THE friends of Mr.
Sherlock Holmes will be glad to learn that he is still alive and well, though
somewhat crippled by occasional attacks of rheumatism. He has, for many years,
lived in a small farm upon the downs five miles from Eastbourne, where his time
is divided between philosophy and agriculture. During this pe- riod of rest he
has refused the most princely offers to take up various cases, having
determined that his retirement was a permanent one. The approach of the German
war caused him however, to lay his remarkable combination of intellectual and
practical activity at the disposal of the government, with histori- cal results
which are recounted in His Last Bow. Several previ- ous experiences which have
lain long in my portfolio have been added to His Last Bow so as to complete the
volume.
JOHN H. WATSON, M.D.
I THE ADVENTURE OF
WISTERIA LODGE . . 11
II THE ADVENTURE OF THE
CARDBOARD BOX . 62
III THE ADVENTURE OF
THE RED CIRCLE . . 98
IV THE ADVENTURE OF THE
BRUCE-PARTINGTON PLANS . . . . . . . . . . . 130
V THE ADVENTURE OF THE
DYING DETECTIVE 179
VI THE DISAPPEARANCE OF
LADY FRANCES CARFAX . . . . . . . . . . . . 205
VII THE ADVENTURE OF
THE DEVIL’S FOOT . . 239
VIII HIS LAST BOW . . .
. . . . . . 282
I FIND it recorded in
my notebook that it was a bleak and windy day towards the end of March in the
year 1892. Holmes had received a telegram while we sat at our lunch, and he had
scribbled a reply. He made no remark, but the matter remained in his thoughts,
for he stood in front of the fire afterwards with a thoughtful face, smoking
his pipe, and casting an occasional glance at the message. Suddenly he turned
upon me with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
"I suppose,
Watson, we must look upon you as a man of letters," said he. "How do
you define the word ’grotesque’?"
"Strange --
remarkable," I suggested.
He shook his head at my
definition.
"There is surely
something more than that," said he; "some underlying suggestion of
the tragic and the terrible. If you cast your mind back to some of those
narratives with which you have afflicted a long-suffering public, you will
recognize how often the grotesque has deepened into the criminal. Think of that
little affair of the red-headed men. That was grotesque enough in the outset,
and yet it ended in a desperate attempt at robbery. Or, again, there was that
most grotesque affair of the five orange pips, which led straight to a
murderous conspiracy. The word puts me on the alert."
"Have you it
there?" I asked.
He read the telegram
aloud.
"Have just had
most incredible and grotesque experience. May I consult you?
"Scott Eccles,
"Post-Office,
Charing Cross."
"Man or
woman?" I asked.
"Oh, man, of
course. No woman would ever send a reply- paid telegram. She would have
come."
"Will you see
him?"
"My dear Watson,
you know how bored I have been since we locked up Colonel Carruthers. My mind
is like a racing engine, tearing itself to pieces because it is not connected
up with the work for which it was built. Life is commonplace; the papers are
sterile; audacity and romance seem to have passed for ever from the criminal world.
Can you ask me, then, whether I am ready to look into any new problem, however
trivial it may prove? But here, unless I am mistaken, is our client."
A measured step was
heard upon the stairs, and a moment later a stout, tall, gray-whiskered and
solemnly respectable per- son was ushered into the room. His life history was
written in his heavy features and pompous manner. From his spats to his
gold-rimmed spectacles he was a Conservative, a churchman, a good citizen,
orthodox and conventional to the last degree. But same amazing experience had
disturbed his native composure and left its traces in his bristling hair, his
flushed, angry cheeks and his flurried, excited manner. He plunged instantly
into his business.
"I have had a most
singular and unpleasant experience, Mr. Holmes," said he. "Never in
my life have I been placed in such a situation. It is most improper -- most
outrageous. I must insist upon some explanation." He swelled and puffed in
his anger.
"Pray sit down,
Mr. Scott Eccles," said Holmes in a soothing voice. "May I ask, in
the first place, why you came to me at all?"
"Well, sir, it did
not appear to be a matter which concerned the police, and yet, when you have
heard the facts, you must admit that I could not leave it where it was. Private
detectives are a class with whom I have absolutely no sympathy, but none the
less, having heard your name --"
"Quite so. But, in
the second place, why did you not come at once?"
"What do you
mean?"
Holmes glanced at his
watch.
"It is a
quarter-past two," he said. "Your telegram was dispatched about one.
But no one can glance at your toilet and attire without seeing that your
disturbance dates from the mo- ment of your waking."
Our client smoothed
down his unbrushed hair and felt his unshaven chin.
"You are right,
Mr. Holmes. I never gave a thought to my toilet. I was only too glad to get out
of such a house. But I have been running round making inquiries before I came
to you. I went to the house agents, you know, and they said that Mr. Garcia’s
rent was paid up all right and that everything was in order at Wisteria
Lodge."
"Come, come,
sir," said Holmes, laughing. "You are like my friend, Dr. Watson, who
has a bad habit of telling his stories wrong end foremost. Please arrange your
thoughts and let me know, in their due sequence, exactly what those events are
which have sent you out unbrushed and unkempt, with dress boots and waistcoat
buttoned awry, in search of advice and assistance."
Our client looked down
with a rueful face at his own uncon- ventional appearance.
"I’m sure it must
look very bad, Mr. Holmes, and I am not aware that in my whole life such a
thing has ever happened before. But I will tell you the whole queer business,
and when I have done so you will admit, I am sure, that there has been enough
to excuse me."
But his narrative was
nipped in the bud. There was a bustle outside, and Mrs. Hudson opened the door
to usher in two robust and official-looking individuals, one of whom was well
known to us as Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard, an energetic, gallant, and,
within his limitations, a capable officer. He shook hands with Holmes and
introduced his comrade as Inspector Baynes, of the Surrey Constabulary.
"We are hunting
together, Mr. Holmes and our trail lay in this direction." He turned his
bulldog ejes upon our visitor. "Are you Mr. John Scott Eccles, of Popham
House, Lee?"
"I am."
"We have been
following you about all the morning."
"You traced him
through the telegram, no doubt," said Holmes.
"Exactly, Mr.
Holmes. We picked up the scent at Charing Cross Post-Office and came on
here."
"But why do you
follow me? What do you want?"
"We wish a
statement, Mr. Scott Eccles, as to the events which led up to the death last
night of Mr. Aloysius Garcia, of Wisteria Lodge, near Esher."
Our client had sat up
with staring eyes and every tinge of colour struck from his astonished face.
"Dead? Did you say
he was dead?"
"Yes, sir, he is
dead."
"But how? An
accident?"
"Murder, if ever
there was one upon earth."
"Good God! This is
awful! You don’t mean -- you don’t mean that I am suspected?"
"A letter of yours
was found in the dead man’s pocket, and we know by it that you had planned to
pass last night at his house."
"So I did."
"Oh, you did, did
you?"
Out came the official
notebook.
"Wait a bit,
Gregson," said Sherlock Holmes. "All you desire is a plain statement,
is it not?"
"And it is my duty
to warn Mr. Scott Eccles that it may be used against him."
"Mr. Eccles was
going to tell us about it when you entered the room. I think, Watson, a brandy
and soda would do him no harm. Now, sir, I suggest that you take no notice of
this addition to your audience, and that you proceed with your narrative exactly
as you would have done had you never been interrupted. "
Our visitor had gulped
off the brandy and the colour had returned to his face. With a dubious glance
at the inspector’s notebook, he plunged at once into his extraordinary
statement.
"I am a bachelor,"
said he, "and being of a sociable turn I cultivate a large number of
friends. Among these are the family of a retired brewer called Melville, living
at Albemarle Mansion, Kensington. It was at his table that I met some weeks ago
a young fellow named Garcia. He was, I understood, of Spanish descent and
connected in some way with the embassy. He spoke perfect English, was pleasing
in his manners, and as good- looking a man as ever I saw in my life.
"In some way we
struck up quite a friendship, this young fellow and I. He seemed to take a
fancy to me from the first, and within two days of our meeting he came to see
me at Lee. One thing led to another, and it ended in his inviting me out to
spend a few days at his house, Wisteria Lodge, between Esher and Oxshott.
Yesterday evening I went to Esher to fulfil this engagement.
"He had described
his household to me before I went there. He lived with a faithful servant, a
countryman of his own, who looked after all his needs. This fellow could speak
English and did his housekeeping for him. Then there was a wonderful cook he
said, a half-breed whom he had picked up in his travels, who could serve an
excellent dinner. I remember that he remarked what a queer household it was to
find in the heart of Surrey, and that I agreed with him, though it has proved a
good deal queerer than I thought.
"I drove to the
place -- about two miles on the south side of Esher. The house was a fair-sized
one, standing back from the road, with a curving drive which was banked with
high ever- green shrubs. It was an old, tumble-down building in a crazy state
of disrepair. When the trap pulled up on the grass-grown drive in front of the
blotched and weather-stained door, I had doubts as to my wisdom in visiting a
man whom I knew so slightly. He opened the door himself, however, and greeted
me wlth a great show of cordiality. I was handed over to the manservant, a
melancholy, swarthy individual, who led the way, my bag in his hand, to my
bedroom. The whole place was depressing. Our dinner was tete-a-tete, and though
my host did his best to be entertaining, his thoughts seemed to continually
wander, and he talked so vaguely and wildly that I could hardly understand him.
He continually drummed his fingers on the table, gnawed his nails, and gave
other signs of nervous impa- tience. The dinner itself was neither well served
nor well cooked, and the gloomy presence of the taciturn servant did not help
to enliven us. I can assure you that many times in the course of the evening I
wished that I could invent some excuse which would take me back to Lee.
"One thing comes
back to my memory which may have a bearing upon the business that you two
gentlemen are investigat- ing. I thought nothing of it at the time. Near the
end of dinner a note was handed in by the servant. I noticed that after my host
had read it he seemed even more distrait and strange than before. He gave up
all pretence at conversation and sat, smoking endless cigarettes, lost in his
own thoughts, but he made no remark as to the contents. About eleven I was glad
to go to bed. Some time later Garcia looked in at my door -- the room was dark
at the time -- and asked me if I had rung. I said that I had not. He apologized
for having disturbed me so late, saying that it was nearly one o’clock. I
dropped off after this and slept soundly all night.
"And now I come to
the amazing part of my tale. When I woke it was broad daylight. I glanced at my
watch, and the time was nearly nine. I had particularly asked to be called at
eight, so I was very much astonished at this forgetfulness. I sprang up and
rang for the servant. There was no response. I rang again and again, with the
same result. Then I came to the conclusion that the bell was out of order. I
huddled on my clothes and hurried downstairs in an exceedingly bad temper to
order some hot water. You can imagine my surprise when I found that there was
no one there. I shouted in the hall. There was no answer. Then I ran from room
to room. All were deserted. My host had shown me which was his bedroom the
night before, so I knocked at the door. No reply. I turned the handle and
walked in. The room was empty, and the bed had never been slept in. He had gone
with the rest. The foreign host, the foreign footman, the foreign cook, all had
vanished in the night! That was the end of my visit to Wisteria Lodge."
Sherlock Holmes was
rubbing his hands and chuckling as he added this bizarre incident to his
collection of strange episodes.
"Your experience
is, so far as I know, perfectly unique," said he. "May I ask, sir,
what you did then?"
"I was furious. My
first idea was that I had been the victim of some absurd practical joke. I
packed my things, banged the hall door behind me, and set off for Esher, with
my bag in my hand. I called at Allan Brothers, the chief land agents in the
village, and found that it was from this firm that the villa had been rented.
It struck me that the whole proceeding could hardly be for the purpose of
making a fool of me, and that the main object must be to get out of the rent.
It is late in March, so quarter-day is at hand. But this theory would not work.
The agent was obliged to me for my warning, but told me that the rent had been
paid in advance. Then I made my way to town and called at the Spanish embassy.
The man was unknown there. After this I went to see Melville, at whose house I
had first met Garcia, but I found that he really knew rather less about him
than I did. Finally when I got your reply to my wire I came out to you, since I
gather that you are a person who gives advice in difficult cases. But now, Mr.
Inspector, I understand, from what you said when you entered the room, that you
can carry the story on, and that some tragedy has occurred. I can assure you
that every word I have said is the truth, and that, outside of what I have told
you, I know absolutely nothing about the fate of this man. My only desire is to
help the law in every possible way."
"I am sure of it,
Mr. Scott Eccles -- I am sure of it," said Inspector Gregson in a very
amiable tone. "I am bound to say that everything which you have said
agrees very closely with the facts as they have come to our notice. For
example, there was that note which arrived during dinner. Did you chance to
observe what became of it?"
"Yes, I did.
Garcia rolled it up and threw it into the fire."
"What do you say
to that, Mr. Baynes?"
The country detective
was a stout, puffy, red man, whose face was only redeemed from grossness by two
extraordinarily bright eyes, almost hidden behind the heavy creases of cheek
and brow. With a slow smile he drew a folded and discoloured scrap of paper
from his pocket.
"It was a
dog-grate, Mr. Holmes, and he overpitched it. I picked this out unburned from
the back of it."
Holmes smiled his
appreciation.
"You must have
examined the house very carefully to find a single pellet of paper."
"I did, Mr.
Holmes. It’s my way. Shall I read it, Mr. Gregson?"
The Londoner nodded.
"The note is
written upon ordinary cream-laid paper without watermark. It is a
quarter-sheet. The paper is cut off in two snips with a short-bladed scissors.
It has been folded over three times and sealed with purple wax, put on
hurriedly and pressed down with some flat oval object. It is addressed to Mr.
Garcia, Wisteria Lodge. It says: "Our own colours, green and white. Green
open, white shut. Main stair, first corridor, seventh right, green baize.
Godspeed. D. It is a woman’s writing, done with a sharp-pointed pen, but the
address is either done with another pen or by someone else. It is thicker and
bolder, as you see."
"A very remarkable
note," said Holmes, glancing it over. "I must compliment you, Mr.
Baynes, upon your attention to detail in your examination of it. A few trifling
points might perhaps be added. The oval seal is undoubtedly a plain sleeve-link
-- what else is of such a shape? The scissors were bent nail scissors. Short as
the two snips are, you can distinctly see the same slight curve in each."
The country detective
chuckled.
"I thought I had
squeezed all the juice out of it, but I see there was a little over," he
said. "I’m bound to say that I make nothing of the note except that there
was something on hand, and that a woman, as usual, was at the bottom of
it."
Mr. Scott Eccles had
fidgeted in his seat during this conver- sation.
"I am glad you
found the note, since it corroborates my story," said he. "But I beg
to point out that I have not yet heard what has happened to Mr. Garcia, nor
what has become of his household."
"As to
Garcia," said Gregson, "that is easily answered. He was found dead
this morning upon Oxshott Common, nearly a mile from his home. His head had
been smashed to pulp by heavy blows of a sandbag or some such instrument, which
had crushed rather than wounded. It is a lonely corner, and there is no house
within a quarter of a mile of the spot. He had appar- ently been struck down
first from behind, but his assailant had gone on beating him long after he was
dead. It was a most furious assault. There are no footsteps nor any clue to the
criminals."
"Robbed?"
"No, there was no
attempt at robbery."
"This lis very
painful -- very painful and terrible," said Mr. Scott Eccles in a
querulous voice, "but it is really uncommonly hard upon me. I had nothing
to do with my host going off upon a nocturnal excursion and meeting so sad an
end. How do I come to be mixled up with the case?"
"Very simply,
sir," Inspector Baynes answered. "The only document found in the
pocket of the deceased was a letter from you saying that you would be with him
on the night of his death. It was the envelope of this letter which gave us the
dead man’s name and address. It was after nine this morning when we reached his
house and found neither you nor anyone else inside it. I wired to Mr. Gregson
to run you down in London while I examined Wisteria Lodge. Then I came into
town, joined Mr. Gregson, and here we are."
"I think
now," said Gregson, rising, "we had best put this matter into an
official shape. You will come round with us to the station, Mr. Scott Eccles,
and let us have your statement in writing."
"Certainly, I will
come at once. But I retain your services, Mr. Holmes. I desire you to spare no
expense and no pains to get at the truth."
My friend turned to the
country inspector.
"I suppose that
you have no objection to my collaborating with you, Mr. Baynes?"
"Highly honoured,
sir, I am sure."
"You appear to
have been very prompt and business-like in all that you have done. Was there
any clue, may I ask, as to the exact hour that the man met his death?"
"He had been there
since one o’clock. There was rain about that time, and his death had certainly
been before the rain."
"But that is
perfectly impossible, Mr. Baynes," cried our client. "His voice is
unmistakable. I could swear to it that it was he who addressed me in my bedroom
at that very hour."
"Remarkable, but
by no means impossible," said Holmes, smiling.
"You have a
clue?" asked Gregson.
"On the face of it
the case is not a very complex one, though it certainly presents some novel and
interesting features. A fur- ther knowledge of facts is necessary before I would
venture to give a final and definite opinion. By the way, Mr. Baynes, did you
find anything remarkable besides this note in your examina- tion of the
house?"
The detective looked at
my friend in a singular way.
"There were,"
said he, "one or two vely remarkable things. Perhaps when I have finished
at the police-station you would care to come out and give me your opinion of
them."
"I am entirely at
your service," said Sherlock Holmes, ring- ing the bell. "You will
show these gentlemen out, Mrs. Hudson, and kindly send the boy with this
telegram. He is to pay a five-shilling reply."
We sat for some time in
silence after our visitors had left. Holmes smoked hard, with his brows drawn
down over his keen eyes, and his head thrust forward in the eager way characteristic
of the man.
"Well,
Watson," he asked, turning suddenly upon me, "what do you make of
it?"
"I can make
nothing of this mystification of Scott Eccles."
"But the
crime?"
"Well, taken with
the disappearance of the man’s compan- ions, I should say that they were in
some way concerned in the murder and had fled from justice."
"That is certainly
a possible point of view. On the face of it you must admit, however, that it is
very strange that his two servants should have been in a conspiracy against him
and should have attacked him on the one night when he had a guest. They had him
alone at their mercy every other night in the week."
"Then why did they
fly?"
"Quite so. Why did
they fly? There is a big fact. Another big fact is the remarkable experience of
our client, Scott Eccles. Now, my dear Watson, is it beyond the limits of human
ingenu- ity to furnish an explanation which would cover both these big facts?
If it were one which would also admit of the mysterious note with its very
curious phraseology, why, then it would be worth accepting as a temporary
hypothesis. If the fresh facts which come to our knowledge all fit themselves
into the scheme, then our hypothesis may gradually become a solution."
"But what is our
hypothesis?"
Holmes leaned back in
his chair with half-closed eyes.
"You must admit,
my dear Watson, that the idea of a joke is impossible. There were grave events
afoot, as the sequel showed, and the coaxing of Scott Eccles to Wisteria Lodge
had some connection with them."
"But what possible
connection?"
"Let us take it
link by link. There is, on the face of it something unnatural about this
strange and sudden friendship between the young Spaniard and Scott Eccles. It
was the former who forced the pace. He called upon Eccles at the other end of
London on the very day after he first met him, and he kept in close touch with
him until he got him down to Esher. Now, what did he want with Eccles? What
could Eccles supply? I see no charm in the man. He is not particularly
intelligent -- not a man likely to be congenial to a quick-witted Latin. Why,
then, was he picked out from all the other people whom Garcia met as particu-
larly suited to his purpose? Has he any one outstanding quality? I say that he
has. He is the very type of conventional British respectability, and the very
man as a witness to impress another Briton. You saw yourself how neither of the
inspectors dreamed of questioning his statement, extraordinary as it was."
"But what was he
to witness?"
"Nothing, as
things turned out, but everything had they gone another way. That is how I read
the matter."
"I see, he might
have proved an alibi."
"Exactly, my dear
Watson; he might have proved an alibi. We will suppose, for argument’s sake,
that the household of Wisteria Lodge are confederates in some design. The
attempt, whatever it may be, is to come off, we will say, before one o’clock.
By some juggling of the clocks it is quite possible that they may have got
Scott Eccles to bed earlier than he thought but in any case it is likely that
when Garcia went out of his way to tell him that it was one it was really not
more than twelve. If Garcia could do whatever he had to do and be back by the
hour mentioned he had evidently a powerful reply to any accusation. Here was
this irreproachable Englishman ready to swear in any court of law that the
accused was in his house all the time. It was an insurance against the
worst."
"Yes, yes, I see
that. But how about the disappearance of the others?"
"I have not all my
facts yet, but I do not think there are any insuperable difficulties. Still, it
is an error to argue in front of your data. You find yourself insensibly
twisting them round to fit your theories."
"And the
message?"
"How did it run? ’Our
own colours, green and white.’ Sounds like racing. ’Green open, white shut.~
That is clearly a signal. ’Main stair, first corridor, seventh right, green
baize.’ This is an assignation. We may find a jealous husband at the bottom of
it all. It was clearly a dangerous quest. She would not have said ’Godspeed’
had it not been so. ’D’ -- that should be a guide."
"The man was a
Spaniard. I suggest that ’D’ stands for Dolores, a common female name in
Spain."
"Good, Watson,
very good -- but quite inadmissible. A Spaniard would write to a Spaniard in
Spanish. The writer of this note is certainly English. Well, we can only
possess our souls in pa- tience until this excellent inspector comes back for
us. Meanwhile we can thank our lucky fate which has rescued us for a few short
hours from the insufferable fatigues of idleness."
An answer had arrived
to Holmes’s telegram before our Surrey officer had returned. Holmes read it and
was about to place it in his notebook when he caught a glimpse of my expectant
face. He tossed it across with a laugh.
"We are moving in
exalted circles," said he.
The telegram was a list
of names and addresses: Lord Harringby, The Dingle; Sir George Ffolliott,
Oxshott Towers; Mr. Hynes Hynes, J.P., Purdey Place; Mr. James Baker Williams,
Forton Old Hall; Mr. Henderson, High Gable; Rev. Joshua Stone, Nether Walsling.
"This is a very
obvious way of limiting our field of opera- tions," said Holmes. "No
doubt Baynes, with his methodical mind, has already adopted some similar
plan."
"I don’t quite
understand."
"Well, my dear
fellow, we have already arrived at the conclu- sion that the message received
by Garcia at dinner was an appointment or an assignation. Now, if the obvious
reading of it is correct, and in order to keep this tryst one has to ascend a
main stair and seek the seventh door in a corridor, it is perfectly clear that
the house is a very large one. It is equally certain that this house cannot be
more than a mile or two from Oxshott since Garcia was walking in that direction
and hoped, according to my reading of the facts, to be back in Wisteria Lodge
in time to avail himself of an alibi, which would only be valid up to one o’clock.
As the number of large houses close to Oxshott must be limited, I adopted the
obvious method of sending to the agents mentioned by Scott Eccles and obtaining
a list of them. Here they are in this telegram, and the other end of our
tangled skein must lie among them."
It was nearly six o’clock
before we found ourselves in the pretty Surrey village of Esher, with Inspector
Baynes as our companion.
Holmes and I had taken
things for the night, and found comfortable quarters at the Bull. Finally we
set out in the company of the detective on our visit to Wisteria Lodge. lt was
a cold, dark March evening, with a sharp wind and a fine rain beating upon our
faces, a fit setting for the wild common over which our road passed and the
tragic goal to which it led us.
A cold and melancholy
walk of a couple of miles brought us to a high wooden gate, which opened into a
gloomy avenue of chestnuts. The curved and shadowed drive led us to a low, dark
house, pitch-black against a slate-coloured sky. From the front window upon the
left of the door there peeped a glimmer of a feeble light.
"There’s a
constable in possession," said Baynes. "I’ll knock at the
window." He stepped across the grass plot and tapped with his hand on the
pane. Through the fogged glass I dimly saw a man spring up from a chair beside
the fire, and heard a sharp cry from within the room. An instant later a
white-faced, hard- breathing policeman had opened the door, the candle wavering
in his trembling hand.
"What’s the
matter, Walters?" asked Baynes sharply.
The man mopped his
forehead with his handkerchief and gave a long sigh of relief.
"I am glad you
have come, sir. It has been a long evening, and l don’t think my nerve is as
good as it was."
"Your nerve,
Walters? I should not have thought you had a nerve in your body."
"Well, sir, it’s
this lonely, silent house and the queer thing in the kitchen. Then when you
tapped at the window I thought it had come again."
"That what had
come again?"
"The devil, sir,
for all I know. It was at the window."
"What was at the
window, and when?"
"It was just about
two hours ago. The light was just fading. I was sitting reading in the chair. I
don’t know what made me look up, but there was a face looking in at me through
the lower pane. Lord, sir, what a face it was! I’ll see it in my dreams."
"Tut, tut,
Walters. This is not talk for a police-constable."
"I know sir, I
know; but it shook me sir, and there’s no use to deny it. it wasn’t black, sir,
nor was it white, nor any colour that I know, but a kind of queer shade like
clay with a splash of milk in it. Then there was the size of it -- it was twice
yours, sir. And the look of it -- the great staring goggle eyes, and the line
of white teeth like a hungry beast. I tell you, sir, I couldn’t move a finger,
nor get my breath, till it whisked away and was gone. Out I ran and through the
shrubbery, but thank God there was no one there."
"If I didn’t know
you were a good man, Walters, I should put a black mark against you for this.
If it were the devil himself a constable on duty should never thank God that he
could not lay his hands upon him. I suppose the whole thing is not a vision and
a touch of nerves?"
"That, at least,
is very easily settled," said Holmes, lighting his little pocket lantern.
"Yes," he reported, after a short exami- nation of the grass bed,
"a number twelve shoe, I should say. If he was all on the same scale as
his foot he must certainly have been a giant."
"What became of
him?"
"He seems to have
broken through the shrubbery and made for the road."
"Well," said
the inspector with a grave and thoughtful face, "whoever he may have been,
and whatever he may have wanted, he’s gone for the present, and we have more
immediate things to attend to. Now, Mr. Holmes, with your permission, I will
show you round the house."
The various bedrooms
and sitting-rooms had yielded nothing to a careful search. Apparently the
tenants had brought little or nothing with them, and all the furniture down to
the smallest details had been taken over with the house. A good deal of
clothing with the stamp of Marx and Co., High Holborn, had been left behind.
Telegraphic inquiries had been already made which showed that Marx knew nothing
of his customer save that he was a good payer. Odds and ends, some pipes, a few
novels, two of them in Spanish, an old-fashioned pinfire revolver, and a guitar
were among the personal property.
"Nothing in all
this," said Baynes, stalking, candle in hand, from room to room. "But
now, Mr. Holmes, I invite your attention to the kitchen."
It was a gloomy,
high-ceilinged room at the back of the house, with a straw litter in one
corner, which served apparently as a bed for the cook. The table was piled with
half-eaten dishes and dirty plates, the debris of last night’s dinner.
"Look at
this," said Baynes. "What do you make of it?"
He held up his candle
before an extraordinary object which stood at the back of the dresser. It was
so wrinkled and shrunken and withered that it was difficult to say what it
might have been. One could but say that it was black and leathery and that it bore
some resemblance to a dwarfish, human figure. At first, as I examined it, I
thought that it was a mummified negro baby, and then it seemed a very twisted
and ancient monkey. Finally I was left in doubt as to whether it was animal or
human. A double band of white shells was strung round the centre of it.
"Very interesting
-- very interesting, indeed!" said Holmes, peering at this sinister relic.
"Anything more?"
In silence Baynes led
the way to the sink and held forward his candle. The limbs and body of some
large, white bird, torn savagely to pieces with the feathers still on, were
littered all over it. Holmes pointed to the wattles on the severed head.
"A white
cock," said he. "Most interesting! It is really a very curious
case."
But Mr. Baynes had kept
his most sinister exhibit to the last. From under the sink he drew a zinc pail
which contained a quantity of blood. Then from the table he took a platter
heaped with small pieces of charred bone.
"Something has
been killed and something has been burned. We raked all these out of the fire.
We had a doctor in this morning. He says that they are not human."
Holmes smiled and
rubbed his hands.
"I must
congratulate you, Inspector, on handling so distinc- tive and instructive a
case. Your powers, if I may say so without offence, seem superior to your
opportunities."
Inspector Baynes’s
small eyes twinkled with pleasure.
"You’re right, Mr.
Holmes. We stagnate in the provinces. A case of this sort gives a man a chance,
and I hope that I shall take it. What do you make of these bones?"
"A lamb, I should
say, or a kid."
"And the white
cock?"
"Curious, Mr.
Baynes, very curious. I should say almost unique."
"Yes, sir, there
must have been some very strange people with some very strange ways in this
house. One of them is dead. Did his companions follow him and kill him? If they
did we should have them, for every port is watched. But my own views are
different. Yes, sir, my own views are very different."
"You have a theory
then?"
"And I’ll work it
myself, Mr. Holmes. It’s only due to my own credit to do so. Your name is made,
but I have still to make mine. I should be glad to be able to say afterwards
that I had solved it without your help."
Holmes laughed
good-humouredly.
"Well, well,
Inspector," said he. "Do you follow your path and I will follow mine.
My results are always very much at your service if you care to apply to me for
them. I think that I have seen all that I wish in this house, and that my time
may be more profitably employed elsewhere. Au revoir and good luck!"
I could tell by
numerous subtle signs, which might have been lost upon anyone but myself, that
Holmes was on a hot scent. As impassive as ever to the casual observer, there
were none the less a subdued eagerness and suggestion of tension in his
brightened eyes and brisker manner which assured me that the game was afoot.
After his habit he said nothing, and after mine I asked no questions.
Sufficient for me to share the sport and lend my humble help to the capture
without distracting that intent brain with needless interruption. All would
come round to me in due time.
I waited, therefore --
but to my ever-deepening disappointment I waited in vain. Day succeeded day,
and my friend took no step forward. One morning he spent in town, and I learned
from a casual reference that he had visited the British Museum. Save for this
one excursion, he spent his days in long and often solitary walks, or in
chatting with a number of village gossips whose acquaintance he had cultivated.
"I’m sure, Watson,
a week in the country will be invaluable to you," he remarked. "It is
very pleasant to see the first green shoots upon the hedges and the catkins on
the hazels once again. With a spud, a tin box, and an elementary book on
botany, there are instructive days to be spent." He prowled about with
this equipment himself, but it was a poor show of plants which he would bring
back of an evening.
Occasionally in our
rambles we came across Inspector Baynes. His fat, red face wreathed itself in
smiles and his small eyes glittered as he greeted my companion. He said little
about the case, but from that little we gathered that he also was not
dissatisfied at the course of events. I must admit, however, that I was
somewhat surprised when, some five days after the crime, I opened my morning
paper to find in large letters:
"THE OXSHOTT
MYSTERY A SOLUTION ARREST OF SUPPOSED ASSASSIN."
Holmes sprang in his
chair as if he had been stung when I read the head-lines.
"By Jove!" he
cried. "You don’t mean that Baynes has got him?"
"Apparently,"
said I as I read the following report:
"Great excitement
was caused in Esher and the neighbouring district when it was learned late last
night that an arrest had been effected in connection with the Oxshott murder.
It will be remembered that Mr. Garcia, of Wisteria Lodge, was found dead on
Oxshott Common, his body showing signs of extreme violence, and that on the
same night his servant and his cook fled, which appeared to show their
participation in the crime. It was suggested, but never proved, that the
deceased gentleman may have had valuables in the house, and that their
abstraction was the motive of the crime. Every effort was made by Inspector
Baynes, who has the case in hand, to ascertain the hiding place of the fugitives,
and he had good reason to believe that they had not gone far but were lurking
in some retreat which had been already prepared. It was certain from the first,
however, that they would eventually be detected, as the cook, from the evidence
of one or two tradespeople who have caught a glimpse of him through the window,
was a man of most remarkable appearance -- being a huge and hideous mulatto,
with yellowish features of a pronounced negroid type. This man has been seen
since the crime, for he was detected and pursued by Constable Walters on the
same evening, when he had the audacity to revisit Wisteria Lodge. Inspector
Baynes, considering that such a visit must have some purpose in view and was
likely, therefore, to be repeated, abandoned the house but left an ambuscade in
the shrubbery. The man walked into the trap and was captured last night after a
struggle in which Constable Downing was badly bitten by the savage. We
understand that when the prisoner is brought before the magistrates a remand
will be applied for by the police, and that great developments are hoped from
his capture."
"Really we must
see Baynes at once," cried Holmes, picking up his hat. "We will just
catch him before he starts." We hurried down the village street and found,
as we had expected, that the inspector was just leaving his lodgings.
"You’ve seen the
paper, Mr. Holmes?" he asked, holding one out to us.
"Yes, Baynes, I’ve
seen it. Pray don’t think it a liberty if I give you a word of friendly
warning."
"Of warning, Mr.
Holmes?"
"I have looked
into this case with some care, and I am not convinced that you are on the right
lines. I don’t want you to commit yourself too far unless you are sure."
"You’re very kind,
Mr. Holmes."
"I assure you I
speak for your good."
It seemed to me that
something like a wink quivered for an instant over one of Mr. Baynes’s tiny
eyes.
"We agreed to work
on our own lines, Mr. Holmes. That’s what I am doing."
"Oh, very
good," said Holmes. "Don’t blame me."
"No, sir; I
believe you mean well by me. But we all have our own systems, Mr. Holmes. You
have yours, and maybe I have mine."
"Let us say no
more about it."
"You’re welcome
always to my news. This fellow is a perfect savage, as strong as a cart-horse
and as fierce as the devil. He chewed Downing’s thumb nearly off before they
could master him. He hardly speaks a word of English, and we can get nothing
out of him but grunts."
"And you think you
have evidence that he murdered his late master?"
"I didn’t say so,
Mr. Holmes- I didn’t say so. We all have our little ways. You try yours and I
will try mine. That’s the agreement."
Holmes shrugged his
shoulders as we walked away together. "I can’t make the man out. He seems
to be riding for a fall. Well, as he says, we must each try our own way and see
what comes of it. But there’s something in Inspector Baynes which I can’t quite
understand."
