I have never known my friend to be in better form, both mental
and physical, than in the year ’95. His increasing fame had
brought with it an immense practice, and I should be guilty of an
indiscretion if I were even to hint at the identity of some of
the illustrious clients who crossed our humble threshold in Baker
Street. Holmes, however, like all great artists, lived for his
art’s sake, and, save in the case of the Duke of Holdernesse, I
have seldom known him claim any large reward for his inestimable
services. So unworldly was he—or so capricious—that he frequently
refused his help to the powerful and wealthy where the problem
made no appeal to his sympathies, while he would devote weeks of
most intense application to the affairs of some humble client
whose case presented those strange and dramatic qualities which
appealed to his imagination and challenged his ingenuity.
In this memorable year ’95, a curious and incongruous succession
of cases had engaged his attention, ranging from his famous
investigation of the sudden death of Cardinal Tosca—an inquiry
which was carried out by him at the express desire of His
Holiness the Pope—down to his arrest of Wilson, the notorious
canary-trainer, which removed a plague-spot from the East End of
London. Close on the heels of these two famous cases came the
tragedy of Woodman’s Lee, and the very obscure circumstances
which surrounded the death of Captain Peter Carey. No record of
the doings of Mr. Sherlock Holmes would be complete which did not
include some account of this very unusual affair.
During the first week of July, my friend had been absent so often
and so long from our lodgings that I knew he had something on
hand. The fact that several rough-looking men called during that
time and inquired for Captain Basil made me understand that
Holmes was working somewhere under one of the numerous disguises
and names with which he concealed his own formidable identity. He
had at least five small refuges in different parts of London, in
which he was able to change his personality. He said nothing of
his business to me, and it was not my habit to force a
confidence. The first positive sign which he gave me of the
direction which his investigation was taking was an extraordinary
one. He had gone out before breakfast, and I had sat down to mine
when he strode into the room, his hat upon his head and a huge
barbed-headed spear tucked like an umbrella under his arm.
“Good gracious, Holmes!” I cried. “You don’t mean to say that you
have been walking about London with that thing?”
“I drove to the butcher’s and back.”
“The butcher’s?”
“And I return with an excellent appetite. There can be no
question, my dear Watson, of the value of exercise before
breakfast. But I am prepared to bet that you will not guess the
form that my exercise has taken.”
“I will not attempt it.”
He chuckled as he poured out the coffee.
“If you could have looked into Allardyce’s back shop, you would
have seen a dead pig swung from a hook in the ceiling, and a
gentleman in his shirt sleeves furiously stabbing at it with this
weapon. I was that energetic person, and I have satisfied myself
that by no exertion of my strength can I transfix the pig with a
single blow. Perhaps you would care to try?”
“Not for worlds. But why were you doing this?”
“Because it seemed to me to have an indirect bearing upon the
mystery of Woodman’s Lee. Ah, Hopkins, I got your wire last
night, and I have been expecting you. Come and join us.”
Our visitor was an exceedingly alert man, thirty years of age,
dressed in a quiet tweed suit, but retaining the erect bearing of
one who was accustomed to official uniform. I recognized him at
once as Stanley Hopkins, a young police inspector, for whose
future Holmes had high hopes, while he in turn professed the
admiration and respect of a pupil for the scientific methods of
the famous amateur. Hopkins’s brow was clouded, and he sat down
with an air of deep dejection.
“No, thank you, sir. I breakfasted before I came round. I spent
the night in town, for I came up yesterday to report.”
“And what had you to report?”
“Failure, sir, absolute failure.”
“You have made no progress?”
“None.”
“Dear me! I must have a look at the matter.”
“I wish to heavens that you would, Mr. Holmes. It’s my first big
chance, and I am at my wits’ end. For goodness’ sake, come down
and lend me a hand.”
“Well, well, it just happens that I have already read all the
available evidence, including the report of the inquest, with
some care. By the way, what do you make of that tobacco pouch,
found on the scene of the crime? Is there no clue there?”
Hopkins looked surprised.
“It was the man’s own pouch, sir. His initials were inside it.
And it was of sealskin,—and he was an old sealer.”
“But he had no pipe.”
