Sherlock Holmes book part 2

"Exactly! But does the name Isadora Klein convey nothing to you? She was, of course, the celebrated beauty. There was
never a woman to touch her. She is pure Spanish, the real blood of the masterfui Conquistadors, and her people have been
leaders in Pernambuco for generations. She married the aged German sugar king, Klein, and presently found herself the richest
as well as the most lovely widow upon earth. Then there was an interval of adventure when she pleased her own tastes. She
had several lovers, and Douglas Maberley, one of the most striking men in London, was one of them. It was by all accounts
more than an adventure with him. He was not a society butterfly but a strong, proud man who gave and expected all. But she is
the 'belle dame sans merci' of fiction. When her caprice is satisfied the matter is ended, and if the other party in the matter can't
take her word for it she knows how to bring it home to him."
"Then that was his own story --"
"Ah! you are piecing it together now. I hear that she is about to marry the young Duke of Lomond, who might almost be her
son. His Grace's ma might overlook the age, but a big scandal would be a different matter, so it is imperative -- Ah! here we
are."
It was one of the finest corner-houses of the West End. A machine-like footman took up our cards and returned with word
that the lady was not at home. "Then we shall wait until she is," said Holmes cheerfully.
The machine broke down.
"Not at home means not at home to you," said the footman.
"Good," Holmes answered. "That means that we shall not have to wait. Kindly give this note to your mistress."
He scribbled three or four words upon a sheet of his notebook, folded it, and handed it to the man.
"What did you say, Holmes?" I asked.
"I simply wrote: 'Shall it be the police, then?' I think that should pass us in."
It did -- with amazing celerity. A minute later we were in an Arabian Nights drawing-room, vast and wonderful, in a half gloom,
picked out with an occasional pink electric light. The lady had come, I felt, to that time of life when even the proudest beauty
finds the half light more welcome. She rose from a settee as we entered: tall, queenly, a perfect figure, a lovely mask-like face,
with two wonderful Spanish eyes which looked murder at us both.
"What is this intrusion -- and this insulting message?" she asked, holding up the slip of paper.
"I need not explain, madame. I have too much respect for your intelligence to do so -- though I confess that intelligence has
been surprisingly at fault of late."
"How so, sir?"
"By supposing that your hired bullies could frighten me from my work. Surely no man would take up my profession if it were
not that danger attracts him. It was you, then, who forced me to examine the case of young Maberley."
"I have no idea what you are talking about. What have I to do with hired bullies?"
Holmes turned away wearily.
"Yes, I have underrated your intelligence. Well, good-after- noon!"
"Stop! Where are you going?"
"To Scotland Yard."
We had not got halfway to the door before she had overtaken us and was holding his arm. She had turned in a moment from
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steel to velvet.
"Come and sit down, gentlemen. Let us talk this matter over. I feel that I may be frank with you, Mr. Holmes. You have the
feelings of a gentleman. How quick a woman's instinct is to find it out. I will treat you as a friend."
"I cannot promise to reciprocate, madame. I am not the law, but I represent justice so far as my feeble powers go. I am ready
to listen, and then I will tell you how I will act."
"No doubt it was foolish of me to threaten a brave man like yourself."
"What was really foolish, madame, is that you have placed yourself in the power of a band of rascals who may blackmail or
give you away."
"No, no! I am not so simple. Since I have promised to be frank, I may say that no one, save Barney Stockdale and Susan, his
wife, have the least idea who their employer is. As to them, well, it is not the first --" She smiled and nodded with a charming
coquettish intimacy.
"l see. You've tested them before."
"They are good hounds who run silent."
"Such hounds have a way sooner or later of biting the hand that feeds them. They will be arrested for this burglary. The police
are already after them."
"They will take what comes to them. That is what they are paid for. I shall not appear in the matter."
"Unless I bring you into it."
"No, no, you would not. You are a gentleman. It is a wom- an's secret."
"In the first place, you must give back this manuscript."
She broke into a ripple of laughter and walked to the fireplace. There was a calcined mass which she broke up with the poker.
"Shall I give this back?" she asked. So roguish and exquisite did she look as she stood before us with a challenging smile that I
felt of all Holmes's criminals this was the one whom he would find it hardest to face. However, he was immune from sentiment.
"That seals your fate," he said coldly. "You are very prompt in your actions, madame, but you have overdone it on this
occasion."
She threw the poker down with a clatter.
"How hard you are!" she cried. "May I tell you the whole story?"
"I fancy I could tell it to you."
"But you must look at it with my eyes, Mr. Holmes. You must realize it from the point of view of a woman who sees all her
life's ambition about to be ruined at the last moment. Is such a woman to be blamed if she protects herself?"
"The original sin was yours."
"Yes, yes! I admit it. He was a dear boy, Douglas, but it so chanced that he could not fit into my plans. He wanted marriage --
marriage, Mr. Holmes -- with a penniless commoner. Nothing less would serve him. Then he became pertinacious. Because I
had given he seemed to think that I still must give, and to him only. It was intolerable. At last I had to make him realize it."
"By hiring ruffians to beat him under your own window."
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"You do indeed seem to know everything. Well, it is true. Barney and the boys drove him away, and were, I admit, a little
rough in doing so. But what did he do then? Could I have believed that a gentleman would do such an act? He wrote a book in
which he described his own story. I, of course, was the wolf; he the lamb. It was all there, under different names, of course; but
who in all London would have failed to recognize it? What do you say to that, Mr. Holmes?"
"Well, he was within his rights."
"It was as if the air of Italy had got into his blood and brought with it the old cruel Italian spirit. He wrote to me and sent me a
copy of his book that I might have the torture of anticipation. There were two copies, he said -- one for me, one for his
publisher."
"How did you know the publisher's had not reached him?"
"I knew who his publisher was. It is not his only novel, you know. I found out that he had not heard from Italy. Then came
Douglas's sudden death. So long as that other manuscript was in the world there was no safety for me. Of course, it must be
among his effects, and these would be returned to his mother. I set the gang at work. One of them got into the house as
servant. I wanted to do the thing honestly. I really and truly did. I was ready to buy the house and everything in it. I offered any
price she cared to ask. I only tried the other way when everything else had failed. Now, Mr. Holmes, granting that I was too
hard on Douglas -- and, God knows, I am sorry for it! -- what else could I do with my whole future at stake?"
Sherlock Holmes shrugged his shoulders.
"Well, well," said he, "I suppose I shall have to compound a felony as usual. How much does it cost to go round the world in
first-class style?"
The lady stared in amazement.
"Could it be done on five thousand pounds?"
"Well, I should think so, indeed!"
"Very good. I think you will sign me a check for that, and I will see that it comes to Mrs. Maberley. You owe her a little
change of air. Meantime, lady" -- he wagged a cautionary forefinger -- "have a care! Have a care! You can't play with edged
tools forever without cutting those dainty hands."
The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier
The ideas of my friend Watson, though limited, are exceed- ingly pertinacious. For a long time he has worried me to write an
experience of my own. Perhaps I have rather invited this perse- cution, since I have often had occasion to point out to him how
superficial are his own accounts and to accuse him of pandering to popular taste instead of confining himself rigidly to facts and
figures. "Try it yourself, Holmes!" he has retorted, and I am compelled to admit that, having taken my pen in my hand, I do
begin to realize that the matter must be presented in such a way as may interest the reader. The following case can hardly fail to
do so, as it is among the strangest happenings in my collection though it chanced that Watson had no note of it in his collection.
Speaking of my old friend and biographer, I would take this opportunity to remark that if I burden myself with a companion in
my various little inquiries it is not done out of sentiment or caprice, but it is that Watson has some remarkable characteristics of
his own to which in his modesty he has given small attention amid his exaggerated estimates of my own performances. A
confederate who foresees your conclusions and course of action is always dangerous, but one to whom each development
comes as a perpetual surprise, and to whom the future is always a closed book, is indeed an ideal helpmate.
I find from my notebook that it was in January, 1903, just after the conclusion of the Boer War, that I had my visit from Mr.
James M. Dodd, a big, fresh, sunburned, upstanding Briton. The good Watson had at that time deserted me for a wife, the only
selfish action which I can recall in our association. I was alone.
It is my habit to sit with my back to the window and to place my visitors in the opposite chair, where the light falls full upon
them. Mr. James M. Dodd seemed somewhat at a loss how to begin the interview. I did not attempt to help him, for his silence
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gave me more time for observation. I have found it wise to impress clients with a sense of power, and so I gave him some of
my conclusions.
"From South Africa, sir, I perceive."
"Yes, sir," he answered, with some surprise.
"Imperial Yeomanry, I fancy."
"Exactly."
"Middlesex Corps, no doubt."
"That is so. Mr. Holmes, you are a wizard."
I smiled at his bewildered expression.
"When a gentleman of virile appearance enters my room with such tan upon his face as an English sun could never give, and
with his handkerchief in his sleeve instead of in his pocket, it is not difficult to place him. You wear a short beard, which shows
that you were not a regular. You have the cut of a riding-man. As to Middlesex, your card has already shown me that you are
a stockbroker from Throgmorton Street. What other regiment would you join?"
"You see everything."
"I see no more than you, but I have trained myself to notice what I see. However, Mr. Dodd, it was not to discuss the science
of observation that you called upon me this morning. What has been happening at Tuxbury Old Park?"
"Mr. Holmes --!"
"My dear sir, there is no mystery. Your letter came with that heading, and as you fixed this appointment in very pressing terms
it was clear that something sudden and important had occurred."
"Yes, indeed. But the letter was written in the afternoon, and a good deal has happened since then. If Colonel Emsworth had
not kicked me out --"
"Kicked you out!"
"Well, that was what it amounted to. He is a hard nail, is Colonel Emsworth. The greatest martinet in the Army in his day, and it
was a day of rough language, too. I couldn't have stuck the colonel if it had not been for Godfrey's sake."
I lit my pipe and leaned back in my chair.
"Perhaps you will explain what you are talking about."
My client grinned mischievously.
"I had got into the way of supposing that you knew every- thing without being told," said he. "But I will give you the facts, and I
hope to God that you will be able to tell me what they mean. I've been awake all night puzzling my brain, and the more I think
the more incredible does it become.
"When I joined up in January, 1901 -- just two years ago -- young Godfrey Emsworth had joined the same squadron. He was
Colonel Emsworth's only son -- Emsworth the Crimean V. C. -- and he had the fighting blood in him, so it is no wonder he
volunteered. There was not a finer lad in the regiment. We formed a friendship -- the sort of friendship which can only be made
when one lives the same life and shares the same joys and sorrows. He was my mate -- and that means a good deal in the
Army. We took the rough and the smooth together for a year of hard fighting. Then he was hit with a bullet from an elephant
gun in the action near Diamond Hill outside-Pretoria. I got one letter from the hospital at Cape Town and one from
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Southampton. Since then not a word -- not one word, Mr. Holmes, for six months and more, and he my closest pal.
"Well, when the war was over, and we all got back, I wrote to his father and asked where Godfrey was. No answer. I waited
a bit and then I wrote again. This time I had a reply, short and gruff. Godfrey had gone on a voyage round the world, and it
was not likely that he would be back for a year. That was all.
"I wasn't satisfied, Mr. Holmes. The whole thing seemed to me so damned unnatural. He was a good lad, and he would not
drop a pal like that. It was not like him. Then, again, I happened to know that he was heir to a lot of money, and also that his
father and he did not always hit it off too well. The old man was sometimes a bully, and young Godfrey had too much spirit to
stand it. No, I wasn't satisfied, and I determined that I would get to the root of the matter. It happened, however, that my own
affairs needed a lot of straightening out, after two years' ab- sence, and so it is only this week that I have been able to take up
Godfrey's case again. But since I have taken it up I mean to drop everything in order to see it through."
Mr. James M. Dodd appeared to be the sort of person whom it would be better to have as a friend than as an enemy. His blue
eyes were stern and his square jaw had set hard as he spoke.
"Well, what have you done?" I asked.
"My first move was to get down to his home, Tuxbury Old Park, near Bedford, and to see for myself how the ground lay. I
wrote to the mother, therefore -- I had had quite enough of the curmudgeon of a father -- and I made a clean frontal attack:
Godfrey was my chum, I had a great deal of interest which I might tell her of our common experiences, I should be in the
neighbourhood, would there be any objection, et cetera? In reply I had quite an amiable answer from her and an offer to put
me up for the night. That was what took me down on Monday.
"Tuxbury Old Hall is inaccessible -- five miles from any- where. There was no trap at the station, so I had to walk, carrying my
suitcase, and it was nearly dark before I arrived. It is a great wandering house, standing in a considerable park. I should judge
it was of all sorts of ages and styles, starting on a half-timbered Elizabethan foundation and ending in a Victorian portico. Inside
it was all panelling and tapestry and half-effaced old pictures, a house of shadows and mystery. There was a butler, old Ralph,
who seemed about the same age as the house, and there was his wife, who might have been older. She had been Godfrey's
nurse, and I had heard him speak of her as second only to his mother in his affections, so I was drawn to her in spite of her
queer appearance. The mother I liked also -- a gentle little white mouse of a woman. It was only the colonel himself whom I
barred.
"We had a bit of barney right away, and I should have walked back to the station if I had not felt that it might be playing his
game for me to do so. I was shown straight into his study, and there I found him, a huge, bow-backed man with a smoky skin
and a straggling gray beard, seated behind his littered desk. A red-veined nose jutted out like a vulture's beak, and two fierce
gray eyes glared at me from under tufted brows. I could under- stand now why Godfrey seldom spoke of his father.
" 'Well, sir,' said he in a rasping voice, 'I should be inter- ested to know the real reasons for this visit.'
"I answered that I had explained them in my letter to his wife.
" 'Yes, yes, you said that you had known Godfrey in Africa. We have, of course, only your word for that.'
" 'I have his letters to me in my pocket.'
" 'Kindly let me see them.'
"He glanced at the two which I handed him, and then he tossed them back.
" 'Well, what then?' he asked.
" 'I was fond of your son Godfrey, sir. Many ties and memo- ries united us. Is it not natural that I should wonder at his sudden
silence and should wish to know what has become of him?'
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" 'I have some recollections, sir, that I had already corres- ponded with you and had told you what had become of him. He has
gone upon a voyage round the world. His health was in a poor way after his African experiences, and both his mother and I
were of opinion that camplete rest and change were needed. Kindly pass that explanation on to any other friends who may be
interested in the matter.'
" 'Certainly,' I answered. 'But perhaps you would have the goodness to let me have the name of the steamer and of the line by
which he sailed, together with the date. I have no doubt that I should be able to get a letter through to him.'
"My request seemed both to puzzle and to irritate my host. His great eyebrows came down over his eyes, and he tapped his
fingers impatiently on the table. He looked up at last with the expression of one who has seen his adversary make a dangerous
move at chess, and has decided how to meet it.
" 'Many people, Mr. Dodd,' said he, 'would take offence at your infernal pertinacity and would think that this insistence had
reached the point of damned impertinence.'
" 'You must put it down, sir, to my real love for your son.'
" 'Exactly. I have already made every allowance upon that score. I must ask you, however, to drop these inquiries. Every
family has its own inner knowledge and its own motives, which cannot always be made clear to outsiders, however
well-intentioned. My wife is anxious to hear something of Godfrey's past which you are in a position to tell her, but I would ask
you to let the present and the future alone. Such inquiries serve no useful purpose, sir, and place us in a delicate and difficult
position.'
"So I came to a dead end, Mr. Holmes. There was no getting past it. I could only pretend to accept the situation and register a
vow inwardly that I would never rest until my friend's fate had been cleared up. It was a dull evening. We dined quietly, the
three of us, in a gloomy, faded old room. The lady questioned me eagerly about her son, but the old man seemed morose and
depressed. I was so bored by the whole proceeding that I made an excuse as soon as I decently could and retired to my
bedroom. It was a large, bare room on the ground floor, as gloomy as the rest of the house, but after a year of sleeping upon
the veldt, Mr. Holmes, one is not too particular about one's quarters. I opened the curtains and looked out into the garden,
remarking that it was a fine night with a bright half-moon. Then I sat down by the roaring fire with the lamp on a table beside
me, and endeavoured to distract my mind with a novel. I was interrupted, however, by Ralph, the old butler, who came in with
a fresh supply of coals.
" 'I thought you might run short in the night-time, sir. It is bitter weather and these rooms are cold.'
"He hesitated before leaving the room, and when I looked round he was standing facing me with a wistful look upon his
wrinkled face.
" 'Beg your pardon, sir, but I could not help hearing what you said of young Master Godfrey at dinner. You know, sir, that my
wife nursed him, and so I may say I am his foster-father. It's natural we should take an interest. And you say he carried himself
well, sir?'
" 'There was no braver man in the regiment. He pulled me out once from under the rifles of the Boers, or maybe I should not be
here.'
"The old butler rubbed his skinny hands.
" 'Yes, sir, yes, that is Master Godfrey all over. He was always courageous. There's not a tree in the park, sir, that he has not
climbed. Nothing would stop him. He was a fine boy -- and oh, sir, he was a fine man.'
"I sprang to my feet.
" 'Look here!' I cried. 'You say he was. You speak as if he were dead. What is all this mystery? What has become of Godfrey
Emsworth?'
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"I gripped the old man by the shoulder, but he shrank away.
" 'I don't know what you mean, sir. Ask the master about Master Godfrey. He knows. It is not for me to interfere.'
"He was leaving the room, but I held his arm
" 'Listen,' I said. 'You are going to answer one question before you leave if I have to hold you all night. Is Godfrey dead?"
"He could not face my eyes. He was like a man hypnotized The answer was dragged from his lips. It was a terrible and
unexpected one.
" 'I wish to God he was!' he cried, and, tearing himself free he dashed from the room.
"You will think, Mr. Holmes, that I returned to my chair in no very happy state of mind. The old man's words seemed to me to
bear only one interpretation. Clearly my poor friend had become involved in some criminal or, at the least, disreputable
transaction which touched the family honour. That stern old man had sent his son away and hidden him from the world lest
some scandal should come to light. Godfrey was a reckless fellow. He was easily influenced by those around him. No doubt he
had fallen into bad hands and been misled to his ruin. It was a piteous business, if it was indeed so, but even now it was my
duty to hunt him out and see if I could aid him. I was anxiously pondering the matter when I looked up, and there was Godfrey
Emsworth standing before me."
