“Well, now, let us turn to this unfortunate German master. The boy was
fully dressed when he fled. Therefore, he foresaw what he would do.
But the German went without his socks. He certainly acted on very short
notice.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Why did he go? Because, from his bedroom window, he saw the flight of
the boy. Because he wished to overtake him and bring him back. He seized
his bicycle, pursued the lad, and in pursuing him met his death.”
“So it would seem.”
“Now I come to the critical part of my argument. The natural action of
a man in pursuing a little boy would be to run after him. He would know
that he could overtake him. But the German does not do so. He turns to
his bicycle. I am told that he was an excellent cyclist. He would not do
this if he did not see that the boy had some swift means of escape.”
“The other bicycle.”
“Let us continue our reconstruction. He meets his death five miles
from the school--not by a bullet, mark you, which even a lad might
conceivably discharge, but by a savage blow dealt by a vigorous arm.
The lad, then, HAD a companion in his flight. And the flight was a swift
one, since it took five miles before an expert cyclist could overtake
them. Yet we survey the ground round the scene of the tragedy. What do
we find? A few cattle tracks, nothing more. I took a wide sweep round,
and there is no path within fifty yards. Another cyclist could have
had nothing to do with the actual murder. Nor were there any human
footmarks.”
“Holmes,” I cried, “this is impossible.”
“Admirable!” he said. “A most illuminating remark. It IS impossible as I
state it, and therefore I must in some respect have stated it wrong. Yet
you saw for yourself. Can you suggest any fallacy?”
“He could not have fractured his skull in a fall?”
“In a morass, Watson?”
“I am at my wit's end.”
“Tut, tut; we have solved some worse problems. At least we have plenty
of material, if we can only use it. Come, then, and, having exhausted
the Palmer, let us see what the Dunlop with the patched cover has to
offer us.”
We picked up the track and followed it onwards for some distance; but
soon the moor rose into a long, heather-tufted curve, and we left the
watercourse behind us. No further help from tracks could be hoped for.
At the spot where we saw the last of the Dunlop tyre it might equally
have led to Holdernesse Hall, the stately towers of which rose some
miles to our left, or to a low, grey village which lay in front of us,
and marked the position of the Chesterfield high road.
As we approached the forbidding and squalid inn, with the sign of a
game-cock above the door, Holmes gave a sudden groan and clutched me
by the shoulder to save himself from falling. He had had one of those
violent strains of the ankle which leave a man helpless. With difficulty
he limped up to the door, where a squat, dark, elderly man was smoking a
black clay pipe.
“How are you, Mr. Reuben Hayes?” said Holmes.
“Who are you, and how do you get my name so pat?” the countryman
answered, with a suspicious flash of a pair of cunning eyes.
“Well, it's printed on the board above your head. It's easy to see a man
who is master of his own house. I suppose you haven't such a thing as a
carriage in your stables?”
“No; I have not.”
“I can hardly put my foot to the ground.”
“Don't put it to the ground.”
“But I can't walk.”
“Well, then, hop.”
Mr. Reuben Hayes's manner was far from gracious, but Holmes took it with
admirable good-humour.
“Look here, my man,” said he. “This is really rather an awkward fix for
me. I don't mind how I get on.”
“Neither do I,” said the morose landlord.
“The matter is very important. I would offer you a sovereign for the use
of a bicycle.”
The landlord pricked up his ears.
“Where do you want to go?”
“To Holdernesse Hall.”
“Pals of the Dook, I suppose?” said the landlord, surveying our
mud-stained garments with ironical eyes.
Holmes laughed good-naturedly.
“He'll be glad to see us, anyhow.”
“Why?”
“Because we bring him news of his lost son.”
The landlord gave a very visible start.
“What, you're on his track?”
“He has been heard of in Liverpool. They expect to get him every hour.”
Again a swift change passed over the heavy, unshaven face. His manner
was suddenly genial.
“I've less reason to wish the Dook well than most men,” said he, “for I
was his head coachman once, and cruel bad he treated me. It was him that
sacked me without a character on the word of a lying corn-chandler. But
I'm glad to hear that the young lord was heard of in Liverpool, and I'll
help you to take the news to the Hall.”
“Thank you,” said Holmes. “We'll have some food first. Then you can
bring round the bicycle.”
“I haven't got a bicycle.”
Holmes held up a sovereign.
“I tell you, man, that I haven't got one. I'll let you have two horses
as far as the Hall.”
“Well, well,” said Holmes, “we'll talk about it when we've had something
to eat.”
When we were left alone in the stone-flagged kitchen it was astonishing
how rapidly that sprained ankle recovered. It was nearly nightfall, and
we had eaten nothing since early morning, so that we spent some time
over our meal. Holmes was lost in thought, and once or twice he walked
over to the window and stared earnestly out. It opened on to a squalid
courtyard. In the far corner was a smithy, where a grimy lad was at
work. On the other side were the stables. Holmes had sat down again
after one of these excursions, when he suddenly sprang out of his chair
with a loud exclamation.
“By Heaven, Watson, I believe that I've got it!” he cried. “Yes, yes, it
must be so. Watson, do you remember seeing any cow-tracks to-day?”
“Yes, several.”
“Where?”
“Well, everywhere. They were at the morass, and again on the path, and
again near where poor Heidegger met his death.”
“Exactly. Well, now, Watson, how many cows did you see on the moor?”
“I don't remember seeing any.”
“Strange, Watson, that we should see tracks all along our line, but
never a cow on the whole moor; very strange, Watson, eh?”
“Yes, it is strange.”
“Now, Watson, make an effort; throw your mind back! Can you see those
tracks upon the path?”
“Yes, I can.”
“Can you recall that the tracks were sometimes like that, Watson”--he
arranged a number of bread-crumbs in this fashion--:::::--“and sometimes
like this”--:.:.:.:. --“and occasionally like this”--. '. '. '. “Can you
remember that?”
