It is a most singular thing that a problem which was certainly as
abstruse and unusual as any which I have faced in my long professional
career should have come to me after my retirement; and be brought, as
it were, to my very door. It occurred after my withdrawal to my little
Sussex home, when I had given myself up entirely to that soothing life
of Nature for which I had so often yearned during the long years spent
amid the gloom of London. At this period of my life the good Watson
had passed almost beyond my ken. An occasional week-end visit was the
most that I ever saw of him. Thus I must act as my own chronicler.
Ah! had he but been with me, how much he might have made of so
wonderful a happening and of my eventual triumph against every
difficulty! As it is, however, I must needs tell my tale in my own
plain way, showing by my words each step upon the difficult road which
lay before me as I searched for the mystery of the Lion's Mane.
My villa is situated upon the southern slope of the Downs, commanding a
great view of the Channel. At this point the coast-line is entirely of
chalk cliffs, which can only be descended by a single, long, tortuous
path, which is steep and slippery. At the bottom of the path lie a
hundred yards of pebbles and shingle, even when the tide is at full.
Here and there, however, there are curves and hollows which make
splendid swimming-pools filled afresh with each flow. This admirable
beach extends for some miles in each direction, save only at one point
where the little cove and village of Fulworth break the line.
My house is lonely. I, my old housekeeper, and my bees have the estate
all to ourselves. Half a mile off, however, is Harold Stackhurst's
well-known coaching establishment. The Gables, quite a large place,
which contains some score of young fellows preparing for various
professions, with a staff of several masters. Stackhurst himself was a
well-known rowing Blue in his day, and an excellent all-round scholar.
He and I were always friendly from the day I came to the coast, and he
was the one man who was on such terms with me that we could drop in on
each other in the evenings without an invitation.
Towards the end of July, 1907, there was a severe gale, the wind
blowing up-Channel, heaping the seas to the base of the cliffs, and
leaving a lagoon at the turn of the tide. On the morning of which I
speak the wind had abated, and all Nature was newly washed and fresh.
It was impossible to work upon so delightful a day, and I strolled out
before breakfast to enjoy the exquisite air. I walked along the cliff
path which led to the steep descent to the beach. As I walked I heard
a shout behind me, and there was Harold Stackhurst waving his hand in
cheery greeting.
"What a morning, Mr. Holmes! I thought I should see you out."
"Going for a swim, I see."
"At your old tricks again," he laughed, patting his bulging pocket.
"Yes. McPherson started early, and I expect I may find him there."
Fitzroy McPherson was the science master, a fine upstanding young
fellow whose life had been crippled by heart trouble following
rheumatic fever. He was a natural athlete, however, and excelled in
every game which did not throw too great a strain upon him. Summer and
winter he went for his swim, and, as I am a swimmer myself, I have
often joined him.
At this moment we saw the man himself. His head showed above the edge
of the cliff where the path ends. Then his whole figure appeared at
the top, staggering like a drunken man. The next instant he threw up
his hands, and, with a terrible cry, fell upon his face. Stackhurst
and I rushed forward--it may have been fifty yards--and turned him on
his back. He was obviously dying. Those glazed sunken eyes and
dreadful livid cheeks could mean nothing else. One glimmer of life
came into his face for an instant, and he uttered two or three words
with an eager air of warning. They were slurred and indistinct, but to
my ear the last of them, which burst in a shriek from his lips, were
"the lion's mane." It was utterly irrelevant and unintelligible, and
yet I could twist the sound into no other sense. Then he half raised
himself from the ground, threw his arms into the air and fell forward
on his side. He was dead.