My client had paused as one in deep emotion.
"Pray continue," I said. "Your problem presents some very unusual features."
"He was outside the window, Mr. Holmes, with his face pressed against the glass. I have told you that I looked out at the night.
When I did so I left the curtains partly open. His figure was framed in this gap. The window came down to the ground and I
could see the whole length of it, but it was his face which held my gaze. He was deadly pale -- never have I seen a man so
white. I reckon ghosts may look like that; but his eyes met mine, and they were the eyes of a living man. He sprang back when
he saw that I was looking at him, and he vanished into the darkness.
"There was something shocking about the man, Mr. Holmes. It wasn't merely that ghastly face glimmering as white as cheese in
the darkness. It was more subtle than that -- something slink- ing, something furtive, something guilty -- something very unlike
the frank, manly lad that I had known. It left a feeling of horror in my mind.
"But when a man has been soldiering for a year or two with brother Boer as a playmate, he keeps his nerve and acts quickly.
Godfrey had hardly vanished before I was at the window. There was an awkward catch, and I was some little time before I
could throw it up. Then I nipped through and ran down the garden path in the direction that I thought he might have taken.
"It was a long path and the light was not very good, but it seemed to me something was moving ahead of me. I ran on and
called his name, but it was no use. When I got to the end of the path there were several others branching in different directions
to various outhouses. I stood hesitating, and as I did so I heard distinctly the sound of a closing door. It was not behind me in
the house, but ahead of me, somewhere in the darkness. That was enough, Mr. Holmes, to assure me that what I had seen was
not a vision. Godfrey had run away from me, and he had shut a door behind him. Of that I was certain.
"There was nothing more I could do, and I spent an uneasy night turning the matter over in my mind and trying to find some
theory which would cover the facts. Next day I found the colonel rather more conciliatory, and as his wife remarked that there
were some places of interest in the neighbourhood, it gave me an opening to ask whether my presence for one more night
would incommode them. A somewhat grudging acquiescence from the old man gave me a clear day in which to make my
observations. I was already perfectly convinced that Godfrey was in hiding somewhere near, but where and why remained to
be solved.
"The house was so large and so rambling that a regiment might be hid away in it and no one the wiser. If the secret lay there it
was difficult for me to penetrate it. But the door which I had heard close was certainly not in the house. I must explore the
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garden and see what I could find. There was no difficulty in the way, for the old people were busy in their own fashion and left
me to my own devices.
"There were several small outhouses, but at the end of the garden there was a detached building of some size -- large enough
for a gardener's or a gamekeeper's residence. Could this be the place whence the sound of that shutting door had come? I
approached it in a careless fashion as though I were strolling aimlessly round the grounds. As I did so, a small, brisk, bearded
man in a black coat and bowler hat -- not at all the gardener type -- came out of the door. To my surprise, he locked it after
him and put the key in his pocket. Then he looked at me with some surprise on his face.
" 'Are you a visitor here?' he asked.
"I explained that I was and that I was a friend of Godfrey's.
" 'What a pity that he should be away on his travels, for he would have so liked to see me,' I continued.
" 'Quite so. Exactly,' said he with a rather guilty air. 'No doubt you will renew your visit at some more propitious time.' He
passed on, but when I turned I observed that he was standing watching me, half-concealed by the laurels at the far end of the
garden.
"I had a good look at the little house as I passed it, but the windows were heavily curtained, and, so far as one could see, it
was empty. I might spoil my own game and even be ordered off the premises if I were too audacious, for I was still conscious
that I was being watched. Therefore, I strolled back to the house and waited for night before I went on with my inquiry. When
all was dark and quiet I slipped out of my window and made my way as silently as possible to the mysterious lodge.
"I have said that it was heavily curtained, but now I found that the windows were shuttered as well. Some light, however, was
breaking through one of them, so I concentrated my attention upon this. I was in luck, for the curtain had not been quite closed,
and there was a crack in the shutter, so that I could see the inside of the room. It was a cheery place enough, a bright lamp and
a blazing fire. Opposite to me was seated the little man whom I had seen in the morning. He was smoking a pipe and reading a
paper."
"What paper?" I asked.
My client seemed annoyed at the interruption of his narrative.
"Can it matter?" he asked.
"It is most essential."
"I really took no notice."
"Possibly you observed whether it was a broad-leafed paper or of that smaller type which one associates with weeklies."
"Now that you mention it, it was not large. It might have been the Spectator. However, I had little thought to spare upon such
details, for a second man was seated with his back to the window, and I could swear that this second man was Godfrey. I
could not see his face, but I knew the familiar slope of his shoulders. He was leaning upon his elbow in an attitude of great
melancholy, his body turned towards the fire. I was hesitating as to what I should do when there was a sharp tap on my
shoulder, and there was Colonel Emsworth beside me.
" 'This way, sir!' said he in a low voice. He walked in silence to the house, and I followed him into my own bedroom. He had
picked up a time-table in the hall.
" There is a train to London at 8:30,' said he. 'The trap will be at the door at eight.'
"He was white with rage, and, indeed, I felt myself in so difficult a position that I could only stammer out a few incoher- ent
apologies in which I tried to excuse myself by urging my anxiety for my friend.
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" 'The matter will not bear discussion,' said he abruptly. 'You have made a most damnable intrusion into the privacy of our
family. You were here as a guest and you have become a spy. I have nothing more to say, sir, save that I have no wish ever to
see you again.'
"At this I lost my temper, Mr. Holmes, and I spoke with some warmth.
" 'I have seen your son, and I am convinced that for some reason of your own you are concealing him from the world. I have
no idea what your motives are in cutting him off in this fashion, but I am sure that he is no longer a free agent. I warn you,
Colonel Emsworth, that until I am assured as to the safety and well-being of my friend I shall never desist in my efforts to get to
the bottom of the mystery, and I shall certainly not allow myself to be intimidated by anything which you may say or do.'
"The old fellow looked diabolical, and I really thought he was about to attack me. I have said that he was a gaunt, fierce old
giant, and though I am no weakling I might have been hard put to it to hold my own against him. However, after a long glare of
rage he turned upon his heel and walked out of the room. For my part, I took the appointed train in the morning, with the full
intention of coming straight to you and asking for your advice and assistance at the appointment for which I had already
written."
Such was the problem which my visitor laid before me. It presented, as the astute reader will have already perceived, few
difficulties in its solution, for a very limited choice of alterna- tives must get to the root of the matter. Still, elementary as it was,
there were points of interest and novelty about it which may excuse my placing it upon record. I now proceeded, using my
familiar method of logical analysis, to narrow down the possible solutions.
"The servants," I asked; "how many were in the house?"
"To the best of my belief there were only the old butler and his wife. They seemed to live in the simplest fashion."
"There was no servant, then, in the detached house?"
"None, unless the little man with the beard acted as such. He seemed, however, to be quite a superior person."
"That seems very suggestive. Had you any indication that food was conveyed from the one house to the other?"
"Now that you mention it, I did see old Ralph carrying a basket down the garden walk and going in the direction of this house.
The idea of food did not occur to me at the moment."
"Did you make any local inquiries?"
"Yes, I did. I spoke to the station-master and also to the innkeeper in the village. I simply asked if they knew anything of my
old comrade, Godfrey Emsworth. Both of them assured me that he had gone for a voyage round the world. He had come
home and then had almost at once started off again. The story was evidently universally accepted."
"You said nothing of your suspicions?"
"Nothing."
"That was very wise. The matter should certainly be inquired into. I will go back with you to Tuxbury Old Park."
"To-day?"
It happened that at the moment I was clearing up the case which my friend Watson has described as that of the Abbey School,
in which the Duke of Greyminster was so deeply in- volved. I had also a commission from the Sultan of Turkey which called
for immediate action, as political consequences of the gravest kind might arise from its neglect. Therefore it was not until the
beginning of the next week, as my diary records, that I was able to start forth on my mission to Bedfordshire in company with
Mr. James M. Dodd. As we drove to Eustonn we picked up a grave and tacitum gentleman of iron-gray aspect, with whom I
had made the necessary arrangements.
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"This is an old friend," said I to Dodd. "It is possible that his presence may be entirely unnecessary, and, on the other hand, it
may be essential. It is not necessary at the present stage to go further into the matter."
The narratives of Watson have accustomed the reader, no doubt, to the fact that I do not waste words or disclose my thoughts
while a case is actually under consideration. Dodd seemed surprised, but nothing more was said, and the three of us continued
our journey together. In the train I asked Dodd one more question which I wished our companion to hear.
"You say that you saw your friend's face quite clearly at the window, so clearly that you are sure of his identity?"
"I have no doubt about it whatever. His nose was pressed against the glass. The lamplight shone full upon him."
"It could not have been someone resembling him?"
"No, no, it was he."
"But you say he was changed?"
"Only in colour. His face was -- how shall I describe it? -- it was of a fish-belly whiteness. It was bleached."
"Was it equally pale all over?"
"I think not. It was his brow which I saw so clearly as it was pressed against the window."
"Did you call to him?"
"I was too startled and horrified for the moment. Then I pursued him, as I have told you, but without result."
My case was practically complete, and there was only one small incident needed to round it off. When, after a considerable
drive, we arrived at the strange old rambling house which my client had described, it was Ralph, the elderly butler, who opened
the door. I had requisitioned the carriage for the day and had asked my elderly friend to remain within it unless we should
summon him. Ralph, a little wrinkled old fellow, was in the conventional costume of black coat and pepper-and-salt trousers,
with only one curious variant. He wore brown leather gloves, which at sight of us he instantly shuffled off, laying them down on
the hall-table as we passed in. I have, as my friend Watson may have remarked, an abnormally acute set of senses, and a faint
but incisive scent was apparent. It seemed to centre on the hall table. I turned, placed my hat there, knocked it off, stooped to
pick it up, and contrived to bring my nose within a foot of the gloves. Yes, it was undoubtedly from them that the curious tarry
odour was oozing. I passed on into the study with my case complete. Alas, that I should have to show my hand so when I tell
my own story! It was by concealing such links in the chain that Watson was enabled to produce his meretricious finales.
Colonel Emsworth was not in his room, but he came quickly enough on receipt of Ralph's message. We heard his quick, heavy
step in the passage. The door was flung open and he rushed in with bristling beard and twisted features, as terrible an old man
as ever I have seen. He held our cards in his hand, and he tore them up and stamped on the fragments.
"Have I not told you, you infernal busybody, that you are warned off the premises? Never dare to show your damned face
here again. If you enter again without my leave I shall be within my rights if I use violence. I'll shoot you, sir! By God, I will! As
to you, sir," turning upon me, "I extend the same warning to you. I am familiar with your ignoble profession, but you must take
your reputed talents to some other field. There is no opening for them here."
"I cannot leave here," said my client firmly, "until I hear from Godfrey's own lips that he is under no restraint."
Our involuntary host rang the bell.
"Ralph," he said, "telephone down to the county police and ask the inspector to send up two constables. Tell him there are
burglars in the house."
"One moment," said I. "You must be aware, Mr. Dodd, that Colonel Emsworth is within his rights and that we have no legal
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status within his house. On the other hand, he should recognize that your action is prompted entirely by solicitude for his son. I
venture to hope that if I were allowed to have five minutes conversation with Colonel Emsworth I could certainly alter his view
of the matter."
"I am not so easily altered," said the old soldier. "Ralph, do what I have told you. What the devil are you waiting for? Ring up
the police!"
"Nothing of the sort," I said, putting my back to the door. "Any police interference would bring about the very catastrophe
which you dread." I took out my notebook and scribbled one word upon a loose sheet. "That," said I as I handed it to Colonel
Emsworth, "is what has brought us here."
He stared at the writing with a face from which every expres- sion save amazement had vanished.
"How do you know?" he gasped, sitting down heavily in his chair.
"It is my business to know things. That is my trade."
He sat in deep thought, his gaunt hand tugging at his strag- gling beard. Then he made a gesture of resignation.
"Well, if you wish to see Godfrey, you shall. It is no doing of mine, but you have forced my hand. Ralph, tell Mr. Godfrey and
Mr. Kent that in five minutes we shall be with them."
At the end of that time we passed down the garden path and found ourselves in front of the mystery house at the end. A small
bearded man stood at the door with a look of considerable astonishment upon his face.
"This is very sudden, Colonel Emsworth," said he. "This will disarrange all our plans."
"I can't help it, Mr. Kent. Our hands have been forced. Can Mr. Godfrey see us?"
"Yes, he is waiting inside." He turned and led us into a large plainly furnished front room. A man was standing with his back to
the fire, and at the sight of him my client sprang forward with outstretched hand.
"Why, Godfrey, old man, this is fine!"
But the other waved him back.
"Don't touch me, Jimmie. Keep your distance. Yes, you may well stare! I don't quite look the smart Lance-Corporal
Emsworth, of B Squadron, do I?"
His appearance was certainly extraordinary. One could see that he had indeed been a handsome man with clear-cut features
sunburned by an African sun, but mottled in patches over this darker surface were curious whitish patches which had bleached
his skin.
"That's why I don't court visitors," said he. "I don't mind you, Jimmie, but I could have done without your friend. I suppose
there is some good reason for it, but you have me at a disadvantage."
"I wanted to be sure that all was well with you, Godfrey. I saw you that night when you looked into my window, and I could
not let the matter rest till I had cleared things up."
"Old Ralph told me you were there, and I couldn't help taking a peep at you. I hoped you would not have seen me, and I had
to run to my burrow when I heard the window go up."
"But what in heaven's name is the matter?"
"Well, it's not a long story to tell," said he, lighting a cigarette. "You remember that morning fight at Buffelsspruit, outside
Pretoria, on the Eastern railway line? You heard I was hit?"
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"Yes, I heard that but I never got particulars."
"Three of us got separated from the others. It was very broken country, you may remember. There was Simpson -- the fellow
we called Baldy Simpson -- and Anderson, and I. We were clear- ing brother Boer, but he lay low and got the three of us.
The other two were killed. I got an elephant bullet through my shoulder. I stuck on to my horse, however, and he galloped
several miles before I fainted and rolled off the saddle.
"When I came to myself it was nightfall, and I raised myself up, feeling very weak and ill. To my surprise there was a house
close beside me, a fairly large house with a broad stoep and many windows. It was deadly cold. You remember the kind of
numb cold which used to come at evening, a deadly, sickening sort of cold, very different from a crisp healthy frost. Well, I
was chilled to the bone, and my only hope seemed to lie in reaching that house. I staggered to my feet and dragged myself
along, hardly conscious of what I did. I have a dim memory of slowly ascending the steps, entering a wide-opened door,
passing into a large room which contained several beds, and throwing myself down with a gasp of satisfaction upon one of
them. It was unmade, but that troubled me not at all. I drew the clothes over my shivering body and in a moment I was in a
deep sleep.
"It was morning when I wakened, and it seemed to me that instead of coming out into a world of sanity I had emerged into
some extraordinary nightmare. The African sun flooded through the big, curtainless windows, and every detail of the great,
bare, whitewashed dormitory stood out hard and clear. In front of me was standing a small, dwarf-like man with a huge,
bulbous head, who was jabbering excitedly in Dutch, waving two horrible hands which looked to me like brown sponges.
Behind him stood a group of people who seemed to be intensely amused by the situation, but a chill came over me as I looked
at them. Not one of them was a normal human being. Every one was twisted or swollen or disfigured in some strange way. The
laughter of these strange monstrosities was a dreadful thing to hear.
"It seemed that none of them could speak English, but the situation wanted clearing up, for the creature with the big head was
growing furiously angry, and, uttering wild-beast cries, he had laid his deformed hands upon me and was dragging me out of
bed, regardless of the fresh flow of blood from my wound. The little monster was as strong as a bull, and I don't know what he
might have done to me had not an elderly man who was clearly in authority been attracted to the room by the hubbub; He said
a few stern words in Dutch, and my persecutor shrank away. Then he turned upon me, gazing at me in the utmost amazement.
" 'How in the world did you come here?' he asked in amaze- ment. 'Wait a bit! I see that you are tired out and that wounded
shoulder of yours wants looking after. I am a doctor, and I'll soon have you tied up. But, man alive! you are in far greater
danger here than ever you were on the battlefield. You are in the Leper Hospital, and you have slept in a leper's bed.'
"Need I tell you more, Jimmie? It seems that in view of the approaching battle all these poor creatures had been evacuated the
day before. Then, as the British advanced, they had been brought back by this, their medical superintendent, who assured me
that, though he believed he was immune to the disease, he would none the less never have dared to do what I had done. He
put me in a private room, treated me kindly, and within a week or so I was removed to the general hospital at Pretoria.
"So there you have my tragedy. I hoped against hope, but it was not until I had reached home that the terrible signs which you
see upon my face told me that I had not escaped. What was I to do? I was in this lonely house. We had two servants whom
we could utterly trust. There was a house where I could live. Under pledge of secrecy, Mr. Kent, who is a surgeon, was
prepared to stay with me. It seemed simple enough on those lines. The alternative was a dreadful one -- segregation for life
among strang- ers with never a hope of release. But absolute secrecy was necessary, or even in this quiet countryside there
would have been an outcry, and I should have been dragged to my horrible doom. Even you, Jimmie -- even you had to be
kept in the dark. Why my father has relented I cannot imagine."
Colonel Emsworth pointed to me.
"This is the gentleman who forced my hand." He unfolded the scrap of paper on which I had written the word "Leprosy." "It
seemed to me that if he knew so much as that it was safer that he should know all."
"And so it was," said I. "Who knows but good may come of it? I understand that only Mr. Kent has seen the patient. May I
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ask, sir, if you are an authority on such complaints, which are, I understand, tropical or semi-tropical in their nature?"
"I have the ordinary knowledge of the educated medical man," he observed with some stiffness.
"I have no doubt, sir, that you are fully competent, but I am sure that you will agree that in such a case a second opinion is
valuable. You have avoided this, I understand, for fear that pressure should be put upon you to segregate the patient."
