We have had some dramatic entrances and exits upon our small
stage at Baker Street, but I cannot recollect anything more
sudden and startling than the first appearance of Thorneycroft
Huxtable, M.A., Ph.D., etc. His card, which seemed too small to
carry the weight of his academic distinctions, preceded him by a
few seconds, and then he entered himself—so large, so pompous,
and so dignified that he was the very embodiment of
self-possession and solidity. And yet his first action, when the
door had closed behind him, was to stagger against the table,
whence he slipped down upon the floor, and there was that
majestic figure prostrate and insensible upon our bearskin
hearth-rug.
We had sprung to our feet, and for a few moments we stared in
silent amazement at this ponderous piece of wreckage, which told
of some sudden and fatal storm far out on the ocean of life. Then
Holmes hurried with a cushion for his head, and I with brandy for
his lips. The heavy, white face was seamed with lines of trouble,
the hanging pouches under the closed eyes were leaden in colour,
the loose mouth drooped dolorously at the corners, the rolling
chins were unshaven. Collar and shirt bore the grime of a long
journey, and the hair bristled unkempt from the well-shaped head.
It was a sorely stricken man who lay before us.
“What is it, Watson?” asked Holmes.
“Absolute exhaustion—possibly mere hunger and fatigue,” said I,
with my finger on the thready pulse, where the stream of life
trickled thin and small.
“Return ticket from Mackleton, in the north of England,” said
Holmes, drawing it from the watch-pocket. “It is not twelve
o’clock yet. He has certainly been an early starter.”
The puckered eyelids had begun to quiver, and now a pair of
vacant grey eyes looked up at us. An instant later the man had
scrambled on to his feet, his face crimson with shame.
“Forgive this weakness, Mr. Holmes, I have been a little
overwrought. Thank you, if I might have a glass of milk and a
biscuit, I have no doubt that I should be better. I came
personally, Mr. Holmes, in order to insure that you would return
with me. I feared that no telegram would convince you of the
absolute urgency of the case.”
“When you are quite restored——”
“I am quite well again. I cannot imagine how I came to be so
weak. I wish you, Mr. Holmes, to come to Mackleton with me by the
next train.”
My friend shook his head.
“My colleague, Dr. Watson, could tell you that we are very busy
at present. I am retained in this case of the Ferrers Documents,
and the Abergavenny murder is coming up for trial. Only a very
important issue could call me from London at present.”
“Important!” Our visitor threw up his hands. “Have you heard
nothing of the abduction of the only son of the Duke of
Holdernesse?”
“What! the late Cabinet Minister?”
“Exactly. We had tried to keep it out of the papers, but there
was some rumour in the _Globe_ last night. I thought it might
have reached your ears.”
Holmes shot out his long, thin arm and picked out Volume “H” in
his encyclopædia of reference.
“‘Holdernesse, 6th Duke, K.G., P.C.’—half the alphabet! ‘Baron
Beverley, Earl of Carston’—dear me, what a list! ‘Lord Lieutenant
of Hallamshire since 1900. Married Edith, daughter of Sir Charles
Appledore, 1888. Heir and only child, Lord Saltire. Owns about
two hundred and fifty thousand acres. Minerals in Lancashire and
Wales. Address: Carlton House Terrace; Holdernesse Hall,
Hallamshire; Carston Castle, Bangor, Wales. Lord of the
Admiralty, 1872; Chief Secretary of State for——’ Well, well, this
man is certainly one of the greatest subjects of the Crown!”
“The greatest and perhaps the wealthiest. I am aware, Mr. Holmes,
that you take a very high line in professional matters, and that
you are prepared to work for the work’s sake. I may tell you,
however, that his Grace has already intimated that a check for
five thousand pounds will be handed over to the person who can
tell him where his son is, and another thousand to him who can
name the man or men who have taken him.”
“It is a princely offer,” said Holmes. “Watson, I think that we
shall accompany Dr. Huxtable back to the north of England. And
now, Dr. Huxtable, when you have consumed that milk, you will
kindly tell me what has happened, when it happened, how it
happened, and, finally, what Dr. Thorneycroft Huxtable, of the
Priory School, near Mackleton, has to do with the matter, and why
he comes three days after an event—the state of your chin gives
the date—to ask for my humble services.”
Our visitor had consumed his milk and biscuits. The light had
come back to his eyes and the colour to his cheeks, as he set
himself with great vigour and lucidity to explain the situation.
