“Holmes!” I cried. “Is it really you? Can it indeed be that you are
alive? Is it possible that you succeeded in climbing out of that awful
abyss?”
“Wait a moment,” said he. “Are you sure that you are really fit to
discuss things? I have given you a serious shock by my unnecessarily
dramatic reappearance.”
“I am all right, but indeed, Holmes, I can hardly believe my eyes. Good
heavens, to think that you--you of all men--should be standing in my
study!” Again I gripped him by the sleeve and felt the thin, sinewy arm
beneath it. “Well, you're not a spirit, anyhow,” said I. “My dear chap,
I am overjoyed to see you. Sit down and tell me how you came alive out
of that dreadful chasm.”
He sat opposite to me and lit a cigarette in his old nonchalant manner.
He was dressed in the seedy frock-coat of the book merchant, but the
rest of that individual lay in a pile of white hair and old books upon
the table. Holmes looked even thinner and keener than of old, but there
was a dead-white tinge in his aquiline face which told me that his life
recently had not been a healthy one.
“I am glad to stretch myself, Watson,” said he. “It is no joke when a
tall man has to take a foot off his stature for several hours on end.
Now, my dear fellow, in the matter of these explanations we have, if
I may ask for your co-operation, a hard and dangerous night's work in
front of us. Perhaps it would be better if I gave you an account of the
whole situation when that work is finished.”
“I am full of curiosity. I should much prefer to hear now.”
“You'll come with me to-night?”
“When you like and where you like.”
“This is indeed like the old days. We shall have time for a mouthful of
dinner before we need go. Well, then, about that chasm. I had no serious
difficulty in getting out of it, for the very simple reason that I never
was in it.”
“You never were in it?”
“No, Watson, I never was in it. My note to you was absolutely genuine.
I had little doubt that I had come to the end of my career when I
perceived the somewhat sinister figure of the late Professor Moriarty
standing upon the narrow pathway which led to safety. I read an
inexorable purpose in his grey eyes. I exchanged some remarks with him,
therefore, and obtained his courteous permission to write the short note
which you afterwards received. I left it with my cigarette-box and my
stick and I walked along the pathway, Moriarty still at my heels. When
I reached the end I stood at bay. He drew no weapon, but he rushed at me
and threw his long arms around me. He knew that his own game was up, and
was only anxious to revenge himself upon me. We tottered together upon
the brink of the fall. I have some knowledge, however, of baritsu, or
the Japanese system of wrestling, which has more than once been very
useful to me. I slipped through his grip, and he with a horrible scream
kicked madly for a few seconds and clawed the air with both his hands.
But for all his efforts he could not get his balance, and over he went.
With my face over the brink I saw him fall for a long way. Then he
struck a rock, bounded off, and splashed into the water.”
I listened with amazement to this explanation, which Holmes delivered
between the puffs of his cigarette.
“But the tracks!” I cried. “I saw with my own eyes that two went down
the path and none returned.”
“It came about in this way. The instant that the Professor had
disappeared it struck me what a really extraordinarily lucky chance Fate
had placed in my way. I knew that Moriarty was not the only man who
had sworn my death. There were at least three others whose desire for
vengeance upon me would only be increased by the death of their leader.
They were all most dangerous men. One or other would certainly get me.
On the other hand, if all the world was convinced that I was dead they
would take liberties, these men, they would lay themselves open, and
sooner or later I could destroy them. Then it would be time for me to
announce that I was still in the land of the living. So rapidly does
the brain act that I believe I had thought this all out before Professor
Moriarty had reached the bottom of the Reichenbach Fall.
“I stood up and examined the rocky wall behind me. In your picturesque
account of the matter, which I read with great interest some months
later, you assert that the wall was sheer. This was not literally
true. A few small footholds presented themselves, and there was some
indication of a ledge. The cliff is so high that to climb it all was
an obvious impossibility, and it was equally impossible to make my way
along the wet path without leaving some tracks. I might, it is true,
have reversed my boots, as I have done on similar occasions, but the
sight of three sets of tracks in one direction would certainly have
suggested a deception. On the whole, then, it was best that I should
risk the climb. It was not a pleasant business, Watson. The fall roared
beneath me. I am not a fanciful person, but I give you my word that
I seemed to hear Moriarty's voice screaming at me out of the abyss. A
mistake would have been fatal. More than once, as tufts of grass came
out in my hand or my foot slipped in the wet notches of the rock, I
thought that I was gone. But I struggled upwards, and at last I reached
a ledge several feet deep and covered with soft green moss, where I
could lie unseen in the most perfect comfort. There I was stretched when
you, my dear Watson, and all your following were investigating in the
most sympathetic and inefficient manner the circumstances of my death.
“At last, when you had all formed your inevitable and totally erroneous
conclusions, you departed for the hotel and I was left alone. I had
imagined that I had reached the end of my adventures, but a very
unexpected occurrence showed me that there were surprises still in store
for me. A huge rock, falling from above, boomed past me, struck the
path, and bounded over into the chasm. For an instant I thought that
it was an accident; but a moment later, looking up, I saw a man's head
against the darkening sky, and another stone struck the very ledge upon
which I was stretched, within a foot of my head. Of course, the meaning
of this was obvious. Moriarty had not been alone. A confederate--and
even that one glance had told me how dangerous a man that confederate
was--had kept guard while the Professor had attacked me. From a
distance, unseen by me, he had been a witness of his friend's death and
of my escape. He had waited, and then, making his way round to the
top of the cliff, he had endeavoured to succeed where his comrade had
failed.
