The time was Christmas Eve, 1904. The place was an ancient, secluded
manor house, built so far back in the last century as 1896. It stood
at the head of a profound valley; a valley clothed in ferns waist
deep, and sombrely guarded by ancient trees, the remnants of a
primeval forest. From this mansion no other human habitation could be
seen. The descending road which connected the king's highway with the
stronghold was so sinuous and precipitate that more than once the grim
baronet who owned it had upset his automobile in trying to negotiate
the dangerous curves. The isolated situation and gloomy architecture
of this venerable mansion must have impressed the most casual observer
with the thought that here was the spot for the perpetration of dark
deeds, were it not for the fact that the place was brilliantly
illumined with electricity, while the silence was emphasised rather
than disturbed by the monotonous, regular thud of an accumulator
pumping the subtle fluid into a receptive dynamo situated in an
outhouse to the east.
The night was gloomy and lowering after a day of rain, but the very
sombreness of the scene made the brilliant stained glass windows stand
out like the radiant covers of a Christmas number. Such was the
appearance presented by 'Undershaw', the home of Sir Arthur Conan
Doyle, situated among the wilds of Hindhead, some forty or fifty miles
from London. Is it any wonder that at a spot so remote from
civilisation law should be set at defiance, and that the one lone
policeman who perambulates the district should tremble as he passed
the sinister gates of 'Undershaw'?
In a large room of this manor house, furnished with a luxuriant
elegance one would not have expected in a region so far from
humanising influences, sat two men. One was a giant in stature, whose
broad brow and smoothly shaven strong chin gave a look of
determination to his countenance, which was further enhanced by the
heavy black moustache which covered his upper lip. There was something
of the dragoon in his upright and independent bearing. He had, in
fact, taken part in more than one fiercely fought battle, and was a
member of several military clubs; but it was plain to be seen that his
ancestors had used war clubs, and had transmitted to him the physique
of a Hercules. One did not need to glance at the Christmas number of
the _Strand_, which he held in his hand, nor read the name printed
there in large letters, to know that he was face to face with Sir
Arthur Conan Doyle.
His guest, an older man, yet still in the prime of life, whose beard
was tinged with grey, was of less warlike bearing than the celebrated
novelist, belonging, as he evidently did, to the civil and not the
military section of life. He had about him the air of a prosperous man
of affairs, shrewd, good-natured, conciliatory, and these two
strongly contrasting personages are types of the men to whom England
owes her greatness. The reader of the Christmas number will very
probably feel disappointed when he finds, as he supposes, merely two
old friends sitting amicably in a country house after dinner. There
seems, to his jaded taste, no element of tragedy in such a situation.
These two men appear comfortable enough, and respectable enough. It is
true that there is whisky and soda at hand, and the box of cigars is
open, yet there are latent possibilities of passion under the most
placid natures, revealed only to writers of fiction in our halfpenny
Press. Let the reader wait, therefore, till he sees these two men
tried as by fire under a great temptation, and then let him say
whether even the probity of Sir George Newnes comes scathless from the
ordeal.
'Have you brought the swag, Sir George?' asked the novelist, with some
trace of anxiety in his voice.
'Yes,' replied the great publisher; 'but before proceeding to the
count would it not be wise to give orders that will insure our being
left undisturbed?'
'You are right,' replied Doyle, pressing an electric button.
When the servant appeared he said: 'I am not at home to anyone. No
matter who calls, or what excuse is given, you must permit none to
approach this room.'
When the servant had withdrawn, Doyle took the further precaution of
thrusting in place one of the huge bolts which ornamented the massive
oaken door studded with iron knobs. Sir George withdrew from the tail
pocket of his dress coat two canvas bags, and, untying the strings,
poured the rich red gold on the smooth table.
'I think you will find that right,' he said; 'six thousand pounds in
all.'
