“What are you doing here?”
“Can I speak confidentially?”
“No, certainly not.”
“Why should I tell you?”
“If you have no answer it may go badly with you at the trial.”
The young man winced.
“Well, I will tell you,” he said. “Why should I not? And yet I hate to
think of this old scandal gaining a new lease of life. Did you ever hear
of Dawson and Neligan?”
I could see from Hopkins's face that he never had; but Holmes was keenly
interested.
“You mean the West-country bankers,” said he. “They failed for a
million, ruined half the county families of Cornwall, and Neligan
disappeared.”
“Exactly. Neligan was my father.”
At last we were getting something positive, and yet it seemed a long gap
between an absconding banker and Captain Peter Carey pinned against the
wall with one of his own harpoons. We all listened intently to the young
man's words.
“It was my father who was really concerned. Dawson had retired. I was
only ten years of age at the time, but I was old enough to feel the
shame and horror of it all. It has always been said that my father stole
all the securities and fled. It is not true. It was his belief that if
he were given time in which to realize them all would be well and every
creditor paid in full. He started in his little yacht for Norway just
before the warrant was issued for his arrest. I can remember that last
night when he bade farewell to my mother. He left us a list of the
securities he was taking, and he swore that he would come back with his
honour cleared, and that none who had trusted him would suffer. Well,
no word was ever heard from him again. Both the yacht and he vanished
utterly. We believed, my mother and I, that he and it, with the
securities that he had taken with him, were at the bottom of the sea. We
had a faithful friend, however, who is a business man, and it was he who
discovered some time ago that some of the securities which my father
had with him have reappeared on the London market. You can imagine our
amazement. I spent months in trying to trace them, and at last, after
many doublings and difficulties, I discovered that the original seller
had been Captain Peter Carey, the owner of this hut.
“Naturally, I made some inquiries about the man. I found that he had
been in command of a whaler which was due to return from the Arctic seas
at the very time when my father was crossing to Norway. The autumn of
that year was a stormy one, and there was a long succession of southerly
gales. My father's yacht may well have been blown to the north, and
there met by Captain Peter Carey's ship. If that were so, what had
become of my father? In any case, if I could prove from Peter Carey's
evidence how these securities came on the market it would be a proof
that my father had not sold them, and that he had no view to personal
profit when he took them.
“I came down to Sussex with the intention of seeing the captain, but
it was at this moment that his terrible death occurred. I read at the
inquest a description of his cabin, in which it stated that the old
log-books of his vessel were preserved in it. It struck me that if I
could see what occurred in the month of August, 1883, on board the SEA
UNICORN, I might settle the mystery of my father's fate. I tried last
night to get at these log-books, but was unable to open the door.
To-night I tried again, and succeeded; but I find that the pages which
deal with that month have been torn from the book. It was at that moment
I found myself a prisoner in your hands.”
“Is that all?” asked Hopkins.
“Yes, that is all.” His eyes shifted as he said it.
“You have nothing else to tell us?”
He hesitated.
“No; there is nothing.”
“You have not been here before last night?”
“No.”
“Then how do you account for THAT?” cried Hopkins, as he held up the
damning note-book, with the initials of our prisoner on the first leaf
and the blood-stain on the cover.
The wretched man collapsed. He sank his face in his hands and trembled
all over.
“Where did you get it?” he groaned. “I did not know. I thought I had
lost it at the hotel.”
“That is enough,” said Hopkins, sternly. “Whatever else you have to
say you must say in court. You will walk down with me now to the
police-station. Well, Mr. Holmes, I am very much obliged to you and to
your friend for coming down to help me. As it turns out your presence
was unnecessary, and I would have brought the case to this successful
issue without you; but none the less I am very grateful. Rooms have been
reserved for you at the Brambletye Hotel, so we can all walk down to the
village together.”
“Well, Watson, what do you think of it?” asked Holmes, as we travelled
back next morning.
“I can see that you are not satisfied.”
“Oh, yes, my dear Watson, I am perfectly satisfied. At the same
time Stanley Hopkins's methods do not commend themselves to me. I am
disappointed in Stanley Hopkins. I had hoped for better things from him.
One should always look for a possible alternative and provide against
it. It is the first rule of criminal investigation.”
“What, then, is the alternative?”
“The line of investigation which I have myself been pursuing. It may
give us nothing. I cannot tell. But at least I shall follow it to the
end.”
Several letters were waiting for Holmes at Baker Street. He snatched
one of them up, opened it, and burst out into a triumphant chuckle of
laughter.
