
I loved had met such an end, I might act even as our lawless
lion-hunter has done. Who knows? Well, Watson, I will
not offend your intelligence by explaining what is obvious.
The gravel upon the window-sill was, of course, the
starting-point of my research. It was unlike anything in the
vicarage garden. Only when my attention had been drawn to Dr.
Sterndale and his cottage did I find its counterpart. The lamp
shining in broad daylight and the remains of powder upon the shield
were successive links in a fairly obvious chain. And now, my
dear Watson, I think we may dismiss the matter from our mind and go
back with a clear conscience to the study of those Chaldean roots
which are surely to be traced in the Cornish branch of the great
Celtic speech.&cdq;
&odq;Well, Mrs. Warren, I cannot see that you have any
particular cause for uneasiness, nor do I understand why I, whose
time is of some value, should interfere in the matter. I
really have other things to engage me.&cdq; So spoke Sherlock
Holmes and turned back to the great scrapbook in which he was
arranging and indexing some of his recent material.
But the landlady had the pertinacity and also the cunning of
her sex. She held her ground firmly.
&odq;You arranged an affair for a lodger of mine last
year,&cdq; she said — &odq;Mr. Fairdale Hobbs.&cdq;
&odq;Ah, yes — a simple matter.&cdq;
&odq;But he would never cease talking of it — your
kindness, sir, and the way in which you brought light into the
darkness. I remembered his words when I was in doubt and
darkness myself. I know you could if you only would.&cdq;
Holmes was accessible upon the side of flattery, and also, to
do him justice, upon the side of kindliness. The two forces
made him lay down his gum-brush with a sigh of resignation and push
back his chair.
&odq;Well, well, Mrs. Warren, let us hear about it, then.
You don't object to tobacco, I take it? Thank you,
Watson — the matches! You are uneasy, as I understand,
because your new lodger remains in his rooms and you cannot see him.
Why, bless you, Mrs. Warren, if I were your lodger you often
would not see me for weeks on end.&cdq;
&odq;No doubt, sir; but this is different. It frightens
me, Mr. Holmes. I can't sleep for fright. To hear his
quick step moving here and moving there from early morning to late at
night, and yet never to catch so much as a glimpse of him —
it's more than I can stand. My husband is as nervous over it
as I am, but he is out at his work all day, while I get no rest from
it. What is he hiding for? What has he done?
Except for the girl, I am all alone in the house with him, and
it's more than my nerves can stand.&cdq;
Holmes leaned forward and laid his long, thin fingers upon the
woman's shoulder. He had an almost hypnotic power of soothing
when he wished. The scared look faded from her eyes, and her
agitated features smoothed into their usual commonplace. She
sat down in the chair which he had indicated
&odq;If I take it up I must understand every detail,&cdq; said
he. &odq;Take time to consider. The smallest point may
be the most essential. You say that the man came ten days ago
and paid you for a fortnight's board and lodging?&cdq;
&odq;He asked my terms, sir. I said fifty shillings a
week. There is a small sitting-room and bedroom, and all
complete, at the top of the house.&cdq;
&odq;Well?&cdq;
&odq;He said, &onq;I'll pay you five pounds a week if I can
have it on my own terms.&cnq; I'm a poor woman, sir, and Mr.
Warren earns little, and the money meant much to me. He took
out a ten-pound note, and he held it out to me then and there.
&onq;You can have the same every fortnight for a long time to
come if you keep the terms,&cnq; he said. &onq;If not, I'll
have no more to do with you.&cnq;&cdq;
&odq;What were the terms?&cdq;
&odq;Well, sir, they were that he was to have a key of the
house. That was all right. Lodgers often have them.
Also, that he was to be left entirely to himself and never,
upon any excuse, to be disturbed.&cdq;
&odq;Nothing wonderful in that, surely?&cdq;
&odq;Not in reason, sir. But this is out of all reason.
He has been there for ten days, and neither Mr. Warren, nor I,
nor the girl has once set eyes upon him. We can hear that
quick step of his pacing up and down, up and down, night, morning,
and noon; but except on that first night he has never once gone out
of the house.&cdq;
&odq;Oh, he went out the first night, did he?&cdq;
&odq;Yes, sir, and returned very late — after we were
all in bed. He told me after he had taken the rooms that he
would do so and asked me not to bar the door. I heard him come
up the stair after midnight.&cdq;
&odq;But his meals?&cdq;
&odq;It was his particular direction that we should always,
when he rang, leave his meal upon a chair, outside his door.
Then he rings again when he has finished, and we take it down
from the same chair. If he wants anything else he prints it on
a slip of paper and leaves it.&cdq;
&odq;Prints it?&cdq;
&odq;Yes, sir; prints it in pencil. Just the word,
nothing more. Here's one I brought to show you — SOAP.
Here's another — MATCH. This is one he left the
first morning — DAILY GAZETTE. I leave that paper with
his breakfast every morning.&cdq;
&odq;Dear me, Watson,&cdq; said Holmes, staring with great
curiosity at the slips of foolscap which the landlady had handed to
him, &odq;this is certainly a little unusual. Seclusion I can
understand; but why print? Printing is a clumsy process.
Why not write? What would it suggest, Watson?&cdq;
&odq;That he desired to conceal his handwriting.&cdq;
&odq;But why? What can it matter to him that his
landlady should have a word of his writing? Still, it may be
as you say. Then, again, why such laconic messages?&cdq;
&odq;I cannot imagine.&cdq;
&odq;It opens a pleasing field for intelligent speculation.
The words are written with a broad-pointed, violet-tinted
pencil of a not unusual pattern. You will observe that the
paper is torn away at the side here after the printing was done, so
that the s of &onq;SOAP&cnq; is partly gone. Suggestive,
Watson, is it not?&cdq;
&odq;Of caution?&cdq;
&odq;Exactly. There was evidently some mark, some
thumbprint, something which might give a clue to the person's
identity. Now, Mrs. Warren, you say that the man was of middle
size, dark, and bearded. What age would he be?&cdq;
&odq;Youngish, sir — not over thirty.&cdq;
&odq;Well, can you give me no further indications?&cdq;
&odq;He spoke good English, sir, and yet I thought he was a
foreigner by his accent.&cdq;
&odq;And he was well dressed?&cdq;
&odq;Very smartly dressed, sir — quite the gentleman.
Dark clothes — nothing you would note.&cdq;
&odq;He gave no name?&cdq;
&odq;No, sir.&cdq;
&odq;And has had no letters or callers?&cdq;
&odq;None.&cdq;
&odq;But surely you or the girl enter his room of a
morning?&cdq;
&odq;No, sir; he looks after himself entirely.&cdq;
&odq;Dear me! that is certainly remarkable. What about
his luggage?&cdq;
&odq;He had one big brown bag with him — nothing
else.&cdq;
&odq;Well, we don't seem to have much material to help us.
Do you say nothing has come out of that room —
absolutely nothing?&cdq;
The landlady drew an envelope from her bag; from it she shook
out two burnt matches and a cigarette-end upon the table.
&odq;They were on his tray this morning. I brought them
because I had heard that you can read great things out of small
ones.&cdq;
Holmes shrugged his shoulders.
&odq;There is nothing here,&cdq; said he. &odq;The
matches have, of course, been used to light cigarettes. That
is obvious from the shortness of the but end. Half the match
is consumed in lighting a pipe or cigar. But, dear me! this
cigarette stub is certainly remarkable. The gentleman was
bearded and moustached, you say?&cdq;
&odq;Yes, sir.&cdq;
&odq;I don't understand that. I should say that only a
clean-shaven man could have smoked this. Why, Watson, even
your modest moustache would have been singed.&cdq;
&odq;A holder?&cdq; I suggested.
&odq;No, no; the end is matted. I suppose there could
not be two people in your rooms, Mrs. Warren?&cdq;
&odq;No, sir. He eats so little that I often wonder it
can keep life in one.&cdq;
&odq;Well, I think we must wait for a little more material.
After all, you have nothing to complain of. You have
received your rent, and he is not a troublesome lodger, though he is
certainly an unusual one. He pays you well, and if he chooses
to lie concealed it is no direct business of yours. We have no
excuse for an intrusion upon his privacy until we have some reason to
think that there is a guilty reason for it. I've taken up the
matter, and I won't lose sight of it. Report to me if anything
fresh occurs, and rely upon my assistance if it should be needed.
&odq;There are certainly some points of interest in this case,
Watson,&cdq; he remarked when the landlady had left us.
&odq;It may, of course, be trivial — individual
eccentricity; or it may be very much deeper than appears on the
surface. The first thing that strikes one is the obvious
possibility that the person now in the rooms may be entirely
different from the one who engaged them.&cdq;
&odq;Why should you think so?&cdq;
&odq;Well, apart from this cigarette-end, was it not suggestive
that the only time the lodger went out was immediately after his
taking the rooms? He came back — or someone came back
— when all witnesses were out of the way. We have no
proof that the person who came back was the person who went out.
Then, again, the man who took the rooms spoke English well.
This other, however, prints &onq;match&cnq; when it should
have been &onq;matches.&cnq; I can imagine that the word was
taken out of a dictionary, which would give the noun but not the
plural. The laconic style may be to conceal the absence of
knowledge of English. Yes, Watson, there are good reasons to
suspect that there has been a substitution of lodgers.&cdq;
&odq;But for what possible end?&cdq;
&odq;Ah! there lies our problem. There is one rather
obvious line of investigation.&cdq; He took down the great
book in which, day by day, he filed the agony columns of the various
London journals. &odq;Dear me!&cdq; said he, turning over the
pages, &odq;what a chorus of groans, cries, and bleatings!
What a rag-bag of singular happenings! But surely the
most valuable hunting-ground that ever was given to a student of the
unusual! This person is alone and cannot be approached by
letter without a breach of that absolute secrecy which is desired.
How is any news or any message to reach him from without?
Obviously by advertisement through a newspaper. There
seems no other way, and fortunately we need concern ourselves with
the one paper only. Here are the Daily Gazette extracts of the
last fortnight. &onq;Lady with a black boa at Prince's Skating
Club&cnq; — that we may pass. &onq;Surely Jimmy will
not break his mother's heart&cnq; — that appears to be
irrelevant. &onq;If the lady who fainted in the Brixton
bus&cnq; — she does not interest me. &onq;Every day my
heart longs — &cnq; Bleat, Watson — unmitigated bleat!
Ah, this is a little more possible. Listen to this:
&onq;Be patient. Will find some sure means of communication.
Meanwhile, this column. G.&cnq; That is two days
after Mrs. Warren's lodger arrived. It sounds plausible, does
it not? The mysterious one could understand English, even if
he could not print it. Let us see if we can pick up the trace
again. Yes, here we are — three days later.
&onq;Am making successful arrangements. Patience and
prudence. The clouds will pass. G.&cnq; Nothing
for a week after that. Then comes something much more
definite: &onq;The path is clearing. If I find chance signal
message remember code agreed — one A, two B, and so on.
You will hear soon. G.&cnq; That was in
yesterday's paper, and there is nothing in to-day's. It's all
very appropriate to Mrs. Warren's lodger. If we wait a little,
Watson, I don't doubt that the affair will grow more
intelligible.&cdq;
So it proved; for in the morning I found my friend standing on
the hearthrug with his back to the fire and a smile of complete
satisfaction upon his face.
&odq;How's this, Watson?&cdq; he cried, picking up the paper
from the table. &odq;&onq;High red house with white stone
facings. Third floor. Second window left. After
dusk. G.&cnq; That is definite enough. I think
after breakfast we must make a little reconnaissance of Mrs. Warren's
neighbourhood. Ah, Mrs. Warren! what news do you bring us this
morning?&cdq;
Our client had suddenly burst into the room with an explosive
energy which told of some new and momentous development.
&odq;It's a police matter, Mr. Holmes!&cdq; she cried.
&odq;I'll have no more of it! He shall pack out of
there with his baggage. I would have gone straight up and told
him so, only I thought it was but fair to you to take your opinion
first. But I'm at the end of my patience, and when it comes to
knocking my old man about&cdq;
&odq;Knocking Mr. Warren about?&cdq;
&odq;Using him roughly, anyway.&cdq;
&odq;But who used him roughly?&cdq;
&odq;Ah! that's what we want to know! It was this
morning, sir. Mr. Warren is a timekeeper at Morton and
Waylight's, in Tottenham Court Road. He has to be out of the
house before seven. Well, this morning he had not gone ten
paces down the road when two men came up behind him, threw a coat
over his head, and bundled him into a cab that was beside the curb.
They drove him an hour, and then opened the door and shot him
out. He lay in the roadway so shaken in his wits that he never
saw what became of the cab. When he picked himself up he found
he was on Hampstead Heath; so he took a bus home, and there he lies
now on the sofa, while I came straight round to tell you what had
happened.&cdq;
&odq;Most interesting,&cdq; said Holmes. &odq;Did he
observe the appearance of these men — did he hear them
talk?&cdq;
&odq;No; he is clean dazed. He just knows that he was
lifted up as if by magic and dropped as if by magic. Two at
least were in it, and maybe three.&cdq;
&odq;And you connect this attack with your lodger?&cdq;
&odq;Well, we've lived there fifteen years and no such
happenings ever came before. I've had enough of him.
Money's not everything. I'll have him out of my house
before the day is done.&cdq;
&odq;Wait a bit, Mrs. Warren. Do nothing rash. I
begin to think that this affair may be very much more important than
appeared at first sight. It is clear now that some danger is
threatening your lodger. It is equally clear that his enemies,
lying in wait for him near your door, mistook your husband for him in
the foggy morning light. On discovering their mistake they
released him. What they would have done had it not been a
mistake, we can only conjecture.&cdq;
&odq;Well, what am I to do, Mr. Holmes?&cdq;
&odq;I have a great fancy to see this lodger of yours, Mrs.
Warren.&cdq;
&odq;I don't see how that is to be managed, unless you break in
the door. I always hear him unlock it as I go down the stair
after I leave the tray.&cdq;
&odq;He has to take the tray in. Surely we could conceal
ourselves and see him do it.&cdq;
The landlady thought for a moment.
&odq;Well, sir, there's the box-room opposite. I could
arrange a looking-glass, maybe, and if you were behind the door
— &cdq;
&odq;Excellent!&cdq; said Holmes. &odq;When does he
lunch?&cdq;
&odq;About one, sir.&cdq;
&odq;Then Dr. Watson and I will come round in time. For
the present, Mrs. Warren, good-bye.&cdq;
At half-past twelve we found ourselves upon the steps of Mrs.
Warren's house — a high, thin, yellow-brick edifice in Great
Orme Street, a narrow thoroughfare at the northeast side of the
British Museum. Standing as it does near the corner of the
street it commands a view down Howe Street, with its more pretentious
houses. Holmes pointed with a chuckle to one of these, a row
of residential flats, which projected so that they could not fail to
catch the eye.
&odq;See, Watson!&cdq; said he. &odq;&onq;High red house
with stone facings.&cnq; There is the signal station all
right. We know the place, and we know the code; so surely our
task should be simple. There's a &onq;to let&cnq; card in that
window. It is evidently an empty flat to which the confederate
has access. Well, Mrs. Warren, what now?&cdq;
&odq;I have it all ready for you. If you will both come
up and leave your boots below on the landing, I'll put you there
now.&cdq;
It was an excellent hiding-place which she had arranged.
The mirror was so placed that, seated in the dark, we could
very plainly see the door opposite. We had hardly settled down
in it, and Mrs. Warren left us, when a distant tinkle announced that
our mysterious neighbour had rung. Presently the landlady
appeared with the tray, laid it down upon a chair beside the closed
door, and then, treading heavily, departed. Crouching together
in the angle of the door, we kept our eyes fixed upon the mirror.
Suddenly, as the landlady's footsteps died away, there was the
creak of a turning key, the handle revolved, and two thin hands
darted out and lifted the tray from the chair. An instant
later it was hurriedly replaced, and I caught a glimpse of a dark,
beautiful, horrified face glaring at the narrow opening of the
box-room. Then the door crashed to, the key turned once more,
and all was silence. Holmes twitched my sleeve, and together
we stole down the stair.
&odq;I will call again in the evening,&cdq; said he to the
expectant landlady. &odq;I think, Watson, we can discuss this
business better in our own quarters.&cdq;
&odq;My surmise, as you saw, proved to be correct,&cdq; said
he, speaking from the depths of his easy-chair. &odq;There has
been a substitution of lodgers. What I did not foresee is that
we should find a woman, and no ordinary woman, Watson.&cdq;
&odq;She saw us.&cdq;
&odq;Well, she saw something to alarm her. That is
certain. The general sequence of events is pretty clear, is it
not? A couple seek refuge in London from a very terrible and
instant danger. The measure of that danger is the rigour of
their precautions. The man, who has some work which he must
do, desires to leave the woman in absolute safety while he does it.
It is not an easy problem, but he solved it in an original
fashion, and so effectively that her presence was not even known to
the landlady who supplies her with food. The printed messages,
as is now evident, were to prevent her sex being discovered by her
writing. The man cannot come near the woman, or he will guide
their enemies to her. Since he cannot communicate with her
direct, he has recourse to the agony column of a paper. So far
all is clear.&cdq;
&odq;But what is at the root of it?&cdq;
&odq;Ah, yes, Watson — severely practical, as usual!
