“What are you doing here?”
“Can I speak confidentially?”
“No, certainly not.”
“Why should I tell you?”
“If you have no answer, it may go badly with you at the trial.”
The young man winced.
“Well, I will tell you,” he said. “Why should I not? And yet I
hate to think of this old scandal gaining a new lease of life.
Did you ever hear of Dawson and Neligan?”
I could see, from Hopkins’s face, that he never had, but Holmes
was keenly interested.
“You mean the West Country bankers,” said he. “They failed for a
million, ruined half the county families of Cornwall, and Neligan
disappeared.”
“Exactly. Neligan was my father.”
At last we were getting something positive, and yet it seemed a
long gap between an absconding banker and Captain Peter Carey
pinned against the wall with one of his own harpoons. We all
listened intently to the young man’s words.
“It was my father who was really concerned. Dawson had retired. I
was only ten years of age at the time, but I was old enough to
feel the shame and horror of it all. It has always been said that
my father stole all the securities and fled. It is not true. It
was his belief that if he were given time in which to realize
them, all would be well and every creditor paid in full. He
started in his little yacht for Norway just before the warrant
was issued for his arrest. I can remember that last night when he
bade farewell to my mother. He left us a list of the securities
he was taking, and he swore that he would come back with his
honour cleared, and that none who had trusted him would suffer.
Well, no word was ever heard from him again. Both the yacht and
he vanished utterly. We believed, my mother and I, that he and
it, with the securities that he had taken with him, were at the
bottom of the sea. We had a faithful friend, however, who is a
business man, and it was he who discovered some time ago that
some of the securities which my father had with him had
reappeared on the London market. You can imagine our amazement. I
spent months in trying to trace them, and at last, after many
doubtings and difficulties, I discovered that the original seller
had been Captain Peter Carey, the owner of this hut.
“Naturally, I made some inquiries about the man. I found that he
had been in command of a whaler which was due to return from the
Arctic seas at the very time when my father was crossing to
Norway. The autumn of that year was a stormy one, and there was a
long succession of southerly gales. My father’s yacht may well
have been blown to the north, and there met by Captain Peter
Carey’s ship. If that were so, what had become of my father? In
any case, if I could prove from Peter Carey’s evidence how these
securities came on the market it would be a proof that my father
had not sold them, and that he had no view to personal profit
when he took them.
“I came down to Sussex with the intention of seeing the captain,
but it was at this moment that his terrible death occurred. I
read at the inquest a description of his cabin, in which it
stated that the old logbooks of his vessel were preserved in it.
It struck me that if I could see what occurred in the month of
August, 1883, on board the _Sea Unicorn_, I might settle the
mystery of my father’s fate. I tried last night to get at these
logbooks, but was unable to open the door. To-night I tried again
and succeeded, but I find that the pages which deal with that
month have been torn from the book. It was at that moment I found
myself a prisoner in your hands.”
“Is that all?” asked Hopkins.
“Yes, that is all.” His eyes shifted as he said it.
“You have nothing else to tell us?”
He hesitated.
“No, there is nothing.”
“You have not been here before last night?”
“No.”
“Then how do you account for _that_?” cried Hopkins, as he held
up the damning notebook, with the initials of our prisoner on the
first leaf and the blood-stain on the cover.
The wretched man collapsed. He sank his face in his hands, and
trembled all over.
“Where did you get it?” he groaned. “I did not know. I thought I
had lost it at the hotel.”
“That is enough,” said Hopkins, sternly. “Whatever else you have
to say, you must say in court. You will walk down with me now to
the police-station. Well, Mr. Holmes, I am very much obliged to
you and to your friend for coming down to help me. As it turns
out your presence was unnecessary, and I would have brought the
case to this successful issue without you, but, none the less, I
am grateful. Rooms have been reserved for you at the Brambletye
Hotel, so we can all walk down to the village together.”
“Well, Watson, what do you think of it?” asked Holmes, as we
travelled back next morning.
“I can see that you are not satisfied.”
“Oh, yes, my dear Watson, I am perfectly satisfied. At the same
time, Stanley Hopkins’s methods do not commend themselves to me.
I am disappointed in Stanley Hopkins. I had hoped for better
things from him. One should always look for a possible
alternative, and provide against it. It is the first rule of
criminal investigation.”