"That is so," said Colonel Emsworth.
"I foresaw this situation," I explained, "and I have brought with me a friend whose discretion may absolutely be trusted. I was
able once to do him a professional service, and he is ready to advise as a friend rather than as a specialist. His name is Sir
James Saunders."
The prospect of an interview with Lord Roberts would not have excited greater wonder and pleasure in a raw subaltern than
was now reflected upon the face of Mr. Kent.
"I shall indeed be proud," he murmured.
"Then I will ask Sir James to step this way. He is at present in the carriage outside the door. Meanwhile, Colonel Emsworth,
we may perhaps assemble in your study, where I could give the necessary explanations."
And here it is that I miss my Watson. By cunning questions and ejaculations of wonder he could elevate my simple art, which is
but systematized common sense, into a prodigy. When I tell my own story I have no such aid. And yet I will give my process of
thought even as I gave it to my small audience, which included Godfrey's mother in the study of Colonel Emsworth.
"That process," said I, "starts upon the supposition that when you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever
remains, however improbable, must be the truth. It may well be that several explanations remain, in which case one tries test
after test until one or other of them has a convincing amount of support. We will now apply this principle to the case in point.
As it was first presented to me, there were three possible expla- nations of the seclusion or incarceration of this gentleman in an
outhouse of his father's mansion. There was the explanation that he was in hiding for a crime, or that he was mad and that they
wished to avoid an asylum, or that he had some disease which caused his segregation. I could think of no other adequate solutions.
These, then, had to be sifted and balanced against each other.
"The criminal solution would not bear inspection. No un- solved crime had been reported from that district. I was sure of that.
If it were some crime not yet discovered, then clearly it would be to the interest of the family to get rid of the delinquent and
send him abroad rather than keep him concealed at home. I could see no explanation for such a line of conduct.
"Insanity was more plausible. The presence of the second person in the outhouse suggested a keeper. The fact that he locked
the door when he came out strengthened the supposition and gave the idea of constraint. On the other hand, this con- straint
could not be severe or the young man could not have got loose and come down to have a look at his friend. You will
remember, Mr. Dodd, that I felt round for points, asking you, for example, about the paper which Mr. Kent was reading. Had
it been the Lancet or the British Medical Journal it would have helped me. It is not illegal, however, to keep a lunatic upon
private premises so long as there is a qualified person in atten- dance and that the authorities have been duly notified. Why,
then, all this desperate desire for secrecy? Once again I could not get the theory to fit the facts.
"There remained the third possibility, into which, rare and unlikely as it was, everything seemed to fit. Leprosy is not uncommon
in South Africa. By some extraordinary chance this youth might have contracted it. His people would be placed in a very
dreadful position, since they would desire to save him from segregation. Great secrecy would be needed to prevent rumours
from getting about and subsequent interference by the authori- ties. A devoted medical man, if sufficiently paid, would easily be
found to take charge of the sufferer. There would be no reason why the latter should not be allowed freedom after dark.
Bleaching of the skin is a common result of the disease. The case was a strong one -- so strong that I determined to act as if it
were actually proved. When on arriving here I noticed that Ralph, who carries out the meals, had gloves which are impregnated
with disinfectants, my last doubts were removed. A single word showed you, sir, that your secret was discovered, and if I
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wrote rather than said it, it was to prove to you that my discretion was to be trusted."
I was finishing this little analysis of the case when the door was opened and the austere figure of the great dermatologist was
ushered in. But for once his sphinx-like features had relaxed and there was a warm humanity in his eyes. He strode up to
Colonel Emsworth and shook him by the hand.
"It is often my lot to bring ill-tidings and seldom good," said he. "This occasion is the more welcome. It is not leprosy."
"What?"
"A well-marked case of pseudo-leprosy or ichthyosis, a scale- like affection of the skin, unsightly, obstinate, but possibly
curable, and certainly noninfective. Yes, Mr. Holmes, the coin- cidence is a remarkable one. But is it coincidence? Are there
not subtle forces at work of which we know little? Are we assured that the apprehension from which this young man has no
doubt suffered terribly since his exposure to its contagion may not produce a physical effect which simulates that which it fears?
At any rate, I pledge my professional reputation -- But the lady has fainted! I think that Mr. Kent had better be with her until
she recovers from this joyous shock."
The Adventure of the Lion's Mane
It is a most singular thing that a problem which was certainly as abstruse and unusual as any which I have faced in my long
professional career should have come to me after my retirement, and be brought, as it were, to my very door. It occurred after
my withdrawal to my little Sussex home, when I had given myself up entirely to that soothing life of Nature for which I had so
often yearned during the long years spent amid the gloom of London. At this period of my life the good Watson had passed
almost beyond my ken. An occasional week-end visit was the most that I ever saw of him. Thus I must act as my own
chronicler. Ah! had he but been with me, how much he might have made of so wonderful a happening and of my eventual
triumph against every difficulty! As it is, however, I must needs tell my tale in my own plain way, showing by my words each
step upon the difficult road which lay before me as I searched for the mystery of the Lion's Mane.
My villa is situated upon the southern slope of the downs, commanding a great view of the Channel. At this point the coast-line
is entirely of chalk cliffs, which can only be descended by a single, long, tortuous path, which is steep and slippery. At the
bottom of the path lie a hundred yards of pebbles and shingle, even when the tide is at full. Here and there, however, there are
curves and hollows which make splendid swimming- pools filled afresh with each flow. This admirable beach extends for some
miles in each direction, save only at one point where the little cove and village of Fulworth break the line.
My house is lonely. I, my old housekeeper, and my bees have the estate all to ourselves. Half a mile off, however, is Harold
Stackhurst's well-known coaching establishment, The Gables, quite a large place, which contains some score of young fellows
preparing for various professions, with a staff of several masters. Stackhurst himself was a well-known rowing Blue in his day,
and an excellent all-round scholar. He and I were always friendly from the day I came to the coast, and he was the one man
who was on such terms with me that we could drop in on each other in the evenings without an invitation.
Towards the end of July, 1907, there was a severe gale, the wind blowing up-channel, heaping the seas to the base of the cliffs
and leaving a lagoon at the turn of the tide. On the morning of which I speak the wind had abated, and all Nature was newly
washed and fresh. It was impossible to work upon so delightful a day, and I strolled out before breakfast to enjoy the exquisite
air. I walked along the cliff path which led to the steep descent to the beach. As I walked I heard a shout behind me, and there
was Harold Stackhurst waving his hand in cheery greeting.
"What a morning, Mr. Holmes! I thought I should see you out."
"Going for a swim, I see."
"At your old tricks again," he laughed, patting his bulging pocket. "Yes. McPherson started early, and I expect I may find him
there."
Fitzroy McPherson was the science master, a fine upstanding young fellow whose life had been crippled by heart trouble
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following rheumatic fever. He was a natural athlete, however, and excelled in every game which did not throw too great a strain
upon him. Summer and winter he went for his swim, and, as I am a swimmer myself, I have often joined him.
At this moment we saw the man himself. His head showed above the edge of the cliff where the path ends. Then his whole
figure appeared at the top, staggering like a drunken man. The next instant he threw up his hands and, with a terrible cry, fell
upon his face. Stackhurst and I rushed forward -- it may have been fifty yards -- and turned him on his back. He was
obviously dying. Those glazed sunken eyes and dreadful livid cheeks could mean nothing else. One glimmer of life came into his
face for an instant, and he uttered two or three words with an eager air of warning. They were slurred and indistinct, but to my
ear the last of them, which burst in a shriek from his lips, were "the Lion's Mane." It was utterly irrelevant and unintelligible, and
yet I could twist the sound into no other sense. Then he half raised himself from the ground, threw his arms into the air, and fell
forward on his side. He was dead.
My companion was paralyzed by the sudden horror of it, but I, as may well be imagined, had every sense on the alert. And I
had need, for it was speedily evident that we were in the presence of an extraordinary case. The man was dressed only in his
Burberry overcoat, his trousers, and an unlaced pair of canvas shoes. As he fell over, his Burberry, which had been simply
thrown round his shoulders, slipped off, exposing his trunk. We stared at it in amazement. His back was covered with dark red
lines as though he had been terribly flogged by a thin wire scourge. The instrument with which this punishment had been inflicted
was clearly flexible, for the long, angry weals curved round his shoulders and ribs. There was blood dripping down his chin, for
he had bitten through his lower lip in the paroxysm of his agony. His drawn and distorted face told how terrible that agony had
been.
I was kneeling and Stackhurst standing by the body when a shadow fell across us, and we found that Ian Murdoch was by our
side. Murdoch was the mathematical coach at the establish- ment, a tall, dark, thin man, so taciturn and aloof that none can be
said to have been his friend. He seemed to live in some high abstract region of surds and conic sections, with little to connect
him with ordinary life. He was looked upon as an oddity by the students, and would have been their butt, but there was some
strange outlandish blood in the man, which showed itself not only in his coal-black eyes and swarthy face but also in occasional
outbreaks of temper, which could only be described as ferocious. On one occasion, being plagued by a little dog belonging
to McPherson, he had caught the creature up and hurled it through the plate-glass window, an action for which
Stackhurst would certainly have given him his dismissal had he not been a very valuable teacher. Such was the strange complex
man who now appeared beside us. He seemed to be honestly shocked at the sight before him, though the incident of the dog
may show that there was no great sympathy between the dead man and himself.
"Poor fellow! Poor fellow! What can I do? How can I help?"
"Were you with him? Can you tell us what has happened?"
"No, no, I was late this morning. I was not on the beach at all. I have come straight from The Gables. What can I do?"
"You can hurry to the police-station at Fulworth. Report the matter at once."
Without a word he made off at top speed, and I proceeded to take the matter in hand, while Stackhurst, dazed at this tragedy,
remained by the body. My first task naturally was to note who was on the beach. From the top of the path I could see the
whole sweep of it, and it was absolutely deserted save that two or three dark figures could be seen far away moving towards
the village of Fulworth. Having satisfied myself upon this point, I walked slowly down the path. There was clay or soft marl
mixed with the chalk, and every here and there I saw the same footstep, both ascending and descending. No one else had gone
down to the beach by this track that morning. At one place I observed the print of an open hand with the fingers towards the
incline. This could only mean that poor McPherson had fallen as he ascended. There were rounded depressions, too, which
suggested that he had come down upon his knees more than once. At the bottom of the path was the considerable lagoon left
by the retreating tide. At the side of it McPherson had undressed, for there lay his towel on a rock. It was folded and dry, so
that it would seem that, after all, he had never entered the water. Once or twice as I hunted round amid the hard shingle I came
on little patches of sand where the print of his canvas shoe, and also of his naked foot, could be seen. The latter fact proved
that he had made all ready to bathe, though the towel indicated that he had not actually done so.
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And here was the problem clearly defined -- as strange a one as had ever confronted me. The man had not been on the beach
more than a quarter of an hour at the most. Stackhurst had followed him from The Gables, so there could be no doubt about
that. He had gone to bathe and had stripped, as the naked foot- steps showed. Then he had suddenly huddled on his clothes
again -- they were all dishevelled and unfastened -- and he had returned without bathing, or at any rate without drying himself.
And the reason for his change of purpose had been that he had been scourged in some savage, inhuman fashion, tortured until
he bit his lip through in his agony, and was left with only strength enough to crawl away and to die. Who had done this
barbarous deed? There were, it is true, small grottos and caves in the base of the cliffs, but the low sun shone directly into
them, and there was no place for concealment. Then, again, there were those distant figures on the beach. They seemed too far
away to have been connected with the crime, and the broad lagoon in which McPherson had intended to bathe lay between
him and them, lapping up to the rocks. On the sea two or three fishing- boats were at no great distance. Their occupants might
be exam- ined at our leisure. There were several roads for inquiry, but none which led to any very obvious goal.
When I at last returned to the body I found that a little group of wondering folk had gathered round it. Stackhurst was, of
course, still there, and Ian Murdoch had just arrived with Ander- son, the village constable, a big, ginger-moustached man of
the slow, solid Sussex breed -- a breed which covers much good sense under a heavy, silent exterior. He listened to
everything, took note of all we said, and finally drew me aside.
"I'd be glad of your advice, Mr. Holmes. This is a big thing for me to handle, and I'll hear of it from Lewes if I go wrong."
I advised him to send for his immediate superior, and for a doctor; also to allow nothing to be moved, and as few fresh
footmarks as possible to be made, until they came. In the meantime I searched the dead man's pockets. There were his
handkerchief, a large knife, and a small folding card-case. From this projected a slip of paper, which I unfolded and handed to
the constable. There was written on it in a scrawling, feminine hand:
I will be there, you may be sure.
MAUDIE.
It read like a love affair, an assignation, though when and where were a blank. The constable replaced it in the card-case and
returned it with the other things to the pockets of the Burberry. Then, as nothing more suggested itself, I walked back to my
house for breakfast, having first arranged that the base of the cliffs should be thoroughly searched.
Stackhurst was round in an hour or two to tell me that the body had been removed to The Gables, where the inquest would be
held. He brought with him some serious and definite news. As I expected, nothing had been found in the small caves below the
cliff, but he had examined the papers in McPherson's desk and there were several which showed an intimate correspondence
with a certain Miss Maud Bellamy, of Fulworth. We had then established the identity of the writer of the note.
"The police have the letters," he explained. "I could not bring them. But there is no doubt that it was a serious love affair. I see
no reason, however, to connect it with that horrible happening save, indeed, that the lady had made an appointment with him."
"But hardly at a bathing-pool which all of you were in the habit of using," I remarked.
"It is mere chance," said he, "that several of the students were not with McPherson."
"Was it mere chance?"
Stackhurst knit his brows in thought.
"Ian Murdoch held them back," said he. "He would insist upon some algebraic demonstration before breakfast. Poor chap, he
is dreadfully cut up about it all."
"And yet I gather that they were not friends."
"At one time they were not. But for a year or more Murdoch has been as near to McPherson as he ever could be to anyone.
He is not of a very sympathetic disposition by nature."
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"So I understand. I seem to remember your telling me once about a quarrel over the ill-usage of a dog."
"That blew over all right."
"But left some vindictive feeling, perhaps."
"No, no, I am sure they were real friends."
"Well, then, we must explore the matter of the girl. Do you know her?"
"Everyone knows her. She is the beauty of the neighbourhood -- a real beauty, Holmes, who would draw attention
everywhere. I knew that McPherson was attracted by her, but I had no notion that it had gone so far as these letters would
seem to indicate."
"But who is she?"
"She is the daughter of old Tom Bellamy who owns all the boats and bathing-cots at Fulworth. He was a fisherman to start
with, but is now a man of some substance. He and his son William run the business."
"Shall we walk into Fulworth and see them?"
"On what pretext?"
"Oh, we can easily find a pretext. After all, this poor man did not ill-use himself in this outrageous way. Some human hand was
on the handle of that scourge, if indeed it was a scourge which inflicted the injuries. His circle of acquaintances in this lonely
place was surely limited. Let us follow it up in every direction and we can hardly fail to come upon the motive, which in turn
should lead us to the criminal."
It would have been a pleasant walk across the thyme-scented downs had our minds not been poisoned by the tragedy we had
witnessed. The village of Fulworth lies in a hollow curving in a semicircle round the bay. Behind the old-fashioned hamlet several
modern houses have been built upon the rising ground. It was to one of these that Stackhurst guided me.
"That's The Haven, as Bellamy called it. The one with the corner tower and slate roof. Not bad for a man who started with
nothing but -- By Jove, look at that!"
The garden gate of The Haven had opened and a man had emerged. There was no mistaking that tall, angular, straggling figure.
It was Ian Murdoch, the mathematician. A moment later we confronted him upon the road.
"Hullo!" said Stackhurst. The man nodded, gave us a side- ways glance from his curious dark eyes, and would have-passed us,
but his principal pulled him up.
"What were you doing there?" he asked.
Murdoch's face flushed with anger. "I am your subordinate, sir, under your roof. I am not aware that I owe you any account of
my private actions."
Stackhurst's nerves were near the surface after all he had endured. Otherwise, perhaps, he would have waited. Now he lost his
temper completely.
"In the circumstances your answer is pure impertinence, Mr. Murdoch."
"Your own question might perhaps come under the same heading."
"This is not the first time that I have had to overlook your insubordinate ways. It will certainly be the last. You will kindly make
fresh arrangements for your future as speedily as you can."
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"I had intended to do so. I have lost to-day the only person who made The Gables habitable."
He strode off upon his way, while Stackhurst, with angry eyes, stood glaring after him. "Is he not an impossible, intoler- able
man?" he cried.
The one thing that impressed itself forcibly upon my mind was that Mr. Ian Murdoch was taking the first chance to open a path
of escape from the scene of the crime. Suspicion, vague and nebulous, was now beginning to take outline in my mind. Perhaps
the visit to the Bellamys might throw some further light upon the matter. Stackhurst pulled himself together, and we went
forward to the house.
Mr. Bellamy proved to be a middle-aged man with a flaming red beard. He seemed to be in a very angry mood, and his face
was soon as florid as his hair.
"No, sir, I do not desire any particulars. My son here" -- indicating a powerful young man, with a heavy, sullen face, in the
corner of the sitting-room -- "is of one mind with me that Mr. McPherson's attentions to Maud were insulting. Yes, sir, the
word 'marriage' was never mentioned, and yet there were letters and meetings, and a great deal more of which neither of us
could approve. She has no mother, and we are her only guardians. We are determined --"
But the words were taken from his mouth by the appearance of the lady herself. There was no gainsaying that she would have
graced any assembly in the world. Who could have imagined that so rare a flower would grow from such a root and in such an
atmosphere? Women have seldom been an attraction to me, for my brain has always governed my heart, but I could not look
upon her perfect clear-cut face, with all the soft freshness of the downlands in her delicate colouring, without realizing that no
young man would cross her path unscathed. Such was the girl who had pushed open the door and stood now, wide-eyed and
intense, in front of Harold Stackhurst.
"I know already that Fitzroy is dead," she said. "Do not be afraid to tell me the particulars."
"This other gentleman of yours let us know the news," explained the father.
"There is no reason why my sister should be brought into the matter," growled the younger man.
