the time, and the whole of next day I was busy at the bedside of the
sufferer. It was not until close upon six o’clock that I found myself
free, and was able to spring into a hansom and drive to Baker Street,
half afraid that I might be too late to assist at the _dénouement_
of the little mystery. I found Sherlock Holmes alone, however, half
asleep, with his long, thin form curled up in the recesses of his
arm-chair. A formidable array of bottles and test-tubes, with the
pungent cleanly smell of hydrochloric acid, told me that he had spent
his day in the chemical work which was so dear to him.
“Well, have you solved it?” I asked, as I entered.
“Yes. It was the bisulphate of baryta.”
“No, no, the mystery!” I cried.
“Oh, that! I thought of the salt that I have been working upon. There
was never any mystery in the matter, though, as I said yesterday, some
of the details are of interest. The only drawback is that there is no
law, I fear, that can touch the scoundrel.”
“Who was he, then, and what was his object in deserting Miss
Sutherland?”
The question was hardly out of my mouth, and Holmes had not yet opened
his lips to reply, when we heard a heavy footfall in the passage, and a
tap at the door.
“This is the girl’s step-father, Mr. James Windibank,” said Holmes. “He
has written to me to say that he would be here at six. Come in!”
The man who entered was a sturdy, middle-sized fellow, some thirty
years of age, clean shaven, and sallow skinned, with a bland,
insinuating manner, and a pair of wonderfully sharp and penetrating
gray eyes. He shot a questioning glance at each of us, placed his shiny
top hat upon the sideboard, and with a slight bow sidled down into the
nearest chair.
“Good-evening, Mr. James Windibank,” said Holmes. “I think that this
type-written letter is from you, in which you made an appointment with
me for six o’clock?”
“Yes, sir. I am afraid that I am a little late, but I am not quite my
own master, you know. I am sorry that Miss Sutherland has troubled you
about this little matter, for I think it is far better not to wash
linen of the sort in public. It was quite against my wishes that she
came, but she is a very excitable, impulsive girl, as you may have
noticed, and she is not easily controlled when she has made up her
mind on a point. Of course, I did not mind you so much, as you are not
connected with the official police, but it is not pleasant to have a
family misfortune like this noised abroad. Besides, it is a useless
expense, for how could you possibly find this Hosmer Angel?”
“On the contrary,” said Holmes, quietly; “I have every reason to
believe that I will succeed in discovering Mr. Hosmer Angel.”
Mr. Windibank gave a violent start, and dropped his gloves. “I am
delighted to hear it,” he said.
“It is a curious thing,” remarked Holmes, “that a type-writer has
really quite as much individuality as a man’s handwriting. Unless they
are quite new, no two of them write exactly alike. Some letters get
more worn than others, and some wear only on one side. Now, you remark
in this note of yours, Mr. Windibank, that in every case there is some
little slurring over of the ‘e,’ and a slight defect in the tail of the
‘r.’ There are fourteen other characteristics, but those are the more
obvious.”
“We do all our correspondence with this machine at the office, and no
doubt it is a little worn,” our visitor answered, glancing keenly at
Holmes with his bright little eyes.
“And now I will show you what is really a very interesting study,
Mr. Windibank,” Holmes continued. “I think of writing another little
monograph some of these days on the type-writer and its relation to
crime. It is a subject to which I have devoted some little attention.
I have here four letters which purport to come from the missing man.
They are all type-written. In each case, not only are the ‘e’s’ slurred
and the ‘r’s’ tailless, but you will observe, if you care to use my
magnifying lens, that the fourteen other characteristics to which I
have alluded are there as well.”
Mr. Windibank sprang out of his chair, and picked up his hat. “I cannot
waste time over this sort of fantastic talk, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “If
you can catch the man, catch him, and let me know when you have done
it.”
“Certainly,” said Holmes, stepping over and turning the key in the
door. “I let you know, then, that I have caught him!”
“What! where?” shouted Mr. Windibank, turning white to his lips, and
glancing about him like a rat in a trap.
