“IMPORTANT FRESH EVIDENCE TO HAND. MCFARLANE'S GUILT
DEFINITELY ESTABLISHED. ADVISE YOU TO ABANDON CASE.
--LESTRADE.”
“This sounds serious,” said I.
“It is Lestrade's little cock-a-doodle of victory,” Holmes answered,
with a bitter smile. “And yet it may be premature to abandon the case.
After all, important fresh evidence is a two-edged thing, and may
possibly cut in a very different direction to that which Lestrade
imagines. Take your breakfast, Watson, and we will go out together and
see what we can do. I feel as if I shall need your company and your
moral support to-day.”
My friend had no breakfast himself, for it was one of his peculiarities
that in his more intense moments he would permit himself no food, and I
have known him presume upon his iron strength until he has fainted from
pure inanition. “At present I cannot spare energy and nerve force for
digestion,” he would say in answer to my medical remonstrances. I was
not surprised, therefore, when this morning he left his untouched meal
behind him and started with me for Norwood. A crowd of morbid sightseers
were still gathered round Deep Dene House, which was just such a
suburban villa as I had pictured. Within the gates Lestrade met us, his
face flushed with victory, his manner grossly triumphant.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, have you proved us to be wrong yet? Have you found
your tramp?” he cried.
“I have formed no conclusion whatever,” my companion answered.
“But we formed ours yesterday, and now it proves to be correct; so you
must acknowledge that we have been a little in front of you this time,
Mr. Holmes.”
“You certainly have the air of something unusual having occurred,” said
Holmes.
Lestrade laughed loudly.
“You don't like being beaten any more than the rest of us do,” said he.
“A man can't expect always to have it his own way, can he, Dr. Watson?
Step this way, if you please, gentlemen, and I think I can convince you
once for all that it was John McFarlane who did this crime.”
He led us through the passage and out into a dark hall beyond.
“This is where young McFarlane must have come out to get his hat
after the crime was done,” said he. “Now, look at this.” With dramatic
suddenness he struck a match and by its light exposed a stain of blood
upon the whitewashed wall. As he held the match nearer I saw that it was
more than a stain. It was the well-marked print of a thumb.
“Look at that with your magnifying glass, Mr. Holmes.”
“Yes, I am doing so.”
“You are aware that no two thumb marks are alike?”
“I have heard something of the kind.”
“Well, then, will you please compare that print with this wax impression
of young McFarlane's right thumb, taken by my orders this morning?”
As he held the waxen print close to the blood-stain it did not take
a magnifying glass to see that the two were undoubtedly from the same
thumb. It was evident to me that our unfortunate client was lost.
“That is final,” said Lestrade.
“Yes, that is final,” I involuntarily echoed.
“It is final,” said Holmes.
Something in his tone caught my ear, and I turned to look at him. An
extraordinary change had come over his face. It was writhing with inward
merriment. His two eyes were shining like stars. It seemed to me that
he was making desperate efforts to restrain a convulsive attack of
laughter.
“Dear me! Dear me!” he said at last. “Well, now, who would have thought
it? And how deceptive appearances may be, to be sure! Such a nice young
man to look at! It is a lesson to us not to trust our own judgment, is
it not, Lestrade?”
“Yes, some of us are a little too much inclined to be cocksure, Mr.
Holmes,” said Lestrade. The man's insolence was maddening, but we could
not resent it.
“What a providential thing that this young man should press his right
thumb against the wall in taking his hat from the peg! Such a very
natural action, too, if you come to think of it.” Holmes was outwardly
calm, but his whole body gave a wriggle of suppressed excitement as he
spoke. “By the way, Lestrade, who made this remarkable discovery?”
“It was the housekeeper, Mrs. Lexington, who drew the night constable's
attention to it.”
“Where was the night constable?”
“He remained on guard in the bedroom where the crime was committed, so
as to see that nothing was touched.”
“But why didn't the police see this mark yesterday?”
“Well, we had no particular reason to make a careful examination of the
hall. Besides, it's not in a very prominent place, as you see.”
“No, no, of course not. I suppose there is no doubt that the mark was
there yesterday?”
Lestrade looked at Holmes as if he thought he was going out of his mind.
I confess that I was myself surprised both at his hilarious manner and
at his rather wild observation.
“I don't know whether you think that McFarlane came out of gaol in the
dead of the night in order to strengthen the evidence against himself,”
said Lestrade. “I leave it to any expert in the world whether that is
not the mark of his thumb.”
“It is unquestionably the mark of his thumb.”
“There, that's enough,” said Lestrade. “I am a practical man, Mr.