The sister turned a sharp, fierce look upon him. "This is my business, William. Kindly leave me to manage it in my own way. By
all accounts there has been a crime committed. If I can help to show who did it, it is the least I can do for him who is gone."
She listened to a short account from my companion, with a composed concentration which showed me that she possessed
strong character as well as great beauty. Maud Bellamy will always remain in my memory as a most complete and remarkable
woman. It seems that she already knew me by sight, for she turned to me at the end.
"Bring them to justice, Mr. Holmes. You have my sympathy and my help, whoever they may be." It seemed to me that she
glanced defiantly at her father and brother as she spoke.
"Thank you," said I. "I value a woman's instinct in such matters. You use the word 'they.' You think that more than one was
concerned?"
"I knew Mr. McPherson well enough to be aware that he was a brave and a strong man. No single person could ever have
inflicted such an outrage upon him."
"Might I have one word with you alone?"
"I tell you, Maud, not to mix yourself up in the matter," cried her father angrily.
She looked at me helplessly. "What can I do?"
"The whole world will know the facts presently, so there can be no harm if I discuss them here," said I. "I should have
preferred privacy, but if your father will not allow it he must share the deliberations." Then I spoke of the note which had been
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found in the dead man's pocket. "It is sure to be produced at the inquest. May I ask you to throw any light upon it that you
can?"
"I see no reason for mystery," she answered. "We were engaged to be married, and we only kept it secret because Fitzroy's
uncle, who is very old and said to be dying, might have disinherited him if he had married against his wish. There was no other
reason."
"You could have told us," growled Mr. Bellamy.
"So I would, father, if you had ever shown sympathy."
"I object to my girl picking up with men outside her own station."
"It was your prejudice against him which prevented us from telling you. As to this appointment" -- she fumbled in her dress and
produced a crumpled note -- "it was in answer to this."
DEAREST [ran the message]:
The old place on the beach just after sunset on Tuesday.
It is the only time I can get away.
F.M.
"Tuesday was to-day, and I had meant to meet him to-night."
I turned over the paper. "This never came by post. How did you get it?"
"I would rather not answer that question. It has really nothing to do with the matter which you are investigating. But anything
which bears upon that I will most freely answer."
She was as good as her word, but there was nothing which was helpful in our investigation. She had no reason to think that her
fiance had any hidden enemy, but she admitted that she had had several warm admirers.
"May I ask if Mr. Ian Murdoch was one of them?"
She blushed and seemed confused.
"There was a time when I thought he was. But that was all changed when he understood the relations between Fitzroy and
myself."
Again the shadow round this strange man seemed to me to be taking more definite shape. His record must be examined. His
rooms must be privately searched. Stackhurst was a willing collaborator, for in his mind also suspicions were forming. We
returned from our visit to The Haven with the hope that one free end of this tangled skein was already in our hands.
A week passed. The inquest had thrown no light upon the matter and had been adjourned for further evidence. Stackhurst had
made discreet inquiry about his subordinate, and there had been a superficial search of his room, but without result. Personally,
I had gone over the whole ground again, both physically and mentally, but with no new conclusions. In all my chronicles
the reader will find no case which brought me so completely to the limit of my powers. Even my imagination could conceive no
solution to the mystery. And then there came the incident of the dog.
It was my old housekeeper who heard of it first by that strange wireless by which such people collect the news of the
countryside.
"Sad story this, sir, about Mr. McPherson's dog," said she one evening.
I do not encourage such conversations, but the words arrested my attention.
"What of Mr. McPherson's dog?"
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"Dead, sir. Died of grief for its master."
"Who told you this?"
"Why, sir, everyone is talking of it. It took on terrible, and has eaten nothing for a week. Then to-day two of the young
gentlemen from The Gables found it dead -- down on the beach, sir, at the very place where its master met his end."
"At the very place." The words stood out clear in my mem- ory. Some dim perception that the matter was vital rose in my
mind. That the dog should die was after the beautiful, faithful nature of dogs. But "in the very place"! Why should this lonely
beach be fatal to it? Was it possible that it also had been sacrificed to some revengeful feud? Was it possible --? Yes, the
perception was dim, but already something was building up in my mind. In a few minutes I was on my way to The Gables,
where I found Stackhurst in his study. At my request he sent for Sudbury and Blount, the two students who had found the dog.
"Yes, it lay on the very edge of the pool," said one of them. "It must have followed the trail of its dead master."
I saw the faithful little creature, an Airedale terrier, laid out upon the mat in the hall. The body was stiff and rigid, the eyes
projecting, and the limbs contorted. There was agony in every line of it.
From The Gables I walked down to the bathing-pool. The sun had sunk and the shadow of the great cliff lay black across the
water, which glimmered dully like a sheet of lead. The place was deserted and there was no sign of life save for two sea-birds
circling and screaming overhead. In the fading light I could dimly make out the little dog's spoor upon the sand round the very
rock on which his master's towel had been laid. For a long time I stood in deep meditation while the shadows grew darker
around me. My mind was filled with racing thoughts. You have known what it was to be in a nightmare in which you feel that
there is some all-important thing for which you search and which you know is there, though it remains forever just beyond your
reach. That was how I felt that evening as I stood alone by that place of death. Then at last I turned and walked slowly
homeward.
I had just reached the top of the path when it came to me. Like a flash, I remembered the thing for which I had so eagerly and
vainly grasped. You will know, or Watson has written in vain, that I hold a vast store of out-of-the-way knowledge with- out
scientific system, but very available for the needs of my work. My mind is like a crowded box-room with packets of all sorts
stowed away therein -- so many that I may well have but a vague perception of what was there. I had known that there was
something which might bear upon this matter. It was still vague, but at least I knew how I could make it clear. It was
monstrous, incredible, and yet it was always a possibility. I would test it to the full.
There is a great garret in my little house which is stuffed with books. It was into this that I plunged and rummaged for an hour.
At the end of that time I emerged with a little chocolate and silver volume. Eagerly I turned up the chapter of which I had a dim
remembrance. Yes, it was indeed a far-fetched and unlikely proposition, and yet I could not be at rest until I had made sure if it
might, indeed, be so. It was late when I retired, with my mind eagerly awaiting the work of the morrow.
But that work met with an annoying interruption. I had hardly swallowed my early cup of tea and was starting for the beach
when_ I had a call from Inspector Bardle of the Sussex Con- stabulary -- a steady, solid, bovine man with thoughtful eyes,
which looked at me now with a very troubled expression.
"I know your immense experience, sir," said he. "This is quite unofficial, of course, and need go no farther. But I am fairly up
against it in this McPherson case. The question is, shall I make an arrest, or shall I not?"
"Meaning Mr. Ian Murdoch?"
"Yes, sir. There is really no one else when you come to think of it. That's the advantage of this solitude. We narrow it down to
a very small compass. If he did not do it, then who did?"
"What have you against him?"
He had gleaned along the same furrows as I had. There was Murdoch's character and the mystery which seemed to hang
100
round the man. His furious bursts of temper, as shown in the incident of the dog. The fact that he had quarrelled with McPherson
in the past, and that there was some reason to think that he might have resented his attentions to Miss Bellamy. He had all
my points, but no fresh ones, save that Murdoch seemed to be making every preparation for departure.
"What would my position be if I let him slip away with all this evidence against him?" The burly, phlegmatic man was sorely
troubled in his mind.
"Consider," I said, "all the essential gaps in your case. On the morning of the crime he can surely prove an alibi. He had been
with his scholars till the last moment, and within a few minutes of McPherson's appearance he came upon us from behind. Then
bear in mind the absolute impossibility that he could single-handed have inflicted this outrage upon a man quite as strong as
himself. Finally, there is this question of the instru- ment with which these injuries were inflicted."
"What could it be but a scourge or flexible whip of some sort?"
"Have you examined the marks?" I asked.
"I have seen them. So has the doctor."
"But I have examined them very carefully with a lens. They have peculiarities."
"What are they, Mr. Holmes?"
I stepped to my bureau and brought out an enlarged photo- graph. "This is my method in such cases," I explained.
"You certainly do things thoroughly, Mr. Holmes."
"I should hardly be what I am if I did not. Now let us consider this weal which extends round the right shoulder. Do you
observe nothing remarkable?"
"I can't say I do."
"Surely it is evident that it is unequal in its intensity. There is a dot of extravasated blood here, and another there. There are
similar indications in this other weal down here. What can that mean?"
"I have no idea. Have you?"
"Perhaps I have. Perhaps I haven't. I may be able to say more soon. Anything which will define what made that mark will bring
us a long way towards the criminal."
"It is, of course, an absurd idea," said the policeman, "but if a red-hot net of wire had been laid across the back, then these
better marked points would represent where the meshes crossed each other."
"A most ingenious comparison. Or shall we say a very stiff cat-o'-nine-tails with small hard knots upon it?"
"By Jove, Mr. Holmes, I think you have hit it."
"Or there may be some very different cause, Mr. Bardle. But your case is far too weak for an arrest. Besides, we have those
last words -- the 'Lion's Mane.' "
"I have wondered whether Ian --"
"Yes, I have considered that. If the second word had borne any resemblance to Murdoch -- but it did not. He gave it almost in
a shriek. I am sure that it was 'Mane.' "
"Have you no alternative, Mr. Holmes?"

"Perhaps I have. But I do not care to discuss it until there is something more solid to discuss."
"And when will that be?"
"In an hour -- possibly less."
The inspector rubbed his chin and looked at me with dubious eyes.
"I wish I could see what was in your mind, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps it's those fishing-boats."
"No, no, they were too far out."
"Well, then, is it Bellamy and that big son of his? They were not too sweet upon Mr. McPherson. Could they have done him a
mischief?"
"No, no, you won't draw me until I am ready," said I with a smile. "Now, Inspector, we each have our own work to do.
Perhaps if you were to meet me here at midday --"
So far we had got when there came the tremendous interrup- tion which was the beginning of the end.
My outer door was flung open, there were blundering foot- steps in the passage, and Ian Murdoch staggered into the room,
pallid, dishevelled, his clothes in wild disorder, clawing with his bony hands at the furniture to hold himself erect. "Brandy!
Brandy!" he gasped, and fell groaning upon the sofa.
He was not alone. Behind him came Stackhurst, hatless and panting, almost as distrait as his companion.
"Yes, yes, brandy!" he cried. "The man is at his last gasp. It was all I could do to bring him here. He fainted twice upon the
way."
Half a tumbler of the raw spirit brought about a wondrous change. He pushed himself up on one arm and swung his coat from
his shoulders. "For God's sake oil, opium, morphia!" he cried. "Anything to ease this infernal agony!"
The inspector and I cried out at the sight. There, crisscrossed upon the man's naked shoulder, was the same strange reticulated
pattern of red, inflamed lines which had been the death-mark of Fitzroy McPherson.
The pain was evidently terrible and was more than local, for the sufferer's breathing would stop for a time, his face would turn
black, and then with loud gasps he would clap his hand to his heart, while his brow dropped beads of sweat. At any moment
he might die. More and more brandy was poured down his throat, each fresh dose bringing him back to life. Pads of
cotton-wool soaked in salad-oil seemed to take the agony from the strange wounds. At last his head fell heavily upon the
cushion. Ex- hausted Nature had taken refuge in its last storehouse of vitality. It was half a sleep and half a faint, but at least it

was ease from pain.
To question him had been impossible, but the moment we were assured of his condition Stackhurst turned upon me.
"My God!" he cried, "what is it, Holmes? What is it?"
"Where did you find him?"
"Down on the beach. Exactly where poor McPherson met his end. If this man's heart had been weak as McPherson's was, he
would not be here now. More than once I thought he was gone as I brought him up. It was too far to The Gables, so I made
for you."
"Did you see him on the beach?"
"I was walking on the cliff when I heard his cry. He was at the edge of the water, reeling about like a drunken man. I ran down,
threw some clothes about him, and brought him up. For heaven's sake, Holmes, use all the powers you have and spare no
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pains to lift the curse from this place, for life is becoming unendurable. Can you, with all your world-wide reputation, do nothing
for us?"
"I think I can, Stackhurst. Come with me now! And you, Inspector, come along! We will see if we cannot deliver this murderer
into your hands."
Leaving the unconscious man in the charge of my house- keeper, we all three went down to the deadly lagoon. On the shingle
there was piled a little heap of towels and clothes left by the stricken man. Slowly I walked round the edge of the water, my
comrades in Indian file behind me. Most of the pool was quite shallow, but under the cliff where the beach was hollowed out it
was four or five feet deep. It was to this part that a swimmer would naturally go, for it formed a beautiful pellucid green pool as
clear as crystal. A line of rocks lay above it at the base of the cliff, and along this I led the way, peering eagerly into the depths
beneath me. I had reached the deepest and stillest pool when my eyes caught that for which they were searching, and I burst
into a shout of triumph.
"Cyanea!" I cried. "Cyanea! Behold the Lion's Mane!"
The strange object at which I pointed did indeed look like a tangled mass torn from the mane of a lion. It lay upon a rocky shelf
some three feet under the water, a curious waving, vibrat- ing, hairy creature with streaks of silver among its yellow tresses. It
pulsated with a slow, heavy dilation and contraction.
"It has done mischief enough. Its day is over!" I cried. "Help me, Stackhurst! Let us end the murderer forever."
There was a big boulder just above the ledge, and we pushed it until it fell with a tremendous splash into the water. When the
ripples had cleared we saw that it had settled upon the ledge below. One flapping edge of yellow membrane showed that our
victim was beneath it. A thick oily scum oozed out from below the stone and stained the water round, rising slowly to the
surface.
"Well, this gets me!" cried the inspector. "What was it, Mr. Holmes? I'm born and bred in these parts, but I never saw such a
thing. It don't belong to Sussex."
"Just as well for Sussex," I remarked. "It may have been the southwest gale that brought it up. Come back to my house, both
of you, and I will give you the terrible experience of one who has good reason to remember his own meeting with the same
peril of the seas."
When we reached my study we found that Murdoch was so far recovered that he could sit up. He was dazed in mind, and
every now and then was shaken by a paroxysm of pain. In broken words he explained that he had no notion what had
occurred to him, save that terrific pangs had suddenly shot through him, and that it had taken all his fortitude to reach the bank.
"Here is a book," I said, taking up the little volume, "which first brought light into what might have been forever dark. It is Out
of Doors, by the famous observer, J. G. Wood. Wood himself very nearly perished from contact with this vile creature, so he
wrote with a very full knowledge. Cyanea capillata is the miscreant's full name, and he can be as dangerous to life as, and far
more painful than, the bite of the cobra. Let me briefly give this extract.
"If the bather should see a loose roundish mass of tawny
membranes and fibres, something like very large handfuls
of lion's mane and silver paper, let him beware, for this is
the fearful stinger, Cyanea capillata. Could our sinister acquaintance be more clearly described?
"He goes on to tell of his own encounter with one when swimming off the coast of Kent. He found that the creature radiated
almost invisible filaments to the distance of fifty feet, and that anyone within that circumference from the deadly centre was in
danger of death. Even at a distance the effect upon Wood was almost fatal.
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"The multitudinous threads caused light scarlet lines upon
the skin which on closer examination resolved into minute
dots or pustules, each dot charged as it were with a red-hot
needle making its way through the nerves.
"The local pain was, as he explains, the least part of the exquisite torment.
"Pangs shot through the chest, causing me to fall as if
struck by a bullet. The pulsation would cease, and then the
heart would give six or seven leaps as if it would force its
way through the chest.
"It nearly killed him, although he had only been exposed to it in the disturbed ocean and not in the narrow calm waters of a
bathing-pool. He says that he could hardly recognize himself afterwards, so white, wrinkled and shrivelled was his face. He
gulped down brandy, a whole bottleful, and it seems to have saved his life. There is the book, Inspector. I leave it with you,
and you cannot doubt that it contains a full explanation of the tragedy of poor McPherson."
"And incidentally exonerates me," remarked Ian Murdoch with a wry smile. "I do not blame you, Inspector, nor you, Mr.
Holmes, for your suspicions were natural. I feel that on the very eve of my arrest I have only cleared myself by sharing the fate
of my poor friend."
"No, Mr. Murdoch. I was already upon the track, and had I been out as early as I intended I might well have saved you from
this terrific experience."
"But how did you know, Mr. Holmes?"
"I am an omnivorous reader with a strangely retentive mem- ory for trifles. That phrase 'the Lion's Mane' haunted my mind. I
knew that I had seen it somewhere in an unexpected context. You have seen that it does describe the creature. I have no doubt
that it was floating on the water when McPherson saw it, and that this phrase was the only one by which he could convey to us
a warning as to the creature which had been his death."
"Then I, at least, am cleared," said Murdoch, rising slowly to his feet. "There are one or two words of explanation which I
should give, for I know the direction in which your inquiries have run. It is true that I loved this lady, but from the day when she
chose my friend McPherson my one desire was to help her to happiness. I was well content to stand aside and act as their
go-between. Often I carried their messages, and it was because I was in their confidence and because she was so dear to me
that I hastened to tell her of my friend's death, lest someone should forestall me in a more sudden and heartless manner. She
would not tell you, sir, of our relations lest you should disapprove and I might suffer. But with your leave I must try to get back
to The Gables, for my bed will be very welcome."
Stackhurst held out his hand. "Our nerves have all been at concert-pitch," said he. "Forgive what is past, Murdoch. We shall
understand each other better in the future." They passed out together with their arms linked in friendly fashion. The inspector
remained, staring at me in silence with his ox-like eyes.
"Well, you've done it!" he cried at last. "I had read of you, but I never believed it. It's wonderful!"
I was forced to shake my head. To accept such praise was to lower one's own standards.
"I was slow at the outset -- culpably slow. Had the body been found in the water I could hardly have missed it. It was the
towel which misled me. The poor fellow had never thought to dry himself, and so I in turn was led to believe that he had never
104
been in the water. Why, then, should the attack of any water creature suggest itself to me? That was where I went astray. Well,
well, Inspector, I often ventured to chaff you gentlemen of the police force, but Cyanea capillata very nearly avenged Scotland
Yard."
The Adventure of the Retired Colourman
Sherlock Holmes was in a melancholy and philosophic mood that morning. His alert practical nature was subject to such
reactions.
