“I found that country pub which I had already recommended to your
notice, and there I made my discreet inquiries. I was in the bar,
and a garrulous landlord was giving me all that I wanted.
Williamson is a white-bearded man, and he lives alone with a
small staff of servants at the Hall. There is some rumour that he
is or has been a clergyman, but one or two incidents of his short
residence at the Hall struck me as peculiarly unecclesiastical. I
have already made some inquiries at a clerical agency, and they
tell me that there _was_ a man of that name in orders, whose
career has been a singularly dark one. The landlord further
informed me that there are usually week-end visitors—‘a warm lot,
sir’—at the Hall, and especially one gentleman with a red
moustache, Mr. Woodley by name, who was always there. We had got
as far as this, when who should walk in but the gentleman
himself, who had been drinking his beer in the tap-room and had
heard the whole conversation. Who was I? What did I want? What
did I mean by asking questions? He had a fine flow of language,
and his adjectives were very vigorous. He ended a string of abuse
by a vicious backhander, which I failed to entirely avoid. The
next few minutes were delicious. It was a straight left against a
slogging ruffian. I emerged as you see me. Mr. Woodley went home
in a cart. So ended my country trip, and it must be confessed
that, however enjoyable, my day on the Surrey border has not been
much more profitable than your own.”
The Thursday brought us another letter from our client.
You will not be surprised, Mr. Holmes (said she), to hear
that I am leaving Mr. Carruthers’s employment. Even the high
pay cannot reconcile me to the discomforts of my situation.
On Saturday I come up to town, and I do not intend to return.
Mr. Carruthers has got a trap, and so the dangers of the
lonely road, if there ever were any dangers, are now over.
As to the special cause of my leaving, it is not merely the
strained situation with Mr. Carruthers, but it is the
reappearance of that odious man, Mr. Woodley. He was always
hideous, but he looks more awful than ever now, for he appears to
have had an accident and he is much disfigured. I saw him out of
the window, but I am glad to say I did not meet him. He had a
long talk with Mr. Carruthers, who seemed much excited
afterwards. Woodley must be staying in the neighbourhood, for he
did not sleep here, and yet I caught a glimpse of him again this
morning, slinking about in the shrubbery. I would sooner have a
savage wild animal loose about the place. I loathe and fear him
more than I can say. How _can_ Mr. Carruthers endure such a
creature for a moment? However, all my troubles will be over on
Saturday.
“So I trust, Watson, so I trust,” said Holmes, gravely. “There is
some deep intrigue going on round that little woman, and it is
our duty to see that no one molests her upon that last journey. I
think, Watson, that we must spare time to run down together on
Saturday morning and make sure that this curious and inclusive
investigation has no untoward ending.”
I confess that I had not up to now taken a very serious view of
the case, which had seemed to me rather grotesque and bizarre
than dangerous. That a man should lie in wait for and follow a
very handsome woman is no unheard-of thing, and if he has so
little audacity that he not only dared not address her, but even
fled from her approach, he was not a very formidable assailant.
The ruffian Woodley was a very different person, but, except on
one occasion, he had not molested our client, and now he visited
the house of Carruthers without intruding upon her presence. The
man on the bicycle was doubtless a member of those week-end
parties at the Hall of which the publican had spoken, but who he
was, or what he wanted, was as obscure as ever. It was the
severity of Holmes’s manner and the fact that he slipped a
revolver into his pocket before leaving our rooms which impressed
me with the feeling that tragedy might prove to lurk behind this
curious train of events.
A rainy night had been followed by a glorious morning, and the
heath-covered countryside, with the glowing clumps of flowering
gorse, seemed all the more beautiful to eyes which were weary of
the duns and drabs and slate greys of London. Holmes and I walked
along the broad, sandy road inhaling the fresh morning air and
rejoicing in the music of the birds and the fresh breath of the
spring. From a rise of the road on the shoulder of Crooksbury
Hill, we could see the grim Hall bristling out from amidst the
ancient oaks, which, old as they were, were still younger than
the building which they surrounded. Holmes pointed down the long
tract of road which wound, a reddish yellow band, between the
brown of the heath and the budding green of the woods. Far away,
a black dot, we could see a vehicle moving in our direction.
Holmes gave an exclamation of impatience.
“I have given a margin of half an hour,” said he. “If that is her
trap, she must be making for the earlier train. I fear, Watson,
that she will be past Charlington before we can possibly meet
her.”
From the instant that we passed the rise, we could no longer see
the vehicle, but we hastened onward at such a pace that my
sedentary life began to tell upon me, and I was compelled to fall
behind. Holmes, however, was always in training, for he had
inexhaustible stores of nervous energy upon which to draw. His
springy step never slowed until suddenly, when he was a hundred
yards in front of me, he halted, and I saw him throw up his hand
with a gesture of grief and despair. At the same instant an empty
dog-cart, the horse cantering, the reins trailing, appeared round
the curve of the road and rattled swiftly towards us.
