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In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the
University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the
course prescribed for surgeons in the Army. Having completed
my studies there, I was duly attached to the Fifth Northumberland
Fusiliers as assistant surgeon. The regiment was stationed in
India at the time, and before I could join it, the second Afghan war
had broken out. On landing at Bombay, I learned that my corps
had advanced through the passes, and was already deep in the enemy's
country. I followed, however, with many other officers who
were in the same situation as myself, and succeeded in reaching
Candahar in safety, where I found my regiment, and at once entered
upon my new duties.
The campaign brought honours and promotion to many, but for me
it had nothing but misfortune and disaster. I was removed from
my brigade and attached to the Berkshires, with whom I served at the
fatal battle of Maiwand. There I was struck on the shoulder by
a Jezail bullet, which shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian
artery. I should have fallen into the hands of the murderous
Ghazis had it not been for the devotion and courage shown by Murray,
my orderly, who threw me across a packhorse, and succeeded in
bringing me safely to the British lines.
Worn with pain, and weak from the prolonged hardships which I
had undergone, I was removed, with a great train of wounded
sufferers, to the base hospital at Peshawar. Here I rallied,
and had already improved so far as to be able to walk about the
wards, and even to bask a little upon the veranda when I was struck
down by enteric fever, that curse of our Indian possessions.
For months my life was despaired of, and when at last I came
to myself and became convalescent, I was so weak and emaciated that a
medical board determined that not a day should be lost in sending me
back to England. I was despatched accordingly, in the
troopship Orontes, and landed a month later on Portsmouth jetty, with
my health irretrievably ruined, but with permission from a paternal
government to spend the next nine months in attempting to improve it.
I had neither kith nor kin in England, and was therefore as
free as air — or as free as an income of eleven shillings and
sixpence a day will permit a man to be. Under such
circumstances I naturally gravitated to London, that great cesspool
into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly
drained. There I stayed for some time at a private hotel in
the Strand, leading a comfortless, meaningless existence, and
spending such money as I had, considerably more freely than I ought.
So alarming did the state of my finances become, that I soon
realized that I must either leave the metropolis and rusticate
somewhere in the country, or that I must make a complete alteration
in my style of living. Choosing the latter alternative, I
began by making up my mind to leave the hotel, and take up my
quarters in some less pretentious and less expensive domicile.
On the very day that I had come to this conclusion, I was
standing at the Criterion Bar, when someone tapped me on the
shoulder, and turning round I recognized young Stamford, who had been
a dresser under me at Bart's. The sight of a friendly face in
the great wilderness of London is a pleasant thing indeed to a lonely
man. In old days Stamford had never been a particular crony of
mine, but now I hailed him with enthusiasm, and he, in his turn,
appeared to be delighted to see me. In the exuberance of my
joy, I asked him to lunch with me at the Holborn, and we started off
together in a hansom.
&odq;Whatever have you been doing with yourself, Watson?&cdq;
he asked in undisguised wonder, as we rattled through the crowded
London streets. &odq;You are as thin as a lath and as brown as
a nut.&cdq;
I gave him a short sketch of my adventures, and had hardly
concluded it by the time that we reached our destination.
&odq;Poor devil!&cdq; he said, commiseratingly, after he had
listened to my misfortunes. &odq;What are you up to now?&cdq;
&odq;Looking for lodgings,&cdq; I answered. &odq;Trying
to solve the problem as to whether it is possible to get comfortable
rooms at a reasonable price.&cdq;
&odq;That's a strange thing,&cdq; remarked my companion;
&odq;you are the second man today that has used that expression to
me.&cdq;
&odq;And who was the first?&cdq; I asked.
&odq;A fellow who is working at the chemical laboratory up at
the hospital. He was bemoaning himself this morning because he
could not get someone to go halves with him in some nice rooms which
he had found, and which were too much for his purse.&cdq;
&odq;By Jove!&cdq; I cried; &odq;if he really wants someone to
share the rooms and the expense, I am the very man for him. I
should prefer having a partner to being alone.&cdq;
Young Stamford looked rather strangely at me over his
wineglass. &odq;You don't know Sherlock Holmes yet,&cdq; he
said; &odq;perhaps you would not care for him as a constant
companion.&cdq;
&odq;Why, what is there against him?&cdq;
&odq;Oh, I didn't say there was anything against him. He
is a little queer in his ideas — an enthusiast in some
branches of science. As far as I know he is a decent fellow
enough.&cdq;
&odq;A medical student, I suppose?&cdq; said I.
&odq;No — I have no idea what he intends to go in for.
I believe he is well up in anatomy, and he is a first-class
chemist; but, as far as I know, he has never taken out any systematic
medical classes. His studies are very desultory and eccentric,
but he has amassed a lot of out-of-the-way knowledge which would
astonish his professors.&cdq;
&odq;Did you never ask him what he was going in for?&cdq; I
asked.
&odq;No; he is not a man that it is easy to draw out, though he
can be communicative enough when the fancy seizes him.&cdq;
&odq;I should like to meet him,&cdq; I said. &odq;If I
am to lodge with anyone, I should prefer a man of studious and quiet
habits. I am not strong enough yet to stand much noise or
excitement. I had enough of both in Afghanistan to last me for
the remainder of my natural existence. How could I meet this
friend of yours?&cdq;
&odq;He is sure to be at the laboratory,&cdq; returned my
companion. &odq;He either avoids the place for weeks, or else
he works there from morning till night. If you like, we will
drive round together after luncheon.&cdq;
&odq;Certainly,&cdq; I answered, and the conversation drifted
away into other channels.
As we made our way to the hospital after leaving the Holborn,
Stamford gave me a few more particulars about the gentleman whom I
proposed to take as a fellow-lodger.
&odq;You mustn't blame me if you don't get on with him,&cdq; he
said; &odq;I know nothing more of him than I have learned from
meeting him occasionally in the laboratory. You proposed this
arrangement, so you must not hold me responsible.&cdq;
&odq;If we don't get on it will be easy to part company,&cdq; I
answered. &odq;It seems to me, Stamford,&cdq; I added, looking
hard at my companion, &odq;that you have some reason for washing your
hands of the matter. Is this fellow's temper so formidable, or
what is it? Don't be mealymouthed about it.&cdq;
&odq;It is not easy to express the inexpressible,&cdq; he
answered with a laugh. &odq;Holmes is a little too scientific
for my tastes — it approaches to cold-bloodedness. I
could imagine his giving a friend a little pinch of the latest
vegetable alkaloid, not out of malevolence, you understand, but
simply out of a spirit of inquiry in order to have an accurate idea
of the effects. To do him justice, I think that he would take
it himself with the same readiness. He appears to have a
passion for definite and exact knowledge.&cdq;
&odq;Very right too.&cdq;
&odq;Yes, but it may be pushed to excess. When it comes
to beating the subjects in the dissecting-rooms with a stick, it is
certainly taking rather a bizarre shape.&cdq;
&odq;Beating the subjects!&cdq;
&odq;Yes, to verify how far bruises may be produced after
death. I saw him at it with my own eyes.&cdq;
&odq;And yet you say he is not a medical student?&cdq;
&odq;No. Heaven knows what the objects of his studies
are. But here we are, and you must form your own impressions
about him.&cdq; As he spoke, we turned down a narrow lane and
passed through a small side-door, which opened into a wing of the
great hospital. It was familiar ground to me, and I needed no
guiding as we ascended the bleak stone staircase and made our way
down the long corridor with its vista of whitewashed wall and
dun-coloured doors. Near the farther end a low arched passage
branched away from it and led to the chemical laboratory.
This was a lofty chamber, lined and littered with countless
bottles. Broad, low tables were scattered about, which
bristled with retorts, test-tubes, and little Bunsen lamps, with
their blue flickering flames. There was only one student in
the room, who was bending over a distant table absorbed in his work.
At the sound of our steps he glanced round and sprang to his
feet with a cry of pleasure. &odq;I've found it! I've
found it,&cdq; he shouted to my companion, running towards us with a
test-tube in his hand. &odq;I have found a re-agent which is
precipitated by haemoglobin, and by nothing else.&cdq; Had he
discovered a gold mine, greater delight could not have shone upon his
features.
&odq;Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,&cdq; said Stamford,
introducing us.
&odq;How are you?&cdq; he said cordially, gripping my hand with
a strength for which I should hardly have given him credit.
&odq;You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive.&cdq;
&odq;How on earth did you know that?&cdq; I asked in
astonishment.
&odq;Never mind,&cdq; said he, chuckling to himself &odq;The
question now is about haemoglobin. No doubt you see the
significance of this discovery of mine?&cdq;
&odq;It is interesting, chemically, no doubt,&cdq; I answered,
&odq;but practically
&odq;Why, man, it is the most practical medico-legal discovery
for years. Don't you see that it gives us an infallible test
for blood stains? Come over here now!&cdq; He seized me
by the coat-sleeve in his eagerness, and drew me over to the table at
which he had been working. &odq;Let us have some fresh
blood,&cdq; he said, digging a long bodkin into his finger, and
drawing off the resulting drop of blood in a chemical pipette.
&odq;Now, I add this small quantity of blood to a litre of
water. You perceive that the resulting mixture has the
appearance of pure water. The proportion of blood cannot be
more than one in a million. I have no doubt, however, that we
shall be able to obtain the characteristic reaction.&cdq; As
he spoke, he threw into the vessel a few white crystals, and then
added some drops of a transparent fluid. In an instant the
contents assumed a dull mahogany colour, and a brownish dust was
precipitated to the bottom of the glass jar.
&odq;Ha! ha!&cdq; he cried, clapping his hands, and looking as
delighted as a child with a new toy. &odq;What do you think of
that?&cdq;
&odq;It seems to be a very delicate test,&cdq; I remarked.
&odq;Beautiful! beautiful! The old guaiacum test was
very clumsy and uncertain. So is the microscopic examination
for blood corpuscles. The latter is valueless if the stains
are a few hours old. Now, this appears to act as well whether
the blood is old or new. Had this test been invented, there
are hundreds of men now walking the earth who would long ago have
paid the penalty of their crimes.&cdq;
&odq;Indeed!&cdq; I murmured.
&odq;Criminal cases are continually hinging upon that one
point. A man is suspected of a crime months perhaps after it
has been committed. His linen or clothes are examined and
brownish stains discovered upon them. Are they blood stains,
or mud stains, or rust stains, or fruit stains, or what are they?
That is a question which has puzzled many an expert, and why?
Because there was no reliable test. Now we have the
Sherlock Holmes's test, and there will no longer be any
difficulty.&cdq;
His eyes fairly glittered as he spoke, and he put his hand over
his heart and bowed as if to some applauding crowd conjured up by his
imagination.
&odq;You are to be congratulated,&cdq; I remarked, considerably
surprised at his enthusiasm.
&odq;There was the case of Von Bischoff at Frankfort last year.
He would certainly have been hung had this test been in
existence. Then there was Mason of Bradford, and the notorious
Muller, and Lefevre of Montpellier, and Samson of New Orleans.
I could name a score of cases in which it would have been
decisive.&cdq;
&odq;You seem to be a walking calendar of crime,&cdq; said
Stamford with a laugh. &odq;You might start a paper on those
lines. Call it the &onq;Police News of the Past.&cnq;&cdq;
&odq;Very interesting reading it might be made, too,&cdq;
remarked Sherlock Holmes, sticking a small piece of plaster over the
prick on his finger. &odq;I have to be careful,&cdq; he
continued, turning to me with a smile, &odq;for I dabble with poisons
a good deal.&cdq; He held out his hand as he spoke, and I
noticed that it was all mottled over with similar pieces of plaster,
and discoloured with strong acids.
&odq;We came here on business,&cdq; said Stamford, sitting down
on a high three-legged stool, and pushing another one in my direction
with his foot. &odq;My friend here wants to take diggings; and
as you were complaining that you could get no one to go halves with
you, I thought that I had better bring you together.&cdq;
Sherlock Holmes seemed delighted at the idea of sharing his
rooms with me. &odq;I have my eye on a suite in Baker
Street,&cdq; he said, &odq;which would suit us down to the ground.
You don't mind the smell of strong tobacco, I hope?&cdq;
&odq;I always smoke &onq;ship's&cnq; myself,&cdq; I answered.
&odq;That's good enough. I generally have chemicals
about, and occasionally do experiments. Would that annoy
you?&cdq;
&odq;By no means.&cdq;
&odq;Let me see — what are my other shortcomings?
I get in the dumps at times, and don't open my mouth for days
on end. You must not think I am sulky when I do that.
Just let me alone, and I'll soon be right. What have
you to confess now? It's just as well for two fellows to know
the worst of one another before they begin to live together.&cdq;
I laughed at this cross-examination. &odq;I keep a bull
pup,&cdq; I said, &odq;and I object to rows because my nerves are
shaken, and I get up at all sorts of ungodly hours, and I am
extremely lazy. I have another set of vices when I'm well, but
those are the principal ones at present.&cdq;
&odq;Do you include violin playing in your category of
rows?&cdq; he asked, anxiously.
&odq;It depends on the player,&cdq; I answered. &odq;A
well-played violin is a treat for the gods — a badly played
one — &cdq;
&odq;Oh, that's all right,&cdq; he cried, with a merry laugh.
&odq;I think we may consider the thing as settled —
that is if the rooms are agreeable to you.&cdq;
&odq;When shall we see them?&cdq;
&odq;Call for me here at noon to-morrow, and we'll go together
and settle everything,&cdq; he answered.
&odq;All right — noon exactly,&cdq; said I, shaking his
hand.
We left him working among his chemicals, and we walked together
towards my hotel.
&odq;By the way,&cdq; I asked suddenly, stopping and turning
upon Stamford, &odq;how the deuce did he know that I had come from
Afghanistan?&cdq;
My companion smiled an enigmatical smile. &odq;That's
just his little peculiarity,&cdq; he said. &odq;A good many
people have wanted to know how he finds things out.&cdq;
&odq;Oh! a mystery is it?&cdq; I cried, rubbing my hands.
&odq;This is very piquant. I am much obliged to you for
bringing us together. &onq;The proper study of mankind is
man,&cnq; you know.&cdq;
&odq;You must study him, then,&cdq; Stamford said, as he bade
me good-bye. &odq;You'll find him a knotty problem, though.
I'll wager he learns more about you than you about him.
Good-bye.&cdq;
&odq;Good-bye,&cdq; I answered, and strolled on to my hotel,
considerably interested in my new acquaintance.
We met next day as he had arranged, and inspected the rooms at
No. 221B, Baker Street, of which he had spoken at our meeting.
They consisted of a couple of comfortable bedrooms and a
single large airy sitting-room, cheerfully furnished, and illuminated
by two broad windows. So desirable in every way were the
apartments, and so moderate did the terms seem when divided between
us, that the bargain was concluded upon the spot, and we at once
entered into possession. That very evening I moved my things
round from the hotel, and on the following morning Sherlock Holmes
followed me with several boxes and portmanteaus. For a day or
two we were busily employed in unpacking and laying out our property
to the best advantage. That done, we gradually began to settle
down and to accommodate ourselves to our new surroundings.
Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to live with.
He was quiet in his ways, and his habits were regular.
It was rare for him to be up after ten at night, and he had
invariably breakfasted and gone out before I rose in the morning.
Sometimes he spent his day at the chemical laboratory,
sometimes in the dissecting-rooms, and occasionally in long walks,
which appeared to take him into the lowest portions of the city.
Nothing could exceed his energy when the working fit was upon
him; but now and again a reaction would seize him, and for days on
end he would lie upon the sofa in the sitting-room, hardly uttering a
word or moving a muscle from morning to night. On these
occasions I have noticed such a dreamy, vacant expression in his
eyes, that I might have suspected him of being addicted to the use of
some narcotic, had not the temperance and cleanliness of his whole
life forbidden such a notion.
As the weeks went by, my interest in him and my curiosity as to
his aims in life gradually deepened and increased. His very
person and appearance were such as to strike the attention of the
most casual observer. In height he was rather over six feet,
and so excessively lean that he seemed to be considerably taller.
His eyes were sharp and piercing, save during those intervals
of torpor to which I have alluded; and his thin, hawk-like nose gave
his whole expression an air of alertness and decision. His
chin, too, had the prominence and squareness which mark the man of
determination. His hands were invariably blotted with ink and
stained with chemicals, yet he was possessed of extraordinary
delicacy of touch, as I frequently had occasion to observe when I
watched him manipulating his fragile philosophical instruments.
The reader may set me down as a hopeless busybody, when I
confess how much this man stimulated my curiosity, and how often I
endeavoured to break through the reticence which he showed on all
that concerned himself. Before pronouncing judgement, however,
be it remembered how objectless was my life, and how little there was
to engage my attention. My health forbade me from venturing
out unless the weather was exceptionally genial, and I had no friends
who would call upon me and break the monotony of my daily existence.
Under these circumstances, I eagerly hailed the little mystery
which hung around my companion, and spent much of my time in
endeavouring to unravel it.
He was not studying medicine. He had himself, in reply
to a question, confirmed Stamford's opinion upon that point.
Neither did he appear to have pursued any course of reading
which might fit him for a degree, in science or any other recognized
portal which would give him an entrance into the learned world.
Yet his zeal for certain studies was remarkable, and within
eccentric limits his knowledge was so extraordinarily ample and
minute that his observations have fairly astounded me. Surely
no man would work so hard or attain such precise information unless
he had some definite end in view. Desultory readers are seldom
remarkable for the exactness of their learning. No man burdens
his mind with small matters unless he has some very good reason for
doing so.
His ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge. Of
contemporary literature, philosophy and politics he appeared to know
next to nothing. Upon my quoting Thomas Carlyle, he inquired
in the naivest way who he might be and what he had done. My
surprise reached a climax, however, when I found incidentally that he
was ignorant of the Copernican Theory and of the composition of the
Solar System. That any civilized human being in this
nineteenth century should not be aware that the earth travelled round
the sun appeared to me to be such an extraordinary fact that I could
hardly realize it.
&odq;You appear to be astonished,&cdq; he said, smiling at my
expression of surprise. &odq;Now that I do know it I shall do
my best to forget it.&cdq;
&odq;To forget it!&cdq;
&odq;You see,&cdq; he explained, &odq;I consider that a man's
brain originally is like a little empty attic, and you have to stock
it with such furniture as you choose. A fool takes in all the
lumber of every sort that he comes across, so that the knowledge
which might be useful to him gets crowded out, or at best is jumbled
up with a lot of other things, so that he has a difficulty in laying
his hands upon it. Now the skillful workman is very careful
indeed as to what he takes into his brain-attic. He will have
nothing but the tools which may help him in doing his work, but of
these he has a large assortment, and all in the most perfect order.
It is a mistake to think that that little room has elastic
walls and can distend to any extent. Depend upon it there
comes a time when for every addition of knowledge you forget
something that you knew before. It is of the highest
importance, therefore, not to have useless facts elbowing out the
useful ones.&cdq;
&odq;But the Solar System!&cdq; I protested.
&odq;What the deuce is it to me?&cdq; he interrupted
impatiently: &odq;you say that we go round the sun. If we went
round the moon it would not make a pennyworth of difference to me or
to my work.&cdq;
I was on the point of asking him what that work might be, but
something in his manner showed me that the question would be an
unwelcome one. I pondered over our short conversation however,
and endeavoured to draw my deductions from it. He said that he
would acquire no knowledge which did not bear upon his object.
Therefore all the knowledge which he possessed was such as
would be useful to him. I enumerated in my own mind all the
various points upon which he had shown me that he was exceptionally
well informed. I even took a pencil and jotted them down.
I could not help smiling at the document when I had completed
it. It ran in this way:
Sherlock Holmes — his limits1. Knowledge of Literature. — Nil.2. &odq;&cdq; Philosophy. — Nil.3. &odq;&cdq; Astronomy. — Nil.4. &odq;&cdq; Politics. — Feeble.5. &odq;&cdq; Botany. — Variable.Well up in belladonna, opium, and poisons generally.Knows nothing of practical gardening.6. Knowledge of Geology. — Practical, but limited.Tells at a glance different soils from each other.After walks has shown me splashes upon his trousers, and told me by their colour and consistence in what part of London he had received them.7. Knowledge of Chemistry. — Profound.8. &odq;&cdq; Anatomy. — Accurate, but unsystematic9. &odq;&cdq; Sensational Literature. — Immense.He appears to know every detail of every horror perpetrated in the century.10. Plays the violin well.11. Is an expert singlestick player, boxer, and swordsman.12. Has a good practical knowledge of British law.
When I had got so far in my list I threw it into the fire in
despair. &odq;If I can only find what the fellow is driving at
by reconciling all these accomplishments, and discovering a calling
which needs them all,&cdq; I said to myself, &odq;I may as well give
up the attempt at once.&cdq;
I see that I have alluded above to his powers upon the violin.
These were very remarkable, but as eccentric as all his other
accomplishments. That he could play pieces, and difficult
pieces, I knew well, because at my request he has played me some of
Mendelssohn's Lieder, and other favourites. When left to
himself, however, he would seldom produce any music or attempt any
recognized air. Leaning back in his armchair of an evening, he
would close his eyes and scrape carelessly at the fiddle which was
thrown across his knee. Sometimes the chords were sonorous and
melancholy. Occasionally they were fantastic and cheerful.
Clearly they reflected the thoughts which possessed him, but
whether the music aided those thoughts, or whether the playing was
simply the result of a whim or fancy, was more than I could
determine. I might have rebelled against these exasperating
solos had it not been that he usually terminated them by playing in
quick succession a whole series of my favourite airs as a slight
compensation for the trial upon my patience.
During the first week or so we had no callers, and I had begun
to think that my companion was as friendless a man as I was myself.
Presently, however, I found that he had many acquaintances,
and those in the most different classes of society. There was
one little sallow, rat-faced, dark-eyed fellow, who was introduced to
me as Mr. Lestrade, and who came three or four times in a single
week. One morning a young girl called, fashionably dressed,
and stayed for half an hour or more. The same afternoon
brought a gray-headed, seedy visitor, looking like a Jew peddler, who
appeared to me to be much excited, and who was closely followed by a
slipshod elderly woman. On another occasion an old
white-haired gentleman had an interview with my companion; and on
another, a railway porter in his velveteen uniform. When any
of these nondescript individuals put in an appearance, Sherlock
Holmes used to beg for the use of the sitting-room, and I would
retire to my bedroom. He always apologized to me for putting
me to this inconvenience. &odq;I have to use this room as a
place of business,&cdq; he said, &odq;and these people are my
clients.&cdq; Again I had an opportunity of asking him a
point-blank question, and again my delicacy prevented me from forcing
another man to confide in me. I imagined at the time that he
had some strong reason for not alluding to it, but he soon dispelled
the idea by coming round to the subject of his own accord.
It was upon the 4th of March, as I have good reason to
remember, that I rose somewhat earlier than usual, and found that
Sherlock Holmes had not yet finished his breakfast. The
landlady had become so accustomed to my late habits that my place had
not been laid nor my coffee prepared. With the unreasonable
petulance of mankind I rang the bell and gave a curt intimation that
I was ready. Then I picked up a magazine from the table and
attempted to while away the time with it, while my companion munched
silently at his toast. One of the articles had a pencil mark
at the heading, and I naturally began to run my eye through it.
Its somewhat ambitious title was &odq;The Book of Life,&cdq;
and it attempted to show how much an observant man might learn by an
accurate and systematic examination of all that came in his way.
It struck me as being a remarkable mixture of shrewdness and
of absurdity. The reasoning was close and intense, but the
deductions appeared to me to be far fetched and exaggerated.
The writer claimed by a momentary expression, a twitch of a
muscle or a glance of an eye, to fathom a man's inmost thoughts.
Deceit, according to him, was an impossibility in the case of
one trained to observation and analysis. His conclusions were
as infallible as so many propositions of Euclid. So startling
would his results appear to the uninitiated that until they learned
the processes by which he had arrived at them they might well
consider him as a necromancer.
&odq;From a drop of water,&cdq; said the writer, &odq;a
logician could infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara
without having seen or heard of one or the other. So all life
is a great chain, the nature of which is known whenever we are shown
a single link of it. Like all other arts, the Science of
Deduction and Analysis is one which can only be acquired by long and
patient study, nor is life long enough to allow any mortal to attain
the highest possible perfection in it. Before turning to those
moral and mental aspects of the matter which present the greatest
difficulties, let the inquirer begin by mastering more elementary
problems. Let him, on meeting a fellow-mortal, learn at a
glance to distinguish the history of the man, and the trade or
profession to which he belongs. Puerile as such an exercise
may seem, it sharpens the faculties of observation, and teaches one
where to look and what to look for. By a man's finger-nails,
by his coat-sleeve, by his boots, by his trouser-knees, by the
callosities of his forefinger and thumb, by his expression, by his
shirtcuffs — by each of these things a man's calling is
plainly revealed. That all united should fail to enlighten the
competent inquirer in any case is almost inconceivable.&cdq;
&odq;What ineffable twaddle!&cdq; I cried, slapping the
magazine down on the table; &odq;I never read such rubbish in my
life.&cdq;
&odq;What is it?&cdq; asked Sherlock Holmes.
&odq;Why, this article,&cdq; I said, pointing at it with my
eggspoon as I sat down to my breakfast. &odq;I see that you
have read it since you have marked it. I don't deny that it is
smartly written. It irritates me, though. It is
evidently the theory of some armchair lounger who evolves all these
neat little paradoxes in the seclusion of his own study. It is
not practical. I should like to see him clapped down in a
third-class carriage on the Underground, and asked to give the trades
of all his fellow-travellers. I would lay a thousand to one
against him.&cdq;
&odq;You would lose your money,&cdq; Holmes remarked calmly.
&odq;As for the article, I wrote it myself.&cdq;
&odq;You!&cdq;
&odq;Yes; I have a turn both for observation and for deduction.
The theories which I have expressed there, and which appear to
you to be so chimerical, are really extremely practical — so
practical that I depend upon them for my bread and cheese.&cdq;
&odq;And how?&cdq; I asked involuntarily.
&odq;Well, I have a trade of my own. I suppose I am the
only one in the world. I'm a consulting detective, if you can
understand what that is. Here in London we have lots of
government detectives and lots of private ones. When these
fellows are at fault, they come to me, and I manage to put them on
the right scent. They lay all the evidence before me, and I am
generally able, by the help of my knowledge of the history of crime,
to set them straight. There is a strong family resemblance
about misdeeds, and if you have all the details of a thousand at your
finger ends, it is odd if you can't unravel the thousand and first.