"Did you see him?" he asked.
"You mean the old fellow who has just gone out?"
"Precisely."
"Yes, I met him at the door."
"What did you think of him?"
"A pathetic, futile, broken creature."
"Exactly, Watson. Pathetic and futile. But is not all life pathetic and futile? Is not his story a microcosm of the whole? We reach.
We grasp. And what is left in our hands at the end? A shadow. Or worse than a shadow -- misery."
"Is he one of your clients?"
"Well, I suppose I may call him so. He has been sent on by the Yard. Just as medical men occasionally send their incurables to
a quack. They argue that they can do nothing more, and that whatever happens the patient can be no worse than he is."
"What is the matter?"
Holmes took a rather soiled card from the table. "Josiah Amberley. He says he was junior partner of Brickfall and Amberley,
who are manufacturers of artistic materials. You will see their names upon paint-boxes. He made his little pile, retired from
business at the age of sixty-one, bought a house at Lewisham. and settled down to rest after a life of ceaseless grind. One
would think his future was tolerably assured."
"Yes, indeed."
Holmes glanced over some notes which he had scribbled upon the back of an envelope.
"Retired in 1896, Watson. Early in 1897 he married a woman twenty years younger than himself -- a good-looking woman,
too. if the photograph does not flatter. A competence, a wife, leisure -- it seemed a straight road which lay before him. And yet
within two years he is, as you have seen, as broken and miserable a creature as crawls beneath the sun."
"But what has happened?"
"The old story, Watson. A treacherous friend and a fickle wife. It would appear that Amberley has one hobby in life, and it is
chess. Not far from him at Lewisham there lives a young doctor who is also a chess-player. I have noted his name as Dr. Ray
Ernest. Ernest was frequently in the house, and an intimacy between him and Mrs. Amberley was a natural sequence, for you
must admit that our unfortunate client has few outward graces, whatever his inner virtues may be. The couple went off together
last week -- destination untraced. What is more, the faithless spouse carried off the old man's deed-box as her personal luggage
with a good part of his life's savings within. Can we find the lady? Can we save the money? A commonplace problem so
far as it has developed, and yet a vital one for Josiah Amberley."
"What will you do about it?"
105
"Well, the immediate question, my dear Watson, happens to be, What will you do? -- if you will be good enough to understudy
me. You know that I am preoccupied with this case of the two Coptic Patriarchs, which should come to a head to-day. I
really have not time to go out to Lewisham, and yet evidence taken on the spot has a special value. The old fellow was quite
insistent that I should go, but I explained my difficulty. He is prepared to meet a representative."
"By all means," I answered. "I confess I don't see that I can be of much service, but I am willing to do my best." And so it was
that on a summer afternoon I set forth to Lewisham, little dreaming that within a week the affair in which I was engaging would
be the eager debate of all England.
It was late that evening before I returned to Baker Street and gave an account of my mission. Holmes lay with his gaunt figure
stretched in his deep chair, his pipe curling forth slow wreaths of acrid tobacco, while his eyelids drooped over his eyes so
lazily that he might almost have been asleep were it not that at any halt or questionable passage of my narrative they half lifted,
and two gray eyes, as bright and keen as rapiers, transfixed me with their searching glance.
"The Haven is the name of Mr. Josiah Amberley's house," I explained. "I think it would interest you, Holmes. It is like some
penurious patrician who has sunk into the company of his inferi- ors. You know that particular quarter, the monotonous brick
streets, the weary suburban highways. Right in the middle of them, a little island of ancient culture and comfort, lies this old
home, surrounded by a high sun-baked wall mottled with lichens and topped with moss, the sort of wall --"
"Cut out the poetry, Watson," said Holmes severely. "I note that it was a high brick wall."
"Exactly. I should not have known which was The Haven had I not asked a lounger who was smoking in the street. I have a
reason for mentioning him. He was a tall, dark, heavily moustached, rather military-looking man. He nodded in answer to my
inquiry and gave me a curiously questioning glance, which came back to my memory a little later.
"I had hardly entered the gateway before I saw Mr. Amberley coming down the drive. I only had a glimpse of him this morning,
and he certainly gave me the impression of a strange creature, but when I saw him in full light his appearance was even more
abnormal."
"I have, of course, studied it, and yet I should be interested to have your impression," said Holmes.
"He seemed to me like a man who was literally bowed down by care. His back was curved as though he carried a heavy
burden. Yet he was not the weakling that I had at first imagined, for his shoulders and chest have the framework of a giant,
though his figure tapers away into a pair of spindled legs."
"Left shoe wrinkled, right one smooth."
"I did not observe that."
"No, you wouldn't. I spotted his artificial limb. But proceed."
"I was struck by the snaky locks of grizzled hair which curled from under his old straw hat, and his face with its fierce, eager
expression and the deeply lined features."
"Very good, Watson. What did he say?"
"He began pouring out the story of his grievances. We walked down the drive together, and of course I took a good look
round. I have never seen a worse-kept place. The garden was all run- ning to seed, giving me an impression of wild neglect in
which the plants had been allowed to find the way of Nature rather than of art. How any decent woman could have tolerated
such a state of things, I don't know. The house, too, was slatternly to the last degree, but the poor man seemed himself to be
aware of it and to be trying to remedy it, for a great pot of green paint stood in the centre of the hall, and he was carrying a
thick brush in his left hand. He had been working on the woodwork.
"He took me into his dingy sanctum, and we had a long chat. Of course, he was disappointed that you had not come yourself.
106
'I hardly expected,' he said, 'that so humble an individual as myself, especially after my heavy financial loss, could obtain the
complete attention of so famous a man as Mr. Sherlock Holmes.'
"I assured him that the financial question did not arise. 'No of course, it is art for art's sake with him,' said he, 'but even on the
artistic side of crime he might have found something here to study. And human nature, Dr. Watson -- the black ingratitude of it
all! When did I ever refuse one of her requests? Was ever a woman so pampered? And that young man -- he might have been
my own son. He had the run of my house. And yet see how they have treated me! Oh, Dr. Watson, it is a dreadful, dreadful
world!'
"That was the burden of his song for an hour or more. He had, it seems, no suspicion of an intrigue. They lived alone save for a
woman who comes in by the day and leaves every evening at six. On that particular evening old Amberley, wishing to give his
wife a treat, had taken two upper circle seats at the Haymarket Theatre. At the last moment she had complained of a headache
and had refused to go. He had gone alone. There seemed to be no doubt about the fact, for he produced the unused ticket
which he had taken for his wife."
"That is remarkable -- most remarkable," said Holmes, whose interest in the case seemed to be rising. "Pray continue, Watson.
I find your narrative most arresting. Did you personally examine this ticket? You did not, perchance, take the number?"
"It so happens that I did," I answered with some pride. "It chanced to be my old school number, thirty-one, and so is stuck in
my head."
"Excellent, Watson! His seat, then, was either thirty or thirty-two."
"Quite so," I answered with some mystification. "And on B row."
"That is most satisfactory. What else did he tell you?"
"He showed me his strong-room, as he called it. It really is a strong-room -- like a bank -- with iron door and shutter --
burglar- proof, as he claimed. However, the woman seems to have had a duplicate key, and between them they had carried off
some seven thousand pounds' worth of cash and securities."
"Securities! How could they dispose of those?"
"He said that he had given the police a list and that he hoped they would be unsaleable. He had got back from the theatre about
midnight and found the place plundered, the door and window open, and the fugitives gone. There was no letter or message,
nor has he heard a word since. He at once gave the alarm to the police."
Holmes brooded for some minutes.
"You say he was painting. What was he painting?"
"Well, he was painting the passage. But he had already painted the door and woodwork of this room I spoke of."
"Does it not strike you as a strange occupation in the circumstances?"
" 'One must do something to ease an aching heart.' That was his own explanation. It was eccentric, no doubt, but he is clearly
an eccentric man. He tore up one of his wife's photographs in my presence -- tore it up furiously in a tempest of passion. 'I
never wish to see her damned face again,' he shrieked."
"Anything more, Watson?"
"Yes, one thing which struck me more than anything else. I had driven to the Blackheath Station and had caught my train there
when, just as it was starting, I saw a man dart into the carriage next to my own. You know that I have a quick eye for faces,
Holmes. It was undoubtedly the tall, dark man whom I had addressed in the street. I saw him once more at London Bridge,
and then I lost him in the crowd. But I am convinced that he was following me."
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"No doubt! No doubt!" said Holmes. "A tall, dark, heavily moustached man, you say, with gray-tinted sun-glasses?"
"Holmes, you are a wizard. I did not say so, but he had gray-tinted sun-glasses."
"And a Masonic tie-pin?"
"Holmes!"
"Quite simple, my dear Watson. But let us get down to what is practical. I must admit to you that the case, which seemed to
me to be so absurdly simple as to be hardly worth my notice, is rapidly assuming a very different aspect. It is true that though in
your mission you have missed everything of importance, yet even those things which have obtruded themselves upon your
notice give rise to serious thought."
"What have I missed?"
"Don't be hurt, my dear fellow. You know that I am quite impersonal. No one else would have done better. Some possibly not
so well. But clearly you have missed some vital points. What is the opinion of the neighbours about this man Amberley and his
wife? That surely is of importance. What of Dr. Ernest? Was he the gay Lothario one would expect? With your natural advantages,
Watson, every lady is your helper and accomplice. What about the girl at the post-office, or the wife of the greengrocer?
I can picture you whispering soft nothings with the young lady at the Blue Anchor, and receiving hard somethings in exchange.
All this you have left undone."
"It can still be done."
"It has been done. Thanks to the telephone and the help of the Yard, I can usually get my essentials without leaving this room.
As a matter of fact, my information confirms the man's story. He has the local repute of being a miser as well as a harsh and
exacting husband. That he had a large sum of money in that strong-room of his is certain. So also is it that young Dr. Ernest, an
unmarried man, played chess with Amberley, and probably played the fool with his wife. All this seems plain sailing, and one
would think that there was no more to be said -- and yet! -- and yet!"
"Where lies the difficulty?"
"In my imagination, perhaps. Well, leave it there, Watson. Let us escape from this weary workaday world by the side door of
music. Carina sings to-night at the Albert Hall, and we still have time to dress, dine, and enjoy."
In the morning I was up betimes, but some toast crumbs and two empty eggshells told me that my companion was earlier still. I
found a scribbled note upon the table.
DEAR WATSON:
There are one or two points of contact which I should
wish to establish with Mr. Josiah Amberley. When I have
done so we can dismiss the case -- or not. I would only ask
you to be on hand about three o'clock, as I conceive it
possible that I may want you.
S.H.
I saw nothing of Holmes all day, but at the hour named he returned, grave, preoccupied, and aloof. At such times it was wiser
to leave him to himself.
"Has Amberley been here yet?"
"No."
"Ah! I am expecting him."
He was not disappointed, for presently the old fellow arrived with a very worried and puzzled expression upon his austere face.
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"I've had a telegram, Mr. Holmes. I can make nothing of it." He handed it over, and Holmes read it aloud.
"Come at once without fail. Can give you information as
to your recent loss.
"ELMAN.
"The Vicarage.
"Dispatched at 2:10 from Little Purlington," said Holmes. "Little Purlington is in Essex, I believe, not far from Frinton. Well, of
course you will start at once. This is evidently from a responsible person, the vicar of the place. Where is my Crockford? Yes,
here we have him: 'J. C. Elman, M. A., Living of Moosmoor cum Little Purlington.' Look up the trains, Watson."
"There is one at 5:20 from Liverpool Street."
"Excellent. You had best go with him, Watson. He may need help or advice. Clearly we have come to a crisis in this affair."
But our client seemed by no means eager to start.
"It's perfectly absurd, Mr. Holmes," he said. "What can this man possibly know of what has occurred? It is waste of time and
money."
"He would not have telegraphed to you if he did not know something. Wire at once that you are coming."
"I don't think I shall go."
Holmes assumed his sternest aspect.
"It would make the worst possible impression both on the police and upon myself, Mr. Amberley, if when so obvious a clue
arose you should refuse to follow it up. We should feel that you were not really in earnest in this investigation."
Our client seemed horrified at the suggestion.
"Why, of course I shall go if you look at it in that way," said he. "On the face of it, it seems absurd to suppose that this parson
knows anything, but if you think --"
"I do think," said Holmes with emphasis, and so we were launched upon our journey. Holmes took me aside before we left the
room and gave me one word of counsel, which showed that he considered the matter to be of importance. "Whatever you do,
see that he really does go," said he. "Should he break away or return, get to the nearest telephone exchange and send the single
word 'Bolted.' I will arrange here that it shall reach me wherever I am."
Little Purlington is not an easy place to reach, for it is on a branch line. My remembrance of the journey is not a pleasant one,
for the weather was hot, the train slow, and my companion sullen and silent, hardly talking at all save to make an occasional
sardonic remark as to the futility of our proceedings. When we at last reached the little station it was a two-mile drive before
we came to the Vicarage, where a big, solemn, rather pompous clergyman received us in his study. Our telegram lay before
him.
"Well, gentlemen," he asked, "what can I do for you?"
"We came," I explained, "in answer to your wire."
"My wire! I sent no wire."
"I mean the wire which you sent to Mr. Josiah Amberley about his wife and his money."
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"If this is a joke, sir, it is a very questionable one," said the vicar angrily. "I have never heard of the gentleman you name, and I
have not sent a wire to anyone."
Our client and I looked at each other in amazement.
"Perhaps there is some mistake," said I; "are there perhaps two vicarages? Here is the wire itself, signed Elman and dated from
the Vicarage."
"There is only one vicarage, sir, and only one vicar, and this wire is a scandalous forgery, the origin of which shall certainly be
investigated by the police. Meanwhile, I can see no possible object in prolonging this interview."
So Mr. Amberley and I found ourselves on the roadside in what seemed to me to be the most primitive village in England. We
made for the telegraph office, but it was already closed. There was a telephone, however, at the little Railway Arms, and by it I
got into touch with Holmes, who shared in our amazement at the result of our journey.
"Most singular!" said the distant voice. "Most remarkable! I much fear, my dear Watson, that there is no return train to-night. I
have unwittingly condemned you to the horrors of a country inn. However, there is always Nature, Watson -- Nature and
Josiah Amberley -- you can be in close commune with both." I heard his dry chuckle as he turned away.
It was soon apparent to me that my companion's reputation as a miser was not undeserved. He had grumbled at the expense of
the journey, had insisted upon travelling third-class, and was now clamorous in his objections to the hotel bill. Next morning,
when we did at last arrive in London, it was hard to say which of us was in the worse humour.
"You had best take Baker Street as we pass," said I. "Mr. Holmes may have some fresh instructions."
"If they are not worth more than the last ones they are not of much use," said Amberley with a malevolent scowl. None the less,
he kept me company. I had already warned Holmes by telegram of the hour of our arrival, but we found a message waiting that
he was at Lewisham and would expect us there. That was a surprise, but an even greater one was to find that he was not alone
in the sitting-room of our client. A stern-looking, impassive man sat beside him, a dark man with gray-tinted glasses and a large
Masonic pin projecting from his tie.
"This is my friend Mr. Barker," said Holmes. "He has been interesting himself also in your business, Mr. Josiah Amberley,
though we have been working independently. But we both have the same question to ask you!"
Mr. Amberley sat down heavily. He sensed impending dan- ger. I read it in his straining eyes and his twitching features.
"What is the question, Mr. Holmes?"
"Only this: What did you do with the bodies?"
The man sprang to his feet with a hoarse scream. He clawed into the air with his bony hands. His mouth was open, and for the
instant he looked like some horrible bird of prey. In a flash we got a glimpse of the real Josiah Amberley, a misshapen demon
with a soul as distorted as his body. As he fell back into his chair he clapped his hand to his lips as if to stifle a cough. Holmes
sprang at his throat like a tiger and twisted his face towards the ground. A white pellet fell from between his gasping lips.
"No short cuts, Josiah Amberley. Things must be done de- cently and in order. What about it, Barker?"
"I have a cab at the door," said our taciturn companion.
"It is only a few hundred yards to the station. We will go together. You can stay here, Watson. I shall be back within half an
hour."
The old colourman had the strength of a lion in that great trunk of his, but he was helpless in the hands of the two experienced
man-handlers. Wriggling and twisting he was dragged to the waiting cab, and I was left to my solitary vigil in the ill-omened
house. In less time than he had named, however, Holmes was back, in company with a smart young police inspector.
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"I've left Barker to look after the formalities," said Holmes. "You had not met Barker, Watson. He is my hated rival upon the
Surrey shore. When you said a tall dark man it was not difficult for me to complete the picture. He has several good cases to
his credit, has he not, Inspector?"
"He has certainly interfered several times," the inspector answered with reserve.
"His methods are irregular, no doubt, like my own. The irregulars are useful sometimes, you know. You, for example, with your
compulsory warning about whatever he said being used against him, could never have bluffed this rascal into what is virtually a
confession."
"Perhaps not. But we get there all the same, Mr. Holmes. Don't imagine that we had not formed our own views of this case,
and that we would not have laid our hands on our man. You will excuse us for feeling sore when you jump in with methods
which we cannot use, and so rob us of the credit."
"There shall be no such robbery, MacKinnon. I assure you that I efface myself from now onward, and as to Barker, he has
done nothing save what I told him."
The inspector seemed considerably relieved.
"That is very handsome of you, Mr. Holmes. Praise or blame can matter little to you, but it is very different to us when the
newspapers begin to ask questions."
"Quite so. But they are pretty sure to ask questions anyhow, so it would be as well to have answers. What will you say, for
example, when the intelligent and enterprising reporter asks you what the exact points were which aroused your suspicion, and
finally gave you a certain conviction as to the real facts?"
The inspector looked puzzled.
"We don't seem to have got any real facts yet, Mr. Holmes. You say that the prisoner, in the presence of three witnesses,
practically confessed by trying to commit suicide, that he had murdered his wife and her lover. What other facts have you?"
"Have you arranged for a search?"
"There are three constables on their way."
"Then you will soon get the clearest fact of all. The bodies cannot be far away. Try the cellars and the garden. It should not
take long to dig up the likely places. This house is older than the water-pipes. There must be a disused well somewhere. Try
your luck there."