What is at the root of it all? Mrs. Warren's whimsical
problem enlarges somewhat and assumes a more sinister aspect as we
proceed. This much we can say: that it is no ordinary love
escapade. You saw the woman's face at the sign of danger.
We have heard, too, of the attack upon the landlord, which was
undoubtedly meant for the lodger. These alarms, and the
desperate need for secrecy, argue that the matter is one of life or
death. The attack upon Mr. Warren further shows that the
enemy, whoever they are, are themselves not aware of the substitution
of the female lodger for the male. It is very curious and
complex, Watson.&cdq;
&odq;Why should you go further in it? What have you to
gain from it?&cdq;
&odq;What, indeed? It is art for art's sake, Watson.
I suppose when you doctored you found yourself studying cases
without thought of a fee?&cdq;
&odq;For my education, Holmes.&cdq;
&odq;Education never ends, Watson. It is a series of
lessons with the greatest for the last. This is an instructive
case. There is neither money nor credit in it, and yet one
would wish to tidy it up. When dusk comes we should find
ourselves one stage advanced in our investigation.&cdq;
When we returned to Mrs. Warren's rooms, the gloom of a London
winter evening had thickened into one gray curtain, a dead monotone
of colour, broken only by the sharp yellow squares of the windows and
the blurred haloes of the gas-lamps. As we peered from the
darkened sitting-room of the lodging-house, one more dim light
glimmered high up through the obscurity.
&odq;Someone is moving in that room,&cdq; said Holmes in a
whisper, his gaunt and eager face thrust forward to the window-pane.
&odq;Yes, I can see his shadow. There he is again!
He has a candle in his hand. Now he is peering across.
He wants to be sure that she is on the lookout. Now he
begins to flash. Take the message also, Watson, that we may
check each other. A single flash — that is A, surely.
Now, then. How many did you make it? Twenty.
So did I. That should mean T. AT —
that's intelligible enough! Another T. Surely this is
the beginning of a second word. Now, then — TENTA.
Dead stop. That can't be all, Watson? ATTENTA
gives no sense. Nor is it any better as three words AT, TEN,
TA, unless T. A. are a person's initials. There it goes
again! What's that? ATTE why, it is the same message
over again. Curious, Watson, very curious! Now he is
off once more! AT — why, he is repeating it for the
third time. ATTENTA three times! How often will he
repeat it? No, that seems to be the finish. He has
withdrawn from the window. What do you make of it,
Watson?&cdq;
&odq;A cipher message, Holmes.&cdq;
My companion gave a sudden chuckle of comprehension.
&odq;And not a very obscure cipher, Watson,&cdq; said he.
&odq;Why, of course, it is Italian! The A means that it
is addressed to a woman. &onq;Beware! Beware!
Beware!&cnq; How's that, Watson?&cdq;
&odq;I believe you have hit it.&cdq;
&odq;Not a doubt of it. It is a very urgent message,
thrice repeated to make it more so. But beware of what?
Wait a bit; he is coming to the window once more.&cdq;
Again we saw the dim silhouette of a crouching man and the
whisk of the small flame across the window as the signals were
renewed. They came more rapidly than before — so rapid
that it was hard to follow them.
&odq;PERICOLO pericolo — eh, what's that, Watson?
&onq;Danger,&cnq; isn't it? Yes, by Jove, it's a danger
signal. There he goes again! PERI. Halloa, what
on earth — &cdq;
The light had suddenly gone out, the glimmering square of
window had disappeared, and the third floor formed a dark band round
the lofty building, with its tiers of shining casements. That
last warning cry had been suddenly cut short. How, and by
whom? The same thought occurred on the instant to us both.
Holmes sprang up from where he crouched by the window.
&odq;This is serious, Watson,&cdq; he cried. &odq;There
is some devilry going forward! Why should such a message stop
in such a way? I should put Scotland Yard in touch with this
business — and yet, it is too pressing for us to leave.&cdq;
&odq;Shall I go for the police?&cdq;
&odq;We must define the situation a little more clearly.
It may bear some more innocent interpretation. Come.
Watson, let us go across ourselves and see what we can make of
it.&cdq;
As we walked rapidly down Howe Street I glanced back at the
building which we had left. There, dimly outlined at the top
window, I could see the shadow of a head, a woman's head, gazing
tensely, rigidly, out into the night, waiting with breathless
suspense for the renewal of that interrupted message. At the
doorway of the Howe Street flats a man, muffled in a cravat and
greatcoat, was leaning against the railing. He started as the
hall-light fell upon our faces.
&odq;Holmes!&cdq; he cried.
&odq;Why, Gregson!&cdq; said my companion as he shook hands
with the Scotland Yard detective. &odq;Journeys end with
lovers' meetings. What brings you here?&cdq;
&odq;The same reasons that bring you, I expect,&cdq; said
Gregson. &odq;How you got on to it I can't imagine.&cdq;
&odq;Different threads, but leading up to the same tangle.
I've been taking the signals.&cdq;
&odq;Signals?&cdq;
&odq;Yes, from that window. They broke off in the
middle. We came over to see the reason. But since it is
safe in your hands I see no object in continuing the business.&cdq;
&odq;Wait a bit!&cdq; cried Gregson eagerly. &odq;I'll
do you this justice, Mr. Holmes, that I was never in a case yet that
I didn't feel stronger for having you on my side. There's only
the one exit to these flats, so we have him safe.&cdq;
&odq;Who is he?&cdq;
&odq;Well, well, we score over you for once, Mr. Holmes.
You must give us best this time.&cdq; He struck his
stick sharply upon the ground, on which a cabman, his whip in his
hand, sauntered over from a four-wheeler which stood on the far side
of the street. &odq;May I introduce you to Mr. Sherlock
Holmes?&cdq; he said to the cabman. &odq;This is Mr. Leverton,
of Pinkerton's American Agency.&cdq;
&odq;The hero of the Long Island cave mystery?&cdq; said
Holmes. &odq;Sir, I am pleased to meet you.&cdq;
The American, a quiet, businesslike young man, with a
clean-shaven, hatchet face, flushed up at the words of commendation.
&odq;I am on the trail of my life now, Mr. Holmes,&cdq; said
he. &odq;If I can get Gorgiano — &cdq;
&odq;What! Gorgiano of the Red Circle?&cdq;
&odq;Oh, he has a European fame, has he? Well, we've
learned all about him in America. We know he is at the bottom
of fifty murders, and yet we have nothing positive we can take him
on. I tracked him over from New York, and I've been close to
him for a week in London, waiting some excuse to get my hand on his
collar. Mr. Gregson and I ran him to ground in that big
tenement house, and there's only the one door, so he can't slip us.
There's three folk come out since he went in, but I'll swear
he wasn't one of them.&cdq;
&odq;Mr. Holmes talks of signals,&cdq; said Gregson.
&odq;I expect, as usual, he knows a good deal that we
don't.&cdq;
In a few clear words Holmes explained the situation as it had
appeared to us.
The American struck his hands together with vexation.
&odq;He's on to us!&cdq; he cried.
&odq;Why do you think so?&cdq;
&odq;Well, it figures out that way, does it not? Here he
is, sending out messages to an accomplice — there are several
of his gang in London. Then suddenly, just as by your own
account he was telling them that there was danger, he broke short
off. What could it mean except that from the window he had
suddenly either caught sight of us in the street, or in some way come
to understand how close the danger was, and that he must act right
away if he was to avoid it? What do you suggest, Mr.
Holmes?&cdq;
&odq;That we go up at once and see for ourselves.&cdq;
&odq;But we have no warrant for his arrest.&cdq;
&odq;He is in unoccupied premises under suspicious
circumstances,&cdq; said Gregson. &odq;That is good enough for
the moment. When we have him by the heels we can see if New
York can't help us to keep him. I'll take the responsibility
of arresting him now.&cdq;
Our official detectives may blunder in the matter of
intelligence, but never in that of courage. Gregson climbed
the stair to arrest this desperate murderer with the same absolutely
quiet and businesslike bearing with which he would have ascended the
official staircase of Scotland Yard. The Pinkerton man had
tried to push past him, but Gregson had firmly elbowed him back.
London dangers were the privilege of the London force.
The door of the left-hand flat upon the third landing was
standing ajar. Gregson pushed it open. Within all was
absolute silence and darkness. I struck a match and lit the
detective's lantern. As I did so, and as the flicker steadied
into a flame, we all gave a gasp of surprise. On the deal
boards of the carpetless floor there was outlined a fresh track of
blood. The red steps pointed towards us and led away from an
inner room, the door of which was closed. Gregson flung it
open and held his light full blaze in front of him, while we all
peered eagerly over his shoulders.
In the middle of the floor of the empty room was huddled the
figure of an enormous man, his clean-shaven, swarthy face grotesquely
horrible in its contortion and his head encircled by a ghastly
crimson halo of blood, lying in a broad wet circle upon the white
woodwork. His knees were drawn up, his hands thrown out in
agony, and from the centre of his broad, brown, upturned throat there
projected the white haft of a knife driven blade-deep into his body.
Giant as he was, the man must have gone down like a pole-axed
ox before that terrific blow. Beside his right hand a most
formidable horn-handled, two-edged dagger lay upon the floor, and
near it a black kid glove.
&odq;By George! it's Black Gorgiano himself!&cdq; cried the
American detective. &odq;Someone has got ahead of us this
time.&cdq;
&odq;Here is the candle in the window, Mr. Holmes,&cdq; said
Gregson. &odq;Why, whatever are you doing?&cdq;
Holmes had stepped across, had lit the candle, and was passing
it backward and forward across the window-panes. Then he
peered into the darkness, blew the candle out, and threw it on the
floor.
&odq;I rather think that will be helpful,&cdq; said he.
He came over and stood in deep thought while the two
professionals were examining the body. &odq;You say that three
people came out from the flat while you were waiting downstairs,&cdq;
said he at last. &odq;Did you observe them closely?&cdq;
&odq;Yes, I did.&cdq;
&odq;Was there a fellow about thirty, black-bearded, dark, of
middle size?&cdq;
&odq;Yes; he was the last to pass me.&cdq;
&odq;That is your man, I fancy. I can give you his
description, and we have a very excellent outline of his footmark.
That should be enough for you.&cdq;
&odq;Not much, Mr. Holmes, among the millions of London.&cdq;
&odq;Perhaps not. That is why I thought it best to
summon this lady to your aid.&cdq;
We all turned round at the words. There, framed in the
doorway, was a tall and beautiful woman — the mysterious
lodger of Bloomsbury. Slowly she advanced, her face pale and
drawn with a frightful apprehension, her eyes fixed and staring, her
terrified gaze riveted upon the dark figure on the floor.
&odq;You have killed him!&cdq; she muttered. &odq;Oh,
Dio mio, you have killed him!&cdq; Then I heard a sudden sharp
intake of her breath, and she sprang into the air with a cry of joy.
Round and round the room she danced, her hands clapping, her
dark eyes gleaming with delighted wonder, and a thousand pretty
Italian exclamations pouring from her lips. It was terrible
and amazing to see such a woman so convulsed with joy at such a
sight. Suddenly she stopped and gazed at us all with a
questioning stare.
&odq;But you! You are police, are you not? You
have killed Giuseppe Gorgiano. Is it not so?&cdq;
&odq;We are police, madam.&cdq;
She looked round into the shadows of the room.
&odq;But where, then, is Gennaro?&cdq; she asked.
&odq;He is my husband, Gennaro Lucca. I am Emilia
Lucca, and we are both from New York. Where is Gennaro?
He called me this moment from this window, and I ran with all
my speed.&cdq;
&odq;It was I who called,&cdq; said Holmes.
&odq;You! How could you call?&cdq;
&odq;Your cipher was not difficult, madam. Your presence
here was desirable. I knew that I had only to flash
&onq;Vieni&cnq; and you would surely come.&cdq;
The beautiful Italian looked with awe at my companion.
&odq;I do not understand how you know these things,&cdq; she
said. &odq;Giuseppe Gorgiano — how did he —
&cdq; She paused, and then suddenly her face lit up with pride and
delight. &odq;Now I see it! My Gennaro! My
splendid, beautiful Gennaro, who has guarded me safe from all harm,
he did it, with his own strong hand he killed the monster! Oh,
Gennaro, how wonderful you are! What woman could ever be
worthy of such a man?&cdq;
&odq;Well, Mrs. Lucca,&cdq; said the prosaic Gregson, laying
his hand upon the lady's sleeve with as little sentiment as if she
were a Notting Hill hooligan, &odq;I am not very clear yet who you
are or what you are; but you've said enough to make it very clear
that we shall want you at the Yard.&cdq;
&odq;One moment, Gregson,&cdq; said Holmes. &odq;I
rather fancy that this lady may be as anxious to give us information
as we can be to get it. You understand, madam, that your
husband will be arrested and tried for the death of the man who lies
before us? What you say may be used in evidence. But if
you think that he has acted from motives which are not criminal, and
which he would wish to have known, then you cannot serve him better
than by telling us the whole story.&cdq;
&odq;Now that Gorgiano is dead we fear nothing,&cdq; said the
lady. &odq;He was a devil and a monster, and there can be no
judge in the world who would punish my husband for having killed
him.&cdq;
&odq;In that case,&cdq; said Holmes, &odq;my suggestion is that
we lock this door, leave things as we found them, go with this lady
to her room, and form our opinion after we have heard what it is that
she has to say to us.&cdq;
Half an hour later we were seated, all four, in the small
sitting-room of Signora Lucca, listening to her remarkable narrative
of those sinister events, the ending of which we had chanced to
witness. She spoke in rapid and fluent but very unconventional
English, which, for the sake of clearness, I will make grammatical.
&odq;I was born in Posilippo, near Naples,&cdq; said she,
&odq;and was the daughter of Augusto Barelli, who was the chief
lawyer and once the deputy of that part. Gennaro was in my
father's employment, and I came to love him, as any woman must.
He had neither money nor position — nothing but his
beauty and strength and energy — so my father forbade the
match. We fled together, were married at Bari, and sold my
jewels to gain the money which would take us to America. This
was four years ago, and we have been in New York ever since.
&odq;Fortune was very good to us at first. Gennaro was
able to do a service to an Italian gentleman — he saved him
from some ruffians in the place called the Bowery and so made a
powerful friend. His name was Tito Castalotte and he was the
senior partner of the great firm of Castalotte and Zamba, who are the
chief fruit importers of New York. Signor Zamba is an invalid,
and our new friend Castalotte has all power within the firm, which
employs more than three hundred men. He took my husband into
his employment, made him head of a department, and showed his
good-will towards him in every way. Signor Castalotte was a
bachelor, and I believe that he felt as if Gennaro was his son, and
both my husband and I loved him as if he were our father. We
had taken and furnished a little house in Brooklyn, and our whole
future seemed assured when that black cloud appeared which was soon
to overspread our sky.
&odq;One night, when Gennaro returned from his work, he brought
a fellow-countryman back with him. His name was Gorgiano, and
he had come also from Posilippo. He was a huge man, as you can
testify, for you have looked upon his corpse. Not only was his
body that of a giant but everything about him was grotesque,
gigantic, and terrifying. His voice was like thunder in our
little house. There was scarce room for the whirl of his great
arms as he talked. His thoughts, his emotions, his passions,
all were exaggerated and monstrous. He talked, or rather
roared, with such energy that others could but sit and listen, cowed
with the mighty stream of words. His eyes blazed at you and
held you at his mercy. He was a terrible and wonderful man.
I thank God that he is dead!
&odq;He came again and again. Yet I was aware that
Gennaro was no more happy than I was in his presence. My poor
husband would sit pale and listless, listening to the endless raving
upon politics and upon social questions which made up our visitor's
conversation. Gennaro said nothing, but I, who knew him so
well, could read in his face some emotion which I had never seen
there before. At first I thought that it was dislike.
And then, gradually, I understood that it was more than
dislike. It was fear — a deep, secret, shrinking fear.
That night — the night that I read his terror —
I put my arms round him and I implored him by his love for me and by
all that he held dear to hold nothing from me, and to tell me why
this huge man overshadowed him so.
&odq;He told me, and my own heart grew cold as ice as I
listened. My poor Gennaro, in his wild and fiery days, when
all the world seemed against him and his mind was driven half mad by
the injustices of life, had joined a Neapolitan society, the Red
Circle, which was allied to the old Carbonari. The oaths and
secrets of this brotherhood were frightful, but once within its rule
no escape was possible. When we had fled to America Gennaro
thought that he had cast it all off forever. What was his
horror one evening to meet in the streets the very man who had
initiated him in Naples, the giant Gorgiano, a man who had earned the
name of &onq;Death&cnq; in the south of Italy, for he was red to the
elbow in murder! He had come to New York to avoid the Italian
police, and he had already planted a branch of this dreadful society
in his new home. All this Gennaro told me and showed me a
summons which he had received that very day, a Red Circle drawn upon
the head of it telling him that a lodge would be held upon a certain
date, and that his presence at it was required and ordered.
&odq;That was bad enough, but worse was to come. I had
noticed for some time that when Gorgiano came to us, as he constantly
did, in the evening, he spoke much to me; and even when his words
were to my husband those terrible, glaring, wild-beast eyes of his
were always turned upon me. One night his secret came out.
