presently. I think, Colonel, that you and Watson might return now, and I
will be with you again in an hour at the furthest. The Inspector and I
must have a word with the prisoners; but you will certainly see me back
at luncheon time."
Sherlock Holmes was as good as his word, for about one o'clock he
rejoined us in the Colonel's smoking-room. He was accompanied by a
little, elderly gentleman, who was introduced to me as the Mr. Acton
whose house had been the scene of the original burglary.
"I wished Mr. Acton to be present while I demonstrated this small matter
to you," said Holmes, "for it is natural that he should take a keen
interest in the details. I am afraid, my dear Colonel, that you must
regret the hour that you took in such a stormy petrel as I am."
"On the contrary," answered the Colonel, warmly, "I consider it the
greatest privilege to have been permitted to study your methods of
working. I confess that they quite surpass my expectations, and that I
am utterly unable to account for your result. I have not yet seen the
vestige of a clue."
"I am afraid that my explanation may disillusionize you, but it has
always been my habit to hide none of my methods, either from my friend
Watson or from anyone who might take an intelligent interest in them.
But first, as I am rather shaken by the knocking about which I had in
the dressing-room, I think that I shall help myself to a dash of your
brandy, Colonel. My strength has been rather tried of late."
"I trust you had no more of those nervous attacks."
Sherlock Holmes laughed heartily. "We will come to that in its turn,"
said he. "I will lay an account of the case before you in its due order,
showing you the various points which guided me in my decision. Pray
interrupt me if there is any inference which is not perfectly clear to
you.
"It is of the highest importance in the art of detection to be able to
recognise out of a number of facts which are incidental and which vital.
Otherwise your energy and attention must be dissipated instead of being
concentrated. Now, in this case there was not the slightest doubt in my
mind from the first that the key of the whole matter must be looked for
in the scrap of paper in the dead man's hand.
"Before going into this I would draw your attention to the fact that if
Alec Cunningham's narrative was correct, and if the assailant after
shooting William Kirwan had _instantly_ fled, then it obviously could
not be he who tore the paper from the dead man's hand. But if it was not
he, it must have been Alec Cunningham himself, for by the time that the
old man had descended several servants were upon the scene. The point is
a simple one, but the Inspector had overlooked it because he had started
with the supposition that these county magnates had had nothing to do
with the matter. Now, I make a point of never having any prejudices and
of following docilely wherever fact may lead me, and so in the very
first stage of the investigation I found myself looking a little askance
at the part which had been played by Mr. Alec Cunningham.
[Illustration: "THE POINT IS A SIMPLE ONE."]
"And now I made a very careful examination of the corner of paper which
the Inspector had submitted to us. It was at once clear to me that it
formed part of a very remarkable document. Here it is. Do you not now
observe something very suggestive about it?"
"It has a very irregular look," said the Colonel.
"My dear sir," cried Holmes, "there cannot be the least doubt in the
world that it has been written by two persons doing alternate words.
When I draw your attention to the strong t's of 'at' and 'to' and ask
you to compare them with the weak ones of 'quarter' and 'twelve,' you
will instantly recognise the fact. A very brief analysis of those four
words would enable you to say with the utmost confidence that the
'learn' and the 'maybe' are written in the stronger hand, and the 'what'
in the weaker."
"By Jove, it's as clear as day!" cried the Colonel. "Why on earth should
two men write a letter in such a fashion?"
"Obviously the business was a bad one, and one of the men who distrusted
the other was determined that, whatever was done, each should have an
equal hand in it. Now, of the two men it is clear that the one who wrote
the 'at' and 'to' was the ring-leader."
"How do you get at that?"
"We might deduce it from the mere character of the one hand as compared
with the other. But we have more assured reasons than that for supposing
it. If you examine this scrap with attention you will come to the
conclusion that the man with the stronger hand wrote all his words
first, leaving blanks for the other to fill up. These blanks were not
always sufficient, and you can see that the second man had a squeeze to
fit his 'quarter' in between the 'at' and the 'to,' showing that the
latter were already written. The man who wrote all his words first is
undoubtedly the man who planned this affair."
"Excellent!" cried Mr. Acton.
"But very superficial," said Holmes. "We come now, however, to a point
which is of importance. You may not be aware that the deduction of a
man's age from his writing is one which has been brought to considerable
accuracy by experts. In normal cases one can place a man in his true
decade with tolerable confidence. I say normal cases, because ill-health
and physical weakness reproduce the signs of old age, even when the
invalid is a youth. In this case, looking at the bold, strong hand of
the one, and the rather broken-backed appearance of the other, which
still retains its legibility, although the t's have begun to lose their
crossings, we can say that the one was a young man, and the other was
advanced in years without being positively decrepit."
"Excellent!" cried Mr. Acton again.
"There is a further point, however, which is subtler and of greater
interest. There is something in common between these hands. They belong
to men who are blood-relatives. It may be most obvious to you in the
Greek e's, but to me there are many small points which indicate the same
thing. I have no doubt at all that a family mannerism can be traced in
these two specimens of writing. I am only, of course, giving you the
leading results now of my examination of the paper. There were
twenty-three other deductions which would be of more interest to experts
than to you. They all tended to deepen the impression upon my mind that
the Cunninghams, father and son, had written this letter.
"Having got so far, my next step was, of course, to examine into the
details of the crime and to see how far they would help us. I went up to
the house with the Inspector, and saw all that was to be seen. The wound
upon the dead man was, as I was able to determine with absolute
confidence, fired from a revolver at the distance of something over four
yards. There was no powder-blackening on the clothes. Evidently,
therefore, Alec Cunningham had lied when he said that the two men were
struggling when the shot was fired. Again, both father and son agreed as
to the place where the man escaped into the road. At that point,
however, as it happens, there is a broadish ditch, moist at the bottom.
As there were no indications of boot-marks about this ditch, I was
absolutely sure not only that the Cunninghams had again lied, but that
there had never been any unknown man upon the scene at all.
"And now I had to consider the motive of this singular crime. To get at
this I endeavoured first of all to solve the reason of the original
burglary at Mr. Acton's. I understood from something which the Colonel
told us that a law-suit, had been going on between you, Mr. Acton, and
the Cunninghams. Of course, it instantly occurred to me that they had
broken into your library with the intention of getting at some document
which might be of importance in the case."
"Precisely so," said Mr. Acton; "there can be no possible doubt as to
their intentions. I have the clearest claim upon half their present
estate, and if they could have found a single paper--which, fortunately,
was in the strong box of my solicitors--they would undoubtedly have
crippled our case."
[Illustration: "THERE WAS NO POWDER-BLACKENING ON THE CLOTHES."]
"There you are!" said Holmes, smiling. "It was a dangerous, reckless
attempt in which I seem to trace the influence of young Alec. Having
found nothing, they tried to divert suspicion by making it appear to be
an ordinary burglary, to which end they carried off whatever they could
lay their hands upon. That is all clear enough, but there was much that
was still obscure. What I wanted above all was to get the missing part
of that note. I was certain that Alec had torn it out of the dead man's
hand, and almost certain that he must have thrust it into the pocket of
his dressing-gown. Where else could he have put it? The only question
was whether it was still there. It was worth an effort to find out, and
for that object we all went up to the house.
"The Cunninghams joined us, as you doubtless remember, outside the
kitchen door. It was, of course, of the very first importance that they
should not be reminded of the existence of this paper, otherwise they
would naturally destroy it without delay. The Inspector was about to
tell them the importance which we attached to it when, by the luckiest
chance in the world, I tumbled down in a sort of fit and so changed the
conversation."
"Good heavens!" cried the Colonel, laughing. "Do you mean to say all our
sympathy was wasted and your fit an imposture?"
"Speaking professionally, it was admirably done," cried I, looking in
amazement at this man who was for ever confounding me with some new
phase of his astuteness.
"It is an art which is often useful," said he. "When I recovered I
managed by a device, which had, perhaps, some little merit of ingenuity,
to get old Cunningham to write the word 'twelve,' so that I might
compare it with the 'twelve' upon the paper."
"Oh, what an ass I have been!" I exclaimed.
"I could see that you were commiserating with me over my weakness," said
Holmes, laughing. "I was sorry to cause you the sympathetic pain which I
know that you felt. We then went upstairs together, and having entered
the room and seen the dressing-gown hanging up behind the door, I
contrived by upsetting a table to engage their attention for the moment
and slipped back to examine the pockets. I had hardly got the paper,
however, which was, as I had expected, in one of them, when the two
Cunninghams were on me, and would, I verily believe, have murdered me
then and there but for your prompt and friendly aid. As it is, I feel
that young man's grip on my throat now, and the father has twisted my
wrist round in the effort to get the paper out of my hand. They saw that
I must know all about it, you see, and the sudden change from absolute
security to complete despair made them perfectly desperate.
"I had a little talk with old Cunningham afterwards as to the motive of
the crime. He was tractable enough, though his son was a perfect demon,
ready to blow out his own or anybody else's brains if he could have got
to his revolver. When Cunningham saw that the case against him was so
strong he lost all heart, and made a clean breast of everything. It
seems that William had secretly followed his two masters on the night
when they made their raid upon Mr. Acton's, and, having thus got them
into his power, proceeded under threats of exposure to levy blackmail
upon them. Mister Alec, however, was a dangerous man to play games of
that sort with. It was a stroke of positive genius on his part to see in
the burglary scare, which was convulsing the country side, an
opportunity of plausibly getting rid of the man whom he feared. William
was decoyed up and shot; and, had they only got the whole of the note,
and paid a little more attention to detail in their accessories, it is
very possible that suspicion might never have been aroused."
"And the note?" I asked.
Sherlock Holmes placed the subjoined paper before us:--
[Illustration]
"It is very much the sort of thing that I expected," said he. "Of
course, we do not yet know what the relations may have been between Alec
Cunningham, William Kirwan, and Annie Morrison. The result shows that
the trap was skilfully baited. I am sure that you cannot fail to be
delighted with the traces of heredity shown in the p's and in the tails
of the g's. The absence of the i-dots in the old man's writing is also
most characteristic. Watson, I think our quiet rest in the country has
been a distinct success, and I shall certainly return, much invigorated,
to Baker Street to-morrow."
_Beauties._
[Illustration: _Miss Ella Banister._]
[Illustration: _Miss A Hughes_]
[Illustration: _Miss Alice Ravenscroft._]
_From Photos. by Messrs. Bassano, Old Bond Street._
[Illustration: _Miss Friend._
_From a Photo. by W. & D. Downey._]
[Illustration: _Miss C. L. Foote._
_From a Photo. by W. & D. Downey._]
[Illustration: _Mrs. Marsh._
_From a Photo. by Messrs. Bassano, Old Bond Street._]
[Illustration: _Miss Norah Williams._
_From Photos. by Messrs. Bassano, Old Bond Street._]
[Illustration: _Miss L. Harold._]
[Illustration: _Lady Aberdeen._
_Photo. by Barraud_]
LIEUTENANT GAUTHIER
By José de Campos
FROM THE FRENCH OF JOSÉ DE CAMPOS. AN EPISODE OF THE CRIMEAN WAR.
APPROVED AND AUTHORIZED BY GENERAL SAUSSIER, MILITARY COMMANDER OF
PARIS.
[Illustration]
Nicolas Gauthier, Sergeant-Major in the Foreign Legion, was about
twenty-six years of age. He was strikingly handsome, with black hair and
moustache and a pale complexion. His dark eyes were perhaps somewhat
dreamy and intensely sad, but they had a certain expression of
gentleness and candour which won all hearts.
He was above the medium height, upright and broad-shouldered, and was
altogether more fitted for a cuirassier than for a foot-soldier. As,
however, he had entered the army from choice, it was for him to select
the arms he preferred.
He had undoubtedly military tastes, but he had evidently some family
trouble or some love affair which had made him anxious to leave Paris
and to go to Africa with the Foreign Legion (which, as everyone knows,
is always the first regiment to be called out in case of war).
He had been in the garrison at Constantine, and while there had been a
great favourite with all the ladies, and the men had envied him.
It could scarcely be wondered at, for he was so handsome, and then, too,
he had such a martial bearing and such pleasant, attractive manners.
All the sensation he caused was lost upon him, for he did not even seem
to notice it himself.
He was a good soldier: subordinate to his superiors, and always
indulgent to the men under his command, and, consequently, a great
favourite in the Legion.
When Napoleon III. was reviewing the troops, he noticed Gauthier, who
was at that time only a sub-officer. He made inquiries about him, and a
fortnight later Gauthier was appointed sergeant-major.
It was evident that some great sorrow was weighing on him, for when he
was free from his military duties, instead of going out with his
comrades to any places of amusement, he would go off by himself for
long, solitary walks.
Several times, on seeing him strolling along far from the walls of the
city, the other officers had warned him of the risk he ran of being
surprised by one of those bands of Arabs who wander about outside the
Algerian cities, and who take their revenge on any European who falls
into their hands for the yoke that has been put on to them.
Sergeant Gauthier took very little notice of these warnings. He loved
solitude and was perfectly fearless. No one knew why he was so sad.
Certainly he had lately lost his mother, and still wore a badge of crape
on his arm. Of course, this had increased his melancholy, but it was not
the original cause of it.
The war with Russia had just been declared. Gauthier, like a great many
other officers and sub-officers, was tired of the monotony of garrison
life, and volunteered to join the regiments which were to be sent to the
Crimea. The Minister of War dispatched the Foreign Legion, to the great
joy of Gauthier. His brother officers noticed that he was almost gay,
not at all like his former self.
* * * * *
He soon distinguished himself; was always foremost in the fight. His
courage and _sang-froid_ won the admiration of all. He was wounded, but
he cared little for that; and shortly after he was promoted to the rank
of sub-lieutenant.
Gauthier was very intimate with Lieutenant Saussier, another hero who
had gone through the "baptism of fire" in Africa, and whose great valour
and integrity have won for him the high office he now holds.
These two soldiers were of the same metal: they were able to understand
and appreciate each other, and were almost inseparable.
One day during the siege of Sebastopol, Lieutenant Saussier said to his
friend:--
"Gauthier, may I ask you a question?"
"Two questions, if you like."
"You won't think it mere curiosity?"
"Are we not friends, Saussier?"
"Yes, but perhaps this is a secret----"
"I have only one secret in the world, and as you do not know _that_ and
could not even have an idea of it, there is no fear, so you can speak
out."
"Well, will you tell me what is the cause of your sadness, I might
almost say bitterness? When we left Africa I thought you had left it
behind you; but now in Russia it is worse than ever."
At this unexpected question Gauthier started, then trying to smile he
answered:--
"It must be a kind of complaint born in me, and perhaps the change of
climate aggravates it."
"Perhaps so," said Lieutenant Saussier, slowly, and watching the
expression of his friend's face.
"This cold goes right through me to my very bones," said Gauthier,
shivering.
Saussier quite understood that his friend meant, "Let us change the
subject," but he continued:--
"May I ask you another question?"
"You seem to have a few to ask to-day," said Gauthier, looking rather
annoyed.
"I have often wanted to speak to you, but have never dared before."
"Well, to-day you don't seem afraid of running the risk."
"If it vexes you, don't answer me."
"Oh, I don't mind. I have had one; I may as well have the next."
"Well, will you tell me why, every time there is an engagement, you take
such pains to find out the name of the chief who commands the enemy?"
This time Gauthier was visibly annoyed. He answered, after a few
minutes' hesitation, "Because some day I intend writing the history of
the Crimean War. It is only natural I should want to know the names of
the commanders on the other side."
"Oh! of course," said Saussier, feeling rather disconcerted.
For some minutes the two friends continued their walk in silence. There
was no sound but the crunching of the snow under their heavy boots, for
it had been snowing hard in the district of Simferopol, and a thick
white mantle covered the ground.
Lieutenant Saussier looked at Gauthier, and in spite of his friend's
attempt to turn away his head, Saussier saw that there were tears in his
eyes.
"Forgive me for asking you!" he exclaimed. "I had no idea of causing you
pain."
"How do you know you have?" asked Gauthier, passing his arm through that
of his friend.
"Don't try and hide it. I can see that, quite unintentional as it was, I
have pained you with my questions."
"It is nothing, nothing at all; or rather your questions brought to mind
something in my past life. It is only natural that you should have asked
me, and as a proof of my friendship I will tell you all."
"No, no! Indeed I do not want you to. We will not talk about it. I am
awfully sorry to have spoken of it."
"After all, you are my greatest friend. Why should I not tell you about
it? Perhaps, too, it might relieve me to speak of my trouble."
"If it will be any relief to you, tell me; but if not, why, do not let
us say any more about it."
[Illustration: YOU ARE MY GREATEST FRIEND.]
"I would rather tell you. Life is very uncertain on the battlefield, and
I would rather not die with this secret untold. Perhaps, too, if you
knew it you might be able to help me."
"If I could help you in any way, you know you have only to tell me how."
"Well, you shall hear all. You know that, before leaving Algeria, I went
to Paris with a three months' leave."
"Which you never stayed out, for you were back again in six weeks."
"What could I do with myself in that Babylon, where everyone was gay
while I was so wretched? How could I stand the sardonic laughter and
gaiety around me when my heart was aching bitterly? As soon as my poor
mother was buried I was only too anxious to get from that city of
luxury, where the artificial lights only blinded and dazzled me.
"I wanted to get away from the noise and the vice and the hypocrisy, and
go to the desert and be alone with Nature and with reality, where I
could breathe pure, wholesome air, and not that atmosphere which
bewilders and poisons you. I left what we _call_ the civilized world to
go to the savages whom I prefer.
"I gave up society for solitude, peace for war. I despise my life and
long for death, but death does not come at my call."
Gauthier stopped for a minute, overcome with emotion.
"You are too sensitive," said Saussier.
"Perhaps so, but I have had something to bear."
"Is it a love affair, Gauthier?"
"No, no! I have never loved anyone, and besides, I am one of those who
must not, who dare not love----"
"I do not understand."
"No, I will explain. My mother, who was dying of consumption, brought on
by some great grief that she had always suffered alone, sent for me to
bid me farewell. Three days before her death I was at her bedside.
"'My son,' she said, 'I have sent for you to tell you something which I
feel you ought to know before my death. I have always led you to believe
that your father was dead.'
"'And he is not dead. I have felt sure of that for a long time.'
"'How could you nave guessed it?' exclaimed my mother.
"'By your sadness, and, too, because you have never taken me to his
grave, nor even spoken of it. My poor mother, did he leave you?'
"'No, no! Do not blame him; it was not his fault that he had to leave
us.'
"'He is in prison, then; but surely he is innocent?'
"'No, he is quite free.'
"'How is it, then----"
"'Listen, but do not interrupt me, for I have not strength for much. The
name you have, Gauthier, was my father's and mine, but not your
father's, Nicolas. My father was a wealthy shipbuilder at Havre. He
died in 1825. My mother sold everything, and then she and I went to
Paris to live.
"'She was ambitious for me and wished me to marry well. We had plenty of
money, and as that opens most doors she managed to get introductions and
invitations to her heart's content.
"'I was nineteen, and people said I was beautiful. My mother paid great
attention to my toilette, and by mixing in society I soon lost all
traces of having been brought up in the provinces. There was a young
Russian captain, Prince Nicolaï Porthikopoff, whom I used to meet at
different houses. He belonged to the Czar's Imperial Guard, and was an
_attaché_ of the Russian Embassy in Paris.
"'He was very handsome, and was as noble at heart as he was by birth.
"He loved me, and I returned his affection. At the end of six months he
came to my mother and asked for my hand. Our engagement caused a great
stir in Paris, it scandalized the aristocracy and caused jealousy in our
own circle. Prince Nicolaï cared nothing for the storm that he had
roused.
[Illustration: "HE CAME TO MY MOTHER AND ASKED FOR MY HAND."]
"'There was so much gossip, and there was so much scheming to break off
our engagement, that the Ambassador himself felt it his duty to inform
the Czar. It appears the Czar only laughed at it all until the Princess
Porthikopoff, your father's mother, wrote herself asking for his
intervention, and declaring that she would never give her consent to our
union. The Czar wrote a letter of advice to the Prince, but as it took
no effect, and the Princess still insisted, the Czar objected formally
to the marriage. Your father saw that it was hopeless, that there was no
chance whatever of winning the consent of his mother or of his
Sovereign. He proposed to me a desperate expedient, and I, young and
inexperienced as I was, and believing that it would be for our mutual
happiness, consented.