“Oh, it won’t do—really it won’t,” said Holmes, suavely. “There is no
possible getting out of it, Mr. Windibank. It is quite too transparent,
and it was a very bad compliment when you said that it was impossible
for me to solve so simple a question. That’s right! Sit down, and let
us talk it over.”
Our visitor collapsed into a chair, with a ghastly face, and a glitter
of moisture on his brow. “It—it’s not actionable,” he stammered.
“I am very much afraid that it is not. But between ourselves,
Windibank, it was as cruel and selfish and heartless a trick in a petty
way as ever came before me. Now, let me just run over the course of
events, and you will contradict me if I go wrong.”
The man sat huddled up in his chair, with his head sunk upon his
breast, like one who is utterly crushed. Holmes stuck his feet up on
the corner of the mantel-piece, and, leaning back with his hands in his
pockets, began talking, rather to himself, as it seemed, than to us.
“The man married a woman very much older than himself for her money,”
said he, “and he enjoyed the use of the money of the daughter as long
as she lived with them. It was a considerable sum, for people in their
position, and the loss of it would have made a serious difference.
It was worth an effort to preserve it. The daughter was of a good,
amiable disposition, but affectionate and warm-hearted in her ways, so
that it was evident that with her fair personal advantages, and her
little income, she would not be allowed to remain single long. Now her
marriage would mean, of course, the loss of a hundred a year, so what
does her step-father do to prevent it? He takes the obvious course of
keeping her at home, and forbidding her to seek the company of people
of her own age. But soon he found that that would not answer forever.
She became restive, insisted upon her rights, and finally announced her
positive intention of going to a certain ball. What does her clever
step-father do then? He conceives an idea more creditable to his head
than to his heart. With the connivance and assistance of his wife he
disguised himself, covered those keen eyes with tinted glasses, masked
the face with a mustache and a pair of bushy whiskers, sunk that clear
voice into an insinuating whisper, and doubly secure on account of the
girl’s short sight, he appears as Mr. Hosmer Angel, and keeps off other
lovers by making love himself.”
[Illustration: “GLANCING ABOUT HIM LIKE A RAT IN A TRAP”]
“It was only a joke at first,” groaned our visitor. “We never thought
that she would have been so carried away.”
“Very likely not. However that may be, the young lady was very
decidedly carried away, and having quite made up her mind that her
step-father was in France, the suspicion of treachery never for
an instant entered her mind. She was flattered by the gentleman’s
attentions, and the effect was increased by the loudly expressed
admiration of her mother. Then Mr. Angel began to call, for it was
obvious that the matter should be pushed as far as it would go,
if a real effect were to be produced. There were meetings, and an
engagement, which would finally secure the girl’s affections from
turning towards any one else. But the deception could not be kept up
forever. These pretended journeys to France were rather cumbrous. The
thing to do was clearly to bring the business to an end in such a
dramatic manner that it would leave a permanent impression upon the
young lady’s mind, and prevent her from looking upon any other suitor
for some time to come. Hence those vows of fidelity exacted upon a
Testament, and hence also the allusions to a possibility of something
happening on the very morning of the wedding. James Windibank wished
Miss Sutherland to be so bound to Hosmer Angel, and so uncertain as to
his fate, that for ten years to come, at any rate, she would not listen
to another man. As far as the church door he brought her, and then, as
he could go no farther, he conveniently vanished away by the old trick
of stepping in at one door of a four-wheeler, and out at the other. I
think that that was the chain of events, Mr. Windibank!”
Our visitor had recovered something of his assurance while Holmes had
been talking, and he rose from his chair now with a cold sneer upon his
pale face.
“It may be so, or it may not, Mr. Holmes,” said he, “but if you are so
very sharp you ought to be sharp enough to know that it is you who are
breaking the law now, and not me. I have done nothing actionable from
the first, but as long as you keep that door locked you lay yourself
open to an action for assault and illegal constraint.”
“The law cannot, as you say, touch you,” said Holmes, unlocking and
throwing open the door, “yet there never was a man who deserved
punishment more. If the young lady has a brother or a friend, he ought
to lay a whip across your shoulders. By Jove!” he continued, flushing
up at the sight of the bitter sneer upon the man’s face, “it is not
part of my duties to my client, but here’s a hunting crop handy, and I
think I shall just treat myself to—” He took two swift steps to the
whip, but before he could grasp it there was a wild clatter of steps
upon the stairs, the heavy hall door banged, and from the window we
could see Mr. James Windibank running at the top of his speed down the
road.
