“You say that she must have come back this way?”
“Yes, sir; there is no other.”
“On this strip of grass?”
“Certainly, Mr. Holmes.”
“Hum! It was a very remarkable performance--very remarkable. Well, I
think we have exhausted the path. Let us go farther. This garden door is
usually kept open, I suppose? Then this visitor had nothing to do but
to walk in. The idea of murder was not in her mind, or she would have
provided herself with some sort of weapon, instead of having to pick
this knife off the writing-table. She advanced along this corridor,
leaving no traces upon the cocoanut matting. Then she found herself in
this study. How long was she there? We have no means of judging.”
“Not more than a few minutes, sir. I forgot to tell you that Mrs.
Marker, the housekeeper, had been in there tidying not very long
before--about a quarter of an hour, she says.”
“Well, that gives us a limit. Our lady enters this room and what does
she do? She goes over to the writing-table. What for? Not for anything
in the drawers. If there had been anything worth her taking it would
surely have been locked up. No; it was for something in that wooden
bureau. Halloa! what is that scratch upon the face of it? Just hold a
match, Watson. Why did you not tell me of this, Hopkins?”
The mark which he was examining began upon the brass work on the
right-hand side of the keyhole, and extended for about four inches,
where it had scratched the varnish from the surface.
“I noticed it, Mr. Holmes. But you'll always find scratches round a
keyhole.”
“This is recent, quite recent. See how the brass shines where it is
cut. An old scratch would be the same colour as the surface. Look at it
through my lens. There's the varnish, too, like earth on each side of a
furrow. Is Mrs. Marker there?”
A sad-faced, elderly woman came into the room.
“Did you dust this bureau yesterday morning?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you notice this scratch?”
“No, sir, I did not.”
“I am sure you did not, for a duster would have swept away these shreds
of varnish. Who has the key of this bureau?”
“The Professor keeps it on his watch-chain.”
“Is it a simple key?”
“No, sir; it is a Chubb's key.”
“Very good. Mrs. Marker, you can go. Now we are making a little
progress. Our lady enters the room, advances to the bureau, and either
opens it or tries to do so. While she is thus engaged young Willoughby
Smith enters the room. In her hurry to withdraw the key she makes this
scratch upon the door. He seizes her, and she, snatching up the nearest
object, which happens to be this knife, strikes at him in order to make
him let go his hold. The blow is a fatal one. He falls and she escapes,
either with or without the object for which she has come. Is Susan the
maid there? Could anyone have got away through that door after the time
that you heard the cry, Susan?”
“No sir; it is impossible. Before I got down the stair I'd have seen
anyone in the passage. Besides, the door never opened, for I would have
heard it.”
“That settles this exit. Then no doubt the lady went out the way she
came. I understand that this other passage leads only to the Professor's
room. There is no exit that way?”
“No, sir.”
“We shall go down it and make the acquaintance of the Professor. Halloa,
Hopkins! this is very important, very important indeed. The Professor's
corridor is also lined with cocoanut matting.”
“Well, sir, what of that?”
“Don't you see any bearing upon the case? Well, well, I don't insist
upon it. No doubt I am wrong. And yet it seems to me to be suggestive.
Come with me and introduce me.”
We passed down the passage, which was of the same length as that which
led to the garden. At the end was a short flight of steps ending in
a door. Our guide knocked, and then ushered us into the Professor's
bedroom.
It was a very large chamber, lined with innumerable volumes, which had
overflowed from the shelves and lay in piles in the corners, or were
stacked all round at the base of the cases. The bed was in the centre
of the room, and in it, propped up with pillows, was the owner of the
house. I have seldom seen a more remarkable-looking person. It was a
gaunt, aquiline face which was turned towards us, with piercing dark
eyes, which lurked in deep hollows under overhung and tufted brows. His
hair and beard were white, save that the latter was curiously stained
with yellow around his mouth. A cigarette glowed amid the tangle of
white hair, and the air of the room was fetid with stale tobacco-smoke.
As he held out his hand to Holmes I perceived that it also was stained
yellow with nicotine.