"Just sit down in
that chair, Watson," said Sherlock Holmes when we had returned to our
apartment at the Bull. "I want to put you in touch with the situation, as I
may need your help to-night. Let me show you the evolution of this case so far
as I have been able to follow it. Simple as it has been in its leading
features, it has none the less presented surprising difficulties in the way of
an arrest. There are gaps in that direction which we have still to fill.
"We will go back
to the note which was handed in to Garcia upon the evening of his death. We may
put aside this idea of Baynes’s that Garcia’s servants were concerned in the
matter. The proof of this lies in the fact that it was he who had arranged for
the presence of Scott Eccles, which could only have been done for the purpose
of an alibi. It was Garcia, then, who had an enterprise, and apparently a
criminal enterprise, in hand that night in the course of which he met his
death. I say ’criminal’ because only a man with a criminal enterprise desires
to establish an alibi. Who, then, is most likely to have taken his life? Surely
the person against whom the criminal enterprise was directed. So far it seems
to me that we are on safe ground.
"We can now see a
reason for the disappearance of Garcia’s household. They were all confederates
in the same unknown crime. If it came off when Garcia returned, any possible
suspi- cion would be warded off by the Englishman’s evidence, and all would be
well. But the attempt was a dangerous one, and if Garcia did not return by a
certain hour it was probable that his own life had been sacrificed. It had been
arranged, therefore, that in such a case his two subordinates were to make for
some prearranged spot where they could escape investigation and be in a
position afterwards to renew their attempt. That would fully explain the facts,
would it not?"
The whole inexplicable
tangle seemed to straighten out before me. I wondered, as I always did, how it
had not been obvious to me before.
"But why should
one servant return?"
"We can imagine
that in the confusion of flight something precious, something which he could not
bear to part with, had been left behind. That would explain his persistence,
would it not?"
"Well, what is the
next step?"
"The next step is
the note received by Garcia at the dinner. It indicates a confederate at the
other end. Now, where was the other end? I have already shown you that it could
only lie in some large house, and that the number of large houses is limited.
My first days in this village were devoted to a series of walks in which in the
intervals of my botanical researches I made a reconnaissance of all the large
houses and an examination of the family history of the occupants. One house,
and only one, riveted my attention. It is the famous old Jacobean grange of
High Gable, one mile on the farther side of Oxshott, and less than half a mile
from the scene of the tragedy. The other mansions belonged to prosaic and
respectable people who live far aloof from romance. But Mr. Henderson, of High
Gable, was by all accounts a curious man to whom curious adventures might
befall. I concentrated my attention, therefore, upon him and his household.
"A singular set of
people, Watson -- the man himself the most singular of them all. I managed to
see him on a plausible pretext, but I seemed to read in his dark, deep-set,
brooding eyes that he was perfectly aware of my true business. He is a man of
fifty, strong, active, with iron-gray hair, great bunched black eye- brows, the
step of a deer, and the air of an emperor -- a fierce, masterful man, with a
red-hot spirit behind his parchment face. He is either a foreigner or has lived
long in the tropics, for he is yellow and sapless, but tough as whipcord. His
friend and secretary, Mr. Lucas, is undoubtedly a foreigner, chocolate brown,
wily, suave, and cat-like, with a poisonous gentleness of speech. You see,
Watson, we have come already upon two sets of foreigners -- one at Wisteria
Lodge and one at High Gable -- so our gaps are beginning to close.
"These two men,
close and confidential friends, are the centre of the household; but there is
one other person who for our immediate purpose may be even more important.
Henderson has two children -- girls of eleven and thirteen. Their governess is
a Miss Burnet, an Englishwoman of forty or thereabouts. There is also one
confidential manservant. This little group forms the real family, for they
travel about together, and Henderson is a great traveller, always on the move.
It is only within the last few weeks that he has returned, after a year’s
absence, to High Gable. I may add that he is enormously rich, and whatever his
whims may be he can very easily satisfy them. For the rest, his house is full
of butlers, footmen, maidservants, and the usual overfed, underworked staff of
a large English country-house.
"So much I learned
partly from village gossip and partly from my own observation. There are no
better instruments than dis- charged servants with a grievance, and I was lucky
enough to find one. I call it luck, but it would not have come my way had I not
been looking out for it. As Baynes remarks, we all have our systems. It was my
system which enabled me to find John Warner, late gardener of High Gable,
sacked in a moment of temper by his imperious employer. He in turn had friends
among the indoor servants who unite in their fear and dislike of their master.
So I had my key to the secrets of the establishment.
"Curious people,
Watson! I don’t pretend to understand it all yet, but very curious people
anyway. It’s a double-winged house and the servants live on one side, the
family on the other. There’s no link between the two save for Henderson’s own
servant, who serves the family’s meals. Everything is carried to a certain
door, which forms the one connection. Governess and children hardly go out at
all, except into the garden. Henderson never by any chance walks alone. His
dark secretary is like his shadow. The gossip among the servants is that their
master is terribly afraid of something. ’Sold his soul to the devil in ex-
change for money,’ says Warner, ’and expects his creditor to come up and claim
his own.’ Where they came from, or who they are, nobody has an idea. They are
very violent. Twice Henderson has lashed at folk with his dog-whip, and only
his long purse and heavy compensation have kept him out of the courts.
"Well, now,
Watson, let us judge the situation by this new information. We may take it that
the letter came out of this strange household and was an invitation to Garcia
to carry out some attempt which had already been planned. Who wrote the note?
It was someone within the citadel, and it was a woman. Who then but Miss
Burnet, the governess? All our reasoning seems to point that way. At any rate,
we may take it as a hypothesis and see what consequences it would entail. I may
add that Miss Burnet’s age and character make it certain that my first idea that
there might be a love interest in our story is out of the question.
"If she wrote the
note she was presumably the friend and confederate of Garcia. What, then, might
she be expected to do if she heard of his death? If he met it in some nefarious
enter- prise her lips might be sealed. Still, in her heart, she must retain
bitterness and hatred against those who had killed him and would presumably
help so far as she could to have revenge upon them. Could we see her, then, and
try to use her? That was my first thought. But now we come to a sinister fact.
Miss Burnet has not been seen by any human eye since the night of the murder.
From that evening she has utterly vanished. Is she alive? Has she perhaps met
her end on the same night as the friend whom she had summoned? Or is she merely
a prisoner? There is the point which we still have to decide.
"You will
appreciate the difficulty of the situation, Watson. There is nothing upon which
we can apply for a warrant. Our whole scheme might seem fantastic if laid
before a magistrate. The woman’s disappearance counts for nothing, since in
that extraordinary household any member of it might be invisible for a week.
And yet she may at the present moment be in danger of her life. All I can do is
to watch the house and leave my agent, Warner, on guard at the gates. We can’t
let such a situation continue. If the law can do nothing we must take the risk
ourselves."
"What do you
suggest?"
"I know which is
her room. It is accessible from the top of an outhouse. My suggestion is that
you and I go to-night and see if we can strike at the very heart of the
mystery."
It was not, I must
confess, a very alluring prospect. The old house with its atmosphere of murder,
the singular and formidable inhabitants, the unknown dangers of the approach,
and the fact that we were putting ourselves legally in a false position all
combined to damp my ardour. But there was something in the ice-cold reasoning
of Holmes which made it impossible to shrink from any adventure which he might
recommend. One knew that thus, and only thus, could a solution be found. I
clasped his hand in silence, and the die was cast.
But it was not destined
that our investigation should have so adventurous an ending. It was about five
o’clock, and the shad- ows of the March evening were beginning to fall, when an
excited rustic rushed into our room.
"They’ve gone, Mr.
Holmes. They went by the last train. The lady broke away, and I’ve got her in a
cab downstairs."
"Excellent,
Warner!" cried Holmes, springing to his feet. "Watson, the gaps are
closing rapidly."
In the cab was a woman,
half-collapsed from nervous exhaus- tion. She bore upon her aquiline and
emaciated face the traces of some recent tragedy. Her head hung listlessly upon
her breast, but as she raised it and turned her dull eyes upon us I saw that
her pupils were dark dots in the centre of the broad gray iris. She was drugged
with opium.
"I watched at the
gate, same as you advised, Mr. Holmes," said our emissary, the discharged
gardener. "When the carriage came out I followed it to the station. She
was like one walking in her sleep, but when they tried to get her into the
train she came to life and struggled. They pushed her into the carriage. She
fought her way out again. I took her part, got her into a cab, and here we are.
I shan’t forget the face at the carriage window as I led her away. I’d have a
short life if he had his way -- the black-eyed, scowling, yellow devil."
We carried her
upstairs, laid her on the sofa, and a couple of cups of the strongest coffee
soon cleared her brain from the mists of the drug. Baynes had been summoned by
Holmes, and the situation rapidly explained to him.
"Why, sir, you’ve
got me the very evidence I want," said the inspector warmly, shaking my
friend by the hand. "I was on the same scent as you from the first."
"What! You were
after Henderson?"
"Why, Mr. Holmes,
when you were crawling in the shrub- bery at High Gable I was up one of the
trees in the plantation and saw you down below. It was just who would get his
evidence first."
"Then why did you
arrest the mulatto?"
Baynes chuckled.
"I was sure
Henderson, as he calls himself, felt that he was suspected, and that he would
lie low and make no move so long as he thought he was in any danger. I arrested
the wrong man to make him believe that our eyes were off him. I knew he would
be likely to clear off then and give us a chance of getting at Miss
Burnet."
Holmes laid his hand
upon the inspector’s shoulder.-
"You will rise
high in your profession. You have instinct and intuition," said he.
Baynes flushed with
pleasure.
"I’ve had a
plain-clothes man waiting at the station all the week. Wherever the High Gable
folk go he will keep them in sight. But he must have been hard put to it when
Miss Burnet broke away. However, your man picked her up, and it all ends well.
We can’t arrest without her evidence, that is clear, so the sooner we get a
statement the better."
"Every minute she
gets stronger," said Holmes, glancing at the governess. "But tell me,
Baynes, who is this man Henderson?"
"Henderson,"
the inspector answered, "is Don Murillo, once called the Tiger of San
Pedro."
The Tiger of San Pedro!
The whole history of the man came back to me in a flash. He had made his name
as the most lewd and bloodthirsty tyrant that had ever governed any country
with a pretence to civilization. Strong, fearless, and energetic, he had
sufficient virtue to enable him to impose his odious vices upon a cowering
people for ten or twelve years. His name was a terror through all Central
America. At the end of that time there was a universal rising against him. But
he was as cunning as he was cruel, and at the first whisper of coming trouble
he had secretly conveyed his treasures aboard a ship which was manned by
devoted adherents. It was an empty palace which was stormed by the insurgents
next day. The dictator, his two children, his secretary, and his wealth had all
escaped them. From that mo- ment he had vanished from the world, and his
identity had been a frequent subject for comment in the European press.
"Yes, sir, Don
Murillo, the Tiger of San Pedro," said Baynes. "If you look it up you
will find that the San Pedro colours are green and white, same as in the note,
Mr. Holmes. Henderson he called himself, but I traced him back, Paris and Rome
and Madrid to Barcelona, where his ship came in in ’86. They’ve been looking
for him all the time for their revenge, but it is only now that they have begun
to find him out."
"They discovered
him a year ago," said Miss Burnet, who had sat up and was now intently
following the conversation. "Once already his life has been attempted, but
some evil spirit shielded him. Now, again, it is the noble, chivalrous Garcia
who has fallen, while the monster goes safe. But another will come, and yet
another, until some day justice will be done; that is as certain as the rise of
to-morrow’s sun." Her thin hands clenched, and her worn face blanched with
the passion of her hatred.
"But how come you
into this matter Miss Burnet?" asked Holmes. "How can an English lady
join in such a murderous affair?"
"I join in it
because there is no other way in the world by which justice can be gained. What
does the law of England care for the rivers of blood shed years ago in San
Pedro, or for the shipload of treasure which this man has stolen? To you they
are like crimes committed in some other planet. But we know. We have learned
the truth in sorrow and in suffering. To us there is no fiend in hell like Juan
Murillo, and no peace in life while his victims still cry for vengeance."
"No doubt,"
said Holmes, "he was as you say I have heard that he was atrocious. But
how are you affected?"
"I will tell you
it all. This villain’s policy was to murder, on one pretext or another, every
man who showed such promise that he might in time come to be a dangerous rival.
My husband -- yes, my real name is Signora Victor Durando -- was the San Pedro
minister in London. He met me and married me there. A nobler man never lived
upon earth. Unhappily, Murillo heard of his excellence, recalled him on some
pretext, and had him shot. With a premonition of his fate he had refused to
take me with him. His estates were confiscated, and I was left with a pittance
and a broken heart.
"Then came the
downfall af the tyrant. He escaped as you have just described. But the many
whose lives he had ruined, whose nearest and dearest had suffered torture and
death at his hands, would not let the matter rest. They banded themselves into
a society which should never be dissolved until the work was done. It was my
part after we had discovered in the trans- formed Henderson the fallen despot,
to attach myself to his household and keep the others in touch with his
movements. This I was able to do by securing the position of governess in his
family. He little knew that the woman who faced him at every meal was the woman
whose husband he had hurried at an hour’s notice into eternity. I smiled on
him, did my duty to his children, and bided my time. An attempt was made in
Paris and failed. We zig-zagged swiftly here and there over Europe to throw off
the pursuers and finally retulned to this house, which he had taken upon his
first arrival in England.
"But here also the
ministers of justice were waiting. Knowing that he would return there, Garcia,
who is the son of the former highest dignitary in San Pedlro, was waiting with
two trusty companions of humble station, all three fired with the same reasons
for revenge. He could do little during the day, for Murillo took every
precaution and never went out save with his satellite Lucas, or Lopez as he was
known in the days of his greatness. At night, however, he slept alone, and the
avenger might find him. On a certain evening, which had been prear- ranged, I
sent my friend final instructions, for the man was forever on the alert and
continually changed his room. I was to see that the doors were open and the
signal of a green or white light in a window which faced the drive was to give
notice if all was safe or if the attempt had better be postponed.
"But everything
went wrong with us. In some way I had excited the suspicion of Lopez, the
secretary. He crept up behind me and sprang upon me just as I had finished the
note. He and his master dragged me to my room and held judgment upon me as a
convicted traitress. Then and there they would have plunged their knives into
me could they have seen how to escape the consequences of the deed. Finally,
after much debate, they concluded that my murder was too dangerous. But they
deter- mined to get rid forever of Garcia. They had gagged me, and Murillo
twisted my arm round until I gave him the address. I swear that he might have
twisted it off had I understood what it would mean to Garcia. Lopez addressed
the note which I had written, sealed it with his sleeve-link, and sent it by
the hand of the servant, Jose. How they murdered him I do not know, save that
it was Murillo’s hand who struck him down, for Lopez had remained to guard me.
I believe he must have waited among the gorse bushes through which the path
winds and struck him down as he passed. At first they were of a mind to let him
enter the house and to kill him as a detected burglar; but they argued that if
they were mixed up in an inquiry their own identity would at once be publicly
disclosed and they would be open to further attacks. With the death of Garcia,
the pursuit might cease, since such a death might frighten others from the
task.
"All would now
have been well for them had it not been for my knowledge of what they had done.
I have no doubt that there were times when my life hung in the balance. I was
confined to my room, terrorized by the most horrible threats, cruelly ill-used
to break my spirit -- see this stab on my shoulder and the bruises from end to
end of my arms -- and a gag was thrust into my mouth on the one occasion when I
tried to call from the window. For five days this cruel imprisonment continued,
with hardly enough food to hold body and soul together. This afternoon a good
lunch was brought me, but the moment after I took it I knew that I had been
drugged. In a sort of dream I remember being half-led, half-carried to the
carriage; in the same state I was conveyed to the train. Only then, when the
wheels were almost moving, did I suddenly realize that my liberty lay in my own
hands. I sprang out, they tried to drag me back, and had it not been for the
help of this good man, who led me to the cab, I should never have broken away.
Now, thank God, I am beyond their power forever."
We had all listened
intently to this remarkable statement. It was Holmes who broke the silence.
"Our difficulties
are not over," he remarked, shaking his head. "Our police work ends,
but our legal work begins."
"Exactly,"
said I. "A plausible lawyer could make it out as an act of self-defence.
There may be a hundred crimes in the background, but it is only on this one
that they can be tried."
"Come, come,"
said Baynes cheerily, "I think better of the law than that. Self-defence
is one thing. To entice a man in cold blood with the object of murdering him is
another, whatever danger you may fear from him. No, no, we shall all be
justified when we see the tenants of High Gable at the next Guildford
Assizes."
It is a matter of
history, however, that a little time was still to elapse before the Tiger of
San Pedro should meet with his deserts. Wily and bold, he and his companion
threw their pur- suer off their track by entering a lodging-house in Edmonton
Street and leaving by the back-gate into Curzon Square. From that day they were
seen no more in England. Some six months afterwards the Marquess of Montalva
and Signor Rulli, his secre- tary, were both murdered in their rooms at the
Hotel Escurial at Madrid. The crime was ascribed to Nihilism, and the murderers
were never arrested. Inspector Baynes visited us at Baker Street with a printed
description of the dark face of the secretary, and of the masterful features,
the magnetic black eyes, and the tufted brows of his master. We could not doubt
that justice, if belated, had come at last.
"A chaotic case,
my dear Watson," said Holmes over an evening pipe. "It will not be
possible for you to present it in that compact form which is dear to your
heart. It covers two conti- nents, concerns two groups of mysterious persons,
and is further complicated by the highly respectable presence of our friend,
Scott Eccles, whose inclusion shows me that the deceased Garcia had a scheming
mind and a well-developed instinct of self- preservation. It is remarkable only
for the fact that amid a perfect jungle of possibilities we, with our worthy
collaborator, the inspector, have kept our close hold on the essentials and so
been guided along the crooked and winding path. Is there any point which is not
quite clear to you?"
"The object of the
mulatto cook’s return?"
"I think that the
strange creature in the kitchen may account for it. The man was a primitive
savage from the backwoods of San Pedro, and this was his fetish. When his
companion and he had fled to some prearranged retreat -- already occupied, no
doubt by a confederate -- the companion had persuaded him to leave so
compromising an article of furniture. But the mulatto’s heart was with it, and
he was driven back to it next day, when, on reconnoitring through the window,
he found policeman Walters in possession. He waited three days longer, and then
his piety or his superstition drove him to try once more. Inspector Baynes,
who, with his usual astuteness, had minimized the incident before me, had
really recognized its importance and had left a trap into which the creature
walked. Any other point, Watson?"
"The torn bird,
the pail of blood, the charred bones, all the mystery of that weird
kitchen?"
Holmes smiled as he
turned up an entry in his notebook.
"I spent a morning
in the British Museum reading up on that and other points. Here is a quotation
from Eckermann’s Voodooism and the Negroid Religions:
The true
voodoo-worshipper attempts nothing of importance without certain sacrifices
which are intended to propitiate his unclean gods. In extreme cases these rites
take the form of human sacrifices followed by cannibalism. The more usual
victims are a white cock, which is plucked in pieces alive, or a black goat,
whose throat is cut and body burned.
"So you see our
savage friend was very orthodox in his ritual. It is grotesque, Watson,"
Holmes added, as he slowly fastened his notebook, "but, as I have had
occasion to remark, there is but one step from the grotesque to the horrible."
This tale was not
transcribed, although it does appear in the print source against which the
transcription was checked.
WELL, Mrs. Warren, I
cannot see that you have any particular cause for uneasiness, nor do I
understand why I, whose time is of some value, should interfere in the matter.
I really have other things to engage me." So spoke Sherlock Holmes and
turned back to the great scrapbook in which he was arranging and indexing some
of his recent material.
But the landlady had
the pertinacity and also the cunning of her sex. She held her ground firmly.
"You arranged an
affair for a lodger of mine last year," she said -- "Mr. Fairdale
Hobbs."
"Ah, yes -- a
simple matter."
"But he would
never cease talking of it -- your kindness, sir, and the way in which you
brought light into the darkness. I remembered his words when I was in doubt and
darkness myself. I know you could if you only would."
Holmes was accessible
upon the side of flattery, and also, to do him justice, upon the side of
kindliness. The two forces made him lay down his gum-brush with a sigh of
resignation and push back his chair.
"Well, well, Mrs.
Warren, let us hear about it, then. You don’t object to tobacco, I take it? Thank
you, Watson -- the matches! You are uneasy, as I understand, because your new
lodger remains in his rooms and you cannot see him. Why, bless you, Mrs.
Warren, if I were your lodger you often would not see me for weeks on
end."
"No doubt, sir;
but this is different. It frightens me, Mr. Holmes. I can’t sleep for fright.
To hear his quick step moving here and moving there from early morning to late
at night, and yet never to catch so much as a glimpse of him -- it’s more than
I can stand. My husband is as nervous over it as I am, but he is out at his
work all day, while I get no rest from it. What is he hiding for? What has he
done? Except for the girl, I am all alone in the house with him, and it’s more
than my nerves can stand."
Holmes leaned forward
and laid his long, thin fingers upon the woman’s shoulder. He had an almost
hypnotic power of soothing when he wished. The scared look faded from her eyes,
and her agitated features smoothed into their usual commonplace. She sat down
in the chair which he had indicated
"If I take it up I
must understand every detail," said he. "Take time to consider. The
smallest point may be the most essential. You say that the man came ten days
ago and paid you for a fortnight’s board and lodging?"
"He asked my
terms, sir. I said fifty shillings a week. There is a small sitting-room and
bedroom, and all complete, at the top of the house."
"Well?"
"He said, ’I’ll
pay you five pounds a week if I can have it on my own terms.’ I’m a poor woman,
sir, and Mr. Warren earns little, and the money meant much to me. He took out a
ten- pound note, and he held it out to me then and there. ’You can have the
same every fortnight for a long time to come if you keep the terms,’ he said. ’If
not, I’ll have no more to do with you.’ "
"What were the
terms?"
"Well, sir, they
were that he was to have a key of the house. That was all right. Lodgers often
have them. Also, that he was to be left entirely to himself and never, upon any
excuse, to be disturbed."
"Nothing wonderful
in that, surely?"
"Not in reason,
sir. But this is out of all reason. He has been there for ten days, and neither
Mr. Warren, nor I, nor the girl has once set eyes upon him. We can hear that
quick step of his pacing up and down, up and down, night, morning, and noon;
but except on that first night he has never once gone out of the house."
"Oh, he went out
the first night, did he?"
"Yes, sir, and
returned very late -- after we were all in bed. He told me after he had taken
the rooms that he would do so and asked me not to bar the door. I heard him
come up the stair after midnight."
"But his
meals?"
"It was his
particular direction that we should always, when he rang, leave his meal upon a
chair, outside his door. Then he rings again when he has finished, and we take
it down from the same chair. If he wants anything else he prints it on a slip
of paper and leaves it."
"Prints it?"
"Yes, sir; prints
it in pencil. Just the word, nothing more. Here’s one I brought to show you --
SOAP. Here’s another -- MATCH. This is one he left the first morning -- DAILY
GAZETTE. I leave that paper with his breakfast every morning."
"Dear me,
Watson," said Holmes, staring with great curiosity at the slips of
foolscap which the landlady had handed to him, "this is certainly a little
unusual. Seclusion I can understand; but why print? Printing is a clumsy
process. Why not write? What would it suggest, Watson?"
"That he desired
to conceal his handwriting."
"But why? What can
it matter to him that his landlady should have a word of his writing? Still, it
may be as you say. Then, again, why such laconic messages?"
"I cannot
imagine."
"It opens a
pleasing field for intelligent speculation. The words are written with a
broad-pointed, violet-tinted pencil of a not unusual pattern. You will observe
that the paper is torn away at the side here after the printing was done, so
that the s of ’SOAP’ is partly gone. Suggestive, Watson, is it not?"
"Of caution?"
"Exactly. There
was evidently some mark, some thumbprint, something which might give a clue to
the person’s identity. Now, Mrs. Warren, you say that the man was of middle
size, dark, and bearded. What age would he be?"
"Youngish, sir --
not over thirty."
"Well, can you
give me no further indications?"
"He spoke good
English, sir, and yet I thought he was a foreigner by his accent."
"And he was well
dressed?"
"Very smartly
dressed, sir -- quite the gentleman. Dark clothes -- nothing you would
note."
"He gave no
name?"
"No, sir."
"And has had no
letters or callers?"
"None."
"But surely you or
the girl enter his room of a morning?"
"No, sir; he looks
after himself entirely."
"Dear me! that is
certainly remarkable. What about his luggage?"
"He had one big brown
bag with him -- nothing else."
"Well, we don’t
seem to have much material to help us. Do you say nothing has come out of that
room -- absolutely nothing?"
The landlady drew an
envelope from her bag; from it she shook out two burnt matches and a cigarette-end
upon the table.
"They were on his
tray this morning. I brought them because I had heard that you can read great
things out of small ones."
Holmes shrugged his
shoulders.
"There is nothing
here," said he. "The matches have, of course, been used to light
cigarettes. That is obvious from the shortness of the but end. Half the match
is consumed in lighting a pipe or cigar. But, dear me! this cigarette stub is
certainly remarkable. The gentleman was bearded and moustached, you say?"
"Yes, sir."
"I don’t
understand that. I should say that only a clean- shaven man could have smoked
this. Why, Watson, even your modest moustache would have been singed."
"A holder?" I
suggested.
"No, no; the end
is matted. I suppose there could not be two people in your rooms, Mrs.
Warren?"
"No, sir. He eats
so little that I often wonder it can keep life in one."
"Well, I think we
must wait for a little more material. After all, you have nothing to complain
of. You have received your rent, and he is not a troublesome lodger, though he
is certainly an unusual one. He pays you well, and if he chooses to lie
concealed it is no direct business of yours. We have no excuse for an intrusion
upon his privacy until we have some reason to think that there is a guilty
reason for it. I’ve taken up the matter, and I won’t lose sight of it. Report
to me if anything fresh occurs, and rely upon my assistance if it should be
needed.
"There are
certainly some points of interest in this case, Watson," he remarked when
the landlady had left us. "It may, of course, be trivial -- individual
eccentricity; or it may be very much deeper than appears on the surface. The
first thing that strikes one is the obvious possibility that the person now in
the rooms may be entirely different from the one who engaged them."
"Why should you
think so?"
"Well, apart from
this cigarette-end, was it not suggestive that the only time the lodger went
out was immediately after his taking the rooms? He came back -- or someone came
back -- when all witnesses were out of the way. We have no proof that the
person who came back was the person who went out. Then, again, the man who took
the rooms spoke English well. This other, however, prints ’match’ when it
should have been ’matches.’ I can imagine that the word was taken out of a
dictionary, which would give the noun but not the plural. The laconic style may
be to conceal the absence of knowledge of English. Yes, Watson, there are good
reasons to suspect that there has been a substitu- tion of lodgers."
"But for what
possible end?"
"Ah! there lies
our problem. There is one rather obvious line of investigation." He took
down the great book in which, day by day, he filed the agony columns of the
various London journals. "Dear me!" said he, turning over the pages, "what
a chorus of groans, cries, and bleatings! What a rag-bag of singular happen-
ings! But surely the most valuable hunting-ground that ever was given to a
student of the unusual! This person is alone and cannot be approached by letter
without a breach of that absolute secrecy which is desired. How is any news or
any message to reach him from without? Obviously by advertisement through a
newspaper. There seems no other way, and fortunately we need concern ourselves
with the one paper only. Here are the Daily Gazette extracts of the last
fortnight. ’Lady with a black boa at Prince’s Skating Club’ -- that we may
pass. ’Surely Jimmy will not break his mother’s heart’ -- that appears to be
irrelevant. ’If the lady who fainted in the Brixton bus’ -- she does not
interest me. ’Every day my heart longs --’ Bleat, Watson -- unmitigated bleat!
Ah, this is a little more possible. Listen to this: ’Be patient. Will find some
sure means of communication. Mean- while, this column. G.’ That is two days
after Mrs. Warren’s lodger arrived. It sounds plausible, does it not? The
mysterious one could understand English, even if he could not print it. Let us
see if we can pick up the trace again. Yes, here we are -- three days later. ’Am
making successful arrangements. Patience and prudence. The clouds will pass. G.’
Nothing for a week after that. Then comes something much more definite: ’The
path is clearing. If I find chance signal message remember code agreed -- one
A, two B, and so on. You will hear soon. G.’ That was in yesterday’s paper, and
there is nothing in to-day’s. It’s all very appropriate to Mrs. Warren’s
lodger. If we wait a little, Watson, I don’t doubt that the affair will grow
more intelligible."
So it proved; for in
the morning I found my friend standing on the hearthrug with his back to the
fire and a smile of complete satisfaction upon his face.
"How’s this,
Watson?" he cried, picking up the paper from the table. " ’High red
house with white stone facings. Third floor. Second window left. After dusk. G.’
That is definite enough. I think after breakfast we must make a little
reconnais- sance of Mrs. Warren’s neighbourhood. Ah, Mrs. Warren! what news do
you bring us this morning?"
Our client had suddenly
burst into the room with an explosive energy which told of some new and
momentous development.
"It’s a police
matter, Mr. Holmes!" she cried. "I’ll have no more of it! He shall
pack out of there with his baggage. I would have gone straight up and told him
so, only I thought it was but fair to you to take your opinion first. But I’m
at the end of my patience, and when it comes to knocking my old man about
"
"Knocking Mr.
Warren about?"
"Using him
roughly, anyway."
"But who used him
roughly?"
"Ah! that’s what
we want to know! It was this morning, sir. Mr. Warren is a timekeeper at Morton
and Waylight’s, in Tottenham Court Road. He has to be out of the house before
seven. Well, this morning he had not gone ten paces down the road when two men
came up behind him, threw a coat over his head, and bundled him into a cab that
was beside the curb. They drove him an hour, and then opened the door and shot
him out. He lay in the roadway so shaken in his wits that he never saw what
became of the cab. When he picked himself up he found he was on Hampstead
Heath; so he took a bus home, and there he lies now on the sofa, while I came
straight round to tell you what had happened."
"Most
interesting," said Holmes. "Did he observe the ap- pearance of these
men -- did he hear them talk?"
"No; he is clean
dazed. He just knows that he was lifted up as if by magic and dropped as if by
magic. Two at least were in it, and maybe three."
"And you connect
this attack with your lodger?"
"Well, we’ve lived
there fifteen years and no such happenings ever came before. I’ve had enough of
him. Money’s not every- thing. I’ll have him out of my house before the day is
done."
"Wait a bit, Mrs.
Warren. Do nothing rash. I begin to think that this affair may be very much
more important than appeared at first sight. It is clear now that some danger
is threatening your lodger. It is equally clear that his enemies, lying in wait
for him near your door, mistook your husband for him in the foggy morning
light. On discovering their mistake they released him. What they would have
done had it not been a mistake, we can only conjecture."
"Well, what am I
to do, Mr. Holmes?"
"I have a great
fancy to see this lodger of yours, Mrs. Warren."
"I don’t see how
that is to be managed, unless you break in the door. I always hear him unlock
it as I go down the stair after I leave the tray."
"He has to take
the tray in. Surely we could conceal ourselves and see him do it."
The landlady thought
for a moment.
"Well, sir, there’s
the box-room opposite. I could arrange a looking-glass, maybe, and if you were
behind the door --"
"Excellent!"
said Holmes. "When does he lunch?"
"About one,
sir."
"Then Dr. Watson
and I will come round in time. For the present, Mrs. Warren, good-bye."
At half-past twelve we
found ourselves upon the steps of Mrs. Warren’s house -- a high, thin,
yellow-brick edifice in Great Orme Street, a narrow thoroughfare at the
northeast side of the British Museum. Standing as it does near the corner of
the street it commands a view down Howe Street, with its more preten- tious
houses. Holmes pointed with a chuckle to one of these, a row of residential
flats, which projected so that they could not fail to catch the eye.
"See,
Watson!" said he. " ’High red house with stone facings.’ There is the
signal station all right. We know the place, and we know the code; so surely
our task should be simple. There’s a ’to let’ card in that window. It is
evidently an empty flat to which the confederate has access. Well, Mrs. Warren,
what now?"
"I have it all
ready for you. If you will both come up and leave your boots below on the
landing, I’ll put you there now."
It was an excellent
hiding-place which she had arranged. The mirror was so placed that, seated in
the dark, we could very plainly see the door opposite. We had hardly settled
down in it, and Mrs. Warren left us, when a distant tinkle announced that our
mysterious neighbour had rung. Presently the landlady ap- peared with the tray,
laid it down upon a chair beside the closed door, and then, treading heavily,
departed. Crouching together in the angle of the door, we kept our eyes fixed
upon the mirror. Suddenly, as the landlady’s footsteps died away, there was the
creak of a turning key, the handle revolved, and two thin hands darted out and
lifted the tray from the chair. An instant later it was hurriedly replaced, and
I caught a glimpse of a dark, beauti- ful, horrified face glaring at the narrow
opening of the box- room. Then the door crashed to, the key turned once more,
and all was silence. Holmes twitched my sleeve, and together we stole down the
stair.
"I will call again
in the evening," said he to the expectant landlady. "I think, Watson,
we can discuss this business better in our own quarters."
"My surmise, as you
saw, proved to be correct," said he, speaking from the depths of his
easy-chair. "There has been a substitution of lodgers. What I did not
foresee is that we should find a woman, and no ordinary woman, Watson."
"She saw us."
"Well, she saw
something to alarm her. That is certain. The general sequence of events is
pretty clear, is it not? A couple seek refuge in London from a very terrible
and instant danger. The measure of that danger is the rigour of their
precautions. The man, who has some work which he must do, desires to leave the
woman in absolute safety while he does it. It is not an easy problem, but he
solved it in an original fashion, and so effec- tively that her presence was
not even known to the landlady who supplies her with food. The printed
messages, as is now evident, were to prevent her sex being discovered by her
writing. The man cannot come near the woman, or he will guide their enemies to
her. Since he cannot communicate with her direct, he has recourse to the agony
column of a paper. So far all is clear."
