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THE ADVENTURE OF THE EMPTY HOUSE
It was in the spring of the year 1894 that all London was interested, and the
fashionable world dismayed, by the *** of the Honourable Ronald Adair under most
unusual and inexplicable circumstances.
The public has already learned those particulars of the crime which came out in
the police investigation, but a good deal was suppressed upon that occasion, since
the case for the prosecution was so
overwhelmingly strong that it was not necessary to bring forward all the facts.
Only now, at the end of nearly ten years, am I allowed to supply those missing links
which make up the whole of that remarkable chain.
The crime was of interest in itself, but that interest was as nothing to me compared
to the inconceivable sequel, which afforded me the greatest shock and surprise of any
event in my adventurous life.
Even now, after this long interval, I find myself thrilling as I think of it, and
feeling once more that sudden flood of joy, amazement, and incredulity which utterly
submerged my mind.
Let me say to that public, which has shown some interest in those glimpses which I
have occasionally given them of the thoughts and actions of a very remarkable
man, that they are not to blame me if I
have not shared my knowledge with them, for I should have considered it my first duty
to do so, had I not been barred by a positive prohibition from his own lips,
which was only withdrawn upon the third of last month.
It can be imagined that my close intimacy with Sherlock Holmes had interested me
deeply in crime, and that after his disappearance I never failed to read with
care the various problems which came before the public.
And I even attempted, more than once, for my own private satisfaction, to employ his
methods in their solution, though with indifferent success.
There was none, however, which appealed to me like this tragedy of Ronald Adair.
As I read the evidence at the inquest, which led up to a verdict of willful ***
against some person or persons unknown, I realized more clearly than I had ever done
the loss which the community had sustained by the death of Sherlock Holmes.
There were points about this strange business which would, I was sure, have
specially appealed to him, and the efforts of the police would have been supplemented,
or more probably anticipated, by the
trained observation and the alert mind of the first criminal agent in Europe.
All day, as I drove upon my round, I turned over the case in my mind and found no
explanation which appeared to me to be adequate.
At the risk of telling a twice-told tale, I will recapitulate the facts as they were
known to the public at the conclusion of the inquest.
The Honourable Ronald Adair was the second son of the Earl of Maynooth, at that time
governor of one of the Australian colonies.
Adair's mother had returned from Australia to undergo the operation for cataract, and
she, her son Ronald, and her daughter Hilda were living together at 427 Park Lane.
The youth moved in the best society--had, so far as was known, no enemies and no
particular vices.
He had been engaged to Miss Edith Woodley, of Carstairs, but the engagement had been
broken off by mutual consent some months before, and there was no sign that it had
left any very profound feeling behind it.
For the rest {sic} the man's life moved in a narrow and conventional circle, for his
habits were quiet and his nature unemotional.
Yet it was upon this easy-going young aristocrat that death came, in most strange
and unexpected form, between the hours of ten and eleven-twenty on the night of March
30, 1894.
Ronald Adair was fond of cards--playing continually, but never for such stakes as
would hurt him. He was a member of the Baldwin, the
Cavendish, and the Bagatelle card clubs.
It was shown that, after dinner on the day of his death, he had played a rubber of
whist at the latter club. He had also played there in the afternoon.
The evidence of those who had played with him-- Mr. Murray, Sir John Hardy, and
Colonel Moran--showed that the game was whist, and that there was a fairly equal
fall of the cards.
Adair might have lost five pounds, but not more.
His fortune was a considerable one, and such a loss could not in any way affect
him.
He had played nearly every day at one club or other, but he was a cautious player, and
usually rose a winner.
It came out in evidence that, in partnership with Colonel Moran, he had
actually won as much as four hundred and twenty pounds in a sitting, some weeks
before, from Godfrey Milner and Lord Balmoral.
So much for his recent history as it came out at the inquest.
On the evening of the crime, he returned from the club exactly at ten.
His mother and sister were out spending the evening with a relation.
The servant deposed that she heard him enter the front room on the second floor,
generally used as his sitting-room. She had lit a fire there, and as it smoked
she had opened the window.
No sound was heard from the room until eleven-twenty, the hour of the return of
Lady Maynooth and her daughter. Desiring to say good-night, she attempted
to enter her son's room.
The door was locked on the inside, and no answer could be got to their cries and
knocking. Help was obtained, and the door forced.
The unfortunate young man was found lying near the table.
His head had been horribly mutilated by an expanding revolver bullet, but no weapon of
any sort was to be found in the room.
On the table lay two banknotes for ten pounds each and seventeen pounds ten in
silver and gold, the money arranged in little piles of varying amount.
There were some figures also upon a sheet of paper, with the names of some club
friends opposite to them, from which it was conjectured that before his death he was
endeavouring to make out his losses or winnings at cards.
A minute examination of the circumstances served only to make the case more complex.
In the first place, no reason could be given why the young man should have
fastened the door upon the inside.
There was the possibility that the murderer had done this, and had afterwards escaped
by the window.
The drop was at least twenty feet, however, and a bed of crocuses in full bloom lay
beneath.
Neither the flowers nor the earth showed any sign of having been disturbed, nor were
there any marks upon the narrow strip of grass which separated the house from the
road.
Apparently, therefore, it was the young man himself who had fastened the door.
But how did he come by his death? No one could have climbed up to the window
without leaving traces.
Suppose a man had fired through the window, he would indeed be a remarkable shot who
could with a revolver inflict so deadly a wound.
Again, Park Lane is a frequented thoroughfare; there is a cab stand within a
hundred yards of the house. No one had heard a shot.
And yet there was the dead man and there the revolver bullet, which had mushroomed
out, as soft-nosed bullets will, and so inflicted a wound which must have caused
instantaneous death.
Such were the circumstances of the Park Lane Mystery, which were further
complicated by entire absence of motive, since, as I have said, young Adair was not
known to have any enemy, and no attempt had
been made to remove the money or valuables in the room.
All day I turned these facts over in my mind, endeavouring to hit upon some theory
which could reconcile them all, and to find that line of least resistance which my poor
friend had declared to be the starting- point of every investigation.
I confess that I made little progress.
In the evening I strolled across the Park, and found myself about six o'clock at the
Oxford Street end of Park Lane.
A group of loafers upon the pavements, all staring up at a particular window, directed
me to the house which I had come to see.
A tall, thin man with coloured glasses, whom I strongly suspected of being a plain-
clothes detective, was pointing out some theory of his own, while the others crowded
round to listen to what he said.
I got as near him as I could, but his observations seemed to me to be absurd, so
I withdrew again in some disgust.
As I did so I struck against an elderly, deformed man, who had been behind me, and I
knocked down several books which he was carrying.
I remember that as I picked them up, I observed the title of one of them, THE
ORIGIN OF TREE WORSHIP, and it struck me that the fellow must be some poor
bibliophile, who, either as a trade or as a hobby, was a collector of obscure volumes.
I endeavoured to apologize for the accident, but it was evident that these
books which I had so unfortunately maltreated were very precious objects in
the eyes of their owner.
With a snarl of contempt he turned upon his heel, and I saw his curved back and white
side-whiskers disappear among the throng. My observations of No.
427 Park Lane did little to clear up the problem in which I was interested.
The house was separated from the street by a low wall and railing, the whole not more
than five feet high.
It was perfectly easy, therefore, for anyone to get into the garden, but the
window was entirely inaccessible, since there was no waterpipe or anything which
could help the most active man to climb it.
More puzzled than ever, I retraced my steps to Kensington.
I had not been in my study five minutes when the maid entered to say that a person
desired to see me.
To my astonishment it was none other than my strange old book collector, his sharp,
wizened face peering out from a frame of white hair, and his precious volumes, a
dozen of them at least, wedged under his right arm.
"You're surprised to see me, sir," said he, in a strange, croaking voice.
I acknowledged that I was.
"Well, I've a conscience, sir, and when I chanced to see you go into this house, as I
came hobbling after you, I thought to myself, I'll just step in and see that kind
gentleman, and tell him that if I was a bit
gruff in my manner there was not any harm meant, and that I am much obliged to him
for picking up my books." "You make too much of a trifle," said I.
"May I ask how you knew who I was?"
"Well, sir, if it isn't too great a liberty, I am a neighbour of yours, for
you'll find my little bookshop at the corner of Church Street, and very happy to
see you, I am sure.
Maybe you collect yourself, sir. Here's BRITISH BIRDS, and CATULLUS, and THE
HOLY WAR--a bargain, every one of them. With five volumes you could just fill that
gap on that second shelf.
It looks untidy, does it not, sir?" I moved my head to look at the cabinet
behind me.
When I turned again, Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me across my study
table.
I rose to my feet, stared at him for some seconds in utter amazement, and then it
appears that I must have fainted for the first and the last time in my life.
Certainly a gray mist swirled before my eyes, and when it cleared I found my
collar-ends undone and the tingling after- taste of brandy upon my lips.
Holmes was bending over my chair, his flask in his hand.
"My dear Watson," said the well-remembered voice, "I owe you a thousand apologies.
I had no idea that you would be so affected."
I gripped him by the arms. "Holmes!"
I cried.
"Is it really you? Can it indeed be that you are alive?
Is it possible that you succeeded in climbing out of that awful abyss?"
"Wait a moment," said he.
"Are you sure that you are really fit to discuss things?
I have given you a serious shock by my unnecessarily dramatic reappearance."
"I am all right, but indeed, Holmes, I can hardly believe my eyes.
Good heavens! to think that you--you of all men--should be standing in my study."
Again I gripped him by the sleeve, and felt the thin, sinewy arm beneath it.
"Well, you're not a spirit anyhow," said I. "My dear chap, I'm overjoyed to see you.
Sit down, and tell me how you came alive out of that dreadful chasm."
He sat opposite to me, and lit a cigarette in his old, nonchalant manner.
He was dressed in the seedy frockcoat of the book merchant, but the rest of that
individual lay in a pile of white hair and old books upon the table.
Holmes looked even thinner and keener than of old, but there was a dead-white tinge in
his aquiline face which told me that his life recently had not been a healthy one.
"I am glad to stretch myself, Watson," said he.
"It is no joke when a tall man has to take a foot off his stature for several hours on
end.
Now, my dear fellow, in the matter of these explanations, we have, if I may ask for
your cooperation, a hard and dangerous night's work in front of us.
Perhaps it would be better if I gave you an account of the whole situation when that
work is finished." "I am full of curiosity.
I should much prefer to hear now."
"You'll come with me to-night?" "When you like and where you like."
"This is, indeed, like the old days. We shall have time for a mouthful of dinner
before we need go.
Well, then, about that chasm. I had no serious difficulty in getting out
of it, for the very simple reason that I never was in it."
"You never were in it?"
"No, Watson, I never was in it. My note to you was absolutely genuine.
I had little doubt that I had come to the end of my career when I perceived the
somewhat sinister figure of the late Professor Moriarty standing upon the narrow
pathway which led to safety.
I read an inexorable purpose in his gray eyes.
I exchanged some remarks with him, therefore, and obtained his courteous
permission to write the short note which you afterwards received.
I left it with my cigarette-box and my stick, and I walked along the pathway,
Moriarty still at my heels. When I reached the end I stood at bay.
He drew no weapon, but he rushed at me and threw his long arms around me.
He knew that his own game was up, and was only anxious to revenge himself upon me.
We tottered together upon the brink of the fall.
I have some knowledge, however, of baritsu, or the Japanese system of wrestling, which
has more than once been very useful to me.
I slipped through his grip, and he with a horrible scream kicked madly for a few
seconds, and clawed the air with both his hands.
But for all his efforts he could not get his balance, and over he went.
With my face over the brink, I saw him fall for a long way.
Then he struck a rock, bounded off, and splashed into the water."
I listened with amazement to this explanation, which Holmes delivered between
the puffs of his cigarette.
"But the tracks!" I cried.
"I saw, with my own eyes, that two went down the path and none returned."
"It came about in this way.
The instant that the Professor had disappeared, it struck me what a really
extraordinarily lucky chance Fate had placed in my way.
I knew that Moriarty was not the only man who had sworn my death.
There were at least three others whose desire for vengeance upon me would only be
increased by the death of their leader.
They were all most dangerous men. One or other would certainly get me.
On the other hand, if all the world was convinced that I was dead they would take
liberties, these men, they would soon lay themselves open, and sooner or later I
could destroy them.
Then it would be time for me to announce that I was still in the land of the living.
So rapidly does the brain act that I believe I had thought this all out before
Professor Moriarty had reached the bottom of the Reichenbach Fall.
"I stood up and examined the rocky wall behind me.
In your picturesque account of the matter, which I read with great interest some
months later, you assert that the wall was sheer.
That was not literally true.
A few small footholds presented themselves, and there was some indication of a ledge.
The cliff is so high that to climb it all was an obvious impossibility, and it was
equally impossible to make my way along the wet path without leaving some tracks.
I might, it is true, have reversed my boots, as I have done on similar occasions,
but the sight of three sets of tracks in one direction would certainly have
suggested a deception.
On the whole, then, it was best that I should risk the climb.
It was not a pleasant business, Watson. The fall roared beneath me.
I am not a fanciful person, but I give you my word that I seemed to hear Moriarty's
voice screaming at me out of the abyss. A mistake would have been fatal.
More than once, as tufts of grass came out in my hand or my foot slipped in the wet
notches of the rock, I thought that I was gone.
But I struggled upward, and at last I reached a ledge several feet deep and
covered with soft green moss, where I could lie unseen, in the most perfect comfort.
There I was stretched, when you, my dear Watson, and all your following were
investigating in the most sympathetic and inefficient manner the circumstances of my
death.
"At last, when you had all formed your inevitable and totally erroneous
conclusions, you departed for the hotel, and I was left alone.
I had imagined that I had reached the end of my adventures, but a very unexpected
occurrence showed me that there were surprises still in store for me.
A huge rock, falling from above, boomed past me, struck the path, and bounded over
into the chasm.
For an instant I thought that it was an accident, but a moment later, looking up, I
saw a man's head against the darkening sky, and another stone struck the very ledge
upon which I was stretched, within a foot of my head.
Of course, the meaning of this was obvious. Moriarty had not been alone.
A confederate--and even that one glance had told me how dangerous a man that
confederate was--had kept guard while the Professor had attacked me.
From a distance, unseen by me, he had been a witness of his friend's death and of my
escape.
He had waited, and then making his way round to the top of the cliff, he had
endeavoured to succeed where his comrade had failed.
"I did not take long to think about it, Watson.
Again I saw that grim face look over the cliff, and I knew that it was the precursor
of another stone.
I scrambled down on to the path. I don't think I could have done it in cold
blood. It was a hundred times more difficult than
getting up.
But I had no time to think of the danger, for another stone sang past me as I hung by
my hands from the edge of the ledge.
Halfway down I slipped, but, by the blessing of God, I landed, torn and
bleeding, upon the path.
I took to my heels, did ten miles over the mountains in the darkness, and a week later
I found myself in Florence, with the certainty that no one in the world knew
what had become of me.
"I had only one confidant--my brother Mycroft.
I owe you many apologies, my dear Watson, but it was all-important that it should be
thought I was dead, and it is quite certain that you would not have written so
convincing an account of my unhappy end had you not yourself thought that it was true.
Several times during the last three years I have taken up my pen to write to you, but
always I feared lest your affectionate regard for me should tempt you to some
indiscretion which would betray my secret.