“I did not take long to think about it, Watson. Again I saw that grim
face look over the cliff, and I knew that it was the precursor of
another stone. I scrambled down on to the path. I don't think I could
have done it in cold blood. It was a hundred times more difficult than
getting up. But I had no time to think of the danger, for another stone
sang past me as I hung by my hands from the edge of the ledge. Halfway
down I slipped, but by the blessing of God I landed, torn and bleeding,
upon the path. I took to my heels, did ten miles over the mountains
in the darkness, and a week later I found myself in Florence with the
certainty that no one in the world knew what had become of me.
“I had only one confidant--my brother Mycroft. I owe you many apologies,
my dear Watson, but it was all-important that it should be thought I
was dead, and it is quite certain that you would not have written so
convincing an account of my unhappy end had you not yourself thought
that it was true. Several times during the last three years I have taken
up my pen to write to you, but always I feared lest your affectionate
regard for me should tempt you to some indiscretion which would betray
my secret. For that reason I turned away from you this evening when
you upset my books, for I was in danger at the time, and any show of
surprise and emotion upon your part might have drawn attention to my
identity and led to the most deplorable and irreparable results. As to
Mycroft, I had to confide in him in order to obtain the money which
I needed. The course of events in London did not run so well as I had
hoped, for the trial of the Moriarty gang left two of its most dangerous
members, my own most vindictive enemies, at liberty. I travelled for
two years in Tibet, therefore, and amused myself by visiting Lhassa
and spending some days with the head Llama. You may have read of the
remarkable explorations of a Norwegian named Sigerson, but I am sure
that it never occurred to you that you were receiving news of your
friend. I then passed through Persia, looked in at Mecca, and paid a
short but interesting visit to the Khalifa at Khartoum, the results of
which I have communicated to the Foreign Office. Returning to France I
spent some months in a research into the coal-tar derivatives, which I
conducted in a laboratory at Montpelier, in the South of France. Having
concluded this to my satisfaction, and learning that only one of my
enemies was now left in London, I was about to return when my movements
were hastened by the news of this very remarkable Park Lane Mystery,
which not only appealed to me by its own merits, but which seemed to
offer some most peculiar personal opportunities. I came over at once to
London, called in my own person at Baker Street, threw Mrs. Hudson into
violent hysterics, and found that Mycroft had preserved my rooms and my
papers exactly as they had always been. So it was, my dear Watson, that
at two o'clock to-day I found myself in my old arm-chair in my own old
room, and only wishing that I could have seen my old friend Watson in
the other chair which he has so often adorned.”
Such was the remarkable narrative to which I listened on that April
evening--a narrative which would have been utterly incredible to me had
it not been confirmed by the actual sight of the tall, spare figure and
the keen, eager face, which I had never thought to see again. In some
manner he had learned of my own sad bereavement, and his sympathy was
shown in his manner rather than in his words. “Work is the best antidote
to sorrow, my dear Watson,” said he, “and I have a piece of work for us
both to-night which, if we can bring it to a successful conclusion, will
in itself justify a man's life on this planet.” In vain I begged him
to tell me more. “You will hear and see enough before morning,” he
answered. “We have three years of the past to discuss. Let that suffice
until half-past nine, when we start upon the notable adventure of the
empty house.”
It was indeed like old times when, at that hour, I found myself seated
beside him in a hansom, my revolver in my pocket and the thrill of
adventure in my heart. Holmes was cold and stern and silent. As the
gleam of the street-lamps flashed upon his austere features I saw that
his brows were drawn down in thought and his thin lips compressed. I
knew not what wild beast we were about to hunt down in the dark jungle
of criminal London, but I was well assured from the bearing of this
master huntsman that the adventure was a most grave one, while the
sardonic smile which occasionally broke through his ascetic gloom boded
little good for the object of our quest.
I had imagined that we were bound for Baker Street, but Holmes stopped
the cab at the corner of Cavendish Square. I observed that as he stepped
out he gave a most searching glance to right and left, and at every
subsequent street corner he took the utmost pains to assure that he was
not followed. Our route was certainly a singular one. Holmes's knowledge
of the byways of London was extraordinary, and on this occasion he
passed rapidly, and with an assured step, through a network of mews and
stables the very existence of which I had never known. We emerged at
last into a small road, lined with old, gloomy houses, which led us into
Manchester Street, and so to Blandford Street. Here he turned swiftly
down a narrow passage, passed through a wooden gate into a deserted
yard, and then opened with a key the back door of a house. We entered
together and he closed it behind us.
The place was pitch-dark, but it was evident to me that it was an empty
house. Our feet creaked and crackled over the bare planking, and my
outstretched hand touched a wall from which the paper was hanging in
ribbons. Holmes's cold, thin fingers closed round my wrist and led me
forwards down a long hall, until I dimly saw the murky fanlight over the
door. Here Holmes turned suddenly to the right, and we found ourselves
in a large, square, empty room, heavily shadowed in the corners, but
faintly lit in the centre from the lights of the street beyond. There
was no lamp near and the window was thick with dust, so that we could
only just discern each other's figures within. My companion put his hand
upon my shoulder and his lips close to my ear.
“Do you know where we are?” he whispered.
“Surely that is Baker Street,” I answered, staring through the dim
window.
“Exactly. We are in Camden House, which stands opposite to our own old
quarters.”
“But why are we here?”