“No, I cannot.”
“But I can. I could swear to it. However, we will go back at our
leisure and verify it. What a blind beetle I have been not to draw my
conclusion!”
“And what is your conclusion?”
“Only that it is a remarkable cow which walks, canters, and gallops. By
George, Watson, it was no brain of a country publican that thought out
such a blind as that! The coast seems to be clear, save for that lad in
the smithy. Let us slip out and see what we can see.”
There were two rough-haired, unkempt horses in the tumble-down stable.
Holmes raised the hind leg of one of them and laughed aloud.
“Old shoes, but newly shod--old shoes, but new nails. This case deserves
to be a classic. Let us go across to the smithy.”
The lad continued his work without regarding us. I saw Holmes's eye
darting to right and left among the litter of iron and wood which was
scattered about the floor. Suddenly, however, we heard a step behind
us, and there was the landlord, his heavy eyebrows drawn over his savage
eyes, his swarthy features convulsed with passion. He held a short,
metal-headed stick in his hand, and he advanced in so menacing a fashion
that I was right glad to feel the revolver in my pocket.
“You infernal spies!” the man cried. “What are you doing there?”
“Why, Mr. Reuben Hayes,” said Holmes, coolly, “one might think that you
were afraid of our finding something out.”
The man mastered himself with a violent effort, and his grim mouth
loosened into a false laugh, which was more menacing than his frown.
“You're welcome to all you can find out in my smithy,” said he. “But
look here, mister, I don't care for folk poking about my place without
my leave, so the sooner you pay your score and get out of this the
better I shall be pleased.”
“All right, Mr. Hayes--no harm meant,” said Holmes. “We have been having
a look at your horses, but I think I'll walk after all. It's not far, I
believe.”
“Not more than two miles to the Hall gates. That's the road to the
left.” He watched us with sullen eyes until we had left his premises.
We did not go very far along the road, for Holmes stopped the instant
that the curve hid us from the landlord's view.
“We were warm, as the children say, at that inn,” said he. “I seem
to grow colder every step that I take away from it. No, no; I can't
possibly leave it.”
“I am convinced,” said I, “that this Reuben Hayes knows all about it. A
more self-evident villain I never saw.”
“Oh! he impressed you in that way, did he? There are the horses, there
is the smithy. Yes, it is an interesting place, this Fighting Cock. I
think we shall have another look at it in an unobtrusive way.”
A long, sloping hillside, dotted with grey limestone boulders, stretched
behind us. We had turned off the road, and were making our way up
the hill, when, looking in the direction of Holdernesse Hall, I saw a
cyclist coming swiftly along.
“Get down, Watson!” cried Holmes, with a heavy hand upon my shoulder. We
had hardly sunk from view when the man flew past us on the road. Amid
a rolling cloud of dust I caught a glimpse of a pale, agitated face--a
face with horror in every lineament, the mouth open, the eyes staring
wildly in front. It was like some strange caricature of the dapper James
Wilder whom we had seen the night before.
“The Duke's secretary!” cried Holmes. “Come, Watson, let us see what he
does.”
We scrambled from rock to rock until in a few moments we had made
our way to a point from which we could see the front door of the inn.
Wilder's bicycle was leaning against the wall beside it. No one was
moving about the house, nor could we catch a glimpse of any faces at the
windows. Slowly the twilight crept down as the sun sank behind the high
towers of Holdernesse Hall. Then in the gloom we saw the two side-lamps
of a trap light up in the stable yard of the inn, and shortly afterwards
heard the rattle of hoofs, as it wheeled out into the road and tore off
at a furious pace in the direction of Chesterfield.
“What do you make of that, Watson?” Holmes whispered.
“It looks like a flight.”
“A single man in a dog-cart, so far as I could see. Well, it certainly
was not Mr. James Wilder, for there he is at the door.”
A red square of light had sprung out of the darkness. In the middle of
it was the black figure of the secretary, his head advanced, peering out
into the night. It was evident that he was expecting someone. Then at
last there were steps in the road, a second figure was visible for an
instant against the light, the door shut, and all was black once more.
Five minutes later a lamp was lit in a room upon the first floor.
“It seems to be a curious class of custom that is done by the Fighting
Cock,” said Holmes.
“The bar is on the other side.”
“Quite so. These are what one may call the private guests. Now, what in
the world is Mr. James Wilder doing in that den at this hour of night,
and who is the companion who comes to meet him there? Come, Watson,
we must really take a risk and try to investigate this a little more
closely.”
Together we stole down to the road and crept across to the door of the
inn. The bicycle still leaned against the wall. Holmes struck a match
and held it to the back wheel, and I heard him chuckle as the light fell
upon a patched Dunlop tyre. Up above us was the lighted window.
“I must have a peep through that, Watson. If you bend your back and
support yourself upon the wall, I think that I can manage.”
An instant later his feet were on my shoulders. But he was hardly up
before he was down again.
“Come, my friend,” said he, “our day's work has been quite long enough.
I think that we have gathered all that we can. It's a long walk to the
school, and the sooner we get started the better.”
He hardly opened his lips during that weary trudge across the moor, nor
would he enter the school when he reached it, but went on to Mackleton
Station, whence he could send some telegrams. Late at night I heard him
consoling Dr. Huxtable, prostrated by the tragedy of his master's death,
and later still he entered my room as alert and vigorous as he had been
when he started in the morning. “All goes well, my friend,” said he. “I
promise that before to-morrow evening we shall have reached the solution
of the mystery.”
At eleven o'clock next morning my friend and I were walking up the
famous yew avenue of Holdernesse Hall. We were ushered through the
magnificent Elizabethan doorway and into his Grace's study. There we
found Mr. James Wilder, demure and courtly, but with some trace of that
wild terror of the night before still lurking in his furtive eyes and in
his twitching features.
