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1904
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE ADVENTURE OF BLACK PETER
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
I have never known my friend to be in better form, both mental and
physical, than in the year '95. His increasing fame had brought with
it an immense practice, and I should be guilty of an indiscretion if I
were even to hint at the identity of some of the illustrious clients
who crossed our humble threshold in Baker Street. Holmes, however,
like all great artists, lived for his art's sake, and, save in the
case of the Duke of Holdernesse, I have seldom known him claim any
large reward for his inestimable services. So unworldly was he- or
so capricious- that he frequently refused his help to the powerful and
wealthy where the problem made no appeal to his sympathies, while he
would devote weeks of most intense application to the affairs of
some humble client whose case presented those strange and dramatic
qualities which appealed to his imagination and challenged his
ingenuity.
In this memorable year '95, a curious and incongruous succession
of cases had engaged his attention, ranging from his famous
investigation of the sudden death of Cardinal Tosca- an inquiry
which was carried out by him at the express desire of His Holiness the
Pope- down to his arrest of Wilson, the notorious canary-trainer,
which removed a plague-spot from the East End of London. Close on
the heels of these two famous cases came the tragedy of Woodman's Lee,
and the very obscure circumstances which surrounded the death of
Captain Peter Carey. No record of the doings of Mr. Sherlock Holmes
would be complete which did not include some account of this very
unusual affair.
During the first week of July, my friend had been absent so often
and so long from our lodgings that I knew he had something on hand.
The fact that several rough-looking men called during that time and
inquired for Captain Basil made me understand that Holmes was
working somewhere under one of the numerous disguises and names with
which he concealed his own formidable identity. He had at least five
small refuges in different parts of London, in which he was able to
change his personality. He said nothing of his business to me, and
it was not my habit to force a confidence. The first positive sign
which he gave me of the direction which his investigation was taking
was an extraordinary one. He had gone out before breakfast, and I
had sat down to mine when he strode into the room, his hat upon his
head and a huge barbed-headed spear tucked like an umbrella under
his arm.
"Good gracious, Holmes!" I cried. "You don't mean to say that you
have been walking about London with that thing?"
"I drove to the butcher's and back."
"The butcher's?"
"And I return with an excellent appetite. There can be no
question, my dear Watson, of the value of exercise before breakfast.
But I am prepared to bet that you will not guess the form that my
exercise has taken."
"I will not attempt it."
He chuckled as he poured out the coffee.
"If you could have looked into Allardyce's back shop, you would have
seen a dead pig swung from a hook in the ceiling, and a gentleman in
his shirt sleeves furiously stabbing at it with this weapon. I was
that energetic person, and I have satisfied myself that by no exertion
of my strength can I transfix the pig with a single blow. Perhaps
you would care to try?"
"Not for worlds. But why were you doing this?"
"Because it seemed to me to have an indirect bearing upon the
mystery of Woodman's Lee. Ah, Hopkins, I got your wire last night, and
I have been expecting you. Come and join us."
Our visitor was an exceedingly alert man, thirty years of age,
dressed in a quiet tweed suit, but retaining the erect bearing of
one who was accustomed to official uniform. I recognized him at once
as Stanley Hopkins, a young police inspector, for whose future
Holmes had high hopes, while he in turn professed the admiration and
respect of a pupil for the scientific methods of the famous amateur.
Hopkins's brow was clouded, and he sat down with an air of deep
dejection.
"No, thank you, sir. I breakfasted before I came round. I spent
the night in town, for I came up yesterday to report."
"And what had you to report?"
"Failure, sir, absolute failure."
"You have made no progress?"
"None."
"Dear me! I must have a look at the matter."
"I wish to heavens that you would, Mr. Holmes. It's my first big
chance, and I am at my wit's end. For goodness' sake, come down and
lend me a hand."
"Well, well, it just happens that I have already read all the
available evidence, including the report of the inquest, with some
care. By the way, what do you make of that tobacco pouch, found on the
scene of the crime? Is there no clue there?"
Hopkins looked surprised.
"It was the man's own pouch, sir. His initials were inside it. And
it was of sealskin,- and he was an old sealer."
"But he had no pipe."
"No, sir, we could find no pipe. Indeed, he smoked very little,
and yet he might have kept some tobacco for his friends."
"No doubt. I only mention it because, if I had been handling the
case, I should have been inclined to make that the starting-point of
my investigation. However, my friend, Dr. Watson, knows nothing of
this matter, and I should be none the worse for hearing the sequence
of events once more. Just give us some short sketches of the
essentials."
Stanley Hopkins drew a slip of paper from his pocket.
"I have a few dates here which will give you the career of the
dead man, Captain Peter Carey. He was born in '45- fifty years of age.
He was a most daring and successful seal and whale fisher. In 1883
he commanded the steam sealer Sea Unicorn, of Dundee. He had then
had several successful voyages in succession, and in the following
year, 1884, he retired. After that he travelled for some years, and
finally he bought a small place called Woodman's Lee, near Forest Row,
in Sussex. There he has lived for six years, and there he died just
a week ago to-day.
"There were some most singular points about the man. In ordinary
life, he was a strict Puritan- a silent, gloomy fellow. His
household consisted of his wife, his daughter, aged twenty, and two
female servants. These last were continually changing, for it was
never a very cheery situation, and sometimes it became past all
bearing. The man was an intermittent drunkard, and when he had the fit
on him he was a perfect fiend. He has been known to drive his wife and
daughter out of doors in the middle of the night and flog them through
the park until the whole village outside the gates was aroused by
their screams.
"He was summoned once for a savage assault upon the old vicar, who
had called upon him to remonstrate with him upon his conduct. In
short, Mr. Holmes, you would go far before you found a more
dangerous man than Peter Carey, and I have heard that he bore the same
character when he commanded his ship. He was known in the trade as
Black Peter, and the name was given him, not only on account of his
swarthy features and the colour of his huge beard, but for the humours
which were the terror of all around him. I need not say that he was
loathed and avoided by every one of his neighbours, and that I have
not heard one single word of sorrow about his terrible end.
"You must have read in the account of the inquest about the man's
cabin, Mr. Holmes, but perhaps your friend here has not heard of it.
He had built himself a wooden outhouse- he always called it the
'cabin'- a few hundred yards from his house, and it was here that he
slept every night. It was a little, single-roomed hut, sixteen feet by
ten. He kept the key in his pocket, made his own bed, cleaned it
himself, and allowed no other foot to cross the threshold. There are
small windows on each side, which were covered by curtains and never
opened. One of these windows was turned towards the high road, and
when the light burned in it at night the folk used to point it out
to each other and wonder what Black Peter was doing in there. That's
the window, Mr. Holmes, which gave us one of the few bits of
positive evidence that came out at the inquest.
"You remember that a stonemason, named Slater, walking from Forest
Row about one o'clock in the morning- two days before the murder-
stopped as he passed the grounds and looked at the square of light
still shining among the trees. He swears that the shadow of a man's
head turned sideways was clearly visible on the blind, and that this
shadow was certainly not that of Peter Carey, whom he knew well. It
was that of a bearded man, but the beard was short and bristled
forward in a way very different from that of the captain. So he
says, but he had been two hours in the public-house, and it is some
distance from the road to the window. Besides, this refers to the
Monday, and the crime was done upon the Wednesday.
"On the Tuesday, Peter Carey was in one of his blackest moods,
flushed with drink and as savage as a dangerous wild beast. He
roamed about the house, and the women ran for it when they heard him
coming. Late in the evening, he went down to his own hut. About two
o'clock the following morning, his daughter, who slept with her window
open, heard a most fearful yell from that direction, but it was no
unusual thing for him to bawl and shout when he was in drink, so no
notice was taken. On rising at seven, one of the maids noticed that
the door of the hut was open, but so great was the terror which the
man caused that it was midday before anyone would venture down to
see what had become of him. Peeping into the open door, they saw a
sight which sent them flying, with white faces, into the village.
Within an hour, I was on the spot and had taken over the case.
"Well, I have fairly steady nerves, as you know, Mr. Holmes, but I
give you my word, that I got a shake when I put my head into that
little house. It was droning like a harmonium with the flies and
bluebottles, and the floor and walls were like a slaughter-house. He
had called it a cabin, and a cabin it was, sure enough, for you
would have thought that you were in a ship. There was a bunk at one
end, a sea-chest, maps and charts, a picture of the Sea Unicorn, a
line of logbooks on a shelf, all exactly as one would expect to find
it in a captain's room. And there, in the middle of it, was the man
himself- his face twisted like a lost soul in torment, and his great
brindled beard stuck upward in his agony. Right through his broad
breast a steel harpoon had been driven, and it had sunk deep into
the wood of the wall behind him. He was pinned like a beetle on a
card. Of course, he was quite dead, and had been so from the instant
that he had uttered that last yell of agony.
"I know your methods, sir, and I applied them. Before I permitted
anything to be moved, I examined most carefully the ground outside,
and also the floor of the room. There were no footmarks."
"Meaning that you saw none?"
"I assure you, sir, that there were none."
"My good Hopkins, I have investigated many crimes, but I have
never yet seen one which was committed by a flying creature. As long
as the criminal remains upon two legs so long must there be some
indentation, some abrasion, some trifling displacement which can be
detected by the scientific searcher. It is incredible that this
blood-bespattered room contained no trace which could have aided us. I
understand, however, from the inquest that there were some objects
which you failed to overlook?"
The young inspector winced at my companion's ironical comments.
"I was a fool not to call you in at the time Mr. Holmes. However,
that's past praying for now. Yes, there were several objects in the
room which called for special attention. One was the harpoon with
which the deed was committed. It had been snatched down from a rack on
the wall. Two others remained there, and there was a vacant place
for the third. On the stock was engraved 'SS. Sea Unicorn, Dundee.'
This seemed to establish that the crime had been done in a moment of
fury, and that the murderer had seized the first weapon which came
in his way. The fact that the crime was committed at two in the
morning, and yet Peter Carey was fully dressed, suggested that he
had an appointment with the murderer, which is home out by the fact
that a bottle of rum and two dirty glasses stood upon the table."
"Yes," said Holmes; "I think that both inferences are permissible.
Was there any other spirit but rum in the room?"
"Yes, there was a tantalus containing brandy and whisky on the
sea-chest. It is of no importance to us, however, since the
decanters were full, and it had therefore not been used."
"For all that, its presence has some significance," said Holmes.
"However, let us hear some more about the objects which do seem to you
to bear upon the case."
"There was this tobacco-pouch upon the table."
"What part of the table?"
"It lay in the middle. It was of coarse sealskin- the
straight-haired skin, with a leather thong to bind it. Inside was
'P.C.' on the flap. There was half an ounce of strong ship's tobacco
in it."
"Excellent! What more?"
Stanley Hopkins drew from his pocket a drab-covered notebook. The
outside was rough and worn, the leaves discoloured. On the first
page were written the initials "J.H.N." and the date "1883." Holmes
laid it on the table and examined it in his minute way, while
Hopkins and I gazed over each shoulder. On the second page were the
printed letters "C.P.R.," and then came several sheets of numbers.
Another heading was "Argentine," another "Costa Rica," and another
"San Paulo," each with pages of signs and figures after it.
"What do you make of these?" asked Holmes.
"They appear to be lists of Stock Exchange securities. I thought
that 'J.H.N.' were the initials of a broker, and that 'C.P.R.' may
have been his client."
"Try Canadian Pacific Railway," said Holmes.
Stanley Hopkins swore between his teeth, and struck his thigh with
his clenched hand.
"What a fool I have been!" he cried. "Of course, it is as you say.
Then 'J.H.N.' are the only initials we have to solve. I have already
examined the old Stock Exchange lists, and I can find no one in
1883, either in the house or among the outside brokers, whose initials
correspond with these. Yet I feel that the clue is the most
important one that I hold. You will admit, Mr. Holmes, that there is a
possibility that these initials are those of the second person who was
present- in other words, of the murderer. I would also urge that the
introduction into the case of a document relating to large masses of
valuable securities gives us for the first time some indication of a
motive for the crime."
Sherlock Holmes's face showed that he was thoroughly taken aback
by this new development.
"I must admit both your points," said he. "I confess that this
notebook, which did not appear at the inquest, modifies any views
which I may have formed. I had come to a theory of the crime in
which I can find no place for this. Have you endeavoured to trace
any of the securities here mentioned?"
"Inquiries are now being made at the offices, but I fear that the
complete register of the stockholders of these South American concerns
is in South America, and that some weeks must elapse before we can
trace the shares."
Holmes had been examining the cover of the notebook with his
magnifying lens.
"Surely there is some discolouration here," said he.
"Yes, sir, it is a blood-stain. I told you that I picked the book
off the floor."
"Was the blood-stain above or below?"
"On the side next the boards."
"Which proves, of course, that the book was dropped after the
crime was committed."
"Exactly, Mr. Holmes. I appreciated that point, and I conjectured
that it was dropped by the murderer in his hurried flight. It lay near
the door."
"I suppose that none of these securities have been found among the
property of the dead man?"
"No, sir."
"Have you any reason to suspect robbery?"
"No, sir. Nothing seemed to have been touched."
"Dear me, it is certainly a very interesting case. Then there was
a knife, was there not?"
"A sheath-knife, still in its sheath. It lay at the feet of the dead
man. Mrs. Carey has identified it as being her husband's property."
Holmes was lost in thought for some time.
"Well," said he, at last, "I suppose I shall have to come out and
have a look at it."
Stanley Hopkins gave a cry of joy.
"Thank you, sir. That will, indeed, be a weight off my mind."
Holmes shook his finger at the inspector.
"It would have been an easier task a week ago," said he. "But even
now my visit may not be entirely fruitless. Watson, if you can spare
the time, I should be very glad of your company. If you will call a
four-wheeler, Hopkins, we shall be ready to start for Forest Row in
a quarter of an hour."