“A smoker, Mr. Holmes?” said he, speaking well-chosen English with a
curious little mincing accent. “Pray take a cigarette. And you, sir? I
can recommend them, for I have them especially prepared by Ionides of
Alexandria. He sends me a thousand at a time, and I grieve to say that I
have to arrange for a fresh supply every fortnight. Bad, sir, very bad,
but an old man has few pleasures. Tobacco and my work--that is all that
is left to me.”
Holmes had lit a cigarette, and was shooting little darting glances all
over the room.
“Tobacco and my work, but now only tobacco,” the old man exclaimed.
“Alas! what a fatal interruption! Who could have foreseen such a
terrible catastrophe? So estimable a young man! I assure you that after
a few months' training he was an admirable assistant. What do you think
of the matter, Mr. Holmes?”
“I have not yet made up my mind.”
“I shall indeed be indebted to you if you can throw a light where all is
so dark to us. To a poor bookworm and invalid like myself such a blow
is paralyzing. I seem to have lost the faculty of thought. But you are
a man of action--you are a man of affairs. It is part of the everyday
routine of your life. You can preserve your balance in every emergency.
We are fortunate indeed in having you at our side.”
Holmes was pacing up and down one side of the room whilst the old
Professor was talking. I observed that he was smoking with extraordinary
rapidity. It was evident that he shared our host's liking for the fresh
Alexandrian cigarettes.
“Yes, sir, it is a crushing blow,” said the old man. “That is my MAGNUM
OPUS--the pile of papers on the side table yonder. It is my analysis of
the documents found in the Coptic monasteries of Syria and Egypt, a work
which will cut deep at the very foundations of revealed religion.
With my enfeebled health I do not know whether I shall ever be able to
complete it now that my assistant has been taken from me. Dear me, Mr.
Holmes; why, you are even a quicker smoker than I am myself.”
Holmes smiled.
“I am a connoisseur,” said he, taking another cigarette from the
box--his fourth--and lighting it from the stub of that which he had
finished. “I will not trouble you with any lengthy cross-examination,
Professor Coram, since I gather that you were in bed at the time of the
crime and could know nothing about it. I would only ask this. What
do you imagine that this poor fellow meant by his last words: 'The
Professor--it was she'?”
The Professor shook his head.
“Susan is a country girl,” said he, “and you know the incredible
stupidity of that class. I fancy that the poor fellow murmured some
incoherent delirious words, and that she twisted them into this
meaningless message.”
“I see. You have no explanation yourself of the tragedy?”
“Possibly an accident; possibly--I only breathe it among ourselves--a
suicide. Young men have their hidden troubles--some affair of the heart,
perhaps, which we have never known. It is a more probable supposition
than murder.”
“But the eye-glasses?”
“Ah! I am only a student--a man of dreams. I cannot explain the
practical things of life. But still, we are aware, my friend, that
love-gages may take strange shapes. By all means take another cigarette.
It is a pleasure to see anyone appreciate them so. A fan, a glove,
glasses--who knows what article may be carried as a token or treasured
when a man puts an end to his life? This gentleman speaks of footsteps
in the grass; but, after all, it is easy to be mistaken on such a point.
As to the knife, it might well be thrown far from the unfortunate man as
he fell. It is possible that I speak as a child, but to me it seems that
Willoughby Smith has met his fate by his own hand.”
Holmes seemed struck by the theory thus put forward, and he continued to
walk up and down for some time, lost in thought and consuming cigarette
after cigarette.
“Tell me, Professor Coram,” he said, at last, “what is in that cupboard
in the bureau?”
“Nothing that would help a thief. Family papers, letters from my poor
wife, diplomas of Universities which have done me honour. Here is the
key. You can look for yourself.”
Holmes picked up the key and looked at it for an instant; then he handed
it back.
“No; I hardly think that it would help me,” said he. “I should prefer
to go quietly down to your garden and turn the whole matter over in my
head. There is something to be said for the theory of suicide which
you have put forward. We must apologize for having intruded upon you,
Professor Coram, and I promise that we won't disturb you until after
lunch. At two o'clock we will come again and report to you anything
which may have happened in the interval.”
Holmes was curiously distrait, and we walked up and down the garden path
for some time in silence.
“Have you a clue?” I asked, at last.
“It depends upon those cigarettes that I smoked,” said he. “It is
possible that I am utterly mistaken. The cigarettes will show me.”
