The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes

by

Sir Arthur Ignatius Conan Doyle

1927

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 The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes
Copyright © 1927 Sir Arthur Ignatius Conan Doyle

Published by John Murray, June 1927.

First published in Strand Magazine October 1921 - April 1927.
The original title "Reminiscences of Mr. Sherlock Holmes" was to be for occasional tales to "reflect
particular concerns of Conan Doyle beyond exciting whodunit plots ... exploring changes in the
modern world". The first Reminiscence about Wisteria Lodge, "a dictator who has ruined a small
country", fictionalizes his later "blistering indictment of the Belgian treatment of the people of the
Congo".

The Case-Book contains three stories not narrated by Dr. Watson, as most Sherlock Holmes stories are.
"The Adventure of the Mazarin Stone" is narrated in the third person, since it was adapted from a stage
play in which Watson hardly appeared. "The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier" and "The Adventure
of the Lion's Mane" are both narrated by Holmes himself, the latter being set after his retirement.

Although some of the stories are comparable with Doyle's earlier work, this collection is often
considered a lesser entry in the Sherlock Holmes canon. David Stuart Davies has commented that "The
Adventure of the Creeping Man" "veers towards risible science fiction"; in the 1974 novel The Seven-
Per-Cent Solution, author Nicholas Meyer's Watson claims that this entry, as well as three others from
the Case-Book ("The Mazarin Stone", "The Three Gables" and "The Lion's Mane"), are forged
"drivel".
 Contents

Preface
The Adventure of the Mazarin Stone
The Problem of Thor Bridge
The Adventure of the Creeping Man
The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire
The Adventure of the Three Garridebs
The Adventure of the Illustrious Client
The Adventure of the Three Gables
The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier
The Adventure of the Lion's Mane
The Adventure of the Retired Colourman
The Adventure of the Veiled Lodger
The Adventure of Shoscombe Old Place
 Preface

I fear that Mr. Sherlock Holmes may become like one of those popular tenors
who, having outlived their time, are still tempted to make repeated farewell
bows to their indulgent audiences. This must cease and he must go the way of
all flesh, material or imaginary. One likes to think that there is some fantastic
limbo for the children of imagination, some strange, impossible place where
the beaux of Fielding may still make love to the belles of Richardson, where
Scott's heroes still may strut, Dickens's delightful Cockneys still raise a laugh,
and Thackeray's worldlings continue to carry on their reprehensible careers.
Perhaps in some humble corner of such a Valhalla, Sherlock and his Watson
may for a time find a place, while some more astute sleuth with some even
less astute comrade may fill the stage which they have vacated.
His career has been a long one – though it is possible to exaggerate it;
decrepit gentlemen who approach me and declare that his adventures formed
the reading of their boyhood do not meet the response from me which they
seem to expect. One is not anxious to have one's personal dates handled so
unkindly. As a matter of cold fact, Holmes made his debut in A Study in
Scarlet and in The Sign of Four, two small booklets which appeared between
1887 and 1889. It was in 1891 that “A Scandal in Bohemia,” the first of the
long series of short stories, appeared in The Strand Magazine. The public
seemed appreciative and desirous of more, so that from that date, thirty-nine
years ago, they have been produced in a broken series which now contains no
fewer than fifty-six stories, republished in The Adventures, The Memoirs,
The Return, and His Last Bow. and there remain these twelve published
during the last few years which are here produced under the title of The Case
Book of Sherlock Holmes. He began his adventures in the very heart of the
later Victorian era, carried it through the all-too-short reign of Edward, and
has managed to hold his own little niche even in these feverish days. Thus it
would be true to say that those who first read of him, as young men, have
lived to see their own grown-up children following the same adventures in the
same magazine. It is a striking example of the patience and loyalty of the
British public.
I had fully determined at the conclusion of The Memoirs to bring Holmes
to an end, as I felt that my literary energies should not be directed too much
into one channel. That pale, clear-cut face and loose-limbed figure were
taking up an undue share of my imagination. I did the deed, but fortunately no
coroner had pronounced upon the remains, and so, after a long interval, it was
not difficult for me to respond to the flattering demand and to explain my rash
act away. I have never regretted it, for I have not in actual practice found that
these lighter sketches have prevented me from exploring and finding my
limitations in such varied branches of literature as history, poetry, historical
novels, psychic research, and the drama. Had Holmes never existed I could
not have done more, though he may perhaps have stood a little in the way of
the recognition of my more serious literary work.
And so, reader, farewell to Sherlock Holmes! I thank you for your past
constancy, and can but hope that some return has been made in the shape of
that distraction from the worries of life and stimulating change of thought
which can only be found in the fairy kingdom of romance.
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.
 The Adventure of the Mazarin Stone

It was pleasant to Dr. Watson to find himself once more in the untidy room of
the first floor in Baker Street which had been the starting-point of so many
remarkable adventures. He looked round him at the scientific charts upon the
wall, the acid-charred bench of chemicals, the violin-case leaning in the
corner, the coal-scuttle, which contained of old the pipes and tobacco. Finally,
his eyes came round to the fresh and smiling face of Billy, the young but very
wise and tactful page, who had helped a little to fill up the gap of loneliness
and isolation which surrounded the saturnine figure of the great detective.
“It all seems very unchanged, Billy. You don't change, either. I hope the
same can be said of him?”
Billy glanced with some solicitude at the closed door of the bedroom.
“I think he's in bed and asleep,” he said.
It was seven in the evening of a lovely summer's day, but Dr. Watson was
sufficiently familiar with the irregularity of his old friend's hours to feel no
surprise at the idea.
“That means a case, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir, he is very hard at it just now. I'm frightened for his health. He
gets paler and thinner, and he eats nothing. 'When will you be pleased to dine,
Mr. Holmes?' Mrs. Hudson asked. 'Seven-thirty, the day after to-morrow,' said
he. You know his way when he is keen on a case.”
“Yes, Billy, I know.”
“He's following someone. Yesterday he was out as a workman looking for
a job. To-day he was an old woman. Fairly took me in, he did, and I ought to
know his ways by now.” Billy pointed with a grin to a very baggy parasol
which leaned against the sofa. “That's part of the old woman's outfit,” he said.
“But what is it all about, Billy?”
Billy sank his voice, as one who discusses great secrets of State. “I don't
mind telling you, sir, but it should go no farther. It's this case of the Crown
diamond.”
“What – the hundred-thousand-pound burglary?”
“Yes, sir. They must get it back, sir. Why, we had the Prime Minister and
the Home Secretary both sitting on that very sofa. Mr. Holmes was very nice
to them. He soon put them at their ease and promised he would do all he
could. Then there is Lord Cantlemere – “
“Ah!”
 “Yes, sir, you know what that means. He's a stiff'un, sir, if I may say so. I
can get along with the Prime Minister, and I've nothing against the Home
Secretary, who seemed a civil, obliging sort of man, but I can't stand his
Lordship. Neither can Mr. Holmes, sir. You see, he don't believe in Mr.
Holmes and he was against employing him. He'd rather he failed.”
“And Mr. Holmes knows it?”
“Mr. Holmes always knows whatever there is to know.”
“Well, we'll hope he won't fail and that Lord Cantlemere will be
confounded. But I say, Billy, what is that curtain for across the window?”
“Mr. Holmes had it put up there three days ago. We've got something
funny behind it.”
Billy advanced and drew away the drapery which screened the alcove of
the bow window.
Dr. Watson could not restrain a cry of amazement. There was a facsimile
of his old friend, dressing-gown and all, the face turned three-quarters
towards the window and downward, as though reading an invisible book,
while the body was sunk deep in an armchair. Billy detached the head and
held it in the air.
“We put it at different angles, so that it may seem more lifelike. I wouldn't
dare touch it if the blind were not down. But when it's up you can see this
from across the way.”
“We used something of the sort once before.”
“Before my time,” said Billy. He drew the window curtains apart and
looked out into the street. “There are folk who watch us from over yonder. I
can see a fellow now at the window. Have a look for yourself.”
Watson had taken a step forward when the bedroom door opened, and the
long, thin form of Holmes emerged, his face pale and drawn, but his step and
bearing as active as ever. With a single spring he was at the window, and had
drawn the blind once more.
“That will do, Billy,” said he. “You were in danger of your life then, my
boy, and I can't do without you just yet. Well, Watson, it is good to see you in
your old quarters once again. You come at a critical moment.”
“So I gather.”
“You can go, Billy. That boy is a problem, Watson. How far am I justified
in allowing him to be in danger?”
“Danger of what, Holmes?”
“Of sudden death. I'm expecting something this evening.”
“Expecting what?”
“To be murdered, Watson.”
“No, no, you are joking, Holmes!”
 “Even my limited sense of humour could evolve a better joke than that.
But we may be comfortable in the meantime, may we not? Is alcohol
permitted? The gasogene and cigars are in the old place. Let me see you once
more in the customary armchair. You have not, I hope, learned to despise my
pipe and my lamentable tobacco? It has to take the place of food these days.”
“But why not eat?”
“Because the faculties become refined when you starve them. Why,
surely, as a doctor, my dear Watson, you must admit that what your digestion
gains in the way of blood supply is so much lost to the brain. I am a brain,
Watson. The rest of me is a mere appendix. Therefore, it is the brain I must
consider.”
“But this danger, Holmes?”
“Ah. yes, in case it should come off, it would perhaps be as well that you
should burden your memory with the name and address of the murderer. You
can give it to Scotland Yard, with my love and a parting blessing. Sylvius is
the name – Count Negretto Sylvius. Write it down, man, write it down! 136
Moorside Gardens, N. W. Got it?”
Watson's honest face was twitching with anxiety. He knew only too well
the immense risks taken by Holmes and was well aware that what he said was
more likely to be under-statement than exaggeration. Watson was always the
man of action, and he rose to the occasion.
“Count me in, Holmes. I have nothing to do for a day or two.”
“Your morals don't improve, Watson. You have added fibbing to your
other vices. You bear every sign of the busy medical man, with calls on him
every hour.”
“Not such important ones. But can't you have this fellow arrested?”
“Yes, Watson, I could. That's what worries him so.”
“But why don't you?”
“Because I don't know where the diamond is.”
“Ah! Billy told me – the missing Crown jewel!”
“Yes, the great yellow Mazarin stone. I've cast my net and I have my fish.
But I have not got the stone. What is the use of taking them? We can make the
world a better place by laying them by the heels. But that is not what I am out
for. It's the stone I want.”
“And is this Count Sylvius one of your fish?”
“Yes, and he's a shark. He bites. The other is Sam Merton the boxer. Not a
bad fellow, Sam, but the Count has used him. Sam's not a shark. He is a great
big silly bull-headed gudgeon. But he is flopping about in my net all the
same.”
“Where is this Count Sylvius?”
 “I've been at his very elbow all the morning. You've seen me as an old
lady, Watson. I was never more convincing. He actually picked up my parasol
for me once. 'By your leave, madame,' said he – half-ltalian, you know, and
with the Southern graces of manner when in the mood, but a devil incarnate in
the other mood. Life is full of whimsical happenings, Watson.”
“It might have been tragedy.”
“Well, perhaps it might. I followed him to old Straubenzee's workshop in
the Minories. Straubenzee made the air-gun – a very pretty bit of work, as I
understand, and I rather fancy it is in the opposite window at the present
moment. Have you seen the dummy? Of course, Billy showed it to you. Well,
it may get a bullet through its beautiful head at any moment. Ah, Billy, what
is it?”
The boy had reappeared in the room with a card upon a tray. Holmes
glanced at it with raised eyebrows and an amused smile.
“The man himself. I had hardly expected this. Grasp the nettle, Watson! A
man of nerve. Possibly you have heard of his reputation as a shooter of big
game. It would indeed be a triumphant ending to his excellent sporting record
if he added me to his bag. This is a proof that he feels my toe very close
behind his heel.”
“Send for the police.”
“I probably shall. But not just yet. Would you glance carefully out of the
window, Watson, and see if anyone is hanging about in the street?”
Watson looked warily round the edge of the curtain.
“Yes, there is one rough fellow near the door.”
“That will be Sam Merton – the faithful but rather fatuous Sam. Where is
this gentleman, Billy?”
“In the waiting-room, sir.”
“Show him up when I ring.”
“Yes,sir.”
“If I am not in the room, show him in all the same.”
“Yes, sir.”
Watson waited until the door was closed, and then he turned earnestly to
his companion.
“Look here, Holmes, this is simply impossible. This is a desperate man,
who sticks at nothing. He may have come to murder you.”
“I should not be surprised.”
“I insist upon staying with you.”
“You would be horribly in the way.”
“In his way?”
“No, my dear fellow – in my way.”
 “Well, I can't possibly leave you.”
“Yes, you can, Watson. And you will, for you have never failed to play the
game. I am sure you will play it to the end. This man has come for his own
purpose, but he may stay for mine.”
Holmes took out his notebook and scribbled a few lines. “Take a cab to
Scotland Yard and give this to Youghal of the C. I. D. Come back with the
police. The fellow's arrest will follow.”
“I'll do that with joy.
“Before you return I may have just time enough to find out where the
stone is.” He touched the bell. “I think we will go out through the bedroom.
This second exit is exceedingly useful. I rather want to see my shark without
his seeing me, and I have, as you will remember, my own way of doing it.”
It was, therefore, an empty room into which Billy, a minute later, ushered
Count Sylvius. The famous game-shot, sportsman, and man-about-town was a
big, swarthy fellow, with a formidable dark moustache shading a cruel, thin-
lipped mouth, and surmounted by a long, curved nose like the beak of an
eagle. He was well dressed, but his brilliant necktie, shining pin, and
glittering rings were flamboyant in their effect. As the door closed behind him
he looked round him with fierce, startled eyes, like one who suspects a trap at
every turn. Then he gave a violent start as he saw the impassive head and the
collar of the dressing-gown which projected above the armchair in the
window. At first his expression was one of pure amazement. Then the light of
a horrible hope gleamed in his dark, murderous eyes. He took one more
glance round to see that there were no witnesses, and then, on tiptoe, his thick
stick half raised, he approached the silent figure. He was crouching for his
final spring and blow when a cool, sardonic voice greeted him from the open
bedroom door:
“Don't break it, Count! Don't break it!”
The assassin staggered back, amazement in his convulsed face. For an
instant he half raised his loaded cane once more, as if he would turn his
violence from the effigy to the original; but there was something in that
steady gray eye and mocking smile which caused his hand to sink to his side.
“It's a pretty little thing,” said Holmes, advancing towards the image.
“Tavernier, the French modeller, made it. He is as good at waxworks as your
friend Straubenzee is at air-guns.”
“Air-guns, sir! What do you mean?”
“Put your hat and stick on the side-table. Thank you! Pray take a seat.
Would you care to put your revolver out also? Oh, very good, if you prefer to
sit upon it. Your visit is really most opportune, for I wanted badly to have a
few minutes' chat with you. “
 The Count scowled, with heavy, threatening eyebrows.
“I, too, wished to have some words with you, Holmes. That is why I am
here. I won't deny that I intended to assault you just now.”
Holmes swung his leg on the edge of the table.
“I rather gathered that you had some idea of the sort in your head,” said
he. “But why these personal attentions?”
“Because you have gone out of your way to annoy me. Because you have
put your creatures upon my track.”
“My creatures! I assure you no!”
“Nonsense! I have had them followed. Two can play at that game,
Holmes.”
“It is a small point, Count Sylvius, but perhaps you would kindly give me
my prefix when you address me. You can understand that, with my routine of
work, I should find myself on familiar terms with half the rogues' gallery, and
you will agree that exceptions are invidious.”
“Well, Mr. Holmes, then.”
“Excellent! But I assure you you are mistaken about my alleged agents.”
Count Sylvius laughed contemptuously.
“Other people can observe as well as you. Yesterday there was an old
sporting man. To-day it was an elderly woman. They held me in view all
day.”
“Really, sir, you compliment me. Old Baron Dowson said the night before
he was hanged that in my case what the law had gained the stage had lost.
And now you give my little impersonations your kindly praise?”
“It was you – you yourself?”
Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “You can see in the corner the parasol
which you so politely handed to me in the Minories before you began to
suspect.”
“If I had known, you might never – “
“Have seen this humble home again. I was well aware of it. We all have
neglected opportunities to deplore. As it happens, you did not know, so here
we are!”
The Count's knotted brows gathered more heavily over his menacing eyes.
“What you say only makes the matter worse. It was not your agents but your
play-acting, busybody self! You admit that you have dogged me. Why?”
“Come now, Count. You used to shoot lions in Algeria.”
“Well?”
“But why?”
“Why? The sport – the excitement – the danger!”
“And, no doubt, to free the country from a pest?”
 “Exactly!”
“My reasons in a nutshell!”
The Count sprang to his feet, and his hand involuntarily moved back to
his hip-pocket.
“Sit down, sir, sit down! There was another, more practical, reason. I want
that yellow diamond!”
Count Sylvius lay back in his chair with an evil smile.
“Upon my word!” said he.
“You knew that I was after you for that. The real reason why you are here
to-night is to find out how much I know about the matter and how far my
removal is absolutely essential. Well, I should say that, from your point of
view, it is absolutely essential, for I know all about it, save only one thing,
which you are about to tell me.”
“Oh, indeed! And pray, what is this missing fact?”
“Where the Crown diamond now is.”
The Count looked sharply at his companion. “Oh, you want to know that,
do you? How the devil should I be able to tell you where it is?”
“You can, and you will.”
“Indeed!”
“You can't bluff me, Count Sylvius.” Holmes's eyes, as he gazed at him,
contracted and lightened until they were like two menacing points of steel.
“You are absolute plate-glass. I see to the very back of your mind.”
“Then, of course, you see where the diamond is!”
Holmes clapped his hands with amusement, and then pointed a derisive
finger. “Then you do know. You have admitted it!”
“I admit nothing.”
“Now, Count, if you will be reasonable we can do business. If not, you
will get hurt.”
Count Sylvius threw up his eyes to the ceiling. “And you talk about
bluff!” said he.
Holmes looked at him thoughtfully like a master chess-player who
meditates his crowning move. Then he threw open the table drawer and drew
out a squat notebook.
“Do you know what I keep in this book?”
“No, sir, I do not!”
“You!”
“Me!”
“Yes, sir, you! You are all here – every action of yor vile and dangerous
life.”
“Damn you, Holmes!” cried the Count with blazing eyes. “There are
limits to my patience!”
“It's all here, Count. The real facts as to the death of old Mrs. Harold, who
left you the Blymer estate, which you so rapidly gambled away.”
“You are dreaming!”
“And the complete life history of Miss Minnie Warrender.”
“Tut! You will make nothing of that!”
“Plenty more here, Count. Here is the robbery in the train de-luxe to the
Riviera on February 13, 1892. Here is the forged check in the same year on
the Credit Lyonnais.”
“No, you're wrong there.”
“Then I am right on the others! Now, Count, you are a card-player. When
the other fellow has all the trumps, it saves time to throw down your hand.”
“What has all this talk to do with the jewel of which you spoke?”
“Gently, Count. Restrain that eager mind! Let me get to the points in my
own humdrum fashion. I have all this against you; but, above all, I have a
clear case against both you and your fighting bully in the case of the Crown
diamond.”
“Indeed!”
“I have the cabman who took you to Whitehall and the cabman who
brought you away. I have the commissionaire who saw you near the case. I
have Ikey Sanders, who refused to cut it up for you. Ikey has peached, and the
game is up.”
The veins stood out on the Count's forehead. His dark, hairy hands were
clenched in a convulsion of restrained emotion. He tried to speak, but the
words would not shape themselves.
“That's the hand I play from,” said Holmes. “I put it all upon the table.
But one card is missing. It's the king of diamonds. I don't know where the
stone is.”
“You never shall know.”
“No? Now, be reasonable, Count. Consider the situation. You are going to
be locked up for twenty years. So is Sam Merton. What good are you going to
get out of your diamond? None in the world. But if you hand it over – well,
I'll compound a felony. We don't want you or Sam. We want the stone. Give
that up, and so far as I am concerned you can go free so long as you behave
yourself in the future. If you make another slip well, it will be the last. But
this time my commission is to get the stone, not you.”
“But if I refuse?”
“Why, then – alas! – it must be you and not the stone.”
Billy had appeared in answer to a ring.
“I think, Count, that it would be as well to have your friend Sam at this
conference. After all, his interests should be represented. Billy, you will see a
large and ugly gentleman outside the front door. Ask him to come up.”
“If he won't come, sir?”
“No violence, Billy. Don't be rough with him. If you tell him that Count
Sylvius wants him he will certainly come.”
“What are you going to do now?” asked the Count as Billy disappeared.
“My friend Watson was with me just now. I told him that I had a shark
and a gudgeon in my net; now I am drawing the net and up they come
together.”
The Count had risen from his chair, and his hand was behind his back.
Holmes held something half protruding from the pocket of his dressing-gown.
“You won't die in your bed, Holmes.”
“I have often had the same idea. Does it matter very much? After all,
Count, your own exit is more likely to be perpendicular than horizontal. But
these anticipations of the future are morbid. Why not give ourselves up to the
unrestrained enjoyment of the present?”
A sudden wild-beast light sprang up in the dark, menacing eyes of the
master criminal. Holmes's figure seemed to grow taller as he grew tense and
ready.
“It is no use your fingering your revolver, my friend,” he said in a quiet
voice. “You know perfectly well that you dare not use it, even if I gave you
time to draw it. Nasty, noisy things, revolvers, Count. Better stick to air-guns.
Ah! I think I hear the fairy footstep of your estimable partner. Good day, Mr.
Merton. Rather dull in the street, is it not?”
The prize-fighter, a heavily built young man with a stupid, obstinate, slab-
sided face, stood awkwardly at the door, looking about him with a puzzled
expression. Holmes's debonair manner was a new experience, and though he
vaguely felt that it was hostile, he did not know how to counter it. He turned
to his more astute comrade for help.
“What's the game now, Count? What's this fellow want? What's up?” His
voice was deep and raucous.
The Count shrugged his shoulders, and it was Holmes who answered.
“If I may put it in a nutshell, Mr. Merton, I should say it was all up.”
The boxer still addressed his remarks to his associate.
“Is this cove trying to be funny, or what? I'm not in the funny mood
myself.”
“No, I expect not,” said Holmes. “I think I can promise you that you will
feel even less humorous as the evening advances. Now, look here, Count
Sylvius. I'm a busy man and I can't waste time. I'm going into that bedroom.
Pray make yourselves quite at home in my absence. You can explain to your
friend how the matter lies without the restraint of my presence. I shall try over
the Hoffman 'Barcarole' upon my violin. In five minutes I shall return for your
final answer. You quite grasp the alternative, do you not? Shall we take you,
or shall we have the stone?”
Holmes withdrew, picking up his violin from the corner as he passed. A
few moments later the long-drawn, wailing notes of that most haunting of
tunes came faintly through the closed door of the bedroom.
“What is it, then?” asked Merton anxiously as his companion turned to
him. “Does he know about the stone?”
“He knows a damned sight too much about it. I'm not sure that he doesn't
know all about it.”
“Good Lord!” The boxer's sallow face turned a shade whiter.
“Ikey Sanders has split on us.”
“He has, has he? I'll do him down a thick 'un for that if I swing for it.”
“That won't help us much. We've got to make up our minds what to do.”
“Half a mo',” said the boxer, looking suspiciously at the bedroom door.
“He's a leary cove that wants watching. I suppose he's not listening?”
“How can he be listening with that music going?”
“That's right. Maybe somebody's behind a curtain. Too many curtains in
this room.” As he looked round he suddenly saw for the first time the effigy
in the window, and stood staring and pointing, too amazed for words.
“Tut! it's only a dummy,” said the Count.
“A fake, is it? Well, strike me! Madame Tussaud ain't in it. It's the living
spit of him, gown and all. But them curtains Count!”
“Oh, confound the curtains! We are wasting our time, and there is none
too much. He can lag us over this stone.”
“The deuce he can!”
“But he'll let us slip if we only tell him where the swag is.”
“What! Give it up? Give up a hundred thousand quid?”
“It's one or the other.”
Merton scratched his short-cropped pate.
“He's alone in there. Let's do him in. If his light were out we should have
nothing to fear.”
The Count shook his head.
“He is armed and ready. If we shot him we could hardly get away in a
place like this. Besides, it's likely enough that the police know whatever
evidence he has got. Hallo! What was that?”
There was a vague sound which seemed to come from the window. Both
men sprang round, but all was quiet. Save for the one strange figure seated in
the chair, the room was certainly empty.
 “Something in the street,” said Merton. “Now look here, guv'nor, you've
got the brains. Surely you can think a way out of it. If slugging is no use then
it's up to you.”
“I've fooled better men than he,” the Count answered. “The stone is here
in my secret pocket. I take no chances leaving it about. It can be out of
England to-night and cut into four pieces in Amsterdam before Sunday. He
knows nothing of Van Seddar.”
“I thought Van Seddar was going next week.”
“He was. But now he must get off by the next boat. One or other of us
must slip round with the stone to Lime Street and tell him.”
“But the false bottom ain't ready.”
“Well, he must take it as it is and chance it. There's not a moment to lose.”
Again, with the sense of danger which becomes an instinct with the
sportsman, he paused and looked hard at the window. Yes, it was surely from
the street that the faint sound had come.
“As to Holmes,” he continued, “we can fool him easily enough. You see,
the damned fool won't arrest us if he can get the stone. Well, we'll promise
him the stone. We'll put him on the wrong track about it, and before he finds
that it is the wrong track it will be in Holland and we out of the country.”
“That sounds good to me!” cried Sam Merton with a grin.
“You go on and tell the Dutchman to get a move on him. I'll see this
sucker and fill him up with a bogus confession. I'll tell him that the stone is in
Liverpool. Confound that whining music; it gets on my nerves! By the time
he finds it isn't in Liverpool it will be in quarters and we on the blue water.
Come back here, out of a line with that keyhole. Here is the stone.”
“I wonder you dare carry it.”
“Where could I have it safer? If we could take it out of Whitehall
someone else could surely take it out of my lodgings.”
“Let's have a look at it.”
Count Sylvius cast a somewhat unflattering glance at his associate and
disregarded the unwashed hand which was extended towards him.
“What – d'ye think I'm going to snatch it off you? See here, mister, I'm
getting a bit tired of your ways.”
“Well, well, no offence, Sam. We can't afford to quarrel. Come over to the
window if you want to see the beauty properly. Now hold it to the light!
Here!”
“Thank you!”
With a single spring Holmes had leaped from the dummy's chair and had
grasped the precious jewel. He held it now in one hand, while his other
pointed a revolver at the Count's head. The two villains staggered back in
utter amazement. Before they had recovered Holmes had pressed the electric
bell.
“No violence, gentlemen – no violence, I beg of you! Consider the
furniture! It must be very clear to you that your position is an impossible one.
The police are waiting below.”
The Count's bewilderment overmastered his rage and fear.
“But how the deuce – ?” he gasped.
“Your surprise is very natural. You are not aware that a second door from
my bedroom leads behind that curtain. I fancied that you must have heard me
when I displaced the figure, but luck was on my side. It gave me a chance of
listening to your racy conversation which would have been painfully
constrained had you been aware of my presence.”
The Count gave a gesture of resignation.
“We give you best, Holmes. I believe you are the devil himself.”
“Not far from him, at any rate,” Holmes answered with a polite smile.
Sam Merton's slow intellect had only gradually appreciated the situation.
Now, as the sound of heavy steps came from the stairs outside, he broke
silence at last.
“A fair cop!” said he. “But, I say, what about that bloomin' fiddle! I hear it
yet.”
“Tut, tut!” Holmes answered. “You are perfectly right. Let it play! These
modern gramophones are a remarkable invention.”
There was an inrush of police, the handcuffs clicked and the criminals
were led to the waiting cab. Watson lingered with Holmes, congratulating him
upon this fresh leaf added to his laurels. Once more their conversation was
interrupted by the imperturbable Billy with his card-tray.
“Lord Cantlemere sir.”
“Show him up, Biily. This is the eminent peer who represents the very
highest interests,” said Holmes. “He is an excellent and loyal person, but
rather of the old regime. Shall we make him unbend? Dare we venture upon a
slight liberty? He knows, we may conjecture, nothing of what has occurred.”
The door opened to admit a thin, austere figure with a hatchet face and
drooping mid-Victorian whiskers of a glossy blackness which hardly
corresponded with the rounded shoulders and feeble gait. Holmes advanced
affably, and shook an unresponsive hand.
“How do you do, Lord Cantlemere? It is chilly for the time of year, but
rather warm indoors. May I take your overcoat?”
“No, I thank you; I will not take it off.”
Holmes laid his hand insistently upon the sleeve.
“Pray allow me! My friend Dr. Watson would assure you that these
changes of temperature are most insidious.”
His Lordship shook himself free with some impatience.
“I am quite comfortable, sir. I have no need to stay. I have simply looked
in to know how your self-appointed task was progressing.”
“It is difficult – very difficult.”
“I feared that you would find it so.”
There was a distinct sneer in the old courtier's words and manner.
“Every man finds his limitations, Mr. Holmes, but at least it cures us of
the weakness of self-satisfaction.”
“Yes, sir, I have been much perplexed.”
“No doubt.”
“Especially upon one point. Possibly you could help me upon
“You apply for my advice rather late in the day. I thought that you had
your own all-sufficient methods. Still, I am ready to help you.”
“You see, Lord Cantlemere, we can no doubt frame a case against the
actual thieves.”
“When you have caught them.”
“Exactly. But the question is – how shall we proceed against the
receiver?”
“Is this not rather premature?”
“It is as well to have our plans ready. Now, what would you regard as final
evidence against the receiver?”
“The actual possession of the stone.”
“You would arrest him upon that?”
“Most undoubtedly.”
Holmes seldom laughed, but he got as near it as his old friend Watson
could remember.
“In that case, my dear sir, I shall be under the painful necessity of advising
your arrest.”
Lord Cantlemere was very angry. Some of the ancient fires flickered up
into his sallow cheeks.
“You take a great liberty, Mr. Holmes. In fifty years of official life I
cannot recall such a case. I am a busy man, sir engaged upon important
affairs, and I have no time or taste for foolish jokes. I may tell you frankly, sir,
that I have never been a believer in your powers, and that I have always been
of the opinion that the matter was far safer in the hands of the regular police
force. Your conduct confirms all my conclusions. I have the honour, sir, to
wish you good-evening.”
Holmes had swiftly changed his position and was between the peer and
the door.
 “One moment, sir,” said he. “To actually go off with the Mazarin stone
would be a more serious offence than to be found in temporary possession of
it.”
“Sir, this is intolerable! Let me pass.”
“Put your hand in the right-hand pocket of your overcoat.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“Come – come, do what I ask.”
An instant later the amazed peer was standing, blinking and stammering,
with the great yellow stone on his shaking palm.
“What! What! How is this, Mr. Holmes?”
“Too bad, Lord Cantlemere, too bad!” cried Holmes. “My old friend here
will tell you that I have an impish habit of practical joking. Also that I can
never resist a dramatic situation. I took the liberty – the very great liberty, I
admit – of putting the stone into your pocket at the beginning of our
interview.”
The old peer stared from the stone to the smiling face before him.
“Sir, I am bewildered. But – yes – it is indeed the Mazarin stone. We are
greatly your debtors, Mr. Holmes. Your sense of humour may, as you admit,
be somewhat perverted, and its exhibition remarkably untimely, but at least I
withdraw any reflection I have made upon your amazing professional powers.
But how – “
“The case is but half finished; the details can wait. No doubt, Lord
Cantlemere, your pleasure in telling of this successful result in the exalted
circle to which you return will be some small atonement for my practical
joke. Billy, you will show his Lordship out, and tell Mrs. Hudson that I should
be glad if she would send up dinner for two as soon as possible.”
 The Problem of Thor Bridge

