"The whole world will know the facts presently, so there can be no harm
if I discuss them here," said I. "I should have preferred privacy, but
if your father will not allow it, he must share the deliberations."
Then I spoke of the note which had been found in the dead man's pocket.
"It is sure to be produced at the inquest. May I ask you to throw any
light upon it that you can?"
"I see no reason for mystery," she answered. "We were engaged to be
married, and we only kept it secret because Fitzroy's uncle, who is
very old and said to be dying, might have disinherited him if he had
married against his wish. There was no other reason."
"You could have told us," growled Mr. Bellamy.
"So I would, father, if you had ever shown sympathy."
"I object to my girl picking up with men outside her own station."
"It was your prejudice against him which prevented us from telling you.
As to this appointment"--she fumbled in her dress and produced a
crumpled note--"it was in answer to this."
"DEAREST," ran the message: "The old place on the beach just after
sunset on Tuesday. It is the only time I can get away.--F.M."
"Tuesday was to-day, and I had meant to meet him to-night."
I turned over the paper. "This never came by post. How did you get
it?"
"I would rather not answer that question. It has really nothing to do
with the matter which you are investigating. But anything which bears
upon that I will most freely answer."
She was as good as her word, but there was nothing which was helpful in
our investigation. She had no reason to think that her fiancé had any
hidden enemy, but she admitted that she had had several warm admirers.
"May I ask if Mr. Ian Murdoch was one of them?"
She blushed and seemed confused.
"There was a time when I thought he was. But that was all changed when
he understood the relations between Fitzroy and myself."
Again the shadow round this strange man seemed to me to be taking more
definite shape. His record must be examined. His rooms must be
privately searched. Stackhurst was a willing collaborator, for in his
mind also suspicions were forming. We returned from our visit to The
Haven with the hope that one free end of this tangled skein was already
in our hands.
A week passed. The inquest had thrown no light upon the matter and had
been adjourned for further evidence. Stackhurst had made discreet
inquiry about his subordinate, and there had been a superficial search
of his room, but without result. Personally, I had gone over the whole
ground again, both physically and mentally, but with no new
conclusions. In all my chronicles the reader will find no case which
brought me so completely to the limit of my powers. Even my
imagination could conceive no solution to the mystery. And then there
came the incident of the dog.
It was my old housekeeper who heard of it first by that strange
wireless by which such people collect the news of the country-side.
"Sad story this, sir, about Mr. McPherson's dog," said she one evening.
I do not encourage such conversations, but the words arrested my
attention.
"What of Mr. McPherson's dog?"
"Dead, sir. Died of grief for its master."
"Who told you this?"
"Why, sir, everyone is talking of it. It took on terrible, and has
eaten nothing for a week. Then to-day two of the young gentlemen from
The Gables found it dead--down on the beach, sir, at the very place
where its master met his end."
"At the very place." The words stood out clear in my memory. Some dim
perception that the matter was vital rose in my mind. That the dog
should die was after the beautiful, faithful nature of dogs. But 'in
the very place'! Why should this lonely beach be fatal to it? Was it
possible that it also, had been sacrificed to some revengeful feud?
Was it possible----? Yes, the perception was dim, but already
something was building up in my mind. In a few minutes I was on my way
to The Gables, where I found Stackhurst in his study. At my request he
sent for Sudbury and Blount, the two students who had found the dog.
"Yes, it lay on the very edge of the pool," said one of them. "It must
have followed the trail of its dead master."
I saw the faithful little creature, an Airedale terrier, laid out upon
the mat in the hall. The body was stiff and rigid, the eyes
projecting, and the limbs contorted. There was agony in every line of
it.
From The Gables I walked down to the bathing-pool. The sun had sunk
and the shadow of the great cliff lay black across the water, which
glimmered dully like a sheet of lead. The place was deserted and there
was no sign of life save for two sea-birds circling and screaming
overhead. In the fading light I could dimly make out the little dog's
spoor upon the sand round the very rock on which his master's towel had
been laid. For a long time I stood in deep meditation while the
shadows grew darker around me. My mind was filled with racing
thoughts. You have known what it was to be in a nightmare in which you
feel that there is some all-important thing for which you search and
which you know is there, though it remains for ever just beyond your
reach. That was how I felt that evening as I stood alone by that place
of death. Then at last I turned and walked slowly homewards. I had
just reached the top of the path when it came to me. Like a flash, I
remembered the thing for which I had so eagerly and vainly grasped.