“Because it commands so excellent a view of that picturesque pile. Might
I trouble you, my dear Watson, to draw a little nearer to the window,
taking every precaution not to show yourself, and then to look up at our
old rooms--the starting-point of so many of our little adventures? We
will see if my three years of absence have entirely taken away my power
to surprise you.”
I crept forward and looked across at the familiar window. As my eyes
fell upon it I gave a gasp and a cry of amazement. The blind was down
and a strong light was burning in the room. The shadow of a man who
was seated in a chair within was thrown in hard, black outline upon the
luminous screen of the window. There was no mistaking the poise of the
head, the squareness of the shoulders, the sharpness of the features.
The face was turned half-round, and the effect was that of one of
those black silhouettes which our grandparents loved to frame. It was a
perfect reproduction of Holmes. So amazed was I that I threw out my
hand to make sure that the man himself was standing beside me. He was
quivering with silent laughter.
“Well?” said he.
“Good heavens!” I cried. “It is marvellous.”
“I trust that age doth not wither nor custom stale my infinite
variety,'” said he, and I recognised in his voice the joy and pride
which the artist takes in his own creation. “It really is rather like
me, is it not?”
“I should be prepared to swear that it was you.”
“The credit of the execution is due to Monsieur Oscar Meunier, of
Grenoble, who spent some days in doing the moulding. It is a bust in
wax. The rest I arranged myself during my visit to Baker Street this
afternoon.”
“But why?”
“Because, my dear Watson, I had the strongest possible reason for
wishing certain people to think that I was there when I was really
elsewhere.”
“And you thought the rooms were watched?”
“I KNEW that they were watched.”
“By whom?”
“By my old enemies, Watson. By the charming society whose leader lies
in the Reichenbach Fall. You must remember that they knew, and only
they knew, that I was still alive. Sooner or later they believed that I
should come back to my rooms. They watched them continuously, and this
morning they saw me arrive.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I recognised their sentinel when I glanced out of my window. He
is a harmless enough fellow, Parker by name, a garroter by trade, and a
remarkable performer upon the Jew's harp. I cared nothing for him. But
I cared a great deal for the much more formidable person who was behind
him, the bosom friend of Moriarty, the man who dropped the rocks over
the cliff, the most cunning and dangerous criminal in London. That is
the man who is after me to-night, Watson, and that is the man who is
quite unaware that we are after HIM.”
My friend's plans were gradually revealing themselves. From this
convenient retreat the watchers were being watched and the trackers
tracked. That angular shadow up yonder was the bait and we were the
hunters. In silence we stood together in the darkness and watched the
hurrying figures who passed and repassed in front of us. Holmes was
silent and motionless; but I could tell that he was keenly alert, and
that his eyes were fixed intently upon the stream of passers-by. It was
a bleak and boisterous night, and the wind whistled shrilly down the
long street. Many people were moving to and fro, most of them muffled in
their coats and cravats. Once or twice it seemed to me that I had seen
the same figure before, and I especially noticed two men who appeared
to be sheltering themselves from the wind in the doorway of a house
some distance up the street. I tried to draw my companion's attention
to them, but he gave a little ejaculation of impatience and continued
to stare into the street. More than once he fidgeted with his feet and
tapped rapidly with his fingers upon the wall. It was evident to me
that he was becoming uneasy and that his plans were not working out
altogether as he had hoped. At last, as midnight approached and
the street gradually cleared, he paced up and down the room in
uncontrollable agitation. I was about to make some remark to him when
I raised my eyes to the lighted window and again experienced almost as
great a surprise as before. I clutched Holmes's arm and pointed upwards.
“The shadow has moved!” I cried.
It was, indeed, no longer the profile, but the back, which was turned
towards us.
Three years had certainly not smoothed the asperities of his temper or
his impatience with a less active intelligence than his own.
“Of course it has moved,” said he. “Am I such a farcical bungler,
Watson, that I should erect an obvious dummy and expect that some of
the sharpest men in Europe would be deceived by it? We have been in
this room two hours, and Mrs. Hudson has made some change in that figure
eight times, or once in every quarter of an hour. She works it from the
front so that her shadow may never be seen. Ah!” He drew in his breath
with a shrill, excited intake. In the dim light I saw his head thrown
forward, his whole attitude rigid with attention. Outside, the street
was absolutely deserted. Those two men might still be crouching in the
doorway, but I could no longer see them. All was still and dark, save
only that brilliant yellow screen in front of us with the black figure
outlined upon its centre. Again in the utter silence I heard that thin,
sibilant note which spoke of intense suppressed excitement. An instant
later he pulled me back into the blackest corner of the room, and I
felt his warning hand upon my lips. The fingers which clutched me were
quivering. Never had I known my friend more moved, and yet the dark
street still stretched lonely and motionless before us.
But suddenly I was aware of that which his keener senses had already
distinguished. A low, stealthy sound came to my ears, not from the
direction of Baker Street, but from the back of the very house in which
we lay concealed. A door opened and shut. An instant later steps
crept down the passage--steps which were meant to be silent, but which
reverberated harshly through the empty house. Holmes crouched back
against the wall and I did the same, my hand closing upon the handle
of my revolver. Peering through the gloom, I saw the vague outline of a
man, a shade blacker than the blackness of the open door. He stood for
an instant, and then he crept forward, crouching, menacing, into the
room. He was within three yards of us, this sinister figure, and I had
braced myself to meet his spring, before I realized that he had no idea
of our presence. He passed close beside us, stole over to the window,
and very softly and noiselessly raised it for half a foot. As he sank to
the level of this opening the light of the street, no longer dimmed by
the dusty glass, fell full upon his face. The man seemed to be beside
himself with excitement. His two eyes shone like stars and his
features were working convulsively. He was an elderly man, with a thin,
projecting nose, a high, bald forehead, and a huge grizzled moustache.
