From the years 1894 to 1901 inclusive, Mr. Sherlock Holmes was a
very busy man. It is safe to say that there was no public case of
any difficulty in which he was not consulted during those eight
years, and there were hundreds of private cases, some of them of
the most intricate and extraordinary character, in which he
played a prominent part. Many startling successes and a few
unavoidable failures were the outcome of this long period of
continuous work. As I have preserved very full notes of all these
cases, and was myself personally engaged in many of them, it may
be imagined that it is no easy task to know which I should select
to lay before the public. I shall, however, preserve my former
rule, and give the preference to those cases which derive their
interest not so much from the brutality of the crime as from the
ingenuity and dramatic quality of the solution. For this reason I
will now lay before the reader the facts connected with Miss
Violet Smith, the solitary cyclist of Charlington, and the
curious sequel of our investigation, which culminated in
unexpected tragedy. It is true that the circumstance did not
admit of any striking illustration of those powers for which my
friend was famous, but there were some points about the case
which made it stand out in those long records of crime from which
I gather the material for these little narratives.
On referring to my notebook for the year 1895, I find that it was
upon Saturday, the 23rd of April, that we first heard of Miss
Violet Smith. Her visit was, I remember, extremely unwelcome to
Holmes, for he was immersed at the moment in a very abstruse and
complicated problem concerning the peculiar persecution to which
John Vincent Harden, the well-known tobacco millionaire, had been
subjected. My friend, who loved above all things precision and
concentration of thought, resented anything which distracted his
attention from the matter in hand. And yet, without a harshness
which was foreign to his nature, it was impossible to refuse to
listen to the story of the young and beautiful woman, tall,
graceful, and queenly, who presented herself at Baker Street late
in the evening, and implored his assistance and advice. It was
vain to urge that his time was already fully occupied, for the
young lady had come with the determination to tell her story, and
it was evident that nothing short of force could get her out of
the room until she had done so. With a resigned air and a
somewhat weary smile, Holmes begged the beautiful intruder to
take a seat, and to inform us what it was that was troubling her.
“At least it cannot be your health,” said he, as his keen eyes
darted over her, “so ardent a bicyclist must be full of energy.”
She glanced down in surprise at her own feet, and I observed the
slight roughening of the side of the sole caused by the friction
of the edge of the pedal.
“Yes, I bicycle a good deal, Mr. Holmes, and that has something
to do with my visit to you to-day.”
My friend took the lady’s ungloved hand, and examined it with as
close an attention and as little sentiment as a scientist would
show to a specimen.
“You will excuse me, I am sure. It is my business,” said he, as
he dropped it. “I nearly fell into the error of supposing that
you were typewriting. Of course, it is obvious that it is music.
You observe the spatulate finger-ends, Watson, which is common to
both professions? There is a spirituality about the face,
however”—she gently turned it towards the light—“which the
typewriter does not generate. This lady is a musician.”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes, I teach music.”
“In the country, I presume, from your complexion.”
“Yes, sir, near Farnham, on the borders of Surrey.”
“A beautiful neighbourhood, and full of the most interesting
associations. You remember, Watson, that it was near there that
we took Archie Stamford, the forger. Now, Miss Violet, what has
happened to you, near Farnham, on the borders of Surrey?”
The young lady, with great clearness and composure, made the
following curious statement:
“My father is dead, Mr. Holmes. He was James Smith, who conducted
the orchestra at the old Imperial Theatre. My mother and I were
left without a relation in the world except one uncle, Ralph
Smith, who went to Africa twenty-five years ago, and we have
never had a word from him since. When father died, we were left
very poor, but one day we were told that there was an
advertisement in _The Times_, inquiring for our whereabouts. You
can imagine how excited we were, for we thought that someone had
left us a fortune. We went at once to the lawyer whose name was
given in the paper. There we met two gentlemen, Mr. Carruthers
and Mr. Woodley, who were home on a visit from South Africa. They
said that my uncle was a friend of theirs, that he had died some
months before in great poverty in Johannesburg, and that he had
asked them with his last breath to hunt up his relations, and see
that they were in no want. It seemed strange to us that Uncle
Ralph, who took no notice of us when he was alive, should be so
careful to look after us when he was dead, but Mr. Carruthers
explained that the reason was that my uncle had just heard of the
death of his brother, and so felt responsible for our fate.”
“Excuse me,” said Holmes. “When was this interview?”
“Last December—four months ago.”
“Pray proceed.”