For that reason I turned away from you this evening when you upset my books, for I was
in danger at the time, and any show of surprise and emotion upon your part might
have drawn attention to my identity and led
to the most deplorable and irreparable results.
As to Mycroft, I had to confide in him in order to obtain the money which I needed.
The course of events in London did not run so well as I had hoped, for the trial of
the Moriarty gang left two of its most dangerous members, my own most vindictive
enemies, at liberty.
I travelled for two years in Tibet, therefore, and amused myself by visiting
Lhassa, and spending some days with the head lama.
You may have read of the remarkable explorations of a Norwegian named Sigerson,
but I am sure that it never occurred to you that you were receiving news of your
friend.
I then passed through Persia, looked in at Mecca, and paid a short but interesting
visit to the Khalifa at Khartoum the results of which I have communicated to the
Foreign Office.
Returning to France, I spent some months in a research into the coal-tar derivatives,
which I conducted in a laboratory at Montpellier, in the south of France.
Having concluded this to my satisfaction and learning that only one of my enemies
was now left in London, I was about to return when my movements were hastened by
the news of this very remarkable Park Lane
Mystery, which not only appealed to me by its own merits, but which seemed to offer
some most peculiar personal opportunities.
I came over at once to London, called in my own person at Baker Street, threw Mrs.
Hudson into violent hysterics, and found that Mycroft had preserved my rooms and my
papers exactly as they had always been.
So it was, my dear Watson, that at two o'clock to-day I found myself in my old
armchair in my own old room, and only wishing that I could have seen my old
friend Watson in the other chair which he has so often adorned."
Such was the remarkable narrative to which I listened on that April evening--a
narrative which would have been utterly incredible to me had it not been confirmed
by the actual sight of the tall, spare
figure and the keen, eager face, which I had never thought to see again.
In some manner he had learned of my own sad bereavement, and his sympathy was shown in
his manner rather than in his words.
"Work is the best antidote to sorrow, my dear Watson," said he; "and I have a piece
of work for us both to-night which, if we can bring it to a successful conclusion,
will in itself justify a man's life on this planet."
In vain I begged him to tell me more. "You will hear and see enough before
morning," he answered.
"We have three years of the past to discuss.
Let that suffice until half-past nine, when we start upon the notable adventure of the
empty house."
It was indeed like old times when, at that hour, I found myself seated beside him in a
hansom, my revolver in my pocket, and the thrill of adventure in my heart.
Holmes was cold and stern and silent.
As the gleam of the street-lamps flashed upon his austere features, I saw that his
brows were drawn down in thought and his thin lips compressed.
I knew not what wild beast we were about to hunt down in the dark jungle of criminal
London, but I was well assured, from the bearing of this master huntsman, that the
adventure was a most grave one--while the
sardonic smile which occasionally broke through his ascetic gloom boded little good
for the object of our quest.
I had imagined that we were bound for Baker Street, but Holmes stopped the cab at the
corner of Cavendish Square.
I observed that as he stepped out he gave a most searching glance to right and left,
and at every subsequent street corner he took the utmost pains to assure that he was
not followed.
Our route was certainly a singular one.
Holmes's knowledge of the byways of London was extraordinary, and on this occasion he
passed rapidly and with an assured step through a network of mews and stables, the
very existence of which I had never known.
We emerged at last into a small road, lined with old, gloomy houses, which led us into
Manchester Street, and so to Blandford Street.
Here he turned swiftly down a narrow passage, passed through a wooden gate into
a deserted yard, and then opened with a key the back door of a house.
We entered together, and he closed it behind us.
The place was pitch dark, but it was evident to me that it was an empty house.
Our feet creaked and crackled over the bare planking, and my outstretched hand touched
a wall from which the paper was hanging in ribbons.
Holmes's cold, thin fingers closed round my wrist and led me forward down a long hall,
until I dimly saw the murky fanlight over the door.
Here Holmes turned suddenly to the right and we found ourselves in a large, square,
empty room, heavily shadowed in the corners, but faintly lit in the centre from
the lights of the street beyond.
There was no lamp near, and the window was thick with dust, so that we could only just
discern each other's figures within. My companion put his hand upon my shoulder
and his lips close to my ear.
"Do you know where we are?" he whispered. "Surely that is Baker Street," I answered,
staring through the dim window. "Exactly.
We are in Camden House, which stands opposite to our own old quarters."
"But why are we here?" "Because it commands so excellent a view of
that picturesque pile.
Might I trouble you, my dear Watson, to draw a little nearer to the window, taking
every precaution not to show yourself, and then to look up at our old rooms--the
starting-point of so many of your little fairy-tales?
We will see if my three years of absence have entirely taken away my power to
surprise you."
I crept forward and looked across at the familiar window.
As my eyes fell upon it, I gave a gasp and a cry of amazement.
The blind was down, and a strong light was burning in the room.
The shadow of a man who was seated in a chair within was thrown in hard, black
outline upon the luminous screen of the window.
There was no mistaking the poise of the head, the squareness of the shoulders, the
sharpness of the features.
The face was turned half-round, and the effect was that of one of those black
silhouettes which our grandparents loved to frame.
It was a perfect reproduction of Holmes.
So amazed was I that I threw out my hand to make sure that the man himself was standing
beside me. He was quivering with silent laughter.
"Well?" said he.
"Good heavens!" I cried.
"It is marvellous."
"I trust that age doth not wither nor custom stale my infinite variety," said he,
and I recognized in his voice the joy and pride which the artist takes in his own
creation.
"It really is rather like me, is it not?" "I should be prepared to swear that it was
you."
"The credit of the execution is due to Monsieur Oscar Meunier, of Grenoble, who
spent some days in doing the moulding. It is a bust in wax.
The rest I arranged myself during my visit to Baker Street this afternoon."
"But why?"
"Because, my dear Watson, I had the strongest possible reason for wishing
certain people to think that I was there when I was really elsewhere."
"And you thought the rooms were watched?"
"I KNEW that they were watched." "By whom?"
"By my old enemies, Watson. By the charming society whose leader lies
in the Reichenbach Fall.
You must remember that they knew, and only they knew, that I was still alive.
Sooner or later they believed that I should come back to my rooms.
They watched them continuously, and this morning they saw me arrive."
"How do you know?" "Because I recognized their sentinel when I
glanced out of my window.
He is a harmless enough fellow, Parker by name, a garroter by trade, and a remarkable
performer upon the jew's-harp. I cared nothing for him.
But I cared a great deal for the much more formidable person who was behind him, the
*** friend of Moriarty, the man who dropped the rocks over the cliff, the most
cunning and dangerous criminal in London.
That is the man who is after me to-night Watson, and that is the man who is quite
unaware that we are after him." My friend's plans were gradually revealing
themselves.
From this convenient retreat, the watchers were being watched and the trackers
tracked. That angular shadow up yonder was the bait,
and we were the hunters.
In silence we stood together in the darkness and watched the hurrying figures
who passed and repassed in front of us.
Holmes was silent and motionless; but I could tell that he was keenly alert, and
that his eyes were fixed intently upon the stream of passers-by.
It was a bleak and boisterous night and the wind whistled shrilly down the long street.
Many people were moving to and fro, most of them muffled in their coats and cravats.
Once or twice it seemed to me that I had seen the same figure before, and I
especially noticed two men who appeared to be sheltering themselves from the wind in
the doorway of a house some distance up the street.
I tried to draw my companion's attention to them; but he gave a little *** of
impatience, and continued to stare into the street.
More than once he fidgeted with his feet and tapped rapidly with his fingers upon
the wall.
It was evident to me that he was becoming uneasy, and that his plans were not working
out altogether as he had hoped.
At last, as midnight approached and the street gradually cleared, he paced up and
down the room in uncontrollable agitation.
I was about to make some remark to him, when I raised my eyes to the lighted
window, and again experienced almost as great a surprise as before.
I clutched Holmes's arm, and pointed upward.
"The shadow has moved!" I cried.
It was indeed no longer the profile, but the back, which was turned towards us.
Three years had certainly not smoothed the asperities of his temper or his impatience
with a less active intelligence than his own.
"Of course it has moved," said he.
"Am I such a farcical bungler, Watson, that I should erect an obvious dummy, and expect
that some of the sharpest men in Europe would be deceived by it?
We have been in this room two hours, and Mrs. Hudson has made some change in that
figure eight times, or once in every quarter of an hour.
She works it from the front, so that her shadow may never be seen.
Ah!" He drew in his breath with a shrill,
excited intake.
In the dim light I saw his head thrown forward, his whole attitude rigid with
attention. Outside the street was absolutely deserted.
Those two men might still be crouching in the doorway, but I could no longer see
them.
All was still and dark, save only that brilliant yellow screen in front of us with
the black figure outlined upon its centre.
Again in the utter silence I heard that thin, sibilant note which spoke of intense
suppressed excitement.
An instant later he pulled me back into the blackest corner of the room, and I felt his
warning hand upon my lips. The fingers which clutched me were
quivering.
Never had I known my friend more moved, and yet the dark street still stretched lonely
and motionless before us. But suddenly I was aware of that which his
keener senses had already distinguished.
A low, stealthy sound came to my ears, not from the direction of Baker Street, but
from the back of the very house in which we lay concealed.
A door opened and shut.
An instant later steps crept down the passage--steps which were meant to be
silent, but which reverberated harshly through the empty house.
Holmes crouched back against the wall, and I did the same, my hand closing upon the
handle of my revolver.
Peering through the gloom, I saw the vague outline of a man, a shade blacker than the
blackness of the open door.
He stood for an instant, and then he crept forward, crouching, menacing, into the
room.
He was within three yards of us, this sinister figure, and I had braced myself to
meet his spring, before I realized that he had no idea of our presence.
He passed close beside us, stole over to the window, and very softly and noiselessly
raised it for half a foot.
As he sank to the level of this opening, the light of the street, no longer dimmed
by the dusty glass, fell full upon his face.
The man seemed to be beside himself with excitement.
His two eyes shone like stars, and his features were working convulsively.
He was an elderly man, with a thin, projecting nose, a high, bald forehead, and
a huge grizzled moustache.
An opera hat was pushed to the back of his head, and an evening dress shirt-front
gleamed out through his open overcoat. His face was gaunt and swarthy, scored with
deep, savage lines.
In his hand he carried what appeared to be a stick, but as he laid it down upon the
floor it gave a metallic clang.
Then from the pocket of his overcoat he drew a bulky object, and he busied himself
in some task which ended with a loud, sharp click, as if a spring or bolt had fallen
into its place.
Still kneeling upon the floor he bent forward and threw all his weight and
strength upon some lever, with the result that there came a long, whirling, grinding
noise, ending once more in a powerful click.
He straightened himself then, and I saw that what he held in his hand was a sort of
gun, with a curiously misshapen butt.
He opened it at the breech, put something in, and snapped the breech-lock.
Then, crouching down, he rested the end of the barrel upon the ledge of the open
window, and I saw his long moustache droop over the stock and his eye gleam as it
peered along the sights.
I heard a little sigh of satisfaction as he cuddled the butt into his shoulder; and saw
that amazing target, the black man on the yellow ground, standing clear at the end of
his foresight.
For an instant he was rigid and motionless. Then his finger tightened on the trigger.
There was a strange, loud *** and a long, silvery *** of broken glass.
At that instant Holmes sprang like a tiger on to the marksman's back, and hurled him
flat upon his face.
He was up again in a moment, and with convulsive strength he seized Holmes by the
throat, but I struck him on the head with the butt of my revolver, and he dropped
again upon the floor.
I fell upon him, and as I held him my comrade blew a shrill call upon a whistle.
There was the clatter of running feet upon the pavement, and two policemen in uniform,
with one plain-clothes detective, rushed through the front entrance and into the
room.
"That you, Lestrade?" said Holmes. "Yes, Mr. Holmes.
I took the job myself. It's good to see you back in London, sir."
"I think you want a little unofficial help.
Three undetected murders in one year won't do, Lestrade.
But you handled the Molesey Mystery with less than your usual--that's to say, you
handled it fairly well."
We had all risen to our feet, our prisoner breathing hard, with a stalwart constable
on each side of him. Already a few loiterers had begun to
collect in the street.
Holmes stepped up to the window, closed it, and dropped the blinds.
Lestrade had produced two candles, and the policemen had uncovered their lanterns.
I was able at last to have a good look at our prisoner.
It was a tremendously virile and yet sinister face which was turned towards us.
With the brow of a philosopher above and the jaw of a sensualist below, the man must
have started with great capacities for good or for evil.
But one could not look upon his cruel blue eyes, with their drooping, cynical lids, or
upon the fierce, aggressive nose and the threatening, deep-lined brow, without
reading Nature's plainest danger-signals.
He took no heed of any of us, but his eyes were fixed upon Holmes's face with an
expression in which hatred and amazement were equally blended.
"You fiend!" he kept on muttering.
"You clever, clever fiend!" "Ah, Colonel!" said Holmes, arranging his
rumpled collar. "'Journeys end in lovers' meetings,' as the
old play says.
I don't think I have had the pleasure of seeing you since you favoured me with those
attentions as I lay on the ledge above the Reichenbach Fall."
The colonel still stared at my friend like a man in a trance.
"You cunning, cunning fiend!" was all that he could say.
"I have not introduced you yet," said Holmes.
"This, gentlemen, is Colonel Sebastian Moran, once of Her Majesty's Indian Army,
and the best heavy-game shot that our Eastern Empire has ever produced.
I believe I am correct Colonel, in saying that your bag of tigers still remains
unrivalled?" The fierce old man said nothing, but still
glared at my companion.
With his savage eyes and bristling moustache he was wonderfully like a tiger
himself.
"I wonder that my very simple stratagem could deceive so old a SHIKARI," said
Holmes. "It must be very familiar to you.
Have you not tethered a young kid under a tree, lain above it with your rifle, and
waited for the bait to bring up your tiger? This empty house is my tree, and you are my
tiger.
You have possibly had other guns in reserve in case there should be several tigers, or
in the unlikely supposition of your own aim failing you.
These," he pointed around, "are my other guns.
The parallel is exact."
Colonel Moran sprang forward with a snarl of rage, but the constables dragged him
back. The fury upon his face was terrible to look
at.
"I confess that you had one small surprise for me," said Holmes.
"I did not anticipate that you would yourself make use of this empty house and
this convenient front window.
I had imagined you as operating from the street, where my friend, Lestrade and his
merry men were awaiting you. With that exception, all has gone as I
expected."
Colonel Moran turned to the official detective.
"You may or may not have just cause for arresting me," said he, "but at least there
can be no reason why I should submit to the gibes of this person.
If I am in the hands of the law, let things be done in a legal way."
"Well, that's reasonable enough," said Lestrade.
"Nothing further you have to say, Mr. Holmes, before we go?"
Holmes had picked up the powerful air-gun from the floor, and was examining its
mechanism.
"An admirable and unique weapon," said he, "noiseless and of tremendous power: I knew
Von Herder, the blind German mechanic, who constructed it to the order of the late
Professor Moriarty.
For years I have been aware of its existence though I have never before had
the opportunity of handling it.
I commend it very specially to your attention, Lestrade and also the bullets
which fit it."
"You can trust us to look after that, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade, as the whole party
moved towards the door. "Anything further to say?"
"Only to ask what charge you intend to prefer?"
"What charge, sir? Why, of course, the attempted *** of
Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
"Not so, Lestrade. I do not propose to appear in the matter at
all.
To you, and to you only, belongs the credit of the remarkable arrest which you have
effected. Yes, Lestrade, I congratulate you!