Lestrade is a well-known detective. He got himself into
a fog recently over a forgery case, and that was what brought him
here.&cdq;
&odq;And these other people?&cdq;
&odq;They are mostly sent on by private inquiry agencies.
They are all people who are in trouble about something and
want a little enlightening. I listen to their story, they
listen to my comments, and then I pocket my fee.&cdq;
&odq;But do you mean to say,&cdq; I said, &odq;that without
leaving your room you can unravel some knot which other men can make
nothing of, although they have seen every detail for themselves?&cdq;
&odq;Quite so. I have a kind of intuition that way.
Now and again a case turns up which is a little more complex.
Then I have to bustle about and see things with my own eyes.
You see I have a lot of special knowledge which I apply to the
problem, and which facilitates matters wonderfully. Those
rules of deduction laid down in that article which aroused your scorn
are invaluable to me in practical work. Observation with me is
second nature. You appeared to be surprised when I told you,
on our first meeting, that you had come from Afghanistan.&cdq;
&odq;You were told, no doubt.&cdq;
&odq;Nothing of the sort. I knew you came from
Afghanistan. From long habit the train of thoughts ran so
swiftly through my mind that I arrived at the conclusion without
being conscious of intermediate steps. There were such steps,
however. The train of reasoning ran, &onq;Here is a gentleman
of a medical type, but with the air of a military man. Clearly
an army doctor, then. He has just come from the tropics, for
his face is dark, and that is not the natural tint of his skin, for
his wrists are fair. He has undergone hardship and sickness,
as his haggard face says clearly. His left arm has been
injured. He holds it in a stiff and unnatural manner.
Where in the tropics could an English army doctor have seen
much hardship and got his arm wounded? Clearly in
Afghanistan.&cnq; The whole train of thought did not occupy a
second. I then remarked that you came from Afghanistan, and
you were astonished.&cdq;
&odq;It is simple enough as you explain it,&cdq; I said,
smiling. &odq;You remind me of Edgar Allan Poe's Dupin.
I had no idea that such individuals did exist outside of
stories.&cdq;
Sherlock Holmes rose and lit his pipe. &odq;No doubt you
think that you are complimenting me in comparing me to Dupin,&cdq; he
observed. &odq;Now, in my opinion, Dupin was a very inferior
fellow. That trick of his of breaking in on his friends'
thoughts with an apropos remark after a quarter of an hour's silence
is really very showy and superficial. He had some analytical
genius, no doubt; but he was by no means such a phenomenon as Poe
appeared to imagine.&cdq;
&odq;Have you read Gaboriau's works?&cdq; I asked.
&odq;Does Lecoq come up to your idea of a detective?&cdq;
Sherlock Holmes sniffed sardonically. &odq;Lecoq was a
miserable bungler,&cdq; he said, in an angry voice; &odq;he had only
one thing to recommend him, and that was his energy. That book
made me positively ill. The question was how to identify an
unknown prisoner. I could have done it in twenty-four hours.
Lecoq took six months or so. It might be made a
textbook for detectives to teach them what to avoid.&cdq;
I felt rather indignant at having two characters whom I had
admired treated in this cavalier style. I walked over to the
window and stood looking out into the busy street. &odq;This
fellow may be very clever,&cdq; I said to myself, &odq;but he is
certainly very conceited.&cdq;
&odq;There are no crimes and no criminals in these days,&cdq;
he said, querulously. &odq;What is the use of having brains in
our profession? I know well that I have it in me to make my
name famous. No man lives or has ever lived who has brought
the same amount of study and of natural talent to the detection of
crime which I have done. And what is the result? There
is no crime to detect, or, at most, some bungling villainy with a
motive so transparent that even a Scotland Yard official can see
through it.&cdq;
I was still annoyed at his bumptious style of conversation.
I thought it best to change the topic.
&odq;I wonder what that fellow is looking for?&cdq; I asked,
pointing to a stalwart, plainly dressed individual who was walking
slowly down the other side of the street, looking anxiously at the
numbers. He had a large blue envelope in his hand, and was
evidently the bearer of a message.
&odq;You mean the retired sergeant of Marines,&cdq; said
Sherlock Holmes.
&odq;Brag and bounce!&cdq; thought I to myself. &odq;He
knows that I cannot verify his guess.&cdq;
The thought had hardly passed through my mind when the man whom
we were watching caught sight of the number on our door, and ran
rapidly across the roadway. We heard a loud knock, a deep
voice below, and heavy steps ascending the stair.
&odq;For Mr. Sherlock Holmes,&cdq; he said, stepping into the
room and handing my friend the letter.
Here was an opportunity of taking the conceit out of him.
He little thought of this when he made that random shot.
&odq;May I ask, my lad,&cdq; I said, in the blandest voice,
&odq;what your trade may be?&cdq;
&odq;Commissionaire, sir,&cdq; he said, gruffly.
&odq;Uniform away for repairs.&cdq;
&odq;And you were?&cdq; I asked, with a slightly malicious
glance at my companion.
&odq;A sergeant, sir, Royal Marine Light Infantry, sir.
No answer? Right, sir.&cdq;
He clicked his heels together, raised his hand in salute, and
was gone.
I confess that I was considerably startled by this fresh proof
of the practical nature of my companion's theories. My respect
for his powers of analysis increased wondrously. There still
remained some lurking suspicion in my mind, however, that the whole
thing was a prearranged episode, intended to dazzle me, though what
earthly object he could have in taking me in was past my
comprehension. When I looked at him, he had finished reading
the note, and his eyes had assumed the vacant, lacklustre expression
which showed mental abstraction.
&odq;How in the world did you deduce that?&cdq; I asked.
&odq;Deduce what?&cdq; said he, petulantly.
&odq;Why, that he was a retired sergeant of Marines.&cdq;
&odq;I have no time for trifles,&cdq; he answered, brusquely,
then with a smile, &odq;Excuse my rudeness. You broke the
thread of my thoughts; but perhaps it is as well. So you
actually were not able to see that that man was a sergeant of
Marines?&cdq;
&odq;No, indeed.&cdq;
&odq;It was easier to know it than to explain why I know it.
If you were asked to prove that two and two made four, you
might find some difficulty, and yet you are quite sure of the fact.
Even across the street I could see a great blue anchor
tattooed on the back of the fellow's hand. That smacked of the
sea. He had a military carriage, however, and regulation side
whiskers. There we have the marine. He was a man with
some amount of self-importance and a certain air of command.
You must have observed the way in which he held his head and
swung his cane. A steady, respectable, middle-aged man, too,
on the face of him — all facts which led me to believe that
he had been a sergeant.&cdq;
&odq;Wonderful!&cdq; I ejaculated.
&odq;Commonplace,&cdq; said Holmes, though I thought from his
expression that he was pleased at my evident surprise and admiration.
&odq;I said just now that there were no criminals. It
appears that I am wrong — look at this!&cdq; He threw
me over the note which the commissionaire had brought.
&odq;Why,&cdq; I cried, as I cast my eye over it, &odq;this is
terrible!&cdq;
&odq;It does seem to be a little out of the common,&cdq; he
remarked, calmly. &odq;Would you mind reading it to me
aloud?&cdq;
This is the letter which I read to him, —
&odq;MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES:&cdq; There has been a bad
business during the night at 3, Lauriston Gardens, off the Brixton
Road. Our man on the beat saw a light there about two in the
morning, and as the house was an empty one, suspected that something
was amiss. He found the door open, and in the front room,
which is bare of furniture, discovered the body of a gentleman, well
dressed, and having cards in his pocket bearing the name of
&onq;Enoch J. Drebber, Cleveland, Ohio, U. S. A.&cnq; There
had been no robbery, nor is there any evidence as to how the man met
his death. There are marks of blood in the room, but there is
no wound upon his person. We are at a loss as to how he came
into the empty house; indeed, the whole affair is a puzzler.
If you can come round to the house any time before twelve, you
will find me there. I have left everything in statu quo until
I hear from you. If you are unable to come, I shall give you
fuller details, and would esteem it a great kindness if you would
favour me with your opinions. &odq;Yours faithfully,&cdq;
TOBIAS GREGSON.
&odq;Gregson is the smartest of the Scotland Yarders,&cdq; my
friend remarked; &odq;he and Lestrade are the pick of a bad lot.
They are both quick and energetic, but conventional —
shockingly so. They have their knives into one another, too.
They are as jealous as a pair of professional beauties.
There will be some fun over this case if they are both put
upon the scent.&cdq;
I was amazed at the calm way in which he rippled on.
&odq;Surely there is not a moment to be lost,&cdq; I cried,
&odq;shall I go and order you a cab?&cdq;
&odq;I'm not sure about whether I shall go. I am the
most incurably lazy devil that ever stood in shoe leather —
that is, when the fit is on me, for I can be spry enough at
times.&cdq;
&odq;Why, it is just such a chance as you have been longing
for.&cdq;
&odq;My dear fellow, what does it matter to me?
Supposing I unravel the whole matter, you may be sure that
Gregson, Lestrade, and Co. will pocket all the credit. That
comes of being an unofficial personage.&cdq;
&odq;But he begs you to help him.&cdq;
&odq;Yes. He knows that I am his superior, and
acknowledges it to me; but he would cut his tongue out before he
would own it to any third person. However, we may as well go
and have a look. I shall work it out on my own hook. I
may have a laugh at them if I have nothing else. Come on!&cdq;
He hustled on his overcoat, and bustled about in a way that
showed that an energetic fit had superseded the apathetic one.
&odq;Get your hat,&cdq; he said.
&odq;You wish me to come?&cdq;
&odq;Yes, if you have nothing better to do.&cdq; A
minute later we were both in a hansom, driving furiously for the
Brixton Road.
It was a foggy, cloudy morning, and a dun-coloured veil hung
over the housetops, looking like the reflection of the mud-coloured
streets beneath. My companion was in the best of spirits, and
prattled away about Cremona fiddles and the difference between a
Stradivarius and an Amati. As for myself, I was silent, for
the dull weather and the melancholy business upon which we were
engaged depressed my spirits.
&odq;You don't seem to give much thought to the matter in
hand,&cdq; I said at last, interrupting Holmes's musical
disquisition.
&odq;No data yet,&cdq; he answered. &odq;It is a capital
mistake to theorize before you have all the evidence. It
biases the judgement.&cdq;
&odq;You will have your data soon,&cdq; I remarked, pointing
with my finger; &odq;this is the Brixton Road, and that is the house,
if I am not very much mistaken.&cdq;
&odq;So it is. Stop, driver, stop!&cdq; We were
still a hundred yards or so from it, but he insisted upon our
alighting, and we finished our journey upon foot.
Number 3, Lauriston Gardens wore an ill-omened and minatory
look. It was one of four which stood back some little way from
the street, two being occupied and two empty. The latter
looked out with three tiers of vacant melancholy windows, which were
blank and dreary, save that here and there a &odq;To Let&cdq; card
had developed like a cataract upon the bleared panes. A small
garden sprinkled over with a scattered eruption of sickly plants
separated each of these houses from the street, and was traversed by
a narrow pathway, yellowish in colour, and consisting apparently of a
mixture of clay and of gravel. The whole place was very sloppy
from the rain which had fallen through the night. The garden
was bounded by a three-foot brick wall with a fringe of wood rails
upon the top, and against this wall was leaning a stalwart police
constable, surrounded by a small knot of loafers, who craned their
necks and strained their eyes in the vain hope of catching some
glimpse of the proceedings within.
I had imagined that Sherlock Holmes would at once have hurried
into the house and plunged into a study of the mystery.
Nothing appeared to be further from his intention. With
an air of nonchalance which, under the circumstances, seemed to me to
border upon affectation, he lounged up and down the pavement, and
gazed vacantly at the ground, the sky, the opposite houses and the
line of railings. Having finished his scrutiny, he proceeded
slowly down the path, or rather down the fringe of grass which
flanked the path, keeping his eyes riveted upon the ground.
Twice he stopped, and once I saw him smile, and heard him
utter an exclamation of satisfaction. There were many marks of
footsteps upon the wet clayey soil; but since the police had been
coming and going over it, I was unable to see how my companion could
hope to learn anything from it. Still I had had such
extraordinary evidence of the quickness of his perceptive faculties,
that I had no doubt that he could see a great deal which was hidden
from me.
At the door of the house we were met by a tall, white-faced,
flaxen-haired man, with a notebook in his hand, who rushed forward
and wrung my companion's hand with effusion. &odq;It is indeed
kind of you to come,&cdq; he said, &odq;I have had everything left
untouched.&cdq;
&odq;Except that!&cdq; my friend answered, pointing at the
pathway. &odq;If a herd of buffaloes had passed along, there
could not be a greater mess. No doubt, however, you had drawn
your own conclusions, Gregson, before you permitted this.&cdq;
&odq;I have had so much to do inside the house,&cdq; the
detective said evasively. &odq;My colleague, Mr. Lestrade, is
here. I had relied upon him to look after this.&cdq;
Holmes glanced at me and raised his eyebrows sardonically.
&odq;With two such men as yourself and Lestrade upon the ground
there will not be much for a third party to find out,&cdq; he said.
Gregson rubbed his hands in a self-satisfied way. &odq;I
think we have done all that can be done,&cdq; he answered; &odq;it's
a queer case, though, and I knew your taste for such things.&cdq;
&odq;You did not come here in a cab?&cdq; asked Sherlock
Holmes.
&odq;No, sir.&cdq;
&odq;Nor Lestrade?&cdq;
&odq;No, sir.&cdq;
&odq;Then let us go and look at the room.&cdq; With
which inconsequent remark he strode on into the house followed by
Gregson, whose features expressed his astonishment.
A short passage, bare-planked and dusty, led to the kitchen and
offices. Two doors opened out of it to the left and to the
right. One of these had obviously been closed for many weeks.
The other belonged to the dining-room, which was the apartment
in which the mysterious affair had occurred. Holmes walked in,
and I followed him with that subdued feeling at my heart which the
presence of death inspires.
It was a large square room, looking all the larger from the
absence of all furniture. A vulgar flaring paper adorned the
walls, but it was blotched in places with mildew, and here and there
great strips had become detached and hung down, exposing the yellow
plaster beneath. Opposite the door was a showy fireplace,
surmounted by a mantelpiece of imitation white marble. On one
corner of this was stuck the stump of a red wax candle. The
solitary window was so dirty that the light was hazy and uncertain,
giving a dull gray tinge to everything, which was intensified by the
thick layer of dust which coated the whole apartment.
All these details I observed afterwards. At present my
attention was centred upon the single, grim, motionless figure which
lay stretched upon the boards, with vacant, sightless eyes staring up
at the discoloured ceiling. It was that of a man about
forty-three or forty-four years of age, middle-sized,
broad-shouldered, with crisp curling black hair, and a short, stubbly
beard. He was dressed in a heavy broadcloth frock coat and
waistcoat, with light-coloured trousers, and immaculate collar and
cuffs. A top hat, well brushed and trim, was placed upon the
floor beside him. His hands were clenched and his arms thrown
abroad, while his lower limbs were interlocked, as though his death
struggle had been a grievous one. On his rigid face there
stood an expression of horror, and, as it seemed to me, of hatred,
such as I have never seen upon human features. This malignant
and terrible contortion, combined with the low forehead, blunt nose,
and prognathous jaw, gave the dead man a singularly simious and
ape-like appearance, which was increased by his writhing, unnatural
posture. I have seen death in many forms, but never has it
appeared to me in a more fearsome aspect than in that dark, grimy
apartment, which looked out upon one of the main arteries of suburban
London.
Lestrade, lean and ferret-like as ever, was standing by the
doorway, and greeted my companion and myself.
&odq;This case will make a stir, sir,&cdq; he remarked.
&odq;It beats anything I have seen, and I am no chicken.&cdq;
&odq;There is no clue?&cdq; said Gregson.
&odq;None at all,&cdq; chimed in Lestrade.
Sherlock Holmes approached the body, and, kneeling down,
examined it intently. &odq;You are sure that there is no
wound?&cdq; he asked, pointing to numerous gouts and splashes of
blood which lay all round.
&odq;Positive!&cdq; cried both detectives.
&odq;Then, of course, this blood belongs to a second individual
— presumably the murderer, if murder has been committed.
It reminds me of the circumstances attendant on the death of
Van Jansen, in Utrecht, in the year '34. Do you remember the
case, Gregson?&cdq;
&odq;No, sir.&cdq;
&odq;Read it up — you really should. There is
nothing new under the sun. It has all been done before.&cdq;
As he spoke, his nimble fingers were flying here, there, and
everywhere, feeling, pressing, unbuttoning, examining, while his eyes
wore the same far-away expression which I have already remarked upon.
So swiftly was the examination made, that one would hardly
have guessed the minuteness with which it was conducted.
Finally, he sniffed the dead man's lips, and then glanced at
the soles of his patent leather boots.
&odq;He has not been moved at all?&cdq; he asked.
&odq;No more than was necessary for the purpose of our
examination.&cdq;
&odq;You can take him to the mortuary now,&cdq; he said.
&odq;There is nothing more to be learned.&cdq;
Gregson had a stretcher and four men at hand. At his
call they entered the room, and the stranger was lifted and carried
out. As they raised him, a ring tinkled down and rolled across
the floor. Lestrade grabbed it up and stared at it with
mystified eyes.
&odq;There's been a woman here,&cdq; he cried. &odq;It's
a woman's wedding ring.&cdq;
He held it out, as he spoke, upon the palm of his hand.
We all gathered round him and gazed at it. There could
be no doubt that that circlet of plain gold had once adorned the
finger of a bride.
&odq;This complicates matters,&cdq; said Gregson.
&odq;Heaven knows, they were complicated enough before.&cdq;
&odq;You're sure it doesn't simplify them?&cdq; observed
Holmes. &odq;There's nothing to be learned by staring at it.
What did you find in his pockets?&cdq;
&odq;We have it all here,&cdq; said Gregson, pointing to a
litter of objects upon one of the bottom steps of the stairs.
&odq;A gold watch, No. 97163, by Barraud, of London.
Gold Albert chain, very heavy and solid. Gold ring,
with masonic device. Gold pin — bull-dog's head, with
rubies as eyes. Russian leather cardcase, with cards of Enoch
J. Drebber of Cleveland, corresponding with the E. J. D. upon the
linen. No purse, but loose money to the extent of seven pounds
thirteen. Pocket edition of Boccaccio's &onq;Decameron,&cnq;
with name of Joseph Stangerson upon the flyleaf. Two letters
— one addressed to E. J. Drebber and one to Joseph
Stangerson.&cdq;
&odq;At what address?&cdq;
&odq;American Exchange, Strand — to be left till called
for. They are both from the Guion Steamship Company, and refer
to the sailing of their boats from Liverpool. It is clear that
this unfortunate man was about to return to New York.&cdq;
&odq;Have you made any inquiries as to this man
Stangerson?&cdq;
&odq;I did it at once, sir,&cdq; said Gregson. &odq;I
have had advertisements sent to all the newspapers, and one of my men
has gone to the American Exchange, but he has not returned yet.&cdq;
&odq;Have you sent to Cleveland?&cdq;
&odq;We telegraphed this morning.&cdq;
&odq;How did you word your inquiries?&cdq;
&odq;We simply detailed the circumstances, and said that we
should be glad of any information which could help us.&cdq;
&odq;You did not ask for particulars on any point which
appeared to you to be crucial?&cdq;
&odq;I asked about Stangerson.&cdq;
&odq;Nothing else? Is there no circumstance on which
this whole case appears to hinge? Will you not telegraph
again?&cdq;
&odq;I have said all I have to say,&cdq; said Gregson, in an
offended voice.
Sherlock Holmes chuckled to himself, and appeared to be about
to make some remark, when Lestrade, who had been in the front room
while we were holding this conversation in the hall, reappeared upon
the scene, rubbing his hands in a pompous and self-satisfied manner.
&odq;Mr. Gregson,&cdq; he said, &odq;I have just made a
discovery of the highest importance, and one which would have been
overlooked had I not made a careful examination of the walls.&cdq;
The little man's eyes sparkled as he spoke, and he was
evidently in a state of suppressed exultation at having scored a
point against his colleague.
&odq;Come here,&cdq; he said, bustling back into the room, the
atmosphere of which felt clearer since the removal of its ghastly
inmate. &odq;Now, stand there!&cdq;
He struck a match on his boot and held it up against the wall.
&odq;Look at that!&cdq; he said, triumphantly.
I have remarked that the paper had fallen away in parts.
In this particular corner of the room a large piece had peeled
off, leaving a yellow square of coarse plastering. Across this
bare space there was scrawled in blood-red letters a single word
—
RACHE
&odq;What do you think of that?&cdq; cried the detective, with
the air of a showman exhibiting his show. &odq;This was
overlooked because it was in the darkest corner of the room, and no
one thought of looking there. The murderer has written it with
his or her own blood. See this smear where it has trickled
down the wall! That disposes of the idea of suicide anyhow.
Why was that corner chosen to write it on? I will tell
you. See that candle on the mantelpiece. It was lit at
the time, and if it was lit this corner would be the brightest
instead of the darkest portion of the wall.&cdq;
&odq;And what does it mean now that you have found it?&cdq;
asked Gregson in a depreciatory voice.
&odq;Mean? Why, it means that the writer was going to
put the female name Rachel, but was disturbed before he or she had
time to finish. You mark my words, when this case comes to be
cleared up, you will find that a woman named Rachel has something to
do with it. It's all very well for you to laugh, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes. You may be very smart and clever, but the old hound is
the best, when all is said and done.&cdq;
&odq;I really beg your pardon!&cdq; said my companion, who had
ruffled the little man's temper by bursting into an explosion of
laughter. &odq;You certainly have the credit of being the
first of us to find this out and, as you say, it bears every mark of
having been written by the other participant in last night's mystery.
I have not had time to examine this room yet, but with your
permission I shall do so now.&cdq;
As he spoke, he whipped a tape measure and a large round
magnifying glass from his pocket. With these two implements he
trotted noiselessly about the room, sometimes stopping, occasionally
kneeling, and once lying flat upon his face. So engrossed was
he with his occupation that he appeared to have forgotten our
presence, for he chattered away to himself under his breath the whole
time, keeping up a running fire of exclamations, groans, whistles,
and little cries suggestive of encouragement and of hope. As I
watched him I was irresistibly reminded of a pure-blooded,
well-trained foxhound, as it dashes backward and forward through the
covert, whining in its eagerness, until it comes across the lost
scent. For twenty minutes or more he continued his researches,
measuring with the most exact care the distance between marks which
were entirely invisible to me, and occasionally applying his tape to
the walls in an equally incomprehensible manner. In one place
he gathered up very carefully a little pile of gray dust from the
floor, and packed it away in an envelope. Finally he examined
with his glass the word upon the wall, going over every letter of it
with the most minute exactness. This done, he appeared to be
satisfied, for he replaced his tape and his glass in his pocket.
&odq;They say that genius is an infinite capacity for taking
pains,&cdq; he remarked with a smile. &odq;It's a very bad
definition, but it does apply to detective work.&cdq;
Gregson and Lestrade had watched the manoeuvres of their
amateur companion with considerable curiosity and some contempt.
They evidently failed to appreciate the fact, which I had
begun to realize, that Sherlock Holmes's smallest actions were all
directed towards some definite and practical end.
&odq;What do you think of it, sir?&cdq; they both asked.
&odq;It would be robbing you of the credit of the case if I
were to presume to help you,&cdq; remarked my friend. &odq;You
are doing so well now that it would be a pity for anyone to
interfere.&cdq; There was a world of sarcasm in his voice as
he spoke. &odq;If you will let me know how your investigations
go,&cdq; he continued, &odq;I shall be happy to give you any help I
can. In the meantime I should like to speak to the constable
who found the body. Can you give me his name and address?&cdq;
Lestrade glanced at his notebook. &odq;John Rance,&cdq;
he said. &odq;He is off duty now. You will find him at
46, Audley Court, Kennington Park Gate.&cdq;
Holmes took a note of the address.
&odq;Come along, Doctor,&cdq; he said: &odq;we shall go and
look him up. I'll tell you one thing which may help you in the
case,&cdq; he continued, turning to the two detectives.
&odq;There has been murder done, and the murderer was a man.
He was more than six feet high, was in the prime of life, had
small feet for his height, wore coarse, square-toed boots and smoked
a Trichinopoly cigar. He came here with his victim in a
four-wheeled cab, which was drawn by a horse with three old shoes and
one new one on his off fore-leg. In all probability the
murderer had a florid face, and the finger-nails of his right hand
were remarkably long. These are only a few indications, but
they may assist you.&cdq;
Lestrade and Gregson glanced at each other with an incredulous
smile.
&odq;If this man was murdered, how was it done?&cdq; asked the
former.
&odq;Poison,&cdq; said Sherlock Holmes curtly, and strode off.
&odq;One other thing, Lestrade,&cdq; he added, turning round
at the door: &odq;&onq;Rache,&cnq; is the German for
&onq;revenge&cnq;; so don't lose your time looking for Miss
Rachel.&cdq;
With which Parthian shot he walked away, leaving the two rivals
open mouthed behind him.
It was one o'clock when we left No. 3, Lauriston Gardens.
Sherlock Holmes led me to the nearest telegraph office, whence
he dispatched a long telegram. He then hailed a cab, and
ordered the driver to take us to the address given us by Lestrade.
&odq;There is nothing like first-hand evidence,&cdq; he
remarked; &odq;as a matter of fact, my mind is entirely made up upon
the case, but still we may as well learn all that is to be
learned.&cdq;
&odq;You amaze me, Holmes,&cdq; said I. &odq;Surely you
are not as sure as you pretend to be of all those particulars which
you gave.&cdq;
&odq;There's no room for a mistake,&cdq; he answered.
&odq;The very first thing which I observed on arriving there
was that a cab had made two ruts with its wheels close to the curb.
Now, up to last night, we have had no rain for a week, so that
those wheels which left such a deep impression must have been there
during the night. There were the marks of the horse's hoofs,
too, the outline of one of which was far more clearly cut than that
of the other three, showing that that was a new shoe. Since
the cab was there after the rain began, and was not there at any time
during the morning — I have Gregson's word for that —
it follows that it must have been there during the night, and
therefore, that it brought those two individuals to the house.&cdq;
&odq;That seems simple enough,&cdq; said I; &odq;but how about
the other man's height?&cdq;
&odq;Why, the height of a man, in nine cases out of ten, can be
told from the length of his stride. It is a simple calculation
enough, though there is no use my boring you with figures. I
had this fellow's stride both on the clay outside and on the dust
within. Then I had a way of checking my calculation.