“No, sir, we could find no pipe. Indeed, he smoked very little,
and yet he might have kept some tobacco for his friends.”
“No doubt. I only mention it because, if I had been handling the
case, I should have been inclined to make that the starting-point
of my investigation. However, my friend, Dr. Watson, knows
nothing of this matter, and I should be none the worse for
hearing the sequence of events once more. Just give us some short
sketches of the essentials.”
Stanley Hopkins drew a slip of paper from his pocket.
“I have a few dates here which will give you the career of the
dead man, Captain Peter Carey. He was born in ’45—fifty years of
age. He was a most daring and successful seal and whale fisher.
In 1883 he commanded the steam sealer _Sea Unicorn_, of Dundee.
He had then had several successful voyages in succession, and in
the following year, 1884, he retired. After that he travelled for
some years, and finally he bought a small place called Woodman’s
Lee, near Forest Row, in Sussex. There he has lived for six
years, and there he died just a week ago to-day.
“There were some most singular points about the man. In ordinary
life, he was a strict Puritan—a silent, gloomy fellow. His
household consisted of his wife, his daughter, aged twenty, and
two female servants. These last were continually changing, for it
was never a very cheery situation, and sometimes it became past
all bearing. The man was an intermittent drunkard, and when he
had the fit on him he was a perfect fiend. He has been known to
drive his wife and daughter out of doors in the middle of the
night and flog them through the park until the whole village
outside the gates was aroused by their screams.
“He was summoned once for a savage assault upon the old vicar,
who had called upon him to remonstrate with him upon his conduct.
In short, Mr. Holmes, you would go far before you found a more
dangerous man than Peter Carey, and I have heard that he bore the
same character when he commanded his ship. He was known in the
trade as Black Peter, and the name was given him, not only on
account of his swarthy features and the colour of his huge beard,
but for the humours which were the terror of all around him. I
need not say that he was loathed and avoided by every one of his
neighbours, and that I have not heard one single word of sorrow
about his terrible end.
“You must have read in the account of the inquest about the man’s
cabin, Mr. Holmes, but perhaps your friend here has not heard of
it. He had built himself a wooden outhouse—he always called it
the ‘cabin’—a few hundred yards from his house, and it was here
that he slept every night. It was a little, single-roomed hut,
sixteen feet by ten. He kept the key in his pocket, made his own
bed, cleaned it himself, and allowed no other foot to cross the
threshold. There are small windows on each side, which were
covered by curtains and never opened. One of these windows was
turned towards the high road, and when the light burned in it at
night the folk used to point it out to each other and wonder what
Black Peter was doing in there. That’s the window, Mr. Holmes,
which gave us one of the few bits of positive evidence that came
out at the inquest.
“You remember that a stonemason, named Slater, walking from
Forest Row about one o’clock in the morning—two days before the
murder—stopped as he passed the grounds and looked at the square
of light still shining among the trees. He swears that the shadow
of a man’s head turned sideways was clearly visible on the blind,
and that this shadow was certainly not that of Peter Carey, whom
he knew well. It was that of a bearded man, but the beard was
short and bristled forward in a way very different from that of
the captain. So he says, but he had been two hours in the
public-house, and it is some distance from the road to the
window. Besides, this refers to the Monday, and the crime was
done upon the Wednesday.
“On the Tuesday, Peter Carey was in one of his blackest moods,
flushed with drink and as savage as a dangerous wild beast. He
roamed about the house, and the women ran for it when they heard
him coming. Late in the evening, he went down to his own hut.
About two o’clock the following morning, his daughter, who slept
with her window open, heard a most fearful yell from that
direction, but it was no unusual thing for him to bawl and shout
when he was in drink, so no notice was taken. On rising at seven,
one of the maids noticed that the door of the hut was open, but
so great was the terror which the man caused that it was midday
before anyone would venture down to see what had become of him.
Peeping into the open door, they saw a sight which sent them
flying, with white faces, into the village. Within an hour, I was
on the spot and had taken over the case.
“Well, I have fairly steady nerves, as you know, Mr. Holmes, but
I give you my word, that I got a shake when I put my head into
that little house. It was droning like a harmonium with the flies
and bluebottles, and the floor and walls were like a
slaughter-house. He had called it a cabin, and a cabin it was,
sure enough, for you would have thought that you were in a ship.