"But what is at
the root of it?"
"Ah, yes, Watson
-- severely practical, as usual! What is at the root of it all? Mrs. Warren’s
whimsical problem enlarges somewhat and assumes a more sinister aspect as we
proceed. This much we can say: that it is no ordinary love escapade. You saw
the woman’s face at the sign of danger. We have heard, too, of the attack upon
the landlord, which was undoubtedly meant for the lodger. These alarms, and the
desperate need for secrecy, argue that the matter is one of life or death. The
attack upon Mr. Warren further shows that the enemy, whoever they are, are
themselves not aware of the substitution of the female lodger for the male. It
is very curious and complex, Watson."
"Why should you go
further in it? What have you to gain from it?"
"What, indeed? It
is art for art’s sake, Watson. I suppose when you doctored you found yourself
studying cases without though{ of a fee?"
"For my education,
Holmes."
"Education never
ends, Watson. It is a series of lessons with the greatest for the last. This is
an instructive case. There is neither money nor credit in it, and yet one would
wish to tidy it up. When dusk comes we should find ourselves one stage ad-
vanced in our investigation."
When we returned to Mrs.
Warren’s rooms, the gloom of a London winter evening had thickened into one
gray curtain, a dead monotone of colour, broken only by the sharp yellow
squares of the windows and the blurred haloes of the gas-lamps. As we peered
from the darkened sitting-room of the lodging- house, one more dim light
glimmered high up through the obscurity.
"Someone is moving
in that room," said Holmes in a whis- per, his gaunt and eager face thrust
forward to the window-pane. "Yes, I can see his shadow. There he is again!
He has a candle in his hand. Now he is peering across. He wants to be sure that
she is on the lookout. Now he begins to flash. Take the message also, Watson,
that we may check each other. A single flash -- that is A, surely. Now, then.
How many did you make it? Twenty. So did I. That should mean T. AT -- that’s
intelligible enough! Another T. Surely this is the beginning of a second word.
Now, then -- TENTA. Dead stop. That can’t be all, Watson? ATTENTA gives no
sense. Nor is it any better as three words AT, TEN, TA, unless T. A. are a
person’s initials. There it goes again! What’s that? ATTE why, it is the same
message over again. Curious, Watson, very curious! Now he is off once more! AT
-- why, he is repeating it for the third time. ATTENTA three times! How often
will he repeat it? No, that seems to be the finish. He has withdrawn from the
window. What do you make of it, Watson?"
"A cipher message,
Holmes."
My companion gave a
sudden chuckle of comprehension.
"And not a very
obscure cipher, Watson," said he. "Why, of course, it is Italian! The
A means that it is addressed to a woman. ’Beware! Beware! Beware!’ How’s that,
Watson?"
"I believe you
have hit it."
"Not a doubt of
it. It is a very urgent message, thrice repeated to make it more so. But beware
of what? Wait a bit; he is coming to the window once more."
Again we saw the dim
silhouette of a crouching man and the whisk of the small flame across the
window as the signals were renewed. They came more rapidly than before -- so
rapid that it was hard to follow them.
"PERICOLO pericolo
-- eh, what’s that, Watson? ’Danger,’ isn’t it? Yes, by Jove, it’s a danger
signal. There he goes again! PERI. Halloa, what on earth --"
The light had suddenly
gone out, the glimmering square of window had disappeared, and the third floor
formed a dark band round the lofty building, with its tiers of shining
casements. That last warning cry had been suddenly cut short. How, and by whom?
The same thought occurred on the instant to us both. Holmes sprang up from
where he crouched by the window.
"This is serious,
Watson," he cried. "There is some devilry going forward! Why should
such a message stop in such a way? I should put Scotland Yard in touch with
this business -- and yet, it is too pressing for us to leave."
"Shall I go for
the police?"
"We must define
the situation a little more clearly. It may bear some more innocent
interpretation. Come. Watson, let us go across ourselves and see what we can
make of it."
As we walked rapidly
down Howe Street I glanced back at the building which we had left. There, dimly
outlined at the top window, I could see the shadow of a head, a woman’s head,
gazing tensely, rigidly, out into the night, waiting with breath- less suspense
for the renewal of that interrupted message. At the doorway of the Howe Street
flats a man, muffled in a cravat and greatcoat, was leaning against the
railing. He started as the hall-light fell upon our faces.
"Holmes!" he
cried.
"Why,
Gregson!" said my companion as he shook hands with the Scotland Yard
detective. "Journeys end with lovers’ meet- ings. What brings you
here?"
"The same reasons
that bring you, I expect," said Gregson. "How you got on to it I can’t
imagine."
"Different
threads, but leading up to the same tangle. I’ve been taking the signals."
"Signals?"
"Yes, from that
window. They broke off in the middle. We came over to see the reason. But since
it is safe in your hands I see no object in continuing the business."
"Wait a bit!"
cried Gregson eagerly. "I’ll do you this justice, Mr. Holmes, that I was
never in a case yet that I didn’t feel stronger for having you on my side.
There’s only the one exit to these flats, so we have him safe."
"Who is he?"
"Well, well, we
score over you for once, Mr. Holmes. You must give us best this time." He
struck his stick sharply upon the ground, on which a cabman, his whip in his
hand, sauntered over from a four-wheeler which stood on the far side of the
street. "May I introduce you to Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" he said to the
cabman. "This is Mr. Leverton, of Pinkerton’s American Agency."
"The hero of the
Long Island cave mystery?" said Holmes. "Sir, I am pleased to meet
you."
The American, a quiet,
businesslike young man, with a clean- shaven, hatchet face, flushed up at the
words of commendation. "I am on the trail of my life now, Mr.
Holmes," said he. "If I can get Gorgiano --"
"What! Gorgiano of
the Red Circle?"
"Oh, he has a
European fame, has he? Well, we’ve learned all about him in America. We know he
is at the bottom of fifty murders, and yet we have nothing positive we can take
him on. I tracked him over from New York, and I’ve been close to him for a week
in London, waiting some excuse to get my hand on his collar. Mr. Gregson and I
ran him to ground in that big tenement house, and there’s only the one door, so
he can’t slip us. There’s three folk come out since he went in, but I’ll swear
he wasn’t one of them."
"Mr. Holmes talks
of signals," said Gregson. "I expect, as usual, he knows a good deal
that we don’t."
In a few clear words Holmes
explained the situation as it had appeared to us.
The American struck his
hands together with vexation.
"He’s on to
us!" he cried.
"Why do you think
so?"
"Well, it figures
out that way, does it not? Here he is, sending out messages to an accomplice --
there are several of his gang in London. Then suddenly, just as by your own
account he was telling them that there was danger, he broke short off. What
could it mean except that from the window he had suddenly either caught sight
of us in the street, or in some way come to understand how close the danger
was, and that he must act right away if he was to avoid it? What do you
suggest, Mr. Holmes?"
"That we go up at
once and see for ourselves."
"But we have no
warrant for his arrest."
"He is in unoccupied
premises under suspicious circumstances," said Gregson. "That is good
enough for the moment. When we have him by the heels we can see if New York can’t
help us to keep him. I’ll take the responsibility of arresting him now."
Our official detectives
may blunder in the matter of intelli- gence, but never in that of courage.
Gregson climbed the stair to arrest this desperate murderer with the same
absolutely quiet and businesslike bearing with which he would have ascended the
official staircase of Scotland Yard. The Pinkerton man had tried to push past
him, but Gregson had firmly elbowed him back. London dangers were the privilege
of the London force.
The door of the
left-hand flat upon the third landing was standing ajar. Gregson pushed it
open. Within all was absolute silence and darkness. I struck a match and lit
the detective’s lantern. As I did so, and as the flicker steadied into a flame,
we all gave a gasp of surprise. On the deal boards of the carpetless floor
there was outlined a fresh track of blood. The red steps pointed towards us and
led away from an inner room, the door of which was closed. Gregson flung it
open and held his light full blaze in front of him, while we all peered eagerly
over his shoulders.
In the middle of the
floor of the empty room was huddled the figure of an enormous man, his
clean-shaven, swarthy face grotesquely horrible in its contortion and his head
encircled by a ghastly crimson halo of blood, lying in a broad wet circle upon
the white woodwork. His knees were drawn up, his hands thrown out in agony, and
from the centre of his broad, brown, upturned throat there projected the white
haft of a knife driven blade-deep into his body. Giant as he was, the man must
have gone down like a pole-axed ox before that terrific blow. Beside his right
hand a most formidable horn-handled, two-edged dagger lay upon the floor, and
near it a black kid glove.
"By George! it’s
Black Gorgiano himself!" cried the Ameri- can detective. "Someone has
got ahead of us this time."
"Here is the
candle in the window, Mr. Holmes," said Gregson. "Why, whatever are
you doing?"
Holmes had stepped
across, had lit the candle, and was pass- ing it backward and forward across
the window-panes. Then he peered into the darkness, blew the candle out, and
threw it on the floor.
"I rather think
that will be helpful," said he. He came over and stood in deep thought
while the two professionals were examining the body. "You say that three
people came out from the flat while you were waiting downstairs," said he
at last. "Did you observe them closely?"
"Yes, I did."
"Was there a
fellow about thirty, black-bearded, dark, of middle size?"
"Yes; he was the
last to pass me."
"That is your man,
I fancy. I can give you his description, and we have a very excellent outline
of his footmark. That should be enough for you."
"Not much, Mr.
Holmes, among the millions of London."
"Perhaps not. That
is why I thought it best to summon this lady to your aid."
We all turned round at
the words. There, framed in the doorway, was a tall and beautiful woman -- the
mysterious lodger of Bloomsbury. Slowly she advanced, her face pale and drawn
with a frightful apprehension, her eyes fixed and staring, her terrified gaze
riveted upon the dark figure on the floor.
"You have killed
him!" she muttered. "Oh, Dio mio, you have killed him!" Then I
heard a sudden sharp intake of her breath, and she sprang into the air with a
cry of joy. Round and round the room she danced, her hands clapping, her dark
eyes gleaming with delighted wonder, and a thousand pretty Italian exclamations
pouring from her lips. It was terrible and amazing to see such a woman so
convulsed with joy at such a sight. Suddenly she stopped and gazed at us all
with a questioning stare.
"But you! You are
police, are you not? You have killed Giuseppe Gorgiano. Is it not so?"
"We are police,
madam."
She looked round into
the shadows of the room.
"But where, then,
is Gennaro?" she asked. "He is my hus- band, Gennaro Lucca. I am
Emilia Lucca, and we are both from New York. Where is Gennaro? He called me
this moment from this window, and I ran with all my speed."
"It was I who
called," said Holmes.
"You! How could
you call?"
"Your cipher was
not difficult, madam. Your presence here was desirable. I knew that I had only
to flash ’Vieni’ and you would surely come."
The beautiful Italian
looked with awe at my companion.
"I do not
understand how you know these things," she said. "Giuseppe Gorgiano
-- how did he --" She paused, and then suddenly her face lit up with pride
and delight. "Now I see it! My Gennaro! My splendid, beautiful Gennaro,
who has guarded me safe from all harm, he did it, with his own strong hand he
killed the monster! Oh, Gennaro, how wonderful you are! What woman could ever
be worthy of such a man?"
"Well, Mrs.
Lucca," said the prosaic Gregson, laying his hand upon the lady’s sleeve
with as little sentiment as if she were a Notting Hill hooligan, "I am not
very clear yet who you are or what you are; but you’ve said enough to make it
very clear that we shall want you at the Yard."
"One moment,
Gregson," said Holmes. "I rather fancy that this lady may be as
anxious to give us information as we can be to get it. You understand, madam,
that your husband will be arrested and tried for the death of the man who lies
before us? What you say may be used in evidence. But if you think that he has
acted from motives which are not criminal, and which he would wish to have
known, then you cannot serve him better than by telling us the whole
story."
"Now that Gorgiano
is dead we fear nothing," said the lady. "He was a devil and a
monster, and there can be no judge in the world who would punish my husband for
having killed him."
"In that
case," said Holmes, "my suggestion is that we lock this door, leave
things as we found them, go with this lady to her room, and form our opinion
after we have heard what it is that she has to say to us."
Half an hour later we
were seated, all four, in the small sitting-room of Signora Lucca, listening to
her remarkable narra- tive of those sinister events, the ending of which we had
chanced to witness. She spoke in rapid and fluent but very unconventional
English, which, for the sake of clearness, I will make grammatical.
"I was born in
Posilippo, near Naples," said she, "and was the daughter of Augusto
Barelli, who was the chief lawyer and once the deputy of that part. Gennaro was
in my father’s em- ployment, and I came to love him, as any woman must. He had
neither money nor position -- nothing but his beauty and strength and energy --
so my father forbade the match. We fled together, were married at Bari, and
sold my jewels to gain the money which would take us to America. This was four years
ago, and we have been in New York ever since.
"Fortune was very
good to us at first. Gennaro was able to do a service to an Italian gentleman--
he saved him from some ruffians in the place called the Bowery and so made a
powerful friend. His name was Tito Castalotte and he was the senior partner of
the great firm of Castalotte and Zamba, who are the chief fruit importers of
New York. Signor Zamba is an invalid, and our new friend Castalotte has all
power within the firm, which employs more than three hundred men. He took my
husband into his employment, made him head of a department, and showed his
good-will towards him in every way. Signor Castalotte was a bachelor, and I
believe that he felt as if Gennaro was his son, and both my husband and I loved
him as if he were our father. We had taken and furnished a little house in
Brook- lyn, and our whole future seemed assured when that black cloud appeared
which was soon to overspread our sky.
"One night, when
Gennaro returned from his work, he brought a fellow-countryman back with him.
His name was Gorgiano, and he had come also from Posilippo. He was a huge man,
as you can testify, for you have looked upon his corpse. Not only was his body
that of a giant but everything about him was grotesque, gigantic, and
terrifying. His voice was like thunder in our little house. There was scarce
room for the whirl of his great arms as he talked. His thoughts, his emotions,
his passions, all were exaggerated and monstrous. He talked, or rather roared,
with such energy that others could but sit and listen, cowed with the mighty
stream of words. His eyes blazed at you and held you at his mercy. He was a
terrible and wonderful man. I thank God that he is dead!
"He came again and
again. Yet I was aware that Gennaro was no more happy than I was in his
presence. My poor husband would sit pale and listless, listening to the endless
raving upon politics and upon social questions which made up our visitor’s
conversation. Gennaro said nothing, but I, who knew him so well, could read in
his face some emotion which I had never seen there before. At first I thought
that it was dislike. And then, gradually, I understood that it was more than
dislike. It was fear -- a deep, secret, shrinking fear. That night -- the night
that I read his terror -- I put my arms round him and I implored him by his
love for me and by all that he held dear to hold nothing from me, and to tell
me why this huge man overshadowed him so.
"He told me, and
my own heart grew cold as ice as I listened. My poor Gennaro, in his wild and
fiery days, when all the world seemed against him and his mind was driven half
mad by the injustices of life, had joined a Neapolitan society, the Red Circle,
which was allied to the old Carbonari. The oaths and secrets of this
brotherhood were frightful, but once within its rule no escape was possible.
When we had fled to America Gennaro thought that he had cast it all off
forever. What was his horror one evening to meet in the streets the very man
who had initiated him in Naples, the giant Gorgiano, a man who had earned the
name of ’Death’ in the south of Italy, for he was red to the elbow in murder!
He had come to New York to avoid the Italian police, and he had already planted
a branch of this dreadful society in his new home. All this Gennaro told me and
showed me a summons which he had received that very day, a Red Circle drawn
upon the head of it telling him that a lodge would be held upon a certain date,
and that his presence at it was required and ordered.
"That was bad
enough, but worse was to come. I had noticed for some time that when Gorgiano
came to us, as he constantly did, in the evening, he spoke much to me; and even
when his words were to my husband those terrible, glaring, wild-beast eyes of
his were always turned upon me. One night his secret came out. I had awakened what
he called ’love’ within him -- the love of a brute -- a savage. Gennaro had not
yet returned when he came. He pushed his way in, seized me in his mighty arms,
hugged me in his bear’s embrace, covered me with kisses, and implored me to
come away with him. I was struggling and screaming when Gennaro entered and
attacked him. He struck Gennaro senseless and fled from the house which he was
never more to enter. It was a deadly enemy that we made that night.
"A few days later
came the meeting. Gennaro returned from it with a face which told me that
something dreadful had occurred. It was worse than we could have imagined
possible. The funds of the society were raised by blackmailing rich Italians
and threatening them with violence should they refuse the money. It seems that
Castalotte, our dear friend and benefactor, had been approached. He had refused
to yield to threats, and he had handed the notices to the police. It was
resolved now that such an example should be made of him as would prevent any
other victim from rebelling. At the meeting it was arranged that he and his
house should be blown up with dynamite. There was a drawing of lots as to who
should carry out the deed. Gennaro saw our enemy’s cruel face smiling at him as
he dipped his hand in the bag. No doubt it had been prearranged in some
fashion, for it was the fatal disc with the Red Circle upon it, the mandate for
murder, which lay upon his palm. He was to kill his best friend, or he was to
expose himself and me to the vengeance of his comrades. It was part of their
fiendish system to punish those whom they feared or hated by injuring not only
their own persons but those whom they loved, and it was the knowledge of this
which hung as a terror over my poor Gennaro’s head and drove him nearly crazy
with apprehension.
"All that night we
sat together, our arms round each other, each strengthening each for the
troubles that lay before us. The very next evening had been fixed tor the
attempt. By midday my husband and I were on our way to London, but not before
he had given our benefactor full warning of his danger, and had also left such
information for the police as would safeguard his life for the future.
"The rest,
gentlemen, you know for yourselves. We were sure that our enemies would be
behind us like our own shadows. Gorgiano had his private reasons for vengeance,
but in any case we knew how ruthless, cunning, and untiring he could be. Both
Italy and America are full of stories of his dreadful powers. If ever they were
exerted it would be now. My darling made use of the few clear days which our
start had given us in arranging for a refuge for me in such a fashion that no
possible danger could reach me. For his own part, he wished to be free that he
might communicate both with the American and with the Italian police. I do not
myself know where he lived, or how. All that I learned was through the columns
of a newspaper. But once as I looked through my window, I saw two Italians
watching the house, and I understood that in some way Gorgiano had found out
our retreat. Finally Gennaro told me, through the paper, that he would signal
to me from a certain window, but when the signals came they were nothing but
warnings, which were suddenly interrupted. It is very clear to me now that he
knew Gorgiano to be close upon him, and that, thank God, he was ready for him
when he came. And now, gentlemen, I would ask you whether we have anything to
fear from the law, or whether any judge upon earth would condemn my Gennaro for
what he has done?"
"Well, Mr.
Gregson," said the American, looking across at the official, "I don’t
know what your British point of view may be, but I guess that in New York this
lady’s husband will receive a pretty general vote of thanks."
"She will have to
come with me and see the chief," Gregson answered. "If what she says
is corroborated, I do not think she or her husband has much to fear. But what I
can’t make head or tail of, Mr. Holmes, is how on earth you got yourself mixed
up in the matter."
"Education,
Gregson, education. Still seeking knowledge at the old university. Well,
Watson, you have one more specimen of the tragic and grotesque to add to your
collection. By the way, it is not eight o’clock, and a Wagner night at Covent
Garden! If we hurry, we might be in time for the second act."
IN the third week of
November, in the year 1895, a dense yellow fog settled down upon London. From
the Monday to the Thurs- day I doubt whether it was ever possible from our
windows in Baker Street to see the loom of the opposite houses. The first day
Holmes had spent in cross-indexing his huge book of references. The second and
third had been patiently occupied upon a subject which he had recently made his
hobby -- the music of the Middle Ages. But when, for the fourth time, after
pushing back our chairs from breakfast we saw the greasy, heavy brown swirl
still drifting past us and condensing in oily drops upon the window- panes, my
comrade’s impatient and active nature could endure this drab existence no longer.
He paced restlessly about our sitting-room in a fever of suppressed energy,
biting his nails, tapping the furniture, and chafing against inaction.
"Nothing of
interest in the paper, Watson?" he said.
I was aware that by
anything of interest, Holmes meant any- thing of criminal interest. There was
the news of a revolution, of a possible war, and of an impending change of
government; but these did not come within the horizon of my companion. I could
see nothing recorded in the shape of crime which was not commonplace and
futile. Holmes groaned and resumed his rest- less meanderings.
"The London
criminal is certainly a dull fellow," said he in the querulous voice of
the sportsman whose game has failed him. "Look out of this window, Watson.
See how the figures loom up, are dimly seen, and then blend once more into the
cloud- bank. The thief or the murderer could roam London on such a day as the
tiger does the jungle, unseen until he pounces, and then evident only to his
victim."
"There have,"
said I, "been numerous petty thefts."
Holmes snorted his
contempt.
"This great and
sombre stage is set for something more worthy than that," said he.
"It is fortunate for this community that I am not a criminal."
"It is,
indeed!" said I heartily.
"Suppose that I
were Brooks or Woodhouse, or any of the fifty men who have good reason for
taking my life, how long could I survive against my own pursuit? A summons, a
bogus appointment, and all would be over. It is well they don’t have days of
fog in the Latin countries -- the countries of assassination. By Jove! here
comes something at last to break our dead monotony."
It was the maid with a
telegram. Holmes tore it open and burst out laughing.
"Well, well! What
next?" said he. "Brother Mycroft is com- ing round."
"Why not?" I
asked.
"Why not? It is as
if you met a tram-car coming down a country lane. Mycroft has his rails and he
runs on them. His Pall Mall lodgings, the Diogenes Club, Whitehall -- that is
his cycle. Once, and only once, he has been here. What upheaval can possibly
have derailed him?"
"Does he not
explain?"
Holmes handed me his
brother’s telegram.
Must see you over
Cadogan West. Coming at once. MYCROFT.
"Cadogan West? I
have heard the name."
"It recalls
nothing to my mind. But that Mycroft should break out in this erratic fashion!
A planet might as well leave its orbit. By the way, do you know what Mycroft
is?"
I had some vague
recollection of an explanation at the time of the Adventure of the Greek
Interpreter.
"You told me that
he had some small office under the British government."
Holmes chuckled.
"I did not know
you quite so well in those days. One has to be discreet when one talks of high
matters of state. You are right in thinking that he is under the British
government. You would also be right in a sense if you said that occasionally he
is the British government."
"My dear
Holmes!"
"I thought I might
surprise you. Mycroft draws four hundred and fifty pounds a year, remains a
subordinate, has no ambitions of any kind, will receive neither honour nor
title, but remains the most indispensable man in the country."
"But how?"
"Well, his
position is unique. He has made it for himself. There has never been anything
like it before, nor will be again. He has the tidiest and most orderly brain,
with the greatest capacity for storing facts, of any man living. The same great
powers which I have turned to the detection of crime he has used for this
particular business. The conclusions of every department are passed to him, and
he is the central exchange, the clearing- house, which makes out the balance.
All other men are special- ists, but his specialism is omniscience. We will
suppose that a minister needs information as to a point which involves the
Navy, India, Canada and the bimetallic question; he could get his separate
advices from various departments upon each, but only Mycroft can focus them
all, and say offhand how each factor would affect the other. They began by
using him as a short-cut, a convenience; now he has made himself an essential.
In that great brain of his everything is pigeon-holed and can be handed out in
an instant. Again and again his word has decided the national policy. He lives
in it. He thinks of nothing else save when, as an intellectual exercise, he
unbends if I call upon him and ask him to advise me on one of my little
problems. But Jupiter is descending to-day. What on earth can it mean? Who is
Cadogan West, and what is he to Mycroft?"
"I have it,"
I cried, and plunged among the litter of papers upon the sofa. "Yes, yes,
here he is, sure enough! Cadogan West was the young man who was found dead on
the Under- ground on Tuesday morning."
Holmes sat up at
attention, his pipe halfway to his lips.
"This must be
serious, Watson. A death which has caused my brother to alter his habits can be
no ordinary one. What in the world can he have to do with it? The case was
featureless as I remember it. The young man had apparently fallen out of the
train and killed himself. He had not been robbed, and there was no particular
reason to suspect violence. Is that not so?"
"There has been an
inquest," said I, "and a good many fresh facts have come out. Looked
at more closely, I should certainly say that it was a curious case."
"Judging by its
effect upon my brother, I should think it must be a most extraordinary
one." He snuggled down in his arm- chair. "Now, Watson, let us have
the facts."
"The man’s name
was Arthur Cadogan West. He was twenty- seven years of age, unmarried, and a
clerk at Woolwich Arsenal."
"Government
employ. Behold the link with Brother Mycroft!"
"He left Woolwich
suddenly on Monday night. Was last seen by his fiancee, Miss Violet Westbury,
whom he left abruptly in the fog about 7:30 that evening. There was no quarrel
between them and she can give no motive for his action. The next thing heard of
him was when his dead body was discovered by a plate-layer named Mason, just
outside Aldgate Station on the Underground system in London."
"When?"
"The body was
found at six on the Tuesday morning. It was lying wide of the metals upon the
left hand of the track as one goes eastward, at a point close to the station,
where the line emerges from the tunnel in which it runs. The head was badly
crushed -- an injury which might well have been caused by a fall from the
train. The body could only have come on the line in that way. Had it been
carried down from any neighbouring street, it must have passed the station
barriers, where a collector is always standing. This point seems absolutely
certain."
"Very good. The
case is definite enough. The man, dead or alive, either fell or was
precipitated from a train. So much is clear to me. Continue."
"The trains which
traverse the lines of rail beside which the body was found are those which run
from west to east, some being purely Metropolitan, and some from Willesden and
outly- ing junctions. It can be stated for certain that this young man when he
met his death, was travelling in this direction at some late hour of the night,
but at what point he entered the train it is impossible to state."
"His ticket, of
course, would show that."
"There was no
ticket in his pockets."
"No ticket! Dear
me, Watson, this is really very singular. According to my experience it is not
possible to reach the platform of a Metropolitan train without exhibiting one’s
ticket. Presumably, then, the young man had one. Was it taken from him in order
to conceal the station from which he came? It is possible. Or did he drop it in
the carriage? That also is possible. But the point is of curious interest. I
understand that there was no sign of robbery?"
"Apparently not.
There is a list here of his possessions. His purse contained two pounds
fifteen. He had also a check-book on the Woolwich branch of the Capital and
Counties Bank. Through this his identity was established. There were also two
dress-circle tickets for the Woolwich Theatre, dated for that very evening.
Also a small packet of technical papers."
Holmes gave an
exclamation of satisfaction.
"There we have it
at last, Watson! British government -- Woolwich. Arsenal -- technical papers --
Brother Mycroft, the chain is complete. But here he comes, if I am not
mistaken, to speak for himself."
A moment later the tall
and portly form of Mycroft Holmes was ushered into the room. Heavily built and
massive, there was a suggestion of uncouth physical inertia in the figure, but
above this unwieldy frame there was perched a head so masterful in its brow, so
alert in its steel-gray, deep-set eyes, so firm in its lips, and so subtle in
its play of expression, that after the first glance one forgot the gross body
and remembered only the dominant mind.
At his heels came our
old friend Lestrade, of Scotland Yard -- thin and austere. The gravity of both
their faces foretold some weighty quest. The detective shook hands without a
word. Mycroft Holmes struggled out of his overcoat and subsided into an
armchair.
"A most annoying
business, Sherlock," said he. "I extremely dislike altering my
habits, but the powers that be would take no denial. In the present state of
Siam it is most awkward that I should be away from the office. But it is a real
crisis. I have never seen the Prime Minister so upset. As to the Admiralty --
it is buzzing like an overturned bee-hive. Have you read up the case?"
"We have just done
so. What were the technical papers?"
"Ah, there’s the
point! Fortunately, it has not come out. The press would be furious if it did.
The papers which this wretched youth had in his pocket were the plans of the
Bruce-Partington submarine."
Mycroft Holmes spoke
with a solemnity which showed his sense of the importance of the subject. His
brother and I sat expectant.
"Surely you have
heard of it? I thought everyone had heard of it."
"Only as a
name."
"Its importance
can hardly be exaggerated. It has been the most jealously guarded of all
government secrets. You may take it from me that naval warfare becomes
impossible within the radius of a Bruce-Partington’s operation. Two years ago a
very large sum was smuggled through the Estimates and was ex- pended in
acquiring a monopoly of the invention. Every effort has been made to keep the
secret. The plans, which are exceed- ingly intricate, comprising some thirty
separate patents, each essential to the working of the whole, are kept in an
elaborate safe in a confidential office adjoining the arsenal, with burglar-
proof doors and windows. Under no conceivable circumstances were the plans to
be taken from the office. If the chief construc- tor of the Navy desired to
consult them, even he was forced to go to the Woolwich office for the purpose.
And yet here we find them in the pocket of a dead junior clerk in the heart of
London. From an official point of view it’s simply awful."
"But you have
recovered them?"
"No, Sherlock, no!
That’s the pinch. We have not. Ten papers were taken from Woolwich. There were
seven in the pocket of Cadogan West. The three most essential are gone --
stolen, vanished. You must drop everything, Sherlock. Never mind your usual
petty puzzles of the police-court. It’s a vital international problem that you
have to solve. Why did Cadogan West take the papers, where are the missing
ones, how did he die, how came his body where it was found, how can the evil be
set right? Find an answer to all these questions, and you will have done good
service for your country."
"Why do you not
solve it yourself, Mycroft? You can see as far as I."
"Possibly,
Sherlock. But it is a question of getting details. Give me your details, and
from an armchair I will return you an excellent expert opinion. But to run here
and run there, to cross-question railway guards, and lie on my face with a lens
to my eye -- it is not my metier. No, you are the one man who can clear the
matter up. If you have a fancy to see your name in the next honours list
--"
My friend smiled and
shook his head.
"I play the game
for the game’s own sake," said he. "But the problem certainly
presents some points of interest, and I shall be very pleased to look into it.
Some more facts, please."
"I have jotted
down the more essential ones upon this sheet of paper, together with a few
addresses which you will find of service. The actual official guardian of the
papers is the famous government expert, Sir James Walter. whose decorations and
sub-titles fill two lines of a book of reference. He has grown gray in the
service, is a gentleman, a favoured guest in the most exalted houses, and,
above all, a man whose patriotism is beyond suspicion. He is one of two who
have a key of the safe. I may add that the papers were undoubtedly in the
office during work- ing hours on Monday, and that Sir James left for London
about three o’clock taking his key with him. He was at the house of Admiral
Sinclair at Barclay Square during the whole of the evening when this incident
occurred."
"Has the fact been
verified?"
"Yes; his brother,
Colonel Valentine Walter, has testified to his departure from Woolwich, and
Admiral Sinclair to his arrival in London; so Sir James is no longer a direct
factor in the problem."
"Who was the other
man with a key?"
"The senior clerk
and draughtsman, Mr. Sidney Johnson. He is a man of forty, married, with five
children. He is a silent, morose man, but he has, on the whole, an excellent record
in the public service. He is unpopular with his colleagues, but a hard worker.
According to his own account, corroborated only by the word of his wife, he was
at home the whole of Monday evening after office hours, and his key has never
left the watch-chain upon which it hangs."
"Tell us about
Cadogan West."
"He has been ten
years in the service and has done good work. He has the reputation of being
hot-headed and impetuous, but a straight, honest man. We have nothing against
him. He was next to Sidney Johnson in the office. His duties brought him into
daily, personal contact with the plans. No one else had the handling of
them."
"Who locked the
plans up that night?"
"Mr. Sidney
Johnson, the senior clerk."
"Well, it is
surely perfectly clear who took them away. They are actually found upon the
person of this junior clerk, Cadogan West. That seems final, does it not?"
"It does,
Sherlock, and yet it leaves so much unexplained. In the first place, why did he
take them?"
"I presume they
were of value?"
"He could have got
several thousands for them very easily."
"Can you suggest
any possible motive for taking the papers to London except to sell them?"
"No, I
cannot."
"Then we must take
that as our working hypothesis. Young West took the papers. Now this could only
be done by having a false key --"
"Several false
keys. He had to open the building and the room."
"He had, then,
several false keys. He took the papers to London to sell the secret, intending,
no doubt, to have the plans themselves back in the safe next morning before
they were missed. While in London on this treasonable mission he met his
end."
"How?"
"We will suppose
that he was travelling back to Woolwich when he was killed and thrown out of
the compartment."
"Aldgate, where
the body was found, is considerably past the station for London Bridge, which
would be his route to Woolwich."
"Many
circumstances could be imagined under which he would pass London Bridge. There
was someone in the carriage, for example, with whom he was havitlg an absorbing
interview. This interview led to a violent scene in which he lost his life.
Possibly he tried to leave the carriage, fell out on the line, and so met his
end. The other closed the door. There was a thick fog, and nothing could be
seen."
"No better
explanation can be given with our present knowl- edge; and yet consider,
Sherlock, how much you leave untouched. We will suppose, for argument’s sake,
that young Cadogan West had determined to convey these papers to London. He
would naturally have made an appointment with the foreign agent and kept his
evening clear. Instead of that he took two tickets for the theatre, escorted
his fiancee halfway there, and then suddenly disappeared."
"A blind,"
said Lestrade, who had sat listening with some impatience to the conversation.
"A very singular
one. That is objection No. 1. Objection No. 2: We will suppose that he reaches
London and sees the foreign agent. He must bring back the papers before morning
or the loss will be discovered. He took away ten. Only seven were in his
pocket. What had become of the other three? He certainly would not leave them
of his own free will. Then, again, where is the price of his treason? One would
have expected to find a large sum of money in his pocket."
"It seems to me
perfectly clear," said Lestrade. "I have no doubt at all as to what
occurred. He took the papers to sell them. He saw the agent. They could not
agree as to price. He started home again, but the agent went with him. In the
train the agent murdered him, took the more essential papers, and threw his
body from the carriage. That would account for everything, would it not?"
"Why had he no
ticket?"
"The ticket would
have shown which station was nearest the agent’s house. Therefore he took it
from the murdered man’s pocket."