-
Alighting at the small wayside station, we drove for some miles
through the remains of widespread woods, which were once part of
that great forest which for so long held the Saxon invaders at bay-
the impenetrable "weald," for sixty years the bulwark of Britain. Vast
sections of it have been cleared, for this is the seat of the first
iron-works of the country, and the trees have been felled to smelt the
ore. Now the richer fields of the North have absorbed the trade, and
nothing save these ravaged groves and great scars in the earth show
the work of the past. Here, in a clearing upon the green slope of a
hill, stood a long, low, stone house, approached by a curving drive
running through the fields. Nearer the road, and surrounded on three
sides by bushes, was a small outhouse, one window and the door
facing in our direction. It was the scene of the murder.
Stanley Hopkins led us first to the house, where he introduced us to
a haggard, gray-haired woman, the widow of the murdered man, whose
gaunt and deep-lined face, with the furtive look of terror in the
depths of her red-rimmed eyes, told of the years of hardship and
ill-usage which she had endured. With her was her daughter, a pale,
fair-haired girl, whose eyes blazed defiantly at us as she told us
that she was glad that her father was dead, and that she blessed the
hand which had struck him down. It was a terrible household that Black
Peter Carey had made for himself, and it was with a sense of relief
that we found ourselves in the sunlight again and making our way along
a path which had been worn across the fields by the feet of the dead
man.
The outhouse was the simplest of dwellings, wooden-walled,
shingle-roofed, one window beside the door and one on the farther
side. Stanley Hopkins drew the key from his pocket and had stooped
to the lock, when he paused with a look of attention and surprise upon
his face.
Somone has been tampering with it," he said.
There could be no doubt of the fact. The woodwork was cut, and the
scratches showed white through the paint, as if they had been that
instant done. Holmes had been examining the window.
"Someone has tried to force this also. Whoever it was has failed
to make his way in. He must have been a very poor burglar."
"This is a most extraordinary thing," said the inspector, "I could
swear that these marks were not here yesterday evening."
"Some curious person from the village, perhaps," I suggested.
"Very unlikely. Few of them would dare to set foot in the grounds,
far less try to force their way into the cabin. What do you think of
it, Mr. Holmes?"
"I think that fortune is very kind to us."
"You mean that the person will come again?"
"It is very probable. He came expecting to find the door open. He
tried to get in with the blade of a very small penknife. He could
not manage it. What would he do?"
"Come again next night with a more useful tool."
"So I should say. It will be our fault if we are not there to
receive him. Meanwhile, let me see the inside of the cabin."
The traces of the tragedy had been removed, but the furniture within
the little room still stood as it had been on the night of the
crime. For two hours, with most intense concentration, Holmes examined
every object in turn, but his face showed that his quest was not a
successful one. Once only he paused in his patient investigation.
"Have you taken anything off this shelf, Hopkins?"
"No, I have moved nothing."
"Something has been taken. There is less dust in this corner of
the shelf than elsewhere. It may have been a book lying on its side.
It may have been a box. Well, well, I can do nothing more. Let us walk
in these beautiful woods, Watson, and give a few hours to the birds
and the flowers. We shall meet you here later, Hopkins, and see if
we can come to closer quarters with the gentleman who has paid this
visit in the night."
It was past eleven o'clock when we formed our little ambuscade.
Hopkins was for leaving the door of the hut open, but Holmes was of
the opinion that this would rouse the suspicions of the stranger.
The lock was a perfectly simple one, and only a strong blade was
needed to push it back. Holmes also suggested that we should wait, not
inside the hut, but outside it, among the bushes which grew round
the farther window. In this way we should be able to watch our man
if he struck a light, and see what his object was in this stealthy
nocturnal visit.
It was a long and melancholy vigil, and yet brought with it
something of the thrill which the bunter feels when he lies beside the
water-pool, and waits for the coming of the thirsty beast of prey.
What savage creature was it which might steal upon us out of the
darkness? Was it a fierce tiger of crime, which could only be taken
fighting hard with flashing fang and claw, or would it prove to be
some skulking jackal, dangerous only to the weak and unguarded?
In absolute silence we crouched amongst the bushes, waiting for
whatever might come. At first the steps of a few belated villagers, or
the sound of voices from the village, lightened our vigil, but one
by one these interruptions died away, and an absolute stillness fell
upon us, save for the chimes of the distant church, which told us of
the progress of the night, and for the rustle and whisper of a fine
rain falling amid the foliage which roofed us in.
Half-past two had chimed, and it was the darkest hour which precedes
the dawn, when we all started as a low but sharp click came from the
direction of the gate. Someone had entered the drive. Again there
was a long silence, and I had begun to fear that it was a false alarm,
when a stealthy step was heard upon the other side of the hut, and a
moment later a metallic scraping and clinking. The man was trying to
force the lock. This time his skill was greater or his tool was
better, for there was a sudden snap and the creak of the hinges.
Then a match was struck, and next instant the steady light from a
candle filled the interior of the hut. Through the gauze curtain our
eyes were all riveted upon the scene within.
The nocturnal visitor was a young man, frail and thin, with a
black moustache, which intensified the deadly pallor of his face. He
could not have been much above twenty years of age. I have never
seen any human being who appeared to be in such a pitiable fright, for
his teeth were visibly chattering, and he was shaking in every limb.
He was dressed like a gentleman, in Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers,
with a cloth cap upon his head. We watched him staring round with
frightened eyes. Then he laid the candle-end upon the table and
disappeared from our view into one of the corners. He returned with
a large book, one of the logbooks which formed a line upon the
shelves. Leaning on the table, he rapidly turned over the leaves of
this volume until he came to the entry which he sought. Then, with
an angry gesture of his clenched hand, he closed the book, replaced it
in the corner, and put out the light. He had hardly turned to leave
the hut when Hopkins's hand was on the fellow's collar, and I heard
his loud gasp of terror as he understood that he was taken. The candle
was relit, and there was our wretched captive, shivering and
cowering in the grasp of the detective. He sank down upon the
sea-chest, and looked helplessly from one of us to the other.
"Now, my fine fellow," said Stanley Hopkins, "who are you, and
what do you want here?"
The man pulled himself together, and faced us with an effort at
self-composure.
"You are detectives, I suppose?" said he. "You imagine I am
connected with the death of Captain Peter Carey. I assure you that I
am innocent."
"We'll see about that," said Hopkins. "First of all, what is your
name?"
"It is John Hopley Neligan."
I saw Holmes and Hopkins exchange a quick glance.
"What are you doing here?"
"Can I speak confidentially?"
"No, certainly not."
"Why should I tell you?"
"If you have no answer, it may go badly with you at the trial."
The young man winced.
"Well, I will tell you," he said. "Why should I not? And yet I
hate to think of this old scandal gaining a new lease of life. Did you
ever hear of Dawson and Neligan?"
I could see, from Hopkins's face, that he never had, but Holmes
was keenly interested.
"You mean the West Country bankers," said he. "They failed for a
million, ruined half the county families of Cornwall, and Neligan
disappeared."
"Exactly. Neligan was my father."
At last we were getting something positive, and yet it seemed a long
gap between an absconding banker and Captain Peter Carey pinned
against the wall with one of his own harpoons. We all listened
intently to the young man's words.
"It was my father who was really concerned. Dawson had retired. I
was only ten years of age at the time, but I was old enough to feel
the shame and horror of it all. It has always been said that my father
stole all the securities and fled. It is not true. It was his belief
that if he were given time in which to realize them, all would be well
and every creditor paid in full. He started in his little yacht for
Norway just before the warrant was issued for his arrest. I can
remember that last night when he bade farewell to my mother. He left
us a list of the securities he was taking, and he swore that he
would come back with his honour cleared, and that none who had trusted
him would suffer. Well, no word was ever heard from him again. Both
the yacht and he vanished utterly. We believed, my mother and I,
that he and it, with the securities that he had taken with him, were
at the bottom of the sea. We had a faithful friend, however, who is
a business man, and it was he who discovered some time ago that some
of the securities which my father had with him had reappeared on the
London market. You can imagine our amazement. I spent months in trying
to trace them, and at last, after many doubtings and difficulties, I
discovered that the original seller had been Captain Peter Carey,
the owner of this hut.
"Naturally, I made some inquiries about the man. I found that he had
been in command of a whaler which was due to return from the Arctic
seas at the very time when my father was crossing to Norway. The
autumn of that year was a stormy one, and there was a long
succession of southerly gales. My father's yacht may well have been
blown to the north, and there met by Captain Peter Carey's ship. If
that were so, what had become of my father? In any case, if I could
prove from Peter Carey's evidence how these securities came on the
market it would be a proof that my father had not sold them, and
that he had no view to personal profit when he took them.
"I came down to Sussex with the intention of seeing the captain, but
it was at this moment that his terrible death occurred. I read at
the inquest a description of his cabin, in which it stated that the
old logbooks of his vessel were preserved in it. It struck me that
if I could see what occurred in the month of August, 1883, on board
the Sea Unicorn, I might settle the mystery of my father's fate. I
tried last night to get at these logbooks, but was unable to open
the door. To-night I tried again and succeeded, but I find that the
pages which deal with that month have been torn from the book. It was
at that moment I found myself a prisoner in your hands."
"Is that all?" asked Hopkins.
"Yes, that is all." His eyes shifted as he said it.
"You have nothing else to tell us?"
He hesitated.
"No, there is nothing."
"You have not been here before last night?"
"No.
"Then how do you account for that?" cried Hopkins, as he held up the
damning notebook, with the initials of our prisoner on the first
leaf and the blood-stain on the cover.
The wretched man collapsed. He sank his face in his hands, and
trembled all over.
"Where did you get it?" he groaned. "I did not know. I thought I had
lost it at the hotel."
"That is enough," said Hopkins, sternly. "Whatever else you have
to say, you must say in court. You will walk down with me now to the
police-station. Well, Mr. Holmes, I am very much obliged to you and to
your friend for coming down to help me. As it turns out your
presence was unnecessary, and I would have brought the case to this
successful issue without you, but, none the less, I am grateful. Rooms
have been reserved for you at the Brambletye Hotel, so we can all walk
down to the village together."
"Well, Watson, what do you think of it?" asked Holmes, as we
travelled back next morning.
"I can see that you are not satisfied."
"Oh, yes, my dear Watson, I am perfectly satisfied. At the same
time, Stanley Hopkins's methods do not commend themselves to me. I
am disappointed in Stanley Hopkins. I had hoped for better things from
him. One should always look for a possible alternative, and provide
against it. It is the first rule of criminal investigation."
"What, then, is the alternative?"
"The line of investigation which I have myself been pursuing. It may
give us nothing. I cannot tell. But at least I shall follow it to
the end."
Several letters were waiting for Holmes at Baker Street. He snatched
one of them up, opened it, and burst out into a triumphant chuckle
of laughter.
"Excellent, Watson! The alternative develops. Have you telegraph
forms? Just write a couple of messages for me: 'Sumner, Shipping
Agent, Ratcliff Highway. Send three men on, to arrive ten to-morrow
morning.- Basil.' That's my name in those parts. The other is:
'Inspector Stanley Hopkins, 46 Lord Street, Brixton. Come breakfast
to-morrow at nine-thirty. Important. Wire if unable to come.- Sherlock
Holmes.' There, Watson, this infernal case has haunted me for ten
days. I hereby banish it completely from my presence. To-morrow, I
trust that we shall hear the last of it forever."
Sharp at the hour named Inspector Stanley Hopkins appeared, and we
sat down together to the excellent breakfast which Mrs. Hudson had
prepared. The young detective was in high spirits at his success.
"You really think that your solution must be correct?" asked Holmes.
"I could not imagine a more complete case."
"It did not seem to me conclusive."
"You astonish me, Mr. Holmes. What more could one ask for?"
"Does your explanation cover every point?"
"Undoubtedly. I find that young Neligan arrived at the Brambletye
Hotel on the very day of the crime. He came on the pretence of playing
golf. His room was on the ground-floor, and he could get out when he
liked. That very night he went down to Woodman's Lee, saw Peter
Carey at the hut, quarrelled with him, and killed him with the
harpoon. Then, horrified by what he had done, he fled out of the
hut, dropping the notebook which he had brought with him in order to
question Peter Carey about these different securities. You may have
observed that some of them were marked with ticks, and the others- the
great majority- were not. Those which are ticked have been traced on
the London market, but the others, presumably, were still in the
possession of Carey, and young Neligan, according to his own
account, was anxious to recover them in order to do the right thing by
his father's creditors. After his flight he did not dare to approach
the hut again for some time, but at last he forced himself to do so in
order to obtain the information which he needed. Surely that is all
simple and obvious?"
Holmes smiled and shook his head.
"It seems to me to have only one drawback, Hopkins, and that is
that it is intrinsically impossible. Have you tried to drive a harpoon
through a body? No? Tut, tut my dear sir, you must really pay
attention to these details. My friend Watson could tell you that I
spent a whole morning in that exercise. It is no easy matter, and
requires a strong and practised arm. But this blow was delivered
with such violence that the head of the weapon sank deep into the
wall. Do you imagine that this anaemic youth was capable of so
frightful an assault? Is he the man who hobnobbed in rum and water
with Black Peter in the dead of the night? Was it his profile that was
seen on the blind two nights before? No, no, Hopkins, it is another
and more formidable person for whom we must seek."
The detective's face had grown longer and longer during Holmes's
speech. His hopes and his ambitions were all crumbling about him.
But he would not abandon his position without a struggle.
"You can't deny that Neligan was present that night, Mr. Holmes. The
book will prove that. I fancy that I have evidence enough to satisfy a
jury, even if you are able to pick a hole in it. Besides, Mr.
Holmes, I have laid my hand upon my man. As to this terrible person of
yours, where is he?"
"I rather fancy that he is on the stair," said Holmes, serenely.