Holmes, and when I have got my evidence I come to my conclusions. If
you have anything to say you will find me writing my report in the
sitting-room.”
Holmes had recovered his equanimity, though I still seemed to detect
gleams of amusement in his expression.
“Dear me, this is a very sad development, Watson, is it not?” said he.
“And yet there are singular points about it which hold out some hopes
for our client.”
“I am delighted to hear it,” said I, heartily. “I was afraid it was all
up with him.”
“I would hardly go so far as to say that, my dear Watson. The fact is
that there is one really serious flaw in this evidence to which our
friend attaches so much importance.”
“Indeed, Holmes! What is it?”
“Only this: that I KNOW that that mark was not there when I examined the
hall yesterday. And now, Watson, let us have a little stroll round in
the sunshine.”
With a confused brain, but with a heart into which some warmth of hope
was returning, I accompanied my friend in a walk round the garden.
Holmes took each face of the house in turn and examined it with great
interest. He then led the way inside and went over the whole building
from basement to attics. Most of the rooms were unfurnished, but
none the less Holmes inspected them all minutely. Finally, on the top
corridor, which ran outside three untenanted bedrooms, he again was
seized with a spasm of merriment.
“There are really some very unique features about this case, Watson,”
said he. “I think it is time now that we took our friend Lestrade into
our confidence. He has had his little smile at our expense, and perhaps
we may do as much by him if my reading of this problem proves to be
correct. Yes, yes; I think I see how we should approach it.”
The Scotland Yard inspector was still writing in the parlour when Holmes
interrupted him.
“I understood that you were writing a report of this case,” said he.
“So I am.”
“Don't you think it may be a little premature? I can't help thinking
that your evidence is not complete.”
Lestrade knew my friend too well to disregard his words. He laid down
his pen and looked curiously at him.
“What do you mean, Mr. Holmes?”
“Only that there is an important witness whom you have not seen.”
“Can you produce him?”
“I think I can.”
“Then do so.”
“I will do my best. How many constables have you?”
“There are three within call.”
“Excellent!” said Holmes. “May I ask if they are all large, able-bodied
men with powerful voices?”
“I have no doubt they are, though I fail to see what their voices have
to do with it.”
“Perhaps I can help you to see that and one or two other things as
well,” said Holmes. “Kindly summon your men, and I will try.”
Five minutes later three policemen had assembled in the hall.
“In the outhouse you will find a considerable quantity of straw,” said
Holmes. “I will ask you to carry in two bundles of it. I think it will
be of the greatest assistance in producing the witness whom I require.
Thank you very much. I believe you have some matches in your pocket,
Watson. Now, Mr. Lestrade, I will ask you all to accompany me to the top
landing.”
As I have said, there was a broad corridor there, which ran outside
three empty bedrooms. At one end of the corridor we were all marshalled
by Sherlock Holmes, the constables grinning and Lestrade staring at
my friend with amazement, expectation, and derision chasing each other
across his features. Holmes stood before us with the air of a conjurer
who is performing a trick.
“Would you kindly send one of your constables for two buckets of water?
Put the straw on the floor here, free from the wall on either side. Now
I think that we are all ready.”
Lestrade's face had begun to grow red and angry.
“I don't know whether you are playing a game with us, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes,” said he. “If you know anything, you can surely say it without
all this tomfoolery.”
“I assure you, my good Lestrade, that I have an excellent reason for
everything that I do. You may possibly remember that you chaffed me a
little some hours ago, when the sun seemed on your side of the hedge, so
you must not grudge me a little pomp and ceremony now. Might I ask you,
Watson, to open that window, and then to put a match to the edge of the
straw?”
I did so, and, driven by the draught, a coil of grey smoke swirled down
the corridor, while the dry straw crackled and flamed.
“Now we must see if we can find this witness for you, Lestrade. Might I
ask you all to join in the cry of 'Fire!'? Now, then; one, two, three--”
“Fire!” we all yelled.
“Thank you. I will trouble you once again.”
“Fire!”
“Just once more, gentlemen, and all together.”
“Fire!” The shout must have rung over Norwood.
It had hardly died away when an amazing thing happened. A door suddenly
flew open out of what appeared to be solid wall at the end of the
corridor, and a little, wizened man darted out of it, like a rabbit out
of its burrow.
“Capital!” said Holmes, calmly. “Watson, a bucket of water over the
straw. That will do! Lestrade, allow me to present you with your
principal missing witness, Mr. Jonas Oldacre.”