"But how did you know of it, and how was it done?"
"I'll show you first how it was done, and then I will give the explanation which is due to you, and even more to my longsuffering
friend here, who has been invaluable throughout. But, first, I would give you an insight into this man's mentality. It is a
very unusual one -- so much so that I think his destination is more likely to be Broadmoor than the scaffold. He has, to a high
degree, the sort of mind which one associates with the mediaeval Italian nature rather than with the modern Briton. He was a
miserable miser who made his wife so wretched by his niggardly ways that she was a ready prey for any adventurer. Such a
one came upon the scene in the person of this chess-playing doctor. Amberley excelled at chess -- one mark, Watson, of a
scheming mind. Like all misers, he was a jealous man, and his jealousy became a frantic mania. Rightly or wrongly, he
suspected an intrigue. He determined to have his revenge, and he planned it with diabolical cleverness. Come here!"
Holmes led us along the passage with as much certainty as if he had lived in the house and halted at the open door of the
strong-room.
"Pooh! What an awful smell of paint!" cried the inspector.
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"That was our first clue," said Holmes. "You can thank Dr. Watson's observation for that, though he failed to draw the
inference. It set my foot upon the trail. Why should this man at such a time be filling his house with strong odours? Obviously,
to cover some other smell which he wisfhed to conceal -- some guilty smell which would suggest suspicions. Then came the
idea of a room such as you see here with iron door and shutter -- a hermetically sealed room. Put those two facts together, and
whither do they lead? I could only determine that by examining the house myself. I was already certain that the case was
serious, for I had examined the box-office chart at the Haymarket Theatre -- another of Dr. Watson's bull's-eyes -- and
ascertained that nei- ther B thirty nor thirty-two of the upper circle had been occupied that night. Therefore, Amberley had not
been to the theatre, and his alibi fell to the ground. He made a bad slip when he allowed my astute friend to notice the number
of the seat taken for his wife. The question now arose how I might be able to examine the house. I sent an agent to the most
impossible village I could think of, and summoned my man to it at such an hour that he could not possibly get back. To prevent
any miscarriage, Dr. Watson accompanied him. The good vicar's name I took, of course, out of my Crockford. Do I make it
all clear to you?"
"It is masterly," said the inspector in an awed voice.
"There being no fear of interruption I proceeded to burgle the house. Burglary has always been an alternative profession had I
cared to adopt it, and I have little doubt that I should have come to the front. Observe what I found. You see the gas-pipe
along the skirting here. Very good. It rises in the angle of the wall, and there is a tap here in the corner. The pipe runs out into
the strong-room, as you can see, and ends in that plaster rose in the centre of the ceiling, where it is concealed by the
ornamentation. That end is wide open. At any moment by turning the outside tap the room could be flooded with gas. With
door and shutter closed and the tap full on I would not give two minutes of conscious sensation to anyone shut up in that little
chamber. By what devilish device he decoyed them there I do not know, but once inside the door they were at his mercy."
The inspector examined the pipe with interest. "One of our officers mentioned the smell of gas," said he, "but of course the
window and door were open then, and the paint -- or some of it -- was already about. He had begun the work of painting the
day before, according to his story. But what next, Mr. Holmes?"
"Well, then came an incident which was rather unexpected to myself. I was slipping through the pantry window in the early
dawn when I felt a hand inside my collar, and a voice said: 'Now, you rascal, what are you doing in there?' When I could twist
my head round I looked into the tinted spectacles of my friend and rival, Mr. Barker. It was a curious foregathering and set us
both smiling. It seems that he had been engaged by Dr. Ray Ernest's family to make some investigations and had come to the
same conclusion as to foul play. He had watched the house for some days and had spotted Dr. Watson as one of the obviously
suspicious characters who had called there. He could hardly arrest Watson, but when he saw a man actually climbing out
of the pantry window there came a limit to his restraint. Of course, I told him how matters stood and we continued the case
together."
"Why him? Why not us?"
"Because it was in my mind to put that little test which answered so admirably. I fear you would not have gone so far."
The inspector smiled.
"Well, maybe not. I understand that I have your word, Mr. Holmes, that you step right out of the case now and that you turn all
your results over to us."
"Certainly, that is always my custom."
"Well, in the name of the force I thank you. It seems a clear case, as you put it, and there can't be much difficulty over the
bodies."
"I'll show you a grim little bit of evidence," said Holmes, "and I am sure Amberley himself never observed it. You'll get results,
Inspector, by always putting yourself in the other fel- low's place, and thinking what you would do yourself. It takes some
imagination, but it pays. Now, we will suppose that you were shut up in this little room, had not two minutes to live, but wanted
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to get even with the fiend who was probably mocking at you from the other side of the door. What would you do?"
"Write a message."
"Exactly. You would like to tell people how you died. No use writing on paper. That would be seen. If you wrote on the wall
someone might rest upon it. Now, look here! Just above the skirting is scribbled with a purple indelible pencil: 'We we --'
That's all.''
"What do you make of that?"
"Well, it's only a foot above the ground. The poor devil was on the floor dying when he wrote it. He lost his senses before he
could finish."
"He was writing, 'We were murdered.' "
"That's how I read it. If you find an indelible pencil on the body --"
"We'll look out for it, you may be sure. But those securities? Clearly there was no robbery at all. And yet he did possess those
bonds. We verified that."
"You may be sure he has them hidden in a safe place. When the whole elopement had passed into history, he would suddenly
discover them and announce that the guilty couple had relented and sent back the plunder or had dropped it on the way."
"You certainly seem to have met every difficulty," said the inspector. "Of course, he was bound to call us in, but why he should
have gone to you I can't understand."
"Pure swank!" Holmes answered. "He felt so clever and so sure of himself that he imagined no one could touch him. He could
say to any suspicious neighbour, 'Look at the steps I have taken. I have consulted not only the police but even Sherlock
Holmes.' "
The inspector laughed.
"We must forgive you your 'even,' Mr. Holmes," said he "it's as workmanlike a job as I can remember."
A couple of days later my friend tossed across to me a copy of the bi-weekly North Surrey Observer. Under a series of
flaming headlines, which began with "The Haven Horror" and ended with "Brilliant Police Investigation," there was a packed
col- umn of print which gave the first consecutive account of the affair. The concluding paragraph is typical of the whole. It ran
thus:
The remarkable acumen by which Inspector MacKinnon
deduced from the smell of paint that some other smell, that
of gas, for example, might be concealed; the bold deduction
that the strong-room might also be the death-chamber, and
the subsequent inquiry which led to the discovery of the
bodies in a disused well, cleverly concealed by a dogkennel,
should live in the history of crime as a standing
example of the intelligence of our professional detectives.
"Well, well, MacKinnon is a good fellow," said Holmes with a tolerant smile. "You can file it in our archives, Watson. Some
day the true story may be told."
The Adventure of the Veiled Lodger
When one considers that Mr. Sherlock Holmes was in active practice for twenty-three years, and that during seventeen of
these I was allowed to cooperate with him and to keep notes of his doings, it will be clear that I have a mass of material at my
command. The problem has always been not to find but to choose. There is the long row of year-books which fill a shelf and
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there are the dispatch-cases filled with documents, a perfect quarry for the student not only of crime but of the social and
official scandals of the late Victorian era. Concerning these latter, I may say that the writers of agonized letters, who beg that
the honour of their families or the reputation of famous forebears may not be touched, have nothing to fear. The discretion and
high sense of professional honour which have always distin- guished my friend are still at work in the choice of these mem- oirs,
and no confidence will be abused. I deprecate, however, in the strongest way the attempts which have been made lately to get
at and to destroy these papers. The source of these outrages is known, and if they are repeated I have Mr. Holmes's authority
for saying that the whole story concerning the politician, the lighthouse, and the trained cormorant will be given to the public.
There is at least one reader who will understand.
It is not reasonable to suppose that every one of these cases gave Holmes the opportunity of showing those curious gifts of
instinct and observation which I have endeavoured to set forth in these memoirs. Sometimes he had with much effort to pick
the fruit, sometimes it fell easily into his lap. But the most terrible human tragedies were often involved in those cases which
brought him the fewest personal opportunities, and it is one of these which I now desire to record. In telling it, I have made a
slight change of name and place, but otherwise the facts are as stated.
One forenoon -- it was late in 1896 -- I received a hurried note from Holmes asking for my attendance. When I arrived I
found him seated in a smoke-laden atmosphere, with an elderly, moth- erly woman of the buxom landlady type in the
corresponding chair in front of him.
"This is Mrs. Merrilow, of South Brixton," said my friend with a wave of the hand. "Mrs. Merrilow does not object to tobacco,
Watson, if you wish to indulge your filthy habits. Mrs. Merrilow has an interesting story to tell which may well lead to further
developments in which your presence may be useful."
"Anything I can do --"
"You will understand, Mrs. Merrilow, that if I come to Mrs. Ronder I should prefer to have a witness. You will make her
understand that before we arrive."
"Lord bless you, Mr. Holmes," said our visitor, "she is that anxious to see you that you might bring the whole parish at your
heels!"
"Then we shall come early in the afternoon. Let us see that we have our facts correct before we start. If we go over them it will
help Dr. Watson to understand the situation. You say that Mrs. Ronder has been your lodger for seven years and that you have
only once seen her face."
"And I wish to God I had not!" said Mrs. Merrilow.
"It was, I understand, terribly mutilated."
"Well, Mr. Holmes, you would hardly say it was a face at all. That's how it looked. Our milkman got a glimpse of her once
peeping out of the upper window, and he dropped his tin and the milk all over the front garden. That is the kind of face it is.
When I saw her -- I happened on her unawares -- she covered up quick, and then she said, 'Now, Mrs. Merrilow, you know
at last why it is that I never raise my veil.' "
"Do you know anything about her history?"
"Nothing at all."
"Did she give references when she came?"
"No, sir, but she gave hard cash, and plenty of it. A quarter's rent right down on the table in advance and no arguing about
terms. In these times a poor woman like me can't afford to turn down a chance like that."
"Did she give any reason for choosing your house?"
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"Mine stands well back from the road and is more private than most. Then, again, I only take the one, and I have no family of
my own. I reckon she had tried others and found that mine suited her best. It's privacy she is after, and she is ready to pay for
it."
"You say that she never showed her face from first to last save on the one accidental occasion. Well, it is a very remark- able
story, most remarkable, and I don't wonder that you want it examined."
"I don't, Mr. Holmes. I am quite satisfied so long as I get my rent. You could not have a quieter lodger, or one who gives less
trouble."
"Then what has brought matters to a head?"
"Her health, Mr. Holmes. She seems to be wasting away. And there's something terrible on her mind. 'Murder!' she cries.
'Murder!' And once I heard her: 'You cruel beast! You mon- ster!' she cried. It was in the night, and it fair rang through the
house and sent the shivers through me. So I went to her in the morning. 'Mrs. Ronder,' I says, 'if you have anything that is
troubling your soul, there's the clergy,' I says, 'and there's the police. Between them you should get some help.' 'For God's
sake, not the police!' says she, 'and the clergy can't change what is past. And yet,' she says, 'it would ease my mind if someone
knew the truth before I died.' 'Well,' says I, 'if you won't have the regulars, there is this detective man what we read about' --
beggin' your pardon, Mr. Holmes. And she, she fair jumped at it. 'That's the man,' says she. 'I wonder I never thought of it
before. Bring him here, Mrs. Merrilow, and if he won't come, tell him I am the wife of Ronder's wild beast show. Say that, and
give him the name Abbas Parva. Here it is as she wrote it, Abbas Parva. 'That will bring him if he's the man I think he is.' "
"And it will, too," remarked Holmes. "Very good, Mrs. Merrilow. I should like to have a little chat with Dr. Watson. That will
carry us till lunch-time. About three o'clock you may expect to see us at your house in Brixton."
Our visitor had no sooner waddled out of the room -- no other verb can describe Mrs. Merrilow's method of progression --
than Sherlock Holmes threw himself with fierce energy upon the pile of commonplace books in the corner. For a few minutes
there was a constant swish of the leaves, and then with a grunt of satisfaction he came upon what he sought. So excited was he
that he did not rise, but sat upon the floor like some strange Buddha, with crossed legs, the huge books all round him, and one
open upon his knees.
"The case worried me at the time, Watson. Here are my marginal notes to prove it. I confess that I could make nothing of it.
And yet I was convinced that the coroner was wrong. Have you no recollection of the Abbas Parva tragedy?"
"None, Holmes."
"And yet you were with me then. But certainly my own impression was very superficial. For there was nothing to go by, and
none of the parties had engaged my services. Perhaps you would care to read the papers?"
"Could you not give me the points?"
"That is very easily done. It will probably come back to your memory as I talk. Ronder, of course, was a household word. He
was the rival of Wombwell, and of Sanger, one of the greatest showmen of his day. There is evidence, however, that he took
to drink, and that both he and his show were on the down grade at the time of the great tragedy. The caravan had halted for
the night at Abbas Parva, which is a small village in Berkshire, when this horror occurred. They were on their way to Wimbledon,
travelling by road, and they were simply camping and not exhibiting, as the place is so small a one that it would not have
paid them to open.
"They had among their exhibits a very fine North African lion. Sahara King was its name, and it was the habit, both of Ronder
and his wife, to give exhibitions inside its cage. Here, you see, is a photograph of the performance by which you will perceive
that Ronder was a huge porcine person and that his wife was a very magnificent woman. It was deposed at the inquest that
there had been some signs that the lion was dangerous, but, as usual, familiarity begat contempt, and no notice was taken of the
fact.
"It was usual for either Ronder or his wife to feed the lion at night. Sometimes one went, sometimes both, but they never
allowed anyone else to do it, for they believed that so long as they were the food-carriers he would regard them as benefactors
and would never molest them. On this particular night, seven years ago, they both went, and a very terrible happening followed,
the details of which have never been made clear.
"It seems that the whole camp was roused near midnight by the roars of the animal and the screams of the woman. The
different grooms and employees rushed from their tents, carrying lanterns, and by their light an awful sight was revealed.
Ronder lay, with the back of his head crushed in and deep claw-marks across his scalp, some ten yards from the cage, which
was open. Close to the door of the cage lay Mrs. Ronder upon her back, with the creature squatting and snarling above her. It
had torn her face in such a fashion that it was never thought that she could live. Several of thc circus men, headed by Leonardo,
the strong man, and Griggs, the clown, drove the creature off with poles, upon which it sprang back into the cage and was at
once locked in. How it had got loose was a mystery. It was conjectured that the pair intended to enter the cage, but that when
the door was loosed the creature bounded out upon them. There was no other point of interest in the evidence save that the
woman in a delirium of agony kept screaming, 'Coward! Coward!' as she was carried back to the van in which they lived. It
was six months before she was fit to give evidence, but the inquest was duly held, with the obvious verdict of death from
misadventure."
"What alternative could be conceived?" said I.
"You may well say so. And yet there were one or two points which worried young Edmunds, of the Berkshire Constabulary. A
smart lad that! He was sent later to Allahabad. That was how I came into the matter, for he dropped in and smoked a pipe or
two over it."
"A thin, yellow-haired man?"
"Exactly. I was sure you would pick up the trail presently."
"But what worried him?"
"Well, we were both worried. It was so deucedly difficult to reconstruct the affair. Look at it from the lion's point of view. He is
liberated. What does he do? He takes half a dozen bounds forward, which brings him to Ronder. Ronder turns to fly -- the
claw-marks were on the back of his head -- but the lion strikes him down. Then, instead of bounding on and escaping, he
returns to the woman, who was close to the cage, and he knocks her over and chews her face up. Then, again, those cries of
hers would seem to imply that her husband had in some way failed her. What could the poor devil have done to help her? You
see the difficulty?"
"Quite."
"And then there was another thing. It comes back to me now as I think it over. There was some evidence that just at the time
the lion roared and the woman screamed, a man began shouting in terror."
"This man Ronder, no doubt."
"Well, if his skull was smashed in you would hardly expect to hear from him again. There were at least two witnesses who
spoke of the cries of a man being mingled with those of a woman."
"I should think the whole camp was crying out by then. As to the other points, I think I could suggest a solution."
"I should be glad to consider it."
"The two were together, ten yards from the cage, when the lion got loose. The man turned and was struck down. The woman
conceived the idea of getting into the cage and shutting the door. It was her only refuge. She made for it, and just as she
reached it the beast bounded after her and knocked her over. She was angry with her husband for having encouraged the
beast's rage by turning. If they had faced it they might have cowed it. Hence her cries of 'Coward!' "
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"Brilliant, Watson! Only one flaw in your diamond."
"What is the flaw, Holmes?"
"If they were both ten paces from the cage, how came the beast to get loose?"
"Is it possible that they had some enemy who loosed it?"
"And why should it attack them savagely when it was in the habit of playing with them, and doing tricks with them inside the
cage?"
"Possibly the same enemy had done something to enrage it."
Holmes looked thoughtful and remained in silence for some moments.
"Well, Watson, there is this to be said for your theory. Ronder was a man of many enemies. Edmunds told me that in his cups
he was horrible. A huge bully of a man, he cursed and slashed at everyone who came in his way. I expect those cries about a
monster, of which our visitor has spoken, were nocturnal reminiscences of the dear departed. However, our speculations are
futile until we have all the facts. There is a cold partridge on the sideboard, Watson, and a bottle of Montrachet. Let us renew
our energies before we make a fresh call upon them."
When our hansom deposited us at the house of Mrs. Merrilow, we found that plump lady blocking up the open door of her
humble but retired abode. It was very clear that her chief preoccupation was lest she should lose a valuable lodger, and she
implored us, before showing us up, to say and do nothing which could lead to so undesirable an end. Then, having reassured
her, we followed her up the straight, badly carpeted staircase and were shown into the room of the mysterious lodger.
