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