With your usual happy mixture of cunning and audacity, you have got him."
"Got him! Got whom, Mr. Holmes?"
"The man that the whole force has been seeking in vain--Colonel Sebastian Moran,
who shot the Honourable Ronald Adair with an expanding bullet from an air-gun through
the open window of the second-floor front of No.
427 Park Lane, upon the thirtieth of last month.
That's the charge, Lestrade.
And now, Watson, if you can endure the draught from a broken window, I think that
half an hour in my study over a cigar may afford you some profitable amusement."
Our old chambers had been left unchanged through the supervision of Mycroft Holmes
and the immediate care of Mrs. Hudson.
As I entered I saw, it is true, an unwonted tidiness, but the old landmarks were all in
their place. There were the chemical corner and the
acid-stained, deal-topped table.
There upon a shelf was the row of formidable scrap-books and books of
reference which many of our fellow-citizens would have been so glad to burn.
The diagrams, the violin-case, and the pipe-rack--even the Persian slipper which
contained the tobacco--all met my eyes as I glanced round me.
There were two occupants of the room--one, Mrs. Hudson, who beamed upon us both as we
entered--the other, the strange dummy which had played so important a part in the
evening's adventures.
It was a wax-coloured model of my friend, so admirably done that it was a perfect
facsimile.
It stood on a small pedestal table with an old dressing-gown of Holmes's so draped
round it that the illusion from the street was absolutely perfect.
"I hope you observed all precautions, Mrs. Hudson?" said Holmes.
"I went to it on my knees, sir, just as you told me."
"Excellent.
You carried the thing out very well. Did you observe where the bullet went?"
"Yes, sir.
I'm afraid it has spoilt your beautiful bust, for it passed right through the head
and flattened itself on the wall. I picked it up from the carpet.
Here it is!"
Holmes held it out to me. "A soft revolver bullet, as you perceive,
Watson.
There's genius in that, for who would expect to find such a thing fired from an
airgun? All right, Mrs. Hudson.
I am much obliged for your assistance.
And now, Watson, let me see you in your old seat once more, for there are several
points which I should like to discuss with you."
He had thrown off the seedy frockcoat, and now he was the Holmes of old in the mouse-
coloured dressing-gown which he took from his effigy.
"The old SHIKARI'S nerves have not lost their steadiness, nor his eyes their
keenness," said he, with a laugh, as he inspected the shattered forehead of his
bust.
"Plumb in the middle of the back of the head and smack through the brain.
He was the best shot in India, and I expect that there are few better in London.
Have you heard the name?"
"No, I have not." "Well, well, such is fame!
But, then, if I remember right, you had not heard the name of Professor James Moriarty,
who had one of the great brains of the century.
Just give me down my index of biographies from the shelf."
He turned over the pages lazily, leaning back in his chair and blowing great clouds
from his cigar.
"My collection of M's is a fine one," said he.
"Moriarty himself is enough to make any letter illustrious, and here is Morgan the
poisoner, and Merridew of abominable memory, and Mathews, who knocked out my
left canine in the waiting-room at Charing
Cross, and, finally, here is our friend of to-night."
He handed over the book, and I read: MORAN, SEBASTIAN, COLONEL.
Unemployed.
Formerly 1st Bangalore Pioneers. Born London, 1840.
Son of Sir Augustus Moran, C. B., once British Minister to Persia.
Educated Eton and Oxford.
Served in Jowaki Campaign, Afghan Campaign, Charasiab (despatches), Sherpur, and Cabul.
Author of HEAVY GAME OF THE WESTERN HIMALAYAS (1881); THREE MONTHS IN THE
JUNGLE (1884).
Address: Conduit Street. Clubs: The Anglo-Indian, the Tankerville,
the Bagatelle Card Club. On the margin was written, in Holmes's
precise hand:
The second most dangerous man in London. "This is astonishing," said I, as I handed
back the volume. "The man's career is that of an honourable
soldier."
"It is true," Holmes answered. "Up to a certain point he did well.
He was always a man of iron nerve, and the story is still told in India how he crawled
down a drain after a wounded man-eating tiger.
There are some trees, Watson, which grow to a certain height, and then suddenly develop
some unsightly eccentricity. You will see it often in humans.
I have a theory that the individual represents in his development the whole
procession of his ancestors, and that such a sudden turn to good or evil stands for
some strong influence which came into the line of his pedigree.
The person becomes, as it were, the epitome of the history of his own family."
"It is surely rather fanciful."
"Well, I don't insist upon it. Whatever the cause, Colonel Moran began to
go wrong. Without any open scandal, he still made
India too hot to hold him.
He retired, came to London, and again acquired an evil name.
It was at this time that he was sought out by Professor Moriarty, to whom for a time
he was chief of the staff.
Moriarty supplied him liberally with money, and used him only in one or two very high-
class jobs, which no ordinary criminal could have undertaken.
You may have some recollection of the death of Mrs. Stewart, of Lauder, in 1887.
Not? Well, I am sure Moran was at the bottom of
it, but nothing could be proved.
So cleverly was the colonel concealed that, even when the Moriarty gang was broken up,
we could not incriminate him.
You remember at that date, when I called upon you in your rooms, how I put up the
shutters for fear of air-guns? No doubt you thought me fanciful.
I knew exactly what I was doing, for I knew of the existence of this remarkable gun,
and I knew also that one of the best shots in the world would be behind it.
When we were in Switzerland he followed us with Moriarty, and it was undoubtedly he
who gave me that evil five minutes on the Reichenbach ledge.
"You may think that I read the papers with some attention during my sojourn in France,
on the look-out for any chance of laying him by the heels.
So long as he was free in London, my life would really not have been worth living.
Night and day the shadow would have been over me, and sooner or later his chance
must have come.
What could I do? I could not shoot him at sight, or I should
myself be in the dock. There was no use appealing to a magistrate.
They cannot interfere on the strength of what would appear to them to be a wild
suspicion. So I could do nothing.
But I watched the criminal news, knowing that sooner or later I should get him.
Then came the death of this Ronald Adair. My chance had come at last.
Knowing what I did, was it not certain that Colonel Moran had done it?
He had played cards with the lad, he had followed him home from the club, he had
shot him through the open window.
There was not a doubt of it. The bullets alone are enough to put his
head in a noose. I came over at once.
I was seen by the sentinel, who would, I knew, direct the colonel's attention to my
presence.
He could not fail to connect my sudden return with his crime, and to be terribly
alarmed.
I was sure that he would make an attempt to get me out of the way AT once, and would
bring round his murderous weapon for that purpose.
I left him an excellent mark in the window, and, having warned the police that they
might be needed--by the way, Watson, you spotted their presence in that doorway with
unerring accuracy--I took up what seemed to
me to be a judicious post for observation, never dreaming that he would choose the
same spot for his attack. Now, my dear Watson, does anything remain
for me to explain?"
"Yes," said I. "You have not made it clear what was
Colonel Moran's motive in murdering the Honourable Ronald Adair?"
"Ah! my dear Watson, there we come into those realms of conjecture, where the most
logical mind may be at fault.
Each may form his own hypothesis upon the present evidence, and yours is as likely to
be correct as mine." "You have formed one, then?"
"I think that it is not difficult to explain the facts.
It came out in evidence that Colonel Moran and young Adair had, between them, won a
considerable amount of money.
Now, undoubtedly played foul--of that I have long been aware.
I believe that on the day of the *** Adair had discovered that Moran was
cheating.
Very likely he had spoken to him privately, and had threatened to expose him unless he
voluntarily resigned his membership of the club, and promised not to play cards again.
It is unlikely that a youngster like Adair would at once make a hideous scandal by
exposing a well known man so much older than himself.
Probably he acted as I suggest.
The exclusion from his clubs would mean ruin to Moran, who lived by his ill-gotten
card-gains.
He therefore murdered Adair, who at the time was endeavouring to work out how much
money he should himself return, since he could not profit by his partner's foul
play.
He locked the door lest the ladies should surprise him and insist upon knowing what
he was doing with these names and coins. Will it pass?"
"I have no doubt that you have hit upon the truth."
"It will be verified or disproved at the trial.
Meanwhile, come what may, Colonel Moran will trouble us no more.
The famous air-gun of Von Herder will embellish the Scotland Yard Museum, and
once again Mr. Sherlock Holmes is free to devote his life to examining those
interesting little problems which the
complex life of London so plentifully presents."
>
THE ADVENTURE OF THE NORWOOD BUILDER
"From the point of view of the criminal expert," said Mr. Sherlock Holmes, "London
has become a singularly uninteresting city since the death of the late lamented
Professor Moriarty."
"I can hardly think that you would find many decent citizens to agree with you," I
answered.
"Well, well, I must not be selfish," said he, with a smile, as he pushed back his
chair from the breakfast-table.
"The community is certainly the gainer, and no one the loser, save the poor out-of-work
specialist, whose occupation has gone. With that man in the field, one's morning
paper presented infinite possibilities.
Often it was only the smallest trace, Watson, the faintest indication, and yet it
was enough to tell me that the great malignant brain was there, as the gentlest
tremors of the edges of the web remind one
of the foul spider which lurks in the centre.
Petty thefts, wanton assaults, purposeless outrage--to the man who held the clue all
could be worked into one connected whole.
To the scientific student of the higher criminal world, no capital in Europe
offered the advantages which London then possessed.
But now----" He shrugged his shoulders in humorous deprecation of the state of things
which he had himself done so much to produce.
At the time of which I speak, Holmes had been back for some months, and I at his
request had sold my practice and returned to share the old quarters in Baker Street.
A young doctor, named Verner, had purchased my small Kensington practice, and given
with astonishingly little demur the highest price that I ventured to ask--an incident
which only explained itself some years
later, when I found that Verner was a distant relation of Holmes, and that it was
my friend who had really found the money.
Our months of partnership had not been so uneventful as he had stated, for I find, on
looking over my notes, that this period includes the case of the papers of ex-
President Murillo, and also the shocking
affair of the Dutch steamship FRIESLAND, which so nearly cost us both our lives.
His cold and proud nature was always averse, however, from anything in the shape
of public applause, and he bound me in the most stringent terms to say no further word
of himself, his methods, or his successes--
a prohibition which, as I have explained, has only now been removed.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes was leaning back in his chair after his whimsical protest, and
was unfolding his morning paper in a leisurely fashion, when our attention was
arrested by a tremendous ring at the bell,
followed immediately by a hollow drumming sound, as if someone were beating on the
outer door with his fist.
As it opened there came a tumultuous rush into the hall, rapid feet clattered up the
stair, and an instant later a wild-eyed and frantic young man, pale, disheveled, and
palpitating, burst into the room.
He looked from one to the other of us, and under our gaze of inquiry he became
conscious that some apology was needed for this unceremonious entry.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," he cried.
"You mustn't blame me. I am nearly mad.
Mr. Holmes, I am the unhappy John Hector McFarlane."
He made the announcement as if the name alone would explain both his visit and its
manner, but I could see, by my companion's unresponsive face, that it meant no more to
him than to me.
"Have a cigarette, Mr. McFarlane," said he, pushing his case across.
"I am sure that, with your symptoms, my friend Dr. Watson here would prescribe a
sedative.
The weather has been so very warm these last few days.
Now, if you feel a little more composed, I should be glad if you would sit down in
that chair, and tell us very slowly and quietly who you are, and what it is that
you want.
You mentioned your name, as if I should recognize it, but I assure you that, beyond
the obvious facts that you are a bachelor, a solicitor, a Freemason, and an asthmatic,
I know nothing whatever about you."
Familiar as I was with my friend's methods, it was not difficult for me to follow his
deductions, and to observe the untidiness of attire, the sheaf of legal papers, the
watch-charm, and the breathing which had prompted them.
Our client, however, stared in amazement.
"Yes, I am all that, Mr. Holmes; and, in addition, I am the most unfortunate man at
this moment in London. For heaven's sake, don't abandon me, Mr.
Holmes!
If they come to arrest me before I have finished my story, make them give me time,
so that I may tell you the whole truth. I could go to jail happy if I knew that you
were working for me outside."
"Arrest you!" said Holmes. "This is really most grati--most
interesting. On what charge do you expect to be
arrested?"
"Upon the charge of murdering Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of Lower Norwood."
My companion's expressive face showed a sympathy which was not, I am afraid,
entirely unmixed with satisfaction.
"Dear me," said he, "it was only this moment at breakfast that I was saying to my
friend, Dr. Watson, that sensational cases had disappeared out of our papers."
Our visitor stretched forward a quivering hand and picked up the DAILY TELEGRAPH,
which still lay upon Holmes's knee.
"If you had looked at it, sir, you would have seen at a glance what the errand is on
which I have come to you this morning. I feel as if my name and my misfortune must
be in every man's mouth."
He turned it over to expose the central page.
"Here it is, and with your permission I will read it to you.
Listen to this, Mr. Holmes.
The headlines are: 'Mysterious Affair at Lower Norwood.
Disappearance of a Well Known Builder. Suspicion of *** and Arson.
A Clue to the Criminal.'
That is the clue which they are already following, Mr. Holmes, and I know that it
leads infallibly to me.
I have been followed from London Bridge Station, and I am sure that they are only
waiting for the warrant to arrest me. It will break my mother's heart--it will
break her heart!"
He wrung his hands in an agony of apprehension, and swayed backward and
forward in his chair.
I looked with interest upon this man, who was accused of being the perpetrator of a
crime of violence.
He was flaxen-haired and handsome, in a washed-out negative fashion, with
frightened blue eyes, and a clean-shaven face, with a weak, sensitive mouth.
His age may have been about twenty-seven, his dress and bearing that of a gentleman.
From the pocket of his light summer overcoat protruded the bundle of indorsed
papers which proclaimed his profession.
"We must use what time we have," said Holmes.
"Watson, would you have the kindness to take the paper and to read the paragraph in
question?"
Underneath the vigorous headlines which our client had quoted, I read the following
suggestive narrative:
"Late last night, or early this morning, an incident occurred at Lower Norwood which
points, it is feared, to a serious crime.
Mr. Jonas Oldacre is a well known resident of that suburb, where he has carried on his
business as a builder for many years.
Mr. Oldacre is a bachelor, fifty-two years of age, and lives in Deep Dene House, at
the Sydenham end of the road of that name. He has had the reputation of being a man of
eccentric habits, secretive and retiring.
For some years he has practically withdrawn from the business, in which he is said to
have massed considerable wealth.
A small timber-yard still exists, however, at the back of the house, and last night,
about twelve o'clock, an alarm was given that one of the stacks was on fire.
The engines were soon upon the spot, but the dry wood burned with great fury, and it
was impossible to arrest the conflagration until the stack had been entirely consumed.
Up to this point the incident bore the appearance of an ordinary accident, but
fresh indications seem to point to serious crime.
Surprise was expressed at the absence of the master of the establishment from the
scene of the fire, and an inquiry followed, which showed that he had disappeared from
the house.
An examination of his room revealed that the bed had not been slept in, that a safe
which stood in it was open, that a number of important papers were scattered about
the room, and finally, that there were
signs of a murderous struggle, slight traces of blood being found within the
room, and an oaken walking-stick, which also showed stains of blood upon the
handle.
It is known that Mr. Jonas Oldacre had received a late visitor in his bedroom upon
that night, and the stick found has been identified as the property of this person,
who is a young London solicitor named John
Hector McFarlane, junior partner of Graham and McFarlane, of 426 Gresham Buildings,
E.C.