The writer dragged his heavy chair nearer the table, and began to
count the coins two by two, withdrawing each pair from the pile with
his extended forefingers in the manner of one accustomed to deal with
great treasure. For a time the silence was unbroken, save by the chink
of gold, when suddenly a high-keyed voice outside penetrated even the
stout oak of the huge door. The shrill exclamation seemed to touch a
chord of remembrance in the mind of Sir George Newnes. Nervously he
grasped the arms of his chair, sitting very bolt upright, muttering:--
'Can it be he, of all persons, at this time, of all times?'
Doyle glanced up with an expression of annoyance on his face,
murmuring, to keep his memory green:--
'A hundred and ten, a hundred and ten, a hundred and ten.'
'Not at home?' cried the vibrant voice. 'Nonsense! Everybody is at
home on Christmas Eve!'
'_You_ don't seem to be,' he heard the servant reply.
'Me? Oh, I have no home, merely rooms in Baker Street. I must see your
master, and at once.'
'Master left in his motor car half an hour ago to attend the county
ball, given tonight, at the Royal Huts Hotel, seven miles away,'
answered the servant, with that glib mastery of fiction which
unconsciously comes to those who are members, even in a humble
capacity, of a household devoted to the production of imaginative art.
'Nonsense, I say again,' came the strident voice. 'It is true that the
tracks of an automobile are on the ground in front of your door, but
if you will notice the markings of the puncture-proof belt, you will
see that the automobile is returning and not departing. It went to the
station before the last shower to bring back a visitor, and since its
arrival there has been no rain. That suit of armour in the hall
spattered with mud shows it to be the casing the visitor wore. The
blazonry upon it of a pair of scissors above an open book resting upon
a printing press, indicates that the wearer is first of all an editor;
second, a publisher; and third, a printer. The only baronet in England
whose occupation corresponds with this heraldic device is Sir George
Newnes.'
'You forget Sir Alfred Harmsworth,' said the servant, whose hand held
a copy of _Answers_.
If the insistent visitor was taken aback by this unlooked-for
rejoinder, his manner showed no trace of embarrassment, and he went on
unabashed.
'As the last shower began at ten minutes to six, Sir George must have
arrived at Haslemere station on the 6.19 from Waterloo. He has had
dinner, and at this moment is sitting comfortably with Sir Arthur
Conan Doyle, doubtless in the front room, which I see is so
brilliantly lighted. Now if you will kindly take in my card--'
'But I tell you,' persisted the perplexed servant, 'that the master
left in his motor car for the county ball at the Royal--'
'Oh, I know, I know. There stands his suit of armour, too, newly
blackleaded, whose coat of arms is a couchant typewriter on an
automobile rampant.'
'Great heavens!' cried Sir George, his eyes brightening with the light
of unholy desire, 'you have material enough there, Doyle, for a story
in our January number. What do you say?'
A deep frown marred the smoothness of the novelist's brow.
'I say,' he replied sternly, 'that this man has been sending
threatening letters to me. I have had enough of his menaces.'
'Then triply bolt the door,' advised Newnes, with a sigh of
disappointment, leaning back in his chair.
'Do you take me for a man who bolts when his enemy appears?' asked
Doyle fiercely, rising to his feet. 'No, I will unbolt. He shall meet
the Douglas in his hall!'
'Better have him in the drawing-room, where it's warm,' suggested Sir
George, with a smile, diplomatically desiring to pour oil on the
troubled waters.
The novelist, without reply, spread a copy of that evening's
_Westminster Gazette_ over the pile of gold, strode to the door, threw
it open, and said coldly:--
'Show the gentleman in, please.'
There entered to them a tall, self-possessed, calm man, with
clean-shaven face, eagle eye, and inquisitive nose.
Although the visit was most embarrassing at that particular juncture,
the natural courtesy of the novelist restrained him from giving
utterance to his resentment of the intrusion, and he proceeded to
introduce the bidden to the unbidden guest as if each were equally
welcome.