“I must inform you, gentlemen, that the Priory is a preparatory
school, of which I am the founder and principal. _Huxtable’s
Sidelights on Horace_ may possibly recall my name to your
memories. The Priory is, without exception, the best and most
select preparatory school in England. Lord Leverstoke, the Earl
of Blackwater, Sir Cathcart Soames—they all have intrusted their
sons to me. But I felt that my school had reached its zenith
when, weeks ago, the Duke of Holdernesse sent Mr. James Wilder,
his secretary, with intimation that young Lord Saltire, ten years
old, his only son and heir, was about to be committed to my
charge. Little did I think that this would be the prelude to the
most crushing misfortune of my life.
“On May 1st the boy arrived, that being the beginning of the
summer term. He was a charming youth, and he soon fell into our
ways. I may tell you—I trust that I am not indiscreet, but
half-confidences are absurd in such a case—that he was not
entirely happy at home. It is an open secret that the Duke’s
married life had not been a peaceful one, and the matter had
ended in a separation by mutual consent, the Duchess taking up
her residence in the south of France. This had occurred very
shortly before, and the boy’s sympathies are known to have been
strongly with his mother. He moped after her departure from
Holdernesse Hall, and it was for this reason that the Duke
desired to send him to my establishment. In a fortnight the boy
was quite at home with us and was apparently absolutely happy.
“He was last seen on the night of May 13th—that is, the night of
last Monday. His room was on the second floor and was approached
through another larger room, in which two boys were sleeping.
These boys saw and heard nothing, so that it is certain that
young Saltire did not pass out that way. His window was open, and
there is a stout ivy plant leading to the ground. We could trace
no footmarks below, but it is sure that this is the only possible
exit.
“His absence was discovered at seven o’clock on Tuesday morning.
His bed had been slept in. He had dressed himself fully, before
going off, in his usual school suit of black Eton jacket and dark
grey trousers. There were no signs that anyone had entered the
room, and it is quite certain that anything in the nature of
cries or a struggle would have been heard, since Caunter, the
elder boy in the inner room, is a very light sleeper.
“When Lord Saltire’s disappearance was discovered, I at once
called a roll of the whole establishment—boys, masters, and
servants. It was then that we ascertained that Lord Saltire had
not been alone in his flight. Heidegger, the German master, was
missing. His room was on the second floor, at the farther end of
the building, facing the same way as Lord Saltire’s. His bed had
also been slept in, but he had apparently gone away partly
dressed, since his shirt and socks were lying on the floor. He
had undoubtedly let himself down by the ivy, for we could see the
marks of his feet where he had landed on the lawn. His bicycle
was kept in a small shed beside this lawn, and it also was gone.
“He had been with me for two years, and came with the best
references, but he was a silent, morose man, not very popular
either with masters or boys. No trace could be found of the
fugitives, and now, on Thursday morning, we are as ignorant as we
were on Tuesday. Inquiry was, of course, made at once at
Holdernesse Hall. It is only a few miles away, and we imagined
that, in some sudden attack of homesickness, he had gone back to
his father, but nothing had been heard of him. The Duke is
greatly agitated, and, as to me, you have seen yourselves the
state of nervous prostration to which the suspense and the
responsibility have reduced me. Mr. Holmes, if ever you put
forward your full powers, I implore you to do so now, for never
in your life could you have a case which is more worthy of them.”
Sherlock Holmes had listened with the utmost intentness to the
statement of the unhappy schoolmaster. His drawn brows and the
deep furrow between them showed that he needed no exhortation to
concentrate all his attention upon a problem which, apart from
the tremendous interests involved must appeal so directly to his
love of the complex and the unusual. He now drew out his notebook
and jotted down one or two memoranda.
“You have been very remiss in not coming to me sooner,” said he,
severely. “You start me on my investigation with a very serious
handicap. It is inconceivable, for example, that this ivy and
this lawn would have yielded nothing to an expert observer.”
“I am not to blame, Mr. Holmes. His Grace was extremely desirous
to avoid all public scandal. He was afraid of his family
unhappiness being dragged before the world. He has a deep horror
of anything of the kind.”
“But there has been some official investigation?”
“Yes, sir, and it has proved most disappointing. An apparent clue
was at once obtained, since a boy and a young man were reported
to have been seen leaving a neighbouring station by an early
train. Only last night we had news that the couple had been
hunted down in Liverpool, and they prove to have no connection
whatever with the matter in hand. Then it was that in my despair
and disappointment, after a sleepless night, I came straight to
you by the early train.”
“I suppose the local investigation was relaxed while this false
clue was being followed up?”