The police believe that they have evidence in their possession which supplies a very
convincing motive for the crime, and altogether it cannot be doubted that
sensational developments will follow.
"LATER.--It is rumoured as we go to press that Mr. John Hector McFarlane has
actually been arrested on the charge of the *** of Mr. Jonas Oldacre.
It is at least certain that a warrant has been issued.
There have been further and sinister developments in the investigation at
Norwood.
Besides the signs of a struggle in the room of the unfortunate builder it is now known
that the French windows of his bedroom (which is on the ground floor) were found
to be open, that there were marks as if
some bulky object had been dragged across to the wood-pile, and, finally, it is
asserted that charred remains have been found among the charcoal ashes of the fire.
The police theory is that a most sensational crime has been committed, that
the victim was clubbed to death in his own bedroom, his papers rifled, and his dead
body dragged across to the wood-stack,
which was then ignited so as to hide all traces of the crime.
The conduct of the criminal investigation has been left in the experienced hands of
Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, who is following up the clues with his
accustomed energy and sagacity."
Sherlock Holmes listened with closed eyes and fingertips together to this remarkable
account. "The case has certainly some points of
interest," said he, in his languid fashion.
"May I ask, in the first place, Mr. McFarlane, how it is that you are still at
liberty, since there appears to be enough evidence to justify your arrest?"
"I live at Torrington Lodge, Blackheath, with my parents, Mr. Holmes, but last
night, having to do business very late with Mr. Jonas Oldacre, I stayed at an hotel in
Norwood, and came to my business from there.
I knew nothing of this affair until I was in the train, when I read what you have
just heard.
I at once saw the horrible danger of my position, and I hurried to put the case
into your hands.
I have no doubt that I should have been arrested either at my city office or at my
home.
A man followed me from London Bridge Station, and I have no doubt--Great heaven!
what is that?" It was a clang of the bell, followed
instantly by heavy steps upon the stair.
A moment later, our old friend Lestrade appeared in the doorway.
Over his shoulder I caught a glimpse of one or two uniformed policemen outside.
" Mr. John Hector McFarlane?" said Lestrade.
Our unfortunate client rose with a ghastly face.
"I arrest you for the wilful *** of Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of Lower Norwood."
McFarlane turned to us with a gesture of despair, and sank into his chair once more
like one who is crushed.
"One moment, Lestrade," said Holmes.
"Half an hour more or less can make no difference to you, and the gentleman was
about to give us an account of this very interesting affair, which might aid us in
clearing it up."
"I think there will be no difficulty in clearing it up," said Lestrade, grimly.
"None the less, with your permission, I should be much interested to hear his
account."
"Well, Mr. Holmes, it is difficult for me to refuse you anything, for you have been
of use to the force once or twice in the past, and we owe you a good turn at
Scotland Yard," said Lestrade.
"At the same time I must remain with my prisoner, and I am bound to warn him that
anything he may say will appear in evidence against him."
"I wish nothing better," said our client.
"All I ask is that you should hear and recognize the absolute truth."
Lestrade looked at his watch. "I'll give you half an hour," said he.
"I must explain first," said McFarlane, "that I knew nothing of Mr. Jonas Oldacre.
His name was familiar to me, for many years ago my parents were acquainted with him,
but they drifted apart.
I was very much surprised therefore, when yesterday, about three o'clock in the
afternoon, he walked into my office in the city.
But I was still more astonished when he told me the object of his visit.
He had in his hand several sheets of a notebook, covered with scribbled writing--
here they are--and he laid them on my table.
"'Here is my will,' said he.
'I want you, Mr. McFarlane, to cast it into proper legal shape.
I will sit here while you do so.'
"I set myself to copy it, and you can imagine my astonishment when I found that,
with some reservations, he had left all his property to me.
He was a strange little ferret-like man, with white eyelashes, and when I looked up
at him I found his keen gray eyes fixed upon me with an amused expression.
I could hardly believe my own as I read the terms of the will; but he explained that he
was a bachelor with hardly any living relation, that he had known my parents in
his youth, and that he had always heard of
me as a very deserving young man, and was assured that his money would be in worthy
hands. Of course, I could only stammer out my
thanks.
The will was duly finished, signed, and witnessed by my clerk.
This is it on the blue paper, and these slips, as I have explained, are the rough
draft.
Mr. Jonas Oldacre then informed me that there were a number of documents--building
leases, title-deeds, mortgages, scrip, and so forth--which it was necessary that I
should see and understand.
He said that his mind would not be easy until the whole thing was settled, and he
begged me to come out to his house at Norwood that night, bringing the will with
me, and to arrange matters.
'Remember, my boy, not one word to your parents about the affair until everything
is settled. We will keep it as a little surprise for
them.'
He was very insistent upon this point, and made me promise it faithfully.
"You can imagine, Mr. Holmes, that I was not in a humour to refuse him anything that
he might ask.
He was my benefactor, and all my desire was to carry out his wishes in every
particular.
I sent a telegram home, therefore, to say that I had important business on hand, and
that it was impossible for me to say how late I might be.
Mr. Oldacre had told me that he would like me to have supper with him at nine, as he
might not be home before that hour.
I had some difficulty in finding his house, however, and it was nearly half-past before
I reached it. I found him----"
"One moment!" said Holmes.
"Who opened the door?" "A middle-aged woman, who was, I suppose,
his housekeeper." "And it was she, I presume, who mentioned
your name?"
"Exactly," said McFarlane. "Pray proceed."
McFarlane wiped his damp brow, and then continued his narrative:
"I was shown by this woman into a sitting- room, where a frugal supper was laid out.
Afterwards, Mr. Jonas Oldacre led me into his bedroom, in which there stood a heavy
safe.
This he opened and took out a mass of documents, which we went over together.
It was between eleven and twelve when we finished.
He remarked that we must not disturb the housekeeper.
He showed me out through his own French window, which had been open all this time."
"Was the blind down?" asked Holmes.
"I will not be sure, but I believe that it was only half down.
Yes, I remember how he pulled it up in order to swing open the window.
I could not find my stick, and he said, 'Never mind, my boy, I shall see a good
deal of you now, I hope, and I will keep your stick until you come back to claim
it.'
I left him there, the safe open, and the papers made up in packets upon the table.
It was so late that I could not get back to Blackheath, so I spent the night at the
Anerley Arms, and I knew nothing more until I read of this horrible affair in the
morning."
"Anything more that you would like to ask, Mr. Holmes?" said Lestrade, whose eyebrows
had gone up once or twice during this remarkable explanation.
"Not until I have been to Blackheath."
"You mean to Norwood," said Lestrade. "Oh, yes, no doubt that is what I must have
meant," said Holmes, with his enigmatical smile.
Lestrade had learned by more experiences than he would care to acknowledge that that
brain could cut through that which was impenetrable to him.
I saw him look curiously at my companion.
"I think I should like to have a word with you presently, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said
he.
"Now, Mr. McFarlane, two of my constables are at the door, and there is a four-
wheeler waiting."
The wretched young man arose, and with a last beseeching glance at us walked from
the room. The officers conducted him to the cab, but
Lestrade remained.
Holmes had picked up the pages which formed the rough draft of the will, and was
looking at them with the keenest interest upon his face.
"There are some points about that document, Lestrade, are there not?" said he, pushing
them over. The official looked at them with a puzzled
expression.
"I can read the first few lines and these in the middle of the second page, and one
or two at the end.
Those are as clear as print," said he, "but the writing in between is very bad, and
there are three places where I cannot read it at all."
"What do you make of that?" said Holmes.
"Well, what do YOU make of it?" "That it was written in a train.
The good writing represents stations, the bad writing movement, and the very bad
writing passing over points.
A scientific expert would pronounce at once that this was drawn up on a suburban line,
since nowhere save in the immediate vicinity of a great city could there be so
quick a succession of points.
Granting that his whole journey was occupied in drawing up the will, then the
train was an express, only stopping once between Norwood and London Bridge."
Lestrade began to laugh.
"You are too many for me when you begin to get on your theories, Mr. Holmes," said
he. "How does this bear on the case?"
"Well, it corroborates the young man's story to the extent that the will was drawn
up by Jonas Oldacre in his journey yesterday.
It is curious--is it not?--that a man should draw up so important a document in
so haphazard a fashion. It suggests that he did not think it was
going to be of much practical importance.
If a man drew up a will which he did not intend ever to be effective, he might do it
so." "Well, he drew up his own death warrant at
the same time," said Lestrade.
"Oh, you think so?" "Don't you?"
"Well, it is quite possible, but the case is not clear to me yet."
"Not clear?
Well, if that isn't clear, what COULD be clear?
Here is a young man who learns suddenly that, if a certain older man dies, he will
succeed to a fortune.
What does he do? He says nothing to anyone, but he arranges
that he shall go out on some pretext to see his client that night.
He waits until the only other person in the house is in bed, and then in the solitude
of a man's room he murders him, burns his body in the wood-pile, and departs to a
neighbouring hotel.
The blood-stains in the room and also on the stick are very slight.
It is probable that he imagined his crime to be a bloodless one, and hoped that if
the body were consumed it would hide all traces of the method of his death--traces
which, for some reason, must have pointed to him.
Is not all this obvious?" "It strikes me, my good Lestrade, as being
just a trifle too obvious," said Holmes.
"You do not add imagination to your other great qualities, but if you could for one
moment put yourself in the place of this young man, would you choose the very night
after the will had been made to commit your crime?
Would it not seem dangerous to you to make so very close a relation between the two
incidents?
Again, would you choose an occasion when you are known to be in the house, when a
servant has let you in?
And, finally, would you take the great pains to conceal the body, and yet leave
your own stick as a sign that you were the criminal?
Confess, Lestrade, that all this is very unlikely."
"As to the stick, Mr. Holmes, you know as well as I do that a criminal is often
flurried, and does such things, which a cool man would avoid.
He was very likely afraid to go back to the room.
Give me another theory that would fit the facts."
"I could very easily give you half a dozen," said Holmes.
"Here for example, is a very possible and even probable one.
I make you a free present of it.
The older man is showing documents which are of evident value.
A passing *** sees them through the window, the blind of which is only half
down.
Exit the solicitor. Enter the ***!
He seizes a stick, which he observes there, kills Oldacre, and departs after burning
the body."
"Why should the *** burn the body?" "For the matter of that, why should
McFarlane?" "To hide some evidence."
"Possibly the *** wanted to hide that any *** at all had been committed."
"And why did the *** take nothing?" "Because they were papers that he could not
negotiate."
Lestrade shook his head, though it seemed to me that his manner was less absolutely
assured than before.
"Well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you may look for your ***, and while you are finding
him we will hold on to our man. The future will show which is right.
Just notice this point, Mr. Holmes: that so far as we know, none of the papers were
removed, and that the prisoner is the one man in the world who had no reason for
removing them, since he was heir-at-law, and would come into them in any case."
My friend seemed struck by this remark.
"I don't mean to deny that the evidence is in some ways very strongly in favour of
your theory," said he. "I only wish to point out that there are
other theories possible.
As you say, the future will decide. Good-morning!
I dare say that in the course of the day I shall drop in at Norwood and see how you
are getting on."
When the detective departed, my friend rose and made his preparations for the day's
work with the alert air of a man who has a congenial task before him.
"My first movement Watson," said he, as he bustled into his frockcoat, "must, as I
said, be in the direction of Blackheath." "And why not Norwood?"
"Because we have in this case one singular incident coming close to the heels of
another singular incident.
The police are making the mistake of concentrating their attention upon the
second, because it happens to be the one which is actually criminal.
But it is evident to me that the logical way to approach the case is to begin by
trying to throw some light upon the first incident--the curious will, so suddenly
made, and to so unexpected an heir.
It may do something to simplify what followed.
No, my dear fellow, I don't think you can help me.
There is no prospect of danger, or I should not dream of stirring out without you.
I trust that when I see you in the evening, I will be able to report that I have been
able to do something for this unfortunate youngster, who has thrown himself upon my
protection."
It was late when my friend returned, and I could see, by a glance at his haggard and
anxious face, that the high hopes with which he had started had not been
fulfilled.
For an hour he droned away upon his violin, endeavouring to soothe his own ruffled
spirits.
At last he flung down the instrument, and plunged into a detailed account of his
misadventures. "It's all going wrong, Watson--all as wrong
as it can go.
I kept a bold face before Lestrade, but, upon my soul, I believe that for once the
fellow is on the right track and we are on the wrong.
All my instincts are one way, and all the facts are the other, and I much fear that
British juries have not yet attained that pitch of intelligence when they will give
the preference to my theories over Lestrade's facts."
"Did you go to Blackheath?"
"Yes, Watson, I went there, and I found very quickly that the late lamented Oldacre
was a pretty considerable blackguard. The father was away in search of his son.
The mother was at home--a little, fluffy, blue-eyed person, in a tremor of fear and
indignation. Of course, she would not admit even the
possibility of his guilt.
But she would not express either surprise or regret over the fate of Oldacre.
On the contrary, she spoke of him with such bitterness that she was unconsciously
considerably strengthening the case of the police for, of course, if her son had heard
her speak of the man in this fashion, it
would predispose him towards hatred and violence.
'He was more like a malignant and cunning ape than a human being,' said she, 'and he
always was, ever since he was a young man.'
"'You knew him at that time?' said I. "'Yes, I knew him well, in fact, he was an
old suitor of mine.
Thank heaven that I had the sense to turn away from him and to marry a better, if
poorer, man.
I was engaged to him, Mr. Holmes, when I heard a shocking story of how he had turned
a cat loose in an aviary, and I was so horrified at his brutal cruelty that I
would have nothing more to do with him.'
She rummaged in a bureau, and presently she produced a photograph of a woman,
shamefully defaced and mutilated with a knife.
'That is my own photograph,' she said.
'He sent it to me in that state, with his curse, upon my wedding morning.'
"'Well,' said I, 'at least he has forgiven you now, since he has left all his property
to your son.'
"'Neither my son nor I want anything from Jonas Oldacre, dead or alive!' she cried,
with a proper spirit.
'There is a God in heaven, Mr. Holmes, and that same God who has punished that wicked
man will show, in His own good time, that my son's hands are guiltless of his blood.'
"Well, I tried one or two leads, but could get at nothing which would help our
hypothesis, and several points which would make against it.
I gave it up at last and off I went to Norwood.
"This place, Deep Dene House, is a big modern villa of staring brick, standing
back in its own grounds, with a laurel- clumped lawn in front of it.
To the right and some distance back from the road was the timber-yard which had been
the scene of the fire. Here's a rough plan on a leaf of my
notebook.
This window on the left is the one which opens into Oldacre's room.
You can look into it from the road, you see.
That is about the only bit of consolation I have had to-day.
Lestrade was not there, but his head constable did the honours.
They had just found a great treasure-trove.
They had spent the morning raking among the ashes of the burned wood-pile, and besides
the charred organic remains they had secured several discoloured metal discs.
I examined them with care, and there was no doubt that they were trouser buttons.
I even distinguished that one of them was marked with the name of 'Hyams,' who was
Oldacres tailor.
I then worked the lawn very carefully for signs and traces, but this drought has made
everything as hard as iron.
Nothing was to be seen save that some body or bundle had been dragged through a low
privet hedge which is in a line with the wood-pile.
All that, of course, fits in with the official theory.
I crawled about the lawn with an August sun on my back, but I got up at the end of an
hour no wiser than before.
