“Look at this map. This dark square is the Priory School. I’ll
put a pin in it. Now, this line is the main road. You see that it
runs east and west past the school, and you see also that there
is no side road for a mile either way. If these two folk passed
away by road, it was _this_ road.”
“Exactly.”
“By a singular and happy chance, we are able to some extent to
check what passed along this road during the night in question.
At this point, where my pipe is now resting, a county constable
was on duty from twelve to six. It is, as you perceive, the first
cross-road on the east side. This man declares that he was not
absent from his post for an instant, and he is positive that
neither boy nor man could have gone that way unseen. I have
spoken with this policeman to-night and he appears to me to be a
perfectly reliable person. That blocks this end. We have now to
deal with the other. There is an inn here, the Red Bull, the
landlady of which was ill. She had sent to Mackleton for a
doctor, but he did not arrive until morning, being absent at
another case. The people at the inn were alert all night,
awaiting his coming, and one or other of them seems to have
continually had an eye upon the road. They declare that no one
passed. If their evidence is good, then we are fortunate enough
to be able to block the west, and also to be able to say that the
fugitives did _not_ use the road at all.”
“But the bicycle?” I objected.
“Quite so. We will come to the bicycle presently. To continue our
reasoning: if these people did not go by the road, they must have
traversed the country to the north of the house or to the south
of the house. That is certain. Let us weigh the one against the
other. On the south of the house is, as you perceive, a large
district of arable land, cut up into small fields, with stone
walls between them. There, I admit that a bicycle is impossible.
We can dismiss the idea. We turn to the country on the north.
Here there lies a grove of trees, marked as the ‘Ragged Shaw,’
and on the farther side stretches a great rolling moor, Lower
Gill Moor, extending for ten miles and sloping gradually upward.
Here, at one side of this wilderness, is Holdernesse Hall, ten
miles by road, but only six across the moor. It is a peculiarly
desolate plain. A few moor farmers have small holdings, where
they rear sheep and cattle. Except these, the plover and the
curlew are the only inhabitants until you come to the
Chesterfield high road. There is a church there, you see, a few
cottages, and an inn. Beyond that the hills become precipitous.
Surely it is here to the north that our quest must lie.”
“But the bicycle?” I persisted.
“Well, well!” said Holmes, impatiently. “A good cyclist does not
need a high road. The moor is intersected with paths, and the
moon was at the full. Halloa! what is this?”
There was an agitated knock at the door, and an instant
afterwards Dr. Huxtable was in the room. In his hand he held a
blue cricket-cap with a white chevron on the peak.
“At last we have a clue!” he cried. “Thank heaven! at last we are
on the dear boy’s track! It is his cap.”
“Where was it found?”
“In the van of the gipsies who camped on the moor. They left on
Tuesday. To-day the police traced them down and examined their
caravan. This was found.”
“How do they account for it?”
“They shuffled and lied—said that they found it on the moor on
Tuesday morning. They know where he is, the rascals! Thank
goodness, they are all safe under lock and key. Either the fear
of the law or the Duke’s purse will certainly get out of them all
that they know.”
“So far, so good,” said Holmes, when the doctor had at last left
the room. “It at least bears out the theory that it is on the
side of the Lower Gill Moor that we must hope for results. The
police have really done nothing locally, save the arrest of these
gipsies. Look here, Watson! There is a watercourse across the
moor. You see it marked here in the map. In some parts it widens
into a morass. This is particularly so in the region between
Holdernesse Hall and the school. It is vain to look elsewhere for
tracks in this dry weather, but at _that_ point there is
certainly a chance of some record being left. I will call you
early to-morrow morning, and you and I will try if we can throw
some little light upon the mystery.”
The day was just breaking when I woke to find the long, thin form
of Holmes by my bedside. He was fully dressed, and had apparently
already been out.
“I have done the lawn and the bicycle shed,” said he. “I have
also had a rumble through the Ragged Shaw. Now, Watson, there is
cocoa ready in the next room. I must beg you to hurry, for we
have a great day before us.”
His eyes shone, and his cheek was flushed with the exhilaration
of the master workman who sees his work lie ready before him. A
very different Holmes, this active, alert man, from the
introspective and pallid dreamer of Baker Street. I felt, as I
looked upon that supple figure, alive with nervous energy, that
it was indeed a strenuous day that awaited us.
And yet it opened in the blackest disappointment. With high hopes
we struck across the peaty, russet moor, intersected with a
thousand sheep paths, until we came to the broad, light-green
belt which marked the morass between us and Holdernesse.
Certainly, if the lad had gone homeward, he must have passed
this, and he could not pass it without leaving his traces. But no
sign of him or the German could be seen. With a darkening face my
friend strode along the margin, eagerly observant of every muddy
stain upon the mossy surface. Sheep-marks there were in
profusion, and at one place, some miles down, cows had left their
tracks. Nothing more.
“Check number one,” said Holmes, looking gloomily over the
rolling expanse of the moor. “There is another morass down
yonder, and a narrow neck between. Halloa! halloa! halloa! what
have we here?”
We had come on a small black ribbon of pathway. In the middle of
it, clearly marked on the sodden soil, was the track of a
bicycle.
“Hurrah!” I cried. “We have it.”
But Holmes was shaking his head, and his face was puzzled and
expectant rather than joyous.
“A bicycle, certainly, but not _the_ bicycle,” said he. “I am
familiar with forty-two different impressions left by tires.
