Holmes. This is my intimate friend and associate, Dr. Watson, before
whom you can speak as freely as before myself. Ha! I am glad to see
that Mrs. Hudson has had the good sense to light the fire. Pray draw up
to it, and I shall order you a cup of hot coffee, for I observe that
you are shivering.”
“It is not cold which makes me shiver,” said the woman, in a low voice,
changing her seat as requested.
“What, then?”
“It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror.” She raised her veil as she
spoke, and we could see that she was indeed in a pitiable state of
agitation, her face all drawn and gray, with restless, frightened eyes,
like those of some hunted animal. Her features and figure were those of
a woman of thirty, but her hair was shot with premature gray, and her
expression was weary and haggard. Sherlock Holmes ran her over with one
of his quick, all-comprehensive glances.
“You must not fear,” said he, soothingly, bending forward and patting
her forearm. “We shall soon set matters right, I have no doubt. You
have come in by train this morning, I see.”
“You know me, then?”
“No, but I observe the second half of a return ticket in the palm of
your left glove. You must have started early, and yet you had a good
drive in a dog-cart, along heavy roads, before you reached the station.”
The lady gave a violent start, and stared in bewilderment at my
companion.
“There is no mystery, my dear madam,” said he, smiling. “The left arm
of your jacket is spattered with mud in no less than seven places. The
marks are perfectly fresh. There is no vehicle save a dog-cart which
throws up mud in that way, and then only when you sit on the left-hand
side of the driver.”
“Whatever your reasons may be, you are perfectly correct,” said she. “I
started from home before six, reached Leatherhead at twenty past, and
came in by the first train to Waterloo. Sir, I can stand this strain no
longer; I shall go mad if it continues. I have no one to turn to—none,
save only one, who cares for me, and he, poor fellow, can be of little
aid. I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes; I have heard of you from Mrs.
Farintosh, whom you helped in the hour of her sore need. It was from
her that I had your address. Oh, sir, do you not think that you could
help me, too, and at least throw a little light through the dense
darkness which surrounds me? At present it is out of my power to reward
you for your services, but in a month or six weeks I shall be married,
with the control of my own income, and then at least you shall not
find me ungrateful.”
Holmes turned to his desk, and unlocking it, drew out a small
case-book, which he consulted.
“Farintosh,” said he. “Ah yes, I recall the case; it was concerned with
an opal tiara. I think it was before your time, Watson. I can only say,
madam, that I shall be happy to devote the same care to your case as
I did to that of your friend. As to reward, my profession is its own
reward; but you are at liberty to defray whatever expenses I may be put
to, at the time which suits you best. And now I beg that you will lay
before us everything that may help us in forming an opinion upon the
matter.”
“Alas!” replied our visitor, “the very horror of my situation lies
in the fact that my fears are so vague, and my suspicions depend so
entirely upon small points, which might seem trivial to another, that
even he to whom of all others I have a right to look for help and
advice looks upon all that I tell him about it as the fancies of a
nervous woman. He does not say so, but I can read it from his soothing
answers and averted eyes. But I have heard, Mr. Holmes, that you can
see deeply into the manifold wickedness of the human heart. You may
advise me how to walk amid the dangers which encompass me.”
“I am all attention, madam.”
“My name is Helen Stoner, and I am living with my step-father, who is
the last survivor of one of the oldest Saxon families in England, the
Roylotts of Stoke Moran, on the western border of Surrey.”
Holmes nodded his head. “The name is familiar to me,” said he.
“The family was at one time among the richest in England, and the
estates extended over the borders into Berkshire in the north, and
Hampshire in the west. In the last century, however, four successive
heirs were of a dissolute and wasteful disposition, and the family
ruin was eventually completed by a gambler in the days of the
Regency. Nothing was left save a few acres of ground, and the
two-hundred-year-old house, which is itself crushed under a heavy
mortgage. The last squire dragged out his existence there, living
the horrible life of an aristocratic pauper; but his only son, my
step-father, seeing that he must adapt himself to the new conditions,
obtained an advance from a relative, which enabled him to take a
medical degree, and went out to Calcutta, where, by his professional
skill and his force of character, he established a large practice.