An opera-hat was pushed to the back of his head, and an evening dress
shirt-front gleamed out through his open overcoat. His face was gaunt
and swarthy, scored with deep, savage lines. In his hand he carried what
appeared to be a stick, but as he laid it down upon the floor it gave
a metallic clang. Then from the pocket of his overcoat he drew a bulky
object, and he busied himself in some task which ended with a loud,
sharp click, as if a spring or bolt had fallen into its place. Still
kneeling upon the floor he bent forward and threw all his weight and
strength upon some lever, with the result that there came a long,
whirling, grinding noise, ending once more in a powerful click. He
straightened himself then, and I saw that what he held in his hand was
a sort of gun, with a curiously misshapen butt. He opened it at the
breech, put something in, and snapped the breech-block. Then, crouching
down, he rested the end of the barrel upon the ledge of the open window,
and I saw his long moustache droop over the stock and his eye gleam as
it peered along the sights. I heard a little sigh of satisfaction as
he cuddled the butt into his shoulder, and saw that amazing target, the
black man on the yellow ground, standing clear at the end of his fore
sight. For an instant he was rigid and motionless. Then his finger
tightened on the trigger. There was a strange, loud whiz and a long,
silvery tinkle of broken glass. At that instant Holmes sprang like a
tiger on to the marksman's back and hurled him flat upon his face. He
was up again in a moment, and with convulsive strength he seized Holmes
by the throat; but I struck him on the head with the butt of my revolver
and he dropped again upon the floor. I fell upon him, and as I held him
my comrade blew a shrill call upon a whistle. There was the clatter of
running feet upon the pavement, and two policemen in uniform, with one
plain-clothes detective, rushed through the front entrance and into the
room.
“That you, Lestrade?” said Holmes.
“Yes, Mr. Holmes. I took the job myself. It's good to see you back in
London, sir.”
“I think you want a little unofficial help. Three undetected murders in
one year won't do, Lestrade. But you handled the Molesey Mystery with
less than your usual--that's to say, you handled it fairly well.”
We had all risen to our feet, our prisoner breathing hard, with a
stalwart constable on each side of him. Already a few loiterers had
begun to collect in the street. Holmes stepped up to the window, closed
it, and dropped the blinds. Lestrade had produced two candles and the
policemen had uncovered their lanterns. I was able at last to have a
good look at our prisoner.
It was a tremendously virile and yet sinister face which was turned
towards us. With the brow of a philosopher above and the jaw of a
sensualist below, the man must have started with great capacities for
good or for evil. But one could not look upon his cruel blue eyes, with
their drooping, cynical lids, or upon the fierce, aggressive nose and
the threatening, deep-lined brow, without reading Nature's plainest
danger-signals. He took no heed of any of us, but his eyes were fixed
upon Holmes's face with an expression in which hatred and amazement were
equally blended. “You fiend!” he kept on muttering. “You clever, clever
fiend!”
“Ah, Colonel!” said Holmes, arranging his rumpled collar; “'journeys end
in lovers' meetings,' as the old play says. I don't think I have had the
pleasure of seeing you since you favoured me with those attentions as I
lay on the ledge above the Reichenbach Fall.”
The Colonel still stared at my friend like a man in a trance. “You
cunning, cunning fiend!” was all that he could say.
“I have not introduced you yet,” said Holmes. “This, gentlemen, is
Colonel Sebastian Moran, once of Her Majesty's Indian Army, and the best
heavy game shot that our Eastern Empire has ever produced. I believe
I am correct, Colonel, in saying that your bag of tigers still remains
unrivalled?”
The fierce old man said nothing, but still glared at my companion; with
his savage eyes and bristling moustache he was wonderfully like a tiger
himself.
“I wonder that my very simple stratagem could deceive so old a shikari,”
said Holmes. “It must be very familiar to you. Have you not tethered a
young kid under a tree, lain above it with your rifle, and waited for
the bait to bring up your tiger? This empty house is my tree and you
are my tiger. You have possibly had other guns in reserve in case there
should be several tigers, or in the unlikely supposition of your own aim
failing you. These,” he pointed around, “are my other guns. The parallel
is exact.”
Colonel Moran sprang forward, with a snarl of rage, but the constables
dragged him back. The fury upon his face was terrible to look at.
“I confess that you had one small surprise for me,” said Holmes. “I did
not anticipate that you would yourself make use of this empty house and
this convenient front window. I had imagined you as operating from the
street, where my friend Lestrade and his merry men were awaiting you.
With that exception all has gone as I expected.”
Colonel Moran turned to the official detective.
“You may or may not have just cause for arresting me,” said he, “but at
least there can be no reason why I should submit to the gibes of this
person. If I am in the hands of the law let things be done in a legal
way.”
“Well, that's reasonable enough,” said Lestrade. “Nothing further you
have to say, Mr. Holmes, before we go?”
Holmes had picked up the powerful air-gun from the floor and was
examining its mechanism.
“An admirable and unique weapon,” said he, “noiseless and of tremendous
power. I knew Von Herder, the blind German mechanic, who constructed it
to the order of the late Professor Moriarty. For years I have been aware
of its existence, though I have never before had the opportunity of
handling it. I commend it very specially to your attention, Lestrade,
and also the bullets which fit it.”