“You have come to see his Grace? I am sorry; but the fact is that the
Duke is far from well. He has been very much upset by the tragic news.
We received a telegram from Dr. Huxtable yesterday afternoon, which told
us of your discovery.”
“I must see the Duke, Mr. Wilder.”
“But he is in his room.”
“Then I must go to his room.”
“I believe he is in his bed.”
“I will see him there.”
Holmes's cold and inexorable manner showed the secretary that it was
useless to argue with him.
“Very good, Mr. Holmes; I will tell him that you are here.”
After half an hour's delay the great nobleman appeared. His face was
more cadaverous than ever, his shoulders had rounded, and he seemed to
me to be an altogether older man than he had been the morning before. He
greeted us with a stately courtesy and seated himself at his desk, his
red beard streaming down on to the table.
“Well, Mr. Holmes?” said he.
But my friend's eyes were fixed upon the secretary, who stood by his
master's chair.
“I think, your Grace, that I could speak more freely in Mr. Wilder's
absence.”
The man turned a shade paler and cast a malignant glance at Holmes.
“If your Grace wishes----”
“Yes, yes; you had better go. Now, Mr. Holmes, what have you to say?”
My friend waited until the door had closed behind the retreating
secretary.
“The fact is, your Grace,” said he, “that my colleague, Dr. Watson, and
myself had an assurance from Dr. Huxtable that a reward had been offered
in this case. I should like to have this confirmed from your own lips.”
“Certainly, Mr. Holmes.”
“It amounted, if I am correctly informed, to five thousand pounds to
anyone who will tell you where your son is?”
“Exactly.”
“And another thousand to the man who will name the person or persons who
keep him in custody?”
“Exactly.”
“Under the latter heading is included, no doubt, not only those who
may have taken him away, but also those who conspire to keep him in his
present position?”
“Yes, yes,” cried the Duke, impatiently. “If you do your work well,
Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you will have no reason to complain of niggardly
treatment.”
My friend rubbed his thin hands together with an appearance of avidity
which was a surprise to me, who knew his frugal tastes.
“I fancy that I see your Grace's cheque-book upon the table,” said he.
“I should be glad if you would make me out a cheque for six thousand
pounds. It would be as well, perhaps, for you to cross it. The Capital
and Counties Bank, Oxford Street branch, are my agents.”
His Grace sat very stern and upright in his chair, and looked stonily at
my friend.
“Is this a joke, Mr. Holmes? It is hardly a subject for pleasantry.”
“Not at all, your Grace. I was never more earnest in my life.”
“What do you mean, then?”
“I mean that I have earned the reward. I know where your son is, and I
know some, at least, of those who are holding him.”
The Duke's beard had turned more aggressively red than ever against his
ghastly white face.
“Where is he?” he gasped.
“He is, or was last night, at the Fighting Cock Inn, about two miles
from your park gate.”
The Duke fell back in his chair.
“And whom do you accuse?”
Sherlock Holmes's answer was an astounding one. He stepped swiftly
forward and touched the Duke upon the shoulder.
“I accuse YOU,” said he. “And now, your Grace, I'll trouble you for that
cheque.”
Never shall I forget the Duke's appearance as he sprang up and clawed
with his hands like one who is sinking into an abyss. Then, with an
extraordinary effort of aristocratic self-command, he sat down and sank
his face in his hands. It was some minutes before he spoke.
“How much do you know?” he asked at last, without raising his head.
“I saw you together last night.”
“Does anyone else besides your friend know?”
“I have spoken to no one.”
The Duke took a pen in his quivering fingers and opened his cheque-book.
“I shall be as good as my word, Mr. Holmes. I am about to write your
cheque, however unwelcome the information which you have gained may be
to me. When the offer was first made I little thought the turn which
events might take. But you and your friend are men of discretion, Mr.
Holmes?”
“I hardly understand your Grace.”
“I must put it plainly, Mr. Holmes. If only you two know of this
incident, there is no reason why it should go any farther. I think
twelve thousand pounds is the sum that I owe you, is it not?”
But Holmes smiled and shook his head.
“I fear, your Grace, that matters can hardly be arranged so easily.
There is the death of this schoolmaster to be accounted for.”
“But James knew nothing of that. You cannot hold him responsible for
that. It was the work of this brutal ruffian whom he had the misfortune
to employ.”
“I must take the view, your Grace, that when a man embarks upon a crime
he is morally guilty of any other crime which may spring from it.”
“Morally, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you are right. But surely not in the eyes
of the law. A man cannot be condemned for a murder at which he was not
present, and which he loathes and abhors as much as you do. The instant
that he heard of it he made a complete confession to me, so filled was
he with horror and remorse. He lost not an hour in breaking entirely
with the murderer. Oh, Mr. Holmes, you must save him--you must save
him! I tell you that you must save him!” The Duke had dropped the last
attempt at self-command, and was pacing the room with a convulsed face
and with his clenched hands raving in the air. At last he mastered
himself and sat down once more at his desk. “I appreciate your conduct
in coming here before you spoke to anyone else,” said he. “At least, we
may take counsel how far we can minimize this hideous scandal.”
“Exactly,” said Holmes. “I think, your Grace, that this can only be done
by absolute and complete frankness between us. I am disposed to help
your Grace to the best of my ability; but in order to do so I must
understand to the last detail how the matter stands. I realize that your
words applied to Mr. James Wilder, and that he is not the murderer.”
“No; the murderer has escaped.”
Sherlock Holmes smiled demurely.
“Your Grace can hardly have heard of any small reputation which I
possess, or you would not imagine that it is so easy to escape me. Mr.
Reuben Hayes was arrested at Chesterfield on my information at eleven
o'clock last night. I had a telegram from the head of the local police
before I left the school this morning.”