You will know, or Watson has written in vain, that I hold a vast store
of out-of-the-way knowledge, without scientific system, but very
available for the needs of my work. My mind is like a crowded box-room
with packets of all sorts stowed away therein--so many that I may well
have but a vague perception of what was there. I had known that there
was something which might bear upon this matter. It was still vague,
but at least I knew how I could make it clear. It was monstrous,
incredible, and yet it was always a possibility. I would test it to
the full. There is a great garret in my little house which is stuffed
with books. It was into this that I plunged and rummaged for an hour.
At the end of that time I emerged with a little chocolate and silver
volume. Eagerly I turned up the chapter of which I had a dim
remembrance. Yes, it was indeed a far-fetched and unlikely
proposition, and yet I could not be at rest until I had made sure if it
might, indeed, be so. It was late when I retired, with my mind eagerly
awaiting the work of the morrow.
But that work met with an annoying interruption. I had hardly
swallowed my early cup of tea and was starting for the beach when I had
a call from Inspector Bardie of the Sussex Constabulary--a steady,
solid, bovine man with thoughtful eyes, which looked at me now with a
very troubled expression.
"I know your immense experience, sir," said he. "This is quite
unofficial, of course, and need go no farther. But I am fairly up
against it in this McPherson case. The question is, shall I make an
arrest, or shall I not?"
"Meaning Mr. Ian Murdoch?"
"Yes, sir. There is really no one else when you come to think of it.
That's the advantage of this solitude. We narrow it down to a very
small compass. If he did not do it, then who did?"
"What have you against him?"
He had gleaned along the same furrows as I had. There was Murdoch's
character and the mystery which seemed to hang round the man. His
furious bursts of temper, as shown in the incident of the dog. The
fact that he had quarrelled with McPherson in the past, and that there
was some reason to think that he might have resented his attentions to
Miss Bellamy. He had all my points, but no fresh ones, save that
Murdoch seemed to be making every preparation for departure.
"What would my position be if I let him slip away with all this
evidence against him?" The burly, phlegmatic man was sorely troubled
in his mind.
"Consider," I said, "all the essential gaps in your case. On the
morning of the crime he can surely prove an alibi. He had been with
his scholars till the last moment, and within a few minutes of
McPherson's appearance he came upon us from behind. Then bear in mind
the absolute impossibility that he could single-handed have inflicted
this outrage upon a man quite as strong as himself. Finally, there is
this question of the instrument with which these injuries were
inflicted."
"What could it be but a scourge or flexible whip of some sort?"
"Have you examined the marks?" I asked.
"I have seen them. So has the doctor."
"But I have examined them very carefully with a lens. They have
peculiarities."
"What are they, Mr. Holmes?"
I stepped to my bureau and brought out an enlarged photograph. "This
is my method in such cases," I explained.
"You certainly do things thoroughly, Mr. Holmes."
"I should hardly be what I am if I did not. Now let us consider this
weal which extends round the right shoulder. Do you observe nothing
remarkable?"
"I can't say I do."
"Surely it is evident that it is unequal in its intensity. There is a
dot of extravasated blood, here, and another there. There are similar
indications in this other weal down here. What can that mean?"
"I have no idea. Have you?"
"Perhaps I have. Perhaps I haven't. I may be able to say more soon.
Anything which will define what made that mark will bring us a long way
towards the criminal."
"It is, of course, an absurd idea," said the policeman, "but if a
red-hot net of wire had been laid across the back, then these
better-marked points would represent where the meshes crossed each
other."
"A most ingenious comparison. Or shall we say a very stiff
cat-o'-nine-tails with small hard knots upon it?"
"By Jove, Mr. Holmes, I think you have hit it."
"Or there may be some very different cause, Mr. Bardie. But your case
is far too weak for an arrest. Besides, we have those last
words--'Lion's Mane.'"
"I have wondered whether Ian----"
"Yes, I have considered that. If the second word had borne any
resemblance to Murdoch--but it did not. He gave it almost in a shriek.
I am sure that it was 'Mane.'"
"Have you no alternative, Mr. Holmes?"
"Perhaps I have. But I do not care to discuss it until there is
something more solid to discuss."
"And when will that be?"
"In an hour--possibly less."
The Inspector rubbed his chin and looked at me with dubious eyes.
"I wish I could see what was in your mind, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps it's
those fishing-boats."
"No, no; they were too far out."
"Well, then, is it Bellamy and that big son of his? They were not too
sweet upon Mr. McPherson. Could they have done him a mischief?"
"No, no; you won't draw me until I am ready," said I with a smile.
"Now, Inspector, we each have our own work to do. Perhaps if you were
to meet me here at midday----?"
So far we had got when there came the tremendous interruption which was
the beginning of the end. My outer door was flung open, there were
blundering footsteps in the passage, and Ian Murdoch staggered into the
room, pallid, dishevelled, his clothes in wild disorder, clawing with
his bony hands at the furniture to hold himself erect. "Brandy!
Brandy!" he gasped, and fell groaning upon the sofa.
He was not alone. Behind him came Stackhurst, hatless and panting,
almost as distrait as his companion.
"Yes, yes, brandy!" he cried. "The man is at his last gasp. It was
all I could do to bring him here. He fainted twice upon the way."
Half a tumbler of the raw spirit brought about a wondrous change. He
pushed himself up on one arm and swung his coat from off his shoulders.
"For God's sake! oil, opium, morphia!" he cried. "Anything to ease
this infernal agony!"
The Inspector and I cried out at the sight. There, criss-crossed upon
the man's naked shoulder, was the same strange reticulated pattern of
red, inflamed lines which had been the death-mark of Fitzroy McPherson.
The pain was evidently terrible and was more than local, for the
sufferer's breathing would stop for a time, his face would turn black,
and then with loud gasps he would clap his hand to his heart, while his
brow dropped beads of sweat. At any moment he might die. More and
more brandy was poured down his throat, each fresh dose bringing him
back to life. Pads of cotton-wool soaked in salad-oil seemed to take
the agony from the strange wounds. At last his head fell heavily upon
the cushion. Exhausted Nature had taken refuge in its last storehouse
of vitality. It was half a sleep and half a faint, but at least it was
ease from pain.
To question him had been impossible, but the moment we were assured of
his condition Stackhurst turned upon me.
"My God!" he cried, "what is it, Holmes? What is it?"
"Where did you find him?"
"Down on the beach. Exactly where poor McPherson met his end. If this
man's heart had been weak as McPherson's was, he would not be here now.
More than once I thought he was gone as I brought him up. It was too
far to The Gables, so I made for you."
"Did you see him on the beach?"
"I was walking on the cliff when I heard his cry. He was at the edge
of the water, reeling about like a drunken man. I ran down, threw some
clothes about him, and brought him up. For Heaven's sake, Holmes, use
all the powers you have and spare no pains to lift the curse from this
place, for life is becoming unendurable. Can you, with all your
world-wide reputation, do nothing for us?"
"I think I can, Stackhurst. Come with me now! And you, Inspector,
come along! We will see if we cannot deliver this murderer into your
hands."
Leaving the unconscious man in the charge of my housekeeper, we all
three went down to the deadly lagoon. On the shingle there was piled a
little heap of towels and clothes, left by the stricken man. Slowly I
walked round the edge of the water, my comrades in Indian file behind
me. Most of the pool was quite shallow, but under the cliff where the
beach was hollowed out it was four or five feet deep. It was to this
part that a swimmer would naturally go, for it formed a beautiful
pellucid green pool as clear as crystal. A line of rocks lay above it
at the base of the cliff, and along this I led the way, peering eagerly
into the depths beneath me. I had reached the deepest and stillest
pool when my eyes caught that for which they were searching, and I
burst into a shout of triumph.
"Cyanea!" I cried. "Cyanea! Behold the Lion's Mane!"
The strange object at which I pointed did indeed look like a tangled
mass torn from the mane of a lion. It lay upon a rocky shelf some
three feet under the water, a curious waving, vibrating, hairy creature
with streaks of silver among its yellow tresses. It pulsated with a
slow, heavy dilation and contraction.
"It has done mischief enough. Its day is over!" I cried. "Help me,
Stackhurst! Let us end the murderer for ever."
There was a big boulder just above the ledge, and we pushed it until it
fell with a tremendous splash into the water. When the ripples had
cleared we saw that it had settled upon the ledge below. One flapping
edge of yellow membrane showed that our victim was beneath it. A thick
oily scum oozed out from below the stone and stained the water round,
rising slowly to the surface.
"Well, this gets me!" cried the Inspector. "What was it, Mr. Holmes?
I'm born and bred in these parts, but I never saw such a thing. It
don't belong to Sussex."
"Just as well for Sussex," I remarked. "It may have been the
south-west gale that brought it up. Come back to my house, both of
you, and I will give you the terrible experience of one who has good
reason to remember his own meeting with the same peril of the seas."