“There’s a cold-blooded scoundrel!” said Holmes, laughing, as he threw
himself down into his chair once more. “That fellow will rise from
crime to crime until he does something very bad, and ends on a gallows.
The case has, in some respects, been not entirely devoid of interest.”
“I cannot now entirely see all the steps of your reasoning,” I remarked.
“Well, of course it was obvious from the first that this Mr. Hosmer
Angel must have some strong object for his curious conduct, and it was
equally clear that the only man who really profited by the incident,
as far as we could see, was the step-father. Then the fact that the
two men were never together, but that the one always appeared when
the other was away, was suggestive. So were the tinted spectacles and
the curious voice, which both hinted at a disguise, as did the bushy
whiskers. My suspicions were all confirmed by his peculiar action
in type-writing his signature, which, of course, inferred that his
handwriting was so familiar to her that she would recognize even the
smallest sample of it. You see all these isolated facts, together with
many minor ones, all pointed in the same direction.”
“And how did you verify them?”
“Having once spotted my man, it was easy to get corroboration. I
knew the firm for which this man worked. Having taken the printed
description, I eliminated everything from it which could be the result
of a disguise—the whiskers, the glasses, the voice, and I sent it
to the firm, with a request that they would inform me whether it
answered to the description of any of their travellers. I had already
noticed the peculiarities of the type-writer, and I wrote to the man
himself at his business address, asking him if he would come here. As
I expected, his reply was type-written, and revealed the same trivial
but characteristic defects. The same post brought me a letter from
Westhouse & Marbank, of Fenchurch Street, to say that the description
tallied in every respect with that of their employé, James Windibank.
_Voila tout!_”
“And Miss Sutherland?”
“If I tell her she will not believe me. You may remember the old
Persian saying, ‘There is danger for him who taketh the tiger cub, and
danger also for whoso snatches a delusion from a woman.’ There is as
much sense in Hafiz as in Horace, and as much knowledge of the world.”
Adventure IV
THE BOSCOMBE VALLEY MYSTERY
We were seated at breakfast one morning, my wife and I, when the maid
brought in a telegram. It was from Sherlock Holmes, and ran in this way:
“Have you a couple of days to spare? Have just been wired for from
the West of England in connection with Boscombe Valley tragedy. Shall
be glad if you will come with me. Air and scenery perfect. Leave
Paddington by the 11.15.”
“What do you say, dear?” said my wife, looking across at me. “Will you
go?”
“I really don’t know what to say. I have a fairly long list at present.”
“Oh, Anstruther would do your work for you. You have been looking a
little pale lately. I think that the change would do you good, and you
are always so interested in Mr. Sherlock Holmes’s cases.”
“I should be ungrateful if I were not, seeing what I gained through one
of them,” I answered. “But if I am to go, I must pack at once, for I
have only half an hour.”
My experience of camp life in Afghanistan had at least had the effect
of making me a prompt and ready traveller. My wants were few and
simple, so that in less than the time stated I was in a cab with my
valise, rattling away to Paddington Station. Sherlock Holmes was pacing
up and down the platform, his tall, gaunt figure made even gaunter and
taller by his long gray travelling-cloak and close-fitting cloth cap.
“It is really very good of you to come, Watson,” said he. “It makes a
considerable difference to me, having some one with me on whom I can
thoroughly rely. Local aid is always either worthless or else biassed.
If you will keep the two corner seats I shall get the tickets.”
We had the carriage to ourselves save for an immense litter of papers
which Holmes had brought with him. Among these he rummaged and read,
with intervals of note-taking and of meditation, until we were past
Reading. Then he suddenly rolled them all into a gigantic ball, and
tossed them up onto the rack.
“Have you heard anything of the case?” he asked.
“Not a word. I have not seen a paper for some days.”
“The London press has not had very full accounts. I have just
been looking through all the recent papers in order to master the
particulars. It seems, from what I gather, to be one of those simple
cases which are so extremely difficult.”