"Good, Lestrade,
very good," said Holmes. "Your theory holds together. But if this is
true, then the case is at an end. On the one hand, the traitor is dead. On the
other, the plans of the Bruce-Partington submarine are presumably already on
the Con- tinent. What is there for us to do?"
"To act, Sherlock
-- to act!" cried Mycroft, springing to his feet. "All my instincts
are against this explanation. Use your powers! Go to the scene of the crime!
See the people concerned! Leave no stone unturned! In all your career you have
never had so great a chance of serving your country."
"Well, well!"
said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders. "Come, Watson! And you, Lestrade, could
you favour us with your company for an hour or two? We will begin our
investigation by a visit to Aldgate Station. Good-bye, Mycroft. I shall let you
have a report before evening, but I warn you in advance that you have little to
expect."
An hour later Holmes,
Lestrade and I stood upon the Under- ground railroad at the point where it
emerges from the tunnel immediately before Aldgate Station. A courteous
red-faced old gentleman represented the railway company.
"This is where the
young man’s body lay," said he, indicat- ing a spot about three feet from
the metals. "It could not have fallen from above, for these, as you see,
are all blank walls. Therefore, it could only have come from a train, and that
train, so far as we can trace it, must have passed about midnight on
Monday."
"Have the
carriages been examined for any sign of violence?"
"There are no such
signs, and no ticket has been found."
"No record of a
door being found open?"
"None."
"We have had some
fresh evidence this morning," said Lestrade. "A passenger who passed
Aldgate in an ordinary Metropolitan train about 11:40 on Monday night declares
that he heard a heavy thud, as of a body striking the line, just before the
train reached the station. There was dense fog, however, and nothing could be
seen. He made no report of it at the time. Why whatever is the matter with Mr.
Holmes?"
My friend was standing
with an expression of strained inten- sity upon his face, staring at the
railway metals where they curved out of the tunnel. Aldgate is a junction, and
there was a network of points. On these his eager, questioning eyes were fixed,
and I saw on his keen, alert face that tightening of the lips, that quiver of
the nostrils, and concentration of the heavy tufted brows which I knew so well.
"Points," he
muttered, "the points."
"What of it? What
do you mean?"
"I suppose there
are no great number of points on a system such as this?"
"No; there are
very few."
"And a curve, too.
Points, and a curve. By Jove! if it were only so."
"What is it, Mr.
Holmes? Have you a clue?"
"An idea -- an
indication, no more. But the case certainly grows in interest. Unique,
perfectly unique, and yet why not? I do not see any indications of bleeding on
the line."
"There were hardly
any."
"But I understand
that there was a considerable wound."
"The bone was
crushed, but there was no great external injury."
"And yet one would
have expected some bleeding. Would it be possible for me to inspect the train
which contained the passenger who heard the thud of a fall in the fog?"
"I fear not, Mr.
Holmes. The train has been broken up before now, and the carriages
redistributed."
"I can assure you,
Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade, "that every carriage has been carefully
examined. I saw to it myself."
It was one of my friend’s
most obvious weaknesses that he was impatient with less alert intelligences
than his own.
"Very
likely," said he, turning away. "As it happens, it was not the
carriages which I desired to examine. Watson, we have done all we can here. We
need not trouble you any further, Mr. Lestrade. I think our investigations must
now carry us to Woolwich."
At London Bridge,
Holmes wrote a telegram to his brother, which he handed to me before
dispatching it. It ran thus:
See some light in the
darkness, but it may possibly flicker out. Meanwhile, please send by messenger,
to await return at Baker Street, a complete list of all foreign spies or
international agents known to be in England, with full address. - SHERLOCK.
"That should be
helpful, Watson," he remarked as we took our seats in the Woolwich train.
"We certainly owe Brother Mycroft a debt for having introduced us to what
promises to be a really very remarkable case."
His eager face still
wore that expression of intense and high- strung energy, which showed me that
some novel and suggestive circumstance had opened up a stimulating line of
thought. See the foxhound with hanging ears and drooping tail as it lolls about
the kennels, and compare it with the same hound as, with gleaming eyes and
straining muscles, it runs upon a breast-high scent -- such was the change in
Holmes since the morning. He was a different man from the limp and lounging
figure in the mouse-coloured dressing-gown who had prowled so restlessly only a
few hours before round the fog-girt room.
"There is material
here. There is scope," said he. "I am dull indeed not to have
understood its possibilities."
"Even now they are
dark to me."
"The end is dark
to me also, but I have hold of one idea which may lead us far. The man met his death
elsewhere, and his body was on the roof of a carriage."
"On the
roof!"
"Remarkable, is it
not? But consider the facts. Is it a coinci- dence that it is found at the very
point where the train pitches and sways as it comes round on the points? Is not
that the place where an object upon the roof might be expected to fall off? The
points would affect no object inside the train. Either the body fell from the
roof, or a very curious coincidence has occurred. But now consider the question
of the blood. Of course, there was no bleeding on the line if the body had bled
elsewhere. Each fact is suggestive in itself. Together they have a cumulative
force."
"And the ticket,
too!" I cried.
"Exactly. We could
not explain the absence of a ticket. This would explain it. Everything fits
together."
"But suppose it
were so, we are still as far as ever from unravelling the mystery of his death.
Indeed, it becomes not simpler but stranger."
"Perhaps,"
said Holmes thoughtfully, "perhaps." He re- lapsed into a silent reverie,
which lasted until the slow train drew up at last in Woolwich Station. There he
called a cab and drew Mycroft’s paper from his pocket.
"We have quite a
little round of afternoon calls to make," said he. "I think that Sir
James Walter claims our first attention. "
The house of the famous
official was a fine villa with green lawns, stretching down to the Thames. As
we reached it the fog was lifting, and a thin, watery sunshine was breaking
through. A butler answered our ring.
"Sir James,
sir!" said he with solemn face. "Sir James died this morning."
"Good
heavens!" cried Holmes in amazement. "How did he die?"
"Perhaps you would
care to step in, sir, and see his brother, Colonel Valentine?"
"Yes, we had best
do so."
We were ushered into a
dim-lit drawing-room, where an in- stant later we were joined by a very tall,
handsome, light- bearded man of fifty, the younger brother of the dead
scientist. His wild eyes, stained cheeks, and unkempt hair all spoke of the
sudden blow which had fallen upon the household. He was hardly articulate as he
spoke of it.
"It was this
horrible scandal," said he. "My brother, Sir James, was a man of very
sensitive honour, and he could not survive such an affair. It broke his heart.
He was always so proud of the efficiency of his department, and this was a
crush- ing blow."
"We had hoped that
he might have given us some indications which would have helped us to clear the
matter up."
"I assure you that
it was all a mystery to him as it is to you and to all of us. He had already
put all his knowledge at the disposal of the police. Naturally he had no doubt
that Cadogan West was guilty. But all the rest was inconceivable."
"You cannot throw
any new light upon the affair?"
"I know nothing
myself save what I have read or heard. I have no desire to be discourteous, but
you can understand, Mr. Holmes, that we are much disturbed at present, and I
must ask you to hasten this interview to an end."
"This is indeed an
unexpected development," said my friend when we had regained the cab.
"I wonder if the death was natural, or whether the poor old fellow killed
himself! If the latter, may it be taken as some sign of self-reproach for duty
neglected? We must leave that question to the future. Now we shall turn to the
Cadogan Wests."
A small but well-kept
house in the outskirts of the town sheltered the bereaved mother. The old lady
was too dazed with grief to be of any use to us, but at her side was a
white-faced young lady, who introduced herself as Miss Violet Westbury, the
fiancee of the dead man, and the last to see him upon that fatal night.
"I cannot explain
it, Mr. Holmes," she said. "I have not shut an eye since the tragedy,
thinking, thinking, thinking, night and day, what the true meaning of it can
be. Arthur was the most single-minded, chivalrous, patriotic man upon earth. He
would have cut his right hand off before he would sell a State secret confided
to his keeping. It is absurd, impossible, preposterous to anyone who knew
him."
"But the facts,
Miss Westbury?"
"Yes, yes I admit
I cannot explain them."
"Was he in any
want of money?"
"No; his needs
were very simple and his salary ample. He had saved a few hundreds, and we were
to marry at the New Year."
"No signs of any
mental excitement? Come, Miss Westbury, be absolutely frank with us."
The quick eye of my
companion had noted some change in her manner. She coloured and hesitated.
"Yes," she
said at last, "I had a feeling that there was something on his mind."
"For long?"
"Only for the last
week or so. He was thoughtful and worried. Once I pressed him about it. He
admitted that there was some- thing, and that it was concerned with his
official life. ’It is too serious for me to speak about, even to you,’ said he.
I could get nothing more."
Holmes looked grave.
"Go on, Miss
Westbury. Even if it seems to tell against him, go on. We cannot say what it
may lead to."
"Indeed, I have
nothing more to tell. Once or twice it seemed to me that he was on the point of
telling me something. He spoke one evening of the importance of the secret, and
I have some recollection that he said that no doubt foreign spies would pay a
great deal to have it."
My friend’s face grew
graver still.
"Anything
else?"
"He said that we
were slack about such matters -- that it would be easy for a traitor to get the
plans."
"Was it only
recently that he made such remarks?"
"Yes, quite
recently."
"Now tell us of
that last evening."
"We were to go to
the theatre. The fog was so thick that a cab was useless. We walked, and our
way took us close to the office. Suddenly he darted away into the fog."
"Without a
word?"
"He gave an
exclamation; that was all. I waited but he never returned. Then I walked home.
Next morning, after the office opened, they came to inquire. About twelve o’clock
we heard the terrible news. Oh, Mr. Holmes, if you could only, only save his
honour! It was so much to him."
Holmes shook his head
sadly.
"Come,
Watson," said he, "our ways lie elsewhere. Our next station must be
the office from which the papers were taken.
"It was black
enough before against this young man, but our inquiries make it blacker,"
he remarked as the cab lumbered off. "His coming marriage gives a motive
for the crime. He naturally wanted money. The idea was in his head, since he
spoke about it. He nearly made the girl an accomplice in the treason by telling
her his plans. It is all very bad."
"But surely,
Holmes, character goes for something? Then, again, why should he leave the girl
in the street and dart away to commit a felony?"
"Exactly! There
are certainly objections. But it is a formida- ble case which they have to meet."
Mr. Sidney Johnson, the
senior clerk, met us at the office and recelved us with that respect which my
companion’s card always commanded. He was a thin, gruff, bespectacled man of
middle age, his cheeks haggard, and his hands twitching from the nervous strain
to which he had been subjected.
"It is bad, Mr.
Holmes, very bad! Have you heard of the death of the chief?"
"We have just come
from his house."
"The place is
disorganized. The chief dead, Cadogan West dead, our papers stolen. And yet,
when we closed our door on Monday evening, we were as efficient an office as
any in the government service. Good God, it’s dreadful to think of! That West,
of all men, should have done such a thing!"
"You are sure of
his guilt, then?"
"I can see no
other way out of it. And yet I would have trusted him as I trust myself."
"At what hour was
the office closed on Monday?"
"At five."
"Did you close
it?"
"I am always the
last man out."
"Where were the
plans?"
"In that safe. I
put them there myself."
"Is there no
watchman to the building?"
"There is, but he
has other departments to look after as well. He is an old soldier and a most
trustworthy man. He saw nothing that evening. Of course the fog was very
thick."
"Suppose that
Cadogan West wished to make his way into the building after hours; he would
need three keys, would he not, before he could reach the papers?"
"Yes, he would.
The key of the outer door, the key of the office, and the key of the
safe."
"Only Sir James
Walter and you had those keys?"
"I had no keys of
the doors -- only of the safe."
"Was Sir James a
man who was orderly in his habits?"
"Yes, I think he
was. I know that so far as those three keys are concerned he kept them on the
same ring. I have often seen them there."
"And that ring
went with him to London?"
"He said so."
"And your key
never left your possession?"
"Never."
"Then West, if he
is the culprit, must have had a duplicate. And yet none was found upon his
body. One other point: if a clerk in this office desired to sell the plans,
would it not be simpler to copy the plans for himself than to take the
originals, as was actually done?"
"It would take
considerable technical knowledge to copy the plans in an effective way."
"But I suppose
either Sir James, or you, or West had that technical knowledge?"
"No doubt we had,
but I beg you won’t try to drag me into the matter, Mr. Holmes. What is the use
of our speculating in this way when the original plans were actually found on
West?"
"Well, it is
certainly singular that he should run the risk of taking originals if he could
safely have taken copies, which would have equally served his turn."
"Singular, no
doubt -- and yet he did so."
"Every inquiry in
this case reveals something inexplicable. Now there are three papers still
missing. They are, as I under- stand, the vital ones."
"Yes, that is
so."
"Do you mean to
say that anyone holding these three papers and without the seven others, could
construct a Bruce-Partington submarine?"
"I reported to
that effect to the Admiralty. But to-day I have been over the drawings again,
and I am not so sure of it. The double valves with the automatic self-adjusting
slots are drawn in one of the papers which have been returned. Until the
foreigners had invented that for themselves they could not make the boat. Of
course they might soon get over the difficulty."
"But the three
missing drawings are the most important?"
"Undoubtedly."
"I think, with
your permission, I will now take a stroll round me premises. I do not recall
any other question which I desired to ask."
He examined the lock of
the safe, the door of the room, and finally the iron shutters of the window. It
was only when we were on the lawn outside that his interest was strongly
excited. There was a laurel bush outside the window, and several of the
branches bore signs of having been twisted or snapped. He examined them carefully
with his lens, and then some dim and vague marks upon the earth beneath.
Finally he asked the chief clerk to close the iron shutters, and he pointed out
to me that they hardly met in the centre, and that it would be possible for
anyone outside to see what was going on within the room.
"The indications
are ruined by the three days’ delay. They may mean something or nothing. Well,
Watson, I do not think that Woolwich can help us further. It is a small crop
which we have gathered. Let us see if we can do better in London."
Yet we added one more
sheaf to our harvest before we left Woolwich Station. The clerk in the ticket
office was able to say with confidence that he saw Cadogan West -- whom he knew
well by sight -- upon the Monday night, and that he went to London by the 8:15
to London Bridge. He was alone and took a single third-class ticket. The clerk
was struck at the time by his excited and nervous manner. So shaky was he that
he could hardly pick up his change, and the clerk had helped him with it. A
reference to the timetable showed that the 8:15 was the first train which it
was possible for West to take after he had left the lady about 7:30.
"Let us
reconstruct, Watson," said Holmes after half an hour of silence. "I
am not aware that in all our joint researches we have ever had a case which was
more difficult to get at. Every fresh advance which we make only reveals a
fresh ridge beyond. And yet we have surely made some appreciable progress.
"The effect of our
inquiries at Woolwich has in the main been against young Cadogan West; but the
indications at the window would lend themselves to a more favourable
hypothesis. Let us suppose, for example, that he had been approached by some
foreign agent. It might have been done under such pledges as would have
prevented him from speaking of it, and yet would have affected his thoughts in
the direction indicated by his remarks to his fiancee. Very good. We will now
suppose that as he went to the theatre with the young lady he suddenly, in the
fog, caught a glimpse of this same agent going in the direction of the office.
He was an impetuous man, quick in his decisions. Everything gave way to his
duty. He followed the man, reached the window, saw the abstraction of the
documents, and pursued the thief. In this way we get over the objection that no
one would take originals when he could make copies. This outsider had to take
originals. So far it holds together."
"What is the next
step?"
"Then we come into
difficulties. One would imagine that under such circumstances the first act of
young Cadogan West would be to seize the villain and raise the alarm. Why did
he not do so? Could it have been an official superior who took the papers? That
would explain West’s conduct. Or could the chief have given West the slip in
the fog, and West started at once to London to head him off from his own rooms,
presuming that he knew where the rooms were? The call must have been very
pressing, since he left his girl standing in the fog and made no effort to
communicate with her. Our scent runs cold here, and there is a vast gap between
either hypothesis and the laying of West’s body, with seven papers in his
pocket, on the roof of a Metropolitan train. My instinct now is to work from
the other end. If Mycroft has given us the list of addresses we may be able to
pick our man and follow two tracks instead of one."
Surely enough, a note
awaited us at Baker Street. A govern- ment messenger had brought it post-haste.
Holmes glanced at it and threw it over to me.
There are numerous small
fry, but few who would handle so big an affair. The only men worth considering
are Adolph Meyer, of 13 Great George Street, Westminster; Louis La Rothiere, of
Campden Mansions, Notting Hill; and Hugo Oberstein, 13 Caulfield Gardens,
Kensington. The latter was known to be in town on Monday and is now reported as
having left. Glad to hear you have seen some light. The Cabinet awaits your
final report with the utmost anxiety. Urgent representations have arrived from
the very highest quarter. The whole force of the State is at your back if you
should need it. MYCROFT.
"I’m afraid,"
said Holmes, smiling, "that all the queen’s horses and all the queen’s men
cannot avail in this matter." He had spread out his big map of London and
leaned eagerly over it. "Well, well," said he presently with an
exclamation of satisfac- tion, "things are turning a little in our
direction at last. Why Watson, I do honestly believe that we are going to pull
it off, after all." He slapped me on the shoulder with a sudden burst of
hilarity. "I am going out now. It is only a reconnaissance. I will do
nothing serious without my trusted comrade and biographer at my elbow. Do you
stay here, and the odds are that you will see me again in an hour or two. If
time hangs heavy get foolscap and a pen, abd begin your narrative of how we
saved the State."
I felt some reflection
of his elation in my own mind, for I knew well that he would not depart so far
from his usual austerity of demeanour unless there was good cause for exulta-
tion. All the long November evening I waited, filled with impa- tience for his
return. At last, shortly after nine o’clock, there arrived a messenger with a
note:
Am dining at Goldini’s
Restaurant, Gloucester Road, Kensington. Please come at once and join me there.
Bring with you a jemmy, a dark lantern, a chisel, and a revolver. S. H.
It was a nice equipment
for a respectable citizen to carry through the dim, fog-draped streets. I
stowed them all discreetly away in my overcoat and drove straight to the
address given. There sat my friend at a little round table near the door of the
garish Italian restaurant.
"Have you had
something to eat? Then join me in a coffee and curacao. Try one of the
proprietor’s cigars. They are less poisonous than one would expect. Have you
the tools?"
"They are here, in
my overcoat."
"Excellent. Let me
give you a short sketch of what I have done, with some indication of what we
are about to do. Now it must be evident to you, Watson, that this young man’s
body was placed on the roof of the train. That was clear from the instant that
I determined the fact that it was from the roof, and not from a carriage, that
he had fallen."
"Could it not have
been dropped from a bridge?"
"I should say it
was impossible. If you examine the roofs you will find that they are slightly
rounded, and there is no railing round them. Therefore, we can say for certain
that young Cadogan West was placed on it."
"How could he be
placed there?"
"That was the
question which we had to answer. There is only one possible way. You are aware
that the Underground runs clear of tunnels at some points in the West End. I
had a vague memory that as I have travelled by it I have occasionally seen
windows just above my head. Now, suppose that a train halted under such a
window, would there be any difficulty in laying a body upon the roof?"
"It seems most
improbable."
"We must fall back
upon the old axiom that when all other contingencies fail, whatever remains,
however improbable, must be the truth. Here all other contingencies have
failed. When I found that the leading international agent, who had just left
London, lived in a row of houses which abutted upon the Under- ground, I was so
pleased that you were a little astonished at my sudden frivolity."
"Oh, that was it,
was it?"
"Yes, that was it.
Mr. Hugo Oberstein, of 13 Caulfield Gardens, had become my objective. I began
my operations at Gloucester Road Station, where a very helpful official walked
with me along the track and allowed me to satisfy myself not only that the
back-stair windows of Caulfield Gardens open on the line but the even more
essential fact that, owing to the intersection of one of the larger railways,
the Underground trains are frequently held motionless for some minutes at that
very spot."
"Splendid, Holmes!
You have got it!"
"So far -- so far,
Watson. We advance, but the goal is afar. Well, having seen the back of
Caulfield Gardens, I visited the front and satisfied myself that the bird was
indeed flown. It is a considerable house, unfurnished, so far as I could judge,
in the upper rooms. Oberstein lived there with a single valet, who was probably
a confederate entirely in his confidence. We must bear in mind that Oberstein
has gone to the Continent to dispose of his booty, but not with any idea of
flight; for he had no reason to fear a warrant, and the idea of an amateur
domiciliary visit would certainly never occur to him. Yet that is precisely
what we are about to make."
"Could we not get
a warrant and legalize it?"
"Hardly on the
evidence."
"What can we hope
to do?"
"We cannot tell
what correspondence may be there."
"I don’t like it,
Holmes."
"My dear fellow,
you shall keep watch in the street. I’ll do the criminal part. It’s not a time
to stick at trifles. Think of Mycroft’s note, of the Admiralty, the Cabinet,
the exalted person who waits for news. We are bound to go."
My answer was to rise
from the table.
"You are right,
Holmes. We are bound to go."
He sprang up and shook
me by the hand.
"I knew you would
not shrink at the last," said he, and for a moment I saw something in his
eyes which was nearer to tender- ness than I had ever seen. The next instant he
was his masterful, practical self once more.
"It is nearly half
a mile, but there is no hurry. Let us walk," said he. "Don’t drop the
instruments, I beg. Your arrest as a suspicious character would be a most
unfortunate complication."
Caulfield Gardens was
one of those lines of flat-faced, pillared, and porticoed houses which are so
prominent a product of the middle Victorian epoch in the West End of London.
Next door there appeared to be a children’s party, for the merry buzz of young
voices and the clatter of a piano resounded through the night. The fog still
hung about and screened us with its friendly shade. Holmes had lit his lantern
and flashed it upon the massive door.
"This is a serious
proposition," said he. "It is certainly bolted as well as locked. We
would do better in the area. There is an excellent archway down yonder in case
a too zealous policeman should intrude. Give me a hand, Watson, and I’ll do the
same for you."
A minute later we were
both in the area. Hardly had we reached the dark shadows before the step of the
policeman was heard in the fog above. As its soft rhythm died away, Holmes set
to work upon the lower door. I saw him stoop and strain until with a sharp
crash it flew open. We sprang through into the dark passage, closing the area
door behind us. Holmes led the way up the curving, uncarpeted stair. His little
fan of yellow light shone upon a low window.
"Here we are,
Watson -- this must be the one." He threw it open, and as he did so there
was a low, harsh murmur, growing steadily into a loud roar as a train dashed
past us in the darkness. Holmes swept his light along the window-sill. It was
thickly coated with soot from the passing engines, but the black surface was
blurred and rubbed in places.
"You can see where
they rested the body. Halloa, Watson! what is this? There can be no doubt that
it is a blood mark." He was pointing to faint discolourations along the
woodwork of the window. "Here it is on the stone of the stair also. The
demon- stration is complete. Let us stay here until a train stops. "
We had not long to
wait. The very next train roared from the tunnel as before, but slowed in the
open, and then, with a creaking of brakes, pulled up immediately beneath us. It
was not four feet from the window-ledge to the roof of the carriages. Holmes
softly closed the window.
"So far we are
justified," said he. "What do you think of it, Watson?"
"A masterpiece.
You have never risen to a greater height."
"I cannot agree
with you there. From the moment that I conceived the idea of the body being
upon the roof, which surely was not a very abstruse one, all the rest was
inevitable. If it were not for the grave interests involved the affair up to
this point would be insignificant. Our difficulties are still before us. But
perhaps we may find something here which may help us."
We had ascended the
kitchen stair and entered the suite of rooms upon the first floor. One was a
dining-room, severely furnished and containing nothing of interest. A second
was a bedroom, which also drew blank. The remaining room appeared more
promising, and my companion settled down to a systematic examination. It was
littered with books and papers, and was evidently used as a study. Swiftly and
methodically Holmes turned over the contents of drawer after drawer and
cupboard after cupboard, but no gleam of success came to brighten his austere
face. At the end of an hour he was no further than when he started.
"The cunning dog
has covered his tracks," said he. "He has left nothing to incriminate
him. His dangerous correspondence has been destroyed or removed. This is our
last chance."
It was a small tin
cash-box which stood upon the writing- desk. Holmes pried it open with his
chisel. Several rolls of paper were within, covered with figures and
calculations, without any note to show to what they referred. The recurring
words "water pressure" and "pressure to the square inch"
suggested some possible relation to a submarine. Holmes tossed them all impa-
tiently aside. There only remained an envelope with some small newspaper slips
inside it. He shook them out on the table, and at once I saw by his eager face
that his hopes had been raised.
"What’s this,
Watson? Eh? What’s this? Record of a series of messages in the advertisements
of a paper. Daily Telegraph agony column by the print and paper. Right-hand top
corner of a page. No dates -- but messages arrange themselves. This must be the
first:
"Hoped to hear
sooner. Terms agreed to. Write fully to address given on card. PIERROT.
"Next comes:
"Too complex for description. Must have full report. Stuff awaits you when
goods delivered. PIERROT.
"Then comes:
"Matter presses. Must withdraw offer unless contract completed. Make
appointment by letter. Will confirm by advertisement. PIERROT.
"Finally:
"Monday night after nine. Two taps. Only ourselves. Do not be so
suspicious. Payment in hard cash when goods delivered. PIERROT.
"A fairly complete
record, Watson! If we could only get at the man at the other end!" He sat
lost in thought, tapping his fingers on the table. Finally he sprang to his
feet.
"Well, perhaps it
won’t be so difficult, after all. There is nothing more to be done here,
Watson. I think we might drive round to the offices of the Daily Telegraph, and
so bring a good day’s work to a conclusion."
Mycroft Holmes and
Lestrade had come round by appointment after breakfast next day and Sherlock
Holmes had recounted to them our proceedings of the day before. The
professional shook his head over our confessed burglary.
"We can’t do these
things in the force, Mr. Holmes," said he. "No wonder you get results
that are beyond us. But some of these days you’ll go too far, and you’ll find
yourself and your friend in trouble."
"For England, home
and beauty -- eh, Watson? Martyrs on the altar of our country. But what do you
think of it, Mycroft?"
"Excellent,
Sherlock! Admirable! But what use will you make of it?"
Holmes picked up the
Daily Telegroph which lay upon the table.
"Have you seen
Pierrot’s advertisement to-day?"
"What? Another
one?"
"Yes, here it is:
"To-night. Same
hour. Same place. Two taps. Most vitally important. Your own safety at stake.
PIERROT.
"By George!"
cried Lestrade. "If he answers that we’ve got him!"
"That was my idea
when I put it in. I think if you could both make it convenient to come with us
about eight o’clock to Caulfield Gardens we might possibly get a little nearer
to a solution."
One of the most
remarkable characteristics of Sherlock Holmes was his power of throwing his
brain out of action and switching all his thoughts on to lighter things
whenever he had convinced himself that he could no longer work to advantage. I
remember that during the whole of that memorable day he lost himself in a
monograph which he had undertaken upon the Polyphonic Mo- tets of Lassus. For
my own part I had none of this power of detachment, and the day, in consequence,
appeared to be inter- minable. The great national importance of the issue, the
suspense in high quarters, the direct nature of the experiment which we were
trying -- all combined to work upon my nerve. It was a relief to me when at
last, after a light dinner, we set out upon our expedition. Lestrade and
Mycroft met us by appointment at the outside of Gloucester Road Station. The
area door of Oberstein’s house had been left open the night before, and it was
necessary for me, as Mycroft Holmes absolutely and indignantly declined to
climb the railings, to pass in and open the hall door. By nine o’clock we were
all seated in the study, waiting patiently for our man.
An hour passed and yet
another. When eleven struck, the measured beat of the great church clock seemed
to sound the dirge of our hopes. Lestrade and Mycroft were fidgeting in their
seats and looking twice a minute at their watches. Holmes sat silent and
composed, his eyelids half shut, but every sense on the alert. He raised his
head with a sudden jerk.
"He is
coming," said he.
There had been a
furtive step past the door. Now it returned. We heard a shuffling sound
outside, and then two sharp taps with the knocker. Holmes rose, motioning to us
to remain seated. The gas in the hall was a mere point of light. He opened the
outer door, and then as a dark figure slipped past him he closed and fastened
it. "This way!" we heard him say, and a moment later our man stood
before us. Holmes had followed him closely, and as the man turned with a cry of
surprise and alarm he caught him by the collar and threw him back into the
room. Before our prisoner had recovered his balance the door was shut and
Holmes standing with his back against it. The man glared round him, staggered,
and fell senseless upon the floor. With the shock, his broad-brimmed hat flew
from his head, his cravat slipped down from his lips, and there were the long
light beard and the soft, handsome delicate features of Colonel Valentine
Walter.
Holmes gave a whistle
of surprise.
"You can write me
down an ass this time, Watson," said he. "This was not the bird that
I was looking for."
"Who is he?"
asked Mycroft eagerly.
"The younger
brother of the late Sir James Walter, the head of the Submarine Department.
Yes, yes; I see the fall of the cards. He is coming to. I think that you had
best leave his examination to me."
We had carried the
prostrate body to the sofa. Now our prisoner sat up, looked round him with a
horror-stricken face, and passed his hand over his forehead, like one who
cannot believe his own senses.
"What is
this?" he asked. "I came here to visit Mr. Oberstein."
"Everything is
known, Colonel Walter," said Holmes. "How an English gentleman could
behave in such a manner is beyond my comprehension. But your whole correspondence
and rela- tions with Oberstein are within our knowledge. So also are the
circumstances connected with the death of young Cadogan West. Let me advise you
to gain at least the small credit for repentance and confession, since there
are still some details which we can only learn from your lips."
The man groaned and
sank his face in his hands. We waited, but he was silent.
"I can assure
you," said Holmes, "that every essential is already known. We know
that you were pressed for money; that you took an impress of the keys which
your brother held; and that you entered into a correspondence with Oberstein,
who answered your letters through the advertisement columns of the Daily
Telegraph. We are aware that you went down to the office in the fog on Monday
night, but that you were seen and followed by young Cadogan West, who had
probably some previous reason to suspect you. He saw your theft, but could not
give the alarm, as it was just possible that you were taking the papers to your
brother in London. Leaving all his private concerns, like the good citizen that
he was, he followed you closely in the fog and kept at your heels until you
reached this very house. There he intervened, and then it was, Colonel Walter,
that to treason you added the more terrible crime of murder."
"I did not! I did
not! Before God I swear that I did not!" cried our wretched prisoner.
"Tell us, then,
how Cadogan West met his end before you laid him upon the roof of a railway
carriage."
"I will. I swear
to you that I will. I did the rest. I confess it. It was just as you say. A
Stock Exchange debt had to be paid. I needed the money badly. Oberstein offered
me five thousand. It was to save myself from ruin. But as to murder, I am as
innocent as you."
"What happened,
then?"
"He had his
suspicions before, and he followed me as you describe. I never knew it until I
was at the very door. It was thick fog, and one could not see three yards. I
had given two taps and Oberstein had come to the door. The young man rushed up
and demanded to know what we were about to do with the papers. Oberstein had a
short life-preserver. He always carried it with him. As West forced his way
after us into the house Oberstein struck him on the head. The blow was a fatal
one. He was dead within five minutes. There he lay in the hall, and we were at
our wit’s end what to do. Then Oberstein had this idea about the trains which
halted under his back window. But first he examined the papers which I had
brought. He said that three of them were essential, and that he must keep them.
’You cannot keep them,’ said I. ’There will be a dreadful row at Woolwich if
they are not returned.’ ’I must keep them,’ said he, ’for they are so technical
that it is impossible in the time to make copies.’ ’Then they must all go back
together tonight,’ said I. He thought for a little, and then he cried out that
he had it. ’Three I will keep,’ said he. ’The others we will stuff into the
pocket of this young man. When he is found the whole business will assuredly be
put to his account. I could see no other way out of it, so we did as he
suggested. We waited half an hour at the window before a train stopped. It was
so thick that nothing could be seen, and we had no difficulty in lowering West’s
body on to the train. That was the end of the matter so far as I was
concerned."
"And your
brother?"
"He said nothing,
but he had caught me once with his keys, and I think that he suspected. I read
in his eyes that he sus- pected. As you know, he never held up his head
again."
There was silence in
the room. It was broken by Mycroft Holmes.
"Can you not make
reparation? It would ease your con- science, and possibly your
punishment."
"What reparation
can I make?"
"Where is
Oberstein with the papers?"
"I do not
know."
"Did he give you
no address?"
"He said that
letters to the Hotel du Louvre, Paris, would eventually reach him."
"Then reparation
is still within your power," said Sherlock Holmes.
"I will do
anything I can. I owe this fellow no particular good-will. He has been my ruin
and my downfall."
"Here are paper
and pen. Sit at this desk and write to my dictation. Direct the envelope to the
address given. That is right. Now the letter: "DEAR SIR: "With regard
to our transaction, you will no doubt have observed by now that one essential
detail is missing. I have a tracing which will make it complete. This has
involved me in extra trouble, however, and I must ask you for a further advance
of five hundred pounds. I will not trust it to the post, nor will I take
anything but gold or notes. I would come to you abroad, but it would excite
remark if I left the country at present. Therefore I shall expect to meet you
in the smoking-room of the Charing Cross Hotel at noon on Saturday. Remember
that only English notes, or gold, will be taken. That will do very well. I
shall be very much surprised if it does not fetch our man."
And it did! It is a
matter of history -- that secret history of a nation which is often so much
more intimate and interesting than its public chronicles -- that Oberstein,
eager to complete the coup of his lifetime, came to the lure and was safely
engulfed for fifteen years in a British prison. In his trunk were found the
invaluable Bruce-Partington plans, which he had put up for auction in all the
naval centres of Europe.