“My dear Holmes,” I exclaimed, “how on earth----”
“Well, well, you may see for yourself. If not, there's no harm done. Of
course, we always have the optician clue to fall back upon, but I take
a short cut when I can get it. Ah, here is the good Mrs. Marker! Let us
enjoy five minutes of instructive conversation with her.”
I may have remarked before that Holmes had, when he liked, a peculiarly
ingratiating way with women, and that he very readily established terms
of confidence with them. In half the time which he had named he had
captured the housekeeper's goodwill, and was chatting with her as if he
had known her for years.
“Yes, Mr. Holmes, it is as you say, sir. He does smoke something
terrible. All day and sometimes all night, sir. I've seen that room of
a morning--well, sir, you'd have thought it was a London fog. Poor young
Mr. Smith, he was a smoker also, but not as bad as the Professor. His
health--well, I don't know that it's better nor worse for the smoking.”
“Ah!” said Holmes, “but it kills the appetite.”
“Well, I don't know about that, sir.”
“I suppose the Professor eats hardly anything?”
“Well, he is variable. I'll say that for him.”
“I'll wager he took no breakfast this morning, and won't face his lunch
after all the cigarettes I saw him consume.”
“Well, you're out there, sir, as it happens, for he ate a remarkable big
breakfast this morning. I don't know when I've known him make a
better one, and he's ordered a good dish of cutlets for his lunch. I'm
surprised myself, for since I came into that room yesterday and saw
young Mr. Smith lying there on the floor I couldn't bear to look at
food. Well, it takes all sorts to make a world, and the Professor hasn't
let it take his appetite away.”
We loitered the morning away in the garden. Stanley Hopkins had gone
down to the village to look into some rumours of a strange woman who had
been seen by some children on the Chatham Road the previous morning. As
to my friend, all his usual energy seemed to have deserted him. I had
never known him handle a case in such a half-hearted fashion. Even the
news brought back by Hopkins that he had found the children and that
they had undoubtedly seen a woman exactly corresponding with Holmes's
description, and wearing either spectacles or eye-glasses, failed to
rouse any sign of keen interest. He was more attentive when Susan, who
waited upon us at lunch, volunteered the information that she believed
Mr. Smith had been out for a walk yesterday morning, and that he had
only returned half an hour before the tragedy occurred. I could not
myself see the bearing of this incident, but I clearly perceived that
Holmes was weaving it into the general scheme which he had formed in his
brain. Suddenly he sprang from his chair and glanced at his watch. “Two
o'clock, gentlemen,” said he. “We must go up and have it out with our
friend the Professor.”
The old man had just finished his lunch, and certainly his empty dish
bore evidence to the good appetite with which his housekeeper had
credited him. He was, indeed, a weird figure as he turned his white mane
and his glowing eyes towards us. The eternal cigarette smouldered in his
mouth. He had been dressed and was seated in an arm-chair by the fire.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, have you solved this mystery yet?” He shoved the
large tin of cigarettes which stood on a table beside him towards my
companion. Holmes stretched out his hand at the same moment, and between
them they tipped the box over the edge. For a minute or two we were all
on our knees retrieving stray cigarettes from impossible places. When
we rose again I observed that Holmes's eyes were shining and his cheeks
tinged with colour. Only at a crisis have I seen those battle-signals
flying.
“Yes,” said he, “I have solved it.”
Stanley Hopkins and I stared in amazement. Something like a sneer
quivered over the gaunt features of the old Professor.
“Indeed! In the garden?”
“No, here.”
“Here! When?”
“This instant.”
“You are surely joking, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You compel me to tell you
that this is too serious a matter to be treated in such a fashion.”
“I have forged and tested every link of my chain, Professor Coram, and
I am sure that it is sound. What your motives are or what exact part you
play in this strange business I am not yet able to say. In a few
minutes I shall probably hear it from your own lips. Meanwhile I will
reconstruct what is past for your benefit, so that you may know the
information which I still require.
“A lady yesterday entered your study. She came with the intention of
possessing herself of certain documents which were in your bureau. She
had a key of her own. I have had an opportunity of examining yours, and
I do not find that slight discolouration which the scratch made upon the
varnish would have produced. You were not an accessory, therefore, and
she came, so far as I can read the evidence, without your knowledge to
rob you.”