In a fit of anger, however, caused by some robberies which had been
perpetrated in the house, he beat his native butler to death, and
narrowly escaped a capital sentence. As it was, he suffered a long
term of imprisonment, and afterwards returned to England a morose and
disappointed man.
“When Dr. Roylott was in India he married my mother, Mrs. Stoner, the
young widow of Major-general Stoner, of the Bengal Artillery. My sister
Julia and I were twins, and we were only two years old at the time of
my mother’s re-marriage. She had a considerable sum of money—not less
than £1000 a year—and this she bequeathed to Dr. Roylott entirely
while we resided with him, with a provision that a certain annual sum
should be allowed to each of us in the event of our marriage. Shortly
after our return to England my mother died—she was killed eight years
ago in a railway accident near Crewe. Dr. Roylott then abandoned his
attempts to establish himself in practice in London, and took us to
live with him in the old ancestral house at Stoke Moran. The money
which my mother had left was enough for all our wants, and there seemed
to be no obstacle to our happiness.
“But a terrible change came over our step-father about this time.
Instead of making friends and exchanging visits with our neighbors, who
had at first been overjoyed to see a Roylott of Stoke Moran back in
the old family seat, he shut himself up in his house, and seldom came
out save to indulge in ferocious quarrels with whoever might cross his
path. Violence of temper approaching to mania has been hereditary in
the men of the family, and in my step-father’s case it had, I believe,
been intensified by his long residence in the tropics. A series of
disgraceful brawls took place, two of which ended in the police-court,
until at last he became the terror of the village, and the folks
would fly at his approach, for he is a man of immense strength, and
absolutely uncontrollable in his anger.
“Last week he hurled the local blacksmith over a parapet into a stream,
and it was only by paying over all the money which I could gather
together that I was able to avert another public exposure. He had no
friends at all save the wandering gypsies, and he would give these
vagabonds leave to encamp upon the few acres of bramble-covered land
which represent the family estate, and would accept in return the
hospitality of their tents, wandering away with them sometimes for
weeks on end. He has a passion also for Indian animals, which are sent
over to him by a correspondent, and he has at this moment a cheetah and
a baboon, which wander freely over his grounds, and are feared by the
villagers almost as much as their master.
“You can imagine from what I say that my poor sister Julia and I had no
great pleasure in our lives. No servant would stay with us, and for a
long time we did all the work of the house. She was but thirty at the
time of her death, and yet her hair had already begun to whiten, even
as mine has.”
“Your sister is dead, then?”
“She died just two years ago, and it is of her death that I wish to
speak to you. You can understand that, living the life which I have
described, we were little likely to see anyone of our own age and
position. We had, however, an aunt, my mother’s maiden sister, Miss
Honoria Westphail, who lives near Harrow, and we were occasionally
allowed to pay short visits at this lady’s house. Julia went there at
Christmas two years ago, and met there a half-pay major of marines,
to whom she became engaged. My step-father learned of the engagement
when my sister returned, and offered no objection to the marriage; but
within a fortnight of the day which had been fixed for the wedding, the
terrible event occurred which has deprived me of my only companion.”
Sherlock Holmes had been leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed
and his head sunk in a cushion, but he half opened his lids now and
glanced across at his visitor.
“Pray be precise as to details,” said he.
“It is easy for me to be so, for every event of that dreadful time is
seared into my memory. The manor-house is, as I have already said, very
old, and only one wing is now inhabited. The bedrooms in this wing are
on the ground floor, the sitting-rooms being in the central block of
the buildings. Of these bedrooms the first is Dr. Roylott’s, the second
my sister’s, and the third my own. There is no communication between
them, but they all open out into the same corridor. Do I make myself
plain?”
“Perfectly so.”
“The windows of the three rooms open out upon the lawn. That fatal
night Dr. Roylott had gone to his room early, though we knew that he
had not retired to rest, for my sister was troubled by the smell of
the strong Indian cigars which it was his custom to smoke. She left
her room, therefore, and came into mine, where she sat for some time,
chatting about her approaching wedding. At eleven o’clock she rose to
leave me but she paused at the door and looked back.