Colonel Walter died in
prison towards the end of the second year of his sentence. As to Holmes, he
returned refreshed to his monograph upon the Polyphonic Motets of Lassus, which
has since been printed for private circulation, and is said by experts to be the
last word upon the subject. Some weeks afterwards I learned incidentally that
my friend spent a day at Windsor, whence he returned with a remarkably fine
emerald tie-pin. When I asked him if he had bought it, he answered that it was
a present from a certain gracious lady in whose interests he had once been
fortunate enough to carry out a small commission. He said no more, but I fancy
that I could guess at that lady’s august name, and I have little doubt that the
emerald pin will forever recall to my friend’s memory the adventure of the
Bruce-Partington plans.
MRS. HUDSON, the
landlady of Sherlock Holmes, was a long- suffering woman. Not only was her
first-floor flat invaded at all hours by throngs of singular and often
undesirable characters but her remarkable lodger showed an eccentricity and
irregularity in his life which must have sorely tried her patience. His
incredible untidiness, his addiction to music at strange hours, his occasional
revolver practice within doors, his weird and often malodorous scientific
experiments, and the atmosphere of violence and dan- ger which hung around him
made him the very worst tenant in London. On the other hand, his payments were
princely. I have no doubt that the house might have been purchased at the price
which Holmes paid for his rooms during the years that I was with him.
The landlady stood in
the deepest awe of him and never dared to interfere with him, however
outrageous his proceedings might seem. She was fond of him, too, for he had a
remarkable gentleness and courtesy in his dealings with women. He disliked and
distrusted the sex, but he was always a chivalrous opponent. Knowing how
genuine was her regard for him, I listened earnestly to her story when she came
to my rooms in the second year of my married life and told me of the sad
condition to which my poor friend was reduced.
"He’s dying, Dr.
Watson," said she. "For three days he has been sinking, and I doubt
if he will last the day. He would not let me get a doctor. This morning when I
saw his bones sticking out of his face and his great bright eyes looking at me
I could stand no more of it. ’With your leave or without it, Mr. Holmes, I am
going for a doctor this very hour,’ said I. ’Let it be Watson, then,’ said he.
I wouldn’t waste an hour in coming to him, sir, or you may not see him
alive."
I was horrified for I
had heard nothing of his illness. I need not say that I rushed for my coat and
my hat. As we drove back I asked for the details.
"There is little I
can tell you, sir. He has been working at a case down at Rotherhithe, in an
alley near the river, and he has brought this illness back with him. He took to
his bed on Wednesday afternoon and has never moved since. For these three days
neither food nor drink has passed his lips."
"Good God! Why did
you not call in a doctor?"
"He wouldn’t have
it, sir. You know how masterful he is. I didn’t dare to disobey him. But he’s
not long for this world, as you’ll see for yourself the moment that you set
eyes on him."
He was indeed a
deplorable spectacle. In the dim light of a foggy November day the sick room
was a gloomy spot, but it was that gaunt, wasted face staring at me from the
bed which sent a chill to my heart. His eyes had the brightness of fever, there
was a hectic flush upon either cheek, and dark crusts clung to his lips; the
thin hands upon the coverlet twitched incessantly, his voice was croaking and
spasmodic. He lay listlessly as I entered the room, but the sight of me brought
a gleam of recognition to his eyes.
"Well, Watson, we
seem to have fallen upon evil days," said he in a feeble voice, but with
something of his old carelessness of manner.
"My dear
fellow!" I cried, approaching him.
"Stand back! Stand
right back!" said he with the sharp impe- riousness which I had associated
only with moments of crisis. "If you approach me, Watson, I shall order
you out of the house."
"But why?"
"Because it is my
desire. Is that not enough?"
Yes, Mrs. Hudson was
right. He was more masterful than ever. It was pitiful, however, to see his
exhaustion.
"I only wished to
help," I explained.
"Exactly! You will
help best by doing what you are told."
"Certainly,
Holmes."
He relaxed the
austerity of his manner.
"You are not
angry?" he asked, gasping for breath.
Poor devil, how could I
be angry when I saw him lying in such a plight before me?
"It’s for your own
sake, Watson," he croaked.
"For my
sake?"
"I know what is
the matter with me. It is a coolie disease from Sumatra -- a thing that the
Dutch know more about than we, though they have made little of it up to date.
One thing only is certain. It is infallibly deadly, and it is horribly
contagious."
He spoke now with a
feverish energy, the long hands twitch- ing and jerking as he motioned me away.
"Contagious by
touch, Watson -- that’s it, by touch. Keep your distance and all is well."
"Good heavens,
Holmes! Do you suppose that such a consid- eration weighs with me for an instant?
It would not affect me in the case of a stranger. Do you imagine it would
prevent me from doing my duty to so old a friend?"
Again I advanced, but
he repulsed me with a look of furious anger.
"If you will stand
there I will talk. If you do not you must leave the room."
I have so deep a
respect for the extraordinary qualities of Holmes that I have always deferred
to his wishes, even when I least understood them. But now all my professional
instincts were aroused. Let him be my master elsewhere, I at least was his in a
sick room.
"Holmes,"
said I, "you are not yourself. A sick man is but a child, and so I will
treat you. Whether you like it or not, I will examine your symptoms and treat
you for them."
He looked at me with
venomous eyes.
"If I am to have a
doctor whether I will or not, let me at least have someone in whom I have
confidence," said he.
"Then you have
none in me?"
"In your
friendship, certainly. But facts are facts, Watson, and, after all, you are
only a general practitioner with very limited experience and mediocre
qualifications. It is painful to have to say these things, but you leave me no
choice."
I was bitterly hurt.
"Such a remark is
unworthy of you, Holmes. It shows me very clearly the state of your own nerves.
But if you have no confidence in me I would not intrude my services. Let me
bring Sir Jasper Meek or Penrose Fisher, or any of the best men in London. But
someone you must have, and that is final. If you think that I am going to stand
here and see you die without either helping you myself or bringing anyone else
to help you, then you have mistaken your man."
"You mean well,
Watson," said the sick man with something between a sob and a groan.
"Shall I demonstrate your own ignorance? What do you know, pray, of
Tapanuli fever? What do you know of the black Formosa corruption?"
"I have never
heard of either."
"There are many
problems of disease, many strange patholog- ical possibilities, in the East,
Watson." He paused after each sentence to collect his failing strength.
"I have learned so much during some recent researches which have a
medico-criminal aspect. It was in the course of them that I contracted this
complaint. You can do nothing."
"Possibly not. But
I happen to know that Dr. Ainstree, the greatest living authority upon tropical
disease, is now in London. All remonstrance is useless, Holmes, I am going this
instant to fetch him." I turned resolutely to the door.
Never have I had such a
shock! In an instant, with a tiger- spring, the dying man had intercepted me. I
heard the sharp snap of a twisted key. The next moment he had staggered back to
his bed, exhausted and panting after his one tremendous outflame of energy.
"You won’t take
the key from me by force, Watson. I’ve got you, my friend. Here you are, and
here you will stay until I will otherwise. But I’ll humour you." (All this
in little gasps, with terrible struggles for breath between.) "You’ve only
my own good at heart. Of course I know that very well. You shall have your way,
but give me time to get my strength. Not now, Watson, not now. It’s four o’clock.
At six you can go."
"This is insanity,
Holmes."
"Only two hours,
Watson. I promise you will go at six. Are you content to wait?"
"l seem to have no
choice."
"None in the
world, Watson. Thank you, I need no help in arranging the clothes. You will
please keep your distance. Now, Watson, there is one other condition that I
would make. You will seek help, not from the man you mention, but from the one
that I choose."
"By all
means."
"The first three
sensible words that you have uttered since you entered this room, Watson. You
will find some books over there. I am somewhat exhausted; I wonder how a
battery feels when it pours electricity into a non-conductor? At six, Watson,
we resume our conversation."
But it was destined to
be resumed long before that hour, and in circumstances which gave me a shock
hardly second to that caused by his spring to the door. I had stood for some
minutes looking at the silent figure in the bed. His face was almost covered by
the clothes and he appeared to be asleep. Then, unable to settle down to
reading, I walked slowly round the room, examining the pictures of celebrated
criminals with which every wall was adorned. Finally, in my aimless
perambulation, I came to the mantelpiece. A litter of pipes, tobacco-pouches,
syringes, penknives, revolver-cartridges, and other debris was scattered over
it. In the midst of these was a small black and white ivory box with a sliding
lid. It was a neat little thing, and I had stretched out my hand to examine it
more closely when -- It was a dreadful cry that he gave -- a yell which might
have been heard down the street. My skin went cold and my hair bristled at that
horrible scream. As I turned I caught a glimpse of a con- vulsed face and
frantic eyes. I stood paralyzed, with the little box in my hand.
"Put it down!
Down, this instant, Watson -- this instant, I say!" His head sank back
upon the pillow and he gave a deep sigh of relief as I replaced the box upon
the mantelpiece. "I hate to have my things touched, Watson. You know that
I hate it. You fidget me beyond endurance. You, a doctor -- you are enough to
drive a patient into an asylum. Sit down, man, and let me have my rest!"
The incident left a
most unpleasant impression upon my mind. The violent and causeless excitement,
followed by this brutality of speech, so far removed from his usual suavity,
showed me how deep was the disorganization of his mind. Of all ruins, that of a
noble mind is the most deplorable. I sat in silent dejection until the
stipulated time had passed. He seemed to have been watching the clock as well
as I, for it was hardly six before he began to talk with the same feverish
animation as before.
"Now,
Watson," said he. "Have you any change in your pocket?"
"Yes."
"Any silver?"
"A good
deal."
"How many
half-crowns?"
"I have
five."
"Ah, too few! Too
few! How very unfortunate, Watson! However, such as they are you can put them
in your watchpocket. And all the rest of your money in your left trouserpocket.
Thank you. It will balance you so much better like that."
This was raving insanity.
He shuddered, and again made a sound between a cough and a sob.
"You will now
light the gas, Watson, but you will be very careful that not for one instant
shall it be more than half on. I implore you to be careful, Watson. Thank you,
that is excellent. No, you need not draw the blind. Now you will have the
kindness to place some letters and papers upon this table within my reach.
Thank you. Now some of that litter from the mantel- piece. Excellent, Watson!
There is a sugar-tongs there. Kindly raise that small ivory box with its
assistance. Place it here among the papers. Good! You can now go and fetch Mr.
Culverton Smith, of 13 Lower Burke Street."
To tell the truth, my
desire to fetch a doctor had somewhat weakened, for poor Holmes was so
obviously delirious that it seemed dangerous to leave him. However, he was as
eager now to consult the person named as he had been obstinate in refusing.
"I never heard the
name," said I.
"Possibly not, my
good Watson. It may surprise you to know that the man upon earth who is best
versed in this disease is not a medical man, but a planter. Mr. Culverton Smith
is a well- known resident of Sumatra, now visiting London. An outbreak of the
disease upon his plantation, which was distant from medical aid, caused him to
study it himself, with some rather far-reaching consequences. He is a very
methodical person, and I did not desire you to start before six, because I was
well aware that you would not find him in his study. If you could persuade him
to come here and give us the benefit of his unique experi- ence of this
disease, the investigation of which has been his dearest hobby, I cannot doubt
that he could help me."
I give Holmes’s remarks
as a consecutive whole and will not attempt to indicate how they were
interrupted by gaspings for breath and those clutchings of his hands which
indicated the pain from which he was suffering. His appearance had changed for
the worse during the few hours that I had been with him. Those hectic spots
were more pronounced, the eyes shone more brightly out of darker hollows, and a
cold sweat glimmered upon his brow. He still retained, however, the jaunty
gallantry of his speech. To the last gasp he would always be the master.
"You will tell him
exactly how you have left me," said he. "You will convey the very
impression which is in your own mind -- a dying man -- a dying and delirious
man. Indeed, I can- not think why the whole bed of the ocean is not one solid
mass of oysters, so prolific the creatures seem. Ah, I am wandering! Strange how
the brain controls the brain! What was I saying, Watson?"
"My directions for
Mr. Culverton Smith."
"Ah, yes, I
remember. My life depends upon it. Plead with him, Watson. There is no good
feeling between us. His nephew, Watson -- I had suspicions of foul play and I
allowed him to see it. The boy died horribly. He has a grudge against me. You
will soften him, Watson. Beg him, pray him, get him here by any means. He can
save me -- only he!"
"I will bring him
in a cab, if I have to carry him down to it."
"You will do
nothing of the sort. You will persuade him to come. And then you will return in
front of him. Make any excuse so as not to come with him. Don’t forget, Watson.
You won’t fail me. You never did fail me. No doubt there are natural enemies
which limit the increase of the creatures. You and I, Watson, we have done our
part. Shall the world, then, be overrun by oysters? No, no; horrible! You’ll
convey all that is in your mind."
I left him full of the
image of this magnificent intellect bab- bling like a foolish child. He had
handed me the key, and with a happy thought I took it with me lest he should
lock himself in. Mrs. Hudson was waiting, trembling and weeping, in the pas-
sage. Behind me as I passed from the flat I heard Holmes’s high, thin voice in
some delirious chant. Below, as I stood whistling for a cab, a man came on me
through the fog.
"How is Mr.
Holmes, sir?" he asked.
It was an old
acquaintance, Inspector Morton, of Scotland Yard, dressed in unofficial tweeds.
"He is very
ill," I answered.
He looked at me in a
most singular fashion. Had it not been too fiendish, I could have imagined that
the gleam of the fanlight showed exultation in his face.
"I heard some
rumour of it," said he.
The cab had driven up,
and I left him.
Lower Burke Street
proved to be a line of fine houses lying in the vague borderland between
Notting Hill and Kensington. The particular one at which my cabman pulled up
had an air of smug and demure respectability in its old-fashioned iron
railings, its massive folding-door, and its shining brasswork. All was in
keeping with a solemn butler who appeared framed in the pink radiance of a
tinted electric light behind him.
"Yes, Mr.
Culverton Smith is in. Dr. Watson! Very good, sir, I will take up your
card."
My humble name and
title did not appear to impress Mr. Culverton Smith. Through the half-open door
I heard a high, petulant, penetrating voice.
"Who is this
person? What does he want? Dear me, Staples, how often have I said that I am
not to be disturbed in my hours of study?"
There came a gentle
flow of soothing explanation from the butler.
"Well, I won’t see
him, Staples. I can’t have my work inter- rupted like this. I am not at home.
Say so. Tell him to come in the morning if he really must see me."
Again the gentle
murmur.
"Well, well, give
him that message. He can come in the morning, or he can stay away. My work must
not be hindered."
I thought of Holmes
tossing upon his bed of sickness and counting the minutes, perhaps, until I
could bring help to him. It was not a time to stand upon ceremony. His life
depended upon my promptness. Before the apologetic butler had delivered his
message I had pushed past him and was in the room.
With a shrill cry of
anger a man rose from a reclining chair beside the fire. I saw a great yellow
face, coarse-grained and greasy, with heavy, double-chin, and two sullen,
menacing gray eyes which glared at me from under tufted and sandy brows. A high
bald head had a small velvet smoking-cap poised coquett- ishly upon one side of
its pink curve. The skull was of enormous capacity, and yet as I looked down I
saw to my amazement that the figure of the man was small and frail, twisted in
the shoul- ders and back like one who has suffered from rickets in his
childhood.
"What’s
this?" he cried in a high, screaming voice. "What is the meaning of
this intrusion? Didn’t I send you word that I would see you to-morrow
morning?"
"I am sorry,"
said I, "but the matter cannot be delayed. Mr. Sherlock Holmes --"
The mention of my
friend’s name had an extraordinary effect upon the little man. The look of
anger passed in an instant from his face. His features became tense and alert.
"Have you come
from Holmes?" he asked.
"I have just left
him."
"What about
Holmes? How is he?"
"He is desperately
ill. That is why I have come."
The man motioned me to
a chair, and turned to resume his own. As he did so I caught a glimpse of his
face in the mirror over the mantelpiece. I could have sworn that it was set in
a malicious and abominable smile. Yet I persuaded myself that it must have been
some nervous contraction which I had surprised, for he turned to me an instant
later with genuine concern upon his features.
"I am sorry to hear
this," said he. "I only know Mr. Holmes through some business
dealings which we have had, but I have every respect for his talents and his
character. He is an amateur of crime, as I am of disease. For him the villain,
for me the microbe. There are my prisons," he continued, pointing to a row
of bottles and jars which stood upon a side table. "Among those gelatine
cultivations some of the very worst offenders in the world are now doing
time."
"It was on account
of your special knowledge that Mr. Holmes desired to see you. He has a high
opinion of you and thought that you were the one man in London who could help
him."
The little man started,
and the jaunty smoking-cap slid to the floor.
"Why?" he
asked. "Why should Mr. Holmes think that I could help him in his
trouble?"
"Because of your
knowledge of Eastern diseases."
"But why should he
think that this disease which he has contracted is Eastern?"
"Because, in some
professional inquiry, he has been working among Chinese sailors down in the
docks."
Mr. Culverton Smith
smiled pleasantly and picked up his smoking-cap.
"Oh, that’s it --
is it?" said he. "I trust the matter is not so grave as you suppose.
How long has he been ill?"
"About three
days."
"Is he
delirious?"
"Occasionally."
"Tut, tut! This
sounds serious. It would be inhuman not to answer his call. I very much resent
any interruption to my work, Dr. Watson, but this case is certainly
exceptional. I will come with you at once."
I remembered Holmes’s
injunction.
"I have another
appointment," said I.
"Very good. I will
go alone. I have a note of Mr. Holmes’s address. You can rely upon my being
there within half an hour at most."
It was with a sinking
heart that I reentered Holmes’s bedroom. For all that I knew the worst might
have happened in my absence. To my enormous relief, he had improved greatly in
the interval. His appearance was as ghastly as ever, but all trace of delirium
had left him and he spoke in a feeble voice, it is true, but with even more
than his usual crispness and lucidity.
"Well, did you see
him, Watson?"
"Yes; he is
coming."
"Admirable,
Watson! Admirable! You are the best of mes- sengers."
"He wished to
return with me."
"That would never
do, Watson. That would be obviously impossible. Did he ask what ailed me?"
"I told him about
the Chinese in the East End."
"Exactly! Well,
Watson, you have done all that a good friend could. You can now disappear from
the scene."
"I must wait and
hear his opinion, Holmes."
"Of course you
must. But I have reasons to suppose that this opinion would be very much more
frank and valuable if he imagines that we are alone. There is just room behind
the head of my bed, Watson."
"My dear
Holmes!"
"I fear there is
no alternative, Watson. The room does not lend itself to concealment, which is
as well, as it is the less likely to arouse suspicion. But just there, Watson,
I fancy that it could be done." Suddenly he sat up with a rigid intentness
upon his haggard face. "There are the wheels, Watson. Quick, man, if you
love me! And don’t budge, whatever happens -- whatever happens, do you hear?
Don’t speak! Don’t move! Just listen with all your ears." Then in an
instant his sudden access of strength departed, and his masterful, purposeful
talk droned away into the low, vague murmurings of a semi-dellrious man.
From the hiding-place
into which I had been so swiftly hustled I heard the footfalls upon the stair,
with the opening and the closing of the bedroom door. Then, to my surprise,
there came a long silence, broken only by the heavy breathings and gaspings of
the sick man. I could imagine that our visitor was standing by the bedside and
looking down at the sufferer. At last that strange hush was broken.
"Holmes!" he
cried. "Holmes!" in the insistent tone of one who awakens a sleeper.
"Can’t you hear me, Holmes?" There was a rustling, as if he had
shaken the sick man roughly by the shoulder.
"Is that you, Mr.
Smith?" Holmes whispered. "I hardly dared hope that you would
come."
The other laughed.
"I should imagine
not," he said. "And yet, you see, I am here. Coals of fire, Holmes --
coals of fire!"
"It is very good
of you -- very noble of you. I appreciate your special knowledge."
Our visitor sniggered.
"You do. You are,
fortunately, the only man in London who does. Do you know what is the matter
with you?"
"The same,"
said Holmes.
"Ah! You recognize
the symptoms?"
"Only too
well."
"Well, I shouldn’t
be surprised, Holmes. I shouldn’t be sur- prised if it were the same. A bad
lookout for you if it is. Poor Victor was a dead man on the fourth day -- a
strong, hearty young fellow. It was certainly, as you said, very surprising
that he should have contracted an out-of-the-way Asiatic disease in the heart
of London -- a disease, too, of which I had made such a very special study.
Singular coincidence, Holmes. Very smart of you to notice it, but rather
uncharitable to suggest that it was cause and effect."
"I knew that you
did it."
"Oh, you did, did
you? Well, you couldn’t prove it, anyhow. But what do you think of yourself
spreading reports about me like that, and then crawling to me for help the
moment you are in trouble? What sort of a game is that -- eh?"
I heard the rasping,
laboured breathing of the sick man. "Give me the water!" he gasped.
"You’re precious
near your end, my friend, but I don’t want you to go till I have had a word
with you. That’s why I give you water. There, don’t slop it about! That’s
right. Can you under- stand what I say?"
Holmes groaned.
"Do what you can
for me. Let bygones be bygones," he whispered. "I’ll put the words
out of my head -- I swear I will. Only cure me, and I’ll forget it."
"Forget
what?"
"Well, about
Victor Savage’s death. You as good as admitted just now that you had done it. I’ll
forget it."
"You can forget it
or remember it, just as you like. I don’t see you in the witness-box. Quite
another shaped box, my good Holmes, I assure you. It matters nothing to me that
you should know how my nephew died. It’s not him we are talking about. It’s
you."
"Yes, yes."
"The fellow who
came for me -- I’ve forgotten his name -- said that you contracted it down in
the East End among the sailors."
"I could only
account for it so."
"You are proud of
your brains, Holmes, are you not? Think yourself smart, don’t you? You came
across someone who was smarter this time. Now cast your mind back, Holmes. Can
you think of no other way you could have got this thing?"
"I can’t think. My
mind is gone. For heaven’s sake help me! "
"Yes, I will help
you. I’ll help you to understand just where you are and how you got there. I’d
like you to know before you die."
"Give me something
to ease my pain."
"Painful, is it?
Yes, the coolies used to do some squealing towards the end. Takes you as cramp,
I fancy."
"Yes, yes; it is
cramp."
"Well, you can
hear what I say, anyhow. Listen now! Can you remember any unusual incident in
your life just about the time your symptoms began?"
"No, no;
nothing."
"Think
again."
"I’m too ill to
think."
"Well, then, I’ll
help you. Did anything come by post?"
"By post?"
"A box by
chance?"
"I’m fainting -- I’m
gone!"
"Listen,
Holmes!" There was a sound as if he was shaking the dying man, and it was
all that I could do to hold myself quiet in my hiding-place. "You must
hear me. You shall hear me. Do you remember a box -- an ivory box? It came on
Wednesday. You opened it -- do you remember?"
"Yes, yes, I
opened it. There was a sharp spring inside it. Some joke --"
"It was no joke,
as you will find to your cost. You fool, you would have it and you have got it.
Who asked you to cross my path? If you had left me alone I would not have hurt
you."
"I remember,"
Holmes gasped. "The spring! It drew blood. This box -- this on the
table."
"The very one, by
George! And it may as well leave the room in my pocket. There goes your last
shred of evidence. But you have the truth now, Holmes, and you can die with the
knowledge that I killed you. You knew too much of the fate of Victor Savage, so
I have sent you to share it. You are very near your end, Holmes. I will sit
here and I will watch you die."
Holmes’s voice had sunk
to an almost inaudible whisper.
"What is
that?" said Smith. "Turn up the gas? Ah, the shadows begin to fall,
do they? Yes, I will turn it up, that I may see you the better." He
crossed the room and the light suddenly brightened. "Is there any other
little service that I can do you, my friend?"
"A match and a
cigarette."
I nearly called out in
my joy and my amazement. He was speaking in his natural voice -- a little weak,
perhaps, but the very voice I knew. There was a long pause, and I felt that
Culverton Smith was standing in silent amazement looking down at his companion.
"What’s the
meaning of this?" I heard him say at last in a dry, rasping tone.
"The best way of
successfully acting a part is to be it," said Holmes. "I give you my
word that for three days I have tasted neither food nor drink until you were
good enough to pour me out that glass of water. But it is the tobacco which I
find most irksome. Ah, here are some cigarettes." I heard the striking of
a match. "That is very much better. Halloa! halloa! Do I hear the step of
a friend?"
There were footfalls
outside, the door opened, and Inspector Morton appeared.
"All is in order
and this is your man," said Holmes.
The officer gave the
usual cautions.
"I arrest you on
the charge of the murder of one Victor Savage," he concluded.
"And you might add
of the attempted murder of one Sherlock Holmes," remarked my friend with a
chuckle. "To save an invalid trouble, Inspector, Mr. Culverton Smith was
good enough to give our signal by turning up the gas. By the way, the prisoner
has a small box in the right-hand pocket of his coat which it would be as well
to remove. Thank you. I would handle it gingerly if I were you. Put it down
here. It may play its part in the trial."
There was a sudden rush
and a scuffle, followed by the clash of iron and a cry of pain.
"You’ll only get
yourself hurt," said the inspector. "Stand still, will you?"
There was the click of the closing handcuffs.
"A nice
trap!" cried the high, snarling voice. "It will bring you into the
dock, Holmes, not me. He asked me to come here to cure him. I was sorry for him
and I came. Now he will pretend, no doubt, that I have said anything which he
may invent which will corroborate his insane suspicions. You can lie as you
like, Holmes. My word is always as good as yours."
"Good
heavens!" cried Holmes. "I had totally forgotten him. My dear Watson,
I owe you a thousand apologies. To think that I should have overlooked you! I
need not introduce you to Mr. Culverton Smith, since I understand that you met
somewhat earlier in the evening. Have you the cab below? I will follow you when
I am dressed, for I may be of some use at the station.
"I never needed it
more," said Holmes as he refreshed himself with a glass of claret and some
biscuits in the intervals of his toilet. "However, as you know, my habits
are irregular, and such a feat means less to me than to most men. It was very
essential that I should impress Mrs. Hudson with the reality of my condition, since
she was to convey it to you, and you in turn to him. You won’t be offended,
Watson? You will realize that among your many talents dissimulation finds no
place, and that if you had shared my secret you would never have been able to
impress Smith with the urgent necessity of his presence, which was the vital
point of the whole scheme. Knowing his vindictive nature, I was perfectly
certain that he would come to look upon his handiwork."
"But your
appearance, Holmes -- your ghastly face?"
"Three days of
absolute fast does not improve one’s beauty, Watson. For the rest, there is
nothing which a sponge may not cure. With vaseline upon one’s forehead,
belladonna in one’s eyes, rouge over the cheek-bones, and crusts of beeswax
round one’s lips, a very satisfying effect can be produced. Malingering is a
subject upon which I have sometimes thought of writing a monograph. A little
occasional talk about half-crowns, oysters-, or any other extraneous subject
produces a pleasing effect of delirium."
"But why would you
not let me near you, since there was in truth no infection?"
"Can you ask, my
dear Watson? Do you imagine that I have no respect for your medical talents?
Could I fancy that your astute judgment would pass a dying man who, however
weak, had no rise of pulse or temperature? At four yards, I could deceive you.
If I failed to do so, who would bring my Smith within my grasp? No, Watson, I
would not touch that box. You can just see if you look at it sideways where the
sharp spring like a viper’s tooth emerges as you open it. I dare say it was by
some such device that poor Savage, who stood between this monster and a
reversion, was done to death. My correspon- dence, however, is, as you know, a
varied one, and I am somewhat upon my guard against any packages which reach
me. It was clear to me, however, that by pretending that he had really
succeeded in his design I might surprise a con- fession. That pretence I have
carried out with the thoroughness of the true artist. Thank you, Watson, you
must help me on with my coat. When we have finished at the police-station I
think that something nutritious at Simpson’s would not be out of place."
BUT why Turkish?"
asked Mr. Sherlock Holmes, gazing fix- edly at my boots. I was reclining in a
cane-backed chair at the moment, and my protruded feet had attracted his
ever-active attention.
"English," I
answered in some surprise. "I got them at Latimer’s, in Oxford
Street."
Holmes smiled with an
expression of weary patience.
"The bath!"
he said; "the bath! Why the relaxing and expen- sive Turkish rather than
the invigorating home-made article?"
"Because for the
last few days I have been feeling rheumatic and old. A Turkish bath is what we
call an alterative in medicine -- a fresh starting-point, a cleanser of the
system.
"By the way,
Holmes," I added, "I have no doubt the connection between my boots
and a Turkish bath is a perfectly self-evident one to a logical mind, and yet I
should be obliged to you if you would indicate it."
"The train of
reasoning is not very obscure, Watson," said Holmes with a mischievous
twinkle. "It belongs to the same elementary class of deduction which I
should illustrate if I were to ask you who shared your cab in your drive this
morning."
"I don’t admit
that a fresh illustration is an explanation," said I with some asperity.
"Bravo, Watson! A
very dignified and logical remonstrance. Let me see, what were the points? Take
the last one first -- the cab. You observe that you have some splashes on the
left sleeve and shoulder of your coat. Had you sat in the centre of a hansom
you would probably have had no splashes, and if you had they would certainly
have been symmetrical. Therefore it is clear that you sat at the side.
Therefore it is equally clear that you had a companion."
"That is very
evident."
"Absurdly
commonplace, is it not?"
"But the boots and
the bath?"
"Equally childish.
You are in the habit of doing up your boots in a certain way. I see them on
this occasion fastened with an elaborate double bow, which is not your usual
method of tying them. You have, therefore, had them off. Who has tied them? A
bootmaker -- or the boy at the bath. It is unlikely that it is the bootmaker,
since your boots are nearly new. Well, what re- mains? The bath. Absurd, is it
not? But, for all that, the Turkish bath has served a purpose."
"What is
that?"
"You say that you
have had it because you need a change. Let me suggest that you take one. How
would Lausanne do, my dear Watson -- first-class tickets and all expenses paid
on a princely scale?"
"Splendid! But
why?"
Holmes leaned back in
his armchair and took his notebook from his pocket.
"One of the most
dangerous classes in the world," said he, "is the drifting and
friendless woman. She is the most harmless and often the most useful of
mortals, but she is the inevitable inciter of crime in others. She is helpless.
She is migratory. She has sufficient means to take her from country to country
and from hotel to hotel. She is lost, as often as not, in a maze of obscure
pensions and boarding-houses. She is a stray chicken in a world of foxes. When
she is gobbled up she is hardly missed. I much fear that some evil has come to
the Lady Frances Carfax."
I was relieved at this
sudden descent from the general to the particular. Holmes consulted his notes.
"Lady
Frances," he continued, "is the sole survivor of the direct family of
the late Earl of Rufton. The estates went, as you may remember, in the male
line. She was left with limited means, but with some very remarkable old
Spanish jewellery of silver and curiously cut diamonds to which she was fondly
attached -- too attached, for she refused to leave them with her banker and
always carried them about with her. A rather pathetic figure, the Lady Frances,
a beautiful woman, still in fresh mid- dle age, and yet, by a strange chance,
the last derelict of what only twenty years ago was a goodly fleet."
"What has happened
to her, then?"
"Ah, what has
happened to the Lady Frances? Is she alive or dead? There is our problem. She
is a lady of precise habits, and for four years it has been her invariable
custom to write every second week to Miss Dobney, her old governess, who has
long retired and lives in Camberwell. It is this Miss Dobney who has consulted
me. Nearly five weeks have passed without a word. The last letter was from the
Hotel National at Lausanne. Lady Frances seems to have left there and given no
address. The family are anxious, and as they are exceedingly wealthy no sum
wlll be spared if we can clear the matter up."
"Is Miss Dobney
the only source of information? Surely she had other correspondents?"
"There is one
correspondent who is a sure draw, Watson. That is the bank. Single ladies must
live, and their passbooks are compressed diaries. She banks at Silvester’s. I
have glanced over her account. The last check but one paid her bill at Lausanne
but it was a large one and probably left her with cash in hand. Only one check
has been drawn since."
"To whom, and
where?"
"To Miss Marie
Devine. There is nothing to show where the check was drawn. It was cashed at
the Credit Lyonnais at Montpellier less than three weeks ago. The sum was fifty
pounds."
"And who is Miss
Marie Devine?"
"That also I have
been able to discover. Miss Marie Devine was the maid of Lady Frances Carfax.
Why she should have paid her this check we have not yet determined. I have no
doubt, however, that your researches will soon clear the matter up."
"My
researches!"
"Hence the
health-giving expedition to Lausanne. You know that I cannot possibly leave
London while old Abrahams is in such mortal terror of his life. Besides, on
general principles it is best that I should not leave the country. Scotland
Yard feels lonely without me, and it causes an unhealthy excitement among the
criminal classes. Go, then, my dear Watson, and if my humble counsel can ever
be valued at so extravagant a rate as two pence a word, it waits your disposal
night and day at the end of the Continental wire."
Two days later found me
at the Hotel National at Lausanne, where I received every courtesy at the hands
of M. Moser, the well-known manager. Lady Frances, as he informed me, had
stayed there for several weeks. She had been much liked by all who met her. Her
age was not more than forty. She was still handsome and bore every sign of
having in her youth been a very lovely woman. M. Moser knew nothing of any valuable
jewellery, but it had been remarked by the servants that the heavy trunk in the
lady’s bedroom was always scrupulously locked. Marie Devine, the maid, was as
popular as her mistress. She was actually engaged to one of the head waiters in
the hotel, and there was no difficulty in getting her address. It was 11 Rue de
Trajan, Montpellier. All this I jotted down and felt that Holmes himself could
not have been more adroit in collecting his facts.
Only one corner still
remained in the shadow. No light which I possessed could clear up the cause for
the lady’s sudden depar- ture. She was very happy at Lausanne. There was every
reason to believe that she intended to remain for the season in her luxurious
rooms overlooking the lake. And yet she had left at a single day’s notice,
which involved her in the useless payment of a week’s rent. Only Jules Vibart,
the lover of the maid, had any suggestion to offer. He connected the sudden
departure with the visit to the hotel a day or two before of a tall, dark,
bearded man. "Un sauvage -- un veritable sauvage!" cried Jules
Vibart. The man had rooms somewhere in the town. He had been seen talking
earnestly to Madame on the promenade by the lake. Then he had called. She had
refused to see him. He was English, but of his name there was no record. Madame
had left the place immediately afterwards. Jules Vibart, and, what was of more
importance, Jules Vibart’s sweetheart, thought that this call and this
departure were cause and effect. Only one thing Jules would not discuss. That
was the reason why Marie had left her mis- tress. Of that he could or would say
nothing. If I wished to know, I must go to Montpellier and ask her.