“Excellent, Watson. The alternative develops. Have you telegraph
forms? Just write a couple of messages for me: 'Sumner, Shipping
Agent, Ratcliff Highway. Send three men on, to arrive ten to-morrow
morning.--Basil.' That's my name in those parts. The other is:
'Inspector Stanley Hopkins, 46, Lord Street, Brixton. Come breakfast
to-morrow at nine-thirty. Important. Wire if unable to come.--Sherlock
Holmes.' There, Watson, this infernal case has haunted me for ten days.
I hereby banish it completely from my presence. To-morrow I trust that
we shall hear the last of it for ever.”
Sharp at the hour named Inspector Stanley Hopkins appeared, and we sat
down together to the excellent breakfast which Mrs. Hudson had prepared.
The young detective was in high spirits at his success.
“You really think that your solution must be correct?” asked Holmes.
“I could not imagine a more complete case.”
“It did not seem to me conclusive.”
“You astonish me, Mr. Holmes. What more could one ask for?”
“Does your explanation cover every point?”
“Undoubtedly. I find that young Neligan arrived at the Brambletye Hotel
on the very day of the crime. He came on the pretence of playing golf.
His room was on the ground-floor, and he could get out when he liked.
That very night he went down to Woodman's Lee, saw Peter Carey at
the hut, quarrelled with him, and killed him with the harpoon. Then,
horrified by what he had done, he fled out of the hut, dropping the
note-book which he had brought with him in order to question Peter Carey
about these different securities. You may have observed that some of
them were marked with ticks, and the others--the great majority--were
not. Those which are ticked have been traced on the London market; but
the others presumably were still in the possession of Carey, and young
Neligan, according to his own account, was anxious to recover them in
order to do the right thing by his father's creditors. After his flight
he did not dare to approach the hut again for some time; but at last
he forced himself to do so in order to obtain the information which he
needed. Surely that is all simple and obvious?”
Holmes smiled and shook his head.
“It seems to me to have only one drawback, Hopkins, and that is that it
is intrinsically impossible. Have you tried to drive a harpoon through a
body? No? Tut, tut, my dear sir, you must really pay attention to these
details. My friend Watson could tell you that I spent a whole morning in
that exercise. It is no easy matter, and requires a strong and practised
arm. But this blow was delivered with such violence that the head of the
weapon sank deep into the wall. Do you imagine that this anaemic youth
was capable of so frightful an assault? Is he the man who hobnobbed
in rum and water with Black Peter in the dead of the night? Was it his
profile that was seen on the blind two nights before? No, no, Hopkins;
it is another and a more formidable person for whom we must seek.”
The detective's face had grown longer and longer during Holmes's speech.
His hopes and his ambitions were all crumbling about him. But he would
not abandon his position without a struggle.
“You can't deny that Neligan was present that night, Mr. Holmes. The
book will prove that. I fancy that I have evidence enough to satisfy a
jury, even if you are able to pick a hole in it. Besides, Mr. Holmes,
I have laid my hand upon MY man. As to this terrible person of yours,
where is he?”
“I rather fancy that he is on the stair,” said Holmes, serenely. “I
think, Watson, that you would do well to put that revolver where you can
reach it.” He rose, and laid a written paper upon a side-table. “Now we
are ready,” said he.
There had been some talking in gruff voices outside, and now Mrs. Hudson
opened the door to say that there were three men inquiring for Captain
Basil.
“Show them in one by one,” said Holmes.
The first who entered was a little ribston-pippin of a man, with ruddy
cheeks and fluffy white side-whiskers. Holmes had drawn a letter from
his pocket.
“What name?” he asked.
“James Lancaster.”
“I am sorry, Lancaster, but the berth is full. Here is half a sovereign
for your trouble. Just step into this room and wait there for a few
minutes.”
The second man was a long, dried-up creature, with lank hair and sallow
cheeks. His name was Hugh Pattins. He also received his dismissal, his
half-sovereign, and the order to wait.
The third applicant was a man of remarkable appearance. A fierce
bull-dog face was framed in a tangle of hair and beard, and two bold
dark eyes gleamed behind the cover of thick, tufted, overhung eyebrows.
He saluted and stood sailor-fashion, turning his cap round in his hands.
“Your name?” asked Holmes.
“Patrick Cairns.”
“Harpooner?”
“Yes, sir. Twenty-six voyages.”
“Dundee, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And ready to start with an exploring ship?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What wages?”