“‘Tell me, Helen,’ said she, ‘have you ever heard any one whistle in
the dead of the night?’
“‘Never,’ said I.
“‘I suppose that you could not possibly whistle, yourself, in your
sleep?’
“‘Certainly not. But why?’
“‘Because during the last few nights I have always, about three in
the morning, heard a low, clear whistle. I am a light sleeper, and it
has awakened me. I cannot tell where it came from—perhaps from the
next room, perhaps from the lawn. I thought that I would just ask you
whether you had heard it.’
“‘No, I have not. It must be those wretched gypsies in the plantation.’
“‘Very likely. And yet if it were on the lawn, I wonder that you did
not hear it also.’
“‘Ah, but I sleep more heavily than you.’
“‘Well, it is of no great consequence, at any rate.’ She smiled back at
me, closed my door, and a few moments later I heard her key turn in the
lock.”
“Indeed,” said Holmes. “Was it your custom always to lock yourselves in
at night?”
“Always.”
“And why?”
“I think that I mentioned to you that the doctor kept a cheetah and a
baboon. We had no feeling of security unless our doors were locked.”
“Quite so. Pray proceed with your statement.”
“I could not sleep that night. A vague feeling of impending misfortune
impressed me. My sister and I, you will recollect, were twins, and you
know how subtle are the links which bind two souls which are so closely
allied. It was a wild night. The wind was howling outside, and the rain
was beating and splashing against the windows. Suddenly, amid all the
hubbub of the gale, there burst forth the wild scream of a terrified
woman. I knew that it was my sister’s voice. I sprang from my bed,
wrapped a shawl round me, and rushed into the corridor. As I opened my
door I seemed to hear a low whistle, such as my sister described, and a
few moments later a clanging sound, as if a mass of metal had fallen.
As I ran down the passage, my sister’s door was unlocked, and revolved
slowly upon its hinges. I stared at it horror-stricken, not knowing
what was about to issue from it. By the light of the corridor-lamp I
saw my sister appear at the opening, her face blanched with terror, her
hands groping for help, her whole figure swaying to and fro like that
of a drunkard. I ran to her and threw my arms round her, but at that
moment her knees seemed to give way and she fell to the ground. She
writhed as one who is in terrible pain, and her limbs were dreadfully
convulsed. At first I thought that she had not recognized me, but as I
bent over her she suddenly shrieked out in a voice which I shall never
forget, ‘Oh, my God! Helen! It was the band! The speckled band!’ There
was something else which she would fain have said, and she stabbed with
her finger into the air in the direction of the doctor’s room, but a
fresh convulsion seized her and choked her words. I rushed out, calling
loudly for my step-father, and I met him hastening from his room in his
dressing-gown. When he reached my sister’s side she was unconscious,
and though he poured brandy down her throat and sent for medical aid
from the village, all efforts were in vain, for she slowly sank and
died without having recovered her consciousness. Such was the dreadful
end of my beloved sister.”
“One moment,” said Holmes; “are you sure about this whistle and
metallic sound? Could you swear to it?”
“That was what the county coroner asked me at the inquiry. It is my
strong impression that I heard it, and yet, among the crash of the gale
and the creaking of an old house, I may possibly have been deceived.”
“Was your sister dressed?”
“No, she was in her night-dress. In her right hand was found the
charred stump of a match, and in her left a matchbox.”
“Showing that she had struck a light and looked about her when the
alarm took place. That is important. And what conclusions did the
coroner come to?”
“He investigated the case with great care, for Dr. Roylott’s conduct
had long been notorious in the county, but he was unable to find any
satisfactory cause of death. My evidence showed that the door had
been fastened upon the inner side, and the windows were blocked by
old-fashioned shutters with broad iron bars, which were secured every
night. The walls were carefully sounded, and were shown to be quite
solid all round, and the flooring was also thoroughly examined, with
the same result. The chimney is wide, but is barred up by four large
staples. It is certain, therefore, that my sister was quite alone when
she met her end. Besides, there were no marks of any violence upon her.”
“How about poison?”
“The doctors examined her for it, but without success.”
“What do you think that this unfortunate lady died of, then?”