Somewhere in the vaults of the bank of Cox and Co., at Charing Cross, there
is a travel-worn and battered tin dispatchbox with my name, John H. Watson,
M. D., Late Indian Army, painted upon the lid. It is crammed with papers,
nearly all of which are records of cases to illustrate the curious problems
which Mr. Sherlock Holmes had at various times to examine. Some, and not
the least interesting, were complete failures, and as such will hardly bear
narrating, since no final explanation is forthcoming. A problem without a
solution may interest the student, but can hardly fail to annoy the casual
reader. Among these unfinished tales is that of Mr. James Phillimore, who,
stepping back into his own house to get his umbrella, was never more seen in
this world. No less remarkable is that of the cutter Alicia, which sailed one
spring morning into a small patch of mist from where she never again
emerged, nor was anything further ever heard of herself and her crew. A third
case worthy of note is that of Isadora Persano, the well-known journalist and
duellist, who was found stark staring mad with a match box in front of him
which contained a remarkable worm said to be unknown to science. Apart
from these unfathomed cases, there are some which involve the secrets of
private families to an extent which would mean consternation in many exalted
quarters if it were thought possible that they might find their way into print. I
need not say that such a breach of confidence is unthinkable, and that these
records will be separated and destroyed now that my friend has time to turn
his energies to the matter. There remain a considerable residue of cases of
greater or less interest which I might have edited before had I not feared to
give the public a surfeit which might react upon the reputation of the man
whom above all others I revere. In some I was myself concerned and can
speak as an eye-witness, while in others I was either not present or played so
small a part that they could only be told as by a third person. The following
narrative is drawn from my own experience.
It was a wild morning in October, and I observed as I was dressing how
the last remaining leaves were being whirled from the solitary plane tree
which graces the yard behind our house. I descended to breakfast prepared to
find my companion in depressed spirits, for, like all great artists, he was easily
impressed by his surroundings. On the contrary, I found that he had nearly
finished his meal, and that his mood was particularly bright and joyous, with
that somewhat sinister cheerfulness which was characteristic of his lighter
moments.
“You have a case, Holmes?” I remarked.
“The faculty of deduction is certainly contagious, Watson,” he answered.
“It has enabled you to probe my secret. Yes, I have a case. After a month of
trivialities and stagnation the wheels move once more.”
“Might I share it?”
“There is little to share, but we may discuss it when you have consumed
the two hard-boiled eggs with which our new cook has favoured us. Their
condition may not be unconnected with the copy of the Family Herald which I
observed yesterday upon the hall-table. Even so trivial a matter as cooking an
egg demands an attention which is conscious of the passage of time and
incompatible with the love romance in that excellent periodical.”
A quarter of an hour later the table had been cleared and we were face to
face. He had drawn a letter from his pocket.
“You have heard of Neil Gibson, the Gold King?” he said.
“You mean the American Senator?”
“Well, he was once Senator for some Western state, but is better known as
the greatest gold-mining magnate in the world.”
“Yes, I know of him. He has surely lived in England for some time. His
name is very familiar.”
“Yes, he bought a considerable estate in Hampshire some five years ago.
Possibly you have already heard of the tragic end of his wife?”
“Of course. I remember it now. That is why the name is familiar. But I
really know nothing of the details.”
Holmes waved his hand towards some papers on a chair. “I had no idea
that the case was coming my way or I should have had my extracts ready,”
said he. “The fact is that the problem, though exceedingly sensational,
appeared to present no difficulty. The interesting personality of the accused
does not obscure the clearness of the evidence. That was the view taken by
the coroner's jury and also in the police-court proceedings. It is now referred
to the Assizes at Winchester. I fear it is a thankless business. I can discover
facts, Watson, but I cannot change them. Unless some entirely new and
unexpected ones come to light I do not see what my client can hope for.”
“Your client?”
“Ah, I forgot I had not told you. I am getting into your involved habit,
Watson, of telling a story backward. You had best read this first.”
The letter which he handed to me, written in a bold, masterful hand, ran as
follows:
CLARIDGE'S HOTEL,
October 3rd.
 DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES:
I can't see the best woman God ever made go to her death without doing all that is possible to
save her. I can't explain things – I can't even try to explain them, but I know beyond all doubt that
Miss Dunbar is innocent. You know the facts – who doesn't? It has been the gossip of the country.
And never a voice raised for her! It's the damned injustice of it all that makes me crazy. That woman
has a heart that wouldn't let her kill a fly. Well, I'll come at eleven to-morrow and see if you can get
some ray of light in the dark. Maybe I have a clue and don't know it. Anyhow, all I know and all I
have and all I am are for your use if only you can save her. If ever in your life you showed your
powers, put them now into this case.

Yours faithfully,
J. NEIL GIBSON.

“There you have it,” said Sherlock Holmes, knocking out the ashes of his
after-breakfast pipe and slowly refilling it. “That is the gentleman I await. As
to the story, you have hardly time to master all these papers, so I must give it
to you in a nutshell if you are to take an intelligent interest in the proceedings.
This man is the greatest financial power in the world, and a man, as I
understand, of most violent and formidable character. He married a wife, the
victim of this tragedy, of whom I know nothing save that she was past her
prime, which was the more unfortunate as a very attractive governess
superintended the education of two young children. These are the three people
concerned, and the scene is a grand old manor house, the centre of a historical
English state. Then as to the tragedy. The wife was found in the grounds
nearly half a mile from the house, late at night, clad in her dinner dress, with a
shawl over her shoulders and a revolver bullet through her brain. No weapon
was found near her and there was no local clue as to the murder. No weapon
near her, Watson – mark that! The crime seems to have been committed late
in the evening, and the body was found by a gamekeeper about eleven
o'clock, when it was examined by the police and by a doctor before being
carried up to the house. Is this too condensed, or can you follow it clearly?”
“It is all very clear. But why suspect the governess?”
“Well, in the first place there is some very direct evidence. A revolver
with one discharged chamber and a calibre which corresponded with the
bullet was found on the floor of her wardrobe.” His eyes fixed and he
repeated in broken words, “On – the – floor – of – her – wardrobe.” Then he
sank into silence, and I saw that some train of thought had been set moving
which I should be foolish to interrupt. Suddenly with a start he emerged into
brisk life once more. “Yes, Watson, it was found. Pretty damning, eh? So the
two juries thought. Then the dead woman had a note upon her making an
appointment at that very place and signed by the governess. How's that?
Finally there is the motive. Senator Gibson is an attractive person. If his wife
dies, who more likely to succeed her than the young lady who had already by
all accounts received pressing attentions from her employer? Love, fortune,
power, all depending upon one middleaged life. Ugly, Watson – very ugly!”
“Yes, indeed, Holmes.”
“Nor could she prove an alibi. On the contrary, she had to admit that she
was down near Thor Bridge – that was the scene of the tragedy – about that
hour. She couldn't deny it, for some passing villager had seen her there.”
“That really seems final.”
“And yet, Watson – and yet! This bridge – a single broad span of stone
with balustraded sides – carries the drive over the narrowest part of a long,
deep, reed-girt sheet of water. Thor Mere it is called. In the mouth of the
bridge lay the dead woman. Such are the main facts. But here, if I mistake
not, is our client, considerably before his time.”
Billy had opened the door, but the name which he announced was an
unexpected one. Mr. Marlow Bates was a stranger to both of us. He was a
thin, nervous wisp of a man with frightened eyes and a twitching, hesitating
manner – a man whom my own professional eye would judge to be on the
brink of an absolute nervous breakdown.
“You seem agitated, Mr. Bates,” said Holmes. “Pray sit down. I fear I can
only give you a short time, for I have an appointment at eleven.”
“I know you have,” our visitor gasped, shooting out short sentences like a
man who is out of breath. “Mr. Gibson is coming. Mr. Gibson is my employer.
I am manager of his estate. Mr. Holmes, he is a villain – an infernal villain.”
“Strong language, Mr. Bates.”
“I have to be emphatic, Mr. Holmes, for the time is so limited. I would not
have him find me here for the world. He is almost due now. But I was so
situated that I could not come earlier. His secretary, Mr. Ferguson, only told
me this morning of his appointment with you.”
“And you are his manager?”
“I have given him notice. In a couple of weeks I shall have shaken off his
accursed slavery. A hard man, Mr. Holmes, hard to all about him. Those
public charities are a screen to cover his private iniquities. But his wife was
his chief victim. He was brutal to her – yes, sir, brutal! How she came by her
death I do not know, but I am sure that he had made her life a misery to her.
She was a creature of the tropics, a Brazilian by birth, as no doubt you know.”
“No, it had escaped me.”
“Tropical by birth and tropical by nature. A child of the sun and of
passion. She had loved him as such women can love, but when her own
physical charms had faded – I am told that they once were great – there was
nothing to hold him. We all liked her and felt for her and hated him for the
way that he treated her. But he is plausible and cunning. That is all I have to
say to you. Don't take him at his face value. There is more behind. Now I'll
go. No, no, don't detain me! He is almost due.”
With a frightened look at the clock our strange visitor literally ran to the
door and disappeared.
“Well! Well!” said Holmes after an interval of silence. “Mr. Gibson seems
to have a nice loyal household. But the warning is a useful one, and now we
can only wait till the man himself appears.”
Sharp at the hour we heard a heavy step upon the stairs, and the famous
millionaire was shown into the room. As I looked upon him I understood not
only the fears and dislike of his manager but also the execrations which so
many business rivals have heaped upon his head. If I were a sculptor and
desired to idealize the successful man of affairs, iron of nerve and leathery of
conscience, I should choose Mr. Neil Gibson as my model. His tall, gaunt,
craggy figure had a suggestion of hunger and rapacity. An Abraham Lincoln
keyed to base uses instead of high ones would give some idea of the man. His
face might have been chiselled in granite, hard-set, craggy, remorseless, with
deep lines upon it, the scars of many a crisis. Cold gray eyes, looking
shrewdly out from under bristling brows, surveyed us each in turn. He bowed
in perfunctory fashion as Holmes mentioned my name, and then with a
masterful air of possession he drew a chair up to my companion and seated
himself with his bony knees almost touching him.
“Let me say right here, Mr. Holmes,” he began, “that money is nothing to
me in this case. You can burn it if it's any use in lighting you to the truth. This
woman is innocent and this woman has to be cleared, and it's up to you to do
it. Name your figure!”
“My professional charges are upon a fixed scale,” said Holmes coldly. “I
do not vary them, save when I remit them altogether.”
“Well, if dollars make no difference to you, think of the reputation. If you
pull this off every paper in England and America will be booming you. You'll
be the talk of two continents.”
“Thank you, Mr. Gibson, I do not think that I am in need of booming. It
may surprise you to know that I prefer to work anonymously, and that it is the
problem itself which attracts me. But we are wasting time. Let us get down to
the facts.”
“I think that you will find all the main ones in the press reports. I don't
know that I can add anything which will help you. But if there is anything you
would wish more light upon -well, I am here to give it.”
“Well, there is just one point.”
“What is it?”
“What were the exact relations between you and Miss Dunbar?”
 The Gold King gave a violent start and half rose from his chair. Then his
massive calm came back to him.
“I suppose you are within your rights – and maybe doing your duty – in
asking such a question, Mr. Holmes.”
“We will agree to suppose so,” said Holmes.
“Then I can assure you that our relations were entirely and always those
of an employer towards a young lady whom he never conversed with, or ever
saw, save when she was in the company of his children.”
Holmes rose from his chair.
“I am a rather busy man, Mr. Gibson,” said he, “and I have no time or
taste for aimless conversations. I wish you goodmorning.”
Our visitor had risen also, and his great loose figure towered above
Holmes. There was an angry gleam from under those bristling brows and a
tinge of colour in the sallow cheeks.
“What the devil do you mean by this, Mr. Holmes? Do you dismiss my
case?”
“Well, Mr. Gibson, at least I dismiss you. I should have thought my words
were plain.”
“Plain enough, but what's at the back of it? Raising the price on me, or
afraid to tackle it, or what? I've a right to a plain answer.”
“Well, perhaps you have,” said Holmes. “I'll give you one. This case is
quite sufficiently complicated to start with without the further difficulty of
false information.”
“Meaning that I lie.”
“Well, I was trying to express it as delicately as I could, but if you insist
upon the word I will not contradict you.”
I sprang to my feet, for the expression upon the millionaire's face was
fiendish in its intensity, and he had raised his great knotted fist. Holmes
smiled languidly and reached his hand out for his pipe.
“Don't be noisy, Mr. Gibson. I find that after breakfast even the smallest
argument is unsettling. I suggest that a stroll in the morning air and a little
quiet thought will be greatly to your advantage.”
With an effort the Gold King mastered his fury. I could not but admire
him, for by a supreme self-command he had turned in a minute from a hot
flame of anger to a frigid and contemptuous indifference.
“Well, it's your choice. I guess you know how to run your own business. I
can't make you touch the case against your will. You've done yourself no
good this morning, Mr. Holmes, for I have broken stronger men than you. No
man ever crossed me and was the better for it.”
“So many have said so, and yet here I am,” said Holmes, smiling. “Well,
good-morning, Mr. Gibson. You have a good deal yet to learn.”
Our visitor made a noisy exit, but Holmes smoked in imperturbable
silence with dreamy eyes fixed upon the ceiling.
“Any views, Watson?” he asked at last.
“Well, Holmes, I must confess that when I consider that this is a man who
would certainly brush any obstacle from his path, and when I remember that
his wife may have been an obstacle and an object of dislike, as that man Bates
plainly told us, it seems to me – “
“Exactly. And to me also.”
“But what were his relations with the governess, and how did you
discover them?”
“Bluff, Watson, bluff! When I considered the passionate, unconventional,
unbusinesslike tone of his letter and contrasted it with his self-contained
manner and appearance, it was pretty clear that there was some deep emotion
which centred upon the accused woman rather than upon the victim. We've
got to understand the exact relations of those three people if we are to reach
the truth. You saw the frontal attack which I made upon him, and how
imperturbably he received it. Then I bluffed him by giving him the impression
that I was absolutely certain, when in reality I was only extremely
suspicious.”
“Perhaps he will come back?”
“He is sure to come back. He must come back. He can't leave it where it
is. Ha! isn't that a ring? Yes, there is his footstep. Well, Mr. Gibson, I was just
saying to Dr. Watson that you were somewhat overdue.”
The Gold King had reentered the room in a more chastened mood than he
had left it. His wounded pride still showed in his resentful eyes, but his
common sense had shown him that he must yield if he would attain his end.
“I've been thinking it over, Mr. Holmes, and I feel that I have been hasty
in taking your remarks amiss. You are justified in getting down to the facts,
whatever they may be, and I think the more of you for it. I can assure you,
however, that the relations between Miss Dunbar and me don't really touch
this case.”
“That is for me to decide, is it not?”
“Yes, I guess that is so. You're like a surgeon who wants every symptom
before he can give his diagnosis.”
“Exactly. That expresses it. And it is only a patient who has an object in
deceiving his surgeon who would conceal the facts of his case.”
“That may be so, but you will admit, Mr. Holmes, that most men would
shy off a bit when they are asked point-blank what their relations with a
woman may be – if there is really some serious feeling in the case. I guess
most men have a little private reserve of their own in some corner of their
souls where they don't welcome intruders. And you burst suddenly into it. But
the object excuses you, since it was to try and save her. Well, the stakes are
down and the reserve open, and you can explore where you will. What is it
you want?”
“The truth.”
The Gold King paused for a moment as one who marshals his thoughts.
His grim, deep-lined face had become even sadder and more grave.
“I can give it to you in a very few words, Mr. Holmes,” said he at last.
“There are some things that are painful as well as difficult to say, so I won't
go deeper than is needful. I met my wife when I was gold-hunting in Brazil.
Maria Pinto was the daughter of a government official at Manaos, and she
was very beautiful. I was young and ardent in those days, but even now, as I
look back with colder blood and a more critical eye, I can see that she was
rare and wonderful in her beauty. It was a deep rich nature, too, passionate,
whole-hearted, tropical, ill-balanced, very different from the American
women whom I had known. Well, to make a long story short, I loved her and I
married her. It was only when the romance had passed – and it lingered for
years – that I realized that we had nothing – absolutely nothing – in common.
My love faded. If hers had faded also it might have been easier. But you know
the wonderful way of women! Do what I might, nothing could turn her from
me. If I have been harsh to her, even brutal as some have said, it has been
because I knew that if I could kill her love, or if it turned to hate, it would be
easier for both of us. But nothing changed her. She adored me in those
English woods as she had adored me twenty years ago on the banks of the
Amazon. Do what I might, she was as devoted as ever.
“Then came Miss Grace Dunbar. She answered our advertisement and
became governess to our two children. Perhaps you have seen her portrait in
the papers. The whole world has proclaimed that she also is a very beautiful
woman. Now, I make no pretence to be more moral than my neighbours, and I
will admit to you that I could not live under the same roof with such a woman
and in daily contact with her without feeling a passionate regard for her. Do
you blame me, Mr. Holmes?”
“I do not blame you for feeling it. I should blame you if you expressed it,
since this young lady was in a sense under your protection.”
“Well, maybe so,” said the millionaire, though for a moment the reproof
had brought the old angry gleam into his eyes. “I'm not pretending to be any
better than I am. I guess all my life I've been a man that reached out his hand
for what he wanted, and I never wanted anything more than the love and
possession of that woman. I told her so.”
 “Oh, you did, did you?”
Holmes could look very formidable when he was moved.
“I said to her that if I could marry her I would, but that it was out of my
power. I said that money was no object and that all I could do to make her
happy and comfortable would be done.”
“Very generous, I am sure,” said Holmes with a sneer.
“See here, Mr. Holmes. I came to you on a question of evidence, not on a
question of morals. I'm not asking for your criticism.”
“It is only for the young lady's sake that I touch your case at all,” said
Holmes sternly. “I don't know that anything she is accused of is really worse
than what you have yourself admitted, that you have tried to ruin a
defenceless girl who was under your roof. Some of you rich men have to be
taught that all the world cannot be bribed into condoning your offences.”
To my surprise the Gold King took the reproof with equanimity.
“That's how I feel myself about it now. I thank God that my plans did not
work out as I intended. She would have none of it, and she wanted to leave
the house instantly.”
“Why did she not?”
“Well, in the first place, others were dependent upon her, and it was no
light matter for her to let them all down by sacrificing her living. When I had
sworn – as I did – that she should never be molested again, she consented to
remain. But there was another reason. She knew the influence she had over
me, and that it was stronger than any other influence in the world. She wanted
to use it for good.”
“How?”
“Well, she knew something of my affairs. They are large, Mr. Holmes –
large beyond the belief of an ordinary man. I can make or break – and it is
usually break. It wasn't individuals only. It was communities, cities, even
nations. Business is a hard game, and the weak go to the wall. I played the
game for all it was worth. I never squealed myself, and I never cared if the
other fellow squealed. But she saw it different. I guess she was right. She
believed and said that a fortune for one man that was more than he needed
should not be built on ten thousand ruined men who were left without the
means of life. That was how she saw it, and I guess she could see past the
dollars to something that was more lasting. She found that I listened to what
she said, and she believed she was serving the world by influencing my
actions. So she stayed – and then this came along.”
“Can you throw any light upon that?”
The Gold King paused for a minute or more, his head sunk in his hands,
lost in deep thought.
 “It's very black against her. I can't deny that. And women lead an inward
life and may do things beyond the judgment of a man. At first I was so rattled
and taken aback that I was ready to think she had been led away in some
extraordinary fashion that was clean against her usual nature. One explanation
came into my head. I give it to you, Mr. Holmes, for what it is worth. There is
no doubt that my wife was bitterly jealous. There is a soul-jealousy that can
be as frantic as any body-jealousy, and though my wife had no cause – and I
think she understood this – for the latter, she was aware that this English girl
exerted an influence upon my mind and my acts that she herself never had. It
was an influence for good, but that did not mend the matter. She was crazy
with hatred and the heat of the Amazon was always in her blood. She might
have planned to murder Miss Dunbar – or we will say to threaten her with a
gun and so frighten her into leaving us. Then there might have been a scuffle
and the gun gone off and shot the woman who held it.”
“That possibility had already occurred to me,” said Holmes. “Indeed, it is
the only obvious alternative to deliberate murder.”
“But she utterly denies it.”
“Well, that is not final – is it? One can understand that a woman placed in
so awful a position might hurry home still in her bewilderment holding the
revolver. She might even throw it down among her clothes, hardly knowing
what she was doing, and when it was found she might try to lie her way out
by a total denial, since all explanation was impossible. What is against such a
supposition?”
“Miss Dunbar herself.”
“Well, perhaps.”
Holmes looked at his watch. “I have no doubt we can get the necessary
permits this morning and reach Winchester by the evening train. When I have
seen this young lady it is very possible that I may be of more use to you in the
matter, though I cannot promise that my conclusions will necessarily be such
as you desire.”
There was some delay in the official pass, and instead of reaching
Winchester that day we went down to Thor Place, the Hampshire estate of Mr.
Neil Gibson. He did not accompany us himself, but we had the address of
Sergeant Coventry, of the local police, who had first examined into the affair.
He was a tall, thin, cadaverous man, with a secretive and mysterious manner
which conveyed the idea that he knew or suspected a very great deal more
than he dared say. He had a trick, too, of suddenly sinking his voice to a
whisper as if he had come upon something of vital importance, though the
information was usually commonplace enough. Behind these tricks of manner
he soon showed himself to be a decent, honest fellow who was not too proud
to admit that he was out of his depth and would welcome any help.
“Anyhow, I'd rather have you than Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes,” said he.
“If the Yard gets called into a case, then the local loses all credit for success
and may be blamed for failure. Now, you play straight, so I've heard.”
“I need not appear in the matter at all,” said Holmes to the evident relief
of our melancholy acquaintance. “If I can clear it up I don't ask to have my
name mentioned.”
“Well, it's very handsome of you, I am sure. And your friend, Dr. Watson,
can be trusted, I know. Now, Mr. Holmes, as we walk down to the place there
is one question I should like to ask you. I'd breathe it to no soul but you.” He
looked round as though he hardly dare utter the words. “Don't you think there
might be a case against Mr. Neil Gibson himself?”
“I have been considering that.”
“You've not seen Miss Dunbar. She is a wonderful fine woman in every
way. He may well have wished his wife out of the road. And these Americans
are readier with pistols than our folk are. It was his pistol, you know.”
“Was that clearly made out?”
“Yes, sir. It was one of a pair that he had.”
“One of a pair? Where is the other?”
“Well, the gentleman has a lot of firearms of one sort and another. We
never quite matched that particular pistol – but the box was made for two.”
“If it was one of a pair you should surely be able to match it.”
“Well, we have them all laid out at the house if you would care to look
them over.”
“Later, perhaps. I think we will walk down together and have a look at the
scene of the tragedy.”
This conversation had taken place in the little front room of Sergeant
Coventry's humble cottage which served as the local police-station. A walk of
half a mile or so across a wind-swept heath, all gold and bronze with the
fading ferns, brought us to a side-gate opening into the grounds of the Thor
Place estate. A path led us through the pheasant preserves, and then from a
clearing we saw the widespread, half-timbered house, half Tudor and half
Georgian, upon the crest of the hill. Beside us there was a long, reedy pool,
constricted in the centre where the main carriage drive passed over a stone
bridge, but swelling into small lakes on either side. Our guide paused at the
mouth of this bridge, and he pointed to the ground.
“That was where Mrs. Gibson's body lay. I marked it by that stone.”
“I understand that you were there before it was moved?”
“Yes, they sent for me at once.”
“Who did?”
 “Mr. Gibson himself. The moment the alarm was given and he had rushed
down with others from the house, he insisted that nothing should be moved
until the police should arrive.”
“That was sensible. I gathered from the newspaper report that the shot was
fired from close quarters.”
“Yes, sir, very close.”
“Near the right temple?”
“Just behind it, sir.”
“How did the body lie?”
“On the back, sir. No trace of a struggle. No marks. No weapon. The short
note from Miss Dunbar was clutched in her left hand.”
“Clutched, you say?”
“Yes, sir, we could hardly open the fingers.”
“That is of great importance. It excludes the idea that anyone could have
placed the note there after death in order to furnish a false clue. Dear me! The
note, as I remember, was quite short:
“I will be at Thor Bridge at nine o'clock.”
“G. DUNBAR.
Was that not so?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did Miss Dunbar admit writing it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What was her explanation?”
“Her defence was reserved for the Assizes. She would say nothing.”
“The problem is certainly a very interesting one. The point of the letter is
very obscure, is it not?”
“Well, sir,” said the guide, “it seemed, if I may be so bold as to say so, the
only really clear point in the whole case.”
Holmes shook his head.
“Granting that the letter is genuine and was really written, it was certainly
received some time before – say one hour or two. Why, then, was this lady
still clasping it in her left hand? Why should she carry it so carefully? She did
not need to refer to it in the interview. Does it not seem remarkable?”
“Well, sir, as you put it, perhaps it does.”
“I think I should like to sit quietly for a few minutes and think it out.” He
seated himself upon the stone ledge of the bridge, and I could see his quick
gray eyes darting their questioning glances in every direction. Suddenly he
sprang up again and ran across to the opposite parapet, whipped his lens from
his pocket, and began to examine the stonework.
“This is curious,” said he.
 “Yes, sir, we saw the chip on the ledge. I expect it's been done by some
passer-by.”
The stonework was gray, but at this one point it showed white for a space
not larger than a sixpence. When examined closely one could see that the
surface was chipped as by a sharp blow.
“It took some violence to do that,” said Holmes thoughtfully. With his
cane he struck the ledge several times without leaving a mark. “Yes, it was a
hard knock. In a curious place, too. It was not from above but from below, for
you see that it is on the lower edge of the parapet.”
“But it is at least fifteen feet from the body.”
“Yes, it is fifteen feet from the body. It may have nothing to do with the
matter, but it is a point worth noting. I do not think that we have anything
more to learn here. There were no footsteps, you say?”
“The ground was iron hard, sir. There were no traces at all.”
“Then we can go. We will go up to the house first and look over these
weapons of which you speak. Then we shall get on to Winchester, for I should
desire to see Miss Dunbar before we go farther.”
Mr. Neil Gibson had not returned from town, but we saw in the house the
neurotic Mr. Bates who had called upon us in the morning. He showed us
with a sinister relish the formidable array of firearms of various shapes and
sizes which his employer had accumulated in the course of an adventurous
life.
“Mr. Gibson has his enemies, as anyone would expect who knew him and
his methods,” said he. “He sleeps with a loaded revolver in the drawer beside
his bed. He is a man of violence, sir, and there are times when all of us are
afraid of him. I am sure that the poor lady who has passed was often
terrified.”
“Did you ever witness physical violence towards her?”
“No, I cannot say that. But I have heard words which were nearly as bad –
words of cold, cutting contempt, even before the servants.”
“Our millionaire does not seem to shine in private life,” remarked Holmes
as we made our way to the station. “Well, Watson, we have come on a good
many facts, some of them new ones, and yet I seem some way from my
conclusion. In spite of the very evident dislike which Mr. Bates has to his
employer, I gather from him that when the alarm came he was undoubtedly in
his library. Dinner was over at 8:30 and all was normal up to then. It is true
that the alarm was somewhat late in the evening, but the tragedy certainly
occurred about the hour named in the note. There is no evidence at all that Mr.
Gibson had been out of doors since his return from town at five o'clock. On
the other hand, Miss Dunbar, as I understand it, admits that she had made an
appointment to meet Mrs. Gibson at the bridge. Beyond this she would say
nothing, as her lawyer had advised her to reserve her defence. We have
several very vital questions to ask that young lady, and my mind will not be
easy until we have seen her. I must confess that the case would seem to me to
be very black against her if it were not for one thing.”
“And what is that, Holmes?”
“The finding of the pistol in her wardrobe.”
“Dear me, Holmes!” I cried, “that seemed to me to be the most damning
incident of all.”
“Not so, Watson. It had struck me even at my first perfunctory reading as
very strange, and now that I am in closer touch with the case it is my only
firm ground for hope. We must look for consistency. Where there is a want of
it we must suspect deception.”
“I hardly follow you.”
“Well now, Watson, suppose for a moment that we visualize you in the
character of a woman who, in a cold, premeditated fashion, is about to get rid
of a rival. You have planned it. A note has been written. The victim has come.
You have your weapon. The crime is done. It has been workmanlike and
complete. Do you tell me that after carrying out so crafty a crime you would
now ruin your reputation as a criminal by forgetting to fling your weapon into
those adjacent reed-beds which would forever cover it, but you must needs
carry it carefully home and put it in your own wardrobe, the very first place
that would be searched? Your best friends would hardly call you a schemer,
Watson, and yet I could not picture you doing anything so crude as that.”
“In the excitement of the moment “
“No, no, Watson, I will not admit that it is possible. Where a crime is
coolly premeditated, then the means of covering it are coolly premeditated
also. I hope, therefore, that we are in the presence of a serious
misconception.”
“But there is so much to explain.”
“Well, we shall set about explaining it. When once your point of view is
changed, the very thing which was so damning becomes a clue to the truth.
For example, there is this revolver. Miss Dunbar disclaims all knowledge of
it. On our new theory she is speaking truth when she says so. Therefore, it
was placed in her wardrobe. Who placed it there? Someone who wished to
incriminate her. Was not that person the actual criminal? You see how we
come at once upon a most fruitful line of inquiry.”
We were compelled to spend the night at Winchester, as the formalities
had not yet been completed, but next morning, in the company of Mr. Joyce
Cummings, the rising barrister who was entrusted with the defence, we were
allowed to see the young lady in her cell. I had expected from all that we had
heard to see a beautiful woman, but I can never forget the effect which Miss
Dunbar produced upon me. It was no wonder that even the masterful
millionaire had found in her something more powerful than himself –
something which could control and guide him. One felt, too, as one looked at
the strong, clear-cut, and yet sensitive face, that even should she be capable of
some impetuous deed, none the less there was an innate nobility of character
which would make her influence always for the good. She was a brunette, tall,
with a noble figure and commanding presence, but her dark eyes had in them
the appealing, helpless expression of the hunted creature who feels the nets
around it, but can see no way out from the toils. Now, as she realized the
presence and the help of my famous friend, there came a touch of colour in
her wan cheeks and a light of hope began to glimmer in the glance which she
turned upon us.
“Perhaps Mr. Neil Gibson has told you something of what occurred
between us?” she asked in a low, agitated voice.
“Yes,” Holmes answered, “you need not pain yourself by entering into
that part of the story. After seeing you, I am prepared to accept Mr. Gibson's
statement both as to the influence which you had over him and as to the
innocence of your relations with him. But why was the whole situation not
brought out in court?”
“It seemed to me incredible that such a charge could be sustained. I
thought that if we waited the whole thing must clear itself up without our
being compelled to enter into painful details of the inner life of the family.
But I understand that far from clearing it has become even more serious.”
“My dear young lady,” cried Holmes earnestly, “I beg you to have no
illusions upon the point. Mr. Cummings here would assure you that all the
cards are at present against us, and that we must do everything that is possible
if we are to win clear. It would be a cruel deception to pretend that you are not
in very great danger. Give me all the help you can, then, to get at the truth.”
“I will conceal nothing.”
“Tell us, then, of your true relations with Mr. Gibson's wife.”
“She hated me, Mr. Holmes. She hated me with all the fervour of her
tropical nature. She was a woman who would do nothing by halves, and the
measure of her love for her husband was the measure also of her hatred for
me. It is probable that she misunderstood our relations. I would not wish to
wrong her, but she loved so vividly in a physical sense that she could hardly
understand the mental, and even spiritual, tie which held her husband to me,
or imagine that it was only my desire to influence his power to good ends
which kept me under his roof. I can see now that I was wrong. Nothing could
justify me in remaining where I was a cause of unhappiness, and yet it is
certain that the unhappiness would have remained even if I had left the
house.”
“Now, Miss Dunbar,” said Holmes, “I beg you to tell us exactly what
occurred that evening.”
“I can tell you the truth so far as I know it, Mr. Holmes, but I am in a
position to prove nothing, and there are points – the most vital points – which
I can neither explain nor can I imagine any explanation.”
“If you will find the facts, perhaps others may find the explanation.”
“With regard, then, to my presence at Thor Bridge that night, I received a
note from Mrs. Gibson in the morning. It lay on the table of the schoolroom,
and it may have been left there by her own hand. It implored me to see her
there after dinner, said she had something important to say to me, and asked
me to leave an answer on the sundial in the garden, as she desired no one to
be in our confidence. I saw no reason for such secrecy, but I did as she asked,
accepting the appointment. She asked me to destroy her note and I burned it
in the schoolroom grate. She was very much afraid of her husband, who
treated her with a harshness for which I frequently reproached him, and I
could only imagine that she acted in this way because she did not wish him to
know of our interview.”
“Yet she kept your reply very carefully?”
“Yes. I was surprised to hear that she had it in her hand when she died.”
“Well, what happened then?”
“I went down as I had promised. When I reached the bridge she was
waiting for me. Never did I realize till that moment how this poor creature
hated me. She was like a mad woman – indeed, I think she was a mad woman,
subtly mad with the deep power of deception which insane people may have.
How else could she have met me with unconcern every day and yet had so
raging a hatred of me in her heart? I will not say what she said. She poured
her whole wild fury out in burning and horrible words. I did not even answer
– I could not. It was dreadful to see her. I put my hands to my ears and rushed
away. When I left her she was standing, still shrieking out her curses at me, in
the mouth of the bridge.”
“Where she was afterwards found?”
“Within a few yards from the spot.”
“And yet, presuming that she met her death shortly after you left her, you
heard no shot~”
“No, I heard nothing. But, indeed, Mr. Holmes, I was so agitated and
horrified by this terrible outbreak that I rushed to get back to the peace of my
own room, and I was incapable of noticing anything which happened.”
 “You say that you returned to your room. Did you leave it again before
next morning?”
“Yes, when the alarm came that the poor creature had met her death I ran
out with the others “
“Did you see Mr. Gibson?”
“Yes, he had just returned from the bridge when I saw him. He had sent
for the doctor and the police.”
“Did he seem to you much perturbed?”
“Mr. Gibson is a very strong, self-contained man. I do not think that he
would ever show his emotions on the surface. But I, who knew him so well,
could see that he was deeply concerned.”
“Then we come to the all-important point. This pistol that was found in
your room. Had you ever seen it before?”
“Never, I swear it.”
“When was it found?”
“Next morning, when the police made their search.”
“Among your clothes?”
“Yes, on the floor of my wardrobe under my dresses.”
“You could not guess how long it had been there?”
“It had not been there the morning before.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I tidied out the wardrobe.”
“That is final. Then someone came into your room and placed the pistol
there in order to inculpate you.”
“It must have been so.”
“And when?”
“It could only have been at meal-time, or else at the hours when I would
be in the schoolroom with the children.”
“As you were when you got the note?”
“Yes, from that time onward for the whole morning.”
“Thank you, Miss Dunbar. Is there any other point which could help me in
the investigation?”
“I can think of none.”
“There was some sign of violence on the stonework of the bridge – a
perfectly fresh chip just opposite the body. Could you suggest any possible
explanation of that?”
“Surely it must be a mere coincidence.”
“Curious, Miss Dunbar, very curious. Why should it appear at the very
time of the tragedy, and why at the very place?”
“But what could have caused it? Only great violence could have such an
effect.”
Holmes did not answer. His pale, eager face had suddenly assumed that
tense, far-away expression which I had learned to associate with the supreme
manifestations of his genius. So evident was the crisis in his mind that none of
us dared to speak, and we sat, barrister, prisoner, and myself, watching him in
a concentrated and absorbed silence. Suddenly he sprang from his chair,
vibrating with nervous energy and the pressing need for action.
“Come, Watson, come!” he cried.
“What is it, Mr. Holmes?”
“Never mind, my dear lady. You will hear from me, Mr. Cummings. With
the help of the god of justice I will give you a case which will make England
ring. You will get news by to-morrow, Miss Dunbar, and meanwhile take my
assurance that the clouds are lifting and that I have every hope that the light of
truth is breaking through.”
It was not a long journey from Winchester to Thor Place, but it was long
to me in my impatience, while for Holmes it was evident that it seemed
endless; for, in his nervous restlessness he could not sit still, but paced the
carriage or drummed with his long, sensitive fingers upon the cushions beside
him. Suddenly, however, as we neared our destination he seated himself
opposite to me – we had a first-class carriage to ourselves – and laying a hand
upon each of my knees he looked into my eyes with the peculiarly
mischievous gaze which was charactenstic of his more imp-like moods.
“Watson,” said he, “I have some recollection that you go armed upon
these excursions of ours.”
It was as well for him that I did so, for he took little care for his own
safety when his mind was once absorbed by a problem so that more than once
my revolver had been a good friend in need. I reminded him of the fact.
“Yes, yes, I am a little absent-minded in such matters. But have you your
revolver on you?”
I produced it from my hip-pocket, a short, handy, but very serviceable
little weapon. He undid the catch, shook out the cartridges, and examined it
with care.
“It's heavy – remarkably heavy,” said he.
“Yes, it is a solid bit of work.”
He mused over it for a minute.
“Do you know, Watson,” said he, “I believe your revolver is going to have
a very intimate connection with the mystery which we are investigating.”
“My dear Holmes, you are joking.”
“No, Watson, I am very serious. There is a test before us. If the test comes
off, all will be clear. And the test will depend upon the conduct of this little
weapon. One cartridge out. Now we will replace the other five and put on the
safety-catch. So! That increases the weight and makes it a better
reproduction.”
I had no glimmer of what was in his mind, nor did he enlighten me, but
sat lost in thought until we pulled up in the little Hampshire station. We
secured a ramshackle trap, and in a quarter of an hour were at the house of our
confidential friend, the sergeant.
“A clue, Mr. Holmes? What is it?”
“It all depends upon the behaviour of Dr. Watson's revolver,” said my
friend. “Here it is. Now, officer, can you give me ten yards of string?”
The village shop provided a ball of stout twine.
“I think that this is all we will need,” said Holmes. “Now, if you please,
we will get off on what I hope is the last stage of our journey.”
The sun was setting and turning the rolling Hampshire moor into a
wonderful autumnal panorama. The sergeant, with many critical and
incredulous glances, which showed his deep doubts of the sanity of my
companion, lurched along beside us. As we approached the scene of the crime
I could see that my friend under all his habitual coolness was in truth deeply
agitated.
“Yes,” he said in answer to my remark, “you have seen me miss my mark
before, Watson. I have an instinct for such things, and yet it has sometimes
played me false. It seemed a certainty when first it flashed across my mind in
the cell at Winchester, but one drawback of an active mind is that one can
always conceive alternative explanations which would make our scent a false
one. And yet – and yet – Well, Watson, we can but try.”
As he walked he had firmly tied one end of the string to the handle of the
revolver. We had now reached the scene of the tragedy. With great care he
marked out under the guidance of the policeman the exact spot where the
body had been stretched. He then hunted among the heather and the ferns
until he found a considerable stone. This he secured to the other end of his
line of string, and he hung it over the parapet of the bridge so that it swung
clear above the water. He then stood on the fatal spot, some distance from the
edge of the bridge, with my revolver in his hand, the string being taut between
the weapon and the heavy stone on the farther side.
“Now for it!” he cried.
At the words he raised the pistol to his head, and then let go his grip. In an
instant it had been whisked away by the weight of the stone, had struck with a
sharp crack against the parapet, and had vanished over the side into the water.
It had hardly gone before Holmes was kneeling beside the stonework, and a
joyous cry showed that he had found what he expected.
 “Was there ever a more exact demonstration?” he cried. “See, Watson,
your revolver has solved the problem!” As he spoke he pointed to a second
chip of the exact size and shape of the first which had appeared on the under
edge of the stone balustrade.
“We'll stay at the inn to-night,” he continued as he rose and faced the
astonished sergeant. “You will, of course, get a grappling-hook and you will
easily restore my friend's revolvev. You will also find beside it the revolver,
string and weight with which this vindictive woman attempted to disguise her
own crime and to fasten a charge of murder upon an innocent victim. You can
let Mr. Gibson know that I will see him in the morning, when steps can be
taken for Miss Dunbar's vindication.”
Late that evening, as we sat together smoking our pipes in the village inn,
Holmes gave me a brief review of what had passed.
“I fear, Watson,” said he, “that you will not improve any reputation which
I may have acquired by adding the case of the Thor Bridge mystery to your
annals. I have been sluggish in mind and wanting in that mixture of
imagination and reality which is the basis of my art. I confess that the chip in
the stonework was a sufficient clue to suggest the true solution, and that I
blame myself for not having attained it sooner.
“It must be admitted that the workings of this unhappy woman's mind
were deep and subtle, so that it was no very simple matter to unravel her plot.
I do not think that in our adventures we have ever come across a stranger
example of what perverted love can bring about. Whether Miss Dunbar was
her rival in a physical or in a merely mental sense seems to have been equally
unforgivable in her eyes. No doubt she blamed this innocent lady for all those
harsh dealings and unkind words with which her husband tried to repel her
too demonstrative affection. Her first resolution was to end her own life. Her
second was to do it in such a way as to involve her victim in a fate which was
worse far than any sudden death could be.
“We can follow the various steps quite clearly, and they show a
remarkable subtlety of mind. A note was extracted very cleverly from Miss
Dunbar which would make it appear that she had chosen the scene of the
crime. In her anxiety that it should be discovered she somewhat overdid it by
holding it in her hand to the last. This alone should have excited my
suspicions earlier than it did.
“Then she took one of her husband's revolvers – there was, as you saw, an
arsenal in the house – and kept it for her own use. A similar one she concealed
that morning in Miss Dunbar's wardrobe after discharging one barrel, which
she could easily do in the woods without attracting attention. She then went
down to the bridge where she had contrived this exceedingly ingenious
method for getting rid of her weapon. When Miss Dunbar appeared she used
her last breath in pouring out her hatred, and then, when she was out of
hearing, carried out her terrible purpose. Every link is now in its place and the
chain is complete. The papers may ask why the mere was not dragged in the
first instance, but it is easy to be wise after the event, and in any case the
expanse of a reed-filled lake is no easy matter to drag unless you have a clear
perception of what you are looking for and where. Well, Watson, we have
helped a remarkable woman, and also a formidable man. Should they in the
future join their forces, as seems not unlikely, the financial world may find
that Mr. Neil Gibson has learned something in that schoolroom of sorrow
where our earthly lessons are taught.”
 The Adventure of the Creeping Man