“Mr. Woodley seemed to me to be a most odious person. He was for
ever making eyes at me—a coarse, puffy-faced, red-moustached
young man, with his hair plastered down on each side of his
forehead. I thought that he was perfectly hateful—and I was sure
that Cyril would not wish me to know such a person.”
“Oh, Cyril is his name!” said Holmes, smiling.
The young lady blushed and laughed.
“Yes, Mr. Holmes, Cyril Morton, an electrical engineer, and we
hope to be married at the end of the summer. Dear me, how _did_ I
get talking about him? What I wished to say was that Mr. Woodley
was perfectly odious, but that Mr. Carruthers, who was a much
older man, was more agreeable. He was a dark, sallow,
clean-shaven, silent person, but he had polite manners and a
pleasant smile. He inquired how we were left, and on finding that
we were very poor, he suggested that I should come and teach
music to his only daughter, aged ten. I said that I did not like
to leave my mother, on which he suggested that I should go home
to her every week-end, and he offered me a hundred a year, which
was certainly splendid pay. So it ended by my accepting, and I
went down to Chiltern Grange, about six miles from Farnham. Mr.
Carruthers was a widower, but he had engaged a lady housekeeper,
a very respectable, elderly person, called Mrs. Dixon, to look
after his establishment. The child was a dear, and everything
promised well. Mr. Carruthers was very kind and very musical, and
we had most pleasant evenings together. Every week-end I went
home to my mother in town.
“The first flaw in my happiness was the arrival of the
red-moustached Mr. Woodley. He came for a visit of a week, and
oh! it seemed three months to me. He was a dreadful person—a
bully to everyone else, but to me something infinitely worse. He
made odious love to me, boasted of his wealth, said that if I
married him I could have the finest diamonds in London, and
finally, when I would have nothing to do with him, he seized me
in his arms one day after dinner—he was hideously strong—and
swore that he would not let me go until I had kissed him. Mr.
Carruthers came in and tore him from me, on which he turned upon
his own host, knocking him down and cutting his face open. That
was the end of his visit, as you can imagine. Mr. Carruthers
apologized to me next day, and assured me that I should never be
exposed to such an insult again. I have not seen Mr. Woodley
since.
“And now, Mr. Holmes, I come at last to the special thing which
has caused me to ask your advice to-day. You must know that every
Saturday forenoon I ride on my bicycle to Farnham Station, in
order to get the 12:22 to town. The road from Chiltern Grange is
a lonely one, and at one spot it is particularly so, for it lies
for over a mile between Charlington Heath upon one side and the
woods which lie round Charlington Hall upon the other. You could
not find a more lonely tract of road anywhere, and it is quite
rare to meet so much as a cart, or a peasant, until you reach the
high road near Crooksbury Hill. Two weeks ago I was passing this
place, when I chanced to look back over my shoulder, and about
two hundred yards behind me I saw a man, also on a bicycle. He
seemed to be a middle-aged man, with a short, dark beard. I
looked back before I reached Farnham, but the man was gone, so I
thought no more about it. But you can imagine how surprised I
was, Mr. Holmes, when, on my return on the Monday, I saw the same
man on the same stretch of road. My astonishment was increased
when the incident occurred again, exactly as before, on the
following Saturday and Monday. He always kept his distance and
did not molest me in any way, but still it certainly was very
odd. I mentioned it to Mr. Carruthers, who seemed interested in
what I said, and told me that he had ordered a horse and trap, so
that in future I should not pass over these lonely roads without
some companion.
“The horse and trap were to have come this week, but for some
reason they were not delivered, and again I had to cycle to the
station. That was this morning. You can think that I looked out
when I came to Charlington Heath, and there, sure enough, was the
man, exactly as he had been the two weeks before. He always kept
so far from me that I could not clearly see his face, but it was
certainly someone whom I did not know. He was dressed in a dark
suit with a cloth cap. The only thing about his face that I could
clearly see was his dark beard. To-day I was not alarmed, but I
was filled with curiosity, and I determined to find out who he
was and what he wanted. I slowed down my machine, but he slowed
down his. Then I stopped altogether, but he stopped also. Then I
laid a trap for him. There is a sharp turning of the road, and I
pedalled very quickly round this, and then I stopped and waited.
I expected him to shoot round and pass me before he could stop.
But he never appeared. Then I went back and looked round the
corner. I could see a mile of road, but he was not on it. To make
it the more extraordinary, there was no side road at this point
down which he could have gone.”