'Mr. Sherlock Holmes, permit me to present to you Sir George--'
'It is quite superfluous,' said the newcomer, in an even voice of
exasperating tenor, 'for I perceive at once that one who wears a green
waistcoat must be a Liberal of strong Home Rule opinions, or the
editor of several publications wearing covers of emerald hue. The
shamrock necktie, in addition to the waistcoat, indicates that the
gentleman before me is both, and so I take it for granted that this is
Sir George Newnes. How is your circulation, Sir George?'
'Rapidly rising,' replied the editor.
'I am glad of that,' asserted the intruder, suavely, 'and can assure
you that the temperature outside is as rapidly falling.'
The great detective spread his hands before the glowing electric fire,
and rubbed them vigorously together.
'I perceive through that evening paper the sum of six thousand pounds
in gold.'
Doyle interrupted him with some impatience.
'You didn't see it _through_ the paper; you saw it _in_ the paper.
Goodness knows, it's been mentioned in enough of the sheets.'
'As I was about to remark,' went on Sherlock Holmes imperturbably, 'I
am amazed that a man whose time is so valuable should waste it in
counting the money. You are surely aware that a golden sovereign
weighs 123.44 grains, therefore, if I were you, I should have up the
kitchen scales, dump in the metal, and figure out the amount with a
lead pencil. You brought the gold in two canvas bags, did you not, Sir
George?'
'In the name of all that's wonderful, how do you know that?' asked the
astonished publisher.
Sherlock Holmes, with a superior smile, casually waved his hand toward
the two bags which still lay on the polished table.
'Oh, I'm tired of this sort of thing,' said Doyle wearily, sitting
down in the first chair that presented itself. 'Can't you be honest,
even on Christmas Eve? You know the oracles of old did not try it on
with each other.'
'That is true,' said Sherlock Holmes. 'The fact is, I followed Sir
George Newnes into the Capital and Counties Bank this afternoon, where
he demanded six thousand pounds in gold; but when he learned this
would weigh ninety-six pounds seven ounces avoirdupois weight, and
that even troy weight would make the sum no lighter, he took two small
bags of gold and the rest in Bank of England notes. I came from London
on the same train with him, but he was off in the automobile before I
could make myself known, and so I had to walk up. I was further
delayed by taking the wrong turning on the top and finding myself at
that charming spot in the neighbourhood where a sailor was murdered by
two ruffians a century or so ago.'
There was a note of warning in Doyle's voice when he said:--'Did that
incident teach you no lesson? Did you not realise that you are in a
dangerous locality?'
'And likely to fall in with two ruffians?' asked Holmes, slightly
elevating his eyebrows, while the same sweet smile hovered round his
thin lips. 'No; the remembrance of the incident encouraged me. It was
the man who had the money that was murdered. I brought no coin with
me, although I expect to bear many away.'
'Would you mind telling us, without further circumlocution, what
brings you here so late at night?'
Sherlock Holmes heaved a sigh, and mournfully shook his head very
slowly.
'After all the teaching I have bestowed upon you, Doyle, is it
possible that you cannot deduct even so simple a thing as that? Why am
I here? Because Sir George made a mistake about those bags. He was
quite right in taking one of them to 'Undershaw', but he should have
left the other at 221B, Baker Street. I call this little trip 'The
Adventure of the Second Swag'. Here is the second swag on the table.
The first swag you received long ago, and all I had for my share was
some honeyed words of compliment in the stories you wrote. Now, it is
truly said that soft words butter no parsnips, and, in this instance,
they do not even turn away wrath. So far as the second swag is
concerned, I have come to demand half of it.'
'I am not so poor at deduction as you seem to imagine,' said Doyle,
apparently nettled at the other's slighting reference to his powers.
'I was well aware, when you came in, what your errand was. I deduced
further that if you saw Sir George withdraw gold from the bank, you
also followed him to Waterloo station.'
'Quite right.'
'When he purchased his ticket for Haslemere, you did the same.'