I had awakened what he called &onq;love&cnq; within him
— the love of a brute — a savage. Gennaro had
not yet returned when he came. He pushed his way in, seized me
in his mighty arms, hugged me in his bear's embrace, covered me with
kisses, and implored me to come away with him. I was
struggling and screaming when Gennaro entered and attacked him.
He struck Gennaro senseless and fled from the house which he
was never more to enter. It was a deadly enemy that we made
that night.
&odq;A few days later came the meeting. Gennaro returned
from it with a face which told me that something dreadful had
occurred. It was worse than we could have imagined possible.
The funds of the society were raised by blackmailing rich
Italians and threatening them with violence should they refuse the
money. It seems that Castalotte, our dear friend and
benefactor, had been approached. He had refused to yield to
threats, and he had handed the notices to the police. It was
resolved now that such an example should be made of him as would
prevent any other victim from rebelling. At the meeting it was
arranged that he and his house should be blown up with dynamite.
There was a drawing of lots as to who should carry out the
deed. Gennaro saw our enemy's cruel face smiling at him as he
dipped his hand in the bag. No doubt it had been prearranged
in some fashion, for it was the fatal disc with the Red Circle upon
it, the mandate for murder, which lay upon his palm. He was to
kill his best friend, or he was to expose himself and me to the
vengeance of his comrades. It was part of their fiendish
system to punish those whom they feared or hated by injuring not only
their own persons but those whom they loved, and it was the knowledge
of this which hung as a terror over my poor Gennaro's head and drove
him nearly crazy with apprehension.
&odq;All that night we sat together, our arms round each other,
each strengthening each for the troubles that lay before us.
The very next evening had been fixed tor the attempt.
By midday my husband and I were on our way to London, but not
before he had given our benefactor full warning of his danger, and
had also left such information for the police as would safeguard his
life for the future.
&odq;The rest, gentlemen, you know for yourselves. We
were sure that our enemies would be behind us like our own shadows.
Gorgiano had his private reasons for vengeance, but in any
case we knew how ruthless, cunning, and untiring he could be.
Both Italy and America are full of stories of his dreadful
powers. If ever they were exerted it would be now. My
darling made use of the few clear days which our start had given us
in arranging for a refuge for me in such a fashion that no possible
danger could reach me. For his own part, he wished to be free
that he might communicate both with the American and with the Italian
police. I do not myself know where he lived, or how.
All that I learned was through the columns of a newspaper.
But once as I looked through my window, I saw two Italians
watching the house, and I understood that in some way Gorgiano had
found out our retreat. Finally Gennaro told me, through the
paper, that he would signal to me from a certain window, but when the
signals came they were nothing but warnings, which were suddenly
interrupted. It is very clear to me now that he knew Gorgiano
to be close upon him, and that, thank God, he was ready for him when
he came. And now, gentlemen, I would ask you whether we have
anything to fear from the law, or whether any judge upon earth would
condemn my Gennaro for what he has done?&cdq;
&odq;Well, Mr. Gregson,&cdq; said the American, looking across
at the official, &odq;I don't know what your British point of view
may be, but I guess that in New York this lady's husband will receive
a pretty general vote of thanks.&cdq;
&odq;She will have to come with me and see the chief,&cdq;
Gregson answered. &odq;If what she says is corroborated, I do
not think she or her husband has much to fear. But what I
can't make head or tail of, Mr. Holmes, is how on earth you got
yourself mixed up in the matter.&cdq;
&odq;Education, Gregson, education. Still seeking
knowledge at the old university. Well, Watson, you have one
more specimen of the tragic and grotesque to add to your collection.
By the way, it is not eight o'clock, and a Wagner night at
Covent Garden! If we hurry, we might be in time for the second
act.&cdq;
&odq;But why Turkish?&cdq; asked Mr. Sherlock Holmes, gazing
fixedly at my boots. I was reclining in a cane-backed chair at
the moment, and my protruded feet had attracted his ever-active
attention.
&odq;English,&cdq; I answered in some surprise. &odq;I
got them at Latimer's, in Oxford Street.&cdq;
Holmes smiled with an expression of weary patience.
&odq;The bath!&cdq; he said; &odq;the bath! Why the
relaxing and expensive Turkish rather than the invigorating home-made
article?&cdq;
&odq;Because for the last few days I have been feeling
rheumatic and old. A Turkish bath is what we call an
alterative in medicine — a fresh starting-point, a cleanser
of the system.
&odq;By the way, Holmes,&cdq; I added, &odq;I have no doubt the
connection between my boots and a Turkish bath is a perfectly
self-evident one to a logical mind, and yet I should be obliged to
you if you would indicate it.&cdq;
&odq;The train of reasoning is not very obscure, Watson,&cdq;
said Holmes with a mischievous twinkle. &odq;It belongs to the
same elementary class of deduction which I should illustrate if I
were to ask you who shared your cab in your drive this morning.&cdq;
&odq;I don't admit that a fresh illustration is an
explanation,&cdq; said I with some asperity.
&odq;Bravo, Watson! A very dignified and logical
remonstrance. Let me see, what were the points? Take
the last one first — the cab. You observe that you
have some splashes on the left sleeve and shoulder of your coat.
Had you sat in the centre of a hansom you would probably have
had no splashes, and if you had they would certainly have been
symmetrical. Therefore it is clear that you sat at the side.
Therefore it is equally clear that you had a companion.&cdq;
&odq;That is very evident.&cdq;
&odq;Absurdly commonplace, is it not?&cdq;
&odq;But the boots and the bath?&cdq;
&odq;Equally childish. You are in the habit of doing up
your boots in a certain way. I see them on this occasion
fastened with an elaborate double bow, which is not your usual method
of tying them. You have, therefore, had them off. Who
has tied them? A bootmaker — or the boy at the bath.
It is unlikely that it is the bootmaker, since your boots are
nearly new. Well, what remains? The bath.
Absurd, is it not? But, for all that, the Turkish bath
has served a purpose.&cdq;
&odq;What is that?&cdq;
&odq;You say that you have had it because you need a change.
Let me suggest that you take one. How would Lausanne
do, my dear Watson — first-class tickets and all expenses
paid on a princely scale?&cdq;
&odq;Splendid! But why?&cdq;
Holmes leaned back in his armchair and took his notebook from
his pocket.
&odq;One of the most dangerous classes in the world,&cdq; said
he, &odq;is the drifting and friendless woman. She is the most
harmless and often the most useful of mortals, but she is the
inevitable inciter of crime in others. She is helpless.
She is migratory. She has sufficient means to take her
from country to country and from hotel to hotel. She is lost,
as often as not, in a maze of obscure pensions and boarding-houses.
She is a stray chicken in a world of foxes. When she is
gobbled up she is hardly missed. I much fear that some evil
has come to the Lady Frances Carfax.&cdq;
I was relieved at this sudden descent from the general to the
particular. Holmes consulted his notes.
&odq;Lady Frances,&cdq; he continued, &odq;is the sole survivor
of the direct family of the late Earl of Rufton. The estates
went, as you may remember, in the male line. She was left with
limited means, but with some very remarkable old Spanish jewellery of
silver and curiously cut diamonds to which she was fondly attached
— too attached, for she refused to leave them with her banker
and always carried them about with her. A rather pathetic
figure, the Lady Frances, a beautiful woman, still in fresh middle
age, and yet, by a strange chance, the last derelict of what only
twenty years ago was a goodly fleet.&cdq;
&odq;What has happened to her, then?&cdq;
&odq;Ah, what has happened to the Lady Frances? Is she
alive or dead? There is our problem. She is a lady of
precise habits, and for four years it has been her invariable custom
to write every second week to Miss Dobney, her old governess, who has
long retired and lives in Camberwell. It is this Miss Dobney
who has consulted me. Nearly five weeks have passed without a
word. The last letter was from the Hotel National at Lausanne.
Lady Frances seems to have left there and given no address.
The family are anxious, and as they are exceedingly wealthy no
sum will be spared if we can clear the matter up.&cdq;
&odq;Is Miss Dobney the only source of information?
Surely she had other correspondents?&cdq;
&odq;There is one correspondent who is a sure draw, Watson.
That is the bank. Single ladies must live, and their
passbooks are compressed diaries. She banks at Silvester's.
I have glanced over her account. The last check but one
paid her bill at Lausanne but it was a large one and probably left
her with cash in hand. Only one check has been drawn
since.&cdq;
&odq;To whom, and where?&cdq;
&odq;To Miss Marie Devine. There is nothing to show
where the check was drawn. It was cashed at the Credit
Lyonnais at Montpellier less than three weeks ago. The sum was
fifty pounds.&cdq;
&odq;And who is Miss Marie Devine?&cdq;
&odq;That also I have been able to discover. Miss Marie
Devine was the maid of Lady Frances Carfax. Why she should
have paid her this check we have not yet determined. I have no
doubt, however, that your researches will soon clear the matter
up.&cdq;
&odq;My researches!&cdq;
&odq;Hence the health-giving expedition to Lausanne. You
know that I cannot possibly leave London while old Abrahams is in
such mortal terror of his life. Besides, on general principles
it is best that I should not leave the country. Scotland Yard
feels lonely without me, and it causes an unhealthy excitement among
the criminal classes. Go, then, my dear Watson, and if my
humble counsel can ever be valued at so extravagant a rate as two
pence a word, it waits your disposal night and day at the end of the
Continental wire.&cdq;
Two days later found me at the Hotel National at Lausanne,
where I received every courtesy at the hands of M. Moser, the
well-known manager. Lady Frances, as he informed me, had
stayed there for several weeks. She had been much liked by all
who met her. Her age was not more than forty. She was
still handsome and bore every sign of having in her youth been a very
lovely woman. M. Moser knew nothing of any valuable jewellery,
but it had been remarked by the servants that the heavy trunk in the
lady's bedroom was always scrupulously locked. Marie Devine,
the maid, was as popular as her mistress. She was actually
engaged to one of the head waiters in the hotel, and there was no
difficulty in getting her address. It was 11 Rue de Trajan,
Montpellier. All this I jotted down and felt that Holmes
himself could not have been more adroit in collecting his facts.
Only one corner still remained in the shadow. No light
which I possessed could clear up the cause for the lady's sudden
departure. She was very happy at Lausanne. There was
every reason to believe that she intended to remain for the season in
her luxurious rooms overlooking the lake. And yet she had left
at a single day's notice, which involved her in the useless payment
of a week's rent. Only Jules Vibart, the lover of the maid,
had any suggestion to offer. He connected the sudden departure
with the visit to the hotel a day or two before of a tall, dark,
bearded man. &odq;Un sauvage — un veritable
sauvage!&cdq; cried Jules Vibart. The man had rooms somewhere
in the town. He had been seen talking earnestly to Madame on
the promenade by the lake. Then he had called. She had
refused to see him. He was English, but of his name there was
no record. Madame had left the place immediately afterwards.
Jules Vibart, and, what was of more importance, Jules Vibart's
sweetheart, thought that this call and this departure were cause and
effect. Only one thing Jules would not discuss. That
was the reason why Marie had left her mistress. Of that he
could or would say nothing. If I wished to know, I must go to
Montpellier and ask her.
So ended the first chapter of my inquiry. The second was
devoted to the place which Lady Frances Carfax had sought when she
left Lausanne. Concerning this there had been some secrecy,
which confirmed the idea that she had gone with the intention of
throwing someone off her track. Otherwise why should not her
luggage have been openly labelled for Baden? Both she and it
reached the Rhenish spa by some circuitous route. This much I
gathered from the manager of Cook's local office. So to Baden
I went, after dispatching to Holmes an account of all my proceedings
and receiving in reply a telegram of half-humorous commendation.
At Baden the track was not difficult to follow. Lady
Frances had stayed at the Englischer Hof for a fortnight.
While there she had made the acquaintance of a Dr. Shlessinger
and his wife, a missionary from South America. Like most
lonely ladies, Lady Frances found her comfort and occupation in
religion. Dr. Shlessinger's remarkable personality, his
whole-hearted devotion, and the fact that he was recovering from a
disease contracted in the exercise of his apostolic duties affected
her deeply. She had helped Mrs. Shlessinger in the nursing of
the convalescent saint. He spent his day, as the manager
described it to me, upon a lounge-chair on the veranda, with an
attendant lady upon either side of him. He was preparing a map
of the Holy Land, with special reference to the kingdom of the
Midianites, upon which he was writing a monograph. Finally,
having improved much in health, he and his wife had returned to
London, and Lady Frances had started thither in their company.
This was just three weeks before, and the manager had heard
nothing since. As to the maid, Marie, she had gone off some
days beforehand in floods of tears, after informing the other maids
that she was leaving service forever. Dr. Shlessinger had paid
the bill of the whole party before his departure.
&odq;By the way,&cdq; said the landlord in conclusion, &odq;you
are not the only friend of Lady Frances Carfax who is inquiring after
her just now. Only a week or so ago we had a man here upon the
same errand.&cdq;
&odq;Did he give a name?&cdq; I asked.
&odq;None; but he was an Englishman, though of an unusual
type.&cdq;
&odq;A savage?&cdq; said I, linking my facts after the fashion
of my illustrious friend.
&odq;Exactly. That describes him very well. He is
a bulky, bearded, sunburned fellow, who looks as if he would be more
at home in a farmers' inn than in a fashionable hotel. A hard,
fierce man, I should think, and one whom I should be sorry to
offend.&cdq;
Already the mystery began to define itself, as figures grow
clearer with the lifting of a fog. Here was this good and
pious lady pursued from place to place by a sinister and unrelenting
figure. She feared him, or she would not have fled from
Lausanne. He had still followed. Sooner or later he
would overtake her. Had he already overtaken her? Was
that the secret of her continued silence? Could the good
people who were her companions not screen her from his violence or
his blackmail? What horrible purpose, what deep design, lay
behind this long pursuit? There was the problem which I had to
solve.
To Holmes I wrote showing how rapidly and surely I had got down
to the roots of the matter. In reply I had a telegram asking
for a description of Dr. Shlessinger's left ear. Holmes's
ideas of humour are strange and occasionally offensive, so I took no
notice of his ill-timed jest — indeed, I had already reached
Montpellier in my pursuit of the maid, Marie, before his message
came.
I had no difficulty in finding the ex-servant and in learning
all that she could tell me. She was a devoted creature, who
had only left her mistress because she was sure that she was in good
hands, and because her own approaching marriage made a separation
inevitable in any case. Her mistress had, as she confessed
with distress, shown some irritability of temper towards her during
their stay in Baden, and had even questioned her once as if she had
suspicions of her honesty, and this had made the parting easier than
it would otherwise have been. Lady Frances had given her fifty
pounds as a wedding-present. Like me, Marie viewed with deep
distrust the stranger who had driven her mistress from Lausanne.
With her own eyes she had seen him seize the lady's wrist with
great violence on the public promenade by the lake. He was a
fierce and terrible man. She believed that it was out of dread
of him that Lady Frances had accepted the escort of the Shlessingers
to London. She had never spoken to Marie about it, but many
little signs had convinced the maid that her mistress lived in a
state of continual nervous apprehension. So far she had got in
her narrative, when suddenly she sprang from her chair and her face
was convulsed with surprise and fear. &odq;See!&cdq; she
cried. &odq;The miscreant follows still! There is the
very man of whom I speak.&cdq;
Through the open sitting-room window I saw a huge, swarthy man
with a bristling black beard walking slowly down the centre of the
street and staring eagerly at the numbers of the houses. It
was clear that, like myself, he was on the track of the maid.
Acting upon the impulse of the moment, I rushed out and
accosted him.
&odq;You are an Englishman,&cdq; I said.
&odq;What if I am?&cdq; he asked with a most villainous scowl.
&odq;May I ask what your name is?&cdq;
&odq;No, you may not,&cdq; said he with decision.
The situation was awkward, but the most direct way is often the
best.
&odq;Where is the Lady Frances Carfax?&cdq; I asked.
He stared at me in amazement.
&odq;What have you done with her? Why have you pursued
her? I insist upon an answer!&cdq; said I.
The fellow gave a bellow of anger and sprang upon me like a
tiger. I have held my own in many a struggle, but the man had
a grip of iron and the fury of a fiend. His hand was on my
throat and my senses were nearly gone before an unshaven French
ouvrier in a blue blouse darted out from a cabaret opposite, with a
cudgel in his hand, and struck my assailant a sharp crack over the
forearm, which made him leave go his hold. He stood for an
instant fuming with rage and uncertain whether he should not renew
his attack. Then, with a snarl of anger, he left me and
entered the cottage from which I had just come. I turned to
thank my preserver, who stood beside me in the roadway.
&odq;Well, Watson,&cdq; said he, &odq;a very pretty hash you
have made of it! I rather think you had better come back with
me to London by the night express.&cdq;
An hour afterwards, Sherlock Holmes, in his usual garb and
style, was seated in my private room at the hotel. His
explanation of his sudden and opportune appearance was simplicity
itself, for, finding that he could get away from London, he
determined to head me off at the next obvious point of my travels.
In the disguise of a workingman he had sat in the cabaret
waiting for my appearance.
&odq;And a singularly consistent investigation you have made,
my dear Watson,&cdq; said he. &odq;I cannot at the moment
recall any possible blunder which you have omitted. The total
effect of your proceeding has been to give the alarm everywhere and
yet to discover nothing.&cdq;
&odq;Perhaps you would have done no better,&cdq; I answered
bitterly.