Mr. Sherlock Holmes was always of opinion that I should publish the singular
facts connected with Professor Presbury, if only to dispel once for all the ugly
rumours which some twenty years ago agitated the university and were
echoed in the learned societies of London. There were, however, certain
obstacles in the way, and the true history of this curious case remained
entombed in the tin box which contains so many records of my friend's
adventures. Now we have at last obtained permission to ventilate the facts
which formed one of the very last cases handled by Holmes before his
retirement from practice. Even now a certain reticence and discretion have to
be observed in laying the matter before the public.
It was one Sunday evening early in September of the year 1903 that I
received one of Holmes's laconic messages:
Come at once if convenient – if inconvenient come all the same. S. H.

The relations between us in those latter days were peculiar. He was a man of
habits, narrow and concentrated habits, and I had become one of them. As an
institution I was like the violin, the shag tobacco, the old black pipe, the index
books, and others perhaps less excusable. When it was a case of active work
and a comrade was needed upon whose nerve he could place some reliance,
my role was obvious. But apart from this I had uses. I was a whetstone for his
mind. I stimulated him. He liked to think aloud in my presence. His remarks
could hardly be said to be made to me – many of them would have been as
appropriately addressed to his bedstead – but none the less, having formed the
habit, it had become in some way helpful that I should register and interject.
If I irritated him by a certain methodical slowness in my mentality, that
irritation served only to make his own flame-like intuitions and impressions
flash up the more vividly and swiftly. Such was my humble role in our
alliance.
When I arrived at Baker Street I found him huddled up in his armchair
with updrawn knees, his pipe in his mouth and his brow furrowed with
thought. It was clear that he was in the throes of some vexatious problem.
With a wave of his hand he indicated my old armchair, but otherwise for half
an hour he gave no sign that he was aware of my presence. Then with a start
he seemed to come from his reverie, and with his usual whimsical smile he
greeted me back to what had once been my home.
 “You will excuse a certain abstraction of mind, my dear Watson,” said he.
“Some curious facts have been submitted to me within the last twenty-four
hours, and they in turn have given rise to some speculations of a more general
character. I have serious thoughts of writing a small monograph upon the uses
of dogs in the work of the detective.”
“But surely, Holmes, this has been explored,” said I. “Bloodhounds –
sleuth-hounds – “
“No, no, Watson, that side of the matter is, of course, obvious. But there is
another which is far more subtle. You may recollect that in the case which
you, in your sensational way, coupled with the Copper Beeches, I was able,
by watching the mind of the child, to form a deduction as to the criminal
habits of the very smug and respectable father.”
“Yes, I remember it well.”
“My line of thoughts about dogs is analogous. A dog reflects the family
life. Whoever saw a frisky dog in a gloomy family, or a sad dog in a happy
one? Snarling people have snarling dogs, dangerous people have dangerous
ones. And their passing moods may reflect the passing moods of others.”
I shook my head. “Surely, Holmes, this is a little far-fetched,” said I.
He had refilled his pipe and resumed his seat, taking no notice of my
comment.
“The practical application of what I have said is very close to the problem
which I am investigating. It is a tangled skein, you understand. and I am
looking for a loose end. One possible loose end lies in the question: Why does
Professor Presbury's wolfhound, Roy, endeavour to bite him?”
I sank back in my chair in some disappointment. Was it for so trivial a
question as this that I had been summoned from my work? Holmes glanced
across at me.
“The same old Watson!” said he. “You never learn that the gravest issues
may depend upon the smallest things. But is it not on the face of it strange
that a staid, elderly philosopher – you've heard of Presbury, of course, the
famous Camford physiologist? -that such a man, whose friend has been his
devoted wolfhound, should now have been twice attacked by his own dog?
What do you make of it?”
“The dog is ill.”
“Well, that has to be considered. But he attacks no one else, nor does he
apparently molest his master, save on very special occasions. Curious, Watson
– very curious. But young Mr. Bennett is before his time if that is his ring. I
had hoped to have a longer chat with you before he came.”
There was a quick step on the stairs, a sharp tap at the door and a moment
later the new client presented himself. He was a tall, handsome youth about
thirty, well dressed and elegant, but with something in his bearing which
suggested the shyness of the student rather than the self-possession of the man
of the world. He shook hands with Holmes, and then looked with some
surprise at me.
“This matter is very delicate, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “Consider the relation
in which I stand to Professor Presbury both privately and publicly. I really can
hardly justify myself if I speak before any third person.”
“Have no fear, Mr. Bennett. Dr. Watson is the very soul of discretion, and
I can assure you that this is a matter in which I am very likely to need an
assistant.”
“As you like, Mr. Holmes. You will, I am sure, understand my having
some reserves in the matter.”
“You will appreciate it, Watson, when I tell you that this gentleman, Mr.
Trevor Bennett, is professional assistant to the great scientist, lives under his
roof, and is engaged to his only daughter. Certainly we must agree that the
professor has every claim upon his loyalty and devotion. But it may best be
shown by taking the necessary steps to clear up this strange mystery.”
“I hope so, Mr. Holmes. That is my one object. Does Dr. Watson know the
situation?”
“I have not had time to explain it.”
“Then perhaps I had better go over the ground again before explaining
some fresh developments.”
“I will do so myself,” said Holmes, “in order to show that I have the
events in their due order. The professor, Watson, is a man of European
reputation. His life has been academic. There has never been a breath of
scandal. He is a widower with one daughter, Edith. He is, I gather, a man of
very virile and positive, one might almost say combative, character. So the
matter stood until a very few months ago.
“Then the current of his life was broken. He is sixty-one years of age, but
he became engaged to the daughter of Professor Morphy, his colleague in the
chair of comparative anatomy. It was not, as I understand, the reasoned
courting of an elderly man but rather the passionate frenzy of youth, for no
one could have shown himself a more devoted lover. The lady, Alice Morphy,
was a very perfect girl both in mind and body, so that there was every excuse
for the professor's infatuation. None the less, it did not meet with full
approval in his own family.”
“We thought it rather excessive,” said our visitor.
“Exactly. Excessive and a little violent and unnatural. Professor Presbury
was rich, however, and there was no objection upon the part of the father. The
daughter, however, had other views, and there were already several candidates
for her hand, who, if they were less eligible from a worldly point of view,
were at least more of an age. The girl seemed to like the professor in spite of
his eccentricities. It was only age which stood in the way.
“About this time a little mystery suddenly clouded the normal routine of
the professor's life. He did what he had never done before. He left home and
gave no indication where he was going. He was away a fortnight and returned
looking rather travel-worn. He made no allusion to where he had been,
although he was usually the frankest of men. It chanced, however, that our
client here, Mr. Bennett, received a letter from a fellowstudent in Prague, who
said that he was glad to have seen Professor Presbury there, although he had
not been able to talk to him. Only in this way did his own household learn
where he had been.
“Now comes the point. From that time onward a curious change came
over the professor. He became furtive and sly. Those around him had always
the feeling that he was not the man that they had known, but that he was
under some shadow which had darkened his higher qualities. His intellect was
not affected. His lectures were as brilliant as ever. But always there was
something new, something sinister and unexpected. His daughter, who was
devoted to him, tried again and again to resume the old relations and to
penetrate this mask which her father seemed to have put on. You, sir, as I
understand, did the same – but all was in vain. And now, Mr. Bennett, tell in
your own words the incident of the letters.”
“You must understand, Dr. Watson, that the professor had no secrets from
me. If I were his son or his younger brother I could not have more completely
enjoyed his confidence. As his secretary I handled every paper which came to
him, and I opened and subdivided his letters. Shortly after his return all this
was changed. He told me that certain letters might come to him from London
which would be marked by a cross under the stamp. These were to be set
aside for his own eyes only. I may say that several of these did pass through
my hands, that they had the E. C. mark, and were in an illiterate handwriting.
If he answered them at all the answers did not pass through my hands nor into
the letterbasket in which our correspondence was collected.”
“And the box,” said Holmes.
“Ah, yes, the box. The professor brought back a little wooden box from
his travels. It was the one thing which suggested a Continental tour, for it was
one of those quaint carved things which one associates with Germany. This he
placed in his instrument cupboard. One day, in looking for a canula, I took up
the box. To my surprise he was very angry, and reproved me in words which
were quite savage for my curiosity. It was the first time such a thing had
happened, and I was deeply hurt. I endeavoured to explain that it was a mere
accident that I had touched the box, but all the evening I was conscious that
he looked at me harshly and that the incident was rankling in his mind.” Mr.
Bennett drew a little diary book from his pocket. “That was on July 2d,” said
he.
“You are certainly an admirable witness,” said Holmes. “I may need some
of these dates which you have noted.”
“I learned method among other things from my great teacher. From the
time that I observed abnormality in his behaviour I felt that it was my duty to
study his case. Thus I have it here that it was on that very day, July 2d, that
Roy attacked the professor as he came from his study into the hall. Again, on
July 11th, there was a scene of the same sort, and then I have a note of yet
another upon July 20th. After that we had to banish Roy to the stables. He
was a dear, affectionate animal – but I fear I weary you.”
Mr. Bennett spoke in a tone of reproach, for it was very clear that Holmes
was not listening. His face was rigid and his eyes gazed abstractedly at the
ceiling. With an effort he recovered himself.
“Singular! Most singular!” he murmured. “These details were new to me,
Mr. Bennett. I think we have now fairly gone over the old ground, have we
not? But you spoke of some fresh developments.”
The pleasant, open face of our visitor clouded over, shadowed by some
grim remembrance. “What I speak of occurred the night before last,” said he.
“I was lying awake about two in the morning, when I was aware of a dull
muffled sound coming from the passage. I opened my door and peeped out. I
should explain that the professor sleeps at the end of the passage – “
“The date being?” asked Holmes.
Our visitor was clearly annoyed at so irrelevant an interruption.
“I have said, sir, that it was the night before last – that is, September 4th.”
Holmes nodded and smiled.
“Pray continue,” said he.
“He sleeps at the end of the passage and would have to pass my door in
order to reach the staircase. It was a really terrifying experience, Mr. Holmes.
I think that I am as strong-nerved as my neighbours, but I was shaken by what
I saw. The passage was dark save that one window halfway along it threw a
patch of light. I could see that something was coming along the passage,
something dark and crouching. Then suddenly it emerged into the light, and I
saw that it was he. He was crawling, Mr. Holmes – crawling! He was not
quite on his hands and knees. I should rather say on his hands and feet, with
his face sunk between his hands. Yet he seemed to move with ease. I was so
paralyzed by the sight that it was not until he had reached my door that I was
able to step forward and ask if I could assist him. His answer was
extraordinary. He sprang up, spat out some atrocious word at me, and hurried
on past me, and down the staircase. I waited about for an hour, but he did not
come back. It must have been daylight before he regained his room.”
“Well, Watson, what make you of that?” asked Holmes with the air of the
pathologist who presents a rare specimen.
“Lumbago, possibly. I have known a severe attack make a man walk in
just such a way, and nothing would be more trying to the temper.”
“Good, Watson! You always keep us flat-footed on the ground. But we
can hardly accept lumbago, since he was able to stand erect in a moment.”
“He was never better in health,” said Bennett. “In fact, he is stronger than
I have known him for years. But there are the facts, Mr. Holmes. It is not a
case in which we can consult the police, and yet we are utterly at our wit's end
as to what to do, and we feel in some strange way that we are drifting towards
disaster. Edith – Miss Presbury – feels as I do, that we cannot wait passively
any longer.”
“It is certainly a very curious and suggestive case. What do you think,
Watson?”
“Speaking as a medical man,” said I, “it appears to be a case for an
alienist. The old gentleman's cerebral processes were disturbed by the love
affair. He made a journey abroad in the hope of breaking himself of the
passion. His letters and the box may be connected with some other private
transaction – a loan, perhaps, or share cenificates, which are in the box.”
“And the wolfhound no doubt disapproved of the financial bargain. No,
no, Watson, there is more in it than this. Now, I can only suggest – “
What Sherlock Holmes was about to suggest will never be known, for at
this moment the door opened and a young lady was shown into the room. As
she appeared Mr. Bennett sprang up with a cry and ran forward with his hands
out to meet those which she had herself outstretched.
“Edith, dear! Nothing the matter, I hope?”
“I felt I must follow you. Oh, Jack, I have been so dreadfully frightened!
It is awful to be there alone.”
“Mr. Holmes, this is the young lady I spoke of. This is my fiancee.”
“We were gradually coming to that conclusion, were we not, Watson?”
Holmes answered with a smile. “I take it, Miss Presbury, that there is some
fresh development in the case, and that you thought we should know?”
Our new visitor, a bright, handsome girl of a conventional English type,
smiled back at Holmes as she seated herself beside Mr. Bennett.
“When I found Mr. Bennett had left his hotel I thought I should probably
find him here. Of course, he had told me that he would consult you. But, oh,
Mr. Holmes, can you do nothing for my poor father?”
 “I have hopes, Miss Presbury, but the case is still obscure. Perhaps what
you have to say may throw some fresh light upon it.”
“It was last night, Mr. Holmes. He had been very strange all day. I am sure
that there are times when he has no recollection of what he does. He lives as
in a strange dream. Yesterday was such a day. It was not my father with whom
I lived. His outward shell was there, but it was not really he.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“I was awakened in the night by the dog barking most furiously. Poor
Roy, he is chained now near the stable. I may say that I always sleep with my
door locked; for, as Jack – as Mr. Bennett – will tell you, we all have a feeling
of impending danger. My room is on the second floor. It happened that the
blind was up in my window, and there was bright moonlight outside. As I lay
with my eyes fixed upon the square of light, listening to the frenzied barkings
of the dog, I was amazed to see my father's face looking in at me. Mr.
Holmes, I nearly died of surprise and horror. There it was pressed against the
windowpane, and one hand seemed to be raised as if to push up the window.
If that window had opened, I think I should have gone mad. It was no
delusion, Mr. Holmes. Don't deceive yourself by thinking so. I dare say it was
twenty seconds or so that I lay paralyzed and watched the face. Then it
vanished, but I could not – I could not spring out of bed and look out after it. I
lay cold and shivering till morning. At breakfast he was sharp and fierce in
manner, and made no allusion to the adventure of the night. Neither did I, but
I gave an excuse for coming to town -and here I am.”
Holmes looked thoroughly surprised at Miss Presbury's narrative.
“My dear young lady, you say that your room is on the second floor. Is
there a long ladder in the garden?”
“No, Mr. Holmes, that is the amazing part of it. There is no possible way
of reaching the window – and yet he was there.”
“The date being September 5th,” said Holmes. “That certainly
complicates matters.”
It was the young lady's turn to look surprised. “This is the second time
that you have alluded to the date, Mr. Holmes,” said Bennett. “Is it possible
that it has any bearing upon the case?”
“It is possible – very possible – and yet I have not my full material at
present.”
“Possibly you are thinking of the connection between insanity and phases
of the moon?”
“No, I assure you. It was quite a different line of thought. Possibly you
can leave your notebook with me, and I will check the dates. Now I think,
Watson, that our line of action is perfectly clear. This young lady has
informed us – and I have the greatest confidence in her intuition – that her
father remembers little or nothing which occurs upon certain dates. We will
therefore call upon him as if he had given us an appointment upon such a
date. He will put it down to his own lack of memory. Thus we will open our
campaign by having a good close view of him.”
“That is excellent,” said Mr. Bennett. “I warn you, however, that the
professor is irascible and violent at times.”
Holmes smiled. “There are reasons why we should come at once – very
cogent reasons if my theories hold good. To-morrow, Mr. Bennett, will
certainly see us in Camford. There is, if I remember right, an inn called the
Chequers where the port used to be above mediocrity and the linen was above
reproach. I think, Watson, that our lot for the next few days might lie in less
pleasant places.”
Monday morning found us on our way to the famous university town – an
easy effort on the part of Holmes, who had no roots to pull up, but one which
involved frantic planning and hurrying on my part, as my practice was by this
time not inconsiderable. Holmes made no allusion to the case until after we
had deposited our suitcases at the ancient hostel of which he had spoken.
“I think, Watson, that we can catch the professor just before lunch. He
lectures at eleven and should have an interval at home.”
“What possible excuse have we for calling?”
Holmes glanced at his notebook.
“There was a period of excitement upon August 26th. We will assume that
he is a little hazy as to what he does at such times. If we insist that we are
there by appointment I think he will hardly venture to contradict us. Have you
the effrontery necessary to put it through?”
“We can but try.”
“Excellent, Watson! Compound of the Busy Bee and Excelsior. We can
but try – the motto of the firm. A friendly native will surely guide us.”
Such a one on the back of a smart hansom swept us past a row of ancient
colleges and, finally turning into a tree-lined drive, pulled up at the door of a
charming house, girt round with lawns and covered with purple wistaria.
Professor Presbury was certainly surrounded with every sign not only of
comfort but of luxury. Even as we pulled up, a grizzled head appeared at the
front window, and we were aware of a pair of keen eyes from under shaggy
brows which surveyed us through large horn glasses. A moment later we were
actually in his sanctum, and the mysterious scientist, whose vagaries had
brought us from London, was standing before us. There was certainly no sign
of eccentricity either in his manner or appearance, for he was a portly,
largefeatured man, grave, tall, and frock-coated, with the dignity of bearing
which a lecturer needs. His eyes were his most remarkable feature, keen,
observant, and clever to the verge of cunning.
He looked at our cards. “Pray sit down, gentlemen. What can I do for
you?”
Mr. Holmes smiled amiably.
“It was the question which I was about to put to you, Professor.”
“To me, sir!”
“Possibly there is some mistake. I heard through a second person that
Professor Presbury of Camford had need of my services.”
“Oh, indeed!” It seemed to me that there was a malicious sparkle in the
intense gray eyes. “You heard that, did you? May I ask the name of your
informant?”
“I am sorry, Professor, but the matter was rather confidential. If I have
made a mistake there is no harm done. I can only express my regret.”
“Not at all. I should wish to go funher into this matter. It interests me.
Have you any scrap of writing, any letter or telegram, to bear out your
assertion?”
“No, I have not.”
“I presume that you do not go so far as to assert that I summoned you?”
“I would rather answer no questions,” said Holmes.
“No, I dare say not,” said the professor with asperity. “However, that
particular one can be answered very easily without your aid.”
He walked across the room to the bell. Our London friend Mr. Bennett,
answered the call.
“Come in, Mr. Bennett. These two gentlemen have come from London
under the impression that they have been summoned. You handle all my
correspondence. Have you a note of anything going to a person named
Holmes?”
“No, sir,” Bennett answered with a flush.
“That is conclusive,” said the professor, glaring angrily at my companion.
“Now, sir” – he leaned forward with his two hands upon the table – “ it seems
to me that your position is a very questionable one.”
Holmes shrugged his shoulders.
“I can only repeat that I am sorry that we have made a needless intrusion.”
“Hardly enough, Mr. Holmes!” the old man cried in a high screaming
voice, with extraordinary malignancy upon his face. He got between us and
the door as he spoke, and he shook his two hands at us with furious passion.
“You can hardly get out of it so easily as that.” His face was convulsed, and
he grinned and gibbered at us in his senseless rage. I am convinced that we
should have had to fight our way out of the room if Mr. Bennett had not
intervened.
“My dear Professor,” he cried, “consider your position! Consider the
scandal at the university! Mr. Holmes is a wellknown man. You cannot
possibly treat him with such discourtesy.”
Sulkily our host – if I may call him so – cleared the path to the door. We
were glad to find ourselves outside the house and in the quiet of the tree-lined
drive. Holmes seemed greatly amused by the episode.
“Our learned friend's nerves are somewhat out of order,” said he. “Perhaps
our intrusion was a little crude, and yet we have gained that personal contact
which I desired. But, dear me, Watson, he is surely at our heels. The villain
still pursues us.”
There were the sounds of running feet behind, but it was, to my relief, not
the formidable professor but his assistant who appeared round the curve of the
drive. He came panting up to us.
“I am so sorry, Mr. Holmes. I wished to apologize.”
“My dear sir, there is no need. It is all in the way of professional
experience.”
“I have never seen him in a more dangerous mood. But he grows more
sinister. You can understand now why his daughter and I are alarmed. And yet
his mind is perfectly clear.”
“Too clear!” said Holmes. “That was my miscalculation. It is evident that
his memory is much more reliable than I had thought. By the way, can we,
before we go, see the window of Miss Presbury's room?”
Mr. Bennett pushed his way through some shrubs, and we had a view of
the side of the house.
“It is there. The second on the left.”
“Dear me, it seems hardly accessible. And yet you will observe that there
is a creeper below and a water-pipe above which give some foothold.”
“I could not climb it myself,” said Mr. Bennett.
“Very likely. It would certainly be a dangerous exploit for any normal
man.”
“There was one other thing I wish to tell you, Mr. Holmes. I have the
address of the man in London to whom the professor writes. He seems to have
written this morning, and I got it from his blotting-paper. It is an ignoble
position for a trusted secretary, but what else can I do?”
Holmes glanced at the paper and put it into his pocket.
“Dorak – a curious name. Slavonic, I imagine. Well, it is an important link
in the chain. We return to London this afternoon, Mr. Bennett. I see no good
purpose to be served by our remaining. We cannot arrest the professor
because he has done no crime, nor can we place him under constraint, for he
cannot be proved to be mad. No action is as yet possible.”
“Then what on earth are we to do?”
“A little patience, Mr. Bennett. Things will soon develop. Unless I am
mistaken, next Tuesday may mark a crisis. Certainly we shall be in Camford
on that day. Meanwhile, the general position is undeniably unpleasant, and if
Miss Presbury can prolong her visit “
“That is easy.”
“Then let her stay till we can assure her that all danger is past. Meanwhile,
let him have his way and do not cross him. So long as he is in a good humour
all is well.”
“There he is!” said Bennett in a startled whisper. Looking between the
branches we saw the tall, erect figure emerge from the hall door and look
around him. He stood leaning forward, his hands swinging straight before
him, his head turning from side to side. The secretary with a last wave slipped
off among the trees, and we saw him presently rejoin his employer, the two
entering the house together in what seemed to be animated and even excited
conversation.
“I expect the old gentleman has been putting two and two together,” said
Holmes as we walked hotelward. “He struck me as having a particularly clear
and logical brain from the little I saw of him. Explosive, no doubt, but then
from his point of view he has something to explode about if detectives are put
on his track and he suspects his own household of doing it. I rather fancy that
friend Bennett is in for an uncomfortable time.”
Holmes stopped at a post-office and sent off a telegram on our way. The
answer reached us in the evening, and he tossed it across to me.
Have visited the Commercial Road and seen Dorak. Suave person,
Bohemian, elderly. Keeps large general store.
MERCER.
“Mercer is since your time,” said Holmes. “He is my general utility man
who looks up routine business. It was important to know something of the
man with whom our professor was so secretly corresponding. His nationality
connects up with the Prague visit.”
“Thank goodness that something connects with something,” said I. “At
present we seem to be faced by a long series of inexplicable incidents with no
bearing upon each other.”For example, what possible connection can there be
between an angry wolfhound and a visit to Bohemia, or either of them with a
man crawling down a passage at night? As to your dates, that is the biggest
mystification of all.”
Holmes smiled and rubbed his hands. We were, I may say, seated in the
old sitting-room of the ancient hotel, with a bottle of the famous vintage of
which Holmes had spoken on the table between us.
“Well, now, let us take the dates first,” said he, his fingertips together and
his manner as if he were addressing a class. “This excellent young man's diary
shows that there was trouble upon July 2d, and from then onward it seems to
have been at nine-day intervals, with, so far as I remember, only one
exception. Thus the last outbreak upon Friday was on September 3d, which
also falls into the series, as did August 26th, which preceded it. The thing is
beyond coincidence.”
I was forced to agree.
“Let us, then, form the provisional theory that every nine days the
professor takes some strong drug which has a passing but highly poisonous
effect. His naturally violent nature is intensified by it. He learned to take this
drug while he was in Prague, and is now supplied with it by a Bohemian
intermediary in London. This all hangs together, Watson!”
“But the dog, the face at the window, the creeping man in the passage?”
“Well, well, we have made a beginning. I should not expect any fresh
developments until next Tuesday. In the meantime we can only keep in touch
with friend Bennett and enjoy the amenities of this charming town.”
In the morning Mr. Bennett slipped round to bring us the latest report. As
Holmes had imagined, times had not been easy with him. Without exactly
accusing him of being responsible for our presence, the professor had been
very rough and rude in his speech, and evidently felt some strong grievance.
This morning he was quite himself again, however, and had delivered his
usual brilliant lecture to a crowded class. “Apart from his queer fits,” said
Bennett, “he has actually more energy and vitality than I can ever remember,
nor was his brain ever clearer. But it's not he – it's never the man whom we
have known.”
“I don't think you have anything to fear now for a week at least,” Holmes
answered. “I am a busy man, and Dr. Watson has his patients to attend to. Let
us agree that we meet here at this hour next Tuesday, and I shall be surprised
if before we leave you again we are not able to explain, even if we cannot
perhaps put an end to, your troubles. Meanwhile, keep us posted in what
occurs.”
I saw nothing of my friend for the next few days, but on the following
Monday evening I had a short note asking me to meet him next day at the
train. From what he told me as we travelled up to Camford all was well, the
peace of the professor's house had been unruffled, and his own conduct
perfectly normal. This also was the report which was given us by Mr. Bennett
himself when he called upon us that evening at our old quarters in the
Chequers. “He heard from his London correspondent to-day. There was a
letter and there was a small packet, each with the cross under the stamp which
warned me not to touch them. There has been nothing else.”
“That may prove quite enough,” said Holmes grimly. “Now, Mr. Bennett,
we shall, I think, come to some conclusion tonight. If my deductions are
correct we should have an opportunity of bringing matters to a head. In order
to do so it is necessary to hold the professor under observation. I would
suggest, therefore, that you remain awake and on the lookout. Should you
hear him pass your door, do not interrupt him, but follow him as discreetly as
you can. Dr. Watson and I will not be far off. By the way, where is the key of
that little box of which you spoke?”
“Upon his watch-chain.”
“I fancy our researches must lie in that direction. At the worst the lock
should not be very formidable. Have you any other able-bodied man on the
premises?”
“There is the coachman, Macphail.”
“Where does he sleep?”
“Over the stables.”
“We might possibly want him. Well, we can do no more until we see how
things develop, Good-bye – but I expect that we shall see you before
morning.”
It was nearly midnight before we took our station among some bushes
immediately opposite the hall door of the professor. It was a fine night, but
chilly, and we were glad of our warm overcoats. There was a breeze, and
clouds were scudding across the sky, obscuring from time to time the half-
moon. It would have been a dismal vigil were it not for the expectation and
excitement which carried us along, and the assurance of my comrade that we
had probably reached the end of the strange sequence of events which had
engaged our attention.
“If the cycle of nine days holds good then we shall have the professor at
his worst to-night,” said Holmes. “The fact that these strange symptoms
began after his visit to Prague, that he is in secret correspondence with a
Bohemian dealer in London, who presumably represents someone in Prague,
and that he received a packet from him this very day, all point in one
direction. What he takes and why he takes it are still beyond our ken, but that
it emanates in some way from Prague is clear enough. He takes it under
definite directions which regulate this ninth-day system, which was the first
point which attracted my attention. But his symptoms are most remarkable.
Did you observe his knuckles?”
I had to confess that I did not.
“Thick and horny in a way which is quite new in my experience. Always
look at the hands first, Watson. Then cuffs, trouserknees, and boots. Very
curious knuckles which can only be explained by the mode of progression
observed by – “ Holmes paused and suddenly clapped his hand to his
forehead. “Oh, Watson, Watson, what a fool I have been! It seems incredible,
and yet it must be true. All points in one direction. How could I miss seeing
the connection of ideas? Those knuckles how could I have passed those
knuckles? And the dog! And the ivy! It's surely time that I disappeared into
that little farm of my dreams. Look out, Watson! Here he is! We shall have the
chance of seeing for ourselves.”
The hall door had slowly opened, and against the lamplit background we
saw the tall figure of Professor Presbury. He was clad in his dressing gown.
As he stood outlined in the doorway he was erect but leaning forward with
dangling arms, as when we saw him last.
Now he stepped forward into the drive, and an extraordinary change came
over him. He sank down into a crouching position and moved along upon his
hands and feet, skipping every now and then as if he were overflowing with
energy and vitality. He moved along the face of the house and then round the
corner. As he disappeared Bennett slipped through the hall door and softly
followed him.
“Come, Watson, come!” cried Holmes, and we stole as softly as we could
through the bushes until we had gained a spot whence we could see the other
side of the house, which was bathed in the light of the half-moon. The
professor was clearly visible crouching at the foot of the ivy-covered wall. As
we watched him he suddenly began with incredible agility to ascend it. From
branch to branch he sprang, sure of foot and firm of grasp, climbing
apparently in mere joy at his own powers, with no definite object in view.
With his dressing-gown flapping on each side of him, he looked like some
huge bat glued against the side of his own house, a great square dark patch
upon the moonlit wall. Presently he tired of this amusement, and, dropping
from branch to branch, he squatted down into the old attitude and moved
towards the stables, creeping along in the same strange way as before. The
wolfhound was out now, barking furiously, and more excited than ever when
it actually caught sight of its master. It was straining on its chain and
quivering with eagerness and rage. The professor squatted down very
deliberately just out of reach of the hound and began to provoke it in every
possible way. He took handfuls of pebbles from the drive and threw them in
the dog's face, prodded him with a stick which he had picked up, flicked his
hands about only a few inches from the gaping mouth, and endeavoured in
every way to increase the animal's fury, which was already beyond all control.
In all our adventures I do not know that I have ever seen a more strange sight
than this impassive and still dignified figure crouching frog-like upon the
ground and goading to a wilder exhibition of passion the maddened hound,
which ramped and raged in front of him, by all manner of ingenious and
calculated cruelty.
And then in a moment it happened! It was not the chain that broke, but it
was the collar that slipped, for it had been made for a thick-necked
Newfoundland. We heard the rattle of falling metal, and the next instant dog
and man were rolling on the ground together, the one roaring in rage, the
other screaming in a strange shrill falsetto of terror. It was a very narrow thing
for the professor's life. The savage creature had him fairly by the throat, its
fangs had bitten deep, and he was senseless before we could reach them and
drag the two apart. It might have been a dangerous task for us, but Bennett's
voice and presence brought the great wolflhound instantly to reason. The
uproar had brought the sleepy and astonished coachman from his room above
the stables. “I'm not surprised,” said he, shaking his head. “I've seen him at it
before. I knew the dog would get him sooner or later.”
The hound was secured, and together we carried the professor up to his
room, where Bennett, who had a medical degree, helped me to dress his torn
throat. The sharp teeth had passed dangerously near the carotid artery, and the
haemorrhage was serious. In half an hour the danger was past, I had given the
patient an injection of morphia, and he had sunk into deep sleep. Then, and
only then, were we able to look at each other and to take stock of the
situation.
“I think a first-class surgeon should see him,” said I.
“For God's sake, no!” cried Bennett. “At present the scandal is confined to
our own household. It is safe with us. If it gets beyond these walls it will
never stop. Consider his position at the university, his European reputation,
the feelings of his daughter.”
“Quite so,” said Holmes. “I think it may be quite possible to keep the
matter to ourselves, and also to prevent its recurrence now that we have a free
hand. The key from the watch-chain, Mr. Bennett. Macphail will guard the
patient and let us know if there is any change. Let us see what we can find in
the professor's mysterious box.”
There was not much, but there was enough – an empty phial, another
nearly full, a hypodermic syringe, several letters in a crabbed, foreign hand.
The marks on the envelopes showed that they were those which had disturbed
the routine of the secretary, and each was dated from the Commercial Road
and signed “A. Dorak.” They were mere invoices to say that a fresh bottle
was being sent to Professor Presbury, or receipt to acknowledge money. There
was one other envelope, however, in a more educated hand and bearing the
Austrian stamp with the postmark of Prague. “Here we have our material!”
cried Holmes as he tore out the enclosure.
HONOURED COLLEAGUE [it ran]:
Since your esteemed visit I have thought much of your case, and though in your circumstances there
are some special reasons for the treatment, I would none the less enjoin caution, as my results have
shown that it is not without danger of a kind.
It is possible that the serum of anthropoid would have been better. I have, as I explained to you,
used black-faced langur because a specimen was accessible. Langur is, of course, a crawler and
climber, while anthropoid walks erect and is in all ways nearer.
I beg you to take every possible precaution that there be no premature revelation of the process. I
have one other client in England, and Dorak is my agent for both. Weekly reports will oblige.

Yours with high esteem,

H. LOWENSTEIN.

Lowenstein! The name brought back to me the memory of some snippet from
a newspaper which spoke of an obscure scientist who was striving in some
unknown way for the secret of rejuvenescence and the elixir of life.
Lowenstein of Prague! Lowenstein with the wondrous strength-giving serum,
tabooed by the profession because he refused to reveal its source. In a few
words I said what I remembered. Bennett had taken a manual of zoology from
the shelves. “'Langur.' “ he read. “'the great black-faced monkey of the
Himalayan slopes, biggest and most human of climbing monkeys. Many
details are added. Well, thanks to you, Mr. Holmes, it is very clear that we
have traced the evil to its source.”
“The real source,” said Holmes, “lies, of course, in that untimely love
affair which gave our impetuous professor the idea that he could only gain his
wish by turning himself into a younger man. When one tries to rise above
Nature one is liable to fall below it. The highest type of man may revert to the
animal if he leaves the straight road of destiny.” He sat musing for a little with
the phial in his hand, looking at the clear liquid within. “When I have written
to this man and told him that I hold him criminally responsible for the poisons
which he circulates, we will have no more trouble. But it may recur. Others
may find a better way. There is danger there – a very real danger to humanity.
Consider, Watson, that the material, the sensual, the worldly would all
prolong their worthless lives. The spiritual would not avoid the call to
something higher. It would be the survival of the least fit. What sort of
cesspool may not our poor world become?” Suddenly the dreamer
disappeared, and Holmes, the man of action, sprang from his chair. “I think
there is nothing more to be said, Mr. Bennett. The various incidents will now
fit themselves easily into the general scheme. The dog, of course, was aware
of the change far more quickly than you. His smell would insure that. It was
the monkey, not the professor, whom Roy attacked, just as it was the monkey
who teased Roy. Climbing was a joy to the creature, and it was a mere
chance, I take it, that the pastime brought him to the young lady's window.
There is an early train to town, Watson, but I think we shall just have time for
a cup of tea at the Chequers before we catch it.”
 The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire

Holmes had read carefully a note which the last post had brought him. Then,
with the dry chuckle which was his nearest approach to a laugh, he tossed it
over to me.
“For a mixture of the modern and the mediaeval, of the practical and of
the wildly fanciful, I think this is surely the limit,” said he. “What do you
make of it, Watson?”
I read as follows:
46, OLD JEWRY,
Nov. 19th.

Re Vampires
SIR:
Our client, Mr. Robert Ferguson, of Ferguson and Muirhead, tea brokers, of Mincing Lane, has
made some inquiry from us in a communication of even date concerning vampires. As our firm
specializes entirely upon the assessment of machinery the matter hardly comes within our purview,
and we have therefore recommended Mr. Fergu- son to call upon you and lay the matter before you.
We have not forgotten your successful action in the case of Matilda Briggs.
We are, sir,

Faithfully yours,
MORRISON, MORRISON, AND DODD.
per E. J. C.

“Matilda Briggs was not the name of a young woman, Watson,” said Holmes
in a reminiscent voice. “It was a ship which is associated with the giant rat of
Sumatra, a story for which the world is not yet prepared. But what do we
know about vampires? Does it come within our purview either? Anything is
better than stagnation, but really we seem to have been switched on to a
Grimms' fairy tale. Make a long arm, Watson, and see what V has to say.”
I leaned back and took down the great index volume to which he referred.
Holmes balanced it on his knee, and his eyes moved slowly and lovingly over
the record of old cases, mixed with the accumulated information of a lifetime.
“Voyage of the Gloria Scott,” he read. “That was a bad business. I have
some recollection that you made a record of it, Watson, though I was unable
to congratulate you upon the result. Victor Lynch, the forger. Venomous lizard
or gila. Remarkable case, that! Vittoria, the circus belle. Vanderbilt and the
Yeggman. Vipers. Vigor, the Hammersmith wonder. Hullo! Hullo! Good old
index. You can't beat it. Listen to this, Watson. Vampirism in Hungary. And
again, Vampires in Transylvania.” He turned over the pages with eagerness,
but after a short intent perusal he threw down the great book with a snarl of
disappointment.
“Rubbish, Watson, rubbish! What have we to do with walking corpses
who can only be held in their grave by stakes driven through their hearts? It's
pure lunacy.”
“But surely,” said I, “the vampire was not necessarily a dead man? A
living person might have the habit. I have read, for example, of the old
sucking the blood of the young in order to retain their youth.”
“You are right, Watson. It mentions the legend in one of these references.
But are we to give serious attention to such things? This agency stands flat-
footed upon the ground, and there it must remain. The world is big enough for
us. No ghosts need apply. I fear that we cannot take Mr. Robert Ferguson very
seriously. Possibly this note may be from him and may throw some light upon
what is worrying him.”
He took up a second letter which had lain unnoticed upon the table while
he had been absorbed with the first. This he began to read with a smile of
amusement upon his face which gradually faded away into an expression of
intense interest and concentration. When he had finished he sat for some little
time lost in thought with the letter dangling from his fingers. Finally, with a
start, he aroused himself from his reverie.
“Cheeseman's, Lamberley. Where is Lamberley, Watson?”
“lt is in Sussex, South of Horsham.”
“Not very far, eh? And Cheeseman's?”
“I know that country, Holmes. It is full of old houses which are named
after the men who built them centuries ago. You get Odley's and Harvey's and
Carriton's – the folk are forgotten but their names live in their houses.”
“Precisely,” said Holmes coldly. It was one of the peculiarities of his
proud, self-contained nature that though he docketed any fresh information
very quietly and accurately in his brain, he seldom made any
acknowledgment to the giver. “I rather fancy we shall know a good deal more
about Cheeseman's, Lamberley, before we are through. The letter is, as I had
hoped, from Robert Ferguson. By the way, he claims acquaintance with you.”
“With me!”
“You had better read it.”
He handed the letter across. It was headed with the address quoted.
DEAR MR HOLMES [it said]:
I have been recommended to you by my lawyers, but indeed the matter is so extraordinarily delicate
that it is most difficult to discuss. It concerns a friend for whom I am acting. This gentleman married
some five years ago a Peruvian lady the daughter of a Peruvian merchant, whom he had met in
 connection with the importation of nitrates. The lady was very beautiful, but the fact of her foreign
birth and of her alien religion always caused a separation of interests and of feelings between
husband and wife, so that after a time his love may have cooled towards her and he may have come
to regard their union as a mistake. He felt there were sides of her character which he could never
explore or understand. This was the more painful as she was as loving a wife as a man could have –
to all appearance absolutely devoted.
Now for the point which I will make more plain when we meet. Indeed, this note is merely to
give you a general idea of the situation and to ascertain whether you would care to interest yourself
in the matter. The lady began to show some curious traits quite alien to her ordinarily sweet and
gentle disposition. The gentleman had been married twice and he had one son by the first wife. This
boy was now fifteen, a very charming and affectionate youth, though unhappily injured through an
accident in childhood. Twice the wife was caught in the act of assaulting this poor lad in the most
unprovoked way. Once she struck him with a stick and left a great weal on his arm.
This was a small matter, however, compared with her conduct to her own child, a dear boy just
under one year of age. On one occasion about a month ago this child had been left by its nurse for a
few minutes. A loud cry from the baby, as of pain, called the nurse back. As she ran into the room
she saw her employer, the lady, leaning over the baby and apparently biting his neck. There was a
small wound in the neck from which a stream of blood had escaped. The nurse was so horrified that
she wished to call the husband, but the lady implored her not to do so and actually gave her five
pounds as a price for her silence. No explanation was ever given, and for the moment the matter was
passed over. It left, however, a terrible impression upon the nurse's mind, and from that time she
began to watch her mistress closely and to keep a closer guard upon the baby, whom she tenderly
loved. It seemed to her that even as she watched the mother, so the mother watched her, and that
every time she was compelled to leave the baby alone the mother was waiting to get at it. Day and
night the nurse covered the child, and day and night the silent, watchful mother seemed to be lying
in wait as a wolf waits for a lamb. It must read most incredible to you, and yet I beg you to take it
seriously, for a child's life and a man's sanity may depend upon it.
At last there came one dreadful day when the facts could no longer be concealed from the
husband. The nurse's nerve had given way; she could stand the strain no longer, and she made a
clean breast of it all to the man. To him it seemed as wild a tale as it may now seem to you.He knew
his wife to be a loving wife, and, save for the assaults upon her stepson, a loving mother. Why, then,
should she wound her own dear little baby? He told the nurse that she was dreaming, that her
suspicions were those of a lunatic, and that such libels upon her mistress were not to be tolerated.
While they were talking a sudden cry of pain was heard. Nurse and master rushed together to the
nursery. Imagine his feelings, Mr. Holmes, as he saw his wife rise from a kneeling position beside
the cot and saw blood upon the child's exposed neck and upon the sheet. With a cry of horror, he
turned his wife's face to the light and saw blood all round her lips. It was she – she beyond all
question – who had drunk the poor baby's blood.
So the matter stands. She is now confined to her room. There has been no explanation. The
husband is half demented. He knows, and I know, little of vampirism beyond the name. We had
thought it was some wild tale of foreign parts. And yet here in the very heart of the English Sussex –
well, all this can be discussed with you in the morning. Will you see me? Will you use your great
powers in aiding a distracted man? If so, kindly wire to Ferguson, Cheeseman's, Lamberley, and I
will be at your rooms by ten o'clock.