'I did.'
'When you arrived at Haslemere, you sent a telegram to your friend, Dr
Watson, telling him of your whereabouts.'
'You are wrong there; I ran after the motor car.'
'You certainly sent a telegram from somewhere, to someone, or at least
dropped a note in the post-box. There are signs, which I need not
mention, that point irrevocably to such a conclusion.'
The doomed man, ruined by his own self-complacency, merely smiled in
his superior manner, not noticing the eager look with which Doyle
awaited his answer.
'Wrong entirely. I neither wrote any telegram, nor spoke any message,
since I left London.'
'Ah, no,' cried Doyle. 'I see where I went astray. You merely inquired
the way to my house.'
'I needed to make no inquiries. I followed the rear light of the
automobile part way up the hill, and, when that disappeared, I turned
to the right instead of the left, as there was no one out on such a
night from whom I could make inquiry.'
'My deductions, then, are beside the mark,' said Doyle hoarsely, in an
accent which sent cold chills up and down the spine of his invited
guest, but conveyed no intimation of his fate to the self-satisfied
later arrival.
'Of course they were,' said Holmes, with exasperating self-assurance.
'Am I also wrong in deducting that you have had nothing to eat since
you left London?'
'No, you are quite right there.'
'Well, oblige me by pressing that electric button.'
Holmes did so with much eagerness, but, although the trio waited some
minutes in silence, there was no response.
'I deduct from that,' said Doyle, 'that the servants have gone to bed.
After I have quite satisfied all your claims in the way of hunger for
food and gold, I shall take you back in my motor car, unless you
prefer to stay here the night.'
'You are very kind,' said Sherlock Holmes.
'Not at all,' replied Doyle. 'Just take that chair, draw it up to the
table and we will divide the second swag.'
The chair indicated differed from all others in the room. It was
straight-backed, and its oaken arms were covered by two plates,
apparently of German silver. When Holmes clutched it by the arms to
drag it forward, he gave one half-articulate gasp, and plunged
headlong to the floor, quivering. Sir George Newnes sprang up standing
with a cry of alarm. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle remained seated, a
seraphic smile of infinite satisfaction playing about his lips.
'Has he fainted?' cried Sir George.
'No, merely electrocuted. A simple device the Sheriff of New York
taught me when I was over there last.'
'Merciful heavens! Cannot he be resuscitated?'
'My dear Newnes,' said Doyle, with the air of one from whose shoulders
a great weight is lifted, 'a man may fall into the chasm at the foot
of the Reichenbach Fall and escape to record his adventures later, but
when two thousand volts pass through the human frame, the person who
owns that frame is dead.'
'You don't mean to say you've murdered him?' asked Sir George, in an
awed whisper.
'Well, the term you use is harsh, still it rather accurately sums up
the situation. To speak candidly, Sir George, I don't think they can
indite us for anything more than manslaughter. You see, this is a
little invention for the reception of burglars. Every night before the
servants go to bed, they switch on the current to this chair. That's
why I asked Holmes to press the button. I place a small table beside
the chair, and put on it a bottle of wine, whisky and soda, and
cigars. Then, if any burglar comes in, he invariably sits down in the
chair to enjoy himself, and so you see, that piece of furniture is an
effective method of reducing crime. The number of burglars I have
turned over to the parish to be buried will prove that this taking off
of Holmes was not premeditated by me. This incident, strictly
speaking, is not murder, but manslaughter. We shouldn't get more than
fourteen years apiece, and probably that would be cut down to seven on
the ground that we had performed an act for the public benefit.'
'Apiece!' cried Sir George. 'But what have I had to do with it?'
'Everything, my dear sir, everything. As that babbling fool talked, I
saw in your eye the gleam which betokens avarice for copy. Indeed, I
think you mentioned the January number. You were therefore accessory
before the fact. I simply had to slaughter the poor wretch.'
Sir George sank back in his chair wellnigh breathless with horror.