“It is my belief that she died of pure fear and nervous shock, though
what it was that frightened her I cannot imagine.”
“Were there gypsies in the plantation at the time?”
“Yes, there are nearly always some there.”
“Ah, and what did you gather from this allusion to a band—a speckled
band?”
“Sometimes I have thought that it was merely the wild talk of delirium,
sometimes that it may have referred to some band of people, perhaps to
these very gypsies in the plantation. I do not know whether the spotted
handkerchiefs which so many of them wear over their heads might have
suggested the strange adjective which she used.”
Holmes shook his head like a man who is far from being satisfied.
“These are very deep waters,” said he; “pray go on with your narrative.”
“Two years have passed since then, and my life has been until lately
lonelier than ever. A month ago, however, a dear friend, whom I have
known for many years, has done me the honor to ask my hand in marriage.
His name is Armitage—Percy Armitage—the second son of Mr. Armitage,
of Crane Water, near Reading. My step-father has offered no opposition
to the match, and we are to be married in the course of the spring. Two
days ago some repairs were started in the west wing of the building,
and my bedroom wall has been pierced, so that I have had to move into
the chamber in which my sister died, and to sleep in the very bed in
which she slept. Imagine, then, my thrill of terror when last night,
as I lay awake, thinking over her terrible fate, I suddenly heard in
the silence of the night the low whistle which had been the herald of
her own death. I sprang up and lit the lamp, but nothing was to be
seen in the room. I was too shaken to go to bed again, however, so I
dressed, and as soon as it was daylight I slipped down, got a dog-cart
at the ‘Crown Inn,’ which is opposite, and drove to Leatherhead, from
whence I have come on this morning with the one object of seeing you
and asking your advice.”
“You have done wisely,” said my friend. “But have you told me all?”
“Yes, all.”
“Miss Roylott, you have not. You are screening your step-father.”
“Why, what do you mean?”
For answer Holmes pushed back the frill of black lace which fringed the
hand that lay upon our visitor’s knee. Five little livid spots, the
marks of four fingers and a thumb, were printed upon the white wrist.
“You have been cruelly used,” said Holmes.
The lady colored deeply and covered over her injured wrist. “He is a
hard man,” she said, “and perhaps he hardly knows his own strength.”
There was a long silence, during which Holmes leaned his chin upon his
hands and stared into the crackling fire.
“This is a very deep business,” he said, at last. “There are a thousand
details which I should desire to know before I decide upon our course
of action. Yet we have not a moment to lose. If we were to come to
Stoke Moran to-day, would it be possible for us to see over these rooms
without the knowledge of your step-father?”
“As it happens, he spoke of coming into town to-day upon some most
important business. It is probable that he will be away all day, and
that there would be nothing to disturb you. We have a house-keeper
now, but she is old and foolish, and I could easily get her out of the
way.”
“Excellent. You are not averse to this trip, Watson?”
“By no means.”
“Then we shall both come. What are you going to do yourself?”
“I have one or two things which I would wish to do now that I am in
town. But I shall return by the twelve o’clock train, so as to be there
in time for your coming.”
“And you may expect us early in the afternoon. I have myself some small
business matters to attend to. Will you not wait and breakfast?”
“No, I must go. My heart is lightened already since I have confided
my trouble to you. I shall look forward to seeing you again this
afternoon.” She dropped her thick black veil over her face and glided
from the room.
“And what do you think of it all, Watson?” asked Sherlock Holmes,
leaning back in his chair.
“It seems to me to be a most dark and sinister business.”
“Dark enough and sinister enough.”
“Yet if the lady is correct in saying that the flooring and walls are
sound, and that the door, window, and chimney are impassable, then her
sister must have been undoubtedly alone when she met her mysterious
end.”
“What becomes, then, of these nocturnal whistles, and what of the very
peculiar words of the dying woman?”
“I cannot think.”
“When you combine the ideas of whistles at night, the presence of a
band of gypsies who are on intimate terms with this old doctor, the
fact that we have every reason to believe that the doctor has an
interest in preventing his step-daughter’s marriage, the dying allusion
to a band, and, finally, the fact that Miss Helen Stoner heard a
metallic clang, which might have been caused by one of those metal bars
which secured the shutters falling back into their place, I think that
there is good ground to think that the mystery may be cleared along
those lines.”
