Our client, Mr. Robert Ferguson, of Ferguson and Muirhead, tea brokers,
of Mincing Lane, has made some inquiry from us in a communication of
even date concerning vampires. As our firm specializes entirely upon
the assessment of machinery the matter hardly comes within our purview,
and we have therefore recommended Mr. Ferguson to call upon you and lay
the matter before you. We have not forgotten your successful action in
the case of Matilda Briggs.
We are, Sir, Faithfully yours,
MORRISON, MORRISON, AND DODD.
per E. J. C.
"Matilda Briggs was not the name of a young woman, Watson," said
Holmes, in a reminiscent voice. "It was a ship which is associated
with the giant rat of Sumatra, a story for which the world is not yet
prepared. But what do we know about vampires? Does it come within our
purview either? Anything is better than stagnation, but really we seem
to have been switched on to a Grimm's fairy tale. Make a long arm,
Watson, and see what V has to say."
I leaned back and took down the great index volume to which he
referred. Holmes balanced it on his knee and his eyes moved slowly and
lovingly over the record of old cases, mixed with the accumulated
information of a lifetime.
"Voyage of the Gloria Scott," he read. "That was a bad business. I
have some recollection that you made a record of it, Watson, though I
was unable to congratulate you upon the result. Victor Lynch, the
forger. Venomous lizard or gila. Remarkable case, that! Vittoria,
the circus belle. Vanderbilt and the Yeggman. Vipers. Vigor, the
Hammersmith wonder. Hullo! Hullo! Good old index. You can't beat
it. Listen to this, Watson. Vampirism in Hungary. And again,
Vampires in Transylvania." He turned over the pages with eagerness,
but after a short intent perusal he threw down the great book with a
snarl of disappointment.
"Rubbish, Watson, rubbish! What have we to do with walking corpses who
can only be held in their grave by stakes driven through their hearts?
It's pure lunacy."
"But surely," said I, "the vampire was not necessarily a dead man? A
living person might have the habit. I have read, for example, of the
old sucking the blood of the young in order to retain their youth."
"You are right, Watson. It mentions the legend in one of these
references. But are we to give serious attention to such things? This
Agency stands flat-footed upon the ground, and there it must remain.
The world is big enough for us. No ghosts need apply. I fear that we
cannot take Mr. Robert Ferguson very seriously. Possibly this note may
be from him, and may throw some light upon what is worrying him."
He took up a second letter which had lain unnoticed upon the table
whilst he had been absorbed with the first. This he began to read with
a smile of amusement upon his face which gradually faded away into an
expression of intense interest and concentration. When he had finished
he sat for some little time lost in thought with the letter dangling
from his fingers. Finally, with a start, he aroused himself from his
reverie.
"Cheeseman's, Lamberley. Where is Lamberley, Watson?"
"It is in Sussex, south of Horsham."
"Not very far, eh? And Cheeseman's?"
"I know that country, Holmes. It is full of old houses which are named
after the men who built them centuries ago. You get Odley's and
Harvey's and Carriton's--the folk are forgotten but their names live in
their houses."
"Precisely," said Holmes coldly. It was one of the peculiarities of
his proud, self-contained nature that, though he docketed any fresh
information very quickly and accurately in his brain, he seldom made
any acknowledgment to the giver. "I rather fancy we shall know a good
deal more about Cheeseman's, Lamberley, before we are through. The
letter is, as I had hoped, from Robert Ferguson. By the way, he claims
acquaintance with you."
"With me!"
"You had better read it."
He handed the letter across. It was headed with the address quoted.
DEAR MR. HOLMES, (it said)--I have been recommended to you by my
lawyers, but indeed the matter is so extraordinarily delicate that it
is most difficult to discuss. It concerns a friend for whom I am
acting. This gentleman married some five years ago a Peruvian lady,
the daughter of a Peruvian merchant, whom he had met in connection with
the importation of nitrates. The lady was very beautiful, but the fact
of her foreign birth and of her alien religion always caused a
separation of interests and of feelings between husband and wife, so
that after a time his love may have cooled towards her and he may have
come to regard their union as a mistake. He felt there were sides of
her character which he could never explore or understand. This was the
more painful as she was as loving a wife as a man could have--to all
appearance absolutely devoted.