The Duke leaned back in his chair and stared with amazement at my
friend.
“You seem to have powers that are hardly human,” said he. “So Reuben
Hayes is taken? I am right glad to hear it, if it will not react upon
the fate of James.”
“Your secretary?”
“No, sir; my son.”
It was Holmes's turn to look astonished.
“I confess that this is entirely new to me, your Grace. I must beg you
to be more explicit.”
“I will conceal nothing from you. I agree with you that complete
frankness, however painful it may be to me, is the best policy in this
desperate situation to which James's folly and jealousy have reduced
us. When I was a very young man, Mr. Holmes, I loved with such a love
as comes only once in a lifetime. I offered the lady marriage, but she
refused it on the grounds that such a match might mar my career. Had she
lived I would certainly never have married anyone else. She died, and
left this one child, whom for her sake I have cherished and cared for.
I could not acknowledge the paternity to the world; but I gave him the
best of educations, and since he came to manhood I have kept him near
my person. He surprised my secret, and has presumed ever since upon the
claim which he has upon me and upon his power of provoking a scandal,
which would be abhorrent to me. His presence had something to do
with the unhappy issue of my marriage. Above all, he hated my young
legitimate heir from the first with a persistent hatred. You may well
ask me why, under these circumstances, I still kept James under my roof.
I answer that it was because I could see his mother's face in his, and
that for her dear sake there was no end to my long-suffering. All her
pretty ways, too--there was not one of them which he could not suggest
and bring back to my memory. I COULD not send him away. But I feared so
much lest he should do Arthur--that is, Lord Saltire--a mischief that I
dispatched him for safety to Dr. Huxtable's school.
“James came into contact with this fellow Hayes because the man was a
tenant of mine, and James acted as agent. The fellow was a rascal from
the beginning; but in some extraordinary way James became intimate with
him. He had always a taste for low company. When James determined
to kidnap Lord Saltire it was of this man's service that he availed
himself. You remember that I wrote to Arthur upon that last day. Well,
James opened the letter and inserted a note asking Arthur to meet him
in a little wood called the Ragged Shaw, which is near to the school.
He used the Duchess's name, and in that way got the boy to come. That
evening James bicycled over--I am telling you what he has himself
confessed to me--and he told Arthur, whom he met in the wood, that his
mother longed to see him, that she was awaiting him on the moor, and
that if he would come back into the wood at midnight he would find a man
with a horse, who would take him to her. Poor Arthur fell into the trap.
He came to the appointment and found this fellow Hayes with a led pony.
Arthur mounted, and they set off together. It appears--though this James
only heard yesterday--that they were pursued, that Hayes struck the
pursuer with his stick, and that the man died of his injuries. Hayes
brought Arthur to his public-house, the Fighting Cock, where he was
confined in an upper room, under the care of Mrs. Hayes, who is a kindly
woman, but entirely under the control of her brutal husband.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, that was the state of affairs when I first saw you
two days ago. I had no more idea of the truth than you. You will ask me
what was James's motive in doing such a deed. I answer that there was
a great deal which was unreasoning and fanatical in the hatred which
he bore my heir. In his view he should himself have been heir of all
my estates, and he deeply resented those social laws which made it
impossible. At the same time he had a definite motive also. He was eager
that I should break the entail, and he was of opinion that it lay in my
power to do so. He intended to make a bargain with me--to restore Arthur
if I would break the entail, and so make it possible for the estate
to be left to him by will. He knew well that I should never willingly
invoke the aid of the police against him. I say that he would have
proposed such a bargain to me, but he did not actually do so, for events
moved too quickly for him, and he had not time to put his plans into
practice.
“What brought all his wicked scheme to wreck was your discovery of this
man Heidegger's dead body. James was seized with horror at the news. It
came to us yesterday as we sat together in this study. Dr. Huxtable had
sent a telegram. James was so overwhelmed with grief and agitation that
my suspicions, which had never been entirely absent, rose instantly to
a certainty, and I taxed him with the deed. He made a complete voluntary
confession. Then he implored me to keep his secret for three days
longer, so as to give his wretched accomplice a chance of saving his
guilty life. I yielded--as I have always yielded--to his prayers, and
instantly James hurried off to the Fighting Cock to warn Hayes and
give him the means of flight. I could not go there by daylight without
provoking comment, but as soon as night fell I hurried off to see my
dear Arthur. I found him safe and well, but horrified beyond expression
by the dreadful deed he had witnessed. In deference to my promise, and
much against my will, I consented to leave him there for three days
under the charge of Mrs. Hayes, since it was evident that it was
impossible to inform the police where he was without telling them also
who was the murderer, and I could not see how that murderer could be
punished without ruin to my unfortunate James. You asked for frankness,
Mr. Holmes, and I have taken you at your word, for I have now told you
everything without an attempt at circumlocution or concealment. Do you
in turn be as frank with me.”
“I will,” said Holmes. “In the first place, your Grace, I am bound to
tell you that you have placed yourself in a most serious position in
the eyes of the law. You have condoned a felony and you have aided the
escape of a murderer; for I cannot doubt that any money which was taken
by James Wilder to aid his accomplice in his flight came from your
Grace's purse.”
The Duke bowed his assent.
“This is indeed a most serious matter. Even more culpable in my opinion,
your Grace, is your attitude towards your younger son. You leave him in
this den for three days.”
“Under solemn promises----”
“What are promises to such people as these? You have no guarantee that
he will not be spirited away again. To humour your guilty elder son
you have exposed your innocent younger son to imminent and unnecessary
danger. It was a most unjustifiable action.”
The proud lord of Holdernesse was not accustomed to be so rated in
his own ducal hall. The blood flushed into his high forehead, but his
conscience held him dumb.
“I will help you, but on one condition only. It is that you ring for the
footman and let me give such orders as I like.”