“You can trust us to look after that, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade, as the
whole party moved towards the door. “Anything further to say?”
“Only to ask what charge you intend to prefer?”
“What charge, sir? Why, of course, the attempted murder of Mr. Sherlock
Holmes.”
“Not so, Lestrade. I do not propose to appear in the matter at all. To
you, and to you only, belongs the credit of the remarkable arrest which
you have effected. Yes, Lestrade, I congratulate you! With your usual
happy mixture of cunning and audacity you have got him.”
“Got him! Got whom, Mr. Holmes?”
“The man that the whole force has been seeking in vain--Colonel
Sebastian Moran, who shot the Honourable Ronald Adair with an expanding
bullet from an air-gun through the open window of the second-floor front
of No. 427, Park Lane, upon the 30th of last month. That's the charge,
Lestrade. And now, Watson, if you can endure the draught from a broken
window, I think that half an hour in my study over a cigar may afford
you some profitable amusement.”
Our old chambers had been left unchanged through the supervision of
Mycroft Holmes and the immediate care of Mrs. Hudson. As I entered I
saw, it is true, an unwonted tidiness, but the old landmarks were all
in their place. There were the chemical corner and the acid-stained,
deal-topped table. There upon a shelf was the row of formidable
scrap-books and books of reference which many of our fellow-citizens
would have been so glad to burn. The diagrams, the violin-case, and the
pipe-rack--even the Persian slipper which contained the tobacco--all met
my eyes as I glanced round me. There were two occupants of the room--one
Mrs. Hudson, who beamed upon us both as we entered; the other the
strange dummy which had played so important a part in the evening's
adventures. It was a wax-coloured model of my friend, so admirably done
that it was a perfect facsimile. It stood on a small pedestal table with
an old dressing-gown of Holmes's so draped round it that the illusion
from the street was absolutely perfect.
“I hope you preserved all precautions, Mrs. Hudson?” said Holmes.
“I went to it on my knees, sir, just as you told me.”
“Excellent. You carried the thing out very well. Did you observe where
the bullet went?”
“Yes, sir. I'm afraid it has spoilt your beautiful bust, for it passed
right through the head and flattened itself on the wall. I picked it up
from the carpet. Here it is!”
Holmes held it out to me. “A soft revolver bullet, as you perceive,
Watson. There's genius in that, for who would expect to find such a
thing fired from an air-gun. All right, Mrs. Hudson, I am much obliged
for your assistance. And now, Watson, let me see you in your old seat
once more, for there are several points which I should like to discuss
with you.”
He had thrown off the seedy frock-coat, and now he was the Holmes of old
in the mouse-coloured dressing-gown which he took from his effigy.
“The old shikari's nerves have not lost their steadiness nor his eyes
their keenness,” said he, with a laugh, as he inspected the shattered
forehead of his bust.
“Plumb in the middle of the back of the head and smack through the
brain. He was the best shot in India, and I expect that there are few
better in London. Have you heard the name?”
“No, I have not.”
“Well, well, such is fame! But, then, if I remember aright, you had not
heard the name of Professor James Moriarty, who had one of the great
brains of the century. Just give me down my index of biographies from
the shelf.”
He turned over the pages lazily, leaning back in his chair and blowing
great clouds from his cigar.
“My collection of M's is a fine one,” said he. “Moriarty himself is
enough to make any letter illustrious, and here is Morgan the poisoner,
and Merridew of abominable memory, and Mathews, who knocked out my left
canine in the waiting-room at Charing Cross, and, finally, here is our
friend of to-night.”
He handed over the book, and I read: “MORAN, SEBASTIAN, COLONEL.
Unemployed. Formerly 1st Bengalore Pioneers. Born London, 1840. Son of
Sir Augustus Moran, C.B., once British Minister to Persia. Educated
Eton and Oxford. Served in Jowaki Campaign, Afghan Campaign, Charasiab
(despatches), Sherpur, and Cabul. Author of 'Heavy Game of the Western
Himalayas,' 1881; 'Three Months in the Jungle,' 1884. Address: Conduit
Street. Clubs: The Anglo-Indian, the Tankerville, the Bagatelle Card
Club.”
On the margin was written, in Holmes's precise hand: “The second most
dangerous man in London.”
“This is astonishing,” said I, as I handed back the volume. “The man's
career is that of an honourable soldier.”
“It is true,” Holmes answered. “Up to a certain point he did well. He
was always a man of iron nerve, and the story is still told in India how
he crawled down a drain after a wounded man-eating tiger. There are some
trees, Watson, which grow to a certain height and then suddenly develop
some unsightly eccentricity. You will see it often in humans. I have
a theory that the individual represents in his development the whole
procession of his ancestors, and that such a sudden turn to good or
evil stands for some strong influence which came into the line of his
pedigree. The person becomes, as it were, the epitome of the history of
his own family.”
“It is surely rather fanciful.”
“Well, I don't insist upon it. Whatever the cause, Colonel Moran began
to go wrong. Without any open scandal, he still made India too hot to
hold him. He retired, came to London, and again acquired an evil name.
It was at this time that he was sought out by Professor Moriarty,
to whom for a time he was chief of the staff. Moriarty supplied him
liberally with money and used him only in one or two very high-class
jobs which no ordinary criminal could have undertaken. You may have
some recollection of the death of Mrs. Stewart, of Lauder, in 1887.