The detective stared at the new-comer with blank amazement. The latter
was blinking in the bright light of the corridor, and peering at us
and at the smouldering fire. It was an odious face--crafty, vicious,
malignant, with shifty, light-grey eyes and white eyelashes.
“What's this, then?” said Lestrade at last. “What have you been doing
all this time, eh?”
Oldacre gave an uneasy laugh, shrinking back from the furious red face
of the angry detective.
“I have done no harm.”
“No harm? You have done your best to get an innocent man hanged. If it
wasn't for this gentleman here, I am not sure that you would not have
succeeded.”
The wretched creature began to whimper.
“I am sure, sir, it was only my practical joke.”
“Oh! a joke, was it? You won't find the laugh on your side, I promise
you. Take him down and keep him in the sitting-room until I come. Mr.
Holmes,” he continued, when they had gone, “I could not speak before the
constables, but I don't mind saying, in the presence of Dr. Watson,
that this is the brightest thing that you have done yet, though it is a
mystery to me how you did it. You have saved an innocent man's life,
and you have prevented a very grave scandal, which would have ruined my
reputation in the Force.”
Holmes smiled and clapped Lestrade upon the shoulder.
“Instead of being ruined, my good sir, you will find that your
reputation has been enormously enhanced. Just make a few alterations in
that report which you were writing, and they will understand how hard it
is to throw dust in the eyes of Inspector Lestrade.”
“And you don't want your name to appear?”
“Not at all. The work is its own reward. Perhaps I shall get the credit
also at some distant day when I permit my zealous historian to lay out
his foolscap once more--eh, Watson? Well, now, let us see where this rat
has been lurking.”
A lath-and-plaster partition had been run across the passage six feet
from the end, with a door cunningly concealed in it. It was lit within
by slits under the eaves. A few articles of furniture and a supply of
food and water were within, together with a number of books and papers.
“There's the advantage of being a builder,” said Holmes, as we came
out. “He was able to fix up his own little hiding-place without any
confederate--save, of course, that precious housekeeper of his, whom I
should lose no time in adding to your bag, Lestrade.”
“I'll take your advice. But how did you know of this place, Mr. Holmes?”
“I made up my mind that the fellow was in hiding in the house. When I
paced one corridor and found it six feet shorter than the corresponding
one below, it was pretty clear where he was. I thought he had not the
nerve to lie quiet before an alarm of fire. We could, of course, have
gone in and taken him, but it amused me to make him reveal himself;
besides, I owed you a little mystification, Lestrade, for your chaff in
the morning.”
“Well, sir, you certainly got equal with me on that. But how in the
world did you know that he was in the house at all?”
“The thumb-mark, Lestrade. You said it was final; and so it was, in a
very different sense. I knew it had not been there the day before. I pay
a good deal of attention to matters of detail, as you may have observed,
and I had examined the hall and was sure that the wall was clear.
Therefore, it had been put on during the night.”
“But how?”
“Very simply. When those packets were sealed up, Jonas Oldacre got
McFarlane to secure one of the seals by putting his thumb upon the soft
wax. It would be done so quickly and so naturally that I dare say the
young man himself has no recollection of it. Very likely it just so
happened, and Oldacre had himself no notion of the use he would put it
to. Brooding over the case in that den of his, it suddenly struck him
what absolutely damning evidence he could make against McFarlane by
using that thumb-mark. It was the simplest thing in the world for him to
take a wax impression from the seal, to moisten it in as much blood as
he could get from a pin-prick, and to put the mark upon the wall during
the night, either with his own hand or with that of his housekeeper.
If you examine among those documents which he took with him into
his retreat I will lay you a wager that you find the seal with the
thumb-mark upon it.”
“Wonderful!” said Lestrade. “Wonderful! It's all as clear as crystal, as
you put it. But what is the object of this deep deception, Mr. Holmes?”
It was amusing to me to see how the detective's overbearing manner had
changed suddenly to that of a child asking questions of its teacher.
“Well, I don't think that is very hard to explain. A very deep,
malicious, vindictive person is the gentleman who is now awaiting us
downstairs. You know that he was once refused by McFarlane's mother?
You don't! I told you that you should go to Blackheath first and Norwood
afterwards. Well, this injury, as he would consider it, has rankled
in his wicked, scheming brain, and all his life he has longed for
vengeance, but never seen his chance. During the last year or two things
have gone against him--secret speculation, I think--and he finds himself
in a bad way. He determines to swindle his creditors, and for this
purpose he pays large cheques to a certain Mr. Cornelius, who is, I
imagine, himself under another name. I have not traced these cheques
yet, but I have no doubt that they were banked under that name at some
provincial town where Oldacre from time to time led a double existence.
He intended to change his name altogether, draw this money, and vanish,
starting life again elsewhere.”
“Well, that's likely enough.”
“It would strike him that in disappearing he might throw all pursuit off
his track, and at the same time have an ample and crushing revenge upon
his old sweetheart, if he could give the impression that he had been
murdered by her only child. It was a masterpiece of villainy, and he
carried it out like a master. The idea of the will, which would give
an obvious motive for the crime, the secret visit unknown to his own
parents, the retention of the stick, the blood, and the animal remains
and buttons in the wood-pile, all were admirable. It was a net from
which it seemed to me a few hours ago that there was no possible escape.
But he had not that supreme gift of the artist, the knowledge of when to
stop. He wished to improve that which was already perfect--to draw the
rope tighter yet round the neck of his unfortunate victim--and so
he ruined all. Let us descend, Lestrade. There are just one or two
questions that I would ask him.”
The malignant creature was seated in his own parlour with a policeman
upon each side of him.
“It was a joke, my good sir, a practical joke, nothing more,” he whined
incessantly. “I assure you, sir, that I simply concealed myself in order
to see the effect of my disappearance, and I am sure that you would not
be so unjust as to imagine that I would have allowed any harm to befall
poor young Mr. McFarlane.”
“That's for a jury to decide,” said Lestrade. “Anyhow, we shall have you
on a charge of conspiracy, if not for attempted murder.”
“And you'll probably find that your creditors will impound the banking
account of Mr. Cornelius,” said Holmes.
The little man started and turned his malignant eyes upon my friend.
“I have to thank you for a good deal,” said he. “Perhaps I'll pay my
debt some day.”
Holmes smiled indulgently.
“I fancy that for some few years you will find your time very fully
occupied,” said he. “By the way, what was it you put into the wood-pile
besides your old trousers? A dead dog, or rabbits, or what? You won't
tell? Dear me, how very unkind of you! Well, well, I dare say that a
couple of rabbits would account both for the blood and for the charred
ashes. If ever you write an account, Watson, you can make rabbits serve
your turn.”
*****
THE STRAND MAGAZINE
Vol. 26 DECEMBER, 1903
THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.
By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.
III.--The Adventure of the Dancing Men.
HOLMES had been seated for some hours in silence with his long,
thin back curved over a chemical vessel in which he was brewing a
particularly malodorous product. His head was sunk upon his breast, and
he looked from my point of view like a strange, lank bird, with dull
grey plumage and a black top-knot.
“So, Watson,” said he, suddenly, “you do not propose to invest in South
African securities?”
I gave a start of astonishment. Accustomed as I was to Holmes's curious
faculties, this sudden intrusion into my most intimate thoughts was
utterly inexplicable.
“How on earth do you know that?” I asked.
He wheeled round upon his stool, with a steaming test-tube in his hand
and a gleam of amusement in his deep-set eyes.
“Now, Watson, confess yourself utterly taken aback,” said he.
“I am.”
“I ought to make you sign a paper to that effect.”
“Why?”
“Because in five minutes you will say that it is all so absurdly
simple.”
“I am sure that I shall say nothing of the kind.”
“You see, my dear Watson”--he propped his test-tube in the rack and
began to lecture with the air of a professor addressing his class--“it
is not really difficult to construct a series of inferences, each
dependent upon its predecessor and each simple in itself. If, after
doing so, one simply knocks out all the central inferences and presents
one's audience with the starting-point and the conclusion, one may
produce a startling, though possibly a meretricious, effect. Now, it was
not really difficult, by an inspection of the groove between your left
forefinger and thumb, to feel sure that you did NOT propose to invest
your small capital in the goldfields.”
“I see no connection.”
“Very likely not; but I can quickly show you a close connection. Here
are the missing links of the very simple chain: 1. You had chalk between
your left finger and thumb when you returned from the club last night.
2. You put chalk there when you play billiards to steady the cue. 3. You
never play billiards except with Thurston. 4. You told me four weeks ago
that Thurston had an option on some South African property which would
expire in a month, and which he desired you to share with him. 5. Your
cheque-book is locked in my drawer, and you have not asked for the key.
6. You do not propose to invest your money in this manner.”
“How absurdly simple!” I cried.
“Quite so!” said he, a little nettled. “Every problem becomes very
childish when once it is explained to you. Here is an unexplained one.
See what you can make of that, friend Watson.” He tossed a sheet of
paper upon the table and turned once more to his chemical analysis.