When a man writes on a wall, his instinct leads him to write
above the level of his own eyes. Now that writing was just
over six feet from the ground. It was child's play.&cdq;
&odq;And his age?&cdq; I asked.
&odq;Well, if a man can stride four and a half feet without the
smallest effort, he can't be quite in the sere and yellow.
That was the breadth of a puddle on the garden walk which he
had evidently walked across. Patent-leather boots had gone
round, and Square-toes had hopped over. There is no mystery
about it at all. I am simply applying to ordinary life a few
of those precepts of observation and deduction which I advocated in
that article. Is there anything else that puzzles you?&cdq;
&odq;The finger-nails and the Trichinopoly,&cdq; I suggested.
&odq;The writing on the wall was done with a man's forefinger
dipped in blood. My glass allowed me to observe that the
plaster was slightly scratched in doing it, which would not have been
the case if the man's nail had been trimmed. I gathered up
some scattered ash from the floor. It was dark in colour and
flaky — such an ash is only made by a Trichinopoly. I
have made a special study of cigar ashes — in fact, I have
written a monograph upon the subject. I flatter myself that I
can distinguish at a glance the ash of any known brand either of
cigar or of tobacco. It is just in such details that the
skilled detective differs from the Gregson and Lestrade type.&cdq;
&odq;And the florid face?&cdq; I asked.
&odq;Ah, that was a more daring shot, though I have no doubt
that I was right. You must not ask me that at the present
state of the affair.&cdq;
I passed my hand over my brow. &odq;My head is in a
whirl,&cdq; I remarked; &odq;the more one thinks of it the more
mysterious it grows. How came these two men — if there
were two men — into an empty house? What has become of
the cabman who drove them? How could one man compel another to
take poison? Where did the blood come from? What was
the object of the murderer, since robbery had no part in it?
How came the woman's ring there? Above all, why should
the second man write up the German word RACHE before decamping?
I confess that I cannot see any possible way of reconciling
all these facts.&cdq;
My companion smiled approvingly.
&odq;You sum up the difficulties of the situation succinctly
and well,&cdq; he said. &odq;There is much that is still
obscure, though I have quite made up my mind on the main facts.
As to poor Lestrade's discovery, it was simply a blind
intended to put the police upon a wrong track, by suggesting
Socialism and secret societies. It was not done by a German.
The A, if you noticed, was printed somewhat after the German
fashion. Now, a real German invariably prints in the Latin
character, so that we may safely say that this was not written by
one, but by a clumsy imitator who overdid his part. It was
simply a ruse to divert inquiry into a wrong channel. I'm not
going to tell you much more of the case, Doctor. You know a
conjurer gets no credit when once he has explained his trick and if I
show you too much of my method of working, you will come to the
conclusion that I am a very ordinary individual after all.&cdq;
&odq;I shall never do that,&cdq; I answered; &odq;you have
brought detection as near an exact science as it ever will be brought
in this world.&cdq;
My companion flushed up with pleasure at my words, and the
earnest way in which I uttered them. I had already observed
that he was as sensitive to flattery on the score of his art as any
girl could be of her beauty.
&odq;I'll tell you one other thing,&cdq; he said.
&odq;Patent-leathers and Square-toes came in the same cab, and
they walked down the pathway together as friendly as possible
— arm-in-arm, in all probability. When they got inside,
they walked up and down the room — or rather, Patent-leathers
stood still while Square-toes walked up and down. I could read
all that in the dust; and I could read that as he walked he grew more
and more excited. That is shown by the increased length of his
strides. He was talking all the while, and working himself up,
no doubt, into a fury. Then the tragedy occurred. I've
told you all I know myself now, for the rest is mere surmise and
conjecture. We have a good working basis, however, on which to
start. We must hurry up, for I want to go to Halle's concert
to hear Norman Neruda this afternoon.&cdq;
This conversation had occurred while our cab had been threading
its way through a long succession of dingy streets and dreary byways.
In the dingiest and dreariest of them our driver suddenly came
to a stand. &odq;That's Audley Court in there,&cdq; he said,
pointing to a narrow slit in the line of dead-coloured brick.
&odq;You'll find me here when you come back.&cdq;
Audley Court was not an attractive locality. The narrow
passage led us into a quadrangle paved with flags and lined by sordid
dwellings. We picked our way among groups of dirty children,
and through lines of discoloured linen, until we came to Number 46,
the door of which was decorated with a small slip of brass on which
the name Rance was engraved. On inquiry we found that the
constable was in bed, and we were shown into a little front parlour
to await his coming.
He appeared presently, looking a little irritable at being
disturbed in his slumbers. &odq;I made my report at the
office,&cdq; he said.
Holmes took a half-sovereign from his pocket and played with it
pensively. &odq;We thought that we should like to hear it all
from your own lips,&cdq; he said.
&odq;I shall be most happy to tell you anything I can,&cdq; the
constable answered, with his eyes upon the little golden disc.
&odq;Just let us hear it all in your own way as it
occurred.&cdq;
Rance sat down on the horsehair sofa, and knitted his brows as
though determined not to omit anything in his narrative.
&odq;I'll tell it ye from the beginning,&cdq; he said.
&odq;My time is from ten at night to six in the morning.
At eleven there was a fight at the White Hart; but bar that
all was quiet enough on the beat. At one o'clock it began to
rain, and I met Harry Murcher — him who has the Holland Grove
beat — and we stood together at the corner of Henrietta
Street a-talkin'. Presently — maybe about two or a
little after — I thought I would take a look round and see
that all was right down the Brixton Road. It was precious
dirty and lonely. Not a soul did I meet all the way down,
though a cab or two went past me. I was a-strollin' down,
thinkin' between ourselves how uncommon handy a four of gin hot would
be, when suddenly the glint of a light caught my eye in the window of
that same house. Now, I knew that them two houses in Lauriston
Gardens was empty on account of him that owns them who won't have the
drains seed to, though the very last tenant what lived in one of them
died o' typhoid fever. I was knocked all in a heap, therefore,
at seeing a light in the window, and I suspected as something was
wrong. When I got to the door — &cdq;
&odq;You stopped, and then walked back to the garden gate,&cdq;
my companion interrupted. &odq;What did you do that for?&cdq;
Rance gave a violent jump, and stared at Sherlock Holmes with
the utmost amazement upon his features.
&odq;Why, that's true, sir,&cdq; he said; &odq;though how you
come to know it, Heaven only knows. Ye see when I got up to
the door, it was so still and so lonesome, that I thought I'd be none
the worse for someone with me. I ain't afeared of anything on
this side o' the grave; but I thought that maybe it was him that died
o' the typhoid inspecting the drains what killed him. The
thought gave me a kind o' turn, and I walked back to the gate to see
if I could see Murcher's lantern, but there wasn't no sign of him nor
of anyone else.&cdq;
&odq;There was no one in the street?&cdq;
&odq;Not a livin' soul, sir, nor as much as a dog. Then
I pulled myself together and went back and pushed the door open.
All was quiet inside, so I went into the room where the light
was a-burnin'. There was a candle flickerin' on the
mantelpiece — a red wax one — and by its light I saw
— &cdq;
&odq;Yes, I know all that you saw. You walked round the
room several times, and you knelt down by the body, and then you
walked through and tried the kitchen door, and then — &cdq;
John Rance sprang to his feet with a frightened face and
suspicion in his eyes. &odq;Where was you hid to see all
that?&cdq; he cried. &odq;It seems to me that you knows a deal
more than you should.&cdq;
Holmes laughed and threw his card across the table to the
constable. &odq;Don't go arresting me for the murder,&cdq; he
said. &odq;I am one of the hounds and not the wolf; Mr.
Gregson or Mr. Lestrade will answer for that. Go on, though.
What did you do next?&cdq;
Rance resumed his seat, without, however, losing his mystified
expression. &odq;I went back to the gate and sounded my
whistle. That brought Murcher and two more to the spot.&cdq;
&odq;Was the street empty then?&cdq;
&odq;Well, it was, as far as anybody that could be of any good
goes.&cdq;
&odq;What do you mean?&cdq;
The constable's features broadened into a grin, &odq;I've seen
many a drunk chap in my time,&cdq; he said, &odq;but never anyone so
cryin' drunk as that cove. He was at the gate when I came out,
a-leanin' up ag'in the railings, and a-singin' at the pitch o' his
lungs about Columbine's New-fangled Banner, or some such stuff.
He couldn't stand, far less help.&cdq;
&odq;What sort of a man was he?&cdq; asked Sherlock Holmes.
John Rance appeared to be somewhat irritated at this
digression. &odq;He was an uncommon drunk sort o' man,&cdq; he
said. &odq;He'd ha' found hisself in the station if we hadn't
been so took up.&cdq;
&odq;His face — his dress — didn't you notice
them?&cdq; Holmes broke in impatiently.
&odq;I should think I did notice them, seeing that I had to
prop him up — me and Murcher between us. He was a long
chap, with a red face, the lower part muffled round — &cdq;
&odq;That will do,&cdq; cried Holmes. &odq;What became
of him?&cdq;
&odq;We'd enough to do without lookin' after him,&cdq; the
policeman said, in an aggrieved voice. &odq;I'll wager he
found his way home all right.&cdq;
&odq;How was he dressed?&cdq;
&odq;A brown overcoat.&cdq;
&odq;Had he a whip in his hand?&cdq;
&odq;A whip — no.&cdq;
&odq;He must have left it behind,&cdq; muttered my companion.
&odq;You didn't happen to see or hear a cab after that?&cdq;
&odq;No.&cdq;
&odq;There's a half-sovereign for you,&cdq; my companion said,
standing up and taking his hat. &odq;I am afraid, Rance, that
you will never rise in the force. That head of yours should be
for use as well as ornament. You might have gained your
sergeant's stripes last night. The man whom you held in your
hands is the man who holds the clue of this mystery, and whom we are
seeking. There is no use of arguing about it now; I tell you
that it is so. Come along, Doctor.&cdq;
We started off for the cab together, leaving our informant
incredulous, but obviously uncomfortable.
&odq;The blundering fool!&cdq; Holmes said, bitterly, as
we drove back to our lodgings. &odq;Just to think of his
having such an incomparable bit of good luck, and not taking
advantage of it.&cdq;
&odq;I am rather in the dark still. It is true that the
description of this man tallies with your idea of the second party in
this mystery. But why should he come back to the house after
leaving it? That is not the way of criminals.&cdq;
&odq;The ring, man, the ring: that was what he came back for.
If we have no other way of catching him, we can always bait
our line with the ring. I shall have him, Doctor —
I'll lay you two to one that I have him. I must thank you for
it all. I might not have gone but for you, and so have missed
the finest study I ever came across: a study in scarlet, eh?
Why shouldn't we use a little art jargon. There's the
scarlet thread of murder running through the colourless skein of
life, and our duty is to unravel it, and isolate it, and expose every
inch of it. And now for lunch, and then for Norman Neruda.
Her attack and her bowing are splendid. What's that
little thing of Chopin's she plays so magnificently:
Tra-la-la-lira-lira-lay.&cdq;
Leaning back in the cab, this amateur bloodhound carolled away
like a lark while I meditated upon the many-sidedness of the human
mind.
Our morning's exertions had been too much for my weak health,
and I was tired out in the afternoon. After Holmes's departure
for the concert, I lay down upon the sofa and endeavoured to get a
couple of hours' sleep. It was a useless attempt. My
mind had been too much excited by all that had occurred, and the
strangest fancies and surmises crowded into it. Every time
that I closed my eyes I saw before me the distorted, baboon-like
countenance of the murdered man. So sinister was the
impression which that face had produced upon me that I found it
difficult to feel anything but gratitude for him who had removed its
owner from the world. If ever human features bespoke vice of
the most malignant type, they were certainly those of Enoch J.
Drebber, of Cleveland. Still I recognized that justice must be
done, and that the depravity of the victim was no condonement in the
eyes of the law.
The more I thought of it the more extraordinary did my
companion's hypothesis, that the man had been poisoned, appear.
I remembered how he had sniffed his lips, and had no doubt
that he had detected something which had given rise to the idea.
Then, again, if not poison, what had caused the man's death,
since there was neither wound nor marks of strangulation? But,
on the other hand, whose blood was that which lay so thickly upon the
floor? There were no signs of a struggle, nor had the victim
any weapon with which he might have wounded an antagonist. As
long as all these questions were unsolved, I felt that sleep would be
no easy matter, either for Holmes or myself. His quiet,
self-confident manner convinced me that he had already formed a
theory which explained all the facts, though what it was I could not
for an instant conjecture.
He was very late in returning — so late that I knew
that the concert could not have detained him all the time.
Dinner was on the table before he appeared.
&odq;It was magnificent,&cdq; he said, as he took his seat.
&odq;Do you remember what Darwin says about music? He
claims that the power of producing and appreciating it existed among
the human race long before the power of speech was arrived at.
Perhaps that is why we are so subtly influenced by it.
There are vague memories in our souls of those misty centuries
when the world was in its childhood.&cdq;
&odq;That's rather a broad idea,&cdq; I remarked.
&odq;One's ideas must be as broad as Nature if they are to
interpret Nature,&cdq; he answered. &odq;What's the matter?
You're not looking quite yourself. This Brixton Road
affair has upset you.&cdq;
&odq;To tell the truth, it has,&cdq; I said. &odq;I
ought to be more case-hardened after my Afghan experiences. I
saw my own comrades hacked to pieces at Maiwand without losing my
nerve.&cdq;
&odq;I can understand. There is a mystery about this
which stimulates the imagination; where there is no imagination there
is no horror. Have you seen the evening paper?&cdq;
&odq;No.&cdq;
&odq;It gives a fairly good account of the affair. It
does not mention the fact that when the man was raised up a woman's
wedding ring fell upon the floor. It is just as well it does
not.&cdq;
&odq;Why?&cdq;
&odq;Look at this advertisement,&cdq; he answered.
&odq;I had one sent to every paper this morning immediately
after the affair.&cdq;
He threw the paper across to me and I glanced at the place
indicated. It was the first announcement in the
&odq;Found&cdq; column. &odq;In Brixton Road, this
morning,&cdq; it ran, &odq;a plain gold wedding ring, found in the
roadway between the White Hart Tavern and Holland Grove. Apply
Dr. Watson, 221B, Baker Street, between eight and nine this
evening.&cdq;
&odq;Excuse my using your name,&cdq; he said. &odq;If I
used my own, some of these dunderheads would recognize it, and want
to meddle in the affair.&cdq;
&odq;That is all right,&cdq; I answered. &odq;But
supposing anyone applies, I have no ring.&cdq;
&odq;Oh, yes, you have,&cdq; said he, handing me one.
&odq;This will do very well. It is almost a
facsimile.&cdq;
&odq;And who do you expect will answer this advertisement?&cdq;
&odq;Why, the man in the brown coat — our florid friend
with the square toes. If he does not come himself, he will
send an accomplice.&cdq;
&odq;Would he not consider it as too dangerous?&cdq;
&odq;Not at all. If my view of the case is correct, and
I have every reason to believe that it is, this man would rather risk
anything than lose the ring. According to my notion he dropped
it while stooping over Drebber's body, and did not miss it at the
time. After leaving the house he discovered his loss and
hurried back, but found the police already in possession, owing to
his own folly in leaving the candle burning. He had to pretend
to be drunk in order to allay the suspicions which might have been
aroused by his appearance at the gate. Now put yourself in
that man's place. On thinking the matter over, it must have
occurred to him that it was possible that he had lost the ring in the
road after leaving the house. What would he do then? He
would eagerly look out for the evening papers in the hope of seeing
it among the articles found. His eye, of course, would light
upon this. He would be overjoyed. Why should he fear a
trap? There would be no reason in his eyes why the finding of
the ring should be connected with the murder. He would come.
He will come. You shall see him within an hour.&cdq;
&odq;And then?&cdq; I asked.
&odq;Oh, you can leave me to deal with him then. Have
you any arms?&cdq;
&odq;I have my old service revolver and a few cartridges.&cdq;
&odq;You had better clean it and load it. He will be a
desperate man; and though I shall take him unawares, it is as well to
be ready for anything.&cdq;
I went to my bedroom and followed his advice. When I
returned with the pistol, the table had been cleared, and Holmes was
engaged in his favourite occupation of scraping upon his violin.
&odq;The plot thickens,&cdq; he said, as I entered; &odq;I have
just had an answer to my American telegram. My view of the
case is the correct one.&cdq;
&odq;And that is?&cdq; I asked eagerly.
&odq;My fiddle would be the better for new strings,&cdq; he
remarked. &odq;Put your pistol in your pocket. When the
fellow comes, speak to him in an ordinary way. Leave the rest
to me. Don't frighten him by looking at him too hard.&cdq;
&odq;It is eight o'clock now,&cdq; I said, glancing at my
watch.
&odq;Yes. He will probably be here in a few minutes.
Open the door slightly. That will do. Now put
the key on the inside. Thank you! This is a queer old
book I picked up at a stall yesterday — De Jure inter Gentes
— published in Latin at Liege in the Lowlands, in 1642.
Charles's head was still firm on his shoulders when this
little brown-backed volume was struck off.&cdq;
&odq;Who is the printer?&cdq;
&odq;Philippe de Croy, whoever he may have been. On the
flyleaf, in very faded ink, is written &onq;Ex libris Guliolmi
Whyte.&cnq; I wonder who William Whyte was. Some
pragmatical seventeenth-century lawyer, I suppose. His writing
has a legal twist about it. Here comes our man, I think.&cdq;
As he spoke there was a sharp ring at the bell. Sherlock
Holmes rose softly and moved his chair in the direction of the door.
We heard the servant pass along the hall, and the sharp click
of the latch as she opened it.
&odq;Does Dr. Watson live here?&cdq; asked a clear but rather
harsh voice. We could not hear the servant's reply, but the
door closed, and someone began to ascend the stairs. The
footfall was an uncertain and shuffling one. A look of
surprise passed over the face of my companion as he listened to it.
It came slowly along the passage, and there was a feeble tap
at the door.
&odq;Come in,&cdq; I cried.
At my summons, instead of the man of violence whom we expected,
a very old and wrinkled woman hobbled into the apartment. She
appeared to be dazzled by the sudden blaze of light, and after
dropping a curtsey, she stood blinking at us with her bleared eyes
and fumbling in her pocket with nervous, shaky fingers. I
glanced at my companion, and his face had assumed such a disconsolate
expression that it was all I could do to keep my countenance.
The old crone drew out an evening paper, and pointed at our
advertisement. &odq;It's this as has brought me, good
gentlemen,&cdq; she said, dropping another curtsey; &odq;a gold
wedding ring in the Brixton Road. It belongs to my girl Sally,
as was married only this time twelvemonth, which her husband is
steward aboard a Union boat, and what he'd say if he comes 'ome and
found her without her ring is more than I can think, he being short
enough at the best o' times, but more especially when he has the
drink. If it please you, she went to the circus last night
along with — &cdq;
&odq;Is that her ring?&cdq; I asked.
&odq;The Lord be thanked!&cdq; cried the old woman; &odq;Sally
will be a glad woman this night. That's the ring.&cdq;
&odq;And what may your address be?&cdq; I inquired, taking up a
pencil.
&odq;13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch. A weary way from
here.&cdq;
&odq;The Brixton Road does not lie between any circus and
Houndsditch,&cdq; said Sherlock Holmes sharply.
The old woman faced round and looked keenly at him from her
little red-rimmed eyes. &odq;The gentleman asked me for my
address,&cdq; she said. &odq;Sally lives in lodgings at 3,
Mayfield Place, Peckham.&cdq;
&odq;And your name is?&cdq;
&odq;My name is Sawyer — hers is Dennis, which Tom
Dennis married her — and a smart, clean lad, too, as long as
he's at sea, and no steward in the company more thought of; but when
on shore, what with the women and what with liquor shops —
&cdq;
&odq;Here is your ring, Mrs. Sawyer,&cdq; I interrupted, in
obedience to a sign from my companion; &odq;it clearly belongs to
your daughter, and I am glad to be able to restore it to the rightful
owner.&cdq;
With many mumbled blessings and protestations of gratitude the
old crone packed it away in her pocket, and shuffled off down the
stairs. Sherlock Holmes sprang to his feet the moment that she
was gone and rushed into his room. He returned in a few
seconds enveloped in an ulster and a cravat. &odq;I'll follow
her,&cdq; he said, hurriedly; &odq;she must be an accomplice, and
will lead me to him. Wait up for me.&cdq; The hall door
had hardly slammed behind our visitor before Holmes had descended the
stair. Looking through the window I could see her walking
feebly along the other side, while her pursuer dogged her some little
distance behind. &odq;Either his whole theory is
incorrect,&cdq; I thought to myself, &odq;or else he will be led now
to the heart of the mystery.&cdq; There was no need for him to
ask me to wait up for him, for I felt that sleep was impossible until
I heard the result of his adventure.
It was close upon nine when he set out. I had no idea
how long he might be, but I sat stolidly puffing at my pipe and
skipping over the pages of Henri Murger's Vie de Boheme. Ten
o'clock passed, and I heard the footsteps of the maid as she pattered
off to bed. Eleven, and the more stately tread of the landlady
passed my door, bound for the same destination. It was close
upon twelve before I heard the sharp sound of his latchkey.
The instant he entered I saw by his face that he had not been
successful. Amusement and chagrin seemed to be struggling for
the mastery, until the former suddenly carried the day, and he burst
into a hearty laugh.
&odq;I wouldn't have the Scotland Yarders know it for the
world,&cdq; he cried, dropping into his chair; &odq;I have chaffed
them so much that they would never have let me hear the end of it.
I can afford to laugh, because I know that I will be even with
them in the long run.&cdq;
&odq;What is it then?&cdq; I asked.
&odq;Oh, I don't mind telling a story against myself.
That creature had gone a little way when she began to limp and
show every sign of being footsore. Presently she came to a
halt, and hailed a four-wheeler which was passing. I managed
to be close to her so as to hear the address, but I need not have
been so anxious, for she sang it out loud enough to be heard at the
other side of the street, &onq;Drive to 13, Duncan Street,
Houndsditch,&cnq; she cried. This begins to look genuine, I
thought, and having seen her safely inside, I perched myself behind.
That's an art which every detective should be an expert at.
Well, away we rattled, and never drew rein until we reached
the street in question. I hopped off before we came to the
door, and strolled down the street in an easy, lounging way. I
saw the cab pull up. The driver jumped down, and I saw him
open the door and stand expectantly. Nothing came out though.
When I reached him, he was groping about frantically in the
empty cab, and giving vent to the finest assorted collection of oaths
that ever I listened to. There was no sign or trace of his
passenger, and I fear it will be some time before he gets his fare.
On inquiring at Number 13 we found that the house belonged to
a respectable paperhanger, named Keswick, and that no one of the name
either of Sawyer or Dennis had ever been heard of there.&cdq;
&odq;You don't mean to say,&cdq; I cried, in amazement,
&odq;that that tottering, feeble old woman was able to get out of the
cab while it was in motion, without either you or the driver seeing
her?&cdq;
&odq;Old woman be damned!&cdq; said Sherlock Holmes, sharply.
&odq;We were the old women to be so taken in. It must
have been a young man, and an active one, too, besides being an
incomparable actor. The get-up was inimitable. He saw
that he was followed, no doubt, and used this means of giving me the
slip. It shows that the man we are after is not as lonely as I
imagined he was, but has friends who are ready to risk something for
him. Now, Doctor, you are looking done-up. Take my
advice and turn in.
I was certainly feeling very weary, so I obeyed his injunction.
I left Holmes seated in front of the smouldering fire, and
long into the watches of the night I heard the low melancholy
wailings of his violin, and knew that he was still pondering over the
strange problem which he had set himself to unravel.
The papers next day were full of the &odq;Brixton Mystery,&cdq;
as they termed it. Each had a long account of the affair, and
some had leaders upon it in addition. There was some
information in them which was new to me. I still retain in my
scrapbook numerous clippings and extracts bearing upon the case.
Here is a condensation of a few of them:
The Daily Telegraph remarked that in the history of crime there
had seldom been a tragedy which presented stranger features.
The German name of the victim, the absence of all other
motive, and the sinister inscription on the wall, all pointed to its
perpetration by political refugees and revolutionists. The
Socialists had many branches in America, and the deceased had no
doubt, infringed their unwritten laws, and been tracked down by them.
After alluding airily to the Vehmgericht, aqua tofana,
Carbonari, the Marchioness de Brinvilliers, the Darwinian theory, the
principles of Malthus, and the Ratcliff Highway murders, the article
concluded by admonishing the government and advocating a closer watch
over foreigners in England.
The Standard commented upon the fact that lawless outrages of
the sort usually occurred under a Liberal administration. They
arose from the unsettling of the minds of the masses, and the
consequent weakening of all authority. The deceased was an
American gentleman who had been residing for some weeks in the
metropolis. He had stayed at the boarding-house of Madame
Charpentier, in Torquay Terrace, Camberwell. He was
accompanied in his travels by his private secretary, Mr. Joseph
Stangerson. The two bade adieu to their landlady upon Tuesday,
the 4th inst., and departed to Euston Station with the avowed
intention of catching the Liverpool express. They were
afterwards seen together upon the platform. Nothing more is
known of them until Mr. Drebber's body was, as recorded, discovered
in an empty house in the Brixton Road, many miles from Euston.
How he came there, or how he met his fate, are questions which
are still involved in mystery. Nothing is known of the
whereabouts of Stangerson. We are glad to learn that Mr.
Lestrade and Mr. Gregson, of Scotland Yard, are both engaged upon the
case, and it is confidently anticipated that these well-known
officers will speedily throw light upon the matter.
The Daily News observed that there was no doubt as to the crime
being a political one. The despotism and hatred of Liberalism
which animated the Continental governments had had the effect of
driving to our shores a number of men who might have made excellent
citizens were they not soured by the recollection of all that they
had undergone. Among these men there was a stringent code of
honour, any infringement of which was punished by death. Every
effort should be made to find the secretary, Stangerson, and to
ascertain some particulars of the habits of the deceased. A
great step had been gained by the discovery of the address of the
house at which he had boarded — a result which was entirely
due to the acuteness and energy of Mr. Gregson of Scotland Yard.
Sherlock Holmes and I read these notices over together at
breakfast, and they appeared to afford him considerable amusement.