The Professor blew a cloud from his lips. “This is most interesting and
instructive,” said he. “Have you no more to add? Surely, having traced
this lady so far, you can also say what has become of her.”
“I will endeavour to do so. In the first place she was seized by your
secretary, and stabbed him in order to escape. This catastrophe I am
inclined to regard as an unhappy accident, for I am convinced that the
lady had no intention of inflicting so grievous an injury. An assassin
does not come unarmed. Horrified by what she had done she rushed wildly
away from the scene of the tragedy. Unfortunately for her she had lost
her glasses in the scuffle, and as she was extremely short-sighted she
was really helpless without them. She ran down a corridor, which she
imagined to be that by which she had come--both were lined with cocoanut
matting--and it was only when it was too late that she understood that
she had taken the wrong passage and that her retreat was cut off behind
her. What was she to do? She could not go back. She could not remain
where she was. She must go on. She went on. She mounted a stair, pushed
open a door, and found herself in your room.”
The old man sat with his mouth open staring wildly at Holmes. Amazement
and fear were stamped upon his expressive features. Now, with an effort,
he shrugged his shoulders and burst into insincere laughter.
“All very fine, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “But there is one little flaw
in your splendid theory. I was myself in my room, and I never left it
during the day.”
“I am aware of that, Professor Coram.”
“And you mean to say that I could lie upon that bed and not be aware
that a woman had entered my room?”
“I never said so. You WERE aware of it. You spoke with her. You
recognised her. You aided her to escape.”
Again the Professor burst into high-keyed laughter. He had risen to his
feet and his eyes glowed like embers.
“You are mad!” he cried. “You are talking insanely. I helped her to
escape? Where is she now?”
“She is there,” said Holmes, and he pointed to a high bookcase in the
corner of the room.
I saw the old man throw up his arms, a terrible convulsion passed over
his grim face, and he fell back in his chair. At the same instant the
bookcase at which Holmes pointed swung round upon a hinge, and a woman
rushed out into the room. “You are right!” she cried, in a strange
foreign voice. “You are right! I am here.”
She was brown with the dust and draped with the cobwebs which had come
from the walls of her hiding-place. Her face, too, was streaked with
grime, and at the best she could never have been handsome, for she had
the exact physical characteristics which Holmes had divined, with, in
addition, a long and obstinate chin. What with her natural blindness,
and what with the change from dark to light, she stood as one dazed,
blinking about her to see where and who we were. And yet, in spite of
all these disadvantages, there was a certain nobility in the woman's
bearing, a gallantry in the defiant chin and in the upraised head, which
compelled something of respect and admiration. Stanley Hopkins had laid
his hand upon her arm and claimed her as his prisoner, but she waved
him aside gently, and yet with an overmastering dignity which compelled
obedience. The old man lay back in his chair, with a twitching face, and
stared at her with brooding eyes.
“Yes, sir, I am your prisoner,” she said. “From where I stood I could
hear everything, and I know that you have learned the truth. I confess
it all. It was I who killed the young man. But you are right, you who
say it was an accident. I did not even know that it was a knife which
I held in my hand, for in my despair I snatched anything from the table
and struck at him to make him let me go. It is the truth that I tell.”
“Madam,” said Holmes, “I am sure that it is the truth. I fear that you
are far from well.”
She had turned a dreadful colour, the more ghastly under the dark
dust-streaks upon her face. She seated herself on the side of the bed;
then she resumed.
“I have only a little time here,” she said, “but I would have you to
know the whole truth. I am this man's wife. He is not an Englishman. He
is a Russian. His name I will not tell.”
For the first time the old man stirred. “God bless you, Anna!” he cried.
“God bless you!”
She cast a look of the deepest disdain in his direction. “Why should you
cling so hard to that wretched life of yours, Sergius?” said she. “It
has done harm to many and good to none--not even to yourself. However,
it is not for me to cause the frail thread to be snapped before God's
time. I have enough already upon my soul since I crossed the threshold
of this cursed house. But I must speak or I shall be too late.
“I have said, gentlemen, that I am this man's wife. He was fifty and I
a foolish girl of twenty when we married. It was in a city of Russia, a
University--I will not name the place.”