Not? Well, I am sure Moran was at the bottom of it; but nothing could
be proved. So cleverly was the Colonel concealed that even when the
Moriarty gang was broken up we could not incriminate him. You remember
at that date, when I called upon you in your rooms, how I put up the
shutters for fear of air-guns? No doubt you thought me fanciful. I knew
exactly what I was doing, for I knew of the existence of this remarkable
gun, and I knew also that one of the best shots in the world would be
behind it. When we were in Switzerland he followed us with Moriarty,
and it was undoubtedly he who gave me that evil five minutes on the
Reichenbach ledge.
“You may think that I read the papers with some attention during my
sojourn in France, on the look-out for any chance of laying him by the
heels. So long as he was free in London my life would really not have
been worth living. Night and day the shadow would have been over me, and
sooner or later his chance must have come. What could I do? I could not
shoot him at sight, or I should myself be in the dock. There was no use
appealing to a magistrate. They cannot interfere on the strength of what
would appear to them to be a wild suspicion. So I could do nothing. But
I watched the criminal news, knowing that sooner or later I should get
him. Then came the death of this Ronald Adair. My chance had come at
last! Knowing what I did, was it not certain that Colonel Moran had done
it? He had played cards with the lad; he had followed him home from the
club; he had shot him through the open window. There was not a doubt of
it. The bullets alone are enough to put his head in a noose. I came
over at once. I was seen by the sentinel, who would, I knew, direct
the Colonel's attention to my presence. He could not fail to connect my
sudden return with his crime and to be terribly alarmed. I was sure that
he would make an attempt to get me out of the way AT ONCE, and would
bring round his murderous weapon for that purpose. I left him an
excellent mark in the window, and, having warned the police that they
might be needed--by the way, Watson, you spotted their presence in that
doorway with unerring accuracy--I took up what seemed to me to be a
judicious post for observation, never dreaming that he would choose the
same spot for his attack. Now, my dear Watson, does anything remain for
me to explain?”
“Yes,” said I. “You have not made it clear what was Colonel Moran's
motive in murdering the Honourable Ronald Adair.”
“Ah! my dear Watson, there we come into those realms of conjecture where
the most logical mind may be at fault. Each may form his own hypothesis
upon the present evidence, and yours is as likely to be correct as
mine.”
“You have formed one, then?”
“I think that it is not difficult to explain the facts. It came out
in evidence that Colonel Moran and young Adair had between them won a
considerable amount of money. Now, Moran undoubtedly played foul--of
that I have long been aware. I believe that on the day of the murder
Adair had discovered that Moran was cheating. Very likely he had spoken
to him privately, and had threatened to expose him unless he voluntarily
resigned his membership of the club and promised not to play cards
again. It is unlikely that a youngster like Adair would at once make a
hideous scandal by exposing a well-known man so much older than himself.
Probably he acted as I suggest. The exclusion from his clubs would mean
ruin to Moran, who lived by his ill-gotten card gains. He therefore
murdered Adair, who at the time was endeavouring to work out how
much money he should himself return, since he could not profit by his
partner's foul play. He locked the door lest the ladies should surprise
him and insist upon knowing what he was doing with these names and
coins. Will it pass?”
“I have no doubt that you have hit upon the truth.”
“It will be verified or disproved at the trial. Meanwhile, come what
may, Colonel Moran will trouble us no more, the famous air-gun of Von
Herder will embellish the Scotland Yard Museum, and once again
Mr. Sherlock Holmes is free to devote his life to examining those
interesting little problems which the complex life of London so
plentifully presents.”
*****
THE STRAND MAGAZINE
Vol. 26 NOVEMBER, 1903
THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.
By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.
II.--The Adventure of the Norwood Builder.
“FROM the point of view of the criminal expert,” said Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, “London has become a singularly uninteresting city since the
death of the late lamented Professor Moriarty.”
“I can hardly think that you would find many decent citizens to agree
with you,” I answered.
“Well, well, I must not be selfish,” said he, with a smile, as he pushed
back his chair from the breakfast-table. “The community is certainly
the gainer, and no one the loser, save the poor out-of-work specialist,
whose occupation has gone. With that man in the field one's morning
paper presented infinite possibilities. Often it was only the smallest
trace, Watson, the faintest indication, and yet it was enough to tell me
that the great malignant brain was there, as the gentlest tremors of
the edges of the web remind one of the foul spider which lurks in the
centre. Petty thefts, wanton assaults, purposeless outrage--to the man
who held the clue all could be worked into one connected whole. To the
scientific student of the higher criminal world no capital in Europe
offered the advantages which London then possessed. But now----” He
shrugged his shoulders in humorous deprecation of the state of things
which he had himself done so much to produce.
At the time of which I speak Holmes had been back for some months, and
I, at his request, had sold my practice and returned to share the old
quarters in Baker Street. A young doctor, named Verner, had purchased my
small Kensington practice, and given with astonishingly little demur the
highest price that I ventured to ask--an incident which only explained
itself some years later when I found that Verner was a distant relation
of Holmes's, and that it was my friend who had really found the money.
Our months of partnership had not been so uneventful as he had stated,
for I find, on looking over my notes, that this period includes the case
of the papers of Ex-President Murillo, and also the shocking affair of
the Dutch steamship FRIESLAND, which so nearly cost us both our lives.