&odq;I told you that, whatever happened, Lestrade and Gregson
would be sure to score.&cdq;
&odq;That depends on how it turns out.&cdq;
&odq;Oh, bless you, it doesn't matter in the least. If
the man is caught, it will be on account of their exertions; if he
escapes, it will be in spite of their exertions. It's heads I
win and tails you lose. Whatever they do, they will have
followers. &onq;Un sot trouve toujours un plus sot qui
l'admire.&cnq;&cdq;
&odq;What on earth is this?&cdq; I cried, for at this moment
there came the pattering of many steps in the hall and on the stairs,
accompanied by audible expressions of disgust upon the part of our
landlady.
&odq;It's the Baker Street division of the detective police
force,&cdq; said my companion gravely; and as he spoke there rushed
into the room half a dozen of the dirtiest and most ragged street
Arabs that ever I clapped eyes on.
&odq;'Tention!&cdq; cried Holmes, in a sharp tone, and the six
dirty little scoundrels stood in a line like so many disreputable
statuettes. &odq;In future you shall send up Wiggins alone to
report, and the rest of you must wait in the street. Have you
found it, Wiggins?&cdq;
&odq;No, sir, we hain't,&cdq; said one of the youths.
&odq;I hardly expected you would. You must keep on until
you do. Here are your wages.&cdq; He handed each of
them a shilling. &odq;Now, off you go, and come back with a
better report next time.&cdq;
He waved his hand, and they scampered away downstairs like so
many rats, and we heard their shrill voices next moment in the
street.
&odq;There's more work to be got out of one of those little
beggars than out of a dozen of the force,&cdq; Holmes remarked.
&odq;The mere sight of an official-looking person seals men's
lips. These youngsters, however, go everywhere and hear
everything. They are as sharp as needles, too; all they want
is organization.&cdq;
&odq;Is it on this Brixton case that you are employing
them?&cdq; I asked.
&odq;Yes; there is a point which I wish to ascertain. It
is merely a matter of time. Hullo! we are going to hear some
news now with a vengeance! Here is Gregson coming down the
road with beatitude written upon every feature of his face.
Bound for us, I know. Yes, he is stopping. There
he is!&cdq;
There was a violent peal at the bell, and in a few seconds the
fair-haired detective came up the stairs, three steps at a time, and
burst into our sitting-room.
&odq;My dear fellow,&cdq; he cried, wringing Holmes's
unresponsive hand, &odq;congratulate me! I have made the whole
thing as clear as day.&cdq;
A shade of anxiety seemed to me to cross my companion's
expressive face.
&odq;Do you mean that you are on the right track?&cdq; he
asked.
&odq;The right track! Why, sir, we have the man under
lock and key.&cdq;
&odq;And his name is?&cdq;
&odq;Arthur Charpentier, sub-lieutenant in Her Majesty's
navy,&cdq; cried Gregson pompously rubbing his fat hands and
inflating his chest.
Sherlock Holmes gave a sigh of relief and relaxed into a smile.
&odq;Take a seat, and try one of these cigars,&cdq; he said.
&odq;We are anxious to know how you managed it. Will
you have some whisky and water?&cdq;
&odq;I don't mind if I do,&cdq; the detective answered.
&odq;The tremendous exertions which I have gone through during
the last day or two have worn me out. Not so much bodily
exertion, you understand, as the strain upon the mind. You
will appreciate that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, for we are both
brain-workers.&cdq;
&odq;You do me too much honour,&cdq; said Holmes, gravely.
&odq;Let us hear how you arrived at this most gratifying
result.&cdq;
The detective seated himself in the armchair, and puffed
complacently at his cigar. Then suddenly he slapped his thigh
in a paroxysm of amusement.
&odq;The fun of it is,&cdq; he cried, &odq;that that fool
Lestrade, who thinks himself so smart, has gone off upon the wrong
track altogether. He is after the secretary Stangerson, who
had no more to do with the crime than the babe unborn. I have
no doubt that he has caught him by this time.&cdq;
The idea tickled Gregson so much that he laughed until he
choked.
&odq;And how did you get your clue?&cdq;
&odq;Ah, I'll tell you all about it. Of course, Dr.
Watson, this is strictly between ourselves. The first
difficulty which we had to contend with was the finding of this
American's antecedents. Some people would have waited until
their advertisements were answered, or until parties came forward and
volunteered information. That is not Tobias Gregson's way of
going to work. You remember the hat beside the dead man?&cdq;
&odq;Yes,&cdq; said Holmes; &odq;by John Underwood and Sons,
129, Camberwell Road.&cdq;
Gregson looked quite crestfallen.
&odq;I had no idea that you noticed that,&cdq; he said.
&odq;Have you been there?&cdq;
&odq;No.&cdq;
&odq;Ha!&cdq; cried Gregson, in a relieved voice; &odq;you
should never neglect a chance, however small it may seem.&cdq;
&odq;To a great mind, nothing is little,&cdq; remarked Holmes,
sententiously.
&odq;Well, I went to Underwood, and asked him if he had sold a
hat of that size and description. He looked over his books,
and came on it at once. He had sent the hat to a Mr. Drebber,
residing at Charpentier's Boarding Establishment, Torquay Terrace.
Thus I got at his address.&cdq;
&odq;Smart, — very smart!&cdq; murmured Sherlock
Holmes.
&odq;I next called upon Madame Charpentier,&cdq; continued the
detective. &odq;I found her very pale and distressed.
Her daughter was in the room, too — an uncommonly fine
girl she is, too; she was looking red about the eyes and her lips
trembled as I spoke to her. That didn't escape my notice.
I began to smell a rat. You know the feeling, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes, when you come upon the right scent — a kind
of thrill in your nerves. &onq;Have you heard of the
mysterious death of your late boarder Mr. Enoch J. Drebber, of
Cleveland?&cnq; I asked.
&odq;The mother nodded. She didn't seem able to get out
a word. The daughter burst into tears. I felt more than
ever that these people knew something of the matter.
&odq;&onq;At what o'clock did Mr. Drebber leave your house for
the train?&cnq; I asked.
&odq;&onq;At eight o'clock,&cnq; she said, gulping in her
throat to keep down her agitation. &onq;His secretary, Mr.
Stangerson, said that there were two trains — one at 9:15 and
one at 11. He was to catch the first.&cnq;
&odq;&onq;And was that the last which you saw of him?&cnq;
&odq;A terrible change came over the woman's face as I asked
the question. Her features turned perfectly livid. It
was some seconds before she could get out the single word
&onq;Yes&cnq; — and when it did come it was in a husky,
unnatural tone.
&odq;There was silence for a moment, and then the daughter
spoke in a calm, clear voice.
&odq;&onq;No good can ever come of falsehood, mother,&cnq; she
said. &onq;Let us be frank with this gentleman. We did
see Mr. Drebber again.&cnq;
&odq;&onq;God forgive you!&cnq; cried Madame Charpentier,
throwing up her hands and sinking back in her chair. &onq;You
have murdered your brother.&cnq;
&odq;&onq;Arthur would rather that we spoke the truth,&cnq; the
girl answered firmly.
&odq;&onq;You had best tell me all about it now,&cnq; I said.
&onq;Half-confidences are worse than none. Besides, you
do not know how much we know of it.&cnq;
&odq;&onq;On your head be it, Alice!&cnq; cried her mother; and
then turning to me, &onq;I will tell you all, sir. Do not
imagine that my agitation on behalf of my son arises from any fear
lest he should have had a hand in this terrible affair. He is
utterly innocent of it. My dread is, however, that in your
eyes and in the eyes of others he may appear to be compromised.
That, however, is surely impossible. His high
character, his profession, his antecedents would all forbid it.&cnq;
&odq;&onq;Your best way is to make a clean breast of the
facts,&cnq; I answered. &onq;Depend upon it, if your son is
innocent he will be none the worse.&cnq;
&odq;&onq;Perhaps, Alice, you had better leave us
together,&cnq; she said, and her daughter withdrew. &onq;Now,
sir,&cnq; she continued, &onq;I had no intention of telling you all
this, but since my poor daughter has disclosed it I have no
alternative. Having once decided to speak, I will tell you all
without omitting any particular.&cnq;
&odq;&onq;It is your wisest course,&cnq; said I.
&odq;&onq;Mr. Drebber has been with us nearly three weeks.
He and his secretary, Mr. Stangerson, had been travelling on
the Continent. I noticed a Copenhagen label upon each of their
trunks, showing that that had been their last stopping place.
Stangerson was a quiet, reserved man, but his employer, I am
sorry to say, was far otherwise. He was coarse in his habits
and brutish in his ways. The very night of his arrival he
became very much the worse for drink, and, indeed, after twelve
o'clock in the day he could hardly ever be said to be sober.
His manners towards the maid-servants were disgustingly free
and familiar. Worst of all, he speedily assumed the same
attitude towards my daughter, Alice, and spoke to her more than once
in a way which, fortunately, she is too innocent to understand.
On one occasion he actually seized her in his arms and
embraced her — an outrage which caused his own secretary to
reproach him for his unmanly conduct.&cnq;
&odq;&onq;But why did you stand all this?&cnq; I asked.
&onq;I suppose that you can get rid of your boarders when you
wish.&cnq;
&odq;Mrs. Charpentier blushed at my pertinent question.
&onq;Would to God that I had given him notice on the very day
that he came,&cnq; she said. &onq;But it was a sore
temptation. They were paying a pound a day each —
fourteen pounds a week, and this is the slack season. I am a
widow, and my boy in the Navy has cost me much. I grudged to
lose the money. I acted for the best. This last was too
much, however, and I gave him notice to leave on account of it.
That was the reason of his going.&cnq;
&odq;&onq;Well?&cnq;
&odq;&onq;My heart grew light when I saw him drive away.
My son is on leave just now, but I did not tell him anything
of all this, for his temper is violent, and he is passionately fond
of his sister. When I closed the door behind them a load
seemed to be lifted from my mind. Alas, in less than an hour
there was a ring at the bell, and I learned that Mr. Drebber had
returned. He was much excited, and evidently the worse for
drink. He forced his way into the room, where I was sitting
with my daughter, and made some incoherent remark about having missed
his train. He then turned to Alice, and before my very face,
proposed to her that she should fly with him. &cdq; You are of
age, &odq;he said,&cdq; and there is no law to stop you. I
have money enough and to spare. Never mind the old girl here,
but come along with me now straight away. You shall live like
a princess. &odq;Poor Alice was so frightened that she shrunk
away from him, but he caught her by the wrist and endeavoured to draw
her towards the door. I screamed, and at that moment my son
Arthur came into the room. What happened then I do not know.
I heard oaths and the confused sounds of a scuffle. I
was too terrified to raise my head. When I did look up I saw
Arthur standing in the doorway laughing, with a stick in his hand.
&cdq; I don't think that fine fellow will trouble us again,
&odq;he said. &cdq; I will just go after him and see what he
does with himself. &odq;With those words he took his hat and
started off down the street. The next morning we heard of Mr.
Drebber's mysterious death.&cnq;
&odq;This statement came from Mrs. Charpentier's lips with many
gasps and pauses. At times she spoke so low that I could
hardly catch the words. I made shorthand notes of all that she
said however, so that there should be no possibility of a
mistake.&cdq;
&odq;It's quite exciting,&cdq; said Sherlock Holmes, with a
yawn. &odq;What happened next?&cdq;
&odq;When Mrs. Charpentier paused,&cdq; the detective
continued, &odq;I saw that the whole case hung upon one point.
Fixing her with my eye in a way which I always found effective
with women, I asked her at what hour her son returned.
&odq;&onq;I do not know,&cnq; she answered.
&odq;&onq;Not know?&cnq;
&odq;&onq;No; he has a latchkey, and he let himself in.&cnq;
&odq;&onq;After you went to bed?&cnq;
&odq;&onq;Yes.&cnq;
&odq;&onq;When did you go to bed?&cnq;
&odq;&onq;About eleven.&cnq;
&odq;&onq;So your son was gone at least two hours?&cnq;
&odq;&onq;Yes.&cnq;
&odq;&onq;Possibly four or five?&cnq;
&odq;&onq;Yes.&cnq;
&odq;&onq;What was he doing during that time?&cnq;
&odq;&onq;I do not know,&cnq; she answered, turning white to
her very lips.
&odq;Of course after that there was nothing more to be done.
I found out where Lieutenant Charpentier was, took two
officers with me, and arrested him. When I touched him on the
shoulder and warned him to come quietly with us, he answered us as
bold as brass, &onq;I suppose you are arresting me for being
concerned in the death of that scoundrel Drebber,&cnq; he said.
We had said nothing to him about it, so that his alluding to
it had a most suspicious aspect.&cdq;
&odq;Very,&cdq; said Holmes.
&odq;He still carried the heavy stick which the mother
described him as having with him when he followed Drebber. It
was a stout oak cudgel.&cdq;
&odq;What is your theory, then?&cdq;
&odq;Well, my theory is that he followed Drebber as far as the
Brixton Road. When there, a fresh altercation arose between
them, in the course of which Drebber received a blow from the stick,
in the pit of the stomach perhaps, which killed him without leaving
any mark. The night was so wet that no one was about, so
Charpentier dragged the body of his victim into the empty house.
As to the candle, and the blood, and the writing on the wall,
and the ring, they may all be so many tricks to throw the police on
to the wrong scent.&cdq;
&odq;Well done!&cdq; said Holmes in an encouraging voice.
&odq;Really, Gregson, you are getting along. We shall
make something of you yet.&cdq;
&odq;I flatter myself that I have managed it rather
neatly,&cdq; the detective answered, proudly. &odq;The young
man volunteered a statement, in which he said that after following
Drebber some time, the latter perceived him, and took a cab in order
to get away from him. On his way home he met an old shipmate,
and took a long walk with him. On being asked where this old
shipmate lived, he was unable to give any satisfactory reply.
I think the whole case fits together uncommonly well.
What amuses me is to think of Lestrade, who had started off
upon the wrong scent. I am afraid he won't make much of it.
Why, by Jove, here's the very man himself!&cdq;
It was indeed Lestrade, who had ascended the stairs while we
were talking, and who now entered the room. The assurance and
jauntiness which generally marked his demeanour and dress were,
however, wanting. His face was disturbed and troubled, while
his clothes were disarranged and untidy. He had evidently come
with the intention of consulting with Sherlock Holmes, for on
perceiving his colleague he appeared to be embarrassed and put out.
He stood in the centre of the room, fumbling nervously with
his hat and uncertain what to do. &odq;This is a most
extraordinary case,&cdq; he said at last — &odq;a most
incomprehensible affair.&cdq;
&odq;Ah, you find it so, Mr. Lestrade!&cdq; cried Gregson,
triumphantly. &odq;I thought you would come to that
conclusion. Have you managed to find the secretary, Mr. Joseph
Stangerson?&cdq;
&odq;The secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson,&cdq; said Lestrade,
gravely, &odq;was murdered at Halliday's Private Hotel about six
o'clock this morning.&cdq;
The intelligence with which Lestrade greeted us was so
momentous and so unexpected that we were all three fairly dumfounded.
Gregson sprang out of his chair and upset the remainder of his
whisky and water. I stared in silence at Sherlock Holmes,
whose lips were compressed and his brows drawn down over his eyes.
&odq;Stangerson too!&cdq; he muttered. &odq;The plot
thickens.&cdq;
&odq;It was quite thick enough before,&cdq; grumbled Lestrade,
taking a chair, &odq;I seem to have dropped into a sort of council of
war.&cdq;
&odq;Are you — are you sure of this piece of
intelligence?&cdq; stammered Gregson.
&odq;I have just come from his room,&cdq; said Lestrade.
&odq;I was the first to discover what had occurred.&cdq;
&odq;We have been hearing Gregson's view of the matter,&cdq;
Holmes observed. &odq;Would you mind letting us know what you
have seen and done?&cdq;
&odq;I have no objection,&cdq; Lestrade answered, seating
himself. &odq;I freely confess that I was of the opinion that
Stangerson was concerned in the death of Drebber. This fresh
development has shown me that I was completely mistaken. Full
of the one idea, I set myself to find out what had become of the
secretary. They had been seen together at Euston Station about
half-past eight on the evening of the 3rd. At two in the
morning Drebber had been found in the Brixton Road. The
question which confronted me was to find out how Stangerson had been
employed between 8:30 and the time of the crime, and what had become
of him afterwards. I telegraphed to Liverpool, giving a
description of the man, and warning them to keep a watch upon the
American boats. I then set to work calling upon all the hotels
and lodging-houses in the vicinity of Euston. You see, I
argued that if Drebber and his companion had become separated, the
natural course for the latter would be to put up somewhere in the
vicinity for the night, and then to hang about the station again next
morning.&cdq;
&odq;They would be likely to agree on some meeting place
beforehand,&cdq; remarked Holmes.
&odq;So it proved. I spent the whole of yesterday
evening in making inquiries entirely without avail. This
morning I began very early, and at eight o'clock I reached Halliday's
Private Hotel, in Little George Street. On my inquiry as to
whether a Mr. Stangerson was living there, they at once answered me
in the affirmative.
&odq;&onq;No doubt you are the gentleman whom he was
expecting,&cnq; they said. &onq;He has been waiting for a
gentleman for two days.&cnq;
&odq;&onq;Where is he now?&cnq; I asked.
&odq;&onq;He is upstairs in bed. He wished to be called
at nine.&cnq;
&odq;&onq;I will go up and see him at once,&cnq; I said.
&odq;It seemed to me that my sudden appearance might shake his
nerves and lead him to say something unguarded. The boots
volunteered to show me the room: it was on the second floor and there
was a small corridor leading up to it. The boots pointed out
the door to me, and was about to go downstairs again when I saw
something that made me feel sickish, in spite of my twenty years'
experience. From under the door there curled a little red
ribbon of blood, which had meandered across the passage and formed a
little pool along the skirting at the other side. I gave a
cry, which brought the boots back. He nearly fainted when he
saw it. The door was locked on the inside, but we put our
shoulders to it, and knocked it in. The window of the room was
open, and beside the window, all huddled up, lay the body of a man in
his nightdress. He was quite dead, and had been for some time,
for his limbs were rigid and cold. When we turned him over,
the boots recognized him at once as being the same gentleman who had
engaged the room under the name of Joseph Stangerson. The
cause of death was a deep stab in the left side, which must have
penetrated the heart. And now comes the strangest part of the
affair. What do you suppose was above the murdered man?&cdq;
I felt a creeping of the flesh, and a presentiment of coming
horror, even before Sherock Holmes answered.
&odq;The word RACHE, written in letters of blood,&cdq; he said,
&odq;That was it,&cdq; said Lestrade, in an awestruck voice,
and we were all silent for a while.
There was something so methodical and so incomprehensible about
the deeds of this unknown assassin, that it imparted a fresh
ghastliness to his crimes. My nerves, which were steady enough
on the field of battle, tingled as I thought of it.
&odq;The man was seen,&cdq; continued Lestrade. &odq;A
milk boy, passing on his way to the dairy, happened to walk down the
lane which leads from the mews at the back of the hotel. He
noticed that a ladder, which usually lay there, was raised against
one of the windows of the second floor, which was wide open.
After passing, he looked back and saw a man descend the
ladder. He came down so quietly and openly that the boy
imagined him to be some carpenter or joiner at work in the hotel.
He took no particular notice of him, beyond thinking in his
own mind that it was early for him to be at work. He has an
impression that the man was tall, had a reddish face, and was dressed
in a long, brownish coat. He must have stayed in the room some
little time after the murder, for we found blood-stained water in the
basin, where he had washed his hands, and marks on the sheets where
he had deliberately wiped his knife.&cdq;
I glanced at Holmes on hearing the description of the murderer
which tallied so exactly with his own. There was, however, no
trace of exultation or satisfaction upon his face.
&odq;Did you find nothing in the room which could furnish a
clue to the murderer?&cdq; he asked.
&odq;Nothing. Stangerson had Drebber's purse in his
pocket, but it seems that this was usual, as he did all the paying.
There was eighty-odd pounds in it, but nothing had been taken.
Whatever the motives of these extraordinary crimes, robbery is
certainly not one of them. There were no papers or memoranda
in the murdered man's pocket, except a single telegram, dated from
Cleveland about a month ago, and containing the words, &onq;J. H. is
in Europe.&cnq; There was no name appended to this
message.&cdq;
&odq;And there was nothing else?&cdq; Holmes asked.
&odq;Nothing of any importance. The man's novel, with
which he had read himself to sleep, was lying upon the bed, and his
pipe was on a chair beside him. There was a glass of water on
the table, and on the window-sill a small chip ointment box
containing a couple of pills.&cdq;
Sherlock Holmes sprang from his chair with an exclamation of
delight.
&odq;The last link,&cdq; he cried, exultantly. &odq;My
case is complete.&cdq;
The two detectives stared at him in amazement.
&odq;I have now in my hands,&cdq; my companion said,
confidently, &odq;all the threads which have formed such a tangle.
There are, of course, details to be filled in, but I am as
certain of all the main facts, from the time that Drebber parted from
Stangerson at the station, up to the discovery of the body of the
latter, as if I had seen them with my own eyes. I will give
you a proof of my knowledge. Could you lay your hand upon
those pills?&cdq;
&odq;I have them,&cdq; said Lestrade, producing a small white
box; &odq;I took them and the purse and the telegram, intending to
have them put in a place of safety at the police station. It
was the merest chance my taking these pills, for I am bound to say
that I do not attach any importance to them.&cdq;
&odq;Give them here,&cdq; said Holmes. &odq;Now,
Doctor,&cdq; turning to me, &odq;are those ordinary pills?&cdq;
They certainly were not. They were of a pearly gray
colour, small, round, and almost transparent against the light.
&odq;From their lightness and transparency, I should imagine
that they are soluble in water,&cdq; I remarked.
&odq;Precisely so,&cdq; answered Holmes. &odq;Now would
you mind going down and fetching that poor little devil of a terrier
which has been bad so long, and which the landlady wanted you to put
out of its pain yesterday?&cdq;
I went downstairs and carried the dog upstairs in my arms.
Its laboured breathing and glazing eye showed that it was not
far from its end. Indeed, its snow-white muzzle proclaimed
that it had already exceeded the usual term of canine existence.
I placed it upon a cushion on the rug.
&odq;I will now cut one of these pills in two,&cdq; said
Holmes, and drawing his penknife he suited the action to the word.
&odq;One half we return into the box for future purposes.
The other half I will place in this wineglass, in which is a
teaspoonful of water. You perceive that our friend, the
doctor, is right, and that it readily dissolves.&cdq;
&odq;This may be very interesting,&cdq; said Lestrade, in the
injured tone of one who suspects that he is being laughed at; &odq;I
cannot see, however, what it has to do with the death of Mr. Joseph
Stangerson.&cdq;
&odq;Patience, my friend, patience! You will find in
time that it has everything to do with it. I shall now add a
little milk to make the mixture palatable, and on presenting it to
the dog we find that he laps it up readily enough.&cdq;
As he spoke he turned the contents of the wineglass into a
saucer and placed it in front of the terrier, who speedily licked it
dry. Sherlock Holmes's earnest demeanour had so far convinced
us that we all sat in silence, watching the animal intently, and
expecting some startling effect. None such appeared, however.
The dog continued to lie stretched upon the cushion, breathing
in a laboured way, but apparently neither the better nor the worse
for its draught.
Holmes had taken out his watch, and as minute followed minute
without result, an expression of the utmost chagrin and
disappointment appeared upon his features. He gnawed his lip,
drummed his fingers upon the table, and showed every other symptom of
acute impatience. So great was his emotion that I felt
sincerely sorry for him, while the two detectives smiled derisively,
by no means displeased at this check which he had met.
&odq;It can't be a coincidence,&cdq; he cried, at last
springing from his chair and pacing wildly up and down the room;
&odq;it is impossible that it should be, a mere coincidence.
The very pills which I suspected in the case of Drebber are
actually found after the death of Stangerson. And yet they are
inert. What can it mean? Surely my whole chain of
reasoning cannot have been false. It is impossible! And
yet this wretched dog is none the worse. Ah, I have it!
I have it!&cdq; With a perfect shriek of delight he
rushed to the box, cut the other pill in two, dissolved it, added
milk, and presented it to the terrier. The unfortunate
creature's tongue seemed hardly to have been moistened in it before
it gave a convulsive shiver in every limb, and lay as rigid and
lifeless as if it had been struck by lightning.
Sherlock Holmes drew a long breath, and wiped the perspiration
from his forehead. &odq;I should have more faith,&cdq; he
said; &odq;I ought to know by this time that when a fact appears to
be opposed to a long train of deductions, it invariably proves to be
capable of bearing some other interpretation. Of the two pills
in that box, one was of the most deadly poison, and the other was
entirely harmless. I ought to have known that before ever I
saw the box at all.&cdq;
This last statement appeared to me to be so startling that I
could hardly believe that he was in his sober senses. There
was the dead dog, however, to prove that his conjecture had been
correct. It seemed to me that the mists in my own mind were
gradually clearing away, and I began to have a dim, vague perception
of the truth.
&odq;All this seems strange to you,&cdq; continued Holmes,
&odq;because you failed at the beginning of the inquiry to grasp the
importance of the single real clue which was presented to you.
I had the good fortune to seize upon that, and everything
which has occurred since then has served to confirm my original
supposition, and, indeed, was the logical sequence of it.
Hence things which have perplexed you and made the case more
obscure have served to enlighten me and to strengthen my conclusions.
It is a mistake to confound strangeness with mystery.
The most commonplace crime is often the most mysterious,
because it presents no new or special features from which deductions
may be drawn. This murder would have been infinitely more
difficult to unravel had the body of the victim been simply found
lying in the roadway without any of those outre and sensational
accompaniments which have rendered it remarkable. These
strange details, far from making the case more difficult, have really
had the effect of making it less so.&cdq;
Mr. Gregson, who had listened to this address with considerable
impatience, could contain himself no longer. &odq;Look here,
Mr. Sherlock Holmes,&cdq; he said, &odq;we are all ready to
acknowledge that you are a smart man, and that you have your own
methods of working. We want something more than mere theory
and preaching now, though. It is a case of taking the man.
I have made my case out, and it seems I was wrong.
Young Charpentier could not have been engaged in this second
affair. Lestrade went after his man, Stangerson, and it
appears that he was wrong too. You have thrown out hints here,
and hints there, and seem to know more than we do, but the time has
come when we feel that we have a right to ask you straight how much
you do know of the business. Can you name the man who did
it?&cdq;
&odq;I cannot help feeling that Gregson is right, sir,&cdq;
remarked Lestrade. &odq;We have both tried, and we have both
failed. You have remarked more than once since I have been in
the room that you had all the evidence which you require.