There was a bunk at one end, a sea-chest, maps and charts, a
picture of the _Sea Unicorn_, a line of logbooks on a shelf, all
exactly as one would expect to find it in a captain’s room. And
there, in the middle of it, was the man himself—his face twisted
like a lost soul in torment, and his great brindled beard stuck
upward in his agony. Right through his broad breast a steel
harpoon had been driven, and it had sunk deep into the wood of
the wall behind him. He was pinned like a beetle on a card. Of
course, he was quite dead, and had been so from the instant that
he had uttered that last yell of agony.
“I know your methods, sir, and I applied them. Before I permitted
anything to be moved, I examined most carefully the ground
outside, and also the floor of the room. There were no
footmarks.”
“Meaning that you saw none?”
“I assure you, sir, that there were none.”
“My good Hopkins, I have investigated many crimes, but I have
never yet seen one which was committed by a flying creature. As
long as the criminal remains upon two legs so long must there be
some indentation, some abrasion, some trifling displacement which
can be detected by the scientific searcher. It is incredible that
this blood-bespattered room contained no trace which could have
aided us. I understand, however, from the inquest that there were
some objects which you failed to overlook?”
The young inspector winced at my companion’s ironical comments.
“I was a fool not to call you in at the time Mr. Holmes. However,
that’s past praying for now. Yes, there were several objects in
the room which called for special attention. One was the harpoon
with which the deed was committed. It had been snatched down from
a rack on the wall. Two others remained there, and there was a
vacant place for the third. On the stock was engraved ‘SS. _Sea
Unicorn_, Dundee.’ This seemed to establish that the crime had
been done in a moment of fury, and that the murderer had seized
the first weapon which came in his way. The fact that the crime
was committed at two in the morning, and yet Peter Carey was
fully dressed, suggested that he had an appointment with the
murderer, which is borne out by the fact that a bottle of rum and
two dirty glasses stood upon the table.”
“Yes,” said Holmes; “I think that both inferences are
permissible. Was there any other spirit but rum in the room?”
“Yes, there was a tantalus containing brandy and whisky on the
sea-chest. It is of no importance to us, however, since the
decanters were full, and it had therefore not been used.”
“For all that, its presence has some significance,” said Holmes.
“However, let us hear some more about the objects which do seem
to you to bear upon the case.”
“There was this tobacco-pouch upon the table.”
“What part of the table?”
“It lay in the middle. It was of coarse sealskin—the
straight-haired skin, with a leather thong to bind it. Inside was
‘P.C.’ on the flap. There was half an ounce of strong ship’s
tobacco in it.”
“Excellent! What more?”
Stanley Hopkins drew from his pocket a drab-covered notebook. The
outside was rough and worn, the leaves discoloured. On the first
page were written the initials “J.H.N.” and the date “1883.”
Holmes laid it on the table and examined it in his minute way,
while Hopkins and I gazed over each shoulder. On the second page
were the printed letters “C.P.R.,” and then came several sheets
of numbers. Another heading was “Argentine,” another “Costa
Rica,” and another “San Paulo,” each with pages of signs and
figures after it.
“What do you make of these?” asked Holmes.
“They appear to be lists of Stock Exchange securities. I thought
that ‘J.H.N.’ were the initials of a broker, and that ‘C.P.R.’
may have been his client.”
“Try Canadian Pacific Railway,” said Holmes.
Stanley Hopkins swore between his teeth, and struck his thigh
with his clenched hand.
“What a fool I have been!” he cried. “Of course, it is as you
say. Then ‘J.H.N.’ are the only initials we have to solve. I have
already examined the old Stock Exchange lists, and I can find no
one in 1883, either in the house or among the outside brokers,
whose initials correspond with these. Yet I feel that the clue is
the most important one that I hold. You will admit, Mr. Holmes,
that there is a possibility that these initials are those of the
second person who was present—in other words, of the murderer. I
would also urge that the introduction into the case of a document
relating to large masses of valuable securities gives us for the
first time some indication of a motive for the crime.”
Sherlock Holmes’s face showed that he was thoroughly taken aback
by this new development.