"Well, after this fiasco I went into the bedroom and examined that also.
The blood-stains were very slight, mere smears and discolourations, but undoubtedly
fresh.
The stick had been removed, but there also the marks were slight.
There is no doubt about the stick belonging to our client.
He admits it.
Footmarks of both men could be made out on the carpet, but none of any third person,
which again is a trick for the other side. They were piling up their score all the
time and we were at a standstill.
"Only one little gleam of hope did I get-- and yet it amounted to nothing.
I examined the contents of the safe, most of which had been taken out and left on the
table.
The papers had been made up into sealed envelopes, one or two of which had been
opened by the police.
They were not, so far as I could judge, of any great value, nor did the bank-book show
that Mr. Oldacre was in such very affluent circumstances.
But it seemed to me that all the papers were not there.
There were allusions to some deeds-- possibly the more valuable--which I could
not find.
This, of course, if we could definitely prove it, would turn Lestrade's argument
against himself, for who would steal a thing if he knew that he would shortly
inherit it?
"Finally, having drawn every other cover and picked up no scent, I tried my luck
with the housekeeper.
Mrs. Lexington is her name--a little, dark, silent person, with suspicious and
sidelong eyes. She could tell us something if she would--I
am convinced of it.
But she was as close as wax. Yes, she had let Mr. McFarlane in at half-
past nine. She wished her hand had withered before she
had done so.
She had gone to bed at half-past ten. Her room was at the other end of the house,
and she could hear nothing of what had passed.
Mr. McFarlane had left his hat, and to the best of her had been awakened by the alarm
of fire. Her poor, dear master had certainly been
murdered.
Had he any enemies? Well, every man had enemies, but Mr.
Oldacre kept himself very much to himself, and only met people in the way of business.
She had seen the buttons, and was sure that they belonged to the clothes which he had
worn last night. The wood-pile was very dry, for it had not
rained for a month.
It burned like tinder, and by the time she reached the spot, nothing could be seen but
flames. She and all the firemen smelled the burned
flesh from inside it.
She knew nothing of the papers, nor of Mr. Oldacre's private affairs.
"So, my dear Watson, there's my report of a failure.
And yet--and yet--" he clenched his thin hands in a paroxysm of conviction--"I KNOW
it's all wrong. I feel it in my bones.
There is something that has not come out, and that housekeeper knows it.
There was a sort of sulky defiance in her eyes, which only goes with guilty
knowledge.
However, there's no good talking any more about it, Watson; but unless some lucky
chance comes our way I fear that the Norwood Disappearance Case will not figure
in that chronicle of our successes which I
foresee that a patient public will sooner or later have to endure."
"Surely," said I, "the man's appearance would go far with any jury?"
"That is a dangerous argument my dear Watson.
You remember that terrible murderer, Bert Stevens, who wanted us to get him off in
'87?
Was there ever a more mild-mannered, Sunday-school young man?"
"It is true." "Unless we succeed in establishing an
alternative theory, this man is lost.
You can hardly find a flaw in the case which can now be presented against him, and
all further investigation has served to strengthen it.
By the way, there is one curious little point about those papers which may serve us
as the starting-point for an inquiry.
On looking over the bank-book I found that the low state of the balance was
principally due to large checks which have been made out during the last year to Mr.
Cornelius.
I confess that I should be interested to know who this Mr. Cornelius may be with
whom a retired builder has such very large transactions.
Is it possible that he has had a hand in the affair?
Cornelius might be a broker, but we have found no scrip to correspond with these
large payments.
Failing any other indication, my researches must now take the direction of an inquiry
at the bank for the gentleman who has cashed these checks.
But I fear, my dear fellow, that our case will end ingloriously by Lestrade hanging
our client, which will certainly be a triumph for Scotland Yard."
I do not know how far Sherlock Holmes took any sleep that night, but when I came down
to breakfast I found him pale and harassed, his bright eyes the brighter for the dark
shadows round them.
The carpet round his chair was littered with cigarette-ends and with the early
editions of the morning papers. An open telegram lay upon the table.
"What do you think of this, Watson?" he asked, tossing it across.
It was from Norwood, and ran as follows: Important fresh evidence to hand.
McFarlane's guilt definitely established.
Advise you to abandon case. LESTRADE.
"This sounds serious," said I.
"It is Lestrade's little ***-a-doodle of victory," Holmes answered, with a bitter
smile. "And yet it may be premature to abandon the
case.
After all, important fresh evidence is a two-edged thing, and may possibly cut in a
very different direction to that which Lestrade imagines.
Take your breakfast, Watson, and we will go out together and see what we can do.
I feel as if I shall need your company and your moral support today."
My friend had no breakfast himself, for it was one of his peculiarities that in his
more intense moments he would permit himself no food, and I have known him
presume upon his iron strength until he has fainted from pure inanition.
"At present I cannot spare energy and nerve force for digestion," he would say in
answer to my medical remonstrances.
I was not surprised, therefore, when this morning he left his untouched meal behind
him, and started with me for Norwood.
A crowd of morbid sightseers were still gathered round Deep Dene House, which was
just such a suburban villa as I had pictured.
Within the gates Lestrade met us, his face flushed with victory, his manner grossly
triumphant. "Well, Mr. Holmes, have you proved us to
be wrong yet?
Have you found your ***?" he cried. "I have formed no conclusion whatever," my
companion answered.
"But we formed ours yesterday, and now it proves to be correct, so you must
acknowledge that we have been a little in front of you this time, Mr. Holmes."
"You certainly have the air of something unusual having occurred," said Holmes.
Lestrade laughed loudly. "You don't like being beaten any more than
the rest of us do," said he.
"A man can't expect always to have it his own way, can he, Dr. Watson?
Step this way, if you please, gentlemen, and I think I can convince you once for all
that it was John McFarlane who did this crime."
He led us through the passage and out into a dark hall beyond.
"This is where young McFarlane must have come out to get his hat after the crime was
done," said he.
"Now look at this." With dramatic suddenness he struck a match,
and by its light exposed a stain of blood upon the whitewashed wall.
As he held the match nearer, I saw that it was more than a stain.
It was the well-marked print of a thumb. "Look at that with your magnifying glass,
Mr. Holmes."
"Yes, I am doing so." "You are aware that no two thumb-marks are
alike?" "I have heard something of the kind."
"Well, then, will you please compare that print with this wax impression of young
McFarlane's right thumb, taken by my orders this morning?"
As he held the waxen print close to the blood-stain, it did not take a magnifying
glass to see that the two were undoubtedly from the same thumb.
It was evident to me that our unfortunate client was lost.
"That is final," said Lestrade. "Yes, that is final," I involuntarily
echoed.
"It is final," said Holmes. Something in his tone caught my ear, and I
turned to look at him. An extraordinary change had come over his
face.
It was writhing with inward merriment. His two eyes were shining like stars.
It seemed to me that he was making desperate efforts to restrain a convulsive
attack of laughter.
"Dear me! Dear me!" he said at last.
"Well, now, who would have thought it? And how deceptive appearances may be, to be
sure!
Such a nice young man to look at! It is a lesson to us not to trust our own
judgment, is it not, Lestrade?"
"Yes, some of us are a little too much inclined to be ***-sure, Mr. Holmes,"
said Lestrade. The man's insolence was maddening, but we
could not resent it.
"What a providential thing that this young man should press his right thumb against
the wall in taking his hat from the peg! Such a very natural action, too, if you
come to think of it."
Holmes was outwardly calm, but his whole body gave a wriggle of suppressed
excitement as he spoke. "By the way, Lestrade, who made this
remarkable discovery?"
"It was the housekeeper, Mrs. Lexington, who drew the night constable's attention to
it." "Where was the night constable?"
"He remained on guard in the bedroom where the crime was committed, so as to see that
nothing was touched." "But why didn't the police see this mark
yesterday?"
"Well, we had no particular reason to make a careful examination of the hall.
Besides, it's not in a very prominent place, as you see."
"No, no--of course not.
I suppose there is no doubt that the mark was there yesterday?"
Lestrade looked at Holmes as if he thought he was going out of his mind.
I confess that I was myself surprised both at his hilarious manner and at his rather
wild observation.
"I don't know whether you think that McFarlane came out of jail in the dead of
the night in order to strengthen the evidence against himself," said Lestrade.
"I leave it to any expert in the world whether that is not the mark of his thumb."
"It is unquestionably the mark of his thumb."
"There, that's enough," said Lestrade.
"I am a practical man, Mr. Holmes, and when I have got my evidence I come to my
conclusions. If you have anything to say, you will find
me writing my report in the sitting-room."
Holmes had recovered his equanimity, though I still seemed to detect gleams of
amusement in his expression. "Dear me, this is a very sad development,
Watson, is it not?" said he.
"And yet there are singular points about it which hold out some hopes for our client."
"I am delighted to hear it," said I, heartily.
"I was afraid it was all up with him."
"I would hardly go so far as to say that, my dear Watson.
The fact is that there is one really serious flaw in this evidence to which our
friend attaches so much importance."
"Indeed, Holmes! What is it?"
"Only this: that I KNOW that that mark was not there when I examined the hall
yesterday.
And now, Watson, let us have a little stroll round in the sunshine."
With a confused brain, but with a heart into which some warmth of hope was
returning, I accompanied my friend in a walk round the garden.
Holmes took each face of the house in turn, and examined it with great interest.
He then led the way inside, and went over the whole building from basement to attic.
Most of the rooms were unfurnished, but none the less Holmes inspected them all
minutely.
Finally, on the top corridor, which ran outside three untenanted bedrooms, he again
was seized with a spasm of merriment. "There are really some very unique features
about this case, Watson," said he.
"I think it is time now that we took our friend Lestrade into our confidence.
He has had his little smile at our expense, and perhaps we may do as much by him, if my
reading of this problem proves to be correct.
Yes, yes, I think I see how we should approach it."
The Scotland Yard inspector was still writing in the parlour when Holmes
interrupted him.
"I understood that you were writing a report of this case," said he.
"So I am." "Don't you think it may be a little
premature?
I can't help thinking that your evidence is not complete."
Lestrade knew my friend too well to disregard his words.
He laid down his pen and looked curiously at him.
"What do you mean, Mr. Holmes?" "Only that there is an important witness
whom you have not seen."
"Can you produce him?" "I think I can."
"Then do so." "I will do my best.
How many constables have you?"
"There are three within call." "Excellent!" said Holmes.
"May I ask if they are all large, able- bodied men with powerful voices?"
"I have no doubt they are, though I fail to see what their voices have to do with it."
"Perhaps I can help you to see that and one or two other things as well," said Holmes.
"Kindly summon your men, and I will try."
Five minutes later, three policemen had assembled in the hall.
"In the outhouse you will find a considerable quantity of straw," said
Holmes.
"I will ask you to carry in two bundles of it.
I think it will be of the greatest assistance in producing the witness whom I
require.
Thank you very much. I believe you have some matches in your
pocket Watson. Now, Mr. Lestrade, I will ask you all to
accompany me to the top landing."
As I have said, there was a broad corridor there, which ran outside three empty
bedrooms.
At one end of the corridor we were all marshalled by Sherlock Holmes, the
constables grinning and Lestrade staring at my friend with amazement, expectation, and
derision chasing each other across his features.
Holmes stood before us with the air of a conjurer who is performing a trick.
"Would you kindly send one of your constables for two buckets of water?
Put the straw on the floor here, free from the wall on either side.
Now I think that we are all ready."
Lestrade's face had begun to grow red and angry.
"I don't know whether you are playing a game with us, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said
he.
"If you know anything, you can surely say it without all this tomfoolery."
"I assure you, my good Lestrade, that I have an excellent reason for everything
that I do.
You may possibly remember that you chaffed me a little, some hours ago, when the sun
seemed on your side of the hedge, so you must not grudge me a little pomp and
ceremony now.
Might I ask you, Watson, to open that window, and then to put a match to the edge
of the straw?"
I did so, and driven by the draught a coil of gray smoke swirled down the corridor,
while the dry straw crackled and flamed. "Now we must see if we can find this
witness for you, Lestrade.
Might I ask you all to join in the cry of 'Fire!'?
Now then; one, two, three----" "Fire!" we all yelled.
"Thank you.
I will trouble you once again." "Fire!"
"Just once more, gentlemen, and all together."
"Fire!"
The shout must have rung over Norwood. It had hardly died away when an amazing
thing happened.
A door suddenly flew open out of what appeared to be solid wall at the end of the
corridor, and a little, wizened man darted out of it, like a rabbit out of its burrow.
"Capital!" said Holmes, calmly.
"Watson, a bucket of water over the straw. That will do!
Lestrade, allow me to present you with your principal missing witness, Mr. Jonas
Oldacre."
The detective stared at the newcomer with blank amazement.
The latter was blinking in the bright light of the corridor, and peering at us and at
the smouldering fire.
It was an odious face--crafty, vicious, malignant, with shifty, light-gray eyes and
white lashes. "What's this, then?" said Lestrade, at
last.
"What have you been doing all this time, eh?"
Oldacre gave an uneasy laugh, shrinking back from the furious red face of the angry
detective.
"I have done no harm." "No harm?
You have done your best to get an innocent man hanged.
If it wasn't for this gentleman here, I am not sure that you would not have
succeeded." The wretched creature began to whimper.
"I am sure, sir, it was only my practical joke."
"Oh! a joke, was it? You won't find the laugh on your side, I
promise you.
Take him down, and keep him in the sitting- room until I come.
Mr. Holmes," he continued, when they had gone, "I could not speak before the
constables, but I don't mind saying, in the presence of Dr. Watson, that this is the
brightest thing that you have done yet,
though it is a mystery to me how you did it.
You have saved an innocent man's life, and you have prevented a very grave scandal,
which would have ruined my reputation in the Force."
Holmes smiled, and clapped Lestrade upon the shoulder.
"Instead of being ruined, my good sir, you will find that your reputation has been
enormously enhanced.
Just make a few alterations in that report which you were writing, and they will
understand how hard it is to throw dust in the eyes of Inspector Lestrade."
"And you don't want your name to appear?"
"Not at all. The work is its own reward.
Perhaps I shall get the credit also at some distant day, when I permit my zealous
historian to lay out his foolscap once more--eh, Watson?
Well, now, let us see where this rat has been lurking."
A lath-and-plaster partition had been run across the passage six feet from the end,
with a door cunningly concealed in it.
It was lit within by slits under the eaves. A few articles of furniture and a supply of
food and water were within, together with a number of books and papers.
"There's the advantage of being a builder," said Holmes, as we came out.
"He was able to fix up his own little hiding-place without any confederate--save,
of course, that precious housekeeper of his, whom I should lose no time in adding
to your bag, Lestrade."
"I'll take your advice. But how did you know of this place, Mr.
Holmes?" "I made up my mind that the fellow was in
hiding in the house.
When I paced one corridor and found it six feet shorter than the corresponding one
below, it was pretty clear where he was. I thought he had not the nerve to lie quiet
before an alarm of fire.
We could, of course, have gone in and taken him, but it amused me to make him reveal
himself. Besides, I owed you a little mystification,
Lestrade, for your chaff in the morning."
"Well, sir, you certainly got equal with me on that.
But how in the world did you know that he was in the house at all?"
"The thumb-mark, Lestrade.
You said it was final; and so it was, in a very different sense.
I knew it had not been there the day before.
I pay a good deal of attention to matters of detail, as you may have observed, and I
had examined the hall, and was sure that the wall was clear.