“What, then, is the alternative?”
“The line of investigation which I have myself been pursuing. It
may give us nothing. I cannot tell. But at least I shall follow
it to the end.”
Several letters were waiting for Holmes at Baker Street. He
snatched one of them up, opened it, and burst out into a
triumphant chuckle of laughter.
“Excellent, Watson! The alternative develops. Have you telegraph
forms? Just write a couple of messages for me: ‘Sumner, Shipping
Agent, Ratcliff Highway. Send three men on, to arrive ten
to-morrow morning.—Basil.’ That’s my name in those parts. The
other is: ‘Inspector Stanley Hopkins, 46 Lord Street, Brixton.
Come breakfast to-morrow at nine-thirty. Important. Wire if
unable to come.—Sherlock Holmes.’ There, Watson, this infernal
case has haunted me for ten days. I hereby banish it completely
from my presence. To-morrow, I trust that we shall hear the last
of it forever.”
Sharp at the hour named Inspector Stanley Hopkins appeared, and
we sat down together to the excellent breakfast which Mrs. Hudson
had prepared. The young detective was in high spirits at his
success.
“You really think that your solution must be correct?” asked
Holmes.
“I could not imagine a more complete case.”
“It did not seem to me conclusive.”
“You astonish me, Mr. Holmes. What more could one ask for?”
“Does your explanation cover every point?”
“Undoubtedly. I find that young Neligan arrived at the Brambletye
Hotel on the very day of the crime. He came on the pretence of
playing golf. His room was on the ground-floor, and he could get
out when he liked. That very night he went down to Woodman’s Lee,
saw Peter Carey at the hut, quarrelled with him, and killed him
with the harpoon. Then, horrified by what he had done, he fled
out of the hut, dropping the notebook which he had brought with
him in order to question Peter Carey about these different
securities. You may have observed that some of them were marked
with ticks, and the others—the great majority—were not. Those
which are ticked have been traced on the London market, but the
others, presumably, were still in the possession of Carey, and
young Neligan, according to his own account, was anxious to
recover them in order to do the right thing by his father’s
creditors. After his flight he did not dare to approach the hut
again for some time, but at last he forced himself to do so in
order to obtain the information which he needed. Surely that is
all simple and obvious?”
Holmes smiled and shook his head.
“It seems to me to have only one drawback, Hopkins, and that is
that it is intrinsically impossible. Have you tried to drive a
harpoon through a body? No? Tut, tut my dear sir, you must really
pay attention to these details. My friend Watson could tell you
that I spent a whole morning in that exercise. It is no easy
matter, and requires a strong and practised arm. But this blow
was delivered with such violence that the head of the weapon sank
deep into the wall. Do you imagine that this anæmic youth was
capable of so frightful an assault? Is he the man who hobnobbed
in rum and water with Black Peter in the dead of the night? Was
it his profile that was seen on the blind two nights before? No,
no, Hopkins, it is another and more formidable person for whom we
must seek.”
The detective’s face had grown longer and longer during Holmes’s
speech. His hopes and his ambitions were all crumbling about him.
But he would not abandon his position without a struggle.
“You can’t deny that Neligan was present that night, Mr. Holmes.
The book will prove that. I fancy that I have evidence enough to
satisfy a jury, even if you are able to pick a hole in it.
Besides, Mr. Holmes, I have laid my hand upon _my_ man. As to
this terrible person of yours, where is he?”
“I rather fancy that he is on the stair,” said Holmes, serenely.
“I think, Watson, that you would do well to put that revolver
where you can reach it.” He rose and laid a written paper upon a
side-table. “Now we are ready,” said he.
There had been some talking in gruff voices outside, and now Mrs.
Hudson opened the door to say that there were three men inquiring
for Captain Basil.
“Show them in one by one,” said Holmes.
“The first who entered was a little Ribston pippin of a man, with
ruddy cheeks and fluffy white side-whiskers. Holmes had drawn a
letter from his pocket.
“What name?” he asked.
“James Lancaster.”
“I am sorry, Lancaster, but the berth is full. Here is half a
sovereign for your trouble. Just step into this room and wait
there for a few minutes.”
The second man was a long, dried-up creature, with lank hair and
sallow cheeks. His name was Hugh Pattins. He also received his
dismissal, his half-sovereign, and the order to wait.
The third applicant was a man of remarkable appearance. A fierce
bull-dog face was framed in a tangle of hair and beard, and two
bold, dark eyes gleamed behind the cover of thick, tufted,
overhung eyebrows. He saluted and stood sailor-fashion, turning
his cap round in his hands.
“Your name?” asked Holmes.
“Patrick Cairns.”
“Harpooner?”
“Yes, sir. Twenty-six voyages.”
“Dundee, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And ready to start with an exploring ship?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What wages?”
“Eight pounds a month.”
“Could you start at once?”
“As soon as I get my kit.”
“Have you your papers?”
“Yes, sir.” He took a sheaf of worn and greasy forms from his
pocket. Holmes glanced over them and returned them.
“You are just the man I want,” said he. “Here’s the agreement on
the side-table. If you sign it the whole matter will be settled.”
The seaman lurched across the room and took up the pen.
“Shall I sign here?” he asked, stooping over the table.
Holmes leaned over his shoulder and passed both hands over his
neck.
“This will do,” said he.
I heard a click of steel and a bellow like an enraged bull. The
next instant Holmes and the seaman were rolling on the ground
together. He was a man of such gigantic strength that, even with
the handcuffs which Holmes had so deftly fastened upon his
wrists, he would have very quickly overpowered my friend had
Hopkins and I not rushed to his rescue. Only when I pressed the
cold muzzle of the revolver to his temple did he at last
understand that resistance was vain. We lashed his ankles with
cord, and rose breathless from the struggle.
“I must really apologize, Hopkins,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I fear
that the scrambled eggs are cold. However, you will enjoy the
rest of your breakfast all the better, will you not, for the
thought that you have brought your case to a triumphant
conclusion.”
Stanley Hopkins was speechless with amazement.
“I don’t know what to say, Mr. Holmes,” he blurted out at last,
with a very red face. “It seems to me that I have been making a
fool of myself from the beginning. I understand now, what I
should never have forgotten, that I am the pupil and you are the
master. Even now I see what you have done, but I don’t know how
you did it or what it signifies.”
“Well, well,” said Holmes, good-humouredly. “We all learn by
experience, and your lesson this time is that you should never
lose sight of the alternative. You were so absorbed in young
Neligan that you could not spare a thought to Patrick Cairns, the
true murderer of Peter Carey.”
The hoarse voice of the seaman broke in on our conversation.
“See here, mister,” said he, “I make no complaint of being
man-handled in this fashion, but I would have you call things by
their right names. You say I murdered Peter Carey, I say I
_killed_ Peter Carey, and there’s all the difference. Maybe you
don’t believe what I say. Maybe you think I am just slinging you
a yarn.”
“Not at all,” said Holmes. “Let us hear what you have to say.”
“It’s soon told, and, by the Lord, every word of it is truth. I
knew Black Peter, and when he pulled out his knife I whipped a
harpoon through him sharp, for I knew that it was him or me.
That’s how he died. You can call it murder. Anyhow, I’d as soon
die with a rope round my neck as with Black Peter’s knife in my
heart.”
“How came you there?” asked Holmes.
“I’ll tell it you from the beginning. Just sit me up a little, so
as I can speak easy. It was in ’83 that it happened—August of
that year. Peter Carey was master of the _Sea Unicorn_, and I was
spare harpooner. We were coming out of the ice-pack on our way
home, with head winds and a week’s southerly gale, when we picked
up a little craft that had been blown north. There was one man on
her—a landsman. The crew had thought she would founder and had
made for the Norwegian coast in the dinghy. I guess they were all
drowned. Well, we took him on board, this man, and he and the
skipper had some long talks in the cabin. All the baggage we took
off with him was one tin box. So far as I know, the man’s name
was never mentioned, and on the second night he disappeared as if
he had never been. It was given out that he had either thrown
himself overboard or fallen overboard in the heavy weather that
we were having. Only one man knew what had happened to him, and
that was me, for, with my own eyes, I saw the skipper tip up his
heels and put him over the rail in the middle watch of a dark
night, two days before we sighted the Shetland Lights. Well, I
kept my knowledge to myself, and waited to see what would come of
it. When we got back to Scotland it was easily hushed up, and
nobody asked any questions. A stranger died by accident and it
was nobody’s business to inquire. Shortly after Peter Carey gave
up the sea, and it was long years before I could find where he
was. I guessed that he had done the deed for the sake of what was
in that tin box, and that he could afford now to pay me well for
keeping my mouth shut. I found out where he was through a sailor
man that had met him in London, and down I went to squeeze him.