Surely you will not withhold it any longer.&cdq;
&odq;Any delay in arresting the assassin,&cdq; I observed,
&odq;might give him time to perpetrate some fresh atrocity.&cdq;
Thus pressed by us all, Holmes showed signs of irresolution.
He continued to walk up and down the room with his head sunk
on his chest and his brows drawn down, as was his habit when lost in
thought.
&odq;There will be no more murders,&cdq; he said at last,
stopping abruptly and facing us. &odq;You can put that
consideration out of the question. You have asked me if I know
the name of the assassin. I do. The mere knowing of his
name is a small thing, however, compared with the power of laying our
hands upon him. This I expect very shortly to do. I
have good hopes of managing it through my own arrangements; but it is
a thing which needs delicate handling, for we have a shrewd and
desperate man to deal with, who is supported, as I have had occasion
to prove, by another who is as clever as himself. As long as
this man has no idea that anyone can have a clue there is some chance
of securing him- but if he had the slightest suspicion, he would
change his name, and vanish in an instant among the four million
inhabitants of this great city. Without meaning to hurt either
of your feelings, I am bound to say that I consider these men to be
more than a match for the official force, and that is why I have not
asked your assistance. If I fail, I shall, of course, incur
all the blame due to this omission; but that I am prepared for.
At present I am ready to promise that the instant that I can
communicate with you without endangering my own combinations, I shall
do so.&cdq;
Gregson and Lestrade seemed to be far from satisfied by this
assurance, or by the depreciating allusion to the detective police.
The former had flushed up to the roots of his flaxen hair,
while the other's beady eyes glistened with curiosity and resentment.
Neither of them had time to speak, however, before there was a
tap at the door, and the spokesman of the street Arabs, young
Wiggins, introduced his insignificant and unsavoury person.
&odq;Please, sir,&cdq; he said, touching his forelock, &odq;I
have the cab downstairs.&cdq;
&odq;Good boy,&cdq; said Holmes, blandly. &odq;Why don't
you introduce this pattern at Scotland Yard?&cdq; he continued,
taking a pair of steel handcuffs from a drawer. &odq;See how
beautifully the spring works. They fasten in an instant.&cdq;
&odq;The old pattern is good enough,&cdq; remarked Lestrade,
&odq;if we can only find the man to put them on.&cdq;
&odq;Very good, very good,&cdq; said Holmes, smiling.
&odq;The cabman may as well help me with my boxes. Just
ask him to step up, Wiggins.&cdq;
I was surprised to find my companion speaking as though he were
about to set out on a journey, since he had not said anything to me
about it. There was a small portmanteau in the room, and this
he pulled out and began to strap. He was busily engaged at it
when the cabman entered the room.
&odq;Just give me a help with this buckle, cabman,&cdq; he
said, kneeling over his task, and never turning his head.
The fellow came forward with a somewhat sullen, defiant air,
and put down his hands to assist. At that instant there was a
sharp click, the jangling of metal, and Sherlock Holmes sprang to his
feet again.
&odq;Gentlemen,&cdq; he cried, with flashing eyes, &odq;let me
introduce you to Mr. Jefferson Hope, the murderer of Enoch Drebber
and of Joseph Stangerson.&cdq;
The whole thing occurred in a moment — so quickly that
I had no time to realize it. I have a vivid recollection of
that instant, of Holmes's triumphant expression and the ring of his
voice, of the cabman's dazed, savage face, as he glared at the
glittering handcuffs, which had appeared as if by magic upon his
wrists. For a second or two we might have been a group of
statues. Then with an inarticulate roar of fury, the prisoner
wrenched himself free from Holmes's grasp, and hurled himself through
the window. Woodwork and glass gave way before him; but before
he got quite through, Gregson, Lestrade, and Holmes sprang upon him
like so many staghounds. He was dragged back into the room,
and then commenced a terrific conflict. So powerful and so
fierce was he that the four of us were shaken off again and again.
He appeared to have the convulsive strength of a man in an
epileptic fit. His face and hands were terribly mangled by his
passage through the glass, but loss of blood had no effect in
diminishing his resistance. It was not until Lestrade
succeeded in getting his hand inside his neckcloth and
half-strangling him that we made him realize that his struggles were
of no avail; and even then we felt no security until we had pinioned
his feet as well as his hands. That done, we rose to our feet
breathless and panting.
&odq;We have his cab,&cdq; said Sherlock Holmes. &odq;It
will serve to take him to Scotland Yard. And now,
gentlemen,&cdq; he continued, with a pleasant smile, &odq;we have
reached the end of our little mystery. You are very welcome to
put any questions that you like to me now, and there is no danger
that I will refuse to answer them.&cdq;
In the central portion of the great North American Continent
there lies an arid and repulsive desert, which for many a long year
served as a barrier against the advance of civilization. From
the Sierra Nevada to Nebraska, and from the Yellowstone River in the
north to the Colorado upon the south, is a region of desolation and
silence. Nor is Nature always in one mood throughout this grim
district. It comprises snow-capped and lofty mountains, and
dark and gloomy valleys. There are swift-flowing rivers which
dash through jagged canons; and there are enormous plains, which in
winter are white with snow, and in summer are gray with the saline
alkali dust. They all preserve, however, the common
characteristics of barrenness, inhospitality, and misery.
There are no inhabitants of this land of despair. A band
of Pawnees or of Blackfeet may occasionally traverse it in order to
reach other hunting-grounds, but the hardiest of the braves are glad
to lose sight of those awesome plains, and to find themselves once
more upon their prairies. The coyote skulks among the scrub,
the buzzard flaps heavily through the air, and the clumsy grizzly
bear lumbers through the dark ravines, and picks up such sustenance
as it can amongst the rocks. These are the sole dwellers in
the wilderness.
In the whole world there can be no more dreary view than that
from the northern slope of the Sierra Blanco. As far as the
eye can reach stretches the great flat plain-land, all dusted over
with patches of alkali, and intersected by clumps of the dwarfish
chaparral bushes. On the extreme verge of the horizon lie a
long chain of mountain peaks, with their rugged summits flecked with
snow. In this great stretch of country there is no sign of
life, nor of anything appertaining to life. There is no bird
in the steel-blue heaven, no movement upon the dull, gray earth
— above all, there is absolute silence. Listen as one
may, there is no shadow of a sound in all that mighty wilderness;
nothing but silence — complete and heart-subduing silence.
It has been said there is nothing appertaining to life upon the
broad plain. That is hardly true. Looking down from the
Sierra Blanco, one sees a pathway traced out across the desert, which
winds away and is lost in the extreme distance. It is rutted
with wheels and trodden down by the feet of many adventurers.
Here and there there are scattered white objects which glisten
in the sun, and stand out against the dull deposit of alkali.
Approach, and examine them! They are bones: some large
and coarse, others smaller and more delicate. The former have
belonged to oxen, and the latter to men. For fifteen hundred
miles one may trace this ghastly caravan route by these scattered
remains of those who had fallen by the wayside.
Looking down on this very scene, there stood upon the fourth of
May, eighteen hundred and forty-seven, a solitary traveller.
His appearance was such that he might have been the very
genius or demon of the region. An observer would have found it
difficult to say whether he was nearer to forty or to sixty.
His face was lean and haggard, and the brown parchment-like
skin was drawn tightly over the projecting bones; his long, brown
hair and beard were all flecked and dashed with white; his eyes were
sunken in his head, and burned with an unnatural lustre; while the
hand which grasped his rifle was hardly more fleshy than that of a
skeleton. As he stood, he leaned upon his weapon for support,
and yet his tall figure and the massive framework of his bones
suggested a wiry and vigorous constitution. His gaunt face,
however, and his clothes, which hung so baggily over his shrivelled
limbs, proclaimed what it was that gave him that senile and decrepit
appearance. The man was dying — dying from hunger and
from thirst.
He had toiled painfully down the ravine, and on to this little
elevation, in the vain hope of seeing some signs of water. Now
the great salt plain stretched before his eyes, and the distant belt
of savage mountains, without a sign anywhere of plant or tree, which
might indicate the presence of moisture. In all that broad
landscape there was no gleam of hope. North, and east, and
west he looked with wild, questioning eyes, and then he realized that
his wanderings had come to an end, and that there, on that barren
crag, he was about to die. &odq;Why not here, as well as in a
feather bed, twenty years hence?&cdq; he muttered, as he seated
himself in the shelter of a boulder.
Before sitting down, he had deposited upon the ground his
useless rifle, and also a large bundle tied up in a gray shawl, which
he had carried slung over his right shoulder. It appeared to
be somewhat too heavy for his strength, for in lowering it, it came
down on the ground with some little violence. Instantly there
broke from the gray parcel a little moaning cry, and from it there
protruded a small, scared face, with very bright brown eyes, and two
little speckled dimpled fists.
&odq;You've hurt me!&cdq; said a childish voice, reproachfully.
&odq;Have I, though?&cdq; the man answered penitently; &odq;I
didn't go for to do it.&cdq; As he spoke he unwrapped the gray
shawl and extricated a pretty little girl of about five years of age,
whose dainty shoes and smart pink frock with its little linen apron,
all bespoke a mother's care. The child was pale and wan, but
her healthy arms and legs showed that she had suffered less than her
companion.
&odq;How is it now?&cdq; he answered anxiously, for she was
still rubbing the tousy golden curls which covered the back of her
head.
&odq;Kiss it and make it well,&cdq; she said, with perfect
gravity, showing the injured part up to him. &odq;That's what
mother used to do. Where's mother?&cdq;
&odq;Mother's gone. I guess you'll see her before
long.&cdq;
&odq;Gone, eh!&cdq; said the little girl. &odq;Funny,
she didn't say good-bye; she most always did if she was just goin'
over to auntie's for tea, and now she's been away three days.
Say, it's awful dry, ain't it? Ain't there no water nor
nothing to eat?&cdq;
&odq;No, there ain't nothing, dearie. You'll just need
to be patient awhile, and then you'll be all right. Put your
head up ag'in me like that, and then you'll feel bullier. It
ain't easy to talk when your lips is like leather, but I guess I'd
best let you know how the cards lie. What's that you've
got?&cdq;
&odq;Pretty things! fine things!&cdq; cried the little girl
enthusiastically, holding up two glittering fragments of mica.
&odq;When we goes back to home I'll give them to brother
Bob.&cdq;
&odq;You'll see prettier things than them soon,&cdq; said the
man confidently. &odq;You just wait a bit. I was going
to tell you though — you remember when we left the
river?&cdq;
&odq;Oh, yes.&cdq;
&odq;Well, we reckoned we'd strike another river soon, d'ye
see. But there was somethin' wrong; compasses, or map, or
somethin', and it didn't turn up. Water ran out. Just
except a little drop for the likes of you, and — and —
&cdq;
&odq;And you couldn't wash yourself,&cdq; interrupted his
companion gravely, staring up at his grimy visage.
&odq;No, nor drink. And Mr. Bender, he was the fust to
go, and then Indian Pete, and then Mrs. McGregor, and then Johnny
Hones, and then, dearie, your mother.&cdq;
&odq;Then mother's a deader too,&cdq; cried the little girl,
dropping her face in her pinafore and sobbing bitterly.
&odq;Yes, they all went except you and me. Then I
thought there was some chance of water in this direction, so I heaved
you over my shoulder and we tramped it together. It don't seem
as though we've improved matters. There's an almighty small
chance for us now!&cdq;
&odq;Do you mean that we are going to die to?&cdq; asked the
child, checking her sobs, and raising her tear-stained face.
&odq;I guess that's about the size of it.&cdq;
&odq;Why didn't you say so before?&cdq; she said, laughing
gleefully. &odq;You gave me such a fright. Why, of
course, now as long as we die we'll be with mother again.&cdq;
&odq;Yes, you will, dearie.&cdq;
&odq;And you too. I'll tell her how awful good you've
been. I'll bet she meets us at the door of heaven with a big
pitcher of water, and a lot of buckwheat cakes, hot and toasted on
both sides, like Bob and me was fond of. How long will it be
first?&cdq;
&odq;I don't know — not very long.&cdq; The
man's eyes were fixed upon the northern horizon. In the blue
vault of the heaven there had appeared three little specks which
increased in size every moment, so rapidly did they approach.
They speedily resolved themselves into three large brown
birds, which circled over the heads of the two wanderers, and then
settled upon some rocks which overlooked them. They were
buzzards, the vultures of the West, whose coming is the forerunner of
death.
&odq;Cocks and hens,&cdq; cried the little girl gleefully,
pointing at their ill-omened forms, and clapping her hands to make
them rise. &odq;Say, did God make this country?&cdq;
&odq;Of course He did,&cdq; said her companion, rather startled
by this unexpected question.
&odq;He made the country down in Illinois, and He made the
Missouri,&cdq; the little girl continued. &odq;I guess
somebody else made the country in these parts. It's not nearly
so well done. They forgot the water and the trees.&cdq;
&odq;What would ye think of offering up prayer?&cdq; the man
asked diffidently.
&odq;It ain't night yet,&cdq; she answered.
&odq;It don't matter. It ain't quite regular, but He
won't mind that, you bet. You say over them ones that you used
to say every night in the wagon when we was on the plains.&cdq;
&odq;Why don't you say some yourself?&cdq; the child asked,
with wondering eyes.
&odq;I disremember them,&cdq; he answered. &odq;I hain't
said none since I was half the height o' that gun. I guess
it's never too late. You say them out, and I'll stand by and
come in on the choruses.&cdq;
&odq;Then you'll need to kneel down, and me too,&cdq; she said,
laying the shawl out for that purpose. &odq;You've got to put
your hands up like this. It makes you feel kind of good.&cdq;
It was a strange sight, had there been anything but the
buzzards to see it. Side by side on the narrow shawl knelt the
two wanderers, the little prattling child and the reckless, hardened
adventurer. Her chubby face and his haggard, angular visage
were both turned up to the cloudless heaven in heartfelt entreaty to
that dread Being with whom they were face to face, while the two
voices — the one thin and clear, the other deep and harsh
— united in the entreaty for mercy and forgiveness. The
prayer finished, they resumed their seat in the shadow of the boulder
until the child fell asleep, nestling upon the broad breast of her
protector. He watched over her slumber for some time, but
Nature proved to be too strong for him. For three days and
three nights he had allowed himself neither rest nor repose.
Slowly the eyelids drooped over the tired eyes, and the head
sunk lower and lower upon the breast, until the man's grizzled beard
was mixed with the gold tresses of his companion, and both slept the
same deep and dreamless slumber.
Had the wanderer remained awake for another half-hour a strange
sight would have met his eyes. Far away on the extreme verge
of the alkali plain there rose up a little spray of dust, very slight
at first, and hardly to be distinguished from the mists of the
distance, but gradually growing higher and broader until it formed a
solid, well-defined cloud. This cloud continued to increase in
size until it became evident that it could only be raised by a great
multitude of moving creatures. In more fertile spots the
observer would have come to the conclusion that one of those great
herds of bisons which graze upon the prairie land was approaching
him. This was obviously impossible in these arid wilds.
As the whirl of dust drew nearer to the solitary bluff upon
which the two castaways were reposing, the canvas-covered tilts of
wagons and the figures of armed horsemen began to show up through the
haze, and the apparition revealed itself as being a great caravan
upon its journey for the West. But what a caravan! When
the head of it had reached the base of the mountains, the rear was
not yet visible on the horizon. Right across the enormous
plain stretched the straggling array, wagons and carts, men on
horseback, and men on foot. Innumerable women who staggered
along under burdens, and children who toddled beside the wagons or
peeped out from under the white coverings. This was evidently
no ordinary party of immigrants, but rather some nomad people who had
been compelled from stress of circumstances to seek themselves a new
country. There rose through the clear air a confused
clattering and rumbling from this great mass of humanity, with the
creaking of wheels and the neighing of horses. Loud as it was,
it was not sufficient to rouse the two tired wayfarers above them.
At the head of the column there rode a score or more of grave,
iron-faced men, clad in sombre homespun garments and armed with
rifles. On reaching the base of the bluff they halted, and
held a short council among themselves.
&odq;The wells are to the right, my brothers,&cdq; said one, a
hard-lipped, clean-shaven man with grizzly hair.
&odq;To the right of the Sierra Blanco — so we shall
reach the Rio Grande,&cdq; said another.
&odq;Fear not for water,&cdq; cried a third. &odq;He who
could draw it from the rocks will not now abandon His own chosen
people.&cdq;
&odq;Amen! amen!&cdq; responded the whole party.
They were about to resume their journey when one of the
youngest and keenest-eyed uttered an exclamation and pointed up at
the rugged crag above them. From its summit there fluttered a
little wisp of pink, showing up hard and bright against the gray
rocks behind. At the sight there was a general reining up of
horses and unslinging of guns, while fresh horsemen came galloping up
to reinforce the vanguard. The word &odq;Redskins&cdq; was on
every lip.
&odq;There can't be any number of Injuns here,&cdq; said the
elderly man who appeared to be in command. &odq;We have passed
the Pawlees, and there are no other tribes until we cross the great
mountains.&cdq;
&odq;Shall I go forward and see, Brother Stangerson?&cdq; asked
one of the band.
&odq;And I,&cdq; &odq;And I,&cdq; cried a dozen voices.
&odq;Leave your horses below and we will await you here,&cdq;
the elder answered. In a moment the young fellows had
dismounted, fastened their horses, and were ascending the precipitous
slope which led up to the object which had excited their curiosity.
They advanced rapidly and noiselessly, with the confidence and
dexterity of practised scouts. The watchers from the plain
below could see them flit from rock to rock until their figures stood
out against the sky-line. The young man who had first given
the alarm was leading them. Suddenly his followers saw him
throw up his hands, as though overcome with astonishment, and on
joining him they were affected in the same way by the sight which met
their eyes.
On the little plateau which crowned the barren hill there stood
a single giant boulder, and against this boulder there lay a tall
man, long-bearded and hard-featured, but of an excessive thinness.
His placid face and regular breathing showed that he was fast
asleep. Beside him lay a child, with her round white arms
encircling his brown sinewy neck, and her golden-haired head resting
upon the breast of his velveteen tunic. Her rosy lips were
parted, showing the regular line of snow-white teeth within, and a
playful smile played over her infantile features. Her plump
little white legs, terminating in white socks and neat shoes with
shining buckles, offered a strange contrast to the long shrivelled
members of her companion. On the ledge of rock above this
strange couple there stood three solemn buzzards, who, at the sight
of the newcomers, uttered raucous screams of disappointment and
flapped sullenly away.
The cries of the foul birds awoke the two sleepers, who stared
about them in bewilderment. The man staggered to his feet and
looked down upon the plain which had been so desolate when sleep had
overtaken him, and which was now traversed by this enormous body of
men and of beasts. His face assumed an expression of
incredulity as he gazed, and he passed his bony hand over his eyes.
&odq;This is what they call delirium, I guess&cdq; he
muttered. The child stood beside him, holding on to the skirt
of his coat, and said nothing, but looked all round her with the
wondering, questioning gaze of childhood.
The rescuing party were speedily able to convince the two
castaways that their appearance was no delusion. One of them
seized the little girl and hoisted her upon his shoulder, while two
others supported her gaunt companion, and assisted him towards the
wagons.
&odq;My name is John Ferrier,&cdq; the wanderer explained;
&odq;me and that little un are all that's left o' twenty-one people.
The rest is all dead o' thirst and hunger away down in the
south.&cdq;
&odq;Is she your child?&cdq; asked someone.
&odq;I guess she is now,&cdq; the other cried, defiantly;
&odq;she's mine 'cause I saved her. No man will take her from
me. She's Lucy Ferrier from this day on. Who are you,
though?&cdq; he continued, glancing with curiosity at his stalwart,
sunburned rescuers; &odq;there seems to be a powerful lot of ye.&cdq;
&odq;Nigh unto ten thousand,&cdq; said one of the young men;
&odq;we are the persecuted children of God — the chosen of
the Angel Moroni.&cdq;
&odq;I never heard tell on him,&cdq; said the wanderer.
&odq;He appears to have chosen a fair crowd of ye.&cdq;
&odq;Do not jest at that which is sacred,&cdq; said the other,
sternly. &odq;We are of those who believe in those sacred
writings, drawn in Egyptian letters on plates of beaten gold, which
were handed unto the holy Joseph Smith at Palmyra. We have
come from Nauvoo, in the state of Illinois, where we had founded our
temple. We have come to seek a refuge from the violent man and
from the godless, even though it be the heart of the desert.&cdq;
The name of Nauvoo evidently recalled recollections to John
Ferrier. &odq;I see,&cdq; he said; &odq;you are the
Mormons.&cdq;
&odq;We are the Mormons,&cdq; answered his companions with one
voice.
&odq;And where are you going?&cdq;
&odq;We do not know. The hand of God is leading us under
the person of our Prophet. You must come before him. He
shall say what is to be done with you.&cdq;
They had reached the base of the hill by this time, and were
surrounded by crowds of the pilgrims — pale-faced,
meek-looking women; strong, laughing children; and anxious,
earnest-eyed men. Many were the cries of astonishment and of
commiseration which arose from them when they perceived the youth of
one of the strangers and the destitution of the other. Their
escort did not halt, however, but pushed on, followed by a great
crowd of Mormons, until they reached a wagon, which was conspicuous
for its great size and for the gaudiness and smartness of its
appearance. Six horses were yoked to it, whereas the others
were furnished with two, or, at most, four apiece. Beside the
driver there sat a man who could not have been more than thirty years
of age, but whose massive head and resolute expression marked him as
a leader. He was reading a brown-backed volume, but as the
crowd approached he laid it aside, and listened attentively to an
account of the episode. Then he turned to the two castaways.
&odq;If we take you with us,&cdq; he said, in solemn words,
&odq;it can only be as believers in our own creed. We shall
have no wolves in our fold. Better far that your bones should
bleach in this wilderness than that you should prove to be that
little speck of decay which in time corrupts the whole fruit.
Will you come with us on these terms?&cdq;
&odq;Guess I'll come with you on any terms,&cdq; said Ferrier,
with such emphasis that the grave Elders could not restrain a smile.
The leader alone retained his stern, impressive expression.
&odq;Take him, Brother Stangerson,&cdq; he said, &odq;give him
food and drink, and the child likewise. Let it be your task
also to teach him our holy creed. We have delayed long enough.
Forward! On, on to Zion!&cdq;
&odq;On, on to Zion!&cdq; cried the crowd of Mormons, and the
words rippled down the long caravan, passing from mouth to mouth
until they died away in a dull murmur in the far distance.
With a cracking of whips and a creaking of wheels the great
wagons got into motion, and soon the whole caravan was winding along
once more. The Elder to whose care the two waifs had been
committed led them to his wagon, where a meal was already awaiting
them.
&odq;You shall remain here,&cdq; he said. &odq;In a few
days you will have recovered from your fatigues. In the
meantime, remember that now and forever you are of our religion.
Brigham Young has said it, and he has spoken with the voice of
Joseph Smith, which is the voice of God.&cdq;
This is not the place to commemorate the trials and privations
endured by the immigrant Mormons before they came to their final
haven. From the shores of the Mississippi to the western
slopes of the Rocky Mountains they had struggled on with a constancy
almost unparalleled in history. The savage man, and the savage
beast, hunger, thirst, fatigue, and disease — every
impediment which Nature could place in the way — had all been
overcome with Anglo-Saxon tenacity. Yet the long journey and
the accumulated terrors had shaken the hearts of the stoutest among
them. There was not one who did not sink upon his knees in
heartfelt prayer when they saw the broad valley of Utah bathed in the
sunlight beneath them, and learned from the lips of their leader that
this was the promised land, and that these virgin acres were to be
theirs for evermore.
Young speedily proved himself to be a skillful administrator as
well as a resolute chief. Maps were drawn and charts prepared,
in which the future city was sketched out. All around farms
were apportioned and allotted in proportion to the standing of each
individual. The tradesman was put to his trade and the artisan
to his calling. In the town streets and squares sprang up as
if by magic. In the country there was draining and hedging,
planting and clearing, until the next summer saw the whole country
golden with the wheat crop. Everything prospered in the
strange settlement. Above all, the great temple which they had
erected in the centre of the city grew ever taller and larger.
From the first blush of dawn until the closing of the
twilight, the clatter of the hammer and the rasp of the saw were
never absent from the monument which the immigrants erected to Him
who had led them safe through many dangers.
The two castaways, John Ferrier and the little girl, who had
shared his fortunes and had been adopted as his daughter, accompanied
the Mormons to the end of their great pilgrimage. Little Lucy
Ferrier was borne along pleasantly enough in Elder Stangerson's
wagon, a retreat which she shared with the Mormon's three wives and
with his son, a headstrong, forward boy of twelve. Having
rallied, with the elasticity of childhood, from the shock caused by
her mother's death, she soon became a pet with the women, and
reconciled herself to this new life in her moving canvas-covered
home. In the meantime Ferrier having recovered from his
privations, distinguished himself as a useful guide and an
indefatigable hunter. So rapidly did he gain the esteem of his
new companions, that when they reached the end of their wanderings,
it was unanimously agreed that he should be provided with as large
and as fertile a tract of land as any of the settlers, with the
exception of Young himself, and of Stangerson, Kemball, Johnston, and
Drebber, who were the four principal Elders.
On the farm thus acquired John Ferrier built himself a
substantial log-house, which received so many additions in succeeding
years that it grew into a roomy villa. He was a man of a
practical turn of mind, keen in his dealings and skillful with his
hands. His iron constitution enabled him to work morning and
evening at improving and tilling his lands. Hence it came
about that his farm and all that belonged to him prospered
exceedingly. In three years he was better off than his
neighbours, in six he was well-to-do, in nine he was rich, and in
twelve there were not half a dozen men in the whole of Salt Lake City
who could compare with him. From the great inland sea to the
distant Wasatch Mountains there was no name better known than that of
John Ferrier.
There was one way and only one in which he offended the
susceptibilities of his co-religionists. No argument or
persuasion could ever induce him to set up a female establishment
after the manner of his companions. He never gave reasons for
this persistent refusal, but contented himself by resolutely and
inflexibly adhering to his determination. There were some who
accused him of lukewarmness in his adopted religion, and others who
put it down to greed of wealth and reluctance to incur expense.
Others, again, spoke of some early love affair, and of a
fair-haired girl who had pined away on the shores of the Atlantic.
Whatever the reason, Ferrier remained strictly celibate.
In every other respect he conformed to the religion of the
young settlement, and gained the name of being an orthodox and
straightwalking man.