“Too late, Watson, too late!” cried Holmes, as I ran panting to
his side. “Fool that I was not to allow for that earlier train!
It’s abduction, Watson—abduction! Murder! Heaven knows what!
Block the road! Stop the horse! That’s right. Now, jump in, and
let us see if I can repair the consequences of my own blunder.”
We had sprung into the dog-cart, and Holmes, after turning the
horse, gave it a sharp cut with the whip, and we flew back along
the road. As we turned the curve, the whole stretch of road
between the Hall and the heath was opened up. I grasped Holmes’s
arm.
“That’s the man!” I gasped.
A solitary cyclist was coming towards us. His head was down and
his shoulders rounded, as he put every ounce of energy that he
possessed on to the pedals. He was flying like a racer. Suddenly
he raised his bearded face, saw us close to him, and pulled up,
springing from his machine. That coal-black beard was in singular
contrast to the pallor of his face, and his eyes were as bright
as if he had a fever. He stared at us and at the dog-cart. Then a
look of amazement came over his face.
“Halloa! Stop there!” he shouted, holding his bicycle to block
our road. “Where did you get that dog-cart? Pull up, man!” he
yelled, drawing a pistol from his side pocket. “Pull up, I say,
or, by George, I’ll put a bullet into your horse.”
Holmes threw the reins into my lap and sprang down from the cart.
“You’re the man we want to see. Where is Miss Violet Smith?” he
said, in his quick, clear way.
“That’s what I’m asking you. You’re in her dog-cart. You ought to
know where she is.”
“We met the dog-cart on the road. There was no one in it. We
drove back to help the young lady.”
“Good Lord! Good Lord! What shall I do?” cried the stranger, in
an ecstasy of despair. “They’ve got her, that hell-hound Woodley
and the blackguard parson. Come, man, come, if you really are her
friend. Stand by me and we’ll save her, if I have to leave my
carcass in Charlington Wood.”
He ran distractedly, his pistol in his hand, towards a gap in the
hedge. Holmes followed him, and I, leaving the horse grazing
beside the road, followed Holmes.
“This is where they came through,” said he, pointing to the marks
of several feet upon the muddy path. “Halloa! Stop a minute!
Who’s this in the bush?”
It was a young fellow about seventeen, dressed like an ostler,
with leather cords and gaiters. He lay upon his back, his knees
drawn up, a terrible cut upon his head. He was insensible, but
alive. A glance at his wound told me that it had not penetrated
the bone.
“That’s Peter, the groom,” cried the stranger. “He drove her. The
beasts have pulled him off and clubbed him. Let him lie; we can’t
do him any good, but we may save her from the worst fate that can
befall a woman.”
We ran frantically down the path, which wound among the trees. We
had reached the shrubbery which surrounded the house when Holmes
pulled up.
“They didn’t go to the house. Here are their marks on the
left—here, beside the laurel bushes. Ah! I said so.”
As he spoke, a woman’s shrill scream—a scream which vibrated with
a frenzy of horror—burst from the thick, green clump of bushes in
front of us. It ended suddenly on its highest note with a choke
and a gurgle.
“This way! This way! They are in the bowling-alley,” cried the
stranger, darting through the bushes. “Ah, the cowardly dogs!
Follow me, gentlemen! Too late! too late! by the living Jingo!”
We had broken suddenly into a lovely glade of greensward
surrounded by ancient trees. On the farther side of it, under the
shadow of a mighty oak, there stood a singular group of three
people. One was a woman, our client, drooping and faint, a
handkerchief round her mouth. Opposite her stood a brutal,
heavy-faced, red-moustached young man, his gaitered legs parted
wide, one arm akimbo, the other waving a riding crop, his whole
attitude suggestive of triumphant bravado. Between them an
elderly, grey-bearded man, wearing a short surplice over a light
tweed suit, had evidently just completed the wedding service, for
he pocketed his prayer-book as we appeared, and slapped the
sinister bridegroom upon the back in jovial congratulation.
“They’re married!” I gasped.
“Come on!” cried our guide, “come on!” He rushed across the
glade, Holmes and I at his heels. As we approached, the lady
staggered against the trunk of the tree for support. Williamson,
the ex-clergyman, bowed to us with mock politeness, and the
bully, Woodley, advanced with a shout of brutal and exultant
laughter.
“You can take your beard off, Bob,” said he. “I know you, right
enough. Well, you and your pals have just come in time for me to
be able to introduce you to Mrs. Woodley.”