“I must admit both your points,” said he. “I confess that this
notebook, which did not appear at the inquest, modifies any views
which I may have formed. I had come to a theory of the crime in
which I can find no place for this. Have you endeavoured to trace
any of the securities here mentioned?”
“Inquiries are now being made at the offices, but I fear that the
complete register of the stockholders of these South American
concerns is in South America, and that some weeks must elapse
before we can trace the shares.”
Holmes had been examining the cover of the notebook with his
magnifying lens.
“Surely there is some discolouration here,” said he.
“Yes, sir, it is a blood-stain. I told you that I picked the book
off the floor.”
“Was the blood-stain above or below?”
“On the side next the boards.”
“Which proves, of course, that the book was dropped after the
crime was committed.”
“Exactly, Mr. Holmes. I appreciated that point, and I conjectured
that it was dropped by the murderer in his hurried flight. It lay
near the door.”
“I suppose that none of these securities have been found among
the property of the dead man?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you any reason to suspect robbery?”
“No, sir. Nothing seemed to have been touched.”
“Dear me, it is certainly a very interesting case. Then there was
a knife, was there not?”
“A sheath-knife, still in its sheath. It lay at the feet of the
dead man. Mrs. Carey has identified it as being her husband’s
property.”
Holmes was lost in thought for some time.
“Well,” said he, at last, “I suppose I shall have to come out and
have a look at it.”
Stanley Hopkins gave a cry of joy.
“Thank you, sir. That will, indeed, be a weight off my mind.”
Holmes shook his finger at the inspector.
“It would have been an easier task a week ago,” said he. “But
even now my visit may not be entirely fruitless. Watson, if you
can spare the time, I should be very glad of your company. If you
will call a four-wheeler, Hopkins, we shall be ready to start for
Forest Row in a quarter of an hour.”
Alighting at the small wayside station, we drove for some miles
through the remains of widespread woods, which were once part of
that great forest which for so long held the Saxon invaders at
bay—the impenetrable “weald,” for sixty years the bulwark of
Britain. Vast sections of it have been cleared, for this is the
seat of the first iron-works of the country, and the trees have
been felled to smelt the ore. Now the richer fields of the North
have absorbed the trade, and nothing save these ravaged groves
and great scars in the earth show the work of the past. Here, in
a clearing upon the green slope of a hill, stood a long, low,
stone house, approached by a curving drive running through the
fields. Nearer the road, and surrounded on three sides by bushes,
was a small outhouse, one window and the door facing in our
direction. It was the scene of the murder.
Stanley Hopkins led us first to the house, where he introduced us
to a haggard, grey-haired woman, the widow of the murdered man,
whose gaunt and deep-lined face, with the furtive look of terror
in the depths of her red-rimmed eyes, told of the years of
hardship and ill-usage which she had endured. With her was her
daughter, a pale, fair-haired girl, whose eyes blazed defiantly
at us as she told us that she was glad that her father was dead,
and that she blessed the hand which had struck him down. It was a
terrible household that Black Peter Carey had made for himself,
and it was with a sense of relief that we found ourselves in the
sunlight again and making our way along a path which had been
worn across the fields by the feet of the dead man.
The outhouse was the simplest of dwellings, wooden-walled,
shingle-roofed, one window beside the door and one on the farther
side. Stanley Hopkins drew the key from his pocket and had
stooped to the lock, when he paused with a look of attention and
surprise upon his face.
“Someone has been tampering with it,” he said.
There could be no doubt of the fact. The woodwork was cut, and
the scratches showed white through the paint, as if they had been
that instant done. Holmes had been examining the window.
“Someone has tried to force this also. Whoever it was has failed
to make his way in. He must have been a very poor burglar.”
“This is a most extraordinary thing,” said the inspector, “I
could swear that these marks were not here yesterday evening.”
“Some curious person from the village, perhaps,” I suggested.
“Very unlikely. Few of them would dare to set foot in the
grounds, far less try to force their way into the cabin. What do
you think of it, Mr. Holmes?”
“I think that fortune is very kind to us.”
“You mean that the person will come again?”
“It is very probable. He came expecting to find the door open. He
tried to get in with the blade of a very small penknife. He could
not manage it. What would he do?”