Yours faithfully,
ROBERT FERGUSON.

P. S. I believe your friend Watson played Rugby for Blackheath when I was three-quarter for
Richmond. It is the only personal introduction which I can give.

“Of course I remembered him,” said I as I laid down the letter. “Big Bob
Ferguson, the finest three-quarter Richmond ever had. He was always a good-
natured chap. It's like him to be so concerned over a friend's case.”
Holmes looked at me thoughtfully and shook his head.
“I never get your limits, Watson,” said he. “There are unexplored
possibilities about you. Take a wire down, like a good fellow. 'Will examine
your case with pleasure.' “
“Your case!”
“We must not let him think that this agency is a home for the weak-
minded. Of course it is his case. Send him that wire and let the matter rest till
morning.”
Promptly at ten o'clock next morning Ferguson strode into our room. I had
remembered him as a long, slab-sided man with loose limbs and a fine turn of
speed which had carried him round many an opposing back. There is surely
nothing in life more painful than to meet the wreck of a fine athlete whom one
has known in his prime. His great frame had fallen in, his flaxen hair was
scanty, and his shoulders were bowed. I fear that I roused corresponding
emotions in him.
“Hullo, Watson,” said he, and his voice was still deep and hearty. “You
don't look quite the man you did when I threw you over the ropes into the
crowd at the Old Deer Park. I expect I have changed a bit also. But it's this
last day or two that has aged me. I see by your telegram, Mr. Holmes, that it is
no use my pretending to be anyone's deputy.” .
“It is simpler to deal direct,” said Holmes.
“Of course it is. But you can imagine how difficult it is when you are
speaking of the one woman whom you are bound to protect and help. What
can I do? How am I to go to the police with such a story? And yet the kiddies
have got to be protected. Is it madness, Mr. Holmes? Is it something in the
blood? Have you any similar case in your experience? For God's sake, give
me some advice, for I am at my wit's end.”
“Very naturally, Mr. Ferguson. Now sit here and pull yourself together and
give me a few clear answers. I can assure you that I am very far from being at
my wit's end, and that I am confident we shall find some solution. First of all,
tell me what steps you have taken. Is your wife still near the children?”
“We had a dreadful scene. She is a most loving woman, Mr. Holmes. If
ever a woman loved a man with all her heart and soul, she loves me. She was
cut to the heart that I should have discovered this horrible, this incredible,
secret. She would not even speak. She gave no answer to my reproaches, save
to gaze at me with a sort of wild, despairing look in her eyes. Then she rushed
to her room and locked herself in. Since then she has refused to see me. She
has a maid who was with her before her marriage, Dolores by name – a friend
rather than a servant. She takes her food to her.”
 “Then the child is in no immediate danger?”
“Mrs. Mason, the nurse, has sworn that she will not leave it night or day. I
can absolutely trust her. I am more uneasy about poor little Jack, for, as I told
you in my note, he has twice been assaulted by her.”
“But never wounded?”
“No, she struck him savagely. It is the more terrible as he is a poor little
inoffensive cripple.” Ferguson's gaunt features softened as he spoke of his
boy. “You would think that the dear lad's condition would soften anyone's
heart. A fall in childhood and a twisted spine, Mr. Holmes. But the dearest,
most loving heart within.”
Holmes had picked up the letter of yesterday and was reading it over.
“What other inmates are there in your house, Mr. Ferguson?”
“Two servants who have not been long with us. One stablehand, Michael,
who sleeps in the house. My wife, myself, my boy Jack, baby, Dolores, and
Mrs. Mason. That is all.”
“I gather that you did not know your wife well at the time of your
marriage?”
“I had only known her a few weeks.”
“How long had this maid Dolores been with her?”
“Some years.”
“Then your wife's character would really be better known by Dolores than
by you?”
“Yes, you may say so.”
Holmes made a note.
“I fancy,” said he, “that I may be of more use at Lamberley than here. It is
eminently a case for personal investigation. If the lady remains in her room,
our presence could not annoy or inconvenience her. Of course, we would stay
at the inn.”
Ferguson gave a gesture of relief.
“It is what I hoped, Mr. Holmes. There is an excellent train at two from
Victoria if you could come.”
“Of course we could come. There is a lull at present. I can give you my
undivided energies. Watson, of course, comes with us. But there are one or
two points upon which I wish to be very sure before I start. This unhappy
lady, as I understand it, has appeared to assault both the children, her own
baby and your little son?”
“That is so.”
“But the assaults take different forms, do they not? She has beaten your
son.”
“Once with a stick and once very savagely with her hands.”
 “Did she give no explanation why she struck him?”
“None save that she hated him. Again and again she said so.”
“Well, that is not unknown among stepmothers. A posthumous jealousy,
we will say. Is the lady jealous by nature?”
“Yes, she is very jealous – jealous with all the strength of her fiery
tropical love.”
“But the boy – he is fifteen, I understand, and probably very developed in
mind, since his body has been circumscribed in action. Did he give you no
explanation of these assaults?”
“No, he declared there was no reason.”
“Were they good friends at other times?”
“No, there was never any love between them.”
“Yet you say he is affectionate?”
“Never in the world could there be so devoted a son. My life is his life. He
is absorbed in what I say or do.”
Once again Holmes made a note. For some time he sat lost in thought.
“No doubt you and the boy were great comrades before this second
marriage. You were thrown very close together, were you not?”
“Very much so.”
“And the boy, having so affectionate a nature, was devoted, no doubt, to
the memory of his mother?”
“Most devoted.”
“He would certainly seem to be a most interesting lad. There is one other
point about these assaults. Were the strange attacks upon the baby and the
assaults upon yow son at the same period?”
“In the first case it was so. It was as if some frenzy had seized her, and she
had vented her rage upon both. In the second case it was only Jack who
suffered. Mrs. Mason had no complaint to make about the baby.”
“That certainly complicates matters.”
“I don't quite follow you, Mr. Holmes.”
“Possibly not. One forms provisional theories and waits for time or fuller
knowledge to explode them. A bad habit, Mr. Ferguson, but human nature is
weak. I fear that your old friend here has given an exaggerated view of my
scientific methods. However, I will only say at the present stage that your
problem does not appear to me to be insoluble, and that you may expect to
find us at Victoria at two o'clock.”
It was evening of a dull, foggy November day when, having left our bags
at the Chequers, Lamberley, we drove through the Sussex clay of a long
winding lane and finally reached the isolated and ancient farmhouse in which
Ferguson dwelt. It was a large, straggling building, very old in the centre,
very new at the wings with towering Tudor chimneys and a lichen-spotted,
high-pitched roof of Horsham slabs. The doorsteps were worn into curves,
and the ancient tiles which lined the porch were marked with the rebus of a
cheese and a man after the original builder. Within, the ceilings were
corrugated with heavy oaken beams, and the uneven floors sagged into sharp
curves. An odour of age and decay pervaded the whole crumbling building.
There was one very large central room into which Ferguson led us. Here,
in a huge old-fashioned fireplace with an iron screen behind it dated 1670,
there blazed and spluttered a splendid log fire.
The room, as I gazed round, was a most singular mixture of dates and of
places. The half-panelled walls may well have belonged to the original
yeoman farmer of the seventeenth century. They were ornamented, however,
on the lower part by a line of well-chosen modern water-colours; while above,
where yellow plaster took the place of oak, there was hung a fine collection of
South American utensils and weapons, which had been brought, no doubt, by
the Peruvian lady upstairs. Holmes rose, with that quick curiosity which
sprang from his eager mind, and examined them with some care. He returned
with his eyes full of thought.
“Hullo!” he cried. “Hullo!”
A spaniel had lain in a basket in the corner. It came slowly forward
towards its master, walking with difficulty. Its hind legs moved irregularly
and its tail was on the ground. It licked Ferguson's hand.
“What is it, Mr. Holmes?”
“The dog. What's the matter with it?”
“That's what puzzled the vet. A sort of paralysis. Spinal meningitis, he
thought. But it is passing. He'll be all right soon – won't you, Carlo?”
A shiver of assent passed through the drooping tail. The dog's mournful
eyes passed from one of us to the other. He knew that we were discussing his
case.
“Did it come on suddenly?”
“In a single night.”
“How long ago?”
“It may have been four months ago.”
“Very remarkable. Very suggestive.”
“What do you see in it, Mr. Holmes?”
“A confirmation of what I had already thought.”
“For God's sake, what do you think, Mr. Holmes? It may be a mere
intellectual puzzle to you, but it is life and death to me! My wife a would-be
murderer – my child in constant danger! Don't play with me, Mr. Holmes. It is
too terribly serious.”
 The big Rugby three-quarter was trembling all over. Holmes put his hand
soothingly upon his arm.
“I fear that there is pain for you, Mr. Ferguson, whatever the solution may
be,” said he. “I would spare you all I can. I cannot say more for the instant,
but before I leave this house I hope I may have something definite.”
“Please God you may! If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I will go up to
my wife's room and see if there has been any change.”
He was away some minutes, during which Holmes resumed his
examination of the curiosities upon the wall. When our host returned it was
clear from his downcast face that he had made no progress. He brought with
him a tall, slim, brown-faced girl.
“The tea is ready, Dolores,” said Ferguson. “See that your mistress has
everything she can wish.”
“She verra ill,” cried the girl, looking with indignant eyes at her master.
“She no ask for food. She verra ill. She need doctor. I frightened stay alone
with her without doctor.”
Ferguson looked at me with a question in his eyes.
“I should be so glad if I could be of use.”
“Would your mistress see Dr. Watson?”
“I take him. I no ask leave. She needs doctor.”
“Then I'll come with you at once.”
I followed the girl, who was quivering with strong emotion, up the
staircase and down an ancient corridor. At the end was an iron-clamped and
massive door. It struck me as I looked at it that if Ferguson tried to force his
way to his wife he would find it no easy matter. The girl drew a key from her
pocket, and the heavy oaken planks creaked upon their old hinges. I passed in
and she swiftly followed, fastening the door behind her.
On the bed a woman was lying who was clearly in a high fever. She was
only half conscious, but as I entered she raised a pair of frightened but
beautiful eyes and glared at me in apprehension. Seeing a stranger, she
appeared to be relieved and sank back with a sigh upon the pillow. I stepped
up to her with a few reassuring words, and she lay still while I took her pulse
and temperature. Both were high, and yet my impression was that the
condition was rather that of mental and nervous excitement than of any actual
seizure.
“She lie like that one day, two day. I 'fraid she die,” said the girl.
The woman turned her flushed and handsome face towards me.
“Where is my husband?”
“He is below and would wish to see you.”
“I will not see him. I will not see him.” Then she seemed to wander off
into delirium. “A fiend! A fiend! Oh, what shall I do with this devil?”
“Can I help you in any way?”
“No. No one can help. It is finished. All is destroyed. Do what I will, all is
destroyed.”
The woman must have some strange delusion. I could not see honest Bob
Ferguson in the character of fiend or devil.
“Madame,” I said, “your husband loves you dearly. He is deeply grieved
at this happening.”
Again she turned on me those glorious eyes.
“He loves me. Yes. But do I not love him? Do I not love him even to
sacrifice myself rather than break his dear heart? That is how I love him. And
yet he could think of me – he could speak of me so.”
“He is full of grief, but he cannot understand.”
“No, he cannot understand. But he should trust.”
“Will you not see him?” I suggested.
“No, no, I cannot forget those terrible words nor the look upon his face. I
will not see him. Go now. You can do nothing for me. Tell him only one
thing. I want my child. I have a right to my child. That is the only message I
can send him.” She turned her face to the wall and would say no more.
I returned to the room downstairs, where Ferguson and Holmes still sat by
the fire. Ferguson listened moodily to my account of the interview.
“How can I send her the child?” he said. “How do I know what strange
impulse might come upon her? How can I ever forget how she rose from
beside it with its blood upon her lips?” He shuddered at the recollection. “The
child is safe with Mrs. Mason, and there he must remain.”
A smart maid, the only modern thing which we had seen in the house, had
brought in some tea. As she was serving it the door opened and a youth
entered the room. He was a remarkable lad, pale-faced and fair-haired, with
excitable light blue eyes which blazed into a sudden flame of emotion and joy
as they rested upon his father. He rushed forward and threw his arms round
his neck with the abandon of a loving girl.
“Oh, daddy,” he cried, “I did not know that you were due yet. I should
have been here to meet you. Oh, I am so glad to see you!”
Ferguson gently disengaged himself from the embrace with some little
show of embarrassment.
“Dear old chap,” said he, patting the flaxen head with a very tender hand.
“I came early because my friends, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, have been
persuaded to come down and spend an evening with us.”
“Is that Mr. Holmes, the detective?”
“Yes.”
 The youth looked at us with a very penetrating and, as it seemed to me,
unfriendly gaze.
“What about your other child, Mr. Ferguson?” asked Holmes. “Might we
make the acquaintance of the baby?”
“Ask Mrs. Mason to bring baby down,” said Ferguson. The boy went off
with a curious, shambling gait which told my surgical eyes that he was
suffering from a weak spine. Presently he returned, and behind him came a
tall, gaunt woman bearing in her arms a very beautiful child, dark-eyed,
golden-haired, a wonderful mixture of the Saxon and the Latin. Ferguson was
evidently devoted to it, for he took it into his arms and fondled it most
tenderly.
“Fancy anyone having the heart to hurt him,” he muttered as he glanced
down at the small, angry red pucker upon the cherub throat.
It was at this moment that I chanced to glance at Holmes and saw a most
singular intentness in his expression. His face was as set as if it had been
carved out of old ivory, and his eyes, which had glanced for a moment at
father and child, were now fixed with eager curiosity upon something at the
other side of the room. Following his gaze I could only guess that he was
looking out through the window at the melancholy, dripping garden. It is true
that a shutter had half closed outside and obstructed the view, but none the
less it was certainly at the window that Holmes was fixing his concentrated
attention. Then he smiled, and his eyes came back to the baby. On its chubby
neck there was this small puckered mark. Without speaking, Holmes
examined it with care. Finally he shook one of the dimpled fists which waved
in front of him.
“Good-bye, little man. You have made a strange start in life. Nurse, I
should wish to have a word with you in private.”
He took her aside and spoke earnestly for a few minutes. I only heard the
last words, which were: “Your anxiety will soon, I hope, be set at rest.” The
woman, who seemed to be a sour, silent kind of creature, withdrew with the
child.
“What is Mrs. Mason like?” asked Holmes.
“Not very prepossessing externally, as you can see, but a heart of gold,
and devoted to the child.”
“Do you like her, Jack?” Holmes turned suddenly upon the boy. His
expressive mobile face shadowed over, and he shook his head.
“Jacky has very strong likes and dislikes,” said Ferguson, putting his arm
round the boy. “Luckily I am one of his likes.”
The boy cooed and nestled his head upon his father's breast. Ferguson
gently disengaged him.
 “Run away, little Jacky,” said he, and he watched his son with loving eyes
until he disappeared. “Now, Mr. Holmes,” he continued when the boy was
gone, “I really feel that I have brought you on a fool's errand, for what can
you possibly do save give me your sympathy? It must be an exceedingly
delicate and complex affair from your point of view.”
“It is certainly delicate,” said my friend with an amused smile, “but I have
not been struck up to now with its complexity. It has been a case for
intellectual deduction, but when this original intellectual deduction is
confirmed point by point by quite a number of independent incidents, then the
subjective becomes objective and we can say confidently that we have
reached our goal. I had, in fact, reached it before we left Baker Street, and the
rest has merely been observation and confirmation.”
Ferguson put his big hand to his furrowed forehead.
“For heaven's sake, Holmes,” he said hoarsely; “if you can see the truth in
this matter, do not keep me in suspense. How do I stand? What shall I do? I
care nothing as to how you have found your facts so long as you have really
got them.”
“Certainly I owe you an explanation, and you shall have it. But you will
permit me to handle the matter in my own way? Is the lady capable of seeing
us, Watson?”
“She is ill, but she is quite rational.”
“Very good. It is only in her presence that we can clear the matter up. Let
us go up to her.”
“She will not see me,” cried Ferguson.
“Oh, yes, she will,” said Holmes. He scribbled a few lines upon a sheet of
paper.”You at least have the entree, Watson. Will you have the goodness to
give the lady this note?”
I ascended again and handed the note to Dolores, who cautiously opened
the door. A minute later I heard a cry from within, a cry in which joy and
surprise seemed to be blended. Dolores looked out.
“She will see them. She will leesten,” said she.
At my summons Ferguson and Holmes came up. As we entered the room
Ferguson took a step or two towards his wife, who had raised herself in the
bed, but she held out her hand to repulse him. He sank into an armchair, while
Holmes seated himself beside him, after bowing to the lady, who looked at
him with wide-eyed amazement.
“I think we can dispense with Dolores,” said Holmes. “Oh, very well,
madame, if you would rather she stayed I can see no objection. Now, Mr.
Ferguson, I am a busy man wlth many calls, and my methods have to be short
and direct. The swiftest surgery is the least painful. Let me first say what will
ease your mind. Your wife is a very good, a very loving, and a very ill-used
woman.”
Ferguson sat up with a cry of joy.
“Prove that, Mr. Holmes, and I am your debtor forever.”
“I will do so, but in doing so I must wound you deeply in another
direction.”
“I care nothing so long as you clear my wife. Everything on earth is
insignificant compared to that.”
“Let me tell you, then, the train of reasoning which passed through my
mind in Baker Street. The idea of a vampire was to me absurd. Such things do
not happen in criminal practice in England. And yet your observation was
precise. You had seen the lady rise from beside the child's cot with the blood
upon her lips.”
“I did.”
“Did it not occur to you that a bleeding wound may be sucked for some
other purpose than to draw the blood from it? Was there not a queen in
English history who sucked such a wound to draw poison from it?”
“Poison!”
“A South American household. My instinct felt the presence of those
weapons upon the wall before my eyes ever saw them. It might have been
other poison, but that was what occurred to me. When I saw that little empty
quiver beside the small birdbow, it was just what I expected to see. If the child
were pricked with one of those arrows dipped in curare or some other devilish
drug, it would mean death if the venom were not sucked out.
“And the dog! If one were to use such a poison, would one not try it first
in order to see that it had not lost its power? I did not foresee the dog, but at
least I understand him and he fitted into my reconstruction.
“Now do you understand? Your wife feared such an attack. She saw it
made and saved the child's life, and yet she shrank from telling you all the
truth, for she knew how you loved the boy and feared lest it break your heart.”
“Jacky!”
“I watched him as you fondled the child just now. His face was clearly
reflected in the glass of the window where the shutter formed a background. I
saw such jealousy, such cruel hatred, as I have seldom seen in a human face.”
“My Jacky!”
“You have to face it, Mr. Ferguson. It is the more painful because it is a
distorted love, a maniacal exaggerated love for you, and possibly for his dead
mother, which has prompted his action. His very soul is consumed with hatred
for this splendid child, whose health and beauty are a contrast to his own
weakness.”
 “Good God! It is incredible!”
“Have I spoken the truth, madame?”
The lady was sobbing, with her face buried in the pillows. Now she turned
to her husband.
“How could I tell you, Bob? I felt the blow it would be to you. It was
better that I should wait and that it should come from some other lips than
mine. When this gentleman, who seems to have powers of magic, wrote that
he knew all, I was glad.”
“I think a year at sea would be my prescription for Master Jacky,” said
Holmes, rising from his chair. “Only one thing is still clouded, madame. We
can quite understand your attacks upon Master Jacky. There is a limit to a
mother's patience. But how did you dare to leave the child these last two
days?”
“I had told Mrs. Mason. She knew.”
“Exactly. So I imagined.”
Ferguson was standing by the bed, choking, his hands outstretched and
quivering.
“This, I fancy, is the time for our exit, Watson,” said Holmes in a whisper.
“If you will take one elbow of the too faithful Dolores, I will take the other.
There, now,” he added as he closed the door behind him, “I think we may
leave them to settle the rest among themselves.”
I have only one further note of this case. It is the letter which Holmes
wrote in final answer to that with which the narrative begins. It ran thus:
BAKER STREET,
Nov. 21st.
Re Vampires

SIR:
Referring to your letter of the 19th, I beg to state that I have looked into the inquiry of your
client, Mr. Robert Ferguson, of Ferguson and Muirhead, tea brokers, of Mincing Lane, and that the
matter has been brought to a satisfactory conclusion. With thanks for your recommendation, I am,
sir,

Faithfully yours,
SHERLOCK HOLMES.
 The Adventure of the Three Garridebs

It may have been a comedy, or it may have been a tragedy. It cost one man his
reason, it cost me a blood-letting, and it cost yet another man the penalties of
the law. Yet there was certainly an element of comedy. Well, you shall judge
for yourselves.
I remember the date very well, for it was in the same month that Holmes
refused a knighthood for services which may perhaps some day be described.
I only refer to the matter in passing, for in my position of partner and
confidant I am obliged to be particularly careful to avoid any indiscretion. I
repeat, however, that this enables me to fix the date, which was the latter end
of June, 1902, shortly after the conclusion of the South African War. Holmes
had spent several days in bed, as was his habit from time to time, but he
emerged that morning with a long foolscap document in his hand and a
twinkle of amusement in his austere gray eyes.
“There is a chance for you to make some money. friend Watson,” said he.
“Have you ever heard the name of Garrideb?”
I admitted that I had not.
“Well, if you can lay your hand upon a Garrideb, there's money in it.”
“Why?”
“Ah, that's a long story – rather a whimsical one, too. I don't think in all
our explorations of human complexities we have ever come upon anything
more singular. The fellow will be here presently for cross-examination, so I
won't open the matter up till he comes. But, meanwhile, that's the name we
want.”
The telephone directory lay on the table beside me, and I turned over the
pages in a rather hopeless quest. But to my amazement there was this strange
name in its due place. I gave a cry of triumph.
“Here you are, Holmes! Here it is!”
Holmes took the book from my hand.
“'Garrideb, N.,' “ he read, “'136 Little Ryder Street, W.' Sorry to
disappoint you, my dear Watson, but this is the man himself. That is the
address upon his letter. We want another to match him.”
Mrs. Hudson had come in with a card upon a tray. I took it up and glanced
at it.
“Why, here it is!” I cried in amazement. “This is a different initial. John
Garrideb, Counsellor at Law, Moorville, Kansas, U. S. A. “
 Holmes smiled as he looked at the card. “I am afraid you must make yet
another effort, Watson,” said he. “This gentleman is also in the plot already,
though I certainly did not expect to see him this morning. However, he is in a
position to tell us a good deal which I want to know.”
A moment later he was in the room. Mr. John Garrideb, Counsellor at
Law, was a short, powerful man with the round, fresh, clean-shaven face
characteristic of so many American men of affairs. The general effect was
chubby and rather childlike, so that one received the impression of quite a
young man with a broad set smile upon his face. His eyes, however, were
arresting. Seldom in any human head have I seen a pair which bespoke a more
intense inward life, so bright were they, so alert, so responsive to every
change of thought. His accent was American, but was not accompanied by
any eccentricity of speech.
“Mr. Holmes?” he asked, glancing from one to the other. “Ah, yes! Your
pictures are not unlike you, sir, if I may say so. I believe you have had a letter
from my namesake, Mr. Nathan Garrideb, have you not?”
“Pray sit down,” said Sherlock Holmes. “We shall, I fancy, have a good
deal to discuss.” He took up his sheets of foolscap. “You are, of course, the
Mr. John Garrideb mentioned in this document. But surely you have been in
England some time?”
“Why do you say that, Mr. Holmes?” I seemed to read sudden suspicion in
those expressive eyes.
“Your whole outfit is English.”
Mr. Garrideb forced a laugh. “I've read of your tricks, Mr. Holmes, but I
never thought I would be the subject of them. Where do you read that?”
“The shoulder cut of your coat, the toes of your boots – could anyone
doubt it?”
“Well, well, I had no idea I was so obvious a Britisher. But business
brought me over here some time ago, and so, as you say, my outfit is nearly
all London. However, I guess your time is of value, and we did not meet to
talk about the cut of my socks. What about getting down to that paper you
hold in your hand?”
Holmes had in some way ruffled our visitor, whose chubby face had
assumed a far less amiable expression.
“Patience! Patience, Mr. Garrideb!” said my friend in a soothing voice.
“Dr. Watson would tell you that these little digressions of mine sometimes
prove in the end to have some bearing on the matter. But why did Mr. Nathan
Garrideb not come with you?”
“Why did he ever drag you into it at all?” asked our visitor with a sudden
outflame of anger. “What in thunder had you to do with it? Here was a bit of
professional business between two gentlemen, and one of them must needs
call in a detective! I saw him this morning, and he told me this fool-trick he
had played me, and that's why I am here. But I feel bad about it, all the same.”
“There was no reflection upon you, Mr. Garrideb. It was simply zeal upon
his part to gain your end – an end which is, I understand, equally vital for
both of you. He knew that I had means of getting information, and, therefore,
it was very natural that he should apply to me.”
Our visitor's angry face gradually cleared.
“Well, that puts it different,” said he. “When I went to see him this
morning and he told me he had sent to a detective, I just asked for your
address and came right away. I don't want police butting into a private matter.
But if you are content just to help us find the man, there can be no harm in
that.”
“Well, that is just how it stands,” said Holmes. “And now, sir, since you
are here, we had best have a clear account from your own lips. My friend here
knows nothing of the details.”
Mr. Garrideb surveyed me with not too friendly a gaze.
“Need he know?” he asked.
“We usually work together.”
“Well, there's no reason it should be kept a secret. I'll give you the facts as
short as I can make them. If you came from Kansas I would not need to
explain to you who Alexander Hamilton Garrideb was. He made his money in
real estate, and afterwards in the wheat pit at Chicago, but he spent it in
buying up as much land as would make one of your counties, lying along the
Arkansas River, west of Fort Dodge. It's grazing-land and lumber-land and
arable-land and mineralized-land, and just every sort of land that brings
dollars to the man that owns it.
“He had no kith nor kin – or, if he had, I never heard of it. But he took a
kind of pride in the queerness of his name. That was what brought us together.
I was in the law at Topeka, and one day I had a visit from the old man, and he
was tickled to death to meet another man with his own name. It was his pet
fad, and he was dead set to find out if there were any more Garridebs in the
world. 'Find me another!' said he. I told him I was a busy man and could not
spend my life hiking round the world in search of Garridebs. 'None the less,'
said he, 'that is just what you will do if things pan out as I planned them.' I
thought he was joking, but there was a powerful lot of meaning in the words,
as I was soon to discover.
“For he died within a year of saying them, and he left a will behind him. It
was the queerest will that has ever been filed in the State of Kansas. His
property was divided into three parts and I was to have one on condition that I
found two Garridebs who would share the remainder. It's five million dollars
for each if it is a cent, but we can't lay a finger on it until we all three stand in
a row.
“It was so big a chance that I just let my legal practice slide and I set forth
looking for Garridebs. There is not one in the United States. I went through it,
sir, with a fine-toothed comb and never a Garrideb could I catch. Then I tried
the old country. Sure enough there was the name in the London telephone
directory. I went after him two days ago and explained the whole matter to
him. But he is a lone man, like myself, with some women relations, but no
men. It says three adult men in the will. So you see we still have a vacancy,
and if you can help to fill it we will be very ready to pay your charges.”
“Well, Watson,” said Holmes with a smile, “l said it was rather whimsical,
did I not? I should have thought, sir, that your obvious way was to advertise
in the agony columns of the papers.”
“I have done that, Mr. Holmes. No replies.”
“Dear me! Well, it is certainly a most curious little problem. I may take a
glance at it in my leisure. By the way, it is curious that you should have come
from Topeka. I used to have a correspondent – he is dead now – old Dr.
Lysander Starr, who was mayor in 1890.”
“Good old Dr. Starr!” said our visitor. “His name is still honoured. Well,
Mr. Holmes, I suppose all we can do is to report to you and let you know how
we progress. I reckon you will hear within a day or two.” With this assurance
our American bowed and departed.
Holmes had lit his pipe, and he sat for some time with a curious smile
upon his face.
“Well?” I asked at last.
“I am wondering, Watson – just wondering!”
“At what?”
Holmes took his pipe from his lips.
“I was wondering, Watson, what on earth could be the object of this man
in telling us such a rigmarole of lies. I nearly asked him so – for there are
times when a brutal frontal attack is the best policy – but I judged it better to
let him think he had fooled us. Here is a man with an English coat frayed at
the elbow and trousers bagged at the knee with a year's wear, and yet by this
document and by his own account he is a provincial American lately landed in
London. There have been no advertisements in the agony columns. You know
that I miss nothing there. They are my favourite covert for putting up a bird,
and I would never have overlooked such a cock pheasant as that. I never knew
a Dr. Lysander Starr, of Topeka. Touch him where you would he was false. I
think the fellow is really an American, but he has worn his accent smooth
with years of London. What is his game, then, and what motive lies behind
this preposterous search for Garridebs? It's worth our attention, for, granting
that the man is a rascal, he is certainly a complex and ingenious one. We must
now find out if our other correspondent is a fraud also. Just ring him up,
Watson.”
I did so, and heard a thin, quavering voice at the other end of the line.
“Yes, yes, I am Mr. Nathan Garrideb. Is Mr. Holmes there? I should very
much like to have a word with Mr. Holmes.”
My friend took the instrument and I heard the usual syncopated dialogue.
“Yes, he has been here. I understand that you don't know him… . How
long? … Only two days! … Yes, yes, of course, it is a most captivating
prospect. Will you be at home this evening? I suppose your namesake will not
be there? … Very good, we will come then, for I would rather have a chat
without him… . Dr. Watson will come with me… . I understand from your
note that you did not go out often… . Well, we shall be round about six. You
need not mention it to the American lawyer… . Very good. Good-bye!”
It was twilight of a lovely spring evening, and even Little Ryder Street,
one of the smaller offshoots from the Edgware Road, within a stone-cast of
old Tyburn Tree of evil memory, looked golden and wonderful in the slanting
rays of the setting sun. The particular house to which we were directed was a
large, old-fashioned, Early Georgian edifice, with a flat brick face broken
only by two deep bay windows on the ground floor. It was on this ground
floor that our client lived, and, indeed, the low windows proved to be the front
of the huge room in which he spent his waking hours. Holmes pointed as we
passed to the small brass plate which bore the curious name.
“Up some years, Watson,” he remarked, indicating its discoloured surface.
“It's his real name, anyhow, and that is something to note.”
The house had a common stair, and there were a number of names painted
in the hall, some indicating offices and some private chambers. It was not a
collection of residential flats, but rather the abode of Bohemian bachelors.
Our client opened the door for us himself and apologized by saying that the
woman in charge left at four o'clock. Mr. Nathan Garrideb proved to be a very
tall, loosejointed, round-backed person, gaunt and bald, some sixty-odd years
of age. He had a cadaverous face, with the dull dead skin of a man to whom
exercise was unknown. Large round spectacles and a small projecting goat's
beard combined with his stooping attitude to give him an expression of
peering curiosity. The general effect, however, was amiable, though eccentric.
The room was as curious as its occupant. It looked like a small museum. It
was both broad and deep, with cupboards and cabinets all round, crowded
with specimens, geological and anatomical. Cases of butterflies and moths
flanked each side of the entrance. A large table in the centre was littered with
all sorts of debris, while the tall brass tube of a powerful microscope bristled
up among them. As I glanced round I was surprised at the universality of the
man's interests. Here was a case of ancient coins. There was a cabinet of flint
instruments. Behind his central table was a large cupboard of fossil bones.
Above was a line of plaster skulls with such names as “Neanderthal,”
“Heidelberg,” “Cro-Magnon” printed beneath them. It was clear that he was a
student of many subjects. As he stood in front of us now, he held a piece of
chamois leather in his right hand with which he was polishing a coin.
“Syracusan – of the best period,” he explained, holding it up. “They
degenerated greatly towards the end. At their best I hold them supreme,
though some prefer the Alexandrian school. You will find a chair here, Mr.
Holmes. Pray allow me to clear these bones. And you, sir – ah, yes, Dr.
Watson – if you would have the goodness to put the Japanese vase to one
side. You see round me my little interests in life. My doctor lectures me about
never going out, but why should I go out when I have so much to hold me
here? I can assure you that the adequate cataloguing of one of those cabinets
would take me three good months.”
Holmes looked round him with curiosity.
“But do you tell me that you never go out?” he said.
“Now and again I drive down to Sotheby's or Christie's. Otherwise I very
seldom leave my room. I am not too strong, and my researches are very
absorbing. But you can imagine, Mr. Holmes, what a terrific shock – pleasant
but terrific – it was for me when I heard of this unparalleled good fortune. It
only needs one more Garrideb to complete the matter, and surely we can find
one. I had a brother, but he is dead, and female relatives are disqualified. But
there must surely be others in the world. I had heard that you handled strange
cases, and that was why I sent to you. Of course, this American gentleman is
quite right, and I should have taken his advice first, but I acted for the best.”
“I think you acted very wisely indeed,” said Holmes. “But are you really
anxious to acquire an estate in America?”
“Certainly not, sir. Nothing would induce me to leave my collection. But
this gentleman has assured me that he will buy me out as soon as we have
established our claim. Five million dollars was the sum named. There are a
dozen specimens in the market at the present moment which fill gaps in my
collection, and which I am unable to purchase for want of a few hundred
pounds. Just think what I could do with five million dollars. Why, I have the
nucleus of a national collection. I shall be the Hans Sloane of my age.”
His eyes gleamed behind his great spectacles. It was very clear that no
pains would be spared by Mr. Nathan Garrideb in finding a namesake.
 “I merely called to make your acquaintance, and there is no reason why I
should interrupt your studies,” said Holmes. “I prefer to establish personal
touch with those with whom I do business. There are few questions I need
ask, for I have your very clear narrative in my pocket, and I filled up the
blanks when this American gentleman called. I understand that up to this
week you were unaware of his existence.”
“That is so. He called last Tuesday.”
“Did he tell you of our interview to-day?”
“Yes, he came straight back to me. He had been very angry.”
“Why should he be angry?”
“He seemed to think it was some reflection on his honour. But he was
quite cheerful again when he returned.”
“Did he suggest any course of action?”
“No, sir, he did not.”
“Has he had, or asked for, any money from you?”
“No, sir, never!”
“You see no possible object he has in view?”
“None, except what he states.”
“Did you tell him of our telephone appointment?”
“Yes, sir, I did.”
Holmes was lost in thought. I could see that he was puzzled.
“Have you any articles of great value in your collection?”
“No, sir. I am not a rich man. It is a good collection, but not a very
valuable one.”
“You have no fear of burglars?”
“Not the least.”
“How long have you been in these rooms?”
“Nearly five years.”
Holmes's cross-examination was interrupted by an imperative knocking at
the door. No sooner had our client unlatched it than the American lawyer
burst excitedly into the room.
“Here you are!” he cried, waving a paper over his head. “I thought I
should be in time to get you. Mr. Nathan Garrideb, my congratulations! You
are a rich man, sir. Our business is happily finished and all is well. As to you,
Mr. Holmes, we can only say we are sorry if we have given you any useless
trouble.”
He handed over the paper to our client, who stood staring at a marked
advertisement. Holmes and I leaned forward and read it over his shoulder.
This is how it ran:
HOWARD GARRIDEB
 CONSTRUCTOR OF ACRICULTURAL MACHINERY