Our guide’s answer was a singular one. He snatched off the dark
beard which had disguised him and threw it on the ground,
disclosing a long, sallow, clean-shaven face below it. Then he
raised his revolver and covered the young ruffian, who was
advancing upon him with his dangerous riding-crop swinging in his
hand.
“Yes,” said our ally, “I _am_ Bob Carruthers, and I’ll see this
woman righted, if I have to swing for it. I told you what I’d do
if you molested her, and, by the Lord! I’ll be as good as my
word.”
“You’re too late. She’s my wife.”
“No, she’s your widow.”
His revolver cracked, and I saw the blood spurt from the front of
Woodley’s waistcoat. He spun round with a scream and fell upon
his back, his hideous red face turning suddenly to a dreadful
mottled pallor. The old man, still clad in his surplice, burst
into such a string of foul oaths as I have never heard, and
pulled out a revolver of his own, but, before he could raise it,
he was looking down the barrel of Holmes’s weapon.
“Enough of this,” said my friend, coldly. “Drop that pistol!
Watson, pick it up! Hold it to his head. Thank you. You,
Carruthers, give me that revolver. We’ll have no more violence.
Come, hand it over!”
“Who are you, then?”
“My name is Sherlock Holmes.”
“Good Lord!”
“You have heard of me, I see. I will represent the official
police until their arrival. Here, you!” he shouted to a
frightened groom, who had appeared at the edge of the glade.
“Come here. Take this note as hard as you can ride to Farnham.”
He scribbled a few words upon a leaf from his notebook. “Give it
to the superintendent at the police-station. Until he comes, I
must detain you all under my personal custody.”
The strong, masterful personality of Holmes dominated the tragic
scene, and all were equally puppets in his hands. Williamson and
Carruthers found themselves carrying the wounded Woodley into the
house, and I gave my arm to the frightened girl. The injured man
was laid on his bed, and at Holmes’s request I examined him. I
carried my report to where he sat in the old tapestry-hung
dining-room with his two prisoners before him.
“He will live,” said I.
“What!” cried Carruthers, springing out of his chair. “I’ll go
upstairs and finish him first. Do you tell me that that angel, is
to be tied to Roaring Jack Woodley for life?”
“You need not concern yourself about that,” said Holmes. “There
are two very good reasons why she should, under no circumstances,
be his wife. In the first place, we are very safe in questioning
Mr. Williamson’s right to solemnize a marriage.”
“I have been ordained,” cried the old rascal.
“And also unfrocked.”
“Once a clergyman, always a clergyman.”
“I think not. How about the license?”
“We had a license for the marriage. I have it here in my pocket.”
“Then you got it by trick. But, in any case a forced marriage is
no marriage, but it is a very serious felony, as you will
discover before you have finished. You’ll have time to think the
point out during the next ten years or so, unless I am mistaken.
As to you, Carruthers, you would have done better to keep your
pistol in your pocket.”
“I begin to think so, Mr. Holmes, but when I thought of all the
precaution I had taken to shield this girl—for I loved her, Mr.
Holmes, and it is the only time that ever I knew what love was—it
fairly drove me mad to think that she was in the power of the
greatest brute and bully in South Africa—a man whose name is a
holy terror from Kimberley to Johannesburg. Why, Mr. Holmes,
you’ll hardly believe it, but ever since that girl has been in my
employment I never once let her go past this house, where I knew
the rascals were lurking, without following her on my bicycle,
just to see that she came to no harm. I kept my distance from
her, and I wore a beard, so that she should not recognize me, for
she is a good and high-spirited girl, and she wouldn’t have
stayed in my employment long if she had thought that I was
following her about the country roads.”
“Why didn’t you tell her of her danger?”
“Because then, again, she would have left me, and I couldn’t bear
to face that. Even if she couldn’t love me, it was a great deal
to me just to see her dainty form about the house, and to hear
the sound of her voice.”
“Well,” said I, “you call that love, Mr. Carruthers, but I should
call it selfishness.”
“Maybe the two things go together. Anyhow, I couldn’t let her go.
Besides, with this crowd about, it was well that she should have
someone near to look after her. Then, when the cable came, I knew
they were bound to make a move.”
“What cable?”
Carruthers took a telegram from his pocket.
“That’s it,” said he.
It was short and concise:
The old man is dead.
“Hum!” said Holmes. “I think I see how things worked, and I can
understand how this message would, as you say, bring them to a
head. But while you wait, you might tell me what you can.”
The old reprobate with the surplice burst into a volley of bad
language.
“By heaven!” said he, “if you squeal on us, Bob Carruthers, I’ll
serve you as you served Jack Woodley. You can bleat about the
girl to your heart’s content, for that’s your own affair, but if
you round on your pals to this plain-clothes copper, it will be
the worst day’s work that ever you did.”