It was a close, musty, ill-ventilated place, as might be ex- pected, since its inmate seldom left it. From keeping beasts in a cage,
the woman seemed, by some retribution of fate, to have become herself a beast in a cage. She sat now in a broken arm- chair
in the shadowy corner of the room. Long years of inaction had coarsened the lines of her figure, but at some period it must
have been beautiful, and was still full and voluptuous. A thick dark veil covered her face, but it was cut off close at her upper
lip and disclosed a perfectly shaped mouth and a delicately rounded chin. I could well conceive that she had indeed been a
very remarkable woman. Her voice, too, was well modulated and pleasing.
"My name is not unfamiliar to you, Mr. Holmes," said she. "I thought that it would bring you."
"That is so, madam, though I do not know how you are aware that I was interested in your case."
"l learned it when I had recovered my health and was exam- ined by Mr. Edmunds, the county detective. I fear I lied to him.
Perhaps it would have been wiser had I told the truth."
"It is usually wiser to tell the truth. But why did you lie to him?"
"Because the fate of someone else depended upon it. I know that he was a very worthless being, and yet I would not have his
destruction upon my conscience. We had been so close -- so close!"
"But has this impediment been removed?"
"Yes, sir. The person that I allude to is dead."
"Then why should you not now tell the police anything you know?"
"Because there is another person to be considered. That other person is myself. I could not stand the scandal and publicity
which would come from a police examination. I have not long to live, but I wish to die undisturbed. And yet I wanted to find
one man of judgment to whom I could tell my terrible story, so that when I am gone all might be understood."
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"You compliment me, madam. At the same time, I am a responsible person. I do not promise you that when you have spoken I
may not myself think it my duty to refer the case to the police."
"I think not, Mr. Holmes. I know your character and methods too well, for I have followed your work for some years. Reading
is the only pleasure which fate has left me, and I miss little which passes in the world. But in any case, I will take my chance of
the use which you may make of my tragedy. It will ease my mind to tell it."
"My friend and I would be glad to hear it."
The woman rose and took from a drawer the photograph of a man. He was clearly a professional acrobat, a man of magnificent
physique, taken with his huge arms folded across his swollen chest and a smile breaking from under his heavy moustache
-- the self-satisfied smile of the man of many conquests.
"That is Leonardo," she said.
"Leonardo, the strong man, who gave evidence?"
"The same. And this -- this is my husband."
It was a dreadful face -- a human pig, or rather a human wild boar, for it was formidable in its bestiality. One could imagine that
vile mouth champing and foaming in its rage, and one could conceive those small, vicious eyes darting pure malignancy as they
looked forth upon the world. Ruffian, bully, beast -- it was all written on that heavy-jowled face.
"Those two pictures will help you, gentlemen, to understand the story. I was a poor circus girl brought up on the sawdust, and
doing springs through the hoop before I was ten. When I became a woman this man loved me, if such lust as his can be called
love, and in an evil moment I became his wife. From that day I was in hell, and he the devil who tormented me. There was no
one in the show who did not know of his treatment. He deserted me for others. He tied me down and lashed me with his
riding- whip when I complained. They all pitied me and they all loathed him, but what could they do? They feared him, one and
all. For he was terrible at all times, and murderous when he was drunk. Again and again he was had up for assault, and for
cruelty to the beasts, but he had plenty of money and the fines were nothing to him. The best men all left us, and the show
began to go downhill. It was only Leonardo and I who kept it up -- with little Jimmy Griggs, the clown. Poor devil, he had not
much to be funny about, but he did what he could to hold things together.
"Then Leonardo came more and more into my life. You see what he was like. I know now the poor spirit that was hidden in
that splendid body, but compared to my husband he seemed like the angel Gabriel. He pitied me and helped me, till at last our
intimacy turned to love -- deep, deep, passionate love, such love as I had dreamed of but never hoped to feel. My husband
suspected it, but I think that he was a coward as well as a bully, and that Leonardo was the one man that he was afraid of. He
took revenge in his own way by torturing me more than ever. One night my cries brought Leonardo to the door of our van. We
were near tragedy that night, and soon my lover and I understood that it could not be avoided. My husband was not fit to live.
We planned that he should die.
"Leonardo had a clever, scheming brain. It was he who planned it. I do not say that to blame him, for I was ready to go with
him every inch of the way. But I should never have had the wit to think of such a plan. We made a club -- Leonardo made it --
and in the leaden head he fastened five long steel nails, the points outward, with just such a spread as the lion's paw. This was
to give my husband his death-blow, and yet to leave the evidence that it was the lion which we would loose who had done the
deed.
"It was a pitch-dark night when my husband and I went down, as was our custom, to feed the beast. We carried with us the
raw meat in a zinc pail. Leonardo was waiting at the corner of the big van which we should have to pass before we reached the
cage. He was too slow, and we walked past him before he could strike, but he followed us on tiptoe and I heard the crash as
the club smashed my husband's skull. My heart leaped with joy at the sound. I sprang forward, and I undid the catch which
held the door of the great lion's cage.
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"And then the terrible thing happened. You may have heard how quick these creatures are to scent human blood, and how it
excites them. Some strange instinct had told the creature in one instant that a human being had been slain. As I slipped the bars
it bounded out and was on me in an instant. Leonardo could have saved me. If he had rushed forward and struck the beast
with his club he might have cowed it. But the man lost his nerve. I heard him shout in his terror, and then I saw him turn and fly.
At the same instant the teeth of the lion met in my face. Its hot, filthy breath had already poisoned me and I was hardly
conscious of pain. With the palms of my hands I tried to push the great steaming, blood-stained jaws away from me, and I
screamed for help. I was conscious that the camp was stirring, and then dimly I remembered a group of men. Leonardo,
Griggs, and others, dragging me from under the creature's paws. That was my last memory, Mr. Holmes, for many a weary
month. When I came to myself and saw myself in the mirror, I cursed that lion -- oh, how I cursed him! -- not because he had
torn away my beauty but because he had not torn away my life. I had but one desire, Mr. Holmes, and I had enough money to
gratify it. It was that I should cover myself so that my poor face should be seen by none, and that I should dwell where none
whom I had ever known should find me. That was all that was left to me to do -- and that is what I have done. A poor
wounded beast that has crawled into its hole to die -- that is the end of Eugenia Ronder."
We sat in silence for some time after the unhappy woman had told her story. Then Holmes stretched out his long arm and
patted her hand with such a show of sympathy as I had seldom known him to exhibit.
"Poor girl!" he said. "Poor girl! The ways of fate are indeed hard to understand. If there is not some compensation hereafter,
then the world is a cruel jest. But what of this man Leonardo?"
"I never saw him or heard from him again. Perhaps I have been wrong to feel so bitterly against him. He might as soon have
loved one of the freaks whom we carried round the country as the thing which the lion had left. But a woman's love is not so
easily set aside. He had left me under the beast's claws, he had deserted me in my need, and yet I could not bring myself to
give him to the gallows. For myself, I cared nothing what became of me. What could be more dreadful than my actual life? But
I stood between Leonardo and his fate."
"And he is dead?"
"He was drowned last month when bathing near Margate. I saw his death in the paper."
"And what did he do with this five-clawed club, which is the most singular and ingenious part of all your story?"
"I cannot tell, Mr. Holmes. There is a chalk-pit by the camp, with a deep green pool at the base of it. Perhaps in the depths of
that pool --"
"Well, well, it is of little consequence now. The case is closed."
"Yes," said the woman, "the case is closed."
We had risen to go, but there was something in the woman's voice which arrested Holmes's attention. He turned swiftly upon
her.
"Your life is not your own," he said. "Keep your hands off it."
"What use is it to anyone?"
"How can you tell? The example of patient suffering is in itself the most precious of all lessons to an impatient world."
The woman's answer was a terrible one. She raised her veil and stepped forward into the light.
"I wonder if you would bear it," she said.
It was horrible. No words can describe the framework of a face when the face itself is gone. Two living and beautiful brown
eyes looking sadly out from that grisly ruin did but make the view more awful. Holmes held up his hand in a gesture of pity and
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protest, and together we left the room.
Two days later, when I called upon my friend, he pointed with some pride to a small blue bottle upon his mantelpiece. I picked
it up. There was a red poison label. A pleasant almondy odour rose when I opened it.
"Prussic acid?" said 1.
"Exactly. It came by post. 'I send you my temptation. I will follow your advice.' That was the message. I think, Watson, we can
guess the name of the brave woman who sent it."
The Adventure of Shoscombe Old Place
Sherlock Holmes had been bending for a long time over a low-power microscope. Now he straightened himself up and looked
round at me in triumph.
"It is glue, Watson," said he. "Unquestionably it is glue. Have a look at these scattered objects in the field!"
I stooped to the eyepiece and focussed for my vision.
"Those hairs are threads from a tweed coat. The irregular gray masses are dust. There are epithelial scales on the left. Those
brown blobs in the centre are undoubtedly glue."
"Well," I said, laughing, "I am prepared to take your word for it. Does anything depend upon it?"
"It is a very fine demonstration," he answered. "In the St. Pancras case you may remember that a cap was found beside the
dead policeman. The accused man denies that it is his. But he is a picture-frame maker who habitually handles glue."
"Is it one of your cases?"
"No; my friend, Merivale, of the Yard, asked me to look into the case. Since I ran down that coiner by the zinc and copper
filings in the seam of his cuff they have begun to realize the importance of the microscope." He looked impatiently at his watch.
"I had a new client calling, but he is overdue. By the way, Watson, you know something of racing?"
"I ought to. I pay for it with about half my wound pension."
"Then I'll make you my 'Handy Guide to the Turf.' What about Sir Robert Norberton? Does the name recall anything?"
"Well, I should say so. He lives at Shoscombe Old Place, and I know it well, for my summer quarters were down there once.
Norberton nearly came within your province once."
"How was that?"
"It was when he horsewhipped Sam Brewer, the well-known Curzon Street money-lender, on Newmarket Heath. He nearly
killed the man."
"Ah, he sounds interesting! Does he often indulge in that way?"
"Well, he has the name of being a dangerous man. He is about the most daredevil rider in England -- second in the Grand
National a few years back. He is one of those men who have overshot their true generation. He should have been a buck in the
days of the Regency -- a boxer, an athlete, a plunger. on the turf, a lover of fair ladies, and, by all account, so far down Queer
Street that he may never find his way back again."
"Capital, Watson! A thumb-nail sketch. I seem to know the man. Now, can you give me some idea of Shoscombe Old Place?"
"Only that it is in the centre of Shoscombe Park, and that the famous Shoscombe stud and training quarters are to be found
there."
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"And the head trainer," said Holmes, "is John Mason. You need not look surprised at my knowledge, Watson, for this is a
letter from him which I am unfolding. But let us have some more about Shoscombe. I seem to have struck a rich vein."
"There are the Shoscombe spaniels," said I. "You hear of them at every dog show. The most exclusive breed in England. They
are the special pride of the lady of Shoscombe Old Place."
"Sir Robert Norberton's wife, I presume!"
"Sir Robert has never married. Just as well, I think, consider- ing his prospects. He lives with his widowed sister, Lady
Beatrice Falder."
"You mean that she lives with him?"
"No, no. The place belonged to her late husband, Sir James. Norberton has no claim on it at all. It is only a life interest and
reverts to her husband's brother. Meantime, she draws the rents every year."
"And brother Robert, I suppose, spends the said rents?"
"That is about the size of it. He is a devil of a fellow and must lead her a most uneasy life. Yet I have heard that she is devoted
to him. But what is amiss at Shoscombe?"
"Ah, that is just what I want to know. And here, I expect, is the man who can tell us."
The door had opened and the page had shown in a tall, clean-shaven man with the firm, austere expression which is only seen
upon those who have to control horses or boys. Mr. John Mason had many of both under his sway, and he looked equal to the
task. He bowed with cold self-possession and seated himself upon the chair to which Holmes had waved him.
"You had my note, Mr. Holmes?"
"Yes, but it explained nothing."
"It was too delicate a thing for me to put the details on paper. And too complicated. It was only face to face I could do it."
"Well, we are at your disposal."
"First of all, Mr. Holmes, I think that my employer, Sir Robert, has gone mad."
Holmes raised his eyebrows. "This is Baker Street, not Harley Street," said he. "But why do you say so?"
"Well, sir, when a man does one queer thing, or two queer things, there may be a meaning to it, but when everything he does is
queer, then you begin to wonder. I believe Shoscombe Prince and the Derby have turned his brain."
"That is a colt you are running?"
"The best in England, Mr. Holmes. I should know, if anyone does. Now, I'll be plain with you, for I know you are gentlemen of
honour and that it won't go beyond the room. Sir Robert has got to win this Derby. He's up to the neck, and it's his last chance.
Everything he could raise or borrow is on the horse -- and at fine odds, too! You can get forties now, but it was nearer the
hundred when he began to back him."
"But how is that if the horse is so good?"
"The public don't know how good he is. Sir Robert has been too clever for the touts. He has the Prince's half-brother out for
spins. You can't tell 'em apart. But there are two lengths in a furlong between them when it comes to a gallop. He thinks of
nothing but the horse and the race. His whole life is on it. He's holding off the Jews till then. If the Prince fails him he is done. "
"It seems a rather desperate gamble, but where does the madness come in?"
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"Well, first of all, you have only to look at him. I don't believe he sleeps at night. He is down at the stables at all hours. His eyes
are wild. It has all been too much for his nerves. Then there is his conduct to Lady Beatrice!"
"Ah! What is that?"
"They have always been the best of friends. They had the same tastes, the two of them, and she loved the horses as much as he
did. Every day at the same hour she would drive down to see them -- and, above all, she loved the Prince. He would prick up
his ears when he heard the wheels on the gravel, and he would trot out each morning to the carriage to get his lump of sugar.
But that's all over now."
"Why?"
"Well, she seems to have lost all interest in the horses. For a week now she has driven past the stables with never so much as
'Good-morning'! "
"You think there has been a quarrel?"
"And a bitter, savage, spitelful quarrel at that. Why else would he give away her pet spaniel that she loved as if he were her
child? He gave it a few days ago to old Barnes, what keeps the Green Dragon, three miles off, at Crendall."
"That certainly did seem strange."
"Of course, with her weak heart and dropsy one couldn't expect that she could get about with him, but he spent two hours
every evening in her room. He might well do what he could, for she has been a rare good friend to him. But that's all over, too.
He never goes near her. And she takes it to heart. She is brooding and sulky and drinking, Mr. Holmes -- drinking like a fish."
"Did she drink before this estrangement?"
"Well, she took her glass, but now it is often a whole bottle of an evening. So Stephens, the butler, told me. It's all changed,
Mr. Holmes, and there is something damned rotten about it. But then, again, what is master doing down at the old church crypt
at night? And who is the man that meets him there?"
Holmes rubbed his hands.
"Go on, Mr. Mason. You get more and more interesting."
"It was the butler who saw him go. Twelve o'clock at night and raining hard. So next night I was up at the house and, sure
enough, master was off again. Stephens and I went after him, but it was jumpy work, for it would have been a bad job if he
had seen us. He's a terrible man with his fists if he gets started, and no respecter of persons. So we were shy of getting too
near, but we marked him down all light. It was the haunted crypt that he was making for, and there was a man waiting for him
there."
"What is this haunted cryp?"
"Well, sir, there is an old ruined chapel in the park. It is so old that nobody could fix its date. And under it there's a crypt which
has a bad name among us. It's a dark, damp, lonely place by day, but there are few in that county that would have the nerve to
go near it at night. But master's not afraid. He never feared anything in his life. But what is he doing there in the night-time?"
"Wait a bit!" said Holmes. "You say there is another man there. It must be one of your own stablemen, or someone from the
house! Surely you have only to spot who it is and question him?"
"It's no one I know."
"How can you say that?"
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"Because I have seen him, Mr. Holmes. It was on that second night. Sir Robert turned and passed us -- me and Stephens,
quak- ing in the bushes like two bunny-rabbits, for there was a bit of moon that night. But we could hear the other moving
about behind. We were not afraid of him. So we up when Sir Robert was gone and pretended we were just having a walk like
in the moonlight, and so we came right on him as casual and innocent as you please. 'Hullo, mate! who may you be?' says I. I
guess he had not heard us coming, so he looked over his shoulder with a face as if he had seen the devil coming out of hell. He
let out a yell, and away he went as hard as he could lick it in the darkness. He could run! -- I'll give him that. In a minute he
was out of sight and hearing, and who he was, or what he was, we never found."
"But you saw him clearly in the moonlight?"
"Yes, I would swear to his yellow face -- a mean dog, I should say. What could he have in common with Sir Robert?"
Holmes sat for some time lost in thought.
"Who keeps Lady Beatrice Falder company?" he asked at last.
"There is her maid, Carrie Evans. She has been with her this five years."
"And is, no doubt, devoted?"
Mr. Mason shuffled uncomfortably.
"She's devoted enough," he answered at last. "But I won't say to whom."
"Ah!" said Holmes.
"I can't tell tales out of school."
"I quite understand, Mr. Mason. Of course, the situation is clear enough. From Dr. Watson's description of Sir Robert I can
realize that no woman is safe from him. Don't you think the quarrel between brother and sister may lie there?"
"Well, the scandal has been pretty clear for a long time."
"But she may not have seen it before. Let us suppose that she has suddenly found it out. She wants to get rid of the woman.
Her brother will not permit it. The invalid, with her weak heart and inability to get about, has no means of enforcing her will.
The hated maid is still tied to her. The lady refuses to speak, sulks, takes to drink. Sir Robert in his anger takes her pet spaniel
away from her. Does not all this hang together?"
"Well, it might do -- so far as it goes."
"Exactly! As far as it goes. How would all that bear upon the visits by night to the old crypt? We can't fit that into our plot."
"No, sir, and there is something more that I can't fit in. Why should Sir Robert want to dig up a dead body?"
Holmes sat up abruptly.
"We only found it out yesterday -- after I had written to you. Yesterday Sir Robert had gone to London, so Stephens and I
went down to the crypt. It was all in order, sir, except that in one corner was a bit of a human body."
"You informed the police, I suppose?"
Our visitor smiled grimly.
"Well, sir, I think it would hardly interest them. It was just the head and a few bones of a mummy. It may have been a thousand
years old. But it wasn't there before. That I'll swear, and so will Stephens. It had been stowed away in a corner and covered
over with a board, but that corner had always been empty before."
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"What did you do with it?"
"Well, we just left it there."