Holmes chuckled and rubbed his hands. “This case certainly
presents some features of its own,” said he. “How much time
elapsed between your turning the corner and your discovery that
the road was clear?”
“Two or three minutes.”
“Then he could not have retreated down the road, and you say that
there are no side roads?”
“None.”
“Then he certainly took a footpath on one side or the other.”
“It could not have been on the side of the heath, or I should
have seen him.”
“So, by the process of exclusion, we arrive at the fact that he
made his way toward Charlington Hall, which, as I understand, is
situated in its own grounds on one side of the road. Anything
else?”
“Nothing, Mr. Holmes, save that I was so perplexed that I felt I
should not be happy until I had seen you and had your advice.”
Holmes sat in silence for some little time.
“Where is the gentleman to whom you are engaged?” he asked at
last.
“He is in the Midland Electrical Company, at Coventry.”
“He would not pay you a surprise visit?”
“Oh, Mr. Holmes! As if I should not know him!”
“Have you had any other admirers?”
“Several before I knew Cyril.”
“And since?”
“There was this dreadful man, Woodley, if you can call him an
admirer.”
“No one else?”
Our fair client seemed a little confused.
“Who was he?” asked Holmes.
“Oh, it may be a mere fancy of mine; but it had seemed to me
sometimes that my employer, Mr. Carruthers, takes a great deal of
interest in me. We are thrown rather together. I play his
accompaniments in the evening. He has never said anything. He is
a perfect gentleman. But a girl always knows.”
“Ha!” Holmes looked grave. “What does he do for a living?”
“He is a rich man.”
“No carriages or horses?”
“Well, at least he is fairly well-to-do. But he goes into the
city two or three times a week. He is deeply interested in South
African gold shares.”
“You will let me know any fresh development, Miss Smith. I am
very busy just now, but I will find time to make some inquiries
into your case. In the meantime, take no step without letting me
know. Good-bye, and I trust that we shall have nothing but good
news from you.”
“It is part of the settled order of Nature that such a girl
should have followers,” said Holmes, as he pulled at his
meditative pipe, “but for choice not on bicycles in lonely
country roads. Some secretive lover, beyond all doubt. But there
are curious and suggestive details about the case, Watson.”
“That he should appear only at that point?”
“Exactly. Our first effort must be to find who are the tenants of
Charlington Hall. Then, again, how about the connection between
Carruthers and Woodley, since they appear to be men of such a
different type? How came they _both_ to be so keen upon looking
up Ralph Smith’s relations? One more point. What sort of a
_ménage_ is it which pays double the market price for a governess
but does not keep a horse, although six miles from the station?
Odd, Watson—very odd!”
“You will go down?”
“No, my dear fellow, _you_ will go down. This may be some
trifling intrigue, and I cannot break my other important research
for the sake of it. On Monday you will arrive early at Farnham;
you will conceal yourself near Charlington Heath; you will
observe these facts for yourself, and act as your own judgment
advises. Then, having inquired as to the occupants of the Hall,
you will come back to me and report. And now, Watson, not another
word of the matter until we have a few solid stepping-stones on
which we may hope to get across to our solution.”
We had ascertained from the lady that she went down upon the
Monday by the train which leaves Waterloo at 9:50, so I started
early and caught the 9:13. At Farnham Station I had no difficulty
in being directed to Charlington Heath. It was impossible to
mistake the scene of the young lady’s adventure, for the road
runs between the open heath on one side and an old yew hedge upon
the other, surrounding a park which is studded with magnificent
trees. There was a main gateway of lichen-studded stone, each
side pillar surmounted by mouldering heraldic emblems, but
besides this central carriage drive I observed several points
where there were gaps in the hedge and paths leading through
them. The house was invisible from the road, but the surroundings
all spoke of gloom and decay.
The heath was covered with golden patches of flowering gorse,
gleaming magnificently in the light of the bright spring
sunshine. Behind one of these clumps I took up my position, so as
to command both the gateway of the Hall and a long stretch of the
road upon either side. It had been deserted when I left it, but
now I saw a cyclist riding down it from the opposite direction to
that in which I had come. He was clad in a dark suit, and I saw
that he had a black beard. On reaching the end of the Charlington
grounds, he sprang from his machine and led it through a gap in
the hedge, disappearing from my view.
A quarter of an hour passed, and then a second cyclist appeared.