“That sounds a little paradoxical.”
“But it is profoundly true. Singularity is almost invariably a clew.
The more featureless and commonplace a crime is, the more difficult is
it to bring it home. In this case, however, they have established a
very serious case against the son of the murdered man.”
“It is a murder, then?”
“Well, it is conjectured to be so. I shall take nothing for granted
until I have the opportunity of looking personally into it. I will
explain the state of things to you, as far as I have been able to
understand it, in a very few words.
“Boscombe Valley is a country district not very far from Ross, in
Herefordshire. The largest landed proprietor in that part is a Mr. John
Turner, who made his money in Australia, and returned some years ago to
the old country. One of the farms which he held, that of Hatherley, was
let to Mr. Charles McCarthy, who was also an ex-Australian. The men had
known each other in the colonies, so that it was not unnatural that
when they came to settle down they should do so as near each other as
possible. Turner was apparently the richer man, so McCarthy became his
tenant, but still remained, it seems, upon terms of perfect equality,
as they were frequently together. McCarthy had one son, a lad of
eighteen, and Turner had an only daughter of the same age, but neither
of them had wives living. They appear to have avoided the society of
the neighboring English families, and to have led retired lives, though
both the McCarthys were fond of sport, and were frequently seen at
the race-meetings of the neighborhood. McCarthy kept two servants—a
man and a girl. Turner had a considerable household, some half-dozen
at the least. That is as much as I have been able to gather about the
families. Now for the facts.
“On June 3, that is, on Monday last, McCarthy left his house at
Hatherley about three in the afternoon, and walked down to the Boscombe
Pool, which is a small lake formed by the spreading out of the
stream which runs down the Boscombe Valley. He had been out with his
serving-man in the morning at Ross, and he had told the man that he
must hurry, as he had an appointment of importance to keep at three.
From that appointment he never came back alive.
“From Hatherley Farm-house to the Boscombe Pool is a quarter of a mile,
and two people saw him as he passed over this ground. One was an old
woman, whose name is not mentioned, and the other was William Crowder,
a game-keeper in the employ of Mr. Turner. Both these witnesses depose
that Mr. McCarthy was walking alone. The game-keeper adds that within
a few minutes of his seeing Mr. McCarthy pass he had seen his son, Mr.
James McCarthy, going the same way with a gun under his arm. To the
best of his belief, the father was actually in sight at the time, and
the son was following him. He thought no more of the matter until he
heard in the evening of the tragedy that had occurred.
“The two McCarthys were seen after the time when William Crowder, the
game-keeper, lost sight of them. The Boscombe Pool is thickly-wooded
round, with just a fringe of grass and of reeds round the edge. A girl
of fourteen, Patience Moran, who is the daughter of the lodge-keeper of
the Boscombe Valley estate, was in one of the woods picking flowers.
She states that while she was there she saw, at the border of the wood
and close by the lake, Mr. McCarthy and his son, and that they appeared
to be having a violent quarrel. She heard Mr. McCarthy the elder using
very strong language to his son, and she saw the latter raise up
his hand as if to strike his father. She was so frightened by their
violence that she ran away, and told her mother when she reached home
that she had left the two McCarthys quarrelling near Boscombe Pool, and
that she was afraid that they were going to fight. She had hardly said
the words when young Mr. McCarthy came running up to the lodge to say
that he had found his father dead in the wood, and to ask for the help
of the lodge-keeper. He was much excited, without either his gun or his
hat, and his right hand and sleeve were observed to be stained with
fresh blood. On following him they found the dead body stretched out
upon the grass beside the Pool. The head had been beaten in by repeated
blows of some heavy and blunt weapon. The injuries were such as might
very well have been inflicted by the butt-end of his son’s gun, which
was found lying on the grass within a few paces of the body. Under
these circumstances the young man was instantly arrested, and a verdict
of ‘Wilful Murder’ having been returned at the inquest on Tuesday,
he was on Wednesday brought before the magistrates at Ross, who have
referred the case to the next assizes. Those are the main facts of the
case as they came out before the coroner and at the police-court.”