“Eight pounds a month.”
“Could you start at once?”
“As soon as I get my kit.”
“Have you your papers?”
“Yes, sir.” He took a sheaf of worn and greasy forms from his pocket.
Holmes glanced over them and returned them.
“You are just the man I want,” said he. “Here's the agreement on the
side-table. If you sign it the whole matter will be settled.”
The seaman lurched across the room and took up the pen.
“Shall I sign here?” he asked, stooping over the table.
Holmes leaned over his shoulder and passed both hands over his neck.
“This will do,” said he.
I heard a click of steel and a bellow like an enraged bull. The next
instant Holmes and the seaman were rolling on the ground together. He
was a man of such gigantic strength that, even with the handcuffs
which Holmes had so deftly fastened upon his wrists, he would have
very quickly overpowered my friend had Hopkins and I not rushed to
his rescue. Only when I pressed the cold muzzle of the revolver to his
temple did he at last understand that resistance was vain. We lashed his
ankles with cord and rose breathless from the struggle.
“I must really apologize, Hopkins,” said Sherlock Holmes; “I fear that
the scrambled eggs are cold. However, you will enjoy the rest of your
breakfast all the better, will you not, for the thought that you have
brought your case to a triumphant conclusion.”
Stanley Hopkins was speechless with amazement.
“I don't know what to say, Mr. Holmes,” he blurted out at last, with a
very red face. “It seems to me that I have been making a fool of
myself from the beginning. I understand now, what I should never have
forgotten, that I am the pupil and you are the master. Even now I
see what you have done, but I don't know how you did it, or what it
signifies.”
“Well, well,” said Holmes, good-humouredly. “We all learn by experience,
and your lesson this time is that you should never lose sight of the
alternative. You were so absorbed in young Neligan that you could not
spare a thought to Patrick Cairns, the true murderer of Peter Carey.”
The hoarse voice of the seaman broke in on our conversation.
“See here, mister,” said he, “I make no complaint of being man-handled
in this fashion, but I would have you call things by their right names.
You say I murdered Peter Carey; I say I KILLED Peter Carey, and there's
all the difference. Maybe you don't believe what I say. Maybe you think
I am just slinging you a yarn.”
“Not at all,” said Holmes. “Let us hear what you have to say.”
“It's soon told, and, by the Lord, every word of it is truth. I knew
Black Peter, and when he pulled out his knife I whipped a harpoon
through him sharp, for I knew that it was him or me. That's how he died.
You can call it murder. Anyhow, I'd as soon die with a rope round my
neck as with Black Peter's knife in my heart.”
“How came you there?” asked Holmes.
“I'll tell it you from the beginning. Just sit me up a little so as I
can speak easy. It was in '83 that it happened--August of that year.
Peter Carey was master of the SEA UNICORN, and I was spare harpooner. We
were coming out of the ice-pack on our way home, with head winds and a
week's southerly gale, when we picked up a little craft that had been
blown north. There was one man on her--a landsman. The crew had thought
she would founder, and had made for the Norwegian coast in the dinghy.
I guess they were all drowned. Well, we took him on board, this man, and
he and the skipper had some long talks in the cabin. All the baggage we
took off with him was one tin box. So far as I know, the man's name was
never mentioned, and on the second night he disappeared as if he had
never been. It was given out that he had either thrown himself overboard
or fallen overboard in the heavy weather that we were having. Only one
man knew what had happened to him, and that was me, for with my own
eyes I saw the skipper tip up his heels and put him over the rail in the
middle watch of a dark night, two days before we sighted the Shetland
lights.
“Well, I kept my knowledge to myself and waited to see what would come
of it. When we got back to Scotland it was easily hushed up, and nobody
asked any questions. A stranger died by an accident, and it was nobody's
business to inquire. Shortly after Peter Carey gave up the sea, and it
was long years before I could find where he was. I guessed that he had
done the deed for the sake of what was in that tin box, and that he
could afford now to pay me well for keeping my mouth shut.
“I found out where he was through a sailor man that had met him
in London, and down I went to squeeze him. The first night he was
reasonable enough, and was ready to give me what would make me free of
the sea for life. We were to fix it all two nights later. When I came
I found him three parts drunk and in a vile temper. We sat down and we
drank and we yarned about old times, but the more he drank the less I
liked the look on his face. I spotted that harpoon upon the wall, and I
thought I might need it before I was through. Then at last he broke
out at me, spitting and cursing, with murder in his eyes and a great
clasp-knife in his hand. He had not time to get it from the sheath
before I had the harpoon through him. Heavens! what a yell he gave; and
his face gets between me and my sleep! I stood there, with his blood
splashing round me, and I waited for a bit; but all was quiet, so I took
heart once more. I looked round, and there was the tin box on a shelf. I
had as much right to it as Peter Carey, anyhow, so I took it with me and
left the hut. Like a fool I left my baccy-pouch upon the table.