Publishers are humane men who rarely commit crimes; authors, however,
are a hardened set who usually perpetrate a felony every time they
issue a book. Doyle laughed easily.
'I'm used to this sort of thing,' he said. 'Remember how I killed off
the people in "The White Company". Now, if you will help me to get rid
of the body, all may yet be well. You see, I learned from the
misguided simpleton himself that nobody knows where he is today. He
often disappears for weeks at a time, so there really is slight danger
of detection. Will you lend a hand?'
'I suppose I must,' cried the conscience-stricken man.
Doyle at once threw off the lassitude which the coming of Sherlock
Holmes had caused, and acted now with an energy which was
characteristic of him. Going to an outhouse, he brought the motor car
to the front door, then, picking up Holmes and followed by his
trembling guest, he went outside and flung the body into the tonneau
behind. He then threw a spade and a pick into the car, and covered
everything up with a water-proof spread. Lighting the lamps, he bade
his silent guest get up beside him, and so they started on their
fateful journey, taking the road past the spot where the sailor had
been murdered, and dashing down the long hill at fearful speed toward
London.
'Why do you take this direction?' asked Sir George. 'Wouldn't it be
more advisable to go further into the country?'
Doyle laughed harshly.
'Haven't you a place on Wimbledon Common? Why not bury him in your
garden?'
'Merciful motors!' cried the horrified man. 'How can you propose such
a thing? Talking of gardens, why not have buried him in your own,
which was infinitely safer than going forward at this pace.'
'Have no fear,' said Doyle reassuringly, 'we shall find him a suitable
sepulchre without disturbing either of our gardens. I'll be in the
centre of London within two hours.'
Sir George stared in affright at the demon driver. The man had
evidently gone mad. To London, of all places in the world. Surely that
was the one spot on earth to avoid.
'Stop the motor and let me off,' he cried. 'I'm going to wake up the
nearest magistrate and confess.'
'You'll do nothing of the sort,' said Doyle. 'Don't you see that no
person on earth would suspect two criminals of making for London when
they have the whole country before them? Haven't you read my stories?
The moment a man commits a crime he tries to get as far away from
London as possible. Every policeman knows that, therefore, two men
coming into London are innocent strangers, according to Scotland
Yard.'
'But then we may be taken up for fast driving, and think of the
terrible burden we carry.'
'We're safe on the country roads, and I'll slow down when we reach the
suburbs.'
It was approaching three o'clock in the morning when a huge motor car
turned out of Trafalgar Square, and went eastward along the Strand.
The northern side of the Strand was up, as it usually is, and the
motor, skilfully driven, glided past the piles of wood-paving blocks,
great sombre kettles holding tar and the general _débris_ of a
re-paving convulsion. Opposite Southampton Street, at the very spot so
graphically illustrated by George C. Haité on the cover of the _Strand
Magazine_, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle stopped his motor. The Strand was
deserted. He threw pick and shovel into the excavation, and curtly
ordered his companion to take his choice of weapons. Sir George
selected the pick, and Doyle vigorously plied the spade. In almost
less time than it takes to tell it, a very respectable hole had been
dug, and in it was placed the body of the popular private detective.
Just as the last spadeful was shovelled in place the stern voice of a
policeman awoke the silence, and caused Sir George to drop his pick
from nerveless hands.
'What are you two doing down there?'
'That's all right, officer,' said Doyle glibly, as one who had
foreseen every emergency. 'My friend here is controller of the Strand.
When the Strand is up he is responsible, and it has the largest
circulation in the--I mean it's up oftener than any other street in
the world. We cannot inspect the work satisfactorily while traffic is
on, and so we have been examining it in the night-time. I am his
secretary; I do the writing, you know.'
'Oh, I see,' replied the constable. 'Well, gentlemen, good morning to
you, and merry Christmas.'
'The same to you, constable. Just lend a hand, will you?'
The officer of the law helped each of the men up to the level of the
road.