&odq;There is no &onq;perhaps&cnq; about it. I have done
better. Here is the Hon. Philip Green, who is a fellow-lodger
with you in this hotel, and we may find him the starting-point for a
more successful investigation.&cdq;
A card had come up on a salver, and it was followed by the same
bearded ruffian who had attacked me in the street. He started
when he saw me.
&odq;What is this, Mr. Holmes?&cdq; he asked. &odq;I had
your note and I have come. But what has this man to do with
the matter?&cdq;
&odq;This is my old friend and associate, Dr. Watson, who is
helping us in this affair.&cdq;
The stranger held out a huge, sunburned hand, with a few words
of apology.
&odq;I hope I didn't harm you. When you accused me of
hurting her I lost my grip of myself. Indeed, I'm not
responsible in these days. My nerves are like live wires.
But this situation is beyond me. What I want to know,
in the first place, Mr. Holmes, is, how in the world you came to hear
of my existence at all.&cdq;
&odq;I am in touch with Miss Dobney, Lady Frances's
governess.&cdq;
&odq;Old Susan Dobney with the mob cap! I remember her
well.&cdq;
&odq;And she remembers you. It was in the days before
— before you found it better to go to South Africa.&cdq;
&odq;Ah, I see you know my whole story. I need hide
nothing from you. I swear to you, Mr. Holmes, that there never
was in this world a man who loved a woman with a more wholehearted
love than I had for Frances. I was a wild youngster, I know
— not worse than others of my class. But her mind was
pure as snow. She could not bear a shadow of coarseness.
So, when she came to hear of things that I had done, she would
have no more to say to me. And yet she loved me — that
is the wonder of it! — loved me well enough to remain single
all her sainted days just for my sake alone. When the years
had passed and I had made my money at Barberton I thought perhaps I
could seek her out and soften her. I had heard that she was
still unmarried. I found her at Lausanne and tried all I knew.
She weakened, I think, but her will was strong, and when next
I called she had left the town. I traced her to Baden, and
then after a time heard that her maid was here. I'm a rough
fellow, fresh from a rough life, and when Dr. Watson spoke to me as
he did I lost hold of myself for a moment. But for God's sake
tell me what has become of the Lady Frances.&cdq;
&odq;That is for us to find out,&cdq; said Sherlock Holmes with
peculiar gravity. &odq;What is your London address, Mr.
Green?&cdq;
&odq;The Langham Hotel will find me.&cdq;
&odq;Then may I recommend that you return there and be on hand
in case I should want you? I have no desire to encourage false
hopes, but you may rest assured that all that can be done will be
done for the safety of Lady Frances. I can say no more for the
instant. I will leave you this card so that you may be able to
keep in touch with us. Now, Watson, if you will pack your bag
I will cable to Mrs. Hudson to make one of her best efforts for two
hungry travellers at 7:30 to-morrow.&cdq;
A telegram was awaiting us when we reached our Baker Street
rooms, which Holmes read with an exclamation of interest and threw
across to me. &odq;Jagged or torn,&cdq; was the message, and
the place of origin, Baden.
&odq;What is this?&cdq; I asked.
&odq;It is everything,&cdq; Holmes answered. &odq;You
may remember my seemingly irrelevant question as to this clerical
gentleman's left ear. You did not answer it.&cdq;
&odq;I had left Baden and could not inquire.&cdq;
&odq;Exactly. For this reason I sent a duplicate to the
manager of the Englischer Hof, whose answer lies here.&cdq;
&odq;What does it show?&cdq;
&odq;It shows, my dear Watson, that we are dealing with an
exceptionally astute and dangerous man. The Rev. Dr.
Shlessinger, missionary from South America, is none other than Holy
Peters, one of the most unscrupulous rascals that Australia has ever
evolved — and for a young country it has turned out some very
finished types. His particular specialty is the beguiling of
lonely ladies by playing upon their religious feelings, and his
so-called wife, an Englishwoman named Fraser, is a worthy helpmate.
The nature of his tactics suggested his identity to me, and
this physical peculiarity — he was badly bitten in a
saloon-fight at Adelaide in '89 — confirmed my suspicion.
This poor lady is in the hands of a most infernal couple, who
will stick at nothing, Watson. That she is already dead is a
very likely supposition. If not, she is undoubtedly in some
sort of confinement and unable to write to Miss Dobney or her other
friends. It is always possible that she never reached London,
or that she has passed through it, but the former is improbable, as,
with their system of registration, it is not easy for foreigners to
play tricks with the Continental police; and the latter is also
unlikely, as these rogues could not hope to find any other place
where it would be as easy to keep a person under restraint.
All my instincts tell me that she is in London, but as we have
at present no possible means of telling where, we can only take the
obvious steps, eat our dinner, and possess our souls in patience.
Later in the evening I will stroll down and have a word with
friend Lestrade at Scotland Yard.&cdq;
But neither the official police nor Holmes's own small but very
efficient organization sufficed to clear away the mystery.
Amid the crowded millions of London the three persons we
sought were as completely obliterated as if they had never lived.
Advertisements were tried, and failed. Clues were
followed, and led to nothing. Every criminal resort which
Shlessinger might frequent was drawn in vain. His old
associates were watched but they kept clear of him. And then
suddenly, after a week of helpless suspense, there came a flash of
light. A silver-and-brilliant pendant of old Spanish design
had been pawned at Bovington's, in Westminster Road. The
pawner was a large clean-shaven man of clerical appearance.
His name and address were demonstrably false. The ear
had escaped notice, but the description was surely that of
Shlessinger.
Three times had our bearded friend from the Langham called for
news — the third time within an hour of this fresh
development. His clothes were getting looser on his great
body. He seemed to be wilting away in his anxiety.
&odq;If you will only give me something to do!&cdq; was his
constant wail. At last Holmes could oblige him.
&odq;He has begun to pawn the jewels. We should get him
now.&cdq;
&odq;But does this mean that any harm has befallen the Lady
Frances?&cdq;
Holmes shook his head very gravely.
&odq;Supposing that they have held her prisoner up to now, it
is clear that they cannot let her loose without their own
destruction. We must prepare for the worst.&cdq;
&odq;What can I do?&cdq;
&odq;These people do not know you by sight?&cdq;
&odq;No.&cdq;
&odq;It is possible that he will go to some other pawnbroker in
the future. In that case, we must begin again. On the
other hand, he has had a fair price and no questions asked, so if he
is in need of ready-money he will probably come back to Bovington's.
I will give you a note to them, and they will let you wait in
the shop. If the fellow comes you will follow him home.
But no indiscretion and, above all, no violence. I put
you on your honour that you will take no step without my knowledge
and consent.&cdq;
For two days the Hon. Philip Green ( he was, I may mention the
son of the famous admiral of that name who commanded the Sea of Azof
fleet in the Crimean War ) brought us no news. On the evening
of the third he rushed into our sitting-room, pale, trembling, with
every muscle of his powerful frame quivering with excitement.
&odq;We have him! We have him!&cdq; he cried.
He was incoherent in his agitation. Holmes soothed him
with a few words and thrust him into an armchair.
&odq;Come, now, give us the order of events,&cdq; said he.
&odq;She came only an hour ago. It was the wife, this
time, but the pendant she brought was the fellow of the other.
She is a tall, pale woman, with ferret eyes.&cdq;
&odq;That is the lady,&cdq; said Holmes.
&odq;She left the office and I followed her. She walked
up the Kennington Road, and I kept behind her. Presently she
went into a shop. Mr. Holmes, it was an undertaker's.&cdq;
My companion started. &odq;Well?&cdq; he asked in that
vibrant voice which told of the fiery soul behind the cold gray face.
&odq;She was talking to the woman behind the counter. I
entered as well. &onq;It is late,&cnq; I heard her say, or
words to that effect. The woman was excusing herself.
&onq;It should be there before now,&cnq; she answered.
&onq;It took longer, being out of the ordinary.&cnq;
They both stopped and looked at me, so I asked some question
and then left the shop.&cdq;
&odq;You did excellently well. What happened next?&cdq;
&odq;The woman came out, but I had hid myself in a doorway.
Her suspicions had been aroused, I think, for she looked round
her. Then she called a cab and got in. I was lucky
enough to get another and so to follow her. She got down at
last at No. 36 Poultney Square, Brixton. I drove past, left my
cab at the corner of the square, and watched the house.&cdq;
&odq;Did you see anyone?&cdq;
&odq;The windows were all in darkness save one on the lower
floor. The blind was down, and I could not see in. I
was standing there, wondering what I should do next, when a covered
van drove up with two men in it. They descended, took
something out of the van, and carried it up the steps to the hall
door. Mr. Holmes, it was a coffin.&cdq;
&odq;Ah!&cdq;
&odq;For an instant I was on the point of rushing in.
The door had been opened to admit the men and their burden.
It was the woman who had opened it. But as I stood
there she caught a glimpse of me, and I think that she recognized me.
I saw her start, and she hastily closed the door. I
remembered my promise to you, and here I am.&cdq;
&odq;You have done excellent work,&cdq; said Holmes, scribbling
a few words upon a half-sheet of paper. &odq;We can do nothing
legal without a warrant, and you can serve the cause best by taking
this note down to the authorities and getting one. There may
be some difficulty, but I should think that the sale of the jewellery
should be sufficient. Lestrade will see to all details.&cdq;
&odq;But they may murder her in the meanwhile. What
could the coffin mean, and for whom could it be but for her?&cdq;
&odq;We will do all that can be done, Mr. Green. Not a
moment will be lost. Leave it in our hands. Now,
Watson,&cdq; he added as our client hurried away, &odq;he will set
the regular forces on the move. We are, as usual, the
irregulars, and we must take our own line of action. The
situation strikes me as so desperate that the most extreme measures
are justified. Not a moment is to be lost in getting to
Poultney Square.
&odq;Let us try to reconstruct the situation,&cdq; said he as
we drove swiftly past the Houses of Parliament and over Westminster
Bridge. &odq;These villains have coaxed this unhappy lady to
London, after first alienating her from her faithful maid. If
she has written any letters they have been intercepted.
Through some confederate they have engaged a furnished house.
Once inside it, they have made her a prisoner, and they have
become possessed of the valuable jewellery which has been their
object from the first. Already they have begun to sell part of
it, which seems safe enough to them, since they have no reason to
think that anyone is interested in the lady's fate. When she
is released she will, of course, denounce them. Therefore, she
must not be released. But they cannot keep her under lock and
key forever. So murder is their only solution.&cdq;
&odq;That seems very clear.&cdq;
&odq;Now we will take another line of reasoning. When
you follow two separate chains of thought, Watson, you will find some
point of intersection which should approximate to the truth.
We will start now, not from the lady but from the coffin and
argue backward. That incident proves, I fear, beyond all doubt
that the lady is dead. It points also to an orthodox burial
with proper accompaniment of medical certificate and official
sanction. Had the lady been obviously murdered, they would
have buried her in a hole in the back garden. But here all is
open and regular. What does that mean? Surely that they
have done her to death in some way which has deceived the doctor and
simulated a natural end — poisoning, perhaps. And yet
how strange that they should ever let a doctor approach her unless he
were a confederate, which is hardly a credible proposition.&cdq;
&odq;Could they have forged a medical certificate?&cdq;
&odq;Dangerous, Watson, very dangerous. No, I hardly see
them doing that. Pull up, cabby! This is evidently the
undertaker's, for we have just passed the pawnbroker's. Would
you go in, Watson? Your appearance inspires confidence.
Ask what hour the Poultney Square funeral takes place
to-morrow.&cdq;
The woman in the shop answered me without hesitation that it
was to be at eight o'clock in the morning. &odq;You see,
Watson, no mystery; everything aboveboard! In some way the
legal forms have undoubtedly been complied with, and they think that
they have little to fear. Well, there's nothing for it now but
a direct frontal attack. Are you armed?&cdq;
&odq;My stick!&cdq;
&odq;Well, well, we shall be strong enough. &onq;Thrice
is he armed who hath his quarrel just.&cnq; We simply can't
afford to wait for the police or to keep within the four corners of
the law. You can drive off, cabby. Now, Watson, we'll
just take our luck together, as we have occasionally done in the
past.&cdq;
He had rung loudly at the door of a great dark house in the
centre of Poultney Square. It was opened immediately, and the
figure of a tall woman was outlined against the dim-lit hall.
&odq;Well, what do you want?&cdq; she asked sharply, peering at
us through the darkness.
&odq;I want to speak to Dr. Shlessinger,&cdq; said Holmes.
&odq;There is no such person here,&cdq; she answered, and tried
to close the door, but Holmes had jammed it with his foot.
&odq;Well, I want to see the man who lives here, whatever he
may call himself,&cdq; said Holmes firmly.
She hesitated. Then she threw open the door.
&odq;Well, come in!&cdq; said she. &odq;My husband is
not afraid to face any man in the world.&cdq; She closed the
door behind us and showed us into a sitting-room on the right side of
the hall, turning up the gas as she left us. &odq;Mr. Peters
will be with you in an instant,&cdq; she said.
Her words were literally true, for we had hardly time to look
around the dusty and moth-eaten apartment in which we found ourselves
before the door opened and a big, clean-shaven bald-headed man
stepped lightly into the room. He had a large red face, with
pendulous cheeks, and a general air of superficial benevolence which
was marred by a cruel, vicious mouth.
&odq;There is surely some mistake here, gentlemen,&cdq; he said
in an unctuous, make-everything-easy voice. &odq;I fancy that
you have been misdirected. Possibly if you tried farther down
the street — &cdq;
&odq;That will do; we have no time to waste,&cdq; said my
companion firmly. &odq;You are Henry Peters, of Adelaide, late
the Rev. Dr. Shlessinger, of Baden and South America. I am as
sure of that as that my own name is Sherlock Holmes.&cdq;
Peters, as I will now call him, started and stared hard at his
formidable pursuer. &odq;I guess your name does not frighten
me, Mr. Holmes,&cdq; said he coolly. &odq;When a man's
conscience is easy you can't rattle him. What is your business
in my house?&cdq;
&odq;I want to know what you have done with the Lady Frances
Carfax, whom you brought away with you from Baden.&cdq;
&odq;I'd be very glad if you could tell me where that lady may
be,&cdq; Peters answered coolly. &odq;I've a bill against her
for nearly a hundred pounds, and nothing to show for it but a couple
of trumpery pendants that the dealer would hardly look at. She
attached herself to Mrs. Peters and me at Baden — it is a
fact that I was using another name at the time — and she
stuck on to us until we came to London. I paid her bill and
her ticket. Once in London, she gave us the slip, and, as I
say, left these out-of-date jewels to pay her bills. You find
her, Mr. Holmes, and I'm your debtor.&cdq;
&odq;I mean to find her,&cdq; said Sherlock Holmes.
&odq;I'm going through this house till I do find her.&cdq;
&odq;Where is your warrant?&cdq;
Holmes half drew a revolver from his pocket. &odq;This
will have to serve till a better one comes.&cdq;
&odq;Why, you are a common burglar.&cdq;
&odq;So you might describe me,&cdq; said Holmes cheerfully.
&odq;My companion is also a dangerous ruffian. And
together we are going through your house.&cdq;
Our opponent opened the door.
&odq;Fetch a policeman, Annie!&cdq; said he. There was a
whisk of feminine skirts down the passage, and the hall door was
opened and shut.
&odq;Our time is limited, Watson,&cdq; said Holmes.
&odq;If you try to stop us, Peters, you will most certainly
get hurt. Where is that coffin which was brought into your
house?&cdq;
&odq;What do you want with the coffin? It is in use.
There is a body in it.&cdq;
&odq;I must see that body.&cdq;
&odq;Never with my consent.&cdq;
&odq;Then without it.&cdq; With a quick movement Holmes
pushed the fellow to one side and passed into the hall. A door
half opened stood immediately before us. We entered. It
was the dining-room. On the table, under a half-lit
chandelier, the coffin was lying. Holmes turned up the gas and
raised the lid. Deep down in the recesses of the coffin lay an
emaciated figure. The glare from the lights above beat down
upon an aged and withered face. By no possible process of
cruelty, starvation, or disease could this worn-out wreck be the
still beautiful Lady Frances. Holmes's face showed his
amazement, and also his relief.
&odq;Thank God!&cdq; he muttered. &odq;It's someone
else.&cdq;
&odq;Ah, you've blundered badly for once, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes,&cdq; said Peters, who had followed us into the room.
&odq;Who is this dead woman?&cdq;
&odq;Well, if you really must know, she is an old nurse of my
wife's, Rose Spender by name, whom we found in the Brixton Workhouse
Infirmary. We brought her round here, called in Dr. Horsom, of
13 Firbank Villas — mind you take the address, Mr. Holmes
— and had her carefully tended, as Christian folk should.
On the third day she died — certificate says senile
decay — but that's only the doctor's opinion, and of course
you know better. We ordered her funeral to be carried out by
Stimson and Co., of the Kennington Road, who will bury her at eight
o'clock tomorrow morning. Can you pick any hole in that, Mr.
Holmes? You've made a silly blunder, and you may as well own
up to it. I'd give something for a photograph of your gaping,
staring face when you pulled aside that lid expecting to see the Lady
Frances Carfax and only found a poor old woman of ninety.&cdq;
Holmes's expression was as impassive as ever under the jeers of
his antagonist, but his clenched hands betrayed his acute annoyance.