Without a word the Duke pressed the electric bell. A servant entered.
“You will be glad to hear,” said Holmes, “that your young master is
found. It is the Duke's desire that the carriage shall go at once to the
Fighting Cock Inn to bring Lord Saltire home.
“Now,” said Holmes, when the rejoicing lackey had disappeared, “having
secured the future, we can afford to be more lenient with the past. I am
not in an official position, and there is no reason, so long as the
ends of justice are served, why I should disclose all that I know. As to
Hayes I say nothing. The gallows awaits him, and I would do nothing
to save him from it. What he will divulge I cannot tell, but I have
no doubt that your Grace could make him understand that it is to his
interest to be silent. From the police point of view he will have
kidnapped the boy for the purpose of ransom. If they do not themselves
find it out I see no reason why I should prompt them to take a broader
point of view. I would warn your Grace, however, that the continued
presence of Mr. James Wilder in your household can only lead to
misfortune.”
“I understand that, Mr. Holmes, and it is already settled that he shall
leave me for ever and go to seek his fortune in Australia.”
“In that case, your Grace, since you have yourself stated that any
unhappiness in your married life was caused by his presence, I would
suggest that you make such amends as you can to the Duchess, and
that you try to resume those relations which have been so unhappily
interrupted.”
“That also I have arranged, Mr. Holmes. I wrote to the Duchess this
morning.”
“In that case,” said Holmes, rising, “I think that my friend and I can
congratulate ourselves upon several most happy results from our little
visit to the North. There is one other small point upon which I desire
some light. This fellow Hayes had shod his horses with shoes which
counterfeited the tracks of cows. Was it from Mr. Wilder that he learned
so extraordinary a device?”
The Duke stood in thought for a moment, with a look of intense surprise
on his face. Then he opened a door and showed us into a large room
furnished as a museum. He led the way to a glass case in a corner, and
pointed to the inscription.
“These shoes,” it ran, “were dug up in the moat of Holdernesse Hall.
They are for the use of horses; but they are shaped below with a cloven
foot of iron, so as to throw pursuers off the track. They are supposed
to have belonged to some of the marauding Barons of Holdernesse in the
Middle Ages.”
Holmes opened the case, and moistening his finger he passed it along the
shoe. A thin film of recent mud was left upon his skin.
“Thank you,” said he, as he replaced the glass. “It is the second most
interesting object that I have seen in the North.”
“And the first?”
Holmes folded up his cheque and placed it carefully in his note-book.
“I am a poor man,” said he, as he patted it affectionately and thrust it
into the depths of his inner pocket.
*****
THE STRAND MAGAZINE
Vol. 27 MARCH, 1904
THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.
By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.
VI.--The Adventure of Black Peter.
I HAVE never known my friend to be in better form, both mental and
physical, than in the year '95. His increasing fame had brought with it
an immense practice, and I should be guilty of an indiscretion if I
were even to hint at the identity of some of the illustrious clients who
crossed our humble threshold in Baker Street. Holmes, however, like all
great artists, lived for his art's sake, and, save in the case of the
Duke of Holdernesse, I have seldom known him claim any large reward for
his inestimable services. So unworldly was he--or so capricious--that
he frequently refused his help to the powerful and wealthy where the
problem made no appeal to his sympathies, while he would devote weeks of
most intense application to the affairs of some humble client whose case
presented those strange and dramatic qualities which appealed to his
imagination and challenged his ingenuity.
In this memorable year '95 a curious and incongruous succession of cases
had engaged his attention, ranging from his famous investigation of the
sudden death of Cardinal Tosca--an inquiry which was carried out by him
at the express desire of His Holiness the Pope--down to his arrest of
Wilson, the notorious canary-trainer, which removed a plague-spot from
the East-End of London. Close on the heels of these two famous cases
came the tragedy of Woodman's Lee, and the very obscure circumstances
which surrounded the death of Captain Peter Carey. No record of the
doings of Mr. Sherlock Holmes would be complete which did not include
some account of this very unusual affair.
During the first week of July my friend had been absent so often and so
long from our lodgings that I knew he had something on hand. The fact
that several rough-looking men called during that time and inquired for
Captain Basil made me understand that Holmes was working somewhere under
one of the numerous disguises and names with which he concealed his own
formidable identity. He had at least five small refuges in different
parts of London in which he was able to change his personality. He
said nothing of his business to me, and it was not my habit to force a
confidence. The first positive sign which he gave me of the direction
which his investigation was taking was an extraordinary one. He had gone
out before breakfast, and I had sat down to mine, when he strode into
the room, his hat upon his head and a huge barbed-headed spear tucked
like an umbrella under his arm.
“Good gracious, Holmes!” I cried. “You don't mean to say that you have
been walking about London with that thing?”
“I drove to the butcher's and back.”
“The butcher's?”
“And I return with an excellent appetite. There can be no question,
my dear Watson, of the value of exercise before breakfast. But I am
prepared to bet that you will not guess the form that my exercise has
taken.”
“I will not attempt it.”
He chuckled as he poured out the coffee.
“If you could have looked into Allardyce's back shop you would have
seen a dead pig swung from a hook in the ceiling, and a gentleman in
his shirt-sleeves furiously stabbing at it with this weapon. I was that
energetic person, and I have satisfied myself that by no exertion of my
strength can I transfix the pig with a single blow. Perhaps you would
care to try?”
“Not for worlds. But why were you doing this?”
“Because it seemed to me to have an indirect bearing upon the mystery of
Woodman's Lee. Ah, Hopkins, I got your wire last night, and I have been
expecting you. Come and join us.”