Lucy Ferrier grew up within the log-house, and assisted her
adopted father in all his undertakings. The keen air of the
mountains and the balsamic odour of the pine trees took the place of
nurse and mother to the young girl. As year succeeded to year
she grew taller and stronger, her cheek more ruddy and her step more
elastic. Many a wayfarer upon the high road which ran by
Ferrier's farm felt long-forgotten thoughts revive in his mind as he
watched her lithe, girlish figure tripping through the wheatfields,
or met her mounted upon her father's mustang, and managing it with
all the ease and grace of a true child of the West. So the bud
blossomed into a flower, and the year which saw her father the
richest of the farmers left her as fair a specimen of American
girlhood as could be found in the whole Pacific slope.
It was not the father, however, who first discovered that the
child had developed into the woman. It seldom is in such
cases. That mysterious change is too subtle and too gradual to
be measured by dates. Least of all does the maiden herself
know it until the tone of a voice or the touch of a hand sets her
heart thrilling within her, and she learns, with a mixture of pride
and of fear, that a new and a larger nature has awakened within her.
There are few who cannot recall that day and remember the one
little incident which heralded the dawn of a new life. In the
case of Lucy Ferrier the occasion was serious enough in itself, apart
from its future influence on her destiny and that of many besides.
It was a warm June morning, and the Latter Day Saints were as
busy as the bees whose hive they have chosen for their emblem.
In the fields and in the streets rose the same hum of human
industry. Down the dusty high roads defiled long streams of
heavily laden mules, all heading to the west, for the gold fever had
broken out in California, and the overland route lay through the city
of the Elect. There, too, were droves of sheep and bullocks
coming in from the outlying pasture lands, and trains of tired
immigrants, men and horses equally weary of their interminable
journey. Through all this motley assemblage, threading her way
with the skill of an accomplished rider, there galloped Lucy Ferrier,
her fair face flushed with the exercise and her long chestnut hair
floating out behind her. She had a commission from her father
in the city, and was dashing in as she had done many a time before,
with all the fearlessness of youth, thinking only of her task and how
it was to be performed. The travel-stained adventurers gazed
after her in astonishment, and even the unemotional Indians,
journeying in with their peltries, relaxed their accustomed stoicism
as they marvelled at the beauty of the pale-faced maiden.
She had reached the outskirts of the city when she found the
road blocked by a great drove of cattle, driven by a half-dozen
wild-looking herdsmen from the plains. In her impatience she
endeavoured to pass this obstacle by pushing her horse into what
appeared to be a gap. Scarcely had she got fairly into it,
however, before the beasts closed in behind her, and she found
herself completely embedded in the moving stream of fierce-eyed,
long-horned bullocks. Accustomed as she was to deal with
cattle, she was not alarmed at her situation, but took advantage of
every opportunity to urge her horse on, in the hopes of pushing her
way through the cavalcade. Unfortunately the horns of one of
the creatures, either by accident or design, came in violent contact
with the flank of the mustang, and excited it to madness. In
an instant it reared up upon its hind legs with a snort of rage, and
pranced and tossed in a way that would have unseated any but a
skillful rider. The situation was full of peril. Every
plunge of the excited horse brought it against the horns again, and
goaded it to fresh madness. It was all that the girl could do
to keep herself in the saddle, yet a slip would mean a terrible death
under the hoofs of the unwieldy and terrified animals.
Unaccustomed to sudden emergencies, her head began to swim,
and her grip upon the bridle to relax. Choked by the rising
cloud of dust and by the steam from the struggling creatures, she
might have abandoned her efforts in despair, but for a kindly voice
at her elbow which assured her of assistance. At the same
moment a sinewy brown hand caught the frightened horse by the curb,
and forcing a way through the drove, soon brought her to the
outskirts.
&odq;You're not hurt, I hope, miss,&cdq; said her preserver,
respectfully.
She looked up at his dark, fierce face, and laughed saucily.
&odq;I'm awful frightened,&cdq; she said, naively; &odq;whoever
would have thought that Poncho would have been so scared by a lot of
cows?&cdq;
&odq;Thank God, you kept your seat,&cdq; the other said,
earnestly. He was a tall, savage-looking young fellow, mounted
on a powerful roan horse, and clad in the rough dress of a hunter,
with a long rifle slung over his shoulders. &odq;I guess you
are the daughter of John Ferrier,&cdq; he remarked; &odq;I saw you
ride down from his house. When you see him, ask him if he
remembers the Jefferson Hopes of St. Louis. If he's the same
Ferrier, my father and he were pretty thick.&cdq;
&odq;Hadn't you better come and ask yourself?&cdq; she asked,
demurely.
The young fellow seemed pleased at the suggestion, and his dark
eyes sparkled with pleasure. &odq;I'll do so,&cdq; he said;
&odq;we've been in the mountains for two months, and are not over and
above in visiting condition. He must take us as he finds
us.&cdq;
&odq;He has a good deal to thank you for, and so have I,&cdq;
she answered; &odq;he's awful fond of me. If those cows had
jumped on me he'd have never got over it.&cdq;
&odq;Neither would I,&cdq; said her companion.
&odq;You! Well, I don't see that it would make much
matter to you, anyhow. You ain't even a friend of ours.&cdq;
The young hunter's dark face grew so gloomy over this remark
that Lucy Ferrier laughed aloud.
&odq;There, I didn't mean that,&cdq; she said; &odq;of course,
you are a friend now. You must come and see us. Now I
must push along, or father won't trust me with his business any more.
Good-bye!&cdq;
&odq;Good-bye,&cdq; he answered, raising his broad sombrero,
and bending over her little hand. She wheeled her mustang
round, gave it a cut with her riding-whip, and darted away down the
broad road in a rolling cloud of dust.
Young Jefferson Hope rode on with his companions, gloomy and
taciturn. He and they had been among the Nevada Mountains
prospecting for silver, and were returning to Salt Lake City in the
hope of raising capital enough to work some lodes which they had
discovered. He had been as keen as any of them upon the
business until this sudden incident had drawn his thoughts into
another channel. The sight of the fair young girl, as frank
and wholesome as the Sierra breezes, had stirred his volcanic,
untamed heart to its very depths. When she had vanished from
his sight, he realized that a crisis had come in his life, and that
neither silver speculations nor any other questions could ever be of
such importance to him as this new and all-absorbing one. The
love which had sprung up in his heart was not the sudden, changeable
fancy of a boy, but rather the wild, fierce passion of a man of
strong will and imperious temper. He had been accustomed to
succeed in all that he undertook. He swore in his heart that
he would not fail in this if human effort and human perseverance
could render him successful.
He called on John Ferrier that night, and many times again,
until his face was a familiar one at the farmhouse. John,
cooped up in the valley, and absorbed in his work, had had little
chance of learning the news of the outside world during the last
twelve years. All this Jefferson Hope was able to tell him,
and in a style which interested Lucy as well as her father. He
had been a pioneer in California, and could narrate many a strange
tale of fortunes made and fortunes lost in those wild, halcyon days.
He had been a scout too, and a trapper, a silver explorer, and
a ranchman. Wherever stirring adventures were to be had,
Jefferson Hope had been there in search of them. He soon
became a favourite with the old farmer, who spoke eloquently of his
virtues. On such occasions, Lucy was silent, but her blushing
cheek and her bright, happy eyes showed only too clearly that her
young heart was no longer her own. Her honest father may not
have observed these symptoms, but they were assuredly not thrown away
upon the man who had won her affections.
One summer evening he came galloping down the road and pulled
up at the gate. She was at the doorway, and came down to meet
him. He threw the bridle over the fence and strode up the
pathway.
&odq;I am off, Lucy,&cdq; he said, taking her two hands in his,
and gazing tenderly down into her face: &odq;I won't ask you to come
with me now, but will you be ready to come when I am here again?&cdq;
&odq;And when will that be?&cdq; she asked, blushing and
laughing.
&odq;A couple of months at the outside. I will come and
claim you then, my darling. There's no one who can stand
between us.&cdq;
&odq;And how about father?&cdq; she asked.
&odq;He has given his consent, provided we get these mines
working all right. I have no fear on that head.&cdq;
&odq;Oh, well; of course, if you and father have arranged it
all, there's no more to be said,&cdq; she whispered, with her cheek
against his broad breast.
&odq;Thank God!&cdq; he said, hoarsely, stooping and kissing
her. &odq;It is settled, then. The longer I stay, the
harder it will be to go. They are waiting for me at the canon.
Good-bye, my own darling — good-bye. In two
months you shall see me.&cdq;
He tore himself from her as he spoke, and, flinging himself
upon his horse, galloped furiously away, never even looking round, as
though afraid that his resolution might fail him if he took one
glance at what he was leaving. She stood at the gate, gazing
after him until he vanished from her sight. Then she walked
back into the house, the happiest girl in all Utah.
Three weeks had passed since Jefferson Hope and his comrades
had departed from Salt Lake City. John Ferrier's heart was
sore within him when he thought of the young man's return, and of the
impending loss of his adopted child. Yet her bright and happy
face reconciled him to the arrangement more than any argument could
have done. He had always determined, deep down in his resolute
heart, that nothing would ever induce him to allow his daughter to
wed a Mormon. Such marriage he regarded as no marriage at all,
but as a shame and a disgrace. Whatever he might think of the
Mormon doctrines, upon that one point he was inflexible. He
had to seal his mouth on the subject, however, for to express an
unorthodox opinion was a dangerous matter in those days in the Land
of the Saints.
Yes, a dangerous matter — so dangerous that even the
most saintly dared only whisper their religious opinions with bated
breath, lest something which fell from their lips might be
misconstrued, and bring down a swift retribution upon them.
The victims of persecution had now turned persecutors on their
own account, and persecutors of the most terrible description.
Not the Inquisition of Seville, nor the German Vehmgericht,
nor the secret societies of Italy, were ever able to put a more
formidable machinery in motion than that which cast a cloud over the
state of Utah.
Its invisibility, and the mystery which was attached to it,
made this organization doubly terrible. It appeared to be
omniscient and omnipotent, and yet was neither seen nor heard.
The man who held out against the Church vanished away, and
none knew whither he had gone or what had befallen him. His
wife and his children awaited him at home, but no father ever
returned to tell them how he had fared at the hands of his secret
judges. A rash word or a hasty act was followed by
annihilation, and yet none knew what the nature might be of this
terrible power which was suspended over them. No wonder that
men went about in fear and trembling, and that even in the heart of
the wilderness they dared not whisper the doubts which oppressed
them.
At first this vague and terrible power was exercised only upon
the recalcitrants who, having embraced the Mormon faith, wished
afterwards to pervert or to abandon it. Soon, however, it took
a wider range. The supply of adult women was running short,
and polygamy without a female population on which to draw was a
barren doctrine indeed. Strange rumours began to be bandied
about — rumours of murdered immigrants and rifled camps in
regions where Indians had never been seen. Fresh women
appeared in the harems of the Elders — women who pined and
wept, and bore upon their faces the traces of an unextinguishable
horror. Belated wanderers upon the mountains spoke of gangs of
armed men, masked, stealthy, and noiseless, who flitted by them in
the darkness. These tales and rumours took substance and
shape, and were corroborated and recorroborated, until they resolved
themselves into a definite name. To this day, in the lonely
ranches of the West, the name of the Danite Band, or the Avenging
Angels, is a sinister and an ill-omened one.
Fuller knowledge of the organization which produced such
terrible results served to increase rather than to lessen the horror
which it inspired in the minds of men. None knew who belonged
to this ruthless society. The names of the participators in
the deeds of blood and violence done under the name of religion were
kept profoundly secret. The very friend to whom you
communicated your misgivings as to the Prophet and his mission might
be one of those who would come forth at night with fire and sword to
exact a terrible reparation. Hence every man feared his
neighbour, and none spoke of the things which were nearest his heart.
One fine morning John Ferrier was about to set out to his
wheatfields, when he heard the click of the latch, and, looking
through the window, saw a stout, sandy-haired, middle-aged man coming
up the pathway. His heart leapt to his mouth, for this was
none other than the great Brigham Young himself. Full of
trepidation — for he knew that such a visit boded him little
good — Ferrier ran to the door to greet the Mormon chief.
The latter, however, received his salutations coldly, and
followed him with a stern face into the sitting-room.
&odq;Brother Ferrier,&cdq; he said, taking a seat, and eyeing
the farmer keenly from under his light-coloured eyelashes, &odq;the
true believers have been good friends to you. We picked you up
when you were starving in the desert, we shared our food with you,
led you safe to the Chosen Valley, gave you a goodly share of land,
and allowed you to wax rich under our protection. Is not this
so?&cdq;
&odq;It is so,&cdq; answered John Ferrier.
&odq;In return for all this we asked but one condition: that
was, that you should embrace the true faith, and conform in every way
to its usages. This you promised to do, and this, if common
report says truly, you have neglected.&cdq;
&odq;And how have I neglected it?&cdq; asked Ferrier, throwing
out his hands in expostulation. &odq;Have I not given to the
common fund? Have I not attended at the Temple? Have I
not?&cdq;
&odq;Where are your wives?&cdq; asked Young, looking round him.
&odq;Call them in, that I may greet them.&cdq;
&odq;It is true that I have not married,&cdq; Ferrier answered.
&odq;But women were few, and there were many who had better
claims than I. I was not a lonely man: I had my daughter to
attend to my wants.&cdq;
&odq;It is of that daughter that I would speak to you,&cdq;
said the leader of the Mormons. &odq;She has grown to be the
flower of Utah, and has found favour in the eyes of many who are high
in the land.&cdq;
John Ferrier groaned internally.
&odq;There are stories of her which I would fain disbelieve
— stories that she is sealed to some Gentile. This must
be the gossip of idle tongues. What is the thirteenth rule in
the code of the sainted Joseph Smith? &onq;Let every maiden of
the true faith marry one of the elect; for if she wed a Gentile, she
commits a grievous sin.&cnq; This being so, it is impossible
that you, who profess the holy creed, should suffer your daughter to
violate it.&cdq;
John Ferrier made no answer, but he played nervously with his
riding-whip.
&odq;Upon this one point your whole faith shall be tested
— so it has been decided in the Sacred Council of Four.
The girl is young, and we would not have her wed gray hairs,
neither would we deprive her of all choice. We Elders have
many heifers, but our children must also be provided.
Stangerson has a son, and Drebber has a son, and either of
them would gladly welcome your daughter to his house. Let her
choose between them. They are young and rich, and of the true
faith. What say you to that?&cdq;
Ferrier remained silent for some little time with his brows
knitted.
&odq;You will give us time,&cdq; he said at last.
&odq;My daughter is very young — she is scarce of an
age to marry.&cdq;
&odq;She shall have a month to choose,&cdq; said Young, rising
from his seat. &odq;At the end of that time she shall give her
answer.&cdq;
He was passing through the door, when he turned with flushed
face and flashing eyes. &odq;It were better for you, John
Ferrier,&cdq; he thundered, &odq;that you and she were now lying
blanched skeletons upon the Sierra Blanco, than that you should put
your weak wills against the orders of the Holy Four!&cdq;
With a threatening gesture of his hand, he turned from the
door, and Ferrier heard his heavy steps scrunching along the shingly
path.
He was still sitting with his elbow upon his knee, considering
how he should broach the matter to his daughter, when a soft hand was
laid upon his, and looking up, he saw her standing beside him.
One glance at her pale, frightened face showed him that she
had heard what had passed.
&odq;I could not help it,&cdq; she said, in answer to his look.
&odq;His voice rang through the house. Oh, father,
father, what shall we do?&cdq;
&odq;Don't you scare yourself,&cdq; he answered, drawing her to
him, and passing his broad, rough hand caressingly over her chestnut
hair. &odq;We'll fix it up somehow or another. You
don't find your fancy kind o' lessening for this chap, do you?&cdq;
A sob and a squeeze of his hand were her only answer.
&odq;No; of course not. I shouldn't care to hear you say
you did. He's a likely lad, and he's a Christian, which is
more than these folks here, in spite o' all their praying and
preaching. There's a party starting for Nevada to-morrow, and
I'll manage to send him a message letting him know the hole we are
in. If I know anything o' that young man, he'll be back with a
speed that would whip electro-telegraphs.&cdq;
Lucy laughed through her tears at her father's description.
&odq;When he comes, he will advise us for the best. But
it is for you that I am frightened, dear. One hears —
one hears such dreadful stories about those who oppose the Prophet;
something terrible always happens to them.&cdq;
&odq;But we haven't opposed him yet,&cdq; her father answered.
&odq;It will be time to look out for squalls when we do.
We have a clear month before us; at the end of that, I guess
we had best shin out of Utah.&cdq;
&odq;Leave Utah!&cdq;
&odq;That's about the size of it.&cdq;
&odq;But the farm?&cdq;
&odq;We will raise as much as we can in money, and let the rest
go. To tell the truth, Lucy, it isn't the first time I have
thought of doing it. I don't care about knuckling under to any
man, as these folk do to their damed Prophet. I'm a freeborn
American, and it's all new to me. Guess I'm too old to learn.
If he comes browsing about this farm, he might chance to run
up against a charge of buckshot travelling in the opposite
direction.&cdq;
&odq;But they won't let us leave,&cdq; his daughter objected.
&odq;Wait till Jefferson comes, and we'll soon manage that.
In the meantime, don't you fret yourself, my dearie, and don't
get your eyes swelled up, else he'll be walking into me when he sees
you. There's nothing to be afeared about, and there's no
danger at all.&cdq;
John Ferrier uttered these consoling remarks in a very
confident tone, but she could not help observing that he paid unusual
care to the fastening of the doors that night, and that he carefully
cleaned and loaded the rusty old shot-gun which hung upon the wall of
his bedroom.
0n the morning which followed his interview with the Mormon
Prophet, John Ferrier went in to Salt Lake City, and having found his
acquaintance, who was bound for the Nevada Mountains, he entrusted
him with his message to Jefferson Hope. In it he told the
young man of the imminent danger which threatened them, and how
necessary it was that he should return. Having done thus he
felt easier in his mind, and returned home with a lighter heart.
As he approached his farm, he was surprised to see a horse
hitched to each of the posts of the gate. Still more surprised
was he on the entering to find two young men in possession of his
sitting-room. One, with a long pale face, was leaning back in
the rocking-chair, with his feet cocked up upon the stove. The
other, a bull-necked youth with coarse, bloated features, was
standing in front of the window with his hands in his pockets
whistling a popular hymn. Both of them nodded to Ferrier as he
entered, and the one in the rocking-chair commenced the conversation.
&odq;Maybe you don't know us,&cdq; he said. &odq;This
here is the son of Elder Drebber, and I'm Joseph Stangerson, who
travelled with you in the desert when the Lord stretched out His hand
and gathered you into the true fold.&cdq;
&odq;As He will all the nations in His own good time,&cdq; said
the other in a nasal voice; &odq;He grindeth slowly but exceeding
small.&cdq;
John Ferrier bowed coldly. He had guessed who his
visitors were.
&odq;We have come,&cdq; continued Stangerson, &odq;at the
advice of our fathers to solicit the hand of your daughter for
whichever of us may seem good to you and to her. As I have but
four wives and Brother Drebber here has seven, it appears to me that
my claim is the stronger one.&cdq;
&odq;Nay, nay, Brother Stangerson,&cdq; cried the other;
&odq;the question is not how many wives we have, but how many we can
keep. My father has now given over his mills to me, and I am
the richer man.&cdq;
&odq;But my prospects are better,&cdq; said the other, warmly.
&odq;When the Lord removes my father, I shall have his tanning
yard and his leather factory. Then I am your elder, and am
higher in the Church.&cdq;
&odq;It will be for the maiden to decide,&cdq; rejoined young
Drebber, smirking at his own reflection in the glass. &odq;We
will leave it all to her decision.&cdq;
During this dialogue John Ferrier had stood fuming in the
doorway, hardly able to keep his riding-whip from the backs of his
two visitors.
&odq;Look here,&cdq; he said at last, striding up to them,
&odq;when my daughter summons you, you can come, but until then I
don't want to see your faces again.&cdq;
The two young Mormons stared at him in amazement. In
their eyes this competition between them for the maiden's hand was
the highest of honours both to her and her father.
&odq;There are two ways out of the room,&cdq; cried Ferrier;
&odq;there is the door, and there is the window. Which do you
care to use?&cdq;
His brown face looked so savage, and his gaunt hands so
threatening, that his visitors sprang to their feet and beat a
hurried retreat. The old farmer followed them to the door.
&odq;Let me know when you have settled which it is to be,&cdq;
he said, sardonically.
&odq;You shall smart for this!&cdq; Stangerson cried,
white with rage. &odq;You have defied the Prophet and the
Council of Four. You shall rue it to the end of your
days.&cdq;
&odq;The hand of the Lord shall be heavy upon you,&cdq; cried
young Drebber; &odq;He will arise and smite you!&cdq;
&odq;Then I'll start the smiting,&cdq; exclaimed Ferrier,
furiously, and would have rushed upstairs for his gun had not Lucy
seized him by the arm and restrained him. Before he could
escape from her, the clatter of horses' hoofs told him that they were
beyond his reach.
&odq;The young canting rascals!&cdq; he exclaimed, wiping the
perspiration from his forehead; &odq;I would sooner see you in your
grave, my girl, than the wife of either of them.&cdq;
&odq;And so should I, father.&cdq; she answered, with spirit;
&odq;but Jefferson will soon be here.&cdq;
&odq;Yes. It will not be long before he comes.
The sooner the better, for we do not know what their next move
may be.&cdq;
It was, indeed, high time that someone capable of giving advice
and help should come to the aid of the sturdy old farmer and his
adopted daughter. In the whole history of the settlement there
had never been such a case of rank disobedience to the authority of
the Elders. If minor errors were punished so sternly, what
would be the fate of this arch rebel? Ferrier knew that his
wealth and position would be of no avail to him. Others as
well known and as rich as himself had been spirited away before now,
and their goods given over to the Church. He was a brave man,
but he trembled at the vague, shadowy terrors which hung over him.
Any known danger he could face with a firm lip, but this
suspense was unnerving. He concealed his fears from his
daughter, however, and affected to make light of the whole matter,
though she, with the keen eye of love, saw plainly that he was ill at
ease.
He expected that he would receive some message or remonstrance
from Young as to his conduct, and he was not mistaken, though it came
in an unlooked-for manner. Upon rising next morning he found,
to his surprise, a small square of paper pinned on to the coverlet of
his bed just over his chest. On it was printed, in bold,
straggling letters: —
&odq;Twenty-nine days are given you for amendment, and then
— &cdq;
The dash was more fear-inspiring than any threat could have
been. How this warning came into his room puzzled John Ferrier
sorely, for his servants slept in an outhouse, and the doors and
windows had all been secured. He crumpled the paper up and
said nothing to his daughter, but the incident struck a chill into
his heart. The twenty-nine days were evidently the balance of
the month which Young had promised. What strength or courage
could avail against an enemy armed with such mysterious powers?
The hand which fastened that pin might have struck him to the
heart, and he could never have known who had slain him.
Still more shaken was he next morning. They had sat down
to their breakfast, when Lucy with a cry of surprise pointed upwards.
In the centre of the ceiling was scrawled, with a burned stick
apparently, the number 28. To his daughter it was
unintelligible, and he did not enlighten her. That night he
sat up with his gun and kept watch and ward. He saw and he
heard nothing, and yet in the morning a great 27 had been painted
upon the outside of his door.
Thus day followed day; and as sure as morning came he found
that his unseen enemies had kept their register, and had marked up in
some conspicuous position how many days were still left to him out of
the month of grace. Sometimes the fatal numbers appeared upon
the walls, sometimes upon the floors, occasionally they were on small
placards stuck upon the garden gate or the railings. With all
his vigilance John Ferrier could not discover whence these daily
warnings proceeded. A horror which was almost superstitious
came upon him at the sight of them. He became haggard and
restless, and his eyes had the troubled look of some hunted creature.
He had but one hope in life now, and that was for the arrival
of the young hunter from Nevada.
Twenty had changed to fifteen, and fifteen to ten, but there
was no news of the absentee. One by one the numbers dwindled
down, and still there came no sign of him. Whenever a horseman
clattered down the road, or a driver shouted at his team, the old
farmer hurried to the gate, thinking that help had arrived at last.
At last, when he saw five give way to four and that again to
three, he lost heart, and abandoned all hope of escape.
Single-handed, and with his limited knowledge of the mountains
which surrounded the settlement, he knew that he was powerless.
The more frequented roads were strictly watched and guarded,
and none could pass along them without an order from the Council.
Turn which way he would, there appeared to be no avoiding the
blow which hung over him. Yet the old man never wavered in his
resolution to part with life itself before he consented to what he
regarded as his daughter's dishonour.
He was sitting alone one evening pondering deeply over his
troubles, and searching vainly for some way out of them. That
morning had shown the figure 2 upon the wall of his house, and the
next day would be the last of the allotted time: What was to happen
then? All manner of vague and terrible fancies filled his
imagination. And his daughter — what was to become of
her after he was gone? Was there no escape from the invisible
network which was drawn all round them? He sank his head upon
the table and sobbed at the thought of his own impotence.
What was that? In the silence he heard a gentle
scratching sound — low, but very distinct in the quiet of the
night. It came from the door of the house. Ferrier
crept into the hall and listened intently. There was a pause
for a few moments, and then the low, insidious sound was repeated.
Someone was evidently tapping very gently upon one of the
panels of the door. Was it some midnight assassin who had come
to carry out the murderous orders of the secret tribunal? Or
was it some agent who was marking up that the last day of grace had
arrived? John Ferrier felt that instant death would be better
than the suspense which shook his nerves and chilled his heart.
Springing forward, he drew the bolt and threw the door open.
Outside all was calm and quiet. The night was fine, and
the stars were twinkling brightly overhead. The little front
garden lay before the farmer's eyes bounded by the fence and gate,
but neither there nor on the road was any human being to be seen.
With a sigh of relief, Ferrier looked to right and to left,
until, happening to glance straight down at his own feet, he saw to
his astonishment a man lying flat upon his face upon the ground, with
arms and legs all asprawl.
So unnerved was he at the sight that he leaned up against the
wall with his hand to his throat to stifle his inclination to call
out. His first thought was that the prostrate figure was that
of some wounded or dying man, but as he watched it he saw it writhe
along the ground and into the hall with the rapidity and
noiselessness of a serpent. Once within the house the man
sprang to his feet, closed the door, and revealed to the astonished
farmer the fierce face and resolute expression of Jefferson Hope.