“God bless you, Anna!” murmured the old man again.
“We were reformers--revolutionists--Nihilists, you understand. He and I
and many more. Then there came a time of trouble, a police officer was
killed, many were arrested, evidence was wanted, and in order to save
his own life and to earn a great reward my husband betrayed his own wife
and his companions. Yes, we were all arrested upon his confession. Some
of us found our way to the gallows and some to Siberia. I was among
these last, but my term was not for life. My husband came to England
with his ill-gotten gains, and has lived in quiet ever since, knowing
well that if the Brotherhood knew where he was not a week would pass
before justice would be done.”
The old man reached out a trembling hand and helped himself to a
cigarette. “I am in your hands, Anna,” said he. “You were always good to
me.”
“I have not yet told you the height of his villainy,” said she. “Among
our comrades of the Order there was one who was the friend of my heart.
He was noble, unselfish, loving--all that my husband was not. He hated
violence. We were all guilty--if that is guilt--but he was not. He wrote
for ever dissuading us from such a course. These letters would have
saved him. So would my diary, in which from day to day I had entered
both my feelings towards him and the view which each of us had taken. My
husband found and kept both diary and letters. He hid them, and he tried
hard to swear away the young man's life. In this he failed, but Alexis
was sent a convict to Siberia, where now, at this moment, he works in
a salt mine. Think of that, you villain, you villain; now, now, at this
very moment, Alexis, a man whose name you are not worthy to speak, works
and lives like a slave, and yet I have your life in my hands and I let
you go.”
“You were always a noble woman, Anna,” said the old man, puffing at his
cigarette.
She had risen, but she fell back again with a little cry of pain.
“I must finish,” she said. “When my term was over I set myself to get
the diary and letters which, if sent to the Russian Government, would
procure my friend's release. I knew that my husband had come to England.
After months of searching I discovered where he was. I knew that he
still had the diary, for when I was in Siberia I had a letter from him
once reproaching me and quoting some passages from its pages. Yet I was
sure that with his revengeful nature he would never give it to me of his
own free will. I must get it for myself. With this object I engaged an
agent from a private detective firm, who entered my husband's house as
secretary--it was your second secretary, Sergius, the one who left you
so hurriedly. He found that papers were kept in the cupboard, and he got
an impression of the key. He would not go farther. He furnished me with
a plan of the house, and he told me that in the forenoon the study was
always empty, as the secretary was employed up here. So at last I took
my courage in both hands and I came down to get the papers for myself. I
succeeded, but at what a cost!
“I had just taken the papers and was locking the cupboard when the young
man seized me. I had seen him already that morning. He had met me in
the road and I had asked him to tell me where Professor Coram lived, not
knowing that he was in his employ.”
“Exactly! exactly!” said Holmes. “The secretary came back and told his
employer of the woman he had met. Then in his last breath he tried to
send a message that it was she--the she whom he had just discussed with
him.”
“You must let me speak,” said the woman, in an imperative voice, and
her face contracted as if in pain. “When he had fallen I rushed from the
room, chose the wrong door, and found myself in my husband's room. He
spoke of giving me up. I showed him that if he did so his life was in my
hands. If he gave me to the law I could give him to the Brotherhood. It
was not that I wished to live for my own sake, but it was that I desired
to accomplish my purpose. He knew that I would do what I said--that
his own fate was involved in mine. For that reason and for no other he
shielded me. He thrust me into that dark hiding-place, a relic of old
days, known only to himself. He took his meals in his own room, and so
was able to give me part of his food. It was agreed that when the police
left the house I should slip away by night and come back no more. But in
some way you have read our plans.” She tore from the bosom of her dress
a small packet. “These are my last words,” said she; “here is the packet
which will save Alexis. I confide it to your honour and to your love of
justice. Take it! You will deliver it at the Russian Embassy. Now I have
done my duty, and----”
“Stop her!” cried Holmes. He had bounded across the room and had
wrenched a small phial from her hand.
“Too late!” she said, sinking back on the bed. “Too late! I took the
poison before I left my hiding-place. My head swims! I am going! I
charge you, sir, to remember the packet.”
“A simple case, and yet in some ways an instructive one,” Holmes
remarked, as we travelled back to town. “It hinged from the outset upon
the pince-nez. But for the fortunate chance of the dying man having
seized these I am not sure that we could ever have reached our solution.