Binders, reapers, steam and hand plows, drills, harTows,

farmer's carts, buckboards, and all other appliances.
Estimates for Artesian Wells
Apply Grosvenor Buildings, Aston

“Glorious!” gasped our host. “That makes our third man.”

“I had opened up inquiries in Birmingham,” said the Americn, “and my
agent there has sent me this advertisement from a local paper. We must hustle
and put the thing through. I have written to this man and told him that you
will see him in his office to-morrow afternoon at four o'clock.”
“You want me to see him?”
“What do you say, Mr. Holmes? Don't you think it would be wiser? Here
am I, a wandering American with a wonderful tale. Why should he believe
what I tell him? But you are a Britisher wth solid references, and he is bound
to take notice of what you say. I would go with you if you wished, but I have
a very busy day to-morrow, and I could always follow you if you are in any
trouble.”
“Well, I have not made such a journey for years.”
“It is nothing, Mr. Garrideb. I have figured out our connections. You leave
at twelve and should be there soon after two. Then you can be back the same
night. All you have to do is to see this man, explain the matter, and get an
affidavit of his existence. By the Lord!” he added hotly, “considering I've
come all the way from the centre of America, it is surely little enough if you
go a hundred miles in order to put this matter through.”
“Quite so,” said Holmes. “I think what this gentleman says is very true.”
Mr. Nathan Garrideb shrugged his shoulders with a disconsolate air.
“Well, if you insist I shall go,” said he. “It is certainly hard for me to refuse
you anything, considering the glory of hope that you have brought into my
life.”
“Then that is agreed,” said Holmes, “and no doubt you will let me have a
report as soon as you can.”
“I'll see to that,” said the American. “Well,” he added looking at his
watch, “I'll have to get on. I'll call to-morrow, Mr. Nathan, and see you off to
Birmingham. Coming my way, Mr. Holmes? Well, then, good-bye, and we
may have good news for you to-morrow night.”
I noticed that my friend's face cleared when the American left the room,
and the look of thoughtful perplexity had vanished.
“I wish I could look over your collection, Mr. Garrideb,” said he. “In my
profession all sorts of odd knowledge comes useful, and this room of yours is
a storehouse of it.”
 Our client shone with pleasure and his eyes gleamed from behind his big
glasses.
“I had always heard, sir, that you were a very intelligent man,” said he. “I
could take you round now if you have the time.”
“Unfortunately, I have not. But these specimens are so well labelled and
classified that they hardly need your personal explanation. If I should be able
to look in to-morrow, I presume that there would be no objection to my
glancing over them?”
“None at all. You are most welcome. The place will, of course, be shut up,
but Mrs. Saunders is in the basement up to four o'clock and would let you in
with her key.”
“Well, I happen to be clear to-morrow afternoon. If you would say a word
to Mrs. Saunders it would be quite in order. By the way, who is your house-
agent?”
Our client was amazed at the sudden question.
“Holloway and Steele, in the Edgware Road. But why?”
“I am a bit of an archaeologist myself when it comes to houses,” said
Holmes, laughing. “I was wondering if this was Queen Anne or Georgian.”
“Georgian, beyond doubt.”
“Really. I should have thought a little earlier. However, it is easily
ascertained. Well, good-bye, Mr. Garrideb, and may you have every success
in your Birmingham journey.”
The house-agent's was close by, but we found that it was closed for the
day, so we made our way back to Baker Street. It was not till after dinner that
Holmes reverted to the subject.
“Our little problem draws to a close,” said he. “No doubt you have
outlined the solution in your own mind.”
“I can make neither head nor tail of it.”
“The head is surely clear enough and the tail we should see to-morrow.
Did you notice nothing curious about that advertisement?”
“I saw that the word 'plough' was misspelt.”
“Oh, you did notice that, did you? Come, Watson, you improve all the
time. Yes, it was bad English but good American. The printer had set it up as
received. Then the buckboards. That is American also. And artesian wells are
commoner with them than with us. It was a typical American advertisement,
but purporting to be from an English firm. What do you make of that?”
“I can only suppose that this American lawyer put it in himself. What his
object was I fail to understand.”
“Well, there are alternative explanations. Anyhow, he wanted to get this
good old fossil up to Birmingham. That is very clear. I might have told him
that he was clearly going on a wild-goose chase, but, on second thoughts, it
seemed better to clear the stage by letting him go. To-morrow, Watson – well,
to-morrow will speak for itself.”
Holmes was up and out early. When he returned at lunchtime I noticed
that his face was very grave.
“This is a more serious matter than I had expected, Watson,” said he. “It is
fair to tell you so, though I know it will only be an additional reason to you
for running your head into danger. I should know my Watson by now. But
there is danger, and you should know it.”
“Well, it is not the first we have shared, Holmes. I hope it may not be the
last. What is the particular danger this time?”
“We are up against a very hard case. I have identified Mr. John Garrideb,
Counsellor at Law. He is none other than 'Killer' Evans, of sinister and
murderous reputation.”
“I fear I am none the wiser.”
“Ah, it is not part of your profession to carry about a portable Newgate
Calendar in your memory. I have been down to see friend Lestrade at the
Yard. There may be an occasional want of imaginative intuition down there,
but they lead the world for thoroughness and method. I had an idea that we
might get on the track of our American friend in their records. Sure enough, I
found his chubby face smiling up at me from the rogues' portrait gallery.
'James Winter, alias Morecroft, alias Killer Evans,' was the inscription
below.” Holmes drew an envelope from his pocket. “I scribbled down a few
points from his dossier: Aged forty-four. Native of Chicago. Known to have
shot three men in the States. Escaped from penitentiary through political
influence. Came to London in 1893. Shot a man over cards in a night-club in
the Waterloo Road in January, 1895. Man died, but he was shown to have
been the aggressor in the row. Dead man was identified as Rodger Prescott,
famous as forger and coiner in Chicago. Killer Evans released in 1901. Has
been under police supervision since, but so far as known has led an honest
life. Very dangerous man, usually carries arms and is prepared to use them.
That is our bird, Watson – a sporting bird, as you must admit.”
“But what is his game?”
“Well, it begins to define itself. I have been to the houseagent's. Our
client, as he told us, has been there five years. It was unlet for a year before
then. The previous tenant was a gentleman at large named Waldron. Waldron's
appearance was well remembered at the office. He had suddenly vanished and
nothing more been heard of him. He was a tall, bearded man with very dark
features. Now, Prescott, the man whom Killer Evans had shot, was, according
to Scotland Yard, a tall, dark man with a beard. As a working hypothesis, I
think we may take it that Prescott, the American criminal, used to live in the
very room which our innocent friend now devotes to his museum. So at last
we get a link, you see.”
“And the next link?”
“Well, we must go now and look for that.”
He took a revolver from the drawer and handed it to me.
“I have my old favourite with me. If our Wild West friend tries to live up
to his nickname, we must be ready for him. I'll give you an hour for a siesta,
Watson, and then I think it will be time for our Ryder Street adventure.”
It was just four o'clock when we reached the curious apartment of Nathan
Garrideb. Mrs. Saunders, the caretaker, was about to leave, but she had no
hesitation in admitting us, for the door shut with a spring lock, and Holmes
promised to see that all was safe before we left. Shortly afterwards the outer
door closed, her bonnet passed the bow window, and we knew that we were
alone in the lower floor of the house. Holmes made a rapid examination of the
premises. There was one cupboard in a dark corner which stood out a little
from the wall. It was behind this that we eventually crouched while Holmes in
a whisper outlined his intentions.
“He wanted to get our amiable friend out of his room – that is very clear,
and, as the collector never went out, it took some planning to do it. The whole
of this Garrideb invention was apparently for no other end. I must say,
Watson, that there is a certain devilish ingenuity about it, even if the queer
name of the tenant did give him an opening which he could hardly have
expected. He wove his plot with remarkable cunning.
“But what did he want?”
“Well, that is what we are here to find out. It has nothing whatever to do
with our client, so far as I can read the situation. It is something connected
with the man he murdered – the man who may have been his confederate in
crime. There is some guilty secret in the room. That is how I read it. At first I
thought our friend might have something in his collection more valuable than
he knew – something worth the attention of a big criminal. But the fact that
Rodger Prescott of evil memory inhabited these rooms points to some deeper
reason. Well, Watson, we can but possess our souls in patience and see what
the hour may bring.”
That hour was not long in striking. We crouched closer in the shadow as
we heard the outer door open and shut. Then came the sharp, metallic snap of
a key, and the American was in the room. He closed the door softly behind
him, took a sharp glance around him to see that all was safe, threw off his
overcoat, and walked up to the central table with the brisk manner of one who
knows exactly what he has to do and how to do it. He pushed the table to one
side, tore up the square of carpet on which it rested, rolled it completely back,
and then, drawing a jemmy from his inside pocket, he knelt down and worked
vigorously upon the floor. Presently we heard the sound of sliding boards, and
an instant later a square had opened in the planks. Killer Evans struck a
match, lit a stump of candle, and vanished from our view.
Clearly our moment had come. Holmes touched my wrist as a signal, and
together we stole across to the open trap-door. Gently as we moved, however,
the old floor must have creaked under our feet, for the head of our American,
peering anxiously round, emerged suddenly from the open space. His face
turned upon us with a glare of baffled rage, which gradually softened into a
rather shamefaced grin as he realized that two pistols were pointed at his
head.
“Well, well!” said he coolly as he scrambled to the surface. “I guess you
have been one too many for me, Mr. Holmes. Saw through my game, I
suppose, and played me for a sucker from the first. Well, sir, I hand it to you;
you have me beat and – “
In an instant he had whisked out a revolver from his breast and had fired
two shots. I felt a sudden hot sear as if a red-hot iron had been pressed to my
thigh. There was a crash as Holmes's pistol came down on the man's head. I
had a vision of him sprawling upon the floor with blood running down his
face while Holmes rummaged him for weapons. Then my friend's wiry arms
were round me, and he was leading me to a chair.
“You're not hurt, Watson? For God's sake, say that you are not hurt!”
It was worth a wound – it was worth many wounds – to know the depth of
loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes were
dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and only
time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain. All my
years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of
revelation.
“It's nothing, Holmes. It's a mere scratch.”
He had ripped up my trousers with his pocket-knife.
“You are right,” he cried with an immense sigh of relief. “It is quite
superficial.” His face set like flint as he glared at our prisoner, who was sitting
up with a dazed face. “By the Lord, it is as well for you. If you had killed
Watson, you would not have got out of this room alive. Now, sir, what have
you to say for yourself?”
He had nothing to say for himself. He only sat and scowled. I leaned on
Holmes's arm, and together we looked down into the small cellar which had
been disclosed by the secret flap. It was still illuminated by the candle which
Evans had taken down with him. Our eyes fell upon a mass of rusted
machinery, great rolls of paper, a litter of bottles, and, neatly arranged upon a
small table, a number of neat little bundles.
“A printing press – a counterfeiter's outfit,” said Holmes.
“Yes, sir,” said our prisoner, staggering slowly to his feet and then sinking
into the chair. “The greatest counterfeiter London ever saw. That's Prescott's
machine, and those bundles on the table are two thousand of Prescott's notes
worth a hundred each and fit to pass anywhere. Help yourselves, gentlemen.
Call it a deal and let me beat it.”
Holmes laughed.
“We don't do things like that, Mr. Evans. There is no bolthole for you in
this country. You shot this man Prescott, did you not?”
“Yes, sir, and got five years for it, though it was he who pulled on me.
Five years – when I should have had a medal the size of a soup plate. No
living man could tell a Prescott from a Bank of England, and if I hadn't put
him out he would have flooded London with them. I was the only one in the
world who knew where he made them. Can you wonder that I wanted to get
to the place? And can you wonder that when I found this crazy boob of a bug-
hunter with the queer name squatting right on the top of it, and never quitting
his room, I had to do the best I could to shift him? Maybe I would have been
wiser if I had put him away. It would have been easy enough, but I'm a soft-
hearted guy that can't begin shooting unless the other man has a gun also. But
say, Mr. Holmes, what have I done wrong, anyhow? I've not used this plant.
I've not hurt this old stiff. Where do you get me?”
“Only attempted murder, so far as I can see,” said Holmes. “But that's not
our job. They take that at the next stage. What we wanted at present was just
your sweet self. Please give the Yard a call, Watson. It won't be entirely
unexpected.”
So those were the facts about Killer Evans and his remarkable invention
of the three Garridebs. We heard later that our poor old friend never got over
the shock of his dissipated dreams. When his castle in the air fell down, it
buried him beneath the ruins. He was last heard of at a nursing-home in
Brixton. It was a glad day at the Yard when the Prescott outfit was discovered,
for, though they knew that it existed, they had never been able, after the death
of the man, to find out where it was. Evans had indeed done great service and
caused several worthy C. I. D. men to sleep the sounder, for the counterfeiter
stands in a class by himself as a public danger. They would willingly have
subscribed to that soup-plate medal of which the criminal had spoken, but an
unappreciative bench took a less favourable view, and the Killer returned to
those shades from which he had just emerged.
 The Adventure of the Illustrious Client