This, as you perceive, is a Dunlop, with a patch upon the outer
cover. Heidegger’s tires were Palmer’s, leaving longitudinal
stripes. Aveling, the mathematical master, was sure upon the
point. Therefore, it is not Heidegger’s track.”
“The boy’s, then?”
“Possibly, if we could prove a bicycle to have been in his
possession. But this we have utterly failed to do. This track, as
you perceive, was made by a rider who was going from the
direction of the school.”
“Or towards it?”
“No, no, my dear Watson. The more deeply sunk impression is, of
course, the hind wheel, upon which the weight rests. You perceive
several places where it has passed across and obliterated the
more shallow mark of the front one. It was undoubtedly heading
away from the school. It may or may not be connected with our
inquiry, but we will follow it backwards before we go any
farther.”
We did so, and at the end of a few hundred yards lost the tracks
as we emerged from the boggy portion of the moor. Following the
path backwards, we picked out another spot, where a spring
trickled across it. Here, once again, was the mark of the
bicycle, though nearly obliterated by the hoofs of cows. After
that there was no sign, but the path ran right on into Ragged
Shaw, the wood which backed on to the school. From this wood the
cycle must have emerged. Holmes sat down on a boulder and rested
his chin in his hands. I had smoked two cigarettes before he
moved.
“Well, well,” said he, at last. “It is, of course, possible that
a cunning man might change the tires of his bicycle in order to
leave unfamiliar tracks. A criminal who was capable of such a
thought is a man whom I should be proud to do business with. We
will leave this question undecided and hark back to our morass
again, for we have left a good deal unexplored.”
We continued our systematic survey of the edge of the sodden
portion of the moor, and soon our perseverance was gloriously
rewarded. Right across the lower part of the bog lay a miry path.
Holmes gave a cry of delight as he approached it. An impression
like a fine bundle of telegraph wires ran down the centre of it.
It was the Palmer tires.
“Here is Herr Heidegger, sure enough!” cried Holmes, exultantly.
“My reasoning seems to have been pretty sound, Watson.”
“I congratulate you.”
“But we have a long way still to go. Kindly walk clear of the
path. Now let us follow the trail. I fear that it will not lead
very far.”
We found, however, as we advanced that this portion of the moor
is intersected with soft patches, and, though we frequently lost
sight of the track, we always succeeded in picking it up once
more.
“Do you observe,” said Holmes, “that the rider is now undoubtedly
forcing the pace? There can be no doubt of it. Look at this
impression, where you get both tires clear. The one is as deep as
the other. That can only mean that the rider is throwing his
weight on to the handle-bar, as a man does when he is sprinting.
By Jove! he has had a fall.”
There was a broad, irregular smudge covering some yards of the
track. Then there were a few footmarks, and the tire reappeared
once more.
“A side-slip,” I suggested.
Holmes held up a crumpled branch of flowering gorse. To my horror
I perceived that the yellow blossoms were all dabbled with
crimson. On the path, too, and among the heather were dark stains
of clotted blood.
“Bad!” said Holmes. “Bad! Stand clear, Watson! Not an unnecessary
footstep! What do I read here? He fell wounded—he stood up—he
remounted—he proceeded. But there is no other track. Cattle on
this side path. He was surely not gored by a bull? Impossible!
But I see no traces of anyone else. We must push on, Watson.
Surely, with stains as well as the track to guide us, he cannot
escape us now.”
Our search was not a very long one. The tracks of the tire began
to curve fantastically upon the wet and shining path. Suddenly,
as I looked ahead, the gleam of metal caught my eye from amid the
thick gorse-bushes. Out of them we dragged a bicycle,
Palmer-tired, one pedal bent, and the whole front of it horribly
smeared and slobbered with blood. On the other side of the bushes
a shoe was projecting. We ran round, and there lay the
unfortunate rider. He was a tall man, full-bearded, with
spectacles, one glass of which had been knocked out. The cause of
his death was a frightful blow upon the head, which had crushed
in part of his skull. That he could have gone on after receiving
such an injury said much for the vitality and courage of the man.
He wore shoes, but no socks, and his open coat disclosed a
nightshirt beneath it. It was undoubtedly the German master.
Holmes turned the body over reverently, and examined it with
great attention. He then sat in deep thought for a time, and I
could see by his ruffled brow that this grim discovery had not,
in his opinion, advanced us much in our inquiry.
“It is a little difficult to know what to do, Watson,” said he,
at last. “My own inclinations are to push this inquiry on, for we
have already lost so much time that we cannot afford to waste
another hour. On the other hand, we are bound to inform the
police of the discovery, and to see that this poor fellow’s body
is looked after.”
“I could take a note back.”
“But I need your company and assistance. Wait a bit! There is a
fellow cutting peat up yonder. Bring him over here, and he will
guide the police.”
I brought the peasant across, and Holmes dispatched the
frightened man with a note to Dr. Huxtable.
“Now, Watson,” said he, “we have picked up two clues this
morning. One is the bicycle with the Palmer tire, and we see what
that has led to. The other is the bicycle with the patched
Dunlop. Before we start to investigate that, let us try to
realize what we _do_ know, so as to make the most of it, and to
separate the essential from the accidental.”
“First of all, I wish to impress upon you that the boy certainly
left of his own free-will. He got down from his window and he
went off, either alone or with someone. That is sure.”