“It was entirely dropped.”
“So that three days have been wasted. The affair has been most
deplorably handled.”
“I feel it and admit it.”
“And yet the problem should be capable of ultimate solution. I
shall be very happy to look into it. Have you been able to trace
any connection between the missing boy and this German master?”
“None at all.”
“Was he in the master’s class?”
“No, he never exchanged a word with him, so far as I know.”
“That is certainly very singular. Had the boy a bicycle?”
“No.”
“Was any other bicycle missing?”
“No.”
“Is that certain?”
“Quite.”
“Well, now, you do not mean to seriously suggest that this German
rode off upon a bicycle in the dead of the night, bearing the boy
in his arms?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then what is the theory in your mind?”
“The bicycle may have been a blind. It may have been hidden
somewhere, and the pair gone off on foot.”
“Quite so, but it seems rather an absurd blind, does it not? Were
there other bicycles in this shed?”
“Several.”
“Would he not have hidden _a couple_, had he desired to give the
idea that they had gone off upon them?”
“I suppose he would.”
“Of course he would. The blind theory won’t do. But the incident
is an admirable starting-point for an investigation. After all, a
bicycle is not an easy thing to conceal or to destroy. One other
question. Did anyone call to see the boy on the day before he
disappeared?”
“No.”
“Did he get any letters?”
“Yes, one letter.”
“From whom?”
“From his father.”
“Do you open the boys’ letters?”
“No.”
“How do you know it was from the father?”
“The coat of arms was on the envelope, and it was addressed in
the Duke’s peculiar stiff hand. Besides, the Duke remembers
having written.”
“When had he a letter before that?”
“Not for several days.”
“Had he ever one from France?”
“No, never.”
“You see the point of my questions, of course. Either the boy was
carried off by force or he went of his own free will. In the
latter case, you would expect that some prompting from outside
would be needed to make so young a lad do such a thing. If he has
had no visitors, that prompting must have come in letters; hence
I try to find out who were his correspondents.”
“I fear I cannot help you much. His only correspondent, so far as
I know, was his own father.”
“Who wrote to him on the very day of his disappearance. Were the
relations between father and son very friendly?”
“His Grace is never very friendly with anyone. He is completely
immersed in large public questions, and is rather inaccessible to
all ordinary emotions. But he was always kind to the boy in his
own way.”
“But the sympathies of the latter were with the mother?”
“Yes.”
“Did he say so?”
“No.”
“The Duke, then?”
“Good Heavens, no!”
“Then how could you know?”
“I have had some confidential talks with Mr. James Wilder, his
Grace’s secretary. It was he who gave me the information about
Lord Saltire’s feelings.”
“I see. By the way, that last letter of the Duke’s—was it found
in the boy’s room after he was gone?”
“No, he had taken it with him. I think, Mr. Holmes, it is time
that we were leaving for Euston.”
“I will order a four-wheeler. In a quarter of an hour, we shall
be at your service. If you are telegraphing home, Mr. Huxtable,
it would be well to allow the people in your neighbourhood to
imagine that the inquiry is still going on in Liverpool, or
wherever else that red herring led your pack. In the meantime I
will do a little quiet work at your own doors, and perhaps the
scent is not so cold but that two old hounds like Watson and
myself may get a sniff of it.”
That evening found us in the cold, bracing atmosphere of the Peak
country, in which Dr. Huxtable’s famous school is situated. It
was already dark when we reached it. A card was lying on the hall
table, and the butler whispered something to his master, who
turned to us with agitation in every heavy feature.
“The Duke is here,” said he. “The Duke and Mr. Wilder are in the
study. Come, gentlemen, and I will introduce you.”
I was, of course, familiar with the pictures of the famous
statesman, but the man himself was very different from his
representation. He was a tall and stately person, scrupulously
dressed, with a drawn, thin face, and a nose which was
grotesquely curved and long. His complexion was of a dead pallor,
which was more startling by contrast with a long, dwindling beard
of vivid red, which flowed down over his white waistcoat with his
watch-chain gleaming through its fringe. Such was the stately
presence who looked stonily at us from the centre of Dr.
Huxtable’s hearthrug. Beside him stood a very young man, whom I
understood to be Wilder, the private secretary. He was small,
nervous, alert with intelligent light-blue eyes and mobile
features. It was he who at once, in an incisive and positive
tone, opened the conversation.
“I called this morning, Dr. Huxtable, too late to prevent you
from starting for London. I learned that your object was to
invite Mr. Sherlock Holmes to undertake the conduct of this case.