Our visitor was an exceedingly alert man, thirty years of age, dressed
in a quiet tweed suit, but retaining the erect bearing of one who was
accustomed to official uniform. I recognised him at once as Stanley
Hopkins, a young police inspector for whose future Holmes had high
hopes, while he in turn professed the admiration and respect of a pupil
for the scientific methods of the famous amateur. Hopkins's brow was
clouded, and he sat down with an air of deep dejection.
“No, thank you, sir. I breakfasted before I came round. I spent the
night in town, for I came up yesterday to report.”
“And what had you to report?”
“Failure, sir; absolute failure.”
“You have made no progress?”
“None.”
“Dear me! I must have a look at the matter.”
“I wish to heavens that you would, Mr. Holmes. It's my first big chance,
and I am at my wit's end. For goodness' sake come down and lend me a
hand.”
“Well, well, it just happens that I have already read all the available
evidence, including the report of the inquest, with some care. By the
way, what do you make of that tobacco-pouch found on the scene of the
crime? Is there no clue there?”
Hopkins looked surprised.
“It was the man's own pouch, sir. His initials were inside it. And it
was of seal-skin--and he an old sealer.”
“But he had no pipe.”
“No, sir, we could find no pipe; indeed, he smoked very little. And yet
he might have kept some tobacco for his friends.”
“No doubt. I only mention it because if I had been handling the case
I should have been inclined to make that the starting-point of my
investigation. However, my friend Dr. Watson knows nothing of this
matter, and I should be none the worse for hearing the sequence of
events once more. Just give us some short sketch of the essentials.”
Stanley Hopkins drew a slip of paper from his pocket.
“I have a few dates here which will give you the career of the dead man,
Captain Peter Carey. He was born in '45--fifty years of age. He was a
most daring and successful seal and whale fisher. In 1883 he commanded
the steam sealer SEA UNICORN, of Dundee. He had then had several
successful voyages in succession, and in the following year, 1884, he
retired. After that he travelled for some years, and finally he bought
a small place called Woodman's Lee, near Forest Row, in Sussex. There he
has lived for six years, and there he died just a week ago to-day.
“There were some most singular points about the man. In ordinary life he
was a strict Puritan--a silent, gloomy fellow. His household consisted
of his wife, his daughter, aged twenty, and two female servants.
These last were continually changing, for it was never a very cheery
situation, and sometimes it became past all bearing. The man was an
intermittent drunkard, and when he had the fit on him he was a perfect
fiend. He has been known to drive his wife and his daughter out of doors
in the middle of the night, and flog them through the park until the
whole village outside the gates was aroused by their screams.
“He was summoned once for a savage assault upon the old vicar, who had
called upon him to remonstrate with him upon his conduct. In short,
Mr. Holmes, you would go far before you found a more dangerous man than
Peter Carey, and I have heard that he bore the same character when he
commanded his ship. He was known in the trade as Black Peter, and the
name was given him, not only on account of his swarthy features and the
colour of his huge beard, but for the humours which were the terror of
all around him. I need not say that he was loathed and avoided by every
one of his neighbours, and that I have not heard one single word of
sorrow about his terrible end.
“You must have read in the account of the inquest about the man's cabin,
Mr. Holmes; but perhaps your friend here has not heard of it. He had
built himself a wooden outhouse--he always called it 'the cabin'--a few
hundred yards from his house, and it was here that he slept every night.
It was a little, single-roomed hut, sixteen feet by ten. He kept the
key in his pocket, made his own bed, cleaned it himself, and allowed no
other foot to cross the threshold. There are small windows on each side,
which were covered by curtains and never opened. One of these windows
was turned towards the high road, and when the light burned in it at
night the folk used to point it out to each other and wonder what Black
Peter was doing in there. That's the window, Mr. Holmes, which gave us
one of the few bits of positive evidence that came out at the inquest.
“You remember that a stonemason, named Slater, walking from Forest Row
about one o'clock in the morning--two days before the murder--stopped
as he passed the grounds and looked at the square of light still shining
among the trees. He swears that the shadow of a man's head turned
sideways was clearly visible on the blind, and that this shadow was
certainly not that of Peter Carey, whom he knew well. It was that of a
bearded man, but the beard was short and bristled forwards in a way
very different from that of the captain. So he says, but he had been two
hours in the public-house, and it is some distance from the road to the
window. Besides, this refers to the Monday, and the crime was done upon
the Wednesday.
“On the Tuesday Peter Carey was in one of his blackest moods, flushed
with drink and as savage as a dangerous wild beast. He roamed about the
house, and the women ran for it when they heard him coming. Late in the
evening he went down to his own hut. About two o'clock the following
morning his daughter, who slept with her window open, heard a most
fearful yell from that direction, but it was no unusual thing for him to
bawl and shout when he was in drink, so no notice was taken. On rising
at seven one of the maids noticed that the door of the hut was open, but
so great was the terror which the man caused that it was midday before
anyone would venture down to see what had become of him. Peeping into
the open door they saw a sight which sent them flying with white faces
into the village. Within an hour I was on the spot and had taken over
the case.
“Well, I have fairly steady nerves, as you know, Mr. Holmes, but I
give you my word that I got a shake when I put my head into that little
house. It was droning like a harmonium with the flies and bluebottles,
and the floor and walls were like a slaughter-house. He had called it a
cabin, and a cabin it was sure enough, for you would have thought that
you were in a ship. There was a bunk at one end, a sea-chest, maps and
charts, a picture of the SEA UNICORN, a line of log-books on a shelf,
all exactly as one would expect to find it in a captain's room. And
there in the middle of it was the man himself, his face twisted like a
lost soul in torment, and his great brindled beard stuck upwards in his
agony. Right through his broad breast a steel harpoon had been driven,
and it had sunk deep into the wood of the wall behind him. He was pinned
like a beetle on a card. Of course, he was quite dead, and had been so
from the instant that he had uttered that last yell of agony.
“I know your methods, sir, and I applied them. Before I permitted
anything to be moved I examined most carefully the ground outside, and
also the floor of the room. There were no footmarks.”
“Meaning that you saw none?”
“I assure you, sir, that there were none.”
“My good Hopkins, I have investigated many crimes, but I have never
yet seen one which was committed by a flying creature. As long as the
criminal remains upon two legs so long must there be some indentation,
some abrasion, some trifling displacement which can be detected by the
scientific searcher. It is incredible that this blood-bespattered room
contained no trace which could have aided us. I understand, however,
from the inquest that there were some objects which you failed to
overlook?”
The young inspector winced at my companion's ironical comments.
“I was a fool not to call you in at the time, Mr. Holmes. However,
that's past praying for now. Yes, there were several objects in the room
which called for special attention. One was the harpoon with which the
deed was committed. It had been snatched down from a rack on the wall.
Two others remained there, and there was a vacant place for the third.
On the stock was engraved 'Ss. SEA UNICORN, Dundee.' This seemed to
establish that the crime had been done in a moment of fury, and that
the murderer had seized the first weapon which came in his way. The fact
that the crime was committed at two in the morning, and yet Peter
Carey was fully dressed, suggested that he had an appointment with the
murderer, which is borne out by the fact that a bottle of rum and two
dirty glasses stood upon the table.”
“Yes,” said Holmes; “I think that both inferences are permissible. Was
there any other spirit but rum in the room?”
“Yes; there was a tantalus containing brandy and whisky on the
sea-chest. It is of no importance to us, however, since the decanters
were full, and it had therefore not been used.”
“For all that its presence has some significance,” said Holmes.
“However, let us hear some more about the objects which do seem to you
to bear upon the case.”
“There was this tobacco-pouch upon the table.”
“What part of the table?”
“It lay in the middle. It was of coarse seal-skin--the straight-haired
skin, with a leather thong to bind it. Inside was 'P.C.' on the flap.
There was half an ounce of strong ship's tobacco in it.”
“Excellent! What more?”
Stanley Hopkins drew from his pocket a drab-covered note-book. The
outside was rough and worn, the leaves discoloured. On the first page
were written the initials “J.H.N.” and the date “1883.” Holmes laid
it on the table and examined it in his minute way, while Hopkins and I
gazed over each shoulder. On the second page were the printed letters
“C.P.R.,” and then came several sheets of numbers. Another heading was
Argentine, another Costa Rica, and another San Paulo, each with pages of
signs and figures after it.
“What do you make of these?” asked Holmes.
“They appear to be lists of Stock Exchange securities. I thought that
'J.H.N.' were the initials of a broker, and that 'C.P.R.' may have been
his client.”
“Try Canadian Pacific Railway,” said Holmes.
Stanley Hopkins swore between his teeth and struck his thigh with his
clenched hand.
“What a fool I have been!” he cried. “Of course, it is as you say. Then
'J.H.N.' are the only initials we have to solve. I have already examined
the old Stock Exchange lists, and I can find no one in 1883 either in
the House or among the outside brokers whose initials correspond with
these. Yet I feel that the clue is the most important one that I hold.
You will admit, Mr. Holmes, that there is a possibility that these
initials are those of the second person who was present--in other words,
of the murderer. I would also urge that the introduction into the case
of a document relating to large masses of valuable securities gives us
for the first time some indication of a motive for the crime.”
Sherlock Holmes's face showed that he was thoroughly taken aback by this
new development.
“I must admit both your points,” said he. “I confess that this
note-book, which did not appear at the inquest, modifies any views which
I may have formed. I had come to a theory of the crime in which I
can find no place for this. Have you endeavoured to trace any of the
securities here mentioned?”
“Inquiries are now being made at the offices, but I fear that the
complete register of the stockholders of these South American concerns
is in South America, and that some weeks must elapse before we can trace
the shares.”
Holmes had been examining the cover of the note-book with his magnifying
lens.
“Surely there is some discolouration here,” said he.
“Yes, sir, it is a blood-stain. I told you that I picked the book off
the floor.”
“Was the blood-stain above or below?”
“On the side next the boards.”
“Which proves, of course, that the book was dropped after the crime was
committed.”
“Exactly, Mr. Holmes. I appreciated that point, and I conjectured that
it was dropped by the murderer in his hurried flight. It lay near the
door.”
“I suppose that none of these securities have been found among the
property of the dead man?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you any reason to suspect robbery?”
“No, sir. Nothing seemed to have been touched.”
“Dear me, it is certainly a very interesting case. Then there was a
knife, was there not?”
“A sheath-knife, still in its sheath. It lay at the feet of the dead
man. Mrs. Carey has identified it as being her husband's property.”
Holmes was lost in thought for some time.
“Well,” said he, at last, “I suppose I shall have to come out and have a
look at it.”
Stanley Hopkins gave a cry of joy.
“Thank you, sir. That will indeed be a weight off my mind.”
Holmes shook his finger at the inspector.
“It would have been an easier task a week ago,” said he. “But even now
my visit may not be entirely fruitless. Watson, if you can spare
the time I should be very glad of your company. If you will call a
four-wheeler, Hopkins, we shall be ready to start for Forest Row in a
quarter of an hour.”
Alighting at the small wayside station, we drove for some miles through
the remains of widespread woods, which were once part of that
great forest which for so long held the Saxon invaders at bay--the
impenetrable “weald,” for sixty years the bulwark of Britain. Vast
sections of it have been cleared, for this is the seat of the first
iron-works of the country, and the trees have been felled to smelt the
ore. Now the richer fields of the North have absorbed the trade, and
nothing save these ravaged groves and great scars in the earth show
the work of the past. Here in a clearing upon the green slope of a hill
stood a long, low stone house, approached by a curving drive running
through the fields. Nearer the road, and surrounded on three sides by
bushes, was a small outhouse, one window and the door facing in our
direction. It was the scene of the murder!