“It can't hurt now,” was Mr. Sherlock Holmes's comment when, for the tenth
time in as many years, I asked his leave to reveal the following narrative. So it
was that at last I obtained permission to put on record what was, in some
ways, the supreme moment of my friend's career.
Both Holmes and I had a weakness for the Turkish bath. It was over a
smoke in the pleasant lassitude of the drying-room that I have found him less
reticent and more human than anywhere else. On the upper floor of the
Northumberland Avenue establishment there is an isolated corner where two
couches lie side by side, and it was on these that we lay upon September 3,
1902, the day when my narrative begins. I had asked him whether anything
was stirring, and for answer he had shot his long, thin, nervous arm out of the
sheets which enveloped him and had drawn an envelope from the inside
pocket of the coat which hung beside him.
“It may be some fussy, self-important fool; it may be a matter of life or
death,” said he as he handed me the note. “I know no more than this message
tells me.”
It was from the Carlton Club and dated the evening before. This is what I
read:
Sir James Damery presents his compliments to Mr. Sherlock Holmes and
will call upon him at 4:30 to-morrow. Sir James begs to say that the matter
upon which he desires to consult Mr. Holmes is very delicate and also very
important. He trusts, therefore, that Mr. Holmes will make every effort to
grant this interview, and that he will confirm it over the telephone to the
Carlton Club.
“I need not say that I have confirmed it, Watson,” said Holmes as I
returned the paper. “Do you know anything of this man Damery?”
“Only that this name is a household word in society.”
“Well, I can tell you a little more than that. He has rather a reputation for
arranging delicate matters which are to be kept out of the papers. You may
remember his negotiations with Sir George Lewis over the Hammerford Will
case. He is a man of the world with a natural turn for diplomacy. I am bound,
therefore, to hope that it is not a false scent and that he has some real need for
our assistance.”
“Our?”
“Well, if you will be so good, Watson.”
 “I shall be honoured.”
“Then you have the hour – 4:30. Until then we can put the matter out of
our heads.”
I was living in my own rooms in Queen Anne Street at the time, but I was
round at Baker Street before the time named. Sharp to the half-hour, Colonel
Sir James Damery was announced. It is hardly necessary to describe him, for
many will remember that large, bluff, honest personality, that broad,
cleanshaven face, and, above all, that pleasant, mellow voice. Frankness
shone from his gray Irish eyes, and good humour played round his mobile,
smiling lips. His lucent top-hat, his dark frock-coat, indeed, every detail, from
the pearl pin in the black satin cravat to the lavender spats over the varnished
shoes, spoke of the meticulous care in dress for which he was famous. The
big, masterful aristocrat dominated the little room.
“Of course, I was prepared to find Dr. Watson,” he remarked with a
courteous bow. “His collaboration may be very necessary, for we are dealing
on this occasion, Mr. Holmes, with a man to whom violence is familiar and
who will, literally, stick at nothing. I should say that there is no more
dangerous man in Europe.”
“I have had several opponents to whom that flattering term has been
applied,” said Holmes with a smile. “Don't you smoke? Then you will excuse
me if I light my pipe. If your man is more dangerous than the late Professor
Moriarty, or than the living Colonel Sebastian Moran, then he is indeed worth
meeting. May I ask his name?”
“Have you ever heard of Baron Gruner?”
“You mean the Austrian murderer?”
Colonel Damery threw up his kid-gloved hands with a laugh. “There is no
getting past you, Mr. Holmes! Wonderful! So you have already sized him up
as a murderer?”
“It is my business to follow the details of Continental crime. Who could
possibly have read what happened at Prague and have any doubts as to the
man's guilt! It was a purely technical legal point and the suspicious death of a
witness that saved him! I am as sure that he killed his wife when the socalled
'accident' happened in the Splugen Pass as if I had seen him do it. I knew,
also, that he had come to England and had a presentiment that sooner or later
he would find me some work to do. Well, what has Baron Gruner been up to?
I presume it is not this old tragedy which has come up again?”
“No, it is more serious than that. To revenge crime is important, but to
prevent it is more so. It is a terrible thing, Mr. Holmes, to see a dreadful event,
an atrocious situation, preparing itself before your eyes, to clearly understand
whither it will lead and yet to be utterly unable to avert it. Can a human being
be placed in a more trying position?”
“Perhaps not.”
“Then you will sympathize with the client in whose interests I am acting.”
“I did not understand that you were merely an intermediary. Who is the
principal?”
“Mr. Holmes, I must beg you not to press that question. It is important that
I should be able to assure him that his honoured name has been in no way
dragged into the matter. His motives are, to the last degree, honourable and
chivalrous, but he prefers to remain unknown. I need not say that your fees
will be assured and that you will be given a perfectly free hand. Surely the
actual name of your client is immaterial?”
“I am sorry,” said Holmes. “I am accustomed to have mystery at one end
of my cases, but to have it at both ends is too confusing. I fear, Sir James, that
I must decline to act.”
Our visitor was greatly disturbed. His large, sensitive face was darkened
with emotion and disappointment.
“You hardly realize the effect of your own action, Mr. Holmes,” said he.
“You place me in a most serious dilemma for I am perfectly certain that you
would be proud to take over the case if I could give you the facts, and yet a
promise forbids me from revealing them all. May I, at least, lay all that I can
before you?”
“By all means, so long as it is understood that I commit myself to
nothing.”
“That is understood. In the first place, you have no doubt heard of General
de Merville?”
“De Merville of Khyber fame? Yes, I have heard of him.”
“He has a daughter, Violet de Merville, young, rich, beautiful,
accomplished, a wonder-woman in every way. It is this daughter, this lovely,
innocent girl, whom we are endeavouring to save from the clutches of a
fiend.”
“Baron Gruner has some hold over her, then?”
“The strongest of all holds where a woman is concerned – the hold of
love. The fellow is, as you may have heard, extraordinarily handsome, with a
most fascinating manner. a gentle voice and that air of romance and mystery
which means so much to a woman. He is said to have the whole sex at his
mercy and to have made ample use of the fact.”
“But how came such a man to meet a lady of the standing of Miss Violet
de Merville?”
“It was on a Mediterranean yachting voyage. The company, though select,
paid their own passages. No doubt the promoters hardly realized the Baron's
true character until it was too late. The villain attached himself to the lady,
and with such effect that he has completely and absolutely won her heart. To
say that she loves him hardly expresses it. She dotes upon him, she is
obsessed by him. Outside of him there is nothing on earth. She will not hear
one word against him. Everything has been done to cure her of her madness,
but in vain. To sum up, she proposes to marry him next month. As she is of
age and has a will of iron, it is hard to know how to prevent her.”
“Does she know about the Austrian episode?”
“The cunning devil has told her every unsavoury public scandal of his
past life, but always in such a way as to make himself out to be an innocent
martyr. She absolutely accepts his version and will listen to no other.”
“Dear me! But surely you have inadvertently let out the name of your
client? It is no doubt General de Merville.”
Our visitor fidgeted in his chair.
“I could deceive you by saying so, Mr. Holmes, but it would not be true.
De Merville is a broken man. The strong soldier has been utterly demoralized
by this incident. He has lost the nerve which never failed him on the
battlefield and has become a weak, doddering old man, utterly incapable of
contending with a brilliant, forceful rascal like this Austrian. My client
however is an old friend, one who has known the General intimately for many
years and taken a paternal interest in this young girl since she wore short
frocks. He cannot see this tragedy consummated without some attempt to stop
it. There is nothing in which Scotland Yard can act. It was his own suggestion
that you should be called in, but it was, as I have said, on the express
stipulation that he should not be personally involved in the matter. I have no
doubt, Mr. Holmes, with your great powers you could easily trace my client
back through me, but I must ask you, as a point of honour, to refrain from
doing so, and not to break in upon his incognito.”
Holmes gave a whimsical smile.
“I think I may safely promise that,” said he. “I may add that your problem
interests me, and that I shall be prepared to look into it. How shall I keep in
touch with you?”
“The Carlton Club will find me. But in case of emergency, there is a
private telephone call, 'XX.31.' “
Holmes noted it down and sat, still smiling, with the open memorandum-
book upon his knee.
“The Baron's present address, please?”
“Vernon Lodge, near Kingston. It is a large house. He has been fortunate
in some rather shady speculations and is a rich man, which naturally makes
him a more dangerous antagonist.”
 “Is he at home at present?”
“Yes.”
“Apart from what you have told me, can you give me any further
information about the man?”
“He has expensive tastes. He is a horse fancier. For a short time he played
polo at Hurlingham, but then this Prague affair got noised about and he had to
leave. He collects books and pictures. He is a man with a considerable artistic
side to his nature. He is, I believe, a recognized authority upon Chinese
pottery and has written a book upon the subject.”
“A complex mind,” said Holmes. “All great criminals have that. My old
friend Charlie Peace was a violin virtuoso. Wainwright was no mean artist. I
could quote many more. Well, Sir James, you will inform your client that I am
turning my mind upon Baron Gruner. I can say no more. I have some sources
of information of my own, and I dare say we may find some means of
opening the matter up.”
When our visitor had left us Holmes sat so long in deep thought that it
seemed to me that he had forgotten my presence. At last, however, he came
briskly back to earth.
“Well, Watson, any views?” he asked.
“I should think you had better see the young lady herself.”
“My dear Watson, if her poor old broken father cannot move her, how
shall I, a stranger, prevail? And yet there is something in the suggestion if all
else fails. But I think we must begin from a different angle. I rather fancy that
Shinwell Johnson might be a help.”
I have not had occasion to mention Shinwell Johnson in these memoirs
because I have seldom drawn my cases from the latter phases of my friend's
career . During the first years of the century he became a valuable assistant.
Johnson, I grieve to say, made his name first as a very dangerous villain and
served two terms at Parkhurst. Finally he repented and allied himself to
Holmes, acting as his agent in the huge criminal underworld of London and
obtaining information which often proved to be of vital importance. Had
Johnson been a “nark” of the police he would soon have been exposed, but as
he dealt with cases which never came directly into the courts, his activities
were never realized by his companions. With the glamour of his two
convictions upon him, he had the entree of every night-club, doss house, and
gamblingden in the town, and his quick observation and active brain made
him an ideal agent for gaining information. It was to him that Sherlock
Holmes now proposed to turn.
It was not possible for me to follow the immediate steps taken by my
friend, for I had some pressing professional business of my own, but I met
him by appointment that evening at Simpson's, where, sitting at a small table
in the front window and looking down at the rushing stream of life in the
Strand, he told me something of what had passed.
“Johnson is on the prowl,” said he. “He may pick up some garbage in the
darker recesses of the underworld, for it is down there, amid the black roots of
crime, that we must hunt for this man's secrets.”
“But if the lady will not accept what is already known, why should any
fresh discovery of yours turn her from her purpose?”
“Who knows, Watson? Woman's heart and mind are insoluble puzzles to
the male. Murder might be condoned or explained, and yet some smaller
offence might rankle. Baron Gruner remarked to me – “
“He remarked to you!”
“Oh, to be sure, I had not told you of my plans. Well, Watson, I love to
come to close grips with my man. I like to meet him eye to eye and read for
myself the stuff that he is made of. When I had given Johnson his instructions
I took a cab out to Kingston and found the Baron in a most affable mood.”
“Did he recognize you?”
“There was no difficulty about that, for I simply sent in my card. He is an
excellent antagonist, cool as ice, silky voiced and soothing as one of your
fashionable consultants, and poisonous as a cobra. He has breeding in him – a
real aristocrat of crime with a superficial suggestion of afternoon tea and all
the cruelty of the grave behind it. Yes, I am glad to have had my attention
called to Baron Adelbert Gruner.”
“You say he was affable?”
“A purring cat who thinks he sees prospective mice. Some people's
affability is more deadly than the violence of coarser souls. His greeting was
characteristic. 'I rather thought I should see you sooner or later, Mr. Holmes,'
said he. 'You have been engaged, no doubt by General de Merville, to
endeavour to stop my marriage with his daughter, Violet. That is so, is it not?'
“I acquiesced.
“'My dear man,' said he. 'you will only ruin your own well-deserved
reputation. It is not a case in which you can possibly succeed. You will have
barren work, to say nothing of incurring some danger. Let me very strongly
advise you to draw off at once.'
“'It is curious,' I answered, 'but that was the very advice which I had
intended to give you. I have a respect for your brains, Baron, and the little
which I have seen of your personality has not lessened it. Let me put it to you
as man to man. No one wants to rake up your past and make you unduly
uncomfortable. It is over, and you are now in smooth waters, but if you persist
in this marriage you will raise up a swarm of powerful enemies who will
never leave you alone until they have made England too hot to hold you. Is
the game worth it? Surely you would be wiser if you left the lady alone. It
would not be pleasant for you if these facts of your past were brought to her
notice.'
“The Baron has little waxed tips of hair under his nose, like the short
antennae of an insect. These quivered with amusement as he listened, and he
finally broke into a gentle chuckle.
“'Excuse my amusement, Mr. Holmes,' said he, 'but it is really funny to
see you trying to play a hand with no cards in it. I don't think anyone could do
it better, but it is rather pathetic all the same. Not a colour card there, Mr.
Holmes, nothing but the smallest of the small.'
“'So you think.'
“'So I know. Iet me make the thing clear to you, for my own hand is so
strong that I can afford to show it. I have been fortunate enough to win the
entire affection of this lady. This was given to me in spite of the fact that I
told her very clearly of all the unhappy incidents in my past life. I also told
her that certain wicked and designing persons – I hope you recognize yourself
– would come to her and tell her these things. and I warned her how to treat
them. You have heard of post-hypnotic suggestion. Mr. Holmes ' Well you
will see how it works for a man of personality can use hypnotism without any
vulgar passes or tomfoolery. So she is ready for you and, I have no doubt,
would give you an appointment, for she is quite amenable to her father's will
– save only in the one little matter.'
“Well, Watson, there seemed to be no more to say, so I took my leave with
as much cold dignity as I could summon, but, as I had my hand on the door-
handle, he stopped me.
“'By the way, Mr. Holmes,' said he, 'did you know Le Brun, the French
agent?'
“'Yes,' said I.
“'Do you know what befell him?'
“'I heard that he was beaten by some Apaches in the Montmartre district
and crippled for life.'
“'Quite true, Mr. Holmes. By a curious coincidence he had been inquiring
into my affairs only a week before. Don't do it, Mr. Holmes; it's not a lucky
thing to do. Several have found that out. My last word to you is, go your own
way and let me go mine. Good-bye!'
“So there you are, Watson. You are up to date now.”
“The fellow seems dangerous.”
“Mighty dangerous. I disregard the blusterer, but this is the sort of man
who says rather less than he means.”
 “Must you interfere? Does it really matter if he marries the girl?”
“Considering that he undoubtedly murdered his last wife, I should say it
mattered very much. Besides, the client! Well, well, we need not discuss that.
When you have finished your coffee you had best come home with me, for
the blithe Shinwell will be there with his report.”
We found him sure enough, a huge, coarse, red-faced, scorbutic man, with
a pair of vivid black eyes which were the only external sign of the very
cunning mind within. It seems that he had dived down into what was
peculiarly his kingdom, and beside him on the settee was a brand which he
had brought up in the shape of a slim, flame-like young woman with a pale,
intense face, youthful, and yet so worn with s v½? in and sorrow that one read
the terrible years which had left their leprous mark upon her.
“This is Miss Kitty Winter,” said Shinwell Johnson, waving his fat hand
as an introduction. “What she don't know – well, there, she'll speak for
herself. Put my hand right on her, Mr. Holmes, within an hour of your
message.”
“I'm easy to find,” said the young woman. “Hell, London, gets me every
time. Same address for Porky Shinwell. We're old mates, Porky, you and I.
But, by cripes! there is another wht to be down in a lower hell than we if there
was any justice in the world! That is the man you are after, Mr. Holmes.”
Holmes smiled. “I gather we have your good wishes, Miss Winter.”
“If I can help to put him where he belongs, I'm yours to the rattle,” said
our visitor with fierce energy. There was an intensity of hatred in her white,
set face and her blazing eyes such as woman seldom and man never can
attain.
“You needn't go into my past, Mr. Holmes. That's neither here nor there.
But what I am Adelbert Gruner made me. If I could pull him down!” She
clutched frantically with her hands into the air. “Oh, if I could only pull him
into the pit where he has pushed so many!”
“You know how the matter stands?”
“Porky Shinwell has been telling me. He's after some other poor fool and
wants to marry her this time. You want to stop it. Well, you surely know
enough about this devil to prevent any decent girl in her senses wanting to be
in the same parish with him.”
“She is not in her senses. She is madly in love. She has been told all about
him. She cares nothing.”
“Told about the murder?”
“Yes.”
“My Lord, she must have a nerve!”
“She puts them all down as slanders.”
 “Couldn't you lay proofs before her silly eyes?”
“Well, can you help us do so?”
“Ain't I a proof myself? If I stood before her and told her how he used me
–“
“Would you do this?”
“Would I? Would I not!”
“Well, it might be worth trying. But he has told her most of his sins and
had pardon from her, and I understand she will not reopen the question.”
“I'll lay he didn't tell her all,” said Miss Winter. “I caught a glimpse of one
or two murders besides the one that made such a fuss. He would speak of
someone in his velvet way and then look at me with a steady eye and say: 'He
died within a month.' It wasn't hot air, either. But I took little notice -you see,
I loved him myself at that time. Whatever he did went with me, same as with
this poor fool! There was just one thing that shook me. Yes, by cripes! if it
had not been for his poisonous, lying tongue that explains and soothes. I'd
have left him that very night. It's a book he has – a brown leather book with a
lock, and his arms in gold on the outside. I think he was a bit drunk that night,
or he would not have shown it to me.”
“What was it, then?”
“I tell you. Mr. Holmes. this man collects women, and takes a pride in his
collection. as some men collect moths or butterflies. He had it all in that book.
Snapshot photographs. names, details, everything about them. It was a beastly
book – a book no man, even if he had come from the gutter, could have put
together. But it was Adelbert Gruner's book all the same. 'Souls I have ruined.'
He could have put that on the outside if he had been so minded. However,
that's neither here nor there, for the book would not serve you, and, if it
would, you can't get it.”
“Where is it?”
“How can I tell you where it is now? It's more than a year since I left him.
I know where he kept it then. He's a precise, tidy cat of a man in many of his
ways, so maybe it is still in the pigeon-hole of the old bureau in the inner
study. Do you know his house?”
“I've been in the study,” said Holmes.
“Have you. though? You haven't been slow on the job if you only started
this morning. Maybe dear Adelbert has met his match this time. The outer
study is the one with the Chinese crockery in it – big glass cupboard between
the windows. Then behind his desk is the door that leads to the inner study – a
small room where he keeps papers and things.”
“Is he not afraid of burglars?”
“Adelbert is no coward. His worst enemy couldn't say that of him. He can
look after himself. There's a burglar alarm at night. Besides, what is there for
a burglar – unless they got away with all this fancy crockery?”
“No good,” said Shinwell Johnson with the decided voice of the expert.
“No fence wants stuff of that sort that you can neither melt nor sell.”
“Quite so,” said Holmes. “Well, now, Miss Winter. if you would call here
tomorrow evening at five. I would consider in the meanwhile whether your
suggestion of seeing this lady personally may not be arranged. I am
exceedingly obliged to you lor vour cooperation. I need not say that my
clients will consider liberally – “
“None of that, Mr. Holmes,” cried the young woman. “I am not out for
money. Let me see this man in the mud, and I've got all I've worked for – in
the mud with my foot on his cursed face. That's my price. I'm with you
tomorrow or any other day so long as you are on his track. Porky here can tell
you always where to find me.”
I did not see Holmes again until the following evening when we dined
once more at our Strand restaurant. He shrugged his shoulders when I asked
him what luck he had had in his interview. Then he told the story, which I
would repeat in this way. His hard, dry statement needs some little editing to
soften it into the terms of real life.
“There was no difficulty at all about the appointment,” said Holmes, “for
the girl glories in showing abject filial obedience in all secondary things in an
attempt to atone for her flagrant breach of it in her engagement. The General
phoned that all was ready, and the fiery Miss W. turned up according to
schedule, so that at half-past five a cab deposited us outside 104 Berkeley
Square, where the old soldier resides – one of those awful gray London
castles which would make a church seem frivolous. A footman showed us into
a great yellow-curtained drawing-room, and there was the lady awaiting us,
demure, pale, self-contained, as inflexible and remote as a snow image on a
mountain.
“I don't quite know how to make her clear to you, Watson. Perhaps you
may meet her before we are through, and you can use your own gift of words.
She is beautiful, but with the ethereal other-world beauty of some fanatic
whose thoughts are set on high. I have seen such faces in the pictures of the
old masters of the Middle Ages. How a beastman could have laid his vile
paws upon such a being of the beyond I cannot imagine. You may have
noticed how extremes call to each other, the spiritual to the animal, the cave-
man to the angel. You never saw a worse case than this.
“She knew what we had come for, of course – that villain had lost no time
in poisoning her mind against us. Miss Winter's advent rather amazed her, I
think, but she waved us into our respective chairs like a reverend abbess
receiving two rather leprous mendicants. If your head is inclined to swell. my
dear Watson, take a course of Miss Violet de Merville.
“'Well, sir,' said she in a voice like the wind from an iceberg, 'your name is
familiar to me. You have called. as I understand, to malign my fiance, Baron
Gruner. It is only by my father's request that I see you at all, and I warn you in
advance that anything you can say could not possibly have the slightest effect
upon my mind.'
“I was sorry for her, Watson. I thought of her for the moment as I would
have thought of a daughter of my own. I am not often eloquent. I use my
head, not my heart. But I really did plead with her with all the warmth of
words that I could find in my nature. I pictured to her the awful position of the
woman who only wakes to a man's character after she is his wife – a woman
who has to submit to be caressed by bloody hands and lecherous lips. I spared
her nothing – the shame, the fear, the agony, the hopelessness of it all. All my
hot words could not bring one tinge of colour to those ivory cheeks or one
gleam of emotion to those abstracted eyes. I thought of what the rascal had
said about a post-hypnotic influence. One could really believe that she was
living above the earth in some ecstatic dream. Yet there was nothing indefinite