Therefore, it had been put on during the night."
"But how?" "Very simply.
When those packets were sealed up, Jonas Oldacre got McFarlane to secure one of the
seals by putting his thumb upon the soft wax.
It would be done so quickly and so naturally, that I daresay the young man
himself has no recollection of it.
Very likely it just so happened, and Oldacre had himself no notion of the use he
would put it to.
Brooding over the case in that den of his, it suddenly struck him what absolutely
damning evidence he could make against McFarlane by using that thumb-mark.
It was the simplest thing in the world for him to take a wax impression from the seal,
to moisten it in as much blood as he could get from a pin-prick, and to put the mark
upon the wall during the night, either with
his own hand or with that of his housekeeper.
If you examine among those documents which he took with him into his retreat, I will
lay you a wager that you find the seal with the thumb-mark upon it."
"Wonderful!" said Lestrade.
"Wonderful! It's all as clear as crystal, as you put
it. But what is the object of this deep
deception, Mr. Holmes?"
It was amusing to me to see how the detective's overbearing manner had changed
suddenly to that of a child asking questions of its teacher.
"Well, I don't think that is very hard to explain.
A very deep, malicious, vindictive person is the gentleman who is now waiting us
downstairs.
You know that he was once refused by McFarlane's mother?
You don't! I told you that you should go to Blackheath
first and Norwood afterwards.
Well, this injury, as he would consider it, has rankled in his wicked, scheming brain,
and all his life he has longed for vengeance, but never seen his chance.
During the last year or two, things have gone against him--secret speculation, I
think--and he finds himself in a bad way.
He determines to swindle his creditors, and for this purpose he pays large checks to a
certain Mr. Cornelius, who is, I imagine, himself under another name.
I have not traced these checks yet, but I have no doubt that they were banked under
that name at some provincial town where Oldacre from time to time led a double
existence.
He intended to change his name altogether, draw this money, and vanish, starting life
again elsewhere." "Well, that's likely enough."
"It would strike him that in disappearing he might throw all pursuit off his track,
and at the same time have an ample and crushing revenge upon his old sweetheart,
if he could give the impression that he had been murdered by her only child.
It was a masterpiece of villainy, and he carried it out like a master.
The idea of the will, which would give an obvious motive for the crime, the secret
visit unknown to his own parents, the retention of the stick, the blood, and the
animal remains and buttons in the wood- pile, all were admirable.
It was a net from which it seemed to me, a few hours ago, that there was no possible
escape.
But he had not that supreme gift of the artist, the knowledge of when to stop.
He wished to improve that which was already perfect--to draw the rope tighter yet round
the neck of his unfortunate victim--and so he ruined all.
Let us descend, Lestrade.
There are just one or two questions that I would ask him."
The malignant creature was seated in his own parlour, with a policeman upon each
side of him.
"It was a joke, my good sir--a practical joke, nothing more," he whined incessantly.
"I assure you, sir, that I simply concealed myself in order to see the effect of my
disappearance, and I am sure that you would not be so unjust as to imagine that I would
have allowed any harm to befall poor young Mr. McFarlane."
"That's for a jury to decide," said Lestrade.
"Anyhow, we shall have you on a charge of conspiracy, if not for attempted ***."
"And you'll probably find that your creditors will impound the banking account
of Mr. Cornelius," said Holmes.
The little man started, and turned his malignant eyes upon my friend.
"I have to thank you for a good deal," said he.
"Perhaps I'll pay my debt some day."
Holmes smiled indulgently. "I fancy that, for some few years, you will
find your time very fully occupied," said he.
"By the way, what was it you put into the wood-pile besides your old trousers?
A dead dog, or rabbits, or what? You won't tell?
Dear me, how very unkind of you!
Well, well, I daresay that a couple of rabbits would account both for the blood
and for the charred ashes. If ever you write an account, Watson, you
can make rabbits serve your turn."
>
THE ADVENTURE OF THE DANCING MEN
Holmes had been seated for some hours in silence with his long, thin back curved
over a chemical vessel in which he was brewing a particularly malodorous product.
His head was sunk upon his breast, and he looked from my point of view like a
strange, lank bird, with dull gray plumage and a black top-knot.
"So, Watson," said he, suddenly, "you do not propose to invest in South African
securities?" I gave a start of astonishment.
Accustomed as I was to Holmes's curious faculties, this sudden intrusion into my
most intimate thoughts was utterly inexplicable.
"How on earth do you know that?"
I asked. He wheeled round upon his stool, with a
steaming test-tube in his hand, and a gleam of amusement in his deep-set eyes.
"Now, Watson, confess yourself utterly taken aback," said he.
"I am." "I ought to make you sign a paper to that
effect."
"Why?" "Because in five minutes you will say that
it is all so absurdly simple." "I am sure that I shall say nothing of the
kind."
"You see, my dear Watson,"--he propped his test-tube in the rack, and began to lecture
with the air of a professor addressing his class--"it is not really difficult to
construct a series of inferences, each
dependent upon its predecessor and each simple in itself.
If, after doing so, one simply knocks out all the central inferences and presents
one's audience with the starting-point and the conclusion, one may produce a
startling, though possibly a meretricious, effect.
Now, it was not really difficult, by an inspection of the groove between your left
forefinger and thumb, to feel sure that you did NOT propose to invest your small
capital in the gold fields."
"I see no connection." "Very likely not; but I can quickly show
you a close connection. Here are the missing links of the very
simple chain: 1.
You had chalk between your left finger and thumb when you returned from the club last
night. 2.
You put chalk there when you play billiards, to steady the cue.
3. You never play billiards except with
Thurston.
4. You told me, four weeks ago, that Thurston
had an option on some South African property which would expire in a month, and
which he desired you to share with him.
5. Your check book is locked in my drawer, and
you have not asked for the key. 6.
You do not propose to invest your money in this manner."
"How absurdly simple!" I cried.
"Quite so!" said he, a little nettled.
"Every problem becomes very childish when once it is explained to you.
Here is an unexplained one. See what you can make of that, friend
Watson."
He tossed a sheet of paper upon the table, and turned once more to his chemical
analysis. I looked with amazement at the absurd
hieroglyphics upon the paper.
"Why, Holmes, it is a child's drawing," I cried.
"Oh, that's your idea!" "What else should it be?"
"That is what Mr. Hilton Cubitt, of Riding Thorpe Manor, Norfolk, is very anxious to
know.
This little conundrum came by the first post, and he was to follow by the next
train. There's a ring at the bell, Watson.
I should not be very much surprised if this were he."
A heavy step was heard upon the stairs, and an instant later there entered a tall,
ruddy, clean-shaven gentleman, whose clear eyes and florid cheeks told of a life led
far from the fogs of Baker Street.
He seemed to bring a whiff of his strong, fresh, bracing, east-coast air with him as
he entered.
Having shaken hands with each of us, he was about to sit down, when his eye rested upon
the paper with the curious markings, which I had just examined and left upon the
table.
"Well, Mr. Holmes, what do you make of these?" he cried.
"They told me that you were fond of *** mysteries, and I don't think you can find a
queerer one than that.
I sent the paper on ahead, so that you might have time to study it before I came."
"It is certainly rather a curious production," said Holmes.
"At first sight it would appear to be some childish prank.
It consists of a number of absurd little figures dancing across the paper upon which
they are drawn.
Why should you attribute any importance to so grotesque an object?"
"I never should, Mr. Holmes. But my wife does.
It is frightening her to death.
She says nothing, but I can see terror in her eyes.
That's why I want to sift the matter to the bottom."
Holmes held up the paper so that the sunlight shone full upon it.
It was a page torn from a notebook. The markings were done in pencil, and ran
in this way:
GRAPHIC Holmes examined it for some time, and then,
folding it carefully up, he placed it in his pocketbook.
"This promises to be a most interesting and unusual case," said he.
"You gave me a few particulars in your letter, Mr. Hilton Cubitt, but I should be
very much obliged if you would kindly go over it all again for the benefit of my
friend, Dr. Watson."
"I'm not much of a story-teller," said our visitor, nervously clasping and unclasping
his great, strong hands. "You'll just ask me anything that I don't
make clear.
I'll begin at the time of my marriage last year, but I want to say first of all that,
though I'm not a rich man, my people have been at Riding Thorpe for a matter of five
centuries, and there is no better known family in the County of Norfolk.
Last year I came up to London for the Jubilee, and I stopped at a boarding-house
in Russell Square, because Parker, the vicar of our parish, was staying in it.
There was an American young lady there-- Patrick was the name--Elsie Patrick.
In some way we became friends, until before my month was up I was as much in love as
man could be.
We were quietly married at a registry office, and we returned to Norfolk a wedded
couple.
You'll think it very mad, Mr. Holmes, that a man of a good old family should marry a
wife in this fashion, knowing nothing of her past or of her people, but if you saw
her and knew her, it would help you to understand.
"She was very straight about it, was Elsie.
I can't say that she did not give me every chance of getting out of it if I wished to
do so.
'I have had some very disagreeable associations in my life,' said she, 'I wish
to forget all about them. I would rather never allude to the past,
for it is very painful to me.
If you take me, Hilton, you will take a woman who has nothing that she need be
personally ashamed of, but you will have to be content with my word for it, and to
allow me to be silent as to all that passed up to the time when I became yours.
If these conditions are too hard, then go back to Norfolk, and leave me to the lonely
life in which you found me.'
It was only the day before our wedding that she said those very words to me.
I told her that I was content to take her on her own terms, and I have been as good
as my word.
"Well we have been married now for a year, and very happy we have been.
But about a month ago, at the end of June, I saw for the first time signs of trouble.
One day my wife received a letter from America.
I saw the American stamp. She turned deadly white, read the letter,
and threw it into the fire.
She made no allusion to it afterwards, and I made none, for a promise is a promise,
but she has never known an easy hour from that moment.
There is always a look of fear upon her face--a look as if she were waiting and
expecting. She would do better to trust me.
She would find that I was her best friend.
But until she speaks, I can say nothing. Mind you, she is a truthful woman, Mr.
Holmes, and whatever trouble there may have been in her past life it has been no fault
of hers.
I am only a simple Norfolk squire, but there is not a man in England who ranks his
family honour more highly than I do. She knows it well, and she knew it well
before she married me.
She would never bring any stain upon it--of that I am sure.
"Well, now I come to the *** part of my story.
About a week ago--it was the Tuesday of last week--I found on one of the window-
sills a number of absurd little dancing figures like these upon the paper.
They were scrawled with chalk.
I thought that it was the stable-boy who had drawn them, but the lad swore he knew
nothing about it. Anyhow, they had come there during the
night.
I had them washed out, and I only mentioned the matter to my wife afterwards.
To my surprise, she took it very seriously, and begged me if any more came to let her
see them.
None did come for a week, and then yesterday morning I found this paper lying
on the sundial in the garden. I showed it to Elsie, and down she dropped
in a dead faint.
Since then she has looked like a woman in a dream, half dazed, and with terror always
lurking in her eyes. It was then that I wrote and sent the paper
to you, Mr. Holmes.
It was not a thing that I could take to the police, for they would have laughed at me,
but you will tell me what to do.
I am not a rich man, but if there is any danger threatening my little woman, I would
spend my last copper to shield her."
He was a fine creature, this man of the old English soil--simple, straight, and gentle,
with his great, earnest blue eyes and broad, comely face.
His love for his wife and his trust in her shone in his features.
Holmes had listened to his story with the utmost attention, and now he sat for some
time in silent thought.
"Don't you think, Mr. Cubitt," said he, at last, "that your best plan would be to make
a direct appeal to your wife, and to ask her to share her secret with you?"
Hilton Cubitt shook his massive head.
"A promise is a promise, Mr. Holmes. If Elsie wished to tell me she would.
If not, it is not for me to force her confidence.
But I am justified in taking my own line-- and I will."
"Then I will help you with all my heart.
In the first place, have you heard of any strangers being seen in your
neighbourhood?" "No."
"I presume that it is a very quiet place.
Any fresh face would cause comment?" "In the immediate neighbourhood, yes.
But we have several small watering-places not very far away.
And the farmers take in lodgers."
"These hieroglyphics have evidently a meaning.
If it is a purely arbitrary one, it may be impossible for us to solve it.
If, on the other hand, it is systematic, I have no doubt that we shall get to the
bottom of it.
But this particular sample is so short that I can do nothing, and the facts which you
have brought me are so indefinite that we have no basis for an investigation.
I would suggest that you return to Norfolk, that you keep a keen lookout, and that you
take an exact copy of any fresh dancing men which may appear.
It is a thousand pities that we have not a reproduction of those which were done in
chalk upon the window-sill. Make a discreet inquiry also as to any
strangers in the neighbourhood.
When you have collected some fresh evidence, come to me again.
That is the best advice which I can give you, Mr. Hilton Cubitt.
If there are any pressing fresh developments, I shall be always ready to
run down and see you in your Norfolk home."
The interview left Sherlock Holmes very thoughtful, and several times in the next
few days I saw him take his slip of paper from his notebook and look long and
earnestly at the curious figures inscribed upon it.
He made no allusion to the affair, however, until one afternoon a fortnight or so
later.
I was going out when he called me back. "You had better stay here, Watson."
"Why?" "Because I had a wire from Hilton Cubitt
this morning.
You remember Hilton Cubitt, of the dancing men?
He was to reach Liverpool Street at one- twenty.
He may be here at any moment.
I gather from his wire that there have been some new incidents of importance."
We had not long to wait, for our Norfolk squire came straight from the station as
fast as a hansom could bring him.
He was looking worried and depressed, with tired eyes and a lined forehead.
"It's getting on my nerves, this business, Mr. Holmes," said he, as he sank, like a
wearied man, into an armchair.
"It's bad enough to feel that you are surrounded by unseen, unknown folk, who
have some kind of design upon you, but when, in addition to that, you know that it
is just killing your wife by inches, then
it becomes as much as flesh and blood can endure.
She's wearing away under it--just wearing away before my eyes."
"Has she said anything yet?"
"No, Mr. Holmes, she has not. And yet there have been times when the poor
girl has wanted to speak, and yet could not quite bring herself to take the plunge.
I have tried to help her, but I daresay I did it clumsily, and scared her from it.
She has spoken about my old family, and our reputation in the county, and our pride in
our unsullied honour, and I always felt it was leading to the point, but somehow it
turned off before we got there."
"But you have found out something for yourself?"
"A good deal, Mr. Holmes.
I have several fresh dancing-men pictures for you to examine, and, what is more
important, I have seen the fellow." "What, the man who draws them?"
"Yes, I saw him at his work.
But I will tell you everything in order. When I got back after my visit to you, the
very first thing I saw next morning was a fresh crop of dancing men.
They had been drawn in chalk upon the black wooden door of the tool-house, which stands
beside the lawn in full view of the front windows.
I took an exact copy, and here it is."
He unfolded a paper and laid it upon the table.
Here is a copy of the hieroglyphics: GRAPHIC
"Excellent!" said Holmes.
"Excellent! Pray continue."
"When I had taken the copy, I rubbed out the marks, but, two mornings later, a fresh
inscription had appeared.
I have a copy of it here:" GRAPHIC
Holmes rubbed his hands and chuckled with delight.
"Our material is rapidly accumulating," said he.
"Three days later a message was left scrawled upon paper, and placed under a
pebble upon the sundial.
Here it is. The characters are, as you see, exactly the
same as the last one.
After that I determined to lie in wait, so I got out my revolver and I sat up in my
study, which overlooks the lawn and garden.
About two in the morning I was seated by the window, all being dark save for the
moonlight outside, when I heard steps behind me, and there was my wife in her
dressing-gown.
She implored me to come to bed. I told her frankly that I wished to see who
it was who played such absurd tricks upon us.
She answered that it was some senseless practical joke, and that I should not take
any notice of it.
"'If it really annoys you, Hilton, we might go and travel, you and I, and so avoid this
nuisance.' "'What, be driven out of our own house by a
practical joker?' said I.
'Why, we should have the whole county laughing at us.'
"'Well, come to bed,' said she, 'and we can discuss it in the morning.'
"Suddenly, as she spoke, I saw her white face grow whiter yet in the moonlight, and
her hand tightened upon my shoulder. Something was moving in the shadow of the
tool-house.
I saw a dark, creeping figure which crawled round the corner and squatted in front of
the door.
Seizing my pistol, I was rushing out, when my wife threw her arms round me and held me
with convulsive strength. I tried to throw her off, but she clung to
me most desperately.
At last I got clear, but by the time I had opened the door and reached the house the
creature was gone.
He had left a trace of his presence, however, for there on the door was the very
same arrangement of dancing men which had already twice appeared, and which I have
copied on that paper.
There was no other sign of the fellow anywhere, though I ran all over the
grounds.
And yet the amazing thing is that he must have been there all the time, for when I
examined the door again in the morning, he had scrawled some more of his pictures
under the line which I had already seen."
"Have you that fresh drawing?" "Yes, it is very short, but I made a copy
of it, and here it is." Again he produced a paper.
The new dance was in this form:
GRAPHIC "Tell me," said Holmes--and I could see by
his eyes that he was much excited--"was this a mere addition to the first or did it
appear to be entirely separate?"
"It was on a different panel of the door." "Excellent!
This is far the most important of all for our purpose.
It fills me with hopes.
Now, Mr. Hilton Cubitt, please continue your most interesting statement."
"I have nothing more to say, Mr. Holmes, except that I was angry with my wife that
night for having held me back when I might have caught the skulking rascal.
She said that she feared that I might come to harm.
For an instant it had crossed my mind that perhaps what she really feared was that HE
might come to harm, for I could not doubt that she knew who this man was, and what he
meant by these strange signals.
But there is a tone in my wife's voice, Mr. Holmes, and a look in her eyes which
forbid doubt, and I am sure that it was indeed my own safety that was in her mind.
There's the whole case, and now I want your advice as to what I ought to do.
My own inclination is to put half a dozen of my farm lads in the shrubbery, and when
this fellow comes again to give him such a hiding that he will leave us in peace for
the future."
"I fear it is too deep a case for such simple remedies," said Holmes.
"How long can you stay in London?" "I must go back to-day.
I would not leave my wife alone all night for anything.
She is very nervous, and begged me to come back."
"I daresay you are right.
But if you could have stopped, I might possibly have been able to return with you
in a day or two.
Meanwhile you will leave me these papers, and I think that it is very likely that I
shall be able to pay you a visit shortly and to throw some light upon your case."
Sherlock Holmes preserved his calm professional manner until our visitor had
left us, although it was easy for me, who knew him so well, to see that he was
profoundly excited.
The moment that Hilton Cubitt's broad back had disappeared through the door my comrade
rushed to the table, laid out all the slips of paper containing dancing men in front of
him, and threw himself into an intricate and elaborate calculation.
For two hours I watched him as he covered sheet after sheet of paper with figures and
letters, so completely absorbed in his task that he had evidently forgotten my
presence.
Sometimes he was making progress and whistled and sang at his work; sometimes he
was puzzled, and would sit for long spells with a furrowed brow and a vacant eye.
Finally he sprang from his chair with a cry of satisfaction, and walked up and down the
room rubbing his hands together. Then he wrote a long telegram upon a cable
form.
"If my answer to this is as I hope, you will have a very pretty case to add to your
collection, Watson," said he.
"I expect that we shall be able to go down to Norfolk tomorrow, and to take our friend
some very definite news as to the secret of his annoyance."
I confess that I was filled with curiosity, but I was aware that Holmes liked to make
his disclosures at his own time and in his own way, so I waited until it should suit
him to take me into his confidence.
But there was a delay in that answering telegram, and two days of impatience
followed, during which Holmes pricked up his ears at every ring of the bell.
On the evening of the second there came a letter from Hilton Cubitt.
All was quiet with him, save that a long inscription had appeared that morning upon
the pedestal of the sundial.
He inclosed a copy of it, which is here reproduced:
GRAPHIC
Holmes bent over this grotesque frieze for some minutes, and then suddenly sprang to
his feet with an exclamation of surprise and dismay.
His face was haggard with anxiety.
"We have let this affair go far enough," said he.
"Is there a train to North Walsham to- night?"
I turned up the time-table.
The last had just gone. "Then we shall breakfast early and take the
very first in the morning," said Holmes. "Our presence is most urgently needed.
Ah! here is our expected cablegram.
One moment, Mrs. Hudson, there may be an answer.
No, that is quite as I expected.
This message makes it even more essential that we should not lose an hour in letting
Hilton Cubitt know how matters stand, for it is a singular and a dangerous web in
which our simple Norfolk squire is entangled."
So, indeed, it proved, and as I come to the dark conclusion of a story which had seemed
to me to be only childish and bizarre, I experience once again the dismay and horror
with which I was filled.
Would that I had some brighter ending to communicate to my readers, but these are
the chronicles of fact, and I must follow to their dark crisis the strange chain of
events which for some days made Riding
Thorpe Manor a household word through the length and breadth of England.
We had hardly alighted at North Walsham, and mentioned the name of our destination,
when the station-master hurried towards us.
"I suppose that you are the detectives from London?" said he.
A look of annoyance passed over Holmes's face.
"What makes you think such a thing?"
"Because Inspector Martin from Norwich has just passed through.
But maybe you are the surgeons. She's not dead--or wasn't by last accounts.
You may be in time to save her yet--though it be for the gallows."
Holmes's brow was dark with anxiety.
"We are going to Riding Thorpe Manor," said he, "but we have heard nothing of what has
passed there." "It's a terrible business," said the
stationmaster.
"They are shot, both Mr. Hilton Cubitt and his wife.
She shot him and then herself--so the servants say.
He's dead and her life is despaired of.
Dear, dear, one of the oldest families in the county of Norfolk, and one of the most
honoured."
Without a word Holmes hurried to a carriage, and during the long seven miles'
drive he never opened his mouth. Seldom have I seen him so utterly
despondent.
He had been uneasy during all our journey from town, and I had observed that he had
turned over the morning papers with anxious attention, but now this sudden realization
of his worst fears left him in a blank melancholy.
He leaned back in his seat, lost in gloomy speculation.
Yet there was much around to interest us, for we were passing through as singular a
countryside as any in England, where a few scattered cottages represented the
population of to-day, while on every hand
enormous square-towered churches bristled up from the flat green landscape and told
of the glory and prosperity of old East Anglia.
At last the violet rim of the German Ocean appeared over the green edge of the Norfolk
coast, and the driver pointed with his whip to two old brick and timber gables which
projected from a grove of trees.
"That's Riding Thorpe Manor," said he.
As we drove up to the porticoed front door, I observed in front of it, beside the
tennis lawn, the black tool-house and the pedestalled sundial with which we had such
strange associations.
A dapper little man, with a quick, alert manner and a waxed moustache, had just
descended from a high dog-cart.
He introduced himself as Inspector Martin, of the Norfolk Constabulary, and he was
considerably astonished when he heard the name of my companion.
"Why, Mr. Holmes, the crime was only committed at three this morning.
How could you hear of it in London and get to the spot as soon as I?"
"I anticipated it.
I came in the hope of preventing it." "Then you must have important evidence, of
which we are ignorant, for they were said to be a most united couple."
"I have only the evidence of the dancing men," said Holmes.
"I will explain the matter to you later.
Meanwhile, since it is too late to prevent this tragedy, I am very anxious that I
should use the knowledge which I possess in order to insure that justice be done.
Will you associate me in your investigation, or will you prefer that I
should act independently?"
"I should be proud to feel that we were acting together, Mr. Holmes," said the
inspector, earnestly.
"In that case I should be glad to hear the evidence and to examine the premises
without an instant of unnecessary delay."
Inspector Martin had the good sense to allow my friend to do things in his own
fashion, and contented himself with carefully noting the results.
The local surgeon, an old, white-haired man, had just come down from Mrs. Hilton
Cubitt's room, and he reported that her injuries were serious, but not necessarily
fatal.
The bullet had passed through the front of her brain, and it would probably be some
time before she could regain consciousness.
On the question of whether she had been shot or had shot herself, he would not
venture to express any decided opinion. Certainly the bullet had been discharged at
very close quarters.
There was only the one pistol found in the room, two barrels of which had been
emptied. Mr. Hilton Cubitt had been shot through
the heart.
It was equally conceivable that he had shot her and then himself, or that she had been
the criminal, for the revolver lay upon the floor midway between them.
"Has he been moved?" asked Holmes.
"We have moved nothing except the lady. We could not leave her lying wounded upon
the floor." "How long have you been here, Doctor?"
"Since four o'clock."
"Anyone else?" "Yes, the constable here."
"And you have touched nothing?" "Nothing."
"You have acted with great discretion.
Who sent for you?" "The housemaid, Saunders."
"Was it she who gave the alarm?" "She and Mrs. King, the cook."
"Where are they now?"
"In the kitchen, I believe." "Then I think we had better hear their
story at once."
The old hall, oak-panelled and high- windowed, had been turned into a court of
investigation.
Holmes sat in a great, old-fashioned chair, his inexorable eyes gleaming out of his
haggard face.
I could read in them a set purpose to devote his life to this quest until the
client whom he had failed to save should at last be avenged.
The trim Inspector Martin, the old, gray- headed country doctor, myself, and a stolid
village policeman made up the rest of that strange company.
The two women told their story clearly enough.
They had been aroused from their sleep by the sound of an explosion, which had been
followed a minute later by a second one.
They slept in adjoining rooms, and Mrs. King had rushed in to Saunders.
Together they had descended the stairs. The door of the study was open, and a
candle was burning upon the table.
Their master lay upon his face in the centre of the room.
He was quite dead. Near the window his wife was crouching, her
head leaning against the wall.
She was horribly wounded, and the side of her face was red with blood.
She breathed heavily, but was incapable of saying anything.
The passage, as well as the room, was full of smoke and the smell of powder.
The window was certainly shut and fastened upon the inside.
Both women were positive upon the point.
They had at once sent for the doctor and for the constable.
Then, with the aid of the groom and the stable-boy, they had conveyed their injured
mistress to her room.
Both she and her husband had occupied the bed.
She was clad in her dress--he in his dressing-gown, over his night-clothes.
Nothing had been moved in the study.
So far as they knew, there had never been any quarrel between husband and wife.
They had always looked upon them as a very united couple.
These were the main points of the servants' evidence.
In answer to Inspector Martin, they were clear that every door was fastened upon the
inside, and that no one could have escaped from the house.
In answer to Holmes, they both remembered that they were conscious of the smell of
powder from the moment that they ran out of their rooms upon the top floor.
"I commend that fact very carefully to your attention," said Holmes to his professional
colleague.
"And now I think that we are in a position to undertake a thorough examination of the
room."
The study proved to be a small chamber, lined on three sides with books, and with a
writing-table facing an ordinary window, which looked out upon the garden.
Our first attention was given to the body of the unfortunate squire, whose huge frame
lay stretched across the room. His disordered dress showed that he had
been hastily aroused from sleep.
The bullet had been fired at him from the front, and had remained in his body, after
penetrating the heart. His death had certainly been instantaneous
and painless.
There was no powder-marking either upon his dressing-gown or on his hands.
According to the country surgeon, the lady had stains upon her face, but none upon her
hand.
"The absence of the latter means nothing, though its presence may mean everything,"
said Holmes.
"Unless the powder from a badly fitting cartridge happens to spurt backward, one
may fire many shots without leaving a sign. I would suggest that Mr. Cubitt's body may
now be removed.
I suppose, Doctor, you have not recovered the bullet which wounded the lady?"
"A serious operation will be necessary before that can be done.
But there are still four cartridges in the revolver.
Two have been fired and two wounds inflicted, so that each bullet can be
accounted for."
"So it would seem," said Holmes. "Perhaps you can account also for the
bullet which has so obviously struck the edge of the window?"
He had turned suddenly, and his long, thin finger was pointing to a hole which had
been drilled right through the lower window-sash, about an inch above the
bottom.
"By George!" cried the inspector. "How ever did you see that?"
"Because I looked for it." "Wonderful!" said the country doctor.
"You are certainly right, sir.
Then a third shot has been fired, and therefore a third person must have been
present. But who could that have been, and how could
he have got away?"
"That is the problem which we are now about to solve," said Sherlock Holmes.
"You remember, Inspector Martin, when the servants said that on leaving their room
they were at once conscious of a smell of powder, I remarked that the point was an
extremely important one?"
"Yes, sir; but I confess I did not quite follow you."
"It suggested that at the time of the firing, the window as well as the door of
the room had been open.
Otherwise the fumes of powder could not have been blown so rapidly through the
house. A draught in the room was necessary for
that.
Both door and window were only open for a very short time, however."
"How do you prove that?" "Because the candle was not guttered."
"Capital!" cried the inspector.
"Capital!
"Feeling sure that the window had been open at the time of the tragedy, I conceived
that there might have been a third person in the affair, who stood outside this
opening and fired through it.
Any shot directed at this person might hit the sash.
I looked, and there, sure enough, was the bullet mark!"
"But how came the window to be shut and fastened?"
"The woman's first instinct would be to shut and fasten the window.
But, halloa!
What is this?" It was a lady's hand-bag which stood upon
the study table--a trim little handbag of crocodile-skin and silver.
Holmes opened it and turned the contents out.
There were twenty fifty-pound notes of the Bank of England, held together by an india-
rubber band--nothing else.
"This must be preserved, for it will figure in the trial," said Holmes, as he handed
the bag with its contents to the inspector.
"It is now necessary that we should try to throw some light upon this third bullet,
which has clearly, from the splintering of the wood, been fired from inside the room.
I should like to see Mrs. King, the cook, again.
You said, Mrs. King, that you were awakened by a LOUD explosion.
When you said that, did you mean that it seemed to you to be louder than the second
one?" "Well, sir, it wakened me from my sleep, so
it is hard to judge.
But it did seem very loud." "You don't think that it might have been
two shots fired almost at the same instant?"
"I am sure I couldn't say, sir."
"I believe that it was undoubtedly so. I rather think, Inspector Martin, that we
have now exhausted all that this room can teach us.
If you will kindly step round with me, we shall see what fresh evidence the garden
has to offer."
A flower-bed extended up to the study window, and we all broke into an
exclamation as we approached it.
The flowers were trampled down, and the soft soil was imprinted all over with
footmarks. Large, masculine feet they were, with
peculiarly long, sharp toes.
Holmes hunted about among the grass and leaves like a retriever after a wounded
bird.
Then, with a cry of satisfaction, he bent forward and picked up a little brazen
cylinder.
"I thought so," said he, "the revolver had an ejector, and here is the third
cartridge. I really think, Inspector Martin, that our
case is almost complete."
The country inspector's face had shown his intense amazement at the rapid and
masterful progress of Holmes's investigation.