&odq;Good God!&cdq; gasped John Ferrier. &odq;How you
scared me! Whatever made you come in like that?&cdq;
&odq;Give me food,&cdq; the other said, hoarsely. &odq;I
have had no time for bite or sup for eight-and-forty hours.&cdq;
He flung himself upon the cold meat and bread which were still
lying upon the table from his host's supper, and devoured it
voraciously. &odq;Does Lucy bear up well?&cdq; he asked, when
he had satisfied his hunger.
&odq;Yes. She does not know the danger,&cdq; her father
answered.
&odq;That is well. The house is watched on every side.
That is why I crawled my way up to it. They may be
darned sharp, but they're not quite sharp enough to catch a Washoe
hunter.&cdq;
John Ferrier felt a different man now that he realized that he
had a devoted ally. He seized the young man's leathery hand
and wrung it cordially. &odq;You're a man to be proud of,&cdq;
he said. &odq;There are not many who would come to share our
danger and our troubles.&cdq;
&odq;You've hit it there, pard,&cdq; the young hunter answered.
&odq;I have a respect for you, but if you were alone in this
business I'd think twice before I put my head into such a hornet's
nest. It's Lucy that brings me here, and before harm comes on
her I guess there will be one less o' the Hope family in Utah.&cdq;
&odq;What are we to do?&cdq;
&odq;To-morrow is your last day, and unless you act to-night
you are lost. I have a mule and two horses waiting in the
Eagle Ravine. How much money have you?&cdq;
&odq;Two thousand dollars in gold, and five in notes.&cdq;
&odq;That will do. I have as much more to add to it.
We must push for Carson City through the mountains. You
had best wake Lucy. It is as well that the servants do not
sleep in the house.&cdq;
While Ferrier was absent, preparing his daughter for the
approaching journey, Jefferson Hope packed all the eatables that he
could find into a small parcel, and filled a stoneware jar with
water, for he knew by experience that the mountain wells were few and
far between. He had hardly completed his arrangements before
the farmer returned with his daughter all dressed and ready for a
start. The greeting between the lovers was warm, but brief,
for minutes were precious, and there was much to be done.
&odq;We must make our start at once,&cdq; said Jefferson Hope
speaking in a low but resolute voice, like one who realizes the
greatness of the peril, but has steeled his heart to meet it.
&odq;The front and back entrances are watched, but with
caution we may get away through the side window and across the
fields. Once on the road we are only two miles from the Ravine
where the horses are waiting. By daybreak we should be halfway
through the mountains.&cdq;
&odq;What if we are stopped?&cdq; asked Ferrier.
Hope slapped the revolver butt which protruded from the front
of his tunic. &odq;If they are too many for us, we shall take
two or three of them with us,&cdq; he said with a sinister smile.
The lights inside the house had all been extinguished, and from
the darkened window Ferrier peered over the fields which had been his
own, and which he was now about to abandon forever. He had
long nerved himself to the sacrifice, however and the thought of the
honour and happiness of his daughter outweighed any regret at his
ruined fortunes. All looked so peaceful and happy, the
rustling trees and the broad silent stretch of grainland, that it was
difficult to realize that the spirit of murder lurked through it all.
Yet the white face and set expression of the young hunter
showed that in his approach to the house he had seen enough to
satisfy him upon that head.
Ferrier carried the bag of gold and notes, Jefferson Hope had
the scanty provisions and water, while Lucy had a small bundle
containing a few of her more valued possessions. Opening the
window very slowly and carefully, they waited until a dark cloud had
somewhat obscured the night, and then one by one passed through into
the little garden. With bated breath and crouching figures
they stumbled across it, and gained the shelter of the hedge, which
they skirted until they came to the gap which opened into the
cornfield. They had just reached this point when the young man
seized his two companions and dragged them down into the shadow,
where they lay silent and trembling.
It was as well that his prairie training had given Jefferson
Hope the ears of a lynx. He and his friends had hardly
crouched down before the melancholy hooting of a mountain owl was
heard within a few yards of them, which was immediately answered by
another hoot at a small distance. At the same moment a vague,
shadowy figure emerged from the gap for which they had been making,
and uttered the plaintive signal cry again, on which a second man
appeared out of the obscurity.
&odq;To-morrow at midnight,&cdq; said the first, who appeared
to be in authority. &odq;When the whippoorwill calls three
times.&cdq;
&odq;It is well,&cdq; returned the other. &odq;Shall I
tell Brother Drebber?&cdq;
&odq;Pass it on to him, and from him to the others. Nine
to seven!&cdq;
&odq;Seven to five!&cdq; repeated the other; and the two
figures flitted away in different directions. Their concluding
words had evidently been some form of sign and countersign.
The instant that their footsteps had died away in the
distance, Jefferson Hope sprang to his feet, and helping his
companions through the gap, led the way across the fields at the top
of his speed, supporting and half-carrying the girl when her strength
appeared to fail her.
&odq;Hurry on! hurry on!&cdq; he gasped from time to time.
&odq;We are through the line of sentinels. Everything
depends on speed. Hurry on!&cdq;
Once on the high road, they made rapid progress. Only
once did they meet anyone, and then they managed to slip into a
field, and so avoid recognition. Before reaching the town the
hunter branched away into a rugged and narrow footpath which led to
the mountains. Two dark, jagged peaks loomed above them
through the darkness, and the defile which led between them was the
Eagle Canon in which the horses were awaiting them. With
unerring instinct Jefferson Hope picked his way among the great
boulders and along the bed of a dried-up water-course, until he came
to the retired corner screened with rocks, where the faithful animals
had been picketed. The girl was placed upon the mule, and old
Ferrier upon one of the horses, with his money-bag, while Jefferson
Hope led the other along the precipitous and dangerous path.
It was a bewildering route for anyone who was not accustomed to
face Nature in her wildest moods. On the one side a great crag
towered up a thousand feet or more, black, stern, and menacing, with
long basaltic columns upon its rugged surface like the ribs of some
petrified monster. On the other hand a wild chaos of boulders
and debris made all advance impossible. Between the two ran
the irregular tracks, so narrow in places that they had to travel in
Indian file, and so rough that only practised riders could have
traversed it at all. Yet, in spite of all dangers and
difficulties, the hearts of the fugitives were light within them, for
every step increased the distance between them and the terrible
despotism from which they were flying.
They soon had a proof, however, that they were still within the
jurisdiction of the Saints. They had reached the very wildest
and most desolate portion of the pass when the girl gave a startled
cry, and pointed upwards. On a rock which overlooked the
track, showing out dark and plain against the sky, there stood a
solitary sentinel. He saw them as soon as they perceived him,
and his military challenge of &odq;Who goes there?&cdq; rang through
the silent ravine.
&odq;Travellers for Nevada,&cdq; said Jefferson Hope, with his
hand upon the rifle which hung by his saddle.
They could see the lonely watcher fingering his gun, and
peering down at them as if dissatisfied at their reply.
&odq;By whose permission?&cdq; he asked.
&odq;The Holy Four,&cdq; answered Ferrier. His Mormon
experiences had taught him that that was the highest authority to
which he could refer.
&odq;Nine to seven,&cdq; cried the sentinel.
&odq;Seven to five,&cdq; returned Jefferson Hope promptly,
remembering the countersign which he had heard in the garden.
&odq;Pass, and the Lord go with you,&cdq; said the voice from
above. Beyond his post the path broadened out, and the horses
were able to break into a trot. Looking back, they could see
the solitary watcher leaning upon his gun, and knew that they had
passed the outlying post of the chosen people, and that freedom lay
before them.
All night their course lay through intricate defiles and over
irregular and rockstrewn paths. More than once they lost their
way, but Hope's intimate knowledge of the mountains enabled them to
regain the track once more. When morning broke, a scene of
marvellous though savage beauty lay before them. In every
direction the great snow-capped peaks hemmed them in, peeping over
each other's shoulders to the far horizon. So steep were the
rocky banks on either side of them that the larch and the pine seemed
to be suspended over their heads, and to need only a gust of wind to
come hurtling down upon them. Nor was the fear entirely an
illusion, for the barren valley was thickly strewn with trees and
boulders which had fallen in a similar manner. Even as they
passed, a great rock came thundering down with a hoarse rattle which
woke the echoes in the silent gorges, and startled the weary horses
into a gallop.
As the sun rose slowly above the eastern horizon, the caps of
the great mountains lit up one after the other, like lamps at a
festival, until they were all ruddy and glowing. The
magnificent spectacle cheered the hearts of the three fugitives and
gave them fresh energy. At a wild torrent which swept out of a
ravine they called a halt and watered their horses, while they
partook of a hasty breakfast. Lucy and her father would fain
have rested longer, but Jefferson Hope was inexorable.
&odq;They will be upon our track by this time,&cdq; he said.
&odq;Everything depends upon our speed. Once safe in
Carson, we may rest for the remainder of our lives.&cdq;
During the whole of that day they struggled on through the
defiles, and by evening they calculated that they were more than
thirty miles from their enemies. At night-time they chose the
base of a beetling crag, where the rocks offered some protection from
the chill wind, and there, huddled together for warmth, they enjoyed
a few hours' sleep. Before daybreak, however, they were up and
on their way once more. They had seen no signs of any
pursuers, and Jefferson Hope began to think that they were fairly out
of the reach of the terrible organization whose enmity they had
incurred. He little knew how far that iron grasp could reach,
or how soon it was to close upon them and crush them.
About the middle of the second day of their flight their scanty
store of provisions began to run out. This gave the hunter
little uneasiness, however, for there was game to be had among the
mountains, and he had frequently before had to depend upon his rifle
for the needs of life. Choosing a sheltered nook, he piled
together a few dried branches and made a blazing fire, at which his
companions might warm themselves, for they were now nearly five
thousand feet above the sea level, and the air was bitter and keen.
Having tethered the horses, and bid Lucy adieu, he threw his
gun over his shoulder, and set out in search of whatever chance might
throw in his way. Looking back, he saw the old man and the
young girl crouching over the blazing fire, while the three animals
stood motionless in the background. Then the intervening rocks
hid them from his view.
He walked for a couple of miles through one ravine after
another without success, though, from the marks upon the bark of the
trees, and other indications, he judged that there were numerous
bears in the vicinity. At last, after two or three hours'
fruitless search, he was thinking of turning back in despair, when
casting his eyes upwards he saw a sight which sent a thrill of
pleasure through his heart. On the edge of a jutting pinnacle,
three or four hundred feet above him, there stood a creature somewhat
resembling a sheep in appearance, but armed with a pair of gigantic
horns. The big-horn — for so it is called —
was acting, probably, as a guardian over a flock which were invisible
to the hunter; but fortunately it was heading in the opposite
direction, and had not perceived him. Lying on his face, he
rested his rifle upon a rock, and took a long and steady aim before
drawing the trigger. The animal sprang into the air, tottered
for a moment upon the edge of the precipice, and then came crashing
down into the valley beneath.
The creature was too unwieldy to lift, so the hunter contented
himself with cutting away one haunch and part of the flank.
With this trophy over his shoulder, he hastened to retrace his
steps, for the evening was already drawing in. He had hardly
started, however, before he realized the difficulty which faced him.
In his eagerness he had wandered far past the ravines which
were known to him, and it was no easy matter to pick out the path
which he had taken. The valley in which he found himself
divided and sub-divided into many gorges, which were so like each
other that it was impossible to distinguish one from the other.
He followed one for a mile or more until he came to a mountain
torrent which he was sure that he had never seen before.
Convinced that he had taken the wrong turn, he tried another,
but with the same result. Night was coming on rapidly, and it
was almost dark before he at last found himself in a defile which was
familiar to him. Even then it was no easy matter to keep to
the right track, for the moon had not yet risen, and the high cliffs
on either side made the obscurity more profound. Weighed down
with his burden, and weary from his exertions, he stumbled along,
keeping up his heart by the reflection that every step brought him
nearer to Lucy, and that he carried with him enough to ensure them
food for the remainder of their journey.
He had now come to the mouth of the very defile in which he had
left them. Even in the darkness he could recognize the outline
of the cliffs which bounded it. They must, he reflected, be
awaiting him anxiously, for he had been absent nearly five hours.
In the gladness of his heart he put his hands to his mouth and
made the glen reecho to a loud halloo as a signal that he was coming.
He paused and listened for an answer. None came save
his own cry, which clattered up the dreary, silent ravines, and was
borne back to his ears in countless repetitions. Again he
shouted, even louder than before, and again no whisper came back from
the friends whom he had left such a short time ago. A vague,
nameless dread came over him, and he hurried onward frantically,
dropping the precious food in his agitation.
When he turned the corner, he came full in sight of the spot
where the fire had been lit. There was still a glowing pile of
wood ashes there, but it had evidently not been tended since his
departure. The same dead silence still reigned all round.
With his fears all changed to convictions, he hurried on.
There was no living creature near the remains of the fire:
animals, man, maiden all were gone. It was only too clear that
some sudden and terrible disaster had occurred during his absence
— a disaster which had embraced them all, and yet had left no
traces behind it.
Bewildered and stunned by this blow, Jefferson Hope felt his
head spin round, and had to lean upon his rifle to save himself from
falling. He was essentially a man of action, however, and
speedily recovered from his temporary impotence. Seizing a
half-consumed piece of wood from the smouldering fire, he blew it
into a flame, and proceeded with its help to examine the little camp.
The ground was all stamped down by the feet of horses, showing
that a large party of mounted men had overtaken the fugitives, and
the direction of their tracks proved that they had afterwards turned
back to Salt Lake City. Had they carried back both of his
companions with them? Jefferson Hope had almost persuaded
himself that they must have done so, when his eye fell upon an object
which made every nerve of his body tingle within him. A little
way on one side of the camp was a low-lying heap of reddish soil,
which had assuredly not been there before. There was no
mistaking it for anything but a newly dug grave. As the young
hunter approached it, he perceived that a stick had been planted on
it, with a sheet of paper stuck in the cleft fork of it. The
inscription upon the paper was brief, but to the point:
JOHN FERRIER, FORMERLY OF SALT LAKE CITY.Died August 4th, 1860.
The sturdy old man, whom he had left so short a time before,
was gone, then, and this was all his epitaph. Jefferson Hope
looked wildly round to see if there was a second grave, but there was
no sign of one. Lucy had been carried back by their terrible
pursuers to fulfill her original destiny, by becoming one of the
harem of an Elder's son. As the young fellow realized the
certainty of her fate, and his own powerlessness to prevent it, he
wished that he, too, was lying with the old farmer in his last silent
resting-place.
Again, however, his active spirit shook off the lethargy which
springs from despair. If there was nothing else left to him,
he could at least devote his life to revenge. With indomitable
patience and perseverance, Jefferson Hope possessed also a power of
sustained vindictiveness, which he may have learned from the Indians
amongst whom he had lived. As he stood by the desolate fire,
he felt that the only one thing which could assuage his grief would
be thorough and complete retribution, brought by his own hand upon
his enemies. His strong will and untiring energy should, he
determined, be devoted to that one end. With a grim, white
face, he retraced his steps to where he had dropped the food, and
having stirred up the smouldering fire, he cooked enough to last him
for a few days. This he made up into a bundle, and, tired as
he was, he set himself to walk back through the mountains upon the
track of the Avenging Angels.
For five days he toiled footsore and weary through the defiles
which he had already traversed on horseback. At night he flung
himself down among the rocks, and snatched a few hours of sleep; but
before daybreak he was always well on his way. On the sixth
day, he reached the Eagle Canon, from which they had commenced their
ill-fated flight. Thence he could look down upon the home of
the Saints. Worn and exhausted, he leaned upon his rifle and
shook his gaunt hand fiercely at the silent widespread city beneath
him. As he looked at it, he observed that there were flags in
some of the principal streets, and other signs of festivity.
He was still speculating as to what this might mean when he
heard the clatter of horse's hoofs, and saw a mounted man riding
towards him. As he approached, he recognized him as a Mormon
named Cowper, to whom he had rendered services at different times.
He therefore accosted him when he got up to him, with the
object of finding out what Lucy Ferrier's fate had been.
&odq;I am Jefferson Hope,&cdq; he said. &odq;You
remember me.&cdq;
The Mormon looked at him with undisguised astonishment —
indeed, it was difficult to recognize in this tattered, unkempt
wanderer, with ghastly white face and fierce, wild eyes, the spruce
young hunter of former days. Having, however, at last
satisfied himself as to his identity, the man's surprise changed to
consternation.
&odq;You are mad to come here,&cdq; he cried. &odq;It is
as much as my own life is worth to be seen talking with you.
There is a warrant against you from the Holy Four for
assisting the Ferriers away.&cdq;
&odq;I don't fear them, or their warrant,&cdq; Hope said,
earnestly. &odq;You must know something of this matter,
Cowper. I conjure you by everything you hold dear to answer a
few questions. We have always been friends. For God's
sake, don't refuse to answer me.&cdq;
&odq;What is it?&cdq; the Mormon asked, uneasily.
&odq;Be quick. The very rocks have ears and the trees
eyes.&cdq;
&odq;What has become of Lucy Ferrier?&cdq;
&odq;She was married yesterday to young Drebber. Hold
up, man, hold up; you have no life left in you.&cdq;
&odq;Don't mind me,&cdq; said Hope faintly. He was white
to the very lips, and had sunk down on the stone against which he had
been leaning. &odq;Married, you say?&cdq;
&odq;Married yesterday — that's what those flags are
for on the Endowment House. There was some words between young
Drebber and young Stangerson as to which was to have her.
They'd both been in the party that followed them, and
Stangerson had shot her father, which seemed to give him the best
claim; but when they argued it out in council, Drebber's party was
the stronger, so the Prophet gave her over to him. No one
won't have her very long though, for I saw death in her face
yesterday. She is more like a ghost than a woman. Are
you off, then?&cdq;
&odq;Yes, I am off,&cdq; said Jefferson Hope, who had risen
from his seat. His face might have been chiselled out of
marble, so hard and set was its expression, while its eyes glowed
with a baleful light.
&odq;Where are you going?&cdq;
&odq;Never mind,&cdq; he answered; and, slinging his weapon
over his shoulder, strode off down the gorge and so away into the
heart of the mountains to the haunts of the wild beasts.
Amongst them all there was none so fierce and so dangerous as
himself.
The prediction of the Mormon was only too well fulfilled.
Whether it was the terrible death of her father or the effects
of the hateful marriage into which she had been forced, poor Lucy
never held up her head again, but pined away and died within a month.
Her sottish husband, who had married her principally for the
sake of John Ferrier's property, did not affect any great grief at
his bereavement; but his other wives mourned over her, and sat up
with her the night before the burial, as is the Mormon custom.
They were grouped round the bier in the early hours of the
morning, when, to their inexpressible fear and astonishment, the door
was flung open, and a savage-looking, weather-beaten man in tattered
garments strode into the room. Without a glance or a word to
the cowering women, he walked up to the white silent figure which had
once contained the pure soul of Lucy Ferrier. Stooping over
her, he pressed his lips reverently to her cold forehead, and then,
snatching up her hand, he took the wedding ring from her finger.
&odq;She shall not be buried in that,&cdq; he cried with a
fierce snarl, and before an alarm could be raised sprang down the
stairs and was gone. So strange and so brief was the episode
that the watchers might have found it hard to believe it themselves
or persuade other people of it, had it not been for the undeniable
fact that the circlet of gold which marked her as having been a bride
had disappeared.
For some months Jefferson Hope lingered among the mountains,
leading a strange, wild life, and nursing in his heart the fierce
desire for vengeance which possessed him. Tales were told in
the city of the weird figure which was seen prowling about the
suburbs, and which haunted the lonely mountain gorges. Once a
bullet whistled through Stangerson's window and flattened itself upon
the wall within a foot of him. On another occasion, as Drebber
passed under a cliff a great boulder crashed down on him, and he only
escaped a terrible death by throwing himself upon his face.
The two young Mormons were not long in discovering the reason
of these attempts upon their lives, and led repeated expeditions into
the mountains in the hope of capturing or killing their enemy, but
always without success. Then they adopted the precaution of
never going out alone or after nightfall, and of having their houses
guarded. After a time they were able to relax these measures,
for nothing was either heard or seen of their opponent, and they
hoped that time had cooled his vindictiveness.
Far from doing so, it had, if anything, augmented it.
The hunter's mind was of a hard, unyielding nature, and the
predominant idea of revenge had taken such complete possession of it
that there was no room for any other emotion. He was, however
above all things, practical. He soon realized that even his
iron constitution could not stand the incessant strain which he was
putting upon it. Exposure and want of wholesome food were
wearing him out. If he died like a dog among the mountains
what was to become of his revenge then? And yet such a death
was sure to overtake him if he persisted. He felt that that
was to play his enemy's game, so he reluctantly returned to the old
Nevada mines, there to recruit his health and to amass money enough
to allow him to pursue his object without privation.
His intention had been to be absent a year at the most, but a
combination of unforeseen circumstances prevented his leaving the
mines for nearly five. At the end of that time, however, his
memory of his wrongs and his craving for revenge were quite as keen
as on that memorable night when he had stood by John Ferrier's grave.
Disguised, and under an assumed name, he returned to Salt Lake
City, careless what became of his own life, as long as he obtained
what he knew to be justice. There he found evil tidings
awaiting him. There had been a schism among the Chosen People
a few months before, some of the younger members of the Church having
rebelled against the authority of the Elders, and the result had been
the secession of a certain number of the malcontents, who had left
Utah and become Gentiles. Among these had been Drebber and
Stangerson; and no one knew whither they had gone. Rumour
reported that Drebber had managed to convert a large part of his
property into money, and that he had departed a wealthy man, while
his companion, Stangerson, was comparatively poor. There was
no clue at all, however, as to their whereabouts.
Many a man, however vindictive, would have abandoned all
thought of revenge in the face of such a difficulty, but Jefferson
Hope never faltered for a moment. With the small competence he
possessed, eked out by such employment as he could pick up, he
travelled from town to town through the United States in quest of his
enemies. Year passed into year, his black hair turned
grizzled, but still he wandered on, a human bloodhound, with his mind
wholly set upon the one object to which he had devoted his life.
At last his perseverance was rewarded. It was but a
glance of a face in a window, but that one glance told him that
Cleveland in Ohio possessed the men whom he was in pursuit of.
He returned to his miserable lodgings with his plan of
vengeance all arranged. It chanced, however, that Drebber,
looking from his window, had recognized the vagrant in the street,
and had read murder in his eyes. He hurried before a justice
of the peace accompanied by Stangerson, who had become his private
secretary, and represented to him that they were in danger of their
lives from the jealousy and hatred of an old rival. That
evening Jefferson Hope was taken into custody, and not being able to
find sureties, was detained for some weeks. When at last he
was liberated it was only to find that Drebber's house was deserted,
and that he and his secretary had departed for Europe.
Again the avenger had been foiled, and again his concentrated
hatred urged him to continue the pursuit. Funds were wanting,
however, and for some time he had to return to work, saving every
dollar for his approaching journey. At last, having collected
enough to keep life in him, he departed for Europe, and tracked his
enemies from city to city, working his way in any menial capacity,
but never overtaking the fugitives. When he reached St.
Petersburg, they had departed for Paris; and when he followed them
there, he learned that they had just set off for Copenhagen.
At the Danish capital he was again a few days late, for they
had journeyed on to London, where he at last succeeded in running
them to earth. As to what occurred there, we cannot do better
than quote the old hunter's own account, as duly recorded in Dr.
Watson's Journal, to which we are already under such obligations.
Our prisoner's furious resistance did not apparently indicate
any ferocity in his disposition towards ourselves, for on finding
himself powerless, he smiled in an affable manner, and expressed his
hopes that he had not hurt any of us in the scuffle. &odq;I
guess you're going to take me to the police-station,&cdq; he remarked
to Sherlock Holmes &odq;My cab's at the door. If you'll loose
my legs I'll walk down to it. I'm not so light to lift as I
used to be.&cdq;
Gregson and Lestrade exchanged glances, as if they thought this
proposition rather a bold one; but Holmes at once took the prisoner
at his word, and loosened the towel which we had bound round his
ankles. He rose and stretched his legs, as though to assure
himself that they were free once more. I remember that I
thought to myself, as I eyed him, that I had seldom seen a more
powerfully built man; and his dark, sunburned face bore an expression
of determination and energy which was as formidable as his personal
strength.
&odq;If there's a vacant place for a chief of the police, I
reckon you are the man for it,&cdq; he said, gazing with undisguised
admiration at my fellow-lodger. &odq;The way you kept on my
trail was a caution.&cdq;
&odq;You had better come with me,&cdq; said Holmes to the two
detectives.
&odq;I can drive you,&cdq; said Lestrade.
&odq;Good! and Gregson can come inside with me. You too,
Doctor. You have taken an interest in the case, and may as
well stick to us.&cdq;
I assented gladly, and we all descended together. Our
prisoner made no attempt at escape, but stepped calmly into the cab
which had been his, and we followed him. Lestrade mounted the
box, whipped up the horse, and brought us in a very short time to our
destination. We were ushered into a small chamber, where a
police inspector noted down our prisoner's name and the names of the
men with whose murder he had been charged. The official was a
white-faced, unemotional man, who went through his duties in a dull,
mechanical way. &odq;The prisoner will be put before the
magistrates in the course of the week,&cdq; he said; &odq;in the
meantime, Mr. Jefferson Hope, have you anything that you wish to say?
I must warn you that your words will be taken down, and may be
used against you.&cdq;
&odq;I've got a good deal to say,&cdq; our prisoner said
slowly. &odq;I want to tell you gentlemen all about it.&cdq;
&odq;Hadn't you better reserve that for your trial?&cdq; asked
the inspector.
&odq;I may never be tried,&cdq; he answered. &odq;You
needn't look startled. It isn't suicide I am thinking of.
Are you a doctor?&cdq; He turned his fierce dark eyes
upon me as he asked this last question.
&odq;Yes, I am,&cdq; I answered.
&odq;Then put your hand here,&cdq; he said, with a smile,
motioning with his manacled wrists towards his chest.
I did so; and became at once conscious of an extraordinary
throbbing and commotion which was going on inside. The walls
of his chest seemed to thrill and quiver as a frail building would do
inside when some powerful engine was at work. In the silence
of the room I could hear a dull humming and buzzing noise which
proceeded from the same source.
&odq;Why,&cdq; I cried, &odq;you have an aortic aneurism!&cdq;
&odq;That's what they call it,&cdq; he said, placidly.