It was clear to me from the strength of the glasses that the wearer must
have been very blind and helpless when deprived of them. When you asked
me to believe that she walked along a narrow strip of grass without
once making a false step I remarked, as you may remember, that it was
a noteworthy performance. In my mind I set it down as an impossible
performance, save in the unlikely case that she had a second pair of
glasses. I was forced, therefore, to seriously consider the hypothesis
that she had remained within the house. On perceiving the similarity of
the two corridors it became clear that she might very easily have made
such a mistake, and in that case it was evident that she must have
entered the Professor's room. I was keenly on the alert, therefore,
for whatever would bear out this supposition, and I examined the room
narrowly for anything in the shape of a hiding-place. The carpet seemed
continuous and firmly nailed, so I dismissed the idea of a trap-door.
There might well be a recess behind the books. As you are aware, such
devices are common in old libraries. I observed that books were piled
on the floor at all other points, but that one bookcase was left clear.
This, then, might be the door. I could see no marks to guide me, but the
carpet was of a dun colour, which lends itself very well to examination.
I therefore smoked a great number of those excellent cigarettes, and I
dropped the ash all over the space in front of the suspected bookcase.
It was a simple trick, but exceedingly effective. I then went downstairs
and I ascertained, in your presence, Watson, without your perceiving
the drift of my remarks, that Professor Coram's consumption of food had
increased--as one would expect when he is supplying a second person. We
then ascended to the room again, when, by upsetting the cigarette-box,
I obtained a very excellent view of the floor, and was able to see quite
clearly, from the traces upon the cigarette ash, that the prisoner had,
in our absence, come out from her retreat. Well, Hopkins, here we are at
Charing Cross, and I congratulate you on having brought your case to
a successful conclusion. You are going to head-quarters, no doubt. I
think, Watson, you and I will drive together to the Russian Embassy.”
*****
THE STRAND MAGAZINE
Vol. 28 AUGUST, 1904
THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.
By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.
XI.--The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter.
WE were fairly accustomed to receive weird telegrams at Baker Street,
but I have a particular recollection of one which reached us on a gloomy
February morning some seven or eight years ago and gave Mr. Sherlock
Holmes a puzzled quarter of an hour. It was addressed to him, and ran
thus:--
“Please await me. Terrible misfortune. Right wing three-quarter missing;
indispensable to morrow.--OVERTON.”
“Strand post-mark and dispatched ten-thirty-six,” said Holmes, reading
it over and over. “Mr. Overton was evidently considerably excited when
he sent it, and somewhat incoherent in consequence. Well, well, he will
be here, I dare say, by the time I have looked through the TIMES, and
then we shall know all about it. Even the most insignificant problem
would be welcome in these stagnant days.”
Things had indeed been very slow with us, and I had learned to dread
such periods of inaction, for I knew by experience that my companion's
brain was so abnormally active that it was dangerous to leave it without
material upon which to work. For years I had gradually weaned him
from that drug mania which had threatened once to check his remarkable
career. Now I knew that under ordinary conditions he no longer craved
for this artificial stimulus, but I was well aware that the fiend was
not dead, but sleeping; and I have known that the sleep was a light one
and the waking near when in periods of idleness I have seen the drawn
look upon Holmes's ascetic face, and the brooding of his deep-set and
inscrutable eyes. Therefore I blessed this Mr. Overton, whoever he might
be, since he had come with his enigmatic message to break that dangerous
calm which brought more peril to my friend than all the storms of his
tempestuous life.
As we had expected, the telegram was soon followed by its sender, and
the card of Mr. Cyril Overton, of Trinity College, Cambridge, announced
the arrival of an enormous young man, sixteen stone of solid bone and
muscle, who spanned the doorway with his broad shoulders and looked
from one of us to the other with a comely face which was haggard with
anxiety.
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”
My companion bowed.
“I've been down to Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes. I saw Inspector Stanley
Hopkins. He advised me to come to you. He said the case, so far as he
could see, was more in your line than in that of the regular police.”
“Pray sit down and tell me what is the matter.”
“It's awful, Mr. Holmes, simply awful! I wonder my hair isn't grey.