So ended the first
chapter of my inquiry. The second was devoted to the place which Lady Frances
Carfax had sought when she left Lausanne. Concerning this there had been some
secrecy, which confirmed the idea that she had gone with the intention of
throwing someone off her track. Otherwise why should not her luggage have been
openly labelled for Baden? Both she and it reached the Rhenish spa by some
circuitous route. Thus much I gathered from the manager of Cook’s local office.
So to Baden I went, after dispatching to Holmes an account of all my
proceedings and receiving in reply a telegram of half-humorous commendation.
At Baden the track was
not difficult to follow. Lady Frances had stayed at the Englischer Hof for a
fortnight. While there she had made the acquaintance of a Dr. Shlessinger and
his wife, a missionary from South America. Like most lonely ladies, Lady
Frances found her comfort and occupation in religion. Dr. Shles- singer’s
remarkable personality, his whole-hearted devotion, and the fact that he was
recovering from a disease contracted in the exercise of his apostolic duties
affected her deeply. She had helped Mrs. Shlessinger in the nursing of the
convalescent saint. He spent his day, as the manager described it to me, upon a
lounge-chair on the veranda, with an attendant lady upon either side of him. He
was preparing a map of the Holy Land, with special reference to the kingdom of
the Midianites, upon which he was writing a monograph. Finally, having improved
much in health, he and his wife had returned to London, and Lady Frances had
started thither in their company. This was just three weeks before, and the
manager had heard nothing since. As to the maid, Marie, she had gone off some
days beforehand in floods of tears, after informing the other maids that she
was leaving service forever. Dr. Shlessinger had paid the bill of the whole
party before his departure.
"By the way,"
said the landlord in conclusion, "you are not the only friend of Lady
Frances Carfax who is inquiring after her just now. Only a week or so ago we
had a man here upon the same errand."
"Did he give a
name?" I asked.
"None; but he was
an Englishman, though of an unusual type."
"A savage?"
said I, linking my facts after the fashion of my illustrious friend.
"Exactly. That
describes him very well. He is a bulky, bearded, sunburned fellow, who looks as
if he would be more at home in a farmers’ inn than in a fashionable hotel. A
hard, fierce man, I should think, and one whom I should be sorry to
offend."
Already the mystery
began to define itself, as figures grow clearer with the lifting of a fog. Here
was this good and pious lady pursued from place to place by a sinister and
unrelenting figure. She feared him, or she would not have fled from Lausanne.
He had still followed. Sooner or later he would overtake her. Had he already
overtaken her? Was that the secret of her contin- ued silence? Could the good
people who were her companions not screen her from his violence or his
blackmail? What horrible purpose, what deep design, lay behind this long
pursuit? There was the problem which I had to solve.
To Holmes I wrote
showing how rapidly and surely I had got down to the roots of the matter. In
reply I had a telegram asking for a description of Dr. Shlessinger’s left ear.
Holmes’s ideas of humour are strange and occasionally offensive, so I took no
notice of his ill-timed jest -- indeed, I had already reached Mont- pellier in
my pursuit of the maid, Marie, before his message came.
I had no difficulty in
finding the ex-servant and in learning all that she could tell me. She was a
devoted creature, who had only left her mistress because she was sure that she
was in good hands, and because her own approaching marriage made a sepa- ration
inevitable in any case. Her mistress had, as she confessed with distress, shown
some irritability of temper towards her during their stay in Baden, and had
even questioned her once as if she had suspicions of her honesty, and this had
made the parting easier than it would otherwise have been. Lady Frances had
given her fifty pounds as a wedding-present. Like me, Marie viewed with deep
distrust the stranger who had driven her mis- tress from Lausanne. With her own
eyes she had seen him seize the lady’s wrist with great violence on the public
promenade by the lake. He was a fierce and terrible man. She believed that it
was out of dread of him that Lady Frances had accepted the escort of the
Shlessingers to London. She had never spoken to Marie about it, but many little
signs had convinced the maid that her mistress lived in a state of continual
nervous apprehension. So far she had got in her narrative, when suddenly she
sprang from her chair and her face was convulsed with surprise and fear.
"See!" she cried. "The miscreant follows still! There is the
very man of whom I speak."
Through the open
sitting-room window I saw a huge, swarthy man with a bristling black beard
walking slowly down the centre of the street and staring eagerly at the numbers
of the houses. It was clear that, like myself, he was on the track of the maid.
Acting upon the impulse of the moment, I rushed out and accosted him.
"You are an
Englishman," I said.
"What if I
am?" he asked with a most villainous scowl.
"May I ask what
your name is?"
"No, you may
not," said he with decision.
The situation was
awkward, but the most direct way is often the best.
"Where is the Lady
Frances Carfax?" I asked.
He stared at me in
amazement.
"What have you
done with her? Why have you pursued her? I insist upon an answer!" said I.
The fellow gave a
bellow of anger and sprang upon me like a tiger. I have held my own in many a
struggle, but the man had a grip of iron and the fury of a fiend. His hand was
on my throat and my senses were nearly gone before an unshaven French ouvrier
in a blue blouse darted out from a cabaret opposite, with a cudgel in his hand,
and struck my assailant a sharp crack over the forearm, which made him leave go
his hold. He stood for an instant fuming with rage and uncertain whether he
should not renew his attack. Then, with a snarl of anger, he left me and
entered the cottage from which I had just come. I turned to thank my preserver,
who stood beside me in the roadway.
"Well,
Watson," said he, "a very pretty hash you have made of it! I rather
think you had better come back with me to London by the night express."
An hour afterwards,
Sherlock Holmes, in his usual garb and style, was seated in my private room at
the hotel. His explana- tion of his sudden and opportune appearance was
simplicity itself, for, finding that he could get away from London, he
determined to head me off at the next obvious point of my travels. In the
disguise of a workingman he had sat in the cabaret waiting for my appearance.
"And a singularly
consistent investigation you have made, my dear Watson," said he. "I
cannot at the moment recall any possible blunder which you have omitted. The
total effect of your proceeding has been to give the alarm everywhere and yet
to discover nothing."
"Perhaps you would
have done no better," I answered bitterly.
"There is no ’perhaps’
about it. I have done better. Here is the Hon. Philip Green, who is a
fellow-lodger with you in this hotel, and we may find him the starting-point
for a more successful investigation."
A card had come up on a
salver, and it was followed by the same bearded ruffian who had attacked me in
the street. He started when he saw me.
"What is this, Mr.
Holmes?" he asked. "I had your note and I have come. But what has
this man to do with the matter?"
"This is my old
friend and associate, Dr. Watson, who is helping us in this affair."
The stranger held out a
huge, sunburned hand, with a few words of apology.
"I hope I didn’t
harm you. When you accused me of hurting her I lost my grip of myself. Indeed,
I’m not responsible in these days. My nerves are like live wires. But this
situation is beyond me. What I want to know, in the first place, Mr. Holmes,
is, how in the world you came to hear of my existence at all."
"I am in touch
with Miss Dobney, Lady Frances’s governess."
"Old Susan Dobney
with the mob cap! I remember her well."
"And she remembers
you. It was in the days before -- before you found it better to go to South
Africa."
"Ah, I see you
know my whole story. I need hide nothing from you. I swear to you, Mr. Holmes,
that there never was in this world a man who loved a woman with a more
wholehearted love than I had for Frances. I was a wild youngster, I know -- not
worse than others of my class. But her mind was pure as snow. She could not
bear a shadow of coarseness. So, when she came to hear of things that I had
done, she would bave no more to say to me. And yet she loved me -- that is the
wonder of it! -- loved me well enough to remain single all her sainted days
just for my sake alone. When the years had passed and I had made my money at
Barberton I thought perhaps I could seek her out and soften her. I had heard
that she was still unmarried. I found her at Lausanne and tried all I knew. She
weakened, I think, but her will was strong, and when next I called she had left
the town. I traced her to Baden, and then after a time heard that her maid was
here. I’m a rough fellow, fresh from a rough life, and when Dr. Watson spoke to
me as he did I lost hold of myself for a moment. But for God’s sake tell me
what has become of the Lady Frances."
"That is for us to
find out," said Sherlock Holmes with peculiar gravity. "What is your
London address, Mr. Green?"
"The Langham Hotel
will find me."
"Then may I
recommend that you return there and be on hand in case I should want you? I
have no desire to encourage false hopes, but you may rest assured that all that
can be done will be done for the safety of Lady Frances. I can say no more for
the instant. I will leave you this card so that you may be able to keep in
touch with us. Now, Watson, if you will pack your bag I will cable to Mrs.
Hudson to make one of her best efforts for two hungry travellers at 7:30
to-morrow."
A telegram was awaiting
us when we reached our Baker Street rooms, which Holmes read with an
exclamation of interest and threw across to me. "Jagged or torn," was
the message, and the place of origin, Baden.
"What is
this?" I asked.
"It is
everything," Holmes answered. "You may remember my seemingly
irrelevant question as to this clerical gentleman’s left ear. You did not
answer it."
"I had left Baden
and could not inquire."
"Exactly. For this
reason I sent a duplicate to the manager of the Englischer Hof, whose answer
lies here."
"What does it
show?"
"It shows, my dear
Watson, that we are dealing with an exceptionally astute and dangerous man. The
Rev. Dr. Shlessinger, missionary from South America, is none other than Holy
Peters, one of the most unscrupulous rascals that Australia has ever evolved --
and for a young country it has turned out some very finished types. His
particular specialty is the beguiling of lonely ladies by playing upon their
religious feelings, and his so-called wife, an Englishwoman named Fraser, is a
worthy helpmate. The nature of his tactics suggested his identity to me, and
this physical peculiarity -- he was badly bitten in a saloon-fight at Adelaide
in ’89 -- confirmed my suspicion. This poor lady is in the hands of a most
infernal couple, who will stick at nothing, Watson. That she is already dead is
a very likely supposition. If not, she is undoubtedly in some sort of
confinement and unable to write to Miss Dobney or her other friends. It is
always possible that she never reached London, or that she has passed through
it, but the former is improbable, as, with their system of registration, it is
not easy for foreigners to play tricks with the Continental police; and the
latter is also unlikely, as these rogues could not hope to find any other place
where it would be as easy to keep a person under restraint. All my instincts
tell me that she is in London, but as we have at present no possible means of
telling where, we can only take the obvious steps, eat our dinner, and possess
our souls in patience. Later in the evening I will stroll down and have a word
with friend Lestrade at Scotland Yard."
But neither the
official police nor Holmes’s own small but very efficient organization sufficed
to clear away the mystery. Amid the crowded millions of London the three
persons we sought were as completely obliterated as if they had never lived.
Advertisements were tried, and failed. Clues were followed, and led to nothing.
Every criminal resort which Shlessinger might frequent was drawn in vain. His
old associates were watched but they kept clear of him. And then suddenly,
after a week of helpless suspense, there came a flash of light. A silver-and-
brilliant pendant of old Spanish design had been pawned at Bovington’s, in
Westminster Road. The pawner was a large clean-shaven man of clerical
appearance. His name and address were demonstrably false. The ear had escaped
notice, but the description was surely that of Shlessinger.
Three times had our
bearded friend from the Langham called for news -- the third time within an
hour of this fresh develop- ment. His clothes were getting looser on his great
body. He seemed to be wilting away in his anxiety. "If you will only give
me something to do!" was his constant wail. At last Holmes could oblige
him.
"He has begun to
pawn the jewels. We should get him now."
"But does this
mean that any harm has befallen the Lady Frances?"
Holmes shook his head
very gravely.
"Supposing that
they have held her prisoner up to now, it is clear that they cannot let her
loose without their own destruction. We must prepare for the worst."
"What can I
do?"
"These people do
not know you by sight?"
"No."
"It is possible
that he will go to some other pawnbroker in the future. In that case, we must
begin again. On the other hand, he has had a fair price and no questions asked,
so if he is in need of ready-money he will probably come back to Bovington’s. I
will give you a note to them, and they will let you wait in the shop. If the
fellow comes you will follow him home. But no indiscretion and, above all, no
violence. I put you on your honour that you will take no step without my
knowledge and consent."
For two days the Hon.
Philip Green (he was, I may mention the son of the famous admiral of that name
who commanded the Sea of Azof fleet in the Crimean War) brought us no news. On
the evening of the third he rushed into our sitting-room, pale, trembling, with
every muscle of his powerful frame quivering with excitement.
"We have him! We
have him!" he cried.
He was incoherent in
his agitation. Holmes soothed him with a few words and thrust him into an
armchair.
"Come, now, give
us the order of events," said he.
"She came only an
hour ago. It was the wife, this time, but the pendant she brought was the
fellow of the other. She is a tall, pale woman, with ferret eyes."
"That is the
lady," said Holmes.
"She left the
office and I followed her. She walked up the Kennington Road, and I kept behind
her. Presently she went into a shop. Mr. Holmes, it was an undertaker’s."
My companion started.
"Well?" he asked in that vibrant voice which told of the fiery soul
behind the cold gray face.
"She was talking
to the woman behind the counter. I entered as well. ’It is late,’ I heard her
say, or words to that effect. The woman was excusing herself. ’It should be
there before now,’ she answered. ’It took longer, being out of the ordinary.’
They both stopped and looked at me, so I asked some question and then left the
shop."
"You did
excellently well. What happened next?"
"The woman came
out, but I had hid myself in a doorway. Her suspicions had been aroused, I
think, for she looked round her. Then she called a cab and got in. I was lucky
enough to get another and so to follow her. She got down at last at No. 36
Poultney Square, Brixton. I drove past, left my cab at the corner of the
square, and watched the house."
"Did you see
anyone?"
"The windows were
all in darkness save one on the lower floor. The blind was down, and I could
not see in. I was standing there, wondering what I should do next, when a cov-
ered van drove up with two men in it. They descended, took something out of the
van, and carried it up the steps to the hall door. Mr. Holmes, it was a
coffin."
"Ah!"
"For an instant I
was on the point of rushing in. The door had been opened to admit the men and
their burden. It was the woman who had opened it. But as I stood there she
caught a glimpse of me, and I think that she recognized me. I saw her start, and
she hastily closed the door. I remembered my promise to you, and here I
am."
"You have done
excellent work," said Holmes, scribbling a few words upon a half-sheet of
paper. "We can do nothing legal without a warrant, and you can serve the
cause best by taking this note down to the authorities and getting one. There
may be some difficulty, but I should think that the sale of the jewellery
should be sufficient. Lestrade will see to all details."
"But they may
murder her in the meanwhile. What could the coffin mean, and for whom could it
be but for her?"
"We will do all
that can be done, Mr. Green. Not a moment will be lost. Leave it in our hands.
Now, Watson," he added as our client hurried away, "he will set the
regular forces on the move. We are, as usual, the irregulars, and we must take
our own line of action. The situation strikes me as so desperate that the most
extreme measures are justified. Not a moment is to be lost in getting to
Poultney Square.
"Let us try to
reconstruct the situation," said he as we drove swiftly past the Houses of
Parliament and over Westminster Bridge. "These villains have coaxed this
unhappy lady to Lon- don, after first alienating her from her faithful maid. If
she has written any letters they have been intercepted. Through some
confederate they have engaged a furnished house. Once inside it, they have made
her a prisoner, and they have become possessed of the valuable jewellery which
has been their object from the first. Already they have begun to sell part of
it, which seems safe enough to them, since they have no reason to think that
anyone is interested in the lady’s fate. When she is released she will, of
course, denounce them. Therefore, she must not be released. But they cannot
keep her under lock and key forever. So murder is their only solution."
"That seems very
clear."
"Now we will take
another line of reasoning. When you follow two separate chains of thought,
Watson, you will find some point of intersection which should approximate to
the truth. We will start now, not from the lady but from the coffin and argue
backward. That incident proves, I fear, beyond all doubt that the lady is dead.
It points also to an orthodox burial with proper accompaniment of medical
certificate and official sanc- tion. Had the lady been obviously murdered, they
would have buried her in a hole in the back garden. But here all is open and
regular. What does that mean? Surely that they have done her to death in some
way which has deceived the doctor and simulated a natural end -- poisoning, perhaps.
And yet how strange that they should ever let a doctor approach her unless he
were a confeder- ate, which is hardly a credible proposition."
"Could they have
forged a medical certificate?"
"Dangerous,
Watson, very dangerous. No, I hardly see them doing that. Pull up, cabby! This
is evidently the undertaker’s, for we have just passed the pawnbroker’s. Would
you go in, Wat- son? Your appearance inspires confidence. Ask what hour the
Poultney Square funeral takes place to-morrow."
The woman in the shop
answered me without hesitation that it was to be at eight o’clock in the
morning. "You see, Watson, no mystery; everything aboveboard! In some way
the legal forms have undoubtedly been complied with, and they think that they
have little to fear. Well, there’s nothing for it now but a direct frontal
attack. Are you armed?"
"My stick!"
"Well, well, we
shall be strong enough. ’Thrice is he armed who hath his quarrel just.’ We
simply can’t afford to wait for the police or to keep within the four corners
of the law. You can drive off, cabby. Now, Watson, we’ll just take our luck to-
gether, as we have occasionally done in the past."
He had rung loudly at
the door of a great dark house in the centre of Poultney Square. It was opened
immediately, and the figure of a tall woman was outlined against the dim-lit
hall.
"Well, what do you
want?" she asked sharply, peering at us through the darkness.
"I want to speak
to Dr. Shlessinger," said Holmes.
"There is no such
person here," she answered, and tried to close the door, but Holmes had
jammed it with his foot.
"Well, I want to
see the man who lives here, whatever he may call himself," said Holmes
firmly.
She hesitated. Then she
threw open the door. "Well, come in!" said she. "My husband is
not afraid to face any man in the world." She closed the door behind us
and showed us into a sitting-room on the right side of the hall, turning up the
gas as she left us. "Mr. Peters will be with you in an instant," she
said.
Her words were
literally true, for we had hardly time to look around the dusty and moth-eaten
apartment in which we found ourselves before the door opened and a big,
clean-shaven bald- headed man stepped lightly into the room. He had a large red
face, with pendulous cheeks, and a general air of superficial benevolence which
was marred by a cruel, vicious mouth.
"There is surely
some mistake here, gentlemen," he said in an unctuous,
make-everything-easy voice. "I fancy that you have been misdirected.
Possibly if you tried farther down the street --"
"That will do; we
have no time to waste," said my compan- ion firmly. "You are Henry
Peters, of Adelaide, late the Rev. Dr. Shlessinger, of Baden and South America.
I am as sure of that as that my own name is Sherlock Holmes."
Peters, as I will now
call him, started and stared hard at his formidable pursuer. "I guess your
name does not frighten me, Mr. Holmes," said he coolly. "When a man’s
conscience is easy you can’t rattle him. What is your business in my
house?"
"I want to know
what you have done with the Lady Frances Carfax, whom you brought away with you
from Baden."
"I’d be very glad
if you could tell me where that lady may be," Peters answered coolly.
"I’ve a bill against her for nearly a hundred pounds, and nothing to show
for it but a couple of trumpery pendants that the dealer would hardly look at.
She attached herself to Mrs. Peters and me at Baden -- it is a fact that I was
using another name at the time -- and she stuck on to us until we came to
London. I paid her bill and her ticket. Once in London, she gave us the slip,
and, as I say, left these out-of-date jewels to pay her bills. You find her,
Mr. Holmes, and I’m your debtor."
"I mean to find
her," said Sherlock Holmes. "I’m going through this house till I do
find her."
"Where is your
warrant?"
Holmes half drew a
revolver from his pocket. "This will have to serve till a better one
comes."
"Why, you are a
common burglar."
"So you might
describe me," said Holmes cheerfully. "My companion is also a
dangerous ruffian. And together we are going through your house."
Our opponent opened the
door.
"Fetch a
policeman, Annie!" said he. There was a whisk of feminine skirts down the
passage, and the hall door was opened and shut.
"Our time is
limited, Watson," said Holmes. "If you try to stop us, Peters, you
will most certainly get hurt. Where is that coffin which was brought into your
house?"
"What do you want
with the coffin? It is in use. There is a body in it."
"I must see that
body."
"Never with my
consent."
"Then without
it." With a quick movement Holmes pushed the fellow to one side and passed
into the hall. A door half opened stood immediately before us. We entered. It
was the dining-room. On the table, under a half-lit chandelier, the coffin was
lying. Holmes turned up the gas and raised the lid. Deep down in the recesses
of the coffin lay an emaciated figure. The glare from the lights above beat
down upon an aged and withered face. By no possible process of cruelty,
starvation, or disease could this worn-out wreck be the still beautiful Lady
Frances. Holmes’s face showed his amazement, and also his relief.
"Thank God!"
he muttered. "It’s someone else."
"Ah, you’ve
blundered badly for once, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said Peters, who had
followed us into the room.
"Who is this dead
woman?"
"Well, if you
really must know, she is an old nurse of my wife’s, Rose Spender by name, whom
we found in the Brixton Workhouse Infirmary. We brought her round here, called
in Dr. Horsom, of 13 Firbank Villas -- mind you take the address, Mr. Holmes --
and had her carefully tended, as Christian folk should. On the third day she
died -- certificate says senile decay -- but that’s only the doctor’s opinion,
and of course you know better. We ordered her funeral to be carried out by
Stimson and Co., of the Kennington Road, who will bury her at eight o’clock to-
morrow morning. Can you pick any hole in that, Mr. Holmes? You’ve made a silly
blunder, and you may as well own up to it. I’d give something for a photograph
of your gaping, staring face when you pulled aside that lid expecting to see
the Lady Frances Carfax and only found a poor old woman of ninety."
Holmes’s expression was
as impassive as ever under the jeers of his antagonist, but his clenched hands
betrayed his acute annoyance.
"I am going
through your house," said he.
"Are you,
though!" cried Peters as a woman’s voice and heavy steps sounded in the
passage. "We’ll soon see about that. This way, officers, if you please.
These men have forced their way into my house, and I cannot get rid of them. Help
me to put them out."
A sergeant and a
constable stood in the doorway. Holmes drew his card from his case.
"This is my name
and address. This is my friend, Dr. Watson."
"Bless you, sir,
we know you very well," said the sergeant, "but you can’t stay here
without a warrant."
"Of course not. I
quite understand that."
"Arrest him!"
cried Peters.
"We know where to
lay our hands on this gentleman if he is wanted," said the sergeant
majestically, "but you’ll have to go, Mr. Holmes."
"Yes, Watson, we
shall have to go."
A minute later we were
in the street once more. Holmes was as cool as ever, but I was hot with anger
and humiliation. The sergeant had followed us.
"Sorry, Mr.
Holmes, but that’s the law."
"Exactly,
Sergeant, you could not do otherwise."
"I expect there
was good reason for your presence there. If there is anything I can do --"
"It’s a missing
lady, Sergeant, and we think she is in that house. I expect a warrant
presently."
"Then I’ll keep my
eye on the parties, Mr. Holmes. If any- thing comes along, I will surely let
you know."
It was only nine o’clock,
and we were off full cry upon the trail at once. First we drove to Brixton
Workhouse Infirmary, where we found that it was indeed the truth that a
charitable couple had called-some days before, that they had claimed an
imbecile old woman as a former servant, and that they had obtained permission
to take her away with them. No surprise was expressed at the news that she had
since died.
The doctor was our next
goal. He had been called in, had found the woman dying of pure senility, had
actually seen her pass away, and had signed the certificate in due form.
"I assure you that everything was perfectly normal and there was no room
for foul play in the matter," said he. Nothing in the house had struck him
as suspicious save that for people of their class it was remarkable that they
should have no servant. So far and no farther went the doctor.
Finally we found our
way to Scotland Yard. There had been difficulties of procedure in regard to the
warrant. Some delay was inevitable. The magistrate’s signature might not be
obtained until next morning. If Holmes would call about nine he could go down
with Lestrade and see it acted upon. So ended the day, save that near midnight
our friend, the sergeant, called to say that he had seen flickering lights here
and there in the windows of the great dark house, but that no one had left it
and none had entered. We could but pray for patience and wait for the morrow.
Sherlock Holmes was too
irritable for conversation and too restless for sleep. I left him smoking hard,
with his heavy, dark brows knotted together, and his long, nervous fingers
tapping upon the arms of his chair, as he turned over in his mind every
possible solution of the mystery. Several times in the course of the night I
heard him prowling about the house. Finally, just after I had been called in
the morning, he rushed into my room. He was in his dressing-gown, but his pale,
hollow-eyed face told me that his night had been a sleepless one.
"What time was the
funeral? Eight, was it not?" he asked eagerly. "Well, it is 7:20 now.
Good heavens, Watson, what has become of any brains that God has given me?
Quick, man, quick! It’s life or death -- a hundred chances on death to one on life.
I’ll never forgive myself, never, if we are too late!"
Five minutes had not
passed before we were flying in a hansom down Baker Street. But even so it was
twenty-five to eight as we passed Big Ben, and eight struck as we tore down the
Brixton Road. But others were late as well as we. Ten minutes after the hour
the hearse was still standing at the door of the house, and even as our foaming
horse came to a halt the coffin, supported by three men, appeared on the
threshold. Holmes darted forward and barred their way.
"Take it
back!" he cried, laying his hand on the breast of the foremost. "Take
it back this instant!"
"What the devil do
you mean? Once again I ask you, where is your warrant?" shouted the
furious Peters, his big red face glaring over the farther erid of the coffin.
"The warrant is on
its way. This coffin shall remain in the house until it comes."
The authority in Holmes’s
voice had its effect upon the bear- ers. Peters had suddenly vanished into the
house, and they obeyed these new orders. "Quick, Watson, quick! Here is a
screw-driver!" he shouted as the coffin was replaced upon the table.
"Here’s one for you, my man! A sovereign if the lid comes off in a minute!
Ask no questions -- work away! That’s good! Another! And another! Now pull all
together! It’s giving! It’s giving! Ah, that does it at last."
With a united effort we
tore off the coffin-lid. As we did so there came from the inside a stupefying
and overpowering smell of chloroform. A body lay within, its head all wreathed
in cotton-wool, which had been soaked in the narcotic. Holmes plucked it off
and disclosed the statuesque face of a hand- some and spiritual woman of middle
age. In an instant he had passed his arm round the figure and raised her to a
sitting position.
"Is she gone,
Watson? Is there a spark left? Surely we are not too late!"
For half an hour it
seemed that we were. What with actual suffocation, and what with the poisonous
fumes of the chloro- form, the Lady Frances seemed to have passed the last
point of recall. And then, at last, with artificial respiration, with injected
ether, with every device that science could suggest, some flutter of life, some
quiver of the eyelids, some dimming of a mirror, spoke of the slowly returning
life. A cab had driven up, and Holmes, parting the blind, looked out at it.
"Here is Lestrade with his warrant," said he. "He will find that
his birds have flown. And here," he added as a heavy step hurried along
the passage, "is someone who has a better right to nurse this lady than we
have. Good morning, Mr. Green; I think that the sooner we can move the Lady
Frances the better. Meanwhile, the funeral may proceed, and the poor old woman
who still lies in that coffin may go to her last resting-place alone."
"Should you care
to add the case to your annals, my dear Watson," said Holmes that evening,
"it can only be as an example of that temporary eclipse to which even the
best-balanced mind may be exposed. Such slips are common to all mortals, and
the greatest is he who can recognize and repair them. To this modified credit I
may, perhaps, make some claim. My night was haunted by the thought that
somewhere a clue, a strange sen- tence, a curious observation, had come under
my notice and had been too easily dismissed. Then, suddenly, in the gray of the
morning, the words came back to me. It was the remark of the undertaker’s wife,
as reported by Philip Green. She had said, ’It should be there before now. It
took longer, being out of the ordinary.’ It was the coffin of which she spoke.
It had been out of the ordinary. That could only mean that it had been made to
some special measurement. But why? Why? Then in an instant I remembered the
deep sides, and the little wasted figure at the bottom. Why so large a coffin
for so small a body? To leave room for another body. Both would be buried under
the one certificate. It had all been so clear, if only my own sight had not
been dimmed. At eight the Lady Frances would be buried. Our one chance was to
stop the coffin before it left the house.
"It was a desperate
chance that we might find her alive, but it was a chance, as the result showed.
These people had never, to my knowledge, done a murder. They might shrink from
actual violence at the last. They could bury her with no sign of how she met
her end, and even if she were exhumed there was a chance for them. I hoped that
such considerations might prevail with them. You can reconstruct the scene well
enough. You saw the horrible den upstairs, where the poor lady had been kept so
long. They rushed in and overpowered her with their chloro- form, carried her
down, poured more into the coffin to insure against her waking, and then
screwed down the lid. A clever device, Watson. It is new to me in the annals of
crime. If our ex-missionary friends escape the clutches of Lestrade, I shall
expect to hear of some brilliant incidents in their future career."
IN recordinc from time
to time some of the curious experiences and interesting recollections which I
associate with my long and intimate friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have
continually been faced by difficulties caused by his own aversion to publicity.
To his sombre and cynical spirit all popular applause was always abhorrent, and
nothing amused him more at the end of a successful case than to hand over the
actual exposure to some orthodox official, and to listen with a mocking smile
to the general chorus of misplaced congratulation. It was indeed this attitude
upon the part of my friend and certainly not any lack of interesting material
which has caused me of late years to lay very few of my records before the
public. My participation in some of his adventures was always a privilege which
entailed discretion and reticence upon me.
It was, then, with
considerable surprise that I received a telegram from Holmes last Tuesday -- he
has never been known to write where a telegram would serve -- in the following
terms: Why not tell them of the Cornish horror -- strangest case I have
handled. I have no idea what backward sweep of memory had brought the matter
fresh to his mind, or what freak had caused him to desire that I should recount
it; but I hasten, before another cancelling telegram may arrive, to hunt out
the notes which give me the exact details of the case and to lay the narrative
before my readers.
It was, then, in the
spring of the year 1897 that Holmes’s iron constitution showed some symptoms of
giving way in the face of constant hard work of a most exacting kind,
aggravated, perhaps, by occasional indiscretions of his own. In March of that
year Dr. Moore Agar, of Harley Street, whose dramatic introduction to Holmes I
may some day recount, gave positive injunctions that the famous private agent
lay aside all his cases and surrender himself to complete rest if he wished to
avert an absolute breakdown. The state of his health was not a matter in which
he himself took the faintest interest, for his mental detachment was absolute,
but he was induced at last, on the threat of being permanently disqualified
from work, to give himself a complete change of scene and air. Thus it was that
in the early spring of that year we found ourselves together in a small cottage
near Poldhu Bay, at the further extremity of the Cornish peninsula.
It was a singular spot,
and one peculiarly well suited to the grim humour of my patient. From the
windows of our little whitewashed house, which stood high upon a grassy
headland, we looked down upon the whole sinister semicircle of Mounts Bay, that
old death trap of sailing vessels, with its fringe of black cliffs and
surge-swept reefs on which innumerable seamen have met their end. With a
northerly breeze it lies placid and sheltered, inviting the storm-tossed craft
to tack into it for rest and protection.
Then come the sudden
swirl round of the wind, the blustering gale from the south-west, the dragging
anchor, the lee shore, and the last battle in the creaming breakers. The wise
mariner stands far out from that evil place.
On the land side our
surroundings were as sombre as on the sea. It was a country of rolling moors,
lonely and dun-coloured, with an occasional church tower to mark the site of
some oldworld village. In every direction upon these moors there were traces of
some vanished race which had passed utterly away, and left as its sole record
strange monuments of stone, irregular mounds which contained the burned ashes
of the dead, and curious earthworks which hinted at prehistoric strife. The
glamour and mystery of the place, with its sinister atmosphere of forgotten
nations, appealed to the imagination of my friend, and he spent much of his
time in long walks and solitary meditations upon the moor. The ancient Cornish
language had also arrested his attention, and he had, I remember, conceived the
idea that it was akin to the Chaldean, and had been largely derived from the
Phoenician traders in tin. He had received a consignment of books upon
philology and was settling down to develop this thesis when suddenly, to my
sorrow and to his unfeigned delight, we found ourselves, even in that land of
dreams, plunged into a problem at our very doors which was more intense, more
engrossing, and infinitely more mysterious than any of those which had driven
us from London. Our simple life and peaceful, healthy routine were violently
interrupted, and we were precipitated into the midst of a series of events
which caused the utmost excitement not only in Cornwall but throughout the
whole west of England. Many of my readers may retain some recollection of what
was called at the time "The Cornish Horror," though a most imperfect
account of the matter reached the London press. Now, after thirteen years, I
will give the true details of this inconceivable affair to the public.
I have said that
scattered towers marked the villages which dotted this part of Cornwall. The
nearest of these was the hamlet of Tredannick Wollas, where the cottages of a
couple of hundred inhabitants clustered round an ancient, moss-grown church.
The vicar of the parish, Mr. Roundhay, was something of an archeologist, and as
such Holmes had made his acquaintance. He was a middle-aged man, portly and
affable, with a considerable fund of local lore. At his invitation we had taken
tea at the vicarage and had come to know, also, Mr. Mortimer Tregennis, an
independent gentleman, who increased the clergyman’s scanty resources by taking
rooms in his large, straggling house. The vicar, being a bachelor, was glad to
come to such an arrangement, though he had little in common with his lodger,
who was a thin, dark, spectacled man, with a stoop which gave the impression of
actual, physical deformity. I remember that during our short visit we found the
vicar garrulous, but his lodger strangely reticent, a sad-faced, introspective
man, sitting with averted eyes, brooding apparently upon his own affairs.
These were the two men
who entered abruptly into our little sitting-room on Tuesday, March the 16th,
shortly after our breakfast hour, as we were smoking together, preparatory to
our daily excursion upon the moors.