Now for the point which I will make more plain when we meet. Indeed,
this note is merely to give you a general idea of the situation and to
ascertain whether you would care to interest yourself in the matter.
The lady began to show some curious traits quite alien to her
ordinarily sweet and gentle disposition. The gentleman had been
married twice and he had one son by the first wife. This boy was now
fifteen, a very charming and affectionate youth, though unhappily
injured through an accident in childhood. Twice the wife was caught in
the act of assaulting this poor lad in the most unprovoked way. Once
she struck him with a stick and left a great weal on his arm.
This was a small matter, however, compared with her conduct to her own
child, a dear boy just under one year of age. On one occasion about a
month ago this child had been left by its nurse for a few minutes. A
loud cry from the baby, as of pain, called the nurse back. As she ran
into the room she saw her employer, the lady, leaning over the baby and
apparently biting his neck. There was a small wound in the neck, from
which a stream of blood had escaped. The nurse was so horrified that
she wished to call the husband, but the lady implored her not to do so,
and actually gave her five pounds as a price for her silence. No
explanation was ever given, and for the moment the matter was passed
over.
It left, however, a terrible impression upon the nurse's mind, and from
that time she began to watch her mistress closely, and to keep a closer
guard upon the baby, whom she tenderly loved. It seemed to her that
even as she watched the mother, so the mother watched her, and that
every time she was compelled to leave the baby alone the mother was
waiting to get at it. Day and night the nurse covered the child, and
day and night the silent, watchful mother seemed to be lying in wait as
a wolf waits for a lamb. It must read most incredible to you, and yet
I beg you to take it seriously, for a child's life and a man's sanity
may depend upon it.
At last there came one dreadful day when the facts could no longer be
concealed from the husband. The nurse's nerve had given way; she could
stand the strain no longer, and she made a clean breast of it all to
the man. To him it seemed as wild a tale as it may now seem to you.
He knew his wife to be a loving wife, and, save for the assaults upon
her stepson, a loving mother. Why, then, should she wound her own dear
little baby? He told the nurse that she was dreaming, that her
suspicions were those of a lunatic, and that such libels upon her
mistress were not to be tolerated. Whilst they were talking, a sudden
cry of pain was heard. Nurse and master rushed together to the
nursery. Imagine his feelings, Mr. Holmes, as he saw his wife rise
from a kneeling position beside the cot, and saw blood upon the child's
exposed neck and upon the sheet. With a cry of horror, he turned his
wife's face to the light and saw blood all round her lips. It was
she--she beyond all question--who had drunk the poor baby's blood.
So the matter stands. She is now confined to her room. There has been
no explanation. The husband is half demented. He knows, and I know,
little of Vampirism beyond the name. We had thought it was some wild
tale of foreign parts. And yet here in the very heart of the English
Sussex--well, all this can be discussed with you in the morning. Will
you see me? Will you use your great powers in aiding a distracted man?
If so, kindly wire to Ferguson, Cheeseman's, Lamberley, and I will be
at your rooms by ten o'clock.
Yours faithfully,
ROBERT FERGUSON.
PS.--I believe your friend Watson played Rugby for Blackheath when I
was three-quarter for Richmond. It is the only personal introduction
which I can give.
"Of course I remember him," said I, as I laid down the letter. "Big
Bob Ferguson, the finest three-quarter Richmond ever had. He was
always a good-natured chap. It's like him to be so concerned over a
friend's case."
Holmes looked at me thoughtfully and shook his head.
"I never get your limits, Watson," said he. "There are unexplored
possibilities about you. Take a wire down, like a good fellow. 'Will
examine your case with pleasure.'"
"_Your_ case!"
"We must not let him think that this Agency is a home for the
weak-minded. Of course it is his case. Send him that wire and let the
matter rest till morning."