This time it was the young lady coming from the station. I saw
her look about her as she came to the Charlington hedge. An
instant later the man emerged from his hiding-place, sprang upon
his cycle, and followed her. In all the broad landscape those
were the only moving figures, the graceful girl sitting very
straight upon her machine, and the man behind her bending low
over his handle-bar with a curiously furtive suggestion in every
movement. She looked back at him and slowed her pace. He slowed
also. She stopped. He at once stopped, too, keeping two hundred
yards behind her. Her next movement was as unexpected as it was
spirited. She suddenly whisked her wheels round and dashed
straight at him. He was as quick as she, however, and darted off
in desperate flight. Presently she came back up the road again,
her head haughtily in the air, not deigning to take any further
notice of her silent attendant. He had turned also, and still
kept his distance until the curve of the road hid them from my
sight.
I remained in my hiding-place, and it was well that I did so, for
presently the man reappeared, cycling slowly back. He turned in
at the Hall gates, and dismounted from his machine. For some
minutes I could see him standing among the trees. His hands were
raised, and he seemed to be settling his necktie. Then he mounted
his cycle, and rode away from me down the drive towards the Hall.
I ran across the heath and peered through the trees. Far away I
could catch glimpses of the old grey building with its bristling
Tudor chimneys, but the drive ran through a dense shrubbery, and
I saw no more of my man.
However, it seemed to me that I had done a fairly good morning’s
work, and I walked back in high spirits to Farnham. The local
house agent could tell me nothing about Charlington Hall, and
referred me to a well-known firm in Pall Mall. There I halted on
my way home, and met with courtesy from the representative. No, I
could not have Charlington Hall for the summer. I was just too
late. It had been let about a month ago. Mr. Williamson was the
name of the tenant. He was a respectable, elderly gentleman. The
polite agent was afraid he could say no more, as the affairs of
his clients were not matters which he could discuss.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes listened with attention to the long report
which I was able to present to him that evening, but it did not
elicit that word of curt praise which I had hoped for and should
have valued. On the contrary, his austere face was even more
severe than usual as he commented upon the things that I had done
and the things that I had not.
“Your hiding-place, my dear Watson, was very faulty. You should
have been behind the hedge, then you would have had a close view
of this interesting person. As it is, you were some hundreds of
yards away and can tell me even less than Miss Smith. She thinks
she does not know the man; I am convinced she does. Why,
otherwise, should he be so desperately anxious that she should
not get so near him as to see his features? You describe him as
bending over the handle-bar. Concealment again, you see. You
really have done remarkably badly. He returns to the house, and
you want to find out who he is. You come to a London house
agent!”
“What should I have done?” I cried, with some heat.
“Gone to the nearest public-house. That is the centre of country
gossip. They would have told you every name, from the master to
the scullery-maid. Williamson? It conveys nothing to my mind. If
he is an elderly man he is not this active cyclist who sprints
away from that young lady’s athletic pursuit. What have we gained
by your expedition? The knowledge that the girl’s story is true.
I never doubted it. That there is a connection between the
cyclist and the Hall. I never doubted that either. That the Hall
is tenanted by Williamson. Who’s the better for that? Well, well,
my dear sir, don’t look so depressed. We can do little more until
next Saturday, and in the meantime I may make one or two
inquiries myself.”
Next morning, we had a note from Miss Smith, recounting shortly
and accurately the very incidents which I had seen, but the pith
of the letter lay in the postscript:
“I am sure that you will respect my confidence, Mr. Holmes, when
I tell you that my place here has become difficult, owing to the
fact that my employer has proposed marriage to me. I am convinced
that his feelings are most deep and most honourable. At the same
time, my promise is of course given. He took my refusal very
seriously, but also very gently. You can understand, however,
that the situation is a little strained.”
“Our young friend seems to be getting into deep waters,” said
Holmes, thoughtfully, as he finished the letter. “The case
certainly presents more features of interest and more possibility
of development than I had originally thought. I should be none
the worse for a quiet, peaceful day in the country, and I am
inclined to run down this afternoon and test one or two theories
which I have formed.”
Holmes’s quiet day in the country had a singular termination, for
he arrived at Baker Street late in the evening, with a cut lip
and a discoloured lump upon his forehead, besides a general air
of dissipation which would have made his own person the fitting
object of a Scotland Yard investigation. He was immensely tickled
by his own adventures and laughed heartily as he recounted them.
“I get so little active exercise that it is always a treat,” said
he. “You are aware that I have some proficiency in the good old
British sport of boxing. Occasionally, it is of service; to-day,
for example, I should have come to very ignominious grief without
it.”