His cold and proud nature was always averse, however, to anything in the
shape of public applause, and he bound me in the most stringent terms
to say no further word of himself, his methods, or his successes--a
prohibition which, as I have explained, has only now been removed.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes was leaning back in his chair after his whimsical
protest, and was unfolding his morning paper in a leisurely fashion,
when our attention was arrested by a tremendous ring at the bell,
followed immediately by a hollow drumming sound, as if someone were
beating on the outer door with his fist. As it opened there came a
tumultuous rush into the hall, rapid feet clattered up the stair, and an
instant later a wild-eyed and frantic young man, pale, dishevelled, and
palpitating, burst into the room. He looked from one to the other of us,
and under our gaze of inquiry he became conscious that some apology was
needed for this unceremonious entry.
“I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes,” he cried. “You mustn't blame me. I am nearly
mad. Mr. Holmes, I am the unhappy John Hector McFarlane.”
He made the announcement as if the name alone would explain both his
visit and its manner; but I could see by my companion's unresponsive
face that it meant no more to him than to me.
“Have a cigarette, Mr. McFarlane,” said he, pushing his case across.
“I am sure that with your symptoms my friend Dr. Watson here would
prescribe a sedative. The weather has been so very warm these last few
days. Now, if you feel a little more composed, I should be glad if you
would sit down in that chair and tell us very slowly and quietly who you
are and what it is that you want. You mentioned your name as if I should
recognise it, but I assure you that, beyond the obvious facts that
you are a bachelor, a solicitor, a Freemason, and an asthmatic, I know
nothing whatever about you.”
Familiar as I was with my friend's methods, it was not difficult for me
to follow his deductions, and to observe the untidiness of attire, the
sheaf of legal papers, the watch-charm, and the breathing which had
prompted them. Our client, however, stared in amazement.
“Yes, I am all that, Mr. Holmes, and in addition I am the most
unfortunate man at this moment in London. For Heaven's sake don't
abandon me, Mr. Holmes! If they come to arrest me before I have finished
my story, make them give me time so that I may tell you the whole
truth. I could go to gaol happy if I knew that you were working for me
outside.”
“Arrest you!” said Holmes. “This is really most grati--most interesting.
On what charge do you expect to be arrested?”
“Upon the charge of murdering Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of Lower Norwood.”
My companion's expressive face showed a sympathy which was not, I am
afraid, entirely unmixed with satisfaction.
“Dear me,” said he; “it was only this moment at breakfast that I was
saying to my friend, Dr. Watson, that sensational cases had disappeared
out of our papers.”
Our visitor stretched forward a quivering hand and picked up the DAILY
TELEGRAPH, which still lay upon Holmes's knee.
“If you had looked at it, sir, you would have seen at a glance what the
errand is on which I have come to you this morning. I feel as if my name
and my misfortune must be in every man's mouth.” He turned it over to
expose the central page. “Here it is, and with your permission I
will read it to you. Listen to this, Mr. Holmes. The head-lines are:
'Mysterious Affair at Lower Norwood. Disappearance of a Well-known
Builder. Suspicion of Murder and Arson. A Clue to the Criminal.' That is
the clue which they are already following, Mr. Holmes, and I know that
it leads infallibly to me. I have been followed from London Bridge
Station, and I am sure that they are only waiting for the warrant to
arrest me. It will break my mother's heart--it will break her heart!”
He wrung his hands in an agony of apprehension, and swayed backwards and
forwards in his chair.
I looked with interest upon this man, who was accused of being the
perpetrator of a crime of violence. He was flaxen-haired and handsome
in a washed-out negative fashion, with frightened blue eyes and a
clean-shaven face, with a weak, sensitive mouth. His age may have been
about twenty-seven; his dress and bearing that of a gentleman. From the
pocket of his light summer overcoat protruded the bundle of endorsed
papers which proclaimed his profession.
“We must use what time we have,” said Holmes. “Watson, would you
have the kindness to take the paper and to read me the paragraph in
question?”
Underneath the vigorous head-lines which our client had quoted I read
the following suggestive narrative:--
Late last night, or early this morning, an incident occurred at Lower
Norwood which points, it is feared, to a serious crime. Mr. Jonas
Oldacre is a well-known resident of that suburb, where he has carried
on his business as a builder for many years. Mr. Oldacre is a bachelor,
fifty-two years of age, and lives in Deep Dene House, at the Sydenham
end of the road of that name. He has had the reputation of being a
man of eccentric habits, secretive and retiring. For some years he has
practically withdrawn from the business, in which he is said to have
amassed considerable wealth. A small timber-yard still exists, however,
at the back of the house, and last night, about twelve o'clock, an alarm
was given that one of the stacks was on fire. The engines were soon upon
the spot, but the dry wood burned with great fury, and it was impossible
to arrest the conflagration until the stack had been entirely consumed.
Up to this point the incident bore the appearance of an ordinary
accident, but fresh indications seem to point to serious crime. Surprise
was expressed at the absence of the master of the establishment from
the scene of the fire, and an inquiry followed, which showed that he had
disappeared from the house. An examination of his room revealed that the
bed had not been slept in, that a safe which stood in it was open,
that a number of important papers were scattered about the room, and,
finally, that there were signs of a murderous struggle, slight traces
of blood being found within the room, and an oaken walking-stick, which
also showed stains of blood upon the handle. It is known that Mr. Jonas
Oldacre had received a late visitor in his bedroom upon that night, and
the stick found has been identified as the property of this person, who
is a young London solicitor named John Hector McFarlane, junior partner
of Graham and McFarlane, of 426, Gresham Buildings, E.C. The police
believe that they have evidence in their possession which supplies
a very convincing motive for the crime, and altogether it cannot be
doubted that sensational developments will follow.