Stanley Hopkins led us first to the house, where he introduced us to a
haggard, grey-haired woman, the widow of the murdered man, whose gaunt
and deep-lined face, with the furtive look of terror in the depths of
her red-rimmed eyes, told of the years of hardship and ill-usage which
she had endured. With her was her daughter, a pale, fair-haired girl,
whose eyes blazed defiantly at us as she told us that she was glad that
her father was dead, and that she blessed the hand which had struck him
down. It was a terrible household that Black Peter Carey had made for
himself, and it was with a sense of relief that we found ourselves in
the sunlight again and making our way along a path which had been worn
across the fields by the feet of the dead man.
The outhouse was the simplest of dwellings, wooden-walled,
shingle-roofed, one window beside the door and one on the farther side.
Stanley Hopkins drew the key from his pocket, and had stooped to the
lock, when he paused with a look of attention and surprise upon his
face.
“Someone has been tampering with it,” he said.
There could be no doubt of the fact. The woodwork was cut and the
scratches showed white through the paint, as if they had been that
instant done. Holmes had been examining the window.
“Someone has tried to force this also. Whoever it was has failed to make
his way in. He must have been a very poor burglar.”
“This is a most extraordinary thing,” said the inspector; “I could swear
that these marks were not here yesterday evening.”
“Some curious person from the village, perhaps,” I suggested.
“Very unlikely. Few of them would dare to set foot in the grounds, far
less try to force their way into the cabin. What do you think of it, Mr.
Holmes?”
“I think that fortune is very kind to us.”
“You mean that the person will come again?”
“It is very probable. He came expecting to find the door open. He tried
to get in with the blade of a very small penknife. He could not manage
it. What would he do?”
“Come again next night with a more useful tool.”
“So I should say. It will be our fault if we are not there to receive
him. Meanwhile, let me see the inside of the cabin.”
The traces of the tragedy had been removed, but the furniture within the
little room still stood as it had been on the night of the crime. For
two hours, with most intense concentration, Holmes examined every object
in turn, but his face showed that his quest was not a successful one.
Once only he paused in his patient investigation.
“Have you taken anything off this shelf, Hopkins?”
“No; I have moved nothing.”
“Something has been taken. There is less dust in this corner of the
shelf than elsewhere. It may have been a book lying on its side. It may
have been a box. Well, well, I can do nothing more. Let us walk in
these beautiful woods, Watson, and give a few hours to the birds and the
flowers. We shall meet you here later, Hopkins, and see if we can come
to closer quarters with the gentleman who has paid this visit in the
night.”
It was past eleven o'clock when we formed our little ambuscade. Hopkins
was for leaving the door of the hut open, but Holmes was of the opinion
that this would rouse the suspicions of the stranger. The lock was a
perfectly simple one, and only a strong blade was needed to push it
back. Holmes also suggested that we should wait, not inside the hut, but
outside it among the bushes which grew round the farther window. In this
way we should be able to watch our man if he struck a light, and see
what his object was in this stealthy nocturnal visit.
It was a long and melancholy vigil, and yet brought with it something of
the thrill which the hunter feels when he lies beside the water pool and
waits for the coming of the thirsty beast of prey. What savage creature
was it which might steal upon us out of the darkness? Was it a fierce
tiger of crime, which could only be taken fighting hard with flashing
fang and claw, or would it prove to be some skulking jackal, dangerous
only to the weak and unguarded?
In absolute silence we crouched amongst the bushes, waiting for whatever
might come. At first the steps of a few belated villagers, or the sound
of voices from the village, lightened our vigil; but one by one these
interruptions died away and an absolute stillness fell upon us, save for
the chimes of the distant church, which told us of the progress of the
night, and for the rustle and whisper of a fine rain falling amid the
foliage which roofed us in.
Half-past two had chimed, and it was the darkest hour which precedes
the dawn, when we all started as a low but sharp click came from the
direction of the gate. Someone had entered the drive. Again there was a
long silence, and I had begun to fear that it was a false alarm, when
a stealthy step was heard upon the other side of the hut, and a moment
later a metallic scraping and clinking. The man was trying to force the
lock! This time his skill was greater or his tool was better, for there
was a sudden snap and the creak of the hinges. Then a match was struck,
and next instant the steady light from a candle filled the interior of
the hut. Through the gauze curtain our eyes were all riveted upon the
scene within.
The nocturnal visitor was a young man, frail and thin, with a black
moustache which intensified the deadly pallor of his face. He could not
have been much above twenty years of age. I have never seen any human
being who appeared to be in such a pitiable fright, for his teeth were
visibly chattering and he was shaking in every limb. He was dressed like
a gentleman, in Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers, with a cloth cap upon
his head. We watched him staring round with frightened eyes. Then he
laid the candle-end upon the table and disappeared from our view into
one of the corners. He returned with a large book, one of the log-books
which formed a line upon the shelves. Leaning on the table he rapidly
turned over the leaves of this volume until he came to the entry which
he sought. Then, with an angry gesture of his clenched hand, he closed
the book, replaced it in the corner, and put out the light. He had
hardly turned to leave the hut when Hopkins's hand was on the fellow's
collar, and I heard his loud gasp of terror as he understood that he
was taken. The candle was re-lit, and there was our wretched captive
shivering and cowering in the grasp of the detective. He sank down upon
the sea-chest, and looked helplessly from one of us to the other.
“Now, my fine fellow,” said Stanley Hopkins, “who are you, and what do
you want here?”
The man pulled himself together and faced us with an effort at
self-composure.
“You are detectives, I suppose?” said he. “You imagine I am connected
with the death of Captain Peter Carey. I assure you that I am innocent.”
“We'll see about that,” said Hopkins. “First of all, what is your name?”
“It is John Hopley Neligan.”