"That was wise. You say Sir Robert was away yesterday. Has he returned?"
"We expect him back to-day."
"When did Sir Robert give away his sister's dog?"
"It was just a week ago to-day. The creature was howling outside the old wellhouse, and Sir Robert was in one of his tantrums
that morning. He caught it up, and I thought he would have killed it. Then he gave it to Sandy Bain, the jockey, and told him to
take the dog to old Barnes at the Green Dragon, for he never wished to see it again."
Holmes sat for some time in silent thought. He had lit the oldest and foulest of his pipes.
"I am not clear yet what you want me to do in this matter, Mr. Mason," he said at last. "Can't you make it more definite?"
"Perhaps this will make it more definite, Mr. Holmes," said our visltor.
He took a paper from his pocket, and, unwrapping it care- fully, he exposed a charred fragment of bone.
Holmes examined it with interest.
"Where did you get it?"
"There is a central heating furnace in the cellar under Lady Beatrice's room. It's been off for some time, but Sir Robert
complained of cold and had it on again.
Harvey runs it -- he's one of my lads. This very morning he came to me with this which he found raking out the cinders. He
didn't like the look of it."
"Nor do I," said Holmes. "What do you make of it, Watson?"
It was burned to a black cinder, but there could be no question as to its anatomical significance.
"It's the upper condyle of a human femur," said I.
"Exactly!" Holmes had become very serious. "When does this lad tend to the furnace?"
"He makes it up every evening and then leaves it."
"Then anyone could visit it during the night?"
"Yes, sir."
"Can you enter it from outside?"
"There is one door from outside. There is another which leads up by a stair to the passage in which Lady Beatrice's room is
situated."
"These are deep waters, Mr. Mason; deep and rather dirty. You say that Sir Robert was not at home last night?"
"No, sir."
"Then, whoever was burning bones, it was not he."
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"That's true. sir."
"What is the name of that inn you spoke of?"
"The Green Dragon."
"Is there good fishing in that part of Berkshire?" The honest trainer showed very clearly upon his face that he was convinced
that yet another lunatic had come into his harassed life.
"Well, sir, I've heard there are trout in the mill-stream and pike in the Hall lake."
"That's good enough. Watson and I are famous fishermen -- are we not, Watson? You may address us in future at the Green
Dragon. We should reach it to-night. I need not say that we don't want to see you, Mr. Mason, but a note will reach us, and no
doubt I could find you if I want you. When we have gone a little farther into the matter I will let you have a considered opinion."
Thus it was that on a bright May evening Holmes and I found ourselves alone in a first-class carriage and bound for the little
"halt-on-demand" station of Shoscombe. The rack above us was covered with a formidable litter of rods, reels, and baskets.
On reaching our destination a short drive took us to an old-fashioned tavern, where a sporting host, Josiah Barnes, entered
eagerly into our plans for the extirpation of the fish of the neighbourhood.
"What about the Hall lake and the chance of a pike?" said Holmes.
The face of the innkeeper clouded.
"That wouldn't do, sir. You might chance to find yourself in the lake before you were through."
"How's that, then?"
"It's Sir Robert, sir. He's terrible jealous of touts. If you two strangers were as near his training quarters as that he'd be after
you as sure as fate. He ain't taking no chances, Sir Robert ain't."
"I've heard he has a horse entered for the Derby."
"Yes, and a good colt, too. He carries all our money for the race, and all Sir Robert's into the bargain. By the way" -- he
looked at us with thoughtful eyes -- "I suppose you ain't on the turf yourselves?"
"No, indeed. Just two weary Londoners who badly need some good Berkshire air."
"Well, you are in the right place for that. There is a deal of it lying about. But mind what I have told you about Sir Robert. He's
the sort that strikes first and speaks afterwards. Keep clear of the park."
"Surely, Mr. Barnes! We certainly shall. By the way, that was a most beautiful spaniel that was whining in the hall."
"I should say it was. That was the real Shoscombe breed. There ain't a better in England."
"I am a dog-fancier myself," said Holmes. "Now, if it is a fair question, what would a prize dog like that cost?"
"More than I could pay, sir. It was Sir Robert himself who gave me this one. That's why I have to keep it on a lead. It would
be off to the Hall in a jiffy if I gave it its head."
"We are getting some cards in our hand, Watson," said Holmes when the landlord had left us. "It's not an easy one to play, but
we may see our way in a day or two. By the way, Sir Robert is still in London, I hear. We might, perhaps, enter the sacred
domain to-night without fear of bodily assault. There are one or two points on which I should like reassurance."
"Have you any theory, Holmes?"
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"Only this, Watson, that something happened a week or so ago which has cut deep into the life of the Shoscombe house- hold.
What is that something? We can only guess at it from its effects. They seem to be of a curiously mixed character. But that
should surely help us. It is only the colourless, uneventful case which is hopeless.
"Let us consider our data. The brother no longer visits the beloved invalid sister. He gives away her favourite dog. Her dog,
Watson! Does that suggest nothing to you?"
"Nothing but the brother's spite."
"Well, it might be so. Or -- well, there is an alternative. Now to continue our review of the situation from the time that the
quarrel, if there is a quarrel, began. The lady keeps her room, alters her habits, is not seen save when she drives out with her
maid, refuses to stop at the stables to greet her favourite horse and apparently takes to drink. That covers the case, does it
not?"
"Save for the business in the crypt."
"That is another line of thought. There are two, and I beg you will not tangle them. Line A, which concerns Lady Beatrice, has
a vaguely sinister flavour, has it not?"
"I can make nothing of it."
"Well, now, let us take up line B, which concerns Sir Robert. He is mad keen upon winning the Derby. He is in the hands of the
Jews, and may at any moment be sold up and his racing stables seized by his creditors. He is a daring and desperate man. He
derives his income from his sister. His sister's maid is his willing tool. So far we seem to be on fairly safe ground, do we not?"
"But the crypt?"
"Ah, yes, the crypt! Let us suppose, Watson -- it is merely a scandalous supposition, a hypothesis put forward for argument's
sake -- that Sir Robert has done away with his sister."
"My dear Holmes, it is out of the question."
"Very possibly, Watson. Sir Robert is a man of an honourable stock. But you do occasionally find a carrion crow among the
eagles. Let us for a moment argue upon this supposition. He could not fly the country until he had realized his fortune, and that
fortune could only be realized by bringing off this coup with Shoscombe Prince. Therefore, he has still to stand his ground. To
do this he would have to dispose of the body of his victim, and he would also have to find a substitute who would impersonate
her. With the maid as his confidante that would not be impossible. The woman's body might be conveyed to the crypt,
which is a place so seldom visited, and it might be secretly destroyed at night in the furnace, leaving behind it such evidence as
we have already seen. What say you to that, Watson?"
"Wel], it is all possible if you grant the original monstrous supposition."
"I think that there is a small experiment which we may try to-morrow, Watson, in order to throw some light on the matter.
Meanwhile, if we mean to keep up our characters, I suggest that we have our host in for a glass of his own wine and hold some
high converse upon eels and dace, which seems to be the straight road to his affections. We may chance to come upon some
useful local gossip in the process."
In the morning Holmes discovered that we had come without our spoon-bait for jack, which absolved us from fishing for the
day. About eleven o'clock we started for a walk, and he obtained leave to take the black spaniel with us.
"This is the place," said he as we came to two high park gates with heraldic griffins towering above them. "About mid- day, Mr
Barnes informs me, the old lady takes a drive, and the carriage must slow down while the gates are opened. When it comes
through, and before it gathers speed, I want you, Watson, to stop the coachman with some question. Never mind me. I shall
stand behind this holly-bush and see what I can see."
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It was not a long vigil. Within a quarter of an hour we saw the big open yellow barouche coming down the long avenue, with
two splendid, high-stepping gray carriage horses in the shafts. Holmes crouched behind his bush with the dog. I stood unconcemedly
swinging a cane in the roadway. A keeper ran out and the gates swung open.
The carriage had slowed to a walk, and I was able to get a good look at the occupants. A highly coloured young woman with
flaxen hair and impudent eyes sat on the left. At her right was an elderly person with rounded back and a huddle of shawls
about her face and shoulders which proclaimed the invalid. When the horses reached the highroad I held up my hand with an
authoritative gesture, and as the coachman pulled up I inquired if Sir Robert was at Shoscombe Old Place.
At the same moment Holmes stepped out and released the spaniel. With a joyous cry it dashed forward to the carriage and
sprang upon the step. Then in a moment its eager greeting changed to furious rage, and it snapped at the black skirt above it.
"Drive on! Drive on!" shrieked a harsh voice. The coachman lashed the horses, and we were left standing in the roadway.
"Well, Watson, that's done it," said Holmes as he fastened the lead to the neck of the excited spaniel. "He thought it was his
mistress, and he found it was a stranger. Dogs don't make mistakes."
"But it was the voice of a man!" I cried.
"Exactly! We have added one card to our hand, Watson, but it needs careful playing, all the same."
My companion seemed to have no further plans for the day, and we did actually use our fishing tackle in the mill-stream with
the result that we had a dish of trout for our supper. It was only after that meal that Holmes showed signs of renewed activ- ity.
Once more we found ourselves upon the same road as in the morning, which led us to the park gates. A tall, dark figure was
awaiting us there, who proved to be our London acquaintance, Mr. John Mason, the trainer.
"Good-evening, gentlemen," said he. "I got your note, Mr. Holmes. Sir Robert has not returned yet, but I hear that he is
expected to-night."
"How far is this crypt from the house?" asked Holmes.
"A good quarter of a mile."
"Then I think we can disregard him altogether."
"I can't afford to do that, Mr. Holmes. The moment he arrives he will want to see me to get the last news of Shoscombe
Prince."
"I see! In that case we must work without you, Mr. Mason. You can show us the crypt and then leave us."
It was pitch-dark and without a moon, but Mason led us over the grass-lands until a dark mass loomed up in front of us which
proved to be the ancient chapel. We entered the broken gap which was once the porch, and our guide, stumbling among heaps
of loose masonry, picked his way to the corner of the building, where a steep stair led down into the crypt. Striking a match, he
illuminated the melancholy place -- dismal and evil-smelling, with ancient crumbling walls of rough-hewn stone, and piles of coffins,
some of lead and some of stone, extending upon one side right up to the arched and groined roof which lost itself in the
shadows above our heads. Holmes had lit his lantern, which shot a tiny tunnel of vivid yellow light upon the mournful scene. Its
rays were reflected back from the coffin-plates, many of them adorned with the griffin and coronet of this old family which
carried its honours even to the gate of Death.
"You spoke of some bones, Mr. Mason. Could you show them before you go?"
"They are here in this corner." The trainer strode across and then stood in silent surprise as our light was turned upon the place.
"They are gone," said he.
"So I expected," said Holmes, chuckling. "I fancy the ashes of them might even now be found in that oven which had already
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consumed a part."
"But why in the world would anyone want to burn the bones of a man who has been dead a thousand years?" asked John
Mason.
"That is what we are here to find out," said Holmes. "It may mean a long search, and we need not detain you. I fancy that we
shall get our solution before morning."
When John Mason had left us, Holmes set to work making a very careful examination of the graves, ranging from a very
ancient one, which appeared to be Saxon, in the centre, through a long line of Norman Hugos and Odos, until we reached the
Sir William and Sir Denis Falder of the eighteenth century. It was an hour or more before Holmes came to a leaden coffin
standing on end before the entrance to the vault. I heard his little cry of satisfaction and was aware from his hurried but
purposeful move- ments that he had reached a goal. With his lens he was eagerly examining the edges of the heavy lid. Then he
drew from his pocket a short jemmy, a box-opener, which he thrust into a chink, levering back the whole front, which seemed
to be se- cured by only a couple of clamps. There was a rending, tearing sound as it gave way, but it had hardly hinged back
and partly revealed the contents before we had an unforeseen interruption.
Someone was walking in the chapel above. It was the firm, rapid step of one who came with a definite purpose and knew well
the ground upon which he walked. A light streamed down the stairs, and an instant later the man who bore it was framed in the
Gothic archway. He was a terrible figure, huge in stature and fierce in manner. A large stable-lantern which he held in front of
him shone upward upon a strong, heavily moustached face and angry eyes, which glared round him into every recess of the
vault, finally fixing themselves with a deadly stare upon my companion and myself.
"Who the devil are you?" he thundered. "And what are you doing upon my property?" Then, as Holmes returned no answer he
took a couple of steps forward and raised a heavy stick which he carried. "Do you hear me?" he cried. "Who are you? What
are you doing here?" His cudgel quivered in the air.
But instead of shrinking Holmes advanced to meet him.
"I also have a question to ask you, Sir Robert," he said in his sternest tone. "Who is this? And what is it doing here?"
He turned and tore open the coffin-lid behind him. In the glare of the lantern I saw a body swathed in a sheet from head to foot
with dreadful, witch-like features, all nose and chin, projecting at one end, the dim, glazed eyes staring from a discoloured and
crumbling face.
The baronet had staggered back with a cry and supported himself against a stone sarcophagus.
"How came you to know of this?" he cried. And then, with some return of his truculent manner: "What business is it of yours?"
"My name is Sherlock Holmes," said my companion. "Pos- sibly it is familiar to you. In any case, my business is that of every
other good citizen -- to uphold the law. It seems to me that you have much to answer for."
Sir Robert glared for a moment, but Holmes's quiet voice and cool, assured manner had their effect.
" 'Fore God, Mr. Holmes, it's all right," said he. "Appear- ances are against me, I'll admit, but I could act no otherwise."
"I should be happy to think so, but I fear your explanations must be before the police."
Sir Robert shrugged his broad shoulders.
"Well, if it must be, it must. Come up to the house and you can judge for yourself how the matter stands."
A quarter of an hour later we found ourselves in what I judge, from the lines of polished barrels behind glass covers, to be the
gun-room of the old house. It was comfortably furnished, and here Sir Robert left us for a few moments. When he returned he
had two companions with him; the one, the florid young woman whom we had seen in the carriage; the other, a small rat-faced
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man with a disagreeably furtive manner. These two wore an appearance of utter bewilderment, which showed that the baronet
had not yet had time to explain to them the turn events had taken.
"There," said Sir Robert with a wave of his hand, "are Mr. and Mrs. Norlett. Mrs. Norlett, under her maiden name of Evans,
has for some years been my sister's confidential maid. I have brought them here because I feel that my best course is to explain
the true position to you, and they are the two people upon earth who can substantiate what I say."
"Is this necessary, Sir Robert? Have you thought what you are doing?" cried the woman.
"As to me, I entirely disclaim all responsibility," said her husband.
Sir Robert gave him a glance of contempt. "I will take all responsibility," said he. "Now, Mr. Holmes, listen to a plain statement
of the facts.
"You have clearly gone pretty deeply into my affairs or I should not have found you where I did. Therefore, you know already,
in all probability, that I am running a dark horse for the Derby and that everything depends upon my success. If I win, all is
easy. If I lose -- well, I dare not think of that!"
"I understand the position," said Holmes.
"I am dependent upon my sister, Lady Beatrice, for every- thing. But it is well known that her interest in the estate is for her
own life only. For myself, I am deeply in the hands of the Jews. I have always known that if my sister were to die my creditors
would be on to my estate like a flock of vultures. Everything would be seized -- my stables, my horses -- everything. Well, Mr.
Holmes, my sister did die just a week ago."
"And you told no one!"
"What could I do? Absolute ruin faced me. If I could stave things off for three weeks all would be well. Her maid's husband --
this man here -- is an actor. It came into our heads -- it came into my head -- that he could for that short period personate my
sister. It was but a case of appearing daily in the carriage, for no one need enter her room save the maid. It was not difficult to
arrange. My sister died of the dropsy which had long afflicted her."
"That will be for a coroner to decide."
"Her doctor would certify that for months her symptoms have threatened such an end."
"Well, what did you do?"
"The body could not remain there. On the first night Norlett and I carried it out to the old well-house, which is now never used.
We were followed, however, by her pet spaniel, which yapped continually at the door, so I felt some safer place was needed. I
got rid of the spaniel, and we carried the body to the crypt of the church. There was no indignity or irreverence, Mr. Holmes. I
do not feel that I have wronged the dead."
"Your conduct seems to me inexcusable, Sir Robert."
The baronet shook his head impatiently. "It is easy to preach," said he. "Perhaps you would have felt differently if you had been
in my position. One cannot see all one's hopes and all one's plans shattered at the last moment and make no effort to save
them. It seemed to me that it would be no unworthy resting-place if we put her for the time in one of the coffins of her
husband's ancestors lying in what is still consecrated ground. We opened such a coffin, removed the contents, and placed her
as you have seen her. As to the old relics which we took out, we could not leave them on the floor of the crypt. Norlett and I
removed them, and he descended at night and burned them in the central furnace. There is my story, Mr. Holmes, though how
you forced my hand so that I have to tell it is more than I can say."
Holmes sat for some time lost in thought.
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"There is one flaw in your narrative, Sir Robert," he said at last. "Your bets on the race, and therefore your hopes for the future,
would hold good even if your creditors seized your estate."
"The horse would be part of the estate. What do they care for my bets? As likely as not they would not run him at all. My chief
creditor is, unhappily, my most bitter enemy -- a rascally fellow, Sam Brewer, whom I was once compelled to horsewhip on
Newmarket Heath. Do you suppose that he would try to save me?"
"Well, Sir Robert," said Holmes, rising, "this matter must, of course, be referred to the police. It was my duty to bring the facts
to light, and there I must leave it. As to the morality or decency of your conduct, it is not for me to express an opinion. It is
nearly midnight, Watson, and I think we may make our way back to our humble abode."
It is generally known now that this singular episode ended upon a happier note than Sir Robert's actions deserved. Shoscombe
Prince did win the Derby, the sporting owner did net eighty thousand pounds in bets, and the creditors did hold their hand until
the race was over, when they were paid in full, and enough was left to reestablish Sir Robert in a fair position in life. Both
police and coroner took a lenient view of the transaction, and beyond a mild censure for the delay in registering the lady's
decease, the lucky owner got away scatheless from this strange incident in a career which has now outlived its shadows and
promises to end in an honoured old age.
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