&odq;I am going through your house,&cdq; said he.
&odq;Are you, though!&cdq; cried Peters as a woman's voice and
heavy steps sounded in the passage. &odq;We'll soon see about
that. This way, officers, if you please. These men have
forced their way into my house, and I cannot get rid of them.
Help me to put them out.&cdq;
A sergeant and a constable stood in the doorway. Holmes
drew his card from his case.
&odq;This is my name and address. This is my friend, Dr.
Watson.&cdq;
&odq;Bless you, sir, we know you very well,&cdq; said the
sergeant, &odq;but you can't stay here without a warrant.&cdq;
&odq;Of course not. I quite understand that.&cdq;
&odq;Arrest him!&cdq; cried Peters.
&odq;We know where to lay our hands on this gentleman if he is
wanted,&cdq; said the sergeant majestically, &odq;but you'll have to
go, Mr. Holmes.&cdq;
&odq;Yes, Watson, we shall have to go.&cdq;
A minute later we were in the street once more. Holmes
was as cool as ever, but I was hot with anger and humiliation.
The sergeant had followed us.
&odq;Sorry, Mr. Holmes, but that's the law.&cdq;
&odq;Exactly, Sergeant, you could not do otherwise.&cdq;
&odq;I expect there was good reason for your presence there.
If there is anything I can do — &cdq;
&odq;It's a missing lady, Sergeant, and we think she is in that
house. I expect a warrant presently.&cdq;
&odq;Then I'll keep my eye on the parties, Mr. Holmes.
If anything comes along, I will surely let you know.&cdq;
It was only nine o'clock, and we were off full cry upon the
trail at once. First we drove to Brixton Workhouse Infirmary,
where we found that it was indeed the truth that a charitable couple
had called-some days before, that they had claimed an imbecile old
woman as a former servant, and that they had obtained permission to
take her away with them. No surprise was expressed at the news
that she had since died.
The doctor was our next goal. He had been called in, had
found the woman dying of pure senility, had actually seen her pass
away, and had signed the certificate in due form. &odq;I
assure you that everything was perfectly normal and there was no room
for foul play in the matter,&cdq; said he. Nothing in the
house had struck him as suspicious save that for people of their
class it was remarkable that they should have no servant. So
far and no farther went the doctor.
Finally we found our way to Scotland Yard. There had
been difficulties of procedure in regard to the warrant. Some
delay was inevitable. The magistrate's signature might not be
obtained until next morning. If Holmes would call about nine
he could go down with Lestrade and see it acted upon. So ended
the day, save that near midnight our friend, the sergeant, called to
say that he had seen flickering lights here and there in the windows
of the great dark house, but that no one had left it and none had
entered. We could but pray for patience and wait for the
morrow.
Sherlock Holmes was too irritable for conversation and too
restless for sleep. I left him smoking hard, with his heavy,
dark brows knotted together, and his long, nervous fingers tapping
upon the arms of his chair, as he turned over in his mind every
possible solution of the mystery. Several times in the course
of the night I heard him prowling about the house. Finally,
just after I had been called in the morning, he rushed into my room.
He was in his dressing-gown, but his pale, hollow-eyed face
told me that his night had been a sleepless one.
&odq;What time was the funeral? Eight, was it not?&cdq;
he asked eagerly. &odq;Well, it is 7:20 now. Good
heavens, Watson, what has become of any brains that God has given me?
Quick, man, quick! It's life or death — a
hundred chances on death to one on life. I'll never forgive
myself, never, if we are too late!&cdq;
Five minutes had not passed before we were flying in a hansom
down Baker Street. But even so it was twenty-five to eight as
we passed Big Ben, and eight struck as we tore down the Brixton Road.
But others were late as well as we. Ten minutes after
the hour the hearse was still standing at the door of the house, and
even as our foaming horse came to a halt the coffin, supported by
three men, appeared on the threshold. Holmes darted forward
and barred their way.
&odq;Take it back!&cdq; he cried, laying his hand on the breast
of the foremost. &odq;Take it back this instant!&cdq;
&odq;What the devil do you mean? Once again I ask you,
where is your warrant?&cdq; shouted the furious Peters, his big red
face glaring over the farther end of the coffin.
&odq;The warrant is on its way. This coffin shall remain
in the house until it comes.&cdq;
The authority in Holmes's voice had its effect upon the
bearers. Peters had suddenly vanished into the house, and they
obeyed these new orders. &odq;Quick, Watson, quick!
Here is a screw-driver!&cdq; he shouted as the coffin was
replaced upon the table. &odq;Here's one for you, my man!
A sovereign if the lid comes off in a minute! Ask no
questions — work away! That's good! Another!
And another! Now pull all together! It's giving!
It's giving! Ah, that does it at last.&cdq;
With a united effort we tore off the coffin-lid. As we
did so there came from the inside a stupefying and overpowering smell
of chloroform. A body lay within, its head all wreathed in
cotton-wool, which had been soaked in the narcotic. Holmes
plucked it off and disclosed the statuesque face of a handsome and
spiritual woman of middle age. In an instant he had passed his
arm round the figure and raised her to a sitting position.
&odq;Is she gone, Watson? Is there a spark left?
Surely we are not too late!&cdq;
For half an hour it seemed that we were. What with
actual suffocation, and what with the poisonous fumes of the
chloroform, the Lady Frances seemed to have passed the last point of
recall. And then, at last, with artificial respiration, with
injected ether, with every device that science could suggest, some
flutter of life, some quiver of the eyelids, some dimming of a
mirror, spoke of the slowly returning life. A cab had driven
up, and Holmes, parting the blind, looked out at it. &odq;Here
is Lestrade with his warrant,&cdq; said he. &odq;He will find
that his birds have flown. And here,&cdq; he added as a heavy
step hurried along the passage, &odq;is someone who has a better
right to nurse this lady than we have. Good morning, Mr.
Green; I think that the sooner we can move the Lady Frances the
better. Meanwhile, the funeral may proceed, and the poor old
woman who still lies in that coffin may go to her last resting-place
alone.&cdq;
&odq;Should you care to add the case to your annals, my dear
Watson,&cdq; said Holmes that evening, &odq;it can only be as an
example of that temporary eclipse to which even the best-balanced
mind may be exposed. Such slips are common to all mortals, and
the greatest is he who can recognize and repair them. To this
modified credit I may, perhaps, make some claim. My night was
haunted by the thought that somewhere a clue, a strange sentence, a
curious observation, had come under my notice and had been too easily
dismissed. Then, suddenly, in the gray of the morning, the
words came back to me. It was the remark of the undertaker's
wife, as reported by Philip Green. She had said, &onq;It
should be there before now. It took longer, being out of the
ordinary.&cnq; It was the coffin of which she spoke. It
had been out of the ordinary. That could only mean that it had
been made to some special measurement. But why? Why?
Then in an instant I remembered the deep sides, and the little
wasted figure at the bottom. Why so large a coffin for so
small a body? To leave room for another body. Both
would be buried under the one certificate. It had all been so
clear, if only my own sight had not been dimmed. At eight the
Lady Frances would be buried. Our one chance was to stop the
coffin before it left the house.
&odq;It was a desperate chance that we might find her alive,
but it was a chance, as the result showed. These people had
never, to my knowledge, done a murder. They might shrink from
actual violence at the last. They could bury her with no sign
of how she met her end, and even if she were exhumed there was a
chance for them. I hoped that such considerations might
prevail with them. You can reconstruct the scene well enough.
You saw the horrible den upstairs, where the poor lady had
been kept so long. They rushed in and overpowered her with
their chloroform, carried her down, poured more into the coffin to
insure against her waking, and then screwed down the lid. A
clever device, Watson. It is new to me in the annals of crime.
If our ex-missionary friends escape the clutches of Lestrade,
I shall expect to hear of some brilliant incidents in their future
career.&cdq;
Mrs. Hudson, the landlady of Sherlock Holmes, was a
long-suffering woman. Not only was her first-floor flat
invaded at all hours by throngs of singular and often undesirable
characters but her remarkable lodger showed an eccentricity and
irregularity in his life which must have sorely tried her patience.
His incredible untidiness, his addiction to music at strange
hours, his occasional revolver practice within doors, his weird and
often malodorous scientific experiments, and the atmosphere of
violence and danger which hung around him made him the very worst
tenant in London. On the other hand, his payments were
princely. I have no doubt that the house might have been
purchased at the price which Holmes paid for his rooms during the
years that I was with him.
The landlady stood in the deepest awe of him and never dared to
interfere with him, however outrageous his proceedings might seem.
She was fond of him, too, for he had a remarkable gentleness
and courtesy in his dealings with women. He disliked and
distrusted the sex, but he was always a chivalrous opponent.
Knowing how genuine was her regard for him, I listened
earnestly to her story when she came to my rooms in the second year
of my married life and told me of the sad condition to which my poor
friend was reduced.
&odq;He's dying, Dr. Watson,&cdq; said she. &odq;For
three days he has been sinking, and I doubt if he will last the day.
He would not let me get a doctor. This morning when I
saw his bones sticking out of his face and his great bright eyes
looking at me I could stand no more of it. &onq;With your
leave or without it, Mr. Holmes, I am going for a doctor this very
hour,&cnq; said I. &onq;Let it be Watson, then,&cnq; said he.
I wouldn't waste an hour in coming to him, sir, or you may not
see him alive.&cdq;
I was horrified for I had heard nothing of his illness.
I need not say that I rushed for my coat and my hat. As
we drove back I asked for the details.
&odq;There is little I can tell you, sir. He has been
working at a case down at Rotherhithe, in an alley near the river,
and he has brought this illness back with him. He took to his
bed on Wednesday afternoon and has never moved since. For
these three days neither food nor drink has passed his lips.&cdq;
&odq;Good God! Why did you not call in a doctor?&cdq;
&odq;He wouldn't have it, sir. You know how masterful he
is. I didn't dare to disobey him. But he's not long for
this world, as you'll see for yourself the moment that you set eyes
on him.&cdq;
He was indeed a deplorable spectacle. In the dim light
of a foggy November day the sick room was a gloomy spot, but it was
that gaunt, wasted face staring at me from the bed which sent a chill
to my heart. His eyes had the brightness of fever, there was a
hectic flush upon either cheek, and dark crusts clung to his lips;
the thin hands upon the coverlet twitched incessantly, his voice was
croaking and spasmodic. He lay listlessly as I entered the
room, but the sight of me brought a gleam of recognition to his eyes.
&odq;Well, Watson, we seem to have fallen upon evil days,&cdq;
said he in a feeble voice, but with something of his old carelessness
of manner.
&odq;My dear fellow!&cdq; I cried, approaching him.
&odq;Stand back! Stand right back!&cdq; said he with the
sharp imperiousness which I had associated only with moments of
crisis. &odq;If you approach me, Watson, I shall order you out
of the house.&cdq;
&odq;But why?&cdq;
&odq;Because it is my desire. Is that not enough?&cdq;
Yes, Mrs. Hudson was right. He was more masterful than
ever. It was pitiful, however, to see his exhaustion.
&odq;I only wished to help,&cdq; I explained.
&odq;Exactly! You will help best by doing what you are
told.&cdq;
&odq;Certainly, Holmes.&cdq;
He relaxed the austerity of his manner.
&odq;You are not angry?&cdq; he asked, gasping for breath.
Poor devil, how could I be angry when I saw him lying in such a
plight before me?
&odq;It's for your own sake, Watson,&cdq; he croaked.
&odq;For my sake?&cdq;
&odq;I know what is the matter with me. It is a coolie
disease from Sumatra — a thing that the Dutch know more about
than we, though they have made little of it up to date. One
thing only is certain. It is infallibly deadly, and it is
horribly contagious.&cdq;
He spoke now with a feverish energy, the long hands twitching
and jerking as he motioned me away.
&odq;Contagious by touch, Watson — that's it, by touch.
Keep your distance and all is well.&cdq;
&odq;Good heavens, Holmes! Do you suppose that such a
consideration weighs with me for an instant? It would not
affect me in the case of a stranger. Do you imagine it would
prevent me from doing my duty to so old a friend?&cdq;
Again I advanced, but he repulsed me with a look of furious
anger.
&odq;If you will stand there I will talk. If you do not
you must leave the room.&cdq;
I have so deep a respect for the extraordinary qualities of
Holmes that I have always deferred to his wishes, even when I least
understood them. But now all my professional instincts were
aroused. Let him be my master elsewhere, I at least was his in
a sick room.
&odq;Holmes,&cdq; said I, &odq;you are not yourself. A
sick man is but a child, and so I will treat you. Whether you
like it or not, I will examine your symptoms and treat you for
them.&cdq;
He looked at me with venomous eyes.
&odq;If I am to have a doctor whether I will or not, let me at
least have someone in whom I have confidence,&cdq; said he.
&odq;Then you have none in me?&cdq;
&odq;In your friendship, certainly. But facts are facts,
Watson, and, after all, you are only a general practitioner with very
limited experience and mediocre qualifications. It is painful
to have to say these things, but you leave me no choice.&cdq;
I was bitterly hurt.
&odq;Such a remark is unworthy of you, Holmes. It shows
me very clearly the state of your own nerves. But if you have
no confidence in me I would not intrude my services. Let me
bring Sir Jasper Meek or Penrose Fisher, or any of the best men in
London. But someone you must have, and that is final.
If you think that I am going to stand here and see you die
without either helping you myself or bringing anyone else to help
you, then you have mistaken your man.&cdq;
&odq;You mean well, Watson,&cdq; said the sick man with
something between a sob and a groan. &odq;Shall I demonstrate
your own ignorance? What do you know, pray, of Tapanuli fever?
What do you know of the black Formosa corruption?&cdq;
&odq;I have never heard of either.&cdq;
&odq;There are many problems of disease, many strange
pathological possibilities, in the East, Watson.&cdq; He
paused after each sentence to collect his failing strength.
&odq;I have learned so much during some recent researches
which have a medico-criminal aspect. It was in the course of
them that I contracted this complaint. You can do
nothing.&cdq;
&odq;Possibly not. But I happen to know that Dr.
Ainstree, the greatest living authority upon tropical disease, is now
in London. All remonstrance is useless, Holmes, I am going
this instant to fetch him.&cdq; I turned resolutely to the
door.
Never have I had such a shock! In an instant, with a
tiger-spring, the dying man had intercepted me. I heard the
sharp snap of a twisted key. The next moment he had staggered
back to his bed, exhausted and panting after his one tremendous
outflame of energy.
&odq;You won't take the key from me by force, Watson.
I've got you, my friend. Here you are, and here you
will stay until I will otherwise. But I'll humour you.&cdq;
( All this in little gasps, with terrible struggles for breath
between. ) &odq;You've only my own good at heart. Of
course I know that very well. You shall have your way, but
give me time to get my strength. Not now, Watson, not now.
It's four o'clock. At six you can go.&cdq;
&odq;This is insanity, Holmes.&cdq;
&odq;Only two hours, Watson. I promise you will go at
six. Are you content to wait?&cdq;
&odq;I seem to have no choice.&cdq;
&odq;None in the world, Watson. Thank you, I need no
help in arranging the clothes. You will please keep your
distance. Now, Watson, there is one other condition that I
would make. You will seek help, not from the man you mention,
but from the one that I choose.&cdq;
&odq;By all means.&cdq;
&odq;The first three sensible words that you have uttered since
you entered this room, Watson. You will find some books over
there. I am somewhat exhausted; I wonder how a battery feels
when it pours electricity into a non-conductor? At six,
Watson, we resume our conversation.&cdq;
But it was destined to be resumed long before that hour, and in
circumstances which gave me a shock hardly second to that caused by
his spring to the door. I had stood for some minutes looking
at the silent figure in the bed. His face was almost covered
by the clothes and he appeared to be asleep. Then, unable to
settle down to reading, I walked slowly round the room, examining the
pictures of celebrated criminals with which every wall was adorned.
Finally, in my aimless perambulation, I came to the
mantelpiece. A litter of pipes, tobacco-pouches, syringes,
penknives, revolver-cartridges, and other debris was scattered over
it. In the midst of these was a small black and white ivory
box with a sliding lid. It was a neat little thing, and I had
stretched out my hand to examine it more closely when — It
was a dreadful cry that he gave — a yell which might have
been heard down the street. My skin went cold and my hair
bristled at that horrible scream. As I turned I caught a
glimpse of a convulsed face and frantic eyes. I stood
paralyzed, with the little box in my hand.
&odq;Put it down! Down, this instant, Watson —
this instant, I say!&cdq; His head sank back upon the pillow
and he gave a deep sigh of relief as I replaced the box upon the
mantelpiece. &odq;I hate to have my things touched, Watson.
You know that I hate it. You fidget me beyond
endurance. You, a doctor — you are enough to drive a
patient into an asylum. Sit down, man, and let me have my
rest!&cdq;
The incident left a most unpleasant impression upon my mind.
The violent and causeless excitement, followed by this
brutality of speech, so far removed from his usual suavity, showed me
how deep was the disorganization of his mind. Of all ruins,
that of a noble mind is the most deplorable. I sat in silent
dejection until the stipulated time had passed. He seemed to
have been watching the clock as well as I, for it was hardly six
before he began to talk with the same feverish animation as before.