The first night he was reasonable enough, and was ready to give
me what would make me free of the sea for life. We were to fix it
all two nights later. When I came, I found him three parts drunk
and in a vile temper. We sat down and we drank and we yarned
about old times, but the more he drank the less I liked the look
on his face. I spotted that harpoon upon the wall, and I thought
I might need it before I was through. Then at last he broke out
at me, spitting and cursing, with murder in his eyes and a great
clasp-knife in his hand. He had not time to get it from the
sheath before I had the harpoon through him. Heavens! what a yell
he gave! and his face gets between me and my sleep. I stood
there, with his blood splashing round me, and I waited for a bit,
but all was quiet, so I took heart once more. I looked round, and
there was the tin box on the shelf. I had as much right to it as
Peter Carey, anyhow, so I took it with me and left the hut. Like
a fool I left my baccy-pouch upon the table.
“Now I’ll tell you the queerest part of the whole story. I had
hardly got outside the hut when I heard someone coming, and I hid
among the bushes. A man came slinking along, went into the hut,
gave a cry as if he had seen a ghost, and legged it as hard as he
could run until he was out of sight. Who he was or what he wanted
is more than I can tell. For my part I walked ten miles, got a
train at Tunbridge Wells, and so reached London, and no one the
wiser.
“Well, when I came to examine the box I found there was no money
in it, and nothing but papers that I would not dare to sell. I
had lost my hold on Black Peter and was stranded in London
without a shilling. There was only my trade left. I saw these
advertisements about harpooners, and high wages, so I went to the
shipping agents, and they sent me here. That’s all I know, and I
say again that if I killed Black Peter, the law should give me
thanks, for I saved them the price of a hempen rope.”
“A very clear statement,” said Holmes, “rising and lighting his
pipe. “I think, Hopkins, that you should lose no time in
conveying your prisoner to a place of safety. This room is not
well adapted for a cell, and Mr. Patrick Cairns occupies too
large a proportion of our carpet.”
“Mr. Holmes,” said Hopkins, “I do not know how to express my
gratitude. Even now I do not understand how you attained this
result.”
“Simply by having the good fortune to get the right clue from the
beginning. It is very possible if I had known about this notebook
it might have led away my thoughts, as it did yours. But all I
heard pointed in the one direction. The amazing strength, the
skill in the use of the harpoon, the rum and water, the sealskin
tobacco-pouch with the coarse tobacco—all these pointed to a
seaman, and one who had been a whaler. I was convinced that the
initials ‘P.C.’ upon the pouch were a coincidence, and not those
of Peter Carey, since he seldom smoked, and no pipe was found in
his cabin. You remember that I asked whether whisky and brandy
were in the cabin. You said they were. How many landsmen are
there who would drink rum when they could get these other
spirits? Yes, I was certain it was a seaman.”
“And how did you find him?”
“My dear sir, the problem had become a very simple one. If it
were a seaman, it could only be a seaman who had been with him on
the _Sea Unicorn_. So far as I could learn he had sailed in no
other ship. I spent three days in wiring to Dundee, and at the
end of that time I had ascertained the names of the crew of the
_Sea Unicorn_ in 1883. When I found Patrick Cairns among the
harpooners, my research was nearing its end. I argued that the
man was probably in London, and that he would desire to leave the
country for a time. I therefore spent some days in the East End,
devised an Arctic expedition, put forth tempting terms for
harpooners who would serve under Captain Basil—and behold the
result!”
“Wonderful!” cried Hopkins. “Wonderful!”
“You must obtain the release of young Neligan as soon as
possible,” said Holmes. “I confess that I think you owe him some
apology. The tin box must be returned to him, but, of course, the
securities which Peter Carey has sold are lost forever. There’s
the cab, Hopkins, and you can remove your man. If you want me for
the trial, my address and that of Watson will be somewhere in
Norway—I’ll send particulars later.”