“I could hardly imagine a more damning case,” I remarked. “If ever
circumstantial evidence pointed to a criminal it does so here.”
“Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing,” answered Holmes,
thoughtfully. “It may seem to point very straight to one thing, but if
you shift your own point of view a little, you may find it pointing
in an equally uncompromising manner to something entirely different.
It must be confessed, however, that the case looks exceedingly grave
against the young man, and it is very possible that he is indeed the
culprit. There are several people in the neighborhood, however, and
among them Miss Turner, the daughter of the neighboring land-owner,
who believe in his innocence, and who have retained Lestrade, whom you
may recollect in connection with the Study in Scarlet, to work out the
case in his interest. Lestrade, being rather puzzled, has referred the
case to me, and hence it is that two middle-aged gentlemen are flying
westward at fifty miles an hour, instead of quietly digesting their
breakfasts at home.”
“I am afraid,” said I, “that the facts are so obvious that you will
find little credit to be gained out of this case.”
“There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact,” he answered,
laughing. “Besides, we may chance to hit upon some other obvious facts
which may have been by no means obvious to Mr. Lestrade. You know me
too well to think that I am boasting when I say that I shall either
confirm or destroy his theory by means which he is quite incapable of
employing, or even of understanding. To take the first example to hand,
I very clearly perceive that in your bedroom the window is upon the
right-hand side, and yet I question whether Mr. Lestrade would have
noted even so self-evident a thing as that.”
“How on earth—”
“My dear fellow, I know you well. I know the military neatness which
characterizes you. You shave every morning, and in this season you
shave by the sunlight; but since your shaving is less and less complete
as we get farther back on the left side, until it becomes positively
slovenly as we get round the angle of the jaw, it is surely very clear
that that side is less well illuminated than the other. I could not
imagine a man of your habits looking at himself in an equal light, and
being satisfied with such a result. I only quote this as a trivial
example of observation and inference. Therein lies my _métier_, and it
is just possible that it may be of some service in the investigation
which lies before us. There are one or two minor points which were
brought out in the inquest, and which are worth considering.”
[Illustration: “THEY FOUND THE BODY”]
“What are they?”
“It appears that his arrest did not take place at once, but after the
return to Hatherley Farm. On the inspector of constabulary informing
him that he was a prisoner, he remarked that he was not surprised to
hear it, and that it was no more than his deserts. This observation of
his had the natural effect of removing any traces of doubt which might
have remained in the minds of the coroner’s jury.”
“It was a confession,” I ejaculated.
“No, for it was followed by a protestation of innocence.”
“Coming on the top of such a damning series of events, it was at least
a most suspicious remark.”
“On the contrary,” said Holmes, “it is the brightest rift which I can
at present see in the clouds. However innocent he might be, he could
not be such an absolute imbecile as not to see that the circumstances
were very black against him. Had he appeared surprised at his own
arrest, or feigned indignation at it, I should have looked upon it as
highly suspicious, because such surprise or anger would not be natural
under the circumstances, and yet might appear to be the best policy
to a scheming man. His frank acceptance of the situation marks him as
either an innocent man, or else as a man of considerable self-restraint
and firmness. As to his remark about his deserts, it was also not
unnatural if you consider that he stood beside the dead body of his
father, and that there is no doubt that he had that very day so far
forgotten his filial duty as to bandy words with him, and even,
according to the little girl whose evidence is so important, to raise
his hand as if to strike him. The self-reproach and contrition which
are displayed in his remark appear to me to be the signs of a healthy
mind, rather than of a guilty one.”
I shook my head. “Many men have been hanged on far slighter evidence,”
I remarked.
“So they have. And many men have been wrongfully hanged.”
“What is the young man’s own account of the matter?”
“It is, I am afraid, not very encouraging to his supporters, though
there are one or two points in it which are suggestive. You will find
it here, and may read it for yourself.”
He picked out from his bundle a copy of the local Herefordshire paper,
and having turned down the sheet, he pointed out the paragraph in which
the unfortunate young man had given his own statement of what had
occurred. I settled myself down in the corner of the carriage, and read
it very carefully. It ran in this way: