up to the room. The fire was burning brightly, and in the grate there
was a mass of black, fluffy ashes, as of burned paper, while the brass
box stood open and empty beside it. As I glanced at the box I noticed,
with a start, that upon the lid were printed the treble K which I had
read in the morning upon the envelope.
“‘I wish you, John,’ said my uncle, ‘to witness my will. I leave
my estate, with all its advantages and all its disadvantages to my
brother, your father, whence it will, no doubt, descend to you. If you
can enjoy it in peace, well and good! If you find you cannot, take my
advice, my boy, and leave it to your deadliest enemy. I am sorry to
give you such a two-edged thing, but I can’t say what turn things are
going to take. Kindly sign the paper where Mr. Fordham shows you.’
“I signed the paper as directed, and the lawyer took it away with him.
The singular incident made, as you may think, the deepest impression
upon me, and I pondered over it, and turned it every way in my mind
without being able to make anything of it. Yet I could not shake off
the vague feeling of dread which it left behind though the sensation
grew less keen as the weeks passed, and nothing happened to disturb
the usual routine of our lives. I could see a change in my uncle,
however. He drank more than ever, and he was less inclined for any
sort of society. Most of his time he would spend in his room, with the
door locked upon the inside, but sometimes he would emerge in a sort
of drunken frenzy, and would burst out of the house and tear about the
garden with a revolver in his hand, screaming out that he was afraid
of no man, and that he was not to be cooped up, like a sheep in a pen,
by man or devil. When these hot fits were over, however, he would rush
tumultuously in at the door, and lock and bar it behind him, like a man
who can brazen it out no longer against the terror which lies at the
roots of his soul. At such times I have seen his face, even on a cold
day, glisten with moisture, as though it were new raised from a basin.
“Well, to come to an end of the matter, Mr. Holmes, and not to abuse
your patience, there came a night when he made one of those drunken
sallies from which he never came back. We found him, when we went to
search for him, face downward in a little green-scummed pool, which lay
at the foot of the garden. There was no sign of any violence, and the
water was but two feet deep, so that the jury, having regard to his
known eccentricity, brought in a verdict of suicide. But I, who knew
how he winced from the very thought of death, had much ado to persuade
myself that he had gone out of his way to meet it. The matter passed,
however, and my father entered into possession of the estate, and of
some £14,000, which lay to his credit at the bank.”
“One moment,” Holmes interposed. “Your statement is, I foresee, one
of the most remarkable to which I have ever listened. Let me have the
date of the reception by your uncle of the letter, and the date of his
supposed suicide.”
“The latter arrived on March 10, 1883. His death was seven weeks later,
upon the night of May 2d.”
“Thank you. Pray proceed.”
“When my father took over the Horsham property, he, at my request, made
a careful examination of the attic, which had been always locked up. We
found the brass box there, although its contents had been destroyed. On
the inside of the cover was a paper label, with the initials of K. K.
K. repeated upon it, and ‘Letters, memoranda, receipts, and a register’
written beneath. These, we presume, indicated the nature of the papers
which had been destroyed by Colonel Openshaw. For the rest, there was
nothing of much importance in the attic, save a great many scattered
papers and note-books bearing upon my uncle’s life in America. Some
of them were of the war time, and showed that he had done his duty
well, and had borne the repute of a brave soldier. Others were of a
date during the reconstruction of the Southern States, and were mostly
concerned with politics, for he had evidently taken a strong part in
opposing the carpet-bag politicians who had been sent down from the
North.
“Well, it was the beginning of ’84 when my father came to live at
Horsham, and all went as well as possible with us until the January
of ’85. On the fourth day after the new year I heard my father give a
sharp cry of surprise as we sat together at the breakfast-table. There
he was, sitting with a newly-opened envelope in one hand and five dried
orange pips in the outstretched palm of the other one. He had always
laughed at what he called my cock-and-a-bull story about the Colonel,
but he looked very scared and puzzled now that the same thing had come
upon himself.
“‘Why, what on earth does this mean, John?’ he stammered.
“My heart had turned to lead. ‘It is K. K. K.,’ said I.
“He looked inside the envelope. ‘So it is,’ he cried. ‘Here are the
very letters. But what is this written above them?’
“‘Put the papers on the sundial,’ I read, peeping over his shoulder.
“‘What papers? What sundial?’ he asked.
“‘The sundial in the garden. There is no other,’ said I; ‘but the
papers must be those that are destroyed.’
“‘Pooh!’ said he, gripping hard at his courage. ‘We are in a civilized
land here, and we can’t have tomfoolery of this kind. Where does the
thing come from?’
“‘From Dundee,’ I answered, glancing at the post-mark.
“‘Some preposterous practical joke,’ said he. ‘What have I to do with
sundials and papers? I shall take no notice of such nonsense.’
“‘I should certainly speak to the police,’ I said.
“‘And be laughed at for my pains. Nothing of the sort.’
“‘Then let me do so?’
“‘No, I forbid you. I won’t have a fuss made about such nonsense.’
“It was in vain to argue with him, for he was a very obstinate man. I
went about, however, with a heart which was full of forebodings.
“On the third day after the coming of the letter my father went from
home to visit an old friend of his, Major Freebody, who is in command
of one of the forts upon Portsdown Hill. I was glad that he should go,
for it seemed to me that he was farther from danger when he was away
from home. In that, however, I was in error. Upon the second day of his
absence I received a telegram from the Major, imploring me to come at
once. My father had fallen over one of the deep chalk-pits which abound
in the neighborhood, and was lying senseless, with a shattered skull. I
hurried to him, but he passed away without having ever recovered his
consciousness. He had, as it appears, been returning from Fareham in
the twilight, and as the country was unknown to him, and the chalk-pit
unfenced, the jury had no hesitation in bringing in a verdict of ‘Death
from accidental causes.’ Carefully as I examined every fact connected
with his death, I was unable to find anything which could suggest the
idea of murder. There were no signs of violence, no footmarks, no
robbery, no record of strangers having been seen upon the roads. And
yet I need not tell you that my mind was far from at ease, and that I
was wellnigh certain that some foul plot had been woven round him.
“In this sinister way I came into my inheritance. You will ask me why
I did not dispose of it? I answer, because I was well convinced that
our troubles were in some way dependent upon an incident in my uncle’s
life, and that the danger would be as pressing in one house as in
another.
“It was in January, ’85, that my poor father met his end, and two years
and eight months have elapsed since then. During that time I have lived
happily at Horsham, and I had begun to hope that this curse had passed
away from the family, and that it had ended with the last generation. I
had begun to take comfort too soon, however; yesterday morning the blow
fell in the very shape in which it had come upon my father.”
The young man took from his waistcoat a crumpled envelope, and, turning
to the table, he shook out upon it five little dried orange pips.
“This is the envelope,” he continued. “The post-mark is London—eastern
division. Within are the very words which were upon my father’s last
message: ‘K. K. K.’; and then ‘Put the papers on the sundial.’”
“What have you done?” asked Holmes.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“To tell the truth”—he sank his face into his thin, white hands—“I
have felt helpless. I have felt like one of those poor rabbits when
the snake is writhing towards it. I seem to be in the grasp of some
resistless, inexorable evil, which no foresight and no precautions can
guard against.”
“Tut! tut!” cried Sherlock Holmes. “You must act, man, or you are lost.
Nothing but energy can save you. This is no time for despair.”
“I have seen the police.”
“Ah!”
“But they listened to my story with a smile. I am convinced that the
inspector has formed the opinion that the letters are all practical
jokes, and that the deaths of my relations were really accidents, as
the jury stated, and were not to be connected with the warnings.”
Holmes shook his clenched hands in the air. “Incredible imbecility!” he
cried.
“They have, however, allowed me a policeman, who may remain in the
house with me.”
“Has he come with you to-night?”
“No. His orders were to stay in the house.”
Again Holmes raved in the air.
“Why did you come to me?” he said; “and, above all, why did you not
come at once?”
“I did not know. It was only to-day that I spoke to Major Prendergast
about my troubles, and was advised by him to come to you.”
“It is really two days since you had the letter. We should have acted
before this. You have no further evidence, I suppose, than that which
you have placed before us—no suggestive detail which might help us?”
“There is one thing,” said John Openshaw. He rummaged in his coat
pocket, and drawing out a piece of discolored, blue-tinted paper, he
laid it out upon the table. “I have some remembrance,” said he, “that
on the day when my uncle burned the papers I observed that the small,
unburned margins which lay amid the ashes were of this particular
color. I found this single sheet upon the floor of his room, and I am
inclined to think that it may be one of the papers which has, perhaps,
fluttered out from among the others, and in that way have escaped
destruction. Beyond the mention of pips, I do not see that it helps us
much. I think myself that it is a page from some private diary. The
writing is undoubtedly my uncle’s.”
Holmes moved the lamp, and we both bent over the sheet of paper, which
showed by its ragged edge that it had indeed been torn from a book. It
was headed, “March, 1869,” and beneath were the following enigmatical
notices:
“4th. Hudson came. Same old platform.
“7th. Set the pips on McCauley, Paramore, and John Swain, of St.
Augustine.
“9th. McCauley cleared.
“10th. John Swain cleared.
“12th. Visited Paramore. All well.”
“Thank you!” said Holmes, folding up the paper, and returning it to
our visitor. “And now you must on no account lose another instant. We
cannot spare time even to discuss what you have told me. You must get
home instantly and act.”
“What shall I do?”
“There is but one thing to do. It must be done at once. You must put
this piece of paper which you have shown us into the brass box which
you have described. You must also put in a note to say that all the
other papers were burned by your uncle, and that this is the only
one which remains. You must assert that in such words as will carry
conviction with them. Having done this, you must at once put the box
out upon the sundial, as directed. Do you understand?”
“Entirely.”
“Do not think of revenge, or anything of the sort, at present. I think
that we may gain that by means of the law; but we have our web to
weave, while theirs is already woven. The first consideration is to
remove the pressing danger which threatens you. The second is to clear
up the mystery and to punish the guilty parties.”
“I thank you,” said the young man, rising, and pulling on his overcoat.
“You have given me fresh life and hope. I shall certainly do as you
advise.”
“Do not lose an instant. And, above all, take care of yourself in the
meanwhile, for I do not think that there can be a doubt that you are
threatened by a very real and imminent danger. How do you go back?”
“By train from Waterloo.”
“It is not yet nine. The streets will be crowded, so I trust that you
may be in safety. And yet you cannot guard yourself too closely.”
“I am armed.”
“That is well. To-morrow I shall set to work upon your case.”
“I shall see you at Horsham, then?”
“No, your secret lies in London. It is there that I shall seek it.”
“Then I shall call upon you in a day, or in two days, with news as to
the box and the papers. I shall take your advice in every particular.”
He shook hands with us, and took his leave. Outside the wind still
screamed, and the rain splashed and pattered against the windows.
This strange, wild story seemed to have come to us from amid the mad
elements—blown in upon us like a sheet of sea-weed in a gale—and now
to have been reabsorbed by them once more.
Sherlock Holmes sat for some time in silence, with his head sunk
forward and his eyes bent upon the red glow of the fire. Then he lit
his pipe, and leaning back in his chair he watched the blue smoke-rings
as they chased each other up to the ceiling.
“I think, Watson,” he remarked at last, “that of all our cases we have
had none more fantastic than this.”
“Save, perhaps, the Sign of Four.”
“Well, yes. Save, perhaps, that. And yet this John Openshaw seems to
me to be walking amid even greater perils than did the Sholtos.”
“But have you,” I asked, “formed any definite conception as to what
these perils are?”
“There can be no question as to their nature,” he answered.
“Then what are they? Who is this K. K. K., and why does he pursue this
unhappy family?”
Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes and placed his elbows upon the arms
of his chair, with his finger-tips together. “The ideal reasoner,” he
remarked, “would, when he had once been shown a single fact in all
its bearings, deduce from it not only all the chain of events which
led up to it, but also all the results which would follow from it. As
Cuvier could correctly describe a whole animal by the contemplation of
a single bone, so the observer who has thoroughly understood one link
in a series of incidents, should be able to accurately state all the
other ones, both before and after. We have not yet grasped the results
which the reason alone can attain to. Problems may be solved in the
study which have baffled all those who have sought a solution by the
aid of their senses. To carry the art, however, to its highest pitch,
it is necessary that the reasoner should be able to utilize all the
facts which have come to his knowledge; and this in itself implies,
as you will readily see, a possession of all knowledge, which, even
in these days of free education and encyclopædias, is a somewhat rare
accomplishment. It is not so impossible, however, that a man should
possess all knowledge which is likely to be useful to him in his work,
and this I have endeavored in my case to do. If I remember rightly, you
on one occasion, in the early days of our friendship, defined my limits
in a very precise fashion.”
“Yes,” I answered, laughing. “It was a singular document. Philosophy,
astronomy, and politics were marked at zero, I remember. Botany
variable, geology profound as regards the mud-stains from any region
within fifty miles of town, chemistry eccentric, anatomy unsystematic,
sensational literature and crime records unique, violin-player, boxer,
swordsman, lawyer, and self-poisoner by cocaine and tobacco. Those, I
think, were the main points of my analysis.”
Holmes grinned at the last item. “Well,” he said, “I say now, as I said
then, that a man should keep his little brain-attic stocked with all
the furniture that he is likely to use, and the rest he can put away
in the lumber-room of his library, where he can get it if he wants
it. Now, for such a case as the one which has been submitted to us
to-night, we need certainly to muster all our resources. Kindly hand
me down the letter K of the American Encyclopædia which stands upon
the shelf beside you. Thank you. Now let us consider the situation,
and see what may be deduced from it. In the first place, we may start
with a strong presumption that Colonel Openshaw had some very strong
reason for leaving America. Men at his time of life do not change all
their habits, and exchange willingly the charming climate of Florida
for the lonely life of an English provincial town. His extreme love of
solitude in England suggests the idea that he was in fear of some one
or something, so we may assume as a working hypothesis that it was fear
of some one or something which drove him from America. As to what it
was he feared, we can only deduce that by considering the formidable
letters which were received by himself and his successors. Did you
remark the post-marks of those letters?”
“The first was from Pondicherry, the second from Dundee, and the third
from London.”
“From East London. What do you deduce from that?”
“They are all seaports. That the writer was on board of a ship.”
“Excellent. We have already a clew. There can be no doubt that the
probability—the strong probability—is that the writer was on board
of a ship. And now let us consider another point. In the case of
Pondicherry, seven weeks elapsed between the threat and its fulfilment,
in Dundee it was only some three or four days. Does that suggest
anything?”
“A greater distance to travel.”
“But the letter had also a greater distance to come.”
“Then I do not see the point.”
“There is at least a presumption that the vessel in which the man
or men are is a sailing-ship. It looks as if they always sent their
singular warning or token before them when starting upon their mission.
You see how quickly the deed followed the sign when it came from
Dundee. If they had come from Pondicherry in a steamer they would
have arrived almost as soon as their letter. But as a matter of fact
seven weeks elapsed. I think that those seven weeks represented the
difference between the mail-boat which brought the letter, and the
sailing-vessel which brought the writer.”
“It is possible.”
“More than that. It is probable. And now you see the deadly urgency of
this new case, and why I urged young Openshaw to caution. The blow has
always fallen at the end of the time which it would take the senders to
travel the distance. But this one comes from London, and therefore we
cannot count upon delay.”
“Good God!” I cried; “what can it mean, this relentless persecution?”
“The papers which Openshaw carried are obviously of vital importance
to the person or persons in the sailing-ship. I think that it is quite
clear that there must be more than one of them. A single man could not
have carried out two deaths in such a way as to deceive a coroner’s
jury. There must have been several in it, and they must have been men
of resource and determination. Their papers they mean to have, be the
holder of them who it may. In this way you see K. K. K. ceases to be
the initials of an individual, and becomes the badge of a society.”
“But of what society?”
“Have you never—” said Sherlock Holmes, bending forward and sinking
his voice—“have you never heard of the Ku Klux Klan?”
“I never have.”
Holmes turned over the leaves of the book upon his knee. “Here it
is,” said he, presently, “‘Ku Klux Klan. A name derived from the
fanciful resemblance to the sound produced by cocking a rifle. This
terrible secret society was formed by some ex-Confederate soldiers in
the Southern States after the Civil War, and it rapidly formed local
branches in different parts of the country, notably in Tennessee,
Louisiana, the Carolinas, Georgia, and Florida. Its power was used
for political purposes, principally for the terrorizing of the negro
voters, and the murdering and driving from the country of those who
were opposed to its views. Its outrages were usually preceded by
a warning sent to the marked man in some fantastic but generally
recognized shape—a sprig of oak-leaves in some parts, melon seeds or
orange pips in others. On receiving this the victim might either openly
abjure his former ways, or might fly from the country. If he braved the
matter out, death would unfailingly come upon him, and usually in some
strange and unforeseen manner. So perfect was the organization of the
society, and so systematic its methods, that there is hardly a case
upon record where any man succeeded in braving it with impunity, or in
which any of its outrages were traced home to the perpetrators. For
some years the organization flourished, in spite of the efforts of the
United States Government and of the better classes of the community in
the South. Eventually, in the year 1869, the movement rather suddenly
collapsed, although there have been sporadic outbreaks of the same sort
since that date.’
“You will observe,” said Holmes, laying down the volume, “that the
sudden breaking up of the society was coincident with the disappearance
of Openshaw from America with their papers. It may well have been cause
and effect. It is no wonder that he and his family have some of the
more implacable spirits upon their track. You can understand that this
register and diary may implicate some of the first men in the South,
and that there may be many who will not sleep easy at night until it is
recovered.”
“Then the page we have seen—”
“Is such as we might expect. It ran, if I remember right, ‘sent the
pips to A, B, and C,’—that is, sent the society’s warning to them.
Then there are successive entries that A and B cleared, or left the
country, and finally that C was visited, with, I fear, a sinister
result for C. Well, I think, Doctor, that we may let some light into
this dark place, and I believe that the only chance young Openshaw has
in the mean time is to do what I have told him. There is nothing more
to be said or to be done to-night, so hand me over my violin, and let
us try to forget for half an hour the miserable weather and the still
more miserable ways of our fellow-men.”
* * * * *
It had cleared in the morning, and the sun was shining with a subdued
brightness through the dim veil which hangs over the great city.
Sherlock Holmes was already at breakfast when I came down.
“You will excuse me for not waiting for you,” said he; “I have, I
foresee, a very busy day before me in looking into this case of young
Openshaw’s.”
“What steps will you take?” I asked.
“It will very much depend upon the results of my first inquiries. I may
have to go down to Horsham, after all.”
“You will not go there first?”
“No, I shall commence with the city. Just ring the bell, and the maid
will bring up your coffee.”
As I waited, I lifted the unopened newspaper from the table and glanced
my eye over it. It rested upon a heading which sent a chill to my heart.
“Holmes,” I cried, “you are too late.”
“Ah!” said he, laying down his cup, “I feared as much. How was it
done?” He spoke calmly, but I could see that he was deeply moved.
“My eye caught the name of Openshaw, and the heading, ‘Tragedy near
Waterloo Bridge.’ Here is the account: ‘Between nine and ten last
night Police-constable Cook, of the H Division, on duty near Waterloo
Bridge, heard a cry for help and a splash in the water. The night,
however, was extremely dark and stormy, so that, in spite of the help
of several passers-by, it was quite impossible to effect a rescue.
The alarm, however, was given, and, by the aid of the water-police,
the body was eventually recovered. It proved to be that of a young
gentleman whose name, as it appears from an envelope which was found in
his pocket, was John Openshaw, and whose residence is near Horsham. It
is conjectured that he may have been hurrying down to catch the last
train from Waterloo Station, and that in his haste and the extreme
darkness he missed his path and walked over the edge of one of the
small landing-places for river steamboats. The body exhibited no traces
of violence, and there can be no doubt that the deceased had been
the victim of an unfortunate accident, which should have the effect
of calling the attention of the authorities to the condition of the
river-side landing-stages.’”
We sat in silence for some minutes, Holmes more depressed and shaken
than I had ever seen him.