"I think, Watson, that you would do well to put that revolver where
you can reach it." He rose and laid a written paper upon a side-table.
"Now we are ready," said he.
There had been some talking in gruff voices outside, and now Mrs.
Hudson opened the door to say that there were three men inquiring
for Captain Basil.
"Show them in one by one," said Holmes.
"The first who entered was a little Ribston pippin of a man, with
ruddy cheeks and fluffy white side-whiskers. Holmes had drawn a letter
from his pocket.
"What name?" he asked.
"James Lancaster."
"I am sorry, Lancaster, but the berth is full. Here is half a
sovereign for your trouble. Just step into this room and wait there
for a few minutes."
The second man was a long, dried-up creature, with lank hair and
sallow cheeks. His name was Hugh Pattins. He also received his
dismissal, his half-sovereign, and the order to wait.
The third applicant was a man of remarkable appearance. A fierce
bull-dog face was framed in a tangle of hair and beard, and two
bold, dark eyes gleamed behind the cover of thick, tufted, overhung
eyebrows. He saluted and stood sailor-fashion, turning his cap round
in his hands.
"Your name?" asked Holmes.
"Patrick Cairns."
"Harpooner?"
"Yes, sir. Twenty-six voyages."
"Dundee, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir."
"And ready to start with an exploring ship?"
"Yes, sir."
"What wages?"
"Eight pounds a month."
"Could you start at once?"
"As soon as I get my kit."
"Have you your papers?"
"Yes, sir." He took a sheaf of worn and greasy forms from his
pocket. Holmes glanced over them and returned them.
"You are just the man I want," said he. "Here's the agreement on the
sidetable. If you sign it the whole matter will be settled."
The seaman lurched across the room and took up the pen.
"Shall I sign here?" he asked, stooping over the table.
Holmes leaned over his shoulder and passed both hands over his neck.
"This will do," said he.
I heard a click of steel and a bellow like an enraged bull. The next
instant Holmes and the seaman were rolling on the ground together.
He was a man of such gigantic strength that, even with the handcuffs
which Holmes had so deftly fastened upon his wrists, he would have
very quickly overpowered my friend had Hopkins and I not rushed to his
rescue. Only when I pressed the cold muzzle of the revolver to his
temple did he at last understand that resistance was vain. We lashed
his ankles with cord, and rose breathless from the struggle.
"I must really apologize, Hopkins," said Sherlock Holmes. "I fear
that the scrambled eggs are cold. However, you will enjoy the rest
of your breakfast all the better, will you not, for the thought that
you have brought your case to a triumphant conclusion."
Stanley Hopkins was speechless with amazement.
"I don't know what to say, Mr. Holmes," he blurted out at last, with
a very red face. "It seems to me that I have been making a fool of
myself from the beginning. I understand now, what I should never
have forgotten, that I am the pupil and you are the master. Even now I
see what you have done, but I don't know how you did it or what it
signifies."
"Well, well," said Holmes, good-humouredly. "We all learn by
experience, and your lesson this time is that you should never lose
sight of the alternative. You were so absorbed in young Neligan that
you could not spare a thought to Patrick Cairns, the true murderer
of Peter Carey."
The hoarse voice of the seaman broke in on our conversation.
"See here, mister," said he, "I make no complaint of being
man-handled in this fashion, but I would have you call things by their
right names. You say I murdered Peter Carey, I say I killed Peter
Carey, and there's all the difference. Maybe you don't believe what
I say. Maybe you think I am just slinging you a yarn."
"Not at all," said Holmes. "Let us hear what you have to say."
"It's soon told, and, by the Lord, every word of it is truth. I knew
Black Peter, and when he pulled out his knife I whipped a harpoon
through him sharp, for I knew that it was him or me. That's how he
died. You can call it murder. Anyhow, I'd as soon die with a rope
round my neck as with Black Peter's knife in my heart."
"How came you there?" asked Holmes.
"I'll tell it you from the beginning. just sit me up a little, so as
I can speak easy. It was in '83 that it happened- August of that year.
Peter Carey was master of the Sea Unicorn, and I was spare
harpooner. We were coming out of the ice-pack on our way home, with
head winds and a week's southerly gale, when we picked up a little
craft that had been blown north. There was one man on her- a landsman.
The crew had thought she would founder and had made for the
Norwegian coast in the dinghy. I guess they were all drowned. Well, we
took him on board, this man, and he and the skipper had some long
talks in the cabin. All the baggage we took off with him was one tin
box. So far as I know, the man's name was never mentioned, and on
the second night he disappeared as if he had never been. It was
given out that he had either thrown himself overboard or fallen
overboard in the heavy weather that we were having. Only one man
knew what had happened to him, and that was me, for, with my own eyes,
I saw the skipper tip up his heels and put him over the rail in the
middle watch of a dark night, two days before we sighted the
Shetland Lights.
"Well, I kept my knowledge to myself, and waited to see what would
come of it When we got back to Scotland it was easily hushed up, and
nobody asked any questions. A stranger died by accident and it was
nobody's business to inquire. Shortly after Peter Carey gave up the
sea, and it was long years before I could find where he was. I guessed
that he had done the deed for the sake of what was in that tin box,
and that he could afford now to pay me well for keeping my mouth shut.
"I found out where he was through a sailor man that had met him in
London, and down I went to squeeze him. The first night he was
reasonable enough, and was ready to give me what would make me free of
the sea for life. We were to fix it all two nights later. When I came,
I found him three parts drunk and in a vile temper. We sat down and we
drank and we yarned about old times, but the more he drank the less
I liked the look on his face. I spotted that harpoon upon the wall,
and I thought I might need it before I was through. Then at last he
broke out at me, spitting and cursing, with murder in his eyes and a
great clasp-knife in his hand. He had not time to get it from the
sheath before I had the harpoon through him. Heavens! what a yell he
gave! and his face gets between me and my sleep. I stood there, with
his blood splashing round me, and I waited for a bit, but all was
quiet, so I took heart once more. I looked round, and there was the
tin box on the shelf. I had as much right to it as Peter Carey,
anyhow, so I took it with me and left the hut. Like a fool I left my
baccy-pouch upon the table.
"Now I'll tell you the queerest part of the whole story. I had
hardly got outside the hut when I heard someone coming, and I hid
among the bushes. A man came slinking along, went into the hut, gave a
cry as if he had seen a ghost, and legged it as hard as he could run
until he was out of sight. Who he was or what he wanted is more than I
can tell. For my part I walked ten miles, got a train at Tunbridge
Wells, and so reached London, and no one the wiser.
"Well, when I came to examine the box I found there was no money
in it, and nothing but papers that I would not dare to sell. I had
lost my hold on Black Peter and was stranded in London without a
shilling. There was only my trade left. I saw these advertisements
about harpooners, and high wages, so I went to the shipping agents,
and they sent me here. That's all I know, and I say again that if I
killed Black Peter, the law should give me thanks, for I saved them
the rice of a hempen rope."
"A very clear statement said Holmes, rising and lighting his pipe.
"I think, Hopkins, that you should lose no time in conveying your
prisoner to a place of safety. This room is not well adapted for a
cell, and Mr. Patrick Cairns occupies too large a proportion of our
carpet."
"Mr. Holmes," said Hopkins, "I do not know how to express my
gratitude. Even now I do not understand how you attained this result."
"Simply by having the good fortune to get the right clue from the
beginning. It is very possible if I had known about this notebook it
might have led away my thoughts, as it did yours. But all I heard
pointed in the one direction. The amazing strength, the skill in the
use of the harpoon, the rum and water, the sealskin tobacco-pouch with
the coarse tobacco-all these pointed to a seaman, and one who had been
a whaler. I was convinced that the initials 'P.C.' upon the pouch were
a coincidence, and not those of Peter Carey, since he seldom smoked,
and no pipe was found in his cabin. You remember that I asked
whether whisky and brandy were in the cabin. You said they were. How
many landsmen are there who would drink rum when they could get
these other spirits? Yes, I was certain it was a seaman."
"And how did you find him?"
"My dear sir, the problem had become a very simple one. If it were a
seaman, it could only be a seaman who had been with him on the Sea
Unicorn. So far as I could learn he had sailed in no other ship. I
spent three days in wiring to Dundee, and at the end of that time I
had ascertained the names of the crew of the Sea Unicorn in 1883. When
I found Patrick Cairns among the harpooners, my research was nearing
its end. I argued that the man was probably in London, and that he
would desire to leave the country for a time. I therefore spent some
days in the East End, devised an Arctic expedition, put forth tempting
terms for harpooners who would serve under Captain Basil- and behold
the result!"
"Wonderful!" cried Hopkins. "Wonderful!"
"You must obtain the release of young Neligan as soon as
possible," said Holmes. "I confess that I think you owe him some
apology. The tin box must be returned to him, but, of course, the
securities which Peter Carey has sold are lost forever. There's the
cab, Hopkins, and you can remove your man. If you want me for the
trial, my address and that of Watson will be somewhere in Norway- I'll
send particulars later."
-
-
-THE END-

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1926
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLANCHED SOLDIER
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
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 South
Hampton. 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 never a 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 that 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 Euston we picked up a grave and taciturn 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 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 stoop 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 out 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 chance of the
sufferer. There would be no reason why the latter should not he
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."
"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."
-
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-THE END-

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1892
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE CARBUNCLE
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
-
I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second
morning after Christmas, with the intention of wishing him the
compliments of the season. He was lounging upon the sofa in a purple
dressing-gown, a pipe-rack within his reach upon the right, and a pile
of crumpled morning papers, evidently newly studied, near at hand.
Beside the couch was a wooden chair, and on the angle of the back hung
a very seedy and disreputable hard-felt bat, much the worse for wear
and cracked in several places. A lens and a forceps lying upon the
seat of the chair suggested that the hat had been suspended in this
manner for the purpose of examination.
"You are engaged," said I; "perhaps I interrupt you."
"Not at all. I am glad to have a friend with whom I can discuss my
results. The matter is a perfectly trivial one"- he jerked his thumb
in the direction of the old hat- "but there are points in connection
with it which are not entirely devoid of interest and even of
instruction."
I seated myself in his armchair and warmed my hands before his
crackling fire, for a sharp frost had set in, and the windows were
thick with the ice crystals. "I suppose," I remarked, "that, homely as
it looks, this thing has some deadly story linked on to it-that it
is the clue which will guide you in the solution of some mystery and
the punishment of some crime."
"No, no. No crime," said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. "Only one of
those whimsical little incidents which will happen when you have
four million human beings all jostling each other within the space
of a few square miles. Amid the action and reaction of so dense a
swarm of humanity, every possible combination of events may be
expected to take place, and many a little problem will be presented
which may be striking and bizarre without being criminal. We have
already had experience of such."
"So much so," I remarked, "that of the last six cases which I have
added to my notes, three have been entirely free of any legal crime."
"Precisely. You allude to my attempt to recover the Irene Adler
papers, to the singular case of Miss Mary Sutherland, and to the
adventure of the man with the twisted lip. Well, I have no doubt
that this small matter will fall into the same innocent category.
You know Peterson, the commissionaire?"
"Yes."
"It is to him that this trophy belongs."
"It is his hat."
"No, no; he found it. Its owner is unknown. I beg that you will look
upon it not as a battered billycock but as an intellectual problem.
And first, as to how it came here. It arrived upon Christmas
morning, in company with a good fat goose, which is, I have no
doubt, roasting at this moment in front of Peterson's fire. The
facts are these: about four o'clock on Christmas morning, Peterson,
who, as you know, is a very honest fellow, was returning from some
small jollification and was making his way homeward down Tottenham
Court Road. In front of him he saw, in the gaslight, a tallish man,
walking with a slight stagger, and carrying a white goose slung over
his shoulder. As he reached the corner of Goodge Street, a row broke
out between this stranger and a little knot of roughs. One of the
latter knocked off the man's hat, on which he raised his stick to
defend himself and, swinging it over his head, smashed the shop window
behind him. Peterson had rushed forward to protect the stranger from
his assailants; but the man, shocked at having broken the window,
and seeing an official-looking person in uniform rushing towards
him, dropped his goose, took to his heels, and vanished amid the
labyrinth of small streets which lie at the back of Tottenham Court
Road. The roughs had also fled at the appearance of Peterson, so
that he was left in possession of the field of battle, and also of the
spoils of victory in the shape of this battered hat and a most
unimpeachable Christmas goose."
"Which surely he restored to their owner?"
"My dear fellow, there lies the problem. It is true that 'For Mrs.
Henry Baker was printed upon a small card which was tied to the bird's
left leg, and it is also true that the initials 'H. B.' are legible
upon the lining of this hat, but as there are some thousands of
Bakers, and some hundreds of Henry Bakers in this city of ours, it
is not easy to restore lost property to any one of them."
"What, then, did Peterson do?"
"He brought round both hat and goose to me on Christmas morning,
knowing that even the smallest problems are of interest to me. The
goose we retained until this morning, when there were signs that, in
spite of the slight frost, it would be well that it should be eaten
without unnecessary delay. Its finder has carried it off, therefore,
to fulfil the ultimate destiny of a goose, while I continue to
retain the hat of the unknown gentleman who lost his Christmas
dinner."
"Did he not advertise?"
"No."
"Then, what clue could you have as to his identity?"
"Only as much as we can deduce."
"From his hat?"
"Precisely."
"But you are joking. What can you gather from this old battered
felt?"
"Here is my lens. You know my methods. What can you gather
yourself as to the individuality of the man who has worn this
article?"
I took the tattered object in my hands and turned it over rather
ruefully. It was a very ordinary black hat of the usual round shape,
hard and much the worse for wear. The lining had been of red silk, but
was a good deal discoloured. There was no maker's name; but, as Holmes
had remarked, the initials "H. B." were scrawled upon one side. It was
pierced in the brim for a hat-securer, but the elastic was missing.