&odq;I went to a doctor last week about it, and he told me
that it is bound to burst before many days passed. It has been
getting worse for years. I got it from overexposure and
under-feeding among the Salt Lake Mountains. I've done my work
now, and I don't care how soon I go, but I should like to leave some
account of the business behind me. I don't want to be
remembered as a common cut-throat.&cdq;
The inspector and the two detectives had a hurried discussion
as to the advisability of allowing him to tell his story.
&odq;Do you consider, Doctor, that there is immediate
danger?&cdq; the former asked.
&odq;Most certainly there is,&cdq; I answered.
&odq;In that case it is clearly our duty, in the interests of
justice, to take his statement,&cdq; said the inspector.
&odq;You are at liberty, sir, to give your account, which I
again warn you will be taken down.&cdq;
&odq;I'll sit down, with your leave,&cdq; the prisoner said,
suiting the action to the word. &odq;This aneurism of mine
makes me easily tired, and the tussle we had half an hour ago has not
mended matters. I'm on the brink of the grave, and I am not
likely to lie to you. Every word I say is the absolute truth,
and how you use it is a matter of no consequence to me.&cdq;
With these words, Jefferson Hope leaned back in his chair and
began the following remarkable statement. He spoke in a calm
and methodical manner, as though the events which he narrated were
commonplace enough. I can vouch for the accuracy of the
subjoined account, for I have had access to Lestrade's notebook in
which the prisoner's words were taken down exactly as they were
uttered.
&odq;It don't much matter to you why I hated these men,&cdq; he
said; &odq;it's enough that they were guilty of the death of two
human beings — a father and daughter — and that they
had, therefore, forfeited their own lives. After the lapse of
time that has passed since their crime, it was impossible for me to
secure a conviction against them in any court. I knew of their
guilt though, and I determined that I should be judge, jury, and
executioner all rolled into one. You'd have done the same, if
you have any manhood in you, if you had been in my place.
&odq;That girl that I spoke of was to have married me twenty
years ago. She was forced into marrying that same Drebber, and
broke her heart over it. I took the marriage ring from ber
dead finger, and I vowed that his dying eyes should rest upon that
very ring, and that his last thoughts should be of the crime for
which he was punished. I have carried it about with me, and
have followed him and his accomplice over two continents until I
caught them. They thought to tire me out, but they could not
do it. If I die to-morrow, as is likely enough, I die knowing
that my work in this world is done, and well done. They have
perished, and by my hand. There is nothing left for me to hope
for, or to desire.
&odq;They were rich and I was poor, so that it was no easy
matter for me to follow them. When I got to London my pocket
was about empty, and I found that I must turn my hand to something
for my living. Driving and riding are as natural to me as
walking, so I applied at a cab-owner's office, and soon got
employment. I was to bring a certain sum a week to the owner,
and whatever was over that I might keep for myself. There was
seldom much over, but I managed to scrape along somehow. The
hardest job was to learn my way about, for I reckon that of all the
mazes that ever were contrived, this city is the most confusing.
I had a map beside me, though, and when once I had spotted the
principal hotels and stations, I got on pretty well.
&odq;It was some time before I found out where my two gentlemen
were living; but I inquired and inquired until at last I dropped
across them. They were at a boarding-house at Camberwell, over
on the other side of the river. When once I found them out, I
knew that I had them at my mercy. I had grown my beard, and
there was no chance of their recognizing me. I would dog them
and follow them until I saw my opportunity. I was determined
that they should not escape me again.
&odq;They were very near doing it for all that. Go where
they would about London, I was always at their heels.
Sometimes I followed them on my cab, and sometimes on foot,
but the former was the best, for then they could not get away from
me. &cdq; It was only early in the morning or late at night
that I could earn anything, so that I began to get behindhand with my
employer. I did not mind that, however, as long as I could lay
my hand upon the men I wanted.
&odq;They were very cunning, though. They must have
thought that there was some chance of their being followed, for they
would never go out alone, and never after nightfall. During
two weeks I drove behind them every day, and never once saw them
separate. Drebber himself was drunk half the time, but
Stangerson was not to be caught napping. I watched them late
and early, but never saw the ghost of a chance; but I was not
discouraged, for something told me that the hour had almost come.
My only fear was that this thing in my chest might burst a
little too soon and leave my work undone.
&odq;At last, one evening I was driving up and down Torquay
Terrace, as the street was called in which they boarded, when I saw a
cab drive up to their door. Presently some luggage was brought
out and after a time Drebber and Stangerson followed it, and drove
off. I whipped up my horse and kept within sight of them,
feeling very ill at ease, for I feared that they were going to shift
their quarters. At Euston Station they got out, and I left a
boy to hold my horse and followed them on to the platform. I
heard them ask for the Liverpool train, and the guard answer that one
had just gone, and there would not be another for some hours.
Stangerson seemed to be put out at that, but Drebber was
rather pleased than otherwise. I got so close to them in the
bustle that I could hear every word that passed between them.
Drebber said that he had a little business of his own to do,
and that if the other would wait for him he would soon rejoin him.
His companion remonstrated with him, and reminded him that
they had resolved to stick together. Drebber answered that the
matter was a delicate one, and that he must go alone. I could
not catch what Stangerson said to that, but the other burst out
swearing, and reminded him that he was nothing more than his paid
servant, and that he must not presume to dictate to him. On
that the secretary gave it up as a bad job, and simply bargained with
him that if he missed the last train he should rejoin him at
Halliday's Private Hotel; to which Drebber answered that he would be
back on the platform before eleven, and made his way out of the
station.
&odq;The moment for which I had waited so long had at last
come. I had my enemies within my power. Together they
could protect each other, but singly they were at my mercy. I
did not act, however, with undue precipitation. My plans were
already formed. There is no satisfaction in vengeance unless
the offender has time to realize who it is that strikes him, and why
retribution has come upon him. I had my plans arranged by
which I should have the opportunity of making the man who had wronged
me understand that his old sin had found him out. It chanced
that some days before a gentleman who had been engaged in looking
over some houses in the Brixton Road had dropped the key of one of
them in my carriage. It was claimed that same evening, and
returned; but in the interval I had taken a moulding of it, and had a
duplicate constructed. By means of this I had access to at
least one spot in this great city where I could rely upon being free
from interruption. How to get Drebber to that house was the
difficult problem which I had now to solve.
&odq;He walked down the road and went into one or two liquor
shops, staying for nearly half an hour in the last of them.
When he came out, he staggered in his walk, and was evidently
pretty well on. There was a hansom just in front of me, and he
hailed it. I followed it so close that the nose of my horse
was within a yard of his driver the whole way. We rattled
across Waterloo Bridge and through miles of streets, until, to my
astonishment, we found ourselves back in the terrace in which he had
boarded. I could not imagine what his intention was in
returning there; but I went on and pulled up my cab a hundred yards
or so from the house. He entered it, and his hansom drove
away. Give me a glass of water, if you please. My mouth
gets dry with the talking.&cdq;
I handed him the glass, and he drank it down.
&odq;That's better,&cdq; he said. &odq;Well, I waited
tor a quarter of an hour, or more, when suddenly there came a noise
like people struggling inside the house. Next moment the door
was flung open and two men appeared, one of whom was Drebber, and the
other was a young chap whom I had never seen before. This
fellow had Drebber by the collar, and when they came to the head of
the steps he gave him a shove and a kick which sent him half across
the road. &onq;You hound!&cnq; he cried, shaking his stick at
him: &onq;I'll teach you to insult an honest girl!&cnq; He was
so hot that I think he would have thrashed Drebber with his cudgel,
only that the cur staggered away down the road as fast as his legs
would carry him. He ran as far as the corner, and then seeing
my cab, he hailed me and jumped in. &onq;Drive me to
Halliday's Private Hotel,&cnq; said he.
&odq;When I had him fairly inside my cab, my heart jumped so
with joy that I feared lest at this last moment my aneurism might go
wrong. I drove along slowly, weighing in my own mind what it
was best to do. I might take him right out into the country,
and there in some deserted lane have my last interview with him.
I had almost decided upon this, when he solved the problem for
me. The craze for drink had seized him again, and he ordered
me to pull up outside a gin palace. He went in, leaving word
that I should wait for him. There he remained until closing
time, and when he came out he was so far gone that I knew the game
was in my own hands.
&odq;Don't imagine that I intended to kill him in cold blood.
It would only have been rigid justice if I had done so, but I
could not bring myself to do it. I had long determined that he
should have a show for his life if he chose to take advantage of it.
Among the many billets which I have filled in America during
my wandering life, I was once janitor and sweeper-out of the
laboratory at York College. One day the professor was
lecturing on poisons, and he showed his students some alkaloid, as he
called it, which he had extracted from some South American arrow
poison, and which was so powerful that the least grain meant instant
death. I spotted the bottle in which this preparation was
kept, and when they were all gone, I helped myself to a little of it.
I was a fairly good dispenser, so I worked this alkaloid into
small, soluble pills, and each pill I put in a box with a similar
pill made without the poison. I determined at the time that
when I had my chance my gentlemen should each have a draw out of one
of these boxes, while I ate the pill that remained. It would
be quite as deadly and a good deal less noisy than firing across a
handkerchief. From that day I had always my pill boxes about
with me, and the time had now come when I was to use them.
&odq;It was nearer one than twelve, and a wild, bleak night,
blowing hard and raining in torrents. Dismal as it was
outside. I was glad within — so glad that I could have
shouted out from pure exultation. If any of you gentlemen have
ever pined for a thing, and longed for it during twenty long years,
and then suddenly found it within your reach, you would understand my
feelings. I lit a cigar, and puffed at it to steady my nerves,
but my hands were trembling and my temples throbbing with excitement.
As I drove, I could see old John Ferrier and sweet Lucy
looking at me out of the darkness and smiling at me, just as plain as
I see you all in this room. All the way they were ahead of me,
one on each side of the horse until I pulled up at the house in the
Brixton Road.
&odq;There was not a soul to be seen, nor a sound to be heard,
except the dripping of the rain. When I looked in at the
window, I found Drebber all huddled together in a drunken sleep.
I shook him by the arm, &onq;It's time to get out.&cnq; I
said.
&odq;&onq;All right, cabby.&cnq; said he.
&odq;I suppose he thought we had come to the hotel that he had
mentioned, for he got out without another word, and followed me down
the garden. I had to walk beside him to keep him steady, for
he was still a little top-heavy. When we came to the door, I
opened it and led him into the front room. I give you my word
that all the way, the father and the daughter were walking in front
of us.
&odq;&onq;It's infernally dark,&cnq; said he, stamping about.
&odq;&onq;We'll soon have a light,&cnq; I said, striking a
match and putting it to a wax candle which I had brought with me.
&onq;Now, Enoch Drebber,&cnq; I continued, turning to him, and
holding the light to my own face, &onq;who am I?&cnq;
&odq;He gazed at me with bleared, drunken eyes for a moment,
and then I saw a horror spring up in them, and convulse his whole
features, which showed me that he knew me. He staggered back
with a livid face, and I saw the perspiration break out upon his
brow, while his teeth chattered in his head. At the sight I
leaned my back against the door and laughed loud and long. I
had always known that vengeance would be sweet, but I had never hoped
for the contentment of soul which now possessed me.
&odq;&onq;You dog!&cnq; I said; &onq;I have hunted you from
Salt Lake City to St. Petersburg, and you have always escaped me.
Now, at last your wanderings have come to an end, for either
you or I shall never see to-morrow's sun rise.&cnq; He shrunk
still farther away as I spoke, and I could see on his face that he
thought I was mad. So I was for the time. The pulses in
my temples beat like sledgehammers, and I believe I would have had a
fit of some sort if the blood had not gushed from my nose and
relieved me.
&odq;&onq;What do you think of Lucy Ferrier now?&cnq; I cried,
locking the door, and shaking the key in his face.
&onq;Punishment has been slow in coming, but it has overtaken
you at last.&cnq; I saw his coward lips tremble as I spoke.
He would have begged for his life, but he knew well that it
was useless.
&odq;&onq;Would you murder me?&cnq; he stammered.
&odq;&onq;There is no murder,&cnq; I answered. &onq;Who
talks of murdering a mad dog? What mercy had you upon my poor
darling, when you dragged her from her slaughtered father, and bore
her away to your accursed and shameless harem?&cnq;
&odq;&onq;It was not I who killed her father,&cnq; he cried.
&odq;&onq;But it was you who broke her innocent heart,&cnq; I
shrieked, thrusting the box before him. &onq;Let the high God
judge between us. Choose and eat. There is death in one
and life in the other. I shall take what you leave. Let
us see if there is justice upon the earth, or if we are ruled by
chance.&cnq;
&odq;He cowered away with wild cries and prayers for mercy, but
I drew my knife and held it to his throat until he had obeyed me.
Then I swallowed the other, and we stood facing one another in
silence for a minute or more, waiting to see which was to live and
which was to die. Shall I ever forget the look which came over
his face when the first warning pangs told him that the poison was in
his system? I laughed as I saw it, and held Lucy's marriage
ring in front of his eyes. It was but for a moment, for the
action of the alkaloid is rapid. A spasm of pain contorted his
features; he threw his hands out in front of him, staggered, and
then, with a hoarse cry, fell heavily upon the floor. I turned
him over with my foot, and placed my hand upon his heart.
There was no movement. He was dead!
&odq;The blood had been streaming from my nose, but I had taken
no notice of it. I don't know what it was that put it into my
head to write upon the wall with it. Perhaps it was some
mischievous idea of setting the police upon a wrong track, for I felt
light-hearted and cheerful. I remember a German being found in
New York with RACHE written up above him, and it was argued at the
time in the newspapers that the secret societies must have done it.
I guessed that what puzzled the New Yorkers would puzzle the
Londoners, so I dipped my finger in my own blood and printed it on a
convenient place on the wall. Then I walked down to my cab and
found that there was nobody about, and that the night was still very
wild. I had driven some distance, when I put my hand into the
pocket in which I usually kept Lucy's ring, and found that it was not
there. I was thunderstruck at this, for it was the only
memento that I had of her. Thinking that I might have dropped
it when I stooped over Drebber's body, I drove back, and leaving my
cab in a side street, I went boldly up to the house — for I
was ready to dare anything rather than lose the ring. When I
arrived there, I walked right into the arms of a police-officer who
was coming out, and only managed to disarm his suspicions by
pretending to be hopelessly drunk.
&odq;That was how Enoch Drebber came to his end. All I
had to do then was to do as much for Stangerson, and so pay off John
Ferrier's debt. I knew that he was staying at Halliday's
Private Hotel, and I hung about all day, but he never came out.
I fancy that he suspected something when Drebber failed to put
in an appearance. He was cunning, was Stangerson, and always
on his guard. If he thought he could keep me off by staying
indoors he was very much mistaken. I soon found out which was
the window of his bedroom, and early next morning I took advantage of
some ladders which were lying in the lane behind the hotel, and so
made my way into his room in the gray of the dawn. I woke him
up and told him that the hour had come when he was to answer for the
life he had taken so long before. I described Drebber's death
to him, and I gave him the same choice of the poisoned pills.
Instead of grasping at the chance of safety which that offered
him, he sprang from his bed and flew at my throat. In
self-defence I stabbed him to the heart. It would have been
the same in any case, for Providence would never have allowed his
guilty hand to pick out anything but the poison.
&odq;I have little more to say, and it's as well, for I am
about done up. I went on cabbing it for a day or so, intending
to keep at it until I could save enough to take me back to America.
I was standing in the yard when a ragged youngster asked if
there was a cabby there called Jefferson Hope, and said that his cab
was wanted by a gentleman at 221B, Baker Street. I went round
suspecting no harm, and the next thing I knew, this young man here
had the bracelets on my wrists, and as neatly shackled as ever I saw
in my life. That's the whole of my story, gentlemen.
You may consider me to be a murderer; but I hold that I am
just as much an officer of justice as you are.&cdq;
So thrilling had the man's narrative been and his manner was so
impressive that we had sat silent and absorbed. Even the
professional detectives, blasé as they were in every detail of crime,
appeared to be keenly interested in the man's story. When he
finished, we sat for some minutes in a stillness which was only
broken by the scratching of Lestrade's pencil as he gave the
finishing touches to his shorthand account.
&odq;There is only one point on which I should like a little
more information,&cdq; Sherlock Holmes said at last. &odq;Who
was your accomplice who came for the ring which I advertised?&cdq;
The prisoner winked at my friend jocosely. &odq;I can
tell my own secrets,&cdq; he said, &odq;but I don't get other people
into trouble. I saw your advertisement, and I thought it might
be a plant, or it might be the ring which I wanted. My friend
volunteered to go and see. I think you'll own he did it
smartly.&cdq;
&odq;Not a doubt of that,&cdq; said Holmes, heartily.
&odq;Now, gentlemen,&cdq; the inspector remarked gravely,
&odq;the forms of the law must be complied with. On Thursday
the prisoner will be brought before the magistrates, and your
attendance will be required. Until then I will be responsible
for him.&cdq; He rang the bell as he spoke, and Jefferson Hope
was led off by a couple of warders, while my friend and I made our
way out of the station and took a cab back to Baker Street.
We had all been warned to appear before the magistrates upon
the Thursday; but when the Thursday came there was no occasion for
our testimony. A higher Judge had taken the matter in hand,
and Jefferson Hope had been summoned before a tribunal where strict
justice would be meted out to him. On the very night after his
capture the aneurism burst, and he was found in the morning stretched
upon the floor of the cell, with a placid smile upon his face, as
though he had been able in his dying moments to look back upon a
useful life, and on work well done.
&odq;Gregson and Lestrade will be wild about his death,&cdq;
Holmes remarked, as we chatted it over next evening.
&odq;Where will their grand advertisement be now?&cdq;
&odq;I don't see that they had very much to do with his
capture,&cdq; I answered.
&odq;What you do in this world is a matter of no
consequence,&cdq; returned my companion, bitterly. &odq;The
question is, what can you make people believe that you have done?
Never mind,&cdq; he continued, more brightly, after a pause.
&odq;I would not have missed the investigation for anything.
There has been no better case within my recollection.
Simple as it was, there were several most instructive points
about it.&cdq;
&odq;Simple!&cdq; I ejaculated.
&odq;Well, really, it can hardly be described as
otherwise,&cdq; said Sherlock Holmes, smiling at my surprise.
&odq;The proof of its intrinsic simplicity is, that without
any help save a few very ordinary deductions I was able to lay my
hand upon the criminal within three days.&cdq;
&odq;That is true,&cdq; said I.
&odq;I have already explained to you that what is out of the
common is usually a guide rather than a hindrance. In solving
a problem of this sort, the grand thing is to be able to reason
backward. That is a very useful accomplishment, and a very
easy one, but people do not practise it much. In the everyday
affairs of life it is more useful to reason forward, and so the other
comes to be neglected. There are fifty who can reason
synthetically for one who can reason analytically.&cdq;
&odq;I confess,&cdq; said I, &odq;that I do not quite follow
you.&cdq;
&odq;I hardly expected that you would. Let me see if I
can make it clearer. Most people, if you describe a train of
events to them will tell you what the result would be. They
can put those events together in their minds, and argue from them
that something will come to pass. There are few people,
however, who, if you told them a result, would be able to evolve from
their own inner consciousness what the steps were which led up to
that result. This power is what I mean when I talk of
reasoning backward, or analytically.&cdq;
&odq;I understand,&cdq; said I.
&odq;Now this was a case in which you were given the result and
had to find everything else for yourself. Now let me endeavour
to show you the different steps in my reasoning. To begin at
the beginning. I approached the house, as you know, on foot,
and with my mind entirely free from all impressions. I
naturally began by examining the roadway, and there, as I have
already explained to you, I saw clearly the marks of a cab, which, I
ascertained by inquiry, must have been there during the night.
I satisfied myself that it was a cab and not a private
carriage by the narrow gauge of the wheels. The ordinary
London growler is considerably less wide than a gentleman's brougham.
&odq;This was the first point gained. I then walked
slowly down the garden path, which happened to be composed of a clay
soil, peculiarly suitable for taking impressions. No doubt it
appeared to you to be a mere trampled line of slush, but to my
trained eyes every mark upon its surface had a meaning. There
is no branch of detective science which is so important and so much
neglected as the art of tracing footsteps. Happily, I have
always laid great stress upon it, and much practice has made it
second nature to me. I saw the heavy footmarks of the
constables, but I saw also the track of the two men who had first
passed through the garden. It was easy to tell that they had
been before the others, because in places their marks had been
entirely obliterated by the others coming upon the top of them.
In this way my second link was formed, which told me that the
nocturnal visitors were two in number, one remarkable for his height
( as I calculated from the length of his stride ), and the other
fashionably dressed, to judge from the small and elegant impression
left by his boots.
&odq;On entering the house this last inference was confirmed.
My well-booted man lay before me. The tall one, then,
had done the murder, if murder there was. There was no wound
upon the dead man's person, but the agitated expression upon his face
assured me that he had foreseen his fate before it came upon him.
Men who die from heart disease, or any sudden natural cause,
never by any chance exhibit agitation upon their features.
Having sniffed the dead man's lips, I detected a slightly sour
smell, and I came to the conclusion that he had had poison forced
upon him. Again, I argued that it had been forced upon him
from the hatred and fear expressed upon his face. By the
method of exclusion, I had arrived at this result, for no other
hypothesis would meet the facts. Do not imagine that it was a
very unheard-of idea. The forcible administration of poison is
by no means a new thing in criminal annals. The cases of
Dolsky in Odessa, and of Leturier in Montpellier, will occur at once
to any toxicologist.
&odq;And now came the great question as to the reason why.
Robbery had not been the object of the murder, for nothing was
taken. Was it politics, then, or was it a woman? That
was the question which confronted me. I was inclined from the
first to the latter supposition. Political assassins are only
too glad to do their work and to fly. This murder had, on the
contrary, been done most deliberately, and the perpetrator had left
his tracks all over the room, showing that he had been there all the
time. It must have been a private wrong, and not a political
one, which called for such a methodical revenge. When the
inscription was discovered upon the wall, I was more inclined than
ever to my opinion. The thing was too evidently a blind.
When the ring was found, however, it settled the question.
Clearly the murderer had used it to remind his victim of some
dead or absent woman. It was at this point that I asked
Gregson whether he had inquired in his telegram to Cleveland as to
any particular point in Mr. Drebber's former career. He
answered, you remember, in the negative.
&odq;I then proceeded to make a careful examination of the room
which confirmed me in my opinion as to the murderer's height, and
furnished me with the additional details as to the Trichinopoly cigar
and the length of his nails. I had already come to the
conclusion, since there were no signs of a struggle, that the blood
which covered the floor had burst from the murderer's nose in his
excitement. I could perceive that the track of blood coincided
with the track of his feet. It is seldom that any man, unless
he is very full-blooded, breaks out in this way through emotion, so I
hazarded the opinion that the criminal was probably a robust and
ruddy-faced man. Events proved that I had judged correctly.
&odq;Having left the house, I proceeded to do what Gregson had
neglected. I telegraphed to the head of the police at
Cleveland, limiting my inquiry to the circumstances connected with
the marriage of Enoch Drebber. The answer was conclusive.
It told me that Drebber had already applied for the protection
of the law against an old rival in love, named Jefferson Hope, and
that this same Hope was at present in Europe. I knew now that
I held the clue to the mystery in my hand, and all that remained was
to secure the murderer.
&odq;I had already determined in my own mind that the man who
had walked into the house with Drebber was none other than the man
who had driven the cab. The marks in the road showed me that
the horse had wandered on in a way which would have been impossible
had there been anyone in charge of it. Where, then, could the
driver be, unless he were inside the house? Again, it is
absurd to suppose that any sane man would carry out a deliberate
crime under the very eyes, as it were, of a third person who was sure
to betray him. Lastly, supposing one man wished to dog another
through London, what better means could he adopt than to turn
cabdriver? All these considerations led me to the irresistible
conclusion that Jefferson Hope was to be found among the jarveys of
the Metropolis.
&odq;If he had been one, there was no reason to believe that he
had ceased to be. On the contrary, from his point of view, any
sudden change would be likely to draw attention to himself. He
would probably, for a time at least, continue to perform his duties.
There was no reason to suppose that he was going under an
assumed name. Why should he change his name in a country where
no one knew his original one? I therefore organized my street
Arab detective corps, and sent them systematically to every cab
proprietor in London until they ferreted out the man that I wanted.
How well they succeeded, and how quickly I took advantage of
it, are still fresh in your recollection. The murder of
Stangerson was an incident which was entirely unexpected, but which
could hardly in any case have been prevented. Through it, as
you know, I came into possession of the pills, the existence of which
I had already surmised. You see, the whole thing is a chain of
logical sequences without a break or flaw.&cdq;
&odq;It is wonderful!&cdq; I cried. &odq;Your merits
should be publicly recognized. You should publish an account
of the case. If you won't, I will for you.&cdq;
&odq;You may do what you like, Doctor,&cdq; he answered.
&odq;See here!&cdq; he continued, handing a paper over to me,
&odq;look at this!&cdq;
It was the Echo for the day, and the paragraph to which he
pointed was devoted to the case in question.
&odq;The public,&cdq; it said, &odq;have lost a sensational
treat through the sudden death of the man Hope, who was suspected of
the murder of Mr. Enoch Drebber and of Mr. Joseph Stangerson.
The details of the case will probably be never known now,
though we are informed upon good authority that the crime was the
result of an old-standing and romantic feud, in which love and
Mormonism bore a part. It seems that both the victims
belonged, in their younger days, to the Latter Day Saints, and Hope,
the deceased prisoner, hails also from Salt Lake City. If the
case has had no other effect, it, at least, brings out in the most
striking manner the efficiency of our detective police force, and
will serve as a lesson to all foreigners that they will do wisely to
settle their feuds at home, and not to carry them on to British soil.
It is an open secret that the credit of this smart capture
belongs entirely to the well-known Scotland Yard officials, Messrs.
Lestrade and Gregson. The man was apprehended, it
appears, in the rooms of a certain Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who has
himself, as an amateur, shown some talent in the detective line and
who, with such instructors, may hope in time to attain to some degree
of their skill. It is expected that a testimonial of some sort
will be presented to the two officers as a fitting recognition of
their services.&cdq;
&odq;Didn't I tell you so when we started?&cdq; cried Sherlock
Holmes with a laugh. &odq;That's the result of all our Study
in Scarlet: to get them a testimonial!&cdq;
&odq;Never mind,&cdq; I answered; &odq;I have all the facts in
my journal, and the public shall know them. In the meantime
you must make yourself contented by the consciousness of success,
like the Roman miser —
&odq;Populus me sibilat, at mihi plaudo Ipse domi simul ac nummos contemplar in arca.&cdq;