“But what, then, did the gypsies do?”
“I cannot imagine.”
“I see many objections to any such theory.”
“And so do I. It is precisely for that reason that we are going to
Stoke Moran this day. I want to see whether the objections are fatal,
or if they may be explained away. But what in the name of the devil!”
The ejaculation had been drawn from my companion by the fact that our
door had been suddenly dashed open, and that a huge man had framed
himself in the aperture. His costume was a peculiar mixture of the
professional and of the agricultural, having a black top-hat, a long
frock-coat, and a pair of high gaiters, with a hunting-crop swinging in
his hand. So tall was he that his hat actually brushed the cross bar
of the doorway, and his breadth seemed to span it across from side to
side. A large face, seared with a thousand wrinkles, burned yellow with
the sun, and marked with every evil passion, was turned from one to the
other of us, while his deep-set, bile-shot eyes, and his high, thin,
fleshless nose, gave him somewhat the resemblance to a fierce old bird
of prey.
“Which of you is Holmes?” asked this apparition.
“My name, sir; but you have the advantage of me,” said my companion,
quietly.
“I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran.”
“Indeed, doctor,” said Holmes, blandly. “Pray take a seat.”
“I will do nothing of the kind. My step-daughter has been here. I have
traced her. What has she been saying to you?”
“It is a little cold for the time of the year,” said Holmes.
“What has she been saying to you?” screamed the old man, furiously.
“But I have heard that the crocuses promise well,” continued my
companion, imperturbably.
“Ha! You put me off, do you?” said our new visitor, taking a step
forward and shaking his hunting-crop. “I know you, you scoundrel! I
have heard of you before. You are Holmes, the meddler.”
My friend smiled.
“Holmes, the busybody!”
His smile broadened.
“Holmes, the Scotland-yard Jack-in-office!”
Holmes chuckled heartily. “Your conversation is most entertaining,”
said he. “When you go out close the door, for there is a decided
draught.”
“I will go when I have said my say. Don’t you dare to meddle with my
affairs. I know that Miss Stoner has been here. I traced her! I am a
dangerous man to fall foul of! See here.” He stepped swiftly forward,
seized the poker, and bent it into a curve with his huge brown hands.
“See that you keep yourself out of my grip,” he snarled, and hurling
the twisted poker into the fireplace, he strode out of the room.
“He seems a very amiable person,” said Holmes, laughing. “I am not
quite so bulky, but if he had remained I might have shown him that my
grip was not much more feeble than his own.” As he spoke he picked up
the steel poker, and with a sudden effort straightened it out again.
“Fancy his having the insolence to confound me with the official
detective force! This incident gives zest to our investigation,
however, and I only trust that our little friend will not suffer from
her imprudence in allowing this brute to trace her. And now, Watson,
we shall order breakfast, and afterwards I shall walk down to Doctors’
Commons, where I hope to get some data which may help us in this
matter.”
* * * * *
It was nearly one o’clock when Sherlock Holmes returned from his
excursion. He held in his hand a sheet of blue paper, scrawled over
with notes and figures.
“I have seen the will of the deceased wife,” said he. “To determine
its exact meaning I have been obliged to work out the present prices
of the investments with which it is concerned. The total income, which
at the time of the wife’s death was little short of £1100, is now,
through the fall in agricultural prices, not more than £750. Each
daughter can claim an income of £250, in case of marriage. It is
evident, therefore, that if both girls had married, this beauty would
have had a mere pittance, while even one of them would cripple him to
a very serious extent. My morning’s work has not been wasted, since it
has proved that he has the very strongest motives for standing in the
way of anything of the sort. And now, Watson, this is too serious for
dawdling, especially as the old man is aware that we are interesting
ourselves in his affairs; so if you are ready, we shall call a cab and
drive to Waterloo. I should be very much obliged if you would slip your
revolver into your pocket. An Eley’s No. 2 is an excellent argument
with gentlemen who can twist steel pokers into knots. That and a
tooth-brush are, I think, all that we need.”