For the rest, it was cracked, exceedingly dusty, and spotted in
several places, although there seemed to have been some attempt to
hide the discoloured patches by smearing them with ink.
"I can see nothing," said I, handing it back to my friend.
"On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail, however,
to reason from what you see. You are too timid in drawing your
inferences."
"Then, pray tell me what it is that you can infer from this hat?"
He picked it up and gazed at it in the peculiar introspective
fashion which was characteristic of him. "It is perhaps less
suggestive than it might have been," he remarked, "and yet there are a
few inferences which are very distinct, and a few others which
represent at least a strong balance of probability. That the man was
highly intellectual is of course obvious upon the face of it, and also
that be was fairly well-to-do within the last three years, although he
has now fallen upon evil days. He had foresight, but has less now than
formerly, pointing to a moral retrogression, which, when taken with
the decline of his fortunes, seems to indicate some evil influence,
probably drink, at work upon him. This may account also for the
obvious fact that his wife has ceased to love him."
"My dear Holmes!"
"He has, however, retained some degree of self-respect," he
continued, disregarding my remonstrance. "He is a man who leads a
sedentary life, goes out little, is out of training entirely, is
middle-aged, has grizzled hair which he has had cut within the last
few days, and which he anoints with lime-cream. These are the more
patent facts which are to be deduced from his hat. Also, by the way,
that it is extremely improbable that he has gas laid on in his house."
"You are certainly joking, Holmes."
"Not in the least. Is it possible that even now, when I give you
these results, you are unable to see how they are attained?"
"I have no doubt that I am very stupid, but I must confess that I am
unable to follow you. For example, how did you deduce that this man
was intellectual?"
For answer Holmes clapped the hat upon his head. It came right
over the forehead and settled upon the bridge of his nose. "It is a
question of cubic capacity," said he; "a man with so large a brain
must have something in it."
"The decline of his fortunes, then?"
"This hat is three years old. These flat brims curled at the edge
came in then. It is a hat of the very best quality. Look at the band
of ribbed silk and the excellent lining. If this man could afford to
buy so expensive a hat three years ago, and has no hat since, then
he has assuredly gone down in the world."
"Well, that is clear enough, certainly. But how about the
foresight and the moral retrogression?"
Sherlock Holmes laughed. "Here is the foresight," said he, putting
his finger upon the little disc and loop of the hat-securer. "They are
never sold upon hats. If this man ordered one, it is a sign of a
certain amount of foresight, since he went out of his way to take this
precaution against the wind. But since we see that he has broken the
elastic and has not troubled to replace it, it is obvious that he
has less foresight now than formerly, which is a distinct proof of a
weakening nature. On the other hand, he has endeavoured to conceal
some of these stains upon the felt by daubing them with ink, which
is a sign that he has not entirely lost his self-respect."
"Your reasoning is certainly plausible."
"The further points, that he is middle-aged, that his hair is
grizzled, that it has been recently cut, and that he uses
lime-cream, are all to be gathered from a close examination of the
lower part of the lining. The lens discloses a large number of
hair-ends, clean cut by the scissors of the barber. They all appear to
be adhesive, and there is a distinct odour of lime-cream. This dust,
you will observe, is not the gritty, gray dust of the street but the
fluffy brown dust of the house, showing that it has been hung up
indoors most of the time; while the marks of moisture upon the
inside are proof positive that the wearer perspired very freely, and
could therefore, hardly be in the best of training."
"But his wife-you said that she had ceased to love him."
"This hat has not been brushed for weeks. When I see you, my dear
Watson, with a week's accumulation of dust upon your hat, and when
your wife allows you to go out in such a state, I shall fear that
you also have been unfortunate enough to lose your wife's affection."
"But he might be a bachelor."
"Nay, he was bringing home the goose as a peace-offering to his
wife. Remember the card upon the bird's leg."
"You have an answer to everything. But how on earth do you deduce
that the gas is not laid on in his house?"
"One tallow stain, or even two, might come by chance; but when I see
no less than five, I think that there can be little doubt that the
individual must be brought into frequent contact with burning
tallow-walks upstairs at night probably with his hat in one hand and a
guttering candle in the other. Anyhow, he never got tallow-stains from
a gas-jet. Are you satisfied?"
"Well, it is very ingenious," said I, laughing; "but since, as you
said just now, there has been no crime committed, and no harm done
save the loss of a goose, all this seems to be rather a waste of
energy."
Sherlock Holmes had opened his mouth to reply, when the door flew
open, and Peterson, the commissionaire, rushed into the apartment with
flushed cheeks and the face of a man who is dazed with astonishment.
"The goose, Mr. Holmes! The goose, sir!" he gasped.
"Eh? What of it, then? Has it returned to life and flapped off
through the kitchen window?" Holmes twisted himself round upon the
sofa to get a fairer view of the man's excited face.
"See here, sir! See what my wife found in its crop!" He held out his
hand and displayed upon the centre of the palm a brilliantly
scintillating blue stone, rather smaller than a bean in size, but of
such purity and radiance that it twinkled like an electric point in
the dark hollow of his hand.
Sherlock Holmes sat up with a whistle. "By Jove, Peterson!" said he,
"this is treasure trove indeed. I suppose you know what you have got?"
"A diamond, sir? A precious stone. It cuts into glass as though it
were putty."
"It's more than a precious stone. It is the precious stone."
"Not the Countess of Morcar's blue carbuncle!" I ejaculated.
"Precisely so. I ought to know its size and shape, seeing that I
have read the advertisement about it in The Times every day lately. It
is absolutely unique, and its value can only be conjectured, but the
reward offered of L1000 is certainly not within a twentieth part of
the market price."
"A thousand pounds! Great Lord of mercy!" The commissionaire plumped
down into a chair and stared from one to the other of us.
"That is the reward, and I have reason to know that there are
sentimental considerations in the background which would induce the
Countess to part with half her fortune if she could but recover the
gem."
"It was lost, if I remember aright, at the Hotel Cosmopolitan," I
remarked.
"Precisely so, on December 22nd, just five days ago. John Homer, a
plumber, was accused of having abstracted it from the lady's
jewel-case. The evidence against him was so strong that the case has
been referred to the Assizes. I have some account of the matter
here, I believe." He rummaged amid his newspapers, glancing over the
dates, until at last he smoothed one out, doubled it over, and read
the following paragraph:
-
"Hotel Cosmopolitan Jewel Robbery. John Homer, 26, plumber, was
brought up upon the charge of having upon the 22d inst., abstracted
from the jewel-case of the Countess of Morcar the valuable gem known
as the blue carbuncle. James Ryder, upper-attendant at the hotel, gave
his evidence to the effect that he had shown Hornerup to the
dressing-room of the Countess of Morcar upon the day of the robbery in
order that he might solder the second bar of the grate, which was
loose. He had remained with Hornersome little time, but had finally
been called away. On returning, he found that Hornerhad disappeared,
that the bureau had been forced open, and that the small morocco
casket in which, as it afterwards transpired, the Countess was
accustomed to keep her jewel, was lying empty upon the dressing-table.
Ryder instantly gave the alarm, and Hornerwas arrested the same
evening; but the stone could not be found either upon his person or in
his rooms. Catherine Cusack, maid to the Countess, deposed to having
heard Ryder's cry of dismay on discovering the robbery, and to
having rushed into the room, where she found matters as described by
the last witness. Inspector Bradstreet, B division, gave evidence as
to the arrest of Homer, who struggled frantically, and protested his
innocence in the strongest terms. Evidence of a previous conviction
for robbery having been given against the prisoner, the magistrate
refused to deal summarily with the offence, but referred it to the
Assizes. Homer, who had shown signs of intense emotion during the
proceedings, fainted away at the conclusion and was carried out of
court.
-
"Hum!" So much for the police-court," said Holmes thoughtfully,
tossing aside the paper. "The question for us now to solve is the
sequence of events leading from a rifled jewel-case at one end to
the crop of a goose in Tottenham Court Road at the other. You see,
Watson, our little deductions have suddenly assumed a much more
important and less innocent aspect. Here is the stone; the stone
came from the goose, and the goose came from Mr. Henry Baker, the
gentleman with the bad hat and all the other characteristics with
which I have bored you. So now we must set ourselves very seriously to
finding this gentleman and ascertaining what part he has played in
this little mystery. To do this, we must try the simplest means first,
and these lie undoubtedly in an advertisement in all the evening
papers. If this fail I shall have recourse to other methods."
"What will you say?"
"Give me a pencil and that slip of paper. Now, then:
-
"Found at the corner of Goodge Street a goose and a black felt
hat. Mr. Henry Baker can have the same by applying at 6:30 this
evening at 221B, Baker Street."
-
"That is clear and concise."
"Very. But will he see it?"
"Well, he is sure to keep an eye on the papers, since, to a poor
man, the loss was a heavy one. He was clearly so scared by his
mischance in breaking the window and by the approach of Peterson
that he thought of nothing but flight, but since then he must have
bitterly regretted the impulse which caused him to drop his bird.
Then, again, the introduction of his name will cause him to see it,
for everyone who knows him will direct his attention to it. Here you
are, Peterson, run down to the advertising agency and have this put in
the evening papers."
"In which, sir?"
"Oh, in the Globe, Star, Pall Mall, St. James's, Evening News
Standard, Echo, and any others that occur to you."
"Very well, sir. And this stone?"
"Ah, yes, I shall keep the stone. Thank you. And, I say, Peterson,
just buy a goose on your way back and leave it here with me, for we
must have one to give to this gentleman in place of the one which your
family is now devouring."
When the commissionaire had gone, Holmes took up the stone and
held it against the light. "It's a bonny thing," said he. "Just see
how it glints and sparkles. Of course it is a nucleus and focus of
crime. Every good stone is. They are the devil's pet baits. In the
larger and older jewels every facet may stand for a bloody deed.
This stone is not yet twenty years old. It was found in the banks of
the Amoy River in southern China and is remarkable in having every
characteristic of the carbuncle, save that it is blue in shade instead
of ruby red. In spite of its youth, it has already a sinister history.
There have been two murders, a vitriol-throwing, a suicide, and
several robberies brought about for the sake of this forty grain
weight of crystallized charcoal. Who would think that so pretty a
toy would be a purveyor to the gallows and the prison? I'll lock it up
in my strong box now and drop a line to the Countess to say that we
have it."
"Do you think that this man Horneris innocent?"
"I cannot tell."
"Well, then, do you imagine that this other one, Henry Baker, had
anything to do with the matter?"
"It is, I think, much more likely that Henry Baker is an
absolutely innocent man, who had no idea that the bird which he was
carrying was of considerably more value than if it were made of
solid gold. That, however, I shall determine by a very simple test
if we have an answer to our advertisement."
"And you can do nothing until then?"
"Nothing."
"In that case I shall continue my professional round. But I shall
come back in the evening at the hour you have mentioned, for I
should like to see the solution of so tangled a business."
"Very glad to see you. I dine at seven. There is a woodcock, I
believe. By the way, in view of recent occurrences, perhaps I ought to
ask Mrs. Hudson to examine its crop."
I had been delayed at a case, and it was a little after half-past
six when I found myself in Baker Street once more. As I approached the
house I saw a tall man in a Scotch bonnet with a coat which was
buttoned up to his chin waiting outside in the bright semicircle which
was thrown from the fanlight. just as I arrived the door was opened,
and we were shown up together to Holmes's room.
"Mr. Henry Baker, I believe," said he, rising from his armchair
and greeting his visitor with the easy air of geniality which he could
so readily assume. "Pray take this chair by the fire, Mr. Baker. It is
a cold night, and I observe that your circulation is more adapted
for summer than for winter. Ah, Watson, you have just come at the
right time. Is that your hat, Mr. Baker?"
"Yes, sir, that is undoubtedly my hat."
He was a large man with rounded shoulders, a massive head, and a
broad, intelligent face, sloping down to a pointed beard of grizzled
brown. A touch of red in nose and cheeks, with a slight tremor of
his extended hand, recalled Holmes's surmise as to his habits. His
rusty black frock-coat was buttoned right up in front, with the collar
turned up, and his lank wrists protruded from his sleeves without a
sign of cuff or shirt. He spoke in a slow staccato fashion, choosing
his words with care, and gave the impression generally of a man of
learning and letters who had at the hands of fortune.
"We have retained these things for some days," said Holmes, "because
we expected to see an advertisement from you giving your address. I am
at a loss to know now why you did not advertise."
Our visitor gave a rather shamefaced laugh. "Shillings have not been
so plentiful with me as they once were," he remarked. "I had no
doubt that the gang of roughs who assaulted me had carried off both my
hat and the bird. I did not care to spend more money in a hopeless
attempt at recovering them."
"Very naturally. By the way, about the bird, we were compelled to
eat it."
"To eat it!" Our visitor half rose from his chair in his excitement.
"Yes, it would have been of no use to anyone had we not done so. But
I presume that this other goose upon the sideboard, which is about the
same weight and perfectly fresh, will answer your purpose equally
well?"
"Oh, certainly, certainly," answered Mr. Baker with a sigh of
relief.
"Of course, we still have the feathers, legs, crop, and so on of
your own bird, so if you wish-"
The man burst into a hearty laugh. "They might be useful to me as
relics of my adventure," said he, "but beyond that I can hardly see
what use the disjecta menbra of my late acquaintance are going to be
to me. No, sir, I think that, with your permission, I will confine
my attentions to the excellent bird which I perceive upon the
sideboard."
Sherlock Holmes glanced sharply across at me with a slight shrug
of his shoulders.
"There is your hat, then, and there your bird," said he. "By the
way, would it bore you to tell me where you got the other one from?
I am somewhat of a fowl fancier, and I have seldom seen a better grown
goose."
"Certainly, sir," said Baker, who had risen and tucked his newly
gained property under his arm. "There are a few of us who frequent the
Alpha Inn, near the Museum-we are to be found in the Museum itself
during the day, you understand. This year our good host, Windigate
by name, instituted a goose club, by which, on consideration of some
few pence every week, we were each to receive a bird at Christmas.
My pence were duly paid, and the rest is familiar to you. I am much
indebted to you, sir, for a Scotch bonnet is fitted neither to my
years nor my gravity." With a comical pomposity of manner he bowed
solemnly to both of us and strode off upon his way.
"So much for Mr. Henry Baker," said Holmes when he had closed the
door behind him. "It is quite certain that he knows nothing whatever
about the matter. Are you hungry, Watson?"
"Not particularly."
"Then I suggest that we turn our dinner into a supper and follow
up this clue while it is still hot."
"By all means."
It was a bitter night, so we drew on our ulsters and wrapped cravats
about our throats. Outside, the stars were shining coldly in a
cloudless sky, and the breath of the passers-by blew out into smoke
like so many pistol shots. Our footfalls rang out crisply and loudly
as we swung through the doctors' quarter, Wimpole Street, Harley
Street, and so through Wigmore Street into Oxford Street. In a quarter
of an hour we were in Bloomsbury at the Alpha Inn, which is a small
public-house at the corner of one of the streets which runs down into
Holborn. Holmes pushed open the door of the private bar and ordered
two glasses of beer from the ruddyfaced, white-aproned landlord.
"Your beer should be excellent if it is as good as your geese," said
he.
"My geese!" The man seemed surprised.
"Yes. I was speaking only half an hour ago to Mr. Henry Baker, who
was a member of your goose club."
"Ah! yes, I see. But you see, sir, them's not our geese."
"Indeed! Whose, then?"
"Well, I got the two dozen from a salesman in Covent Garden."
"Indeed? I know some of them. Which was it?"
"Breckinridge is his name."
"Ah! I don't know him. Well, here's your good health, landlord,
and prosperity to your house. Good-night."
"Now for Mr. Breckinridge," he continued, buttoning up his coat as
we came out into the frosty air. "Remember, Watson, that though we
have so homely a thing as a goose at one end of this chain, we have at
the other a man who will certainly get seven years' penal servitude
unless we can establish his innocence. It is possible that our inquiry
may but confirm his guilt; but, in any case, we have a line of
investigation which has been missed by the police, and which a
singular chance has placed in our hands. Let us follow it out to the
bitter end. Faces to the south, then, and quick march!"
We passed across Holborn, down Endell Street, and so through a
zigzag of slums to Covent Garden Market. One of the largest stalls
bore the name of Breckinridge upon it, and the proprietor, a
horsy-looking man, with a sharp face and trim side whiskers, was
helping a boy to put up the shutters.
"Good-evening. It's a cold night," said Holmes.
The salesman nodded and shot a questioning glance at my companion.
"Sold out of geese, I see," continued Holmes, pointing at the bare
slabs of marble.
"Let you have five hundred to-morrow morning."
"That's no good."
"Well, there are some on the stall with the gas-flare."
"Ah, but I was recommended to you."
"Who by?"
"The landlord of the Alpha."
"Oh, yes; I sent him a couple of dozen."
"Fine birds they were, too. Now where did you get them from?"
To my surprise the question provoked a burst of anger from the
salesman.
"Now, then, mister," said he, with his bead cocked and his arms
akimbo, "what are you driving at? Let's have it straight, now."
"It is straight enough. I should like to know who sold you the geese
which you supplied to the Alpha."
"Well, then, I shan't tell you. So now!"
"Oh, it is a matter of no importance; but I don't know why you
should be so warm over such a trifle."
"Warm! You'd be as warm, maybe, if you were as pestered as I am.
When I pay good money for a good article there should be an end of the
business; but it's 'Where are the geese?' and 'Who did you sell the
geese to?' and 'What will you take for the geese?' One would think
they were the only geese in the world, to hear the fuss that is made
over them."
"Well, I have no connection with any other people who have been
making inquiries," said Holmes carelessly. "If you won't tell us the
bet is off, that is all. But I'm always ready to back my opinion on
a matter of fowls, and I have a fiver on it that the bird I ate is
country bred."
"Well, then, you've lost your fiver, for it's town bred," snapped
the salesman.
"It's nothing of the kind."
"I say it is."
"I don't believe it."
"D'you think you know more about, fowls than I, who have handled
them ever since I was a nipper? I tell you, all those birds that
went to the Alpha were town bred."
"You'll never persuade me to believe that."
"Will you bet, then?"
"It's merely taking your money, for I know that I am right. But I'll
have a sovereign on with you, just to teach you not to be obstinate."
The salesman chuckled grimly. "Bring me the books, Bill," said he.
The small boy brought round a small thin volume and a great
greasy-backed one, laying them out together beneath the hanging lamp.
"Now then, Mr. Cocksure," said the salesman, "I thought that I was
out of geese, but before I finish you'll find that there is still
one left in my shop. You see this little book?"
"Well?"
"That's the list of the folk from whom I buy. D'you see? Well, then,
here on this page are the country folk, and the numbers after their
names are where their accounts are in the big ledger. Now, then! You
see this other page in red ink? Well, that is a list of my town
suppliers. Now, look at that third name. Just read it out to me."
"Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road-249," read Holmes.
"Quite so. Now turn that up in the ledger."
Holmes turned to the page indicated. "Here you are, 'Mrs.
Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road, egg and poultry supplier.'"
"Now, then, what's the last entry?"
"'December 22nd. Twenty-four geese at 7s. 6d.'"
"Quite so. There you are. And underneath?"
"'Sold to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha, at 12S.'"
"What have you to say now?"
Sherlock Holmes looked deeply chagrined. He drew a sovereign from
his pocket and threw it down upon the slab, turning away with the
air of a man whose disgust is too deep for words. A few yards off he
stopped under a lamp-post and laughed in the hearty, noiseless fashion
which was peculiar to him.
"When you see a man with whiskers of that cut and the 'Pink 'un'
protruding out of his pocket, you can always draw him by a bet,"
said he. "I daresay that if I had put L100 down in front of him,
that man would not have given me such complete information as was
drawn from him by the idea that he was doing me on a wager. Well,
Watson, we are, I fancy, nearing the end of our quest, and the only
point which remains to be determined is whether we should go on to
this Mrs. Oakshott to-night, or whether we should reserve it for
to-morrow. It is clear from what that surly fellow said that there are
others besides ourselves who are anxious about the matter, and I
should-"
His remarks were suddenly cut short by a loud hubbub which broke out
from the stall which we had just left. Turning round we saw a little
rat-faced fellow standing in the centre of the circle of yellow
light which was thrown by the swinging lamp, while Breckinridge, the
salesman, framed in the door of his stall, was shaking his fists
fiercely at the cringing figure.
"I've had enough of you and your geese," he shouted. "I wish you
were all at the devil together. If you come pestering me any more with
your silly talk I'll set the dog at you. You bring Mrs. Oakshott
here and I'll answer her, but what have you to do with it? Did I buy
the geese off you?"
"No; but one of them was mine all the same," whined the little man.
"Well, then, ask Mrs. Oakshott for it."
"She told me to ask you."
"Well, you can ask the King of Proosia, for all I care. I've had
enough of it. Get out of this!" He rushed fiercely forward, and the
inquirer flitted away into the darkness.
"Ha! this may save us a visit to Brixton Road," whispered Holmes.
"Come with me, and we will see what is to be made of this fellow."
Striding through the scattered knots of people who lounged round the
flaring stalls, my companion speedily overtook the little man and
touched him upon the shoulder. He sprang round, and I could see in the
gas-light that every vestige of colour had been driven from his face.
"Who are you, then? What do you want?" he asked in a quavering
voice.
"You will excuse me," said Holmes blandly, "but I could not help
overhearing the questions which you put to the salesman just now. I
think that I could be of assistance to you."
"You? Who are you? How could you know anything of the matter?"
"My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other
people don't know."
"But you can know nothing of this?"
"Excuse me, I know everything of it. You are endeavouring to trace
some geese which were sold by Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton Road, to a
salesman named Breckinridge, by him in turn to Mr. Windigate, of the
Alpha, and by him to his club, of which Mr. Henry Baker is a member."
"Oh, sir, you are the very man whom I have longed to meet," cried
the little fellow with outstretched hands and quivering fingers. "I
can hardly explain to you how interested I am in this matter."
Sherlock Holmes hailed a four-wheeler which was passing. "In that
case we had better discuss it in a cosy room rather than in this
wind-swept market-place," said he. "But pray tell me, before we go
farther, who it is that I have the pleasure of assisting."
The man hesitated for an instant. "My name is John Robinson," he
answered with a sidelong glance.
"No, no; the real name," said Holmes sweetly. "It is always
awkward doing business with an alias."
A flush sprang to the white cheeks of the stranger. "Well, then,"
said he, "my real name is James Ryder.'
"Precisely so. Head attendant at the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Pray step
into the cab, and I shall soon be able to tell you everything which
you would wish to know."
The little man stood glancing from one to the other of us with
half-frightened, half-hopeful eyes, as one who is not sure whether
he is on the verge of a windfall or of a catastrophe. Then he
stepped into the cab, and in half an hour we were back in the
sitting-room at Baker Street. Nothing had been said during our
drive, but the high, thin breathing of our new companion, and the
claspings and unclaspings of his hands, spoke of the nervous tension
within him.
"Here we are!" said Holmes cheerily as we filed into the room.
"The fire looks very seasonable in this weather. You look cold, Mr.
Ryder. Pray take the basketchair. I will just put on my slippers
before we settle this little matter of yours. Now, then! You want to
know what became of those geese?"
"Yes, sir."
"Or rather, I fancy, of that goose. It was one bird, I imagine, in
which you were interested-white, with a black bar across the tail."
Ryder quivered with emotion. "Oh, sir," he cried, "can you tell me
where it went to?"
"It came here."
"Here?"
"Yes and a most remarkable bird it proved. I don't wonder that you
should take an interest in it. It laid an egg after it was dead-the
bonniest, brightest little blue egg that ever was seen. I have it here
in my museum."
Our visitor staggered to his feet and clutched the mantelpiece
with his right hand. Holmes unlocked his strong-box and held up the
blue carbuncle, which shone out like a star, with a cold, brilliant,
many-pointed radiance. Ryder stood glaring with a drawn face,
uncertain whether to claim or to disown it.
"The game's up, Ryder," said Holmes quietly. "Hold up, man, or
you'll be into the fire! Give him an arm back into his chair,
Watson. He's not got blood enough to go in for felony with impunity.
Give him a dash of brandy. So! Now he looks a little more human.
What a shrimp it is, to be sure!"
For a moment he had staggered and nearly fallen, but the brandy
brought a tinge of colour into his cheeks, and he sat staring with
frightened eyes at his accuser.
"I have almost every link in my hands, and all the proofs which I
could possibly need, so there is little which you need tell me. Still,
that little may as well be cleared up to make the case complete. You
had heard, Ryder, of this blue stone of the Countess of Morcar's?"
"It was Catherine Cusack who told me of it" said he in a crackling
voice.
"I see-her ladyship's waiting-maid. Well, the temptation of sudden
wealth so easily acquired was too much for you, as it has been for
better men before you; but you were not very scrupulous in the means
you used. It seems to me, Ryder, that there is the making of a very
pretty villain in you. You knew that this man Homer, the plumber,
had been concerned in some such matter before, and that suspicion
would rest the more readily upon him. What did you do, then? You
made some small job in my lady's room-you and your confederate
Cusack-and you managed that he should be the man sent for. Then.
when he had left, you rifled the jewel-case, raised the alarm, and had
this unfortunate man arrested. You then-"
Ryder threw himself down suddenly upon the rug and clutched at my
companion's knees. "For God's sake, have mercy!" he shrieked. "Think
of my father! of my mother! It would break their hearts. I never
went wrong before! I never will again. I swear it. I'll swear it on
a Bible. Oh, don't bring it into court! For Christ's sake, don't!"
"Get back into your chair!" said Holmes sternly. "It is very well to
cringe and crawl now, but you thought little enough of this poor
Hornerin the dock for a crime of which he knew nothing."
"I will fly, Mr. Holmes. I will leave the country, sir. Then the
charge against him will break down."
"Hum! We will talk about that. And now let us hear a true account of
the next act. How came the stone into the goose, and how came the
goose into the open market? Tell us the truth, for there lies your
only hope of safety."
Ryder passed his tongue over his parched lips. "I will tell you it
just as it happened, sir," said he. "When Hornerhad been arrested,
it seemed to me that it would be best for me to get away with the
stone at once, for I did not know at what moment the police might
not take it into their heads to search me and my room. There was no
place about the hotel where it would be safe. I went out, as if on
some commission, and I made for my sister's house. She had married a
man named Oakshott, and lived in Brixton Road, where she fattened
fowls for the market. All the way there every man I met seemed to me
to be a policeman or a detective; and, for all that it was a cold
night, the sweat was pouring down my face before I came to the Brixton
Road. My sister asked me what was the matter, and why I was so pale;
but I told her that I had been upset by the jewel robbery at the
hotel. Then I went into the back yard and smoked a pipe, and
wondered what it would be best to do.
"I had a friend once called Maudsley, who went to the bad, and has
just been serving his time in Pentonville. One day he had met me,
and fell into talk about the ways of thieves, and how they could get
rid of what they stole. I knew that he would be true to me, for I knew
one or two things about him; so I made up my mind to go right on to
Kilburn, where he lived, and take him into my confidence. He would
show me how to turn the stone into money. But how to get to him in
safety? I thought of the agonies I had gone through in coming from the
hotel. I might at any moment be seized and searched, and there would
be the stone in my waistcoat pocket. I was leaning against the wall at
the time and looking at the geese which were waddling about round my
feet, and suddenly an idea came into my head which showed me how I
could beat the best detective that ever lived.
"My sister had told me some weeks before that I might have the
pick of her geese for a Christmas present and I knew that she was
always as good as her word. I would take my goose now, and in it I
would carry my stone to Kilburn. There was a little shed in the
yard, and behind this I drove one of the birds-a fine big one,
white, with a barred tail. I caught it, and, prying its bill open, I
thrust the stone down its throat as far as my finger could reach.
The bird gave a gulp, and I felt the stone pass along its gullet and
down into its crop. But the creature flapped and struggled, and out
came my sister to know what was the matter. As I turned to speak to
her the brute broke loose and fluttered off among the others.
"'Whatever were you doing with that bird, Jem?' says she.
"'Well,' said I, 'you said you'd give me one for Christmas, and I
was feeling which was the fattest.'
"'Oh,' says she, 'we've set yours aside for you- Jem's bird, we
call it. It's the big white one over yonder. There's twenty-six of
them, which makes one for you, and one for us, and two dozen for the
market.'
"'Thank you, Maggie,' says I; 'but if it is all the same to you, I'd
rather have that one I was handling just now.'
"'The other is a good three pound heavier,' said she, 'and we
fattened it expressly for you.'
"'Never mind. Ill have the other, and I'll take it now,' said I.
"'Oh, just as you like,' said she, a little huffed. 'Which is it you
want, then?'
"'That white one with the barred tail, right in the middle of the
flock.'
"'Oh, very well. Kill it and take it with you.'
"Well, I did what she said, Mr. Holmes, and I carried the bird all
the way to Kilburn. I told my pal what I had done, for he was a man
that it was easy to tell a thing like that to. He laughed until he
choked, and we got a knife and opened the goose. My heart turned to
water, for there was no sign of the stone, and I knew that some
terrible mistake had occurred. I left the bird, rushed back to my
sister's, and hurried into the back yard. There was not a bird to be
seen there.
"'Where are they all, Maggie?' I cried.
"'Gone to the dealer's, Jem.'
"'Which dealer's?'
"'Breckinridge, of Covent Garden.'
"'But was there another with a barred tail?' I asked, 'the same as
the one I chose?'
"'Yes, Jem; there were two barred-tailed ones, and I could never
tell them apart.'
"Well, then, of course I saw it all, and I ran off as hard as my
feet would carry me to this man Breckinridge; but he had sold the
lot at once, and not one word would he tell me as to where they had
gone. You heard him yourselves to-night. Well, he has always
answered me like that. My sister thinks that I am going mad. Sometimes
I think that I am myself. And now-and now I am myself a branded thief,
without ever having touched the wealth for which I sold my
character. God help me! God help me!" He burst into convulsive
sobbing, with his face buried in his hands.
There was a long silence, broken only by his heavy breathing, and by
the measured tapping of Sherlock Holmes's finger-tips upon the edge of
the table. Then my friend rose and threw open the door.
"Get out!" said he.
"What, sir! Oh, Heaven bless you!"
"No more words. Get out!"
And no more words were needed. There was a rush, a clatter upon
the stairs, the bang of a door, and the crisp rattle of running
footfalls from the street.
"After all, Watson," said Holmes, reaching up his hand for his
clay pipe, "I am not retained by the police to supply their
deficiencies. If Hornerwere in danger it would be another thing, but
this fellow will not appear against him, and the case must collapse. I
suppose that I am commuting a felony, but it is just possible that I
am saving a soul. This fellow will not go wrong again; he is too
terribly frightened. Send him to jail now, and you make him a
jail-bird for life. Besides, it is the season of forgiveness. Chance
has put in our way a most singular and whimsical problem, and its
solution is its own reward. If you will have the goodness to touch the
bell, Doctor, we will begin another investigation, in which, also a
bird will be the chief feature."
-
-
-THE END-

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1893
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE ADVENTURE OF THE CARDBOARD BOX
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
In choosing a few typical cases which illustrate the remarkable
mental qualities of my friend, Sherlock Holmes, I have endeavoured, as
far as possible, to select those which presented the minimum of
sensationalism, while offering a fair field for his talents. It is,
however, unfortunately impossible entirely to separate the sensational
from the criminal, and a chronicler is left in the dilemma that he
must either sacrifice details which are essential to his statement and
so give a false impression of the problem, or he must use matter which
chance, and not choice, has provided him with. With this short preface
I shall turn to my notes of what proved to be a strange, though a
peculiarly terrible, chain of events.
It was a blazing hot day in August. Baker Street was like an oven,
and the glare of the sunlight upon the yellow brickwork of the house
across the road was painful to the eye. It was hard to believe that
these were the same walls which loomed so gloomily through the fogs of
winter. Our blinds were half-drawn, and Holmes lay curled upon the
sofa, reading and re-reading a letter which he had received by the
morning post. For myself, my term of service in India had trained me
to stand heat better than cold, and a thermometer at ninety was no
hardship. But the morning paper was uninteresting. Parliament had
risen. Everybody was out of town, and I yearned for the glades of
the New Forest or the shingle of Southsea. A depleted bank account had
caused me to postpone my holiday, and as to my companion, neither
the country nor the sea presented the slightest attraction to him.
He loved to lie in the very centre of five millions of people, with
his filaments stretching out and running through them, responsive to
every little rumour or suspicion of unsolved crime. Appreciation of
nature found no place among his many gifts, and his only change was
when he turned his mind from the evil-doer of the town to track down
his brother of the country.
Finding that Holmes was too absorbed for conversation I had tossed
aside the barren paper, and leaning back in my chair I fell into a
brown study. Suddenly my companion's voice broke in upon my thoughts:
"You are right, Watson," said he. "It does seem a most
preposterous way of settling a dispute."
"Most preposterous!" I exclaimed, and then suddenly realizing how he
had echoed the inmost thought of my soul, I sat up in my chair and
stared at him in blank amazement.
"What is this, Holmes?" I cried. "This is beyond anything which I
could have imagined."
He laughed heartily at my perplexity.
"You remember," said he, "that some little time ago when I read
you the passage in one of Poe's sketches in which a close reasoner
follows the unspoken thoughts of his companion, you were inclined to
treat the matter as a mere tour-de-force of the author. On my
remarking that I was constantly in the habit of doing the same thing
you expressed incredulity."
"Oh, no!"
"Perhaps not with your tongue, my dear Watson, but certainly with
your eyebrows. So when I saw you throw down your paper and enter
upon a train of thought, I was very happy to have the opportunity of
reading it off, and eventually of breaking into it, as a proof that
I had been in rapport with you."
But I was still far from satisfied. "In the example which you read
to me," said I, "the reasoner drew his conclusions from the actions of
the man whom he observed. If I remember right, he stumbled over a heap
of stones, looked up at the stars, and so on. But I have been seated
quietly in my chair, and what clues can I have given you?"
"You do yourself an injustice. The features are given to man as
the means by which he shall express his emotions, and yours are
faithful servants."
"Do you mean to say that you read my train of thoughts from my
features?"
"Your features and especially your eyes. Perhaps you cannot yourself
recall how your reverie commenced?"
"No, I cannot."
"Then I will tell you. After throwing down your paper, which was the
action which drew my attention to you, you sat for half a minute
with a vacant expression. Then your eyes fixed themselves upon your
newly framed picture of General Gordon, and I saw by the alteration in
your face that a train of thought had been started. But it did not
lead very far. Your eyes flashed across to the unframed portrait of
Henry Ward Beecher which stands upon the top of your books. Then you
glanced up at the wall, and of course your meaning was obvious. You
were thinking that if the portrait were framed it would just cover
that bare space and correspond with Gordon's picture over there."
"You have followed me wonderfully!" I exclaimed.
"So far I could hardly have gone astray. But now your thoughts
went back to Beecher, and you looked hard across as if you were
studying the character in his features. Then your eyes ceased to
pucker, but you continued to look across, and your face was
thoughtful. You were recalling the incidents of Beecher's career. I
was well aware that you could not do this without thinking of the
mission which he undertook on behalf of the North at the time of the
Civil War, for I remember your expressing your passionate
indignation at the way in which he was received by the more
turbulent of our people. You felt so strongly about it that I knew you
could not think of Beecher without thinking of that also. When a
moment later I saw your eyes wander away from the picture, I suspected
that your mind had now turned to the Civil War, and when I observed
that your lips set, your eyes sparkled, and your hands clenched I
was positive that you were indeed thinking of the gallantry which
was shown by both sides in that desperate struggle. But then, again,
your face grew sadder; you shook your head. You were dwelling upon the
sadness and horror and useless waste of life. Your hand stole
towards your own old wound and a smile quivered on your lips, which
showed me that the ridiculous side of this method of settling
international questions had forced itself upon your mind. At this
point I agreed with you that it was preposterous and was glad to
find that all my deductions had been correct."
"Absolutely!" said I. "And now that you have explained it, I confess
that I am as amazed as before."
"It was very superficial, my dear Watson, I assure you. I should not
have intruded it upon your attention had you not shown some
incredulity the other day. But I have in my hands here a little
problem which may prove to be more difficult of solution than my small
essay in thought reading. Have you observed in the paper a short
paragraph referring to the remarkable contents of a packet sent
through the post to Miss Cushing, of Cross Street Croydon?"
"No, I saw nothing."
"Ah! then you must have overlooked it. Just toss it over to me. Here
it is, under the financial column. Perhaps you would be good enough to
read it aloud."
I picked up the paper which he had thrown back to me and read the
paragraph indicated. It was headed, "A Gruesome Packet."
-
"Miss Susan Cushing, living at Cross Street, Croydon, has been made
the victim of what must be regarded as a peculiarly revolting
practical joke unless some more sinister meaning should prove to be
attached to the incident. At two o'clock yesterday afternoon a small
packet, wrapped in brown paper, was handed in by the postman. A
cardboard box was inside, which was filled with coarse salt. On
emptying this, Miss Cushing was horrified to find two human ears,
apparently quite freshly severed. The box had been sent by parcel post
from Belfast upon the morning before. There is no indication as to the
sender, and the matter is the more mysterious as Miss Cushing, who
is a maiden lady of fifty, has led a most retired life, and has so few
acquaintances or correspondents that it is a rare event for her to
receive anything through the post. Some years ago, however, when she
resided at Penge, she let apartments in her house to three young
medical students, whom she was obliged to get rid of on account of
their noisy and irregular habits. The police are of opinion that
this outrage may have been perpetrated upon Miss Cushing by these
youths, who owed her a grudge and who hoped to frighten her by sending
her these relics of the dissecting-rooms. Some probability is lent
to the theory by the fact that one of these students came from the
north of Ireland, and, to the best of Miss Cushing's belief, from
Belfast. In the meantime, the matter is being actively investigated,
Mr. Lestrade, one of the very smartest of our detective officers,
being in charge of the case."
-
"So much for the Daily Chronicle," said Holmes as I finished
reading. "Now for our friend Lestrade. I had a note from him this
morning, in which he says:
-
"I think that this case is very much in your line. We have every
hope of clearing the matter up, but we find a little difficulty in
getting anything to work upon. We have, of course, wired to the
Belfast post-office, but a large number of parcels were handed in upon
that day, and they have no means of identifying this particular one,
or of remembering the sender. The box is a half-pound box of
honeydew tobacco and does not help us in any way. The medical
student theory still appears to me to be the most feasible, but if you
should have a few hours to spare I should be very happy to see you out
here. I shall be either at the house or in the police-station all day.
-
What say you, Watson? Can you rise superior to the heat and run down
to Croydon with me on the off chance of a case for your annals?"
"I was longing for something to do."
"You shall have it then. Ring for our boots and tell them to order a
cab. I'll be back in a moment when I have changed my dressing-gown and
filled my cigar-case."
A shower of rain fell while we were in the train, and the heat was
far less oppressive in Croydon than in town. Holmes had sent on a
wire, so that Lestrade, as wiry, as dapper, and as ferret-like as
ever, was waiting for us at the station. A walk of five minutes took
us to Cross Street, where Miss Cushing resided.
It was a very long street of two-story brick houses, neat and
prim, with whitened stone steps, and little groups of aproned women
gossiping at the doors. Halfway down, Lestrade stopped and tapped at a
door, which was opened by a small servant girl. Miss Cushing was
sitting in the front room, into which we were ushered. She was a
placid-faced woman, with large, gentle eyes, and grizzled hair curving
down over her temples on each side. A worked antimacassar lay upon her
lap and a basket of coloured silks stood upon a stool beside her.
"They are in the outhouse, those dreadful things," said she as
Lestrade entered. I wish that you would take them away altogether."
"So I shall, Miss Cushing. I only kept them here until my friend,
Mr. Holmes, should have seen them in your presence."
"Why in my presence, sir?"
"In case he wished to ask any questions."
"What is the use of asking me questions when I tell you I know
nothing whatever about it?"
"Quite so, madam," said Holmes in his soothing way. "I have no doubt
that you have been annoyed more than enough already over this
business."
"Indeed, I have, sir. I am a quiet woman and live a retired life. It
is something new for me to see my name in the papers and to find the
police in my house. I won't have those things in here, Mr. Lestrade.
If you wish to see them you must go to the outhouse."
It was a small shed in the narrow garden which ran behind the house.
Lestrade went in and brought out a yellow cardboard box, with a
piece of brown paper and some string. There was a bench at the end
of the path, and we all sat down while Holmes examined, one by one,
the articles which Lestrade had handed to him.
"The string is exceedingly interesting," he remarked, holding it
up to the light and sniffing at it. "What do you make of this
string, Lestrade?"
"It has been tarred."
"Precisely. It is a piece of tarred twine. You have also, no
doubt, remarked that Miss Cushing has cut the cord with a scissors, as
can be seen by the double fray on each side. This is of importance."
"I cannot see the importance," said Lestrade.
"The importance lies in the fact that the knot is left intact, and
that this knot is of a peculiar character."
"It is very neatly tied. I had already made a note to that effect"
said Lestrade complacently.
"So much for the string, then," said Holmes, smiling, "now for the
box wrapper. Brown paper, with a distinct smell of coffee. What did
you not observe it? I think there can be no doubt of it. Address
printed in rather straggling characters: 'Miss S. Cushing, Cross
Street, Croydon.' Done with a broad-pointed pen, probably a J and with
very inferior ink. The word 'Croydon' has been originally spelled with
an 'i,' which has been changed to 'y.' The parcel was directed,
then, by a man- the printing is distinctly masculine- of limited
education and unacquainted with the town of Croydon. So far, so
good! The box is a yellow, half-pound honeydew box, with nothing
distinctive save two thumb marks at the left bottom corner. It is
filled with rough salt of the quality used for preserving hides and
other of the coarser commercial purposes. And embedded in it are these
very singular enclosures."
He took out the two ears as he spoke, and laying a board across
his knee he examined them minutely, while Lestrade and I, bending
forward on each side of him, glanced alternately at these dreadful
relics and at the thoughtful, eager face of our companion. Finally
he returned them to the box once more and sat for a while in deep
meditation.
"You have observed, of course," said he at last, "that the ears
are not a pair."
"Yes, I have noticed that. But if this were the practical joke of
some students from the dissecting-rooms, it would be as easy for
them to send two odd ears as a pair.
"Precisely. But this is not a practical joke."
"You are sure of it?"
"The presumption is strongly against it. Bodies in the
dissecting-rooms are injected with preservative fluid. These ears bear
no signs of this. They are fresh, too. They have been cut off with a
blunt instrument, which would hardly happen if a student had done
it. Again, carbolic or rectified spirits would be the preservatives
which would suggest themselves to the medical mind, certainly not
rough salt. I repeat that there is no practical joke here, but that we
are investigating a serious crime."
A vague thrill ran through me as I listened to my companion's
words and saw the stern gravity which had hardened his features.
This brutal preliminary seemed to shadow forth some strange and
inexplicable horror in the background. Lestrade, however, shook his
head like a man who is only half convinced.
"There are objections to the joke theory, no doubt" said he, "but
there are much stronger reasons against the other. We know that this
woman has led a most quiet and respectable life at Penge and here
for the last twenty years. She has hardly been away from her home
for a day during that time. Why on earth, then, should any criminal
send her the proofs of his guilt, especially as, unless she is a
most consummate actress, she understands quite as little of the matter
as we do?"
"That is the problem which we have to solve," Holmes answered,
"and for my part I shall set about it by presuming that my reasoning
is correct and that a double murder has been committed. One of these
ears is a woman's, small, finely formed, and pierced for an earring.
The other is a man's, sun-burned, discoloured, and also pierced for an
earring. These two people are presumably dead, or we should have heard
their story before now. To-day is Friday. The packet was posted on
Thursday morning. The tragedy, then, occurred on Wednesday or Tuesday,
or earlier. If the two people were murdered, who but their murderer
would have sent this sign of his work to Miss Cushing? We may take
it that the sender of the packet is the man whom we want. But he
must have some strong reason for sending Miss Cushing this packet.
What reason then? It must have been to tell her that the deed was
done! or to pain her, perhaps. But in that case she knows who it is.
Does she know? I doubt it. If she knew, why should she call the police
in? She might have buried the ears, and no one would have been the
wiser. That is what she would have done if she had wished to shield
the criminal. But if she does not wish to shield him she would give
his name. There is a tangle here which needs straightening out." He
had been talking in a high, quick voice, staring blankly up over the
garden fence, but now he sprang briskly to his feet and walked towards
the house.
"I have a few questions to ask Miss Cushing," said he.
"In that case I may leave you here" said Lestrade, "for I have
another small business on hand. I think that I have nothing further to
learn from Miss Cushing. You will find me at the police-station."
"We shall look in on our way to the train," answered Holmes. A
moment later he and I were back in the front room, where the impassive
lady was still quietly working away at her antimacassar. She put it
down on her lap as we entered and looked at us with her frank,
searching blue eyes.
"I am convinced, sir," she said, "that this matter is a mistake, and
that the parcel was never meant for me at all. I have said this
several times to the gentleman from Scotland Yard, but he simply
laughs at me. I have not an enemy in the world, as far as I know, so
why should anyone play me such a trick?"
"I am coming to be of the same opinion, Miss Cushing," said
Holmes, taking a seat beside her. "I think that it is more than
probable-" he paused, and I was surprised, on glancing round to see
that he was staring with singular intentness at the lady's profile.
Surprise and satisfaction were both for an instant to be read upon his
eager face, though when she glanced round to find out the cause of his
silence he had become as demure as ever. I stared hard myself at her
flat, grizzled hair, her trim cap, her little gilt earrings, her
placid features; but I could see nothing which could account for my
companion's evident excitement.
"There were one or two questions-"
"Oh, I am weary of questions!" cried Miss Cushing impatiently.
"You have two sisters, I believe."
"How could you know that?"
"I observed the very instant that I entered the room that you have a
portrait group of three ladies upon the mantelpiece, one of whom is
undoubtedly yourself, while the others are so exceedingly like you
that there could be no doubt of the relationship."
"Yes, you are quite right. Those are my sisters, Sarah and Mary."
"And here at my elbow is another portrait taken at Liverpool, of
your younger sister, in the company of a man who appears to be a
steward by his uniform. I observe that she was unmarried at the time."
"You are very quick at observing."
"That is my trade."
"Well, you are quite right. But she was married to Mr. Browner a few
days afterwards. He was on the South American line when that was
taken, but he was so fond of her that he couldn't abide to leave her
for so long, and he got into the Liverpool and London boats."
"Ah, the Conqueror, perhaps?"
"No, the May Day, when last I heard. Jim came down here to see me
once. That was before he broke the pledge, but afterwards he would
always take drink when he was ashore, and a little drink would send
him stark, staring mad. Ah! it was a bad day that ever he took a glass
in his hand again. First he dropped me, then he quarrelled with Sarah,
and now that Mary has stopped writing we don't know how things are
going with them."
It was evident that Miss Cushing had come upon a subject on which
she felt very deeply. Like most people who lead a lonely life, she was
shy at first, but ended by becoming extremely communicative. She
told us many details about her brother-in-law the steward, and then
wandering off on the subject of her former lodgers, the medical
students, she gave us a long account of their delinquencies, with
their names and those of their hospitals. Holmes listened
attentively to everything, throwing in a question from time to time.
"About your second sister, Sarah," said he. "I wonder, since you are
both maiden ladies, that you do not keep house together."
"Ah! you don't know Sarah's temper or you would wonder no more. I
tried it when I came to Croydon, and we kept on until about two months
ago, when we had to part. I don't want to say a word against my own
sister, but she was always meddlesome and hard to please, was Sarah."
"You say that she quarrelled with your Liverpool relations."
"Yes, and they were the best of friends at one time. Why, she went
up there to live in order to be near them. And now she has no word
hard enough for Jim Browner. The last six months that she was here she
would speak of nothing but his drinking and his ways. He had caught
her meddling, I suspect, and given her a bit of his mind, and that was
the start of it."
"Thank you, Miss Cushing," said Holmes, rising and bowing. "Your
sister Sarah lives, I think you said, at New Street, Wallington?
Good-bye, and I am very sorry that you have been troubled over a
case with which, as you say, you have nothing whatever to do."
There was a cab passing as we came out, and Holmes hailed it.
"How far to Wallington?" he asked.
"Only about a mile, sir."
"Very good. jump in, Watson. We must strike while the iron is hot.
Simple as the case is, there have been one or two very instructive
details in connection with it. Just pull up at a telegraph office as
you pass, cabby."
Holmes sent off a short wire and for the rest of the drive lay
back in the cab, with his hat tilted over his nose to keep the sun
from his face. Our driver pulled up at a house which was not unlike
the one which we had just quitted. My companion ordered him to wait,
and had his hand upon the knocker, when the door opened and a grave
young gentleman in black, with a very shiny hat, appeared on the step.
"Is Miss Cushing at home?" asked Holmes.
"Miss Sarah Cushing is extremely ill," said he. "She has been
suffering since yesterday from brain symptoms of great severity. As
her medical adviser, I cannot possibly take the responsibility of
allowing anyone to see her. I should recommend you to call again in
ten days." He drew on his gloves, closed the door, and marched off
down the street.
"Well, if we can't we can't," said Holmes, cheerfully.
"Perhaps she could not or would not have told you much."
"I did not wish her to tell me anything. I only wanted to look at
her. However, I think that I have got all that I want. Drive us to
some decent hotel, cabby, where we may have some lunch, and afterwards
we shall drop down upon friend Lestrade at the police-station."
We had a pleasant little meal together, during which Holmes would
talk about nothing but violins, narrating with great exultation how he
had purchased his own Stradivarius, which was worth at least five
hundred guineas, at a Jew broker's in Tottenham Court Road for
fifty-five shillings. This led him to Paganini, and we sat for an hour
over a bottle of claret while he told me anecdote after anecdote of
that extraordinary man. The afternoon was far advanced and the hot
glare had softened into a mellow glow before we found ourselves at the
police-station. Lestrade was waiting for us at the door.
"A telegram for you, Mr. Holmes," said he.
"Ha! It is the answer!" He tore it open, glanced his eyes over it,
and crumpled it into his pocket. "That's all right" said he.
"Have you found out anything?"
"I have found out everything!"
"What!" Lestrade stared at him in amazement. "You are joking."
"I was never more serious in my life. A shocking crime has been
committed, and I think I have now laid bare every detail of it."
"And the criminal?"
Holmes scribbled a few words upon the back of one of his visiting
cards and threw it over to Lestrade.
"That is the name," he said. "You cannot effect an arrest until
to-morrow night at the earliest. I should prefer that you do not
mention my name at all in connection with the case, as I choose to
be only associated with those crimes which present some difficulty
in their solution. Come on, Watson." We strode off together to the
station, leaving Lestrade still staring with a delighted face at the
card which Holmes had thrown him.
-
"The case," said Sherlock Holmes as we chatted over our cigars
that night in our rooms at Baker Street, "is one where, as in the
investigations which you have chronicled under the names of 'A Study
in Scarlet' and of 'The Sign of Four,' we have been compelled to
reason backward from effects to causes. I have written to Lestrade
asking him to supply us with the details which are now wanting, and
which he will only get after he has secured his man. That he may be
safely trusted to do, for although he is absolutely devoid of
reason, he is as tenacious as a bulldog when he once understands
what he has to do, and, indeed, it is just this tenacity which has
brought him to the top at Scotland Yard."
"Your case is not complete, then?" I asked.
"It is fairly complete in essentials. We know who the author of
the revolting business is, although one of the victims still escapes
us. Of course, you have formed your own conclusions."
"I presume that this Jim Browner, the steward of a Liverpool boat,
is the man whom you suspect?"
"Oh! it is more than a suspicion."
"And yet I cannot see anything save very vague indications."
"On the contrary, to my mind nothing could be more clear. Let me run
over the principal steps. We approached the case, you remember, with
an absolutely blank mind, which is always an advantage. We had
formed no theories. We were simply there to observe and to draw
inferences from our observations. What did we see first? A very placid
and respectable lady, who seemed quite innocent of any secret, and a
portrait which showed me that she had two younger sisters. It
instantly flashed across my mind that the box might have been meant
for one of these. I set the idea aside as one which could be disproved
or confirmed at our leisure. Then we went to the garden, as you
remember, and we saw the very singular contents of the little yellow
box.
"The string was of the quality which is used by sailmakers aboard
ship, and at once a whiff of the sea was perceptible in our
investigation. When I observed that the knot was one which is
popular with sailors, that the parcel had been posted at a port, and
that the male ear was pierced for an earring which is so much more
common among sailors than landsmen, I was quite certain that an the
actors in the tragedy were to be found among our seafaring classes.
"When I came to examine the address of the packet I observed that it
was to Miss S. Cushing. Now, the oldest sister would, of course, be
Miss Cushing, and although her initial was 'S' it might belong to
one of the others as well. In that case we should have to commence our
investigation from a fresh basis altogether. I therefore went into the
house with the intention of clearing up this point. I was about to
assure Miss Cushing that I was convinced that a mistake had been
made when you may remember that I came suddenly to a stop. The fact
was that I had just seen something which filled me with surprise and
at the same time narrowed the field of our inquiry immensely.
"As a medical man, you are aware, Watson, that there is no part of
the body which varies so much as the human ear. Each ear is as a
rule quite distinctive and differs from all other ones. In last
years Anthropological Journal you will find two short monographs
from my pen upon the subject. I had, therefore, examined the ears in
the box with the eyes of an expert and had carefully noted their
anatomical peculiarities. Imagine my surprise, then, when on looking
at Miss Cushing I perceived that her ear corresponded exactly with the
female ear which I had just inspected. The matter was entirely
beyond coincidence. There was the same shortening of the pinna, the
same broad curve of the upper lobe, the same convolution of the
inner cartilage. In all essentials it was the same ear.
"Of course I at once saw the enormous importance of the observation.
It was evident that the victim was a blood relation, and probably a
very close one. I began to talk to her about her family, and you
remember that she at once gave us some exceedingly valuable details.
"In the first place, her sisters name was Sarah, and her address had
until recently been the same, so that it was quite obvious how the
mistake had occurred and for whom the packet was meant. Then we
heard of this steward, married to the third sister, and learned that
he had at one time been so intimate with Miss Sarah that she had
actually gone up to Liverpool to be near the Browners, but a quarrel
had afterwards divided them. This quarrel had put a stop to all
communications for some months, so that if Browner had occasion to
address a packet to Miss Sarah, he would undoubtedly have done so to
her old address.