Godfrey Staunton--you've heard of him, of course? He's simply the hinge
that the whole team turns on. I'd rather spare two from the pack
and have Godfrey for my three-quarter line. Whether it's passing, or
tackling, or dribbling, there's no one to touch him; and then, he's got
the head and can hold us all together. What am I to do? That's what I
ask you, Mr. Holmes. There's Moorhouse, first reserve, but he is trained
as a half, and he always edges right in on to the scrum instead of
keeping out on the touch-line. He's a fine place-kick, it's true, but,
then, he has no judgment, and he can't sprint for nuts. Why, Morton
or Johnson, the Oxford fliers, could romp round him. Stevenson is
fast enough, but he couldn't drop from the twenty-five line, and a
three-quarter who can't either punt or drop isn't worth a place for
pace alone. No, Mr. Holmes, we are done unless you can help me to find
Godfrey Staunton.”
My friend had listened with amused surprise to this long speech, which
was poured forth with extraordinary vigour and earnestness, every point
being driven home by the slapping of a brawny hand upon the speaker's
knee. When our visitor was silent Holmes stretched out his hand and took
down letter “S” of his commonplace book. For once he dug in vain into
that mine of varied information.
“There is Arthur H. Staunton, the rising young forger,” said he, “and
there was Henry Staunton, whom I helped to hang, but Godfrey Staunton is
a new name to me.”
It was our visitor's turn to look surprised.
“Why, Mr. Holmes, I thought you knew things,” said he. “I suppose, then,
if you have never heard of Godfrey Staunton you don't know Cyril Overton
either?”
Holmes shook his head good-humouredly.
“Great Scot!” cried the athlete. “Why, I was first reserve for England
against Wales, and I've skippered the 'Varsity all this year. But that's
nothing! I didn't think there was a soul in England who didn't know
Godfrey Staunton, the crack three-quarter, Cambridge, Blackheath, and
five Internationals. Good Lord! Mr. Holmes, where HAVE you lived?”
Holmes laughed at the young giant's naive astonishment.
“You live in a different world to me, Mr. Overton, a sweeter and
healthier one. My ramifications stretch out into many sections of
society, but never, I am happy to say, into amateur sport, which is the
best and soundest thing in England. However, your unexpected visit this
morning shows me that even in that world of fresh air and fair play
there may be work for me to do; so now, my good sir, I beg you to sit
down and to tell me slowly and quietly exactly what it is that has
occurred, and how you desire that I should help you.”
Young Overton's face assumed the bothered look of the man who is more
accustomed to using his muscles than his wits; but by degrees, with many
repetitions and obscurities which I may omit from his narrative, he laid
his strange story before us.
“It's this way, Mr. Holmes. As I have said, I am the skipper of the
Rugger team of Cambridge 'Varsity, and Godfrey Staunton is my best man.
To-morrow we play Oxford. Yesterday we all came up and we settled at
Bentley's private hotel. At ten o'clock I went round and saw that all
the fellows had gone to roost, for I believe in strict training and
plenty of sleep to keep a team fit. I had a word or two with Godfrey
before he turned in. He seemed to me to be pale and bothered. I asked
him what was the matter. He said he was all right--just a touch of
headache. I bade him good-night and left him. Half an hour later the
porter tells me that a rough-looking man with a beard called with a note
for Godfrey. He had not gone to bed and the note was taken to his room.
Godfrey read it and fell back in a chair as if he had been pole-axed.
The porter was so scared that he was going to fetch me, but Godfrey
stopped him, had a drink of water, and pulled himself together. Then
he went downstairs, said a few words to the man who was waiting in the
hall, and the two of them went off together. The last that the porter
saw of them, they were almost running down the street in the direction
of the Strand. This morning Godfrey's room was empty, his bed had never
been slept in, and his things were all just as I had seen them the night
before. He had gone off at a moment's notice with this stranger, and no
word has come from him since. I don't believe he will ever come back. He
was a sportsman, was Godfrey, down to his marrow, and he wouldn't have
stopped his training and let in his skipper if it were not for some
cause that was too strong for him. No; I feel as if he were gone for
good and we should never see him again.”
Sherlock Holmes listened with the deepest attention to this singular
narrative.
“What did you do?” he asked.