“Your reverence need not be excited,” said Holmes, lighting a
cigarette. “The case is clear enough against you, and all I ask
is a few details for my private curiosity. However, if there’s
any difficulty in your telling me, I’ll do the talking, and then
you will see how far you have a chance of holding back your
secrets. In the first place, three of you came from South Africa
on this game—you Williamson, you Carruthers, and Woodley.”
“Lie number one,” said the old man; “I never saw either of them
until two months ago, and I have never been in Africa in my life,
so you can put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr. Busybody
Holmes!”
“What he says is true,” said Carruthers.
“Well, well, two of you came over. His reverence is our own
homemade article. You had known Ralph Smith in South Africa. You
had reason to believe he would not live long. You found out that
his niece would inherit his fortune. How’s that—eh?”
Carruthers nodded and Williamson swore.
“She was next of kin, no doubt, and you were aware that the old
fellow would make no will.”
“Couldn’t read or write,” said Carruthers.
“So you came over, the two of you, and hunted up the girl. The
idea was that one of you was to marry her, and the other have a
share of the plunder. For some reason, Woodley was chosen as the
husband. Why was that?”
“We played cards for her on the voyage. He won.”
“I see. You got the young lady into your service, and there
Woodley was to do the courting. She recognized the drunken brute
that he was, and would have nothing to do with him. Meanwhile,
your arrangement was rather upset by the fact that you had
yourself fallen in love with the lady. You could no longer bear
the idea of this ruffian owning her?”
“No, by George, I couldn’t!”
“There was a quarrel between you. He left you in a rage, and
began to make his own plans independently of you.”
“It strikes me, Williamson, there isn’t very much that we can
tell this gentleman,” cried Carruthers, with a bitter laugh.
“Yes, we quarreled, and he knocked me down. I am level with him
on that, anyhow. Then I lost sight of him. That was when he
picked up with this outcast padre here. I found that they had set
up housekeeping together at this place on the line that she had
to pass for the station. I kept my eye on her after that, for I
knew there was some devilry in the wind. I saw them from time to
time, for I was anxious to know what they were after. Two days
ago Woodley came up to my house with this cable, which showed
that Ralph Smith was dead. He asked me if I would stand by the
bargain. I said I would not. He asked me if I would marry the
girl myself and give him a share. I said I would willingly do so,
but that she would not have me. He said, ‘Let us get her married
first and after a week or two she may see things a bit
different.’ I said I would have nothing to do with violence. So
he went off cursing, like the foul-mouthed blackguard that he
was, and swearing that he would have her yet. She was leaving me
this week-end, and I had got a trap to take her to the station,
but I was so uneasy in my mind that I followed her on my bicycle.
She had got a start, however, and before I could catch her, the
mischief was done. The first thing I knew about it was when I saw
you two gentlemen driving back in her dog-cart.”
Holmes rose and tossed the end of his cigarette into the grate.
“I have been very obtuse, Watson,” said he. “When in your report
you said that you had seen the cyclist as you thought arrange his
necktie in the shrubbery, that alone should have told me all.
However, we may congratulate ourselves upon a curious and, in
some respects, a unique case. I perceive three of the county
constabulary in the drive, and I am glad to see that the little
ostler is able to keep pace with them, so it is likely that
neither he nor the interesting bridegroom will be permanently
damaged by their morning’s adventures. I think, Watson, that in
your medical capacity, you might wait upon Miss Smith and tell
her that if she is sufficiently recovered, we shall be happy to
escort her to her mother’s home. If she is not quite convalescent
you will find that a hint that we were about to telegraph to a
young electrician in the Midlands would probably complete the
cure. As to you, Mr. Carruthers, I think that you have done what
you could to make amends for your share in an evil plot. There is
my card, sir, and if my evidence can be of help in your trial, it
shall be at your disposal.”
In the whirl of our incessant activity, it has often been
difficult for me, as the reader has probably observed, to round
off my narratives, and to give those final details which the
curious might expect. Each case has been the prelude to another,
and the crisis once over, the actors have passed for ever out of
our busy lives. I find, however, a short note at the end of my
manuscript dealing with this case, in which I have put it upon
record that Miss Violet Smith did indeed inherit a large fortune,
and that she is now the wife of Cyril Morton, the senior partner
of Morton & Kennedy, the famous Westminster electricians.
Williamson and Woodley were both tried for abduction and assault,
the former getting seven years and the latter ten. Of the fate of
Carruthers, I have no record, but I am sure that his assault was
not viewed very gravely by the court, since Woodley had the
reputation of being a most dangerous ruffian, and I think that a
few months were sufficient to satisfy the demands of justice.