&odq;Now, Watson,&cdq; said he. &odq;Have you any change
in your pocket?&cdq;
&odq;Yes.&cdq;
&odq;Any silver?&cdq;
&odq;A good deal.&cdq;
&odq;How many half-crowns?&cdq;
&odq;I have five.&cdq;
&odq;Ah, too few! Too few! How very unfortunate,
Watson! However, such as they are you can put them in your
watchpocket. And all the rest of your money in your left
trouserpocket. Thank you. It will balance you so much
better like that.&cdq;
This was raving insanity. He shuddered, and again made a
sound between a cough and a sob.
&odq;You will now light the gas, Watson, but you will be very
careful that not for one instant shall it be more than half on.
I implore you to be careful, Watson. Thank you, that is
excellent. No, you need not draw the blind. Now you
will have the kindness to place some letters and papers upon this
table within my reach. Thank you. Now some of that
litter from the mantelpiece. Excellent, Watson! There
is a sugar-tongs there. Kindly raise that small ivory box with
its assistance. Place it here among the papers. Good!
You can now go and fetch Mr. Culverton Smith, of 13 Lower
Burke Street.&cdq;
To tell the truth, my desire to fetch a doctor had somewhat
weakened, for poor Holmes was so obviously delirious that it seemed
dangerous to leave him. However, he was as eager now to
consult the person named as he had been obstinate in refusing.
&odq;I never heard the name,&cdq; said I.
&odq;Possibly not, my good Watson. It may surprise you
to know that the man upon earth who is best versed in this disease is
not a medical man, but a planter. Mr. Culverton Smith is a
well-known resident of Sumatra, now visiting London. An
outbreak of the disease upon his plantation, which was distant from
medical aid, caused him to study it himself, with some rather
far-reaching consequences. He is a very methodical person, and
I did not desire you to start before six, because I was well aware
that you would not find him in his study. If you could
persuade him to come here and give us the benefit of his unique
experience of this disease, the investigation of which has been his
dearest hobby, I cannot doubt that he could help me.&cdq;
I give Holmes's remarks as a consecutive whole and will not
attempt to indicate how they were interrupted by gaspings for breath
and those clutchings of his hands which indicated the pain from which
he was suffering. His appearance had changed for the worse
during the few hours that I had been with him. Those hectic
spots were more pronounced, the eyes shone more brightly out of
darker hollows, and a cold sweat glimmered upon his brow. He
still retained, however, the jaunty gallantry of his speech.
To the last gasp he would always be the master.
&odq;You will tell him exactly how you have left me,&cdq; said
he. &odq;You will convey the very impression which is in your
own mind — a dying man — a dying and delirious man.
Indeed, I cannot think why the whole bed of the ocean is not
one solid mass of oysters, so prolific the creatures seem. Ah,
I am wandering! Strange how the brain controls the brain!
What was I saying, Watson?&cdq;
&odq;My directions for Mr. Culverton Smith.&cdq;
&odq;Ah, yes, I remember. My life depends upon it.
Plead with him, Watson. There is no good feeling
between us. His nephew, Watson — I had suspicions of
foul play and I allowed him to see it. The boy died horribly.
He has a grudge against me. You will soften him,
Watson. Beg him, pray him, get him here by any means.
He can save me — only he!&cdq;
&odq;I will bring him in a cab, if I have to carry him down to
it.&cdq;
&odq;You will do nothing of the sort. You will persuade
him to come. And then you will return in front of him.
Make any excuse so as not to come with him. Don't
forget, Watson. You won't fail me. You never did fail
me. No doubt there are natural enemies which limit the
increase of the creatures. You and I, Watson, we have done our
part. Shall the world, then, be overrun by oysters? No,
no; horrible! You'll convey all that is in your mind.&cdq;
I left him full of the image of this magnificent intellect
babbling like a foolish child. He had handed me the key, and
with a happy thought I took it with me lest he should lock himself
in. Mrs. Hudson was waiting, trembling and weeping, in the
passage. Behind me as I passed from the flat I heard Holmes's
high, thin voice in some delirious chant. Below, as I stood
whistling for a cab, a man came on me through the fog.
&odq;How is Mr. Holmes, sir?&cdq; he asked.
It was an old acquaintance, Inspector Morton, of Scotland Yard,
dressed in unofficial tweeds.
&odq;He is very ill,&cdq; I answered.
He looked at me in a most singular fashion. Had it not
been too fiendish, I could have imagined that the gleam of the
fanlight showed exultation in his face.
&odq;I heard some rumour of it,&cdq; said he.
The cab had driven up, and I left him.
Lower Burke Street proved to be a line of fine houses lying in
the vague borderland between Notting Hill and Kensington. The
particular one at which my cabman pulled up had an air of smug and
demure respectability in its old-fashioned iron railings, its massive
folding-door, and its shining brasswork. All was in keeping
with a solemn butler who appeared framed in the pink radiance of a
tinted electric light behind him.
&odq;Yes, Mr. Culverton Smith is in. Dr. Watson!
Very good, sir, I will take up your card.&cdq;
My humble name and title did not appear to impress Mr.
Culverton Smith. Through the half-open door I heard a high,
petulant, penetrating voice.
&odq;Who is this person? What does he want? Dear
me, Staples, how often have I said that I am not to be disturbed in
my hours of study?&cdq;
There came a gentle flow of soothing explanation from the
butler.
&odq;Well, I won't see him, Staples. I can't have my
work interrupted like this. I am not at home. Say so.
Tell him to come in the morning if he really must see me.&cdq;
Again the gentle murmur.
&odq;Well, well, give him that message. He can come in
the morning, or he can stay away. My work must not be
hindered.&cdq;
I thought of Holmes tossing upon his bed of sickness and
counting the minutes, perhaps, until I could bring help to him.
It was not a time to stand upon ceremony. His life
depended upon my promptness. Before the apologetic butler had
delivered his message I had pushed past him and was in the room.
With a shrill cry of anger a man rose from a reclining chair
beside the fire. I saw a great yellow face, coarse-grained and
greasy, with heavy, double-chin, and two sullen, menacing gray eyes
which glared at me from under tufted and sandy brows. A high
bald head had a small velvet smoking-cap poised coquettishly upon one
side of its pink curve. The skull was of enormous capacity,
and yet as I looked down I saw to my amazement that the figure of the
man was small and frail, twisted in the shoulders and back like one
who has suffered from rickets in his childhood.
&odq;What's this?&cdq; he cried in a high, screaming voice.
&odq;What is the meaning of this intrusion? Didn't I
send you word that I would see you to-morrow morning?&cdq;
&odq;I am sorry,&cdq; said I, &odq;but the matter cannot be
delayed. Mr. Sherlock Holmes — &cdq;
The mention of my friend's name had an extraordinary effect
upon the little man. The look of anger passed in an instant
from his face. His features became tense and alert.
&odq;Have you come from Holmes?&cdq; he asked.
&odq;I have just left him.&cdq;
&odq;What about Holmes? How is he?&cdq;
&odq;He is desperately ill. That is why I have
come.&cdq;
The man motioned me to a chair, and turned to resume his own.
As he did so I caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror over
the mantelpiece. I could have sworn that it was set in a
malicious and abominable smile. Yet I persuaded myself that it
must have been some nervous contraction which I had surprised, for he
turned to me an instant later with genuine concern upon his features.
&odq;I am sorry to hear this,&cdq; said he. &odq;I only
know Mr. Holmes through some business dealings which we have had, but
I have every respect for his talents and his character. He is
an amateur of crime, as I am of disease. For him the villain,
for me the microbe. There are my prisons,&cdq; he continued,
pointing to a row of bottles and jars which stood upon a side table.
&odq;Among those gelatine cultivations some of the very worst
offenders in the world are now doing time.&cdq;
&odq;It was on account of your special knowledge that Mr.
Holmes desired to see you. He has a high opinion of you and
thought that you were the one man in London who could help him.&cdq;
The little man started, and the jaunty smoking-cap slid to the
floor.
&odq;Why?&cdq; he asked. &odq;Why should Mr. Holmes
think that I could help him in his trouble?&cdq;
&odq;Because of your knowledge of Eastern diseases.&cdq;
&odq;But why should he think that this disease which he has
contracted is Eastern?&cdq;
&odq;Because, in some professional inquiry, he has been working
among Chinese sailors down in the docks.&cdq;
Mr. Culverton Smith smiled pleasantly and picked up his
smoking-cap.
&odq;Oh, that's it — is it?&cdq; said he. &odq;I
trust the matter is not so grave as you suppose. How long has
he been ill?&cdq;
&odq;About three days.&cdq;
&odq;Is he delirious?&cdq;
&odq;Occasionally.&cdq;
&odq;Tut, tut! This sounds serious. It would be
inhuman not to answer his call. I very much resent any
interruption to my work, Dr. Watson, but this case is certainly
exceptional. I will come with you at once.&cdq;
I remembered Holmes's injunction.
&odq;I have another appointment,&cdq; said I.
&odq;Very good. I will go alone. I have a note of
Mr. Holmes's address. You can rely upon my being there within
half an hour at most.&cdq;
It was with a sinking heart that I reentered Holmes's bedroom.
For all that I knew the worst might have happened in my
absence. To my enormous relief, he had improved greatly in the
interval. His appearance was as ghastly as ever, but all trace
of delirium had left him and he spoke in a feeble voice, it is true,
but with even more than his usual crispness and lucidity.
&odq;Well, did you see him, Watson?&cdq;
&odq;Yes; he is coming.&cdq;
&odq;Admirable, Watson! Admirable! You are the
best of messengers.&cdq;
&odq;He wished to return with me.&cdq;
&odq;That would never do, Watson. That would be
obviously impossible. Did he ask what ailed me?&cdq;
&odq;I told him about the Chinese in the East End.&cdq;
&odq;Exactly! Well, Watson, you have done all that a
good friend could. You can now disappear from the scene.&cdq;
&odq;I must wait and hear his opinion, Holmes.&cdq;
&odq;Of course you must. But I have reasons to suppose
that this opinion would be very much more frank and valuable if he
imagines that we are alone. There is just room behind the head
of my bed, Watson.&cdq;
&odq;My dear Holmes!&cdq;
&odq;I fear there is no alternative, Watson. The room
does not lend itself to concealment, which is as well, as it is the
less likely to arouse suspicion. But just there, Watson, I
fancy that it could be done.&cdq; Suddenly he sat up with a
rigid intentness upon his haggard face. &odq;There are the
wheels, Watson. Quick, man, if you love me! And don't
budge, whatever happens — whatever happens, do you hear?
Don't speak! Don't move! Just listen with all
your ears.&cdq; Then in an instant his sudden access of
strength departed, and his masterful, purposeful talk droned away
into the low, vague murmurings of a semi-delirious man.
From the hiding-place into which I had been so swiftly hustled
I heard the footfalls upon the stair, with the opening and the
closing of the bedroom door. Then, to my surprise, there came
a long silence, broken only by the heavy breathings and gaspings of
the sick man. I could imagine that our visitor was standing by
the bedside and looking down at the sufferer. At last that
strange hush was broken.
&odq;Holmes!&cdq; he cried. &odq;Holmes!&cdq; in the
insistent tone of one who awakens a sleeper. &odq;Can't you
hear me, Holmes?&cdq; There was a rustling, as if he had
shaken the sick man roughly by the shoulder.
&odq;Is that you, Mr. Smith?&cdq; Holmes whispered.
&odq;I hardly dared hope that you would come.&cdq;
The other laughed.
&odq;I should imagine not,&cdq; he said. &odq;And yet,
you see, I am here. Coals of fire, Holmes — coals of
fire!&cdq;
&odq;It is very good of you — very noble of you.
I appreciate your special knowledge.&cdq;
Our visitor sniggered.
&odq;You do. You are, fortunately, the only man in
London who does. Do you know what is the matter with you?&cdq;
&odq;The same,&cdq; said Holmes.
&odq;Ah! You recognize the symptoms?&cdq;
&odq;Only too well.&cdq;
&odq;Well, I shouldn't be surprised, Holmes. I shouldn't
be surprised if it were the same. A bad lookout for you if it
is. Poor Victor was a dead man on the fourth day — a
strong, hearty young fellow. It was certainly, as you said,
very surprising that he should have contracted an out-of-the-way
Asiatic disease in the heart of London — a disease, too, of
which I had made such a very special study. Singular
coincidence, Holmes. Very smart of you to notice it, but
rather uncharitable to suggest that it was cause and effect.&cdq;
&odq;I knew that you did it.&cdq;
&odq;Oh, you did, did you? Well, you couldn't prove it,
anyhow. But what do you think of yourself spreading reports
about me like that, and then crawling to me for help the moment you
are in trouble? What sort of a game is that — eh?&cdq;
I heard the rasping, laboured breathing of the sick man.
&odq;Give me the water!&cdq; he gasped.
&odq;You're precious near your end, my friend, but I don't want
you to go till I have had a word with you. That's why I give
you water. There, don't slop it about! That's right.
Can you understand what I say?&cdq;
Holmes groaned.
&odq;Do what you can for me. Let bygones be
bygones,&cdq; he whispered. &odq;I'll put the words out of my
head — I swear I will. Only cure me, and I'll forget
it.&cdq;
&odq;Forget what?&cdq;
&odq;Well, about Victor Savage's death. You as good as
admitted just now that you had done it. I'll forget it.&cdq;
&odq;You can forget it or remember it, just as you like.
I don't see you in the witness-box. Quite another
shaped box, my good Holmes, I assure you. It matters nothing
to me that you should know how my nephew died. It's not him we
are talking about. It's you.&cdq;
&odq;Yes, yes.&cdq;
&odq;The fellow who came for me — I've forgotten his
name — said that you contracted it down in the East End among
the sailors.&cdq;
&odq;I could only account for it so.&cdq;
&odq;You are proud of your brains, Holmes, are you not?
Think yourself smart, don't you? You came across
someone who was smarter this time. Now cast your mind back,
Holmes. Can you think of no other way you could have got this
thing?&cdq;
&odq;I can't think. My mind is gone. For heaven's
sake help me!&cdq;
&odq;Yes, I will help you. I'll help you to understand
just where you are and how you got there. I'd like you to know
before you die.&cdq;
&odq;Give me something to ease my pain.&cdq;
&odq;Painful, is it? Yes, the coolies used to do some
squealing towards the end. Takes you as cramp, I fancy.&cdq;
&odq;Yes, yes; it is cramp.&cdq;
&odq;Well, you can hear what I say, anyhow. Listen now!
Can you remember any unusual incident in your life just about
the time your symptoms began?&cdq;
&odq;No, no; nothing.&cdq;
&odq;Think again.&cdq;
&odq;I'm too ill to think.&cdq;
&odq;Well, then, I'll help you. Did anything come by
post?&cdq;
&odq;By post?&cdq;
&odq;A box by chance?&cdq;
&odq;I'm fainting — I'm gone!&cdq;
&odq;Listen, Holmes!&cdq; There was a sound as if he was
shaking the dying man, and it was all that I could do to hold myself
quiet in my hiding-place. &odq;You must hear me. You
shall hear me. Do you remember a box — an ivory box?
It came on Wednesday. You opened it — do you
remember?&cdq;
&odq;Yes, yes, I opened it. There was a sharp spring
inside it. Some joke — &cdq;
&odq;It was no joke, as you will find to your cost. You
fool, you would have it and you have got it. Who asked you to
cross my path? If you had left me alone I would not have hurt
you.&cdq;
&odq;I remember,&cdq; Holmes gasped. &odq;The spring!
It drew blood. This box — this on the
table.&cdq;
&odq;The very one, by George! And it may as well leave
the room in my pocket. There goes your last shred of evidence.
But you have the truth now, Holmes, and you can die with the
knowledge that I killed you. You knew too much of the fate of
Victor Savage, so I have sent you to share it. You are very
near your end, Holmes. I will sit here and I will watch you
die.&cdq;
Holmes's voice had sunk to an almost inaudible whisper.
&odq;What is that?&cdq; said Smith. &odq;Turn up the
gas? Ah, the shadows begin to fall, do they? Yes, I
will turn it up, that I may see you the better.&cdq; He
crossed the room and the light suddenly brightened. &odq;Is
there any other little service that I can do you, my friend?&cdq;
&odq;A match and a cigarette.&cdq;
I nearly called out in my joy and my amazement. He was
speaking in his natural voice — a little weak, perhaps, but
the very voice I knew. There was a long pause, and I felt that
Culverton Smith was standing in silent amazement looking down at his
companion.
&odq;What's the meaning of this?&cdq; I heard him say at
last in a dry, rasping tone.
&odq;The best way of successfully acting a part is to be
it,&cdq; said Holmes. &odq;I give you my word that for three
days I have tasted neither food nor drink until you were good enough
to pour me out that glass of water. But it is the tobacco
which I find most irksome. Ah, here are some cigarettes.&cdq;
I heard the striking of a match. &odq;That is very much
better. Halloa! halloa! Do I hear the step of a
friend?&cdq;
There were footfalls outside, the door opened, and Inspector
Morton appeared.
&odq;All is in order and this is your man,&cdq; said Holmes.
The officer gave the usual cautions.
&odq;I arrest you on the charge of the murder of one Victor
Savage,&cdq; he concluded.