in her replies.
“'I have listened to you with patience, Mr. Holmes,' said she. 'The effect
upon my mind is exactly as predicted. I am aware that Adelbert, that my
fiance, has had a stormy life in which he has incurred bitter hatreds and most
unjust aspersions. You are only the last of a series who have brought their
slanders before me. Possibly you mean well, though I learn that you are a paid
agent who would have been equally willing to act for the Baron as against
him. But in any case I wish you to understand once for all that I love him and
that he loves me, and that the opinion of all the world is no more to me than
the twitter of those birds outside the window. If his noble nature has ever for
an instant fallen, it may be that I have been specially sent to raise it to its true
and lofty level. I am not clear' – here she turned eyes upon my companion –
'who this young lady may be.'
“I was about to answer when the girl broke in like a whirlwind. If ever
you saw flame and ice face to face, it was those two women.
“'I'll tell you who I am,' she cried, springing out of her chair, her mouth all
twisted with passion – 'I am his last mistress. I am one of a hundred that he
has tempted and used and ruined and thrown into the refuse heap, as he will
you also. Your refuse heap is more likely to be a grave, and maybe that's the
best. I tell you, you foolish woman, if you marry this man he'll be the death of
you. It may be a broken heart or it may be a broken neck, but he'll have you
one way or the other. It's not out of love for you I'm speaking. I don't care a
tinker's curse whether you live or die. It's out of hate for him and to spite him
and to get back on him for what he did to me. But it's all the same, and you
needn't look at me like that, my fine lady, for you may be lower than I am
before you are through with it.'
“'I should prefer not to discuss such matters,' said Miss de Merville coldly.
'Let me say once for all that I am aware of three passages in my fiance's life in
which he became entangled with designing women, and that I am assured of
his hearty repentance for any evil that he may have done.'
“'Three passages!' screamed my companion. 'You fool! You unutterable
fool!'
“'Mr. Holmes, I beg that you will bring this interview to an end,' said the
icy voice. 'I have obeyed my father's wish in seeing you, but I am not
compelled to listen to the ravings of this person.'
“With an oath Miss Winter darted forward, and if I had not caught her
wrist she would have clutched this maddening woman by the hair. I dragged
her towards the door and was lucky to get her back into the cab without a
public scene, for she was beside herself with rage. In a cold way I felt pretty
furious myself, Watson, for there was something indescribably annoying in
the calm aloofness and supreme self-complaisance of the woman whom we
were trying to save. So now once again you know exactly how we stand, and
it is clear that I must plan some fresh opening move, for this gambit won't
work. I'll keep in touch with you, Watson, for it is more than likely that you
will have your part to play, though it is just possible that the next move may
lie with them rather than with us.”
And it did. Their blow fell – or his blow rather, for never could I believe
that the lady was privy to it. I think I could show you the very paving-stone
upon which I stood when my eyes fell upon the placard, and a pang of horror
passed through my very soul. It was between the Grand Hotel and Charing
Cross Station, where a one-legged news-vender displayed his evening papers.
The date was just two days after the last conversation. There, black upon
yellow, was the terrible news-sheet:
MURDEROUS ATTACK UPON SHERLOCK HOLMES

I think I stood stunned for some moments. Then I have a confused

recollection of snatching at a paper. of the remonstrance of the man, whom I
had not paid, and, finally, of standing in the doorway of a chemist's shop
while I turned up the fateful paragraph. This was how it ran:
We learn with regret that Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the well-known private detective, was the victim
this morning of a murderous assault which has left him in a precarious position. There are no exact
details to hand, but the event seems to have occurred about twelve o'clock in Regent Street, outside
 the Cafe Royal. The attack was made by two men armed with sticks, and Mr. Holmes was beaten
about the head and body, receiving injuries which the doctors describe as most serious. He was
carried to Charing Cross Hospital and afterwards insisted upon being taken to his rooms in Baker
Street. The miscreants who attacked him appear to have been respectably dressed men, who escaped
from the bystanders by passing through the Cafe Royal and out into Glasshouse Street behind it. No
doubt they belonged to that criminal fraternity which has so often had occasion to bewail the activity
and ingenuity of the injured man.

I need not say that my eyes had hardly glanced over the paragraph before I
had sprung into a hansom and was on my way to Baker Street. I found Sir
Leslie Oakshott, the famous surgeon, in the hall and his brougham waiting at
the curb.
“No immediate danger,” was his report. “Two lacerated scalp wounds and
some considerable bruises. Several stitches have been necessary. Morphine
has been injected and quiet is essential, but an interview of a few minutes
would not be absolutely forbidden.”
With this permission I stole into the darkened room. The sufferer was
wide awake, and I heard my name in a hoarse whisper. The blind was three-
quarters down, but one ray of sunlight slanted through and struck the
bandaged head of the injured man. A crimson patch had soaked through the
white linen compress. I sat beside him and bent my head.
“All right, Watson. Don't look so scared,” he muttered in a very weak
voice. “It's not as bad as it seems.”
“Thank God for that!”
“I'm a bit of a single-stick expert. as you know. I took most of them on my
guard. It was the second man that was too much for me.”
“What can I do, Holmes? Of course, it was that damned fellow who set
them on. I'll go and thrash the hide off him if you give the word.”
“Good old Watson! No, we can do nothing there unless the police lay their
hands on the men. But their get-away had been well prepared. We may be
sure of that. Wait a little. I have my plans. The first thing is to exaggerate my
injuries. They'll come to you for news. Put it on thick, Watson. Lucky if I live
the week out concussion delirium – what you like! You can't overdo it.”
“But Sir Leslie Oakshott?”
“Oh, he's all right. He shall see the worst side of me. I'll look after that.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. Tell Shinwell Johnson to get that girl out of the way. Those beauties
will be after her now. They know, of course, that she was with me in the case.
If they dared to do me in it is not likely they will neglect her. That is urgent.
Do it to-night.”
“I'll go now. Anything more?”
“Put my pipe on the table – and the tobacco-slipper. Right! Come in each
morning and we will plan our campaign.”
I arranged with Johnson that evening to take Miss Winter to a quiet
suburb and see that she lay low until the danger was past.
For six days the public were under the impression that Holmes was at the
door of death. The bulletins were very grave and there were sinister
paragraphs in the papers. My continual visits assured me that it was not so
bad as that. His wiry constitution and his determined will were working
wonders. He was recovering fast, and I had suspicions at times that he was
really finding himself faster than he pretended even to me. There was a
curious secretive streak in the man which led to many dramatic effects, but
left even his closest friend guessing as to what his exact plans might be. He
pushed to an extreme the axiom that the only safe plotter was he who plotted
alone. I was nearer him than anyone else, and yet I was always conscious of
the gap between.
On the seventh day the stitches were taken out, in spite of which there was
a report of erysipelas in the evening papers. The same evening papers had an
announcement which I was bound, sick or well, to carry to my friend. It was
simply that among the passengers on the Cunard boat Ruritania, starting from
Liverpool on Friday, was the Baron Adelbert Gruner, who had some
important financial business to settle in the States before his impending
wedding to Miss Violet de Merville, only daughter of, etc., etc. Holmes
listened to the news with a cold, concentrated look upon his pale face, which
told me that it hit him hard.
“Friday!” he cried. “Only three clear days. I believe the rascal wants to
put himself out of danger's way. But he won't, Watson! By the Lord Harry, he
won't! Now, Watson, I want you to do something for me.”
“I am here to be used, Holmes.”
“Well, then, spend the next twenty-four hours in an intensive study of
Chinese pottery.”
He gave no explanations and I asked for none. By long experience I had
learned the wisdom of obedience. But when I had left his room I walked
down Baker Street, revolving in my head how on earth I was to carry out so
strange an order. Finally I drove to the London Library in St. James's Square,
put the matter to my friend Lomax, the sublibrarian, and departed to my
rooms with a goodly volume under my arm.
It is said that the barrister who crams up a case with such care that he can
examine an expert witness upon the Monday has forgotten all his forced
knowledge before the Saturday. Certainly I should not like now to pose as an
authority upon ceramics. And yet all that evening, and all that night with a
short interval for rest, and all next morning, I was sucking in knowledge and
committing names to memory. There I learned of the hall-marks of the great
artist-decorators, of the mystery of cyclical dates, the marks of the Hung-wu
and the beauties of the Yung-lo, the writings of Tang-ying, and the glories of
the primitive period of the Sung and the Yuan. I was charged with all this
information when I called upon Holmes next evening. He was out of bed now,
though you would not have guessed it from the published reports, and he sat
with his much-bandaged head resting upon his hand in the depth of his
favourite armchair.
“Why, Holmes,” I said, “if one believed the papers, you are dying. “
“That,” said he, “is the very impression which I intended to convey. And
now, Watson, have you learned your lessons?”
“At least I have tried to.”
“Good. You could keep up an intelligent conversation on the subject?”
“I believe I could.”
“Then hand me that little box from the mantelpiece.”
He opened the lid and took out a small object most carefully wrapped in
some fine Eastern silk. This he unfolded, and disclosed a delicate little saucer
of the most beautiful deep-blue colour.
“It needs careful handling, Watson. This is the real egg-shell pottery of the
Ming dynasty. No finer piece ever passed through Christie's. A complete set
of this would be worth a king's ransom – in fact, it is doubtful if there is a
complete set outside the imperial palace of Peking. The sight of this would
drive a real connoisseur wild.”
“What am I to do with it?”
Holmes handed me a card upon which was printed: “Dr. Hill Barton, 369
Half Moon Street.”
“That is your name for the evening, Watson. You will call upon Baron
Gruner. I know something of his habits, and at half-past eight he would
probably be disengaged. A note will tell him in advance that you are about to
call, and you will say that you are bringing him a specimen of an absolutely
unique set of Ming china. You may as well be a medical man, since that is a
part which you can play without duplicity. You are a collector this set has
come your way, you have heard of the Baron's interest in the subject, and you
are not averse to selling at a price.”
“What price?”
“Well asked, Watson. You would certainly fall down badly if you did not
know the value of your own wares. This saucer was got for me by Sir James,
and comes, I understand, from the collection of his client. You will not
exaggerate if you say that it could hardly be matched in the world.”
“I could perhaps suggest that the set should be valued by an expert.”
 “Excellent, Watson! You scintillate to-day. Suggest Christie or Sotheby.
Your delicacy prevents your putting a price for yourself.”
“But if he won't see me?”
“Oh, yes, he will see you. He has the collection mania in its most acute
form – and especially on this subject, on which he is an acknowledged
authority. Sit down, Watson, and I will dictate the letter. No answer needed.
You will merely say that you are coming, and why.”
It was an admirable document, short, courteous, and stimulating to the
curiosity of the connoisseur. A district messenger was duly dispatched with it.
On the same evening, with the precious saucer in my hand and the card of Dr.
Hill Barton in my pocket, I set off on my own adventure.
The beautiful house and grounds indicated that Baron Gruner was, as Sir
James had said, a man of considerable wealth. A long winding drive, with
banks of rare shrubs on either side, opened out into a great gravelled square
adorned with statues. The place had been built by a South African gold king
in the days of the great boom, and the long, low house with the turrets at the
corners, though an architectural nightmare, was imposing in its size and
solidity. A butler, who would have adorned a bench of bishops, showed me in
and handed me over to a plush-clad footman, who ushered me into the
Baron's presence.
He was standing at the open front of a great case which stood between the
windows and which contained part of his Chinese collection. He turned as I
entered with a small brown vase in his hand.
“Pray sit down, Doctor,” said he. “I was looking over my own treasures
and wondering whether I could really afford to add to them. This little Tang
specimen, which dates from the seventh century, would probably interest you.
I am sure you never saw finer workmanship or a richer glaze. Have you the
Ming saucer with you of which you spoke?”
I carefully unpacked it and handed it to him. He seated himself at his
desk, pulled over the lamp, for it was growing dark, and set himself to
examine it. As he did so the yellow light beat upon his own features, and I
was able to study them at my ease.
He was certainly a remarkably handsome man. His European reputation
for beauty was fully deserved. In figure he was not more than of middle size,
but was built upon graceful and active lines. His face was swarthy, almost
Oriental, with large, dark, languorous eyes which might easily hold an
irresistible fascination for women. His hair and moustache were raven black,
the latter short, pointed, and carefully waxed. His features were regular and
pleasing, save only his straight, thin-lipped mouth. If ever I saw a murderer's
mouth it was there – a cruel, hard gash in the face, compressed, inexorable,
and terrible. He was ill-advised to train his moustache away from it, for it was
Nature's danger-signal, set as a warning to his victims. His voice was
engaging and his manners perfect. In age I should have put him at little over
thirty, though his record afterwards showed that he was forty-two.
“Very fine – very fine indeed!” he said at last. “And you say you have a
set of six to correspond. What puzzles me is that I should not have heard of
such magnificent specimens. I only know of one in England to match this, and
it is certainly not likely to be in the market. Would it be indiscreet if I were to
ask you, Dr. Hill Barton, how you obtained this?”
“Does it really matter?” I asked with as careless an air as I could muster.
“You can see that the piece is genuine, and, as to the value, I am content
to take an expert's valuation.”
“Very mysterious,” said he with a quick, suspicious flash of his dark eyes.
“In dealing with objects of such value, one naturally wishes to know all about
the transaction. That the piece is genuine is certain. I have no doubts at all
about that. But suppose – I am bound to take every possibility into account –
that it should prove afterwards that you had no right to sell?”
“I would guarantee you against any claim of the son.”
“That, of course, would open up the question as to what your guarantee
was worth.”
“My bankers would answer that.”
“Quite so. And yet the whole transaction strikes me as rather unusual.”
“You can do business or not,” said I with indifference. “I have given you
the first offer as I understood that you were a connoisseur, but I shall have no
difficulty in other quaerers.”
“Who told you I was a connoisseur?”
“I was aware that you had written a book upon the subject.”
“Have you read the book?”
“No.”
“Dear me, this becomes more and more difficult for me to understand!
You are a connoisseur and collector with a very valuable piece in your
collection, and yet you have never troubled to consult the one book which
would have told you of the real meaning and value of what you held. How do
you explain that?”
“I am a very busy man. I am a doctor in practice.”
“That is no answer. If a man has a hobby he follows it up, whatever his
other pursuits may be. You said in your note that you were a connoisseur.”
“So I am.”
“Might I ask you a few questions to test you? I am obliged to tell you,
Doctor – if you are indeed a doctor – that the incident becomes more and
more suspicious. I would ask you what do you know of the Emperor Shomu
and how do you associate him with the Shoso-in near Nara? Dear me, does
that puzzle you? Tell me a little about the Nonhern Wei dynasty and its place
in the history of ceramics.”
I sprang from my chair in simulated anger.
“This is intolerable, sir,” said I. “I came here to do you a favour, and not
to be examined as if I were a schoolboy. My knowledge on these subjects may
be second only to your own, but I certainly shall not answer questions which
have been put in so offensive a way.”
He looked at me steadily. The languor had gone from his eyes. They
suddenly glared. There was a gleam of teeth from between those cruel lips.
“What is the game? You are here as a spy. You are an emissary of Holmes.
This is a trick that you are playing upon me. The fellow is dying I hear, so he
sends his tools to keep watch upon me. You've made your way in here without
leave, and, by God! you may find it harder to get out than to get in.”
He had sprung to his feet, and I stepped back, bracing myself for an
attack, for the man was beside himself with rage. He may have suspected me
from the first; certainly this cross-examination had shown him the truth; but it
was clear that I could not hope to deceive him. He dived his hand into a side-
drawer and rummaged furiously. Then something struck upon his ear, for he
stood listening intently.
“Ah!” he cried. “Ah!” and dashed into the room behind him.
Two steps took me to the open door, and my mind will ever carry a clear
picture of the scene within. The window leading out to the garden was wide
open. Beside it, looking like some terrible ghost, his head gin with bloody
bandages, his face drawn and white, stood Sherlock Holmes. The next instant
he was through the gap, and I heard the crash of his body among the laurel
bushes outside. With a howl of rage the master of the house rushed after him
to the open window.
And then! It was done in an instant, and yet I clearly saw it. An arm – a
woman's arm – shot out from among the leaves. At the same instant the Baron
uttered a horrible cry – a yell which will always ring in my memory. He
clapped his two hands to his face and rushed round the room, beating his head
horribly against the walls. Then he fell upon the carpet, rolling and writhing,
while scream after scream resounded through the house.
“Water! For God's sake, water!” was his cry.
I seized a carafe from a side-table and rushed to his aid. At the same
moment the butler and several footmen ran in from the hall. I remember that
one of them fainted as I knelt by the injured man and turned that awful face to
the light of the lamp. The vitriol was eating into it everywhere and dripping
from the ears and the chin. One eye was already white and glazed. The other
was red and inflamed. The features which I had admired a few minutes before
were now like some beautiful painting over which the artist has passed a wet
and foul sponge. They were blurred, discoloured, inhuman, terrible.
In a few words I explained exactly what had occurred, so far as the vitriol
attack was concerned. Some had climbed through the window and others had
rushed out on to the lawn, but it was dark and it had begun to rain. Between
his screams the victim raged and raved against the avenger. “It was that hell-
cat, Kitty Winter!” he cried. “Oh, the she-devil! She shall pay for it! She shall
pay! Oh, God in heaven, this pain is more than I can bear!”
I bathed his face in oil, put cotton wadding on the raw surfaces, and
administered a hypodermic of morphia. All suspicion of me had passed from
his mind in the presence of this shock, and he clung to my hands as if I might
have the power even yet to clear those dead-fish eyes which glazed up at me.
I could have wept over the ruin had l not remembered very clearly the vile life
which had led up to so hideous a change. It was loathsome to feel the pawing
of his burning hands, and I was relieved when his family surgeon, closely
followed by a specialist, came to relieve me of my charge. An inspector of
police had also arrived, and to him I handed my real card. It would have been
useless as well as foolish to do otherwise, for I was nearly as well known by
sight at the Yard as Holmes himself. Then I left that house of gloom and
terror. Within an hour I was at Baker Street.
Holmes was seated in his familiar chair, looking very pale and exhausted.
Apart from his injuries, even his iron nerves had been shocked by the events
of the evening, and he listened with horror to my account of the Baron's
transformation.
“The wages of sin, Watson – the wages of sin!” said he. “Sooner or later it
will always come. God knows, there was sin enough,” he added, taking up a
brown volume from the table. “Here is the book the woman talked of. If this
will not break off the marriage, nothing ever could. But it will, Watson. It
must. No self-respecting woman could stand it.”
“It is his love diary?”
“Or his lust diary. Call it what you will. The moment the woman told us of
it I realized what a tremendous weapon was there if we could but lay our
hands on it. I said nothing at the time to indicate my thoughts, for this woman
might have given it away. But I brooded over it. Then this assault upon me
gave me the chance of letting the Baron think that no precautions need be
taken against me. That was all to the good. I would have waited a little longer,
but his visit to America forced my hand. He would never have left so
compromising a document behind him. Therefore we had to act at once.
Burglary at night is impossible. He takes precautions. But there was a chance
in the evening if I could only be sure that his attention was engaged. That was
where you and your blue saucer came in. But I had to be sure of the position
of the book, and I knew I had only a few minutes in which to act, for my time
was limited by your knowledge of Chinese pottery. Therefore I gathered the
girl up at the last moment. How could I guess what the little packet was that
she carried so carefully under her cloak? I thought she had come altogether on
my business, but it seems she had some of her own.”
“He guessed I came from you.”
“I feared he would. But you held him in play just long enough for me to
get the book, though not long enough for an unobserved escape. Ah, Sir
James, I am very glad you have come!”
Our courtly friend had appeared in answer to a previous summons. He
listened with the deepest attention to Holmes's account of what had occurred.
“You have done wonders – wonders!” he cried when he had heard the
narrative. “But if these injuries are as terrible as Dr. Watson describes, then
surely our purpose of thwarting the marriage is sufficiently gained without the
use of this horrible book.”
Holmes shook his head.
“Women of the De Merville type do not act like that. She would love him
the more as a disfigured martyr. No, no. It is his moral side, not his physical,
which we have to destroy. That book will bring her back to earth – and I know
nothing else that could. It is in his own writing. She cannot get past it.”
Sir James carried away both it and the precious saucer. As I was myself
overdue, I went down with him into the street. A brougham was waiting for
him. He sprang in, gave a hurried order to the cockaded coachman, and drove
swiftly away. He flung his overcoat half out of the window to cover the
armorial bearings upon the panel, but I had seen them in the glare of our
fanlight none the less. I gasped with surprise. Then I turned back and
ascended the stair to Holmes's room.
“I have found out who our client is,” I cried, bursting with my great news.
“Why, Holmes, it is – “
“It is a loyal friend and a chivalrous gentleman,” said Holmes, holding up
a restraining hand. “Let that now and forever be enough for us.”
I do not know how the incriminating book was used. Sir James may have
managed it. Or it is more probable that so delicate a task was entrusted to the
young lady's father. The effect, at any rate, was all that could be desired.
Three days later appeared a paragraph in the Morning Post to say that the
marriage between Baron Adelbert Gruner and Miss Violet de Merville would
not take place. The same paper had the first police-court hearing of the
proceedings against Miss Kitty Winter on the grave charge of vitriol-
throwing. Such extenuating circumstances came out in the trial that the
sentence, as will be remembered was the lowest that was possible for such an
offence. Sherlock Holmes was threatened with a prosecution for burglary, but
when an object is good and a client is sufficiently illustrious, even the rigid
British law becomes human and elastic. My friend has not yet stood in the
dock.
 The Adventure of the Three Gables