"And now the matter had begun to straighten itself out
wonderfully. We had learned of the existence of this steward, an
impulsive man, of strong passions- you remember that he threw up
what must have been a very superior berth in order to be nearer to his
wife- subject, too, to occasional fits of hard drinking. We had reason
to believe that his wife had been murdered, and that a man- presumably
a seafaring man- had been murdered at the same time. Jealousy, of
course, at once suggests itself as the motive for the crime. And why
should these proofs of the deed be sent to Miss Sarah Cushing?
Probably because during her residence in Liverpool she had some hand
in bringing about the events which led to the tragedy. You will
observe that this line of boats calls at Belfast Dublin, and
Waterford; so that, presuming that Browner had committed the deed
and had embarked at once upon his steamer, the May Day, Belfast
would be the first place at which he could post his terrible packet.
"A second solution was at this stage obviously possible, and
although I thought it exceedingly unlikely, I was determined to
elucidate it before going further. An unsuccessful lover might have
killed Mr. and Mrs. Browner, and the male ear might have belonged to
the husband. There were many grave objections to this theory, but it
was conceivable. I therefore sent off a telegram to my friend Algar,
of the Liverpool force, and asked him to find out if Mrs. Browner were
at home, and if Browner had departed in the May Day. Then we went on
to Wallington to visit Miss Sarah.
"I was curious, in the first place, to see how far the family ear
had been reproduced in her. Then, of course, she might give us very
important information, but I was not sanguine that she would. She must
have heard of the business the day before, since all Croydon was
ringing with it, and she alone could have understood for whom the
packet was meant. If she had been willing to help justice she would
probably have communicated with the police already. However, it was
clearly our duty to see her, so we went. We found that the news of the
arrival of the packet- for her illness dated from that time- had
such an effect upon her as to bring on brain fever. It was clearer
than ever that she understood its full significance, but equally clear
that we should have to wait some time for any assistance from her.
"However, we were really independent of her help. Our answers were
waiting for us at the police-station, where I had directed Algar to
send them. Nothing could be more conclusive. Mrs. Browner's house
had been closed for more than three days, and the neighbours were of
opinion that she had gone south to see her relatives. It had been
ascertained at the shipping offices that Browner had left aboard of
the May Day, and I calculate that she is due in the Thames tomorrow
night. When he arrives he will be met by the obtuse but resolute
Lestrade, and I have no doubt that we shall have all our details
filled in."
Sherlock Holmes was not disappointed in his expectations. Two days
later he received a bulky envelope, which contained a short note
from the detective, and a typewritten document which covered several
pages of foolscap.
"Lestrade has got him all right," said Holmes, glancing up at me.
"Perhaps it would interest you to hear what he says.
-
My Dear Holmes:
"In accordance with the scheme which we had formed in order to
test our theories" ["the 'we' is rather fine, Watson, is it not?"]
"I went down to the Albert Dock yesterday at 6 P.M., and boarded the
S.S. May Day, belonging to the Liverpool, Dublin, and London Steam
Packet Company. On inquiry, I found that there was a steward on
board of the name of James Browner and that he had acted during the
voyage in such an extraordinary manner that the captain had been
compelled to relieve him of his duties. On descending to his berth,
I found him seated upon a chest with his head sunk upon his hands,
rocking himself to and fro. He is a big, powerful chap,
clean-shaven, and very swarthy- something like Aldridge, who helped us
in the bogus laundry affair. He jumped up when he heard my business,
and I had my whistle to my lips to call a couple of river police,
who were round the corner, but he seemed to have no heart in him,
and he held out his hands quietly enough for the darbies. We brought
him along to the cells, and his box as well for we thought there might
be something incriminating; but, bar a big sharp knife such as most
sailors have, we got nothing for our trouble. However, we find that we
shall want no more evidence, for on being brought before the inspector
at the station he asked leave to make a statement which was, of
course, taken down, just as he made it, by our shorthand man. We had
three copies typewritten, one of which I enclose. The affair proves,
as I always thought it would, to be an extremely simple one, but I
am obliged to you for assisting me in my investigation. With kind
regards,
"Yours very truly,
"G. LESTRADE.
-
"Hum! The investigation really was a very simple one," remarked
Holmes, "but I don't think it struck him in that light when he first
called us in. However, let us see what Jim Browner has to say for
himself. This is his statement as made before Inspector Montgomery
at the Shadwell Police Station, and it has the advantage of being
verbatim."
-
"'Have I anything to say? Yes, I have a deal to say. I have to
make a clean breast of it all. You can hang me, or you can leave me
alone. I don't care a plug which you do. I tell you I've not shut an
eye in sleep since I did it, and I don't believe I ever will again
until I get past all waking. Sometimes it's his face, but most
generally it's hers. I'm never without one or the other before me.
He looks frowning and black-like, but she has a kind o' surprise
upon her face. Ay, the white lamb, she might well be surprised when
she read death on a face that had seldom looked anything but love upon
her before.
"'But it was Sarah's fault and may the curse of a broken man put a
blight on her and set the blood rotting in her veins! It's not that
I want to clear myself. I know that I went back to drink, like the
beast that I was. But she would have forgiven me; she would have stuck
as close to me as a rope to a block if that woman had never darkened
our door. For Sarah Cushing loved me- that's the root of the business-
she loved me until all her love turned to poisonous hate when she knew
that I thought more of my wife's footmark in the mud than I did of her
whole body and soul.
"'There were three sisters altogether. The old one was just a good
woman, the second was a devil, and the third was an angel. Sarah was
thirty-three, and Mary was twenty-nine when I married. We were just as
happy as the day was long when we set up house together, and in all
Liverpool there was no better woman than my Mary. And then we asked
Sarah up for a week, and the week grew into a month, and one thing led
to another, until she was just one of ourselves.
"'I was blue ribbon at that time, and we were putting a little money
by, and all was as bright as a new dollar. My God, whoever would
have thought that it could have come to this? Whoever would have
dreamed it?
"'I used to be home for the week-ends very often, and sometimes if
the ship were held back for cargo I would have a whole week at a time,
and in this way I saw a deal of my sister-in-law, Sarah. She was a
fine tall woman, black and quick and fierce, with a proud way of
carrying her head, and a glint from her eye like a spark from a flint.
But when little Mary was there I had never a thought of her, and
that I swear as I hope for God's mercy.
"'It had seemed to me sometimes that she liked to be alone with
me, or to coax me out for a walk with her, but I had never thought
anything of that. But one evening my eyes were opened. I had come up
from the ship and found my wife out, but Sarah at home. "Where's
Mary?" I asked. "Oh, she has gone to pay some accounts." I was
impatient and paced up and down the room. "Can't you be happy for five
minutes without Mary, Jim?" says she. "It's a bad compliment to me
that you can't be contented with my society for so short a time."
"That's all right, my lass," said I, putting out my hand towards her
in a kindly way, but she had it in both hers in an instant, and they
burned as if they were in a fever. I looked into her eyes and I read
it all there. There was no need for her to speak, nor for me either. I
frowned and drew my hand away. Then she stood by my side in silence
for a bit, and then put up her hand and patted me on the shoulder.
"Steady old Jim!" said she, and with a kind o' mocking laugh, she
run out of the room.
"Well, from that time Sarah hated me with her whole heart and
soul, and she is a woman who can hate, too. I was a fool to let her go
on biding with us- a besotted fool- but I never said a word to Mary,
for I knew it would grieve her. Things went on much as before, but
after a time I began to find that there was a bit of a change in
Mary herself. She had always been so trusting and so innocent, but now
she became queer and suspicious, wanting to know where I had been
and what I had been doing, and whom my letters were from, and what I
had in my pockets, and a thousand such follies. Day by day she grew
queerer and more irritable, and we had ceaseless rows about nothing. I
was fairly puzzled by it all. Sarah avoided me now, but she and Mary
were just inseparable. I can see now how she was plotting and scheming
and poisoning my wife's mind against me, but I was such a blind beetle
that I could not understand it at the time. Then I broke my blue
ribbon and began to drink again, but I think I should not have done it
if Mary had been the same as ever. She had some reason to be disgusted
with me now, and the gap between us began to be wider and wider. And
then this Alec Fairbairn chipped in, and things became a thousand
times blacker.
"'It was to see Sarah that he came to my house first, but soon it
was to see us, for he was a man with winning ways, and he made friends
wherever he went. He was a dashing, swaggering chap, smart and curled,
who had seen half the world and could talk of what he had seen. He was
good company, I won't deny it, and he had wonderful polite ways with
him for a sailor man, so that I think there must have been a time when
he knew more of the poop than the forecastle. For a month he was in
and out of my house, and never once did it cross my mind that harm
might come of his soft tricky ways. And then at last something made me
suspect and from that day my peace was gone forever.
"'It was only a little thing, too. I had come into the parlour
unexpected, and as I walked in at the door I saw a light of welcome on
my wife's face. But as she saw who it was it faded again, and she
turned away with a look of disappointment. That was enough for me.
There was no one but Alec Fairbairn whose step she could have mistaken
for mine. If I could have seen him then I should have killed him,
for I have always been like a madman when my temper gets loose. Mary
saw the devil's light in my eyes, and she ran forward with her hands
on my sleeve. "Don't Jim, don't!" says she. "Where's Sarah?" I
asked. "In the kitchen," says she. "Sarah," says I as I went in, "this
man Fairbairn is never to darken my door again." "Why not?" says
she. "Because I order it." "Oh!" says she, "if my friends are not good
enough for this house, then I am not good enough for it either."
"You can do what you like," says I, "but if Fairbairn shows his face
here again I'll send you one of his ears for a keepsake." She was
frightened by my face, I think, for she never answered a word, and the
same evening she left my house.
"'Well, I don't know now whether it was pure devilry on the part
of this woman, or whether she thought that she could turn me against
my wife by encouraging her to misbehave. Anyway, she took a house just
two streets off and let lodgings to sailors. Fairbairn used to stay
there, and Mary would go round to have tea with her sister and him.
How often she went I don't know, but I followed her one day, and as
I broke in at the door Fairbairn got away over the back garden wall,
like the cowardly skunk that he was. I swore to my wife that I would
kill her if I found her in his company again, and I led her back
with me, sobbing and trembling, and as white as a piece of paper.
There was no trace of love between us any longer. I could see that she
hated me and feared me, and when the thought of it drove me to
drink, then she despised me as well.
"'Well, Sarah found that she could not make a living in Liverpool,
so she went back, as I understand, to live with her sister in Croydon,
and things jogged on much the same as ever at home. And then came this
last week and all the misery and ruin.
"'It was in this way. We had gone on the May Day for a round
voyage of seven days, but a hogshead got loose and started one of
our plates, so that we had to put back into port for twelve hours. I
left the ship and came home, thinking what a surprise it would be
for my wife, and hoping that maybe she would be glad to see me so
soon. The thought was in my head as I turned into my own street and at
that moment a cab passed me, and there she was, sitting by the side of
Fairbairn, the two chatting and laughing, with never a thought for
me as I stood watching them from the footpath.
"'I tell you, and I give you my word for it, that from that moment I
was not my own master, and it is all like a dim dream when I look back
on it. I had been drinking hard of late, and the two things together
fairly turned my brain. There's something throbbing in my head now,
like a docker's hammer, but that morning I seemed to have all
Niagara whizzing and buzzing in my ears.
"'Well, I took to my heels, and I ran after the cab. I had a heavy
oak stick in my hand, and I tell you I saw red from the first, but
as I ran I got cunning, too, and hung back a little to see them
without being seen. They pulled up soon at the railway station.
There was a good crowd round the booking-office, so I got quite
close to them without being seen. They took tickets for New
Brighton. So did I, but I got in three carriages behind them. When
we reached it they walked along the Parade, and I was never more
than a hundred yards from them. At last I saw them hire a boat and
start for a row, for it was a very hot day, and they thought, no
doubt, that it would be cooler on the water.
"It was just as if they had been given into my hands. There was a
bit of a haze, and you could not see more than a few hundred yards.
I hired a boat for myself, and I pulled after them. I could see the
blur of their craft, but they were going nearly as fast as I, and they
must have been a long mile from the shore before I caught them up. The
haze was like a curtain all round us, and there were we three in the
middle of it. My God, shall I ever forget their faces when they saw
who was in the boat that was closing in upon them? She screamed out.
He swore like a madman and jabbed at me with an oar, for he must
have seen death in my eyes. I got past it and got one in with my stick
that crushed his head like an egg. I would have spared her, perhaps,
for all my madness, but she threw her arms round him, crying out to
him, and calling him "Alec." I struck again, and she lay stretched
beside him. I was like a wild beast then that had tasted blood. If
Sarah had been there, by the Lord, she should have joined them. I
pulled out my knife, and- well, there! I've said enough. It gave me
a kind of savage joy when I thought how Sarah would feel when she
had such sign of what her meddling had brought about. Then I tied
the bodies into the boat, stove a plank, and stood by until they had
sunk. I knew very well that the owner would think that they had lost
their bearings and had drifted off out to sea. I cleaned myself up,
got back to land, and joined my ship without a soul having a suspicion
of what had passed. That night I made up the packet for Sarah Cushing,
and next day I sent it from Belfast.
"'There you have the whole truth of it. You can hang me, or do
what you like with me, but you cannot punish me as I have been
punished already. I cannot shut my eyes but I see those two faces
staring at me- staring at me as they stared when my boat broke through
the haze. I killed them quick, but they are killing me slow; and if
I have another night of it I shall be either, mad or dead before
morning. You won't put me alone into a cell, sir? For pity's sake
don't, and may you be treated in your day of agony as you treat me
now."
"What is the meaning of it Watson?, said Holmes solemnly as he
laid down the paper. "What object is served by this circle of misery
and violence and fear? It must tend to some end, or else our
universe is ruled by chance, which is unthinkable. But what end? There
is the great standing perennial problem to which human reason is as
far from an answer as ever."
-
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-THE END-