“Come again next night with a more useful tool.”
“So I should say. It will be our fault if we are not there to
receive him. Meanwhile, let me see the inside of the cabin.”
The traces of the tragedy had been removed, but the furniture
within the little room still stood as it had been on the night of
the crime. For two hours, with most intense concentration, Holmes
examined every object in turn, but his face showed that his quest
was not a successful one. Once only he paused in his patient
investigation.
“Have you taken anything off this shelf, Hopkins?”
“No, I have moved nothing.”
“Something has been taken. There is less dust in this corner of
the shelf than elsewhere. It may have been a book lying on its
side. It may have been a box. Well, well, I can do nothing more.
Let us walk in these beautiful woods, Watson, and give a few
hours to the birds and the flowers. We shall meet you here later,
Hopkins, and see if we can come to closer quarters with the
gentleman who has paid this visit in the night.”
It was past eleven o’clock when we formed our little ambuscade.
Hopkins was for leaving the door of the hut open, but Holmes was
of the opinion that this would rouse the suspicions of the
stranger. The lock was a perfectly simple one, and only a strong
blade was needed to push it back. Holmes also suggested that we
should wait, not inside the hut, but outside it, among the bushes
which grew round the farther window. In this way we should be
able to watch our man if he struck a light, and see what his
object was in this stealthy nocturnal visit.
It was a long and melancholy vigil, and yet brought with it
something of the thrill which the hunter feels when he lies
beside the water-pool, and waits for the coming of the thirsty
beast of prey. What savage creature was it which might steal upon
us out of the darkness? Was it a fierce tiger of crime, which
could only be taken fighting hard with flashing fang and claw, or
would it prove to be some skulking jackal, dangerous only to the
weak and unguarded?
In absolute silence we crouched amongst the bushes, waiting for
whatever might come. At first the steps of a few belated
villagers, or the sound of voices from the village, lightened our
vigil, but one by one these interruptions died away, and an
absolute stillness fell upon us, save for the chimes of the
distant church, which told us of the progress of the night, and
for the rustle and whisper of a fine rain falling amid the
foliage which roofed us in.
Half-past two had chimed, and it was the darkest hour which
precedes the dawn, when we all started as a low but sharp click
came from the direction of the gate. Someone had entered the
drive. Again there was a long silence, and I had begun to fear
that it was a false alarm, when a stealthy step was heard upon
the other side of the hut, and a moment later a metallic scraping
and clinking. The man was trying to force the lock. This time his
skill was greater or his tool was better, for there was a sudden
snap and the creak of the hinges. Then a match was struck, and
next instant the steady light from a candle filled the interior
of the hut. Through the gauze curtain our eyes were all riveted
upon the scene within.
The nocturnal visitor was a young man, frail and thin, with a
black moustache, which intensified the deadly pallor of his face.
He could not have been much above twenty years of age. I have
never seen any human being who appeared to be in such a pitiable
fright, for his teeth were visibly chattering, and he was shaking
in every limb. He was dressed like a gentleman, in Norfolk jacket
and knickerbockers, with a cloth cap upon his head. We watched
him staring round with frightened eyes. Then he laid the
candle-end upon the table and disappeared from our view into one
of the corners. He returned with a large book, one of the
logbooks which formed a line upon the shelves. Leaning on the
table, he rapidly turned over the leaves of this volume until he
came to the entry which he sought. Then, with an angry gesture of
his clenched hand, he closed the book, replaced it in the corner,
and put out the light. He had hardly turned to leave the hut when
Hopkins’s hand was on the fellow’s collar, and I heard his loud
gasp of terror as he understood that he was taken. The candle was
relit, and there was our wretched captive, shivering and cowering
in the grasp of the detective. He sank down upon the sea-chest,
and looked helplessly from one of us to the other.
“Now, my fine fellow,” said Stanley Hopkins, “who are you, and
what do you want here?”
The man pulled himself together, and faced us with an effort at
self-composure.
“You are detectives, I suppose?” said he. “You imagine I am
connected with the death of Captain Peter Carey. I assure you
that I am innocent.”
“We’ll see about that,” said Hopkins. “First of all, what is your
name?”
“It is John Hopley Neligan.”