His Grace is surprised, Dr. Huxtable, that you should have taken
such a step without consulting him.”
“When I learned that the police had failed——”
“His Grace is by no means convinced that the police have failed.”
“But surely, Mr. Wilder——”
“You are well aware, Dr. Huxtable, that his Grace is particularly
anxious to avoid all public scandal. He prefers to take as few
people as possible into his confidence.”
“The matter can be easily remedied,” said the brow-beaten doctor;
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes can return to London by the morning train.”
“Hardly that, Doctor, hardly that,” said Holmes, in his blandest
voice. “This northern air is invigorating and pleasant, so I
propose to spend a few days upon your moors, and to occupy my
mind as best I may. Whether I have the shelter of your roof or of
the village inn is, of course, for you to decide.”
I could see that the unfortunate doctor was in the last stage of
indecision, from which he was rescued by the deep, sonorous voice
of the red-bearded Duke, which boomed out like a dinner-gong.
“I agree with Mr. Wilder, Dr. Huxtable, that you would have done
wisely to consult me. But since Mr. Holmes has already been taken
into your confidence, it would indeed be absurd that we should
not avail ourselves of his services. Far from going to the inn,
Mr. Holmes, I should be pleased if you would come and stay with
me at Holdernesse Hall.”
“I thank your Grace. For the purposes of my investigation, I
think that it would be wiser for me to remain at the scene of the
mystery.”
“Just as you like, Mr. Holmes. Any information which Mr. Wilder
or I can give you is, of course, at your disposal.”
“It will probably be necessary for me to see you at the Hall,”
said Holmes. “I would only ask you now, sir, whether you have
formed any explanation in your own mind as to the mysterious
disappearance of your son?”
“No, sir, I have not.”
“Excuse me if I allude to that which is painful to you, but I
have no alternative. Do you think that the Duchess had anything
to do with the matter?”
The great minister showed perceptible hesitation.
“I do not think so,” he said, at last.
“The other most obvious explanation is that the child has been
kidnapped for the purpose of levying ransom. You have not had any
demand of the sort?”
“No, sir.”
“One more question, your Grace. I understand that you wrote to
your son upon the day when this incident occurred.”
“No, I wrote upon the day before.”
“Exactly. But he received it on that day?”
“Yes.”
“Was there anything in your letter which might have unbalanced
him or induced him to take such a step?”
“No, sir, certainly not.”
“Did you post that letter yourself?”
The nobleman’s reply was interrupted by his secretary, who broke
in with some heat.
“His Grace is not in the habit of posting letters himself,” said
he. “This letter was laid with others upon the study table, and I
myself put them in the post-bag.”
“You are sure this one was among them?”
“Yes, I observed it.”
“How many letters did your Grace write that day?”
“Twenty or thirty. I have a large correspondence. But surely this
is somewhat irrelevant?”
“Not entirely,” said Holmes.
“For my own part,” the Duke continued, “I have advised the police
to turn their attention to the south of France. I have already
said that I do not believe that the Duchess would encourage so
monstrous an action, but the lad had the most wrong-headed
opinions, and it is possible that he may have fled to her, aided
and abetted by this German. I think, Dr. Huxtable, that we will
now return to the Hall.”
I could see that there were other questions which Holmes would
have wished to put, but the nobleman’s abrupt manner showed that
the interview was at an end. It was evident that to his intensely
aristocratic nature this discussion of his intimate family
affairs with a stranger was most abhorrent, and that he feared
lest every fresh question would throw a fiercer light into the
discreetly shadowed corners of his ducal history.
When the nobleman and his secretary had left, my friend flung
himself at once with characteristic eagerness into the
investigation.
The boy’s chamber was carefully examined, and yielded nothing
save the absolute conviction that it was only through the window
that he could have escaped. The German master’s room and effects
gave no further clue. In his case a trailer of ivy had given way
under his weight, and we saw by the light of a lantern the mark
on the lawn where his heels had come down. That one dint in the
short, green grass was the only material witness left of this
inexplicable nocturnal flight.
Sherlock Holmes left the house alone, and only returned after
eleven. He had obtained a large ordnance map of the
neighbourhood, and this he brought into my room, where he laid it
out on the bed, and, having balanced the lamp in the middle of
it, he began to smoke over it, and occasionally to point out
objects of interest with the reeking amber of his pipe.
“This case grows upon me, Watson,” said he. “There are decidedly
some points of interest in connection with it. In this early
stage, I want you to realize those geographical features which
may have a good deal to do with our investigation.