LATER.--It is rumoured as we go to press that Mr. John Hector McFarlane
has actually been arrested on the charge of the murder of Mr. Jonas
Oldacre. It is at least certain that a warrant has been issued. There
have been further and sinister developments in the investigation at
Norwood. Besides the signs of a struggle in the room of the unfortunate
builder it is now known that the French windows of his bedroom (which is
on the ground floor) were found to be open, that there were marks as
if some bulky object had been dragged across to the wood-pile, and,
finally, it is asserted that charred remains have been found among the
charcoal ashes of the fire. The police theory is that a most sensational
crime has been committed, that the victim was clubbed to death in his
own bedroom, his papers rifled, and his dead body dragged across to
the wood-stack, which was then ignited so as to hide all traces of the
crime. The conduct of the criminal investigation has been left in
the experienced hands of Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, who is
following up the clues with his accustomed energy and sagacity.
Sherlock Holmes listened with closed eyes and finger-tips together to
this remarkable account.
“The case has certainly some points of interest,” said he, in his
languid fashion. “May I ask, in the first place, Mr. McFarlane, how
it is that you are still at liberty, since there appears to be enough
evidence to justify your arrest?”
“I live at Torrington Lodge, Blackheath, with my parents, Mr. Holmes;
but last night, having to do business very late with Mr. Jonas Oldacre,
I stayed at an hotel in Norwood, and came to my business from there. I
knew nothing of this affair until I was in the train, when I read what
you have just heard. I at once saw the horrible danger of my position,
and I hurried to put the case into your hands. I have no doubt that I
should have been arrested either at my City office or at my home. A
man followed me from London Bridge Station, and I have no doubt--Great
Heaven, what is that?”
It was a clang of the bell, followed instantly by heavy steps upon the
stair. A moment later our old friend Lestrade appeared in the doorway.
Over his shoulder I caught a glimpse of one or two uniformed policemen
outside.
“Mr. John Hector McFarlane?” said Lestrade.
Our unfortunate client rose with a ghastly face.
“I arrest you for the wilful murder of Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of Lower
Norwood.”
McFarlane turned to us with a gesture of despair, and sank into his
chair once more like one who is crushed.
“One moment, Lestrade,” said Holmes. “Half an hour more or less can make
no difference to you, and the gentleman was about to give us an account
of this very interesting affair, which might aid us in clearing it up.”
“I think there will be no difficulty in clearing it up,” said Lestrade,
grimly.
“None the less, with your permission, I should be much interested to
hear his account.”
“Well, Mr. Holmes, it is difficult for me to refuse you anything, for
you have been of use to the force once or twice in the past, and we owe
you a good turn at Scotland Yard,” said Lestrade. “At the same time I
must remain with my prisoner, and I am bound to warn him that anything
he may say will appear in evidence against him.”
“I wish nothing better,” said our client. “All I ask is that you should
hear and recognise the absolute truth.”
Lestrade looked at his watch. “I'll give you half an hour,” said he.
“I must explain first,” said McFarlane, “that I knew nothing of Mr.
Jonas Oldacre. His name was familiar to me, for many years ago my
parents were acquainted with him, but they drifted apart. I was very
much surprised, therefore, when yesterday, about three o'clock in the
afternoon, he walked into my office in the City. But I was still more
astonished when he told me the object of his visit. He had in his hand
several sheets of a note-book, covered with scribbled writing--here they
are--and he laid them on my table.
“'Here is my will,' said he. 'I want you, Mr. McFarlane, to cast it into
proper legal shape. I will sit here while you do so.'
“I set myself to copy it, and you can imagine my astonishment when I
found that, with some reservations, he had left all his property to me.
He was a strange little, ferret-like man, with white eyelashes, and
when I looked up at him I found his keen grey eyes fixed upon me with
an amused expression. I could hardly believe my own senses as I read the
terms of the will; but he explained that he was a bachelor with hardly
any living relation, that he had known my parents in his youth, and that
he had always heard of me as a very deserving young man, and was assured
that his money would be in worthy hands. Of course, I could only stammer
out my thanks. The will was duly finished, signed, and witnessed by
my clerk. This is it on the blue paper, and these slips, as I have
explained, are the rough draft. Mr. Jonas Oldacre then informed me
that there were a number of documents--building leases, title-deeds,
mortgages, scrip, and so forth--which it was necessary that I should see
and understand. He said that his mind would not be easy until the whole
thing was settled, and he begged me to come out to his house at
Norwood that night, bringing the will with me, and to arrange matters.
'Remember, my boy, not one word to your parents about the affair until
everything is settled. We will keep it as a little surprise for
them.' He was very insistent upon this point, and made me promise it
faithfully.
“You can imagine, Mr. Holmes, that I was not in a humour to refuse him
anything that he might ask. He was my benefactor, and all my desire was
to carry out his wishes in every particular. I sent a telegram home,
therefore, to say that I had important business on hand, and that it was
impossible for me to say how late I might be. Mr. Oldacre had told me
that he would like me to have supper with him at nine, as he might not
be home before that hour. I had some difficulty in finding his house,
however, and it was nearly half-past before I reached it. I found him--”
“One moment!” said Holmes. “Who opened the door?”
“A middle-aged woman, who was, I suppose, his housekeeper.”
“And it was she, I presume, who mentioned your name?”
“Exactly,” said McFarlane.
“Pray proceed.”