My companion was paralysed by the sudden horror of it, but I, as may
well be imagined, had every sense on the alert. And I had need, for it
was speedily evident that we were in the presence of an extraordinary
case. The man was dressed only in his Burberry overcoat, his trousers,
and an unlaced pair of canvas shoes. As he fell over, his Burberry,
which had been simply thrown round his shoulders, slipped off, exposing
his trunk. We stared at it in amazement. His back was covered with
dark red lines as though he had been terribly flogged by a thin wire
scourge. The instrument with which this punishment had been inflicted
was clearly flexible, for the long, angry weals curved round his
shoulders and ribs. There was blood dripping down his chin, for he had
bitten through his lower lip in the paroxysm of his agony. His drawn
and distorted face told how terrible that agony had been.
I was kneeling and Stackhurst standing by the body when a shadow fell
across us, and we found that Ian Murdoch was by our side. Murdoch was
the mathematical coach at the establishment, a tall, dark, thin man, so
taciturn and aloof that none can be said to have been his friend. He
seemed to live in some high, abstract region of surds and conic
sections with little to connect him with ordinary life. He was looked
upon as an oddity by the students, and would have been their butt, but
there was some strange outlandish blood in the man, which showed itself
not only in his coal-black eyes and swarthy face, but also in
occasional outbreaks of temper, which could only be described as
ferocious. On one occasion, being plagued by a little dog belonging to
McPherson, he had caught the creature up and hurled it through the
plate-glass window, an action for which Stackhurst would certainly have
given him his dismissal had he not been a very valuable teacher. Such
was the strange, complex man who now appeared beside us. He seemed to
be honestly shocked at the sight before him, though the incident of the
dog may show that there was no great sympathy between the dead man and
himself.
"Poor fellow! Poor fellow! What can I do? How can I help?"
"Were you with him? Can you tell us what has happened?"
"No, no, I was late this morning. I was not on the beach at all. I
have come straight from The Gables. What can I do?"
"You can hurry to the police-station at Fulworth. Report the matter at
once."
Without a word he made off at top speed, and I proceeded to take the
matter in hand, while Stackhurst, dazed at this tragedy, remained by
the body. My first task naturally was to note who was on the beach.
From the top of the path I could see the whole sweep of it, and it was
absolutely deserted save that two or three dark figures could be seen
far away moving towards the village of Fulworth. Having satisfied
myself upon this point, I walked slowly down the path. There was clay
or soft marl mixed with the chalk, and every here and there I saw the
same footstep, both ascending and descending. No one else had gone
down to the beach by this track that morning. At one place I observed
the print of an open hand with the fingers towards the incline. This
could only mean that poor McPherson had fallen as he ascended. There
were rounded depressions, too, which suggested that he had come down
upon his knees more than once. At the bottom of the path was the
considerable lagoon left by the retreating tide. At the side of it
McPherson had undressed, for there lay his towel on a rock. It was
folded and dry, so that it would seem that after all he had never
entered the water. Once or twice as I hunted round amid the hard
shingle I came on little patches of sand where the print of his canvas
shoe, and also of his naked foot, could be seen. The latter fact
proved that he had made all ready to bathe, though the towel indicated
that he had not actually done so.
And here was the problem clearly defined--as strange a one as had ever
confronted me. The man had not been on the beach more than a quarter
of an hour at the most. Stackhurst had followed him from The Gables,
so there could be no doubt about that. He had gone to bathe and had
stripped, as the naked footsteps showed. Then he had suddenly huddled
on his clothes again--they were all dishevelled and unfastened--and he
had returned without bathing, or at any rate without drying himself.
And the reason for his change of purpose had been that he had been
scourged in some savage, inhuman fashion, tortured until he bit his lip
through in his agony, and was left with only strength enough to crawl
away and to die. Who had done this barbarous deed? There were, it is
true, small grottos and caves in the base of the cliffs, but the low
sun shone directly into them, and there was no place for concealment.
Then, again, there were those distant figures on the beach. They
seemed too far away to have been connected with the crime, and the
broad lagoon in which McPherson had intended to bathe lay between him
and them, lapping up to the rocks. On the sea two or three
fishing-boats were at no great distance. Their occupants might be
examined at our leisure. There were several roads for inquiry, but
none which led to any very obvious goal.