At first he had shown some disposition to assert his own position, but now he was
overcome with admiration, and ready to follow without question wherever Holmes
led.
"Whom do you suspect?" he asked. "I'll go into that later.
There are several points in this problem which I have not been able to explain to
you yet.
Now that I have got so far, I had best proceed on my own lines, and then clear the
whole matter up once and for all." "Just as you wish, Mr. Holmes, so long as
we get our man."
"I have no desire to make mysteries, but it is impossible at the moment of action to
enter into long and complex explanations. I have the threads of this affair all in my
hand.
Even if this lady should never recover consciousness, we can still reconstruct the
events of last night and insure that justice be done.
First of all, I wish to know whether there is any inn in this neighbourhood known as
'Elrige's'?" The servants were cross-questioned, but
none of them had heard of such a place.
The stable-boy threw a light upon the matter by remembering that a farmer of that
name lived some miles off, in the direction of East Ruston.
"Is it a lonely farm?"
"Very lonely, sir." "Perhaps they have not heard yet of all
that happened here during the night?" "Maybe not, sir."
Holmes thought for a little, and then a curious smile played over his face.
"Saddle a horse, my lad," said he. "I shall wish you to take a note to
Elrige's Farm."
He took from his pocket the various slips of the dancing men.
With these in front of him, he worked for some time at the study-table.
Finally he handed a note to the boy, with directions to put it into the hands of the
person to whom it was addressed, and especially to answer no questions of any
sort which might be put to him.
I saw the outside of the note, addressed in straggling, irregular characters, very
unlike Holmes's usual precise hand. It was consigned to Mr. Abe Slaney,
Elriges Farm, East Ruston, Norfolk.
"I think, Inspector," Holmes remarked, "that you would do well to telegraph for an
escort, as, if my calculations prove to be correct, you may have a particularly
dangerous prisoner to convey to the county jail.
The boy who takes this note could no doubt forward your telegram.
If there is an afternoon train to town, Watson, I think we should do well to take
it, as I have a chemical analysis of some interest to finish, and this investigation
draws rapidly to a close."
When the youth had been dispatched with the note, Sherlock Holmes gave his instructions
to the servants.
If any visitor were to call asking for Mrs. Hilton Cubitt, no information should
be given as to her condition, but he was to be shown at once into the drawing-room.
He impressed these points upon them with the utmost earnestness.
Finally he led the way into the drawing- room, with the remark that the business was
now out of our hands, and that we must while away the time as best we might until
we could see what was in store for us.
The doctor had departed to his patients, and only the inspector and myself remained.
"I think that I can help you to pass an hour in an interesting and profitable
manner," said Holmes, drawing his chair up to the table, and spreading out in front of
him the various papers upon which were recorded the antics of the dancing men.
"As to you, friend Watson, I owe you every atonement for having allowed your natural
curiosity to remain so long unsatisfied.
To you, Inspector, the whole incident may appeal as a remarkable professional study.
I must tell you, first of all, the interesting circumstances connected with
the previous consultations which Mr. Hilton Cubitt has had with me in Baker
Street."
He then shortly recapitulated the facts which have already been recorded.
"I have here in front of me these singular productions, at which one might smile, had
they not proved themselves to be the forerunners of so terrible a tragedy.
I am fairly familiar with all forms of secret writings, and am myself the author
of a trifling monograph upon the subject, in which I analyze one hundred and sixty
separate ciphers, but I confess that this is entirely new to me.
The object of those who invented the system has apparently been to conceal that these
characters convey a message, and to give the idea that they are the mere random
sketches of children.
"Having once recognized, however, that the symbols stood for letters, and having
applied the rules which guide us in all forms of secret writings, the solution was
easy enough.
The first message submitted to me was so short that it was impossible for me to do
more than to say, with some confidence, that the symbol *** stood for E.
As you are aware, E is the most common letter in the English alphabet, and it
predominates to so marked an extent that even in a short sentence one would expect
to find it most often.
Out of fifteen symbols in the first message, four were the same, so it was
reasonable to set this down as E.
It is true that in some cases the figure was bearing a flag, and in some cases not,
but it was probable, from the way in which the flags were distributed, that they were
used to break the sentence up into words.
I accepted this as a hypothesis, and noted that E was represented by ***.
"But now came the real difficulty of the inquiry.
The order of the English letters after E is by no means well marked, and any
preponderance which may be shown in an average of a printed sheet may be reversed
in a single short sentence.
Speaking roughly, T, A, O, I, N, S, H, R, D, and L are the numerical order in which
letters occur, but T, A, O, and I are very nearly abreast of each other, and it would
be an endless task to try each combination until a meaning was arrived at.
I therefore waited for fresh material.
In my second interview with Mr. Hilton Cubitt he was able to give me two other
short sentences and one message, which appeared--since there was no flag--to be a
single word.
Here are the symbols. Now, in the single word I have already got
the two E's coming second and fourth in a word of five letters.
It might be 'sever,' or 'lever,' or 'never.'
There can be no question that the latter as a reply to an appeal is far the most
probable, and the circumstances pointed to its being a reply written by the lady.
Accepting it as correct, we are now able to say that the symbols stand respectively for
N, V, and R.
"Even now I was in considerable difficulty, but a happy thought put me in possession of
several other letters.
It occurred to me that if these appeals came, as I expected, from someone who had
been intimate with the lady in her early life, a combination which contained two E's
with three letters between might very well stand for the name 'ELSIE.'
On examination I found that such a combination formed the termination of the
message which was three times repeated.
It was certainly some appeal to 'Elsie.' In this way I had got my L, S, and I.
But what appeal could it be? There were only four letters in the word
which preceded 'Elsie,' and it ended in E.
Surely the word must be 'COME.' I tried all other four letters ending in E,
but could find none to fit the case.
So now I was in possession of C, O, and M, and I was in a position to attack the first
message once more, dividing it into words and putting dots for each symbol which was
still unknown.
So treated, it worked out in this fashion: .M .ERE ..E SL.NE.
"Now the first letter CAN only be A, which is a most useful discovery, since it occurs
no fewer than three times in this short sentence, and the H is also apparent in the
second word.
Now it becomes: AM HERE A.E SLANE.
Or, filling in the obvious vacancies in the name:
AM HERE ABE SLANEY.
I had so many letters now that I could proceed with considerable confidence to the
second message, which worked out in this fashion:
A. ELRI.
ES.
Here I could only make sense by putting T and G for the missing letters, and
supposing that the name was that of some house or inn at which the writer was
staying."
Inspector Martin and I had listened with the utmost interest to the full and clear
account of how my friend had produced results which had led to so complete a
command over our difficulties.
"What did you do then, sir?" asked the inspector.
"I had every reason to suppose that this Abe Slaney was an American, since Abe is an
American contraction, and since a letter from America had been the starting-point of
all the trouble.
I had also every cause to think that there was some criminal secret in the matter.
The lady's allusions to her past, and her refusal to take her husband into her
confidence, both pointed in that direction.
I therefore cabled to my friend, Wilson Hargreave, of the New York Police Bureau,
who has more than once made use of my knowledge of London crime.
I asked him whether the name of Abe Slaney was known to him.
Here is his reply: 'The most dangerous crook in Chicago.'
On the very evening upon which I had his answer, Hilton Cubitt sent me the last
message from Slaney. Working with known letters, it took this
form:
ELSIE .RE.ARE TO MEET THY GO.
The addition of a P and a D completed a message which showed me that the rascal was
proceeding from persuasion to threats, and my knowledge of the crooks of Chicago
prepared me to find that he might very rapidly put his words into action.
I at once came to Norfolk with my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson, but, unhappily,
only in time to find that the worst had already occurred."
"It is a privilege to be associated with you in the handling of a case," said the
inspector, warmly. "You will excuse me, however, if I speak
frankly to you.
You are only answerable to yourself, but I have to answer to my superiors.
If this Abe Slaney, living at Elrige's, is indeed the murderer, and if he has made his
escape while I am seated here, I should certainly get into serious trouble."
"You need not be uneasy.
He will not try to escape." "How do you know?"
"To fly would be a confession of guilt." "Then let us go arrest him."
"I expect him here every instant."
"But why should he come." "Because I have written and asked him."
"But this is incredible, Mr. Holmes! Why should he come because you have asked
him?
Would not such a request rather rouse his suspicions and cause him to fly?"
"I think I have known how to frame the letter," said Sherlock Holmes.
"In fact, if I am not very much mistaken, here is the gentleman himself coming up the
drive." A man was striding up the path which led to
the door.
He was a tall, handsome, swarthy fellow, clad in a suit of gray flannel, with a
Panama hat, a bristling black beard, and a great, aggressive hooked nose, and
flourishing a cane as he walked.
He swaggered up a path as if as if the place belonged to him, and we heard his
loud, confident peal at the bell.
"I think, gentlemen," said Holmes, quietly, "that we had best take up our position
behind the door. Every precaution is necessary when dealing
with such a fellow.
You will need your handcuffs, Inspector. You can leave the talking to me."
We waited in silence for a minute--one of those minutes which one can never forget.
Then the door opened and the man stepped in.
In an instant Holmes clapped a pistol to his head, and Martin slipped the handcuffs
over his wrists.
It was all done so swiftly and deftly that the fellow was helpless before he knew that
he was attacked. He glared from one to the other of us with
a pair of blazing black eyes.
Then he burst into a bitter laugh. "Well, gentlemen, you have the drop on me
this time. I seem to have knocked up against something
hard.
But I came here in answer to a letter from Mrs. Hilton Cubitt.
Don't tell me that she is in this? Don't tell me that she helped to set a trap
for me?"
" Mrs. Hilton Cubitt was seriously injured, and is at death's door."
The man gave a hoarse cry of grief, which rang through the house.
"You're crazy!" he cried, fiercely.
"It was he that was hurt, not she. Who would have hurt little Elsie?
I may have threatened her--God forgive me!- -but I would not have touched a hair of her
pretty head.
Take it back--you! Say that she is not hurt!"
"She was found badly wounded, by the side of her dead husband."
He sank with a deep groan on the settee and buried his face in his manacled hands.
For five minutes he was silent. Then he raised his face once more, and
spoke with the cold composure of despair.
"I have nothing to hide from you, gentlemen," said he.
"If I shot the man he had his shot at me, and there's no *** in that.
But if you think I could have hurt that woman, then you don't know either me or
her. I tell you, there was never a man in this
world loved a woman more than I loved her.
I had a right to her. She was pledged to me years ago.
Who was this Englishman that he should come between us?
I tell you that I had the first right to her, and that I was only claiming my own.
"She broke away from your influence when she found the man that you are," said
Holmes, sternly.
"She fled from America to avoid you, and she married an honourable gentleman in
England.
You dogged her and followed her and made her life a misery to her, in order to
induce her to abandon the husband whom she loved and respected in order to fly with
you, whom she feared and hated.
You have ended by bringing about the death of a noble man and driving his wife to
suicide.
That is your record in this business, Mr. Abe Slaney, and you will answer for it to
the law." "If Elsie dies, I care nothing what becomes
of me," said the American.
He opened one of his hands, and looked at a note crumpled up in his palm.
"See here, mister! he cried, with a gleam of suspicion in his eyes, "you're not
trying to scare me over this, are you?
If the lady is hurt as bad as you say, who was it that wrote this note?"
He tossed it forward on to the table. "I wrote it, to bring you here."
"You wrote it?
There was no one on earth outside the Joint who knew the secret of the dancing men.
How came you to write it?" "What one man can invent another can
discover," said Holmes.
There is a cab coming to convey you to Norwich, Mr. Slaney.
But meanwhile, you have time to make some small reparation for the injury you have
wrought.
Are you aware that Mrs. Hilton Cubitt has herself lain under grave suspicion of the
*** of her husband, and that it was only my presence here, and the knowledge which I
happened to possess, which has saved her from the accusation?
The least that you owe her is to make it clear to the whole world that she was in no
way, directly or indirectly, responsible for his tragic end."
"I ask nothing better," said the American.
"I guess the very best case I can make for myself is the absolute naked truth."
"It is my duty to warn you that it will be used against you," cried the inspector,
with the magnificent fair play of the British criminal law.
Slaney shrugged his shoulders.
"I'll chance that," said he. "First of all, I want you gentlemen to
understand that I have known this lady since she was a child.
There were seven of us in a gang in Chicago, and Elsie's father was the boss of
the Joint. He was a clever man, was old Patrick.
It was he who invented that writing, which would pass as a child's scrawl unless you
just happened to have the key to it.
Well, Elsie learned some of our ways, but she couldn't stand the business, and she
had a bit of honest money of her own, so she gave us all the slip and got away to
London.
She had been engaged to me, and she would have married me, I believe, if I had taken
over another profession, but she would have nothing to do with anything on the cross.
It was only after her marriage to this Englishman that I was able to find out
where she was. I wrote to her, but got no answer.
After that I came over, and, as letters were no use, I put my messages where she
could read them. "Well, I have been here a month now.
I lived in that farm, where I had a room down below, and could get in and out every
night, and no one the wiser. I tried all I could to coax Elsie away.
I knew that she read the messages, for once she wrote an answer under one of them.
Then my temper got the better of me, and I began to threaten her.
She sent me a letter then, imploring me to go away, and saying that it would break her
heart if any scandal should come upon her husband.
She said that she would come down when her husband was asleep at three in the morning,
and speak with me through the end window, if I would go away afterwards and leave her
in peace.
She came down and brought money with her, trying to bribe me to go.
This made me mad, and I caught her arm and tried to pull her through the window.
At that moment in rushed the husband with his revolver in his hand.
Elsie had sunk down upon the floor, and we were face to face.
I was heeled also, and I held up my gun to scare him off and let me get away.
He fired and missed me. I pulled off almost at the same instant,
and down he dropped.
I made away across the garden, and as I went I heard the window shut behind me.
That's God's truth, gentlemen, every word of it, and I heard no more about it until
that lad came riding up with a note which made me walk in here, like a jay, and give
myself into your hands."
A cab had driven up whilst the American had been talking.
Two uniformed policemen sat inside. Inspector Martin rose and touched his
prisoner on the shoulder.
"It is time for us to go." "Can I see her first?"
"No, she is not conscious.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I only hope that if ever again I have an important case, I
shall have the good fortune to have you by my side."
We stood at the window and watched the cab drive away.
As I turned back, my eye caught the pellet of paper which the prisoner had tossed upon
the table.
It was the note with which Holmes had decoyed him.
"See if you can read it, Watson," said he, with a smile.
It contained no word, but this little line of dancing men:
GRAPHIC
"If you use the code which I have explained," said Holmes, "you will find
that it simply means 'Come here at once.'
I was convinced that it was an invitation which he would not refuse, since he could
never imagine that it could come from anyone but the lady.
And so, my dear Watson, we have ended by turning the dancing men to good when they
have so often been the agents of evil, and I think that I have fulfilled my promise of
giving you something unusual for your notebook.
Three-forty is our train, and I fancy we should be back in Baker Street for dinner."
Only one word of epilogue.
The American, Abe Slaney, was condemned to death at the winter assizes at Norwich, but
his penalty was changed to penal servitude in consideration of mitigating
circumstances, and the certainty that Hilton Cubitt had fired the first shot.
Of Mrs. Hilton Cubitt I only know that I have heard she recovered entirely, and that
she still remains a widow, devoting her whole life to the care of the poor and to
the administration of her husband's estate.
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