When we reached my study, we found that Murdoch was so far recovered
that he could sit up. He was dazed in mind, and every now and then was
shaken by a paroxysm of pain. In broken words he explained that he had
no notion what had occurred to him, save that terrific pangs had
suddenly shot through him, and that it had taken all his fortitude to
reach the bank.
"Here is a book," I said, taking up the little volume, "which first
brought light into what might have been for ever dark. It is _Out of
Doors_, by the famous observer J. G. Wood. Wood himself very nearly
perished from contact with this vile creature, so he wrote with a very
full knowledge. _Cyanea Capillata_ is the miscreant's full name, and
he can be as dangerous to life as, and far more painful than, the bite
of the cobra. Let me briefly give this extract.
"'If the bather should see a loose roundish mass of tawny membranes and
fibres, something like very large handfuls of lion's mane and silver
paper, let him beware, for this is the fearful stinger, _Cyanea
Capillata_.' Could our sinister acquaintance be more clearly described?
"He goes on to tell his own encounter with one when swimming off the
coast of Kent. He found that the creature radiated almost invisible
filaments to the distance of fifty feet, and that anyone within that
circumference from the deadly centre was in danger of death. Even at a
distance the effect upon Wood was almost fatal. 'The multitudinous
threads caused light scarlet lines upon the skin which on closer
examination resolved into minute dots or pustules, each dot charged as
it were with a red-hot needle making its way through the nerves.'
"The local pain was, as he explains, the least part of the exquisite
torment. 'Pangs shot through the chest, causing me to fall as if
struck by a bullet. The pulsation would cease, and then the heart
would give six or seven leaps as if it would force its way through the
chest.'
"It nearly killed him, although he had only been exposed to it in the
disturbed ocean and not in the narrow calm waters of a bathing-pool.
He says that he could hardly recognize himself afterwards, so white,
wrinkled and shrivelled was his face. He gulped down brandy, a whole
bottleful, and it seems to have saved his life. There is the book,
Inspector. I leave it with you, and you cannot doubt that it contains
a full explanation of the tragedy of poor McPherson."
"And incidentally exonerates me," remarked Ian Murdoch with a wry
smile. "I do not blame you, Inspector, nor you, Mr. Holmes, for your
suspicions were natural. I feel that on the very eve of my arrest I
have only cleared myself by sharing the fate of my poor friend."
"No, Mr. Murdoch. I was already upon the track, and had I been out as
early as I intended I might well have saved you from this terrific
experience."
"But how did you know, Mr. Holmes?"
"I am an omnivorous reader with a strangely retentive memory for
trifles. That phrase 'Lion's Mane' haunted my mind. I knew that I had
seen it somewhere in an unexpected context. You have seen that it does
describe the creature. I have no doubt that it was floating on the
water when McPherson saw it, and that this phrase was the only one by
which he could convey to us a warning as to the creature which had been
his death."
"Then I, at least, am cleared," said Murdoch, rising slowly to his
feet. "There are one or two words of explanation which I should give,
for I know the direction in which your inquiries have run. It is true
that I loved this lady, but from the day when she chose my friend
McPherson my one desire was to help her to happiness. I was well
content to stand aside and act as their go-between. Often I carried
their messages, and it was because I was in their confidence and
because she was so dear to me that I hastened to tell her of my
friend's death, lest someone should forestall me in a more sudden and
heartless manner. She would not tell you, sir, of our relations lest
you should disapprove and I might suffer. But with your leave I must
try to get back to The Gables, for my bed will be very welcome."
Stackhurst held out his hand. "Our nerves have all been at
concert-pitch," said he. "Forgive what is past, Murdoch. We shall
understand each other better in the future." They passed out together
with their arms linked in friendly fashion. The Inspector remained,
staring at me in silence with his ox-like eyes.
"Well, you've done it!" he cried at last. "I had read of you, but I
never believed it. It's wonderful!"
I was forced to shake my head. To accept such praise was to lower
one's own standards.
"I was slow at the outset--culpably slow. Had the body been found in
the water I could hardly have missed it. It was the towel which misled
me. The poor fellow had never thought to dry himself, and so I in turn
was led to believe that he had never been in the water. Why, then,
should the attack of any water creature suggest itself to me? That was
where I went astray. Well, well, Inspector, I often ventured to chaff
you gentlemen of the police force, but _Cyanea Capillata_ very nearly
avenged Scotland Yard."
X