When I at last returned to the body I found that a little group of
wandering folk had gathered round it. Stackhurst was, of course, still
there, and Ian Murdoch had just arrived with Anderson, the village
constable, a big, ginger-moustached man of the slow, solid Sussex
breed--a breed which covers much good sense under a heavy, silent
exterior. He listened to everything, took note of all we said, and
finally drew me aside.
"I'd be glad of your advice, Mr. Holmes. This is a big thing for me to
handle, and I'll hear of it from Lewes if I go wrong."
I advised him to send for his immediate superior, and for a doctor;
also to allow nothing to be moved, and as few fresh footmarks as
possible to be made, until they came. In the meantime I searched the
dead man's pockets. There were his handkerchief, a large knife, and a
small folding card-case. From this projected a slip of paper, which I
unfolded and handed to the constable. There was written on it in a
scrawling, feminine hand: "I will be there, you may be sure.--Maudie."
It read like a love affair, an assignation, though when and where were
a blank. The constable replaced it in the card-case and returned it
with the other things to the pockets of the Burberry. Then, as nothing
more suggested itself, I walked back to my house for breakfast, having
first arranged that the base of the cliffs should be thoroughly
searched.
Stackhurst was round in an hour or two to tell me that the body had
been removed to The Gables, where the inquest would be held. He
brought with him some serious and definite news. As I expected,
nothing had been found in the small caves below the cliff, but he had
examined the papers in McPherson's desk, and there were several which
showed an intimate correspondence with a certain Miss Maud Bellamy, of
Fulworth. We had then established the identity of the writer of the
note.
"The police have the letters," he explained. "I could not bring them.
But there is no doubt that it was a serious love affair. I see no
reason, however, to connect it with that horrible happening save,
indeed, that the lady had made an appointment with him."
"But hardly at a bathing-pool which all of you were in the habit of
using," I remarked.
"It is mere chance," said he, "that several of the students were not
with McPherson."
"Was it mere chance?"
Stackhurst knit his brows in thought.
"Ian Murdoch held them back," said he; "he would insist upon some
algebraic demonstration before breakfast. Poor chap, he is dreadfully
cut up about it all."
"And yet I gather that they were not friends."
"At one time they were not. But for a year or more Murdoch has been as
near to McPherson as he ever could be to anyone. He is not of a very
sympathetic disposition by nature."
"So I understand. I seem to remember your telling me once about a
quarrel over the ill-usage of a dog."
"That blew over all right."
"But left some vindictive feeling, perhaps."
"No, no; I am sure they were real friends."
"Well, then, we must explore the matter of the girl. Do you know her?"
"Everyone knows her. She is the beauty of the neighbourhood--a real
beauty, Holmes, who would draw attention everywhere. I knew that
McPherson was attracted by her, but I had no notion that it had gone so
far as these letters would seem to indicate."
"But who is she?"
"She is the daughter of old Tom Bellamy, who owns all the boats and
bathing-cots at Fulworth. He was a fisherman to start with, but is now
a man of some substance. He and his son William run the business."
"Shall we walk into Fulworth and see them?"
"On what pretext?"
"Oh, we can easily find a pretext. After all, this poor man did not
ill-use himself in this outrageous way. Some human hand was on the
handle of that scourge, if indeed it was a scourge which inflicted the
injuries. His circle of acquaintances in this lonely place was surely
limited. Let us follow it up in every direction and we can hardly fail
to come upon the motive, which in turn should lead us to the criminal."
It would have been a pleasant walk across the thyme-scented Downs had
our minds not been poisoned by the tragedy we had witnessed. The
village of Fulworth lies in a hollow curving in a semicircle round the
bay. Behind the old-fashioned hamlet several modern houses have been
built upon the rising ground. It was to one of these that Stackhurst
guided me.