"Mr. Holmes,"
said the vicar in an agitated voice, "the most extraordinary and tragic
affair has occurred during the night. It is the most unheard-of business. We
can only regard it as a special Providence that you should chance to be here at
the time, for in all England you are the one man we need."
I glared at the
intrusive vicar with no very friendly eyes; but Holmes took his pipe from his
lips and sat up in his chair like an old hound who hears the view-halloa. He
waved his hand to the sofa, and our palpitating visitor with his agitated companion
sat side by side upon it. Mr. Mortimer Tregennis was more selfcontained than
the clergyman, but the twitching of his thin hands and the brightness of his
dark eyes showed that they shared a common emotion.
"Shall I speak or
you?" he asked of the vicar.
"Well, as you seem
to have made the discovery, whatever it may be, and the vicar to have had it
second-hand, perhaps you had better do the speaking," said Holmes.
I glanced at the
hastily clad clergyman, with the formally dressed lodger seated beside him, and
was amused at the surprise which Holmes’s simple deduction had brought to their
faces.
"Perhaps I had
best say a few words first," said the vicar, "and then you can judge
if you will listen to the details from Mr. Tregennis, or whether we should not
hasten at once to the scene of this mysterious affair. I may explain, then, that
our friend here spent last evening in the company of his two brothers, Owen and
George, and of his sister Brenda, at their house of Tredannick Wartha, which is
near the old stone cross upon the moor. He left them shortly after ten o’clock,
playing cards round the dining-room table, in excellent health and spirits.
This morning, being an early riser, he walked in that direction before
breakfast and was overtaken by the carriage of Dr. Richards, who explained that
he had just been sent for on a most urgent call to Tredannick Wartha. Mr.
Mortimer Tregennis naturally went with him. When he arrived at Tredannick
Wartha he found an extraordinary state of things. His two brothers and his
sister were seated round the table exactly as he had left them, the cards still
spread in front of them and the candles burned down to their sockets. The
sister lay back stone-dead in her chair, while the two brothers sat on each
side of her laughing, shouting, and singing, the senses stricken clean out of
them. All three of them, the dead woman and the two demented men, retained upon
their faces an expression of the utmost horror -- a convulsion of terror which
was dreadful to look upon. There was no sign of the presence of anyone in the
house, except Mrs. Porter, the old cook and housekeeper, who declared that she
had slept deeply and heard no sound during the night. Nothing had been stolen
or disarranged, and there is absolutely no explanation of what the horror can
be which has frightened a woman to death and two strong men out of their senses.
There is the situation, Mr. Holmes, in a nutshell, and if you can help us to
clear it up you will have done a great work."
I had hoped that in
some way I could coax my companion back into the quiet which had been the
object of our journey; but one glance at his intense face and contracted
eyebrows told me how vain was now the expectation. He sat for some little time
in silence, absorbed in the strange drama which had broken in upon our peace.
"I will look into
this matter," he said at last. "On the face of it, it would appear to
be a case of a very exceptional nature. Have you been there yourself, Mr.
Roundhay?"
"No, Mr. Holmes.
Mr. Tregennis brought back the account to the vicarage, and I at once hurried
over with him to consult you."
"How far is it to
the house where this singular tragedy occurred?"
"About a mile
inland."
"Then we shall
walk over together. But before we start I must ask you a few questions, Mr.
Mortimer Tregennis."
The other had been
silent all this time, but I had observed that his more controlled excitement
was even greater than the obtrusive emotion of the clergyman. He sat with a
pale, drawn face, his anxious gaze fixed opon Holmes, and his thin hands
clasped convulsively together. His pale lips quivered as he listened to the dreadful
experience which had befallen his family, and his dark eyes seemed to reflect
something of the horror of the scene.
"Ask what you
like, Mr. Holmes," said he eagerly. "It is a bad thing to speak of,
but I will answer you the truth."
"Tell me about
last night."
"Well, Mr. Holmes,
I supped there, as the vicar has said, and my elder brother George proposed a
game of whist afterwards. We sat down about nine o’clock. It was a quarter-past
ten when I moved to go. I left thern all round the table, as merry as could
be."
"Who let you
out?"
"Mrs. Porter had
gone to bed, so I let myself out. I shut the hall door behind me. The window of
the room in which they sat was closed, but the blind was not drawn down. There
was no change in door or window this morning, nor any reason to think that any
stranger had been to the house. Yet there they sat, driven clean mad with
terror, and Brenda lying dead of fright, with her head hanging over the arm of
the chair. I’ll never get the sight of that room out of my mind so long as I
live."
"The facts, as you
state them, are certainly most remarkable," said Holmes. "I take it
that you have no theory yourself which can in any way account for them?"
"It’s devilish,
Mr. Holmes, devilish!" cried Mortimer Tregennis. "It is not of this
world. Something has come into that room which has dashed the light of reason
from their minds. What human contrivance could do that?"
"I fear,"
said Holmes~, "that if the matter is beyond humanity it is certainly
beyond me. Yet we must exhaust all natural explanations before we fall back
upon such a theory as this. As to yourself, Mr. Tregenrlis, I take it you were
divided in some way from your family, since they lived together and you had
rooms apart?"
"That is so, Mr.
Holmes, though the matter is past and done with. We were a family of tin-miners
at Redruth, but we sold out our venture to a company, and so retired with
enough to keep us. I won’t deny that there was some feeling about the division
of the money and it stood between us for a time, but it was all forgiven and
forgotten, and we were the best of friends together."
"Looking back at
the evening which you spent together, does anything stand out in your memory as
throwing any possible light upon the tragedy? Think carefully, Mr. Tregennis,
for any clue which can help me."
"There is nothing
at all, sir."
"Your people were
in their usual spirits?"
"Never
better."
"Were they nervous
people? Did they ever show any apprehension of coming danger?"
"Nothing of the
kind."
"You have nothing
to add then, which could assist me?"
Mortimer Tregennis
considered earnestly for a moment.
"There is one
thing occurs to me," said he at last. "As we sat at the table my back
was to the window, and my brother George, he being my partner at cards, was
facing it. I saw him once look hard over my shoulder, so I turned round and
looked also. The blind was up and the window shut, but I could just make out
the bushes on the lawn, and it seemed to me for a moment that I saw something
moving among them. I couldn’t even say if it was man or animal, but I just
thought there was something there. When I asked him what he was looking at, he
told me that he had the same feeling. That is all that I can say."
"Did you not
investigate?"
"No; the matter
passed as unimportant."
"You left them,
then, without any premonition of evil?"
"None at
all."
"I am not clear
how you came to hear the news so early this morning."
"I am an early
riser and generally take a walk before breakfast. This morning I had hardly
started when the doctor in his carriage overtook me. He told me that old Mrs.
Porter had sent a boy down with an urgent message. I sprang in beside him and
we drove on. When we got there we looked into that dreadful room. The candles
and the fire must have burned out hours before, and they had been sitting there
in the dark until dawn had broken. The doctor said Brenda must have been dead
at least six hours. There were no signs of violence. She just lay across the
arm of the chair with that look on her face. George and Owen were singing
snatches of songs and gibbering like two great apes. Oh, it was awful to see! I
couldn’t stand it, and the doctor was as white as a sheet. Indeed, he fell into
a chair in a sort of faint, and we nearly had him on our hands as well."
"Remarkable --
most remarkable!" said Holmes, rising and taking his hat. "I think,
perhaps, we had better go down to Tredannick Wartha without further delay. I
confess that I have seldom known a case which at first sight presented a more
singular problem."
Our proceedings of that
first morning did little to advance the investigation. It was marked, however,
at the outset by an incident which left the most sinister impression upon my
mind. The approach to the spot at which the tragedy occurred is down a narrow,
winding, country lane. While we made our way along it we heard the raffle of a
carriage coming towards us and stood aside to let it pass. As it drove by us I
caught a glimpse through the closed window of a horribly contorted, grinning
face glaring out at us. Those staring eyes and gnashing teeth flashed past us
like a dreadful vision.
"My
brothers!" cried Mortimer Tregennis, white to his lips. "They are
taking them to Helston."
We looked with horror
after the black carriage, lumbering upon its way. Then we turned our steps
towards this ill-omened house in which they had met their strange fate.
It was a large and
bright dwelling, rather a villa than a cottage, with a considerable garden
which was already, in that Cornish air, well filled with spring flowers.
Towards this garden the window of the sitting-room fronted, and from it,
according to Mortimer Tregennis, must have come that thing of evil which had by
sheer horror in a single instant blasted their minds. Holmes walked slowly and
thoughtfully among the flower-plots and along the path before we entered the
porch. So absorbed was he in his thoughts, I remember, that he stumbled over
the watering-pot, upset its contents, and deluged both our feet and the garden
path. Inside the house we were met by the e1derly Cornish housekeeper, Mrs.
Porter, who, with the aid of a young girl, looked after the wants of the
family. She readily answered all Holmes’s questions. She had heard nothing in
the night. Her employers had all been in excellent spirits lately, and she had
never known them more cheerful and prosperous. She had fainted with horror upon
entering the room in the morning and seeing that dreadful company round the
table. She had, when she recovered, thrown open the window to let the morning
air in and had run down to the lane, whence she sent a farm-lad for the doctor.
The lady was on her bed upstairs if we cared to see her. It took four strong
men to get the brothers into the asylum carriage. She would not herself stay in
the house another day and was starting that very afternoon to rejoin her family
at St. Ives.
We ascended the stairs
and viewed the body. Miss Brenda Tregennis had been a very beautiful girl,
though now verging upon middle age. Her dark, clear-cut face was handsome, even
in death, but there still lingered upon it something of that convulsion of
horror which had been her last human emotion. From her bedroom we descended to
the sitting-room, where this strange tragedy had actually occurred. The charred
ashes of the overnight fire lay in the grate. On the table were the four
guttered and burned-out candles, with the cards scattered over its surface. The
chairs had been moved back against the walls, but all else was as it had been
the night before. Holmes paced with light, swift steps about the room; he sat
in the various chairs, drawing them up and reconstructing their positions. He
tested how much of the garden was visible; he examined the floor, the ceiling,
and the fireplace; but never once did I see that sudden brightening of his eyes
and tightening of his lips which would have told me that he saw some gleam of
light in this utter darkness.
"Why a fire?"
he asked once. "Had they always a fire in this small room on a spring
evening?"
Mortimer Tregennis
explained that the night was cold and damp. For that reason, after his arrival,
the fire was lit. "What are you going to do now, Mr. Holmes?" he
asked.
My friend smiled and
laid his hand upon my arm. "I think, Watson, that I shall resume that
course of tobacco-poisoning which you have so often and so justly
condemned," said he. "With your permission, gentlemen, we will now
return to our cottage, for I am not aware that any new factor is likely to come
to our notice here. I will turn the facts over in my mind, Mr. Tregennis, and
should anything occur to me I will certainly communicate with you and the
vicar. In the meantime I wish you both good-morning."
It was not until long
after we were back in Poldhu Cottage that Holmes broke his complete and
absorbed silence. He sat coiled in his armchair, his haggard and ascetic face
hardly visible amid the blue swirl of his tobacco smoke, his black brows drawn
down, his forehead contracted, his eyes vacant and far away. Finally he laid
down his pipe and sprang to his feet.
"It won’t do,
Watson!" said he with a laugh. "Let us walk along the cliffs together
and search for flint arrows. We are more likely to find them than clues to this
problem. To let the brain work without sufficient material is like racing an
engine. It racks itself to pieces. The sea air, sunshine, and patience, Watson
-- all else will come.
"Now, let us
calmly define our position, Watson," he continued as we skirted the cliffs
together. "Let us get a firm grip of the very little which we do know, so
that when fresh facts arise we may be ready to fit them into their places. I
take it, in the first place, that neither of us is prepared to admit diabolical
intrusions into the affairs of men. Let us begin by ruling that entirely out of
our minds. Very good. There remain three persons who have been grievously
stricken by some conscious or unconscious human agency. That is firm ground.
Now, when did this occur? Evidently, assuming his narrative to be true, it was
immediately after Mr. Mortimer Tregennis had left the room. That is a very
important point. The presumption is that it was within a few minutes
afterwards. The cards still lay upon the table. It was already past their usual
hour for bed. Yet they had not changed their position or pushed back their
chairs. I repeat then, that the occurrence was immediately after his departure,
and not later than eleven o’clock last night.
"Our next obvious
step is to check, so far as we can, the movements of Mortimer Tregennis after
he left the room. In this there is no difficulty, and they seem to be above
suspicion. Knowing my methods as you do, you were, of course, conscious of the
somewhat clumsy water-pot expedient by which I obtained a clearer impress of
his foot than might otherwise have been possible. The wet, sandy path took it
admirably. Last night was also wet, you will remember, and it was not difficult
-- having obtained a sample print -- to pick out his track among others and to
follow his movements. He appears to have walked away swiftly in the direction
of the vicarage.
"If, then,
Mortimer Tregennis disappeared from the scene, and yet some outside person
affected the cardplayers, how can we reconstruct that person, and how was such
an impression of horror conveyed? Mrs. Porter may be eliminated. She is
evidently harmless. Is there any evidence that someone crept up to the garden
window and in some manner produced so terrific an effect that he drove those
who saw it out of their senses? The only suggestion in this direction comes
from Mortimer Tregennis himself, who says that his brother spoke about some
movement in the garden. That is certainly remarkable, as the night was rainy,
cloudy, and dark. Anyone who had the design to alarm these people would be
compelled to place his very face against the glass before he could be seen.
There is a three-foot flowerborder outside this window, but no indication of a
footmark. It is difficult to imagine, then, how an outsider could have made so
terrible an impression upon the company, nor have we found any possible motive
for so strange and elaborate an attempt. You perceive our difficulties,
Watson?"
"They are only too
clear," I answered with conviction.
"And yet, with a
little more material, we may prove that they are not insurmountable," said
Holrnes. "I fancy that among your extensive archives, Watson, you may find
some which were nearly as obscure. Meanwhile, we shall put the case aside until
more accurate data are available, and devote the rest of our morning to the
pursuit of neolithic man."
I may have commented
upon my friend’s power of mental detachment, but never have I wondered at it
more than upon that spring morning in Cornwall when for two hours he discoursed
upon Celts, arrowheads, and shards, as lightly as if no sinister mystery were
waiting for his solution. It was not until we had returned in the afternoon to
our cottlge that we found a visitor awaiting us, who soon brought our minds
back to the matter in hand. Neither of us needed to be told who that visitor
was. The huge body, the craggy and deeply seamed face with the fierce eyes and
hawk-like nose, the grizzled hair which nearly brushed our cottage ceiling, the
beard -- golden at the fringes and white near the lips, save for the nicotin
stain from his perpetual cigar -- all these were as well known in London as in
Africa, and could only be associated with the tremendous personality of Dr.
Leon Sterndale, the great lion-hunter and explorer.
We had heard of his
presence in the district and had once or twice caught sight of his tall figure
upon the moorland paths. He made no advances to us, however, nor would we have
dreamed of doing so to him, as it was well known that it was his love of
seclusion which caused him to spend the greater part of the intervals between
his journeys in a small bungalow buried in the lonely wood of Beauchamp
Arriance. Here, amid his books and his maps, he lived an absolutely lonely
life, attending to his own simple wants and paying little apparent heed to the affairs
of his neighbours. It was a surprise to me, therefore, to hear him asking
Holmes in an eager voice whether he had made any advance in his reconstruction
of this mysterious episode. "The county police are utterly at fault,"
said he, "but perhaps your wider experience has suggested some conceivable
explanation. My only claim to being taken into your confidence is that during
my many residences here I have come to know this family of Tregennis very well
-- indeed, upon my Cornish mother’s side I could call them cousins -- and their
strange fate has naturally been a great shock to me. I may tell you that I had
got as far as Plymouth upon my way to Africa, but the news reached me this
morning, and I came straight back again to help in the inquiry."
Holmes raised his
eyebrows.
"Did you lose your
boat through it?"
"I will take the
next."
"Dear me! that is
friendship indeed."
"I tell you they
were relatives."
"Quite so --
cousins of your mother. Was your baggage aboard the ship?"
"Some of it, but
the main part at the hotel."
"I see. But surely
this event could not have found its way into the Plymouth morning papers."
"No, sir; I had a
telegram."
"Might I ask from
whom?"
A shadow passed over
the gaunt face of the explorer.
"You are very
inquisitive, Mr. Holmes."
"It is my
business."
With an effort Dr.
Sterndale recovered his ruffled composure.
"I have no
objection to telling you," he said. "It was Mr. Roundhay, the vicar,
who sent me the telegram which recalled me."
"Thank you,"
said Holmes. "I may say in answer to your original question that I have
not cleared my mind entirely on the subject of this case, but that I have every
hope of reaching some conclusion. It would be premature to say more."
"Perhaps you would
not mind telling me if your suspicions point in any particular direction?"
"No, I can hardly
answer that."
"Then I have
wasted my time and need not prolong my visit." The famous doctor strode
out of our cottage in considerable ill-humour, and within five minutes Holmes
had followed him. I saw him no more until the evening, when he returned with a
slow step and haggard face which assured me that he had made no great progress
with his investigation. He glanced at a telegram which awaited him and threw it
into the grate.
"From the Plymouth
hotel, Watson," he said. "I learned the name of it from the vicar,
and I wired to make certain that Dr. Leon Stemdale’s account was true. It
appears that he did indeed spend last night there, and that he has actually
allowed some of his baggage to go on to Africa, while he returned to be present
at this investigation. What do you make of that, Watson?"
"He is deeply
interested."
"Deeply interested
-- yes. There is a thread here which we have not yet grasped and which might
lead us through the tangle. Cheer up, Watson, for I am very sure that our
material has not yet all come to hand. When it does we may soon leave our
difficulties behind us."
Little did I think how
soon the words of Holmes would be realized, or how strange and sinister would
be that new development which opened up an entirely fresh line of
investigation. I was shaving at my window in the morning when I heard the
rattle of hoofs and, looking up, saw a dog-cart coming at a gallop down the
road. It pulled up at our door, and our friend, the vicar, sprang from it and
rushed up our garden path. Holmes was already dressed, and we hastened down to
meet him.
Our visitor was so
excited that he could hardly articulate, but at last in gasps and bursts his
tragic story came out of him.
"We are
devil-ridden, Mr. Holmes! My poor parish is devilridden!" he cried.
"Satan himself is loose in it! We are given over into his hands!" He
danced about in his agitation, a ludicrous object if it were not for his ashy
face and startled eyes. Finally he shot out his terrible news.
"Mr. Mortimer
Tregennis died during the night, and with exactly the same symptoms as the rest
of his family."
Holmes sprang to his
feet, all energy in an instant.
"Can you fit us
both into your dog-cart?"
"Yes, I can."
"Then, Watson, we
will postpone our breakfast. Mr. Roundhay, we are entirely at your disposal.
Hurry -- hurry, before things get disarranged. "
The lodger occupied two
rooms at the vicarage, which were in an angle by themselves, the one above the
other. Below was a large sitting-room; above, his bedroom. They looked out upon
a croquet lawn which came up to the windows. We had arrived before the doctor
or the police, so that everything was absolutely undisturbed. Let me describe
exactly the scene as we saw it upon that misty March morning. It has left an
impression which can never be effaced from my mind.
The atmosphere of the
room was of a horrible and depressing stuffiness. The servant who had first
entered had thrown up the window, or it would have been even more intolerable.
This might partly be due to the fact that a lamp stood flaring and smoking on
the centre table. Beside it sat the dead man, leaning back in his chair, his
thin beard projecting, his spectacles pushed up on to his forehead, and his
lean dark face turned towards the window and twisted into the same distortion
of terror which had marked the features of his dead sister. His limbs were
convulsed and his fingers contorted as though he had died in a very paroxysm of
fear. He was fully clothed, though there were signs that his dressing had been
done in a hurry. We had already learned that his bed had been slept in, and
that the tragic end had come to him in the early morning.
One realized the
red-hot energy which underlay Holmes’s phlegmatic exterior when one saw the
sudden change which came over him from the moment that he entered the fatal
apartment. In an instant he was tense and alert, his eyes shining, his face
set, his limbs quivering with eager activity. He was out on the lawn, in
through the window, round the room, and up into the bedroom, for all the world
like a dashing foxhound drawing a cover. In the bedroom he made a rapid cast
around and ended by throwing open the window, which appeared to give him some
fresh cause for excitement, for he leaned out of it with loud ejaculations of
interest and delight. Then he rushed down the stair, out through the open
window, threw himself upon his face on the lawn, sprang up and into the room
once more, all with the energy of the hunter who is at the very heels of his
quarry. The lamp, which was an ordinaly standard, he examined with minute care,
making certain measurements upon its bowl. He carefully scrutinized with his
lens the tale shield which covered the top of the chimney and scraped off some
ashes which adhered to its upper surface, putting some of them into an
envelope, which he placed in his pocketbook. Finally, just as the doctor and
the official police put in an appearance, he beckoned to the vicar and we all
three went out upon the lawn.
"I am glad to say
that my investigation has not been entirely barren," he remarked. "I
cannot remain to discuss the matter with the police, but I should be
exceedingly obliged, Mr. Roundhay, if you would give the inspector my
compliments and direct his attention to the bedroom window and to the
sittingroom lamp. Each is suggestive, and together they are almost conclusive.
If the police would desire further information I shall be happy to see any of
them at the conage. And now, Watson, I think that, perhaps, we shall be better
employed elsewhere."
It may be that the
police resented the intrusion of an amateur, or that they imagined themselves
to be upon some hopeful line of investigation; but it is certain that we heard
nothing from them for the next two days. During this time Holmes spent some of
his time smoking and dreaming in the cottage; but a greater portion in country
walks which he undertook alone, returning after many hours without remark as to
where he had been. One experiment served to show me the line of his
investigation. He had bought a lamp which was the duplicate of the one which
had burned in the room of Mortimer Tregennis on the morning of the tragedy.
This he filled with the same oil as that used at the vicarage, and he carefully
timed the period which it would take to be exhausted. Another experiment which
he made was of a more unpleasant nature, and one which I am not likely ever to
forget.
"You will
remember, Watson," he remarked one afternoon, "that there is a single
common point of resemblance in the varying reports which have reached us. This
concerns the effect of the atmosphere of the room in each case upon those who
had first entered it. You will recollect that Mortimer Tregennis, in describing
the episode of his last visit to his brother’s house, remarked that the doctor
on entering the room fell into a chair? You had forgotten? Well, I can answer
for it that it was so. Now, you will remember also that Mrs. Porter, the
housekeeper, told us that she herself fainted upon entering the room and had
afterwards opened the window. In the second case -- that of Mortimer Tregennis
himself -- you cannot have forgotten the horrible stuffiness of the room when
we arrived. though the servant had thrown open the window. That servant, I
found upon inquiry, was so ill that she had gone to her bed. You will admit,
Watson, that these facts are very suggestive. In each case there is evidence of
a poisonous atmosphere. In each case, also, there is combustion going on in the
room -- in the one case a fire, in the other a lamp. The fire was needed, but
the lamp was lit -- as a comparison of the oil consumed will show -- long after
it was broad daylight. Why? Surely because there is some connection between
three things -- the burning, the stuffy atmosphere, and, finally, the madness
or death of those unfortunate people. That is clear, is it not?"
"It would appear
so."
"At least we may
accept it as a working hypothesis. We will suppose, then, that something was
burned in each case which produced an atmosphere causing strange toxic effects.
Very good. In the first instance -- that of the Tregennis family -- this substance
was placed in the fire. Now the window was shut, but the fire would naturally
carry fumes to some extent up the chimney. Hence one would expect the effects
of the poison to be less than in the second case, where there was less escape
for the vapour. The result seems to indicate that it was so, since in the first
case only the woman, who had presumably the more sensitive organism, was
killed, the others exhibiting that temporary or permanent lunacy which is
evidently the first effect of the drug. In the second case the result was
complete. The facts, therefore, seem to bear out the theory of a poison which
worked by combustion.
"With this train
of reasoning in my head I naturally looked about in Mortimer Tregennis’s room
to find some remains of this substance. The obvious place to look was the talc
shield or smoke-guard of the lamp. There, sure enough, I perceived a number of
flaky ashes, and round the edges a fringe of brownish powder, which had not yet
been consumed. Half of this I took, as you saw, and I placed it in an
envelope."
"Why half,
Holmes?"
"It is not for me,
my dear Watson, to stand in the way of the official police force. I leave them
all the evidence which I found. The poison still remained upon the talc had
they the wit to find it. Now, Watson, we will light our lamp; we will, however,
take the precaution to open our window to avoid the premature decease of two
deserving members of society, and you will seat yourself near that open window
in an armchair unless, like a sensible man, you determine to have nothing to do
with the affair. Oh, you will see it out, will you? I thought I knew my Watson.
This chair I will place opposite yours, so that we may be the same distance
from the poison and face to face. The door we will leave ajar. Each is now in a
position to watch the other and to bring the experiment to an end should the
symptoms seem alarming. Is that all clear? Well, then, I take our powder -- or
what remains of it -- from the envelope, and I lay it above the burning lamp.
So! Now, Watson, let us sit down and await developments."
They were not long in
coming. I had hardlv settled in my chair before I was conscious of a thick,
musky odour, subtle and nauseous. At the very first whiff of it my brain and my
imagination were beyond all control. A thick, black cloud swirled before my
eyes, and my mind told me that in this cloud, unseen as yet, but about to
spring out upon my appalled senses, lurked all that was vaguely horrible, all
that was monstrous and inconceivably wicked in the universe. Vague shapes
swirled and swam amid the dark cloud-bank, each a menace and a warning of
something coming, the advent of some unspeakable dweller upon the threshold,
whose very shadow would blast my soul. A freezing horror took possession of me.
I felt that my hair was rising, that my eyes were protruding, that my mouth wag
opened, and my tongue like leather. The turmoil within my brain was such that
something must surely snap. I tried to scream and was vaguely aware of some
hoarse croak which was my own voice, but distant and detached from myself. At
the same moment, in some effort of escape, I broke through that cloud of
despair and had a glimpse of Holmes’s face, white, rigid, and drawn with horror
-- the very look which I had seen upon the features of the dead. It was that
vision which gave me an instant of sanity and of strength. I dashed from my
chair, threw my arms round Holmes, and together we lurched through the door,
and an instant afterwards had thrown ourselves down upon the grass plot and
were lying side by side, conscious only of the glorious sunshine which was
bursting its way through the hellish cloud of terror which had girt us in.
Slowly it rose from our souls like the mists from a landscape until peace and
reason had returned, and we were sitting upon the grass, wiping our clammy
foreheads, and looking with apprehension at each other to mark the last traces
of that terrific experience which we had undergone.
"Upon my word,
Watson!" said Holmes at last with an unsteady voice, "I owe you both
my thanks and an apology. It was an unjustifiable experiment even for one’s
self, and doubly so for a friend. I am really very sorry."
"You know," I
answered with some emotion, for I had never seen so much of Holmes’s heart
before, "that it is my greatest joy and privilege to help you."
He relapsed at once
into the half-humorous, half-cynical vein which was his habitual attitude to
those about him. "It would be superfluous to drive us mad, my dear
Watson," said he. "A candid observer would celtainly declare that we
were so already before we embarked upon so wild an experiment. I confess that I
never imagined that the effect could be so sudden and so severe." He
dashed into the cottage, and, reappearing with the burning lamp held at full
arm’s length, he threw it among a bank of brambles. "We must give the room
a little time to clear. I take it, Watson, that you have no longer a shadow of
a doubt as to how these tragedies were produced?"
"None
whatever."
"But the cause
remains as obscure as before. Come into the arbour here and let us discuss it
together. That villainous stuff seems still to linger round my throat. I think
we must admit that all the evidence points to this man, Mortimer Tregennis,
having been the criminal in the first tragedy, though he was the victim in the
second one. We must remember, in the first place, that there is some story of a
family quarrel, followed by a reconciliation. How bitter that quarrel may have
been, or how hollow the reconciliation we cannot tell. When I think of Mortimer
Tregennis, with the foxy face and the small shrewd, beady eyes behind the
spectacles, he is not a man whom I should judge to be of a particularly
forgiving disposition. Well, in the next place, you will remember that this
idea of someone moving in the garden, which took our attention for a moment
from the real cause of the tragedy, emanated from him. He had a motive in
misleading us. Finally, if he did not throw this substance into the fire at the
moment of leaving the room, who did do so? The affair happened immediately
after his departure. Had anyone else come in, the family would certainly have
risen from the table. Besides, in peaceful Cornwall, visitors do not arrive
after ten o’clock at night. We may take it, then, that all the evidence points
to Mortimer Tregennis as the culprit."
"Then his own
death was suicide!"
"Well, Watson, it
is on the face of it a not impossible supposition. The man who had the guilt
upon his soul of having brought such a fate upon his own family might well be
driven by remorse to inflict it upon himself. There are, however, some cogent
reasons against it. Forturlately, there is one man in England who knows all
about it, and I have made arrangements by which we shall hear the facts this
afternoon from his own lips. Ah! he is a little before his time. Perhaps you
would kindly step this way, Dr. Leon Sterndale. We have been conducting a
chemical experiment indoors which has left our little room hardly fit for the
reception of so distinguished a visitor."
I had heard the click
of the garden gate, and now the majestic figure of the great African explorer
appeared upon the path. He turned in some surprise towards the rustic arbour in
which we sat.
"You sent for me,
Mr. Holmes. I had your note about an hour ago, and I have come, though I really
do not know why I should obey your summons."
"Perhaps we can
clear the point up before we separate," said Holmes. "Meanwhile, I am
much obliged to you for your courteous acquiescence. You will excuse this
informal reception in the open air, but my friend Watson and I have nearly
furnished an additional chapter to what the papers call the Cornish Horror, and
we prefer a clear atmosphere for the present. Perhaps, since the matters which
we have to discuss will affect you personally in a very intimate fashion, it is
as well that we should talk where there can be no eavesdropping."
The explorer took his
cigar from his lips and gazed sternly at my companlon.
"I am at a loss to
know, sir," he said, "what you can have to speak about which affects
me personally in a very intimate fashion."
"The killing of
Mortimer Tregennis," said Holmes.
For a moment I wished
that I were armed. Stemdale’s fierce face turned to a dusky red, his eyes
glared, and the knotted, passionate veins started out in his forehead, while he
sprang forward with clenched hands towards my companion. Then he stopped, and
with a violent effort he resumed a cold, rigid calmness, which was, perhaps,
more suggestive of danger than his hot- headed outburst.
"I have lived so
long among savages and beyond the law," said he, "that I have got
into the way of being a law to myself. You would do well, Mr. Holmes, not to
forget it, for I have no desire to do you an injury."
"Nor have I any
desire to do you an injury, Dr. Sterndale. Surely the clearest proof of it is
that, knowing what I know, I have sent for you and not for the police."
Sterndale sat down with
a gasp, overawed for, perhaps, the first time in his adventurous life. There
was a calm assurance of power in Holmes’s manner which could not be withstood.
Our visitor stammered for a moment, his great hands opening and shutting in his
agitation.
"What do you
mean?" he asked at last. "If this is bluff upon your part, Mr.
Holmes, you have chosen a bad man for your experiment. Let us have no more
beating about the bush. What do you mean?"
"I will tell
you," said Holmes, "and the reason why I tell you is that I hope
frankness may beget frankness. What my next step may be will depend entirely
upon the nature of your own defence."
"My defence?"
"Yes, sir."
"My defence
against what?"
"Against the
charge of killing Mortimer Tregennis."
Sterndale mopped his
forehead with his handkerchief. "Upon my word, you are getting on,"
said he. "Do all your successes depend upon this prodigious power of bluff?"
"The bluff,"
said Holmes sternly, "is upon your side, Dr. Leon Sterndale, and not upon
mine. As a proof I will tell you some of the facts upon which my conclusions
are based. Of your return from Plymouth, allowing much of your property to go
on to Africa, I will say nothing save that it first informed me that you were
one of the factors which had to be taken into account in reconstructing this
drama --"
"I came back
--"
"I have heard your
reasons and regard them as unconvincing and inadequate. We will pass that. You
came down here to ask me whom I suspected. I refused to answer you. You then
went to the vicarage, waited outside it for some time, and finally returned to
your cottage."
"How do you know
that?"
"I followed
you."
"I saw no
one."
"That is what you
may expect to see when I follow you. You spent a restless night at your
cottage, and you formed certain plans, which in the early morning you proceeded
to put into execution. Leaving your door just as day was breaking, you filled
your pocket with some reddish gravel that was lying heaped beside your
gate."
Sterndale gave a
violent start and looked at Holmes in amazement.
"You then walked
swiftly for the mile which separated you from the vicarage. You were wearing, I
may remark, the same pair of ribbed tennis shoes which are at the present
moment upon your feet. At the vicarage you passed through the orchard and the
side hedge, coming out under the window of the lodger Tregennis. It was now
daylight, but the household was not yet stirring. You drew some of the gravel
from your pocket, and you threw it up at the window above you."
Sterndale sprang to his
feet.
"I believe that
you are the devil himself!" he cried.
Holmes smiled at the
compliment. "It took two, or possibly three, handfuls before the lodger
came to the window. You beckoned him to come down. He dressed hurriedly and
descended to his sitting-room. You entered by the window. There was an
interview -- a short one -- during which you walked up and down the room. Then
you passed out and closed the window, standing on the lawn outside smoking a
cigar and watching what occurred. Finally, after the death of Tregennis, you
withdrew as you had come. Now, Dr. Sterndale, how do you justify such conduct,
and what were the motives for your actions? If you prevaricate or trifle with
me, I give you my assurance that the matter will pass out ol my hands
forever."
Our visitor’s face had
turned ashen gray as he listened to the words of his accuser. Now he sat for
some time in thought with his face sunk in his hands. Then with a sudden
impulsive gesture he plucked a photograph from his breast-pocket and threw it
on the rustic table before us.
"That is why I
have done it," said he.