&odq;And you might add of the attempted murder of one Sherlock
Holmes,&cdq; remarked my friend with a chuckle. &odq;To save
an invalid trouble, Inspector, Mr. Culverton Smith was good enough to
give our signal by turning up the gas. By the way, the
prisoner has a small box in the right-hand pocket of his coat which
it would be as well to remove. Thank you. I would
handle it gingerly if I were you. Put it down here. It
may play its part in the trial.&cdq;
There was a sudden rush and a scuffle, followed by the clash of
iron and a cry of pain.
&odq;You'll only get yourself hurt,&cdq; said the inspector.
&odq;Stand still, will you?&cdq; There was the click of
the closing handcuffs.
&odq;A nice trap!&cdq; cried the high, snarling voice.
&odq;It will bring you into the dock, Holmes, not me.
He asked me to come here to cure him. I was sorry for
him and I came. Now he will pretend, no doubt, that I have
said anything which he may invent which will corroborate his insane
suspicions. You can lie as you like, Holmes. My word is
always as good as yours.&cdq;
&odq;Good heavens!&cdq; cried Holmes. &odq;I had totally
forgotten him. My dear Watson, I owe you a thousand apologies.
To think that I should have overlooked you! I need not
introduce you to Mr. Culverton Smith, since I understand that you met
somewhat earlier in the evening. Have you the cab below?
I will follow you when I am dressed, for I may be of some use
at the station.
&odq;I never needed it more,&cdq; said Holmes as he refreshed
himself with a glass of claret and some biscuits in the intervals of
his toilet. &odq;However, as you know, my habits are
irregular, and such a feat means less to me than to most men.
It was very essential that I should impress Mrs. Hudson with
the reality of my condition, since she was to convey it to you, and
you in turn to him. You won't be offended, Watson? You
will realize that among your many talents dissimulation finds no
place, and that if you had shared my secret you would never have been
able to impress Smith with the urgent necessity of his presence,
which was the vital point of the whole scheme. Knowing his
vindictive nature, I was perfectly certain that he would come to look
upon his handiwork.&cdq;
&odq;But your appearance, Holmes — your ghastly
face?&cdq;
&odq;Three days of absolute fast does not improve one's beauty,
Watson. For the rest, there is nothing which a sponge may not
cure. With vaseline upon one's forehead, belladonna in one's
eyes, rouge over the cheek-bones, and crusts of beeswax round one's
lips, a very satisfying effect can be produced. Malingering is
a subject upon which I have sometimes thought of writing a monograph.
A little occasional talk about half-crowns, oysters-, or any
other extraneous subject produces a pleasing effect of delirium.&cdq;
&odq;But why would you not let me near you, since there was in
truth no infection?&cdq;
&odq;Can you ask, my dear Watson? Do you imagine that I
have no respect for your medical talents? Could I fancy that
your astute judgment would pass a dying man who, however weak, had no
rise of pulse or temperature? At four yards, I could deceive
you. If I failed to do so, who would bring my Smith within my
grasp? No, Watson, I would not touch that box. You can
just see if you look at it sideways where the sharp spring like a
viper's tooth emerges as you open it. I dare say it was by
some such device that poor Savage, who stood between this monster and
a reversion, was done to death. My correspondence, however,
is, as you know, a varied one, and I am somewhat upon my guard
against any packages which reach me. It was clear to me,
however, that by pretending that he had really succeeded in his
design I might surprise a confession. That pretence I have
carried out with the thoroughness of the true artist. Thank
you, Watson, you must help me on with my coat. When we have
finished at the police-station I think that something nutritious at
Simpson's would not be out of place.&cdq;
It was nine o'clock at night upon the second of August —
the most terrible August in the history of the world. One
might have thought already that God's curse hung heavy over a
degenerate world, for there was an awesome hush and a feeling of
vague expectancy in the sultry and stagnant air. The sun had
long set, but one blood-red gash like an open wound lay low in the
distant west. Above, the stars were shining brightly, and
below, the lights of the shipping glimmered in the bay. The
two famous Germans stood beside the stone parapet of the garden walk,
with the long, low, heavily gabled house behind them, and they looked
down upon the broad sweep of the beach at the foot of the great chalk
cliff on which Von Bork, like some wandering eagle, had perched
himself four years before. They stood with their heads close
together, talking in low, confidential tones. From below the
two glowing ends of their cigars might have been the smouldering eyes
of some malignant fiend looking down in the darkness.
A remarkable man this Von Bork — a man who could hardly
be matched among all the devoted agents of the Kaiser. It was
his talents which had first recommended him for the English mission,
the most important mission of all, but since he had taken it over
those talents had become more and more manifest to the half-dozen
people in the world who were really in touch with the truth.
One of these was his present companion, Baron Von Herling, the
chief secretary of the legation, whose huge 100-horse-power Benz car
was blocking the country lane as it waited to waft its owner back to
London.
&odq;So far as I can judge the trend of events, you will
probably be back in Berlin within the week,&cdq; the secretary was
saying. &odq;When you get there, my dear Von Bork, I think you
will be surprised at the welcome you will receive. I happen to
know what is thought in the highest quarters of your work in this
country.&cdq; He was a huge man, the secretary, deep, broad,
and tall, with a slow, heavy fashion of speech which had been his
main asset in his political career.
Von Bork laughed.
&odq;They are not very hard to deceive,&cdq; he remarked.
&odq;A more docile, simple folk could not be imagined.&cdq;
&odq;I don't know about that,&cdq; said the other thoughtfully.
&odq;They have strange limits and one must learn to observe
them. It is that surface simplicity of theirs which makes a
trap for the stranger. One's first impression is that they are
entirely soft. Then one comes suddenly upon something very
hard, and you know that you have reached the limit and must adapt
yourself to the fact. They have, for example, their insular
conventions which simply must be observed.&cdq;
&odq;Meaning, &onq;good form&cnq; and that sort of thing?&cdq;
Von Bork sighed as one who had suffered much.
&odq;Meaning British prejudice in all its queer manifestations.
As an example I may quote one of my own worst blunders
— I can afford to talk of my blunders, for you know my work
well enough to be aware of my successes. It was on my first
arrival. I was invited to a week-end gathering at the country
house of a cabinet minister. The conversation was amazingly
indiscreet.&cdq;
Von Bork nodded. &odq;I've been there,&cdq; said he
dryly.
&odq;Exactly. Well, I naturally sent a resume of the
information to Berlin. Unfortunately our good chancellor is a
little heavy-handed in these matters, and he transmitted a remark
which showed that he was aware of what had been said. This, of
course, took the trail straight up to me. You've no idea the
harm that it did me. There was nothing soft about our British
hosts on that occasion, I can assure you. I was two years
living it down. Now you, with this sporting pose of yours
— &cdq;
&odq;No, no, don't call it a pose. A pose is an
artificial thing. This is quite natural. I am a born
sportsman. I enjoy it.&cdq;
&odq;Well, that makes it the more effective. You yacht
against them, you hunt with them, you play polo, you match them in
every game, your four-in-hand takes the prize at Olympia. I
have even heard that you go the length of boxing with the young
officers. What is the result? Nobody takes you
seriously. You are a &onq;good old sport,&cnq; &onq;quite a
decent fellow for a German,&cnq; a hard-drinking, night-club,
knock-about-town, devil-may-care young fellow. And all the
time this quiet country house of yours is the centre of half the
mischief in England, and the sporting squire the most astute
secret-service man in Europe. Genius, my dear Von Bork,
genius!&cdq;
&odq;You flatter me, Baron. But certainly I may claim
that my four years in this country have not been unproductive.
I've never shown you my little store. Would you mind
stepping in for a moment?&cdq;
The door of the study opened straight on to the terrace.
Von Bork pushed it back, and, leading the way, he clicked the
switch of the electric light. He then closed the door behind
the bulky form which followed him and carefully adjusted the heavy
curtain over the latticed window. Only when all these
precautions had been taken and tested did he turn his sunburned
aquiline face to his guest.
&odq;Some of my papers have gone,&cdq; said he.
&odq;When my wife and the household left yesterday for
Flushing they took the less important with them. I must, of
course, claim the protection of the embassy for the others.&cdq;
&odq;Your name has already been filed as one of the personal
suite. There will be no difficulties for you or your baggage.
Of course, it is just possible that we may not have to go.
England may leave France to her fate. We are sure that
there is no binding treaty between them.&cdq;
&odq;And Belgium?&cdq;
&odq;Yes, and Belgium, too.&cdq;
Von Bork shook his head. &odq;I don't see how that could
be. There is a definite treaty there. She could never
recover from such a humiliation.&cdq;
&odq;She would at least have peace for the moment.&cdq;
&odq;But her honour?&cdq;
&odq;Tut, my dear sir, we live in a utilitarian age.
Honour is a mediaeval conception. Besides England is
not ready. It is an inconceivable thing, but even our special
war tax of fifty million, which one would think made our purpose as
clear as if we had advertised it on the front page of the Times, has
not roused these people from their slumbers. Here and there
one hears a question. It is my business to find an answer.
Here and there also there is an irritation. It is my
business to soothe it. But I can assure you that so far as the
essentials go — the storage of munitions, the preparation for
submarine attack, the arrangements for making high explosives
— nothing is prepared. How, then, can England come in,
especially when we have stirred her up such a devil's brew of Irish
civil war, window-breaking Furies, and God knows what to keep her
thoughts at home.&cdq;
&odq;She must think of her future.&cdq;
&odq;Ah, that is another matter. I fancy that in the
future we have our own very definite plans about England, and that
your information will be very vital to us. It is to-day or
to-morrow with Mr. John Bull. If he prefers to-day we are
perfectly ready. If it is to-morrow we shall be more ready
still. I should think they would be wiser to fight with allies
than without them, but that is their own affair. This week is
their week of destiny. But you were speaking of your
papers.&cdq; He sat in the armchair with the light shining
upon his broad bald head, while he puffed sedately at his cigar.
The large oak-panelled, book-lined room had a curtain hung in
the further corner. When this was drawn it disclosed a large,
brass-bound safe. Von Bork detached a small key from his watch
chain, and after some considerable manipulation of the lock he swung
open the heavy door.
&odq;Look!&cdq; said he, standing clear, with a wave of his
hand.
The light shone vividly into the opened safe, and the secretary
of the embassy gazed with an absorbed interest at the rows of stuffed
pigeon-holes with which it was furnished. Each pigeonhole had
its label, and his eyes as he glanced along them read a long series
of such titles as &odq;Fords,&cdq; &odq;Harbour-defences,&cdq;
&odq;Aeroplanes,&cdq; &odq;Ireland,&cdq; &odq;Egypt,&cdq;
&odq;Portsmouth forts,&cdq; &odq;The Channel,&cdq; &odq;Rosythe,&cdq;
and a score of others. Each compartment was bristling with
papers and plans.
&odq;Colossal!&cdq; said the secretary. Putting down his
cigar he softly clapped his fat hands.
&odq;And all in four years, Baron. Not such a bad show
for the hard-drinking, hard-riding country squire. But the gem
of my collection is coming and there is the setting all ready for
it.&cdq; He pointed to a space over which &odq;Naval
Signals&cdq; was printed.
&odq;But you have a good dossier there already.&cdq;
&odq;Out of date and waste paper. The Admiralty in some
way got the alarm and every code has been changed. It was a
blow, Baron — the worst setback in my whole campaign.
But thanks to my check-book and the good Altamont all will be
well to-night.&cdq;
The Baron looked at his watch and gave a guttural exclamation
of disappointment.
&odq;Well, I really can wait no longer. You can imagine
that things are moving at present in Carlton Terrace and that we have
all to be at our posts. I had hoped to be able to bring news
of your great coup. Did Altamont name no hour?&cdq;
Von Bork pushed over a telegram.
Will come without fail to-night and bring new sparking plugs.
ALTAMONT.
&odq;Sparking plugs, eh?&cdq;
&odq;You see he poses as a motor expert and I keep a full
garage. In our code everything likely to come up is named
after some spare part. If he talks of a radiator it is a
battleship, of an oil pump a cruiser, and so on. Sparking
plugs are naval signals.&cdq;
&odq;From Portsmouth at midday,&cdq; said the secretary,
examining the superscription. &odq;By the way, what do you
give him?&cdq;
&odq;Five hundred pounds for this particular job. Of
course he has a salary as well.&cdq;
&odq;The greedy rogue. They are useful, these traitors,
but I grudge them their blood money.&cdq;
&odq;I grudge Altamont nothing. He is a wonderful
worker. If I pay him well, at least he delivers the goods, to
use his own phrase. Besides he is not a traitor. I
assure you that our most pan-Germanic Junker is a sucking dove in his
feelings towards England as compared with a real bitter
Irish-American.&cdq;
&odq;Oh, an Irish-American?&cdq;
&odq;If you heard him talk you would not doubt it.
Sometimes I assure you I can hardly understand him. He
seems to have declared war on the King's English as well as on the
English king. Must you really go? He may be here any
moment.&cdq;
&odq;No. I'm sorry, but I have already overstayed my
time. We shall expect you early to-morrow, and when you get
that signal book through the little door on the Duke of York's steps
you can put a triumphant finis to your record in England.
What! Tokay!&cdq;
He indicated a heavily sealed dust-covered bottle which stood
with two high glasses upon a salver.
&odq;May I offer you a glass before your journey?&cdq;
&odq;No, thanks. But it looks like revelry.&cdq;
&odq;Altamont has a nice taste in wines, and he took a fancy to
my Tokay. He is a touchy fellow and needs humouring in small
things. I have to study him, I assure you.&cdq; They
had strolled out on to the terrace again, and along it to the further
end where at a touch from the Baron's chauffeur the great car
shivered and chuckled. &odq;Those are the lights of Harwich, I
suppose,&cdq; said the secretary, pulling on his dust coat.
&odq;How still and peaceful it all seems. There may be
other lights within the week, and the English coast a less tranquil
place! The heavens, too, may not be quite so peaceful if all
that the good Zeppelin promises us comes true. By the way, who
is that?&cdq;
Only one window showed a light behind them; in it there stood a
lamp, and beside it, seated at a table, was a dear old ruddy-faced
woman in a country cap. She was bending over her knitting and
stopping occasionally to stroke a large black cat upon a stool beside
her.
&odq;That is Martha, the only servant I have left.&cdq;
The secretary chuckled.
&odq;She might almost personify Britannia,&cdq; said he,
&odq;with her complete self-absorption and general air of comfortable
somnolence. Well, au revoir, Von Bork!&cdq; With a
final wave of his hand he sprang into the car, and a moment later the
two golden cones from the headlights shot forward through the
darkness. The secretary lay back in the cushions of the
luxurious limousine, with his thoughts so full of the impending
European tragedy that he hardly observed that as his car swung round
the village street it nearly passed over a little Ford coming in the
opposite direction.
Von Bork walked slowly back to the study when the last gleams
of the motor lamps had faded into the distance. As he passed
he observed that his old housekeeper had put out her lamp and
retired. It was a new experience to him, the silence and
darkness of his widespread house, for his family and household had
been a large one. It was a relief to him, however, to think
that they were all in safety and that, but for that one old woman who
had lingered in the kitchen, he had the whole place to himself.
There was a good deal of tidying up to do inside his study and
he set himself to do it until his keen, handsome face was flushed
with the heat of the burning papers. A leather valise stood
beside his table, and into this he began to pack very neatly and
systematically the precious contents of his safe. He had
hardly got started with the work, however, when his quick ears caught
the sound of a distant car. Instantly he gave an exclamation
of satisfaction, strapped up the valise, shut the safe, locked it,
and hurried out on to the terrace. He was just in time to see
the lights of a small car come to a halt at the gate. A
passenger sprang out of it and advanced swiftly towards him, while
the chauffeur, a heavily built, elderly man with a gray moustache,
settled down like one who resigns himself to a long vigil.
&odq;Well?&cdq; asked Von Bork eagerly, running forward to meet
his visitor.
For answer the man waved a small brown-paper parcel
triumphantly above his head.
&odq;You can give me the glad hand to-night, mister,&cdq; he
cried. &odq;I'm bringing home the bacon at last.&cdq;
&odq;The signals?&cdq;
&odq;Same as I said in my cable. Every last one of them,
semaphore, lamp code, Marconi — a copy, mind you, not the
original. That was too dangerous. But it's the real
goods, and you can lay to that.&cdq; He slapped the German
upon the shoulder with a rough familiarity from which the other
winced.
&odq;Come in,&cdq; he said. &odq;I'm all alone in the
house. I was only waiting for this. Of course a copy is
better than the original. If an original were missing they
would change the whole thing. You think it's all safe about
the copy?&cdq;
The Irish-American had entered the study and stretched his long
limbs from the armchair. He was a tall, gaunt man of sixty,
with clear-cut features and a small goatee beard which gave him a
general resemblance to the caricatures of Uncle Sam. A
halfsmoked, sodden cigar hung from the corner of his mouth, and as he
sat down he struck a match and relit it. &odq;Making ready for
a move?&cdq; he remarked as he looked round him. &odq;Say,
mister,&cdq; he added, as his eyes fell upon the safe from which the
curtain was now removed, &odq;you don't tell me you keep your papers
in that?&cdq;
&odq;Why not?&cdq;
&odq;Gosh, in a wide-open contraption like that! And
they reckon you to be some spy. Why, a Yankee crook would be
into that with a can-opener. If I'd known that any letter of
mine was goin' to lie loose in a thing like that I'd have been a mug
to write to you at all.&cdq;
&odq;It would puzzle any crook to force that safe,&cdq; Von
Bork answered. &odq;You won't cut that metal with any
tool.&cdq;
&odq;But the lock?&cdq;
&odq;No, it's a double combination lock. You know what
that is?&cdq;
&odq;Search me,&cdq; said the American.