I don't think that any of my adventures with Mr. Sherlock Holmes opened
quite so abruptly, or so dramatically, as that which I associate with The Three
Gables. I had not seen Holmes for some days and had no idea of the new
channel into which his activities had been directed. He was in a chatty mood
that morning, however, and had just settled me into the well-worn low
armchair on one side of the fire, while he had curled down with his pipe in his
mouth upon the opposite chair, when our visitor arrived. If I had said that a
mad bull had arrived it would give a clearer impression of what occurred.
The door had flown open and a huge negro had burst into the room. He
would have been a comic figure if he had not been terrific, for he was dressed
in a very loud gray check suit with a flowing salmon-coloured tie. His broad
face and flattened nose were thrust forward, as his sullen dark eyes, with a
smouldering gleam of malice in them, turned from one of us to the other.
“Which of you gen'l'men is Masser Holmes?” he asked.
Holmes raised his pipe with a languid smile.
“Oh! it's you, is it?” said our visitor, coming with an unpleasant, stealthy
step round the angle of the table. “See here, Masser Holmes, you keep your
hands out of other folks' business. Leave folks to manage their own affairs.
Got that, Masser Holmes?”
“Keep on talking,” said Holmes. “It's fine.”
“Oh! it's fine, is it?” growled the savage. “It won't be so damn fine if I
have to trim you up a bit. I've handled your kind before now, and they didn't
look fine when I was through with them. Look at that, Masser Holmes!”
He swung a huge knotted lump of a fist under my friend's nose. Holmes
examined it closely with an air of great interest.
“Were you born so?” he asked. “Or did it come by degrees?”
It may have been the icy coolness of my friend, or it may have been the
slight clatter which I made as I picked up the poker. In any case, our visitor's
manner became less flamboyant.
“Well, I've given you fair warnin',” said he. “I've a friend that's interested
out Harrow way – you know what I'm meaning -and he don't intend to have
no buttin' in by you. Got that? You ain't the law, and I ain't the law either, and
if you come in I'll be on hand also. Don't you forget it.”
“I've wanted to meet you for some time,” said Holmes. “I won't ask you to
sit down, for I don't like the smell of you, but aren't you Steve Dixie, the
bruiser?”
“That's my name, Masser Holmes, and you'll get put through it for sure if
you give me any lip.”
“It is certainly the last thing you need,” said Holmes, staring at our
visitor's hideous mouth. “But it was the killing of young Perkins outside the
Holborn – Bar What! you're not going?”
The negro had sprung back, and his face was leaden. “I won't listen to no
such talk,” said he. “What have I to do with this 'ere Perkins, Masser Holmes?
I was trainin' at the Bull Ring in Birmingham when this boy done gone get
into trouble.”
“Yes, you'll tell the magistrate about it, Steve,” said Holmes. “I've been
watching you and Barney Stockdale – “
“So help me the Lord! Masser Holmes – “
“That's enough. Get out of it. I'll pick you up when I want you.”
“Good-mornin', Masser Holmes. I hope there ain't no hard feelin's about
this 'ere visit?”
“There will be unless you tell me who sent you.”
“Why, there ain't no secret about that, Masser Holmes. It was that same
gen'l'man that you have just done gone mention.”
“And who set him on to it?”
“S'elp me. I don't know, Masser Holmes. He just say, 'Steve, you go see
Mr. Holmes, and tell him his life ain't safe if he go down Harrow way.' That's
the whole truth.” Without waiting for any further questioning, our visitor
bolted out of the room almost as precipitately as he had entered. Holmes
knocked out the ashes of his pipe with a quiet chuckle.
“I am glad you were not forced to break his woolly head, Watson. I
observed your manoeuvres with the poker. But he is really rather a harmless
fellow, a great muscular, foolish, blustering baby, and easily cowed, as you
have seen. He is one of the Spencer John gang and has taken part in some
dirty work of late which I may clear up when I have time. His immediate
principal, Barney, is a more astute person. They specialize in assaults,
intimidation, and the like. What I want to know is, who is at the back of them
on this panicular occasion?”
“But why do they want to intimidate you?”
“It is this Harrow Weald case. It decides me to look into the matter, for if
it is worth anyone's while to take so much trouble, there must be something in
it.”
“But what is it?”
“I was going to tell you when we had this comic interlude. Here is Mrs.
Maberley's note. If you care to come with me we will wire her and go out at
once.”
DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES [I read]:
I have had a succession of strange incidents occur to me in connection with this house, and I should
much value your advice. You would find me at home any time to-morrow. The house is within a
short walk of the Weald Station. I believe that my late husband, Mortimer Maberley, was one of
your early clients.

Yours faithfully,
MARY MABERLEY.

The address was “The Three Gables, Harrow Weald.”

“So that's that!” said Holmes. “And now, if you can spare the time,
Watson, we will get upon our way.”
A short railway journey, and a shorter drive, brought us to the house, a
brick and timber villa, standing in its own acre of undeveloped grassland.
Three small projections above. the upper windows made a feeble attempt to
justify its name. Behind was a grove of melancholy, half-grown pines, and the
whole aspect of the place was poor and depressing. None the less, we found
the house to be well furnished, and the lady who received us was a most
engaging elderly person, who bore every mark of refinement and culture.
“I remember your husband well, madam,” said Holmes, “though it is
some years since he used my services in some trifling matter.”
“Probably you would be more familiar with the name of my son
Douglas.”
Holmes looked at her with great interest.
“Dear me! Are you the mother of Douglas Maberley? I knew him slightly.
But of course all London knew him. What a magnificent creature he was!
Where is he now?”
“Dead, Mr. Holmes, dead! He was attache at Rome, and he died there of
pneumonia last month.”
“I am sorry. One could not connect death with such a man. I have never
known anyone so vitally alive. He lived intensely -every fibre of him!”
“Too intensely, Mr. Holmes. That was the ruin of him. You remember him
as he was – debonair and splendid. You did not see the moody, morose,
brooding creature into which he developed. His heart was broken. In a single
month I seemed to see my gallant boy turn into a worn-out cynical man.”
“A love affair – a woman?”
“Or a fiend. Well, it was not to talk of my poor lad that I asked you to
come, Mr. Holmes.”
“Dr. Watson and I are at your service.”
“There have been some very strange happenings. I have been in this house
more than a year now, and as I wished to lead a retired life I have seen little of
my neighbours. Three days ago I had a call from a man who said that he was
a house agent. He said that this house would exactly suit a client of his, and
that if I would part with it money would be no object. It seemed to me very
strange as there are several empty houses on the market which appear to be
equally eligible, but naturally I was interested in what he said. I therefore
named a price which was five hundred pounds more than I gave. He at once
closed with the offer, but added that his client desired to buy the furniture as
well and would I put a price upon it. Some of this furniture is from my old
home, and it is, as you see, very good, so that I named a good round sum. To
this also he at once agreed. I had always wanted to travel, and the bargain was
so good a one that it really seemed that I should be my own mistress for the
rest of my life.
“Yesterday the man arrived with the agreement all drawn out. Luckily I
showed it to Mr. Sutro, my lawyer, who lives in Harrow. He said to me, 'This
is a very strange document. Are you aware that if you sign it you could not
legally take anything out of the house – not even your own private
possessions?' When the man came again in the evening I pointed this out, and
I said that I meant only to sell the furniture.
“'No, no, everything,' said he.
“'But my clothes? My jewels?'
“'Well, well, some concession might be made for your personal effects.
But nothing shall go out of the house unchecked. My client is a very liberal
man, but he has his fads and his own way of doing things. It is everything or
nothing with him.'
“'Then it must be nothing,' said I. And there the matter was left, but the
whole thing seemed to me to be so unusual that I thought – “
Here we had a very extraordinary interruption.
Holmes raised his hand for silence. Then he strode across the room, flung
open the door, and dragged in a great gaunt woman whom he had seized by
the shoulder. She entered with ungainly struggle like some huge awkward
chicken, torn, squawking, out of its coop.
“Leave me alone! What are you a-doin' of?” she screeched.
“Why, Susan, what is this?”
“Well, ma'am, I was comin' in to ask if the visitors was stayin' for lunch
when this man jumped out at me.”
“I have been listening to her for the last five minutes, but did not wish to
interrupt your most interesting narrative. Just a little wheezy, Susan, are you
not? You breathe too heavily for that kind of work.”
Susan turned a sulky but amazed face upon her captor. “Who be you,
anyhow, and what right have you a-pullin' me about like this?”
“It was merely that I wished to ask a question in your presence. Did you,
Mrs. Maberley, mention to anyone that you were going to write to me and
consult me?”
“No, Mr. Holmes, I did not.”
“Who posted your letter?”
“Susan did.”
“Exactly. Now, Susan, to whom was it that you wrote or sent a message to
say that your mistress was asking advice from me?”
“It's a lie. I sent no message.”
“Now, Susan, wheezy people may not live long, you know. It's a wicked
thing to tell fibs. Whom did you tell?”
“Susan!” cried her mistress, “I believe you are a bad, treacherous woman.
I remember now that I saw you speaking to someone over the hedge.”
“That was my own business,” said the woman sullenly.
“Suppose I tell you that it was Barney Stockdale to whom you spoke?”
said Holmes.
“Well, if you know, what do you want to ask for?”
“I was not sure, but I know now. Well now, Susan, it will be worth ten
pounds to you if you will tell me who is at the back of Barney.”
“Someone that could lay down a thousand pounds for every ten you have
in the world.”
“So, a rich man? No; you smiled – a rich woman. Now we have got so far,
you may as well give the name and earn the tenner.”
“I'll see you in hell first.”
“Oh, Susan! Language!”
“I am clearing out of here. I've had enough of you all. I'll send for my box
to-morrow.” She flounced for the door.
“Good-bye, Susan. Paregoric is the stuff… . Now,” he continued, turning
suddenly from lively to severe when the door had closed behind the flushed
and angry woman, “this gang means business. Look how close they play the
game. Your letter to me had the 10 P.M. postmark. And yet Susan passes the
word to Barney. Barney has time to go to his employer and get instructions;
he or she – I incline to the latter from Susan's grin when she thought I had
blundered – forms a plan. Black Steve is called in, and I am warned off by
eleven o'clock next morning. That's quick work, you know.”
“But what do they want?”
“Yes, that's the question. Who had the house before you?”
“A retired sea captain called Ferguson.”
“Anything remarkable about him?”
 “Not that ever I heard of.”
“I was wondering whether he could have buried something. Of course,
when people bury treasure nowadays they do it in the Post-Office bank. But
there are always some lunatics about. It would be a dull world without them.
At first I thought of some buried valuable. But why, in that case, should they
want your furniture? You don't happen to have a Raphael or a first folio
Shakespeare without knowing it?”
“No, I don't think I have anything rarer than a Crown Derby tea-set.”
“That would hardly justify all this mystery. Besides, why should they not
openly state what they want? If they covet your tea-set, they can surely offer a
price for it without buying you out, lock, stock, and barrel. No, as I read it,
there is something which you do not know that you have, and which you
would not give up if you did know.”
“That is how I read it,” said I.
“Dr. Watson agrees, so that settles it.”
“Well, Mr. Holmes, what can it be?”
“Let us see whether by this purely mental analysis we can get it to a finer
point. You have been in this house a year.”
“Nearly two.”
“All the better. During this long period no one wants anything from you.
Now suddenly within three or four days you have urgent demands. What
would you gather from that?”
“It can only mean,” said I, “that the object, whatever it may be, has only
just come into the house.”
“Settled once again,” said Holmes. “Now, Mrs. Maberley has any object
just arrived?”
“No, I have bought nothing new this year.”
“Indeed! That is very remarkable. Well, I think we had best let matters
develop a little further until we have clearer data. Is that lawyer of yours a
capable man?”
“Mr. Sutro is most capable.”
“Have you another maid, or was the fair Susan, who has just banged your
front door alone?”
“I have a young girl.”
“Try and get Sutro to spend a night or two in the house. You might
possibly want protection.”
“Against whom?”
“Who knows? The matter is certainly obscure. If I can't find what they are
after, I must approach the matter from the other end and try to get at the
principal. Did this house-agent man give any address?”
 “Simply his card and occupation. Haines-Johnson, Auctioneer and
Valuer.”
“I don't think we shall find him in the directory. Honest business men
don't conceal their place of business. Well, you will let me know any fresh
development. I have taken up your case, and you may rely upon it that I shall
see it through.”
As we passed through the hall Holmes's eyes, which missed nothing,
lighted upon several trunks and cases which were piled in a corner. The labels
shone out upon them.
“'Milano.' 'Lucerne.' These are from Italy.”
“They are poor Douglas's things.”
“You have not unpacked them? How long have you had them?”
“They arrived last week.”
“But you said – why, surely this might be the missing link. How do we
know that there is not something of value there?”
“There could not possibly be, Mr. Holmes. Poor Douglas had only his pay
and a small annuity. What could he have of value?”
Holmes was lost in thought.
“Delay no longer, Mrs. Maberley,” he said at last. “Have these things
taken upstairs to your bedroom. Examine them as soon as possible and see
what they cohtain. I will come tomorrow and hear your report.”
It was quite evident that The Three Gables was under very close
surveillance, for as we came round the high hedge at the end of the lane there
was the negro prize-fighter standing in the shadow. We came on him quite
suddenly, and a grim and menacing figure he looked in that lonely place.
Holmes clapped his hand to his pocket.
“Lookin' for your gun, Masser Holmes?”
“No, for my scent-bottle, Steve.”
“You are funny, Masser Holmes, ain't you?”
“It won't be funny for you, Steve, if I get after you. I gave you fair
warning this morning.”
“Well, Masser Holmes, I done gone think over what you said, and I don't
want no more talk about that affair of Masser Perkins. S'pose I can help you,
Masser Holmes, I will.”
“Well, then, tell me who is behind you on this job.”
“So help me the Lord! Masser Holmes, I told you the truth before. I don't
know. My boss Barney gives me orders and that's all.”
“Well, just bear in mind, Steve, that the lady in that house, and everything
under that roof, is under my protection. Don't forget it.”
“All right, Masser Holmes. I'll remember.”
 “I've got him thoroughly frightened for his own skin, Watson,” Holmes
remarked as we walked on. “I think he would double-cross his employer if he
knew who he was. It was lucky I had some knowledge of the Spencer John
crowd, and that Steve was one of them. Now, Watson, this is a case for
Langdale Pike, and I am going to see him now. When I get back I may be
clearer in the matter.”
I saw no more of Holmes during the day, but I could well imagine how he
spent it, for Langdale Pike was his human book of reference upon all matters
of social scandal. This strange, languid creature spent his waking hours in the
bow window of a St. James's Street club and was the receivingstation as well
as the transmitter for all the gossip of the metropolis. He made, it was said, a
four-figure income by the paragraphs which he contributed every week to the
garbage papers which cater to an inquisitive public. If ever, far down in the
turbid depths of London life, there was some strange swirl or eddy, it was
marked with automatic exactness by this human dial upon the surface.
Holmes discreetly helped Langdale to knowledge, and on occasion was
helped in turn.
When I met my friend in his room early next morning, I was conscious
from his bearing that all was well, but none the less a most unpleasant
surprise was awaiting us. It took the shape of the following telegram.
Please come out at once. Client's house burgled in the night. Police in possession.
SUTRO.

Holmes whistled. “The drama has come to a crisis, and quicker than I had
expected. There is a great driving-power at the back of this business, Watson,
which does not surprise me after what I have heard. This Sutro, of course, is
her lawyer. I made a mistake, I fear, in not asking you to spend the night on
guard. This fellow has clearly proved a broken reed. Well, there is nothing for
it but another journey to Harrow Weald.”
We found The Three Gables a very different establishment to the orderly
household of the previous day. A small group of idlers had assembled at the
garden gate, while a couple of constables were examining the windows and
the geranium beds. Within we met a gray old gentleman, who introduced
himself as the lawyer together with a bustling, rubicund inspector, who
greeted Hoimes as an old friend.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, no chance for you in this case, I'm afraid. Just a
common, ordinary burglary, and well within the capacity of the poor old
police. No experts need apply.”
“I am sure the case is in very good hands,” said Holmes. “Merely a
common burglary, you say?”
 “Quite so. We know pretty well who the men are and where to find them.
It is that gang of Barney Stockdale, with the big nigger in it – they've been
seen about here.”
“Excellent! What did they get?”
“Well, they don't seem to have got much. Mrs. Maberley was
chloroformed and the house was – Ah! here is the lady herself.”
Our friend of yesterday, looking very pale and ill, had entered the room,
leaning upon a little maidservant.
“You gave me good advice, Mr. Holmes,” said she, smiling ruefully.
“Alas, I did not take it! I did not wish to trouble Mr. Sutro, and so I was
unprotected.”
“I only heard of it this morning,” the lawyer explained.
“Mr. Holmes advised me to have some friend in the house. I neglected his
advice, and I have paid for it.”
“You look wretchedly ill,” said Holmes. “Perhaps you are hardly equal to
telling me what occurred.”
“It is all here,” said the inspector, tapping a bulky notebook.
“Still, if the lady is not too exhausted – “
“There is really so little to tell. I have no doubt that wicked Susan had
planned an entrance for them. They must have known the house to an inch. I
was conscious for a moment of the chloroform rag which was thrust over my
mouth, but I have no notion how long I may have been senseless. When I
woke, one man was at the bedside and another was rising with a bundle in his
hand from among my son's baggage, which was partially opened and littered
over the floor. Before he could get away I sprang up and seized him.”
“You took a big risk,” said the inspector.
“I clung to him, but he shook me off, and the other may have struck me,
for I can remember no more. Mary the maid heard the noise and began
screaming out of the window. That brought the police, but the rascals had got
away.”
“What did they take?”
“Well, I don't think there is anything of value missing. I am sure there was
nothing in my son's trunks.”
“Did the men leave no clue?”
“There was one sheet of paper which I may have torn from the man that I
grasped. It was lying all crumpled on the floor. It is in my son's handwriting.”
“Which means that it is not of much use,” said the inspector. “Now if it
had been in the burglar's – “
“Exactly,” said Holmes. “What rugged common sense! None the less, I
should be curious to see it.”
 The inspector drew a folded sheet of foolscap from his pocketbook.
“I never pass anything, however trifling,” said he with some pomposity.
“That is my advice to you, Mr. Holmes. In twentyfive years' experience I have
learned my lesson. There is always the chance of finger-marks or something.”
Holmes inspected the sheet of paper.
“What do you make of it, Inspector?”
“Seems to be the end of some queer novel, so far as I can see.”
“It may certainly prove to be the end of a queer tale,” said Holmes. “You
have noticed the number on the top of the page. It is two hundred and forty-
five. Where are the odd two hundred and forty-four pages?”
“Well, I suppose the burglars got those. Much good may it do them!”
“It seems a queer thing to break into a house in order to steal such papers
as that. Does it suggest anything to you, Inspector?”
“Yes, sir, it suggests that in their hurry the rascals just grabbed at what
came first to hand. I wish them joy of what they got.”
“Why should they go to my son's things?” asked Mrs. Maberley.
“Well, they found nothing valuable downstairs, so they tried their luck
upstairs. That is how I read it. What do you make of it, Mr. Holmes?”
“I must think it over, Inspector. Come to the window, Watson.” Then, as
we stood together, he read over the fragment of paper. It began in the middle
of a sentence and ran like this:
“… face bled considerably from the cuts and blows, but it was nothing to the bleeding of his heart as
he saw that lovely face, the face for which he had been prepared to sacrifice his very life, looking
out at his agony and humiliation. She smiled – yes, by Heaven! she smiled, like the heartless fiend
she was, as he looked up at her. It was at that moment that love died and hate was born. Man must
live for something. If it is not for your embrace, my lady, then it shall surely be for your undoing
and my complete revenge.”

“Queer grammar!” said Holmes with a smile as he handed the paper back to
the inspector. “Did you notice how the 'he' suddenly changed to 'my'? The
writer was so carried away by his own story that he imagined himself at the
supreme moment to be the hero.”
“It seemed mighty poor stuff,” said the inspector as he replaced it in his
book. “What! are you off, Mr. Holmes?”
“I don't think there is anything more for me to do now that the case is in
such capable hands. By the way, Mrs. Maberley, did you say you wished to
travel?”
“It has always been my dream, Mr. Holmes.”
“Where would you like to go – Cairo, Madeira, the Riviera?”
“Oh if I had the money I would go round the world.”
“Quite so. Round the world. Well, good-morning. I may drop you a line in
the evening.” As we passed the window I caught a glimpse of the inspector's
smile and shake of the head. “These clever fellows have always a touch of
madness.” That was what I read in the inspector's smile.
“Now, Watson, we are at the last lap of our little journey,” said Holmes
when we were back in the roar of central London once more. “I think we had
best clear the matter up at once, and it would be well that you should come
with me, for it is safer to have a witness when you are dealing with such a
lady as Isadora Klein.”
We had taken a cab and were speeding to some address in Grosvenor
Square. Holmes had been sunk in thought, but he roused himself suddenly.
“By the way, Watson, I suppose you see it all clearly?”
“No, I can't say that I do. I only gather that we are going to see the lady
who is behind all this mischief.”
“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-afternoon!”
“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 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 woman'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.”
“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 exceedingly pertinacious.

For a long time he has worried me to write an experience of my own. Perhaps
I have rather invited this persecution, 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 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 everything 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 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' absence, 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 anywhere. 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 understand now why Godfrey
seldom spoke of his father.
“'Well, sir,' said he in a rasping voice, 'I should be interested 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 memories united us.
Is it not natural that I should wonder at his sudden silence and should wish to
know what has become of him?'
“'I have some recollections, sir, that I had already corresponded 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 complete 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?'
“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 slinking, 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 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 incoherent apologies in which I
tried to excuse myself by urging my anxiety for my friend.
“'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 alternatives 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 involved. 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.
“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 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 expression 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 straggling 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?”
 “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 clearing 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 amazement. '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 strangers 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 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 explanations
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 unsolved 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 constraint 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 attendance 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 authorities. 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 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 coincidence 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 swimmingpools 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 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 establishment, 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.
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 footsteps 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 fishingboats were at no great
distance. Their occupants might be examined 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 Anderson, 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.”
“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 sideways 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.”
“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, intolerable 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 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?”
“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 memory. 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 without 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 Constabulary – 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 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 instrument 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 photograph. “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 interruption which
was the beginning of the end.
My outer door was flung open, there were blundering footsteps 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. Exhausted 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 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 housekeeper, 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, vibrating, 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.
“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 memory 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 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?”
“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 inferiors. 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 running 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. '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 – burglarproof, 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.”
“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.
“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.”
“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 danger. 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 decently 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.
“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.
“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 neither 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 fellow'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
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 column 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 dog kennel, 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 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 distinguished my friend are
still at work in the choice of these memoirs, 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, motherly 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?”
“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 remarkable 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 monster!' 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!' “
“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 expected, 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 armchair 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 examined 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.”
“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 ridingwhip 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.
“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 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.”
“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, considering 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?”
“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?”
“Because I have seen him, Mr. Holmes. It was on that second night. Sir
Robert turned and passed us – me and Stephens, quaking 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.”
“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 carefully, 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.”
“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?”
“Only this, Watson, that something happened a week or so ago which has
cut deep into the life of the Shoscombe household. 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 midday, 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.”
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 activity. 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 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 movements 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
secured 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. “Possibly 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. “Appearances 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 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 everything. 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.
“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.