Promptly at ten o'clock next morning Ferguson strode into our room. I
had remembered him as a long, slab-sided man with loose limbs and a
fine turn of speed, which had carried him round many an opposing back.
There is surely nothing in life more painful than to meet the wreck of
a fine athlete whom one has known in his prime. His great frame had
fallen in, his flaxen hair was scanty, and his shoulders were bowed. I
fear that I roused corresponding emotions in him.
"Hullo, Watson," said he, and his voice was still deep and hearty.
"You don't look quite the man you did when I threw you over the ropes
into the crowd at the Old Deer Park. I expect I have changed a bit
also. But it's this last day or two that has aged me. I see by your
telegram, Mr. Holmes, that it is no use my pretending to be anyone's
deputy."
"It is simpler to deal direct," said Holmes.
"Of course it is. But you can imagine how difficult it is when you are
speaking of the one woman whom you are bound to protect and help. What
can I do? How am I to go to the police with such a story? And yet the
kiddies have got to be protected. Is it madness, Mr. Holmes? Is it
something in the blood? Have you any similar case in your experience?
For God's sake, give me some advice, for I am at my wits' end."
"Very naturally, Mr. Ferguson. Now sit here and pull yourself together
and give me a few clear answers. I can assure you that I am very far
from being at my wits' end, and that I am confident we shall find some
solution. First of all, tell me what steps you have taken. Is your
wife still near the children?"
"We had a dreadful scene. She is a most loving woman, Mr. Holmes. If
ever a woman loved a man with all her heart and soul, she loves me.
She was cut to the heart that I should have discovered this horrible,
this incredible, secret. She would not even speak. She gave no answer
to my reproaches, save to gaze at me with a sort of wild, despairing
look in her eyes. Then she rushed to her room and locked herself in.
Since then she has refused to see me. She has a maid who was with her
before her marriage, Dolores by name--a friend rather than a servant.
She takes her food to her."
"Then the child is in no immediate danger?"
"Mrs. Mason, the nurse, has sworn that she will not leave it night or
day. I can absolutely trust her. I am more uneasy about poor little
Jack, for, as I told you in my note, he has twice been assaulted by
her."
"But never wounded?"
"No; she struck him savagely. It is the more terrible as he is a poor
little inoffensive cripple." Ferguson's gaunt features softened as he
spoke of his boy. "You would think that the dear lad's condition would
soften anyone's heart. A fall in childhood and a twisted spine, Mr.
Holmes. But the dearest, most loving heart within."
Holmes had picked up the letter of yesterday and was reading it over.
"What other inmates are there in your house, Mr. Ferguson?"
"Two servants who have not been long with us. One stable-hand,
Michael, who sleeps in the house. My wife, myself, my boy Jack, baby,
Dolores, and Mrs. Mason. That is all."
"I gather that you did not know your wife well at the time of your
marriage?"
"I had only known her a few weeks."
"How long had this maid Dolores been with her?"
"Some years."
"Then your wife's character would really be better known by Dolores
than by you?"
"Yes, you may say so."
Holmes made a note.
"I fancy," said he, "that I may be of more use at Lamberley than here.
It is eminently a case for personal investigation. If the lady remains
in her room, our presence could not annoy or inconvenience her. Of
course, we would stay at the inn."
Ferguson gave a gesture of relief.
"It is what I hoped, Mr. Holmes. There is an excellent train at two
from Victoria, if you could come."
"Of course we could come. There is a lull at present. I can give you
my undivided energies. Watson, of course, comes with us. But there
are one or two points upon which I wish to be very sure before I start.
This unhappy lady, as I understand it, has appeared to assault both the
children, her own baby and your little son?"
"That is so."
"But the assaults take different forms, do they not? She has beaten
your son."
"Once with a stick and once very savagely with her hands."
"Did she give no explanation why she struck him?"
"None, save that she hated him. Again and again she said so."
"Well, that is not unknown among stepmothers. A posthumous jealousy,
we will say. Is the lady jealous by nature?"
"Yes, she is very jealous--jealous with all the strength of her fiery
tropical love."
"But the boy--he is fifteen, I understand, and probably very developed
in mind, since his body has been circumscribed in action. Did he give
you no explanation of these assaults?"
"No; he declared there was no reason."
"Were they good friends at other times?"
"No; there was never any love between them."
"Yet you say he is affectionate?"
"Never in the world could there be so devoted a son. My life is his
life. He is absorbed in what I say or do."
Once again Holmes made a note. For some time he sat lost in thought.
"No doubt you and the boy were great comrades before this second
marriage. You were thrown very close together, were you not?"
"Very much so."
"And the boy, having so affectionate a nature, was devoted, no doubt,
to the memory of his mother?"
"Most devoted."
"He would certainly seem to be a most interesting lad. There is one
other point about these assaults. Were the strange attacks upon the
baby and the assaults upon your son at the same period?"
"In the first case it was so. It was as if some frenzy had seized her,
and she had vented her rage upon both. In the second case it was only
Jack who suffered. Mrs. Mason had no complaint to make about the baby."
"That certainly complicates matters."
"I don't quite follow you, Mr. Holmes."
"Possibly not. One forms provisional theories and waits for time or
fuller knowledge to explode them. A bad habit, Mr. Ferguson; but human
nature is weak. I fear that your old friend here has given an
exaggerated view of my scientific methods. However, I will only say at
the present stage that your problem does not appear to me to be
insoluble, and that you may expect to find us at Victoria at two
o'clock."
It was evening of a dull, foggy November day when, having left our bags
at the "Chequers," Lamberley, we drove through the Sussex clay of a
long winding lane, and finally reached the isolated and ancient
farm-house in which Ferguson dwelt. It was a large, straggling
building, very old in the centre, very new at the wings, with towering
Tudor chimneys and a lichen-spotted, high-pitched roof of Horsham
slabs. The doorsteps were worn into curves, and the ancient tiles
which lined the porch were marked with the rebus of a cheese and a man,
after the original builder. Within, the ceilings were corrugated with
heavy oaken beams, and the uneven floors sagged into sharp curves. An
odour of age and decay pervaded the whole crumbling building.
There was one very large central room, into which Ferguson led us.
Here, in a huge old-fashioned fireplace with an iron screen behind it
dated 1670, there blazed and spluttered a splendid log fire.
The room, as I gazed round, was a most singular mixture of dates and of
places. The half-panelled walls may well have belonged to the original
yeoman farmer of the seventeenth century. They were ornamented,
however, on the lower part by a line of well-chosen modern
water-colours; while above, where yellow plaster took the place of oak,
there was hung a fine collection of South American utensils and
weapons, which had been brought, no doubt, by the Peruvian lady
upstairs. Holmes rose, with that quick curiosity which sprang from his
eager mind, and examined them with some care. He returned with his
eyes full of thought.
"Hullo!" he cried. "Hullo!"
A spaniel had lain in a basket in the corner. It came slowly forward
towards its master, walking with difficulty. Its hind-legs moved
irregularly and its tail was on the ground. It licked Ferguson's hand.
"What is it, Mr. Holmes?"
"The dog. What's the matter with it?"
"That's what puzzled the vet. A sort of paralysis. Spinal meningitis,
he thought. But it is passing. He'll be all right soon--won't you,
Carlo?"
A shiver of assent passed through the drooping tail. The dog's
mournful eyes passed from one of us to the other. He knew that we were
discussing his case.
"Did it come on suddenly?"
"In a single night."
"How long ago?"
"It may have been four months ago."
"Very remarkable. Very suggestive."
"What do you see in it, Mr. Holmes?"
"A confirmation of what I had already thought."
"For God's sake, what do you think, Mr. Holmes? It may be a mere
intellectual puzzle to you, but it is life and death to me! My wife a
would-be murderer--my child in constant danger! Don't play with me,
Mr. Holmes. It is too terribly serious."
The big Rugby three-quarter was trembling all over. Holmes put his
hand soothingly upon his arm.
"I fear that there is pain for you, Mr. Ferguson, whatever the solution
may be," said he. "I would spare you all I can. I cannot say more for
the instant, but before I leave this house I hope I may have something
definite."
"Please God you may! If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I will go up to
my wife's room and see if there has been any change."
He was away some minutes, during which Holmes resumed his examination
of the curiosities upon the wall. When our host returned it was clear
from his downcast face that he had made no progress. He brought with
him a tall, slim, brown-faced girl.
"The tea is ready, Dolores," said Ferguson. "See that your mistress
has everything she can wish."
"She verra ill," cried the girl, looking with indignant eyes at her
master. "She no ask for food. She verra ill. She need doctor. I
frightened stay alone with her without doctor."
Ferguson looked at me with a question in his eyes.
"I should be so glad if I could be of use."
"Would your mistress see Dr. Watson?"
"I take him. I no ask leave. She needs doctor."
"Then I'll come with you at once."
I followed the girl, who was quivering with strong emotion, up the
staircase and down an ancient corridor. At the end was an iron-clamped
and massive door. It struck me as I looked at it that if Ferguson
tried to force his way to his wife he would find it no easy matter.
The girl drew a key from her pocket, and the heavy oaken planks creaked
upon their old hinges. I passed in and she swiftly followed, fastening
the door behind her.
On the bed a woman was lying who was clearly in a high fever. She was
only half conscious, but as I entered she raised a pair of frightened
but beautiful eyes and glared at me in apprehension. Seeing a
stranger, she appeared to be relieved, and sank back with a sigh upon
the pillow. I stepped up to her with a few reassuring words, and she
lay still while I took her pulse and temperature. Both were high, and
yet my impression was that the condition was rather that of mental and
nervous excitement than of any actual seizure.
"She lie like that one day, two day. I 'fraid she die," said the girl.
The woman turned her flushed and handsome face towards me.
"Where is my husband?"
"He is below, and would wish to see you."
"I will not see him. I will not see him." Then she seemed to wander
off into delirium. "A fiend! A fiend! Oh, what shall I do with this
devil?"
"Can I help you in any way?"
"No. No one can help. It is finished. All is destroyed. Do what I
will, all is destroyed."
The woman must have some strange delusion. I could not see honest Bob
Ferguson in the character of fiend or devil.
"Madame," I said, "your husband loves you dearly. He is deeply grieved
at this happening."
Again she turned on me those glorious eyes.
"He loves me. Yes. But do I not love him? Do I not love him even to
sacrifice myself rather than break his dear heart. That is how I love
him. And yet he could think of me--he could speak of me so."
"He is full of grief, but he cannot understand.
"No, he cannot understand. But he should trust."
"Will you not see him?" I suggested.
"No, no; I cannot forget those terrible words nor the look upon his
face. I will not see him. Go now. You can do nothing for me. Tell
him only one thing. I want my child. I have a right to my child.
That is the only message I can send him." She turned her face to the
wall and would say no more.
I returned to the room downstairs, where Ferguson and Holmes still sat
by the fire. Ferguson listened moodily to my account of the interview.
"How can I send her the child?" he said. "How do I know what strange
impulse might come upon her? How can I ever forget how she rose from
beside it with its blood upon her lips?" He shuddered at the
recollection. "The child is safe with Mrs. Mason, and there he must
remain."
A smart maid, the only modern thing which we had seen in the house, had
brought in some tea. As she was serving it the door opened and a youth
entered the room. He was a remarkable lad, pale-faced and fair-haired,
with excitable light blue eyes which blazed into a sudden flame of
emotion and joy as they rested upon his father. He rushed forward and
threw his arms round his neck with the abandon of a loving girl.
"Oh, daddy," he cried, "I did not know that you were due yet. I should
have been here to meet you. Oh, I am so glad to see you!"
Ferguson gently disengaged himself from the embrace with some little
show of embarrassment.
"Dear old chap," said he, patting the flaxen head with a very tender
hand. "I came early because my friends, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson,
have been persuaded to come down and spend an evening with us."
"Is that Mr. Holmes, the detective?"
"Yes."
The youth looked at us with a very penetrating and, as it seemed to me,
unfriendly gaze.
"What about your other child, Mr. Ferguson?" asked Holmes. "Might we
make the acquaintance of the baby?"
"Ask Mrs. Mason to bring baby down," said Ferguson. The boy went off
with a curious, shambling gait which told my surgical eyes that he was
suffering from a weak spine. Presently he returned, and behind him
came a tall, gaunt woman bearing in her arms a very beautiful child,
dark-eyed, golden-haired, a wonderful mixture of the Saxon and the
Latin. Ferguson was evidently devoted to it, for he took it into his
arms and fondled it most tenderly.
"Fancy anyone having the heart to hurt him," he muttered, as he glanced
down at the small, angry red pucker upon the cherub throat.
It was at this moment that I chanced to glance at Holmes, and saw a
most singular intentness in his expression. His face was as set as if
it had been carved out of old ivory, and his eyes, which had glanced
for a moment at father and child, were now fixed with eager curiosity
upon something at the other side of the room. Following his gaze I
could only guess that he was looking out through the window at the
melancholy, dripping garden. It is true that a shutter had half closed
outside and obstructed the view, but none the less it was certainly at
the window that Holmes was fixing his concentrated attention. Then he
smiled, and his eyes came back to the baby. On its chubby neck there
was this small puckered mark. Without speaking, Holmes examined it
with care. Finally he shook one of the dimpled fists which waved in
front of him.
"Good-bye, little man. You have made a strange start in life. Nurse,
I should wish to have a word with you in private."
He took her aside and spoke earnestly for a few minutes. I only heard
the last words, which were: "Your anxiety will soon, I hope, be set at
rest." The woman, who seemed to be a sour, silent kind of creature,
withdrew with the child.
"What is Mrs. Mason like?" asked Holmes.
"Not very prepossessing externally, as you can see, but a heart of
gold, and devoted to the child."
"Do you like her, Jack?" Holmes turned suddenly upon the boy. His
expressive mobile face shadowed over, and he shook his head.
"Jacky has very strong likes and dislikes," said Ferguson, putting his
arm round the boy. "Luckily I am one of his likes."
The boy cooed and nestled his head upon his father's breast. Ferguson
gently disengaged him.
"Run away, little Jacky," said he, and he watched his son with loving
eyes until he disappeared. "Now, Mr. Holmes," he continued, when the
boy was gone, "I really feel that I have brought you on a fool's
errand, for what can you possibly do, save give me your sympathy? It
must be an exceedingly delicate and complex affair from your point of
view."
"It is certainly delicate," said my friend, with an amused smile, "but
I have not been struck up to now with its complexity. It has been a
case for intellectual deduction, but when this original intellectual
deduction is confirmed point by point by quite a number of independent
incidents, then the subjective becomes objective and we can say
confidently that we have reached our goal. I had, in fact, reached it
before we left Baker Street, and the rest has merely been observation
and confirmation."
Ferguson put his big hand to his furrowed forehead.
"For Heaven's sake, Holmes," he said hoarsely, "if you can see the
truth in this matter, do not keep me in suspense. How do I stand?
What shall I do? I care nothing as to how you have found your facts so
long as you have really got them."
"Certainly I owe you an explanation, and you shall have it. But you
will permit me to handle the matter in my own way? Is the lady capable
of seeing us, Watson?"
"She is ill, but she is quite rational."
"Very good. It is only in her presence that we can clear the matter
up. Let us go up to her."
"She will not see me," cried Ferguson.
"Oh, yes, she will," said Holmes. He scribbled a few lines upon a
sheet of paper. "You at least have the _entrée_, Watson. Will you
have the goodness to give the lady this note?"
I ascended again and handed the note to Dolores, who cautiously opened
the door. A minute later I heard a cry from within, a cry in which joy
and surprise seemed to be blended. Dolores looked out.
"She will see them. She will leesten," said she.
At my summons Ferguson and Holmes came up. As we entered the room
Ferguson took a step or two towards his wife, who had raised herself in
the bed, but she held out her hand to repulse him. He sank into an
arm-chair, while Holmes seated himself beside him, after bowing to the
lady, who looked at him with wide-eyed amazement.
"I think we can dispense with Dolores," said Holmes. "Oh, very well,
madame, if you would rather she stayed I can see no objection. Now,
Mr. Ferguson, I am a busy man with many calls, and my methods have to
be short and direct. The swiftest surgery is the least painful. Let
me first say what will ease your mind. Your wife is a very good, a
very loving, and a very ill-used woman."
Ferguson sat up with a cry of joy.
"Prove that, Mr. Holmes, and I am your debtor for ever."
"I will do so, but in doing so I must wound you deeply in another
direction."
"I care nothing so long as you clear my wife. Everything on earth is
insignificant compared to that."
"Let me tell you, then, the train of reasoning which passed through my
mind in Baker Street. The idea of a vampire was to me absurd. Such
things do not happen in criminal practice in England. And yet your
observation was precise. You had seen the lady rise from beside the
child's cot with the blood upon her lips."
"I did."
"Did it not occur to you that a bleeding wound may be sucked for some
other purpose than to draw the blood from it? Was there not a Queen in
English history who sucked such a wound to draw poison from it?"
"Poison!"
"A South American household. My instinct felt the presence of those
weapons upon the wall before my eyes ever saw them. It might have been
other poison, but that was what occurred to me. When I saw that little
empty quiver beside the small bird-bow, it was just what I expected to
see. If the child were pricked with one of those arrows dipped in
curare or some other devilish drug, it would mean death if the venom
were not sucked out.
"And the dog! If one were to use such a poison, would one not try it
first in order to see that it had not lost its power? I did not
foresee the dog, but at least I understood him and he fitted into my
reconstruction.
"Now do you understand? Your wife feared such an attack. She saw it
made and saved the child's life, and yet she shrank from telling you
all the truth, for she knew how you loved the boy and feared lest it
break your heart."
"Jacky!"
"I watched him as you fondled the child just now. His face was clearly
reflected in the glass of the window where the shutter formed a
background. I saw such jealousy, such cruel hatred, as I have seldom
seen in a human face."
"My Jacky!"
"You have to face it, Mr. Ferguson. It is the more painful because it
is a distorted love, a maniacal exaggerated love for you, and possibly
for his dead mother, which has prompted his action. His very soul is
consumed with hatred for this splendid child, whose health and beauty
are a contrast to his own weakness."
"Good God! It is incredible!"
"Have I spoken the truth, madame?"
The lady was sobbing, with her face buried in the pillows. Now she
turned to her husband.
"How could I tell you, Bob? I felt the blow it would be to you. It
was better that I should wait and that it should come from some other
lips than mine. When this gentleman, who seems to have powers of
magic, wrote that he knew all, I was glad."
"I think a year at sea would be my prescription for Master Jacky," said
Holmes, rising from his chair. "Only one thing is still clouded,
madame. We can quite understand your attacks upon Master Jacky. There
is a limit to a mother's patience. But how did you dare to leave the
child these last two days?"
"I had told Mrs. Mason. She knew."
"Exactly. So I imagined."
Ferguson was standing by the bed, choking, his hands outstretched and
quivering.
"This, I fancy, is the time for our exit, Watson," said Holmes in a
whisper. "If you will take one elbow of the too faithful Dolores, I
will take the other. There, now," he added, as he closed the door
behind him, "I think we may leave them to settle the rest among
themselves."
I have only one further note of this case. It is the letter which
Holmes wrote in final answer to that with which the narrative begins.
It ran thus:
BAKER STREET,
_Nov._ 21st.
_Re_ Vampires.