"That's The Haven, as Bellamy called it. The one with the corner tower
and slate roof. Not bad for a man who started with nothing but---- By
Jove, look at that!"
The garden gate of The Haven had opened and a man had emerged. There
was no mistaking that tall, angular, straggling figure. It was Ian
Murdoch, the mathematician. A moment later we confronted him upon the
road.
"Hullo!" said Stackhurst. The man nodded, gave us a sideways glance
from his curious dark eyes, and would have passed us, but his principal
pulled him up.
"What were you doing there?" he asked.
Murdoch's face flushed with anger. "I am your subordinate, sir, under
your roof. I am not aware that I owe you any account of my private
actions."
Stackhurst's nerves were near the surface after all he had endured.
Otherwise, perhaps, he would have waited. Now he lost his temper
completely.
"In the circumstances your answer is pure impertinence, Mr. Murdoch."
"Your own question might perhaps come under the same heading."
"This is not the first time that I have had to overlook your
insubordinate ways. It will certainly be the last. You will kindly
make fresh arrangements for your future as speedily as you can."
"I had intended to do so. I have lost to-day the only person who made
The Gables habitable."
He strode off upon his way, while Stackhurst, with angry eyes, stood
glaring after him. "Is he not an impossible, intolerable man?" he
cried.
The one thing that impressed itself forcibly upon my mind was that Mr.
Ian Murdoch was taking the first chance to open a path of escape from
the scene of the crime. Suspicion, vague and nebulous, was now
beginning to take outline in my mind. Perhaps the visit to the
Bellamys might throw some further light upon the matter. Stackhurst
pulled himself together and we went forward to the house.
Mr. Bellamy proved to be a middle-aged man with a flaming red beard.
He seemed to be in a very angry mood, and his face was soon as florid
as his hair.
"No, sir, I do not desire any particulars. My son here"--indicating a
powerful young man, with a heavy, sullen face, in the corner of the
sitting-room--"is of one mind with me that Mr. McPherson's attentions
to Maud were insulting. Yes, sir, the word 'marriage' was never
mentioned, and yet there were letters and meetings, and a great deal
more of which neither of us could approve. She has no mother, and we
are her only guardians. We are determined----"
But the words were taken from his mouth by the appearance of the lady
herself. There was no gainsaying that she would have graced any
assembly in the world. Who could have imagined that so rare a flower
would grow from such a root and in such an atmosphere? Women have
seldom been an attraction to me, for my brain has always governed my
heart, but I could not look upon her perfect clear-cut face, with all
the soft freshness of the Downlands in her delicate colouring, without
realizing that no young man would cross her path unscathed. Such was
the girl who had pushed open the door and stood now, wide-eyed and
intense, in front of Harold Stackhurst.
"I know already that Fitzroy is dead," she said. "Do not be afraid to
tell me the particulars."
"This other gentleman of yours let us know the news," explained the
father.
"There is no reason why my sister should be brought into the matter,"
growled the younger man. The sister turned a sharp, fierce look upon
him. "This is my business, William. Kindly leave me to manage it in
my own way. By all accounts there has been a crime committed. If I
can help to show who did it, it is the least I can do for him who is
gone."
She listened to a short account from my companion, with a composed
concentration which showed me that she possessed strong character as
well as great beauty. Maud Bellamy will always remain in my memory as
a most complete and remarkable woman. It seems that she already knew
me by sight, for she turned to me at the end.
"Bring them to justice, Mr. Holmes. You have my sympathy and my help,
whoever they may be." It seemed to me that she glanced defiantly at
her father and brother as she spoke.
"Thank you," said I. "I value a woman's instinct in such matters. You
use the word 'they.' You think that more than one was concerned?"
"I knew Mr. McPherson well enough to be aware that he was a brave and a
strong man. No single person could ever have inflicted such an outrage
upon him."
"Might I have one word with you alone?"
"I tell you, Maud, not to mix yourself up in the matter," cried her
father angrily.