It showed the bust and
face of a very beautiful woman. Holmes stooped over it.
"Brenda
Tregennis," said he.
"Yes, Brenda
Tregennis," repeated our visitor. "For years I have loved her. For
years she has loved me. There is the secret of that Cornish seclusion which
people have marvelled at. It has brought me close to the one thing on earth
that was dear to me. I could not marry her, for I have a wife who has left me
for years and yet whom, by the deplorable laws of England, I could not divorce.
For years Brenda waited. For years I waited. And this is what we have waited
for." A terrible sob shook his great frame, and he clutched his throat
under his brindled beard. Then with an effort he mastered himself and spoke on:
"The vicar knew.
He was in our confidence. He would tell you that she was an angel upon earth.
That was why he telegraphed to me and I returned. What was my baggage or Africa
to me when I learned that such a fate had come upon my darling? There you have
the missing clue to my action, Mr. Holmes."
"Proceed,"
said my friend.
Dr. Sterndale drew from
his pocket a paper packet and laid it upon the table. On the outside was
written "Radix pedis diaboli" with a red poison label beneath it. He
pushed it towards me. "I understand that you are a doctor, sir. Have you
ever heard of this preparation?"
"Devil’s-foot
root! No, I have never heard of it."
"It is no
reflection upon your professional knowledge," said he, "for I believe
that, save for one sample in a laboratory at Buda, there is no other specimen
in Europe. It has not yet found its way either into the pharmacopceia or into
the literature of toxicology. The root is shaped like a foot, half human, half
goatlike; hence the fanciful name given by a botanical missionary. It is used
as an ordeal poison by the medicine-men in certain districts of West Africa and
is kept as a secret among them. This particular specimen I obtained under very
extraordinary circumstances in the Ubangi country." He opened the paper as
he spoke and disclosed a heap of reddish-brown, snuff-like powder.
"Well, sir?"
asked Holmes sternly.
"I am about to
tell you, Mr. Holmes, all that actually occurred, for you already know so much
that it is clearly to my interest that you should know all. I have already
explained the relationship in which I stood to the Tregennis family. For the
sake of the sister I was friendly with the brothers. There was a family quarrel
about money which estranged this man Mortimer, but it was supposed to be made
up, and I afterwards met him as I did the others. He was a sly, subtle,
scheming man, and several things arose which gave me a suspicion of him, but I
had no cause for any positive quarrel.
"One day, only a
couple of weeks ago, he came down to my cottage and I showed him some of my
African curiosities. Among other things I exhibited this powder, and I told him
of its strange properties, how it stimulates those brain centres which control
the emotion of fear, and how either madness or death is the fate of the unhappy
native who is subjected to the ordeal by the priest of his tribe. I told him
also how powerless European science would be to detect it. How hi took it I
cannot say, for I never left the room, but there is no doubt that it was then,
while I was opening cabinets and stooping to boxes, that he managed to abstract
some of the devil’s-foot root. I well remember how he plied me with questions
as to the amount and the time that was needed for its effect, but I little
dreamed that he could have a personal reason for asking.
"I thought no more
of the matter until the vicar’s telegram reached me at Plymouth. This villain
had thought that I would be at sea before the news could reach me, and that I
should be lost for years in Africa. But I returned at once. Of course, I could
not listen to the details without feeling assured that my poison had been used.
I came round to see you on the chance tbat some other explanation had
suggesteid itself to you. But there could be none. I was convinced that
Mortimer Tregennis was the murderer; that for the sake of money, and with the
idea, perhaps, that if the other members of his family were all insane he would
be the sole guardian of their joint property, he had used the devil’s-foot
powder upon them, driven two of them out of their senses, and killed his sister
Brenda, the one human being whom I have ever loved or who has ever loved me. There
was his crime; what was to be his punishment?
"Should I appeal
to the law? Where were my proofs? I knew that the facts were true, but could I
help to make a jury of countrymen believe so fantastic a story? I might or I
might not. But I could not afford to fail. My soul cried out for revenge. I
have said to you once before, Mr. Holmes, that I have spent much of my life
outside the law, and that I have come at last to be a law to myself. So it was
now. I determined that the fate which he had given to others should be shared
by himself. Either that or I would do justice upon him with my own hand. In all
England there can be no man who sets less value upon his own life than I do at
the present moment.
"Now I have told
you all. You have yourself supplied the rest. I did, as you say, after a
restless night, set off early from my cottage. I foresaw the difficulty of
arousing him, so I gathered some gravel from the pile which you have mentioned,
and I used it to throw up to his window. He came down and admitted me through
the window of the sitting-room. I laid his offence before him. I told him that
I had come both as judge and executioner. The wretch sank into a chair,
paralyzed at the sight of my revolver. I lit the lamp, put the powder above it,
and stood outside the window, ready to carry out my threat to shoot him should
he try to leave the room. In five minutes he died. My God! how he died! But my
heart was flint, for he endured nothing which my innocent darling had not felt
before him. There is my story, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps, if you loved a woman, you
would have done as much yourself. At any rate, I am in your hands. You can take
what steps you like. As I have already said, there is no man living who can
fear death less than I do. "
Holmes sat for some little
time in silence.
"What were your
plans?" he asked at last.
"I had intended to
bury myself in central Africa. My work there is but half finished."
"Go and do the
other half," said Holmes. "I, at least, am not prepared to prevent
you."
Dr. Sterndale raised
his giant figure, bowed gravely, and waliked from the arbour. Holmes lit his
pipe and handed me his pouch.
"Some fumes which
are not poisonous would be a welcome change," said he. "I think you
must agree, Watson, that it is not a case in which we are called upon to
interfere. Our investigation has been independent, and our action shall be so
also. You would not denounce the man?"
"Certainly
not," I answered.
"I have never
loved, Watson, but if I did and if the woman I loved had met such an end, I
might act even as our lawless lion-hunter has done. Who knows? Well, Watson, I
will not offend your intelligence by explaining what is obvious. The gravel
upon the window-sill was, of course, the starting- point of my research. It was
unlike anything in the vicarage garden. Only when my attention had been drawn
to Dr. Sterndale and his cottage did I find its counterpart. The lamp shining
in broad daylight and the remains of powder upon the shield were successive
links in a fairly obvious chain. And now, my dear Watson, I think we may
dismiss the matter from our mind and go back with a clear conscience to the
study of those Chaldean roots which are surely to be traced in the Cornish
branch of the great Celtic speech."
IT was nine o’clock at
night upon the second of August -- the most terrible August in the history of
the world. One might have thought already that God’s curse hung heavy over a
degenerate world, for there was an awesome hush and a feeling of vague
expectancy in the sultry and stagnant air. The sun had long set, but one
blood-red gash like an open wound lay low in the distant west. Above, the stars
were shining brightly, and below, the lights of the shipping glimmered in the
bay. The two famous Germans stood beside the stone parapet of the garden walk,
with the long, low, heavily gabled house behind them, and they looked down upon
the broad sweep of the beach at the foot of the great chalk cliff on which Von
Bork, like some wandering eagle, had perched himself four years before. They
stood with their heads close together, talking in low, confidential tones. From
below the two glowing ends of their cigars might have been the smouldering eyes
of some malignant fiend looking down in the darkness.
A remarkable man this
Von Bork -- a man who could hardly be matched among all the devoted agents of
the Kaiser. It was his talents which had first recommended him for the English
mission, the most important mission of all, but since he had taken it over
those talents had become more and more manifest to the half-dozen people in the
world who were really in touch with the truth. One of these was his present
companion, Baron Von Herling, the chief secretary of the legation, whose huge
lOO-horse-power Benz car was blocking the country lane as it waited to waft its
owner back to London.
"So far as I can
judge the trend of events, you will probably be back in Berlin within the
week," the secretary was saying. "When you get there, my dear Von
Bork, I think you will be surprised at the welcome you will receive. I happen
to know what is thought in the highest quarters of your work in this
country." He was a huge man, the secretary, deep, broad, and tall, with a
slow, heavy fashion of speech which had been his main asset in his political
career.
Von Bork laughed.
"They are not very
hard to deceive," he remarked. "A more docile, simple folk could not
be imagined."
"I don’t know
about that," said the other thoughtfully. "They have strange limits
and one must learn to observe them. It is that surface simplicity of theirs
which makes a trap for the stranger. One’s first impression is that they are
entirely soft. Then one comes suddenly upon something very hard, and you know
that you have reached the limit and must adapt yourself to the fact. They have,
for example, their insular conventions which simply must be observed."
"Meaning, ’good
form’ and that sort of thing?" Von Bork sighed as one who had suffered
much.
"Meaning British
prejudice in all its queer manifestations. As an example I may quote one of my
own worst blunders -- I can afford to talk of my blunders, for you know my work
well enough to be aware of my successes. It was on my first arrival. I was
invited to a week-end gathering at the country house of a cabinet minister. The
conversation was amazingly indiscreet."
Von Bork nodded.
"I’ve been there," said he dryly.
"Exactly. Well, I
naturally sent a resume of the information to Berlin. Unfortunately our good
chancellor is a little heavy-handed in these matters, and he transmitted a
remark which showed that he was aware of what had been said. This, of course,
took the trail straight up to me. You’ve no idea the harm that it did me. There
was nothing soft about our British hosts on that occasion, I can assure you. I
was two years living it down. Now you, with this sporting pose of yours
--"
"No, no, don’t
call it a pose. A pose is an artificial thing. This is quite natural. I am a
born sportsman. I enjoy it."
"Well, that makes
it the more effective. You yacht against them, you hunt with them, you play
polo, you match them in every game, your four-in- hand takes the prize at
Olympia. I have even heard that you go the length of boxing with the young
officers. What is the result? Nobody takes you seriously. You are a ’good old
sport,’ ’quite a decent fellow for a German,’ a hard-drinking, night-club,
knock-about-town, devil-may-care young fellow. And all the time this quiet
country house of yours is the centre of half the mischief in England, and the
sporting squire the most astute secret-service man in Europe. Genius, my dear
Von Bork -- genius!"
"You flatter me,
Baron. But certainly I may claim that my four years in this country have not
been unproductive. I’ve never shown you my little store. Would you mind
stepping in for a moment?"
The door of the study
opened straight on to the terrace. Von Bork pushed it back, and, leading the
way, he clicked the switch of the electric light. He then closed the door
behind the bulky form which followed him and carefully adjusted the heavy
curtain over the latticed window. Only when all these precautions had been
taken and tested did he turn his sunburned aquiline face to his guest.
"Some of my papers
have gone," said he. "When my wife and the household left yesterday
for Flushing they took the less important with them. I must, of course, claim
the protection of the embassy for the others."
"Your name has
already been filed as one of the personal suite. There will be no difficulties
for you or your baggage. Of course, it is just possible that we may not have to
go. England may leave France to her fate. We are sure that there is no binding
treaty between them."
"And
Belgium?"
"Yes, and Belgium,
too."
Von Bork shook his
head. "I don’t see how that could be. There is a definite treaty there.
She could never recover from such a humiliation."
"She would at
least have peace for the moment."
"But her
honour?"
"Tut, my dear sir,
we live in a utilitarian age. Honour is a mediaeval conception. Besides England
is not ready. It is an inconceivable thing, but even our special war tax of
fifty million, which one would think made our purpose as clear as if we had
advertised it on the front page of the Times, has not roused these people from
their slumbers. Here and there one hears a question. It is my business to find
an answer. Here and there also there is an irritation. It is my business to
soothe it. But I can assure you that so far as the essentials go -- the storage
of munitions, the preparation for submarine attack, the arrangements for making
high explosives -- nothing is prepared. How, then, can England come in,
especially when we have stirred her up such a devil’s brew of Irish civil war,
window-breaking Furies, and God knows what to keep her thoughts at home."
"She must think of
her future."
"Ah, that is
another matter. I fancy that in the future we have our own very definite plans
about England, and that your information will be very vital to us. It is to-day
or to-morrow with Mr. John Bull. If he prefers to-day we are perfectly ready.
If it is to-morrow we shall be more ready still. I should think they would be
wiser to fight with allies than without them, but that is their own affair.
This week is their week of destiny. But you were speaking of your papers."
He sat in the armchair with the light shining upon his broad bald head, while
he puffed sedately at his cigar.
The large oak-panelled,
book-lined room had a curtain hung in the further corner. When this was drawn
it disclosed a large, brass-bound safe. Von Bork detached a small key from his
watch chain, and after some considerable manipulation of the lock he swung open
the heavy door.
"Look!" said
he, standing clear, with a wave of his hand.
The light shone vividly
into the opened safe, and the secretary of the embassy gazed with an absorbed
interest at the rows of stuffed pigeon-holes with which it was furnished. Each
pigeonhole had its label, and his eyes as he glanced along them read a long
series of such titles as "Fords," "Harbour- defences,"
"Aeroplanes," "Ireland," "Egypt,"
"Portsmouth forts," "The Channel," "Rosythe," and
a score of others. Each compartment was bristling with papers and plans.
"Colossal!"
said the secretary. Putting down his cigar he softly clapped his fat hands.
"And all in four
years, Baron. Not such a bad show for the hard-drinking, hard-riding country
squire. But the gem of my collection is coming and there is the setting all
ready for it." He pointed to a space over which "Naval Signals"
was printed.
"But you have a
good dossier there already."
"Out of date and
waste paper. The Admiralty in some way got the alarm and every code has been
changed. It was a blow, Baron -- the worst setback in my whole campaign. But
thanks to my check-book and the good Altamont all will be well to-night."
The Baron looked at his
watch and gave a guttural exclamation of disappointment.
"Well, I really
can wait no longer. You can imagine that things are moving at present in
Carlton Terrace and that we have all to be at our posts. I had hoped to be able
to bring news of your great coup. Did Altamont name no hour?"
Von Bork pushed over a
telegram.
Will come without fail
to-night and bring new sparking plugs. ALTAMONT.
"Sparking plugs,
eh?"
"You see he poses
as a motor expert and I keep a full garage. In our code everything likely to
come up is named after some spare part. If he talks of a radiator it is a
battleship, of an oil pump a cruiser, and so on. Sparking plugs are naval
signals."
"From Portsmouth
at midday," said the secretary, examining the superscription. "By the
way, what do you give him?"
"Five hundred
pounds for this particular job. Of course he has a salary as well."
"The greedy rogue.
They are useful, these traitors, but I grudge them their blood money."
"I grudge Altamont
nothing. He is a wonderful worker. If I pay him well, at least he delivers the
goods, to use his own phrase. Besides he is not a traitor. I assure you that our
most pan-Germanic Junker is a sucking dove in his feelings towards England as
compared with a real bitter Irish- American."
"Oh, an
Irish-American?"
"If you heard him
talk you would not doubt it. Sometimes I assure you I can hardly understand
him. He seems to have declared war on the King’s English as well as on the
English king. Must you really go? He may be here any moment."
"No. I’m sorry,
but I have already overstayed my time. We shall expect you early to-morrow, and
when you get that signal book through the little door on the Duke of York’s
steps you can put a triumphant finis to your record in England. What!
Tokay!"
He indicated a heavily
sealed dust-covered bottle which stood with two high glasses upon a salver.
"May I offer you a
glass before your journey?"
"No, thanks. But
it looks like revelry."
"Altamont has a
nice taste in wines, and he took a fancy to my Tokay. He is a touchy fellow and
needs humouring in small things. I have to study him, I assure you." They
had strolled out on to the terrace again, and along it to the further end where
at a touch from the Baron’s chauffeur the great car shivered and chuckled.
"Those are the lights of Harwich, I suppose," said the secretary,
pulling on his dust coat. "How still and peaceful it all seems. There may
be other lights within the week, and the English coast a less tranquil place!
The heavens, too, may not be quite so peaceful if all that the good Zeppelin
promises us comes true. By the way, who is that?"
Only one window showed
a light behind them; in it there stood a lamp, and beside it, seated at a
table, was a dear old ruddy-faced woman in a country cap. She was bending over
her knitting and stopping occasionally to stroke a large black cat upon a stool
beside her.
"That is Martha,
the only servant I have left."
The secretary chuckled.
"She might almost
personify Britannia," said he, "with her complete self- absorption
and general air of comfortable somnolence. Well, au revoir, Von Bork!"
With a final wave of his hand he sprang into the car, and a moment later the
two golden cones from the headlights shot forward through the darkness. The
secretary lay back in the cushions of the luxurious limousine, with his
thoughts so full of the impending European tragedy that he hardly observed that
as his car swung round the village street it nearly passed over a little Ford
coming in the opposite direction.
Von Bork walked slowly
back to the study when the last gleams of the motor lamps had faded into the
distance. As he passed he observed that his old housekeeper had put out her
lamp and retired. It was a new experience to him, the silence and darkness of
his widespread house, for his family and household had been a large one. It was
a relief to him, however, to think that they were all in safety and that, but
for that one old woman who had lingered in the kitchen, he had the whole place
to himself. There was a good deal of tidying up to do inside his study and he
set himself to do it until his keen, handsome face was flushed with the heat of
the burning papers. A leather valise stood beside his table, and into this he
began to pack very neatly and systematically the precious contents of his safe.
He had hardly got started with the work, however, when his quick ears caught
the sound of a distant car. Instantly he gave an exclamation of satisfaction,
strapped up the valise, shut the safe, locked it, and hurried out on to the
terrace. He was just in time to see the lights of a small car come to a halt at
the gate. A passenger sprang out of it and advanced swiftly towards him, while
the chauffeur, a heavily built, elderly man with a gray moustache, settled down
like one who resigns himself to a long vigil.
"Well?" asked
Von Bork eagerly, running forward to meet his visitor.
For answer the man
waved a small brown-paper parcel triumphantly above his head.
"You can give me
the glad hand to-night, mister," he cried. "I’m bringing home the
bacon at last."
"The
signals?"
"Same as I said in
my cable. Every last one of them, semaphore, lamp code, Marconi -- a copy, mind
you, not the original. That was too dangerous. But it’s the real goods, and you
can lay to that." He slapped the German upon the shoulder with a rough
familiarity from which the other winced.
"Come in," he
said. "I’m all alone in the house. I was only waiting for this. Of course
a copy is better than the original. If an original were missing they would
change the whole thing. You think it’s all safe about the copy?"
The Irish-American had
entered the study and stretched his long limbs from the armchair. He was a
tall, gaunt man of sixty, with clear-cut features and a small goatee beard
which gave him a general resemblance to the caricatures of Uncle Sam. A
halfsmoked, sodden cigar hung from the corner of his mouth, and as he sat down
he struck a match and relit it. "Making ready for a move?" he
remarked as he looked round him. "Say, mister," he added, as his eyes
fell upon the safe from which the curtain was now removed, "you don’t tell
me you keep your papers in that?"
"Why not?"
"Gosh, in a
wide-open contraption like that! And they reckon you to be some spy. Why, a
Yankee crook would be into that with a can- opener. If I’d known that any
letter of mine was goin’ to lie loose in a thing like that I’d have been a mug
to write to you at all."
"It would puzzle
any crook to force that safe," Von Bork answered. "You won’t cut that
metal with any tool."
"But the
lock?"
"No, it’s a double
combination lock. You know what that is?"
"Search me,"
said the American.
"Well, you need a
word as well as a set of figures before you can get the lock to work." He
rose and showed a doubleradiating disc round the keyhole. "This outer one
is for the letters, thel inner one for the figures."
"Well, well, that’s
fine."
"So it’s not quite
as simple as you thought. It was four years ago that I had it made, and what do
you think I chose for the word and figures?"
"It’s beyond
me."
"Well, I chose
August for the word, and 1914 for the figures, and here we are."
The American’s face
showed his surprise and admiration.
"My, but that was
smart! You had it down to a fine thing."
"Yes, a few of us
even then could have guessed the date. Here it is, and I’m shutting down
to-morrow morning. "
"Well, I guess you’ll
have to fix me up also. I’m not staying in this gol- darned country all on my
lonesome. In a week or less, from what I see, John Bull will be on his hind
legs and fair ramping. I’d rather watch him from over the water."
"But you’re an
American citizen?"
"Well, so was Jack
James an American citizen, but he’s doing time in Portland all the same. It
cuts no ice with a British copper to tell him you’re an American citizen. ’It’s
British law and order over here,’ says he. By the way, mister, talking of Jack
James, it seems to me you don’t do much to cover your men."
"What do you
mean?" Von Bork asked sharply.
"Well, you are
their employer, ain’t you? It’s up to you to see that they don’t fall down. But
they do fall down, and when did you ever pick them up? There’s James --"
"It was James’s
own fault. You know that yourself. He was too self-willed for the job."
"James was a
bonehead -- I give you that. Then there was Hollis. "
"The man was
mad."
"Well, he went a
bit woozy towards the end. It’s enough to make a man bughouse when he has to
play a part from morning to night with a hundred guys all ready to set the
coppers wise to him. But now there is Steiner --"
Von Bork started
violently, and his ruddy face turned a shade paler.
"What about
Steiner?"
"Well, they’ve got
him, that’s all. They raided his store last night, and he and his papers are
all in Portsmouth jail. You’ll go off and he, poor devil, will have to stand
the racket, and lucky if he gets off with his life. That’s why I want to get
over the water as soon as you do."
Von Bork was a strong,
self-contained man, but it was easy to see that the news had shaken him.
"How could they
have got on to Steiner?" he muttered. "That’s the worst blow
yet."
"Well, you nearly
had a worse one, for I believe they are not far off me."
"You don’t mean
that!"
"Sure thing. My
landlady down Fratton way had some inquiries, and when I heard of it I guessed
it was time for me to hustle. But what I want to know, mister, is how the
coppers know these things? Steiner is the fifth man you’ve lost since I signed
on with you, and I know the name of the sixth if I don’t get a move on. How do
you explain it, and ain’t you ashamed to see your men go down like this?"
Von Bork flushed
crimson.
"How dare you
speak in such a way!"
"If I didn’t dare
things, mister, I wouldn’t be in your service. But I’ll tell you straight what
is in my mind. I’ve heard that with you German politicians when an agent has
done his work you are not sorry to see him put away."
Von Bork sprang to his
feet.
"Do you dare to
suggest that I have given away my own agents!"
"I don’t stand for
that, mister, but there’s a stool pigeon or a cross somewhere, and it’s up to
you to find out where it is. Anyhow I am taking no more chances. It’s me for
little Holland, and the sooner the better."
Von Bork had mastered
his anger.
"We have been
allies too long to quarrel now at the very hour of victory," he said.
"You’ve done splendid work and taken risks, and I can’t forget it. By all
means go to Holland, and you can get a boat from Rotterdam to New York. No
other line will be safe a week from now. I’ll take that book and pack it with
the rest."
The American held the
small parcel in his hand, but made no motion to give it up.
"What about the
dough?" he asked.
"The what?"
"The boodle. The
reward. The 500 pounds. The gunner turned damned nasty at the last, and I had
to square him with an extra hundred dollars or it would have been nitsky for
you and me. ’Nothin’ doin’!’ says he, and he meant it, too, but the last
hundred did it. It’s cost me two hundred pound from first to last, so it isn’t
likely I’d give it up without gettin’ my wad. "
Von Bork smiled with
some bitterness. "You don’t seem to have a very high opinion of my
honour," said he, "you want the money before you give up the
book."
"Well, mister, it
is a business proposition."
"All right. Have
your way." He sat down at the table and scribbled a check, which he tore
from the book, but he refrained from handing it to his companion. "After
all, since we are to be on such terms, Mr. Altamont," said he, "I don’t
see why I should trust you any more than you trust me. Do you understand?"
he added, looking back over his shoulder at the American. "There’s the
check upon the table. I claim the right to examine that parcel before you pick
the money up."
The American passed it
over without a word. Von Bork undid a winding of string and two wrappers of
paper. Then he sat gazing for a moment in silent amazement at a small blue book
which lay before him. Across the cover was printed in golden letters Practical
Handbook of Bee Culture. Only for one instant did the master spy glare at this
strangely irrelevant inscription. The next he was gripped at the back of his
neck by a grasp of iron, and a chloroformed sponge was held in front of his
writhing face.
"Another glass,
Watson!" said Mr. Sherlock Holmes as he extended the bottle of Imperial
Tokay.
The thickset chauffeur,
who had seated himself by the table pushed forward his glass with some
eagerness.
"It is a good
wine, Holmes."
"A remarkable
wine, Watson. Our friend upon the sofa has assured me that it is from Franz
Josef’s special cellar at the Schoenbrunn Palace. Might I trouble you to open
the window for chloroform vapour does not help the palate."
The safe was ajar, and
Holmes standing in front of it was removing dossier after dossier, swiftly
examining each, and then packing it neatly in Von Bork’s valise. The German lay
upon the sofa sleeping stertorously with a strap round his upper arms and
another round his legs. "We need not hurry ourselves, Watson. We are safe
from interruption. Would you mind touching the bell? There is no one in the
house except old Martha, who has played her part to admiration. I got her the
situation here when first I took the matter up. Ah, Martha, you will be glad to
hear that all is well."
The pleasant old lady
had appeared in the doorway. She curtseyed with a smile to Mr. Holmes, but
glanced with some apprehension at the figure upon the sofa.
"It is all right,
Martha. He has not been hurt at all."
"I am glad of
that, Mr. Holmes. According to his lights he has been a kind master. He wanted
me to go with his wife to Germany yesterday, but that would hardly have suited
your plans, would it, sir?"
"No, indeed,
Martha. So long as you were here I was easy in my mind. We waited some time for
your signal to-night."
"It was the
secretary, sir."
"I know. His car
passed ours."
"I thought he
would never go. I knew that it would not suit your plans, sir, to find him
here."
"No, indeed. Well,
it only meant that we waited half an hour or so until I saw your lamp go out
and knew that the coast was clear. You can report to me to-morrow in London,
Martha, at Claridge’s Hotel."
"Very good,
sir."
"I suppose you
have everything ready to leave."
"Yes, sir. He
posted seven letters to-day. I have the addresses as usual."
"Very good,
Martha. I will look into them to-morrow. Good- night. These papers," he
continued as the old lady vanished, "are not of very great imponance, for,
of course, the information which they represent has been sent off long ago to
the German government. These are the originals which could not safely be got
out of the country."
"Then they are of
no use."
"I should not go
so far as to say that, Watson. They will at least show our people what is known
and what is not. I may say that a good many of these papers have come tbrough
me, and I need not add are thoroughly untrustworthy. It would brighten my
declining years to see a German cruiser navigating the Solent according to the
mine-field plans which I have furnished. But you, Watson" -- he stopped
his work and took his old friend by the shoulders -- "I’ve hardly seen you
in the light yet. How have the years used you? You look the same blithe boy as
ever. "
"I feel twenty
years younger, Holmes. I have seldom felt so happy as when I got your wire
asking me to meet you at Harwich with the car. But you, Holmes -- you have
changed very little -- save for that horrible goatee."
"These are the
sacrifices one makes for one’s country, Watson," said Holmes, pulling at
his little tuft. "To-morrow it will be but a dreadful memory. With my hair
cut and a few other superficial changes I shall no doubt reappear at Claridge’s
tomorrow as I was before this American stunt -- I beg your pardon, Watson, my
well of English seems to be permanently defiled -- before this American job
came my way."
"But you have
retired, Holmes. We heard of you as living the life of a hermit among your bees
and your books in a small farm upon the South Downs."
"Exactly, Watson.
Here is the fruit of my leisured ease, the magnum opus of my latter
years!" He picked up the volume from the table and read out the whole
title, Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with Some Observations upon the
Segregation of the Queen. "Alone I did it. Behold the fruit of pensive
nights and laborious days when I watched the little working gangs as once I
watched the criminal world of London."
"But how did you
get to work again?"
"Ah, I have often
marvelled at it myself. The Foreign Minister alone I could have withstood, but
when the Premier also deigned to visit my humble roof! The fact is, Watson,
that this gentleman upon the sofa was a bit too good for our people. He was in
a class by himself. Things were going wrong, and no one could understand why
they were going wrong. Agents were suspected or even caught, but there was
evidence of some strong and secret central force. It was absolutely necessary
to expose it. Strong pressure was brought upon me to look into the matter. It
has cost me two years, Watson, but they have not been devoid of excitement.
When I say that I started my pilgrimage at Chicago, graduated in an Irish
secret society at Buffalo, gave serious trouble to the constabulary at
Skibbareen, and so eventually caught the eye of a subordinate agent of Von
Bork, who recommended me as a likely man, you will realize that the matter was
complex. Since then I have been honoured by his confidence, which has not
prevented most of his plans going subtly wrong and five of his best agents
being in prison. I watched them, Watson, and I picked them as they ripened.
Well, sir, I hope that you are none the worse!"
The last remark was
addressed to Von Bork himself, who after much gasping and blinking had lain
quietly listening to Holmes’s statement. He broke out now into a furious stream
of German invective, his face convulsed with passion. Holmes continued his
swift investigation of documents while his prisoner cursed and swore.
"Though unmusical,
German is the most expressive of all languages," he observed when Von Bork
had stopped from pure exhaustion. "Hullo! Hullo!" he added as he
looked hard at the corner of a tracing before putting it in the box. "This
should put another bird in the cage. I had no idea that the paymaster was such
a rascal, though I have long had an eye upon him. Mister Von Bork, you have a
great deal to answer for."
The prisoner had raised
himself with some difficulty upon the sofa and was staring with a strange
mixture of amazement and hatred at his captor. I shall get level with you,
Altamont," he said, speaking with slow deliberation. "If it takes me
all my life I shall get level with you!"
"The old sweet
song," said Holmes. "How often have I heard it in days gone by. It
was a favourite ditty of the late lamented Professor Moriarty. Colonel
Sebastian Moran has also been known to warble it. And yet I live and keep bees
upon the South Downs."
"Curse you, you
double traitor!" cried the German, straining against his bonds and glaring
murder from his furious eyes.
"No, no, it is not
so bad as that," said Holmes, smiling. "As my speech surely shows
you, Mr. Altamont af Chicago had no existence in fact. I used him and he is
gone."
"Then who are
you?"
"It is really
immaterial who I am, but since the matter seems to interest you, Mr. Von Bork,
I may say that this is not my first acquaintance with the members of your
family. I have done a good deal of business in Germany in the past and my name
is probably familiar to you."
"I would wish to
know it," said the Prussian grimly.
"It was I who
brought about the separation between Irene Adler and the late King of Bohemia
when your cousin Heinrich was the Imperial Envoy. It was I also who saved from
murder, by the Nihilist Klopman, Count Von und Zu Grafenstein, who was your
mother’s elder brother. It was I --"
Von Bork sat up in
amazement.
"There is only one
man," he cried.
"Exactly,"
said Holmes.
Von Bork groaned and
sank back on the sofa. "And most of that information came through
you," he cried. "What is it worth? What have I done? It is my ruin
forever!"
"It is certainly a
little untrustworthy," said Holmes. "It will require some checking
and you have little time to check it. Your admiral may find the new guns rather
larger than he expects, and the cruisers perhaps a trifle faster."
Von Bork clutched at
his own throat in despair.
"There are a good
many other points of defail which will, no doubt, come to light in good time.
But youl have one quality which is very rare in a German, Mr. Von Bork: you are
a sportsman and you will bear me no ill-will when you realize that you, who
have outwitted so many other people, have at last been outwitted yourself.
After all, you have done vour best for your country, and I have done my best
for mine, and what could be more natural? Besides," he added, not
unkindly, as he laid his hand upon the shoulder of the prostrate man, "it
is better than to fall before some more ignoble foe. These papers are now
ready. Watson. If you will help me with our prisoner, I think that we may get
started for London at once."
It was no easy task to
move Von Bork, for he was a strong and a desperate man. Finally, holding either
arm, the two friends walked him very slowly down the garden walk which he had
trod with such proud confidence when he received the congratulations of the
famous diplomatist only a few hours before. After a short, final struggle he
was hoisted, still bound hand and foot, into the spare seat of the little car.
His precious valise was wedged in beside him.
"I trust that you
are as comfortable as circumstances permit," said Holmes when the final
arrangements were made. "Should I be guilty of a liberty if I lit a cigar
and placed it between your lips?"
But all amenities were
wasted upon the angry German.
"I suppose you
realize, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said he, "that if your government
bears you out in this treatment it becomes an act of war."
"What about your
government and all this treatment?" said Holmes, tapping the valise.
"You are a private
individual. You have no warrant for my arrest. The whole proceeding is
absolutely illegal and outrageous."
"Absolutely,"
said Holmes.
"Kidnapping a
German subject."
"And stealing his
private papers."
"Well, you realize
your position, you and your accomplice here. If I were to shout for help as we
pass through the village --"
"My dear sir, if
you did anything so foolish you would probably enlarge the two limited titles
of our village inns by giving us ’The Dangling Prussian’ as a signpost. The
Englishman is a patient creature, but at present his temper is a little
inflamed, and it would be as well not to try him too far. No, Mr. Von Bork, you
will go with us in a quiet, sensible fashion to Scotland Yard, whence you can
send for your friend, Baron Von Herling, and see if even now you may not fill
that place which he has reserved for you in the ambassadorial suite. As to you,
Watson, you are joining us with your old service, as I understand, so London
won’t be out of your way. Stand with me here upon the terrace, for it may be
the last quiet talk that we shall ever have."
The two friends chatted
in intimate converse for a few minutes, recalling once again the days of the
past, while their prisoner vainly wriggled to undo the bonds that held him. As
they turned to the car Holmes pointed back to the moonlit sea and shook a
thoughtful head.
"There’s an east
wind coming, Watson."
"l think not,
Holmes. It is very warm."
"Good old Watson!
You are the one fixed point in a changing age. There’s an east wind coming all
the same, such a wind as never blew on England yet. It will be cold and bitter,
Watson and a good many of us may wither before its blast. But it’s God’s own
wind none the less, and a cleaner, better, stronger land will lie in the
sunshine when the storm has cleared. Start her up, Watson, for it’s time that
we were on our way. I have a check for five hundred pounds which should be
cashed early, for the drawer is quite capable of stopping it if he can."
THE END