“I wired to Cambridge to learn if anything had been heard of him there.
I have had an answer. No one has seen him.”
“Could he have got back to Cambridge?”
“Yes, there is a late train--quarter-past eleven.”
“But so far as you can ascertain he did not take it?”
“No, he has not been seen.”
“What did you do next?”
“I wired to Lord Mount-James.”
“Why to Lord Mount-James?”
“Godfrey is an orphan, and Lord Mount-James is his nearest relative--his
uncle, I believe.”
“Indeed. This throws new light upon the matter. Lord Mount-James is one
of the richest men in England.”
“So I've heard Godfrey say.”
“And your friend was closely related?”
“Yes, he was his heir, and the old boy is nearly eighty--cram full of
gout, too. They say he could chalk his billiard-cue with his knuckles.
He never allowed Godfrey a shilling in his life, for he is an absolute
miser, but it will all come to him right enough.”
“Have you heard from Lord Mount-James?”
“No.”
“What motive could your friend have in going to Lord Mount-James?”
“Well, something was worrying him the night before, and if it was to do
with money it is possible that he would make for his nearest relative
who had so much of it, though from all I have heard he would not have
much chance of getting it. Godfrey was not fond of the old man. He would
not go if he could help it.”
“Well, we can soon determine that. If your friend was going to his
relative, Lord Mount-James, you have then to explain the visit of this
rough-looking fellow at so late an hour, and the agitation that was
caused by his coming.”
Cyril Overton pressed his hands to his head. “I can make nothing of it,”
said he.
“Well, well, I have a clear day, and I shall be happy to look into the
matter,” said Holmes. “I should strongly recommend you to make your
preparations for your match without reference to this young gentleman.
It must, as you say, have been an overpowering necessity which tore him
away in such a fashion, and the same necessity is likely to hold him
away. Let us step round together to this hotel, and see if the porter
can throw any fresh light upon the matter.”
Sherlock Holmes was a past-master in the art of putting a humble
witness at his ease, and very soon, in the privacy of Godfrey Staunton's
abandoned room, he had extracted all that the porter had to tell.
The visitor of the night before was not a gentleman, neither was he
a working man. He was simply what the porter described as a
“medium-looking chap”; a man of fifty, beard grizzled, pale face,
quietly dressed. He seemed himself to be agitated. The porter had
observed his hand trembling when he had held out the note. Godfrey
Staunton had crammed the note into his pocket. Staunton had not shaken
hands with the man in the hall. They had exchanged a few sentences, of
which the porter had only distinguished the one word “time.” Then they
had hurried off in the manner described. It was just half-past ten by
the hall clock.
“Let me see,” said Holmes, seating himself on Staunton's bed. “You are
the day porter, are you not?”
“Yes, sir; I go off duty at eleven.”
“The night porter saw nothing, I suppose?”
“No, sir; one theatre party came in late. No one else.”
“Were you on duty all day yesterday?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you take any messages to Mr. Staunton?”
“Yes, sir; one telegram.”
“Ah! that's interesting. What o'clock was this?”
“About six.”
“Where was Mr. Staunton when he received it?”
“Here in his room.”
“Were you present when he opened it?”
“Yes, sir; I waited to see if there was an answer.”
“Well, was there?”
“Yes, sir. He wrote an answer.”
“Did you take it?”
“No; he took it himself.”
“But he wrote it in your presence?”
“Yes, sir. I was standing by the door, and he with his back turned at
that table. When he had written it he said, 'All right, porter, I will
take this myself.'”
“What did he write it with?”
“A pen, sir.”
“Was the telegraphic form one of these on the table?”
“Yes, sir; it was the top one.”
Holmes rose. Taking the forms he carried them over to the window and
carefully examined that which was uppermost.
“It is a pity he did not write in pencil,” said he, throwing them down
again with a shrug of disappointment. “As you have no doubt frequently
observed, Watson, the impression usually goes through--a fact which has
dissolved many a happy marriage. However, I can find no trace here. I
rejoice, however, to perceive that he wrote with a broad-pointed quill
pen, and I can hardly doubt that we will find some impression upon this
blotting-pad. Ah, yes, surely this is the very thing!”
He tore off a strip of the blotting-paper and turned towards us the
following hieroglyphic:--