&odq;Well, you need a word as well as a set of figures before
you can get the lock to work.&cdq; He rose and showed a
doubleradiating disc round the keyhole. &odq;This outer one is
for the letters, the inner one for the figures.&cdq;
&odq;Well, well, that's fine.&cdq;
&odq;So it's not quite as simple as you thought. It was
four years ago that I had it made, and what do you think I chose for
the word and figures?&cdq;
&odq;It's beyond me.&cdq;
&odq;Well, I chose August for the word, and 1914 for the
figures, and here we are.&cdq;
The American's face showed his surprise and admiration.
&odq;My, but that was smart! You had it down to a fine
thing.&cdq;
&odq;Yes, a few of us even then could have guessed the date.
Here it is, and I'm shutting down to-morrow morning.&cdq;
&odq;Well, I guess you'll have to fix me up also. I'm
not staying in this gol-darned country all on my lonesome. In
a week or less, from what I see, John Bull will be on his hind legs
and fair ramping. I'd rather watch him from over the
water.&cdq;
&odq;But you're an American citizen?&cdq;
&odq;Well, so was Jack James an American citizen, but he's
doing time in Portland all the same. It cuts no ice with a
British copper to tell him you're an American citizen.
&onq;It's British law and order over here,&cnq; says he.
By the way, mister, talking of Jack James, it seems to me you
don't do much to cover your men.&cdq;
&odq;What do you mean?&cdq; Von Bork asked sharply.
&odq;Well, you are their employer, ain't you? It's up to
you to see that they don't fall down. But they do fall down,
and when did you ever pick them up? There's James —
&cdq;
&odq;It was James's own fault. You know that yourself.
He was too self-willed for the job.&cdq;
&odq;James was a bonehead — I give you that.
Then there was Hollis.&cdq;
&odq;The man was mad.&cdq;
&odq;Well, he went a bit woozy towards the end. It's
enough to make a man bughouse when he has to play a part from morning
to night with a hundred guys all ready to set the coppers wise to
him. But now there is Steiner — &cdq;
Von Bork started violently, and his ruddy face turned a shade
paler.
&odq;What about Steiner?&cdq;
&odq;Well, they've got him, that's all. They raided his
store last night, and he and his papers are all in Portsmouth jail.
You'll go off and he, poor devil, will have to stand the
racket, and lucky if he gets off with his life. That's why I
want to get over the water as soon as you do.&cdq;
Von Bork was a strong, self-contained man, but it was easy to
see that the news had shaken him.
&odq;How could they have got on to Steiner?&cdq; he muttered.
&odq;That's the worst blow yet.&cdq;
&odq;Well, you nearly had a worse one, for I believe they are
not far off me.&cdq;
&odq;You don't mean that!&cdq;
&odq;Sure thing. My landlady down Fratton way had some
inquiries, and when I heard of it I guessed it was time for me to
hustle. But what I want to know, mister, is how the coppers
know these things? Steiner is the fifth man you've lost since
I signed on with you, and I know the name of the sixth if I don't get
a move on. How do you explain it, and ain't you ashamed to see
your men go down like this?&cdq;
Von Bork flushed crimson.
&odq;How dare you speak in such a way!&cdq;
&odq;If I didn't dare things, mister, I wouldn't be in your
service. But I'll tell you straight what is in my mind.
I've heard that with you German politicians when an agent has
done his work you are not sorry to see him put away.&cdq;
Von Bork sprang to his feet.
&odq;Do you dare to suggest that I have given away my own
agents!&cdq;
&odq;I don't stand for that, mister, but there's a stool pigeon
or a cross somewhere, and it's up to you to find out where it is.
Anyhow I am taking no more chances. It's me for little
Holland, and the sooner the better.&cdq;
Von Bork had mastered his anger.
&odq;We have been allies too long to quarrel now at the very
hour of victory,&cdq; he said. &odq;You've done splendid work
and taken risks, and I can't forget it. By all means go to
Holland, and you can get a boat from Rotterdam to New York. No
other line will be safe a week from now. I'll take that book
and pack it with the rest.&cdq;
The American held the small parcel in his hand, but made no
motion to give it up.
&odq;What about the dough?&cdq; he asked.
&odq;The what?&cdq;
&odq;The boodle. The reward. The 500 pounds.
The gunner turned damned nasty at the last, and I had to
square him with an extra hundred dollars or it would have been nitsky
for you and me. &onq;Nothin' doin'!&cnq; says he, and he meant
it, too, but the last hundred did it. It's cost me two hundred
pound from first to last, so it isn't likely I'd give it up without
gettin' my wad.&cdq;
Von Bork smiled with some bitterness. &odq;You don't
seem to have a very high opinion of my honour,&cdq; said he, &odq;you
want the money before you give up the book.&cdq;
&odq;Well, mister, it is a business proposition.&cdq;
&odq;All right. Have your way.&cdq; He sat down
at the table and scribbled a check, which he tore from the book, but
he refrained from handing it to his companion. &odq;After all,
since we are to be on such terms, Mr. Altamont,&cdq; said he, &odq;I
don't see why I should trust you any more than you trust me.
Do you understand?&cdq; he added, looking back over his
shoulder at the American. &odq;There's the check upon the
table. I claim the right to examine that parcel before you
pick the money up.&cdq;
The American passed it over without a word. Von Bork
undid a winding of string and two wrappers of paper. Then he
sat gazing for a moment in silent amazement at a small blue book
which lay before him. Across the cover was printed in golden
letters Practical Handbook of Bee Culture. Only for one
instant did the master spy glare at this strangely irrelevant
inscription. The next he was gripped at the back of his neck
by a grasp of iron, and a chloroformed sponge was held in front of
his writhing face.
&odq;Another glass, Watson!&cdq; said Mr. Sherlock Holmes as he
extended the bottle of Imperial Tokay.
The thickset chauffeur, who had seated himself by the table
pushed forward his glass with some eagerness.
&odq;It is a good wine, Holmes.&cdq;
&odq;A remarkable wine, Watson. Our friend upon the sofa
has assured me that it is from Franz Josef's special cellar at the
Schoenbrunn Palace. Might I trouble you to open the window for
chloroform vapour does not help the palate.&cdq;
The safe was ajar, and Holmes standing in front of it was
removing dossier after dossier, swiftly examining each, and then
packing it neatly in Von Bork's valise. The German lay upon
the sofa sleeping stertorously with a strap round his upper arms and
another round his legs. &odq;We need not hurry ourselves,
Watson. We are safe from interruption. Would you mind
touching the bell? There is no one in the house except old
Martha, who has played her part to admiration. I got her the
situation here when first I took the matter up. Ah, Martha,
you will be glad to hear that all is well.&cdq;
The pleasant old lady had appeared in the doorway. She
curtseyed with a smile to Mr. Holmes, but glanced with some
apprehension at the figure upon the sofa.
&odq;It is all right, Martha. He has not been hurt at
all.&cdq;
&odq;I am glad of that, Mr. Holmes. According to his
lights he has been a kind master. He wanted me to go with his
wife to Germany yesterday, but that would hardly have suited your
plans, would it, sir?&cdq;
&odq;No, indeed, Martha. So long as you were here I was
easy in my mind. We waited some time for your signal
to-night.&cdq;
&odq;It was the secretary, sir.&cdq;
&odq;I know. His car passed ours.&cdq;
&odq;I thought he would never go. I knew that it would
not suit your plans, sir, to find him here.&cdq;
&odq;No, indeed. Well, it only meant that we waited half
an hour or so until I saw your lamp go out and knew that the coast
was clear. You can report to me to-morrow in London, Martha,
at Claridge's Hotel.&cdq;
&odq;Very good, sir.&cdq;
&odq;I suppose you have everything ready to leave.&cdq;
&odq;Yes, sir. He posted seven letters to-day. I
have the addresses as usual.&cdq;
&odq;Very good, Martha. I will look into them to-morrow.
Good-night. These papers,&cdq; he continued as the old
lady vanished, &odq;are not of very great importance, for, of course,
the information which they represent has been sent off long ago to
the German government. These are the originals which could not
safely be got out of the country.&cdq;
&odq;Then they are of no use.&cdq;
&odq;I should not go so far as to say that, Watson. They
will at least show our people what is known and what is not. I
may say that a good many of these papers have come through me, and I
need not add are thoroughly untrustworthy. It would brighten
my declining years to see a German cruiser navigating the Solent
according to the mine-field plans which I have furnished. But
you, Watson&cdq; — he stopped his work and took his old
friend by the shoulders — &odq;I've hardly seen you in the
light yet. How have the years used you? You look the
same blithe boy as ever.&cdq;
&odq;I feel twenty years younger, Holmes. I have seldom
felt so happy as when I got your wire asking me to meet you at
Harwich with the car. But you, Holmes — you have
changed very little — save for that horrible goatee.&cdq;
&odq;These are the sacrifices one makes for one's country,
Watson,&cdq; said Holmes, pulling at his little tuft.
&odq;To-morrow it will be but a dreadful memory. With
my hair cut and a few other superficial changes I shall no doubt
reappear at Claridge's tomorrow as I was before this American stunt
— I beg your pardon, Watson, my well of English seems to be
permanently defiled — before this American job came my
way.&cdq;
&odq;But you have retired, Holmes. We heard of you as
living the life of a hermit among your bees and your books in a small
farm upon the South Downs.&cdq;
&odq;Exactly, Watson. Here is the fruit of my leisured
ease, the magnum opus of my latter years!&cdq; He picked up
the volume from the table and read out the whole title, Practical
Handbook of Bee Culture, with Some Observations upon the Segregation
of the Queen. &odq;Alone I did it. Behold the fruit of
pensive nights and laborious days when I watched the little working
gangs as once I watched the criminal world of London.&cdq;
&odq;But how did you get to work again?&cdq;
&odq;Ah, I have often marvelled at it myself. The
Foreign Minister alone I could have withstood, but when the Premier
also deigned to visit my humble roof! The fact is, Watson,
that this gentleman upon the sofa was a bit too good for our people.
He was in a class by himself. Things were going wrong,
and no one could understand why they were going wrong. Agents
were suspected or even caught, but there was evidence of some strong
and secret central force. It was absolutely necessary to
expose it. Strong pressure was brought upon me to look into
the matter. It has cost me two years, Watson, but they have
not been devoid of excitement. When I say that I started my
pilgrimage at Chicago, graduated in an Irish secret society at
Buffalo, gave serious trouble to the constabulary at Skibbareen, and
so eventually caught the eye of a subordinate agent of Von Bork, who
recommended me as a likely man, you will realize that the matter was
complex. Since then I have been honoured by his confidence,
which has not prevented most of his plans going subtly wrong and five
of his best agents being in prison. I watched them, Watson,
and I picked them as they ripened. Well, sir, I hope that you
are none the worse!&cdq;
The last remark was addressed to Von Bork himself, who after
much gasping and blinking had lain quietly listening to Holmes's
statement. He broke out now into a furious stream of German
invective, his face convulsed with passion. Holmes continued
his swift investigation of documents while his prisoner cursed and
swore.
&odq;Though unmusical, German is the most expressive of all
languages,&cdq; he observed when Von Bork had stopped from pure
exhaustion. &odq;Hullo! Hullo!&cdq; he added as he
looked hard at the corner of a tracing before putting it in the box.
&odq;This should put another bird in the cage. I had no
idea that the paymaster was such a rascal, though I have long had an
eye upon him. Mister Von Bork, you have a great deal to answer
for.&cdq;
The prisoner had raised himself with some difficulty upon the
sofa and was staring with a strange mixture of amazement and hatred
at his captor. I shall get level with you, Altamont, &odq;he
said, speaking with slow deliberation. &cdq; If it takes me
all my life I shall get level with you! &odq;
&odq;The old sweet song,&cdq; said Holmes. &odq;How
often have I heard it in days gone by. It was a favourite
ditty of the late lamented Professor Moriarty. Colonel
Sebastian Moran has also been known to warble it. And yet I
live and keep bees upon the South Downs.&cdq;
&odq;Curse you, you double traitor!&cdq; cried the German,
straining against his bonds and glaring murder from his furious eyes.
&odq;No, no, it is not so bad as that,&cdq; said Holmes,
smiling. &odq;As my speech surely shows you, Mr. Altamont of
Chicago had no existence in fact. I used him and he is
gone.&cdq;
&odq;Then who are you?&cdq;
&odq;It is really immaterial who I am, but since the matter
seems to interest you, Mr. Von Bork, I may say that this is not my
first acquaintance with the members of your family. I have
done a good deal of business in Germany in the past and my name is
probably familiar to you.&cdq;
&odq;I would wish to know it,&cdq; said the Prussian grimly.
&odq;It was I who brought about the separation between Irene
Adler and the late King of Bohemia when your cousin Heinrich was the
Imperial Envoy. It was I also who saved from murder, by the
Nihilist Klopman, Count Von und Zu Grafenstein, who was your mother's
elder brother. It was I — &cdq;
Von Bork sat up in amazement.
&odq;There is only one man,&cdq; he cried.
&odq;Exactly,&cdq; said Holmes.
Von Bork groaned and sank back on the sofa. &odq;And
most of that information came through you,&cdq; he cried.
&odq;What is it worth? What have I done? It is
my ruin forever!&cdq;
&odq;It is certainly a little untrustworthy,&cdq; said Holmes.
&odq;It will require some checking and you have little time to
check it. Your admiral may find the new guns rather larger
than he expects, and the cruisers perhaps a trifle faster.&cdq;
Von Bork clutched at his own throat in despair.
&odq;There are a good many other points of detail which will,
no doubt, come to light in good time. But you have one quality
which is very rare in a German, Mr. Von Bork: you are a sportsman and
you will bear me no ill-will when you realize that you, who have
outwitted so many other people, have at last been outwitted yourself.
After all, you have done your best for your country, and I
have done my best for mine, and what could be more natural?
Besides,&cdq; he added, not unkindly, as he laid his hand upon
the shoulder of the prostrate man, &odq;it is better than to fall
before some more ignoble foe. These papers are now ready.
Watson. If you will help me with our prisoner, I think
that we may get started for London at once.&cdq;
It was no easy task to move Von Bork, for he was a strong and a
desperate man. Finally, holding either arm, the two friends
walked him very slowly down the garden walk which he had trod with
such proud confidence when he received the congratulations of the
famous diplomatist only a few hours before. After a short,
final struggle he was hoisted, still bound hand and foot, into the
spare seat of the little car. His precious valise was wedged
in beside him.
&odq;I trust that you are as comfortable as circumstances
permit,&cdq; said Holmes when the final arrangements were made.
&odq;Should I be guilty of a liberty if I lit a cigar and
placed it between your lips?&cdq;
But all amenities were wasted upon the angry German.
&odq;I suppose you realize, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,&cdq; said he,
&odq;that if your government bears you out in this treatment it
becomes an act of war.&cdq;
&odq;What about your government and all this treatment?&cdq;
said Holmes, tapping the valise.
&odq;You are a private individual. You have no warrant
for my arrest. The whole proceeding is absolutely illegal and
outrageous.&cdq;
&odq;Absolutely,&cdq; said Holmes.
&odq;Kidnapping a German subject.&cdq;
&odq;And stealing his private papers.&cdq;
&odq;Well, you realize your position, you and your accomplice
here. If I were to shout for help as we pass through the
village — &cdq;
&odq;My dear sir, if you did anything so foolish you would
probably enlarge the two limited titles of our village inns by giving
us &onq;The Dangling Prussian&cnq; as a signpost. The
Englishman is a patient creature, but at present his temper is a
little inflamed, and it would be as well not to try him too far.
No, Mr. Von Bork, you will go with us in a quiet, sensible
fashion to Scotland Yard, whence you can send for your friend, Baron
Von Herling, and see if even now you may not fill that place which he
has reserved for you in the ambassadorial suite. As to you,
Watson, you are joining us with your old service, as I understand, so
London won't be out of your way. Stand with me here upon the
terrace, for it may be the last quiet talk that we shall ever
have.&cdq;
The two friends chatted in intimate converse for a few minutes,
recalling once again the days of the past, while their prisoner
vainly wriggled to undo the bonds that held him. As they
turned to the car Holmes pointed back to the moonlit sea and shook a
thoughtful head.
&odq;There's an east wind coming, Watson.&cdq;
&odq;I think not, Holmes. It is very warm.&cdq;
&odq;Good old Watson! You are the one fixed point in a
changing age. There's an east wind coming all the same, such a
wind as never blew on England yet. It will be cold and bitter,
Watson and a good many of us may wither before its blast. But
it's God's own wind none the less, and a cleaner, better, stronger
land will lie in the sunshine when the storm has cleared.
Start her up, Watson, for it's time that we were on our way.
I have a check for five hundred pounds which should be cashed
early, for the drawer is quite capable of stopping it if he can.&cdq;