“Now I'll tell you the queerest part of the whole story. I had hardly
got outside the hut when I heard someone coming, and I hid among the
bushes. A man came slinking along, went into the hut, gave a cry as if
he had seen a ghost, and legged it as hard as he could run until he was
out of sight. Who he was or what he wanted is more than I can tell.
For my part I walked ten miles, got a train at Tunbridge Wells, and so
reached London, and no one the wiser.
“Well, when I came to examine the box I found there was no money in it,
and nothing but papers that I would not dare to sell. I had lost my hold
on Black Peter, and was stranded in London without a shilling. There was
only my trade left. I saw these advertisements about harpooners and high
wages, so I went to the shipping agents, and they sent me here. That's
all I know, and I say again that if I killed Black Peter the law should
give me thanks, for I saved them the price of a hempen rope.”
“A very clear statement,” said Holmes, rising and lighting his pipe. “I
think, Hopkins, that you should lose no time in conveying your prisoner
to a place of safety. This room is not well adapted for a cell, and Mr.
Patrick Cairns occupies too large a proportion of our carpet.”
“Mr. Holmes,” said Hopkins, “I do not know how to express my gratitude.
Even now I do not understand how you attained this result.”
“Simply by having the good fortune to get the right clue from the
beginning. It is very possible if I had known about this note-book
it might have led away my thoughts, as it did yours. But all I heard
pointed in the one direction. The amazing strength, the skill in the use
of the harpoon, the rum and water, the seal-skin tobacco-pouch, with the
coarse tobacco--all these pointed to a seaman, and one who had been a
whaler. I was convinced that the initials 'P.C.' upon the pouch were a
coincidence, and not those of Peter Carey, since he seldom smoked, and
no pipe was found in his cabin. You remember that I asked whether whisky
and brandy were in the cabin. You said they were. How many landsmen are
there who would drink rum when they could get these other spirits? Yes,
I was certain it was a seaman.”
“And how did you find him?”
“My dear sir, the problem had become a very simple one. If it were
a seaman, it could only be a seaman who had been with him on the SEA
UNICORN. So far as I could learn he had sailed in no other ship. I
spent three days in wiring to Dundee, and at the end of that time I had
ascertained the names of the crew of the SEA UNICORN in 1883. When I
found Patrick Cairns among the harpooners my research was nearing its
end. I argued that the man was probably in London, and that he would
desire to leave the country for a time. I therefore spent some days in
the East-end, devised an Arctic expedition, put forth tempting terms for
harpooners who would serve under Captain Basil--and behold the result!”
“Wonderful!” cried Hopkins. “Wonderful!”
“You must obtain the release of young Neligan as soon as possible,” said
Holmes. “I confess that I think you owe him some apology. The tin box
must be returned to him, but, of course, the securities which Peter
Carey has sold are lost for ever. There's the cab, Hopkins, and you can
remove your man. If you want me for the trial, my address and that of
Watson will be somewhere in Norway--I'll send particulars later.”
*****
THE STRAND MAGAZINE
Vol. 27 APRIL, 1904
THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.
By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.
VII.--The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton.
IT is years since the incidents of which I speak took place, and yet it
is with diffidence that I allude to them. For a long time, even with the
utmost discretion and reticence, it would have been impossible to make
the facts public; but now the principal person concerned is beyond the
reach of human law, and with due suppression the story may be told
in such fashion as to injure no one. It records an absolutely unique
experience in the career both of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and of myself. The
reader will excuse me if I conceal the date or any other fact by which
he might trace the actual occurrence.
We had been out for one of our evening rambles, Holmes and I, and had
returned about six o'clock on a cold, frosty winter's evening. As Holmes
turned up the lamp the light fell upon a card on the table. He glanced
at it, and then, with an ejaculation of disgust, threw it on the floor.
I picked it up and read:--
CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON,
APPLEDORE TOWERS,
AGENT. HAMPSTEAD.
“Who is he?” I asked.
“The worst man in London,” Holmes answered, as he sat down and stretched
his legs before the fire. “Is anything on the back of the card?”